DIRK'S TREASURE.
At the first gray glimmer of the wintry dawn, Noll was awake. He felt
stiff and lame after his adventure of the previous evening, and not at
all inclined to stir. But a sudden recollection of Dirk and his child,
and the aid which he had promised them, came to him almost as soon as
he was conscious of the day's dawning, and he got up and limped to
the window to see whether there was any prospect of Hagar's journey to
Culm being realized. The sky was as gray and sombre as yesterday's had
been. All the sea was in a great turmoil, and rolled in a flood of
foam upon the shore as far as he could see. Not a sail in sight upon
the lonely waste, not a sign of human life anywhere. Now and then a
snow-flake fluttered down; and the wind screamed shrilly about the
house-corners, and wailed hoarsely in the casements.
"Hagar can't go to-day," thought Noll, with a sinking heart; "and, oh!
what _can_ be done?"
He trembled for fear Uncle Richard would forbid him to go to Culm
again. He felt as if he could never bear to meet Dirk's eyes after
promising him aid and failing to bring it; and, with this thought
oppressing him, and the lonely cry of the sea filling his ears, he
dressed himself, and went down to the library with a downcast heart.
His uncle sat by a window, looking, with a sad and gloomy face, upon
the sea; and, as his nephew entered, acknowledged his "Good-morning,
Uncle Richard," with only a cold nod. But Noll, resolved to have the
matter settled at once, came up to his chair, saying,--
"I've got a great favor to ask of you, Uncle Richard. May I go around
to Culm after breakfast?"
Trafford's face grew gloomier than before.
"For what?" he asked.
"To carry something for Dirk's child," Noll answered, meeting his
uncle's stern eyes with his own pleading blue ones.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Trafford, impatiently, "what are these miserable
fish-folks to you? I don't want you to care for them!"
"But, Uncle Richard--"
"Well?"
"Dirk's child is sick,--dying, I'm afraid!"
"So are hundreds in this world. There's misery everywhere."
"Perhaps I might aid this misery, Uncle Richard, if you'll let me try.
Will you?"
"You will have more than your hands full if you are going to look
after these Culm people," said Trafford, coldly; "you had better not
begin."
Noll's face grew graver and graver, and he made no reply to his
uncle's last remark.
"Well," said Trafford, after a long silence, "do you wish anything
more, Noll?"
The boy turned away, as if hurt by his uncle's coldness, and walked
quickly to the library door. There he wavered--stopped--then turned
about, and came back.
"Uncle Richard," said he, tremulously, "papa said I was to do all the
good I could in the world, and never pass by any trouble that I might
help, and--and I think he would tell me to go to Dirk's, if he were
here."
Trafford turned about with an impatient word upon his lips, but it was
not spoken. It seemed to him as if his dead brother stood before
him,--as he had known him when they were boys together,--and that
those words were meant for a reproach. He put out his hand and touched
Noll's shoulder, as if to make sure that it was really his nephew and
no vision.
"Ah!" said he, with a sigh, "your father looks out at me from your
eyes, Noll. Turn them away from me. Go to Culm, if you like,--you
have my permission."
"Breakfas's waitin' fur ye!" said Hagar, at the door.
"But, Uncle Richard," said Noll, in some perplexity, "I don't like to
go and have you all the time wishing me at home."
"I cannot help that," said Trafford, as he rose to answer Hagar's
call. "I have given you permission,--go."
The breakfast was a silent one. After it was over, and the door had
closed upon the grim master of the house as he went back to his books,
Hagar said,--
"Don't ye let nuffin make ye downhearted, honey! De Lord'll help ye,
ef yer Uncle Dick won't. 'Tain't de might nor de money dat'll do
eberyting, chile. All 'pends on whether de Lord's on yer
side. Jes' come in my ole kitchen and see what I's put up fur ye to
carry to dem yer mis'able folks."
[Illustration: "Dis yer is brof." Page 183.]
Noll got his overcoat and cap, and followed the old housekeeper into
her cozy and comfortable dominion.
