Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 238, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 8 October 1914 — The PLACID of HONEYMOONS [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

The PLACID of HONEYMOONS

by HAROLD MAC GRATH

rWures i fl S CD. JJ

u CHAPTER Xll—Continued. “You have spoiled it!” cried Celeste. She had watched the picture grow, and to see it ruthlessly destroyed this way hurt her. “How could you! ” “Worst I ever did.” He began to ck&nge the whole effect, chuckling audibly as he worked. Sunset divided honors with moonlight It was no longer incongruous; it was ridiculous. He leaned back and laughed. “I'm going to send it to L’Asino, and call it an afterthought.” "Give it to me.” “What?” “Yes.” "Nonsense! I’m going to touch a match to it. I’ll give you that picture with the lavender In bloom.” “I want this.”* “But you cannot hang it.” “I want it.” “Well!” The more he learned about women the farther out of mental reach they seemed to go. Why on earth did she want this execrable daub? “You may have it; but' all the same. I’m going to call an oculist and have him examine your eyes.” “Why, It Is the Signorina Fournier!" In preparing studiously to Ignore Flora Desimone’s presence they had forgotten all about her. “Good morning, signora,” said Celeste in Italian. “And-the Signore Abbott, the painter, also!” The Calabrian raised what she considered her most deadly weapon, her “What is it?" asked Flora, squinting. “It is a new style of the impressionist which I began this morning,” soberly. “It looks very natural,” observed Flora. “Natural!” Abbott dropped his mahlstick. “It is Vesuv’, is it not, on a cloudy day?” /.. . This was too much for Abbott’s gravity, and he laughed. - “It was not necessary to spoil a good picture ... on my account," sgid Flora, closing the lorgnette with a snap. “The signora is wrong. I’ did not spoil it on her account. It was past helping yesterday. But I shall, however, rechristen it Vesuvius, since it represents an eruption of temper.” Flora tapped the handle of her parasol with the lorgnette. It was distinctly a sign of approval. These Americans were never slow-witted. She swung the parasol to and fro, slowly, like a pendulum. '“lt is too bad,” she said, her glance roving over the white walls of the villa. “It was irrevocably lost,” Abbott declared. “No, no; I do not mean the picture, I am thinking of La Toscana. Her voice was really superb; and to lose it entirely . . . !’’ She waved a sympathetic hand. Abbott was about to rise up in vigorous protest. But fate itself chose to rebuke Flora. From the window came—“Sai cos’ ebbe cuore!”—sung as only Nora could sing it. The ferrule of Flora Desimone’s parasol bit deeply into the clover-turf. • • • “Am I all right?" asked Harrigan. Courtlandt nodded. “You look like a soldier in mufti, and more than that, like the gentleman that you naturally are," quite sincerely. The ex-gladiator blushed. "This is the reception-room. There’s the ballroom right out there. The smokingroom is on the other side. Now, how in the old Harry am I going to get across without killing some ojje?” Courtlandt resisted the desire to laugh. “Supposing you let me pilot you over?” “You’re .the referee. Ring the gong." “Come on, then.” “What! While they are dancing?" backing away in dismay. Tt»e bther caught him by the arm. “Come on." And in and out they went, hither and thither, now dodging, now pausing to let the swirl pass, until at length Harrigan found himself safe on shore, in the dim cool smoking-room. “1 don’t see how you did it,” admiringly. “I’ll drop in every little while to see how you are getting on," volunteered Courtlandt. "You can sit by the door If you care to see them dance. I’m off to see Mrs. Harrigan and tell her where you we. Here’s a cigar.” Harrigan turned the cigar over and over in his fingers, all the while gating at the young man’s diminishing back. He sighed. That would make him the happiest man in the world. He examined the carnelian baud encircling the six inches of evanescent

happiness. “What do you think of that!” he murmured. “Same brand the old boy used to smoke. And if he pays anything less than sixty apiece for ’em at wholesale, I’ll eat this one.” He lighted his cigar, and gave himself up to the delights of it. Courtlandt loomed in the doorway.' “Comfortable?” “Perfectly. Good cigar, comfortable chair, fine view." Young men began to drift in and out. The air became heavy with smoke, the prevailing aroma being that of Turkish tobacco of which Harrigan was not at all fond. But his cigar was so good that he was determined not to stir until the coal began to tickle the end of his nose. Since Molly knew where he was there was no occasion to worry. Abbott came in, pulled a cigarette case out of his pocket, and impatiently etruck a match. His hands shook a little and the flare of the match revealed a pale and angry countenance. “Hey, Abbott, here’s a seat. Get your second wind.” “Thanks.” Abbott dropped into the chair and smoked quickly. “Very stuffy out there. Too many.” “You look it. Having a good time?”

