He sat quite still, considering how to reply.
“Do you know why I wish to marry you, Miss Bennet?”
“No, Mr. Ryder, I confess I am a little puzzled to understand it.”
“There are all the usual reasons of course. I enjoy your company. I find you kind, unaffected, modest, and charming. Yes, don’t look away, that is what I feel. But I must tell you, there is a more selfish dimension to my preference. I think you would improve me. You are serious where I am flighty. You work hard where I am lazy. You think deeply where I am shallow. Think what a good deed you would do in marrying me. Imagine how your influence would change me for the better. Perhaps, for those reasons, if for no other, you are obliged to accept me?”
He stood up, as composed as she had ever seen him.
“I won’t ask for your final answer now. I will leave you with that thought. But I would be grateful if you would favour me with a reply as soon as you have decided?”
Mary’s voice shook a little.
“Of course, sir.”
He bowed and was gone. Mary saw her hands were trembling. She had never heard him speak so sincerely before. What was she to think of it?
She had no time to consider further before her mother bustled excitedly into the room.
“Was I right? Did he make you an offer?”
“Yes, Mama. He did.”
“I knew it! I knew it! Did I not say so?” She was almost beside herself with joy. “Imagine! I shall see you married, after all. And to such a respectable, good-looking man! Who would have thought it?”
She leant down and kissed Mary on both cheeks, a gesture she had never made before. When Mrs. Gardiner entered the room, Mrs. Bennet rushed over and took her hand, bursting with the good news she had to impart.
“Mary is to be married! To Mr. Ryder! He has just this minute asked her.”
Mrs. Gardiner started, taken aback.
“Really, Mary? Is this so? Are you really engaged to him?”
Mary looked from her mother to her aunt, taking in the joy of one and the astonishment of the other, steeling herself to say what had to be said.
“Not exactly. He has made me an offer, but I have not accepted. He has asked me to think it over and give him a final answer as soon as I can.”
Mrs. Bennet grasped at Mrs. Gardiner’s arm as if to steady herself. When she had caught her breath, she lowered herself into a chair, from where she stared at Mary with appalled incomprehension.
“What can you mean? Why on earth did you not accept him? What if he thinks better of it?”
“If he were to behave so basely,” declared Mrs. Gardiner, “then he is hardly the sort of man we could wish Mary to marry.”
“You must write to him, this minute!” Mrs. Bennet cried. “Tell him it was girlish silliness—you were overcome—your head was turned—but you are delighted to say yes now—nothing would make you happier. Let me get a pen and some paper—”
“Please, Mama. I want to please you—really, I do—but I don’t love him.”
“What do your feelings have to do with it? He is a decent enough man and he wants to give you a home. You would have been pleased enough to take Mr. Collins on those terms.”
“You have mentioned that before. But since then—I can’t explain it, exactly—I have changed.”
“Is that so? Well, if there has been a change, it has definitely been for the worse. You used to pride yourself on your rationality. Now, it seems, you have lost all sense of where your real interest lies.”
Mrs. Gardiner placed her hand soothingly on Mrs. Bennet’s sleeve, attempting to calm her anger; but Mrs. Bennet shook it off.
“Take care, Mary. You are about to make the biggest mistake of your life.”
Chapter 90
The next day was one of the most agitating and miserable Mary could remember. Mrs. Bennet lost no opportunity to badger her, beginning before breakfast and following her from room to room to argue Mr. Ryder’s case. Finally, when her aunt saw that Mary could bear it no longer, she led her away to her bedroom, and closed the door behind them. They sat together on the bed, Mrs. Gardiner holding Mary’s hand.
“You should stay here for a while. You will never be able to reason clearly if you are always to be harassed and annoyed.”
Surprised, Mary pulled away from her aunt.
“Does this mean you too believe there is something for me to think about? That I should seriously consider accepting Mr. Ryder?”
Mrs. Gardiner did not reply but rose calmly and walked across to Mary’s dressing table.
