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t was late afternoon when land loomed up blue on the horizon. Mr. Snape had taken the tiller, and Noll stood leaning over the rail by him, eager and watchful for the first look at Culm. "Mought as well wait a bit," Jack Snape had drawled out; "we sha'n't get there fur a long while yet, lad."
But the boy chose to keep his place, and kept his eyes unweariedly on the distant point for which the "Gull" was making. Yet it was but tiresome watching, after all, and the brisk breeze seemed to have failed them somewhat, for the vessel's speed had sensibly diminished.
"He'll be glad 'nough to look t'other way arter he gits there," muttered Skipper Ben, between the whiffs at his pipe; "my lads 'ud think they's killed for sartin to be shut up there a week." He got up at last, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and disappeared down the hatchway, returning presently with a spy-glass, which he carried to his passenger with, "Lookee here, boy, take this an' make out what ye ken. 'Tain't much ye'll see yet, but mebby ye'll get a look arter a time." He sat down again, looking at the boy's face from time to time, and wondering if this sending him to Culm Rock was not some of that Lawyer Gray's work. The skipper had not a very high opinion of lawyers.
Slowly, slowly the blue point began to take shape, and Noll's glass brought it to his eyes all too faithfully. The skipper saw the eager look and the warm color which had been on his face fade slowly out as the "Gull" drew nearer and nearer the journey's end, and the warm-hearted sailor waxed indignant. "Mought ha' told him what ter expect, anyhow!" he muttered, shaking a great bale with his brawny hands as if it had been Lawyer Gray's shoulders.
The "Gull" stood in toward shore. First, the pine woods, vast and sombre, showed themselves; then, a little way on, Culm Rock came slowly into view, bald, ragged, and desolate. Noll's face was very grave, but he kept his place and said nothing. Slowly the curve of the shore unfolded itself, a long line of yellow sand, length after length of scarred and jagged rock. The sound of the surf came faintly out, sounding over the ripple of water about the "Gull's" prow. Not a sign of life, as yet, had showed itself. The vessel kept steadily on till, at last, the whole great breadth of the Rock lay before them, rising huge and massive out of the sea, and, in a sheltered hollow on the shore, a great stone house stood up, gray and weather-beaten as the cliffs about it.
"Is that the house?" Noll asked, turning to the skipper, and laying down his glass.
The old sailor nodded assent, thinking to himself that he had never seen it look darker and gloomier, and wondering what the boy thought.
"Aren't you going to stop?" Noll asked, as the "Gull" kept on, and the stone house dropped astern.
"Goin' round to the landin'," explained Mr. Snape; "'tain't good moorin's till ye git half a mile fu'ther round. Ye'll git ashore pretty quick."
Under the cool and heavy shadow of the Rock they crept, coming out of it at last into the full glory of the sun's setting. All the west was aflame, and the sea glowed and sparkled like molten gold. Even the wretched little Culm fish-huts looked almost fair and comely in this flood of light.
Noll Trafford scanned the little wharf, where a motley collection of men were gathered, with a quick-beating heart. Which of them could be Uncle Richard? Would he give him a kind welcome? The boy's spirits began to rise somewhat under the influence of the broad, cheerful glow of sunshine and the speedy prospect of meeting this uncle who was to be as a father to him. The remembrance of the gray old house under the shadow of the rocks around the curve of the shore still lay somewhat heavily on his heart; but if Uncle Richard were only glad to see him, all that would not matter, he thought. He stood by the prow as the "Gull" moved slowly up to the wharf, eagerly scanning every face that was watching the craft's motions. A sudden pang of disappointment chilled him from head to foot, for among that idle, shiftless-looking group, there was not one whom he could possibly mistake for his uncle. They were all fishermen, dull-faced, dirty, and out at their elbows. Some frowsy, ill-clad women had come out of their houses, and, with children clinging to their skirts, looked on with idle curiosity.
So this was Culm Rock! Noll's bright fancies had all fled, and his heart was suddenly very heavy. He looked back across the sea toward Hastings, longingly, and thus verified the skipper's prediction. If Uncle Richard had only been there to greet him, he thought, chokingly, it would not have mattered so much, but now, it was all forlorn and dreary enough.
"'Tain't much uv a town arter all; is it?" drawled Mr. Snape, with a broad grin on his thick features.
"Shut up, Jack!" growled the skipper. "Can't ye see the lad's got all he ken weather?" Then he turned to Noll, proffering his rough sympathy. "Sorry fur ye!" he said. "Culm ain't the place for the like o' you, an' what ye cum here fur, I can't see. But keep a stout heart, lad, an' rough it out best way ye can; ain't no other way now."
"I'm going to," said Noll, with an effort; "I won't mind after a little, I guess. Good-by, skipper;" and he stepped out on to the little wharf among the fish-folk, who made way, regarding him curiously.
"Keep 'long up the shore," called the master of the "Gull" after him, "and you'll cum to the house afore long. I'll send yer trunks up by some o' these 'ere good-fur-nothin' Culm folks. Good-by, lad!"
The skipper watched the boyish figure walking away up the sands, and remarked to his mate, "Ef I knew that was some o' Gray's work, I'd jes' like the fun o' bringin' the ole chap down here on the 'Gull,' an' lettin' him loose to browse on the rocks,—jes' to see howhe'dlike it!"
