CHAPTER XII

DICK COURTLANDT'S BOY

Presently the servants brought out the tea-service. The silent

dark-skinned Sikh, with his fierce curling whiskers, his flashing eyes,

the semi-military, semi-oriental garb, topped by an enormous brown turban,

claimed Courtlandt's attention; and it may be added that he was glad to

have something to look at unembarrassedly. He wanted to catch the Indian's

eye, but Rao had no glances to waste; he was concerned with the immediate

business of superintending the service.

Courtlandt had never been a man to surrender to impulse. It had been his

habit to form a purpose and then to go about the fulfilling of it. During

the last four or five months, however, he had swung about like a

weather-cock in April, the victim of a thousand and one impulses. That

morning he would have laughed had any one prophesied his presence here. He

had fought against the inclination strongly enough at first, but as hour

after hour went by his resolution weakened. His meeting Harrigan had been

a stroke of luck. Still, he would have come anyhow.

"Oh, yes; I am very fond of Como," he found himself replying mechanically

to Mrs. Harrigan. He gave up Rao as hopeless so far as coming to his

rescue was concerned. He began, despite his repugnance, to watch Nora.

"It is always a little cold in the higher Alps."

"I am very fond of climbing myself." Nora was laughing and jesting with

one of the English tennis players. Not for nothing had she been called a

great actress, he thought. It was not humanly possible that her heart was

under better control than his own; and yet his was pounding against his

ribs in a manner extremely disquieting. Never must he be left alone with

her; always must it be under circumstances like this, with people about,

and the more closely about the better. A game like this was far more

exciting than tiger-hunting. It was going to assume the characteristics of

a duel in which he, being the more advantageously placed, would succeed

eventually in wearing down her guard. Hereafter, wherever she went, there

must he also go: St. Petersburg or New York or London. And by and by the

reporters would hear of it, and there would be rumors which he would

neither deny nor affirm. Sport! He smiled, and the blood seemed to recede

from his throat and his heart-beats to grow normal.

And all the while Mrs. Harrigan was talking and he was replying; and she

thought him charming, whereas he had not formed any opinion of her at all,

nor later could remember a word of the conversation.

"Tea!" bawled the colonel. The verb had its distinct uses, and one

generally applied it to the colonel's outbursts without being depressed by

the feeling of inelegance.

There is invariably some slight hesitation in the selection of chairs

around a tea-table in the open. Nora scored the first point of this

singular battle by seizing the padre on one side and her father on the

other and pulling them down on the bench. It was adroit in two ways: it

put Courtlandt at a safe distance and in nowise offended the younger men,

who could find no cause for alarm in the close proximity of her two

fathers, the spiritual and the physical. A few moments later Courtlandt

saw a smile of malice part her lips, for he found himself between Celeste

and the inevitable frump.

"Touched!" he murmured, for he was a thorough sportsman and appreciated a

good point even when taken by his opponent.

"I never saw anything like it," whispered Mrs. Harrigan into the colonel's

ear.

"Saw what?" he asked.

"Mr. Courtlandt can't keep his eyes off of Nora."

"I say!" The colonel adjusted his eye-glass, not that he expected to see

more clearly by doing so, but because habit had long since turned an

affectation into a movement wholly mechanical. "Well, who can blame him?

Gad! if I were only twenty-five or thereabouts."

Mrs. Harrigan did not encourage this regret. The colonel had never been a

rich man. On the other hand, this Edward Courtlandt was very rich; he was

young; and he had the entree to the best families in Europe, which was

greater in her eyes than either youth or riches. Between sips of tea she

builded a fine castle in Spain.

Abbott and the Barone carried their cups and cakes over to the bench and

sat down on the grass, Turkish-wise. Both simultaneously offered their

cakes, and Nora took a ladyfinger from each. Abbott laughed and the Barone

smiled.

"Oh, daddy mine!" sighed Nora drolly.

"Huh?"

"Don't let mother see those shoes."

"What's the matter with 'em? Everybody's wearing the same."

"Yes. But I don't see how you manage to do it. One shoe-string is virgin

white and the other is pagan brown."

"I've got nine pairs of shoes, and yet there's always something the

matter," ruefully. "I never noticed when I put them on. Besides, I wasn't

coming."

"That's no defense. But rest easy. I'll be as secret as the grave."

"Now, I for one would never have noticed if you hadn't called my

attention," said the padre, stealing a glance at his own immaculate

patent-leathers.

