SPENCER EXPLAINS
A sustained rapping on the inner door of the hut roused Helen from
dreamless sleep. In the twilight of the mind that exists between
sleeping and waking she was bewildered by the darkness, perhaps
baffled by her novel surroundings. She strove to pierce the gloom with
wide-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 a
piece of bad snow to cross."
Then she remembered, and sighed. The sigh was involuntary, the half
conscious tribute of a wearied heart. It needed an effort to brace
herself against the long hours of a new day, the hours when thoughts
would come unbidden, when regrets that she was fighting almost
fiercely would rush in and threaten to overwhelm her. But Helen was
brave. She had the courage that springs from the conviction of having
done that which is right. If she was a woman too, with a woman's
infinite capacity for suffering--well, that demanded another sort
of bravery, a resolve to subdue the soul's murmurings, a spiritual
teeth-clenching in the determination to prevail, a complete acceptance
of unmerited wrongs in obedience to some inexplicable decree of
Providence.
So she rose from a couch which at least demanded perfect physical
health ere one could find rest on it, and, being fully dressed, went
forth at once to drink the steaming hot coffee that filled the tiny
hut with its fragrance.
"A fine morning, Pietro?" she asked, addressing the man who had
summoned her.
"_Si, signora._ Dawn is breaking with good promise. There is a slight
mist 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 so
dark in the _cabane_ that she could see little beyond the figures of
the guide and his companion. She went to the door, and stood for a
minute on the narrow platform of rough stones that provided the only
level space in a witches' cauldron of moss covered boulders and rough
ice. Beneath her feet was an ultramarine mist, around her were masses
of black rock; but overhead was a glorious pink canopy, fringed by
far flung circles of translucent blue and tenderest green. And this
heaven's own shield was ever widening. Eastward its arc was broken
by an irregular dark mass, whose pinnacles glittered like burnished
gold. That was the Aguagliouls Rock, which rises so magnificently
in the midst of a vast ice field, like some great portal to the
wonderland of the Bernina. She had seen it the night before, after
leaving the small restaurant that nestles at the foot of the Roseg
Glacier. Then its scarred sides, brightened by the crimson and violet
rays of the setting sun, looked friendly and inviting. Though its base
was a good mile distant across the snow-smoothed surface of the ice,
she could discern every crevice and ledge and steep couloir. Now, all
these distinguishing features were merged in the sea-blue mist. The
great wall itself seemed to be one vast, unscalable precipice, capped
by a series of shining spires.
And for the first time in three sorrowful days, while her eyes dwelt
on that castle above the clouds, the mysterious grandeur of nature
healed her vexed spirit, and the peace that passeth all understanding
fell upon her. The miserable intrigues and jealousies of the past
weeks were so insignificant, so far away, up here among the mountains.
Had she only consulted her own happiness, she mused, she would not
have ordered events differently. There was no real reason why she
should have flown from the hotel like a timid deer roused by hounds
from a thicket. Instead of doubling and twisting from St. Moritz to
Samaden, and back by carriage to a remote hotel in the Roseg Valley,
she might have remained and defied her persecutors. But now the fume
and 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 the
thick sensual lips that forced their loathsome kisses upon her, was
bitter enough without the need of reviving it each time they met. She
was sorry it was impossible to bid farewell to Mrs. de la Vere. Any
hint of her intent would have drawn from that well-disposed cynic a
flood of remonstrance hard to stem; though nothing short of force
would have kept Helen at Maloja once she was sure of Spencer's double
dealing.
Of course, she might write to Mrs. de la Vere when she was in calmer
mood. It would be easier then to pick and choose the words that would
convey in full measure her detestation of the American. For she hated
him--yes, hatred alone was satisfying. She despised her own heart
because it whispered a protest. Yet she feared him too. It was from
him that she fled. She admitted this to her honest mind while she
watched the spreading radiance of the new day. She feared the candor
of his steady eyes more than the wiles and hypocrisies of Bower and
her false friend, Millicent. By a half miraculous insight into the
history of recent events, she saw that Bower had followed her to
Switzerland with evil intent.
