End of the world -- Fiction; Epidemics -- Fiction; Science fiction; Twenty-first century -- Fiction
I could not but perceive that Perdita loved Raymond; methought also
that he regarded the fair daughter of Verney with admiration and
tenderness. Yet I knew that he was urging forward his marriage with the
presumptive heiress of the Earldom of Windsor, with keen expectation of
the advantages that would thence accrue to him. All the ex-queen’s
friends were his friends; no week passed that he did not hold
consultations with her at Windsor.
I had never seen the sister of Adrian. I had heard that she was lovely,
amiable, and fascinating. Wherefore should I see her? There are times
when we have an indefinable sentiment of impending change for better or
for worse, to arise from an event; and, be it for better or for worse,
we fear the change, and shun the event. For this reason I avoided this
high-born damsel. To me she was everything and nothing; her very name
mentioned by another made me start and tremble; the endless discussion
concerning her union with Lord Raymond was real agony to me. Methought
that, Adrian withdrawn from active life, and this beauteous Idris, a
victim probably to her mother’s ambitious schemes, I ought to come
forward to protect her from undue influence, guard her from
unhappiness, and secure to her freedom of choice, the right of every
human being. Yet how was I to do this? She herself would disdain my
interference. Since then I must be an object of indifference or
contempt to her, better, far better avoid her, nor expose myself before
her and the scornful world to the chance of playing the mad game of a
fond, foolish Icarus. One day, several months after my return to
England, I quitted London to visit my sister. Her society was my chief
solace and delight; and my spirits always rose at the expectation of
seeing her. Her conversation was full of pointed remark and
discernment; in her pleasant alcove, redolent with sweetest flowers,
adorned by magnificent casts, antique vases, and copies of the finest
pictures of Raphael, Correggio, and Claude, painted by herself, I
fancied myself in a fairy retreat untainted by and inaccessible to the
noisy contentions of politicians and the frivolous pursuits of fashion.
On this occasion, my sister was not alone; nor could I fail to
recognise her companion: it was Idris, the till now unseen object of my
mad idolatry.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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