CHAPTER VI
With a face grimly immobile as the carved head of a heathen god, Thalassastood at the front door watching the departure of Sisily and her auntuntil the car was lost to sight in a dip of the moors. Then with a glanceat the leaping water at the foot of the cliffs, grey and mysterious in thegloaming, he turned and went inside the house.
It was his evening duty to prepare the lamps which lighted up the oldhouse on the cliffs. Sisily generally helped him in that tedious duty, butshe was gone, and for the future he must do it alone.
The lamps were kept in a little lowbrowed room off the stone kitchen.There Thalassa betook himself. Robert Turold disliked the dark, and agreat array of lamps awaited him: large ones for the rooms, small ones forthe passages and staircase. Thalassa set to work with a will, filling themwith oil, trimming the wicks, and polishing the glasses with a piece ofchamois leather.
As he filled and trimmed and polished he sang to himself an old sea song:
"The devil and me, we went away to sea, In the old brig 'Lizbeth-Jane'--"
His voice was gruff and harsh, and the melody, such as it was, did nothingto relax his expression, which remained grim and secret as ever.
Each lamp he lit as he finished it, and their gathered strength gushed ina flood of yellow light on his crafty brown face and deep-set eyes. Heplaced several of the lamps on a tray, carefully lowered the wicks, andcarried them to their allotted places, returning for others until onlyhalf a dozen small lamps remained. These he gathered on the tray and tookupstairs.
Night had fallen; the wind was rising without, and seemed to rustle andwhistle in the draughty passages of the old house. Thalassa placed onelamp at the head of the stairs, and others in the niches of the passage,where they flickered feebly and diffused a feeble light. Halfway down thepassage he paused before a closed door. It was the room in which Sisily'smother had died. With an expressionless face he went in and left the lastlamp burning dimly on the mantelpiece, like a votary candle on an altar ofthe dead. Issuing forth again he cast a look around him and walked toRobert Turold's study at the end of the passage. The door was closed, buthe opened it and entered.
Robert Turold was busily engaged writing at a large table by the light ofa swinging lamp. He looked up from his papers as Thalassa entered, andthoughtfully watched him as he trimmed the lamp and tended the fire. Withthese duties completed Thalassa still lingered, as though he expected hismaster to speak.
"What's the glass like to-night, Thalassa?" remarked Robert Turoldabsently.
The allusion was to a weather glass which hung in the hall downstairs. Asa topic of conversation it was as useful to master and servant as theweather is to most English people. That is to say, it helped them whenthey were wordbound.
"Going down fast," replied Thalassa.
"Then I suppose we are in for another rough night."
"The glass is always going down in Cornwall, and we are always in foranother rough night," responded the servitor curtly. "Are you going tostay much longer in the forsaken hole?"
"Not much longer," replied his master in a mild tone.
"It is, perhaps, a dreary spot to you, but not to me--no, never to me. Thelast link in my long search has been found here--hidden away in thislittle out-of-the-way Cornish place. Think of that, Thalassa! I shall beLord Turrald."
"I don't see what good it will do you," retorted the man austerely."You've spent a mint of money over it. I suppose that's your own affair,though. But what's to come next? That's what I want to know."
"When I leave Cornwall--"
"You mean we, don't you?" Thalassa interrupted.
"Of course I mean you as well as myself," Robert Turold replied almosthumbly. "I should be sorry to part with you, Thalassa, you must be wellaware of that. It is my intention to purchase a portion of the familyestate at Great Missenden, which is at present in the market, and spendthe remainder of my life in the place which once belonged to my ancestors.That has been the dream of my life, and I shall soon be able to carry itout."
A silence fell between them upon this statement, and Robert Turold's eyesturned towards his papers again. But Thalassa stood watching him, asthough he had something on his mind still. He brought it out abruptly--
"And what about your daughter?"
"My daughter is going to London with my sister for a prolonged visit,"said Robert Turold hurriedly. "She needs womanly training and otheradvantages which I, in my preoccupations, have been unable to bestow uponher. It is greatly to her advantage to go."
Robert Turold gave this explanation with averted face, in a tone whichsounded almost apologetic. The relative positions between them seemedcuriously reversed. It was as though Thalassa were the master, and theother the man.
"Oh, that's it, is it?" Thalassa turned a cautious yet penetrating eyeupon his master. "Well, she's your own daughter, so I suppose you knowwhat's the best for her." He spoke indifferently, but there was an oddnote in his voice. He picked up his tray, and carelessly added: "For mypart I shall be glad to get out of Cornwall. It's a savage place, only fitfor savages and seagulls. There's the wind rising again."
A violent gust shook the house, and rattled the window-panes of the room.It was the eyrie in which the deceased artist had painted his pictures,with two large windows which looked over the cliff. Again the gale sprangat the house, and smote the windows with spectral blows. Downstairs, adoor slammed sharply.
"Damn the wind!" exclaimed Thalassa peevishly. "There's no keeping it out.I'm going downstairs to lock up now. You'll have your supper up here, Isuppose?"
"Yes. I have a lot of work to do before I go to bed."
Thalassa left the room without further speech, and Robert Turold beganrummaging among his papers with a hand which trembled slightly. The tablewas littered with parchments, old books, and some sheets of newly writtenfoolscap. He picked up his pen and plunged it into a brass inkstand, thenpaused in thought. His face was perturbed and uneasy. It may be that hewas reviewing the events of the day, wondering, perhaps, whether he hadpaid too high a price for the attainment of his ambition. For it he hadsacrificed his daughter and the woman who now slept in the churchyard nearby, indifferent to it all. Nothing could restore to him the secret he haddivulged that afternoon.
A shade of apprehension deepened on his downcast face. Then he frownedimpatiently, and plunged into his writing again.