The Silent Barrier
out their lives in vain efforts to enter the closely guarded circle
from which he had been expelled.
If that was the only danger, he might meet and vanquish it. The
unscrupulous use of money, backed up by the law of libel, can do a
great deal to still the public conscience. There was another, more
subtle and heart searching.
He was genuinely in love with Helen Wynton. He had reached an age when
position and power were more gratifying than mere gilded Bohemianism.
He could enter Parliament either by way of Palace Yard or through
the portals of the Upper House. He owned estates in Scotland and the
home counties, and his Park Lane mansion figured already in the
address books of half the peerage. It pleased him to think that in
placing a charming and gracious woman like Helen at the head of his
household, she would look to him as the lodestar of her existence,
and not tolerate him with the well-bred hauteur of one of the many
aristocratic young women who were ready enough to marry him, but who,
in their heart of hearts, despised him. He had deliberately avoided
that sort of matrimonial blunder. It promised more than it fulfilled.
He refused to wed a woman who deemed her social rank dearly bartered
for his money.
Yet, before ever the question arose, he knew quite well that this
girl whom he had chosen--the poorly paid secretary of some harmless
enthusiast, the strangely selected correspondent of an insignificant
journal--would spurn him with scorn if she heard the story Stampa
might tell of his lost daughter. That was the wildest absurdity in the
mad jumble of events which brought him here face to face with a broken
and frayed old man,--one whom he had never seen before the previous
day. It was of a piece with this fantasy that he should be standing
ankle deep in snow under the brilliant sun of August, and in risk, if
not in fear, of his life within two hundred yards of a crowded hotel
and a placid Swiss village.
His usually well ordered brain rebelled against these manifest
incongruities. His passion subsided almost as quickly as it had
arisen. He moistened his cold lips with his tongue, and the action
seemed to restore his power of speech.
"I suppose you have some motive in bringing me here. What is it?" he
said.
"You must come to the cemetery. It is not far."
This unlooked for reply struck a new note. It had such a bizarre
effect that Bower actually laughed. "Then you really are mad?" he
guffawed harshly.
"No, not at all. I was on the verge of madness the other day; but I
was pulled back in time, thanks to the Madonna, else I might never
have met you."
"Do you expect me to walk quietly to the burial ground in order that I
may be slaughtered conveniently?"
"I am not going to kill you, Marcus Bauer," said Stampa. "I trust the
good God will enable me to keep my hands off you. He will punish you
in His own good time. You are safe from me."
"A moment ago you spoke differently."
"Ah, that was because you refused to come with me. Assuredly I shall
bring either you or your lying tongue to Etta's grave this morning.
But you will come now. You are afraid, Herr Baron. I see it in your
eyes, and you value that well-fed body of yours too highly not to do
as I demand. Believe me, within the next few minutes you shall either
kneel by my little girl's grave or tumble into your own."
"I am not afraid, Stampa. I warn you again that I am more than a match
for you. Yet I would willingly make any reparation within my power for
the wrong I have done you."
"Yes, yes--that is all I ask--reparation, such as it is. Not to me--to
Etta. Come then. I have no weapon, I repeat. You trust to your size
and strength; so, by your own showing, you are safe. But you must
come!"
A gleam of confidence crept into Bower's eyes. Was it not wise to
humor this old madman? Perhaps, by displaying a remorse that was not
all acting, he might arrange a truce, secure a breathing space. He
would be free to deal with Millicent Jaques. He might so contrive
matters that Helen should be far removed from Stampa's dangerous
presence before the threatened disclosure was made. Yes, a wary
prudence in speech and action might accomplish much. Surely he dared
match his brain against a peasant's.
"Very well," he said, "I shall accompany you. But remember, at the
least sign of violence, I shall not only defend myself, but drag you
off to the communal guardhouse."
Without any answer, Stampa resumed his steady plodding through the
snow. Bower followed, somewhat in the rear. He glanced sharply back
toward the hotel. So far as he could judge, no one had witnessed that
frantic spring at his tormentor. At that hour, nearly every resident
would be on the sunlit veranda. He wondered whether or not Helen and
Millicent had met again. He wished now he had interviewed Millicent
last night. Her problem was simple enough,--a mere question of terms.
Spite had carried her boldly through the scene in the foyer; but she
was far too sensible a young woman to persist in a hopeless quarrel.
It was one of the fatalities that dogged his footsteps ever since he
came to Maloja that the only person watching him at the moment should
happen to be Millicent herself. Her room was situated at the back of
the hotel, and she had fallen asleep after many hours of restless
thought. When the clang of a bell woke her with a start she found that
the morning was far advanced. She dressed hurriedly, rather in a panic
lest her quarry might have evaded her by an early flight. The fine
panorama of the Italian Alps naturally attracted her eyes. She was
staring at it idly, when she saw Bower and Stampa crossing the open
space in front of her bed room window.
