The Silent Barrier
picturesque turns and twists of the Colline des Artistes, returned in
time for tea, which was served on the veranda, the common rendezvous
of the hotel during daylight. No one spoke to her. She went out again,
and walked by the lake till the shadows fell and the mountains
glittered in purple and gold. She dressed herself in a simple white
evening frock, dined in solitary state, and ventured into the ball
room after dinner.
Georgie was dancing with Mrs. de la Vere, a languid looking woman who
seemed to be pining for admiration. At the conclusion of the waltz
that was going on when Helen entered, Vavasour brought his partner a
whisky and soda and a cigarette. He passed Helen twice, but ignored
her, and whirled one of the Wragg girls off into a polka. Again he
failed to see her when parties were being formed for a quadrille. Even
to herself she did not attempt to deny a feeling of annoyance, though
she extracted a bitter amusement from the knowledge that she had been
slighted by such a vapid creature.
She was under no misconception as to what had happened. The women were
making a dead set against her. If she had been plain or dowdy, they
might have been friendly enough. It was an unpardonable offense that
she should be good looking, unchaperoned, and not one of the queerly
assorted mixture they deemed their _monde_. For a few minutes she was
really angry. She realized that her only crime was poverty. Given a
little share of the wealth held by many of these passee matrons and
bold-eyed girls, she would be a reigning star among them, and could
act and talk as she liked. Yet her shyness and reserve would have been
her best credentials to any society that was constituted on a sounder
basis than a gathering of snobs. Among really well-born people she
would certainly have been received on an equal footing until some
valid reason for ostracism was forthcoming. The imported limpets on
this Swiss rock of gentility were not sure of their own grip. Hence,
they strenuously refused to make room for a newcomer until they were
shoved aside.
Poor, disillusioned Helen! When she went to church she prayed to the
good Lord to deliver her and everybody else from envy, hatred, and
malice, and all uncharitableness. She felt now that there might well
be added to the Litany a fresh petition which should include British
communities on the Continent in the list of avoidable evils.
At that instant the piquant face and figure of Millicent Jaques rose
before her mind's eye. She pictured to herself the cool effrontery
with which the actress would crush these waspish women by creating
a court of every eligible man in the place. It was not a healthy
thought, but it was the offspring of sheer vexation, and Helen
experienced her second temptation that day when de la Vere, the
irresistible "Reginald" of Mrs. Vavasour's sketchy reminiscences,
came and asked her to dance.
She recognized him at once. He sat with Mrs. de la Vere at table,
and never spoke to her unless it was strictly necessary. He had
distinguished manners, a pleasant voice, and a charming smile, and he
seemed to be the devoted slave of every pretty woman in the hotel
except his wife.
"Please pardon the informality," he said, with an affability that
cloaked the impertinence. "We are quite a family party at Maloja. I
hear you are staying here some weeks, and we are bound to get to know
each other sooner or later."
Helen could dance well. She was so mortified by the injustice meted
out to her that she almost accepted de la Vere's partnership on the
spur of the moment. But her soul rebelled against the man's covert
insolence, and she said quietly:
"No, thank you. I do not care to dance."
"May I sit here and talk?" he persisted.
"I am just going," she said, "and I think Mrs. de la Vere is looking
for you."
By happy chance the woman in question was standing alone in the center
of the ball room, obviously in quest of some man who would take her to
the foyer for a cigarette. Helen retreated with the honors of war; but
the irresistible one only laughed.
"That idiot Georgie told the truth, then," he admitted. "And she knows
what the other women are saying. What cats these dear creatures can
be, to be sure!"
Spencer happened to be an interested onlooker. Indeed, he was trying
to arrive at the best means of obtaining an introduction to Helen when
he saw de la Vere stroll leisurely up to her with the assured air of
one sated by conquest. The girl brushed close to him as he stood in
the passage. She held her head high and her eyes were sparkling. He
had not heard what was said; but de la Vere's discomfiture was so
patent that even his wife smiled as she sailed out on the arm of a
youthful purveyor of cigarettes.
Spencer longed for an opportunity to kick de la Vere; yet, in some
sense, he shared that redoubtable lady-killer's rebuff. He too was
wondering if the social life of a Swiss hotel would permit him to seek
a dance with Helen. Under existing conditions, it would provide quite
a humorous episode, he told himself, to strike up a friendship with
her. He could not imagine why she had adopted such an aloof attitude
toward all and sundry; but it was quite evident that she declined
anything in the guise of promiscuous acquaintance. And he, like her,
felt lonely. There were several Americans in the hotel, and he would
probably meet some of the men in the bar or smoking room after the
dance was ended. But he would have preferred a pleasant chat with
Helen that evening, and now she had gone to her room in a huff.
Then an inspiration came to him. "Guess I'll stir up Mackenzie to send
along an introduction," he said. "A telegram will fix things."
It was not quite so easy to explain matters in the curt language of
the wire, he found, and it savored of absurdity to amaze the
beer-drinking Scot with a long message. So he compromised between
desire and expediency by a letter.
