NOVEL 
 
 HAZELTON 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 iiiiiiiiiiiiii 
 
 
 
 1 l 
 
 ill 
 
 III 
 
 — 
 
THE RAVEN 
 

 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 in 2017 with funding from 
 Duke University Libraries 
 
 https://archive.org/details/raven01haze 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 a 
 
 THE LOVE STORY OF 
 EDGAR ALLAN POE 
 
 (’Twixt Fact and Fancy ) 
 
 By GEORGE HAZELTON 
 
 Author of “Mistress Nell,” etc. 
 
 “ How can so strange and so fne a 
 genius, and so sad a life, be exprest 
 and comprest in one line.” 
 
 — Tennyson. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY 
 NEW YORK MCMIX 
 
Copyright , ipop, by 
 D. Appleton and Company 
 
 Published February, 1909 
 
■ ■ 
 
 j I i f Of 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 The Last Curtain I 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 The Ragged Mountains 5 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 On the Banks of the James 23 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Everyone on the Place Loves Him 41 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 He is Only Sowing His Wild Oats, Sir 57 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Enchantress, We Welcome Thee 72 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 Only Three of Us Left ? 92 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 And I Love You! 106 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 The Black Cat 1 15 
 
 [v] 
 
Contents 
 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The World Is Slow to Recognize a Genius 
 
 126 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 Sleigh Bells 
 
 15 * 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The Bolt Has Fallen 
 
 175 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The Raven 
 
 191 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 You Know 
 
 200 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 And I Look Like Her 
 
 210 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Why Not To-night, Marjary? 
 
 22 7 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 V irginia 
 
 243 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Helen — My Helen — The Helen of a Thousand 
 
 Dreams ! 253 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Dat Rent Done Split My Memory 262 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 How Far is Home ? 
 
 [vi] 
 
 284 
 
Contents 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 It Seems Like Retribution 302 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 Edgar Poe Needs a Friend 315 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 N evermore ! 
 
 335 
 
THE RAVEN 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 The Last Curtain 
 
 IT was nearly midnight. An actress 
 lay seriously ill upon her bed in a small 
 damp cellar room beneath a milliner’s 
 shop in Richmond town. Her face was 
 very pale and sad and beautiful. There 
 were no foot lamps now to cast illusions, 
 no applause, no triumphs; and yet she 
 was playing the last act of her great life 
 play. The characters were four in num- 
 ber — the mother and three little ones — 
 two boys and a tiny girl. One of the boys 
 had big black eyes. He opened them 
 wide and looked about, then crawled 
 from under the coverlet close to the 
 mother, from which point of vantage he 
 peered up into her face, and she an- 
 [ i ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 swered with a wan smile. She had not 
 the strength to cover him again or even 
 to chide him. He peeped through the 
 flickering candlelighted gloom, and 
 wondered at the shadows cast upon the 
 wall by the tall posts of the curtainless, 
 comfortless bed. What did it all mean? 
 He pulled himself to the footboard and 
 caught up tenderly a broken doll, which 
 had fallen from his sleeping sister’s 
 arms. The baby doll he set up before 
 him, and addressed it in confused sweet 
 syllables of advice, comfort, and love. 
 The eyes of the mother followed his play 
 with rare sorrow written in her face. 
 She had read the whole story of life. 
 She knew its every chapter. She won- 
 dered what it had in store for the little 
 fellow with the big eyes. She could only 
 pray for him and the others now. She 
 could only hope and pray. 
 
 Her weary hand pushed back the curls 
 from his broad, white temples as he crept 
 back to her side, and she kissed his fore- 
 head tenderly. 
 
 [ 2 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 She fell back on the pillow exhausted 
 by the effort. 
 
 A burst of applause in the near-by 
 playhouse came faintly to the room on 
 the wind that rattled the window. The 
 mother smiled again faintly. Her com- 
 rades were playing for her and for the 
 little ones — all for her and for them. 
 There were no jealousies in the theater 
 that night — only love and sympathy in 
 the hearts both of the audience and of the 
 players. 
 
 “ You will have a prettier doll, Edgar, 
 my boy,” she whispered. “ The people 
 of Richmond are very good and kind — 
 and the players are very good and kind— 
 God bless them ! ” 
 
 The play ended. The curtain fell. 
 The receipts were borne by loving hands 
 to the little cellar room. 
 
 “ Don’t make a noise,” whispered the 
 baby boy with the big eyes, as the good 
 ladies opened the door softly and looked 
 in. “ Mamma is asleep.” 
 
 [ 3 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 His head was on the pillow close to 
 hers, one arm about her; in the other 
 was the broken doll. The brother and 
 the sister slept on. 
 
 The ladies moved softly and quickly 
 to the bedside. 
 
 Edgar Poe’s mother was indeed asleep 
 — and forever. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 The Ragged Mountains 
 
 THE founders of the University of 
 Virginia chose their site well, for this 
 aristocratic fountain of learning was lo- 
 cated in the shadow of the Ragged 
 Mountains, not great peaks these that 
 stencil clear pictures on Heaven’s dome, 
 but such as may have been tossed into 
 place by the fancy of the children of the 
 gods, while the gods themselves built 
 Himalayas. 
 
 The life of the mountains with their 
 huge sweep, fresh ozone, purple and 
 white peaks, broader vision, has ever in- 
 fluenced the characters of men who dwelt 
 among them, and they cast their lights 
 and shadows upon the soul of Edgar Poe. 
 
 He thought them giants, as they chis- 
 eled outlines on his soul — the soul of a 
 boy poet, ragged, uncertain and uneven, 
 
 [ 5 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 perhaps, but still grandly played upon 
 by breadth of sky and weird rhythm of 
 line, like the meter of a mystic poem. 
 Hat off and fancy free, he ranged these 
 hills as great mountains, for from the 
 crags he climbed so easily, he could look 
 down upon the world beneath — and it 
 ever pleased Edgar Poe intellectually to 
 look down on other men. 
 
 Then, too, he had not yet seen nor 
 scaled the greater mountains. 
 
 The bright-eyed boy had grown and 
 expanded under the benign influence of 
 the Allan home. He had grown and 
 expanded because the business of John 
 Allan had grown and expanded, and 
 that worthy gentleman had made money, 
 and too much of that money was being 
 expended upon the adopted son. The 
 dark curls and flashing eyes had made 
 him beloved and admired. His boyish 
 pranks had delighted his foster father 
 when he came from his counting-house. 
 The boy’s sympathetic nature had found 
 a way into Mrs. Allan’s heart, and she 
 [ 6 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 forgave where she should have chided. 
 Edgar Allan Poe, the son of a poor 
 player, was now the son of a rich planter, 
 and bore his name. 
 
 His early education had begun in Eng- 
 land, where Mr. Allan had sailed with 
 his wife and his adopted child in order 
 to establish a branch house in London, 
 and Edgar Poe had thus an opportunity 
 to rub elbows with the sons of earls at 
 Brannsby’s Manor School at Stoke-New- 
 ington, where he was left to study. He 
 had returned to the Virginia home rich 
 in suggestive thought, an athletic boy, 
 fearless, careless, brave, imaginative, a 
 thousand, thousand hopes and fancies 
 and dreams crowding his growing brain. 
 His ideals were unshattered for his new- 
 born fancy still sat unshaken upon its 
 throne. He had met the heirs of Eng- 
 land, and none had excelled him in the 
 classroom or outwitted in the field of play. 
 
 He was now placed at the University 
 of Virginia. There he was sent to be 
 trained under the influence of the shade 
 [ 7 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 of Thomas Jefferson. No college but 
 the best was worthy of educating the 
 adopted son of John Allan. His room 
 was in the west range, No. 13. It was 
 richly furnished, and was the center of 
 much conviviality and prankish spirits. 
 
 Tony Preston, his friend, had entered 
 with him; and Tony had adroitly man- 
 aged to pass his examinations largely 
 through the help of Poe’s papers. Tony’s 
 conscience was not stringent. He was 
 bright and joyous and gay. He loved 
 wine more than books; good stories bet- 
 ter than great arguments. He furnished 
 Poe with laughter, sincerity, and con- 
 stancy. 
 
 They had been children together; had 
 grown up together; had shared their 
 hopes, their follies, and their revelries to- 
 gether, but Tony was a Tony Lumpkin, 
 indeed, if he was the son of a Virginia 
 Congressman, and Poe loved him for it 
 all. In disregard of the rules of the col- 
 lege they roamed in forbidden hours and 
 places in search of adventures. 
 
 [ 8 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 The two young men had been out on 
 one of these mad midnight frolics and 
 had raised the ire of a local constable. 
 Just what they had done he did not know, 
 but the officer of the law was mad, mad 
 all through, and determined to avenge 
 himself. Falling upon Tony and Edgar 
 in the outskirts of the village at a ques- 
 tionable hour of night, he started after 
 them as suspicious characters, but his fat 
 legs and scant breath soon made it easy 
 for them to leave him far behind in the 
 race. He was not sure of his criminal, 
 but his cunning told him that the leader 
 must be Edgar Poe, for who else at the 
 university could be such a madcap? 
 
 The poet and Tony fell into their 
 chairs in Poe’s room quite out of breath, 
 and brought the bottle from its shelf to 
 alleviate the situation. They knew the 
 constable was after them, and they knew 
 that they had run too fast for him. 
 
 “He’ll have to go into training to catch 
 us,” laughed Tony. 
 
 “ The incident is closed,” retorted 
 3 [ 9 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Poe. Then he proceeded over his glass 
 to tell of his school days in England, 
 where in imagination “ William Wil- 
 son ” had pursued him. Tony was inter- 
 ested in everything that fell from the lips 
 of his boyhood confidant, though Poe 
 had a way of increasing the volume of 
 his stories, and adding fancy where he 
 had begun with fact alone. Tony was 
 well aware of this, and he would never 
 have contented himself to listen to the old 
 stories often told, if he had not learned 
 by experience that with each telling they 
 grew to be more marvelous in propor- 
 tion. He had never heard of “ William 
 Wilson,” so he nestled comfortably in his 
 chair and filled his glass and listened. 
 
 “ I am the descendant of a race whose 
 imaginative and easily excitable temper- 
 ament has at all times rendered them re- 
 markable,” said Poe grandiloquently; 
 “ and in my earliest infancy I gave evi- 
 dence of having fully inherited the fam- 
 ily character. As I advanced in years it 
 has grown more strongly developed; be- 
 [ 10 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 coming, for many reasons, a cause of seri- 
 ous disquietude to my friends, and of 
 positive injury to myself. I have grown 
 self-willed, as you know, Tony, addicted 
 to the wildest caprices, and a prey to the 
 most ungovernable passions. My parents 
 can do little to check the evil propensi- 
 ties which distinguish me. Some feeble 
 and ill-directed efforts have resulted in 
 complete failure on their part, and, of 
 course, in total triumph on mine. Now 
 my voice is a household law ; and at an age 
 when few children have abandoned their 
 leading strings, I am left to the guidance 
 of my own will, and become, in all but 
 name, the master of my own actions.” 
 
 Tony listened with owl-like wisdom to 
 the noble discriminations of his poet 
 friend, for he did not know what he was 
 about to hear, though he had heard sto- 
 ries of Edgar’s school days in England 
 many times. His eyes blinked with im- 
 portance at being made the confidant of 
 such wisdom by his fellow-student who 
 had been to England, and not forgotten 
 [ ii ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 by his comrade while he was gone. Tony 
 sipped his wine complacently while Ed- 
 gar continued his story of his experiences 
 abroad. 
 
 “ My earliest recollections of school 
 life,” continued Poe, while Tony’s eyes 
 opened with positive admiration, “ are 
 connected with a large, rambling, Eliza- 
 bethan house, in a misty-looking village 
 of England, where were a vast number 
 of gigantic and gnarled trees, and where 
 all the houses were excessively ancient 
 In truth, it was a dreamlike and spirit- 
 soothing place, that venerable old town. 
 At this moment, in fancy, I feel the re- 
 freshing chilliness of its deeply shadowed 
 avenues, inhale the fragrance of its thou- 
 sand shrubberies, and thrill anew with 
 undefinable delight at the deep hollow 
 note of the church bell, breaking, each 
 hour, with sullen and sudden roar, upon 
 the stillness of the dusky atmosphere in 
 which the fretted Gothic steeple lay im- 
 bedded and asleep.” 
 
 Tony yawned and sipped his wine 
 [ 12 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 again. He was not interested in the 
 church bell or the fretted Gothic steeple. 
 
 “ The house, I have said, was old and 
 irregular.” Poe sipped his wine, touch- 
 ing Tony’s glass with an effort at manly 
 grandeur, as he proceeded. “ The 
 grounds were extensive, and a high and 
 solid brick wall, topped with a bed of 
 mortar and broken glass, encompassed 
 the whole. This prisonlike rampart 
 formed the limit of our domain; beyond 
 it we saw but thrice a week — once every 
 Saturday afternoon, when, attended by 
 two ushers, we were permitted to take 
 brief walks in a body through some of the 
 neighboring fields — and twice during 
 Sunday, when we were paraded in the 
 same formal manner to the morning and 
 evening service in the one church of the 
 village.” 
 
 The young poet cast a glance in Tony’s 
 direction, and found that worthy was 
 asleep. He slapped his comrade heartily 
 upon the shoulder and brought him to 
 himself. 
 
 [ 13 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 “ There’s more fun in Richmond,” said 
 Tony dryly. “ Wait until I tell you what 
 I’ve done while you’ve been gone. The 
 cards, the wine, and the ” 
 
 “And the fair ladies?” laughed Poe. 
 “ I admit there are sweeter faces and 
 brighter eyes in Richmond than in old 
 London town. Yet, in fact — in the fact 
 of the world’s view — how little there is 
 to remember! The morning’s awaken- 
 ing, the nightly summons to bed; the 
 connings, the recitations; the periodical 
 half-holidays, and perambulations; the 
 playground, with its broils, its pastimes, 
 its intrigues ” 
 
 “ Now, you’re talking,” laughed Tony, 
 as he sat up with decided interest, sipped 
 more wine, and looked admiringly at his 
 friend who had been away so long. 
 
 “ How many dukes’ sons did you say 
 you had whipped, outswam, outridden, 
 and — taken their money across the ta- 
 ble?” 
 
 Young Poe laughed, for he knew that 
 Tony knew him, and his youthful spirits 
 [ 14 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 led him to delight in the chances of life, 
 and the joy that came with the mastery 
 of winning. The love of outgeneraling 
 his antagonist was ever in his blood. 
 
 “ I do not wish, however, to tell you, 
 Tony,” continued Poe, “ of my miserable 
 profligacy here — a profligacy which set 
 at defiance the laws, while it eluded the 
 vigilance of the institution. Some years 
 of folly, passed without profit, had but 
 given me rooted habits of vice, and 
 added, in a somewhat unusual degree, to 
 my bodily stature, when, after a week of 
 soulless dissipation, I invited a small 
 party of the most dissolute students to a 
 secret carousal in my chambers. We met 
 at a late hour of the night; for our de- 
 baucheries were to be faithfully pro- 
 tracted until morning. The wine flowed 
 freely, and there were not wanting other 
 and perhaps more dangerous seductions; 
 so that the gray dawn had already faintly 
 appeared in the east while our delirious 
 extravagance was at its height. Madly 
 flushed with cards and intoxication, I 
 [ 15 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 was in the act of insisting upon a toast 
 of more than wonted profanity, when my 
 attention was suddenly diverted by the 
 violent, although partial, unclosing of 
 the door of the apartment, and by the 
 eager voice of a servant from without. 
 He said that some person, apparently in 
 great haste, demanded to speak with me 
 in the hall. 
 
 “ Wildly excited with wine, the unex- 
 pected interruption rather delighted than 
 surprised me. I staggered forward at 
 once, and a few steps brought me to the 
 vestibule of the building. In this low 
 and small room there hung no lamp ; and 
 now no light at all was admitted, save 
 that of the exceedingly feeble dawn 
 which made its way through the semi- 
 circular window. As I put my foot over 
 the threshold, I became aware of the fig- 
 ure of a youth about my own height and 
 habited in a white kerseymere morning 
 frock, cut in the novel fashion of the one 
 I myself wore at the moment. This the 
 faint light enabled me to perceive; but 
 [ 16 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the features of his face I could not dis- 
 tinguish. Upon my entering, he strode 
 hurriedly up to me, and, seizing me by 
 the arm with a gesture of petulant impa- 
 tience, whispered the words 1 William 
 Wilson ’ in my ear. 
 
 “ I grew perfectly sober in an instant. 
 
 “ There was that in the manner of the 
 stranger, and in the tremulous shake of 
 his uplifted finger, as he held it between 
 my eyes and the light, which filled me 
 with unqualified amazement; but it was 
 not this which had so violently moved 
 me. It was the pregnancy of solemn ad- 
 monition in the singular, low, hissing 
 utterance ; and, above all, it was the 
 character, the tone, the key , of those few, 
 simple, and familiar, yet whispered sylla- 
 bles, which came with a thousand throng- 
 ing memories of bygone days, and struck 
 upon my soul with the shock of a gal- 
 vanic battery. Ere I could recover the 
 use of my senses he was gone.” 
 
 “ Who in hell was William Wilson? ” 
 asked Tony. 
 
 [ 1 7 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ My double, my shadow, my waking 
 devil! My other self that pursues me,” 
 cried the youth. “ A voice that whis- 
 pered! I detest a man that whispers. It 
 is the voice of the evil one. I’ll tell you 
 some time, Tony, all about it; I’ll tell 
 the world all about it when I am tired 
 playing cards and drinking wine with 
 you and have time to write.” 
 
 They both laughed as he ended the 
 story. 
 
 Just then a crowd of students rushed 
 into the room and enthusiasm reigned. 
 More wine was found, cards were 
 brought out. The fire crackled in the 
 little grate. Until late hours they played 
 and sang and told stories. Poe was their 
 leader, for he was wilder, more excited, 
 more entertaining than the rest. They 
 called upon him for a story, and he drew 
 from a portfolio a neatly written manu- 
 script and read them a strange, weird 
 tale as the moonlight danced in at the 
 window and the candles and the fire lent 
 their flickering flames to the scene. He 
 
 [ 18 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 read a strange, ghostly tale born of grim 
 laughter, love, war, and death. It was 
 so intense and real that the reader’s com- 
 rades broke out in levity under the in- 
 tensity of the strain. It was the laughter 
 of hysteria and wine, but the sensitive 
 poet mistook it. He sprang from his seat 
 by the table, tore the manuscript into a 
 hundred pieces, and tossed it into the fire. 
 His friends were unable to stop him. 
 He laughed wildly as the bits of paper 
 caught fire and went up the chimney, the 
 flame seeming to his fancy to form the 
 image of the fair heroine of his story. 
 The love of his first daydream. Then 
 the light faded out into the cold embers 
 of death and the fireplace grew black, as 
 if covered with a pall. ' 
 
 There was a moment’s hush; then the 
 hilarity began again and cards were 
 shuffled. Poe rushed to the table and 
 played wildly. He won and won until 
 stacks of I. O. U.’s and gold lay before 
 him. The faces of his opponents were 
 pale and cold under their losses. Poe 
 [ 19 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 doubled the stakes, then trebled them, 
 and the break came. All was gone like 
 the tale of his fancy in the smoke from 
 the embers. He owed, and owed heavily, 
 far more heavily than he could pay, but 
 his foster father could. The morning’s 
 light came through the window. His 
 comrades departed triumphantly, and the 
 poet was left alone to his reflections. 
 
 At the usual hour the classrooms were 
 busy again, and Poe, though sleepless, at- 
 tended the recitations, as if nothing had 
 happened. He was just conjugating a 
 Greek verb, and Tony was trying to find 
 the answer to the next probable question 
 from his cuff, when the door opened, and 
 to the astonishment of Tony not William 
 Wilson but the constable entered. He 
 looked as if he had been running all 
 night. It was impossible to maintain the 
 decorum of the room, for the class broke 
 out in laughter. This did not increase 
 the good temper of the officer. 
 
 “ What do you want? ” asked the Greek 
 professor with the dignity of Jove. 
 
 [ 20 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Edgar Poe,” was the stern answer. 
 
 There was a moment’s hush, then there 
 was a rush of feet across the room, and 
 the young poet jumped from the window 
 to the ground below, taking the sash with 
 him. Nor went he alone. Like so many 
 sheep following the wether his class- 
 mates jumped after him. The constable 
 ran to the window, using all the murder- 
 ous language in his power, but even his 
 oath of office could not induce him to 
 trust his legs and risk a fall. 
 
 The boys went to the mountains and 
 spent the afternoon among the cliffs, 
 laughing and buoyant over the consta- 
 ble’s chagrin. Poe was their leader, and 
 harangued his troops among the hill- 
 tops like a Greek patriot, assuring 
 them in noble language that a brave re- 
 treat was far nobler than defeat. 
 
 Despite it all, Poe matriculated, and 
 started for his home in happier spirits by 
 way of Baltimore. He left no shadows 
 behind him except a few gambling debts 
 to entertain his foster father. 
 
 [ 21 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 In Baltimore he called at a little cot- 
 tage covered with flowers. It was where 
 his aunt, Mrs. Clemm, was living, and on 
 the gateway hung a child, dark-eyed, 
 pale of face, and soulful. 
 
 “ Who are you, my pretty one? ” asked 
 Poe. “ I could write a poem to your 
 eyes, and I will.” 
 
 The child drew back. 
 
 “ I am Virginia Clemm,” she said. 
 
 Before she had time to run away he had 
 taken her in his arms and kissed her. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 On the Banks of the fames 
 
 The James River still flowed quietly 
 by the old town with the same restful 
 spirit that characterized the air, the ver- 
 dure, the animal life — the inclinations of 
 the inhabitants themselves dwelling upon 
 its grassy banks. It was only where rocks 
 impeded its course that the placid waters 
 grew angry under restraint; it was only 
 under opposition to their will that the 
 rich planters of the neighborhood re- 
 vealed the fires smoldering within their 
 souls — fires that could endure all things 
 but opposition. 
 
 The old Allan mansion house, with its 
 grounds running to the river brink, rested 
 lazily on its foundation, and its massive 
 roof inclined in much the same spirit 
 upon the high, white pillars which sup- 
 ported the wide veranda. Near by, ne- 
 
 [ 23 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 groes were singing at their work the 
 melodies of the cotton fields. Here and 
 there cattle chewed their cuds restfully 
 in the shade. Horses splashed knee-deep 
 in the waters below the house. The 
 outhouses and slave quarters leaned ob- 
 liquely, like so many towers of Pisa, as 
 though to stand erect might indicate an 
 expression of too much effort, unneces- 
 sary under such a sun. A rose-covered 
 wall separated the place from one ad- 
 joining. 
 
 This was now the home of Edgar Allan 
 Poe, the orphaned boy. Into such lux- 
 ury he had been adopted by John Allan, 
 the rich tobacco planter who owned the 
 estate; in such surroundings of affluence, 
 ease, and princely respect he had grown 
 up, made his youthful friendships, and 
 enthusiastically enjoyed life until the ill- 
 fated days at the University of Virginia, 
 and later at West Point, where he was 
 even less fortunate in his career; and 
 here he had returned from those great 
 institutions of learning, disgraced in the 
 
 [ 24 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 eyes of his foster father for youthful fol- 
 lies, lovingly condoned by all others. 
 
 Here he rode, drove, laughed and 
 sang, gambled, indeed, after the fashion 
 of the youth of his time, read Byron, and 
 outswam Leander. 
 
 Richmond awoke to find a poet born 
 in her midst. 
 
 She awoke to find that poet in love, 
 with all the force of his nature, with his 
 cousin Virginia, who — to his eyes a queen 
 — had but recently come from Baltimore 
 with her mother, Mrs. Clemm, to visit 
 in the State that traced its nomen to a 
 queen in fact. 
 
 There were but two pictures that im- 
 pressed themselves indelibly upon Poe’s 
 heart — one, the face of his mother, whom 
 with baby eyes he had watched fall asleep 
 forever; the other, the face of all faces 
 in the world for him — Virginia. 
 
 Morning, afternoon, and evening he 
 haunted the neighbor’s cottage where she 
 of the soul-eyes was visiting. Sometimes, 
 indeed, he was seen galloping along the 
 
 3 [ 25 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 country roads alone, but more often his 
 good horse was tied quite prosaically to 
 the fence at Virginia’s. 
 
 And why not! He was tall and erect, 
 with dark hair, and dark-eyed and grace- 
 ful. He was a gallant wooer, indeed, in 
 his riding suit. He wore breeches of 
 gray with long boots, spurs, and a waist- 
 coat of lavender and cloth of gold, a 
 stock of single cut in black silk, and a 
 cutaway coat of mulberry broadcloth. 
 
 And a rarely beautiful face was the 
 girl’s he went to woo. A nature sweet 
 and gentle and sympathetic and strong. 
 There was poetry, too, in her eyes — great 
 poetry. It was the poetry of inspiration! 
 It would never be given to the world by 
 her pen, however. Poe alone saw and 
 read it. It was born to live in his words 
 many, many times, but he could not have 
 written it without her, for she was the 
 other half of it. 
 
 From the day of their first meeting, 
 Virginia was to Poe all. She embodied 
 the ideal of his dreams, and her youth 
 [ 26 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 enhanced the realization of them. He 
 missed no opportunity to see her and be 
 with her and gather from her girlish 
 spirit a sweetness to leaven the greater 
 worldliness which had been his lot. 
 
 The tie of kinship, too, made it but 
 natural that Virginia should be welcome 
 at the Allan mansion and that Poe should 
 seek her at her cottage home. Her charm 
 had won Mrs. Allan, and even stern 
 John Allan had been known to smile at 
 her ingenuous remarks. 
 
 One evening the young people were 
 affectionately chatting in the moonlight 
 upon the cottage veranda, and catching 
 furtive glimpses through the trees of the 
 glimmering waters of the James River 
 below and of the clouds and stars above. 
 
 “ Of what are you thinking, Edgar? ” 
 asked Virginia sweetly. 
 
 “ I was wondering how I could put 
 those floating clouds into words,” he re- 
 plied dreamily. 
 
 “ See my face in them,” she laughed 
 with sweet conceit. 
 
 [ 2 7 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Your face is in all, dear one,” he re- 
 plied, his arm about her, his cheek close 
 to hers. “You are the soul of the uni- 
 verse for me. You are my inspiration, 
 my delight. You are my love.” 
 
 “ Your words are so beautiful, Edgar,” 
 she said. 
 
 “ But I meant them for you, and will 
 tell it to all the world, my love.” 
 
 “ Not to-night, please, Edgar,” she 
 pleaded with her woman’s longing fear, 
 as her love nestled back into its soul 
 nest. 
 
 He kissed her. She fluttered like a 
 wounded bird. He healed the wound 
 with a second kiss. The moon approved. 
 The stars blessed them. 
 
 Thus they sat and talked and whis- 
 pered love until Roscoe Pelham, Mr. 
 Allan’s learned young secretary, entered 
 the gate. The newcomer was one of 
 those men, unlovable by nature, who ever 
 looked askance with the critic’s eye on a 
 scene of pleasantry of which his jealous 
 heart never permitted him to be a party. 
 
 [ 28 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 He, too, had come to see the fair Vir- 
 ginia. He, too, loved her, in his way. 
 She arose and greeted him cordially, not 
 altogether displeased with the look of an- 
 noyance which she caught in her lover’s 
 eyes at the approach of the other. 
 
 . The three sat and talked — and waited 
 - — and talked again. 
 
 Poe patiently hoped for Pelham to de- 
 part. Pelham impatiently waited for 
 Poe to depart. 
 
 Thus the evening wore on, or rather 
 dragged on, until Virginia was forced, 
 to her consternation, to do the entire 
 talking. The situation grew strained, for 
 her fund of entertainment was finally ex- 
 hausted. She had reached her wit’s end, 
 when the sound of angry words arose on 
 the turnpike a short distance from the 
 house. 
 
 “ What can it be? ” she cried, glad of 
 any diversion that might relieve an awk- 
 ward lapse in the conversation, during 
 which each young man, without regard 
 to his hostess’s comfort, had apparently 
 
 [ 29 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 occupied himself with his own uncom- 
 plimentary thoughts of the other. 
 
 The three started in the direction of 
 the road on a tour of investigation. The 
 sounds had grown louder, and were now 
 mingled with shrieks of suffering. A 
 roughly dressed and more roughly man- 
 nered man was discovered beating a ne- 
 gro severely with a whip. The poor 
 slave was writhing with pain. Such 
 scenes were rare in the neighborhood, 
 for the slaves thereabouts were usually 
 treated well. 
 
 Virginia shuddered at the sight and 
 placed her hands over her ears to keep 
 out the cries of the sufferer. 
 
 Pelham leaned on the fence, prepara- 
 tory to enjoying the sport; for, as he 
 thought, “ there ought to be more of 
 them whipped.” 
 
 Poe endured the brutal scene as long 
 as his sensitive nature could do so, then 
 broke forth into protest. 
 
 The owner of the slave naturally be- 
 came indignant. 
 
 [ 30 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ I will have no interference, sir! ” he 
 snarled in a drunken voice from the mid- 
 dle of the road. 
 
 “ But it is so cruel,” pleaded Virginia, 
 unable to control her feelings longer. 
 
 “ Whose nigger is it? ” demanded the 
 owner, with a leer and a biting crack of 
 his whip. 
 
 “ Mine, if you’ll sell him,” cried Poe 
 sympathetically. He could not bear hu- 
 man suffering any more than he could 
 bear to see Virginia in distress at the 
 sight of the misfortune before her. 
 
 “ I’ll sell anything I own,” growled 
 the man, “ if I get my price.” 
 
 “ How much? ” asked Poe quickly. 
 
 “Six hundred,” replied the owner; 
 “ and I’ll throw in the whip. You’ll 
 need it.” 
 
 He laughed discordantly and did not 
 seem disturbed by the fact that he laughed 
 alone. The disgust on Poe’s face at the 
 drunken declaration was manifest even in 
 the moonlight. 
 
 “You can’t do it; your allowance is 
 
 [ 3i ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 greatly overdrawn,” whispered Pelham 
 grimly. 
 
 “ But the governor’s isn’t,” answered 
 Poe. 
 
 Virginia thought she caught a far- 
 reaching malice in Pelham’s tone and a 
 flash in Poe’s eye as he answered. A 
 great fear for her poet came into her 
 heart, and she felt that she had been the 
 cause of it all. Whither would it lead? 
 
 Poe drew a piece of paper from his 
 pocket, and placing it on a rail of the 
 fence, wrote with some difficulty an order 
 on his foster father for $600 and handed 
 it to the man. 
 
 “Will that do?” he asked. 
 
 The owner was too much under the in- 
 fluence of drink and bad temper to take 
 note of the contempt quite manifest in 
 Poe’s voice. After much incomprehen- 
 sible mumbling and awkward fumbling, 
 he produced a locofoco from the depths 
 of his rough coat and, striking it on his 
 boot, made out to read the order. 
 
 “ I reckon that will do,” he said, with 
 [ 32 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 a grin; for he now recognized in the 
 youthful purchaser the adopted son of 
 John Allan. He pushed the negro bru- 
 tally in the direction of his new master, 
 swayed a little in his tracks, and added: 
 “ You better take the whip.” 
 
 “ No, you need it more,” retorted Poe 
 severely. 
 
 His reflection was lost, however, so far 
 as any effect upon the sensibilities of the 
 slave driver was concerned. 
 
 Without further formality, the little 
 party, including the negro, returned to 
 the house. Virginia ran to her room for 
 a bottle of ointment, which she gave to 
 the black man to soothe his wounds ; and 
 then he was sent on his way to take up 
 his abode in the slave quarters on the 
 Allan place. 
 
 The evening was beginning to wane. 
 
 Poe and Pelham started simultaneously 
 for home. 
 
 During the walk, each must have been 
 absorbed with his own thoughts, for no 
 word was passed, agreeable or otherwise. 
 [ 33 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 It was not until they had lighted their 
 candles in the great front hall, prepara- 
 tory to retiring for the night, that the sec- 
 retary broke the silence. 
 
 “ Good night, Mr. Poe,” he said sol- 
 emnly. 
 
 “ Good night, Mr. Pelham,” was the 
 quiet reply. 
 
 A few moments later the big front door 
 opened again softly, and Poe emerged 
 from the house — alone. He quickly re- 
 traced his steps, with a lover’s eagerness, 
 along the way he had just returned. 
 
 The moonlight shone bright upon Vir- 
 ginia’s cottage as he approached. All 
 - was silent. No sign of life! His heart 
 almost stopped in disappointment. 
 
 A merry ripple of soft laughter came 
 from an angle made of honeysuckle on 
 the veranda. 
 
 An instant more and he was telling 
 Virginia his love with all the ardor of a 
 poet, and she was answering with all her 
 trembling heart. 
 
 [ 34 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Your loveliness is that of a seraph,” 
 breathed Poe. 
 
 “ I did not expect you,” she answered 
 coyly. 
 
 “ Then why were you waiting? ” he 
 asked. Virginia stammered: 
 
 “ Why — I was waiting — for a 
 man ” 
 
 “ And the man obeyed your thought,” 
 he cried. 
 
 She nestled into his arms — for were 
 not his arms in waiting? The blushing 
 honeysuckle hid them. 
 
 “And will he always do so?” asked 
 Virginia earnestly. 
 
 “ As long as the moon floods the night 
 with love light, he’ll be at your window,” 
 was the lover’s fervent answer. 
 
 “ But when the night is dark? ” she 
 asked with girlish fearfulness. 
 
 “ Then he’ll follow your soul light,” 
 answered Poe. A kiss sealed the com- 
 pact. 
 
 “ Oh, Edgar, I fear so, lest evil may 
 come to you through me,” she cried. 
 
 [ 35 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Believe in good, and evil cannot 
 come,” was the loving answer. Virginia 
 still was fearful. 
 
 “ You are rich and brilliant, I am poor 
 and nothing. You will forget me.” 
 
 “Not till the world grows old and 
 our souls as one sit upon a new-born star 
 and call the crust world graybeard!” 
 
 “ You have other loves,” sighed Vir- 
 ginia. 
 
 “ No — no — ” He hesitated. His sen- 
 sitive heart divined a fateful meaning. 
 “You mean — wine — horses — cardsl” he 
 cried. 
 
 She drew back, hurt lest her introspec- 
 tive fear had been divined by him she 
 loved. 
 
 “ I have health and youth,” he said. 
 “ I must live to know. I must sink to 
 rise. I must suffer to grow great.” 
 
 She heard his words, but they meant 
 little to her child self. Her heart was 
 so full of love that she did not under- 
 stand it all. Yet she felt she had said 
 too much. 
 
 [ 36 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Dearest one! ” she cried. “ I did not 
 mean ” 
 
 Poe soothed her suffering heart with 
 tender sympathy. He was older and he 
 saw things which she did not see. The 
 burden was for him, and he was willing 
 to bear it. 
 
 “ You mean another love? I offer up 
 a vow to-night that I shall never bring 
 myself to love any daughter of the earth 
 but you. We’ll live in the Valley of the 
 Many Colored Grass and wander to- 
 gether by the River of Silence. I shall 
 never knowingly do aught to bring you 
 unhappiness,” he went on. “ That I 
 pledge you ; but I must tell you to-night, 
 Virginia, something that I have never 
 spoken before — even to myself. I am the 
 plaything of some awful, inward force 
 that drives me on like the flotsam and 
 jetsam of the sea.” 
 
 She sobbed and her head nestled on 
 his breast. 
 
 A whip-poor-will broke the silence of 
 the night with its plaintive love notes. 
 
 [ 37 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Can you not control your fate? ” she 
 asked. “ You are so brave and strong 
 and wonderful.” 
 
 “ Some men can make their destiny, 
 my love,” he answered, “ but I was not 
 so born. In the day I see the darkness 
 coming. In the night strange hands lead 
 me. Do not shudder. I must speak of 
 it just this once. I seem to feel the devil 
 and all the misery that he reeks. His 
 emblem follows me. It is small and 
 black. I know not what — a shadow, per- 
 haps! Virginia!” He caught her to 
 him fondly. “ I am not mad,” he went 
 on. “ No, it’s a play — all a play! Why, 
 every seventh Friday I do some mad act, 
 and the last is to tell Virginia of my 
 love.” 
 
 He laughed with sudden, wildly happy 
 thoughts. The stillness of the night crept 
 upon them. They both shuddered. Then 
 he thought of her alone, and whispered 
 comfort. 
 
 “Your last mad act was to cross Pel- 
 ham,” she answered fearfully. 
 
 [ 38 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “I fear no man,” cried Poe. “You 
 are life to me, and wherever the winds 
 and waves of Fate may toss my soul, its 
 last love cry will be — Virginia! 
 
 “ But, sweetheart,” he continued, “ my 
 latest crime — yes, a crime indeed, for 
 which I may meet death deservedly — 
 was to write verses to my love.” 
 
 They both laughed and kissed. 
 
 “ I am sure they are wondrous verses, 
 if you wrote them, Edgar.” There dwelt 
 the admiration of human worship in her 
 soft voice. “ Let me read them.” 
 
 Poe took a scroll from his heart pocket, 
 ribbon-tied. Then he drew it back teas- 
 ingly. 
 
 “ No — I kiss my critic first, then she 
 may read with proper prejudice.” 
 
 Virginia paid for the scroll and it was 
 given to her with grateful hands. 
 
 “ Good night.” 
 
 He kissed her passionately and was 
 gone. 
 
 She read the verses by the light of the 
 moon; but, while her heart beat high 
 
 [ 39 1 
 
The Raven 
 
 with their love refrain, she shuddered 
 with the thought of the small black 
 shadow which haunted the path of her 
 beautiful boy lover: 
 
 “We grew in age — and love — together — 
 Roaming the forest, and the wild; 
 
 My breast her shield in wintry weather — 
 And, when the friendly sunshine smil’d, 
 And she would mark the opening skies, 
 
 / saw no Heaven — but in her eyes. 
 
 “Young love’s first lesson is — the heart: 
 
 For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles, 
 When, from our little cares apart, 
 
 And laughing at her girlish wiles, 
 
 I’d throw me on her throbbing breast. 
 
 And pour my spirit out in tears — 
 There was no need to speak the rest — 
 
 No need to quiet any fears 
 Of her — who ask’d no reason why, 
 
 But turned on me her quiet eye ! ” 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 Everyone on the Place Loves Him 
 
 IT was the afternoon of a Southern 
 day, and John Allan was sitting beneath 
 the shade of a great magnolia upon his 
 lawn, oblivious to all but his own reflec- 
 tions, and near him, in a rustic rocker, 
 sat Mrs. Allan, who glanced up occasion- 
 ally to make sure that her lord and mas- 
 ter had his every wish. A service of tea, 
 brought from one of the outhouses by a 
 dear black “ mammy,” clad in spotless 
 apron and bright bandanna turban, rested 
 upon the rustic table before them. 
 
 The old planter was a picture of the 
 Southern gentleman of the old school. 
 Knee breeches and buckles revealed no 
 “ shrunken shank,” but the firm, strong 
 leg of a once vigorous youth. A blue 
 coat with gold buttons, a buff waistcoat, 
 a large silver-topped cane, and a hat 
 
 4 [ 4 I ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 framed after the days of Washington, 
 whom he could well remember, lent a 
 picturesqueness to his person. His face 
 was proud, his bearing stately. Few, in- 
 deed, enjoyed a more substantial influ- 
 ence in the community where he lived — • 
 an absolute king in his own home and 
 over his slaves. 
 
 Yet common report credited John Al- 
 lan with being a kind man, a good man; 
 and he was a good man when he was 
 right; but, like other men, he was not al- 
 ways right. He saw life only from the 
 standpoint of self, though he would have 
 been the last in the world to have ad- 
 mitted it. Indeed, he had been exalted 
 so long by all in his service and so petted 
 and pampered by his family that, like 
 Southern men in general, he had grown 
 quite oblivious to the fact that his help- 
 mate of years was in the habit of antici- 
 pating his every thought without regard 
 to the number of steps it cost her. 
 
 It was apparent that the lord of the 
 manor and his sweet, old-fashioned wife 
 [ 42 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 had been deep in discussion of some fam- 
 ily matter. It was equally apparent that 
 they had not wholly agreed. To be sure, 
 there was no open evidence of feud, for 
 Mrs. Allan was always sweetly submis- 
 sive; but it was noticeable from the man- 
 ner in which old John bit his lip and 
 twisted himself occasionally in his chair 
 that he was thinking, and thinking hard. 
 At last the bubble reached the surface. 
 
 “ I tell you, my dear,” he declared 
 with the dignity of Southern gallantry, 
 mollified, of course, by the fact that his 
 opponent was the wife of his bosom, “ it 
 is your fault. Now, that ends it, once 
 and for all.” 
 
 He straightened himself impressively, 
 snapped his snuffbox with a grand man- 
 ner, and restored it forcefully to his 
 pocket. Who on the place dared oppose 
 his opinion? 
 
 “ Just as you say, John,” she suggested 
 meekly. “ I have had all the faults of 
 the family for many years — since our 
 honeymoon days, indeed — but I am still 
 [ 43 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the ‘ better half,’ you know. Have an- 
 other dish of tea, John? ” 
 
 If she had only answered back sharply, 
 just this once, he would have been con- 
 tent; but how could he quarrel with such 
 a woman? It was irritating beyond en- 
 durance, and his irritation was evinced 
 by a sharp declination of more tea, fol- 
 lowed by a muttering: 
 
 “ The fault was in adopting the boy at 
 first. It was bad stock, bad stock; and 
 you should have known it, my dear.” 
 
