Culm Rock
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13 CULM ROCK,
The Story of a Year:
WHAT IT BROUGHT AND WHAT IT TAUGHT.
BY
GLANCE GAYLORD.
BOSTON:
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
HENRY HOYT,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
INNES AND NILES,
Stereotypers and Printers,
37 Cornhill, Boston.
CONTENTS.
Chapter Page
I.--The Old Stone House 5
II.--Letters 21
III.--On the "White Gull" 37
IV.--Disappointments 53
V.--The First Evening 71
VI.--Culm Sights 89
VII.--How the Month was spent 107
VIII.--Noll's Decision 124
IX.--Dirk's Trouble 142
X.--In the Sea 159
XI.--Dirk's Treasure 177
XII.--Firelight Talk 195
XIII.--The Winter's Waning 219
XIV.--Ned Thorn 236
XV.--Plans 254
XVI.--The Work Begun 272
XVII.--The Work Progressing 288
XVIII.--The Work Finished 304
XIX.--A Happy Walk 320
XX.--New Thoughts and New Plans 336
XXI.--In Peril of the Sea 353
XXII.--Weary Watching 367
XXIII.--Waiting 384
XXIV.--Days of Calm 400
XXV.--Out of the Sea 416
[Transcriber's Note: In this e-text, italics have been denoted by
enclosing the affected text in underscores]
CULM ROCK.
CHAPTER I.
THE OLD STONE HOUSE.
Culm Rock was a wild place. You might search the coast for miles and
not find another bit of nature so bare and rent and ragged as this. So
fiercely had the storms driven over it, so wildly had the wind and
waves beat, that the few cedars which once flourished as its only bit
of greenness were long ago dead, and now held up only bleached and
ragged hands. Jutting out into the sea, the surf rolled and thundered
along its jagged shore of rock and sand, and was never silent. It
would have been an island but for the narrow strips of sand, heaped
high and ridgelike, which bound it to the main land; and this slender
bridge, it often seemed, would be torn away by the ravenous sea which
gnawed and engulfed great tracts at once, and yet heaped it higher and
broader in the next storm. Beyond, on the firm and unyielding land,
the pine woods stood up, vast, dim, and silent, stretching away into
the interior. So, with the great dark barrier of forest behind and the
waste of shining sea in front, Culm Rock seemed shut out from all the
rest of the world. True, sails flitted along the horizon, and the
smoke of foreign-bound steamers trailed against the sky, giving token
of the great world's life and stir; and there were Skipper Ben and the
"White Gull" who touched at the little wharf at Culm every week; but
for these, the people--for there were people who dwelt here--might
have lived in another sphere for aught they knew or were conscious of
what was transpiring in the wonderful land which lay beyond the
stretch of sea, and between which and themselves the "White Gull" was
the only means of communication.
Do you wonder that people could spend their lives here, die, and never
have seen the world without? There were only a dozen houses,--poor,
racked, weather-beaten things, nestled on a bit of sand on a far
corner of Culm,--inhabited by fishermen and their families. They were
rough, hardy folk, but ignorant, and with only ambition enough to get
their living out of the great sea, and a poor and scanty enough living
at that. Skipper Ben brought them molasses and calicoes down in the
"White Gull," and took their fish in exchange; and if he told them a
bit of news from the great city and the greater world, it was all very
well. If he failed to do this, it was all very well too.
Back of the fisher huts, the rocks rose high and dark, and quite hid
the pine woods and the isthmus of yellow sand, and everything that
could make Culm at all cheery or pleasant. This eminence was Wind
Cliff, and served as a landmark for all the sailors whose path lay
along the coast. Around this the gulls were alway flitting and
screaming, and their nests were everywhere in the crevices of the
rocks. Bald and gray it rose, scarred and rent with storms and age,
and so steep as to be almost inaccessible. It fronted the north-west,
and from its sharp tip the rock sloped south to the sea, and held in
one of its great hollows down by the shore a house--such a house as
you would not have looked for at Culm--with walls of stone and tall,
ancient chimneys and deep-set windows, like eyes looking forever at
the sea.
It was so dark and weather-beaten that at first sight you might almost
fancy it to be but some quaint, odd shape which the rocks had taken,
by dint of the stress of winds and waves beating upon them for long
ages. But a house it was, and made by human hands, and human beings
dwelt in it. At night the red light from its windows streamed out upon
the water, and in many a dark and tempestuous watch had Skipper Ben
guided the "White Gull" into port through the friendly gleaming of
this beacon. For a long period of years the old house had stood empty
and tenantless, the windows and doors broken and gone, the wind
sweeping through and the rain beating in, and everything but the stout
walls and chimneys a ruin. The superstitious fishermen would not
inhabit it, and told tales of smugglers and pirates who made it their
haunt, with other fanciful stories which always seem to linger about
the sea, and in which there was not the faintest shadow of truth.
Desolate and neglected, it stood there year after year, till, one day,
Skipper Ben brought down carpenters and masons on the "White Gull,"
and straightway they went at work upon the old house. Doors went up,
windows went in, a piazza pushed itself out towards the sea-front,
and there was great bustle and activity about it for weeks. Then the
laborers went away, and when the skipper came again, he brought,
instead of groceries and store-cloth, a great quantity of furniture,
the like of which the poor people at Culm Rock had never seen, and
with the furniture came the master of the new house--a sorrowful,
bowed man--and his housekeeper, a thin, wrinkled negro woman.
