The Women of Eden (30 page)

as he had just done in memory, it did mesh. Consider the second

paragraph:

John Murrey Eden labors under the delusion that material goods are the outward sign of a conscious respectability, and respectability, as every good Englishman knows, is the name of

that Common Level of behavior which all families ought to reach, and on which they can meet without disgust. In accordance with this philosophy, Eden presented a contradiction of material splendor and moral bankruptcy, though unwittingly he served as the most polished mirror ever held up to English society in recent times.

How well he knew it, even in memory, having lived with it, gone to bed with it and awakened with it every day for the last three weeks. It was good and he knew it was good, and more importantly, it was the truth. Not until he had commenced work on this particular piece had he realized how deeply he resented the English and all they stood for, their arrogance based on nothing of substance except a propensity to bully the rest of the world under the guise of their "Christian mission."

Still reading?

"My God, Delane," Burke said, shattering the silence of the room. "Do you want me to read it for you?"

But Delane lifted a restraining hand and with deliberation laid a page atop the other pages already resting on the desk.

He'd read it twice at least and, as far as Burke could tell, he was rereading certain sections. Well, let him! The words would stand up even to the critical eye of John Thadeus Delane. Yet in spite of this private conviction, Burke continued to wander restlessly about the study, running through in his mind certain passages that might be causing Delane discomfort.

There was that historical comparison near the bottom of the third page, culminating with:

... we remember with surprise that we are dealing with a race which had once and not so long ago been famous for an independence and even an eccentricity, and we must now ask what has happened to make it submit its behavior and its language and its ideas to this untenable mediocrity. . . .

Too strong? Not strong enough, when placed against the reality of that week at Eden, that swaggering, maudlin public display which . most assuredly had taken its tone from one man.

... for the most part, the Demi-God of Eden presented a face of reserve to his public guests, but we must remember that

reserve is the defense of the wise and the refuge of the stupid, and in this case it appeared to conceal cynicism and superciliousness as well. . . .

Abruptly Burke drained his glass, recalling unexpectedly the Alma-Tadema painting, that incredible recognition of the pretty young girl who had held him in thrall at Jeremy Sims' Song and Supper Club. He smiled into his empty glass. He would see her again. But when and how?

Now what was left for Delane to read that he had not read thrice before? Glancing back at the man hunched over the desk he discovered with relief that he was reading the final page—again:

. . . Let the Demi-God of Eden enjoy his marble castle while he may, for one day all his underfed, unpoliced, ungoverned and unschooled brothers will rise up against him and show him their code, not in bloody revolution, as England's neighbors across the Channel have done so often, but rather in slow assault, in subtle transfers of power, in allotments for the young, the old, the poor, until one day the descendants of the Demi-God will awake to find their castles stripped, their bogus "respectability" in shattered pieces about their feet.

The Demi-God of Eden will receive no homage from this corner, nor should he receive homage from any quarter of England, for he and his breed are fast changing the English landscape from one of proud and sober confidence to something unspeakably grim. Into what patterns the emergent lines and angles will fall, we cannot tell. But a hundred years from now when their culture and civilisation lay in waste about them, and if there is enough energy remaining to look for a cause, there will be no need for them to look beyond their own boundaries to the costly excitement of Imperial politics, to annexation and debt, to the obscene excesses and insensibility of conscience personified by the Demi-God himself: John Murrey Eden.

There! Done! Across the flickering light of the study, Burke watched Delane closely, ready to lodge a protest if the man started back at the beginning a fourth time.

Fortunately he didn't. Instead, with almost mournful deliberation, he placed the final page atop the others, flattened his hand on them.

as though to contain the words written on the pages. Slowly he removed his spectacles and placed them with equal deliberation atop the piled pages.

Without looking up at Burke, still addressing the stacked papers, he asked quietly, "Is that—really the portrait we present to the world?"

"I can't speak for the world," Burke replied honestly. "For myself, yes."

