The Moon Rock

  THE MOON ROCK

  By

  ARTHUR J. REES

  1922

  "There is no help for all these things are so, And all the world is bitter as a tear, And how these things are, though ye strove to show, _She would not know._"

  --Swinburne

  CHAPTER I

  The voice of the clergyman intoned the last sad hope of humanity, thefinal prayer was said, and the mourners turned away, leaving Mrs. Turoldto take her rest in a bleak Cornish churchyard among strangers, far fromthe place of her birth and kindred.

  The fact would not have troubled her if she had known. In life she hadbeen a nonentity; in death she was not less. At least she could now mixwith her betters without reproach, free (in the all-enveloping silence)from the fear of betraying her humble origin. Debrett's Peerage wasunimportant in the grave; breaches of social etiquette passed unnoticedthere; the wagging of malicious tongues was stopped by dust.

  Her husband lingered at the grave-side after the others had departed. Ashe stood staring into the open grave, regardless of a lurking grave-diggerwaiting to fill it, he looked like a man whose part in the drama of lifewas Care. There was no hint of happiness in his long narrow face, dullsunken eyes, and bloodless compressed lips. His expression was not that ofone unable to tear himself away from the last glimpse of a loved wifefallen from his arms into the clutch of Death. It was the gaze of oneimmersed in anxious thought.

  The mourners, who had just left the churchyard, awaited him by a rudestone cross near the entrance to the church. There were six--four men, awoman, and a girl. In the road close by stood the motor-car which hadbrought them to the churchyard in the wake of the hearse, glisteningincongruously in the grey Cornish setting of moorland and sea.

  The girl stood a little apart from the others. She was the daughter of thedead woman, but her head was turned away from the churchyard, and hersorrowful glance dwelt on the distant sea. The contour of her small facewas perfect as a flower or gem, and colourless except for vivid scarletlips and dark eyes gleaming beneath delicate dark brows. She was veryyoung--not more than twenty--but in the soft lines of her beauty there wasa suggestion of character beyond her years. Her face was dreamy andwayward, and almost gipsy in type. There was something ratherdisconcerting in the contrast between her air of inexperienced youth andthe sombre intensity of her dark eyes, which seemed mature anddisillusioned, like those of an older person. The slim lines of her figurehad the lissome development of a girl who spent her days out of doors.

  She stood there motionless, apparently lost in meditation, indifferent tothe bitter wind which was driving across the moors with insistent force.

  "Put this on, Sisily."

  Sisily turned with a start. Her aunt, a large stout woman muffled in heavyfurs, was standing behind her, holding a wrap in her hand.

  "You'll catch your death of cold, child, standing here in this thindress," the elder lady continued. "Why didn't you wear your coat? You'd bewarmer sitting in the car. It's really very selfish of Robert, keeping usall waiting in this dreadful wind!" She shivered, and drew her furscloser. "Why doesn't he come away? As if it could do any good!"

  As she spoke the tall form of Robert Turold was seen approaching throughthe rank grass and mouldering tombstones with a quick stride. He emergedfrom the churchyard gate with a stern and moody face.

  "Let us get home," he said, and his words were more of a command thanrequest.

  He walked across the road to the car with his sister and daughter. The menby the cross followed. They were his brother, his brother's son, hissister's husband, and the local doctor, whose name was Ravenshaw. With aclang and a hoot the car started on the return journey. The windingcobbled street of the churchtown was soon left behind for a road whichstruck across the lonely moors to the sea. Through the moors and stonyhills the car sped until it drew near a solitary house perched on the edgeof the dark cliffs high above the tumbling waters of the yeasty sea whichfoamed at their base.

  The car stopped by the gate where the moor road ended. The mournersalighted and entered the gate. Their approach was observed from within,for as they neared the house the front door was opened by an elderlyman-servant with a brown and hawk-beaked face.

  Walking rapidly ahead Robert Turold led the way into a front sitting-roomlighted by a window overlooking the sea. There was an air of purpose inhis movements, but an appearance of strain in his careworn face andtwitching lips. He glanced at the others in a preoccupied way, but startedperceptibly as his eye fell upon his daughter.

  "There is no need for you to remain, Sisily," he said in a harsh dryvoice.

  Sisily turned away without speaking. Her cousin Charles jumped up to openthe door, and the two exchanged a glance as she went out. The young manthen returned to his seat near the window. Robert Turold was speakingemphatically to Dr. Ravenshaw, answering some objection which the doctorhad raised.

  "... No, no, Ravenshaw--I want you to be present. You will oblige me byremaining. I will go upstairs and get the documents. I shall not keep youlong. Thalassa, serve refreshments."

  He left the room quickly, as though to avoid further argument. The elderlyserving-man busied himself by setting out decanters and glasses, then wentout like one who considered his duty done, leaving the company to wait onthemselves.