THE WHIRL (continued 4)

Some of these stories related to Lady Carlyon's husband, but Lord Baudesert gave no hint of this. Lady Carlyon glanced out of the carriage window and saw that the splendid March house was occupied. A handsome carriage, with a pink and white footman and coachman to match exactly, was standing before the door, and at that moment Alicia March, accompanied by General Talbott, came out and entered the carriage. Lady Carlyon, whose eyes were quick, got a brief but complete view of her.

"She seems quite unchanged," said Lady Carlyon to Lord Baudesert, "and doesn't look a day older than when she left Washington."

"How keen you women are about this thing of looks," replied Lord Baudesert, his black eyes twinkling under his beetling brows.

"It is you who make us value our youth and looks so much," said Lady Carlyon in response, smiling and composed, though all the while her heart was beating with pain--pain for herself and for her husband.

"Mrs. March, I see, has brought Talbott with her, and Talbott's backing, I take it, is worth that of ten ordinary men with pistols in their pockets," was Lord Baudesert's next remark.

"Sir Percy can never forget his obligations to General Talbott," replied Lady Carlyon.

"And Alicia March won't let him forget them if he would." Then, catching sight of Mrs. Chantrey taking her constitutional, Lord Baudesert halted the carriage, scrambled out, and was soon promenading up and down Connecticut Avenue with that eternally hopeful lady, to her undisguised rapture. She lamented to Lord Baudesert Eleanor's hardness of heart toward the other sex, and Lord Baudesert was lauding the unexpected good sense of the three Vereker girls, each one of whom had married a curate, and could not expect to do any better.

Lady Carlyon, when she reached home, and was alone with her husband, told him of the new arrivals.

"You must prepare to meet them," she said resolutely, "and even to have them to dinner."

Sir Percy sighed heavily.

"What have I not brought upon you, my poor child?" he said.

"Nothing I cannot bear," responded Lady Carlyon.

Three days afterwards the expected happened--Alicia March and General Talbott called at the British Embassy. They came at an hour when they were sure to find the Carlyons at home. As Lady Carlyon had said, Mrs. March gave no outward sign of the stress and storm through which she must have passed. She and Lady Carlyon met and talked as do two women of the world who mutually hate and distrust each other, but who expect to meet at dinner. Mrs. March spoke pleasantly of her travels with her father. They had spent two winters in Egypt, and their summers cruising on the Dalmatian coast, but, after all, she said, Washington was the most agreeable place of all the winter resorts she had ever known, and she had determined to pass her winters there hereafter. She did not tell Lady Carlyon of the strange desire she felt to get back to the same orbit in which Sir Percy moved, nor of the equally strange inability she had to forget her husband. She had every reason to remain abroad, where the catastrophe of her Washington life was little known, and where the prestige of her father's name was greater and more general, but that strange instinct which makes a murderer return to the scene of his crime will always make a woman like Alicia March return to the scene of her adventures.

Lady Carlyon said to the General what she could not very well avoid saying, that she hoped he would soon come to dine with them, but named no date. It required all Sir Percy's self-control to prevent General Talbott from seeing how unwelcome his daughter was at the British Embassy. Nevertheless, this was accomplished, and after a longish visit General Talbott went away feeling that in Sir Percy and Lady Carlyon his poor Alicia had two staunch friends.

There was, however, no escape for the Carlyons for the dinner invitation to Alicia March with General Talbott, and a few days afterwards it was despatched and promptly accepted. Mrs. March's presence at the British Embassy did much to re-establish her, for there were many persons, especially in public life, who surmised the truth, and that Roger March was simply lying like a gentleman when he took the blame upon himself. The smart set, however, does not always keep labels on public men and things, and besides its members have short memories. Roger March's name was never mentioned by his wife or in her presence; Alicia March took up the attitude of an injured woman who bears in silence the defection of her husband; therefore, by the exercise of tact, courage and industry, knowing where to leave cards and where not, she found herself steadily regaining her former position in Washington society. When it was getting on best, however, it was suddenly retarded by the appearance of Colegrove, and his frequent visits to Mrs. March. Alicia knew the world too well not to understand the risk of any association with Colegrove. But Colegrove, himself, had impressed upon her at his first visit that she must assume the attitude of a perfectly innocent woman and not decline his visits. He had in him such power of coercing her that Alicia accepted his views, as most others did when brought into contact with him.

