Idris stirred and awoke; alas! she awoke to misery. She saw the signs
of disease on my countenance, and wondered how she could permit the
long night to pass without her having sought, not cure, that was
impossible, but alleviation to my sufferings. She called Adrian; my
couch was quickly surrounded by friends and assistants, and such
medicines as were judged fitting were administered. It was the peculiar
and dreadful distinction of our visitation, that none who had been
attacked by the pestilence had recovered. The first symptom of the
disease was the death-warrant, which in no single instance had been
followed by pardon or reprieve. No gleam of hope therefore cheered my
friends.
While fever producing torpor, heavy pains, sitting like lead on my
limbs, and making my breast heave, were upon me; I continued insensible
to every thing but pain, and at last even to that. I awoke on the
fourth morning as from a dreamless sleep. An irritating sense of
thirst, and, when I strove to speak or move, an entire dereliction of
power, was all I felt.
For three days and nights Idris had not moved from my side. She
administered to all my wants, and never slept nor rested. She did not
hope; and therefore she neither endeavoured to read the physician’s
countenance, nor to watch for symptoms of recovery. All her thought was
to attend on me to the last, and then to lie down and die beside me. On
the third night animation was suspended; to the eye and touch of all I
was dead. With earnest prayer, almost with force, Adrian tried to draw
Idris from me. He exhausted every adjuration, her child’s welfare and
his own. She shook her head, and wiped a stealing tear from her sunk
cheek, but would not yield; she entreated to be allowed to watch me
that one night only, with such affliction and meek earnestness, that
she gained her point, and sat silent and motionless, except when, stung
by intolerable remembrance, she kissed my closed eyes and pallid lips,
and pressed my stiffening hands to her beating heart.
At dead of night, when, though it was mid winter, the cock crowed at
three o’clock, as herald of the morning change, while hanging over me,
and mourning in silent, bitter thought for the loss of all of love
towards her that had been enshrined in my heart; her dishevelled hair
hung over her face, and the long tresses fell on the bed; she saw one
ringlet in motion, and the scattered hair slightly stirred, as by a
breath. It is not so, she thought, for he will never breathe more.
Several times the same thing occurred, and she only marked it by the
same reflection; till the whole ringlet waved back, and she thought she
saw my breast heave. Her first emotion was deadly fear, cold dew stood
on her brow; my eyes half opened; and, re-assured, she would have
exclaimed, “He lives!” but the words were choked by a spasm, and she
fell with a groan on the floor.
Adrian was in the chamber. After long watching, he had unwillingly
fallen into a sleep. He started up, and beheld his sister senseless on
the earth, weltering in a stream of blood that gushed from her mouth.
Encreasing signs of life in me in some degree explained her state; the
surprise, the burst of joy, the revulsion of every sentiment, had been
too much for her frame, worn by long months of care, late shattered by
every species of woe and toil. She was now in far greater danger than
I, the wheels and springs of my life, once again set in motion,
acquired elasticity from their short suspension. For a long time, no
one believed that I should indeed continue to live; during the reign of
the plague upon earth, not one person, attacked by the grim disease,
had recovered. My restoration was looked on as a deception; every
moment it was expected that the evil symptoms would recur with
redoubled violence, until confirmed convalescence, absence of all fever
or pain, and encreasing strength, brought slow conviction that I had
recovered from the plague.
The restoration of Idris was more problematical. When I had been
attacked by illness, her cheeks were sunk, her form emaciated; but now,
the vessel, which had broken from the effects of extreme agitation, did
not entirely heal, but was as a channel that drop by drop drew from her
the ruddy stream that vivified her heart. Her hollow eyes and worn
countenance had a ghastly appearance; her cheek-bones, her open fair
brow, the projection of the mouth, stood fearfully prominent; you might
tell each bone in the thin anatomy of her frame. Her hand hung
powerless; each joint lay bare, so that the light penetrated through
and through. It was strange that life could exist in what was wasted
and worn into a very type of death.
To take her from these heart-breaking scenes, to lead her to forget the
world’s desolation in the variety of objects presented by travelling,
and to nurse her failing strength in the mild climate towards which we
had resolved to journey, was my last hope for her preservation. The
preparations for our departure, which had been suspended during my
illness, were renewed. I did not revive to doubtful convalescence;
health spent her treasures upon me; as the tree in spring may feel from
its wrinkled limbs the fresh green break forth, and the living sap rise
and circulate, so did the renewed vigour of my frame, the cheerful
current of my blood, the new-born elasticity of my limbs, influence my
mind to cheerful endurance and pleasurable thoughts. My body, late the
heavy weight that bound me to the tomb, was exuberant with health; mere
common exercises were insufficient for my reviving strength; methought
I could emulate the speed of the race-horse, discern through the air
objects at a blinding distance, hear the operations of nature in her
mute abodes; my senses had become so refined and susceptible after my
recovery from mortal disease.
