The Moon Rock

by Arthur J. Rees

  CHAPTER XXVI

  He saw her white face sharply uplifted in the darkness, and caught thestartled gleam of her dark eyes. Then she recognized him.

  "You!" she breathed. "Oh, Charles, how did you find me?"

  "It was chance, Sisily--but no, it was something deeper and stranger thanchance." He spoke in a tone of passionate conviction. "I have been walkingLondon day and night, seeking for you. I felt sure I should find yousooner or later. I had given up hope for tonight, though. It was solate--so late--" The tumult of his feelings checked his utterance.

  "I dare not go out earlier," she whispered.

  That was a reminder which brought him back sharply to the reality ofthings. He looked anxiously around him in the dark and empty street. Inthe vulgar expression they were both "wanted"--wanted by the police. Thedanger was doubled now that they were together. That was a freezingthought which had not occurred to him during his search for her. Itoccurred to him now.

  "I wonder where we could go and talk in safety?" he murmured--"and decidewhat is best to do."

  "We might go to where I am staying," she unexpectedly suggested. "It is atthe end of this street."

  "Would that be quite safe?" he hazarded doubtfully.

  "I think so. Mrs. Johns told me that she would be very late to-night. Shegoes to spiritualistic meetings, and does not return home until earlymorning sometimes. We should be alone, and free to talk. There is nobodyelse in the house."

  He was too eager to raise any doubts of the safety of the suggestedharbourage. Their conversation, which had been carried on in suppressedand whispered tones, ceased as they advanced along the quiet street. Nearthe end Sisily turned into the small garden of an unlighted house. Sheunlocked the hall door, and they entered. He saw her bending over thehallstand, and guessing her intention, struck a match. She took it fromhim in silence, lit the hall gas, and shut the front door carefully. Thenshe struck another match from a box on the hallstand, and preceding himinto a room on the right, lit the gas there.

  It was a small sitting-room, simply and almost shabbily furnished,remarkable for some strange articles which were heaped at random onvarious small tables. There was a planchette, a tambourine, and other moremysterious appliances which suggested that the inmate spent much time withthe trappings and rappings of spiritualism. Papers and journals devoted tospiritualism were scattered about the room, and framed "spiritphotographs" hung on the walls.

  Charles was not thinking of the interior of the room. His one thought wasof Sisily. He had not seen her clearly in the dark street. She appeared tohim now unchanged, her dear face as he had last seen it, her featuresluminous with tender feeling, her dark eyes dwelling gravely on him, justas she used to look. As she stood there, the realization of his hauntingdreams, he had to fight down an impulse to take her in his arms. But itwas not the moment for that. Because of the graveness of their situation,love had to stand aside.

  "Sisily, why did you go away?" he asked at length.

  She did not immediately reply, but lowered her glance as though collectingher thoughts. His look fastened with anxious scrutiny on her downcastface. She did not raise her eyes as she answered.

  "I had to go, Charles," was all she said.

  "Why did you not tell me, Sisily?" he said in a tone of reproach. "Why didyou not let me know, that last day on the cliffs?"

  He failed to understand the glance she cast at him as he asked thesequestions, but it seemed to contain an element of surprise, almostastonishment. Absorbed in his own gloomy thoughts, he went on.

  "Do you remember what you told me about your mother's old nurse, and ourmemory pictures of her name? I thought you had gone there. So I went toCharleswood to look for you."

  "I did think of going there. I intended to when I left Cornwall," shehurriedly rejoined. "Then, afterwards, I thought it best not to. I stayedat a private hotel in Euston Road on my first night in London, but did notlike it, and next day I went to a boarding-house near Russell Square. Imeant to write to Mrs. Pursill from there, telling her my mother was dead.But that night after dinner I heard some of the boarders talking of--themurder, and I knew I couldn't go to Charleswood--then. I left that placeearly next morning, and came here. I had been walking about all themorning, not knowing what to do, when I saw the card in this window sayingthat there was a room to let. Mrs. Johns told me she wanted to let theroom more for company than anything else, because she lived alone. I wasglad to find it, and grateful to her."

