“Does, she, indeed!” snapped his grandmother, with a sudden and bewildering change of ground. “Matters have come to a pretty pass when a penniless little nobody takes it upon herself to refuse Varleigh of Rushbourne!” She directed a piercing glance at him beneath her brows. “You must have been unwontedly inept in your handling of her.”
“I trust not,” he replied equably, but clearly with no intention of enlarging upon the matter. “Grandmama, I wish very much to present Dione to you. Will you oblige me by inviting Mrs. Mallory and her two elder daughters to visit you?”
“I suppose I have no choice,” she replied grudgingly, “for I shall have to make the girl’s acquaintance if you are determined upon this folly. I am well aware that I have nothing to say to the matter! You are old enough, one would suppose, to know your own mind—though I place very little dependence upon any man’s commonsense where a woman is concerned.”
He accepted this meekly, though with a gleam of affectionate amusement in his eyes, saying in a soothing tone: “You may, however, depend upon my being sufficiently conscious of my duty not to make an unsuitable marriage. Dione is poor. That is the only objection which you can in justice offer against her, but she will need your help and guidance in a world of which, as you truly observe, she knows very little. I would like to believe that she will receive it.”
“Well, you may believe it!” she snapped. “I cannot like this marriage, but you should know me better than to imagine I will give the tattle-mongers any chance to say that it has caused a breach between us, or that your wife is not acceptable to your family.”
“Thank you,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it, “and you will like her, you know! Mrs. Mallory and Miss Cecilia may exasperate you, for they are both the helpless, clinging sort of female I know you find irritating, but Dione is very different, I promise you.”
“Dione!” she repeated querulously. “Of all the outlandish names to inflict upon a girl—!” Her fingers tightened hard upon his, and she looked up anxiously and searchingly into his face. “Greydon, are you certain she is the right woman for you?”
“Quite certain, my dear,” he replied reassuringly. “The only woman I have ever met with whom I want to share the rest of my life.”
For a few moments longer she continued to study him, then, as though finally convinced, she nodded resignedly and released his hand, but merely said with all her usual acerbity:
“Then you had better lose no time about it. I want to see an heir to Rushbourne before I die!”
He laughed. “Grandmama, you are quite outrageous! Where, pray, is your delicacy of mind?”
“Never had any,” she retorted. “It wasn’t fashionable when I was a girl. This generation is a deal too mealy-mouthed!” She looked sharply at him. “Afraid I will shock this Dione of yours?”
He shook his head, quizzing her. “Not in the least! You will not find her at all missish. As for her name, the rest of her family call her ‘Dee,’ and I am sure she will have no objection if you choose to do the same.”
For the remainder of that day the Mallory family found Dione deeply abstracted, but the younger members supposed this to be the lingering effect of her accident, Cecilia asking her frequently and solicitously if her headache was very bad, until discouraged from doing so by her mother. Mrs. Mallory might suspect that her eldest daughter’s preoccupation had some other cause, but she kept her own counsel, and merely suggested mildly that it might be a good thing if Dee went early to bed.
Dione agreed with unusual docility, and went up to her room soon after dinner. She had little expectation of the good night’s sleep which her mother had confidently predicted would make her feel much more the thing, but she wanted more than anything to be alone, to consider without interruption or distraction the new and astonishing problem which had been set before her, and upon which a decision must soon be made.
For a little while after she had climbed into bed, drawing the musty curtains to shut out the lingering daylight, she lay in a warm cocoon of darkness and allowed herself the luxury of pretending that she had accepted Sir Greydon’s proposal. She was honest enough to admit that she would like nothing better; she had never met anyone with whom she had felt so instantly and completely in sympathy, while the prospect of a future free of financial worries yet with a congenial partner was almost beyond her power to imagine. To be the cherished wife of Greydon Varleigh—could any woman, she wondered—ask for more?
