The Silent Barrier
when he interfered in the duel. He, like others, was waiting for
his letters. He saw Helen come in, and was hurrying to offer his
congratulations on her escape from the storm, when the appearance of
Millicent prevented him from speaking at once. The little man was hot
with vexation at the scene that followed. He liked Helen; he was
unutterably shocked by Millicent's attack; and he resented the unfair
and untrue construction that must be placed on her latest innuendo.
"As one who has made Miss Wynton's acquaintance in this hotel," he
broke in vehemently, "I must protest most emphatically against the
outrageous statement we have just heard. If I may say it, it is
unworthy of the lady who is responsible for it. I know nothing of your
quarrel, nor do I wish to figure in it; but I do declare, on my honor
as a clergyman of the Church of England, that Miss Wynton's conduct
in Maloja has in no way lent itself to the inference one is compelled
to draw from the words used."
"Thank you, Mr. Hare," said Bower quietly, and a subdued murmur of
applause buzzed through the gathering.
There is a legend in Zermatt that Saint Theodule, patron of the
Valais, wishing to reach Rome in a hurry, sought demoniac aid to
surmount the impassable barrier of the Alps. Opening his window, he
saw three devils dancing merrily on the housetops. He called them.
"Which of you is the speediest?" he asked. "I," said one, "I am
swift as the wind."--"Bah!" cried the second, "I can fly like a
bullet."--"These two talk idly," said the third. "I am quick as the
thought of a woman." The worthy prelate chose the third. The hour
being late, he bargained that he should be carried to Rome and back
before cockcrow, the price for the service to be his saintly soul. The
imp flew well, and returned to the valley of the Rhone long ere dawn.
Joyous at his gain, he was about to bound over the wall of the
episcopal city of Sion, when St. Theodule roared lustily, "_Coq,
chante! Que tu chantes! Ou que jamais plus tu ne chantes!_" Every cock
in Sion awoke at his voice, and raised such a din that the devil
dropped a bell given to his saintship by the Holy Father, and Saint
Theodule was snug and safe inside it.
The prelate was right in his choice of the third. The thoughts of two
women took wings instantly. Mrs. de la Vere, throwing away a
half-smoked cigarette, hurried out of the veranda. Millicent Jaques,
whose carriage was ready for the long drive to St. Moritz, decided to
remain in Maloja.
The outer door opened, with a rush of cold air and a whirl of snow.
People expected the postman; but Stampa entered,--only Stampa, the
broken survivor of the little band of guides who conquered the
Matterhorn. He doffed his Alpine hat, and seemed to be embarrassed by
the unusually large throng assembled in the passageway. Bower saw him,
and strode away into the dimly lighted foyer.
"Pardon, _'sieurs et 'dames_," said Stampa, advancing with his uneven
gait, a venerable and pathetic figure, the wreck of a giant, a man who
had aged years in a single day. He went to the bureau, and asked
permission to seek Herr Spencer in his room.
* * * * *
Helen was struggling back to consciousness when Mrs. de la Vere joined
the kindly women who were loosening her bodice and chafing her hands
and feet.
The first words the girl heard were in English. A woman's voice was
saying cheerfully, "There, my dear!" a simple formula of marvelous
recuperative effect,--"there now! You are all right again. But your
room is bitterly cold. Won't you come into mine? It is quite near,
and my stove has been alight all day."
Helen, opening her eyes, found herself gazing up at Mrs. de la Vere.
Real sympathy ranks high among good deeds. The girl's lips quivered.
Returning life brought with it tears.
The woman whom she had regarded as a social butterfly sat beside her
on the bed and placed a friendly arm round her neck. "Don't cry, you
dear thing," she cooed gently. "There is nothing to cry about. You are
a bit overwrought, of course; but, as it happens, you have scored
heavily off all of us--and not least off the creature who upset you.
Now, do try and come with me. Here are your slippers. The corridor is
empty. It is only a few steps."
"Come with you?"
"Yes, you are shivering with the cold, and my room is gloriously
warm."
"But----"
"There are no buts. Marie will bring a basin of nice hot soup. While
you are drinking it she will set your stove going. I know exactly how
you feel. The whole world is topsyturvy, and you don't think there is
a smile in your make-up, as that dear American man who carried you
here would say."
Helen recovered her senses with exceeding rapidity. Mrs. de la Vere
was already leading her to the door.
"What! Mr. Spencer--did he----"
"He did. Come, now. I shall tell you all the trying details when you
are seated in my easy chair, and wrapped in the duckiest Shetland
shawl that a red headed laird sent me last Christmas. Excellent! Of
course you can walk! Isn't every other woman in the hotel well aware
how you got that lovely figure? Yes, in that chair. And here is the
shawl. It's just like being cuddled by a woolly lamb."
Mrs. de la Vere turned the keys in two doors. "Reggie always knocks,"
she explained; "but some inquisitive cat may follow me here, and I am
sure you don't wish to be gushed over now, after everybody has been so
horrid to you."
"You were not," said Helen gratefully.
"Yes, I was, in a way. I hate most women; but I admired you ever since
you took the conceit out of that giddy husband of mine. If I didn't
speak, it arose from sheer laziness--a sort of drifting with the
stream, in tow of the General and that old mischief maker, Mrs.
Vavasour. I'm sorry, and you will be quite justified to-morrow morning
in sailing past me and the rest as though we were beetles."
