Chapter 78
The night before the climb up Scafell was due to take place, Mrs. Gardiner decided she would not attempt it.
The ascent was sure to be long and tedious; the guide had said the path was stoney, and she did not think her ankles strong enough to bear it.
Mary was straightaway afraid that, at this last minute, she too would be prevented from going; but her aunt did not forbid her.
She did, however, insist on her wearing a pair of thick-soled boots she had bought for her in Keswick; and arranged for one of the maids at the inn to take up the hem on her least good dress.
Mary knew that in her heart, Mrs. Gardiner would have preferred it if they had remained together at the inn; she often dropped hints about how comfortable they should be whilst the others were away, how they might have tea together and read their books.
However, Mary was not to be persuaded. She told her aunt she was determined to see for herself the noble sights which the walk promised to deliver.
But she would have divulged to no-one the other reason why she would not be deterred from making the climb.
There could be no doubt now that Mr. Hayward’s manner towards her had changed.
He was never less than polite and gave no hint of any anger or resentment towards her.
He was affable enough—but he was not the same.
He no longer sought her out, as he had been accustomed to do, choosing the chair nearest her own, standing next to her at every opportunity.
They rarely spoke in private now and laughed together even less.
He no longer glanced up to catch her eye across the table when something was said he knew would amuse her.
Slowly but surely, he had pulled away from her.
Even when he was near her, he was distant.
When she was alone, Mary ran again and again over every possible explanation for his behaviour.
None satisfied her. She knew him to be neither cruel nor deceitful.
She did not believe him capable of acting unkindly without some cause.
If she herself had played some part in his change of heart, she could not imagine what it was.
Perhaps she simply imagined that he cared for her?
Whilst she had longed for him to declare himself, perhaps the truth had been that her feelings were stronger than his—and now he was attempting to divest himself, with as much tact as possible, from a situation that had become embarrassing to him.
Tears pricked her eyes as she considered this.
She supposed it was possible. But when she thought of how happy they had been together on their first arrival in the Lakes, how fond and comfortable they were with each other in the boat on Grasmere, how they had laughed about their dismal sketches, how she had teased him about his inability to tell one bird from another—she could not convince herself she had been wrong to think his affection for her was genuine.
When she reached the point where there were no more possibilities to interrogate, she did not know what to do.
Staring at night into the black Westmoreland dark, open-eyed when she should have been sleeping, brought no relief.
Finally, she decided she would torture herself no more.
No. She would act like a rational being and simply ask him why he was behaving in this way.
She knew this was an audacious decision.
It presumed on the nature of their acquaintance, which, although she could barely imagine now what life had been like before she met him, had not in fact been of very long duration.
Nor was it usual for ladies to question gentlemen about the state of their affections.
But she was resolved to do it anyway. Knowledge, she told herself, was always to be preferred to ignorance, even if what was revealed might be painful to hear.
It was impossible, however, to open such a conversation at the inn.
The danger of being overheard or interrupted was too great.
On Scafell, though, there would be a real chance of speaking to Mr. Hayward alone with no-one to eavesdrop except the rabbits and hawks, and they were too low in the grass or high in the sky to be bothersome.
She could not say with any conviction what it was she hoped to discover.
She was at a loss. All she knew was that whatever had provoked Mr. Hayward’s withdrawal, it did not look as if it had made him happy; for when she found ways to study him unobserved, which she very often did, he looked as troubled and preoccupied as she felt herself.
On the day of the trip, the morning dawned bright and clear.
Soon everything was ready, provisions packed, boots put on, the Guide slipped into pockets.
Mrs. Gardiner waved the walkers off, the little party squeezed tightly into the inn’s hired coach.
They bumped off down the rutted roads, thankful that it was not long before they arrived at Seathwaite, where they met the guide and began their climb.
The path rose up behind a small row of cottages, then levelled off into a steady incline.
The ground was uneven, the grass yellow and tussocky, hiding pools of dark water which seemed designed for no other purpose than to soak the feet of the unwary walker.
