Chapter 25

"In payment for my poor friendship he has given me this magnificent thing of gold and jewels, the finest I ever saw. I never counted upon such gratitude. It is too much, and yet a man cannot refuse the gift of his friend and not seem ungracious, can he? Somewhere in the Orient they have a custom of exchanging gifts. No man may accept a thing of value without making adequate return, and it has always struck me as a wise practice." He turned full upon Kirk for the first time since he had begun speaking, and his voice rose a tone as he said: "I can't let the obligation rest entirely upon me. We have been friends, Anthony, and I am going to give you something in return which I have prized highly; it would be counted of great value by some." Once more he paused and drew his lips back in that grimace of mockery--it could no longer be termed a smile. "It is this--I am going to give you--my wife. You have had her from the first, and now she is yours." For one frightful moment there was no sound; even the men's breathing was hushed, and they sat slack-jawed, stunned, half-minded to believe this some hideous, incredible jest. But the maniacal light in Cortlandt's eyes, and Anthony's chalk-white, frozen countenance soon showed them the truth. Some one gasped, another laughed hysterically, the sound breaking in his throat. Cortlandt turned away gloatingly.

Kirk was the last to recover his powers, but when they did revive they came with a prodigious rush. He plunged upward out of his chair with a cry like a wounded animal, and the others rose with him. The table rocked, something smashed, a chair was hurled backward. The room broke into instant turmoil. Kirk felt hands upon him, and then went blind with fury, struggling in a passion too strong for coherent speech. He was engulfed in chaos. He felt things break beneath his touch, felt bodies give way before him.

How or when Cortlandt left the room he never knew. Eventually he found himself pinned in his chair, with Runnels' white face close against his own and other hands upon his arms. His first frenzy quickly gave way to a sickening horror. Some one was commanding him to be still, to create no scene; but those were not words, they were simply mutterings that conveyed no meaning.

"It's a lie! The man's crazy!" he cried, hoarsely; then, as his companions drew away from him, he rose to his feet. "Why are you looking at me like that? I tell you it's a damned lie! I never--"

Runnels turned to the table, and with shaking hand put a glass to his lips and gulped its contents. Wade and Kimble exchanged glances, then, avoiding each other's eyes, took their hats from the hooks behind them.

"Wait! Bring him back!" Kirk mumbled. "I'll get him and make him say it's a lie." But still no one answered, no one looked at him. "God! You don't believe it?"

"I'm going home, fellows. I'm kind of sick," Kimble said. One of the others murmured unintelligibly, and, wetting a napkin, bound up his hand, which was bleeding. They continued to watch Kirk as if fearful of some insane action, yet they refused to meet his eyes squarely. There was no sympathy in their faces.

The knowledge of what these actions meant came to him slowly. Was it possible that his friends believed this incredible accusation? The thought made him furious, too agitated as yet to realize that such a charge made under such circumstances could not well prove less than convincing. As he began to collect himself he saw his plight more clearly. His first thought had been that Cortlandt was insane, but the man's actions were not those of a maniac. No! He actually believed and--and these fellows believed also. No doubt they would continue to think him guilty in spite of all that he could do or say; for after this shocking denunciation it would take more than mere words to prove that he had not betrayed his friend and benefactor. It was incredible, unbearable! He wanted to shout his innocence at them, to beat it into their heads; but the more he expostulated the more distant they became.

One by one they took their hats and went out, mumbling good-night to one another, as if intending to go home singly in order to avoid all discussion of this thing that had fallen among them Runnels alone remained.

"YOU don't believe I did--that?" Anthony asked, in a strained voice.

"I--I think I do." There was a miserable silence, and then: "It isn't the thing itself, you know, so much as the rotten--underhanded advantage you took. If he'd been a stranger, now--Honestly, isn't it true?"

Kirk shook his head, listlessly. "I wouldn't lie to you."

Runnels drew a deep breath.. "Oh, come, now, the man MUST have known what he was saying. Do you realize what it means--if--well, if he were mistaken? It would be bad enough if he were not, but this would be ten times worse. Don't you see?"

