The Silent Barrier

  CHAPTER V

  AN INTERLUDE

  Helen rose betimes next morning; but she found that the sun had keptan earlier tryst. Not a cloud marred a sky of dazzling blue. Thephantom mist had gone with the shadows. From her bed room window shecould see the whole length of the Ober-Engadin, till the view wasabruptly shut off by the giant shoulders of Lagrev and Rosatch. Thebrilliance of the coloring was the landscape's most astoundingfeature. The lakes were planes of polished turquoise, the rocks puregrays and browns and reds, the meadows emerald green, while theshining white patches of snow on the highest mountain slopes helped toblacken by contrast the somber clumps of pines that gathered thickwherever man had not disputed with the trees the tenancy of each footof meager loam.

  This morning glory of nature gladdened the girl's heart and drovefrom it the overnight vapors. She dressed hurriedly, made a lightbreakfast, and went out.

  There was no need to ask the way. In front of the hotel the narrowSilser See filled the valley. Close behind lay the crest of the pass.A picturesque chateau was perched on a sheer rock overhanging the Valeof Bregaglia and commanding a far flung prospect almost to the brinkof Como. On both sides rose the mountain barriers; but toward the eastthere was an inviting gorge, beyond which the lofty Cima di Rossoflung its eternal snows heavenward.

  A footpath led in that direction. Helen, who prided herself on hersense of locality, decided that it would bring her to the valley inwhich were situated, as she learned by the map, a small lake and aglacier.

  "That will be a fine walk before lunch," she said, "and it is quiteimpossible to lose the way."

  So she set off, crossing the hotel golf course, and making for atypical Swiss church that crowned the nearest of the foothills.Passing the church, she found the double doors in the porch open, andpeeped in. It was a cozy little place, cleaner and less garish thansuch edifices are usually on the Continent. The lamp burning beforethe sanctuary showed that it was devoted to Roman Catholic worship.The red gleam of the tiny sentinel conveyed a curiously vividimpression of faith and spirituality. Though Helen was a Protestant,she was conscious of a benign emotion arising from the presence ofthis simple token of belief.

  "I must ascertain the hours of service," she thought. "It will bedelightful to join the Swiss peasants in prayer. One might come nearthe Creator in this rustic tabernacle."

  She did not cross the threshold of the inner door. At present her mindwas fixed on brisk movement in the marvelous air. She wanted to absorbthe sunshine, to dispel once and for all the unpleasing picture oflife in the high Alps presented by the stupid crowd she had met in thehotel overnight. Of course, she was somewhat unjust there; but womenare predisposed to trust first impressions, and Helen was no exceptionto her sex.

  Beyond the church the path was not so definite. Oddly enough, itseemed to go along the flat top of a low wall down to a tiny mountainstream. Steps were cut in the opposite hillside, but they were littleused, and higher up, among some dwarf pines and azaleas, a broader waywound back toward the few scattered chalets that nestled under thechateau.

  As the guidebook spoke of a carriage road to Lake Cavloccio, and abridle path thence to within a mile of the Forno glacier, she came tothe conclusion that she was taking a short cut. At any rate, on thesummit of the next little hill she would be able to see her way quitedistinctly, so she jumped across the brook and climbed through theundergrowth. Before she had gone twenty yards she stopped. She wasalmost certain that someone was sobbing bitterly up there among thetrees. It had an uncanny sound, this plaint of grief in such a quiet,sunlit spot. Still, sorrow was not an affrighting thing to Helen. Itmight stir her sympathies, but it assuredly could not drive her awayin panic.

  She went on, not noiselessly, as she did not wish to intrude on somestranger's misery. Soon she came to a low wall, and, before shequite realized her surroundings, she was looking into a grass growncemetery. It was a surprise, this ambush of the silent company amongthe trees. Hidden away from the outer world, and so secluded that itswhereabouts remain unknown to thousands of people who visit the Malojaeach summer, there was an aspect of stealth in its sudden discoverythat was almost menacing. But Helen was not a nervous subject. Thesobbing had ceased, and when the momentary effect of such a depressingenvironment had been resolutely driven off, she saw that a rusty irongate was open. The place was very small. There were a few monuments,so choked with weeds and dank grass that their inscriptions wereillegible. She had never seen a more desolate graveyard. Despite thevivid light and the joyous breeze rustling the pine branches, its airof abandonment was depressing. She fought against the sensation asunworthy of her intelligence; but she had some reason for it in thefact that there was no visible explanation of the mourning she hadundoubtedly heard.