Mary was soon very grateful for the stout boots Mrs. Gardiner had bought her.
The country was open and the sky was a sharp, bright blue with a few tiny white clouds scattered distantly upon it.
At first, they walked to the joyful accompaniment of larks singing ecstatically as they rose upwards in the clear air; but as they made their way higher and higher, they left the larks behind, and soon nothing was to be heard but the harsher cries of buzzards wheeling overhead.
Mary walked alone, preferring her own company to that of anyone else.
Mr. Hayward strode on, a little ahead of her, equally silent, equally alone.
So now they were both unhappy, Mary thought, frowning as she watched him.
And for what reason? What had soured the pleasure they had taken in each other?
What had provoked such an inexplicable change of heart?
With every step she took, she grew more determined to discover what had happened.
The guide and his son, a fine boy of twelve or thirteen, led the way, setting a steady pace.
Mr. Gardiner walked alongside them, questioning them intently, as was his way, about the country and the game to be found in it.
Behind them followed Mr. Ryder, his excitement visible in his every eager gesture.
Now and again, he turned back to Mary, keen to share his enthusiasm.
“Could anything be better than this, Miss Bennet? Such skies! Such air!”
His pleasure was so infectious, that, even in her dark mood, Mary found it impossible not to smile mildly back, provoking an affronted glare from Caroline Bingley.
She had stationed herself at Mr. Ryder’s side, trotting next to him, Mary thought, exactly like an officious little terrier.
She should not have been surprised if the lady had growled at her and bared her teeth.
So distracted was she by Miss Bingley’s hostility that Mr. Hayward’s voice, low, steady, and very near to her, took her completely by surprise, as he fell into step beside her.
“You seem to be managing very well,” he said. “It looks as though you are more than equal to the demands of the climb.”
Her heart beat faster to hear him speak to her in something approaching his old, familiar tone. But she was determined to keep her countenance. If she was to find the courage to question him, she must not lose her nerve.
Yes,” she replied, with an evenness she did not feel, “so far at least. But this is the easiest part. I’m sure there is worse to come.”
They spoke in pleasantries, quite unlike the usual bantering style of their conversation.
This was painful to Mary, as it confirmed very strikingly the cooling of their relations.
But she refused to allow her distress to deflect her from her purpose.
If she could keep Mr. Hayward talking, the opportunity would surely present itself for her to ask him what she was to understand by his behaviour.
“Mr. and Mrs. Hurst do not appear to share your stamina.”
Mary turned to look at the couple, labouring with some effort further down the path.
“I’m sorry for them. It is clearly harder than they expected.”
“I offered her my arm when we forded the stream, but she brushed me away.”
“She obviously possesses in full all the gentle charm of her sister.”
She saw a smile steal briefly across his face, but it was quickly extinguished. It was as though he was doing all he could to resist the pull of their old ease and friendliness. She would speak. She must know the cause of it.
“Mr. Hayward—”
She swallowed hard, determined to begin. But before she could do so, she heard footsteps behind her.
“Excuse me, Tom,” exclaimed Mr. Ryder, “but I have something for Miss Bennet.” He opened his hand to show a pale yellow flower, a little crushed but still recognisable as a primrose.
“Our guide says it is one of the very last of the season. There were two flowers. I gave one to Miss Bingley, but this is for you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ryder.”
“You could press it and use it as a bookmark. It might cheer up those pages of Miss Burney that you find so dreary.”
With that, he strode back to his place near the head of their little procession.
“Poor primroses,” said Mary, gazing at the crumpled bloom. “What a sad end for such pretty things.” She looked up at Mr. Hayward. “You know, I kept the honeysuckle you gave me. It is in a glass in my room. It still smells very sweet.”
He seemed not to hear her, absorbed in watching his friend amble back to Miss Bingley.
“Ryder certainly knows how to make a gesture. He will always find a way to draw attention to himself.”