But the discovery embittered her the more against Spencer, who had
lured her there deliberately, than against Bower who knew of it, nor
scrupled to use the knowledge as best it marched with his designs. It
was nothing to her, she told herself, that Spencer no less than Bower
had renounced his earlier purpose, and was ready to marry her. She
still quivered with anger at the thought that she had fallen so
blindly into the toils. Even though she accepted Mackenzie's
astounding commission, she might have guessed that there was some
ignoble element underlying it. She felt now that it was possible to be
prepared,--to scrutinize occurrences more closely, to hold herself
aloof from compromising incidents. The excursion to the Forno, the
manifest interest she displayed in both men, the concealment of her
whereabouts from friends in London, her stiff lipped indifference to
the opinion of other residents in the hotel,--these things, trivial
individually, united into a strong self indictment.
As for Spencer, though she meant, above all things, to avoid meeting
him, and hoped that he was now well on his way to the wide world
beyond Maloja, she would never forgive him--no, never!
"I am sorry to hurry you, _signora_, but there is a bit of really bad
snow on the Sella Pass," urged Pietro apologetically at her shoulder,
and she reentered the hut at once, sitting down to that which she
deemed 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 with
the aid of a map and a guidebook. When, on that day of great
happenings, she quitted the Kursaal-Maloja, she stipulated that the
utmost secrecy should be observed as to her departure. Her boxes and
portmanteau were brought from her room by the little used exit she had
discovered soon after her arrival. A closed carriage met her there in
the dusk, and she drove straight to St. Moritz station. Leaving her
baggage in the parcels office, she sought a quiet hotel for the night,
registering her room under her mother's maiden name of Trenholme. She
meant to return to England by the earliest train in the morning; but
her new-born terror of encountering Spencer set in motion a scheme for
evading pursuit either by him or Bower.
By going up the Roseg Valley, and carrying the barest necessaries for
a few days' travel, she could cross the Bernina range into Italy,
reach the rail at Sondrio, and go round by Como to Lucerne and thence
to Basle, whither the excellent Swiss system of delivering passengers'
luggage would convey her bulky packages long before she was ready to
claim them.
With a sense of equity that was creditable, she made up her mind to
expend every farthing of the money received from "The Firefly." She
had kept her contract faithfully: Mackenzie, therefore, or Spencer,
must abide by it to the last letter. The third article of the series
was already written and in the post. The fourth she wrote quietly in
her room at the St. Moritz hotel, nor did she stir out during the
next day until it was dark, when she walked a few yards up the main
street to buy a rucksack and an alpenstock.
Early next morning, close wrapped and veiled, she took a carriage to
the Restaurant du Glacier. Here she met an unforeseen check. The local
guides were absent in the Bernina, and the hotel proprietor--good,
careful man!--would not hear of intrusting the pretty English girl to
inexperienced villagers, but persuaded her to await the coming of a
party from Italy, whose rooms were bespoke. Their guides, in all
probability, would be returning over the Sella Pass, and would charge
far less for the journey.
He was right. On the afternoon of the following day, three tired
Englishmen arrived at the restaurant, and their hardy Italian pilots
were only too glad to find a _voyageur_ ready to start at once for the
Mortel hut, whence a nine hours' climb would take them back to the Val
Malenco, provided they crossed the dangerous neve on the upper part of
the glacier soon after daybreak.
Pietro, the leader, was a cheery soul. Like others of his type in the
Bernina region, he spoke a good deal of German, and his fund of
pleasant anecdote and reminiscence kept Helen from brooding on her own
troubles 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 regaled
her with a legend of the Monte del Diavolo, which overlooks Sondrio
and the lovely valley of the Adda.
