The Place of Honeymoons
Courtlandt, who was apparently absorbed in the contemplation of the bread
crumbs under his fingers.
"And more, by hook or crook, I'd have dragged in the other woman by the
hair and made her confess."
"I do not doubt it, Colonel," responded Courtlandt, with a dry laugh. "And
that would really have been the end of the story. The heroine of this
rambling tale would then have been absolutely certain of collusion between
the two."
"That is like a woman," the Barone agreed, and he knew something about
them. "And where is this man now?"
"Here," said Courtlandt, pushing back his chair and rising. "I am he." He
turned his back upon them and sought the garden.
Tableau!
"Dash me!" cried the colonel, who, being the least interested personally,
was first to recover his speech.
The Barone drew in his breath sharply. Then he looked at Abbott.
"I suspected it," replied Abbott to the mute question. Since the episode
of that morning his philosophical outlook had broadened. He had fought a
duel and had come out of it with flying colors. As long as he lived he was
certain that the petty affairs of the day were never again going to
disturb him.
"Let him be," was the colonel's suggestion, adding a gesture in the
direction of the casement door through which Courtlandt had gone. "He's as
big a man as Nora is a woman. If he has returned with the determination of
winning her, he will."
They did not see Courtlandt again. After a few minutes of restless
to-and-froing, he proceeded down to the landing, helped himself to the
colonel's motor-boat, and returned to Bellaggio. At the hotel he asked for
the duke, only to be told that the duke and madame had left that morning
for Paris. Courtlandt saw that he had permitted one great opportunity to
slip past. He gave up the battle. One more good look at her, and he would
go away. The odds had been too strong for him, and he knew that he was
broken.
When the motor-boat came back, Abbott and the Barone made use of it also.
They crossed in silence, heavy-hearted.
On landing Abbott said: "It is probable that I shall not see you again
this year. I am leaving to-morrow for Paris. It's a great world, isn't it,
where they toss us around like dice? Some throw sixes and others deuces.
And in this game you and I have lost two out of three."
"I shall return to Rome," replied the Barone. "My long leave of absence is
near its end."
"What in the world can have happened?" demanded Nora, showing the two
notes to Celeste. "Here's Donald going to Paris to-morrow and the Barone
to Rome. They will bid us good-by at tea. I don't understand. Donald was
to remain until we left for America, and the Barone's leave does not end
until October."
"To-morrow?" Dim-eyed, Celeste returned the notes.
"Yes. You play the fourth _ballade_ and I'll sing from _Madame_. It will
be very lonesome without them." Nora gazed into the wall mirror and gave a
pat or two to her hair.
When the men arrived, it was impressed on Nora's mind that never had she
seen them so amiable toward each other. They were positively friendly. And
why not? The test of the morning had proved each of them to his own
individual satisfaction, and had done away with those stilted mannerisms
that generally make rivals ridiculous in all eyes save their own. The
revelation at luncheon had convinced them of the futility of things in
general and of woman in particular. They were, without being aware of the
fact, each a consolation to the other. The old adage that misery loves
company was never more nicely typified.
If Celeste expected Nora to exhibit any signs of distress over the
approaching departure, she was disappointed. In truth, Nora was secretly
pleased to be rid of these two suitors, much as she liked them. The Barone
had not yet proposed, and his sudden determination to return to Rome
eliminated this disagreeable possibility. She was glad Abbott was going
because she had hurt him without intention, and the sight of him was, in
spite of her innocence, a constant reproach. Presently she would have her
work, and there would be no time for loneliness.
The person who suffered keenest was Celeste. She was awake; the tender
little dream was gone; and bravely she accepted the fact. Never her agile
fingers stumbled, and she played remarkably well, from Beethoven, Chopin,
Grieg, Rubinstein, MacDowell. And Nora, perversely enough, sang from old
light opera.
When the two men departed, Celeste went to her room and Nora out upon the
terrace. It was after five. No one was about, so far as she could see. She
stood enchanted over the transformation that was affecting the mountains
and the lakes. How she loved the spot! How she would have liked to spend
the rest of her days here! And how beautiful all the world was to-day!
She gave a frightened little scream. A strong pair of arms had encircled
her. She started to cry out again, but the sound was muffled and blotted
out by the pressure of a man's lips upon her own. She struggled violently,
and suddenly was freed.
"If I were a man," she said, "you should die for that!"
"It was an opportunity not to be ignored," returned Courtlandt. "It is
true that I was a fool to run away as I did, but my return has convinced
me that I should have been as much a fool had I remained to tag you about,
begging for an interview. I wrote you letters. You returned them unopened.
You have condemned me without a hearing. So be it. You may consider that
kiss the farewell appearance so dear to the operatic heart," bitterly.
He addressed most of this to the back of her head, for she was already
walking toward the villa into which she disappeared with the proud air of
some queen of tragedy. She was a capital actress.
A heavy hand fell upon Courtlandt's shoulder. He was irresistibly drawn
right about face.
"Now, then, Mr. Courtlandt," said Harrigan, his eyes blue and cold as ice,
"perhaps you will explain?"
