CHAPTER XVII

THE SETTLEMENT

Though Helen was the better linguist, it was left to Spencer to

explain that circumstances would prevent the lady from going to

Malenco that day. He did not fully understand why the men should

exchange glances of darksome intelligence when he made this statement.

He fancied they were disappointed at losing a good customer; so he

went on brokenly:

"You are in no hurry, eh? Well, then, take us across the glacier to

the Aguagliouls. We should obtain a fine view from the summit, and get

back to the hotel for luncheon. I will pay the same rates as for the

Sella."

Both guides were manifestly pleased. Pietro began a voluble recital of

the glories that would meet their enraptured gaze from the top of the

mighty rock.

"You will see the Bernina splendidly," he cried, "and Roseg too, and

the Glueschaint and Il Chapuetschin. If the lady will trust to us, we

can bring her down the Tschierva glacier safely. You are a climber,

_signor_, else you could never have crossed the Ota before dawn. But

let us make another cup of coffee. The middle Roseg ice is safe at any

hour, and if we are on the rock by nine o'clock that will be perfect

for the sun."

Already a grand panorama of glaciers and peaks was unfolding itself. A

cloudless sky promised a lovely August day, and what that means in the

high Alps the mountaineer alone can tell. But Spencer turned his back

on the outer glory. He had eyes only for Helen, while she, looking

mistily at the giant rock across the valley, saw it not at all, for

she was peering into her own soul, and found the prospect dazzling in

its pure delight.

So they sat down to a fresh brew of coffee, and Spencer horrified

Helen by a confession that he had eaten nothing since the previous

evening. Her tender solicitude for his needs, her hasty unpacking of

rolls and sandwiches, her anxiety that he should endeavor to consume

the whole of the provisions intended for the day's march, were all

sufficing guerdon for the sufferings of those miserable days since the

hour when Mrs. de la Vere told him that Helen had gone. It was a new

experience for Spencer to have a gracious and smiling woman so greatly

concerned for his welfare; but it was decidedly agreeable. These

little attentions admitted so much that she dared not tell--as yet.

And he had such a budget of news for her! Though he found it difficult

to eat and talk at the same time, he boldly made the attempt.

"Stampa was the genius who really unraveled the mystery," he said.

"Certainly, I managed to discover, in the first instance, that you had

deposited your baggage in your own name. Had all else failed, I should

have converted myself into a label and stuck to your boxes till you

claimed them at Basle; but once we ascertained that you had not

quitted St. Moritz by train, Stampa did the rest. He knows St. Moritz

like a book, and it occurred to him that you had changed your

name----"

"Why, I wonder?" she broke in.

"That is rather hard to say." He wrestled valiantly with the leg of a

tough chicken, and thus was able to evade the question.

Poor Stampa! clinging tenaciously to the belief that Helen bore some

resemblance to his lost daughter, remembered that when Etta made her

sorrowful journey from Zermatt she gave another name at the little

hostelry in Maloja where she ended her life.

"Anyhow," went on Spencer, having dexterously severed the joint, "he

tracked you from St. Moritz to the Roseg. He even hit on the shop in

which you bought your rucksack and alpenstock. Then he put me on to

the telephone, and the remainder of the chase was up to me."

"I am sorry now that the dear old man did not come with you," cried

Helen. "I look on him as the first of my friends in Switzerland, and

shall be more than pleased to see him again."

"I pressed him to come along; but he refused. I don't wish to pain

you, dearest, but I guess he wants to keep track of Bower."

Helen, who had no inkling of the tragedy that linked those two,

blushed to her ears at the recollection of her parting from the

millionaire.

"Do you--do you know that Mr. Bower proposed to me?" she stammered.

"He told me that, and a lot more."

"Did you quarrel?"

"We--said things. But I couldn't treat Bower as I handled Georgie. I

was forced to admit his good taste, you see."

"Well, dear, promise me----"

"That I sha'n't slay him! Why, Helen, if he is half the man I take him

for, he will come to our wedding. I told Mrs. de la Vere I should

bring you back, and she agreed that there was nothing else to be

done."

