by Louis Tracy
CHAPTER XVI
SPENCER EXPLAINS
A sustained rapping on the inner door of the hut roused Helen fromdreamless sleep. In the twilight of the mind that exists betweensleeping and waking she was bewildered by the darkness, perhapsbaffled by her novel surroundings. She strove to pierce the gloom withwide-open, unseeing eyes, but the voice of her guide broke the spell.
"Time to get up, _signora_. The sun is on the rock, and we have apiece of bad snow to cross."
Then she remembered, and sighed. The sigh was involuntary, the halfconscious tribute of a wearied heart. It needed an effort to braceherself against the long hours of a new day, the hours when thoughtswould come unbidden, when regrets that she was fighting almostfiercely would rush in and threaten to overwhelm her. But Helen wasbrave. She had the courage that springs from the conviction of havingdone that which is right. If she was a woman too, with a woman'sinfinite capacity for suffering--well, that demanded another sortof bravery, a resolve to subdue the soul's murmurings, a spiritualteeth-clenching in the determination to prevail, a complete acceptanceof unmerited wrongs in obedience to some inexplicable decree ofProvidence.
So she rose from a couch which at least demanded perfect physicalhealth ere one could find rest on it, and, being fully dressed, wentforth at once to drink the steaming hot coffee that filled the tinyhut with its fragrance.
"A fine morning, Pietro?" she asked, addressing the man who hadsummoned her.
"_Si, signora._ Dawn is breaking with good promise. There is a slightmist on the glacier; but the rock shows clear in the sun."
She knew that an amiable grin was on the man's face; but it was sodark in the _cabane_ that she could see little beyond the figures ofthe guide and his companion. She went to the door, and stood for aminute on the narrow platform of rough stones that provided the onlylevel space in a witches' cauldron of moss covered boulders and roughice. Beneath her feet was an ultramarine mist, around her were massesof black rock; but overhead was a glorious pink canopy, fringed byfar flung circles of translucent blue and tenderest green. And thisheaven's own shield was ever widening. Eastward its arc was brokenby an irregular dark mass, whose pinnacles glittered like burnishedgold. That was the Aguagliouls Rock, which rises so magnificentlyin the midst of a vast ice field, like some great portal to thewonderland of the Bernina. She had seen it the night before, afterleaving the small restaurant that nestles at the foot of the RosegGlacier. Then its scarred sides, brightened by the crimson and violetrays of the setting sun, looked friendly and inviting. Though its basewas a good mile distant across the snow-smoothed surface of the ice,she could discern every crevice and ledge and steep couloir. Now, allthese distinguishing features were merged in the sea-blue mist. Thegreat wall itself seemed to be one vast, unscalable precipice, cappedby a series of shining spires.
And for the first time in three sorrowful days, while her eyes dwelton that castle above the clouds, the mysterious grandeur of naturehealed her vexed spirit, and the peace that passeth all understandingfell upon her. The miserable intrigues and jealousies of the pastweeks were so insignificant, so far away, up here among the mountains.Had she only consulted her own happiness, she mused, she would nothave ordered events differently. There was no real reason why sheshould have flown from the hotel like a timid deer roused by houndsfrom a thicket. Instead of doubling and twisting from St. Moritz toSamaden, and back by carriage to a remote hotel in the Roseg Valley,she might have remained and defied her persecutors. But now the fumeand fret were ended, and she tried to persuade herself she was glad.She felt that she could never again endure the sight of Bower's face.The memory of his passionate embrace, of his blazing eyes, of thethick sensual lips that forced their loathsome kisses upon her, wasbitter enough without the need of reviving it each time they met. Shewas sorry it was impossible to bid farewell to Mrs. de la Vere. Anyhint of her intent would have drawn from that well-disposed cynic aflood of remonstrance hard to stem; though nothing short of forcewould have kept Helen at Maloja once she was sure of Spencer's doubledealing.
Of course, she might write to Mrs. de la Vere when she was in calmermood. It would be easier then to pick and choose the words that wouldconvey in full measure her detestation of the American. For she hatedhim--yes, hatred alone was satisfying. She despised her own heartbecause it whispered a protest. Yet she feared him too. It was fromhim that she fled. She admitted this to her honest mind while shewatched the spreading radiance of the new day. She feared the candorof his steady eyes more than the wiles and hypocrisies of Bower andher false friend, Millicent. By a half miraculous insight into thehistory of recent events, she saw that Bower had followed her toSwitzerland with evil intent.
