WAITING.
The long, long, weary night gave way to a gray and gloomy dawn. The
tempest had not abated, and the sea thundered as furiously as ever.
The wet and shivering women had gone back to their houses and their
little ones; and as the cold, steely light of the coming day began
to whiten in the east, Hagar made her way back to her kitchen,
where she kindled a fire to warm her numb limbs. Never more, she
thought,--rocking to and fro before the pleasant blaze,--could the old
house be bright or cheerful. The sea had quenched its life and its
joy, and never again would the merry voice echo in the great rooms, or
the quick, eager steps sound along the hall and in at her
kitchen-door.
"O good, bressed Lord!" moaned she, "bress yer poor chil'en dat's lef'
behind! 'Pears like dey was jes' ready ter fall down an' faint ter def
ef ye didn't hold 'em up. O Lord, keep Hagar up, an' 'vent her from
'strustin' ye! Bress us, Lord, fur we ain't nuffin dis yer time. Ye's
all we hab ter hold on ter."
Meanwhile, Trafford and the fishermen lingered on the shore, waiting
for the sea to give up its dead. The east grew whiter, and light
broke dimly over the waste of waves, and faintly showed them where the
"Gull" had struck. There was not much left of the little craft,--only
a few timbers and the taper point of a mast, wedged in between some
outlying rocks, which the sea thundered over. It was a dreary
sight,--the vast, immeasurable waste lashed into foam, and dimly
discerned through the gray gleaming of the dawn, with the bit of wreck
swaying in the wares, where those lives had gone out in the awful
thunder and darkness; but Trafford gazed upon it with a calm face.
Groans and lamentation could not express the agony which rent his
heart, and he walked up and down the drenched sand with a calm, white
face that awed Dirk whenever he looked upon it.
"It be a heavier stroke for the master an' we ken tell, lads," he
said to his comrades, as they kept keen lookout for the poor bodies
which the sea still kept.
"Ay, there be a heart within him like the rest of us," said one of the
fishermen, looking at Trafford as he kept his watchful vigil; "an' he
be only losin' what we hev lost afore."
"But the lad wur not like ours," said Dirk, pityingly, "an' it wur a
finer lad an' ever I see afore."
So they talked as they watched and waited, and the light grew, and
somewhere behind the lowering banks of clouds in the east the sun had
risen, and all the land and sea lay cold and warmthless and forlorn.
Trafford relinquished not his keen search for a moment, fearful lest
the waves should cast his lost treasure at his feet and snatch it back
before he could grasp it. The dear face might be bruised and battered
by the cruel, remorseless sea, and the eyes could never beam upon him
with any light of love or recognition, he thought; yet find it and
look upon it he must, even though the sight agonized him. So he
watched and waited, with his tearless eyes roaming along the line of
foam.
An hour fled. The sea relented, and gave up one poor form into the
fishermen's hands. Trafford walked calmly out to where the men were
bending over it with pale, awed faces, and saw that it was not Noll.
He shivered, looking at the skipper's stalwart figure, and wondered
whether, if the sailor but had the power of speech, he might not tell
him something of his boy,--whether he met death's dark face calmly and
fearlessly, and whether he sent a message to those whom he saw on the
shore and could not call to. This thought gave him fresh anguish. If
Noll had sent him a farewell,--a last message,--oh, what would he not
give to hear it? But, if that were really the case, it had died with
those to whom it was intrusted. The sea would never whisper it,--the
dead could not. He went back to his lonely pacing.
Another long, long hour passed. The bit of wreck that was jammed
between the rocks went to pieces and came ashore. Ben's mate came with
it, but no Noll. The men began to straggle homeward, weary and worn
with the night's vigil, till only Dirk and Hark Darby were left to
keep the stricken master of the stone house company. Oh, such a weary
waiting it was!--the ceaseless pouring of the waves upon the sand
filling their ears with clamor, and the fearful tide bringing them
not the treasure which they sought. Would the sea never give it up?
Was the dear form caught and held by the entangling arms of some
purple weed in the sea depths? or was it cradled in the calm,
unruffled quiet of some crevice of the rocks?
"Oh, cruel, cruel sea!" he cried to himself, "to rob me of my boy, and
refuse to give back the poor boon of his body."
It never came. The morning wore on to noon, the noon to night, and
still the lonely watcher paced up and down. Toward night the tempest
abated, and the turmoil of the sea subsided somewhat. The gray clouds
broke and let through a slant mist of yellow sunshine as the sun
departed, and the storm was over. Its work was done; and as the clouds
fled in ragged squadrons, the calm, untroubled stars shone out over
the sea, and mocked, with their deep, unutterable peace, the aching,
wretched heart of him who still kept up his lonely pacing. Trafford's
eyes suddenly caught sight of their silvery glitter, and he stopped,
looking up at them, while the sudden thought flashed through his mind,
"Is my boy up there? beyond those shining worlds, in that happy heaven
which he trusted in?"
The thought held him silent and motionless. It had not entered his
heart before. He had been searching for the lad upon this dreary,
sea-beaten shore, without a thought of anything beyond. Was he really
standing upon a heavenly shore, where no waves beat nor tempest raved,
and, perhaps, looking down upon his own lonely vigil?