The color ebbed and flowed on Helen's face at an alarming rate. "What

in the world are you talking about?" she asked, with a calm severity

that her fluttering heart denied.

Spencer laughed so happily that Pietro, who understood no word of what

his voyageurs were saying, gave Bartelommeo a sapient wink.

"Well, now," he cried, "wouldn't we be the queerest pair of zanies to

go all that long way to London to get married when a parson, and a

church, and all the needful consular offices are right here under our

noses, so to speak. Why, we have a ready-made honeymoon staring us in

the face. We'll just skate round Switzerland after your baggage and

then drop down the map into Italy. I figured it all out last night,

together with 'steen methods of making the preliminary declaration.

I'll tell you the whole scheme while we--Oh, well, if you're in a real

hurry to cross the glacier, I must defer details and talk in

headlines."

For Helen, absolutely scarlet now, had risen with a tragic air and

bade the guides prepare for instant departure.

The snow lay deep on the Roseg, and roping was essential, though

Pietro undertook to avoid any difficult crevasses. He led, Spencer

followed, with Helen next, and Bartelommeo last. They reached the

opposite moraine in half an hour, and began to climb steadily. The

rock which looked so forbidding from the hut was by no means steep and

not at all dangerous. They had plenty of time, and often stopped to

admire the magnificent vistas of the Val Roseg and the Bernina range

that were gradually unfolding before their eyes. Soon they were on a

level with the hut, the Alpine palace that had permitted their first

embrace.

"When we make our next trip to St. Moritz, Helen, we must seek out

the finest and biggest photograph of the Mortel that money can buy,"

said Spencer.

Helen was standing a little above him on a broad ledge. Her hand was

resting on his shoulder.

"Oh, look!" she cried suddenly, pointing with her alpenstock to the

massive mountain wall that rose above the _cabane_. A few stones had

fallen above a widespread snow slope. The stones started an avalanche,

and the roar of the tremendous cascade of snow and rock was distinctly

audible.

Pietro uttered an exclamation, and hastily unslung a telescope. He

said something in a low tone to Bartelommeo; but Spencer and Helen

grasped its meaning.

The girl's eyes dilated with terror. "There has been an accident!" she

whispered. Bartelommeo took the telescope in his turn and evidently

agreed with the leading guide.

"A party has fallen on Corvatsch," said Pietro gravely. "Two men are

clinging to a ledge. It is not a bad place; but they cannot move. They

must be injured, and there may be others--below."

"Let us go to their assistance," said Spencer instantly.

"_Per certo, signor._ That is the law of the hills. But the _signora_?

What of her?"

"She will remain at the hut."

"I will do anything you wish," said Helen sorrowfully, for her

gladness had been changed to mourning by the fearsome tidings that

two, if not more, human beings were in imminent danger on the slopes

of the very hill that had witnessed the avowal of her love. They raced

back over the glacier, doubling on their own track, and were thus

enabled to travel without precaution.

Leaving Helen at the hut, the men lost no time in beginning the

ascent. They were gone so long that she was almost frantic with dread

in their behalf; but at last they came, slowly, with the tread of

care, for they were carrying the body of a man.

While they were yet a couple of hundred feet above the hut, Spencer

intrusted the burden to the Italians alone. He advanced with rapid

strides, and Helen knew that he brought bad news.

"Come, dear one," he said gently. "We must go to the inn and send

help. Our guides are bringing an injured man to the hut, and there is

one other whom we left on the mountain."

"Dead?"

"Yes, killed instantly by a stone. That was all. Just a mishap--one of

the things that can never be avoided in climbing. But come, dear. More

men are needed, and a doctor. This poor fellow is badly hurt."

"Can I do nothing for him?" she pleaded.

A species of fright twitched his grave face for an instant. "No, no,

that is not to be thought of," he urged. "Pietro says he has some

little skill in these matters. He can do all that is needed until a

doctor arrives. Believe me, Helen, it is imperative that we should

reach the hotel without delay."

