Chapter II: Ardenmore

"Are you absolutely determined to go and live in that ghastly place, Hermione?" demanded Colonel Bessington, rather grimly, as he stood leaning against the mantelpiece in the drawing-room of Mrs. Rodenberg's beautiful house in Mayfair. He stared down at her as she sat leaning forward, her frail-looking hands clasped round one knee, her eyes looking into vacancy.

"I am absolutely determined to live alone in Ardenmore," she replied quietly. "I am tired of all this, tired of everything connected with my life in London. I want to go somewhere where I can be alone--quite alone, and where I shall be able--just to think."

"Well, from all accounts you appear to have selected the one place in the modern world where thought will be your only entertainment," observed the other dryly. "And in my opinion you are making a big mistake. It's wrong, all wrong. No woman, and certainly no woman as beautiful as you, has any right to go and bury herself away like that."

"We all have a right to choose our own lives," she replied quietly. "Beauty does not come into it at all."

"Yes, it does, when there happens to be someone who worships your beauty; who adores you body and soul; who would sacrifice life, honour, and all he holds most dear for your sake. Then I maintain that you have no right to do what you contemplate doing, and I protest against it, and implore you to reconsider it."

Hermione raised her eyes to his working face.

"Please, please, Dick!" she cried, in a voice of entreaty. "You know what I said about all that. You know that it's no use, no use at all. I shall never marry again, on that I am determined."

"I know you said all that, but I refuse to acknowledge it as final. You, of all women, need the protection of a man who loves you, and I do more than that, for I worship you. I refuse to allow you to go out of my life."

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly.

"Do you mean that you'll even follow me there--to Ardenmore, if I ask you not to?"

"I mean--just that." The stern lips widened in a smile in which there was no mirth.

"Is that kind? Is it honourable? Is it the act of a man who really loves? I thought that true love was self-sacrificing."

"True love is what I feel for you, Hermione, and in plain English, I simply can't live without you."

She rose suddenly to her feet and faced him.

"Don't make me hate you, Dick," she said. "I should loath to do that, of all things. But I know you, and in a way I understand and am terribly sorry for you. If only you had not given up your profession, there would have been something to hold you to occupy you, to live for besides this fantastic dream of yours. But as it is--well--let us compromise. Let me have at least a month alone just to put myself right with myself and with life and everything else. Then, if you still wish it, you may come and see me. But remember, I give you no hope at all. I shall never change now--never, never."

There was finality in her tone, could he but have heard it, but he heard nothing save the idle words of a woman who thought she knew what she wanted and one day would learn from him how mistaken she had been. But at the moment he was wise enough to comply with her request.

"Very well," he said. "I agree to abide by that. You shall have your month, and then..." He took both her hands and pressed burning kisses upon them, held them tight for a moment, looking into her eyes, and then without another word abruptly turned and left her.

She stood where she was until the front door closed with a loud bang, and then she turned as quick steps came into the room.

"Well, has he gone?" asked a crisp voice, and her friend and companion, kindly-faced, plump Iza Marsh sailed--for so only could her progress be described--towards her.

"Yes, gone. Quite gone."

"Thank God for that. I can't bear the man, never could. I suppose he proposed again?"

"Yes."

"Like his impudence. Well, my dear, you'll be a clever woman if you can keep him out of Arden--thingummy-bob. If there's no road to the place he'll fly there."

"He has given me one month----"

"Without the option. Kind of him. Well, all I can say is--damn his impudence. However, enough of him. I believe I've found you a cook. I mean, of course, a cook who won't object to being buried alive. She's Irish, and that, I suppose, accounts for it, as they're mostly semi-insane. But she can cook, which is the great point. Have you successfully bribed the great Phillimore yet, or is it a hopeless job?"

"Phillimore doesn't need bribing, Marshy dear. He likes the country and he has a cousin, an old soldier, who is out of a job and keen to take the place as odd man. He can also drive a car. If one could only get a housemaid, life would be perfect."

"A housemaid, child! In that house! Might as well talk of the chambermaid at the Ritz. You'll want three at least. If you were willing to give sixty quid a year I believe you'd get six."

"I'll give anything so long as I can get them."

"Very well, then, I'll take it on. And now, what the devil is one going to do about hair?"

"Hair?" repeated Hermione. "What hair? Whose hair?"

"Yours and mine, child. Since we had it cut off in order to save trouble, I personally, have spent more time and money on my head than I did in all the years before it was shingled. There are no hairdressers in Ardenmore Glen, you know, so the only solution to the problem that I can think of is to lie on the floor at night and let the mice gnaw it. The place is sure to be swarming with them."