Hope, among my other blessings, was not denied to me; and I did fondly
trust that my unwearied attentions would restore my adored girl. I was
therefore eager to forward our preparations. According to the plan
first laid down, we were to have quitted London on the twenty-fifth of
November; and, in pursuance of this scheme, two-thirds of our
people—_the_ people— all that remained of England, had gone forward,
and had already been some weeks in Paris. First my illness, and
subsequently that of Idris, had detained Adrian with his division,
which consisted of three hundred persons, so that we now departed on
the first of January, 2098. It was my wish to keep Idris as distant as
possible from the hurry and clamour of the crowd, and to hide from her
those appearances that would remind her most forcibly of our real
situation. We separated ourselves to a great degree from Adrian, who
was obliged to give his whole time to public business. The Countess of
Windsor travelled with her son. Clara, Evelyn, and a female who acted
as our attendant, were the only persons with whom we had contact. We
occupied a commodious carriage, our servant officiated as coachman. A
party of about twenty persons preceded us at a small distance. They had
it in charge to prepare our halting places and our nightly abode. They
had been selected for this service out of a great number that offered,
on account of the superior sagacity of the man who had been appointed
their leader.
Immediately on our departure, I was delighted to find a change in
Idris, which I fondly hoped prognosticated the happiest results. All
the cheerfulness and gentle gaiety natural to her revived. She was
weak, and this alteration was rather displayed in looks and voice than
in acts; but it was permanent and real. My recovery from the plague and
confirmed health instilled into her a firm belief that I was now secure
from this dread enemy. She told me that she was sure she should
recover. That she had a presentiment, that the tide of calamity which
deluged our unhappy race had now turned. That the remnant would be
preserved, and among them the dear objects of her tender affection; and
that in some selected spot we should wear out our lives together in
pleasant society. “Do not let my state of feebleness deceive you,” she
said; “I feel that I am better; there is a quick life within me, and a
spirit of anticipation that assures me, that I shall continue long to
make a part of this world. I shall throw off this degrading weakness of
body, which infects even my mind with debility, and I shall enter again
on the performance of my duties. I was sorry to leave Windsor: but now
I am weaned from this local attachment; I am content to remove to a
mild climate, which will complete my recovery. Trust me, dearest, I
shall neither leave you, nor my brother, nor these dear children; my
firm determination to remain with you to the last, and to continue to
contribute to your happiness and welfare, would keep me alive, even if
grim death were nearer at hand than he really is.”
I was only half re-assured by these expressions; I could not believe
that the over-quick flow of her blood was a sign of health, or that her
burning cheeks denoted convalescence. But I had no fears of an
immediate catastrophe; nay, I persuaded myself that she would
ultimately recover. And thus cheerfulness reigned in our little
society. Idris conversed with animation on a thousand topics. Her chief
desire was to lead our thoughts from melancholy reflections; so she
drew charming pictures of a tranquil solitude, of a beauteous retreat,
of the simple manners of our little tribe, and of the patriarchal
brotherhood of love, which would survive the ruins of the populous
nations which had lately existed. We shut out from our thoughts the
present, and withdrew our eyes from the dreary landscape we traversed.
Winter reigned in all its gloom. The leafless trees lay without motion
against the dun sky; the forms of frost, mimicking the foliage of
summer, strewed the ground; the paths were overgrown; the unploughed
cornfields were patched with grass and weeds; the sheep congregated at
the threshold of the cottage, the horned ox thrust his head from the
window. The wind was bleak, and frequent sleet or snow-storms, added to
the melancholy appearance wintry nature assumed.
We arrived at Rochester, and an accident caused us to be detained there
a day. During that time, a circumstance occurred that changed our
plans, and which, alas! in its result changed the eternal course of
events, turning me from the pleasant new sprung hope I enjoyed, to an
obscure and gloomy desert. But I must give some little explanation
before I proceed with the final cause of our temporary alteration of
plan, and refer again to those times when man walked the earth
fearless, before Plague had become Queen of the World.
