The prince of Eden

by Harris, Marilyn, 1931-

  "It's his work," Edward now soothed, gently guiding her toward the carriage.

  At the carriage door she gave him a dazzling smile. "Of course it is, and I stand corrected. As his wife, I must share that work, mustn't I?"

  Edward did well to nod.

  "And thank you," she rushed on, "for the lovely wedding, the prettiest ever I heard the guests say." Suddenly she looked disconcerted. "Where are my letters?" she demanded, looking in all directions about the pavement.

  Hurriedly Edward reassured her. "They're safely inside the carriage." He opened the door and stood back so that she might see the small traveling case resting on the seat.

  She looked intently at the case for a moment, as though to confirm its presence. Then she pointed to it with a solemn gesture. "That's Daniel," she smiled, her voice drifting. "I have him locked up in that case and whenever I wish, I can take him out and hold him and love him."

  Edward looked away, scowling at the pavement. When he looked back, he saw the two aides assisting her into the carriage, one suggesting that she lie down on the comfortable chaise, the other drawing back the coverlet.

  But apparently Jennifer had no desire to follow their suggestions. "Good heavens, I'm not sick," she protested lightly.

  Edward closed the carriage door. As the two aides settled opposite Jennifer, he leaned forward with one last request. "Please look after her," he murmured. "And write to me immediately concerning conditions at Eden. If they aren't suitable, I'll want you to bring her back here."

  Both women nodded. He trusted them and was certainly paying them enough. Then there was nothing more to say and slowly he stepped away from the carriage, watched closely as the stewards and coachman took their places.

  At a flick of the reins, the horses started slowly forward. Quickly he turned back toward his house. Inside the entrance hall he found only stillness, though once he looked up toward the top of the stairs, thinking that Daniel had called to him.

  A thought occurred to him: The Elixir to Heal all Pain and Bring Forgetfulness to every Sorrow.

  For a few moments he stood, his eyes cast downward. So easy it would be.

  "No," he whispered fiercely. "No," he said aloud, and tearing himself out of the stillness, he ran back to the door, closed and bolted it, unable to determine whether he had locked the enemy out, or locked him in.

  Six weeks later, with the first warming rays of an April sun, the poisonous miasma seemed to lift from the London air. The "Curse from God," as some people called it, apparently was cancelled, though the toll had been terrible and no right-minded man who trusted in the Deity could ever believe that He had sent such tragedy.

  As for Edward, he was in complete agreement with that practical-minded old statesman Lord Palmerston, who had urged the religious leaders and the populace in general to "Look to their drains."

  Thus in the six weeks between Jennifer's departure and the children's

  return, Edward dipped deeper into his purse for a complete renovation of all his schools. He oversaw the ambitious project himself, seeking refuge in work, snuffing out the constant temptation of opium in back-breaking, round-the-clock labor.

  Each school was aired, the old furnishings moved out and disposed of. The drains were opened, revealing putrescent mud, a ready poison which in many cases, including the house on Oxford Street, was found to be seeping into the water supply.

  Of course this obsession with cleanliness was laughed at by most reasonable men. The radicals, including Lord Palmerston, who made the mindless connection between disease and dirt were labeled "Sanitarians," and for several weeks following the fever they were the objects of much derision and humor. Nonetheless, Edward persisted, stripped his schools, cleaned the drains, whitewashed the walls, purchased new furnishings, and feeling that it was now safe, called for the children's return.

  On a mild Thursday evening near the end of April, with the hum of children's voices coming from the third-floor dormitories, after a loving reunion with his son and Elizabeth, Edward started down the stairs to the banqueting hall, to the man awaiting him.

  He'd not seen him since before Daniel's death. In fact on that morning when he'd taken Daniel's body to St. Dunstan's, he'd also sent a message around to the man's lodgings in Bloomsbury, thinking that Daniel would want him in attendance at the funeral.

  But there had been no response.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Edward called out warmly, "Mr. O'Conner," and entered the banqueting hall, smiling at the sight of the large man, his broad frame tucked at an awkward angle beneath the low table designed for the children.

