Chapter Text
Recollections of the lake intruded upon Mr. Thomas Hayward’s mind with an unrelenting constancy. There existed scarcely a moment in which he was not visited by shame for his conduct. "It is for her good"—so he was compelled, again and again, to assure himself; yet the sentiment, once a source of resolution, had grown injurious to his own peace. He had left her only when he was convinced of her safety, assured that her life was no longer in peril—though he could not banish the dreadful imaginings that had once beset him, when he feared she might not survive.
Mr. William Ryder, he persuaded himself, was the superior match for Miss Mary Bennet; he would furnish her with every comfort, every felicity she so richly deserved. Yet not a day elapsed in which Mr. Hayward did not wish that it were himself, and not Ryder, who might claim such a privilege. Indeed, he could not help but suspect that Miss Bennet had once entertained a similar inclination. He recalled, with painful clarity, what he believed to have been a look of hope in her countenance, at the very moment he had intended to offer her his hand upon Scafell. From that instant onward, he endeavoured to recollect nothing. His behaviour—he regretted it entirely. He had been cruel to her, a failing he had never imagined himself capable of. Miss Bennet deserved not a particle of such treatment; and he now understood, with deep remorse, that she had known far more cruelty in her life than she had ever merited. Who, indeed, could fail to admire a lady possessed of that rare gift—to make another feel seen, to grant them a sense of belonging where before there had been none?
Yorkshire had become Mr. Hayward’s refuge—the seat of his youth and earliest attachments. In former years, he had hesitated to depart for London in pursuit of his legal studies, though he knew such a course was necessary to secure his future as a barrister. From that time onward, he had not returned. His life had been wholly absorbed by the metropolis: his education, his profession, his companions, his former understanding with Miss Ann Baxter, and latterly, Miss Bennet—dear, sweet Mary. How magnificent London had once appeared, until her arrival transformed it entirely, rendering all else insignificant.
Mr. Hayward had never intended to form an attachment to Miss Bennet. His agreement with Miss Baxter had seemed sufficient—indeed, it had once constituted the entirety of his expectations. Yet now it appeared trifling. He had resolved never to withdraw from that arrangement, being a gentleman who held his word in the highest regard; and until only a few months prior, he had laboured diligently to secure the means of providing Miss Baxter with a comfortable life. Yet, without design or foresight, he had fallen deeply, irrevocably, in love with Mary Bennet. Thus it was with no small relief that he received Miss Baxter’s dissolution of their agreement. He had almost wished to feel some degree of sorrow, that he might prove to himself that their former attachment had been genuine affection—but none came. Instead, he experienced only calm, relief, and a quiet hope for the separate futures that awaited them both.
Now, in seeking a barrister’s position in Yorkshire, Mr. Hayward had persuaded himself that the life he had known before London—before Miss Baxter, before Miss Bennet—might once again suffice. He resided with his parents, who welcomed him with unfeigned warmth. Though he would not confess the true motive for his return, he suspected they required no explanation, and were grateful for his presence all the same. He soon fell into a routine, taking daily walks through the fields of his childhood. Oft did he sit beneath a sycamore tree, where once he had read poetry in youthful contentment, and where now he sat burdened by the recollections of recent months. He strove, repeatedly and without success, to banish such thoughts—to move beyond them. Yet he feared he never should.
At length, one day, a letter arrived.
Mr. Hayward broke the seal beneath that same sycamore tree, supposing it to be an offer of employment from a Yorkshire firm. In this, however, he was mistaken. The hand was unfamiliar to him; yet he soon discerned the name of the writer—Miss Caroline Bingley—and read the contents aloud:
Dear Mr. Hayward,
I trust this letter finds you in good health. You are, I must confess, exceedingly difficult to locate. I write to convey my sincere gratitude for your assistance on that unfortunate day at the lakes. My fall was entirely unforeseen, yet both you and Miss Bennet rendered me invaluable aid.
I had the pleasure of meeting with Miss Bennet this very morning, as I was equally desirous of expressing my thanks to her. In the course of our conversation, she alluded to a declined proposal from a gentleman with whom, I believe, we are both acquainted. She appeared, upon the whole, in tolerable spirits, though not entirely untouched by melancholy with regard to a prospective suitor.
You need not trouble yourself with a reply. By the time this reaches you, I shall have departed for Italy, in pursuit of my own happiness. I venture to suggest that you would do well to seek yours also.
Yours,
Caroline Bingley
Mr. Hayward required not a moment’s deliberation. With the letter still in his grasp, he set off at once across the fields toward the stables, intent upon securing his horse. By fortunate chance, his parents were there; he informed them, with urgency, of his immediate departure for London—this time, for good. They seemed to comprehend more than he expressed, and bestowed upon him their blessing without hesitation.
Thus did Mr. Thomas Hayward set his course once more for London—resolved, at last, to pursue his own happiness.