There resided a family in the neighbourhood of Windsor, of very humble
pretensions, but which had been an object of interest to us on account
of one of the persons of whom it was composed. The family of the
Claytons had known better days; but, after a series of reverses, the
father died a bankrupt, and the mother heartbroken, and a confirmed
invalid, retired with her five children to a little cottage between
Eton and Salt Hill. The eldest of these children, who was thirteen
years old, seemed at once from the influence of adversity, to acquire
the sagacity and principle belonging to a more mature age. Her mother
grew worse and worse in health, but Lucy attended on her, and was as a
tender parent to her younger brothers and sisters, and in the meantime
shewed herself so good-humoured, social, and benevolent, that she was
beloved as well as honoured, in her little neighbourhood.
Lucy was besides extremely pretty; so when she grew to be sixteen, it
was to be supposed, notwithstanding her poverty, that she should have
admirers. One of these was the son of a country-curate; he was a
generous, frank-hearted youth, with an ardent love of knowledge, and no
mean acquirements. Though Lucy was untaught, her mother’s conversation
and manners gave her a taste for refinements superior to her present
situation. She loved the youth even without knowing it, except that in
any difficulty she naturally turned to him for aid, and awoke with a
lighter heart every Sunday, because she knew that she would be met and
accompanied by him in her evening walk with her sisters. She had
another admirer, one of the head-waiters at the inn at Salt Hill. He
also was not without pretensions to urbane superiority, such as he
learnt from gentlemen’s servants and waiting-maids, who initiating him
in all the slang of high life below stairs, rendered his arrogant
temper ten times more intrusive. Lucy did not disclaim him—she was
incapable of that feeling; but she was sorry when she saw him approach,
and quietly resisted all his endeavours to establish an intimacy. The
fellow soon discovered that his rival was preferred to him; and this
changed what was at first a chance admiration into a passion, whose
main springs were envy, and a base desire to deprive his competitor of
the advantage he enjoyed over himself.
Poor Lucy’s sad story was but a common one. Her lover’s father died;
and he was left destitute. He accepted the offer of a gentleman to go
to India with him, feeling secure that he should soon acquire an
independence, and return to claim the hand of his beloved. He became
involved in the war carried on there, was taken prisoner, and years
elapsed before tidings of his existence were received in his native
land. In the meantime disastrous poverty came on Lucy. Her little
cottage, which stood looking from its trellice, covered with woodbine
and jessamine, was burnt down; and the whole of their little property
was included in the destruction. Whither betake them? By what exertion
of industry could Lucy procure them another abode? Her mother nearly
bed-rid, could not survive any extreme of famine-struck poverty. At
this time her other admirer stept forward, and renewed his offer of
marriage. He had saved money, and was going to set up a little inn at
Datchet. There was nothing alluring to Lucy in this offer, except the
home it secured to her mother; and she felt more sure of this, since
she was struck by the apparent generosity which occasioned the present
offer. She accepted it; thus sacrificing herself for the comfort and
welfare of her parent.
It was some years after her marriage that we became acquainted with
her. The accident of a storm caused us to take refuge in the inn, where
we witnessed the brutal and quarrelsome behaviour of her husband, and
her patient endurance. Her lot was not a fortunate one. Her first lover
had returned with the hope of making her his own, and met her by
accident, for the first time, as the mistress of his country inn, and
the wife of another. He withdrew despairingly to foreign parts; nothing
went well with him; at last he enlisted, and came back again wounded
and sick, and yet Lucy was debarred from nursing him. Her husband’s
brutal disposition was aggravated by his yielding to the many
temptations held out by his situation, and the consequent
disarrangement of his affairs. Fortunately she had no children; but her
heart was bound up in her brothers and sisters, and these his avarice
and ill temper soon drove from the house; they were dispersed about the
country, earning their livelihood with toil and care. He even shewed an
inclination to get rid of her mother—but Lucy was firm here—she had
sacrificed herself for her; she lived for her —she would not part with
her—if the mother went, she would also go beg bread for her, die with
her, but never desert her. The presence of Lucy was too necessary in
keeping up the order of the house, and in preventing the whole
establishment from going to wreck, for him to permit her to leave him.
He yielded the point; but in all accesses of anger, or in his drunken
fits, he recurred to the old topic, and stung poor Lucy’s heart by
opprobrious epithets bestowed on her parent.
