Good-night,
Noll Trafford."
Noll did not lose sight for a moment of his plan to persuade Uncle Richard to take a walk with him. It filled his thoughts all the pleasant days that followed after Mr. Sampson's departure, and several times he hinted very broadly to his uncle that it was "a splendid afternoon for a walk! the beach is hard as a floor, and the tide out." But Trafford was oblivious to all hints, and at last, on one warm, balmy, cloudless afternoon, Noll thought, "It is now, or never! I'll ask him at once." And straightway he started for the library, where he knew his uncle sat reading.
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rafford looked up from his books as his nephew entered, and greeted him with a smile. Noll thought this welcome portended good, and remembered, with a grateful thrill in his heart, that Uncle Richard had fallen into the habit of greeting him thus of late. He went up to the reader's chair, and without waiting for his courage to cool, laid a hand on the reader's arm, saying,—
"Uncle Richard, I've come to ask a great favor of you. Do you think you'll grant it? Can't you guess what it is?"
Trafford did not reply at once, but sat looking steadfastly into his nephew's face, his eyes wearing the dreamy, far-away look which lingered in them much of late, and it was not until Noll had repeated his question that he replied, musingly,—
"I'm sure I cannot think. Perhaps you wish more pocket-money, or—"
"Oh, no!" answered the boy, quickly, "it's nothing like that, Uncle Richard! It's—it's—oh, it's will you take a walk?"
Trafford's forehead began to wrinkle and slowly gather the shade of gloom which seemed always hovering about him, even in his most cheerful moments; but before it had time to cover the man's brow, and before he could utter a refusal, Noll's hand was endeavoring to smooth away the wrinkles, and he was saying,—
"There, don't say 'No,'—don't, Uncle Richard! I won't ask you to go again if you are not pleased with this walk, butthistime—justthisonce—do say 'Yes,' uncle! There can't be a pleasanter afternoon in the whole year than this, and I've walked alone, always till now. Why, Uncle Richard, you won't say 'No'thistime?"
Trafford hesitated, a refusal trembling on his lips, which he did not quite wish to utter. The boyhadwalked alone, he remembered, and it was a very simple request to grant; and if it was going to be such a pleasure and gratification to Noll, why not yield, and for once put aside his own preferences and inclinations? It is not an easy matter for a man who has lived only for himself and his own pleasure to put the gratification of these aside to give place to the happiness and comfort of another; but, with an effort, Trafford put his books away, and rose from his chair, saying,—
"This once, Noll,—this once. One walk with me will suffice you, I think. When shall we start?"
"Now,—at once, Uncle Richard!" said Noll, joyfully; "it's two o'clock already, and the tide a long, long way out. Don't let's wait a minute longer."
Trafford smiled a little at his nephew's eagerness, and taking his hat, followed the boy to the piazza. It was a great change from the half-gloom of the library, and the chilliness of the long, dark halls, to the bright, sunny piazza, where the light fell so warm and broadly, and from whence the blue and shining sea stretched far and wide and vast.
Noll felt sure that Uncle Richard must notice it and rejoice, even though it might be secretly. From east to west there were no clouds, and nothing to hinder the sun-beams from finding the earth and working wondrous charms on land and rock and sea. They stood for a few minutes there, one of them, at least, enjoying the wide view very much, then Noll said,—
"We'll go up the shore, if you'd as lief, Uncle Richard. It's much pleasanter that way, I think."
"Very well," said Trafford, with an indifference which was not encouraging, and they passed down the steps on to the sand. It was a silent and uncomfortable walk for the first few rods, Trafford walking with his head bowed upon his breast and looking only at the yellow sand upon which he trod. He seemed to have no eyes for the calm and gentle peace which had descended upon that afternoon, robbing the sea of its terror and making it enchanting and lovely, and weaving a mystic charm about the bare, bald Rock basking warm and purple under the sun. Even the waves murmured only softly and soothingly and with drowsy echoes, as they rippled in and out among the rocks and along the sand. Fortunately for their pleasure, Noll picked up a curious pebble before they had gone a great way. It was not an agate, nor was it like the rounded pebbles of porphyry which the tide washed up, and puzzling over this, and asking Uncle Richard, at last, to explain its nature, somehow broke the heavy silence which had been between them, and questions and pleasant talk came naturally enough after this.
Trafford lost his gloom and reserve, and followed after his nephew, chatting and explaining strange matters of rock and sea, and stopping now and then to pull over great bunches of freshly-stranded kelp to help Noll search for rare shells or bits of scarlet or purple weed which were hidden and entangled there. How brightly shone the sun! What peace and calm hovered over land and sea! He was just beginning to be conscious of the joy and loveliness which the afternoon held. It was no wonder, he thought, that Noll's blithe, unclouded heart loved such a pleasant earth, and found delight in all the hours which flitted by. But for himself, alas! all this brightness was clouded over by the ever-present, ever-shadowing darkness of the future. It might have been different if—if—But with a sigh Trafford put away these thoughts, and followed on. They lingered around the rocks in their path, black with fringes of dry sea-weed, and talked of gneiss and sienite, granite and trap; they stopped at the curve in the shore, and sat down to watch the white flitting of sails on the far horizon-line, and somehow, the sight of them led to a long talk about Hastings and Noll's papa, and happy memories of other days. Trafford was in a softened mood as they rose up from their seat on a great fragment which had fallen from the cliff above, and Noll said,—
"Come, Uncle Richard, let's keep on toward Culm. It'ssopleasant, and night is a long way off yet."