Delane continued to stare downward, his fingers gently ruffling the edges of the pages, his ability to respond either excluded or rendered mute by private thoughts. He waved a hand toward Burke and commanded, "Draw the drapes, please."

"Oh, good Lord," Burke muttered, suffering an exhaustion of his own. But he drew the drapes on the window and, hoping to lighten both their moods, he joked, "There's no one about now but owls and rats, Delane, and I doubt seriously if they have the slightest interest in anything that Lord Ripples—"

Another abrupt movement coming from the desk cut him short. Delane leaned forward and drove his fingers through his hair, allowing his hands to come to rest, blinder-fashion, obscuring his face. From behind this barrier he spoke.

"One cannot be too careful. Our only protection lies in complete secrecy."

All right, then, Burke thought, trying to rein in his impatience, "What is your opinion?"

"I think—" Delane began, then broke off, shaking his head, looking at Burke with eyes which seemed to ask for patience. "Oh, God, Burke . . ." he muttered, leaning back in his chair.

"Were you expecting something else?"

"No," Delane admitted, "but there is something different about this one, and you know it as well as I." He leaned forward as though at last he'd found a negotiable train of thought. "In the past Lord Ripples' columns, in spite of their content, there has always been a—a levity, sometimes satiric, sometimes ironic, but always in spite of the criticism a sense of fun."

"I did not have a great deal of fun at Eden," Burke replied.

"No," Delane agreed, "I know you didn't, and I have apologized repeatedly for—"

"It was not your place or obligation to apologize."

"Still, I can't help but wonder if perhaps you haven't lost a degree of—objectivity."

"Did you ask me to accompany you for my objectivity?**

"No, of course not." As the man waved his hand apologetically in the air, Burke retreated to a chair and sat heavily. Why was he so surprised? While Delane was many things, he was also an Englishman, and clearly he was seeing himself in the scathing indictment spread before him on the desk. Well, three weeks of effort for naught, but no matter. It had kept Burke busy, kept his mind off the slow disintegration of his mother and his own senseless existence.

Delane spoke again, posing questions as though he were a dimwit-ted schoolboy. "Do you really see so bleak a future for us, Burke?"

"Worse."

"Yet the Empire is flourishing."

"From whose point of view? And I can assure you it won't always flourish."

"But social changes are being made."

"Nothing of permanence or significance."

"We export over sixty percent of the world's goods."

"Using the resources of others."

"They are compensated."

"Justly?"

There was a pause, the rapid-fire give and take coming to a halt. Burke had uttered his rebuttals effortlessly, with no real hope of changing anything. In fact, it was now his intention to leave soon, at the first moment he could do so gracefully, without offending Delane.

"It's late," he announced, leaning up in his chair, thinking that he might send his caniage on ahead and walk home. Although the distance was great and he was tired, he felt a peculiarly urgent need for fresh air.

To that end he was in the process of pulling himself to his feet when Delane spoke again, his approach a different, though interesting one. "You know what bothers me most about this particular column, Burke?" Without waiting for an answer he went on. "Through all the coldness of the prose, the logical progression of thought, the massive declarative statements which stop just short of libel, I see an author unwittingly exposing himself."

Stunned, Burke froze in his half-raised position. An interesting twist, this. Apparently his writing was more effective than he'd real-

ized, Delane putting him on the defensive. Interested to see precisely how the man would pursue it, Burke sat on the edge of the chair and invited: "I don't understand, Delane. Explain yourself."

The man shrugged and turned the pages over, his eyes racing across the lines, as though searching for specific ammunition. "It's quite apparent," he said patly. "In your zeal to catalogue our disasters, past, present and future, you reveal yourself to be a man who has had disaster heaped upon him,"

In the face of this absurd statement, Burke could only gape.

"And further, in your need to create an entire historical case against us, culminating in the annihilation of our present way of life, it isn't too difficult to glimpse behind the words and see a homeless exile."

