Culm Rock.

by Glance g.a.y.l.o.r.d.

CHAPTER I.

THE OLD STONE HOUSE.

Culm Rock was a wild place. You might search the coast for miles and not find another bit of nature so bare and rent and ragged as this. So fiercely had the storms driven over it, so wildly had the wind and waves beat, that the few cedars which once flourished as its only bit of greenness were long ago dead, and now held up only bleached and ragged hands. Jutting out into the sea, the surf rolled and thundered along its jagged sh.o.r.e of rock and sand, and was never silent. It would have been an island but for the narrow strips of sand, heaped high and ridgelike, which bound it to the main land; and this slender bridge, it often seemed, would be torn away by the ravenous sea which gnawed and engulfed great tracts at once, and yet heaped it higher and broader in the next storm. Beyond, on the firm and unyielding land, the pine woods stood up, vast, dim, and silent, stretching away into the interior. So, with the great dark barrier of forest behind and the waste of shining sea in front, Culm Rock seemed shut out from all the rest of the world. True, sails flitted along the horizon, and the smoke of foreign-bound steamers trailed against the sky, giving token of the great world's life and stir; and there were Skipper Ben and the "White Gull" who touched at the little wharf at Culm every week; but for these, the people--for there were people who dwelt here--might have lived in another sphere for aught they knew or were conscious of what was transpiring in the wonderful land which lay beyond the stretch of sea, and between which and themselves the "White Gull" was the only means of communication.

Do you wonder that people could spend their lives here, die, and never have seen the world without? There were only a dozen houses,--poor, racked, weather-beaten things, nestled on a bit of sand on a far corner of Culm,--inhabited by fishermen and their families. They were rough, hardy folk, but ignorant, and with only ambition enough to get their living out of the great sea, and a poor and scanty enough living at that. Skipper Ben brought them mola.s.ses and calicoes down in the "White Gull," and took their fish in exchange; and if he told them a bit of news from the great city and the greater world, it was all very well. If he failed to do this, it was all very well too.

Back of the fisher huts, the rocks rose high and dark, and quite hid the pine woods and the isthmus of yellow sand, and everything that could make Culm at all cheery or pleasant. This eminence was Wind Cliff, and served as a landmark for all the sailors whose path lay along the coast. Around this the gulls were alway flitting and screaming, and their nests were everywhere in the crevices of the rocks. Bald and gray it rose, scarred and rent with storms and age, and so steep as to be almost inaccessible. It fronted the north-west, and from its sharp tip the rock sloped south to the sea, and held in one of its great hollows down by the sh.o.r.e a house--such a house as you would not have looked for at Culm--with walls of stone and tall, ancient chimneys and deep-set windows, like eyes looking forever at the sea.

It was so dark and weather-beaten that at first sight you might almost fancy it to be but some quaint, odd shape which the rocks had taken, by dint of the stress of winds and waves beating upon them for long ages. But a house it was, and made by human hands, and human beings dwelt in it. At night the red light from its windows streamed out upon the water, and in many a dark and tempestuous watch had Skipper Ben guided the "White Gull" into port through the friendly gleaming of this beacon. For a long period of years the old house had stood empty and tenantless, the windows and doors broken and gone, the wind sweeping through and the rain beating in, and everything but the stout walls and chimneys a ruin. The superst.i.tious fishermen would not inhabit it, and told tales of smugglers and pirates who made it their haunt, with other fanciful stories which always seem to linger about the sea, and in which there was not the faintest shadow of truth.

Desolate and neglected, it stood there year after year, till, one day, Skipper Ben brought down carpenters and masons on the "White Gull,"

and straightway they went at work upon the old house. Doors went up, windows went in, a piazza pushed itself out towards the sea-front, and there was great bustle and activity about it for weeks. Then the laborers went away, and when the skipper came again, he brought, instead of groceries and store-cloth, a great quant.i.ty of furniture, the like of which the poor people at Culm Rock had never seen, and with the furniture came the master of the new house--a sorrowful, bowed man--and his housekeeper, a thin, wrinkled negro woman.

Then the smoke curled out of the great stone chimneys once more, the light streamed from the windows at night, and the fishermen and sailors rejoiced that at last the old house had found a tenant and no longer yawned bare and empty. The "White Gull" came more than once with a cargo for the master of the stone house, who, the skipper told the Culm folk, "was a mighty rich man, but the down-heartedest chap he'd ever cast eyes on. Why, man, he just sot lookin' over the rail the best part o' the way down, with his eyes in the water, and said no more nor a stone. What ye think? Now lookee here, men, let me give ye a bit o' advice. Don't ye go to pesterin' him with yer talk and yer questions; fur he's diff'rent make 'an I be, an' 'twon't do. Let him alone, an' keep yer own side o' the Rock."

