CHAPTER XXII.
"I CAME TO-DAY, TO TELL YOU SO."
If Fergusson had left the great house in the square with his spirits at zero, they had travelled many degrees below that point on the following morning. He sat alone in the room he used as study and general sitting-room, and, spread on the table before him were two letters, one from a house-agent informing him that a possible client was in treaty for his house; the other from a medical practitioner in the north of England, who expressed a desire to come in person, and learn all particulars about the practice.
"Burning my boats with a vengeance," Fergusson muttered, looking round the room which he had learnt to love, and smiling a troubled smile that had no joy behind it. That glance round the room, brought back to his remembrance, in an odd flash of memory, Christina's first visit to him, when he was occupying Dr. Stokes's house in the country. There was real humour in his smile when he recalled the girl's look of surprise, and her naïve acknowledgment of the discrepancy she saw between his appearance, and that of the house in which he was. Looking round the study of his South London abode, he wondered whether Christina would consider his present surroundings more in keeping with his personality, than those in which she had first seen him. Certainly there was nothing 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 a soft rich yellow that gave an effect of sunlight even on the greyest days, and the few pictures hanging against the sunny background, were excellent photographs framed in oak, and representing some of the best Old Masters of the Italian School. Bookcases covered a considerable amount of the wall space, books covered the tables, and were even piled upon a corner of the rather faded Turkey carpet. The box outside the open window was filled with wallflowers, and their penetrating fragrance made the room sweet. The view was not a wholly uninspiring one, for a narrow strip of garden lay behind the house, and glimpses of waving boughs were visible against the blue sky of May. The roar of traffic from the main road a few paces away, the distant hum of humanity, these were sounds dear to the ears of the doctor, to whom human beings made so deep an appeal; he even had a weakness for the raucous 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 had spent so much of his busy life—more sorry than anyone else could realise, he reflected grimly. Possibly, to the rest of mankind, a practice in South London might not appear the acme of bliss—a practice that dealt almost exclusively with the sordid, the poor, even the criminal; but—he loved his work, he loved his people; it was intolerably hard to tear himself away from them all, and yet—the tearing 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, and re-read them, feeling absurdly disinclined to reply to either. He knew he must go. With the unwavering directness of an upright man, when making a decision, he had seen what he conceived to be the right path clearly marked for him; and, having seen it, he had no thought of drawing back from following it. But, with all his strength and decision of character, he nevertheless felt, at this juncture, a deep repugnance to writing those letters, which would, as he expressed it to himself, have the effect of burning his boats behind him. He knew that good work awaited him in that far western land, where he had determined to begin a new life; he knew, too, that to remain in England within call, as it were, of a temptation which his sense of what was right and honourable, bade him resist, was merely dallying with that sense of right; and yet, the human man within him, cried out against the necessity which he had faced, and acknowledged to be inevitable. Although he already actually knew the contents of those two letters by heart, he read both through again, then deliberately folded, and set them aside, with another short laugh.
"If they are answered by to-night's post, it is time enough," he exclaimed. "They shall be answered to-night; these few hours of delay will make no difference." He was half-amused, half-ashamed of his own cowardice, as he called it, in postponing the inevitable, but a weight seemed to be lifted off his heart when those letters were set aside unanswered, when he turned away from the writing table, to go to his downstairs surgery, feeling that the conflagration of those boats of his had not yet begun.
The busy morning of attending to the motley collection of fellow creatures who thronged to his surgery door, was only half over; and he was waiting in his tiny consulting-room, for the next patient, when a tap on the door was followed by the entrance of Thompson, his caretaker, and general factotum. Indeed, Thompson and his wife constituted the entire staff of Fergusson's household, being the doctor's devoted admirers, as well as his faithful servants; and when he had broached to them his proposed change of life, they had simultaneously 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 little consulting-room, there was an expression of mingled bewilderment and pleasure, which made Fergusson look at him sharply.
