Lucius Foxe had been at the lighthouse for two days. He rejoiced in
being in this manner cut off, as it were, from the land, and almost,
as it seemed to him, in the midst of the ocean. Two engineers were his
companions, as well as the usual lighthouse-keeper and his boy. The
young man knew that he must soon return, or his father and Ambrosia
would be vexed that he had so long delayed upon the lighthouse; and
yet, for hours and hours, he put off giving orders for the boat.
There was really nothing for him to do on the lighthouse. The
engineers good-humouredly tolerated the presence of the young lord,
who took such an interest in their work and was the son of the man who
had so generously contributed to the success of it, but still, there
was nothing that Lucius Foxe, at the best but an amateur engineer,
could do. The lighthouse was complete, and his bronze wolf had proved
a failure, and quite unable to support the fury of the winds.
He had long since been told it probably would be a failure, but he had
persisted with his model, and a slight sense of flat disappointment
had stung him when the prophecy of the uselessness of his design had
been fulfilled. Instead of this fantastic beast, which was to howl his
warning with every blast that blew, a gas engine had been fixed, with
a powerful detonator.
St. Nite’s Lighthouse stood a few miles out at sea, at the end of the
long spit of rock called the Leopard’s Rock, which was always covered
to a depth of several feet by the sea, and a quite impassable way for
ships. A lighthouse had stood there since 1760; it had been erected at
the expense of the then Earl of Lefton, who had received, in exchange,
heavy dues on the passing shipping. Lucius was glad that neither he
nor his father made money out of the lighthouse, but had, instead,
been able to contribute towards the cost of it. He was proud of the
lighthouse, which had just been recased in cement, and was now one of
the finest in England, rising, from the base to the lantern-room, a
height of 117 feet, and from high-water mark to the centre of the
lantern, 110 feet; yet even so, already, although the gales had been
mild compared to those that were likely to assail the lighthouse in
the winter, the waves had flung their foam with a rattle against the
lantern-panes, and on one occasion even lifted the cowl off the top,
so that the water poured in and extinguished some of the lamps. The
sea-birds, too, continued to dash themselves against the lantern, and
to drop, dead or dying, on the sharp rocks on which the heavy base
rested. Yet the engineers believed that these massive blocks of
granite, arranged after the plan of Smeaton in his great work at the
Eddystone, would withstand the fiercest storms, even of the Cornish
coast; and they were extremely elated that they had been able to
complete the lighthouse before the tempests of winter set in with
their implacable fury.
Already the seas were running heavily, and the waves plunging high,
and the long fissure underneath the lighthouse began, when filled with
perpetual winds, to emit that rush and roar which had always so
impressed and even terrified the keepers of St. Nite’s Lighthouse. But
as yet the lighthouse had been put to no very severe test. Sometimes,
as the engineers and the keepers and Lucius well knew, the full force
and fury of the Atlantic would beat upon it: two channels commingling
with the ocean would meet here in one fierce assault. Lucius from his
childhood had often ventured down to this spit of land, and from the
precipitous rocks of the shore watched the old lighthouse withstand
the fierce fury of the outswell and the inrush of the ground swell of
the main ocean, raging and beating upon the valiant and stately
structure. Even in summer the billows always came tumbling and raging
in thunder over the ridge of the Leopard’s Rock, dashing impatient
spray nearly to the summit of the land cliffs. Here and there a jagged
rock pierced these swirling waves, and that would make a hideous
whirlpool, all foam and whirl, waves running together and leaping high
with the shock across this dangerous channel.
Lucius had been excited by the reports of the commissioners, who had
just visited the lighthouse and pronounced it a magnificent structure
but perhaps the most exposed in the world. What would they say, he
thought with pride, in the winter, when the rolling seas sent their
spray over the top of the lantern? This lantern was the great pride of
the engineers. It was illuminated by colza oil, and gave an alternate
white light and red light revolving every half-minute, which in fair
weather was visible for seventeen miles.
Lucius, walking round the gallery outside the lantern, was inspired by
the hope that perhaps this winter, however terrible for storms, would
pass without a wreck upon these ghastly coasts. He could not remember
any year when there had not been some disaster on St. Nite’s Head. One
year, three steamers had gone to pieces; out of sixty-five sailors and
passengers on one ship only three escaped from the wreck.
Everyone on board the other two was drowned. Lucius could just recall
that most horrible of all catastrophes, when the Hamburg mail steamer
went ashore in this perilous neighbourhood with the appalling loss of
331 lives; and further back there was the tradition that, during the
seventeenth century and the wars with France, no less than four
British warships, going to pieces and perishing on these horrible
rocks, split like eggshells among the masses and fragments of granite.
The _Vulture_, the _Hythe_, and the _Thunderer_ were the names of
these boats, and legends were still strong on this coast, of drowned
sailors and soldiers being cast ashore for days, and the peasants,
farmers, and fishermen being enriched by inlaid weapons, guns, swords,
bullion, and heartily replenished sea chests; while, if local tales
spoke the truth, these rocks, known as the Leopard or the Devil Rocks,
were haunted by hundreds of unshriven ghosts.
