In our anxiety to see Tom’s room and the attic, we have rushed upstairs somewhat too rapidly. Let us now go down and inspect the other rooms with more leisure.
In the front of the house, on the second floor, and at the left of the tiny bedroom which Tom occupied, is Grandfather Nutter’s room. It was too near for Tom’s convenience, and that is why the young gentleman lowered himself from the window by a rope—at least, that was the reason he doubtless argued to himself in favor of the more romantic mode of exit, although as a matter of fact grandfather was a sound sleeper and Tom might have walked boldly downstairs without awakening him. Still he would have had to pass the door of Aunt Abigail’s room at the head of the stairs, and if the old lady had suddenly appeared, Tom could scarcely have escaped a dose of “hot drops,” which his aunt considered a certain cure for any known ailment, from a black eye to a broken arm. Aunt Abigail, it will be remembered, was the maiden sister of Captain Nutter, who “swooped down on him,” at the funeral of the captain’s wife, “with a bandbox in one hand and a faded blue cotton umbrella in the other.” Though apparently intending to stay only a few days, she decided that her presence was indispensable to the captain, and whether he wished it or not she kept on staying for seventeen years, and might have stayed longer had not death released her from the self-imposed duty.
On the right of Tom’s room is “the blue-chintz room, into which a ray of sun was never allowed to penetrate.” But it was “thrown open and dusted, and its mouldy air made sweet with a bouquet of pot-roses” on the occasion of Nelly Glentworth’s visit, and a very delightful room Nelly must have found it, if it looked as well then as it does now, under the skillful direction of Mrs. Aldrich.
Across the hall from Aunt Abigail’s room is the guest chamber. An old-fashioned rocking-chair by the window, with a Bible and candle conveniently placed on a stand close by, offer the visitor every opportunity to get himself into a proper frame of mind before taking a plunge into the depths of the snow-white mountain of feathers, hospitably piled up to an enormous height for his comfort.
| “AUNT ABIGAIL’S” ROOM |
Descending now to the main floor (for we are inspecting this house exactly contrary to the usual order), we step into the large corner room at our left. Here visions arise of Tom sitting disconsolately on the haircloth sofa, in the evening, driven to distraction by the monotonous click-click of Aunt Abigail’s knitting-needles, but sometimes happily diverted by the spectacle of grandfather going to sleep over his newspaper and setting fire to it with the small block-tin lamp which he held in his hand.
Across the hall is the parlor, which was seldom open except on Sundays, and was “pervaded by a strong smell of center table.” Here again we fancy Tom sitting in one corner, “crushed.” All his favorite books are banished to the sitting-room closet until Monday morning. There is nothing to do and nothing to read except Baxter’s “Saint’s Rest.” “Genial converse, harmless books, smiles, lightsome hearts, all are banished.” It was no fault of the room, however, that Tom felt doleful, for there is a fine, wide, open fireplace with big brass andirons from which a wonderful amount of cheer might have been extracted, while a piano in one corner and some shelves of books in another were capable of providing boundless entertainment, had the room been accessible on any other day than Sunday.
Passing down through the hall we enter a door on the left, into the dining-room. Do you remember how Captain Nutter tormented poor Tom at the breakfast table, on the morning of the Fourth of July, by reading from the Rivermouth “Barnacle” an account of the burning of the stage-coach the night before? “Miscreants unknown,” read the grandfather, while Tom’s hair stood on end. “Five dollars reward offered for the apprehension of the perpetrators. Sho! I hope Wingate will catch them,” continued the old gentleman, while Tom nearly ceased to breathe. And the sly old fox knew all about it and had already settled Tom’s share of the damages!
We now cross the hall into the kitchen, which we ought to have visited first, as everybody else does. A more delightful New England kitchen could scarcely be imagined. This was the only place where Sailor Ben felt at home—and no wonder, for how could any room have a more inviting fireplace? Here Tom sought refuge when oppressed by the atmosphere of the sitting-room and found relief in Kitty Collins’s funny Irish stories. And here Sailor Ben gathered the whole family around the table while he spun his yarn “all about a man as has made a fool of hisself.”
This is the delightful fact about the Nutter house of to-day—every room brings back memories of Tom Bailey, Grandfather Nutter, Aunt Abigail, Kitty Collins, and Sailor Ben. The furnishings are so perfect that we should not have been surprised if any one of these old friends had suddenly confronted us. Our minds were concentrated upon their personalities and upon “The Story of a Bad Boy.” The illusion is so complete that we scarcely gave a thought to the author of the tale until we entered the Memorial building at the rear. Suddenly Tom Bailey vanished and with him all the other ghosts of the old house. We stood in the presence of Thomas Bailey Aldrich, the poet, the writer of a multitude of delightful tales, and the man of genial personality. Here, in a single large room, are brought together the priceless autographs, manuscripts, first editions, and pictures which Aldrich had found pleasure in collecting. Here is the little table on which he wrote “The Story of a Bad Boy,” and there are cases containing countless presents, trophies, and expressions of regard from his friends. The walls are hung with manuscripts, framed in connection with portraits of their distinguished writers, as Aldrich loved to have them. At the end of the room is a handsome oil painting of Aldrich himself. Everything tends to suggest the exquisite taste of the man, his genial nature, his varied attainments, and the extent of his wide circle of distinguished friends. Above all, the room speaks in eloquent terms of the affectionate loyalty to his memory that has led his family to bring together the material for a memorial unsurpassed in variety of interest and tasteful arrangement of details.