Part 44 (1/2)
”Little Pal,” I answered, and she visibly gathered courage.
”You know what a great blow I had, and how it made me very ill,” she went on. ”It was Molly Randolph who persuaded me that a complete change, and living in the open air--the open air of other countries where no one knew me or my troubles--would cure my heart, and mind, too.”
(Oh, what a Molly! What might she not do for this sad, bad, mad old world, if she would but set up for a specialist in the mind and heart line!)
”She didn't help me make the plan that--I finally carried out. You see, she had to be married, and whisked off to England, when she had half finished my cure. One night when I was lying awake, the thought came to me--of a thing I might do. It fascinated me. It wouldn't let me get away from it. At first, it was only a fantastic dream; but it took shape, and reality, till it was able to plead its own cause and argue its own advantages. A girl is handicapped. She can't have adventures; she must have a chaperon. A boy is free. Besides--I wanted to get away from men. As a boy, I could take Molly's advice, and travel, and be a regular gipsy if I liked.
”My hair had been cut short when I was ill. That made me feel as if the thing really was to be. One day I sent out and bought some--some clothes, ready made, and put them on. That settled it, for I was sure no one would ever know me, or the truth. One thing suggested another.
I thought of travelling with a caravan--then I changed my mind to donkeys, and that led to Innocentina. I'd gone out with her up into the mountains, donkey-back, every day from Mentone two years ago. She had talked to me about Aosta. Her mother's people came from there.
Always since, I had wanted to go. I wrote her. I began to make preparations for a long journey.”
”You got the bag!” I exclaimed.
”Oh, that bag! I should have _died_ if any English-speaking person had found it, and read my diary, which was to be used--partly--as notes for a book--if I should ever write it. I would have offered even a bigger reward, if you had let me. But I must go on:--they will come--Molly and Jack. I went out to Lucerne, where Innocentina joined me with the donkeys; but it wasn't till we were away in the wilds that--that the Boy appeared. I didn't mean to visit any very big towns afterwards, for it wasn't civilisation I wanted; but--you came into the story, and I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do--because of you, Man.”
”And I did lots of things I hadn't meant to do--because of you, Boy.”
”It was doing different things from what I planned that worked all the mischief. If we hadn't gone to Aix, we wouldn't have gone up Mont Revard; and if we hadn't gone up Mont Revard, the Prince wouldn't have had to vanish.”
”If he hadn't, would the Princess have appeared--for me? Or would she always have been pa.s.sing--pa.s.sing--I not dreaming of her presence, though she was by my side?”
”Who can tell? Each event in life seems to be propped up against all the others, like a tower of children's bricks. Anyway, we did go, and Something had sent up to the snowy top of that mountain in Savoie the very last man in the world--except one--I would have chosen to meet.
It was--_his_ brother--the younger brother of the man I had found out.
He wasn't sure of me, I could tell: for he had never seen me with my hair short; and I had got so thin, and my face so brown; but he suspected, and he is a gossiping sort of fellow. If he had had a chance to see me by daylight, he would have been sure, and then there would be some wild story flas.h.i.+ng all over America. That is why I ran away. But it hurt me to leave you like that, Man.”
”It cut off all my arms and legs, and my head, and left me only a trunk,” I murmured.
”I couldn't think what else to do; indeed, I could hardly think at all. But I knew Molly and Jack were going to Chambery to spend a day, and I thought I might catch them there, if I hurried. You see, Molly and I wrote to each other sometimes, though I never said a word about you. I didn't dream you'd knew them, until one day you announced things you'd said to Molly in a letter, which--which--well, things which would need a lot of explanation, too difficult for black and white.”
”By Jove!” I exclaimed. ”Now I know where I'd seen your handwriting before. It was in a letter which Molly dropped almost on my head, from a balcony at Martigny, and there was a photograph----”
”Oh, you didn't see it?”
”That's what Molly asked. I satisfied her that I hadn't.”
”Suppose you _had_--before you met me! But never mind. I did find them at Chambery. They'd just arrived, and I told Molly everything.”