Wyndham's Pal

"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.

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."