The Last Man
snow caused the horses to drag their load slowly and heavily. Suddenly
the wind veered from south-west to west, and then again to north-west.
As Sampson with tug and strain stirred from their bases the columns
that supported the Philistine temple, so did the gale shake the dense
vapours propped on the horizon, while the massy dome of clouds fell to
the south, disclosing through the scattered web the clear empyrean, and
the little stars, which were set at an immeasurable distance in the
crystalline fields, showered their small rays on the glittering snow.
Even the horses were cheered, and moved on with renovated strength. We
entered the forest at Bishopgate, and at the end of the Long Walk I saw
the Castle, “the proud Keep of Windsor, rising in the majesty of
proportion, girt with the double belt of its kindred and coeval
towers.” I looked with reverence on a structure, ancient almost as the
rock on which it stood, abode of kings, theme of admiration for the
wise. With greater reverence and, tearful affection I beheld it as the
asylum of the long lease of love I had enjoyed there with the
perishable, unmatchable treasure of dust, which now lay cold beside me.
Now indeed, I could have yielded to all the softness of my nature, and
wept; and, womanlike, have uttered bitter plaints; while the familiar
trees, the herds of living deer, the sward oft prest by her fairy-feet,
one by one with sad association presented themselves. The white gate at
the end of the Long Walk was wide open, and I rode up the empty town
through the first gate of the feudal tower; and now St. George’s
Chapel, with its blackened fretted sides, was right before me. I halted
at its door, which was open; I entered, and placed my lighted lamp on
the altar; then I returned, and with tender caution I bore Idris up the
aisle into the chancel, and laid her softly down on the carpet which
covered the step leading to the communion table. The banners of the
knights of the garter, and their half drawn swords, were hung in vain
emblazonry above the stalls. The banner of her family hung there, still
surmounted by its regal crown. Farewell to the glory and heraldry of
England!—I turned from such vanity with a slight feeling of wonder, at
how mankind could have ever been interested in such things. I bent over
the lifeless corpse of my beloved; and, while looking on her uncovered
face, the features already contracted by the rigidity of death, I felt
as if all the visible universe had grown as soulless, inane, and
comfortless as the clay-cold image beneath me. I felt for a moment the
intolerable sense of struggle with, and detestation for, the laws which
govern the world; till the calm still visible on the face of my dead
love recalled me to a more soothing tone of mind, and I proceeded to
fulfil the last office that could now be paid her. For her I could not
lament, so much I envied her enjoyment of “the sad immunities of the
grave.”
The vault had been lately opened to place our Alfred therein. The
ceremony customary in these latter days had been cursorily performed,
and the pavement of the chapel, which was its entrance, having been
removed, had not been replaced. I descended the steps, and walked
through the long passage to the large vault which contained the kindred
dust of my Idris. I distinguished the small coffin of my babe. With
hasty, trembling hands I constructed a bier beside it, spreading it
with the furs and Indian shawls, which had wrapt Idris in her journey
thither. I lighted the glimmering lamp, which flickered in this damp
abode of the dead; then I bore my lost one to her last bed, decently
composing her limbs, and covering them with a mantle, veiling all
except her face, which remained lovely and placid. She appeared to rest
like one over-wearied, her beauteous eyes steeped in sweet slumber.
Yet, so it was not—she was dead! How intensely I then longed to lie
down beside her, to gaze till death should gather me to the same
repose.
But death does not come at the bidding of the miserable. I had lately
recovered from mortal illness, and my blood had never flowed with such
an even current, nor had my limbs ever been so instinct with quick
life, as now. I felt that my death must be voluntary. Yet what more
natural than famine, as I watched in this chamber of mortality, placed
in a world of the dead, beside the lost hope of my life? Meanwhile as I
looked on her, the features, which bore a sisterly resemblance to
Adrian, brought my thoughts back again to the living, to this dear
friend, to Clara, and to Evelyn, who were probably now in Windsor,
waiting anxiously for our arrival.
Methought I heard a noise, a step in the far chapel, which was
re-echoed by its vaulted roof, and borne to me through the hollow
passages. Had Clara seen my carriage pass up the town, and did she seek
me here? I must save her at least from the horrible scene the vault
presented. I sprung up the steps, and then saw a female figure, bent
with age, and clad in long mourning robes, advance through the dusky
chapel, supported by a slender cane, yet tottering even with this
support. She heard me, and looked up; the lamp I held illuminated my
figure, and the moon-beams, struggling through the painted glass, fell
upon her face, wrinkled and gaunt, yet with a piercing eye and
commanding brow—I recognized the Countess of Windsor. With a hollow
voice she asked, “Where is the princess?”
I pointed to the torn up pavement: she walked to the spot, and looked
down into the palpable darkness; for the vault was too distant for the
rays of the small lamp I had left there to be discernible.
“Your light,” she said. I gave it her; and she regarded the now
visible, but precipitous steps, as if calculating her capacity to
descend. Instinctively I made a silent offer of my assistance. She
motioned me away with a look of scorn, saying in an harsh voice, as she
pointed downwards, “There at least I may have her undisturbed.”
