For many days the sick man lay with eyes closed in uneasy sleep or open,
but unseeing, and with body writhing and tongue loosed but incoherent,
showing that these half-waking hours, as well as the sleeping ones, were
"horror haunted."
Finally the most terrible of dreams visited him. The circumstances of
his life had caused him from his infancy to dwell much upon the subject
of death. He had oftentimes taken a gruesome pleasure in trying to
imagine all the sensations of the grim passage into the "Valley of the
Shadow"--even to the closing of the coffin-lid and the descent into the
grave. Now, in his fever-dream, the dreadful details and sensations
imagined in health came to him, but with tenfold vividness. At the point
when in the blackness and suffocation of conscious burial horror had
reached its extremest limit and the sufferer was upon the verge of real
death from sheer terror, relief came. He seemed to feel himself freed
from the closeness, the maddening fight for breath, of the coffin, and
gently, surely, borne upward out of the abyss ... upward ... upward ...
into air--light--life!
For a long while he lay quite still, too exhausted to move hand or
foot--to raise his eyelids even; but content--more--happy, perfectly
happy, in the glorious consciousness of being able just to lie still and
breathe the sweet air of day.
Presently, as he began to feel rested, the great grey eyes opened. For
the first time since the conqueror, Fever, had overthrown him and bound
him to the uneasy bed of straw, they were clear as the sky after a
storm--swept clean of every cob-web cloud; but their lucid depths were
filled with surprise, for they opened upon a cool, light, homelike
chamber. The walls around him were white, but were relieved here and
there by restful prints in narrow black frames. The four-post bed upon
which he lay was canopied and the large, bright windows were curtained
with snowiest dimity, but the draperies of both were drawn and he could
look out at the trees and the sky now roseate with the hues of evening.
In a set of shelves that nearly reached the ceiling stood row on row of
friendly looking books. Upon a high mahogany chest of drawers, with its
polished brass trimmings and little swinging looking-glass, stood a
white and gold porcelain vase filled with asters--purple, white and
pink--while before it, in a deep arm-chair, a little girl of ten or
eleven years, with a face like a Luca della Robbia chorister, or like
one of the children of sunny Italy that served for old Luca's model, was
curled up, stroking a large white cat which lay purring in her lap.
Upon the child the wondering eyes of the sick man lingered longest and
to her they returned when their survey of the rest of the room was done.
Suddenly, impelled by the steadiness of his gaze, she lifted her own
dark, soft eyes and let them rest for a moment upon his. She
started--then was up and across the floor in a flash, carrying the cat
upon her shoulder.
"Muddie, Muddie," she cried from the door, "The new Buddie is awake!"
Then, still carrying her pet, she walked, to his bedside and gazed
earnestly and unabashed into the "new Buddie's" face. Her eyes had the
velvety softness of pansy petals and as they looked into the eyes of the
sick man recalled to his clearing mind the expression of mixed love and
questioning in the eyes of his spaniel, "Comrade," the faithful friend
of his boyhood.
At length he spoke.
"Who is 'Muddie'?"
"She's my mother, and you are my new brother that has come to live with
us always."
A radiant smile illumined the pale and haggard face. "Thank Heaven for
that!" he said. "And who brought me up out of the grave?"
The child was spared the necessity of puzzling over this startling
question. _Surely it was no other than she_, he thought--she who at this
moment appeared at the open door--the tall figure of a woman or angel
who in the next moment was kneeling beside him with a heaven of
protecting love in her face. _She it was, no other!_ Through all of his
dreams he had been dimly conscious of her--saving him from death and
despair. Now for the first time, in the light of life, and in his new
consciousness he saw her plainly.
* * * * *
Edgar Poe's convalescence was slow but it was steady, and even in his
weakness he felt a peace and happiness such as he had rarely tasted.
This frugal but restful home in which he found himself, with the
ministrations of "Muddie" and "Sissy," as he playfully called his aunt
and the little cousin who had adopted him as her "Buddie," were to him,
after his struggle with hunger, fever and death, like a safe harbor to a
storm-tossed sailor.
The little Virginia claimed him as her own from the beginning. As long
as he was weak enough to need to be waited upon her small feet and hands
never wearied in his service but as he grew better, it was he who served
her. There never were such stories as he could tell, such games as he
could play, and he took her cat to his heart with gratifying promptness.
When they walked out together the world seemed turned into a fairyland
as with her hand held fast in his he told her wonderful secrets about
the clouds, the trees, the flowers, the birds and even about the stones
under her feet. It was fascinating to her too, to lie and listen to him
read and talk with "Muddie." She was not wise enough to understand much
that they said, but at night, when she had been tucked into bed, he
would sit under the lamp and read aloud from one of the books in the
shelves, or from the long strips of paper upon which he wrote and wrote;
and though she did not understand the words, she delighted to listen,
for his voice made the sweetest lullaby music.
