CHAPTER VII

SOME SKIRMISHING

Later, the American saw the two sitting in the hall. They were

chatting with the freedom of old friends. Helen's animated face showed

that the subject of their talk was deeply interesting. She was telling

Bower of the slights inflicted on her by the other women; but Spencer

interpreted her intent manner as supplying sufficient proof of a

stronger emotion than mere friendliness. He was beginning to detest

Bower.

It was his habit to decide quickly when two ways opened before him.

He soon settled his course now. To remain in the hotel under present

conditions involved a loss of self respect, he thought. He went to the

bureau, asked for his account, and ordered a carriage to St. Moritz

for the morrow's fast train to England.

The manager was politely regretful. "You are leaving us at the wrong

time, sir," he said. "Within the next few days we ought to have a

midsummer storm, when even the lower hills will be covered with snow.

Then, we usually enjoy a long spell of magnificent weather."

"Sorry," said Spencer. "I like the scramble up there," and he nodded

in the direction of the Bernina range, "and old Stampa is a gem of a

guide; but I can hardly put off any longer some business that needs

attention in England. Anyhow, I shall come back, perhaps next month.

Stampa says it is all right here in September."

"Our best month, I assure you, and the ideal time to drop down into

Italy when you are tired of the mountains."

"I must let it go at that. I intend to fix Stampa so that he can

remain here till the end of the season. So you see I mean to return."

"He was very fortunate in meeting you, Mr. Spencer," said the manager

warmly.

"Well, it is time he had a slice of luck. I've taken a fancy to the

old fellow. One night, in the Forno hut, he told me something of his

story. I guess it will please him to stop at the Maloja for awhile."

"He told you about his daughter?" came the tentative question.

"Not all. I am afraid there was no difficulty in filling in the

blanks. I heard enough to make me respect him and sympathize with his

troubles."

The manager shook his head, with the air of one who recalls that

which he would willingly have forgotten. "Such incidents are rare

in Switzerland," he said. "I well remember the sensation her death

created. She was such a pretty girl. The young men at Pontresina

called her 'The Edelweiss' because she was so inaccessible. In fact,

poor Stampa had educated her beyond her station, and that is not

always good for a woman, especially in these quiet valleys, where

knowledge of cattle and garden produce is a better asset than speaking

French and playing the piano."

Spencer agreed. He could name other districts where the same rule held

good. He stood for a moment in the spacious hall to light a cigar.

Involuntarily he glanced at Helen. She met his gaze, and said

something to Bower that caused the latter also to turn and look.

"She has read Mackenzie's letter," thought Spencer, taking refuge

behind a cloud of smoke. "It will be bad behavior on my part to leave

the hotel without making my bow. Shall I go to her now, or wait till

morning?"

He reflected that Helen might be out early next day. If he presented

his introduction at once, she would probably ask him to sit with her a

little while, and then he must become acquainted with Bower. He

disliked the notion; but he saw no way out of it, unless indeed Helen

treated him with the chilling abruptness she meted out to other men in

the hotel who tried to become friendly with her. He was weighing the

pros and cons dispassionately, when the English chaplain approached.

"Do you play bridge, Mr. Spencer?" he asked.

"I know the leads, and call 'without' on the least provocation," was

the reply.

"You are the very man I am searching for, and I have the authority of

the First Book of Samuel in my quest."

"Well, now, that is the last place in which I should expect to find my

bridge portrait."

"Don't you remember how Saul's servants asked his permission to 'seek

out a man who is a cunning player'? That is exactly what I am doing.

Come to the smoking room. There are two other men there, and one is a

fellow countryman of yours."

The Rev. Mr. Hare was a genial soul, a Somersetshire vicar who took

his annual holiday by accepting a temporary position in some Alpine

village where there was an English church. He did not dream that he

was acting the part of Hermes, messenger of the gods, at that moment,

for indeed his appearance on the scene just then changed the whole

trend of Spencer's actions.

"What a delightful place this is!" he went on as they walked together

through a long corridor. "But what is the matter with the people? They

don't mix. I would not have believed that there were so many prigs in

the British Isles."

Some such candid opinion had occurred to Spencer; but, being an

American, he thought that perhaps he might be mistaken. "The English

character is somewhat adaptable to environment, I have heard. That is

why you send out such excellent colonists," he said.

"Doesn't that go rather to prove that everybody here should be hail

fellow well met?"

"Not at all. They take their pose from the Alps,--snow, glaciers, hard

rock, you know,--that is the subtlety of it."

