The Silent Barrier
service, which is the best, as a rule, and I have friends at court on
this line. Please don't say you are not hungry."
"That would be impolite, and horribly untrue," laughed Helen.
He took the implied permission, and hurried away. They did not meet
again until he came to her carriage in the train.
"Is this where you are?" he cried, looking up at her through the open
window. "I am in the next block, as they say in America. When you are
ready I shall take you to the dining car. Come out on the platform.
The corridors are simply impassable. And here are baskets of peaches,
and ripe pears, and all manner of pleasant fruits. Yes, try the
corridor to the right, and charge resolutely. If you inflict the
maximum injury on others, you seldom damage yourself."
In a word, Mark Bower spoke as lightheartedly as he professed to feel,
and Helen had no cause whatever to be other than thankful for the
chance that brought him to Switzerland on the same day and in the same
train as herself. His delicate consideration for her well being was
manifested in many ways. That such a man, whom she knew to be a figure
of importance in the financial world, should take an interest in the
simple chronicles of her past life was a flattering thing in itself.
He listened sympathetically to the story of her struggles since the
death of her mother. The consequent stoppage of the annuity paid to
the widow of an Indian civilian rendered it necessary that Helen
should supplement by her own efforts the fifty pounds a year allotted
to her "until death or marriage."
"There are plenty of country districts where I could exist quite
easily on such a sum," she said; "but I declined to be buried alive in
that fashion, and I made up my mind to earn my own living. Somehow,
London appeals to young people situated as I was. It is there that the
great prizes are to be gained; so I came to London."
"From----" broke in Bower, who was peeling one of the peaches bought
at Calais.
"From a village near Sheringham, in Norfolk."
He nodded with smiling comprehension when she detailed her struggles
with editors who could detect no originality in her literary work.
"But that phase has passed now," he said encouragingly.
"Well, it looks like it. I hope so; for I am tired of classifying
beetles."
There--the word was out at last. Perhaps Bower wondered why she
laughed and blushed at the recollection of her earlier determination
to suppress von Eulenberg's "specimens" as a topic of conversation.
Already the stiffness of their talk on board the steamship seemed to
have vanished completely. It was really a pleasant way of passing the
time to sit and chat in this glass palace while the train skimmed over
a dull land of marshes and poplars.
"Beetles, though apt to be flighty, are otherwise dull creatures," he
said. "May I ask what paper you are representing on your present
tour?"
It was an obvious and harmless question; but Helen was loyal to her
bond. "It sounds absurd to have to say it, but I am pledged to
secrecy," she answered.
"Good gracious! Don't tell me you intend to interview anarchists,
or runaway queens, or the other disgruntled people who live in
Switzerland. Moreover, they usually find quarters in Geneva, while
you presumably are bound for the Engadine."
"Oh, no. My work lies in less excitable circles. 'Life in a Swiss
hotel' would be nearer the mark."
"Apart from the unusual surroundings, you will find it suspiciously
like life in a quiet Norfolk village, Miss Wynton," said Bower. He
paused, tasted the peach, and made a grimace. "Sour!" he protested.
"Really, when all is said and done, the only place in which one can
buy a decent peach is London."
"Ah, a distinct score for Britain!"
"And a fair hit to your credit. Let me urge in self defense that if
life in France bubbles, it occasionally leaves a bitter taste in the
mouth. Now you shall go and read, and sleep a little perhaps, if that
is not a heretical thing to suggest. We have the same table for
afternoon tea and dinner."
Helen had never met such a versatile man. He talked of most things
with knowledge and restraint and some humor. She could not help
admitting that the journey would have been exceedingly dull without
his companionship, and he had the tact to make her feel that he was
equally indebted to her for passing the long hours. At dinner she
noticed that they were served with dishes not supplied to others in
the dining car.
"I hope you have not been ordering a dreadfully expensive meal," she
ventured to say. "I must pay my share, you know, and I am quite an
economical person."
"There!" he vowed. "That is the first unkind word you have uttered.
Surely you will not refuse to be my guest? Indeed, I was hoping that
to-day marked the beginning of a new era, wherein we might meet at
times and criticize humanity to our hearts' content."
"I should feel unhappy if I did not pay," she insisted.
"Well, then, I shall charge you table d'hote prices. Will that content
you?"
So, when the attendant came to the other tables, Helen produced her
purse, and Bower solemnly accepted her few francs; but no bill was
presented to him.
"You see," he said, smiling at her through a glass of golden wine,
"you have missed a great opportunity. Not one woman in a million can
say that she has dined at the railway company's expense in France."
She was puzzled. His manner had become slightly more confidential
during the meal. It needed no feminine intuition to realize that he
admired her. Excitement, the sea air, the heated atmosphere, and
unceasing onrush of the train, had flushed her cheeks and lent a
deeper shade to her brown eyes. She knew that Bower's was not the
only glance that dwelt on her with a curious and somewhat unnerving
appraisement. Other men, and not a few women, stared at her. The
mirror in her dressing room had told her that she was looking her
best, and her heart fluttered a little at the thought that she had
succeeded, without effort, in winning the appreciation of a man highly
placed in the world of fashion and finance. The conceit induced an odd
feeling of embarrassment. To dispel it she took up his words in a vein
of playful sarcasm.