But the discovery embittered her the more against Spencer, who hadlured her there deliberately, than against Bower who knew of it, norscrupled to use the knowledge as best it marched with his designs. Itwas nothing to her, she told herself, that Spencer no less than Bowerhad renounced his earlier purpose, and was ready to marry her. Shestill quivered with anger at the thought that she had fallen soblindly into the toils. Even though she accepted Mackenzie'sastounding commission, she might have guessed that there was someignoble element underlying it. She felt now that it was possible to beprepared,--to scrutinize occurrences more closely, to hold herselfaloof from compromising incidents. The excursion to the Forno, themanifest interest she displayed in both men, the concealment of herwhereabouts from friends in London, her stiff lipped indifference tothe opinion of other residents in the hotel,--these things, trivialindividually, united into a strong self indictment.
As for Spencer, though she meant, above all things, to avoid meetinghim, and hoped that he was now well on his way to the wide worldbeyond Maloja, she would never forgive him--no, never!
"I am sorry to hurry you, _signora_, but there is a bit of really badsnow on the Sella Pass," urged Pietro apologetically at her shoulder,and she reentered the hut at once, sitting down to that which shedeemed to be her last meal on the Swiss side of the Upper Engadine.
It was in a hotel at St. Moritz that she had settled her route withthe aid of a map and a guidebook. When, on that day of greathappenings, she quitted the Kursaal-Maloja, she stipulated that theutmost secrecy should be observed as to her departure. Her boxes andportmanteau were brought from her room by the little used exit she haddiscovered soon after her arrival. A closed carriage met her there inthe dusk, and she drove straight to St. Moritz station. Leaving herbaggage in the parcels office, she sought a quiet hotel for the night,registering her room under her mother's maiden name of Trenholme. Shemeant to return to England by the earliest train in the morning; buther new-born terror of encountering Spencer set in motion a scheme forevading pursuit either by him or Bower.
By going up the Roseg Valley, and carrying the barest necessaries fora few days' travel, she could cross the Bernina range into Italy,reach the rail at Sondrio, and go round by Como to Lucerne and thenceto Basle, whither the excellent Swiss system of delivering passengers'luggage would convey her bulky packages long before she was ready toclaim them.
With a sense of equity that was creditable, she made up her mind toexpend every farthing of the money received from "The Firefly." Shehad kept her contract faithfully: Mackenzie, therefore, or Spencer,must abide by it to the last letter. The third article of the serieswas already written and in the post. The fourth she wrote quietly inher room at the St. Moritz hotel, nor did she stir out during thenext day until it was dark, when she walked a few yards up the mainstreet to buy a rucksack and an alpenstock.
Early next morning, close wrapped and veiled, she took a carriage tothe Restaurant du Glacier. Here she met an unforeseen check. The localguides were absent in the Bernina, and the hotel proprietor--good,careful man!--would not hear of intrusting the pretty English girl toinexperienced villagers, but persuaded her to await the coming of aparty from Italy, whose rooms were bespoke. Their guides, in allprobability, would be returning over the Sella Pass, and would chargefar less for the journey.
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p; He was right. On the afternoon of the following day, three tiredEnglishmen arrived at the restaurant, and their hardy Italian pilotswere only too glad to find a _voyageur_ ready to start at once for theMortel hut, whence a nine hours' climb would take them back to the ValMalenco, provided they crossed the dangerous neve on the upper part ofthe glacier soon after daybreak.
Pietro, the leader, was a cheery soul. Like others of his type in theBernina region, he spoke a good deal of German, and his fund ofpleasant anecdote and reminiscence kept Helen from brooding on her owntroubles during the long evening in the hut.
And now, while she was finishing her meal in the dim light of dawn,and the second guide was packing their few belongings, Pietro regaledher with a legend of the Monte del Diavolo, which overlooks Sondrioand the lovely valley of the Adda.
"Once upon a time, _signora_, they used to grow fine grapes there," hesaid, "and the wine was always sent to Rome for the special use of thePope and his cardinals. That made the people proud, and the devil tookpossession of them, which greatly grieved a pious hermit who dwelt ina cell in the little Val Malgina, by the side of a torrent that flowsinto the Adda. So one day he asked the good Lord to permit the devilto visit him; but when Satan appeared the saint laughed at him. 'You!'he cried. 'Who sent for you? You are not the Prince of the InfernalRegions?'--'Am I not?' said the stranger, with a truly fiendish grin.'Just try my powers, and see what will happen!'--'Very well,' said thesaint, 'produce me twenty barrels of better wine than can be grown inSondrio.' So old Barbariccia stamped his hoof, and lo! there were thetwenty barrels, while the mere scent of them nearly made the saintbreak a vow that he would never again taste fermented wine. But heheld fast, and said, 'Now, drink the lot.'--'Oh, nonsense!' roared thedevil. 'Pooh!' said the hermit, 'you're not much of a devil if youcan't do in a moment what the College of Cardinals can do in a week.'That annoyed Satan, and he put away barrel after barrel, until thesaint began to feel very uneasy. But the last barrel finished him, anddown he went like a log, whereupon the holy man put him into one ofhis own tubs and sent him to Rome to be dealt with properly. Therewas a tremendous row, it is said, when the cask was opened. In theconfusion, Satan escaped; but in revenge for the trick that had beenplayed on him, he put a blight on the vines of the Adda, and from thatday to this never a liter of decent wine came out of Sondrio."
