By
Nancy Holder
It was all on a ghastly, gloomy day that at last I reached the outskirts of Arkham, Massachusetts. After a carriage ride lasting innumerable, endless rainy days and bitterly cold nights, I climbed down at last with time-worn satchel and patched valise, and a chill washed over me with the fog. The moon shone down on a misshapen street crowned with gambrel roofs, and the familiar panic seized my heart as I contemplated why I was there. I walked into the station house on shaking legs in fear for my dear Virginia—Sissy, as I called my little wife. I had failed her again.
The magazine that had employed me had gone bankrupt, and I had no funds. Sissy and I had nothing but molasses and bread to eat, and Sissy—I can admit it now!—was overdue for medical attention. I had not wanted to admit that she had consumption—I had denied it for far too long!—and as a result of my neglect, she was dying, a death made all the harder by our poverty.
As you may well know, my father, David Poe, abandoned my mother, brother, sister, and me before I even knew him, and when I was but two years of age, my mother died. We children were farmed out, and I became the ward (but never son, never that) of John and Frances Allan. My foster mother suffered pitiable heartbreak over the unfaithfulness of my foster father, and I quarreled with him bitterly for her sweet sake. Claiming to find me sulky and ungrateful, he cast me out, and when he died, I was disinherited. He bequeathed his second wife and their children a fortune but for me, not a penny. Owning no property and having been expelled from West Point, I had no employable skills except that I had been raised a gentleman and I was facile with words, and so I determined to make my living with my pen.
I sought through the years to remain gainfully employed as an editor and critic, and to publish my verses. Fame came my way, but not fortune, as had come to others who, I confess, I still consider my literary inferiors (Longfellow comes to mind).
I became shameless in my pursuit of relief. Inquiries on my part revealed that a branch of the Allan family made their home in Arkham. This limb of the Allan family tree had split off two centuries before and spelled their name “Allen.” Thus knowledge of them among “my” Allans (though of course they were not mine at all) had been utterly lost.
The patriarch of the Arkham Allens was named Mr. Demeter Allen. I had no claim on him and he and I both knew it, but as I had achieved some repute (others might say notoriety) for my literary work, he agreed that we should meet, and invited me to stay at his home, which was a small distance from the town itself.
Now I waited for him in the milky, thick fog; quatrains sprang into my head as I paced to stay warm. The refrain was ever the same: my love cannot die. She must not, would not; she had endured so much for love of me.
Presently an old woman limped along the cobbles. She was bent over, her face gray and lined, and her clothes tattered. She was wearing no coat. She extended a raggedy glove toward me and said, “A penny, sir? Anything? I’ll say a prayer for you and yours.”
I gave my head a rueful shake. “I’m sorry for your trouble, missus,” I said, “but I barely have a cent to my name.”
She wrinkled her brow and when she sighed, it was as if she exhaled a ghost. She shook her head and said, “Woe to you, sir, for my prayers have weight.”
“I’m sure of it,” I said, and impetuously, I was in a mind to offer her my coat when a fine carriage clopped down the lane, and she vanished into the darkness.
The carriage wheeled to a stop in front of me and a fine, handsome gentleman emerged with hand extended in welcome. Whereas the Allans of Virginia are fair, Demeter Allen’s hair, eyebrows, and beard were raven-black, and his eyes were so dark I could discern no color in them as he smiled at me and we shook hands.
“Mr. Poe, so very pleased to meet you,” he said warmly. Then he turned to peer into the interior of the carriage and said, “Barbara, say hello to your cousin Edgar from Virginia.”
He did me great service, for we were not cousins at all, much less on a familiar, first-name basis, and while it was true that I hailed from Virginia, I did not currently live there. Still, Richmond was the home of the Allans, and I felt that he was attempting to emphasize to me that he felt in some way connected to my life. This gave me hope that at last I might have found sympathetic friends.
After a moment, I heard the rustle of silk, and then a very beautiful young woman appeared in the door of the carriage. Her hair was as black as her father’s, and she was fine-boned and quite dainty in appearance. She was brilliant with joy, and I was somewhat taken aback, as I could not imagine her broad smile and flashing eyes were a result of making my acquaintance. Indeed, she barely seemed to notice me.
