CHAPTER VI.
Mr Varley, Sir Geoffrey Charteris’ valet and factotum, and majordomo in the baronet’s town residence, Grosvenor Square, was by no means devoid of courage; but the contents of the note he was reading in the hall one fine morning early in May were sufficient to put to flight for the moment any vengeful schemes he was harbouring against the wily gentleman who has just quitted the house, and that gentleman no less a person than our old friend Le Gautier.
Timothy Varley was an Irishman, and had been in his youth what is termed a patriot. In his hot blood he had even joined a League for the ‘removal of tyrants;’ but the League, in spite of its solemn form and binding oaths, had died a natural death. At times, however, the recollection of it troubled Mr Varley’s conscience sorely. It was destined to be brought to his mind now in a startling manner.
‘G. S. I. You will be at the corner of Chapel Place to-night at nine. A girl will meet you, and show you the way. You are wanted; your turn has come. Do not fail.—Number XI.’
Never did Bob Acres, in that celebrated comedy, The Rivals, feel the courage oozing from his finger-tips as did Timothy Varley now. He turned the missive over in his fingers; but no consolation was to be derived from that; and bitterly did he revile the juvenile folly that had placed him in such a position at this time of life.
‘It is no sham,’ he muttered to himself. ‘God save Ireland—that is the old countersign; and to think of it turning up now! I had forgotten the thing years ago. This comes of joining secret societies—a nice thing to bring a respectable family man to! Now, by the powers! who was Number Eleven? That used to be Pat Mahoney; and a mighty masterful man he was, always ready with his hands if anything crossed him. O dear, O dear! this is a pretty thing. Maybe they want to mix me up with dynamite; but if they do, I won’t do it, and that’s flat. I suppose I shall have to go.’
Giving vent to these words in a doleful tone of voice, he betook himself to his private sanctum. His spirits were remarked to be the reverse of cheerful, and he declined a glass of sherry at lunch, a thing which roused much speculation below stairs.
Punctual to the moment, Timothy Varley stood in Chapel Place waiting for his unknown guide. Just as he was beginning to imagine the affair to be a hoax, and congratulating himself thereon, a woman passed him, stopped, and walked in his direction again. ‘God save Ireland!’ she said as she repassed.
‘Amen, not forgetting one Timothy Varley,’ he returned piously.
‘It is well,’ the woman replied calmly, ‘that you are here. Follow me!’
‘With the greatest of pleasure.—But hark here; my legs are not so young as yours: if we are going far, let us have a cab, and I’ll stand the damage.’
‘There is no occasion,’ the stranger said in a singularly sweet voice. ‘We have not a great distance to travel.’
‘Not good enough to ride in the same carriage with a gentleman’s gentleman,’ Varley muttered, for he did not fail to note the stranger’s refined tones.
His guide led him along Tottenham Court Road, and thence to Fitzroy Square. Turning into a little side-street, she reached at length a door, at which she knocked.
In a room on the first floor, Isodore and Valerie le Gautier were seated, waiting the advent of Lucrece and the stranger. Varley began to feel bewildered in the presence of so much beauty and grace; for Isodore’s loveliness overpowered him, as it did all men with whom she came in contact. Scarcely deigning to notice his presence, she motioned him to a chair, where he sat the picture of discomfiture, all traces of the audacious Irishman having disappeared.
‘Your name is Timothy Varley?’ Isodore said.
‘Yes, miss; leastways, it was when I came here, though, if you were to tell me I was the man in the moon, I couldn’t say nay to you.’
‘I know you,’ Isodore continued. ‘You were born near Mallow, joined the United Brotherhood thirty years ago, and your Number was Twenty-six. If I am wrong, you will please correct me.’
‘For goodness’ sake, miss—my lady, I mean—don’t speak so loud. Think what might happen to me if any one knew!’
‘No wonder your countrymen fail, with such chicken-hearts among them,’ Isodore observed scornfully. ‘I do not want to do you any harm; quite the contrary. There is an advertisement in to-day’s Times. Your mistress is in search of a maid. Is that so?’