 He got up, struck the sod with 'his 
 cane, crossed his arms behind him, and 
 paced up and down the lawn before Mrs. 
 Allan. The subject of his displeasure 
 was now fairly put; it was launched in 
 the family circle of two. 
 
 Mrs. Allan looked up at her husband 
 complacently, and moved quietly out of 
 harm’s way his cup of tea, which she had 
 hastened to take at the first sign of his 
 displeasure. 
 
 “ John,” she quietly remonstrated, 
 “ you know you have said a thousand 
 [ 44 ] 
 
' The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 times that the Poes came of the best blood 
 in the land.” 
 
 For a moment he was nonplussed. This 
 remark could, of course, not be construed 
 as direct opposition to his will, but it 
 surely had the ring of a difference. He 
 turned sharply upon his wife, drew him- 
 self to his full height, adjusted his wig, 
 which never sat easy when he was an- 
 noyed, and began an oration in reply. 
 After the fashion of Virginia statesmen 
 of his time, he must utter his simplest 
 sentences, when roused, with a touch of 
 the grandiloquence of Patrick Henry, 
 whom he emulated. 
 
 “ I said the boy’s grandfather was a 
 good man, my dear; General Poe was a 
 patriot, a patriot, a friend of Washing- 
 ton. General Lafayette visited his grave 
 before he left the country, knelt and 
 kissed the sod, exclaiming, with tears in 
 his eyes: ‘Here lies a noble heart.’ I 
 said the Poes came of the best blood — 
 way back, my dear, way back.” 
 
 Mrs. Allan placed her tea on the table 
 
 [ 45 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 by her husband’s cup and mildly inti- 
 mated, unfortunately for her a little 
 above the click of the colliding china, so 
 that it reached his ears: 
 
 “ Two generations, John.” 
 
 “ Well, two generations is — two gen- 
 erations!” he snapped forth in response; 
 for his wit failing to supply him with a 
 more convincing answer, like Dr. John- 
 son, when his pistol missed fire, he pro- 
 ceeded forthwith to knock down his ad- 
 versary with the butt end of it. 
 
 Mrs. Allan’s power of argument for 
 the moment was exhausted. Her wom- 
 anly instinct, however, was not. She 
 placed her hands lovingly on her hus- 
 band’s shoulders, and looked fondly into 
 his eyes. When she considered him suffi- 
 ciently pacified to listen, she led him 
 gently back in memory to the days of 
 1 8 1 1 , when she was twenty- five and he 
 was thirty-one. She recalled again how a 
 beautiful actress, struggling nobly in her 
 art to keep the wolf from the door and 
 from her little ones, was then in Rich- 
 [ 46 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 mond playing plays — the gay, when her 
 heart was breaking; plays — the sad, when 
 her life was ebbing. She recalled to his 
 mind the sympathetic notice in the En- 
 quirer of that day, which still clung like 
 wax to her memory, wherein the sweet 
 player’s friends had appealed to the kind 
 ladies of Richmond for aid on the even- 
 ing of a mother’s last benefit: 
 
 “To the Humane. 
 
 “ On this night Mrs. Poe, lingering on the 
 bed of disease and surrounded by her chil- 
 dren, asks your assistance; and asks it perhaps 
 for the last time." 
 
 She recalled the “ eighth ” day of that 
 cold December, for, as in most old heads, 
 there were a few days of joy and a few 
 days of sorrow, about which the events 
 of her life’s calendar revolved. 
 
 “ You have not forgotten that day, 
 John,” she whispered softly. “ I am sure 
 of it. I had taken you to the poor dead 
 mother’s room. How forlorn, how deso- 
 late it was! ” 
 
 [ 47 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 The planter’s head fell a little lower 
 on his breast and his lip twitched nerv- 
 ously. 
 
 She reminded him how the mother 
 had died, a stranger in a strange land; 
 how one little boy had gone to friends 
 in Baltimore; how Rosalie had touched 
 Mrs. McKensie’s heart; and how another 
 child, the prettier boy, was still clinging 
 to his mother’s arms, which could no 
 longer feel his pressure. “You and I,” 
 she continued softly, “ stood there alone 
 with him by the coffin. You stooped and 
 wiped the tears from the little fellow’s 
 eyes. You remember how the raven curls 
 tossed wildly upon his temples as he said: 
 ‘Mamma is asleep; don’t wake her!’ 
 God had given us no children of our 
 own, John. Well, you brought the baby 
 here; you gave him a home and your 
 name.” 
 
 John Allan’s face was a study as the 
 last words dropped softly from the lips 
 of his companion of many years. The 
 old tobacco king loved his wife in his 
 [ 48 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 way, and he loved his adopted boy. He 
 was not to allow himself, however, to be 
 moved from the position he had taken. 
 He had always been severe in his judg- 
 ment of himself. It was his duty to 
 maintain the same rigid rule with others, 
 for temperament, that will-o’-the-wisp of 
 the soul, played no part in his under- 
 standing of the acts of other men. 
 
 “ I don’t remember any such thing,” 
 he finally made up his mind to reply, 
 with visible irritation. “ You are grow- 
 ing old. You forget, my dear, you 
 forget. I have noticed it for some 
 time. You are losing your faculties, I 
 fear.” 
 
 “ You are losing your heart, John.” 
 
 The reproof in her words was so gen- 
 tle that the old planter hesitated; but his 
 purpose was rigid as adamant. He knew 
 he could not be wrong. 
 
 “ I am losing my patience. He gam- 
 bles away my money like a song and then 
 comes back with his roguish eye and 
 blandly calls for more.” 
 
 [ 49 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “And you give it to him, John.” 
 
 “ That’s it; lay it all at my door. Just 
 like a woman. By Jove, you have ruined 
 the boy, positively ruined him. I’ll 
 make a man of him, or kill him. That’s 
 the only way to raise boys. He must not 
 be coddled; he must obey.” 
 
 “ Then you should have begun that 
 way years ago, John.” 
 
 Mrs. Allan had long ago learned to 
 love her boy deeply, and he could have 
 committed few indiscretions that would 
 have driven him from her heart. 
 
 John Allan, with the business instinct 
 of a man who is in the wrong, hastened 
 to put his wife equally on the defensive 
 by questioning the wisdom of her own 
 way with her son. 
 
 “ And you have encouraged his infatu- 
 ation for his cousin Virginia against my 
 pronounced wishes, my dear. It must be 
 stopped.” 
 
 This Mrs. Allan could not endure, for 
 the sake of the love she bore two young 
 hearts. 
 
 [ 50 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ His love we cannot control, John,” 
 she pleaded. “ That is in the province 
 of God, not man.” 
 
 “Love!” almost shrieked the old 
 planter in reply. “ I will not hear such 
 bosh.” 
 
 “ Virginia is a beautiful girl and wor- 
 thy of a prince,” the motherly heart still 
 dared bravely to contend. 
 
 The old gentleman tried to screen his 
 passion-flushed face. He feared that he 
 had gone too far; for he realized that 
 he was fast losing his temper, and with 
 it perhaps his advantage. 
 
 “ Tush! ” he explained, with an effort 
 still to convince his wife that she must 
 necessarily be wrong — since she differed 
 from him. “ I know the girl for Edgar. 
 An alliance, my dear, an alliance; no love 
 nonsense. Unite two fortunes to assist 
 the boy’s brains, and he will own the 
 State, become a great leader, a politician 
 of some use to his country. I never be- 
 lieved much in love ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Allan raised her eyes shyly. 
 
 [ ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “You told me once you did, John, 
 quite vehemently.” 
 
 The planter was caught. On other oc- 
 casions he would have laughed and re- 
 plied with a kiss. This matter, however, 
 was too serious with him. He had brood- 
 ed over it for days, and could not now 
 condescend to treat it flippantly. There- 
 fore, he replied impatiently by way of 
 half excuse for a speech which his tem- 
 per had trapped him into uttering with- 
 out due forethought: 
 
 “ Times have changed, my dear. I 
 had the faults of a boy then.” 
 
 “You have the faults of a man now,” 
 replied Mrs. Allan, very firmly for her; 
 after which there followed quite natu- 
 rally a pause in the conversation until 
 she added wistfully: “ I prefer those of 
 the boy.” 
 
 Her husband winced. He could not 
 admit, however, that his logic was not 
 sound, though he began to fear that per- 
 haps he had not expressed himself quite 
 in the way to carry conviction to the 
 [ 52 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 feminine mind. What right had Ed- 
 gar to disobey his counting-house rules? 
 What right had Mrs. Allan at this late 
 period of their matrimonial career to dif- 
 fer from her husband, whom so long ago 
 she had promised to love, honor, and 
 obey? No one else dared. The point 
 troubled him. 
 
 Mrs. Allan walked slowly to the bench 
 where her husband now sat in restless 
 perturbation. Leaning over him, she be- 
 gan hesitatingly: 
 
 “ Edgar loves Virginia. Love is the 
 strongest fiber in his being. You cannot 
 eradicate it.” 
 
 “Nonsense!” he exclaimed excitedly; 
 for he was always piqued at any direct 
 suggestion that there was aught that he 
 could not accomplish. “ I adopted him, 
 he’s my boy, he’s all wrong; and I will 
 correct him or have done with him. 
 There’s an end of it! ” 
 
 Another pause ensued while the wind 
 rustled the leaves above. Mrs. Allan 
 sat and rocked; John Allan sat and 
 
 [ 53 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 thought. The voices of the negroes re- 
 turning from the fields arose in melodies 
 sweet and low upon the air. They passed 
 quite near their master and mistress on 
 the way to their quarters. 
 
 One, bolder than the rest, cried out 
 gayly as he caught sight of them : “ Good 
 night, Marsa! Good night, Missus!” 
 
 Mrs. Allan smiled sweetly in response. 
 John Allan made no reply to the faithful 
 salutation. 
 
 “Where’s Mars’ Edgah?” inquired 
 one old negro with a hoe upon his shoul- 
 der. 
 
 The reference to the young master 
 quickly brought forth a chorus of in- 
 quiries and good will. “ Say good night 
 to Mars’ Edgah!” “ A good night for 
 Mars’ Edgah!” 
 
 Indeed, the voices continued in expres- 
 sions of love for the young master until 
 the field tools were in place and the slaves 
 in their quarters to await the evening 
 meal. 
 
 Mrs. Allan rose triumphantly. 
 
 [ 54 ] 
 
The Love Story of Eagar Allan Poe 
 
 “ See, John, everyone on the place 
 loves him. They would not change 
 ‘Mars’ Edgah!’” 
 
 Naturally provoked that this sign of 
 servile affection should be invoked as a 
 reflection on the position he had taken, 
 the planter retorted hotly: 
 
 “ He is not half as dear to them as he 
 is to me. They do not have to pay his 
 bills!” 
 
 The speaker picked up his hat and 
 started for the gate with a quick ener- 
 getic movement. 
 
 “ Are you going far, my dear? ” asked 
 the solicitous wife. 
 
 “ I am going down the street; I want 
 room to think.” 
 
 Mrs. Allan ran to the gate and, leaning 
 over it, spoke with the eloquence of emo- 
 tion. 
 
 “Then think of this, John,” she said 
 tearfully; “the old grandfather of our 
 boy whom you spoke so highly of but 
 now had worldly notions like you, John. 
 Yet, you remember, his boy turned his 
 [ 55 1 
 
The Raven 
 
 back on home to follow the fortunes of 
 the girl he loved. He threw away a ca- 
 reer, the prestige of his name, his home, 
 his friends; he became a strolling player 
 to be at that sweetheart’s side, and he 
 was true to that love till death separated 
 them. Have a care, John. That boy 
 was Edgar’s father.” 
 
 She turned and entered the house. 
 
 The old gentleman hesitated. 
 
 “Sentimental bosh!” he muttered. 
 “ I’ve given him one more chance to 
 straighten up ; and it shall be the last.” 
 
 He started again, hesitated, returned 
 and, going to the steps, called in an uncer- 
 tain voice: “ Mrs. Allan! Mrs. Allan! ” 
 There was no response. For a moment 
 he stood gazing into the doorway of the 
 big hall, where she had disappeared, as 
 in a quandary, trying possibly to satisfy 
 himself with the conviction that his wife 
 never could understand men. He finally 
 returned, however, to the gate, closed it 
 not too gently behind him, and disap- 
 peared down the path. 
 
 [ 56 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 He Is Only Sowing His Wild Oats , Sir 
 
 Affairs drifted for some days with no 
 further eruptions from the family vol- 
 cano. Mrs. Allan, by her womanly tact, 
 avoided any open scene. Edgar Poe, the 
 handsome young heir prospective, came 
 and went as usual. He noticed that his 
 foster father was in one of his periodic 
 moods of depression, but gave the matter 
 little thought, attributing it to the wor- 
 ries of the planter’s large business. His 
 real thoughts were elsewhere. So were 
 the thoughts of Roscoe Pelham — else- 
 where. 
 
 As it happened, Erebus — for so his 
 new master called his first and last slave 
 — was the only one on the place this par- 
 ticular afternoon who seemed animated 
 with any desire that called forth visible 
 activity. This was indeed unusual to 
 [ 57 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 him except when the orders emanated 
 from “ Mars’ Edgah,” whom he could 
 not move too quickly to serve. Mrs. Al- 
 lan had cleverly refrained from mention- 
 ing the new acquisition to her lord and 
 master for obvious reasons. The new- 
 comer was the subject of much specula- 
 tion, too, among the slaves : “ What fo’ 
 did de young Marsa want wid dat stupid 
 nigger? ” 
 
 For the twentieth time during the day 
 Erebus had managed to approach the 
 gate for a peep down the road. 
 
 For some unaccountable reason, too, 
 his black head for hours before had 
 seemed perturbed, especially when Mrs. 
 Allan had called him to the mansion to 
 attend to certain little household labors. 
 What was the matter with the negro? 
 Was he bewitched? He was constantly 
 neglecting his work, to his mistress’s 
 great annoyance, and glancing out of the 
 window. Then, too, on his way to and 
 from the slave quarters, he had seen fit 
 each time to take a circuitous route, man- 
 [ 58 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 aging to get close enough to the gate to 
 have a look far down the turnpike; then 
 he would mysteriously make again for 
 the stables, and inspect an empty stall, as 
 if by some magic its young master’s horse 
 might have been spirited into its place 
 without his personal knowledge. 
 
 It was at this juncture that Pelham had 
 ended a fruitless errand, and was in a 
 dejected mood — to say the least — one not 
 to be trifled with, especially by a slave. 
 
 The young secretary was returning 
 from Virginia’s house much annoyed 
 that he had not found her home. He 
 had caught a glimpse of a white dress 
 through a tree vista opening upon a 
 pretty path by the river front. Was it 
 Virginia? Was she alone? Increasing 
 his stride, in anything but a happy hu- 
 mor, he was hastening to the Allan man- 
 sion house to find a spot in which to 
 brood over his misfortune. 
 
 Pelham’s personality was one that 
 women did not and could not like; but, 
 instead of recognizing the fact, he blind- 
 [ 59 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ly pursued them with greater persistence, 
 till they exhausted their wits in framing 
 excuses to avoid him. He was especially 
 angered to see how easily the young mas- 
 ter of the house became the idol of the 
 fair, old and young, in Richmond. He 
 could not bear to see others possess what 
 he did not. 
 
 Virginia, it is true, had always ap- 
 peared gracious whenever Mr. Pelham 
 had called and found her at home; but 
 since the incident of the purchase of the 
 slave he had not found her in so often. 
 He suspected many things, but he was 
 quite unable to satisfy his suspicions. 
 
 As he entered the lawn, in such a spirit 
 of unrest, he met Erebus at the gate. The 
 secretary was ordinarily above noticing 
 the menials on the place, except to call 
 one or another as he wished some per- 
 sonal service performed. Poe’s slave, for 
 some reason, however, on this particular 
 occasion, attracted his attention. 
 
 “Whose nigger are you?” he asked 
 surlily. 
 
 [ 60 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Mars’ Edgah’s, sah.” 
 
 “Oh, Master Edgar’s, are you?” Pel- 
 ham looked up and recognized not with- 
 out further irritation Poe’s late purchase. 
 
 “ Yes, sah, he don’ bought me, sah.” 
 
 “ Oh, he done bought you, did he? ” 
 
 “ Yes, sah, Mars’ Johnson was murder- 
 in’ me wid de black snake, sah, an’ de 
 good Lord sen’ Mars’ Edgah t’ sabe me, 
 sah. Mars’ Edgah don’ bought me fo’ 
 $600, sah.” 
 
 Pelham’s lips curled sarcastically; for 
 the conditions of the incident were well 
 rooted in his memory. 
 
 “ Generous, wasn’t he, with the gov- 
 ernor’s money? ” he muttered and threw 
 himself discontentedly into a chair be- 
 neath the trees. 
 
 “ ’Deed he was, sah,” proudly respond- 
 ed the negro, who was gradually regain- 
 ing his courage, which had momentarily 
 been shaken by the brusqueness of the 
 questioner. 
 
 Pelham, lost in his own unhappy re- 
 flections, proceeded forthwith to forget 
 [ 61 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the presence of the slave. Suddenly, 
 however, he started, and looked about, 
 and there still stood the negro, “ awaitin’ 
 orders.” The secretary was on the point 
 of sending him on his way, with an impa- 
 tient nod, when, thinking better of it, he 
 motioned him closer. The negro obeyed, 
 but somewhat reluctantly. 
 
 “ What is your name? ” Pelham asked 
 in a tone quite conciliatory for him. 
 
 “ My real name? ” 
 
 “ Your real name.” 
 
 “ Dunno, sah.” 
 
 “ Who was your father? ” persisted the 
 secretary, still in a patronizing manner, 
 though visibly annoyed by the apparent 
 stupidity of the slave. 
 
 The poor negro was dumfounded at 
 this startling inquiry into his paternity. 
 
 “ Fo’ de Lord, Marsa, I done forget 
 de gemmon’s name.” 
 
 Pelham smiled one of his ungracious 
 smiles — indeed he was never known to 
 laugh — as he recognized the probable 
 truthfulness of the reply. 
 
 [ 62 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 The black man seemed to think that 
 the onus was still on him, and continued 
 with a stammer to explain: 
 
 “ Mars’ Johnson call me dat d — nig- 
 ger, sah, but Mars’ Edgah, he call me 
 Erebus, sah.” 
 
 “ So Mr. Edgar calls you Erebus, 
 Prince of Darkness, does he?” 
 
 The secretary straightened up a trifle, 
 glorying in the fact that, at least, the 
 young master could not make classical 
 allusions which were beyond his under- 
 standing. 
 
 “ Yes, sah,” added Erebus proudly, 
 “ an’ he call me his ‘ valley,’ sah.” 
 
 “ He needs a troop of valets to look 
 after him,” muttered Pelham. “ Well, 
 Erebus,” he said, as he ran through his 
 employer’s letters irritably, “ you may 
 get me a glass of milk.” 
 
 The negro’s eyes rolled contemptu- 
 ously. “ Mars’ Edgah neber ask fo’ no 
 milk.” The servant obeyed, however, 
 and went his way. 
 
 The young secretary twisted himself in 
 
 [ 63 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 his chair impatiently. Would he ever be 
 possessed of a valet? It was he who de- 
 served one; for he had labored, he had 
 read, he was a profound scholar, a stu- 
 dent of politics and law, and he would 
 not long be servant to any man. 
 
 If one might have looked into Pel- 
 ham’s mind at that moment, he no doubt 
 would have found a medley of irritat- 
 ing thoughts which, producing discord, 
 worked to defeat the secretary’s own 
 ends. If the crimson-streaked aura about 
 him could have been translated, it prob- 
 ably would have reflected envious words. 
 
 He felt that Virginia had had an en- 
 gagement and evaded him. Why could 
 she not have seen him this afternoon? 
 It must have been she and the handsome 
 young spendthrift whom he had seen by 
 the river front. A romantic popinjay, 
 who wrote bad verses — a Byronic genius, 
 bah! Her veranda had been so pretty on 
 this particular afternoon — such a love 
 nest, and he had thought out so much to 
 say to her. “ We’ll wait,” he muttered 
 
 [ 64 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 to himself; “ the fool will hang himself 
 in time — just a little time. The governor 
 has stood it a good while; but it will end, 
 and then Miss Virginia may sit in the 
 moonlight with the beggar until ” 
 
 Erebus did not like the look which 
 came over Mars’ Pelham’s face as he 
 returned with a glass of milk. He, there- 
 fore, edged away aimlessly, but was 
 quickly brought to his senses, for the sec- 
 retary had turned sharply upon him. 
 
 “What makes you look so black?” 
 Pelham demanded, when he fully real- 
 ized the return of the slave and the ful- 
 fillment of his order. 
 
 “ I reckon de good Lord, Mars’ Pel- 
 ham.” 
 
 The frightened negro again made a 
 hopeless effort to see down the turnpike. 
 Pelham noticed it. 
 
 “ Come here; what is the matter? Do 
 you hear? ” he demanded irritably. 
 
 “ I’se powerful feared fo’ Mars’ Ed- 
 gah,” the faithful negro at last reluctant- 
 ly admitted. 
 
 [ 65 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ He needs your solicitude and pray- 
 ers,” sneered the secretary. 
 
 “ Somethin’ turrible’s gwine t’ hap- 
 pen,” continued the slave. “ When I 
 went fo’ de milk, I stub my toe free times ; 
 an’ when I’se gwine t’ milk ol’ Brindle, 
 Mars’ Edgah’s cow, dis mornin’, she don’ 
 dried up.” 
 
 “ That’s most prophetic. Where is 
 your young master? ” 
 
 “ Dunno, sah,” replied Erebus, anx- 
 iously glancing over his shoulder again. 
 “ He don’ ride ’way wid Mars’ Tony 
 Preston las’ night an’ I neber put eyes 
 on him sence.” 
 
 The young secretary tried to reconcile 
 this bit of information with the glimpse 
 he thought he had had of the young mas- 
 ter and Virginia. 
 
 John Allan at this particular moment 
 was returning from the town. He was 
 returning by instinct rather than by fore- 
 thought; for he was in one of those un- 
 happy moods that did not permit him to 
 reflect upon the direction of his step. He 
 [ 66 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 only nervously went ahead, and habit led 
 him safely to his own hearthstone. 
 
 Pelham caught a glimpse of his em- 
 ployer before he reached the gate and, 
 breaking off his questioning of Erebus 
 abruptly, left the negro in sleepy wonder- 
 ment. The secretary hastened to a work 
 table in a shady spot on the veranda and 
 began apparently to labor upon his em- 
 ployer’s correspondence and ledgers. 
 
 The planter crossed the lawn on his 
 way to the house with an impatient, irri- 
 table step. Observing his secretary hard 
 at his duties, as he supposed, he ap- 
 proached him, and without a word tossed 
 a handful of letters which he had brought 
 with him upon the table. He was about 
 to enter the house, when he observed 
 that Pelham had the ledger open at the 
 accounts of “ E. A. P.” The planter was 
 on fire in an instant. 
 
 “ That boy will drive me to the poor- 
 house,” he muttered loud enough for 
 Pelham to realize the trend of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 [ 67 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 The secretary turned the ledger to an- 
 other page, with a hypocritical lifting of 
 his eyes, as if he desired to shield the 
 young master. 
 
 “Turn back,” demanded his employer 
 impatiently. “ You will find more to en- 
 ter here,” pointing to an order for $600, 
 which he had thrown upon the table with 
 the letters. It was evident that the for- 
 mer owner of Erebus had finally sobered 
 up and thought it best to present his 
 order at the Allan counting-house. 
 
 “Bills, bills, bills; nothing but bills! 
 Wine, horses, and cards from morning 
 till night! By Jove, I won’t stand it any 
 longer. My mind is set. He shall go, 
 bag and baggage.” 
 
 “ Has anything gone wrong, sir? Can’t 
 I — ” asked the secretary in a soothing 
 voice of surprised innocence, while his 
 eye glowed with malicious delight that 
 the day of judgment seemed near. 
 
 “ Gone wrong, gone wrong? ” ex- 
 claimed Mr. Allan excitedly. “ Look at 
 my ledger. I will be a bankrupt, sir, if 
 [ 68 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 that boy keeps on. Here is an order for 
 $600 more for some extravagance, sir.” 
 
 “ He only purchased a slave,” ex- 
 plained Pelham suavely, dropping his 
 eyes, together with the irritating remark. 
 
 “ A worthless one, then,” cried the 
 planter. “ He’s no judge of niggers.” 
 
 “ He will come around all right, Mr. 
 Allan. He is only sowing his wild oats, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ Wild oats, sir. I reckon he has 
 sowed a good many acres since I was fool 
 enough to give him a home.” 
 
 “ But he is so brilliant, so handsome, 
 and such an honor to the family, sir, if I 
 may be allowed,” suggested the secretary 
 blandly. 
 
 The old gentleman leaned for a mo- 
 ment speechless against one of the pil- 
 lars that supported the veranda and 
 looked way down the river. 
 
 “ He was such a promising fellow when 
 I adopted him,” he finally said thought- 
 fully, not without much effort at con- 
 trol. “ I loved him, sir, I loved him, 
 [ 69 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 and do still. But there is an end to every- 
 thing. At the university he disgraced 
 himself and me by his mad conduct. I 
 forgave him — to please my wife.” 
 
 It seemed as if he almost, unconscious- 
 ly, took cynical pleasure in placing the 
 burden of acting against his own better 
 judgment, as he thought, upon his better 
 half. Pelham sat silent, listening with 
 marked respect. John Allan wiped his 
 spectacles. 
 
 “ Dismissed from West Point,” he con- 
 tinued in self-appreciation, “ I took him 
 to my heart and home again. I have paid 
 his debts, and paid his debts, and here it 
 is again, sir; and, you see, sir — you see — 
 there is my mail, Pelham. You will 
 please attend to it, sir. That boy will 
 drive me to the grave.” 
 
 The planter disappeared into the house 
 in anything but a happy spirit. He was 
 in no mood to recall the old adage that 
 there are two sides to every question, and 
 that the defendant, too, of right should 
 have his day in court. 
 
 [ 70 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Foe 
 
 A smile played upon the secretary’s 
 face as his eyes followed the parting fig- 
 ure of his employer. He was clever 
 enough to know that nothing makes a 
 man surer that he is right than to cross 
 him gently. Perhaps he gloated just a 
 little, too, in the thought that Virginia 
 might yet prefer a poor secretary with 
 some expectations to a young master with 
 none. 
 
 Be that as it may, he opened the ledger 
 with a pleased smile and charged $600 
 to “ E. A. P.” 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 Enchantress , We Welcome Thee 
 
 Pelham closed the ledger trium- 
 phantly. The item had been carefully 
 entered; and now, filled with his own 
 affairs, he slipped back to the lawn to 
 find Erebus, who, as he expected, was not 
 far from where he had left him. Indeed, 
 he found that worthy now sound asleep 
 under a tree by the gate opening upon 
 the turnpike. He proceeded to rouse 
 the negro roughly, after he had glanced 
 about to make sure that no one was within 
 hearing. 
 
 “ So you are worried about Mr. Ed- 
 gar, are you? ” he asked. 
 
 Erebus rubbed his eyes stupidly. The 
 secretary dropped a bright new silver 
 levy into his black hand. The negro’s 
 eyes became like saucers. In an instant 
 [ 72 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and for the moment he was all smiles and 
 gratitude. 
 
 Pelham permitted him to digest his 
 lately acquired wealth, then he sug- 
 gested, with a casual air: 
 
 “ Your young master spends a good 
 part of his idleness at his fair cousin’s 
 eh?” 
 
 The negro was on the alert again. He 
 had received instructions from “ Mars’ 
 Edgah ” on that point shortly after his 
 acquisition. 
 
 “ Dunno, sah,” he mumbled stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 Pelham, seeing that he was not to be 
 rewarded freely with the desired infor- 
 mation, became impatient. 
 
 “ Stupid! ” he exclaimed, to the greater 
 anxiety of the slave. “ He sends you with 
 messages and flowers, eh? Come, what 
 have you seen? Out with it, and not a 
 word, on your life, about my asking.” 
 
 The faithful black man dropped his 
 eyes and drew away. 
 
 “ Nothin’, sah, nothin’.” 
 
 6 [ 73 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Black liar! ” cried Pelham, in a rage 
 at being frustrated in his desires by a 
 slave. “ Tell me, or I’ll break every 
 bone in your infernal body! ” 
 
 With a quick movement he raised his 
 cane threateningly. Erebus fell on his 
 knees. 
 
 “ Don’ strike me, Mars’ Pelham, don’ 
 strike me, sah! ” 
 
 “Then answer me!” demanded the 
 secretary fiercely. 
 
 “ Fo’ Gaud, I don’ know, Mars’ Pel- 
 ham. Don’ strike, sah!” 
 
 The cane descended with such force 
 across the crouching negro’s back that it 
 was shattered in many pieces. 
 
 Almost at the instant arose the sound 
 of swiftly galloping horses. Edgar Poe, 
 after his erratic fashion, had taken the 
 neighboring fences and stone wall with 
 a dash and had landed upon his foster 
 father’s lawn. Thus he announced his 
 return home cross-country with his 
 friend, Tony Preston. 
 
 “ Here, enough of that!” he cried, as 
 [ 74 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 he jumped from the saddle within a 
 few feet of Pelham before the secretary 
 could recover his surprise. Poe had not 
 heard the words, but he had seen the 
 blow. 
 
 “ Fair play, Pelham, fair play!” com- 
 manded the young master. 
 
 “ Here, make a ring, Tony. General 
 Pelham and Judge Erebus are about to 
 fight it out! ” 
 
 To the secretary, Poe’s words were far 
 more effective than a blow, but he con- 
 trolled his fury with a huge effort. He 
 did not undervalue the biting implication 
 of equality in the remark, however, as he 
 turned surlily on his heel and started 
 toward the veranda. 
 
 “ Wait, good friends! ” interrupted the 
 ever-happy Tony, who had closely fol- 
 lowed Poe on another horse. “ I call 
 time until Erebus brings the referees a 
 little something to tone up the judg- 
 ment!” He smacked his lips longingly 
 and jumped from the saddle. 
 
 “Good!” cried Poe, much to Pel- 
 
 [ 75 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ham’s disgust, but greatly to the satisfac- 
 tion of his friend. “ Quick, Erebus, to 
 the cellar with you and bring us some of 
 the governor’s best! We have had a 
 hard gallop. Quick, boy! Some of the 
 choicest! ” 
 
 “ Yes, Mars’ Edgah! I’se got it wait- 
 in’ fo’ yo’.” 
 
 With a spirit that would have aston- 
 ished Mrs. Allan, Erebus darted away 
 on his master’s “ errant of mercy,” as 
 Tony aptly characterized such missions. 
 
 Stable boys quickly took the horses in 
 charge. Poe’s chestnut was led to his 
 stall after being scraped and well rubbed 
 down. The reins of Tony’s fine mount 
 were tossed over a limb of a tree, just 
 outside the lawn, to wait impatiently the 
 pleasure of his wayward master. The 
 good horse had waited many times and 
 many hours before for Preston. 
 
 “Look at Pelham!” cried the jolly 
 Tony, so different from young Poe — and 
 no doubt for such reason his boon com- 
 rade — as he glanced reproachfully tow- 
 
 L 76 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ard the veranda. “ He is drinking milk, 
 and on such a day! A man who will 
 drink milk is lost, irrevocably lost.” 
 
 “ Tony, don’t be critical,” observed 
 Poe, in gentle reproof; “Mr. Pelham 
 has a conscience.” 
 
 “ In this world, Mr. Poe,” retorted the 
 secretary sourly, “ a man’s capability is 
 not judged by the liquor he drinks.” 
 
 “ But his capacity is, Pelham,” re- 
 torted Poe good-humoredly, for he was 
 quicker to forget and forgive than his 
 father’s secretary. 
 
 “ Each man to his taste. For myself, 
 I can’t drink milk, my digestion won’t 
 permit it,” laughed Tony. 
 
 “ And I can’t drink water on account 
 of my iron constitution,” laughed Poe. 
 
 In a few minutes Erebus returned 
 with a big tray dangerously poised on 
 high, upon which were glasses, ice, and 
 a long-necked favorite bottle. There 
 was a cry of anxious welcome from 
 Tony as he appeared with his precious 
 burden. 
 
 [ 77 ] 
 
T^he Raven 
 
 “ Come, Tony,” exclaimed the young 
 host, “ we’ll lower these spirits to raise 
 our own.” 
 
 He caught a glimpse of Erebus’s face 
 as the slave lowered the tray adroitly 
 and also safely to the garden table. 
 
 “ You look disconsolate, Erebus.” 
 
 “ A little touch o’ high life, I reckon, 
 Mars’ Edgah,” explained the faithful 
 attendant, somewhat confused at being 
 addressed so familiarly, and uncon- 
 sciously rubbing gentle reminders of the 
 cane. 
 
 “ That accounts for the time he took,” 
 contended Tony impatiently. “ I’ll war- 
 rant he looked out for himself on the 
 way.” 
 
 Poe protested that he would not hear 
 his one and only slave berated. 
 
 “ Come, drink with us, Mr. Pelham,” 
 he suggested hospitably. “ We will have 
 a milk punch, if you like. You drink 
 the milk and we’ll drink the punch, eh, 
 Tony?” 
 
 “ I think it would be wiser for you to 
 
 [ 78 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 join me, sir,” responded the secretary 
 dryly. “ I have just been defending you 
 at some risk to myself, sir.” 
 
 Poe looked up from his glass quiz- 
 zically. 
 
 “What!” he exclaimed, “is the gov- 
 ernor in another whirlwind? Dear old 
 dad! He will worry so about nothing. 
 I have told him I can stop whenever I 
 want to. Now, Tony, I leave it to you; 
 if a man can’t stop, there is some use of 
 stopping; but when he can, where is the 
 use, eh? ” 
 
 Tony nodded with deep philosophical 
 approval. 
 
 “ I don’t see myself,” he drawled 
 weightily; “ but this is a digression.” 
 
 Poe raised his glass exuberantly. A 
 sudden fluttering seemed to fill the air 
 about him. His lip trembled and he 
 sank weakly against the table. A strange, 
 deathlike pallor crossed his cheek. 
 
 “ What is it, Edgar? ” cried his friend 
 in consternation, seizing his arm to sup- 
 port him. 
 
 [ 79 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Did you not see? ” cried Poe, in sup- 
 pressed, awe-stricken tone. “ Did you 
 not see the wing of a big black bird cast 
 its shadow across my cup? ” 
 
 To Poe another world had spoken, as 
 though in prophecy. 
 
 Tony read only from the cups. 
 
 “ It’s too early for that,” he cried 
 jovially and with some relief, for noth- 
 ing could cast a shadow across his cup. 
 “ Come,” he cried. “ Here’s to you, Mr. 
 Pelham!” And raised his glass taunt- 
 ingly. 
 
 The secretary, however, was not given 
 an opportunity to express his contempt 
 for the author of the malicious toast, nor 
 Tony to drink to it, for Poe was on his 
 feet with a sharp protest. Tony looked 
 disconsolate at the prospect of delay. 
 His glass was brimming in air; why 
 wait? he thought, with good-natured im- 
 patience. 
 
 “ Hold — not a drop, on your life-! ” 
 commanded Poe spiritedly, as he, too, 
 raised his glass, “ until you toast the 
 [ 80 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 fairest flower of the South, Virginia 
 Clemm! ” 
 
 The clouds departed from Tony’s brow 
 and his lips were wreathed in smiles. 
 
 The friends touched their glasses 
 heartily: “Virginia Clemm! Virginia 
 Clemm! ” 
 
 Curiously enough, the secretary was 
 the only one to show the effects, seem- 
 ingly, of the beverage, in which his eyes 
 and ears only had participated. Hastily 
 replacing his glass, he moved quickly tow- 
 ard his desk on the veranda, where the 
 increasing perturbation of his thoughts 
 caused Mr. Allan’s letters to fall from 
 his trembling hands in a scattered pile. 
 He stooped to gather them up, with the 
 determination to move into the house, out 
 of earshot of such roisterers, when a 
 sealed letter caught his eye. He sank 
 into a chair, opened and read it. 
 
 “ Ye gods, I’d drink nine draughts to 
 Virginia!” cried Tony, insinuating, by 
 smack of lip and twinkle of eye toward 
 Pelham, that he had exhausted his first 
 [ 81 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 draught and was ready to consider an- 
 other. 
 
 “ Or to any other lady under the 
 moon,” laughed Poe, pretending not to 
 see the allusion. 
 
 Tony protested that he was fastidious 
 in his drinks, and in his toasts as well. 
 
 “ Well, Tony, how did you like the 
 first drink? ” inquired the young master 
 of the house teasingly, pretending not to 
 observe that his friend’s eye was on the 
 bottle. 
 
 The bibulous Tony reversed his empty 
 cup sadly, and watched with sorrow and 
 prayerful reverence depicted on every 
 line of his countenance one or two tiny 
 drops trickle to its rim and fall upon the 
 earth. 
 
 “ I never speak ill of the dead.” 
 
 “ ’Tis the governor’s best vintage, I 
 promise you,” laughed Poe; “ I’ve sam- 
 pled them all.” 
 
 “ It has a taste on the tongue I like,” 
 replied Tony, wistfully glancing again 
 at the bottle; and then, unable to wait 
 [ 82 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 longer, he added: “Another drop, please; 
 even a glass looks better full.” His 
 roguish eye fell again upon the veranda 
 as he raised the bottle. “ Why don’t you 
 join us, Mr. Pelham? What, refuse to 
 toast the fair Virginia? Rumor says you 
 had a fond eye for her once yourself.” 
 
 The shot had its effect. 
 
 “ Yes, Pelham,” laughed Poe in friend- 
 ly fashion, “ they tell me you are my most 
 dangerous rival.” 
 
 “ Indeed, I was not aware that I was 
 so fortunate,” sneered the secretary, vis- 
 ibly vexed at the allusion. 
 
 He clutched the letter which had at- 
 tracted his attention and started for the 
 main doorway to the house. 
 
 Suddenly the air was filled with song. 
 It was like the song of a lark in the early 
 morning, so rich and clear. Pelham, too, 
 stopped at the door to listen. All eyes 
 turned toward the path beyond the stile. 
 The words became more distinct, and 
 each recognized the voice of Virginia, 
 though, indeed, she might have passed 
 
 [ 83 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 for a woodland nymph, so entwined she 
 was with woodbine and honeysuckle and 
 running roses. In one hand she held a 
 bunch of wild flowers, violets, bluets, 
 daisies, and wood anemones; in the other 
 was a wreath which she had woven. She 
 might have been the Goddess of Spring. 
 
 Poe’s heart beat joyously at the pic- 
 ture. Running toward the stile, he cried 
 hilariously: 
 
 “ See, Tony, see, a vision of beauty; 
 come, marshal the zephyrs, draw back 
 the curtains of the sky, still the music of 
 the streams, bid the great elms bow their 
 crested heads! Virginia comes! Behold 
 and listen!” 
 
 The girl mounted the stile over the 
 wall to the garden, pretending, with be- 
 coming maidenly modesty, to be quite 
 unconscious of her flattering ovation. 
 
 She formed a pretty and quaint pic- 
 ture in her light challis, so popular at 
 the time, with her long black curls nod- 
 ding saucily, and a bit of knotted ribbon 
 caught by a rose relieving the youthful 
 
 [ 84 ] 
 
' The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 face. Her dress, with its little fringe of 
 pale pink edging the ruffles, fell over 
 hoops and swayed gently with each 
 movement of the wearer, and beneath 
 it peeped a tiny shoe laced with black 
 ribbons. A much cherished sunshade 
 added to the grace of the young girl, but 
 was not considered to shade. 
 
 Poe caught her hand and assisted her 
 to descend. 
 
 “ Enchantress, we welcome thee! ” 
 
 She smiled now at his wild adulation. 
 
 “ You will not sue me for trespassing, 
 Cousin Edgar? ” she inquired playfully, 
 looking about and greeting also the 
 others. “ I see that I am a lone woman 
 entering a den of lions, and no Daniel to 
 protect me.” 
 
 Her pleasantry brought forth a chorus 
 of protests, in which even Pelham joined. 
 
 “ I’ll be your Daniel, Miss Virginia,” 
 cried Tony eagerly. 
 
 “ What beast would harm the wild 
 rose? ” laughingly queried Poe, one hand 
 on his heart. 
 
 [ 8 S ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Virginia playfully imitated him and 
 called him a flatterer. 
 
 “ Afraid? ” continued Poe, in a mock- 
 heroic strain. “ In a nation of gallant 
 men, in a nation of men of honor and 
 of cavaliers! I thought ten thousand 
 swords must have leaped from their 
 scabbards to avenge even a look that 
 threatened her with insult.” 
 
 Burke’s words in honor of Marie An- 
 toinette were greeted with a burst of 
 applause; for Tony was a claque unto 
 himself, with his. “Bravos!” and his 
 “Encores!” Pelham scowled grimly; 
 Virginia naively intimated that the words 
 were aptly quoted by one who had never 
 worn a sword. 
 