The skipper's word was looked upon with respect by all the fish-folk, and they heeded his advice. So, in consequence, the owner of the stone mansion was undisturbed, and lived in the greatest seclusion. He never came within the limits of the little village, and whenever he was seen, it was only as pacing slowly along the sh.o.r.e. He pa.s.sed the fishermen as they were hanging up their seines in the sun without heeding them, or acknowledging their respectful bows. The old black housekeeper came down to the village sometimes after fish or gulls'

eggs, but went her way without satisfying the eager questions with which the women plied her. So one year pa.s.sed away, then a second, and the master of the stone house was still as much a mystery to the poor fishers as ever. He rarely walked upon the sand, gave them not a look if ever they chanced to meet, and living, apparently, for no one but himself, took not the slightest interest in their welfare, cared naught for wreck or disaster on the sh.o.r.e, and seemed always stern and sorrowful.

No company ever came down on the "White Gull" to visit this strange and silent man, and he had no friends, apparently. Skipper Ben brought stores for him occasionally, and sometimes a letter; but this last event was a rare one, and the man seemed to have little more communication with the great world out of which he had come than did the humble Culm fishermen. With winds and storms, the third year rolled around, and the master of the old house was still as much of a recluse as ever; but the Culm people had ceased to regard him with any interest, and the man led a most solitary life, hardly seeing a human being, other than his housekeeper, from month to month. Do you wonder what could make him so stern and sad? Here is his story:--

One sweet and golden summer day, a man stood by the bedside of his wife,--he, crushed and heart-broken; she, faint and dying, but calm and loving and comforting. She held his hand, and whispered brokenly such words as she could only hope to comfort him with; and the last faint whisper which trembled on her lips was, "Oh, Richard, don't fail--don't fail to--to find Him and cling to Him, and come--come up--too." And with that she was dead. And the man left the bedside, and went out into the summer fields, where the birds were flitting and the bees droning and the wide earth seemed br.i.m.m.i.n.g with life and joy, and prayed that he might die too, since she was gone. But the birds sang on as joyously as ever, and the sun shone no less brightly because of the sorrow in the earth, and after his first tears were shed, his heart began to grow hard and bitter, and he put away the dying whisper, and went back to the dear dead face, cold and stern.

His friends came to console him, but he would not listen, and after it was all over, and the gentle face hidden forever under the brown earth, he began to think of fleeing to some spot where he might find rest and quietness, and hide himself from all thoughts of the dear one who had left him, smothering his sorrow, and living as if she had not been. "I have been robbed," he said, bitterly; "all my happiness has been stolen from me. I can't seek Him; I will not. Oh, if there is a kind and merciful G.o.d, why has he stricken me? why has he taken all the joy out of my life? why has he left me without a comforter in the world?" So, without seeking for a Comforter, without striving to "find Him," as the dear voice had whispered, he turned away and strove to crush out the love and the tender memories which haunted his heart, and most of all that dying whisper which said, "Don't fail--don't fail to find _Him_."

Grown suddenly stern and morose, Richard Trafford looked about him for a refuge where he might flee from all society, and most of all from the spot where _her_ presence seemed yet to linger. He discovered wild and solitary Culm Rock, and purchased the old stone house. Here, he thought, with the everlasting sound of the sea in his ears, with all the wildness and barrenness about him, and apart from the rest of mankind, he would bury himself, and forget all the bright and happy days which had pa.s.sed. He left his friends without giving them any clew to his whereabouts, and with faithful old Hagar, who persisted in following him, took up his abode by the sea. But do you think his sorrow lessened? Do you think he found peace and happiness again? He carried his hard and bitter heart with him, and there was no happiness to be found by the sea. One year after another rolled away until the three were gone, and still he was wandering along his own th.o.r.n.y path, bowed with his sorrow, sighing and lamenting for the bright form which had left him, and still deaf to its whisper, "Find _Him_, and come up too." He walked on the sands, lonely and desolate; he paced about the great rooms of the stone house, oppressed and heavy-hearted; he shut himself up in his library and pored over books in vain. His sorrow clung to him, followed him everywhere; his heart was stubborn and bitter and rebellious. Perhaps he despaired of ever losing the burden, for one day he brought out a portrait, wrapped and swathed with great care, and, tearing all the veilings off, gazed once more on the sainted face which he had not looked upon for three long and heavy years. He did not hide it again, but hung it upon his library wall, where the tender face and calm and loving eyes looked down and almost melted him to tears.

