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 heath
Which 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.
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