The Last Man
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