In the autumn of this year 2096, the spirit of emigration crept in
among the few survivors, who, congregating from various parts of
England, met in London. This spirit existed as a breath, a wish, a far
off thought, until communicated to Adrian, who imbibed it with ardour,
and instantly engaged himself in plans for its execution. The fear of
immediate death vanished with the heats of September. Another winter
was before us, and we might elect our mode of passing it to the best
advantage. Perhaps in rational philosophy none could be better chosen
than this scheme of migration, which would draw us from the immediate
scene of our woe, and, leading us through pleasant and picturesque
countries, amuse for a time our despair. The idea once broached, all
were impatient to put it in execution.
We were still at Windsor; our renewed hopes medicined the anguish we
had suffered from the late tragedies. The death of many of our inmates
had weaned us from the fond idea, that Windsor Castle was a spot sacred
from the plague; but our lease of life was renewed for some months, and
even Idris lifted her head, as a lily after a storm, when a last
sunbeam tinges its silver cup. Just at this time Adrian came down to
us; his eager looks shewed us that he was full of some scheme. He
hastened to take me aside, and disclosed to me with rapidity his plan
of emigration from England.
To leave England for ever! to turn from its polluted fields and groves,
and, placing the sea between us, to quit it, as a sailor quits the rock
on which he has been wrecked, when the saving ship rides by. Such was
his plan.
To leave the country of our fathers, made holy by their graves!—We
could not feel even as a voluntary exile of old, who might for pleasure
or convenience forsake his native soil; though thousands of miles might
divide him, England was still a part of him, as he of her. He heard of
the passing events of the day; he knew that, if he returned, and
resumed his place in society, the entrance was still open, and it
required but the will, to surround himself at once with the
associations and habits of boyhood. Not so with us, the remnant. We
left none to represent us, none to repeople the desart land, and the
name of England died, when we left her,
In vagabond pursuit of dreadful safety.
Yet let us go! England is in her shroud,—we may not enchain ourselves
to a corpse. Let us go—the world is our country now, and we will choose
for our residence its most fertile spot. Shall we, in these desart
halls, under this wintry sky, sit with closed eyes and folded hands,
expecting death? Let us rather go out to meet it gallantly: or
perhaps—for all this pendulous orb, this fair gem in the sky’s diadem,
is not surely plague-striken—perhaps, in some secluded nook, amidst
eternal spring, and waving trees, and purling streams, we may find
Life. The world is vast, and England, though her many fields and wide
spread woods seem interminable, is but a small part of her. At the
close of a day’s march over high mountains and through snowy vallies,
we may come upon health, and committing our loved ones to its charge,
replant the uprooted tree of humanity, and send to late posterity the
tale of the ante-pestilential race, the heroes and sages of the lost
state of things.
Hope beckons and sorrow urges us, the heart beats high with
expectation, and this eager desire of change must be an omen of
success. O come! Farewell to the dead! farewell to the tombs of those
we loved!—farewell to giant London and the placid Thames, to river and
mountain or fair district, birth-place of the wise and good, to Windsor
Forest and its antique castle, farewell! themes for story alone are
they,—we must live elsewhere.
Such were in part the arguments of Adrian, uttered with enthusiasm and
unanswerable rapidity. Something more was in his heart, to which he
dared not give words. He felt that the end of time was come; he knew
that one by one we should dwindle into nothingness. It was not
adviseable to wait this sad consummation in our native country; but
travelling would give us our object for each day, that would distract
our thoughts from the swift-approaching end of things. If we went to
Italy, to sacred and eternal Rome, we might with greater patience
submit to the decree, which had laid her mighty towers low. We might
lose our selfish grief in the sublime aspect of its desolation. All
this was in the mind of Adrian; but he thought of my children, and,
instead of communicating to me these resources of despair, he called up
the image of health and life to be found, where we knew not—when we
knew not; but if never to be found, for ever and for ever to be sought.
He won me over to his party, heart and soul.