"Yes, Thompson, what is it?" he asked, for it was seldom indeed that any 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 she heard you was busy, she wanted to call again, but I didn't feel it would be right to let a lady like her go away, and call again." Fergusson smiled. Thompson was the worthiest soul on earth, but his powers of discrimination were not great, and a "lady like her" was in all probability a suburban "Miss," hoping to obtain a consultation at surgery 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 made such an appeal to Thompson's æsthetic soul, the ladies of rather abnormally sized hats, garments they called "stylish," with lace blouses, out of which rose an unnecessary length of neck, encircled by artificial pearls. Oh! he knew precisely what sort of a lady he would find 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 opening the door, he had decided to make short shrift of the lady—he knew precisely how he should frame his terse speech—and there was a distinctly grim look upon his usually kindly face, when he entered the room. But when he saw who it was that stood in the May sunlight, close to the open window, the grim expression died away, unbounded astonishment took its place, and he caught his breath suddenly, standing stock still on the threshold, and staring at his visitor, as if she was an apparition from another world.
"You?" he said; and it seemed as though that single word were the only one that he could bring himself to utter. "You?" he repeated, as he moved 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 the exceeding fairness of her face; her eyes very blue, and very deep, looking up at Fergusson with a strange mixture of embarrassment and sweetness, which set his heart beating fast.
In all the time of his acquaintance with her, she had never looked younger or fairer than on this May morning. Her gown of some pale grey material, exactly suited the pale pure tints of her hair and complexion, and the great pink rose fastened against the soft feathers of her grey boa, harmonised with the delicate colour that had risen to her cheeks, as Fergusson entered.
"I—promised I would come some day to see your house, and your surgery," she said, hesitating a little between the words, but speaking firmly nevertheless, "and—I thought I would come to-day."
"What made you come to-day?" he asked, an odd abruptness that almost amounted to roughness, in his voice. "Why to-day, of all days?"
"I—don't know," she answered. "I believe I acted—on impulse. It just came into my head that I must come this morning, and—you know I am rather a creature of impulse—and I came—straight away."
"It is so curious you should have come to-day," he persisted, still with that odd abruptness of voice and manner. "You have come in time to see my boats burnt."
"Your—boats—burnt?" her voice was puzzled; she looked into his face with less of embarrassment, because in some indefinite way she felt that he was more embarrassed than she, and it gave her courage. "Why are you burning boats?"
"Because, as I told you when I came to see you, I am giving up the life here, giving it up altogether, irrevocably, for always. There is to be no turning back."
"No turning back," she repeated softly, her eyes watching the changing expressions on his face. "Why no turning back?"
"Why? Because I have made up my mind to begin a new life, in a new world, and—when I make up my mind a thing must be done, I generally carry it through."
"Ah!" she said. "You generally carry it through?"
"Yes," he spoke almost harshly. "The boats will be burnt to-day—finally burnt."
She stood very still in the sunlight, her pretty head bent down, her hands slowly moving over the knob of the dainty sunshade she carried, a little smile lurking about the corners of her mouth; her eyes fixed on the faded colours of the Turkey carpet.
"I think—I should like—to be here for the burning of the boats," she said. "It sounds so—subversive—so final."
"It is subversive—it is final," was the short reply, and a flame of anger against her shot up within him. "Why did she come here to torture him? What had possessed her to come and stand here in his room, in the sunlight, stand here amongst all his most cherished belongings, just as in some of his mad dreams, he had pictured she might 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 of honour, to its bitterest consequences." So his thoughts ran, whilst Cicely still stood there, moving her hands over the knob of her sunshade, 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—"I wonder—whether—the burning—is—really necessary?"
"Quite necessary." His tone was abrupt to the point of rudeness. "I have made up my mind."
"And—you—never—change—your mind?" She shot one swift glance at him from her pretty eyes, lowering them again instantly, whilst her hands moved more nervously, and her voice shook.
