"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 flashing 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."
"What did she say?"
"Oh, she just lent me some of her clothes, and said they"d take me with them in the automobile, out of danger"s way until we could decide on a plan. I bought the thing you call a "mushroom" in a shop, and we were starting off next morning when--you came along. Well----"
"Well?"
"Molly and Jack were in a very awkward position: for I had said to Molly that I felt I could never face you again--_never_, anyhow, as the Boy, and that _he_ had gone out of your life irrevocably. There I sat in the motor car, and there were you in the street. You can"t imagine how I felt. It would have been horrid for them--your best friends--to leave you stranded, and--_I_ didn"t want that either. I couldn"t help feeling there"d be a tremendous fascination in being so near you, with my face hidden, you not knowing, if only the strain of it needn"t last too long; and Molly just cut the Gordian knot of the sc.r.a.pe, as she always does. She a.s.sured me that being in the same car need commit me to _no_ decision as to what I would do in the end.
But--you remember how she drew you out, about your feeling for the Boy, how you missed him, and how you were going all the way down to Monte Carlo on the bare chance of his being there? Well, she meant me to hear every word, and I did. After that--after that--I--_couldn"t_ give you up. I don"t believe I could, anyway, when I"d straightened things out in my mind. I"d told you that you would never see the Boy again, and you never will; but Molly said that was no reason why you shouldn"t see the Boy"s sister. I wrote a note from him to you, for myself to bring to-night, and I thought--I hoped--you might perhaps believe----"
"You couldn"t have hoped it," I broke in. "Say that you came to give me back my Little Pal, whom you had stolen from me."
"It may be. I don"t know, myself. I couldn"t foresee what would happen. As I heard you say, about motoring down steep hills, I just hurled myself into s.p.a.ce, and trusted to Providence."
"Now I understand all that was mysterious in myself," I said. "My heart, not being such a fool as my head, was trying continually to telegraph the truth about the Little Pal to my brain, which couldn"t get the message right, as there was far too much electricity flying about in the atmosphere. Now I know why I loved the Boy so dearly, because he was you; because he was that Other Half which every man is always unconsciously looking for, round the world, and hardly ever finds."
"Oh, Man, do you really care--like that? Do you love me--love "for sure" this time?"
"Sure for this time, and for Eternity. There never really was, there never will be, any other woman in my life except you: for you are my Life and my World."
"You don"t hate me for my masquerade?"
"Hate you! I"ll prove to you whether I----"
"Why does your face look suddenly different, Man? Why do you stop?"
"Because--I"ve remembered something that I"d forgotten."
"What?"
"Your horrible money."
"Don"t you think I knew you"d forgotten? Oh, Man, the money would be horrible indeed, if you should let it come between us, but you won"t, will you? We belong to each other; your following me here proves it beyond doubt. I"ve known for weeks that I never truly cared for anyone else, for I love you, and can"t do without you."
"Then there"s nothing on earth that shall come between us. Money or no money, what does it matter, after all? Will you finish the journey of Life with me, my Little Pal--my Love?"
The star-eyes answered. And at that moment Molly and Jack came in.