Chapter Twenty-One. In Which I Leave Rivermouth

The Story of a Bad Boy

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

A letter with a great black seal!

I knew then what had happened as well as I know it now. But
which was it, father or mother? I do not like to look back to the
agony and suspense of that moment.

My father had died at New Orleans during one of his weekly
visits to the city. The letter bearing these tidings had reached
Rivermouth the evening of my flight-had passed me on the road by the
down train.

I must turn back for a moment to that eventful evening. When I
failed to make my appearance at supper, the Captain began to suspect
that I had really started on my wild tour southward-a conjecture
which Sailor Ben's absence helped to confirm. I had evidently got off
by the train and Sailor Ben had followed me.

There was no telegraphic communication between Boston and
Rivermouth in those days; so my grandfather could do nothing but
await the result. Even if there had been another mail to Boston, he
could not have availed himself of it, not knowing how to address a
message to the fugitives. The post-office was naturally the last
place either I or the Admiral would think of visiting.

My grandfather, however, was too full of trouble to allow this
to add to his distress. He knew that the faithful old sailor would
not let me come to any harm, and even if I had managed for the time
being to elude him, was sure to bring me back sooner or later.

Our return, therefore, by the first train on the following day
did not surprise him.

I was greatly puzzled, as I have said, by the gentle manner of
his reception; but when we were alone together in the sitting-room,
and he began slowly to unfold the letter, I understood it all. I
caught a sight of my mother's handwriting in the superscription, and
there was nothing left to tell me.

My grandfather held the letter a few seconds irresolutely, and
then commenced reading it aloud; but he could get no further than the
date.

"I can't read it, Tom," said the old gentleman, breaking down.
"I thought I could."

He handed it to me. I took the letter mechanically, and hurried
away with it to my little room, where I had passed so many happy
hours.

The week that followed the receipt of this letter is nearly a
blank in my memory. I remember that the days appeared endless; that
at times I could not realize the misfortune that had befallen us, and
my heart upbraided me for not feeling a deeper grief; that a full
sense of my loss would now and then sweep over me like an
inspiration, and I would steal away to my chamber or wander forlornly
about the gardens. I remember this, but little more.

As the days went by my first grief subsided, and in its place
grew up a want which I have experienced at every step in life from
boyhood to manhood. Often, even now, after all these years, when I
see a lad of twelve or fourteen walking by his father's side, and
glancing merrily up at his face, I turn and look after them, and am
conscious that I have missed companionship most sweet and sacred.

I shall not dwell on this portion of my story. There were many
tranquil, pleasant hours in store for me at that period, and I prefer
to turn to them.

One evening the Captain came smiling into the sitting-room with
an open letter in his hand. My mother had arrived at New York, and
would be with us the next day. For the first time in weeks-years, it
seemed to me-something of the old cheerfulness mingled with our
conversation round the evening lamp. I was to go to Boston with the
Captain to meet her and bring her home. I need not describe that
meeting. With my mother's hand in mine once more, all the long years
we had been parted appeared like a dream. Very dear to me was the
sight of that slender, pale woman passing from room to room, and
lending a patient grace and beauty to the saddened life of the old
house.

Everything was changed with us now. There were consultations
with lawyers, and signing of papers, and correspondence; for my
father's affairs had been left in great confusion. And when these
were settled, the evenings were not long enough for us to hear all my
mother had to tell of the scenes she had passed through in the
ill-fated city.

Then there were old times to talk over, full of reminiscences of
Aunt Chloe and little Black Sam. Little Black Sam, by the by, had
been taken by his master from my father's service ten months
previously, and put on a sugar-plantation near Baton Rouge. Not
relishing the change, Sam had run away, and by some mysterious agency
got into Canada, from which place he had sent back several indecorous
messages to his late owner. Aunt Chloe was still in New Orleans,
employed as nurse in one of the cholera hospital wards, and the
Desmoulins, near neighbors of ours, had purchased the pretty stone
house among the orange-trees.

How all these simple details interested me will be readily
understood by any boy who has been long absent from home.

I was sorry when it became necessary to discuss questions more
nearly affecting myself. I had been removed from school temporarily,
but it was decided, after much consideration, that I should not
return, the decision being left, in a manner, in my own hands.

The Captain wished to carry out his son's intention and send me
to college, for which I was nearly fitted; but our means did not
admit of this. The Captain, too, could ill afford to bear the
expense, for his losses by the failure of the New Orleans business
had been heavy. Yet he insisted on the plan, not seeing clearly what
other disposal to make of me.

In the midst of our discussions a letter came from my Uncle
Snow, a merchant in New York, generously offering me a place in his
counting-house. The case resolved itself into this: If I went to
college, I should have to be dependent on Captain Nutter for several
years, and at the end of the collegiate course would have no settled
profession. If I accepted my uncle's offer, I might hope to work my
way to independence without loss of time. It was hard to give up the
long-cherished dream of being a Harvard boy; but I gave it up.

The decision once made, it was Uncle Snow's wish that I should
enter his counting-house immediately. The cause of my good uncle's
haste was this-he was afraid that I would turn out to be a poet
before he could make a merchant of me. His fears were based upon the
fact that I had published in the Rivermouth Barnacle some verses
addressed in a familiar manner "To the Moon." Now, the idea of a boy,
with his living to get, placing himself in communication with the
Moon, struck the mercantile mind as monstrous. It was not only a bad
investment, it was lunacy.

'We adopted Uncle Snow's views so far as to accede to his
proposition forthwith. My mother, I neglected to say, was also to
reside in New York.

I shall not draw a picture of Pepper Whitcomb's disgust when the
news was imparted to him, nor attempt to paint Sailor Ben's distress
at the prospect of losing his little messmate.

In the excitement of preparing for the journey I didn't feel any
very deep regret myself. But when the moment came for leaving, and I
saw my small trunk lashed up behind the carriage, then the
pleasantness of the old life and a vague dread of the new came over
me, and a mist filled my eyes, shutting out the group of
schoolfellows, including all the members of the Centipede Club, who
had come down to the house to see me off.

As the carriage swept round the corner, I leaned out of the
window to take a last look at Sailor Ben's cottage, and there was the
Admiral's flag flying at half-mast.

So I left Rivermouth, little dreaming that I was not to see the
old place again for many and many a year.