The Place of Honeymoons
"The moth and the candle," supplemented the colonel, peering over
Courtlandt's shoulder. "He's well set up," grudgingly admitted the old
fellow.
"The moth and the candle," mused Courtlandt. "That will be Nora Harrigan.
How long has this infatuation been going on?"
"Year and a half."
"And the other side?"
"There isn't any other side," exploded the artist. "She's worried to
death. Not a day passes but some scurrilous penny-a-liner springs some
yarn, some beastly innuendo. She's been dodging the fellow for months. In
Paris last year she couldn't move without running into him. This year she
changed her apartment, and gave orders at the Opera to refuse her address
to all who asked for it. Consequently she had some peace. I don't know why
it is, but a woman in public life seems to be a target."
"The penalty of beauty, Abby. Homely women seldom are annoyed, unless they
become suffragists." The colonel poured forth a dense cloud of smoke.
"What brand is that, Colonel?" asked Courtlandt, choking.
The colonel generously produced his pouch.
"No, no! I was about to observe that it isn't ambrosia."
"Rotter!" The soldier dug the offender in the ribs. "I am going to have
the Harrigans over for tea this afternoon. Come over! You'll like the
family. The girl is charming; and the father is a sportsman to the
backbone. Some silly fools laugh behind his back, but never before his
face. And my word, I know rafts of gentlemen who are not fit to stand in
his shoes."
"I should like to meet Mr. Harrigan." Courtlandt returned his gaze to the
window once more.
"And his daughter?" said Abbott, curiously.
"Oh, surely!"
"I may count on you, then?" The colonel stowed away the offending brier.
"And you can stay to dinner."
"I'll take the dinner end of the invitation," was the reply. "I've got to
go over to Menaggio to see about some papers to be signed. If I can make
the three o'clock boat in returning, you'll see me at tea. Dinner at all
events. I'm off."
"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that you have important business?"
jeered Abbott.
"My boy, the reason I'm on trains and boats, year in and year out, is in
the vain endeavor to escape important business. Now and then I am rounded
up. Were you ever hunted by money?" humorously.
"No," answered the Englishman sadly. "But I know one thing: I'd throw the
race at the starting-post. Millions, Abbott, and to be obliged to run away
from them! If the deserts hadn't dried up all my tears, I should weep. Why
don't you hire a private secretary to handle your affairs?"
"And have him following at my heels?" Courtlandt gazed at his lean brown
hands. "When these begin to shake, I'll do so. Well, I shall see you both
at dinner, whatever happens."
"That's Courtlandt," said Abbott, when his friend was gone. "You think
he's in Singapore, the door opens and in he walks; never any letter or
announcement. He arrives, that's all."
"Strikes me," returned the other, polishing his glass, holding it up to
the light, and then screwing it into his eye; "strikes me, he wasn't
overanxious to have that dish of tea. Afraid of women?"
"Afraid of women! Why, man, he backed two musical shows in the States a
few years ago."
"Musical comedies?" The glass dropped from the colonel's eye. "That's
going tigers one better. Forty women, all waiting to be stars, and solemn
Courtlandt wandering among them as the god of amity! Afraid of them! Of
course he is. Who wouldn't be, after such an experience?" The colonel
laughed. "Never had any serious affair?"
"Never heard of one. There was some tommy-rot about a Mahommedan princess
in the newspapers; but I knew there was no truth in that. Queer fellow! He
wouldn't take the trouble to deny it."
"Never showed any signs of being a woman-hater?"
"No, not the least in the world. But to shy at meeting Nora Harrigan...."
"There you have it; the privilege of the gods. Perhaps he really has
business in Menaggio. What'll we do with the other beggar?"
"Knock his head off, if he bothers her."
"Better turn the job over to Courtlandt, then. You're in the light-weight
class, and Courtlandt is the best amateur for his weight I ever saw."
"What, boxes?"
"A tough 'un. I had a corporal who beat any one in Northern India.
Courtlandt put on the gloves with him and had him begging in the third
round."
"I never knew that before. He's as full of surprises as a rummage bag."
Courtlandt walked up the street leisurely, idly pausing now and then
before the shop-windows. Apparently he had neither object nor destination;
yet his mind was busy, so busy in fact that he looked at the various
curios without truly seeing them at all. A delicate situation, which
needed the lightest handling, confronted him. He must wait for an overt
act, then he might proceed as he pleased. How really helpless he was! He
could not force her hand because she held all the cards and he none. Yet
he was determined this time to play the game to the end, even if the task
was equal to all those of Hercules rolled into one, and none of the gods
on his side.
At the hotel he asked for his mail, and was given a formidable packet
which, with a sigh of discontent, he slipped into a pocket, strolled out
into the garden by the water, and sat down to read. To his surprise there
was a note, without stamp or postmark. He opened it, mildly curious to
learn who it was that had discovered his presence in Bellaggio so quickly.
The envelope contained nothing more than a neatly folded bank-note for one
hundred francs. He eyed it stupidly. What might this mean? He unfolded it
and smoothed it out across his knee, and the haze of puzzlement drifted
away. Three bars from _La Boheme_. He laughed. So the little lady of the
Taverne Royale was in Bellaggio!
