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.
Chapter 80
The guide had laid a clean cloth on a flat rock, and spread upon it a loaf of bread, cheese, and a few apples. Caroline Bingley was reaching for some fruit when she saw Mary approaching. She offered no welcoming smile, but Mr. Ryder leapt up to greet her.
“If there’s anything better than eating in the open air, I should like to know what it is! May I help you to something, Miss Bennet?”
Mary took some cheese and an apple. She did not wish to spar with Miss Bingley, so politely took her leave and looked for a place to eat alone. She soon found a patch of dry grass, with an accommodating rock to lean upon. She sat gratefully against it, took off her hat, and shook her head, as if trying to throw off the weight of her disappointment. Tiredness washed over her. She had no more energy to reflect on Mr. Hayward. For as long as she could remember, it had seemed as if she was a player in a game whose rules she did not understand, in which all the dice were weighted against her. She had done her best to learn what she was supposed to do, but somehow, she always stumbled.
As she looked into the distant hills, she realised how she longed to be free of it all, to leave behind the posturing and falsity, the niceties and stratagems. Again, Mr. Ryder’s words echoed in her mind. Why could not relations between men and women be stripped of misunderstanding? Why could they not be as natural and honest and simple as breathing? She hugged her knees and closed her eyes, feeling the sun on her neck; her mind wandered and in a few seconds she was asleep.
She did not know what it was that woke her, but when she opened her eyes, she was astonished to see Mr. Ryder himself sitting not too far away from her, a blade of grass in his mouth, staring silently at the horizon. She started up, alarmed.
“Lord, sir, I must have fallen asleep! I hope it was not for long?”
“Not more than five minutes,” he replied. “Or perhaps ten.”
She sat up, reached for her hat, and began to rise; but he held out his hand to stop her. “I don’t think there’s any need to hurry. Everyone is occupied. Tom and the guide are discussing the landscape, and Miss Bingley is resting. Wait a moment and watch the view with me.”
His quiet self-possession was soothing, and Mary could not find the spirit to protest. Together, they watched the shadows cast by the clouds race across the green sides of the hills beyond them. In the far distance, it was hard to tell where the grey sea ended and the blue sky began. It was difficult to imagine anywhere more beautiful.
“I feel even I could write poetry here,” murmured Mr. Ryder. “It would be impossible not to do so. This place could make poets of us all.”
“That sky would be enough to persuade anyone to pick up a pen.”
“Even you, Miss Bennet? Can we expect some verses from you? ‘On Climbing Scafell,’ perhaps?”
“I hardly think my talents lie that way.” She saw a patch of daisies in the grass next to her, picked one, then another; and set to making a chain from them. He watched her indulgently.
“Excuse me if I say I doubt that. I’m sure you could do anything to which you truly set your mind.”
“You are very kind, Mr. Ryder, but quite wrong, I’m afraid. I might be capable of setting a few lines down on paper. Any of us can do that. True poetic talent however, is a rare thing. I know I do not possess it.”
“That is what Tom says,” observed Mr. Ryder. “He has often told me—usually after reading something I have written—that the desire to write poetry has no connection at all with the ability to do so. And that if you have no feeling for it, you had far better leave it alone.”
“Yes, that sounds very like him,” said Mary softly.
“Well, if I am never to read any words of yours upon the countryside around us,” continued Mr. Ryder, “perhaps you can simply tell me how it affects you. What do you think when you look at it?”
She gazed into the shimmering blue distance as if trying to fix it in her mind’s eye.
“The first impression is of beauty. The colours, the light, the airiness. But the more you look, the more you understand it is the scale of what lies before us that is most startling. It is so large, so grand, and so majestic; and we are so small and insignificant in comparison.”
“Those are my thoughts exactly!” he cried. “It is magnificent—but it is also severe. It is quite indifferent to us. And we are irrelevant to it. All our petty concerns and worries, the silly little rules by which we live, all mean nothing in its presence.”
“Looking at such a view, I understand why you might think that.”
“I do think it, Miss Bennet. This landscape gives us a proper sense of perspective. It shows us our smallness in the great scheme of things. As these mountains understand it, in the blink of an eye we, and everything we have created, will be gone.”
“That’s a gloomy thought, sir.”
“On the contrary, I find it very exciting. To me, it has but one message: do what y
ou will and follow your heart, for we are all a very long time dead.”