Noll walked briskly, trying to keep up good heart by whistling and humming snatches of tunes, looking back over his shoulder at the wonderful gleaming of the west, and the queer picture which the fish-huts and the group of idlers made, with the "Gull" lying by the little wharf, her cloud of canvas yet unfurled and its shadow gleaming white as ivory in the depth of water on which she floated. At his feet the tide was murmuring. How far and vast stretched the sea! What a minute atom of earth was Culm Rock, compared with the boundless waste of waves which compassed it about! Bending over all, the evening sky lay cool and serene, flushed, where it met the water, with lovely stains of color. Noll was but dimly conscious of these things as he hurried on, because his heart was filled with conjectures about the stone house and the friend he was to find there. The disappointment of not finding his uncle awaiting him with a warm greeting still lay heavily on his heart; and as he passed the curve of the shore, and the stone house came in sight, his quick pace slackened, and he walked but slowly.
There was no one visible on the piazza. All the doors and windows were closed, though the evening was warm and mild.
The boy wondered if his uncle was absent. Perhaps, he thought, with a little thrill of pleasure, that, after all, was the reason why Uncle Richard had failed to meet him.
A thin blue film of smoke crept up from one of the tall chimneys, telling him that some one was within the gloomy old structure, which, it seemed to him, looked much more like a grim fortress than apeacefuldwelling. Not a blade of grass or anything green flourished about it; all was rock and sand and stranded kelp.
His heart beat fast as he went up the piazza-steps, and noted how his footsteps echoed in the silence. He rapped on the great oaken front-door. No one answered the summons. He rapped again, wondering if Uncle Richard was really gone, and his heart began to grow heavy again, as it had done upon his first disappointment at the wharf. The lonely voice of the sea stole up to his ears, and he turned about to look. Twilight was fast settling down upon it, and already the far horizon was hidden; but along the shore the waves shone and gleamed whitely. Noll's first pang of genuine homesickness came upon him here. It seemed as if he had not a friend this side of the wide, dark sea.
This second summons met with no better success than the first. Noll turned away, went back down the steps, and there stopped to look about him. He discovered some straggling footprints in the sand leading around the corner of the house, and these he followed for lack of a better guide. They led him to a long, low projection from the main body of the house, a kitchen it appeared to be, and here he found a wide-open door, from whence came the strains of a hymn half chanted, half sung. Noll rapped. The singing ceased. A slow step came across the kitchen floor, and a voice said, "Bress us! who's dis?"
Noll looked up at the wrinkled black face framed by a great yellow turban, and said,—
"I'm Noll Trafford. Didn't—didn't Uncle Richard expect me?"
Old Hagar threw up both hands crying, shrilly, "Bress de Lord! is dis Noll Trafford's boy?" and then stared blankly at him.
"Yes, if you mean Uncle Richard's brother," said Noll, still very sad-hearted; "and wasn't he looking for me at all?"
"Bress ye, honey!" said Hagar, recovering her senses, "he didn't say one single word to me 'bout ye! Dun forgot it, I 'spose. But don't ye stan' on dem yer steps another minnit; come right in, honey. I'll see Mas'r Dick dis instant."
Noll followed her into the little kitchen, where on the hearth a fire was crackling and flashing its red flicker over the walls. He sat down on a rough wooden bench by the door, wondering if his uncle could really have forgotten that he was coming, and feeling not all light-hearted, while Hagar clattered away to "see Mas'r Dick." She came back pretty quick, saying,—
"You's to go right in to de lib'ry, chile, right in jes' as soon as I git dis yer candle lit;" and getting down on her knees she puffed away at the coals and burned splinters till she succeeded in coaxing her tallow candle to burn. She got up, came back to where Noll was sitting, and holding the light close to his face, looked down at him long and steadily.
"Bress de Lord!" she said, stroking his curly hair, "you's de bery picter ob yer father. 'Pears like 'twas him I see'd dis minnit 'fore me! Did ye drop down frum de sky, or what, chile?"
"I came down on the 'White Gull,'" Noll answered.
"Well, now!" said Hagar; "an' why didn't yer father come too?"
"Papa? Oh, why—papa is dead," said Noll, with a little quiver in his voice which he could not possibly prevent, he was so lonely and homesick.
Old Hagar gave a shrill wail and set her candle down.
"Now don't tell me dat!" she cried. "Mas'r Oliver dead? Well, well, honey, we dunno nuffin on dis yer Rock? De whole ob creation might cum to an' end, an' we nebber hear on't. An' you's all alone now, chile?"
"Yes," said Noll, feeling at that moment as if there wore never truer words spoken.
"An' you's come down to lib wid yer Uncle Dick?"
"Yes."
"Well, bress de Lord fur dat!" said Hagar, joyfully; "couldn't a better ting happened to dat yer man, nohow. Jes' what he wants,—a boy like yerself, wid yer own father's face. An' did Mas'r Dick know ye's comin'?"
"Yes, he knew," said Noll; "he—he told me I'd be welcome. Do you think I am?"
"Why, yes, honey! What made ye ask dat? Yer Uncle Dick is a strange man, an' ye mustn't mind if he don't say much to ye, an'—but come right in de libr'y, chile, fur he's waitin' fur ye. Come right along; I's lit de lamp in dar;" and taking up her candle, she led the way.
"Don't yer mind dis ole hall," said Hagar, by way of apology as they entered a long, bare, chilly corridor; "nobody comes here but me, an' I don't mind. It's only my road frum de libr'y to de kitchen.Henebber comes out here."
From this hall they passed into the dining-room, where stood a supper-table very plainly spread.
