 | Mosses from an old manse |  |
THE BIRTH-MARK.
In the latter part of the last century, there lived a man of science—
an eminent proficient in every branch of natural philosophy—who,
not long before our story opens, had made experience of a spiritual:
affinity, more attractive than any chemical one. He had left his,
laboratory to the care of an assistant, cleared his fine countenance
from the furnace-smoke, washed the stain of acids from his fingers,
and persuaded a beautiful woman to become his wife. In those
days, when the comparatively recent discovery of electricity, and
other kindred mysteries of nature, seemed to open paths into the
region of miracle, it was not unusual for the love of science to rival
the love of woman, in its depth and absorbing energy. The higher
intellect, the imagination, the spirit, and even the heart, might all-find
their congenial aliment in pursuits which, as some of their
ardent votaries believed, would ascend from one step of powerful
intelligence to another, until the philosopher should lay his hand
on the secret of creative force, and perhaps make new worlds for
himself. We know not whether Aylmer possessed this degree of
faith in man's ultimate control over nature. He had devoted himself,
however, too unreservedly to scientific studies, ever to be weaned
from them by any second passion. His love for his young wife
might prove the stronger of the two; but it could only be by
intertwining itself with his love of science, and uniting the strength
of the latter to its own.
Such an union accordingly took place, and was attended with
One day, very soon after their marriage, Aylmer sat gazing at his
wife, with a trouble in his countenance that grew stronger, until
he spoke.
“Georgiana,” said he, “has it never occurred to you that the
mark upon your cheek might be removed?”
“No, indeed,” said she, smiling; but perceiving the seriousness
of his manner, she blushed deeply. “To tell you the truth, it has
been so often called a charm, that I was simple enough to imagine
it might be so.”
“Ah, upon another face, perhaps it might,” replied her husband.
“But never on yours! No, dearest Georgiana, you came so
nearly perfect from the hand of Nature, that this slightest possible
defect—which we hesitate whether to term a defect or a beauty—
shocks me, as being the visible mark of earthly imperfection.”
“Shocks you, my husband!” cried Georgiana, deeply hurt; at
first reddening with momentary anger, but then bursting into tears.
“Then why did you take me from my mother's side? You cannot
love what shocks you!”
To explain this conversation, it must be mentioned, that, in the
centre of Georgiana's left cheek, there was a singular mark,
deeply interwoven, as it were, with the texture and substance of
her face. In the usual state of her complexion,—a healthy,
though delicate bloom,—the mark wore a tint of deeper crimson,
which imperfectly defined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness.
When she blushed, it gradually became more indistinct, and finally
vanished amid the triumphant rush of blood, that bathed the whole
cheek with its brilliant glow. But, if any shifting emotion caused
her to turn pale, there was the mark again, a crimson stain upon
the snow, in what Aylmar sometimes deemed an almost fearful
distinctness. Its shape bore not a little similarity to the human
hand, though of the smallest pigmy size. Georgiana's lovers
were wont to say, that some fairy, at her birth-hour, had laid her
token of the magic endowments that were to give her such away
over all hearts. Many a desperate swain would have risked life
for the privilege of pressing his lips to the mysterious hand. It
must not be concealed, however, that the impression wrought by
this fairy sign-manual varied exceedingly, according to the difference
of temperament in the beholders. Some fastidious persons—but
they were exclusively of her own sex—affirmed that
the Bloody Hand, as they chose to call it, quite destroyed the
effect of Georgiana's beauty, and rendered her countenance even
hideous. But it would be as reasonable to say, that one of those
small blue stains, which sometimes occur in the purest statuary
marble, would convert the Eve of Powers to a monster. Masculine
observers, if the birth-mark did not heighten their admiration,
contented themselves with wishing it away, that the world might
possess one living specimen of ideal loveliness, without the semblance
of a flaw. After his marriage—for he thought little or
nothing of the matter before—Aylmer discovered that this was the
case with himself.
