Raising his eyes after the profound bow which the Count considered appropriate to his character of plenipotentiary, he beheld at last the object of his mission; and whether or not she was the absolutely peerless beauty her father had vaunted, he at once decided that she was lovely enough to grace Hechnahoul, or any other, Castle. Black eyes and a mass of coal-black hair, an ivory pale skin, small well-chiselled features, and that distinctively American plumpness of contour—these marked her face; while as for her figure, it was the envy of her women friends and the distraction of all mankind who saw her.
“Fortunate Baron!” thought Bunker.
Beside her, though sufficiently in the rear to mark the relative position of the sexes in the society they adorned, stood Darius P. Maddison, junior—or “Ri,” in the phrase of his relatives and friends—a broad-shouldered, well-featured young man, with keen eyes, a mouth compressed with the stern resolve to die richer than Mr. Rockefeller, and a pair of perfectly ironed trousers.
“I am very delighted to meet you,” declared the heiress.
“Very honored to have this pleasure,” said the brother.
“While I enjoy both sensations,” replied the Count, with his most agreeable smile.
A little preliminary conversation ensued, in the course of which the two parties felt an increasing satisfaction in one another's society; while Bunker had the further pleasure of enjoying a survey of the room in which they sat. Evidently it was Miss Maddison's peculiar sanctum, and it revealed at once her taste and her power of gratifying it. The tapestry that covered two sides of the room could be seen at a glance to be no mere modern imitation, but a priceless relic of the earlier middle ages. The other walls were so thickly hung with pictures that one could scarcely see the pale-green satin beneath; and among these paintings the Count's educated eye recognized the work of Raphael, Botticelli, Turner, and Gainsborough among other masters; while beneath the cornice hung a well-chosen selection from the gems of the modern Anglo-American school. The chairs and sofa were upholstered in a figured satin of a slightly richer hue of green, and on several priceless oriental tables lay displayed in ivory, silver, crystal, and alabaster more articles of vertu than were to be found in the entire house of an average collector.
“Fortunate Tulliwuddle!” thought Bunker.
They had been conversing on general topics for a few minutes, when Miss Maddison turned to her brother and said, with a frankness that both pleased and entertained the Count—
“Ri, dear, don't you think we had better come right straight to the point? I feel sure Count Bunker is only waiting till he knows us a little better, and I guess it will save him considerable embarrassment if we begin.”
“You are the best judge, Eleanor. I guess your notions are never far of being all right.”
With a gratified smile Eleanor addressed the Count.
“My brother and I are affinities,” she said. “You can speak to him just as openly as you can to me. What is fit for me to hear is fit for him.”
Assuring her that he would not hesitate to act upon this guarantee if necessary, the Count nevertheless diplomatically suggested that he would sooner leave it to the lady to open the discussion.
“Well,” she said, “I suppose we may presume you have called here as Lord Tulliwuddle's friend?”
“You may, Miss Maddison.”
“And no doubt he has something pretty definite to suggest?”
“Matrimony,” smiled the Count.
Her brother threw him a stern smile of approval.
“That's right slick THERE!” he exclaimed.
“Lord Tulliwuddle has made a very happy selection in his ambassador,” said Eleanor, with equal cordiality. “People who are afraid to come to facts tire me. No doubt you will think it strange and forward of me to talk in this spirit, Count, but if you'd had to go through the worry of being an American heiress in a European state you would sympathize. Why, I'm hardly ever left in peace for twenty-four hours—am I, Ri?”
“That is so,” quoth Ri.
“What would you guess my age to be, Count Bunker?”
“Twenty-one,” suggested Bunker, subtracting two or three years on general principles.
“Well, you're nearer it than most people. Nineteen on my last birthday, Count!”
The Count murmured his surprise and pleasure, and Ri again declared, “That is so.”
“And it isn't the American climate that ages one, but the terrible persecutions of the British aristocracy! I can be as romantic as any girl, Count Bunker; why, Ri, you remember poor Abe Sellar and the stolen shoe-lace?”
“Guess I do!” said Ri.
“That was a romance if ever there was one! But I tell you, Count, sentiment gets rubbed off pretty quick when you come to a bankrupt Marquis writing three ill-spelled sheets to assure me of the disinterested affection inspired by my photograph, or a divorced Duke offering to read Tennyson to me if I'll hire a punt!”