"Mas'r Dick didn't eat nuffin to-night," said Hagar, glancing around as she clattered on. At one end of the dining-room they came to a door which the old housekeeper softly opened.
"Go right in, honey," she said to Noll, in a whisper; "he's dar," and then turned away.
Richard Trafford sat by one of the great bookcases, reading. The lamplight fell full upon his worn and sorrowful face. He did not hear the door open, did not hear Noll's light step, and was first conscious of the boy's presence when two arms were suddenly clasped about his neck, and a voice, trembling with a mixture of joy and sadness, cried, "Oh, Uncle Richard!"
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Richard Trafford, a little startled, unclasped the boy's hands without a word, and held him off by one arm. Full in the light he held him, gazing in his face long and keenly. Then he said, "So this is Noll!"
Oh, how coldly the words fell upon the boy's heart! How the stern voice and the keen gray eyes chilled him! Not a word of welcome, after all,—only those four chilling words. The boy's disappointment was so great, his heart so lonely and homesick, that he stood with downcast eyes, before his uncle, to hide the tears that glittered in them, and could not answer a word. Trafford released his nephew's arm with a sigh. The boy was the very counterpart of his father, of Brother Noll, he thought,—the same fair, high forehead and curling locks, the same deep blue eyes, the same eager, impetuous manner. This resemblance touched him somewhat; he noted, also, that the boy's lips quivered a little, and so said, in a kindlier tone,—
"You're very welcome to Culm, Noll. Are you tired with the journey?"
"No—yes—some, I mean," stammered poor Noll, winking hard to keep the tears back.
"And you'd like some supper, I dare say," continued his uncle.
"Yes, by and by," the nephew managed to answer.
A silence fell upon them here,—long and deep,—in which the eternal murmur of the sea stole in. Trafford's eyes did not move from the boy's face; and at last he said, taking his hand,—
"You're wonderfully like your father, Noll,—in more ways than one, I hope. Can a lad like you ever be contented in this old house?"
"I—I hope so, Uncle Richard," Noll replied, mocking these words, however, by a very despairing tone.
Trafford smiled grimly. "He's weary of it already," he thought; "and who can wonder? Noll and I couldn't have endured it at his age, I suppose." Then he added aloud, "If you tire of it, Noll, you shall have liberty to return to Hastings whenever you choose. You're not to stay against your will, remember. You may find it lonely and dull, perhaps; if so, I leave you to go or stay, as you choose."
The tone in which this was spoken was so sad that Noll ventured to look up into his uncle's face. The gray eyes had lost their stern light, and looked very sorrowful.
"I—I will never want to go back, Uncle Richard, if you would like me to stay," he said, quickly.
"Ah, you don't know what you say, Noll," Trafford answered, stroking the boy's hair; "it's a lonely place. For a boy it is horrible. Even I sometimes find it but a weary resting-place. Ah! wait and see, wait and see. I've little hope you'll stay longer than a month."
At this Noll's heart gave a leap of joy. "Do you reallyhopeI'll stay, Uncle Richard?" he cried.
Trafford looked at the boy's eager, searching face for a second, then answered, "Yes, if you can be contented." This was hardly such an answer as Noll craved, yet it made his heart lighter. Perhaps it was only Uncle Richard's way, he thought, which made it seem as though he was not welcome. The old black housekeeper, he remembered, had warned him not to mind it. With this thought, his heart grew somewhat more cheerful, and he began to take a brighter view of things. He noted the tall cases of books and the open organ, and unconsciously these evidences of taste and refinement made the thought of dwelling in the stone house more acceptable. If Uncle Richard would only care for him, he thought, all the rest would not matter.
Trafford let go his hand, saying, "Go and get your supper, Noll; Hagar will show you. Then, if you like, you can come back."
The boy took two or three steps toward obeying, then, as if remembering some duty unperformed, turned and came back.
"I had forgotten the letter,—papa's letter,—Uncle Richard," he said, drawing the missive from his pocket. "Would you like it now?"
Trafford extended his hand without a word. Noll placed the precious letter therein, and walked away, looking back at the door to see that his uncle had broken the seal. Not till the boy's footsteps had died away did the uncle look upon the hurriedly-traced lines which the note contained. The letters were feebly made, hinting of the weakness of the hand which traced them. This was what he found:—
"My Dear Dick,—I write this to you from my dying-bed, not
knowing that it will ever reach you, or that you are even
upon the face of the earth. If ever youdoreturn,—if
ever you receive this, be kind to my poor Noll for my sake.
Make him your own,—he'll love you,—and make him such a
man, before God, as you know I would have him.
"If he has disappeared, look him up, search for him, and
cherish the boy as my precious legacy. And, dear Dick, look
well to yourself. A man needs much when he lies where I am
lying. We ought to have been more to each other these past
years, not living with a great gulf, as it were, atween us.
This and the thought of my boy is all that weighs upon me
now.
"And, dear Dick, till we meet again, farewell, farewell.
