The Silent Barrier

“I shall lay my head on the nearest tree stump, and you can smite me with your ax, good and hard,” said Spencer.

She laughed angrily. “I don’t know what evil influence is possessing us,” she cried. “Everything is awry. Even the sun refuses to shine. Here am I storming at one to whom I owe my life – ”

“No,” he broke in decisively. “Don’t put it that way, because the whole credit of the relief expedition is due to Stampa. Say, Miss Wynton, may I square my small services by asking a favor?”

“Oh, yes, indeed.”

“Well, then, if it lies in your power, keep Stampa and Bower apart. In any event, don’t intervene in their quarrel.”

“So you are quite serious in your belief that there is a quarrel?”

The American saw again in his mind’s eye the scene in the crevasse when Bower had raised his ax to strike. “Quite serious,” he replied, and the gravity in his voice was so marked that Helen placed a contrite hand on his arm for an instant.

“Please, I am sorry if I was rude to you just now,” she said. “I have had a long day, and my nerves are worn to a fine edge. I used to flatter myself that I hadn’t any nerves; but they have come to the surface here. It must be the thin air.”

“Then it is a bad place for an American.”

“Ah, that reminds me of something I had forgotten. I meant to ask you how you came to remain in the Maloja. Is that too inquisitive on my part? I can account for the presence of the other Americans in the hotel. They belong to the Paris colony, and are interested in tennis and golf. I have not seen you playing either game. In fact, you moon about in solitary grandeur, like myself. And – oh, dear! what a string of questions! – is it true that you wanted to play baccarat with Mr. Bower for a thousand pounds?”

“It is true that I agreed to share a bank with Mr. Dunston, and the figure you mention was suggested; but I backed out of the proposition.”

“Why?”

“Because your friend, Mr. Hare, thought he was responsible, in a sense, having introduced me to Dunston; so I let up on the idea, – just to stop him from feeling bad about it.”

“You really meant to play in the first instance?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it was very wicked of you. Only the other day you were telling me how hard you had to work before you saved your first thousand pounds.”

“From that point of view my conduct was idiotic. But I would like to carry the story a little further, Miss Wynton. I was in a mood that night to oppose Mr. Bower for a much more valuable stake if the chance offered.”

“It is rather shocking,” said Helen.

“I suppose so. Of course, there are prizes in life that cannot be measured by monetary standards.”

He was not looking at the Orlegna now, and the girl by his side well knew it. The great revelation that flooded her soul with light while crossing the Forno came back with renewed power. She did not pretend to herself that the words were devoid of a hidden meaning, and her heart fluttered with subtle ecstasy. But she was proud and self reliant, so proud that she crushed the tumult in her breast, so self reliant that she was able to give him a timid smile.

“That deals with the second head of the indictment, then,” she said lightly. “Now for the first. Why did you select the Engadine for your holiday?”

“If I could tell you that, I should know something of the occult impulses that govern men’s lives. One minute I was in London, meaning to go north. The next I was hurrying to buy a ticket for St. Moritz.”

“But – ” She meant to continue, “you arrived here the same day as I did.” Somehow that did not sound quite the right thing to say. Her tongue tripped; but she forced herself to frame a sentence. “It is odd that you, like myself, should have hit upon an out of the way place like Maloja. The difference is that I was sent here, whereas you came of your own free will.”

“I guess you are right,” said he, laughing as though she had uttered an exquisite joke. “Yes, that is just it. I can imagine two young English swallows, meeting in Algeria in the winter, twittering explanations of the same sort.”

“I don’t feel a bit like a swallow, and I am sure I can’t twitter, and as for Algeria, a home of sunshine – well, just look at it!” She waved a hand at the darkening panorama of hills and pine woods, all etched in black lines and masses, where rocks and trees and houses broke the dead white of the snow mantle.

They happened to be crossing a bridge that spans the Orlegna before it takes its first frantic plunge towards Italy. Bower, who had quickened his pace, took the gesture as a signal, and sent an answering flourish. Helen stopped. He evidently wished to overtake them.

“More explanations,” murmured Spencer.

“But he was mistaken. I was calling Nature to witness that your simile was not justified.”

