The Silent Barrier
were not of the slightest consequence. He owed it to Etta to make
reparation, and the duty must be fulfilled to the utmost letter.
Strong man as he was, Bower nearly fainted. He scarce had the faculty
of speech when Stampa bade him make the necessary responses in
Italian. But he obeyed. All the time the devilish conviction grew that
if he persisted in this flummery he might emerge scatheless from a
ghastly ordeal. The punishment of publicity was the one thing he
dreaded, and that might be avoided--for Etta's sake. So he obeyed,
with cunning pretense of grief, trying to veil the malevolence in his
heart.
At last, when the solemn "_per omnia secula_ _seculorum_" and a
peaceful "Amen" announced the close of this amazing marriage service,
Stampa looked fixedly at his supposed son-in-law.
"Now, Marcus Bauer," he said, "I have done with you. See to it that
you do not again break your plighted vows to my daughter! She is your
wife. You are her husband. Not even death can divide you. Go!"
His strong, splendidly molded face, massive and dignified, cast in
lines that would have appealed to a sculptor who wished to limn the
features of a patriarch of old, wore an aspect of settled calm. He was
at peace with all the world. He had forgiven his enemy.
Bower rose again stiffly. He would have spoken; but Stampa now fell on
his knees and began to pray silently. So the millionaire, humbled
again and terror stricken by the sinister significance of those
concluding words, yet not daring to question them, crept out of the
place of the dead. As he staggered down the hillside he looked back
once. He had eyes only for the little iron gate, but Stampa came not.
Then he essayed to brush some of the clinging snow off his clothes. He
shook himself like a dog after a plunge into water. In the distance he
saw the hotel, with its promise of luxury and forgetfulness. And he
cursed Stampa with a bitter fury of emphasis, trying vainly to
persuade himself that he had been the victim of a maniac's delusion.
CHAPTER XIV
WHEREIN MILLICENT ARMS FOR THE FRAY
Millicent was wondering how she would fare in the deep snow in boots
that were never built for such a test. She was standing on the swept
roadway between the hotel and the stables, and the tracks of her
quarry were plainly visible. But the hope of discovering some
explanation of Bower's queer behavior was more powerful than her dread
of wet feet. She was gathering her skirts daintily before taking the
next step, when the two men suddenly reappeared.
They had left the village and were crossing the line of the path.
Shrinking back under cover of an empty wagon, she watched them.
Apparently they were heading for the Orlegna Gorge, and she scanned
the ground eagerly to learn how she could manage to spy on them
without being seen almost immediately. Then she fell into the same
error as Helen in believing that the winding carriage road to the
church offered the nearest way to the clump of firs and azaleas by
which Bower and Stampa would soon be hidden.
Three minutes' sharp walking brought her to the church, but there the
highway turned abruptly toward the village. As one side of the small
ravine faced south, the sun's rays were beginning to have effect, and
a narrow track, seemingly leading to the hill, was almost laid bare.
In any event, it must bring her near the point where the men vanished,
so she went on breathlessly. Crossing the rivulet, already swollen
with melting snow, she mounted the steps cut in the hillside. It was
heavy going in that thin air; but she held to it determinedly.
Then she heard men's voices raised in anger. She recognized one. Bower
was speaking German, Stampa a mixture of German and Italian. Millicent
had a vague acquaintance with both languages; but it was of the
Ollendorf order, and did not avail her in understanding their rapid,
excited words. Soon there were other sounds, the animal cries, the
sobs, the labored grunts of men engaged in deadly struggle. Thoroughly
alarmed, more willing to retreat than advance, she still clambered on,
impelled by irresistible desire to find out what strange thing was
happening.
At last, partly concealed by a dwarf fir, she could peer over a wall
into the tiny cemetery. She was too late to witness the actual fight;
but she saw Stampa spring upright, leaving his prostrate opponent
apparently lifeless. She was utterly frightened. Fear rendered her
mute. To her startled eyes it seemed that Bower had been killed by the
crippled man. Soon that quite natural impression yielded to one of
sustained astonishment. Bower rose slowly, a sorry spectacle. To her
woman's mind, unfamiliar with scenes of violence, it was surprising
that he did not begin at once to beat the life out of the lame old
peasant who had attacked him so viciously. When Stampa closed the gate
and motioned Bower to kneel, when the tall, powerfully built man knelt
without protest, when the reading of the Latin service began,--well,
Millicent could never afterward find words to express her conflicting
emotions.
But she did not move. Crouching behind her protecting tree, guarding
her very breath lest some involuntary cry should betray her presence,
she watched the whole of the weird ceremonial. She racked her brains
to guess its meaning, strained her ears to catch a sentence that might
be identified hereafter; but she failed in both respects. Of course,
it was evident that someone was buried there, someone whose memory the
wild looking villager held dear, someone whose grave he had forced
Bower to visit, someone for whose sake he was ready to murder Bower if
the occasion demanded. So much was clear; but the rest was blurred, a
medley of incoherences, a waking nightmare.
