Happily, the restraints of the Academy and his environment there,
instead of crushing out young Edgar's impulse to dream and to put his
dreams into writing (as a longer period of the same restraints and
conditions might have done) had but quickened and strengthened these
very impulses, and he had now but one wish, one aspiration in regard to
his newly acquired freedom, and that was to dedicate it to the art of
literature which had become more and more his passion and his mistress,
and which since he had given up all idea of the army, he was resolved to
make his sole profession.
His first step toward this end was to arrange, before leaving New York,
for a new edition of his already published work, adding some hitherto
unpublished poems which even in the unsympathetic atmosphere of Number
28 South Barracks had been undergoing a refining process in the seething
crucible of his brain.
The money for this venture dropped into his lap, as it were, for when
the new friends in whom he had confided passed the word around that "the
Bard" was going to get out a book of poetry, the cadets (in anticipation
of a collection of ditties cleverly hitting off the peculiarities and
characteristics of the professors) to a man, subscribed in advance--at
seventy-five cents per copy. In appreciation of their recognition of his
genius, and little guessing what manner of book they expected it to be,
"the Bard" gratefully dedicated the new volume "To the United States
Corps of Cadets."
Happy it was for him that he was not present to hear those he had thus
honored set up their throats in unanimous expressions of disgust
when--the dedication leaf turned--they were confronted by a reprint of
"Tamerlane" and "Al Aaraaf," with the shorter poems, "To Helen," "A
Pæan," "Israfel," "Fairy-Land," and other "rubbish," as they promptly
pronounced the entire contents of the book.
"Listen, fellows!" said one of the disgusted lot, with the open volume
in his hand.
"'In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
Whose heartstrings are a lute.
None sing so wildly well
As the angel, Israfel,
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute.'"
As he finished this opening stanza of what posterity has ranked as one
of the most exquisite lyrics in the English tongue, but which was
received by the audience of cadets with guffaws of derision, the reader
closed the book with a snap, and dashed it across the room and into the
open fire.
"Did you ever hear crazier rubbish?" he asked, with contempt. "Highway
robbery, I call it, to send us such stuff for our good, hard cash!"
"The joke's on us this time, and no doubt about it," said the also
chagrinned, but more philosophically inclined "Gibs." "The Bard means
well, though, and no doubt he thinks the stuff is poetry."
"Old P." solemnly tapped his forehead with his forefinger.
"Something wrong here," he remarked, ominously, "I suspected it all
along."
The business of getting his book published dispatched, the poet's
thoughts turned lovingly toward Richmond which he still called "home,"
and carpet-bag in hand and a package of copies of his book which he
intended as presents to his old chums under his arm, he set out upon the
journey thither.
The streets of New York had been cold and bleak but he told himself as
he journeyed, that April days at home were quite different. The grass
would be already green upon the hillsides, many of the trees in leaf,
and the dear spring flowers in bloom. He pictured the ample comforts of
the Allan homestead, and of his own room in it, with its familiar
furnishings. Of course he had no idea of looking to Mr. Allan for
support--his pen must give him that now--but during the visit which he
was going to make "at home" it would be pleasant to sleep once more in
that room with all of its associations, though many of these were with
the blunders of a blinded youth.
As he thought of Mr. Allan and his last meeting with him, his heart
softened. He would try and keep their intercourse upon the friendly
basis upon which his last sad visit home had placed it; would as far as
possible, put himself in his foster-father's place and see things as he
saw them.
How desolate the widowed man had seemed in the big, empty house during
those chill, sorrow-stricken, February days! No wonder he had sought
escape from his desolation in another marriage--his loneliness without
the lovely little mother must have been unbearable. What was the new
wife like, he wondered? Was she like the lady of the manor he
remembered? Could there be another such gentle, tender, flower-like
woman on earth?