Had she been less beautiful—if Envy's self could have found
aught else to sneer at—he might have felt his affection heightened
by the prettiness of this mimic hand, now vaguely portrayed, now
lost, now stealing forth again, and glimmering to-and-fro with
every pulse of emotion that throbbed within her heart. But,
seeing her otherwise so perfect, he found this one defect grow
more and more intolerable, with every moment of their united
lives. It was the fatal flaw of humanity, which Nature, in one
shape or another, stamps ineffaceably on all her productions,
either to imply that they are temporary and finite, or that their
perfection must be wrought by toil and pain. The Crimson Hand
expressed the ineludible gripe, in which mortality clutches the
highest and purest of earthly mould, degrading them into kindred
with the lowest, and even with the very brutes, like whom their
symbol of his wife's liability to sin, sorrow, decay, and death,
Aylmer's sombre imagination was not long in rendering the birth-mark
a frightful object, causing him more trouble and horror than
ever Georgiana's beauty, whether of soul or sense, had given him
delight.
At all the seasons which should have been their happiest, he
invariably, and without intending it—nay, in spite of a purpose to
the contrary—reverted to this one disastrous topic. Trifling as it
at first appeared, it so connected itself with innumerable trains of
thought, and modes of feeling, that it became the central point of
all. With the morning twilight, Aylmer opened his eyes upon
his wife's face, and recognized the symbol of imperfection; and
when they sat together at the evening hearth, his eyes wandered
stealthily to her cheek, and beheld, flickering with the blaze of
the wood fire, the spectral Hand that wrote mortality where he
would fain have worshipped. Georgiana soon learned to shudder
at his gaze. It needed but a glance, with the peculiar expression
that his face often wore, to change the roses of her cheek into a
deathlike paleness, amid which the Crimson Hand was brought
strongly out, like a bas-relief of ruby on the whitest marble.
Late, one night, when the lights were growing dim, so as hardly
to betray the stain on the poor wife's cheek, she herself, for the
first time, voluntarily took up the subject.
“Do you remember, my dear Aylmer,” said she, with a feeble
attempt at a smile—“have you any recollection of a dream, last
night, about this odious Hand?”
“None!—none whatever!” replied Aylmer, starting; but then
he added in a dry, cold tone, affected for the sake of concealing
the real depth of his emotion:—“I might well dream of it; for,
before I fell asleep, it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy.”
“And you did dream of it,” continued Georgiana, hastily; for
she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what she had to
it possible to forget this one expression?—`It is in her heart now—
we must have it out!'—Reflect, my husband; for by all means I
would have you recall that dream.”
The mind is in a sad state, when Sleep, the all-involving, cannot
confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway, but
suffers them to break forth, affrighting this actual life with secrets
that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmer now remembered
his dream. He had fancied himself, with his servant Aminadab,
attempting an operation for the removal of the birth-mark. But
the deeper went the knife, the deeper sank the Hand, until at
length its tiny grasp appeared to have caught hold of Georgiana's
heart; whence, however, her husband was inexorably resolved to
cut or wrench it away.
When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory,
Aylmer sat in his wife's presence with a guilty feeling. Truth
often finds its way to the mind close-muffled in robes of sleep, and
then speaks with uncompromising directness of matters in regard
to which we practise an unconscious self-deception, during our
waking moments. Until now, he had not been aware of the
tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over his mind, and of
the lengths which he might find in his heart to go, for the sake of
giving himself peace.
“Aylmer,” resumed Georgiana, solemnly, “I know not what
may be the cost to both of us, to rid me of this fatal birth-mark.
Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity. Or, it may
be, the stain goes as deep as life itself. Again, do we know that
there is a possibility, on any terms, of unclasping the firm gripe
of this little Hand, which was laid upon me before I came into the
world?”
“Dearest Georgiana, I have spent much thought upon the subject,”
hastily interrupted Aylmer—“I am convinced of the perfect
practicability of its removal.”
