by Robert Reed
re-assured her with promises of aid and protection before we re-
paired to our quarters for the night . Now, as the Countess of Windsor
and I turned down the steep hill that led from the Castle, we saw
the children, who had just stopped in their caravan, at the inn-door .
They had passed through Datchet without halting . I dreaded to meet
them, and to be the bearer of my tragic story, so while they were still
occupied in the hurry of arrival, I suddenly left them, and through
the snow and clear moon-light air, hastened along the well known
road to Datchet .
Well known indeed it was . Each cottage stood on its accustomed
site, each tree wore its familiar appearance . Habit had graven un-
eraseably on my memory, every turn and change of object on the
road . At a short distance beyond the Little Park, was an elm half
blown down by a storm, some ten years ago; and still, with leafless
snow-laden branches, it stretched across the pathway, which wound
through a meadow, beside a shallow brook, whose brawling was
silenced by frost—that stile, that white gate, that hollow oak tree,
which doubtless once belonged to the forest, and which now shewed
in the moonlight its gaping rent; to whose fanciful appearance,
tricked out by the dusk into a resemblance of the human form, the
children had given the name of Falstaff;—all these objects were as
well known to me as the cold hearth of my deserted home, and every
moss-grown wall and plot of orchard ground, alike as twin lambs
are to each other in a stranger’s eye, yet to my accustomed gaze
bore differences, distinction, and a name . England remained, though
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1164
England was dead—it was the ghost of merry England that I beheld,
under those greenwood shade passing generations had sported in
security and ease . To this painful recognition of familiar places, was
added a feeling experienced by all, understood by none—a feeling
as if in some state, less visionary than a dream, in some past real
existence, I had seen all I saw, with precisely the same feelings as
I now beheld them—as if all my sensations were a duplex mirror
of a former revelation . To get rid of this oppressive sense I strove
to imagine change in this tranquil spot—this augmented my mood,
by causing me to bestow more attention on the objects which oc-
casioned me pain .
I reached Datchet and Lucy’s humble abode—once noisy with
Saturday night revellers, or trim and neat on Sunday morning it had
borne testimony to the labours and orderly habits of the housewife .
The snow lay high about the door, as if it had remained unclosed for
many days .
“What scene of death hath Roscius now to act?” I muttered to
myself as I looked at the dark casements. At first I thought I saw
a light in one of them, but it proved to be merely the refraction of
the moon-beams, while the only sound was the crackling branches
as the breeze whirred the snow flakes from them—the moon sailed
high and unclouded in the interminable ether, while the shadow of
the cottage lay black on the garden behind . I entered this by the open
wicket, and anxiously examined each window . At length I detected
a ray of light struggling through a closed shutter in one of the upper
rooms—it was a novel feeling, alas! to look at any house and say
there dwells its usual inmate—the door of the house was merely
on the latch: so I entered and ascended the moon-lit staircase . The
door of the inhabited room was ajar: looking in, I saw Lucy sitting
as at work at the table on which the light stood; the implements
of needlework were about her, but her hand had fallen on her lap,
and her eyes, fixed on the ground, shewed by their vacancy that
her thoughts wandered . Traces of care and watching had diminished
her former attractions—but her simple dress and cap, her despond-
ing attitude, and the single candle that cast its light upon her, gave
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1165
for a moment a picturesque grouping to the whole . A fearful real-
ity recalled me from the thought—a figure lay stretched on the bed
covered by a sheet—her mother was dead, and Lucy, apart from all
the world, deserted and alone, watched beside the corpse during the
weary night . I entered the room, and my unexpected appearance at
first drew a scream from the lone survivor of a dead nation; but she
recognised me, and recovered herself, with the quick exercise of
self-control habitual to her . “Did you not expect me?” I asked, in
that low voice which the presence of the dead makes us as it were
instinctively assume .
“You are very good,” replied she, “to have come yourself; I can
never thank you sufficiently; but it is too late.”
“Too late,” cried I, “what do you mean? It is not too late to take
you from this deserted place, and conduct you to—-”
My own loss, which I had forgotten as I spoke, now made me
turn away, while choking grief impeded my speech . I threw open the
window, and looked on the cold, waning, ghastly, misshaped circle
on high, and the chill white earth beneath—did the spirit of sweet
Idris sail along the moon-frozen crystal air?—No, no, a more genial
atmosphere, a lovelier habitation was surely hers!