He wondered how he could have kept it veiled and hidden so long. He wondered if those three years had not been spent in vain, unless it were to learn that he could not crush out his sweet memories if he tried.

He sank down into his chair as he thought of this, and going back over the three past dreary years, remembered what a weary blank they were, thought, with a heavy sigh, what a shipwreck his life had been, and how he was now floating about without rudder or compa.s.s or anchor, merely a drifting wreck. And as he sits there in the sunshine which streams through the wide, high old window, we will see him for the first time.

CHAPTER II.

LETTERS.

Richard Trafford was a man of forty; but his hair was tinged with gray, and grief and wretchedness had worn heavy lines in his face. As he sat in the library this September afternoon, looking up at the portrait on the wall, he seemed almost an old man. The room was wide and high, with tall oaken bookcases at either end. Two great windows, before one of which he sat, looked out upon the sea and the white line of foam curling upon the sand. The waves were but mere ripples this calm afternoon, but from the sh.o.r.e there came up a ceaseless, steady murmur that made itself heard in the quiet of the room; and by and by Trafford's eyes turned from the calm face above him and looked out seaward. White and shining lay the vast expanse, with here and there the faint film of a sail upon the horizon. Nothing to be seen but water and the great dome of sky and the little spit of yellow sand where the tide was murmuring. How many sunny afternoons he had thus looked out upon the sea, vast and gleaming! How many lonely afternoons and long, weary nights he had listened to the slow chanting of the tide, watched it creep up the sand with its puffs of thick foam, watched it as it slowly receded and left its burden of weed and sh.e.l.l behind! Flowing and ebbing forever, alway at its work, in and out, in and out, through storm and shine, through night and day, it seemed to mock his own idle, useless life, and reproach him with its never silent voice. Of what use, he wondered as he sat there, was such a life as his? To-morrow the tide would be at its work again, the ships go on, the sun shine warm and bright over all,--and he? For him to-morrow would be but the repet.i.tion of to-day; the same dragging hours, the same apathetic poring over books, the same half-hours at the organ with the music-books, playing sad melodies which accorded well with his own sombre feelings. He looked up at the portrait and sighed; remembered the dear one's dying words, and thought, "I might have found Him once; but it's too late now. All that pa.s.sed away a long time ago, and now,--it's only to plod on and on, year in and year out, till the end." And what then?

There came a soft rap at the door.

"Come in, Hagar," said he, heavily, without taking his eyes off the sea; and then the door was pushed open, and a head, surmounted by a great yellow turban, looked in.

"Somethin' fur you, Mas'r d.i.c.k," said the owner of the turban, without coming in, however.

"What is it?" said Trafford, abstractedly.

The door opened wider, and the old housekeeper entered. She was bent and thin, with great wrinkles in her forehead and face, and wherever a tuft of wool peeped out from under the fanciful headgear, it showed quite gray; but her step was quick and firm as she went across the floor to the figure by the great window.

"A letter, Mas'r d.i.c.k," said she, standing by Trafford's chair; "dat yer old skipper brought it. Said he brung it straight from de city."

"Ben Tate?" asked the master.

Hagar nodded a.s.sent. "Said ye was to hev it dis yer afternoon, sure,"

said she; "'twa'n't no letter to be lyin' 'round in dem Culm huts, so he c.u.m up here wid it hisself. Be it frum Hastings, Mas'r d.i.c.k?"

Hagar had lived in the Trafford family from childhood, and Richard had grown up to manhood under her eyes, had married, and she went to live with the young people. She had seen the wife fade and die, and the husband grow stern and gloomy, and out of solicitude and affection had clung faithfully to him through all fortunes. It would seem, to hear her talk, that she never had quite realized that Richard Trafford, the man of forty, was any other than "Mas'r d.i.c.k," the boy whose smartness at school, and whose popularity among his companions, had always been her boast and pride. Gray and worn he was getting, gloomy, sad, even harsh at times to her, yet he was only "Mas'r d.i.c.k," and her own little boy, for whom she must watch and care to the best of her ability. Now, as she queried where the letter might be from, she dropped down in a chair a little way from him, and waited till he should see fit to answer her question; for could there be a paradise on earth, it would have been represented to Hagar by Hastings,--that great city where their old home had been, where her own childhood had been spent, and where all the friends of her kin and color dwelt. It was a hard matter to tear herself away from them all and follow Richard Trafford to dreary Culm Rock; but, with some tears and sighing, she had said to her people, "Yer don't know nuffin about it.

