Chapter Seventeen.
Assaulting the Castle.
Chester stood on the doorstep for some minutes, thinking, in perfect ignorance of what was taking place inside, and twice over he rang the bell, in the determination to enter and confront these men.
But reason stepped in.
“No,” he thought, “I could do nothing. For Marion’s sake I must bring subtlety to bear, not brute force. And this is leaving England, to try and forget everything,” he added, with a mocking laugh. “No; I must stay and unravel it all.”
He went home, had recourse to a drug again, and slept heavily till morning, and then, with his brain throbbing painfully from his anxious thoughts, he had left the house, determined to make another effort to obtain speech of Marion. That she was completely under the influence of her friends he felt sure, but if, he told himself, he could only obtain an interview, all might be well.
To this end and full of a fresh project, he took a four-wheeled cab and had himself driven to the end of Highcombe Street, where he bade the driver draw up and wait.
Here he threw himself back in one corner of the vehicle, opened a newspaper so as to screen his face and at the same time enable him to keep a strict watch upon the house.
Fortune favoured him. At the end of an hour he saw the carriage drawn up, and soon after the brothers and their wives came out and were driven off; then the butler stood airing himself upon the step for a time, and finally went in and closed the door.
Chester’s heart beat high with hope, and he waited for a few minutes, which seemed to be an hour. Then, telling the man to wait, he was going down the street, when a shout brought him back.
“Beg pardon, sir; you didn’t take my number,” said the driver, with a grin.
“No, why should I?” said Chester, wonderingly.
“So as to be able to find me agin if you forgets to come back, sir.”
“Oh, I see,” said Chester, smiling, and then placing a couple of coins in the man’s hand. “Don’t be afraid; I shall return.”
The opportunity had come, and without hesitation Chester went straight to the door and rang.
The butler answered the bell, after keeping him waiting some minutes, for it was not visiting time; and as soon as the man saw who it was he reddened a little and looked indignant.
“Take my card up to Miss Clareborough,” said Chester, quietly.
“Not at home, sir.”
“Look here, my man, I particularly wish to see your young lady, so have the goodness to take up my card.”
“Not at home, sir,” repeated the butler, pompously.
“To ordinary visitors, perhaps,” said Chester, whose temper was rising at the man’s manner; “but she will see me.”
“I told you twice over that our young lady wasn’t at home, sir,” said the butler, more offensive in speech and manner than ever.
“Yes,” said Chester, still quietly, “and I know perfectly well that this is only the customary formal reply to ordinary callers. My business is important, and I tell you that Miss Clareborough will see me, so take my card up at once.”
“Look here, sir,” said the man, insolently; “I have had my orders, and I know what to do. Once more: not at home.”
“Am I to understand that you refuse to take up my card?”
“Yes, sir; that’s it. They’ve seen your card, and master said he didn’t know you, and if you came again the family was not at home.”
“I have nothing to do with your master or his brother, my good fellow. My business is with Miss Clareborough, and I insist on seeing her.”
“Not at home,” said the man, shortly; and he drew back to close the door.
But firmly convinced that the lady he desired to see was a prisoner, Chester in his excitement stepped forward, and, to the man’s astonishment, entered the hall.
“Now,” he said angrily, “no more of this insolence, sir; take or send my card in to Miss Clareborough.”
“I say, look here,” cried the the butler, whose face grew ruddy and then white, “haven’t I told you she isn’t at home?”
“Yes, more than once, my good fellow, and I tell you now that she is, and that I will not stir from here until I have seen her.”
“Then look here, sir,” cried the butler; “I shall send for the police.”
“Do—at once,” retorted Chester.
The butler’s jaw dropped in his astonishment, but he recovered himself, closed the door, and took a few steps further into the hall, Chester following.
“Come, none of that,” cried the man. “You’ll stop there, and—”
“What’s the meaning of this, Mr Roach?” said a familiar voice, and Chester eagerly pressed forward.
“Ah, the housekeeper,” he cried quickly. “This man has refused again and again to bear my card to Miss Marion. Will you have the goodness to take it to her, and say that I beg she will see me for a few minutes at once?”
The old lady’s white forehead puckered up beneath her grey hair, as she looked in a startled way at the speaker, and then turned to the butler, who was holding Chester’s card between his first and second fingers.