Alicia never saw him alone--she always had her father to act as sheepdog. When General Talbott was not at home Colegrove was always informed that Mrs. March asked to be excused. Colegrove took his rebuffs coolly, and continued to call during the visiting hours when he was likely to be seen at Mrs. March's door. He was in the act of pulling the bell on the day when Lady Carlyon called to leave cards on Mrs. March. Twice afterwards in the same week Lady Carlyon saw Colegrove evidently coming from Mrs. March's house, and she spoke of it to Sir Percy. The very next day came a dinner invitation from Alicia March asking Lady Carlyon to name an evening when she and Sir Percy could dine with Mrs. March and General Talbott. Sir Percy ground his teeth when Lady Carlyon was writing a conventional note of acceptance, naming a date some weeks ahead.

The week before the dinner a note came from Lady Carlyon saying that Sir Percy and herself were asked to the White House to meet a distinguished Englishman visiting the United States, and must, therefore, ask to be excused from Mrs. March's dinner. Alicia replied with an equally conventional note. A fortnight later she called at the Embassy, and with her sweetest voice and manner asked Lady Carlyon to name another date for dining with her. Again Lady Carlyon named a date. The morning of the dinner Sir Percy went into his wife's boudoir, and after standing silent for a while with an angry and sombre face, said to her:

"I can't have you dining with Alicia March. I always hated it, and I find that man Colegrove is at her house a great deal. You must have a headache, cold or something by which you can excuse yourself. I will go; I am not better than Alicia March, but you are ten thousand times better than she."

Usually Lady Carlyon could reason with her husband, but on this occasion he was quite intractable. Lady Carlyon therefore wrote a note of excuse and secluded herself for the day, alleging illness. Sir Percy went to the dinner, and found an odd conglomeration of guests, very much like that collected by the rich man in the Bible for his son's wedding. Alicia was perfectly conscious of the collection she had made, but bore herself with her usual dignity and outward composure. Even General Talbott, who had felt a secret uneasiness concerning Alicia's reception in Washington, was conscious that her dinner guests were of a somewhat mixed variety, and hinted as much to her the next day. He even mentioned that Colegrove's visits to the house might be misunderstood. Alicia was of the same opinion. Colegrove still possessed for her the interest a woman feels for a man who is deeply interested in her, and, besides, Colegrove was the only man she had ever known who understood her inability to make any income she might have meet her expenses. He never scolded her, but seemed to think her continual want of money an amiable weakness. Nevertheless Alicia, growing frightened at the changing attitude of society toward her, wrote a note to Colegrove imploring him not to come again to see her. In reply, Colegrove called to ask for an explanation. He caught Alicia just as she was entering the house. Without waiting for an invitation, he walked into the great drawing-room, where their last private interview had occurred, nearly three years before.

"Of course," said Alicia, when they were out of hearing, though not out of sight, "you are trying to compromise me."

"All is fair in love," replied Colegrove calmly; "you had better let me come openly, and ask me to dinner."

Alicia would make no promise, but when she was alone in her boudoir she reflected upon the strangeness of the American character. Two Americans loved her; one had made a stupendous sacrifice for her, and the other was pursuing her with an ingenuity of persistence, a handiness of resource, which was new and puzzling to her English mind. And then as women do who know how to think, she began to consider with a kind of sad wonder why she could not emancipate herself from the influence of Colegrove, and from that of Sir Percy Carlyon, and, what was strangest of all, from the memory of Roger March, and did not realise that men only have the art of forgetting.

"No woman, alas! forgets," she thought to herself, and, rising, went to her husband's rooms, and, closing the door after her, she walked about them aimlessly. Roger March had done her a fearful injury; such quixotism as his could benefit no one. She felt a deep resentment against him, but that was far from forgetting him. In the four years and a half of her life with Roger March there had been a continual sense of discomfort; his personality, agreeable though it was, seemed perpetually at war with her secret self. She had taken him as the necessary adjunct of his fortune, and she should have been glad to get rid of him, if only she could forget him. But she found herself continually thinking about him, wondering what kind of existence he led, and if he ever felt any regret as to what he had done. She had thought herself the coolest-headed and best-balanced of women, but she seemed, as she grew older, to be losing rather than gaining her self-possession.

Things had come to such a pass by the end of the season that Alicia was slipping back socially. One thing which she felt necessary for her to do, if she was to remain in Washington, was to have Lady Carlyon seen at her house. She could not for ever go on giving invitations which were cleverly evaded. The only thing was to seek Lady Carlyon and bring the matter to an issue. To do this it would be necessary to take Lady Carlyon unawares, for she would certainly excuse herself if Mrs. March called at the Embassy at an unusual time, and there would be no chance for her if she went at the customary visiting hour. Alicia therefore watched for her opportunity and determined to seize it anywhere and at any time. It came most unexpectedly.