“I can well believe it,” said the Count sympathetically.
“Well, now,” the heiress resumed, with a candid smile that made her cynicism become her charmingly, “you see how it is. I want a man one can RESPECT, even if he is a peer. He may have as many titles as dad has dollars, but he must be a MAN!”
“That is so,” said Ri, with additional emphasis.
“I can guarantee Lord Tulliwuddle as a model for a sculptor and an eligible candidate for canonization,” declared the Count.
“I guess we want something grittier than that,” said Ri.
“And what there is of it sounds almost too good news to be true,” added his sister. “I don't want a man like a stained-glass window, Count; because for one thing I couldn't get him.”
“If you specify your requirements we shall do our best to satisfy you,” replied the Count imperturbably.
“Well, now,” said Eleanor thoughtfully, “I may just as well tell you that if I'm going to take a peer—and I must own peers are rather my fancy at present—it was Mohammedan pashas last year, wasn't it, Ri?” (“That is so,” from Ri.)—“If I AM going to take a peer, I must have a man that LOOKS a peer. I've been plagued with so many undersized and round-shouldered noblemen that I'm beginning to wonder whether the aristocracy gets proper nourishment. How tall is Lord Tulliwuddle?”
“Six feet and half an inch.”
“That's something more like!” said Ri; and his sister smiled her acquiescence.
“And does he weigh up to it?” she inquired.
“Fourteen, twelve, and three-quarters.”
“What's that in pounds, Ri? We don't count people in stones in America.”
A tense frown, a nervous twitching of the lip, and in an instant the young financier produced the answer:
“Two hundred and nine pounds all but four ounces.”
“Well,” said Eleanor, “it all depends on how he holds himself. That's a lot to carry for a young man.”
“He holds himself like one of his native pine-trees, Miss Maddison!”
She clapped her hands.
“Now I call that just a lovely metaphor, Count Bunker!” she cried. “Oh, if he's going to look like a pine, and walk like the pipers at the Torrydhulish gathering, and really be a chief like Fergus MacIvor or Roderick Dhu, I do believe I'll actually fall in love with him!”
“Say, Count,” interposed Ri, “I guess we've heard he's half German.”
“It was indeed in Germany that he learned his thorough grasp of politics, statesmanship, business, and finance, and acquired his lofty ambitions and indomitable perseverance.”
“He'll do, Eleanor,” said the young man. “That's to say, if he is anything like the prospectus.”
His sister made no immediate reply. She seemed to be musing—and not unpleasantly.
At that moment a motor car passed the window.
“My!” exclaimed Eleanor, “I'd quite forgot! That will be to take the Honorable Stanley to the station. We must say good-by to him, I suppose.”
She turned to the Count and added in explanation—
“The last to apply was the Honorable Stanley Pilkington—Lord Didcott's heir, you know. Oh, if you could see him, you'd realize what I've had to go through!”
Even as she spoke he was given the opportunity, for the door somewhat diffidently opened and an unhappy-looking young man came slowly into the room. He was clearly to be classified among the round-shouldered ineligibles; being otherwise a tall and slender youth, with an amiable expression and a smoothly well-bred voice.
“I've come to say good-by, Miss Maddison,” he said, with a mournful air. “I—I've enjoyed my visit very much,” he added, as he timidly shook her hand.
“So glad you have, Mr. Pilkington,” she replied cordially. “It has been a very great pleasure to entertain you. Our friend Count Bunker—Mr. Pilkington.”
The young man bowed with a look in his eye that clearly said—
“The next candidate, I perceive.”
Then having said good-by to Ri, the Count heard him murmur to Eleanor—
“Couldn't you—er—couldn't you just manage to see me off?”
“With very great pleasure!” she replied in a hearty voice that seemed curiously enough rather to damp than cheer his drooping spirits.
No sooner had they left the room together than Darius, junior, turned energetically to his guest, and said in a voice ringing with pride—
“You may not believe me, Count, but I assure you that is the third fellow she has seen to the door inside a fortnight! One Duke, one Viscount—who will expand into something more considerable some day—and this Honorable Pilkington! Your friend, sir, will be a fortunate man if he is able to please my sister.”
“She seems, indeed, a charming girl.”
