The Silent Barrier

by Louis Tracy

  CHAPTER VI

  THE BATTLEFIELD

  Both man and woman were far too well bred to indulge in an_oeillade_. The knowledge that each was thinking of the other ledrather to an ostentatious avoidance of anything that could beconstrued into any such flirtatious overture.

  Though Stampa's curious statement had puzzled Helen, she soon hit onthe theory that the American must have heard of the accident to hercarriage. Yes, that supplied a ready explanation. No doubt he kept asharp lookout for her on the road. He arrived at the hotel almostsimultaneously with herself, and she had not forgotten his somewhatinquiring glance as they stood together on the steps. With thechivalry of his race in all things concerning womankind, he was eagerto render assistance, and under the circumstances he probably wonderedwhat sort of damsel in distress it was that needed help. It wasnatural enough too that in engaging Stampa he should refer to thecarelessness that brought about the collapse of the wheel. Really,when one came to analyze an incident seemingly inexplicable, itresolved itself into quite commonplace constituents.

  She found it awkward that he should be sitting between her and awindow commanding the best view of the lake. If Spencer had been atany other table, she could have feasted her eyes on the whole expanseof the Ober-Engadin Valley. Therefore she had every excuse for lookingthat way, whereas he had none for gazing at her. Spencer appeared tobe aware of this disability. For lack of better occupation hescrutinized the writing on the menu with a prolonged intentness worthyof a gourmand or an expert graphologist.

  Helen rose first, and that gave him an opportunity to note hergraceful carriage. Though born in the States, he was of British stock,and he did not share the professed opinion of the American humoristthat the typical Englishwoman is angular, has large feet, and does notknow how to walk. Helen, at any rate, betrayed none of these elementsof caricature. Though there were several so-called "smart" women inthe hotel,--women who clung desperately to the fringe of Society onboth sides of the Atlantic,--his protegee was easily first among thefew who had any claim to good looks.

  Helen was not only tall and lithe, but her movements were marked by aquiet elegance. It was her custom, in nearly all weathers, to walkfrom Bayswater to Professor von Eulenberg's study, which, needless tosay, was situated near the British Museum. She usually returned by alonger route, unless pelting rain or the misery of London snow madethe streets intolerable. Thus there was hardly a day that she did notcover eight miles at a rapid pace, a method of training that eclipsedall the artifices of beauty doctors and schools of deportment. Hersweetly pretty face, her abundance of shining brown hair, her slim,well proportioned figure, and the almost athletic swing of her wellarched shoulders, would entitle her to notice in a gathering ofbeauties far more noted than those who graced Maloja with theirpresence that year. In addition to these physical attractionsshe carried with her the rarer and indefinable aura of the bornaristocrat. As it happened, she merited that description both by birthand breeding; but there is a vast company entitled to considerationon that score to whom nature has cruelly denied the necessaryhallmarks--otherwise the pages of Burke would surely be embellishedwith portraits.

  Indeed, so far as appearance went, it was rather ludicrous to regardHelen as the social inferior of any person then resident in theKursaal, and it is probable that a glimmering knowledge of this factinflamed Mrs. de Courcy Vavasour's wrath to boiling point, when a fewminutes later, she saw her son coolly walk up to the "undesirable"and enter into conversation with her.

  Helen was seated in a shady corner. A flood of sunlight filled theglass covered veranda with a grateful warmth. She had picked up anastonishingly well written and scholarly guide book issued by theproprietors of the hotel, and was deep in its opening treatise on thehistory and racial characteristics of the Engadiners, when she wassurprised at hearing herself addressed by name.

  "Er--Miss--er--Wynton, I believe?" said a drawling voice.

  Looking up, she found George de Courcy Vavasour bending over her in anattitude that betokened the utmost admiration for both parties to thetete-a-tete. Under ordinary conditions,--that is to say, if Vavasour'sexistence depended on his own exertions,--Helen's eyes would havedwelt on a gawky youth endowed with a certain pertness that might intime have brought him from behind the counter of a drapery store tothe wider arena of the floor. As it was, a reasonably large incomegave him unbounded assurance, and his credit with a good tailor wasunquestionable. He represented a British product that flourishes bestin alien soil. There exists a foreign legion of George de CourcyVavasours, flaccid heroes of fashion plates, whose parade groundschange with the seasons from Paris to the Riviera, and from theRiviera to some nook in the Alps. Providence and a grandfather haveconspired in their behalf to make work unnecessary; but Providence,more far-seeing than grandfathers, has decreed that they shall beeffete and light brained, so the type does not endure.

