Wyndham's Pal

She was quiet for a time and Marston was satisfied to smoke and study her. It had got dark, but the fire was bright and touched her face while she sat still, as if lost in concentrated thought. Marston thought her beautiful and she had beauty, but her beauty was not her strongest charm.

"Bob," she remarked presently, "yours was a curious dream."

"I had fever, you know, but the thing was remarkably real. It was like lantern pictures melting on the screen. Background and figures were accurate and lifelike. In the last scene, I knew I was in Columbine's cabin and can hardly persuade myself I was quite asleep. The tide splashed about the boat; I could smell the mud."

"Yet you saw Wyndham's uncle change into the horrible old mulatto."

Marston nodded. "He faded and got distinct again, different, but not different altogether. This was the puzzling thing. However, the story the agent told us about the Leopards had haunted me and I'd often thought about Rupert Wyndham. Perhaps it was because I saw his portrait and he was like my partner."

"You mean he was like him physically?"

"That's not all. Of course a portrait doesn't tell one very much, but I thought Harry had Rupert's temperament."

"I see," said Mabel, knitting her straight brows. "To begin with, do you know Rupert Wyndham's temperament?"

"In a way; Harry and Ellams, the agent, talked about him much. He was a daring man; I think reckless is the proper word. We sober folks have our code, we must do this and not the other; men like Rupert Wyndham have none. If a thing looked worth getting, he'd venture much and break rules for it. Harry, you know, is like that; I mean he'd venture much. Well, I think Rupert made some rash experiments in Africa. He studied the negroes' habits and tried to get their point of view."

"With an object, you suggest? What did he want?"

"Harry imagined it was power."

"Ah," said Mabel. "Harry wants Flora. And he has Rupert's recklessness!"

Marston made a sign of disagreement. "There's a difference. A man might do much for power; but for a girl like Flora he must be fastidious. It wouldn't help if he got money and lost her respect. Harry knows this. He's not a fool."

"But suppose Flora didn't know how he got his money?"

"Harry doesn't cheat. He wouldn't use means she disapproved and then claim his reward."

"Oh, well," said Mabel, "I think we'll let it go. I like you to trust your friends."

Soon afterwards a car came to the steps and Mabel saw that Marston put on a warm scarf and fastened his collar before he drove off. Then she went back to the fire and pondered his story and subsequent remarks. The story was strange, but she thought she saw a light where all was dark to Bob. She had long suspected that Wyndham was reckless and would not be bound by rules if the prize he sought made his breaking them worth while. Moreover, she had got books about West Africa and the Caribbean that touched on Fetish and Voodoo superstitions. Perhaps she was romantic, but it was possible Wyndham, led by strong temptation, had ventured where a white man ought not to go. With an effort, Mabel banished her doubts. After all, the thing was unthinkable. Bob had not been cheated; he knew Harry.

In the morning, Marston occupied himself with some old books in Wyndhams' office at the top of a big stone building. The office was comfortably furnished and there was a good picture of an old-fashioned sailing ship on the wall; the big single-top sails indicated when she was built. At the end of the street the window commanded, the masts and funnels of channel steamers rose above a warehouse where Wyndhams' barks and brigs had loaded goods they bartered for slaves. Marston glanced at the modern iron masts and smiled when he looked up, for the book he studied had nothing to do with business.

It was the log of the slaver Providence that Wyndham had talked about, and it related how they towed her with the boats when the negroes died in the suffocating hold. There was something about a sacrifice that did not bring the needed wind and its cost was charged against the freight. They were hard men, touched by strange superstitions, who towed the Providence, but their brutality was businesslike. Marston found an entry for the negroes used up at the oars, with their value at Jamaica properly noted.

After a time, he shut the log-book. He had read enough and resolved there would be a break in some of Wyndhams' traditions now he was a partner in the house. He had noted things he did not like, and Harry would support his new plans when he came home. By and by he heard steps in the clerks' office and a broker was announced. The latter came in and put a small brown jar on the table.

"I told your people we wanted some hard oil and they sent us samples," he said. "If the bulk's quite up to specimen, I think it ought to meet the bill. We must have prime quality for the particular job."