"If you assure me that for some unexplained reason the railway
authorities are giving us this excellent dinner for nothing, please
return my money," she said.
"The gifts of the gods, and eke of railway companies, must be taken
without question," he answered. "No, I shall keep your pieces of
silver. I mean to invest them. It will amuse me to learn how much I
can make on an initial capital of twelve francs, fifty centimes. Will
you allow that? I shall be scrupulously accurate, and submit an
audited account at Christmas. Even my worst enemies have never alleged
dishonesty against me. Is it a bargain?"
"Y-yes," she stammered confusedly, hardly knowing what he meant. He
was leaning over the small table and looking steadfastly at her. She
noticed that the wine and food had made his skin greasy. It suddenly
occurred to her that Mark Bower resembled certain exotic plants which
must be viewed from a distance if they would gratify the critical
senses. The gloss of a careful toilet was gone. He was altogether
cruder, coarser, more animal, since he had eaten, though his
consumption of wine was quite moderate. His big, rather fierce
eyes were more than prominent now; they bulged. Certain Jewish
characteristics in his face had become accentuated. She remembered the
ancient habit of anointing with oil, and laughed at the thought, for
that was a little trick of hers to conceal nervousness.
"You doubt me, then?" he half whispered. "Or do you deem it beyond the
power of finance to convert so small a sum into hundreds--it may be
thousands--of pounds in six months?"
"Indeed I should credit you with ability to do that and more, Mr.
Bower," she said; "but I was wondering why you made such an offer to a
mere acquaintance,--one whom it is more than likely you will never
meet again."
The phrase had a harsh and awkward sound in her ears. Bower, to her
relief, seemed to ignore it.
"It is permissible to gratify an impulse once in awhile," he
countered. "And not to mention the audited accounts, there was a
matter of theater tickets that should serve to bring us together
again. Won't you give me your address, in London if not in
Switzerland? Here is mine."
He produced a pocketbook, and picked out a card. It bore his name and
his club. He added, in pencil, "50 Hamilton Place."
"Letters sent to my house reach me, no matter where I may happen to
be," he said.
The incident brought fresh tremors to Helen. Indeed, the penciled
address came as an unpleasant shock; for Millicent Jaques, on the day
they met in Piccadilly, having gone home with Helen to tea, excused an
early departure on the ground that she was due to dinner at that very
house.
But she took the card, and strove desperately to appear at ease, for
she had no cause to quarrel with one whose manners were so courteous.
"Thank you very much," she said. "If you care to see my articles in
the--in the paper, I shall send you copies. Now I must say good by. I
am rather tired. Before I go let me say how deeply indebted I feel for
your kindness to-day."
She rose. Bower stood up too, and bowed with smiling deference. "Good
night," he said. "You will not be disturbed by the customs people at
the frontier. I have arranged all that."
Helen made the best of her way along the swaying corridors till she
reached her section of the sleeping car; but Bower resumed his seat at
the table. He ordered a glass of fine champagne and held it up to the
light. There was a decided frown on his strong face, and the attendant
who served him imagined that there was something wrong with the
liqueur.
"_N'est-ce pas bon, m'sieur?_" he began.
"Will you go to the devil?" said Bower, speaking very slowly without
looking at him.
"_Oui, m'sieur, Je vous assure_," and the man disappeared.
It was not the wine, but the woman, that was perplexing him. Not often
had the lure of gold failed so signally. And why was she so manifestly
startled at the last moment? Had he gone too far? Was he mistaken in
the assumption that Millicent Jaques had said little or nothing
concerning him to her friend? And this commission too,--there were
inexplicable features about it. He knew a great deal of the ways of
newspapers, daily and weekly, and it was not the journalistic habit to
send inexperienced young women on costly journeys to write up Swiss
summer resorts.
He frowned still more deeply as he thought of the Maloja-Kulm Hotel,
for Helen had innocently affixed a label bearing her address on her
handbag. He peopled it with dozens of smart young men and not a few
older beaux of his own type. His features relaxed somewhat when he
remembered the women. Helen was alone, and far too good-looking to
command sympathy. There should be the elements of trouble in that
quarter. If he played his cards well, and he had no reason to doubt
his skill, Helen should greet him as her best friend when he surprised
her by appearing unexpectedly at the Maloja-Kulm.
Then he waxed critical. She was young, and lively, and unquestionably
pretty; but was she worth all this planning and contriving? She was by
way of being a prude too, and held serious notions of women's place in
the scheme of things. At any rate, the day's hunting had not brought
him far out of his path, Frankfort being his real objective, and he
would make up his mind later. Perhaps she would remove all obstacles
by writing to him on her return to London; but the recollection of her
frank, clear gaze, of lips that were molded for strength as well as
sweetness, of the dignity and grace with which the well shaped head