O. Trafford."
A sudden mist came across the reader's eyes, a sudden throb to his heart. Brother Noll! the blithe, warm-hearted, once precious brother! he who had astonished all his friends by studying for a minister, and who, with all the fervor of youth, had devoted every talent and energy to the sacred cause. How he had loved him once! How proud and happy he had been at his success! And here were words, his last thoughts on earth, breathed from the very depths of his heart, and thrilling with love for himself and this boy. They stirred the man's heart as it had not been stirred before since that dreary afternoon when all the joy and sunshine fled out of his heart and left it so cold and bitter. He had not realized before that Brother Noll had really ended his pilgrimage, and passed out of the earth, which, to himself, was such a weary abiding-place. Now, with the last whispers of that dear heart before him, the whole bitter sense of his loss came upon him, and he covered his face, sighing heavily. Back came the remembrance of the long and happy days of boyhood, with visions of the shining meadows where they strayed together; with visions of careless, joyful hours, when they sailed and fished and hunted the woods for purple grapes and glossy nuts; with visions of those calmer days when they grew up to manhood together,—Noll always bright and brave and loving, and a check upon his own wilder spirits. Now he was gone; and all the years to come could never again bring joy so deep and love so everlasting. Yet, true and dear to the last, he had breathed his life out in one sweet message to himself, confiding his love and this boy to him as a precious legacy. Trafford almost groaned when he thought of his loss. Oh, what a cruel thing was Death! A fierce, pitiless robber, seeking for the loveliest and brightest, it had lain in wait, all his life long, despoiling him of whatever he set his heart upon, he thought, and leaving him wrecked and desolate. He had thought that no death or sorrow could ever move him again; yet here was his heart aching as wretchedly as ever. Was there no place in the wide, wide earth where such wretchedness could not pursue? He had hoped to find it in this wild and barren Rock; yet here sorrow had crept in, bitter and poignant as in the busy city.
Trafford rose from his chair, put away the message from out of his sight, and sat down at his organ to still the pain in his heart with the charm of its music.
Noll had had his supper, and was sitting, sad and solitary, by Hagar's fire in the kitchen. He would wait a little, he thought, before going back to the library, that Uncle Richard might have time to read his letter. He wondered what its contents could be, and wished and hoped that papa had written some message there for himself. Would Uncle Richard tell him if there were? he wondered. Then his thoughts went back over the sea to Hastings, and there came up such pictures of the dear old home there, and the faces of his school friends flocked before him so vividly,—Ned Thorn's in particular,—that he could look about him only through tears that he strove in vain to banish.
Hagar had gone out with the candle, so the kitchen was quite dusk, save where the fire flared scarlet light on the wall and ceiling. Suddenly, in this silence, there stole in a heavy throbbing, like the beating of a great, muffled heart, and with a slow and solemn movement, rolled and swept in long chains of sound through the house, till, at last, a clear, sweet, flutelike warble broke in and ran up and down, seeming to wind in and out with the heavy undertone. Hagar came in just then with her flaming candle, and began to rattle about among her pots and kettles.
"What is that?" Noll asked, quickly, as the strains kept stealing in above the clatter which the old negress made. It had startled him at first, coming so suddenly, and corresponding so well with the gloom and mystery which seemed to fill the house.
"Bress ye, honey!" said the black old figure, stooping over the cooking utensils on the stone hearth, "don't ye know? Dat's Mas'r Dick at his organ. He sits dar mos' times at ebenin', an' 'pears like I ken jes' tell his feelin's by de music he makes. Sometimes I ken hear it jes' as sad as nuffin ye ken think ob, an' sometimes it's singin' as ef 'twas 'live and 'joicin.' It dun make ye homesick?" queried Hagar, dropping her dishcloth and looking up into the boy's face.
"No," Noll answered, with a sigh, "'tisn't the music. It will all be gone in the morning, I guess," and tried to look his cheeriest.
"You's tired out, chile," said Hagar, with ready sympathy; "better go to bed. I's been makin' ye one in de room jes' side o' Mas'r Dick's. Bes' room in de whole house!"
The music had ceased, and Noll left his seat and went groping his way along the dark, echoing hall, through the dimly-lighted dining-room to the library-door. Entering, he found his uncle still seated before the organ, but with his head bent forward upon the music-rack, and apparently lost in deep thought, for he did not look up till Noll stood beside him. Trafford made a faint attempt to smile, and asked,—
"Could Hagar find you anything fit to eat? We can't live here as at Hastings. The sea brings us our food."
Noll said something about not being hungry, and presently Trafford asked, with the stem and gloomy look upon his face,—
"Did you know that Brother Noll, your father, did a very unwise thing when he put you into my hands?"
Noll started at the strangeness of the question, and the bright color came into his face.
"Do you mean that papa did wrong?" he asked, quickly.
"Yes, so far as your good is concerned. I can be no companion for you. You would have got more good anywhere else than here."
"Don't say that, Uncle Richard!" Noll pleaded.
"Why not?" Trafford queried, not unkindly; "it is the truth."
"Papa said that you—you—" There was such a choking in Noll's throat that he could get no further, and stopped, looking very much distressed. Trafford took the boy's hand in his own.
"My boy," he said, huskily, calling him by that title for the first time, "I'm but a poor wreck at best. I can teach you no good, and God knows I wouldn't be the means of putting a shadow of evil in your heart. Your father says, 'Make him such a man, before God, as you know I would have him.' He asked too much, Noll. Why, boy, I can't rule myself." Noll said not a word. Uncle Richard was getting to be more of a mystery to him than Culm Rock had been. "And," continued Trafford, "we will leave the matter thus: you shall be at liberty, after the first month, to go or stay, as you like. If you go, it shall be to stay away forever; if you stay, it shall be at your own risk. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Uncle Richard."
