Chapter VII: Part 7

When she was in her carriage she looked at her watch. There was a train for the West leaving within the hour. She drove to the station, dismissed her carriage, then, buying her ticket, sat down to wait, feeling that she had consummated the act of madness. She wondered what General Talbott would think of her, whether she went or whether she stayed. No thought of Sir Percy Carlyon or Colegrove entered her mind. When the train was called she found a porter to carry her bag and walked through the gate. Then the habit of a lifetime made one last desperate effort; she walked back through another gate and called a cab, firmly resolving to go home. She got as far as the door of the station, and then, glancing at the clock, saw that there was still one minute before the train left. She turned and ran the length of the station through the gate towards the train, which was just about to move. The conductor, seeing her running towards it, caught her deftly by the arm and put her aboard, stepping after her himself. The porter found her a seat, and Alicia sank into it breathless and bewildered.

"I may yet turn back," she said to herself. "It is impossible that this impulse will hold out long enough for me to reach my husband."

At eight o'clock that evening, as General Talbott was leaving his room for dinner, the footman put Alicia's note into his hands. He was an old man and things shook him as they had not done in the days when Sir Percy Carlyon thought him the most resolute of men. Nevertheless he maintained enough composure to say coolly to the servant:

"Your mistress has been suddenly called out of town, and may be absent a week or two." Then he went down to dinner.

When it was over, he did what an Englishman regards as an act of emergency--went out for an evening visit. He rang the bell of the British Embassy, asked to see Sir Percy Carlyon, and was shown into the library. When his card was handed to Sir Percy, who was taking his coffee with Lady Carlyon in the drawing-room, he said to her, growing a little pale:

"It is General Talbott; it would be best for me to see him alone."

They both thought that this meant another step in Alicia March's programme to ruin Sir Percy Carlyon.

Sir Percy went into the library, and as soon as he had shaken hands General Talbott silently handed him Alicia's note. Sir Percy studied it attentively. He knew Alicia quite as well as she knew herself, and was as much astounded as she was at her action. Likewise he was incredulous that she should carry it through.

"It is four or five days' journey to the region where Roger March is," said Sir Percy to General Talbott, "and Mrs. March may change her mind in the meantime."

"Yes," replied General Talbott, "but did you ever notice the strange appeal which bodily suffering makes to a woman? Anything on earth might have happened to March, and my daughter perhaps would have felt no inclination to rejoin him; but for him to be ill, suffering, dying, that was too much for her tender heart."

Sir Percy remained silent; he, too, had often, noticed that few women can shut their ears to the cry of bodily pain.

"It is very perplexing," was all he could say, handing the note back to General Talbott.

"I am afraid, my dear fellow," said General Talbott, smiling a little, "that I am growing old, for I felt so agitated and disturbed when I got this note that I was compelled to seek a friend's companionship. I will not say counsel, for there is nothing to do in the matter. There are circumstances connected with this of a strictly private nature, which I do not feel at liberty to mention, so I can scarcely ask for advice."

"You can, however, be perfectly sure of my sympathy, and if I can be of any assistance to you, at any moment, I think you will allow me the privilege. Come into the drawing-room now with me and see Lady Carlyon."

"Please excuse me," answered General Talbott. "I scarcely feel equal to seeing any one but yourself this evening," for the recollection came to him that Lady Carlyon had not been over friendly to his poor Alicia, and it gave his honest old heart another pang.

Sir Percy kept him for half-an-hour, then walked back with him through the silent streets. A thin mantle of snow was dissolving in a ghostly white mist, which rose toward a pallid night sky in which a haggard moon shone dimly. Sir Percy left General Talbott at his own door and returned to the Embassy. Lady Carlyon was still in the drawing-room, and when he entered and told her what had happened she remained silent and thoughtful. Presently she said:

"Perhaps there is a regeneration for Mrs. March."

