The Place of Honeymoons
Unconsciously Courtlandt sighed audibly, and Mrs. Harrigan heard this note
of unrest.
"Who is that?" asked Mrs. Harrigan.
"Flora Desimone's husband, the duke. He and Mr. Harrigan were having quite
a conversation in the smoke-room."
"What!" in consternation.
"They were getting along finely when I left them."
Mrs. Harrigan felt her heart sink. The duke and James together meant
nothing short of a catastrophe; for James would not know whom he was
addressing, and would make all manner of confidences. She knew something
would happen if she let him out of her sight. He was eternally talking to
strangers.
"Would you mind telling Mr. Harrigan that I wish to see him?"
"Not at all."
Nora stopped at the end of the ballroom. "Donald, let us go out into the
garden. I want a breath of air. Did you see her?"
"Couldn't help seeing her. It was the duke, I suppose. It appears that he
is an old friend of the duchess. We'll go through the conservatory. It's a
short-cut."
The night was full of moonshine; it danced upon the water; it fired the
filigree tops of the solemn cypress; it laced the lawn with quivering
shadows; and heavy hung the cloying perfume of the box-wood hedges.
"_O bellissima notta!_" she sang. "Is it not glorious?"
"Nora," said Abbott, leaning suddenly toward her.
"Don't say it. Donald; please don't. Don't waste your love on me. You are
a good man, and I should not be worthy the name of woman if I did not feel
proud and sad. I want you always as a friend; and if you decide that can
not be, I shall lose faith in everything. I have never had a brother, and
in these two short years I have grown to look on you as one. I am sorry.
But if you will look back you will see that I never gave you any
encouragement. I was never more than your comrade. I have many faults, but
I am not naturally a coquette. I know my heart; I know it well."
"Is there another?" in despair.
"Once upon a time, Donald, there was. There is nothing now but ashes. I am
telling you this so that it will not be so hard for you to return to the
old friendly footing. You are a brave man. Any man is who takes his heart
in his hand and offers it to a woman. You are going to take my hand and
promise to be my friend always."
"Ah, Nora!"
"You mustn't, Donald. I can't return to the ballroom with my eyes red. You
will never know how a woman on the stage has to fight to earn her bread.
And that part is only a skirmish compared to the ceaseless war men wage
against her. She has only the fortifications of her wit and her presence
of mind. Was I not abducted in the heart of Paris? And but for the
cowardice of the man, who knows what might have happened? If I have
beauty, God gave it to me to wear, and wear it I will. My father, the
padre, you and the Barone; I would not trust any other men living. I am
often unhappy, but I do not inflict this unhappiness on others. Be you the
same. Be my friend; be brave and fight it out of your heart." Quickly she
drew his head toward her and lightly kissed the forehead. "There! Ah,
Donald, I very much need a friend."
"All right, Nora," bravely indeed, for the pain in his young heart cried
out for the ends of the earth in which to hide. "All right! I'm young;
maybe I'll get over it in time. Always count on me. You wouldn't mind
going back to the ballroom alone, would you? I've got an idea I'd like to
smoke over it. No, I'll take you to the end of the conservatory and come
back. I can't face the rest of them just now."
Nora had hoped against hope that it was only infatuation, but in the last
few days she could not ignore the truth that he really loved her. She had
thrown him and Celeste together in vain. Poor Celeste, poor lovely
Celeste, who wore her heart upon her sleeve, patent to all eyes save
Donald's! Thus, it was with defined purpose that she had lured him this
night into the garden. She wanted to disillusion him.
The Barone, glooming in an obscure corner of the conservatory, saw them
come in. Abbott's brave young face deceived him. At the door Abbott smiled
and bowed and returned to the garden. The Barone rose to follow him. He
had committed a theft of which he was genuinely sorry; and he was man
enough to seek his rival and apologize. But fate had chosen for him the
worst possible time. He had taken but a step forward, when a tableau
formed by the door, causing him to pause irresolutely.
Nora was face to face at last with Flora Desimone.
"I wish to speak to you," said the Italian abruptly.
"Nothing you could possibly say would interest me," declared Nora,
haughtily and made as if to pass.
"Do not be too sure," insolently.
Their voices were low, but they reached the ears of the Barone, who wished
he was anywhere but here. He moved silently behind the palms toward the
exit.
"Let me be frank. I hate you and detest you with all my heart," continued
Flora. "I have always hated you, with your supercilious airs, you, whose
father...."
"Don't you dare to say an ill word of him!" cried Nora, her Irish blood
throwing hauteur to the winds. "He is kind and brave and loyal, and I am
proud of him. Say what you will about me; it will not bother me in the
least."
The Barone heard no more. By degrees he had reached the exit, and he was
mightily relieved to get outside. The Calabrian had chosen her time well,
for the conservatory was practically empty. The Barone's eyes searched the
shadows and at length discerned Abbott leaning over the parapet.
"Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched
off my name and substituted your own. It was the act of a contemptible
cad. And I tell you here and now. A cad!"
The Barone was Italian. He had sought Abbott with the best intentions; to
apologize abjectly, distasteful though it might be to his hot blood.
Instead, he struck Abbott across the mouth, and the latter promptly
knocked him down.
