The Silent Barrier

“Done! I should like to have an interest in it. Not that I am pining for Bower’s money, and it may be that he will win ours; but I am keen on giving him a sharp run. At Nice last January not a soul in the Casino would go Banco when he opened a big bank. They were afraid of him.”

While he was speaking, Dunston’s shrewd eyes dwelt on the younger man’s unmoved face. He wondered what had caused this sudden veering of purpose. It was certainly not the allurement of heavy gambling, for Spencer had declined the proposal as coolly as he now accepted it. Being a man of the world, he thought he could peer beneath the mask. To satisfy himself, he harked back to the personal topic.

“By the way, does anyone know who Miss Wynton is?” he said. “That inveterate gossip, Mrs. Vavasour, who can vouch for every name in the Red Book, says she is a lady journalist.”

“That, at any rate, is correct,” said the vicar. “In fact, Miss Wynton herself told me so.”

“Jolly fine girl, whatever she is. To give Bower his due, he has always been a person of taste.”

“I have reason to believe,” said Spencer, “that Miss Wynton’s acquaintance with Mr. Bower is of the slightest.”

His words were slow and clear. Dunston, sure now that his guess was fairly accurate, hastened to efface an unpleasant impression.

“Of course, I only meant that if Bower is seen talking to any woman, it may be taken for granted that she is a pretty one,” he explained. “But who’s for a drink? Perhaps we shall meet our expected opponent in the bar, Mr. Spencer.”

“I have some letters to write. Fix that game for to-morrow or next day, and I’ll be on hand.”

Dunston and Holt paid the few shillings they owed, and went out.

Hare did not move. He looked anxious, almost annoyed. “It is exceedingly ridiculous how circumstances pass beyond a man’s control occasionally,” he protested. “Am I right in assuming that until this evening neither Bower nor Dunston was known to you, Mr. Spencer?”

“Absolutely correct, vicar. I have never yet spoken to Bower, and you heard all that passed between Dunston and myself.”

“Then my harmless invitation to you to join in a game at cards has led directly to an arrangement for play at absurdly high figures?”

“It seems to me, Mr. Hare, that Bower’s tracks and mine are destined to cross in more ways than one in the near future,” said Spencer coolly.

But the vicar was not to be switched away from the new thought that was troubling him. “I will not ask what you mean,” he said, gazing steadfastly at the American. “My chief concern is the outcome of my share in this evening’s pleasant amusement. I cannot shut my ears to the fact that you have planned the loss or gain of some thousands of pounds on the turn of a card at baccarat.”

“If it is disagreeable to you – ”

“How can it be otherwise? I am a broad-minded man, and I see no harm whatever in playing bridge for pennies; but I am more pained than I care to confess at the prospect of such a sequel to our friendly meeting to-night. If this thing happens, – if a small fortune is won or lost merely to gratify Dunston’s whim, – I assure you that I shall never touch a card again as long as I live.”

Then Spencer laughed. “That would be too bad, Mr. Hare,” he cried. “Make your mind easy. The game is off. Count on me for the tenpence a hundred limit after dinner to-morrow.”

“Now, that is quite good and kind of you. Dunston made me very miserable by his mad proposition. Of course, both he and Bower are rich men, men to whom a few thousand pounds are of little importance; or, to be accurate, they profess not to care whether they win or lose, though their wealth is not squandered so heedlessly when it is wanted for some really deserving object. But perhaps that is uncharitable. My only wish is to thank you from the bottom of my heart for your generous promise.”

“Is Bower so very rich then? Have you met him before?”

“He is a reputed millionaire. I read of him in the newspapers at times. In my small country parish such financial luminaries twinkle from a far sky. It is true he is a recent light. He made a great deal of money in copper, I believe.”

“What kind of character do you give him, – good, bad, or indifferent?”

Hare’s benevolent features showed the astonishment that thrilled him at this blunt question. “I hardly know what to say – ” he stammered.

Spencer liked this cheery vicar and resolved to trust him. “Let me explain,” he said. “You and I agree in thinking that Miss Wynton is an uncommonly nice girl. I am not on her visiting list at present, so my judgment is altruistic. Suppose she was your daughter or niece, would you care to see her left to that man’s mercies?”

The clergyman fidgeted a little before he answered. Spencer was a stranger to him, yet he felt drawn toward him. The strong, clear cut face won confidence. “If it was the will of Heaven, I would sooner see her in the grave,” he said, with solemn candor.

Spencer rose. He held out his hand. “I guess it’s growing late,” he cried, “and our talk has swung round to a serious point. Sleep well, Mr. Hare. That game is dead off.”

