The Silent Barrier
"I do, indeed. Stampa, one can reward in kind. This sort of thing used
to be his business, I hear. As for Mr. Spencer, a smile from you will
repay him tenfold."
"Herr Spencer," broke in Stampa, "you go on with the _signorina_ and
see that she does not slip. She is tired. Marcus Bauer and I have
matters to discuss."
The old man's unwonted harshness appealed to the girl as did the host
of other queer happenings on that memorable day. Bower moved uneasily.
A vindictive gleam shot from his eyes. Helen missed none of this. But
she was fatigued, and her feet were cold and wet, while the sleet
encountered on the upper glacier had almost soaked her to the skin.
Nevertheless, she strove bravely to lighten the cloud that seemed to
have settled on the men.
"That means a wordy warfare," she said gayly. "I pity you, Mr. Bower.
You cannot wriggle out of your difficulty. The snow will soon be a
foot deep in the valley. Goodness only knows what would have become of
us up there in the hut!"
He bowed gracefully, with a hint of the foreign air she had noted once
before. "I would have brought you safely out of greater perils," he
said; "but every dog has his day, and this is Stampa's."
"_En route!_" cried the guide impatiently. He loathed the sight of
Bower standing there, smiling and courteous, in the presence of one
whom he regarded as a Heaven-sent friend and protectress. Spencer
attributed his surliness to its true cause. It supplied another bit
of the mosaic he was slowly piecing together. Greatly as he preferred
Helen's company, he was willing to sacrifice at least ten minutes of
it, could he but listen to the "discussion" between Stampa and Bower.
Therein he would have erred greatly. Helen was tired, and she admitted
it. She did not decline his aid when the path was steep and slippery.
In delightful snatches of talk they managed to say a good deal to each
other, and Helen did not fail to make plain the exact circumstances
under which she first caught sight of Spencer outside the hut. When
they arrived at the carriage road, which begins at Lake Cavloccio,
they could walk side by side and chat freely. Here, in the valley,
matters were normal. The snow did not place such a veil on all things.
The windings of the road often brought them abreast of the four men
in the rear. Bower was trudging along alone, holding his head down,
and seemingly lost in thought.
Close behind him came Stampa and the Engadiners. Karl, of course, was
talking--the others might or might not be lending their ears to his
interminable gossip.
"We are outstripping our companions. Don't you think we ought to wait
for them?" said Helen once, when Bower chanced to look her way.
"No," said Spencer.
"You are exceedingly positive."
"I tried to be exceedingly negative."
"But why?"
"I rather fancy that they would jar on us."
"But Stampa's promised lecture appears to have ended?"
"I think it never began. It is a safe bet that Mr. Bower and he have
not exchanged a word since our last halt."
Helen laughed. "A genuine case of Greek meeting Greek," she said.
"Stampa is an excellent guide, I am sure; but Mr. Bower does really
know these mountains. I suppose anyone is liable to err in forecasting
Alpine weather."
"That is nothing. If it were you or I, Stampa would dismiss the point
with a grin. You heard how he chaffed Barth, yet trusted him with the
lead? No. These two have an old feud to settle. You will hear more of
it."
"A feud! Mr. Bower declared to me that Stampa was absolutely unknown
to him."
"It isn't necessary to know a man before you hate him. I can give you
a heap of historic examples. For instance, who has a good word to say
for Ananias?"
The girl understood that he meant to parry her question with a quip.
The cross purposes so much in evidence all day were baffling and
mysterious to its close.
"My own opinion is that both you and Stampa have taken an unreasonable
dislike to Mr. Bower," she said determinedly. The words were out
before she quite realized their import. She flushed a little.
Spencer was gazing down into the gorge of the Orlegna. The brawling
torrent chimed with his own mood; but his set face gave no token of
the storm within. He only said quietly, "How good it must be to have
you as a friend!"
"I have no reason to feel other than friendly to Mr. Bower," she
protested hotly. "It was the rarest good fortune for me that he came
to Maloja. I met him once in London, and a second time, by accident,
during my journey to Switzerland. Yet, widely known as he is in
society, he was sufficiently large minded to disregard the sneers and
innuendoes of some of those horrid women in the hotel. He has gone out
of his way to show me every kindness. Why should I not repay it by
speaking well of him?"
"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 frueh!_"
"_Ja!_" snapped Bower.
She smiled to herself at the thought that things were going to happen