“Tell you what,” he said in a low voice, “if this storm has blown over by the morning, meet me after breakfast, and we will walk down the valley to Vicosoprano for luncheon. There is a diligence back in the afternoon. We can stroll there in three hours, and I shall have time to clear up this swallow proposition.”

“That will be delightful, if the weather improves.”

“It will. I will compel it.”

Bower was nearing them rapidly. A constrained silence fell between them. To end it, Helen cried:

“Well, are you feeling duly humbled, Mr. Bower?”

He did not seem to understand her meaning. Apparently, he might have forgotten that Stampa still lived. Then he roused his wits with an effort. “Not humbled, but elated,” he said. “Have I not led you to feats of derring-do? Why, the Wragg girls will be green with envy when they hear of your exploits.”

He swung round the corner to the bridge. After a smiling glance at Spencer’s impassive face, he turned to Helen. “You have come out of the ordeal with flying colors,” he said. “That flower you picked on the way up has not withered. Give it to me as a memento.”

The words were almost a challenge. The girl hesitated.

“No,” she said. “I must find you some other souvenir.”

“But I want that – if – ”

“There is no ‘if.’ You forget that I took it from – from the boulder marked by a cross.”

“I am not superstitious.”

“Nor am I. Nevertheless, I should not care to give you such a symbol.”

She caught Bower and Spencer exchanging a strange look. These men shared some secret that they sedulously kept from her. Perhaps the American meant to enlighten her during their projected walk to Vicosoprano.

Stampa and the others approached. Together they climbed the little hill leading to the summit of the pass. In the village they said “Good night” to the two guides and Karl.

Helen promised laughingly to make the acquaintance of Johann Klucker’s cat at the first opportunity. She was passing through a wicket that protects the footpath across the golf links, when she heard Stampa growl:

“Morgen früh!”

“Ja!” snapped Bower.

She smiled to herself at the thought that things were going to happen to-morrow. She was right. But she had not yet done with the present day. When she entered the cozy and brilliantly lighted veranda of the hotel, the first person her amazed eyes alighted upon was Millicent Jaques.

CHAPTER XI

WHEREIN HELEN LIVES A CROWDED HOUR

“Millicent! You here!” Helen breathed the words in an undertone that carried more than a hint of dismay.

It was one of those rare crises in life when the brain receives a presage of evil without any prior foundation of fact. Helen had every reason to welcome her friend, none to be chilled by her unexpected presence. Among a small circle of intimate acquaintances she counted Millicent Jaques the best and truest. They had drifted apart; but that was owing to Helen’s lack of means. She was not able, nor did she aspire, to mix in the society that hailed the actress as a bright particular star. Yet it meant much to a girl earning her daily bread in a heedless city that she should possess one friend of her own age and sex who could speak of the golden years when they were children together, – the years when Helen’s father was the prospective governor of an Indian province as large as France; when the tuft hunters now gathered in Maloja would have fawned on her mother in hope of subsequent recognition.

Why, then, did Helen falter in her greeting? Who can tell? She herself did not know, unless it was that Millicent rose so leisurely from the table at which she was drinking a belated cup of tea, and came toward her with a smile that had no warmth in it.

“So you have returned,” she said, “and with both cavaliers?”

Helen was conscious of a queer humming noise in her head. She was incapable of calm thought. She realized now that the friend she had left in London was here in the guise of a bitter enemy. The veranda was full of people waiting for the post. The snow had banished them from links and tennis court. This August afternoon was dark as mid-December at the same hour. But the rendezvous was brilliantly lighted, and the reappearance of the climbers, whose chances of safety had been eagerly debated since the snow storm began, drew all eyes. Someone had whispered too that the beautiful woman who arrived from St. Moritz half an hour earlier, who sat in her furs and sipped her tea after a long conversation with a clerk in the bureau, was none other than Millicent Jaques, the dancer, one of the leading lights of English musical comedy.

The peepers and whisperers little dreamed that she could be awaiting the party from the Forno. Now that her vigil was explained, for Bower had advanced with ready smile and outstretched hand, the Wraggs and Vavasours and de la Veres – all the little coterie of gossips and scandalmongers – were drawn to the center of the hall like steel filings to a magnet.

