The girls, even in their dumb agony, were dully conscious of a scurry of feet up and down the stairs. What did it matter? They paid heed to naught save the advancing boat, now deep in the trough of a wave, now perched precariously on a lofty crest. Whoever the rowers were, they trusted wholly to the instructions given by the gallant youth who peered so boldly into the wilderness ahead. The flying foam and high-tossed spray gave to the lighthouse the semblance of alternately lifting and lowering its huge frame amidst the furious torrents that encircled it. Nerves of steel, strong hearts and true, were needed by those who would voluntarily enter that watery inferno.
Yet the men at the oars did not falter nor turn their heads. They pulled evenly and well, with the short, deep-sunken stroke of the fisherman, and Stanhope, now that they were almost in the vortex where the waves lost their regularity, produced a paddle wherewith to twist the boat's head to meet each turn and swirl.
Stealthily the powerful tug-boat crept in the wake of the smaller craft, until it became clear to the girls' strained vision that watchful helpers, lashed in the vessel's bows, were manipulating another rope as a drag, thus helping the sailors' efforts to prevent his frail argosy from being swamped by a breaking sea.
Then a miracle did happen, a miracle of science. When the boat was yet two hundred yards away, Brand, looking out from the gallery in stony despair, suddenly behaved as one possessed of a fiend.
"Follow me!" he roared. "Come, every man!"
He rushed into the lantern. As if he wanted wings rather than limbs, he swung himself by his hands to the floor of the service-room.
Galvanized into activity, those who were with him on the ledge raced after him. They knew not what had happened. Their leader had spoken, and they obeyed.
Down, down, they pelted, taking the steep stairs with break-neck speed, until they reached the oil-room, with its thousands of gallons stored in great tanks.
Big empty tins stood there, awaiting the next visit of the tender, and Brand wrenched the cover off the nearest cistern. He scooped up a tinful of the oil.
"Bring all you can carry," he shouted, and was off again with an energy that was wonderful in a man who had endured the privations and hardships of so many hours.
They understood. Why had none of them thought of it earlier? In its cold granite depths the lighthouse carried that which had the power to subdue the roaring fury of the reef.
The first man to reach the gallery after Brand was Pyne, who chanced to be nearest to him when the hubbub arose. He found the other man flinging handfuls of the oil as far to windward as the thick fluid would travel.
"Quick!" gasped Brand. "Don't pour it out! It must be scattered."
So the colza fell in little patches of smooth tranquillity into the white void beneath, and, before Stanhope had piloted his boat half the remaining distance, the wave-currents surging about the rock ceased to toss their yellow manes so high, and the high-pitched masses of foam vanished completely.
The seamen stationed in the entrance were astonished by the rapidity of the change. In less than a minute they found they were no longer blinded by the spindrift cast by each upward rush right into the interior of the lighthouse. The two nearest to the door looked out in wonderment. What devilment was the reef hatching now, that its claws should relax their clutch on the pillar and its icy spray be withheld?
Each wave, as it struck to westward of the column, divided itself into two roaring streams which met exactly where the iron rungs ran down the wall. There was a mighty clash of the opposing forces and a further upward rearing of shattered torrents before the reunited mass fell away to give place to its successor.
Full twenty feet of the granite layers were thus submerged and exposed whenever a big comber traveled sheer over the reef.
But these straight-forward attacks were spasmodic. Often the eddies created by the rocks came tumbling pellmell from the north. Sometimes they would combine with the incoming tide, and then the water seemed to cling tenaciously to the side of the lighthouse until it rose to a great height, swamping the entrance, and dropping back with a tremendous crash. There were times when the northerly ally disdained to merge with its rival. Then it leaped into the hollow created by the receding wave, and all about the lighthouse warred a level whirlpool.
Stanhope's plan was to rush the boat in when one of these comparatively less dangerous opportunities offered. He would spring for the ladder, run up if possible, but, if caught by a vaulting breaker, lock himself with hands and feet on the iron rungs and endeavor to withstand the stifling embrace of the oncoming sea. He was sure he could hold out against that furious onslaught, once at least. He was an expert swimmer and diver, and he believed that by clinging limpet-like to the face of the rock, he had the requisite strength of lungs and sinews to resist one if not more of those watery avalanches.
The rope around his waist was held from the tug. The instant he made his leap, the men with him were to back water, the crew at the drag to haul for all they were worth, and consequently pull the boat clear of the next wave 'ere it broke. That is why he selected a handy craft in place of the life-boat offered to him as soon as his resolve was whispered ashore. It was on rapidity, quick judgment, the utilization of seconds, that he depended. The unwieldly bulk of the life-boat not only detracted from these all-important considerations, but made it more than probable that she would be capsized or touch the reef.
For the same reason he timed his approach on the rising tide. He could venture nearer to the lighthouse itself, and the boat could be rowed and dragged more speedily into safety. With him, too, were men who knew every inch of the Gulf Rock. He knew he could trust them to the end.
Although he had mapped out his programme to the last detail, Brand's inspiration in using the oil created a fresh and utterly unforeseen set of conditions.
Mountainous ridges still danced fantastically up and down the smooth granite slopes, but they no longer broke, and it is broken water, not tumultuously heaving seas, that an open boat must fear.
With the intuition of a born sailor, ready to seize any advantage given by human enemy or angry ocean, Stanhope decided, in the very jaws of opportunity, to abandon his original design totally, and shout to the men he saw standing in the entrance to heave him a rope. He would have preferred the danger of the jump. He almost longed to endure the fierce struggle which must ensue before he reached those waiting hands. He thought he would have his reward in the tense joy of the fight, in bringing salvation to Enid and those with her, in seeing her sweet face again after these days and nights of vigil.
But the paramount need was to succeed. The extraordinary and, to him, quite inexplicable, change in conditions which he had studied during tortured hours passed on the bridge of theFalconor the Trinity tender, made it possible to remain longer in the vicinity of the rock than he had dared to hope. Therefore he knew it was advisable to adopt the certain means of communication of the thrown rope in preference to the uncertainty of his own power to reach and climb the ladder.
Flinging out his right arm, he motioned to the men in the lighthouse to be ready to heave a coil. The wind was the chief trouble now, but he must chance that.
"Vast pulling," he yelled over his shoulder as a monstrous wave pranced over the reef and enveloped the column.
"Ay, ay," sang out his crew.
Up went the boat on the crest and a fearsome cavern spread before his eyes, revealing the seaweed that clung to the lowest tier of masonry. In the same instant he caught a fleeting glimpse of a lofty billow rearing back from the rocks on the north.
Down sank the boat until the door of the lighthouse seemed to be an awful distance away. She rose again, and Stanhope stood upright, his knees wedged against the wooden ribs. One piercing glance in front and another to the right showed that the antagonism of the two volumes of water gave the expected lull.
"Pull!"
The boat shot onward. Once, twice, three times, the oars dipped with precision. These rowers, who went with their backs turned to what might be instant death, were brave and stanch as he who looked it unflinchingly in the face.
"Heave!" roared Stanhope to the white-visaged second officer standing in the doorway far above him.
