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.