CHAPTER XIV.
"I AM QUITE SURE YOU NEED NOT BE AFRAID."
"You are sure I need not be alarmed? You are quite, quite sure? Sheis all my world." Denis Fergusson looked down at the small tremblingcreature, his eyes full of grave kindliness.
"Indeed, you need not be alarmed, Lady Cicely," he said. "I advisedMiss Moore to send for you, because with a child, everything is sorapid that one never quite knows at the beginning of an illness howthings may go. But little Miss Baba is doing exactly as she ought todo in every way. You need not have the slightest anxiety."
The little mother, with her lovely, troubled face, stood in the windowof that same low, old-fashioned room, which Rupert, a fortnightearlier, had found such a restful place, and the doctor stood by herside. The winter sunshine fell upon her delicately cut features,lighting the pale gold of her hair into a halo; and the blue eyes sheturned to her companion, seemed to him scarcely less innocent andsweet, than the eyes which had looked into his from Baba's cot.
"Such a _little_ woman to have the responsibilities of womanhood," washis thought; "such a little woman, who looks as if she ought to bewrapped round with care and tenderness."
Perhaps some of the chivalrous tenderness of his thought showed itselfin his glance; perhaps Cicely could read in his face the trustworthynature of the man, for she said quickly:
"You see, Baba and I have only each other in the world, and that makesher very extra precious. Sometimes--I am afraid, because I love her somuch."
"Afraid?" The doctor's glance was puzzled.
"Yes, afraid lest God should take her away from me. He might think Iwas making an idol of her, and that it was better I should do withouther. That thought makes me afraid." To no living soul before, hadCicely told of the fear that often stirred within her, but DenisFergusson's brown eyes and sympathetic manner, invited confidence, andin some unaccountable fashion he made her think of John, the lovinghusband who had always understood.
"Isn't yours rather a pagan way of looking at things?" Fergusson saidgently. "Surely our God is not a jealous God, Who takes away what welove, because we love it? I don't believe it is possible to love aperson too much, if one only loves them rightly. And I could neverbelieve that the God Whose name is Father, could be angry with amother's love."
"I am glad you have said that to me," Cicely answered. "Baba is somuch to me, so very, very much, but I don't want to make an idol ofher, dear little sweetheart."
"She is a very adorable person," Fergusson said brightly. "I shallmiss my daily visits to her; she and I have made great friends."
"She is the friendliest soul. We have always wrapped her round withlove; I wanted her to be loving and happy."
"I think you have succeeded. She is the delight of the village, and ofthe whole neighbourhood. She and her very capable nurse are known formiles round. There will be great lamentations when they go."
"They must come back," Cicely smiled, well-pleased at the praise of herdarling. "I am taking them both to Bramwell for Christmas, but lateron in the spring or summer, they will come here again."
"But I, alas! shall be gone."
"Ah! I forgot you are only doing temporary work here. You know youare not quite 'in the picture' here," she said with a smile.
"Why?" The one word, though abruptly uttered, was accompanied by thesmile that made Fergusson's poorer patients say, it warmed their heartswhen he smiled at them; and Cicely had the same sensation of warmth.
"Because you are not in the least like any country doctor I ever cameacross; and I am sure you would never bear being buried in ruraldepths. You belong to cities, and people."
"I hoped I had managed to hide my proclivity for gutters," he answeredlaughing. "I am afraid you are right. A big city draws me like amagnet. I can say with the poet, 'The need of a world of men for me.'The finest scenery in the world does not make up to me, for the lack ofhuman beings."
"Then you are a town person?"
"Very much a town person. My home and work lie in a rather sordid,very poor--to me, enthrallingly interesting--corner of South London. Iam only here for a time, doing his work for an old acquaintance, andincidentally getting a change I rather needed."
"You knocked yourself up with work in South London?"
"Not quite that. I got a little played out, and the air of this placehas more than set me up. I shall go back like a giant refreshed."
"They are chiefly poor people, your patients?" she questioned.
"Almost entirely poor. It is always interesting work, sometimesheartrending work, often humiliating. The poor are so wonderful intheir attitude to one another, and to all their difficulties andtroubles. But if I once begin to talk about my South London folk, Ishall never stop. Some day you will perhaps let me tell you of theirhard fight with life, and of their splendid courage."
