The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  She ran her fingers across the smooth cotton of her dress, playing with the pleats as she spoke.

  “I must say, I was not entirely pleased with that idea. It was very unsettling. If I could not call upon my intellect to help me make sense of things, what else was there for me to rely upon?”

  “So what did you do?”

  “I made the hardest possible choice for someone like myself. I left it alone. I stopped examining and underlining. I made no more notes in the margins. I allowed myself to do nothing more than to read—and quietly reflect upon it. And then a few days later—when I least expected it—I made the leap. That is the only way I can explain it.”

  “Ah, yes!” cried Mr. Hayward. “‘The leap!’ I know exactly what you mean! It is the moment when we enter fully into the poet’s imagination. When we truly understand what it is he means.”

  “Yes,” replied Mary quietly. “That is what happened. It was a very surprising sensation for me, unlike anything I have experienced before.”

  “You should be very pleased with yourself,” declared Mr. Hayward excitedly. “Many people never manage to make such a connection. I long to know which parts of it particularly affected you. Tell me exactly what you felt when you read it.”

  Mary took another glass of water and tried to compose herself. She wanted to make no mistakes. She opened her book at the marked page, and began.

  “At first, the poem seems both very beautiful and very simple. The poet sits beneath a tree at the top of a high valley, gazing down to the river below.”

  “‘O sylvan Wye,’” murmured Mr. Hayward, “‘thou wanderer through the woods.’”

  Mary noticed he did not consult his book; he knew the poem by heart.

  “Mr. Wordsworth describes the landscape with great brilliance. We feel ourselves plunged into the heart of ‘the wild secluded scene.’”

  Mr. Hayward did not hurry her, so she took a deep breath and continued.

  “All this is excellently done. But just as we think we have the measure of what the poet wants to say, we realise he has something far more extraordinary to convey to us.”

  She turned the pages of her book, her excitement growing.

  “We begin to understand that the landscape he has conjured up so brilliantly is not merely a view to be admired. It is far more than that. It is nothing less than the means by which we may connect ourselves to a higher truth. If we will only allow ourselves to surrender to its beauty, it will transform us—for then we will leave behind ‘the weary weight of all this unintelligible world’—and become what we are meant to be—‘a living soul.’”

  She was speaking faster, exuberant with the thrill of understanding.

  “That is it, is it not? That is what Mr. Wordsworth means to show us. How through nature we become one with the world—how we become ‘a living soul’!”

  “Yes, yes,” declared Mr. Hayward, as animated now as Mary. “He reveals to us how ‘we see into the life of things.’ You have it, Miss Bennet, you have it indeed!”

  He sat back in his chair, much affected. “I’m sorry I interrupted you, but really, I could not resist.”

  He stood up abruptly and went to the window, where he stood looking into the street. Mary sat quite still, hugely elated and a little shocked. Neither of them spoke until Mr. Hayward returned to the table and took his seat again.

  “I told you a while ago, Miss Bennet, that you were full of surprises. But I did not expect you to astonish me again so quickly.”

  She allowed herself to bask in his praise for a moment, aware of the admiration with which he regarded her; and this emboldened her to make a final disclosure.

  “You asked me to tell you what I felt when I read the poem, sir. I hope I may confess the truth to you without seeming foolish—but, oh, Mr. Hayward—it made me long to become a living soul myself.”

  She was not sure how he would respond to such an intimate declaration. She very much hoped he would not be playful or satiric, for she did not think she could bear that; but when he spoke, she saw with gratitude it was with all the seriousness she had hoped for.

  “That is the power of poetry,” he said simply. “It allows us to imagine ourselves anew, if we will permit it to do so. It reveals to us the hidden wishes of our hearts.”

  From the street, the sound of the cherry seller’s barrow could be heard once more as she pushed it over the cobbles, making her way back to Cheapside. She did not call out this time; had she sold all her wares, wondered Mary, or was she simply too tired to cry them again? It was a melancholy thought, and it darkened her mood.

