The Place of Honeymoons Part 31

"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, G.o.d 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 pa.s.s.

"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.

[Ill.u.s.tration: "I hate you and detest you with all my heart."]

"Ah!" said Abbott, facing about. "So it is you. You deliberately scratched off my name and subst.i.tuted 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.

"h.e.l.lo!" 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 a.n.a.lyze 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 pa.s.sive 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 antic.i.p.ating the unspoken wishes of women, his unembarra.s.sed 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 s.p.u.n.k 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 d.a.m.ned 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 plat.i.tudes, thank you."