 “Who is the gallant, Miss Virginia, 
 to receive your crown of wild flowers? ” 
 intruded Pelham, encouraged by her 
 salutation, and trying to appear noncha- 
 lant as he tossed his letters on a bench by 
 the veranda and joined the merry group 
 on the lawn, determined to have an open 
 tilt, if need be, for the hand of the fair. 
 
 [ 86 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 He had brooded over his uncertain for- 
 tunes in the lady’s eyes until he had 
 convinced himself that faint heart never 
 yet won fair lady. He overlooked the 
 equally important dictum that the bold 
 heart that wins her must have a sweet 
 way of its own. 
 
 Virginia smiled again faintly as the 
 secretary approached, her eyes stealing a 
 sly glance at Poe. 
 
 “What, this?” she asked, tossing up 
 the crown of wild flowers woven by her 
 hands. “ Isn’t it pretty? I gathered 
 these by the path through the woods. 
 Why, this crown goes to the cavalier who 
 would be the bravest if this were a veri- 
 table lion’s den. Come, gentlemen, tell 
 me, what would you do? ” 
 
 There was a challenging glance of 
 roguery in her eyes as she looked at the 
 three men confronting her with worldly 
 wits and arts, each eager to outdo in her 
 sight the others. 
 
 “ I reckon I’d ask the lion to take a 
 little something,” croaked Tony. 
 
 [ 87 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ I reckon I’d take to the fence pretty 
 lively,” laughed Poe, with a wry but 
 very honest look. 
 
 “ And you, Mr. Pelham? ” inquired 
 Virginia encouragingly, for Virginia had 
 the woman’s art of talking to three men 
 in one group, even when her accepted 
 lover was one of them, and not exclud- 
 ing any. Pelham glowed with pride as 
 his name was called. Even his heart 
 grew pedantic in its important beats. 
 
 “O Miss Virginia!” he began, with 
 a pomposity so impressive as quite to 
 vanquish his rivals, “ I wish the test were 
 here that you might know where sits the 
 truest heart and bravest hand. I would 
 fight until the ruby drops ” 
 
 His earnestness was so intense that 
 there is no telling to what heights of 
 noble deeds his tongue might have com- 
 mitted him had not Virginia broken in 
 upon him with sweetly modulated pro- 
 tests. 
 
 “ O Mr. Pelham!” she cried suspi- 
 ciously, “ your valor would ooze out be- 
 [ 88 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 fore the ruby drops, I fear, and you 
 would take to your heels before Tony 
 could extend his invitation or Edgar scale 
 the fence. No, truth is its own reward. 
 Edgar is the victor.” 
 
 “ But mine would have been a running 
 fight,” protested Poe before the secretary 
 had time to realize that his winged 
 words had flown far from the target of 
 his desire. 
 
 “ Discretion is the better part of 
 valor,” pronounced Virginia, quite judi- 
 cially. The verdict was in, and there 
 was no gainsaying it. 
 
 The young master approached cere- 
 moniously, as if the girl were in truth a 
 queen, knelt formally on the sward, and 
 bowed low his head. 
 
 Virginia placed the wreath of flowers 
 upon his brow, and the observant might 
 perhaps have suspected that she had made 
 the crown to fit that brow, it rested there 
 so gracefully. 
 
 “ I crown thee, Edgar, my champion 
 protector, knight of my heart!” 
 
 7 [ 89 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Her so-called knight covered his make- 
 believe sovereign’s hand with such a pro- 
 fusion of grateful kisses, as seeming evi- 
 dence of fealty, that she was forced to 
 withdraw it, with a command to “ Rise, 
 Sir Knight.” 
 
 Poe sprang to his feet, saluted the lady 
 who had named him the one of her 
 choice, and, strutting with a boastful air, 
 good-naturedly taunted Pelham: 
 
 “ How like you my coronation, brother 
 Pelham? Was ever prince more nobly 
 crowned? ” 
 
 The secretary turned away. 
 
 “ I have no leisure for this child’s play, 
 Mr. Poe.” He crossed to Virginia, kissed 
 her hand, and saluted her. 
 
 He again caught up his papers hur- 
 riedly, his white face became one shade 
 paler, but, otherwise, there was no evi- 
 dence of the bitterness within, unless 
 evinced by the determined step as he 
 turned toward John Allan’s library. 
 
 “ There is your bird of omen which 
 cast a shadow across your cup, Mr. Poe,” 
 [ 90 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 he said, pointing to a large black bird, 
 which crossed the sky, while the group 
 followed its flight with their eyes. 
 
 “ It is only a crow,” cried Tony. 
 “ We’ll drink to him.” 
 
 Edgar Poe grew white and cold, but 
 seeing Virginia’s frightened gaze he 
 whispered: “A shadow of the past, 
 sweetheart, that is all.” 
 
 The merry trio had forgotten the bird 
 before Pelham reached the mansion, but 
 upon the steps he once more turned and 
 with an evil glance stilled the laughter. 
 Then he entered the house, and closed the 
 door behind him none too gently. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 Only Three of Us Left f 
 
 If Pelham left his character behind 
 him on his departure there was no malice 
 engendered in its vivisection, for a peal 
 of merry laughter and joyous badinage 
 only followed the departing secretary, 
 which did not add complacency to his 
 humor. 
 
 “ The angel has shut one lion’s mouth 
 with a bang! ” cried Tony, pointing glee- 
 fully to the closed door. “You can tell 
 by a man’s back when he is at war with 
 the world.” 
 
 “ And himself,” added Virginia, rue- 
 fully dropping her eyes to the path. 
 
 “Yes, you have vanquished one lion, 
 Virginia,” whispered Poe ardently, “ and 
 not with love.” 
 
 Their eyes met. It was for an in- 
 [ 92 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 stant only, but Tony’s quick perception 
 caught it. 
 
 “ Hello! ” he exclaimed, looking about 
 sadly. “ Only three of us left? I cannot 
 stand this. I reckon I’d better go for 
 your glove. Did you not forget your 
 fan? That must be your kerchief down 
 the path. Don’t you understand? Where 
 are your wits? Send me for your salts, 
 a glass of water — anything! ” 
 
 “ Oh, you horrid fellow,” protested 
 Virginia, trying to hide her confusion. 
 
 “ For staying so long? ” asked the ma- 
 licious Tony. “ Hello, there goes my 
 horse. You are so sorry he got away. 
 Yes, oh, yes, I know; whoa, Charger, 
 whoa there, whoa! ” 
 
 He darted down the road at a breath- 
 less pace after his horse, which, not be- 
 ing interested in the displays of royalty, 
 had slipped his bridle from the limb and 
 was calmly starting homeward. 
 
 Poe and Virginia forgot their confu- 
 sion for the instant at the temporary ca- 
 lamity of their friend. They ran to the 
 [ 93 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 summer house to have a better view of 
 the race between horse and master. 
 
 “ He is a merry boy,” laughed Poe, as 
 his friend tripped and rolled on the grass 
 in his eager race. Then he realized that 
 Virginia and he were alone and out of 
 earshot of the mansion. He forgot Tony 
 and the horse. “ Quick, one kiss, Vir- 
 ginia,” he demanded, slipping his arm 
 about her slender waist. 
 
 She pouted gravely, and fled from his 
 embrace into the summer house, made of 
 lattice and running roses, quite like a 
 moth into the flame. 
 
 “ No, no more kisses,” she replied, as 
 he approached her ardently. 
 
 “ Refuse me a kiss, one kiss, a paltry 
 kiss? ” he pleaded. “ What, a niggard of 
 a kiss? The zephyrs, playing in your 
 glossy curls, rob you of them every day 
 you live, as they lovingly pass by, and 
 you never say them ‘ Nay ’ ; the sunbeams 
 wrest them from your lips to feed the 
 daisies with; they are silvered by the 
 moonbeams on a summer’s night; the joy- 
 [ 94 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ous song, bursting into bloom between 
 these love lips, breathes millions of 
 kisses into life. Why, worse than the 
 hoarder of the mountain’s gold, or the 
 graybeard tottering to a lonely grave, 
 clutching as some drowning man the jew- 
 els of a selfish life is the miser of a 
 kiss.” 
 
 She still stood obdurate, then darted 
 from his reach and nestled in a corner of 
 the arbor among the roses. 
 
 “ I think I will keep my kisses for all 
 that,” she protested teasingly. “Your 
 philosophy may suit some other girl who 
 does not know you.” 
 
 Poe approached her, knelt and impor- 
 tuned. He had not yet learned that to 
 ask is the lover’s most hopeless way. Yet, 
 he was born a great lover. 
 
 “ Sweet Virginia,” he argued passion- 
 ately, “ what is a kiss to you or me, if 
 kept? It has no being. ’Tis useless on 
 the owner’s lips; while a fair exchange 
 makes both more rich by the barter of 
 such merchandise.” 
 
 [ 95 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ?i Oh, my kisses are not rich unless ex- 
 changed for yours? A man’s conceit! ” 
 
 “No, I do not mean — ” stammered 
 Poe, in an effort to explain, which only 
 made it worse. Then he tried another, a 
 more experienced tack: 
 
 “ Well, keep them, I can live without 
 them.” 
 
 He walked away indifferently, though 
 his heart and lips were not indifferent. 
 
 “ Indeed,” pouted Virginia, her eyes 
 wistfully following him, “ how long? ” 
 
 “ A second! ” 
 
 He was at her side again and waiting. 
 
 “ Virginia, we are wasting time. Some 
 one will come from the mansion house. 
 Then I must wait until the moon is up.” 
 
 “The moon!” His sweetheart laughed 
 a little scornful laugh. “ Oh, Luna is a 
 formidable rival.” 
 
 “ How so? ” asked Poe. 
 
 “ Why, is not the Queen of Night the 
 mistress of all poets? I suppose it was 
 she who claimed you last night.” 
 
 There was a tone of gentle reproach 
 
 [ 96 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 in her voice, together with a note of de- 
 termination to teach her lover that neg- 
 lect is the one crime in the category of 
 the feminine mind not to be overlooked. 
 
 “No, truth to tell,” explained the 
 lover, “ no spirit body claimed me last 
 night. I was with Tony.” 
 
 “ With Tony? ” she repeated suspi- 
 ciously. “ And you are sure no spir- 
 its ” 
 
 “ Virginia,” he laughed gayly, “ you 
 must learn not to ask such foolish ques- 
 tions.” 
 
 “ How did you spend the evening? ” 
 she repeated indifferently. “ Come, con- 
 fess.” 
 
 “ Telling fortunes,” he replied with an 
 air of equal indifference. 
 
 “ With cards? ” she asked incredulous- 
 ly. Her eyes twinkled between the 
 lashes. He approached her tenderly. 
 
 “Nay, my love, telling your fortune, 
 my fortune, in the stars.” 
 
 “ I’m sorry — ” sighed Virginia sadly. 
 
 “ Why? ” he quickly asked, sitting be- 
 
 [ 97 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 side her and looking longingly into her 
 eyes. 
 
 “ — that ’tis not starlight now, that you 
 might read my fortune.” 
 
 “ Stars are not necessary,” he replied 
 passionately; “ for 
 
 “ c The brightness of her eyes would shame 
 those stars 
 
 As daylight doth a lamp ! ’ ” 
 
 “ That’s what another wooer said to an- 
 other lady,” she cried impatiently, “ and, 
 then, a poet told him what to say.” 
 
 “ Begin, astrologer, begin,” she cried 
 again. “ My fortune was told but yes- 
 terday. I’ll see if you confirm it.” 
 
 He now was vexed. 
 
 “ Who told it? ” he asked jealously. 
 
 “ A gypsy,” she replied with triumph- 
 ant but downcast eyes. “ He was very 
 handsome, too.” 
 
 “No doubt,” said Poe, rising. “ What 
 did he tell? ” 
 
 “ He mentioned a dark gallant who 
 
 [ 98 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 was desperately in love with me, and an- 
 other who was likely to become a very 
 desperate rival.” 
 
 “ Perhaps he meant Pelham.” Poe 
 laughed heartily at the thought of it. 
 
 Then, with great formality, he waived 
 Virginia to a seat in the center of the 
 arbor, and enthroned her among the roses 
 like a fairy queen. 
 
 “ Come, sit very still, and I’ll convince 
 you that I am a prince of necromancy. 
 Do not be frightened as I cast the horo- 
 scope.” 
 
 She obeyed reluctantly. 
 
 He put his finger warningly to his 
 lips, then solemnly drew his kerchief 
 from his pocket and folded it strangely. 
 
 “ Hush! if you laugh, you will destroy 
 the spell.” 
 
 After several strange passes, he took 
 the points of the folded handkerchief be- 
 tween the fingers of each hand and meas- 
 ured her features. She looked up at him 
 wonderingly; for his manner was very 
 serious. 
 
 [ 99 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 He began his incantations: 
 
 “ From eye to chin 
 It is too thin ; 
 
 From eye to ear 
 Much I fear ; 
 
 Across the eyes 
 The prize all lies ” 
 
 Before his sweetheart realized the ul- 
 terior designs of her willful lover, he had 
 deftly covered her eyes and kissed her 
 full upon the lips. She had no time for 
 defense, and the inclination perhaps was 
 wanting. 
 
 “ Whoa, there, whoa,” rang out in 
 Tony’s gleeful voice, as his curly head 
 popped through the roses of the arbor. 
 “ I reckon I caught my horse too 
 soon.” 
 
 There was a great scrambling and con- 
 fusion as the lovers sought to convey the 
 impression upon the unexpected visitor 
 that everything was quite as it should be, 
 and nothing as it should not be. Tony 
 [ 100 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 laughed, which only added to their em- 
 barrassment. 
 
 “ I came back to say good-by,” he final- 
 ly explained between peals of merriment. 
 “ I must really go this time. Mother 
 does not know where I am.” 
 
 He controlled himself at length, as- 
 sumed a very pious air, and started as 
 if to take his departure. Poe and Vir- 
 ginia followed to the lawn, pleading with 
 him. 
 
 “ What is your hurry, Tony? ” asked 
 the young man. “ Oh, you need not fear. 
 There is nothing more to see now, is 
 there, Virginia?” He laughed in spite 
 of himself. “ You are not de trop , Tony 
 — is he, Virginia? ” 
 
 “ Tony de trop ? ” exclaimed Virginia, 
 with an air of haughty indignation, the 
 last resort of the one who is caught. “ Of 
 course not. I wish he had come sooner.” 
 
 Tony only laughed again. Poe looked 
 serious this time. 
 
 “Oh, / am not de trop ,” explained 
 Tony, to the continued annoyance of his 
 [ ioi ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 friends. “ It is the lovers that are always 
 de trop in this world. That is the rea- 
 son they leave the earth for little pil- 
 grimages among the clouds.” 
 
 He pirouetted around on one foot glee- 
 fully. 
 
 “ Hard - hearted scoffer,” protested 
 Virginia, hitting their tormentor play- 
 fully with a rose. 
 
 “ I’ll buy your silence if it takes the 
 governor’s last drop,” laughed Poe. His 
 eye had fallen upon the contents still re- 
 maining in the bottle on the table on the 
 lawn. Tony’s eye was on it, too. Tony 
 had his price, and his friend knew it. 
 “ Here, fill a stirrup cup,” laughed Poe 
 in desperation. “ We must buy your 
 silence if it takes the governor’s last 
 drop!” He handed Tony a goblet run- 
 ning to the brim. 
 
 “ Don’t force me or I shall have to 
 yield,” cried Tony, catching up the glass 
 before there was any chance of the 
 offer being countermanded. “ None of 
 our family ever could say ‘ No ’ — but 
 [ 102 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 that’s a digression,” he added apolo- 
 getically. “ Fill, fill; here’s to my sweet- 
 heart! ” 
 
 The lovers looked at each other in 
 blank astonishment. Tony had never 
 been known to center his affections upon 
 any one girl in all his life. 
 
 “Your sweetheart, Tony!” they cried 
 in surprise. 
 
 “Have you not heard?” blandly in- 
 quired the irrepressible visitor, but not 
 before he had drained the contents of an- 
 other glass and caught up the bottle. “ I 
 thought everyone knew that,” he added 
 knowingly. 
 
 “ Who is she, Tony? ” Poe and Vir- 
 ginia demanded in one breath. 
 
 With quizzical dignity, Tony raised 
 the bottle and, looking at it with eyes of 
 love, exclaimed with a sigh: 
 
 “Merry Whisky!” 
 
 There was a peal of laughter, but the 
 connoisseur of all beverages was quite 
 grave. He protested that he was in ear- 
 nest. Then, affectionately embracing the 
 [ 103 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 bottle once again to his friend’s amuse- 
 ment, he began to extol the virtues of 
 “ his sweetheart.” 
 
 “ There’s a figure for you,” he cried 
 gratefully. “ Show me a more swanlike 
 neck or a sweeter pucker to the lips. We 
 have our lover’s quarrels, too, but they 
 are short. Father objects to our union. 
 Sub rosa , he’s in love with her himself. 
 Oh, merry, you are the dearest love a 
 man ever had, so soothing, so confiding, 
 so demonstrative. I am never so happy 
 as when we are together. Sweet one, you 
 inspire me with new life and hope. My 
 veins leap for joy at your approach. I 
 swear ‘ Merry Whisky ’ shall never know 
 so true a lover as Tony Preston.” 
 
 His bit of raillery was so characteristic 
 that Virginia and Poe could not but for- 
 give him for returning at the wrong mo- 
 ment. Indeed, they embraced him glee- 
 fully as he pronounced the last words of 
 his little pleasantry. 
 
 The glasses were again filled, and the 
 voices of the three, thoughtless of the fu- 
 ll io 4 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ture, caught up in happy unison the 
 words of Tom Moore: 
 
 “ Then quick, we have but a second ; 
 
 Fill round the cup while you may, 
 
 For time, the churl, hath beckoned, 
 And we must away, away.” 
 
 Though there was a note of warning 
 in the poet’s exaltation, the trio saw it 
 not. 
 
 8 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 And I Love Ton! 
 
 The song had died away; the glasses 
 had been clinked for the last time that 
 afternoon. Tony, in a most complacent 
 humor, had placed his foot in the stirrup 
 and sprang to the saddle, preparatory to 
 a gallop homeward. 
 
 Virginia patted the horse playfully 
 and called him a “ jolly good fellow.” 
 
 “ Who? ” asked Tony, as he looked up 
 inquiringly from inspecting the girths 
 beneath him. 
 
 “ Why, the horse, to be sure,” replied 
 Virginia, smiling. 
 
 Tony intimated that he did not won- 
 der at her praise of an animal that had 
 shown sufficient intelligence to make his 
 exit at quite the proper cue that after- 
 noon, and now was to bear his master well 
 out of earshot. 
 
 [106] 
 
' The Love Story of Edgar . Allan Poe 
 
 “ I was about to put this rose in the 
 rider’s lapel,” laughed Virginia vexedly, 
 “ but now the charger, not the master, 
 shall wear it.” 
 
 She fastened the rose in the bridle. 
 The beautiful animal showed his appre- 
 ciation by trying in vain to nip its petals. 
 
 “Now, see that you take your rider 
 straight home; no meanderings,” com- 
 manded Virginia. 
 
 “ No meanderings,” replied Tony, sa- 
 luting, jockeylike, with his whip. 
 
 He took up the reins. Poe found a 
 point of vantage high on the wall from 
 which to wave his boyhood friend a fare- 
 well. Virginia laughingly swung open 
 the gate to let him pass. 
 
 Before the horse could pass through 
 to the public road, however, the attention 
 of all was arrested by sounds from the 
 house. 
 
 “No, no, no,” was heard in John Al- 
 lan’s familiar voice. The tones were ex- 
 cited — angry. 
 
 “ Do not be too hard, Mr. Allan,” 
 [ 107] 
 
The Raven 
 
 pleaded Pelham, with a hypocritical ring 
 of sympathetic regret. “ I may have been 
 mistaken, sir.” 
 
 John Allan, followed by his cringing 
 secretary, strenuously descended the steps 
 from the mansion house. 
 
 “ No, no, no,” reiterated the master 
 firmly, “ don’t excuse him, sir; in every- 
 thing he has opposed my will.” 
 
 Poe caught sight of the planter as he 
 walked to the lawn. There was a boyish 
 gleam of delight in his eyes. 
 
 “ Here is father,” he cried joyfully to 
 his comrades, “ come to join our revel. 
 Dismount, Tony, dismount; we’ll toast 
 the governor! ” 
 
 “ You have had your last revel here,” 
 sharply responded the planter. 
 
 Poe’s hand fell in surprise, as he re- 
 placed upon the table the glass he had 
 so joyously taken up. Virginia stood 
 speechless. Tony drew closer the rein 
 of his good horse, as he quickly leaped 
 to the ground. A silence fell upon the 
 scene like a pall, which was filled with 
 [ 108 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 uncertainty for those who had recognized 
 the tone of anger in the master’s voice 
 and which boded something ill, they 
 knew not what. Mrs. Allan, too, came 
 quickly from the house, where, from the 
 window, she had watched, with furtive 
 glances and a pleased smile, the young 
 people enjoying themselves upon the 
 lawn. 
 
 Poe broke the silence. 
 
 “ Father, Cousin Virginia is present. 
 Let us settle any misunderstandings some 
 time when we are alone.” 
 
 The old gentleman trembled with pas- 
 sion, which had grown for many days 
 with the “ meat it fed on.” 
 
 “ The world can witness my final res- 
 olution, sir. I have endured your prodi- 
 galities as long as I can. You must leave 
 this place at once. I disinherit you.” 
 
 A shock of sorrow shot through the 
 hearts of the little circle of loving wit- 
 nesses. The father stood rigid; the son 
 looked calmly, sadly at him. 
 
 “John, what are you saying?” plead- 
 [ 109] 
 
T'he Raven 
 
 ed Mrs. Allan in a voice choked with the 
 emotions of motherly love and sympa- 
 thy. She tried to restrain her husband 
 with a gentle pressure of her hand. 
 
 He made no answer, but moved stub- 
 bornly beyond her touch. 
 
 “ Do you mean this, father? ” trembled 
 on Poe’s lips. His friends bent forward 
 in anxiety to catch the planter’s answer. 
 
 “ 1 Father ’ me no more,” fiercely com- 
 manded the old man. “ I was your bene- 
 factor, your father, until you proved 
 unworthy of my love. I gave you every- 
 thing, even to my name. Read this, sir, 
 read this.” 
 
 He handed Poe a letter, which, in his 
 anger, had been crumpled almost beyond 
 recognition in his hand. Edgar took it 
 calmly, respectfully. His eye glanced 
 over it. A faint, sad smile played upon 
 his sensitive, quivering lip. 
 
 “A college bill for $1,600,” he said 
 softly. “ Well, I acknowledge it. At 
 least, I never hide my faults.” 
 
 His reply was so manly that tears of 
 [ no] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 loving admiration welled into Virginia’s 
 eyes. Tony pressed his friend’s arm firm- 
 ly to encourage him. 
 
 “ Oh, it is not merely this,” exclaimed 
 the elder man in self-justification; for he 
 saw that the sympathy of the unhappy 
 witnesses to the scene of family dissen- 
 sion was not with him, and this only 
 augmented his stubborn determination. 
 “ ’Tis everything combined. You op- 
 pose my will ; you upset the rules of my 
 house; you cross me in everything; the 
 high aspirations I had for you, you have 
 blighted; you spend your hours with dis- 
 solute companions ” 
 
 “Father!” cried Poe, deeply hurt at 
 a reflection so pointedly intended for 
 Tony. He could stand injustice toward 
 himself, but could not bear to hear an 
 insult pronounced against his friend. 
 
 “John!” whispered Mrs. Allan re- 
 proachfully. 
 
 The remonstrances of mother and son 
 had, however, no effect. 
 
 “You will drive me mad,” continued 
 
 [in] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the planter wildly. “You must go, sir; 
 do you hear? Collect your traps, every- 
 thing that belongs to you. Not another 
 day shall you spend beneath this roof. 
 Here is some money for a new start, and 
 God go with you, sir.” 
 
 For the first time Poe’s eyes flashed in 
 proud defiance, but he mastered himself; 
 and his demeanor was still gentle. He 
 drew himself to his full height. His 
 voice was low, but trembled with emo- 
 tion, as he quietly but firmly declined as- 
 sistance. 
 
 “ I could accept kindness from you as a 
 son,” he said, “ but as a stranger never! ” 
 He took a step toward his foster father, 
 who had done so much for him in the 
 past, and who now had become so cruel 
 to him, as if to plead with him for jus- 
 tice; stopped in doubt; then continued 
 feelingly: “You bid me leave the only 
 home I have ever known, the only father 
 I remember. It is well. I would be too 
 ungrateful not to obey your every wish — 
 I will not say your command. Nor will 
 [ 112 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 I attempt to justify myself, sir, further 
 than to say that I believe you do me 
 wrong. You brought me up a child of 
 luxury; wine flowed in fountains at your 
 table ; I was not taught what money 
 meant; my associates were gay, and you 
 laughed at my boyish follies. I have 
 done wrong, sir, very wrong; but am I all 
 to blame? ” 
 
 John Allan sat on the bench where he 
 had thrown himself, disconsolate but un- 
 yielding; one hand covered his eyes, the 
 other hung loosely by his side, twitching 
 nervously. 
 
 “ Give me your hand, sir; you will not 
 deny me that? ” 
 
 The planter did not stir or raise his 
 eyes. Poe knelt and kissed his hand. 
 
 His emotion seemed too much to bear 
 as he arose to his feet. 
 
 “ A good-by for you and the dear lady 
 who took my mother’s place,” he whis- 
 pered almost inaudibly. He clasped his 
 foster mother tenderly in his arms. 
 
 She was too overcome to speak. 
 
 [ 1 13 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 He broke away from her loving arms 
 and caught up his cloak and hat quickly 
 from the table. He could not even look 
 at Virginia; he had not the courage. 
 
 “ Heaven bless you both,” he whis- 
 pered gratefully to his foster parents, 
 “ and grant that you may live to know 
 that the little orphan boy you gave a 
 home has a memory and a heart. I go 
 alone into the world ” 
 
 There was a sharp cry. 
 
 “ Not alone, Edgar! ” 
 
 Virginia was in his arms; Erebus was 
 kneeling by him. 
 
 His heart beat anxiously as he looked 
 into his sweetheart’s startled face. 
 
 “ Reflect,” he cried in anguish, “ I am 
 an outcast! ” 
 
 “ And I love you ! ” was the only an- 
 swer in Virginia’s eyes. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 The Black Cat 
 
 And what a change! From the man- 
 sion of affluence to the dwellings of the 
 poor; from liveried servants — nay, even 
 slaves — to the little room where loving 
 hands cheerfully wait upon their own; 
 from the position of a young prince, re- 
 spected, honored, the observed of all ob- 
 servers, wined, petted, and dined, to a 
 poor, unappreciated poet, struggling with 
 his pen for a pittance, and, too often, in- 
 stead of that pittance to sustain the life 
 of those he loved, meeting with rebuff, 
 insult, the denial of even a reading of 
 his verse. The ideal, and then the real. 
 Standing at the well of life, the rich vase 
 shattered by himself, he slaked his thirst 
 wearily from one of the chipped pieces. 
 Such was Poe, the poet and the youth; 
 such was Poe, the poet and the man. 
 
 ["Si 
 
The Raven 
 
 Love was sweet, however, to Edgar 
 Poe and his inspiration wife; even as 
 wanderers in Baltimore, Philadelphia, 
 and New York, they found a temporary 
 resting place. His pen transcribed the 
 images of his thought, and they were 
 weird and intense, but they were power- 
 ful, and while the world would not stop 
 to pay, it stopped to listen. Virginia’s 
 love was too sensitive to reproach him. 
 
 Her health was not good, but she 
 brought her husband the sympathies 
 which made it possible for him to write 
 great stories, rare poems. 
 
 One evening in their meager lodgings 
 in the City of Brotherly Love the poet 
 lounged at his table writing, first care- 
 lessly, then with a frenzy of hope and 
 anxiety born of fear. He must win for 
 her, for love in a cottage, Poe found, had 
 all the romance while chance spun the 
 webs of life, but it required gold — just a 
 little — that monster that feeds upon the 
 brain and heart of man — to make life all 
 that it should be. The pity of it touched 
 
 [n6] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 his heart, but the realization forced the 
 truth upon him. 
 
 “ What are you writing, Edgar? ” 
 asked Virginia, as she lay upon a couch 
 beside him and watched with her lus- 
 trous eyes the meanderings of his pen. 
 
 “ I am writing to Tony,” was his reply. 
 
 “ I am glad of that,” she said; “ Tony 
 is so dear to us. He belongs to the past 
 now,” she continued. 
 
 “ He is a friend,” Poe said; “ and he 
 will belong to the future. Would we 
 had more such friends! ” 
 
 The poet’s pen had run fitfully at 
 first, then more intensely. His thoughts 
 seemed to come to him in rapid vision, 
 until he was overcome with them. They 
 were simple thoughts, then wild and fret- 
 ful thoughts, then tragic thoughts. 
 
 “Tony, Tony, Tony!” he must pour 
 out his whole heart to the one friend of 
 his boyhood days whom he could trust; 
 to the one friend of his manhood days 
 whom he felt could not comprehend his 
 written thoughts, but who understood 
 [ii 7] 
 
The Raven 
 
 and knew him. Life had grown so check- 
 ered for him and for Virginia since they 
 were cast upon the world that he must 
 pour out his soul to some one, and to 
 whom if not to Tony? 
 
 “ My own dear Tony,” he wrote at the 
 top of the scroll. “ I must speak to you 
 to-night, for you take me back to the 
 Richmond days, the days of love and 
 hope and forgetfulness. You take me 
 back to Charlottesville with all its rogu- 
 eries. You have turned night into day 
 for me so often, and now it is by the 
 memory of that joyous laughter that my 
 soul sits more lightly in its seat. I come 
 to you as a child to its mother and tell 
 you of my joy and sufferings. I shall 
 not write the truth, for I dare not. I 
 shall speak my fancy, the wild halluci- 
 nations of my brain, and you must judge 
 what is true and what is false, for I write 
 ’twixt fact and fancy. No poet ever told 
 the truth — no poet could; but you know 
 me, and rambling through the visions of 
 my brain, which tear my soul as if it 
 [uS] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 were swamped in the big maelstrom of 
 life, for life has been that to me since our 
 Richmond days; yet with it all, Virginia 
 has been my constant guide and happi- 
 ness, my hope, salvation; and as she lies 
 asleep by my side, I think of Tony, my 
 old friend Tony, and open my heart to 
 him.” 
 
 His pen stopped, for he felt the de- 
 pression that comes with reduced circum- 
 stances, especially by night. He felt it 
 bitterly, for he was unfortunately great 
 enough to be able to realize the sadness 
 of life’s battle in which he was able to 
 bring so little to the protection of the 
 one he loved. 
 
 “ For the most wild yet most homely 
 narrative which I am about to pen,” he 
 wrote, “ I neither expect nor solicit be- 
 lief. Mad, indeed, would I be to expect 
 it, in a case where my very senses reject 
 their own evidence. Yet mad am I not — 
 and very truly do not dream, but to-mor- 
 row I die, and to-day I would unburden 
 my soul.” 
 
 [ 1 19 1 
 
The Raven 
 
 He paused, and his mind wandered 
 back again to the Richmond days when 
 he and Tony had ridden along the river 
 banks and they had laughed and sang 
 and were joyous. It was so changed 
 now, but he did not regret, for he had 
 chosen, and he was brave enough to fight 
 alone and take the day as it came, what- 
 ever it might be. Yet, when he looked 
 toward the couch at his sleeping wife, 
 his heart sank within him. 
 
 “ From my infancy,” his pen ran on, 
 “ I was noted for the docility and human- 
 ity of my disposition. My tenderness of 
 heart was even so conspicuous as to make 
 me the jest of my companions. I was 
 especially fond of animals, and was in- 
 dulged by my parents with a great vari- 
 ety of pets. 
 
 “ I married early, and was happy to 
 find in my wife a disposition not uncon- 
 genial with my own. Observing my par- 
 tiality for domestic animals, she lost no 
 opportunity of procuring those of the 
 most agreeable kind. We had birds, 
 [ 120 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 goldfish, a fine dog, rabbits, a small mon- 
 key, and a cat.” 
 
 He stopped, for a shudder had passed 
 through his frame as he wrote the last 
 word. There was something about a cat 
 — his black cat — which was uncanny. 
 He did not realize at the time what it 
 meant, and the feeling passed away as 
 he tiptoed to the couch, kissed his sleep- 
 ing wife for momentary comfort, and re- 
 turned to his letter. 
 
 He wrote on and on with tender fancy 
 of his home life and of his feline friend, 
 and smiled as he noted how the compan- 
 ion of his life had found in their cat the 
 popular notion that it was a witch in dis- 
 guise. 
 
 “ Pluto — this was the cat’s name,” he 
 wrote, “ was my favorite pet and play- 
 mate. I alone fed him, and he attended 
 me wherever I went about the house. It 
 was even with difficulty that I could pre- 
 vent him from following me through the 
 streets.” 
 
 His fancy then began to lead him 
 9 [ 121 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 astray, and built* from a trifle a great 
 tragedy. 
 
 He told how Pluto had eyes which 
 strangely came to haunt him. Finally, 
 he told how in his desperation there- 
 from he had taken his penknife from his 
 waistcoat pocket, opened it, grasped the 
 poor beast by the throat, and deliber- 
 ately cut out one of its eyes from the 
 socket. 
 
 He stopped again aghast, as he real- 
 ized the damnable atrocity which his 
 fancy had depicted. 
 
 Then he told of the hanging of the 
 cat in his effort to destroy the haunting 
 which its presence had brought him; 
 how another cat was found by him, and 
 welcomed by his wife in her sweet, in- 
 nocent effort to bring back a companion 
 for his loneliness. 
 
 It seemed now as if his pen ran riot 
 under the wildness of his fancy, and he 
 indited things to Tony of which he had 
 never heretofore dreamed. 
 
 Fie went on to say that the second vis- 
 [ 122] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 itor was black, too, and also had one eye 
 only, and that the remaining eye haunted 
 him more terribly than that of the first. 
 He described to Tony how one day the 
 cat had followed him and his wife to 
 the cellar depths, and how, uplifting the 
 ax, and forgetting in his wrath the child- 
 ish dread which had hitherto stayed his 
 hand, he had aimed a blow at the ani- 
 mal, which, of course, would have 
 proved instantly fatal had it descended 
 as he had wished; how this blow had 
 been arrested by the hand of his wife; 
 how, goaded by the interference into a 
 rage more than demoniacal, he had with- 
 drawn his arm from her grasp and had 
 buried the ax in her brain; how she had 
 fallen dead upon the spot without a 
 groan. 
 
 With a wild cry Poe sprang from the 
 desk where he had been writing, for his 
 imagination had driven him to the point 
 of the portrayal of facts too terrible. He 
 turned back to the letter, however, and 
 read his last words with a delirious eye, 
 [ 123 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 his hands trembling as he clutched the 
 script still wet between his fingers. 
 
 He stopped and gasped. He had gone 
 too far, and yet he had not gone far 
 enough. He felt that the denouement 
 was yet beyond him, and that his mind 
 had wandered far away from Tony. He 
 realized the power of the story, and yet 
 he had not half written it. He looked 
 toward Virginia, and he shuddered 
 at the crime toward her, even of his 
 thought, but she was still asleep — sweet- 
 ly asleep. He kissed her again, and she 
 awoke and spoke to him. 
 
 “ What are you doing, Edgar? ” she 
 asked. 
 
 “ Only writing, just writing — always 
 writing,” he said. 
 
 He turned to his desk and tore up 
 the envelope addressed to Tony, and 
 marked across the script: “The Black 
 Cat.” 
 
 He would finish it, and it would bring 
 food to the lips of the one whom he 
 loved best, and yet had killed in fancy, 
 [ 124] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 but neither she nor Tony would ever 
 know. 
 
 The clouds without grew gray in tint 
 as they sifted the silver moonbeams, but 
 even they did not penetrate the home 
 where the poet wrote, for the shutters 
 were closed, and the story of his heart 
 was locked within those shutters, locked 
 to Virginia’s heart — locked to his own 
 brain ; but the moonbeams without danced 
 upon the roof above him and in their 
 midst, a mist, forming poetry’s image, 
 seemed to crown with a poet’s wreath 
 the poet’s lodging. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 The World Is Slow to Recognize a 
 Genius 
 
 The ideal of life comes with a home, 
 however humble, and the responsibilities 
 come, too. Poe found the bitter with the 
 sweet — only more bitter. 
 
 Weary years of struggle, of hope, and 
 of disappointment were thus passed by 
 him and his child-wife until, with their 
 constant and loving companion and 
 mother, Mrs. Clemm, that guardian an- 
 gel of two great lives, they were finally 
 located in the meager cottage on the 
 King’s Bridge Road at Fordham. Ere- 
 bus, too, clung to them in their hour of 
 need, and lent his cheer faithfully to 
 their service. 
 
 Again the summer flew by in compara- 
 tive happiness, for poverty is not so sad 
 in summertime. 
 
 [126] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Then, too, the country was so beautiful 
 that the imagination was filled with the 
 balm of the air, the soft green of the 
 foliage, and the restfulness of nature, 
 which suggests peace and plenty. There 
 was Harlem River flowing to the sea; 
 Dyckman Bridge to wander by at night, 
 the play of the moon shadows through its 
 tall, cold arches, and the radiant lights 
 of the growing city beyond. 
 
 Here he wandered through the woods 
 and by the river with Virginia, and 
 dreamed out his tales grotesque and ara- 
 besque, or sat alone in some woodland 
 nook and noted on odd bits of paper the 
 grim fancies which were bred of his 
 loneliness, his responsibility, his ambi- 
 tions, and his sadness. 
 
 The country folk often saw him sitting 
 among the trees on some knoll or rocky 
 elevation, his eyes lost on the landscape, 
 brooding over life, nature, hope, and 
 hopelessness. They would shake their 
 heads and pass him undisturbed, for they 
 knew him not. Indeed, who knew him 
 [ 127] 
 
The Raven 
 
 or dreamed that the now frail body sup- 
 porting the broad brow had a soul with- 
 in eating out a life the world would one 
 day wonder at? 
 
 So the summer days passed away. 
 
 The cherry tree by the little cottage 
 grew red with fruit. 
 
 Poe and Virginia sat beneath its shade 
 and laughed and talked to the wild birds 
 that came to feed in its branches. Vir- 
 ginia called them her friends, and the 
 poet did not mar her dream. He knew 
 that they would fly away when the cher- 
 ries were gone. And so they did — like 
 friends. 
 
 The leaves fell, and he marked their 
 falling. The winter came. Snow and 
 ice covered the trees. The window panes 
 were frosted in fantastic shapes as weird 
 as his own fancies. The solitary cottage 
 became bleak and cold. 
 
 Virginia coughed and longed for the 
 summertime again. She seemed so weak 
 and wan, except when a deceptive flush 
 played upon her cheek. The mother and 
 [ 128 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the husband scarcely dared to think of 
 it, much less speak of it, though their 
 eyes revealed their fear. 
 
 The poet wrote and wrote and trudged 
 to the city over Dyckman Bridge. Some- 
 times he came back glad, oftener sad. 
 
 The storms raged more fiercely, and 
 the little family was reduced to want. 
 
 Virginia still daily sighed for the sum- 
 mer verdure of the dear old cherry tree, 
 that looked so hungry and forlorn in its 
 garb of snow and ice. She almost forgot 
 her own sorrows as she saw through the 
 window its familiar limbs straining un- 
 der the cold stalactites. Nature gave 
 even the tree its burden in life. She 
 wondered if the sun would ever warm its 
 heart again and the robins swing in its 
 branches, and Edgar and she sit beneath 
 its shade and dream the hours away in 
 happiness. She sighed as she thought 
 how distant was the springtime. 
 
 This morning her face was white and 
 drawn and the eyes burned with a pit- 
 eous light. Her hair had been caught 
 [ 129] 
 
The Raven 
 
 carelessly together, with no attempt at 
 beautifying the face. Her dress was of a 
 pale gray, adding to the hopeless misery 
 she bore. It was evidently some garment 
 made over from her finer store, and one 
 could see the slight figure plainly through 
 the material. 
 
 She felt the wind whistle more shrilly 
 than ever about the cottage, and her 
 reverie was disturbed by her mother, 
 Mrs. Clemm, coming in from the little 
 kitchen, where she had been at work 
 since the early morning hours upon her 
 household duties and in trying by her 
 thrift to make something out of nothing. 
 
 Unseen by Virginia, she slipped a roll 
 of manuscript from under her apron and 
 hid it among the poet’s papers on the 
 table, and proceeded with her work. 
 
 “ Hush, mother, you will disturb 
 Edgar.” 
 
 The sweet old lady kissed her daugh- 
 ter tenderly. “ A good morning to you, 
 dear,” she said cheerily. “ I did not 
 know that you were up. Here is a cup 
 [ 130] 
 
‘ The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 of tea and toast.” It was all she could 
 give Virginia for the meal that is the 
 breaking of the fast. Indeed, it was prac- 
 tically all that was left; but Virginia did 
 not know. 
 
 “ And how is Eddie? ” she asked anx- 
 iously. 
 
