The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  A few moments' rest and he would go and pay his respects to William Pitch. His mother would want news. Indeed, he too hungered for an audience with the old man, realized with a start the number of times within the last twenty-four hours that William Pitch had entered his thoughts, as though he were calling to Edward, or Edward to him.

  He relaxed upon the pallet as images of William Pitch settled over him, his white flowing hair, the features strong and resolute even under the assault of illness and age. The particular worth of William Pitch to Edward, indeed to the entire reading public of London who had so profited from his keen intellectual powers and compassionate wit, was the simple ability of the man to put everything into perspective. If the rest of the world chose to drown in the flood of the present, Pitch stood high up on the dry ground of wisdom.

  In memory, Edward could hear the old man's voice, counseling patience, counseling compassion, counseling love for all, and most important, for oneself.

  Then he was incapable of thinking any more. He closed his eyes. In the beginning of the dream, he saw himself just going through a door. What was on the other side, he could not say. But a feeling of quiet stole over him, as if everything was going to be put to rights again . . .

  At noon, armed with the latest edition of The Illustrated London News— for he was a man who liked to keep abreast of events—Jawster Gray left his flat on Charing Cross and headed toward the White Bear at the top of Oxford Street. He looked forward to a cheese roll and a few pints, and a diversion of his loneliness which he always found in the crowded pub.

  As he paused on the pavement to await a break in the never-ending stream of carriages, he again pondered his dilemma. Good Gawd! How many times he'd been back and forth over the same territory. Earlier that morning he'd hoped to lose himself in sleep. But his simple bed, which in the past had always granted him soothing respite, had refused for some reason to receive him. He'd turned feverishly for several hours and at last had surrendered to wakefulness, lying on his back like a beached ship, staring out the soot-smudged window at the pale golden rifts in the clouds.

  Fifteen hundred pounds would unsmudge those windows right enough, indeed would lift him totally free of the grim alley which served as his walkway, the black, unvarnished door which led in to the smelly stairs which in turn led to the mean, narrow, cold room in which he had passed the last forty-two years.

  A few minutes later he took refuge in the White Bear, heading toward his table by the window which afforded him a safe but generous view of Piccadilly. Several of the young serving girls greeted him warmly, their faces glistening with perspiration.

  From across the congested room, one called cheerily, "Jawster, you're up and about early."

  Usually he enjoyed giggling with the girls. Now rather cheerlessly he

  returned the greeting. "A cheese roll," he called out, "and a pint of ale."

  He sank heavily into the chair and spread the newspaper before him. For a moment he rested his head in his hands as though his brain were on the verge of exploding. Sweet Gawd! There had to be respite somewhere. Hungry for distraction, he opened his eyes to an article concerning the arrival of the Coburg cousins, German princes, Ernest and a lad named Albert, here for Princess Victoria's seventeenth birthday. Carefully he studied the accompanying illustration. Such pretty children, all of them, although Jawster had no idea how the ship of state would manage to sail under the frail hand of a woman. And he knew, as did all of London, that it was only a matter of time before the old King died and left the slim girl in his place.

  Again he stared at the pretty pampered faces before him. He would have liked to have had children. But how could a decent man ask a decent woman to share his lot of twelve shillings a week, and not even that in the beginning.

  But now? Was it too late? Fifteen hundred pounds, a piece of Kent land, a comfortable cheery widow, not too old, perhaps still capable of childbearing, a couple of good horses, his own carriage? Why not!

  A smile blazed across his face as he stared, unseeing, at the crowds beyond the window. The serving girl was at his elbow now. "Lord, Jawster," she grinned. "The look on your face! What is it you're seein'? The shores of Heaven?"

  Hungrily he reached for the cheese roll while she was still lowering the plate. Unfortunately at that moment he remembered again the whole dread pleasure and pain of his last meeting with the Prince of Eden, the free bottle of port, the offer of fifteen hundred pounds.