“If there be the remotest possibility of it,” continued Georgiana,
“let the attempt be made, at whatever risk. Danger is nothing
to me; for life—while this hateful mark makes me the object of
your horror and disgust—life is a burthen which I would fling
down with joy. Either remove this dreadful Hand, or take my
wretched life! You have deep science! All the world bears
witness of it. You have achieved great wonders! Cannot you
remove this little, little mark, which I cover with the tips of two
small fingers! Is this beyond your power, for the sake of your
own peace, and to save your poor wife from madness?”
“Noblest—dearest—tenderest wife!” cried Aylmer, rapturously.
“Doubt not my power. I have already given this
matter the deepest thought—thought which might almost have
enlightened me to create a being less perfect than yourself.
Georgiana, you have led me deeper than ever into the heart of
science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dear cheek
as faultless as its fellow; and then, most beloved, what will be
my triumph, when I shall have corrected what Nature left imperfect,
in her fairest work! Even Pygmalion, when his sculptured
woman assumed life, felt not greater ecstasy than mine will be.”
“It is resolved, then,” said Georgiana, faintly smiling,—“And,
Aylmer, spare me not, though you should find the birth-mark take
refuge in my heart at last.”
Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not
that which bore the impress of the Crimson Hand.
The next day, Aylmer apprised his wife of a plan that he had
formed, whereby he might have opportunity for the intense thought
and constant watchfulness which the proposed operation would
require; while Georgiana, likewise, would enjoy the perfect repose
essential to its success. They were to seclude themselves
in the extensive apartments occupied by Aylmer as a laboratory,
and where, during his toilsome youth, he had made discoveries in
the elemental powers of nature, that had roused the admiration
laboratory, the pale philosopher had investigated the secrets of the
highest cloud-region, and of the profoundest mines; he had satisfied
himself of the causes that kindled and kept alive the fires
of the volcano; and had explained the mystery of fountains, and
how it is that they gush forth, some so bright and pure, and others
with such rich medicinal virtues, from the dark bosom of the earth.
Here, too, at an earlier period, he had studied the wonders of the
human frame, and attempted to fathom the very process by which
Nature assimilates all her precious influences from earth and air,
and from the spiritual world, to create and foster Man, her masterpiece.
The latter pursuit, however, Aylmer had long laid aside,
in unwilling recognition of the truth, against which all seekers
sooner or later stumble, that our great creative Mother, while she
amuses us with apparently working in the broadest sunshine, is
yet severely careful to keep her own secrets, and, in spite of her
pretended openness, shows us nothing but results. She permits us
indeed to mar, but seldom to mend, and, like a jealous patentee, no
no account to make. Now, however, Aylmer resumed these half-forgotten
investigations; not, of course, with such hopes or wishes
as first suggested them; but because they involved much physiological
truth, and lay in the path of his proposed scheme for the
treatment of Georgiana.
As he led her over the threshold of the laboratory, Georgiana
was cold and tremulous. Aylmer looked cheerfully into her face,
with intent to reassure her, but was so startled with the intense
glow of the birth-mark upon the whiteness of her cheek, that
he could not restrain a strong convulsive shudder. His wife
fainted.
“Aminadab! Aminadab!” shouted Aylmer, stamping violently
on the floor.
Forthwith, there issued from an inner apartment a man of low
stature, but bulky frame, with shaggy hair hanging about his
personage had been Aylmer's under-worker during his whole
scientific career, and was admirably fitted for that office by his
great mechanical readiness, and the skill with which, while incapable
of comprehending a single principle, he executed all the
practical details of his master's experiments. With his vast
strength, his shaggy hair, his smoky aspect, and the indescribable
earthiness that encrusted him, he seemed to represent man's physical
nature; while Aylmer's slender figure, and pale, intellectual
face, were no less apt a type of the spiritual element.
“Throw open the door of the boudoir, Aminadab,” said Aylmer,
“and burn a pastille.”
“Yes, master,” answered Aminadab, looking intently at the
lifeless form of Georgiana; and then he muttered to himself:—
“If she were my wife, I'd never part with that birth-mark.”