  "You have known all along that the police are looking for you?" he saidgravely.

  "After I heard them talking at the boarding-house," rejoined simply. "Oneof the women had an evening paper, and read it aloud to the others. I knewthen, of course. The woman kept looking at me as she read as though shesuspected that I was the missing girl. I was very nervous, but tried topretend that I didn't notice, and left the room as soon as I dared." "Whatabout this Mrs. Johns--does she suspect anything?" he asked anxiously.

  "Oh, no. She is a very unworldly kind of woman, and thinks of nothing butspiritualism. She never reads newspapers."

  "Do not talk about it," he said suddenly, as though this picture of herwanderings was too much to be borne. "Why did you go away from Cornwallwithout a word? You said you had reasons. What were they, Sisily?"

  "I will tell you--now." The soft difference in the tone of the last wordwas too femininely subtle for him to understand. "That afternoon, when myfather was talking to you all in the front room downstairs--do youremember?"

  "Yes, yes," he said impatiently.

  "I heard something--I was at the door."

  "It was you, then, and not Thalassa, who looked through the door!" hesaid, glancing at her curiously.

  "I did not mean to listen," she replied, flushing slightly. "I was goingout to the cliffs--to the Moon Rock. I was very unhappy, and wanted to bealone with my thoughts. On my way past the door something my father wassaying reached me. It concerned me. I did not take it in at first, orunderstand what it really meant. As I stood there, wondering, my eyes metmy aunt's through the opening in the door, and I saw her spring to herfeet. I hurried away because I did not want to see her. I wanted to thinkover what I had just heard, to try and understand what it meant.

  "I went down to the Moon Rock, and sat there, thinking and thinking. Theywere so strange and terrible, those words I had overheard, but they wereso few that I did not really guess then all that they meant. All I knewwas that there was some dreadful secret behind them, some secret of mymother's which had something to do with me. I wished that I had heardmore. As I sat there, wondering what I ought to do, you came--"

  "To tell you that I loved you, that I shall love you as long as I live,"he interrupted eagerly.

  Again a faint flush rose to her cheeks, but she hurried on: "I could nottell you that I loved you while those dreadful words of my father wereringing in my ears. I wanted to see him first, to question him, to know ifI had partly guessed the truth, or if there was any loophole of escape forme. Oh, do not think any worse of me now if I tell you that I loved youthen and shall always love you. I wanted to tell you so that day by theMoon Rock, but I knew that I must not."

  "Why not?" His louder voice broke in on her subdued tones impetuously."You should not have sent me away, Sisily. That was wrong. It has broughtmuch misery upon us both."

  "It was not wrong!" she replied, with unexpected firmness and a momentaryhardness of glance, which reminded him of her father's look. "It wasbecause I was nobody--less than that, if what I thought was true. Therewas your position to think of. You were to come into the title--my fathertold me that before."

  "Damn the title!" the young man burst out furiously. "I told you that dayI would have nothing to do with it. Why did you think about that?"

  "Because I've heard of nothing else all my life, I suppose," she rejoinedwith the ghost of a smile. "I couldn't tell you then that I loved you,because of it, and other things. Now, it is different. It does not matterwhat I say--now." She spoke these words with an underlying n
ote of deepsadness, and went on: "When you told me that you loved me I saw my dutyplainly. I knew I must go away and hide myself from you, from everybody,go somewhere where nobody knew me, where I would never be known. But Iwanted to see my father first, to make sure."

  "I understand," he muttered in a dull voice.

  "I thought it all out on the way to the hotel with my aunt. I determinedto go back and see my father that night. I felt that I could not sleepuntil I knew the whole truth. I left the dinner table as soon as I could,and hurried down to the station to catch the half-past seven wagonette toSt. Fair.