“Charming! She is an angel in human form! And I, sir, her brother, will see to it that she is not deceived in the man she chooses—not if I can help it!”
The young man said this with such an air as Bunker supposed his forefathers to have worn when they hurled the tea into Boston harbor.
“I trust that Lord Tulliwuddle, at least, will not fall under your displeasure, sir,” he replied with an air of sincere conviction that exactly echoed his thoughts.
“Oh, Ri!” cried Eleanor, running back into the room, “he was so sweet as he said good-by in the hall that I nearly kissed him! I would have, only it might have made him foolish again. But did you see his shoulders, Count! And oh, to think of marrying a gentle thing like that! Is Lord Tulliwuddle a firm man, Count Bunker?”
“Adamant—when in the right,” the Count assured her.
A renewed air of happy musing in her eyes warned him that he had probably said exactly enough, and with the happiest mean betwixt deference and dignity he bade them farewell.
“Then, Count, we shall see you all to-morrow,” said Eleanor as they parted. “Please tell your hosts that I am very greatly looking forward to the pleasure of knowing them. There is a Miss Gallosh, isn't there?”
The Count informed her that there was in fact such a lady.
“That is very good news for me! I need a girl friend very badly, Count; these proposals lose half their fun with only Ri to tell them to. I intend to make a confidante of Miss Gallosh on the spot!”
“H'm,” thought the Count, as he drove away, “I wonder whether she will.”
As the plenipotentiary approached the Castle he was somewhat surprised to pass a dog-cart containing not only his fellow-guest, Mr. Cromarty-Gow, but Mr. Gow's luggage also, and although he had hitherto taken no particular interest in that gentleman, yet being gifted with the true adventurer's instinct for promptly investigating any unusual circumstance, he sought his host as soon as he reached the house, with a view to putting a careless question or two. For no one, he felt sure, had been expected to leave for a few days to come.
“Yes,” said Mr. Gallosh, “the young spark's off verra suddenly. We didn't expect him to be leaving before Tuesday. But—well, the fact is—umh'm—oh, it's nothing to speak off.”
This reticence, however, was easily cajoled away by the insidious Count, and at last Mr. Gallosh frankly confided to him—
“Well, Count, between you and me he seems to have had a kind of fancy for my daughter Eva, and then his lordship coming—well, you'll see for yourself how it was.”
“He considered his chances lessened?”
“He told Rentoul they were clean gone.”
Count Bunker looked decidedly serious.
“The devil!” he reflected. “The Baron is exceeding his commission. Tulliwuddle is a brisk young fellow, but to commit him to two marriages is neither Christian nor kind. And, without possessing the Baron's remarkable enthusiasm for the sex, I feel sorry for whichever lady is not chosen to cut the cake.”
He inquired for his friend, and was somewhat relieved to learn that though he had gone out on the loch with Miss Gallosh, they had been accompanied by her brothers and sisters.
“We still have half an hour before dressing,” he said. “I shall stroll down and meet them.”
His creditable anxiety returned when, upon the path to the loch shore, he met the two Masters and the two younger Misses Gallosh returning without their sister.
“Been in different boats, have you?” said he, after they had explained this curious circumstance; “well, I hope you all had a good sail.”
To himself he uttered a less philosophical comment, and quickened his stride perceptibly. He reached the shore, but far or near was never a sign of boat upon the waters.
“Have they gone down!” he thought.
Just then he became aware of a sound arising from beneath the wooded bank a short distance away. It was evidently intended to be muffled, but the Baron's lungs were powerful, and there was no mistaking his deep voice as he sang—
“'My loff she's like a red, red roseZat's newly sprong in June!My loff she's like a melodyZat's sveetly blayed in tune!
Ach, how does he end?”
Before his charmer had time to prompt him, the Count raised his own tolerably musical voice and replied—
“'And fare thee weel, my second string!And fare thee weel awhile!I won t come back again, my love,For tis ower mony mile!
For an instant there followed a profound silence, and then the voice of the Baron replied, with somewhat forced mirth—
“Vary goot, Bonker! Ha, ha! Vary goot!”
Meanwhile Bunker, without further delay, was pushing his way through a tangle of shrubbery till in a moment he spied the boat moored beneath the leafy bank, and although it was a capacious craft he observed that its two occupants were both crowded into one end.