"Oh, my God, Delane—you can't be serious!"

"I'm not only serious, I'm concerned." The man leaned forward, an expression of paternalism on his face. "Burke, have you ever considered returning home?"

"To what end?" Burke replied angrily, moving away from the desk.

"I'm certain you could be of help to your father."

"I have no desire to be of help to my father."

"Then for the sake of your mother."

"My mother is insane. It matters little to her where she passes her remaining days, so long as they bear a resemblance to her girlhood. That duplication, as you know, is impossible at home. The theatrical can only take place on foreign soil."

"Then for your own sake," Delane concluded, a caring tone in his voice which momentarily unnerved Burke. When and precisely how had the focus shifted? And was Delane a complete idiot? There was nothing left in the Southern part of the United States now. Besides, Burke could make no significant move until the death of his mother, a reality which the physicians had been predicting for years, but which had yet to materialize. And God forgive him for such thoughts, because he did love her.

Unable to deal with the complexity of his emotions, he turned his mind to other matters. "Then by all means don't print it," he said, more than ready for that early-morning walk.

"I didn't say that."

"My God, Delane—you've said nothing but for the last fifteen minutes I"

"I've said other things as well, if only you had taken the time to listen."

It was the man's harsh tone more than anything that caused Burke to halt at the door. He looked back to see Delane on his feet.

"Primarily what I've been saying, Burke, if you could submerge your ego long enough to hear, is that the day after this appears in print we both may find ourselves thinking back to this night and wishing we had made another decision."

Astounded, Burke started back across the study. "Then—you are going to-"

"Of course I'm going to! In spite of the author's emotional involvement, much is said that needs to be said. I just feel that I should warn you."

Pleased by this unexpected development, Burke smiled. "Don't tell me that you are genuinely fearful of John Muney Eden?"

"Not fearful. Apprehensive."

"But what can he do?"

"Sue!"

"Who? You? You didn't write the article and can swear so under oath. The Times? The paper has been sued before on more legitimate grounds and has always emerged triumphant. And the column will go on the Letters page, won't it, where Lord Ripples has always gone, in the company of all those other disgruntled and anonymous Englishmen."

"This is diflFerent, Burke." Delane leaned across the desk, his face taut with worry. "In the past Lord Ripples has written safely on very public London events: the opening of a new gallery, some particular madness in the House of Commons. But Eden will know that the author of this column possessed an invitation to his Festivities, occupied a chamber in the castle, partook of his hospitality."

"Hospitality!" Burke laughed, pleased that after all his words might find their way into print. "Delane, there were over two hundred guests that first week and, according to Eden's solicitor Andrew Rhoades, over one hundred and twenty-five of them were journalists of one stripe or another. Eden will have to commence his suits at Taunton and work his way back across the country to London before he can unearth Lord Ripples."

He paused, pleased to see that Delane was listening. "And I find it difficult to believe," Burke added quietly, "that the Enghsh courts

have so little to do that they can pander to the shrill protests of John Murrey Eden."

The confrontation held, Burke feeling amusement for this man opposite him who in the past had taken on the British War OflSce, the inefficiency of the British Army and had faced down threats at Cabinet level, and yet who now seemed to be backing away from a single adversary.

"He will do nothing, Delane," Burke added firmly, "because there is nothing he can do. Oh, mind you, I'm not saying that he'll like it, but it was not composed to elicit the appreciation of John Murrey Eden."

"Why was it composed?" Delane asked gently.

Momentarily, Burke frowned. "To let the English see for themselves that the fiasco at Eden is merely representative of a larger ill—"

"Noble," Delane murmured, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. But it only lasted a moment and was quickly replaced by a limited degree of enthusiasm and another spate of commands. "Then we'll run it next week, and starting now and continuing for a month thereafter, I don't want to see you in Printing House Square. Is that clear?"