CHAPTER XXII.
"I CAME TO-DAY, TO TELL YOU SO."
If Fergusson had left the great house in the square with his spirits atzero, they had travelled many degrees below that point on the followingmorning. He sat alone in the room he used as study and generalsitting-room, and, spread on the table before him were two letters, onefrom a house-agent informing him that a possible client was in treatyfor his house; the other from a medical practitioner in the north ofEngland, who expressed a desire to come in person, and learn allparticulars about the practice.
"Burning my boats with a vengeance," Fergusson muttered, looking roundthe room which he had learnt to love, and smiling a troubled smile thathad no joy behind it. That glance round the room, brought back to hisremembrance, in an odd flash of memory, Christina's first visit to him,when he was occupying Dr. Stokes's house in the country. There wasreal humour in his smile when he recalled the girl's look of surprise,and her naive acknowledgment of the discrepancy she saw between hisappearance, and that of the house in which he was. Looking round thestudy of his South London abode, he wondered whether Christina wouldconsider his present surroundings more in keeping with his personality,than those in which she had first seen him. Certainly there wasnothing here of the smug respectability which had characterised Dr.Stokes's well-kept establishment. No two chairs matched one another,but they were all comfortable and restful, the walls were distempered asoft rich yellow that gave an effect of sunlight even on the greyestdays, and the few pictures hanging against the sunny background, wereexcellent photographs framed in oak, and representing some of the bestOld Masters of the Italian School. Bookcases covered a considerableamount of the wall space, books covered the tables, and were even piledupon a corner of the rather faded Turkey carpet. The box outside theopen window was filled with wallflowers, and their penetratingfragrance made the room sweet. The view was not a wholly uninspiringone, for a narrow strip of garden lay behind the house, and glimpses ofwaving boughs were visible against the blue sky of May. The roar oftraffic from the main road a few paces away, the distant hum ofhumanity, these were sounds dear to the ears of the doctor, to whomhuman beings made so deep an appeal; he even had a weakness for theraucous street cries, audible now and again above the persistent roar,that was like the noise of Atlantic breakers on a rock-bound coast.
He was sorry to be leaving the teeming London world, in which he hadspent so much of his busy life--more sorry than anyone else couldrealise, he reflected grimly. Possibly, to the rest of mankind, apractice in South London might not appear the acme of bliss--a practicethat dealt almost exclusively with the sordid, the poor, even thecriminal; but--he loved his work, he loved his people; it wasintolerably hard to tear himself away from them all, and yet--thetearing was inevitable.
"I can't stay here within measurable reach--of her--and of temptation,and--play the man," his reflections ran on, "so--so I must run away."He laughed shortly, as he picked up the two letters from his table, andre-read them, feeling absurdly disinclined to reply to either. He knewhe must go. With the unwavering directness of an upright man, whenmaking a decision, he had seen what he conceived to be the right pathclearly marked for him; and, having seen it, he had no thought ofdrawing back from following it. But, with all his strength anddecision of character, he nevertheless felt, at this juncture, a deeprepugnance to writing those letters, which would, as he expressed it tohimself, have the effect of burning his boats behind him. He knew thatgood work awaited him in that far western land, where he had determinedto begin a new life; he knew, too, that to remain in England withincall, as it were, of a temptation which his sense of what was right andhonourable, bade him resist, was merely dallying with that sense ofright; and yet, the human man within him, cried out against thenecessity which he had faced, and acknowledged to be inevitable.Although he already actually knew the contents of those two letters byheart, he read both through again, then deliberately folded, and setthem aside, with another short laugh.
"If they are answered by to-night's post, it is time enough," heexclaimed. "They shall be answered to-night; these few hours of delaywill make no difference." He was half-amused, half-ashamed of his owncowardice, as he called it, in postponing the inevitable, but a weightseemed to be lifted off his heart when those letters were set asideunanswered, when he turned away from the writing table, to go to hisdownstairs surgery, feeling that the conflagration of those boats ofhis had not yet begun.
The busy morning of attending to the motley collection of fellowcreatures who thronged to his surgery door, was only half over; and hewas waiting in his tiny consulting-room, for the next patient, when atap on the door was followed by the entrance of Thompson, hiscaretaker, and general factotum. Indeed, Thompson and his wifeconstituted the entire staff of Fergusson's household, being thedoctor's devoted admirers, as well as his faithful servants; and whenhe had broached to them his proposed change of life, they hadsimultaneously announced their intention of going with him to the West,and sharing his fortunes in the new land and new labours.
Upon Thompson's face now, as he entered his master's littleconsulting-room, there was an expression of mingled bewilderment andpleasure, which made Fergusson look at him sharply.
"Yes, Thompson, what is it?" he asked, for it was seldom indeed thatany call from the house was allowed to interfere with the surgery work.
"There's a lady called to see you, sir," the man answered. "When sheheard you was busy, she wanted to call again, but I didn't feel itwould be right to let a lady like her go away, and call again."Fergusson smiled. Thompson was the worthiest soul on earth, but hispowers of discrimination were not great, and a "lady like her" was inall probability a suburban "Miss," hoping to obtain a consultation atsurgery rates.
