The Pillar of Light Part 24

"He is laundry-maid, drying clothes."

"I think I shall like him," mused Brand. "He seems to be a helpful sort of youngster. That reminds me. Tell him to report himself to Mr. Emmett as my a.s.sistant,--if he cares for the post, that is."

He did not see the ready spirit of mischief that danced in her eyes.

She pictured Mr. Pyne "fixing things" with Mr. Emmett "mighty quick."

When she reached the first bedroom floor Mrs. Vansittart had gone.

"I thought it would be strange if she stood long in this draught," mused Constance. She opened the door. The lady she sought was leaning disconsolate against a wall.

"My father--" she began.

"I fear I was thoughtless," interrupted Mrs. Vansittart. "He must be greatly occupied. Of course, I can see him in the morning before the vessel comes. They _will_ send a s.h.i.+p soon to take us off?"

"At the earliest possible moment," was the glad answer. "Indeed, dad has just been signalling to a tug which will return at daybreak."

There was a joyous chorus from the other inmates. Constance had not the requisite hardihood to tell them how they misconstrued her words.

As she quitted them she admitted to herself that Mrs. Vansittart, though disturbing in some of her moods, was really very considerate. It never occurred to her that her new acquaintance might have suddenly discovered the exceeding wisdom of a proverb concerning second thoughts.

Indeed, Mrs. Vansittart now bitterly regretted the impulse which led her to betray any knowledge of Stephen Brand or his daughter. Of all the follies of a wayward life, that was immeasurably the greatest, in Mrs.

Vansittart's critical scale.

But what would you? It is not often given to a woman of nerves, a woman of volatile nature, a shallow worldling, yet versed in the deepest wiles of intrigue, to be s.h.i.+pwrecked, to be plucked from a living h.e.l.l, to be swung through a hurricane to the secure insecurity of a dark and hollow pillar standing on a Calvary of storm-tossed waves, and then, whilst her senses swam in utmost bewilderment, to be confronted with a living ghost.

Yet that was precisely what had happened to her.

Fate is grievous at times. This haven of refuge was a place of torture.

Mrs. Vansittart broke down and wept in her distress.

CHAPTER X

PYNE'S PROGRESS

A primrose light in the east heralded a chilly dawn. The little world of the Gulf Rock bestirred itself in its damp misery at the news. The fresh watch, delighted by the prospect of activity, clattered up and down the iron stairs, opened all available windows, unclamped the door when Brand gave the order, and busied itself exceedingly with the desultory jobs which offered to so many willing hands.

It was now, by the nautical almanac, dead low water on the reef, but the strong southwesterly wind, hurling a heavy sea completely over the rocks, showed that the standards of war and peace differ as greatly in the matter of tides as in most other respects.

As the light increased it lost its first warm tinge. Steel gray were sky and water, sombre the iron-bound land, whilst the whereabouts of the sun became a scientific abstraction. Therefore, the heliograph was useless, and Brand, helped by some of the sailors, commenced to flaunt his flag-signals to the watching telescopes on the far-off promontory of the Land's End. The _Falcon_, strong-hearted trawler, was plunging towards the rock when the first line of gay bunting swung clear into the breeze.

And what a message it was--in its jerky phrases--its profound uncertainties--for communication by flag code is slow work, and Brand left much to an easier system of talk with the approaching steamer.

"_Chinook_--New York to Southampton--struck reef during hurricane--propeller shaft broken--78 survivors in lighthouse--captain, 201 pa.s.sengers, officers and crew--lost with s.h.i.+p."

The awful significance of the words sank into the hearts of the signallers. For the first time, the disaster from which, by G.o.d's Providence, they had emerged safely became crystallized into set speech.

Seventy-eight living out of two hundred and eighty who might have lived!

This was the curt intelligence which leaped the waves to fly over the length and breadth of the land, which sped back to the States to replace the expected news of a safe voyage, which thrilled the civilized world as it had not been thrilled for many a day.

Not a soul in the lighthouse gave thought to this side of the affair.

All were anxious to rea.s.sure their loved ones, but, in their present moribund condition, they could not realize the electric effect of the incident on the wider world which read and had hearts to feel.

Even whilst Stephen Brand was signalling to the _Falcon_, with little white flags quickly extemporized as soon as she neared the Trinity buoy, newspaper correspondents ash.o.r.e were busy at the telegraph-office, and their a.s.sociates on the trawler were eagerly transcribing the lighthouse-keeper's words wherewith to feed to fever heat the sensation which the night had provided for the day.

Brand, foreseeing the importance of clearness and brevity, had already written out a full draft of his detailed message.

Faithful to his promise, Stapleton was acting as signaller-in-chief on board the _Falcon_, so Brand might manipulate his flags as quickly as lay in his power, with chief officer Emmett reading the words at his elbow: there was no fear that any mistake would be made by the receiver.

The story, if condensed, was complete. Beginning with an explanation of the liner's disablement, it dealt with her desperate but unavailing struggle to weather the reef, described Pyne's gallant and successful effort to get in touch with the lighthouse, the rescue of a fourth of those on board, the names of the survivors, and, finally, their predicament in the matter of food and water.

All this took long to tell.

Within the lantern, Mr. Charles A. Pyne, appointed supernumerary a.s.sistant-keeper, was burnis.h.i.+ng bra.s.swork as per instructions received.

He little knew the use which was being made of his name by the tiny bits of linen tossing about on the exterior gallery. In such wise, helped by a compositor and dignified by headlines, does a man become a hero in these days of knighthood conferred by the Press.

Constance was scrutinizing the _Falcon_ from the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g-stage. Hearing Enid's cheery "Good-morning" to Pyne when that young lady raced upwards from the kitchen to catch a glimpse of the reported vessel, she dropped her gla.s.ses for a moment.

"Jack is on board," she announced. "Of course he would be there. And there is such a lot of other men--half Penzance, I think."

Enid joined her; Pyne, too, thought he could polish a burner up there as well as on the floor of the service-room.

Stanhope's stalwart figure, clad in oilskins, was clearly defined as he stood alone on the port side of the _Falcon_'s small bridge, reading off the signals and sending back spasmodic twitterings of the flags which he, also, had procured, to indicate that each word was understood.

"Who is the skipper of the tug?" inquired Pyne quietly.

Both girls laughed.

"You mean Jack," cried Enid. "He is not the captain. He is an officer of the Royal Navy, our greatest friend."

"Jack is his front name, I suppose," went on Pyne, breathing on the copper disc in his hands to test its clearness.

"We will introduce you, even at this distance," said Constance airily.

"Mr. Pyne--this is Lieutenant John Percival Stanhope, only son of the late Sir Charles and Lady Margaret Stanhope, of Tregarthen Lodge, Penzance, one of the best and dearest fellows who ever lived."

"It must be nice to be a friend of yours, Miss Brand, if you always talk about the favored person in that way," said Pyne, rubbing industriously.

Enid, to whom the mere sight of the steamer had restored all her vitality, giggled joyously.

"You know, Mr. Pyne, we all love Jack, as the song says. It was a mere accident that he did not accompany us to the rock yesterday. Connie would not let him come."

"Ah," said Pyne.

"I forbade him," explained Constance, "because he has only three days'

leave from his s.h.i.+p, and I thought he should give the first afternoon to his mother instead of playing poodle for Enid."

"How dare you call Jack a poodle?" was the indignant exclamation.