"You must let me help you, and them," she answered impulsively; "andthank you again ten thousand times, for all you have done for my littleBaba."
The short, sharp illness which had brought Cicely flying down from townat a moment's notice, had safely run its course, and Baba was nowenjoying a convalescence, in which she was petted and spoilt to herheart's content, petted to an extent that might have done harm to aless sweet and wholesome character. But the love that had wrapped thechild round from her first hours of life, had only made her sunnysweetness of nature more sweet and sunny, and she was a verycaptivating patient. Mrs. Nairne vied with Cicely and Christina in, asshe phrased it, "cosseting" up the precious little dear, and thevillage folk who had learnt to love the small girl in her red cloak,with her dainty face and gracious manners, showered gifts and enquiriesupon the invalid. Very quaint presents found their way to Baba'sbedside. A plump young chicken from good Mrs. Smithers, whose poultryyard had caused the child the keenest delight; eggs from Widow Jones,who cherished a few rakish fowls in her strip of back garden; girdlecakes, most fearsome for digestive purposes, from Mrs. Madden, theblacksmith's wife, whilst the blacksmith himself brought a horse shoe,polished to the brightness of a silver mirror, for the little lady whohad loved to stand beside the flaming forge, watching the sparks flyup, as his huge hammer struck the anvil. Children came shyly withbunches of the berries and coloured leaves that still hung in thehedges, and a very ancient dame whose garden boasted of two equallyancient apple-trees, proudly toddled up to Mrs. Nairne's door with thelargest and rosiest of her apples, for the "pretty little lady."
"Baba seems to have made them all love her," Cicely said to Christina,tears standing in her blue eyes, when she returned from interviewingthe old lady of the apples; "everybody who comes, speaks of her as ifshe were an old and valued friend."
"She has made friends with every living soul," Christina answered; "sheis the most loving little child, and so tender-hearted over everythingthat is hurt or unhappy. I don't wonder everyone here adores her."
"Dr. Fergusson seems to think she will soon be quite well, and we mustmove her home for a few days, and then to Bramwell."
"Yes, he says she will soon be quite well," Christina repeated; "but Ithink I ought to remind you, that my month of probation ended lastweek; and--and I don't know whether you would care to let me still beBaba's nurse." Nobody knew what it cost the girl to say thoseapparently simple words, nor how hard it had been to resist thetemptation to leave them unsaid. Lady Cicely had obviously forgottenthat her new nurse had come on a month's trial only; she was taking itfor granted that Christina was a permanent part of her household, andthe girl shrank indescribably from any possibility of a change. Andyet, conscience urged her to remind her employer of their compact for amonth's probation. She instinctively felt that to drift on into beingBaba's permanent nurse, would not be fair to Baba's kindly, impulsivelittle mother.
"You don't know whether I should care to keep you on!" Cicelyexclaimed, when Christina had finished her halting speech; "whatabsurdity! Why, the doctor told me your careful nursing helped to getmy darling safely out of her nasty wood. As if
I should dream ofletting you go, unless you want to leave us?" she questioned hastily.
"Want to leave you?" Christina's eyes dilated with the intensity ofher emotion; "why--I am so happy with Baba and with you, that Icouldn't bear even the very thought of going away from you. Only--Ithought it was right to remind you about our agreement."
"It was rather a stupid agreement," Cicely answered lightly. "I hadthe fear of Rupert before my eyes. I knew he was thinking me a sort ofimpetuous infant, for insisting on asking you to come to Baba, justbecause you and she got on so well together. Rupert has a verywell-balanced mind. He likes things done decently and in order. I amnot built on the same lines."
Christina laughed.
"Still, you do like decency and order," she answered.
"Ah! yes," Cicely shrugged her shoulders; "but Rupert, the dear soul,is more conventional. Men always are. He likes beaten tracks, and theways in which all our dear ancestors pottered along for countlessgenerations. I like to make nice little new paths with my own feet,and do little new things that my great-grandmother never dreamt ofdoing, even in her wildest dreams."
