Wyndham's Pal

Then he glanced at his companions. He was nervous, but Mabel was marked by her serene calm. Flora's look was rather fixed, and although she had not much color, her pose was resolute and proud. Marston wondered whether she felt she was making something of a plunge; but if she did so, he knew she would not hesitate. Chisholm's face was quiet and perhaps a trifle stern; he looked rather old, and Marston imagined him resigned. The Commodore was frank; one generally knew what he felt. All three looked typically English, but Wyndham did not. Although his eyes were very blue and his hair was touched by red, he was different from the others. His face, as Marston saw it in profile, was thin and in a way ascetic, but it wore a stamp of recklessness. His pose was strangely alert and highly strung. There was something exotic about him.

The vicar began the office and Marston remarked with a sense of annoyance that the church got dark, as if the sun had gone behind a cloud. He was not superstitious, but he had had enough of gloom, and the fever had left him with a touch of melancholy. He glanced at Mabel and felt soothed. Her face was quiet and reverent; she was unostentatiously religious and her calm confidence banished his doubts. After a few minutes, the light got stronger, and yielding to a strange impulse, he looked round. A sunbeam shone through a south window and picked out a face he knew. Marston moved abruptly and came near forgetting how he was engaged.

The face stood out, yellow and withered, against the surrounding shadow. The eyes were fixed on the wedding group and Marston thought their look ironical, but the bright beam faded and he wondered whether he had been deceived. It was hard to believe that Peters, whom he had last seen at the lagoon, was in the church, and Marston hoped he was not. Peters belonged to the fever-haunted forest; he brought back the gloom and sense of mystery Bob wanted to forget. There was something strangely inappropriate about his coming to Harry's wedding.

Wyndham turned his head, although the movement hardly seemed enough to enable him to look across the church. Marston, however, roused himself, for he had followed the office, and slipped the ring into his comrade's hand. Wyndham put it on the book, and then as the vicar gave it back, let it drop. There was a tinkle as it struck the tiles and, for a moment, an awkward pause. Flora started and Chisholm frowned, but Marston picked up the ring and when Wyndham put it on Flora's hand, tried to feel he had not got a jar. Perhaps he was ridiculous, but he wished Peters had stayed away and Harry had not dropped the ring.

There was no further mishap, the sun shone out again and as its beams drove back the shadows the gilded cross above the screen caught the light and flashed. Mabel looked up. Marston thought her unconscious movement directed his glance, and he was moved to tenderness and calm. After the feeling of repugnance Peters had excited, the thing was strangely significant and he knew the glittering symbol was Mabel's guiding light.

The vicar stopped. Flora gave Marston her hand in the vestry and he put his on Wyndham's shoulder as he wished them happiness. In a few minutes they went out and when Wyndham's car drove off Marston stood by the gate with Mabel, waiting for theirs. People stood about talking to one another, and Marston tried to hide his annoyance when a man outside the group caught his eye. He had not been deceived; the fellow was Peters, for he smiled.

For a moment Marston hesitated. There was, however, no obvious reason for his refusing to acknowledge Peters, and he nodded when he advanced. The latter's clothes were in the latest fashion; he wore light gloves and very neat varnished shoes. At a little distance he looked like a prosperous Englishman, but as he came up and took off his hat the sun touched his yellow, deep-lined face and the curious white tufts in his hair. Then he looked pinched and shriveled.

"I hardly thought to see you. Indeed, I imagined I had cheated myself," Marston remarked.

Peters laughed. "Our meeting is, after all, not strange. I landed a few days since and stopped to transact some business before I go on to Hamburg. A paragraph in a newspaper caught my eye, and, having nothing to do this morning, I thought I'd come to your partner's wedding. Since I really don't know him well I didn't stop him as he came out."

"Will you be long in town?" Marston asked.

"Another day or two," said Peters. "I must try to look you up."

He stepped back as a car started, and Marston saw no more of him. On the whole, he thought he had seen enough and was annoyed because Peters was coming to the office. This, however, was not important and he forgot about it.

In the afternoon Mabel and he walked across a heathy common that sloped to the river mouth. The tide was ebbing and thin white lines of surf curved about the sands. Here and there a wet belt shone with reflections from the sky; the woods and fields on the western shore were getting dim, and a long range of hills rose against the fading light. The soft colors and the hazy distance, where one heard the sea beat on the outer shoals, were restful to Marston's eyes. He loved the quiet English landscape, and glancing at Mabel, half-consciously gave thanks because he was at home.

