When the two sullen and ill-assorted companions, who had preserved a
cold silence during their journey, reached the little creek where were
a few fishers’ huts and houses by the extreme of St. Nite’s Point,
they found that the waves had not subsided. One day of calm had not
been sufficient to check that long-continued fury of the ocean.
The lighthouse was still difficult of approach, but a boat had
ventured out, and had brought, after some difficulty, Joshua and the
young man who had been with him off the lighthouse; but, what was
sufficiently amazing, they had not taken anyone on to the lighthouse,
which was, for a few hours, untenanted.
The two gentlemen discovered the situation to be this. The young
fisherman who was in training to be the new keeper of the lighthouse,
and was to share the watches of old Joshua Tregarthen during the
winter, had been stricken with sudden illness. A chill had followed
exposure to the storm, and he lay now sunk in delirium. The question
had therefore arisen, among the remaining inhabitants of the little
cluster of cottages in the cove, as to who was to take old Joshua’s
place? One or two men had volunteered, but half-heartedly. None of
them had any experience. Joshua had suffered both in his health and
his temper from the long confinement of nearly a month in the
lighthouse, and was by no means disposed to return there; and his
companion, the fisher-lad, flatly refused to do so. He had suffered
considerably from the violence of old Joshua’s temper, and had no wish
to renew that experience; and his description of the appalling
loneliness of the lighthouse, of the howl and tumble of the wind
underneath, the ocean sweeping up and sending spray to the very glass
of the lantern, the darkness and gloom and terror of the whole
experience, had done much to make the others dubious about
volunteering for this strenuous duty.
It had finally been decided to relieve old Joshua while the weather
was set comparatively fair, and to send up to Lefton Park and ask the
advice of Lord Vanden as to who should take the next watch. Such a
messenger had actually been sent, and Lucius must have missed him on
the road, for the fisher had gone on foot and by the fields.
Here was a situation that took the minds of both the men, for a brief
while at least, off their own tragedy. There were only a few hours of
daylight remaining, and possibly only a few hours of calm sea. Indeed,
the immense track of foam over the Leopard’s Rock looked dangerous
enough even now. The light must go up to-night.
Old Joshua stepped up to Lucius, and sullenly said that he would
return to the watch, though he begged he might have another boy; the
inefficiency of the last lad, he declared, had been unendurable, nor
was the lad willing to return with him.
Lucius looked anxiously at the old man, who showed plainly the strain
of his long vigil. He was more than seventy years of age, and
appeared, in the eyes of Lucius, utterly unfit for the renewed charge
that he offered to undertake.
“I had better go, my lord, old and feeble as I be,” said Joshua
gloomily. “There’s no one here that knows the job. There’s no one here
can undertake the work, now young Mathews is taken sick. Who would
have looked for that?”
“I had a man coming over from Falmouth and another from Truro,” said
Lucius, “both of whom would have been willing to undertake the work;
one of them has been trained. But the storm has prevented them--they
have not reached us yet. I, of course, never reckoned on the fact of
young Mathews’ sickness”; and he might have added that he had been so
absorbed in his quest for the Countess Fanny that he had scarcely
thought of the lighthouse at all, nor been the least troubled as to
who would follow old Joshua as keeper.
The fisher-folk gathered silently round the two gentlemen on the
beach. The light was waning rapidly; the snow-clouds helped to darken
the sky. The boat, loaded with provisions, was ready on the water’s
edge in the shelter of the only cove where any boat could be
reasonably beached. Round the base of the precipitous coast the surf
still boiled and thundered, and across the hideous ridge of the
Leopard’s Rock lay that dangerous expanse of whirling foam.
“The storm be coming up again,” muttered one or two of the men. “Maybe
it will be a month or six weeks for anyone who goes out there now;”
and another wondered if the thing was safe--said that the lad who had
just come back had felt the structure shake beneath him when the storm
was at its height.
Lucius heard this remark, and checked it sharply.
“That’s nonsense, of course! The building will stand the sharpest
storm that has ever blown--the highest sea; but we want someone, not
only with courage, but with a little knowledge and experience; someone
who can work the syren and the lantern.”