As he passed the bar he heard Bower’s smooth, well rounded accents through the half-open door. “Nothing I should like better,” he was saying. “Are you tired? If not, bring your friend to my rooms now. Although I have been in the train all night, I am fit as a fiddle.”

“Let me see. I left him in the smoking room with our padre– ”

It was Dunston who spoke; but Bower broke in:

“Oh, keep the clergy out of it! They make such a song about these things if they hear of them.”

“I was going to say that if he is not there he will be in his room. He is two doors from me, No. 61, I think. Shall I fetch him?”

“Do, by all means. By Jove! I didn’t expect to get any decent play here!”

Spencer slipped into a small vestibule where he had left a hat and overcoat. He remained there till Dunston crossed the hall and entered the elevator. Then he went out, meaning to stroll and smoke in the moonlight for an hour. It would be easier to back out of the promised game in the morning than at that moment. Moreover, in the clear, still air he could plan a course of action, the need of which was becoming insistent.

He was blessed, or cursed, with a stubborn will, and he knew it. Hitherto, it had been exercised on a theory wrapped in hard granite, and the granite had yielded, justifying the theory. Now he was brought face to face with a woman’s temperament, and his experience of that elusive and complex mixture of attributes was of the slightest. Attractive young women in Colorado are plentiful as cranberries; but never one of them had withdrawn his mind’s eye from his work. Why, then, was he so ready now to devote his energies to the safeguarding of Helen Wynton? It was absurd to pretend that he was responsible for her future well-being because of the whim that sent her on a holiday. She was well able to take care of herself. She had earned her own living before he met her; she had risen imperiously above the petty malice displayed by some of the residents in the hotel; there was a reasonable probability that she might become the wife of a man highly placed and wealthy. Every consideration told in favor of a policy of non-interference. The smoking of an inch of good cigar placed the matter in such a convincing light that Spencer was half resolved to abide by his earlier decision and leave Maloja next morning.

But the other half, made up of inclination, pleaded against all the urging of expediency. He deemed the vicar an honest man, and that stout-hearted phrase of his stuck. Yet, whether he went or stayed, the ultimate solution of the problem lay with Helen herself. Once on speaking terms with her, he could form a more decided view. It was wonderful how one’s estimate of a man or woman could be modified in the course of a few minutes’ conversation. Well, he would settle things that way, and meanwhile enjoy the beauty of a wondrous night.

A full moon was flooding the landscape with a brilliance not surpassed in the crystal atmosphere of Denver. The snow capped summit of the Cima di Rosso was fit to be a peak in Olympus, a silver throned height where the gods sat in council. The brooding pines perched on the hillside beyond the Orlegna looked like a company of gigantic birds with folded wings. From the road leading to the village he could hear the torrent itself singing its mad song of freedom after escaping from the icy caverns of the Forno glacier. Quite near, on the right, the tiny cascade that marks the first seaward flight of the Inn mingled its sweet melody with the orchestral thunder of the more distant cataracts plunging down the precipices toward Italy. It was a night when one might listen to the music of the spheres, and Spencer was suddenly jarred into unpleasant consciousness of his surroundings by the raucous voices of some peasants bawling a Romansch ballad in a wayside wine house.

Turning sharply on his heel, he took the road by the lake. There at least he would find peace from the strenuous amours of Margharita as trolled by the revelers. He had not gone three hundred yards before he saw a woman standing near the low wall that guarded the embanked highway from the water. She was looking at the dark mirror of the lake, and seemed to be identifying the stars reflected in it. Three or four times, as he approached, she tilted her head back and gazed at the sky. The skirt of a white dress was visible below a heavy ulster; a knitted shawl was wrapped loosely over her hair and neck, and the ends were draped deftly across her shoulders; but before she turned to see who was coming along the road Spencer had recognized her. Thus, in a sense, he was a trifle the more prepared of the two for this unforeseen meeting, and he hailed it as supplying the answer to his doubts.

“Now,” said he to himself, “I shall know in ten seconds whether or not I travel west by north to-morrow.”

Helen did not avert her glance instantly. Nor did she at once resume a stroll evidently interrupted to take in deep breaths of the beauty of the scene. That was encouraging to the American, – she expected him to speak to her.

He halted in the middle of the road. If he was mistaken, he did not wish to alarm her. “If you will pardon the somewhat unorthodox time and place, I should like to make myself known to you, Miss Wynton,” he said, lifting his cap.

“You are Mr. Spencer?” she answered, with a frank smile.

“Yes, I have a letter of introduction from Mr. Mackenzie.”

“So have I. What do we do next? Exchange letters? Mine is in the hotel.”

“Suppose we just shake?”

“Well, that is certainly the most direct way.”

