"I don't think it is being unfaithful to John," she thought; "it does not make me love John less, because I know—that other—could bring me a measure of joy again."
For a few moments she gave free rein to her thoughts, letting them range over the past few months, allowing her memory to bring back Denis Fergusson's kindly, shrewd face, with the brown eyes that held so much both of tenderness and humour, and the mouth that could smile so cheerily, and set itself into lines of such strength and steadfastness. During those anxious days of Baba's illness at Graystone, she had of necessity seen Fergusson constantly, and perhaps it had been borne in upon her then, that he, too, was of the nature of a great rock, strong to lean upon, and very steadfast; and perhaps she had been drawn to him, in that mysterious drawing together of one particular man to one particular woman, which must always be a wonder of the universe.
Whenever she and Fergusson had met, she had been conscious of her own power over him, conscious also that something was holding him back. And now, as it seemed to her, Christina had given her the clue, to what had often sorely puzzled her. Her own outlook upon life was an eminently simple one, and she had never dreamed that her rank or wealth could make a bar to the friendship, and the something deeper than friendship, of such a man as Denis Fergusson. Christina's words had given her food for thought, and they had also brought her face to face with the knowledge of herself, and of all that Denis was beginning to mean to her. He possessed that same steadfast quality which had been one of her husband's noblest characteristics, and the one perhaps that had made the chief appeal to her more yielding nature. And Fergusson's cheery strength and unfailing optimism, had gone far also towards drawing her to him. But instinctively she had been aware of a barrier between them, of something which he was rearing up against her, and though the instinctive knowledge of the barrier had wounded and puzzled her, it was only now, with Christina's words ringing in her ears, that she understood the meaning of all the puzzle. The doctor was a poor man, or at any rate comparatively poor, whilst she had more than enough and to spare of this world's goods, and a title into the bargain; and because the man was proud as well as poor, he had erected that barrier, of which she had been confusedly conscious.
Well! Christina—straightforward Christina, with her almost boyish love for all that was most natural, most frank and simple—had said, "I would not let his pride spoil his life, and mine. If he was too proud to ask me, then I should ask him!"
"But"—Cicely rose from her chair, and crossed the room to the window—"but, of course, any such step as that was out of the question for her—impossible and out of the question. She could never overcome her pride, to such an extent as that—never!"
"Dr. Fergusson has called, my lady, and desired me to say that if you were disengaged, he would be very glad if he could see you for a few minutes." James, the footman, stood in the doorway, and even upon James's slow intelligence, it dawned that his mistress looked unusually lovely, and unusually young. But his dense mind did not especially connect the youth or loveliness with anything or anybody; he only dimly saw and wondered, whilst for the fraction of a second Cicely hesitated. Should she order James to bring the doctor up to the boudoir—to this dainty room in which she made a point of only receiving those who were her most intimate friends? Or should she go down to the drawing-room, and receive him as she received acquaintances? The two questions revolved in her mind, and they were quickly answered.
"I will come down to the drawing-room," she said, scarcely knowing herself why she came to this decision; coming to it more by instinct, than by any power of reasoning. She paused yet another moment to collect her forces, then went slowly down the great staircase, and opened the drawing-room door, without lingering on the threshold, as she was more than half inclined to do.
Fergusson came forward quickly to greet her, and she saw that, though he smiled, and spoke in his customary, cheery manner, his eyes held a troubled look, and there was a worn expression on his face, which she had never seen there before. His manner, too, had a nervousness very foreign to it, and he talked rapidly, as though he were afraid of silence, and must continue speaking at all costs.
"I must apologise for troubling you," he said, and Cicely noted the formality of his speech, "but I felt I should like to come and ask about my little friend Baba, before I go away."
"Go away?" Cicely could frame no other words than those two bare ones, because for a second her heart seemed to stop beating, then raced on again at headlong speed.