The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  behind, all pressing about her, placing small gifts in her hand: sachets, lace handkerchiefs, a small red volume of Mr. Shakespeare's sonnets to read on the train.

  As she felt herself being passed from arm to arm, she saw two stewards from the carriage make their way through the all-female company and hoist her trunks onto their shoulders. As one man reached for the small traveling case, she called out, "No, I'll carry that one myself. Thank you."

  She saw the bewildered look on his face, but how was she to explain? Until she could hold and love the man himself, all she had of substance were his letters, and those she would never let out of her sight until she could replace them with flesh and blood.

  The last arms waiting for her at the end of the walkway were Miss Wooler's. "I hate to lose a good teacher," the old woman whispered. "And I hope your young man appreciates the prize he's getting."

  Jennifer smiled. "I shall think of you always, and miss you." She might have said more, but couldn't and decided to make her exit with at least a shred of dignity.

  As the carriage started down the driveway, she turned rapidly in her seat for a final glimpse. Then, gone, everything was gone. Roe Head left behind, only the turnpike before her and the promise of Bradford a few miles ahead, where undoubtedly other passengers would join her.

  Mrs. Daniel Spade, she thought, as she'd thought a hundred times a day every day for the last few months, since he'd first mentioned marriage. Now, under the pressure of the moment, she closed her eyes and prayed quickly for the completion of a safe journey.

  As she opened her eyes, she saw that the carriage was just passing the alternate route to Haworth, And now she included Charlotte in her prayers, for a safe journey to Brussels, for a happy future for her wise and compassionate friend.

  "Bradford ahead!" the coachman shouted.

  Her moments of privacy would soon be over. Then let them end. Contained within her heart was enough love to embrace the whole world.

  Let the strangers come. They would have to reckon with her.

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  From the top of the stairs, Edward shouted down at the weeping volunteers. "Get them out of here! Now! Let them wait on the pavement, but get them out of this house!"

  As the second wave of children filed past him on their way down from the third-floor dormitories, he saw the fear in their small faces and realized that his tone of voice had done nothing to alleviate that fear.

  Still the volunteers were moving as though they had all the time in the world. "You, there," he shouted down to a woman in the entrance hall who had collapsed on one of the benches and was now wringing her hands. "Line them up on the pavement until the omnibuses arrive and make sure their linens are covering their faces."

  Finally the woman did as she was told, dabbed at her eyes and fell to directing the frightened children toward the street. Quickly he glanced toward the closed door of his chambers. What in the name of God was taking Elizabeth so long? She'd gone to pack a few things, or so she'd said. Hurriedly he cut through the line of children and knocked on the door. "Are you ready?" he shouted. "You must hurry."

  Receiving no answer, he pushed open the door, angry to see her merely sitting on the bed, John beside her, his five-year-old face mirroring the horror of what was going on around him.

  "What in the—" Edward began and in his own deep fear and grief could not continue.

  "We've decided to stay," she announced calmly, tightening her grip on young John. "You'll need help. You can't do it all alone."

  Below in the street he heard the rattling arrival of the first omnibuses. Between the bustling activity outside and the stubborn inactivity in his chamber, he momentarily foundered. Drawing deep breath in spite of the poisonous air in his house, he took her hand in his and felt it trembling.

  "Please, Elizabeth," he begged. "I'm placing John's well-being in your hands. He can't stay here, you know that, and he won't go with anyone but you."

  To one side, he saw his son listening.

  "It will only be for a short while," Edward went on, "until the sickness passes. You'll be safe at Edgeware, the air clean. Please," he whispered, tightening his grip on her hand, "I beg you."

  "I don't want to leave you," she stubbornly insisted.

  "I'll be all right," he reassured her.

  "Where's Edgeware?" she asked.

  "At the west edge of London, a distance of about an hour, that's all. We've a new Ragged School there, and there's grass and trees. You'll like it, I know, and John as well."

  "When can we return?" she asked further.

  "As soon as possible."

  Still she gazed into his face. "Did old John Murrey die last night?" she asked bluntly.