It devolved on me to disclose our plan to Idris. The images of health
and hope which I presented to her, made her with a smile consent. With
a smile she agreed to leave her country, from which she had never
before been absent, and the spot she had inhabited from infancy; the
forest and its mighty trees, the woodland paths and green recesses,
where she had played in childhood, and had lived so happily through
youth; she would leave them without regret, for she hoped to purchase
thus the lives of her children. They were her life; dearer than a spot
consecrated to love, dearer than all else the earth contained. The boys
heard with childish glee of our removal: Clara asked if we were to go
to Athens. “It is possible,” I replied; and her countenance became
radiant with pleasure. There she would behold the tomb of her parents,
and the territory filled with recollections of her father’s glory. In
silence, but without respite, she had brooded over these scenes. It was
the recollection of them that had turned her infant gaiety to
seriousness, and had impressed her with high and restless thoughts.
There were many dear friends whom we must not leave behind, humble
though they were. There was the spirited and obedient steed which Lord
Raymond had given his daughter; there was Alfred’s dog and a pet eagle,
whose sight was dimmed through age. But this catalogue of favourites to
be taken with us, could not be made without grief to think of our heavy
losses, and a deep sigh for the many things we must leave behind. The
tears rushed into the eyes of Idris, while Alfred and Evelyn brought
now a favourite rose tree, now a marble vase beautifully carved,
insisting that these must go, and exclaiming on the pity that we could
not take the castle and the forest, the deer and the birds, and all
accustomed and cherished objects along with us. “Fond and foolish
ones,” I said, “we have lost for ever treasures far more precious than
these; and we desert them, to preserve treasures to which in comparison
they are nothing. Let us not for a moment forget our object and our
hope; and they will form a resistless mound to stop the overflowing of
our regret for trifles.”
The children were easily distracted, and again returned to their
prospect of future amusement. Idris had disappeared. She had gone to
hide her weakness; escaping from the castle, she had descended to the
little park, and sought solitude, that she might there indulge her
tears; I found her clinging round an old oak, pressing its rough trunk
with her roseate lips, as her tears fell plenteously, and her sobs and
broken exclamations could not be suppressed; with surpassing grief I
beheld this loved one of my heart thus lost in sorrow! I drew her
towards me; and, as she felt my kisses on her eyelids, as she felt my
arms press her, she revived to the knowledge of what remained to her.
“You are very kind not to reproach me,” she said: “I weep, and a bitter
pang of intolerable sorrow tears my heart. And yet I am happy; mothers
lament their children, wives lose their husbands, while you and my
children are left to me. Yes, I am happy, most happy, that I can weep
thus for imaginary sorrows, and that the slight loss of my adored
country is not dwindled and annihilated in mightier misery. Take me
where you will; where you and my children are, there shall be Windsor,
and every country will be England to me. Let these tears flow not for
myself, happy and ungrateful as I am, but for the dead world—for our
lost country—for all of love, and life, and joy, now choked in the
dusty chambers of death.”
She spoke quickly, as if to convince herself; she turned her eyes from
the trees and forest-paths she loved; she hid her face in my bosom, and
we— yes, _my_ masculine firmness dissolved—we wept together consolatory
tears, and then calm—nay, almost cheerful, we returned to the castle.
The first cold weather of an English October, made us hasten our
preparations. I persuaded Idris to go up to London, where she might
better attend to necessary arrangements. I did not tell her, that to
spare her the pang of parting from inanimate objects, now the only
things left, I had resolved that we should none of us return to
Windsor. For the last time we looked on the wide extent of country
visible from the terrace, and saw the last rays of the sun tinge the
dark masses of wood variegated by autumnal tints; the uncultivated
fields and smokeless cottages lay in shadow below; the Thames wound
through the wide plain, and the venerable pile of Eton college, stood
in dark relief, a prominent object; the cawing of the myriad rooks
which inhabited the trees of the little park, as in column or thick
wedge they speeded to their nests, disturbed the silence of evening.