When Georgiana recovered consciousness, she found herself
breathing an atmosphere of penetrating fragrance, the gentle potency
of which had recalled her from her death-like faintness.
The scene around her looked like enchantment. Aylmer had
converted those smoky, dingy, sombre rooms, where he had spent
his brightest years in recondite pursuits, into a series of beautiful
apartments, not unfit to be the secluded abode of a lovely woman.
The walls were hung with gorgeous curtains, which imparted the
combination of grandeur and grace, that no other species of adornment
can achieve; and as they fell from the ceiling to the floor,
their rich and ponderous folds, concealing all angles and straight
lines, appeared to shut in the scene from infinite space. For
aught Georgiana knew, it might be a pavilion among the clouds.
And Aylmer, excluding the sunshine, which would have interfered
with his chemical processes, had supplied its place with
perfumed lamps, emitting flames of various hue, but all uniting
in a soft, empurpled radiance. He now knelt by his wife's side,
watching her earnestly, but without alarm; for he was confident
her, within which no evil might intrude.
“Where am I?—Ah, I remember!” said Georgiana, faintly;
and she placed her hand over her cheek, to hide the terrible mark
from her husband's eyes.
“Fear not, dearest!” exclaimed he. “Do not shrink from me!
Believe me, Georgiana, I even rejoice in this single imperfection,
since it will be such a rapture to remove it.”
“Oh, spare me!” sadly replied his wife. “Pray do not look
at it again. I never can forget that convulsive shudder.”
In order to soothe Georgiana, and, as it were, to release her
mind from the burthen of actual things, Aylmer now put in practice
some of the light and playful secrets which science had taught
him among its profounder lore. Airy figures, absolutely bodiless
ideas, and forms of unsubstantial beauty, came and danced before
her, imprinting their momentary footsteps on beams of light.
Though she had some indistinct idea of the method of these optical
phenomena, still the illusion was almost perfect enough to warrant
the belief that her husband possessed sway over the spiritual
world. Then again, when she felt a wish to look forth from her
seclusion, immediately, as if her thoughts were answered, the
procession of external existence flitted across a screen. The
scenery and the figures of actual life were perfectly represented,
but with that bewitching, yet indescribable difference, which always
makes a picture, an image, or a shadow, so much more
attractive than the original. When wearied of this, Aylmer bade
her cast her eyes upon a vessel, containing a quantity of earth.
She did so, with little interest at first, but was soon startled, to
perceive the germ of a plant, shooting upward from the soil.
Then came the slender stalk—the leaves gradually unfolded
themselves—and amid them was a perfect and lovely flower.
“It is magical!” cried Georgiana, “I dare not touch it.”
“Nay, pluck it,” answered Aylmer, “pluck it, and inhale its
moments, and leave nothing save its brown seed-vessels—but
thence may be perpetuated a race as ephemeral as itself.”
But Georgiana had no sooner touched the flower than the whole
plant suffered a blight, its leaves turning coal-black, as if by the
agency of fire.
“There was too powerful a stimulus,” said Aylmer thoughtfully.
To make up for this abortive experiment, he proposed to take
her portrait by a scientific process of his own invention. It was
to be effected by rays of light striking upon a polished plate of
metal. Georgiana assented—but, on looking at the result, was
affrighted to find the features of the portrait blurred and indefinable;
while the minute figure of a hand appeared where the cheek
should have been. Aylmer snatched the metallic plate, and threw
it into a jar of corrosive acid.
Soon, however, he forgot these mortifying failures. In the intervals
of study and chemical experiment, he came to her, flushed
and exhausted, but seemed invigorated by her presence, and spoke
in glowing language of the resources of his art. He gave a
history of the long dynasty of the Alchemists, who spent so many
ages in quest of the universal solvent, by which the Golden Principle
might be elicited from all things vile and base. Aylmer
appeared to believe, that, by the plainest scientific logic, it was
altogether within the limits of possibility to discover this long-sought
medium; but, he added, a philosopher who should go
deep enough to acquire the power, would attain too lofty a wisdom
to stoop to the exercise of it. Not less singular were his opinions
in regard to the Elixir Vitæ. He more than intimated, that it
was at his option to concoct a liquid that should prolong life for
years—perhaps interminably—but that it would produce a discord
in nature, which all the world, and chiefly the quaffer of the immortal
nostrum, would find cause to curse.