Marston picked up the jar, which held a quantity of thick yellow grease. It was palm oil and its strong but rather pleasant smell awoke vivid memories. He saw the whitewashed factory shine beside the muddy river and a gang of naked negroes filling big barrels in a compound tunneled by land-crabs' holes. The compound glowed with light against a background of forest wrapped in unchanging gloom, from which the palm oil came. For all that, the oil was a well-known article of commerce. There was nothing mysterious about its production and Marston would have been satisfied had Wyndhams' confined its trade to stuff like this. Then he saw the broker was waiting.

"Don't samples generally stand for the bulk?" he asked.

The broker looked at him rather sharply and smiled.

"It depends upon the people with whom you deal and the skill of their warehouseman. A man who knows his job can draw samples that will pass a good-middling lot as prime, and this without the buyer's being able to claim that they're not fairly representative. But of course, you know – "

"I don't know. You see, I'm a beginner," Marston replied, and examined a ticket stuck in the oil. "Well, I saw this lot barreled in Africa. The quality is not prime."

The broker looked surprised and annoyed. "Then your manager has made things rather awkward for us. One uses some judgment about samples, but our customer must have a first-class article and we engaged to supply him at a stated price. I'll own that the price was a little below what others asked. We quoted on your offer."

"Our offer stands," said Marston, who indicated the jar. "Will you be satisfied if the oil we send is all like this?"

"We will be quite satisfied."

"Very well. Send in the order and you'll get the quality you want."

The broker lighted a cigarette and gave Marston his case. "I like the way you do business. We are buying for big people, the trade's steady and good, but we haven't dealt much with Wyndhams' before. If this lot's all right, other orders will follow."

"You can take it for granted the lot will be all right," Marston replied.

He frowned when the broker went out. It looked as if Wyndhams' goods had not always been up to sample and Marston remembered hints he heard about the character of the house. Harry, however had not long had control and had, perhaps, left things to his clerks. It was going to be different now.

Presently Marston got up and went to the general office where he interviewed the young manager. He did not say much, but he was very firm and when he returned to his room the other shrugged.

"If the new partner takes this line, your next balance sheet won't be good," he remarked to the book-keeper.

CHAPTER II

MABEL'S PEARLS

Four months after Marston reached England, Wyndham came home. He had got thin and, when he was quiet, looked worn, but he had returned in triumph and soon persuaded Marston that his efforts had earned a rich reward. Things had gone better than his letters indicated.

On the evening of his arrival, he waited in Flora's drawing-room for Chisholm, who had not yet got back from his office at the port. Electric lights burned above the mantel and Wyndham sat by the cheerful fire, with Flora in a low chair opposite. For a time she had listened while he talked, and now her eyes rested on him with keen but tranquil satisfaction. Harry had come back, as she had known he would come, like a conqueror. She was proud that he had justified her trust, and although it had been hard to let him go, this did not matter.

She was ashamed of her hesitation when he first declared himself her lover, but the suspicion that she was rash had not lasted long. Flora was loyal and when she had accepted him looked steadily forward. It was not her habit to doubt and look back. One thing rather disturbed her; Harry was obviously tired. Before he went away his talk and laugh were marked by a curious sparkle that Flora thought like the sparkle of wine. This had gone, but, in a way, she liked him better, although his sober mood was new.

By-and-by he glanced about the room, which was rather plainly furnished, but with a hint of artistic taste. Chisholm was not rich and the taste was Flora's. Then he moved his chair and leaned forward to the fire with a languid smile.

"Our English cold is bracing, but it bites keen when one has known the tropics," he said. "I like light and warmth."

"You got both on the Caribbean," Flora remarked.

"No," said Wyndham, "not much light. For a few hours, the glare was dazzling, but soon the shadow crept back from the bush and the fever-mist floated about the boat. On the creek and at the village, you got a sense of gloom that never melted." He paused and added with a smile: "It's often like that in the tropics, and the gloom is not altogether physical."

Flora noted the thinness of his face and his pallor. Her glance got soft and pitiful.

"My dear!" she said. "I wanted you to win; not that I cared for your winning, but because I wanted you to satisfy others who do not know you so well."

