IN PERIL OF THE SEA.
The day had dawned clear and brilliant, but as the afternoon waned, a
gray curtain of ragged cloud slowly rose and hid the sun, and brought
an early nightfall. The wind was strong, and the sea--calm and silvery
but a few hours before--began to toss and thunder heavily. Hagar came
from the pine woods with a great basket of cones, just as the early
dusk began to settle over the windy sea and to wrap the forest in
heavy shadow, and as the old woman crossed the narrow bar of sand
which connected Culm Rock with the main-land, the wind swept over in
such strong gusts, and with such blinding sheets of spray, that her
safety was more than once endangered. But she reached the firm,
unyielding Rock, with no worse misfortune than a drenching befalling
her, and made her way to the warm and comfortable precincts of her
kitchen, with many ejaculations of delight and thankfulness. The first
sound which greeted her ears on entering was the long-drawn, solemn
voice of the organ.
"Wonder what Mas'r Dick's got on his heart dis yer night?" she
muttered, bustling about to prepare supper; "'tain't sech music as dat
yer organ make lately. 'Pears like somethin' was de matter, anyhow."
She prepared supper in the dining-room, muttering to herself about the
lonesomeness and silence of the house since "Mas'r Noll dun gone off;"
and when the solitary meal was in readiness, put her head in at the
library-door and called her master to tea. When she had got back to
her kitchen, and was standing in the open door, her grizzled head
thrust out into the gathering gloom and tempest to watch the progress
of the storm, she noticed that the music did not cease, but kept on in
its slow and solemn measure, rising and falling and stealing
plaintively in.
"Something's de matter, sure," Hagar said, turning about and shutting
the door; "dat ain't de kind of music dat Mas'r Dick's made lately.
'Pears like he's 'stressed 'bout somethin'! But, Hagar, ye can't do
nuffin but jes' trust de Lord, nohow. Ye'd better get yer own supper,
ef yer Mas'r Dick don't tech his."
She ate her supper and washed the dishes, and gave the little kitchen
a stroke or two with her broom, and yet the music from the library
came stealing in as sad-voiced and heavy as ever.
"'Pears as if he'd never eat his supper," Hagar grumbled; "de chile
can't live on music, allers, nohow. Reckon he'll nebber hab much
sperits till he eats more. But jes' stop yer talkin', chile, ye can't
do nuffin' but trust de Lord."
By and by the wandering notes ceased, and in the deep silence there
came up the hoarse and awful roar of the surf, with the wailing of the
wind over the chimney, and filled the house with their echoes. Hagar
heaped wood on the fire, drew her little low chair nearer the light
and gladsome blaze, shivering and muttering as she did so. She had a
great dread of cold and darkness, and the deep hush, broken by the
clamor of the sea, made her afraid.
"De Lord's about," said she, drawing her old woollen shawl close
around her; "de Lord's on de sea, an' 'pears like nobody need be
feared when he holds it in his hand like as I holds dis yer silber ob
Mas'r Noll's dat he lost under de rug in de dinin'-room,"--looking
down at the shining coin which she had picked up that morning, and
wondering where the boy was at that moment. "'Pears as ef de sunshine
had been hid de whole time sence he went off to de city," she
muttered, gazing in the coals. "Wonder ef Mas'r Dick misses him?
Wonder ef dis yer ole woman won't be tickled 'nuff to see him when de
day comes? Ki! Hagar, ye knows ye will."
The roar of the sea and the cry of the wind came in again, more
lonesome, sadder than ever. The old negress shivered, peered about her
into the dark corners of the kitchen, and crooned to herself,--a wild,
monotonous air, set to words which came to her lips for the
occasion:--
"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know
De Lord's on de sea?
He rides on de waves,
And de wind is in his hand,--
De Lord keeps dem all!
What ye feared of, Hagar? Kase, don't ye know de Lord's in it? 'Pears
like ye done forget dat de whole time--Now!" and she broke into her
rhymeless chant again. It was only a way she had got of setting her
thoughts to music, drawing the words out very slowly, and weaving to
and fro the while. When she had repeated her first lines, she kept on
with her thoughts, peering over her shoulder at the flickering shadows
which the fire cast on the wall behind her, shivering with awe at the
clamor without, and chanting, waveringly,--
"Oh, Hagar, don't ye know
De Lord's on de sea?
De wind blows, an' de sky is dark,
An' de sea _cries like a little chile_,
An' de boats will be blowed away;
But de Lord is good, an' mornin' will come,
An', oh, Hagar, sing hallelujah!
Fur de Lord is in it all!"
Here she stopped her chanting, and began to sing "Hallelujah!" softly,
ceasing her swaying, to look into the coals. The fire burned down to
rosy embers, in which little blue-tongued flames darted up
fitfully,--anon lighting up the room brilliantly, then dying away and
leaving it almost in darkness,--while Hagar's crooning died away to a
whisper. A little gray light still shone in at the kitchen-window, but
it was fast flitting. The roar of the sea became thunder, the wind
grew tempestuous. By and by the rain began to fall, sounding strangely
soft and still, when compared with the din of wind and waves.
