When Dominick returned to consciousness he lay for a space looking directly in front of him, then moved his head and let his eyes sweep the walls. They were alien walls of white plaster, naked of all adornment¹. The light from a shaded lamp lay across one of them in a soft yet clear wash of yellow, so clear that he could see that the plaster was coarse.  
There were few pieces of furniture in the room, and all new to him. A bureau of the old-fashioned marble-topped kind stood against the wall opposite. The lamp that cast the yellow light was on this bureau; its globe, a translucent² gold reflection revealed in liquid clearness in the mirror just behind. It was not his own room nor Berny’s. He turned his head farther on the pillow very slowly, for he seemed sunk in an abyss of suffering and feebleness. On the table by the bed’s head was another lamp, a folded newspaper shutting its light from his face, and here his eyes stopped.
 
A woman was sitting by the foot of the bed,her head bent³ as if reading. He stared at her with even more intentness than he had at the room. The glow of the lamp on the bureau was behind her—he saw her against it without color or detail, like a shadow thrown on a sheet. Her outlines were sharply defined against the illumined stretch of plaster,—the arch of her head, which was broken by the coils of hair on top, her rather short neck, with some sort of collar binding⁴ it, the curve of her shoulders, rounded and broad, not the shoulders of a thin woman. He did not think she was his wife, but she might be, and he moved and said suddenly in a husky voice,
 
“What time is it?”
 
The woman started, laid her book down, and rose. She came forward and stood beside him, looking down, the filaments⁵ of hair round her head blurring⁶ the sharpness of its outline. He stared up at her, haggard and intent, and saw it was not his wife. It was a strange woman with a pleasant, smiling face. He felt immensely relieved and said with a hoarse⁷ carefulness of utterance⁸,
 
“What time did you say it is?”
 
“A few minutes past five,” she answered. “You’ve been asleep.”
 
“Have I?” he said, gazing immovably at her. “What day is it?”
 
“Thursday,” she replied. “You came here last night from Rocky Bar. Perhaps you don’t remember.”
 
“Rocky Bar!” he repeated vaguely⁹, groping through a haze¹⁰ of memory. “Was it only yesterday? Was it only yesterday I left San Francisco?”
 
“I don’t know when you left San Francisco—” the newspaper shade cracked and bent a little, letting a band of light fall across the pillow. She leaned down, arranging it with careful hands, looking from the light to him to see if it were correctly adjusted.
 
“Whenever you left San Francisco,” she said, “you got here last night. They brought you here, Perley and some other men in the sleigh. They found you in the road. You were half-frozen.”
 
He looked at her moving hands, then when they had satisfactorily arranged the shade and dropped to her sides, he looked at her face. Her eyes were soft and friendly and had a gentle, kind expression. He liked to look at them. The only woman’s eyes he had looked into lately had been full of wrathful lightenings. There seemed no need to be polite or do the things that people did when they were well and sitting talking in chairs, so he did not speak for what seemed to him a long time. Then he said,
 
“What is this place?”
 
“Antelope¹¹,” said the woman. “Perley’s Hotel at Antelope.”
 
“Oh, yes,” he answered with an air of weary recollection, “I was going to walk there from Rocky Bar, but the snow came down too hard, and the wind—you could hardly stand against it! It was a terrible pull. Perley’s Hotel at Antelope. Of course, I know all about it. I was here last summer for two weeks fishing.”
 
She stretched out her hand for a glass, across the top of which a book rested. He followed the movement with a mute fixity.
 
“This is your medicine,” she said, taking the book off the glass. “You were to take it at five but I didn’t like to wake you.”
 
She dipped a spoon into the glass and held it out to him. But the young man felt too ill to bother with medicine and, as the spoon touched his lips, he gave his head a slight jerk and the liquid was spilt on the counterpane. She looked at it for a rueful moment, then said, as if with gathering¹³ determination,
 
“But you must take it. I think perhaps I gave it wrong. I ought to have lifted you up. It’s easier that way,” and before he could answer she slipped her arm under his head and raised it, with the other hand setting the rim¹⁴ of the glass against his lips. He swallowed a mouthful and felt her arm sliding from behind his head. He had a hazy¹⁵ consciousness that a perfume came from her dress, and for the first time he wondered who she was. Wondering thus, his eyes again followed her hand putting back the glass, and watched it, white in the gush¹⁶ of lamplight, carefully replacing the book. Then she turned toward him with the same slight, soft smile.
 
“Who are you?” he said, keeping his hollowed eyes hard on her.
 