A passion however, if it be wholly pure, entire, and reciprocal, brings
with it its own solace. Lucy was truly, and from the depth of heart,
devoted to her mother; the sole end she proposed to herself in life,
was the comfort and preservation of this parent. Though she grieved for
the result, yet she did not repent of her marriage, even when her lover
returned to bestow competence on her. Three years had intervened, and
how, in their pennyless state, could her mother have existed during
this time? This excellent woman was worthy of her child’s devotion. A
perfect confidence and friendship existed between them; besides, she
was by no means illiterate; and Lucy, whose mind had been in some
degree cultivated by her former lover, now found in her the only person
who could understand and appreciate her. Thus, though suffering, she
was by no means desolate, and when, during fine summer days, she led
her mother into the flowery and shady lanes near their abode, a gleam
of unmixed joy enlightened her countenance; she saw that her parent was
happy, and she knew that this happiness was of her sole creating.
Meanwhile her husband’s affairs grew more and more involved; ruin was
near at hand, and she was about to lose the fruit of all her labours,
when pestilence came to change the aspect of the world. Her husband
reaped benefit from the universal misery; but, as the disaster
encreased, the spirit of lawlessness seized him; he deserted his home
to revel in the luxuries promised him in London, and found there a
grave. Her former lover had been one of the first victims of the
disease. But Lucy continued to live for and in her mother. Her courage
only failed when she dreaded peril for her parent, or feared that death
might prevent her from performing those duties to which she was
unalterably devoted.
When we had quitted Windsor for London, as the previous step to our
final emigration, we visited Lucy, and arranged with her the plan of
her own and her mother’s removal. Lucy was sorry at the necessity which
forced her to quit her native lanes and village, and to drag an infirm
parent from her comforts at home, to the homeless waste of depopulate
earth; but she was too well disciplined by adversity, and of too sweet
a temper, to indulge in repinings at what was inevitable.
Subsequent circumstances, my illness and that of Idris, drove her from
our remembrance; and we called her to mind at last, only to conclude
that she made one of the few who came from Windsor to join the
emigrants, and that she was already in Paris. When we arrived at
Rochester therefore, we were surprised to receive, by a man just come
from Slough, a letter from this exemplary sufferer. His account was,
that, journeying from his home, and passing through Datchet, he was
surprised to see smoke issue from the chimney of the inn, and supposing
that he should find comrades for his journey assembled there, he
knocked and was admitted. There was no one in the house but Lucy, and
her mother; the latter had been deprived of the use of her limbs by an
attack of rheumatism, and so, one by one, all the remaining inhabitants
of the country set forward, leaving them alone. Lucy intreated the man
to stay with her; in a week or two her mother would be better, and they
would then set out; but they must perish, if they were left thus
helpless and forlorn. The man said, that his wife and children were
already among the emigrants, and it was therefore, according to his
notion, impossible for him to remain. Lucy, as a last resource, gave
him a letter for Idris, to be delivered to her wherever he should meet
us. This commission at least he fulfilled, and Idris received with
emotion the following letter:—
“HONOURED LADY,
“I am sure that you will remember and pity me, and I dare hope that you
will assist me; what other hope have I? Pardon my manner of writing, I
am so bewildered. A month ago my dear mother was deprived of the use of
her limbs. She is already better, and in another month would I am sure
be able to travel, in the way you were so kind as to say you would
arrange for us. But now everybody is gone—everybody—as they went away,
each said, that perhaps my mother would be better, before we were quite
deserted. But three days ago I went to Samuel Woods, who, on account of
his new-born child, remained to the last; and there being a large
family of them, I thought I could persuade them to wait a little longer
for us; but I found the house deserted. I have not seen a soul since,
till this good man came. —What will become of us? My mother does not
know our state; she is so ill, that I have hidden it from her.
“Will you not send some one to us? I am sure we must perish miserably
as we are. If I were to try to move my mother now, she would die on the
road; and if, when she gets better, I were able, I cannot guess how, to
find out the roads, and get on so many many miles to the sea, you would
all be in France, and the great ocean would be between us, which is so
terrible even to sailors. What would it be to me, a woman, who never
saw it? We should be imprisoned by it in this country, all, all alone,
with no help; better die where we are. I can hardly write—I cannot stop
my tears—it is not for myself; I could put my trust in God; and let the
worst come, I think I could bear it, if I were alone. But my mother, my
sick, my dear, dear mother, who never, since I was born, spoke a harsh
word to me, who has been patient in many sufferings; pity her, dear
Lady, she must die a miserable death if you do not pity her. People
speak carelessly of her, because she is old and infirm, as if we must
not all, if we are spared, become so; and then, when the young are old
themselves, they will think that they ought to be taken care of. It is
very silly of me to write in this way to you; but, when I hear her
trying not to groan, and see her look smiling on me to comfort me, when
I know she is in pain; and when I think that she does not know the
worst, but she soon must; and then she will not complain; but I shall
sit guessing at all that she is dwelling upon, of famine and misery—I
feel as if my heart must break, and I do not know what I say or do; my
mother—mother for whom I have borne much, God preserve you from this
fate! Preserve her, Lady, and He will bless you; and I, poor miserable
creature as I am, will thank you and pray for you while I live.