With rage and despair in his heart, Courtlandt flung off the hand and
answered: "I refuse!"
"Ah!" Harrigan stood off a few steps and ran his glance critically up and
down this man of whom he had thought to make a friend. "You're a husky
lad. There's one way out of this for you."
"So long as it does not necessitate any explanations," indifferently.
"In the bottom of one of Nora's trunks is a set of my old gloves. There
will not be any one up at the tennis-court this time of day. If you are
not a mean cuss, if you are not an ordinary low-down imitation of a man,
you'll meet me up there inside of five minutes. If you can stand up in
front of me for ten minutes, you need not make any explanations. On the
other hand, you'll hike out of here as fast as boats and trains can take
you. And never come back."
"I am nearly twenty years younger than you, Mr. Harrigan."
"Oh, don't let that worry you any," with a truculent laugh.
"Very well. You will find me there. After all, you are her father."
"You bet I am!"
Harrigan stole into his daughter's room and soundlessly bored into the
bottom of the trunk that contained the relics of past glory. As he pulled
them forth, a folded oblong strip of parchment came out with them and
fluttered to the floor; but he was too busily engaged to notice it, nor
would he have bothered if he had. The bottom of the trunk was littered
with old letters and programs and operatic scores. He wrapped the gloves
in a newspaper and got away without being seen. He was as happy as a boy
who had discovered an opening in the fence between him and the apple
orchard. He was rather astonished to see Courtlandt kneeling in the
clover-patch, hunting for a four-leaf clover. It was patent that the young
man was not troubled with nerves.
"Here!" he cried, bruskly, tossing over a pair of gloves. "If this method
of settling the dispute isn't satisfactory, I'll accept your
explanations."
For reply Courtlandt stood up and stripped to his undershirt. He drew on
the gloves and laced them with the aid of his teeth. Then he kneaded them
carefully. The two men eyed each other a little more respectfully than
they had ever done before.
"This single court is about as near as we can make it. The man who steps
outside is whipped."
"I agree," said Courtlandt.
"No rounds with rests; until one or the other is outside. Clean breaks.
That's about all. Now, put up your dukes and take a man's licking. I
thought you were your father's son, but I guess you are like the rest of
'em, hunters of women."
Courtlandt laughed and stepped to the middle of the court. Harrigan did
not waste any time. He sent in a straight jab to the jaw, but Courtlandt
blocked it neatly and countered with a hard one on Harrigan's ear, which
began to swell.
"Fine!" growled Harrigan. "You know something about the game. It won't be
as if I was walloping a baby." He sent a left to the body, but the right
failed to reach his man.
For some time Harrigan jabbed and swung and upper-cut; often he reached
his opponent's body, but never his face. It worried him a little to find
that he could not stir Courtlandt more than two or three feet. Courtlandt
never followed up any advantage, thus making Harrigan force the fighting,
which was rather to his liking. But presently it began to enter his mind
convincingly that apart from the initial blow, the younger man was working
wholly on the defensive. As if he were afraid he might hurt him! This
served to make the old fellow furious. He bored in right and left, left
and right, and Courtlandt gave way, step by step until he was so close to
the line that he could see it from the corner of his eye. This glance,
swift as it was, came near to being his undoing. Harrigan caught him with
a terrible right on the jaw. It was a glancing blow, otherwise the fight
would have ended then and there. Instantly he lurched forward and clenched
before the other could add the finishing touch.
The two pushed about, Harrigan fiercely striving to break the younger
man's hold. He was beginning to breathe hard besides. A little longer, and
his blows would lack the proper steam. Finally Courtlandt broke away of
his own accord. His head buzzed a little, but aside from that he had
recovered. Harrigan pursued his tactics and rushed. But this time there
was an offensive return. Courtlandt became the aggressor. There was no
withstanding him. And Harrigan fairly saw the end; but with that
indomitable pluck which had made him famous in the annals of the ring, he
kept banging away. The swift cruel jabs here and there upon his body began
to tell. Oh, for a minute's rest and a piece of lemon on his parched
tongue! Suddenly Courtlandt rushed him tigerishly, landing a jab which
closed Harrigan's right eye. Courtlandt dropped his hands, and stepped
back. His glance traveled suggestively to Harrigan's feet. He was outside
the "ropes."
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Harrigan, for losing my temper."
"What's the odds? I lost mine. You win." Harrigan was a true sportsman. He
had no excuses to offer. He had dug the pit of humiliation with his own
hands. He recognized this as one of two facts. The other was, that had
Courtlandt extended himself, the battle would have lasted about one
minute. It was gall and wormwood, but there you were.
"And now, you ask for explanations. Ask your daughter to make them."
Courtlandt pulled off the gloves and got into his clothes. "You may add,
sir, that I shall never trouble her again with my unwelcome attentions. I
leave for Milan in the morning." Courtlandt left the field of victory
without further comment.
"Well, what do you think of that?" mused Harrigan, as he stooped over to
gather up the gloves. "Any one would say that he was the injured party.
I'm in wrong on this deal somewhere. I'll ask Miss Nora a question or
two."