“I’m Rose Cannon¹⁷,” she answered. “Rose Cannon from San Francisco.”
 
“Oh, yes,” with a movement of comprehension, the name striking a chord of memory. “Rose Cannon from San Francisco, daughter of Bill Cannon. Of course I know.”
 
He was silent again, overwhelmed by indifference¹⁸ and lassitude. She made a step backward from the bedside. Her dress rustled¹⁹ and the same faint perfume he had noticed came delicately to him. He turned his head away from her and said dryly and without interest,
 
“I thought it was some one else.”
 
The words seemed to arrest her. She came back and stood close beside him. Looking up he could see her head against the light that ran up from the shaded lamps along the ceiling. She bent down and said, speaking slowly and clearly as though to a child,
 
“The storm has broken the wires but as soon as they are up, papa will send your mother word, so you needn’t worry about that. But we don’t either of us know your wife’s address. If you could tell us——”
 
She stopped. He had begun to frown and then shut his eyes with an expression of weariness.
 
“That doesn’t matter,” he said. “Don’t bother about it. Let her alone.”
 
Again there was one of those pauses which seemed to him so long. He gave a sigh and moved restlessly, and she said,
 
“Are your feet very painful?”
 
“Yes, pretty bad,” he answered. “What’s the matter with them?”
 
“They were frost-bitten, one partly frozen.”
 
“Oh—” he did not seem profoundly interested. It was as if they were some one else’s feet, only they hurt violently enough to obtrude²¹ themselves upon his attention. “Thank you very much,” he added. “I’ll be all right to-morrow.”
 
He felt very tired and heard, as in a dream, the rustle²⁰ of her dress as she moved again. She said something about “supper” and “Mrs. Perley coming,” and the dark, enveloping²² sense of stupor²³ from which he had come to life closed on him again.
 
Some time later on he emerged from it and saw another woman, stout²⁴ and matronly, with sleekly-parted hair, and an apron²⁵ girt about her. He asked her, too, who she was, for the fear that he might wake and find his wife by his bedside mingled²⁶ with the pain of his feet, to torment²⁷ him and break the vast, dead restfulness of the torpor²⁸ in which he lay.
 
It broke into gleams of interest and returning consciousness during the next two days. He experienced an acuter sense of illness and pain, the burning anguish²⁹ of his feet and fevered misery³⁰ of his body, bitten through with cold, brought him back to a realization³¹ of his own identity. He heard the doctor murmuring in the corner of “threatened pneumonia³²” and understood that he was the object threatened. He began to know and separate the strange faces that seemed continually to be bending over him, asking him how he felt. There was the doctor, Perley, Bill Cannon, and the old judge and three different women, whom he had some difficulty in keeping from merging³³ into one composite being who was sometimes “Miss Cannon,” and sometimes “Mrs. Perley,” and then again “Cora.”
 
When on the fourth day the doctor told him that he thought he would “pull through” with no worse ailment³⁴ than a frozen foot, he had regained³⁵ enough of his original vigor³⁶ and impatience³⁷ under restraint to express a determination to rise and “go on.” He was in pain, mental and physical, and the ministrations and attentions of the satellites that so persistently³⁸ revolved³⁹ round his bed rasped him into irritable⁴⁰ moodiness⁴¹. He did not know that all Antelope was waiting for the latest bulletins from Mrs. Perley or Cora. The glamour⁴² attaching to his sensational⁴³ entry into their midst had been intensified⁴⁴ by the stories of the wealth and position that had been his till he had married a poor girl, contrary to his mother’s wishes. He was talked of in the bar, discussed in the kitchen, and Cora dreamed of him at night. The very name of Ryan carried its weight, and Antelope, a broken congeries of white roofs and black smoke-stacks emerging from giant drifts, throbbed⁴⁵ with pride at the thought that the two greatest names of California finance were snow-bound in Perley’s Hotel.
 
The doctor laughed at his desire to “move on.” The storm was still raging and Antelope was as completely cut off from the rest of the world as if it were an uncharted island in the unknown reaches of the Pacific. Propping⁴⁶ the invalid⁴⁷ up among his pillows he drew back the curtain and let him look out through a frost-painted pane¹² on a world all sweeping⁴⁸ lines and skurrying eddies⁴⁹ of white. The drifts curled crisp edges over the angles of roofs, like the lips of breaking waves. The glimpse of the little town that the window afforded showed it cowering⁵⁰ under a snow blanket, almost lost to sight in its folds.
 