It is not in the nature of men to believe in the reform of women, and Sir Percy said so, but Lady Carlyon answered him with the old feminine plea:

"Her husband is ill, is suffering; she cannot remain away from him: she is a woman and not a monster."

*XV*

The early spring in the Sierras is still winter. The great masses of snow yield only to the burning sun of summer, and the air is as sharp as a dagger so long as the snow lasts. Black cliffs, stern precipices and crevices holding cold and darkness bar out the spring and turn a stony face towards her caresses. So thought Alicia March, as in the wintry dusk she alighted from the train at the lonely mountain station. All around her was desolation. The dusk was at hand, but on the far-off horizon a pale green light still glowed upon the distant peaks. Below her lay the valleys, dark, sombre and mysterious, with here and there a light from some small homestead showing in the twilight, and a waving line of sheep, huddling together as they were driven towards the great sheepfold. The only house in sight upon the mountain side was an adobe hut upon a little plateau. It was surrounded by melancholy cedars and dark and bare-limbed ilex-trees.

"Can you tell me," she said, going up to the station-master in his little box of an office, "where Mr. Roger March lives?"

The station-master, a phlegmatic person in buckskin clothes, answered her by jerking his thumb over his shoulder towards the open door.

"That's his house," he said--"over there on the hill."

His eyes fell upon Alicia, and his dull mind, as little subject to curiosity as interest, was suddenly moved. The expression of longing despair in her eyes penetrated him a little. He then surmised the question that Alicia would have asked but could not.

"Mr. March is living, but in a pretty bad way, so my wife says; he is a heap better than we ever thought he would be. My wife goes there every day or two to look after him. He was mighty good to us when our shack was burnt."

Alicia, without another word, went out and followed the rude path which led to the little adobe house. The station-master made no comment; he was accustomed to strange meetings and partings in his remote world.

The night had fallen when Alicia found herself outside the 'door of the rude little house where Roger March had hidden his broken heart. Long ago the voice of protest within Alicia had been silenced. She would have fought and struggled to have gone to her husband. She stood trembling in the dusk outside, afraid to raise the latch. Close to her was an uncurtained window, through which the light of a fire gleamed. She stole towards the window and, looking in, saw Roger March for the first time since he had repudiated her. He sat in a rough wooden chair, drawn up to the wide, low fireplace; his face was white like that of a dead man, and his shrunken figure was almost lost in his clothes. His eyes alone appeared to have life in them as he gazed steadily at the fire. Sadness, hopelessness and humiliation were in his gaze, but he was still sentient, living, breathing.

The first thought that occurred to Alicia was that he yet had strength enough left to repulse her. The evening had grown sharper, and she stood so long outside the door that the cold penetrated to the very marrow of her bones, and it was this, at last, which gave her the courage to raise the latch and enter. She opened the door of the room in which Roger March sat and then closed it softly behind her, and going towards her husband, stopped on the other side of the fireplace some distance from him. March raised his eyes and started and shuddered violently when his glance fell upon Alicia, almost as pale as himself, shivering with cold and agitation and involuntarily drawing near the blazing fire. He attempted to rise from his chair, but fell back, unequal to the effort. As his head rested against the back of his chair, Alicia, with downcast head, yet saw the marks of illness and age and grief in him, and it brought a pang to her heart such as she had never felt before in her life. Her apparition, so strange and unexpected, agitated March more than he could bear. Alicia did not speak for some minutes, and then she said in the low, delicious voice which had not lost its charm for the man who once adored her:

"I came because I couldn't help it. I heard that you were ill. I know you hate me, and I knew that I would lose all I had if I came, but something stronger than myself brought me. I don't excuse what I have done, but--but I could not keep away."

March's pallid lips formed one word.

"Colegrove?"