"Once upon a time, _signora_, they used to grow fine grapes there," he
said, "and the wine was always sent to Rome for the special use of the
Pope and his cardinals. That made the people proud, and the devil took
possession of them, which greatly grieved a pious hermit who dwelt in
a cell in the little Val Malgina, by the side of a torrent that flows
into the Adda. So one day he asked the good Lord to permit the devil
to 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 Infernal
Regions?'--'Am I not?' said the stranger, with a truly fiendish grin.
'Just try my powers, and see what will happen!'--'Very well,' said the
saint, 'produce me twenty barrels of better wine than can be grown in
Sondrio.' So old Barbariccia stamped his hoof, and lo! there were the
twenty barrels, while the mere scent of them nearly made the saint
break a vow that he would never again taste fermented wine. But he
held fast, and said, 'Now, drink the lot.'--'Oh, nonsense!' roared the
devil. 'Pooh!' said the hermit, 'you're not much of a devil if you
can'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 the
saint began to feel very uneasy. But the last barrel finished him, and
down he went like a log, whereupon the holy man put him into one of
his own tubs and sent him to Rome to be dealt with properly. There
was a tremendous row, it is said, when the cask was opened. In the
confusion, Satan escaped; but in revenge for the trick that had been
played on him, he put a blight on the vines of the Adda, and from that
day to this never a liter of decent wine came out of Sondrio."
"I guess if that occurred anywhere in Italy nowadays, they'd lynch the
hermit," said a voice in English outside.
Helen screamed, and the two Italians were startled. No one was
expected at the hut at that hour. Its earliest visitors should come
from the inner range, after a long tramp from Italy or Pontresina.
"Sorry if I scared you," said Spencer, his tall figure suddenly
darkening 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 the
American's eyes, though his face was as impassive as usual. And the
worst of it was that it suggested humor, not resentment. Even in the
tumult of wounded pride that took her heart by storm, she realized
that her fiery vehemence had gone perilously near to a literal
translation of the saintly scoff at old Barbariccia. And, now if ever,
she must be dignified. Anger yielded to disdain. In an instant she
grew cold and self collected.
"I regret that in my surprise I spoke unguardedly," she said. "Of
course, this hut is open to everyone----"
"Judging by the look of things between here and the hotel, we shall
not be worried by a crowd," broke in Spencer. "I meant to arrive half
an hour earlier; but that slope on the Alp Ota offers surprising
difficulties 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 quietly
flippant 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 of
rails. It is my fault. I ought to have coughed, or fallen down the
moraine, or done any old thing sooner than butt into the talk so
unexpectedly. If you will allow me, I'll begin again right now."
He turned to the Italians, who were watching and listening in curious
silence, trying to pick up an odd word that would help to explain the
relations 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 never
lose its love of romance. The polite Italians raised their hats and
went out. Helen, drawing a long breath, withdrew somewhat into the
shadow. She felt that she would have more command over herself if the
American 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 answered
simply, "What else would you have me do, once I found out the
circumstances 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 been
spreading a misleading version, and it was necessary to correct it.
The women, of course, I could not deal with. As the General was an old
man, I picked out George de Courcy Vavasour as best fitted to digest
the 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 was
tongue tied. Spencer was regarding her so fixedly that she began to
fear lest he might notice the embarrassed perplexity that she herself
was 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 again
exist between you and me," said he earnestly. "You can accept my words
literally. Acting for himself and others, Vavasour wrote on paper the
lying insinuations made by Miss Jaques, and ate them--both words and
paper. He happened to use the thin, glazed, Continental variety, so
what it lost in bulk it gained in toughness. He didn't like it, and
said so; but he had to do it."
She was nervously aware of a wish to laugh; but unless she gave way to
hysteria that was not to be thought of. Trying to retreat still
farther into the friendly shade, she backed round the inner end of the
table, but found the way blocked by a rough bench. Something must be
said or done to extricate herself. The dread that her voice might
break was becoming an obsession.
"You speak of a false version, and that implies a true one," she
managed to say constrainedly. "How far was Mr. Bower's statement false
or true?"