  “Yes, it shows us those things,” she replied. “But what if we cannot act upon them? What if it inspires in us longings we can never achieve?”

  “I am not sure what you mean,” said Mr. Hayward.

  “There is nothing I should like more than to experience what Mr. Wordsworth describes,” cried Mary. “But I cannot think it will ever happen for me. I have altogether the wrong sort of character for that.”

  “Why should you think that?”

  “Mr. Wordsworth says elsewhere that nothing of value is to be gained from books. For him, our affections are the only real guide worth following.”

  She felt tears begin to well up in her eyes.

  “And I’m not sure I have any. Or none strong enough for me to follow with confidence. Perhaps they are too weak—too frozen—to help me find my way.”

  Mr. Hayward gazed at her with such concern that for a moment Mary thought he was about to take her hand. But if that was his intention, he mastered it, and instead pulled the jug of lemon water towards him and filled both their glasses.

  “I fear you are creating a difficulty where none need exist,” he said, pushing the drink towards her. “Perhaps I may cite myself as proof of my argument?”

  He crossed his arms, and looked at her across the table, both serious and fond at the same time.

  “My passion for poetry is so strong that I know there are some—and I must include your aunt and uncle among them—who find it very amusing and just a little odd. But it has not diminished my appetite for other, very different authors. I do not think my love for Mr. Wordsworth requires me to give up my appreciation for—well, let us say my respect for Mrs. Macaulay. There is room for both in my life. The same is true for you, I believe.”

  Mary closed Lyrical Ballads and placed it gently on the table.

  “It seems to me,” he went on, “that, in the real world, it is impossible to be guided solely by either the impulses of feeling or by rational calculation. Neither is likely to make us happy. In my own view, we have need of them both. Wisdom, I suppose, lies in knowing when to call upon one and when on the other.”

  “I think you will always find that easier to achieve than I do,” answered Mary. “You are accustomed to expressing your feelings. You have exercised them with poetry until they are robust and familiar to you. Mine, I often think, are feeble, frozen, and largely unknown to me.”

  Finally Mr. Hayward smiled at her.

  “Excuse me if I insist you are mistaken. No-one who has spoken with the passion you have shown so freely this afternoon can possibly be a stranger to strong emotions.”

  Mary was suddenly mortified by the candour with which she had spoken.

  “I have said far too much,” she cried. “I am so sorry—I was carried away. I cannot believe I have been so forward!”

  “That is not how I regard it at all,” said Mr. Hayward, soothingly. “I beg you not to think of it in that way. You have nothing with which to reproach yourself. Our conversation has been invigorating and very illuminating. I should very much hope to read other poems with you. May I be allowed to suggest a few more?”

  His expression was so inviting and so sincere that her embarrassment evaporated, and she knew there was nothing she would enjoy more.

  “Yes,” she replied simply. “I would like that very much.”

  “I intend to do all I can to help you become a woman of feeling,”
said Mr. Hayward lightly. “I shall unlock the sensibility buried beneath all that good sense. See if I do not.”

  Mary blushed; but more from surprise than delicacy. She was shocked to realise that she was not at all offended, and that indeed, she rather hoped he would do so.

  After he had gone, she could not settle. She felt excited, invigorated, alive. Not knowing what else to do with herself, she walked to the Gardiners’ piano, lifted the lid, and for the first time in a long while, began to play.

  Upstairs in the nursery, Mrs. Gardiner heard the music as it echoed round the house, and was puzzled at first to think who could be playing. It was carried off with so much spirit and vigour that she did not think it could be Mary at the keyboard. When she realised it must be her, Mrs. Gardiner stood leaning on the door, wondering what had provoked such a change in attitude, as the children danced about behind her.