Nature was the same, as when she was the kind mother of the human race;
now, childless and forlorn, her fertility was a mockery; her loveliness
a mask for deformity. Why should the breeze gently stir the trees, man
felt not its refreshment? Why did dark night adorn herself with
stars—man saw them not? Why are there fruits, or flowers, or streams,
man is not here to enjoy them?
Idris stood beside me, her dear hand locked in mine. Her face was
radiant with a smile.—“The sun is alone,” she said, “but we are not. A
strange star, my Lionel, ruled our birth; sadly and with dismay we may
look upon the annihilation of man; but we remain for each other. Did I
ever in the wide world seek other than thee? And since in the wide
world thou remainest, why should I complain? Thou and nature are still
true to me. Beneath the shades of night, and through the day, whose
garish light displays our solitude, thou wilt still be at my side, and
even Windsor will not be regretted.”
I had chosen night time for our journey to London, that the change and
desolation of the country might be the less observable. Our only
surviving servant drove us. We past down the steep hill, and entered
the dusky avenue of the Long Walk. At times like these, minute
circumstances assume giant and majestic proportions; the very swinging
open of the white gate that admitted us into the forest, arrested my
thoughts as matter of interest; it was an every day act, never to occur
again! The setting crescent of the moon glittered through the massy
trees to our right, and when we entered the park, we scared a troop of
deer, that fled bounding away in the forest shades. Our two boys
quietly slept; once, before our road turned from the view, I looked
back on the castle. Its windows glistened in the moonshine, and its
heavy outline lay in a dark mass against the sky—the trees near us
waved a solemn dirge to the midnight breeze. Idris leaned back in the
carriage; her two hands pressed mine, her countenance was placid, she
seemed to lose the sense of what she now left, in the memory of what
she still possessed.
My thoughts were sad and solemn, yet not of unmingled pain. The very
excess of our misery carried a relief with it, giving sublimity and
elevation to sorrow. I felt that I carried with me those I best loved;
I was pleased, after a long separation to rejoin Adrian; never again to
part. I felt that I quitted what I loved, not what loved me. The castle
walls, and long familiar trees, did not hear the parting sound of our
carriage-wheels with regret. And, while I felt Idris to be near, and
heard the regular breathing of my children, I could not be unhappy.
Clara was greatly moved; with streaming eyes, suppressing her sobs, she
leaned from the window, watching the last glimpse of her native
Windsor.
Adrian welcomed us on our arrival. He was all animation; you could no
longer trace in his look of health, the suffering valetudinarian; from
his smile and sprightly tones you could not guess that he was about to
lead forth from their native country, the numbered remnant of the
English nation, into the tenantless realms of the south, there to die,
one by one, till the LAST MAN should remain in a voiceless, empty
world.
Adrian was impatient for our departure, and had advanced far in his
preparations. His wisdom guided all. His care was the soul, to move the
luckless crowd, who relied wholly on him. It was useless to provide
many things, for we should find abundant provision in every town. It
was Adrian’s wish to prevent all labour; to bestow a festive appearance
on this funeral train. Our numbers amounted to not quite two thousand
persons. These were not all assembled in London, but each day witnessed
the arrival of fresh numbers, and those who resided in the neighbouring
towns, had received orders to assemble at one place, on the twentieth
of November. Carriages and horses were provided for all; captains and
under officers chosen, and the whole assemblage wisely organized. All
obeyed the Lord Protector of dying England; all looked up to him. His
council was chosen, it consisted of about fifty persons. Distinction
and station were not the qualifications of their election. We had no
station among us, but that which benevolence and prudence gave; no
distinction save between the living and the dead. Although we were
anxious to leave England before the depth of winter, yet we were
detained. Small parties had been dispatched to various parts of
England, in search of stragglers; we would not go, until we had assured
ourselves that in all human probability we did not leave behind a
single human being.
