Free The Prince of Eden by Marilyn Harris Page B

had the will to—"
    Suddenly he broke off in a spasm of coughing. The frail frame shook under the paroxysm. Edward started forward in alarm. Although the spasm passed, it left him with his head pushed backward, eyes closed. But the mind was still working, forming words.
    "Remember one thing, Edward. Nature isn't to be changed. But character, by will and effort, might be—"
    The cough was almost continuous now. Tears filled his eyes. "Please, William," Edward begged.
    "Oh God," the old man moaned.

    Edward tried to rise. The physicians were just outside. But in spite of the weakness now engulfing William, he would not release Edward's hand. The man's lips were moving. Edward leaned closer in order to hear.
    "Thank you, Edward," he whispered, "for sharing this life with me. And thank your mother—" The sentences were coming in fragments now. "Much love—much indulgence—much bewilderment, suffering this hour of dreams—this life. There is no error in the design, merely errors in—us—"
    The bell for evening matins sounded in St. Mark's down the road. Edward leaned forward and kissed the man. Blind with tears, he murmured, "I love you, William."
    He saw the head turn upon the pillow as though he might speak. But instead an awful gasp escaped through purple lips. Edward saw his mouth frozen in a final attempt to draw breath.
    He sat a moment longer, clasping the hand. He tried to remember what the man had said, but the words were a jumble.
    The bell in the church steeple began to ring again. As in a trance, Edward placed the hand upon the sunken chest. Again he leaned forward and kissed the beloved face.
    Suddenly in a pain of grief, he bent over and bodily lifted William into his arms, cradled him close, and rocked him as though he were a child in need of comfort. Beneath the nightshirt, Edward felt the ancient stump, felt as mutilated as the man he held, something cut off, missing, gone forever.
    Behind him he heard the door softly open. Then he heard a rush of footsteps and the two physicians were separating them, one guiding Edward away, the other hovering over William.
    Looking up, he saw Jane clinging to the door, her face buried in her hands. Quickly he went to her and separated her from the door and took her into his arms. As the old woman clung to him, her sobs increased. To one side, Edward saw the physicians drawing the coverlet over William's face. Still he continued to hold the frail woman and absorb her distress. With his hand pressing her head to his breast, he said, "His last words were of you, Jane, how empty his life would have been without you—"
    She looked up at him, tears streaming in a crisscross pattern over the wrinkles of her face. "I loved him," she whispered fiercely, as though someone had challenged her. "I loved him always, and will love him to my grave."
    Edward nodded. He continued to hold her for several minutes. Sooner than he might have expected, her grief seemed to subside,

    There were important matters awaiting her, the physicians standing a discreet distance away. She dried her tears and with remarkable control asked Edward to stay close by. She would have need of him.
    He assured her that he would, although as she turned toward the waiting physicians, he doubted her words. She had run William Pitch's life with extraordinary efficiency. She would preside over his death in a like manner.
    The corridor outside the chamber was now filled with people, word of the death somehow having spread to the visitors waiting in the front parlor. As Jane rather primly arranged the dignitaries for final deathbed visitations, Edward retreated.
    Hurriedly he pushed past the crowded corridor, heading for the stairs. Someone called after him, but he didn't stop in his downward progress. In fact his speed increased until he was running across the entrance hall and out into the cool May evening.
    He saw the street still clogged with carriages, even more arriving. He wanted no fellowship, desired to