"You silly old thing," said Hermione, laughing "Locharbie is only twenty miles away, and is quite a big town. And in any case what does it matter? I shall love to be untidy for once."

"You, yes. It'll suit you, my dear. But what about me? My style of illusive beauty requires a French maid and a Parisian coiffeur to make anything like a decent show."

"To me you are perfect, darling, whatever you look like." And suddenly Hermione's arms were round the elder woman's neck. "Oh, Marshy! I'm just longing to be there, alone with you and with my dear ghosts."

"Poor child!" Iza Marsh held her very close for a moment. "But we must have no ghosts, my dear. No ghosts and no memories. Enough that you have got the old place back and that your boy will know it is being cared for. That, after all, is what matters, and what you, in fact, went through two years of hell for."

"Yes. I suppose it was wrong of me to marry him only for that. But at least I tried to make him happy."

"And no one knows that better than he did, my dear. You have nothing to reproach yourself with." There was silence for a moment.

"I wonder," said Hermione at last, "If Dominic really will know."

"Bound to, child. His body, after all, was the only part of him that died. But there! Enough! Let's leave all that alone. Housemaids, my dear, housemaids. Far more important than souls."

And so it came about that ten days later there was an exodus from one of London's great termini, comprising two ladies, one butler accompanied by male relative, two buxom and middle-aged housemaids, both well bribed and corrupted by Iza Marsh, and one Hibernian cook who had a hazy notion that they were all on the run and making for shelter among the Wicklow hills. And on the late afternoon of the following day, just twenty-eight hours later, they all disembarked from a local train on to a siding which boasted a hording on which the name Ardenmore was emblazoned in somewhat worn-out letters; a wizened and ancient man who left off minding cows in order to become a porter whenever a train had the hardihood to stop there; and a loose truck which had been uncoupled from the rear of the train and on which reposed a large touring car.

Iza Marsh, clad in tweeds of a manly, and, to her style of figure, most unbecoming, cut, stood upon the platform and stared round at the scene of isolation that presented itself, and which the fast disappearing train--last link with civilization--seemed to accentuate.

"God help us all!" she ejaculated. "The only extenuating circumstance in the whole insane situation is the fact that your overworked secretary, John Bray, appears to have achieved a miracle when he was up here a fortnight ago. For how on earth he managed to discover even an ancient crone who knew her job as a char beats me. Why, I can't see a butt or even a ben."

"The village is at the other side of that hill," said Hermione, laughing. "And it appears that Old Betty MacIvor worked for--for the Ardens years ago. At least, we can be assured of a clean house and well-aired beds. The coal was taken up a month ago, and, after all, this is May, and we have quite five months of fairly warm weather before us. Isn't it lovely, Marshy?"

"Lovely, no, my child. Grand, yes. Weird if you like. Romantic. It's all that, and I can imagine its growing upon one. But I'm not going to waste good lies about it, my dear."

They were waiting for the car to be removed from the truck, which function was being achieved by the combined efforts of Phillimore, James, his cousin, and the ancient porter.

"It does grow on one," said Hermione. "I was only here once, just before--he went, and then only for a few days. I really know nothing of the place, but even the little I saw I grew to love. Well, they are ready, so let us be going. The car will return afterwards for the luggage. Mr. Bray said it was a fairly good road."

Soon the seven travellers had packed themselves into the large car and were off.

Hermione was very silent during the twenty odd miles which had to be covered before their destination was reached. Only once before had she traversed the winding road, and that had been in an old-fashioned, four-wheeled dog-cart, propelled by two sturdy moorland ponies, and driven by the one man who had been, and who still was, all the world to her. She remembered that they, too, had been silent, but it was the silence of twin souls who needed no medium of conversation. The vast moors, the dense pine forests, the rocky hills down whose precipitous sides the tiny streams descended in minute cascades, the utter stillness save for the call of birds or the sough of gentle wind through the pine trees, had filled them both with a sense of contentment and peace. Here, at this very spot where one of the vast pine forests began, and upon a plateau of green, luscious grass, they had come to rest, had tethered the horses, and had ensconced themselves in the shadow of a grey rock, lichen-covered, and eaten their picnic meal. A wave of torturing agony welled up in her heart at the bare recollection, and in desperation she put a hand on her friend's arm and clutched it.

"Speak to me, Marshy," she said. "Say something." There were tears in the deep voice and not far from the dark hazel eyes, and her friend, knowing all, understood and was quick to respond.