He plucked the grass from his mouth, threw it away, and leant a little closer to her.
“Our lives are so brief and yet we spend so much of them obeying rules we did not make. The spirit of this place can’t help but make me imagine what it would be like to be truly free. To speak and behave not as we thought was proper, but as we really wished to do, if we were honest enough to confess it.”
She was a little shocked to hear her own recent thoughts refracted so clearly back to her.
“If she were here, Mrs. Gardiner would tell you this is nothing but libertine’s talk, a justification for every kind of licentiousness.”
“Can you honestly tell me—and I beg you to be truthful now—that you have not felt something of what I describe? An impatience with the way things are ordered—particularly amongst men and women?”
Mary added the last daisy to the chain and placed it carefully in her lap.
“I cannot imagine why you should think that.”
“I catch a glimpse of it every now and then in your expression before you cover it up in that way you have.”
Her self-possession faltered.
“You embarrass me, sir.”
“Only because I have seen something in you that I suspect you don’t often admit, even to yourself.”
“You go too far.”
“Then I shall stop. I don’t wish to distress you. I will only say it seems plain to me that you long for happiness and freedom. But I’m afraid the first is only to be had by embracing the second, and it takes a great deal of courage to do that. Especially for a woman.”
He rose, brushing the dust from his coat.
“For you, I think it would be a risk worth taking. You weren’t made to live a dull, ordinary, little life. You deserve more than that.”
“If I were fortunate enough to be with a man I loved, a little life would be neither dull nor ordinary.”
Mr. Ryder smiled.
“It is when you make remarks of that kind that I admire you the most.”
He took his leave, as calmly as if they had been discussing idle pleasantries over the tea table, and ambled away to find the others. Mary did not follow him but sat for a while alone. She stared into the hills as if seeking advice or reassurance there; but they had none to offer, and presently she too rose and went to join the rest of the party.
Chapter 81
When she arrived amongst them, only Mr. Hayward greeted her, his expression guarded, almost reproachful. Everyone else was staring intently into the sky.
“We are looking at the clouds,” he explained. “Will thinks he can see objects in them—ships, horses, and so on.”
“They are there for those with the imagination to see them,” declared Mr. Ryder. “Come, exercise your genius and tell me what you see.”
“It is far too fanciful an occupation for Miss Bennet,” replied Miss Bingley. “I beg you, do not feel obliged to join us in such a frivolous activity.”
Mary ignored her and looked up towards the sky.
“I see—shapes like the tops of trees, clustered together, a huge forest in the air.”
“Celestial woodlands,” murmured Mr. Ryder, looking first at the sky and then at Mary. “I should like to walk amongst them.”
“I cannot see it myself,” said Mr. Hayward. “I see only clouds.”
“It works if you surrender yourself to the conceit, Tom,” urged Mr. Ryder. “I’m sure you’ll see something extraordinary if you try.”
“I think them pleasing enough as they are. When I see something naturally beautiful, I have no need to turn it into something it is not.”
Mr. Ryder shrugged.
“Very well, I cannot compel you to be playful.” He shaded his eyes and looked once more into the sky. “I think I see a ship of the line in full sail in the outline of that cloud—can you see it too?”
Miss Bingley hurried to his side and immediately cried yes, she had it now, she could make out every detail, every rope of the rigging and billow of the sails. Her eagerness to please was so fervent that Mary felt ashamed for her and moved away. She found herself next to Mr. Hayward once more, and their eyes met; but neither of them seemed to know how to begin a conversation. Both were relieved when the guide approached them, his hat in his hand.
“I see you’re looking at the weather. You’re right to take notice. There’s a change coming. We should think about going down.”
The others wrenched their gaze away from the skies, and turned to him, astonished.
“Go down?” asked Miss Bingley. “But we have only just got here.”
“Yes, miss, I know. But nevertheless, that’s what we must do. And quickly, if you please.”
“But the sky is so blue,” protested Mr. Ryder. “And these clouds above us—they don’t seem very threatening.”
“No, sir, not those,” replied the guide, patient but determined. “But look this way. On the horizon, over the sea. That’s where the rain is brewing up.”
Mary could see nothing but the hazy blue line where the sky met the water.
“I believe there is something there,” said Mr. Hayward, concentrating hard. “I can see a smudge of vapour or cloud, out in the distance.”