“Aylmer, are you in earnest?” asked Georgiana, looking at
him with amazement and fear; “it is terrible to possess such
power, or even to dream of possessing it!”
“Oh, do not tremble, my love!” said her husband, “I would
not wrong either you or myself, by working such inharmonious
effects upon our lives. But I would have you consider how
trifling, in comparison, is the skill requisite to remove this little
Hand.”
At the mention of the birth-mark, Georgiana, as usual, shrank,
as if a red-hot iron had touched her cheek.
Again Aylmer applied himself to his labors. She could hear
his voice in the distant furnace-room, giving directions to Aminadab,
whose harsh, uncouth, misshapen tones were audible in response,
more like the grunt or growl of a brute than human speech.
After hours of absence, Aylmer re-appeared, and proposed that
she should now examine his cabinet of chemical products, and
natural treasures of the earth. Among the former he showed her
a small vial, in which, he remarked, was contained a gentle yet
most powerful fragrance, capable of impregnating all the breezes
that blow across a kingdom. They were of inestimable value,
the contents of that little vial; and, as he said, so, he threw some
of the perfume into the air, and filled the room with piercing and
invigorating delight.
“And what is this?” asked Georgiana, pointing to a small
crystal globe, containing a gold-colored liquid. “It is so beautiful
to the eye, that I could imagine it the Elixir of Life.”
“In one sense it is,” replied Aylmer, “or rather the Elixir of
Immortality. It is the most precious poison that ever was concocted
in this world. By its aid, I could apportion the life-time
of any mortal at whom you might point your finger. The strength
of the dose would determine whether he were to linger out years,
or drop dead in the midst of a breath. No king, on his guarded
throne, could keep his life, if I, in my private station, should
of it.”
“Why do you keep such a terrific drug?” inquired Georgiana
in horror.
“Do not mistrust me, dearest!” said her husband, smiling;
“its virtuous potency is yet greater than its harmful one. But,
see! here is a powerful cosmetic. With a few drops of this, in
a vase of water, freckles may be washed away as easily as the
hands are cleansed. A stronger infusion would take the blood
out of the cheek, and leave the rosiest beauty a pale ghost.”
“Is it with this lotion that you intend to bathe my cheek?”
asked Georgiana, anxiously.
“Oh, no!” hastily replied her husband,—“this is merely superficial.
Your case demands a remedy that shall go deeper.”
In his interviews with Georgiana, Aylmer generally made minute
inquiries as to her sensations, and whether the confinement
of the rooms, and the temperature of the atmosphere, agreed with
her. These questions had such a particular drift, that Georgiana
began to conjecture that she was already subjected to certain
physical influences, either breathed in with the fragrant air, or
taken with her food. She fancied, likewise—but it might be altogether
fancy—that there was a stirring up of her system: a
strange, indefinite sensation creeping through her veins, and tingling,
half-painfully, half-pleasurably, at her heart. Still, whenever
she dared to look into the mirror, there she beheld herself,
pale as a white rose, and with the crimson birth-mark stamped
upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer now hated it so much as
she.
To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband found it
necessary to devote to the processes of combination and analysis,
Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientific library. In
many dark old tomes, she met with chapters full of romance and
poetry. They were the works of the philosophers of the middle
and the famous friar who created the prophetic Brazen Head.
All these antique naturalists stood in advance of their centuries,
yet were imbued with some of their credulity, and therefore were
believed, and perhaps imagined themselves, to have acquired from
the investigation of nature a power above nature, and from physics
a sway over the spiritual world. Hardly less curious and imaginative
were the early volumes of the Transactions of the Royal
Society, in which the members, knowing little of the limits of
natural possibility, were continually recording wonders, or proposing
methods whereby wonders might be wrought.
