a dim apprehension of the nature of such men as Sir Percy Carlyon and
Roger March, who could not be moved from the point of honour. Then, as
there was nothing more to say, Sir Percy Carlyon bowed and left the
room. He had not been in the house five minutes all told.
Alicia drew her chair up to the fireside and watched the scurrying snow
and listened to the wind clattering wildly under the eaves. She did not
know whether to feel herself victor or vanquished. The time was, only a
few years ago, when she would have glowed with the beauty and
completeness of her revenge--all women are revengeful, but it is in
general an unsated passion. Like most things ardently desired and long
delayed, her triumph over Sir Percy Carlyon had lost its savour. She
would be no better off if the Carlyons left Washington, and she felt
tolerably sure that the next Ambassadress would be as equally obdurate
towards her as was Lady Carlyon. Alicia March sighed and looked out of
the window, where the fierce blasts tortured the budding trees, and the
tender young grass shivered tinder the cruel sleet and snow. Alicia had
felt herself strange in the position of an honourable, honoured woman,
which Roger March had given her, but she felt more strange and forlorn
when suddenly cast down into the abyss from which she had been raised.
Pursued by intolerable loneliness, she returned to her own room, only to
find herself more lonely still. While she sat in aimless reverie a
letter in Colegrove's handwriting was brought into her. She looked at it
with faint interest, but it lay in her lap unopened for half-an-hour;
then she broke the seal and read:
"I have just heard that Roger March has been mortally ill for months,
and is probably dead by this time. I must see you soon."
An hour later the same footman who had brought the note came to announce
luncheon. Alicia was sitting in the same position, her eyes fixed upon
the open letter. A strange leaven had been at work in her mind; an
overwhelming desire to see and be with Roger March. Suddenly Sir Percy
Carlyon and Colegrove had become insignificant to her; even her father
was, for once, forgotten. She rose and went downstairs, trying to shake
from her this new and strange obsession. What insanity would it be for
her to go to Roger March! Almost every penny she had in the world, her
house, her carriages, nine-tenths of her income, would be forfeited by
the least attempt to see or communicate with her husband. General
Talbott was awaiting her, and together they sat down in the gorgeous
dining-room to the small round table which they commonly used when
alone. General Talbott noticed nothing out of the usual in his daughter
except that she was rather silent and ate nothing. Alicia herself
scarcely recognised her own mind and heart and soul engaged in a
conflict with her own closest and greatest interests. When luncheon was
over, General Talbott said:
"This wintry weather will keep me indoors for the afternoon."
To which Alicia replied:
"I, too, shall remain at home and shall not see any visitors."
She went up to her boudoir, fighting at every step the impulse within
her to take the first train for the Northwest. As a bar to her leaving
the house, she rang for her maid and put on a _negligee_ robe and
slippers, and lying down among the pillows of a luxurious sofa, drawn up
to the fire, shut her eyes and tried to sleep. It was in vain. Before
her came the vision of her husband, "mortally ill," as Colegrove had
said. She had never seen Roger March ill in her life, but she had a
prophetic vision of how he looked, pale and grey, with a gentle
stoicism, a stern patience, and he was alone in an adobe hut among the
far-off hills of the Northwest. If she went to him he would no doubt
repulse her. She repeated this to herself resolutely, and in the act of
repeating it rose and dressed herself, without the assistance of her
maid, in a travelling dress, and put a few things in a travelling case.
Two voices, each trying to drown the other, shrieked within her, the one
representing the madness of going to Roger March, and the other dragging
her against her will. She rang for her carriage and then, sitting at
her desk, wrote a few lines to her father:
"I have heard that my husband is fatally ill. I am going to him,
although I lose most of what I have by it."
She rang for a footman, gave him the note, and directed him not to give
it to General Talbott unless she should not return in time for dinner.
The footman, wondering, carried the travelling bag down and put it in
the carriage. Alicia, as all human beings do when leaving their habitat
for the last time, walked through the rooms which, up to that time, had
been hers. They were exquisite in their beauty, luxury and comfort. In
her bedroom she looked about her, saying to herself:
"What madness is mine to jeopardise all of this, or rather to sacrifice
it! I remember so well how he looked when he told me that if I ever
attempted to see him I would sacrifice everything but a bare living, and
he is a man of his word."
But even as these thoughts went through her mind her feet bore her
unwillingly towards the door. As she entered her boudoir she came face
to face with Colegrove.
"Don't blame the flunkey," he said; "he tried to stop me, but I walked
past him, and he knew perfectly well that if he had laid a finger on me
I would knock him down. I saw your carriage at the door with luggage on
it. Where are you going?"
"To my husband," replied Alicia in a low voice.
Alicia had expected a strong protest, even that Colegrove would seek to
restrain her, but, on the contrary, he looked at her with a smile in his
keen eyes and said, as if answering a question:
"Yes, I have nothing to say against your going. If Roger March is
living you will lose every penny you have except a paltry thousand or so
a year; then what I can offer you will probably bring you to my arms.
Men who don't know me think I am greedy for money. So I am, but only to
buy with it things more precious than money. But I would be glad to see
you sacrifice all the money that Roger March gave you if it would bring
you to me with nothing but the clothes on your back."
Alicia had listened to him at first with a preoccupied air, but when his
meaning dawned upon her she turned towards him with a look which implied
that gratitude and respect for a man which every woman feels when he is
ready to sacrifice money for love.
"So you see," he continued in the same cool, unmoved voice, "I sha'n't
stop you; but I think, from what I hear, that you won't find Roger March
alive. Then remember I have a claim on you, and it sha'n't grow rusty
for want of urging. If you are ever my wife you needn't be afraid of
telling me of your debts, as you were afraid to tell Roger March and
General Talbott. I can live on five thousand a year, and the rest of
what I have is for you to spend, and when that is spent I can make more.
May I see you to your carriage?"
Alicia, like a sleep-walker, passed down the stairs with him. The
thought occurred to her that Colegrove's passion for her was like her
own early infatuation for Sir Percy Carlyon, a thing which, rightly
directed, might have reached the sublimest height of self-abnegation.
But in the unfamiliar mood which possessed her, body and soul, neither
Colegrove nor Sir Percy Carlyon seemed to matter. Her mind reverted to
Roger March and remained concentrated upon him. When she was in the
carriage Colegrove held out his hand and clasped Alicia's. She looked
at him with strange and puzzled eyes. If only he had tried to keep her
back; but, instead, he was rather urging her on upon the new path she
was now treading. The footman asked where she would be driven, and
Alicia replied mechanically:
"To the railway station."
In a little while, however, she remembered that she had not even an idea
of Roger March's address, and changing the order, she directed the
coachman to take her to Watson's offices. On the way she was saying to
herself:
"This is a dream; it is not possible that I should really go to my
husband; I will turn back at the station or somewhere upon the long
journey. This strange spirit will cease to trouble me; I shall be
myself again and will return."
Watson's offices were in a building not far from the railway station.
When Alicia March alighted from her carriage and went into his rooms,
the clerk, a soft-spoken young man, informed her that Mr. Watson was
out, but was expected to return at any moment. Alicia sat down in the
comfortable and well-furnished inner room, the walls covered with books,
and everything bespeaking the successful and methodical man of business.
She began to consider that Watson after all might refuse to give her
Roger March's address. At that moment her eye fell upon the table,
where lay Watson's address-book; in half-a-minute she had found Roger
March's address. She had no need to copy it--she could not have
forgotten it if she had tried. Then going back into the ante-room she
said politely to the clerk:
"I think I need not trouble Mr. Watson after all. Good-day."
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.