The Moon Rock. Arthur J. Rees
similar question was on my lips,” he said hesitatingly. “I know very little of such matters, but in view of our family’s probable entry into the ranks of the old nobility I have deemed it my duty to make myself acquainted, to some extent, with the history of the Turrald title and peerage law. It seems a very complicated business—peerage law, I mean—in the case of baronies by writ, but I certainly gathered the impression that a sole daughter can succeed, although several daughters are regarded as coheirs.”
“My daughter cannot succeed to the Turrald title,” rejoined Robert Turold. The words seemed to be wrung out of him reluctantly.
“It is not for me to question your knowledge—your great knowledge—of English peerage law, Robert,” pursued Mr. Pendleton with a kind of timid persistence. “But I brought a book down with me in the train in which I remember reading that the right of a single daughter to succeed to a barony by writ had been well established by the Clifton case and several others. I am not precisely aware what the Clifton case is, but I’ve no doubt that you are well versed in the particulars of it. As you have no son your daughter has priority of claim over your brother and his son. From what you say I can see that I must be quite wrong, but I’d be glad if you would explain to me.”
“You have stated the law accurately enough,” said Robert Turold, “but my daughter does not succeed to the title.”
“Why not?”
Embarrassment, perceptible as a cloud, deepened on Robert Turold’s face. He regained his self-control with an effort.
“There was an informality in my marriage,” said he at last. “My daughter’s birth was irregular.”
“Do you mean that she is illegitimate?” asked Dr. Ravenshaw.
Robert Turold inclined his head. “Yes,” he said.
At this admission his sister bounced from the sofa with a startled cry. “So that was why there was no name plate on the coffin,” she exclaimed. “Oh, Robert, what a terrible thing—what a disgrace!”
“Spare me your protests until you have heard the explanation,” Robert coldly rejoined. “She”—he pointed a hand in the direction of the churchyard—“was married before she met me. She kept the fact from me. It was apparently a secret passage in her life. During our long association together she gave no hint of it. She confessed the truth on her deathbed. In justice to her memory let me say that she believed her husband dead.”
Robert Turold told this with unmoved face in barest outline—etched in dry-point, as it were—leaving his hearers to fill in the picture of the unhappy woman who had gone through life tormented by the twin demons of conscience and fear, which had overtaken her and brought her down before she could reach the safe shelter of the grave.
Mrs. Pendleton, whose robust mind had scant patience with the policy of cowardice which dictates death-bed confessions, regretted that Alice, having remained silent so long, had not kept silence altogether.
“You do not intend to make this scandal public, Robert?” she said anxiously.
“I am compelled to do so,” was the gloomy response.
“Is it necessary?” she pleaded. “Cannot the story be kept quiet—if not for Alice’s sake, at least for Sisily’s? You must consider her above all things. She is your daughter, your only child.”
“I agree with Aunt,” said Charles Turold. He rose from the window-seat and approached the table. “Sisily must be your first consideration,” he said, looking at Robert Turold.
“This has nothing to do with you, Charles,” interposed Austin hastily.
“I think it has,” said his son. “You told me nothing about this, you know.”
“I was not aware of it myself,” replied his father.
“Now that I know, I shall have nothing further to do with this,” continued the young man. “I’m not going to help you wrong Sisily.”
“I hardly expected such lofty moral sentiments from you,” said Austin, with a dark glance.
His son flushed as though there was a hidden sting behind the jibe. He appeared to be about to say something more, but checked himself, and went back to his seat by the window.
“Is there no way of keeping this matter quiet, Robert?” said his sister imploringly.
“I see none,” was the rejoinder. “It is a very painful disclosure, but I think it is inevitable. Do you not agree with me, Austin?”
“Do not ask my opinion,” his brother coldly replied. “It is for you to decide.”
Robert Turold paused irresolutely. “What do you say, Ravenshaw?” he said, glancing round at the silent figure of the doctor. “I asked you to be present this afternoon to have the benefit of your advice. I owe much to you, so I beg you to speak freely.”
“Since you have asked my advice,” said Dr. Ravenshaw gravely, “I say that I entirely agree with Mrs. Pendleton. Your first duty is to Sisily. She should out-weigh all other considerations. If you make her illegitimacy public you may live to be sorry for having done so.”
Mrs. Pendleton cast a moist, grateful glance at the speaker, but Austin Turold turned on him a look of cold hostility.
Robert Turold sat brooding for a few moments in silence. He had asked advice, but his own mind was made up. The humane views of his sister and Dr. Ravenshaw were powerless to affect his decision. The monstrous growth of his single purpose had long since strangled such transient plants as human affection and feeling in his heart and mind.
“The facts must be made public,” he said inexorably. “The honour of a noble family is in my hands, and I must do my duty. It would be an insult to my Sovereign and my peers, and a grievous wrong to our family, if I concealed any portion of the truth. I shall make adequate provision for Sisily. You will not refuse to take charge of her, Constance, because of this disclosure?”
“You ought to know me better than that, Robert. She’ll need somebody to take care of her, poor child! But who is to tell her the truth? For I suppose she must be told?”
“I want you to tell her,” said Robert Turold. “Choose your time. There is no immediate hurry, but she must be in no false hopes about the future. She had better be told before the Investigations Committee meets.”
“Bother the Investigations Committee!” exclaimed Mrs. Pendleton. “Really, Robert—”
Mrs. Pendleton broke off abruptly, in something like dismay. She had a fleeting impression of a pair of eyes encountering her own through a crack in the doorway, and as swiftly withdrawn. She walked quickly to the door and flung it open. There was nobody outside, and the passage was empty.
“We have been talking family secrets with the door open,” she said, returning to her seat. “I thought I saw one of the servants eavesdropping.”
“My servants would not listen at doors,” said Robert Turold coldly. “You must have imagined it.”
Mrs. Pendleton made no rejoinder. She had a strong belief that someone had been watching and listening, but she could not be sure.
“We must really be going,” she announced, with a glance at the clock. “Joseph”—such was her husband’s name—“you had better go and see if the car is ready, and I will go for Sisily. Is she upstairs in her room, Robert?”
“I believe so,” said Robert Turold, bending abstractedly over his papers. “But you had better ask Thalassa. He’ll tell you. Thalassa will know.”
Mrs. Pendleton looked angrily at him, but was wise enough to forbear from further speech. She instinctively realized that her brother was beyond argument or reproof.
She went upstairs to look for her niece, but she was not in her room.