  At the sound of Edward's voice, like a grasshopper scrambling, the man tried to stand in greeting. Obviously he finally despaired of ever finding a secure center of gravity and muttered, "Clearly you've spent a fortune here, Eden," bobbing his head toward the freshly renovated rooms. "Why couldn't you have spent a few bob more for a table and chair where a man can sit."

  It was a mild scolding. Edward sat opposite him, smiling. "It enhances one's view of the world, Feargus, to see it from the angle of a child."

  In spite of the good-humored greeting there was an unspoken weight between them. Edward considered mentioning it, to clear the air so that they could move on to other topics. But at the last moment he changed his mind. Perhaps O'Connor was one of those persons who did not seek an outlet for their sorrow.

  But in the next instant, Edward saw his head bow and heard that powerful voice mutter huskily, "We are poorer men this evening, Eden, in a way which has nothing to do with coin or purse."

  Edward heard and was on the verge of agreement when O'Connor went on. "Daniel Spade was a mainstay in the Movement, a trusted lieutenant."

  The sentiment struck Edward as coarse. A mainstay in the Movement/ Dear God, a man of rich and varied nature was dead, a man who— Abruptly Edward halted his thoughts. It would serve no purpose to quarrel with O'Conner on the matter of Daniel Spade's role as a human being.

  "I tried to send word to you," he began. "I sent a courier. He returned with the message undelivered."

  O'Conner leaned back, his eyes again moving over the cleaned banqueting hall. "I was out of the city."

  "On business?"

  "In part," the man replied, as though evading a direct reply. "My God, the fever was rampant. I saw no point in taking unnecessary risks."

  Edward stared at him and tried to submerge certain contemptuous feelings. "Where did you go?"

  "South, to Rye," came the immediate and unembarrassed response. "A good cleansing ocean breeze, medicinal in every respect." There was a swaggering affectation about him as though to suggest that all the dead were merely fools for having remained in poisonous airs.

  Edward felt a rush of blood to his heart. In his mind was his last image of Daniel, lying on the bed, his head pressed back against the vomit-soaked pillow.

  Again he felt that this line of conversation was not only senseless, but would render impossible any further discussions. He was aware then of the man opposite him bowing his head, both hands covering his face. "I only learned of Daniel's death upon my return to London a few days ago. I couldn't believe it." He stood now with difficulty and slammed his fist down. "My God, man, the death toll."

  Suddenly he wedged himself back between the bench and table and with the tip of his finger drew a hasty outline on the surface of the table. "London," he announced.

  How skillfully the man had shifted the direction of the conversation from his own cowardly flight to a vague outline of London drawn upon the table.

  "Look, Eden," he commanded sharply. "Let me give you a fascinating geography lesson." On the map outline, he stabbed with his finger

  at certain areas which he alone could see. "There, Hyde Park. Fatalities, minimal. There, Regency Park. Fatalities, minimal. There, Mayfair. Fatalities, minimal."

  As he spoke he continued to stab at various areas on the map. Edward knew what he was doing. The rich, it seemed, had not succumbed in the same vast number
s as the poor. Interesting, Edward mused, for it had never occurred to him that fever could be a political tool.

  "But here," O'Conner raged on, "notice Lambeth, notice Southwark, notice Bermondsey, notice the docks."

  Edward's impression of the man's lesson might have been more effective if he could only rid himself of the image of Feargus O'Conner paddling safely in the waters of the English channel.

  Acting in a more subdued manner, O'Conner commenced to pace back and forth. "Why did you call me here tonight, Eden?"

  The direct question roused Edward out of his grief. "I felt a need to talk."

  "About what?"

  "About-Daniel."

  "Daniel Spade is dead," came the flat reply.

  He was aware that O'Connor had stopped pacing and was now standing directly opposite him at the low table. "And what of you, Eden?" he asked.

  Edward knew what he meant. Nonetheless he looked up as though seeking additional meaning. "I don't understand."

  "Daniel told me once that we could count on you."

  "As you can."

  "In what capacity?"