 “ He has been working all night,” re- 
 plied the wife, nodding toward the room 
 upstairs, “ and he looks so wild and 
 strange. Once or twice I stole into the 
 room, but he would only stare at me with 
 his deep, sad eyes, run his hands wildly 
 through his hair, and plunge again into 
 his work. It breaks my heart, mother 
 dear.” 
 
 “Poor Eddie!” sighed the mother, 
 despite her effort to keep bright. “ The 
 darkest cloud has a silver lining, child. 
 You must be brave.” 
 
 She looked anxiously in the woodbox, 
 only to find it empty, and the fire was 
 very low. The wind moaned without. 
 The snow drifted. The morning was so 
 dark that a candle burned upon the table. 
 
 [ 131 1 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ I try to look happy and laugh for his 
 sake when the road is roughest, mother. 
 Edgar’s pen runs night and day, and you 
 know how meager the reward. What 
 have we left for dinner? ” 
 
 “ Scarcely enough for one.” 
 
 Indeed this was too true. 
 
 “ Do not tell Edgar,” whispered Vir- 
 ginia softly. “ He has so much to bear.” 
 
 Her thoughts were always first of him, 
 as his were always first of her. It is easy 
 to forget one’s own sorrows. 
 
 She had barely finished her tea when 
 Erebus passed the window. One could 
 scarcely tell whether he was white or 
 black for the snow on his clothes, his cap, 
 his face. A bundle of sticks, which he 
 had gathered for the fire, was in his arms. 
 
 “ Here is Erebus now with an armful 
 of wood,” cried Mrs. Clemm joyfully 
 as the servant crossed the threshold. 
 
 The faithful negro closed the door 
 quickly behind him, to keep out the cold, 
 and threw his load by the stove. 
 
 “ Don’ yo’ worry, Miss Virginyah,” 
 
 [ 132] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 he chuckled; “wood jus’ grow on trees 
 up yah. Boo!” he continued, swinging 
 his arms across his body to get them 
 warm and breathing on his finger tips. 
 “ I don’ like dis yah New York State 
 fo’ nothin’. Gib me ol’ Virginyah!” 
 
 “ Why, Erebus? ” asked his young mis- 
 tress, laughing through her tears, for the 
 tears would somehow come into her eyes 
 whenever she realized that they had one 
 good friend left, even if he did have a 
 black skin. 
 
 “ Fo’ de Lord, honey,” replied the ne- 
 gro, “ it ’pears like, up yah, dars nine 
 mont’s ob winter and free mont’s ob 
 damn late fall! ” 
 
 “ Erebus, what are you saying? ” 
 
 “ Pardon, Miss Virginyah,” he re- 
 plied, with an apologetic chuckle, “ dat 
 ’flection jus’ slip out.” 
 
 He saw that its author slipped out, too, 
 to avoid further comment. 
 
 Virginia tried to laugh, but it was a 
 sad laugh. 
 
 “ Save those to cook Edgar’s dinner,” 
 [ 133 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 she whispered to her mother as she was 
 about to heap some of the sticks upon the 
 fire, “ but do not let him know. I am 
 not very cold.” 
 
 “ You angel! ” cried the good old lady 
 as she proceeded to disregard her daugh- 
 ter’s injunction. She believed in making 
 the most of the present and trusting the 
 future to the future. 
 
 “Oh!” cried Virginia pathetically, 
 “ why will the world slander Edgar, 
 mother? We know and love him. We 
 are right.” 
 
 Her last words came short and indis- 
 tinct for her coughing. Her mother ran 
 to her assistance, and helped her to a 
 chair and sat beside her. 
 
 “ A little patience.” 
 
 “ I am patient for myself,” sighed Vir- 
 ginia pathetically ; “ but Edgar ! He is so 
 proud, noble, ambitious, and the worldly 
 struggle, the insults and mockeries of 
 common natures afflict him deeply.” 
 
 Mrs. Clemm’s motherly hand caressed 
 Virginia’s hair fondly. 
 
 [ 134 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ The world is slow to recognize a 
 genius,” she said soothingly; “ but when 
 his words are known to his country’s fire- 
 sides, imprinted in the people’s hearts, 
 nothing can take them away. We will 
 be proud of Edgar, truly.” 
 
 “ I am proud of Edgar, mother,” re- 
 plied the child-wife spiritedly, the light 
 of love and the thought of him dancing 
 in her glorious eyes, “ proud of his great 
 gifts. It shows that he is loved of God. 
 But I did not know, when I threw my- 
 self into his arms that day in Richmond 
 to meet the great world hand in hand, 
 how the struggle would be all his, and 
 what a burden I should be.” 
 
 The young poet, who looked the old 
 poet now, had entered the room unob- 
 served. He wore a black coat of rough 
 material, with black satin waistcoat and 
 trousers fastening under his shoes with 
 straps. His stock was of black silk, with 
 unbleached muslin shirt. The lines in 
 his face were deep with sadness. Brave 
 though he was, he had suffered almost 
 [ 135 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 beyond human endurance, and his sad- 
 ness overcame him when he dwelt upon 
 his inability to provide — even the neces- 
 saries of life — for his loved ones. In his 
 hand was a long roll of beautifully writ- 
 ten script, and a quill pen lay half hid- 
 den among the black curls that fell over 
 his delicate ear. 
 
 “ And what a blessing! ” he 'cried with 
 animation, going quickly to the one he 
 loved best of all and fondly kissing her. 
 
 “ O Edgar, how you frightened me! ” 
 she exclaimed, with a little startled laugh 
 of joy, as he put his arms about her. 
 
 “ Come, what are these long faces 
 for? ” he asked cheerily. He kissed his 
 wife affectionately once again. “ Poor 
 child, these lips were made for smiles 
 and kisses! ” 
 
 Even his manly efforts, however, could 
 not relieve the little home of its grim 
 sense of poverty. 
 
 He scarcely realized the threadbare 
 condition of his own black coat and neat 
 but worn stock; but he did realize, and 
 
 [ 136] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 bitterly, too, the poverty of her dress. 
 His lips quivered self-reproachfully. He 
 went to the table and arranged his manu- 
 scripts, humming an air, just to forget, 
 or rather to make them forget. 
 
 “ O Edgar,” cried Virginia, observ- 
 ing his efforts to be cheerful, “ even your 
 jest is sickly! It is you who have the 
 pale and careworn face. Has he not, 
 mother? ” 
 
 “ It’s those old goose quills,” observed 
 the old lady laconically, not without a 
 bit of merry malice in her tone, looking 
 up brightly from her knitting needles, 
 for she lost no time that could add to the 
 comfort of her children. 
 
 “ Hush, Mother Clemm!” cried the 
 poet reprovingly; “ that’s sacrilege. The 
 world’s best wisdom has run off a goose 
 quill! Have faith, Muddy dear, The 
 Stilus — aye, my magazine, The Stilus , 
 will make us nabobs yet.” 
 
 “ The Stilus ! ” laughed Mrs. Clemm. 
 “ I believe more in the hoe. You work 
 too hard the wrong way, my son.” 
 to [137] 
 
The Raven 
 
 She shook her head in her quaint way 
 and made the knitting needles fly again. 
 
 “Work too hard!” repeated the poet 
 seriously. He had pulled up a little table 
 and seated himself by the fire and was 
 correcting his copy, though his thought 
 was rather upon the philosophy of living 
 than upon the fancies of his page. “ No; 
 though I admit, were I the builder of 
 the world, work is an element I would 
 omit most cheerfully.” He shrugged his 
 shoulders, and a grim, cynical look came 
 over his pale features. He scratched 
 away a blot and added a comma, for he 
 was ever the artist, even in despair. 
 
 “ We might be worse,” sighed Virginia 
 faintly. 
 
 She went to her poet-husband and put 
 her hand sympathetically on his shoulder 
 and looked encouragingly into his face. 
 
 “ Hardly,” he replied, gazing up at 
 her with ardent eyes. “ Is this the casket 
 for such a jewel? ” he asked petulantly. 
 “You, Virginia, should have a palace; 
 and you, dear mother, should have a 
 [ 138 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 farm, the best that wealth can buy. Per- 
 haps — well, perhaps I may yet find the 
 rainbow’s end and stumble on my pot of 
 gold.” 
 
 He led his wife gently to the couch, 
 which also he moved near the fire. He 
 saw that her efforts to sympathize with 
 him told upon her. 
 
 He knew that something must be done 
 for her, and quickly, or it would be too 
 late. 
 
 “ Few get their deserts here, my boy,” 
 suggested the mother, who had lived 
 longer and seen more, though she had 
 suffered less. 
 
 Poe looked at her quizzically a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 “True,” he observed humorously; 
 “ most of us get our deserts hereafter .” 
 He pointed grimly downward, then re- 
 turned to his task at the table. 
 
 “ It seems wrong,” sighed Virginia, 
 throwing herself back wearily upon the 
 couch, “ that some men, like our nearest 
 neighbor down the road, should have so 
 [ 139 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 much more than he can use, and we so 
 little.” 
 
 The poet’s eyes flashed proudly in an 
 instant. 
 
 “ There, there, my pretty, envious lit- 
 tle wife!” he laughed, with a mighty 
 effort to keep up the general cheer which 
 meant so much to all. “ Nature has her 
 compensations; she divides her stores.” 
 
 “ He is so rich,” complained Virginia. 
 
 “ Rich! ” exclaimed the poet, rising tri- 
 umphantly. “ Yes, he has vulgar wealth, 
 a civilized barbarian! His name draws 
 the bolts of iron vaults, and back swing 
 the mighty doors; huge jewels light his 
 path by night and make the sun ashamed 
 by day; a retinue of men stand at his 
 beck and call; his carriage waits; and on 
 his walls of tapestry hang pictures which 
 fashion tells him to admire! But, oh, my 
 love, my name upon the check book of 
 my dreamland bank draws forth a wealth 
 this world has never seen. A mighty 
 haze of glory, cloud palaces, and sera- 
 phim to wait on me, rivers of fire and the 
 
 [ Ho] 
 
1 The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 murky shores of death; fiends, goblins, 
 ghastly raven-haunted ruins — all men — 
 all things — jumbled in one black, trem- 
 bling chaos! ” 
 
 He laughed wildly, mockingly. 
 
 “Edgar, Edgar, stop!” cried Vir- 
 ginia, as she arose feebly and threw her- 
 self into his arms. “ You frighten me! ” 
 
 Poe’s bitterness melted into sadness in- 
 stantly. 
 
 “ And will not Virginia join me in 
 my fancy’s palace?” he asked gayly, his 
 lips still trembling, despite himself, with 
 tender pathos. “ ’Tis the only one that 
 I can build.” 
 
 “ Love in a cottage would be more to 
 my taste, dear,” replied Virginia sweetly. 
 She looked with loving eyes upon him. 
 It grieved her to think that her words 
 might have made him suffer. 
 
 “ Well, we have it here,” he suggested, 
 looking about the little room half bit- 
 terly. 
 
 “ It is all my fault,” cried Virginia, 
 “ that you have so much to bear.” 
 
 [ Hi ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Why, Virginia,” he exclaimed, tak- 
 ing his wife gently in his arms and look- 
 ing into her eyes with the fervor of a 
 young lover in his first rapture, “ I had 
 not realized half of life until I knew thee. 
 Oh, what a revelation! I, who swag- 
 gered with the youthful boast that I had 
 tasted every cup, had not tasted one! 
 Love, the soul’s guardian of perfect joy, 
 I had not known.” 
 
 He played with her hair adoringly. 
 
 “ Ah, less — less bright 
 The stars of the night 
 Than the eyes of the radiant girl ! 
 
 And never a flake 
 That the vapor can make 
 With the moon-tints of purple and pearl, 
 Can vie with the modest Eulalie’s most un- 
 regarded curl — 
 
 Can compare with the bright-eyed Eulalie’s 
 most humble and careless curl.” 
 
 “ Men always did say things well,” ob- 
 served Mrs. Clemm dryly — a reflection 
 [ H2] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 which, for the instant, drove away the 
 clouds. 
 
 “ Then you never loved before? ” ques- 
 tioned Virginia shyly. She could not 
 ask too often, nor too often have him tell 
 her of his love. 
 
 “Stupid girl!” cried Mrs. Clemm, 
 who had watched the pretty scene with 
 kindly eyes of motherly approval. 
 “ Have I not told you a thousand times 
 never to let your husband know that you 
 are jealous! And, above all, never let 
 him know that you love him too well. It 
 spoils men. If wives would only reverse 
 things a little they would get more love.” 
 
 The old lady thought she knew. 
 
 Even Virginia laughed. 
 
 Poe took her hand in his and kissed it. 
 
 How slender she was, how white, and 
 yet how bright her eyes. Would she 
 never be her old self again? His heart 
 bespoke his hope ; but his reason gave him 
 little encouragement. 
 
 In her eyes he could see all the past — 
 his mother’s death, his own youth, the 
 
 [ H3] 
 
The Raven 
 
 night when Virginia had promised him 
 her heart and life, his banishment by his 
 foster father, and the years of hardship 
 since. 
 
 He wondered where Tony could be 
 now. It had been so long, so long, since 
 he had seen his friend. 
 
 He wondered what the morrow would 
 bring forth. 
 
 To-morrow? He was forgetting him- 
 self. He must return to his work. It 
 was their only hope. 
 
 He left the couch and went patiently 
 to his labors. 
 
 For some minutes quiet reigned. Vir- 
 ginia dozed at intervals ; the poet worked 
 with acumen. The click of the knitting 
 needles and the scratching of the pen 
 made a sort of industrial music. The 
 bobolink and the lark in their cages and 
 the cat purring under the stove added 
 notes of confidence and friendship. 
 
 The strange melodies were at last 
 broken in upon by the master. 
 
 “ Where are my Stilus letters, dear, 
 
 [ H4] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and the prospectus? ” he asked, not look- 
 ing up. “ Have you seen them? ” 
 
 “ I have them put away,” replied Vir- 
 ginia, rising quickly. Poe, too, was on 
 his feet in an instant, fearing that the ef- 
 fort might be too much for her. “ No, 
 let me get them,” she pleaded. “ I can 
 do so little.” 
 
 To humor her, he smiled and let her 
 pass by him to the stairs, up which she 
 climbed, very slowly, to his room above, 
 humming an old plantation melody. 
 
 There was silence again until, among 
 the writings on the table, Poe happened 
 upon the rejected ones, which Mrs. 
 Clemm had so cautiously placed there. 
 He looked at them and then he looked at 
 her. 
 
 “You played truant yesterday, Mud- 
 dy,” he finally said reprovingly. “You 
 were in the city to sell my verses? ” The 
 mother nodded, continuing her knitting. 
 “ I would not have let you go through 
 the storm had I known it.” She smiled, 
 but made no answer. He arose and went 
 [ 145 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 to her. “You trudged the rounds, and 
 they all said ‘ No ’? ” She nodded hope- 
 lessly. “ Dear Muddy,” he whispered 
 softly, fondly kissing her. “ Do not let 
 Virginia know.” 
 
 He returned to his task; but his pen 
 had scarcely sought the ink when Erebus 
 again entered, his arms full of wood, 
 some of which was newly split. The ne- 
 gro was very gleeful under his huge load, 
 and proud accordingly. 
 
 “ Don’ worry, Marsa,” he muttered 
 hopefully. “ I’ll soon hab a little fire fo’ 
 Miss Virginyah. Boo! Dis yah New 
 York State! ” He threw the wood with 
 a triumphant bang into the woodbox by 
 the stove. 
 
 Poe observed him critically. 
 
 “ Where did you get the sticks, Ere- 
 bus? ” he finally asked. 
 
 “ I’ll soon hab a little fire dat’ll warm 
 yo’ heart, Mars’ Edgah!” Erebus chuc- 
 kled evasively. 
 
 “ There is no wood left on our place, 
 Erebus.” 
 
 [146] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 The negro only chuckled again know- 
 ingly in reply, and filled the stove. 
 
 “ You know right well there is not,” 
 continued Poe firmly. “ Answer me. 
 Where did you get the wood? ” 
 
 Erebus was speechless for the mo- 
 ment, but his mother wit came to his 
 rescue. 
 
 “ I don’ track it in de snow, Mars,” he 
 said solemnly. 
 
 Poe arose and looked at him. 
 
 “Tracked it in the snow!” he ex- 
 claimed, amused in spite of himself. 
 “Where?” 
 
 “ Dat’s ’tween de good Lawd an’ me, 
 Marsa,” admitted the negro reluctantly. 
 
 “Erebus!” exclaimed Poe sharply. 
 
 “Yo’ wouldn’ ’spect Erebus, would 
 you, Marsa, long as youse knowed him? ” 
 
 “ I’d only suspect you of too good a 
 heart under your black skin, Erebus,” 
 observed the poet quietly. He could not 
 but reflect that he had seen some days 
 himself when he had thought almost 
 anything was honest. He could not 
 [ 147 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 reprimand the negro while Virginia suf- 
 fered. 
 
 To avoid revealing his true thoughts, 
 which were conflicting as to his duty, he 
 busied himself with a manuscript, rolling 
 it out many feet in length, somewhat after 
 the fashion of an Egyptian papyrus 
 scroll, and examined it critically. Ere- 
 bus busied himself with the fire, which, 
 at best, only lessened the cold, for the 
 windows and the doors of the cottage 
 were not built to guard its occupants 
 from the blasts of winter. 
 
 “What have you there?” asked Mrs. 
 Clemm, trying to conceal her amusement 
 at the episode. 
 
 “ A few yards of my brains that go to 
 the highest bidder,” laughed the poet, 
 with a pretense of merriment. “ My 
 stomach aspires to be the auctioneer. 
 Boo! Jack Frost seems the only reliable 
 patron of the poets.” He danced to get 
 warm, with a grotesque grimace. “ Hel- 
 lo! Hear the sleigh bells. Some one is 
 happy!” He caught up his hat and bun- 
 
 [ 148 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 died his precious papers together hastily. 
 “ I must be off to town, to fight the pub- 
 lishers — the rhymester’s delight.” 
 
 His jest was pathetic, indeed. 
 
 “ Let me go fo’ you, Mars’,” pleaded 
 Erebus. 
 
 “Not to-day, Erebus,” chuckled the 
 poet grimly, though he knew too well 
 what a trip to the city meant for him. “ I 
 don’t want you to track anything more in 
 the snow.” 
 
 “ ’Deed, I’se hones’, Marsa,” protested 
 the negro profusely. 
 
 “ Of course, we are all honest — even 
 poets,” laughed Poe. 
 
 The sleigh bells on the King’s Bridge 
 Road jingled again in merry time. 
 
 “ Let me go, Edgar,” suggested Mrs. 
 Clemm earnestly. “You stay here and 
 write and look after her.” 
 
 “ I can look after her better, I hope, 
 by going,” replied the poet, shaking his 
 head, “ and the trip is too hard for you. 
 I must hurry and steal a ride, or trudge 
 knee-deep in snow; and my sole has 
 [ H9] 
 
j The Raven 
 
 scarce the fortitude for that,” he added 
 grimly, glancing at his own worn boot, 
 and then following in thought toward the 
 stairs where she had gone. He could not 
 wait for the “ Stilus papers ” now. “ Kiss 
 Virginia,” he cried, “ I cannot look into 
 her eyes again till something’s done. It 
 breaks my heart. It breaks my heart.” 
 
 He rolled his manuscripts closely, 
 tucked them under his coat to protect 
 them from the weather, and started, with 
 a heavy heart hidden by a hopeful smile, 
 toward the door. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 Sleigh Bells 
 
 There was a stamping and banging 
 without — as if a regiment was coming. 
 Before Poe could get to the door it 
 swung open without formality, and Tony 
 Preston — covered with snow — rushed, or 
 rather blew, into the poet’s arms. A cry 
 of astonishment went up from those pres- 
 ent; for, though they had not seen the 
 optimistic Tony in years, no one could 
 fail to recognize that jolly face or ever 
 forget that infectious, boyish laugh. 
 
 “Well, this is a surprise,” cried Poe 
 heartily. “ Come right in and — get 
 warm. Tony! Tony!” 
 
 The visitor did not observe the bitter 
 irony in his friend’s welcoming words, ab- 
 sorbed as he was by his own demonstra- 
 tions of joy. He embraced the poet; he 
 fairly hugged Mrs. Clemm, much to that 
 [I5i] 
 
The Raven 
 
 dear lady’s discomfiture; and he came 
 near embracing Erebus, too, in his mad 
 excitement. Perhaps he still had a fel- 
 low-feeling for the negro who had once 
 brought him the “ governor’s best,” in 
 Poe’s glorious days. 
 
 “ But how in the world did you find us, 
 Tony? ” cried Poe, overcome with de- 
 light, as he threw aside his manuscripts 
 and hat, preparatory to making his visi- 
 tor quite at home. 
 
 “ I stopped at the house of a friend a 
 few miles down the road,” laughed Tony, 
 “ and picked up two ‘ turtledoves ’ who 
 said they would show me the King’s 
 Bridge Road. Much good they did! 
 Blind as bats! ” 
 
 There was a gleam of mysterious pleas- 
 ure in his eyes as he spoke, which aroused 
 the curiosity of the poet and Mrs. 
 Clemm. To their demands as to the 
 whereabouts of said “ turtledoves,” Tony 
 responded with a mysterious chuckle. 
 
 “ They ought to be in the sleigh. They 
 started with me. That’s all I know.” 
 
 [152] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Mrs. Clemm’s sympathetic heart was 
 touched. 
 
 “ They must be cold,” she cried. 
 
 “ Not they,” gurgled Tony, with a 
 mock lovelike sigh. “ They don’t know 
 it’s snowing. They are in love!” 
 
 Poe joined his friend in a hearty laugh 
 at the expense of youthful sentiment; 
 and even his present substantial sorrow 
 seemed for the instant to be banished by 
 the sunshine of his friend’s happy face. 
 Mother Clemm, however, took the affair 
 more seriously. She ran to the window 
 and strained her eyes. 
 
 “ Why, I can’t see a thing in the sleigh 
 but a big fur robe,” she protested inno- 
 cently. 
 
 “ Did you expect to? ” asked Poe 
 dryly. 
 
 He and Tony laughed again. 
 
 “ Erebus, tie the horse and send them 
 in.” 
 
 The faithful negro hastened with a 
 grin to obey the master’s bidding. The 
 excitement till now had been so great 
 11 [iS 3 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 that even Virginia’s absence had not been 
 noted. The poet ran to the door leading 
 to the room above. 
 
 “Virginia! Virginia!” he called. 
 “ Come, quick! Here is a surprise for 
 you.” 
 
 Virginia descended quickly, with her 
 hands full of the poet’s precious papers; 
 and her cry of “ Tony! ” was muffled in 
 the utterance, for that worthy quite un- 
 ceremoniously seized her in his arms, 
 lifted her off her feet, and planted a kiss 
 squarely on her lips. 
 
 Poe looked askance as his frail little 
 wife fairly disappeared from view in the 
 folds of Tony’s big cloak, and his maga- 
 zine prospectus was scattered ruthlessly 
 upon the floor. He let his wife fight her 
 own battles, however, and ran to the res- 
 cue of his precious papers, placing them 
 safely out of reach of the barbarous in- 
 truder. 
 
 “ Our old friend,” cried Virginia joy- 
 fully, when she had recovered her feet, 
 and incidentally her breath. 
 
 [ 154 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” observed Tony 
 solemnly. “ Some years have passed, ’tis 
 true, but still your young friend Tony. 
 But that’s a digression! Quite a family 
 reunion, eh, Virginia?” 
 
 He held her at arms’ length and looked 
 at her, his big heart all in his eyes. A 
 flush of color had crept into her cheek 
 from the unusual excitement, and, for the 
 instant, and for the instant only, her pale, 
 wan face possessed again the light of 
 youth and health. Then she coughed 
 violently, and the color faded. 
 
 Tony noticed her expression hopefully, 
 then anxiously, as he observed the fleet- 
 ing changes in it. 
 
 “ What are you doing? Playing sick? 
 For shame! ” cried Tony in the cheeriest 
 voice; and then, fearful lest he might 
 have said too much, he tried to divert her 
 from herself by running to Mrs. Clemm 
 and gleefully embracing her once more. 
 
 “ How’s Muddy, eh? Looking the 
 brightest and the youngest of them all, 
 in spite of that dyspepsia! I have just 
 [ 155 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 come in time to help you run the hos- 
 pital.” 
 
 The good old lady dexterously avoided 
 a third fearful hug. 
 
 Indeed, if a whirlwind had struck the 
 little cottage at Fordham, it could not 
 have been more effective than the arrival 
 at this time from the “ Old Dominion ” 
 of such a buoyant spirit of early friend- 
 ship. 
 
 “You will be a fit subject for a hos- 
 pital yourself,” replied Poe, “ if you don’t 
 restrain your arms and kisses more effec- 
 tually in my family.” 
 
 He proceeded to brush away the snow 
 that had blown in about the door, as if 
 to avoid the appearance even of the bit- 
 ing cold. His sensitive imagination made 
 it doubly irritating to his pride to see it 
 there. 
 
 “ What a doctor you would make, 
 Tony,” cried Virginia, who was now re- 
 clining restfully on the couch. “ Why, I 
 begin to feel better already.” 
 
 “ His father intended him for a doc- 
 [ 156 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 tor,” laughed the poet, “ but somehow he 
 never got his diploma.” 
 
 “ Never mind, I will give you a cer- 
 tificate of good professional standing,” 
 observed Virginia sympathetically; “ for 
 you have helped me more than all the 
 medicines I have taken for weeks.” 
 
 Before Tony could reply, the door 
 opened and Erebus ushered in the “ tur- 
 tledoves.” The negro’s face was a study. 
 To avoid being disrespectful, he kept it 
 averted from his charges. His back, how- 
 ever, shook in spite of himself. The poet 
 would have reprimanded him with a 
 sharp glance or a word if he, too, had not 
 at the same instant observed his visitors. 
 After that one glance he dared not look 
 at Erebus again, lest he should laugh 
 himself. 
 
 The “ guides ” stood in the center of 
 the room in a sort of daze, blinking 
 sheepishly and leaning against each 
 other. Their hair was ruffled, their hats 
 awry. 
 
 “ This is Mr. Carroll Brent, of Balti- 
 [ 157 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 more, who is visiting my friend, Miss 
 Dorothy Byrd,” observed Tony gravely, 
 “ and this — ” with a sly wink at Edgar — 
 “ is Mr. Brent’s friend, Miss Marjary — ” 
 He coughed, to avoid revealing his igno- 
 rance of her name. 
 
 Carroll hastily came to his rescue with 
 the lame explanation that the young lady 
 was a “neighbor — a recently arrived 
 neighbor.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, a neighbor — a very near 
 neighbor,” chuckled Tony quietly. 
 
 “ We are glad to know you, and thank 
 you for showing Mr. Preston the way,” 
 quickly observed the master of the cot- 
 tage, to avoid any further embarrassment 
 on the part of his young visitors. 
 
 “You must thank Mr. Brent,” stam- 
 mered Marjary, with a languishing look 
 at her escort. “ I am a newcomer, too, 
 and don’t know the roads hereabouts; but 
 Mr. Brent knows everything.” 
 
 “ How fortunate for you,” observed 
 Virginia encouragingly. 
 
 “ I am a fortunate girl,” sighed the 
 [158] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 young lady, dropping the lashes of her 
 eyes modestly, so as to quite hide the lus- 
 trous orbs from view. 
 
 “ I fear you are cold,” suggested Mrs. 
 Clemm, whose motherly nature still 
 failed to observe the humor in the situa- 
 tion. She was touched only with a de- 
 sire to make the young people comfort- 
 able. 
 
 “ Oh, not in the least cold,” protested 
 Marjary, scarcely able to keep her eyes 
 off Carroll. 
 
 The old lady, without regard, how- 
 ever, to the protestation, placed two 
 straight-backed chairs side by side by the 
 fire and bade them be seated. 
 
 “ Oh, not a bit cold,” repeated Carroll, 
 while a flush of confusion spread over 
 his boyish countenance, as he removed his 
 mittens and moved toward the proffered 
 chairs. 
 
 “ Oh, not a bit cold, I am sure,” chimed 
 in Tony, who could no longer restrain 
 his propensity to tease. “ They sat to- 
 gether on the back seat.” 
 
 [ 159 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ O Mr. Preston,” exclaimed the shyly 
 pretty Marjary with a frightened look. 
 
 She tried to hide her confusion by 
 dropping into one chair, an example 
 which was followed quickly by her mate. 
 
 “ And you and ‘ Merry Whisky ’ 
 drove?” inquired Poe of Tony, to turn 
 the laugh upon one who, he thought, 
 could better stand it. 
 
 The laugh was a hearty one, too; for 
 Tony joined in it at his own expense. He 
 was always flattered at a reference to his 
 bibulous triumphs. It was a matter of 
 family pride and family duty. 
 
 The young people only stared. They 
 did not understand the allusion. 
 
 Mrs. Clemm straightway busied her- 
 self in fruitless efforts to make the young 
 visitors feel quite at home. Virginia 
 rested again on the couch, to regain her 
 strength after the excitement. She had 
 forgotten that she was cold and faint. 
 
 “ It is good to see you again, old fel- 
 low,” Poe hastened to observe, to divert 
 his friend’s attention from the sad sur- 
 [160] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 roundings. He thought he had seen a 
 look come into Tony’s face as if he real- 
 ized the too apparent poverty in the lit- 
 tle home. Indeed, the poet felt there 
 was much more than he actually saw re- 
 vealed in his old comrade’s face. His 
 sensitiveness made his perceptions the 
 keener. “ It sends us back to the days 
 when buoyant youth sent hope coursing 
 through our veins,” he continued with 
 forced hilarity. “ Come, throw off your 
 cloak and stay awhile. Courtesy is blind 
 with joy.” 
 
 “ Thank you, I will keep it on,” said 
 Tony evasively, adding quickly, as he 
 saw a pained look in his friend’s eyes, 
 “ I am a little chilly from riding, if my 
 friends are not.” He glanced furtively 
 in the direction of his guides. a It is 
 bitter cold out to-day.” 
 
 “ I forgot,” stammered Poe softly, his 
 lips trembling with emotion. “ You will 
 be more comfortable with it on.” 
 
 Tony glanced in the direction of Vir- 
 ginia. Her eyes were momentarily closed 
 [ 161 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 restfully. He drew his friend closer to 
 him and spoke low, not without diffi- 
 culty, for he suffered as truly as his host: 
 
 “ Edgar, let me speak plainly to you. 
 Why did you not let me know that you 
 were in trouble — I must speak it — in 
 want? I would have come at once; you 
 know it.” 
 
 “ There is nothing that I need,” re- 
 plied Poe coldly. 
 
 Virginia coughed. 
 
 “ And is there nothing that she 
 needs? ” asked Tony, as he put his hand 
 on the poet’s shoulder. 
 
 “ Ah, dear friend,” he continued, as 
 Poe’s eyes restlessly sought the floor, 
 “ this is not the time for pride. Bad 
 luck! The cards have been against you, 
 Edgar; and, when the game is yours, why, 
 you can repay the bank. Willis’s words 
 in the Home Journal about your suffer- 
 ing have brought me post haste from 
 Richmond.” 
 
 “ They were false,” stammered the 
 poet. “ He is ” 
 
 [162] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ — your friend.” Tony finished the 
 sentence. 
 
 Poe glanced sadly at his wife, then his 
 eyes sought his friend’s. 
 
 “ You are right, Tony! ” he finally ad- 
 mitted bitterly. “ You are right. For 
 her sake, yes. But one more chance. I 
 will go to the city with you and try to 
 coin this last expenditure of a weary 
 brain.” He caught up from the table 
 the roll of closely, clearly written manu- 
 script upon which he had been working. 
 “ If I fail, you may help — Virginia,” he 
 whispered softly, “ and God will bless 
 you for it. I have sometimes thought I 
 had no friends.” 
 
 “ When foolish pride shut the door 
 upon them,” smiled Tony reprovingly. 
 
 They understood each other once 
 again. 
 
 “ What are you talking about over 
 there? ” asked Virginia, unable to with- 
 hold her curiosity a moment longer. 
 “ You are not a bit polite. We have 
 visitors.” 
 
 [163] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Tony chuckled as he glanced again in 
 the direction she indicated, toward his 
 lovelorn “ turtledoves.” There they still 
 sat by the fire supremely happy and ob- 
 livious to all but themselves. Even Mrs. 
 Clemm by this time had given up her 
 hospitable efforts to entertain them, and 
 was complacently engrossed again with 
 her knitting. 
 
 “ The doctors have been holding a con- 
 sultation, Virginia,” explained Tony 
 apologetically, approaching her with a 
 courageous air. He now believed that 
 his mission to Fordham would soon be 
 accomplished, and that his wits would 
 find a way to bring comfort into his 
 friends’ home, despite the awful monster 
 “ Pride,” which, as he had anticipated, 
 stood guard at the door. 
 
 “Nonsense!” protested Virginia. 
 “ Last night I dreamed I would live a 
 hundred years. Shall I not, mother? ” 
 
 Mrs. Clemm caught up a dropped 
 stitch in her knitting, and replied opti- 
 mistically: “ I hope so, child.” 
 
 [ 164] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Tony seated himself on the edge of the 
 couch by his would-be patient. 
 
 “ Here, let me feel your ‘ pult,’ as old 
 ‘ Doc ’ Mixum, down home, used to say.” 
 He caught up Virginia’s wrLt and fum- 
 bled clumsily for the evidence of her 
 heart beats. 
 
 “ You cannot find it,” laughed Vir- 
 ginia. “ You are a clever doctor! ” 
 
 “ Well, I can hold your hand and pre- 
 scribe.” 
 
 “ I like that,” said Poe, smiling. 
 
 “So do I,” laughed Virginia; for, 
 with the feminine instinct, it made her 
 happier to observe even playful evi- 
 dences of her husband’s love. “ You 
 must promise not to give me bad medi- 
 cine.” 
 
 “ Bad medicine! ” cried Tony, an epi- 
 curean light of anticipation flashing in 
 his eyes. “ Wait until you taste it. I be- 
 gin to feel sick myself when I think of 
 it. I will join you — dose for dose! ” 
 
 “ Then you propose a liquid diet,” re- 
 marked Poe, with conviction. 
 
 [165] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “What is it, Tony, come?” inquired 
 the wife eagerly. 
 
 Tony became very grave and profes- 
 sional. 
 
 Poe and Mrs. Clemm exchanged 
 glances of approval, as they observed a 
 little of Virginia’s dear bright self re- 
 turn. It was good to see her take an in- 
 terest. 
 
 “ I prescribe,” Tony began, pursing 
 his lips and twisting his eyebrows after 
 the fashion of the kind old Richmond 
 doctor, whom they all remembered and 
 loved; “ I prescribe — a big reunion din- 
 ner, well cooked, slowly eaten, and — to 
 use the homely but expressive phrase — 
 well washed down.” 
 
 “ You have not changed a bit, Tony,” 
 laughed Virginia. 
 
 “ Changed! ” cried Tony, glad to note 
 the effectiveness of his words. “ You 
 can’t improve us angels, Virginia. But 
 that’s another digression. I’m on earth to 
 teach you mortals how to cook.” 
 
 He directed the final sentence of his 
 
 [166] 
 
1 The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 observation quite pointedly at Mrs. 
 Clemm. He remembered that the culi- 
 nary art was one of her weaknesses, and 
 that he had had some little differences 
 with her in the Richmond days upon its 
 points of excellence, which had ended, 
 when argument failed, in her pronounc- 
 ing the young Southerner a “ gour- 
 mond.” 
 
 “ That’s the first time I ever heard of 
 an angel cook,” broke in Mrs. Clemm; 
 “ and I never saw the man yet who could 
 cook. Mr. Clemm, Heaven rest his soul, 
 thought he could, but — ” She finished 
 her remark with a shrug, which her hear- 
 ers punctuated with laughter. 
 
 “ A big dinner would kill me,” cried 
 Virginia, somewhat sorrowfully. “ I 
 cannot eat.” 
 
 “ Yes, but you must,” insisted Tony. 
 “ That is what I prescribe for all my pa- 
 tients, with a good drink to top it off. 
 It cures them all. Edgar and I will go 
 to the city and bring back the dinner, and 
 cook it, too.” 
 
 [ 167] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Mrs. Clemm did not deign to answer 
 this second shaft at her skill in the art of 
 arts otherwise than with another shudder 
 in contempt of his ignorance. 
 
 The poet now appeared ten years 
 younger. His face fairly beamed. 
 
 “I’m with you, Tony!” he cried, in 
 boyish glee. “ It shall be seasoned with 
 jokes and spiced with jests and liquefied 
 with laughter. Why, this is glorious, 
 Tony. This is a lark for our Richmond 
 days. Virginia and Muddy shall join us 
 in our revel. It shall be a Bacchanalian 
 feast. We will set up 1 Little Love ’ as 
 the God of Joy, and he shall pour the 
 wine; and, for one short hour, Time shall 
 be as nothing.” 
 
 “ Virginia and Muddy shall eat, eat, 
 eat, nothing but eat,” chimed in Tony. 
 “ Oh, it will cure you, Virginia! ” 
 
 “ Or kill her,” suggested Mrs. Clemm, 
 shaking her head dubiously. 
 
 “ Mother is still skeptical about your 
 cooking,” laughed Poe playfully. 
 
 “ I should think I was,” said the old 
 
 [ 1 68 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 lady, confirming her son’s reflection. 
 “ Unless Tony has changed materially, 
 he mixes his dinners far better than he 
 cooks them.” 
 
 “ Well,” drawled Tony good-natured- 
 ly, “ sometimes I do drink more than I 
 drink other times.” 
 
 “ But never less,” remarked Poe dryly. 
 
 “ Don’t you ever suffer from remorse, 
 Tony? ” asked Virginia slyly, when quiet 
 was restored. 
 
 Poe again intruded: 
 
 “ Remorse is born of a bad stomach, 
 not a good conscience. Tony is safe both 
 ways.” 
 
 “ One of my dinners cures everything, 
 I tell you,” repeated Tony. “ You shall 
 see for yourself. Come, Edgar. Keep 
 a brave heart, Virginia; and, Mother 
 Clemm, we will cure that dyspepsia as 
 sure as ” 
 
 Mother Clemm put her hands to her 
 ears, then motioned her tormentor to be 
 gone. Poe hastened to make ready. 
 
 It seemed as if the very walls had 
 12 [ 1:69 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 glowed and brightened under the spell 
 of Tony’s presence. 
 
 “ We will not be long behind Tony’s 
 horses,” cried the poet, “ if he does not 
 tip us out in the snow.” 
 
 “ The devil looks after his own,” came 
 sharply from the direction of the knitting 
 needles. 
 
 “ It is cruel to drive your horses so 
 fast, Tony,” pleaded Virginia sympa- 
 thetically. 
 
 Tony snapped his whip. 
 
 “ I drive them fast in winter to keep 
 them warm,” he protested. “ Is that not 
 kind?” 
 
 “ And you drive them fast in summer 
 to keep them cool, I suppose,” remarked 
 Poe. 
 
 “ I am probably the best whip this side 
 of the Rockies!” Tony declared evasively. 
 
 He looked in the direction of the fire, 
 where sat Carroll and Marjary, lost in 
 each other’s eyes. Even the cat was now 
 contemplating them curiously from a seat 
 of vantage on the woodbox. 
 
 [170] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ I am ready,” he continued, with a 
 wink at the others. “ I am ready — Mr. 
 Brent! Miss Marjary ! ” 
 
 The young people jumped to their feet, 
 startled at the mention of their names. 
 When they fully realized where they 
 were, and that it was time to depart, they 
 edged awkwardly to the door. 
 
 “ We are glad you called,” said Vir- 
 ginia sweetly, half rising. 
 
 They thanked her in confused unison. 
 
 “ The front seat or the back seat, Mr. 
 Preston? ” asked Carroll, half turning to 
 Tony. 
 
 “ The back seat,” replied the great 
 whip, with the utmost solemnity, shut- 
 ting the door after them hastily. 
 
 “Ten thousand hearts are beating 
 By the wild resounding sea; 
 
 Ten thousand hearts are beating 
 
 But not one heart beats for me ! — 
 
 “ Oh, I must tell you before we go,” he 
 continued laughingly. “ What do you 
 [ 1 7i ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 think! I saw Pelham at the Astor 
 House.” 
 
 “ Mr. Roscoe Pelham, A.M., of Vir- 
 ginia? ” inquired the poet solemnly. 
 
 “ Even he,” replied Tony, in his most 
 dignified manner. 
 
 “ My old admirer,” sighed Virginia, 
 pretending deep interest. “ I had almost 
 forgotten him.” 
 
 “ I have not forgotten him,” cried Poe, 
 in a serio-comic, jealous tone. “ He al- 
 ways went about with that benign look of 
 one who continually smells something 
 disagreeable.” 
 
 “ Yes,” continued Tony, in the same 
 highly eulogistic strain, “ one of those 
 lovable men who hates you if you don’t 
 hate everyone whom he hates. He would 
 freeze the ocean in midsummer. He 
 never liked me much.” 
 
 “ And you never liked him much.” 
 
 “ No,” replied Tony grimly, “ my dog 
 wouldn’t make friends with him. Never 
 trust a man that your dog does not like. 
 Some aunt left him a little money, they 
 
 [ 172] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 say, with which he has become quite 
 a politician in Baltimore. You should 
 have seen him to-day! His waistcoat 
 was a marvel of elegance, and his stock 
 — oh, his stock! — and he walked the office 
 with an important air, his eyes fixed 
 up there somewhere on vacancy. We’ll 
 bring him back with us.” 
 