Then Helen laughed, feebly, it is true, but with a genuine mirth that
chased away momentarily the evergrowing memory of Millicent's
injustice. "Why do you mention beetles?" she asked. "It is part of my
every day work to classify them."
Mrs. de la Vere was puzzled. "I believe you have said something very
cutting," she cried. "If you did, we deserve it. But please tell me
the joke. I shall hand it on to the Wraggs."
"There is no joke. I act as secretary to a German professor of
entomology--insects, you know; he makes beetles a specialty."
The other woman's eye danced. "It is all very funny," she said, "and
I still have my doubts. Never mind. I want to atone for earlier
shortcomings. I felt that someone really ought to tell you what took
place in the outer foyer after you sank gracefully out of the act. Mr.
Bower----"
A tap on the door leading into the corridor interrupted her. It was
Marie, armed with chicken broth and dry toast. Mrs. de la Vere, who
seemed to be filled with an honest anxiety to place Helen at her ease,
persuaded her to begin sipping the compound.
"Well, what did Mr. Bower do?" demanded Helen, who was wondering now
why she had fainted. The accusation brought against her by Millicent
Jaques was untrue. Why should it disturb her so gravely? It did not
occur to her that the true cause was physical,--a too sudden change of
temperature.
"He sat on that young woman from the Wellington Theater very severely,
I assure you. From her manner we all imagined she had some sort of
claim on him; but if she was laboring under any such delusion he cured
her. He said--Are you really strong enough to stand a shock?"
"Twenty shocks. I can't think how I could have been so silly----"
"Nerves, my dear. We all have 'em. Sometimes, if I didn't smoke I
should scream. No woman really likes to see her husband flirting
openly with her friends. I'm no saint; but my wickedness is defensive.
Now, are you ready?"
"Quite ready."
"Mr. Bower told us, _tout le monde_, you know, that he meant to marry
you."
"Oh!" said Helen.
During an appreciable pause neither woman spoke. Helen was not sure
whether she wanted to laugh or be angry. Mrs. de la Vere eyed her
curiously. The girl's face was yet white and drawn. It was impossible
to guess how the great news affected her. The de la Veres were poor on
two thousand a year. What did it feel like to be the prospective bride
of a millionaire, especially when you were--what was it?--secretary to
a man who collected beetles!
"Did Mr. Bower assign any reason for making that remarkable
statement?" said Helen at last.
"He explained that the fact--I suppose it is a fact--would safeguard
you from the malice of an ex-coryphee. Indeed, he put it more
brutally. He spoke of the 'slanderous malice of an ex-chorus girl.'
The English term sounds a trifle harsher than the French, don't you
think?"
It began to dawn on Helen that Mrs. de la Vere's friendliness might
have a somewhat sordid foundation. Was she tending her merely to
secure the freshest details of an affair that must be causing many
tongues to wag?
"I am acquiring new theories of life since I came to Maloja," she said
slowly. "One would have thought that I might be the first person to be
made aware of Mr. Bower's intentions."
"Oh, this is really too funny. May I light a cigarette?"
"Please do. And now it is my turn to ask you to point out the
exquisite humor of the situation."
"Don't be vexed with me, child. You needn't say another word if you
don't wish it; but surely you are not annoyed because I have given you
the tip as to what took place in the hall?"
"You have been exceedingly good----"
"No. I haven't. I was just as nasty as the others, and I sneered like
the rest when Bower showed up a fortnight since. I was wrong, and I
apologize for it. Regard me as in sackcloth and ashes. But my heart
went out to you when you dropped like a log among all those staring
people. I've--I've done it myself, and my case was worse than yours.
Once in my life I loved a man, and I came home one day from the
hunting field to read a telegram from the War Office. He was
'missing,' it said--missing--in a rear-guard action in Tirah. Do you
know what that means?"
A cloud of smoke hid her face; but it could not stifle the sob in her
voice. There was a knock at the door.
"Are you there, Edith?" demanded Reginald de la Vere.
"Yes. Go away! I'm busy."
"But----"
"Go away, I tell you!"
Then she jerked a scornful hand toward the door. "Six months later I
was married--men who are missed among the Afridis don't come back,"
she said.
"I'm more sorry than I can put into words!" murmured Helen.
"For goodness' sake don't let us grow sentimental. Shall we return to
our sheep? Don't be afraid that I shall pasture the goats in the hall
on your confidences. Hasn't Bower asked you?"
"No."
"Then his action was all the more generous. He meant to squelch that
friend of yours--is she your friend?"
"She used to be," said Helen sadly.
"And what do you mean to do about it? You will marry Bower, of
course?"
Helen's heart fluttered. Her color rose in a sudden wave. "I--I don't
think so," she breathed.
"Don't you? Well, I like you the better for saying so. I can picture
myself putting the same questions to one of the Wragg girls--to both
of 'em, in fact. I am older than you, and very much wiser in some of
the world's ways, and my advice is, Don't marry any man unless you are
sure you love him. If you do love him, you may keep him, for men are
patient creatures. But that is for you to decide. I can't help you
there. I am mainly concerned, for the moment, in helping you over the
ice during the next day or two--if you will let me, that is. Probably
you have determined not to appear in public to-night. That will be a
mistake. Wear your prettiest frock, and dine with Reggie and me. We