“Your hair is coming down at the back, my dear. Why don’t you take it down and let me brush it a little for you? I have always found that very soothing to a troubled mind.”
Mary looked wary; but Mrs. Gardiner was not to be denied.
“I will put it up again afterwards. I promise you it will do you good.”
Seeing she had no choice, Mary joined her at the dressing table and pulled out the pins in her hair. When it was released, Mrs. Gardiner began to brush it in long, sweeping strokes, speaking quietly as she did so.
“Now, do not be angry or upset at what I’m about to say. You know me well enough I hope to understand I would never urge you to act against what you believe to be right. But before you make up your mind to reject him, I think you must give Mr. Ryder’s offer the careful and sober consideration it deserves.”
“I believe I have already done so.”
“I know you have thought about little else since yesterday. But there are a few points I should like to mention to you. I want to be certain you have given them their proper weight before you make your decision.”
Mary knew that her aunt would not hector her; and her steady, rhythmic attentions to her hair had indeed brushed away some of her agitation. So she did not object when Mrs. Gardiner began to speak.
“I shall be very candid with you,” her aunt began, “as I believe you are sensible enough to benefit from a little straightforward advice. Now, we both know that your mother is often selfish and silly, and that you have had a great deal to bear from her. But, hard as it is to accept, that does not mean everything she says is always wrong. The truth is, Mr. Ryder might indeed be a perfectly good husband for you. He has many worthy qualities. He is kind, cheerful, and obviously very fond of you. Yes, his fancies and passions make him now and then a little absurd—but that is a complaint known as youth, one which we all grow out of, soon enough.”
She laid down the stiff brush she had been using, and picked a softer one from the dressing table, before continuing.
“He is essentially good-natured, and, as even you must have noticed, not ill-looking. It appears he has enough money to provide you with an easy life and a comfortable home. You would have a place of your own to live in, with all your things about you. I think you would like that. If you are lucky, you may also have children too. I think you would like that too.”
She paused for a moment and looked at Mary in the mirror.
“I will also observe that it is unlikely you would have much trouble managing him. Your mind, Mary, is superior to his, as both you—and he—must know.”
“He told me I would improve him,” murmured Mary, “that it was my duty to marry him, because I possessed qualities he did not.”
“Did he indeed? I would not have thought him so perceptive. There, you see, he may have capacities as yet unthought of.”
“But I do not love him. You know that. And you also know to whom—to whom my affections truly incline.”
“Yes. I do.”
Mrs. Gardiner picked up a pair of combs and a handful of pins and began to put up Mary’s hair.
“On which note, I should tell you that I wrote to Tom’s mother a week ago. I wanted to know where he was, and when he planned to return to London.”
Mary closed her eyes. Just to hear his name pronounced was enough to upset her.
“What did she say? Is he well? Did she have news of him?”
“He wa
s with his family until last week. Then he left. He went off quite alone, saying he was not sure where he would go, only that he wished to be in a place where he could take solitary walks, should not be bothered, and might have time to collect his thoughts. Mrs. Hayward did not seem to think this unusual. She supposed he was off to explore ‘some new poetic landscape.’”
“Then she does not know where he is?”
“Apparently not. She said he intends to come straight to London once he is done with walking, but she could not say when that might be.”
Mary imagined him striding through wet grass, a stick in his hand, a lone figure in an empty landscape.
“He has never written to me, you know. I have not heard a word from him since he left us at the inn.”
“I thought as much. But I’m sorry to hear it confirmed. It is not what I would have expected from him.”
“No. I would have thought the same until we went to the Lakes.”
“I knew something untoward occurred there, but as you did not wish to speak of it, I did not press you to do so.”
Mrs. Gardiner had now secured Mary’s hair into a neat chignon. It looked smooth and elegant—in contrast with the pale, worried face beneath it. Pleased with the result, her aunt smiled encouragingly into the mirror, and Mary was suddenly stricken with an overwhelming need to throw off her reticence, and confide to Mrs. Gardiner everything that had happened. Perhaps, in the telling of it, she might at last discern some explanation for why it had ended as it did. What difference could it make now, anyway? She watched as her aunt put the brushes and combs back in their proper places and returned to sit once more on the bed, waiting expectantly. This time, Mary did not reject her unspoken invitation, but joined her there.
