Bindloss Harold
Wyndham's Pal

"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.

"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. He liked 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 out your 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; there was a 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 story gripped 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 pictured Columbine rolling 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 still and 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 was Macbeth, 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 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."

"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."