  "In any capacity."

  "As an active participant in the Movement?"

  Here Edward hesitated. "In a curious way, I've been cut in and kept out all at the same time. Now I feel a need for questions. And answers. So tell me of your Movement."

  O'Conner stared down on him as though he'd asked the most ridiculous question possible. "The goals of the Movement, Mr. Eden, are quite easily explained." He drew his head up and delivered himself of a single word. "Revolution. Does that answer your question?"

  Edward shook his head. "Not really. Revolution for what end?"

  "For the good of the people."

  "But they have unions." Edward smiled, aware that he was playing the Devil's Advocate.

  "They have nothing," shouted O'Conner. "Unions!" he scoffed. "A

  hectic collection of old men with one hand on the Bible and the other in the workers' pockets? Forgive me, Eden, but those men represent an evil almost as great as your ancestors, for they play precisely into the hands of the upper class, unwittingly become their pawns, do their foul work for them, and in the meantime, the suffering persists, the injustice persists."

  At some point Edward had commenced listening closely.

  "Then what do you propose, Mr. O'Conner?"

  O'Connor smiled. "Forgive me if I repeat myself, Mr. Eden. Revolution!" Then as though he sensed Edward's aversion to the word and all that it implied, he leaned eagerly across the table. "Not of the French variety," he smiled again. "A different sort of revolution will flower on British soil, and it will be fed and watered and brought to fruition by humble toilers of the British Industrial scene, an event which could well stand as among the chief contributions made by our race to the welfare of mankind."

  Edward saw the man walk a distance away, where apparently he fell into a close examination of Tudor wood carving, the elegant detritus of a dead world.

  Then finally O'Connor turned toward him, his face transformed. "Demonstration," he pronounced. "Not tomorrow, not perhaps even next year, not until we have successfully marshaled the entire working class of England behind us, a million strong. Oh God, .imagine it, Eden, if you can." Head lifted, eyes closed, he appeared now to be rendered speechless by the vision.

  "One million men," he went on, "walking silently through London's streets, a silent army, a Chartist army, marching steadfastly from Kennington Common to the Houses of Parliament, the Chartists' demands in the lead, a million men presenting those demands in a most civilized manner."

  Again Edward waited, though in a new comprehension. The proposed spectacle would be very effective, unarmed men, impressive in their vast numbers, marching peacefully against that citadel of jurisprudence which thus far had denied them basic human rights.

  Still O'Conner hung over the table, those broad hands kneading. "Can you see it, Eden?" he whispered, an imploring quality in his voice. "I desperately need a pair of eyes to share the vision."

  Moved, Edward nodded. The man should admit need more often. "Yes, I can see it," Edward said aloud. "And I agree, it would be a most impressive spectacle."

  "And effective?"

  "Most effective."

  "And possible?"

  "And possible, though it will require massive recruitment."

  On O'Conner's face, Edward saw a new expression, one almost resembling happiness. "Then—you'll help?" he asked timidly.

  Edward responded immediately. With the ghost of Daniel beside him, he stood and extended his hand across the table. "It's why I summoned you here tonight."

  He saw O'Conner smile. "Then neither of us has any need to mourn Daniel Spade," he said. "The Demonstration was his fondest dream, and on that glorious day, hopefully in the not too distant future, we will leave a space between us at the head of the column and we shall whisper, each in turn, 'See, Daniel, it's happening.' "

  Then the moment of vision was over, O'Conner's mind apparently turning immediately to the logistics and execution of his scheme. "You spoke of recruitment," he said now. "We're already at work on it. We've divided England into twenty broad areas and intend to send lieutenants to all quarters."

  Edward nodded in complete agreement.

  "Such an undertaking will require funds," O'Conner said now, never taking his eyes off Edward's face.

  "You shall have them."

  "And clerks must be hired to keep the petitions in order as we send them back."

  Again Edward nodded. "All," he smiled, "you shall have all your requests taken care of."

  Then O'Conner turned away and started out into the entrance hall. "I'll be leaving for the Black Country in a few days," he called over his shoulder. "I'll see you before I go."