"Where is the lady?" he asked.
"In your study, sir," Thompson answered, mild amazement in his voice."I couldn't show a lady like her nowhere else, could I, sir?"
Again Fergusson smiled. He knew them so well--those ladies who madesuch an appeal to Thompson's aesthetic soul, the ladies of ratherabnormally sized hats, garments they called "stylish," with laceblouses, out of which rose an unnecessary length of neck, encircled byartificial pearls. Oh! he knew precisely what sort of a lady he wouldfind in his study, and the knowledge did not make him hasten his steps,as he went up the staircase to the sitting-room. Long before openingthe door, he had decided to make short shrift of the lady--he knewprecisely how he should frame his terse speech--and there was adistinctly grim look upon his usually kindly face, when he entered theroom. But when he saw who it was that stood in the May sunlight, closeto the open window, the grim expression died away, unboundedastonishment took its place, and he caught his breath suddenly,standing stock still on the threshold, and staring at his visitor, asif she was an apparition from another world.
"You?" he said; and it seemed as though that single word were the onlyone that he could bring himself to utter. "You?" he repeated, as hemoved slowly across the room, his eyes riveted upon Lady Cicely's face.She stood very still, just where she had been when he first entered,the sunlight falling upon the pure gold of her hair, and on theexceeding fairness of her face; her eyes very blue, and very deep,looking up at Fergusson with a strange mixture of embarrassment andsweetness, which set his heart beating fast.
In all the time of his acquaintance with her, she had never lookedyounger or fairer than on this May morning. Her gown of some pale greymaterial, exactly suited the pale pure tints of her hair andcomplexion, and the great pink rose fastened against the soft feathersof her grey boa, harmonised with the delicate colour that had risen toher cheeks, as Fergusson entered.
"I--promised I would come some day to see your house, and yoursurgery," she said, hesitating a little between the words, but speakingfirmly nevertheless, "and--I thought I would come to-day."
"What made you come to-day?" he asked, an odd abruptness that almostamounted to roughness, in his voice. "Why to-day, of all days?"
"I--don't know," she answered
. "I believe I acted--on impulse. Itjust came into my head that I must come this morning, and--you know Iam rather a creature of impulse--and I came--straight away."
"It is so curious you should have come to-day," he persisted, stillwith that odd abruptness of voice and manner. "You have come in timeto see my boats burnt."
"Your--boats--burnt?" her voice was puzzled; she looked into his facewith less of embarrassment, because in some indefinite way she feltthat he was more embarrassed than she, and it gave her courage. "Whyare you burning boats?"
"Because, as I told you when I came to see you, I am giving up the lifehere, giving it up altogether, irrevocably, for always. There is to beno turning back."
"No turning back," she repeated softly, her eyes watching the changingexpressions on his face. "Why no turning back?"
"Why? Because I have made up my mind to begin a new life, in a newworld, and--when I make up my mind a thing must be done, I generallycarry it through."
"Ah!" she said. "You generally carry it through?"
"Yes," he spoke almost harshly. "The boats will be burntto-day--finally burnt."
She stood very still in the sunlight, her pretty head bent down, herhands slowly moving over the knob of the dainty sunshade she carried, alittle smile lurking about the corners of her mouth; her eyes fixed onthe faded colours of the Turkey carpet.
"I think--I should like--to be here for the burning of the boats," shesaid. "It sounds so--subversive--so final."
"It is subversive--it is final," was the short reply, and a flame ofanger against her shot up within him. "Why did she come here totorture him? What had possessed her to come and stand here in hisroom, in the sunlight, stand here amongst all his most cherishedbelongings, just as in some of his mad dreams, he had pictured shemight stand--looking so fair, so young, so sweet? Why had she done it?It was cruel, not just to a man who was trying to follow his code ofhonour, to its bitterest consequences." So his thoughts ran, whilstCicely still stood there, moving her hands over the knob of hersunshade, the little smile still hovering upon her lips.
"I wonder," she said slowly, after a moment's silence--and Fergusson,watching her intently, saw that a deeper colour crept into her face--"Iwonder--whether--the burning--is--really necessary?"
"Quite necessary." His tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness. "Ihave made up my mind."
"And--you--never--change--your mind?" She shot one swift glance at himfrom her pretty eyes, lowering them again instantly, whilst her handsmoved more nervously, and her voice shook.
"Not when I am sure I am acting rightly," he answered. "And in thiscase I have no doubts."
She was silent again, for what seemed to the man who watched her many,many minutes, though only a few seconds had ticked by, before she saidgently--
"I wonder--why you--are so very sure?"
"Because there is no room for doubt," was the terse response, and againthere was silence, until Cicely said softly--
"I--think you are wrong. I--believe there is great room for doubt."
"Why do you say that?" he exclaimed, that almost rough note in hisvoice again. "How can you tell, how can you know, what I----" Hebroke off with significant abruptness, and Cicely moved a few stepsnearer to him.
"Dr. Fergusson," she said, her voice very low, her words hurried. "Idon't know--how to explain--what makes me say--that I am sure you arewrong to--to burn your boats. I--came this morning--on purpose to tellyou----"
"To tell me what?" he questioned, his own voice more gentle, because ofthe nervousness in hers.
"To tell you--you are--wrong to give up your work here, and go away."
"Wrong? Why?" For the life of him, Fergusson could not utter anothersyllable; he could only stand and stare and stare at the bent goldenhead, wishing desperately that she would go away, before he wasconquered by his overmastering desire to seize her hands in his, anddraw her close against his breast.
"Quite, quite wrong," she answered firmly, lifting her eyes again, andlooking into his face; "you mustn't go away. I came this morning--totell you--that you mustn't go away. Baba and I--can't spare you." Thelast words were spoken so softly as to be almost inaudible; but theyreached Fergusson's ears, and he looked at the speaker, as though hecould hardly believe the evidence of his senses.
"Baba--and--you?" he repeated.
"Baba--and--I," she whispered. "Oh! perhaps I ought not to have come,but there seemed no other way to show you--what a dreadful mistake youwere going to make, and--Rupert says I am always a creature ofimpulse," she ended with a little laugh. "I came--on--impulse,because--because I had to come." She came closer to his side, and laidone of her hands upon his coat sleeve, her blue eyes looking into his,with the wistful, appealing eagerness of a child's eyes. "I--don'tknow what Cousin Arthur would say--if he knew," she endedinconsequently.
"But--I can't quite understand even now," Fergusson said, with a notvery successful effort to speak quietly. "I--do not think I can be ofany use to--you--and little Baba. There are plenty of other doctorswho----"
"Plenty of other _doctors_," she answered, a quiver in her voice; "butonly one you--and--and are all men always so dense? Please understand,Baba--and I--ask you--to stay. We--are very bold--and brazen--Baba andI!"
She did not look up at him now. She did not see the look of radiantjoy that swept across his face, she only felt his arms go suddenlyround her, she only realised what a relief it was to hide her burningcheeks against his rough coat, whilst he bent his head to hers, andmurmured passionate inarticulate little words, that would not framethemselves into sentences, and yet seemed to flood her world withhappiness.
"I can't understand it," he said presently, putting his hand softlyunder her chin and lifting her face, so that he could look deep intoher eyes; "you can't mean--that you--would stoop--to me?"
"I didn't know how to make you understand without telling you in plainEnglish that I--that you----" She broke off again, her eyes droppingbefore the look in his, the colour deepening in her cheeks.
"That you--and Baba--want me?" he quoted softly.
"Yes; we don't think we can do without you, Baba and I. We can't letyou go to the Far West, or--anywhere very far away from us. Only----"
"Only?" he whispered, his lips close to hers.
"Only--I didn't think I could ever be so--horribly brazen--as to ask aman to----"
"You haven't asked me anything," he answered whimsically, a smile onhis lips, a humorous twinkle in the eyes that looked so tenderly at herrosy face. "You haven't asked me anything yet!"
"Don't make me more ashamed," she whispered. "It is dreadful to havecome--to have said--to----"
"To have played the part of a gracious and lovely queen, whose PrinceConsort dares not speak, until she gives him the right?" His voice wasa caressing whisper, his arm held her more closely. "And even now, Ido not know whether I have any business to accept the right you giveme? You and I are such poles asunder."
"Are we?" she answered softly, her hand touching his. "Are we really'poles asunder,' just because I happen to have a little more money thanyou have? Aren't we just a man and woman, who----"
"Who?" he echoed gently, as she paused, and his face was bent very nearto hers, to hear her answer.
"Who--care for each other," she whispered confusedly. "I don'tthink--you ought to make me say all the--difficult things."
"Is it so difficult to say you care for me," he answered, with a lowlaugh of triumphant gladness. "I have got dozens of patients waitingdownstairs for me, but I don't want to do anything except go on tellingyou how much I care for you, so much that I could not stay in England,and not tell you the truth."
"And why didn't you tell me?" she said reproachfully, lifting her headto look again into his radiant face.
"Because--your rank, and money, and surroundings--oh! everything aboutyou, put you far out of my reach," he answered, with a sudden return tohis old abruptness. "Even now I have not the smallest right to takeadvantage of the wonde
rful thing you have done to-day. What will yourpeople say? What will the world say? What----"
"Need you and I mind what the rest of mankind thinks, or says?" sheanswered, a little flash of defiance in her eyes. "Perhaps in cominghere to-day I have been unwomanly and horrible; and yet, I had to come,because I knew that happiness is too big a thing to be sacrificed topride, or to other people's opinions."
"And--this is your happiness?" His voice was strangely softened. "Doyou really mean me to know that you could be happy with me, with arough sort of fellow like me?"
"With a rough sort of fellow like you," she answered, laughing, atender mockery in her words. "I can't be happy without you, and--Icame to-day, to tell you so!"
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