Trafford saw the boy's lips quiver again, and turned quickly away; the face was so much like his dead brother's. Noll came to him pretty soon, said "Good-night," and went away. Hagar guided the boy up to his room, bidding him good-night with many assurances that "'tw'u'd be pleasanter to-morrow, 'nough sight!" and left him to himself. The stars shone brightly over the sea. Noll could not read his Bible verses that night, for the familiar, precious gift of mamma was locked in the trunk away round the shore at Culm; but he prayed with all the stronger longing for the Saviour's pity and help; and then from his bed by one of the great windows, lay listening to the moaning of the tide below, which seemed the saddest, lonesomest sound he had ever heard. And his heart ached too.
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hen Noll awoke the next morning, the sun was shining brightly in. It was not until after some long minutes of yawning and rubbing his eyes, that he comprehended where he was; then, with some chills of disappointment, he remembered, and bounded up to look out the window. The sea lay rippling, cool and fresh below. Here and there faint trails of mist floated and hovered over the waves, but the breeze was fast tearing and blowing them away. With a feeling of delight, he saw on the far horizon-line the white film of shadowy sails. It showed that there was life and stir somewhere, he thought, and it was pleasant to think of them as bound for far-off Hastings. Then he remembered Skipper Ben and the "White Gull," and wondered when he would return; and then Mr. Gray's note had not been written, he recollected.
"Well," thought Noll, "I'll find time for it to-day, I guess. I wonder if my trunks will come this morning? and—When am I to begin my studies, and who am I to recite to?" This last thought had not entered his head before. There was evidently not a school of any kind upon Culm Rock, and of course Uncle Richard was the only person capable of teaching him anything. "I wonder if he will offer to teach me?" Noll thought in perplexity, "or shall I have to ask him? I can't do that! he's so cold and stern; and besides, I don't believe he would like the trouble. I wonder if I am to grow up like those dull Culm people?" He dressed himself, thinking busily enough of a dozen troublesome matters which had already sprung up to puzzle him, and with these in his head, went down-stairs. He found the dining-room at last, after getting into three or four empty, unoccupied rooms, and there found Hagar putting the last dishes upon the breakfast-table.
"You's lookin' brighter, honey," said she, gleefully. "Didn't dis yer ole woman tell ye so? Ki! I knowed how 'tw'u'd be las' night."
"Itdoesseem pleasanter," Noll admitted; "and where's Uncle Richard?"
"Mas'r Dick? He's in de libr'y; goin' to call him dis minnit. Breakfas' dun waitin' for ye both, honey; an', bress de Lord! how much ye looks like yer father dis mornin'!" and Hagar caressed the boy's hair with her skinny old hands, muttering, as she gazed affectionately in his face, "You's de bery picter ob him,—de bery picter!"
So Richard Trafford thought as he answered the old housekeeper's call and entered the dining-room where his nephew was waiting with a cheery "Good-morning, Uncle Richard." The boy's sunshiny face, somehow, made the great room brighter, Trafford thought, and Hagar bustled about and poured the coffee with a lighter heart than she had had since leaving her people at Hastings.
Good morning, Uncle Richard
"Jes' what's been lackin' de whole time!" she thought to herself; "Mas'r Dick wants somethin' he ken love and talk to. 'Pears like dar'll be a change in dis yer ole house afore long, de Lord willin'." It was such a long time since the old negress had seen a young face, or heard the pleasant accents of a young voice, that she made various pretexts for lingering in the room while the two sat at the table, and though it was for the most part a silent meal, yet it was a wonderful pleasure to see Noll eat, Hagar thought. And when the two had left the table and gone to the library, she soliloquized, "Nebber thought I'd see a day like dis yer, agen! Wonder what Mas'r Dick t'inks o' de boy? Bress de chile! if mas'r don't take to him, 'pears like he'll nebber take to nuffin. Be like habbin' poor Mas'r Noll's face afore him de whole time, an' ef he ken stan'dat, athought lubbin' him, I's 'feard he's dun got colder'n a stone, de whole ob him. You jes' wait an' see, Hagar!"
Noll followed his uncle from the breakfast-table into the library, hoping that he would at once say something about his books or studies, or at least hint what plans he had made concerning himself. It would be a great deal pleasanter, Noll thought, to have Uncle Richard dispose of him, even in a stern, cold way, than to do nothing at all with him and remain indifferent as to whether he studied or grew up in ignorance.
But Trafford had relapsed into one of his gloomy, absent moods, and took up a book as soon as he reached the library, without a look or word for Noll. The boy stood by one of the great windows and looked out on the sea, striving to drown his disappointment by thinking of other matters. When he had tired of this, and found that disappointment was long-lived, and would not be drowned, he loitered by the bookcases, reading the titles, now and then peering into a volume and looking over its top at his uncle, and thinking him a very cold or else a very forgetful man. When he had made the tour of the room several times, and was about to go out in despair, Trafford looked up.
"Noll, did you wish to speak to me?" he asked, abruptly.
The question came upon Noll unawares.
"Yes, if—if you were not too—too busy," he stammered. "I thought—I hoped you would say something about my books—my studies, I mean, Uncle Richard."
"What about them?"
"Why, whether I were to study with you, or by myself, or how; and whether I am to begin now, or wait a while," said Noll, wishing that his uncle would look less keenly at him.
Trafford leaned his head upon his hand and reflected a little. At last he said,—
"You will wait, Noll, till your month is up. There would be no use in beginning studies which, perchance, may end in so short a time. If, at the end of four weeks, you conclude to stay, then we will talk about study. Till then, you will wait."