"Well, my dear, I was just thinking about that nonsense John Bray talked about smuggling going on up here. Where on earth could anyone smuggle anything up here? And look at the long sea voyage they'd have to make if they came from France."

"Just the reason for choosing it, as no one would think of them coming all that way," replied Hermione, grateful to her friend for starting such an easy topic of conversation. "The sea, you know, is only half a mile away from Ardenmore, and in the old days I believe lots of odd things happened connected with Ardenmore Tower, that funny old ruin I told you about that stands facing the sea, and--and--which holds a secret that only Dominic knew of and which one day he said he would tell me."

"Ah, yes, to be sure. Mr. Bray said nothing about that, of course, only that the Powers that be were beginning to sit up and take notice. Of course we know there's smuggling going on--bound to be since they did away with the coastguards--and the Government's simply asking for it by taxing things as they are. But to connect it with this place! Bosh and nonsense, my dear!" She ended with a snort.

The long drive came to an end at last. A broken-down gate proclaimed the entrance to the narrow grass-grown avenue that led for a quarter of a mile through a dense pine forest, and even Iza Marsh's high spirits sank at the sight of the gloomy drive.

"My dear," she said with a slight shudder, "this is even worse than _I_ bargained for."

But Hermione had no ears for conversation now, and her eyes were strained to catch a first glimpse of the house which she had not seen for nine long years. John Bray's report that it was habitable had satisfied her, though had it been in ruins she would still have bought it. It was furnished as the Ardens had left it, and for two years had stood empty, so she had no illusions as to what to expect. As for the gardens, Mr. Bray had shrugged eloquently and suggested cutting half the trees down.

They came in sight of the house at last, and Iza Marsh's spirits sank even lower. Little sun could penetrate to that gloomy pile whose stone-flagged roof was green and grey with moss and lichen, whose two round turrets at one end gave a forbidding aspect to a place that was already sufficiently forbidding. Ivy grew wild upon the walls eating its way into the very windows but Hermione only saw the place which Dominic Arden had loved.

The car drew up before the large doorway to permit her and her friend to alight, and then went round to the back to deposit the servants, and with a little sigh Hermione stretched out her arm and rang the bell.

"At last!" she said, "at last. Now I can breathe once more."

"My dear girl, I'm afraid you'll have to hack down a good many of those trees before _I_ can," observed the elder woman dryly.

"Not one tree, Marshy. Nothing. It shall stay as it is."

The door opened as she spoke, and a tall gaunt woman stood in the opening, her keen eyes seeming to take in every detail of the new-comers.

"You are Betty MacIvor, are you not?" asked Hermione, with a smile.

"Aye, to be sure, and you'll be Mistress Rodenberg," was the reply, but with no answering smile, no words of welcome. She stood aside while the two went in, and closed the door.

The wide passage was much as Hermione had remembered it, save that there was an air of forlornness about it, an atmosphere of decay, an odour of damp mustiness which seemed to strike a sudden chill to her heart, and which even the blazing wood fire crackling in the large open fireplace at the end of the passage had apparently no power to dispel. The old woman, who had followed close behind, pointed to it.

"There are fires in the bedrooms as well," she said, and without more words, disappeared through the door leading to the back premises.

"Well, no one can accuse that lady of the gift of the gab," remarked Iza Marsh, dryly, and then, seeing the curious expression--almost as of one who sees visions--on Hermione's face, "What is it, child?" she asked quickly.

"It's very strange," she replied slowly, "but in spite of the gloom, the musty smell, and the other odd things that one meets with in houses that have been a long time empty, this doesn't seem quite like an unoccupied house, at least not to me. Does it to you, Iza?"

"Well, I can't say that's exactly my impression," replied practical Iza Marsh. "Personally, it strikes me as being the most dismal, gloomy, unoccupied place that I was ever in in my life, but of course that's my idea. Tell me what you mean, my dear."

"I mean that I had an odd feeling when I came in that someone was waiting there to meet us, and it was a sort of mental shock to see this passage and hall empty." She was silent for a moment and then added quietly: "He--was simply devoted to the place, you know. So devoted that perhaps--well, I hardly know how to express it."

"You mean that he may have left something of himself in the house," suggested her friend, sympathetically.

"Yes, perhaps that is it, for it's extraordinary how contented and happy I feel, as though there was no more reason for me to go on yearning and longing and grieving as I have done for nine long years. I can't explain it, and I don't think I want to. But there, enough of me. Come upstairs and let's see our rooms. Betty MacIvor is certainly not communicative and didn't seem over-pleased to see us, but she knows how to keep a house clean, and that's all that matters."