"Your father, for example?" he rejoined with a twinkle. "Well, he took the proper line, but I think I have some arguments that will persuade him."

"I sent you," she said, with a touch of color. "Afterwards I saw that I was shabby and vain. I ought not to have let you go. What did it matter about the others, when I was satisfied? You have won and they will own this, but I'm afraid it has cost you much."

Wyndham gave her a rather sharp glance and then smiled. "One must pay for what one gets, but, if it's much comfort, I was very willing."

"You were always generous, but I'm afraid you're sometimes rash."

"The rashness was justified. If I had to choose again, I'd stake my all, fortune, mind, and body, and think the risk worth while."

"You're very nice," said Flora, and added with a blush: "But, in one way, there was no risk. Even if you had been beaten, I would have persuaded father. It was rather for his sake you went than mine and that's why I'm half ashamed. But he deserved something; he has long indulged me."

She got up. There were steps in the passage, and Chisholm came in. Wyndham stayed for dinner and afterwards went with Chisholm to his smoking-room and gave him a document.

"My book-keeper drafted the statement, because I thought you ought to know where I stand," he said. "The sum indicated could be invested for Flora. Not much of a marriage settlement of course, but perhaps it will help to banish your very natural doubts."

Chisholm studied the paper with some surprise. "You have done much better than I thought; I don't know if this is flattering or not. In fact, when one remembers that you have not long been head of the house, your success is rather remarkable."

"I ran some risks," said Wyndham, smiling. "We have got started; perhaps I'm optimistic, but I came home persuaded we are going on. It's possible we may go far."

"You have a good partner," Chisholm remarked.

"The best!" Wyndham agreed quietly.

Chisholm liked his hint of feeling, but hesitated, although there was no obvious reason for this. He liked Wyndham, and the latter was on the way to mend his fortune. All the same, he shrank, rather illogically, from giving his formal consent to the wedding.

"Well," he said, with something of an effort, "I'm glad your affairs are going as well as you hoped and I suppose you now expect me to keep my promise. I've no grounds to refuse and you can marry Flora when she is ready."

Wyndham went soon afterwards and Chisholm said to Flora, "You declared Harry would force me to approve and he has done so."

"What do you approve?" Flora asked, smiling.

"Oh, well," said Chisholm, "I think I see what you suggest. Looks as if I must be frank. Since my duty is to take care of you, it's a big relief to find Harry is a good business man and is going to make Wyndhams' prosperous. I like to feel he's able to give you all you ought to have."

Flora's glance was proud. "I want you to be satisfied, and it was for this I let Harry go. I would not have hesitated had he come back disappointed and poor. Now I feel half cheated, because, in one way, he doesn't need my help."

"You are a plucky girl," said Chisholm. "Still I expect it's better he has come back rich. After all, romance wears off, and then, if money's short, the strain begins."

"Your philosophy's not very good," Flora rejoined with a laugh. "Real romance never wears off; the strain's the test that marks the difference between the true and false. However, since you have carried out your duty and used a caution that's rather new, you ought to be happy."

She kissed him and he let her go, but he was thoughtful afterwards. He felt he ought to be happy, but somehow he was not. By-and-by he got up and went to meet Mabel and Marston, whom he heard come in. A famous Shakespearian actor was visiting the town and Marston had called to suggest that they should see the play together. They fixed a night, without knowing in which of his favorite parts the tragedian would appear. Mabel said this was not important, because he was good in all.

When the car stopped at the theater she went with Flora to the cloak-room and began to take off her furs in front of a long glass. As she did so she hesitated, because she remembered something she ought to have remembered before. It was too late now, for as the cloak slipped off her shoulders a string of small pearls caught the light. Flora had not long since said she liked pearls. Then Mabel saw that Flora had seen the pearls, and thought she had noted her hesitation, because she smiled.

"They are very pretty," Flora remarked. "I suppose Bob gave them to you?"

"They are small," said Mabel deprecatingly, but not because she did not value her lover's present. "Bob said something about their not getting any Harry thought good enough to send home."

"Bob and you are very nice, but you're sometimes obvious," Flora rejoined. "However, I'm not jealous, and if the pearls are small, they stand for much."

