Chapter 77
Mary enjoyed their walk together. It was pleasant to feel the sun on her face; and Mr. Ryder did all he could to entertain her, describing novels he had failed to finish with such an amusing air that Mary thought she would never again blame herself for not completing a book she had begun upon, but would abandon it without the smallest twinge of guilt.
It was true that he teased her once or twice, but even his playful comments suggested appreciation on his part; and on several occasions, he told her, with no equivocation at all, how very pleased he was to find himself in her company.
It was impossible not to be affected by such open admiration, and by the time they were on their way back up the hill to the inn, Mary was talking to him with real animation, smiling every now and then with genuine pleasure.
Indeed, she was laughing at some remark of his when they rounded a bend in the path and came upon Mr. Hayward, making his way down.
Mary thought she glimpsed a look of surprise when he first caught sight of them, and perhaps of something else—sadness?
displeasure? regret?—but whatever it was lasted for such a short time that afterwards she could not be sure.
If Mr. Hayward had been distressed to meet her in Mr. Ryder’s company, he did everything in his power not to show it.
“Tom!” exclaimed Mr. Ryder, unconscious of any embarrassment, greeting his friend with his usual exuberance. “How magnificent is this? The air is so pure I could drink it! I persuaded Miss Bennet to come out and share it with me—it is far too invigorating to experience alone!”
“It seems to have done you good, Miss Bennet,” replied Mr. Hayward gravely. “You look very blooming in the sunshine.”
Mary thought he looked as unhappy as he had done that morning, and her own gaiety ebbed away as she wondered once more what could have wrought such a change in him. She had often heard the phrase “my heart went out to him”—but she had never felt the truth of it so powerfully before.
“It has been a very pleasurable little walk,” she said, hoping he would notice her attempt to convey that it had been of very short duration.
“But twenty minutes is long enough for me on such a warm day. We are heading back in search of tea. Mr. Ryder feels sure we shall find some. I hope you will come too?”
He was silent for a moment as if considering the idea.
“You surely cannot refuse such a charming invitation?” asked Mr. Ryder.
“I know I could not. Do come—there might even be cake!” So Mr. Hayward agreed to join them, and they walked slowly back up the hill together.
On the way, they talked of travel, its pleasures and miseries, its importance in opening the eyes and broadening the mind.
There was scarcely a gap in the conversation as they went on, but it was Mr. Ryder who did most of the talking.
Mr. Hayward spoke now and again, but it seemed that this afternoon he had little to say.
Even when they reached the inn and sat down to tea at a little round table, placed for them in front of the bay window, he remained preoccupied and remote.
Mary had never seen him so withdrawn. Mr. Ryder, however, chattered happily on; and when he elicited only an occasional response from his friend, he turned increasingly to Mary, regaling her with accounts of places he had already seen, before moving on to list those he had yet to explore.
No gentleman, he declared, could consider himself properly educated until he had seen for himself the classical ruins of Greece; but even so, nowhere fired his imagination as much as Italy.
“Of all the countries in the world, that is the one I most long to visit.”
“I understand that desire,” said Mary. “Anyone who has read Mr. Gibbon must wish to see Rome.”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Ryder, “it must be an extraordinary thing to walk where the Caesars trod before you. But I should like to attempt the entire Grand Tour—to Florence, Assisi, and Venice—anywhere, in short, where there is beauty, art, and sunshine to be had.”
Mary turned to see what Mr. Hayward thought, and found him looking at them both, as if trying to find an answer to a puzzle or a conundrum, a solution which somehow eluded him.
“Should you like to see Italy, Mr. Hayward?” she ventured, a little tentatively.
For a moment, he did not answer.
“Tom!” cried Mr. Ryder. “Miss Bennet asks you—do you fancy a jaunt to Italy?”
“Excuse me, I apologise. I was not attending.” He gathered his thoughts. “I do not think it would be easy to arrange, with the state of Europe as it is.”
“A perfect Hayward answer,” laughed Ryder, “in which pragmatism triumphs over passion! But I refuse to be put off. One day I shall stand on a terrace looking out at the sea, a glass of wine in my hand, toasting the setting sun.”
Mr. Hayward, it appeared, had nothing to add to this; and soon, pleading letters to write, he took his leave and went away to his room.
“Well,” declared Mr. Ryder, as he watched his friend depart, “Tom was hardly in the best of spirits. I wonder what can have upset him?”
Mary did not know; but she feared that meeting her with Mr. Ryder had not improved his mood. She wished she had not gone out walking with him; she wished even more that they had not happened upon Mr. Hayward as they returned and that they had not been laughing when they turned that corner.
Mr. Hayward did not appear for dinner, sending a note to Mrs. Gardiner attributing his absence to headache, and expressing his hope that he would be restored to them the next day.
