The Varleigh Medallion

by Sylvia Thorpe

  The thought of Greydon, and his possibly imminent arrival, made Dione recollect her present appearance. She started up in dismay and, closing the door upon the grimy disorder of the stillroom, hurried up to her bedchamber, where she washed, and put on a fresh muslin gown. She had tidied her hair, and was just placing a handkerchief in her reticule when a faint sound reached her from the corridor outside the room. No tapping stick this time; just a stealthy, uneven footstep approaching the door of the Great Bedchamber.

  For a moment of horrified stillness Dione stood petrified, and then, as the latch began to lift, instinct sent her flitting on tiptoe through the open door into Theodore’s room. Pushing the door nearly shut she stood motionless, almost afraid to breathe, peering through the crack at that tiny portion of her own room still visible to her. She heard the door softly open and close, the limping footfall drew nearer and a man crossed her line of vision.

  Dione’s eyes widened with astonishment, for this was not the first time she had seen him. Moderately tall and slightly stooping, hair so fair that it looked almost white—save that he was now booted and wearing a long, caped overcoat—this was the figure she had glimpsed by misty moonlight in this same room two nights before.

  He had passed out of sight in the direction of the fireplace, but she could still hear the sound of furtive movement. The seconds dragged by, and then at last he reappeared, limping towards the door; he was withdrawing his hand from the pocket of his coat, and that side of the garment was now dragged out of shape by the weight of some heavy object. In the light of what she already knew, the meaning of the incident was plain. Oliver Varleigh was recovering the proceeds of his crime, prior to making his escape.

  It could not be mere coincidence that he should do so at this precise moment. Perhaps, from a window, he had seen the boys climbing into or out of the stable loft; perhaps one of the Ibstones had overheard them talking to Dione in the stillroom; the reason was unimportant. What mattered was to prevent his departure, for somehow he must be detained until Greydon arrived.

  With not the smallest notion of how this was to be accomplished, she stole across the Great Bedchamber, listened at the door, and then peeped out to find the corridor deserted. Of course, he would have used the back stairs. Dione waited a few moments to give him time to reach the bottom, and then went quietly down them herself.

  This brought her to the stone-flagged passage onto which the various domestic offices opened, and which ended at a door giving onto the stableyard. It was deserted, but a murmur of voices came from behind the closed door of the kitchen. Pausing outside, she was able to distinguish what was being said.

  The first voice she heard was Molly’s, sharp with anxiety and dismay. “They’ll catch you for sure! You haven’t sat a horse this month past, and your leg be’nnt strong enough yet for a long, hard ride. Suppose that nasty brute was to throw you again?”

  “He might at that,” Ibstone’s surly tones broke in. “A sight too fresh, he be, having been cooped up all this time wi’ next to no chance to stretch his legs. ’Twere as much as I could do to saddle him and lead him out, and I’d no more have ventured to throw a leg across him than I’d try to fly.”

  “Confound you, Jack, stop croaking!” A voice now that Dione had never heard before. “Do you think I mean to stay here to be thrown into gaol for debt—for if you think my precious cousin will lift a finger to help me you’re fair and far out!”

  “But he would, Oliver! You know as he would!” Molly sounded tearful now. “Think o’ the talk there’d be if you was prisoned! Sir Greydon’d never stand for that, nor would her ladyship. Too proud by half!”

  “You’re right there, by God!” Varleigh agreed savagely. “I’ve had to suffer their damned pride all my life, and I’ve had my fill of it. Do you think I would ever be allowed to forget this affair, even if Greydon settled my debts? I’d rather take my chance on getting out of the country.”

  “There’s money needed for a journey of that sort.” Mrs. Ibstone spoke for the first time, her flat, practical tone a sharp contrast to Varleigh’s voice. “You’ll need to change horses, and there’ll be a passage aboard ship to buy as well. How will you manage that with only a guinea or two in your pocket?”