“There be no one,” said old Joshua, not without a sullen pride.
“Though I was looking forward to me Christmas on shore, and a
rest--I’ve had bouts of illness, and my knees are so stiff I can
hardly get up and down the stairs--still, my lord, I am willing to go
back if some lad will come with me to help.”
But no one would. The violence and the gloom of old Joshua were too
well known. It had been increasingly difficult to find anyone to
accompany him on his watches; since the son who had been his usual
companion had gone to Canada, no one had readily taken his place as
his father’s companion on the lighthouse.
Oliver Sellar, who had watched the scene and listened to the
discussion without much interest, now said harshly:
“Offer them double pay, and then they’ll go! They’re only standing out
for a higher price.”
This remark was bitterly resented by the independent spirit of the
Cornishmen. They looked with indignant dislike at Oliver, who was
intensely unpopular with everyone. This injudicious remark only
confirmed them in an obstinate refusal to go on the lighthouse. Fair
words might have induced them to take up this unpleasant duty; foul
ones never would.
Lucius looked out long and intently towards the sea, and gazed at the
lighthouse which was the fruit of so much enthusiasm and exertion on
his part, and in some degree paid for by his father’s and his own
ill-spared money; many dreams and ambitions, and visions and hopes of
youth had been by Lucius Foxe woven into the structure of the
lighthouse, which now rose up, grand and stately, dark against a
denser darkness, but bearing no lights in the cresset.
“I will take the watch myself,” he said. “I had intended--yes, really
intended--to share it in any case. I thought that Mathews would have
been going, and I would have gone with him; but now I will go
alone--or perhaps there is some man who will come with me.” And he
looked round the crowd.
There were some protests, but much relief at Luce’s suggested course.
He was familiar with the lighthouse; he knew how to work the lamps and
the syren; he knew a great deal more about it than they did; he had
lived there for weeks on end at one time. They looked upon him as a
great engineer, and considered his amateur knowledge of these matters
most profound. Oliver, when he heard his offer, had looked at him
instantly and sharply, and now stared at him through the encroaching
dusk.
“What about your father?” he demanded, “and Amy? Do you care to leave
them so long?” he added with a sneer.
“You must explain to them,” replied Lucius, unmoved. “It will be only
three weeks; and, even if the tempest returns, a month, say, at the
outside. By then----” He did not finish the sentence, but Oliver knew
what he meant. “I leave everything to you,” he added; “it is your
affair and your duty, as you have reminded me; and now you have it
entirely in your own hands. You will know where I am--on the
lighthouse.” He gave a wan smile. “There will be no possibility for me
to leave the lighthouse without your knowledge.” And he thought that,
by his action, he would be able to persuade Oliver that he knew
nothing of the whereabouts of the Countess Fanny. He thought that this
hideous canker eating into the already half-crazed mind of Oliver
would be at least removed. He could not be jealous of a man shut up on
the lighthouse of St. Nite’s Point. He could not think that a man who
chose to go to such a place would know anything of the whereabouts of
the Countess Fanny. There could be, in these circumstances, no
possible collusion or intrigue between them. As for his father--and he
had instantly and rapidly considered the situation with regard to his
father--the Earl would understand. He would write to him before he
went to the lighthouse; write, too, to Amy. They would be safe; they
had everyone to look after them. It was Providence that there should
be a deliberate chance for him to go on to the lighthouse. It seemed
now a useful, almost a necessary, thing for him to do: not a whim, or
a piece of bravado, but a plain duty.
One of the fishermen said:
“There’s a young lad that would be glad to go with you, sir, in the
inn, now--tramped up from Falmouth, I think; just wearing a suit of
slops; a kind of castaway, I suppose. He wanted a job; he was willing
enough to go, even with old Joshua here--temper or no temper! Give him
the chance, as he’s a waif, and willing, and no one else wants to go.
The money don’t mean to us what it does to him.”
“Very well,” said Lucius indifferently. “I care not whom you send, as
long as I have some companion. But we had better depart at once,
before the darkness descends and the waves rise, so that I may light
the lantern immediately.”
The little group of gossiping idlers now broke into action. The
remainder of the provisions was brought down and packed into the boat.