"DEAR MR. MACKENZIE," he wrote, "life is not rapid at this
terminus. It might take on some new features if I had the
privilege of saying 'How de do' to Miss Wynton. Will you
oblige me by telling her that one of your best and newest
friends happens to be in the same hotel as her charming
self, and that if she gets him to sparkle, he (which is I)
will help considerable with copy for 'The Firefly.' Advise
me by same post, and the rest of the situation is up to
yours faithfully,
"C. K. S."
The letter was posted, and Spencer waited five tiresome days. He
saw little or nothing of Helen save at meals. Once he met her on a
footpath that runs through a wood by the side of the lake to the
little hamlet of Isola, and he was minded to raise his hat, as he
would have done to any other woman in the hotel whom he encountered
under similar circumstances; but she deliberately looked away, and his
intended courtesy must have passed unheeded.
As he sedulously avoided any semblance of dogging her footsteps, he
could not know how she was being persecuted by de la Vere, Vavasour,
and one or two other men of like habit. That knowledge was yet to
come. Consequently he deemed her altogether too prudish, and was so
out of patience with her that he and Stampa went off for a two days'
climb by way of the Muretto Pass to Chiareggio and back to Sils-Maria
over the Fex glacier.
Footsore and tired, but thoroughly converted to the marvels of the
high Alps, he reached the Kursaal side by side with the postman who
brought the chief English mail about six o'clock each evening.
He waited with an eager crowd of residents while the hall porter
sorted the letters. There were some for him from America, and one from
London in a handwriting that was strange to him. But he had quick
eyes, and he saw that a letter addressed to Miss Helen Wynton, in the
flamboyant envelope of "The Firefly," bore the same script.
Mackenzie had risen to the occasion. He even indulged in a classical
joke. "There is something in the name of Helen that attracts," he
said. "Were it not for the lady whose face drew a thousand ships to
Ilium, we should never have heard of Paris, or Troy, or the heel of
Achilles, and all these would be greatly missed."
"And I should never have heard of Mackenzie or Maloja," thought
Spencer, sinking into a chair and looking about to learn whether or
not the girl would find her letter before he went to dress for dinner.
He was sure she knew his name. Perhaps when she read the editor's
note, she too would search the spacious lounge with those fine eyes of
hers for the man described therein. If that were so, he meant to go to
her instantly, discuss the strangeness of the coincidence that led to
two of Mackenzie's friends being at the hotel at the same time, and
suggest that they should dine together.
The project seemed feasible, and it was decidedly pleasant in
perspective. He longed to compare notes with her,--to tell her the
quaint stories of the hills related to him by Stampa in a medley of
English, French, Italian, and German; perhaps to plan delightful trips
to the fairyland in company.
People began to clear away from the hall porter's table; yet Helen
remained invisible. He could hardly have missed her; but to make
certain he rose and glanced at the few remaining letters. Yes, "The
Firefly's" gaudy imprint still gleamed at him. He turned way,
disappointed. After his long tramp and a night in a weird Italian inn,
a bath was imperative, and the boom of the dressing gong was imminent.
He was crossing the hall toward the elevator when he heard her voice.
"I am so glad you are keen on an early climb," she was saying, with
a new note of confidence that stirred him strangely. "I have been
longing to leave the sign boards and footpaths far behind, but I felt
rather afraid of going to the Forno for the first time with a guide.
You see, I know nothing about mountaineering, and you can put me up to
all the dodges beforehand."
"Show you the ropes, in fact," agreed the man with her, Mark Bower.
Spencer was so completely taken by surprise that he could only stare
at the two as though they were ghosts. They had entered the hotel
together, and had apparently been out for a walk. Helen picked up her
letter and held it carelessly in her hand while she continued to talk
with Bower. Her pleasurable excitement was undeniable. She regarded
her companion as a friend, and was evidently overjoyed at his
presence. Spencer banged into the elevator, astonished the attendant
and two other occupants by the savagery of his command, "Au deuxieme,
vite!" and paced through a long corridor with noisy clatter of
hob-nailed boots.
He was in a rare fret and fume when he sat down to dinner alone. Bower
was at Helen's table. It was brightened by rare flowers not often seen
in sterile Maloja. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket by
his side. He had brought with him the atmosphere of London, of the
pleasant life that London offers to those who can buy her favors.
Truly this Helen, all unconsciously, had not only found the heel of a
modern Achilles, but was wounding him sorely. For now Spencer knew
that he wanted to see her frank eyes smiling into his as they were
smiling into Bower's, and, no matter what turn events took, a sinister
element had been thrust into a harmless idyl by this man's arrival.
CHAPTER VII
SOME SKIRMISHING
Later, the American saw the two sitting in the hall. They were
chatting with the freedom of old friends. Helen's animated face showed
that the subject of their talk was deeply interesting. She was telling
Bower of the slights inflicted on her by the other women; but Spencer
interpreted her intent manner as supplying sufficient proof of a
stronger emotion than mere friendliness. He was beginning to detest