“Your unhappy and dutiful servant,
LUCY MARTIN.”
“_Dec_. 30_th_, 2097.
This letter deeply affected Idris, and she instantly proposed, that we
should return to Datchet, to assist Lucy and her mother. I said that I
would without delay set out for that place, but entreated her to join
her brother, and there await my return with the children. But Idris was
in high spirits, and full of hope. She declared that she could not
consent even to a temporary separation from me, but that there was no
need of this, the motion of the carriage did her good, and the distance
was too trifling to be considered. We could dispatch messengers to
Adrian, to inform him of our deviation from the original plan. She
spoke with vivacity, and drew a picture after her own dear heart, of
the pleasure we should bestow upon Lucy, and declared, if I went, she
must accompany me, and that she should very much dislike to entrust the
charge of rescuing them to others, who might fulfil it with coldness or
inhumanity. Lucy’s life had been one act of devotion and virtue; let
her now reap the small reward of finding her excellence appreciated,
and her necessity assisted, by those whom she respected and honoured.
These, and many other arguments, were urged with gentle pertinacity,
and the ardour of a wish to do all the good in her power, by her whose
simple expression of a desire and slightest request had ever been a law
with me. I, of course, consented, the moment that I saw that she had
set her heart upon this step. We sent half our attendant troop on to
Adrian; and with the other half our carriage took a retrograde course
back to Windsor.
I wonder now how I could be so blind and senseless, as thus to risk the
safety of Idris; for, if I had eyes, surely I could see the sure,
though deceitful, advance of death in her burning cheek and encreasing
weakness. But she said she was better; and I believed her. Extinction
could not be near a being, whose vivacity and intelligence hourly
encreased, and whose frame was endowed with an intense, and I fondly
thought, a strong and permanent spirit of life. Who, after a great
disaster, has not looked back with wonder at his inconceivable
obtuseness of understanding, that could not perceive the many minute
threads with which fate weaves the inextricable net of our destinies,
until he is inmeshed completely in it?
The cross roads which we now entered upon, were even in a worse state
than the long neglected high-ways; and the inconvenience seemed to
menace the perishing frame of Idris with destruction. Passing through
Dartford, we arrived at Hampton on the second day. Even in this short
interval my beloved companion grew sensibly worse in health, though her
spirits were still light, and she cheered my growing anxiety with gay
sallies; sometimes the thought pierced my brain—Is she dying?—as I saw
her fair fleshless hand rest on mine, or observed the feebleness with
which she performed the accustomed acts of life. I drove away the idea,
as if it had been suggested by insanity; but it occurred again and
again, only to be dispelled by the continued liveliness of her manner.
About mid-day, after quitting Hampton, our carriage broke down: the
shock caused Idris to faint, but on her reviving no other ill
consequence ensued; our party of attendants had as usual gone on before
us, and our coachman went in search of another vehicle, our former one
being rendered by this accident unfit for service. The only place near
us was a poor village, in which he found a kind of caravan, able to
hold four people, but it was clumsy and ill hung; besides this he found
a very excellent cabriolet: our plan was soon arranged; I would drive
Idris in the latter; while the children were conveyed by the servant in
the former. But these arrangements cost time; we had agreed to proceed
that night to Windsor, and thither our purveyors had gone: we should
find considerable difficulty in getting accommodation, before we
reached this place; after all, the distance was only ten miles; my
horse was a good one; I would go forward at a good pace with Idris,
leaving the children to follow at a rate more consonant to the uses of
their cumberous machine.
Evening closed in quickly, far more quickly than I was prepared to
expect. At the going down of the sun it began to snow heavily. I
attempted in vain to defend my beloved companion from the storm; the
wind drove the snow in our faces; and it lay so high on the ground,
that we made but small way; while the night was so dark, that but for
the white covering on the ground we should not have been able to see a
yard before us. We had left our accompanying caravan far behind us; and
now I perceived that the storm had made me unconsciously deviate from
my intended route. I had gone some miles out of my way. My knowledge of
the country enabled me to regain the right road; but, instead of going,
as at first agreed upon, by a cross road through Stanwell to Datchet, I
was obliged to take the way of Egham and Bishopgate. It was certain
therefore that I should not be rejoined by the other vehicle, that I
should not meet a single fellow-creature till we arrived at Windsor.
