The Prince of Eden (17 page)

She'd agreed. What else could she have done? It was clearly what her father wanted, and at twenty-six she was well on her way to the embarrassment of spinsterhood.

Remembering all, she sat rigidly upon the floor. She had moved with Mr. Longford into the apartments above the linen shop on Oxford Street. From her bedroom window she'd seen nothing but gray and crowds of people and endless carriages and noise and confusion. How she'd missed the green of the Hampstead countryside. Then the nights—she shuddered involuntarily. Where had his courteous manners gone, his kind attitude? Alone in the chamber, he had required of her—

She doubled over, hiding her already masked face in the folds of her apron. The conditions of her memories were then such that in order to face them, she had to stand and pace lightly. The feeling of conflict was building within her. The memory of the tall fair-haired gentleman

whom she'd seen only from a distance came back upon her, and while she was pacing, she felt stunned, recalling their first meeting, so innocent and businesslike.

The very existence of the atmosphere of love in the Ragged School had been a shock to her. Now the remembrance of that love mimicked her, like the moment of death in sick patients, close upon their end. It was just that she had seen him in constant activity until, one day, she had seen him silent, a look of such bereavement upon his strong face as she had never seen before. She had intended only to offer comfort. Then how had it happened that they both had found themselves in his private chambers, the need on his face entering through her eyes into her brain like a gentle intoxication, matching her own, as though they were nothing more than two blank mirrors staring at each other.

For an instant in her life, under the gentle yet passionate direction of Edward Eden, she had inhabited a moment of summer. She had never intended it to be anything else, but one moment which would fortify her for a prolonged winter.

Now the memory faded through all its stages, like departing day. Her present agony wore its way through morning, noontide, afternoon, to meet the darkness that was hurrying to swallow her. At intervals she heard, in how different a key, the men as they stirred, coughed, cleared their throats, their faces behind their masks still staring at her.

For herself, her purposes were dim. She had been permitted to scrawl one letter, and that she had sent to Edward Eden, begging him to help her if he could. No reply had come. She had not seen Mr. Longford since the last day of the trial, nor had she expected to see him. Her parents had come with condemning, embarrassed faces during her isolation of the trial, but since her exile to the Common Cell she'd had no visitors, and expected none. All she heard now was the whispering of that peculiar voice in her ear, warning her not to survive, telling her it was not worth the effort.

Exhausted, she sank back to the floor, her hands fallen limp in her lap. With a kind of abstract curiosity, she examined her right hand. How would it be done? she wondered. Would the poker be held to flame within the courtroom or be brought in from an adjoining chamber? Would she be bound or free? How would it burn? Lengthwise, or across the middle? Who would press it against her flesh? Would she endure or pass out? And what was the odor of burning flesh? And what would become of her afterwards? With an awful gluttony, her mind turned on the whole scene.

So engrossed was she that she was not at first aware of the men approaching her, stealthily on both sides. And when at last she looked

up from the contemplation of her hand, she saw them as merely objects. Their attitude still did not alarm her, not even when they stepped closer, three on either side, their stained hands reaching out, as though she were a wild animal whose response could not be predicted.

When at last the threat devoured her it was too late. They were on her then, like a many-armed monster, dragging her backward away from the wall to the center of the Common Cell, someone shrieking continuously in her ear, her hands and feet flailing uselessly against their superior strength. Their long fingers dug into the flesh of her arm as one whispered close to her ear, "A harlot don't have no objection. Show us how it be dun, mistress—"

As they flattened her to ground, she saw high above her on the catwalk the three turnkeys grinning down. For several moments she kept up the struggle until at last they pinned her, two standing on her arms, the others working feverishly about her legs.

The assault launched, her eyes behind the mask closed. The sobbing mouth went slack. All the fear of what was yet to come grew, then faded. She was silent, and out of the storm, the ghost voice praised her for her surrender. It was very calm now, though for a moment longer as she passed to senselessness, she continued to hear men's threats, oaths, laughter, laments. Her arms and legs were numb. Then let the rest of her follow suit.

As she slipped deeper away, she stopped for only an instantaneous regret, that out of twenty-seven years of winter, there had been only one brief interval of summer.