  Then she uttered an involuntary cry, for a man's head and shouldersrose from behind a leafy shrub. Instantly she was ashamed of her fear.It was the old guide who acted as coachman the previous evening, andhe had been lying face downward on the grass in that part of thecemetery given over to the unnamed dead.

  He recognized her at once. Struggling awkwardly to his feet, he saidin broken and halting German, "I pray your forgiveness, _fraeulein_. Ifear I have alarmed you."

  "It is I who should ask forgiveness," she said. "I came here byaccident. I thought I could go to Cavloccio by this path."

  She could have hit on no other words so well calculated to bring himback to every day life. To direct the steps of wanderers in hisbeloved Engadine was a real pleasure to him. For an instant he forgotthat they had both spoken German.

  "No, no!" he cried animatedly. "For lek him go by village. Bad roaddissa way. No cross ze field. _Verboten!_"

  Then Helen remembered that trespassers are sternly warned off the lowlying lands in the mountains. Grass is scarce and valuable. Until thehighest pastures yield to the arid rock, pedestrians must keep to thebeaten track.

  "I was quite mistaken," she said. "I see now that the path I wastrying to reach leads here only. And I am very, very sorry I disturbedyou."

  "I fear I have alarmed you, _fraeulein_." _Page 88_]

  He hobbled nearer, the ruin of a fine man, with a nobly proportionedhead and shoulders, but sadly maimed by the accident which, to allappearances, made him useless as a guide.

  "Pardon an old man's folly, _fraeulein_," he said humbly. "I thoughtnone could hear, and I felt the loss of my little girl more than everto-day."

  "Your daughter? Is she buried here?"

  "Yes. Many a year has passed; but I miss her now more than ever. Shewas all I had in the world, _fraeulein_. I am alone now, and that is ahard thing when the back is bent with age."

  Helen's eyes grew moist; but she tried bravely to control her voice."Was she young?" she asked softly.

  "Only twenty, _fraeulein_, only twenty, and as tall and fair asyourself. They carried her here sixteen years ago this very day. I didnot even see her. On the previous night I fell on Corvatsch."

  "Oh, how sad! But why did she die at that age? And in this splendidclimate? Was her death unexpected?"

  "Unexpected!" He turned and looked at the huge mountain of which thecemetery hill formed one of the lowermost buttresses. "If the Pizdella Margna were to topple over and crush me where I stand, it wouldbe less unforeseen than was my sweet Etta's fate. But I frighten you,lady,--a poor return for your kindness. That is your way,--throughthe village, and by the postroad till you reach a notice board tellingyou where to take the path."

  There was a crude gentility in his manner that added to the pathos ofhis words. Helen was sure that he wished to be left alone with hismemories. Yet she lingered.

  "Please tell me your name," she said. "I may visit St. Moritz while Iremain here, and I shall try to find you."

  "Christian Stampa," he said. He seemed to be on the point of addingsomething, but checked himself. "Christian Stampa," he repeated, aftera pause. "Everybody knows old Stampa the guide. If I am not there, andyou go to Zermatt some day--well, just ask for Stampa. The
y will tellyou what has become of me."

  She found it hard to reconcile this broken, careworn old man with hercheery companion of the previous afternoon. What did he mean? Sheunderstood his queer jargon of Italianized German quite clearly; butthere was a sinister ring in his words that blanched her face. Shecould not leave him in his present mood. She was more alarmed now thanwhen she saw him rising ghostlike from behind the screen of grass andweeds.

  "Please walk with me to the village," she said. "All this beautifulland is strange to me. It will divert your thoughts from a mournfultopic if you tell me something of its wonders."

  He looked at her for an instant. Then his eyes fell on the church inthe neighboring hollow, and he crossed himself, murmuring a few wordsin Italian. She guessed their meaning. He was thanking the Virgin forhaving sent to his rescue a girl who reminded him of his lost Etta.

  "Yes," he said, "I will come. If I were remaining in the Maloja,_fraeulein_, I would beg you to let me take you to the Forno, andperhaps to one of the peaks beyond. Old as I am, and lame, you wouldbe safe with me."