But, to Georgiana, the most engrossing volume was a large folio
from her husband's own hand, in which he had recorded every
experiment of his scientific career, with its original aim, the
methods adopted for its development, and its final success or
failure, with the circumstances to which either event was attributable.
The book, in truth, was both the history and emblem
of his ardent, ambitious, imaginative, yet practical and laborious,
life. He handled physical details, as if there were nothing beyond
them; yet spiritualized them all, and redeemed himself from
materialism, by his strong and eager aspiration towards the infinite.
In his grasp, the veriest clod of earth assumed a soul. Georgiana,
as she read, reverenced Aylmer, and loved him more profoundly
than ever, but with a less entire dependence on his judgment than
heretofore. Much as he had accomplished, she could not but
observe that his most splendid successes were almost invariably
failures, if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. His
brightest diamonds were the merest pebbles, and felt to be so by
himself, in comparison with the inestimable gems which lay hidden
beyond his reach. The volume, rich with achievements that
had won renown for its author, was yet as melancholy a record as
ever mortal hand had penned. It was the sad confession, and
continual exemplification, of the short-comings of the composite
of the despair that assails the higher nature, at finding itself so
miserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man of
genius, in whatever sphere, might recognize the image of his own
experience in Aylmer's journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana, that she laid
her face upon the open volume, and burst into tears. In this
situation she was found by her husband.
“It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer's books,” said he, with
a smile, though his countenance was uneasy and displeased.
“Georgiana, there are pages in that volume, which I can scarcely
glance over and keep my senses. Take heed lest it prove as
detrimental to you!”
“It has made me worship you more than ever,” said she.
“Ah! wait for this one success,” rejoined he, “then worship
me if you will. I shall deem myself hardly unworthy of it. But,
come! I have sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing to
me, dearest!”
So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quench the
thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave, with a boyish exuberance
of gaiety, assuring her that her seclusion would endure but
a little longer, and that the result was already certain. Scarcely
had he departed, when Georgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow
him. She had forgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom,
which, for two or three hours past, had begun to excite her attention.
It was a sensation in the fatal birth-mark, not painful, but
which induced a restlessness throughout her system. Hastening
after her husband, she intruded, for the first time, into the
laboratory.
The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace, that hot
and feverish worker, with the intense glow of its fire, which, by
the quantities of soot clustered above it, seemed to have been
burning for ages. There was a distilling apparatus in full operation.
and other apparatus of chemical research. An electrical machine
stood ready for immediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively
close, and was tainted with gaseous odors, which had been tormented
forth by the processes of science. The severe and homely simplicity
of the apartment, with its naked walls and brick pavement,
looked strange, accustomed as Georgiana had become to the fantastic
elegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly, indeed almost
solely, drew her attention, was the aspect of Aylmer himself.
He was pale as death, anxious, and absorbed, and hung over
the furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulness
whether the liquid, which it was distilling, should be the draught
of immortal happiness or misery. How different from the sanguine
and joyous mein that he had assumed for Georgiana's
encouragement!
“Carefully now, Aminadab! Carefully, thou human machine!
Carefully, thou man of clay!” muttered Aylmer, more to himself
than his assistant. “Now, if there be a thought too much or too
little, it is all over!”
“Hoh! hoh!” mumbled Aminadab—“look, master, look!”
Aylmer raised his eyes hastily, and at first reddened, then grew
paler than ever, on beholding Georgiana. He rushed towards
her, and seized her arm with a gripe that left the print of his
fingers upon it.
“Why do you come hither? Have you no trust in your
husband?” cried he impetuously. “Would you throw the blight
of that fatal birth-mark over my labors? It is not well done.
Go, prying woman, go!”
