Part 18 (1/2)
Finally, he drew his unfinished note before him again and added to what he had written,
”If you will be my friend so far as to loan me twenty dollars, I will be with you tomorrow--otherwise it will be impossible, and I must submit to my fate. Sincerely yours,
”E.A. POE.”
CHAPTER XX.
The dinner went off charmingly. In addition to several journalists, Mr.
Latrobe and Mr. Miller who, with Mr. Kennedy, had formed the committee that awarded the prize to Edgar Poe, were there and the meeting between the young guest of honor and his patrons engendered a spirit of _bon-homie_ that was palpable to all. Under its spell The Dreamer's spirits rose. Yet he was quiet, listening with deep attention to the conversation of his elders, but having little to say, until the repast was half over, when he responded to the evident desire of his host to draw him out. The conversation had turned upon a favorite theme of his--the power of words. He threw himself into it with zest, and with brilliant play of expression animating his splendid eyes and pale features, and the graceful, unrestrained gestures of one thoroughly at ease and entirely unconscious of self, he held the table spell-bound with a flow of sparkling talk in which his own exquisite choice of words delighted his hearers no less than the originality and beauty of his thought.
In the young editor of _The Sat.u.r.day Visitor_ he promptly found a second friend among men of letters. Mr. Wilmer, already prejudiced in his favor by the success of the ”MS. Found in a Bottle,” and its cordial reception by the public, and by Mr. Kennedy's warm words of recommendation, yielded at once to the witchery of the poetic eyes, the courtly manners and the charmed tongue, and not only befriended him by inviting and accepting his writings for publication, but gave him, as time went on, what proved to be a stimulant to good work as well as one of his greatest pleasures--the intimate companions.h.i.+p of a man of congenial tastes and near his own age.
The winter that followed was one of the happiest of The Dreamer's life--a lull in a tempest, a dream of peace within a dream of storm and stress.
He was soon able to return the twenty dollars to Mr. Kennedy. The newspapers kept him busy and while the returns were--so far--small, he was hopeful. He felt that he had made a beginning, and that the future promised well. His work was praised and he became something of a lion--the doors of many a proud Baltimore home opening graciously to his touch.
He cared little for general society, however. His greatest pleasure he found in his evenings with the Kennedys (for Mrs. Kennedy had taken him in as promptly as her husband) or in a canter far into the country on the saddle horse which Mr. Kennedy, noting his pallor and thinking that out-door exercise would be of benefit to him, kindly placed at his disposal, or in walks in the fields and lanes beyond the city with his new chum Wilmer. Many a fine afternoon saw these two cronies, often accompanied by the sprite, Virginia, with her airy movements and vivid beauty, rambling in the suburbs, and beyond, with heads close in intimate communion of thought and fancy.
What he enjoyed most of all was the time spent at his desk, in the shelter of the new-found haven of rest, with the happy ”Muddie” and ”Sissy” nearby.
This little family circle was unique. There was an unmistakably oak-like element in the nature of the widow which was apparent to some degree even in her outward appearance, in the stateliness and dignity of her figure and carriage--an element of st.u.r.diness and self-reliance which made it her pleasure to be clung to, looked up to, leaned upon. The character of her new-found son was, on the contrary, vine-like. He was constantly reaching out tendrils of craving for love, for appreciation, for understanding. More--for advice, for guidance. Such tendrils seeking a foot-hold, make a strong appeal to every womanly woman. She sees in them a call to her n.o.bility of soul, to the mother that is a part of her spiritual nature--a call that gives her pleasant good-angel sensations, that soften her heart and flatter her self-esteem. To the Widow Clemm, with her self-reliance and her highly developed maternal instinct, the appeal was irresistible and between her and The Dreamer the ivy and oak relation was promptly established, while in the little Virginia he found a heartsease blossom to be loved and sheltered by both--the loveliest of heartsease blossoms whose beauty, whose purity and innocence and the stored sweets of whose nature were all for him.
The three lived, indeed, for each other only, in a dream-valley apart from and invisible to, the rest of the world, for their dreams of which it was constructed made it theirs and theirs alone. Their dreams piled beautiful mountains around the valley through which peace flowed as a gentle river, while love and contentment and innocent pleasures were as flowers besprinkling the gra.s.s and speaking to their hearts of the love and the glory of G.o.d, and the fancies with which they beguiled the time were as tall, fantastic trees, moved by soft zephyrs. And because of the bright flowers ever springing in the green turf that carpeted the valley, they named it the _Valley of the Many-Colored Gra.s.s_. And to the three the dream-valley, with its peace and its beauty and its sweet seclusion, was the real world, while all the wilderness outside of it, where other men dwelt was the unreal.