She went with him at once. "Who is it?" she asked. He steeled himself

to answer according to his intent. Though he had vowed that never

again would he utter a syllable to his love that was not transparently

true, how could he tell her then that Stampa was stretched lifeless on

the broad bosom of Corvatsch, and that the Italians were carrying

Bower, crushed and raving in delirium, to the hut.

"An Englishman and his guide, I am sorry to say," was his prepared

reply. "The guide is dead; but his employer can be saved, I am sure,

if only we rush things a bit. Now, Helen, let us go at top speed. No

talking, dear. We must make the hotel under the hour."

They did it, and help was soon forthcoming. Then Spencer ordered a

carriage, and insisted that Helen should drive to Maloja forthwith. He

would stay at Roseg, he said, to make certain that everything possible

was done for the unfortunate climber. Indeed, when his beloved was

lost to sight down the winding road that leads to the main valley of

the Engadine, he accompanied the men who went to the Mortel. Halfway

they met Pietro and Bartelommeo carrying Bower on an improvised

stretcher, ice axes and a blanket.

By this time, under the stimulus of wine and warmth, Bower had

regained his senses. He recognized Spencer, and tried to speak; but

the American told him that even the least excitement must be avoided.

Once the hotel was reached, and they were waiting for the doctor,

Bower could not be restrained.

"It was you who rescued me?" he said feebly.

"I, and two Italian guides. We saw the accident from the other side of

the Roseg glacier."

"Yes. Stampa pointed you out to me. I could not believe my eyes. I

watched you till the thought came that Stampa had befooled me. Then he

pushed me off the rock where we were standing. I broke my leg in the

fall; but he held me there on the rope and taunted me. Great God! how

I suffered!"

"You really ought not to talk about it," said Spencer soothingly.

"Why not? He brought me there to kill me, he said. The cunning old fox

told me that I would find Helen in the Mortel hut, and offered to take

me to her by a short cut over Corvatsch. And I believed him! I was

mad, I suppose. We did the Marmore ascent by the light of the stars.

Do you realize what that means? It is a hard climb for experts in

broad daylight. But I meant to beat you, Spencer. Stampa vowed you

were in St. Moritz. And again I believed him! Think of it--I was

hoodwinked by an old peasant."

"Hush! Try and forget things till your broken limb is fixed."

"What does it matter? Confound it! you've won; so let me tell my

story. I must have lost my senses when I saw you and Helen leaving the

glacier with two strange guides. I forgot all else in my rage. I stood

there, frozen, bewitched. Stampa was watching me all the time, and the

instant I turned to revile him he threw me off my balance with a

thrust of his ax. 'Now you are going to die, Marcus Bauer!' he said,

grinning at me with a lunatic's joy. He even gloated over the

unexpected injury I received in falling. My groans and cries were so

pleasing to him that he did not cut the rope at once as he meant to

do, but kept me dangling there, listening to his reproaches. Then the

stones fell, and pinned him to the ledge; but not one touched me, and

I hauled myself up, broken leg and all, till I crawled on to the big

rock that rested on his body. You found me there, eh?"

"Yes."

"Well, I wish you luck. I meant to snatch Helen from you, even at the

twelfth hour; but Stampa over-reached me. That mock marriage of his

contriving had more power than I counted on. Curse it! how these

crushed bones are beginning to ache! Give me some brandy. I want to

drink Helen's health, and my own, and yours, damn you! See that you

treat her well and make her life happy! She is worthy of all your

love, and I suppose she loves you, whereas I might have striven for

years to win her affection and then failed in the end."

Late that night Spencer arrived at the Maloja. Helen was waiting for

him, as he had telephoned the hour he might be expected. Rumor had

brought the news of Stampa's death and Bower's accident. Then she

understood why her lover had sent her away so quickly. She was

troubled all day, blaming herself as the unconscious cause of so much

misery. Spencer saw that the full truth alone would dispel her self

reproach. So he told her everything, even showing her Millicent's

letter and a telegram received from Mackenzie, in which the editor of

"The Firefly" put it quite plainly that the proprietor of the magazine

had forbidden him (Mackenzie) from taking any steps whatever with

regard to Helen's return to England without definite instructions.

