Suppose the clock be set back four-and-twenty hours, and behold now the Baron von Blitzenberg, the diplomatist and premier baron of Bavaria, engaged in unhappy argument with himself. Unhappy, because his reason, though so carefully trained from the kindergarten upward, proved unable to combat the dismal onsets of superstition.
"Pooh! who cares for an old picture?" Reason would reiterate.
"It is an omen," said Superstition simply; and Reason stood convicted as an empty braggart.
But if Time be the great healer, Dinner is at least a clever quack, and when he and old Mr. Rentoul had consumed well-nigh a bottle and a half of their host's port between them, the outlook became much less gloomy. A particularly hilarious evening in the drawing-room completed the triumph of mind over what he was now able to term "jost nonsense," and he slept that night as soundly as the Count was simultaneously slumbering in Sir Justin's bed-room. And there was no unpleasant awakening in the Baron's case. On the contrary, all nature seemed in a conspiracy to make the last day of his adventure pleasant. The sun shone brightly, his razors had an excellent edge, sausages were served for breakfast, and when he joined the family afterwards he found them as affectionately kind as a circle of relations. In fact, the Baron had dropped more than one hint the night before of such a nature that they had some reason for supposing relationship imminent. It is true Eva was a little disappointed that the actual words were not yet said, and when he made an airy reference to paying a farewell call that morning upon their neighbors at Lincoln Lodge, she exhibited so much disapproval in her air that he said at once--"Ach, vell, I shall jost go after lonch and be back in an hour and a half. I jost vish to say good-bye, zat is all."
Little guessing how much was to hang upon this postponement, he drove over after luncheon with a mind entirely reassured. With only an afternoon to be safely passed, no mishap, he was sure, could possibly happen now. If indeed the Maddisons chose to be offended with him, why, then, his call would merely be the briefer and he would recommend Eva for the post of Lady Tulliwuddle without qualification. It was his critics who had reason to fear, not he.
Miss Maddison was at home, the staff of footmen assured him, and, holding his head as high as a chieftain should, he strode into her sanctuary.
"Do I disturb you?"
He asked this with a quicker beating heart. Not Eleanor alone, but her father and Ri confronted him, and it was very plain to see that a tempest was in the brewing. Her eyes were bright with tears and indignation; their brows heavy with formidable frowns.
At the first moment of his entering, extreme astonishment at seeing him was clearly their dominant emotion, and as evidently it rapidly developed into a sentiment even less hospitable.
"Why, this beats the devil!" ejaculated Mr. Maddison; and for a moment this was the sole response to his inquiry.
The next to speak was Ri--"Show it him, Poppa! Confront him with the evidence!"
With ominous deliberation the millionaire picked up a newspaper from the floor, where apparently it had been crumpled and flung, smoothed out the creases, and approached the Baron till their noses were in danger of collision. While executing this manoeuvre the silence was only broken by the suppressed sobbing of his daughter. Then at last he spoke.
"Our mails, sir, have just arrived. This, sir, is 'The Times' newspaper, published in the city of London yesterday morning."
He shook it in the Baron's face with a sudden vehemence that caused that nobleman to execute an abrupt movement backward.
"Take it," continued the millionaire--"take it, sir, and explain this if you can!"
So confused had the Baron's mind become already that it was with difficulty he could decipher the following petrifying announcement--"Tulliwuddle--Herringay.--In London, privately, Lord Tulliwuddle to Constance, daughter of Robert Herringay."
The Baron's brain reeled.
"Here is another paragraph that may interest you," pursued Mr. Maddison, turning the paper outside in with an alarmingly vigorous movement, and presenting a short paragraph for the Baron's inspection. This ran--"PEER AND ACTRESS.
"As announced in our marriage column, the wedding took place yesterday, privately, of Lord Tulliwuddle, kinsman and heir of the late peer of that name, so well known in London and Scottish society, and Miss Constance Herringay, better known as 'Connie Fitz Aubyn,' of the Gaiety Theatre. It is understood that the young couple have departed for the Mediterranean."
In a few seconds given him to prepare his mind, the Baron desperately endeavored to imagine what the resourceful Bunker would say or do under these awful circumstances.
"Well, sir?" said Mr. Maddison.
"It is a lie!"
"A lie?"
Ri laughed scornfully.
"Mean to say no such marriage took place?"
"It vas not me."
"Who was it, then?"
"Anozzer man, perhaps."
"Another Lord Tulliwuddle?" inquired the millionaire.
