XII
An exhaustive account of the causes leading up to my famous elopement with the cash capital would lead us far afield. If the man from Kokomo were here to cross-examine me, he would probably get it all out of me. But he is not. I shall, therefore, make no attempt to gain credit for the really noble and altruistic motives which animated me, and the reader will have to make his own diagnosis. He will probably decide that eight days of being called Fräulein and Mademoiselle had turned my matronly head and produced an Indian-summer florescence of the practical-joking age. Or he may explain my conduct as one of those occasional eccentric outbursts in usually well-disciplined characters, such as have been celebrated in a whole cycle of short stories of “The Revolt of Mother” and “Wild Oats of a Spinster” type. It really doesn’t matter. My shoulders are broad, and my reputation, I think, will stand the strain. At all events, I hope so.
It happened that on the day following the Gornergrat trip we resolved to take it easy. We slept late in the morning, had our lunch put up for us at the hotel and wandered out with it in the direction of the Staffel Alp, resolved not to go all the way unless we felt like it. Now, we had been living a pretty strenuous life, and relaxing the bent bow all at once was a little risky. We were in prime physical condition, and the masculine half of the party, not having wholly emerged from the colt stage, were distinctly feeling their oats. I don’t wish to go into horrid details, but when it came time for luncheon Belle Soeur and I found ourselves without any.
“I give you infants fair warning,” said I, “that if the bearer of the common purse should be pushed too far, she might take her doll rags and go home, and it might prove inconvenient.”
This threat referred to the fact that they had all given me their money to take care of at the beginning of the trip, I being the one who made the business arrangements and paid the bills and who was supposed to be least likely to leave it all under a pillow. But Frater replied jeeringly, “Oh, you can’t frighten me that way! I’ve got eight francs in my pocket!” And Antonio chimed in, “I’ve got six-fifty.”
“All right,” said I, “good-bye. Shall we go get some luncheon, Belle Soeur?”
As soon as we were out of hearing on the path back to Zermatt, we began to discuss what we should do. For one wild moment we considered the expediency of just disappearing—taking a train and going off somewhere and leaving the boys to settle the hotel bill with their fourteen francs fifty as best they could. We soon decided that this would be too low-down mean. So little by little we plotted the details of a modified disappearance, including the fairy story which was supposed to save our “face” and the boys’ at the hotel. We rushed in with an air of great haste. Would they show us the time-table? Would they get our bill ready? We had received word which made it necessary to curtail our visit and go home immediately. We could not even wait for the two gentlemen, who had gone on a long tramp and might not be back till late. We would leave a note of explanation for them, and they would doubtless take the first train. Yes, we would pay for all. It would make it easier for them if they had just time to catch a train. So we hustled our belongings into our knapsacks, and I wrote a letter to Frater saying we had decided to go to Leuk (on the hill) that evening by rail, that they could rejoin us there on foot the next day if they wished to, and that the second morning, if they had not appeared, we would continue over the Gemmi Pass and home according to program. I also mentioned that the hotel bill had been paid.
All this time we were momentarily expecting the arrival of the boys to make their peace. But they did not come.