Alone at last, Hermione, after leaving her friend, sped quickly downstairs and along a rather dark and narrow passage until she came at the end to a closed door, hesitated for a moment, and at length turned the handle and entered a circular room lighted by two narrow windows, and once more on the threshold she paused.

This turret room, dark and gloomy though it was, was sacred ground to her, for it had been Dominic Arden's particular sanctum. Nine years ago she had entered it with him, had been shown his particular treasures. His bookshelf on which stood the books he was fond of, his desk where he wrote his fanciful stories, the pictures on the walls which his mother had painted. She looked round with a spasm of fear in her heart at what she might find to be missing. And there was so much that was missing. The bookcase was there, but empty; the desk was there, empty also; the paintings were no longer on the walls, they were all gone save one, a water-colour printing of the old tower, a solitary stone structure, built, so tradition said, by a Scottish chieftain as a look-out over the seas, standing half a mile from the house and never used by anyone, save Dominic, who had turned the lower room into a study where he could write undisturbed. Why had this picture been left and the rest taken? And when had they been taken, and by whom? If they were in the house they should be returned to their original places. His room, at least, should be as he had left it. She would have claimed his belongings for her own, but when she recovered from her long illness, Ardenmore had been sold and his parents both dead. They had not known of their son's secret marriage. They had never approved of Hermione Craig. Yes, she would return his things to their rightful places, but where were they?

She turned sharply at a sound behind her, and there in the doorway stood old Betty with an odd look of doubt and suspicion in her eyes. Perhaps, thought Hermione, she would know where they were.

"Where are the other pictures, Betty, and the books that used to be here?"

The old woman shook her head. "I canna' say, Mistress Rodenberg, I have no' set eyes on them for long eneuch."

"But who moved them? Who took them?"

"I dinna' ken, Mistress Rodenberg," was the reply.

"Are they still in the house?" asked Hermione.

"Nay, nay, not in the hoose at a'," and then Betty pointed a skinny finger to the only picture that hung there: "'Tis no place for a body to see the noo. Not a man nor a lassie dare gang by there."

"Why?" asked Hermione, in some astonishment. But the old woman only shook her head and Hermione saw quite clearly the fear in her eyes.

"I dinna' ken what like it is that scares puir folk awa'," she muttered. "But there's that there that has no' the richt to be there, and there are times when I feel that even here--" She stopped suddenly and gave a quick glance once more round the room. "Come awa', Mistress Rodenberg, come awa'--" she moved backwards through the door, and Hermione, a sudden chill at her heart, turned and followed.

There was something there, an odd sensation as though the room had just been occupied. And yet common sense told her that no one could have dwelt in that bare, unfurnished, and most dismal room. It must, therefore, be the echoes of her own heart that had longed to find someone there, and only when the door was shut behind her could she shake off that uncanny feeling and begin to think clearly. Why had those pictures and books been taken when nothing else--so far as John Bray had discovered from the inventory--had been touched since the Ardens had left it? And they had been there when he was here a fortnight ago because she had asked him what the turret room contained, and he had said--"Nothing of any importance: just a desk, a bookshelf with some old books in it, a couple of chairs and some watercolours on the walls." Someone, therefore, had taken them.

Then again there was another odd thing. What was it that scared every man and woman from the old tower by the sea, and which was even too fearsome to be spoken of? What was going on? What had happened in the two years during which the house had stood empty and uncared-for? And what, finally, was going to be the outcome of her action in buying back the old place? There was something here that she could not understand and which filled her for the first time in her life with a nameless fear. She instinctively felt too, that the old woman--who had gone as silently as she had come--had no friendly feeling towards her and she resented it, for she liked to be liked, she who had not an enemy in the world. And she had come here, not only to care for the place that Dominic had loved and to look upon it as though it were almost a part of him, obtained by her only through much suffering--a loveless marriage which she could only look back upon as at some hideous nightmare--but also she had come there for peace as well, and somehow she felt that there would be neither that peace nor yet that Heaven-sent quiet and freedom from worry which she had so much desired and hoped to find there. Instead she felt that there was some disquieting element which having come, she would have to face. What was it?

A quick step along the passage scattered her thoughts far and wide, and she turned to see Phillimore beside her, anxiety portrayed on his usually stolid countenance, inquiry in his voice.

"Police Inspector Mackay from Locharbie is here ma'am, and wishes to see you on a very urgent matter. He is waiting in the hall."