Then the smoke curled out of the great stone chimneys once more, the
light streamed from the windows at night, and the fishermen and
sailors rejoiced that at last the old house had found a tenant and no
longer yawned bare and empty. The "White Gull" came more than once
with a cargo for the master of the stone house, who, the skipper told
the Culm folk, "was a mighty rich man, but the down-heartedest chap
he'd ever cast eyes on. Why, man, he just sot lookin' over the rail
the best part o' the way down, with his eyes in the water, and said no
more nor a stone. What ye think? Now lookee here, men, let me give ye
a bit o' advice. Don't ye go to pesterin' him with yer talk and yer
questions; fur he's diff'rent make 'an I be, an' 'twon't do. Let him
alone, an' keep yer own side o' the Rock."
The skipper's word was looked upon with respect by all the fish-folk,
and they heeded his advice. So, in consequence, the owner of the stone
mansion was undisturbed, and lived in the greatest seclusion. He never
came within the limits of the little village, and whenever he was
seen, it was only as pacing slowly along the shore. He passed the
fishermen as they were hanging up their seines in the sun without
heeding them, or acknowledging their respectful bows. The old black
housekeeper came down to the village sometimes after fish or gulls'
eggs, but went her way without satisfying the eager questions with
which the women plied her. So one year passed away, then a second, and
the master of the stone house was still as much a mystery to the poor
fishers as ever. He rarely walked upon the sand, gave them not a look
if ever they chanced to meet, and living, apparently, for no one but
himself, took not the slightest interest in their welfare, cared
naught for wreck or disaster on the shore, and seemed always stern and
sorrowful.
No company ever came down on the "White Gull" to visit this strange
and silent man, and he had no friends, apparently. Skipper Ben
brought stores for him occasionally, and sometimes a letter; but this
last event was a rare one, and the man seemed to have little more
communication with the great world out of which he had come than did
the humble Culm fishermen. With winds and storms, the third year
rolled around, and the master of the old house was still as much of a
recluse as ever; but the Culm people had ceased to regard him with any
interest, and the man led a most solitary life, hardly seeing a human
being, other than his housekeeper, from month to month. Do you wonder
what could make him so stern and sad? Here is his story:--
One sweet and golden summer day, a man stood by the bedside of his
wife,--he, crushed and heart-broken; she, faint and dying, but calm
and loving and comforting. She held his hand, and whispered brokenly
such words as she could only hope to comfort him with; and the last
faint whisper which trembled on her lips was, "Oh, Richard, don't
fail--don't fail to--to find Him and cling to Him, and come--come
up--too." And with that she was dead. And the man left the bedside,
and went out into the summer fields, where the birds were flitting and
the bees droning and the wide earth seemed brimming with life and joy,
and prayed that he might die too, since she was gone. But the birds
sang on as joyously as ever, and the sun shone no less brightly
because of the sorrow in the earth, and after his first tears were
shed, his heart began to grow hard and bitter, and he put away the
dying whisper, and went back to the dear dead face, cold and stern.
His friends came to console him, but he would not listen, and after it
was all over, and the gentle face hidden forever under the brown
earth, he began to think of fleeing to some spot where he might find
rest and quietness, and hide himself from all thoughts of the dear one
who had left him, smothering his sorrow, and living as if she had not
been. "I have been robbed," he said, bitterly; "all my happiness has
been stolen from me. I can't seek Him; I will not. Oh, if there is a
kind and merciful God, why has he stricken me? why has he taken all
the joy out of my life? why has he left me without a comforter in the
world?" So, without seeking for a Comforter, without striving to "find
Him," as the dear voice had whispered, he turned away and strove to
crush out the love and the tender memories which haunted his heart,
and most of all that dying whisper which said, "Don't fail--don't fail
to find _Him_."
Grown suddenly stern and morose, Richard Trafford looked about him for
a refuge where he might flee from all society, and most of all from
the spot where _her_ presence seemed yet to linger. He discovered wild
and solitary Culm Rock, and purchased the old stone house. Here, he
thought, with the everlasting sound of the sea in his ears, with all
the wildness and barrenness about him, and apart from the rest of
mankind, he would bury himself, and forget all the bright and happy
days which had passed. He left his friends without giving them any
clew to his whereabouts, and with faithful old Hagar, who persisted in
following him, took up his abode by the sea. But do you think his
sorrow lessened? Do you think he found peace and happiness again? He
carried his hard and bitter heart with him, and there was no happiness
to be found by the sea. One year after another rolled away until the
three were gone, and still he was wandering along his own thorny path,
bowed with his sorrow, sighing and lamenting for the bright form which
had left him, and still deaf to its whisper, "Find _Him_, and come up
too." He walked on the sands, lonely and desolate; he paced about the
great rooms of the stone house, oppressed and heavy-hearted; he shut
himself up in his library and pored over books in vain. His sorrow
clung to him, followed him everywhere; his heart was stubborn and
bitter and rebellious. Perhaps he despaired of ever losing the
burden, for one day he brought out a portrait, wrapped and swathed
with great care, and, tearing all the veilings off, gazed once more on
the sainted face which he had not looked upon for three long and heavy
years. He did not hide it again, but hung it upon his library wall,
where the tender face and calm and loving eyes looked down and almost
melted him to tears.
He wondered how he could have kept it veiled and hidden so long. He
wondered if those three years had not been spent in vain, unless it
were to learn that he could not crush out his sweet memories if he
tried.
He sank down into his chair as he thought of this, and going back over
the three past dreary years, remembered what a weary blank they were,
thought, with a heavy sigh, what a shipwreck his life had been, and
how he was now floating about without rudder or compass or anchor,
merely a drifting wreck. And as he sits there in the sunshine which
streams through the wide, high old window, we will see him for the
first time.
CHAPTER II.
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:--
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