The back of our carriage was drawn up, and I hung a pelisse before it,
thus to curtain the beloved sufferer from the pelting sleet. She leaned
on my shoulder, growing every moment more languid and feeble; at first
she replied to my words of cheer with affectionate thanks; but by
degrees she sunk into silence; her head lay heavily upon me; I only
knew that she lived by her irregular breathing and frequent sighs. For
a moment I resolved to stop, and, opposing the back of the cabriolet to
the force of the tempest, to expect morning as well as I might. But the
wind was bleak and piercing, while the occasional shudderings of my
poor Idris, and the intense cold I felt myself, demonstrated that this
would be a dangerous experiment. At length methought she slept—fatal
sleep, induced by frost: at this moment I saw the heavy outline of a
cottage traced on the dark horizon close to us: “Dearest love,” I said,
“support yourself but one moment, and we shall have shelter; let us
stop here, that I may open the door of this blessed dwelling.”
As I spoke, my heart was transported, and my senses swam with excessive
delight and thankfulness; I placed the head of Idris against the
carriage, and, leaping out, scrambled through the snow to the cottage,
whose door was open. I had apparatus about me for procuring light, and
that shewed me a comfortable room, with a pile of wood in one corner,
and no appearance of disorder, except that, the door having been left
partly open, the snow, drifting in, had blocked up the threshold. I
returned to the carriage, and the sudden change from light to darkness
at first blinded me. When I recovered my sight—eternal God of this
lawless world! O supreme Death! I will not disturb thy silent reign, or
mar my tale with fruitless exclamations of horror—I saw Idris, who had
fallen from the seat to the bottom of the carriage; her head, its long
hair pendent, with one arm, hung over the side.—Struck by a spasm of
horror, I lifted her up; her heart was pulseless, her faded lips
unfanned by the slightest breath.
I carried her into the cottage; I placed her on the bed. Lighting a
fire, I chafed her stiffening limbs; for two long hours I sought to
restore departed life; and, when hope was as dead as my beloved, I
closed with trembling hands her glazed eyes. I did not doubt what I
should now do. In the confusion attendant on my illness, the task of
interring our darling Alfred had devolved on his grandmother, the
Ex-Queen, and she, true to her ruling passion, had caused him to be
carried to Windsor, and buried in the family vault, in St. George’s
Chapel. I must proceed to Windsor, to calm the anxiety of Clara, who
would wait anxiously for us—yet I would fain spare her the
heart-breaking spectacle of Idris, brought in by me lifeless from the
journey. So first I would place my beloved beside her child in the
vault, and then seek the poor children who would be expecting me.
I lighted the lamps of my carriage; I wrapt her in furs, and placed her
along the seat; then taking the reins, made the horses go forward. We
proceeded through the snow, which lay in masses impeding the way, while
the descending flakes, driving against me with redoubled fury, blinded
me. The pain occasioned by the angry elements, and the cold iron of the
shafts of frost which buffetted me, and entered my aching flesh, were a
relief to me; blunting my mental suffering. The horses staggered on,
and the reins hung loosely in my hands. I often thought I would lay my
head close to the sweet, cold face of my lost angel, and thus resign
myself to conquering torpor. Yet I must not leave her a prey to the
fowls of the air; but, in pursuance of my determination place her in
the tomb of her forefathers, where a merciful God might permit me to
rest also.
The road we passed through Egham was familiar to me; but the wind and
snow caused the horses to drag their load slowly and heavily. Suddenly
the wind veered from south-west to west, and then again to north-west.
As Sampson with tug and strain stirred from their bases the columns
that supported the Philistine temple, so did the gale shake the dense
vapours propped on the horizon, while the massy dome of clouds fell to
the south, disclosing through the scattered web the clear empyrean, and
the little stars, which were set at an immeasurable distance in the
crystalline fields, showered their small rays on the glittering snow.
Even the horses were cheered, and moved on with renovated strength. We
entered the forest at Bishopgate, and at the end of the Long Walk I saw
the Castle, “the proud Keep of Windsor, rising in the majesty of
proportion, girt with the double belt of its kindred and coeval
towers.” I looked with reverence on a structure, ancient almost as the
rock on which it stood, abode of kings, theme of admiration for the
wise. With greater reverence and, tearful affection I beheld it as the
asylum of the long lease of love I had enjoyed there with the
perishable, unmatchable treasure of dust, which now lay cold beside me.