If he had followed his own inclinations, the uncle would have turned about and retraced his steps, but Noll had started on, and Trafford followed, thinking, "It isn't often the boy has company in his rambles. I can humor him for once."
Slowly enough they approached the Culm houses, loitering along the moist, shining sand, over which the waves had rolled and rippled but a few hours before, and marking their devious path with straying footprints. Noll's heart began to beat somewhat faster as they neared the fishermen's houses, and he kept a keen watch upon his uncle's face in order to detect the first look of surprise and astonishment that should come across it when he perceived how the huts had been improved. But Trafford's eyes were turned toward the sea, thoughtfully and gravely, and they drew very near the village without the discovery being made. They came upon Dirk, Hark Darby, and two or three other fishermen, spreading their nets in the sun, all of whom touched their hats and nodded respectfully to Noll, eying the uncle, meanwhile, with curious eyes and half-averted faces. The sight of these men brought Trafford's eyes and thoughts back to Culm and the present. He turned to Noll, saying, with a little smile,—
"Some of your sworn friends?"
"Yes, they're my friends, Uncle Richard," said Noll, expecting every moment to see Trafford raise his eyes to the houses, which they were passing, "and they do me a great many favors too."
"In what way?" Trafford was about to ask; but just then he looked up and about him, and the words died on his lips. Noll paused, waiting in suspense for what was to come next. His uncle stood still, and looked for a full minute upon Dirk's house, then cast his eyes up and down the line of dwellings, while a look of wonder and amazement came over his face. He turned about, and looked at Noll, who could not, for the life of him, keep the bright color from creeping up into his cheeks and over his forehead, and then he looked at the houses again. A sudden suspicion came into Trafford's mind, and turning his keen eyes upon Noll, he exclaimed,—
"Can you explain this?"
The nephew hesitated, looked down in some embarrassment, then gathering sudden courage, looked up and answered, brightly, "Yes, Uncle Richard, I know all about it."
It was all plain to Trafford then. For a moment his own eyes faltered and refused to meet Noll's, and he showed some signs of emotion. But his voice and tone were as calm as ever when he said, a few minutes after,—
"Youdid this? How can I believe it? What had you to do with? And why was I not consulted, if this was your work?"
"Oh, Uncle Richard!" said Noll, quickly, "don't be vexed with me. You gave me permission to help these Culm people. Don't you remember?"
Trafford made no reply, and again looked at the line of comfortable, well-repaired houses. There were deeper thoughts and emotions in his heart at that moment than Noll could know or guess.
The long silence was so uncomfortable that the boy was fain to break it, with, "I've one more thing to show you, Uncle Richard. It's not much,—only just a beginning,—but I'd like you to see and know about it."
Trafford followed, without a word, and Noll led the way to the little schoolroom, with its two benches and three-legged stool and pile of well-thumbed primers and spelling-books.
"It's not much," said Noll, apologetically, "but it's a beginning, and they all know their letters, and some can spell a little."
Trafford evinced no surprise, much to Noll's wonder, and merely asked, "Where do you find the time?"
"After recitations," replied the nephew; and that was all that was said about the matter.
Trafford went out and sat down on the little wharf, and Noll lingered in the door-way of his schoolroom, thinking that he had never seen Uncle Richard act more strangely. Was he offended at what he had done and was doing for the Culm people? he wondered. He looked out and saw that his uncle had turned his face away, and was looking off upon the sea with the same dreamy, thoughtful look which he had noticed in his eyes of late. Noll would have given a great deal could he have known his thoughts at that moment. To human eyes this grave and thoughtful man, who sat on the wharf, was not a whit less the stern and gloomy creature that he had been an hour before. Yet, all hidden from others' gaze, and almost from his own consciousness, a sudden sense of regret and of a great short-coming in himself had welled up through the crust of his hardened heart. His heart had been deeply stirred, and now it smote him. His thoughts took some such shape as this,—even while he was looking with such apparent calmness upon the changing, shadowy lights of the sea:—
"This boy has done more in this short summer for his fellow-men and for his God than I have done in my whole forty years of life! Oh, what a life mine has been!—all a wreck, a failure, a miserable waste! And he? Why, in this short summer-time, and on this barren Rock, he has made his very life a blessing to every one upon it. I suppose those dirty, ignorant fishermen bless the day that brought him here. And I? O Heaven! what a failure, what a failure! I've done the world no good,—it's no better for my having lived in it,—it would miss me no more than one of these useless pebbles which I cast into the sea. And this boy—myboy—always at work to make others rejoice that he was born into the world!"
For all the calmness and repose that was on his face, he longed to cry out. Oh! was there no deliverance? Might not these long wasted years yet be paid for by deeds of mercy and charity? But where was there a deliverer? and who could tell how many years of good deeds and charity could pay for forty years of wasted ones?