“I am sent to escort you back to dinner,” he said blandly.
“Tell zem ve shall be back in three minutes,” replied the Baron, making a prodigious show of preparation for coming ashore.
“I am sorry to say that my orders were strictly to escort, not to herald you,” said the Count apologetically.
Fortifying himself against unpopularity by the consciousness that he was doing his duty, this well-principled, even if spurious, nobleman paced back towards the house with the lady between him and the indignant Baron.
“Well, Tulliwuddle,” he discoursed, in as friendly a tone as ever, “I left your cards with our American neighbors.”
“So?” muttered the Baron stolidly.
“They received me with open arms, and I have taken the liberty of accepting on behalf of Mr., Mrs., and Miss Gallosh, and of our two selves, a very cordial invitation to lunch with them to-morrow.”
“Impossible!” cried the Baron gruffly.
Eva turned a reproachful eye upon him.
“Oh, Lord Tulliwuddle! I should so like to go.”
The Baron looked at her blankly.
“You vould!”
“I have heard they are such nice people, and have such a beautiful place!”
“I can confirm both statements,” said the Count heartily.
“Besides, papa and mamma would be very disappointed if we didn't go.”
“Make it as you please,” said the Baron gloomily.
His unsuspicious hosts heard of the invitation with such outspoken pleasure that their honored guest could not well renew his protest. He had to suffer the arrangement to be made; but that night when he and Bunker withdrew to their own room, the Count perceived the makings of an argumentative evening.
“Sometimes you interfere too moch,” the Baron began without preamble.
“Do you mind being a little more specific?” replied the Count with smiling composure.
“Zere vas no hurry to lonch mit Maddison.”
“I didn't name the date.”
“You might have said next veek.”
“By next week Miss Maddison may be snapped up by some one else.”
“Zen vould Tollyvoddle be more lucky! I have nearly got for him ze most charming girl, mit as moch money as he vants. Ach, you do interfere! You should gonsider ze happiness of Tollyvoddle.”
“That is the only consideration that affects yourself, Baron?”
“Of course! I cannot marry more zan vonce.” (Bunker thought he perceived a symptom of a sigh.) “And I most be faithful to Alicia. I most! Ach, yes, Bonker, do not fear for me! I am so constant as—ach, I most keep faithful!”
As he supplied this remarkable testimony to his own fidelity, the Baron paced the floor with an agitation that clearly showed how firmly his constancy was based.
Nevertheless the Count was smiling oddly at something he espied upon the mantelpiece, and stepping up to it he observed—
“Here is a singular phenomenon—a bunch of white heather that has got itself tied together with ribbon!”
The Baron started, and took the tiny bouquet from his hand, his eyes sparkling with delight.
“It must be a gift from——” he began, and then laid it down again, though his gaze continued fixed upon it. “How did it gom in?” he mused. “Ach! she most have brought it herself. How vary nice!”
He turned suddenly and met his friend's humorous eyes.
“I shall be faithful, Bonker! You can trust me!” he exclaimed; “I shall put it in my letter to Alicia, and send it mit my love! See, Bonker!”
He took a letter from his desk—its envelope still open—hurriedly slipped in the white heather, and licked the gum while his resolution was hot. Then, having exhibited this somewhat singular evidence of his constancy, he sighed again.
“It vas ze only safe vay,” he said dolefully. “Vas I not right, Bonker?”
“Quite, my dear Baron,” replied the Count sympathetically. “Believe me, I appreciate your self-sacrifice. In fact, it was to relieve the strain upon your too generous heart that I immediately accepted Mr. Maddison's invitation for to-morrow.”
“How so?” demanded the Baron with perhaps excusable surprise.
“You will be able to decide at once which is the most suitable bride for Tulliwuddle, and then, if you like, we can leave in a day or two.”
“Bot I do not vish to leave so soon!”
“Well then, while you stay, you can at least make sure that you are engaging the affections of the right girl.”
Though Bunker spoke with an air of desiring merely to assist his friend, the speech seemed to arouse some furious thinking in the Baron's mind.
For some moments he made no reply, and then at last, in a troubled voice, he said—
“I have already a leetle gommitted Tollyvoddle to Eva. Ach, bot not moch! Still it vas a leetle. Miss Maddison—vat is she like?”
