Chapter 59 #3
Mary was about to ask more, when it occurred to her that even as a subject of conversation, she had no desire to introduce Lady Catherine’s baleful presence into their happy circle.
Now it was dark, and as Mr. Gardiner had suggested, the Gardens had begun to take on a character not at all suited to the presence of families.
There were more young men about than Mary had noticed before, and the smart, bold-eyed ladies, whose occupation she now fully understood, paraded with unmistakeable purpose around the colonnades.
It was time for the Gardiners’ party to take their leave; and as they traced their way back to their carriage, through the winding paths, illuminated with thousands of tiny candles, Mary found herself again walking alongside Mr. Hayward.
As they were alone, she felt herself able to indulge her curiosity about his friendship with Mr. Ryder.
“If you and Mr. Ryder no longer share a common interest in the law, may I ask what continues to draw you together as friends?”
Mr. Hayward shot her a quizzical look.
“You do ask the most extraordinary questions!”
“You told me earlier I displayed an interest in human nature, so here I am, seeking to extend my knowledge.”
He turned away to hide a smile.
“I’m not sure I shall tell you. I think you will laugh.”
“I’m sure I shall not.”
“Well, then—the truth is, it was poetry which brought us together. We read it tirelessly when we were students—anything to distract ourselves from the tedious burden of torts and case law.”
“It was my passion, I believe, that drew him to it,” continued Mr. Hayward.
“I cared for poetry with an even greater intensity then than I do now, if you can imagine such a thing. But I sometimes wonder if I did Ryder much service in encouraging him to share my dedication. I am not persuaded it was entirely good for him.”
Mary drew her coat around her. The night was growing damp. She picked her way carefully along the path, avoiding the wet grass.
“I’m not sure I understand. Why should it have harmed Mr. Ryder to be introduced to something he came to love?”
“For a nature like mine, which is, I suppose, essentially settled and steady, poetry was like a great, noisy thunderbolt,” replied Mr. Hayward.
“It woke me up, alerted me to feelings I did not know I had, or certainly had not the words to describe. I don’t doubt I’m better for what it has taught me.
I’d be a far duller creature without it. ”
You could never be dull, thought Mary fondly; I have never met anyone who less merited that description.
“But I think poetry had a very different impact upon Will,” Mr. Hayward continued.
“He was already of a lively and volatile disposition. He needed no further encouragement to give way to his feelings. He has never put a check upon himself, never stood back and tried to think rationally about what he wants. His heart has always ruled his head. I fear the poetry we read together only encouraged this tendency, with results that have not been wholly beneficial to him.”
They walked a few more paces in silence before Mary spoke.
“That seems a heavy responsibility to lay solely at the feet of poetry. Perhaps if Mr. Ryder had been obliged to follow an occupation, had been compelled to apply himself to some useful purpose, he would have learnt different habits.”
“I have often thought so,” agreed Mr. Hayward.
“The comfortable situation he enjoys has not perhaps been the best friend to him. The world has largely delivered to him what he wants, with very little effort required on his part to achieve it. He is used to obtaining what he wants merely by asking for it—although I must admit, the asking is always done in the most charming way imaginable, so that it seems a pleasure to indulge him if you can.”
They were nearing the limits of the Gardens now, and Mary could see in the darkness a queue of visitors making their way through the gate into the streets beyond, where lines of carriages stood waiting. Suddenly, Mr. Hayward stopped and stood still.
“I confess I am ashamed to hear myself talking about a friend in such an unmanly, ungenerous way. I do not know what can have provoked me to say such things. In my defence, I can only say that I speak to you with a freedom I would not extend to anyone else. It is very easy—perhaps too easy—to tell you what is in my heart. I hope you will not blame me for it.”
“I could never do that, Mr. Hayward.”
“And I am giving you a very partial picture of Ryder. His impulses are generous and there is no malice in him.”
“I am glad to hear it,” she replied, thinking nothing at all of Mr. Ryder and only of his friend.
As they stood amongst the shadows of the darkening trees, she longed to reach out and take his hand.
For a heartbeat, she thought he was about to do what she could not—but at that moment, her aunt came hurrying back towards them, declaring that Mr. Gardiner had found their carriage, and would Mr. Hayward like a ride back across the river?