"Ah, Padre, that wife of mine has eyes like a pilot-fish. I'm in for it."

"Borrow one from the colonel before you go home," suggested Abbott.

"That's not half bad," gratefully.

Harrigan began to recount the trials of forgetfulness.

Slyly from the corner of her eye Nora looked at Courtlandt, who was at

that moment staring thoughtfully into his tea-cup and stirring the

contents industriously. His face was a little thinner, but aside from that

he had changed scarcely at all; and then, because these two years had left

so little mark upon his face, a tinge of unreasonable anger ran over her.

"Men have died and worms have eaten them," she thought cynically. Perhaps

the air between them was sufficiently charged with electricity to convey

the impression across the intervening space; for his eyes came up quickly,

but not quickly enough to catch her. She dropped her glance to Abbott,

transferred it to the Barone, and finally let it rest on her father's

face. Four handsomer men she had never seen.

"You never told me you knew Courtlandt," said Harrigan, speaking to

Abbott.

"Just happened that way. We went to school together. When I was little

they used to make me wear curls and wide collars. Many's the time

Courtlandt walloped the school bullies for mussing me up. I don't see him

much these days. Once in a while he walks in. That's all. Always seems to

know where his friends are, but none ever knows where he is."

Abbott proceeded to elaborate some of his friend's exploits. Nora heard,

as if from afar. Vaguely she caught a glimmer of what the contest was

going to be. She could see only a little way; still, she was

optimistically confident of the result. She was ready. Indeed, now that

the shock of the meeting was past, she found herself not at all averse to

a conflict. It would be something to let go the pent-up wrath of two

years. Never would she speak to him directly; never would she permit him

to be alone with her; never would she miss a chance to twist his heart, to

humiliate him, to snub him. From her point of view, whatever game he chose

to play would be a losing one. She was genuinely surprised to learn how

eager she was for the game to begin so that she might gage his strength.

"So I have heard," she was dimly conscious of saying.

"Didn't know you knew," said Abbott.

"Knew what?" rousing herself.

"That Courtlandt nearly lost his life in the eighties."

"In the eighties!" dismayed at her slip.

"Latitudes. Polar expedition."

"Heavens! I was miles away."

The padre took her hand in his own and began to pat it softly. It was the

nearest he dared approach in the way of suggesting caution. He alone of

them all knew.

"Oh, I believe I read something about it in the newspapers."

"Five years ago." Abbott set down his tea-cup. "He's the bravest man I

know. He's rather a friendless man, besides. Horror of money. Thinks every

one is after him for that. Tries to throw it away; but the income piles up

too quickly. See that Indian, passing the cakes? Wouldn't think it, would

you, that Courtlandt carried him on his back for five miles! The Indian

had fallen afoul a wounded tiger, and the beaters were miles off. I've

been watching. They haven't even spoken to each other. Courtlandt's

probably forgotten all about the incident, and the Indian would die rather

than embarrass his savior before strangers."

"Your friend, then, is quite a hero?"

What was the matter with Nora's voice? Abbott looked at her wonderingly.

The tone was hard and unmusical.

"He couldn't be anything else, being Dick Courtlandt's boy," volunteered

Harrigan, with enthusiasm. "It runs in the family."

"It seems strange," observed Nora, "that I never heard you mention that

you knew a Mr. Courtlandt."

"Why, Nora, there's a lot of things nobody mentions unless chance brings

them up. Courtlandt--the one I knew--has been dead these sixteen years. If

I knew he had had a son, I'd forgotten all about it. The only graveyard

isn't on the hillside; there's one under everybody's thatch."

The padre nodded approvingly.

Nora was not particularly pleased with this phase in the play. Courtlandt

would find a valiant champion in her father, who would blunder in when

some fine passes were being exchanged. And she could not tell him; she

would have cut out her tongue rather. It was true that she held the

principal cards in the game, but she could not table them and claim the

tricks as in bridge. She must patiently wait for him to lead, and he, as

she very well knew, would lead a card at a time, and then only after

mature deliberation. From the exhilaration which attended the prospect of

battle she passed into a state of depression, which lasted the rest of the

afternoon.

"Will you forgive me?" asked Celeste of Courtlandt. Never had she felt

more ill at ease. For a full ten minutes he chatted pleasantly, with never

the slightest hint regarding the episode in Paris. She could stand it no

longer. "Will you forgive me?"