As she alighted, her father said to the coachman, “Eustace, put Mr. Poe’s belongings in the carriage.” Then he said to me, “What a cold night this is, cousin. Let us repair to the tavern to warm our blood before we embark on the journey to the house.”
I was deeply touched, but all my senses sprang to alert as we walked across the street toward a golden-hued bay window blossoming with shadowed movement. Echoes of laughter and conversation greeted my ears, and I began to worry about how I should manage to pay for refreshments for my two new companions, which was the least hospitality my Southern upbringing required. And in all truth, I was afraid that I should forget my own vow to drink spirits in moderation, and humiliate myself. When upset, I overindulge, even to this day.
My “cousin” Barbara practically bolted ahead of us, as eager to enter the inn as I was hesitant. Soon we were wreathed in a steamy crowd of warm breath and the scent of mulled wine, and Mr. Allen began the introductions. Out of the corner of my eye, I spied Barbara making a quick way toward a tall, handsome youth. She had no eyes for anything but him. But he, on the other hand, was striding past her toward me, his hand extended.
“Mr. Edgar Allan Poe!” he cried. “Oh, sir! I have read everything you have ever written!”
He pumped my hand and tears welled in his eyes. I was at once charmed, for I admit that I have never shrunk from public acclaim, and my poor, distressed heart was grateful for this man’s eagerness to meet me.
“Flip!” he called.
This was a beverage of hot rum, I knew, such as they drink in New England. A buxom barmaid arrived with a tray of four steaming pewter mugs. The young man handed one to me, one to Mr. Allan, and took a third off the tray. There was one mug left, and Barbara rustled forward to claim it. But before she could do so, the young man raised his mug and cried, “A toast to the greatest writer who ever lived!”
“Thank you,” I said, pausing in hopes that he would give the young lady the fourth mug, but he did not. “Mr…?”
“Jemmy Grove,” he answered. “Drink up, I pray you, sir!”
Young Mr. Grove, Mr. Allen, and I drank, and Barbara’s face blazed bright red. I wondered if Mr. Grove was ignoring her on purpose—if, perhaps, she entertained false hopes and he was attempting to dash them—and I winced inwardly as she touched an anxious, gloved hand to her hair and adjusted her jet-encrusted shawl around her shoulders. Her uncertainty of her beauty made me think of my own sweet Sissy, who had wondered aloud what I saw in her, as lovelier, grander women had sought my company.
After resolving to take only this one mug of flip, I finally drank, and the pungent rum punch spread throughout my chilled limbs. I found myself surrounded by a ring of faces eagerly calling for me to recite “The Raven,” and after quaffing more of my refreshment, I felt eager to oblige.
I was ushered to a small stage at one end of the tavern and as I climbed onto it, I spied Barbara Allen rushing in tears out the tavern door and into the night. Planted firmly in the public center of attention, I could see no way to alert her father without embarrassing the lady, and so I kept my peace and hoped she would come to no harm.
I recited my poem, and then was asked for another. I complied. I was in a fine mood by then, having accepted a second cup of flip, and basking, I do confess, in the adulation. More verses were requested; more, given.
After an interval, Mr. Allen decreed that it was time for us to depart. As if on cue, at that very moment the tavern door opened and Barbara slipped in unnoticed by either her father or Mr. Grove. Her hair was slightly mussed and her exquisite jet shawl was gone.
She and I traded looks; hers said, I beg of you, do not betray me, and I dipped my head ever so slightly in reply. She appeared much relieved.
It was announced that we were to depart, and there was much commotion with fetching “the poet’s hat and coat.” I made a half-hearted attempt to settle the bill with Mr. Allen, but he would not have it—to my shamed relief.
At long last, Mr. Grove seemed to realize that he had neglected Barbara all evening. He hurried toward her and extended a hand. But she gazed at him with hard, angry eyes, lifted her chin, and showed him her back.
He came up behind her and attempted to place his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged it off. He called her name: “Miss Allen?” and she pretended not to hear.
Then, “Barbara?” And she turned her head in his direction and sneered at him like a queen confronted with a beggar. Mr. Grove was utterly crestfallen, but her features were set as if made of porcelain, and she placed her hand on my arm, clearly preferring my company.
Her father saw none of this, but notice was taken by those in the tavern, and a few knowing grins were exchanged. I smiled faintly as well.
I knew a lovers’ quarrel when I saw one.
