The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  Frantically Edward tried to remember every turn, the labyrinth growing ever more complex. At one point he called out, his voice echoing strangely in the underground caverns, "I thought she'd been assigned to the Common Cell?"

  Without altering his pace, the warden replied, "Until this morning she was—"

  "Why the change?"

  But either the man didn't hear or refused to answer.

  Then at last up ahead Edward noticed guards, the first they'd encountered since leaving the main corridor. Four of them, there were, with face masks drawn tightly over their noses, in obvious protection against the noxious fumes.

  As he hurried after the warden, his agitation increased. What was she doing here? Why had she been transferred from the Common Cell, which seemed like paradise compared to these dark damp earth walls? On either side now he noticed dark, low, wooden doors, windowless.

  Finally he stopped. Edward saw him hold the torch close to a door as though confirming a number. For the first time, he glanced back at Edward. "It was your idea, Mr. Eden. Remember that," he said, almost apologetically.

  "Why was she moved?" Edward demanded again, as the man was fumbling with the final key. "This was not part of the sentence. The Magistrate stated clearly that—"

  The low door swung open.

  Still maintaining a curious silence, the warden lowered his head and stepped through the door, taking the torch with him. "We have to keep them segregated, the mad ones, you know," he said, lifting the illumination higher. He turned back with a note of comfort in his voice. "If you want my opinion, she'll come out of it right enough. That hot poker tomorrow morning will bring her to her senses and she'll be right as—"

  All the while the man was talking, Edward searched the small cell. Then as the warden stepped toward the center of the cell, he saw something on the far wall, a heaped something, inert, yet strangely pinned. His breath caught. Frantically he reached for the torch, ready to wrest it from the man's hand if necessary.

  She was seated on the mud floor, her head erect, yet hanging at a rigid awkward angle. He thrust the torch closer, then wished profoundly that he hadn't. Around her neck was a chain tightly drawn, the ends attached to an iron ring embedded in the wall. Her arms were outstretched and pinned in similar fashion, heavy circles of iron holding each wrist rigidly to the wall. Her legs were spread in a peculiar relaxed state, the black prison dress torn completely from her shoulders, revealing bare breasts, her body falling forward, yet held upright against its own weight.

  Still the light revealed more, her eyes profoundly open, but unseeing. From the right temple, there was a streak of dried blood which, passing over the cheek, lost itself under her blood-matted hair.

  Slowly Edward knelt, his senses recording everything. Beneath his knee he felt the soft earth give. As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he saw something scurrying across her lap; looking quickly down he saw a rat scale her torn dress and disappear behind her. In a reflexive movement, he jerked her body forward, forgetting for the moment the iron rings about her neck and wrists.

  "Charlotte, look at me," he pleaded. Suddenly he was aware of

  something else. She was cold. He leaned close to her mouth. No breath. She was dead.

  Behind him he heard the warden speaking. "Most regrettable it is, sir, but I did warn you. In my opinion, we should do away with the Common Cell. As you well know, sir, at times we get so many crowded together, a hundred turnkeys can't keep guard. The dockmen ganged up on her, they did. Went over her good."

  Without warning, caught between the talking man behind him and the dead face before him, Edward's outrage vaulted. With the speed of a madman he was on his feet with only one intent, to silence the talking mouth that was filling the already obscene air with greater obscenity.

  As he whirled up and around, he hurled the torch into the far corner and reached eagerly for the man's throat. The way to stop the mouth was to crush the throat that was drawing breath.

  The warden had time only to utter a single cry, then Edward was upon him, feeling the soft flabby flesh of his neck give beneath his grip. Effortlessly he wrestled the man to ground, his hands pressing, the only possible release from the horror pinned to the wall, enjoying the feel of the man's body arching beneath him. His thumbs found the Adam's apple. As he channeled the strength from his shoulders down into his thumbs, a curious hissing sound escaped through the purplish lips. The man's eyes were growing protuberant and glassy, the mouth no longer talking.

