In the Allan mansion, in Richmond, there was a stillness that was
oppressive. No young foot-falls sounded upon the stair; no boyish
laughter rang out in rooms or hall. There were handsome and formal
dinners occasionally, when some elderly, distinguished stranger was
entertained, but there were no more merry dancing parties, with old Cy
playing the fiddle and calling the figures.
Frances Allan, fair and graceful still, though looking somewhat out of
health and "broken," as her friends remarked to one another, trod softly
about the stately rooms with no song on her lip, no gladness in her
step. Her husband was grown suddenly prematurely old and his speech was
less frequent and harsher than before. He was more immersed in business
than ever and was prospering mightily, but the fact seemed to bring him
no satisfaction. Even the old servants had lost much of their mirth.
Their black faces were grown solemn and their tread heavy. They looked
with awe upon their mistress when, as frequently happened, they saw her
quietly enter "Marse Eddie's" room and close the door behind her.
In that room and there alone, the fair, gentle, woful creature gave free
reign to the grief of her stricken mother-heart. The room was kept just
as her boy had left it, for she constantly hoped against hope that he
would return. Hers was the aching, pent-up grief of a mother whose child
is dead, yet she is denied the solace of mourning.
Here was the bed which had pillowed his dear, sunny ringlets. Here were
his favorite chair--his desk--his books. In a little trunk against the
wall were his toys with some of the pretty clothes made with her own
fingers, in which it had been her pride to dress him when he was a wee
laddie. How she loved to finger and fondle them!
Fifteen years she had been his mother--now this was all she had!
Somewhere in the same world with her he was living, was walking about,
talking, eating, sleeping; yet he was dead to her! Oh, if she could only
know that he was happy, that he was well, that he lacked nothing in the
way of creature comfort; if she could know where he was, picture him at
work or in his leisure hours, it would not be so hard to bear.
But she knew nothing--nothing--save that he had gone to Boston.
One letter she had had from him there--such a dear one!--she knew it by
heart. In it he had called her "Mother" and assured her of his constant
love and thought of her. He had arrived safely, he said, and would soon
be busy making his living. Boston was a fine city and full of interest
to him. When his ship came in he was going to have her come on and pay
him a visit there. He would write again when he had anything worth
telling.
Days had passed--weeks--and no word had come. Had he failed to obtain
employment? Had he gone further--to New York, perhaps, or Philadelphia?
She did not know. Oh, if she could but _know_!
Was he ill? Fear clutched her heart and made her faint. The suspense was
terrible, and she had no one to go to for sympathy--no one. She dared
not mention her anxiety to her husband; it made him furious. He could
not stand the sound of Eddie's name, even--her darling, beautiful Eddie!
Her arms felt so empty they ached.
Winter was passing. The garden that Eddie loved so dearly was coming to
life. The crocuses for which he always watched with so much interest
were come and gone. The jonquils were in bloom and the first sweet
hyacinths, blue as turquoises, she had gathered and put in his room. It
cheered her to see them there. Somehow, they made the room look more
"ready" than usual--as if he might come home that day.
He did not come, but something else did. A letter with the Boston
post-mark she had so longed to see, and a small, flat package addressed
to her in his dear hand. She broke the seal of the letter first--she was
so hungry for the sight of the familiar, "Mother dear," and to know how
he fared.
It was a short letter, but, ah, the blessed relief of knowing he was
well and happy! And _prospering_--prospering famously--for he told her
he was sending her the first copy off the press of his book of poems! It
was a _very little_ book, he said, but it was a beginning. He felt
within him that he would have much bigger and better things to show her
erelong. For the present, he was hard at work making ready for a revised
and enlarged edition of his book, if one should be called for.
There was a jubilant note in the letter that delighted her and
communicated itself to her own spirits. She eagerly tore the wrappings
from the package, and pressed the contents against her lips and her
heart. It was but a slender volume, cheaply printed and bound, but it
was her boy's first published work and a wonderful thing in her eyes.
She already saw him rich and famous--saw him come home to her crowned
with honor and success--_vindicated_.
She turned the pages of the book. He had written upon the fly-leaf some
precious words of presentation to her. She kissed them rapturously and
passed on to the title-page:
"Tamerlane and Other Poems. By a Bostonian. Boston: Calvin F.S. Thomas,
Printer."