"I don't see much of anything yet. I'm stunned."

"Ugh! To make it public that way, he must be made of iron." Runnels shuddered; then, with cold eyes on Kirk, continued: "He must have known, Anthony. Men don't do things like that on suspicion."

"He misunderstood our friendship," said Kirk, heavily, then roused himself for a last plea. "Look here!" he cried. "You know Cortlandt and you know me. The man was insanely jealous! I know it sounds weak, but it's the truth, and it's all I can say. I'll go mad if you doubt me."

Runnels' face showed the pain he felt, but his eyes looked incredulous.

"Another thing," Kirk went on, desperately: "do you suppose that if what you believe were true I could have the inhuman nerve to come here to-night? That would make me a fool or a monster!"

"I don't know," said Runnels.

"You do know. You know ME. If we weren't such friends I wouldn't argue with you like this, but--I can't bear it. And to-night of all--" He broke off sharply. "My God! I'd forgotten that I'm married! Suppose Gertrudis hears of this! If it ever gets to her--I--believe I could kill him."

"Don't talk like that."

"I never really thought I could take a person's life, but if she heard she might believe; everybody else seems to believe. Understand, she hardly knows me. She might--she might--" Anthony seized his temples in despair.

Runnels took a sudden illogical decision. He never knew exactly what had influenced him, but his whole past knowledge of Anthony surged up in him with a force that he could not resist. He found that he could not really believe him capable of this abomination any more than he could believe it of himself. Little of our life is ruled by reason, and it is something else than logic that produces the last feeling of conviction. Here, this something was present where logic was lacking.

He laid his hand on Kirk's shoulder. "Take it easy, old man," he said. "I believe you. I've always known that they didn't get along together, although--well, I won't try to understand it. He may not do anything further, and these fellows won't mention what happened here; they can't."

"You know we're only half married," moaned Kirk, hardly heeding him. "Women are apt to be jealous, aren't they, Runnels? What do you suppose she'd do?"

"Don't worry about that. I'm thinking about Cortlandt. If he finds out he's mistaken, what will HE do?"

"He'll have to find out. I'm going to tell him. His wife will tell him. Good God! Do you see what an awful light it puts me in? You don't doubt me, do you, really, old man?"

"No--but what a night this has been! It seems a year old. Come along, now, you must get out of here. You must turn in."

"Oh, I don't feel as if I'd ever sleep again until this thing is cleared up." His anguish swept over him in a fresh tide. "Those boys think I did that trick to the man who befriended me!"

"Well, don't let's talk about it any more; we can't stay here all night, anyhow. The waiters are wondering what this row is about. I think we'd better take a walk." Runnels dragged his companion out, trying to calm him as best he could.

In passing through the deserted lobby of the hotel, they saw Clifford idling about; but they were too much absorbed to wonder what had kept him up so late. By the clock across the Plaza they saw it was two hours after midnight as they stepped into the street; then, finding no coaches in sight, they set out to walk toward Ancon, both badly in need of the open air.

A moment later Clifford followed them, taking pains to keep at a distance.

Now that the full import of Cortlandt's accusation had sunk into his mind, Kirk lapsed into a mood of sullen bitterness. He said little, but his set face worried his companion, who was loath to bid him goodnight even when they were close to the Tivoli. After they had parted Runnels was upon the point of going back and offering to spend the night with him, but thought better of it. After all, he reflected, his apprehensions were probably quite unfounded. Anthony was too sensible a chap to do anything he might repent of, now that his gust of passion had died down. So he went on homeward wondering vaguely how Cortlandt would dare to meet his wife, or, if he really found himself mistaken, how he could ever summon courage to look his hosts in the face.

Instead of passing through the office, Kirk mounted to the porch of the Tivoli and entered his room from the outside, as he and Chiquita had done earlier that evening. He found Allan waiting, and bursting with a desire to gossip, but cut him short.

