"Ah! but men do let their pride spoil their love," she said, "and they let their pride spoil other people's lives too," she added, with a wisdom beyond her years. "A man might easily think it would be dishonourable to ask you to marry him--a man who was not rich, or distinguished." She spoke very slowly; in some odd way it seemed, even to herself, as though the words were put into her mouth to speak, and as she uttered them she was looking so intently out of the window, that she did not observe the varying expressions of emotions that flitted over Cicely's face.

"One would not know how to beat down the sort of pride you describe,"

she answered, after a pause, during which Christina's eyes fixed themselves upon a flock of pigeons, wheeling about the plane-trees in the square. "A woman is so tied, so handicapped; she can only possess her soul in patience, and wait."

"I don't believe I should wait," again it seemed to Christina, as though the words were being forced from her. "If I knew that only pride, silly, ridiculous pride, was holding a man back, a man who loved me and I him--well, I don't believe I would wait. I think--there's a limit to possessing one's soul in patience."

"But Christina--surely!"--Cicely's blue eyes opened wide, she looked into the girl's animated face, with wondering incredulity.

"Surely--yes," Christina answered with an audacious little laugh. "If the man cared for me, and I knew it, I--would not let his pride spoil his life and mine. If he was too proud to ask me--why, then, I should ask him--that is all." With the laughing words, she turned and left the room, murmuring that it was time she attended to Baba's tea; but after she had gone, Cicely sat very still, her mind haunted by the words the other had just spoken.

"I would not let his pride spoil his life and mine. If he was too proud to ask me--why, then, I should ask him, that is all."

"But such a big 'all,'" Cicely reflected, her eyes, like Christina's, following the wheeling flight of the wood-pigeons about the plane-trees' tops; "it is such an impossible thing even to contemplate doing, and yet----"

And yet! Sitting there alone, she reviewed the past happy years, when John had been her safeguard, her protector, the shadow of a great rock in her life, shielding her from everything that could hurt or vex her.

And after those years of full content had come the lean years of sorrow--the blank desolation of her widowhood, the loneliness, the overpowering loneliness, which no kindly friends nor kindred could really lessen or a.s.suage. And now, new possibilities of happiness seemed to be opening before her, if--but again it was such a big "if."

How could she put out her hand to s.n.a.t.c.h at what had not been offered to her, what might never be offered to her, but which, nevertheless, she knew with a woman's sure knowledge was hers?

"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 n.o.blest 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 t.i.tle 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.

"Yes"--Fergusson still spoke fast and nervously,--"I have come to rather a sudden decision, but I feel it is a wise one. I have made up my mind to go abroad, to begin life in a new country. The old one is over-crowded--we are all finding that fact out more and more, and I am proposing to go to the Far West. It has always appealed to me--that free life in a big, new country."

"But your poor people--your people in South London," Cicely interrupted, a sick pain gnawing at her heart; "surely they want you?"

He shrugged his shoulders a little, and smiled.

"I am not indispensable to them, or to anyone"--the last words he spoke under his breath--"and I believe there is plenty of work waiting for me, on the other side of the world. I have not made up my mind to this hurriedly, but it seems the best and wisest thing to do."

"I wonder why?" Cicely began slowly, her blue eyes looking full into those troubled brown ones. "It seems"--she broke off, leaving her sentence unfinished, her eyes dropping suddenly, because of what she read in those other eyes.

"Does it seem to you a mad idea?--an act of impulse?" he asked, his glance travelling hungrily over her down-bent face. "I have not come to the decision impulsively. It is the best--the only thing to do."

The last part of the speech dropped hurriedly from his lips, he drew in his breath sharply, almost as if he were being tried to the limits of his strength. "I--could not--go away without coming to say good-bye to you--and Miss Moore--and Baba," he added jerkily.

"We should have been very angry with you if you had done such a horrid thing," Cicely answered lightly, so lightly, that a hurt look crept into the brown eyes watching her. He had not dared to hope she could by any remote possibility care for him, so he said to himself. He had never dreamt such wildly improbable dreams, but he had thought she would be a little sorry to lose a friend for ever; and when he left England, he intended to leave it for ever, to cut adrift from all old friendships, all old ties. And yet she looked up at him with laughter in her eyes, and talked brightly of being angry with him, if he had gone without a farewell! He felt oddly hurt and ruffled, and Cicely, as keenly aware of the hurt, as she had been a moment before of the significant look in his eyes, only knew that her own heart was beating with an excess of joy that frightened her--only realised that the game lay in her own small hands, if only--she could play the game as it should be played.

"You--have not given up your house and practice--yet?" she questioned, and her tone was still brisk, almost business-like, and there was a hurt note in his voice as he answered--

"My house is in an agent's hands for letting, and I am only going on with the work, until I can find someone to take it over; as soon as everything is settled here, I shall be off. To tell you the honest truth, I shall be glad to go." Cicely's heart leapt in an insane way, because of the sudden ring of bitterness in his accents, she moved a step nearer to him (they had both remained standing since her entrance), she had even uttered the words, "I wish"--when the door was flung wide open, and James announced, "Mrs. Deane."

Cicely was not quite sure whether she most wished to laugh or cry, when this very ordinary little acquaintance, a walking ma.s.s of plat.i.tudes, propriety, and dullness, walked into the room. Too well she knew that Mrs. Deane, once established in her drawing-room, would not be quickly dislodged, and, with an inward sigh, she resigned herself to her fate, whilst Fergusson held out his hand in farewell.

"I must be getting on my way," he said; "perhaps I might just go up to the nursery, to say good-bye to Miss Moore and Miss Baba?"

"Of course," Cicely answered with her pretty smile. "Baba would bitterly resent it, if her dear doctor went across the sea, without saying good-bye to her."

"_If_--you go across the sea," she mentally e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed, as the door closed behind his tall form, and she settled herself down to listen to Mrs. Deane's totally uninteresting conversation.

"_If_--you--go--across--the sea!"

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 pract.i.tioner 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 nave 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 s.p.a.ce, 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 const.i.tuted 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.