"I guess if that occurred anywhere in Italy nowadays, they'd lynch thehermit," said a voice in English outside.
Helen screamed, and the two Italians were startled. No one wasexpected at the hut at that hour. Its earliest visitors should comefrom the inner range, after a long tramp from Italy or Pontresina.
"Sorry if I scared you," said Spencer, his tall figure suddenlydarkening the doorway; "but I didn't like to interrupt the story."
Helen sprang to her feet. Her cheeks, blanched for a few seconds,became rosy red. "You!" she cried. "How dare you follow me here?"
In the rapidly growing light she caught a transitory gleam in theAmerican's eyes, though his face was as impassive as usual. And theworst of it was that it suggested humor, not resentment. Even in thetumult of wounded pride that took her heart by storm, she realizedthat her fiery vehemence had gone perilously near to a literaltranslation of the saintly scoff at old Barbariccia. And, now if ever,she must be dignified. Anger yielded to disdain. In an instant shegrew cold and self collected.
"I regret that in my surprise I spoke unguardedly," she said. "Ofcourse, this hut is open to everyone----"
"Judging by the look of things between here and the hotel, we shallnot be worried by a crowd," broke in Spencer. "I meant to arrive halfan hour earlier; but that slope on the Alp Ota offers surprisingdifficulties in the dark."
"I wished to say, when you interrupted me, that I am leaving at once,so my presence can make little difference to you," said Helen grandly.
"That sounds more reasonable than it really is," was the quietlyflippant reply.
"It conveys my intent. I have no desire to prolong this conversation,"she cried rather more flurriedly.
"Now, there I agree with you. We have started on the wrong set ofrails. It is my fault. I ought to have coughed, or fallen down themoraine, or done any old thing sooner than butt into the talk sounexpectedly. If you will allow me, I'll begin again right now."
He turned to the Italians, who were watching and listening in curioussilence, trying to pick up an odd word that would help to explain therelations between the two.
"Will you gentlemen take an interest in the scenery for five minutes?"he asked, with a smile.
Though the valley of the Adda may have lost its wine, it will neverlose its love of romance. The polite Italians raised their hats andwent out. Helen, drawing a long breath, withdrew somewhat into theshadow. She felt that she would have more command over herself if theAmerican could not see her face. The ruse did not avail her at all.Spencer crossed the floor of the hut until he looked into her eyes.
"Helen," he said, "why did you run away from me?"
The tender reproach in his voice almost unnerved her; but she answeredsimply, "What else would you have me do, once I found out thecircumstances under which I came to Switzerland?"
"It may be that you were not told the truth. Who was your informant?"
"Mr. Bower."
"None other?"
"What, then? Is my pitiful story the property of the hotel?"
"It is now. I took care of that. Some of the people there had beenspreading a misleading version, and it was necessary to correct it.The women, of course, I could not deal with. As the General was an oldman, I picked out George de Courcy Vavasour as best fitted to digestthe wrong edition. I made him eat it. It seemed to disagree with him;but he got through with an effort."
Helen felt that she ought to decline further discussion. But she wastongue tied. Spencer was regarding her so fixedly that she began tofear lest he might notice the embarrassed perplexity that she herselfwas quite conscious of.
"Will you be good enough to explain exactly what you mean?" she said,forcing the question mechanically from her lips.
"That is why I am here. I assure you that subterfuge can never againexist between you and me," said he earnestly. "You can accept my wordsliterally. Acting for himself and others, Vavasour wrote on paper thelying insinuations made by Miss Jaques, and ate them--both words andpaper. He happened to use the thin, glazed, Continental variety, sowhat it lost in bulk it gained in toughness. He didn't like it, andsaid so; but he had to do it."
She was nervously aware of a wish to laugh; but unless she gave way tohysteria that was not to be thought of. Trying to retreat stillfarther into the friendly shade, she backed round the inner end of thetable, but found the way blocked by a rough bench. Something must besaid or done to extricate herself. The dread that her voice mightbreak was becoming an obsession.
"You speak of a false version, and that implies a true one," shemanaged to say constrainedly. "How far was Mr. Bower's statement falseor true?"