 “Yes, do,” cried Virginia, glancing at 
 her husband teasingly. 
 
 “ If he comes,” replied the poet grave- 
 ly, “ I’ll cook his dinner.” 
 
 He caught up his old military cloak, 
 which had partly fallen upon the floor, 
 and wrapped it carefully about his frail 
 wife, who again lay upon the couch. She 
 looked up at him with her big, pathetic 
 eyes, dreading to have him go from her 
 even for an instant, but bravely saying 
 nothing. 
 
 “ Good-by, sweetheart, good-by,” he 
 cried cheerily. He stooped down and 
 kissed her fervently. 
 
 “You must take your cloak, Edgar,” 
 protested Virginia, when she realized 
 [ 173 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 that he was the one to be the more ex- 
 posed. 
 
 “ Yes, you must, Eddie,” insisted Mrs. 
 Clemm. 
 
 “ Tony has one for me in the sleigh,” 
 replied the poet. 
 
 Tony would have spoken, but Poe pre- 
 vented him, fairly pushing his friend out 
 the door. 
 
 There the poet would have fallen un- 
 der the pressure of his emotions, but his 
 friend caught him. 
 
 “ Why am I haunted by these dark 
 presentiments?” he asked, thinking al- 
 ways of his frail little shadow of a wife 
 within. “ Is it not enough that I suffer 
 once, Tony, without living a life of fear 
 and dread?” He looked in at the win- 
 dow and kissed his hand in farewell to 
 her. “ Ah, girl, will you leave me when 
 the baby buds are laughing at flying win- 
 ter, or fall like the autumn leaves, red as 
 the evening glow of promise? ” 
 
 A raven croaked in the distance, but 
 none except the poet heard it. 
 
 [ 174 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 The Bolt Has Fallen 
 
 The sleigh bells jingled merrily with- 
 out. 
 
 Virginia had joined Mrs. Clemm at 
 the window to see them drive away, with 
 Erebus standing gleefully on one of the 
 runners for a ride as far as the village 
 store. The sight had filled her with a 
 desire to snowball them, and her spirit 
 might indeed have led her out into the 
 snow had not a violent fit of coughing 
 drawn her mother’s attention to the fact 
 that she was thoroughly chilled; and 
 Mrs. Clemm hastened to the closet for 
 the cough medicine — only to find that the 
 bottle was empty. 
 
 The mother then returned to the win- 
 dow, hoping that, by some chance, the 
 sleigh might yet be within hailing dis- 
 tance, but Tony’s horses had passed out 
 [ 175 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 of sight; and concluding that she must 
 adopt the lesser of two evils, she hastily 
 wrapped her shawl about her head and 
 shoulders and, making sure that Vir- 
 ginia for the moment was resting more 
 quietly, slipped out into the snow and 
 trudged away toward the store, a half 
 mile off. 
 
 The last few remaining sticks, which 
 Mrs. Clemm had put upon the fire be- 
 fore she left, were burning brightly. 
 
 For some minutes Virginia lay in a 
 half sleep, occasionally drawing the worn 
 military cloak more closely about her, 
 the better to keep out the cold. 
 
 A little noise startled her. It was, 
 however, only Katrina, the family cat, 
 which crossed the floor and climbed upon 
 the couch close to her mistress. 
 
 Virginia petted her dumb friend grate- 
 fully, and the cat crawled beneath the 
 cover, giving warmth and comfort to the 
 chilly loneliness by her sympathetic pres- 
 ence and purring. 
 
 “ I am so glad you are here, pussy,” 
 
 [ 176] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 she whispered confidingly; “ for I dread 
 to be left alone — alone, even for a min- 
 ute. I cannot understand it. They watch 
 me so. I am not sick — that is, not very 
 sick; and then my dream, was it not 
 sweet? I dreamed that I would live a 
 hundred years. How funny it will be to 
 see the world and all my friends grown 
 old! To see dear Edgar with white hair 
 and brow chiseled with wrinkles, and 
 Muddy hunting for the spectacles she 
 says she will never wear!” She broke 
 into a joyous laugh, but its echo in the 
 forlorn little room was sepulchral. Kat- 
 rina looked up wonderingly at her mis- 
 tress, who only shuddered and held her 
 pet closer as she talked on to her. “ But 
 would they all live a hundred years, 
 too? No, no, I would be alone. Even 
 you would not be here to comfort me, 
 my kitten. The very thought is horrible. 
 No, no, we shall all live a hundred years 
 —all, all!” 
 
 Virginia sank back on the pillow and 
 her eyes closed restfully. The clock 
 [ 177 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ticked the minutes with a cold, sharp 
 “tick, tick, tick!” She slept again. 
 
 She came to herself with a start, roused 
 by a step at the door, followed by an 
 uncertain rapping. 
 
 “ Why does she knock? ” she thought, 
 as she raised herself upon her elbow. 
 Then with an effort she called: “ Come 
 in, mother!” She sank back again in- 
 differently upon the couch and waited. 
 
 “ This is what I call a cold reception.” 
 
 A man entered, well wrapped from 
 the snow and cold. 
 
 Virginia was startled, but she did not 
 rise. 
 
 “ Who’s there? ” she asked nervously. 
 
 “ Pardon the intrusion,” continued the 
 visitor, scarcely looking in the direction 
 of the couch, for his mind was surprised 
 at the bleak little room in the forlorn 
 little cottage, which, in memory, he was 
 comparing with the luxuries of a certain 
 mansion on the banks of the James. “ Is 
 this the winter domicile of Mr. Edgar 
 Allan Poe, the exalted poet? ” he at 
 
 [178] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 length asked in a tone of mock rever- 
 ence. 
 
 Virginia responded feebly, with sensi- 
 tive pride: 
 
 “ This is Mr. Poe’s home, sir, but he 
 is — Why, Mr. Pelham!” 
 
 The visitor looked at the invalid stead- 
 ily for a moment, then he approached the 
 couch where she lay. 
 
 “Virginia Clemm!” he exclaimed, 
 scarcely able to believe his eyes. 
 
 “Virginia Poe \ ” she answered, cor- 
 recting him. “ I have not seen you for 
 so long that I scarcely knew you.” She 
 extended her hand in welcome. 
 
 “ Yes,” muttered .the visitor, almost 
 mechanically, in reply, “ separation has 
 made me what inclination never has and 
 never will — a stranger.” 
 
 He stood by the couch, looking down 
 at her sad face. If he had ever had a 
 desire for revenge, it was surely his at 
 this moment, at least from the view point 
 of the material. Spiritual happiness was 
 beyond his understanding. 
 
 [ 179 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 “ You are kind,” said Virginia. “ Draw 
 up a chair. Excuse my not rising; I am 
 not quite myself to-day.” 
 
 Pelham drew a chair to her side, still 
 struggling to realize that what he saw 
 was not all a dream. He had expected 
 to find an humble abode, but he had not 
 expected one suggestive of want. 
 
 “ And this is really the pretty, bright- 
 eyed, laughing girl,” he continued, as he 
 sat beside her, “ that married the hand- 
 somest man in Richmond and sought her 
 fortunes in the North — envied by every 
 Southern beauty? ” 
 
 “ I married the dearest man in all the 
 world, Mr. Pelham.” 
 
 “ Of course, the dearest — ” the one- 
 time secretary hastened to reaffirm. 
 
 “ You find me changed? ” sighed Vir- 
 ginia, smiling kindly, though an uneasy 
 expression flitted across her face. 
 
 “ Not at all,” he assured her, in his 
 suavest manner. He had called in a 
 spirit of curiosity, and wished to appear 
 agreeable. “ The same flush of health 
 [J80] 
 
‘ The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and pride is in your cheek. Time and 
 the Muses have been good to you. Your 
 husband’s name is on the lips of all the 
 world. You must be very happy — very 
 happy.” 
 
 He seemed so earnest in his efforts to 
 say pleasant things that Virginia attrib- 
 uted the painful contrast which might be 
 drawn between his words and the sad 
 surroundings only to his want of tact. 
 She was always charitable to others. 
 Yet, despite herself, a nervous forebod- 
 ing crept through her weakened frame 
 as they talked on. 
 
 “ I am happy,” she repeated earnestly, 
 then changed the subject to other chan- 
 nels. “ It is kind of you to call. I hope 
 you are well and prosperous. I love to 
 know that all our friends are so. You 
 moved to Baltimore, I hear, and de- 
 serted Richmond — dear old Richmond, 
 where I first met Edgar! ” 
 
 Pelham’s frame shook slightly as she 
 recalled the bygone days and mentioned 
 the young master’s name. 
 
 [181] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ And where you left so many friends 
 to mourn your loss — not to say envy your 
 bright fortune.” His lips trembled as he 
 spoke, in spite of the smile upon them. 
 
 She evaded a direct reply. 
 
 “ There have been many changes since 
 then. Mr. Allan has passed away. Alas, 
 he never understood Edgar!” 
 
 “ His second wife and little ones enjoy 
 the old home now,” observed the visitor, 
 more quietly. 
 
 “ They will never know how much 
 until they lose it,” sighed Virginia, al- 
 most unconsciously. 
 
 Pelham’s thoughts were out, despite 
 himself. 
 
 “ I could buy the place these days,” he 
 exclaimed with boastful pride. “You 
 might have been mistress there, had you 
 not found a better man.” 
 
 The words, for the instant, startled 
 him as truly as they did Virginia. She 
 arose, in spite of his protests, with a little 
 cry. Yet there was surely nothing to 
 fear. Her old friend had come as a 
 [182] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 friend to see her. She was nervous, that 
 was all. 
 
 “ I prophesied his greatness,” added 
 Pelham soothingly. He felt that he had 
 gone too far, and could not recall the 
 words. 
 
 Virginia trembled, but controlled her 
 voice and manner. 
 
 “ I must call my husband,” she said 
 quietly, she knew not why, for she knew 
 her husband was far away. “ He will 
 be glad to see you.” 
 
 There was no evasion in her words, 
 however. She and the poet had grown 
 so close to each other in sympathy that 
 she felt she could call him even if miles 
 intervened, and he would hear and know. 
 
 Pelham only smiled, and rose respect- 
 fully. He pushed his chair back and 
 stood facing the anxious wife. 
 
 “ Your husband passed me on the 
 King’s Bridge Road,” he said; “but he 
 did not bow — no, he did not bow.” 
 
 “ He did not see you, then,” she an- 
 swered. 
 
 [183] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 The visitor uncomfortably dropped his 
 eyes. 
 
 “ I fear he has forgotten his old friend 
 in the days of prosperity,” he said bit- 
 terly. 
 
 Virginia’s strength seemed to return. 
 She raised her eyes to his reprovingly. 
 
 “ He was never like that, Mr. Pel- 
 ham.” 
 
 The Baltimorean hesitated. 
 
 “ I bought a volume of the poet’s verses 
 to-day in town,” he said finally, but still 
 in his ill-fated way. “ I thought it would 
 be a sign of respect to the past on my poor 
 shelves — and — and perhaps contribute a 
 trifle to ” 
 
 He instantly realized, however, the 
 second error in his words when he saw 
 the look in her eyes. His nature, not his 
 purpose, was driving him farther away. 
 There was no intention of irony in his 
 voice or manner. He stammered an 
 apology, then added: 
 
 “ Well, report led me to believe that 
 the purchase might not be ungratefully 
 [i8 4 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 received, but I am glad to note that I 
 can contribute nothing to add to your 
 happiness or comfort.” 
 
 Virginia only looked at him, with sad 
 forgiveness written in her face. She 
 swayed there before him, a shadow of 
 her once glorious self — pale and pathetic 
 and spiritlike. Her eyes only spoke as 
 of yore, and they were beautiful. He 
 realized for the first time that a woman 
 with beautiful eyes is invincible — in 
 youth, in age, in sickness, or in health. 
 
 He was conquered. 
 
 “ I thank you for your call,” she said 
 with simple dignity. 
 
 He looked surprised at his dismissal. 
 
 “ It was a pleasure I could not forego,” 
 he replied earnestly, and nothing that he 
 had said had he meant more truly. 
 
 She bowed courteously. “ Good day, 
 Mr. Pelham.” 
 
 Her meaning could no longer be mis- 
 understood, although he did not under- 
 stand the why of it. He covered his 
 dismay quickly, however. “ Good day, 
 
 13 [185] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Miss — Mrs. Poe,” he said, with sup- 
 pressed emotion. 
 
 He started for the door with a step al- 
 most as infirm as hers. His spirit, too, 
 during the meeting had been greatly 
 shaken. 
 
 His hand had raised the latch, when a 
 cough attracted his attention. He turned 
 his eyes. Virginia swayed, as if to fall. 
 He ran to her and caught her in his arms. 
 
 “No, no, you must not!” she cried. 
 “Edgar, Edgar!” 
 
 “ Save your strength,” he pleaded, anx- 
 ious for the outcome. “ Let me help you ; 
 I fear he will not come.” He glanced 
 toward the window. 
 
 “ He will! He will! ” she cried fever- 
 ishly, and then fell again to coughing 
 violently. 
 
 Pelham was at his wits’ end. He did 
 not dare to leave her thus, with no one 
 to look after her, and he hardly dared to 
 stay. It was a moment of intense agony 
 for him. He tried to keep her from fall- 
 ing. In answer to his appeals for reason 
 [ 1 86 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 she only coughed and cried for Edgar 
 between the paroxysms. 
 
 It was with a sigh of relief that he saw 
 the door open and the poet himself enter, 
 followed by Mrs. Clemm, Tony, and 
 Erebus. 
 
 “My God, Virginia! Pelham!” he 
 cried. “What is the matter, love?” 
 The poet caught his sobbing, hysterical 
 wife in his strong arms. 
 
 “ I knew you would come, I knew you 
 would come! ” was her only audible an- 
 swer, as she rested her head close against 
 his breast. 
 
 “ ’Twas fate that broke the sleigh and 
 sent us back. What does this mean? ” 
 Poe looked at the visitor inquiringly. 
 
 Pelham made no reply. Poe repeated 
 his question imperiously. 
 
 “ I called to pay my respects, Mr. 
 Poe,” he said blandly, “ and found your 
 wife in this sad state.” 
 
 Poe’s eyes sought his eyes incredu- 
 lously, but they were lowered to the floor. 
 The husband turned to the wife. 
 
 [> 8 7 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Speak, dear, what is it? ” he pleaded 
 fearfully. “You are safe — dearest!” 
 
 She only coughed and sobbed and 
 spoke his name in answer. 
 
 “Poor child!” cried the poet, trying 
 in vain to comfort and quiet her. “ Help 
 me, Tony. Some brandy, quick!” He 
 saw a strange look come over Virginia’s 
 face, and it frightened him. 
 
 Fear had suddenly possessed her as 
 once more she beheld before her the 
 young master and the young secretary, 
 rivals for her love, and realized the 
 old-time dissension from which had 
 sprung so much misfortune. She ral- 
 lied, however, and laughed hysterically 
 in a wild effort to divert her husband’s 
 thought. 
 
 The little group stood about and looked 
 at her in wonderment. 
 
 “ It is all right, Edgar,” she cried. 
 “ Mr. Pelham was only calling. He has 
 been very kind to me. It is all right, 
 Edgar. Say it is all right. You will not 
 blame Mr. Pelham, will you? I was 
 [ 1 88 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 nervous and sick, but I am quite well 
 now. Oh, I am so glad you came! ” She 
 laughed and almost danced ecstatically, 
 to the consternation of the anxious ones 
 about her. 
 
 “ We will have such a merry time,” 
 she went on wildly; “ a reunion dinner! 
 Tony shall sit on one side of me and Ed- 
 gar on the other. Such a merry time as 
 we will have. I could sing for joy! ” 
 
 She broke from the poet’s arms and 
 began to sing, as in the olden times: 
 
 “ Then, quick ! we have but a second ; 
 
 Fill round the cup, while ye may, 
 
 For time, the churl, hath beckoned ” 
 
 Her voice broke. She coughed. 
 
 Poe caught her again in his arms. 
 
 She sank gently upon the couch. 
 
 He looked at her, his face pale with 
 anxious horror. 
 
 “Virginia! Lenore!” he cried in an- 
 guish, falling on his knees and leaning 
 over her. “ Speak to me! ” 
 
 [189] 
 
The Raven 
 
 He tried to look into her half-closed 
 eyes. He listened for her heart. 
 
 “ Ah, the bolt has fallen — dead, dead, 
 dead!” 
 
 The words came from his lips so softly 
 they were scarcely audible, for even he 
 could not then put the story of such a 
 sorrow into words. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 The Raven 
 
 The obsequies over the poet’s wife 
 were very simple but impressive. A little 
 gathering of friends followed the casket 
 to a quiet place among the trees where 
 the poet and his wife had often wan- 
 dered in happy days. In this secluded 
 spot they laid her to rest. A simple 
 prayer was uttered by a neighboring 
 parson. 
 
 The poet tossed a flower, which the de- 
 parted one herself had grown in the cot- 
 tage window, into the flakes of snow that 
 slipped from the edges of the grave upon 
 the coffin — the grave that was to him to 
 mean rest and hope, where he might wan- 
 der in solitude and commune with her 
 spirit. Lethe! Lenore! Virginia! 
 
 His lips breathed softly as his eyes 
 rested upon the casket below them : 
 
 [ 191 ] 
 
‘ The Raven 
 
 “ Ah, broken is the golden bowl ! the spirit 
 flown forever ! 
 
 Let the bell toll ! — a saintly soul floats on 
 the Stygian river ; 
 
 And Guy De Vere, hast thou no tear? — 
 weep now, or never more ! 
 
 “ See, on yon drear and rigid bier low lies 
 thy love, Lenore ! 
 
 Come, let the burial rite be read — the 
 funeral song be sung ! — 
 
 An anthem for the queenliest dead that 
 ever died so young, — 
 
 A dirge for her the doubly dead in that 
 she died so young.” 
 
 The little group looked at him won- 
 deringly through tear-stained eyes. They 
 scarce breathed in respectful silence, 
 though they could not fathom the depths 
 of his soul-racked utterance. The par- 
 son’s prayer was nearer to their simple 
 understanding. 
 
 When the services were over, Mrs. 
 Clemm left for New York and Tony for 
 
 [ 192] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the South, the latter taking Erebus with 
 him as far as Baltimore. Poe had asked 
 to be left alone with his sorrow, and they 
 had humored him. 
 
 The sexton shook the poet by the hand. 
 He, too, had tears in his eyes ; for he was 
 a country neighbor, and his work was 
 not perfunctory only. 
 
 Poe hovered by the grave until all had 
 gone. He even watched the sexton 
 cover the coffin and smooth the snow 
 gracefully about the earth which marked 
 the spot until he could place a slab 
 upon it. 
 
 When alone, he knelt by the grave in 
 prayer. 
 
 Then he wrote with his finger in the 
 snow the word “ Virginia,” like a greater 
 but not a lovelier name, “ writ in water.” 
 He erased the name and rewrote “ Le- 
 nore!” 
 
 He started sadly homeward — not go- 
 ing directly, however, but wandering 
 listlessly through the woods, until he 
 finally came to the cottage where Vir- 
 [ 193 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ginia had passed away. The key grated 
 in the lock. He had never noticed it 
 before. He opened the door. A loneli- 
 ness seemed to meet him. He wished for 
 his friends. The air within rushed by 
 him with a sad, cold hopelessness — like 
 the breath of Death, trying to escape. 
 
 He stood for a moment on the thresh- 
 old bewildered. The cottage home was 
 so empty. Even his imagination had not 
 foreseen how empty 1 He wished again 
 that he had kept Virginia’s mother with 
 him or detained Erebus. It would have 
 been too selfish, however, to have kept 
 the faithful negro from an opportunity 
 to go where he could perhaps find work; 
 for he himself could do nothing for him. 
 Mrs. Clemm would come back, be back 
 on the morrow; but could he wait for her 
 comforting presence, her motherly em- 
 brace and love? 
 
 He went to the window and looked out 
 upon the snow and the leafless trees. The 
 fire had sunk to embers, but he did not 
 perceive it. Virginia’s cherry tree bowed 
 [ 194 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 its branches tearfully. He scarcely no- 
 ticed them. He stood there a long time 
 leaning against the sill as in a daze. 
 Nothing seemed real. Katrina, the cat, 
 came to him and pressed against him 
 sympathetically, but he did not feel her 
 presence. Even the kitten seemed to 
 know. The bobolink and the lark 
 chirped in their cages. He heard them 
 not. 
 
 He was like one dead in life. 
 
 A long time passed. How long he 
 knew not. He came to himself, his lips 
 audibly pronouncing the name of his de- 
 parted wife. 
 
 He passed up the stairs nervously and 
 looked about. His little table desk stood 
 as he had left it — most of his papers 
 carelessly scattered about — a few only 
 arranged, by Virginia’s hand, when 
 laughingly she had complained of her 
 poet’s want of order and then — had kissed 
 him. 
 
 He could not stay in the room, but re- 
 turned below. 
 
 [ 195 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 He peered into the cellar. It was like 
 a breath of the grave to him. 
 
 He closed the door and fell upon the 
 couch where Virginia had passed away. 
 
 Nature claimed her own; and the poet 
 slept. 
 
 When he awoke it was dark. He sat 
 up with a frightened start and looked 
 about. 
 
 He lighted a candle. He fed Katrina 
 and the birds, as Virginia was wont to 
 do. He forgot himself. 
 
 His heart was beating very fast, but 
 his brain now was very clear. 
 
 He sat at the table and took up his pen. 
 
 His thoughts seemed to come to him so 
 clearly now. All was written in his 
 brain in unmistakable syllables, where 
 before they had been confused, despite 
 the logic of his masterly theory of verse 
 — that Beauty is the end and aim of art; 
 that one hundred lines is the happiest 
 length for expression in poetic phrase; 
 that rhythm, tone, and climax must be 
 obeyed. 
 
 [196] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Alla?i Poe 
 
 How long he had looked and wandered 
 in vain for the most sadly beautiful 
 theme in life! 
 
 He knew it now. He knew it too well. 
 There was no doubt. It was the loss by 
 the lover of his love. 
 
 He had racked his brain for the word 
 of words to compose a refrain that would 
 be equal to the poetic beauty of such a 
 desolate theme. 
 
 He had it now. There was one word, 
 and one word only: 
 
 “ Nevermore! ” 
 
 His heart expressed it; his brain ap- 
 proved it; his hand transcribed it. 
 
 It was echoed from the very walls that 
 had echoed her voice and song and laugh- 
 ter often. 
 
 He leaned upon the table and buried 
 his head upon his arms. 
 
 Strange noises seemed to come from 
 every corner of the cottage — creakings — • 
 ghostly footsteps 
 
 “ Nevermore — nevermore — never- 
 more ! ” 
 
 [ 197 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 The rhythm of the awful word seemed 
 to grow upon him. 
 
 No human throat could utter it with 
 all its ghoulish mystery. 
 
 A raven only could croak its midnight 
 meaning; a raven, the emblem of hope- 
 lessness; the antithesis of Lenore, the 
 hopeful! 
 
 A raven — the night of his wretched 
 soul; Lenore — its morning! 
 
 “ Nevermore! ” 
 
 He plunged into the awful climax of 
 his thought and penned its final verse: 
 
 “ Prophet ! ” said I, “ thing of evil ! — 
 prophet still if bird or devil ! 
 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — 
 by that God we both adore — 
 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
 the distant Aidenn, 
 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 
 angels name Lenore — 
 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
 the angels name Lenore.” 
 
 Quoth the Raven, “ Nevermore.” 
 
 [198] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 It was accomplished. 
 
 The other verses might be written at 
 his leisure — mechanically — musically ! 
 To-morrow and to-morrow he would fin- 
 ish it. 
 
 The pen fell from his fingers and he 
 slept again — his head upon his script. 
 
 There were few lines only on the page ; 
 but his soul’s confession and his In Me- 
 moriam in them were given to the world I 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 Tou Know 
 
 The spring had come once more. The 
 woods and fields were full of hope for 
 plenty in the harvest time; young hearts, 
 too, were warmed with love. 
 
 “Carroll! Carroll!” called Marjary 
 cautiously from behind the long curtains 
 hiding one of the stately French windows 
 leading to the veranda of her cousin 
 Helen Whitman’s new house off the 
 Fordham road, where they had lately 
 taken up their residence for the summer. 
 Helen Whitman was a poetess, and had 
 sought out this beautiful country spot to 
 be near her friend, Miss Byrd. It was 
 at Miss Byrd’s that Tony had called on 
 his memorable visit, when he found his 
 love-blind guides, this very Marjary and 
 her Carroll. There was a tapping, then 
 a rapping, at the door. Marjary’s heart 
 [ 200 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 fluttered with hope that it might be Car- 
 roll, yet why such ceremony? She peeped 
 out again into the moonlight and strained 
 her ears and eyes. She could not see how 
 Carroll could longer keep away. 
 
 “ Why, it’s Parson Prime to see Cousin 
 Helen!” she declared. “Why does he 
 come? Nobody is waiting for him.” 
 
 She dodged back into the room well 
 out of sight of the approaching visitor. 
 A sharp knock at the door brought her 
 to herself again. 
 
 “ Oh, dear,” she cried. “ He’ll ask all 
 about my Sabbath-school lesson, and I 
 — I can’t think of anything but Carroll.” 
 
 She caught up a ponderous volume 
 from the table and pretended to be por- 
 ing over its contents as she answered the 
 door; but, in her excitement, her eyes saw 
 nothing but black letters. 
 
 “ Thank you, my dear, thank you,” ob- 
 served the parson kindly, removing his 
 hat as he entered. He was pleased to find 
 one so young apparently so deep in re- 
 ligious meditation. 
 
 14 [ 201 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ O Parson Prime, is it you?” asked 
 Marjary, with a little effort at surprise. 
 “ I was so absorbed,” she added, looking 
 up demurely. 
 
 “Very commendable, my dear,” said 
 the old gentleman, patting her fondly on 
 the head. “ Pious industry is the greatest 
 of virtues.” 
 
 “ Yes, parson,” sighed Marjary, quite 
 unconscious of what he had said, with a 
 wistful glance over her shoulder toward 
 the window to the veranda. 
 
 “ And what were you reading in the 
 Good Book? ” asked the parson, with in- 
 terest. 
 
 “ Why — I — I was looking for Solomon 
 and his wives,” stammered the young 
 lady, quite losing her place again in her 
 confused efforts to collect her thoughts.. 
 
 “ Solomon and his wives!” exclaimed 
 the parson in astonishment. “ A rather 
 serious text, my child.” 
 
 “Yes — well,” stammered Marjary 
 again, blushing rosily to the temples, “ I 
 wanted to see if any of them eloped — 
 [ 202 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 that is — Do you think it wicked to 
 elope? All my family have eloped.” 
 
 She dropped her eyes in confusion. 
 Her confession had led her into rather 
 delicate family history. 
 
 “ To be sure I do,” replied the parson, 
 smiling. “ Very wicked. Heaven keep 
 such nonsense from your pretty head.” 
 
 He took the heavy volume from Mar- 
 jary’s hand and examined it reverently. 
 
 “ Why, this is not the Good Book! ” he 
 exclaimed in surprise, as he placed the 
 volume on the table. 
 
 “Oh, dear, isn’t it, Parson Prime?” 
 she asked in greater confusion. 
 
 The parson shook his finger at her 
 gently in amiable reproof. 
 
 “ Is your Cousin Helen in? ” he finally 
 asked, not wishing to embarrass one so 
 young and pretty too deeply. 
 
 “Yes, Parson Prime,” cried Marjary 
 quickly, glad of any excuse to change 
 the theme; “ I’ll call her.” 
 
 “ Nay, nay, don’t disturb her poetical 
 reflections,” insisted the good man, kind- 
 [203] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ly stopping her too eager flight. “Just 
 bring the basket of provisions she prom- 
 ised for poor Miss Honeygood. I told 
 her I would call for it.” 
 
 It did not require a second invitation 
 for Marjary to dash away and return 
 with a basket, apparently well filled from 
 the mountainous appearance of the snowy 
 napkin which surmounted its rugged 
 contents. A benign expression of thank- 
 fulness passed over the good man’s face 
 as he relieved his fair little parishioner of 
 her heavy burden. He could not but 
 realize how his parish had been blessed 
 by the advent of Helen Whitman, poetess 
 and philanthropist. 
 
 “ And here is a little purse,” added 
 Marjary sweetly, placing it, too, care- 
 fully in the parson’s hand. “ I heard 
 Cousin Helen say she was sure the par- 
 son could put it where it would do most 
 good.” 
 
 “ So I can, my dear, so I can,” he re- 
 plied thankfully, as, truly unconscious of 
 any humorous incongruity in his action, 
 [ 204] 
 
' The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 he innocently placed the purse safely in 
 his own waistcoat pocket. “ She will re- 
 ceive her reward in heaven.” 
 
 At the reference to paradise, Marjary 
 glanced again uneasily at the clock and 
 at the window. To tell the whole truth, 
 she was impatient, and it was not unnatu- 
 ral; for she had weighty matters on her 
 mind. Her time had never been so pre- 
 cious as at that particular moment, and to 
 be thus interrupted was disheartening. 
 Perhaps Carroll was even now without. 
 
 The parson stood so long there in the 
 middle of the room, cogitating and unde- 
 cided, that she finally mustered courage 
 to force the issue by asking, quite naively: 
 
 “ Must you go so soon, parson? ” 
 
 He had not even mentioned taking his 
 departure; but, as the thought was so 
 sharply brought to his attention, in his 
 abstraction he did not realize that the 
 idea was not his very own. 
 
 “Not a moment to stay, my dear,” he 
 exclaimed — still in the same spot, how- 
 ever, to Marjary’s untold annoyance. 
 
 [ 205 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 “ Miss Honeygood needs my constant 
 visitation and prayers,” he observed pon- 
 derously. “ This will be so welcome to 
 the dear good sister. And then my Sab- 
 bath sermon is still incomplete, my dear. 
 I must brush it up a little to-night.” 
 
 Marjary’s courage overleaped itself. 
 “ If you are so very busy, parson,” she 
 asked, “ couldn’t you make it a little 
 shorter next Sunday? ” 
 
 The parson stopped in amazement. 
 
 “ My child,” he said reprovingly, “ I 
 never neglect my flock. I have a treat 
 in store for my parishioners next Sunday. 
 I shall discourse upon the twenty-third 
 chapter of Proverbs, the twentieth verse : 
 ‘ Be not with wine bibbers.’ Did you 
 place the little bottle of port in the 
 basket? Miss Honeygood is very weak, 
 poor soul.” 
 
 Marjary hastened to assure him that it 
 was not forgotten, and a benign smile of 
 complacent hopefulness played upon her 
 religious adviser’s lips. 
 
 It seemed to her fluttering heart an age 
 [206] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 when the parson actually began to move 
 toward the door. 
 
 “ Ah, your cousin’s sweet charity! ” he 
 went on, bowing and smiling still in 
 the open doorway. “ My compliments 
 to her. Emulate her, emulate her, my 
 dear.” 
 
 Marjary hastily assured him of her in- 
 tention to devote her whole time to emu- 
 lating the pious graces of her poetic rela- 
 tive, and proceeded to shut the door, but 
 her eagerness was so great that the hem 
 of his coat was caught. Several minutes 
 more were required for apologies and 
 courtesies and farewells before the par- 
 son was really gone. Marjary sighed 
 heavily. It would be unkind to suggest 
 that that sigh was entirely one of relief; 
 it would be much kinder to interpret it 
 as a determination of her little heart for 
 pious endeavor. Be that as it may, how- 
 ever, her ear rested at the keyhole a mo- 
 ment until the steps grew faint on the 
 path, and then she ran back to the win- 
 dow with an eagerness of anticipation in 
 [207] 
 
The Raven 
 
 her eyes that made them sparkle with 
 beauty in the flickering candlelight. 
 
 For some moments she stood behind 
 the curtains again and watched and 
 waited. She softly whistled the “ Bob 
 White ” call to his mate. There was no 
 answer. Did she not know that “ Bob 
 White ” had been long in bed? 
 
 With a disappointed look on her pretty 
 face she tripped back to the piano and 
 took her place on the stool. Making sure 
 that no one was within earshot and fum- 
 bling cautiously in her dress she pro- 
 duced a note. She did not read it, but 
 spoke its contents softly, as in a reverie 
 — her eyes falling furtively upon the mis- 
 sive, just to see, not without a gleam of 
 pride, that she remembered it aright: 
 
 “ My Own Dear Marjary : 
 
 “ Meet me in the lane to-night by Miss 
 Honeygood’s, if I do not see you before. I 
 have so much to tell you. 
 
 “ From yours now and always, 
 
 “ You KNOW.” 
 
 [ 208 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Carroll was a poet; there was no doubt 
 of it in her mind. 
 
 “ ‘ You know! ’ I have so much to tell 
 him, too, I can’t remember it all.” 
 
 Her eyes wandered restlessly toward 
 the window. She was sure she could 
 read her letter more easily by the moon- 
 light. All lovers in books had done so. 
 She sprang up with joy, for she was con- 
 vinced she caught a glimpse of a shadow 
 — and the right shadow, too — among the 
 beeches. She started eagerly toward the 
 balcony, the steps of which descended to 
 the pathway which opened into the lane 
 before Miss Honeygood’s cottage, when 
 her love flight was arrested by a step in 
 the library and by her Cousin Helen’s 
 sweet voice, the cadence of which she now 
 failed utterly to appreciate. 
 
 She sighed and waited. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 And I Look Like Her 
 
 MARJARY disposed of her letter with 
 a quickness that was phenomenal. Where 
 it went no one but a woman knows, but 
 it disappeared among the ruffles and lace 
 at her throat. She ran to the table with 
 a light step, and, picking up a volume 
 of Helen Whitman’s own poems, rested 
 her head on one hand in a very literary 
 attitude, which she felt sure would be 
 observed approvingly by her cousin. 
 She was thus apparently absorbed when 
 the poetess herself drew back the por- 
 tieres and entered the room. 
 
 Helen Whitman, too, was intent upon 
 a book, open in her hand. Indeed, every- 
 one was always reading in her home, or 
 supposed to be. She was gowned in 
 white, a favorite color, or rather a meet- 
 [210] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ing of all the colors, which enhanced her 
 beauty. 
 
 A beautiful woman only can wear 
 white, and Helen Whitman was in truth 
 spiritually beautiful. 
 
 “ Surely some one crossed the veran- 
 da,” she said softly. 
 
 She smiled as she observed that Mar- 
 jary was surely intent, for the first time 
 in her life, upon one of her love poems, 
 and was naturally surprised, for the fam- 
 ily of a genius rarely read from the fam- 
 ily store. 
 
 “ Marjary, who was here just now? ” 
 she asked. 
 
 Marjary looked up with a startled 
 glance, as if she had been disturbed in 
 the depths of a heartfelt reverie. 
 
 “ It was the parson,” she replied, drop- 
 ping the volume and looking at her 
 cousin with a baby stare. 
 
 “ Oh, has Dr. Prime been here? ” 
 There was a look of disappointment on 
 Helen’s face as she spoke. 
 
 “Yes, and gone, Cousin Helen,” was 
 
 [ 21 I ] 
 
1 The Raven 
 
 the nervous reply. “ I gave him the 
 basket and the purse.” 
 
 The poetess drew a chair to the table 
 opposite her pretty cousin, and was soon 
 intent upon her own book. 
 
 She wore a soft white silk, over which 
 was sprinkled sprays of flowers in blue 
 and pink. The dress hung away from 
 the shoulders, and over the bodice was 
 draped old yellow lace. In her ears 
 were long strings of diamonds, set with 
 pear-shaped amethysts. Her hair was 
 lighter than Virginia’s, and dressed high 
 on her head, although the face was 
 softened by clusters of ringlets at the 
 temples. 
 
 They both read for some minutes, but 
 Marjary could not for long interest her- 
 self in her cousin’s verses, try as she 
 would. She finally threw the volume 
 down with a deep sigh, and started for 
 her own room. Before she had arrived 
 at the door, however, she turned and 
 spoke her cousin’s name hesitatingly and 
 in a tone of inquiry. 
 
 [212] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Well, Marjary,” answered the poet- 
 ess sweetly, looking up. 
 
 “ Cousin Helen,” repeated Marjary, 
 visibly embarrassed, “ do you think — do 
 you think — it is quite right to marry? ” 
 
 “ Right to marry! ” said Helen Whit- 
 man, with a merry laugh and with a 
 look capable of penetrating the inmost 
 thoughts of the ingenuous girl. “ Of 
 course I do — holy — but at the proper 
 age and time and place, sweet youthful 
 cousin.” 
 
 “ And what is the proper age and time 
 and place, dear Cousin Helen? ” 
 
 “ Why, when the man loves the girl 
 so very much that he cannot help but 
 marry her, and when the girl loves the 
 man so very much that she can no longer 
 help but marry him — then ’tis the time 
 and rightful age to marry.” 
 
 Marjary stood for a moment in uncer- 
 tain thought. It was a big proposition 
 for her little mind. Helen resumed her 
 book with a knowing smile. 
 
 “ And what is the proper place, dear- 
 
 [213] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 est cousin? ” Marjary at length again hes- 
 itatingly interrupted her to ask. “You 
 forgot to name the place.” 
 
 “ When you reach the proper age and 
 time, the place is highly proper,” replied 
 her elder knowingly. 
 
 “ Thank you, dearest cousin,” sighed 
 Marjary. “ Good night.” 
 
 “ Good night, Marjary, and pleasant 
 dreams.” Helen kissed her little kins- 
 woman fondly. 
 
 “ Good night,” sighed Marjary again 
 more deeply still. A great question had 
 been decided for her. She was now con- 
 vinced that she could no longer help but 
 marry. 
 
 It was well that her cousin did not sus- 
 pect quite all, as Marjary ran out of the 
 room and up the stairs. 
 
 Helen looked after her and smiled. 
 She saw that the little heart had begun 
 to flutter. Indeed, she wished that her; 
 own heart were as bubbling over with 
 sunshine; but she had lived to see her 
 ideals shattered. She suddenly regretted 
 [214] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 that the parson had gone, and even went 
 to the window to make sure that he had 
 not returned; for she felt so strangely 
 restless that she thought a few minutes’ 
 discourse with the good man might 
 quiet her. Finally, she threw herself 
 into a chair, and turned again for so- 
 lace to the book which she had been 
 reading. 
 
 She read several lines aloud, to further 
 catch the mystic music, and marveled at 
 their syllabic melody, as she pronounced, 
 wonderingly, the words : 
 
 “ ‘ Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
 the distant Aidenn, 
 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 
 angels name Lenore — 
 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom 
 the angels name Lenore.’ 
 
 Quoth the Raven, ‘ Nevermore.’ ” 
 
 She reread the verse again and again, 
 pondering on “ Lenore.” Who or what 
 was “ Lenore ”? 
 
 [215] 
 
The Raven 
 
 She had asked herself a hundred times 
 that night the question. 
 
 Then she threw the book aside impa- 
 tiently; but she could not dismiss “The 
 Raven ” from her mind, try as she would. 
 
 On the little side table rested a min- 
 iature of Edgar Poe among her treas- 
 ures. She took it up and studied the face 
 long and earnestly. The more she gazed, 
 the more enwrapped she seemed; for to 
 know and commune with such a soul, she 
 felt, would be for her Elysium. There 
 was a man capable of that higher love 
 that poets attribute only to woman. If 
 the picture was so beautifully sad, what 
 must the man himself be! 
 
 Then she broke into a laugh. 
 
 “O Helen, Helen, Helen! For 
 shame!” she cried aloud in self-re- 
 proach. She went to the piano and ran 
 over its ivory keys. She played simple 
 strains of love; then complex music; 
 then thought chords from the great Bee- 
 thoven, interspersed with lively notes of 
 the dance. It was the same. Music, that 
 [216] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 night, had no charm for her, and even 
 the waltz sounded funereal. The notes 
 broke like the wail of the sea on some 
 barren rock. 
 
 She arose abruptly, went to the win- 
 dow, and stood there for a long, long 
 time, looking into the night. 
 
 What a night! — a fairyland! — and 
 what a moon! 
 
 She felt the impulsive desire of a 
 young girl to stroll out alone and at 
 night, and yet the neighbors annoyed her 
 so. When she wandered forth under the 
 moon, they seemed thunderstruck with 
 wonder. Simple folk, they knew no bet- 
 ter. There was more in one breath of 
 night for her than in the breezes of a 
 livelong day for them. 
 
 She threw a snowy scarf over her glori- 
 ous hair, and prepared to go out through 
 the long French window into the radiant 
 night, when a step on the path stopped 
 her. Who could be coming at such 
 an hour? She trusted that it was not 
 a visitor; for she was in no mood to 
 
 15 [ 217 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 be entertaining that night. She peered 
 down the path. It was surely a stran- 
 ger, advancing quickly. How curious- 
 ly he acted; how strangely he stared 
 as he stepped on the veranda and ap- 
 proached her, standing there in the open 
 window. 
 
 She withdrew into the room and called 
 for Marjary. Marjary, however, was by 
 this time far away. 
 
 A man of ingenuous, pleasing face, but 
 troubled look, was standing in the win- 
 dow, gazing intently at her. The name 
 “ Virginia ” in a startled accent trembled 
 on his lips as his only salutation. She 
 looked at him in wonderment. 
 