The more she learned of the amazing web of intrigue and

misunderstanding that surrounded her movements since she left the

Embankment Hotel after that memorable luncheon with Millicent, the

less inclined she was to deny Spencer's theory that Fate had brought

them together.

"I cleared out of Colorado as though a tarantula had bitten me," he

said. "I traveled five thousand miles to London, saw you, fooled

myself into the belief that I was intended by Providence to play the

part of a heavy uncle, and kept up that notion during another

thousand-mile trip to this delightful country. Then you began to reach

out for me, Helen----"

"I did nothing of the kind!" she protested.

"Oh, yes, you did,--just grabbed me good and hard,--and when Bower

showed up I stacked my chips on the table and sat down to the game.

What am I talking about? I don't know. Kiss me good night, sweetheart,

and don't you give a red cent who's looking. For once in a way, I

don't mind admitting that I'm tired--all in. I could sleep on a row of

porcupines."

* * * * *

Stampa was buried in the grave that held his daughter's remains.

Spencer purchased the space for a suitable monument, and the

inscription does not fail to record the fact that one of the men who

first conquered the Matterhorn had paid tribute to the mountains by

meeting his death on Corvatsch.

The American went many times to visit Bower at the Roseg inn. He found

his erstwhile rival resigned to the vagaries of fortune. The doctors

summoned from St. Moritz deemed his case so serious that they brought

a specialist from Paris, and the great surgeon announced that the

millionaire's leg would be saved; but there must remain a permanent

stiffness.

"I know what that means," said Bower, with a wry smile. "It is a

legacy from Stampa. That is really rather funny, considering that the

joke is against myself. By the way, did I tell you I gave Millicent

Jaques a check for five thousand pounds to stop her tongue?"

"I guessed the check, but couldn't guess the amount."

"She wrote last week, threatening all sorts of terrible things because

I withheld payment. You will remember that when you and I placed on

record our mutual opinion of each other, we agreed at any rate that it

was a mean thing on her part to give away our poor Helen to the

harpies in the hotel. So I telegraphed at once to my bankers, and Miss

Millicent didn't make good, as you would put it. Now she promises to

'expose' me. Humorous, isn't it?"

"I think you ought to marry her," said Spencer, with that immobile

look of his.

"Perhaps I may, one of these days. But first she must learn to behave

herself. A nice girl, Millicent. She would look decorative, sitting

beside an invalid in a carriage. Yes, I'll think of it. Meanwhile, I

shall chaff her about the five thousand and see how she takes it."

Millicent behaved. Helen saw that she did.

On a day in September, after a wedding that was attended by as many

people as could be crowded into the little English church at Maloja,

Mr. and Mrs. Charles K. Spencer drove over the pass and down the Vale

of Bregaglia en route to Como, Milan, and Venice. At the wedding

breakfast, when Mrs. de la Vere officiated as hostess, the Rev. Philip

Hare amused the guests by stating that he had taken pains to discover

what the initial "K" represented in his American friend's name.

"His second name is Knox," said the vicar, "and I understand that he

is a direct descendant of a famous Scottish divine known to history as

a very stubborn person. Well, it has been said by a gentleman present

that Mr. Spencer has a backbone of cast steel, so the 'K' is fully

accounted for, while the singular affinity of steel of any variety for

a magnet gives a ready explanation of the admirable union which has

resulted from the chance that brought the bride and bridegroom under

the same roof."

Everybody said that Hare was much happier on such occasions than in

the pulpit, and even the Wragg girls were heard to admit that Helen

looked positively charming.

So it is clear that many hatchets were blunted in Maloja, which is as

it should ever be in such a fairyland, and that Helen, looking back at

the mighty chain of the Alps from the deck of a steamer on Lake Como,

had no reason to regret the day when first she crossed that solemn

barrier.

THE END

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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:

1. Minor changes have been made to correct typesetters' errors;

otherwise, every effort has been made to remain true to the author's

words and intent.

2. In the advertising pages at the end of this book, titles were

typeset as underlined; this has been indicated by = preceding and

following the title.