  Alone, Edward watched until the man was out of sight. Mad? He and Daniel had both thought so once. But surely not. Overworked, easily excitable, perhaps momentarily relieved that his great dream, the Demonstration, would come true. In Daniel's name he had at last made a commitment to Daniel's cause, had pledged a large portion of his fortune, not only to the Ragged Schools, which in certain London circles were beginning to be looked upon with approval. Now he was a revolutionary, a mild one to be sure, but moving hopefully toward a changed world.

  He smiled, standing alone on his darkened stoop. Strange, he didn't feel like a revolutionary. In fact he'd never felt less like a revolutionary. What he truly felt like was a doting, bourgeois father who longed with all his heart for the comfort of his son.

  With that thought he lifted his head. The coming Demonstration of

  a million men didn't stand a chance when pitted against the awesome power of one bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked six-year-old boy.

  John Murrey Eden knew who he was and of that there was no doubt. Edward took great delight in asking him, "Who are you, little boy?"

  With barely concealed pride he watched as the sturdy, handsome child lifted his head and pronounced in clear tones, "My name is John Murrey Eden and my father is Edward Eden."

  "He's growing spoiled," muttered Elizabeth from the door where, three days after the meeting with Feargus O'Conner, Edward was awaiting the delivery of the post. It was a ritual which Edward thoroughly enjoyed. On his orders, his son was to bring him the mail.

  Now as the child scrambled into his lap, the small hand clutching thick envelopes, Edward quietly ignored the disapproving look on Elizabeth's face. As she closed the door behind her, Edward asked of the boy, "In your judgment, John, anything important?"

  With adult seriousness, the child settled comfortably in Edward's arm and began meticulously to examine each letter, discounting one after another until at last he stopped, his eyes focused on one bearing the red wax seal and Eden imprint.

  "This one," he announced, holding the letter up for Edward's inspection.

  Edward took it from him and examined the unfamiliar penmanship. Not Jane's. Not the Cranfords'. Then remembering, the mystery was solved. He'd asked the aides t
o write to him concerning Jennifer.

  With childish insistence, John was now demanding that he read the letter to him.

  Edward agreed. "If you sit patiently while I read it first, then I'll read it to you."

  Solemnly the boy agreed and nestled snugly into the crook of Edward's arm. The seal broken, Edward hugged his son to him, then lifted the letter toward the blaze of May sunshine and commenced reading the laborious hand.

  "Dear Mr. Edward Eden," the letter commenced.

  Regarding my word of promise to write to you here it is. Things have went well since last we spoke on the matter at hand. Journey to Eden placid and quite easeful for all concerned including Miss Jennifer who laughed at all the cows and sheep and horses. She's done well since and has fitted in well with home folks though her poor mother's

  ailing terrible and can't see her or speak to her, but the nicest of all is Lady Harriet, young Lady Eden, who took her right in and treated her with gentlest kindness, a lovely lady, I swear it. She had her made up some white lace gowns so we could rid her of that other one as after the journey it was done in. She likes to sit in the sunshine in her sitting room and she's there now, getting her hair brushed by Lady Harriet-Edward closed his eyes, the letter still in hand.

  "Papa? Now?" Young John had detected the pause, the closed eyes. Edward kissed him. "In a moment," he soothed and turned his attention back to the letter, the scrawl beginning to tilt up the page.

  —getting her hair brushed by Lady Harriet, and we are doing fine as well, me and Gertrude, enjoying the country air and the grandness of the place and trying to be helpful and earn our bread. There's one here who don't like us none, a Miss Cranford, but Lady Harriet says pay her no mind so we keep to ourselves and to Miss Jennifer who sends you her love and I'm saddened to speak it still talks of Mr. Daniel Spade and fetches his letters everywhere and says to one and all that he'll be coming soon and taking her away. One last thing that brings her pleasure is that pretty pianoforte which she tries to play but can't very well, though Lady Harriet is quite stern about everyone leaving her be. So all in all it's a calm season and as per promised, I and Gertrude will keep you informed.