One happy effect of these peaceful days upon The Dreamer was that there was in them no temptation to excess--no restless craving for excitement.
The Bohemian--the Edgar Goodfellow--side of him found, it is true, an outlet, but a harmless one. He found it in the genial atmosphere of the Widow Meagher's modest eating-house where he and his new crony, Wilmer, pa.s.sed many a jolly hour. The widow, an elderly, portly dame, with a kind Irish heart and keen Irish wit, had the power of diffusing a wonderful cheerfulness around her. Her shop was clean, if plain, her oysters were savory, if cheap. Like all women, she petted Edgar Poe, and hearing from Wilmer that he was a poet, she at once gave him the name by which the West Point boys had called him, and to all of the frequenters of her shop he was known as ”the Bard.”
Her shop had not only an oyster counter, but a bar and a room for cards and smoking but these had little attraction for Poe at this period of his career--much to the widow's dissatisfaction, for she wished ”the Bard” to be merry, and did not like to see him neglect what she honestly and unblus.h.i.+ngly believed to be the really good things of life. But though to her pressing invitations, ”Bard take a hand,” ”Bard take a nip,” he was generally deaf, he was more accomodating when, after getting off an unusually clever bit of pleasantry (putting her customers into an uproar of laughter) she would turn to him with, ”Bard put it in poethry.” And put it ”in poethry” he did--to the increased hilarity of the crowd.
The month of February brought an interruption to the smooth and pleasant course of The Dreamer's life. A long time had pa.s.sed since he had heard anything of his friends down in Virginia, and it was therefore with quick interest that he broke the seal of a letter bearing the Richmond post-mark and addressed to him in the unforgotten hand of his early admirer, Rob Sully. Dear old Rob, the sight of the familiar hand-writing alone warmed The Dreamer's heart and brought the soft, melting expression to his eyes!
The object of the letter was to tell him that Mr. Allan was extremely ill--dying, some thought, though the end might not be immediate. Rob was taking it upon himself to write because he felt that Eddie ought to know. Mr. Allan had lately been heard to speak kindly of Eddie, he had been told, and it had occurred to him that Eddie might like to come on and have a word of forgiveness from him before he died.
As ”Eddie” read, the pleasure the first sight of the letter had given him turned to sudden, sharp pain. Mr. Allan and--_death_! He had never thought of a.s.sociating the two. Under the influence of the shock his heart became all tenderness and regret.
He hurriedly packed his carpet-bag, kissed Mrs. Clemm and Virginia goodbye, and set out post-haste for Richmond and the homestead on Main and Fifth Streets.
He did not stop to lift the bra.s.s knocker this time. The forlorn details of his last visit, his lack of right to cross that threshold uninvited--what mattered such considerations now? They were, indeed, forgotten. Everything was forgotten--everything save that the man who had stood in the position of father to him was dying--dying without a word of pardon to him, the most wayward (he felt at that moment of severe contrition)--_the most wayward_ of prodigal sons. Everything was forgotten save that he was having a race with death--a race for a father's blessing!
He flung wide the ma.s.sive front door and hastened through the s.p.a.cious hall, up the stair and into the room where the ill man sat in an arm-chair. On the threshold he paused for a moment. Mr. Allan saw and recognized him, and at once the misunderstanding of the actions of his adopted son for which he seemed to have a gift, a.s.serted itself, construing the visit as an unpardonable liberty. The only motive Mr.
Allan could imagine which could have prompted Edgar Poe to force himself, as it seemed to him, into his presence at this time was a mercenary one, and burning with indignation, his eyes gleaming with something like their old fire, he half raised himself from the chair.
”How dare you?” he screamed in the grating tones of angry old age. Then, grasping the cane at his side in trembling fingers and raising it with threatening gesture, he ordered his visitor to leave the room at once.
Edgar Poe stood aghast for a moment, then fled down the stair and out of the door and turning his back for the last time upon the house whose young master he had been, with the word ”Nevermore” ringing like a knell in his ears, made his way again to the abode of love and peace in Baltimore, which held his whole heart and which had become his home.