The Dreamer | Page 4

seems you have set your heart upon this thing, I do not forbid
it; but remember, you are acting in direct opposition to my judgment
and advice, and if you ever live to regret it (as I believe you shall) you
will have no one but yourself to blame."
John Allan's voice was harsher, more positive, than usual; his shoulders
seemed to square themselves and a frowning brow hardened an always
austere face. His whole manner was that of a man consenting against
his will. His young wife hung over his chair vainly endeavoring to
smooth, with little pats of her fair hands, the stubborn locks that would
stand on end, like the bristles of a brush, whatever she did. Her soft and
vivacious beauty was in striking contrast to the strength and severity of
his rugged and at the same time distinguished countenance. His narrow,
steel-blue eyes, deep sunk under bushy brows and a high, but narrow,

forehead, were shrewd and piercing; his nose was large and like a
hawk's beak. His face too, was narrow, with cheek-bones high as an
Indian's. His mouth was large, but firmly closed, and the chin below it
was long and prominent and was carried stiffly above the high stock
and immaculate, starched shirt-ruffles. Her figure, as she leaned against
the chair's high back, was slender and girlish,--childish, almost, in its
low-necked, short-waisted, slim-skirted, "Empire" dress, of some filmy
stuff, the pale yellow of a Marshal Niel rose. Her face was a pure oval
with delicate, regular features. Her reddish-brown hair, parted in the
middle, was piled on top of her small head, and airy little curls hung
down on her brow on either side of the part. Her eyes--the color of her
hair--were gentle and sweet and her mouth was tenderly curved and
rosy. With her imploring attitude, the sweetness of her eyes and mouth
and the warmth of her plea, her fresh beauty glowed like a flower,
newly opened. All unmoved, John Allan repeated,
"You will have no one but yourself to blame."
Her ardor undimmed by the chariness of the consent she had gained,
she showered the lowering brow with cool, delicate little kisses until it
grew smooth in spite of itself.
"Oh, I know I never shall regret it, John," she cooed. "He is such a
beautiful boy--so sweet and affectionate, so merry and clever! Just what
I should like our own little boy to be, John, if God had blessed us with
one."
"I grant you he seems a bonny little lad enough, Frances. But I realize,
as it seems you do not, the risk of undertaking to rear as your own the
child of any but the most unquestionable parentage. I confess the
thought of introducing into my family the son of professional players is
extremely distasteful to me."
"But John, dear, you know these Poes were not ordinary players. The
father was one of the Maryland Poes and I understand the mother came
of good English stock. She certainly seemed to be a lady and a good,
sweet woman, poor thing! The Mackenzies have decided to adopt the
baby Rosalie, though they have children, as you know; and with this

charming little Edgar for my very own I shall be the happiest woman
alive."
"Well, well, keep your pretty little pet, but if he turns out to be other
than a credit to you, don't forget that you were warned."
* * * * *
And so the little Edgar Poe--the players' child--became Edgar Allan,
with a fond and admiring young mother who became at once and
forever his slave and whose chief object in life henceforth was to stand
between him and the discipline of a not intentionally harsh or unkind,
but strict and uncompromising father; who though he too was fond of
the boy, in a way, and proud of his beauty and little accomplishments,
was constantly on the lookout for the cloven foot which his fixed
prejudice against the child's parentage made him certain would appear.
In her delight over her acquisition, Frances Allan was like a child with
a new toy. She almost smothered him with kisses when, accepting her
bribe of a spaniel pup and his pockets full of sugar-kisses, he agreed to
call her "Mother." With her own fingers she made him the quaintest
little baggy trousers, of silk pongee, and a velvet jacket, and a tucker of
the finest linen. His cheap cotton stockings were discarded for scarlet
silk ones, and for his head, "sunny over with curls" of bright nut-brown,
she bought from Mrs. Fipps, the prettiest peaked cap of purple velvet,
with a handsome gold tassel that fell gracefully over on one shoulder.
Thus arrayed, she took him about town with her to show him to her
friends who