Stampa, of course, was unknown to her. In some indefinable way
his presence chimed with her fear that Bower would leave Maloja
forthwith. Did he intend to post through the Vale of Bregaglia to
Chiavenna? Then, indeed, she might be called on to overcome unforeseen
difficulties. She appreciated his character to the point of believing
that Helen was his dupe. She regretted now that she was so foolish as
to attack her one-time friend openly. Far better have asked Helen to
visit her privately, and endeavor to find out exactly how the land lay
before she encountered Bower. At any rate, she ought to learn without
delay whether or not he was hiring post horses in the village. If so,
he was unwilling to meet her, and the battle royal must take place in
London.
A maid entered with coffee and rolls.
"Who is that man with the English monsieur?" inquired Millicent,
pointing to the two.
The servant was a St. Moritz girl, and a glance sufficed. "That? He is
Christian Stampa, madam. He used to drive one of Joos's carriages; but
he had a misfortune. He nearly killed a lady whom he was bringing to
the hotel, and was dismissed in consequence. Now he is guide to an
American gentleman. My God! but they are droll, the Americans!"
The maid laughed, and created a clatter with basin and hot water can.
Millicent, forcing herself to eat quickly, continued to gaze after
the pair. The description of Stampa's employer interested her. His
drollery evidently consisted in hiring a cripple as guide.
"Is the American monsieur named Charles K. Spencer?" she said,
speaking very clearly.
"I do not know, madam. But Marie, who is on the second, can tell me.
Shall I ask?"
"Do, please."
Leontine bustled out. Just then Millicent was amazed by Bower's
extraordinary leap at Stampa and the guide's agile avoidance of his
would-be assailant. The men faced each other as though a fight was
imminent; but the upshot was that they walked on together quietly. Be
sure that two keen blue eyes watched their every motion thenceforth,
never leaving them till they entered the village street and
disappeared behind a large chalet.
"And what did it all mean? Mark Bower--scuffling with a villager!"
Millicent's smooth forehead wrinkled in earnest thought. How queer
it would be if Bower was trying to force Spencer's guide into the
commission of a crime! He would stop at nothing. He believed he could
bend all men, and all women too, to his will. Was he angered by
unexpected resistance? She hoped the maid would hurry with her news.
Though she meant to go at once to the village, it would be a point
gained if she was certain of Stampa's identity.
She was already veiled and befurred when Leontine returned. Yes, Marie
had given her full information. Madam had heard, perhaps, how Herr
Bower and the pretty English mademoiselle were in danger of being
snowed up in the Forno hut yesterday. Well, Stampa had gone with his
_voyageur_, Monsieur Spensare, to their rescue. And the young lady was
the one whom Stampa had endangered during his career as a cab driver.
Again, it was droll.
Millicent agreed. For the second time, she resolved to postpone her
journey to St. Moritz.
* * * * *
Bower was surprised when Stampa led him into the main road. Having
never seen any sign of a cemetery at Maloja, he guessed vaguely that
it must be situated close to the church. Therein, in a sense, he was
right. It will be remembered how Helen's solitary ramble on the
morning after her arrival in Maloja brought her to the secluded
graveyard. She first visited the little Swiss tabernacle which had
attracted her curiosity, and thence took the priest's path to the last
resting place of his flock. But Stampa had a purpose in following a
circuitous route. He turned sharply round the base of a huge pile of
logs, stacked there in readiness for the fires of a long winter.
"Look!" he said, throwing open the half door of a cattle shed behind
the timber. "They found her here on the second of August, a Sunday
morning, just before the people went to early mass. By her side was a
bottle labeled 'Poison.' She bought it in Zermatt on the sixth of
July. So, you see, my little girl had been thinking a whole month of
killing herself. Poor child! What a month! They tell me, Herr Baron,
you left Zermatt on the sixth of July?"
Bower's face had grown cold and gray while the old man was speaking.
He began to understand. Stampa would spare him none of the horror of
the tragedy from which he fled like a lost soul when the news of it
reached the hotel. Well, he would not draw back now. If Stampa and he
were destined to have a settlement, why defer it? This was his day of
reckoning,--of atonement, he hoped,--and he would not shirk the
ordeal, though his flesh quivered and his humbled pride lashed him
like a whip.
The squalid stable was peculiarly offensive. Owing to the gale, the
cattle that ought to be pasturing in the high alp were crowded there
in reeking filth. Yesterday, not long before this hour, he was humming
verses of cow songs to Helen, and beguiling the way to the Forno with
a recital of the customs and idyls of the hills. What a spiteful thing
was Fate! Why had this doting peasant risen from the dead to drag him
through the mire of a past transgression? If Stampa betrayed anger,
if his eyes and voice showed the scorn and hatred of a man justly
incensed because of his daughter's untimely death, the situation would
be more tolerable. But his words were mild, biting only by reason of
their simple pathos. He spoke in a detached manner. He might be
relating the unhappy story of some village maid of whom he had no
personal knowledge. This complete self effacement grated on Bower's
nerves. It almost spurred him again to ungovernable rage. But he
realized the paramount need of self control. He clenched his teeth in
the effort to bear his punishment without protest.
And Stampa seemed to have the gift of divination. He read Bower's
heart. By some means he became aware that the unsavory shed was
loathsome to the fine gentleman standing beside him.