The rope whirred through the air, the boat rose still higher to meet it, and the coil struck Stanhope in the face, lashing him savagely in the final spite of the baffled gale which puny man had conquered.
Never was blow taken with such Christian charity.
"Back!" he cried, and the oarsmen, not knowing what had happened, bent against the tough blades. The tug's sailors at the drag, though the engines grinding at half speed were keeping them grandly against the race not more than a hundred and fifty yards in the rear, failed for an instant to understand what was going on. But their captain had seen the cast and read its significance.
"Haul away!" he bellowed in a voice of thunder, and, to cheer them on, added other words which showed that he was no landsman.
Stanhope deftly knotted the lighthouse line to the loop taken off his waist. He cast the joined cords overboard.
"Thank God!" he said, and he looked up at the great pillar already growing less in the distance.
Now, from the kitchen, owing to its height above sea level and the thickness of the wall pierced by the window, as soon as the boat came within fifty yards or so of the lighthouse, the girls could see it no longer.
When it dropped out of sight for the last time Constance could not endure the strain. Though her dry tongue clicked in her mouth she forced a despairing cry.
"Enid," she screamed, "lean out through the window. It is your place."
"I cannot! Indeed, I cannot! He will be killed! Oh, save him, kind Providence, and take my life in his stead!"
Constance lifted the frenzied girl in her strong arms. This was no moment for puling fear.
"If I loved a man," she cried, "and he were about to die for my sake, I should count it a glory to see him die."
The brave words gave Enid some measure of comprehension. Yes, that was it. She would watch her lover whilst he faced death, even though her heart stopped beating when the end came.
Helped by her sister, she opened the window and thrust her head out. To her half-dazed brain came the consciousness that the sea had lost its venom. She saw the boat come on, pause, leap forward, the rope thrown and the knot made.
As the boat retreated she caught Stanhope's joyous glance. He saw her, and waved his hand. Something he said caused the two rowers, for the first time, to give one quick glance backward, for they were now scudding rapidly away from the danger zone. She knew them; she managed to send a frantic recognition of all three.
Then, in an almost overpowering reaction, she drew back from the window and tears of divine relief streamed from her eyes.
"Constance," she sobbed, "he has saved us! Look out. You will see him. I cannot."
Yet, all tremulous and breathless, she brushed away the tears and strove to distinguish the boat once more. It appeared, a vague blot in the mist that enshrouded her.
"Connie," she said again, "tell me that all is well."
"Yes, dear. Indeed, indeed, he is safe."
"And do you know who came with him? I saw their faces—Ben Pollard and Jim Spence—in theDaisy. Yes, it is true. And Jack planned it with them. They have escaped; and we, too, will be rescued. It is God's own doing. I could thank him on my knees for the rest of my life."
The twisted strands of tough hemp might have been an electric cable of utmost conductivity if its powers were judged by results. When willing hands had carefully hauled in the rope until the knot could be unfastened, and the end secured to the cord connecting the gallery with the entrance, a man was despatched to warn Brand that all was in readiness for the next step.
The rough sailor was the messenger of the gods to those who waited on each story. As he ran upwards, climbing the steep stairs with the nimbleness of a monkey, he bellowed the great news to each crowded doorway. Seeing the girls in the kitchen, though already his breath was scant, he blurted out:
"It's all right, ladies! He's done the trick!"
On the next landing pallid women's faces gleamed at him.
"Rope aboard!" he gasped. "They're tyin' on legs o' mutton now."
Yet again he was waylaid on the floor above. Hard pressed for wind, he wheezed forth consolation.
"Just goin' to haul the bottled beer aboard," he grunted.
It would never to do pass the hospital without a word.
"Beef-tea an' port wine swimmin' here," he panted.
Brand was peering through the lantern door, awaiting this unwashed Mercury, who caught sight of the lighthouse-keeper 'ere his shaggy head had emerged from the well.
The man stopped, almost spent. He gave an offhanded sailor's salute.
"Haul away, sir!" he yelled, and his voice cracked with excitement. Indeed, they who remained quite coherent on the Gulf Rock, on the ships, and even on the cliffs nine miles away, were few in number and to be pitied exceedingly. There are tunes when a man must cheer and a woman's eyes glisten with joyous tears, else they are flabby creatures, human jellyfish. The steamboats snorted with raucous siren-blasts, and although the hoarse shouting of men and the whistling of steam were swept into space by the north wind in its rage, those on shore could read the riddle through their glasses of the retreating boat and the white vapor-puffs.
The first to grasp Stanhope's hand when he swung himself onto the deck of the tender was Mr. Cyrus J. Traill.
"Well done, my lad!" he cried, brokenly. "I thought it was all up with you. Did you see her?"
"Yes, but only for a second."
"You thought it best not to join them?"
"You know that I would gladly go now and attempt it. But I dared not refuse the better way. I can't tell you what happened. Something stilled the sea like magic. Look at it now."
Assuredly the waves were breaking again around the pillar with all their wonted ferocity, but one among the Trinity House officers noticed a smooth, oily patch floating past the vessel.
"By Jove!" he shouted, "Brand helped you at the right moment. He threw some gallons of colza overboard."
Traill, a bronzed, spare, elderly man, tall and straight, with eyes set deep beneath heavy eyebrows, went to Jim Spence and Ben Pollard where they were helping to sling theDaisyup to the davits.
"I said five hundred between you," he briefly announced. "If the rope holds, and the three people I am interested in reach the shore alive, I will make it five hundred apiece."
Ben Pollard's mahogany face became several inches wider, and remained so permanently his friends thought, but Jim Spence only grinned.
"You don't know the cap'n, sir. He'll save every mother's son—an' daughter, too—now he has a line aboard."
Then the ex-sailor, chosen with Ben from among dozens of volunteers owing to his close acquaintance with the reef, bethought him.
"You're treatin' Ben an' me magnificent, sir," he said, "but the chief credit is due to Mr. Stanhope. We on'y obeyed orders."
The millionaire laughed like a boy.
"I have not forgotten Mr. Stanhope," he said. "I am sure your confidence in Mr. Brand will be justified. You watch me smile when I ante up your share."
On board the tug, and on the gallery of the lighthouse, there was no time for talk. The vessel, with the most skilful handling, might remain where she was for about four hours. She was already more than a hundred fathoms within the dangerous area marked by the buoy, and there was much to be done in the time.
The strongest rope, the best wire hawser, has its well-defined limit of strain, and the greater the length the greater the tension. From the buoy itself naught save a chain cable would hold in such a sea. The tug must operate from the nearer base. She was pitching and tossing in a manner calculated to daunt anyone but a sailor, and the slightest mistake made by the skipper, the burly oil-skinned man balancing himself on the bridge with his hand on the engine-room telegraph, would snap any line ever twisted.
So, briefly, this was the procedure adopted. A stout rope was bent onto that carried to the rock by Stanhope. With this was sent a whip, thus establishing a to-and-fro communication. The rope itself, when it had reached the rock, was attached to a buoy and anchored. Thus, it could be picked up easily if the thin wire hawser next despatched should happen to break.
A few words may cover a vast amount of exertion. Before the second line, with its running gear, was safely stayed around the body of the lantern—even the iron railing might give way—a precious hour had elapsed, and Stanhope was impatiently stamping about the bridge of the tender, though none knew better than he that not an unnecessary moment was being lost.
At last a signaler stationed on the tug was able to ask:
"What shall we send first?"
And the answer came back:
"Water, milk, bread."
All night tinsmiths had labored to enclose food and clothing in water-tight cylinders ready for transport, and the shining packages now began their voyaging from the tug's trawl-beam to the lofty gallery, three-fourths of the journey being through the sea. When the first consignment reached the rock, another lusty cheer boomed from the watching vessels.
Stanhope, at least, could picture the scene in progress behind the grim granite walls—Constance and Enid, with others whom he did not know, serving out generous draughts to thirsty and famished women and men, helping themselves last, and hardly able to empty the eight-gallon supply of fresh water before they were called on to distribute a similar quantity of milk.
And then, the bread, the cooked meat all cut in slices, the tinned soups and meat extracts, the wines—for Traill had taken charge of the catering and his arrangements were lavish—what a feast for people almost on the verge of starvation!
The hours flew until the tug signaled that she must cast loose and back away from the reef. The tide was running westward now. Soon the danger would be active, and in any case, the Gulf Rock was saved from the possibility of famine during the next forty-eight hours. So the hawser, in its turn, was buoyed, and Brand's parting instruction was not to attempt to reopen communication during the dark hours of the morning tide.
The wisdom of his advice was manifest. With farewell trumpetings the vessels scurried off to Penzance, and the telegraph-office was kept open all night transmitting the word-pictures of newspaper correspondents to thrill the world with full descriptions of the way in which the Gulf Rock's famished denizens had been relieved.
The two last packages ferried to the lighthouse contained, not only warm woolen wraps for the women and children, but a big bundle of letters and telegrams.
Pyne was the postman. There were at least twenty notes addressed to the girls, and several to Brand, from friends ashore.
Mr. Traill, of course, wrote to his nephew and Mrs. Vansittart. Naturally, Pyne carried his own missive to the kitchen, where he found that Constance and Enid had managed to wash in distilled water.
They were cutting sandwiches and endeavoring to read their letters at the same instant. He bowed with sarcastic politeness.
"I see you are ready for the party," he said.
Certainly he offered a deplorable contrast to them. His face was encrusted with salt and blackened with dirt and perspiration. His hands were like those of a sweep, but smeared with oil, which shone on his coat sleeves up to both elbows. His clothes were torn and soiled, his linen collar and cuffs limp as rags, and his waistcoat was ripped open, having remained in that condition since it caught in a block as he descended the mast.
"Oh, you poor fellow!" cried Constance. "How you must envy us. Here is a kettleful of hot water. I can't say much for the towel, but the soap is excellent."
Refreshed, Pyne opened his uncle's letter. The girls were keeping up a running commentary of gossip.
"Mousie (Mrs. Sheppard) says she hasn't slept for three nights."
"Edith Taylor-Smith says she envies us."
"That letter you are reading now is from Lady Margaret. What does she say?"
"She sends all sorts of love, and—that kind of thing," cried the blushing Enid, who had just learnt from Jack's mother that Stanhope had appropriated her as his intended wife without ever a proposal.
"Is that all—in four closely written pages?"
"Well—she hopes soon to see me—to see both of us—"
Constance was too kindly to quiz her sister; maybe she saw something in Enid's eye which threatened speedy retaliation.
"Here's a note from the vicar. They have held a special service of intercession at St. Mary's."
"And Hettie Morris writes—Good gracious, Mr. Pyne! Have you had any bad news?"
Enid's wondering cry was evoked by the extraordinary way in which the young American was looking at her. Some intensely exciting knowledge had mastered stoicism. His eyes were distended, his lips quivering. He leaned with one hand on the kitchen table; in the other he had clenched his uncle's letter.
Constance stood near to him. That he, of all the men she had ever met, should yield to an overpowering emotion, startled her greatly.
She caught his arm.
"Mr. Pyne," she said softly, "if—it is any ill tidings—you have received—we are, indeed, sorry for you."
He pulled himself straight, and gave Constance such a glance that she hastily withdrew her hand. It seemed to her that he would clasp her in his arms forthwith without spoken word. Her action served to steady him, and he laughed, so softly and pleasantly that their fear was banished.
"Girls," he said slowly, "I have been parachuting through space for a minute or so. I'm all right. Everybody is all right. But my head swims a bit. If I come back forgetting my name and the place where I last resided, remember that once I loved you."
He left them. He could not trust himself to say more.
"That letter was from his uncle, I suppose," said Enid, awe-stricken.
"It must be something very dramatic which would make him act so strangely. Why has he run away? Was he afraid to trust us with his news?"
There was a sharp vehemence in Constance's voice which did not escape her sister's sharp ears.
"Connie," said Enid, quietly, "as sure as Jack loves me, that man is in love with you."
"Enid—"
But the other girl laughed, with a touch of her saucy humor.
"Why did he look at you in that way just now? Didn't you think he was going to embrace you on the spot? Confess!"
"It was at you he was looking."
"Not in the way I mean. He gazed at me as if I were a spirit. But when you touched him he awoke. He might have been asleep and suddenly seen you near him. I wonder he didn't say, 'Kiss me, dearest, and then I will be sure it is not a dream.'"
Constance discovered that she must defend herself.
"Mr. Pyne hardly conveyed such unutterable things to me," she said, conscious that a clean face betrays a flush which smudges may hide. "Have you had a letter from Jack that you can interpret other people's thoughts so sweetly?"
"No, dear. Jack has not written. I have found out the cause. His mother expresses the hope that he will be the first to convey her good wishes. So I think he meant to try and bring the rope himself. Dad knew it and Mr. Pyne. That is why they did not tell us."
Constance gathered her letters into a heap. The tiny pang of jealousy which thrilled her had gone.
"Eighty-one hungry mouths expect to be filled to repletion tonight," she said. "No more gossip. What curious creatures women are! Our own affairs are sufficiently engrossing without endeavoring to pry into Mr. Pyne's."
"Connie, don't press your lips so tightly. You are just dying to know what upset him. But, mark my words, it had nothing to do with any other woman."
Wherein Enid was completely mistaken: she would never commit a greater error of judgment during the rest of her days.
When Pyne quitted the kitchen his intent was to reach Brand without delay. As he passed Mrs. Vansittart's bedroom he paused. Something had delighted him immeasurably once the first shock of the intelligence had passed.
He seemed to be irresolute in his mind, for he waited some time on the landing before he knocked at the door and asked if Mrs. Vansittart would come and speak to him.
"Are you alone?" she demanded, remaining invisible.
"Yes," he said.
Then she appeared, with that borrowed shawl still closely wrapped over head and face.
"What is it?" she said wearily.
"You have had a letter from my uncle?"
"Yes, a charming letter, but I cannot understand it. He says that some very important and amazing event will detain him in Penzance after we reach the place. He goes on—but I will read it to you. I am quite bewildered."
She took a letter from her pocket and searched through its contents until she found a paragraph. She was about to read it aloud when someone came down the stairs. It was one of the officers, yet Mrs. Vansittart was so flurried that she dropped the sheet of paper and bent to pick it up before Pyne could intervene.
"Oh, bother!" she cried. "I am dreadfully nervous, even now that we are in no further peril. This is what I wish you to hear."
And she read:
"Nothing but the most amazing and unlooked-for circumstances would cause me to ask you to postpone the date of our marriage for at least a month after you reach shore. This is not the time, nor are your present surroundings the place for telling you why I make this request. Suffice it to say that I think, indeed, I am sure, a great happiness has come into my life, a happiness which you, as my wife soon to be, will share."
"Nothing but the most amazing and unlooked-for circumstances would cause me to ask you to postpone the date of our marriage for at least a month after you reach shore. This is not the time, nor are your present surroundings the place for telling you why I make this request. Suffice it to say that I think, indeed, I am sure, a great happiness has come into my life, a happiness which you, as my wife soon to be, will share."
The American, whilst Mrs. Vansittart was intent on her excerpts from his uncle's letter, studied all that was visible of her face. That which he saw there puzzled him. She had suffered no more than others, so he wondered why she wore such an air of settled melancholy. Throughout the lighthouse gloom was dispelled. The sick became well, the lethargic became lively. Even the tipplers of methylated spirits, deadly ill before, had worked like Trojans at the rope, as eager to rehabilitate their shattered character as to land the much-needed stores.
What trouble had befallen this woman, so gracious, so facile, so worshipful in her charm of manner and utterance during the years he had known her, that she remained listless when all about her was life and joyance, she, the cynosure of many eyes by her costumes and graceful carriage, cowering from recognition? Here was a mystery, though she had repudiated the word, and a mystery which, thus far, defeated his sub-conscious efforts at solution.
She lifted her eyes to his. Her expression was forlorn, compelling pity by its utter desolation.
"What does he mean?" she asked plaintively. "Why has he not spoken clearly? Can you tell me what it is, this great happiness, which has entered, so strangely, into his life and mine?"
"I have never met any man who knew exactly what he meant to say, and exactly how to say it, better than Cyrus J.," said Pyne.
"But he has written to you, surely. Does he give no hint?"
"His letter is a very short one. To be candid, I have hardly made myself acquainted with its contents as yet."
"You are fencing with me. You know, and you will not tell."
Her mood changed so rapidly that Pyne was not wholly prepared for the attack.
"It is a good rule," he said, "never to pretend you can handle another man's affairs better than he can handle them himself."
He met her kindling glance firmly. The anger that scintillated in her eyes almost found utterance. But this clever woman of the world felt that nothing would be gained, perhaps a great deal lost, by any open display of temper.
She laughed scornfully.
"Mr. Traill is certainly the best judge of those worthy of his confidence. Excuse me if I spoke heatedly. Let matters remain where they were."
"Just a word, Mrs. Vansittart. My uncle has written you fairly and squarely. He has not denied you his confidence. If I understood you, he has promised it to the fullest extent."
"Yes, that is true."
"Then what are we quarreling about?"
He laughed in his careless way, to put her at her ease. She frowned meditatively. She, who could smile in such a dazzling fashion, had lost her art of late.
"You are right," she said slowly. "I am just a hysterical woman, starting at shadows, making mountains out of molehills. Forgive me."
As Pyne went on up the stairs his reflections took this shape:
"The old man shied at telling her outright. I wonder why. He is chock full of tact, the smoothest old boy I ever fell up against. He thinks there may have been little troubles here, perhaps. Well, I guess he's right."
In the service-room he found Brand cleaning a lamp calmly and methodically. All the stores had been carried downstairs, and the store-room key given over to the purser.
"I am glad you have turned up," said the lighthouse-keeper. "Oblige me by opening that locker and taking back the articles I purloined recently. If the purser asks for an explanation, tell him the truth, and say I am willing to eat this stuff now for my sins."
Pyne noticed that Brand's own letters lay in a small pile on the writing-desk. With two exceptions, they were unopened. As a matter of fact, he had glanced at the superscriptions, saw that they were nearly all from strangers, and laid them aside until night fell and the lighting of the lamps would give him a spare moment.
"I'll do that with pleasure," said the American, "but there's one thing I want to discuss with you whilst there is a chance of being alone. My uncle says he has written to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. It deals with an important matter, too. It concerns Enid."
"Mr. Traill has written to me about Enid?" repeated Brand, stopping his industrious polishing to see if Pyne were joking with him.
"That's so. See, here is his letter. It will tell its own story. Guess you'd better read it right away."
The young man picked up one of the sealed letters on the table and handed it to the other.
Setting aside a glass chimney and a wash-leather, Brand lost no time in reading Mr. Traill's communication.
Save that his lips tightened, and his face paled slightly, there was no outward indication of the tumult the written words must have created in his soul, for this is what met his astonished vision:
"Dear Mr. Brand—I hope soon to make your acquaintance. It will be an honor to meet a man who has done so much for those near and dear to me, but there is one reason why I am anxious to grasp your hand which is so utterly beyond your present knowledge that I deem it a duty to tell you the facts, to prepare you, in a word."Circumstances have thrown me into the company of Lieutenant Stanhope. We had a kindred inspiration. He, I understand, is in effect, if not in actual recorded fact, the accepted suitor of your adopted daughter, known as Miss Enid Trevillion. I, although an older man, can share his feelings, because I am engaged to be married to Mrs. Vansittart, a lady whom you have, by God's help, rescued. Hence, Mr. Stanhope and I have almost lived together, ashore and afloat, during these troubled days. Naturally, he spoke of the girl he loves and told me something of her history. He described the brooch found on her clothing, and a Mr. Jones, retired from the lighthouse service, who was present when you saved the child from speedy death, informs me that her linen was marked 'E. T.'"These facts, combined with the date and Mr. Jones's description of the damaged boat, lead me to believe that the girl is my own daughter, Edith Traill, whom you have mercifully preserved to gladden the eyes of a father who mourned her death, and the death of her mother, for nineteen years."I can say no more at present. I am not making inferences not justified in other ways. Nor am I setting up a father's claim to rob you of the affections of a beautiful and accomplished daughter. I will be content, more than content, if she can give to me a tithe of the love she owes to you, for, indeed, in Mr. Stanhope, and in all others who know you, you have eloquent witnesses."Yours most sincerely,"Cyrus J. Traill."P. S. Let me add, as an afterthought, that only my nephew and you have received this information. The agonized suspense which the ladies must have endured on the rock is a trial more than sufficient to tax their powers. If, as I expect, Mr. Stanhope meets you first, he will be guided wholly by your advice as to whether or not the matter shall be made known to your Enid—to my Edith—before she lands."
"Dear Mr. Brand—I hope soon to make your acquaintance. It will be an honor to meet a man who has done so much for those near and dear to me, but there is one reason why I am anxious to grasp your hand which is so utterly beyond your present knowledge that I deem it a duty to tell you the facts, to prepare you, in a word.
"Circumstances have thrown me into the company of Lieutenant Stanhope. We had a kindred inspiration. He, I understand, is in effect, if not in actual recorded fact, the accepted suitor of your adopted daughter, known as Miss Enid Trevillion. I, although an older man, can share his feelings, because I am engaged to be married to Mrs. Vansittart, a lady whom you have, by God's help, rescued. Hence, Mr. Stanhope and I have almost lived together, ashore and afloat, during these troubled days. Naturally, he spoke of the girl he loves and told me something of her history. He described the brooch found on her clothing, and a Mr. Jones, retired from the lighthouse service, who was present when you saved the child from speedy death, informs me that her linen was marked 'E. T.'
"These facts, combined with the date and Mr. Jones's description of the damaged boat, lead me to believe that the girl is my own daughter, Edith Traill, whom you have mercifully preserved to gladden the eyes of a father who mourned her death, and the death of her mother, for nineteen years.
"I can say no more at present. I am not making inferences not justified in other ways. Nor am I setting up a father's claim to rob you of the affections of a beautiful and accomplished daughter. I will be content, more than content, if she can give to me a tithe of the love she owes to you, for, indeed, in Mr. Stanhope, and in all others who know you, you have eloquent witnesses.
"Yours most sincerely,"Cyrus J. Traill.
"P. S. Let me add, as an afterthought, that only my nephew and you have received this information. The agonized suspense which the ladies must have endured on the rock is a trial more than sufficient to tax their powers. If, as I expect, Mr. Stanhope meets you first, he will be guided wholly by your advice as to whether or not the matter shall be made known to your Enid—to my Edith—before she lands."
Brand dropped the letter and placed his hands over his face. He yielded for an instant to the stupor of the intelligence.
Pyne, as Constance had done, came near to him and said, with an odd despondency in his voice:
"Say, you feel bad about this. Guess you'll hate our family in future."
"Why should I hate anyone who brings rank and fortune to one of my little girls?"
"Well," went on Pyne anxiously, "she'll be Mrs. Stanhope, anyhow, before she's much older."
"That appears to be settled. All things have worked out for the best. Most certainly your excellent uncle and I shall not fall out about Enid. If it comes to that, we must share her as a daughter."
Pyne brightened considerably as he learnt how Brand had taken the blow.
"Oh, bully!" he cried. "That's a clear way out. Do you know, I was beginning to feel scared. I didn't count a little bit on my respected uncle setting up a title to Enid!"
They were interrupted. Elsie, with her golden hair and big blue eyes, pink cheeks and parted lips, appeared on the stairs. All that was visible was her head. She looked like one of Murillo's angels.
"Please, can Mamie 'n' me see the man?" she asked, a trifle awed. She did not expect to encounter a stern-faced official in uniform.
"What man, dearie?" he said, and instantly the child gained confidence, with that prompt abandonment to a favorable first impression which marks the exceeding wisdom of children and dogs.
She directed an encouragingsotto vocedown the stairs:
"Come right 'long, Mamie."
Then she answered, clasping the hand Pyne extended to her, but eying Brand the while:
"The man who brought the milk."
She wondered why they laughed, but the lighthouse-keeper caught her up in his arms.
"He has gone away, sweetheart," he said, "but when he comes in the morning I shall send for you and you will see him. You are the little girl who was injured, eh? Are you getting better?"
Elsie, having seen Mamie safely extracted from the stair-way, became voluble.
"My elbow is stiff, but it doesn't hurt. I was feelin' pretty bad 'fore the milk came, but Mamie 'n' me had a lovely lot, an' some beautiful jelly. Fine, wasn't it, Mamie?"
"'Squizzit!" agreed Mamie.
"I think I'd like being here if there was more room," said the child. "An' why isn't there any washin'? Mamie 'n' me is always bein' washed 'cept when we're here."
"Surely you have not kept your face as clean as it is now ever since you left the ship?"
"Oh, no," put in Mamie. "We've just been rubbed with a hanky."
"And sent out to pay a call?"
"Not 'zactly," said truthful Mamie. "Mr. Pyne told us to wait near the door—"
"That's an old story now," intervened Pyne quickly. "Climb up on my shoulder and have a look at the sea. Perhaps there may be a ship, too."
"What did Mr. Pyne tell you?" whispered Brand, pretending to make a secret of it with Elsie.
"There didn't seem to be 'nuff to eat," she explained, seriously, "so Mr. Pyne kep' a bit of biscuit in his pocket, an' Mamie 'n' me had a chew every time we saw him."
"H'm," murmured the man, glancing up at his young friend as he walked around the trimming-stage with the delighted Mamie. "I suppose he asked you not to tell anybody?"
"We wasn't to tell Miss Constance or Miss Enid. An' they tole us we wasn't to tell him about the sweet stuff they put in our tea. That is all. Funny, isn't it?"
Brand knew that these little ones were motherless. His eyes dimmed somewhat. Like all self-contained men, he detested any exhibition of sentiment.
"I say," he cried huskily to Pyne, "you must escort your friends back to their quarters. No more idling, please."
"An' you will really send for us tomorrow to see the milkman?" said Elsie. Notwithstanding his sudden gruffness, she was not afraid of him. She looked longingly at the great lamp and the twinkling diamonds of the dioptric lens.
"Yes. I will not forget. Good-by, now, dearie."
The visit of the children had given him a timely reminder. As these two were now so had his own loved ones been in years that might not be recalled.
The nest would soon be empty, the young birds flown. He realized that he would not be many days ashore before the young American to whom he had taken such a liking would come to him and put forward a more enduring claim to Constance than Mr. Traill made with regard to Enid. Well, he must resign himself to these things, though no man ever lost two daughters under stranger conditions.
When Pyne returned, Brand was ready for him. The struggle was sharp, but it had ended.
"I would like you to read your uncle's letter," he said. "I am clear in my own mind as to the right course to adopt. If Mr. Traill wishes to win Enid's affections he will not take her by surprise. Indeed, he himself recognizes this element in the situation. You will not rush away from Penzance at once, I take it?"
"No, sir," said Pyne, with a delightful certainty of negation that caused a smile to brighten his hearer's face.
"I may not get clear of the rock for several days. There is much to place in order here. When the relief comes, I must help the men to make things ship-shape. Meanwhile, Stanhope—or Constance, whom you can take into your confidence—will smooth the way—"
"No, sir," interrupted Pyne, even more emphatically. "When you come to know my uncle you will find that he plays the game all the time. If Enid is to be given a new parent the old one will make the gift. And that's a fact."
Brand waived the point.
"The girls have plenty to endure here without having this surprise sprung on them," he said. "I will write to Mr. Traill, and leave events ashore in his hands."
So, for a night and the better part of a day, the pillar locked in its recesses some new doubts and cogitations. As between the two men a stronger bond of sympathy was created. Pyne, in those restless hours, was admirably tactful. He talked a great deal of his uncle. Soon, not only Brand, but the two girls, seemed to be well acquainted with a man they had never met.
With the morning tide the anarchy of the waves ceased. The children were brought to the lantern to witness a more majestic sight than the arrival of the "milkman." With the dawn the sun appeared, and the sea seemed to sink into long-deferred slumber under his potency.
The flood tide of the afternoon brought the unfailing tug, towing the Penzance life-boat. The crane was swung out and Jack Stanhope, as was his right, was first to be hoisted to the entrance and to exchange a hearty hand grip with Brand.
Behind the lighthouse-keeper were ranged many faces, but not that which the sailor sought.
"Where is Enid?" he asked, after the first words of congratulation were spoken. "Have you told her?"
"No. Here is Mr. Pyne. He will take you to the girls and tell you what we have decided."
The two young men looked at each other with frank friendliness.
"When we have a minute to spare you must take me to the gallery and explain just how you worked that trick," said Stanhope. "Brand's semaphore was to the point, but it omitted details."
"That is where I have the pull of you," responded Pyne with equal cordiality. "I don't require any telling about your work yesterday."
"Oh, people make such a fuss. What is there remarkable in guiding a boat through a rough sea?"
"I may be wrong, but it looks a heap harder than swarming up a pole."
In such wise did young Britain and young America pooh-pooh the idea that they had done aught heroic.
Indeed, their brief talk dealt next with Enid, and Lieutenant Stanhope, R. N., did not think he was outraging conventionality when he found Enid in the kitchen, and took her in his arms and kissed her.
Constance and Pyne discovered that the tug as seen through the window was a very interesting object.
"You don't feel at all lonesome?" he murmured to her.
"Not in the least."
"It must do a fellow a heap of good to meet his best girl under such circumstances."
"Mr. Stanhope and my sister have been the greatest of friends for years."
"Is it possible to catch up? The last few days on the rock ought to figure high in averages."
"Jack," cried Constance, finding this direct attack somewhat disconcerting, "did my father say that any arrangements were to be made for landing?"
"Yes, miss," interposed a sailor at the door. "The skipper's orders are: 'Women an' children to muster on the lower deck.'"
Then began a joyous yet strangely pathetic procession, headed by Elsie and Mamie, who were carried downstairs by the newly arrived lighthouse-men. The children cried and refused to be comforted until Pyne descended with them to the life-boat. The women followed, in terrible plight, notwithstanding the wraps sent them on the previous day. Each, as they passed Stephen Brand, bade him farewell and tearfully asked the Lord to bless him and his.
Among them came Mrs. Vansittart. Her features were veiled more closely than ever. Whilst she stood behind the others in the entrance, her glance was fixed immovably on Brand's face. No Sybilline prophetess could have striven more eagerly to wrest the secrets of his soul from its lineaments. Nevertheless, when he turned to her with his pleasant smile and parting words of comfort, she averted her eyes, uttered an incoherent phrase of thanks for his kindness, and seemed to be unduly terrified by the idea that she must be swung into the life-boat by the crane.
She held out her hand. It was cold and trembling.
"Don't be afraid," he said gently, patting her on the shoulder as one might reassure a timid child. "Sit down and hold the rope. The basket cannot possibly be overturned."
Pyne, helping to unload the tremulous passengers beneath, noted the lady's attitude, and added a fresh memorandum to the stock he had already accumulated.
"Who is that?" asked Brand from the purser, who stood beside him.
"Mrs. Vansittart."
Brand experienced a momentary surprise.
"She seemed to avoid me," he thought, but the incident did not linger in his mind.
The life-boat, rising and falling on the strong and partly broken swell, required the most expert management if the weary people on the rock were to be taken off in safety.
When Constance and Enid, followed by Stanhope, reached the boat after giving Brand a farewell hug, there was no more room. The crew pulled off towards the waiting vessel, and here a specially prepared gangway rendered the work of transhipment easy.
Mr. Traill was leaning over the bulwark as the life-boat ranged alongside. He singled out Pyne at once, and gave him a cheery cry of recognition. At first he could not distinguish Mrs. Vansittart, and, indeed, it must be confessed that he was striving most earnestly to descry one face which had come back to him out of the distant years.
When his glance fell on Enid, his nephew, who was thinking how best to act under the circumstances, was assured that the father saw in the girl the living embodiment of her mother.
He thought it would be so. His own recollection of his aunt's portraits had already helped him to this conclusion, and how much more startling must a flesh and blood creation be than the effort of an artist to place on canvas the fugitive expression which constitutes the greatest charm of a mobile countenance.
Enid, having heard so much about Mr. Pyne's uncle, was innocently curious to meet him. At first she was vaguely bewildered. The sunken eyes were fixed on hers with an intensity that gave her a momentary sense of embarrassment. Luckily the exigencies of the hour offered slight scope to emotion. All things were unreal, out of drawing with previous experiences of her well-ordered life. The irregular swaying of the boat and the tug seemed to typify the new phase.
Pyne swung himself to the steamer's deck before the gangway was made fast, thereby provoking a loud outcry from the deserted children.
Grasping his uncle's hand he said:
"Wait until you read Brand's letter. No one else knows."
So, Mr. Traill, with fine self-control, greeted Mrs. Vansittart affectionately, and handed her over to a stewardess, who took her to a cabin specially prepared for her. Her low-spoken words were not quite what he expected.
"Don't kiss me," she murmured, "and please don't look at me. In my present condition I cannot bear it."
Relatives of the shipwrecked passengers and crew, many of whom were waiting in Penzance, were not allowed on board. This arrangement was made by Mr. Traill after consulting a local committee organized to help the unfortunates who needed help so greatly. The unanimous opinion was expressed that a few lady members of the committee, supplied with an abundance of clothing, etc., would afford prompt relief to the sufferers, whilst the painful scenes which must follow the meeting of survivors with their friends would cause confusion and delay on the vessel.
Pyne, watching all things, saw that Mrs. Vansittart did not meet his uncle with the eagerness of a woman restored to the arms of the man she was about to marry.
She was distraught, aloof in her manner, apparently interested only in his eager assurance that she would find an assortment of new garments in the cabin.
The millionaire himself was too flustered to draw nice distinctions between the few words she spoke and what he expected her to say. When she quitted him he walked towards the group of young people. They were laughingly exchanging news and banter as if all that had gone before were the events of a lively picnic. At last, he met Enid.
Pyne introduced his uncle, and it was a trying experience for this man to stand face to face with his daughter. In each quick flash of her delighted eyes, in every tone of her sweet voice, in every winsome smile and graceful gesture, he caught and vivified long-dormant memories of his greatly loved wife of nineteen years ago.
Somehow he was glad Mrs. Vansittart had not lingered by his side. The discovery of Enid's identity involved considerations so complex and utterly unforeseen that he needed time and anxious thought to arrange his plans for the future.
The animated bustle on deck prevented anything in the nature of sustained conversation. Luckily, Mr. Traill himself, whose open-handed generosity had made matters easy for the reception committee, was in constant demand.
Mrs. Sheppard had sent a portmanteau for Constance and Enid, so they, too, soon scurried below with the others.
The life-boat returned to the rock, where the four lighthouse men sent to relieve Brand were now helping the sailors to carry the injured men downstairs and assisting the sick to reach the entrance.
As soon as this second batch was transferred to the tug, the vessel started for Penzance; the Trinity tender would land the others.
There was a scene of intense enthusiasm when the steamer reached the dock. The vociferous cheering of the townspeople smothered the deep agony of some who waited there, knowing all too well they would search in vain for their loved ones among these whom death had spared.
The two girls modestly escaped at the earliest moment from the shed used as a reception-room. All the inhabitants knew them personally or by sight; they attracted such attention that they gladly relinquished to other hands any further charge of the shipwrecked people. So, after a few words of farewell for the hour, Stanhope piloted them to a waiting carriage and drove away with them.
Mrs. Vansittart did not emerge from her cabin until the deck was deserted. She found Mr. Traill looking for her. In a neat black dress and feather hat she was rehabilitated.
"Why didn't you show up earlier?" he asked in good-humored surprise. "The breeze on deck was first-rate. It brought the color into many a pale cheek. And the way in which the crowd let itself go was splendid. Look at these waiting thousands—quivering yet with excitement!"
"I am worn out," she said quietly; "take me to your hotel. You have engaged rooms there I suppose?"
"Of course."
"When do you purpose leaving Penzance?"
"Well—er—that is part of the explanation I promised you."
"We can talk matters over in the hotel. Where is your nephew?"
For the first time he marked her air of constraint.
"Believe me, Etta," he said hurriedly, "that what I have to tell you will come as a great surprise, but it should be a very pleasant one."
"Anything that gratifies you will be welcomed by me," she said simply. "You have not said where Charlie is."
"Hiding in that shed. He refused Mr. Stanhope's offer of a rig-out on board. In his present disguise he passes as a stoker, and everybody wants to see the man who saved all of you."
"Have you a closed carriage here?"
"Yes."
"Let us go. Charlie can come with us."
Again he was conscious of a barrier between them, but he attributed her mood to the strain she had undergone.
In the shed they found Pyne; with him were the orphaned children; there was none to meet them. Kind offers were made to care for them until their relations should be forthcoming, but the man to whom they clung would not listen to any such proposal.
"I guess they're happy with me," he said. "I will see them through their present trouble."
Childlike, they had eyes and ears only for the prevalent excitement. At last Elsie asked him:
"Where's mamma? You said she was sick. But the men haven't carried her off the ship, an' she wasn't in the boat."
"Don't you worry, Elsie," he said. "I'm going to take you to a big house where you will find everything fixed just right."
His uncle and Mrs. Vansittart approached. The lady's face was no longer hidden.
"What are you going to do with those children?" she inquired.
"There's none here to claim them," he said. "I can't let them leave me in that haphazard way."
"Let me help you. It is a woman's privilege."
She stooped towards the tiny mites.
"You dear little babes," she said softly, "I can take mother's place for a time."
They knew her quite well, of course, and she seemed to be so much kinder and nicer now in her smart clothes than she was in the crowded disorder of the bedroom.
Mamie looked at Elsie, and the self-reliant Elsie said valiantly:
"Mamie 'n' me'll be glad, if Mr. Pyne comes too."
Mr. Traill, who had never before seen tears in Mrs. Vansittart's eyes, found a ready excuse for her womanly sympathy.
"It seems to me," he said genially, "we are all of one mind. Come this way, Etta. And mind you stick close to us, Charlie, or the hall porter will throw you out if you attempt to enter the hotel in that costume."
He rattled on cheerfully, telling them how clothiers and milliners, and all the store-keepers in the town if they were needed, would wait on them at the hotel.
"In a couple of hours," he said, "you both can obtain sufficient things to render you presentable for a day or two. Don't forget we dine at eight. We ought to be a jolly party. I have asked Stanhope and his mother and those two girls to join us."
"Oh," cried Mrs. Vansittart faintly, "you must excuse me. I—"
"Now, Etta, my dear, you will not desert us tonight. Why, it seemed to me to be the only way in which we could all come together at once. I am only too sorry that Mr. Brand cannot be present. Surely he might have been spared from further duty at the lighthouse after what he has endured."
"They offered to relieve him at once, but he declined," said Pyne.
He looked out of the window of the carriage in which they were driving to the hotel. Constance had told him of the dinner arrangement, but he wished to ascertain if the definite absence of the lighthouse-keeper would tend to reassure Mrs. Vansittart.
He was not mistaken. She did not reply at once. When she spoke it was with a sigh of relief.
"I will not be very entertaining, I fear, but the young people will have plenty to tell you."
"For goodness sake, Etta, don't class yourself among the old fogies," cried Mr. Traill. "Look at me, fifty-five and lively as a grasshopper."
"Please, is Mamie 'n' me 'vited, too?" whispered Elsie to Pyne.
"You two chicks will be curled up among the feathers at eight o'clock," he told her. "Don't you go and worry 'bout any dinner-parties. The sooner you go to sleep, the quicker you'll wake up in the morning, and then we're going out to hunt—for what, do you think?"
"Candies," said Mamie.
"Toys," cried Elsie, going one better.
"We're just going to find two of the loveliest and frilliest and pinkiest-cheeked dolls you ever saw. They'll have blue eyes as big as yours, Elsie, and their lips will be as red and round as yours, Mamie. They'll talk and say—and say all sorts of things when you pinch their little waists. So you two hurry up after you've had your supper, say your prayers and close your eyes, and when you open them you'll be able to yell for me to find that doll-store mighty sharp."
"Say, Charlie," cried his uncle, "I never heard you reel off a screw like that before. Now, if I didn't know you were a confirmed young bachelor, I would begin to have suspicions. Anyhow, here's the hotel."
Two hours later, when uncle and nephew met in the private sitting-room where busy waiters were making preparations for dinner, Traill drew the younger man to the privacy of a window recess.
"Charlie," he confided, "affairs are in a tangle. Do you realize that my marriage was fixed for today?"
"That's so," was the laconic answer.
"Of course the wedding was postponed by fate, and, to add to my perplexities, there is a new attitude on Mrs. Vansittart's part. It puzzles me. We have been friends for some years, as you know. It seemed to be a perfectly natural outcome of our mutual liking for each other that we should agree to pass our declining years together. She is a very beautiful and accomplished woman, but she makes no secret of her age, and the match was a suitable one in every respect."
"You can see as far through a stone wall as most people."
Pyne knew that his uncle's sharp eyes were regarding him steadily, but he continued to gaze into the street.
There was a moment's hesitation before Mr. Traill growled:
"You young dog, you have seen it too. Mrs. Vansittart avoids me. Something has happened. She has changed her mind. Do you think she has heard about Edith?"
"Edith! Oh, of course—Enid must be christened afresh. No; that isn't it. It would not be fair to you to say that I think you are mistaken. But, from what I know of the lady, I feel sure she will meet you fairly when the time comes."
"Ah, you agree with me, then?"
"In admitting a doubt—in advising the delay you have already suggested—yes."
