HOW THE MONTH WAS SPENT.
They 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, and _would_ have 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, he
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 Sam _did_ love 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 it
_would_ be 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 I _don't_
wish 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.