Chapter 68
Gracechurch Street was soon turned upside down as everything was readied for the journey.
Once her own things were packed, Mary quickly understood she was more of a hindrance than a help in managing what remained to be done.
Nothing is more irritating to a harassed housewife than the plaintive insistence of a useless person that they must be allotted a task; and not wishing to add to her aunt’s already lengthy list of responsibilities, Mary slipped quietly out of doors.
She had not gone far along her accustomed walk when a familiar figure turned into the street some way in front of her.
It was impossible to mistake Mr. Ryder’s saunter, the stroll of a man with no-one to please but himself.
When he saw her, his smile was so broad and unfeigned that she could not help returning it.
“Miss Bennet! How extraordinary! I was just on my way to call upon you.”
“Then I’m afraid I must disappoint you. The house—and my poor aunt—are both in turmoil. I think the prospect of entertaining anyone this morning might be more than either she or the servants can bear.”
His concern was immediate—he hoped everyone was well, that nothing untoward or unfortunate had happened?
Mary hastened to explain that the reverse was true, that the upheaval was the result of their plans for a holiday.
She described their trip to the Lakes to him, explaining the reasons that had led to its being brought forward, and the excitement they felt at the prospect of going.
“I confess I am very jealous,” declared Mr. Ryder. “Will Tom be one of the party?”
“Yes, as such an old friend of the family, it was impossible he should not be included.”
“Then he is very lucky to have that privilege. I envy you all, Miss Bennet—I can think of nothing more exciting than to see for yourselves the place which has inspired one of the great geniuses of our age!”
His eyes shone with such passion that Mary could not decide whether his enthusiasm was charming or ridiculous, before concluding it was a little of both. Then, in the blink of an eye, his seriousness vanished, and he was playful again.
“Tell me, Miss Bennet, are you very fond of ices?”
“To be honest, I have only tasted them a few times—once at my sister’s house in Derbyshire—and they were certainly very fine.”
“In that case, I have a suggestion to make. Not far from here is Angell’s—an excellent confectioner who makes some of the very best ices in London. Every flavour you could possibly imagine. I should very much like to buy you one.”
He saw her hesitate.
“I promise you it is a most respectable place, quite suitable for ladies. If I had one, I would take my maiden aunt there.”
Mary knew she should probably refuse; but the day promised little else in the way of enjoyment. With the house in such disorder, she should not be able to read, and would only be in everyone’s way. Mr. Ryder pressed home his advantage.
“If, when you see it, you don’t like the look of it, I shall escort you home immediately. But behold, Miss Bennet, the sky is blue, the sun is out. Let us enjoy it whilst we can!”
His cheerfulness was infectious, his smile so engaging that Mary found herself agreeing.
She set a whole host of conditions—she would have one ice only—she should stay for half an hour, no more—he must bring her back to Gracechurch Street whenever she asked—but nevertheless, twenty minutes later, she found herself in Angell’s shop, eating a bergamot ice with every appearance of enjoyment.
Their conversation was far easier and more entertaining than Mary had expected.
As she felt no need to impress Mr. Ryder, she was not nervous in his presence; and as she believed herself indifferent to his charm, she was not afraid to enjoy it a little.
Inevitably, they found themselves discussing what they had read, what they were reading, and what they intended to read, with Mr. Ryder repeating his earlier assertion that longer works were not for him.
“I think the brevity of poetry is one of its principal attractions,” he declared, finishing his peach ice and laying down the spoon with a satisfied flourish.
“The reader is not obliged to contemplate that huge block of pages which, however many of them one turns, never seems to diminish. With a few notable exceptions which need not be returned to—I shall not be picking up Paradise Lost again in a hurry—poems tend to be short, and are thus perfectly suited to a flighty mind such as my own.”
Mary looked up from her ice, which was just as good as Mr. Ryder had promised it would be.