Their hands met. They were both aware of a whiff of nervousness. For some reason, the commonplace greetings of politeness fell awkwardly from their lips. In such a predicament a woman may always be trusted to find the way out.

“It is rather absurd that we should be saying how pleased we are that Mr. Mackenzie thought of writing those letters, while in reality I am horribly conscious that I ought not to be here at all, and you are probably thinking that I am quite an amazing person,” and Helen laughed light heartedly.

“That is part of my thought,” said Spencer.

“Won’t you tell me the remainder?”

“May I?”

“Please do. I am in chastened mood.”

“I wish I was skilled in the trick of words, then I might say something real cute. As it is, I can only supply a sort of condensed statement, – something about a nymph, a moonlit lake, the spirit of the glen, – nice catchy phrases every one, – with a line thrown in from Shelley about an ‘orbéd maiden with white fire laden.’ Let me go back a hundred yards, Miss Wynton, and I shall return with the whole thing in order.”

“With such material I believe you would bring me a sonnet.”

“No. I hail from the wild and woolly West, where life itself is a poem; so I stick to prose. There is a queer sort of kink in human nature to account for that.”

“On the principle that a Londoner never hears the roar of London, I suppose?”

“Exactly. An old lady I know once came across a remarkable instance of it. She watched a ship-wreck, the real article, with all the scenic accessories, and when a half drowned sailor was dragged ashore she asked him how he felt at that awful moment. And what do you think he said?”

“Very wet,” laughed Helen.

“No, that is the other story. This man said he was very dry.”

“Ah, the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous, which reminds me that if I remain here much longer talking nonsense I shall lose the good opinion I am sure you have formed of me from Mr. Mackenzie’s letter. Why, it must be after eleven o’clock! Are you going any farther, or will you walk with me to the hotel?”

“If you will allow me – ”

“Indeed, I shall be very glad of your company. I came out to escape my own thoughts. Did you ever meet such an unsociable lot of people as our fellow boarders, Mr. Spencer? If it was not for my work, and the fact that I have taken my room for a month, I should hie me forthwith to the beaten track of the vulgar but good natured tourist.”

“Why not go? Let me help you to-morrow to map out a tour. Then I shall know precisely where to waylay you, for I feel the chill here too.”

“I wish I could fall in with the first part of your proposal, though the second rather suggests that you regard Mr. Mackenzie’s letter of introduction as a letter of marque.”

“At any rate, I am an avowed pirate,” he could not help retorting. “But to keep strictly to business, why not quit if you feel like wandering?”

“Because I was sent here, on a journalistic mission which I understand less now than when I received it in London. Of course, I am delighted with the place. It is the people I – kick at? Is that a quite proper Americanism?”

“It seems to fit the present case like a glove, or may I say, like a shoe?”

“Now you are laughing at me, inwardly of course, and I agree with you. Ladies should not use slang, nor should they promenade alone in Swiss valleys by moonlight. My excuse is that I did not feel sleepy, and the moon tempted me. Good night.”

They were yet some little distance from the hotel, and Spencer was at a loss to account for this sudden dismissal. She saw the look of bewilderment in his face.

“I have found a back stairs door,” she explained, with a smile. “I really don’t think I should have dared to come out at half-past ten if I had to pass the Gorgons in the foyer.”

She flitted away by a side path, leaving Spencer more convinced than ever that he had blundered egregiously in dragging this sedate and charming girl from the quiet round of existence in London to the artificial life of the Kursaal. Some feeling of unrest had driven her forth to commune with the stars. Was she asking herself why she was denied the luxuries showered on the doll-like creatures whose malicious tongues were busy the instant Bower set foot in the hotel? It would be an ill outcome of his innocent subterfuge if she returned to England discontented and rebellious. She was in “chastened mood,” she had said. He wondered why? Had Bower been too confident, – too sure of his prey to guard his tongue? Of all the unlooked for developments that could possibly be bound up with the harmless piece of midsummer madness that sent Helen Wynton to Switzerland, surely this roué’s presence was the most irritating and perplexing.

Then from the road came another stanza from the wine bibbers, now homeward bound. They were still howling about Margharita in long sustained cadences. And Spencer knew his Faust. It was to the moon that the lovesick maiden confided her dreams, and Mephisto was at hand to jog the elbow of his bewitched philosopher at exactly the right moment.

Spencer threw his cigar into the gurgling rivulet of the Inn. He condemned Switzerland, and the Upper Engadine, and the very great majority of the guests in the Kursaal, in one emphatic malediction, and went to his room, hoping to sleep, but actually to lie awake for hours and puzzle his brains in vain effort to evolve a satisfying sequel to the queer combination of events he had set in motion when he ran bare headed into the Strand after Bower’s motor car.