Millicent ignored Bower. She was young enough and pretty enough to feel sure of her ability to deal with him subsequently. Her cornflower blue eyes glittered. They held something of the quiet menace of a crevasse. She had traveled far for revenge, and she did not mean to forego it. Helen, whose second impulse was to kiss her affectionately, with excited clamor of welcome and inquiry, stood rooted to the floor by her friend’s strange words.

“I – I am so surprised – ” she half stammered in an agony of confused doubt; and that was the only lame phrase she could utter during a few trying seconds.

Bower frowned. He hated scenes between women. With his first glimpse of Millicent he guessed her errand. For Helen’s sake, in the presence of that rabbit-eared crowd, he would not brook the unmerited flood of sarcastic indignation which he knew was trembling on her lips.

“Miss Wynton has had an exhausting day,” he said coolly. “She must go straight to her room, and rest. You two can meet and talk after dinner.” Without further preamble, he took Helen’s arm.

Millicent barred the way. She did not give place. Again she paid no heed to the man. “I shall not detain you long,” she said, looking only at Helen, and speaking in a low clear voice that her stage training rendered audible throughout the large hall. “I only wished to assure myself that what I was told was true. I found it hard to believe, even when I saw your name written up in the hotel. Before I go, let me congratulate you on your conquest – and Mr. Mark Bower on his,” she added, with clever pretense of afterthought.

Helen continued to stare at her helplessly. Her lips quivered; but they uttered no sound. It was impossible to misunderstand Millicent’s object. She meant to wound and insult in the grossest way.

Bower dropped Helen’s arm, and strode close to the woman who had struck this shrewd blow at him. “I give you this one chance!” he muttered, while his eyes blazed into hers. “Go to your room, or sit down somewhere till I am free. I shall come to you, and put things straight that now seem crooked. You are wrong, horribly wrong, in your suspicions. Wait my explanation, or by all that I hold sacred, you will regret it to your dying hour!”

Millicent drew back a little. She conveyed the suggestion that his nearness was offensive to her nostrils. And she laughed, with due semblance of real amusement. “What! Has she made a fool of you too?” she cried bitingly.

Then Helen did exactly the thing she ought not to have done. She fainted.

Spencer, in his own vivid phrase, was “looking for trouble” the instant he caught sight of the actress. Had some Mahatma-devised magic lantern focused on the screen of his inner consciousness a complete narrative of the circumstances which conspired to bring Millicent Jaques to the Upper Engadine, he could not have mastered cause and effect more fully. The unlucky letter he asked Mackenzie to send to the Wellington Theater – the letter devised as a probe into Bower’s motives, but which was now cruelly searching its author’s heart – had undoubtedly supplied to a slighted woman the clew to her rival’s identity. Better posted than Bower in the true history of Helen’s visit to Switzerland, he did not fail to catch the most significant word in Millicent’s scornful greeting.

“And with both cavaliers!”

In all probability, she knew the whole ridiculous story, reading into it the meaning lent by jealous spleen, and no more to be convinced of error than the Forno glacier could be made to flow backward.

George de Courcy Vavasour happened to crane his neck nearer at the wrong moment. The American sent him flying with a vigorous elbow thrust. He shoved Bower aside with scant ceremony. Millicent Jaques met a steely glance that quelled the vengeful sparkle in her own eyes, and caused her to move quickly, lest, perchance, this pale-faced American should trample on her. Before Bower could recover his balance, for his hobnails caused him to slip on the tiled floor, Spencer was halfway across the inner hall, and approaching the elevator.

An official of the hotel hastened forward with ready proffer of help. “This way,” he said sympathetically. “The lady was overcome by the heat after so many hours in the intense cold. It often occurs. She will recover soon. Bring her to a chair in the office.”

But Spencer was not willing that Helen’s first wondering glance should rest on strangers, or that, when able to walk to her own apartments, she should be compelled to pass through the ranks of gapers in the lounge.

“No,” he said. “Ring for the elevator. This lady must be taken to her room, – No. 80, I believe, – then the manageress and a chambermaid can attend to her. Quick! the elevator!”

Bower turned on Millicent like an angry bull. “You have chosen your own method,” he growled. “Very well. You shall pay for it.”

Her venom was such that she was by no means disturbed by his threat. “The other man – the American who brought her here – seems to have bested you throughout,” she taunted him.

