Part 15 (2/2)

Turning, with the grand air for which she was noted, to the h.o.a.ry butler who stood in the doorway between drawing-room and hall, respectfully awaiting orders as to ”Ma.r.s.e Eddie's” bag, she said,

”Put this drunken man out of the house!”

The aged slave stood aghast. Between the stately new mistress whom it was his duty to serve, and the beloved young master whose home-coming had warmed his old heart, what should he do?

He stood in silence, his lined black face filled with sadness, his chin in his hand, his eyes bent in sorrow and shame upon the floor. What should he do?--

Fortunately, the new mistress did not see his indecision as she swept from the room, and ”Ma.r.s.e Eddie” quickly relieved him of the embarra.s.sing dilemma by picking up the carpet-bag and pa.s.sing out of the door, closing it behind him.

It was all a mistake--a miserable mistake; but one of those mistakes in understanding between blind, prejudiced human beings by which hearts are broken, souls lost.

At the foot of the steps Edgar Poe paused and looked back at the ma.s.sive closed door. _Never_--_nevermore_, it seem to say to him.--_Never_--_nevermore_!

While he had been inside the house one of those sudden changes in the face of nature of which his superst.i.tious soul always made note, had taken place. A shower from a pa.s.sing cloud had filled the depressions in the uneven pavement, where before only suns.h.i.+ne lay, with little pools of water, and had left the trees ”weeping,” as he fancifully described them to himself.

He walked along the wet streets for a few steps, by the side of the wall that enclosed house and grounds. Then he paused again and looked over into the dripping garden while he held consultation with himself as to what he should do next. As he looked the breath of drenched violets greeted his nostrels. He noticed that the lilacs were coming into blossom. The fruit trees already stood like brides veiled in their fresh bloom. The tulip and hyacinth and daffodil beds were gay with color. How their newly washed faces shone in the suns.h.i.+ne, just then bursting through the clouds!

Near him, just inside the wall, was a bed of lily-of-the-valley. He was seized with an almost irresistible desire to go down upon his knees by it and search among the glistening green leaves to see if the lilies were in bloom.

But the garden-gate, like the house door, was closed upon him and seemed to repeat the fateful word--Nevermore.

Whither should he turn his steps? To Mr. Allan's office?--Never!

His intention had been to submit himself to Mr. Allan as far as his self-respect would let him. To consult him in regard to the literary career he felt himself committed to now that (as he recalled with satisfaction) the bridges between him and any other profession were burnt behind him. His own plan, upon which he was resolved to ask Mr.

Allan's opinion, would be to seek a position in the line of journalism which would give him a living while he was waiting for his more ambitious work to find buyers.

But since the interview with Mrs. Allan he realized the folly of this dream.

Then, whither should he go?--To the chums of his boyhood?--Rob Stanard, d.i.c.k Ambler, Rob Sully, Jack Preston, where were they?--Good, dear friends they had been, but it seemed so long since they had played together! What should they find to say to each other now? They were busy with their various avocations and interests--what room in their hearts and homes could there be for a wanderer like himself?

At the age of one and twenty, at the springtime of his life, as of the year--he felt himself to be as friendless, as much a stranger in the city which he called home, as Rip Van Winkle after his long sleep had felt in his. The only spots toward which he could turn with any confidence for sympathy were those two quiet cities within this city where lay his loved and lovely dead--”The doubly dead in that they died so young.”

”How different my life would be if they had lived!” he murmured to the flowers.

Yet how fair was this world in which he had no place--even to a mere looker-on. How fair was this mansion, in its setting of April green and bloom, which had once owned him as its young--its future master. Above it Hope stretched her s.h.i.+ning wings, but the hope was not for him. For him the closed door and the closed gate said only, ”no more--nevermore.”

But whither should he go?--whither?

As he turned from the garden and walked slowly, aimlessly, down the street, his great grey eyes fixed ponderingly upon the breaking clouds, a rainbow--bright symbol of promise--spanned the heavens. His eyes widened, his lips parted at the wonder and the beauty and the suddenness of it.

Whither should he go? Behold an answer meet for a poet!

Whither?--Whither?--The dark eyes in the pale cameo face turned skyward--the eyes of him who had declared himself to be a deep wors.h.i.+pper of all beauty grew more dreamy. Whither, indeed, but to the end of the rainbow!

By what ”path obscure and lonely,” the quest would lead him he knew not, but he would follow it to the bitter end, for there, perchance, he would find if not the traditional pot of gold, at least a wreath of laurel.

As he wandered down the street, his eyes still upon the bow, his dream was suddenly interrupted by the hearty voice of one of his boyhood's friends, and his sister Rosalie's adopted brother, Jack Mackenzie.

”h.e.l.lo, Edgar!” he cried. ”Did you drop from the clouds? Evidently, for I see your head is still in them.”

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