"No, and he never will."
"I'm glad of that," she answered simply.
"But I'm not sure he won't come back. He didn't this morning, but he had
already half a mind to."
"That's your imagination," my companion said with her fine authority.
"If you knew what I told him you'd be sure."
"And you won't let me know?"
"Never, dear friend."
"And did he believe you?"
"Time will show--but I think so."
"And how did you make it plausible to him that you should take so
unnatural a course?"
For a moment she said nothing, only looking at me. Then at last: "I told
him the truth."
"The truth?"
"Take him away--take him away!" she broke out. "That's why I got rid of
Linda, to tell you you mustn't stay--you must leave Stresa to-morrow.
This time it's you who must do it. I can't fly from you again--it costs
too much!" And she smiled strangely.
"Don't be afraid; don't be afraid. We'll break camp again to-morrow--ah
me! But I want to go myself," I added. I took her hand in farewell, but
spoke again while I held it. "The way you put it, about Linda, was very
bad?"
"It was horrible."
I turned away--I felt indeed that I couldn't stay. She kept me from
going to the hotel, as I might meet Linda coming back, which I was far
from wishing to do, and showed me another way into the road. Then she
turned round to meet her daughter and spend the rest of the morning
there with her, spend it before the bright blue lake and the snowy
crests of the Alps. When I reached Stresa again I found my young man
had gone off to Milan--to see the cathedral, the servant said--leaving a
message for me to the effect that, as he shouldn't be back for a day or
two, though there were numerous trains, he had taken a few clothes. The
next day I received telegram-notice that he had determined to go on to
Venice and begged I would forward the rest of his luggage. "Please don't
come after me," this missive added; "I want to be alone; I shall do no
harm." That sounded pathetic to me, in the light of what I knew, and I
was glad to leave him to his own devices. He proceeded to Venice and I
re-crossed the Alps. For several weeks after this I expected to discover
that he had rejoined Mrs. Pallant; but when we met that November in
Paris I saw he had nothing to hide from me save indeed the secret of
what our extraordinary friend had said to him. This he concealed from
me then and has concealed ever since. He returned to America before
Christmas--when I felt the crisis over. I've never again seen the
wronger of my youth. About a year after our more recent adventure her
daughter Linda married, in London, a young Englishman the heir to a
large fortune, a fortune acquired by his father in some prosaic but
flourishing industry. Mrs. Gimingham's admired photographs--such is
Linda's present name--may be obtained from the principal stationers. I
am convinced her mother was sincere. My nephew has not even yet changed
his state, my sister at last thinks it high time. I put before her as
soon as I next saw her the incidents here recorded, and--such is the
inconsequence of women--nothing can exceed her reprobation of Louisa
Pallant.