intolerably painful to him. Frankness and social feelings were the essence

of Raymond's nature; without them his qualities became common-place;

without these to spread glory over his intercourse with Perdita, his

vaunted exchange of a throne for her love, was as weak and empty as the

rainbow hues which vanish when the sun is down. But there was no remedy.

Genius, devotion, and courage; the adornments of his mind, and the energies

of his soul, all exerted to their uttermost stretch, could not roll back

one hair's breadth the wheel of time's chariot; that which had been was

written with the adamantine pen of reality, on the everlasting volume of

the past; nor could agony and tears suffice to wash out one iota from the

act fulfilled.

But this was the best side of the question. What, if circumstance should

lead Perdita to suspect, and suspecting to be resolved? The fibres of his

frame became relaxed, and cold dew stood on his forehead, at this idea.

Many men may scoff at his dread; but he read the future; and the peace of

Perdita was too dear to him, her speechless agony too certain, and too

fearful, not to unman him. His course was speedily decided upon. If the

worst befell; if she learnt the truth, he would neither stand her

reproaches, or the anguish of her altered looks. He would forsake her,

England, his friends, the scenes of his youth, the hopes of coming time, he

would seek another country, and in other scenes begin life again. Having

resolved on this, he became calmer. He endeavoured to guide with prudence

the steeds of destiny through the devious road which he had chosen, and

bent all his efforts the better to conceal what he could not alter.

160

The Last Man