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."