  Dione scarcely heeded Varleigh’s reply, her mind being occupied by the discovery that the Ibstones were plainly in ignorance of Oliver’s possession of the Medallion, and of the money which Greydon said he had stolen at the same time. He must have convinced them that he was merely fleeing from his creditors, which explained his need to recover the stolen valuables himself. She had thought it odd that he should take such a risk when Molly could easily have fetched them to him, but it was plain now that neither Molly nor her parents knew about them. No doubt, on his arrival, Varleigh had been accommodated in the Great Bedchamber, and had seized the first opportunity to conceal there the proceeds of his crime.

  Molly was speaking again, imploringly: “Oh, my dearie, don’t go! What if they still be looking for you, them as you owes money to? There’s more to fear from them than ever there is from Sir Greydon. He’ll pay your debts, for his own sake and his grandma’s, if not for yours.”

  “I tell you I’ll not be beholden to him. Now loose me, Moll, there’s a good girl, or I’ll not be away before he comes! I’ll write to you, I give you my word, as soon as I’m safely out of England.” A wail from Molly suggested that this promise was small consolation. Above it, Dione heard Ibstone say roughly:

  “The lass be right! You’d do better to bide. Besides, what are we to say to Sir Greydon when he comes? We’ve hid you here, for Molly’s sake, but I never reckoned it to be known. Like as not we’ll be turned out o’ house and home on your account.”

  “Damn it, man, tell him the brats were lying, playing off a hoax on Miss Mallory! If I’m away, and you have all done your part in getting rid of any trace that I was ever here, there will be only their word that my horse was ever in the stables. No one else saw the brute there. Now I must go, or we shall all find ourselves in the basket.”

  Dione heard Ibstone’s reluctant assent, then movement within the room, and knew that she had no choice but to intervene. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed open the door and stepped into the kitchen.

  A stunned silence greeted her. Oliver Varleigh, trying to extricate himself from Molly’s tearful embrace, stared in ludicrous dismay, an emotion clearly shared by his companions. Dione, advancing into the room, addressed him with a calmness she did not entirely feel.

  “I fear that you find yourself already there, Mr. Varleigh. It is true that I did not see your horse, but I do see you, and even if you force your way out of the house before Sir Greydon comes, I assure you that he will have no hesitation in accepting my word that you were here.” She looked at Mrs. Ibstone, realizing the necessity of winning the woman and her husband onto her side. “It was wrong, and exceedingly foolish of you to hide Mr. Varleigh here, but no doubt you did so with the kindest intentions and so I shall not hold it against you.”

  The housekeeper’s expression did not relax, but Dione saw a flicker of astonishment and relief in her eyes, and knew that she had won an ally; and where Mrs. Ibstone led, her husband would undoubtedly follow. Molly had flung herself down by the table and was weeping noisily with her head buried in her arms; clearly she need not be taken into account. There remained only Oliver Varleigh.

  “As for you, sir,” Dione continued, turning to him again, “I must insist that you remain here until Sir Greydon comes. I do not think we shall be obliged to wait for long.”

  He had recovered a certain degree of composure by this time, and studied her with a faintly sneering expression. Seeing him distinctly for the first time, Dione could trace a certain resemblance to the Varleighs in his face, even though his coloring was so different. Clearly he had once been handsome—she thought that as a boy he must have possessed an almost feminine degree of good looks—but his features now were marked by lines of discontent and self-indulgence. He said ironically: />
  “And if I do not choose to wait, ma’am, do you imagine that you can compel me to do so?”

  “I do not know,” she replied candidly, “and I trust you will not oblige me to put it to the test. Believe me, you will be much wiser to wait here until Sir Greydon comes.”

  He stared at her from narrowed eyes, clearly wondering how much she knew, and Dione looked steadily back, silently asking herself whether, if it came to the point, Ibstone would obey a command to detain Varleigh by force. Then, into the tenseness of that pause, came the sound of the door from the stableyard being flung open, and the clatter of Theodore’s footsteps as he ran past towards the stillroom. Another door opened and closed, and then he came back more slowly, while Dione, desperately hoping that she had correctly interpreted the reason for his return to the house, raised her voice to call:

  “I am here, Theo! In the kitchen.”