  Helen, out of the corner of her eye, became aware that Mrs. de CourcyVavasour was advancing with all the plumes of the British matronruffled for battle. It was not in human nature that the girl shouldnot recall the slight offered her the previous evening. With thethought came the temptation to repay it now with interest; but shethrust it aside.

  "Yes, that is my name," she said, smiling pleasantly.

  "Well--er--the General has asked me to--er--invite you take part insome of our tournaments. We have tennis, you know, an' golf, an'croquet, an' that sort of thing. Of course, you play tennis, an' Irather fancy you're a golfer as well. You look that kind of girl--Eh,what?"

  He caressed a small mustache as he spoke, using the finger and thumbof each hand alternately, and Helen noticed that his hands weresurprisingly large when compared with his otherwise fragile frame.

  "Who is the General?" she inquired.

  "Oh, Wragg, you know. He looks after everything in the amusement line,an' I help. Do let me put you down for the singles an' mixed doubles.None of the women here can play for nuts, an' I haven't got a partneryet for the doubles. I've been waitin' for someone like you to turnup."

  "You have not remained long in suspense," she could not help saying."You are Mr. Vavasour, are you not?"

  "Yes, better known as Georgie."

  "And you arrived in Maloja last evening, I think. Well, I do playtennis, or rather, I used to play fairly well some years ago----"

  "By gad! just what I thought. Go slow in your practice games, MissWynton, an' you'll have a rippin' handicap."

  "Would that be quite honest?" said Helen, lifting her steadfast browneyes to meet his somewhat too free scrutiny.

  "Honest? Rather! You wait till you see the old guard pullin' out a bitwhen they settle down to real business. But the General is up to theirlittle dodges. He knows their form like a book, an' he gets every oneof 'em shaken out by the first round--Eh, what?"

  "The arrangement seems to be ideal if one is friendly with theGeneral," said Helen.

  Vavasour drew up a chair. He also drew up the ends of his trousers,thus revealing that the Pomeranian brown and myrtle green stripes inhis necktie were faithfully reproduced in his socks, while thesemaster tints were thoughtfully developed in the subdominant hues ofhis clothes and boots.

  "By Jove! what a stroke of luck I should have got hold of you first!"he chuckled. "I'm pretty good at the net, Miss Wynton. If we managethings properly, we ought to have the mixed doubles a gift with plushalf forty, an' in the ladies' singles you'll be a Queen's Clubchampion at six-stone nine--Eh, what?"

  Though Vavasour represented a species of inane young man whom Helendetested, she bore with him because she hungered for the sound of anEnglish voice in friendly converse this bright morning. At times herlife was lonely enough in London; but she had never felt her isolationthere. The great city appealed to her in all its moods. Her cheerfulyet sensitive nature did not shrink from contact with its hurryingcrowds. The mere sense of aloofness among so many millions of peoplebrought with it the knowledge that she was one of them, a human atomplunged into a heedless vortex the moment she passed from he
r houseinto the street.

  Here in Maloja things were different. While her own identity was laidbare, while men and women canvassed her name, her appearance, heroccupation, she was cut off from them by a social wall of theirown contriving. The attitude of the younger women told her thattrespassers were forbidden within that sacred fold. She knew now thatshe had done a daring thing--outraged one of the cheap conventions--incoming alone to this clique-ridden Swiss valley. Better a thousandtimes have sought lodgings in some small village inn, and mixed withthe homely folk who journeyed thither on the diligence or trampedjoyously afoot, than strive to win the sympathy of any of theseshallow nonentities of the smart set.

  Even while listening to "Georgie's" efforts to win her smiles withslangy confidences, she saw that Mrs. Vavasour had halted in midcareer, and joined a group of women, evidently a mother and twodaughters, and that she herself was the subject of their talk. Shewondered why. She was somewhat perplexed when the conclave broke upsuddenly, the girls going to the door, Mrs. Vavasour retreatingmajestically to the far end of the veranda, and the other elderlywoman drawing a short, fat, red faced man away from a discussion withanother man.

  "Jolly place, this," Vavasour was saying. "There's dancin' mostnights. The dowager brigade want the band to play classical music, an'that sort of rot, you know; but Mrs. de la Vere and the Wragg girlslike a hop, an' we generally arrange things our own way. We'll have adance to-night if you wish it; but you must promise to----"

  "Georgie," cried the pompous little man, "I want you a minute!"