“Nay, Aylmer,” said Georgiana, with the firmness of which
she possessed no stinted endowment, “it is not you that have a
right to complain. You mistrust your wife! You have concealed
the anxiety with which you watch the development of this
experiment. Think not so unworthily of me, my husband!
my share in it is far less than your own!”
“No, no, Georgiana!” said Aylmer impatiently, “it must
not be.”
“I submit,” replied she calmly. “And, Aylmer, I shall quaff
whatever draught you bring me; but it will be on the same principle
that would induce me to take a dose of poison, if offered by
your hand.”
“My noble wife,” said Aylmer, deeply moved, “I knew not
the height and depth of your nature, until now. Nothing shall
be concealed. Know, then, that this Crimson Hand, superficial
as it seems, has clutched its grasp into your being, with a strength
of which I had no previous conception. I have already administered
agents powerful enough to do aught except to change your
entire physical system. Only one thing remains to be tried. If
that fail us, we are ruined!”
“Why did you hesitate to tell me this?” asked she.
“Because, Georgiana,” said Aylmer, in a low voice, “there is
danger!”
“Danger? There is but one danger—that this horrible stigma
shall be left upon my cheek!” cried Georgiana. “Remove it!
remove it!—whatever be the cost—or we shall both go mad!”
“Heaven knows, your words are too true,” said Aylmer,
sadly. “And now, dearest, return to your boudoir. In a little
while, all will be tested.”
He conducted her back, and took leave of her with a solemn
tenderness, which spoke far more than his words how much was
now at stake. After his departure, Georgiana became wrapt in
musings. She considered the character of Aylmer, and did it
completer justice than at any previous moment. Her heart
exulted, while it trembled, at his honorable love, so pure and lofty
that it would accept nothing less than perfection, nor miserably
make itself contented with an earthlier nature than he had
than that meaner kind which would have borne with the
imperfection for her sake, and have been guilty of treason to holy
love, by degrading its perfect idea to the level of the actual.
And, with her whole spirit, she prayed, that, for a single moment,
she might satisfy his highest and deepest conception. Longer
than one moment, she well knew, it could not be; for his spirit
was ever on the march—ever ascending—and each instant required
something that was beyond the scope of the instant before.
The sound of her husband's footsteps aroused her. He bore a
crystal goblet, containing a liquor colorless as water, but bright
enough to be the draught of immortality. Aylmer was pale;
but it seemed rather the consequence of a highly wrought state of
mind, and tension of spirit, than of fear or doubt.
“The concoction of the draught has been perfect,” said he, in
answer to Georgiana's look. “Unless all my science have
deceived me, it cannot fail.”
“Save on your account, my dearest Aylmer,” observed his
wife, “I might wish to put off this birth-mark of mortality by
relinquishing mortality itself, in preference to any other mode.
Life is but a sad possession to those who have attained precisely
the degree of moral advancement at which I stand. Were I
weaker and blinder, it might be happiness. Were I stronger, it
might be endured hopefully. But, being what I find myself,
methinks I am of all mortals the most fit to die.”
“You are fit for heaven without tasting death!” replied her
husband. “But why do we speak of dying? The draught cannot
fail. Behold its effect upon this plant!”
On the window-seat there stood a geranium, diseased with
yellow blotches, which had overspread all its leaves. Aylmer
poured a small quantity of the liquid upon the soil in which it
grew. In a little time, when the roots of the plant had taken up
living verdure.
“There needed no proof,” said Georgiana, quietly. “Give me
the goblet. I joyfully stake all upon your word.”
“Drink, then, thou lofty creature!” exclaimed Aylmer, with
fervid admiration. “There is no taint of imperfection on thy
spirit. Thy sensible frame, too, shall soon be all perfect!”
She quaffed the liquid, and returned the goblet to his hand.
“It is grateful,” said she, with a placid smile. “Methinks it
is like water from a heavenly fountain; for it contains I know
not what of unobtrusive fragrance and deliciousness. It allays a
feverish thirst, that had parched me for many days. Now,
dearest, let me sleep. My earthly senses are closing over my
spirit, like the leaves around the heart of a rose, at sunset.”