“But that is over,” thought Lucius; “we shall have no more deaths on
this coast!” And he smiled confidently, with the confidence of
visionary youth.
He paused now, leaning against the high rail, with his back to the
desolate sweep of murmuring waters, and looked up at the inscription
he had caused to be put on the large stone steps; that over the door
of the lantern on the east side, which read: “24th August, 1856: _Laus
Deo_,” this he had copied from the old design of Winstanley Lighthouse
on the Eddystone.
Well, he must return now: Ambrosia would be waiting for him at his
father’s house; he knew that they were both jealous of the time and
attention he gave to the lighthouse, and now there was no longer
excuse for so much absorption in St. Nite’s Point and the new
structure there. Everything was complete, and he--well--he had never
been of much use, and now he was not required at all.
He would like, if possible, to take one of the watches during the
winter. He wondered if Ambrosia and his father would consent to that;
one family, the Tregarthens, had for generations been hereditary
keepers of the lighthouse, and the present representative was an old,
sullen, and violent man, who was usually accompanied by one of his
sons. The elder of these had, however, lately gone to Canada, and the
two younger appeared, oddly enough, more interested in farming than
the sea.
Lucius thought there might be a good excuse and a fair opportunity for
him to accompany old Joshua Tregarthen during one of the winter
watches, which were for a period of three weeks.
Lucius entered the lantern-room; there was a seat all round the vast
centre lamp with the reflectors. Descending from this by the
ladder-like stair, he entered the first bedroom, which was plainly
furnished with cabin-beds, drawers, and lockers; and then again into
another, exactly the same, each with two windows; the third was the
kitchen, with fireplace and sink, two settles with lockers, a metal
cupboard, a rack for dishes; and fourth was a parlour or office, where
papers and documents were stored; and underneath two store-rooms, one
for food, one for water; and beneath this, on the foundation-courses,
a huge tank for the accommodation of oil.
Lucius put on his hat and cloak, and left the lighthouse and stood
thoughtfully on the little ledge of rock, looking out to sea--that
grey, immense expanse of fluttering sea--and then across the rocks
where the waves met and boiled, to the dark stretch of the
sand-coloured land.
St. Nite’s Head was six miles or more from the village, and the only
people who lived here were a handful of fisher-folk, mostly occupied
by the work of the lighthouse and the lifeboat: rough, sturdy people,
of a Spanish-looking complexion--descendants of wreckers and smugglers
who yet had, for many years, been faithful to their tremendous task.
Nothing could have been more lonely and desolate than this scene, with
the little huddle of cottages just discernible in the crook of the
land beyond the Leopard’s Rock, protected by the rising cliffs from
the full force of the gale, and yet, to an alien mind, scarcely
inhabitable in winter.
The seagulls were flashing and swooping round the lighthouse. Lucius
thought that if he put out his hand he could have touched them, and
yet they were gone so swiftly that this was impossible. He almost felt
their wings brushing his face, and yet in a second they had passed.
The boat was in waiting; the engineers were already in it, and a
fisherman with the oars.
As they rowed to the land, Lucius looked continually back at the
lighthouse. He was fascinated by it, and proud of his family’s share
in its construction. The more proud, perhaps, as he was not really
Cornish by descent, and had always been looked upon as something of an
alien here: yes, even now, though it was two hundred years since the
Foxes had inherited, through the female line, this remote property.
Neither their name nor their appearance was Cornish, and never, Lucius
believed, would they be regarded as one with the people; but they had
done this--they had identified themselves by the building of that
lighthouse with that dreadful coast, with this remote gloomy part of
England.
Lucius wished that he could have paid every penny of the expenses of
the lighthouse, but that would have been impossible. Still, it was
something to have given up the dues; something to have used influence,
such influence and power as they possessed, to urge Trinity House to
rebuild the lighthouse, and to themselves have contributed, out of
their limited means, towards the expenses. He envied old Joshua
Tregarthen, who had been left behind with one of his sons for the
three weeks’ watch.
The old man lived almost perpetually in the lighthouse, only coming
ashore for a day or so, when his place would be taken by a second son
and a boy. But he was old now, and beginning to ail, and Lucius
reflected that they must name someone else to take his place, or at
least to take longer watches in turn with him; though the old man had
been obstinate in his claim to be left in the lighthouse all this
winter, and extremely jealous of the suggestion that anyone else
should be employed in this important work. But the engineers had
warned Lucius that the old man would not much longer be able to
support the continuous fatigue of watching in the lighthouse; also
that he was somewhat difficult in the matter of the new invention of
the gas syren, and the very elaborate lantern; and Lucius had found
another fisherman, who was willing to go out to the lighthouse and be
trained, and would presently do so, however much old Joshua Tregarthen
disliked it.
