by Mary Shelley
Quitting the tower, he wandered in the pine wood that surrounded it, and giving up all thought of solving the mystery, was soon engrossed by thoughts that touched his heart more nearly, when suddenly there appeared on the ground at his feet the vision of a slipper. Since Cinderella so tiny a slipper had never been seen; as plain as shoe could speak, it told a tale of elegance, loveliness, and youth. Vernon picked it up; he had often admired Rosina’s singularly small foot, and his first thought was a question whether this little slipper would have fitted it. It was very strange! — it must belong to the Invisible Girl. Then there was a fairy form that kindled that light, a form of such material substance, that its foot needed to be shod; and yet how shod? — with kid so fine, and of shape so exquisite, that it exactly resembled such as Rosina wore! Again the recurrence of the image of the beloved dead came forcibly across him; and a thousand home-felt associations, childish yet sweet, and lover-like though trifling, so filled Vernon’s heart, that he threw himself his length on the ground, and wept more bitterly than ever the miserable fate of the sweet orphan.
In the evening the men quitted their work, and Vernon returned with them to the cot where they were to sleep, intending to pursue their voyage, weather permitting, the following morning.
Vernon said nothing of his slipper, but returned with his rough associates. Often he looked back; but the tower rose darkly over the dim waves, and no light appeared. Preparations had been made in the cot for their accommodation, and the only bed in it was offered Vernon; but he refused to deprive his hostess, and spreading his cloak on a heap of dry leaves, endeavoured to give himself up to repose. He slept for some hours; and when he awoke, all was still, save that the hard breathing of the sleepers in the same room with him interrupted the silence. He rose, and going to the window, — looked out over the now placid sea towards the mystic tower; the light burning there, sending its slender rays across the waves. Congratulating himself on a circumstance he had not anticipated, Vernon softly left the cottage, and, wrapping his cloak round him, walked with a swift pace round the bay towards the tower. He reached it; still the light was burning. To enter and restore the maiden her shoe, would be but an act of courtesy; and Vernon intended to do this with such caution, as to come unaware, before its wearer could, with her accustomed arts, withdraw herself from his eyes; but, unluckily, while yet making his way up the narrow pathway, his foot dislodged a loose fragment, that fell with crash and sound down the precipice. He sprung forward, on this, to retrieve by speed the advantage he had lost by this unlucky accident. He reached the door; he entered: all was silent, but also all was dark. He paused in the room below; he felt sure that a slight sound met his ear. He ascended the steps, and entered the upper chamber; but blank obscurity met his penetrating gaze, the starless night admitted not even a twilight glimmer through the only aperture. He closed his eyes, to try, on opening them again, to be able to catch some faint, wandering ray on the visual nerve; but it was in vain. He groped round the room: he stood still, and held his breath; and then, listening intently, he felt sure that another occupied the chamber with him, and that its atmosphere was slightly agitated by an-other’s respiration. He remembered the recess in the staircase; but, before he approached it, he spoke: — he hesitated a moment what to say. “I must believe,” he said, “that misfortune alone can cause your seclusion; and if the assistance of a man — of a gentleman—”
An exclamation interrupted him; a voice from the grave spoke his name — the accents of Rosina syllabled, “Henry! — is it indeed Henry whom I hear?”
He rushed forward, directed by the sound, and clasped in his arms the living form of his own lamented girl — his own Invisible Girl he called her; for even yet, as he felt her heart beat near his, and as he entwined her waist with his arm, supporting her as she almost sank to the ground with agitation, he could not see her; and, as her sobs prevented her speech, no sense, but the instinctive one that filled his heart with tumultuous gladness, told him that the slender, wasted form he pressed so fondly was the living shadow of the Hebe beauty he had adored.
The morning saw this pair thus strangely restored to each other on the tranquil sea, sailing with a fair wind for L — , whence they were to proceed to Sir Peter’s seat, which, three months before, Rosina had quitted in such agony and terror. The morning light dispelled the shadows that had veiled her, and disclosed the fair person of the Invisible Girl. Altered indeed she was by suffering and woe, but still the same sweet smile played on her lips, and the tender light of her soft blue eyes were all her own. Vernon drew out the slipper, and shoved the cause that had occasioned him to resolve to discover the guardian of the mystic beacon; even now he dared not inquire how she had existed in that desolate spot, or wherefore she had so sedulously avoided observation, when the right thing to have been done was, to have sought him immediately, under whose care, protected by whose love, no danger need be feared. But Rosina shrunk from him as he spoke, and a death-like pallor came over her cheek, as she faintly whispered, “Your father’s curse — your father’s dreadful threats!” It appeared, indeed, that Sir Peter’s violence, and the cruelty of Mrs. Bainbridge, had succeeded in impressing Rosina with wild and unvanquishable terror. She had fled from their house without plan or forethought — driven by frantic horror and overwhelming fear, she had left it with scarcely any money, and there seemed to her no possibility of either returning or proceeding onward. She had no friend except Henry in the wide world; whither could she go? — to have sought Henry would have sealed their fates to misery; for, with an oath, Sir Peter had declared he would rather see them both in their coffins than married. After wandering about, hiding by day, and only venturing forth at night, she had come to this deserted tower, which seemed a place of refuge. I low she had lived since then she could hardly tell; — she had lingered in the woods by day, or slept in the vault of the tower, an asylum none were acquainted with or had discovered: by night she burned the pine-cones of the wood, and night was her dearest time; for it seemed to her as if security came with darkness. She was unaware that Sir Peter had left that part of the country, and was terrified lest her hiding-place should be revealed to him. Her only hope was that Henry would return — that Henry would never rest till he had found her. She confessed that the long interval and the approach of winter had visited her with dismay; she feared that, as her strength was failing, and her form wasting to a skeleton, that she might die, and never see her own Henry more.
