The Last Man
of last night, nor does universal England know aught of me. I stand
here, it would seem, an elected king; this hand is about to grasp a
sceptre; these brows feel in each nerve the coming diadem. I appear to
have strength, power, victory; standing as a dome-supporting column
stands; and I am—a reed! I have ambition, and that attains its aim; my
nightly dreams are realized, my waking hopes fulfilled; a kingdom
awaits my acceptance, my enemies are overthrown. But here,” and he
struck his heart with violence, “here is the rebel, here the
stumbling-block; this over-ruling heart, which I may drain of its
living blood; but, while one fluttering pulsation remains, I am its
slave.”
He spoke with a broken voice, then bowed his head, and, hiding his face
in his hands, wept. I was still smarting from my own disappointment;
yet this scene oppressed me even to terror, nor could I interrupt his
access of passion. It subsided at length; and, throwing himself on the
couch, he remained silent and motionless, except that his changeful
features shewed a strong internal conflict. At last he rose, and said
in his usual tone of voice, “The time grows on us, Verney, I must away.
Let me not forget my chiefest errand here. Will you accompany me to
Windsor to-morrow? You will not be dishonoured by my society, and as
this is probably the last service, or disservice you can do me, will
you grant my request?”
He held out his hand with almost a bashful air. Swiftly I thought—Yes,
I will witness the last scene of the drama. Beside which, his mien
conquered me, and an affectionate sentiment towards him, again filled
my heart—I bade him command me. “Aye, that I will,” said he gaily,
“that’s my cue now; be with me to-morrow morning by seven; be secret
and faithful; and you shall be groom of the stole ere long.”
So saying, he hastened away, vaulted on his horse, and with a gesture
as if he gave me his hand to kiss, bade me another laughing adieu. Left
to myself, I strove with painful intensity to divine the motive of his
request and foresee the events of the coming day. The hours passed on
unperceived; my head ached with thought, the nerves seemed teeming with
the over full fraught—I clasped my burning brow, as if my fevered hand
could medicine its pain. I was punctual to the appointed hour on the
following day, and found Lord Raymond waiting for me. We got into his
carriage, and proceeded towards Windsor. I had tutored myself, and was
resolved by no outward sign to disclose my internal agitation.
“What a mistake Ryland made,” said Raymond, “when he thought to
overpower me the other night. He spoke well, very well; such an
harangue would have succeeded better addressed to me singly, than to
the fools and knaves assembled yonder. Had I been alone, I should have
listened to him with a wish to hear reason, but when he endeavoured to
vanquish me in my own territory, with my own weapons, he put me on my
mettle, and the event was such as all might have expected.”
I smiled incredulously, and replied: “I am of Ryland’s way of thinking,
and will, if you please, repeat all his arguments; we shall see how far
you will be induced by them, to change the royal for the patriotic
style.”
“The repetition would be useless,” said Raymond, “since I well remember
them, and have many others, self-suggested, which speak with
unanswerable persuasion.”
He did not explain himself, nor did I make any remark on his reply. Our
silence endured for some miles, till the country with open fields, or
shady woods and parks, presented pleasant objects to our view. After
some observations on the scenery and seats, Raymond said: “Philosophers
have called man a microcosm of nature, and find a reflection in the
internal mind for all this machinery visibly at work around us. This
theory has often been a source of amusement to me; and many an idle
hour have I spent, exercising my ingenuity in finding resemblances.
Does not Lord Bacon say that, ‘the falling from a discord to a concord,
which maketh great sweetness in music, hath an agreement with the
affections, which are re-integrated to the better after some dislikes?’
What a sea is the tide of passion, whose fountains are in our own
nature! Our virtues are the quick-sands, which shew themselves at calm
and low water; but let the waves arise and the winds buffet them, and
the poor devil whose hope was in their durability, finds them sink from
under him. The fashions of the world, its exigencies, educations and
pursuits, are winds to drive our wills, like clouds all one way; but
let a thunderstorm arise in the shape of love, hate, or ambition, and
the rack goes backward, stemming the opposing air in triumph.”
“Yet,” replied I, “nature always presents to our eyes the appearance of
a patient: while there is an active principle in man which is capable
of ruling fortune, and at least of tacking against the gale, till it in
some mode conquers it.”
“There is more of what is specious than true in your distinction,” said
my companion. “Did we form ourselves, choosing our dispositions, and
our powers? I find myself, for one, as a stringed instrument with
chords and stops—but I have no power to turn the pegs, or pitch my
thoughts to a higher or lower key.”
“Other men,” I observed, “may be better musicians.”
“I talk not of others, but myself,” replied Raymond, “and I am as fair
an example to go by as another. I cannot set my heart to a particular
tune, or run voluntary changes on my will. We are born; we choose
neither our parents, nor our station; we are educated by others, or by
the world’s circumstance, and this cultivation, mingling with our
innate disposition, is the soil in which our desires, passions, and
motives grow.”
“There is much truth in what you say,” said I, “and yet no man ever
acts upon this theory. Who, when he makes a choice, says, Thus I
choose, because I am necessitated? Does he not on the contrary feel a
freedom of will within him, which, though you may call it fallacious,
still actuates him as he decides?”