The boat put in by the huddled cluster of houses, and the three men
made their way to the small inn, called curiously the “Drum and
Trumpet,” in memory, it was supposed, of the numbers of dead sailors
and soldiers who had been washed up on this shore after the wreck of
the three battleships.
It was the man who kept this inn who was willing to be trained to
attend the lighthouse--who had, indeed, already accepted the job of
lighthouse-keeper--and Lucius turned into the inner parlour to speak
to the man, to urge him to go out immediately, while the weather still
held moderately fair, and learn the business of attending the lantern
and the signal.
The rough, low parlour seemed very dark as he entered it, straight
from the bleak, whitened light of outside, and he peered into the
shadows and raised his voice a little:
“Why, Reuben, Reuben, where are you? I want to speak to you!”
He had thought the parlour empty, but a woman moved from the window,
where she had been blocking some of the feeble light; and he saw at
once, with amazement and dread, that it was the Countess Fanny, in her
riding-habit and plumed hat, holding a little whip in her gauntleted
hand.
“You have come here?” he exclaimed stupidly.
“Why not?” she answered. “Is it so far?”
And he replied, amazed.
“Not so far, but odd that you should come!”
“I have not seen you,” she replied, “since that day in the churchyard,
that is nearly a week ago.”
“Is there anyone with you?” stammered Lucius.
The Countess Fanny shook her head.
“No; and no one knows that I am here. But I found my way somehow, the
roads are not so rough, and it is but six miles, is it not?”
Lucius Foxe looked away. He took off his hat, and his fine, clear
profile and the thick reddish hair, damp from sea-spray, clinging to
his forehead and cheeks, was clearly presented to the Countess Fanny
as she moved from the window and suffered that pale winter light to
fall over him.
“You have been thinking of nothing but the lighthouse!” she said; and
he answered, still without glancing at her:
“Believe me, I have been thinking a great deal of you.”
“You never came to Sellar’s Mead,” said the Countess Fanny, “and I
have been most terribly unhappy! I must see you and speak to you. I am
so alone, and have no one to advise me.”
“But why did you come here?” he asked uneasily. “It will look very odd
in you, and Oliver--you know how angry he was last time.”
“It is because of Oliver’s anger that I am here now,” she replied.
“Oliver is unendurable, and I am afraid of him.”
At that Lucius glanced at her swiftly.
“Then you want to go away?” he asked. “You wish to return to Italy?”
“No, I don’t want to go away,” said the Countess Fanny, “unless it
were to Flimwel Grange. But they won’t allow me to do that!” Her high,
eager voice rose on a note of distress, and Lucius said, hastily and
uneasily:
“Hush! You must not talk about these things here! The two engineers
are outside, and the fisher-people. Make this but an ordinary visit,
and later we will talk.”
“Will you ride back with me?” she asked.
“Of course, of course, but I fear you will get but a poor reception if
Oliver does not know.”
“No--nor Amy either,” she said.
The young man blenched at this name, and said impetuously:
“We cannot, must not remain here! Come out into the open. You must
meet these other gentlemen. We must put a good face on it--of course,
you should not be here.”
“It is a breach of decorum, no doubt,” admitted the girl, “but I am
not of that temper that can sacrifice all my happiness to the
conventions.”
She spoke so desperately that Lucius, though he wished to bring the
conversation to an end, was forced to ask:
“What has befallen? Has something disastrous happened?”
“I have told Oliver that I cannot marry him,” said the Countess Fanny,
“and he will not accept that decision.”
“But that is monstrous!” cried Lucius impulsively. “Of course he must
accept it!”
Then he checked himself, and threw open the door, terrified of this
secret conversation.
The engineers had already left the inn, and were on the shore,
superintending the packing of their luggage into a rough farm cart.
They were to stay that night with the old Earl, and in the morning to
take the ferry and so reach Truro and the train.
“This lady has come to see the lighthouse,” said Lucius awkwardly,
“but of course it is too late to-day for her to make this visit.”
“Oh, why?” cried the girl. “It looks so near, and the sea is so calm!”
“It is two miles away,” smiled one of the engineers, “and one cannot
go there direct because of the dangerous channel across the Leopard
Rock; one must go round, and that will take a while--especially with
the tide against one, as it is now.”
The Countess Fanny took no heed of these words. She stood on the rough
wet shore, and stared out, fascinated, at the lighthouse, which soared
grey into the lighter greyness, granite against a winter sky, while
beyond, the jagged rocks rose perilously out of the ash-coloured ocean
that murmured to and fro round the base of lighthouse, rock, and
cliff.
Lucius stared at her as she stared at the lighthouse. He could not
immediately command this moment. She had said that she was not going
to marry Oliver, and it had been as if a load of lead was lifted from
his heart. As clearly as if she now spoke the words, he heard in his
mind the sentence she had uttered in the old church, among the ancient
graves: “We cannot plan our love!”