Chapter 87
It did not take Mrs. Bennet long to discover that Mr. Ryder was a distant relation of Lady Catherine de Bourgh—Mary supposed she had extracted the information from Mr. Gardiner—and this drove her to even more determined efforts to secure him for her daughter.
When he appeared at Gracechurch Street, which he did increasingly often, he was plied with coffee, tea, and every kind of cake.
At Mrs. Bennet’s insistence he was invited to dinner and served Mr. Gardiner’s best claret.
He was coddled and flattered and treated to every kind of delicacy until Mary thought he might burst. He did not seem to mind it, and remained his usual easy, cheerful self; but after one particularly trying afternoon, when she thought she might curl up and die from shame, Mary summoned up her courage and complained.
“I do beg you, Mama, to leave Mr. Ryder alone. It is very unseemly to encourage him as you do.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” exclaimed her mother. “We are only making him welcome. Inviting him into the family circle, you might say.”
“It isn’t fair. It raises his hopes. It makes him feel as though he has some special claim on us—on me.”
“Yes, that is the general idea. How else will we get him to make you an offer?”
Once an idea had taken root in Mrs. Bennet’s mind, it was almost impossible to dislodge. Mary knew she could throw herself endlessly against her mother’s iron will, without making the slightest dent on her convictions; nevertheless, she persevered.
“But I do not think I want to marry him.”
Mrs. Bennet did not look up from her sewing, as if this was too silly an idea to be seriously entertained.
“Don’t be silly. You won’t do any better, I can promise you that.
You were prepared to take on Mr. Collins before that sharp little hussy Charlotte Lucas plucked him out of our grasp—and Mr. Ryder is a great deal better-looking, richer, and infinitely more agreeable than Mr. Collins.
If you throw this opportunity away, who else do you think will have you? ”
His friend, cried Mary to herself, I would willingly, joyfully take his friend.
But Mr. Hayward had not written. Perhaps he would never write.
It was possible that she would never see him again.
Grief suddenly overwhelmed her. She could not control herself and fled out of the drawing room into the hall, where she passed a shocked Mrs. Gardiner, and up the stairs to her bedroom, where she covered her face with a pillow so that no-one should hear.
There she cried and cried until she could cry no more.
It was half an hour before she mastered her feelings.
She lay, dry-eyed, for a little time before she rose up and smoothed down her dress.
Then she washed her face, combed her hair, and pinched her cheeks to give herself a little colour.
When satisfied she was presentable, she made her way down towards the drawing room.
Before she could enter, she heard her aunt and her mother arguing within, their voices tight and angry. She stood, rooted to the spot, her hand grasping the bannister, unable to move, although she knew she should.
“I really do implore you to leave matters alone for a while,” urged Mrs. Gardiner. “I know you mean well; but when I see the unhappy state she’s reduced to, I fear any further interference risks doing more harm than good.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by ‘interference.’ It is the second time you have used the word. I cannot see it applies in a mother’s case.”
“She is not a child anymore,” exclaimed Mrs. Gardiner, “but a thoughtful young woman. A silly, flighty girl might need to be cajoled into doing the right thing, but Mary is far too steady to require coercion. She is quite capable of making her own choice.”
“I was not aware that there was a choice to make. It is this young man or nothing. And that, as we both know, amounts to no choice at all.”
Her aunt did not reply immediately. When she did speak, her voice was more conciliating.
“I believe there is another gentleman for whom Mary has a preference, a very decent, respectable man, a good friend of our family. He accompanied us to the Lakes, and whilst we were there, it seemed that a real affection was growing between him and Mary. I had great hopes for it.”
“Indeed? May I ask then, where he is? I have been in Gracechurch Street for ten days now and have not been introduced to him.”
“No,” admitted Mrs. Gardiner. “His absence is most unusual. Something went wrong in the Lakes, a misunderstanding or a quarrel of some kind. It is that, I believe, which is the cause of Mary’s unhappiness.”
Sensing triumph, Mrs. Bennet rose up to deliver her verdict.
“Well, if the gentleman is not here, I think that tells us all we need to know about the strength of his affection. Mr. Ryder, on the other hand, is both present and interested. There is such a thing, sister, as a bird in the hand.”
Mary had heard enough. She dreaded meeting her mother on the stairs, as she emerged victorious from the drawing room, and tried to think of somewhere to hide; but she feared that wherever she went in the house, Mrs. Bennet would seek her out, and continue to hector her there.
She had no choice but to put on her outdoor things and venture out into the City again.
When she was halfway down Gracechurch Street, she stopped for a moment, quite overcome.
The London air was smokier than usual, and the coal dust stung her eyes.
That must be why she felt tears on her cheeks once more.
She brushed them away angrily and walked on, with no clear sense of either direction or purpose.