  So engrossed was Edward that he failed to hear the rush of footsteps outside in the dim corridor. He was only vaguely aware of movement behind him at the door. As he turned to see who it was who had come to witness his justice, he caught only a momentary glimpse of the four masked guards.

  Then without warning, something of indeterminate weight and substance was brought down across the back of his head. As his face was half raised, the side of his head took the brunt of the assault, a resounding blow which seemed mysteriously to lift him for a moment before dropping him, senseless, back to the mud floor.

  Beyond the blow, he heard and felt nothing except the shrill ringing inside his head, a trickle of something wet across and down his forehead. He tried once to turn his head, but couldn't.

  The mud felt cool against his cheek. Through his blurred eyes, he saw nothing. Everything turned to liquid and blended. Blessedly, nothing mattered.

  At a quarter past eight, after a hectic late afternoon, Daniel sat at the end of one of the long tables in the student dining room, facing his

  guests, wondering what excuse he would give if Edward's absence was mentioned, as it was sure to be.

  His disappearance had been reported to Daniel by Elizabeth shortly after five. Apparently she'd gone to his room to tell him something about Mr. Wordsworth. Daniel had never understood precisely what she was talking about. As the children were just coming in for the evening meal and his guests were due momentarily, he had tried to calm her as best he could with reassurances that, this time, he knew precisely where Edward was. And he did, or at least he felt certain that he did.

  Now he looked up at the three gentlemen seated around the table. In honor of the occasion, the volunteers had covered one end of the student table with a small white cloth, and Matilda had placed a simple arrangement of daisies at the center. These touches had been the only concessions to the importance of the guests. His guests had eaten the same mutton and boiled potatoes that the children had eaten, and they were serving themselves from the plain crockery which was in daily use in the dining room.

  Looking around, in the silence of men eating, Daniel felt that perhaps he should have gone to greater pains with the food. But then he changed his mind. This was the way he lived. And in truth his guests seemed to have no objections. That grand old reformer, Robert Owen, was eating heartily enough. Daniel smiled as he saw him sop his plate with a biscuit. It was pleasant to see such plain country manners on so great a reformer.

  Accompanying him tonight was a young man from Birmingham named George Jacob Holyoake, a disciple of Owen who was undergoing some sort of training in London in order to carry the great work forward. And there was another gentleman, John Bright, about twenty-five, from Rochdale, another reformer who possessed one of the most articulate voices in speaking out against the Corn Law.

  The precise purpose of these distinguished visitors in Daniel's Ragged School was still a mystery. Shortly after they had arrived about five-thirty, he had taken them on a complete inspection of the school. But still Daniel was at a loss to explain their presence.

  Now, "Coffee, Mr. Owen?" he asked, seeing the portly man push back from the table and a plate so cleaned it could have gone directly to the cupboard.

  The man smiled. "Yes, thank you," he said.

  Across the table, John Bright was now saying something. "How long have you had occupancy here, Mr. Spade?'*

  "For—several years, Mr. Bright. About ten, maybe slightly more.'*

  "It's ideal
," Bright said, looking about. "The Elizabethans were certainly aware of the need for scope in a room," he added, his eye climbing up the walls to the high saddle-topped ceiling.

  Robert Owen joined the conversation. "Clearly this was a private home at one time, Mr. Spade," he announced.

  "Yes," Daniel concurred, "in use by the family as recently as fifteen years ago."

  Robert Owen leaned forward and helped himself to more coffee. "And that family would be—"

  "The Edens," Daniel said.

  "Ah, yes," Owen smiled, taking the filled cup with him as he leaned back in the chair. He hesitated a moment as though carefully sorting through his thoughts. "Would it be too forward of me, Mr. Spade," he began, "to ask how it came into your possession? Please don't answer if you feel I'm—"

  But Daniel laughed. "I'm not in possession of the house, Mr. Owen."

  Both Bright and Owen looked pointedly at him. "I'm afraid I don't understand," Owen began. "I do see a school here, a very successful one, perhaps one of the most effective it's ever been my pleasure to visit."