  "I got out of the wagonette at the cross-roads, and walked over the moors.When I reached Flint House I knocked at the door, and Thalassa let me in.I told him I wanted to see my father, and he said he would wait downstairsand take me back across the moors when I came down.

  "I ran upstairs and knocked at the door of my father's study. He did notreply, so I opened the door and went in. He was sitting at his tablewriting, and when he looked up and saw me he was very angry. 'You,Sisily!' he said--'what has brought you here at this hour?' I told him Ihad come to hear the truth from his own lips. I asked him to tell meeverything. He gave me one of his black looks, but it did not frightenme--nothing would have frightened me then. He seemed to consider for amoment, and then said that perhaps, after all, it would be better if hetold me himself.

  "So he told me--told me in half-a-dozen sentences which seemed to burninto my brain. I sat still for a while, almost stunned, I think; then, asthe full force of what he had told me came home to my mind, I didsomething I had never done before. I pleaded with my father--not for myown sake, but for my mother's. I told him I would go anywhere, doanything, if he would only keep her secret safe. I might as well havepleaded with the rocks. He sat there with a stern face until I went downon my knees to him and begged him to think about it--to keep it secret fora little while at least. He grew angry, very angry, at that. I remember--Ishall never be able to forget--his reply. 'A little while?' he said, 'andthe claim for the title is to be heard next week. I'm to postpone my claimfor the sake of your mother, a ----'"

  Sisily broke off suddenly, her white face flaming scarlet, her eyes widelydistended, as though that last terrible scene was again produced beforeher vision. Charles Turold watched her mutely, with the understanding thatnothing he could say would bring comfort to her stricken soul.

  She continued after a pause--

  "I left him then. I knew that I should never be able to speak to himagain. Downstairs, Thalassa was waiting for me. He had a letter in hishand. He looked at me, but did not speak, just opened the door, and wewent out across the moors. We went silently. Thalassa was always kind tome, and I think that somehow he understood. It was not until we werenearing the cross-roads that I turned to him and said quickly, 'Thalassa,you must not tell anybody that I saw my father tonight.' I wanted to keepit secret, I wanted nobody to know--never. I knew my father would nottalk, it was not of sufficient consequence to him. He thought of nothingbut the title. Thalassa promised that he wouldn't. 'Nobody will ever findout from me, Miss Sisily,' he said.

  "Thalassa went back, across the moors, and I waited by the cross-roadstill the wagonette came. When I got back to the hotel I went up to my roomand to bed. I do not know what time it was next morning when my aunt cameinto my room, and told me that my father was dead. She did not tell memuch. There had been a terrible accident, she said, and he had been founddead in his room. I did not feel shocked, only ... indifferent. I did noteven wonder what had happened--not then. Afterwards I overheard one of themaids in the corridor telling another that it was suicide.

  "That made no difference to me, except that I wanted more than ever to getaway. I formed my plans quickly, to go to London that day, but not by theexpress. I knew my aunt would not go back that morning after what hadhappened, but I thought her husband might have to go on business. And theexpress is always crowded. I did not wish to be seen and brought back. SoI decided the slow midday train would be safest for me. I waited for atime, and then I was able to slip away from the hotel without beingnoticed, while my aunt was out. I got to London that night, feeling lonelyand miserable. I knew I had done right, but I could not help thinking ...of you."

  She ceased. Charles Turold got up from his seat and took a turn round theroom, then came back and stood looking down at her as she sat with herhand resting on the dark polished surface of the table. His first wordsseemed to convey some inward doubt of the adequacy of the motive fordisappearance which her story revealed.

  "You should not have gone away like that, Sisily," he said soberly. "Therewas no reason, no real reason, I mean. Where was the necessity, after whatI told you? Why should your father's death have made you more anxious togo? It seems to me that you had no reason then."

  She looked at him sadly in her first experience of masculineincomprehension of woman's exaltation of sacrifice in love, but she didnot speak. He continued. "But we must think of what's to be done." Hewalked up and down the room again, considering this question withcompressed brows. He stopped, struck by a thought, and looked at her. "Thepolice have been trying to find out from Thalassa whether you went back toFlint House that night, but he will not tell them anything. So theysuspect him also."