  It had been his intention to keep this death from them. As for himself, he'd not even had time to grieve. Seven deaths within three days, all within the house, the pattern the same, the epidemic of fever and miasma which was sweeping certain sections of London. Dear God, how swiftly it moved. Nausea, diarrhea, cramps, burning fever. Somehow, foolishly, he had hoped that his house would be spared. But three days ago the old cook in the kitchen had collapsed, then five of the volunteers, then old John Murrey, and only last night—

  His head lifted in the direction of Daniel's room. He must go to him, but first he must see these two safely out of harm's way. Suddenly he grasped her by the shoulders. "Elizabeth, I beg you. Take yourself and my son out of this place. Without you, I have nothing left."

  His whispered entreaty had come from the heart. Apparently she understood, for the stubbornness finally melted from her face. "We're ready," she murmured and withdrew from beneath the bed a small valise.

  In a rush of unspent grief he drew both of them into his embrace

  and prayed briefly for their safe delivery. He lifted John into his arms and thought with a wave of terror that his brow felt hotter than usual, then decided it was merely his imagination.

  Speaking slowly, he gave final instruction to the boy. "You are to go with Elizbeth," he ordered, "and you are never to leave her. Is that clear?"

  Solemnly John nodded.

  "Now you must hurry," he urged.

  As they started out into the corridor, Elizabeth looked up at him with worried eyes. "What of your sister?" she asked suddenly.

  But again Edward soothed her. "I'll meet the train tonight." He managed a smile. "She'll be good medicine for Daniel. There will be a wedding, I promise." He knew that, for days, Elizabeth and all the volunteers had looked forward to this romantic interlude, "Mr. Spade wedded to Mr. Eden's sister." He knew further that late at night precious bits of lace had been sewn into worn collars and cuffs, the ancient passion of all women for all weddings.

  Now he noticed that his words apparently had reassured her and together they waited at the top of the stairs for a place to break into the line of children. When a pause came, he took it, gently pushing her ahead of him.

  Outside on the pavement, the scene was one of chaos. He'd hired three omnibuses. Thus far only two had arrived. The sky overhead had grown gray and menacing, and beyond the pavement he saw a large death wagon rattling by, a convenient disposal for the proliferating corpses.

  He embraced John a final time and tried not to dwell on the fear in his face. "More tales of Eden when you return," he smiled.

  He'd thought that that would be it, but unfortunately he felt those small arms tighten around his neck. "Let me stay with you. Papa," the boy whispered. "I can help."

  His only hope, Edward knew, was to arrange on his face a rigid expression. This he did and at the same time spoke sternly. "Of course you can, but I need your help more with Elizabeth." He drew his son's head down and whispered, "Who is to look after her?"

  Slowly he felt the small arms relax, lowered the child until he could see his face, and blessedly saw acceptance there and a kind of pride that he was needed.

  At the rear of the second omnibus he found an empty seat and assisted Elizabeth upward, tossing the valise after her.
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br />   "God go with you," he whispered.

  "And with you," she smiled back. As the lumbering conveyances pulled away from the pavement, he heard her cry, "Take care of yourself."

  He did not look up again until the sounds of the horses were no longer audible. As he started up the stairs, he heard another death wagon coming his way. All the bodies had been removed from his house except for John Murrey, who still lay on his bed in the little room off the kitchen.

  Edward considered waving to the driver, but changed his mind. He would give his old friend a proper burial, but not now. There was no time. Daniel was waiting for him, and he hurried up the steps, and quickly closed the door behind him as though to shut out death's presence.

  He stood for a moment in the empty hall, his hands and shoulders trembling with weariness. His thoughts were torn between Elizabeth and his departed son, and the arrival in a few hours of Jennifer. There had been no way to stop her from coming, no way to get word to her. Still perhaps it would work out. Daniel would rally, the fever clear.

  On that note of hope, he started up the stairs, trying hard to dispel the menacing emptiness around him. Suddenly behind him he heard movement. Looking quickly back he saw an old woman, dressed in black, her head covered with a black shawl, just emerging from the kitchen steps.