On our arrival in London, we found that the aged Countess of Windsor
was residing with her son in the palace of the Protectorate; we
repaired to our accustomed abode near Hyde Park. Idris now for the
first time for many years saw her mother, anxious to assure herself
that the childishness of old age did not mingle with unforgotten pride,
to make this high-born dame still so inveterate against me. Age and
care had furrowed her cheeks, and bent her form; but her eye was still
bright, her manners authoritative and unchanged; she received her
daughter coldly, but displayed more feeling as she folded her
grand-children in her arms. It is our nature to wish to continue our
systems and thoughts to posterity through our own offspring. The
Countess had failed in this design with regard to her children; perhaps
she hoped to find the next remove in birth more tractable. Once Idris
named me casually—a frown, a convulsive gesture of anger, shook her
mother, and, with voice trembling with hate, she said—“I am of little
worth in this world; the young are impatient to push the old off the
scene; but, Idris, if you do not wish to see your mother expire at your
feet, never again name that person to me; all else I can bear; and now
I am resigned to the destruction of my cherished hopes: but it is too
much to require that I should love the instrument that providence
gifted with murderous properties for my destruction.”
This was a strange speech, now that, on the empty stage, each might
play his part without impediment from the other. But the haughty
Ex-Queen thought as Octavius Cæsar and Mark Antony,
We could not stall together
In the whole world.
The period of our departure was fixed for the twenty-fifth of November.
The weather was temperate; soft rains fell at night, and by day the
wintry sun shone out. Our numbers were to move forward in separate
parties, and to go by different routes, all to unite at last at Paris.
Adrian and his division, consisting in all of five hundred persons,
were to take the direction of Dover and Calais. On the twentieth of
November, Adrian and I rode for the last time through the streets of
London. They were grass-grown and desert. The open doors of the empty
mansions creaked upon their hinges; rank herbage, and deforming dirt,
had swiftly accumulated on the steps of the houses; the voiceless
steeples of the churches pierced the smokeless air; the churches were
open, but no prayer was offered at the altars; mildew and damp had
already defaced their ornaments; birds, and tame animals, now homeless,
had built nests, and made their lairs in consecrated spots. We passed
St. Paul’s. London, which had extended so far in suburbs in all
direction, had been somewhat deserted in the midst, and much of what
had in former days obscured this vast building was removed. Its
ponderous mass, blackened stone, and high dome, made it look, not like
a temple, but a tomb. Methought above the portico was engraved the _Hic
jacet_ of England. We passed on eastwards, engaged in such solemn talk
as the times inspired. No human step was heard, nor human form
discerned. Troops of dogs, deserted of their masters, passed us; and
now and then a horse, unbridled and unsaddled, trotted towards us, and
tried to attract the attention of those which we rode, as if to allure
them to seek like liberty. An unwieldy ox, who had fed in an abandoned
granary, suddenly lowed, and shewed his shapeless form in a narrow
door-way; every thing was desert; but nothing was in ruin. And this
medley of undamaged buildings, and luxurious accommodation, in trim and
fresh youth, was contrasted with the lonely silence of the unpeopled
streets.
Night closed in, and it began to rain. We were about to return
homewards, when a voice, a human voice, strange now to hear, attracted
our attention. It was a child singing a merry, lightsome air; there was
no other sound. We had traversed London from Hyde Park even to where we
now were in the Minories, and had met no person, heard no voice nor
footstep. The singing was interrupted by laughing and talking; never
was merry ditty so sadly timed, never laughter more akin to tears. The
door of the house from which these sounds proceeded was open, the upper
rooms were illuminated as for a feast. It was a large magnificent
house, in which doubtless some rich merchant had lived. The singing
again commenced, and rang through the high-roofed rooms, while we
silently ascended the stair-case. Lights now appeared to guide us; and
a long suite of splendid rooms illuminated, made us still more wonder.