I indulged in this meditation for a moment, and then again ad-
dressed the mourner, who stood leaning against the bed with that
expression of resigned despair, of complete misery, and a patient
sufferance of it, which is far more touching than any of the insane
ravings or wild gesticulation of untamed sorrow . I desired to draw
her from this spot; but she opposed my wish . That class of persons
whose imagination and sensibility have never been taken out of the
narrow circle immediately in view, if they possess these qualities
to any extent, are apt to pour their influence into the very realities
which appear to destroy them, and to cling to these with double
tenacity from not being able to comprehend any thing beyond .
Thus Lucy, in desert England, in a dead world, wished to fulfil the
usual ceremonies of the dead, such as were customary to the English
country people, when death was a rare visitant, and gave us time to
receive his dreaded usurpation with pomp and circumstance—going
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1166
forth in procession to deliver the keys of the tomb into his conquer-
ing hand . She had already, alone as she was, accomplished some
of these, and the work on which I found her employed, was her
mother’s shroud . My heart sickened at such detail of woe, which a
female can endure, but which is more painful to the masculine spirit
than deadliest struggle, or throes of unutterable but transient agony .
This must not be, I told her; and then, as further inducement, I
communicated to her my recent loss, and gave her the idea that she
must come with me to take charge of the orphan children, whom the
death of Idris had deprived of a mother’s care . Lucy never resisted
the c
all of a duty, so she yielded, and closing the casements and
doors with care, she accompanied me back to Windsor . As we went
she communicated to me the occasion of her mother’s death . Either
by some mischance she had got sight of Lucy’s letter to Idris, or
she had overheard her conversation with the countryman who bore
it; however it might be, she obtained a knowledge of the appalling
situation of herself and her daughter, her aged frame could not sus-
tain the anxiety and horror this discovery instilled—she concealed
her knowledge from Lucy, but brooded over it through sleepless
nights, till fever and delirium, swift forerunners of death, disclosed
the secret . Her life, which had long been hovering on its extinction,
now yielded at once to the united effects of misery and sickness, and
that same morning she had died .
After the tumultuous emotions of the day, I was glad to find on
my arrival at the inn that my companions had retired to rest . I gave
Lucy in charge to the Countess’s attendant, and then sought repose
from my various struggles and impatient regrets . For a few moments
the events of the day floated in disastrous pageant through my brain,
till sleep bathed it in forgetfulness; when morning dawned and I
awoke, it seemed as if my slumber had endured for years .
My companions had not shared my oblivion . Clara’s swollen
eyes shewed that she has passed the night in weeping . The Countess
looked haggard and wan. Her firm spirit had not found relief in tears,
and she suffered the more from all the painful retrospect and ago-
nizing regret that now occupied her . We departed from Windsor, as
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1167
soon as the burial rites had been performed for Lucy’s mother, and,
urged on by an impatient desire to change the scene, went forward
towards Dover with speed, our escort having gone before to provide
horses; finding them either in the warm stables they instinctively
sought during the cold weather, or standing shivering in the bleak
fields ready to surrender their liberty in exchange for offered corn.
During our ride the Countess recounted to me the extraordinary
circumstances which had brought her so strangely to my side in the
chancel of St . George’s chapel . When last she had taken leave of
Idris, as she looked anxiously on her faded person and pallid coun-
tenance, she had suddenly been visited by a conviction that she saw
her for the last time . It was hard to part with her while under the
dominion of this sentiment, and for the last time she endeavoured to
persuade her daughter to commit herself to her nursing, permitting
me to join Adrian . Idris mildly refused, and thus they separated . The
idea that they should never again meet grew on the Countess’s mind,
and haunted her perpetually; a thousand times she had resolved to
turn back and join us, and was again and again restrained by the
pride and anger of which she was the slave . Proud of heart as she
was, she bathed her pillow with nightly tears, and through the day
was subdued by nervous agitation and expectation of the dreaded
event, which she was wholly incapable of curbing . She confessed
that at this period her hatred of me knew no bounds, since she con-
sidered me as the sole obstacle to the fulfilment of her dearest wish,
that of attending upon her daughter in her last moments . She desired
to express her fears to her son, and to seek consolation from his
sympathy with, or courage from his rejection of, her auguries .
On the first day of her arrival at Dover she walked with him on
the sea beach, and with the timidity characteristic of passionate and
exaggerated feeling was by degrees bringing the conversation to the
desired point, when she could communicate her fears to him, when
the messenger who bore my letter announcing our temporary return
to Windsor, came riding down to them . He gave some oral account
of how he had left us, and added, that notwithstanding the cheerful-
ness and good courage of Lady Idris, he was afraid that she would
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1168
hardly reach Windsor alive . “True,” said the Countess, “your fears
are just, she is about to expire!”
