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. Heliked 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 outyour 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; therewasa 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 storygripped 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 picturedColumbinerolling 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 stilland 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 wasMacbeth, 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 hewas 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.
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 threelooked 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 thechurch. 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 weare 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 longbeen 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 darkcallewith 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, theguardias ruralesthe cleared land, but the Bat and the devil rule the bush. I know half-civilizedMestizoswho 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.
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 letRed 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 asternRed Roserode 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 asColumbine'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 outRed 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 itsMestizoand 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 theexplorers 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 statesthey 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'srather 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."
"You mean their leaders know?" said Mabel. "They would lose their power when the white men came?"
Wyndham said nothing for a moment and Marston imagined he was getting impatient. Then Flora gave him a puzzled glance and he smiled.
"Did the fellow you thought the Bat look very powerful, Bob?" he asked.
"In a way, he did not," said Marston. "He was a dirty, ragged old impostor—and yet I don't know. Perhaps it was his grin, but you got a hint that he was a bigger man than he looked. There was something about him——"
"Something Mephistophelian?" Wyndham suggested with a twinkle.
"But Mephistopheles was rather a gentleman," Flora remarked.
"That's it! You have given me the clew I was feeling for," said Marston. "You felt the old fellow might have been a gentleman long since and had degenerated. Now I come to think of it, his confounded grin was ironical; as if he knew your point of view and laughed at it. In fact, I imagine he laughed at himself; at his claim to be a magician andthe tricks he used. A cynical brute, perhaps, but he was not a fool."
"Aren't you getting romantic, Bob?" Flora asked.
Marston said nothing. He had seen Wyndham's frown and imagined he had had enough. For a few moments Mabel studied both. She saw Bob wanted to talk about something else, but she did not mean to help him yet. His portrait of the old mulatto had given her ground for thought. For one thing, it had disturbed Wyndham, and she wondered why. She was not deceived when Wyndham laughed.
"As a rule, Bob is not romantic, but he was ill before he left the lagoon and fever excites one's imagination. We'll let it go. Did you shift the ballast they stowed forward ofRed Rose's mast, Bob?"
"I did. We moved half a ton of iron and she trims much better with it aft," Marston replied.
Then they talked about the yacht until Mabel got up and took them to the drawing-room. She was curious, but in the meantime did not think her curiosity would be satisfied. Bob knew no more than he had told and it was plain that Wyndham meant to use reserve.
There was no wind, the sun was hot, and the reflection ofRed Rose's mast and rigging trembled on the shining sea. She rode at anchor in a quiet bay, near the woods that rolled down to the smooth white boulders. Dark firs checkered the fresh green of the beeches and the bronzy yellow of the new oak leaves. The tide flowed smoothly past the yacht, and across the strait a lonely cloud threw a soft blue shadow on the scarred face of a lofty crag. Now and then the echoes of a blasting shot rolled among the hills. Flora sat in the yacht's cockpit. She wore a pale yellow dress that harmonized with her brown eyes and hair. Wyndham lay on the counter, smoking a cigarette, and when she thought he did not see her Flora gave him a careful glance. After a few days at sea, Harry's face was getting brown and he was losing his jaded look, but he was thin and she did not like the way his mouth was set. He had been working hard for some time, and now he had taken a holiday the strain he had borne did not relax. Flora did not altogether understand this, because things were going well with Wyndhams'.
She looked up the strait. Not far off an old castle stood upon a lawn where a long green point ran out, and the spot had romantic memories for her. She had promised to marry Harry on the lawn, one summer night when the yacht's lanterns twinkled in theroadstead and colored fires burned on the castle walls. Wyndham lifted his head, and smiled when he saw where she was looking.
"It is not very long since, scarcely twelve months, but much has happened in the meantime," he said.
"How did you know—?" Flora asked and blushed.
"Your thoughts were in your eyes; gentle thoughts. It looks as if you were not disillusioned yet!"
"I'm not," said Flora, firmly. "For all that, I don't know if I like you when you're cynical."
"It's a relapse, or perhaps a reaction. Living up to your standard is a bit of a strain now and then."
"Would you sooner I lowered the standard?"
"Not at all," said Wyndham, with a twinkle. "Keep it as high as you can for yourself, so long as you are willing to make some allowances for me."
"That's a man's point of view," Flora remarked. "However, on the whole, you're very good. I really don't get many jars."
She studied him and mused. Harry was all, or very nearly all, she had thought, and she was happy. Sometimes, perhaps, she wished he would give her a little more of his confidence, about the office for example. The control of the extending business was not easy; she saw he had cares he did not talk about. He was a handsome man and she approved the fastidious neatness of his white yachting clothes, but he looked fine-drawn. Flora rather liked this half-ascetic look; Harry had no gross passions to draw him away from her, although she sometimes feared she had a rival in his ambition. He was ambitious and did not tell her much about his plans.
She looked about. Near the point, a little varnished boat shone in the strong light. Bob had taken Mabel for a row in the dinghy.
"I'm sorry for them," she remarked.