"Not when I am sure I am acting rightly," he answered. "And in this case 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 said gently—
"I wonder—why you—are so very sure?"
"Because there is no room for doubt," was the terse response, and again there 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 his voice again. "How can you tell, how can you know, what I——" He broke off with significant abruptness, and Cicely moved a few steps nearer to him.
"Dr. Fergusson," she said, her voice very low, her words hurried. "I don't know—how to explain—what makes me say—that I am sure you are wrong to—to burn your boats. I—came this morning—on purpose to tell you——"
"To tell me what?" he questioned, his own voice more gentle, because of the 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 another syllable; he could only stand and stare and stare at the bent golden head, wishing desperately that she would go away, before he was conquered by his overmastering desire to seize her hands in his, and draw her close against his breast.
"Quite, quite wrong," she answered firmly, lifting her eyes again, and looking into his face; "you mustn't go away. I came this morning—to tell you—that you mustn't go away. Baba and I—can't spare you." The last words were spoken so softly as to be almost inaudible; but they reached Fergusson's ears, and he looked at the speaker, as though he could 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 you were going to make, and—Rupert says I am always a creature of impulse," she ended with a little laugh. "I came—on—impulse, because—because I had to come." She came closer to his side, and laid one 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't know what Cousin Arthur would say—if he knew," she ended inconsequently.
"But—I can't quite understand even now," Fergusson said, with a not very successful effort to speak quietly. "I—do not think I can be of any use to—you—and little Baba. There are plenty of other doctors who——"
"Plenty of other doctors," she answered, a quiver in her voice; "but only 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 and I!"
She did not look up at him now. She did not see the look of radiant joy that swept across his face, she only felt his arms go suddenly round her, she only realised what a relief it was to hide her burning cheeks against his rough coat, whilst he bent his head to hers, and murmured passionate inarticulate little words, that would not frame themselves into sentences, and yet seemed to flood her world with happiness.
"I can't understand it," he said presently, putting his hand softly under her chin and lifting her face, so that he could look deep into her eyes; "you can't mean—that you—would stoop—to me?"
"I didn't know how to make you understand without telling you in plain English that I—that you——" She broke off again, her eyes dropping before 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 let you 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 a man to——"
"You haven't asked me anything," he answered whimsically, a smile on his lips, a humorous twinkle in the eyes that looked so tenderly at her rosy face. "You haven't asked me anything yet!"
"Don't make me more ashamed," she whispered. "It is dreadful to have come—to have said—to——"
"To have played the part of a gracious and lovely queen, whose Prince Consort dares not speak, until she gives him the right?" His voice was a caressing whisper, his arm held her more closely. "And even now, I do not know whether I have any business to accept the right you give me? 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 than you have? Aren't we just a man and woman, who——"
"Who?" he echoed gently, as she paused, and his face was bent very near to hers, to hear her answer.
"Who—care for each other," she whispered confusedly. "I don't think—you ought to make me say all the—difficult things."
"Is it so difficult to say you care for me," he answered, with a low laugh of triumphant gladness. "I have got dozens of patients waiting downstairs for me, but I don't want to do anything except go on telling you 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 head to look again into his radiant face.
"Because—your rank, and money, and surroundings—oh! everything about you, put you far out of my reach," he answered, with a sudden return to his old abruptness. "Even now I have not the smallest right to take advantage of the wonderful thing you have done to-day. What will your people say? What will the world say? What——"
"Need you and I mind what the rest of mankind thinks, or says?" she answered, a little flash of defiance in her eyes. "Perhaps in coming here 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 to pride, or to other people's opinions."
"And—this is your happiness?" His voice was strangely softened. "Do you really mean me to know that you could be happy with me, with a rough sort of fellow like me?"
"With a rough sort of fellow like you," she answered, laughing, a tender mockery in her words. "I can't be happy without you, and—I came to-day, to tell you so!"