There was something in this thought which brought a great calm upon
his heart. True, the boy was no less dead nor separated from him; the
merry voice was no less hushed to him for all his life and journeying,
and the echo of his footsteps might never float down from heavenly
paths to gladden his ears; yet, though he realized this, there was a
wonderful peace and joy in thinking of the lad as happy and joyous in
a sphere where nothing would ever blight his happiness; where he had
found those who bore him a great love and had been long waiting for
his coming. Trafford sat down on the great pile of broken timbers, and
once more looked upward at the stars. Pure and unwavering their gentle
eyes looked down at him. And then peaceful as an angel's whisper, came
the remembered words of one who was an angel too: "Oh, Richard! don't
fail--don't fail to find Him and cling to Him, and come up,--come up
too."
Why, oh, why, of all times, did this gentle breathing come to him
here? It seemed to Trafford as if his wife's lips had whispered it
close to his ear, and he bowed his head upon his breast, while his
breath came quick and fast, and bitter tears of grief stood in his
eyes. Had God taken his treasures, one after another, and placed them
in that heaven which they all looked forward to, that his own wayward,
straying heart might be drawn thither? Was this last loss meant to be
the great affliction which, through love, should turn his heart toward
God and his kingdom? He could not tell; his heart was strangely
stirred and melted within him. It seemed to him as if that angel
whisper had driven the great burden of despair and agony out of his
heart by its gentle breathing, and left it broken and sorrowful, yet
not without peace and hope. He looked up at the stars and thought of
Noll, and wept. They were not tears of agony, and he did not rave and
groan. A slow step came along the sand, turning hither and thither, as
if in quest of some one. It drew near Trafford, at last, and a
tremulous old voice said,--
"Is dis ye, Mas'r Dick? Hagar's glad 'nough ter find ye, anyhow.
'Pears like she couldn't stay up ter de house, nohow,--'twas so
lonesome."
"Yes, I know, Hagar," said the man, without raising his head.
The twilight was so thick that the old negress could not see the
speaker's face, but a certain tremble and softness of his voice did
not escape her notice.
"Have ye foun' de Lord, Mas'r Dick?" she asked, quickly.
"I know not what I have found," Trafford answered, while his tears
fell; "but if I might find his face, and know that it smiled upon me,
I should care for little else."
"Now praise de Lord!" said Hagar, fervently; "dat's more'n ye ever
felt afore. Thar's help fur ye, Mas'r Dick, an' 'tain't fur off!"
"Too far for me to find it!" said Trafford; "he does not smile upon
those who have rejected him."
"Oh, chile!" said Hagar, in a shocked tone; "don't ye know de Lord's
all mercy an' lubbin' kin'ness? Don't ye know he won't 'spise an' hate
ye jes' as ef he was like a man? Oh, honey! Hagar's feared ter hear ye
talk like dat. 'Pears as ef ye made de Lord jes' like poor, eble,
good-fur-nuffin man."
Trafford made no reply. A sudden darkness seemed shutting down upon
him. It was as if a great golden gleam had fallen out of heaven upon
him, warming and softening his heart, and when he turned with tears
and joy to look along its pathway heavenward, it vanished and left him
groping in confusion and dismay. He got up from off his seat, saying,
mournfully,--
"The brightness is all gone from me! I'm in doubt and fear. Oh, how
can I ever find his face?--and how can he ever smile upon me who have
rejected him?"
Hagar sighed heavily as she said, "Ye don't 'preciate de Lord, chile.
Ye talks jes' as ef he was a man, an' could feel 'vengeful towards ye!
Don't s'pose any _man_ could forgive ye, honey, but de bressed Lord
is all lub,--Hagar knows _dat_,--an' Jesus died jes' as much fur ye as
he did fur anybody. Ye's got to look to dat bressed Lord Jesus, an' ef
ye looks hard 'nough, ye'll find him. Oh, Hagar t'anks de Lord frum de
bottom ob her heart fur yer feelin' so to-night."
"But I have not found him! He is hidden from me!" said Trafford.
"But ye will ef ye looks long enough!" said Hagar, cheerfully; "he'll
come out ob de darkness to ye: bimeby. Bress ye, chile, dis ole woman
was lookin' an' seekin' an' stribin' in mis'ry till she was 'bout
ready to give up in 'spair; but I foun' him at las', an' he nebber
'sook Hagar,--nebber!"
The sea was growing calmer with every hour that passed. But it was
rough and thunderous still, and its wave-crests gleamed whitely under
the starlight. Trafford at last remembered the lateness of the hour,
and said, "Come, Hagar, this is no place for us. We will go in."
The two slowly made their way along the shore up to the dark and
deserted stone house. Hagar smothered the sigh that rose up from her
heart as the silence and loneliness smote upon it, and led the way
around to her kitchen-door.
"Poor chile! ye habn't had nuffin to eat dis day," said she, after
they were once within her little dominion and she had kindled the
fire; "go into de libr'y, honey, an' I'll hab ye sumfin' purty quick."
But Trafford shook his head, saying, "Not there!--not there, yet!" and
sat down on the bench by the fire.
Hagar moved wearily about from the cupboard to the table, saying to
herself,--
"What ye t'inkin' ob, Hagar, to tell him dat? Dar's all poor Mas'r
Noll's books an' t'ings lyin' 'bout eberywhar, an' how ken de poor
chile stan' it? De Lord's han' is heaby upon him, an', O good Lord
Jesus, jes' come an' bress de poor chile an' sabe him!"