Now indeed, I could have yielded to all the softness of my nature, and
wept; and, womanlike, have uttered bitter plaints; while the familiar
trees, the herds of living deer, the sward oft prest by her fairy-feet,
one by one with sad association presented themselves. The white gate at
the end of the Long Walk was wide open, and I rode up the empty town
through the first gate of the feudal tower; and now St. George’s
Chapel, with its blackened fretted sides, was right before me. I halted
at its door, which was open; I entered, and placed my lighted lamp on
the altar; then I returned, and with tender caution I bore Idris up the
aisle into the chancel, and laid her softly down on the carpet which
covered the step leading to the communion table. The banners of the
knights of the garter, and their half drawn swords, were hung in vain
emblazonry above the stalls. The banner of her family hung there, still
surmounted by its regal crown. Farewell to the glory and heraldry of
England!—I turned from such vanity with a slight feeling of wonder, at
how mankind could have ever been interested in such things. I bent over
the lifeless corpse of my beloved; and, while looking on her uncovered
face, the features already contracted by the rigidity of death, I felt
as if all the visible universe had grown as soulless, inane, and
comfortless as the clay-cold image beneath me. I felt for a moment the
intolerable sense of struggle with, and detestation for, the laws which
govern the world; till the calm still visible on the face of my dead
love recalled me to a more soothing tone of mind, and I proceeded to
fulfil the last office that could now be paid her. For her I could not
lament, so much I envied her enjoyment of “the sad immunities of the
grave.”
The vault had been lately opened to place our Alfred therein. The
ceremony customary in these latter days had been cursorily performed,
and the pavement of the chapel, which was its entrance, having been
removed, had not been replaced. I descended the steps, and walked
through the long passage to the large vault which contained the kindred
dust of my Idris. I distinguished the small coffin of my babe. With
hasty, trembling hands I constructed a bier beside it, spreading it
with the furs and Indian shawls, which had wrapt Idris in her journey
thither. I lighted the glimmering lamp, which flickered in this damp
abode of the dead; then I bore my lost one to her last bed, decently
composing her limbs, and covering them with a mantle, veiling all
except her face, which remained lovely and placid. She appeared to rest
like one over-wearied, her beauteous eyes steeped in sweet slumber.
Yet, so it was not—she was dead! How intensely I then longed to lie
down beside her, to gaze till death should gather me to the same
repose.
But death does not come at the bidding of the miserable. I had lately
recovered from mortal illness, and my blood had never flowed with such
an even current, nor had my limbs ever been so instinct with quick
life, as now. I felt that my death must be voluntary. Yet what more
natural than famine, as I watched in this chamber of mortality, placed
in a world of the dead, beside the lost hope of my life? Meanwhile as I
looked on her, the features, which bore a sisterly resemblance to
Adrian, brought my thoughts back again to the living, to this dear
friend, to Clara, and to Evelyn, who were probably now in Windsor,
waiting anxiously for our arrival.
Methought I heard a noise, a step in the far chapel, which was
re-echoed by its vaulted roof, and borne to me through the hollow
passages. Had Clara seen my carriage pass up the town, and did she seek
me here? I must save her at least from the horrible scene the vault
presented. I sprung up the steps, and then saw a female figure, bent
with age, and clad in long mourning robes, advance through the dusky
chapel, supported by a slender cane, yet tottering even with this
support. She heard me, and looked up; the lamp I held illuminated my
figure, and the moon-beams, struggling through the painted glass, fell
upon her face, wrinkled and gaunt, yet with a piercing eye and
commanding brow—I recognized the Countess of Windsor. With a hollow
voice she asked, “Where is the princess?”
I pointed to the torn up pavement: she walked to the spot, and looked
down into the palpable darkness; for the vault was too distant for the
rays of the small lamp I had left there to be discernible.
“Your light,” she said. I gave it her; and she regarded the now
visible, but precipitous steps, as if calculating her capacity to
descend. Instinctively I made a silent offer of my assistance. She
motioned me away with a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as she
pointed downwards, “There at least I may have her undisturbed.”