“You are quite right,” she said, “something happened between us in the Lakes, but even now I am not sure what it was. When we first arrived—well, I have never been happier. Mr. Hayward and I—we were so pleased with each other—so easy in each other’s company. I believe I told you a little of what I felt. He was so attentive—he said such affectionate things—he suggested he had feelings for me—or I thought he did—that I allowed myself to believe he was truly attached to me. I even imagined—that is, I hoped—that he might finally declare himself whilst we were there. But then Mr. Ryder and his party arrived, and everything changed.”
She shivered a little and reached for her shawl from the other side of her bed, wrapping it carefully round her shoulders so as not to disarrange her hair.
“It was not long afterwards that Mr. Hayward began to pull away from me. I don’t know how else to describe it. Suddenly, with no explanation. Each day he was cooler, more distant. At first, I was at a loss to understand his behaviour. But then I thought I understood. He was jealous of Mr. Ryder.”
Mrs. Gardiner took her hand once more, but offered no comment; and Mary went on.
“I did all I could to suggest where my own preference lay; but he seemed not to see it. On the contrary—he seemed to grow ever more diffident, whilst Mr. Ryder did not hesitate to show the strength of his feelings. I bore it as long as I could but then I grew impatient. Why could he not say what he wanted? And then on Scafell, there was—there was a misunderstanding. There were things I said that I believe confirmed Mr. Hayward’s suspicions, that made him think I returned Mr. Ryder’s admiration.”
She felt tears well up in her eyes.
“I wish I had not said them. I was foolish, angry, irrational—I displayed all the qualities I have worked so hard all my life not to indulge! What was wrong with me?”
“You were miserable and disappointed,” replied Mrs. Gardiner gently. “Emotions that all of us feel, no matter how hard we try to inoculate ourselves against them.”
“When we came down from the fell,” continued Mary, “I was determined to put matters right. I thought I could explain to Mr. Hayward that I had spoken in haste, that he had misinterpreted both my words and my actions. But before I could do so, he was gone.”
Mrs. Gardiner drew a handkerchief from her pocket and handed it to Mary, who wiped her eyes.
“It is very unfair,” she cried. “I did not invite Mr. Ryder’s attentions. I did nothing to encourage them.”
“I am sure you did not,” replied Mrs. Gardiner. “But if Tom convinced himself there was some feeling between you, that might explain his actions. Or if, for some reason, he believed it was his duty to stand aside, to let Mr. Ryder do exactly as he has done and make you an offer—that could also account for his long silence and his strange, hurtful absence.”
“I don’t understand!” cried Mary. “If he feared I might prefer his friend, why did he simply not ask me what I felt? I should not have been afraid to answer a direct question. But he said nothing. Why did he not speak?”
“In matters such as these, my dear, even the best men can be very proud. They will bear a great deal of pain rather than humiliate themselves or act in a way they consider dishonourable. They will inflict it too, even if they do not mean to do so. They do not always appreciate what preserving their honour costs those around them.”
Mary hid her head in her hands and began to cry.
“Is there no way things can be made right between us?”
Mrs. Gardiner stroked her hair gently; but her expression was sober.
“In all honesty, I do not know. I cannot say what Tom will do. I am very fond of him and think him incapable of acting wrongly to serve his own selfish interests. But I am not sure what he might sacrifice if he thought it was for the good of someone he cared for.”
“Even if that person does not wish it? Does not want the sacrifice?”
“He might feel—as your mother does—that the person in question is not the best judge of where their true interest lies.”
“But I am not a child, to have my decisions made for me!”
“No, you are not a child,” replied Mrs. Gardiner gravely. “But you are a woman, which, as you grow older, you are likely to discover puts you only slightly above the condition of an infant in the eyes of most of the world.”