“Who is this gentleman?” she said rather sternly, and for me moment Chester was so completely taken aback that the butler had time to speak.
“Here’s his card, ma’am. He’s been before wanting to see Miss Clareborough. Master’s seen it, ma’am, and says he don’t know anything about the gentleman, and that if he had business he was to write.”
The housekeeper turned to Chester, raising her eyebrows a little, and he had by this time recovered his balance.
“Of course,” he said, “I can quite understand Mr James’s action after his treatment of me, madam.”
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Let me speak to you alone,” he continued. “I can say nothing before this man.”
“Had you not better write to Mr Clareborough, sir, if you have business with the family?”
“No, certainly not,” said Chester. “My business is with Miss Clareborough, and I insist upon seeing her.”
“Excuse me, sir,” said the housekeeper, calmly; “as a gentleman, you must know that one of the ladies would decline to see a stranger on business unless she knew what that business was.”
“A stranger—on business!” cried Chester, angrily. “My good woman, why do you talk like this to me?”
“Really, sir, I do not understand you,” said the housekeeper, with dignity.
“Let me see you alone,” said Chester, earnestly.
“Certainly not, sir. Have the goodness to say what is your business here.”
“You know it is impossible,” cried Chester. “See me alone—send this man away.”
“Stay where you are, Mr Roach,” said the housekeeper, who might, from her calm, dignified manner, have been the mistress of the house. “Are you not making some mistake, sir? Mr Clareborough evidently does not know you.”
“Nor you either?” said Chester, sarcastically.
“I, sir? Certainly not,” replied the housekeeper.
Chester stared at her angrily.
“Do you dare to tell me this?” he cried.
“Come, sir, none of that, please,” said the butler, interfering. “We can’t have you always coming here and asking to see people who don’t want to see you.”
“Stand back, you insolent scoundrel!” cried Chester, turning upon the butler fiercely; and the man obeyed on the instant.
“There is no occasion to make a scene, sir,” said the housekeeper, gently. “Pray be calm. You have, I see, made a mistake. Had you not better go home and write to Mr Clareborough? If your business is important, he will, no doubt, make an appointment to meet you.”
“But you!” cried Chester, returning to the attack, “you deny that you know me?”
“Certainly, sir, I do not know you,” replied the housekeeper.
“Had you not better dismiss this man?”
“No, no,” said the housekeeper, smiling; and there was a very sweet look on her handsome old face. “There is no occasion for that. Pray take my advice; go back home and write what you wish to say.”
“After what has passed, madam, I can hold no communication with Mr Clareborough.”
“Indeed! Well, sir, of course all you say is foreign to me, but I must tell you that it seems the only course open; so much can be done by letter.”
“Then, as I understand,” said Chester, more quietly, “you refuse to give me a few words alone?”
“Yes, sir; you can have nothing to say to me that Mr Roach, the butler, may not hear.”
Chester looked at the woman fixedly, but she met his gaze in the calmest way—not a muscle moved, not a nerve quivered.
“Very well,” he said at last, “I see you are determined to ignore the past entirely.”
The housekeeper made a slight deprecatory movement toward him, and then signed the butler to open the door, which he did with alacrity, but Chester stood fast, looking past the housekeeper toward the end of the hall, where there was the opening into the great dining-room, the scene of the strange adventure when he first came to the house.
“Very well,” he said at last, as he mastered a wild desire to rush upstairs and call Marion by name until she replied; and he spoke now in a subdued tone of voice which the butler could not hear, “of course you are in the plot, but I shall not let matters rest here. It would have been better if you had met me as a friend—as I believed you to be—of Miss Marion and Mr Robert, but I see that you are bound up with the others. And mind this: I was disposed to assist in hushing up that trouble, but as I am convinced that Miss Marion is receiving foul play, I shall leave no stone unturned to obtain speech with her, even going so far, if necessary, as to call in the aid of the police.”
There was a calm, grave, pitying look upon the housekeeper’s countenance which literally staggered Chester, and he went out quickly and turned to the right, the butler closing the door with a bang.
“He’s a regular lunatic, ma’am,” said the butler. “Got hold of the names from the Directory or the tradesfolk; but I’m very glad you were there.”
“Poor gentleman,” said the housekeeper, gravely, “there seems to be some strange hallucination in his brain.”