End of the world -- Fiction; Epidemics -- Fiction; Science fiction; Twenty-first century -- Fiction
“Rest!” she cried, “repose! you rave, Lionel! If you delay we are lost;
come, I pray you, unless you would cast me off for ever.”
That Idris, the princely born, nursling of wealth and luxury, should
have come through the tempestuous winter-night from her regal abode,
and standing at my lowly door, conjure me to fly with her through
darkness and storm—was surely a dream—again her plaintive tones, the
sight of her loveliness assured me that it was no vision. Looking
timidly around, as if she feared to be overheard, she whispered: “I
have discovered—to-morrow —that is, to-day—already the to-morrow is
come—before dawn, foreigners, Austrians, my mother’s hirelings, are to
carry me off to Germany, to prison, to marriage—to anything, except you
and my brother —take me away, or soon they will be here!”
I was frightened by her vehemence, and imagined some mistake in her
incoherent tale; but I no longer hesitated to obey her. She had come by
herself from the Castle, three long miles, at midnight, through the
heavy snow; we must reach Englefield Green, a mile and a half further,
before we could obtain a chaise. She told me, that she had kept up her
strength and courage till her arrival at my cottage, and then both
failed. Now she could hardly walk. Supporting her as I did, still she
lagged: and at the distance of half a mile, after many stoppages,
shivering fits, and half faintings, she slipt from my supporting arm on
the snow, and with a torrent of tears averred that she must be taken,
for that she could not proceed. I lifted her up in my arms; her light
form rested on my breast.—I felt no burthen, except the internal one of
contrary and contending emotions. Brimming delight now invested me.
Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and I shuddered in
sympathy with her pain and fright. Her head lay on my shoulder, her
breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine, transport made me
tremble, blinded me, annihilated me—till a suppressed groan, bursting
from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she strove vainly to
subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced, recalled me to the
necessity of speed and succour. At last I said to her, “There is
Englefield Green; there the inn. But, if you are seen thus strangely
circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your flight
too soon: were it not better that I hired the chaise alone? I will put
you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.”
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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