One night she and General Talbott were at the theatre, and when the first act of the play was half over Sir Percy and Lady Carlyon appeared in an upper box alone. Sir Percy, after seating his wife comfortably, said a few words and went out, carrying his hat and great-coat. Lady Carlyon, sitting far back in the box, watched the play and was quite unobserved by any one in the audience except Alicia March. When General Talbott went out of the theatre after the curtain came down on the first act, Alicia, seeing the way clear before her, climbed the narrow stairs to the box and walked in on Lady Carlyon. Never did Lady Carlyon have a more unwelcome guest, or one with whom she less desired a private conversation. She greeted Alicia politely, however, and said:

"Sir Percy will return in a little while. He had an appointment for half-an-hour this evening, and brought me to the play to await him."

"I am very glad," replied Alicia in her sweetest voice, "that he is absent, because I wish to ask you a question of the most private nature."

Then she took a chair, and the two women, each perfect mistress of herself, began the duello. "It is," continued Alicia softly, "whether you have any real objection to entering my house?"

Lady Carlyon remained silent, and after a minute Alicia March spoke again:

"I see you have; I may as well speak frankly. As an Englishwoman, and strangely situated as I am, I can't expect any recognition if the British Ambassador, who is supposed to be one of my oldest acquaintances, and certainly my father's greatest friend, refuses to allow his wife, or his wife refuses, to come to my house. It is not much to ask."

"Sir Percy feels that it is a great deal to ask," replied Lady Carlyon, a faint colour appearing in her usually pale cheeks.

Their voices were so low that not a person, even those in the next box, could make out what they were saying. All over the theatre was the buzz of conversation, and the brilliant lights penetrated even the dim interior of the upper box.

"Sir Percy, then," said Alicia after a pause, "has told you all?"

Lady Carlyon inclined her head silently, her eyes lighting up with anger as she looked resolutely in Alicia March's calm face.

"Tell him from me, please," Alicia continued after a pause, while the two women steadily eyed each other, "that he may take his choice, either of sending you to my house or having that early story between us made known to certain persons in power. You know these Americans are a prudish people, and, ridiculous as it may seem, the fact of the relations between your husband and myself in our youth being made known, and the fact that he has been at my house and I have been to yours, would cause an intimation to him that he had better leave Washington. You may tell Sir Percy, also, that your absence from my house is perplexing and troubling to my father, and for that reason, if for no other, I mean that you shall come to my house, or Sir Percy's diplomatic career in Washington will be ended."

"Sir Percy is not a man to yield to threats," replied Sir Percy's wife. By this time her cheeks were crimson, but her voice was still composed.

"These are not threats, but promises. I grant you I could not do this except in Washington. I should be laughed at anywhere in Europe if I attempted to make known certain facts about Sir Percy's early life, and I could not do him the slightest harm, but you see these people are very different. Ambassadors have been quietly notified, before this, that their presence was not acceptable. The public are not taken into the confidence of the people in power, nevertheless Ambassadors are ruined. There will not be a public scandal; if there were my father would know it, and I believe that he would shoot himself. All that I promise will be done very quietly, but it will be done, if you and Sir Percy continue obstinate. I shall be at home all day to-morrow and shall expect Sir Percy to call to see me. Good-evening."

She rose and left the box, and as she passed through the narrow lobby outside she came face to face with Sir Percy Carlyon.

"I have just had an interview with Lady Carlyon," said Alicia March composedly, "and I shall expect to see you at my house some time to-morrow."

Sir Percy bowed in silence without showing the least surprise, and stepped into the box. Lady Carlyon had taken a chair well at the front of the box, and with her slender, shapely arm resting upon the ledge, was in full view of the house. Her face was quite calm, but a deep flush upon her usually pale cheeks showed Sir Percy that the interview between her and Alicia March had been of an unusual nature. Obeying an indication from his wife, Sir Percy sat also in full view of the audience and of Alicia March, once more among the audience. She had reached her seat before General Talbott's return, and he had no idea that she had left it during his absence.

"Look, my love!" he said, "there are the Carlyons. Lady Carlyon is looking remarkably handsome and animated to-night. I think I will go and speak with them during the next interval."

