Part 34 (1/2)

”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 m.u.f.fled 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 unders.h.i.+rt. 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.”