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oll, sitting in the doorway, was presently aroused from a little reverie into which he had fallen by hearing a voice call, "Noll, my boy, come here." He obeyed the call, and started for the little wharf, half expecting that Uncle Richard was about to reprove him for what he had done. Trafford gazed in his nephew's face for a short space, and then, smothering what his heart longed to cry out, and what he had intended to say to the boy, he sighed only, "We will start homeward, if you are ready."
Noll was sure that his uncle had kept back something which it was in his heart to say, and, wondering what it could be, he followed after the tall figure along the homeward path.
The sun was getting well down into the west. The fair clearness of the sky was broken by a soft, mellow haze which began to steal across it, yet the afternoon was no less beautiful, and along the horizon there were long and lovely trails of misty color,—faint, delicate flushes of amber and purple,—which gave an added charm to the day's declining.
Not a word did uncle and nephew speak till, as they rounded the curve of the shore, and the stone house came in sight, Trafford asked, abruptly, "Noll, where did your pocket-money go?"
The boy explained the whole matter, with an account of Ned Thorn's bounty and help, at the last, and then they paced along the sand in silence, as before. Noll managed to get many looks at his uncle's face, and seeing that it wore no stern nor forbidding aspect, ventured to ask,—
"Are you offended with me, or what, Uncle Richard?"
Trafford took his nephew's hand as he replied, "Not in the least, Noll."
His voice was strangely kind and tender, and Noll exclaimed, looking up joyfully and brightly, "I'm very glad, Uncle Richard! and do you know your voice sounded like papa's just now?"
They walked hand in hand along the shore,—Noll, at least, very happy,—and looking afar at the sea through glad and hopeful eyes. He mentally prayed that Uncle Richard's gloom and sternness might never return, and that he might always be in his present softened and subdued mood. They came to the stone house at last, and, as they reached the steps, Noll took one long look at his uncle's face, thinking to himself that not soon again should he see it so gentle and tender, for the gloom of the library would soon shadow it, and make it once more stern and forbidding. But, just as if he felt something of this himself, Trafford lingered on the steps, as if loath to go in, and at last sat down. Noll inwardly rejoiced, and seated himself on the bit of green which he had caused to grow, by much watering and nourishing, close beside the piazza. That little breadth of grass, with its deep verdure, was a wonderfully pleasant thing for the eyes to rest upon in this waste of rock and sand. Trafford looked down at it and at the boy sitting there,—his curly locks blown all about his face by the warm wind,—and thought to himself, that, wherever the lad went, brightness and pleasantness sprang up about him, even though the soil was naught but sand and barrenness. His heart was full of reproachful cries. "What this boy has done,—andI!" was a thought continually haunting him. And he did not try to put it away; but, as he sat there, went back over all the months of the lad's stay, remembering what he had done to brighten the old stone house and himself, and contrasting all the boy's actions and motives with his own,—sparing himself not at all in the condemnation which his own heart was ready to pronounce. "What this boy has done,—andI! I? Nothing, nothing! The earth will never miss me, for I have had no part in its life, and have cared naught for its joys or its sorrows; and beyond—where this boy's heaven lies—there will be no place for me, because I have not sought it, and have cared only for my own peace. So I have no part nor place in the world or out of it." A more vivid sense of this truth came to Trafford here, and he sighed long and heavily, thinking of what might have been. He saw and felt what a great matter it was to have a heart wherein God's love dwelt so steadfastly that eye nor ear could ever be closed against the wants of his creatures, and the work of his that lay waiting for the doing. And it was another matter to have a heart so cold and frozen that no warmth of his love ever thrilled it with pity or compassion,—ever drew it with tender, gentle guidance toward himself,—ever stirred it with longings for his love and his blessing and upholding. It was no wonder, he thought, that for one heart the earth was joyous and beautiful, while for the other it was but a gloomy, unhappy waste; for over the pure, warm heart's earth God reigned, and his sunshine lighted it, and his flowers blossomed by the wayside, and they who lived in the land were his own, and their needs the needs of his children. All doing was but doing for God, while in a cold, frozen heart his work is not remembered, and the sunshine is but gloom, because it does not come from him, and the flowers are not his, and the poor soul mourns and sorrows, wrapped up in its own darkness and chilliness, and fails to find the earth bright or beautiful.
With such thoughts as these in his heart, Trafford was silent a long time. The sun set, and shadows began to steal over the sea, gradually and softly wrapping its farther distances in hazy indistinctness. Hagar's voice, from the kitchen-door, where she was calling her chickens to their supper, floated around to his ears and awoke him from his long and sorrowful reverie. He started up, surprised to see how fast the light had flitted from sky and earth. Noll still sat on the bit of grass, busy over a heap of shells and pebbles, which he had gathered during his afternoon walk. Trafford looked at him a few minutes in silence, and finally asked,—
"What plans have you made for winter about your school, my boy?"
A sudden look of surprise flitted over the boy's face ere he answered, "I haven't made any, Uncle Richard. I can't, you see, because the days will be so short that I'm afraid there'll not be time after my recitations. And there's no stove nor fireplace in the room, and not much of anything comfortable. But I'm going to try, though," he added, hopefully.