Timothy Varley began to breathe a little more freely. ‘Yes,’ he answered glibly; ‘she does want a maid. She must be honest, sober, and industrious; ready to sit up all night if necessary, and have a good temper—not that Miss Enid will try any one’s temper much. The last girl was discharged’——
‘Now, Mr Varley, I know a girl who must fill that vacancy. I do not wish to threaten you or hold any rod of terror over your head; but I shall depend upon you to procure it for my protégée.’
The conversation apparently was not going to be so pleasant. Timothy Varley’s mind turned feebly in the direction of diamond robberies.
‘Well, miss—that is, my lady—if I may make so bold as to ask you a question: why, if the matter is so simple, don’t you write to my young mistress and settle the matter that way?’
‘Impossible,’ Isodore replied, ‘for reasons I cannot enter into with you. You must do what I ask, and that speedily.—You have a certain Monsieur le Gautier at your house often?’
This question was so abruptly asked, that Varley could not repress a start. ‘We have,’ he growled—‘a good deal too often, to please me. My master dare not call his body his own since he first began to come to the house with his signs and manifestations.—You see,’ he explained, ‘servants are bound to hear these things.’
‘At keyholes and such places,’ Isodore smiled. ‘Yes, I understand such things do happen occasionally. So this Le Gautier is a spiritualist, is he; and Sir Geoffrey is his convert?’
‘Indeed, you may say that,’ Varley burst out in tones of great grievance. ‘The baronet sees visions and all sorts of things.’
‘Is it possible,’ Valerie whispered to her friend, ‘that Hector has really succeeded in gaining an influence over this Sir Geoffrey by those miserable tricks he played so successfully at Rome?’
‘It is very probable,’ Isodore murmured in reply. ‘This Sir Geoffrey is very weak in intellect.—Tell me, Mr Varley,’ she continued, turning in his direction, ‘does the baronet keep much of Monsieur le Gautier’s company? Does he visit at his rooms?’
‘I believe he does; anyway, he goes out at nights, and always comes back looking as if he had seen a ghost. Whatever his game may be—and sure enough there is some game on—it’s killing him by inches, that’s what it’s doing.’
‘And this change you put down to Le Gautier? Perhaps you are right. And now, another question. Is not there another reason, another attraction besides discussing spiritualism with Sir Geoffrey, that takes him to Grosvenor Square?’
Varley so far forgot himself as to wink impressively. ‘You might have made a worse guess than that,’ he said. ‘I am not the only one who can see what his designs are. Miss Enid is the great attraction.’
‘And she?’
‘Hates him, if looks count for anything.—And so do I,’ he continued; ‘and so do all of us, for the matter of that. I would give a year’s salary to see his back turned for good!’
‘Mr Varley,’ Isodore said in grave tones, ‘I sent for you here to work upon your fears, and to compel you, if necessary, to do my bidding. That, I see, is not necessary, for we have a common bond of sympathy. For reasons I need not state here, we have good reasons for keeping a watch over this Le Gautier; but rest assured of one thing—that he will never wed your mistress. I shall hold you to secrecy.—And now, you must promise to get my protégée this situation.’
‘Well, I will do my best,’ Varley replied cheerfully. ‘But how it is going to be done, I really can’t see.’
‘Irishmen are proverbial for their inventive powers, and doubtless you will discover a way.—The new maid is a French girl, remember, the daughter of an old friend. Perhaps you would like to see her?’ With a gesture she indicated Lucrece, who came forward, turning to the Irishman with one of her most dazzling smiles. The feeling of bewilderment came on again.
‘She!’ he cried; ‘that beautiful young lady a servant?’
‘When she is plainly dressed, as suitable to her lowly station, she will appear different.’
‘Ah, you may pull the leaves from the flowers, but the beauty remains to them still,’ Varley replied, waxing poetical. ‘However, if it must be, it must; so I will do my best.’
Varley’s diplomacy proved successful, for, a week later, Lucrece was installed at Grosvenor Square.