Marston said the goods could wait at the village until the owner claimed payment. "We promised Don Felix we would not take this cargo," he added.
"You mean, I promised?" Wyndham rejoined. "My promise applied to the particular lot he grumbled about. Anyhow, I want the goods. We can sell them for a high price."
Marston admitted that the argument was plausible, although he doubted if it were ethically sound. Still he must not be fastidiously critical about his friend. He was rich and free from one kind of temptation; Harry was poor. Wyndham noted his hesitation and resumed:
"Our voyage is not a yachting excursion. We are frankly out for what we can earn, and I'm, so to speak, now on trial. I'm young and the head of a house that people knew was tottering when I took control. Chisholm and Flora's relations have reserved their judgment; they're willing to give me a fair chance, but wait to see what I can do. Well, you know my drawbacks and how much depends on my making good. In order to do so, I'll run all risks."
Marston thought there was a risk Wyndham did not see. Flora Chisholm was honest and proud. Her lover's success would not satisfy her if she disapproved the means he used. This, however, was an awkward subject and Marston owned that to imagine Harry would give her grounds for disapproving was taking much for granted. He let the matter go and began to talk about something else.
For all that, when Wyndham left him he lighted a fresh cigarette and mused. Harry was his friend, but he began to see he had got a habit of making allowances for him that he might not have made for others. Harry had a strange charm and individuality; somehow one could not judge him by conventional rules. Then Marston remembered that Mabel had let him go in order that he might be Harry's protector, but the dangers he was to be guarded from were not physical. Marston understood this better now and doubted if he were clever enough for the job; Mabel did not mean him to be a hypercritical prig. Anyhow, he had undertaken the job and Mabel, perhaps rather foolishly, trusted him. He threw his cigarette away and went off to superintend the stowage of the cargo.
The moon was getting small and the tides were higher when, one evening, a messenger asked them to come to the village. They went up river in the mist, and Marston felt languid and dejected. The day had been very hot and it was not much cooler at dark. The stagnant air was hard to breathe, there was something daunting in the silence, and the splash of paddles sounded harshly loud. When they landed they found Don Felix alone in his house except for a half-breed woman and Father Sebastian. He lay in a fiber hammock and Marston saw he was very ill. His black eyes were half shut, his face was a livid color and wet with clammy sweat.
The room was brightly lighted and the half-breed woman sat on the ground in a limp, huddled pose, with a black shawl hiding her shoulders and head. She did not move when the others came in, but Don Felix's glance hinted at relief, and Father Sebastian indicated two American bent-wood chairs that looked strangely out of harmony with the mud walls and floor.
"If we had known you were ill, we would have brought our medicine chest," Marston said. "What is the matter?"
"Who knows?" said Don Felix, dully, and Marston imagined the Castilian rejoinder meant his question admitted of no reply. "I will not live until the morning, but I have lived longer than I sometimes thought. It does not matter now the good father and my friends have come. I am no more afraid."