She walked deliberately down, while I, overcome, miserable beyond
words, or tears, or groans, threw myself on the pavement near—the
stiffening form of Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance
hushed in eternal repose beneath. That was to me the end of all! The
day before, I had figured to my self various adventures, and communion
with my friends in after time—now I had leapt the interval, and reached
the utmost edge and bourne of life. Thus wrapt in gloom, enclosed,
walled up, vaulted over by the omnipotent present, I was startled by
the sound of feet on the steps of the tomb, and I remembered her whom I
had utterly forgotten, my angry visitant; her tall form slowly rose
upwards from the vault, a living statue, instinct with hate, and human,
passionate strife: she seemed to me as having reached the pavement of
the aisle; she stood motionless, seeking with her eyes alone, some
desired object—till, perceiving me close to her, she placed her
wrinkled hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous accents, “Lionel
Verney, my son!” This name, applied at such a moment by my angel’s
mother, instilled into me more respect than I had ever before felt for
this disdainful lady. I bowed my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand,
and, remarking that she trembled violently, supported her to the end of
the chancel, where she sat on the steps that led to the regal stall.
She suffered herself to be led, and still holding my hand, she leaned
her head back against the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with
various colours by the painted glass, fell on her glistening eyes;
aware of her weakness, again calling to mind her long cherished
dignity, she dashed the tears away; yet they fell fast, as she said,
for excuse, “She is so beautiful and placid, even in death. No harsh
feeling ever clouded her serene brow; how did I treat her? wounding her
gentle heart with savage coldness; I had no compassion on her in past
years, does she forgive me now? Little, little does it boot to talk of
repentance and forgiveness to the dead, had I during her life once
consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged nature to do her
pleasure, I should not feel thus.”
Idris and her mother were unlike in person. The dark hair, deep-set
black eyes, and prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in entire
contrast to the golden tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines
and contour of her daughter’s countenance. Yet, in latter days, illness
had taken from my poor girl the full outline of her face, and reduced
it to the inflexible shape of the bone beneath. In the form of her
brow, in her oval chin, there was to be found a resemblance to her
mother; nay in some moods, their gestures were not unlike; nor, having
lived so long together, was this wonderful.
There is a magic power in resemblance. When one we love dies, we hope
to see them in another state, and half expect that the agency of mind
will inform its new garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture.
But these are ideas of the mind only. We know that the instrument is
shivered, the sensible image lies in miserable fragments, dissolved to
dusty nothingness; a look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs
similar to the dead in a living person, touches a thrilling chord,
whose sacred harmony is felt in the heart’s dearest recess. Strangely
moved, prostrate before this spectral image, and enslaved by the force
of blood manifested in likeness of look and movement, I remained
trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and till now unloved
mother of Idris.
Poor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she had cherished
the idea, that a word, a look of reconciliation from her, would be
received with joy, and repay long years of severity. Now that the time
was gone for the exercise of such power, she fell at once upon the
thorny truth of things, and felt that neither smile nor caress could
penetrate to the unconscious state, or influence the happiness of her
who lay in the vault beneath. This conviction, together with the
remembrance of soft replies to bitter speeches, of gentle looks
repaying angry glances; the perception of the falsehood, paltryness and
futility of her cherished dreams of birth and power; the overpowering
knowledge, that love and life were the true emperors of our mortal
state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul with stormy and
bewildering confusion. It fell to my lot, to come as the influential
power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I spoke
to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how
her virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in
her past career. I praised her, the idol of my heart’s dear worship,
the admired type of feminine perfection. With ardent and overflowing
eloquence, I relieved my heart from its burthen, and awoke to the sense
of a new pleasure in life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy. Then I
referred to Adrian, her loved brother, and to her surviving child. I
declared, which I had before almost forgotten, what my duties were with
regard to these valued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy
repentant mother reflect, how she could best expiate unkindness towards
the dead, by redoubled love of the survivors. Consoling her, my own
sorrows were assuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction.
She turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with
a mild expression of face, and said, “If our beloved angel sees us now,
it will delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were
worthy of her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from
me. Pardon, my son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter
words and unkind treatment—take me, and govern me as you will.”
I seized this docile moment to propose our departure from the church.
“First,” she said, “let us replace the pavement above the vault.”
We drew near to it; “Shall we look on her again?” I asked.
“I cannot,” she replied, “and, I pray you, neither do you. We need not
torture ourselves by gazing on the soulless body, while her living
spirit is buried quick in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is
so deeply carved there, that sleeping or waking she must ever be
present to us.”
For a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the open vault. I
consecrated my future life, to the embalming of her dear memory; I
vowed to serve her brother and her child till death. The convulsive sob
of my companion made me break off my internal orisons. I next dragged
the stones over the entrance of the tomb, and closed the gulph that
contained the life of my life. Then, supporting my decrepid
fellow-mourner, we slowly left the chapel. I felt, as I stepped into
the open air, as if I had quitted an happy nest of repose, for a dreary
wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter, joyless, hopeless pilgrimage.