Trafford was silent and thoughtful for a long time. At last he said, "What would you say if I forbade you to continue your school through the winter?"
"I don't think you'll say that, Uncle Richard," said Noll,—not very confidently, however. "I should be very sorry to give it up now."
"Even if I thought it best?"
Noll could not deny but that he should. "They're just beginning to learn," he said, "and it would be too bad for them to lose all they have gained. Don't you really think so, too, Uncle Richard?"
Culm Rock
Trafford made no reply to this question, but, when he spoke again, said, "Not even if another teacher filled your place, Noll?"
The boy's tongue was silent with wonder and astonishment. Then, thinking his ears had deceived him, he said, "Why—why—what did you say, Uncle Richard?"
"I asked you," said Trafford, "whether you would be willing to give up the school if another teacher took your place?"
The warm, eager color rushed into Noll's face, and he cried, "Do you mean that—that—a teacher might take my place, Uncle Richard? Do you really mean it? Were you in earnest, and shall I answer?"
"To be sure," said his uncle, gravely enough.
"Oh, Uncle Richard!" cried Noll, "Iknewthe time would come some day! I knew it! I knew it! And will you hire a teacher for those Culm children? Was that what you meant?"
"I do not know that they need two," said Trafford.
"Yes, I'll give up the school this minute!" said Noll, remembering that he had not answered his uncle's question; "I'm willing to, if the children can only have a teacher. Oh, but it seems too good to be true! And are you really going to hire some one to take my place?"
"I have hardly thought yet; you must not press questions upon me too fast. I do not know my own mind."
Hagar heard their voices, and came around the piazza corner to say, "Tea hab been waitin' fur ye dis yer whole hour, Mas'r Dick, an' 'tain't growin' better, nohow. Will ye hab it wait any longer?"
"No, we're coming, shortly," said Trafford, and presently they went in to tea, for which Noll had not the least appetite, in spite of his long walk,—it being quite driven away by the question which his uncle had put to him,—and he spent most of the meal-time in taking keen and watchful looks at Uncle Richard's face, to see when it began to cloud over with gloom and grow stern and moody again. But the shadow which he so much dreaded did not make its appearance, and from the supper-table they went to the library, where Hagar had lit the lamp, Noll feeling wonderfully happy and quite sure that this was the eve of a brighter day for Uncle Richard and the Culm people.
Contrary to his usual habit, Trafford did not take up his books on reaching the library, but sat looking thoughtfully at Noll, and at last, as if speaking his thoughts aloud, he said,—
"If a new teacher comes, a new schoolroom will have to follow, as a matter of consequence; and those two rough benches which I saw over at Culm are hardly the best style of school furniture. And how is it about books?"
"There are none but primers and leaves from old spelling-books," said Noll, sitting very still and quiet with delight at hearing Uncle Richard ask such questions. It all seemed like a dream, and not at all a matter of reality. What could have come across the man's feelings so suddenly and with such effect?
Trafford resumed his inquiries after a short silence, and little by little drew from his nephew the whole story of the school's commencement, and what drawbacks the lack of a good room, with seats and desks and the necessary books, were, till he had made himself acquainted with all the needs of the school. He talked with Noll about the Culm people, and listened to the boy's hopeful and enthusiastic account of their slight improvement, with something that was very like interest. But the school seemed to interest him most. He proposed that a teacher be sent for to take charge of the school during the winter, and that the best room which could be found among the houses be fitted up as a schoolroom, and as nicely and warmly as possible. The teacher and the furniture would have to come from Hastings, and most likely a carpenter would be needed. Noll thought of John Sampson at once.
So the evening passed away in planning and discussion, and when Noll went to bed, it seemed as if all the events of the afternoon and evening were but phases of a happy dream, which morning light would banish as unreal. His thankfulness for this token of dawn, after the long, black, weary night of gloom through which he had struggled, could not find words enough in which to praise God for this promise of brighter days. He prayed that it might not be fleeting, and that morning might not show this gleam of brightness to be only imaginary. But the morrow came, and proved yesterday's events to be real and true, and Uncle Richard still without his stern and gloomy face, and ready to perfect the plans which they had discussed the previous evening.
One day after another passed, till Noll began to be certain that Uncle Richard's gloom and moroseness had departed from him forever. The boy wondered and surmised, but could not account for this sudden disappearance of the shadow. What had wrought the change so suddenly? Would it last alway? True, Uncle Richard was not cheerful yet, and he seemed to be carrying some heavy grief or sorrow about with him; but from his face the grimness and gloominess were gone, and Noll was sure that there must be some little change in his heart, else he would not care for the welfare of these Culm children.
A week or two elapsed before this new plan was put in operation, or rather before anything was done toward carrying it out. The skipper was hardly the person to intrust with the care of finding a teacher and looking up school-books, and for a time they were in doubt and perplexity. Then Noll proposed—what he had long been wishing—to go to Hastings himself, and find such a teacher as was needed, procure the suitable books and furniture, and bring John Sampson back with him. It would require but a week's absence, and in that time all the business could be done, and some happy days be spent with Ned Thorn and old friends.