"For what?"

"That night in Paris."

"Do not permit that to bother you in the least. I was never going to

recall it."

"Was it so unpleasant?"

"On the contrary, I was much amused."

"I did not tell you the truth."

"So I have found out."

"I do not believe that it was you," impulsively.

"Thanks. I had nothing to do with Miss Harrigan's imprisonment."

"Do you feel that you could make a confidant of me?"

He smiled. "My dear Miss Fournier, I have come to the place where I

distrust even myself."

"Forgive my curiosity!"

Courtlandt held out his cup to Rao. "I am glad to see you again."

"Ah, Sahib!"

The little Frenchwoman was torn with curiosity and repression. She wanted

to know what causes had produced this unusual drama which was unfolding

before her eyes. To be presented with effects which had no apparent causes

was maddening. It was not dissimilar to being taken to the second act of a

modern problem play and being forced to leave before the curtain rose upon

the third act. She had laid all the traps her intelligent mind could

invent; and Nora had calmly walked over them or around. Nora's mind was

Celtic: French in its adroitness and Irish in its watchfulness and

tenacity. And now she had set her arts of persuasion in motion (aided by a

piquant beauty) to lift a corner of the veil from this man's heart.

Checkmate!

"I should like to help you," she said, truthfully.

"In what way?"

It was useless, but she continued: "She does not know that you went to

Flora Desimone's that night."

"And yet she sent you to watch me."

"But so many things happened afterward that she evidently forgot."

"That is possible."

"I was asleep when the pistol went off. Oh, you must believe that it was

purely accidental! She was in a terrible state until morning. What if she

had killed you, what if she had killed you! She seemed to hark upon that

phrase."

Courtlandt turned a sober face toward her. She might be sincere, and then

again she might be playing the first game over again, in a different

guise. "It would have been embarrassing if the bullet had found its mark."

He met her eyes squarely, and she saw that his were totally free from

surprise or agitation or interest.

"Do you play chess?" she asked, divertingly.

"Chess? I am very fond of that game."

"So I should judge," dryly. "I suppose you look upon me as a meddler.

Perhaps I am; but I have nothing but good will toward you; and Nora would

be very angry if she knew that I was discussing her affairs with you. But

I love her and want to make her happy."

"That seems to be the ambition of all the young men, at any rate."

Jealousy? But the smile baffled her. "Will you be here long?"

"It depends."

"Upon Nora?" persistently.

"The weather."

"You are hopeless."

"No; on the contrary, I am the most optimistic man in the world."

She looked into this reply very carefully. If he had hopes of winning Nora

Harrigan, optimistic he certainly must be. Perhaps it was not optimism.

Rather might it not be a purpose made of steel, bendable but not

breakable, reinforced by a knowledge of conditions which she would have

given worlds to learn?

"Is she not beautiful?"

"I am not a poet."

"Wait a moment," her eyes widening. "I believe you know who did commit

that outrage."

For the first time he frowned.

"Very well; I promise not to ask any more questions."

"That would be very agreeable to me." Then, as if he realized the rudeness

of his reply, he added: "Before I leave I will tell you all you wish to

know, upon one condition."

"Tell it!"

"You will say nothing to any one, you will question neither Miss Harrigan

nor myself, nor permit yourself to be questioned."

"I agree."

"And now, will you not take me over to your friends?"

"Over there?" aghast.

"Why, yes. We can sit upon the grass. They seem to be having a good

time."

What a man! Take him over, into the enemy's camp? Nothing would be more

agreeable to her. Who would be the stronger, Nora or this provoking man?

So they crossed over and joined the group. The padre smiled. It was a

situation such as he loved to study: a strong man and a strong woman, at

war. But nothing happened; not a ripple anywhere to disclose the agitation

beneath. The man laughed and the woman laughed, but they spoke not to each

other, nor looked once into each other's eyes.

The sun was dropping toward the western tops. The guests were leaving by

twos and threes. The colonel had prevailed upon his dinner-guests not to

bother about going back to the village to dress, but to dine in the

clothes they wore. Finally, none remained but Harrigan, Abbott, the

Barone, the padre and Courtlandt. And they talked noisily and agreeably

concerning man-affairs until Rao gravely announced that dinner was

served.

It was only then, during the lull which followed, that light was shed upon

the puzzle which had been subconsciously stirring Harrigan's mind: Nora

had not once spoken to the son of his old friend.