  Chapter 57

  Over the next week, Mrs. Gardiner made several cautious attempts to discover how Mary and Mr. Hayward had spent their afternoon together; but her niece deflected every mild enquiry and batted away every innocent question. Mary had barely allowed herself to dwell upon how pleasurable it had been, as she was not sure what she should conclude from Mr. Hayward’s manner. Did his behaviour suggest that he enjoyed her company as much as she did his? It seemed probable, even likely; but beyond that she would not go. She told herself she would not think about him too often; and for at least a few minutes a day, she was successful in this endeavour. For the rest of the time, however, he was very much in her mind. So it was that she was thinking of him one breakfast, whilst around her the children ate their hot rolls and the Gardiners drank their coffee. When the post was brought in, Mary took no notice, for there was never anything for her. It was only when her uncle held up a letter, with every appearance of surprise, that she paid attention.

  “Here is a note from that quizzical young man Tom Hayward. He asks a favour of me. You will never guess, my dear, in a hundred years, what it is.”

  “I’m sure I shall not,” his wife agreed, spreading jam on the bread of her youngest daughter. “I hope you will tell me.”

  “He asks if I would be kind enough to bring Mary early one morning to Westminster Bridge, where he says he will meet us.” He turned to Mary, incredulous. “He writes that he wishes to show you the City as the sun comes up and read us some lines about it.”

  Mary could not quite believe it; nor, it seemed, could Mr. Gardiner.

  “What can he mean by it?” he asked his wife. “For such a respectable lawyer, he has some very strange ideas.”

  “I’m sure he imagines it as a treat,” she replied, “an opportunity to see something remarkable. What do you think, Mary? Should you like to go?”

  “It must be a very extraordinary sight,” said Mary, trying to keep the eagerness out of her voice. “I should very much like to see it, if it won’t inconvenience Mr. Gardiner.”

  Her uncle shrugged.

  “Of course I will take you if you wish it. But it’s a very odd errand—and a very early one too. Tom will owe me a bottle of claret in recompense.”

  “Well done, my dear,” said her aunt. “It is a great kindness in you.”

  “Does that mean we are to go?” asked Mary eagerly.

  “I believe it does,” replied Mrs. Gardiner.

  “There are times when I am astonished by my own magnanimity,” declared Mr. Gardiner, as his wife offered him the last rasher of bacon.

  * * *

  It was still dark when, a few days later, Mary and her uncle made their way in a slow carriage through the early morning streets. Far from being deserted, the pavements were already filling up. Country people carried baskets of fresh fruits and vegetables; apprentices passed them with the tools of their trade wrapped in their aprons. In a side street, Mary thought she saw a dairymaid leading a cow.

  “I had no idea, sir, that the City was so busy at this time!”

  “London starts work early. No-one makes money by lying too long in bed!”

  When they arrived on the southern side of the bridge, Mr. Hayward was there waiting for them. He thanked Mr. Gardiner profusely for his kindness and hoped neither he nor Mary would be disappointed by their outing.

  “Do I understand,” asked Mr. Gardiner cautiously, “that you mean to read a poem?”

  “Yes, sir. But I shall do so very quietly, without drawing undue attention to us. And it is very short.”

  Somewhat relieved, Mr. Gardiner put his hands into his pockets, and walked a few steps away. Mary stared across the river at the city landscape spread out before them. The rising sun had just begun to appear above the roofs, touching everything with a thin rime of gold.

  “It is wonderful, Mr. Hayward. I wish I had the words to describe it.”

  “I suggest we allow Mr. Wordsworth to say what we cannot,” he said in a low voice. “Now, what I ask of you, Miss Bennet, is not to think too much about what you feel as I read, but instead, to allow the sensations to wash over you.”

  He drew a book from his pocket and began in a quiet, ordinary tone, without flourishes or affectation.

  “Earth has not anything to show more fair;

  Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

  A sight so touching in its majesty;…”

  As he went on, Mary gave herself up to the rhythm and beauty of the words, and began to see the City through Wordsworth’s eyes.