No matter. Where she was going there were no such painful and arbitrary divisions. She stopped for a final contact. Her back scraped rhythmically on the stone floor. She clenched her fists and howled out her agony.

Then she ran like a madwoman from this treacherous level to a safer, deeper one.

Through the two windows, Edward watched the sunlight fall upon the bare floor. The agreeable lassitude which had attended him for a lost number of hours was over. Unfortunately he felt quite himself again.

Slowly he sat up on the pallet, trying to put the pieces of the puzzle together. He remembered with a stab of sorrow that William Pitch had died, that he had accompanied the gentleman, De Quincey, to a strange dwelling. And then—

Painfully he shook his head. After that, a blank. And how did he get from there to his chambers on Oxford Street?

It was while his head was down, eyes closed, that he heard the door softly open, heard a young girl's voice greet him quietly, "Oh, you're up, sir."

Slowly he raised his head. By the door, he saw a young woman. A stranger to him. Abruptly the pain in his head grew worse.

She was at his side then, on her knees before him. "Are you all right, sir?" she inquired earnestly.

Still with his head down, he opened his eyes and caught sight of her hands in her lap, one hand withered, with fingers missing. He'd seen that hand before. Slowly he raised his head. "Elizabeth?"

She grinned as though pleased. "The same, sir. You've had a rough go of it. Shall I fetch Mr. Spade?"

As she started to rise, he restrained her. "No, not yet. Please."

"What ails you, sir?" she asked softly. "Are you cold? Hungry? You've not taken food for ever so long. Please let me fetch—"

But again he restrained her. "In a minute, Elizabeth," he said, catching her hand and holding it. "I need—your help in other matters." Again he faltered. "I need to know, Elizabeth," he began, embarrassed. "How-did I get here?"

The light of a smile blazed across her face. "Oh, that was me and Mr. Spade," she grinned. "When you'd been missing for ever so long, Mr. Spade and me, we got the old man to take us back to that place. Mr. Spade, he didn't see or hear nothing, but I did." The smile broadened. "I heard you calling plain as the sun." She moved still closer on her knees before him. "Mr. Spade?" she went on. "He didn't know about the house. But I did. I seen dens before, the men sleeping like the dead—"

Her face was stern. "It's a bad place, sir. All the time we was lookin', I kept hoping we wouldn't find you."

Embarrassed, Edward received her words. "I agree," he murmured, "and I'm sorry to have caused trouble."

"Oh, it weren't no trouble, sir," she went on. "The trouble was when you were gone and no one knew where. Mr. Spade, he was most done in, as I was—"

"Thank you," he said simply.

The moment held, then she was talking again, telling him of that "dreadful place." So engrossed was he that he failed to hear the door open and close.

He heard Daniel's voice. "So! You're going to survive after all."

Quickly Edward turned his attention from the girl to the stern face of his friend. There was something about his stance, standing rigidly against the closed door, which suggested to Edward that he had bridges

to mend. "Daniel," he smiled, extending his hand in a gesture for the man to come closer.

But Daniel refused to come forward and instead spoke with what seemed to Edward undue sharpness to the girl. "You may leave, Elizabeth," he ordered. "Fetch him some tea and a bowl of hot soup, if it isn't too troublesome to Cook."

Edward tried to object. "It isn't necessary, Daniel. I can go down."

"How?" Daniel asked. "You can scarcely sit erect, let alone—" He seemed to check himself. Again he looked sternly at the girl. "Leave us now," he commanded.

Obediently, with head bowed, she did as she was told, although she bestowed upon Edward a glorious parting smile. He tried to rise to his feet. Halfway up his knees buckled and he fell back into his sitting position. Smiling, he shook his head. "I seem to be missing bones this morning."

For a moment Daniel seemed disinclined to say anything further. The silence between them was unusual. "Please, Daniel," he begged. "I'm sorry for the trouble I caused—"

Daniel's voice was so hard and cold that Edward scarcely recognized it. "The trouble you've caused me," he began, "is nothing to the trouble you've caused yourself."