"Sorry for whom?" said Wyndham, and turned his head. "Oh, yes; it's hard for Bob! Mabel, no doubt, gets some satisfaction from feeling she's doing what she ought. I, myself, don't know if she ought or not, but this doesn't matter so long as Bob's persuaded. Well, I suppose she's worth waiting for and Bob is patient."
"You are not patient," Flora rejoined. "You refused to wait."
Wyndham gave her a twinkling smile. "No; I hadn't Bob's advantages. I seized my chance, and made a plunge. So, I think, did you!"
"After all, I wasn't very rash. I knew you better than my friends; but I'll own to feeling proud because they're all satisfied. You were not very long persuading them."
"It cost me something," said Wyndham quietly. "However, we'll let it go. I mean to have a lazy day and brace up for our climbing trip in the morning. I sent a message that we would need a car."
Flora nodded and glanced at a peak that rose behind the hills across the sparkling strait. She was a mountaineer and sometimes wondered whether she liked best the high rocks or the sea. Then she turned and noted a long plume of smoke that rolled across the woods.
"The early boat from town," she said.
A steamer swung round the point and headed for the yacht, piling the oily water in a wave at her bows.The thud of her paddles nearly drowned the music of the band on board, and confused echoes rang among the trees. A group of passengers forward sang lustily and a row leaned against the rail.
"She'll pass pretty close," said Wyndham. "I wonder whether anybody we know is on board."
Flora picked up the glasses and Wyndham, resting on his elbow, turned his head. The steamer drove on, a feather of foam shooting up her stem, and Wyndham languidly studied the faces of the passengers. Then, when she was level with the yacht, he moved abruptly, for a short, thin man with a yellow face sat on a bench, looking atRed Rose.
"Do you see somebody? Shall I give you the glasses?" Flora asked.
"No," said Wyndham, sharply. "Hold fast! Look out for her wash!"
Flora seized the coaming and the white wave from the steamer's paddles lifted the yacht.Red Roseplunged violently and when she steadied, the passenger boat was slowing near the pier. Flora put down the glasses and turned to Wyndham. She had seen the little man on the bench and imagined Harry was studying him. The fellow looked like a foreigner and she did not like his face. Yet it was strange his being on board the steamer had annoyed Harry. She thought it had annoyed him, although the need to warn her about the wash perhaps accounted for the sharpness of his voice.
"I saw all I wanted," Wyndham resumed, with a touch of grimness. "I thought you might drop the glasses when the wave struck us. If I wasn't lazy, I'd send a complaint to the office about their drivingtheir boats full speed across a yacht anchorage. Has the splash hurt your dress?"
Flora looked down and shook the sparkling drops from the thin material.
"This stuff won't spoil. A dress that will spoil is no use for yachting; I've been to sea before."
Soon afterwards the others returned. They had promised to lunch with Chisholm at the hotel where Flora and Mabel had a room, but by and by Wyndham remarked:
"I feel rather dull and think I won't go ashore. Perhaps you had better stay, Bob, and we'll fit the new rigging screws. The others look as if the hooks might draw in a hard breeze."
"Stay if you like," said Flora. "You have come for a holiday. Are you sure you feel equal to our climb in the morning?"
Wyndham hesitated. "I'd hate to disappoint you, but I am lazy. I found the scramble up the big gully hard enough the last time I went along the ridge, and I hadn't been to Africa then. After close work in an office, three thousand feet and some awkward rock climbing is a stiff pull."
Flora looked at the others. Harry was tired and rather slack, and she wanted to indulge him. It was something of a relief when Marston played up.
"We came for a cruise, not to climb hills," he said. "Let's stop and go fishing in the dinghy."
"There aren't many fish and digging bait's a bother," Wyndham replied. "I've a better plan. The wind will turn east at sunset and there is a moon. Suppose we run down the coast to Carmeltown and see the Irish boats finish their cross-channel race?"
The others agreed and in the eveningRed Roseleft the anchorage. It was getting dark when they hoisted sail, but Marston, who occupied with the halyards, thought he heard a distant shout. Looking round, he saw a dinghy near the point.
"Is that somebody hailing us?" he asked.
"I don't think so," said Wyndham. "There are other boats about. But be careful; you've got the topsail yard foul of the lift."
Marston pulled the yard clear, and dropping down the channel through the sands, they stole out to sea. A light east wind blew behind them, the water sparkled as the moon rose, and shadowy woods and dark hills opened out and faded on their port side. The night was warm, the sea ran in long undulations, wrinkled by the breeze. In the distance one heard surf break upon the reefs, and now and then a steamer with throbbing engines went by. Wyndham lounged at the tiller, Marston and Mabel sat under the booby hatch and talked quietly, while Flora, in the cockpit sang a song.Red Rose, lurching gently with all sail set, headed for the west.
"Harry's plan is good," Flora remarked when she finished her song. "There are two grand things, the sea and the mountains; but, on a night like this, I like the sea best."
"Then you ought to be happy and I hope you are," rejoined Mabel. "The trouble about dividing your affection between two objects is, when you get one you feel you want the other."
