Read Online The Prince of Eden by Marilyn Harris - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Marilyn Harris
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which had begun to fall outside.
Edward closed his eyes and silently cursed the stern dictates of age. His memories of the man at his prime were painfully before him, playing horseshoes in the back garden, William teasing Edward for losing so soundly to a one-armed man.
Again the physician passed him by. "Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden," he repeated.
At that moment, the white head on the pillow stirred. From behind the closed eyes came a voice only slightly diminished by his faltering heart. "Pay no mind to the old cutthroat, Edward. Only by the grace of God have I survived his ministrations for all these years."
The eyes were open now, a smile warming the once lifeless features. "Come," he muttered to Edward, waving his good left hand in the air. "Earlier today I dreamed you were here. Come, let me touch you and see if the vision has substance."
As the nurse and physician retreated, Edward stepped toward the edge of the bed. A game of marbledores, Uncle William? the child within him cried.
As the door closed softly behind him, Edward drew a chair close to the bed, leaned forward, and took the hand extended to him. It felt like a piece of thin white parchment, cold, with sharp blue ridges like a relief map. "I'm here, William," he said. "You're not dreaming now."
The old man tried to shift his position on the bed. His sunken eyes peered intently into the dimness. "Why in hell are the drapes closed?" he grumbled. "Open them, Edward. A man has a right to light."
Quickly Edward went to the window and threw open the drapes. A stream of soft pink dusk flooded the room. "That's better," the old man sighed. "Now, come back," he urged, patting the edge of the bed. "We have business to discuss."
Edward returned to the chair and again enclosed the thin hand between his own. In the increased light he saw a purple tint to William's lips. The sight caused Edward's alarm to increase. The man resembled a cadaver. "I mustn't stay too long, William," he said. "There are others—"
"Damn the others," William snapped. "Vultures, most of them, come to pick the bones clean."
Again Edward smiled. "Not vultures, William. You should see your front parlor. It's a galaxy of stars, the cream of London's literati—"
"Curdled now," the old man snapped. "Dickens is writing sentimental slop. Macaulay is arrogant as ever, and Carlyle's spouting like a
great beached whale on such subjects as Chaos and Necessity, the Devil, and Universal Warfare—" He broke ofT. A smile softened his features. "Carlylc's the only man I know whose very voice can render a capitalization."
He chuckled softly and shook his head upon the pillow. For an instant his eyes fell on the tops of emerald trees beyond the window. "Not a Boswell on the horizon," he mourned, "to say nothing of a Johnson." He looked back at Edward, a gleam of pride in his eyes. "I knew them both, you know, in my youth." He closed his eyes. "I can't account for much in my life, but I can say I knew the gods."
Abruptly he shook his head as though to rouse himself out of his nostalgia. "But enough," he scolded. "Let the fools wait. I'll have to endure their farewell speeches soon enough, a fitting prelude to Hell—" Again he shifted upon the bed, as though experiencing mild discomfort. Edward noticed his nightshirt, sleeveless on one side, tailored in the fashion of all of William's garments, to conceal the absence of his right arm.
How many times Edward had heard the tale of how he'd lost it, and he'd never tired of hearing it, how William had been in Paris in '93, at the height of the Revolution, how he'd stepped before an assassin's bullet and spared the life of Mr. Thomas Paine, and in the process lost his arm.
Now as he waited for the old man to recover, he felt a strangely oceanic sense, as though all of London had dropped away and left the two of them stranded in this small room.
"Great God, what a face, Edward," William now was scolding. His left hand floated weakly up and lightly
Edward closed his eyes and silently cursed the stern dictates of age. His memories of the man at his prime were painfully before him, playing horseshoes in the back garden, William teasing Edward for losing so soundly to a one-armed man.
Again the physician passed him by. "Only a few minutes, Mr. Eden," he repeated.
At that moment, the white head on the pillow stirred. From behind the closed eyes came a voice only slightly diminished by his faltering heart. "Pay no mind to the old cutthroat, Edward. Only by the grace of God have I survived his ministrations for all these years."
The eyes were open now, a smile warming the once lifeless features. "Come," he muttered to Edward, waving his good left hand in the air. "Earlier today I dreamed you were here. Come, let me touch you and see if the vision has substance."
As the nurse and physician retreated, Edward stepped toward the edge of the bed. A game of marbledores, Uncle William? the child within him cried.
As the door closed softly behind him, Edward drew a chair close to the bed, leaned forward, and took the hand extended to him. It felt like a piece of thin white parchment, cold, with sharp blue ridges like a relief map. "I'm here, William," he said. "You're not dreaming now."
The old man tried to shift his position on the bed. His sunken eyes peered intently into the dimness. "Why in hell are the drapes closed?" he grumbled. "Open them, Edward. A man has a right to light."
Quickly Edward went to the window and threw open the drapes. A stream of soft pink dusk flooded the room. "That's better," the old man sighed. "Now, come back," he urged, patting the edge of the bed. "We have business to discuss."
Edward returned to the chair and again enclosed the thin hand between his own. In the increased light he saw a purple tint to William's lips. The sight caused Edward's alarm to increase. The man resembled a cadaver. "I mustn't stay too long, William," he said. "There are others—"
"Damn the others," William snapped. "Vultures, most of them, come to pick the bones clean."
Again Edward smiled. "Not vultures, William. You should see your front parlor. It's a galaxy of stars, the cream of London's literati—"
"Curdled now," the old man snapped. "Dickens is writing sentimental slop. Macaulay is arrogant as ever, and Carlyle's spouting like a
great beached whale on such subjects as Chaos and Necessity, the Devil, and Universal Warfare—" He broke ofT. A smile softened his features. "Carlylc's the only man I know whose very voice can render a capitalization."
He chuckled softly and shook his head upon the pillow. For an instant his eyes fell on the tops of emerald trees beyond the window. "Not a Boswell on the horizon," he mourned, "to say nothing of a Johnson." He looked back at Edward, a gleam of pride in his eyes. "I knew them both, you know, in my youth." He closed his eyes. "I can't account for much in my life, but I can say I knew the gods."
Abruptly he shook his head as though to rouse himself out of his nostalgia. "But enough," he scolded. "Let the fools wait. I'll have to endure their farewell speeches soon enough, a fitting prelude to Hell—" Again he shifted upon the bed, as though experiencing mild discomfort. Edward noticed his nightshirt, sleeveless on one side, tailored in the fashion of all of William's garments, to conceal the absence of his right arm.
How many times Edward had heard the tale of how he'd lost it, and he'd never tired of hearing it, how William had been in Paris in '93, at the height of the Revolution, how he'd stepped before an assassin's bullet and spared the life of Mr. Thomas Paine, and in the process lost his arm.
Now as he waited for the old man to recover, he felt a strangely oceanic sense, as though all of London had dropped away and left the two of them stranded in this small room.
"Great God, what a face, Edward," William now was scolding. His left hand floated weakly up and lightly
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