The Silent Barrier
unexpected ally. He could afford to bide his time. Nothing could now
undo the effect of his open declaration while flouting Millicent
Jaques. If he gave that wayward young person a passing thought, it was
one of gladness that she had precipitated matters. There remained only
an unpleasant meeting with Stampa in the morning. He shuddered at the
recollection that he had nearly done a foolish thing while crossing
the crevasse. What sinister influence could have so weakened his
nerve as to make him think of murder? Crime was the last resource of
impaired intellect. He was able to laugh now at the stupid memory of
it.
True, the American----
By the way, what did Millicent mean by her shrewish cry that Spencer
was paying for Helen's holiday? So engrossed was he in other
directions that his early doubts with regard to "The Firefly's"
unprecedented enterprise in sending a representative to this
out-of-the-way Swiss valley had been lulled to sleep. Of course, he
had caused certain inquiries to be made--that was his method. One of
the telegrams he dispatched from Zurich after Helen's train bustled
off to Coire started the investigation. Thus far, a trusted clerk
could only ascertain that the newspaper had undoubtedly commissioned
the girl on the lines indicated. Still, the point demanded attention.
He resolved to telegraph further instructions in the morning, with
Spencer's name added as a clew, though, to be sure, he was not done
with Millicent yet. He would reckon with her also on the morrow.
Perhaps, if he annoyed her sufficiently, she might explain that
cryptic taunt.
Could he have seen a letter that was brought to Spencer's room before
dinner, the telegram would not have been written. Mackenzie, rather
incoherent with indignation, sent a hurried scrawl.
"DEAR MR. SPENCER," it ran,--"A devil of a thing has
happened. To-day," the date being three days old, "I went
out to lunch, leaving a thick headed subeditor in charge. I
had not been gone ten minutes when a stage fairy, all frills
and flounces, whisked into the office and asked for Miss
Wynton's address. My assistant succumbed instantly. He was
nearly asphyxiated with joy at being permitted to entertain,
not unawares, that angel of musical comedy, Miss Millicent
Jaques. His maundering excuse is that you yourself seemed to
acknowledge Miss Jaques's right to be acquainted with her
friend's whereabouts. I have good reason to believe that the
frail youth not only spoke of Maloja, but supplied such
details as were known to him of your kindness in the matter.
I have cursed him extensively; but that can make no amends.
At any rate, I feel that you should be told, and it only
remains for me to express my lasting regret that the
incident should have occurred."
This letter, joined to certain lurid statements made by Stampa, had
induced Spencer to accept Mrs. de la Vere's invitation. Little as he
cared to dine in Bower's company, it was due to Helen that he should
not refuse. He was entangled neck and heels in a net of his own
contriving. For very shame's sake, he could not wriggle out, leaving
Helen in the toils.
Surely there never was a day more crammed with contrarieties. He
witnessed his adversary's rebuff, and put it down to its rightful
cause. No sooner had he discovered Mrs. de la Vere's apparent motive
in keeping the girl by her side, than he was buttonholed by the Rev.
Philip Hare.
"You know I am not an ardent admirer of Bower," said the cleric; "but
I must admit that it was very manly of him to make that outspoken
statement about Miss Wynton."
"What statement?" asked Spencer.
"Ah, I had forgotten. You were not present, of course. He made the
other woman's hysterical outburst supremely ridiculous by saying, in
effect, that he meant to marry Miss Wynton."
"He said that, eh?"
"Yes. He was quite emphatic. I rebuked Miss Jaques myself, and he
thanked me."
"Everything was nicely cut and dried in my absence, it seems."
"Well--er----"
"The crowd evidently lost sight of the fact that I had carried off the
prospective bride."
"N-no. Miss Jaques called attention to it."
"Guess her head is screwed on straight, _padre_. She made a bad break
in attacking Miss Wynton; but when she set about Bower she was running
on a strong scent. Sit tight, Mr. Hare. Don't take sides, or whoop up
the wrong spout, and you'll see heaps of fun before you're much
older."
Mightily incensed, the younger man turned away. The vicar produced his
handkerchief and trumpeted into it loudly.
"God bless my soul!" he said, and repeated the pious wish, for he felt
that it did him good, "how does one whoop up the wrong spout? And what
happens if one does? And how remarkably touchy everybody seems to
be. Next time I apply to the C.M.S. for an Alpine station, I shall
stipulate for a low altitude. I am sure this rarefied air is bad for
the nerves."
Nevertheless, Hare's startling communication was the one thing needed
to clear away the doubts that beset Spencer at the dinner table. He
had seen Mrs. de la Vere enter Helen's bedroom when he left the girl
in charge of a gesticulating maid; but an act of womanly solicitude
did not explain the friendship that sprang so suddenly into existence.
Now he understood, or thought he understood, which is a man's way when
he seeks to interpret a woman's mind. Mrs. de la Vere, like the rest,
was dazzled by Bower's wealth. After ignoring Helen during the past
fortnight, she was prepared to toady to her instantly in her new guise
as the chosen bride of a millionaire. The belief added fuel to the
fire already raging in his breast.
There never was man more loyal to woman in his secret meditations than
Spencer; but his gorge rose at the sight of Helen's winsome gratitude
to one so unworthy of it. With him, now as ever, to think was to act.