She walked deliberately down, while I, overcome, miserable beyond
words, or tears, or groans, threw myself on the pavement near—the
stiffening form of Idris was before me, the death-struck countenance
hushed in eternal repose beneath. That was to me the end of all! The
day before, I had figured to my self various adventures, and communion
with my friends in after time—now I had leapt the interval, and reached
the utmost edge and bourne of life. Thus wrapt in gloom, enclosed,
walled up, vaulted over by the omnipotent present, I was startled by
the sound of feet on the steps of the tomb, and I remembered her whom I
had utterly forgotten, my angry visitant; her tall form slowly rose
upwards from the vault, a living statue, instinct with hate, and human,
passionate strife: she seemed to me as having reached the pavement of
the aisle; she stood motionless, seeking with her eyes alone, some
desired object—till, perceiving me close to her, she placed her
wrinkled hand on my arm, exclaiming with tremulous accents, “Lionel
Verney, my son!” This name, applied at such a moment by my angel’s
mother, instilled into me more respect than I had ever before felt for
this disdainful lady. I bowed my head, and kissed her shrivelled hand,
and, remarking that she trembled violently, supported her to the end of
the chancel, where she sat on the steps that led to the regal stall.
She suffered herself to be led, and still holding my hand, she leaned
her head back against the stall, while the moon beams, tinged with
various colours by the painted glass, fell on her glistening eyes;
aware of her weakness, again calling to mind her long cherished
dignity, she dashed the tears away; yet they fell fast, as she said,
for excuse, “She is so beautiful and placid, even in death. No harsh
feeling ever clouded her serene brow; how did I treat her? wounding her
gentle heart with savage coldness; I had no compassion on her in past
years, does she forgive me now? Little, little does it boot to talk of
repentance and forgiveness to the dead, had I during her life once
consulted her gentle wishes, and curbed my rugged nature to do her
pleasure, I should not feel thus.”
Idris and her mother were unlike in person. The dark hair, deep-set
black eyes, and prominent features of the Ex-Queen were in entire
contrast to the golden tresses, the full blue orbs, and the soft lines
and contour of her daughter’s countenance. Yet, in latter days, illness
had taken from my poor girl the full outline of her face, and reduced
it to the inflexible shape of the bone beneath. In the form of her
brow, in her oval chin, there was to be found a resemblance to her
mother; nay in some moods, their gestures were not unlike; nor, having
lived so long together, was this wonderful.
There is a magic power in resemblance. When one we love dies, we hope
to see them in another state, and half expect that the agency of mind
will inform its new garb in imitation of its decayed earthly vesture.
But these are ideas of the mind only. We know that the instrument is
shivered, the sensible image lies in miserable fragments, dissolved to
dusty nothingness; a look, a gesture, or a fashioning of the limbs
similar to the dead in a living person, touches a thrilling chord,
whose sacred harmony is felt in the heart’s dearest recess. Strangely
moved, prostrate before this spectral image, and enslaved by the force
of blood manifested in likeness of look and movement, I remained
trembling in the presence of the harsh, proud, and till now unloved
mother of Idris.
Poor, mistaken woman! in her tenderest mood before, she had cherished
the idea, that a word, a look of reconciliation from her, would be
received with joy, and repay long years of severity. Now that the time
was gone for the exercise of such power, she fell at once upon the
thorny truth of things, and felt that neither smile nor caress could
penetrate to the unconscious state, or influence the happiness of her
who lay in the vault beneath. This conviction, together with the
remembrance of soft replies to bitter speeches, of gentle looks
repaying angry glances; the perception of the falsehood, paltryness and
futility of her cherished dreams of birth and power; the overpowering
knowledge, that love and life were the true emperors of our mortal
state; all, as a tide, rose, and filled her soul with stormy and
bewildering confusion. It fell to my lot, to come as the influential
power, to allay the fierce tossing of these tumultuous waves. I spoke
to her; I led her to reflect how happy Idris had really been, and how
her virtues and numerous excellencies had found scope and estimation in
her past career. I praised her, the idol of my heart’s dear worship,
the admired type of feminine perfection. With ardent and overflowing
eloquence, I relieved my heart from its burthen, and awoke to the sense
of a new pleasure in life, as I poured forth the funeral eulogy. Then I
referred to Adrian, her loved brother, and to her surviving child. I
declared, which I had before almost forgotten, what my duties were with
regard to these valued portions of herself, and bade the melancholy
repentant mother reflect, how she could best expiate unkindness towards
the dead, by redoubled love of the survivors. Consoling her, my own
sorrows were assuaged; my sincerity won her entire conviction.
She turned to me. The hard, inflexible, persecuting woman, turned with
a mild expression of face, and said, “If our beloved angel sees us now,
it will delight her to find that I do you even tardy justice. You were
worthy of her; and from my heart I am glad that you won her away from
me. Pardon, my son, the many wrongs I have done you; forget my bitter
words and unkind treatment—take me, and govern me as you will.”
I seized this docile moment to propose our departure from the church.