* * *
“Arkham’s not like other towns. It would suit you, cousin,” said Mr. Allen as we headed home. Then he began to recite many of the ghastly legends attending the town—of monsters from other worlds, and curses, and madness, and hideous beings that rise from the sea to mate with the daughters of men. Of witches. I was quite astonished that he spoke so freely of such peculiarities in front of his daughter. Divested of her cloak, she was huddled under the carriage blanket, shivering with cold, and he didn’t seem to notice this, either.
As he unfolded tales of horror and more horror, I lifted the carriage curtain and peered outside. Beneath the moonlight, the trees were blasted as if struck by lightning, then twisted into poses resembling grotesque human hunchbacks. Fog congealed into human faces that scowled at me, then dissipated. At a crossroads, I thought I saw a crooked figure in a shroud. It raised a hand in greeting, and I realized it was the beggar woman who had offered to pray for me and mine, wearing Barbara’s cloak. I felt a twinge as I ticked my gaze toward Barbara, who clearly had sacrificed her outer garment on this woman’s behalf. Miss Allen stared back at the lady, then furtively made the sign of the cross and nervously licked her lips.
* * *
The Allen home was an imposing country manor house of the same gambreled roof design I saw everywhere in Arkham, its stern gray windows glaring down at us as we alighted. It was not welcoming, but it was large, and I blush to admit that it raised hopes in me of financial help. Even a loan would be welcome.
Lightning flashed as the front door opened and Mr. Allen’s man took my coat and hat. I was tired and had imbibed perhaps a bit too much, but Mr. Allen insisted that I accompany him to the parlor, there to meet Mrs. Allen.
Barbara excused herself and went on to bed. We two men entered a poorly lit room lined with oil portraits of dark-haired men and women resembling Demeter Allen. Then, seated before the fire with an embroidery hoop resting in her lap, sat the image of Barbara Allen perhaps some twenty years hence, although somewhat drawn and haggard. Her eyes were focused on the fire; at the sound of our footsteps, she seemed to struggle to blink her eyes and look at us.
“My dear, look. It is dear Mr. Edgar Allan Poe from Richmond,” said Mr. Allen, but I noticed that he did not draw near to her.
For an instant, fury glittered in her eyes. I was quite taken aback, but I realized that she was still not looking at me. Mr. Allen was the object of her ire. The exchange was a mirroring of what had transpired between Jemmy Grove and their own daughter, and I wondered at the cause.
“What a pleasure to meet you,” she said to me without much enthusiasm.
I inclined my head and made my response as I took the seat across from her. Her husband perched on a settee somewhat more distant from the mantel. Then she called for warm rum and I did not protest. We drank to her health and then to mine.
“Tell me, Mr. Poe, how do you like this wicked place?” she asked me.
“Begging no disrespect, ma’am, but as a gracious lady such as yourself lives in this place, surely it cannot be too wicked.”
She smiled at my pretty gallantry and said, “Let us not forget that Eve turned the Garden into Hell.”
“Adam found paradise with her,” I rejoined, even though that wasn’t entirely accurate. But I am a writer, after all, and writers often varnish the truth. And, I confess, the imp of the perverse within me goaded me to see what her response might be.
But she only smiled neutrally and called a servant to refill my goblet. I was weary, and I knew I was drinking too much. When at last I was released from the obligations of a visitor and shown to my room, I could hear the rain pounding on the roof. The wind wailed against the glass of my window, in a room of dark wood and burgundy velvet. Lightning crashed.
I wandered to the window, drew open the curtains, and started at the sight of a figure down below in the carriage yard. It wore a greatcoat and a top hat, and stood utterly still with its head tilted back. When lightning illuminated its features, I saw that it was Jemmy Grove, Miss Allen’s sweetheart.
His mouth was moving; I unlatched the window and tilted my head in an effort to catch his words through the whistling tempest.
“Barbara,” he pleaded. “Barbara Allen.” He wailed as if suffering the greatest of torments.
I wasn’t sure where her room was situated, and I considered whether I should alert her to the fact that her beau—if beau he still was—was serenading her like an Irish banshee. For some moments I debated and had just made up my mind to seek her out when Mr. Grove dejectedly strode to a horse tied up at a gate. Thunder rolled and the miserable, sodden horse reared. The young man was obviously an accomplished horseman, for he gentled the steed with some ease, then mounted. He cast one last longing look at the house, and then he cantered away.