  The door opened and he came in, saying eagerly: “Dee, I came to find you. Will you—” He broke off, staring with widening eyes at Oliver Varleigh, and then raised his voice to a shout. “Sir Greydon! Sir Greydon, come quickly!”

  Hasty footsteps sounded, and Theodore moved aside to let Greydon come past him into the kitchen. He checked just inside the door, his glance going swiftly from Dione to the Ibstones and then to Oliver, who was staring at him in consternation, his face a sickly gray. Satisfaction leapt into Greydon’s eyes, but all he said was:

  “What a confounded nuisance you are, Oliver! Do you mean to tell me that you have been skulking here for more than a month?”

  Oliver did not appear to be capable for the moment of telling him anything. Dione said in an urgent whisper:

  “He has the Medallion in his pocket. It was hidden in my room.”

  Greydon flashed her a smile. “You wonderful girl!” he said softly, and extended a compelling hand toward his cousin. “Come, Oliver, hand it over! You can keep the money you stole, but I want the Medallion.”

  “Well, I be damned!” Ibstone exclaimed. “I thought all along there were more to it than debts.”

  No one paid any heed to this interjection. Greydon waited with outstretched hand; Oliver retreated a pace or two until he fetched up with his back against the big, scrubbed table in the middle of the room. His face was livid now, and sweat glistened on his brow.

  “Very well, damn you!” he said in a shrill, cracked voice. “You shall have it!”

  He thrust his right hand into his pocket, and a little frown of perplexity creased Dione’s brow, but before she could speak the hand emerged again, holding not the Varleigh Medallion but a pistol, which he leveled at Greydon. Molly uttered a stifled scream.

  “Thought you held the whip hand, didn’t you?” Oliver sneered in the same shrill voice. “Thought you had only to give an order and I’d obey, as though I were one of your poor damned troopers. Well, you’re out there! I know I’m done for, but by God! I’ll make you pay for the way you’ve despised me, you and your old beldame of a grandmother who always hated me. I may be finished, but the accursed Varleighs will be finished, too, and can rot in hell!”

  Dione moved softly forward, two quick paces that brought her between Greydon and Oliver, facing the pistol. Greydon made an instinctive, horrified movement, checked even as it began, for Oliver’s finger was trembling on the trigger and the muzzle of the weapon was barely a yard from Dione’s breast.

  “Pray do not be foolish, Mr. Varleigh,” she said breathlessly. “You are by no means ‘finished,’ for Sir Greydon, I know, has no intention of punishing you. All he desires is the return of the Medallion.” He stared uncertainly at her, and she added persuasively: “Come now, put up the pistol! You would have to shoot me, you know, and I am persuaded that you wish me no harm.”

  For a few seconds longer he continued to stare at her, while the whole room, it seemed, held its breath, and then the hand holding the pistol wavered and sank to his side. Ibstone, who was nearest, grasped his flaccid wrist and twisted the weapon from his grasp, and with a shuddering groan Oliver sank down on the bench by the table and buried his face in his hands.

  Dione swayed suddenly and Greydon stepped quickly forward to support her, saying under his breath, in a shaken voice:

  “Dione, my darling!”

  She was trembling violently, and thankful for a moment to lean against him, but almost at once recovered herself sufficiently to say unsteadily:

  “The Medallion—is in his other pocket.”

  Greydon, becoming aware of the curious eyes about them, put her into the chair which Mrs. Ibstone had dragged forward, and then bent to feel in the left pocket of Oliver’s coat. When he straightened up again he was holding a great, shining circle of gold ablaze with precious stones.

  There was a concerted gasp of amazement. Theodore let his breath go in a long, low whistle of astonishment.

  “Is that what he had stolen?” he asked incredulously. “What is it, sir?”

  “The Varleigh Medallion, Theo,” Greydon replied, and looked down at Dione with a smile which was for her alone. “The Varleigh luck!”

  More hasty footsteps sounded in the passage and Mr. Calderwood came impetuously into the room, to halt just inside the door to stare with dropped jaw at the scene before him. Greydon said, with a very fair assumption of his usual manner:

  “Ah, Vivyan! It is fortunate that you accompanied me, for I have a favor to ask of you. Will you be good enough to take my curricle, drive Oliver to the Royal George and make certain that he boards the Mail coach for London?” To Oliver he added: “When you arrive in town, procure a room at Fenton’s Hotel and wait there until you hear again from me.”

