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 shore 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 shell
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 repetition 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 passed 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 Dick," 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 Dick," 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 assent. "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 cum up here wid it hisself. Be it frum Hastings, Mas'r Dick?"
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 Dick," 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 Dick," 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 Dick;' 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 Dick."
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 assure 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.
"--And don't mind what Mr. Gray says, please, and only do as you like."
Richard Trafford finished this letter with something like a grim smile
on his lips.
"The boy has got the true Trafford spirit," he said to himself, "and
some of Brother Noll's gentleness, I fancy. Ah, Noll was always a
happier man than I!"
He read the boy's letter again, wondering what made it seem so bright
and pleasant, and feeling vexed with himself for doing it. Why should
he care for this boy or this boy's letter? Had he not fled to Culm
Rock to escape all knowledge of what was transpiring in the world
without,--to forget friends and kin, if that was possible? He looked
up and met the sweet, grave eyes of his wife looking down into his,
and read something there which made his eyes fill and his lip quiver.
"Ah," he sighed, "why did I not try to follow after?" And with this
thought in his heart, he rose and stood by the window, looking down at
the crawling tide. His thoughts came back to the boy, presently, and
with another grim smile upon his face, he remembered what a dull and
dreary place Culm Rock would be for a lad of fourteen. He would soon
tire of it, and be glad enough to go back to Hastings, he fancied. If
he was a wild boy, he should go back on the return of the "White
Gull;" if he could be tolerated, he might stay till he tired of it. It
was poor Brother Noll's boy, after all, he thought, and he could not
make his heart quite hard enough to refuse him a home. So, when
Skipper Ben returned to Hastings with his next cargo of fish, he
carried a letter hidden away under his pea-jacket, and this was what
it contained:--
"CULM ROCK, Sept. 12th.
"_To Noll Trafford_:
"Come; you are welcome.
"UNCLE RICHARD."