* * *
I slept heavily, for I was exhausted and half-drunk. The sun had barely risen when there was a knock on my door. I expected a servant, but after putting on my dressing gown, I opened the door to Barbara Allen. High color gave her a rosy glow, and I saw that she was fully dressed in a coat and bonnet.
She said, “Papa has gone. There’s a fire at the mill. And I beseech you, Cousin Edgar, will you escort me to Mr. Grove’s? I’ve had a message that he is quite ill.”
I was much astonished by her request, but not at all surprised that the young man had suffered from standing in the storm. I was about to say as much when she reached out and squeezed one of my hands with both of hers.
“I beg of you, please take me to him. Mama, well, you see, sir, she has a condition and in order to sleep she must take…It will be hard to rouse her and I need to go now!”
It was utterly imprudent of me to assent. In the first instance, it was most improper to go at all, but for me to whisk away the daughter of the house without consulting her parents? Unpardonable. I had come with hat in hand to look for money from her father. My wife was starving, dying.
No, my love cannot die.
But in my life, I have often done the one thing I should not. I have sought out the dramatic in situations that other, wiser folk shun. So I told her I would escort her, dressed, and had a quick breakfast and very strong coffee.
The day was chill but we took two horses rather than a carriage. She pushed her mare and I had trouble keeping up as we charged through a blasted, black-and-white landscape so dank and dreary that I wished with all my heart to be back in New York. Then we came upon a cheery country home surrounded by pines, such a contrast to its surroundings, that my heart lightened upon seeing it.
True love shall win the day, I thought as a boy came forward to gather our horses and assist Miss Allen. She scarcely waited for me as she hurried to a large red wooden door set between two white columns. A fine black carriage with matching horses sat in the drive. I surmised that a physician had come.
Her gloved hand was on the knocker when the door opened and a young lady stopped on the transom. She was as fair as Barbara Allen was dark.
Miss Allen’s eyes widened and I saw the rage of the mother reflected in the daughter; the other woman raised her chin, and said, “He is asleep. It would be better if you did not disturb him.”
The fair young lady looked at me haughtily, then walked past us both to the carriage. Barbara Allen’s fury did not abate and she stomped into the house without invitation. I followed hesitantly behind.
A maid appeared and curtseyed. I prepared to give her my coat and hat but Miss Allen walked right past her and started up a staircase. I raised a brow and the maid curtseyed again. Tears were streaming down her face.
“You may as well go up, sir, if you wish to say good-bye to our boy,” she said, and then she fell to weeping.
I wondered where the rest of the household was. A well-mannered gentleman would have waited in the foyer. But I followed Barbara Allen up, then trailed behind her as she ran down a hall and pushed open the door at the end of it.
I knew it was a sickroom before I was one step inside. The odor made my heart clench. I thought of my love, my beautiful Sissy.
“Barbara,” said a voice from the bed. It was young Jemmy Grove, blankets up to his chin. I was shocked at his appearance. His sunken cheeks and eyes gave him the aspect of an elderly man, older even than the beggar woman of the night before. His rheumy eyes ticked toward me, and he smiled with thin, bluish lips. “Mr. Poe. You do me such an honor.”
“Why was Jennet Swanson here?” Barbara Allen demanded, and I caught my breath, astonished at the depth of her jealousy in the face of Mr. Grove’s grievous condition. “You told me she meant nothing to you.”
Evidently he means something to her, I thought, but did not say. Instead, I drew a bit away and thought to quietly walk back out the door in order to give the man his dignity. He fell to coughing so violently that I saw in my mind’s eye droplets of blood upon a handkerchief, and the world whirled around me. What was I doing here? Oh, why had I come to Arkham? For all I knew, my love lay in similar agony, forsaken by me because of this foolish quest!
“I went to your window. I called for you,” he said. “Forgive me, love, I was so thrilled that Mr. Poe had come to Arkham—”
“Why was she here?” Barbara demanded. “You are all alike! You men, you faithless devils!” This last she cried in a scream like that of a spoiled child who had been refused a plaything. “I have laid a curse on you, Jemmy! Death to a faithless lover!”
She hissed at him like a cat and whirled on her heel. I was so shocked I stood rooted to the spot. She did not wait for me. I heard her dash down the stairs, and still I did not go. I went to the young man, who was doubled over in coughing. Tears and sweat were pouring down his face.