"That is so now and then," Flora agreed. "When you can't have both, you are forced to choose and choosing's generally hard."
"You let Harry choose for you. Perhaps it's a good plan, but I don't know if I'll use it much with Bob."
Flora laughed and thought Mabel's remark was justified. It looked as if Harry had meant to leave the strait, although he had said nothing about this until the passenger boat arrived. Anyhow, it did not matter. She was glad to indulge him and it was a splendid night for a sail. Flora was happy and began to sing again.
The wind freshened as they crossed a rock-fringed bay where a famous emigrant ship went down. Sparkling ripples flecked the swell, which presently began to roll in short angry waves. The rigging hummed, a foaming wake ran astern, and a white ridge stood up aboutRed Rose's bows. After a time, Marston and the paid hand set a smaller jib and hauled down the topsail, and when they had finished Bob stood on deck looking about. The sea ahead was white andRed Roserolled hard when the rising combers picked her up. Astern, the dinghy sheered about and lifted half her length out of the water when she felt the strain on the rope. Once or twice she surged forward on a wave, as if she were going to leap on board. Marston had seen enough and jumped into the cockpit.
"It's freshening up," he said. "The tide will be running strong round Carmel when we get there and the sea breaks awkwardly in the race. If you're going on, we'll heave down a reef and pull the dinghy on deck."
Wyndham looked at his watch. "I don't know if I'm going on or not. The flood's running now andthere are two nasty races before we reach Carmel. Suppose we make for Porth Gwynedd? I don't see much use in getting wet."
"The Porth's an awkward harbor to enter in the dark," Marston remarked thoughtfully.
"I know the way," said Wyndham. "Mrs. Evans will give the girls a room; we have got her up late at night before. Ask them what they think?"
Flora and Mabel agreed, Wyndham changed his course, and the dark hills they were following got nearer. By and by Marston hauled down the staysail and stood on the deck forward, studying the forbidding coast Wyndham steered for.
A narrow strip of gloom, piercing the hills, indicated a valley, and at its end a dim red light blinked. One could see no entrance. Shadowy rocks dropped to the water, and a line of foam marked the course of the tide across a reef. A white belt of surf glimmered without a break at the foot of the cliffs.
Wyndham, however, did not hesitate and Flora glanced at him with quiet confidence. The moonlight touched his face and she liked his calm. One could trust Harry when there was a strain; she was proud of his pluck and steady nerve. Besides, he looked strangely handsome and virile as he controlled the plunging yacht.
When the white turmoil on the reef was close ahead she saw a break in the rocks. The gap was dark and very narrow; spouting foam played about its mouth. Wyndham signed to the fisher lad at the mainsheet, blocks rattled, andRed Rose, swerving, listed over until her lee deck was in the foam. Showers of spray blew across her, she was sailing very fast, and Floraknew she would soon be broken on the rocks if Wyndham missed the harbor mouth.
They drove past the reef, the long boom lurched across, andRed Roserolled violently. Dark rocks towered above her mast and the sails thrashed and filled in the conflicting gusts, but the water got smooth and the harbor opened up. Presently Marston jumped to the foot of the mast and the peak of the mainsail swung down.
"Starboard!" he shouted. "Look out for the perch!"
Flora looked under the sail and saw a tall post with iron stays running from it into the water. She wondered whether the flapping canvas hid it from Wyndham, because he was slow to move the helm.
"Starboard it is," he answered after a moment or two, leaning hard on the tiller as he pushed it across.
There was a heavy shock, something cracked and broke, and a thick iron bar ground against the yacht's side. She slowed but did not stop and when she forged ahead again Marston leaped forward.
"Bobstay's gone and bowsprit's broken at the cap!" he shouted.
"Down sail! Ready with the anchor," said Wyndham quietly.
Marston dropped the anchor under the bows, running chain rattled, andRed Rosestopped. They pulled up the half-swamped dinghy and when they had thrown out the water Marston took a rope to a pier. Wyndham went forward and occupied himself with the wreck at the bows until Marston returned.
"We'll need a new bowsprit and she's drawn the stay-bolt on the stem," he said. "I think that's all,but it will keep us here two or three days. Perhaps you had better see if you can wake Mrs. Evans before we land the girls."
Marston pulled up the harbor and returning after a time said Mrs. Evans was getting a room ready. Flora and Mabel got on board the dinghy and when Marston rowed them to the steps Mabel remarked: "I suppose Harry couldn't see the perch?"
"He could hear me shout," said Marston. "I made noise enough. If he'd shoved his helm over, instead of looking for the perch, we'd have gone past. I don't quite understand it, because Harry's not often slow. However, a new bowsprit doesn't cost much; the only trouble is, we'll have to stay while somebody makes it."
Flora said nothing, although she was somewhat puzzled. On the whole, she imagined Harry had not looked for the perch; the sail was in his way. He was slow to move the helm and she thought this strange. All the same, it was not important, and she talked to Mabel about the Welsh landlady as they went to the inn.