The Silent Barrier
poem; so I stick to prose. There is a queer sort of kink in human
nature to account for that."
"On the principle that a Londoner never hears the roar of London, I
suppose?"
"Exactly. An old lady I know once came across a remarkable instance of
it. She watched a ship-wreck, the real article, with all the scenic
accessories, and when a half drowned sailor was dragged ashore she
asked him how he felt at that awful moment. And what do you think he
said?"
"Very wet," laughed Helen.
"No, that is the other story. This man said he was very dry."
"Ah, the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous, which reminds me
that if I remain here much longer talking nonsense I shall lose the
good opinion I am sure you have formed of me from Mr. Mackenzie's
letter. Why, it must be after eleven o'clock! Are you going any
farther, or will you walk with me to the hotel?"
"If you will allow me----"
"Indeed, I shall be very glad of your company. I came out to escape my
own thoughts. Did you ever meet such an unsociable lot of people as
our fellow boarders, Mr. Spencer? If it was not for my work, and the
fact that I have taken my room for a month, I should hie me forthwith
to the beaten track of the vulgar but good natured tourist."
"Why not go? Let me help you to-morrow to map out a tour. Then I shall
know precisely where to waylay you, for I feel the chill here too."
"I wish I could fall in with the first part of your proposal, though
the second rather suggests that you regard Mr. Mackenzie's letter of
introduction as a letter of marque."
"At any rate, I am an avowed pirate," he could not help retorting.
"But to keep strictly to business, why not quit if you feel like
wandering?"
"Because I was sent here, on a journalistic mission which I understand
less now than when I received it in London. Of course, I am delighted
with the place. It is the people I--kick at? Is that a quite proper
Americanism?"
"It seems to fit the present case like a glove, or may I say, like a
shoe?"
"Now you are laughing at me, inwardly of course, and I agree with you.
Ladies should not use slang, nor should they promenade alone in Swiss
valleys by moonlight. My excuse is that I did not feel sleepy, and
the moon tempted me. Good night."
They were yet some little distance from the hotel, and Spencer was at
a loss to account for this sudden dismissal. She saw the look of
bewilderment in his face.
"I have found a back stairs door," she explained, with a smile. "I
really don't think I should have dared to come out at half-past ten if
I had to pass the Gorgons in the foyer."
She flitted away by a side path, leaving Spencer more convinced than
ever that he had blundered egregiously in dragging this sedate and
charming girl from the quiet round of existence in London to the
artificial life of the Kursaal. Some feeling of unrest had driven her
forth to commune with the stars. Was she asking herself why she was
denied the luxuries showered on the doll-like creatures whose
malicious tongues were busy the instant Bower set foot in the hotel?
It would be an ill outcome of his innocent subterfuge if she returned
to England discontented and rebellious. She was in "chastened mood,"
she had said. He wondered why? Had Bower been too confident,--too sure
of his prey to guard his tongue? Of all the unlooked for developments
that could possibly be bound up with the harmless piece of midsummer
madness that sent Helen Wynton to Switzerland, surely this roue's
presence was the most irritating and perplexing.
Then from the road came another stanza from the wine bibbers, now
homeward bound. They were still howling about Margharita in long
sustained cadences. And Spencer knew his Faust. It was to the moon
that the lovesick maiden confided her dreams, and Mephisto was at hand
to jog the elbow of his bewitched philosopher at exactly the right
moment.
Spencer threw his cigar into the gurgling rivulet of the Inn. He
condemned Switzerland, and the Upper Engadine, and the very great
majority of the guests in the Kursaal, in one emphatic malediction,
and went to his room, hoping to sleep, but actually to lie awake for
hours and puzzle his brains in vain effort to evolve a satisfying
sequel to the queer combination of events he had set in motion when he
ran bare headed into the Strand after Bower's motor car.
CHAPTER VIII
SHADOWS
"It is a glorious morning. If the weather holds, your first visit to
the real Alps should be memorable," said Bower.
Helen had just descended the long flight of steps in front of the
hotel. A tender purple light filled the valley. The nearer hills were
silhouetted boldly against a sky of primrose and pink; but the misty
depths where the lake lurked beneath the pines had not yet yielded
wholly to the triumph of the new day. The air had a cold life in it
that invigorated while it chilled. It resembled some _vin frappe_ of
rare vintage. Its fragrant vivacity was ready to burst forth at the
first encouraging hint of a kindlier temperature.
"Why that dubious clause as to the weather?" asked Helen, looking at
the golden shafts of sunlight on the topmost crags of Corvatsch and
the Piz della Margna. Those far off summits were so startlingly vivid
in outline that they seemed to be more accessible than the mist
shrouded ravines cleaving their dun sides. It needed an effort of the
imagination to correct the erring testimony of the eye.
"The moods of the hills are variable, my lady,--femininely fickle, in
fact. There is a proverb that contrasts the wind with woman's mind;
but the disillusioned male who framed it evidently possessed little
knowledge of weather changes in the high Alps, or else he----"
"Did you beguile me out of my cozy room at six o'clock on a frosty
morning to regale me with stale jibes at my sex?"
