The Silent Barrier
Bower.
It was his habit to decide quickly when two ways opened before him.
He soon settled his course now. To remain in the hotel under present
conditions involved a loss of self respect, he thought. He went to the
bureau, asked for his account, and ordered a carriage to St. Moritz
for the morrow's fast train to England.
The manager was politely regretful. "You are leaving us at the wrong
time, sir," he said. "Within the next few days we ought to have a
midsummer storm, when even the lower hills will be covered with snow.
Then, we usually enjoy a long spell of magnificent weather."
"Sorry," said Spencer. "I like the scramble up there," and he nodded
in the direction of the Bernina range, "and old Stampa is a gem of a
guide; but I can hardly put off any longer some business that needs
attention in England. Anyhow, I shall come back, perhaps next month.
Stampa says it is all right here in September."
"Our best month, I assure you, and the ideal time to drop down into
Italy when you are tired of the mountains."
"I must let it go at that. I intend to fix Stampa so that he can
remain here till the end of the season. So you see I mean to return."
"He was very fortunate in meeting you, Mr. Spencer," said the manager
warmly.
"Well, it is time he had a slice of luck. I've taken a fancy to the
old fellow. One night, in the Forno hut, he told me something of his
story. I guess it will please him to stop at the Maloja for awhile."
"He told you about his daughter?" came the tentative question.
"Not all. I am afraid there was no difficulty in filling in the
blanks. I heard enough to make me respect him and sympathize with his
troubles."
The manager shook his head, with the air of one who recalls that
which he would willingly have forgotten. "Such incidents are rare
in Switzerland," he said. "I well remember the sensation her death
created. She was such a pretty girl. The young men at Pontresina
called her 'The Edelweiss' because she was so inaccessible. In fact,
poor Stampa had educated her beyond her station, and that is not
always good for a woman, especially in these quiet valleys, where
knowledge of cattle and garden produce is a better asset than speaking
French and playing the piano."
Spencer agreed. He could name other districts where the same rule held
good. He stood for a moment in the spacious hall to light a cigar.
Involuntarily he glanced at Helen. She met his gaze, and said
something to Bower that caused the latter also to turn and look.
"She has read Mackenzie's letter," thought Spencer, taking refuge
behind a cloud of smoke. "It will be bad behavior on my part to leave
the hotel without making my bow. Shall I go to her now, or wait till
morning?"
He reflected that Helen might be out early next day. If he presented
his introduction at once, she would probably ask him to sit with her a
little while, and then he must become acquainted with Bower. He
disliked the notion; but he saw no way out of it, unless indeed Helen
treated him with the chilling abruptness she meted out to other men in
the hotel who tried to become friendly with her. He was weighing the
pros and cons dispassionately, when the English chaplain approached.
"Do you play bridge, Mr. Spencer?" he asked.
"I know the leads, and call 'without' on the least provocation," was
the reply.
"You are the very man I am searching for, and I have the authority of
the First Book of Samuel in my quest."
"Well, now, that is the last place in which I should expect to find my
bridge portrait."
"Don't you remember how Saul's servants asked his permission to 'seek
out a man who is a cunning player'? That is exactly what I am doing.
Come to the smoking room. There are two other men there, and one is a
fellow countryman of yours."
The Rev. Mr. Hare was a genial soul, a Somersetshire vicar who took
his annual holiday by accepting a temporary position in some Alpine
village where there was an English church. He did not dream that he
was acting the part of Hermes, messenger of the gods, at that moment,
for indeed his appearance on the scene just then changed the whole
trend of Spencer's actions.
"What a delightful place this is!" he went on as they walked together
through a long corridor. "But what is the matter with the people? They
don't mix. I would not have believed that there were so many prigs in
the British Isles."
Some such candid opinion had occurred to Spencer; but, being an
American, he thought that perhaps he might be mistaken. "The English
character is somewhat adaptable to environment, I have heard. That is
why you send out such excellent colonists," he said.
"Doesn't that go rather to prove that everybody here should be hail
fellow well met?"
"Not at all. They take their pose from the Alps,--snow, glaciers, hard
rock, you know,--that is the subtlety of it."
The vicar laughed. "You have given me a new point of view," he said.
"Some of them are slippery customers too. Yes, one might carry the
parallel a long way. But here we are. Now, mind you cut me as a
partner. I have tried the others, and found them severely critical--as
bridge players. You look a stoic."
The vicar had his wish. Spencer and he opposed a man from Pittsburg,
named Holt, and Dunston, an Englishman.
While the latter was shuffling the cards for Hare's deal he said
something that took one, at least, of his hearers by surprise. "Bower
has turned up, I see. What has brought him to the Engadine at this
time of year I can't guess, unless perhaps he is interested in a
pretty face."
"At this time of the year," repeated Spencer. "Isn't this the season?"
"Not for him. He used to be a famous climber; but he has given it up
since he waxed fat and prosperous. I have met him once or twice at
St. Moritz in the winter. Otherwise, he usually shows up in the
fashionable resorts in August,--Ostend, or Trouville, or, if he is
livery, Vichy or Aix-les-Bains,--anywhere but this quiet spot.
Bower likes excitement too. He often opens a thousand pound bank at
baccarat, whereas people are shocked in Maloja at seeing Hare play
bridge at tenpence a hundred."