“I’ve no clothes,” remarked Lucius with a smile; “and there’s no time
to send for them. Pack up a few vests and socks and shirts. For the
rest, the place is well stored I know,” he added, “for I thought of it
myself. Oliver”--and he turned to the dark, gloomy figure behind
him--“I pray you take these two letters--one to Amy and one to my
father. I will write them immediately in the inn.” He thought of his
horse, and added: “I will ask for a groom to be sent over; meanwhile
the horse will do very well here in the stable.” And he commended the
beast to the charge of the men in the inn.
Under the defaced and flapping sign of the “Drum and Trumpet,” he
entered the tiny, dark inn, where one small oil lamp lit the shabby
parlour; and on the threshold of this parlour he paused and shuddered,
for he remembered how he had stood there once with the Countess Fanny;
and he tried not to consider--for the pang would have been too
awful--what he would have given if he could have stood there with her
now.
The brother of the owner of the inn, the sick Mathews, had followed
him into the parlour, and pointed out respectfully the boy crouched
over the hearth, saying: “There, my lord, is the lad who is willing to
go on the lighthouse with anyone who takes the watch. Perhaps you
would like to ask him a few questions. He came up from Pen Hall Farm a
day or two ago and is staying here. He pays honestly for his keep, but
has come to the end of his money.”
“Who is it?” asked Lucius indifferently. “Some poor waif tramped up
from Falmouth, I suppose?”
“That’s it, my lord. One of these boys looking for work--a castaway,
maybe, or one escaped from an orphanage. But he’d answer your purpose
well enough, I dare say. Between you and me, my lord, there aren’t
many others that are willing to go, even if you offered double the
pay. We always left the lighthouse to the Tregarthen family; it was
only my brother that was willing to take it on. The others aren’t
prepared, you’ll understand, my lord,” added the man, as a kind of
rough excuse.
“Very well, very well!” said Lucius impatiently. “It doesn’t matter to
me, I assure you. I will take the boy. It’s only just to have some
manner of companion. I can wait on myself.”
The man crossed to the boy by the hearth.
“Here, my lad,” he said, “wake up! A gentleman’s going to take the
watch on the lighthouse, and you can go with him if you wish. You know
the pay and the conditions, and you said you’d like the job.”
The boy coughed, and answered in a harsh, hoarse voice that he would
certainly be willing to go on to the lighthouse at any moment they
might ask him, grateful for the chance of earning a few shillings.
Lucius gave him an absorbed and indifferent glance. He saw, in the
uncertain light of the fire and the lamp, a tall, thin boy of perhaps
sixteen years of age, dressed in a rough suit of slops, much muddied
and stained, with a black kerchief round his neck and a cloth cap on
his head. His face was so deep a brown that Lucius half-suspected him
of being partially of coloured blood, and that was likely enough, for
he might have come from some foreign ship putting in at Falmouth. He
looked miserable, and continually coughed and shivered. A mug of beer
and a fragment of bread and cheese was on a stool by his side. He ate
and drank at intervals.
“You’ve never been on a lighthouse before?” asked Lucius.
“No, sir; but I’ve been on ships, and I’m willing and obedient; I’ll
do whatever you tell me, sir.” The boy kept his face averted, and
stared into the fire. He seemed greedy for heat and light.
“Where do you come from?” asked Lucius kindly. “They say you’ve been
staying at Pen Hall Farm. Those are very wild, rough people.”
“They were kind to me,” said the boy. “I’d tramped up from Falmouth,
looking for work, and there wasn’t any of course, it being
winter-time. They took me in, and I was ill with a cough--and they
nursed me. They told me that there might be work here at the
lighthouse, so I came; and I’ve been two days waiting for them to get
the keeper off. They told me to-day they’d managed it, and I shall be
glad to go with you, sir, and I’ll do my best.” At the end of this
somewhat husky speech, the boy coughed violently again, and huddled
closer over the fire.
“Poor wretch, he’s ill!” thought Lucius. And it flashed across his
mind that this might be an added burden on the watch; and yet, it
would be harsh to refuse to take him--hardly possible.
“He’s half-starved, I suppose,” thought the young man. “Release from
anxiety and good food may put him on his feet. Anyhow, I’ll take him.”