"Is Mr. Mernside so very conventional?" Christina asked, and Cicelyresponded quickly--
"He's a perfect dear, but he would not for the world go out of theorthodox track. He believes in formal introductions, and longacquaintance as a prelude to friendship, and he would rather die thangive his confidence to anyone, unless he had known them for years, andknew everything about them." A faint, a very faint, smile hovered overChristina's lips. Did Mr. Mernside really think long acquaintance anecessary prelude to friendship? Did he only give his confidence tothose he had known longest? Seated in the firelight in this very room,only a fortnight ago, he had told her many things, which surely hewould only have told to a friend--a faithful and loyal friend? And yetshe had known him for so short a time, if time was to be measuredmerely by days and weeks.
"You saw Rupert the other day?" Lady Cicely went on, no thought of whatwas in the girl's mind crossing her own; "he wrote and told me how welland happy Baba looked."
"He was so kind." Christina's voice was quite non-committal. "He cametwice to have tea with Baba--I think he enjoyed nursery tea," she addeddemurely.
"He loves children, and they love him. He is a most disappointingperson, never to have married. I always tell him so. But he is notthe least a woman's man; I really don't believe there has ever been awoman in Rupert's life at all."
The words echoed oddly in Christina's ears, when memory was stillbringing back to her the vivid recollection of Rupert's princess in thewhite gown, of Rupert's own lined and haggard face, when he had toldher the story of the beautiful lady who dominated his life. Discretionled her to reply more or less evasively to Cicely's words, and to hergreat relief the subject dropped, and her small ladyship returned tothe discussion of Christina's own affairs.
"As to any question of your leaving us," she said; "there is no suchquestion. Neither Baba nor I can do without you now. And I have notyet discovered that you are any of the dreadful things one seems toexpect people to be. We always ask if nurses are sober and honest; andI don't believe you drink or steal."
Christina laughed gaily.
"No, I'm not a thief or a drunkard, I can truly say. But all the sameyou might not have found that I knew enough about children to give yousatisfaction, and there are so many ways in which you might say I aminefficient."
"I find you just what I want," Cicely answered emphatically, "and sodoes Baba. Why, if you left her now, it would break her dear littleheart. No, you have got to stay with us for ever and ever, amen; wewill take Baba to town as soon as that nice Dr. Fergusson says she maymove, and then we will go to Bramwell for Christmas."
The thought of "that nice Dr. Fergusson" recurred to the little ladymore than once that evening, when she sat writing in the sitting-room,whilst Christina performed Baba's evening toilette.
"He makes me think of John," so Cicely's thoughts ran; "he has the samekind understanding eyes--brown, like John's--and the same gentle waywith him that John had. I think he knew how lonely it feels for mesometimes, and what a big responsibility life is, for one little scrapof a woman like me."
And, indeed, strangely enough, thoughts not at all unlike these, werepassing through Denis Fergusson's mind, as he drove rapidly back toPinewood Lodge; and, whilst he ate his solitary meal that evening, inDr. Stokes's trim dining-room, furnished in precisely the way Fergussonhimself would not have furnished it, he found Cicely's delicately fairface, and soft blue eyes constantly rising before his mental vision; hefound himself wondering what manner of man her husband had been, andwhether those blue eyes had been lighted with love for that dead man'ssake.
"She looked like some lovely, pathetic child when she talked to meto-day," so his reflections ran "she and that fascinating Baba of hers,are just a pair of babies together, and yet--all the woman and themother are in her, too," and, glancing round the formal room, Fergussonsighed, and made a great effort to turn his thoughts away from suddenalluring dreams of a home of his own, a home that would be really ahome, not merely a place in which to live, where the centre of all itspeace and happiness would be--his wife.
His wife? He laughed aloud, a little short laugh that rangdiscordantly in his ears. It was quite improbable that he would everbe able to afford to ask any woman to marry him, much less a dainty,delicately nurtured woman who--who----
Back into his mind flashed the picture which he had been resolutelythrusting from him, the picture of a lovely face, like some exquisiteflower rising above a cloud of filmy lace and soft dark furs, the bigfeathers in her hat drooping against the gold of her hair. It was onMrs. Nairne's doorstep that he had first met Cicely, and the picture ofher as he saw her then in the pale wintry sunlight, seemed to haunt himall the more persistently, because side by side with it, he sawanother, and strangely different picture. His own house in a SouthLondon road, its sordid surroundings, its unsavoury neighbourhood, allthese made Cicely and her daintiness, seem like some princess belongingto another world.