"Look at dis yer," said Hagar, taking a basket off the table;
"jes' as chock full as nuffin ye ken think ob. Dis yer is
brof,--chicken-brof,--an' dat yer bundle is crackers. Dis bottle's de
med'cine, an' de chile is to hab a teaspoonful ebery half an hour. Ef
I could be there, de chile should hab a sweat, sure; but dis
med'cine'll hev to answer! Dis yer is a teaspoon an' a teacup, 'cause
ye won't find nuffin fit fur to drink nuffin out ob. Hagar knows how
dem yer Culm folks lib! Now, ken ye 'member all dat, honey?"
"Yes," said Noll, "and I thank you a hundred times, Hagar. I'd better
start at once, without waiting another minute."
The old housekeeper followed him to the door, cautioning, "Keep 'way
from dat yer sea, chile! Don't yer git into dat yer drefful tide,
honey! an' de Lord bress ye an' bring ye safe back!"
The wind was keen and bitter, and the sea thundered as mightily as on
the previous evening. Noll hurried along over the great patches of icy
sea-weed and frozen pools of water in the rocks and hollows, and
thought, now that he was making such haste, that the way had never
seemed quite so long before. He paused for a moment to look upon the
scene of last night's peril, and remember, with a shudder, how the
waves battered, and how they pierced and numbed him with their cold.
Then he ran along the hard, sandy beach as fast as the wind and his
burden would let him. The Culm huts came in sight at last, cheerless
and desolate, and with no sign of life or occupancy about them, save
the faint smoke which the wind whirled down from the chimneys.
Noll began to regard Dirk's habitation with anxious eyes long before
he drew near. He half expected to see the fisherman's tall figure
pacing up and down the sand, beating his breast and groaning with
despair, perhaps; but instead, the sands were deserted. Noll came
opposite the miserable dwelling, and paused a few seconds before
rapping, waiting to hear the sick child's low wail. He heard only a
confused, unintelligible murmur of voices.
A woman answered his summons,--not the child's mother, but a neighbor,
evidently,--and stood staring blankly at him.
"Can I see Dirk,--Dirk Sharp?" Noll asked.
At the sound of the boy's voice, the fisherman himself came to the
door. His face was haggard, and looked wan and worn, for all the
bronze of wind and weather that was upon it.
"Lord bless ye, lad!" he cried to Noll, "but ye be too late."
"Too late?"
"Yes," brokenly, "my little gal died las' night."
Noll was silent with surprise. He was too late,--too late.
"Oh, Dirk," he said, as soon as he could speak, "I would have come
back last night, but I got into the sea, and--and it was impossible.
So I brought what I could this morning."
Dirk looked at the lad and his basket, and choked. At last he said,
gratefully, "It be good in ye to care for the like o' us, lad. We be
poor folks fur ye to look at, the Lord knows! What did ye bring fur my
little gal?"
Noll lifted the cover of his basket, and Dirk peered in, exclaiming,
"My little gal never seed the like o' them, lad! She wur a tender
thing, my little gal wur, and mabby ef she'd had a bit o' somethin'
better'n the salt fish--Well, she be beyond meat and drink now," he
said, choking again.
Noll knew not whether to turn back, or to stay. Dirk, however,
presently said, "Come, lad, step in an' see my little gal. She wur as
white an' sof'-cheeked as yerself. O Lord! I might ha' knowed she'd
never come up stout an' growin' like the rest," he groaned as he
turned back to lead the way for Noll.
In the room where the little one had lain sat three or four old
fish-wives,--wrinkled, weather-beaten old faces they had,--who were
nodding and whispering over their pipes in a solemn kind of way,
occasionally addressing a word to the mother, who sat enveloped in the
smoke which poured into the room from the ill-constructed fireplace.
They regarded Noll with many curious glances as he passed through
after Dirk to the apartment where the child was laid, and one old
creature followed after them, apparently to ascertain the boy's
errand.