  “Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

  Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

  All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.”

  She leant on a parapet, staring at the view, the dark water below her, the church spires glinting beyond. It was like nothing she had ever seen before.

  “Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep.

  The river glideth at his own sweet will.

  Dear God! The very houses seem asleep,

  And all that mighty heart is lying still!”

  Mr. Hayward closed his book and stood staring for a moment into the dawn-flecked cityscape. When the sun finally cleared the roof tops, he turned to look at her.

  “This is sensation, is it not!” he declared. “Do not tell me your feelings are not aroused by it—that it has not stimulated your mind to awe and admiration!”

  “Oh, but it has, truly it has,” Mary replied. “I am amazed. Speechless!”

  They both took one last long look at the view. Mr. Hayward sighed, and put the book back in his pocket.

  “It is one of the most remarkable experiences I know,” he said, as they walked back to the carriage, where Mr. Gardiner stood talking quietly to the coachman. “I saw it first when I was little more than a lad, just up from Hampshire.”

  An image of him as a lanky, excited boy flashed in Mary’s mind’s eye. It was not hard to imagine him standing on the bridge, declaiming Wordsworth silently to himself in the early dawn light. She looked at him from the corner of her eye, taking in his animated, intelligent expression. They were nearly at the carriage now; but before they reached it, he stopped and bent his head to her ear.

  “I hope that encourages you to accept that your capacity to feel is as strong as anyone’s,” he said quietly. “You need not fear that you are, in any way, ‘dull of soul.’ That is not you at all.”

  He held the door open for her, and soon they were all inside, heading back to Gracechurch Street. Mr. Hayward was invited back for breakfast—he readily accepted—then no more was said. Mr. Gardiner closed his eyes, Mr. Hayward sat preoccupied, seemingly lost in thought, and Mary stared silently from the carriage window at the streets as they passed. She felt quite unlike herself, both very close to the world outside, and at the same time, distantly remote from it, as though she was regarding it from the wrong end of a telescope. It was not until they were back in the breakfast room, being served with everything hungry people could possibly require, that she began to return to her usual state of mind.

  Mrs. Gardiner sat at the table, watc
hing them eat. “Was it as remarkable as you expected it to be?” she asked Mary. “Was it worth getting up so early?”

  “Oh, indeed it was,” exclaimed Mary. “It was a wonderful thing to see! To know that we stood where Mr. Wordsworth stood, looked at the very scene that had inspired his words! What is it like, Mr. Hayward, to do the same in the Lakes? It must be very splendid to stand in that wild landscape, reading his poems in its midst.”

  “I am sure it is,” replied Mr. Hayward, “but I’m afraid I would not know. I am sorry to say I have never been there—though I have often promised myself the pleasure of a visit.”

  “But that is so sad,” exclaimed Mary. “The Lakes interest you so much, it seems very unfair you should not have seen them.”

  “I have no-one to blame for that but myself,” replied Mr. Hayward. “I have allowed my work to keep me here in London, with the result that I have yet to set foot in the countryside I most wish to visit.”

  “I too long to see the Lakes,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “We once planned a trip there—indeed, we actually set out—but at the last moment, Mr. Gardiner’s business obliged us to cut short our time, and we got no further than Derbyshire.”

  There was a brief silence whilst everyone considered how much they regretted never having beheld the grandeur of the northern hills, crags, and lakes. Then Mr. Gardiner reached across the table and gently took his wife’s hand.

  “I have always been sorry that you did not get your wish, and I think the time has come to put that right. The days are beginning to lengthen—what do you say to an expedition to the Lakes as soon as it is possible for us to leave? I am not too much occupied with business just now, so I do believe it might be done. And fortune favours the brave, they say.”

  Mrs. Gardiner rose from her chair, hurried round the table, and kissed her husband on both cheeks.

  “If you really think it can be managed, there’s nothing I should like better.”