Alicia answered in the same quiet, despairing voice:

"He told me of your illness and reminded me that if I tried to see you I would lose everything, but I scarcely heard what he was saying. I could not keep away. He overtook me on the journey yesterday morning and wished to make me promise if I found you dead that I would marry him--he is divorced. I felt such rage against him--" She stopped and raised her hands and clenched them with a gesture which implied a hatred of Colegrove greater than any words could convey. "I never was worthy of you, but perhaps if it had not been for Nicholas Colegrove I should not have wrecked and ruined you as I have done, so it is only just that I should be wrecked and ruined, too." Then she came nearer to him and suddenly burst into sobs and, clasping her hands, cried: "Let me stay--let me stay, if only for this one night. It is so cold outside, and I know not where to go. I never wronged you with Nicholas Colegrove except about money. Let me stay! Would you drive me out like a houseless dog?"

She had not yet ventured near enough to her husband to touch him. March put his thin hands over his face, his features were convulsed, but he said no word. Then Alicia, laying her hand on the arm of his chair, cried:

"You haven't told me to go away. You can't do it. I will go after a while, when you are well, but even if you send me away I sha'n't go very far, and something will always drag me back to you."

March remained silent. The wind outside steadily rose and howled wolfishly around the little house. An ilex-tree, which overhung the roof, was beating fiercely upon it, and its strong branches tore at the little house like the claws of a wild beast seeking to destroy it.

No, he could not turn her out like a houseless dog!

Then Alicia, kneeling by his chair, begged and prayed him to let her stay. March remained silent as much from weakness as from the tumult in his soul. The wind grew fiercer and the night wilder. At last Alicia's hand timidly sought her husband's.

"If you tell me to go, I will go," she whispered between her sobs, but he could not tell her to go.

* * * * *

A year later, on a beautiful spring afternoon, Sir Percy and Lady Carlyon were walking together through the park at Washington. Never had Lady Carlyon appeared brighter or lovelier. Health, happiness and beauty radiated from her sparkling face and beautiful dark eyes, and her graceful step and airy movements were in themselves exhilarating. Sir Percy, too, looked like a man whose heart was at rest as he walked by his wife's side through the woods in which the mystery of the spring was unfolding.

"It is just a year," said Lady Carlyon, turning to her husband, "since you got that strange letter from Mrs. March. Remember it was not I but you who gave up the fight. Oh, how much braver are women than men!"

"Yes," answered Sir Percy, "there is a time when a man is ready to surrender, but I never saw the time when you, my Lady Lucy, were ready to surrender."

"Quite true," replied Lady Carlyon, smiling and glancing at her husband under her long lashes, "but, after all, wasn't Mrs. March braver than I?"

"Perhaps so," answered Sir Percy. "She is altogether the strangest woman I ever knew. I had thought her one of the worst, yet behold she has buried herself in the wilderness with March, has given over all that once seemed essential to her, and has cried quits with the world."

* * * * *

The spring in the Sierras was not so far advanced as in Washington, but the sun shone bravely and the birds, who rested under the southern eaves of the little adobe house on the mountain-side, flashed back and forth merrily in the clear, blue air. The place had undergone the subtle change which a woman's presence makes everywhere. Another room or two and a rude veranda had been added to the original structure. Blooming plants at the open windows leaned their bold, pretty faces to the sun; a table on the veranda held magazines and books, and a woman's shawl was thrown over the back of a rustic chair. A little dog--a woman's dog--was racing gaily up and down the sunny plateau on which the little house stood. All around was the serene stillness of the mountains and far below in the valleys could be heard through the thin, sharp air the tinkle of a sheep bell and a faint echo of the herdsman's voice. Standing in the golden glow of the sun was Roger March. He had a book in his hand, but was not reading it, and looked towards a little garden which had been made on the southern slope of the hillside. A woman in a garden hat was kneeling down before a bed of violets picking a few blossoms which had dared to show their downcast faces to the rude world. Roger March strolled towards the kneeling woman, who rose and met him half way, holding out her hand filled with violets. It was Alicia.