In his unworldly, unpractical dreamer's soul it did not occur to him for
one moment that her existence might make him any less Mr. Allan's
adopted son, or even that, with all the rooms in the big house at her
disposal, she might have taken a fancy to rearrange the one which, from
the time the house became Mr. Allan's property, had been "Eddie's room,"
and which had so long stood ready for his occupancy--dedicated as it was
to his own belongings.
* * * * *
At last he was on the sacred soil!
How fair and comfortable the old homestead looked in its setting of
greening lawn and flowering garden, with the pleasant sunshine of the
April afternoon over all! How cheerful--how ample--how homelike!
He ran up the steps of the commodious front porch and was on the point
of opening the door when some impulse he could not define made him pause
and, instead of turning the knob, announce himself with a rap upon the
shining brass knocker.
One of the old family servants whom he had known and loved from his
infancy, and with whom he had always been a pet, opened the door, and
with beaming face and eager voice greeted him with the enthusiastic
hospitality of his kind--lifting up his voice and his hands in praise to
God that he was once more in this world permitted to look upon the face
of "Marse Eddie."
The whilom young master of the house was equally, if less picturesquely,
warm in his expressions of pleasure at seeing the old man again, and
gave him his carpet-bag with instructions to take it to his room and to
tell Mrs. Allan that he was there.
The venerable darkey's face fell. The "new Mistis" had "changed the
house around some," he explained, apologetically, and "Marse's Eddie's"
things had been moved to one of the servants' rooms, but "Marse Eddie's"
old room was a guest chamber, and he "reckoned" that would be the place
to take the bag.
The visitor's whole manner changed at once--_froze_. The flush of
pleasure died out of his face and left it pale, cold and stern. A fierce
and unreasonable rage possessed him. _She had dismantled the room that
his little mother had arranged for him and sent his things to a
servant's room!_ Was this insult intentional, he wondered?
To his mind, his "little Mother" was so entirely the presiding genius of
the place--he could not realize the right of anyone, not even a "new
mistis," to come in and "change the house around."
Cut to the quick, he directed the old butler to leave the bag where it
was and to let Mrs. Allan know that he was in the drawing-room.
No announcement could have given that lady greater surprise. She
regarded Edgar's leaving West Point after her husband's letter, as
direct disobedience, and his presenting himself at her door as the
height of impertinence. Something of this was in the frigid dignity with
which she received him--standing, and drawn up to the full height of her
imposing figure.
She had never been within speaking distance of anyone drunk to the point
of intoxication, but, somehow, she had received an impression that this
was pretty generally the case with the young man now before her, and
when he began somewhat incoherently (in his foolish rage) to ask her
confirmation of the old servant's statement that his room had been
dismantled, she was convinced that it was his condition at the moment.
Turning, with the grand air for which she was noted, to the hoary butler
who stood in the doorway between drawing-room and hall, respectfully
awaiting orders as to "Marse 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 "Marse Eddie" quickly relieved him of the
embarrassing dilemma by picking up the carpet-bag and passing 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
massive 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 superstitious soul always made note, had
taken place. A shower from a passing cloud had filled the depressions in
the uneven pavement, where before only sunshine 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 sunshine, 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,
Dick 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 shining 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
worshipper 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.
"Hello, Edgar!" he cried. "Did you drop from the clouds? Evidently, for
I see your head is still in them."
He returned the greeting with joy. How good it was to feel the
hand-clasp of friendship and welcome! He had always liked Jack--for the
moment he loved him.
"And where are you bound--you and your bag?" asked Jack. "Not to Mr.
Allan's, for you are going in the wrong direction."
"No," replied The Dreamer, with a whimsical smile. "I was going there,
but I found the door shut, so I changed my mind, and had just decided to
make the end of the rainbow my destination."
Jack's spontaneous laugh rang out. "The same old Edgar!" he said. "Well
I won't interfere with your journey except to defer it a bit. You are
going home with me, to 'Duncan Lodge,' now--at least to supper and spend
the night; and to stay as much longer as pleases you. Rose and the rest
will be delighted to see you."