Noll's blue eyes said, as plainly as eyes could, "Don't mention that month again, Uncle Richard!" but his tongue was silent, and he acquiesced in this decision by a nod of his head.
"You can fill up the time," continued his uncle, "as you like. You had best make yourself acquainted with the Rock before you decide to stay here. You will hardly explore it all in one day, I think;" and with this Trafford turned again to his book.
Noll found his hat and went out, determined to keep a brave heart if Uncle Richardwascold and gloomy. If there was no other way, he wouldmakehim love him, he thought, though how that was to be done he had, as yet, but a very slight idea. He went through the dining-room, and from thence found his way to the broad front piazza which faced the sea, and where, the previous evening, he had stood so lonely and homesick. Everything looked much cheerier to him now, and he ran down the sand, in front of the house, to the water's edge, resolved to see the bright side of everything which pertained to gray, barren Culm. There were stranded shells and bright-hued weeds on the wet, glittering sand, which made Noll's eyes sparkle with delight.
"Wouldn't Ned's eyes open to see these!" he thought, "and wouldn't the dear old fellow like some for his museum! I'll gather a whole box full and send them up by the skipper some day."
Thinking of the skipper made Noll remember his trunks, and he wondered if the "White Gull" had continued her voyage farther down the shore.
"There's a whole month to explore and pick up shells in," he said to himself, "and I'll take this forenoon to go around to the landing and see the skipper, if he's there."
With this thought, he started off, hoping to find the "Gull" still lying off the little wharf. The skipper seemed almost like an old friend, already; and, however rough he might be, he came from Hastings, and this fact alone made the boy long for a sight of his face. So he hastened along the sand, toward Culm, with an eye and ear for everything which he passed. Great boulders, all green and fringed with sea-weed, were strewn everywhere,—in the yellow sand of the beach, in the line of the tide and waves which whitened themselves to foam, and murmured hoarsely against them. In some places the great mass of the rock came down so near the water's edge that only a slender path of pebbles was left between it and the waves. In high tide, Noll thought, this narrow way must be quite covered, and he wondered why the sea did not carry it quite away. But in other places the beach was broad and smooth, quite wide enough for many horsemen to ride abreast. This morning the sea was peaceful and calm. Neither did it look so vast and illimitable as on the previous night. The tide was going out, stranding great quantities of glittering weeds and all sorts of curious objects, the sight of which made Noll's heart glad; but, without stopping to examine or preserve them, he hastened on, hoping to soon catch sight of the "Gull." But in this he was disappointed. No sooner had he passed the curve of the shore than he saw that the skipper and his craft were gone. There were his trunks to see to, however; so he kept on, though at a slower pace, wondering if those dull-looking fishermen could tell him when the "Gull" would return.
Not half so fair or comely did the dozen houses look as in the gold of sunset. Such racked, weather-beaten dwellings Noll had never seen before. It was a mystery how they could ever stand in a high gale. Not a solitary vestige of anything green was there to enliven the barrenness. Long lines of seine were stretched upon stakes, and dangled from the sides of boulders upon the shore. In the sand some dirty-faced children were playing, who got up and ran away at his approach. A little farther on he came upon two fishermen dividing a basket of fish. They looked up, stared, and nodded respectfully.
"When did the skipper go?" Noll asked, pausing.
"Ben, ye mean?" asked one of the men, suspending his labor to take a more leisurely survey of the questioner.
"Yes, Ben Tate," said Noll.
"Afore sunrise," said the other. "Did ye want the skipper, lad?"
"No, not particularly. When is he going to stop here again?"
"Ben? Why, he comes Mondays and Thursdays, he does," said the fisherman; "ye'll find him here day after to-morrow, lad,—early, too, mos' like."
"Can you tell me where he left my trunks?" queried Noll.
At this question, the men looked perplexed. "Do ye mean boxes like?" they asked, after a time.
Noll was astonished at this lack of knowledge, but managed to explain to the two what he meant.
"Ye'd best go up to Dirk Sharp's," said one; "the skipper leaves much with Dirk, he does, an' ye'll be like to find 'em there."
"Back o' the wharf, lad,—back o' the wharf Dirk lives," the other called to Noll, as he walked away.
Dirk Sharp's house was rather smarter than the others,—at least, it was in better repair; but the look which Noll caught of its interior, as he stood rapping by the open door, sufficed to destroy any anticipations of industry or thriftiness which he might have formed from the dwelling's exterior. Dirk was a great broad-shouldered, slouching fellow, with a general air of shiftlessness about him. At Noll's summons, he came lounging out of an inner room, and, catching sight of the boy, said,—
"Lookin' for yer trunks, lad? The skipper said ye was to hev 'em las' night, shore; but ye see," pulling up his sleeve, "as how I got a cut what's hindered," displaying a long, bloody wound upon his arm. "Ye sh'u'd ha' had 'em, lad, but for that, as the skipper said. But ef ye ken wait till the men get back from their seinin'—Ho! there be Bob an' Darby now," he exclaimed, as he spied the two whom Noll had just passed.
"Ahoy there, lads! here be a job fur ye!" he cried to the fishermen.
The two left their work and came up to Dirk.
"Here be two trunks to go 'roun' to the stone house fur this lad," said he. "Ef ye'll shoulder 'em roun' the shore, yer welcome to what the skipper left fur't. What ye say, lads?"
"We'll do't fur ye, Dirk, seein' yer cut," said the one who was called Darby. "Where be the boxes, man?"
