The Silent Barrier
"Pretty hot, I must admit," sniggered Georgie, thinking to make peace
with Beryl Wragg; but she seemed to find his humor not to her taste.
"It is the kind of arrangement from which one draws one's own
conclusions," said Mrs. Vavasour blandly.
"But, I say, does Bower know this?" asked Wragg, swinging his
eyeglasses nervously. Though he dearly loved these carpet battles, he
was chary of figuring in them, having been caught badly more than once
between the upper and nether millstones of opposing facts.
"You heard me tell him," was Millicent's confident answer. "If he
requires further information, I am here to give it to him. Indeed, I
have delayed my departure for that very reason. By the way, General,
do you know Switzerland well?"
"Every hotel in the country," he boasted proudly.
"I don't quite mean in that sense. Who are the authorities? For
instance, if I had a friend buried in the cemetery here, to whom
should I apply for identification of the grave?"
The General screwed up his features into a judicial frown.
"Well--er--I should go to the communal office in the village, if I
were you," said he.
Braving his mother's possible displeasure, George de Courcy Vavasour
asserted his manliness for Beryl's benefit.
"I know the right Johnny," he said. "Let me take you to him, Miss
Jaques--Eh, what?"
Millicent affected to consider the proposal. She saw that Mrs.
Vavasour was content. "It is very kind of you," she said, with her
most charming smile. "Have we time to go there before lunch?"
"Oh, loads."
"I am walking toward the village. May I come with you?" asked Beryl
Wragg.
"That will be too delightful," said Millicent.
Georgie, feeling the claws beneath the velvet of Miss Wragg's voice,
could only suffer in silence. The three went out together. The two
women did the talking, and Millicent soon discovered that Bower had
unquestionably paid court to Helen from the first hour of his arrival
in the Maloja, whereas Spencer seemed to be an utter stranger to her
and to every other person in the place. This statement offered a
curious discrepancy to the story retailed by Mackenzie's assistant.
But it strengthened her case against Helen. She grew more determined
than ever to go on to the bitter end.
A communal official raised no difficulty about giving the name of the
occupant of the grave marked by the seventh cross from the tomb she
described. A child was buried there, a boy who died three years ago.
With Beryl Wragg's assistance, she cross examined the man, but could
not shake his faith in the register.
The parents still lived in the village. The official knew them, and
remembered the boy quite well. He had contracted a fever, and died
suddenly.
This was disappointing. Millicent, prepared to hear of a tragedy, was
confronted by the commonplace. But the special imp that attends all
mischief makers prompted her next question.
"Do you know Christian Stampa, the guide?" she asked.
The man grinned. "Yes, _signora_. He has been on the road for years,
ever since he lost his daughter."
"Was he any relation to the boy? What interest would he have in this
particular grave?"
The custodian of parish records stroked his chin. He took thought, and
reached for another ledger. He ran a finger through an index and
turned up a page.
"A strange thing!" he cried. "Why, that is the very place where Etta
Stampa is buried. You see, _signora_," he explained, "it is a small
cemetery, and our people are poor."
Etta Stampa! Was this the clew? Millicent's heart throbbed. How stupid
that she had not thought of a woman earlier!
"How old was Etta Stampa?" she inquired.
"Her age is given here as nineteen, _signora_; but that is a guess. It
was a sad case. She killed herself. She came from Zermatt. I have
lived nearly all my life in this valley, and hers is the only suicide
I can recall."
"Why did she kill herself, and when?"
The official supplied the date; but he had no knowledge of the affair
beyond a village rumor that she had been crossed in love. As for poor
old Stampa, who met with an accident about the same time, he never
mentioned her.
"Stampa is the lame Johnny who went up the Forno yesterday,"
volunteered Georgie, when they quitted the office. "But, I say, Miss
Jaques, his daughter couldn't be a friend of yours?"
Millicent did not answer. She was thinking deeply. Then she realized
that Beryl Wragg was watching her intently.
"No," she said, "I did not mean to convey that she was my friend; only
that one whom I know well was interested in her. Can you tell me how I
can find out more of her history?"
"Some of the villagers may help," said Miss Wragg. "Shall we make
inquiries? It is marvelous how one comes across things in the most
unlikely quarters."
Vavasour, whose stroll with a pretty actress had resolved itself into
a depressing quest into the records of the local cemetery, looked at
his watch. "Time's up," he announced firmly. "The luncheon gong will
go in a minute or two, and this keen air makes one peckish--Eh, what?"
So Millicent returned to the hotel, and when she entered the dining
room she saw Helen and Spencer sitting with the de la Veres. Edith de
la Vere stared at her in a particularly irritating way. Cynical
contempt, bored amusement, even a quizzical surprise that such a
vulgar person could be so well dressed, were carried by wireless
telegraphy from the one woman to the other. Millicent countered with a
studied indifference. She gave her whole attention to the efforts of
the head waiter to find a seat to her liking. He offered her the
choice between two. With fine self control, she selected that which
turned her back on Helen and her friends.
She had just taken her place when Bower came in. He stopped near the
door, and spoke to an under manager; but his glance swept the crowded
room. Spencer and Helen happened to be almost facing him, and the girl
was listening with a smile to something the American was saying. But
there was a conscious shyness in her eyes, a touch of color on her sun
browned face, that revealed more than she imagined.
