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

472

The Last Man