 He only said “ Virginia ” once again, 
 his eyes following raptly her every 
 move. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, sir,” answered 
 Helen, startled a little at his manner, but 
 not afraid, for she was fearless. “ What 
 do you want, and who are you?” 
 
 She stood by the piano with one hand 
 resting on the keys, which her fingers 
 [218] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 tapped lightly, while her eyes questioned 
 her strange visitor. 
 
 “You must pardon me,” he stam- 
 mered. “A miracle! You are the liv- 
 ing image of a dear friend of mine.” 
 
 “Indeed!” answered Helen with a 
 kindly smile. She began to fear that her 
 visitor was deranged. 
 
 “Her image!” he repeated mechan- 
 ically, his eyes still fixed strangely upon 
 her face. 
 
 “ Her suggestion, possibly,” said Hel- 
 en calmly. She was no longer even star- 
 tled, but interested rather. 
 
 “ Oh, speak again,” he pleaded pathet- 
 ically; “the same sweet voice — her 
 voice! ” 
 
 Helen smiled again incredulously. 
 
 “ I have heard of doubles in poetry 
 and romance, sir,” she observed some- 
 what skeptically, “ but have never till 
 now put faith in them.” 
 
 “ Pardon me,” he repeated more quiet- 
 ly; for her calm manner had restored his 
 self-possession. “ I can scarcely master 
 [219] 
 
The Raven 
 
 myself. It is all so strange. It will pass 
 in a moment. I am not often frightened, 
 madam, but — the moonlight, the hour, 
 and the suddenness — once more, pardon 
 me.” 
 
 He rubbed his hands across his eyes to 
 make sure that he was awake, and looked 
 at her steadfastly. The lady smiled and 
 motioned him to a seat. He took it me- 
 chanically, his eyes still following her 
 with a curious luster. 
 
 “ She was so beautiful,” he continued 
 with suppressed feelings. “ Her husband 
 has nearly lost his mind with grief.” 
 
 “Her husband!” exclaimed the po- 
 etess. 
 
 “ Understand me, madam,” the visitor 
 hastened to explain, “ her husband and I 
 are brothers in all but blood.” 
 
 “ I appreciate your sympathy and re- 
 gret I gave you pain unconsciously,” she 
 said slowly. “ What can I do to help 
 you? ” 
 
 “ I had almost forgotten my trifling 
 mission.” He fumbled in his pocket for 
 [ 220 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 a letter. “ I wish to find — to find — ” He 
 looked at the superscription, then rubbed 
 his hand across his eyes. In his confu- 
 sion he could not collect his thoughts or 
 scarcely read. “ — to find — Helen Whit- 
 man — Helen Whitman.” 
 
 “ That is my name.” 
 
 He arose and handed her the letter. 
 
 “ Indeed, I should have known! I 
 am Tony Preston, on my way to town 
 from your neighbor’s — I believe Miss 
 Byrd is our mutual friend — and, at her 
 request, I merely stopped to leave this 
 note.” 
 
 “ Oh, indeed, from Dorothy? ” the 
 poetess, much relieved, exclaimed, as 
 she observed the familiar handwriting. 
 “ Thank you; you are welcome.” 
 
 “ And as I came up the path,” he con- 
 tinued, “your face was at the window; 
 and, you see, I had just passed the spot 
 among the trees where we laid her to rest 
 nearly two years ago.” 
 
 Helen bowed respectfully at the story 
 of his sorrow. 
 
 [221 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ The grave by the path? I’ve seen 
 the place,” she said. “ It is the shortest 
 way to Dorothy’s house. I like to stroll 
 there myself; for I do not fear the dead 
 — only the living.” 
 
 She excused herself, opened and 
 glanced over the contents of the note. 
 
 “ I hope I am not the bearer of ill 
 news, madam?” said Tony, when she 
 had finished. 
 
 “ A business note merely. Mr. Pel- 
 ham, of Baltimore, manages some prop- 
 erty for Dorothy and me.” 
 
 Tony raised his eyes instantly at the 
 mention of Pelham’s name, but said noth- 
 ing. The coincidence scarcely impressed 
 itself upon him then, his mind was so 
 preoccupied. 
 
 “ Dorothy wishes me to come to her 
 for a chat to-night about it,” added the 
 poetess. “ I thank you for your trouble. 
 Won’t you step into the drawing-room? 
 I’ll order refreshments.” 
 
 “ I assure you,” replied Tony, with an 
 effort at a grateful smile, “ that it is not 
 [ 222 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 my way to refuse the good things of life, 
 but I have not the time to-night.” He 
 started to go, then stopped, and added 
 earnestly: “ I must ask you again to par- 
 don my strange deportment, but you are 
 so like Virginia Poe.” 
 
 “Virginia Poe! Virginia Poe! Not 
 the poet’s wife? ” 
 
 It was Helen Whitman’s turn now to 
 wonder. 
 
 “ Yes, she that was,” Tony explained 
 reverently. 
 
 “ Virginia Poe! ” the poetess repeated 
 tenderly. “ It is a name that casts a spell 
 over me. I had just put down ‘ The 
 Raven ’ as you entered. I have many 
 friends in common with the poet, but it 
 has never been my good fortune to look 
 upon his face.” 
 
 “ I remember now,” said Tony thought- 
 fully, “ though I did not know that you 
 had moved into the neighborhood, and I 
 am sure Poe did not. Helen Whitman 
 is a name often on his lips.” 
 
 “ I am glad of that,” she answered 
 [223] 
 
The Raven 
 
 gratefully. “ We have corresponded on 
 several occasions, when I was in Provi- 
 dence and he in the South, and I hear he 
 has hallowed some of my poor verses by 
 speaking well of them.” 
 
 “ He admires your writing exceed- 
 ingly, madam.” 
 
 “ How good of him! ” 
 
 “You are almost the living image of 
 his departed wife, though, now I look 
 more closely, the hair and eyes are 
 lighter, but the first impression is the 
 same.” 
 
 “ Strange, I have not been told of this 
 before! ” 
 
 “ No,” Tony replied quickly, “ Vir- 
 ginia was an invalid for years, and many 
 of Poe’s friends had never seen her.” 
 
 He took up his hat and stepped toward 
 the veranda. 
 
 “ I am sorry you have to leave so soon,” 
 she said earnestly, wishing he would stay. 
 She wanted to hear more and talk more. 
 
 “ To tell the truth,” explained her vis- 
 itor, “ I am anxious for Edgar Poe to- 
 [ 224] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 night. He left me in town early this 
 morning and I have not seen him since. 
 It may be foolish, but we are all that 
 way sometimes — and — I am very fond of 
 Mr. Poe. Good evening, madam.” 
 
 “ Good evening, Mr. Preston,” she re- 
 plied reluctantly. 
 
 “ Good evening,” he repeated again, 
 the same strange light coming into his 
 eyes which had startled her when he first 
 remarked the surprising likeness. 
 
 He turned quickly and was gone. 
 
 The meeting was not like one in life. 
 Each in their own way was in the 
 spiritual. 
 
 “ His wife, whom he loved so tenderly; 
 and I look like her! I wonder if he 
 would think so? And if he did ” 
 
 She caught up again the lace scarf. A 
 thrill of ecstasy and weird consciousness 
 of the unknown passed through her. 
 
 There was truly something mysterious 
 in the air, for even the crickets and the 
 whip-poor-wills were hushed, and the 
 owls seemed strangely silent. 
 
 [225] 
 
The Raven 
 
 She had read somewhere a legend that 
 the stars were but peepholes cut from 
 the floor of heaven by curious gods to 
 watch us mortals through, and that the 
 azure bits that dropped therefrom had 
 fallen to earth and made the violets. She 
 hoped ’twas but a fable, for there was 
 something sprung unbidden in her heart 
 that night that she would keep even from 
 God’s eye. 
 
 She looked like Virginia — and the poet 
 loved Virginia — loved Virginia! 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 Why Not To-night , Marjary ? 
 
 Every community, large or small, has 
 a lane where lovers wander. Even such 
 a scattered hamlet as Fordham had its 
 lane. The conventional trees bordered 
 its pathway, and the limbs drooped with 
 a kindly, protecting shade. There, also, 
 the Harlem River lent a picturesque 
 background to the scene, but its waters 
 were too busy bearing their burdens to 
 the sea to stop and listen. Here and 
 there a cottage opened upon the path- 
 way, but they were infrequent, and their 
 inhabitants, with rural simplicity, retired 
 soon after the shadows of night fell upon 
 the forest. 
 
 On this night the moon at intervals 
 peeped through the clouds and lighted 
 the way for Cupid. 
 
 “Marjary! Marjary! Marjary!” was 
 [ 227] 
 
The Raven 
 
 heard in a boyish voice where the path 
 from the Whitman place met King’s 
 Bridge Road. “ I wish she would come.” 
 Carroll spoke aloud for company. 
 
 It was not long before there was a 
 plaintive answering note, a rustle of 
 skirts, and the sound of running feet. 
 
 “ Carroll, Carroll, is that you? ” came 
 from the shadow in a frightened tone. 
 
 “ Of course it is,” answered the impa- 
 tient Carroll. “ Who else could it be? ” 
 
 He was jealous in a moment. 
 
 There was an embrace and a sound of 
 a kiss. The moonlight drifted through 
 a fleecy cloud. 
 
 “O Carroll!” cried Marjary fear- 
 fully, her head close upon his shoulder. 
 “ Did you see? Did you see?” 
 
 “ See what? ” he asked, with an ap- 
 pearance of bravery quite commendable, 
 though his eyes followed his sweetheart’s 
 back through the shadows, whence she 
 had come, with an anxious stare. 
 
 “ Did you not see — a figure in white — 
 moving among the trees — like a spirit? ” 
 [ 228 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ There’s no such thing as spirits, Mar- 
 jary,” he hastened to assure her dubi- 
 ously; but there was a look in his boyish 
 eyes that indicated that he feared an 
 ocular demonstration of the falseness of 
 his position. 
 
 “ You never can tell,” whispered Mar- 
 jary, trembling still. “ Old Aunt Betty 
 told me that there are spirits. Oh, see, 
 there again through the trees!” She 
 hugged Carroll closely — and he hugged 
 her closely, too. 
 
 He drew her hastily into the shade of 
 a giant oak, and there they stood, trem- 
 bling with fear, but assured by their near- 
 ness to each other. 
 
 Some minutes passed, and nothing 
 could be heard but the beating of their 
 hearts and their anxious breathing. They 
 found themselves at length still alive 
 and unhurt, and Carroll’s bravery re- 
 turned. His courage seemed to appear 
 and disappear with the moon. 
 
 “ I can’t see it now,” whispered Mar- 
 jary, much relieved; then, with a little 
 [229] 
 
The Raven 
 
 sob, she added: “I wish I were home. 
 I wish I were home.” 
 
 “Don’t be afraid, Marjary — I’m 
 here,” whispered her lover, his arm 
 drawing her closer to him, if possible — 
 just for sympathy. 
 
 She looked up into his eyes. 
 
 “ I am not so much afraid when you 
 are with me, Carroll,” she whispered 
 softly. 
 
 “ Then you are not afraid to be with 
 me always?” he asked, with a boyish 
 effort. 
 
 “ Not afraid,” she whispered confid- 
 ingly. 
 
 They moved slowly along the path, his 
 arm about her. Less and less frequently, 
 as they departed from the place of their 
 meeting, they looked mysteriously back, 
 to make sure that they were alone. It 
 was not long, however, before they were 
 again absorbed in each other, and for the 
 moment were lost in the nothings of love, 
 which to them meant all. 
 
 “Then you will marry me?” asked 
 [ 230] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Carroll, as they both looked out on the 
 river, “ and come to my home in Balti- 
 more? ” 
 
 “ I will marry you at the proper time 
 and age and place, dear Carroll.” 
 
 “ And what is the proper age and time 
 and place, dear Marjary? ” 
 
 “ I thought perhaps you’d know,” she 
 answered bashfully. 
 
 “ I do. It’s now — at once!” he cried 
 in ecstasy. Again he took her in his 
 arms and kissed her with youthful fer- 
 vor, and she did not try very hard to stop 
 him — only pretended to try. “ It will 
 be such fun,” he continued passionately. 
 “ We’ll run away, and come back and tell 
 them all about it.” 
 
 Marjary had dreamt of this; but now 
 that the opportunity was really here she 
 hesitated. Indeed, it is ever the femi- 
 nine part to demur. There was so much 
 to be thought of. There were so many 
 things that must be done to perfect the 
 romance of such an act. It must be done 
 properly or not at all. 
 
 [231 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “Run away!” she pouted, as if the 
 thought had never occurred to her. 
 “Elope! Impossible! We have no 
 horse, Carroll, dear.” 
 
 “ And why a horse? ” he demanded in 
 surprise, for he thought of nothing and 
 saw nothing but Marjary — always Mar- 
 jary! 
 
 “ We could not elope without a horse; 
 none of my family ever did.” 
 
 Carroll laughed, despite himself, just 
 a little. Marjary, however, did not ap- 
 prove of his treating her objection so 
 lightly. It was a serious matter, she was 
 sure. 
 
 “ But where would I get a horse this 
 hour of night, Marjary? ” It seemed to 
 him absurd. 
 
 “ Oh, dear, oh, dear, what shall we 
 do?” she cried tearfully. “It’s no use 
 to reason with you. It would be no 
 elopement at all. It would ruin my fam- 
 ily reputation. Grandmamma eloped on 
 a pillion behind grandpapa. They had 
 a banquet, a duel — swords ! I often heard 
 [ 232 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 my mother tell of it before I was born — 
 I mean before she died. Grandpapa 
 came into the ballroom like a hero in a 
 book, took grandmamma from the arms 
 of his rival, whom he wounded with his 
 sword, and away they went in the moon- 
 light at a gallop! Oh, I have a family 
 with a skeleton in its closet, Carroll, 
 dear!” 
 
 She was so very serious and proud of 
 the family achievements that Carroll did 
 not dare to laugh again. Indeed, he him- 
 self began to grow thoughtful, then sad, 
 as he realized the enormity of their dif- 
 ficulty. 
 
 “ And your dear mother, Marjary,” 
 he finally asked tenderly, “ did she elope, 
 too?” 
 
 “ To be sure she did,” replied Mar- 
 jary, stamping her foot impatiently, for 
 she could not understand how Carroll 
 could be so stupid. “All my family! 
 Mamma eloped with a coach and four.” 
 
 “A coach and four!” exclaimed the 
 youth, in despair. “ That was royal! ” 
 is [ 233 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ And my great-grandmamma had a 
 horse, too!” continued Marjary, with a 
 grand air that made Carroll fearful for 
 his future. “ No one ever heard of elop- 
 ing in any other way.” 
 
 There was an awkward silence for 
 a few moments. Marjary’s little foot 
 tapped the sod impatiently as she sat 
 there on the rock, looking out toward 
 the water. Carroll’s mind contemplated 
 anxiously the great seriousness of his sit- 
 uation with a sweetheart who came from 
 a family who always eloped. There was 
 surely more in matrimony than he had 
 ever dreamed about. A wave of despair 
 crept over him. He placed his hands 
 over his eyes to reflect upon his great 
 calamity. 
 
 Soon Marjary’s head re-nestled on his 
 shoulder with the tenderness of con- 
 stancy. 
 
 “ Only — you mustn’t tell, Carroll,” she 
 whispered, somewhat consoled, “ for we 
 only speak of it in the immediate family 
 circle — great-grandmamma eloped with 
 
 [234] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the butcher’s boy; he borrowed the 
 butcher’s horse, and he didn’t tell the 
 butcher.” 
 
 “ Didn’t anyone ever elope on foot, 
 Marjary, dear? ” Carroll asked, still so 
 anxious for the outcome that he was not 
 awake to the humor of her words. 
 
 “ Not that I ever heard of,” replied 
 Marjary, sitting erect and racking her 
 little brain for precedents. “ It would 
 be so foolish to elope that way.” 
 
 “ Then, if we can’t do any better,” 
 stammered Carroll hopefully, “ perhaps 
 we might be foolish — just this once?” 
 
 “ Perhaps,” came softly from Mar- 
 jary’s sweet lips to the accompaniment of 
 a confiding sob, after which she allowed 
 herself to languish again complacently in 
 his arms. 
 
 It was truly cruel to interrupt this 
 scene, but good Parson Prime, quite in- 
 nocently — the frock is always privileged 
 to innocence — at this very moment closed 
 the gate of Miss Honeygood’s neighbor- 
 [ 235 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ing cottage and came hastily up the path 
 on his way homeward. 
 
 He was so absorbed in his own thoughts 
 that he would not have observed the 
 lovers, in all probability, had not Mar- 
 jary uttered a little scream and sprang to 
 her feet suddenly, followed by Carroll, 
 seeking the cause of her fear. 
 
 “Oh, dear, it’s Parson Prime!” she 
 whispered, with agitation. 
 
 “What is it, friends?” inquired the 
 parson, in a benign voice, coming quickly 
 to a standstill at about “ Thirdly ” in 
 what was to become next Sunday’s ser- 
 mon. It was too bad to interrupt him 
 at such an early stage in his discourse, 
 but Marjary and Carroll were innocent 
 of any knowledge of his mental meander- 
 ings. “ You surely are not afraid of me,” 
 he added comfortingly. 
 
 “ We — we were only — ” began Car- 
 roll, none too fluently. 
 
 “ Yes — we were only — Why, Parson 
 Prime! ” cried Marjary. 
 
 “ Why, Marjary, is it you? ” exclaimed 
 [ 236 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the parson, in astonishment, remember- 
 ing that he had last seen her in the parlor 
 of his new parishioner not very long be- 
 fore. “ What brings you here? Is some 
 one ill at home? Your cousin? ” 
 
 He approached the startled lovers to 
 discern their trouble. 
 
 “ No, Parson Prime,” stammered Mar- 
 jary in reply. 
 
 “ Some poor soul requires my pray- 
 ers?” again inquired the parson so- 
 licitously. 
 
 “ Not your prayers, parson,” she re- 
 plied, still more confused. 
 
 “What is it, child?” he asked impa- 
 tiently. “What has happened?” 
 
 Marjary dropped her eyes. 
 
 “ Ask Carroll.” 
 
 Carroll dropped his eyes. 
 
 “ Ask Marjary.” 
 
 The man in the moon laughed. 
 
 The parson must have heard him. 
 
 “Oh, ho, I see!” exclaimed the good 
 man gleefully. “ But have you contem- 
 plated the seriousness of your step, my 
 
 [237] 
 
The Raven 
 
 children? Have you fully weighed its 
 gravities? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, all its gravities, parson.” 
 Marjary spoke with great assurance on 
 this point. 
 
 “ And what says the dear Cousin 
 Helen? ” questioned the parson, with a 
 good-humored smile. 
 
 “ Well, we — haven’t had time to ask 
 her,” admitted Marjary, somewhat awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 “ No time to ask her? ” demanded the 
 parson, in surprise. 
 
 “ No, Parson Prime,” stammered the 
 young girl ; “ you see — I — only just made 
 up my mind.” 
 
 Carroll came to her rescue — tardily: 
 
 “ Yes, parson, she only just made up 
 her mind. I made up my mind years 
 ago.” 
 
 The parson stood for a moment con- 
 templating the young lovers ruefully. 
 They dropped their eyes and tried to lean 
 against each other for support. The mo- 
 ment was a great one in their lives, and 
 [ 238 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 one that they were not quite prepared to 
 meet confidently. 
 
 “ When would you have the cere- 
 mony performed?” asked Parson Prime 
 thoughtfully. 
 
 “ Is it necessary to put it off, parson? ” 
 murmured Marjary woefully. 
 
 “ Yes — is it necessary to put it off, 
 parson?” chimed in the more ardent 
 Carroll. “ To-night? Why not to-night, 
 Marjary? ” 
 
 “ To-night! ” exclaimed the parson, his 
 astonishment increasing. 
 
 “ It is nearly to-morrow already, par- 
 son,” suggested the young penitent who 
 would surely sin again. 
 
 The parson shook his head. For the 
 first time he was very firm. 
 
 “Nay, nay, my children,” he said. 
 “ There is a time and place for all good 
 things. Back to your homes. The moon- 
 lit lanes and secret walks are only places 
 in which to whisper love. Let your 
 happy thoughts be runaways; your eager 
 hearts elope in joyous expectation; but 
 
 [ 239] 
 
The Raven 
 
 wed with proclamation bells and wit- 
 nesses, that all may see the happiness and 
 sanctity of the marriage scene and read 
 in another love-ruled home another omen 
 of a peaceful, prosperous state. To- 
 morrow we shall catechise your hearts; 
 if they are true and things are fitting, far 
 be it from me to say you nay.” 
 
 Carroll and Marjary could wait no 
 longer. They fell into each other’s arms 
 in a joyous embrace. 
 
 “Tut, tut!” exclaimed the parson re- 
 provingly. “ You are not wedded yet. 
 Home, home; reflect and pray.” 
 
 Carroll and Marjary dropped their 
 heads penitently. 
 
 “ Good night, Parson Prime,” she 
 stammered bashfully, realizing for the 
 first time the indecorum of their enthusi- 
 asm when there were now upon them 
 eyes more mortal than Luna’s. 
 
 “ Good night, Parson Prime,” repeated 
 Carroll, his voice trembling with emo- 
 tion, for at this stage of the romance his 
 sweetheart seemed the braver. 
 
 [ 240] 
 
 f 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Good night, my children,” replied 
 the parson kindly. “ Heaven bless you 
 both and make you wiser.” 
 
 They started down the path eagerly, 
 glad of any avenue of escape. 
 
 The parson thought he saw them 
 through the moonlight in each other’s 
 arms at the turn of the road, but his eyes 
 were dim, and perhaps he was mistaken. 
 He gave them the benefit of the doubt, 
 though he shook his gray head dubiously, 
 as he realized that old hearts can ill sit 
 in judgment on young hearts’ follies or 
 the evening judge the morning of the 
 day. 
 
 The clock in a distant steeple struck 
 the witching hour. 
 
 He was startled. By a strange coinci- 
 dence, which had not come home to him 
 till then, that very hour, just forty years 
 before, his own heart had been glad- 
 dened by a softly spoken vow still sweet 
 to memory. 
 
 He started hastily to overtake his 
 young friends and to make their hearts 
 [241 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 more happy by a stronger assurance that 
 the morrow should witness their nuptials, 
 if he could consummate it. 
 
 Lovers, when out of sight, do not walk 
 fast, and the parson soon overtook them. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 Virginia 
 
 It was a marvelous night! 
 
 The breezes had borne the clouds 
 away. 
 
 The sky rained stars. Artemis darted 
 her streams of silvery light in shafts till 
 lost in heavenly ether. 
 
 Edgar Poe, in communion with his 
 spirit-love, wandered through the trees, 
 now in the light and now in the shadow. 
 His step was not listless, for he moved 
 with purpose. His face was very pale, 
 and his black cloak and dark, disordered 
 hair gave him the majestic appearance 
 of Hamlet, the Dane, thought-weary of 
 life. 
 
 He turned into the path through the 
 woods which led to Virginia’s lonely 
 grave. 
 
 He wondered what the day in night 
 
 [243] 
 
The Raven 
 
 portended, but Mother Nature made him 
 no answer. He wondered if it was to 
 light him on his way. In despair, he 
 cried out against the twinkling orbs 
 above and the cinder of a moon, for he 
 had found this quiet path when Nature’s 
 shroud of snow mantled the earth; he 
 had found it when the darkness gathered 
 and the midnight storm uprooted trees 
 and made the people tremble; and he did 
 not need their rays to point his path this 
 night. 
 
 With the reverence of sorrowing love 
 he approached the simple grave, always 
 restful and quiet. 
 
 “ Ah, here lies all the earth — the Le- 
 nore of my brain, the Virginia of my 
 heart! ” 
 
 He knelt by his sleeping one. 
 
 Satyrs and nymphs, dryads and elves, 
 seemed to gather among the trees and 
 bow respectfully with their poet in his 
 great sorrow. 
 
 Silence reigned, but Poe needed no 
 audience more inspiring than the night. 
 
 [244] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Where art thou, child? ” he asked at 
 last in a voice of anguish. “ Come, speak 
 to me.” He wondered if the coverlet of 
 flowers could weigh her down and hide 
 her face, or their sweet odor drug her 
 for a gentle dream? He remonstrated 
 with himself for his idle thoughts, and 
 rose bitterly in self-reproach. 
 
 “Awake!” he cried in mental an- 
 guish, for he felt that he had naught but 
 idle words to cast upon the grave of her 
 he loved. Why had he come to this 
 silent spot? To join her, pretty one. A 
 rushing sound swayed the trees above his 
 head. He thought it was a voice, and 
 drew his cloak about him fearfully. It 
 was the wind, self-weary, like himself. 
 He chided himself for being a fool, a 
 coward, fancy’s slave! Virginia had not 
 feared to go, and she had naught but sim- 
 ple faith to guide her steps. He was 
 armed with philosophy, worlds of phi- 
 losophy, and yet he paused and shud- 
 dered as the night closed in about him. 
 
 What was it that arose unbidden to his 
 [ 245 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 lips? A prayer his mother had taught 
 him. Why came it at such a time and 
 place out of the shadowy past? That 
 baby prayer must be the avant-courier of 
 his wretched soul, and bear the tidings 
 of his coming to Virginia. 
 
 He knelt again above the grave in si- 
 lent prayer — alone with his dead and his 
 God. 
 
 His thoughts were broken in upon by 
 the voice of Parson Prime. 
 
 “ Has the day of judgment come, and 
 these the first to answer to their names? ” 
 Poe asked himself wearily. 
 
 The parson and the two young lovers 
 were hastening along the path, which ran 
 not far from the spot where he sought 
 communion with Virginia’s spirit. 
 
 “ Whence came that voice? ” inquired 
 the good man curiously of those who 
 followed him. “ ’Tis Sorrow’s own! ” 
 
 They stayed their steps and listened. 
 The leaves rustled in the night breeze. 
 
 “ Who and what are ye that invade 
 this sacred place?” The poet’s voice 
 [246] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 seemed to come from the grave itself, as 
 he stood, wrapped in Melancholy, con- 
 fronting those who intruded upon his 
 reverie. 
 
 “ Friends,” answered the parson sym- 
 pathetically, “ who, mortal-like, have 
 missed their path, but still have faith the 
 eye of God is on them.” 
 
 “ Where are we, sir? ” Carroll falter- 
 ingly inquired. 
 
 “ In the graveyard, sir,” Poe answered. 
 “ Can you not see? ” 
 
 “ What do you here, at such an hour? ” 
 inquired the parson respectfully. 
 
 “ The better part of me dwells here,” 
 was the bitter answer. “ God gives the 
 earth to such as these and takes Virginia.” 
 
 The parson turned to Marjary to re- 
 assure her. “ He is some deranged man,” 
 he whispered, but he was loath to leave, 
 and turned again to the man with the 
 great sorrow. 
 
 “ Fear not, friend,” he said. 
 
 “Fear!” cried the poet. “My soul 
 is seamed and scarred. I have writhed 
 
 [ 247] 
 
The Raven 
 
 in the toils of every fanged and hissing 
 monster that feeds upon the weary brain, 
 and you talk to me of fear! ” 
 
 The noble bearing of the gentleman by 
 the grave commanded respect and rever- 
 ence. 
 
 “ Life has made you bitter,” said the 
 parson, slowly shaking his old head. “ It 
 grieves me to leave you so unreconciled; 
 but we intrude. Poor soul! ” 
 
 The parson and the hopeful lovers 
 went their way silently. There was 
 something, however, about the stranger 
 there by the lonely grave in the woods 
 so late at night that touched their hearts 
 with pity. His image haunted them. He 
 seemed familiar even to Marjary and 
 Carroll, though his features were half 
 cloaked by Melancholy and the night. 
 It was not till the day had dawned that 
 they realized who he was, and where they 
 had met him. 
 
 “ How little sometimes stays the ship 
 in port,” murmured the poet, as he saw 
 them pass into the shadows. It was grow- 
 
 [ 248 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ing late, and here he still lingered on 
 life’s bleak shore alone, and listened to 
 the mocking winds wafted from the great 
 and unknown deep. He felt that he 
 must slip the anchor, and take to the 
 open sea or be mangled on the reefs, that 
 there was no alternative. He moved 
 toward an open grave. There lay the 
 sexton’s spade and pick and knife. He 
 shuddered as he looked at them. Even 
 Heaven had sent a toy of destruction to 
 spur on tardy purpose. The gravedig- 
 ger had surely forgotten the best thing 
 in life, the means of leaving it. He tossed 
 the knife aside that it might help some 
 poorer beggar o’er the stile. He would 
 have welcomed it had he not been better 
 armed. 
 
 He drew a vial of poison from his 
 pocket — the last friend of whom Edgar 
 Poe would ask a favor! 
 
 The city lights across the Dyckman 
 Bridge twinkled and gayly danced in the 
 distance beyond the river. The poet 
 stepped upon the rocks and took a long 
 
 17 [ 249 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 and lingering look; then he broke into 
 a mocking laugh. 
 
 It was his farewell to the selfish, sleep- 
 ing world! His words echoed against 
 the cliffs beyond. He only laughed back 
 at them — and they again replied in kind. 
 He had no tears for the world at parting. 
 It would continue to rob, murder, and 
 satiate its greed for gold when he was 
 gone. It would still hew down the for- 
 ests; seine the seas of every pearl; kill 
 the last warbling bird and living thing; 
 pillage the hidden vaults of Mother 
 Earth: then wrangle for its ill-gotten 
 gains! 
 
 There was more than mockery of man- 
 kind in his hysterical laugh; there was 
 almost hilarity in his tones as he ad- 
 dressed his farewell thoughts to the 
 scenes of happier days. 
 
 “Thou art right!” he cried. “Let 
 nothing live!” In his hopelessness he 
 felt that there could be little chance for 
 purity in a world which had translated 
 Beauty into Filth, made Art a Wanton, 
 [250] 
 
' The hove Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 laughed at Truth, and broken Justice’s 
 image, Heaven’s best gift to man. He 
 laughed again as he invited the World 
 to this sweet secluded spot beneath the 
 trees, to the neglected grave of Edgar 
 Poe, a hapless poet, for he felt that he 
 had found what it had not, the mystery 
 of peace. He bade it read in the daisies 
 that would grow over him of one who, 
 weary of life’s shadows, was cradled to 
 eternal rest in the arms of Virginia — his 
 Lenore. 
 
 He walked slowly back to the grave 
 where she lay dreaming of his coming, 
 and stood there looking down at the cold 
 slab, lost in a thousand conflicting mem- 
 ories. He had lived such a little while, 
 and yet he had lived so long. 
 
 The moon mist enveloped him as with 
 a halo. 
 
 Slowly his hand raised the vial. A 
 moonbeam danced upon a tear that fell 
 upon her grave. 
 
 “Farewell, O World, farewell!” he 
 cried, with the joyousness of one who is 
 
 [251] 
 
The Raven 
 
 about to be made free. “ I drink my last 
 sweet draught to thee!” 
 
 He placed the vial to his lips. He 
 raised his eyes 
 
 There, in the moonlight, stood Helen, 
 dressed all in white — the reincarnation 
 of the form and features that rested in 
 the grave beneath his feet. 
 
 “Virginia!” he whispered. “Vir- 
 ginia! ” he cried. 
 
 The vial dropped from his lips, and 
 he fell upon the grave unconscious. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 Helen — My Helen — The Helen of a 
 Thousand Dreams ! 
 
 The strange spell of night played upon 
 the soul of Edgar Poe, and he, like many 
 lesser men, was enchained in the cobwebs 
 of the moon. The delicate fabric of his 
 weird fancy extended to myriad stars, 
 and was drawn back to Mother Earth 
 by ghostly thoughts that led him to the 
 flat slab marking Virginia’s resting place 
 among the trees at Fordham. 
 
 He had suffered, he had struggled, he 
 had cried out, but there was no escape 
 for him. The moonbeams seemed to 
 laugh by night, the sun’s rays dance by 
 day. 
 
 “ Helen — my Helen — the Helen of a 
 thousand dreams!” he cried. The only 
 echo which answered his beating heart 
 was the one word: “Virginia!” “ Le- 
 
 [253] 
 
 f 
 
The Raven 
 
 nore,” he wailed. Still the answer was — 
 “ Virginia!” 
 
 Thus, the gods had spoken, and he 
 knelt to them. He prayed, he pleaded 
 for mercy. In memory and in anguish, 
 he wandered the paths where Virginia 
 and he had walked so often; he climbed 
 to the bowlders that overlooked the river 
 by the Dyckman Bridge, over which he, 
 oh, so many times, had tramped to the 
 city to sell his verse for her, and where 
 he had sat for hours, hatless and dis- 
 traught, his pencil conveying on bits of 
 paper the vivid images of his brain. 
 
 What did it all mean? What could it 
 all mean? Virginia had gone, and the 
 branches of the old cherry tree by the 
 window, where she was wont to sit, 
 drooped in seeming sorrow. 
 
 Yes, she of his heart was gone for- 
 ever. Yet, was she gone? The meeting 
 with Helen flashed before him in the 
 night light. He looked into. Virginia’s 
 glorious, lovelit eyes. Were they Hel- 
 en’s? Were they Virginia’s? No. Those 
 
 [254] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 lighter eyes had come to him even at the 
 grave, and they had never gone. Helen’s 
 eyes! and he had found peace and com- 
 fort in her deep sympathy and restful- 
 ness in her tender voice. Where was his 
 oath? No, no, this was not love, it could 
 not be. He screamed it to the night. 
 Still, those lighter eyes remained, and 
 slowly his thoughts softened. She had 
 been sent by Heaven in the form and 
 beauty of his lost love. She was not 
 Helen, she was his very own, his soul 
 love in new garb of earth. Finally, he 
 convinced himself. The soul was Vir- 
 ginia’s; the eyes were Helen’s. There 
 could be no mistake. What was there 
 in a name? 
 
 All rested in the footsteps homeward 
 turned, the kiss of greeting, the eyes at 
 meeting. These, since the world began, 
 had gone forth in twos and not in threes. 
 
 She of the lovely eyes had met him in 
 the moon’s pale light, and there had 
 brought him life again. Yet, death was 
 what he sought, and she had given it 
 [ 255 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 to him, but it was the death in life, so 
 sought by all who know — the peace in 
 life, which is the sweet forerunner of 
 the peace in death. Helen, radiant and 
 poetic, had enticed him to her home, and 
 he had found it rich and warm and rest- 
 ful. Her finger tips had straightened 
 out his fretful curls. They had cooled 
 the fever of his brain, and had enchained 
 his gaze with hers. He had read the 
 poets with her, and she had read sweet 
 verse to him. He had closed his eyes 
 and listened to — Virginia’s voice ; he had 
 opened them again, and looked upon — 
 fair Helen’s face. Was it a mockery of 
 the gods? Perhaps. Yet he believed, 
 accepted, and was grateful. Then he 
 closed his eyes and slept, her warm kiss 
 upon his lips. 
 
 Days, weeks, months rushed on like 
 magic. Life and love danced and glowed 
 about him in happy reflections. 
 
 Night after night he dragged his weary 
 body to a spot near Helen’s home, and 
 saw the light in her window pass to its 
 [ 256 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 rest. It went out like the light in 
 Virginia’s eyes, but there were no tears 
 in Edgar Poe’s eyes now. He laughed 
 back gayly, joyously, kindly. Another 
 night, and still another, and she would 
 relight the lamp, as sweet Heaven had 
 rekindled in her eyes the dead embers that 
 were in Virginia’s. 
 
 But the poet did not suffer or feel or 
 hope alone. Heaven had not so guided 
 love. His fiery soul sent forth messages 
 on the wings of thought, and in like man- 
 ner they were received. He needed her 
 she knew, and she was willing to give 
 her HI to him, but he must speak. Still, 
 she would search the landscape far and 
 wide from her gabled window, with rest- 
 less, eager eyes — eyes that answered 
 all! Yet, she must wait for him to speak. 
 She must know from him in words. 
 Nothing but words would satisfy her. 
 
 Sometimes Poe came to her, as if in 
 response to her beckoning thought, and 
 she felt sure her heart had brought him. 
 Sometimes, in despair of his coming, 
 [ 257 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 she would concentrate her heart’s wish, 
 and he would come to her. But often 
 he was away, she knew not where, and 
 then life grew black and terrible, and 
 horrible thoughts crowded her longing 
 brain. Her fancy would then see him 
 alone — deserted by the world — in a gar- 
 ret — dying, and she not there to defend 
 him against death. She not there, if van- 
 quished, to receive his dying words — 
 “Helen! My Helen!” She must, she 
 would go to him. Then she would shud- 
 der with the fear of uncertainty. The 
 breath of a passing spirit would rush 
 through the room like a chilly wind, and 
 whisper “ Virginia — not Helen.” She 
 would sink upon her couch in fear and 
 dread, for were not his poems and stories 
 all dreams of Virginia? 
 
 Then, in her most despondent moment, 
 a light laugh, a soft step, and Edgar — 
 her Edgar — was in her arms, and with a 
 kiss awakened her to happiness. All was 
 joy once more! It was so natural, so 
 necessary to be together, it would then 
 
 [ 258 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 seem to both, and, like daydreams, the 
 hours would drift by; but the day follow- 
 ing, when she watched the long stretch 
 of fields for his coming, while she waited 
 for his roguish, boyish laugh and quick 
 embrace — he would come, but there 
 would be a storm cloud on his brow, 
 wrath in his eyes — the trembling lip, the 
 pallor — oh, the pallor of a Greek marble 
 upon his brow and cheek, which bespoke 
 manly beauty, and also death. Passion- 
 ate and fearful, she would seize upon 
 him, as if to keep him from the gods — 
 all — all for herself alone. And, so, she 
 would comfort her love until the quiet 
 of her great soul would bring peace and 
 calm to his ; the color would spread upon 
 his cheek, and the terrors of his fancy, 
 which had driven him mad, would creep 
 silently away. He needed her, she knew 
 he needed her; and she needed him. 
 Thus, resting in silence, and fancy’s ter- 
 rors gone, he would chide her for want 
 of love because she did not speak to 
 him. She would make his fearfulness 
 
 [ 259] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the greater because she could not speak 
 — only kiss him tenderly and persuade 
 him to rest, and be strong again. 
 
 In wonder he would look at her while 
 his lips burned with words of love un- 
 spoken, for hers were silent. 
 
 Then he would go away, and she would 
 be alone. For hours she would lay as in 
 a trance. She loved him, that she knew, 
 yet she would sink away under the awful 
 anguish of the great love which they 
 alone possessed — yet possessed not. They 
 were so finely wrought in human sym- 
 pathy and perfect understanding that 
 they realized that human love was lim- 
 ited, it could not satisfy their craving 
 souls, and yet divine love was far beyond 
 them. 
 
 A great doubt crept upon her. She 
 had thrown aside the world for his com- 
 panionship, and what would the outcome 
 be? Could she fail in some quality 
 by which his girl love held him still? 
 Would death give them the craved free- 
 dom of their love? What separated 
 [ 260 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 them? She cried out hopelessly, as she 
 realized all this, and in the night silence 
 he cried back. 
 
 Her eyes grew darker than ever Vir- 
 ginia’s were, as she struggled up and 
 drew from beneath her pillow “ Eleo- 
 nora,” the written confession of Edgar 
 Poe’s heart and love. She read it eager- 
 ly, the color came and went in her cheeks, 
 her heart beat fast and faster; but with 
 hushed breath she read it to the end — and 
 the end she read many times. 
 
 In Eleanora she divined the story of 
 Virginia; and in Ermengarde’s happiness 
 she found foreshadowed a like Elysium 
 for herself. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Dat Rent Done Split My Memory 
 
 In the last days of September, 1849, 
 there was great excitement in the city of 
 Baltimore. A bitter contest for Mem- 
 bers of Congress and of the House of 
 Delegates of the State of Maryland had 
 brought about questionable electioneer- 
 ing methods. The wily politicians of the 
 day had been known to go so far even, 
 as to detain uncertain voters in what they 
 politely called a “ coop ” — prison was too 
 harsh a word to be personally agreeable 
 in a politician’s vocabulary — to drug 
 them, and to vote them repeatedly from 
 poll to poll. 
 
 It was on one of these September 
 days, in the heat of the growing excite- 
 ment, that Edgar Allan Poe, a fugitive 
 from himself, landed almost penniless 
 from one of the Norfolk steamers. 
 
 [262] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 He had seen Helen Whitman at her 
 Fordham home just before his departure 
 for the South. The interview had been 
 strangely passionate on his part; strange- 
 ly fearful on hers. 
 
 She had been besought by her friends 
 to forsake the poet, whose advances, fol- 
 lowing their fateful meeting, had be- 
 come almost fanatical in their earnest- 
 ness; but she could not — for she loved 
 him. She satisfied herself, however, with 
 the belief that it was sympathetic inter- 
 est only which led her to accept his love; 
 but she had gone further — she had ac- 
 cepted his ring, unknown to her friends. 
 Throughout their mad courtship ru- 
 mors of Poe’s indiscretions had been 
 brought to her on all sides. They had 
 made her indignant. She had apparently 
 ignored them, though in truth they had 
 made her ill. They had even prostrated 
 her. 
 