She raised Mary’s face towards her, very serious now.
“You have a hard choice to make, Mary, and what you have told me only serves to make it harder. I understand and I respect what you feel for Tom. But I cannot promise you that he will return and all will be well. It might happen, or it might not. And I’m afraid there is very little you can do about it. In such a situation, there is nothing a woman is allowed to do except wait—and who knows how long that wait will be, or with what outcome in the end? Meanwhile, Mr. Ryder offers security, a settled life, a place in the world. I do not think he will stand about to see if his friend reappears and decides to make you an offer himself. He is a mild, easy sort of man, but I don’t think even he would stomach that.”
“You seem to say,” cried Mary, “that I am obliged to take the most important decision of my life in ignorance of what Mr. Hayward feels, because convention dictates I must do nothing? What if I were to write to him and confess the true state of my feelings? Then at least I should be certain of his thoughts.”
“Every rule of polite society says you must not. A man would be shocked to get such a letter—amazed at the boldness of the woman who wrote it.”
“But you know him,” persisted Mary. “Do you really imagine Mr. Hayward would respond in so irrational a way?”
“I think his absence and his silence suggest we cannot know how he might behave in such a situation. But to return to Mr. Ryder. If you have any interest in accepting him, you are really obliged to do so without any further delay. However, if you decide to reject him, you must do so in the understanding that if Tom does not step forward as you hope, you may be left with no husband at all. And I do not need to rehearse to you how hard the life of a single woman can be. In short, as your mother would have it, Mr. Ryder is your bird in the hand. Only you can decide if you are ready to surrender him for the uncertain prospect of his friend in the bush.”
Mrs. Gardiner
stood up, touching Mary’s cheek as she did so.
“It may seem as though all my arguments favour Mr. Ryder. That is not quite what I intend. I see the strength of your feelings for Tom and appreciate you may decide they are too powerful to ignore. But you should understand what you stand to lose if you decide to gamble everything upon them.”
She bent down and gave her a final kiss.
“Tea is in half an hour, if you feel inclined. I should like you to join us if you can, but will quite understand if you do not.”
Chapter 91
Mary did not come down for tea, or for dinner. Her mother often spoke of going up to her, but Mrs. Gardiner was adamant that Mary must be left alone; and with an ill grace, Mrs. Bennet was at length persuaded that no good would come of berating her daughter any further.
Upstairs, Mary sat at her writing desk. When, so long ago, she had suggested to her mother that she might marry Mr. Collins, she had known nothing of emotions such as those Mr. Hayward had awakened in her. Even her brief encounter with John Sparrow had only hinted at the depth of feeling that possessed her now. It had not been so difficult to consider abandoning the idea of love when she had never truly experienced it. And had her ignorance continued, it was possible she might not have been entirely miserable. If, by some chance, she had indeed become Mrs. Collins, she thought she would have made the best of things, done everything in her power to make their partnership as pleasant as it could be; and would surely have made a better job of it than Charlotte Lucas. If she had known nothing else—if she had never had a hint of what real love looked like, she might have been content with the pale facsimile of happiness a pragmatic marriage offered. But now that she had known Mr. Hayward, it would not do. Now that she had met a man she truly loved, she could not marry another.
The absence of love was in itself enough to make marriage to Mr. Ryder impossible. But the more she considered it, the more Mary knew there was another powerful reason why she could not accept him. He had, as he intended, touched a nerve when he suggested it was her duty to marry him and make him a better man. Once, that would have appealed to her—once she would have embraced such an invitation with the greatest eagerness. What had all her hard work and study been for, if not to be directed to some practical application? And to what more noble purpose could they be put, than the moral and intellectual improvement of another human being? But she understood now this was no foundation on which to build a marriage. She did not wish to be her husband’s instructor any more than she wished to be his pupil. What she sought was a union of equals, a coming together of like minds and sympathetic intellects.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 49