"I settled that point too. Mr. Bower told you the facts. The deduction
he forced on you was a lie. To my harmless notion of gratifying a
girl's longing for a holiday abroad he added the motive that inspired
his own journey. I overheard your conversation with Miss Jaques in the
Embankment Hotel; I saw Bower introduced to you; I saw him looking for
you in Victoria Station, and knew that he represented the meeting as
accidental. I felt a certain responsibility on your account; so I
followed by the next train. Bower played his cards so well that I
found myself in a difficult position. I was busy guessing; but was
unable to prove anything, while the one story I was sure of was not in
the game. And then, you see, he wanted to make you his wife, which
brought about the real complication. I haven't much use for him; but I
must be fair, and Bower's only break was when he misrepresented my
action in subsidizing 'The Firefly.' I don't deny he was pretty mad at
the idea of losing you, and jealousy will often drive a man to do a
mean thing which might otherwise be repugnant to his better
nature----"
"Jealousy!" shrilled Helen, her woman's wit at last finding a joint in
his armor. Yet never did woman err more than she in thinking that her
American 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 man
should feel jealous of you where I am concerned," she said.
"I am going to tell you right away--Helen. But that is the last
chapter. There is quite a long record as to the way I hit on your
track in St. Moritz, and heard of you by telephone last night. Of
course, that part of the story will keep----"
"Is it necessary that I should hear any portion of it?" she
interrupted, hoping to irritate him, and thus lessen the strain
imposed by his studiously tranquil manner.
"Well, it ought to interest you. But it has humorous points to which I
can't do justice under present conditions. You are right, Helen--you
most always are. The real question at issue is my position in the
deal, which becomes quite clear when I say that you are the only woman
I have ever loved or ever shall love. More than that, you are the only
woman to whom I have ever spoken a word of love, and as I have set
about loving the dearest and prettiest and healthiest girl I have ever
seen, it is safe to figure that you will have sole claim on all the
nice things I can try to say to any woman during the remainder of my
life."
He hesitated a moment. He did not appear to notice that Helen, after a
rebellious gasp or two, had suddenly become very still.
"I suppose I ought to have fixed up a finer bit of word painting than
that," he continued slowly. "As a matter of fact, I don't mind
admitting that ever since eleven o'clock last night, when the
proprietor of the hotel below there telephoned to me that Miss
Trenholme had gone to the Mortel hut with two guides, I have been
rehearsing X plus Y multiplied by Z ways of telling you just how dear
you are to me. But they all vanished like smoke when I saw your sweet
face. You tried to be severe with me, Helen; but your voice didn't
ring true, and you are the poorest sort of prevaricator I know. And
the reason those set forms wouldn't work at the right moment is that
they 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 sounds
just right to keep on telling you that I love you now and shall love
you for ever. Oh, my dear, my dear, you must never, never, run away
again! Search the dictionary for all the unkindest things you can say
about me; but don't run away ... for I know now that when you are
absent the day is night and the night is akin to death."
* * * * *
Guide Pietro was somewhat a philosopher. Stamping about on the tiny
stone plateau of the hut to keep at bay the cold mists from the
glacier, he happened to glance through the open door. He drew away
instantly.
"Bartelommeo," he said to his companion, "we shall not cross the Sella
to-day with our charming _voyageur_."
Bartelommeo was surprised. He looked at the clean cut crest of the
rock, glowing now in vivid sunlight. Argument was not required; he
pointed 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 voice
yesterday? She smiled at my stories, and carried herself bravely; but
her eyes were heavy, and the corners of her mouth drooped when she was
left to her thoughts. And again, my friend, did you not see her face
when 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 for
her 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, how
she would dodge into anybody's chalet rather than meet you?"
"But how do you know?" demanded Bartelommeo, waking into resentful
appreciation of Pietro's close acquaintance with his wooing.
"Because I married Lola two years earlier. Women are all the same, no
matter what country they hail from--nervous as young chamois before
marriage--but after! Body of Bacchus! Was it on Wednesday that
Caterina hauled you out of the albergo to chop firewood?"
Bartelommeo grunted, and put his pipe in his mouth again.