"Pshaw, you poor fool!" Fergusson ejaculated aloud, when, his dinnerended, he retired to smoke in a small den, dignified by the name ofsmoking-room; "the sooner Dr. Stokes comes back and you clear out fromhere and return to the sober realities of life in Southwark, the betterfor you. Dreaming dreams and seeing visions is no part of yourvocation."
He had reached this stage of his meditations, and had drawn up a chairto the writing-table, with a grim determination to finish an articlefor a medical journal, when the parlourmaid entering, handed him anexceedingly grubby note. It was briefly worded--
"Please come at once. He is dying."
There was no address, and the only signature was the one letter "M,"but Fergusson at once understood what the message portended. The car,hurriedly ordered, was soon waiting for him at the front door; and,telling the man he would drive himself, the doctor glided quickly awayin the direction of the lonely house in the valley.
"Shall I discover anything of the mystery belonging to the house?" hewondered, as he sped along the dark country roads, his own powerfullamps throwing a stream of light upon the road ahead; "or will thesecret, whatever it is, die with that unfortunate man? Whatever he hasdone or been--and he has either done or been something out of thecommon, and something not very commendable--I am prepared to swear hiscrimes were crimes of weakness, not of wickedness. The man is weakthrough and through, and why that wonderful woman has poured out such awealth of love upon him, is one of the problems of--womanhood."
He smiled as his meditations reached this point, and once again histhoughts flew back to that picture which had haunted them earlier inthe evening, the picture of Baba's mother--fair, sweet, and dainty.
"Would she--be ready to love through good and ill--as that other womanhad done?" he reflected; "would she be ready to act as a prop? or mustshe find someone to look up to, and depend upon?" and thinking thesethings, he drew up before the high wall and the green d
oor, beforewhich a lantern flung a feeble light upon the surrounding blackness.Elizabeth admitted him; her face looked very worn, her eyes were heavywith want of sleep.
"He took a bad turn two hours ago," she said, in answer to the doctor'squestion; "he's going fast, and I can't get her to leave him, though itis killing her, too."
"It would only make her worse to try and take her away from him now,"Fergusson said gently, knowing the good woman's devotion to hermistress, hearing the little shake in her voice as she spoke ofMargaret; "if--the end has come, it will not be long; he has nostrength to fight a long fight."
"_Strength?_" the servant muttered, a curious contempt in her accents;"you couldn't name him and the word strength in the same breath.There! I've no business to talk like that of one who's dying,but--give me a strong man, give them me strong all the time--I can't dowith them _weak_."
Fergusson made no reply. He saw that the woman, overwrought with longwatching and anxiety, was temporarily deprived of her normal reticenceand taciturnity, and he recognised that her outburst owed its origin toher great love for her mistress, and to that natural antagonism which astrong character is apt to feel towards the weak. Handing her hiscoat, he passed rapidly along the corridor to the room, with which hewas now familiar; and, going in softly, saw at a glance that the sickman in the bed was drawing very near to the Valley of the Shadow.
He lay propped up with pillows, and the beautiful woman known toFergusson as Mrs. Stanforth, stood beside him, his head drawn close toher breast. Her arm was about him, and he had turned his face againsther, as a child lays its face against its mother, his dim eyes fixedupon her with a look of almost passionate adoration. With her freehand she stroked back the damp hair from his forehead, now and againwiping away the drops of sweat with a filmy handkerchief she held, andher eyes watched him with a hungry, loving look, that brought a lumpinto Fergusson's throat.
"To know that a woman will look into one's dying face with such a lookas that, is worth everything," the thought flashed unbidden into hismind, as he stepped softly up to the bed, and laid a hand upon thepatient's wrist. The dying man looked at him with a faint smile ofwelcome, but the woman did not move or glance at him. Her whole soulwas wrapped up in the man she loved, the man who was passing so fastaway from her, into the silent land.
