Wyndham's Pal

"Very well. To begin with, you saw my hint when Flora talked about the pearls."

Marston laughed. "After all, I'm not so dull as some people think. You didn't want Flora to know I had brought you pearls?"

"Something like that. Why did Harry send her none?"

"It's rather puzzling," Marston replied thoughtfully. "I suggested I should take a few to Flora, but he said they were not good enough. They're not really first-class pearls, you know. Then he said they might be unlucky. The strange thing is, I think he meant it."

"Yet you brought some for me? You're honest, but you don't always use much tact, dear Bob!"

"Oh, well. We're not superstitious and I'd no grounds for thinking the pearls would bring bad luck."

"It looks as if your partner had some grounds."

"Yes," said Marston. "I don't understand the thing. For that matter, I was puzzled about other things now and then, and although I wanted to get back to you I felt shabby about coming home. Somehow I had a notion I ought to stay. After all, you let me go and would like me to finish my job."

"You're rather a dear and very staunch," Mabel remarked with a gentle smile. "Anyhow, you were ill and had done enough."

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.