"I leave it, partner," broke in the vicar, to whom the game was the
thing.
"No trumps," said Spencer, without giving the least heed to his cards.
It was true his eyes were resting on the ace, king, and queen of
spades; but his mind was tortured by the belief that by his fantastic
conceit in sending Helen to this Alpine fastness he had delivered her
bound to the vultures.
"Double no trumps," said Dunston, gloating over the possession of a
long suit of hearts and three aces. Hare looked anxious, and Spencer
suddenly awoke to the situation.
"Satisfied," he said.
Holt led the three of hearts, and Spencer spread his cards on the
table with the gravity of a Sioux chief. In addition to the three high
spades he held six others.
"Really!" gasped the parson, "a most remarkable declaration!"
Yet there was an agitated triumph in his voice that was not pleasant
hearing for Dunston, who took the trick with the ace of hearts and
led the lowest of a sequence to the queen.
"Got him!" panted Hare, producing the king.
The rest was easy. The vicar played a small spade and scored
ninety-six points without any further risk.
"It is magnificent; but it is not bridge," said the man from
Pittsburg. Dunston simply glowered.
"Partner," demanded Hare timidly, "may I ask why you called 'no
trumps' on a hand like that?"
"Thought I would give you a chance of distinguishing yourself,"
replied Spencer. "Besides, that sort of thing rattles your opponents
at the beginning of a game. Keep your nerve now, _padre_, and you have
'em in a cleft stick."
As it happened, Holt made a "no trump" declaration on a very strong
hand; but Spencer held seven clubs headed by the ace and king.
He doubled. Holt redoubled. Spencer doubled again.
Hare flushed somewhat. "Allow me to say that I am very fond of bridge;
but I cannot take part in a game that savors of gambling, even for low
stakes," he broke in.
"Shall we let her go at forty-eight points a trick?" Spencer asked.
"Yep!" snapped Holt. "Got all the clubs?"
"Not all--sufficient, perhaps."
He played the ace. Dunston laid the queen and knave on the table.
Spencer scored the winning trick before his adversary obtained an
opening.
"You have a backbone of cast steel," commented Dunston, who was an
iron-master. "Do you play baccarat?" he went on, with curious
eagerness.
"I regret to state that my education was completed in a Western mining
camp."
"Will you excuse the liberty, and perhaps Mr. Hare won't listen for a
moment?--but I will finance you in three banks of a thousand each,
either banking or punting, if you promise to take on Bower. I can
arrange it easily. I say this because you personally may not care to
play for high sums."
The suggestion was astounding, coming as it did from a stranger; but
Spencer merely said:
"You don't like Bower, then?"
"That is so. I have business relations with him occasionally, and
there he is all that could be wished. But I have seen him clean out
more than one youngster ruthlessly,--force the play to too high
stakes, I mean. I think you could take his measure. Anyhow, I am
prepared to back you."
"I'm leaving here to-morrow."
"Ah, well, we may have another opportunity. If so, my offer holds."
"Guess you haven't heard that Spencer is the man who bored a tunnel
through the Rocky Mountains?" said Holt.
"No. You must tell me about it. Sorry, Mr. Hare, I am stopping the
game."
Spencer continued to have amazing good fortune, and he played with
skill, but without any more fireworks. At the close of the sitting the
vicar said cheerfully:
"You are not a ladies' man, Mr. Spencer. You know the old
proverb,--lucky at cards, unlucky in love? But let me hope that it
does not apply in your case."
"Talking about a ladies' man, who is the girl your friend Bower dined
with?" asked Holt. "She has been in the hotel several days; but she
didn't seem to be acquainted with anybody in particular until he blew
in this afternoon."
"She is a Miss Helen Wynton," said the vicar. "I like her very much
from what little I have seen of her. She attended both services on
Sunday, and I happen to be aware of the fact that she was at mass in
the Roman church earlier. I wanted her to play the harmonium next
Sunday; but she declined, and gave me her reasons too."
"May I ask what they were?" inquired Spencer.
"Well, speaking in confidence, they were grievously true. Some
miserable pandering to Mrs. Grundy has set the other women against
her; so she declined to thrust herself into prominence. I tried to
talk her out of it, but failed."
"Who is Mrs. Grundy, anyhow?" growled Holt.
The others laughed.
"She is the Medusa of modern life," explained the vicar. "She turns to
stone those who gaze on her. Most certainly she petrifies all good
feeling and Christian tolerance. Why, I actually heard a woman whose
conduct is not usually governed by what I hold to be good taste sneer
at Miss Wynton this evening. 'The murder is out now,' she said.
'Bower's presence explains everything.' Yet I am able to state that
Miss Wynton was quite unprepared for his arrival. By chance I was
standing on the steps when he drove up to the hotel, and it was
perfectly clear from the words they used that neither was aware that
the other was in Maloja."
Spencer leaned over toward the iron-master. "Tell you what," he said;
"I've changed my mind about the trip to England to-morrow. Get up that
game with Bower. I'll stand the racket myself unless you want to go
half shares."
"Done! I should like to have an interest in it. Not that I am pining
for Bower's money, and it may be that he will win ours; but I am keen