Dione looked at Cecilia, who was silently dabbing at her eyes with a damp handkerchief, and said with exasperated affection: “For pity’s sake, Cecy, there is no need to behave like a watering pot! Eustace was not carping at you, were you, Eustace?”
“I trust,” he said coldly, “that I am not carping, as you put it, at anyone. I have merely endeavored to bring you and Aunt Mallory to your senses, but it is obvious that wiser counsels will not prevail. I can see that only bitter experience will demonstrate to you the depths of your folly, and so I am prepared to bide my time until life here becomes insupportable. Then, perhaps, you will be ready to admit that I am right.”
“Perhaps,” Dione agreed cordially. “I should not depend upon it, though, Eustace, if I were you.”
He looked affronted, but instead of answering her, addressed his next words to her sister.
“Cecilia, would you be good enough to leave us alone? There is a matter upon which I wish to speak privately to Dione.”
It occurred to both girls that he might be intending to repeat his proposal of marriage, and Cecilia hesitated, looking doubtful, until a slight nod from Dione sent her thankfully from the room. Dione herself, facing Eustace with an air of polite attention, was hoping that this time she would be able to convince him that her refusal was final. Nothing, she realized now, could ever persuade her to marry him. It must be because she had not seen him for a while that she felt she was looking at him with fresh eyes, and it seemed incredible that she had ever considered, even for the family’s sake, that she could bear to become his wife.
With her mind thus prepared to receive, and refuse, a proposal of marriage, Eustace’s first words were as great a shock as a douche of cold water. Standing before the empty fireplace, hands clasped behind his back, he regarded her with an expression of portentous disapproval.
“I asked to speak privately with you, cousin, because I feel it my duty to warn you, to point out to you the perils attending the path you are so heedlessly treading.”
“To warn me?” she repeated blankly. “Against what, for heaven’s sake?”
“Say rather ‘against whom,’” he replied sternly. “Against Sir Greydon Varleigh, of course.”
“Against Sir Greydon?” She was furious with herself for repeating his words, parrot-fashion, but was so astonished that she could think of nothing else to say. “What nonsense is this?”
“That you regard it as nonsense, cousin, indicates the pass to which matters have already come. I am amazed at you, Dione! Amazed and shocked! When I learned from Birkett that you were escorted to his place of business by Varleigh, I could scarcely believe it.”
“Why not, pray? I was unable to hire a carriage, and Sir Greydon was obliging enough to drive me. Where is the harm in that?”
“You need ask? You drive about the countryside, alone with this man, and you ask where is the harm?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd!” she said angrily. “In the first place, we were not alone. Sir Greydon’s groom accompanied us. In the second, it is quite the thing for a gentleman to drive a lady. I have seen it a score of times in London.”
“People of fashion!” With the utmost contempt, Eustace dismissed the Polite World from his consideration. “I should be sorry to see you seeking to imitate their conduct. Who, may I ask, presented Varleigh to you in the first place?”
This was less easy to answer. Dione knew that frankness would lead only to further argument, for which she felt disinclined. Her head was beginning to ache again, and her mother’s recommendation that she should lie down in a darkened room seemed far more attractive than it had done earlier. She sought refuge in prevarication.
“You must remember, Eustace, that living in a village is very different from living in London. We have made the acquaintance of a number of people. The Vicar, Dr. Barnfield and his family, Mrs. Elverbury and her two daughters—”
“Yes, very likely,” he interrupted impatiently. “All perfectly respectable people, no doubt, and I am not concerned with them. Varleigh is a different matter.”
“Are you suggesting, Eustace, that Sir Greydon is not respectable?”
“No,” Eustace retorted angrily, “I am suggesting nothing. I am stating plainly that he is not a fit person for you to know.”
“How dare you!” Dione rose from her chair to confront him; her voice shook with anger. “Who gave you the right to pass judgment upon my friends? I have never done so!”
“The mere fact that I am your only male relative gives me that right. No, wait!” as she made to speak again. “Permit me to tell you a little about this friend you value so highly. He is the spoiled favorite of what is commonly referred to as ‘the ton.’ His life is spent in the heedless pursuit of pleasure, and his great wealth enables him to indulge himself in every extravagant whim. He gambles where the play is highest, squanders a fortune on his horses and his dress and—!”
Dione interrupted him ruthlessly. “I had no notion, Eustace, that you were so closely acquainted with Sir Greydon! How foolish you must have thought me, when I presented you to him as though you had never met before.”
“This is no matter for levity, cousin! Naturally, when I learned of his acquaintance with you I took the trouble to inform myself fully of his character and his habits. What I discovered filled me with the gravest misgivings on your behalf.”
“I should be grateful, no doubt, that you put yourself to so much trouble, but I am the oddest creature! I have a positive aversion to anyone who pries into my concerns, or those of my friends. All that you say about Sir Greydon may be true—I neither know nor care! To me—to all of us—he has been unfailingly kind.”
Eustace studied her in silence, frowning heavily. He took a turn about the room and then returned to his former position by the fireplace, while she watched him impatiently.