Dirk led them into the inner room, from whence they presently emerged, each with a trunk on his shoulder, and, bending with their burdens, started up the shore.
Noll followed slowly after, wondering why they did not use their boat, instead of enduring such back-breaking toil. It struck him that he had never seen such dull, apathetic faces as these Culm people had. Such utter shiftlessness as everything about the cluster of tumble-downs betokened he had never imagined. Perhaps all this dreariness and desolation made itself more keenly felt because the boy was just from the city, which teemed with life and bustle and energy. In its poorest quarter he had never seen such a lack of tidiness as the interior of Dirk Sharp's house presented. He followed the slowly-plodding trunk-bearers up the yellow sand, wondering if there was such another wretched, desolate, and forlorn place as Culm Rock in the whole wide earth.
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hey were a long time in getting to the stone house. Before they passed the curve of the shore, the sun was well up in the sky and beat down with fervid rays upon the sweating, toiling fishermen. Noll rejoiced when the trunks were safely landed in his room at the top of the stairs, and the men had taken their departure, each with a piece of silver in addition to the skipper's fee. It seemed to him that there was no bright side to the life over in those wretched Culm huts. If there was, he could not see it. It puzzled and perplexed him to imagine how human beings could live in such ignorance and apathy of all that was transpiring about them; and the sights which he had seen in the miserable, tumbledown village left a very disagreeable feeling in his heart. Somehow, his hitherto blithe spirits were dampened by this morning's walk, and he thought the great bare Rock would be a great deal more endurable if the fish-huts and their inmates were only off it. True, it would be much lonelier, but that was far more endurable than the sight of such shiftlessness and ignorance. He wondered if Uncle Richard ever went among them, and whether he really knew what a degraded people they had got to be. If he did know, Noll thought, it was very strange that he did not try to lift them up, teach them something, or, at least, have a school opened for the children. Papa, he thought, would have done something for them long ago. There would have been a little schoolhouse and a teacher. A new wharf, he was sure, would have taken the place of the rickety old thing; and by degrees the women would have learned thrift and neatness, and the men energy and industry. To be sure, it seemed a great deal to do for such dull, apathetic people, who seemed not to have a particle of energy and ambition about them; but papa, he thought, could have done it, andwouldhave done it, had he lived here as long as Uncle Richard. He remembered a little sea-town, where they had lived before dwelling in Hastings, how wretched and dirty and ignorant the fishermen were, and what a great change for the better came over the place through his father's efforts.
But now papa was gone, and Uncle Richard? The man was so much of a mystery to Noll, as yet, that he did not know whether there were any hopes of his setting himself to the task of lifting the Culm people out of their slough of wretchedness; but he hoped that his uncle would see and realize what needed to be done before another year had worn away. And if he did not? Why, then they would have to go on in their old way, he thought. He wished that he might do something toward the work; but, then, how could he? He had no money, and no means of getting any, and he was not fifteen.
Noll put away, or tried to do so, all thoughts of the Culm people and their life, and went to writing the note which Skipper Ben was to carry to Mr. Gray on his return to Hastings. When it was finished, ho unlocked his trunk, took a look at the thumbed, worn little Bible which had been mamma's; at the familiar covers of his school-books, which brought up a hundred visions of pleasant, happy hours in the great, buzzing schoolroom,—wondered if he should ever know such joyful moments again,—it seemed quite an impossibility, now,—and took up, one by one, the keepsakes and knick-knacks which his boy friends had given him on his departure. There was the new ball which Sam Scott had given him,—how Samdidlove ball-playing!—and which was now not of the least possible use to him. There was a great bundle of fish-hooks which Archie Phillips had bestowed upon him, more in fun than in earnest, but which Noll had treasured because Archie was his seat-mate. Then there were all sorts of relics and mementos, such as boys set their hearts upon,—bits of carved wood, favorite drawing pencils, a purple amethyst, which Johnny Moore, whose father had been in India, had given him, and, best of all, there was Ned Thorn's dear, merry face beaming upon him from out the little ebony frame in which Ned's own hands had placed it the night before his departure.
Looking at this face, and gazing upon these mementos of his friends, did not serve to make Noll at all more contented with Culm Rock and the prospect before him, and, being presently made aware of this by the heaviness which began to settle upon his heart, he closed the trunks in great haste, and ran off.
The day passed quickly enough, even for Noll, and was only the first of many happy ones spent by the shore and on the rocks. The boy had a taste for treasuring curiosities, and in the wonderful wealth of weed and shell which the sea was continually throwing upon the sand, his love of collecting and preserving was gratified. Every return of the tide was a great sweeping in of the wonders and beauties of the sea to add to his stores. There was always something new and strange to excite his delight and admiration. Then, too, there were long hours spent in climbing the rocks, till all its cliffs and hollows began to grow familiar to the boy. He climbed to Wind Cliff, and from its top looked down on the Culm houses on the sand, and into the gulls' nests far below in the crevices of the rock, and enjoyed their wild wheeling and screaming about him as he stood there. From this high look-out he often stood looking upon such sunsets as he had never seen before. High up toward the zenith the sun shot its great banners of flame as it dipped in the sea, and made the vast expanse glow and glitter. In the east the sails flitted along the purple line of the horizon, and down in the dusk shadow of the Rock he could see the grim stone house and the blue thread of smoke from Hagar's kitchen chimney. Sometimes he made use of Archie Phillips' gift, and caught fish off the rocks, much to the advantage of the old housekeeper's dinner-table.
