The Moon Rock | Page 2

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.
CHAPTER II
The group in the room sat in silence with an air of stiff expectation.
The members of the family knew they were not assembled to pay
respect to the memory of the woman who had just been buried. Her
husband had regarded her as a drag upon him, and did not consider her
removal an occasion for the display of hypocritical grief. Rather was it
to be regarded as an act of timely intervention on the part of Death,
who for once had not acted as marplot in human affairs.
They were there to listen to the story of the triumph of the head of the
family, Robert Turold. Most families have some common source of
interest and pride. It may be a famous son, a renowned ancestor, a
faded heirloom, even a musical daughter. The pride of the Turold
family rested on the belief that they were of noble blood--the lineal
inheritors of a great English title which had fallen into abeyance
hundreds of years before.
Robert Turold had not been content to boast of his nobility and die a
commoner like his father and grandfather before him. His intense pride
demanded more than that. As a boy he had pored over the crabbed
parchments in the family deed-box which indicated but did not record
the family descent, and he had vowed to devote his life to prove the
descent and restore the ancient title of Turrald of Missenden to the
Turolds of which he was the head.
There was not much to go upon when he commenced the labour of
thirty years--merely a few old documents, a family tradition, and the
similarity of name. And the Turolds were poor. Money, and a great deal
of it, was needed for the search, in the first instance, of the unbroken
line of descent, and for the maintenance of the title afterwards if the
claim was completely established. But Robert Turold was not to be
deterred by obstacles, however great. He was a man with a single idea,
and such men are hard to baulk in the long run.
He left England in early manhood and remained away for some years.

His family understood that he had gone to seek a fortune in the wilds of
the earth. He reappeared--a saturnine silent man--as suddenly as he had
gone away. In his wanderings he had gained a fortune but partly lost
the use of one eye. The partial loss of an eye did not matter much in a
country like England, where most people have two eyes and very little
money, and therefore pay more respect to wealth than vision.
Robert Turold invested his money, and then set to work upon his great
ambition with the fierce restlessness which characterized all his
proceedings in life. He married shortly after his return. He soon came
to the conclusion that his marriage was a great mistake--the greatest
mistake of his life. His wife had borne him two girls. The first died in
infancy, and some years later Sisily was born.