"Who was the strange little man at the church?" Mabel asked presently.

"Peters," said Marston. "We met him on the Caribbean. Did you think him strange?"

"I didn't study him. His eyes were strange; they seemed restless and very keen. The white tufts in his hair were unusual."

"Fever leaves its stamp when you get it often," Marston remarked. "Besides, I expect the fellow has had some romantic adventures. Anyhow, he's not a friend of ours. We gave him dinner on board because he was a white man. That's all."

"I wonder whether Harry saw him, just before he dropped the ring."

"What do you think?" Marston asked with some curiosity.

"I don't know. Harry looked round."

"Oh, well," said Marston. "If Harry did see him, I don't imagine it had much to do with his dropping the ring."

Mabel gave him a quiet glance. She knew Bob and thought he was trying to persuade himself, not to cheat her.

"Yet you did not like to see the man!"

"I did not," Marston admitted. "He, so to speak, brought things back; our agent's dying and the dreams I had when I was ill. Some people belong to their surroundings. I mean, they stand for the places they come from, and Peters belongs to the mangrove lagoons. You and Flora stand for England; spots like this where all's bracing and calm. I think we'll let Peters go."

"You're very nice," said Mabel, smiling. "If we are going to flatter each other, you stand for the sea."

"No," said Marston. "The sea's restless, breezy, and sparkling, and I'm not. You have got a rather dull fellow for a lover."

"Ah," said Mabel quietly, "you are my lover, Bob, and that means much."

She mused while they crossed the heath in the fading light. Bob was not what he called breezy and he did not sparkle, but she would not have him other than he was. She had not often seen him angry, but she knew he could be strongly moved and forces then set in motion were not easily stopped. Bob was steadfast; this was, perhaps, the proper word. He had a reserve of strength and tenacity, of which she thought he was not altogether conscious. She had loved him long and it was significant that she loved him better than at the beginning.

By and by he looked at her. "I grudge Harry nothing and have much for which I'm thankful. All the same, I envied him his luck to-day."

"Poor old Bob!" said Mabel "But you know, when I promised – "

He nodded. "I know and of course I'm satisfied. I can't urge you; but sometimes, like to-day, waiting's hard."

Mabel's eyes were very soft. There was love in her glance, but he got a hint of tears.

"My dear," she said, "I think you will not be forced to wait very long." She paused and tried to smile as she resumed: "Never mind, Bob; you needn't talk! I know your sympathy."

He said nothing, but took her hand, and she felt comforted. Mrs. Hilliard was a widow and had long been ill, and Bob had known Mabel would not marry while her mother needed her. At the beginning, he had urged that he was able to take care of both, and since he was rich things might be made easier for the invalid if she lived with them. Mabel, however, was firm, and Bob gave in. He would not argue that her sense of duty was perhaps mistaken and Mrs. Hillard's refusal might be selfish. Mabel's strong persuasion was enough for him.

"You will come in and see her? She has been alone all day," Mabel said, and Marston went.

Mrs. Hilliard sat by the fire in an invalid's chair, and when he entered gave him a friendly smile. She looked very pinched and fragile and he thought Mabel's fears were justified. For an hour he talked about the wedding and other matters as cheerfully as he could, and when he went Mabel kissed him at the gate.

"You are very good, Bob," she said. "I owe you much and some day I'll try to pay my debt."

In the morning Marston went to the office and soon afterwards Peters was shown in. Marston gave him a cigar and they talked about the Caribbean.

"I'm beginning to feel I've had enough," Peters presently remarked. "Life in the swamps is strenuous and one likes quiet when one's no longer young."

"On the surface, things looked pretty dull. I felt languid as soon as I arrived and didn't really wake up until I left."

Peters smiled. "Yet I imagine you found the monotony is sometimes broken. Besides, you didn't stay long enough to learn that much that's curious goes on beneath the surface. There's an underworld." He paused and added meaningly: "On the whole, I think the term is pretty good."

"I was satisfied with the surface. Anyhow, I didn't try to look beneath," Marston rejoined, with some dryness. "In fact, I'd sooner leave some things alone."

