The Monte Carlo coachman evidently knew the place, for he slowed down
without being asked, and stopped in front of a large double gate of iron
between glimmering columns of pale stone. This was the entrance from the
road; but an avenue ran steeply up the rocky slope, twisting in zigzags
to reach the house. Jumping down from his box the man tried the gates,
expecting to find them locked, but they yielded to a stout push, and a
moment later he drove in. The horses, tired from breasting the wind on
many hills, went up the incline slowly, the wheels grating over small
stones on the ill-kept drive. Mary thought the noise of hoofs and wheels
so sharp and unmistakable that she looked to see some eye of light
suddenly open in the black face of the house. It was not yet nine
o'clock, and the caretaker could hardly have gone to bed. But there was
no sign of life; and the dark chateau among crowding trees might have
stood in silence and desolation for a century of sleep, like the lost
palace of the enchanted beauty.
A flight of marble steps went up to a colonnaded terrace, and Lord
Dauntrey mounted first to ring the bell.
"Perhaps the caretaker has given herself a holiday, and we can't get in
after all," he gloomily suggested. His wife did not answer; but Mary,
sitting beside the silent woman, heard her breathing fast. This betrayal
of anxiety seemed tragic. "Poor Lady Dauntrey!" the girl said to herself
in pity. "Here is her one hope of shelter. She's afraid it may fail.
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