And he said aloud: “Think no more about it, my lad, but get together
whatever you have, and prepare to accompany me at once. I have just
these two letters to write.”
“I have nothing to get together,” replied the boy; “only a few things
in a handkerchief.”
“Very well; that will do--there is everything on the lighthouse.”
Lucius took out his notebook, and, seated by the table, scribbled his
two letters; one to Amy and one to his father, the first guarded and
the second frank. The old Earl understood his situation. He would
sympathise with his resolution. As for Amy, he did not know how Amy
would take it. Ill, no doubt. But for her, too, it was the best thing.
It would silence all gossip, all rumour; would put an end to any
possible violent scenes between him and Oliver; it would stay Oliver’s
foul and restless suspicions; it would clear the good name of the
Countess Fanny of any possible suspicion as to his complicity in her
disappearance.
When he had finished the letters, Lucius reflected that he could
scarcely trust them to Oliver. The man was in no state to have any
business confided to him. It was quite possible that he might destroy
them both, and in any case refuse to deliver them, or perhaps read
them. In the present condition of his mind, Lucius could not trust
Oliver; and he called the host in and confided the letters to him,
asking him to see that they were sent over as soon as possible on the
following morning.
Lucius then called for a glass of wine, and sat at the table by the
window, forgetting that he was not alone, entirely oblivious of the
insignificant presence of the boy crouching over the fire. He was glad
of this chance to go on the lighthouse; it seemed, indeed,
heaven-sent. New energy, new courage, and new hope flowed through his
veins, where for the last few weeks the blood had run so sluggishly
and painfully. There was something deliberate and definite for him to
do. He had loved the lighthouse, and that ancient love revived in his
breast now.
He looked out on the darkening waters, at that stretch of foaming
surf, a livid white in the failing light. He did not fear any coming
storms or tempests. He would like to be on the lighthouse, shut away
there amid the utmost rage of the elements, tending his light and his
signal, saving, it might be, hundreds of lives every night.
He did not dread the thought of a prolonged watch. What would it
matter if he were shut up there a month or six weeks? He would be at
peace, away from the mute reproaches of Amy, away from the smouldering
violence of Oliver, away from the whispers and glances of pity, of
reproach, of wonder, away from the flicks of gossip and scandal, alone
with his stern and unrelenting duty, occupied by a great
responsibility.
He felt his spirits rise almost to the point of exultation. The
fishermen appeared in the door and said the boat was ready, and were
there any more instructions or commands from the young lord? And
Lucius said:
“No; if the boat is equipped in the ordinary way, that will do for
me.”
They said it was; and the crew of seven ready to take him out.
The ocean was more quiet even than it had been during the day. Away
from the hidden reefs and pitted rocks it would be quiet enough, and
there would be no difficulty in going out to the lighthouse.
“Are you ready, boy?” asked Lucius of the crouched figure by the fire.
The boy lifted the beer mug and drained the last of the contents.
“Aye, sir, I’ve been ready this long while,” he said.
“If you drink so much beer,” smiled Lucius, “it will make you
sleepy--that and the keen air together. We have work to do out there
to-night.”
“I’ll love that; I’ll love work, and to be on the lighthouse,” replied
the lad.
At that moment Oliver Sellar entered the inn parlour.
“Good-bye, Oliver,” said Lucius.
The boy put down the mug and rose; Lucius glanced down at him.
“Who’s this?” demanded Oliver.
The boy adjusted his scarf and cap to protect his face from the cold.
“A lad from Falmouth,” said Lucius, indifferent, “who is going to
accompany me on the watch.”
And the three of them left the inn together.
“This is an odd thing for you to do,” said Oliver sullenly. He seemed
not satisfied but startled by Lucius’ conduct in taking the watch at
the lighthouse.
Lucius did not answer, and without further word to Oliver he and the
boy got into the boat manned by the seven fishermen. It was pushed
off, and was soon riding the waves.
Oliver Sellar remained on the darkening shore, and looked across the
darkening sea and watched the speck of the boat disappear. Silent,
sombre, his arms folded across his breast, he remained staring after
the boat.