To the best of his ability the Count sketched the charms of Eleanor Maddison—her enthusiasm for large and manly noblemen, and the probable effects of the Baron's stalwart form set off by the tartan which (in deference, he declared, to the Wraith's injunctions) he now invariably wore. Also, he touched upon her father's colossal fortune, and the genuine Tulliwuddle's necessities.
The Baron listened with growing interest.
“Vell,” he said, “I soppose I most make a goot impression for ze sake of Tollyvoddle. For instance, ven we drive up——”
“Drive? my dear Baron, we shall march! Leave it to me; I have a very pretty design shaping in my head.”
“Aha!” smiled the Baron; “my showman again, eh?”
His expression sobered, and he added as a final contribution to the debate—
“But I may tell you, Bonker, I do not eggspect to like Miss Maddison. Ah, my instinct he is vonderful! It vas my instinct vich said. 'Chose Miss Gallosh for Tollyvoddle!'”
While the Baron was thus loyally doing his duty, his Baroness, being ignorant of the excellence of his purpose, and knowing only that he had deceived her in one matter, and that the descent to Avernus is easy, passed a number of very miserable days. That heart-breaking “us both” kept her awake at nights and distraught throughout the day, and when for a little she managed to explain the phrase away, and tried to anchor her trust in Rudolph once more, the vision of the St. Petersburg window overlooking the crops would come to shatter her confidence. She wrote a number of passionate replies, but as the Baron in making his arrangements with his Russian friend had forgotten to provide him with his Scotch address, these letters only reached him after the events of this chronicle had passed into history. Strange to say, her only consolation was that neither her mother nor Sir Justin was able to supply any further evidence of any kind whatsoever. One would naturally suppose that the assistance they had gratuitously given would have made her feel eternally indebted to them; but, on the contrary, she was actually inconsistent enough to resent their head-shakings nearly as much as her Rudolph's presumptive infidelity. So that her lot was indeed to be deplored.
At last a second letter came, and with trembling fingers, locked in her room, the forsaken lady tore the curiously bulky envelope apart. Then, at the sight of the enclosure that had given it this shape, her heart lightened once more.
“A sprig of white heather!” she cried. “Ah, he loves me still!”
With eager eyes she next devoured the writing accompanying this token; and as the Baron's head happened to be clearer when he composed this second epistle, and his friend's hints peculiarly judicious, it conveyed so plausible an account of his proceedings, and contained so many expressions of his unaltered esteem, that his character was completely reinstated in her regard.
Having read every affectionate sentence thrice over, and given his exceedingly interesting statements of fact the attention they deserved, she once more took up the little bouquet and examined it more curiously and intently. She even untied the ribbon, when, lo and behold! there fell a tiny and tightly folded twist of paper upon the floor. Preparing herself for a delicious bit of sentiment, she tenderly unfolded and smoothed it out.
“Verses!” she exclaimed rapturously; but the next instant her pleasure gave place to a look of the extremest mystification.
“What does this mean?” she gasped.
There was, in fact, some excuse for her perplexity, since the precise text of the enclosure ran thus:
“TO LORD TULLIWUDDLE.“O Chieftain, trample on this heathWhich lies thy springing foot beneath!It can recover from thy tread,And once again uplift its head!But spare, O Chief, the tenderer plant,Because when trampled on, it can't!“EVA.”
Too confounded for coherent speculation, the Baroness continued to stare at this baffling effusion. Who Lord Tulliwuddle and Eva were; why this glimpse into their drama (for such it appeared to be) should be forwarded to her; and where the Baron von Blitzenberg came into the story—these, among a dozen other questions, flickered chaotically through her mind for some minutes. Again and again she studied the cryptogram, till at last a few definite conclusions began to crystallize out of the confusion. That the “tenderer plant” symbolized the lady herself, that she was a person to be regarded with extreme suspicion, and that emphatically the bouquet was never originally intended for the Baroness von Blitzenberg, all became settled convictions. The fact that she knew Tulliwuddle to be an existing peerage afforded her some relief; yet the longer she pondered on the problem of Rudolph's part in the episode, the more uneasy grew her mind.
Composing her face before the mirror till it resumed its normal round-eyed placidity, she locked the letter and its contents in a safe place, and sought out her mother.
“Did you get any letter, dear, by the last post?” inquired the Countess as soon as she had entered the room.