  Mr. Varleigh cast him a malevolent glance. “Curse you! I don’t take orders from you.”

  “I am sure that you will, for the alternative is so very unpleasant. I should perhaps inform you that an officer of the Law is at present putting up at the inn in Brambledon.”

  “Devil take your officer of the Law!” Varleigh was rapidly recovering his effrontery, and spoke with a sneer. “Don’t try to gull me into believing you would hand me over to him, and have the precious Varleigh name dragged through the courts!”

  “Grey!” Vivyan had been staring at Oliver with gathering wrath, and now spoke in a tone of ferocious longing. “Let me take him out into the yard and teach him a lesson. You may not feel inclined to soil your hands on him, but I’m not so particular.”

  “I believe neither of us need put ourselves to that trouble, Vivyan,” Greydon said contemptuously. “Remember, Oliver, that it is not only the Runners who have been searching for you. There are some very ugly customers indeed who are eager to have a word with you about a loan which has not been repaid, and if you decline to do as I say, I shall have no choice but to hand you over to them. On the whole, I believe you will do better to accept what I offer.”

  From the alteration in Mr. Varleigh’s demeanor caused by this threat it was plain that he believed it, too. Greydon nodded to Vivyan, who grasped the older man by the arm and hauled him, unresisting, to his feet. To Oliver, Greydon added curtly:

  “I will arrange a passage to America, and your allowance will continue to be paid to you as long as you make no attempt to return to England.”

  Oliver Varleigh raised his head and looked at his kinsman with an expression of concentrated venom in his livid face.

  “Go to hell!” he said viciously, and allowed Vivyan to thrust him before him out of the room.

  Sir Greydon looked sternly at the Ibstones, who were watching him apprehensively. Mrs. Ibstone hurried into speech.

  “We never knew, sir! He told us he was on the run from his creditors. His horse had throwed him and hurt his leg so he couldn’t ride, and he begged us to hide him here until he was well. We never meant no harm!”

  “You betrayed the trust reposed in you,” Greydon said coldly. “If the decision were mine, you would all be turned off without a reference, but you are not in my service and I have no authority to punish you. It must be for Miss Mal
lory to decide.” He looked at Dione, noting with relief that though she was still very pale, she appeared to have recovered her composure. “Well, ma’am?”

  “Oh, miss, please don’t turn us off!” Mrs. Ibstone’s belligerence had totally deserted her. Her usually florid face was pale, and her numerous chins wobbled to the tearful quivering of her lips. “There didn’t seem no harm in it! We’d known Mr. Oliver all his life—him and Jack was cronies when they was lads—and there was Molly begging and pleading with me to take him in. They—I know I shouldn’t speak of such to a young lady and you’ll maybe not take my meaning—but her and Mr. Oliver—”

  “Pray do not go on, Mrs. Ibstone. I understand perfectly what you mean,” Dione replied with dignity, taking care not to catch Greydon’s eye. “I think it exceedingly foolish of her, and wrong in you to permit it, but that is neither here nor there. Since you did not know that Mr. Varleigh had robbed Sir Greydon—”

  “That we didn’t, miss! He’d have been sent packing if I had known, for thieving I don’t hold with, and never will!”

  “It is true that they did not know,” Dione said to Greydon. “I discovered that from what I heard said in this room before I came in. Do you not think that if they all swear to keep the whole matter secret, no more need be said?”

  “If that is what you wish.” He turned to the Ibstones. “Are you prepared to make—and keep—such a promise?”

  He was fervently assured that they were, and three separate undertakings were promptly given, even Molly, roughly shaken by her mother, lifting a tear-swollen face long enough to swear that no word of the affair would ever pass her lips. Dione then turned her attention to Theodore, and to Jem, who had sidled in to join his friend just after Mr. Calderwood’s departure, and had since been regaled, in an excited undertone, with an account of all that had happened.