Chapter 79
Mary forced a few escaping strands of hair back into her hat and pushed it down upon her head.
The way was harder, but she did not falter.
The sun was hot and her legs ached, but she pushed onwards and upwards.
Her temper drove her forward and seemed to supply her with reserves of stamina, but for all her angry energy, she was glad when the guide chose to stop for refreshments and a short rest. Catching up with the others at last, she was relieved to sit down upon one of the rugs the guide had spread out for them; and when his son passed amongst them, offering around flasks of weak tea and small beer that were as cold as they were welcome, Mary drank as eagerly as everyone else.
“We have made good time this morning,” observed their guide, “and we’re not far from our destination now.
If you look in that direction—yes, ma’am, follow where I point, you cannot mistake it—that is Ashridge, that great grey shelf over there.
But the walk gets harder from here, a stiffer climb than we’ve had so far.
If any of you don’t feel up to it, this is the time to turn back.
My boy will take you down, he knows the way as well as I do myself. ”
No-one was much surprised when, after a huddled consultation, the exhausted Hursts volunteered that they had indeed had enough and wished to return.
But Mr. Gardiner’s announcement that he intended to join them was most unexpected.
The gentlemen tried their best to persuade him not to give up—their object was almost in sight—would he not be sorry to miss it? —but he was adamant.
“I fear I must sacrifice my pride to my aching legs. It pains me to admit it, but this is a climb for those younger and more agile than myself. If I go back now, there is some prospect of my taking a rod out on the lake, an occupation much better suited to a middle-aged man like myself.”
He held up his hand to silence any further protestations.
“If the young ladies are prepared to continue without me—if they are happy to rely upon our estimable guide, and of course the two young men here—then I am decided. I’m sorry to miss the view.
But for an angler who won’t see twenty-five again, on this occasion there can be no doubt that the fish have it. ”
So it was only four of the original party who followed the guide further up the twisting path, treading more slowly, yet determined to reach their goal.
Sometimes, when the route allowed it, they walked alongside each other; more often, they marched in single file, saying little.
Everyone was hot and tired. Mary saw that Mr. Hayward had from somewhere acquired a stick, and every so often, beat at the grass with it, or tossed it from hand to hand, gestures that seemed to sum up his restless, uneasy state.
Mary steeled herself against the sympathy that leapt immediately into her mind.
The remedy lay in his own hands. If he would only speak, all might be resolved.
She thought of the slip of paper Mr. Collins had given her, with the line of Aristotle written upon it.
We make our own happiness, it had said; but how, she asked herself, was that to be achieved when there was so little candour in the world, such fear of confessing what one really felt?
It pained her to admit it, but perhaps Mr. Ryder was right after all?
Her mind was so absorbed with these thoughts, that when the guide called out to them all, she started up, jolted back into reality.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we’re very nearly at our destination.” He gestured towards a plateau, a little way ahead. “Ashridge is not ten minutes’ walk, if we step out bravely.”
In no time at all, they were there. As they stood, hands shading their eyes against the sunlight, triumphant on the little patch of ground they had laboured so mightily to reach, they fell silent, absorbing the full glory of their reward.
It seemed as though the whole world was unfolded before them, hill after hill undulating away to the distant horizon, one succeeding another, punctuated by the occasional silver flash of a lake.
The guide pointed out the principal sights in one direction—there was Keswick, there Borrowdale and Bassenthwaite—before turning to show what lay in another—the mountains of Skiddaw, Helvellyn, and Saddleback.
Finally, with the aplomb of a magician revealing his best trick, he gestured towards a line of blue water on the horizon.
“‘And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the Solway Firth. Beyond lies Scotland.”
Mary felt herself rooted to the spot; she could not draw her eyes away.
“So finally we ‘behold the distant sea,’ just as we had hoped we would.”
Mr. Hayward had come to stand beside her. She did not turn to look at him but continued to stare, entranced, into the landscape.
“Yes,” she replied, “‘and the mountains of Wastdale in tumult.’ The guide says they are in that direction.”
“Is it as magnificent as you expected it to be?”
“I have never seen anything more beautiful.”
“It is just as I pictured it—but somehow more so. Nature, it seems, far exceeds the power of my imagination in creating something so lovely.”
He moved a little closer to her.
“I’m very glad,” he continued softly, “that we were able to see it together.”
She did not know what to say. She could not subdue the anger that surged through her, and the warmth of his words, after so much coldness, only fanned the flames of her discontent.
What did he mean by speaking so tenderly to her now, when he had done all he could to push her away with politeness?
How was she to understand his behaviour?
Part of her was bitterly hurt and wounded; but at the same time, his nearness—the unsettling fact of his proximity—stirred her very deeply.
His obvious unhappiness cut her to the quick.
It took all her powers of self-control not to speak, to explain that nothing was as he thought—that all might be made well again if he wished it.
Her heart told her this was the moment to do it.
Speak now! If you wish to take control of your destiny—if you truly wish to make your own happiness—speak now!
This is your opportunity, there may never be another.
Tell him what you feel—if he cannot do it, show him you can!
She very nearly did so—she came so close that the words were half-formed in her mind—but pride rose up within her—alongside fear and shame and resentment—and her courage failed her. Instead, she replied with a coolness intended to signal a detachment she was very far from feeling.
“Yes, we can both congratulate ourselves on a magnificent achievement.”
There was a false indifference in her voice which grated even on her own ears; but she would not relent, would not soften.
“We have not spoken much to each other this morning.”
“Nor yesterday, or the day before.”
“It is true I have been somewhat distracted.”
“I have noticed that.”
She stood very still, upright, rigid. This was his opportunity to do what she had failed to do—to speak, explain, to redeem himself in her eyes.
She clenched her fists tight with expectation.
Another few seconds passed. Nothing. He had no more courage than she did herself.
She would wait no longer for words of explanation that were plainly not to be said.
“Well,” she said, with a false, brittle brightness, “I find so much walking has made me hungry. I think I shall go and find out what the guide has brought for us to eat.”
She could not mistake his surprise as she turned on her heel and left; his face fell, but she did not weaken and did not look back.