  "Who is there?" he called out.

  When she didn't answer, he retraced his steps for a better look and recognized her as one of the dish washers, an ancient scullery maid. "You can't stay here," he said forcefully, "but the conveyances are gone."

  "Meant to let 'em go," she said quietly, her old eyes glittering from beneath the black shawl.

  Annoyed that she'd disobeyed his orders to clear the house, he stepped still closer. "But you must leave," he commanded, wondering if she was capable of understanding.

  "Don't want to leave," she muttered.

  "The house is poisonous," he shouted at her, trying to penetrate that glazed expression.

  "You're here," she said simply.

  He nodded sternly. "Mr. Spade is ill.'*

  "And you'll be needin' help."

  Slowly he looked down on her, his anger receding, replaced by bewilderment. "The fever is highly contagious. You could die."

  "Kept the grave waitin' long enow, as it is, sir."

  He found her blunt manner soothing. "What's your name?" he asked.

  "Lucy, sir, jus' plain Lucy me Mum named me."

  He nodded, feeling peculiarly weakened by her offer of help. She seemed passive and resigned, yet willing to face anything. Now to his surprise, she took the initiative. "Enough jawin'!" she announced. "I've lived through three fevers, sir. You'll be needin' cool water, fresh linen, and a garlic pod."

  "Garlic?" he repeated.

  She nodded with conviction, and moved closer with a whispered, "You see, sir, it ain't really a fever. It's an evil spirit, that's what it is, ain't it now? A turrible evil spirit that don't like garlic." She laid a finger aside her nose and nodded firmly. "You go along up to Mr. Spade. I'll be up directly."

  "With-garlic?"

  "With garlic."

  He watched, astounded, as she disappeared down into the kitchen. Well, why not garlic, he thought wearily, and again started up the stairs.

  The foul odor coming from Daniel's room greeted him at the top of the stairs. In a way he felt as though he were suffering a prolonged nightmare, that at any moment, he would awaken and find the house once again filled with children. It was the silence and the odor and the awareness of what he might find behind that closed door that frightened him.

  He had been the one who'd discovered Daniel ill. Only last evening he'd come from John Murrey's deathbed to relate the sad news to Daniel and had found him huddled in a blanket, sitting on his bed, the slop jar to one side filled with his vomit, teeth chattering, and his eyes weighted with a bewildered look. He'd sat with him through the night, had watched the fever worsen, and at dawn had made the decision to evacuate the house.

  Outside the closed door he paused and rested his forehead against wood. He could not in any way face the possibility of Daniel's death. Not now. He was on the verge of becoming a bridegroom and there was no Deity in Heaven who would be that cruel.

  Thus reassured by irrational thoughts, he pushed open the door as he'd done thousands of times before, fully expecting to see Daniel seated at his desk, his long red hair mussed where he'd driven his fingers through it.

  But as Edward stepped into the room, he saw that his friend was not seated at the desk, saw him instead lying on the bed, his dressing gown

  half pulled over his naked body, a putrid brown stain spreading in the area beneath his hips, the ravages of diarrhea sapping his strength, and beneath his head a vomit-soaked pillow, the head itself pressed back at a familiar angle—old John Murrey's had been in the same position—the beloved eyes closed in pain.

  Edward shut the door and leaned against it. At the sound of the door closing, the head on the pillow stirred, the eyes opened, a smile of recognition crossed the face.

  "Edward."

  "I'm here, Daniel." Quickly he walked to the bed, his hands outreaching as though they didn't know where to commence working. Finally one rested on Daniel's forehead. The skin there felt like hot coals, and his lips were so dried they had cracked and were bleeding. As he reached into his pocket for a handkerchief to staunch the small flow of blood, he saw a new urgency on Daniel's face and decided to let the restoration go, at least for the moment.

  "Jennifer?" he heard him whisper, one hand lifting.

  "She arrives tonight," Edward soothed, drawing a chair close. "I'll bring her to you, I promise."

  As again Daniel tried to speak, Edward considered asking him not to. The effort was painful.

