THE FULFILLMENT OF THE WISH
Explanations of motive are apt to become tedious. They are generally
inaccurate too; for who can reduce a fantasy to a formula? Nor should
they ever be allowed to clip the wings of romance. But the painter who
bade his subject sit under a sodium light would justly be deemed a
lunatic, and any analysis of Spencer's character drawn from his latest
prank would be faulty in the extreme.
In all London at that moment there was not a more level headed man of
his years. He was twenty-eight, an expert mining engineer, and the
successful pioneer of a new method of hauling ore. Even in Western
America, "God's own country," as it is held to be by those who live
there, few men "arrive" so early in life. Some, it is true, amass
wealth by lucky speculation before they are fitted by experience to
earn 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 fortune
out of the grim Colorado granite. Spencer had been called on to endure
long years of rebuff and scorn. Though scoffed at by many who thought
he was wrong, he persisted because he knew he was right.
Ofttimes Fate will test such a man almost to breaking point. Then she
yields, and, being feminine, her obduracy is the measure of her
favors, for she will bestow on her dogged suitor all, and more than
all, that he desired.
The draft from Leadville, crammed so carelessly into a pocket when he
followed the three to the door, was a fair instance of this trick of
hers. A tunnel, projected and constructed in the teeth of ridicule
and financial opposition, had linked up the underground workings of
several mines, and proved conclusively that it was far cheaper to
bring minerals to the rail in that manner than to sink expensive
shafts, raise the ore to the top of a mountain, and cart it to its old
level in the valley.
Once the thing was indisputable, the young engineer found himself rich
and famous. To increase the feeders of the main bore, he drove another
short gallery through a mining claim acquired for a few dollars,--a
claim deemed worthless owing to a geological fault that traversed its
whole length. That was Fate's opportunity. Doubtless she smiled
mischievously when she gave him a vein of rich quartz through which
to quarry his way. The mere delving of the rock had produced two
thousand dollars' worth of ore, of which sum he took a moiety by
agreement with the company that purchased his rights.
People in Leadville soon discovered that Spencer was a bright
man,--"yes, sir, a citizen of whom the chief mining city of the Rocky
Mountains has every reason to be proud,"--and the railway magnate who
had nearly ruined him by years of hostility buried the past
grandiloquently with a _mot_.
"Charles K. Spencer can't be sidetracked," he said. "That K isn't in
his name by accident. Look at it,--a regular buffer of a letter! Tell
you what, you may monkey with Charles; but when you hit the K look out
for trouble."
Whereupon the miners laughed, and said that the president was a mighty
smart man too, and Spencer, who knew he was a thief, but was unwilling
to quarrel with him for the sake of the company, thought that a six
months' 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 a
bus-driver's holiday on Friday. Finding a tunnel under the Thames in
full progress near the hotel, he sought the resident engineer, spoke
to him in the lingua franca of the craft, and spent several dangerous
and enjoyable hours in crawling through all manner of uncomfortable
passages bored by human worms beneath the bed of the river.
And this was Saturday, and here he was, at three o'clock in the
afternoon, turning over in his mind the best way of sending on an
expensive trip abroad a girl who had not the remotest notion of his
existence. It was a whim, and a harmless one, and he excused it to his
practical mind by the reflection that he was entitled to one day of
extravagance after seven years of hard labor. For his own part, he was
weary of mountains. He had wrought against one, frowning and stubborn
as any Alp, and had not desisted until he reached its very heart with
a four thousand foot lance. Switzerland was the last place in Europe
he would visit. He wanted to see old cities and dim cathedrals, to
lounge in pleasant lands where rivers murmured past lush meadows.
Though an American born and bred, there was a tradition in his home
that the Spencers were once people of note on the border. When tired
of London, he meant to go north, and ramble through Liddesdale in
search of family records. But the business presently on hand was to
arrange that Swiss excursion for "Helen," and he set about it with
characteristic energy.
In the first instance, he noted her name and address on the back of
the Leadville envelop. Then he sought the manager.
"I guess you know Switzerland pretty well," he said, when a polite man
was produced by a boy.