Trafford hesitated a long time. Who could tell what peril the boy might be in while crossing the sea? How could he lose him now? And, when once in the charmed circle of old friends and associations, would he not dislike to return to gray and barren Culm Rock? But Noll went.
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he day had dawned clear and brilliant, but as the afternoon waned, a gray curtain of ragged cloud slowly rose and hid the sun, and brought an early nightfall. The wind was strong, and the sea—calm and silvery but a few hours before—began to toss and thunder heavily. Hagar came from the pine woods with a great basket of cones, just as the early dusk began to settle over the windy sea and to wrap the forest in heavy shadow, and as the old woman crossed the narrow bar of sand which connected Culm Rock with the main-land, the wind swept over in such strong gusts, and with such blinding sheets of spray, that her safety was more than once endangered. But she reached the firm, unyielding Rock, with no worse misfortune than a drenching befalling her, and made her way to the warm and comfortable precincts of her kitchen, with many ejaculations of delight and thankfulness. The first sound which greeted her ears on entering was the long-drawn, solemn voice of the organ.
"Wonder what Mas'r Dick's got on his heart dis yer night?" she muttered, bustling about to prepare supper; "'tain't sech music as dat yer organ make lately. 'Pears like somethin' was de matter, anyhow."
She prepared supper in the dining-room, muttering to herself about the lonesomeness and silence of the house since "Mas'r Noll dun gone off;" and when the solitary meal was in readiness, put her head in at the library-door and called her master to tea. When she had got back to her kitchen, and was standing in the open door, her grizzled head thrust out into the gathering gloom and tempest to watch the progress of the storm, she noticed that the music did not cease, but kept on in its slow and solemn measure, rising and falling and stealing plaintively in.
"Something's de matter, sure," Hagar said, turning about and shutting the door; "dat ain't de kind of music dat Mas'r Dick's made lately. 'Pears like he's 'stressed 'bout somethin'! But, Hagar, ye can't do nuffin but jes' trust de Lord, nohow. Ye'd better get yer own supper, ef yer Mas'r Dick don't tech his."
She ate her supper and washed the dishes, and gave the little kitchen a stroke or two with her broom, and yet the music from the library came stealing in as sad-voiced and heavy as ever.
"'Pears as if he'd never eat his supper," Hagar grumbled; "de chile can't live on music, allers, nohow. Reckon he'll nebber hab much sperits till he eats more. But jes' stop yer talkin', chile, ye can't do nuffin' but trust de Lord."
By and by the wandering notes ceased, and in the deep silence there came up the hoarse and awful roar of the surf, with the wailing of the wind over the chimney, and filled the house with their echoes. Hagar heaped wood on the fire, drew her little low chair nearer the light and gladsome blaze, shivering and muttering as she did so. She had a great dread of cold and darkness, and the deep hush, broken by the clamor of the sea, made her afraid.
"De Lord's about," said she, drawing her old woollen shawl close around her; "de Lord's on de sea, an' 'pears like nobody need be feared when he holds it in his hand like as I holds dis yer silber ob Mas'r Noll's dat he lost under de rug in de dinin'-room,"—looking down at the shining coin which she had picked up that morning, and wondering where the boy was at that moment. "'Pears as ef de sunshine had been hid de whole time sence he went off to de city," she muttered, gazing in the coals. "Wonder ef Mas'r Dick misses him? Wonder ef dis yer ole woman won't be tickled 'nuff to see him when de day comes? Ki! Hagar, ye knows ye will."
The roar of the sea and the cry of the wind came in again, more lonesome, sadder than ever. The old negress shivered, peered about her into the dark corners of the kitchen, and crooned to herself,—a wild, monotonous air, set to words which came to her lips for the occasion:—
"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know
De Lord's on de sea?
He rides on de waves,
And de wind is in his hand,—
De Lord keeps dem all!
What ye feared of, Hagar? Kase, don't ye know de Lord's in it? 'Pears like ye done forget dat de whole time—Now!" and she broke into her rhymeless chant again. It was only a way she had got of setting her thoughts to music, drawing the words out very slowly, and weaving to and fro the while. When she had repeated her first lines, she kept on with her thoughts, peering over her shoulder at the flickering shadows which the fire cast on the wall behind her, shivering with awe at the clamor without, and chanting, waveringly,—
"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know
De Lord's on de sea?
De wind blows, an' de sky is dark,
An' de seacries like a little chile,
An' de boats will be blowed away;
But de Lord is good, an' mornin' will come,
An', oh, Hagar, sing hallelujah!
Fur de Lord is in it all!"
Here she stopped her chanting, and began to sing "Hallelujah!" softly, ceasing her swaying, to look into the coals. The fire burned down to rosy embers, in which little blue-tongued flames darted up fitfully,—anon lighting up the room brilliantly, then dying away and leaving it almost in darkness,—while Hagar's crooning died away to a whisper. A little gray light still shone in at the kitchen-window, but it was fast flitting. The roar of the sea became thunder, the wind grew tempestuous. By and by the rain began to fall, sounding strangely soft and still, when compared with the din of wind and waves.