He drew himself up with a certain dignity. He was aware that every tongue in the place was stilled, that every ear was tuned to catch each note of this fantastic quartet, – a sonata appassionata in which vibrated the souls of men and women. He looked from Millicent’s pallid face to the faces of the listeners, some of whom made pretense of polite indifference, while others did not scruple to exhibit their eager delight. If nothing better, the episode would provide an abundance of spicy gossip during the enforced idleness caused by the weather.

“The lady whom you are endeavoring to malign, will, I hope, do me the honor of becoming my wife,” he said. “That being so, she is beyond the reach of the slanderous malice of an ex-chorus girl.”

He spoke slowly, with the air of a man who weighed his words. A thrill that could be felt ran through his intent audience. Mark Bower, the millionaire, the financial genius who dominated more than one powerful group in the city, who controlled a ring of theaters in London and the provinces, who had declined a knighthood, and would surely be created a peer with the next change of government, – that he should openly declare himself a suitor for the hand of a penniless girl was a sensation with a vengeance. His description of Millicent as an ex-chorus girl offered another bonne bouche to the crowd. She would never again skip airily behind the footlights of the Wellington, or any other important theater in England. So far as she was concerned, the musical comedy candle that succeeded to the sacred lamp of West End burlesque was snuffed out.

Millicent was actress enough not to flinch from the goad. “A charming and proper sentiment,” she cried with well simulated flippancy. “The marriage of Mr. Mark Bower will be quite a fashionable event, provided always that he secures the assent of the American gentleman who is paying his future wife’s expenses during her present holiday.”

Now, so curiously constituted is human nature, or the shallow worldliness that passes current for it among the homeless gadabouts who pose as British society on the Continent, that already the current of opinion in the hotel was setting steadily in Helen’s favor. The remarkable change dated from the moment of Bower’s public announcement of his matrimonial plans. Many of those present were regretting a lost opportunity. It was obvious to the meanest intelligence – and the worn phrase took a new vitality when applied to some among the company – that any kindness shown to Helen during the preceding fortnight would be repaid a hundredfold when she became Mrs. Mark Bower. Again, not even the bitterest of her critics could allege that she was flirting with the quiet mannered American who had just carried her off like a new Paris. She had lived in the same hotel for a whole week without speaking a word to him. If anything, she had shown favor only to Bower, and that in a way so decorous and discreet that more than one woman there was amazed by her careless handling of a promising situation. Just give one of them the chance of securing such a prize fish as this stalwart millionaire! Well, at least he should not miss the hook for lack of a bait.

Oddly enough, the Rev. Philip Hare gave voice to a general sentiment when he interfered in the duel. He, like others, was waiting for his letters. He saw Helen come in, and was hurrying to offer his congratulations on her escape from the storm, when the appearance of Millicent prevented him from speaking at once. The little man was hot with vexation at the scene that followed. He liked Helen; he was unutterably shocked by Millicent’s attack; and he resented the unfair and untrue construction that must be placed on her latest innuendo.

“As one who has made Miss Wynton’s acquaintance in this hotel,” he broke in vehemently, “I must protest most emphatically against the outrageous statement we have just heard. If I may say it, it is unworthy of the lady who is responsible for it. I know nothing of your quarrel, nor do I wish to figure in it; but I do declare, on my honor as a clergyman of the Church of England, that Miss Wynton’s conduct in Maloja has in no way lent itself to the inference one is compelled to draw from the words used.”

“Thank you, Mr. Hare,” said Bower quietly, and a subdued murmur of applause buzzed through the gathering.

There is a legend in Zermatt that Saint Theodule, patron of the Valais, wishing to reach Rome in a hurry, sought demoniac aid to surmount the impassable barrier of the Alps. Opening his window, he saw three devils dancing merrily on the housetops. He called them. “Which of you is the speediest?” he asked. “I,” said one, “I am swift as the wind.” – “Bah!” cried the second, “I can fly like a bullet.” – “These two talk idly,” said the third. “I am quick as the thought of a woman.” The worthy prelate chose the third. The hour being late, he bargained that he should be carried to Rome and back before cockcrow, the price for the service to be his saintly soul. The imp flew well, and returned to the valley of the Rhone long ere dawn. Joyous at his gain, he was about to bound over the wall of the episcopal city of Sion, when St. Theodule roared lustily, “Coq, chante! Que tu chantes! Ou que jamais plus tu ne chantes!” Every cock in Sion awoke at his voice, and raised such a din that the devil dropped a bell given to his saintship by the Holy Father, and Saint Theodule was snug and safe inside it.