The assumption was well founded. In fact, the first really important
looking object the manager remembered seeing in this world was the
giant Matterhorn, because his mother told him that if he was a bad boy
he would be carried off by the demons that dwelt on its summit.
"What sort of places are Evian-les-Bains and Champery?" went on
Spencer.
"Evian is a fashionable lakeside town. Champery is in the hills behind
it. When Evian becomes too hot in August, one goes to Champery to cool
down."
"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 as
a humorist. "It all depends," he said. "For my part, I think the Upper
Engadine is far and away the most charming section of Switzerland; but
there are ladies of my acquaintance who would unhesitatingly vote for
Evian, and for a score of other places where there are promenades and
casinos. 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 it
occurred to me that you were just the man to give me a few useful
pointers."
"Well, the average tourist rushes from one valley to another, tramps
over a pass each morning, and spends the afternoon in a train or on
board a lake steamer. But if I wanted a real rest, and wished at the
same time to be in a center from which pleasant walks, or stiff climbs
for that matter, could be obtained, I should go by the Engadine
Express to St. Moritz, and drive from there to the Maloja-Kulm, where
there is an excellent hotel and usually a number of nice people."
"English?"
"Yes, English and Americans. They select the best as a rule, you
know."
"It sounds attractive," said Spencer.
"And it is, believe me. Don't forget the name, Maloja-Kulm. It is
twelve miles from everywhere, and practically consists of the one big
hotel."
Spencer procured his hat, gloves, and stick, and called a cab. "Take
me 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, the
Chicken's Friend, the Cat, an' the Bee; but the Firefly leaves me
thinkin'. 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 inquiries
Spencer was deposited at the entrance to a dingy court, the depths
of which, he was assured, were illumined by "The Firefly." There is
nothing that so mystifies the citizen of the New World as the
hole-and-corner aspect of some of the business establishments of
London. He soon learns, however, to differentiate between the spidery
dens where money is amassed and the soot laden tenements in which the
struggle for existence is keen. A comprehensive glance at the exterior
of the premises occupied by "The Firefly" at once explained to Spencer
why the cabman did not know its whereabouts. Three small rooms
sufficed for its literary and commercial staff, and "To let" notices
stared from several windows in the same building.
"Appearances are deceptive ever," murmured he, as he scanned the
legends on three doors in a narrow lobby; "but I think I'm beginning
to catch on to the limited extent of Miss Helen's earnings from her
scientific paragraphs."
He knocked at each door; but received no answer. Then, having sharp
ears, he tried the handle of one marked "Private." It yielded, and he
entered, 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 Saturday
afternoon? 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. If
there's no callers Saturdays, why, that's exactly what I want, and
I 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 paint
outside."
Spencer smiled so agreeably that the editor of "The Firefly" softened.
At first, he had taken his visitor for an unpaid contributor; but the
American accent banished this phantom of the imagination. He continued
to 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 hour
had elapsed since he gave his name to the letter clerk in the hotel.
The singularity of his proceedings during that hour was thereby
brought home to him. He knew nothing of newspapers, daily or weekly;
but commonsense suggested that "The Firefly's" radiance was not
over-powering. His native shrewdness advised caution, though he felt
sure that he could, in homely phrase, twist this faded journalist
round his little finger.
"Before I open the ball," he said, "may I see a copy of your
magazine?"
Meanwhile the other was trying to sum him up. He came to the
conclusion that his visitor meant to introduce some new advertising
scheme, 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 small
sixteen-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 on
airships,--"I see that 'The Firefly' scintillates around the Tree of
Knowledge."
The editor relaxed sufficiently to smile. "That is a good description
of its weekly flights," he said.
"You don't use many cuts?"
"N-no. They are expensive and hard to obtain for such subjects as we
favor."
"Don't you think it would be a good notion to brighten it up a
bit--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 the
editor 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 Wynton
by name. She lives in Warburton Gardens, and does work for you
occasionally. Now, I propose to send her on a month's trip to
Switzerland, where she will represent 'The Firefly.' You must get her
to turn out a couple of pages of readable stuff each week, which you
will have illustrated by a smart artist at a cost of say, twenty
pounds an article for drawings and blocks. I pay all expenses, she
gets the trip, and you secure some good copy for nothing. Is it a
deal?"