It was a bare room where Dirk's treasure was sleeping,--not a thing in
it save the two wooden stools and rough board which upheld their still
little burden. Pure and white the child lay,--a fair, delicate flower
when compared with the dinginess and squalor of everything about it;
and something of this contrast seemed to glimmer upon Dirk's rough
perceptions, for he said to Noll,--
"Ye wouldn't think she could be mine, lad! Ye don't wonder the little
gal couldn't come up like the rest o' the young uns?"
"It wur a fair gal, Lord knows," said the old fish-wife who had
followed them in; "it warn't black and freckly, never. Sich kinds
don't love this salt water, Dirk Sharp,--ye couldn't ha' raised her,
man!"
"Oh, my little gal!" murmured Dirk, smoothing a fleck of golden hair
with his great brawny hand.
"Ye be fair an' white," said the old fish-wife, touching Noll's cheek
with her skinny finger, "an' what be ye here on the Rock fur?"
"Sh!--ye let the lad alone, mother," said Dirk; "he be come here to
bring my little gal somethin', an' she be beyond eatin' an' drinkin'.
He be a good lad to do it!"
Noll looked upon the little sleeper's face, and then at the wretched
surroundings, and was glad for the child's sake that sleep and peace
had come at last. Yet his heart was heavy as he looked upon his basket
and its now useless contents, and he thought, "Oh, if I had only been
more careful last night!--perhaps--perhaps Hagar's medicines could
have helped it." He turned to Dirk, saying, quietly,--
"I must go now. I'm--I'm _so_ sorry I was too late!"
The fisherman followed Noll out on to the sand, and, as the boy was
about to turn away homeward, took both his hands in one of his own
great brown ones, saying,--
"Ye be kinder to me 'an I ken tell ye, lad. I thought yer kind had no
heart fur us folk. Bless ye, lad, bless ye!"
Noll's homeward walk seemed somewhat brighter to him, even though he
left the child dead behind him. Dirk's gratitude, a small matter
though it may have been, gave him a thrill of pleasure. It was
pleasant to think that he had one friend among the fish-folk, rough
and ignorant though they were. He remembered how, in the little
sea-town in which his father had once dwelt, the fishermen came at
last to love and respect the kind minister who worked so patiently to
raise them out of their slough of ignorance and degradation, and that
whenever his father walked among them, they flocked about him to
listen to his words and counsel, and watch for his look or smile of
approval.
"And," thought Noll, "if Uncle Richard would only do as papa did, what
a happy man he would be, and what good he could do for Culm!" But that
time--if ever it came--was yet a long, long way off, he thought, and
so the people must live on their old, dreary, wretched life till some
one taught them better.
The boy walked soberly home, with a great many serious, earnest
thoughts in his heart. Somehow, this morning's sight had made another
impression upon his mind beside that of sadness and disappointment. He
felt and saw that there was a great work to do. Who was to do it?
Hagar met him at the door, rejoicing that he had returned in safety,
but, stopping only to tell her that the child was dead, Noll went on
to the library. It was the boy's intention to open his heart to his
uncle, and tell him of all the want and wretchedness there was at
Culm, while the impression was so deep and vivid in his mind; but
Trafford sat at the organ and took no notice of his nephew's presence,
and, after a long lingering, Noll gave up the attempt for that day, at
least.
It was late in the afternoon when he went out for his accustomed walk.
Partly by accident, partly by design, he came to the little place of
graves in the frozen sand, and there found the funeral party from the
fish-huts just gathering about the shallow resting-place which had
been scooped for Dirk's treasure. The huddling crowd of poorly-clad
men and women respectfully made way for him, and Dirk looked
unutterable thanks for what he considered a great honor. Without a
prayer, without a word of consolation, the little one was lowered
into the earth amid the wailing of the women, and the shrill and
lonely screaming of the fierce and bitter wind.
Noll had never seen anything so unutterably dreary, and when all was
over, and the mourners had disappeared over the other side of the
Rock, he went home, thinking more deeply than ever of the work to be
done, and wondering who was to do it.