  Vavasour swung round. Evidently he regarded the interruption as "abeastly bore." "All right, General," he said airily. "I'll be theresoon. No hurry, is there?"

  "Yes, I want you now!" The order was emphatic. The General's onlymilitary asset was a martinet voice, and he made the most of it.

  "Rather rotten, isn't it, interferin' with a fellow in this way?"muttered Vavasour. "Will you excuse me? I must see what the old boy isworryin' about. I shall come back soon--Eh, what?"

  "I am going out," said Helen; "but we shall meet again. I remain herea month."

  "You'll enter for the tournament?" he asked over his shoulder.

  "I--think so. It will be something to do."

  "Thanks awfully. And don't forget to-night."

  Helen laughed. She could not help it. The younger members of the Wraggfamily were eying her sourly through the glass partition. They seemedto be nice girls too, and she made up her mind to disillusion themspeedily if they thought that she harbored designs on the callow youthwhom they probably regarded as their own special cavalier.

  When she passed through the inner doorway to go to her room shenoticed that the General was giving Georgie some instructions whichwere listened to in sulky silence. Indeed, that remarkable ex-warriorwas laying down the law of the British parish with a clearness thatwas admirable. He had been young himself once,--dammit!--and had askeen an eye for a pretty face as any other fellow; but no gentlemancould strike up an acquaintance with an unattached female under thevery nose of his mother, not to mention the noses of other ladies whowere his friends. Georgie broke out in protest.

  "Oh, but I say, General, she is a lady, an' you yourself said----"

  "I know I did. I was wrong. Even a wary old bird like me can make amistake. Mrs. Vavasour has just warned my wife about her. It's nogood arguing, Georgie, my boy. Nowadays you can't draw the line toorigidly. Things permissible in Paris or Nice won't pass muster here.I'm sorry, Georgie. She's a high stepper and devilish taking, I admit.Writes for some ha'penny rag--er--for some cheap society paper, Ihear. Why, dash it all, she will be lampooning us in it before we knowwhere we are. Just you go and tell your mother you'll behave better infuture. Excellent woman, Mrs. Vavasour. She never makes a mistake.Gad! don't you remember how she spotted that waiter from the Ritz whogulled the lot of us at the Jetee last winter? Took him for the Frenchmarquis he said he was, every one of us, women and all, till Mrs. V.fixed her eye on him and said, 'Gustave!' Damme! how he curled up!"

  George was still obdurate. A masquerading waiter differed from Helenin many essentials. "He was a Frenchman, an' they're mostly rotters.This girl is English, General, an' I shall look a proper sort of anass if I freeze up suddenly after what I've said to her."

  "Not for the first time, my boy, and mebbe not for the last." Then, inview of the younger man's obvious defiance, the General's whitemustache bristled. "Of course, you can please yourself," he growled:"but neither Mrs. Wragg nor my daughters will tolerate youracquaintance with that person!"

  "Oh, all right, General," came the irritated answer. "Between you an'the mater I've got to come to heel; but it's a beastly shame, I say,an' you're all makin' a jolly big mistake."

  Georgie's intelligence might be superficial; but he knew a lady whenhe met one, and Helen had attracted him powerfully. He was thankinghis stars for the good fortune that numbered him among the earliest ofher acquaintances in the hotel, and it was too bad that the barringedict should have been issued against her so unexpectedly. But he wasnot of a fighting breed, and he quailed before the threat of Mrs.Wragg's displeasure.

  Helen, after a delightful ramble past the chateau and along thepicturesque turns and twists of the Colline des Artistes, returned intime for tea, which was served on the veranda, the common rendezvousof the hotel during daylight. No one spoke to her. She went out again,and walked by the lake till the shadows fell and the mountainsglittered in purple and gold. She dressed herself in a simple whiteevening frock, dined in solitary state, and ventured into the ballroom after dinner.

  Georgie was dancing with Mrs. de la Vere, a languid looking woman whoseemed to be pining for admiration. At the conclusion of the waltzthat was going on when Helen entered, Vavasour brought his partner awhisky and soda and a cigarette. He passed Helen twice, but ignoredher, and whirled one of the Wragg girls off into a polka. Again hefailed to see her when parties were being formed for a quadrille. Evento herself she did not attempt to deny a feeling of annoyance, thoughshe extracted a bitter amusement from the knowledge that she had beenslighted by such a vapid creature.