  As Daniel started to answer, he saw young George at the end of the table turn as though he too were interested in the reply. With the attention of all three men upon him, Daniel felt a wave of self-consciousness. "I'm here," he began, "at the generosity of Mr. Edward Eden."

  It seemed a suflBcient explanation, but from the manner in which they all were gazing at him, Daniel added further, "The elder son of Lord Thomas Eden."

  Robert Owen nodded slowly. "I've heard of him."

  It was a simple statement, but somehow Daniel had the feeling that the man had intimated more. "Does—Mr. Eden share your—enthusiasm for your work?" he asked, not looking at Daniel.

  "He does," Daniel replied without hesitation. "Without him, I'm afraid, there would be no school."

  Now Owen looked directly at him. "Without him, Mr. Spade," he asked pointedly, "or without his—support?"

  A curious line of question, Daniel thought. "Both, Mr. Owen," he replied, for some reason feeling a little peeved.

  The man nodded, apparently satisfied with Daniel's answer. From upstairs he heard the volunteers putting the children to bed. Nine o'clock. It was late. Surely the men would leave soon.

  Daniel pushed his chair back from the table, trying to be a cordial

  host, in spite of his splintered feelings. "Is there anything else, Mr. Owen, that you care to see? The rooms below, the arrangements for—"

  But the man merely shook his head. "No, Mr. Spade," he smiled. "You've been most kind to receive us. I only wish that we might have had the honor of meeting your benefactor, Mr. Eden."

  "I apologize for his absence, Mr. Owen," he said. "He had planned to be here, but at the last minute he was otherwise engaged."

  "I'm sorry to hear it," Owen replied. "In our movement, we have great need for men with full hearts and full purses."

  Across the table John Bright was working diligently over his pipe. Without looking up, he asked, "Mr. Spade, what are your sources of income for the school?"

  Daniel disliked this turn in the conversation. Still, he answered, "Contributions, Mr. Bright. What else?"

  "From what sources?" the man persisted.

  "From all sources," Daniel replied, a slight edge to his voice.

  Robert Owen leaned close as though he had detected the edge and was now trying to assuage it. "These are blunt questions, Mr. Spade, admittedly, and I apologize for them. But every one of us here has the same goal in mind, the alleviation of as much human suffering as is possible within the short span granted to us by God." He stood then and began to pace behind Daniel's chair. "What we have seen here tonight does not in any way resemble the other Ragged Schools in London. This one is the ideal. The others are still struggling." He came around from behind Daniel's chair. "What we want to know, Mr. Spade, is what, in addition to your own obvious dedication, makes this school work."

  So! This was the point of the meeting, a determination to establish the fountain of his blessings and perhaps to see if some of the golden water of that font couldn't be channeled in their direction.

  Then it was Daniel's turn to stand. He walked a distance away from the table. He knew the need for choosing his words carefully. "Mr. Eden is very generous," he began, looking back.

  "Obviously," Owen smiled.

  "But," interrupted Daniel strongly, "and you may find this difficult to believe, I have never asked him for anything."

  John Bright leaned forward. "Then he must be a very perceptive man to see so clearly your needs."

  "He is."

  Owen asked, "Is yours a friendship of long standing?"

  Daniel nodded. "We grew up together on Eden Point."

  "Like brothers?" Bright inquired.

  Daniel hesitated, trying to catalogue in his mind the precise depth of feeling he shared with Edward Eden. "More than brothers," he replied softly, thinking of Edward's shattered relationship with his true brother.

  Apparently the expression of affection had an effect on his audience of three. After a moment, Owen apologized again. "These are very personal questions, Mr. Spade. A less understanding man than yourself might consider them an affront. You have every reasonable right to toss us out, if you wish—"

  Daniel smiled, his annoyance receding. "I don't wish, Mr. Owen."

  "Then hear me out," the man now begged, again leaving his chair and walking steadily toward Daniel. "I have a plan," he began, "to open another Ragged School in the heart of Lambeth."

  "An admirable idea," Daniel agreed. "The thought had occurred to me—

  "Then help us, Mr. Spade."

