The Last Man
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.”