"Perish the thought, Miss Wynton! My only intent was to explain that
the ancient proverb maker, meaning to be rude, might have found a
better simile."
"Meanwhile, I am so cold that the only mood left in my composition is
one of impatience to be moving."
"Well, I am ready."
"But where is our guide?"
"He has gone on in front with the porter."
"Porter! What is the man carrying?"
"The wherewithal to refresh ourselves when we reach the hut."
"Oh," said Helen, "I had no idea that mountaineering was such a
business. I thought the essentials were a packet of sandwiches and a
flask."
"You will please not be flippant. Climbing is serious work. And you
must moderate your pace. If you walk at that rate from here to Forno,
you will be very, very ill before you reach the hut."
"Ill! How absurd!"
"Not only absurd but disagreeable,--far worse than crossing the
Channel. Even old hands like me are not free from mountain sickness,
though it seizes us at higher altitudes than we shall reach to-day. In
the case of a novice, anything in the nature of hurrying during the
outward journey is an unfailing factor."
They were crossing the golf links, and the smooth path was tempting to
a good walker. Helen smiled as she accommodated herself to Bower's
slower stride. Though the man might possess experience, the woman had
the advantage of youth, the unattainable, and this wonderful hour
after dawn was stirring its ichor in her veins.
"I suppose that is what Stampa meant when he took 'Slow and Sure' for
his motto," she said.
"Stampa! Who is Stampa?"
There was a sudden rasp of iron in his voice. As a rule Bower spoke
with a cultivated languor that almost veiled the staccato accents of
the man of affairs. Helen was so surprised by this unwarranted clang
of anger that she looked at him with wide open eyes.
"He is the driver I told you of, the man who took the wheel off my
carriage during the journey from St. Moritz," she explained.
"Oh, of course. How stupid of me to forget! But, by the way, did you
mention his name?"
"No, I think not. Someone interrupted me. Mr. Dunston came and spoke
to you----"
He laughed gayly and drew in deep breaths of the keen air. He was
carrying his ice ax over his left shoulder. With his right hand he
brushed away a disturbing thought. "By Jove! yes! Dunston dragged me
off to open a bank at baccarat, and you will be glad to hear that I
won five hundred pounds."
"I am glad you won; but who lost so much money?"
"Dunston dropped the greater part of it. Your American friend, Mr.
Spencer, was rather inclined to brag of his prowess in that direction,
it appears. He even went so far as to announce his willingness to play
for four figures; but he backed out of it."
"Do you mean that Mr. Spencer wanted to stake a thousand pounds on a
single game at cards?"
"Evidently he did not want to do it, but he talked about it."
"Yet he impressed me as being a very clear-headed and sensible young
man," said Helen decisively.
"Here, young lady, I must call you to account! In what category do you
place me, then?"
"Oh, you are different. I disapprove of anyone playing for such high
stakes; but I suppose you are used to it and can afford it, whereas a
man who has his way to make in the world would be exceedingly foolish
to do such a thing."
"Pray, how did you come to measure the extent of Spencer's finances?"
"Dear me! Did I say that?"
"I am sorry. Of course, I had no wish to speak offensively. What I
mean is that he may be quite as well able to run a big bank at
baccarat as I am."
"He was telling me yesterday of his early struggles to gain a footing
in some mining community in Colorado, and the impression his words
left on me was that he is still far from wealthy; that is, as one
understands the term. Here we are at the footpath. Shall we follow it
and scramble up out of the ravine, or do you prefer the carriage
road?"
"The footpath, please. But before we drop the subject of cards, which
is unquestionably out of place on a morning like this, let me say that
perhaps I have done the American an injustice. Dunston is given to
exaggeration. He has so little control over his face that it is rank
robbery to bet with him. Such a man is apt to run to extremes. It may
be that Spencer was only talking through his hat, as they say in New
York."
Helen had the best of reasons for rejecting this version of the story.
Her perceptive faculties, always well developed, were strung to high
tension in Maloja. The social pinpricks inflicted there had rendered
her more alert, more cautious, than was her wont. She was quite sure,
for instance, judging from a number of slight indications, that
Spencer was deliberately avoiding any opportunity of making Bower's
acquaintance. More than once, when an introduction seemed to be
imminent, the American effaced himself. Other men in the hotel were
not like that--they rather sought the great man's company. She
wondered if Bower had noticed it. Despite his candid, almost generous,
disclaimer of motive, there was an undercurrent of hostility in his
words that suggested a feeling of pique. She climbed the rocky path in
silence until Bower spoke again.
"How do the boots go?" he asked.
"Splendidly, thanks. It was exceedingly kind of you to take such
trouble about them. I had no idea one had to wear such heavy nails,
and that tip of yours about the extra stockings is excellent."
"You will acknowledge the benefit most during the descent. I have
known people become absolutely lame on the home journey through
wearing boots only just large enough for ordinary walking. As for the
clamping of the nails over the edges of the soles, the sharp stones
render that imperative. When you have crossed a moraine or two, and a
peculiarly nasty _geroell_ that exists beyond the hut, if we have time
to make an easy ascent, you will understand the need of extra strong
footwear."
Helen favored him with a shy smile. "Long hours of reading have