Their only inhabitant, a little girl, was dancing, waltzing, and
singing about them, followed by a large Newfoundland dog, who
boisterously jumping on her, and interrupting her, made her now scold,
now laugh, now throw herself on the carpet to play with him. She was
dressed grotesquely, in glittering robes and shawls fit for a woman;
she appeared about ten years of age. We stood at the door looking on
this strange scene, till the dog perceiving us barked loudly; the child
turned and saw us: her face, losing its gaiety, assumed a sullen
expression: she slunk back, apparently meditating an escape. I came up
to her, and held her hand; she did not resist, but with a stern brow,
so strange in childhood, so different from her former hilarity, she
stood still, her eyes fixed on the ground. “What do you do here?” I
said gently; “Who are you?”—she was silent, but trembled violently.—“My
poor child,” asked Adrian, “are you alone?” There was a winning
softness in his voice, that went to the heart of the little girl; she
looked at him, then snatching her hand from me, threw herself into his
arms, clinging round his neck, ejaculating—“Save me! save me!” while
her unnatural sullenness dissolved in tears.
“I will save you,” he replied, “of what are you afraid? you need not
fear my friend, he will do you no harm. Are you alone?”
“No, Lion is with me.”
“And your father and mother?—”
“I never had any; I am a charity girl. Every body is gone, gone for a
great, great many days; but if they come back and find me out, they
will beat me so!”
Her unhappy story was told in these few words: an orphan, taken on
pretended charity, ill-treated and reviled, her oppressors had died:
unknowing of what had passed around her, she found herself alone; she
had not dared venture out, but by the continuance of her solitude her
courage revived, her childish vivacity caused her to play a thousand
freaks, and with her brute companion she passed a long holiday, fearing
nothing but the return of the harsh voices and cruel usage of her
protectors. She readily consented to go with Adrian.
In the mean time, while we descanted on alien sorrows, and on a
solitude which struck our eyes and not our hearts, while we imagined
all of change and suffering that had intervened in these once thronged
streets, before, tenantless and abandoned, they became mere kennels for
dogs, and stables for cattle:—while we read the death of the world upon
the dark fane, and hugged ourselves in the remembrance that we
possessed that which was all the world to us—in the meanwhile—-
We had arrived from Windsor early in October, and had now been in
London about six weeks. Day by day, during that time, the health of my
Idris declined: her heart was broken; neither sleep nor appetite, the
chosen servants of health, waited on her wasted form. To watch her
children hour by hour, to sit by me, drinking deep the dear persuasion
that I remained to her, was all her pastime. Her vivacity, so long
assumed, her affectionate display of cheerfulness, her light-hearted
tone and springy gait were gone. I could not disguise to myself, nor
could she conceal, her life-consuming sorrow. Still change of scene,
and reviving hopes might restore her; I feared the plague only, and she
was untouched by that.
I had left her this evening, reposing after the fatigues of her
preparations. Clara sat beside her, relating a story to the two boys.
The eyes of Idris were closed: but Clara perceived a sudden change in
the appearance of our eldest darling; his heavy lids veiled his eyes,
an unnatural colour burnt in his cheeks, his breath became short. Clara
looked at the mother; she slept, yet started at the pause the narrator
made— Fear of awakening and alarming her, caused Clara to go on at the
eager call of Evelyn, who was unaware of what was passing. Her eyes
turned alternately from Alfred to Idris; with trembling accents she
continued her tale, till she saw the child about to fall: starting
forward she caught him, and her cry roused Idris. She looked on her
son. She saw death stealing across his features; she laid him on a bed,
she held drink to his parched lips.
Yet he might be saved. If I were there, he might be saved; perhaps it
was not the plague. Without a counsellor, what could she do? stay and
behold him die! Why at that moment was I away? “Look to him, Clara,”
she exclaimed, “I will return immediately.”
