The Last Man
failed. Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as I did, still she
lagged: and at the distance of half a mile, after many stoppages,
shivering fits, and half faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm on
the snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must be taken,
for that she could not proceed. I lifted her up in my arms; her light
form rested on my breast.—I felt no burthen, except the internal one of
contrary and contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested me.
Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and I shuddered in
sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head lay on my shoulder, her
breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine, transport made me
tremble, blinded me, annihilated me—till a suppressed groan, bursting
from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she strove vainly to
subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced, recalled me to the
necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her, “There is
Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus strangely
circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your flight
too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put
you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.”
She answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased. I
observed the door of a small out-house a-jar. I pushed it open; and,
with some hay strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her
exhausted frame on it, and covering her with my cloak. I feared to
leave her, she looked so wan and faint—but in a moment she re-acquired
animation, and, with that, fear; and again she implored me not to
delay. To call up the people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and
horses, even though I harnessed them myself, was the work of many
minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight of ages. I caused the
chaise to advance a little, waited till the people of the inn had
retired, and then made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot
where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat recovered, stood waiting for
me. I lifted her into the chaise; I assured her that with our four
horses we should arrive in London before five o’clock, the hour when
she would be sought and missed. I besought her to calm herself; a
kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she related her
tale of fear and peril.
That same night after Adrian’s departure, her mother had warmly
expostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me. Every
motive, every threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain. She seemed
to consider that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil
influence of her life; I was even accused of encreasing and confirming
the mad and base apostacy of Adrian from all views of advancement and
grandeur; and now this miserable mountaineer was to steal her daughter.
Never, Idris related, did the angry lady deign to recur to gentleness
and persuasion; if she had, the task of resistance would have been
exquisitely painful. As it was, the sweet girl’s generous nature was
roused to defend, and ally herself with, my despised cause. Her mother
ended with a look of contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment
awakened the suspicions of Idris. When they parted for the night, the
Countess said, “To-morrow I trust your tone will be changed: be
composed; I have agitated you; go to rest; and I will send you a
medicine I always take when unduly restless—it will give you a quiet
night.”
By the time that she had with uneasy thoughts laid her fair cheek upon
her pillow, her mother’s servant brought a draught; a suspicion again
crossed her at this novel proceeding, sufficiently alarming to
determine her not to take the potion; but dislike of contention, and a
wish to discover whether there was any just foundation for her
conjectures, made her, she said, almost instinctively, and in
contradiction to her usual frankness, pretend to swallow the medicine.
Then, agitated as she had been by her mother’s violence, and now by
unaccustomed fears, she lay unable to sleep, starting at every sound.
Soon her door opened softly, and on her springing up, she heard a
whisper, “Not asleep yet,” and the door again closed. With a beating
heart she expected another visit, and when after an interval her
chamber was again invaded, having first assured herself that the
intruders were her mother and an attendant, she composed herself to
feigned sleep. A step approached her bed, she dared not move, she
strove to calm her palpitations, which became more violent, when she
heard her mother say mutteringly, “Pretty simpleton, little do you
think that your game is already at an end for ever.”
For a moment the poor girl fancied that her mother believed that she
had drank poison: she was on the point of springing up; when the
Countess, already at a distance from the bed, spoke in a low voice to
her companion, and again Idris listened: “Hasten,” said she, “there is
no time to lose— it is long past eleven; they will be here at five;
take merely the clothes necessary for her journey, and her
jewel-casket.” The servant obeyed; few words were spoken on either
side; but those were caught at with avidity by the intended victim. She
heard the name of her own maid mentioned;—“No, no,” replied her mother,
“she does not go with us; Lady Idris must forget England, and all
belonging to it.” And again she heard, “She will not wake till late
to-morrow, and we shall then be at sea.”——“All is ready,” at length the
woman announced. The Countess again came to her daughter’s bedside: “In
Austria at least,” she said, “you will obey. In Austria, where
obedience can be enforced, and no choice left but between an honourable
prison and a fitting marriage.”
Both then withdrew; though, as she went, the Countess said, “Softly;
all sleep; though all have not been prepared for sleep, like her. I
would not have any one suspect, or she might be roused to resistance,
and perhaps escape. Come with me to my room; we will remain there till
the hour agreed upon.” They went. Idris, panic-struck, but animated and
strengthened even by her excessive fear, dressed herself hurriedly, and
going down a flight of back-stairs, avoiding the vicinity of her
mother’s apartment, she contrived to escape from the castle by a low
window, and came through snow, wind, and obscurity to my cottage; nor
lost her courage, until she arrived, and, depositing her fate in my
hands, gave herself up to the desperation and weariness that
overwhelmed her.