The editor sat down suddenly and combed his whiskers with nervous
fingers. He was a weak man, and a too liberal beer diet was not good
for him.
"Are you in earnest, Mr. Spencer?" he queried in a bewildered way.
"Dead in earnest. You write the necessary letter to Miss Wynton while
I am here, and I hand you the first twenty in notes. You are to tell
her to call Monday noon at any bank you may select, and she will be
given her tickets and a hundred pounds. When I am certain that she has
started I undertake to pay you a further sum of sixty pounds. I make
only two conditions. You must guarantee to star her work, as it should
help her some, and my identity must not be disclosed to her under any
circumstances. In a word, she must regard herself as the accredited
correspondent of 'The Firefly.' If she appears to be a trifle rattled
by your generosity in the matter of terms, you must try and look as if
you did that sort of thing occasionally and would like to do it
often."
The editor pushed his chair away from the table. He seemed to require
more air. "Again I must ask you if you actually mean what you say?" he
gasped.
Spencer opened a pocketbook and counted four five-pound notes out of a
goodly bundle. "It is all here in neat copperplate," he said, placing
the notes on the table. "Maybe you haven't caught on to the root idea
of the proposition," he continued, seeing that the other man was
staring 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. But
she is sensitive, and would resent patronage; so I must not figure in
the affair at all. I have no other motive at the back of my head. I'm
putting up two hundred pounds out of sheer philanthropy. Will you
help?"
"There are points about this amazing proposal that require
elucidation," said the editor slowly. "Travel articles might possibly
come within the scope of 'The Firefly'; but I am aware that Miss
Wynton 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. But
if you are hinting that I intend to use my scheme for the purpose of
winning Miss Wynton's favorable regard, I must say that she strikes
me as the kind of girl who would think she had been swindled if she
learned the truth. In any event, I may never see her again, and it is
certainly not my design to follow her to Switzerland. I don't kick at
your questions. You're old enough to be her father, and mine, for that
matter. Go ahead. This is Saturday afternoon, you know, and there's no
business stirring."
Spencer had to cover the ground a second time before everything was
made clear. At last the fateful letter was written. He promised to
call on Monday and learn how the project fared. Then he relieved the
cabman's anxiety, as the alley possessed a second exit, and was driven
to the Wellington Theater, where he secured a stall for that night's
performance of the Chinese musical comedy in which Miss Millicent
Jaques played the part of a British Admiral's daughter.
While Spencer was watching Helen's hostess cutting capers in a
Mandarin's palace, Helen herself was reading, over and over again, a
most wonderful letter that had fallen from her sky. It had all the
appearance 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, looked
familiar enough, and both envelop and paper resembled those which had
brought her other communications from "The Firefly." But the text was
magic, rank necromancy. No wizard who ever dealt in black letter
treatises could have devised a more convincing proof of his occult
powers than this straightforward offer made by the editor of "The
Firefly." Four articles of five thousand words each,--tickets and 100
pounds awaiting her at a bank,--go to the Maloja-Kulm Hotel; leave
London at the earliest possible date; please send photographs and
suggestions for black-and-white illustrations of mountaineering and
society! What could it possibly mean?
At the third reading Helen began to convince herself that this rare
stroke 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 have
to ask you to be good enough not to make known the object of your
journey. In fact, it will be as well if you do not state your
whereabouts 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 am
anxious to impress on you the importance of this instruction."
Helen found herein the germ of understanding. "The Firefly" meant to
boom itself on its Swiss correspondence; but even that darksome piece
of journalistic enterprise did not explain the princely munificence of
the hundred pounds. At last, when she calmed down sufficiently to be
capable of connected thought, she saw that "mountaineering" implied
the hire of guides, and that "society" meant frocks. Of course it was
intended that she should spend the whole of the money, and thus give
"The Firefly" a fair return for its outlay. And a rapid calculation
revealed the dazzling fact that after setting aside the fabulous sum
of two pounds a day for expenses she still had forty pounds left
wherewith to replenish her scanty stock of dresses.
