Chapter 94
Mary was upstairs putting her books in order one quiet afternoon when she heard the bell sound, the front door open, and a visitor arrive.
She had trained herself to pay little attention to such comings and goings—why should they concern her?
—and continued dutifully with her task. She was so absorbed that she did not hear Mrs. Gardiner come hurrying up the stairs, did not notice her at all until, breathing hard, her aunt burst through the door into her room.
“Mary, he is here! Tom is here—downstairs—in the drawing room.”
Mary was dumbstruck. These were the words that for so long she had longed to hear.
Time and time again, during dark, sleepless nights, on silent afternoons in the airless drawing room, as she walked down dusty City streets, she had imagined them being said, had wondered how they would sound, what she would feel, how she would act.
And now it had actually happened, they had been said, and she sat rooted to the spot, speechless.
“Come, this won’t do. He is asking for you. You must go down.”
Mary saw her aunt, felt her agitation and concern, heard the anxiety in her voice—but all these things somehow seemed at a great remove from her.
It was as if she stood quite apart from herself, watching her aunt, the room, her books, all from a distance.
Then suddenly the shock passed—she understood—took a deep, shuddering breath—and was somehow herself again.
“He is really here? He has come at last?”
“Yes, yes, he has, and he wants to talk to you. Do please come down.”
Mrs. Gardiner held out her hand; but Mary did not take it.
“I need a minute alone. To compose myself. Please tell him I will be there shortly. I have waited so long for him, I think he may wait a little now for me.”
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her imploringly.
“Mary, I beg of you, do not give in to angry feelings yet. Give him a chance. Let him speak to you.”
“I will. But I hope he will also listen to me. And I cannot come down before I have it clear in my head exactly what I want to say.”
Mrs. Gardiner hesitated; but Mary was immoveable.
Once her aunt had gone, she sat staring blankly at her writing desk, before laying her head gently against its cool smooth surface.
She could smell the faint scent of wood polish, and it occurred to her that it was not quite as pleasant as the recipe of which Charlotte Collins had been so proud.
She closed her eyes and remained there motionless for a minute.
Then she sat up, reached into a drawer, and pulled out a small black bag.
Inside, she found the Greek dictionary Mr. Collins had given her, and withdrew from its pages the single slip of paper on which he had written a few words of Greek.
Happiness depends on ourselves.
She looked at it intently, then folded it up and pushed it down the front of her dress. Only then did she smooth down her hair and make her way downstairs.
It took a great deal of courage to walk into the drawing room.
She hesitated for a moment outside the door.
Then somehow she was inside, and there he was, standing at the long window, staring out into the street.
A dark man in a dark jacket. Whenever she had thought of him, he had always been wearing the loose brown coat he wore on the fells.
Now here he was, in city clothes. Tall, and thinner than when she last saw him.
When he turned towards her, she was shocked—he looked as drawn and as unhappy as she knew she did herself.
“Miss Bennet. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to see you again.”
At the sound of his voice, her self-control nearly deserted her; but she was determined not to falter.
“Yes, sir. It has been too long, I think.”
He moved towards her and was about to reply—but Mary interrupted him.
“I did not mean that as a mere politeness. It has been nearly two months since we last saw you.”
“I know it,” he answered, his voice grave. “I have counted every day. Every hour.”
He stopped, standing in the silent, sunlit drawing room, as if he would go no further towards her without some encouragement.
“I am here to tell you how very much I have missed you. And to discover if—as I very much hope—you may have missed me too.”
He is very brown, thought Mary, no doubt tanned by his walking. It made his eyes seem very bright in his face.
“I have come to explain, Mary, if you will allow me to do so. And to ask your forgiveness. I know I do not deserve it. But I hope you will grant it anyway.”
When he spoke her name, she thought she must capitulate, give in to the desire rising up in her to let him talk and explain as much as he wished; but she made herself resist such a surrender.
There were things she was resolved to say, and she would not be prevented from doing so, even by her own unruly feelings.