“That’s it, sir,” said the guide. “It’s a rainstorm brewing. It’s on its way. It might pass over quickly, or it might pelt down. Whichever it is, we don’t want to be caught in it up here.”
“It seems very hard to credit,” persisted Mr. Ryder, “when we’re basking in sunshine and the air is as clear as a bell.”
“Yes, it’s fine now, but it won’t stay that way. That’s not how the weather works on these fells. It comes out of nowhere, and it moves very fast.” The guide looked away from Mr. Ryder to Mr. Hayward. “Come, gentlemen, we should go back now.”
“That seems good advice to me,” said Mr. Hayward. “Our guide knows these hills. We should do as he says.”
But Mr. Ryder was not to be persuaded. “Really, Tom, look around you! Do you honestly believe we are about to be inundated?”
“In matters of such importance,” replied Mr. Hayward steadily, determined not to be provoked, “I prefer to rely on expert knowledge rather than my instincts, which are unlikely to be either accurate or dependable. I suggest we all do the same.”
“As usual we are obliged to be cautious and prudent,” cried Mr. Ryder. “It seems a pity to deny ourselves the pleasure we have just begun to enjoy, after so long a climb.”
“I’m not sure what pleasure is to be had in finding ourselves soaked through,” replied Mr. Hayward dryly.
“Even if it does rain,” Mr. Ryder went on, “who is to say we should run away from it? A rainstorm in so wild a situation is likely to be a great natural phenomenon—perhaps we should stay and witness it for ourselves?”
He gestured to Mary.
“Miss Bennet, I’m sure you have your copy of the Guide with you. May I see it, please?”
Mary produced the little book and passed it to him.
“If I can’t persuade you, Tom, perhaps you’ll take more notice of your hero. Ah, here is the passage. Mr. Wordsworth tells us no traveller should grudge the price of a little inconvenience to witness ‘the sight or sound of a storm coming on or clearing away.’ He says it is an incomparable experience.”
“I very much doubt he intended it to be enjoyed at the top of a great hill such as this one,” remonstrated Mr. Hayward. “Or that he intended ladies to be put to the inconvenience and misery it will doubtless involve.”
“I should not mind it,” declared Miss Bingley. “A little rain would be nothing to me. I will gladly stay, Mr. Ryder, in order to see something so remarkable.”
“You must see how foolish this is,” Mr. Hayward replied, his exasperation growing ever more apparent. “You surely understand the dangers that attend it. I beg you to reconsider. This is not a poem, to be enjoyed in the warmth of your study—this is real, this is life.”
/> “There lies the difference between us,” retorted Mr. Ryder, equally passionate. “You want to keep the spirit of one away from the experience of the other. I, on the other hand, long to bring them together.”
When he saw his arguments had made no impression at all upon his friend, Mr. Hayward turned to Mary.
“Miss Bennet, I appeal to you—yours is a rational mind—surely you appreciate the folly of all this?”
When he looked at her so directly, so urgent and imploring, Mary’s first instinct was to support him. Every sensible impulse told her he was right, that she owed him her agreement. But then she was suddenly angry once more, and the strength of her feelings put an end to all considered judgement. He would not explain the reasons for his withdrawal from her—but imagined he could still call upon her when he required endorsement for his views. Then she was of service to him—then she could be depended upon to be the voice of dullness and restraint. Well, she should do so no more. She was tired of passing judgement, of urging others more lively than herself back to the narrow path of duty. She would not agree with Mr. Hayward, even though every fibre of her understanding told her to do so. For once, her heart would rule her head. She would throw off her usual restraint, and surrender to the thrill of the unknown and the unpredictable. She should not be herself at all.
“I think I should like to see the amazing sight Mr. Wordsworth describes. It seems a great pity to have come so far and to leave, just as something extraordinary is about to happen.”
“That is exactly how I see it,” exclaimed Mr. Ryder. “We shall embrace whatever nature is pleased to exhibit to us.”
Mr. Hayward looked at Mary as though he could not believe what she had said; but she was determined not to falter.
“We will never have the chance to see anything like this again,” she continued. “Perhaps we could stay just long enough to see the storm come towards us and begin our descent before it arrives. Then we might outwalk the worst of it, without having missed the remarkable scenes Mr. Wordsworth describes.”
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