An illness, indeed, in spite of all his care, followed her restoration to security and the comforts of civilized life; many months went by before the bloom revisiting her cheeks, and her limbs regaining their roundness, she resembled once more the picture drawn of her in her days of bliss, before any visitation of sorrow. It was a copy of this portrait that decorated the tower, the scene of her suffering, in which I had found shelter. Sir Peter, overjoyed to be relieved from the pangs of remorse, and delighted again to see his orphan-ward, whom he really loved, was now as eager as before he had been averse to bless her union with his son: Mrs. Bainbridge they never saw again. But each year they spent a few months in their Welch mansion, the scene of their early wedded happiness, and the spot where again poor Rosina had awoke to life and joy after her cruel persecutions. Henry’s fond care had fitted up the tower, and decorated it as I saw; and often did he come over, with his “Invisible Girl,” to renew, in the very scene of its occurrence, the remembrance of all the incidents which had led to their meeting again, during the shades of night, in that sequestered ruin.
THE END
THE SMUGGLER AND HIS FAMILY
Whose house is some lone bark, — whose toil the sea,
Whose prey the wandering fish, an evil lot
Has chosen. — MOSCHUS
HOW SWIFTLY THE sweetest flowers fade when once expanded — they but too quickly droop upon the stalk! How do human beings pass from the brightness and bloom of hope and youth, into the dull fruition of life, with all its cares and woes! There is no sadder, nor m
ore humiliating sight, than to contrast the shews of mid-life with the promise of its dawn, and to see the furrows and the pale hues with which the hours with busy fingers paint the smooth brow and glowing cheek. Our low-born but most sweet heroine was once the pride of her hamlet — the kindest, gentlest but gayest of the village maidens. If she ever sighed, a smile followed so swift behind, that the picture was only softened not tainted by the change. Jane sighed, alas! because she loved; — that leveller of rank, of intellect, and too often of moral feeling, bound her to one unworthy of her. Yet then the youthful sailor who had engaged her affections was not destitute of merit. If he was wild and reckless, he was generous and brave. Jane’s father opposed this union, and she submitted to his control; but when his death left her alone in the world, and her poverty secured her few and cold friends, she gave herself without a fear to him, whose dearest wish was to protect, support, and render happy the sweet being who confided her existence to his care.
These occurrences were many years old, and we draw the veil from before her wedded life; — when the lapse of time had brought other persons, other interests on the scene. Beneath a rugged lonely crag, on the solitary wild sea-shore, at the extreme point of Cornwall — was a rude cot, which, somewhat sheltered from behind, was exposed to the whole fury of the southern gales. No flower could bloom in its scant waste garden, under the influence of the frequent spray; and the tree that rose in mockery above the roof, had withered at its summit, as the roots penetrating the ungenial soil found no nourishment for the leafless boughs. The cot was thatched, and weather-beaten as it was, the strange rich colouring with which the sea and wind had painted it, made it contrast picturesquely with the white cliff and pale sands. The interior of this humble dwelling was poverty-stricken yet clean, and with some attempt at neatness. The family within sat at their frugal supper; there was besides on the scantly-covered table, a dark case bottle, frequently clutched by the master of the hut. Jane it was who sat there; her eyes having lost their lustre — her hair its golden hue — her complexion all its brightness. She was thin, faded, care-worn: yet a sweet patient smile played upon her lips, and her subdued voice possessed the same melody which had made her laugh so cheering in her happier hour. On her knee lay asleep a little cherub, but a few months old; and another child, of about three years, was greedily devouring his supper. But Jane’s eyes were fixed on one some years his senior, her eldest — her darling — the only one surviving out of several born in her better days. He was about fourteen — with his mother’s eyes and smile, a ruddy complexion, and such frankness on his brow, such alacrity in all his motions, as bespoke his lightsome heart and kind disposition. With louring glance — weather-worn cheeks, and an expression of mixed ferocity and endurance — sat the husband and the father, who had so ill fulfilled his part in life.
