The Last Man
beneficial to the city, or who possessed no other refuge, he provided
with advice for better avoiding the epidemic; relieving overloaded
families, supplying the gaps made in others by death. Order, comfort,
and even health, rose under his influence, as from the touch of a
magician’s wand.
“I am glad you are come,” he said to me, when we were at last alone; “I
can only spare a few minutes, and must tell you much in that time. The
plague is now in progress—it is useless closing one’s eyes to the
fact—the deaths encrease each week. What will come I cannot guess. As
yet, thank God, I am equal to the government of the town; and I look
only to the present. Ryland, whom I have so long detained, has
stipulated that I shall suffer him to depart before the end of this
month. The deputy appointed by parliament is dead; another therefore
must be named; I have advanced my claim, and I believe that I shall
have no competitor. To-night the question is to be decided, as there is
a call of the house for the purpose. You must nominate me, Lionel;
Ryland, for shame, cannot shew himself; but you, my friend, will do me
this service?”
How lovely is devotion! Here was a youth, royally sprung, bred in
luxury, by nature averse to the usual struggles of a public life, and
now, in time of danger, at a period when to live was the utmost scope
of the ambitious, he, the beloved and heroic Adrian, made, in sweet
simplicity, an offer to sacrifice himself for the public good. The very
idea was generous and noble,—but, beyond this, his unpretending manner,
his entire want of the assumption of a virtue, rendered his act ten
times more touching. I would have withstood his request; but I had seen
the good he diffused; I felt that his resolves were not to be shaken,
so, with an heavy heart, I consented to do as he asked. He grasped my
hand affectionately:—“Thank you,” he said, “you have relieved me from a
painful dilemma, and are, as you ever were, the best of my friends.
Farewell—I must now leave you for a few hours. Go you and converse with
Ryland. Although he deserts his post in London, he may be of the
greatest service in the north of England, by receiving and assisting
travellers, and contributing to supply the metropolis with food. Awaken
him, I entreat you, to some sense of duty.”
Adrian left me, as I afterwards learnt, upon his daily task of visiting
the hospitals, and inspecting the crowded parts of London. I found
Ryland much altered, even from what he had been when he visited
Windsor. Perpetual fear had jaundiced his complexion, and shrivelled
his whole person. I told him of the business of the evening, and a
smile relaxed the contracted muscles. He desired to go; each day he
expected to be infected by pestilence, each day he was unable to resist
the gentle violence of Adrian’s detention. The moment Adrian should be
legally elected his deputy, he would escape to safety. Under this
impression he listened to all I said; and, elevated almost to joy by
the near prospect of his departure, he entered into a discussion
concerning the plans he should adopt in his own county, forgetting, for
the moment, his cherished resolution of shutting himself up from all
communication in the mansion and grounds of his estate.
In the evening, Adrian and I proceeded to Westminster. As we went he
reminded me of what I was to say and do, yet, strange to say, I entered
the chamber without having once reflected on my purpose. Adrian
remained in the coffee-room, while I, in compliance with his desire,
took my seat in St. Stephen’s. There reigned unusual silence in the
chamber. I had not visited it since Raymond’s protectorate; a period
conspicuous for a numerous attendance of members, for the eloquence of
the speakers, and the warmth of the debate. The benches were very
empty, those by custom occupied by the hereditary members were vacant;
the city members were there—the members for the commercial towns, few
landed proprietors, and not many of those who entered parliament for
the sake of a career. The first subject that occupied the attention of
the house was an address from the Lord Protector, praying them to
appoint a deputy during a necessary absence on his part.
A silence prevailed, till one of the members coming to me, whispered
that the Earl of Windsor had sent him word that I was to move his
election, in the absence of the person who had been first chosen for
this office. Now for the first time I saw the full extent of my task,
and I was overwhelmed by what I had brought on myself. Ryland had
deserted his post through fear of the plague: from the same fear Adrian
had no competitor. And I, the nearest kinsman of the Earl of Windsor,
was to propose his election. I was to thrust this selected and
matchless friend into the post of danger— impossible! the die was
cast—I would offer myself as candidate.
The few members who were present, had come more for the sake of
terminating the business by securing a legal attendance, than under the
idea of a debate. I had risen mechanically—my knees trembled;
irresolution hung on my voice, as I uttered a few words on the
necessity of choosing a person adequate to the dangerous task in hand.
But, when the idea of presenting myself in the room of my friend
intruded, the load of doubt and pain was taken from off me. My words
flowed spontaneously—my utterance was firm and quick. I adverted to
what Adrian had already done—I promised the same vigilance in
furthering all his views. I drew a touching picture of his vacillating
health; I boasted of my own strength. I prayed them to save even from
himself this scion of the noblest family in England. My alliance with
him was the pledge of my sincerity, my union with his sister, my
children, his presumptive heirs, were the hostages of my truth.
This unexpected turn in the debate was quickly communicated to Adrian.