  She roused at that. "Oh, they must not!" she cried in distress. "PoorThalassa! He must tell them the truth."

  "The question is--what is the truth?" It flashed through his mind as hespoke that his interrogation was the echo of one put to him by his fatherbefore he left Cornwall.

  "The truth is, that Thalassa and I left the house together that nightbefore it happened. Oh, cannot they believe that? Cannot it be proved?"

  "I could tell them when you left," he said in a low tone.

  "You!" she cried, looking at him with a kind of fear. "How do you know?"

  "Because I saw you. I was standing outside, close to the house."

  "Why were you there?" she put in quickly.

  He was slower in answering. "I had gone to see your father--about you. Iwas standing there, thinking ... waiting, when the front door opened, andyou and Thalassa came out. I was surprised to see you, but it seemed to mean opportunity--a final chance--to speak to you again. I started afteryou, Sisily, once more to ask you to consider my love for you, but you andThalassa were swallowed up in the darkness of the moors before I couldreach you. I followed with the intention of overtaking you, but I got loston the moors instead, and was wandering about in the blackness for nearlyhalf an hour before I found my way back to Flint House again."

  "Could you not tell them--the police--that?" she asked, a littlewistfully.

  "It would be useless," he solemnly replied.

  "What do you mean?" she said breathlessly.

  His rejoinder was a long time in coming. When his set lips moved the wordswere barely audible. "Because I would not be believed. Because I wentstraight up the path to the house, determined to see your father before itgrew later. The front door was open, and the house seemed in completedarkness. I entered, and went upstairs. There was a light in your father'sstudy. I found your father--dead." He fixed care-worn eyes upon her. "Thatstory sounds incredible, even to you, doesn't it? But--"

  "Oh!" That startled cry seemed wrung from her involuntarily. Then,swiftly, as if her mind had detached itself to look on her own actionsthat night through his eyes: "You thought, you believed that I--" Shechecked herself, but her look completed the thought.

  "I did not know what to think, but I did not think--that," he gloomilyrejoined. "Afterwards, the next night, I found out something which made methink--" He paused.

  "Yes, yes, tell me what you thought," she said nervously.

  "I thought it was Thalassa."

  She shook her head.

  "Who was it then? The latest theory of the police is that I had somethingto do with it. They're looking for both of us. They must have found outthat I was at Flint House that night. It's too late to tell them the truthnow, not that they were likely to have believed me at any time. Wh
y, myown father believes that I did this thing." He laughed discordantly. "Itried to convince your father's lawyer of your innocence, and I might havetold him the truth if he had been sympathetic. I don't know, though," headded anxiously. "I had to consider your position all along. If my storywas disbelieved it only made it worse for you. If it was not Thalassa, whocould it have been? Have you any idea--the faintest suspicion?"

  Again she shook her head. She made an effort to look at him, but therewere tears in her eyes for the first time. His hand was resting on thetable, and she touched it gently with her fingers.

  "We must find out." He spoke loudly, as if with the idea that a firmutterance lessened the tremendous difficulty of that performance.

  "What can we do?" Her tone was hopeless enough.

  "Let me think." He fiddled with the planchette on the table as though hehad some notion of invoking the shade of Robert Turold to answer thequestion. "Had your father any enemy? Did he fear anybody?"

  She raised thoughtful eyes to his in reply.

  "My father feared nobody," she said, "at least, I do not think so. Nobodyhad any real influence over him except Thalassa."

  "What sort of an influence?"

  "It is difficult to describe," she hesitatingly answered. "Thalassa couldtake liberties which nobody else would have dared. He used to go into hisroom at any time. Sometimes I have awakened late at night and heard themurmur of their voices coming from my father's study."

  "Anything else?" he said, looking at her keenly.