  She was under no misconception as to what had happened. The women weremaking a dead set against her. If she had been plain or dowdy, theymight have been friendly enough. It was an unpardonable offense thatshe should be good looking, unchaperoned, and not one of the queerlyassorted mixture they deemed their _monde_. For a few minutes she wasreally angry. She realized that her only crime was poverty. Given alittle share of the wealth held by many of these passee matrons andbold-eyed girls, she would be a reigning star among them, and couldact and talk as she liked. Yet her shyness and reserve would have beenher best credentials to any society that was constituted on a sounderbasis than a gathering of snobs. Among really well-born people shewould certainly have been received on an equal footing until somevalid reason for ostracism was forthcoming. The imported limpets onthis Swiss rock of gentility were not sure of their own grip. Hence,they strenuously refused to make room for a newcomer until they wereshoved aside.

  Poor, disillusioned Helen! When she went to church she prayed to thegood Lord to deliver her and everybody else from envy, hatred, andmalice, and all uncharitableness. She felt now that there might wellbe added to the Litany a fresh petition which should include Britishcommunities on the Continent in the list of avoidable evils.

  At that instant the piquant face and figure of Millicent Jaques rosebefore her mind's eye. She pictured to herself the cool effronterywith which the actress would crush these waspish women by creatinga court of every eligible man in the place. It was not a healthythought, but it was the offspring of sheer vexation, and Helenexperienced her second temptation that day when de la Vere, theirresistible "Reginald" of Mrs. Vavasour's sketchy reminiscences,came and asked her to dance.

  She recognized him at once. He sat with Mrs. de la Vere at table,and never spoke to her unless it was strictly necessary. He haddistinguished manners, a pleasant voice, and a charming smile, and heseemed to be the devoted slave of
every pretty woman in the hotelexcept his wife.

  "Please pardon the informality," he said, with an affability thatcloaked the impertinence. "We are quite a family party at Maloja. Ihear you are staying here some weeks, and we are bound to get to knoweach other sooner or later."

  Helen could dance well. She was so mortified by the injustice metedout to her that she almost accepted de la Vere's partnership on thespur of the moment. But her soul rebelled against the man's covertinsolence, and she said quietly:

  "No, thank you. I do not care to dance."

  "May I sit here and talk?" he persisted.

  "I am just going," she said, "and I think Mrs. de la Vere is lookingfor you."

  By happy chance the woman in question was standing alone in the centerof the ball room, obviously in quest of some man who would take her tothe foyer for a cigarette. Helen retreated with the honors of war; butthe irresistible one only laughed.

  "That idiot Georgie told the truth, then," he admitted. "And she knowswhat the other women are saying. What cats these dear creatures canbe, to be sure!"

  Spencer happened to be an interested onlooker. Indeed, he was tryingto arrive at the best means of obtaining an introduction to Helen whenhe saw de la Vere stroll leisurely up to her with the assured air ofone sated by conquest. The girl brushed close to him as he stood inthe passage. She held her head high and her eyes were sparkling. Hehad not heard what was said; but de la Vere's discomfiture was sopatent that even his wife smiled as she sailed out on the arm of ayouthful purveyor of cigarettes.

  Spencer longed for an opportunity to kick de la Vere; yet, in somesense, he shared that redoubtable lady-killer's rebuff. He too waswondering if the social life of a Swiss hotel would permit him to seeka dance with Helen. Under existing conditions, it would provide quitea humorous episode, he told himself, to strike up a friendship withher. He could not imagine why she had adopted such an aloof attitudetoward all and sundry; but it was quite evident that she declinedanything in the guise of promiscuous acquaintance. And he, like her,felt lonely. There were several Americans in the hotel, and he wouldprobably meet some of the men in the bar or smoking room after thedance was ended. But he would have preferred a pleasant chat withHelen that evening, and now she had gone to her room in a huff.

  Then an inspiration came to him. "Guess I'll stir up Mackenzie to sendalong an introduction," he said. "A telegram will fix things."

  It was not quite so easy to explain matters in the curt language ofthe wire, he found, and it savored of absurdity to amaze thebeer-drinking Scot with a long message. So he compromised betweendesire and expediency by a letter.