“Exactly so,” replied Raymond, “another link of the breakless chain.
Were I now to commit an act which would annihilate my hopes, and pluck
the regal garment from my mortal limbs, to clothe them in ordinary
weeds, would this, think you, be an act of free-will on my part?”
As we talked thus, I perceived that we were not going the ordinary road
to Windsor, but through Englefield Green, towards Bishopgate Heath. I
began to divine that Idris was not the object of our journey, but that
I was brought to witness the scene that was to decide the fate of
Raymond—and of Perdita. Raymond had evidently vacillated during his
journey, and irresolution was marked in every gesture as we entered
Perdita’s cottage. I watched him curiously, determined that, if this
hesitation should continue, I would assist Perdita to overcome herself,
and teach her to disdain the wavering love of him, who balanced between
the possession of a crown, and of her, whose excellence and affection
transcended the worth of a kingdom.
We found her in her flower-adorned alcove; she was reading the
newspaper report of the debate in parliament, that apparently doomed
her to hopelessness. That heart-sinking feeling was painted in her sunk
eyes and spiritless attitude; a cloud was on her beauty, and frequent
sighs were tokens of her distress. This sight had an instantaneous
effect on Raymond; his eyes beamed with tenderness, and remorse clothed
his manners with earnestness and truth. He sat beside her; and, taking
the paper from her hand, said, “Not a word more shall my sweet Perdita
read of this contention of madmen and fools. I must not permit you to
be acquainted with the extent of my delusion, lest you despise me;
although, believe me, a wish to appear before you, not vanquished, but
as a conqueror, inspired me during my wordy war.”
Perdita looked at him like one amazed; her expressive countenance shone
for a moment with tenderness; to see him only was happiness. But a
bitter thought swiftly shadowed her joy; she bent her eyes on the
ground, endeavouring to master the passion of tears that threatened to
overwhelm her. Raymond continued, “I will not act a part with you, dear
girl, or appear other than what I am, weak and unworthy, more fit to
excite your disdain than your love. Yet you do love me; I feel and know
that you do, and thence I draw my most cherished hopes. If pride guided
you, or even reason, you might well reject me. Do so; if your high
heart, incapable of my infirmity of purpose, refuses to bend to the
lowness of mine. Turn from me, if you will,—if you can. If your whole
soul does not urge you to forgive me—if your entire heart does not open
wide its door to admit me to its very centre, forsake me, never speak
to me again. I, though sinning against you almost beyond remission, I
also am proud; there must be no reserve in your pardon—no drawback to
the gift of your affection.”
Perdita looked down, confused, yet pleased. My presence embarrassed
her; so that she dared not turn to meet her lover’s eye, or trust her
voice to assure him of her affection; while a blush mantled her cheek,
and her disconsolate air was exchanged for one expressive of deep-felt
joy. Raymond encircled her waist with his arm, and continued, “I do not
deny that I have balanced between you and the highest hope that mortal
men can entertain; but I do so no longer. Take me—mould me to your
will, possess my heart and soul to all eternity. If you refuse to
contribute to my happiness, I quit England to-night, and will never set
foot in it again.
“Lionel, you hear: witness for me: persuade your sister to forgive the
injury I have done her; persuade her to be mine.”
“There needs no persuasion,” said the blushing Perdita, “except your
own dear promises, and my ready heart, which whispers to me that they
are true.”
That same evening we all three walked together in the forest, and, with
the garrulity which happiness inspires, they detailed to me the history
of their loves. It was pleasant to see the haughty Raymond and reserved
Perdita changed through happy love into prattling, playful children,
both losing their characteristic dignity in the fulness of mutual
contentment. A night or two ago Lord Raymond, with a brow of care, and
a heart oppressed with thought, bent all his energies to silence or
persuade the legislators of England that a sceptre was not too weighty
for his hand, while visions of dominion, war, and triumph floated
before him; now, frolicsome as a lively boy sporting under his mother’s
approving eye, the hopes of his ambition were complete, when he pressed
the small fair hand of Perdita to his lips; while she, radiant with
delight, looked on the still pool, not truly admiring herself, but
drinking in with rapture the reflection there made of the form of
herself and her lover, shewn for the first time in dear conjunction.
I rambled away from them. If the rapture of assured sympathy was
theirs, I enjoyed that of restored hope. I looked on the regal towers
of Windsor. High is the wall and strong the barrier that separate me
from my Star of Beauty. But not impassible. She will not be his. A few
more years dwell in thy native garden, sweet flower, till I by toil and
time acquire a right to gather thee. Despair not, nor bid me despair!
What must I do now? First I must seek Adrian, and restore him to her.
Patience, gentleness, and untired affection, shall recall him, if it be
true, as Raymond says, that he is mad; energy and courage shall rescue
him, if he be unjustly imprisoned.
After the lovers again joined me, we supped together in the alcove.
Truly it was a fairy’s supper; for though the air was perfumed by the
scent of fruits and wine, we none of us either ate or drank—even the