"These stand for endurance and bold adventure. I think Bob did not get them easily."

"That would not matter to Bob," said Flora. "But I wonder what they cost the others, the dark-skinned men who found them on the sands beneath the Caribbean. Pearls, you know, sometimes stand for tears." She moved from the glass, for the room was filling, and smiled as she resumed: "I don't know why I indulge a morbid sentiment when I'm happy. You will never have much grounds to cry for Bob."

They went down a passage and found their places in the stalls. The house was full and Marston had engaged such seats as he could get. Wyndham, Flora and Chisholm were in front; Mabel and Marston in the row behind.

"Macbeth!" he said as he gave Mabel a program. "Rather curious; but I like the play. Kind of plot one can understand."

"Why is it curious?" Mabel asked. "Don't you understand them all?"

"Not like this," said Marston, with a touch of awkwardness. "The motto – or d'you call it the motive? – is plain from the start. 'Ambition that over-leaps itself,' if I'm quoting right."

Mabel said nothing. Bob was not clever, but he was sometimes shrewd and she saw what was in his mind. This was easier because he looked uncomfortable. The poor fellow felt he had not been quite loyal to his friend. Then Mabel frowned. Perhaps Bob had seen clearly; there was a parallel.

The lights went out and when the curtain rose Marston tried to banish his disturbing thoughts and enjoy the play. He had seen it often, but the story gripped him with a force he had not felt before. All was well done. Pale flames played round the witches' cauldron, and there was something strangely suggestive about the bent figures that hovered about the fire and faded in the gloom. He had sometimes thought the witch-scene unnecessary, but now he felt its significance. In Shakespeare's days, men believed in witchcraft, and when one had been in Africa one owned there were powers that ruled the dark. Bob was quiet and listened, with his mouth firmly set.

A line caught his notice: "Her husband's to Aleppo gone, the master of the Tiger." Marston had not thought much about this before, but he saw the strange, high-pooped old vessel, manned by merchant adventurers, plunge across the surges of the Levant. She was a type; there were always merchant adventurers, and he pictured Columbine rolling on the African surf.

Then for a time he let the play absorb him. The witches were tempting Macbeth, flattering his ambition, promising him power. The gloom and the flickering light round the cauldron recalled Africa; Marston had seen the naked factory boys crouch beside their fires, tapping little drums, and singing strange, monotonous songs that sounded like incantations. He thought about Rupert Wyndham; witches were numerous in Africa and Marston wondered what they had promised him. Was it power? Or knowledge the cautious white man shuns? Marston glanced at Wyndham, in front. He had not spoken since the curtain rose and the pose of his head indicated that his eyes were fixed on the stage. He was very still and Marston thought the drama had seized his imagination.

The cauldron fire leaped up, throwing red reflections that touched a figure moving in the gloom. Marston wondered whether his eyes were dazzled, for the hooded figure began to look like the Bat. Then there was a flash, the witches vanished, and he felt a strange relief when the curtain fell and the lights went up.

"Very well done! A realistic scene!" Wyndham remarked, looking round. "Did you know it was Macbeth, Bob?"

"I did not," said Marston. "If I had known, I think I'd have picked another night."

Wyndham looked hard at him, and then laughed and began to talk to Flora, but Marston felt jarred. Harry laughed like that in moments of tension when others swore. Then he saw that Mabel was studying him.

"You are quiet, Bob," she said.

"It's long since I saw a good play," Marston replied. "My first relaxation since I got to work, and I expect it grips me harder because it's fresh. Full house, isn't it? Do you know many people?"

"I see one or two friends of yours. They have been looking at you, but you wouldn't turn."

"I didn't see them," said Marston. "I've got the habit of dropping people since I joined Wyndhams'. Regular work is something of a novelty and while the newness lasts you get absorbed. I don't know if it's good or not. What do you think?"

Mabel laughed. "Well done, Bob! It cost you something, but you felt you ought to talk."

"It oughtn't to have cost me anything," said Marston apologetically. "But how did you know?"

"My dear, you're honest and obvious. Besides, we do know things, by instinct perhaps. I would always know when you were disturbed."

"I'm not disturbed. You are here."