Oddly enough, it never occurred to her that a woman might be lying in
that dreary tenement. Her first vague imagining suggested that Bower
had committed a crime, killed a man, and that an avenger had dragged
him to his victim's last resting place. That Stampa was laboriously
plodding through the marriage ritual was a fantastic conceit of which
she received no hint. There was nothing to dissolve the mist in her
mind. She could only wait, and marvel.
As the strange scene drew to its close, she became calmer. She
reflected that some sort of registry would be kept of the graves. A
few dismal monuments, and two rows of little black wooden crosses that
stuck up mournfully out of the snow, gave proof positive of that. She
counted the crosses. Stampa was standing near the seventh from a tomb
easily recognizable at some future time. Bower faced it on his knees.
She could not see him distinctly, as he was hidden by the other man's
broad shoulders; but she did not regret it, because the warm brown
tints of her furs against the background of snow and foliage might
warn him of her presence. She thanked the kindly stars that brought
her here. No matter what turn events took now, she hoped to hold the
whip hand over Bower. There was a mystery to be cleared, of course;
but with such materials she could hardly fail to discover its true
bearings.
So she watched, in tremulous patience, quick to note each movement of
the actors in a drama the like to which she had never seen on the
stage.
At last Bower slunk away. She heard the crunching of his feet on the
snow, and, when Stampa ceased his silent prayer, she expected that he
would depart by the same path. To her overwhelming dismay, he wheeled
round and looked straight at her. In reality his eyes were fixed on
the hills behind her. He was thinking of his unhappy daughter. The
giant mass of Corvatsch was associated in his mind with the girl's
last glimpse of her beloved Switzerland, while on that same memorable
day it threw its deep shadow over his own life. He turned to the
mountain to seek its testimony,--as it were, to the consummation of a
tragedy.
But Millicent could not know that. Losing all command of herself, she
shrieked in terror, and ran wildly among the trees. She stumbled and
fell before she had gone five yards over the rough ground. Quite in a
panic, confused and blinded with snow, she rose and ran again, only to
find herself speeding back to the burial ground. Then, in a very agony
of distress, she stood still. Stampa was looking at her, with mild
surprise displayed in every line of his expressive features.
"What are you afraid of, _signorina_?" he asked in Italian.
She half understood, but her tongue clove to the roof of her mouth.
Her terror was manifest, and he pitied her.
He repeated his question in German. A child might have recognized that
this man of the benignant face and kindly, sorrow laden eyes intended
no evil.
"I am sorry. I beg your pardon, Herr Stampa," she managed to stammer.
"Ah, you know me, then, _signorina_! But everybody knows old Stampa.
Have you lost your way?"
"I was taking a little walk, and happened to approach the cemetery. I
saw----"
"There is nothing to interest you here, madam, and still less to cause
fear. But it is a sad place, at the best. Follow that path. It will
lead you to the village or the hotel."
Her fright was subsiding rapidly. She deemed the opportunity too good
to be lost. If she could win his confidence, what an immense advantage
it would be in her struggle against Bower! Summoning all her energies,
and trying to remember some of the German sentences learned in her
school days, she smiled wistfully.
"You are in great trouble," she murmured. "I suppose Herr Bower has
injured you?"
Stampa glanced at her keenly. He had the experience of sixty years
of a busy life to help him in summing up those with whom he came in
contact, and this beautiful, richly dressed woman did not appeal to
his simple nature as did Helen when she surprised his grief on a
morning not so long ago. Moreover, the elegant stranger was little
better than a spy, for none but a spy would have wandered among the
rocks and shrubs in such weather, and he was in no mood to suffer her
inquiries.
"I am in no trouble," he said, "and Herr Bauer has not injured me."
"But you fought," she persisted. "I thought you had killed him. I
almost wish you had. I hate him!"
"It is a bad thing to hate anyone. I am three times your age; so you
may, or may not, regard my advice as excellent. Come round by the
corner of the wall, and you will reach the path without walking in the
deep snow. Good morning, madam."
He bowed with an ease that would have proclaimed his nationality if he
had not been an Italian mountaineer in every poise and gesture.
Stooping to recover his Alpine hat, which was lying near the cross at
the head of the grave, he passed out through the gate before Millicent
was clear of the wall. He made off with long, uneven, but rapid
strides, leaving her hot with annoyance that a mere peasant should
treat her so cavalierly. Though she did not understand all he said,
she grasped its purport. But her soreness soon passed. The great fact
remained that she shared some secret with him and Bower, a secret of
an importance she could not yet measure. She was tempted to go inside
the cemetery, and might have yielded to the impulse had not a load of
snow suddenly tumbled off the broad fronds of a pine. The incident
set her heart beating furiously again. How lonely was this remote
hilltop! Even the glorious sunshine did not relieve its brooding
silence.
Thus it came about that these three people went down into the valley,
each within a short distance of the others, and Spencer saw them all
from the high road, where he was questioning an official of the
federal postoffice as to the method of booking seats in the banquette
of the diligence from Vicosoprano.
That he was bewildered by the procession goes without saying. Where
had they been, and how in the name of wonder could the woman's