  But apparently Daniel would not be denied. "Look—after her," he gasped. "Tell her-"

  As the effort became too much, Edward took the feverish hand in his own. "I'll tell her nothing," he smiled. "I'll leave that to you, the bridegroom."

  Now he saw a faint smile on Daniel's lips. "I'd—not counted on— this," he whispered, his eyes closed. Then suddenly as though in the throes of deep anger, his head thrashed back and forth across the pillow. "Damn," he muttered, tears on his face.

  Edward bowed his head and pressed Daniel's hand to his lips. He felt as though he were drowning, as though he were so inextricably bound to this man that the tears on the fevered face were in reality oceans in which it would be far kinder of Fate simply to let them both sink into oblivion.

  But it was not to be, for the bleeding lips moved again. He seemed to be having trouble breathing. His eyes were open and Edward saw that they were unusually bright. Words were audible now, simple direct words. "Complete the work," he whispered.

  Edward nodded. "I shall, I promise."

  "And thank you—for loving me."

  Edward closed his eyes. Suddenly whole series of memories from their

  childhood filled his senses, and immediately following that a darkness covered everything. He clung even more tightly to Daniel's hand, as though literally to wrestle him from the arms of death.

  He waited patiently for more words, but there were none. He saw now on Daniel's face a peculiar expression of youth. The cares were passing, the sorrows and regrets, the wasted dreams and the realized ones, all were departing from him.

  Edward heard him draw three long perfectly gentle breaths. The hand suddenly clasped his own, as though, at the last moment, Death had had a change of heart. But then his head turned a final time upon the pillow. As the mouth fell grotesquely open, Edward felt as though something huge and merciless had struck him and was now threatening to drag him down.

  He reached forward and lifted Daniel in his arms, tears streaming, and cradled him, buried his face in his hair and cried out in one bitter cry.

  He saw all the dim light in that room shrouded in darkness and felt a portion of his soul quenched forever.

  By midnight, with the help of the old woman, Edward had bathed Dani
el's body, had placed fresh linen upon his bed, had gently garbed him in the white silk shirtwaist which he'd intended to wear as a bridegroom, had brushed his hair until its auburn tints were shining against the pillow, had placed candles at both his head and his feet.

  Throughout all this activity, Edward had been aware of little. If the night had been hard, he knew that what remained to be done in the early hours of the morning was beyond belief. Thus he welcomed the numbness.

  Shortly after one, he kissed Daniel for the last time, gave old Lucy orders to sit guard outside the door, then took brief refuge in his own chambers. The room was pitch black save for the yellow spill coming from the gaslight in the street. He wanted it dark and in the darkness made his way to the bed, then dropped on his knees in mute despair.

  It seemed that in the darkness he was being watched by a cold judge who looked mockingly down on him. He closed his eyes and wept. He knew that he must spend his grief now, for in a short time he would have to face Jennifer and supply her with strength which he did not have.

  There still was the element of disbelief. Daniel was not dead. If he were to go to the door now and call for him, surely he would answer. In a moment of irrationality he considered doing it, then repelled by his thoughts, he gripped the side of the bed and held his position.

  What he needed now more than anything was a reason on which to place blame. And he didn't have to look very far for it. Hadn't he begged Daniel repeatedly not to go into pestilentigJ holes like Jacob's Island? And for all his concern, hadn't Daniel laughecJ at him and reminded him of Feargus O'Conner's words: Someone must soil their fingers. The rich won't. A man is not a true revolutionary until his hands are covered with filth and blood.

  Around him in the darkness stood a ghost. "Forgive me," he whispered to the power at loose in the room, and as though the bed linen were the face, he leaned over, whispering the two words over and over again.

  About an hour later, he heard the night watchman outside the window call two o'clock. Jennifer's train was due at three. Slowly he rose from his crucible, clearly aware that he was merely going to another. Without bothering to light either lamp or candle he went to his wardrobe, withdrew a clean shirt, slipped into another jacket, all the while his mind racing ahead to Euston Station, to Jennifer.