 On the very night of the poet’s depart- 
 ure for the South, which was unexpected 
 by her, and not previously contemplated 
 [263] 
 
The Raven 
 
 even by himself, he had entered the draw- 
 ing-room, where she lay convalescing, 
 like a man bereft of his reason. He, too, 
 had learned what the world was saying. 
 Like Hamlet , telling the story of his 
 heart to Ophelia , he had caught a glimpse 
 of the meddlers behind the arras! 
 
 Kneeling close by the couch where she 
 rested he pleaded wildly: “ Tell me you 
 love me.” 
 
 She only looked up at him strangely 
 with her beautiful eyes — the eyes of his 
 departed love! 
 
 “ Tell me that you love me, Helen,” 
 he demanded again fervently in a whis- 
 per. 
 
 “ I love you,” she replied weakly. 
 
 The breath of a ghost passed between 
 them. 
 
 He looked at Helen long and ardently. 
 Then he went to the door, seemingly 
 without his eyes; for his eyes were riv- 
 eted upon her. He stood for a moment 
 uncertain; then turned and fled from her 
 presence in agony. 
 
 [ 264 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 He had suddenly realized that in 
 Helen’s face and figure his feverish mid- 
 night fancy had found again the soul of 
 Virginia, he had followed it in mad de- 
 lirium, but it was not there. The spirit 
 he longed for had flown, but was wait- 
 ing his coming. He would go to her. 
 
 With this parting still haunting his 
 dazed mind he stepped from the steamer 
 in Baltimore. 
 
 To his astonishment, he was greeted 
 by many who seemed to know him, and 
 was soon the center of a merry group, 
 who asked considerately about his health 
 and prosperity, whence he had come, and 
 whither he was going. He was surely 
 among friends again, and all would soon 
 be well. His spirits rose, and he sought 
 relief and forgetfulness in the Bohemian 
 companionship of those about him. They 
 led him to a tavern in Pratt Street. Any- 
 thing to keep from thinking! 
 
 “ Colonel ” Roscoe Pelham, unknown 
 to the poet, was now a candidate for Con- 
 gress, and it was his lieutenants who had 
 18 [ 265 ] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 so honored Poe. The leader of this band 
 of “ good citizens ” was one William 
 Pidgeon, proprietor, with his wife, Mrs. 
 Dolly Pidgeon, of a rare alley boarding 
 house and the “ deliverer ” of many 
 questionable votes. 
 
 While making his rounds, to get re- 
 ports of “ good work,” Pelham had ob- 
 served Poe. He did not make his pres- 
 ence known, however. From a corner, 
 he pointed Poe out to Carroll Brent, 
 his new secretary, and bade him follow 
 the poet and report his dwelling place. 
 There was no further expression of in- 
 terest in the candidate’s demeanor. His 
 cold indifference, in fact, prevented Car- 
 roll from an expression of astonishment, 
 as he recognized the man he had last seen 
 at a grave near Fordham. 
 
 Carroll had grown astute since the re- 
 sponsibility of life had come upon him, 
 and he had learned the cunning of few 
 words. Indeed, he had grown visibly in 
 more ways than one since the days he 
 had found his fate in Fordham, and re- 
 [ 266 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 turned to Baltimore with his wife, Mar- 
 jary. 
 
 Here he had secured employment in 
 the “ Pelham offices,” which was an as- 
 surance of worldly prosperity in itself, 
 at the request of his friend Miss Byrd, 
 whose properties in Pelham’s hands were 
 of sufficient value to make the granting of 
 such a favor more than advisable. There 
 the young man had proved himself apt 
 and resourceful, and had developed a re- 
 markable degree of tact, three attributes 
 which in all ages of the world’s history 
 have found a straight path to success of 
 a kind. 
 
 When the campaign had opened, Pel- 
 ham had made Brent his secretary; 
 though he usually intrusted others of 
 more doubtful integrity to carry out cer- 
 tain dubious instructions. 
 
 Marjary, it is true, had not quite recon- 
 ciled herself to the breaking of the fam- 
 ily record of elopements, but she had, 
 however, settled down quite complacent- 
 ly to matrimonial existence and merged 
 
 [267] 
 
The Raven 
 
 her ambitions into the ambitions of “ Mr. 
 Brent.” 
 
 Carroll referred to “ his wife ” and 
 “ his duties as secretary ” to one of the 
 leading political spirits of the time with 
 a grand manner, highly approved, and 
 becomingly “ seconded ” by his life’s 
 love. 
 
 Meanwhile, the poet sat sadly uncon- 
 scious of the evil thoughts about him. 
 
 It is in such dark days that true friend- 
 ship, if any, is found, and friendship is 
 not always found in a white heart. So 
 it happened in this case. 
 
 By happy chance, which is often om- 
 nipotent in the destiny of poets, as well 
 as of lesser men, Erebus, returning late 
 from a search for work along the 
 wharves, happened by the very tavern in 
 Pratt Street where the poet was being 
 entertained, and through the window he 
 recognized his former master, the center 
 of a jovial set. 
 
 It was with joy unbounded that the 
 negro entered the tavern, in spite of his 
 [ 268 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 trepidation, and greeted “ Mars’ Ed- 
 gah,” whom he had not seen since they 
 parted at the grave of Virginia, and he 
 had returned to Baltimore, at Poe’s sug- 
 gestion, to seek employment. The poet, 
 too, was delighted, and fairly embraced 
 the old slave, to the astonishment of those 
 about him. He did not realize that the 
 eyes, which followed his every move- 
 ment, belonged to men instructed by 
 “ Colonel ” Pelham to corral arrivals, 
 and legally or otherwise utilize their 
 franchise at the polls. 
 
 “ I have no work,” replied the negro, 
 in answer to his former master’s earnest 
 inquiry. 
 
 “ Nor have I,” laughed Poe sardon- 
 ically. 
 
 It was late, and the master had no place 
 to rest his head. His money, too, was ex- 
 hausted. 
 
 He followed Erebus from the gay 
 scenes of the tavern, chatting with him 
 with the familiarity of an old friend, and 
 quite unconscious that he was being fol- 
 [269] 
 
The Raven 
 
 lowed. Like other great men, he grate- 
 fully embraced the companionship of the 
 lowly who brought back other days. 
 Was not Erebus an old friend? 
 
 With many apologies, the negro led 
 the master slowly to his own lodgings in 
 a garret under the eaves near Lombard 
 Street. He assisted him to climb the 
 rambling stairs, which hung crablike to 
 the outer walls of the frame structure. 
 Even the entrance was uncanny. 
 
 The negro’s abode consisted of two 
 small rooms, probably for the reason that 
 they were so united that they could not 
 well be let separately; and, with the best 
 that he had, he went joyfully to work to 
 make his former master comfortable for 
 the night in the larger one. He had 
 saved a little for his rent out of what he 
 had earned; but he “ jes’ forgot dat ” and 
 slipped out and bought a blanket for 
 “ Mars’ Edgah.” 
 
 The next day the poet went forth alone 
 to seek, as he said, employment for his 
 pen; and Erebus stayed behind with fear 
 [270] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and trembling. His master, he felt, was 
 not himself. He spent the day making 
 the room as comfortable as he could with 
 the small means at hand. Something told 
 him that “ Mars’ Edgah ” would come 
 back. 
 
 Hour after hour, however, he stood at 
 the window watching, and the evening 
 approached without Poe’s return. 
 
 It was Election Day, October 3d. The 
 streets were still crowded with voters go- 
 ing to and from the polls, with proces- 
 sions, bands, and idlers. The city was 
 taking a holiday, or might have called it 
 such, for no work was being done. 
 
 Erebus filled the oaken bucket with 
 water from a neighboring pump, and 
 slowly climbed again to his musty garret. 
 Under his heavy burden he talked to 
 himself, after the fashion of his race: 
 
 “ ’Deed, I wish dis hyah water ’ud run 
 up hill. Mars’ Johnson used t’ say dar 
 was plenty ob sal’ratus in de cup and 
 watah in de well. Dar’s watah nuff in de 
 well, but yo’ has to climb fo’ it, Erebus. 
 
 [ 271 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 But, ’deed, dar ain’ no sal’ratus in de 
 cup. Dar ain’t eben common salt.” 
 
 He put the bucket on the table by the 
 gable window, which looked out on Mis- 
 ery and church steeples, wharves, and 
 spars of ships. 
 
 There was a sharp knock without. 
 The warped door fell open, and Helen 
 Whitman entered the room. Erebus was 
 overcome by the wisdom of her face, as 
 Tony had been in days gone by. 
 
 “Miss Virginiah!” he murmured 
 and fell upon his knees, a prayer for 
 mercy upon his lips. 
 
 Helen scarcely noticed his movement, 
 for she, too, was overcome, not by the 
 witchery of her resemblance to Poe’s de- 
 parted love, which had cast a spell upon 
 the negro, but by the unpleasantness of 
 his surroundings. 
 
 Her gown was of silk, shading won- 
 derfully from gray into old rose and 
 gold, and the full skirt hung in graceful 
 folds over the hoops. She wore a long 
 coat of gray with swansdown trimmings 
 [272] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and a large muff of the same material. 
 An old-rose poke bonnet with a high 
 crown gave her face a look of pensive 
 piquancy, and the feather of shadow gray 
 softened the rigid style of the bonnet and 
 added grace. 
 
 “Who are you? ” at length she asked. 
 
 Erebus could only mutter: “ Miss Vir- 
 giniah! ” 
 
 “Virginia again!” cried Helen me- 
 chanically, for she was indifferent to any- 
 thing now that did not directly tend to 
 help the man she loved. She realized, at 
 length, the horror her presence had 
 brought to the black man’s soul, and it 
 touched her deeply. “ No, my poor 
 man, I am not Miss Virginia,” she said 
 reassuringly. “ I wish I were.” 
 
 Erebus did not move. His eyes stared, 
 as if the gates of hell had been opened 
 and his name had been called. 
 
 “Youse Miss Virginiah on earth de 
 secon’ time,” he cried, “ sure as Erebus 
 has eyes, else youse de spit image ob 
 her.” 
 
 [273] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Does Mr. Poe live here? ” demanded 
 Helen. “ I mean — come here — Answer 
 me, and quickly! ” 
 
 She was in no mood now for trifling. 
 Her purpose was definite. Her charac- 
 ter was severe, she had come to help the 
 man she loved, and nothing should hin- 
 der her. 
 
 “ Mars’ Edgah done gone away, Miss- 
 us,” Erebus said. 
 
 “ Don’t tell me that,” cried Helen, for 
 this was as terrible to her as her resem- 
 blance to Virginia was to the black man 
 before her. “ That’s what I hear each 
 place I go. Shall I never find him? ” 
 
 She turned to go. 
 
 “ Where did you see him last, Miss- 
 us?” cried Erebus pathetically. 
 
 Helen replied mechanically, her eyes 
 upon the broken furniture, the musty 
 walls, the cobwebby rafters, the soiled 
 couch, the scattered manuscripts : “ At 
 Fordham.” 
 
 “ At Fordham! ” cried Erebus. “And 
 you don’ follow Mars’ Edgah all de way 
 
 [ 274] 
 
Phe Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 here to Balt’more, Missus? You must 
 love him.” 
 
 “ Did he say where he was going or 
 when he would return? ” was all that she 
 could reply. 
 
 “ I asked him, Missus, but he only 
 shook his head and said: ‘God knows. 
 God knows.’ ” 
 
 Helen went to the door whence she 
 had entered and supported herself by 
 holding to the latch. “ When did he 
 leave this — this place?” she asked. 
 
 “ Dis mornin’, Missus,” replied Ere- 
 bus. 
 
 “ This morning — God knows! God 
 knows! ” she sobbed as she made her way 
 down the spider stairs and into the black- 
 ness of the night. 
 
 Poor Erebus stood for some moments 
 as in a trance. His brain moved slowly, 
 his heart beat fast. 
 
 “ How she did ’mind me of Miss Vir- 
 giniah!” he muttered. 
 
 There was another knock, but this time 
 it was from the door within that led to 
 
 [275] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the stairs below. Erebus sprang to his 
 feet. 
 
 “ Dat’s dat pollertician woman ’bout 
 de rent,” he muttered sadly. “ Po’ white 
 trash! I wouldn’t dirty my han’s wid 
 her, but I owes her money. I didn’t tell 
 Mars’ Edgah ’bout dat. He ain’t right, 
 nohow; ’deed he ain’t. Erebus, yo’ ol’ 
 Marsa’s possessed.” 
 
 The door was opened without further 
 formality, despite its rusty catch, which 
 operated so badly that it was possessed 
 of some of the virtues of a new lock. In 
 walked, with an impatient flourish, Mrs. 
 William Pidgeon, landlady and wife of 
 Mr. William Pidgeon, politician. She 
 could scarcely be said to walk in, how- 
 ever, but swayed in, rather, with her 
 huge body and round, baby face and 
 retrousse nose, which on some faces might 
 have been a charm, but in her case did 
 not fit. That was the only apparent dif- 
 ficulty with it. Her eyes were little 
 twinkling buttons of envy and kindred 
 womanly virtues. 
 
 [276] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Keep me waitin’, would you, in my 
 own house?” she broke forth, with a 
 Southern drawl. “ Better pay your rent 
 before you put on airs.” 
 
 Erebus looked at his landlady sheep- 
 ishly. 
 
 “ ’Deed, Missus, dat rent done split my 
 memory ’tirely,” he said, with a blank 
 stare. “ ’Deed I’ll pay.” 
 
 “ I reckon you will, or go into the 
 street, you lazy good for nothin’,” she 
 retorted, with a great deal of vigor in 
 proportion to the time it took her to 
 enunciate her words. “ You’d keep this 
 elegant apartment at your ease, would 
 you, and Dolly Pidgeon in the tub from 
 sun-up? Poor William, too, killin’ him- 
 self night and day ’lecting Major Pelham 
 for Congress! ” 
 
 She took possession of one of the rick- 
 ety chairs, which went with the “ apart- 
 ment,” with the firmness of fleshy convic- 
 tion, and scowled at her lodger. Erebus 
 stood gracelessly in the corner of the 
 room, endeavoring to gather together 
 
 [277] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the scattered remnants of his thickly in- 
 crusted mind. 
 
 The pause was not for long. 
 
 “ Who is this man you brought home 
 with you without your landlady’s ask- 
 in’?” drawled the irrepressible Dolly. 
 “ I haven’t got a good look at him. But 
 my William has.” 
 
 “ Dat’s Mars’ Edgah Allan Poe,” re- 
 sponded the negro proudly. 
 
 “Your master!” exclaimed the domi- 
 nant one. “ You told me you were a 
 free nigger.” 
 
 “ Mars’ Edgah done freed me long 
 years ago, Missus,” replied Erebus, with 
 a sickly grin. 
 
 “ Wasn’t worth your keepin’, eh? ” de- 
 manded the irate Mrs. Pidgeon, with a 
 contemptuous sneer. “ I thought so. 
 What’s all this litter? ” 
 
 She arose and started for the manu- 
 scripts which were scattered on the floor 
 and table, and visible especially in the 
 poet’s old hair trunk, which Erebus the 
 night before had brought from the boat 
 
 [ 278 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 landing on his back, and which chanced 
 to be open. 
 
 “ Don’ yo’ touch dat, Missus,” cried the 
 faithful negro, in quick alarm; “ don’ yo’ 
 touch dat! ” 
 
 Mrs. Pidgeon was none too brave 
 where danger was involved, and she 
 started back in affright with more activ- 
 ity than was her custom, or, apparently 
 possible in response to the negro’s wild 
 demonstrations. 
 
 “Lord a ’ mercy! what is it, man?” 
 She gathered up her skirts with as much 
 anxiety as if her adversary had been a 
 mouse. 
 
 “ Dat’s Mars’ Edgah’s writin’s,” stam- 
 mered Erebus fearfully, still hovering 
 over his master’s possessions with a pro- 
 tective air. 
 
 “Drat the nigger!” cried the land- 
 lady, her confidence at once returning. 
 “I thought it was gunpowder. Writ- 
 ings, eh? ” 
 
 She pushed Erebus aside indignantly 
 and went for the trunk. She had made 
 
 [279] 
 
The Raven 
 
 up her mind to go to the bottom of 
 things; and when Mrs. Pidgeon’s mind 
 was made up, even her husband found it 
 wise not to interfere. She did not like 
 the idea of having “ pernicious writin’s ” 
 under her roof. Such things had always 
 sprung from an acquaintance with the 
 Evil One. She knelt and looked over 
 them contemptuously, tossing them about, 
 to the horror of Erebus, with the air of 
 one who was anything but pleased with 
 their philosophical or poetic contents. 
 She could make out the words here and 
 there, but she intimated very forcefully 
 that it took “ sense ” as well as “ words ” 
 to make “ writings,” and that there was 
 no sense to be found in these. Erebus 
 was forced to look on hopelessly. 
 
 “What are dey ’bout, Missus?” he 
 finally mustered courage to ask. “ I 
 can’t read.” 
 
 She glowered at him in blank amaze- 
 ment. 
 
 “ I reckon not,” she finally observed, 
 with a superior sneer. “ Pretty state of 
 [ 280 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 things if sech as you went ’round 
 readin’.” 
 
 “ Please tell me, Missus,” stammered 
 the negro solicitously. “ Does dey tell 
 what’s de matter wid Mars’ Edgah?” 
 
 “Hear that ignorance!” laughed the 
 landlady, throwing the manuscripts aside 
 and climbing to her feet with an awk- 
 ward lurch. “ I’ll show what’s the mat- 
 ter with your master if he don’t pay his 
 rent better than you do. Why don’t he 
 sell his writings? ” 
 
 “ Dar ain’ nobody wid brains nuff to 
 buy ’em, Missus ; dat’s why,” said Ere- 
 bus firmly. 
 
 The hero of a small theater could not 
 have taken the stage from the heroine 
 more triumphantly in his reply than did 
 Erebus; but his triumph was not for 
 long. He was outnumbered by one and 
 that one was formidable! 
 
 “ Rubbish! ” cried the proprietress, her 
 face flushing with anger. “ If my rent 
 ain’t paid by to-night, when my William 
 gets home from ’lectin’ Major Pelham to 
 
 19 [ 28l ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Congress, out you go — £ Mars’ Edgah 
 Allan Poe,’ writings and all!” She 
 looked at her lodger coldly, then, squar- 
 ing her elbows, demanded in a business- 
 like way: “ Do you acquiesce in the no- 
 tice to vacate? ” 
 
 “ Will dere be fo’ce used, Missus? ” 
 asked the negro woefully. 
 
 “ Yes, there’ll be force used, and plenty 
 of it,” replied the landlady, in very con- 
 vincing accents. 
 
 “ Den I acquiesces,” stammered Ere- 
 bus thoughtfully. 
 
 There was loud cheering in the street 
 below. Mrs. Pidgeon went to the win- 
 dow and leaned as far out as the propor- 
 tions of the sill and of her person would 
 permit, for the election was an important 
 matter in her family. If Major Pelham 
 had won, she knew that he would have 
 to reward her William generously; for 
 wasn’t it “ her ” William that was Meet- 
 ing him? She cheered the passers-by 
 enthusiastically and seemed for the time 
 being to be oblivious to her black lodg- 
 [ 282 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 er’s unhappy outlook, if not the uncer- 
 tainty attached to her rent money. 
 
 “Hurrah for William! Hurrah for 
 Pelham!” she cried above the din. 
 
 Then she unceremoniously departed, 
 deigning only to cast a contemptuous look 
 at the “ free nigger,” as she called Ere- 
 bus, and hobbled down the stairs to get 
 a better view of the passing throng. She 
 was rightfully afraid she might miss 
 something. 
 
 Erebus fell into a chair with a heavy 
 sigh and listened to her departing steps. 
 
 “ I certain’y is glad t’ see her go,” he 
 muttered, shaking his head. “ I’se pow’- 
 ful weary ob dis life. Dis ’sponsibil’ty 
 ob minglin’ wid s’ciety’s killin’ me. I 
 can cook fo’ dem, open de do’, an’ black 
 der shoes; but I can’t do dis entertainin’. 
 Fo’ God, I’se becomin’ de shadow ob my 
 formah self.” 
 
 He stood disconsolate at the window. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 How Far Is Home? 
 
 Erebus waited until the shadows were 
 creeping along the uncobbled streets and 
 among the dingy houses and the neigh- 
 boring wharves, where the ships’ spars 
 resembled swaying cobwebs against the 
 sky. Then he went down the long stairs 
 without slowly and on to the street, seek- 
 ing anxiously for his master. 
 
 People came and people went — some 
 hurrying home, some hurrying to the 
 polls, some idling, some reeling under the 
 influence of strong drink which they had 
 taken to clear their brains, no doubt with 
 a view to exercising properly their sover- 
 eign franchise at the American polls, 
 where the populace reign. 
 
 The lights along the streets were being 
 lighted one by one, and throwing more 
 curious shadows even than the night into 
 [ 284 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 the irregular passageways, rooms, and 
 alleys along Lombard and Pratt streets. 
 
 A crowd was gathering on the corner. 
 It was a noisy and turbulent crowd. 
 Erebus, his eyes still on the alert, joined 
 the throng to see what it was all about, 
 for he had an equal right to know. 
 
 In the center was a man with dark 
 hair, here and there mingled with a knot 
 of gray — a sign of sorrow, not of age. 
 His face was pale as death, his black 
 clothes torn, soiled, and rumpled, and his 
 hat was gone. He seemed not to know 
 who he was or where he was, but looked 
 around him with a wild stare at the 
 mocking bystanders. 
 
 Erebus’s heart sank within him as he 
 recognized in the sad face and the long 
 black coat, old and shiny with stains 
 about the neck and shirt, “ Mars’ Ed- 
 gah.” He ran to him and put his arm 
 about him and led him gently out of the 
 jeering throng. 
 
 “Insolent street beggars!” muttered 
 the poet in answer to their laughter. 
 
 [285] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “This is Richmond! I reckon I know 
 Richmond — every stone in Richmond.” 
 
 He did not seem to know Erebus, 
 though he suffered himself to be led like 
 a child. 
 
 The crowd straggled after, mocking 
 and sneering, for they had nothing better 
 to do, and they knew not what they did. 
 They followed even to the stairway which 
 led to the little garret where the roofs 
 and steeples were visible through the 
 window under the slanting roof. 
 
 “ They did not treat me so when I 
 lived here,” murmured the poet discord- 
 antly, with an uncertain, far-away stare 
 as his faithful attendant helped him up 
 the steep, wayward acclivity without. 
 “They did not dare — the cowards! I 
 was young then; but now I have lived 
 an eternity. It cannot be far. How 
 everything has changed! Courage! I 
 am nearly home; I feel I am nearly 
 home. Oh, I cannot stand! My head! 
 Help! Help! I must get home.” 
 
 He sank upon the rough board floor 
 
 [286] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 in the garret gently, Erebus still support- 
 ing him. The jeering and laughter of 
 the crowd below in the street grew faint 
 and distant. They had turned away in 
 pursuit of other amusement. 
 
 Erebus lighted the candle on the table. 
 It filled the room with dancing rays. 
 
 “ Even the children and the dogs have 
 forgotten me.” The poet looked up mys- 
 tified at the warped rafters. 
 
 Finally he asked faintly for Mr. Allan. 
 
 “ Mars’ Allan don’ live yah, Marsa,” 
 was all the negro could say. 
 
 “ Everyone in Richmond knows Mr. 
 Allan,” insisted the poet imperiously. 
 
 “ Richmond! Dis am Balt’more, 
 Marsa.” 
 
 “ He is just like the rest,” sighed Poe. 
 
 Erebus wiped the tears from his big 
 white eyes. 
 
 He placed a pillow under his master’s 
 head. He could not induce him to lie 
 upon the couch. 
 
 “ Thank you, boy,” said Poe, not even 
 yet seeming to realize who was with him. 
 [ 287 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 He closed his eyes again and seemed 
 to doze. Erebus sat by him, watching 
 faithfully. 
 
 There was a step on the stairs. Erebus 
 opened the door gently, not to disturb 
 “ Mars’ Edgah.” He could have cried 
 for joy. It was Tony! 
 
 “Erebus, you here!” cried the poet’s 
 friend, in astonishment, as he looked in 
 at the forlorn doorway dubiously and 
 recognized the negro. “ It is true, then. 
 They told me such a man entered here, 
 hatless and haggard, perhaps dying.” 
 
 “ He is dar, Mars’ Tony.” Erebus’s 
 voice choked. 
 
 Tony ran to the sleeping form and 
 lifted it lovingly in his arms. He was so 
 affected at finding his lifelong friend 
 that he, too, was scarcely able to speak. 
 When at length he found his voice he 
 bade Erebus run for help ; then he as 
 quickly countermanded the order: “No, 
 here. We must get him to the hospital. 
 That will be better.” 
 
 Together they lifted the poet gently. 
 
 [288] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 He only stared at them with a wild, 
 uncanny stare. 
 
 “ Come, Edgar,” pleaded Tony ten- 
 derly, taking him by the arm. “ Come 
 home with me. I am Tony. Don’t you 
 know Tony? You will be taken care 
 of now, dear fellow.” 
 
 “ How far is home?” was Poe’s ques- 
 tioning answer. He looked strangely, 
 first at Tony and then at Erebus, and 
 seemed to try to recollect. 
 
 “Not far, not far,” answered his 
 friend softly. “ This way, Edgar, this 
 way.” 
 
 The poet started indifferently with 
 Tony toward the door. Before he 
 reached it, however, he broke away from 
 him with an hysterical laugh and re- 
 crossed the room. 
 
 “ You would deceive me again, would 
 you?” he cried, in haughty defiance. 
 “ You would cage Edgar Allan Poe 
 again! No, no, I have seen too many of 
 your tricks. Come, boy, come.” He 
 placed his arm affectionately about Ere- 
 
 [ 289 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 bus. Then, looking steadfastly at Tony 
 with a stony stare: “ Go your way, and 
 I’ll go mine. Teach me the way in Rich- 
 mond! Teach me! Come, boy, come.” 
 
 He moved slowly away from Tony, 
 with a cunning, repellent expression 
 upon his face, and seemed to call upon 
 some imaginary boy friend he had per- 
 haps known in his wanderings. Erebus 
 looked appealingly at Tony for help. 
 
 “This is heart-rending!” Tony cried. 
 “ Edgar, I am Tony, your old friend, 
 Tony.” 
 
 The poet smiled faintly, but gave no 
 sign of recognition. 
 
 “ That is what they told me before,” 
 he murmured deliriously. “ They were 
 my old friends. They patted me on the 
 back, and we toasted the old times, and 
 drove in a cab, and I voted, and we 
 laughed and sang, and they took me 
 somewhere, and the door was bolted, 
 and I could not get out — I do not re- 
 member.” 
 
 He sank into a chair, seemingly obliv- 
 
 [ 290] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ious to all about him. Erebus knelt be- 
 side him, one arm supporting his old 
 master. 
 
 Tony bent over him lovingly, 
 
 “ Edgar, listen to me,” he cried pa- 
 thetically. 
 
 The poet only drew the negro closer 
 to him and gave his white friend a star- 
 tled look. 
 
 “ Boy, you are my only friend now,” 
 he said to Erebus. “ The flowers are 
 growing over all the rest. You shall 
 share my old room with me, and shall be 
 great some day. I will show you the 
 way, boy — the way where I failed.” 
 
 Tony turned away in anguish. 
 
 “ Must I look on this, the bitter pen- 
 alty of genius? ” 
 
 He caught the negro’s eye sympathet- 
 ically. Color made no difference now. 
 They both loved Edgar. He knelt by 
 the poet’s side again and begged him to 
 look up at him. 
 
 Poe struggled to his feet and answered 
 his friend’s appeal austerely. 
 
 [ 291 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “Away from me, sir! Must I call a 
 servant to show you the door? I do not 
 wish to do that. It would not be South- 
 ern hospitality. Be seated there, sir.” 
 
 He suavely motioned Tony to a broken 
 chair. The poor fellow sank into it, 
 scarcely knowing what he did. The poet 
 shuddered. 
 
 “ How cold it is,” he said, kneeling on 
 the floor and looking about him vacantly. 
 “ The fire is nearly out. There are only 
 ashes on the hearth. They did not expect 
 me home. No one even met me. How 
 small the old room looks to me now. It 
 used to be so large when I was a boy. 
 Nothing changed. The dear ones have 
 held everything sacred just as I left it. 
 See, boy, see! those pictures hanging 
 there above the open fire are father and 
 mother. You must know and love them, 
 boy. And this, hanging just as I left it 
 by the open window — that’s Virginia. I 
 hung it there myself. How often, as the 
 dawn stole through the lattice window, 
 I have turned on my boyhood’s pillow, 
 [292] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and in that languid half sleep when fleet- 
 ing fancy gilds reality, that fairyland 
 ’twixt dream and dream, my eyelids 
 would slowly rise and disclose her smil- 
 ing face, and I would kiss my hand to 
 the picture, and sometimes the tears 
 would trickle down my cheek.” 
 
 The tears were trickling down Tony’s 
 cheeks. 
 
 “ And I am home at last,” murmured 
 the poet again, rising and looking about 
 the room. A heavenly light of happi- 
 ness played over his face, which momen- 
 tarily brought joy into his friends’ hearts, 
 white and black. For an instant a look 
 of the old self came into the poet’s eyes 
 and he seemed to realize who was with 
 him. 
 
 The light faded almost as quickly as 
 it had come. 
 
 Tony supported him, and with a chok- 
 ing voice cried out sympathetically: 
 
 “ Yes, yes, your old room, Edgar.” 
 
 Erebus looked at Tony in surprise. 
 
 Tony answered his look: 
 
 [293] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ We must humor him until he will 
 go with us.” 
 
 “ Strange,” continued the poet, slowly 
 looking about and running his hands 
 through his hair after a youthful fash- 
 ion that clung to him still from the days 
 of his Byron collar and Byron ways, “ I 
 cannot remember. Everything is con- 
 fused here. Home, home, home! ” 
 
 As he spoke, some negroes, passing in 
 the street below, broke into a melody of 
 the cotton fields, which gradually died 
 in the distance. It startled him. It ex- 
 cited him, as music had ever done. His 
 spirits seemed to revive. He ran to the 
 window and cried out gayly, feverishly, 
 but wildly still, in answer to their song: 
 
 “ Do you hear, do you hear? The 
 plantation song! It is nightfall and they 
 are coming from the fields. When my 
 hour comes, God grant my spirit may 
 take its flight to the soft vibrations of a 
 passing melody! They shall have a good 
 supper for that song. But where is Vir- 
 ginia? Virginia! Ah, I forgot. Bid 
 
 [294] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 them saddle Phyllis. Here, Erebus, 
 buckle on my spurs. Tony and I are to 
 have a gallop by the river at moonrise. 
 It is past the hour now. Quick, my cloak 
 and gloves! I must not keep Tony wait- 
 ing.” 
 
 He sank upon the cot, and Erebus and 
 Tony went to him. In answer to their 
 appeals he only bade them, with a blank 
 stare, to call Virginia. 
 
 “ Would I could,” sighed Tony sadly. 
 
 “ Boy,” cried Poe imperiously, “ go 
 call Virginia! ” 
 
 “ I would not know her now, Marsa,” 
 stammered the negro, not knowing what 
 to say. 
 
 “Would you not know an angel?” 
 demanded Poe bitterly. 
 
 “ Come, I will show you the way,” 
 cried Tony, leading the heartbroken ne- 
 gro to the door. 
 
 He bade him in a whisper to run for 
 a carriage. Erebus understood, and was 
 gone in an instant. 
 
 “ How fragrant are the jasmine flow- 
 [ 295 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 ers! ” whispered the poet, looking toward 
 the window, whence came the cool, re- 
 freshing breeze that precedes a storm, 
 calling his old slave by name, though he 
 was no longer present. “ They are all 
 in bloom to welcome me. They must 
 join you in the chorus, Erebus. It is 
 sweeter that way.” 
 
 Tony returned quietly and knelt by the 
 cot where the poet sat, and looked deeply 
 into his eyes, long and earnestly. 
 
 “ Edgar! Edgar! ” he cried at last, in 
 despair. “ Don’t you remember me? 
 Try, try!” 
 
 The light of intelligence seemed to 
 come again into the poet’s classic fea- 
 tures. Tony’s heart rose responsively 
 with joy. 
 
 Then it was gone again. 
 
 Then it came again. 
 
 “Tony! Tony! Tony!” he at last 
 whispered softly. 
 
 Tony could not speak. He took the 
 poet in his arms and thanked God with 
 all his heart; his love had conquered. 
 
 [296] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ We have been friends a long, long 
 time, Tony,” sighed Poe abstractedly; 
 “ but where is Virginia? Strange she 
 does not come, the little truant! ” 
 
 “ You will see her very soon, very 
 soon,” said Tony in a choking voice. He 
 lifted the poet gently to his feet and 
 moved slowly toward the door. 
 
 “ Ah, I forgot, the signal — the sig- 
 nal!” cried the poet wildly. He sank 
 back upon the cot, despite Tony’s efforts 
 to support him, with a sigh of exhaus- 
 tion. “ Where is the window, Tony? 
 My eyes are dim yet.” He tried to rise, 
 then fell back again, exhausted. 
 
 “ What is it, Edgar? ” 
 
 “My kerchief — wave it, wave it!” 
 was the only answer. 
 
 “ If it will give you any happi- 
 ness ” 
 
 • Tony took the proffered handkerchief, 
 and, glancing toward the door for Ere- 
 bus, ran to the window. 
 
 “ There, there, the other window, 
 Tony,” cried the poet, again delirious. 
 
 20 [ 297 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Higher; she cannot see you. She is 
 watching and waiting, I know. She will 
 meet me at the crossroads; then we will 
 stroll together through the woods, and I 
 will pick the wild flowers for her; and 
 the violets will tell her of my love. She 
 comes, she comes ! ” 
 
 He rose, as in a dream of ecstasy, and 
 struggled toward the window where 
 Tony stood. Though he was momen- 
 tarily strong in his delirium, his strength 
 seemed to come and go with his moods 
 and thoughts. 
 
 “ See, Tony,” he said, entranced, “ as 
 beautiful as the Dawn! Virginia! Vir- 
 ginia! Virginia! Where have you been, 
 Virginia? I thought you would never 
 come.” He paused and looked about 
 hopelessly. “No, no; not my Virginia, 
 not my Lenore. I am deceived again. 
 It is the other face — the other face!” 
 He shuddered and grew paler, as if fear 
 had taken hold of him. 
 
 “ Oh, if Helen were only here now! ” 
 cried Tony, in despair. 
 
 1 298 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 The sound of the poetess’s name seemed 
 to affect Poe as nothing before had 
 done. He shuddered again and drew 
 away from his friend with a mysterious, 
 startled look. He motioned Tony im- 
 periously to silence. 
 
 “ Don’t speak her name again, if you 
 love me, Tony,” he cried, in such pa- 
 thetic accents that they went straight 
 home to Tony’s heart. 
 
 “ But she is here in Baltimore with 
 Marjary and Carroll!” Tony pleaded 
 earnestly. “ She seeks everywhere for 
 you.” 
 
 The poet shook his head in reply. 
 
 “Edgar!” continued his friend more 
 earnestly. “ She will help you, as she 
 has helped you for months, by her com- 
 panionship and love. I have seen it. 
 You have been like one inspired with 
 new life since you met that night.” 
 
 “That night!” murmured the poet 
 sadly. “ I know — I know ” 
 
 “ Rumor whispers that you are en- 
 gaged to wed,” Tony went on, in a plead- 
 
 [299] 
 
The Haven 
 
 ing voice; “that happiness and health 
 await you in her love. Your friends re- 
 joice ” 
 
 “ Rumor always knows.” There was 
 a tinge of bitter sarcasm now in Poe’s 
 voice as his lip curled in answer. 
 
 Tony embraced his friend more ten- 
 derly, to quiet him. 
 
 “ Come with me to Helen, Edgar, to 
 Marjary’s. Do not let her find you here 
 in such surroundings ” 
 
 The poet drew himself to his full 
 height and steadied himself with diffi- 
 culty. 
 
 “ It is my home, sir,” he answered. 
 
 “ There, there,” pleaded Tony. “ We 
 know; come with me. She will nurse 
 you back to life and love. Why did you 
 leave her in the hour of your happiness? 
 It was cruel.” 
 
 He tried again to lead his friend tow- 
 ard the door, but Poe broke away im- 
 patiently. 
 
 “ I cannot talk of this, Tony, even to 
 you,” he said firmly. “ I shall never see 
 [300] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Helen Whitman again. Never! It is 
 best, best — Believe me, it is best.” 
 
 Before Tony realized it the poet had 
 disappeared into Erebus’s adjoining room 
 and closed the door after him. Tony 
 was alone in the garret. 
 
 Erebus entered softly. 
 
 “ Mars’ Tony, de carriage! ” 
 
 Tony came to himself with a start. 
 
 “ Yes, yes. He is there. Look after 
 him. Let no one see him until I return 
 with the doctor. He would not go with 
 us. I have had many dark days, but 
 none so black as this.” 
 
 He pressed the negro’s hand firmly 
 and went down the stairs to the carriage. 
 
The Raven 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 It Seems Like Retribution 
 
 “ Much as a man’s life is worth to 
 climb such stairs,” muttered Pelham as 
 he entered the garret, up the crooked in- 
 terior stairway which was Dolly’s pre- 
 rogative, and glanced about curiously. 
 He turned to William Pidgeon, who was 
 close at his heels, followed also by his 
 secretary, Carroll Brent, and questioned 
 them closely about the room. 
 
 “ This is the place, gov’nor,” replied 
 Pidgeon knowingly. 
 
 The three glanced about and spoke in 
 an undertone for some minutes. 
 
 The door of the little adjoining room, 
 where Poe had gone, softly opened and 
 — the negro appeared. He started when 
 he observed the three stalwart visitors, 
 two of whom he recognized, with any- 
 [302] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 thing but pleasure. Pelham was the first 
 to see him. 
 
 “Where is Mr. Poe?” he demanded 
 sharply, struggling still to regain his 
 breath. 
 
 The negro was not to be easily caught, 
 however. He remembered the parting 
 injunction placed upon him by Tony to 
 let no one see his master. 
 
 “ Who say 1 Mars’ Poe ’ live yah, 
 sah? ” he demanded in a frightened tone, 
 moving nervously in front of the door, 
 which he had closed behind him. 
 
 “ I do,” exclaimed the irascible Pidg- 
 eon, to show his authority over his black 
 tenant and also to reveal his ardor for 
 his party leader, “ and I ought to know 
 the lodgers in my own house.” 
 
 “ ’Deed, Mars’ Pelham — ” stammered 
 the negro. 
 
 “You know me?” inquired the con- 
 gressional candidate, looking up in sur- 
 prise. 
 
 “ Yes, Marsa,” continued the negro, 
 more confidently. “ Don’ yo’ know me, 
 [303 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 sah? I’se Mr. Erebus.” There was con- 
 siderable pride in his manner as he pro- 
 nounced the name which his master had 
 given him years before. 
 
 The name did not, however, seem 
 to make a deep impression upon the 
 “ great ” leader, who had quite forgotten 
 the black man, though the incident of 
 his purchase might have been recalled 
 forcefully to his recollection. It would 
 have been quite different, no doubt, if 
 Erebus had been a voter, for then the 
 politician would have struggled nobly to 
 demonstrate how dearly he had held Ere- 
 bus’s name in memory. As it was, Pel- 
 ham only sneered and said absent-mind- 
 edly: “ Mr. Erebus of Hades? ” 
 
 “ No, sah,” explained the negro proud- 
 ly; “Mr. Erebus of Richmon’, sah.” 
 
 Pelham did not deign to notice the ex- 
 planation, if he heard it, but turned to 
 his gallant supporter and asked if this 
 was the only room? He was told that 
 it was Poe’s and that the “ nigger ” slept 
 in the adjoining one under the eaves. 
 
 [ 304 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Yes, Marsa,” stammered Erebus, ex- 
 cited at the trend the conversation was 
 taking, and guarding the door whence he 
 had entered as best he could; “we — I — 
 has two rooms, excusin’ de parlor down- 
 stairs.” 
 
 His anxiety to explain everything was 
 received with a sharp order from Pel- 
 ham to “ be still,” which was followed 
 quickly by a less diplomatic command 
 from his lieutenant to “ get out.” 
 
 Erebus obeyed both injunctions very 
 gladly. He returned straightway to his 
 sleeping master, not forgetting to bolt 
 the door behind him that gave access to 
 the poet. There he sat in the dim light, 
 firmly resolved to hold the citadel against 
 all comers until Mars’ Tony should re- 
 turn. 
 
 Pelham threw himself impatiently 
 into a chair by the table and remained 
 thoughtful for some moments. His lieu- 
 tenants stood near him, awaiting orders. 
 
 There was a noise in the street below, 
 and Carroll went to the gabled window 
 [ 305 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 and peered out into the stormy night. 
 Pelham motioned Pidgeon close to him. 
 
 “ What did you say they did with 
 him?” he asked earnestly. “Tell me 
 again.” 
 
 “ Nineteen of them — drugged,” whis- 
 pered the lieutenant proudly, glancing 
 over his shoulder to make sure that Car- 
 roll was out of earshot; “ voted in every 
 ward ” 
 
 “ Yes, yes,” whispered Pelham impa- 
 tiently; “ but where did he go? After — 
 after——” 
 
 “Turned him loose with the rest,” 
 exclaimed Pidgeon knowingly, “ about 
 done for — thanks to your friends.” 
 