CHAPTER XVIII
PISTOLS FOR TWO
Courtlandt knocked on the studio door.
"Come in."
He discovered Abbott, stretched out upon the lounge, idly picking at the
loose plaster in the wall.
"Hello!" said Abbott carelessly. "Help yourself to a chair."
Instead, Courtlandt walked about the room, aimlessly. He paused at the
window; he picked up a sketch and studied it at various angles; he kicked
the footstool across the floor, not with any sign of anger but with a
seriousness that would have caused Abbott to laugh, had he been looking at
his friend. He continued, however, to pluck at the plaster. He had always
hated and loved Courtlandt, alternately. He never sought to analyze this
peculiar cardiac condition. He only knew that at one time he hated the
man, and that at another he would have laid down his life for him. Perhaps
it was rather a passive jealousy which he mistook for hatred. Abbott had
never envied Courtlandt his riches; but often the sight of Courtlandt's
physical superiority, his adaptability, his knowledge of men and affairs,
the way he had of anticipating the unspoken wishes of women, his
unembarrassed gallantry, these attributes stirred the envy of which he was
always manly enough to be ashamed. Courtlandt's unexpected appearance in
Bellaggio had also created a suspicion which he could not minutely define.
The truth was, when a man loved, every other man became his enemy, not
excepting her father: the primordial instinct has survived all the
applications of veneer. So, Abbott was not at all pleased to see his
friend that morning.
At length Courtlandt returned to the lounge. "The Barone called upon me
this morning."
"Oh, he did?"
"I think you had better write him an apology."
Abbott sat up. He flung the piece of plaster violently to the floor.
"Apologize? Well, I like your nerve to come here with that kind of wabble.
Look at these lips! Man, he struck me across the mouth, and I knocked him
down."
"It was a pretty good wallop, considering that you couldn't see his face
very well in the dark. I always said that you had more spunk to the square
inch than any other chap I know. But over here, Suds, as you know, it's
different. You can't knock down an officer and get away with it. So, you
just sit down at your desk and write a little note, saying that you regret
your hastiness. I'll see that it goes through all right. Fortunately, no
one heard of the row."
"I'll see you both farther!" wrathfully. "Look at these lips, I say!"
"Before he struck you, you must have given provocation."
"Sha'n't discuss what took place. Nor will I apologize."
"That's final?"
"You have my word for it."
"Well, I'm sorry. The Barone is a decent sort. He gives you the
preference, and suggests that you select pistols, since you would be no
match for him with rapiers."
"Pistols!" shouted Abbott. "For the love of glory, what are you driving
at?"
"The Barone has asked me to be his second. And I have despatched a note to
the colonel, advising him to attend to your side. I accepted the Barone's
proposition solely that I might get here first and convince you that an
apology will save you a heap of discomfort. The Barone is a first-rate
shot, and doubtless he will only wing you. But that will mean scandal and
several weeks in the hospital, to say nothing of a devil of a row with the
civil authorities. In the army the Italian still fights his _duello_, but
these affairs never get into the newspapers, as in France. Seldom,
however, is any one seriously hurt. They are excitable, and consequently a
good shot is likely to shoot wildly at a pinch. So there you are, my
boy."
"Are you in your right mind? Do you mean to tell me that you have come
here to arrange a duel?" asked Abbott, his voice low and a bit shaky.
"To prevent one. So, write your apology. Don't worry about the moral side
of the question. It's only a fool who will offer himself as a target to a
man who knows how to shoot. You couldn't hit the broadside of a barn with
a shot-gun."
Abbott brushed the dust from his coat and got up. "A duel!" He laughed a
bit hysterically. Well, why not? Since Nora could never be his, there was
no future for him. He might far better serve as a target than to go on
living with the pain and bitterness in his heart. "Very well. Tell the
Barone my choice is pistols. He may set the time and place himself."
"Go over to that desk and write that apology. If you don't, I promise on
my part to tell Nora Harrigan, who, I dare say, is at the bottom of this,
innocently or otherwise."
"Courtlandt!"
"I mean just what I say. Take your choice. Stop this nonsense yourself
like a reasonable human being, or let Nora Harrigan stop it for you. There
will be no duel, not if I can help it."
Abbott saw instantly what would happen. Nora would go to the Barone and
beg off for him. "All right! I'll write that apology. But listen: you will
knock hereafter when you enter any of my studios. You've kicked out the
bottom from the old footing. You are not the friend you profess to be. You
are making me a coward in the eyes of that damned Italian. He will never
understand this phase of it." Thereupon Abbott ran over to his desk and
scribbled the note, sealing it with a bang. "Here you are. Perhaps you had
best go at once."
"Abby, I'm sorry that you take this view."
"I don't care to hear any platitudes, thank you."
"I'll look you up to-morrow, and on my part I sha'n't ask for any apology.
In a little while you'll thank me. You will even laugh with me."
"Permit me to doubt that," angrily. He threw open the door.
Courtlandt was too wise to argue further. He had obtained the object of
his errand, and that was enough for the present. "Sorry you are not open
to reason. Good morning."
When the door closed, Abbott tramped the floor and vented his temper on