With the return of health and strength, energy and the impulse for
life's battle began to return to Edgar Poe, and with them a new
incentive. He began to awaken to the fact that "Muddie" and "Sissy" were
poor and that his presence in their home was making them poorer--that
the struggle to support this modest establishment was a severe one, and
that he must arise and add what he could to the earnings of the deft
needle. The three little editions of his poems had brought him no
money--he had begun to despair of their ever bringing him any. He had
sometime since turned his attention to prose but the manuscripts of such
stories as he had offered the publishers had come back to him with
unflattering promptness. He began now, however, with fresh heart to
write and to arrange a number of those that seemed to him to be his
best, for a book, to which he proposed to give the title, "Tales of the
Folio Club."
But the new tide of hope was soon at a low ebb. The editors and
publishers would have none of his work.
When the repeated return to him of the stories, poems and essays he sent
out had begun to make him lose faith in their merit and to question his
own right to live since the world had no use for the only commodity he
was capable of producing, "Muddie" came in one evening with an unusually
bright, eager look in her eyes and a copy of _The Saturday Visitor_ (a
weekly paper published in Baltimore) in her hand.
"Here's your chance, Eddie," she said.
In big capitals upon the first page of the paper was an announcement to
the effect that the _Visitor_ would give two prizes--one of one hundred
dollars for the best short story, and one of fifty dollars for the best
poem submitted to it anonymously. Three well-known gentlemen of the city
would act as judges, and the names of the successful contestants would
be published upon the twelfth of October.
With trembling hands the discouraged young applicant for place as an
author made a neat parcel of six of his "Tales of the Folio Club" and a
recently written poem, "The Coliseum," and left them, that very night,
at the door of the office of _The Saturday Visitor_.
How eagerly he and "Muddie" and "Sissy" awaited the fateful twelfth! The
hours and the days dragged by on leaden wings. But the twelfth came at
last. It found Edgar Poe at the office of the _Visitor_ an hour before
time for the paper to be issued, but at length he held the scarcely dry
sheet in his hand and there, with his name at the end, was the story
that had taken the prize--"The MS. Found in a Bottle."
More!--In the following wonderful--most wonderful words, it seemed to
him--the judges declared their decision:
"Among the prose articles were many of various and
distinguished merit, but the singular force and beauty of those
sent by the author of 'Tales of the Folio Club' leave us no
room for hesitation in that department. We have awarded the
premium to a tale entitled, 'The MS. Found in a Bottle.' It
would hardly be doing justice to the writer of this collection
to say that the tale we have chosen is the best of the six
offered by him. We cannot refrain from saying that the author
owes it to his own reputation as well as to the gratification
of the community to publish the entire volume. These tales are
eminently distinguished by a wild, vigorous and poetical
imagination, a rich style, a fertile invention and varied,
curious learning.
(Signed)
"JOHN P. KENNEDY,
J.H.B. LATROBE,
JAMES H. MILLER,
_Committee._"
Here was the fulfilment of hope long deferred! Here was a brimming cup
of joy which the widowed aunt and little cousin who had taken him in and
made him a son and brother could share with him! It seemed almost too
good to be true, yet there it was in plain black and white with the
signatures of the three gentlemen whose opinion everyone would respect,
at the end. What wealth that hundred dollars--the first earnings of his
pen--seemed. What comforts for the modest home it would buy! This was no
mere nod of recognition from the literary world, but a cordial
hand-clasp, drawing him safely within that magic, but hitherto frowning
portal.
He felt as if he were walking on air as he hurried home to tell "Muddie"
and "Sissy" of his and their good fortune. And how proud "Muddie" was of
her boy! How lovingly little "Sissy" hung on his neck and gave him
kisses of congratulation--though but little realizing the significance
of his success. And how he, in turn, beamed upon them! The grey eyes had
lost all of their melancholy and seemed suddenly to have become wells of
sunshine. In imagination he pictured these loved ones raised forever
from want, for he told himself that he would not only sell for a goodly
price all the rest of the "Tales of the Folio Club," but under the happy
influence of his success he would write many more and far better stories
still, to be promptly exchanged for gold.
Bright and early Monday morning he made ready (with "Muddie's" aid) for
a round of visits to the members of the committee, to thank them for
their kind words. His clothes, hat, boots and gloves were all somewhat
worse for wear and his old coat hung loosely upon his shoulders--wasted
as they still were by the effects of his long illness; but he whistled
while he brushed and "Muddie" darned and carefully inked the worn seams,
and finally it was with a feeling that he was quite presentable that he
kissed his hands to his two good angels and ran gaily down the steps.