"I settled that point too. Mr. Bower told you the facts. The deductionhe forced on you was a lie. To my harmless notion of gratifying agirl's longing for a holiday abroad he added the motive that inspiredhis own journey. I overheard your conversation with Miss Jaques in theEmbankment Hotel; I saw Bower introduced to you; I saw him looking foryou in Victoria Station, and knew that he represented the meeting asaccidental. I felt a certain responsibility on your account; so Ifollowed by the next train. Bower played his cards so well that Ifound myself in a difficult position. I was busy guessing; but wasunable to prove anything, while the one story I was sure of was not inthe game. And then, you see, he wanted to make you his wife, whichbrought about the real complication. I haven't much use for him; but Imust be fair, and Bower's only break was when he misrepresented myaction in subsidizing 'The Firefly.' I don't deny he was pretty mad atthe idea of losing you, and jealousy will often drive a man to do amean thing which might otherwise be repugnant to his betternature----"
"Jealousy!" shrilled Helen, her woman's wit at la
st finding a joint inhis armor. Yet never did woman err more than she in thinking that herAmerican suitor would flinch beneath the shaft.
"That is the word," was the quiet reply.
She flared into indignant scorn. "Pray tell me why he or any other manshould feel jealous of you where I am concerned," she said.
"I am going to tell you right away--Helen. But that is the lastchapter. There is quite a long record as to the way I hit on yourtrack in St. Moritz, and heard of you by telephone last night. Ofcourse, that part of the story will keep----"
"Is it necessary that I should hear any portion of it?" sheinterrupted, hoping to irritate him, and thus lessen the strainimposed by his studiously tranquil manner.
"Well, it ought to interest you. But it has humorous points to which Ican't do justice under present conditions. You are right, Helen--youmost always are. The real question at issue is my position in thedeal, which becomes quite clear when I say that you are the only womanI have ever loved or ever shall love. More than that, you are the onlywoman to whom I have ever spoken a word of love, and as I have setabout loving the dearest and prettiest and healthiest girl I have everseen, it is safe to figure that you will have sole claim on all thenice things I can try to say to any woman during the remainder of mylife."
He hesitated a moment. He did not appear to notice that Helen, after arebellious gasp or two, had suddenly become very still.
"I suppose I ought to have fixed up a finer bit of word painting thanthat," he continued slowly. "As a matter of fact, I don't mindadmitting that ever since eleven o'clock last night, when theproprietor of the hotel below there telephoned to me that MissTrenholme had gone to the Mortel hut with two guides, I have beenrehearsing X plus Y multiplied by Z ways of telling you just how dearyou are to me. But they all vanished like smoke when I saw your sweetface. You tried to be severe with me, Helen; but your voice didn'tring true, and you are the poorest sort of prevaricator I know. Andthe reason those set forms wouldn't work at the right moment is thatthey were addressed to the silent air. You are near me now, my sweet.You are almost in my arms. You are in my arms, Helen, and it soundsjust right to keep on telling you that I love you now and shall loveyou for ever. Oh, my dear, my dear, you must never, never, run awayagain! Search the dictionary for all the unkindest things you can sayabout me; but don't run away ... for I know now that when you areabsent the day is night and the night is akin to death."
* * * * *
Guide Pietro was somewhat a philosopher. Stamping about on the tinystone plateau of the hut to keep at bay the cold mists from theglacier, he happened to glance through the open door. He drew awayinstantly.
"Bartelommeo," he said to his companion, "we shall not cross the Sellato-day with our charming _voyageur_."
Bartelommeo was surprised. He looked at the clean cut crest of therock, glowing now in vivid sunlight. Argument was not required; hepointed silently with the stem of his pipe.
"Yes," murmured Pietro. "We couldn't have a better day for the pass.It is not the weather."
"Then what is it?" asked Bartelommeo, moved to speech.
"She is going the other way. Didn't you catch the tears in her voiceyesterday? She smiled at my stories, and carried herself bravely; buther eyes were heavy, and the corners of her mouth drooped when she wasleft to her thoughts. And again, my friend, did you not see her facewhen the young _signor_ arrived?"
"She was frightened."
Pietro laughed softly. "A woman always fears her lover," he said."That is just the reason why you married Caterina. You liked her forher shyness. It made you feel yourself a man--a devil of a fellow.Don't you remember how timid she was, how she tried to avoid you, howshe would dodge into anybody's chalet rather than meet you?"
"But how do you know?" demanded Bartelommeo, waking into resentfulappreciation of Pietro's close acquaintance with his wooing.
"Because I married Lola two years earlier. Women are all the same, nomatter what country they hail from--nervous as young chamois beforemarriage--but after! Body of Bacchus! Was it on Wednesday thatCaterina hauled you out of the albergo to chop firewood?"
Bartelommeo grunted, and put his pipe in his mouth again.