“Nothing of importance, mamma.”
That so sweet and docile a daughter should stoop to deceit was inconceivable. The Countess merely frowned her disappointment and resumed the novel which she was beguiling the hours between eating and eating again.
“Mamma,” said the Baroness presently, “can you tell me whether heather is found in many other European countries?”
The Countess raised her firmly penciled eyebrows.
“In some, I believe. What a remarkable question, Alicia.”
“I was thinking about Russia,” said Alicia with an innocent air. “Do you suppose heather grows there?”
The Countess remembered the floral symptoms displayed by Ophelia, and grew a trifle nervous.
“My child, what is the matter?”
“Oh, nothing,” replied Alicia hastily.
A short silence followed, during which she was conscious of undergoing a curious scrutiny.
“By the way, mamma,” she found courage to ask at length, “do you know anything about Lord Tulliwuddle?”
Lady Grillyer continued uneasy. These irrelevant questions undoubtedly indicated a mind unhinged.
“I was acquainted with the late Lord Tulliwuddle.”
“Oh, he is dead, then?”
“Certainly.”
Alicia's face clouded for a moment, and then a ray of hope lit it again.
“Is there a present Lord Tulliwuddle?”
“I believe so. Why do you ask?”
“I heard some one speak of him the other day.”
She spoke so naturally that her mother began to feel relieved.
“Sir Justin Wallingford can tell you all about the family, if you are curious,” she remarked.
“Sir Justin!”
Alicia recoiled from the thought of him. But presently her curiosity prevailed, and she inquired—
“Does he know them well?”
“He inherited a place in Scotland a number of years ago, you remember. It is somewhere near Lord Tulliwuddle's place—Hech—Hech—Hech-something-or-other Castle. He was very well acquainted with the last Tulliwuddle.”
“Oh,” said Alicia indifferently, “I am not really interested. It was mere idle curiosity.”
For the greater part of twenty-four hours she kept this mystery locked within her heart, till at last she could contain it no longer. The resolution she came to was both desperate and abruptly taken. At five minutes to three she was resolved to die rather than mention that sprig of heather to a soul; at five minutes past she was on her way to Sir Justin Wallingford's house.
“It may be going behind mamma's back,” she said to herself; “but she went behind mine when SHE consulted Sir Justin.”
It was probably in consequence of her urgent voice and agitated manner that she came to be shown straight into Sir Justin's library, without warning on either side, and thus surprised her counsellor in the act of softly singing a well-known hymn to the accompaniment of a small harmonium. He seemed for a moment to be a trifle embarrassed, and the glance he threw at his footman appeared to indicate an early vacancy in his establishment; but as soon as he had recovered his customary solemnity his explanation reflected nothing but credit upon his character.
“The fact is,” said he, “that I am shortly going to rejoin my daughter in Scotland. You are aware of her disposition, Baroness?”
“I have heard that she is inclined to be devotional.”
“She is devotional,” answered this excellent man. “I have taken considerable pains to see to it. As your mother and I have often agreed, there is no such safeguard for a young girl as a hobby or mania of this sort.”
“A hobby or mania?” exclaimed the Baroness in a pained voice.
Sir Justin looked annoyed. He was evidently surprised to find that the principles inculcated by his old friend and himself appeared to outlive the occasion for which they were intended—to wit, the protection of virgin hearts from undesirable aspirations till calm reason and a husband should render them unnecessary.
“I use the terms employed by the philosophical,” he hastened to explain; “but my own opinion is inclined to coincide with yours, my dear Alicia.”
This paternal use of her Christian name, coupled with the kindly tone of his justification, encouraged the Baroness to open her business.
“Sir Justin,” she began, “can I trust you—may I ask you not to tell my mother that I have visited you?”
“If you can show me an adequate reason, you may rely upon my discretion,” said the ex-diplomatist cautiously, yet with an encouraging smile.
“In some things one would sooner confide in a man than a woman, Sir Justin.”
“That is undoubtedly true,” he agreed cordially. “You may confide in me, Baroness.”
“I have heard from my husband again. I need not show you the letter; it is quite satisfactory—oh, quite, I assure you! Only I found this enclosed with it.”
In breathless silence she watched him examine critically first the heather and then the verses.