She inquired among those who, selected as the companions of our
journey, had taken up their residence in our house; she heard from them
merely that I had gone out with Adrian. She entreated them to seek me:
she returned to her child, he was plunged in a frightful state of
torpor; again she rushed down stairs; all was dark, desert, and silent;
she lost all self-possession; she ran into the street; she called on my
name. The pattering rain and howling wind alone replied to her. Wild
fear gave wings to her feet; she darted forward to seek me, she knew
not where; but, putting all her thoughts, all her energy, all her being
in speed only, most misdirected speed, she neither felt, nor feared,
nor paused, but ran right on, till her strength suddenly deserted her
so suddenly, that she had not thought to save herself. Her knees failed
her, and she fell heavily on the pavement. She was stunned for a time;
but at length rose, and though sorely hurt, still walked on, shedding a
fountain of tears, stumbling at times, going she knew not whither, only
now and then with feeble voice she called my name, adding with
heart-piercing exclamations, that I was cruel and unkind. Human being
there was none to reply; and the inclemency of the night had driven the
wandering animals to the habitations they had usurped. Her thin dress
was drenched with rain; her wet hair clung round her neck; she tottered
through the dark streets; till, striking her foot against an unseen
impediment, she again fell; she could not rise; she hardly strove; but,
gathering up her limbs, she resigned herself to the fury of the
elements, and the bitter grief of her own heart. She breathed an
earnest prayer to die speedily, for there was no relief but death.
While hopeless of safety for herself, she ceased to lament for her
dying child, but shed kindly, bitter tears for the grief I should
experience in losing her. While she lay, life almost suspended, she
felt a warm, soft hand on her brow, and a gentle female voice asked
her, with expressions of tender compassion, if she could not rise? That
another human being, sympathetic and kind, should exist near, roused
her; half rising, with clasped hands, and fresh springing tears, she
entreated her companion to seek for me, to bid me hasten to my dying
child, to save him, for the love of heaven, to save him!
The woman raised her; she led her under shelter, she entreated her to
return to her home, whither perhaps I had already returned. Idris
easily yielded to her persuasions, she leaned on the arm of her friend,
she endeavoured to walk on, but irresistible faintness made her pause
again and again.
Quickened by the encreasing storm, we had hastened our return, our
little charge was placed before Adrian on his horse. There was an
assemblage of persons under the portico of our house, in whose gestures
I instinctively read some heavy change, some new misfortune. With swift
alarm, afraid to ask a single question, I leapt from my horse; the
spectators saw me, knew me, and in awful silence divided to make way
for me. I snatched a light, and rushing up stairs, and hearing a groan,
without reflection I threw open the door of the first room that
presented itself. It was quite dark; but, as I stept within, a
pernicious scent assailed my senses, producing sickening qualms, which
made their way to my very heart, while I felt my leg clasped, and a
groan repeated by the person that held me. I lowered my lamp, and saw a
negro half clad, writhing under the agony of disease, while he held me
with a convulsive grasp. With mixed horror and impatience I strove to
disengage myself, and fell on the sufferer; he wound his naked
festering arms round me, his face was close to mine, and his breath,
death-laden, entered my vitals. For a moment I was overcome, my head
was bowed by aching nausea; till, reflection returning, I sprung up,
threw the wretch from me, and darting up the staircase, entered the
chamber usually inhabited by my family. A dim light shewed me Alfred on
a couch; Clara trembling, and paler than whitest snow, had raised him
on her arm, holding a cup of water to his lips. I saw full well that no
spark of life existed in that ruined form, his features were rigid, his
eyes glazed, his head had fallen back. I took him from her, I laid him
softly down, kissed his cold little mouth, and turned to speak in a
vain whisper, when loudest sound of thunderlike cannon could not have
reached him in his immaterial abode.
And where was Idris? That she had gone out to seek me, and had not
returned, were fearful tidings, while the rain and driving wind
clattered against the window, and roared round the house. Added to
this, the sickening sensation of disease gained upon me; no time was to
be lost, if ever I would see her again. I mounted my horse and rode out
to seek her, fancying that I heard her voice in every gust, oppressed
by fever and aching pain.