"A prudent resolve, when one can carry it out! But d'you imagine your partner controlled his curiosity?"

Marston feared that Wyndham had not, and frowned, because he felt Peters had meant his remark to be significant. The latter resumed: "Of course, you can live tranquilly at the old Spanish ports; that is, if you are sober and resist the dark-skinned señoritas' charms. Perhaps the worst risk a rash stranger runs is being found in a dark calle with a jealous half-breed's knife in his back. In order to get hurt, you must court danger; in the swamps it haunts you. Of course, if you trade in the regular markets, the profit is not large; but if I could get a good post at a port with a casino and cafés, I think I'd be satisfied."

"Haven't your employers a job that would suit to offer you?" Marston asked carelessly.

"They have not. They have been grumbling recently and hinting that I've got slack. As a matter of fact, they have some grounds. My knowledge of the business is pretty extensive, but since your partner came on the scene the goods we want to get have gone to Wyndhams'. I'm now going to Hamburg to account for this, but doubt if I can do so satisfactorily. My explanation's rather romantic than plausible."

"Then, you have an explanation?"

Peters smiled. "Yes. It looks as if the Bat had let his old friends go and taken Wyndham up."

"Ridiculous!" said Marston. "What has the Bat to do with trade? He's not a merchant or a cultivator."

"For all that, the fellow has power. The President rules the cities, the guardias rurales the cleared land, but the Bat and the devil rule the bush. I know half-civilized Mestizos who believe the Bat is the devil. Anyhow, he's a useful friend."

"He's not my friend," Marston rejoined. "However, if your employers are not satisfied, I don't see how I can help."

"I have a plan," said Peters. "I know the bush, the negroes, and their habits, as few white men know them, and my knowledge is worth much to a merchant house. Well, I'm not greedy and imagine you'd find it worth while to give me a small partnership; or, if you'd sooner, appoint me your agent at a port from which I could control the lagoon trade."

Marston looked at him with some surprise. On the whole, he did not like the fellow and he had no grounds for trusting him.

"I'm afraid I can't agree," he replied. "We have a pretty good agent at all the ports where we trade, and Wyndham sent a man he was satisfied about to the lagoon. Our business is not large enough to justify our taking a new partner."

"The business is extending. Would you like to talk to Wyndham about it?"

"He won't be back for some time, and I expect he'll agree that we don't need help. I think you had better stick to your Hamburg friends."

"Oh, well," said Peters philosophically, "it looks as if I must drop the plan, but if you need me later, you know where I can be found. In the meantime, we'll let it go. When I left, Ramon Larrinaga sent you his compliments. He's getting an important man; had some part in the plot that put the new president in power and has, no doubt, claimed his reward."

"You may give him our congratulations when you go back," Marston replied, and soon afterwards Peters went off.

Marston smoked a cigarette and reviewed his visitor's remarks. The fellow had implied that Wyndham had, by some means, gained the Bat's support, and this jarred. Perhaps it jarred worse because Marston had tried to banish suspicions that chimed with the hint. Then he imagined Peters' offer was rather made to Wyndham than to him. Marston meant to urge his partner to refuse. He did not want to see Peters again, but doubted. The fellow was cunning and obstinate. By-and-by Marston threw away his cigarette and rang for his clerk. He would not bother about Peters until he was forced. In fact, if Peters did not come back, he was not sure he would tell Wyndham about it at all.

CHAPTER IV

THE LOST EXPLORERS

The days were getting longer and although the evening was cold Marston rejoiced that winter had gone. He had worked hard at the office until Wyndham's return from his honeymoon, and now he was glad to get on the water again. Putting down his oars, he let Red Rose's dinghy drift, because he doubted if the tide had risen enough to carry him across the sands. A bitter wind blew up the estuary, where belts of shining water wound among the shoals, and some distance astern Red Rose rode at her moorings in a sheltered pool. For half a mile, sand and shallow water ran between Marston and the beach.

He had brought the yacht round from a neighboring river mouth where the smoke of a busy port blackened her gear, and had since been occupied on board. Now he was pleasantly tired, hungry, and braced by the cold. He knew no amusement that gave him as much satisfaction as working on board a yacht. In fact, if one went about the thing properly, it was really a scientific job.