Before long, however, the more practical side of her nature reasserted itself, reminding her that such a future would present difficulties to match its advantages. Sir Greydon’s wife would be the mistress of a great house and a great estate, as well as a London mansion where she would be expected to entertain the most brilliant and aristocratic company, and how would plain Dione Mallory fare then? To be sure, she could depend upon her husband’s support, but she would need, too, the help and encouragement of his family, and particularly of old Lady Varleigh, if she were to avoid the many pitfalls which would lie in wait, and what right had she to expect that she would receive it?
Yet there was her own family to consider. Ought she not, for their sake, seize the glittering opportunity offered to her, and secure their future as well as her own? The world would not blame her for doing so; it might even regard it as her duty, and consider her extraordinarily fortunate to find duty and inclination going hand-in-hand. Perhaps she was creating difficulties where none existed. For the family’s sake she had contemplated marrying Eustace Winton even though she did not like him; why hesitate to accept Sir Greydon because she liked him so much?
This, Dione realized suddenly, brought her to the heart of the matter, and face to face with the only question of any real significance, since if it could be honestly answered it would dispose of all the rest. She liked Greydon immensely, but did she love him? She simply did not know. There had been no romantic interludes in her life; no girlish infatuations, no young men swearing undying devotion and begging her to marry them; even Eustace, although he had proposed many times, had never once said that he loved her, or addressed to her even the mildest endearment. She had no yardstick whatsoever by which to measure the depth of her feeling for Sir Greydon. Only a deep, instinctive conviction that to marry him she must be able to offer him a love as profound as that he professed for her; and a certainty that to lose his companionship and support would be a desolation beyond bearing.
She fell asleep with her dilemma still unresolved, and awoke with her mind in the same turmoil of uncertainty. She wondered whether Greydon would come to Garth House that day, and did not know whether she hoped that he would, or feared it. One thing at least, she thought with exasperation, could not be denied. His declaration had turned her whole world upside down, and robbed her of all her usual ability to come to a decision; she did not even know whether she was happy or wretched.
In an attempt to divert her mind from the questions teasing it, she flung herself energetically into household tasks, so energetically, in fact, that by early afternoon she had nothing left to do. It was another hot day, and Mrs. Mallory, her sewing in her lap, was dozing gently in the parlor. Cecilia, who possessed considerable artistic ability, was giving Edwina a drawing lesson, and they had carried their sketch books out into the garden. Theo was off on some mysterious business of his own with Jem Durridge. Dione, looking restlessly about for some task with which to occupy herself, decided to make a start on turning out the stillroom.
This was situated at the back of the house near the kitchen, and looked as though it had not been touched for decades. Its walls were lined with shelves which bore a bewildering collection of jars, bottles, and boxes all thickly coated with dust and cobwebs, while the table in the middle of the room was similarly cluttered. Dione, swathed in apron and mobcap, viewed the chaos with distaste and set briskly to work.
Within half an hour she was regretting her choice of occupation, for the stillroom faced south, and the window, tightly closed for years, now refused t
o open. Dione was hot, dusty, and uncomfortable, and in no mood to welcome her brother when he put his head round the door.
“You had better not come in, Theo,” she warned him sharply. “It is very dirty, and I am far too busy to attend to you.”
“Yes, but, Dee, listen! We have something to tell you. It’s important!” Theodore came farther into the room, revealing, to Dione’s indignation, that Jem Durridge was close upon his heels. “Come on, Jem! My sister is here.”
Jem obeyed rather bashfully, knuckling his forehead to Dione and coming no farther than the threshold. Theodore grabbed him impatiently by the arm and dragged him forward, pushing the door shut behind them and saying eagerly:
“Dee, you know Ibstone says the stables are locked up because the roof is unsafe? Well, that’s all a hum! We have just been in there, and there’s nothing wrong with the roof at all—at least, no more than with any of the other roofs here.”
“Theo, I have no time for any of your hoaxes. The stable door is still padlocked.”
“Yes, but Jem said that if we could get into the loft we could see if it was safe, and if it was we could get down into the stables. So we climbed on to the roof of the coachhouse—!”