  "DEAR MR. MACKENZIE," he wrote, "life is not rapid at this terminus. It might take on some new features if I had the privilege of saying 'How de do' to Miss Wynton. Will you oblige me by telling her that one of your best and newest friends happens to be in the same hotel as her charming self, and that if she gets him to sparkle, he (which is I) will help considerable with copy for 'The Firefly.' Advise me by same post, and the rest of the situation is up to yours faithfully,

  "C. K. S."

  The letter was posted, and Spencer waited five tiresome days. Hesaw little or nothing of Helen save at meals. Once he met her on afootpath that runs through a wood by the side of the lake to thelittle hamlet of Isola, and he was minded to raise his hat, as hewould have done to any other woman in the hotel whom he encounteredunder similar circumstances; but she deliberately looked away, and hisintended courtesy must have passed unheeded.

  As he sedulously avoided any semblance of dogging her footsteps, hecould not know how she was being persecuted by de la Vere, Vavasour,and one or two other men of like habit. That knowledge was yet tocome. Consequently he deemed her altogether too prudish, and was soout of patience with her that he and Stampa went off for a two days'climb by way of the Muretto Pass to Chiareggio and back to Sils-Mariaover the Fex glacier.

  Footsore and tired, but thoroughly converted to the marvels of thehigh Alps, he reached the Kursaal side by side with the postman whobrought the chief English mail about six o'clock each evening.

  He waited with an eager crowd of residents while the hall portersorted the letters. There were some for him from America, and one fromLondon in a handwriting that was strange to him. But he had quickeyes, and he saw that a letter addressed to Miss Helen Wynton, in theflamboyant envelope of "The Firefly," bore the same script.

  Mackenzie had risen to the occasion. He even indulged in a classicaljoke. "There is something in the name of Helen that attracts," hesaid. "Were it not for the lady whose face drew a thousand ships toIlium, we should never have heard of Paris, or Troy, or the heel ofAchilles, and all these would be greatly missed."

  "And I should never have heard of Mackenzie or Maloja," thoughtSpencer, sinking into a chair and looking about to learn whether ornot the girl would find her letter before he went to dress for dinner.He was sure she knew his name. Perhaps when she read the editor'snote, she too would search the spacious lounge with those fine eyes ofhers for the man described therein. If that were so, he meant to go toher instantly, discuss the strangeness of the coincidence that led totwo of Mackenzie's friends being at the hotel at the same time, andsuggest that they should dine together.

  The project seemed feasible, and it was decidedly pleasant inperspective. He longed to compare notes with her,--to tell her thequaint stories of the hills related to him by Stampa in a medley ofEnglish, French, Italian, and German; perhaps to plan delightful tripsto the fairyland in company.

  People began to clear away from the hall porter's table; yet Helenremained invisible. He could hardly have missed her; but to makecertain he rose and glanced at the few remaining letters. Yes, "TheFirefly's" gaudy imprint still gleamed at him. He turned way,disappointed. After his long tramp and a night in a weird Italian inn,a bath was imperative, and the boom of the dressing gong was imminent.

  He was crossing the hall toward the elevator when he heard her voice.

  "I am so glad you are keen on an early climb," she was saying, witha new note of confidence that stirred him strangely. "I have beenlonging to leave the sign boards and footpaths far behind, but I feltrather afraid of going to the Forno for the first time with a guide.You see, I know nothing about mountaineering, and you can put me up toall the dodges beforehand."

  "Show you the ropes, in fact," agreed the man with her, Mark Bower.

  Spencer was so completely taken by surprise that he could only stareat the two as though they were ghosts. They had entered the hoteltogether, and had apparently been out for a walk. Helen picked up herletter and held it carelessly in her hand while she continued to talkwith Bower. Her pleasurable excitement was undeniable. She regardedher companion as a friend, and was evidently overjoyed at hispresence. Spencer banged into the elevator, astonished the attendantand two other occupants by the savagery of his command, "Au deuxieme,vite!" and paced through a long corridor with noisy clatter ofhob-nailed boots.

  He was in a rare fret and fume when he sat down to dinner alone. Bowerwas at Helen's table. It was brightened by rare flowers not often seenin sterile Maloja. A bottle of champagne rested in an ice bucket byhis side. He had brought with him the atmosphere of London, of thepleasant life that London offers to those who can buy her favors.Truly this Helen, all unconsciously, had not only found the heel of amodern Achilles, but was wounding him sorely. For now Spencer knewthat he wanted to see her frank eyes smiling into his as they weresmiling into Bower's, and, no matter what turn events took, a sinisterelement had been thrust into a harmless idyl by this man's arrival.