  He settled back in his chair, folded the newspaper to one side, and listened to the pleasant hum of voices rise about him. He stared, still unseeing, out the window at the crush of traffic. Then what was his decision? Use his keys and his position of authority to help the young woman to escape, pocket the small fortune, and never come near Newgate or London again?

  Or— Refuse the bargain, endure the open court spectacle of burning flesh, endure too the bond of friendship with the Prince of Eden broken, no more bottles of port, but conscience intact, secure in the knowledge that he had served the law?

  Thus he went like that, back and forth, for the better part of the afternoon. The serving girls kept him well supplied with an endless river of ale. And by four o'clock his besotted brain had at last slipped into a kind of welcome numbness.

  Another hour and he was due to go back on the watch at Newgate.

  In the event the Prince of Eden appeared tonight, and Jawster knew he would, he must have his answer ready.

  FeeHng as battered as though he'd fought five hundred Waterloos, he stumbled to his feet, tossed enough coin on the table to cover his bill, and grasping his way from chair to chair, he arrived at the door and the blazing late afternoon sun beyond.

  Someone called after him, but he didn't answer. Out on the pavement he stood for a moment as though in a stupor, the street noises magnified in his ears, his bleary eyes seeing all in triplicate. Pedestrians jostled against him. A street urchin tried to slip a grimy hand into his pocket.

  "Be off with you," he shouted, waving wildly at the child. Then he saw the sullen eyes in the youthful face and softened his attitude. "Don't rob old Jawster today," he smiled. "He's a poor man, as poor as you." He leaned closer, grinning. "But come tomorrow. Then you can rob old Jawster, for he'll be a rich man."

  The stream of pedestrians separated them, carrying the child in one direction, Jawster in the other. It astonished him to discover that in that instant the decision had almost been made.

  He looked angrily about. No one in all those passing faces was paying the slightest attention to him. Well, then nothing to do but step out into the middle of the pavement and announce his news again. Everyone must know. Someone must care. He drew himself up and wished that the pavement would hold steady. He lifted his head, closed his eyes, and taking a broad stride, stepped directly out into the flow of carriages.

  Then here it came, that great shadow bearing down on him. A man's voice, very close or so it seemed, shouted, "Watch—"

  Jawster tried to do as he was told. Glancing upward he saw six horses pulling a crowded omnibus heading straight for him. He thought quite lucidly that he'd never seen such monsters before. Where had they come from? The huge beasts seemed to be flinging themselves about, sending a flurry of white foam from their mouths.

  The noise and confusion boiled around him, the brutes coming closer. He stepped back before the onslaught; his boots caught on something and he was falling backward, the giants rearing up over him, hooves striking the pavement all about while Jawster cried out, "Jesus-"

  Then he lay quietly on the pavement, pain and darkness increasing. Now and then a hissing sound slipped from his mouth. Through a dim red moist curtain his eyes moved from one to another of the horrified onlookers. "A rich man," he muttered.

  Blood filled his mouth, a stream of blood spouting from his nose, his

  splintered legs twisted beneath him. One hand moved up as though to hold his head together. A pain as sharp as a blade pierced through to the center of his brain. The grip of his teet
h on his tongue relaxed. A decision had been made.

  At five o'clock that afternoon, hopelessly stalled in a traffic crush near the White Bear on Oxford Street, Edward gazed out his carriage window at the chaos beyond.

  Old John Murrey shouted down at him. "It's a horse-drawn omnibus, sir. Gone sideways it has. A lame horse, I reckon—"

  "No rush, John," Edward called out. "Do your best."

  As a direct ray of late afternoon sun struck his face, he closed his eyes. The restless interval which had passed for sleep had not really revived him. His thoughts went continuously back to Newgate, to Charlotte imprisoned there.

  Rapidly he lifted his head and stared fixedly out the opposite window. Pray God old Jawster Gray had lost his battle with his conscience.

  With a start the carriage lurched forward. John Murrey called down, "It's a dead man, sir."

