The Silent Barrier
tenacity of purpose was his chief characteristic. "Meanwhile," he
said, "let us talk of the weather."
"A most seasonable topic. It was altogether novel this morning to wake
and find the world covered with snow."
"If the Maloja is your world, you must have thought it rather
chilling," he laughed.
"Yes, cold, perhaps, but fascinating. I went for a walk. You see, I
wanted to be alone, to think what I should do for the best. A woman is
so helpless when she has to fight a big, strong man like you. Chance
led me to the cemetery. What an odd little place it is? Wouldn't you
hate to be buried there?"
It was now Millicent's turn to be surprised. Not by the slightest
tremor did Bower betray the shock caused by her innuendo. His nerves
were proof against further assault that day. Fear had conquered him
for an instant when he looked into the gate of darkness. With its
passing from before his eyes, his intellect resumed its sway, and he
weighed events by that nicely adjusted balance. None but a man who
greatly dared would be sitting opposite Millicent at that moment. None
but a fool would have failed to understand her. But he gave no sign
that he understood. He refilled his glass, and emptied it with the
gusto of a connoisseur.
"That is a good wine," he said. "Sometimes pints are better than
quarts, although of the same vintage. Waiter, another half bottle,
please."
"No more for me, of course," murmured Millicent. "I must keep my
head clear,--so much depends on the next five minutes."
"Three, to be exact."
"Ah, then, I must use them to advantage. Shall I tell you more about
my early stroll?"
"What time did you go out?"
"Soon after ten o'clock."
"You saw--what?"
"A most exciting struggle--and--what shall I call it?--a ceremony."
Bower was silent for an appreciable time. He watched a waiter
uncorking the champagne. When the bottle was placed on the table he
pretended to read the label. He was thinking that Stampa's marriage
service was not so futile, after all. It had soon erected its first
barrier. Millicent, who had qualities rare in a woman, turned and
looked at a clock. Incidentally, she discovered that Spencer was
devoting some attention to the proceedings at her table. Still Bower
remained silent. She stole a glance at him. She was conscious that an
abiding dread was stealing into her heart; but her stage training came
to her aid, and she managed to say evenly:
"My little ramble does not appear to interest you?"
"It does," he said. "I have been arguing the pros and cons of a
ticklish problem. There are two courses to me. I can either bribe
you, or leave you to your own devices. The latter method implies the
interference of the police. I dislike that. Helen would certainly be
opposed to it. I make the one thousand into five; but I want your
answer now."
"I accept," she said instantly.
"Ah, but you are trembling. Queer, isn't it, how thin is the partition
between affluence and a prison? There are dozens of men who stand high
in commercial circles in London who ought to be in jail. There are
quite as many convicts in Portland who reached penal servitude along
precisely the same road. That is the penalty of being found out. Let
me congratulate you. And do try another glass of this excellent wine.
You need it, and you have to pack your belongings at once, you know."
"Thank you."
Her eyes sparkled. Her well modulated voice was hardly under control.
Five thousand pounds was a great deal of money; but the tragedy of
Etta Stampa's life might have been worth more. How could she find out
the whole truth? She must accomplish that, in some way.
Therein, however, she greatly miscalculated. Bower divined her thought
almost before it was formed. "For goodness' sake, let us put things in
plain English!" he said. "I am paying you handsomely to save the woman
I am going to marry from some little suffering and heartache. Perhaps
it is unnecessary. Her fine nature might forgive a man a transgression
of his youth. At any rate, I avert the risk by this payment. The check
will be payable to you personally. In other words, you must place it
to your own account in your bank. Any breach of our contract in letter
or spirit during the next two days will be punished by its stoppage.
After that time, the remotest hint on your part of any scandalous
knowledge affecting me, or Helen, or the causes which led to my
present weakness in allowing you to blackmail me, will imply the
immediate issue of a warrant for your arrest. Need I explain the
position at greater length?"
"No," said Millicent, who wished now that she had bitten off the end
of her tongue before she vented her spleen to the Vavasours and the
Wraggs.
"On second thoughts," went on Bower unconcernedly, "I forego the
stipulation as to a letter of apology. I don't suppose Helen will
value it. Assuredly, I do not."
The cheapening of her surrender stung more than she counted on. "I
have tried to avoid the appearance of uncalled for rudeness to-day,"
she blurted out.
"Well--yes. What is the number of your room?"
She told him.
"I shall send the check to you at once. Have you finished?"
He accompanied her to the door, bowed her out, and came back. Smiling
affably, he pulled a chair to Mrs. de la Vere's side.
"I quite enjoyed my luncheon," he said. "You all heard that stupid
outburst of Millicent's last night; so there is no harm in telling
you that she regrets it. She is leaving the hotel forthwith."
Helen rose suddenly. "She is one of my few friends," she said. "I
cannot let her go in anger."
"She is unworthy of your friendship," exclaimed Bower sharply. "Take
my advice and forget that she exists."
"You cannot forget that anyone exists, or has existed," said Spencer
quietly.