“I was never…I am not faithless,” he managed to grind out, through it took him some time. I heard Barbara Allen galloping away. “She fears it most because her father…Forgive me, Mr. Poe, I am a gentleman.” And then he fell back against the pillows, gasping.
“Help! Mr. Grove needs his physician!” I cried, and started for the door, but Jemmy Grove grabbed my forearm, and his grip was uncommonly strong.
“Tell her I loved her. I always loved her,” he pleaded, and then I was firmly moved out of the way by a gray-haired gentleman, who was indeed his physician.
I went downstairs and the little maid saw me. She threw her arms around me and sobbed as if her heart would break.
“Please, send any news, any change, to the Allen home,” I asked her. “I—we would like to know.”
She shook her head against my chest. “It will be the bell, sir. In our little chapel. When you hear it toll, you will know he’s gone.” She burst into fresh tears.
I stayed until she composed herself, and then I quitted the house, grateful to be gone, but sorry for the lad inside it. I was angry with Barbara, so very angry, until I remembered what had been said about her father, and I thought of my own faithless foster father. My foster mother had had no recourse but to endure John Allan’s mistresses and bastards. She had died a broken woman. Perhaps it was the same with Demeter Allen and his wife. I knew the kind of special hell that brought to battered hearts.
The melancholy sight of the Allen house presented itself to me just as the sound of a bell tolled in my ear. I drew my horse up short and cocked my head to make sure I heard it true, and not simply in my poetic imagination. It rang. Dolefully, mournfully, endlessly. Jemmy Grove was dead then. I murmured, “Requiescat in pace.” Rest in peace.
A scream echoed like thunder across the yard where Jemmy Grove had caught his death. Barbara Allen came flying out of the house, and limping after her was the old woman, Barbara’s jet-encrusted shawl wrapped around her.
I could not hear their conversation, but their voices were raised. Then Mrs. Allen appeared in the doorway, and as I dismounted and ran to the trio of women, she saw me and swayed, tumbling to her knees.
“Demeter is dead!” Mrs. Allen cried. “In the mill fire!”
I approached. The old woman looked my way, and across her face spread the most evil, malevolent smile I have ever seen and hope never to see again. It was inhuman. Her eyes glistened like the jet of the shawl.
“He was unfaithful,” the hag decreed. “A curse was laid.”
Mrs. Allen seemed not to hear or else to not comprehend. She was lost in her misery.
Barbara Allen clutched her bosom as if her heart would burst from her chest. “Jemmy, Jemmy,” she moaned. “Could you not be true?” And then she fell to hard, heavy sobbing in cadence with her mother.
“He was true,” the woman said. Her hideous smile bore down on Barbara Allen. “A true love stands in the rain to beg forgiveness. A true love uses the last of his strength to tell his beloved that he loves her. But tell me, girl, what kind of lover asks for a death curse on a young man like that? What kind of faith does she show? No faith.”
The woman pointed a gnarled finger at the distraught girl and said, “And a curse has been laid that the faithless would die. This curse must run its course.”
Barbara Allen’s sobs turned to gasps. Her eyes went wide. Then I heard the rattle in her throat as she fought to draw breath. She clamped her hand around her neck and reached out to her mother, who roused from her frenzy to rush to her daughter.
“Barbara! Barbara!” Mrs. Allen screamed. Then, as her daughter collapsed in her arms, she shouted at the woman, “What are you doing to her, you old witch? Stop it, for the love of God!”
“She did it to herself,” the woman replied. “And not for any sort of love at all.” And she burst into merry peals of laughter.
* * *
You know, of course, that I did not return to New York with money. The mill was not properly insured, and Mrs. Allen was ruined. It is not true that Jemmy Grove and Barbara Allen were buried near each other, but it is true that flowers blossomed on their graves mere days after their coffins were lowered into the earth.
On his bloomed a calla lily, for innocence, and rich, green grass, and a weeping willow tree.
And on hers, deadly nightshade, and nothing else, ever—no grass, nor nettle, nor weed.
Jennet Swanson married her fiancé a fortnight after Jemmy Grove’s death. Mr. Grove was to have been her fiancé’s best man. The old woman was never seen again in Arkham town.
And I wish down to my immortal soul that I had asked her to pray for Sissy.