“Lord Tulliwuddle!” he exclaimed. “Is there anything in the Baron's letter to throw any light upon this?”
“Not one word—not the slightest hint.”
Again he studied the paper.
“Oh, what does it mean?” she cried. “I came to you because you know all about the Tulliwuddles. Where is Lord Tulliwuddle now?”
“I am not acquainted with the present peer,” he ansevered meditatively. “In fact, I know singularly little about him. I did hear—yes, I heard from my daughter some rumor that he was shortly expected to visit his place in Scotland; but whether he went there or not I cannot say.”
“You can find out for me?”
“I shall lose no time in ascertaining.”
The Baroness thanked him effusively, and rose to depart with a mind a little comforted.
“And you won't tell mamma?”
“I never tell a woman anything that is of any importance.”
The Baroness was confirmed in her opinion that Sir Justin was not a very nice man, but she felt an increased confidence in his judgment.
From the gargoyled keep which the cultured enthusiasm of Eleanor and the purse of her father had recently erected at Lincoln Lodge, the brother and sister looked over a bend of the river, half a mile of valley road, a wave of forest country, and the greater billows of the bare hillsides towering beyond. But out of all this prospect it was only upon the stretch of road that their eyes were bent.
“Surely one should see their carriage soon!” exclaimed Eleanor.
“Seems to me,” said her brother, “that you're sitting something like a cat on the pounce for this Tulliwuddle fellow. Why, Eleanor, I never saw you so excited since the first duke came along. I thought that had passed right off.”
“Oh, Ri, I was reading 'Waverley' again last night, and somehow I felt the top of the keep was the only place to watch for a chief!”
“Why, you don't expect him to be different from other people?”
“Ri! I tell you I'll cry if he looks like any one I've ever seen before! Don't you remember the Count said he moved like a pine in his native forests?”
“He won't make much headway like that,” said Ri incisively. “I'd sooner he moved like something more spry than a tree. I guess that Count was talking through his hat.”
But his sister was not to be argued out of her exalted mood by such prosaic reasoning. She exclaimed at his sluggish imagination, reiterated her faith in the insinuating count's assurances, and was only withheld from sending her brother down for a spy-glass by the reflection that she could not remember reading of its employment by any maiden in analogous circumstances.
It was at this auspicious moment, when the heart of the expectant heiress was inflamed with romantic fancies and excited with the suspense of waiting, and before it had time to cool through any undue delay, that a little cloud of dust first caught her straining eyes.
“He comes at last!” she cried.
At the same instant the faint strains of the pibroch were gently wafted to her embattled tower.
“He is bringing his piper! Oh, what a duck he is!”
“Seems to me he is bringing a dozen of them,” observed Ri.
“And look, Ri! The sun is glinting upon steel! Claymores, Ri! oh, how heavenly! There must be fifty men! And they are still coming! I do believe he has brought the whole clan!”
Too petrified with delight to utter another exclamation, she watched in breathless silence the approach of a procession more formidable than had ever escorted a Tulliwuddle since the year of Culloden. As they drew nearer, her ardent gaze easily distinguished a stalwart figure in plaid and kilt, armed to the teeth with target and claymore, marching with a stately stride fully ten paces before his retinue.
“The chief!” she murmured.
Now indeed she saw there was no cause to mourn, for any one at all resembling the Baron von Blitzenberg as he appeared at that moment she had certainly never met before. Intoxicated with his finery and with the terrific peals of melody behind him, he pranced rather than walked up to the portals of Lincoln Lodge, and there, to the amazement and admiration alike of his clansmen and his expectant host, he burst forth into the following Celtic fragment, translated into English for the occasion by his assiduous friend from a hitherto undiscovered manuscript of Ossian:
“I am ze chieftain,Nursed in ze mountains,Behold me, Mac—ig—ig—ig ish!
(Yet the Count had written this word very distinctly.)
“Oich for ze claymore!Hoch for ze philabeg!Sons of ze red deers,Children of eagles,I will supply youMit Sassenach carcases!”
