The Silent Barrier
on giving him a sharp run. At Nice last January not a soul in the
Casino would go Banco when he opened a big bank. They were afraid of
him."
While he was speaking, Dunston's shrewd eyes dwelt on the younger
man's unmoved face. He wondered what had caused this sudden veering of
purpose. It was certainly not the allurement of heavy gambling, for
Spencer had declined the proposal as coolly as he now accepted it.
Being a man of the world, he thought he could peer beneath the mask.
To satisfy himself, he harked back to the personal topic.
"By the way, does anyone know who Miss Wynton is?" he said. "That
inveterate gossip, Mrs. Vavasour, who can vouch for every name in the
Red Book, says she is a lady journalist."
"That, at any rate, is correct," said the vicar. "In fact, Miss Wynton
herself told me so."
"Jolly fine girl, whatever she is. To give Bower his due, he has
always been a person of taste."
"I have reason to believe," said Spencer, "that Miss Wynton's
acquaintance with Mr. Bower is of the slightest."
His words were slow and clear. Dunston, sure now that his guess was
fairly accurate, hastened to efface an unpleasant impression.
"Of course, I only meant that if Bower is seen talking to any woman,
it may be taken for granted that she is a pretty one," he explained.
"But who's for a drink? Perhaps we shall meet our expected opponent in
the bar, Mr. Spencer."
"I have some letters to write. Fix that game for to-morrow or next
day, and I'll be on hand."
Dunston and Holt paid the few shillings they owed, and went out.
Hare did not move. He looked anxious, almost annoyed. "It is
exceedingly ridiculous how circumstances pass beyond a man's control
occasionally," he protested. "Am I right in assuming that until this
evening neither Bower nor Dunston was known to you, Mr. Spencer?"
"Absolutely correct, vicar. I have never yet spoken to Bower, and you
heard all that passed between Dunston and myself."
"Then my harmless invitation to you to join in a game at cards has led
directly to an arrangement for play at absurdly high figures?"
"It seems to me, Mr. Hare, that Bower's tracks and mine are destined
to cross in more ways than one in the near future," said Spencer
coolly.
But the vicar was not to be switched away from the new thought that
was troubling him. "I will not ask what you mean," he said, gazing
steadfastly at the American. "My chief concern is the outcome of my
share in this evening's pleasant amusement. I cannot shut my ears to
the fact that you have planned the loss or gain of some thousands of
pounds on the turn of a card at baccarat."
"If it is disagreeable to you----"
"How can it be otherwise? I am a broad-minded man, and I see no harm
whatever in playing bridge for pennies; but I am more pained than I
care to confess at the prospect of such a sequel to our friendly
meeting to-night. If this thing happens,--if a small fortune is won or
lost merely to gratify Dunston's whim,--I assure you that I shall
never touch a card again as long as I live."
Then Spencer laughed. "That would be too bad, Mr. Hare," he cried.
"Make your mind easy. The game is off. Count on me for the tenpence a
hundred limit after dinner to-morrow."
"Now, that is quite good and kind of you. Dunston made me very
miserable by his mad proposition. Of course, both he and Bower are
rich men, men to whom a few thousand pounds are of little importance;
or, to be accurate, they profess not to care whether they win or lose,
though their wealth is not squandered so heedlessly when it is wanted
for some really deserving object. But perhaps that is uncharitable. My
only wish is to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your
generous promise."
"Is Bower so very rich then? Have you met him before?"
"He is a reputed millionaire. I read of him in the newspapers at
times. In my small country parish such financial luminaries twinkle
from a far sky. It is true he is a recent light. He made a great deal
of money in copper, I believe."
"What kind of character do you give him,--good, bad, or indifferent?"
Hare's benevolent features showed the astonishment that thrilled him
at this blunt question. "I hardly know what to say----" he stammered.
Spencer liked this cheery vicar and resolved to trust him. "Let me
explain," he said. "You and I agree in thinking that Miss Wynton is an
uncommonly nice girl. I am not on her visiting list at present, so my
judgment is altruistic. Suppose she was your daughter or niece, would
you care to see her left to that man's mercies?"
The clergyman fidgeted a little before he answered. Spencer was a
stranger to him, yet he felt drawn toward him. The strong, clear cut
face won confidence. "If it was the will of Heaven, I would sooner see
her in the grave," he said, with solemn candor.
Spencer rose. He held out his hand. "I guess it's growing late," he
cried, "and our talk has swung round to a serious point. Sleep well,
Mr. Hare. That game is dead off."
As he passed the bar he heard Bower's smooth, well rounded accents
through the half-open door. "Nothing I should like better," he was
saying. "Are you tired? If not, bring your friend to my rooms now.
Although I have been in the train all night, I am fit as a fiddle."
"Let me see. I left him in the smoking room with our _padre_----"
It was Dunston who spoke; but Bower broke in:
"Oh, keep the clergy out of it! They make such a song about these
things if they hear of them."
"I was going to say that if he is not there he will be in his room. He
is two doors from me, No. 61, I think. Shall I fetch him?"
"Do, by all means. By Jove! I didn't expect to get any decent play
here!"