"God bress us!" said Hagar, "dis yer is an awful night. Keep de boats
off de Rock, Lord, and pity de sailors in dis yer awful storm!"
The old woman knew how the sea must look now,--yeasty, horrible, its
white wave-caps shining through the darkness and hurrying to topple
over and thunder against the rocks. To her, as she sat crouched before
the fire, it seemed to howl and scream and mourn hoarsely, like some
great voice rending the night with lamentation.
"Call on de Lord, Hagar," she muttered frequently; "can't nuffin else
help ye now!"
Sometimes she fell to chanting her thoughts,--the sound of her own
voice was pleasant to her in the loneliness,--and she piled cedar
chips on the fire to see their cheerful blaze and enjoy their brisk
crackle.
"Might as well hab a candle," she said, after a time. "Git yer
knittin', chile, an' 'pear as ef ye didn't distrus' de Lord. What ef
de wind is blowin'? what ef de sea is a-screamin'? Don't ye know whose
wind and whose sea 'tis?" She got up to grope for a candle on the
shelf over the fireplace.
"Hagar!" exclaimed a voice at the farther end of the kitchen,--a
voice so full of compressed fear and anxiety that the old negress
tumbled back in her chair with affright,--"Hagar! are you here?"
demanded the voice.
"Bress ye! yes, I's here, Mas'r Dick!" she answered, catching sight of
his white face by the dining-room door. "I's here, but ye spoke so
suddent! Jes' wait, an' I'll hab a candle in a minnit."
The candle was found, and, after a long blowing of coals and burning
of splinters, began to burn dimly. Hagar set it on the table, and
looked up at her master with a start of alarm, his face was so white
and anxious.
"Hagar," said he, huskily, "_Noll was to start from Hastings this
morning!_"
The old negress stood looking at him a full minute,--a fearful,
lonesome minute in which the rain beat against the panes, and the
awful voice of the sea filled the room,--then she sank down by the
fire with a low cry.
"Lord bress us all!" she wailed, as she looked up, "fur he'll nebber
get here, Mas'r Dick!"
Trafford looked at her silently. Oh, that awful voice without!--the
thunder, the tremble of the earth, the screaming of the wind! At
last,--
"Is ye certain sure, Mas'r Dick? D'ye _know_ he started? Did he say?"
"Oh, Hagar, if I did not--_not know_,--if I had any doubt that he
started, I would give all my possessions this very moment!"
"'Tain't de money nor de lands dat'll do now!" moaned Hagar, beginning
to sway back and forth; "it's only de Lord! De Lord's on de sea
to-night, an' 'tain't fur man to say! Oh, Mas'r Dick! t'ink o' dat
bressed boy in dese waves an' dis wind!"
"Hush!" said the master, imperatively, "I will _not_ think of it! It
can't be! Noll? Oh, Hagar, I believe I'm going mad!" He turned away
from the old negress and opened the door. The tempest swept in,
overturning the candle and flaring up the fire, and bearing the rain,
in one long gust, across the little kitchen, even into Hagar's face.
Trafford stood there, regardless of wind and rain, looking out upon
the sea. The mighty tumult awed him and filled his heart with a sense
of man's utter weakness and helplessness. The foamy expanse gleamed
whitely through the night,--awful with the terror of death,--and its
deafening roar smote upon his ears, and in the slightest lull, the
rain-drops fell with a soft, dull patter. Noll in it all?--in this
fearful, yawning sea,--in this wild tumult of wind and rain,--in the
vast waste of waves which the thick darkness shrouded, and where death
was riding? "God help me!" he cried in sudden frenzy,--"God help me!"
He looked up at the thick, black depths of sky with a groan of agony
when he remembered his utter powerlessness. But what right had he to
look to Heaven for aid?--he who knew not God, nor sought him, nor
desired his love? The bitterness of this thought made him groan and
beat his breast. Would He--whom all his life long he had refused and
rejected--hear his cries?
Hagar's voice came to him here through all the din and thunder,
beseeching that the door might be closed. He closed it behind him,
and stepped out into the darkness. It was already past the hour for
the "Gull" to arrive, he remembered, and then a sudden thought flashed
through his brain that beacons ought to be kindled to guide the
skipper, if he were not already beyond the need of earthly guides and
beacons. And close upon this thought came a remembrance of the Culm
fishermen,--stout, skilful sailors, all of them,--and a great hope
filled his heart that in them he might find aid in his extremity. And
without waiting for a second thought, he started through the inky
darkness and the tempest for Culm village. He ran till he was
breathless. He climbed and groped his way over and along the slippery
rocks, the awful voice of the sea filling his ears and goading him on.