Madame Rigby gaped at her, until the sense of her last word sank in, and dropped the cigarette. Her face empurpled with fury.
“You—he—oh—oh, that damned boy from the Polytechnic!” she shrieked.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean,” said Evangeline. “And I’ll thank you not to use such language. In any case, I did not come here to speak to you.” She turned to Dick. “Admirable as my darling husband is in so many ways, he is nonetheless a trifle forgetful. I should like to engage your services as his valet. You will be handsomely remunerated.”
Dick blinked at her.
“Don’t you dare go, you little crawling bastard!” said Madame Rigby. Evangeline spared her only a pained glance. She smiled enchantingly at Dick as she extended a hand to him.
“Recall that I am now in possession of a fortune which, if not quite as splendid as it once was, is still considerably more than it might have been had poor dear papa lived to continue stealing from it. Handsomely remunerated, sir.”
Dick seemed to wake up. He stood straight, shook his hair out of his eyes, adjusted his coat and lapels, and shook Evangeline’s hand most energetically. “Yes, ma’am!” he said.
He grabbed his hat and followed her out the door.
Madame Rigby was left alone. At length she noticed the curl of smoke rising from her forgotten cigarette. She stamped it out, cursing, and rolled herself a new one. Looking around, she spotted the little devil and wound him up. He winked and offered her a jet of flame. She leaned down to him.
“I can count on you, anyhow, Lucifer,” she murmured, sucking her smoke alight. “Can’t I?”
She went to the window and stood looking out, smoking. The smoke tasted sour. She coughed, and coughed again.
SO THIS GUY WALKS
INTO A LIGHTHOUSE
Jan 1—1796. This day—my first on the light-house—I make this entry in my Diary. As regularly as I can keep the journal, I will—but there is no telling what may happen to a man all alone as I am—I may get sick, or worse… The cutter had a narrow escape—but why dwell on that, since I am here, all safe?
My spirits are beginning to revive already, at the mere thought of being—for once in my life at least—thoroughly alone; for, of course, Neptune, large as he is, is not to be taken into consideration as “society”.
What most surprises me, is the difficulty De Grät had in getting me the appointment—and I a noble of the realm! It could not be that the Consistory had any doubt of my ability to manage the light. The duty is a mere nothing; and the printed instructions are as plain as possible.
It never would have done to let Orndoff accompany me, with his intolerable gossip—not to mention that everlasting meerschaum. Besides, I wish to be alone… Now for a scramble to the lantern and a good look around to “see what I can see”…
To see what I can see indeed!—not very much. The swell is subsiding a little, I think—but the cutter will have a rough passage home, nevertheless. She will hardly get within sight of the Norland before noon to-morrow—and yet it can hardly be more than 190 or 200 miles.
Jan 2. I have passed this day in a species of ecstasy that I find impossible to describe. My passion for solitude could scarcely have been more thoroughly gratified. I do not say satisfied; for I believe I should never be satiated with such delight as I have experienced to-day… Nothing to be seen but ocean and sky, with an occasional gull.
Jan 3. A dead calm all day. Occupied myself in exploring the light-house… It is not quite 160 feet, I should say, from the low-water mark to the top of the lantern. From the bottom inside the shaft, however, the distance to the summit is 180 feet at least—thus the floor is 20 feet below the surface of the sea, even at low-tide…
It seems to me that the hollow interior at the bottom should have been filled in with solid masonry. Undoubtedly the whole would have been thus rendered more safe—I have heard seamen say occasionally, with a wind at South-West, the sea has been known to run higher here than anywhere with the single exception of the Western opening of the Straits of Magellan.
No mere sea, though, could accomplish anything with this solid iron-riveted wall—which, at 50 feet from high-water mark, is 4 feet thick, if one inch…
Jan 4. Wind out of the South-West—I am uneasy in my mind. Swell very high, and though the sky is a bright and mild blue, there are prodigious streaks of foam on the wide surge. More—a moaning, at times a muffled howling in the long hollow throat of this tower. I have twice descended to the floor of the shaft, but can find no source for the sound, other than conduction of the walls themselves, reverberating with the blast. I will just go down once more to be certain…
Though the sunken floor is quite dry—some comfort at least—I was appalled to discover, on opening the door, that the tide has risen nearly to the threshold, and I now observe, as I did not in the excitement on my arrival, that the hand-rails are deeply eaten with rust. All the same—no rust on the inside, and the patent lock is well greased. So I am quite safe.
I shall master myself. Will I exist here perpetually under the fear of horrible danger? Let lesser races quail…
I will just move this table to the far wall…
Jan 5. Wind has not shifted—in 24 hours no falling off of the sea. The tower shrieks now like a damned creature.
The waves rise in absolute mountains, to break in a fury of shattered water well over the door now, as I discovered when I went up to the lantern-walk and peered down. The wind is a roaring physical force, no less than the sea—only by clutching my woolen cap with both hands was I able to prevent it from being torn away and whirled a sickening distance out on the vast face of the waters.
I will go down just this once more. All is secure, I know, and yet—that chalk foundation…
Jan 6. I still live—yet the tempest has truly come. I watched it advance like a host armored in copper, spreading implacably from the South-West, boiling and hissing over the sea. I have retreated with this journal to the topmost chamber—tried to write a while in the lantern room but soon regretted it—gigantic seas! Frenzied, heaving, headlong seas rushing with monstrous velocity! Such high, black, mountainous ridges of water—
The tower shakes with each blow. The ghastly crests break, higher with each successive wave—something is out there! That cannot be what it seems. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet thick. 4 feet—
There is a boat—
Jan 7. Oh, intolerable!
My solitude has been violated. They have at least now withdrawn to the lowest chamber, with interminable protestations of thanks, with endless apologies—the voluble Italian servant particularly offends, with his grating and presumptive familiarity. The mute is hardly less irritating, with his absurd antic gestures…
I see that I will be obliged to endure their company, if the boat is ever to be dislodged from the lantern room. It cannot be left as it is, protruding out like a wave-thrown dart—a full 8 feet and 7 inches.
Some sort of hauling tackle must be improvised—and rope must be found to lower it to the rock below, before any effort can be made to get the damned thing seaworthy again—and my unwelcome guests sent on their way. The broken glass must be repaired as well—I trust they do not expect me to replace the panes. This has made the draught worse—and I am certain I caught a chill when my clothing was soaked. What shall I do if it develops into something more dangerous? At any other time I should have been glad of the presence of a doctor…