“If you truly love poetry as much as you say,” she replied, “then you do yourself a disservice; for in my experience, it requires far greater application than many philosophical books. Without concentration, there is no entering into it at all.”
“Ah, Miss Bennet,” he exclaimed, “I have no objection to embracing anything in depth—that holds no terrors for me—no, it is length that defeats me!” He folded his napkin, laid it on the table, and folded his arms. “I have no powers of application, you see. I am a sad case.”
“Only because you are determined to consider yourself one.” Mary finished her ice, searching for one last spoonful from the depths of the little glass cup in which it had been served. “I’m sure you have the discipline within yourself to do anything you want, if you are prepared to exert it.”
Mr. Ryder looked thoughtful. “Perhaps. I am not so sure. You are probably right that I could do it. It is rather a question of whether I wish to.”
“If that is the case, then you are sadly condemned to stay as you are,” observed Mary a little tartly, “for where there is no willingness to make an effort, there is usually little likelihood of success.”
Mr. Ryder raised his hand and called for tea.
“I can see you don’t approve,” he said. “But in my defence, I must explain this is not simply laziness on my part. I believe I am perfectly capable of exertion in pursuit of those things I love. But I cannot share that attitude which deliberately seeks fulfilment in what is dull and tedious, that plodding perseverance where effort takes the place of pleasure, which embraces what is dry and lifeless as a kind of virtue in itself.”
“It is always easier to concentrate upon what pleases us,” said Mary. “It requires very little discipline to turn our minds to what we know we enjoy.”
“You say that as if attending to what we like was a failing,” declared Mr. Ryder. “I see it very differently. I am determined not to waste my energy on anything that does not either move or please me; I won’t crush my spirit by weighing it down with boredom and obligation.”
“You are fortunate to find yourself in circumstances which permit you to make such a choice.”
“I don’t deny it,” he agreed, “and I very much intend to make the best of my good luck.”
A waiter took away the dirty glasses and swept their table clean.
“I sense that I have not convinced you of the justice of my argument.”
“Not entirely, Mr. Ryder.”
“Then before we leave, I wonder if I might be permitted to tell you a story, which I hope explains a little why I feel as I do?”
Mary agreed to stay a little longer. Whilst she could not approve of Mr. Ryder’s principles, she enjoyed the way he talked about them.
When he smiled at her, she was suddenly aware, both of the fineness of his profile and the embarrassment of having noticed it.
This, she supposed, was exactly the situation Mrs. Gardiner had warned her against. She must ensure she did not allow herself to be captivated by his charm.
She did not believe herself in danger, but it was as well to take care.
Mr. Ryder, oblivious to this little inward struggle, settled himself comfortably at his side of the table, and began to speak in a tone of far greater seriousness than was usual with him.
“My father,” he began, “inherited a small estate in Sussex, but it was not of much interest to him. He was a scholarly man, and he devoted all his time to the study of every kind of curious insect. His particular passion was a certain variety of winged beetle—I cannot now recall its Latin name, but it occupied most of his waking hours. He was forever engaged in catching examples of it, killing and displaying them. It seemed a dogged sort of passion, but he was utterly absorbed by it. He rarely emerged from his study and we children hardly saw him. Then he died, quite suddenly, as I recall. I was fifteen years old.”
The tea arrived, and Mary poured it out. When she had finished, Mr. Ryder continued.
“On the day he was buried, when everyone else was drinking wine in the drawing room and looking sad, I wandered into his library. There I found three of our servants, all dressed in black as I was, carrying away every one of the drawers which contained his beetles—there must have been twenty or thirty of them, each with row after row of insects, pinned out to show the patterns on their wings. The men were very respectful as they took them off. I don’t know where they went.
I’ve never seen them since. I imagine my mother wanted them gone. ”
He took a sip of his tea.
“After they’d finished, I sat for a while in that gloomy room, looking at the spaces where the drawers had been.
Then I opened the doors that led onto the terrace and ran through them towards the garden.