"God bress us!" said Hagar, "dis yer is an awful night. Keep de boats off de Rock, Lord, and pity de sailors in dis yer awful storm!"
The old woman knew how the sea must look now,—yeasty, horrible, its white wave-caps shining through the darkness and hurrying to topple over and thunder against the rocks. To her, as she sat crouched before the fire, it seemed to howl and scream and mourn hoarsely, like some great voice rending the night with lamentation.
"Call on de Lord, Hagar," she muttered frequently; "can't nuffin else help ye now!"
Sometimes she fell to chanting her thoughts,—the sound of her own voice was pleasant to her in the loneliness,—and she piled cedar chips on the fire to see their cheerful blaze and enjoy their brisk crackle.
"Might as well hab a candle," she said, after a time. "Git yer knittin', chile, an' 'pear as ef ye didn't distrus' de Lord. What ef de wind is blowin'? what ef de sea is a-screamin'? Don't ye know whose wind and whose sea 'tis?" She got up to grope for a candle on the shelf over the fireplace.
"Hagar!" exclaimed a voice at the farther end of the kitchen,—a voice so full of compressed fear and anxiety that the old negress tumbled back in her chair with affright,—"Hagar! are you here?" demanded the voice.
"Bress ye! yes, I's here, Mas'r Dick!" she answered, catching sight of his white face by the dining-room door. "I's here, but ye spoke so suddent! Jes' wait, an' I'll hab a candle in a minnit."
The candle was found, and, after a long blowing of coals and burning of splinters, began to burn dimly. Hagar set it on the table, and looked up at her master with a start of alarm, his face was so white and anxious.
"Hagar," said he, huskily, "Noll was to start from Hastings this morning!"
The old negress stood looking at him a full minute,—a fearful, lonesome minute in which the rain beat against the panes, and the awful voice of the sea filled the room,—then she sank down by the fire with a low cry.
"Lord bress us all!" she wailed, as she looked up, "fur he'll nebber get here, Mas'r Dick!"
Trafford looked at her silently. Oh, that awful voice without!—the thunder, the tremble of the earth, the screaming of the wind! At last,—
"Is ye certain sure, Mas'r Dick? D'yeknowhe started? Did he say?"
"Oh, Hagar, if I did not—not know,—if I had any doubt that he started, I would give all my possessions this very moment!"
"'Tain't de money nor de lands dat'll do now!" moaned Hagar, beginning to sway back and forth; "it's only de Lord! De Lord's on de sea to-night, an' 'tain't fur man to say! Oh, Mas'r Dick! t'ink o' dat bressed boy in dese waves an' dis wind!"
"Hush!" said the master, imperatively, "I willnotthink of it! It can't be! Noll? Oh, Hagar, I believe I'm going mad!" He turned away from the old negress and opened the door. The tempest swept in, overturning the candle and flaring up the fire, and bearing the rain, in one long gust, across the little kitchen, even into Hagar's face.
Trafford stood there, regardless of wind and rain, looking out upon the sea. The mighty tumult awed him and filled his heart with a sense of man's utter weakness and helplessness. The foamy expanse gleamed whitely through the night,—awful with the terror of death,—and its deafening roar smote upon his ears, and in the slightest lull, the rain-drops fell with a soft, dull patter. Noll in it all?—in this fearful, yawning sea,—in this wild tumult of wind and rain,—in the vast waste of waves which the thick darkness shrouded, and where death was riding? "God help me!" he cried in sudden frenzy,—"God help me!" He looked up at the thick, black depths of sky with a groan of agony when he remembered his utter powerlessness. But what right had he to look to Heaven for aid?—he who knew not God, nor sought him, nor desired his love? The bitterness of this thought made him groan and beat his breast. Would He—whom all his life long he had refused and rejected—hear his cries?
Hagar's voice came to him here through all the din and thunder, beseeching that the door might be closed. He closed it behind him, and stepped out into the darkness. It was already past the hour for the "Gull" to arrive, he remembered, and then a sudden thought flashed through his brain that beacons ought to be kindled to guide the skipper, if he were not already beyond the need of earthly guides and beacons. And close upon this thought came a remembrance of the Culm fishermen,—stout, skilful sailors, all of them,—and a great hope filled his heart that in them he might find aid in his extremity. And without waiting for a second thought, he started through the inky darkness and the tempest for Culm village. He ran till he was breathless. He climbed and groped his way over and along the slippery rocks, the awful voice of the sea filling his ears and goading him on.
glyph 22
T
he evening wore on. They were all on the beach,—Trafford and the Culm fishermen,—and now a beacon fire streamed up into the darkness, and made the night seem even more black and intense. They had piled their heap of driftwood somewhat in the shelter of a great rock, and around it the men were huddled, muttering and whispering to each other, and casting sober glances at Trafford, who stood apart from them in the shadow. Not a word had he spoken since the fire was kindled, but, grim and silent as a statue, had stood there, with his eyes looking upon the gleaming sea, and the rain beating in his face. He had worked desperately while gathering driftwood.
"The master be crazed, like," Dirk had whispered to the men as they came in with armfuls of fuel. "D'ye see his eyes? D'ye see the way he be runnin' up an' down, poor man?"