CHAPTER X
MARGUERITES AND EMERALDS
From where he sat Courtlandt could see down the main thoroughfare of the
pretty village. There were other streets, to be sure, but courtesy and
good nature alone permitted this misapplication of title: they were merely
a series of torturous enervating stairways of stone, up and down which
noisy wooden sandals clattered all the day long. Over the entrances to the
shops the proprietors were dropping the white and brown awnings for the
day. Very few people shopped after luncheon. There were pleasanter
pastimes, even for the women, contradictory as this may seem. By eleven
o'clock Courtlandt had finished the reading of his mail, and was now ready
to hunt for the little lady of the Taverne Royale. It was necessary to
find her. The whereabouts of Flora Desimone was of vital importance. If
she had not yet arrived, the presence of her friend presaged her ultimate
arrival. The duke was a negligible quantity. It would have surprised
Courtlandt could he have foreseen the drawing together of the ends of the
circle and the relative concernment of the duke in knotting those ends.
The labors of Hercules had never entailed the subjugation of two
temperamental women.
He rose and proceeded on his quest. Before the photographer's shop he saw
a dachel wrathfully challenging a cat on the balcony of the adjoining
building. The cat knew, and so did the puppy, that it was all buncombe on
the puppy's part: the usual European war-scare, in which one of the
belligerent parties refused to come down because it wouldn't have been
worth while, there being the usual Powers ready to intervene. Courtlandt
did not bother about the cat; the puppy claimed his attention. He was very
fond of dogs. So he reached down suddenly and put an end to the sharp
challenge. The dachel struggled valiantly, for this breed of dog does not
make friends easily.
"I say, you little Dutchman, what's the row? I'm not going to hurt you.
Funny little codger! To whom do you belong?" He turned the collar around,
read the inscription, and gently put the puppy on the ground.
Nora Harrigan!
His immediate impulse was to walk on, but somehow this impulse refused to
act on his sense of locomotion. He waited, dully wondering what was going
to happen when she came out. He had left her room that night in Paris,
vowing that he would never intrude on her again. With the recollection of
that bullet whizzing past his ear, he had been convinced that the play was
done. True, she had testified that it had been accidental, but never would
he forget the look in her eyes. It was not pleasant to remember. And
still, as the needle is drawn by the magnet, here he was, in Bellaggio. He
cursed his weakness. From Brescia he had made up his mind to go directly
to Berlin. Before he realized how useless it was to battle against these
invisible forces, he was in Milan, booking for Como. At Como he had
remained a week (the dullest week he had ever known); at the Villa d'Este
three days; at Cadenabbia one day. It had all the characteristics of a
tug-of-war, and irresistibly he was drawn over the line. The night before
he had taken the evening boat across the lake. And Herr Rosen had been his
fellow-passenger! The goddess of chance threw whimsical coils around her
victims. To find himself shoulder to shoulder, as it were, with this man
who, perhaps more than all other incentives, had urged him to return again
to civilization; this man who had aroused in his heart a sentiment that
hitherto he had not believed existed,--jealousy.... Ah, voices! He stepped
aside quickly.
"Fritz, Fritz; where are you?"
And a moment later she came out, followed by her mother ... and the little
lady of the Taverne Royale. Did Nora see him? It was impossible to tell.
She simply stooped and gathered up the puppy, who struggled determinedly
to lick her face. Courtlandt lifted his hat. It was in nowise offered as
an act of recognition; it was merely the mechanical courtesy that a man
generally pays to any woman in whose path he chances to be for the breath
of a second. The three women in immaculate white, hatless, but with
sunshades, passed on down the street.
Courtlandt went into the shop, rather blindly. He stared at the shelves of
paper-covered novels and post-cards, and when the polite proprietor
offered him a dozen of the latter, he accepted them without comment.
Indeed, he put them into a pocket and turned to go out.
"Pardon, sir; those are one franc the dozen."
"Ah, yes." Courtlandt pulled out some silver. It was going to be terribly
difficult, and his heart was heavy with evil presages. He had seen
Celeste. He understood the amusing if mysterious comedy now. Nora had
recognized him and had sent her friend to follow him and learn where he
went. And he, poor fool of a blunderer, with the best intentions in the
world, he had gone at once to the Calabrian's apartment! It was damnable
of fate. He had righted nothing. In truth, he was deeper than ever in the
quicksands of misunderstanding. He shut his teeth with a click. How neatly
she had waylaid and trapped him!
"Those are from Lucerne, sir."
"What?" bewildered.
"Those wood-carvings which you are touching with your cane, sir."
"I beg your pardon," said Courtlandt, apologetically, and gained the open.
He threw a quick glance down the street. There they were. He proceeded in
the opposite direction, toward his hotel. Tea at the colonel's? Scarcely.
He would go to Menaggio with the hotel motor-boat and return so late that
he would arrive only in time for dinner. He was not going to meet the
enemy over tea-cups, at least, not under the soldier's tactless
supervision. He must find a smoother way, calculated, under the rose, but
seemingly accidental. It was something to ponder over.
"Nora, who was that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan.
"Who was who?" countered Nora, snuggling the wriggling dachel under her
arm and throwing the sunshade across her shoulder.
"That fine-looking young man who stood by the door as we passed out. He