by Mary Shelley
Still Charles lingered with his mother all day; and it was not until when, in the evening, a little sail in the offing seemed to betoken his father’s return, that with many tears and embraces he sought her blessing; and then, his little wardrobe tied up in a handkerchief, his dog as his companion, with no weakness of purpose, though weeping still, he ascended the cliff, and took his way to a near sea-port.
He was gone — and yet the skiff did not near, and no Harding returned. Jane at first could think only of her boy — of whither he had bent his steps, and where his dear head, poor and friendless as he was, would that night find a pillow. Still as night crept on, and her husband did not come back, new fears were awakened, and on every side disasters seemed to crowd about her. She waited long; but nature was exhausted: she had slept so little the preceding nights, that at last she went to rest; and taking her youngest darling to her bosom, and giving herself to dreamy hopes, which seemed sent from heaven to console her, she sunk into a deep refreshing sleep.
When she awoke, it was with an effort that she recalled her thoughts, and became aware of her situation. Day was far advanced, yet her children slept, and all was still except the waving sea. The wind had risen, and broken up the calm which had so long brooded on the deep. The waters were now in tumult, and the high tide brought the spray to her very door. She got up and looked out — all was desert. Hers was a life of loneliness; she was at the distance of four miles from a town, and not a cottage was to be found within a considerable distance of her abode. No one ever visited her, so that now, her son away, her husband not returning, she had no one with whom to exchange conjecture, or to whom to communicate her fears. She could only watch in terror, and sadly count the hours. The little occupation her children gave her was salutary; yet it could not divest her thoughts from a dearer object.
At first her husband’s protracted absence was felt as a relief by her; she dreaded to hear her angel-boy reviled, and to encounter the bad passions of this guilty man. But when three days had passed, these feelings were exchanged for a mortal inquietude. Her little stock of food had almost vanished; she was nearly destitute of money; her two children required her constant attendance, while suspense almost deprived her of every faculty, save that of listening to each sound that broke upon her frightful solitude. Still the billows warred, and broke tumultuously on the beach; and the tide rose and fell, and day was exchanged for night; but it seemed as if never again was she to have communication with the outward world — as if on that lonely sea-shore she was to wear her life away, in ignorance of all nearest and dearest to her.
Unable to struggle any longer with her anxiety, she at length made up her mind to some exertion. She would walk at least to the nearest town — perhaps her son had written to her — perhaps she should obtain some intelligence of the party of smugglers of whom her husband was one. Early in the morning she arose to prepare for her walk: with heaviness of heart she endeavoured to swallow some food, but in vain — while her little son jumped about in delight at the expected visit to the town. On a sudden there was scratching at the door of her cot — a well-known bark; she rushed to open it; poor Sailor the dog leaped up about her with frantic delight — but he was alone! She ran to the beach; she called her son’s name, and he coming from behind a rock which had concealed him, flew into her arms. At length he cried, “My Father! — is it true? I thought he might be within — but where — I need not ask; the story I heard is true: he is taken!”
“Taken!” exclaimed Jane.
“Dearest Mother,” said Charles, terrified at what he had to reveal, “do you not know? They were attacked again, some are prisoners, some escaped, and some fell: I had hoped that my father might have got back safe here.”
“Gracious God!” exclaimed the unhappy woman: “My poor babes!”
“Do not be afraid, Mother!” replied her son; “at the worst I am a man now, and can work for you: I will go to the old place; if the boat is there I can get to — in three or four hours, as the wind is fair, and so on to the assize town. If he is in jail I shall soon know. I shall be back again tomorrow, or next day at furthest.”
He was running off, when he returned again: “Take care of Sailor; he must not follow me. If you do not see me by Thursday night, go to the post office: I will write.”
He was gone; his coming had been a dream, but for the new fears he had left behind. Some of the smugglers had fallen in the fray — she embraced her children — her orphans. It seemed as if it required no new intelligence to assure her of her calamity — it was — it must be all over!