I rode in the dark and rain through the labyrinthine streets of
unpeopled London. My child lay dead at home; the seeds of mortal
disease had taken root in my bosom; I went to seek Idris, my adored,
now wandering alone, while the waters were rushing from heaven like a
cataract to bathe her dear head in chill damp, her fair limbs in
numbing cold. A female stood on the step of a door, and called to me as
I gallopped past. It was not Idris; so I rode swiftly on, until a kind
of second sight, a reflection back again on my senses of what I had
seen but not marked, made me feel sure that another figure, thin,
graceful and tall, stood clinging to the foremost person who supported
her. In a minute I was beside the suppliant, in a minute I received the
sinking Idris in my arms. Lifting her up, I placed her on the horse;
she had not strength to support herself; so I mounted behind her, and
held her close to my bosom, wrapping my riding-cloak round her, while
her companion, whose well known, but changed countenance, (it was
Juliet, daughter of the Duke of L—-) could at this moment of horror
obtain from me no more than a passing glance of compassion. She took
the abandoned rein, and conducted our obedient steed homewards. Dare I
avouch it? That was the last moment of my happiness; but I was happy.
Idris must die, for her heart was broken: I must die, for I had caught
the plague; earth was a scene of desolation; hope was madness; life had
married death; they were one; but, thus supporting my fainting love,
thus feeling that I must soon die, I revelled in the delight of
possessing her once more; again and again I kissed her, and pressed her
to my heart.
We arrived at our home. I assisted her to dismount, I carried her up
stairs, and gave her into Clara’s care, that her wet garments might be
changed. Briefly I assured Adrian of her safety, and requested that we
might be left to repose. As the miser, who with trembling caution
visits his treasure to count it again and again, so I numbered each
moment, and grudged every one that was not spent with Idris. I returned
swiftly to the chamber where the life of my life reposed; before I
entered the room I paused for a few seconds; for a few seconds I tried
to examine my state; sickness and shuddering ever and anon came over
me; my head was heavy, my chest oppressed, my legs bent under me; but I
threw off resolutely the swift growing symptoms of my disorder, and met
Idris with placid and even joyous looks. She was lying on a couch;
carefully fastening the door to prevent all intrusion; I sat by her, we
embraced, and our lips met in a kiss long drawn and breathless—would
that moment had been my last!
Maternal feeling now awoke in my poor girl’s bosom, and she asked: “And
Alfred?”
“Idris,” I replied, “we are spared to each other, we are together; do
not let any other idea intrude. I am happy; even on this fatal night, I
declare myself happy, beyond all name, all thought—what would you more,
sweet one?”
Idris understood me: she bowed her head on my shoulder and wept. “Why,”
she again asked, “do you tremble, Lionel, what shakes you thus?”
“Well may I be shaken,” I replied, “happy as I am. Our child is dead,
and the present hour is dark and ominous. Well may I tremble! but, I am
happy, mine own Idris, most happy.”
“I understand thee, my kind love,” said Idris, “thus—pale as thou art
with sorrow at our loss; trembling and aghast, though wouldest assuage
my grief by thy dear assurances. I am not happy,” (and the tears
flashed and fell from under her down-cast lids), “for we are inmates of
a miserable prison, and there is no joy for us; but the true love I
bear you will render this and every other loss endurable.”
“We have been happy together, at least,” I said; “no future misery can
deprive us of the past. We have been true to each other for years, ever
since my sweet princess-love came through the snow to the lowly cottage
of the poverty-striken heir of the ruined Verney. Even now, that
eternity is before us, we take hope only from the presence of each
other. Idris, do you think, that when we die, we shall be divided?”
“Die! when we die! what mean you? What secret lies hid from me in those
dreadful words?”
“Must we not all die, dearest?” I asked with a sad smile.
“Gracious God! are you ill, Lionel, that you speak of death? My only
friend, heart of my heart, speak!”
“I do not think,” replied I, “that we have any of us long to live; and
when the curtain drops on this mortal scene, where, think you, we shall
find ourselves?” Idris was calmed by my unembarrassed tone and look;
she answered:—“You may easily believe that during this long progress of
the plague, I have thought much on death, and asked myself, now that
all mankind is dead to this life, to what other life they may have been
borne. Hour after hour, I have dwelt on these thoughts, and strove to
form a rational conclusion concerning the mystery of a future state.
What a scare-crow, indeed, would death be, if we were merely to cast
aside the shadow in which we now walk, and, stepping forth into the
unclouded sunshine of knowledge and love, revived with the same
companions, the same affections, and reached the fulfilment of our
hopes, leaving our fears with our earthly vesture in the grave. Alas!
the same strong feeling which makes me sure that I shall not wholly
die, makes me refuse to believe that I shall live wholly as I do now.
