Free The Prince of Eden by Marilyn Harris Page A

though embarrassed by his own weakness, he hurriedly wiped the moisture away. "You'd think that at eighty plus, the word would have lost its hold on me. But it hasn't. I hear the word and I see one face, hear one voice—"
    A tribute to Jane, Edward thought, and found it touching. But the man spoke on. "You should have known her as a girl, Edward, your beloved mother, the miraculous Marianne—"
    Edward stepped closer, the ancient puzzle from his childhood beginning to fall into place. William was speaking quite steadily now, though his eyes were closed, his voice low. "I remember the first time I laid eyes on her, a drowned rat she was after the coach ride from North Devon, a mere girl of sixteen, with a scarred back"—his voice hardened—"the handiwork of your father, I might add." The hardness passed. "But what spirit, what light! Jane had banished her to the storeroom, her first feeble attempt to make a servant of her." The dim eyes opened. "What a foolish gesture that was." Again the voice fell. "Oh, God, how I loved her, love her still, if you'll forgive an old man's confession."
    Edward held his position beside the bed. Words were beyond him. There was nothing to forgive. It wasn't embarrassment he felt, rather a kind of relief, as more pieces fell into place, as though he'd known forever what the man was now confessing.
    Then an urgency surfaced on the old face. He waved wildly for Edward to come closer. "I have lived," he whispered, "my entire life on the nourishment of what might have been." His head pressed backward into the pillow as though he were seized by a tremor. "What a waste," he gasped.
    Edward felt concern for him, the emotional remembrances obviously taking a tremendous toll. "Please, William," he begged, "no more talk-"
    The old man looked up. "Do I shock you?" he grinned. "These antics of the heart? The young always think their elders too stupid for such knowledge. But if you are listening carefully, you will hear a lesson—aimed particularly at you."

    Distracted, Edward murmured, "I don't understand."
    William laughed. "You were never dense before, Edward. Why now, when you need most to listen and to understand?"
    Hurriedly Edward shook his head. "I'm concerned for you, William—"
    The laugh faded rapidly. The enfeebled head tried to lift. "Forget about me," he rasped. "It's you. You're the one." He relaxed again into the pillow as though he knew he was spending more energy than he had to spare. "I look at you, Edward, and you become for me a flawless pier glass. I see myself as I was forty years ago, full of the rancor of an ambitious man who knows he has powers and is savage because they aren't being used, feels that the months, the years are being gnawed away—you are just at the stage, Edward, when you are ready and willing for liberation. You are too robust a man, have too much strength and warmth of nature—"
    Edward started to protest, but William cut him off. "No, hear me out. You have too much strength and warmth of nature to abide in passive despondency much longer." Again he smiled and shook his head. "Depression, yes. The two of us are born depressives. I struggled against it for a lifetime, as you will too. But like all true depressives, we have much capacity for enjoyment—and love, and I think, in your case, it is ready to break out—"
    He was trembling. Edward could feel it in his hand. "Did you break out, William?" he asked softly.
    A look of grief crossed the man's face. "No," he whispered. "Instead I committed the worst crime that a man can perpetrate on himself." He looked directly up at Edward. "I accustomed myself to it."
    Edward listened closely. He leaned forward and with his handkerchief caressed the sweat-covered brow. The eyes which had been closed opened again.
    "I apologize for painting such a black picture, Edward," he whispered. "And it isn't true that I'm not grateful. God grant everyone such a life." He smiled warmly. "But it might have been more, if I'd only