"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: