CHAPTER XII. THE SECOND WATCHER ON THE LONGSHIPS. "Yet, were I fain still to remain Watch in my tower to keep, And tend my light in the stormiest night That ever did move the deep. "And if it stood, why then 'twere good, Amid their tremulous stirs, To count each stroke when the mad waves broke -JEAN INGELOW. THERE was no little excitement at Sennen Cove that evening. That a parson should be shut up in a lighthouse was such a strange and unprecedented circumstance that nothing else could be talked about, and the news of it spread like wildfire all through the neighbourhood. When the old squire heard the tidings he was seriously alarmed, giving orders that no pains nor expense should be spared in trying to reach the rock, and in liberating the prisoners. Towards evening crowds, not only from Sennen, but from the other villages and hamlets around where the parson was well known and beloved, gathered on the cliff's eager to catch the first glimpse of light from the Longships. They had not long to wait. A hearty cheer broke from the throng, when, fainter than usual certainly, but still bright and clear, the lantern once more sent forth its friendly ray. The parson at all events was safe, it was his hand that had kindled the lamps, and to-morrow, if all were well, the mystery would be solved; they would know what had happened to Jordan, and why the lamps had not been lighted for two evenings. H Nichols, who was standing in the centre of a group of men like-minded with himself, uttered an oath when he saw the beacon, and exclaimed, "There's that parson again in our way; when he can't get any one to do it for him, he goes and lights up that cursed lantern himself; I wish he'd only stay there. I'd almost stand the lighthouse, if we could get rid of him for good." "It strikes me he'll be there for a day or two longer,' said Ben. "I'm very much mistaken if the wind doesn't rise again to-night, and there'll be no getting at the rock to-morrow." "I'd be glad if a gale came on, and blew hard for a month," said Nichols. "Starve the parson out, I say." 66 'Hardly likely to last so long as that, Bill, but at this time of year one can't expect calm weather to hold out for long." Owen also had been anxiously watching the sky; he was too weatherwise not to perceive signs of rising wind, and perhaps of a coming storm. He had so set his mind upon rescuing Arthur on the morrow, that he could not endure the idea of anything thwarting his intentions; but he knew well enough that if the sea were in the least degree neavier than it had been to-day, all attempts at reaching the lighthouse would be futile. He turned away from the cliff with a sad heart, and walked slowly back to his cottage, where the bright face of his little daughter greeted him as usual with a friendly smile, and with the eager question "Did the light burn in the Longships this evening, father?" 66 Yes, Mary, it did, I am thankful to say." "Oh, that is good news! then Mr. Pendrean is quite safe, for he must have lighted the lamps, and to-morrow you'll go and fetch him home. Won't you, father?" 66 Yes, my child, if the weather only allows us." "Oh, it certainly will, father; I hear no wind to-night; it's sure to be fine and smooth to-morrow." "Not at all so sure, Mary, there's every sign of the wind rising. I am very uneasy about it. It might happen at this time of year that we couldn't get to the rock for a week or more, and think of poor Master Arthur being shut up in the lighthouse all that time. We don't know what's happened to Jordan, he may be dead, or very ill, or gone mad, and in any case Mr. Arthur will have a terrible time of it. Only to think of a gentleman like him having to light the lamps, make a fire, see to the stores, and all that kind of thing. I wish I had prevented him landing on the rock; for all the mischief that's been done, I'm more to blame than any one else." "O father! don't say that; and I'm sure, too, you've been a great help to Mr. Arthur in many ways. He's always come to you for advice, and you have often taken him out in your boat when he wanted to go and see how the works were going on." "Ah, but I mean, Mary, that I ought to have taken the post of lighthouse-keeper, as Master Arthur wanted me to do. This wouldn't have happened then." "You might have been ill-or whatever has happened to Jordan might surely have happened to you, father." "Not likely, my child. I believe that poor fellow has been frightened to death by the horrible noise that the sea makes under the rock. I forgot to warn him about it, as I ought to have done." Owen sat down before the fire, and left his supper, which his daughter had ready for him, untasted, burying his head. in his hands and heaving a long deep sigh. "Come, father," said Mary, "don't take on so. Eat your supper and you'll be better afterwards. Perhaps it will be fine after all to-morrow, and then you'll fetch Mr. Arthur back again, and how glad everybody will be to see him." It was some time before Mary could induce her father to come to the table, and even then he ate his supper gloomily and in silence. When he had finished he again sat brooding over the fire. "I tell you what it is, Molly," he said at last, "I shall have to go and be the lighthouse-keeper at last-there's no one else fit to take the post, and I see it's my duty to do it, so we'll have to be separated, my dear," he continued in a choking voice; "and I must find a home for you, and some one who'll look after you while I'm away." "No, father, I shall go with you," said Mary firmly. "I'd as soon live in the lighthouse as here; we can't have any garden, of course; and we'll have to give up the fowls and the pig, but then you'll be with me all day; you won't ever go fishing and stay out all night as you've had to do some times. Why, I daresay I shall like living in the lighthouse very much." "Nonsense, child, I should not think of such a thing; I'd never expose you to the dangers of such a place; there would be all the risk of getting there; and then that dreadful noise from underneath, you'd never stand it a day. Think of the building trembling and quivering with every wave-no, no, Mary, that would never do, you must find a home somewhere on shore." "O father! let me go with you; if you're in danger I'd like to share it. I'm sure I sha'n't be afraid of the noise, besides you'll always be with me. Of course I shouldn't like to be quite alone there, though I don't see what there is to be frightened at; think how much pleasanter it will be for you if I'm there to get your meals ready and light the fire. I'd rather live with you in the lighthouse than in the squire's fine house without you,-do let me go, father." "You're a dear good girl, Mary," said her father, embracing her tenderly, "the only comfort I have got in this world now, all the more reason I should be careful of you, and not think of running such a risk as allowing you to live in a lighthouse. No, no, my child; it can never be." Mary burst into tears. All her father's efforts to soothe her were vain. He wished he had said nothing about the lighthouse. He felt how hard separation would be to both of them. But the idea of taking such a young child to spend months, or perhaps years, on a lonely rock, gazing upon nothing but a wild expanse of sea, and hearing no sounds but the roaring of the waves and the cries of the sea-birds, was so repugnant to him that he could not admit it for a moment. He could only quiet her for the time by saying that perhaps, after all, he should not have to live at the Longships, and that Mr. Arthur might find another and more suitable guardian for the lighthouse. But poor Mary went to bed sad at heart, and passed as restless a night as her father, who was listening to the rising wind and to the waves beating against the shore. She wouldn't mind at all going to live at the lighthouse; but that her beloved father should be there quite alone, that she should hear nothing of him for weeks or months, was an intolerable thought to her. When Mr. Arthur came back, she made up her mind she would speak to him about it, and get him to persuade her father to let her go with him to the lighthouse if he indeed became the keeper. Next morning Nichols' hopes and Tresilian's fears were only too fully confirmed. It was blowing hard. It would be utterly impossible for any boat to approach the Carn-Brâs rock. The lighthouse was every now and then completely hidden by the waves which dashed over it. The old squire was in a great state of excitement. He rode down to the Land's End, and was vexed and irritated when he heard that no boats had put out that morning to the Longships, but when he saw the state of the sea, even he was convinced that all attempts must be utterly fruitless, and turned away homeward anxious and downcast. Owen, feeling how powerless he was to afford any aid to the imprisoned parson, paced the cliffs agitated and restless, vainly scanning sea and sky in hopes of observing signs of more favourable weather. Nichols and his companion passed the greater part of the day in the alehouse, celebrating the defeat and imprisonment of their enemy by a drunken bout. In the evening the light was again visible, but it was much fainter than it had been yesterday; several times it vanished altogether, but reappeared after a short interval. The men on shore understood from this that the lantern was damaged, so that the sea at times put out the lamp, which was as soon as possible relighted. Next morning happily brought a very favourable change in the weather, the wind had veered round to the east and fallen altogether, the sky was bright and clear, and there was little doubt that on the morrow a landing could be effe ted on the rock, though not unattended with difficulty and danger. In the evening the light burned steadily, though it was somewhat faint; this was a cheering and encouraging sign to Arthur's many friends on shore. Meanwhile calm weather continued, and the sea was already smoother. Owen was in better spirits than he had been for a long time. He made every arrangement for an early start next morning. The four men who had accompanied him before were again to form his crew; to them were added two others. A second boat manned by five of the Sennen men, who could not help admiring the young parson's |