Chapter XXV

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.