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.

[Illustration: Suddenly he flung aside his smoking pistol.]

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," naively.

"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?"