One week after another passed, and still there seemed plenty of variety and amusement for every day. In one of his rambles, Noll came upon a little cluster of graves, with the rudest of monuments to mark them,—most of them were rough head-boards in which the sleeper's name was cut or scratched,—and this sight of such poor, uncared-for resting-places in the sand made him sad and thoughtful for more than one day. What if he were to die and be buried there, too? he surmised. The thought chilled him. True, he knew that heaven beyond was just as bright and fair for all that the graves were so forlorn and dreary; but the thought of lying far from all his friends, on bare and lonely Culm Rock, oppressed him till new sights and adventures had somewhat effaced the remembrance of the sight from his mind. Nearly one day was spent in the pine woods, whose fragrance and sombre light, and the deep hush reigning within, both awed and delighted him. Then there were days of storm and mist which could only be spent in his chamber or in the library.
Uncle Richard was generally as silent and stern as ever, and sometimes chilled the boy's heart with his coldness, and sometimes touched it by his prolonged and heavy sadness. Noll found more ways than one to make his affection known, and even when his uncle was stern almost to harshness, found some excuse for his unkindness in his warm heart, thinking that all would come right at last, and Uncle Richard lose his coldness and be as kind and regardful as he could wish. Only once did he lose his temper and rebel, and for this Noll repented heartily as soon as it was done. He went into the library one afternoon and asked permission to go around to Culm and climb up to the gulls' nests on Wind Cliff. He had explored every nook of the Rock, and this was a pleasure which he had reserved till the last, and, though not quite confident of being successful in an attempt to scale the precipitous cliff, yet he was eager and anxious enough to make the trial. Trafford was in one of his gloomiest moods, and replied, sternly,—
"You would like to break your neck, I suppose, sir, and give me the pleasure of seeing you brought home bruised and bleeding! No, you shall not go near Wind Cliff!"
The angry color came into Noll's face in an instant. "I believe itwouldbe a pleasure for you to see me brought home with a broken neck!" he cried, impetuously; "and oh, I wish I were back in Hastings, where somebody cared for me!" And with this Noll hurried out of the library, slamming the door behind him.
Trafford heard these words with astonishment; then, as his nephew's footsteps died away along the hall, he covered his face and sighed heavily.
"Ah," he thought, "I did it for his good; yet—the boy distrusts me. He can't know what I would be to him if I could; how can he? He thinks me cold and unloving, and—well, he has reason to."
Hardly had ten minutes elapsed before the door swung softly open, and Noll re-entered. Trafford did not look up, did not hear him, in fact, and presently was startled by a voice saying, brokenly,—
"Uncle Richard!"
Then he looked up. Noll stood before him with downcast eyes and a trembling lip.
"Well?" said Trafford, speaking neither with coldness nor yet with kindness.
"I—I—I didn't mean what I said a few minutes ago, Uncle Richard," said Noll, chokingly; "there was not a word of truth in it, and I oughtn't to have said such a thing."
A deep silence followed, broken at last by another "Well?" from Trafford's lips.
"Will you forgive me, Uncle Richard? I was angry then, and Idon'twish I was back at Hastings," said Noll, grieved, and fearful lest he had only put a wider gulf between himself and his uncle.
Trafford was silent so long that the boy ventured to raise his eyes. To his surprise and astonishment, his uncle was regarding him with eyes that were neither cold nor stern, but almost tender and yearning.
"Oh! do you forgive me?" Noll cried, taking hope.
Trafford laid his hand on his nephew's fair, curly hair, stroking it gently as he had once before done on the boy's arrival.
"You need not ask that, Noll," he said. "Go where you will,—I can trust you."
"But I'll not go to Wind Cliff?" said Noll, "and I wish—you don't know how much, Uncle Richard!—that I could take back those words."
"There is no need," said his uncle. "Go where you will."
Noll took his departure, more confident than ever that under Uncle Richard's coldness and seeming indifference there lurked love and regard for himself, and, true to his word, gave up all idea of ascending the cliff.
As for Trafford, though outwardly stern and cold as ever, his heart went out to the boy more yearningly after that. The month was drawing near its close, and in spite of himself, he could not regard the approaching day on which Noll's decision was to be made without some forebodings. Yet, lest the boy should be influenced by perceiving that his uncle wished his presence, Trafford was gloomier and more forbidding than ever, those last days. The boy should be perfectly free to make his choice, he thought; he would use no influence to change or bias his decision in any manner.
"Everything I have set my heart upon has been snatched away by death," he said to himself; "Noll shall stay only because it is his choice. Never will I, by look or voice, influence him to share my life and loneliness. If he stays, and I love him as my own, just so surely will death snatch him away."
But that the boy was a great comfort and delight to him he could not but confess to himself. He was surprised to find how, in those few short weeks, his cheery presence had won upon his heart. He watched him from the window as he walked on the sand below, searching for sea treasures, and could not endure the thought of having the boyish figure gone forever out of his sight. Neither could he think of the loneliness and silence which would settle down upon the old house when the gladsome voice and quick footsteps were gone, without a sigh. Now it was a great pleasure to go out to the tea-table at evening and find Noll, fresh and ruddy from his ramble on the shore and rocks, awaiting him one side the table with his grave and yet merry face. How would it be when he was gone? It were a great deal better, Trafford thought, that the boy had never come to brighten the old house with sunshine for a brief space, if now he went and left it darker and gloomier than before. And would he go? He should be left to choose for himself, the uncle thought, though the decision proved an unfavorable one.