He had been bred a sailor, and on his marriage turned fisherman. Untamed passions and evil courses brought on ruin; he was forced to quit the village where he was known, and fixing himself in this desolate spot, he soon became acquainted with a desperate gang of smugglers, who persuaded him to become one of them. A remnant of shame at first induced him to conceal this new misfortune from his wife; but a pack of goods to be concealed, and a search to be evaded, forced him to disclose his secret. Since then his better feelings seemed quite to desert him, and in talk and action he assimilated himself more and more to his lawless, fierce associates. Jane’s too gentle temper was incapable of coping with his rough nature, whom in spite of all she loved, even when she feared him. But far more deeply seated than the duteous, but thankless attachment she cherished as a wife, was her adoration of her son. She had been a fond daughter, and her tenderness as a mother was equally zealous and devoted. The sole reward she desired to reap for her virtues, the sole compensation for her sufferings, was to be derived from the gallant and affectionate disposition of her boy.
That he should endure the blighting ills of poverty was bad enough; that out of hearing of “village chimes,” he should receive none of the benefits of civilized life — attend no school — scarce ever enter a church, and pass his days beyond the reach of public opinion and the natural restraints of society, which exert so salutary an influence over both rich and poor, was sufficing evil. That he should depend upon his parents for guidance through the tortuous paths of life, and that from her lips alone he should learn how to merit the approbation of God and man and his own conscience, were circumstances that made her pass many hours of anxious solicitude. But the reality was fraught with far greater perils.
It is no uncommon thing to find men hardening their hearts against the sense of right as regards themselves; setting the world and moral dictates at defiance, and yet painfully alive to the good name and rectitude of their children. It was this feeling that Jane had endeavoured to awaken in her husband’s mind. She strove with all sweetness and gentleness to induce him to resolve that although he had been thrown by adversity on dangerous and (this she slurred over) criminal pursuits, yet that their offspring should be preserved from the hardships, the humiliations and the possible guilt attendant on a lawless mode of life. But she spoke to one formed of rugged and coarse materials — whose best virtue was a sturdy pride that made him glory in his shame. He listened with bitterness to his wife’s persuasions — he swore that his son should not be brought up to despise and condemn him — and he defended with vulgar and plausible arguments his right to cheat the revenue, and to defend himself against the aggressions of its administrators.
There is no system of illegal traffic more venial in most eyes than smuggling. The laws on this score are perpetually transgressed, even by the legislators themselves — the revenue officers are held by every one in detestation, and they take a coarse pride in making themselves obnoxious. The courage, the activity, and the resource — the hardships and the dangers attendant on his pursuit, paints a smuggler in Salvator hues, and imparts a kind of heroic elevation to our idea of him. But to the anxious mother all this wore a different appearance; the unmasked truth was replete with deformity. Habits of intemperance and vice — a savage readiness to inflict injury — which though somewhat redeemed by daring to meet the same, filled the heart with such hate and violence, as was at utter war with the charity and love which distinguishes a virtuous character: an aptitude for stratagem and falsehood — which might be called resource, but which, coming in contact with the ingenuous and upright disposition of her son, she deemed frightful pollution. These were the lessons he was to learn under his father’s schooling; and she reflected with agony on practises which were to cloud his fearless brow with the scowl of brutal insolence and conscious falsehood, and accustom his dear hand, which now would handle a wounded nestling with tenderness, to grasp the instruments of death, and to use them resolutely and recklessly in the pursuit of his calling.
Jane’s soul was bent on rescuing her boy; while her husband, plunging deeper in the practises of his dangerous associates, grew each day more evilly inclined, and resisted still more impatiently the soft persuasions of his wife. Thus far she had concealed the real state of things from her son; and conquering, even when seeming to yield, she had hitherto prevented his father from making the fatal disclosure. She used the time thus gained by endeavouring to implant, so that they might never be uprooted, simple moral truths in his ductile and ingenuous mind. Her cares had a singular effect. Had they lived as other fishermen, Charles would have associated with companions of his own age, and become initiated in worldly practises. But the loneliness of their position and Jane’s watchfulness prevented this; so that he was brought up in guarded innocence, and preserved a respect for truth and a sense of duty seldom found among the lowly bred. Still she gained another day — week — month upon her husband — still Charles’s partnership in his perilous career was unasked, and his help was only afforded in their pursuit as fishermen — their ostensible mode of existence. Yet, though delayed, the awful moment for ever hovered near; the mother’s soul was in tumults — should she confide in, an
d warn her son, and beseech him to fly, and to seek to obtain his subsistence elsewhere, before he should be forced to enter on a course of crime? The instinct of her mild soul was not to give pain — and she shrunk from the necessity of parting with her boy, and the consequent anger of her husband. She could endure much, but she had no energy to act. She was woman in every fold and corner of her too soft nature. She had stood up against her husband only through the simplicity, the singleness and charity of her character — but she felt the coward in her heart, when she thought of quitting her defensive ground, for open and aggressive resistance.