  As the carriage inched slowly forward, Edward leaned toward the window. He saw ahead a stalled omnibus, passengers leaning out of the windows, and on the pavement he saw three Peelers bending over a crumpled form, the legs twisted in a macabre position, blood everywhere, the poor victim himself obscured by the Peelers and the press of curious onlookers. Somewhere in this vast city, there would be a pitiful pocket of grief this night. Corpses, if not men, were always loved.

  The traffic was thinning, the scene outside his window a manageable flow. He remembered as a child his mother bringing him to William Pitch's house, delicious fortnights prowling the British Museum and the lovely empty fields beyond. He smiled openly now, remembering how his mother had given him stern instructions never to mention the family secret, that her half-sister, Jane, and William Pitch were not legally married. But then she'd always hastened to reassure him that the duration and intensity of their union made them wed in the eyes of God. It seemed a silly point then and now.

  From atop the high seat he heard John Murrey calling to him again. "Great Russell Street, was it, sir?"

  "Yes, John, straight ahead, then to the left." As they drew near his destination, he made an attempt to straighten himself from the jogging ride. He'd taken certain pains with his dress, knowing how important such matters were to his Aunt Jane. He'd forced himself into black peg-top trousers, a buff-colored waistcoat, and black coat. On the seat

  beside him was a polished and brushed beaver hat which he'd thought once to wear, but now upon studying it, he changed his mind. He'd come to see, not be seen. Old Jane would forgive him.

  While he was still eyeing the hat, the carriage stopped. He looked out. "No, John, it's just ahead—"

  "Can't get no closer, sir. Look for yourself."

  Quickly he leaned out of the window. On both sides the street was lined with carriages, as many as a dozen, blocking the passage in front of William's house. What in the—

  Puzzled, he alighted the carriage, gave John instructions for waiting, then started down the pavement on foot. He passed a knot of idle coachmen having a pipe and a chat, their liveries clearly bespeaking the importance of their masters.

  Looking up, he saw a gentleman in a black frock coat just emerging from the red brick house. Then Edward was running, his fears increasing with his speed. He took the walk at breakneck speed and saw in his mind's eye for just a flash a young boy, seven or eight, running belatedly for dinner, his younger brother trailing behind him, both grimy from their play in the empty fields.

  "I beg your pardon, sir—" His breath caught in his throat as he approached the departing priest. "Could you tell me—"

  Then beyond the priest, standing in the opened doorway, he saw his Aunt Jane, her figure still slim and erect at seventy, a handkerchief pressed to her lips. Her gown was black, her face a contortion of pain.

  "Edward?" she inquired gently as though age and tears had dulled her vision.

  It was a distance of a dozen steps from where he stood to her outstretched arms, and with every step, Edward prayed. Don't let him be dead.

  Then he was standing beside her on the threshold, trying to read the grief in her face. Gently he took her in his arms, felt her frail body press closer to him as though for protection.

  "I just sent for you," she whispered. "He's been asking for you over and over—"

  Edward closed his eyes. Thank God. He held her a moment longer, breathing deeply of her lavender scent, the young boy within him as insistent as ever. Let Aunt Jane fix it. Come, Aunt Jane will hold you.

  "What happened?" he asked quietly, trying to send the boy away.

  She stood back, making a valiant attempt to control her tears. "Late last night, he was working—at his desk. I heard him call for the girl, and the next thing—" A fresh wave of tears coursed down her wrinkled face.

  Again he put his arms around her and drew her close, heard her

  murmur, "It's his heart. The doctors give us little hope." Then with a certain sternness she straightened her shoulders, dabbed a final time at her eyes. "But, come," she said, businesslike. "He's been asking for you since early morning."

  Since early morning! As Edward walked with her through the entrance hall, he repeated those words in his head. Since morning. It had been then when his thoughts of William Pitch had almost overwhelmed him.

  A few steps this side of the drawing room, Jane stopped. "The house is filled," she whispered, a slant of annoyance on her face. "I have no idea how word traveled so fast, but you'd think we were still running our salon." She leaned closer, still dabbing at her eyes. "My girls have been kept busy since midmorning, endless rounds of coffee and tea." As she spoke, she fingered the single strand of pearls about her neck. He noticed her hand, thin, blue-veined, and trembling like her shoulders.