  "There was never any question of Thalassa leaving us," she went on."Wherever we went, and we were always going to some fresh part of Englandabout the title, Thalassa went also. Perhaps it was because he had knownhim for so long that my father allowed Thalassa to do things which nobodyelse could do. Thalassa used to sneer about the title, and say no goodwould come of it. They had a quarrel once, long, long ago. I was a verylittle girl at the time, and I can just remember it," she added dreamily.

  She was apparently unconscious of the significance of these revelations,but they made a deep impression upon Charles. There was somethingexpectant and cruel in his face as he listened--the aroused instinct ofthe hunter. He addressed her--

  "This bears out what I have believed all along. Thalassa knows about themurder. He is mixed up in it in some way."

  "Oh, why do you think that?" she exclaimed, clasping her hand in distress.

  "Why?" he echoed. "Because your father was not the man to stand insolencefrom Thalassa or anybody else unless he had to. Thalassa must have had himunder his thumb in some way. Why did I not know of this before? It's clearenough now. Thalassa, even if he did not commit the murder--"

  "He did not," she said quickly. "He left the house with me, so he couldnot have done it."

  "Then he knows who did. He and your father shared some secrettogether--some dreadful secret which brought about your father's death.That is one reason why Thalassa will not speak--because he is implicatedin this mystery, whatever it is."

  "No, no. He is keeping silence because of me--I feel sure. I made himpromise not to tell."

  Charles Turold shook his head decidedly. "He may have more than one reasonfor keeping silent," he said with a swift flash of intuition. "If it is asyou say, he is shielding himself as well as you. If your father was killedwhile Thalassa was out of the house that night, Thalassa knows who didit."

  Her eyes met his in an agony of perplexity and distress. "Oh, no, I cannotthink you are right," she said. "If I could only see Thalassa--for fiveminutes--"

  "What good would that do?" he abruptly demanded.

  "He would tell me the truth--if he knew."

  He shook his head incredulously. "You do not know all," he murmured. Heshrank from telling her of the marks on her father's arm. "I knowThalassa," she eagerly replied. "He would tell me if he thought it wouldhelp me."

  "If you think that I will go down and see him--and get it all out of him."

  "No, no! You must not go," she cried in affright. "It would not be safefor you."

  "Would it be any more dangerous than hiding in London like a skulkingrat?" he bitterly replied. "This cannot go on. We are both in a dangerousposition, and might be arrested at any moment. What would happen then? Whowould believe my story--or yours? They sound improbable even to ourselves.Here, at least, is a chance of discovering the truth, for I most solemnlybelieve that Thalassa knows it, or guesses it. What other chance have weof finding out the hideous mystery of that night? I must go, Sisily. Iwill be careful, for your sake."

  She knew by his voice that he was not to be deterred from the hazardousenterprise, so she did not attempt to dissuade him further. But she clungto him trembling, as though she would have shielded him from the menace ofcapture. He was thinking rapidly.

  "It may be that I shall fail," he said. "I do not think so, because Ishall take every precaution, but the police will be watching for me inCornwall as well as here. If I fail--if I do not come back ... you willunderstand?"

  Her look answered him.

  "You had better watch the papers. And be careful on your own account." Heeyed her anxiously. "Do you think you will be safe here till I get back?"

  "Yes--I think so," she murmured sadly.

  "Very well. I will go down by to-night's train--I've just time to catchit." He glanced at his watch with an assumption of cheerfulness. "When youwake up in the morning I shall be in Cornwall."

  "I shall not sleep," she said, in a miserable broken voice. "I shall lieawake, thinking of you."

  He caught her swiftly in his arms, and kissed her on the lips. "If I findout the truth, nothing shall come between us then, Sisily?"

  "No, nothing," she said.

  He turned with a sudden swift movement as though to go, but she still heldhim.

  "Tell Thalassa ... that I ask him to tell you the truth, if he knowsit...."

  She released him then, and stood looking after him as he walked from theroom and out of the house.