Part 31 (1/2)
”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.