"Get my street-clothes, I'm going out." He tore the white tie from his throat as if it were choking him.

"It is too late, sar. You will be h'exposing yourself to a fever in the mist," expostulated the boy; but Kirk would not hear argument.

"Come along if you want to, I can't sleep. I want to walk--walk until I'm tired."

Mystified and frightened at this behavior, Allan obeyed. "Never have I h'observed you so h'angry, boss," he observed. "Is it Ramon Alfarez?" His eyes began to roll in excitement, for the spectacle of his master's agitation never failed to work upon him powerfully.

"No, not Ramon; another. I've been hurt, Allan. I can't explain, for you wouldn't understand, but I've been hurt."

The negro's lips drew apart in an expression of ape-like ferocity, and he began to chatter threats of vengeance, to which Kirk paid little heed. A few moments later they went out quietly, and together took the rock road down toward the city, the one silent and desperate, the other whining like a hound nearing a scent.

XXVII

A QUESTION

Edith Cortlandt did not retire immediately upon her return from the ball. Her anger at Anthony's behavior kept her wakeful, and the night had turned off so dead and humid that sleep was in any case a doubtful possibility. It was the lifeless period between seasons when the trades had died out, or, at best, veered about bafflingly, too faint to offer relief. The cooling rains had not set in as yet, and a great blanket of heat wrapped the city in its smothering folds. The air was still and tainted, like that of a sick-room. Through Mrs. Cortlandt's open windows came hardly a sound; even from the sea below rose only a faint hissing, as if the rocks at the water's edge were superheated. Earlier in the evening the temperature had been bearable, but now it had reached an intensity to strain tired nerves to the snapping-point. It was the sort of night in which ailing children die and strong minds feel the burden of living. No relief was to be had, and the slightest physical effort was a misery.

She was still sitting there at a late hour when she heard the outside door close and Cortlandt's footsteps mounting the stairs. She was glad he had his own room and never entered hers at such an hour, for even to talk with him in her present state of mind and body would have been more than she could bear.

She was unreasonably annoyed, therefore, when he came boldly into her chamber without even knocking, for all the world like a welcome lover. To conceal her irritation, she kept her face turned from him and continued fanning herself listlessly. She was reclining in a wicker chair, lightly clad in a filmy silk negligee, which she mechanically drew closer.

"Rather late for good-nights," she said, coldly.

"I've just come from Anthony's supper-party."

His voice made her look round sharply. She saw that his linen, ordinarily stiff and immaculate, was sodden and crumpled, his collar limp, his forehead glistening with drops of moisture. She could not remember ever having seen him in such a state. His appearance affected her queerly. In him this dishevelment was shocking.

"What ails you, Stephen?" she cried. "Have you been drinking?"

"No. I didn't drink much. I brought you something."

He took the loving-cup from its flannel bag and set it upon the table. "They gave me this."

"It is very pretty, though I don't care for such things."

"And this too." He tossed the watch with its enamelled monogram into her lap.

"Ah! That's very handsome."

"Yes, I thought you'd like it; it's from Anthony." He laughed, then shuddered, as though a cold wind had bitten through his sodden garments.

"Why--you seem excited over these souvenirs. You surely expected--"

He broke in--a thing he rarely did while she was speaking:

"Anthony made a speech when he gave it to me--a very nice speech, full of friendship and love and gratitude." He repeated Kirk's words as he remembered them, "What do you think of that?"

"I think he expressed himself very frankly. But why do you tell me now, when the morning will do just as well? I'm prostrated with this heat."

"He actually acknowledged his debt in public."

Mrs. Cortlandt's eyes widened. This was not the man she knew. At this moment he was actually insistent, almost overbearing, and he was regarding her with that same ironical sneer that had roused her anger earlier in the evening.

"Well, come to the point," she cried, irritably. "I don't understand what you are getting at. If you didn't wish to accept anything from him, why did you go?"

