Chapter 82
The storm was not long in making itself felt.
The vapour on the distant horizon coalesced into clouds, great columns of grey that blotted out the sun and shadowed the hilltops as they raced across the sky.
The peaks before them were first lit up and then plunged into darkness, their green hillsides a shifting patchwork of colour.
A curtain of dark rain shimmered in the distance, a rumble of thunder echoed in the far-off valleys.
At first, Mary was elated. Mr. Wordsworth had been right, she thought.
This was indeed a thing worth seeing. She stood transfixed by the boiling landscape, when Mr. Ryder joined her, just as delighted by the prospect before them.
“Isn’t this superb? The mighty power of Nature in action! This is why we came here!”
He turned to face her, his expression exuberant—and without warning, something of his passion leapt into her own heart.
Suddenly, she was conscious of nothing but the most acute sensations—fear and joy mixed together, a sense of awe and wonderment that took her breath away.
She did not know what it was or how to describe it—but as she stared into the drama unfolding in front of her, she felt both great and small at the same time, connected to the world in a way she had never been before, yet also marvellously and uniquely herself.
She closed her eyes, and let the feeling pass over her, giving herself up to it, until she thought there was nothing to her but sensation.
It was perhaps a minute before the extreme intensity of her emotion began to diminish.
She breathed out, opened her eyes, and was still again.
Before she came to the Lakes, she had read a great deal about the sublime—sights so extraordinary they could not be adequately described, only felt and experienced.
She had never expected to feel for herself such an extraordinary consummation.
Her spirit was surely too stolid, too plain, to achieve anything of that kind.
Now she knew that was not so, and a wave of gratitude swept over her.
Then the rain hit them. It was quite unlike the gentle showers Mary knew from Hertfordshire.
It poured down in a great deluge, soaking her hat, drenching her clothes, and jolting her out of her trance.
It fell with such force that it pricked her eyes.
She stood dazed, until she saw Mr. Hayward walking towards her, the guide following in his wake.
“Miss Bennet, we must leave now. This is no longer a subject for discussion. Miss Bingley, come with us. Quickly, if you please. Either you walk down in our company, Will, or you must make your way alone. We shall wait no longer.”
His tone forbade any contradiction. Mary, shaken now, tried to wipe the rain from her face and readied herself to depart. Miss Bingley too obeyed, with neither a sharp aside nor a withering look; and even Mr. Ryder tore himself away from the view and followed.
For the first twenty minutes, they walked as fast as the path allowed, making their way down from the ridge to the more open country below.
It had been hard climbing up, but, as Mary soon discovered, it was no easier to descend.
The rain drove puddles into the saturated ground, and it required all her concentration to pick her way through the stones that littered the route, their surfaces slippery in the mud.
Their guide constantly urged them to make haste, insisting they must move faster if they were not to be drowned before they reached the bottom.
But soon even he could see that the ladies, in their soaked skirts and sodden hats, needed a moment to catch their breath, before hurrying on as best they could.
“We might find some shelter over there,” he shouted, pointing towards an untidy group of large boulders a short way off the path. “If we settle in the lee of these rocks for a while, we might avoid the worst of it.”
They hurried as best they could towards the stones, and were soon huddled against them, Mr. Hayward shepherding Mary and Miss Bingley into the space which offered the most protection.
The guide pulled the hood of his coat over his head, his attitude one of resentful dejection.
Only Mr. Ryder’s spirits seemed unaffected by their situation.
“I shall walk back to the path for a moment and look into the valley. The storm must be at the height of its vigour now. I should like to glimpse it if I can.”
“Is that wise?” asked Miss Bingley. “You will be drenched.”
“I can hardly get any wetter than I am already,” said Mr. Ryder lightly. “As there is no part of me not thoroughly soaked, I may as well take advantage of the fact.”
Miss Bingley smiled weakly as he strode away, but Mr. Hayward said nothing.
He had spoken no more than was absolutely required since they had begun their descent.
Mary could see that he was very angry. As she considered their exposed and bedraggled state, as she imagined the difficulties that must await them as they attempted to get down, she could not deny his frustration was justified.
His assessment of their situation had been correct; but he had not been listened to.
And she had been one of those who had spoken against him.
“We stayed too long on the ridge,” she ventured quietly. “I see that now. We should have left earlier.”
“You say that as though this is our fault,” replied Miss Bingley. “But how were we to know what would happen? We have been unlucky but cannot reproach ourselves for it.”
She looked defiantly at Mr. Hayward, who met her eye steadily.
“I’m afraid I disagree,” he said sharply. “We were offered very clear advice but chose to disregard it.”
“It sounds as though you blame Mr. Ryder, sir.”
“Everyone who agreed to ignore our guide bears some responsibility for our situation. And I do not exempt myself from criticism. I should have argued harder for us to leave, demanded we go when it was right to do so.”
Mary’s earlier elation had been washed away by the rain. As she watched rivulets of water running swiftly through a little gully between the stones, she felt both mortified and ashamed.
She stole a glance at Mr. Hayward, who stood alone, looking into the rain.
Despite all that had passed between them, she could not bear that he should think ill of her.
The anger and the indignation she felt earlier had ebbed away, replaced by a dull ache of sadness and regret.
