Chapter XII

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!”