The Silent Barrier Part 14

"You are not a ladies' man, Mr. Spencer. You know the old proverb,--lucky at cards, unlucky in love? But let me hope that it does not apply in your case."

"Talking about a ladies' man, who is the girl your friend Bower dined with?" asked Holt. "She has been in the hotel several days; but she didn't seem to be acquainted with anybody in particular until he blew in this afternoon."

"She is a Miss Helen Wynton," said the vicar. "I like her very much from what little I have seen of her. She attended both services on Sunday, and I happen to be aware of the fact that she was at ma.s.s in the Roman church earlier. I wanted her to play the harmonium next Sunday; but she declined, and gave me her reasons too."

"May I ask what they were?" inquired Spencer.

"Well, speaking in confidence, they were grievously true. Some miserable pandering to Mrs. Grundy has set the other women against her; so she declined to thrust herself into prominence. I tried to talk her out of it, but failed."

"Who is Mrs. Grundy, anyhow?" growled Holt.

The others laughed.

"She is the Medusa of modern life," explained the vicar. "She turns to stone those who gaze on her. Most certainly she petrifies all good feeling and Christian tolerance. Why, I actually heard a woman whose conduct is not usually governed by what I hold to be good taste sneer at Miss Wynton this evening. 'The murder is out now,' she said.

'Bower's presence explains everything.' Yet I am able to state that Miss Wynton was quite unprepared for his arrival. By chance I was standing on the steps when he drove up to the hotel, and it was perfectly clear from the words they used that neither was aware that the other was in Maloja."

Spencer leaned over toward the iron-master. "Tell you what," he said; "I've changed my mind about the trip to England to-morrow. Get up that game with Bower. I'll stand the racket myself unless you want to go half shares."

"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 circ.u.mstances pa.s.s beyond a man's control occasionally," he protested. "Am I right in a.s.suming 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 pa.s.sed 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 amus.e.m.e.nt. 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 a.s.sure 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 pa.s.sed 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 surpa.s.sed 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 G.o.ds 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.