The vicar laughed. "You have given me a new point of view," he said.

"Some of them are slippery customers too. Yes, one might carry the

parallel a long way. But here we are. Now, mind you cut me as a

partner. I have tried the others, and found them severely critical--as

bridge players. You look a stoic."

The vicar had his wish. Spencer and he opposed a man from Pittsburg,

named Holt, and Dunston, an Englishman.

While the latter was shuffling the cards for Hare's deal he said

something that took one, at least, of his hearers by surprise. "Bower

has turned up, I see. What has brought him to the Engadine at this

time of year I can't guess, unless perhaps he is interested in a

pretty face."

"At this time of the year," repeated Spencer. "Isn't this the season?"

"Not for him. He used to be a famous climber; but he has given it up

since he waxed fat and prosperous. I have met him once or twice at

St. Moritz in the winter. Otherwise, he usually shows up in the

fashionable resorts in August,--Ostend, or Trouville, or, if he is

livery, Vichy or Aix-les-Bains,--anywhere but this quiet spot.

Bower likes excitement too. He often opens a thousand pound bank at

baccarat, whereas people are shocked in Maloja at seeing Hare play

bridge at tenpence a hundred."

"I leave it, partner," broke in the vicar, to whom the game was the

thing.

"No trumps," said Spencer, without giving the least heed to his cards.

It was true his eyes were resting on the ace, king, and queen of

spades; but his mind was tortured by the belief that by his fantastic

conceit in sending Helen to this Alpine fastness he had delivered her

bound to the vultures.

"Double no trumps," said Dunston, gloating over the possession of a

long suit of hearts and three aces. Hare looked anxious, and Spencer

suddenly awoke to the situation.

"Satisfied," he said.

Holt led the three of hearts, and Spencer spread his cards on the

table with the gravity of a Sioux chief. In addition to the three high

spades he held six others.

"Really!" gasped the parson, "a most remarkable declaration!"

Yet there was an agitated triumph in his voice that was not pleasant

hearing for Dunston, who took the trick with the ace of hearts and

led the lowest of a sequence to the queen.

"Got him!" panted Hare, producing the king.

The rest was easy. The vicar played a small spade and scored

ninety-six points without any further risk.

"It is magnificent; but it is not bridge," said the man from

Pittsburg. Dunston simply glowered.

"Partner," demanded Hare timidly, "may I ask why you called 'no

trumps' on a hand like that?"

"Thought I would give you a chance of distinguishing yourself,"

replied Spencer. "Besides, that sort of thing rattles your opponents

at the beginning of a game. Keep your nerve now, _padre_, and you have

'em in a cleft stick."

As it happened, Holt made a "no trump" declaration on a very strong

hand; but Spencer held seven clubs headed by the ace and king.

He doubled. Holt redoubled. Spencer doubled again.

Hare flushed somewhat. "Allow me to say that I am very fond of bridge;

but I cannot take part in a game that savors of gambling, even for low

stakes," he broke in.

"Shall we let her go at forty-eight points a trick?" Spencer asked.

"Yep!" snapped Holt. "Got all the clubs?"

"Not all--sufficient, perhaps."

He played the ace. Dunston laid the queen and knave on the table.

Spencer scored the winning trick before his adversary obtained an

opening.

"You have a backbone of cast steel," commented Dunston, who was an

iron-master. "Do you play baccarat?" he went on, with curious

eagerness.

"I regret to state that my education was completed in a Western mining

camp."

"Will you excuse the liberty, and perhaps Mr. Hare won't listen for a

moment?--but I will finance you in three banks of a thousand each,

either banking or punting, if you promise to take on Bower. I can

arrange it easily. I say this because you personally may not care to

play for high sums."

The suggestion was astounding, coming as it did from a stranger; but

Spencer merely said:

"You don't like Bower, then?"

"That is so. I have business relations with him occasionally, and

there he is all that could be wished. But I have seen him clean out

more than one youngster ruthlessly,--force the play to too high

stakes, I mean. I think you could take his measure. Anyhow, I am

prepared to back you."

"I'm leaving here to-morrow."

"Ah, well, we may have another opportunity. If so, my offer holds."

"Guess you haven't heard that Spencer is the man who bored a tunnel

through the Rocky Mountains?" said Holt.

"No. You must tell me about it. Sorry, Mr. Hare, I am stopping the

game."

Spencer continued to have amazing good fortune, and he played with

skill, but without any more fireworks. At the close of the sitting the

vicar said cheerfully:

"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 mass 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 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 'orbed 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 roue'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.