Bower, who looked ill and old, hesitated perceptibly. Then he seemed
to reach some decision. He walked to Helen's side, and bent over her
with courteous solicitude. "I hope that I am forgiven," he said.
She started. She was so absorbed in Spencer's talk, which dealt with
nothing more noteworthy than the excursion down the Vale of Bregaglia,
which he secretly hoped would be postponed, that she had not observed
Bower's approach.
"Forgiven, Mr. Bower? For what?" she asked, blushing now for no
assignable reason.
"For yesterday's fright, and its sequel."
"But I enjoyed it thoroughly. Please don't think I am only a fair
weather mountaineer."
"No. I am not likely to commit that mistake. It was feminine spite,
not elemental, that I fancied might have troubled you. Now I am going
to face the enemy alone. Pity me, and please drink to my success."
He favored Spencer and the de la Veres with a comprehensive nod, and
turned away, well satisfied that he had claimed a condition of
confidence, of mutual trust, between Helen and himself.
Millicent was reading the menu when she heard Bower's voice at her
shoulder. "Good morning, Millicent," he said. "Shall we declare a
truce? May I eat at your table? That, at least, will be original.
Picture the amazement of the mob if the lion and the lamb split a
small bottle."
He was bold; but chance had fenced her with triple brass. "I really
don't feel inclined to forgive you," she said, with a quite forgiving
smile.
He sat down. The two were watched with discreet stupefaction by many.
"Never give rein to your emotions, Millicent. You did so last night,
and blundered badly in consequence. Artifice is the truest art, you
know. Let us, then, be unreal, and act as though we were the dearest
friends."
"We are, I imagine. Self interest should keep us solid."
Bower affected a momentary absorption in the wine list. He gave his
order, and the waiter left them.
"Now, I want you to be good," he said. "Put your cards on the table,
and I will do the same. Let us discuss matters without prejudice, as
the lawyers say. And, in the first instance, tell me exactly what
you imply by the statement that Mr. Charles K. Spencer, of Denver,
Colorado, as he appears in the hotel register, is responsible for
Helen Wynton's presence here to-day."
CHAPTER XV
A COWARD'S VICTORY
"It is a queer story," said Bower.
"Because it is true," retorted Millicent.
"Yet she never set eyes on the man until she met him here."
"That is rather impossible, isn't it?"
"It is a fact, nevertheless. On the day I arrived in Maloja, a letter
came from the editor of 'The Firefly,' telling her that he had written
to Spencer, whom he knew, and suggested that they should become
acquainted."
"These things are easily managed," said Millicent airily.
"I accept Miss Wynton's version." Bower spoke with brutal frankness.
The morning's tribulation had worn away some of the veneer. He fully
expected the girl to flare into ill suppressed rage. Then he could
deal with her as he liked. He had not earned his repute in the city
of London without revealing at times the innate savagery of his
nature. As soon as he had taunted his adversaries into a passion,
he found the weak joints in their armor. He was surprised now that
Millicent should laugh. If she was acting, she was acting well.
"It is too funny for words to see you playing the trustful swain," she
said.
"One necessarily believes the best of one's future wife."
"So you still keep up that pretense? It was a good line in last
night's situation; but it becomes farcical when applied to light
comedy."
"I give you credit for sufficient wit to understand why I joined you
here. We can avoid unpleasant explanations. I am prepared to bury the
hatchet--on terms."
"Terms?"
"Yes. You are a blackmailer, a somewhat dangerous one. You tempt me to
revise the wisest of La Rochefoucauld's maxims, and say that every
woman is at heart a snake. You owe everything to me; yet you are not
content. Without my help you would still be carrying a banner in the
chorus. Unless I continue my patronage, that is what you must go back
to. Don't imagine that I am treating with you out of sentiment. For
Helen's sake, for her sake only, I offer a settlement."
Millicent's eyes narrowed a little; but she affected to admire the
gleaming beads in a glass of champagne. "Pray continue," she said.
"Your views are interesting."
There was some danger lest Bower should reverse his wonted procedure,
and lose his own temper in this unequal duel. They both spoke in low
tones. Anyone watching them would find the smiles of conventionality
on their lips. To all outward seeming, they were indulging in a
friendly gossip.
"Of course, you want money," he said. "That is the be-all and
end-all of your existence. Very well. Write a letter to Miss Wynton
apologizing for your conduct, take yourself away from here at three
o'clock, and from St. Moritz by the next train, and I not only
withdraw my threat to bar you in the profession but shall hand you
a check for a thousand pounds."
Millicent pretended to consider his proposal. She shook her head. "Not
nearly enough," she said, with a sweetly deprecatory moue.
"It is all you will get. I repeat that I am doing this to spare
Helen's feelings. Perhaps I am ill advised. You have done your worst
already, and it only remains for me to crush you. But I stick to the
bargain--for five minutes."
"Dear, dear!" she sighed. "Only five minutes? Do you get rid of your
troubles so quickly? How nice to be a man, and to be able to settle
matters with such promptitude."
Bower was undeniably perplexed; but he held to his line. Unwavering