“Oh, fine!” There was a catch in the laugh which followed, but Harrigan’s ear was not trained for these subtleties of sound. “How are you making out?” “I’m getting acclimated. Where’s the colonel tonight? He (Right to be around here somewhere.” “I left him a few moments ago.” ■ “When you see him again, eend him in. He’s a live one, and I like to hear him talk.” “I’ll go at once,” crushing his cigarette in the Jeypore bowl. “What’s your hurry? You look like a man who has just lost his job.” “Been steering a German countess. She was wound up to turn only one way, and I am groggy. I’ll send the colonel over. By-by.” "Now, what’s stung the boy?” Nora was enjoying herself famously. The men hummed around her like bees around the sweetest rose. From time to time she saw Courtlandt hovering about the outskirts. She was glad he had come; the lepidopterist is latent or active in most women; to impale the butterfly, the moth, falls easily into the daily routine. She was laughing and jesting with the men. Her mother stood by, admiringly. This time Courtlandt gently pushed his way to Nora’s side. “May I have a dance?” he asked. “You are too late,” evenly. She was becoming used to the sight of him, much to her amazement “I am sorry.” “Why, Nora, I didn’t know that your card was filled! ” said Mrs. Harrigan. She had the maternal eye upon Courtlandt. “Nevertheless,” said Nortl sweetly, “it is a fact.” “I am disconsolate,” replied Courtlandt, who had approached for form’s sake only, being fully prepared for a refusal. “I have the unfortunate habit of turning up late,” with a significance which only Nora understood. “So, those who are late must suffer the consequences.” “Supper?” “The Barone rather than you.” The music began again, and Abbott whirled her away. She was dressed in Burmese taffeta, a rich orange. In the dark of her beautiful black hair there was the green luster of emeralds; an Indian-princess necklace .of emeralds and pearls was looped around her dazzling white throat. Unconsciously Courtlandt sighed audibly, and Mrs. Harrigan heard this note of unrest. “Who is that?” asked Mrs. Harrigan. “Flora Desimone’s husband, the duke. He and Mr. Harrigan were having quite a conversation in the smoke room” “What!” in consternation. “They were getting along finely when I left them.” Mrs. Harrigan felt her heart sink. The duke and James together meant nothing short of a catastrophe; for James would not know whom he was addressing, and would make all manner of confidences. She knew something would happen if she let him out of her eight. He was eternally talking to strangers. “Would you mind telling Mr. Harrigan that I wish to see him?” “Not at all.” Nora stopped at the end of the ballroom. “Donald, let us go out into the garden. I want a breath of air. Did you see her?” “Couldn’t help seeing her. It was the duke, I suppose. It appears that he is an old friend of the duchess. We’ll go through the conservatory. It’s a short-cut.” The night was full of moonshine; it danced upon the water; it fired the filigree tops of the solemn cypress; it laced the lawn with t quivering shadows; and heavy hung the cloying perfume of the box-wood “O belllsslma notta!” she sang. “Is it not glorious?” “Nora,” said Abbott, leaning suddenly toward her. “Don’t say it, Donald; please don’t. Don’t waste your love on me. You are a good man. and I should not be worthy the name of woman if I did not feel proud and sad. I want you always as a friend; and if you decide that cannot be, I shall lose faith in everything. I have never had a brother, and in the two short years I have grown to look on you as one. I am sorry. But if you will look back you will see that I never gave you any encouragement. I was never more than your comrade. I have many faults, but I am not naturally a coquette. I know my heart; I know it well.” - “Is there another?” in despair. “Once upon a time, Donald, there was- There is nothing now but ashes. I am telling you this so that it will not

be so hard for you to return to the oM 'friendly footing. You are a brave man. Any man is who takes his heart in his hand and offers it to a woman. You are going to take my hand and promise to be my friend always.” “Ah, Nora!” “You mustn’t, Donald. I can’t return to the ballroom with my eyes red. You will never know flow 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 cpwardice of the man, who knows what might hive happe'ned ? If I have beauty, God 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 kiseed 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 fight! 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 <]ays 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 hhn this night into the garden. She wanted to disillusion him. The baron, glooming in an obscure corner of the conservatory, saw them come in. Abbott’s brave young face deceived him. At thd door Abbott smiled and bowed and returned to the garden. The Barone rose to follow him. He had taken but a step forward, when a tableau formed by the door, causing him to pauee irresolutely. 5 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 pass. “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.”

CHAPTER XIII. 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—“l’ve got a story." “Tell it,” had been the InstantrYequest. 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 teinples, the strange pictures in the bazaars, long journeys over smooth and stormy seas; romance, moving and colorful, which began at Rangoon, had zig-zagged 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. (TO BE CONTINUED.)