He began to chuckle, apparently without reason. His shoulders shook, feebly at first, then more violently; his flat chest heaved, and he hiccoughed as if from physical weakness. It was alarming, and she rose, staring at him affrightedly. The sight of her increased his mirthless laughter. He continued to shudder and shake in uncontrollable hysteria, but his eyes were bright and watchful.

"Oh, I--I--took it all in--I let him p-put the noose around his own neck and tie the knot. Then I hung him." His convulsive giggling was terrible, forecasting, as it did, his immediate breakdown.

"Stephen!" she exclaimed, in a shocked tone, convinced that his mind was going. "You are ill, you need a doctor. I will call Joceel." She laid her hand on his arm.

But he sniggered: "N-no! No! I'm all right. I t-t-t-t--" A stuttering-fit seized him; then, with an effort of will, he calmed himself. "Don't think I'm crazy. I was never more sane, never cooler, in here." He tapped his head with his finger. "But I'm tired, that's all, tired of waiting."

"Won't you go to your room and let me call a doctor?"

"Not yet. Wait! He told them what I had done for him, how I'd made a man of him when he was broke and friendless, how I'd taken him into my home like one of my family, and then I went him one better. I acknowledged it all and made them hear it from my lips too. Then--" He paused, and she steeled herself to witness another spectacle of his pitiable loss of self-control. But instead he grew icy and corpse-like, with lips drawn back in a grin. "What do you think I said? Can't you guess? I couldn't let him get away with that, could I? I played with him the way you have played with me. Think!"

Her face went suddenly ashen. He stood before her grimly triumphant, enjoying his sense of mastery and deliberately prolonging her suspense.

"Well, I told him before them all that I intended to give him something in return, and I did. I--gave--him--YOU."

She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

He nodded. "I said he'd had you from the first and that now I'd give you to him."

She gave an unintelligible cry, standing now, as if petrified. He went on:

"I knew all the time that I was in the way, but my work is done at last, so I'll step out. But--you both got more than you bargained for, didn't you?"

"God! You didn't tell him that? You didn't say THAT--before those men! Oh-h!" She shrank back, drawing the gauzy silk robe closer about her breast. Her hands were shaking, her hair, which had fallen free when she rose, cascaded about her neck and shoulders. She let her eyes wander about the room as if to assure herself that this was not some hideous nightmare. Then she roused to sudden action. Seizing him by the shoulders she shook him roughly with far more than her natural strength, voicing furious words which neither of them understood.

"Oh, I did it," he declared. "He's yours now. You can have him. He's been your lover--"

She flung him away from her so violently that he nearly fell.

"It's a lie! You know it's a lie!"

"It's true. I'm no fool."

She beat her hands together distractedly, "What have you done? What will those men think? Listen! You must stop them quickly. Tell them it's not so."

He seemed not to hear her. "I'm going away to-morrow," he said, "but I'll never divorce you, no matter what you do; and I won't let you divorce me, either. No, no! Take him now, if you want him, but you'll never be able to marry him until I'm gone. And I won't die soon--I promise you that, I'm going to live."

"You can't go--"

"There's a boat to-morrow."

"Don't you see you must stay and explain to those men? My God! They'll think you spoke the truth; they'll BELIEVE what you said."

"Of course they will," he chattered, shrilly. "That's why I did it in that way. No matter what you or he or I can do or say now, they'll believe it forever. It came to me like a flash of light, and I saw what it meant all in a minute. Do YOU understand what it means, eh? Listen! No matter how you behave, they'll know. They won't say anything, but they'll know, and you can't stand that, can you? Even if you could fool me once more against the evidence of my own eyes and ears, and convince me that your lies are true, it wouldn't do any good with them."

"'Evidence!' You have no evidence."

"No? What about that night at Taboga? You were mad over the fellow then, but you didn't think I saw. That day I caught you together in the jungle--have you forgotten that? Didn't you think it strange that I should be the one to discover you? Oh, I pretended to be blind, but I followed you everywhere I could, and I kept my eyes open."

"You saw nothing, for there was nothing."