The prelate was right in his choice of the third. The thoughts of two women took wings instantly. Mrs. de la Vere, throwing away a half-smoked cigarette, hurried out of the veranda. Millicent Jaques, whose carriage was ready for the long drive to St. Moritz, decided to remain in Maloja.

The outer door opened, with a rush of cold air and a whirl of snow. People expected the postman; but Stampa entered, – only Stampa, the broken survivor of the little band of guides who conquered the Matterhorn. He doffed his Alpine hat, and seemed to be embarrassed by the unusually large throng assembled in the passageway. Bower saw him, and strode away into the dimly lighted foyer.

“Pardon, ’sieurs et ’dames,” said Stampa, advancing with his uneven gait, a venerable and pathetic figure, the wreck of a giant, a man who had aged years in a single day. He went to the bureau, and asked permission to seek Herr Spencer in his room.

Helen was struggling back to consciousness when Mrs. de la Vere joined the kindly women who were loosening her bodice and chafing her hands and feet.

The first words the girl heard were in English. A woman’s voice was saying cheerfully, “There, my dear!” a simple formula of marvelous recuperative effect, – “there now! You are all right again. But your room is bitterly cold. Won’t you come into mine? It is quite near, and my stove has been alight all day.”

Helen, opening her eyes, found herself gazing up at Mrs. de la Vere. Real sympathy ranks high among good deeds. The girl’s lips quivered. Returning life brought with it tears.

The woman whom she had regarded as a social butterfly sat beside her on the bed and placed a friendly arm round her neck. “Don’t cry, you dear thing,” she cooed gently. “There is nothing to cry about. You are a bit overwrought, of course; but, as it happens, you have scored heavily off all of us – and not least off the creature who upset you. Now, do try and come with me. Here are your slippers. The corridor is empty. It is only a few steps.”

“Come with you?”

“Yes, you are shivering with the cold, and my room is gloriously warm.”

“But – ”

“There are no buts. Marie will bring a basin of nice hot soup. While you are drinking it she will set your stove going. I know exactly how you feel. The whole world is topsyturvy, and you don’t think there is a smile in your make-up, as that dear American man who carried you here would say.”

Helen recovered her senses with exceeding rapidity. Mrs. de la Vere was already leading her to the door.

“What! Mr. Spencer – did he – ”

“He did. Come, now. I shall tell you all the trying details when you are seated in my easy chair, and wrapped in the duckiest Shetland shawl that a red headed laird sent me last Christmas. Excellent! Of course you can walk! Isn’t every other woman in the hotel well aware how you got that lovely figure? Yes, in that chair. And here is the shawl. It’s just like being cuddled by a woolly lamb.”

Mrs. de la Vere turned the keys in two doors. “Reggie always knocks,” she explained; “but some inquisitive cat may follow me here, and I am sure you don’t wish to be gushed over now, after everybody has been so horrid to you.”

“You were not,” said Helen gratefully.

“Yes, I was, in a way. I hate most women; but I admired you ever since you took the conceit out of that giddy husband of mine. If I didn’t speak, it arose from sheer laziness – a sort of drifting with the stream, in tow of the General and that old mischief maker, Mrs. Vavasour. I’m sorry, and you will be quite justified to-morrow morning in sailing past me and the rest as though we were beetles.”

Then Helen laughed, feebly, it is true, but with a genuine mirth that chased away momentarily the evergrowing memory of Millicent’s injustice. “Why do you mention beetles?” she asked. “It is part of my every day work to classify them.”

Mrs. de la Vere was puzzled. “I believe you have said something very cutting,” she cried. “If you did, we deserve it. But please tell me the joke. I shall hand it on to the Wraggs.”

“There is no joke. I act as secretary to a German professor of entomology – insects, you know; he makes beetles a specialty.”

The other woman’s eye danced. “It is all very funny,” she said, “and I still have my doubts. Never mind. I want to atone for earlier shortcomings. I felt that someone really ought to tell you what took place in the outer foyer after you sank gracefully out of the act. Mr. Bower – ”