“Even if your feet were all right, you’re tied here for two weeks anyway,” said the doctor, dropping the curtain. “It’s the biggest storm I ever saw, and there’s an old timer that hangs round the bar who says it’s as bad as the one that caught the Donner party in forty-six.”
 
The next day it stopped and the world lay gleaming and still under a frosty crust. The sky was a cold, sullen⁵¹ gray, brooding and cloud-hung, and the roofs and tree-tops stood out against it as though executed in thick white enamel⁵². The drifts lay in suave⁵³ curves, softly undulating like the outlines of a woman’s body, sometimes sweeping smoothly⁵⁴ up to second stories, here and there curdled⁵⁵ into an eddy⁵⁶, frozen as it twisted. A miner came in from an outlying camp on skees and reported the cold as intense, the air clear as crystal and perfectly⁵⁷ still. On the path as he came numerous fir boughs⁵⁸ had broken under the weight of snow, with reports like pistol shots. There was a rumor⁵⁹ that men, short of provisions, were snowed up at the Yaller Dog mine just beyond the shoulder of the mountain. This gave rise to much consultation⁶⁰ and loud talking in the bar, and the lower floor of Perley’s was as full of people, noise and stir, as though a party were in progress.
 
That afternoon Dominick, clothed in an old bath-robe of the doctor’s, his swathed feet hidden under a red rug drawn⁶¹ from Mrs. Perley’s stores, was promoted to an easy chair by the window. The doctor, who had helped him dress, having disposed the rug over his knees and tucked a pillow behind his back, stood off and looked critically at the effect.
 
“I’ve got to have you look your best,” he said, “and you’ve got to act your prettiest this afternoon. The young lady’s coming in to take care of you while I go my rounds.”
 
“Young lady!” exclaimed Dominick in a tone that indicated anything but pleasurable anticipation⁶². “What young lady?”
 
“Our young lady,” answered the doctor. “Miss Cannon, the Young Lady of Perley’s Hotel. Don’t you know that that’s the nicest girl in the world? Maybe you don’t, but that’s because your powers of appreciation⁶³ have been dormant⁶⁴ for the last few days. The people here were most scared to death of her at first. They didn’t know how she was going to get along, used to the finest, the way she’s always been. But, bless your heart, she’s less trouble than anybody in the place. There’s twelve extra people eating here, besides you to be looked after, and Mrs. Perley and Cora are pretty near run to death trying to do it. Miss Cannon wanted to turn in and help them. They wouldn’t have it, but they had to let her do her turn here taking care of you.”
 
“It’s very kind of her,” said the invalid without enthusiasm. “I noticed her here several times.”
 
“And as easy as an old shoe,” said the doctor. “Just as nice to Perley’s boy, who’s a waif that the Perleys picked up in the streets of Stockton, as if he was the Prince of Wales. I tell you heredity’s a queer thing. How did Bill Cannon come to have a girl like that? Of course there’s the mother to take into account, but—”
 
A knock on the door interrupted him. To his cry of “Come in,” Rose entered, a white shawl over her shoulders, a book in her hand. While she and Dominick were exchanging greetings, the doctor began thrusting his medicines into his bag, alleging⁶⁵ the necessity of an immediate⁶⁶ departure, as two cases of bronchitis and three of pneumonia awaited him.
 
“You didn’t know there were that many people in Antelope,” he said as he snapped the clasp of the bag and picked up his hat. “Well, I’ll swear to it, even if it does seem the prejudiced estimate of an old inhabitant. So long. I’ll be back by five and I hope to hear a good report from the nurse.”
 
The door closed behind him and Dominick and the young girl were left looking rather blankly at each other. It was the first time he had seen her when he had not been presented to her observation as a prostrate⁶⁷ and fever-stricken sufferer of whom nothing was expected but a docile⁶⁸ attitude in the matter of medicines. Now he felt the subjugating⁶⁹ power of clothes. It did not seem possible that the doctor’s bath-robe and Mrs. Perley’s red rug could cast such a blighting⁷⁰ weight of constraint⁷¹ and consciousness upon him. But with the donning of them his invalid irresponsibility seemed gone for ever. He had a hunted, helpless feeling that he ought to talk to this young woman as gentlemen did who were not burdened by the pain of frozen feet and marital⁷² troubles. Moreover, he felt the annoyance⁷³ of being thus thrust upon the care of a lady whom he hardly knew.
 
“I’m very sorry that they bothered you this way,” he said awkwardly. “I—I—don’t think I need any one with me. I’m quite comfortable here by myself,” and then he stopped, conscious of the ungraciousness of his words, and reddening uncomfortably.
 