"He's been with you day and night. You have been together constantly, and I knew what was going on. But I waited, because I wasn't strong enough to revolt--until to-night. Oh, but to-night I was strong! Something gave me courage."

In all their married life she had never known him to show such stubborn force. He was like granite, and the unbelievable change in him, upsetting all her preconceived notions of the man, appalled her. There had been times in the past when they had clashed, but he had never really matched his will with hers, and she had judged him weak and spiritless. Now, therefore, failing to dominate him as usual, she was filled with a strange feeling of helplessness and terror.

"You had no right to accept such evidence," she stormed.

"Bah! Why try to fool me? I have your own words for it. The other afternoon I came home sick--with my head. I was on the gallery outside when you were pleading with him, and I heard it all. You talked that night about Taboga, your guilty kisses and other things; you acknowledged everything. But he was growing tired of you. That, you know, makes it all the more effective." He smiled in an agonized fury.

"You--cur!" she cried, with the fury of one beating barehanded at a barred door. "You had no right to do such a thing even if I were guilty."

"Right? Aren't you my wife?"

The look she gave him was heavy with loathing. "That means nothing with us. I never loved you, and you know it. You know, too, why I married you. I made no secret of it at the time. You had what I wanted, and I had what you wanted; but you were content with the bargain because I gave you money, position, and power. I never promised anything more than that. I made you into something like a man. You never could have succeeded without me. All you have is due to me--even your reputation in the service. Your success, your influence, it is all mine, and the only thing you gave me was a name; any other would have done as well."

He shrank a little under this tirade, despite his exaltation.

"Marriage!" she continued, in bitter scorn. "A priest mumbled something over us, but it meant nothing then or now. I have tolerated you because you were useful. I have carried you with me as I carry a maid or a butler. I bought a manikin and dressed it up and put breath into it for my own convenience, and I owe you nothing, do you understand--nothing! The debt is all on your side, as you and I and all the world know."

"Who made me a manikin?" he demanded, with womanish fury, a fury that had been striving for utterance these many years. "I had ambitions and hopes and ability once--not much, perhaps, but enough--before you married me. I was nothing great, but I was getting along. I had confidence, too, but you took it away from me. You--you absorbed me. You had your father's brain, and it was too big for me; it overshadowed mine. In a way you were a vampire; for what I had you drained me of. At first it was terrible to feel that I was inferior, but I loved you, and although I had some pride--" He choked an instant and threw back her incredulous stare defiantly. "I let myself be eliminated. You thought you were doing me a favor when you put me forward as a figurehead, but to me it was a tragedy. I COULDN'T HELP LETTING YOU DO IT. Do you realize what that means to a fellow? I quit fighting for my own individuality, I became colored by you, I took on your ways, your habits, your mental traits, and--all the time I knew what was happening. God! How I struggled to remain Stephen Cortlandt, but it would have taken a BIG man to mould you to his ways, and I was only average. I began to do your work in your particular style; I forgot my ambitions and my dreams and took up yours. That's what I fell to, and all the time I KNEW it, and--and all the time I knew you neither cared nor understood. My only consolation was the thought that even though you never had loved me and never could, you at least respected our relation. I clung to that miserably, for it was all I had left, all that made me seem like a man. And yet you took away even that. I tried to rebel, but I had been drugged too long. You saw Anthony, and he had the things I lack; you found you were not a machine, but a living woman. He discovered the secret I had wasted away in searching for, and you rewarded him. Oh, I saw the change in you quickly enough, and if I'd been a man instead of what I was, I'd have--but I wasn't. I went spying around like a woman, hating myself for permitting it to go on, but lacking strength to stop it. But to-night, when he got up before those other men and dangled my shame before my eyes, I had enough manhood left in me to strike back. Thank God for that at least! Maybe it's not too late yet; maybe if I get away from you and try--" His voice died out weakly; in his face there was a miserable half-gleam of hope.

"I never knew you felt like that. I never knew you COULD feel that way," she said, in a colorless voice. "But you made a terrible mistake."

"Do you mean to say you don't love him?"