"What? You too?" said Bower. His eyes sought the American's, and
flashed an unspoken challenge.
He felt that the world was a few hundred years too old. There were
historical precedents for settling affairs such as that now troubling
him by means that would have appealed to him. But he opposed no
further hindrance to Helen's departure. Indeed, he perceived that her
meeting with Millicent would provide in some sense a test of his own
judgment. He would soon learn whether or not money would prevail.
He waited a little while, and then sent his valet with the check and a
request for an acknowledgment. The man brought him a scribbled note:
"Was rather taken aback by appearance of H. She says you
told her I was leaving the hotel. We fell on each other's
neck and wept. Is that right? M. J."
He cut the end off a cigar, lit the paper with a match, and lit the
cigar with the paper.
"Five thousand pounds!" he said to himself. "It is a lot of money to
one who has none. I remember the time when I would have sold my soul
to the devil for half the amount."
But that was not a pleasing notion. It suggested that, by evil hazard,
some such contract had, in fact, been made, but forgotten by one of
the parties to it. So he dismissed it. Having disposed of Stampa and
Millicent, practically between breakfast and lunch, there were no
reasons why he should trouble further about them. The American
threatened a fresh obstacle. He was winning his way with Helen
altogether too rapidly. In the light of those ominous words at the
luncheon table his close association with Stampa indicated a definite
knowledge of the past. Curse him! Why did he interfere?
Bower was eminently a selfish man. He had enjoyed unchecked success
for so long a time that he railed now at the series of mischances that
tripped the feet of his desires. Looking back through recent days, he
was astonished to find how often Spencer had crossed his path. Before
he was four hours in Maloja, Helen, in his hearing, had singled out
the American for conjecture and scrutiny. Then Dunston spoke of the
same man as an eager adversary at baccarat; but the promised game was
arranged without Spencer's cooperation, greatly to Dunston's loss. A
man did not act in such fashion without some motive. What was it? This
reserved, somewhat contemptuous rival had also snatched Helen from
his company many times. He had undoubtedly rendered some service in
coming to the Forno hut; but Bower's own lapse from sanity on that
occasion did not escape his notice. Finally, this cool mannered, alert
youngster from the New World did not seem to care a fig for any prior
claim on Helen's affections. His whole attitude might be explained by
the fact that he was Stampa's employer, and had won the old guide's
confidence.
Yes, the American was the real danger. That pale ghost conjured from
the grave by Stampa was intangible, powerless, a dreamlike wraith
evoked by a madman's fancy. Already the fear engendered myopia of the
morning was passing from Bower's eyes. The passage of arms with
Millicent had done him good. He saw now that if he meant to win Helen
he must fight for her.
Glancing at his watch, he found that the time was a quarter to three.
He opened a window in his sitting room, which was situated in the
front of the hotel. By leaning out he could survey the carriage stand
at the foot of the long flight of steps. A pair-horse vehicle was
drawn up there, and men were fastening portly dress baskets in the
baggage carrier over the hind wheels.
He smiled. "The pretty dancer travels luxuriously," he thought. "I
wonder whether she will be honest enough to pay her debts with my
money?"
He still hated her for having dragged him into a public squabble. He
looked to the future to requite him. A year, two years, would soon
pass. Then, when funds were low and engagements scarce, she would
appeal to him again, and his solicitors would reply. He caught himself
framing curt, stinging sentences to be embodied in the letter; but he
drew himself up with a start. Surely there was something very wrong
with Mark Bower, the millionaire, when he gloated over such paltry
details. Why, his reflections were worthy of that old spitfire, Mrs.
de Courcy Vavasour.
His cigar had gone out. He threw it away. It had the taste of
Millicent's cheap passion. A decanter of brandy stood on the table,
and he drank a small quantity, though he had imbibed freely of
champagne at luncheon. He glanced at a mirror. His face was flushed
and care lined, and he scowled at his own apparition.
"I must go and see the last of Millicent. It will cheer me up," he
said to himself.
When he entered the foyer, Millicent was already in the veranda, a
dainty picture in furs and feathers. Somewhat to his surprise, Helen
was with her. A good many people were watching them covertly, a quite
natural proceeding in view of their strained relations overnight.
Millicent's first action after quitting the _salle a manger_ had been
to worm out of Leontine the full, true, and particular history of Etta
Stampa, or so much of the story as was known to the hotel servants.
The recital was cut short by Helen's visit, but resumed during
packing operations, as Millicent had enlarged her store of knowledge
considerably during the process of reconciliation.
So, alive to possibilities going far beyond a single check, even for
five thousand pounds, at the last moment she sent a message to Helen.
"Come and see me off," she wrote. "It will simply paralyze
the dowager brigade if we hug each other on the mat."
Helen agreed. She was not sorry that her critics should be paralyzed,
or stupefied, or rendered incapable in some way of inflicting further
annoyance. In her present radiant mood, nearly all her troubles having
taken unto themselves wings, she looked on yesterday's episode in the