The Place of Honeymoons

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 the much abused footstool, which he kicked whenever it came in the line of his march. In his soul he knew that Courtlandt was right. More than that, he knew that presently he would seek him and apologize.

Unfortunately, neither of them counted on the colonel.

Without being quite conscious of the act, Abbott took down from the wall an ancient dueling-pistol, cocked it, snapped it, and looked it over with an interest that he had never before bestowed on it. And the colonel, bursting into the studio, found him absorbed in the contemplation of this old death-dealing instrument.

“Ha!” roared the old war dog. “Had an idea that something like this was going to happen. Put that up. You couldn’t kill anything with that unless you hit ’em on the head with it. Leave the matter to me. I’ve a pair of pistols, sighted to hit a shilling at twenty yards. Of course, you can’t fight him with swords. He’s one of the best in all Italy. But you’ve just as good a chance as he has with pistols. Nine times out of ten the tyro hits the bull’s-eye, while the crack goes wild. Just you sit jolly tight. Who’s his second; Courtlandt?”

“Yes.” Abbott was truly and completely bewildered.

“He struck you first, I understand, and you knocked him down. Good! My tennis-courts are out of the way. We can settle this matter to-morrow morning at dawn. Ellicott will come over from Cadenabbia with his saws. He’s close-mouthed. All you need to do is to keep quiet. You can spend the night at the villa with me, and I’ll give you a few ideas about shooting a pistol. Here; write what I dictate.” He pushed Abbott over to the desk and forced him into the chair. Abbott wrote mechanically, as one hypnotized. The colonel seized the letter. “No flowery sentences; a few words bang at the mark. Come up to the villa as soon as you can. We’ll jolly well cool this Italian’s blood.”

And out he went, banging the door. There was something of the directness of a bullet in the old fellow’s methods.

Literally, Abbott had been rushed off his feet. The moment his confusion cleared he saw the predicament into which his own stupidity and the amiable colonel’s impetuous good offices had plunged him. He was horrified. Here was Courtlandt carrying the apology, and hot on his heels was the colonel, with the final arrangements for the meeting. He ran to the door, bareheaded, took the stairs three and four at a bound. But the energetic Anglo-Indian had gone down in bounds also; and when the distracted artist reached the street, the other was nowhere to be seen. Apparently there was nothing left but to send another apology. Rather than perform so shameful and cowardly an act he would have cut off his hand.

The Barone, pale and determined, passed the second note to Courtlandt who was congratulating himself (prematurely as will be seen) on the peaceful dispersion of the war-clouds. He was dumfounded.

“You will excuse me,” he said meekly. He must see Abbott.

“A moment,” interposed the Barone coldly. “If it is to seek another apology, it will be useless. I refuse to accept. Mr. Abbott will fight, or I will publicly brand him, the first opportunity, as a coward.”

Courtlandt bit his mustache. “In that case, I shall go at once to Colonel Caxley-Webster.”

“Thank you. I shall be in my room at the villa the greater part of the day.” The Barone bowed.

Courtlandt caught the colonel as he was entering his motor-boat.

“Come over to tiffin.”

“Very well; I can talk here better than anywhere else.”

When the motor began its racket, Courtlandt pulled the colonel over to him.

“Do you know what you have done?”

“Done?” dropping his eye-glass.

“Yes. Knowing that Abbott would have no earthly chance against the Italian, I went to him and forced him to write an apology. And you have blown the whole thing higher than a kite.”

The colonel’s eyes bulged. “Dem it, why didn’t the young fool tell me?”

“Your hurry probably rattled him. But what are we going to do? I’m not going to have the boy hurt. I love him as a brother; though, just now, he regards me as a mortal enemy. Perhaps I am,” moodily. “I have deceived him, and somehow – blindly it is true – he knows it. I am as full of deceit as a pomegranate is of seeds.”

“Have him send another apology.”

“The Barone is thoroughly enraged. He would refuse to accept it, and said so.”

“Well, dem me for a well-meaning meddler!”

“With pleasure, but that will not stop the row. There is a way out, but it appeals to me as damnably low.”

“Oh, Abbott will not run. He isn’t that kind.”

“No, he’ll not run. But if you will agree with me, honor may be satisfied without either of them getting hurt.”

“Women beat the devil, don’t they? What’s your plan?”

Courtlandt outlined it.

The colonel frowned. “That doesn’t sound like you. Beastly trick.”

“I know it.”

“We’ll lunch first. It will take a few pegs to get that idea through this bally head of mine.”

When Abbott came over later that day, he was subdued in manner. He laughed occasionally, smoked a few cigars, but declined stimulants. He even played a game of tennis creditably. And after dinner he shot a hundred billiards. The colonel watched his hands keenly. There was not the slightest indication of nerves.

“Hang the boy!” he muttered. “I ought to be ashamed of myself. There isn’t a bit of funk in his whole make-up.”

At nine Abbott retired. He did not sleep very well. He was irked by the morbid idea that the Barone was going to send the bullet through his throat. He was up at five. He strolled about the garden. He realized that it was very good to be alive. Once he gazed somberly at the little white villa, away to the north. How crisply it stood out against the dark foliage! How blue the water was! And far, far away the serene snowcaps! Nora Harrigan … Well, he was going to stand up like a man. She should never be ashamed of her memory of him. If he went out, all worry would be at an end, and that would be something. What a mess he had made of things! He did not blame the Italian. A duel! he, the son of a man who had invented wash-tubs, was going to fight a duel! He wanted to laugh; he wanted to cry. Wasn’t he just dreaming? Wasn’t it all a nightmare out of which he would presently awake?