  Helen breathed freely again. She felt that she had been withinmeasurable distance of a tragedy. Nor was there any call on her witsto devise fresh means of drawing his mind away from the madness thatpossessed him a few minutes earlier. As he limped unevenly by herside, his talk was of the mountains. Did she intend to climb? Well,slow and sure was the golden rule. Do little or nothing during four orfive days, until she had grown accustomed to the thin and keen Alpineair. Then go to Lake Lunghino,--that would suffice for the first realexcursion. Next day, she ought to start early, and climb the mountainoverlooking that same lake,--up there, on the other side of thehotel,--all rock and not difficult. If the weather was clear, shewould have a grand view of the Bernina range. Next she might try theForno glacier. It was a simple thing. She could go to and from the_cabane_ in ten hours. Afterward, the Cima di Rosso offered an easyclimb; but that meant sleeping at the hut. All of which was excellentadvice, though the reflection came that Stampa's "slow and sure"methods were not strongly in evidence some sixteen hours earlier.

  Now, the Cima di Rosso was in full view at that instant. Helenstopped.

  "Do you really mean to tell me that if I wish to reach the top of thatmountain, I must devote two days to it?" she cried.

  Stampa, though bothered with troubles beyond her ken, forgot themsufficiently to laugh grimly. "It is farther away than you seem tothink, _fraeulein_; but the real difficulty is the ice. Unless youcross some of the crevasses in the early morning, before the sun hashad time to undo the work accomplished by the night's frost, you run agreat risk. And that is why you must be ready to start from the_cabane_ at dawn. Moreover, at this time of year, you get the finestview about six o'clock."

  The mention of crevasses was somewhat awesome. "Is it necessary to beroped when one tries that climb?" she asked.

  "If any guide ever tells you that you need not be roped while crossingice or climbing rock, turn back at once, _fraeulein_. Wait for anotherday, and go with a man who knows his business. That is how theAlps get a bad name for accidents. Look at me! I have climbed theMatterhorn forty times, and the Jungfrau times out of count, and neverdid I or anyone in my care come to grief. 'Use the rope properly,' ismy motto, and it has never failed me, not even when two out of five ofus were struck senseless by falling stones on the south side of MonteRosa."

  Helen experienced another thrill. "I very much object to fallingstones," she said.

  Stampa threw out his hands in emphatic gesture. "What can one do?" hecried. "They are always a danger, like the snow cornice and the_neve_. There is a chimney on the Jungfrau through which stones areconstantly shooting from a height of two thousand feet. You cannot seethem,--they travel too fast for the eye. You hear something sing pastyour ears, that is all. Occasionally there is a report like a gunshot,and then you observe a little cloud of dust rising from a new scar ona rock. If you are hit--well, there is no dust, because the stone goesright through. Of course one does not loiter there."

  Then, seeing the scared look on her face, he went on. "Ladies shouldnot go to such places. It is not fit. But for men, yes. There is thejoy of battle. Do not err, _fraeulein_,--the mountains are alive. Andthey fight to the death. They can be beaten; but there must be nomistakes. They are like strong men, the hills. When you strive againstthem, strain them to your breast and never relax your grip. Then theyyield slowly, with many a trick and false move that a man must learnif he would look down over them all and say, 'I am lord here.' Ah me!Shall I ever again cross the Col du Lion or climb the Great Tower?But there! I am old, and thrown aside. Boys whom I engaged as porterswould refuse me now as their porter. Better to have died like myfriend, Michel Croz, than live to be a goatherd."

  He seemed to pull himself up with an effort. "That way--to yourleft--you cannot miss the path. _Addio, signorina_," and he lifted hishat with the inborn grace of the peasantry of Southern Europe.

  Helen was hoping that he might elect to accompany her to Cavloccio.She would willingly have paid him for loss of time. Her ear wasbecoming better tuned each moment to his strange patois. Though heoften gave a soft Italian inflection to the harsh German syllables,she grasped his meaning quite literally. She had read so much aboutSwitzerland that she knew how Michel Croz was killed while descendingthe Matterhorn after having made the first ascent. That historicaccident happened long before she was born. To hear a man speak ofCroz as a friend sounded almost unbelievable, though a moment'sthought told her that Whymper, who led the attack on the hithertoimpregnable Cervin on that July day in 1865, was still living, a keenAlpinist.

  She could not refrain from asking Stampa one question, though sheimagined that he was now in a hurry to take the damaged carriage backto St. Moritz. "Michel Croz was a brave man," she said. "Did you knowhim well?"