She spoke the last words with a gentle reluctance, as if it required
almost more energy than she could command to pronounce
the faint and lingering syllables. Scarcely had they loitered
through her lips, ere she was lost in slumber. Aylmer sat by her
side, watching her aspect with the emotions proper to a man, the
whole value of whose existence was involved in the process now
to be tested. Mingled with this mood, however, was the philosophic
investigation, characteristic of the man of science. Not
the minutest symptom escaped him. A heightened flush of the
cheek—a slight irregularity of breath—a quiver of the eyelid—
a hardly perceptible tremor through the frame—such were the
details which, as the moments passed, he wrote down in his folio
volume. Intense thought had set its stamp upon every previous
page of that volume; but the thoughts of years were all concentrated
upon the last.
While thus employed, he failed not to gaze often at the fatal
Hand, and not without a shudder. Yet once, by a strange and
unaccountable impulse, he pressed it with his lips. His spirit
recoiled, however, in the very act, and Georgiana, out of the
remonstrance. Again, Aylmer resumed his watch. Nor was
it without avail. The Crimson Hand, which at first had been
strongly visible upon the marble paleness of Georgiana's check
now grew more faintly outlined. She remained not less pale than
ever; but the birth-mark, with every breath that came and
went, lost somewhat of its former distinctness. Its presence had
been awful; its departure was more awful still. Watch the stain
of the rainbow fading out of the sky; and you will know how
that mysterious symbol passed away.
“By Heaven, it is well-nigh gone!” said Aylmer to himself, in
almost irrepressible ecstasy. “I can scarcely trace it now.
Success! Success! And now it is like the faintest rose-color.
The slightest flush of blood across her cheek would overcome it.
But she is so pale!”
He drew aside the window-curtain, and suffered the light of
natural day to fall into the room, and rest upon her cheek. At
the same time, he heard a gross, hoarse chuckle, which he had
long known as his servant Aminadab's expression of delight.
“Ah, clod! Ah, earthly mass!” cried Aylmer, laughing in a
sort of frenzy. “You have served me well! Matter and Spirit
—Earth and Heaven—have both done their part in this! Laugh,
thing of the senses! You have earned the right to laugh.”
These exclamations broke Georgiana's sleep. She slowly unclosed
her eyes, and gazed into the mirror, which her husband
had arranged for that purpose. A faint smile fitted over her
lips, when she recognized how barely perceptible was now that
Crimson Hand, which had once blazed forth with such disastrous
brilliancy as to scare away all their happiness. But then her
eyes sought Aylmer's face, with a trouble and anxiety that he
could by no means account for.
“My poor Aylmer!” murmured she.
“Poor? Nay, richest! Happiest! Most favored!” exclaimed
perfect!”
“My poor Aylmer!” she repeated, with a more than human
tenderness. “You have aimed loftily!—you have done nobly!
Do not repent, that, with so high and pure a feeling, you have
rejected the best the earth could offer. Aylmer—dearest Aylmer,
I am dying!”
Alas, it was too true! The fatal Hand had grappled with the
mystery of life, and was the bond by which an angelic spirit kept
itself in union with a mortal frame. As the last crimson tint of
the birth-mark—that sole token of human imperfection—faded
from her cheek, the parting breath of the now perfect woman
passed into the atmosphere, and her soul, lingering a moment
near her husband, took its heavenward flight. Then a hoarse,
chuckling laugh was heard again! Thus ever does the gross
Fatality of Earth exult in its invariable triumph over the immortal
essence, which, in this dim sphere of half-development, demands
the completeness of a higher state. Yet, had Aylmer reached a
profounder wisdom, he need not thus have flung away the happiness,
which would have woven his mortal life of the self-same
texture with the celestial. The momentary circumstance was
too strong for him; he failed to look beyond the shadowy scope
of Time, and living once for all in Eternity, to find the perfect
Future in the present.
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