It was painful enough to think that she might have lost his affection; but to imagine that she had also forfeited his respect was almost too much to bear.
When they were back at the inn, she must find a way to explain her behaviour on the ridge, to try and make him understand how provoked and wounded she had been by his own hurtful actions and beg him to account for them if he could.
This time, she told herself, she would not be deflected, but would find out the truth of how things really stood between them.
It was half an hour before the sky started to lighten and the rain began to fall with slightly less intensity.
All the walkers were now soaked through.
Mary’s coat and dress clung to her, cold, wet, and heavy.
Her hat dripped; her boots leaked. There was no part of her that was not wet through.
When the guide announced that he thought the worst was over, she felt only a little relief.
She knew they must walk down in this miserable condition and dreaded the prospect.
But she stood up bravely, resolved to put one foot in front of the other for as long as she was capable of making the effort.
They walked in a gloomy silent procession, the guide in front, leading them towards the least demanding route.
Mr. Ryder followed behind, accompanied by Miss Bingley.
She had seized the opportunity presented by the perilous conditions to attach herself firmly to his arm and clearly did not intend to relinquish it until they were on steady ground once more.
Mr. Ryder did not seem to mind; he had achieved one of the great wishes of his heart and was satisfied.
He had contemplated the natural world in all its majesty and, at least until another great wish suggested itself, was content.
He smiled encouragingly at Mary every now and then, but Miss Bingley’s grip was tenacious, and he did not try too hard to escape from it.
Mary kept a little apart from Mr. Hayward.
She did not feel able to begin her explanations in such circumstances and did not see how she could say anything else until she had done so.
With every step, she grew more exhausted and unhappy, until the discomfort she felt in both mind and body were pretty equally matched.
Then she missed her footing—her boot slid in the mud—and she fell slowly but irrevocably onto her knees.
She caught her breath, from shock and surprise. But before she could give way to tears, she felt Mr. Hayward take her hand. He raised her up firmly but gently and brushed the worst of the dirt from her dress.
“Are you hurt? Have you any pain?”
“No, I don’t think so. A little bump on my knee, nothing worse.”
“Can you move it?”
She tried, succeeded, and nodded mutely. He took her arm and tucked it carefully within his own.
“No protests, please. This is the best way to get you safely down.”
She was about to speak, but thought if she did, she would never stop.
This was not the moment for that conversation.
It was enough simply to accept his help, to allow him to guide her through the pitfalls along the path—“careful here”—“step a little higher now”—“watch for that sharp stone”—as they made their slow way down.
They had been walking for some time when she thought she heard shouting from further down the hill. The guide heard it too, and rushed forward, hollering a reply.
“I think that must be help,” said Mr. Hayward, “or at least I hope it is.”
Mary sighed with relief. The calls grew louder as their deliverers came nearer and nearer; but the drizzle was still so thick and so low that it was another ten minutes before their rescuers actually appeared out of the mist. The innkeeper was at the front of the little band, followed closely by an anxious Mr. Gardiner, with two servants each leading a stout little pony on a rein.
“Mary! Thank God!”
Mr. Gardiner hurried towards her with such transparent concern that even in her wet and sorry state, Mary could not help but raise a weak smile.
“Oh, uncle, it is very good to see you!”
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you unhurt—you are unhurt, I presume?”
“I twisted my knee a little, but it doesn’t amount to anything. Mr. Hayward helped me down. He has been so kind.”
Mr. Gardiner clasped Mr. Hayward’s hand.
“Well done, Tom, well done. I’d have expected nothing less from you.”
Mr. Gardiner turned back to Mary.
“Your poor aunt has been beside herself since the rain came on so strongly. She would not rest until we set out to find you.”
He chattered away, aghast at the mud, exclaiming at their wet clothes, before seating Mary carefully upon one of the little ponies, whilst Miss Bingley was mounted upon the other.
The innkeeper offered Mr. Ryder and Mr. Hayward what Mary supposed was brandy from a small flask; but she was quite satisfied with the sweet cold tea he provided for the ladies.
Even Mr. Ryder seemed ready to be delivered from the storm, clearly looking forward to the more down-to-earth pleasures of a dry coat and a roaring fire.
Mary was not quite sure exactly when Mr. Hayward had melted away from her side.
He did not bid her goodbye. She watched him, deep in conversation with her uncle, no doubt explaining to him the circumstances that had brought about their plight, although Mary doubted he would tell him the whole story.
It was impossible to imagine him placing the blame upon others; it was not in his character to behave so meanly.
Their arrival at the inn threw the household into uproar.
Water was heated up for baths, dirty clothes bundled away for washing, beds warmed, and fires lit.
Mrs. Gardiner wrung her hands, desperately anxious lest Mary should catch cold from her soaking.
Even Miss Bingley was swept up in the ferociousness of her concern, compelled to submit to her insistence that both young women take themselves immediately to bed and stay there for as long as they could be made to do so.
In truth, Mary did not need a great deal of persuasion.
She was exhausted and fell gratefully into the sheets.
Her only regret was that she had not had a chance to talk to Mr. Hayward before she was hurried upstairs.
Her last thought, before sleep overwhelmed her, was that tomorrow she should seek him out in some private place and attempt the conversation she had failed to have on the fell.
Tomorrow, she thought, as she fell asleep, tomorrow she would speak to him come what may.