“You did what?” Dione was horrified. “Merciful Heaven, you might both have been killed! Jem, it was very wrong of you to suggest such a prank. I am exceedingly angry with you.”
“Oh, Dee, stop fussing and listen!” Theodore implored her. “We got into the loft through that little window at the end, and what do you think? We could hear a horse moving about down below.”
Dione regarded him exasperatedly. “Another ghost, no doubt! Theo, I warned you!”
“No, no! It was a real horse, in the stall right at the far end. A prime bit of blood-and-bone, too, but the oddest thing of all is that Jem recognized it.” He prodded his friend in the ribs, adding generously: “Go on, Jem! Tell her!”
“It be that big gray o’ Mr. Varleigh’s, miss,” Jem blurted, scarlet-faced. “A nasty-tempered brute it be, so I wouldn’t let Master Theo near it.” He saw that Miss Mallory was staring unbelievingly at him, and added desperately: “That be gospel truth, miss! Anyone in the village will tell you the same.”
Dione felt for the edge of the table and leaned against it for support, her thoughts racing. There was no reason to doubt what the boys were saying, or to suppose that Jem was mistaken, so their discovery could mean only one thing. Jack Ibstone—or, more probably, his whole family—were in league with Oliver Varleigh. They had been concealing his horse at Garth House; and if the horse, why not Varleigh himself? That would explain his complete and baffling disappearance.
Excitement was rising in her, and the thought that here, at last, was an opportunity to do something for Greydon. There was no time yet to consider all the implications of the discovery, but two facts were crystal clear. Greydon himself must be summoned without delay, and the two boys prevented from speaking of the matter to anyone else.
“Are you quite sure about the horse, Jem?” she asked, and he nodded.
“Certain sure, miss. It be Mr. Varleigh’s gray, right enough!”
“Mr. Varleigh is Sir Greydon’s cousin, Dee,” Theodore put in helpfully. “He used to live at the Abbey.”
“Yes, Theo, I know.” Dione stopped short, frowning at him. “Why do you say ‘used to live at the Abbey’?”
He came closer, lowering his voice to a thrilling whisper. “Because he has disappeared. Dee, we think Ibstone has murdered him.”
“Theo!” Dione was shocked. “You should not say such a thing, even as a joke.”
“I wasn’t joking!” he replied indignantly. “Only think, Dee! Mr. Varleigh has disappeared—Jem says everyone in the village knows that. He said he was going away for a few days, and he rode off on his horse and hasn’t been seen since. That was weeks ago, and now his horse is hidden in our stables. So where can Mr. Varleigh be?”
Where, indeed? Jem was nodding solemn agreement, and it occurred to Dione that to stamp too firmly on their gruesome theory would be to invite the two boys to speculate upon the only likely alternative. She said hastily:
“Well, wherever he is, and whatever the reason for his horse being concealed here, one thing at least is plain to me. Sir Greydon would be exceedingly angry if we noised abroad this very odd affair before informing him of it. He must be told immediately. Jem, if I write him a note, will you carry it to the Abbey?”
He assented eagerly, and Dione, warning them to remain where they were until she returned, hurried to the parlor for pen and paper. Mrs. Mallory, rousing with a start, regarded her with astonishment and some dismay.
“Dee, what in the world have you been doing?”
“I have begun to clean the stillroom, Mama. It is in a shocking state.”
“So are you, my love,” her mother informed her frankly. “For pity’s sake, go and take off that horrid cap and apron, and wash your face. You look like a scullery maid.”
“Yes, Mama. I will do so directly,” Dione replied absently, sitting down at the table and dipping her pen in the ink. “I have to write this first.”
Mrs. Mallory continued to hold forth rather fretfully on the impropriety of a lady, however indigent, undertaking tasks which should only be performed by a servant, but Dione, intent upon conveying to Greydon the maximum amount of information in the minimum number of words, paid no heed to the gently querulous monologue. On the contrary, she welcomed it, since Mrs. Mallory’s preoccupation with her daughter’s shocking appearance prevented her from speculating upon the letter Dione was writing.