  Without hesitation, Daniel agreed. "Fd be happy to," he said, "in any way."

  Robert Owen stepped to one side. "I have two soldiers ready to do the work," he announced softly, and he gestured back toward the table where Bright and Holyoake were waiting.

  "Then I don't understand," Daniel began. "How do you need me?"

  Again, Robert Owen seemed almost overcome with consternation. "We need you," he faltered, "as an avenue which—might lead us to the—Eden purse."

  For a moment, Daniel could only stare at the men. As an avenue which might lead us to the Eden purse. He stammered, then laughed. "I'm afraid I've misrepresented myself to you, gentlemen. I am Edward Eden's friend, not—"

  "And as such," Owen countered, "the beneficiary of his generosity."

  "I ask for nothing," Daniel retorted. "I thought I made that clear."

  "You did," John Bright said. "But how would it hurt to ask? He has the means by which we can implement—"

  "No, gentlemen!" Daniel pronounced, walking the length of the table, trying to rid himself of the offensive suggestion. As he drew near to where George Holyoake sat, he saw the young man watching him.

  "Mr. Spade," the man began. "This afternoon I saw horrors I've never seen before. As we walked along the reeking banks of the sewer, the sun shone upon a narrow slip of water. In the bright light it appeared the color of strong green tea and looked as solid as black marble in the shadows. Indeed it was more like watery mud and yet we were assured this was the only water the wretched inhabitants had to drink."

  Daniel listened closely. He knew the truth of his words. What caught and held his attention was the eagerness in the boy's face. For Daniel, it was like shedding seventeen years and looking into a glass.

  The boy went on, rising from his chair and coming around the table to where Daniel stood. "As we gazed at the pool, we saw drains and sewers emptying their filthy contents in it, we saw a whole tier of doorless privies in the open road, common to men and women—" He drew still nearer to Daniel. "We heard bucket after bucket of filth splash into it, and the limbs of the children bathing in it seemed, by contrast white as snow. And yet as we stood gazing at the sewer, we saw a child from one of the galleries opposite lower a tin can with a rope and fill a large bucket that stood beside her."

  He fell silent. Daniel felt clearly the boy's anguish. "With help, Mr. Spade," th
e young man went on, "I could take that child and the ones bathing in the sewage and transport them to a place a short distance away and give them hope for the future. And if someone doesn't do it soon, there will be no need to do it at all."

  Daniel listened, his hands shoved into his pockets. He did not deny anything that had been said. But he denied with all his heart and soul the act which had been requested of him, an act which could easily corrupt the most important relationship in his existence and make a mockery of the trust they had worked so hard and long to establish between them.

  Apparently Owen saw the distress on his face. "Again, we apologize, Mr. Spade. And we'll take our leave now." Quickly he withdrew a small card from his inner pocket and handed it to Daniel. "If, after a few days, you have—anything to report, you may send the message to this number."

  Daniel took the card. He felt peculiarly defeated. It had not been his work which had attracted these men to him this evening. No, the great Robert Owen and his two dedicated disciples had not been interested in that at all. Rather, Edward's purse had been the object of the evening.

  The accumulated thoughts took a lieavy toll. "I can't promise," he began.

  "Then don't," Owen said kindly. With warm familiarity he patted Daniel's arm. "This afternoon, we happened to see in front of a lean-to, a small garden. That table linen would have covered it," he said, pointing toward the small white cloth. "Still, one dahlia raised its round red head there. Never was color so grateful to the eye."

  He stepped back. "We now pin our hopes on you, Mr. Spade, as those wretched inhabitants must look to that single blossom." His voice

  fell. "Again we must apologize for the moral dilemma in which we have placed you. But as you well know, in the face of certain human miseries, moral dilemmas seem almost a luxury."

  Again he stepped back. "Don't bother to see us out, Mr. Spade. And again, many thanks for receiving us."

  At the last minute Daniel looked up. Beyond the dining room door, he saw Matilda. Apparently she'd just come down from seeing the children to bed and was now graciously showing the gentlemen to the front door.