Wyndham's Pal

Marston got uneasy about him, but to some extent sympathized. They could not long enjoy their monopoly, rivals would soon be attracted to the lagoon, and Harry was justified in seizing his chance. He had not thought Harry greedy, but there was much at stake; Chisholm's approval, Harry's business standing, and his marriage to Flora. Marston could understand his comrade's running heavy risks for a girl like that.

Still he was bothered because he did not know all the risks; it was possible that Harry was being driven far by his very natural ambition, but there were lengths to which one ought not to go.

Another thing puzzled Marston. Don Felix had known the negroes and had, moreover, negro blood in his veins, but the trade had not extended until he was dead. It was strange the efforts of a white man and a stranger had led to the sudden extension. Harry had obviously qualities and knowledge that had not marked the other. But what were the qualities, and what did he know? Although Marston sometimes brooded over this, he saw no light.

One evening he sat in the cabin and studied their trading accounts while Wyndham smoked. It was very hot and Marston's face and hands were wet with sweat and his eyes were dazzled. Flies hovered about the light and now and then a beetle struck the mosquito gauze in the skylight. Presently Marston put down his pen and frowned.

"My brain's dull to-night," he said. "I ought to be satisfied with the results of our venture, but there are things I don't see quite plain. For example, we have got a lot of stuff for which we don't seem to have paid."

"You are supercargo," Wyndham rejoined. "The accounts are yours and they're remarkably accurate. All we have got is properly charged against us."

"That is so; I have used your figures. All the same, we haven't handed over much money."

"The business is largely done by barter."

"Of course," said Marston, with a touch of impatience. "We haven't delivered much goods against the account."

"The goods will be delivered. Our customers haven't yet stated the articles they want."

"This means they trust us until we can bring the stuff from England or America? In fact, they're willing to trust us for some time?"

"It looks like that," said Wyndham and laughed. "Are you puzzled about it, Bob? After all, Wyndhams' has long traded here and the house's reputation is obviously pretty good."

"But I understand your agents never got such stuff as we have got."

"They were agents and we are principals; I expect that accounts for something," Wyndham replied with a twinkle. "Besides, Wyndhams' never had a supercargo like you."

Marston frowned and tried to think of some other matters that had excited his curiosity, but could not make the effort, and Wyndham put a bottle and glasses on the table.

"Shut the books and I'll mix a cocktail," he said. "You're working too hard and it's very hot."

They went to bed soon afterwards and when he awoke Marston's head ached and he did not get up. He thought he had a dose of fever and felt strangely annoyed. Somehow he had not expected to get fever; he had thought Harry might get it, and to be kept in his bunk was a complication he had not reckoned on. Although Wyndham dosed him as the medical book directed, the fever did not abate. For some days he tossed about in his narrow bunk with a throbbing head and pain in his limbs, and then lay half-conscious in limp exhaustion. He had strange dreams and long remembered ones; indeed, he sometimes doubted if it were all a dream.

He imagined he was back at the factory on the African river and Wyndham's uncle, the man who vanished, was in the big mildewed room. Marston saw him come out of his door and stand for a moment listening, with his face touched by the moonlight; and then run forward and stop by the body on the boards. The dream was horribly vivid and real, but the big room got hazy and melted, as it were, into Columbine's cabin.

Marston saw the lamp, turned low, hang at an angle to the beams, and the charts and cargo books in the net rack. He smelt the mud and heard the ripples splash against the schooner's side. Somebody sat in front of the table and when the man looked up he saw it was Rupert Wyndham. Marston knew him because he had seen his portrait, but his hair had gone white and his skin very dark. In fact, he did not look like a white man. He got up and his face and bent figure melted as the room at the factory had melted, but very slowly got distinct again and Marston thrilled with repulsion and horror. Rupert Wyndham had changed to the old mulatto.

His naked feet made no noise as he crossed the floor and Marston struggled to get up but could not. His lips refused to move when he tried to call for help; the old fellow had fixed his bloodshot eyes on him and he felt powerless. The mulatto stopped by his bunk, holding out a glass, and Marston knew he meant to poison him. He resolved he would not drink, but felt he must. There was something in the fellow's steady look that broke his resistance and for a few moments he fought a horrible battle against a strange conquering force. Then he took the glass and drained it, and the mulatto melted away. He did not vanish. This implied suddenness; he faded out of the cabin by imperceptible degrees.

Marston knew no more and awoke in daylight, haunted by the dream. He was surprised to feel he was not worse; indeed, his head did not ache and although he was very weak the pain in his limbs had gone. His throat was parched and there was a strange taste in his mouth, as if he had swallowed the draught he dreamed about. Wyndham sat on the locker and got up when he saw Marston was awake.

"You look different. I think you have seen the worst," he said. "I've been bothered about you, Bob."