As she spoke, her eyes were fixed on a tomblike hollow of the
cliff, and she saw, she averred the same to me with solemnity, Idris
pacing slowly towards this cave . She was turned from her, her head
was bent down, her white dress was such as she was accustomed to
wear, except that a thin crape-like veil covered her golden tresses,
and concealed her as a dim transparent mist . She looked dejected,
as docilely yielding to a commanding power; she submissively en-
tered, and was lost in the dark recess .
“Were I subject to visionary moods,” said the venerable lady, as
she continued her narrative, “I might doubt my eyes, and condemn
my credulity; but reality is the world I live in, and what I saw I
doubt not had existence beyond myself . From that moment I could
not rest; it was worth my existence to see her once again before she
died; I knew that I should not accomplish this, yet I must endeavour .
I immediately departed for Windsor; and, though I was assured that
we travelled speedily, it seemed to me that our progress was snail-
like, and that delays were created solely for my annoyance . Still I
accused you, and heaped on your head the fiery ashes of my burning
impatience . It was no disappointment, though an agonizing pang,
when you pointed to her last abode; and words would ill express
the abhorrence I that moment felt towards you, the triumphant im-
pediment to my dearest wishes . I saw her, and anger, and hate, and
injustice died at her bier, giving place at their departure to a remorse
(Great God, that I should feel it!) which must last while memory and
feeling endure .”
To medicine such remorse, to prevent awakening love and new-
born mildness from producing the same bitter fruit that hate and
harshness had done, I devoted all my endeavours to soothe the vener-
able penitent . Our party was a melancholy one; each was possessed
by regret for what was remediless; for the absence of his mother
shadowed even the infant gaiety of Evelyn . Added to this was the
prospect of the uncertain future. Before the final accomplishment
of any great voluntary change the mind vacillates, now soothing
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1169
itself by fervent expectation, now recoiling from obstacles which
seem never to have presented themselves before with so frightful an
aspect . An involuntary tremor ran through me when I thought that in
another day we might have crossed the watery barrier, and have set
forward on that hopeless, interminable, sad wandering, which but
a short time before I regarded as the only relief to sorrow that our
situation afforded .
Our approach to Dover was announced by the loud roarings of the
wintry sea . They were borne miles inland by the sound-laden blast,
and by their unaccustomed uproar, imparted a feeling of insecur
ity
and peril to our stable abode. At first we hardly permitted ourselves
to think that any unusual eruption of nature caused this tremendous
war of air and water, but rather fancied that we merely listened to
what we had heard a thousand times before, when we had watched
the flocks of fleece-crowned waves, driven by the winds, come to
lament and die on the barren sands and pointed rocks . But we found
upon advancing farther, that Dover was overflowed— many of the
houses were overthrown by the surges which filled the streets, and
with hideous brawlings sometimes retreated leaving the pavement
of the town bare, till again hurried forward by the influx of ocean,
they returned with thunder-sound to their usurped station .
Hardly less disturbed than the tempestuous world of waters was
the assembly of human beings, that from the cliff fearfully watched
its ravings . On the morning of the arrival of the emigrants under the
conduct of Adrian, the sea had been serene and glassy, the slight
ripples refracted the sunbeams, which shed their radiance through
the clear blue frosty air . This placid appearance of nature was hailed
as a good augury for the voyage, and the chief immediately repaired
to the harbour to examine two steamboats which were moored there .
On the following midnight, when all were at rest, a frightful storm
of wind and clattering rain and hail first disturbed them, and the
voice of one shrieking in the streets, that the sleepers must awake or
they would be drowned; and when they rushed out, half clothed, to
discover the meaning of this alarm, they found that the tide, rising
above every mark, was rushing into the town . They ascended the
THE LAST MAN, by Mary Shelley | 1170
cliff, but the darkness permitted only the white crest of waves to be
seen, while the roaring wind mingled its howlings in dire accord with
the wild surges . The awful hour of night, the utter inexperience of
many who had never seen the sea before, the wailing of women and
cries of children added to the horror of the tumult . All the following
day the same scene continued . When the tide ebbed, the town was
left dry; but on its flow, it rose even higher than on the preceding
night . The vast ships that lay rotting in the roads were whirled from
their anchorage, and driven and jammed against the cliff, the vessels