"Nearly--done---doctor," the man in the bed panted out, the smile stilllingering on his face. "I--thought--I should have beenafraid--but--now--the time has come--there--is--no fear."
His eyes left Fergusson, and lifted themselves to the face bending overhim.
"You--rest--me--sweetheart," he said. "I--am never afraid--when youare--with me." As his eyes met hers, his smile acquired a strangeradiance, and Fergusson all at once recognised the charm of theman--that magnetic something--which had won and held the love of such awoman as Margaret. Until this moment the reason for the weak man'shold over this woman had baffled, almost annoyed, Denis. Now, in aflash of illumination, it seemed to him he understood it.
He had seen at once that the dying man was already beyond all humanaid; he gave him an injection of strychnine, but there was nothing elsehe could do, to ward off that dread visitor, whose feet had alreadycrossed the threshold. Yet he felt that his presence in the house, ifnot in the room, would be a help to the woman so soon to be leftdesolate; and, having spoken a word or two of comfort and cheer, inthat strong voice of his which carried comfort in its very tones, hemoved away to the adjoining room.
"Call me if there is the slightest change," he whispered to Margaret;"you and he would rather be alone just now." She bent her head, andfor the fraction of a second, her eyes met his. The misery in thosedeep eyes tore at his heart strings; his powerlessness to help thisfellow-creature who was in such dire sorrow, hurt him, as if he hadreceived some physical blow. Alone, in the next room, he seatedhimself by the fire, and tried to read a book he picked up from thetable, but his thoughts refused to take in a single word of the printedpage; he was conscious of nothing but the low murmur of voices from thebed he could just see through the open door. The words spoken by thetwo whom death was parting, he could not hear, but his heart achedintolerably for them both, for the man who was drifting into the GreatSilence, for the woman who was being left behind.
"One long--failure--one long chapter of infamy--and wrong," the man'swhisper barely reached the woman's ears, as she bent over him.
"But--you are sorry for it all now, my darling," she whispered back;"only think that you are sorry for the wrong; only think that--now."
"If you--forgive--surely--God forgives?" The dim eyes looked wistfullyup at hers, and she stooped with an infinitely tender gesture, to kisshis ashen face.
"Surely, most surely, God forgives," she answered solemnly, thestrength of her voice carrying conviction with it; "where there is agreat love, there is great forgiveness, and----"
"Like--yours," he interrupted dreamily; "great love--such a greatlove--and a great--forgiveness. I--have heaped your life with miseryand shame--and still--you forgive--still you love."
"Still I love," she whispered, a passion of tenderness in thelow-spoken words. "Max, love--real love--can't wear out or die,whatever happens. It has always been you--only you--you entirely, myman, my whole world."
At the last words, she drew his head more closely against her breast,and, bending over him, kissed him with a long lingering kiss.
"Only--me--in spite--of everything?"
"Only--you--sweetheart," she murmured; "only you--always."
"And--that other--who has been your friend--of whom you told me?" Hisvoice was growing fainter.
"He has been--he is--my good and loyal friend," she answered; "he isnothing more to me than that. He could not ever be anything more."
"Perhaps--afterwards--when--I have gone--you and he----"
But she would not let him finish his halting, breathless sentence.
"He and I will never be more than friends," she said, very clearly,very firmly. "I could not love another man. There is not room in myheart for anyone but you."
A silence followed, a silence only broken by the dying man's difficultlong-drawn breaths, by the occasional dropping of a coal into thegrate, or the creaking of the heavy old furniture. And all the timeMargaret stood immovable in her place, her arms about the dying man,his head close pillowed against her. All at once he spoke again,hurriedly, fearfully.
"You--are--sure--forgiveness," he gasped out. "God--will--forgive?"
"I am sure," she answered, and there was no quaver in her voice, only agreat certainty; "there are no bounds to God's love. He will forgive.He loves you, my dear. I am quite sure you need not be afraid."
She spoke as gently, in as simple language as though he had been alittle child, and the fear slowly died out of his face. His eyeslooked once again into hers, with a look of adoring love and reverence;then, with a tired sigh, the sigh of an over-weary child, his head sankback more heavily against her, and the gasping breath was still.
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