Marston smiled. He did not want to talk and the relief he saw in his comrade's face was soothing. He went to sleep again and it was dark when he awoke. He did not dream that night and in a few days got, rather shakily, out of his bunk. Wyndham put some cushions for him on the locker and they began to talk.

"The boat's full to the hatches and we go to sea to-morrow," Wyndham said. "If the wind keeps fair, I expect to put you on board the Spanish liner for the Canaries in three or four days. You'll transfer to a homeward Cape boat when you arrive."

"But I don't want to go home yet," Marston objected.

"You are going all the same," Wyndham declared. "You have been very ill and a sick man hasn't much chance in this miasmatic air. There's no use in arguing; you have got to go."

Marston grumbled, but they sailed with the next high tide, and when they made the port where the Spanish steamer lay he let Wyndham help him on board.

PART II

WYNDHAM CLAIMS HIS REWARD

CHAPTER I

MABEL PONDERS

It was four o'clock in the afternoon and Marston sat by a window in an English country house. His pose was limp and his face was thin, for the fever had shaken him, but he felt his strength coming back. Outside, bare trees shook their branches in a fresh west wind, and a white belt of surf crept across the shining sands in the broad estuary. On the other side, the Welsh hills rose against the sunset in a smooth black line.

Marston felt pleasantly languid and altogether satisfied. Mabel had put a cushion under his head and given him a footstool. It was soothing to be taken care of by one whom one loved, and after the glare of the Caribbean and the gloom of the swamps, the soft colors and changing lights of the English landscape rested his eyes. For all that, they did not wander long from Mabel, who sat close by, quietly pondering. With her yellow hair and delicate pink skin she looked very English, and all that was English had an extra charm for Marston. He liked her thoughtful calm. Mabel was normal; she, so to speak, walked in the light, and the extravagant imaginings he had indulged at the lagoon vanished when she was about.

Yet he had been forced to remember much, for Chisholm and Flora had come to hear his story, and he had felt he must make them understand in order to do his comrade justice. Flora's grateful glance and the sparkle in Chisholm's eyes hinted that he had not altogether failed.

"It's a moving tale; I felt I was young again," Chisholm remarked when Marston stopped. "A daring voyage for a craft as old as Columbine and Harry obviously handled her well. Some folks declare we're decadent, but my notion is, a race that loves the sea can't lose its vigor, and the spirit that sent out the old adventurers is living yet. Well, I wish I had been with you!" He paused with an apologetic smile and turned to Flora. "It's plain that Harry has qualities."

"He has a good partner," Flora replied and gave Marston a friendly nod. "I mean that, Bob."

"The persistence of the family type is a curious thing," Chisholm resumed. "In old times, Wyndhams' sent out slavers and privateers, and although Harry's modern, he's taking the path his ancestors trod. Well, in a sense, he's lucky, because he can make seafaring pay. The rest of us must indulge it tamely on board a yacht and, however you economize, yachting costs you much."

"Harry has a talent for making his occupations pay," Marston agreed and noted that Flora knitted her brows.

"You are romantic, father," she said. "I don't think Harry is taking his ancestors' path. They were hard and reckless men and traded in flesh and blood. You trade in rubber and dyewoods, don't you, Bob?"

"For the most part. However, we get a bit of everything; ambergris, pearls, and curious drugs."

"I like pearls," Flora remarked, but stopped rather abruptly and Mabel gave Marston a quick glance. He thought he saw what she meant; he must not talk about pearls just then.

After a time Flora said they must go, and went out with Mabel, but Chisholm stopped by Marston's chair.

"It looks as if you were quite satisfied about this venture of Wyndham's, Bob," he said.

"Why, yes," Marston replied. "I've backed my approval by investing a good sum."

Chisholm was quiet for a moment or two, and then resumed: "That is not altogether what I meant; in fact, it's hard to state frankly what I do mean. I like Harry Wyndham. He's clever, resolute, and a good sportsman, but when he wanted to marry Flora I hesitated. Well, your story has given me some comfort. You have been with Wyndham and are satisfied. One can trust you."

"You are very kind, sir," Marston answered with a touch of awkwardness. "The business is risky, the climate's bad, and one must use some control. Leave liquor alone, for example; I think you understand! Still Harry's rather a Spartan; there's an ascetic vein in him. Besides, he won't stay long. As soon as he has put things straight he's coming back."

"Thank you," said Chisholm, but when he went off Marston felt embarrassed.

Chisholm trusted him and he was not sure he had been altogether frank. Wyndham, of course, was free from certain gross temptations to which some white men in the tropics were victims; but there were others, subtle and insidious, that rather appealed to the brain than the body. Marston could not declare that Harry resisted these. Yet it was impossible he should tell Chisholm his vague but disturbing doubts. It was some relief when Mabel returned and sat down opposite.

"Have they tired you, Bob?" she asked. "Light a cigarette and don't talk unless you want."

"I want to talk," said Marston, who used no reserve with her.