Again Edward tried to apologize, but Daniel at last stepped forward. "I wish you might have seen yourself, Edward," he said, standing directly over him. "I have never visited such a place and hope never to again." He shut his eyes as though to blot out a persistent vision. "I kept telling the girl that we would not find you there."

"I know. She-"

"She was the one who found you," Daniel went on, pacing now before the pallet. Suddenly he halted and confronted Edward with a direct question. "What in the name of God possessed you?" he demanded. "Had you no idea what you were about, no conception of the consequences?"

In spite of his regret, Edward found the strident, demanding voice irritating. "William Pitch died," he announced quietly at the first break in the torrent of words.

Instead of having the stunning effect that Edward had expected, Daniel thrust on. "I know," he announced, "a hard death for you, but did it warrant such behavior? And who led you to that place? Who was persuasive enough to lure you to that Hell?"

Edward had been expecting sympathy. The moral outrage, instead of subsiding, seemed to be increasing. Still, he tried to hold his tongue.

"You're making far too much of it, Daniel. It was simply— For a short period of time, I was an opium eater. Today I am no longer such."

Apparently his words bore the patness of a quote. Again Daniel demanded, "Who was the man?"

"A fellow mourner."

"And his name?"

"Unimportant." Again Edward tried to rise to his feet. He had played the penitent long enough and was weary of the role. "You must forgive me, Daniel. I have responsibilities to attend to." He was erect now, though there was not a great deal of hope in his remaining so. By using the chest for support, then the table, he made his way to the chair by the window, counting on air to revive him.

As he sank into the chair, he was aware of Daniel watching him. Clearly the man was upset, and Edward was sorry for that. But they had seen many days together, good and evil, and they would weather this one as well. Beyond the open window, he caught sight of the second-floor apartments of Samuel Longford. There was that to attend to as well. He trusted by now that old Jawster Gray had made peace with his conscience.

Then he was aware of Daniel moving softly up behind him. "You look terrible," he said, standing at his elbow.

With a faint smile, Edward lowered his head. "Thank you."

"Do you need a physician?"

"Of course not. Some coffee and I'll be back on course." He glanced up at Daniel, saw gratefully that the expression of outrage had been replaced by something else, a most peculiar expression, not unlike pity. "Do you know, Daniel," he began, "what William Pitch's last words were to me?"

The man standing beside him was silent.

"He thanked me," Edward went on, "for sharing this life with him."

Daniel knelt beside him, the old Daniel. Edward looked at him, mystified. He was being stared at as though he were a dead man. Curious physical discomforts continued to plague him. He discovered with a shock that he was wet through with sweat, his hands trembling so that he was forced to hide them out of sight. He was aware of Daniel leaving his side and returning with a glass of water. Greedily Edward drank it, wiping the residue from his chin with the back of his hand. Now he was cold.

"You need a physician," Daniel pronounced, starting toward the door.

"No," Edward called after him. Apparently he had delivered the

word in an effective tone of voice for Daniel stopped in midroom and looked back.

"Daniel, please," he smiled, clinging to the back of the chair. "Help me dress. I must look my best—"

"For what?"

Surprised at the foolish question, Edward started in a faltering pace across the room. "I must go to my Aunt Jane's of course," he said.

"For what purpose?" Daniel inquired further.

"I promised I'd assist with the arrangements," Edward murmured, and painfully he drew himself toward the wardrobe, his hands shaking as though they were palsied.

"Arrangements for what?" came the cold steady voice behind him.

Suddenly rage exploded within him. "For William's burial," he shouted, expending energy he did not have. "My God," he muttered, "have you gone senseless? The man is dead—"

"Yes," Daniel shouted back at him, "and buried. Three days ago."

Edward stared at him. Surely his wits must have wandered a little. "Three days?" he whispered. Without warning his knees buckled.

Daniel was at his side then, kneeling, cradling him. "Three days ago, Edward, it was," he whispered. "I tried to find you, oh God, how I searched. Miss Locke sent repeated messengers around. But I couldn't find you." He paused a moment. "It's over, Edward," he murmured. "You have nothing to attend to but the restoration of your own good health, and the most solemn vow you have ever made before God and man never to step foot in that direction again."