He hurried in, and witnessed the termination of my impassioned
harangue. I did not see him: my soul was in my words,—my eyes could not
perceive that which was; while a vision of Adrian’s form, tainted by
pestilence, and sinking in death, floated before them. He seized my
hand, as I concluded— “Unkind!” he cried, “you have betrayed me!” then,
springing forwards, with the air of one who had a right to command, he
claimed the place of deputy as his own. He had bought it, he said, with
danger, and paid for it with toil. His ambition rested there; and,
after an interval devoted to the interests of his country, was I to
step in, and reap the profit? Let them remember what London had been
when he arrived: the panic that prevailed brought famine, while every
moral and legal tie was loosened. He had restored order—this had been a
work which required perseverance, patience, and energy; and he had
neither slept nor waked but for the good of his country.—Would they
dare wrong him thus? Would they wrest his hard-earned reward from him,
to bestow it on one, who, never having mingled in public life, would
come a tyro to the craft, in which he was an adept. He demanded the
place of deputy as his right. Ryland had shewn that he preferred him.
Never before had he, who was born even to the inheritance of the throne
of England, never had he asked favour or honour from those now his
equals, but who might have been his subjects. Would they refuse him?
Could they thrust back from the path of distinction and laudable
ambition, the heir of their ancient kings, and heap another
disappointment on a fallen house.
No one had ever before heard Adrian allude to the rights of his
ancestors. None had ever before suspected, that power, or the suffrage
of the many, could in any manner become dear to him. He had begun his
speech with vehemence; he ended with unassuming gentleness, making his
appeal with the same humility, as if he had asked to be the first in
wealth, honour, and power among Englishmen, and not, as was the truth,
to be the foremost in the ranks of loathsome toils and inevitable
death. A murmur of approbation rose after his speech. “Oh, do not
listen to him,” I cried, “he speaks false—false to himself,”—I was
interrupted: and, silence being restored, we were ordered, as was the
custom, to retire during the decision of the house. I fancied that they
hesitated, and that there was some hope for me—I was mistaken—hardly
had we quitted the chamber, before Adrian was recalled, and installed
in his office of Lord Deputy to the Protector.
We returned together to the palace. “Why, Lionel,” said Adrian, “what
did you intend? you could not hope to conquer, and yet you gave me the
pain of a triumph over my dearest friend.”
“This is mockery,” I replied, “you devote yourself,—you, the adored
brother of Idris, the being, of all the world contains, dearest to our
hearts—you devote yourself to an early death. I would have prevented
this; my death would be a small evil—or rather I should not die; while
you cannot hope to escape.”
“As to the likelihood of escaping,” said Adrian, “ten years hence the
cold stars may shine on the graves of all of us; but as to my peculiar
liability to infection, I could easily prove, both logically and
physically, that in the midst of contagion I have a better chance of
life than you.
“This is my post: I was born for this—to rule England in anarchy, to
save her in danger—to devote myself for her. The blood of my
forefathers cries aloud in my veins, and bids me be first among my
countrymen. Or, if this mode of speech offend you, let me say, that my
mother, the proud queen, instilled early into me a love of distinction,
and all that, if the weakness of my physical nature and my peculiar
opinions had not prevented such a design, might have made me long since
struggle for the lost inheritance of my race. But now my mother, or, if
you will, my mother’s lessons, awaken within me. I cannot lead on to
battle; I cannot, through intrigue and faithlessness rear again the
throne upon the wreck of English public spirit. But I can be the first
to support and guard my country, now that terrific disasters and ruin
have laid strong hands upon her.
“That country and my beloved sister are all I have. I will protect the
first—the latter I commit to your charge. If I survive, and she be
lost, I were far better dead. Preserve her—for her own sake I know that
you will—if you require any other spur, think that, in preserving her,
you preserve me. Her faultless nature, one sum of perfections, is wrapt
up in her affections—if they were hurt, she would droop like an
unwatered floweret, and the slightest injury they receive is a nipping
frost to her. Already she fears for us. She fears for the children she
adores, and for you, the father of these, her lover, husband,
protector; and you must be near her to support and encourage her.
Return to Windsor then, my brother; for such you are by every tie—fill
the double place my absence imposes on you, and let me, in all my
sufferings here, turn my eyes towards that dear seclusion, and
say—There is peace.”
[7] Shakespeare’s Sonnets.
CHAPTER VII.
I did proceed to Windsor, but not with the intention of remaining
there. I went but to obtain the consent of Idris, and then to return
and take my station beside my unequalled friend; to share his labours,
and save him, if so it must be, at the expence of my life. Yet I
dreaded to witness the anguish which my resolve might excite in Idris.
I had vowed to my own heart never to shadow her countenance even with
transient grief, and should I prove recreant at the hour of greatest
need? I had begun my journey with anxious haste; now I desired to draw
it out through the course of days and months. I longed to avoid the
necessity of action; I strove to escape from thought—vainly—futurity,
like a dark image in a phantasmagoria, came nearer and more near, till