“Breakfast, Sahib,” said Rao, deferentially touching his arm.

He was awake; it was all true.

“You’ll want coffee,” began the colonel. “Drink as much as you like. And you’ll find the eggs good, too.” The colonel wanted to see if Abbott ate well.

The artist helped himself twice and drank three cups of coffee. “You know, I suppose all men in a hole like this have funny ideas. I was just thinking that I should like a partridge and a bottle of champagne.”

“We’ll have that for tiffin,” said the colonel, confidentially. In fact, he summoned the butler and gave the order.

“It’s mighty kind of you, Colonel, to buck me up this way.”

“Rot!” The colonel experienced a slight heat in his leathery cheeks. “All you’ve got to do is to hold your arm out straight, pull the trigger, and squint afterward.”

“I sha’n’t hurt the Barone,” smiling faintly.

“Are you going to be ass enough to pop your gun in the air?” indignantly.

Abbott shrugged; and the colonel cursed himself for the guiltiest scoundrel unhung.

Half an hour later the opponents stood at each end of the tennis-court. Ellicott, the surgeon, had laid open his medical case. He was the most agitated of the five men. His fingers shook as he spread out the lints and bandages. The colonel and Courtlandt had solemnly gone through the formality of loading the weapons. The sun had not climbed over the eastern summits, but the snow on the western tops was rosy.

“At the word three, gentlemen, you will fire,” said the colonel.

The two shots came simultaneously. Abbott had deliberately pointed his into the air. For a moment he stood perfectly still; then, his knees sagged, and he toppled forward on his face.

“Great God!” whispered the colonel; “you must have forgotten the ramrod!”

He, Courtlandt, and the surgeon rushed over to the fallen man. The Barone stood like stone. Suddenly, with a gesture of horror, he flung aside his smoking pistol and ran across the court.

“Gentlemen,” he cried, “on my honor, I aimed three feet above his head.” He wrung his hands together in anxiety. “It is impossible! It is only that I wished to see if he were a brave man. I shoot well. It is impossible!” he reiterated.

Rapidly the cunning hand of the surgeon ran over Abbott’s body. He finally shook his head. “Nothing has touched him. His heart gave under. Fainted.”

When Abbott came to his senses, he smiled weakly. The Barone was one of the two who helped him to his feet.

“I feel like a fool,” he said.

“Ah, let me apologize now,” said the Barone. “What I did at the ball was wrong, and I should not have lost my temper. I had come to you to apologize then. But I am Italian. It is natural that I should lose my temper,” naïvely.

“We’re both of us a pair of fools, Barone. There was always some one else. A couple of fools.”

“Yes,” admitted the Barone eagerly.

“Considering,” whispered the colonel in Courtlandt’s ear; “considering that neither of them knew they were shooting nothing more dangerous than wads, they’re pretty good specimens. Eh, what?”

CHAPTER XIX

COURTLANDT TELLS A STORY

The Colonel and his guests at luncheon had listened to Courtlandt without sound or movement beyond the occasional rasp of feet shifting under the table. He had begun with the old familiar phrase – “I’ve got a story.”

“Tell it,” had been the instant request.

At the beginning the men had been leaning at various negligent angles, – some with their elbows upon the table, some with their arms thrown across the backs of their chairs. The partridge had been excellent, the wine delicious, the tobacco irreproachable. Burma, the tinkle of bells in the temples, the strange pictures in the bazaars, long journeys over smooth and stormy seas; romance, moving and colorful, which began at Rangoon, had zigzagged around the world, and ended in Berlin.

“And so,” concluded the teller of the tale, “that is the story. This man was perfectly innocent of any wrong, a victim of malice on the one hand and of injustice on the other.”

“Is that the end of the yarn?” asked the colonel.

“Who in life knows what the end of anything is? This is not a story out of a book.” Courtlandt accepted a fresh cigar from the box which Rao passed to him, and dropped his dead weed into the ash-bowl.

“Has he given up?” asked Abbott, his voice strangely unfamiliar in his own ears.

“A man can struggle just so long against odds, then he wins or becomes broken. Women are not logical; generally they permit themselves to be guided by impulse rather than by reason. This man I am telling you about was proud; perhaps too proud. It is a shameful fact, but he ran away. True, he wrote letter after letter, but all these were returned unopened. Then he stopped.”

“A woman would a good deal rather believe circumstantial evidence than not. Humph!” The colonel primed his pipe and relighted it. “She couldn’t have been worth much.”

“Worth much!” cried Abbott. “What do you imply by that?”

“No man will really give up a woman who is really worth while, that is, of course, admitting that your man, Courtlandt, is a man. Perhaps, though, it was his fault. He was not persistent enough, maybe a bit spineless. The fact that he gave up so quickly possibly convinced her that her impressions were correct. Why, I’d have followed her day in and day out, year after year; never would I have let up until I had proved to her that she had been wrong.”

“The colonel is right,” Abbott approved, never taking his eyes off 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.”