“Dione,” he said gravely at length, “you are not a schoolgirl. Surely you realize that Sir Greydon Varleigh is what is vulgarly known as a ‘brilliant catch’? If he chooses to marry, he may look for his bride among the highest in the land—young women of rank and fortune.”
She stared speechlessly at him for a moment, and then demanded in outraged tones: “Eustace! Are you implying—do you dare to imply that I have been setting my cap at Sir Greydon?”
“What else am I to suppose,” he retorted angrily, “when I find you hanging upon his arm while he whispers in your ear in an intimate manner which even I would not venture to assume with you? I have never been more shocked in my life! I am aware that he is known, even among his own set, as a dangerous flirt, but I never imagined that you—!”
“Is he indeed? No doubt that is another piece of information gleaned by your spying.”
“It is one which I hoped not to be obliged to impart, but I see I have no choice. You are deluding yourself, cousin! It is out of the question that Sir Greydon Varleigh will ever offer you marriage.”
“I did not suppose that he would! Such a thought never entered my mind!”
“The more shame to you, then, for permitting him the degree of familiarity which I witnessed between you! I think you must have taken leave of your senses! Even if you were unaware of his reputation, to have so little regard for your own—!”
“That is enough!” Dione spoke quietly, but in a tone which pierced even his armor of self-righteousness. “I will listen to no more insults and innuendos. Pray go! I will make your excuses to Mama.”
He stared at her, his face white and spiteful. “If I go, cousin, it will be for good. Do not imagine that you will be able to come to me for help when you find yourself at a standstill.”
“Nothing would ever induce me to do so!”
“We’ll see about that! I suppose you are depending upon your friend Varleigh to rescue you from the consequences of establishing yourself in this moldering ruin of a house, but be warned, Dione! There are aspects of his life of which, to spare your blushes, I have not spoken, but you may find, when it conies to the point, that you are not prepar
ed to pay the price he will demand of you.”
“Oh, let us not be mealy-mouthed!” By now Dione had lost her last precarious hold upon her temper. “You mean, do you not, that you think Sir Greydon will invite me to become his mistress? Well, let me tell you, Eustace, that I would far sooner accept a carte blanche from him than a proposal of marriage from you! Now go! I wish never to see you again!”
“You will not, ma’am! You may be sure of that!” He strode furiously to the door and flung it open, then paused to look back at her, apparently at a loss for words. Then, ejaculating “Shameless, shameless!” he went out, and the door slammed behind him.
Dione sank down into her chair, pressing her hands to her scarlet cheeks. Eustace’s parting words, she thought, were justified. It was a shameless thing to have said, even under the goad of extreme provocation. Young, unmarried women were supposed to know nothing of such matters, and if this supposed innocence was largely an illusion cherished by the opposite sex, it was an illusion which ought not to be openly shattered. She was honestly appalled by what she had said; even more appalling was the suspicion, no sooner recognized than thrust guiltily aside, that it might possibly be the truth.
Dione slept badly that night, a fact which she had no hesitation in ascribing to an unquiet conscience. Not that the rest of the family blamed her for quarrelling irretrievably with Eustace, Edwina and Theodore being openly jubilant, and Cecilia resigned. Mrs. Mallory, to whom Dione admitted privately that her dismissal of Eustace might prove to have been improvident, said vaguely but with unusual optimism that she was sure it would all turn out for the best; she had no wish to return to London, and was thankful to be spared further argument. Dione was not to refine upon it any more.
This maternal advice Dione found herself unable to adopt. She had dismissed with no more than a moment’s consideration Eustace’s suspicion that Sir Greydon was bent upon seducing her. She fancied she knew him rather better than to believe that, and in any event, (with a touch of wry humor) it was unlikely that with all the beautiful and accomplished women in London to choose from, he would waste a moment’s amorous consideration upon her. He was a kind friend, but though she had no hesitation in turning to him for advice, she would not dream of asking for more material assistance.
Yet assistance she was more than likely to need. As she tossed restlessly in her huge, forbidding bed, the thought of her many responsibilities crowded about her like mocking phantoms. The house, the “moldering ruin” as Eustace had contemptuously but with some justification described it, which threatened to make continuous and heavy demands upon a very slender purse, was the most immediately menacing, but close upon its heels came the question of Theodore’s education. As soon as his health had sufficiently improved he would need proper schooling, and where was the money for that to come from? Then there were Cecy and Edwina, who deserved some brighter prospect than being mere spinster daughters in an impoverished household; and Mama—how long would her delicate constitution support the rigors of life at Garth House once the summer was over?
With a little moan of despair Dione buried her face in her pillow. Her family might not blame her for quarrelling with Eustace, but by now she was bitterly blaming herself. Until today there had still been a refuge to which, even at the cost of some personal sacrifice, she could have returned the family if circumstances made it impossible to remain at Garth House, but now there was nowhere to turn. “Burning her bridges” Greydon had called it when she described how she had parted from Aunt Winton; she had burned them now with a vengeance, and all because she had allowed Eustace to goad her into quite unpardonable behavior.