The dinghy grounded, and letting her bump across the sand, he lighted his pipe and reviewed his changed life since Wyndham won the Commodore's cup. Things had begun to change then. For the most part, he had worked hard; at first as Columbine's mate and supercargo, afterwards as a merchant's clerk. Although he had invested a good sum, he was really a clerk. Sometimes he stated his views and Wyndham listened politely; but when one came to think about it, Harry did not tell him much. Then he did not altogether understand transactions in which the house engaged.

For all that, Marston was not hurt. He admitted that his judgment was not worth much. He had not, like Harry, been trained for business. In fact, it was something of a relief when Harry came home and he got rid of his responsibility, although he thought he had, on the whole, managed rather well. Recently, he had taken things easier and Wyndham had encouraged him to do so. He suggested Marston's going off for a few days now and then, and told him not to bother about the office while he fitted out Red Rose. Harry was a good sort, and since he did not need him, Marston was glad to occupy himself with the yacht.

By-and-by the dinghy floated off the shoal and Marston saw the Welsh hills on the other shore were getting dim and blue. He was cold and drove the little boat briskly across the rippling water. Carrying her up the beach, he went to an inn where he left his yachting clothes and then set out across the heathy common for Mrs. Hilliard's house. Mabel gave him tea by the fire and when it got dark outside they talked in the flickering glow. Flora, Wyndham and Chisholm were coming to dinner, but would not arrive yet, and Marston lounged contentedly in a big easy chair.

"I don't know if I'm tired or lazy," he remarked. "Anyhow, it's very nice to sit by the fire with you."

"When you're lazy?" said Mabel, with a smile.

"Always," Marston declared. "However, you get a particular satisfaction from loafing after you have had a good day."

"On board the yacht? I'm not jealous, Bob, but you haven't been to the office much."

"That is so," Marston admitted. "I was rather keen about the business; in fact, I'm keen yet. I like to know how things are going, even if I can't help; but the boat's a temptation and Harry doesn't need me all the time."

"Do you know how things are going?"

"For the most part," Marston replied, with a touch of embarrassment, because he sometimes felt he did not know as much as he would like. "I don't bother about small particulars."

"Has Harry stated he did not need you? Or did you imagine this, and make it an excuse for a holiday?"

Marston pondered for a moment or two. He did not altogether approve Mabel's line, perhaps because it excited doubts he had tried to banish.

"Harry knows I like pottering about the boat," he said. "He has hinted that I needn't stick to business quite so close now he's in control. After all, there's hardly enough work for two partners."

Mabel let this go. She knew Bob and thought he was rather trying to justify Wyndham than to find an excuse for his own laziness. It looked as if he suspected his partner was willing to get rid of him now and then. Moreover, Bob was not lazy.

"Harry's occupied pretty closely, is he not?" she said. "I have thought he looks tired."

"That is so," agreed Marston, who had recently noted a hint of strain about his comrade. Wyndham was sometimes impatient; his gay carelessness had gone. "After all, managing a business like ours is not an easy job," he resumed. "Things, however, are going well and I imagine I made a sound investment. In fact, we're getting rich."

A car rolled up the drive and Mabel rang for lights. Flora, Wyndham, and Chisholm came in and soon afterwards dinner was served. Mrs. Hilliard did not come down and Mabel, sitting at the top of the table, studied her guests. Flora looked charming; she had since her marriage got a touch of dignity. Mabel thought she was happy, but now and then she gave her husband a quick glance. Wyndham was thin, and although he talked and laughed, when he was quiet the jaded look Mabel had remarked was plain. She knew Bob's mind and his puzzled uneasiness about his partner that he would not own. Chisholm, she thought, was altogether satisfied, and the grounds for his satisfaction were obvious. Wyndhams' was prospering, and his consent to his daughter's marriage was justified. Still, Chisholm did not see very far.

When they got up Mabel gave them coffee by the fire in the hall and told the men to smoke. Chisholm, feeling for his tobacco, pulled a piece of newspaper from his pocket.

"Have you read the news to-day?" he asked Wyndham.

"I have not," Wyndham replied. "One may be able to study newspapers at the office of a navigation board, but my job is not a sinecure. Besides, Bob deserted me, and I'd hardly time for lunch."