“I know it is not usual,” she said, surprised at the steadiness of her voice, “for a woman to put herself forward in this way, but I hope on this occasion you will allow me to speak first. I have had a great deal of time to think about what I would say if this moment were to come to pass. And now that it has, I want very much to make no mistakes. Shall we sit down?”
She moved to the sofa, and arranged herself there, back straight, head held high. He took his place opposite her in the chair he had so often occupied in that room, and looked at her, serious, expectant.
“I hope you will excuse me if I begin with a personal observation.” Mary knew her words were stiff and formal; but she had chosen them carefully. She was determined not to lose her composure, and the chilly exactness of her words helped her preserve it.
“For as long as I can remember, I have tried to use my intellect to understand the world. I have been teased and laughed at for it, as it is not thought a very attractive quality in a woman; but when I was lonely and unhappy, as I was for much of my life, it served me well enough.”
She shifted in her seat. She was nervous; but she had begun, and knew now she could continue.
“Then I met you, and everything changed. You introduced me to poetry. You showed me the beauty of the natural world. You made me laugh. You gave me warmth and kindness and affection. In short, you taught me to feel, as I had never done before.”
He sat absolutely still, making no further attempt to speak.
“And I did feel, Mr. Hayward. I experienced every kind of emotion in your company. It began as friendship—but soon I began to think—I allowed myself to hope—that you felt—that you intended something more.”
She cast her eyes down. She wanted to continue, but was not sure she could look at him as she did so.
“That made me very happy. In fact, I don’t think I have ever been happier.
But then, up in the Lakes, everything went wrong.
I felt I had lost your affection—but I did not know why.
The sensible thing, the rational thing, would have been to ask how I had offended you, and not to have given up until I had discovered the cause of your change of heart.
But my emotions got the better of me. I was angry, confused, unhappy—and in the end, I said nothing. And neither did you.”
Down in the hall, Mr. Gardiner’s prized gilt clock began to strike the half hour. Its chime was very carrying; and Mary paused until it was done.
“I cannot say what kept you silent. I only know I quickly began to regret my own stupid failure to speak. But by then you had gone away. And I could do nothing to put right my mistake. I was told that as a woman, it was not my place to act. All I could do was wait. That is what I have been doing until this very afternoon.”
Mary looked up, and their eyes met.
“But I think I have done enough waiting now.”
She leant forward, and the words began to spill out of her.
“For I must tell you, sir, that some weeks ago I made a promise to myself that if we ever saw one another again, I would hold back no longer, but would speak, would act, no matter what the world thought of it. If you lacked the courage to declare yourself candidly, I did not. I swore I would confess my feelings to you regardless of the consequences. I would rather tell the truth and risk humiliation than pass up the chance of happiness because I was not brave enough to say honestly what I felt.”
Now that she had come to the point, Mary’s spirits almost failed her. She could not stay where she was, but rose and stood behind the sofa, grasping its chintz back tightly with both hands, willing herself to break every rule of propriety, modesty, and good behaviour and continue.
“So this is what I wish to say. I love you, Mr. Hayward. I have loved you for a very long time and know I will never love anyone as much as I love you. You are the only man who could ever make me happy, and I have missed you—oh, I have missed you so very, very much.”
Then her self-possession finally deserted her—her voice broke and a sob escaped her. And before she knew it, he was beside her, had taken her in his arms, and was holding her tight against him.
“Mary, my own dearest Mary—everything you say—it is exactly what I feel—I love you, Mary, so very deeply—I am so very sorry if I hurt you—I shall never do so again—all I want is to love you as you deserve—for the rest of my life, if you will allow it.”
He released her a little, just enough to look earnestly into her eyes.
“I love you even more for the courage of your words, for your having found the bravery to say them. There is no-one like you—so serious, so severe, so true—how could I not love you?”
He stroked her hair; she lifted up her face to smile at him, and he kissed her very tenderly. For a moment, they did not move, but stood together in a triumphant embrace, utterly content. She laid her head against his heart, certain it was where she belonged.
“Shall we be married, then?” he whispered in her ear. “As soon as ever we can? Will you have me as your husband, Mary?”