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Her probable interference in the quarrel between Stampa and Bower put Mrs. de la Vere's suggestion out of court. A woman bent on requiting a personal slight would never consent to forego such a chance of obtaining ample vengeance as Bower's earlier history provided. In any case, Spencer was sure that the sooner Helen and he were removed from their present environment the happier they would be.
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.
"Tell him I am willing to put up ten francs a day and extras for his exclusive services as guide during my stay." Poor Stampa was nearly overwhelmed by this unexpected good fortune. In his agitation he blurted out, "Ah, then, the good God did really send an angel to my help this morning!"
"Does the sigñorina know that you have lost your situation?" he said. Even in that mild form, the suggestion annoyed the old man. He flung it aside with scornful gesture, and turned to leave the office. "Tell the gentleman to go to Zermatt and ask in the street if Christian Stampa the guide would throw himself on a woman's charity," he growled. Spencer did not wait for any interpretation.
It resembled one of Titian's women, with its broad shoulders, and boddice and sleeves differently coloured from the petticoat; and seemed literally framed in the unsashed window. "Natura il fece, e poi roppe la stampa." Canto x. st. 84. Nature made him, and then broke the mould.
Spencer was the most collected person present. He brushed aside Bower's acrimony as lightly as he had accepted Helen's embarrassed explanation. "This is not my hustle at all," he said. "Stampa heard that his adored sigñorina " "Stampa! Is that Stampa?" Bower's strident voice was hushed to a hoarse murmur. It reminded one of his hearers of a growling dog suddenly cowed by fear.
Thoroughly alarmed, more willing to retreat than advance, she still clambered on, impelled by irresistible desire to find out what strange thing was happening. At last, partly concealed by a dwarf fir, she could peer over a wall into the tiny cemetery. She was too late to witness the actual fight; but she saw Stampa spring upright, leaving his prostrate opponent apparently lifeless.
As he staggered down the hillside he looked back once. He had eyes only for the little iron gate, but Stampa came not. Then he essayed to brush some of the clinging snow off his clothes. He shook himself like a dog after a plunge into water. In the distance he saw the hotel, with its promise of luxury and forgetfulness.
By this time he had heard of Helen's accident from one of yesterday's passers by. It accounted for the delay; but he was anxious to learn exactly what had happened. Stampa reached the office first. He was speaking to the manager, when Spencer came in and said in his downright way: "This is the man who drove Miss Wynton from St. Moritz last night.
Moritz, that he was sorely tempted to abandon the struggle, and follow into the darkness the daughter taken from him so many years ago, and the remembrance of her suspicion when they were about to part at the cemetery gate lent a serious note to her words of congratulation. "You see, Stampa," she said, "you were very wrong to lose faith this morning.
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