“I dare say you don’t want me here,” said Rose with an air of meekness⁷⁴ which had the effect of being assumed. “But you really have been too sick to be left alone. Besides, there’s your medicine, you must take that regularly.”
 
The invalid gave an indifferent cast of his eye toward the glass on the bureau, guarded by the familiar book and spoon. Then he looked back at her. She was regarding him deprecatingly.
 
“Couldn’t I take it myself?” he said.
 
“I don’t think I’d trust you,” she answered.
 
His sunken glance was held by hers, and he saw, under the deprecation of her look, humor struggling to keep itself in seemly suppression. He was faintly surprised. There did not seem to him anything comic in the fact of her distrust. But as he looked at her he saw the humor rising past control. She dropped her eyes to hide it and bit her under lip. This did strike him as funny and a slow grin broke the melancholy⁷⁵ of his face. She stole a stealthy look at him, her gravity vanished at the first glimpse of the grin, and she[76] began to laugh, holding her head down and making the stifled⁷⁶, chuckling⁷⁷ sounds of controlled mirth suddenly liberated⁷⁸. He was amused and a little puzzled and, with his grin more pronounced than before, said,
 
“What are you laughing at?”
 
She lifted her head and looked at him with eyes narrowed to slits⁷⁹, murmuring,
 
“You, trying to get rid of me and being so polite and helpless. It’s too pathetic for words.”
 
“If it’s pathetic, why do you laugh?” he said, laughing himself, he did not know why.
 
She made no immediate reply and he looked at her, languidly interested and admiring. For the first time he realized that she was a pretty girl, with her glistening⁸⁰ coils of blond hair and a pearl-white skin, just now suffused⁸¹ with pink.
 
“Why did you think I wanted to get rid of you?” he asked.
 
“You’ve almost said so,” she answered. “And then—well, I can see you do.”
 
“How? What have I done that you’ve seen?”
 
“Not any especial thing, but—I think you do.”
 
He felt too weak and indifferent to tell polite falsehoods. Leaning his head on the pillow that stood up at his back, he said,
 
“Perhaps I did at first. But now I’m glad you came.”
 
She smiled indulgently at him as though he were a sick child.
 
“I should think you wouldn’t have wanted me. You must be so tired of people coming in and out. Those days when you were so bad the doctor had the greatest difficulty in keeping men out who didn’t know you and had never seen you. Everybody in the hotel wanted to crowd in.”
 
“What did they want to do that for?”
 
“To see you. We were the sensation of Antelope first. But then you came and put us completely in the shade. Antelope hasn’t had such an excitement as your appearance since the death of Jim Granger, whose picture is down stairs in the parlor⁸² and who comes from here.”
 
“I don’t see why I should be an excitement. When I was up here fishing last summer nobody was in the least excited.”
 
“It was the way you came—half-dead out of the night as if the sea had thrown you up. Then everybody wanted to know why you did it, why you, a Californian, attempted such a dangerous thing.”
 
“There wasn’t anything so desperately⁸³ dangerous about it,” he said, almost in a tone of sulky protest.
 
“The men down stairs seemed to think so. They say nobody could have got up here in such a storm.”
 
“Oh, rubbish! Besides, it wasn’t storming when I left Rocky Bar. It was gray and threatening, but there wasn’t a flake⁸⁴ falling. The first snow came down when I was passing the Silver Crescent. It came very fast after that.”
 
“Why did you do it—attempt to walk such a distance in such uncertain weather?”
 
Dominick smoothed the rug over his knees. His face, looking down, had a curious expression of cold, enforced patience.
 
“I was tired,” he said slowly. “I’d worked too hard and I thought the mountains would do me good. I can get time off at the bank when I want and I thought I’d take a holiday and come up here where I was last summer. I knew the place and liked the hotel. I wanted to get a good way off, out of the city and away from my work. As for walking up here that afternoon—I’m very strong and I never thought for a moment such a blizzard⁸⁵ was coming down.”
 
He lifted his head and turned toward the window, then raising one hand rubbed it across his forehead and eyes. There was something in the gesture that silenced the young girl. She thought he felt tired and had been talking too much and she was guiltily conscious of her laughter and loquacity⁸⁶.
 
They sat without speaking for some moments. Dominick made no attempt to break the silence when she moved noiselessly to the stove and pushed in more wood. His face was turned from her and she thought he had fallen asleep when he suddenly moved and said,
 
“Isn’t it strange that I have never met you before?”
 