"Ay, an' his lad be where many o' your'n an' mine ha' been, eh, Dirk?" said Hark Harby. "Mabby he ken tell what 'tis ter be losin' his own, an' no help fur it, eh?"
"Sh!" said Dirk; "the sea ben't able ter get sech a lad as his every day. If he be lost, 'tis a losin' fur more'n he, yender."
This was before the beacon was kindled. Now they huddled in a gloomy circle about the hissing, sputtering fire, some crouching close to the rock to save themselves from the rain, and the others drawing their heads down into their wide-collared jackets, that bade defiance to the wet. The wind whirled and raved, and the sea thundered on. The fire cast a little pathway of light through the darkness, down to the sea's edge, and they could see its waves all beaten to foam as white as milk, flecking the sand in great patches. It was an awful waiting.
By and by Hagar came down along the sand in a great hood-cloak that gave her a most weird and witchlike appearance. The fishermen looked at her with startled, suspicious eyes as the bent old figure suddenly emerged from the darkness into the full glare of the firelight. The old negress passed on to where Trafford was standing.
"I's here, Mas'r Dick," she said, touching his arm, as if fain to assure him of her presence and sympathy.
He did not repel her, but said, with much of kindness in his tone, "This is no place for you, Hagar."
"De Lord's here," said Hagar, quietly, "an' I's gwine ter stay. I isn't feared, Mas'r Dick."
Trafford looked in her wrinkled, time-worn old face yearningly. This black, ignorant old woman had something within her heart that gave her a peace and serenity in this fearful hour that he envied. He felt the truth of this as he had never felt it before. She was stayed and upheld by some invisible hand. Somehow, in her humble life, this old negress had found some great truth which all his own study and research had failed to teach him. He turned about and made her a seat of boards on an old spar which lay on the sand, under the shelter of the rock by the fire.
"T'ank ye, Mas'r Dick," said Hagar, tremulously, as she sat down. This unusual kindness touched her. It was like his old-time thoughtfulness and gentleness, when he was her own blithe, merry schoolboy, she thought.
The rain began to fall less heavily. Only now and then a great drop fell with a hiss and sputter into the fire; but the wind grew fiercer as the evening waned, and the thunder and pounding of the sea was deafening. The spray dashed higher and higher, quite up to the backs of the men who huddled about the fire, and its fine mist sifted even into Hagar's face and grizzled locks.
"'Tain't nuffin tu what dat bressed boy is suff'rin'," she sighed, wiping the cold drops off her cheeks; "'pears as ef dis ole heart 'ud split'n two, thinkin' ob it. O good Lord, bress de chile!—bress him,—bress him!—dat's all Hagar ken say."
It was a weary watching. As the war of the sea grew louder and the wind fiercer, the Culm fishermen gathered into a yet closer group, and looked with awed and sober faces in the fire. For all that these men followed the sea, and it was almost a native element to them, they seemed to have a great dread and awe of it. Trafford yet stood apart from them with his eyes looking into the dense night, and Hagar, all muffled in her great cloak, swayed slowly to and fro with her face hidden. Oh, the suspense and agony of those minutes!—the weary watching and waiting for—what?
It came at last. In the short space of silence between the bursting of two great waves, there rose a cry from out the great waste of darkness beyond their little length and breadth of light. Trafford started and sprang forward. The men around the fire were startled from their crouching positions by this shrill, sudden shout, and looked in one another's faces and—waited. But the cry was not repeated. Then Dirk said,—
"It wur the skipper, sure. O Lord, men! but I be feared the 'Gull' be on the rocks, yender."
The sweat stood in drops on his forehead, and he slowly clinched and unclinched his great brawny hands. Trafford heard his words, and a sudden faintness like death smote him. But it passed away, and in sudden frenzy and despair he rushed up to Dirk, exclaiming,—
"How do you know, man? How can you tell? There was only a cry!"
Before Dirk could answer, there rose, clear and distinct, that one solitary voice from out the darkness,—a fearful, appealing cry for aid from some human heart out there in the awful presence of death. And that thrilling cry was all. It never came again. Trafford beat his breast with agony. Then he turned upon the fishermen.
"Why do you stand here," he cried, furiously, "when they are perishing out there? My boy is there!—my boy that's done so much for you and yours! Will you let him drown without lifting a hand to save him?"
"It be no use to try," said the men, pointing to the surf; "boat's ud crack like a gull's shell out there."
"But try,—only try!" shouted Trafford, in an agonized tone. "If money will tempt you, you shall have all of mine! You shall have more than ever your eyes saw before! I will make you all rich!—only try,—only try!"
"We'd try soon enough for the young master's sake, an' ye might keep yer gold," said Dirk; "but it wud be no use, an' only losin' of life. The lad be beyont our help or yer gold, either."
"'Tain't de money nor de lands dat'll do, now," moaned Hagar; "it's only de Lord!"
"But think of it, you ungrateful wretches!" cried Trafford, frantically,—"the lad has done more for you and yours than you can ever repay! He went across the sea this time to do you good, and it's for your sakes that he's out in the peril yonder! Will you let him drown without even an attempt to save him? Will you?"