  "I worshiped him, _fraeulein_," was the reverent answer. "May I receivepardon in my last hour, but I took him for an evil spirit on the dayof his death! I was with Jean Antoine Carrel in Signor Giordano'sparty. We started from Breuil, Croz and his voyageurs from Zermatt.We failed; he succeeded. When we saw him and his Englishmen on thesummit, we believed they were devils, because they yelled in triumph,and started an avalanche of stones to announce their victory. Threedays later, Carrel and I, with two men from Breuil, tried again. Wegained the top that time, and passed the place where Croz was knockedover by the English milord and the others who fell with him. I sawthree bodies on the glacier four thousand feet below,--a fineburial-ground, better than that up there."

  He looked back at the pines which now hid the cemetery wall fromsight. Then, with another courteous sweep of his hat, he walked away,covering the ground rapidly despite his twisted leg.

  If Helen had been better trained as a woman journalist, she would haveregarded this meeting with Stampa as an incident of much value. Longexperience of the lights and shades of life might have rendered herless sensitive. As it was, the man's personality appealed to her. Shehad been vouchsafed a glimpse into an abyss profound as that intowhich Stampa himself peered on the day he discovered three of thefour who fell from the Matterhorn still roped together in death. Theold man's simple references to the terrors lurking in those radiantmountains had also shaken her somewhat. The snow capped Cima di Rossono longer looked so attractive. The Orlegna Gorge had lost some of itsbeauty. Though the sun was pouring into its wooded depths, it hadgrown gloomy and somber in her eyes. Yielding to impulse, she loiteredin the village, took the carriage road to the chateau, and sat there,with her back to the inner heights and her gaze fixed on the smilingvalley that opened toward Italy out of the Septimer Pass.

  Meanwhile, Stampa hurried past the stables, where his horses weremunching the remains of the little oaten loaves which form the staplefood of hard worked animals in the Alps. He entered the hotel by themain entrance, and was on his way to the manager's bureau, whenSpencer, smoking on the veranda, caught sight of him.

  Instantly the American started in pursuit. By this time he had heardof Helen
's accident from one of yesterday's passers by. It accountedfor the delay; but he was anxious to learn exactly what had happened.

  Stampa reached the office first. He was speaking to the manager, whenSpencer came in and said in his downright way:

  "This is the man who drove Miss Wynton from St. Moritz last night. Idon't suppose I shall be able to understand what he says. Will youkindly ask him what caused the trouble?"

  "It is quite an easy matter," was the smiling response. "Poor Stampais not only too eager to pass every other vehicle on the road, but heis inclined to watch the mountains rather than his horses' ears. Hewas a famous guide once; but he met with misfortune, and took tocarriage work as a means of livelihood. He has damaged his turnouttwice this year; so this morning he was dismissed by telephone, andanother driver is coming from St. Moritz to take his place."

  Spencer looked at Stampa. He liked the strong, worn face, with itshalf wistful, half resigned expression. An uneasy feeling gripped himthat the whim of a moment in the Embankment Hotel might exert itscrazy influence in quarters far removed from the track that seemedthen to be so direct and pleasure-giving.

  "Why did he want to butt in between the other fellow and thelandscape? What was the hurry, anyhow?" he asked.

  Stampa smiled genially when the questions were translated to him. "Iwas talking to the _signorina_," he explained, using his nativetongue, for he was born on the Italian side of the Bernina.

  "That counts, but it gives no good reason why he should risk herlife," objected Spencer.

  Stampa's weather furrowed cheeks reddened. "There was no danger," hemuttered wrathfully. "Madonna! I would lose the use of another limbrather than hurt a hair of her head. Is she not my good angel? Has shenot drawn me back from the gate of hell? Risk her life! Are peoplesaying that because a worm-eaten wheel went to pieces against astone?"

  "What on earth is he talking about?" demanded Spencer. "Has he beenpestering Miss Wynton this morning with some story of his presentdifficulties?"

  The manager knew Stampa's character. He put the words in kindlierphrase. "Does the _signorina_ know that you have lost your situation?"he said.

  Even in that mild form, the suggestion annoyed the old man. He flungit aside with scornful gesture, and turned to leave the office. "Tellthe gentleman to go to Zermatt and ask in the street if ChristianStampa the guide would throw himself on a woman's charity," hegrowled.

  Spencer did not wait for any interpretation. "Hold on," he saidquietly. "What is he going to do now? Work, for a man of his years,doesn't grow on gooseberry bushes, I suppose."

  "Christian, Christian! You are hot-headed as a boy," cried themanager. "The fact is," he went on, "he came to me to offer hisservices. But I have already engaged more drivers than I need, and Iam dismissing some stable men. Perhaps he can find a job in St.Moritz."

  "Are his days as guide ended?"