Believing that at any instant the letter might dissolve into a curt
request to keep her scientific jottings strictly within the limits
of a column, Helen sat with it lying open on her lap, and searched the
pages 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 be
mere names,--they became actualities. The Julier Pass, the Septimer,
the Forno Glacier, the Diavolezza Route, and the rest of the
stately panorama of snow capped peaks, blue lakes, and narrow
valleys,--valleys which began with picturesque chalets, dun colored
cattle, and herb laden pastures, and ended in the yawning mouths of
ice rivers whence issued the milky white streams that dashed through
the lower gorges,--they passed before her eyes as she read till she
was dazzled by their glories.
What a day dream to one who dwelt in smoky London year in and year
out! 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 was
of a half-forgotten day and generation, she would now have good work
to show when asked what she had done. She was not enamored of beetles.
Even the classifying of them was monotonous, and she had striven
bravely to push her way through the throng of would-be writers that
besieged the doors of every popular periodical in London. It was a
heartbreaking struggle. The same post that gave her this epoch marking
letter had brought back two stories with the stereotyped expression of
editorial regret.
"Now," thought Helen, when her glance fell on the bulky envelops, "my
name will at least become known. And editors very much resemble the
public they cater for. If a writer achieves success, they all want
him. I have often marveled how any author got his first chance. Now I
know. 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 real
commission. No veteran soldier ever donned a field marshal's uniform
with the same zest that he displayed when his subaltern's outfit came
from the tailor. So Helen glowed with that serious enthusiasm which is
the soul of genius, for without it life becomes flat and gray, and
she passed many anxious, half-doubting hours until a courteous bank
official handed her a packet at the appointed time on Monday, and gave
her a receipt to sign, and asked her how she would take her hundred
pounds--did she want it all in notes or some in gold?
She was so unnerved by this sudden confirmation of her good fortune
that 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 journalistic
enterprise that will take you abroad. May I suggest that you should
carry, say, thirty pounds in notes and ten in gold, and allow me to
give you the balance in the form of circular notes, which are payable
only under your signature?"
"Yes," said Helen, rosy red at her own awkwardness, "that will be very
nice."
The official pushed across the counter some banknotes and sovereigns,
and summoned a commissionaire to usher her into the waiting room till
he had prepared the circular notes. The respite was a blessing. It
gave Helen time to recover her self possession. She opened the packet
and found therein coupons for the journey to and from St. Moritz,
together with a letter from the sleeping car company, from which she
gathered that a berth on the Engadine Express was provisionally
reserved in her name for the following Thursday, but any change to
a later date must be made forthwith, as the holiday pressure was
beginning. It was advisable too, she was reminded, that she should
secure her return berth before leaving London.
Each moment the reality of the tour became more patent. She might
feel herself bewitched; but pounds sterling and railway tickets were
tangible things, and not to be explained away by any fantasy. By the
time her additional wealth was ready she was better fitted to guard
it. She hurried away quite unconscious of the admiring eyes that were
raised from dockets and ledgers behind the grille. She made for the
court in which "The Firefly" had its abode. The squalor of the
passage, the poverty stricken aspect of the stairs,--items which had
prepared her on other occasions for the starvation rate of pay offered
for her work,--now passed unheeded. This affectation of scanty means
was humorous. Obviously, some millionaire had secured what the
newspapers called "a controlling interest" in "The Firefly."
She sought Mackenzie, the editor, and he received her with a manifest
reluctance to waste his precious time over details that was almost as
convincing as the money and vouchers she carried.
"Yes, Thursday will suit admirably," he said in reply to her
breathless questions. "You will reach Maloja on Friday evening, and
if you post the first article that day week it will arrive in good
time for the next number. As for the style and tone, I leave those
considerations entirely to you. So long as the matter is bright and
readable, that is all I want. I put my requirements clearly in my
letter. Follow that, and you cannot make any mistake."
Helen little realized how precise were the instructions given two
hours earlier to the editor, the bank clerk, and the sleeping car
company. Mackenzie's curt acceptance of her mission brought a
wondering 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 thought
that a young lady's impressions of life in an Anglo-Swiss summer
community would be fresher and more attractive than a man's. That is
all. 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 worth
doing, it must be done well. Good-by!"
