"A ghastly day!" said Marston, but Wyndham signed to Ellams.
"You haven't told it all. Go on."
"I'm an old servant and you're the head of the house," Ellams replied meaningly. "Well, I think that day left a mark on Rupert Wyndham. When I arrived he was moody and often brooded, but it looked as if he had a talent for managing the bushmen. They seemed to understand him and the business was growing fast. He began to go up river, although I imagine no other trader had reached the native market then. It was good for business; our oil was first quality and we got stuff, skins and sometimes ivory, Millers' and the Association couldn't buy. Besides, there were bits of pottery, brass, and silver work, the Fulah brought across the desert. Wyndham said the patterns were Sarascenic and the stuff was hundreds of years old. The house knew where to sell the goods at home. Once or twice we got Aggri beads."
"I didn't know about that," Wyndham remarked and turned to Marston. "In Africa, Aggri beads are worth almost any price you like to ask. We can't imitate them and don't know how they are made. It's very rare for a negro headman to let an Aggri go."
Ellams made a sign of agreement, and gave Wyndham an apologetic glance. "You see what this implies?"
"I think I see. My uncle was getting native habits; he was getting an influence – "
"He stopped away from the factory longer. Men with tattoo marks I didn't know came down and talked to him, and sometimes brought no trade. I thought he ran risks and warned him, but he laughed. It went on, and we were getting rich when the change began. Our trade did not fall off much, but one felt a difference – "
Ellams paused, and looked thoughtful when he resumed: "I can't altogether make things plain; there was a feeling of insecurity, and Wyndham's moodiness got worse. He did not go away so much, and locked his room door at night. I think he did not sleep and took some draught; not drugs white men use, but stuff the negroes make. When he did sleep, he was strangely hard to rouse. He was cool and as nearly fearless as any man I knew, but he began to look haggard and start at unexpected sounds. One morning I could not wake him and went round to the veranda window. Wyndham was fast asleep and a gun lay across his bed. He was a good shot with a pistol, but this was a heavy duck-gun that threw an ounce and a quarter of shot. Well, I was getting nervy, and the factory boys would not stop – it looked as if they knew something was wrong. I began to wonder how long Wyndham could keep it up."
The others were quiet when Ellams reached for the cocktail jug and finding it empty filled his pipe. Marston had spent some weeks on the African coast and sympathized with the agent. When one had seen the country and breathed the foul miasma that saps the white man's strength, one could understand the strain Ellams talked about. It was a daunting country and the gloom of its steamy forests was the shadow of death.
"After all," said Ellams, "there was no theatrical climax. One day a launch brought us a cablegram. Wyndham was wanted at home, the ebb tide was running and a mailboat was due to call at Takana lagoon. In an hour Columbine dropped down stream and my notion is it was a relief to Wyndham the cablegram arrived. If it had not arrived, he would have stayed. He was that kind of man."
"Had you trouble afterwards?" Marston asked.
"I had not. It was as if a shadow had melted. The strain had gone."
"Then it looks as if my uncle, alone, were threatened." Wyndham remarked.
Ellams nodded. "Yes. I think it was, so to speak, a personal thing. For all that, our trade got slack and has not since touched the mark it reached in your uncle's time. Well, I think that's all, and perhaps I have talked too much."
"If you'll mix another cocktail, we'll go to bed," Wyndham replied and when, a few minutes afterwards, he went to his room stopped at the door.
"This is where Rupert Wyndham slept with the gun beside him, I suppose?" he said. "I wonder what he dreamed about!"
For some time Marston did not sleep. As a rule, he did not indulge his imagination, but he had been disturbed by the agent's tale and there were strange noises. Some he thought were made by cracking boards and falling damp; others puzzled him and he found them daunting in the dark. They were like footsteps, as if somebody stole about the rooms. Marston had had enough of Africa and yet he owned the country had a mysterious charm. White men stayed, knowing the risk they ran and without much hope of money reward, until they died of fever or their minds got deranged. The latter happened now and then. In order to keep sane, one must concentrate on one's business and refuse to speculate about the secret life of the bush. After all, there was much to speculate about —
Marston pulled himself up. He was a sober white man and had nothing to do with the negro's fantastic superstitions. Magic and witchcraft were ridiculous, but in a country where they were a ruling force it was not easy to laugh. He thought Rupert Wyndham had made rash experiments and had dared too much, and although this was perhaps not important, Harry had his uncle's temperament. The trouble was there. Still they would leave the river soon and it would be a relief to go to sea. The sea was clean and bracing.
Three or four days afterwards Columbine dropped down stream on the ebb. A big naked Krooboy held the wheel, another in the fore-channels swung the lead and called the depth in a musical voice. The white factory got indistinct and melted into the swamps, the puffs of wind were fresher, and Marston was conscious of a keen satisfaction as the dreary mangroves slipped astern and yellow sand and lines of foam came into view ahead.
Wyndham, smoking a cigarette, leaned against the rail. He wore white duck without a crease and a big pale-gray hat. Marston thought he looked very English, with his keen blue eyes, light hair, and red skin, but his gaze was contemplative.
"You're not sorry to get away?" he presently remarked. "I wonder whether Rupert Wyndham was."
"I wonder why he stayed," said Marston. "Unless, of course, he was earning money."
"A plausible explanation, but I'm not sure it's good," Wyndham replied with a smile. "The head of our house was often extravagant but never, I think, a miser. We're not a greedy lot."
"You were traders; the object of trading is to get rich."
"I doubt if this was my uncle's, or some of my other ancestors' object, I think they valued money for what it would buy. Anyhow, they seldom kept it long."
"Since most of us value money for what it will buy, I don't understand," Marston rejoined.
"You bought a country house, a sober sportsman's life, and the liking of honest friends. Well, your investments were sound, but there are men of other temperaments they mightn't satisfy. I don't think they would have satisfied Rupert Wyndham."
"Then what did he expect to get in the swamps?"
"I don't know," said Wyndham, with a curious smile. "Perhaps strange experiences; perhaps knowledge and power. I imagine he knew he must buy them and was willing to pay."
"Power over tattooed bushmen!" Marston exclaimed. "What could they teach him?"
"Things we have begun to experiment with and their Ju-Ju men knew long since. The white man who knows the meaning of their tattoo marks has gone some distance; they're not all tribal signs. However, I don't know what Rupert Wyndham learned and it looks as if I shall not find out. Our object's very matter of fact; to earn as much money as possible."
"That is so. I mean to stick to it," said Marston firmly.
Wyndham laughed. "I expect you mean to see I take your line! Well, it's a good line. But we're getting near the bar. Suppose you fetch the chart?"
CHAPTER V
THE TORNADO
The night was hot and nearly calm, and Marston, sitting on the cabin skylight, languidly looked about. A Krooboy held the wheel, and his dark figure cut against the phosphorescent sea. Columbine's