I comforted her as well as I might. Joy and exultation, were mine, to
possess, and to save her. Yet not to excite fresh agitation in her,
“_per non turbar quel bel viso sereno_,” I curbed my delight. I strove
to quiet the eager dancing of my heart; I turned from her my eyes,
beaming with too much tenderness, and proudly, to dark night, and the
inclement atmosphere, murmured the expressions of my transport. We
reached London, methought, all too soon; and yet I could not regret our
speedy arrival, when I witnessed the extasy with which my beloved girl
found herself in her brother’s arms, safe from every evil, under his
unblamed protection.
Adrian wrote a brief note to his mother, informing her that Idris was
under his care and guardianship. Several days elapsed, and at last an
answer came, dated from Cologne. “It was useless,” the haughty and
disappointed lady wrote, “for the Earl of Windsor and his sister to
address again the injured parent, whose only expectation of
tranquillity must be derived from oblivion of their existence. Her
desires had been blasted, her schemes overthrown. She did not complain;
in her brother’s court she would find, not compensation for their
disobedience (filial unkindness admitted of none), but such a state of
things and mode of life, as might best reconcile her to her fate. Under
such circumstances, she positively declined any communication with
them.”
Such were the strange and incredible events, that finally brought about
my union with the sister of my best friend, with my adored Idris. With
simplicity and courage she set aside the prejudices and opposition
which were obstacles to my happiness, nor scrupled to give her hand,
where she had given her heart. To be worthy of her, to raise myself to
her height through the exertion of talents and virtue, to repay her
love with devoted, unwearied tenderness, were the only thanks I could
offer for the matchless gift.
CHAPTER VI.
And now let the reader, passing over some short period of time, be
introduced to our happy circle. Adrian, Idris and I, were established
in Windsor Castle; Lord Raymond and my sister, inhabited a house which
the former had built on the borders of the Great Park, near Perdita’s
cottage, as was still named the low-roofed abode, where we two, poor
even in hope, had each received the assurance of our felicity. We had
our separate occupations and our common amusements. Sometimes we passed
whole days under the leafy covert of the forest with our books and
music. This occurred during those rare days in this country, when the
sun mounts his etherial throne in unclouded majesty, and the windless
atmosphere is as a bath of pellucid and grateful water, wrapping the
senses in tranquillity. When the clouds veiled the sky, and the wind
scattered them there and here, rending their woof, and strewing its
fragments through the aerial plains—then we rode out, and sought new
spots of beauty and repose. When the frequent rains shut us within
doors, evening recreation followed morning study, ushered in by music
and song. Idris had a natural musical talent; and her voice, which had
been carefully cultivated, was full and sweet. Raymond and I made a
part of the concert, and Adrian and Perdita were devout listeners. Then
we were as gay as summer insects, playful as children; we ever met one
another with smiles, and read content and joy in each other’s
countenances. Our prime festivals were held in Perdita’s cottage; nor
were we ever weary of talking of the past or dreaming of the future.
Jealousy and disquiet were unknown among us; nor did a fear or hope of
change ever disturb our tranquillity. Others said, We might be happy—we
said—We are.
When any separation took place between us, it generally so happened,
that Idris and Perdita would ramble away together, and we remained to
discuss the affairs of nations, and the philosophy of life. The very
difference of our dispositions gave zest to these conversations. Adrian
had the superiority in learning and eloquence; but Raymond possessed a
quick penetration, and a practical knowledge of life, which usually
displayed itself in opposition to Adrian, and thus kept up the ball of
discussion. At other times we made excursions of many days’ duration,
and crossed the country to visit any spot noted for beauty or
historical association. Sometimes we went up to London, and entered
into the amusements of the busy throng; sometimes our retreat was
invaded by visitors from among them. This change made us only the more
sensible to the delights of the intimate intercourse of our own circle,
the tranquillity of our divine forest, and our happy evenings in the
halls of our beloved Castle.
The disposition of Idris was peculiarly frank, soft, and affectionate.
Her temper was unalterably sweet; and although firm and resolute on any
point that touched her heart, she was yielding to those she loved. The
nature of Perdita was less perfect; but tenderness and happiness
improved her temper, and softened her natural reserve. Her
understanding was clear and comprehensive, her imagination vivid; she
was sincere, generous, and reasonable. Adrian, the matchless brother of
my soul, the sensitive and excellent Adrian, loving all, and beloved by
all, yet seemed destined not to find the half of himself, which was to