"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.