It was scarcely surprising that morning found her as pale as before, the shadows about her eyes more pronounced. Mrs. Mallory, much concerned, wanted to send again for the doctor, but Dione brushed the suggestion aside, declaring that she would be better directly. She made a pretense of eating breakfast, halfheartedly assayed several household tasks, and then, to escape her family’s anxious concern, wandered out into the garden.
She could not, however, escape from her problems, and was walking dispiritedly beside the pool, through the long grass starred with daisies and buttercups which had once been a lawn, when Sir Greydon drove up in his curricle. As soon as he caught sight of her he pulled up, handed the reins to Stubbs, and alighted to come quickly toward her. As they shook hands he looked searchingly into her face, saying with swift concern:
“I had hoped to find you more recovered than this. What has happened? Is that tiresome fellow, Winton, still here?”
She smiled rather wanly. “No, he did not stay very long. To tell truth, I rid myself of him, though not, I fear, very civilly. So uncivilly, in fact, that he will never come here again.”
“And now you are blaming yourself for having done so,” he said shrewdly. “What you need, Miss Mallory, is some diversion to give your thoughts a new direction. Will you let me take you for a drive?”
She hesitated, thinking of work left undone, but the temptation was too strong to resist. If she could get away from Garth House for a little while, she thought, perhaps she would be able to view her problems in a new light, and find them not so troublesome after all.
“Thank you. I would enjoy that. Will you come in and talk to Mama while I get ready? I will not keep you waiting above ten minutes.”
Mrs. Mallory, informed of the intended outing, gave it her unqualified approval, confiding to Sir Greydon, while her daughter was upstairs, that she did not care to see Dione looking so worn. It was not like her; she had inherited her Papa’s excellent constitution, and even the unfortunate accident two nights before should not have pulled her down so.
“I fancy, ma’am, if you will forgive me for saying so,” he replied bluntly, “that it was the visit you sustained yesterday from Mr. Winton, more than her fall, which is at the root of Miss Mallory’s indisposition.”
“Yes, indeed,” she agreed earnestly. “What passed between them I do not know, but I do not scruple to tell you, Sir Greydon, that when he came to take leave of me, he informed me that we would never see him here again.” She sighed. “His intentions are good, you understand, and his concern for us genuine, but to state that we could not possibly remain here, and to tell Dee that she is headstrong, and should be guided by the advice of those wiser than herself, was not the way to go about things.”
His lips twitched. “Most decidedly not. I hesitate to inquire what reply Miss Mallory made to that.”
“She told him that she was always ready to listen to advice, but would never submit to tyranny.”
“Did she?” he said appreciatively. “You know, ma’am, I cannot help feeling that their quarrel was inevitable, for it seems to me that Mr. Winton has not the smallest notion how to remain on good terms with your daughter.”
“He never had,” she admitted, “and it was most unfortunate that he should have chosen to visit us just when she is feeling out of sorts. In the ordinary way, such a disagreement with him would not have troubled her in the least.”
“Perhaps,” Greydon suggested, “Miss Mallory is concerned on your behalf, ma’am. She may fear that a breach between her and Mr. Winton may lead to one between you and your sister, and thus cause you distress.”
The widow looked much struck. “That had not occurred to me! She has said nothing to indicate—! Sir Greydon, if she should hint such a thing to you, I beg that you will do your best to reassure her. I have a sincere regard for my sister, but her claim upon my affection lags far behind my daughter’s.” She paused, eyeing him rather defiantly. “Does that shock you, sir? Do you perhaps feel that I place too high a value upon Dione?”
He smiled and shook his head. “My dear Mrs. Mallory, to do that were impossible. She is beyond price.” Their eyes met for a moment, but before anything more could be said Dione herself came back into the room, with her hat on, and carrying a sunshade, and he added lightly: “Miss Mallory, you must allow me to congratulate you. You are the first lady I have ever known
to say ten minutes, and mean it.”
They took leave of Mrs. Mallory, and went out. A few minutes later Cecilia came hurrying into the room, looking concerned.
“Mama, did you know that Dee has driven out with Sir Greydon?”
“Yes, my love. He was here for a few minutes, talking to me while she put on her hat.”
“But, Mama, what can Dee be thinking of? They have gone alone! Sir Greydon told his groom to wait here.”
Mrs. Mallory received this shocking intelligence with admirable calm. Her head bent again over her sewing, but Cecilia saw with astonishment that a little, pleased smile was playing about her lips.
“Did he, my love?” she said placidly. “Well, no doubt he had some good reason for doing so.”
“You do not object, I trust, to leaving Stubbs behind?” Greydon remarked as he guided his team cautiously along the drive. “I recollect that you told me yesterday you consider yourself past the need for a chaperone.”
“Yes, and I recollect the answer you made,” she retorted. “I do not object, of course. I have often thought it must be exceedingly uncomfortable for the poor man to be perched up behind us in that fashion, and quite unnecessary, after all.”
“Most people consider it necessary in order to observe the proprieties.”
“I wonder why?” she said reflectively. “It is hard to imagine what impropriety could take place in an open carriage with the driver fully occupied in handling a team of spirited horses.” She cast him a somewhat uncertain glance, saw that he was laughing, and added contritely: “I ought not to have said that. It betrayed a sad want of delicacy.”
The Varleigh Medallion Page 13