Part 25 (1/2)
”My wife and her mother have thought that you Penn folk might like to sit down to a Virginia supper,” said the host, as he led Mrs. Graham to the table, and stood for a moment while Virginia designated the seats to be taken. Then still standing, said,
”Every man a priest to his own household, is our Virginia rule, but as we have with us tonight one who before he took up Letters wore the cloth, I'm going to abdicate in his favor. Dr. Griswold will you ask a blessing?”
All heads were bowed while the time-honored little ceremonial was performed, then seats were taken and the repast begun.
Virginia presided over the ”tea-things,” while Mrs. Clemm occupied the seat nearest the door opening on the kitchen, that she might slip as un.o.btrusively as possible out and back again when necessary; but most of the serving was done by the guests themselves, each of whom helped the dish nearest his or her plate, and pa.s.sed the plates from hand to hand.
All of the supper, save the dessert and fresh supplies of hot waffles was on the table. There were oysters and turkey salad and Virginia ham.
And there were hot rolls and ”batter-bread” (made of Virginia meal with plenty of b.u.t.ter, eggs and milk, and a spoonful of boiled rice stirred in) and there was a ”Sally Lunn”--light, brown, and also hot, and plenty of waffles. In the little s.p.a.ces between the more important dishes there were pickles and preserves--stuffed mangoes and preserved quinces and currant jelly. And in the centre of the table was the beautiful birthday cake frosted by Virginia's dainty fingers and brilliant with its thirty-three lighted candles.
There was just enough room left for the three slender cut-gla.s.s decanters that were relics of Mother Clemm's better days.
”The decanter before you, Mr. Graham, contains the Madeira; the Canary is before you, Captain Reid, and I have here a beverage with which I am very much in love at present--_apple wine_--” Edgar Poe said, tapping the stopper of a decanter of cider near his plate.
All understood. He had served the cider that he might join with them in their pledges of friends.h.i.+p and good will without breaking through the rule of abstemiousness in which he was finding so much benefit.
The toasts were clever as well as complimentary, and the table-talk light and sparkling. Finally both Mrs. Clemm and Virginia arose to clear the table for the dessert.
”You see, my friends, we keep no maid or butler,” said the host, ”but I'm sure you will all agree with me in feeling that we would not exchange our two Hebes for any, and they take serving you as a privilege.”
The cake was cut and served with calves-foot jelly--quivering and ruby red--and velvety _blanc mange_.
After supper Virginia's harp was brought out of its corner and she sang to them. With adorable sweetness and simplicity she gave each one's favorite song as it was asked for--filling all the cottage with her pure sweet tones accompanied by the bell-like, rippling notes of the harp.
The company sat entranced--all eyes upon the lovely girl from whose throat poured the streams of melody.
She seemed but a child; for all she had been married six years she had but just pa.s.sed out of her ”teens” and might easily have been taken for a girl of fifteen. Her hair, it is true, was ”tucked up,” but the innocence in the upturned, velvet eyes, the soft, childish outlines of the face, the dimpled hands and arms against the harp's glided strings, the simple little frock of white dimity, all combined to give her a ”babyfied” look which was most appealing, and which her t.i.tle of ”Mrs.
Poe” seemed rather to accentuate than otherwise.
Rufus Griswold's furtive eye rested balefully upon her. And this exquisite being too, belonged to that man--as if the G.o.ds had not already given him enough!
From a far corner of the room her husband gazed upon her, and bathed his senses in contemplation of her beauty while his soul soared with her song. Mother Clemm noiselessly pa.s.sing near him to snuff a candle on the table upon which his elbow, propping his head, rested, paused for a moment and laid a caressing hand upon his hair. He impulsively drew her down to a seat beside him.
”Oh, Muddie, Muddie, look at her--look at her!” he whispered. ”There is no one anywhere so beautiful as my little wife! And no voice like hers outside of Heaven!... Ah--”
What was the matter? Was his Virginia ill? Even as he spoke her voice broke upon the middle of a note--then stopped. One hand clutched the harp, the other flew to her throat from which came only an inarticulate sound like a struggle for utterance. Terror was in the innocent eyes and the deathly white, baby face.
For a tense moment the little company of birthday guests sat rooted to their places with horror, then rushed in a ma.s.s toward the singer, but her husband was there first--his face like marble. His arms were around her but with a repet.i.tion of that inarticulate, gurgling sound she fell limp against his breast in a swoon. From the sweet lips where so lately only melody had been a tiny stream of blood oozed and trickled down and stained her pretty white dress.
”Back!--All of you!” commanded the low, clear voice of Edgar Poe, as with the dear burden still in his arms he sank gently to the floor and propping her head in his lap, disposed her limbs in comfortable, and her dress in orderly manner. ”Back--don't crowd! A doctor!”
One of the guests from nearby, who knew the neighborhood, had already slipped from the door and gone to fetch the nearest doctor. The others sat and listened for his step in breathless stillness.
Edgar Poe bent his marble face above the prostrate form of his wife, calling to her in endearing whispers while, with his handkerchief he wiped from her lips the oozing, crimson stream. His teeth chattered.
Once before he had seen such a stream. It was long ago--long ago, but he remembered it well. He was back--a little boy, a mere baby--in the small, dark room behind Mrs. Fipps' millinery shop, in Richmond, and a stream like this came from the lips of his mother who lay so still, so white, upon the bed. And his mother had been dying. He had seen her thus--he would see her nevermore!... Would the doctor never come?--
Many days the Angel of Death spread his wings over the cottage in the Valley of the Many-Colored Gra.s.s. Their shadow cast a great stillness upon the cottage. Outside was a white, silent world. Snow had fallen--snow on snow--until it lay deep, deep upon the garden-spot and deep in the streets outside. There was no wind and the ice-sheathed trees that were as sentinels round about the cottage stood still. They seemed to listen and to wait.