"She told you what I had written?"
"More than that, she asked me if I was aware of its explanation."
"And you said?"
"Exactly what I said to you. You are both sensible people. I can hardly imagine that any misunderstanding can exist after an hour's talk."
Mr. Traill looked at his watch. A carriage stopped at the hotel.
"Here's Stanhope, and his mother," cried Pyne; so his uncle hurried off to receive his guests.
Lady Margaret was a well-preserved woman of aristocratic pose. But her serenity was disturbed. Although the land was ringing with the fame of her son's exploit, and her mother's heart was throbbing with pride, there had been tearful hours of vigil for her. Not without a struggle had she abandoned her hope that he would make a well-endowed match.
When Constance and Enid arrived she was very stately and dignified, scrutinizing, with all a mother's incredulity, the girl who had caused her to capitulate.
But Enid scored a prompt success. She swept aside the almost unconscious reserve with which Jack's mother greeted her.
"You knew," she murmured wistfully. "We did not. They would not tell us. How you must have suffered until the news came that he had escaped."
Lady Margaret drew the timid girl nearer and kissed her.
"My dear," she whispered, "I am beginning to understand why Jack loves you. He is my only son, but you are worthy of him."
Mrs. Vansittart's appearance created a timely diversion. She had obtained a black lace dress. It accentuated the settled pallor of her face, but she was perfectly self-possessed, and uttered a nice womanly compliment to the two girls, who wore white demi-toilette costumes.
"You look delightful," she said. "When all is said and done, we women should never despise our wardrobe. That marvelous lighthouse had one grave defect in my eyes. It was dreadfully callous to feminine requirements."
Here was a woman rejuvenated, restored to her natural surroundings. They accounted for the subtle change in her by the fact that they had seen her hitherto under unfavorable conditions. Even Pyne, not wholly pleased with her in the past, found his critical judgment yielding when she apologized sweetly to Lady Margaret for her tardiness.
"There were two children saved from the wreck. Poor little mites, how they revelled in a hot bath! I could not leave them until they were asleep."
"I needed two hot baths," said Pyne. "No. 1 dug me out of the shell, and No. 2 helped me to recognize myself."
During dinner there was much to tell and to hear. Mrs. Vansittart said little, save to interpose a word now and then when Constance or Enid would have skimmed too lightly the record of their own services.
They did not hurry over the meal. All were in the best possible spirits, and the miseries of the Gulf Rock might never have existed for this lively company were it not that four among them bore clear tokens of the deprivations they had endured.
A waiter interrupted their joyous chatter at its highest. He bent over Mr. Traill and discreetly conveyed some communication.
"I am delighted," cried the millionaire heartily. "Show him in at once."
He rose from his chair to do honor to an unexpected guest.
"You will all be pleased to hear," he explained, "that Mr. Brand is ashore, and has come to see us."
Mrs. Vansittart stifled the cry on her lips. The slight color which had crept into her pale cheeks yielded to a deathly hue. It chanced that the others were looking expectantly towards the door and did not notice her.
Brand entered. In acknowledging Mr. Traill's cordial welcome he smilingly explained his presence.
"My superiors sent me emphatic orders to clear out," he said, "so I had no option but to obey. I conveyed Mr. Emmett to suitable quarters and hastened home, but found that the girls were playing truant. My housekeeper insisted that I should eat, else she would not be satisfied that I still lived, but I came here as quickly as possible."
At that instant his glance, traveling from one to another of those present, fell on Mrs. Vansittart.
He stood as one petrified. The kindly words of his host, the outspoken glee of the girls at his appearance, died away in his ears in hollow echoes. His eyes, frowning beneath wrinkled brows, seemed to ask if he were not the victim of some unnerving hallucination. They were fixed on Mrs. Vansittart's face with an all-absorbing intensity, and his set lips and clenched hands showed how utterly irresistible was the knowledge that, indeed, he was not deceived—that he was gazing at a living, breathing personality, and not at some phantom product of a surcharged brain.
She, too, yielding before the suddenness of an ordeal she had striven to avoid, betrayed by her laboring bosom that she was under the spell of some excitement of overwhelming power.
She managed to gain her feet. The consciousness that Constance, Enid, Lady Margaret even, were looking at her and at Brand with amazed anxiety, served to strengthen her for a supreme effort.
"Mr. Stephen Brand—and I—are old acquaintances," she gasped. "He may misunderstand—my presence here—tonight. Indeed—in this instance—I am not to blame. I could not—help myself. I am always—trying to explain—but somehow—I never succeed. Oh!"
With an agonized sigh she swayed listlessly and would have fallen had not Pyne caught her.
But she was desperately determined not to faint—there. This was her world, the world of society. She would not yield in its presence.
Her eyes wandered vaguely, helplessly, from the face of the man towards the others. Constance had hastened to her assistance, and the knowledge that this was so seemed to stimulate her to a higher degree. With fine courage she grasped the back of a chair and summoned a wan smile to her aid.
"You will forgive me—if I leave you," she murmured. "I am so tired—so very tired."
She walked resolutely towards the door. Brand drew aside that she might pass. He looked at her no more. His wondering daughter saw that big drops of perspiration stood on his forehead.
Mr. Traill, no less astonished than the rest, offered to conduct Mrs. Vansittart to her room.
"No," she said, "I will go alone. I am used to it now, after so many years."
There was a ring of heartfelt bitterness in her voice which appealed to more than one of the silent listeners.
As the door closed behind her, Brand seemed to recover his senses.
"I must ask your pardon, Mr. Traill," he said quietly. "I assume that the lady who has just left us did not expect to see me here tonight. It would be idle to deny that the meeting was a shock to both of us. It revived painful memories."
Mr. Traill, scarce knowing what he said, so taken aback was he, exclaimed hastily:
"Mrs. Vansittart claimed you as an old acquaintance. The odd thing is that you, at any rate, did not discover that fact earlier."
The lighthouse-keeper looked round the table. He saw pain in many eyes, but in Pyne's steady gaze there was encouragement.
"Mrs. Vansittart!" he said slowly. "Is that her name? I did not know. How should I, the recluse, hear of her? And in your first message to the rock you called her Etta. WhenIknew her her name was Nanette, for the lady who calls herself Mrs. Vansittart was my wife, is yet for aught I know to the contrary."
"Father!" Constance clung to him in utmost agitation. "Do you mean that she is my mother?"
"Yes, dear one, she is. But let us go now. I fear my home-coming has brought misery in its train. I am sorry indeed. It was wholly unexpected. Poor Nanette! She ever deceived herself. I suppose she hoped to avoid me, as if fate forgot the tears in the comedy of life."
"Can I not go to her?" asked Constance, white-faced and trembling.
"No, my child, you cannot. Has she claimed you? She cast you off once. I might have forgiven her many things—never that. Come, Enid! What need for your tears? We faced worse troubles together three days ago, and you, at any rate, can look foward to happiness. Good-by, Lady Margaret, and you, too, Mr. Traill. I will see you tomorrow, I hope. Forgive me for my unconscious share in this night's suffering."