"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: