CHAPTER II
THE FULFILLMENT OF THE WISH
Explanations of motive are apt to become tedious. They are generallyinaccurate too; for who can reduce a fantasy to a formula? Nor shouldthey ever be allowed to clip the wings of romance. But the painter whobade his subject sit under a sodium light would justly be deemed alunatic, and any analysis of Spencer's character drawn from his latestprank would be faulty in the extreme.
In all London at that moment there was not a more level headed man ofhis years. He was twenty-eight, an expert mining engineer, and thesuccessful pioneer of a new method of hauling ore. Even in WesternAmerica, "God's own country," as it is held to be by those who livethere, few men "arrive" so early in life. Some, it is true, amasswealth by lucky speculation before they are fitted by experience toearn the price of a suit of clothes. But they are of the freak order.They are not to be classed with one who by hard work wrests a fortuneout of the grim Colorado granite. Spencer had been called on to endurelong years of rebuff and scorn. Though scoffed at by many who thoughthe was wrong, he persisted because he knew he was right.
Ofttimes Fate will test such a man almost to breaking point. Then sheyields, and, being feminine, her obduracy is the measure of herfavors, for she will bestow on her dogged suitor all, and more thanall, that he desired.
The draft from Leadville, crammed so carelessly into a pocket when hefollowed the three to the door, was a fair instance of this trick ofhers. A tunnel, projected and constructed in the teeth of ridiculeand financial opposition, had linked up the underground workings ofseveral mines, and proved conclusively that it was far cheaper tobring minerals to the rail in that manner than to sink expensiveshafts, raise the ore to the top of a mountain, and cart it to its oldlevel in the valley.
Once the thing was indisputable, the young engineer found himself richand famous. To increase the feeders of the main bore, he drove anothershort gallery through a mining claim acquired for a few dollars,--aclaim deemed worthless owing to a geological fault that traversed itswhole length. That was Fate's opportunity. Doubtless she smiledmischievously when she gave him a vein of rich quartz through whichto quarry his way. The mere delving of the rock had produced twothousand dollars' worth of ore, of which sum he took a moiety byagreement with the company that purchased his rights.
People in Leadville soon discovered that Spencer was a brightman,--"yes, sir, a citizen of whom the chief mining city of the RockyMountains has every reason to be proud,"--and the railway magnate whohad nearly ruined him by years of hostility buried the pastgrandiloquently with a _mot_.
"Charles K. Spencer can't be sidetracked," he said. "That K isn't inhis name by accident. Look at it,--a regular buffer of a letter! Tellyou what, you may monkey with Charles; but when you hit the K look outfor trouble."
Whereupon the miners laughed, and said that the president was a mightysmart man too, and Spencer, who knew he was a thief, but was unwillingto quarrel with him for the sake of the company, thought that a sixmonths' vacation in Europe would make for peace and general content.
He had no plans. He was free to wander whithersoever chance led him.Arriving in London from Plymouth late on a Thursday evening, he took abus-driver's holiday on Friday. Finding a tunnel under the Thames infull progress near the hotel, he sought the resident engineer, spoketo him in the lingua franca of the craft, and spent several dangerousand enjoyable hours in crawling through all manner of uncomfortablepassages bored by human worms beneath the bed of the river.
And this was Saturday, and here he was, at three o'clock in theafternoon, turning over in his mind the best way of sending on anexpensive trip abroad a girl who had not the remotest notion of hisexistence. It was a whim, and a harmless one, and he excused it to hispractical mind by the reflection that he was entitled to one day ofextravagance after seven years of hard labor. For his own part, he wasweary of mountains. He had wrought against one, frowning and stubbornas any Alp, and had not desisted until he reached its very heart witha four thousand foot lance. Switzerland was the last place in Europehe would visit. He wanted to see old cities and dim cathedrals, tolounge in pleasant lands where rivers murmured past lush meadows.Though an American born and bred, there was a tradition in his homethat the Spencers were once people of note on the border. When tiredof London, he meant to go north, and ramble through Liddesdale insearch of family records. But the business presently on hand was toarrange that Swiss excursion for "Helen," and he set about it withcharacteristic energy.
In the first instance, he noted her name and address on the back ofthe Leadville envelop. Then he sought the manager.
"I guess you know Switzerland pretty well," he said, when a polite manwas produced by a boy.
The assumption was well founded. In fact, the first really importantlooking object the manager remembered seeing in this world was thegiant Matterhorn, because his mother told him that if he was a bad boyhe would be carried off by the demons that dwelt on its summit.
"What sort of places are Evian-les-Bains and Champery?" went onSpencer.
"Evian is a fashionable lakeside town. Champery is in the hills behindit. When Evian becomes too hot in August, one goes to Champery to cooldown."
"Are they anywhere near the Engadine?"
"Good gracious, no! They are as different as chalk and cheese."
"Is the Engadine the cheese? Does it take the biscuit?"
The manager laughed. Like all Londoners, he regarded every American asa humorist. "It all depends," he said. "For my part, I think the UpperEngadine is far and away the most charming section of Switzerland; butthere are ladies of my acquaintance who would unhesitatingly vote forEvian, and for a score of other places where there are promenades andcasinos. Are you thinking of making a tour there?"
"There's no telling where I may bring up when I cross the Channel,"said Spencer. "I have heard some talk of the two districts, and itoccurred to me that you were just the man to give me a few usefulpointers."
"Well, the average tourist rushes from one valley to another, trampsover a pass each morning, and spends the afternoon in a train or onboard a lake steamer. But if I wanted a real rest, and wished at thesame time to be in a center from which pleasant walks, or stiff climbsfor that matter, could be obtained, I should go by the EngadineExpress to St. Moritz, and drive from there to the Maloja-Kulm, wherethere is an excellent hotel and usually a number of nice people."
"English?"
"Yes, English and Americans. They select the best as a rule, youknow."
"It sounds attractive," said Spencer.
"And it is, believe me. Don't forget the name, Maloja-Kulm. It istwelve miles from everywhere, and practically consists of the one bighotel."
Spencer procured his hat, gloves, and stick, and called a cab. "Takeme to 'The Firefly' office," he said.
"Beg pawdon, sir, but where's that?" asked the driver.
"It's up to you to find out."
"Then w'at is it, guv'nor? I've heerd of the 'Orse an' 'Ound, theChicken's Friend, the Cat, an' the Bee; but the Firefly leaves methinkin'. Is it a noospaper?"
"Something of the sort."
"All right, sir. Jump in. We'll soon be on its track."
The hansom scampered off to Fleet-st. As the result of inquiriesSpencer was deposited at the entrance to a dingy court, the depthsof which, he was assured, were illumined by "The Firefly." There isnothing that so mystifies the citizen of the New World as thehole-and-corner aspect of some of the business establishments ofLondon. He soon learns, however, to differentiate between the spiderydens where money is amassed and the soot laden tenements in which thestruggle for existence is keen. A comprehensive glance at the exteriorof the premises occupied by "The Firefly" at once explained to Spencerwhy the cabman did not know its whereabouts. Three small roomssufficed for its literary and commercial staff, and "To let" noticesstared from several windows in the same building.
"Appearances are deceptive ever," murmured he, as he scanned thelegends on three doors in a narrow lobby; "but I think I'm
beginningto catch on to the limited extent of Miss Helen's earnings from herscientific paragraphs."
He knocked at each door; but received no answer. Then, having sharpears, he tried the handle of one marked "Private." It yielded, and heentered, to be accosted angrily by a pallid, elderly, bewhiskered man,standing in front of a much littered table.
"Confound it, sir!" came the growl, "don't you know it is Saturdayafternoon? And what do you mean by coming in unannounced?"
"Guess you're the editor?" said Spencer.
"What if I am?"
"I've just happened along to have a few quiet words with you. Ifthere's no callers Saturdays, why, that's exactly what I want, andI came right in because you didn't answer my knock."
"I tell you I'm not supposed to be here."
"Then you shouldn't draw corks while anybody is damaging the paintoutside."
Spencer smiled so agreeably that the editor of "The Firefly" softened.At first, he had taken his visitor for an unpaid contributor; but theAmerican accent banished this phantom of the imagination. He continuedto pour into a tumbler the contents of a bottle of beer.
"Well," he said, "now that you are here, what can I do for you,Mr.----"
"Spencer--Charles K. Spencer."
Instantly it struck the younger man that little more than an hourhad elapsed since he gave his name to the letter clerk in the hotel.The singularity of his proceedings during that hour was therebybrought home to him. He knew nothing of newspapers, daily or weekly;but commonsense suggested that "The Firefly's" radiance was notover-powering. His native shrewdness advised caution, though he feltsure that he could, in homely phrase, twist this faded journalistround his little finger.
"Before I open the ball," he said, "may I see a copy of yourmagazine?"
Meanwhile the other was trying to sum him up. He came to theconclusion that his visitor meant to introduce some new advertisingscheme, and, as "The Firefly" was sorely in need of advertisements,he decided to listen.
"Here is last week's issue," he said, handing to Spencer a smallsixteen-page publication. The American glanced through it rapidly,while the editor sampled the beer.
"I see," said Spencer, after he had found a column signed "H. W.,"which consisted of paragraphs translated from a German article onairships,--"I see that 'The Firefly' scintillates around the Tree ofKnowledge."
The editor relaxed sufficiently to smile. "That is a good descriptionof its weekly flights," he said.
"You don't use many cuts?"
"N-no. They are expensive and hard to obtain for such subjects as wefavor."
"Don't you think it would be a good notion to brighten it up abit--put in something lively, and more in keeping with the name?"
"I have no opening for new matter, if that is what you mean," and theeditor stiffened again.
"But you have the say-so as to the contents, I suppose?"
"Oh, yes. The selection rests with me."
"Good. I'm sort of interested in a young lady, Miss Helen Wyntonby name. She lives in Warburton Gardens, and does work for youoccasionally. Now, I propose to send her on a month's trip toSwitzerland, where she will represent 'The Firefly.' You must get herto turn out a couple of pages of readable stuff each week, which youwill have illustrated by a smart artist at a cost of say, twentypounds an article for drawings and blocks. I pay all expenses, shegets the trip, and you secure some good copy for nothing. Is it adeal?"
The editor sat down suddenly and combed his whiskers with nervousfingers. He was a weak man, and a too liberal beer diet was not goodfor him.
"Are you in earnest, Mr. Spencer?" he queried in a bewildered way.
"Dead in earnest. You write the necessary letter to Miss Wynton whileI am here, and I hand you the first twenty in notes. You are to tellher to call Monday noon at any bank you may select, and she will begiven her tickets and a hundred pounds. When I am certain that she hasstarted I undertake to pay you a further sum of sixty pounds. I makeonly two conditions. You must guarantee to star her work, as it shouldhelp her some, and my identity must not be disclosed to her under anycircumstances. In a word, she must regard herself as the accreditedcorrespondent of 'The Firefly.' If she appears to be a trifle rattledby your generosity in the matter of terms, you must try and look as ifyou did that sort of thing occasionally and would like to do itoften."
The editor pushed his chair away from the table. He seemed to requiremore air. "Again I must ask you if you actually mean what you say?" hegasped.
Spencer opened a pocketbook and counted four five-pound notes out of agoodly bundle. "It is all here in neat copperplate," he said, placingthe notes on the table. "Maybe you haven't caught on to the root ideaof the proposition," he continued, seeing that the other man wasstaring at him blankly. "I want Miss Wynton to have a real good time.I also want to lift her up a few rungs of the journalistic ladder. Butshe is sensitive, and would resent patronage; so I must not figure inthe affair at all. I have no other motive at the back of my head. I'mputting up two hundred pounds out of sheer philanthropy. Will youhelp?"
"There are points about this amazing proposal that requireelucidation," said the editor slowly. "Travel articles might possiblycome within the scope of 'The Firefly'; but I am aware that MissWynton is what might be termed an exceedingly attractive young lady.For instance, you wouldn't be philanthropic on my account."
"You never can tell. It all depends how your case appealed to me. Butif you are hinting that I intend to use my scheme for the purpose ofwinning Miss Wynton's favorable regard, I must say that she strikesme as the kind of girl who would think she had been swindled if shelearned the truth. In any event, I may never see her again, and it iscertainly not my design to follow her to Switzerland. I don't kick atyour questions. You're old enough to be her father, and mine, for thatmatter. Go ahead. This is Saturday afternoon, you know, and there's nobusiness stirring."
Spencer had to cover the ground a second time before everything wasmade clear. At last the fateful letter was written. He promised tocall on Monday and learn how the project fared. Then he relieved thecabman's anxiety, as the alley possessed a second exit, and was drivento the Wellington Theater, where he secured a stall for that night'sperformance of the Chinese musical comedy in which Miss MillicentJaques played the part of a British Admiral's daughter.
While Spencer was watching Helen's hostess cutting capers in aMandarin's palace, Helen herself was reading, over and over again, amost wonderful letter that had fallen from her sky. It had all theappearance of any ordinary missive. The King's face on a penny stamp,or so much of it as was left uninjured by a postal smudge, lookedfamiliar enough, and both envelop and paper resembled those which hadbrought her other communications from "The Firefly." But the text wasmagic, rank necromancy. No wizard who ever dealt in black lettertreatises could have devised a more convincing proof of his occultpowers than this straightforward offer made by the editor of "TheFirefly." Four articles of five thousand words each,--tickets and 100pounds awaiting her at a bank,--go to the Maloja-Kulm Hotel; leaveLondon at the earliest possible date; please send photographs andsuggestions for black-and-white illustrations of mountaineering andsociety! What could it possibly mean?
At the third reading Helen began to convince herself that this rarestroke of luck was really hers. The concluding paragraph shed light on"The Firefly's" extraordinary outburst.
"As this commission heralds a new departure for the paper, I haveto ask you to be good enough not to make known the object of yourjourney. In fact, it will be as well if you do not state yourwhereabouts to any persons other than your near relatives. Of course,all need for secrecy ceases with the appearance of your first article;but by that time you will practically be on your way home again. I amanxious to impress on you the importance of this instruction."
Helen found herein the germ of understanding. "The Firefly" meant toboom itself on its Swiss correspondence; but even that darksome pieceof journalistic enterprise did not explain the princely munificence ofthe hundred pounds. At last, when she
calmed down sufficiently to becapable of connected thought, she saw that "mountaineering" impliedthe hire of guides, and that "society" meant frocks. Of course it wasintended that she should spend the whole of the money, and thus give"The Firefly" a fair return for its outlay. And a rapid calculationrevealed the dazzling fact that after setting aside the fabulous sumof two pounds a day for expenses she still had forty pounds leftwherewith to replenish her scanty stock of dresses.
Believing that at any instant the letter might dissolve into a curtrequest to keep her scientific jottings strictly within the limitsof a column, Helen sat with it lying open on her lap, and searched thepages of a tattered guidebook for particulars of the Upper Engadine.She had read every line before; but the words now seemed to live.St. Moritz, Pontresina, Sils-Maria, Silvaplana,--they ceased to bemere names,--they became actualities. The Julier Pass, the Septimer,the Forno Glacier, the Diavolezza Route, and the rest of thestately panorama of snow capped peaks, blue lakes, and narrowvalleys,--valleys which began with picturesque chalets, dun coloredcattle, and herb laden pastures, and ended in the yawning mouths ofice rivers whence issued the milky white streams that dashed throughthe lower gorges,--they passed before her eyes as she read till shewas dazzled by their glories.
What a day dream to one who dwelt in smoky London year in and yearout! What an experience to look forward to! What memories to treasure!Nor was she blind to the effect of the undertaking on her future.Though "The Firefly" was not an important paper, though its editor wasof a half-forgotten day and generation, she would now have good workto show when asked what she had done. She was not enamored of beetles.Even the classifying of them was monotonous, and she had strivenbravely to push her way through the throng of would-be writers thatbesieged the doors of every popular periodical in London. It was aheartbreaking struggle. The same post that gave her this epoch markingletter had brought back two stories with the stereotyped expression ofeditorial regret.
"Now," thought Helen, when her glance fell on the bulky envelops, "myname will at least become known. And editors very much resemble thepublic they cater for. If a writer achieves success, they all wanthim. I have often marveled how any author got his first chance. Now Iknow. It comes this way, like a flash of lightning from a summer sky."
It was only fit and proper that she should magnify her first realcommission. No veteran soldier ever donned a field marshal's uniformwith the same zest that he displayed when his subaltern's outfit camefrom the tailor. So Helen glowed with that serious enthusiasm which isthe soul of genius, for without it life becomes flat and gray, andshe passed many anxious, half-doubting hours until a courteous bankofficial handed her a packet at the appointed time on Monday, and gaveher a receipt to sign, and asked her how she would take her hundredpounds--did she want it all in notes or some in gold?
She was so unnerved by this sudden confirmation of her good fortunethat she stammered confusedly, "I--really--don't know."
"Well, it would be rather heavy in gold," came the smiling comment."This money, I understand, is paid to you for some journalisticenterprise that will take you abroad. May I suggest that you shouldcarry, say, thirty pounds in notes and ten in gold, and allow me togive you the balance in the form of circular notes, which are payableonly under your signature?"
"Yes," said Helen, rosy red at her own awkwardness, "that will be verynice."
The official pushed across the counter some banknotes and sovereigns,and summoned a commissionaire to usher her into the waiting room tillhe had prepared the circular notes. The respite was a blessing. Itgave Helen time to recover her self possession. She opened the packetand found therein coupons for the journey to and from St. Moritz,together with a letter from the sleeping car company, from which shegathered that a berth on the Engadine Express was provisionallyreserved in her name for the following Thursday, but any change toa later date must be made forthwith, as the holiday pressure wasbeginning. It was advisable too, she was reminded, that she shouldsecure her return berth before leaving London.
Each moment the reality of the tour became more patent. She mightfeel herself bewitched; but pounds sterling and railway tickets weretangible things, and not to be explained away by any fantasy. By thetime her additional wealth was ready she was better fitted to guardit. She hurried away quite unconscious of the admiring eyes that wereraised from dockets and ledgers behind the grille. She made for thecourt in which "The Firefly" had its abode. The squalor of thepassage, the poverty stricken aspect of the stairs,--items which hadprepared her on other occasions for the starvation rate of pay offeredfor her work,--now passed unheeded. This affectation of scanty meanswas humorous. Obviously, some millionaire had secured what thenewspapers called "a controlling interest" in "The Firefly."
She sought Mackenzie, the editor, and he received her with a manifestreluctance to waste his precious time over details that was almost asconvincing as the money and vouchers she carried.
"Yes, Thursday will suit admirably," he said in reply to herbreathless questions. "You will reach Maloja on Friday evening, andif you post the first article that day week it will arrive in goodtime for the next number. As for the style and tone, I leave thoseconsiderations entirely to you. So long as the matter is bright andreadable, that is all I want. I put my requirements clearly in myletter. Follow that, and you cannot make any mistake."
Helen little realized how precise were the instructions given twohours earlier to the editor, the bank clerk, and the sleeping carcompany. Mackenzie's curt acceptance of her mission brought awondering cry to her lips.
"I am naturally overjoyed at my selection for this work," she said."May I ask how you came to think of me?"
"Oh, it is hard to say how these things are determined," he answered."We liked your crisp way of putting dull facts, I suppose, and thoughtthat a young lady's impressions of life in an Anglo-Swiss summercommunity would be fresher and more attractive than a man's. That isall. I hope you will enjoy your experiences."
"But, please, I want to thank you----"
"Not a word! Business is business, you know. If a thing is worthdoing, it must be done well. Good-by!"
He flattered himself that he could spend another man's money with aslordly an air as the youngest journalist on Fleet-st. The difficultywas to find the man with the money, and Mackenzie had given muchthought during the Sabbath to the potentialities that lay behindSpencer's whim. He was sure the incident would not close with thepublication of Miss Wynton's articles. Judiciously handled, herunknown benefactor might prove equally beneficial to "The Firefly."
So Helen tripped out into Fleet-st., and turned her pretty facewestward, and looked so eager and happy that it is not surprising ifmany a man eyed her as she passed, and many a woman sighed to thinkthat another woman could find life in this dreary city such a joyousthing.
A sharp walk through the Strand and across Trafalgar Square did agood deal toward restoring the poise of her wits. For safety, she hadpinned the envelop containing her paper money and tickets inside herblouse. The mere presence of the solid little parcel reminded her atevery movement that she was truly bound for the wonderful Engadine,and, now that the notion was becoming familiar, she was the moreastonished that the choice of "The Firefly" had fallen on her. It wasall very well for Mr. Mackenzie to say that the paper would bebrightened by a woman's views on life in the high Alps. The poor wornman looked as if such a holiday would have done him a world of good.But the certain fact remained that there was no room for error. It wasshe, Helen Wynton, and none other, for whom the gods had contrivedthis miracle. If it had been possible, she would have crossed busyCockspur-st. with a hop, skip, and a jump in order to gain thesleeping car company's premises.
She knew the place well. Many a time had she looked at the attractiveposters in the windows,--those gorgeous fly sheets that told of winterin summer among the mountains of Switzerland and the Tyrol, and ofsummer in winter along the sunlit shores of the Cote d'Azur. Shealmost laughed aloud at the thought that possessed her as she waitedfor a moment on the
curb to allow a press of traffic to pass.
"If my luck holds till Christmas, I may be sent to Monte Carlo," shesaid to herself. "And why not? It's the first step that counts, and'The Firefly,' once fairly embarked on a career of wild extravagance,may keep it up."
Under the pressure of that further inspiration she refused to wait anylonger, but dodged an omnibus, a motor car, and some hansoms, andpushed open the swing doors of the Bureau de la Campagnie desWagons-Lits. She did not notice that the automobile stopped veryquickly a few yards higher up the street. The occupant, Mark Bower,alighted, looked at her through the window to make sure he was notmistaken, and followed her into the building. He addressed somequestion to an attendant, and heard Helen say:
"Yes, please. Thursday will suit admirably. I am going straightthrough to St. Moritz. I shall call on Wednesday and let you know whatday I wish to return."
If Bower had intended to speak to her, he seemed to change his mindrather promptly. Helen's back was turned. She was watching a clerkwriting out a voucher for her berth in the sleeping car, and theoffice was full of other prospective travelers discussing times androutes with the officials. Bower thanked his informant for informationwhich he could have supplied in ampler detail himself. Then he wentout, and looked again at Helen from the doorway; but she was whollyunaware of his presence.
Thus it came about, quite simply and naturally, that Mark Bower metMiss Helen Wynton on the platform of Victoria Station on Thursdaymorning, and learned that, like himself, she was a passenger by theEngadine Express. He took her presence as a matter of course, hopedshe would allow him to secure her a comfortable chair on the steamer,told her that the weather report was excellent, and remarked that theymight expect a pleasant crossing in the new turbine steamer.
"I am going through to St. Moritz." _Page 38_]
Then, having ascertained that she had a corner seat, and that herluggage was registered through to St. Moritz (Helen having arrived atthe station a good hour before the train was due to start), he bowedhimself away, being far too skilled a stalker of such shy game tothrust his company on her at that stage.
His attitude was very polite and friendly, and Helen was almostgrateful to the chance which had brought him there. She was feelingjust a trifle lonely in the midst of the gay and chattering throngthat crowded the station. The presence of one who was not wholly astranger, of a friend's friend, of a man whose name was familiar, madethe journey look less dreamlike. She was glad he had not sought totravel in her carriage. That was tactful, and indeed his courtesy andpleasant words during her first brief meeting with him in theEmbankment Hotel had conveyed the same favorable impression.
So when the hour hand of the big clock overhanging the center ofthe platform pointed to eleven, the long train glided quietlyaway with its load of pleasure-seekers, and neither Helen nor hernew acquaintance could possibly know that their meeting had beenwitnessed, with a blank amazement that was rapidly transmuted intosheer annoyance, by a young American engineer named Charles K.Spencer.