"Then, I've something that may interest you. I cut the thing out, in case you missed it. It's headed, 'A tragic story of tropical adventure.'"

Wyndham looked up, rather sharply, and held out his hand for the cutting, but Marston said to Chisholm, "Suppose you read it. Then we'll all hear."

"Very well," said Chisholm, who polished his spectacles and began:

"'Some time since, a small exploring expedition started inland from the Salinas coast of the Caribbean.'" He stopped and asked: "Isn't that the country you are exploiting?"

"Yes," said Wyndham, with some dryness. "It's not a healthy country for white explorers, unless they're acclimatized. But go on."

"'The party consisted of a commercial botanist, a student of tropical diseases, a mining expert, and a trader stationed on the coast.'"

"Peters!" said Wyndham, looking at Marston. "No doubt, he persuaded the others; I expected the fellow would try to get on our track."

"That's the name," said Chisholm and resumed:

"'The party engaged a number of half-breed porters and set off, although they had been warned the bush country was disturbed. The belt of swampy forest was penetrated by the Spaniards four hundred years since, but it is, for the most part, little known by white men, and its Mestizo and negro inhabitants dislike strangers.'"

"The newspaper man seems remarkably well informed," Wyndham observed. "I expect he has a correspondent in the neighborhood."

"'When some time had gone and no news of the explorers reached the coast, the government got alarmed,'" Chisholm went on. "'Señor Larrinaga, the head official for the district, fitted out a rescue expedition and searched the forest. They found one survivor, the trader Peters, exhausted by suffering.'"

"Peters said Ramon Larrinaga was getting an important man," Marston interposed. "Sorry, sir! please don't stop."

"'Peters' story was tragic. The porters had got uneasy soon after the start, but their employers forced them to go on, until one night, when the party stopped at an empty village, they vanished. In the morning, Peters left his companions, with the object of overtaking the porters, but lost their track, and returning in two or three days, found the others dead. They were in a native hut and he saw no indication that violence had been used. Since the party carried their own provisions, it did not look as if they had been poisoned. Señor Larrinaga had some trouble to reach the village. The half-breeds and negroes in the forest belt are turbulent and rebellious and the rescue party was small. He, however, pushed on and when he arrived found the hut had been burned and nobody about. Two of the explorers had previously undertaken the development of rubber and mining concessions for merchants of this city, by whom their mysterious fate is much regretted.'"

Chisholm put down the cutting and the others were silent for a few moments. Wyndham looked disturbed, but lighted a cigarette, rather deliberately.

"Peters ought not to have taken those fellows into the bush. He knew the risk," he said.

"The others probably knew it, since the paper states they had done such work before," Marston replied.

"I think not. Anyhow, they did not know all the risk. Peters did. It's significant that he escaped."

"You don't imply that he ought not to have escaped?" Chisholm said, with some surprise.

"Certainly not. Still the fellow's cunning and greedy. I expect he got up the expedition, and he gambled with his companions' lives. If he had won, I don't imagine they would have got much of the reward."

Mabel studied Wyndham. It was plain that he did not like Peters and she thought he had some grounds for resenting his attempt to explore the country. Wyndham was a trader and Peters, no doubt, a rival, but she did not think he was altogether moved by commercial jealousy. Somehow the thing went deeper than this. His voice was level, but she saw his calm was forced. Mabel remembered that he had taken some time to light his cigarette.

"The half-breeds seem to be a lot of savage brutes," Chisholm remarked. "What stock do they spring from? The Carib?"

"The African strain is strongest, and pure negroes are numerous. In Central and part of South America, it's hard to fix the origin of the population. About the cities, they've made some progress and a number of their institutions are good. In the swamps I know best, they have gone back to rules of life the slaves brought from Africa long since. If you want to understand them, that's important."

"Do you think the Bat had anything to do with the explorers getting killed?" Marston asked.

"We don't know they were killed, and the Bat's rather a bogey of yours," Wyndham replied. "Anyhow, from one point of view, perhaps his efforts to keep out Peters and his gang were justified. The country belongs to the Bat and his friends; their rules are not ours, but they suit the people who use them, and I expect they know what often happens to a colored race when white men take control. Semi-civilization and industrial servitude, forced on you for others' benefit, are a poor exchange for liberty."