Yet, Lionel, never, never, can I love any but you; through eternity I
must desire your society; and, as I am innocent of harm to others, and
as relying and confident as my mortal nature permits, I trust that the
Ruler of the world will never tear us asunder.”
“Your remarks are like yourself, dear love,” replied I, “gentle and
good; let us cherish such a belief, and dismiss anxiety from our minds.
But, sweet, we are so formed, (and there is no sin, if God made our
nature, to yield to what he ordains), we are so formed, that we must
love life, and cling to it; we must love the living smile, the
sympathetic touch, and thrilling voice, peculiar to our mortal
mechanism. Let us not, through security in hereafter, neglect the
present. This present moment, short as it is, is a part of eternity,
and the dearest part, since it is our own unalienably. Thou, the hope
of my futurity, art my present joy. Let me then look on thy dear eyes,
and, reading love in them, drink intoxicating pleasure.”
Timidly, for my vehemence somewhat terrified her, Idris looked on me.
My eyes were bloodshot, starting from my head; every artery beat,
methought, audibly, every muscle throbbed, each single nerve felt. Her
look of wild affright told me, that I could no longer keep my
secret:—“So it is, mine own beloved,” I said, “the last hour of many
happy ones is arrived, nor can we shun any longer the inevitable
destiny. I cannot live long—but, again and again, I say, this moment is
ours!”
Paler than marble, with white lips and convulsed features, Idris became
aware of my situation. My arm, as I sat, encircled her waist. She felt
the palm burn with fever, even on the heart it pressed:—“One moment,”
she murmured, scarce audibly, “only one moment.”—
She kneeled, and hiding her face in her hands, uttered a brief, but
earnest prayer, that she might fulfil her duty, and watch over me to
the last. While there was hope, the agony had been unendurable;—all was
now concluded; her feelings became solemn and calm. Even as Epicharis,
unperturbed and firm, submitted to the instruments of torture, did
Idris, suppressing every sigh and sign of grief, enter upon the
endurance of torments, of which the rack and the wheel are but faint
and metaphysical symbols.
I was changed; the tight-drawn cord that sounded so harshly was
loosened, the moment that Idris participated in my knowledge of our
real situation. The perturbed and passion-tossed waves of thought
subsided, leaving only the heavy swell that kept right on without any
outward manifestation of its disturbance, till it should break on the
remote shore towards which I rapidly advanced:—“It is true that I am
sick,” I said, “and your society, my Idris is my only medicine; come,
and sit beside me.”
She made me lie down on the couch, and, drawing a low ottoman near, sat
close to my pillow, pressing my burning hands in her cold palms. She
yielded to my feverish restlessness, and let me talk, and talked to me,
on subjects strange indeed to beings, who thus looked the last, and
heard the last, of what they loved alone in the world. We talked of
times gone by; of the happy period of our early love; of Raymond,
Perdita, and Evadne. We talked of what might arise on this desert
earth, if, two or three being saved, it were slowly re-peopled.—We
talked of what was beyond the tomb; and, man in his human shape being
nearly extinct, we felt with certainty of faith, that other spirits,
other minds, other perceptive beings, sightless to us, must people with
thought and love this beauteous and imperishable universe.
We talked—I know not how long—but, in the morning I awoke from a
painful heavy slumber; the pale cheek of Idris rested on my pillow; the
large orbs of her eyes half raised the lids, and shewed the deep blue
lights beneath; her lips were unclosed, and the slight murmurs they
formed told that, even while asleep, she suffered. “If she were dead,”
I thought, “what difference? now that form is the temple of a residing
deity; those eyes are the windows of her soul; all grace, love, and
intelligence are throned on that lovely bosom—were she dead, where
would this mind, the dearer half of mine, be? For quickly the fair
proportion of this edifice would be more defaced, than are the
sand-choked ruins of the desert temples of Palmyra.”