"Ah," said Mabel, "now you're very nice! But let's be frank. You were thinking about another drama, in real life, that touches you close. I see one comfort; there's no Lady Macbeth in the piece."

Marston agreed and mused. The light was good, and touched Mabel's face and neck where the small pearls shone. He saw Flora's face in profile, her shoulders, and the flowing curve of her arm. He liked the fine poise of her head. She looked proud and somehow vivid; one got a hint of her fearless, impulsive character. Her hair and eyes were brown and she wore a corn-yellow dress. Mabel's skin was white and red, and her dull-blue clothes matched the color of her eyes. She was calm, steadfast, and sometimes reserved, a contrast to Flora, although in ways they were alike. Both were honest and hated what was mean. Marston felt comforted. There was no Lady Macbeth in the piece.

Moreover, a glance along the rows of people was calming. There were business men with shining, bald heads, and some younger whose clothes were cut in the latest mode. Women of different ages, for the most part fashionably dressed, sat among the others, but all wore the conventional English stamp. There was nothing extravagant about them; Marston thought they sat contentedly by modern hearths. They were not the people to follow wandering fires. Perhaps he was something of a romantic fool; but when one had been in Africa and the swamps beside the Caribbean —

The play went on. He saw Macbeth's ambitions realized. The witches' promises were fulfilled, but with fulfillment came retribution that had looked impossible. This was the touch that fixed Marston's thought. Macbeth was cheated, but he must pay; the powers of evil lied. One wondered whether it was always like that.

When the curtain fell and the lights went up shortly before the end, Marston remarked: "After all there were the witches. Lady Macbeth was, so to speak, unnecessary."

Mabel had indulged him before; indeed, his mood had chimed with hers, but she thought he had followed this line far enough. His illness had left a mark, and he sometimes brooded. She laughed when Flora turned.

"Bob's getting to be a dramatic critic and something of a philosopher," she said. "Perhaps he'll tell you how he would improve the play."

"You know what I mean," Marston replied good-humoredly. "Aren't a man's greed and ambition enough to drive him on, without an outside tempter?"

"Without a bad woman to urge him?" Flora suggested.

"When one comes to think of it, a good woman might be as dangerous as the other," said Marston.

Mabel frowned. She saw where her lover's remark led, but doubted if the others did. She forced a laugh when Wyndham looked round.

"Bob has a flash of imagination now and then," she said.

"I expect Bob would sooner leave out the witches, now he knows something about Ghost Leopards and Voodoo," Wyndham replied. "Anyhow, I think the mummery round the cauldron rather crude; the act was, no doubt, written to meet the spirit of the times. Temptation by repulsive hags would not appeal to an up-to-date young man. My notion of a tempter is an urbanely ironical Mephistopheles."

Marston said nothing. He remembered the Bat's strange, mocking grin; and then roused himself and laughed. He was getting morbid; the wretched fever had shaken him. He joked with Flora until the curtain rose and when it came down on the closing scene resolved to forget the play.

"I've ordered supper. It will brace us up," he said.

They went to a crowded restaurant, and Marston liked the tinkle of glass, voices, and cheerful laughter, but he shivered when they left the glittering room and got into the car.

"Put the rug round you before we start," said Mabel.

"I think I will," Marston replied, apologetically. "I feel as if my temperature was up; malaria has an annoying trick of coming back. When it does come back, you get moody and pessimistic. Sorry if I bored you to-night!"

"Perhaps it was malaria, but I wasn't bored," said Mabel, with an indulgent smile.

CHAPTER III

PETERS' OFFER

Wyndham and Flora were married at a small country church. The morning was bright and the sun touched the east window with vivid color and pierced the narrow lancets on the south. Red and green reflections stained the mosaics inside the chancel rails, but shadows lurked behind the arches and pillars, for the old building had no clerestory.

Mabel was bridesmaid, Marston was groomsman, and as he waited for a few moments by the rails he looked about. Commodore Chisholm had numerous friends, and for the most part Marston knew the faces turned towards the chancel. He had sailed hard races against some of the men and danced with their wives and daughters. They were sober English folk, and he was glad they had come to stamp with their approval his partner's wedding. Some, however, he could not see, because they sat back in the gloom.