  "Unfortunately, yes. I believe he is as active as ever; but peoplewon't credit it. And you cannot blame them. When one's safety dependson a man who may have to cling to an ice covered rock like a fly to awindow-pane, one is apt to distrust a crooked leg."

  "Did he have an accident?"

  The manager hesitated. "It is part of his sad history," he said. "Hefell, and nearly killed himself; but he was hurrying to see the lastof a daughter to whom he was devoted."

  "Is he a local man, then?"

  "No. Oh, no! The girl happened to be here when the end came."

  "Well, I guess he will suit my limited requirements in the fly andwindow-pane business while I remain in Maloja," said Spencer. "Tellhim I am willing to put up ten francs a day and extras for hisexclusive services as guide during my stay."

  Poor Stampa was nearly overwhelmed by this unexpected good fortune. Inhis agitation he blurted out, "Ah, then, the good God did really sendan angel to my help this morning!"

  Spencer, however, reviewing his own benevolence over a pipe outsidethe hotel, expressed the cynical opinion that the hot sun wasaffecting his brain. "I'm on a loose end," he communed. "Next time Iwaft myself to Europe on a steamer I'll bring my mother. It would be abully fine notion to cable for her right away. I want someone to takecare of me. It looks as if I had a cinch on running this hotelgratis. What in thunder will happen next?"

  He could surely have answered that query if he had the least inklingof the circumstances governing Helen's prior meeting with Stampa. Asit was, the development of events followed the natural course. WhileSpencer strolled off by the side of the lake, the old guide lumberedinto the village street, and waited there, knowing that he wouldwaylay the _bella Inglesa_ on her return. Though she came from thechateau and not from Cavloccio, he did not fail to see her.

  At first she was at a loss to fathom the cause of Stampa's delight,and still less to understand why he should want to thank her with suchexuberance. She imagined he was overjoyed at having gone back to hisbeloved profession, and it was only by dint of questioning that shediscovered the truth. Then it dawned on her that the man had beengoaded to desperation by the curt message from St. Moritz,--that hewas sorely tempted to abandon the struggle, and follow into thedarkness the daughter taken from him so many years ago,--and theremembrance of her suspicion when they were about to part at thecemetery gate lent a serious note to her words of congratulation.

  "You see, Stampa," she said, "you were very wrong to lose faith thismorning. At the very moment of your deepest despair Heaven wasproviding a good friend for you."

  "Yes, indeed, _fraeulein_. That is why I waited here. I felt that Imust thank you. It was all through you. The good God sent you----"

  "I think you are far more beholden to the gentleman who employed youthan to me," she broke in.

  "Yes, he is splendid, the young _voyageur_; but it was wholly on youraccount, lady. He was angry with me at first, because he thought Iplaced you in peril in the matter of the wheel."

  Helen was amazed. "He spoke of me?" she cried.

  "Ah, yes. He did not say much, but his eyes looked through me. He hasthe eyes of a true man, that young American."

  She was more bewildered than ever. "What is his name?" she asked.

  "Here it is. The director wrote it for me, so that I may learn how topronounce it."

  Stampa produced a scrap of paper, and Helen read, "Mr. Charles K.Spencer."

  "Are you quite certain he mentioned me?" she repeated.

  "Can I be mistaken, _fraeulein_. I know, because I studied the labelson your boxes. Mees Helene Weenton--so? And did he not rate me aboutthe accident?"

  "Well, wonders will never cease," she vowed; and indeed they were onlyjust beginning in her life, which shows how blind to excellentmaterial wonders can be.

  At luncheon she summoned the head waiter. "Is there a Mr. Charles K.Spencer staying in the hotel?" she asked.

  "Yes, madam."

  "Will you please tell me if he is in the room?"

  The head waiter turned. Spencer was studying the menu. "Yes, madam.There he is, sitting alone, at the second table from the window."

  It was quite to be expected that the subject of their joint gazeshould look at them instantly. There is a magnetism in the human eyethat is unfailing in that respect, and its power is increased ahundredfold when a charming young woman tries it on a young man whohappens to be thinking of her at the moment.

  Then Spencer realized that Stampa had told Helen what had taken placein the hotel bureau, and he wanted to kick himself for havingforgotten to make secrecy a part of the bargain.

  Helen, knowing that he knew, blushed furiously. She tried to hide herconfusion by murmuring something to the head waiter. But in her heartshe was saying, "Who in the world is he? I have never seen him beforelast night. And why am I such an idiot as to tremble all over justbecause he happened to catch me looking at him?"