Ye habn't got any 'Mas'r d.i.c.k;' so how ken ye? 'Tain't in dis yer old heart to let de chile go off sufferin' all by hisself, now! Bress de Lord, I'll stick to de poor boy, an' keep him frum jes' worryin' his life out." So here she was in her old age, away from all her people, yet happy because it was to serve "Mas'r d.i.c.k."

Trafford took up the letter,--a large, thick one, bearing the marks of the skipper's great fingers on its envelope, and smelling of fish, as if it had performed its journey in company with herring and cod,--and said, "Yes, Hagar; it's from Hastings, of course."

The old housekeeper lingered, looked at the master in hopes that he would bid her stay, and then, as he tore open the letter with a moody face, went slowly out, closing the door softly behind her.

The handwriting was unfamiliar, and Trafford wondered where it came from, feeling vexed that it should have arrived at that moment; and so began to read an emphatically business letter:--

"HASTINGS, Sept. 7th.

"_To Mr. Richard Trafford, of Culm Rock_:

"SIR,--I am sorry to be under the painful necessity of informing you of your brother's death. The Rev. Oliver Trafford died the 15th of March last, leaving me as the executor of his estate. He was anxious to see you till the very last; but as we had no clew to your whereabouts, and only discovered your place of residence by accident a short time ago, that pleasure was denied him. He left one child--a boy of fourteen, or thereabouts--for whose welfare he was much distressed.

He often expressed it as his desire that, should you ever make your appearance, this boy might be received by you as your own, and, indeed, left written statements to that effect. There is, also, among his private papers, a sealed letter for you, which, I doubt not, contains some such request. The boy, I am happy to say, is not likely to prove a burden or trouble to you, being obedient and all that could be desired. He is smart and sprightly, and quite a favorite in the circle in which his father moved, and from my own acquaintance with him (very intimate during the past six months) can a.s.sure you that he will prove anything but a poor acquisition.

"As to the estate, I am sorry to say that Mr. Trafford left but little of value,--enough, perhaps, to educate the boy; but, as I hear you are a gentleman of fortune, this, I presume, is a matter of very little moment. I shall be happy to show you your brother's accounts at any time, and to have the honor of answering any inquiries which you may be disposed to make. I enclose a note from your nephew. Awaiting your decision in the matter, I am, sir, your most obedient servant,

"Thomas Gray.

"Room 8, at No. 67 Court St."

With a gloomy face, Trafford laid down the lawyer's letter, and took up his nephew's. He did not remember ever having seen the boy. He was, most likely, a crazy, boisterous lad, that would be forever in mischief, and bring the house about their heads. As for having him at Culm Rock, it was too preposterous a thought to be entertained for a moment. He had decided at once how Mr. Gray's letter should be answered, and felt too indifferent to care about reading his nephew's.

What did these things matter to him? Yet, after a time, he thought better of it, and took up the note again, saying to himself, "I'll read it, if only because it's poor Noll's boy;" and opening the missive, found therein the following frank boy's letter:--

"HASTINGS, Sept. 7th.

"DEAR UNCLE RICHARD,--I don't know what to say to you--it all seems so strange and awkward. Mr. Gray said I was to write, however, and send the note with his; so I am trying. It is such a long time since I saw you that I've forgotten your face, and I think you must have forgotten that there was such a person as myself in the world. Papa died almost six months ago, and he said all the time, at the last, 'Go for Uncle Richard!' but I didn't know where you were, and Mr. Gray could not find out till a short time ago; so papa died without seeing you. I don't know what he wanted to say, but he told me that I was to live with you and be your boy; and Mr. Gray says the papers say the same thing." Here the writer had evidently faltered, and been at a loss how to proceed further with intelligence which it, apparently, was very irksome for him to disclose; but he continued with, "There are only you and me left, and I am sure I would like very much to be your boy and live with you, as papa said; but--but I don't know--I mean--Well, I can't say it, Uncle Richard, but I mean that I wish I might know what you thought about it first. I wouldn't like to come, you know, unless you liked,--unless you were _glad_ to have me. Mr.

Gray has all papa's business to settle, and I suspect he wants to get me settled, too, somewhere, pretty quick; and so, if you please, I hope you won't mind whatever he may say about me, and only do just as you like about giving him permission to send me. I can find a home somewhere, if you would rather.

"My name is Oliver,--Noll, everybody calls me; I'm almost fifteen, and have always been at school in Hastings, and papa used to give me lessons beside. Is there a school at Culm Rock? I do wish you could have seen papa, dear Uncle Richard, he longed so for you when he died; but there is a letter for you among his papers, which will be sent to Culm Rock, if I do not come to bring it. Mr. Gray will tell you all about me, I suppose, and the affairs besides; so I will stop.

"Your nephew,

"NOLL TRAFFORD.