She was relieved. His tone showed neither feebleness nor fatigue⁸⁷, in fact it had the fresh alertness of a return to congenial topics. She determined⁸⁸, however, to be less talkative, less encouraging to the weakening exertions⁸⁹ of general conversation. So she spoke⁹¹ with demure⁹² brevity.
 
“Yes, very. But you were at college for four years, and the year you came back I was in Europe.”
 
He looked at her ruminatingly, and nodded.
 
“But I’ve seen you,” he said, “at the theater. I was too sick at first to recognize you, but afterward⁹³ I knew I’d seen you, with your father and your brother Gene⁹⁰.”
 
It was her turn to nod. She thought it best to say nothing, and waited. But his eyes bent inquiringly upon her, and the waiting silence seemed to demand a comment. She made the first one that occurred to her:
 
“Whom were you with?”
 
“My wife,” said the young man.
 
Rose felt that an indefinite silence would have been better than this. All she knew of Dominick Ryan’s wife was that she was a person who had not been respectable and whose union with Dominick had estranged⁹⁴ him from his people. Certainly, whatever else she was, young Mrs. Ryan was not calculated to be an agreeable subject of converse⁹⁵ with the man who in marrying her had sacrificed wealth, family, and friends. The doctor’s chief injunction to Rose had been to keep the invalid in a state of tranquillity⁹⁶. Oppressed by a heavy sense of failure she felt that nursing was not her forte⁹⁷.
 
She murmured a vague sentence of comment and this time determined not to speak, no matter how embarrassing the pause became. She even thought of taking up her book and was about to stretch her hand for it, when he said,
 
“But it seems so queer when our parents have been friends for years, and I know Gene, and you know my sister Cornelia so well.”
 
She drew her hand back and leaned forward, frowning and staring in front of her, as she sent her memory backward groping for data.
 
“Well, you see a sort of series of events prevented it. When we were little our parents lived in different places. Ages ago when we first came down from Virginia City you were living somewhere else, in Sacramento, wasn’t it? Then you were at school, and after that you went East to college for four years, and when you got back from college I was in Europe. And when I came back from Europe—that’s over two years ago now—why then——”
 
She had again brought up against his marriage, this time with a shock that was of a somewhat shattering nature.
 
“Why, then,” she repeated falteringly⁹⁸, realizing where she was—“why, then—let’s see—?”
 
“Then I had married,” he said quietly.
 
“Oh, yes, of course,” she assented⁹⁹, trying to impart a suggestion of sudden innocent remembrance to her tone. “You had married. Why, of course.”
 
He vouchsafed¹⁰⁰ no reply. She was distressed¹⁰¹ and mortified¹⁰², her face red with anger at her own stupidity. In her embarrassment¹⁰³ she looked down, smoothing her lace cuffs¹⁰⁴, and waiting for him to say something as he had done before. But this time he made no attempt to resume the conversation. Stealing a sidelong glance at him she saw that he had turned to the window and was gazing out. There was an expression of brooding gloom on his profile, his eyebrows¹⁰⁵ drawn low, his lips close set. She judged rightly that he did not intend to speak again, and she took up her book and opened it.
 
Half an hour later, rising to give him his medicine, she saw that he had fallen asleep. She was at his side before she discovered it, thinking his eyes were drooped¹⁰⁶ in thought. Standing¹⁰⁷ with the glass in her hand she looked at him with something of a child’s shrinking curiosity and a woman’s pity for a strong creature weakened and brought low. The light in the room was growing gray and in it she saw his face, with the shadows in its hollows, looking thin and haggard in the abandonment of sleep. For the first time, seeing him clothed and upright, she realized that he was a personable man, a splendid man, and also for the first time she thought of him outside this room and this house, and a sort of proud resentment¹⁰⁸ stirred in her at the memory of the marriage he had made—the marriage with the woman who was not good.
 
An hour later when the doctor came back she was kneeling on the floor by the open stove door, softly building up the fire. From the orifice—a circle of brilliance¹⁰⁹ in the dim room—a red glow painted her serious, down-bent face with a hectic¹¹⁰ color, and touched with a bright, palpitating glaze¹¹¹ the curves of her figure. At the sound of the opening door she looked up quickly, and, her hands being occupied, gave a silencing jerk of her head toward the sleeping man.
 
The doctor looked at them both. The scene was like a picture of some primitive¹¹² domestic interior where youth and beauty had made a nest, warmed by that symbol of life, a fire, which one replenished¹¹³ while the other slept.