  "Must I stop in?" Edward begged. "Who am I to them?"

  A look of shock momentarily displaced the expression of grief on her face. "Who are you?" she repeated. "Shame! You are Edward Eden, William's nephew and the son of Lord Thomas Eden." He saw a fierce light of pride on her face, her blue eyes as alert as ever, still reveling in her peripheral connection with one of the great names of England.

  "Come," she urged now, "the introductions will take only a moment. Your mother would expect it of you."

  With an air of fatality, he straightened the buff waistcoat, eyed sadly the staircase leading up to the second-floor bedchambers where the man he loved more than life itself lay dying.

  As they entered the drawing room, he narrowly avoided a collision with a young serving girl heavily laden with a tray bearing a tea service. As they passed her by, Jane murmured new instructions to her. "Prepare high tea, Esther. Our guests must be getting hungry."

  For a moment, Edward felt a flare of anger surface within him. His aunt, for all her protestations, was carrying on as though her salon was opened again. Then the company was before him, the drawing room crowded, at least twenty people standing in small groups, quietly talking. As they caught sight of Jane, they fell silent. Some balanced teacups. A few of the gentlemen smoked. All were staring.

  Edward had counted on a general introduction. Instead Jane took his arm and led him steadily forward to the first small group of guests. Again he felt an urgent need for haste. His aunt, however, was resolute in her attention to proprieties and guided him to a seated gentleman with a broad forehead and a head of wavy, unruly brown hair. As they approached, he stood, one hand stroking the great mustache that

  blended with a luxuriant chin beard. The grief which Jane had displayed earlier at the door entirely disappeared as she spoke softly, almost reverently, "Edward, may I present Mr. Dickens."

  Edward took the hand extended to him. He'd seen the popular novelist from a distance and greatly admired him, his novels less than his Sketches by Boz. "My pleasure, sir," he smiled.

  Mr. Dickens returned the sentiment. "I've heard of you, Mr. Eden," he said. "I only regret that we meet under such sorrowful circumstances. The world, I fear, for a long while will be a dim and colorless place without William Pitch."

  Again Edward nodded his agreement and his gratitude. There was
a gentleman standing to the right of Mr. Dickens. Now he stepped forward, as though aware that it was his turn.

  This time, Dickens performed the introductions. "Mr. Eden, I would like to present my house guest, Thomas De Quincey. Down from Edinburgh."

  The man himself stepped forward, the infamous opium eater, reformed, or so Edward had heard. Edward was impressed with the man's face, shy, sensitive, gaunt, as though he'd survived crucibles. De Quincey did not extend his hand, but merely stood as though at attention, as though with the slightest of movements, he might shatter like glass. "I do not generally attend death, Mr. Eden," he commented softly. "I've met the fellow too often in other spheres to be much impressed by his company. But the world went black for me several years ago, and the only man who offered me a lantern was William Pitch."

  Apparently the man had succeeded in moving himself for quickly he turned away. Behind him, Edward heard Jane sniffling. Before him stood Mr. Dickens. The man now leaned close. "May I suggest that you take your leave, Mr. Eden," he murmured. "This company will wait. The man upstairs may not."

  Grateful, Edward started to follow the sound advice. But Jane was at his side again, indomitably leading him around the room, omitting no one. If the faces were meaningless, the names were not: G. H. Lewes, Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Carlyle, Mr. Thackeray, of course. Edward had met him before in this very drawing room under happier circumstances. Also there was an elegant, though stony-faced woman who introduced herself as Harriet Martineau, and next to her, an arrogant-looking gentleman who extended a limp wrist and identified himself as Thomas Babington Macaulay. Pompous old Tory. Briefly Edward wondered what he was doing here in this liberal atmosphere. But of course. Then he remembered. William took no sides, political or

  otherwise. The world was of a piece, he'd said, human impulses not that far removed from each other. And there, standing by the door, the most dignified of all, his face glazed, Robert Southey, poet laureate of England.