At this point came a momentary lull, the chieftain's eyes rolling bloodthirstily, but the rhapsody having apparently become congested within his fiery heart. His audience, however, were not given time to recover their senses, before a striking-looking individual, adorned with tartan trews and a feathered hat, in whom all were pleased to recognize Count Bunker, whispered briefly in his lordship's ear, and like a river in spate he foamed on:
“Donald and RonaldAvake from your slumbers!Maiden so lovely,Smile mit your bright eyes!Ze heather is blooming!Ze vild cat is growling!Hech Dummeldirroch!Behold Tollyvoddle,Ze Lord of ze Mountains!”
Hardly had the reverberations of the chieftain's voice died away, when the Count, uttering a series of presumably Gaelic cries, advanced with the most dramatic air, and threw his broad-sword upon the ground. The Baron laid his across it, the pipes struck up a less formidable, but if anything more exciting air, and the two noblemen, springing simultaneously from the ground, began what the Count confidently trusted their American hosts would accept as the national sworddance.
This lasted for some considerable time, and gave the Count an opportunity of testifying his remarkable agility and the Baron of displaying the greater part of his generously proportioned limbs, while the lung power of both became from that moment proverbial in the glen.
At the conclusion of this ceremony the chieftain, crimson, breathless, and radiant, a sight for gods and ladies, advanced to greet his host.
“Very happy to see you, Lord Tulliwuddle,” said Mr. Maddison. “Allow me to offer you my very sincere congratulations on your exceedingly interesting exhibition. Welcome to Lincoln Lodge, your lordship! My daughter—my son.”
Eleanor, almost as flushed as the Baron by her headlong rush from the keep at the conclusion of the sword-dance, threw him such a smile as none of her admirers had ever enjoyed before; while he, incapable of speech beyond a gasped “Ach!” bowed so low that the Count had gently to adjust his kilt. Then followed the approach of the Gallosh family, attired in costumes of Harris tweed and tartan selected and arranged under the artistic eye of Count Bunker, and escorted, to their huge delight, by six picked clansmen. Their formal presentation having been completed by a last skirl on the bagpipes, the whole party moved in procession to the banqueting-hall.
“A complete success, I flatter myself,” thought Count Bunker, with excusable complacency.
To the banquet itself it is scarcely possible for a mere mortal historian to pay a fitting tribute. Every rarity known to the gourmet that telegraph could summon to the table in time was served in course upon course. Even the sweetmeats in the little gold dishes cost on an average a dollar a bon-bon, while the wine was hardly less valuable than liquid radium. Or at least such was the sworn information subsequently supplied by Count Bunker to the reporter of “The Torrydhulish Herald.”
Eleanor was in her highest spirits. She sat between the Baron and Mr. Gallosh, delighted with the honest pleasure and admiration of the merchant, and all the time becoming more satisfied with the demeanor and conversation of the chief. In fact, the only disappointment she felt was connected with the appearance of Miss Gallosh. Much as she had desired a confidante, she had never demanded one so remarkably beautiful, and she could not but feel that a very much plainer friend would have served her purpose quite as well—and indeed better. Once or twice she intercepted a glance passing between this superfluously handsome lady and the principal guest, until at last it occurred to her as a strange and unseemly thing that Lord Tulliwuddle should be paying so long a visit to his shooting tenants. Eva, on her part, felt a curiously similar sensation. These American gentlemen were as pleasant as report had painted them, but she now discovered an odd antipathy to American women, or at least to their unabashed method of making themselves agreeable to noblemen. It confirmed, indeed, the worst reports she had heard concerning the way in which they raided the British marriage market.
Being placed beside one of these lovely girls and opposite the other, the Baron, one would think, would be in the highest state of contentment; but though still flushed with his triumphant caperings over the broadswords, and exhibiting a graciousness that charmed his hosts, he struck his observant friend as looking a trifle disturbed at soul. He would furtively glance across the table and then as furtively throw a sidelong look at his neighbor, and each time he appeared to grow more thoughtful. And yet he did not look precisely unhappy either. In fact, there was a gleam in his eye during each of these glances which suggested that both fell upon something he approved of.
The after-luncheon procedure had been carefully arranged between the two adventurers. The Count was to keep by the Baron's side, and, thus supported, negotiations were to be delicately opened. Accordingly, when the party rose, the Count whispered a word in Mr. Maddison's ear. The millionaire answered with a grave, shrewd look, and his daughter, as if perfectly grasping the situation, led the Galloshes out to inspect the new fir forest. And then the two noblemen and the two Dariuses faced one another over their cigars.