She was still gloating over her treasure when the brass knocker on the
front door was sounded, and a minute later Myra Royster--now Mrs.
Shelton--was announced. Taking the book with her, she tripped
downstairs, singing as she went, and burst in upon Myra as she sat in
state in the drawing-room, in all her bridal finery.
Myra noticed as she kissed her, her glowing cheeks and shining eyes.
"How well you are looking today, Mrs. Allan," she exclaimed.
"It is happiness, dear. I've just had such a delightful letter from
Eddie, and this darling little book. It is his poems, Myra!"
Myra was all interest. "To think of knowing a real live author!" she
exclaimed. "I was sure Eddie would be famous some day, but had no idea
it would come so soon."
"Don't you wish you had waited for him?" teased Mrs. Allan, laughing
happily.
They chatted over the wonderful news until nearly dinner-time, and after
they had parted Mrs. Allan sat at the window watching for her husband to
come home that she might impart it to him at the earliest moment
possible. But when at last he appeared she put off the great moment
until after dinner, and then when he was comfortably smoking a fragrant
cigar she approached him timidly and placed the letter and the book in
his lap without a word.
"What's all this?" he questioned sharply.
She made no reply, but hovered about his chair, too excited to trust
herself to speak.
He picked up the letter and read it with a deepening frown, then opened
the book and ran his eyes hurriedly down one or two of its pages. At
length he spoke:
"So this is the way he's wasting his time and, I dare say, his money
too. Will the boy ever amount to anything, I wonder?"
The happiness in Frances Allan's face gave place to quick distress.
"Oh, John," she cried, "Don't you think it amounts to anything for a boy
of eighteen to have written and published a book of poetry?"
"Poetry? This stuff is bosh--utter bosh!"
For the first time in her life, there was defiance in her gentle face.
Her clinging air was discarded. She raised her head and with flashing
eyes and rising color, faced him.
"You think that, because you cannot understand or appreciate it," she
retorted, with spirit. "Neither do I understand it, but I can see that
it is wonderful poetry. If he can do this at eighteen I have no doubt he
will make himself and us famous before many years are past!"
Her husband's only reply was an astonished and piercing stare which she
met without flinching, then turned and swept from the room, leaving him
with a feeling of surprise to see that she was so tall.
Her self assertion was but momentary. As she ascended the stair and
entered Eddie's room, all the elasticity was gone from her step, all the
brightness from her cheeks and eyes and, still clasping her boy's letter
and book to her heart, she threw herself upon his bed and burst into a
passion of tears.
* * * * *
Meantime, the elms on Boston Common were clothed with tender April green
and under foot sweet, soft grass was springing. In this inspiring
cathedral walked Edgar Poe, his pale face and deep eyes, passionate with
the worship of beauty that filled his soul, lifted to the greening
arches above him, his sensitive ears entranced with the bird-music that
fluted through the cool aisles. His mind was teeming with new poems in
the making and with visions of what he should do if his book should
sell.
But it did not sell. The leading magazines acknowledged its receipt in
their review columns, but with the merest mention, which was exceedingly
disconcerting. It was discussed (but with disappointment) for a week by
his friends at home and at the University, to whom he sent copies. Then
was forgotten.
And now its author was, for the first time within his recollection,
beginning to feel the pinch of poverty. His money was almost gone and he
saw no immediate hope of getting more. He moved to the cheapest boarding
house he could find but he did not mind that so much as the prospect
that faced him of soon beginning to present a shabby appearance in
public. His shoes were already showing wear, and he found that to keep
his linen as immaculate as he had always been accustomed to have it cost
money and he actually had to economize in the quantity of clothing he
had laundered. This to his proud and fastidious nature was humiliating
in the extreme.
He and Calvin Thomas held frequent colloquies as to ways and means of
giving his book wider circulation. He visited the offices of the several
newspapers of the town in the hope of getting work in the line of
journalism--reporting, reviewing, story-writing, anything in the way of
the only business or profession for which he felt that he had any
aptitude or preparation; but without success.
At length the sign of "Calvin F.S. Thomas, Printer" had suddenly
disappeared from the little shop in Washington Street, and a dismal "To
Let," was in its place.
At about the same time Mrs. Blanks lost the handsome, quiet young
gentleman, who had evidently seen better days, from her unpretentious
lodging house, and the walks under the elms in Boston Common were no
longer trodden by The Dreamer from Virginia.