The Plague, Pestilence & Apocalypse MEGAPACK™

by Robert Reed

  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 exclama-

  tions 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 LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1157

  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 snow caused the horses to drag their load slowly and heav-

  ily . 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 scat-

  tered 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 Bishop-

  gate, 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 rever-

  ence on a structure, ancient almost as the rock on which it stood,

  abode of kings, theme of admiration for the wise . With greater rev-

  erence 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, woman-

  like, 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;

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1158

  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 em-

  blazonry 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 won-

  der, 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 con-

  tained 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 .

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1159

  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 mor-

  tality, pla
ced 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 liv-

  ing, 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 vis-

  ible, 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

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1160

  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 weak-

  ness, 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

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1161

  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 in-

  strument 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 hap-

  piness 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, pal-

  tryness 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 influen-

  tial 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

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1162

  to her surviving child . I declared, which I had before almost forgot-

  ten, what my duties were with regard to these valued portions of

  herself, and bade the melancholy repentant mother reflect, how she

  c
ould 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 . “First,” she said, “let us replace the pavement above the

  vault .”

  We drew near to it; “Shall we look on her again?” I asked .

  “I cannot,” she replied, “and, I pray you, neither do you . We need

  not torture ourselves by gazing on the soulless body, while her living

  spirit is buried quick in our hearts, and her surpassing loveliness is

  so deeply carved there, that sleeping or waking she must ever be

  present to us .”

  For a few moments, we bent in solemn silence over the open

  vault . I consecrated my future life, to the embalming of her dear

  memory; I vowed to serve her brother and her child till death . The

  convulsive sob of my companion made me break off my internal

  orisons . I next dragged the stones over the entrance of the tomb, and

  closed the gulph that contained the life of my life . Then, supporting

  my decrepid fellow-mourner, we slowly left the chapel . I felt, as I

  stepped into the open air, as if I had quitted an happy nest of repose,

  for a dreary wilderness, a tortuous path, a bitter, joyless, hopeless

  pilgrimage .

  THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1163

  CHAPTER IV.

  OUR escort had been directed to prepare our abode for the night

  at the inn, opposite the ascent to the Castle . We could not again visit

  the halls and familiar chambers of our home, on a mere visit . We

  had already left for ever the glades of Windsor, and all of coppice,

  flowery hedgerow, and murmuring stream, which gave shape and

  intensity to the love of our country, and the almost superstitious at-

  tachment with which we regarded native England . It had been our

  intention to have called at Lucy’s dwelling in Datchet, and to have