He might have struggles, heart-aches, heart-hunger, and more than he could do to keep the pot boiling, with the fire out and the hearth cold, but nobody need know anything about that. This girl need never know. Fenella need never know. Nobody need know. It was a matter for himself only.
"Yes, yes, I must do the right," he kept on saying, "whatever it may cost me."
Having arrived at this decision he felt an immense relief and got up to go back.
The windows of the town were reflecting the morning sun and the smoke was rising from the chimneys. He saw an elderly woman, with a little shawl pinned over her head and under her chin, trudging along past the storm-cone station on the other side of the harbour. It was Mrs. Quayle, on her way to his rooms. But he shuddered no longer at the thought of her. She was a good creature and when she heard what he meant to do she would help him with the care of Bessie.
As he walked towards the town he told himself he had another reason now for setting to work in earnest—he had to justify what he was going to do in the eyes of the island and of the Deemster. Therefore the event of last night might be a good thing after all, little as he had thought so.
At the mouth of the bridge he met the harbour-master, whose face wore a look of dismay.
"This is a ter'ble shocking thing that has happened in the night, Mr. Stowell."
Stowell caught his breath and asked "What?"
"Why, the light-house. Struck by lightning in the storm. Didn't you see it, Sir?"
"Oh yes, of course, certainly."