Part 23 (2/2)
”Nuffin but fish ter live on, an' not de greatest plenty o' dat,”
Hagar had said, standing beside Trafford's chair in the library.
The man started, as a sudden remembrance of forgotten duties came into his mind. He had neglected to look after those Culm people,--he had forgotten about Noll's school and its pupils. But it should be so no longer, he resolved at once. That work which the boy loved and desired to complete, he would take up and carry out. It should be a pleasure and delight. He would gather up the broken, half-completed plans, and make it the work of his life to perfect them as Noll would have done. Now the inmates of the stone house were not well supplied with provisions, as the winter stores had not been laid in. There was no telling when another s.h.i.+p would touch at Culm, but, in all probability, it would be soon. The skipper must have friends somewhere, who would be searching for his whereabouts. Trafford divided his supplies with the fishermen, trusting that ere long some sail would appear, bound for the Rock, or within signalling distance of it. He walked often by the sea, looking toward Hastings, and trying in vain to discern some sail bound hitherward. He walked over to Culm village, and lingered about the little room where Noll's school had been, and resolved that the plan of a new schoolroom, with good seats, benches, and a faithful teacher, should be carried out if ever communication was opened between the Rock and Hastings. And if no teacher could be got for the winter, he would teach the children himself. He wondered whether there were any chairs or benches left from the cargo of the ”Gull,” remembering that Noll was to bring school-furniture from Hastings with him; but, though he searched long and keenly among the timbers and refuse which the sea had thrown up, he could not find so much as a bit of varnished wood that looked as if it might have belonged to a desk or chair. At this he wondered, but thought, ”The poor boy was unsuccessful, or else the sea refuses to give up aught that was his, as well as himself.”
And still he watched and waited for a sail, thinking that if none came soon, a way must be devised for getting to Hastings.
CHAPTER XXV.
OUT OF THE SEA.
The fourth week after the s.h.i.+pwreck dragged slowly away,--spent in watching and waiting for a sail. None came. The lack of good food was getting to be a serious matter for both Culm folk and the inmates of the stone house. Trafford's stores were well-nigh exhausted, and the last day of that long fourth week was spent in company with Dirk Sharp and some of his comrades, devising plans by which they might communicate with Hastings. The master of the stone house walked homeward after his conference with the fishermen, and paused in the gathering dusk on the spot where he had stood that fearful night when the ”Gull” and her crew were on the rocks in the awful roar and thunder of the tempest. How silent and peaceful it all lay now,--the sea purpling in its calm and shadowy depths, its waves faintly murmuring on the pebbles, and, overhead, the arch of silvery sky bending down to the far horizon, full of the tender lights of the after-glow! Only one month since that fearful night, yet how far in the dim past the event seemed! What a great darkness and despair he had struggled through! How full and real every minute of those four weeks had been! And, as he stood there, such strong and tender memories of the lad he had lost came back to him that he turned away with a throbbing heart, and walked homeward along the sand with a bowed head, and so failed to see the white gleaming of a sail which rose out of the sea and stood toward the Rock. The lingering daylight touched it with a rosy flush as the rising night-breeze bore it steadily onward; but Trafford saw it not, and went up the piazza-steps, and into the stone house, without turning his eyes seaward.
He ate his scanty supper, which Hagar--poor heart!--had placed upon the table with a wonderful display of dishes, as if to make up for the lack of food by a board spread with cups and plates enough for a feast, and then took his way to the silent library. He sat down at his organ, and from its long-silent pipes drew soft and tender music that filled the room and stole gently through the house. The tears came into Hagar's eyes as she listened to it.
”'Pears as ef de angels was singin',” she said, wiping her cheeks.
”Hagar wonders ef de Lord'll gib her a voice like dat when she gets ter glory.”
It died away at last in gentle, tremulous whispers, and Trafford walked to the window and looked out. Twilight had settled so thickly that the sea was quite hidden, save a faint glimmer of ripples along the sand. Deep quiet reigned over land and sea, and nowhere with such undisputed sway as in the stone house. Trafford lit his study-lamp and sat down, with no desire, however, to read or study. Hardly had he seated himself, when, with startling suddenness, a shrill scream broke upon the deep quiet. It was Hagar's voice, and the cry came from her kitchen; and before Trafford had recovered from his surprise, there was a little sound of commotion in her distant province,--doors were thrown open, voices echoed, and then along the silent hall came a sound--the rush of eager feet--that drove every trace of color from Trafford's face, as well it might, and made his heart beat so loud and wildly that he pressed his hands over it to stay its tumultuous beating. He started up, gazing with wide-open eyes at the library-door, while at every echo of those coming footsteps, he started and trembled, and grew faint with antic.i.p.ation. The door burst open, and there stood--Noll Trafford!
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”It's I, Uncle Richard” Page 421.]
One moment the boy paused, perhaps frightened by the white face of the man who sat gazing motionlessly at him, then he bounded forward, crying, ”It's I, Uncle Richard!--your own Noll!”
Trafford's arms did not clasp the boy about; his tongue refused to articulate; his heart could not take in this great, overwhelming joy.
But Noll's arms were about his neck, the boy's warm breath was upon his cheek, and in his ears was the lad's whisper, ”It's I,--I, Uncle Richard! no one else!”
Then the man began to sigh, just as if he were awakening from a long and troubled dream, and presently he put out his hand and touched the boy's cheeks, as if to a.s.sure himself that it was not all a vision, and then he said, chokingly, ”My boy,--_mine_! O G.o.d! I don't deserve this.”
His arms clasped the lad in one long, fervent embrace. He bent his head over the curly locks, and wept for joy, stroking the lad's shoulders and pressing his hands the while, as if he were not yet sure that the boy was a reality. He looked upon him as one from the dead.
Had the sea given him up?--had that terrible tempest spared him in its wild fury? Why had the boy lingered so long? Where had he been sojourning all these long weeks? But too happy in the consciousness that it was really Noll, safe and unharmed, who was before him, to care for aught further at present, he sat silently holding the boy's hands, while his heart gave grateful thanks to G.o.d.
”Poor Uncle Richard!” said the boy, at last.
Trafford's lips moved, and with an effort he said, ”No, no,--not _poor_! I'm rich, rich!--_so_ rich! O G.o.d, help me! I can't believe my own happiness.”
”But it's really I, Uncle Richard!” said Noll, a.s.suringly; ”you've felt my hands, my face, my shoulders, and aren't they alive and warm?”
”Yes, it is really you, thank G.o.d!” said Trafford, drawing a long breath, while he gazed upon the merry face that he never more expected to see on earth.
”Yes, and oh, Uncle Richard, you can't know how I longed to see you, to tell you that I was alive and safe! I knew you would worry, but I didn't think you'd think me dead. I didn't think _that_ till we got to Culm, and Dirk and all the rest trembled, and were actually going to run away from me!”
”Then you have not been harmed?” said Trafford: ”but oh, my boy, where were you on that awful night?”
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