Lying in bed later that night, Mary was restless as she tried to make sense of what had been a most confusing and distressing day.
She turned over in her mind every possibility that might explain Mr. Hayward’s unhappiness but could find no explanation that satisfied her.
If something untoward had happened to his family, surely he should have said so?
If there had been some setback in his profession, would he not have confided in Mr. Gardiner?
In her heart, she knew neither of these explanations answered.
Could it possibly be something to do with her?
His behaviour towards her had been very strange all day, most unlike his usual easy intimacy.
He had hardly spoken to her; and indeed, had been very little in her company, choosing to walk alone and not to dine. Could it be that he was avoiding her?
This was so appalling an idea that it chilled her to the heart, but once it had occurred to her, she could not let it alone, and spent several unhappy hours worrying away at it. It was almost dawn before she finally fell asleep, exhausted, puzzled, and anxious.
After so disturbed a night, it was no surprise that she awoke late and was one of the last to come down for breakfast. There was no-one at the table but Mr. Ryder and Miss Bingley, who held a book of poetry in her hand. Mr. Ryder looked pleased to see Mary; Miss Bingley did not.
“Good morning, Miss Bennet,” said Mr. Ryder. “You have arrived at exactly the right moment. Miss Bingley has been asking my opinion about the poems in this little volume. I’m sure we should both like to hear your thoughts on them.”
Miss Bingley looked up from her porridge, her glance as sharp as a knife.
“Oh, no, I shouldn’t like to trouble her. I’m sure Miss Bennet has far loftier things to consider than a few lines of verse.”
She raised her chin, as if she had issued a challenge, which, in a manner of speaking, Mary supposed that she had. But Mary did not choose to cross swords with Miss Bingley this morning.
“In the matter of poetry,” she answered, bland as the milk she poured into her coffee, “I think advice is not usually much to the point. Where verse is concerned, our own taste is usually the best and safest guide.”
Miss Bingley, who quickly saw there was to be no contest, returned her attention ostentatiously to her poetry book.
Mary crumbled her breakfast roll and dipped the pieces absently in her coffee, continuing the debate she had had with herself for much of the night, her mind so engaged with the subject that when the subject of her reflections himself arrived at their table, she was taken completely by surprise.
His coat was damp, and under his hat, his hair glistened with droplets from the mist that was just about to be burned off by the morning sun.
“Good Lord, Tom,” cried Mr. Ryder, “have you been out already?”
“I have. Nothing clears one’s thoughts so much as a brisk walk.”
“Was your mind clouded, then?” asked Mary. “Was there some decision you were obliged to make?”
He took off his hat, shook off his coat, sat down, and helped himself to coffee.
“Yes. Something of considerable importance. It has troubled me a great deal. But I have come to a conclusion and am resolved to act upon it.”
“That must be a satisfaction to you, at least.”
“No, exactly the contrary I’m afraid. I believe I have done the right thing, but I cannot pretend it makes me happy.”
Mary hesitated. It was impossible not to see that beneath his carefully maintained composure, he was very miserable.
“We are told there is comfort in the knowledge that one has acted properly. Perhaps you may come to feel it later.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt it.”
“I do not wish to intrude—but is there any advice I can offer? If not, perhaps merely some sympathy would be welcome?”
He smiled at her, and his expression—in which regret now seemed uppermost—pierced her to the heart.
“Perhaps to talk freely about what concerns you might ease your mind?”
He stared at his plate, and several moments passed before he raised his eyes to hers once more.
“You are very kind. But this is a matter I must deal with myself. I do not have the better of it yet. But I will.”
All this while, at the other side of the table, Miss Bingley had sought valiantly to persuade Mr. Ryder to accompany her to some discreet corner, where they might discuss her book of poems in greater privacy.
But he had refused to be drawn; and now, her efforts exhausted, she snapped shut the little volume and looked about impatiently.
“Well, what a sorry picture we present. It is eleven o’clock, and as yet we have no plans for the day. What are your thoughts, gentlemen?”
It had probably not occurred to her that Mr. Ryder would suggest a ride into Keswick to look at the livestock market, or that Mr. Hayward would, without any real enthusiasm, agree to accompany him.
But it was so, and in a few minutes, Mary and Miss Bingley were left alone at the table, a situation neither of them could wish prolonged.
Miss Bingley was the first to rise, leaving to seek out her sister and Mr. Hurst. Mary followed not long after, and spent her day with the Gardiners, watching her uncle fish.
Disregarding Mr. Ryder’s advice, she took Evelina with her, hoping it would distract her from the even more anxious state of mind into which her conversation with Mr. Hayward had plunged her.
But it was hardly a fair contest. Even the best author could not compete with the anxious questions that ran through her mind, hour after hour, about Mr. Hayward, his unhappy state, and her own possible connection to it.