 The insinuation in the lieutenant’s 
 voice was not received gratefully by his 
 candidate. 
 
 “ Don’t say that,” Pelham commanded 
 with a conscience-stricken expression. 
 
 “ I won’t say it aloud, gov’nor,” Pidg- 
 eon hastened to add, by way of amend- 
 ment; for he had an eye always on 
 the weathercock for favorable winds. 
 
 [ 306 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Voted eleven times. He’ll never 
 peach. On his last legs when we got 
 him.” 
 
 Pelham rose slowly to his feet. He 
 was thinking, and it was evident that his 
 thoughts were not agreeable companions. 
 He leaned on the table, and his eyes 
 roved about the room; then they rested 
 on Pidgeon. He buttonholed his lieuten- 
 ant again closely. 
 
 “ If he dies, it was not through my 
 orders,” he whispered almost inaudibly, 
 turning very pale as he spoke. “ Do you 
 understand? It was not through my or- 
 ders. By Heaven, I knew nothing of it! ” 
 
 It was evident from the man’s expres- 
 sion that he was to be pitied. Whatever 
 had happened to the poet he had not com- 
 manded it, but his men perhaps had exe- 
 cuted it. While he could evade the judg- 
 ments of this world, he did not know 
 what the next might have in store for 
 him, if Fate should bring about the un- 
 doing of the rival of his youth by means 
 of powers set to work by his hands. 
 [ 307 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Pidgeon servilely acquiesced. 
 
 “ It only happened to torment me,” 
 continued Pelham fretfully. “ Here, get 
 a drink for yourself while I wait to see— 
 to see — if he comes.” 
 
 Pelham’s pallor deepened with his 
 thoughts. He offered his worldly lieu- 
 tenant a small roll of bills. Pidgeon 
 looked at it with a very displeased coun- 
 tenance, but he did not fail to take it, 
 small as it was. 
 
 “ This won’t satisfy my constituents, 
 gov’nor,” he said, meekly sliding the 
 money out of harm’s way into his pocket. 
 “You know, Dolly’s downstairs waitin’ 
 for me.” 
 
 “ I got you both work at the hospital,” 
 replied Pelham impatiently. “ What 
 more do you want? ” 
 
 “ Well, you see as how I promised 
 Dolly a little somethin’ on the ’lection,” 
 continued the wonderful Pidgeon, with 
 a sycophantic grin. “ It don’t pay for a 
 man to lie to his wife, gov’nor. Wimmen 
 remembers too long.” 
 
 [308] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by 
 another wild cheering in the street. 
 Cheers mean much to a politician who 
 has his ear to the ground, and Pelham had 
 his ear very close to the ground. The 
 cheering, interspersed with an ominous 
 rumbling from the heavens, extended to 
 the neighborhood of the polls, and inter- 
 rupted even the candidate’s reflections. 
 Above the noise arose the shrill notes of 
 boys calling out the evening papers. The 
 little party in the garret listened intently 
 to catch the words ; for they were of great 
 moment to them. 
 
 “ Papah! Even’ papah! ” arose above 
 the din. “ Full ’count of Major Pel- 
 ham’s defeat for Congress!” 
 
 “My God! That, too!” murmured 
 Pelham, as he realized the full import 
 of the news. 
 
 Carroll ran to his employer sympathet- 
 ically. The candidate dropped again 
 into his chair by the table dazed. 
 
 “ Did you hear, gov’nor? The elec- 
 tion has gone against us.” 
 
 [ 309 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ It all seems like retribution,” was the 
 only audible reply. 
 
 Pidgeon swaggered over to his leader 
 with a hangdog expression. 
 
 “ We are beat,” he drawled between 
 his teeth, after a moment’s silence. “ I 
 say, we are beat.” His employer did not 
 deign to answer. “ Well, what do I get 
 out of it? ” sneered Pidgeon, with bad 
 grace. 
 
 “ What do you expect, fool? ” snapped 
 Pelham, rising and walking impatiently 
 up and down the room. “ We are beaten, 
 and there is an end of it.” 
 
 Carroll returned to the balcony to 
 catch the mutterings below. 
 
 “You didn ? t say that way yesterday, 
 gov’nor,” replied Pidgeon, with an effort 
 to restrain his temper. “ You said as how 
 William Pidgeon was the greatest poller- 
 tician vote-catcher in the business, and 
 as how there was rewards.” 
 
 “ That was yesterday,” replied the 
 defeated candidate, none too patiently. 
 “ You are one day behind the times.” 
 [3io] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 His tone was anything but soothing to 
 his low-born but crafty lieutenant. 
 
 “You can’t crawl that way, gov’nor,” 
 answered Pidgeon, biting his lip. 
 
 It looked as if the “ party ” were to 
 have a split of leaders there and then, 
 irrespective of the locus. Many fateful 
 events in politics have hung upon a more 
 trivial matter and been enacted in a less 
 prepossessing abode. Fate, however, in- 
 tervened, again in the form of a wild 
 cheering from the populace without. 
 The three went to the window for a con- 
 firmation of the news. Tar barrels had 
 been placed in the street, and the blaze 
 therefrom flickered through the black- 
 ness of the night even to the poet’s garret 
 like the writing on the walls at the feast 
 of Belshazzar. 
 
 “What’s that fire down the street; 
 something is burning? ” demanded Pel- 
 ham irritably. 
 
 “ It looks like you in effigy, gov’nor,” 
 suggested Carroll sorrowfully. 
 
 “ I reckon the people want you to get 
 
 [ 3 1 1 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 used to fire,” sneered the ungrateful 
 Pidgeon. 
 
 “Damn the people!” muttered the 
 “ great ” leader with the usual contempt 
 of a politician for the populace when they 
 have had the audacity to vote contrary 
 to his desires. “ I can’t wait here any 
 longer. I am not well ” 
 
 He was about to take his departure. 
 He had grown to look a broken man in 
 the last few moments. The realization 
 of his defeat told heavily on him. Car- 
 roll looked at his employer sympathet- 
 ically; but Pidgeon only considered the 
 result from a personal viewpoint. 
 
 “ See here, gov’nor,” he broke forth as 
 the candidate approached the door to the 
 stairway below. “ I am not as young as 
 I look; you know I works politics by the 
 job, win or lose.” 
 
 “ I tell you, if there is nothing for me, 
 there is nothing for you.” 
 
 The candidate’s words were austere; 
 but Pidgeon was not abashed. He 
 caught the coat sleeve of his leader with 
 [ 3 * 2 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 sufficient force to bring him to a stand- 
 still. 
 
 “ I reckon there is, though,” he said, 
 dropping his voice so that Carroll could 
 not hear. “ How about my lodger and 
 the ‘ coop ’ that you didn’t know about, 
 but your friends did? ” 
 
 Pelham turned white with rage. 
 
 “ Silence, sir! ” he broke forth in great 
 bitterness. “ I will allow no one to re- 
 flect upon my innocence in that matter, 
 sir.” 
 
 Pidgeon slunk away from him. He 
 was a coward with his superiors, but of 
 the bravest with his inferiors; like many 
 political cowards, he thought it best to 
 suppress his rage until his time should 
 come to knife his leader at the next con- 
 vention. 
 
 At this juncture Carroll returned to 
 the window. 
 
 “ There is some one coming up the 
 stairs now, gov’nor,” he cried, glad of 
 any interruption to forestall a quarrel. 
 
 “ Ten to one,” broke in Pidgeon, with 
 
 21 [ 3 1 3 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 a sleek, cunning expression, very mild 
 under the circumstances, “ it’s the black- 
 haired, sickly looking chap that talks to 
 himself and says as how he’s in Rich- 
 mond.” 
 
 The words were a respite from the 
 grave to Pelham, who was suffering from 
 uncertainty as to the poet’s fate. They 
 brought back the memory of his great 
 eyes again! The steps on the stairs with- 
 out became more distinct. He motioned 
 his retainers to the door which led down 
 the back passage, whence they had en- 
 tered, to Dolly’s kitchen below, and bade 
 them wait there for him. 
 
 “ He lives — he lives — and I have not 
 that on my conscience.” 
 
 He crossed the room, and opened the 
 door with an eager hand and peered 
 down into the gloom. 
 
 In a voice of suppressed emotion he 
 welcomed the incomer: “This way, Mr. 
 Poe; you are a better climber than I.” 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 Edgar Poe Needs a Friend 
 
 To Pelham’s astonishment as well as 
 discomfiture, in walked not the poet, but 
 — Helen Whitman! 
 
 Her rich gown affected him as it had 
 Erebus. She might have stepped from 
 the canvas of a great painter — glorious 
 hair and classic features — a pathetically 
 beautiful contrast to the meager sur- 
 roundings of the poet’s latest abode. Her 
 face was pale and sad. 
 
 “Madam!” exclaimed the sole occu- 
 pant of the room, bowing respectfully, in 
 spite of his momentary confusion. “ I 
 was not looking for you — here.” 
 
 “No?” she answered with a stately 
 bow, which, if meaning little, at least 
 concealed any surprise that she, too, 
 might have felt at meeting her solicitor 
 at this place. Her social life had taught 
 [3i5] 
 
The Raven 
 
 her to mask her feelings in a small word, 
 when she so desired, without doing any 
 particular damage to her reputation for 
 truthfulness. 
 
 Pelham slowly recovered his savoir 
 faire. He was anything but pleased to 
 find this beautiful woman, whom it had 
 been his pleasure as well as business to 
 represent for a number of years, a social 
 visitor to the poet and alone. He felt at 
 once the difference in her interest. It 
 stung his pride, too, for he was rich now, 
 and Poe was poor — he was influential, 
 and Poe was but a scribe. 
 
 “ Pardon the boudoir,” he could not 
 refrain from saying, with a chilly smile. 
 “ The drawing-room is occupied. The 
 parlors are in the hands of the decorators. 
 It is a trifle gloomy, but this is what the 
 artists call a gray day at home.” 
 
 Helen was, as before, aghast at the sur- 
 roundings, but she suppressed her feel- 
 ings, and replied quite simply to his in- 
 nuendo: “I was told Mr. Poe lived 
 here.” 
 
 [3i6] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Don’t be disappointed,” continued 
 the politician suavely. “ It’s all the way 
 you look at things, madam. Is not this 
 an airy castle? You must expect a poet 
 to dwell among the clouds. Look, yon- 
 der are the roofs and steeples.” He 
 walked to the window and swept the 
 horizon with his gloved hand with a su- 
 perb self-consciousness that might have 
 done honor to some famous Beau. 
 
 “The great poet reduced to this?” 
 cried Helen at length, her thoughts seem- 
 ing to wander far away. “ It cannot be, 
 Mr. Pelham.” 
 
 At this moment, Erebus entered quiet- 
 ly, closing the door behind him. Helen 
 heard another voice, and thought it was 
 Tony. 
 
 She asked him quickly if Mr. Poe 
 “lived” — then corrected herself — 
 “ came here.” 
 
 Erebus’s eyes only followed her in 
 awe. 
 
 “ Yes, Miss Virginiah! ” he finally re- 
 plied mechanically. 
 
 [ 3 : 7 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 The poetess and her solicitor exchanged 
 glances. Pelham, too, had noted the 
 marked resemblance when his client had 
 called at his office, but had purposely 
 made no reference to it. 
 
 “You’se Miss Virginiah,” continued 
 the negro, “ on earth de secon’ time, sure 
 as Erebus has eyes; else you’se de spit 
 image ob her.” 
 
 “ De spit image! ” Helen smiled sadly 
 as she repeated the negro’s quaint expres- 
 sion, reflecting so upon her destiny, and 
 added : “ Another witness of my former 
 advent, Mr. Pelham. I begin to think I 
 am Virginia.” 
 
 It was so, indeed; for she longed so 
 much to take Virginia’s place in the 
 poet’s heart. A sad expression played 
 upon her spiritual countenance as she 
 contrasted the little garret with so great 
 a mind — an expression which Pelham ob- 
 served not without pleasure. It was gone 
 in an instant, however, and she politely 
 bade the negro to see if his master were 
 coming. 
 
 [318] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Erebus hesitated; for his mind did not 
 work with the quickness of a diplomat’s. 
 He knew that his master was asleep or 
 dozing in the next room. He felt, how- 
 ever, from the face of the newcomer, that 
 her sense of propriety would prevent her 
 opening the door where his master rested, 
 and he felt, too, that, even if he left the 
 room, the poet could not be disturbed 
 without his knowing it. He bowed final- 
 ly, therefore, respectfully, and went his 
 way down the stairs without to the street, 
 to meet and prepare “ Mars’ Tony.” 
 
 “ I can scarcely wait,” sighed the poet- 
 ess, going to the window and looking out 
 after the negro ; “ yet how I dread the 
 meeting.” 
 
 Pelham watched her intently for 
 some moments; then he addressed her 
 hesitatingly: 
 
 “ I trust you are cured, madam.” 
 
 “ Cured, sir? Of what? ” she ex- 
 claimed, turning questioningly upon him. 
 Yet, what could be the use of dissimula- 
 tion now? Laughing sadly, perhaps a 
 
 [319] 
 
The Raven 
 
 little apologetically, she answered him: 
 “ You know I am a poetess; and a writer 
 of verse, I fear, is seldom cured of any- 
 thing.” 
 
 “ It is so, indeed? ” he mused. “ You 
 should not see the poet then — for you are 
 — a woman.” 
 
 “Your solicitude is unique,” she re- 
 plied gently. “ I only fear he will not 
 come.” 
 
 She took a chair by the table, and 
 moved the candle slowly to the other side, 
 watching intently its flame flicker with 
 the movement. 
 
 “ I fear so, too,” he suggested, going to 
 her. “ It will be useless to remain. Let 
 us go at once. You can do no good here. 
 Let us go, madam.” He was very earnest. 
 
 She replied to him thoughtfully, al- 
 most as if she were talking to herself. 
 
 “ No, I will remain. Edgar Poe needs 
 a friend.” 
 
 He bit his lip impatiently. He did 
 not dare to speak as he desired. 
 
 “ I regret you found this place before 
 [320] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 I had time to prepare you,” he finally 
 said, with a pretense of sympathy, glan- 
 cing critically about the room. 
 
 She observed his action and his mean- 
 ing, but she did not deign to answer. He 
 did not then suspect, nor learn until many 
 days later, that Carroll Brent had told 
 her where to come. 
 
 “ You do not deceive me, madam,” he 
 continued, this time abruptly, “ even if 
 you do yourself. This is not your whim, 
 your fancy. You come not here for char- 
 ity — you love this man.” 
 
 “Love!” The word startled her as 
 she repeated it. A flush of anger played 
 for an instant upon her proud face — to 
 be replaced by a smile. She was too 
 clever, however, to be caught so easily 
 by one she scarcely regarded her equal, 
 even if he were a candidate for Con- 
 gress. “ I love every noble spirit, Mr. 
 Pelham,” she observed simply, with a 
 little twinkle in her eye. 
 
 Pelham saw that he must take a bolder 
 course. 
 
 [ 32i ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ Believe me, he is unworthy of you. 
 No social position, no family, the off- 
 spring of strolling players.” 
 
 There was contempt in his voice as he 
 recalled the early history of the poet, 
 which was so well known to him. 
 
 Helen rose slowly and raised her eyes 
 to his in sweet reproof. She replied in 
 the gentlest manner, but she felt the tri- 
 umph in her words. 
 
 “ Players, yes, who bequeathed him 
 genius, love of art, honesty of purpose, 
 and human sympathy which others 
 would do well to emulate. Show me a 
 mother who has done better by her boy.” 
 
 The contest was one in which the poli- 
 tician was ill at ease, but he continued to 
 make the best fight he knew. 
 
 “Don’t be angry, madam,” he has- 
 tened to say apologetically. “ I am out- 
 spoken, but honest. For your own sake, 
 let not romance mislead you because, on 
 a moonlight night, a twelvemonth past, 
 it was your mission to stay the hand of 
 Death.” 
 
 [322] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 It was the poetess’s turn to look sur- 
 prised. 
 
 “ You followed me! ” she exclaimed in 
 wonderment. 
 
 “ Hardly, madam,” he replied, with a 
 triumphant smile. “ This world is not 
 large enough to hold a woman’s secret. 
 My secretary, Carroll Brent, told me.” 
 
 How strange are the sources of knowl- 
 edge! 
 
 “ Oh, why do you bring back the hor- 
 ror of that night? ” she cried bitterly. 
 “ My nerves tremble still when I think 
 what might have happened in a moment 
 more.” 
 
 “ Heaven’s messengers are never late,” 
 remarked Pelham dryly, though perhaps 
 it was meant in flattery; but, if flattery, 
 it hit far from the mark. 
 
 “ Was it not strange that the man of 
 men — ” she continued almost in abstrac- 
 tion, as the full horror of it all came back 
 to her — “ the man of my affinity — whose 
 poetic moods and thoughts and words had 
 echoed through my brain and heart for 
 
 [323] 
 
The Raven 
 
 years, should meet me in such a way and 
 I become perhaps his savior? ” 
 
 “ There’s the pity of it,” cried Pelham, 
 again with a pretense of sympathy, but 
 this time the pretense was so hollow that 
 she shrunk from it and from him. “ You 
 rescued him, not saved him.” 
 
 She looked up as he spoke inquiringly. 
 
 “ To rule this man is to save him,” he 
 went on earnestly. “ There is but one 
 way, madam — through his heart; I can- 
 not go that way; you must not.” 
 
 “You presume, sir ” 
 
 He hastened to explain. 
 
 “ My duty as your adviser makes me 
 speak what I had otherwise rather die 
 than utter of so old a friend. My re- 
 peated efforts for his good (have been 
 without avail. Fate, it seems, has placed 
 the poet’s destiny in your hands. You 
 should know the responsibility and the 
 danger.” 
 
 “ My confidence seems deeper set than 
 yours,” she said reproachfully. 
 
 “ And your acquaintance shorter,” he 
 
 [324] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Foe 
 
 replied firmly. “ There is a serpent 
 ready to devour you both — called 
 Drink! ” 
 
 She shuddered as he whispered the 
 word; then became rigid as adamant, 
 and looked her adversary squarely in the 
 eyes; for, from now out, he was her ad- 
 versary. She replied in low, firm tones 
 filled with conviction : 
 
 “ That serpent lies dead.” 
 
 “ I hope so,” stammered Pelham. 
 
 “ I know so,” she replied with ardor. 
 “ I hold his promise, sir.” 
 
 Pelham smiled incredulously. The 
 smile angered her. 
 
 “ I am warned by so-called friends like 
 you,” she continued, “ till I am heartsick. 
 He has given me pledges. I believe him, 
 sir.” 
 
 “ And I believe — my eyes,” he replied, 
 driven to the last stand. 
 
 For an instant Helen wavered in her 
 championship. She was not prepared to 
 meet the proofs. 
 
 “Your insinuations are unkind,” she 
 
 [325] 
 
' The Raven 
 
 finally controlled herself sufficiently to 
 reply. “ I will hear no more.” 
 
 She started toward the door, bent on 
 departure. He stopped her. 
 
 “ I am speaking of last night.” 
 
 The kindliness of his tone made her 
 hesitate. 
 
 “Last night?” Could it be? Could 
 she be misjudging Mr. Pelham? She 
 stood aghast. 
 
 “ Our poet has made good use of his 
 short stay here in town,” continued her 
 solicitor earnestly, “ I assure you, mad- 
 am.” 
 
 She still stood doubtful — not knowing 
 how to act or what to say. At another 
 time she would have refused to listen ; but 
 now she must know the whole truth if 
 she would help her poet, and her heart 
 sought courage for the ordeal. 
 
 Pelham walked to the door and called 
 Erebus, who had been waiting anxiously 
 for Tony on the stairs. 
 
 The negro entered, and looked from 
 one to the other inquiringly. 
 
 [326] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ Ask his valet,” said Pelham quietly, 
 “ if you will not believe me.” 
 
 Helen’s only answer was an exclama- 
 tion of reproof, which Pelham was of 
 too coarse a nature to appreciate. 
 
 “ His reply, I presume, would not be 
 pleasant? ” he inquired sardonically. 
 
 “ I am not in the habit of questioning 
 the servants of my friends when they are 
 absent,” was the answer. 
 
 He was still unable to appreciate fully 
 her hesitancy, which came of a refine- 
 ment above his schooling — from gentle 
 birth, which was not his heritage, for he 
 was not to the manor born. 
 
 “ Unfortunately,” he answered, with a 
 complacent smile, “ I cannot be so punc- 
 tilious where the interests of my client 
 are concerned, madam.” 
 
 He turned to Erebus with a searching 
 glance, and asked him authoritatively if 
 he had not met his master the night be- 
 fore. 
 
 The negro admitted the accusation 
 wonderingly. 
 
 [327] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “Where did you find him?” was the 
 next demand. 
 
 “ I found him — ” the negro avoided 
 the questioner’s eye. “ Don’ ’membah, 
 sah.” He had been cross-examined years 
 before by “ Mars’ Pelham,” and he did 
 not covet it again. He had forgotten 
 the questions; but he still remembered 
 the cane. 
 
 “ I’ll awaken your memory,” cried 
 Pelham angrily. “ Answer me or I’ll 
 have you whipped.” 
 
 The threat was quickly followed by a 
 warning cry from the poetess. 
 
 The rain now pattered on the roof and 
 the clouds rolled thunderously, which 
 added to the depressing gloom of the 
 strange scene being enacted. 
 
 “ Pardon,” said Pelham, bowing to 
 Helen respectfully, but stubbornly con- 
 tinuing his questions. “ Was he not at 
 the tavern, with my — I mean with the 
 politicians, intoxicated, when you found 
 him? ” 
 
 “No, sah,” replied the negro firmly; 
 [328] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 and he was honest, too, in his denial; for, 
 if “ Mars’ Edgah ” was not himself on 
 the night in question, it was because his 
 heart had beat too fast for years in fol- 
 lowing his flights of fancy, and beat too 
 slow under the sorrows engendered by 
 his life. “ Mars’ Edgah was not ’toxi- 
 cated. I neber seen Mars’ Edgah ’toxi- 
 cated. I wouldn’t tell a story ’gainst 
 Mars’ Edgah if yo’ kill me.” 
 
 Helen’s lips trembled with emotion, 
 and a smile expressed the great relief the 
 negro’s words had given her. The veins 
 in the politician’s forehead swelled al- 
 most to bursting with suppressed anger. 
 
 “ You do not progress well, Mr. Pel- 
 ham,” she suggested, laying her hand 
 kindly on the negro’s shoulder. She 
 could not help but feel proud of him; 
 for she knew that a master who could 
 win such love from those who served him 
 could not be otherwise than noble. 
 
 Pelham’s eyes shifted uncomfortably 
 about the room until they fell upon a 
 small Bible on the table, lying among 
 22 [ 329 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 the manuscripts and pamphlets. He 
 caught it up quickly, and holding it be- 
 fore the negro, spoke, still with the con- 
 fidence of success: 
 
 “ He has not been sworn yet. A nig- 
 ger is afraid to swear to a lie.” 
 
 “ It would be well if all white men 
 had the same scruple,” observed the poet- 
 ess sweetly. 
 
 The negro was awed, indeed, at the 
 Holy Scripture. 
 
 Helen mistook the anxiety evinced 
 upon his face, and listened anxiously. 
 
 u Come here,” Pelham cried angrily, 
 forgetting himself in his determination 
 to find something reflecting upon the 
 poet with which to confront her. 
 
 “ Put your black hand on the Scrip- 
 ture and swear your master was not 
 drunk! ” 
 
 A thrill of horror passed through the 
 lady’s heart as she heard that awful word. 
 She could not speak. 
 
 Edgar Poe had entered from the little 
 room under the eaves, where he had been 
 [33o] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 resting, like one dead in life. He leaned 
 against the door for support, intent upon 
 the scene, until he heard the scandalous 
 insult. He realized at once the motives 
 that engendered it, but not the purpose; 
 for, in his intensity, he had not observed 
 the other visitor. With a proud but 
 feeble step he faced again the one-time 
 secretary. 
 
 “ The master will answer for himself,” 
 he said, in a suppressed voice that went 
 straightway to Pelham’s false heart. “ In 
 this world no tribunal has jurisdiction 
 over the private life of Edgar Poe but 
 his own conscience ; in the next, his 
 God!” 
 
 There was no rant in his manner; 
 there was quiet and striking dignity. 
 
 The accuser bit his lip and turned 
 away. He could not meet Poe’s eyes, 
 that shone like glistening bayonet points. 
 
 The poet took the Bible from the ne- 
 gro’s hand. 
 
 Judge not that ye be not judged,’ 
 is such a well-worn word of this Book, 
 [33i ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 sir, that even you should have thumbed 
 it.” 
 
 He spoke calmly, yet there was power 
 in his manner, which gentleness en- 
 hanced. 
 
 Helen Whitman could no longer keep 
 her silence; she whispered the poet’s 
 name. 
 
 He started as though shot, and almost 
 fell. 
 
 “ You here! ” he at length murmured, 
 in a tone of anguish, supporting himself 
 with difficulty. She moved toward him, 
 but he stopped her with a motion of his 
 hand. 
 
 Pelham had time to recover his poise, 
 and with it his malice, for now that he 
 saw again his rival alive he had no fear 
 nor mercy in his heart. 
 
 “ My old friend, Edgar Poe, of Rich- 
 mond!” he said, in a suavely insulting 
 tone, as if he were surprised to meet the 
 poet there. “Oh, joy, joy! They told 
 me your eye was bleared, your step in- 
 firm, your cheek sunken, your once buoy- 
 [ 332 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 ant carriage gone forever. ’Tis false, 
 ’tis false, thank God! I have the ocular 
 proof — ’tis false! From this moment, 
 sir, believe me, your companion to con- 
 front Rumor with her own lies. My 
 duty to my party calls me. The storm 
 is gathering. Marjary will be anxious 
 about you, madam; I am ready to show 
 you to your carriage.” 
 
 Poe made no sign in response to the 
 words. He only leaned a little more 
 heavily against the table and seemed to 
 grow paler, if that were possible. 
 
 “ Thank you,” replied Helen cour- 
 teously, for she could not speak other- 
 wise ; “ I will not trouble you further to- 
 day, Mr. Pelham.” 
 
 “ I do not understand — ” he began 
 quickly. 
 
 “ I have business with Mr. Poe.” 
 
 “ You surely do not intend — ” he stam- 
 mered in surprise. “ Pardon me, but — - 
 what will Scandal say if I leave you here 
 unprotected and alone?” 
 
 “ Scandal!” cried the poetess, with a 
 
 [ 333 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 little laugh of triumph. “ You see this 
 little hoop of gold? It is the betrothal 
 ring of honest souls, placed upon my fin- 
 ger with holiest affiance vows — by Edgar 
 Poe.” 
 
 The poet made no other sign than to 
 raise his eyes heavenward, as if asking 
 for forgiveness. 
 
 “ Pardon, a thousand pardons, mad- 
 am,” stammered the solicitor. “ I did 
 not think it had gone so far. My con- 
 gratulations ; may much happiness attend 
 your coming union.” 
 
 There was insult in his every word. 
 
 “ Erebus,” said the poet to his attend- 
 ant quietly, “ see this gentleman safely 
 out. We regret he must depart so soon.” 
 
 “ Thank you,” replied the visitor, with 
 mock courtesy, “ I can find the way 
 alone. Good evening, friends.” 
 
 He passed out of the door and down 
 the stairs. 
 
 Erebus followed him. 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 Nevermore ! 
 
 There was a moment’s silence. The 
 rain beat against the windows. The 
 lightning played fantastically in the sky. 
 
 “ How I pity such a man,” said Poe, 
 almost kindly; “ to fall below contempt 
 is to fall very low indeed.” 
 
 “ Edgar, dear, do not mind his in- 
 sults,” pleaded Helen, as she hurried to 
 his side tenderly and with the great 
 sympathy of a great woman’s heart. She 
 suffered as deeply as the poet. 
 
 “ It is not that,” replied Poe, as in a 
 reverie, for he avoided still her eyes; “ it 
 is not that which gnaws my heart.” 
 
 He seemed to realize for the first time 
 that he had a fair visitor to his little gar- 
 ret, and that something was due from 
 him as host. 
 
 “ Pardon my discourtesy,” he hastened 
 
 [ 335 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 to say. “ I have grown so thoughtless of 
 late. Did my servant not offer you a 
 chair? Erebus, what do you mean? 
 Bring the lady — Erebus! ” Erebus did 
 not respond. “ Permit me , madam.” 
 
 Poe felt the need of courtesy, and him- 
 self brought a broken chair with all the 
 gallantry of his old-time self. He placed 
 it near her and motioned her to a seat 
 with the beautiful manner of Southern 
 hospitality. 
 
 Helen leaned against the chair but did 
 not take it. She was not prepared for 
 what she saw — still less for all that she 
 had seen. 
 
 “Erebus! Erebus!” called the poet 
 petulantly; but the negro’s sensibility 
 still kept him from intruding. “ I say, 
 bring the lady some refreshments. She 
 has traveled far. Some wine and cakes, 
 Erebus. We honor ourselves in honor- 
 ing our fair guest. Erebus, some wine! ” 
 He went to the table and took up a 
 broken dipper. Gradually the realiza- 
 tion of his misfortunes came over him. 
 
 [ 336 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ I forgot,” he murmured pathetically. 
 “ Times have changed for me. I am no 
 longer the prodigal son at home.” 
 
 He filled a glass with water from the 
 oaken bucket, and with all the pride 
 and the grandeur of a Castilian host ap- 
 proached the lady, who was so very sad 
 and whose eyes were so very full of tears 
 and love and beauty. 
 
 “ Here is one drink left,” he said soft- 
 ly, but with the bearing of a prince be- 
 stowing a blushing goblet on his bride, 
 “ the most priceless of them all. Even 
 the tattered vagabond, by lifting a re- 
 freshing draught from the wayside 
 stream, in this can play mine host most 
 royally. It comes from the hillside. It 
 is as pure as Mother Earth. Honor me, 
 madam, in God’s own beverage.” 
 
 She took the glass, with seeming grate- 
 fulness, lest she might hurt him, and 
 placed it on the table, as though she were 
 not disposed quite yet to drink. 
 
 “ No, no, Edgar,” she cried. “ Oh, 
 what has happened to you, dearest? 
 [ 337 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 Your eyes are so sad and distant. What 
 is it, love? If I am not to be your con- 
 fidant, then I should not be your wife.” 
 
 She took his hand and looked fondly 
 into his eyes. He made no answer. 
 
 “ ’Tis my happiness to divide your 
 cares,” she still pleaded with womanly 
 tenderness. “You tremble but do not 
 answer, Edgar. Your silence chills my 
 very heart. Has your love grown cold, 
 and does some other passion now fill your 
 breast? ” 
 
 He shuddered and looked about him 
 with a delirious glance. 
 
 “ Yes, yes, that is it,” he whispered in 
 the choked voice of suffering. “ A pas- 
 sion that will devour us both. You have 
 heard but now the words of your friend 
 — my friend; for God’s sake, heed his 
 warning, heed his warning.” 
 
 He broke from her and tottered to the 
 chair which he had brought for her, and 
 sat upon it, hiding his face in his hands. 
 He shook convulsively. She bent over 
 him tenderly; then kneeled beside him. 
 
 [ 338 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ You are trifling, Edgar,” she said 
 passionately. “ Why did you leave me 
 so? You filled me with every hope. You 
 told me, in words such as poets only can 
 speak, how you loved me, and, when I 
 breathed accordant answer to your vows, 
 you were gone ; and I had naught but idle 
 words to fill the place of love.” 
 
 She still pleaded with him, but he lis- 
 tened for some moments to the storm 
 without before he spoke in answer. His 
 eyes were fixed, distracted. 
 
 “It was a July midnight . . . 
 
 Clad all in white upon a violet bank 
 
 I saw thee 
 
 And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing 
 trees 
 
 Didst glide away. Only thine eyes remained. 
 They would not go — -they never yet have 
 gone.” 
 
 She scarcely breathed as he vaguely 
 pronounced these words inscribed “To 
 Helen.” 
 
 [ 339 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 “ All this,” she cried in anguish, “ and 
 still you fled from me, Edgar! ” 
 
 “ My promise,” he answered, unable 
 still to look at her. “ I could not look 
 into your face, it was so like hers. I could 
 not deceive you about myself; and so I 
 fled, fled, fled! ” 
 
 He rose with a startled movement and 
 went to the table across the room. She 
 followed him, for a terrible look had 
 come into his face. She feared for its 
 meaning. 
 
 The rain pattered on the roof a mel- 
 ancholy, dreadful reveille like the rattle 
 of many drums. 
 
 “ The ways of Heaven are manifold,” 
 she pleaded, her arm upon his shoulder; 
 “ God made me in her image for a pur- 
 pose, Edgar; I believe that purpose was 
 to save you from yourself.” 
 
 “ Save me! ” he cried in grim humor, 
 his eyes far away. “ For what? — more 
 hours of wretched poverty? I mean — I 
 — I am unworthy of your interest, Helen. 
 I fled from you to save you, not myself. 
 [ 340 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 I am past redemption. Oh, why did 
 you follow me here?” 
 
 The lightning flashed at the window, 
 and there was a low angry growl from 
 the distant heavens. He took her hands 
 in his, and for the first time looked deep- 
 ly into her eyes. 
 
 “ Because I love you, Edgar,” she re- 
 plied fervently; “and Love alone can 
 save you, Edgar, as the lesser passion is 
 lost and smothered in the greater. Trust 
 in Love, dear; it has saved the world.” 
 
 He shook his head sadly. 
 
 “ I brought wretchedness to one soul 
 who trusted me,” he exclaimed wildly, 
 “ I cannot to another and live. Look 
 about you. Is this the home to ask a wife 
 to share — a poet’s garret? Is there no 
 escape from it all? no refuge from 
 self? ” 
 
 He rushed to the gable window in des- 
 peration. In his fancy, the little garret 
 window had suddenly become the great 
 Tarpian Rock, whence he could dash his 
 soul to its destruction, and perhaps forget 
 [34i ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 his misery. She- screamed and followed 
 him — anticipating his thought. She 
 would have been too late, however, had 
 not a flash of lightning filled the window, 
 and for the moment blinded him. She 
 threw her arms about him and clung to 
 him madly. 
 
 “ Edgar,” she cried, “ for love of 
 Heaven, what would you do? ” 
 
 He stood in mad uncertainty. A wild, 
 fixed stare came into his eyes. 
 
 Flames leaped from a neighboring 
 building, where the lightning had struck. 
 The engines dashed by, and the ringing 
 of the bells affrighted the people’s hearts 
 and startled the night. 
 
 Poe answered them with a delirious 
 cry: 
 
 “ Hear the loud alarum bells — 
 
 Brazen bells ! 
 
 What a tale of terror now their turbulency 
 tells 1 
 
 In the startled ear of night 
 
 How they scream out their affright ! 
 
 [ 342 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 Too much horrified to speak, 
 
 They can only shriek, shriek, 
 
 Out of tune. 
 
 In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of 
 the fire.” 
 
 A moment, and the bells in the distant 
 steeple rang out a merry chime. Poe 
 listened, wavering. 
 
 “ Hush,” he whispered, “ the bells, 
 bells, bells, bells! They laugh at the 
 storm without and the storm within. 
 Would I were made like them. I would 
 laugh as well.” 
 
 Helen cried out, with a hopeful heart, 
 at the joyous peal. 
 
 “ Hear the mellow wedding bells, 
 
 Golden bells ! 
 
 What a world of happiness their harmony 
 foretells ! 
 
 “ An omen, Edgar, an omen! They ring 
 out hope for you and hope for me. An 
 omen, love!” 
 
 [ 343 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 She kissed his hand fervently. 
 
 Bells in another steeple rang out in an- 
 swer; but the chimes were not the same. 
 Now they tolled ghoulishly ; and the mel- 
 ancholy that oppressed them was en- 
 hanced as the notes were borne on the 
 wings of the storm to the little garret, 
 where life and death and love hung in 
 the balance. 
 
 The thunder rolled ominously in the 
 distance. 
 
 Poe laughed back at the bells mock- 
 ingly: 
 
 “ Hear the tolling of the bells — 
 
 Iron bells ; 
 
 What a world of solemn thought their 
 melody compels ! 
 
 “An omen, yes! the wedding march 
 and then the funeral dirge. A merry 
 omen, truly. I would reverse the order 
 to perfect the joy. The tolling first. Aye, 
 my thoughtless valet was right. He ar- 
 rayed the bridegroom in his funeral 
 [ 344 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 clothes, forgetting it was his wedding 
 day.” 
 
 There was another distant peal of 
 thunder, echoing the earthly bells. The 
 poet shuddered and crouched near the 
 table, on which the candle flickered low 
 in its socket. It was horror, not fear, that 
 wrought upon him now. 
 
 “ Hark, you hear the roar of the mael- 
 strom! Flee, flee from me, Helen, as 
 you would from Death. It comes, it 
 comes, it comes — for me! ” 
 
 He seemed like a man distraught. She 
 bent over him anxiously to divert him; 
 but it was hopeless. 
 
 “ Don’t you hear the ominous flapping 
 of its wings?” he cried. 
 
 “ ’Tis the storm distracts you, Edgar,” 
 she answered. “ There is no soul here 
 but you and I.” 
 
 “ It has no soul. It is a demon,” cried 
 the poet, in a frenzy of despair; “ the 
 demon of my blighted life. It’s curse is 
 written — ” His voice was lost in the 
 storm. 
 
 23 
 
 [ 345 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 The poetess turned her head away 
 hopelessly and covered her eyes in pray- 
 er, but she did not move from the poet’s 
 side. 
 
 The lightning played on the walls 
 through the windows. It came and went, 
 and then it came again. 
 
 The poet seemed to see in his wild im- 
 aginations, as the light danced on the 
 cobwebbed rafters, a raven sitting on a 
 bust of Pallas and fading away with the 
 flashes. Lenore came not; only the 
 Raven, Raven, Raven! 
 
 It was an awful moment, for death 
 was in the storm. 
 
 He called upon Helen to witness 
 where the Raven perched upon the bust 
 of Pallas — its basilisk eyes piercing into 
 his very soul ; but she could see nothing, 
 for there was nothing. 
 
 She tried in vain to comfort him, but 
 he would not listen. He did not seem to 
 hear her. A spiritual look came into his 
 face. The lightning played again upon 
 the wall. 
 
 [ 346 ] 
 
The Love Story of Edgar Allan Poe 
 
 “ 1 Prophet!’ said I, c thing of evil ! — proph- 
 et still, if bird or devil ! — 
 
 By that Heaven that bends above us — by 
 that God we both adore — 
 
 Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within 
 the distant Aidenn, 
 
 It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the 
 angels name Lenore — 
 
 Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the 
 angels name Lenore.’ ” 
 
 There was a crash of thunder. He 
 would have fallen, but Helen supported 
 him in her arms. 
 
 “Nevermore! Nevermore! Never- 
 more!” he murmured, looking strangely 
 from the light on the wall into Helen’s 
 eyes. 
 
 Then he shook his head slowly. 
 
 “ Oh, I am a thing, a nameless thing 
 o’er which the Raven flaps his funeral 
 wing! Lord help my poor soul.” 
 
 He sank upon the floor of the garret, 
 which was his last home. 
 
 “ Edgar! Edgar! ” she cried in agony. 
 
 [ 347 ] 
 
The Raven 
 
 She sank over him in despair. 
 
 “ I understand it now. It is the mem- 
 ory he loved, not me.” 
 
 Tony and the doctor came too late. 
 
 a) 
 
 THE END 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 

 
 
By ROBERT W. CHAMBERS. 
 
 The Firing Line. 
 
 Illustrated by Will Foster. i2mo. Cloth, $1.50. 
 
 In this rare, strange story, Mr. Chambers en- 
 trances us with the exotic life of Palm Beach, Florida. 
 We see the lights at America’s greatest playground 
 as clearly as if we were there. We become ac- 
 quainted with its actors. We feel and see as they 
 do. We learn to respect Malcourt, the villain, and 
 to love Shiela, whose love story follows the tempest- 
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 mystified as they so weirdly enter the world of the 
 occult. 
 
 “ The book sparkles with bright comedy, beautiful de- 
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 throughout the English-speaking world. Yet we do not 
 think that he has done anything so powerful, so vivid, so 
 strong, as his writing in this novel.” — Salt Lake Tribune. 
 
 “From the vivid opening of the first chapter to the vivid 
 close of the last there is no moment when character is not 
 being tested in the crucible of circumstances .... it is a 
 warm, full-blooded tale of American life and love.” 
 
 — Chicago Record-Herald. 
 
 “ Indeed, there rarely has been collected in any story 
 such a fascinating company as these who take part in the 
 battle of love on ‘ The Firing Line.’ ” 
 
 — The Transcript, Boston , Mass. 
 
 “ One of the most fascinating novels of his many good 
 books.” — Cleveland Leader. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 
AN UNUSUAL NOVEL. 
 
 Old Wives for New. 
 
 By David Graham Phillips. i2mo. Cloth, 
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 — Los Angeles Times. 
 
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 — St. Louis Republic. 
 
 D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK. 
 


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