When she returned to the stillroom she found the boys happily discussing the probable whereabouts of Oliver Varleigh’s body, and gathered that while Jem favored the notion of a hiding place in Garth Wood, Theodore was of the opinion that to dig a grave in the vegetable garden would have occasioned less remark.
“Horrid boy!” Dione observed dispassionately, overhearing this. “Do you wish me never to eat vegetables again? Here is the note, Jem. Go as quickly as you can, and make sure that they know at the Abbey that the message is urgent. It will be best if you do not part with it to anyone but Sir Greydon himself, if that is possible.”
He assured her that he understood, and hurried away, while Theodore, his request to be allowed to accompany him unhesitatingly refused by his sister, scowled sulkily for a little while but found the possibilities of the situation too exciting not to be discussed.
“What do you suppose Sir Greydon will do?” he asked, watching Dione clear the last of the clutter from the table. “Will he send for the constable and have Ibstone dragged off to prison? Will they dig up the vegetable garden?”
“Neither, I imagine,” she replied dampingly. “What a little ghoul you are, Theo! I expect Sir Greydon will simply question Ibstone about the horse, and ask him if he knows what has become of Mr. Varleigh—if he has indeed disappeared. It is quite likely, you know, that he went off somewhere by Mail coach, and has already written to Sir Greydon to tell him where he has gone, and why.”
“If he has, it will be the shabbiest thing!” Theodore declared hotly. “And even if he has, why should his horse be hidden in our stables? There must be some mystery about that at all events.” “Perhaps there is, but that is Sir Greydon’s business and not ours. Now mind, Theo! When he comes, I will have no impertinent questions or suggestions put to him about this matter. In fact, unless he give you leave, you will not breathe a word of it to anyone, not even to Mama. Give me your word on that, if you please.”
He did so, but looked so crestfallen that she relented a little, and assured him that since it was he and Jem who had uncovered the mystery, no doubt Sir Greydon would tell them as much about it as was good for them to know.
“And that is all I can promise you,” she added with finality. “Now pray go and occupy yourself somewhere—but not in the neighborhood of the stables.”
“I shall go and wait for Sir Greydon,” he decided. “If I sit by the pool I shall see him
as soon as he arrives.”
“Very well, but you are likely to wait for some time. It will take Jem at least half an hour to reach the Abbey, and even then he may not find Sir Greydon at home.”
The prospect did not appear to worry Theodore, and he went cheerfully away to take up his self-appointed vigil, leaving his sister free at last to consider all the aspects of this totally unexpected development. She had no doubt at all that Oliver Varleigh was concealed somewhere in that part of Garth House where the Ibstones had their quarters, rooms into which Dione herself had never intruded. He must have been established there even before the Mallory family arrived, which would account for their hostile reception; and yet their arrival had not been unexpected. Even if some unsuspected bond existed between Oliver Varleigh and the Ibstones, and he had planned to lie low at Garth House after the theft of the Medallion, why had he not left as soon as Mrs. Ibstone received Dione’s letter informing her that they were coming?
Sitting with her elbows on the table and her chin on her hands, Dione pondered that question, until suddenly she recalled their first night in the house, and Theodore’s insistence that he heard voices, and a tapping sound. A sound which, later, he had identified as that of someone lame walking with a stick. When he played his prank with the walking-stick he had found, Molly had been horrified; not, as they had supposed, by superstitious dread of Jonathan Mallory’s ghost, but because she feared that the secret occupant of the house had betrayed himself. Oliver Varleigh had not originally planned to hide at Garth House. Some accident must have befallen him, and he had sought refuge here because he was unable to make his escape; and since he was still here, surely the Varleigh Medallion must be here also? Even if it were concealed somewhere, Dione had no doubt that Greydon would know how to compel his cousin to disclose its hiding place.
The Varleigh Medallion Page 16