Hope gave him a debonair mien that belied his shabby-genteel apparel.
A quarter of an hour later Mr. John Kennedy, prominent lawyer and the
author of that pleasant book "Swallow Barn," then newly published and
the talk of the town, answered a knock upon his office door with a
quick, "Come in!"
At the same time he raised his eyes and confronted those of the young
author whom he had been instrumental in raising from the "verge of
despair."
The face of the older man was one of combined strength and amiability.
Evidences of talent were there, but combined with common sense. There
was benevolence in the expansive brow and kindliness and humor as well
as character, about the lines of the nose and the wide, full-lipped
mouth, and the eyes diffused a light which was not only bright but
genial, and which robbed them of keenness as they rested upon the
pathetic and at the same time distinguished figure before him. What the
kindly eyes took in a glance was that the pale and haggard young
stranger with the big brow and eyes and the clear-cut features, the
military carriage and the shabby, but neat, frock coat buttoned to the
throat where it met the fashionable black stock, and with the modest and
exquisite manners, was a gentleman and a scholar--but poor, probably
even hungry. They kindled with added interest when the visitor
introduced himself as Edgar Poe--the author of "Tales of the Folio
Club."
The strong, pleasant face and the cordial hand that grasped his own,
then placed a chair for him, invited the young author's confidence--a
confidence that always responded promptly to kindness--and he had soon
poured into the attentive ear of John Kennedy not only profuse thanks
for the encouraging words in the _Visitor_ but his whole history. Deeply
touched by the young man's refined and intellectual beauty--partially
obscured as it was by the unmistakable marks of illness and want--by
his frank, confiding manners, by the evidences in thought and expression
of gifts of a high order, and by the moving story he told, Mr. Kennedy's
heart went out to him and he sent him on his way to pay his respects to
the other members of the committee, rejoicing in offers of friendship
and hospitality and promises of aid in securing publishers for his
writings.
Edgar Poe had been loved of women, he had been adored by small boys, he
had received many material benefits from his foster father, he had been
kindly treated by his teachers, but he was now for the first time taken
by the hand spiritually as well as physically, by a _man_, a man of
mental and moral force and of position in the world; a man, moreover,
who with rare divination appreciated, out of his own strength, the
weaknesses and the needs as well as the gifts and graces of his new
acquaintance, and who took his dreams and ambitions seriously. The sane,
wholesome companionship which The Dreamer found in him and at his
hospitable fireside acted like a tonic upon his spirits and improvement
in his health both of mind and body were rapid.
Though warning him against being over much elated at his success, and an
expectation of growing suddenly either rich or famous, Mr. Kennedy was
as good as his word in regard to helping him find a market for his work.
A proud moment it was when the young author received a note from his
patron inviting him to dine with Mr. Wilmer, the editor of _The Saturday
Visitor_ which had given him the prize, and some other gentlemen of the
profession of journalism. But his pleasure was followed by quick
mortification. _What should he wear?_ Still holding the open note in
his hand, he looked down ruefully at his clothes--his only ones. For all
their brushing and darning they were unmistakably shabby--utterly unfit
to grace a dinner-party. Nearly all of the hundred dollars which had
seemed such a fortune had already been spent to pay bills incurred
during his illness and to buy provisions for the bare little home which
had sheltered him in his need and which had become so dear to his heart.
No, he could not go to the dinner, but what excuse could he make that
would seem to Mr. Kennedy sufficient to warrant him in not only
declining his hospitality but putting from him the chance of meeting the
editor of the _Visitor_ under such auspices?
At length he decided that in this case absolute frankness was his only
course.
"My dear Mr. Kennedy," he wrote,
"Your invitation to dinner has wounded me to the quick. I cannot come
for reasons of the most humiliating nature--my personal appearance. You
may imagine my mortification in making this disclosure to you, but it is
necessary."
As he was about, in bitterness of soul, to add his signature a sudden
thought caused him to pause, pen poised in air. A thought?--A temptation
would perhaps be a better word. It bade him consider carefully before
throwing away his chance. Who knew, who could tell, it questioned, how
much might depend upon this meeting? His fortune might be made by it!
Almost certainly it would lead to the sale of some more of his stories
to the _Visitor_. Mr. Kennedy believed that it would have this
result--for this purpose he had arranged it. After taking so much pains
for his benefit he would undoubtedly be disappointed--seriously
disappointed--if his plan should fail. Mr. Kennedy had been so kind, so
generous--doubtless he would gladly advance him a sum sufficient to make
himself presentable for the dinner--to be paid by the first check
received as a result of the meeting. A very modest sum would do. He
might manage it, he thought, with twenty dollars.
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."