He flattered himself that he could spend another man's money with as
lordly an air as the youngest journalist on Fleet-st. The difficulty
was to find the man with the money, and Mackenzie had given much
thought during the Sabbath to the potentialities that lay behind
Spencer's whim. He was sure the incident would not close with the
publication of Miss Wynton's articles. Judiciously handled, her
unknown benefactor might prove equally beneficial to "The Firefly."
So Helen tripped out into Fleet-st., and turned her pretty face
westward, and looked so eager and happy that it is not surprising if
many a man eyed her as she passed, and many a woman sighed to think
that another woman could find life in this dreary city such a joyous
thing.
A sharp walk through the Strand and across Trafalgar Square did a
good deal toward restoring the poise of her wits. For safety, she had
pinned the envelop containing her paper money and tickets inside her
blouse. The mere presence of the solid little parcel reminded her at
every movement that she was truly bound for the wonderful Engadine,
and, now that the notion was becoming familiar, she was the more
astonished that the choice of "The Firefly" had fallen on her. It was
all very well for Mr. Mackenzie to say that the paper would be
brightened by a woman's views on life in the high Alps. The poor worn
man 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 was
she, Helen Wynton, and none other, for whom the gods had contrived
this miracle. If it had been possible, she would have crossed busy
Cockspur-st. with a hop, skip, and a jump in order to gain the
sleeping car company's premises.
She knew the place well. Many a time had she looked at the attractive
posters in the windows,--those gorgeous fly sheets that told of winter
in summer among the mountains of Switzerland and the Tyrol, and of
summer in winter along the sunlit shores of the Cote d'Azur. She
almost laughed aloud at the thought that possessed her as she waited
for 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," she
said 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 any
longer, but dodged an omnibus, a motor car, and some hansoms, and
pushed open the swing doors of the Bureau de la Campagnie des
Wagons-Lits. She did not notice that the automobile stopped very
quickly a few yards higher up the street. The occupant, Mark Bower,
alighted, looked at her through the window to make sure he was not
mistaken, and followed her into the building. He addressed some
question to an attendant, and heard Helen say:
"Yes, please. Thursday will suit admirably. I am going straight
through to St. Moritz. I shall call on Wednesday and let you know what
day I wish to return."
If Bower had intended to speak to her, he seemed to change his mind
rather promptly. Helen's back was turned. She was watching a clerk
writing out a voucher for her berth in the sleeping car, and the
office was full of other prospective travelers discussing times and
routes with the officials. Bower thanked his informant for information
which he could have supplied in ampler detail himself. Then he went
out, and looked again at Helen from the doorway; but she was wholly
unaware of his presence.
Thus it came about, quite simply and naturally, that Mark Bower met
Miss Helen Wynton on the platform of Victoria Station on Thursday
morning, and learned that, like himself, she was a passenger by the
Engadine Express. He took her presence as a matter of course, hoped
she would allow him to secure her a comfortable chair on the steamer,
told her that the weather report was excellent, and remarked that they
might expect a pleasant crossing in the new turbine steamer.
[Illustration: "I am going through to St. Moritz."
_Page 38_]
Then, having ascertained that she had a corner seat, and that her
luggage was registered through to St. Moritz (Helen having arrived at
the station a good hour before the train was due to start), he bowed
himself away, being far too skilled a stalker of such shy game to
thrust his company on her at that stage.
His attitude was very polite and friendly, and Helen was almost
grateful to the chance which had brought him there. She was feeling
just a trifle lonely in the midst of the gay and chattering throng
that crowded the station. The presence of one who was not wholly a
stranger, of a friend's friend, of a man whose name was familiar, made
the journey look less dreamlike. She was glad he had not sought to
travel in her carriage. That was tactful, and indeed his courtesy and
pleasant words during her first brief meeting with him in the
Embankment Hotel had conveyed the same favorable impression.
So when the hour hand of the big clock overhanging the center of
the platform pointed to eleven, the long train glided quietly
away with its load of pleasure-seekers, and neither Helen nor her
new acquaintance could possibly know that their meeting had been
witnessed, with a blank amazement that was rapidly transmuted into
sheer annoyance, by a young American engineer named Charles K.
Spencer.