The sun was so dazzling, I was blinded by it for a moment.
The day was bright and hot. I stood amongst the trees and flowers and breathed in the fresh green air.
I felt the warmth on my back. I smelt the scent of the grass that had just been cut.
And I looked back at the dark room I’d just left, and I thought what a sad waste my father’s life had been.
All those hours of tedious study—all that effort—and to what end? All gone in a moment.”
“I am very sorry to hear it,” said Mary quietly.
“I was sorry too,” continued Mr. Ryder, “but not for very long. I walked around the garden again—I took off my black coat—I threw myself down on the grass and looked up at the sky—and I thought that in that moment I understood more about the point of human existence than my father had learnt in a lifetime of study. Years of hard work had never delivered him the sublime pleasure I was enjoying at that very instant. I had opened myself to the pure sensations of the world, where he had spent a lifetime denying them.”
The waiter returned, and Mr. Ryder asked for the bill. Upon its being presented, he paid it absently, with a tip large enough to send the man away very satisfied; then he took up his story again.
“The experience made a very powerful impression upon me; and when I was old enough to make my own decisions about how I should live, I promised myself I would not be deceived as my father had been. Life is too short, Miss Bennet, not to pursue those things which we know will please and fulfil us. And for me, that means indulging our senses as much as exercising our minds. We are often told that sensual pleasures do not last—but I saw for myself that is equally true for the products of hard work. Everything turns to dust in the end. In a philosophical sense, the servants are always waiting to take away our insect collections and dispose of them who knows where. We may as well experience some joy before they arrive.”
Mary was not sure at first how to respond.
She understood Mr. Ryder had confided something of great importance about himself to her and she could not help but be flattered by his trust. But much as she wished to respect the sincerity of his story, she could not agree with the conclusions he had drawn from it.
“I understand your argument,” she said. “But some might say what you describe is merely a justification for selfishness. Sometimes we are obliged to do things we do not enjoy for the benefit of the people around us.”
“I see that,” replied Mr. Ryder. “But I don’t believe that doing what pleases us would necessarily put an end to goodness. There are those for whom sacrifice is a pleasure in itself. It is only when we make it into a duty that it becomes tedious.”
Mary thought this unlikely; but she contented herself with a vague, dissenting smile and waited a moment before she continued.
“It is very sad to think of your father’s collections broken up and taken away.”
“Yes,” he replied, “I was very affected by it.”
“I see that for you they seemed the very image of futility,” Mary continued. “But can you be certain your father did not derive a great deal of pleasure from assembling them? They may have been his chosen form of enjoyment. We know so little of what others truly feel.”
“He did not give the impression they brought him much joy,” said Mr. Ryder.
“If they did, then I can only say it is not the kind of pleasure I wish for myself—no, I want something far more exhilarating. And as for not knowing what others truly feel—I have said before, Miss Bennet, that not speaking the truth about our emotions is one of the great miseries of our age. We would all be happier if we were more honest with each other—I believe that most fervently and attempt to practise it whenever I can. Indeed, I intend to do so now.”
Before she knew quite what was happening, Mr. Ryder reached out and took her gloved hand, holding it firmly between his own.
“Our conversation has made me very happy, Miss Bennet.”
“Perhaps because you did most of the talking.”
“You will be missed when you leave for the Lakes. London will seem quite empty without you.”
“I’m sure you won’t want for company, sir. You always seem to have people about you.”
“Perhaps; but your loss will always be felt.”
Mary pulled her hand away. Mr. Ryder relinquished it, not in the least disconcerted.
Excusing herself with a polite farewell—she must go back and help Mrs. Gardiner—she would not wait for him to accompany her—he need not take the trouble—she hurried off, as quickly as she could.
It was only when she had walked for some minutes down the street that she allowed herself to look over her shoulder.
She was not entirely displeased to see him standing outside the shop, still watching her, before he too turned and went away.