Spencer slipped into a small vestibule where he had left a hat and
overcoat. He remained there till Dunston crossed the hall and entered
the elevator. Then he went out, meaning to stroll and smoke in the
moonlight for an hour. It would be easier to back out of the promised
game in the morning than at that moment. Moreover, in the clear, still
air he could plan a course of action, the need of which was becoming
insistent.
He was blessed, or cursed, with a stubborn will, and he knew it.
Hitherto, it had been exercised on a theory wrapped in hard granite,
and the granite had yielded, justifying the theory. Now he was brought
face to face with a woman's temperament, and his experience of that
elusive and complex mixture of attributes was of the slightest.
Attractive young women in Colorado are plentiful as cranberries; but
never one of them had withdrawn his mind's eye from his work. Why,
then, was he so ready now to devote his energies to the safeguarding
of Helen Wynton? It was absurd to pretend that he was responsible for
her future well-being because of the whim that sent her on a holiday.
She was well able to take care of herself. She had earned her own
living before he met her; she had risen imperiously above the petty
malice displayed by some of the residents in the hotel; there was a
reasonable probability that she might become the wife of a man highly
placed and wealthy. Every consideration told in favor of a policy of
non-interference. The smoking of an inch of good cigar placed the
matter in such a convincing light that Spencer was half resolved to
abide by his earlier decision and leave Maloja next morning.
But the other half, made up of inclination, pleaded against all the
urging of expediency. He deemed the vicar an honest man, and that
stout-hearted phrase of his stuck. Yet, whether he went or stayed, the
ultimate solution of the problem lay with Helen herself. Once on
speaking terms with her, he could form a more decided view. It was
wonderful how one's estimate of a man or woman could be modified in
the course of a few minutes' conversation. Well, he would settle
things that way, and meanwhile enjoy the beauty of a wondrous night.
A full moon was flooding the landscape with a brilliance not surpassed
in the crystal atmosphere of Denver. The snow capped summit of the
Cima di Rosso was fit to be a peak in Olympus, a silver throned height
where the gods sat in council. The brooding pines perched on the
hillside beyond the Orlegna looked like a company of gigantic birds
with folded wings. From the road leading to the village he could hear
the torrent itself singing its mad song of freedom after escaping from
the icy caverns of the Forno glacier. Quite near, on the right, the
tiny cascade that marks the first seaward flight of the Inn mingled
its sweet melody with the orchestral thunder of the more distant
cataracts plunging down the precipices toward Italy. It was a night
when one might listen to the music of the spheres, and Spencer was
suddenly jarred into unpleasant consciousness of his surroundings by
the raucous voices of some peasants bawling a Romansch ballad in a
wayside wine house.
Turning sharply on his heel, he took the road by the lake. There at
least he would find peace from the strenuous amours of Margharita as
trolled by the revelers. He had not gone three hundred yards before he
saw a woman standing near the low wall that guarded the embanked
highway from the water. She was looking at the dark mirror of the
lake, and seemed to be identifying the stars reflected in it. Three or
four times, as he approached, she tilted her head back and gazed at
the sky. The skirt of a white dress was visible below a heavy ulster;
a knitted shawl was wrapped loosely over her hair and neck, and the
ends were draped deftly across her shoulders; but before she turned to
see who was coming along the road Spencer had recognized her. Thus, in
a sense, he was a trifle the more prepared of the two for this
unforeseen meeting, and he hailed it as supplying the answer to his
doubts.
"Now," said he to himself, "I shall know in ten seconds whether or not
I travel west by north to-morrow."
Helen did not avert her glance instantly. Nor did she at once resume a
stroll evidently interrupted to take in deep breaths of the beauty of
the scene. That was encouraging to the American,--she expected him to
speak to her.
He halted in the middle of the road. If he was mistaken, he did not
wish to alarm her. "If you will pardon the somewhat unorthodox time
and place, I should like to make myself known to you, Miss Wynton," he
said, lifting his cap.
"You are Mr. Spencer?" she answered, with a frank smile.
"Yes, I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Mackenzie."
"So have I. What do we do next? Exchange letters? Mine is in the
hotel."
"Suppose we just shake?"
"Well, that is certainly the most direct way."
Their hands met. They were both aware of a whiff of nervousness. For
some reason, the commonplace greetings of politeness fell awkwardly
from their lips. In such a predicament a woman may always be trusted
to find the way out.
"It is rather absurd that we should be saying how pleased we are that
Mr. Mackenzie thought of writing those letters, while in reality I am
horribly conscious that I ought not to be here at all, and you are
probably thinking that I am quite an amazing person," and Helen
laughed light heartedly.
"That is part of my thought," said Spencer.
"Won't you tell me the remainder?"
"May I?"
"Please do. I am in chastened mood."
"I wish I was skilled in the trick of words, then I might say
something real cute. As it is, I can only supply a sort of condensed
statement,--something about a nymph, a moonlit lake, the spirit of the
glen,--nice catchy phrases every one,--with a line thrown in from
Shelley about an 'orbed maiden with white fire laden.' Let me go back
a hundred yards, Miss Wynton, and I shall return with the whole thing
in order."
"With such material I believe you would bring me a sonnet."
"No. I hail from the wild and woolly West, where life itself is a