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Authors: Marilyn Harris
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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.
At the conclusion of the introductions, Edward realized with wonder that all the literary lions of London were now gathered in William Pitch's front parlor, the men and women who under other circumstances and in different times had quite effectively torn each other and society in general to shreds, armed only with their pens.
Now reduced to unity by common grief for one man, they stood in silent circles, sipping tea and gazing blank-faced out the windows, their tribute mute and therefore highly effective.
But enough, and Edward signaled as much when approaching the door again, after having made the full circle, he begged of Jane, "Please, now take me to him."
And she did, apparently satisfied that he had met everyone.
As they took the stairs, he had to slow his pace for the enfeebled Jane. Heavily she leaned on his arm, her other hand pressed against her breast as though her heart were beating too rapidly. "Oh, for the ease of youth," she mourned. "I can remember the days when I took these stairs two at a time, generally in rage and ill-temper."
He smiled considerately. "You're doing fine, Aunt Jane."
She dismissed his lie for what it was. At the top of the landing, she came to a complete halt, gasping for breath. While she was still recovering, she said, "I've agonized all day for your mother, Edward. I wish she were here." With peculiar force, she added, "She should be here."
Edward tried to offer comfort. "If she had known, I'm sure she would have made the effort. You know as well as I how difficult it is to pry her loose from Eden."
Jane looked at him, a strangely soft expression on her face. "All my life I've tried to keep them apart. Now I'd give my last breath to be able to bring them together."
She walked ahead of him down the long corridor, leaving him to puzzle her last comment. Near a door at the end of the corridor, he saw two gentlemen in close huddle. They parted as Jane approached. The three of them were talking quietly as Edward drew near. Again there were introductions, two physicians, Doctor Someone and Doctor So-and-so, the blank, unrevealing expressions of all medical men on their faces.
"Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden, if you will," one of them suggested. "He needs his rest." Then one of the physicians had him by the arm
and was guiding him into the dimly Ht chamber. The drapes were drawn on the one broad window, partly obscuring the pink dusk
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.
At the conclusion of the introductions, Edward realized with wonder that all the literary lions of London were now gathered in William Pitch's front parlor, the men and women who under other circumstances and in different times had quite effectively torn each other and society in general to shreds, armed only with their pens.
Now reduced to unity by common grief for one man, they stood in silent circles, sipping tea and gazing blank-faced out the windows, their tribute mute and therefore highly effective.
But enough, and Edward signaled as much when approaching the door again, after having made the full circle, he begged of Jane, "Please, now take me to him."
And she did, apparently satisfied that he had met everyone.
As they took the stairs, he had to slow his pace for the enfeebled Jane. Heavily she leaned on his arm, her other hand pressed against her breast as though her heart were beating too rapidly. "Oh, for the ease of youth," she mourned. "I can remember the days when I took these stairs two at a time, generally in rage and ill-temper."
He smiled considerately. "You're doing fine, Aunt Jane."
She dismissed his lie for what it was. At the top of the landing, she came to a complete halt, gasping for breath. While she was still recovering, she said, "I've agonized all day for your mother, Edward. I wish she were here." With peculiar force, she added, "She should be here."
Edward tried to offer comfort. "If she had known, I'm sure she would have made the effort. You know as well as I how difficult it is to pry her loose from Eden."
Jane looked at him, a strangely soft expression on her face. "All my life I've tried to keep them apart. Now I'd give my last breath to be able to bring them together."
She walked ahead of him down the long corridor, leaving him to puzzle her last comment. Near a door at the end of the corridor, he saw two gentlemen in close huddle. They parted as Jane approached. The three of them were talking quietly as Edward drew near. Again there were introductions, two physicians, Doctor Someone and Doctor So-and-so, the blank, unrevealing expressions of all medical men on their faces.
"Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden, if you will," one of them suggested. "He needs his rest." Then one of the physicians had him by the arm
and was guiding him into the dimly Ht chamber. The drapes were drawn on the one broad window, partly obscuring the pink dusk
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