Alicia smiled, but said nothing. It would be an added torment to the Carlyons to have General Talbott with them.

When the curtain came down for the second time General Talbott, as good as his word, went to the Carlyons' box. Alicia, from below, saw him cordially received, and Lady Carlyon, all smiles and composure, talking with him. He left the box just before the curtain went up, and when the Carlyons were alone Sir Percy said to his wife:

"Would you like to leave the theatre now?"

"By no means," answered Lady Carlyon promptly; "we will remain through the play, and you must wait until then to know what has happened."

"You are a brave creature, my Lady Lucy," responded her husband.

The Carlyons were among the last people to leave the theatre, and when they were in their carriage Lady Carlyon told her husband what had happened. He heard it in silence and made no comment. Later, when they had reached home and were alone, Lady Carlyon would have spoken of it again, but Sir Percy stopped her.

"Not any more to-night," he said; "to-morrow will be time enough."

XIV

Next morning, although it was the beginning of spring, the snow was falling, and a biting northeast wind made the day look like one in December. Lady Carlyon was sitting in her morning-room with her two beautiful children at her knees when Sir Percy entered about twelve o'clock. Nothing is so beautiful and interesting as a young mother with her children, and Sir Percy, standing on the hearth-rug, paid his wife the tribute of admiration. She played with the children and danced about the room with them as if she were a child herself. Sir Percy was not surprised at her cheerfulness; he had ever found in her that admirable quality of courage and gaiety of heart in the presence of danger which is half the battle. It is commonly observed that this presence of danger produces in brave men a quickening of the intellect as well as an exhilaration of spirits, and it is equally true of brave women. Lady Carlyon was singularly fearless; her pride was up in arms. Alicia March had made claim to some part and lot in Sir Percy Carlyon's life, a claim which Lady Carlyon treated with fine scorn, and Alicia March had made threats and had assumed the power of disposing of Sir Percy Carlyon's career. This aroused in Lady Carlyon the spirit of defiance. These things brought smiles to her face, a new light to her eyes, and a haughtier carriage to her delicate head. Sir Percy knew well these signs. Presently, however, the children were sent away and the husband and wife were alone.

"I am going now to see Mrs. March," said Sir Percy coolly; "I think I may as well give up the fight. Alicia March is not the woman to make idle threats, and she can do precisely what she says she can. Besides, General Talbott has to be considered. It will be difficult to keep such an affair from him, and he is one of these mediæval men, something like March himself, of whom no one can predict anything when a question of his own or his daughter's honour is involved. I can quietly resign and go away. We shall have enough to live upon modestly, and in some quiet corner of England we can forget Alicia March, and live for each other and our children. It is a downfall for you, my Lady Lucy, and I am the one who has brought it upon you."

Lady Carlyon went up to him, laying her hand on his arm, and said with sparkling eyes:

"Give up the fight, do you mean, and let Mrs. March drive you from your position?"

"There is nothing else to be done," replied Sir Percy quietly. "Think for a moment; I can't make a fight without making it public. If I were alone I shouldn't care for the publicity, but you--not for twenty ambassadorships would I bring you into anything like this."

Lady Carlyon dropped her head upon his shoulder and burst into tears, which wrung his heart, but did not change his resolution. Half-an-hour afterwards he was ushered into Mrs. March's boudoir, where Alicia waited for him. Sir Percy refused the chair which she offered him and remained standing, hat in hand. Alicia March felt a sense of triumph which glowed in her eyes; Sir Percy had wearied of her and had scorned her, but in the end, when he had reached the height of his ambition, she had brought him to heel roundly after nearly nineteen years.

"Lady Carlyon gave me your message," he said, when the first cool greetings were exchanged. "You are quite able to do all that you have threatened. If I were alone I should make a fight, but for Lady Carlyon's sake I am willing to surrender. I shall require a few weeks to arrange matters and to give the Home Government a chance to appoint my successor, and then I shall leave the diplomatic service. That, I think, should satisfy you."

Alicia March remained silent, looking down. This then was her triumph! It was not really what she wanted. She had desired the greater triumph of having her way with Lady Carlyon. After a moment or two she spoke:

"It is a small thing for which you are giving up your diplomatic career--let me see, you are not forty-five. I ask only that your wife come to my house once in a season."

To this Sir Percy, with a cool smile, made answer:

"I would prefer to give up the ambassadorship and retire from the diplomatic service."

His contempt for her pierced Alicia March's soul, yet she began to have 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 négligée 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.