Dirk shook his head. "It be no use," he said, "but we ken try. I be not one to hev it said that I be unthankful. Here, lads, give us a hand! Ef I'll be riskin' my life fur any one, 'tis fur the lad yender."
They dragged a boat down to the curling line of foam, and watching for a favorable opportunity, launched it. Trafford sprang in with them, and they pushed into the darkness. It seemed hardly three minutes to those who stood around the fire, before a great wave came riding in and threw the boat and its load upon the sand. Dirk sprang up and seized Trafford before the returning flood had engulfed him. He pointed to the rent ribs of the boat, saying, as he shook himself,—
"It be as I told ye. Yer lad be beyont yer gold or yer help."
They made no more attempts. Trafford gave up the idea of a rescue, and paced up and down the sand in the very face of the surf that drenched him at every tumble. Utterly helpless! The cold, cruel sea mocked his despair and frenzy. It was great and mighty, and even now was swallowing his treasure, he thought, which lay almost within his power to save. So near!—and yet death between! The thought made him half wild with despair and horror. Yet there was no help,—nowhere to turn for aid or succor,—not the faintest hope of saving the boy's life. The sea must swallow him.
The fishermen looked askance at the wild, desperate figure that rushed up and down the sand as if it sought to burst through the sea and save its treasure, and whispered gloomily among themselves. Suddenly the man wheeled about and came up to the fire, crying, fiercely,—
"Hagar, you have a God! I cannot find him. Pray to him,—pray to him! Quick, woman!—pray to him before it's too late!"
"Lord help ye, Mas'r Dick!" said Hagar, "I's jes' prayin' fur de dear chile ebery minnit! Don't ye know it? But de Lord's out thar!"—pointing with her skinny finger to the depths of darkness which shrouded the sea, with such vehemence as to startle the fishermen; "he's wid dat boy, and thar can't nuffin kill his soul. It's only goin' to glory quicker'n de rest ob us. Don't ye know it, Mas'r Dick?—can't ye feel it? What's de winds or de waves, so long as de Lord's got ye in his arms, holdin' ye up?—as he's got dat boy ob your'n. Oh, Mas'r Dick! jes' humble yerself 'fore de Lord, right off. What's de use ob stribin' to fight him?—what's de use? 'Tain't no use!—ye knows it dis minnit!—ye knows it all ober! Call on de Lord yerself, Mas'r Dick!—call on de Lord 'fore it's too late!"
"I cannot, I cannot!" groaned Trafford, dropping down on the sand by his old nurse; "I don't know him, and he will not hear me. Oh, my boy, my boy!"
He gave up then. Hagar knew by the way he sank back upon the sand, all the wildness and fierceness gone out of his face, and the crushed, broken-hearted manner in which his head drooped, that he had given up the boy. She gathered his head on her knee, as she had often done when he was a youth, and stroked it tenderly, saying, as her tears dropped,—
"Poor chile, poor honey! Hagar's sorry fur ye. It's a dreadful t'ing not ter know de Lord; ain't it, chile? Can't do nuffin widout him, somehow. But Hagar hopes ye'll find him; she hopes ye'll find him dis berry night. 'Pears like he ain't fur off dis awful night; an', O Lord Jesus!"—folding her hands reverently, and looking toward the sea as if she saw her Redeemer walking there,—"come an' bress dis poor broken heart dat can't find ye. It's jes' waitin' fur de bressin', an' 'pears like 'twould faint ter def ef ye didn't come. Come, Lord, come."
The night wore slowly on. The "Gull" began to break in pieces and float ashore. The fishermen had enough to do to snatch the boxes and bales which the sea hurled up. As yet, none of the "Gull's" more precious freight of life had made its way through the sea to the shore. Dirk was watching keenly for it. A half-dozen draggled, fearful women had stolen down from their houses, and were standing by the fire, whispering and talking in undertones, with many glances of pity at the figure lying prone on the sand with its head in the old black woman's lap.
"Alack!" said Dirk, with a great sigh, "it wur a fine lad. I never knowed kinder nor better. Ye ken all say that, women, an' this be the sorriest night I ever knowed, 'cept when my little gal died. He wur good to my little gal, the lad wur, an' he giv' me a bit o' flower to put on the sand where she be sleepin', an' it growed an' growed an' blossomed, an' the blossom wur like a great blue eye,—like my little gal's eye,—an' many's the night after fishin' I've gone up ter the buryin'-place ter look at it. An' now the lad himself be gone," said Dirk, wiping his eyes and snuffling.
"Ay, it be a heavy night!" moaned the women, wiping their eyes with the corners of their aprons.
A great heap of bales and boxes and bits of the "Gull's" timbers was accumulating on the sand by the fire. The women sat down on them, keeping up their low talk and whispers, and watching the two silent figures the other side of the fire. The man moved not a muscle. The old negress bent over him, stroking his forehead and whispering and crooning. Only once he had said, chokingly, "My Noll!—all that was left to me," and now lay passive and unheeding, overwhelmed and crushed by the sense of his loss and the consciousness that the sea had quenched the brave, bright life forever.