The voice of the clergyman intoned the last sad hope of humanity, the
final prayer was said, and the mourners turned away, leaving Mrs. Turold
to take her rest in a bleak Cornish churchyard among strangers, far from
the place of her birth and kindred.
The fact would not have troubled her if she had known. In life she had
been a nonentity; in death she was not less. At least she could now mix
with her betters without reproach, free (in the all-enveloping silence)
from the fear of betraying her humble origin. Debrett's Peerage was
unimportant in the grave; breaches of social etiquette passed unnoticed
there; the wagging of malicious tongues was stopped by dust.
Her husband lingered at the grave-side after the others had departed. As
he stood staring into the open grave, regardless of a lurking grave-digger
waiting to fill it, he looked like a man whose part in the drama of life
was Care. There was no hint of happiness in his long narrow face, dull
sunken eyes, and bloodless compressed lips. His expression was not that of
one unable to tear himself away from the last glimpse of a loved wife
fallen from his arms into the clutch of Death. It was the gaze of one
immersed in anxious thought.
The mourners, who had just left the churchyard, awaited him by a rude
stone cross near the entrance to the church. There were six--four men, a
woman, and a girl. In the road close by stood the motor-car which had
brought them to the churchyard in the wake of the hearse, glistening
incongruously in the grey Cornish setting of moorland and sea.
The girl stood a little apart from the others. She was the daughter of the
dead woman, but her head was turned away from the churchyard, and her
sorrowful glance dwelt on the distant sea. The contour of her small face
was perfect as a flower or gem, and colourless except for vivid scarlet
lips and dark eyes gleaming beneath delicate dark brows. She was very
young--not more than twenty--but in the soft lines of her beauty there was
a suggestion of character beyond her years. Her face was dreamy and
wayward, and almost gipsy in type. There was something rather
disconcerting in the contrast between her air of inexperienced youth and
the sombre intensity of her dark eyes, which seemed mature and
disillusioned, like those of an older person. The slim lines of her figure
had the lissome development of a girl who spent her days out of doors.
She stood there motionless, apparently lost in meditation, indifferent to
the 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 heavy
furs, was standing behind her, holding a wrap in her hand.
"You'll catch your death of cold, child, standing here in this thin
dress," the elder lady continued. "Why didn't you wear your coat? You'd be
warmer sitting in the car. It's really very selfish of Robert, keeping us
all waiting in this dreadful wind!" She shivered, and drew her furs
closer. "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 through
the rank grass and mouldering tombstones with a quick stride. He emerged
from the churchyard gate with a stern and moody face.
"Let us get home," he said, and his words were more of a command than
request.
He walked across the road to the car with his sister and daughter. The men
by the cross followed. They were his brother, his brother's son, his
sister's husband, and the local doctor, whose name was Ravenshaw. With a
clang and a hoot the car started on the return journey. The winding
cobbled street of the churchtown was soon left behind for a road which
struck across the lonely moors to the sea. Through the moors and stony
hills the car sped until it drew near a solitary house perched on the edge
of the dark cliffs high above the tumbling waters of the yeasty sea which
foamed at their base.
The car stopped by the gate where the moor road ended. The mourners
alighted and entered the gate. Their approach was observed from within,
for as they neared the house the front door was opened by an elderly
man-servant with a brown and hawk-beaked face.
Walking rapidly ahead Robert Turold led the way into a front sitting-room
lighted by a window overlooking the sea. There was an air of purpose in
his movements, but an appearance of strain in his careworn face and
twitching lips. He glanced at the others in a preoccupied way, but started
perceptibly as his eye fell upon his daughter.
"There is no need for you to remain, Sisily," he said in a harsh dry
voice.
Sisily turned away without speaking. Her cousin Charles jumped up to open
the door, and the two exchanged a glance as she went out. The young man
then returned to his seat near the window. Robert Turold was speaking
emphatically to Dr. Ravenshaw, answering some objection which the doctor
had raised.
"... No, no, Ravenshaw--I want you to be present. You will oblige me by
remaining. I will go upstairs and get the documents. I shall not keep you
long. Thalassa, serve refreshments."
He left the room quickly, as though to avoid further argument. The elderly
serving-man busied himself by setting out decanters and glasses, then went
out like one who considered his duty done, leaving the company to wait on
themselves.