Watching his chance, he waylaid Helen when her vigilant chaperon was
momentarily absorbed in a suggestion that private theatricals and the
rehearsal of a minuet would relieve the general tedium while the snow
held.
"Spare me five minutes, Miss Wynton," he said. "I want to tell you
something."
Mrs. de la Vere pirouetted round on him before the girl could answer.
"Miss Wynton is just going to bed," she informed him graciously. "You
know how tired she is, Mr. Spencer. You must wait till the morning."
"I don't feel like waiting; but I promise to cut down my remarks to
one minute--by the clock." He answered Mrs. de la Vere, but looked at
Helen.
Her color rose and fell almost with each beat of her heart. She saw
the steadfast purpose in his eyes, and shrank from the decision she
would be called upon to make. Hardly realizing what form the words
took, she gave faint utterance to the first lucid idea that presented
itself. "I think--I must really--go to my room," she murmured. "You
wouldn't--like me--to faint twice in one evening--Mr. Spencer?"
It was an astonishing thing to say, the worst thing possible. It
betrayed an exact knowledge of his purpose in seeking this interview.
His eyes blazed with a quick light. It seemed that he was answered
before he spoke.
"Not one second. Go away, do!" broke in Mrs. de la Vere, whisking
Helen toward the elevator without further parley. But she shot a
glance at Spencer over her shoulder that he could not fail to
interpret as a silent message of encouragement. Forthwith he viewed
her behavior from a more favorable standpoint.
"Guess the feminine make-up is more complex than I counted on," he
communed, as he bent over a table to find a match, that being a
commonplace sort of action calculated to disarm suspicion, lest others
might be observing him, and wondering why the women retired so
promptly.
"I like your American, my dear," said Mrs. de la Vere sympathetically,
in the solitude of the corridor.
Helen was silent.
"If you want to cry, don't mind me," went on the kindly cynic. "I'm
coming in with you. I'll light up while you weep, and then you must
tell me all about it. That will do you a world of good."
"There's n-n-nothing to tell!" bleated Helen.
"Oh yes, there is. You silly child, to-morrow you will have to choose
between those two men. Which shall it be? I said before dinner that I
couldn't help you to decide. Perhaps I was mistaken. Anyhow, I'll
try."
* * * * *
At midnight the snow storm ceased, the wind died away, and the still
air deposited its vapor on hills and valley in a hoar frost. The sun
rose with a magnificent disregard for yesterday's riot.
Spencer's room faced the southeast. When the valet drew his blind in
the morning the cold room was filled with a balmy warmth. A glance
through the window, however, dispelled a germ of hope that Helen and
he might start on the promised walk to Vicosoprano. The snow lay deep
in the pass, and probably extended a mile or two down into the Vale
of Bregaglia. The rapid thaw that would set in during the forenoon
might clear the roads before sunset. Next day, walking would be
practicable; to-day it meant wading.
He looked through the Orlegna gorge, and caught the silvery sheen of
the Cima di Rosso's snow capped summit. Hardly a rock was visible. The
gale had clothed each crag with a white shroud. All day long the upper
reaches of the glacier would be pelted by avalanches. It struck him
that an early stroll to the highest point of the path beyond Cavloccio
might be rewarded with a distant view of several falls. In any case,
it provided an excellent pretext for securing Helen's company, and he
would have cheerfully suggested a trip in a balloon to attain the same
object.
The temperature of his bath water induced doubts as to the imminence
of the thaw. Indeed, the air was bitterly cold as yet. The snow lay
closely on roads and meadow land. It had the texture of fine powder.
Passing traffic left shallow, well defined marks. A couple of
stablemen swung their arms to restore circulation. The breath of
horses and cattle showed in dense clouds.
For once in his life the color of a tie and the style of his clothes
became matters of serious import. At first, he was blind to the humor
of it. He hesitated between the spruce tightness of a suit fashioned
by a New York tailor and the more loosely designed garments he had
purchased in London. Then he laughed and reddened. Flinging both
aside, he chose the climber's garb worn the previous day, and began to
dress hurriedly. Therein he was well advised. Nothing could better
become his athletic figure. He was that type of man who looks thinner
when fully clothed. He had never spared himself when asking others to
work hard, and he received his guerdon now in a frame of iron and
sinews of pliant steel.
Helen usually came down to breakfast at half-past eight. She had the
healthy British habit of beginning the day with a good meal, and
Spencer indulged in the conceit that he might be favored with a
tete-a-tete before they started for the projected walk. Neither Bower
nor Mrs. de la Vere ever put in an appearance at that hour. Though
Americans incline to the Continental manner of living, this true
Westerner found himself a sudden convert to English methods. In a
word, he was in love, and his lady could not err. To please her he was
prepared to abjure iced water--even to drink tea.
But, as often happens, his cheery mood was destined to end in
disappointment. He lingered a whole hour in the _salle a manger_,
but Helen came not. Then he rose in a panic. What if she had
breakfasted in her room, and was already basking in the sunlit
veranda--perhaps listening to Bower's eloquence? He rushed out so
suddenly that his waiter was amazed. Really, these Americans were
incomprehensible--weird as the English. The two races dwelt far