To wait — to wait! Life was one long dreary expectation. To attend to her children; to caress Charles’s dog, and to watch for his returning sail: the sea had become calmer, and a few hours might bring him again to her; yet he came not, and two days passed, and Thursday evening arrived, and still no Charles! Again she had to resolve on a visit to the post office with a yet more anxious heart. The morning came, and she was prepared for her expedition. She ascended the cliff, and gave one last look at the wide sea. The west wind that had reigned for many days was again rising into tempest, and lashing the ocean to fury: the clouds fled like living things across the sky; the waters turbid and foaming, kept up an incessant roar, and the beach was covered with surf. “God grant he do not put to sea!” sighed Jane, fearing little that he would. She held her youngest child in her arms, and Tommy carrying an empty basket ran at her side. A walk of four miles was before her, for the most part over a rough and hilly road. The wind seemed a little to subside as she proceeded. Tommy was delighted with his journey, and she talked cheerily to him in spite of her despair. Her spirit bore her up; so that notwithstanding her dear burthen, she reached the town without being greatly fatigued. Her first visit was to the post office; a letter was given her, rough-looking as it was, written on coarse paper, ill folded and clumsily indited, she pressed it with transport to her lips, and hurried away to get some spot where she might read it. While her children were devouring some bread in a baker’s shop, she tore it open: the words were few, and they put the seal on her worst anticipations: —
“Dearest Mother,” wrote Charles—”Be comforted — it is all too late: Father is in a better place, and you must not take on. He was shot and taken, and carried to jail. I found him alive, and he gave me his blessing, which comforts me, and bid me follow good courses. Last night, dear Mother, he died, and had suffered great pain first. He will be buried tomorrow early. Dear Mother, Charles will work for you, and for Tommy and Jenny. They have been very good to me; and I have a kind friend. He has made me promise to bring you here, and given me money, and will give me work. Indeed, dear Mother, I have good news for you. You shall not live any longer in that lonesome place, but come to a pretty cottage where we shall all be together. I found the boat, and shall come back in it: expect me on Friday — so look out for me.
Your dutiful son, CHARLES HARDING.”
In tears, yet trying to resign herself, drying her eyes, and then bursting afresh into a passion of weeping, Jane began to retrace her steps homeward. The sky was overcast, and both she and her little boy grew very tired. She walked forward about two miles, and then sat down to rest. After a short time, fearful that night might overtake her, she again proceeded on her way. She had now got among the wild downs nearer home, and the wind, which had seemed lulled, rose again, tore across the open country, and swept fearfully over the exposed heath. Vast, dense masses of cloud were borne in swift career; and in a pause of the gale, another sound was heard — was it the sea? — no; a flash of lightning changed her doubts to certainty, and again the pealing thunder reverberated over her head: the rain began to fall — for a moment she thought of shelter; but the image of her Charles upon the stormy ocean presented itself with such terror, that though she could hardly keep her feet, she hurried on. Poor Tommy could scarce keep up with her: still as the elemental voices mingled in horrid fray, and the sea joined its hoarse roar to the thunder and the wind, he also forgot his fatigue in his fear
s for his brother.
O, for a sight of the dangerous ocean, of which perhaps he was already the prey! To hear her enemy’s loud menaces, and yet to be blinded to their effects, gave such a sting to the miserable variety of her sorrow, that at one moment she sank on her knees, unable to pray, yet repeating with passionate cries her dear son’s name. The terror of her children, who grew more and more frightened, recalled her to herself; she wiped her fast-falling tears, and went on: the way seemed endless — well did she know each turn, each change of object in her path; and yet as rain and wind, and the darkness of the storm beset her, it seemed as if each distance was doubled — as if never, never should she arrive! At length on a turn in the road, she could perceive the chimney of her cot — a few more steps, but first a strange sound was wafted to her on the blast: — was that prolonged plaintive cry human? Again it was renewed. “It is Sailor,” cried her little son; and now the curtain of distance and impeding objects was withdrawn, and all was before her: the tempest-tossed and evil-boding waters, the lurid sky, and where seaward, the clouds lifted by the winds, showed beneath, the red and glaring signal of the increasing storm. Sailor was howling on the sands, and a hat borne by the breakers to the beach, was at his feet, and on the dark foaming ocean, rising and falling with the mighty waves, struggling with wind and water, was the skiff she had so often watched — now so dearly and so dangerously freighted. What hope remained?
Often the little vessel, with its one torn sail, was tossed in the yawning deep — again it rose on the edge of the waves, and then engulphed by the breaking surge, it laboured heavily amidst its howling, devouring, remorseless pursuers! The deaf billows hear not; the gloomy storm is blind; wreck and tempest have no touch of human sympathy; the driving rain falls upon the waters; the dark waves leap and dance in murderous pastime, and the thunder laughs in mockery above — it is their carnival, the carnival and masque of Death. The heartfelt prayer of the lonely one, the gushing, agonizing tears of the miserable being, who from the shore views her last hope fail — what are they to the merciless destruction which rises from its repose only to destroy!
Still the little boat made its fearful way. The sail, sole hope of the helmsman, was at one moment torn from the shrouds, and cast, shivered to rags, upon the sea; but her brave boy spread yet another, and again the keel obeyed the rudder. On she came. Breakers were ahead; but well did Charles know each hidden rock and reef on the perilous coast. The lifting clouds rose yet higher, and athwart the veil of the driving rain the clear sky was to be seen; the thunder became more faint; clouds flew wildly inland, and then a lull came — another furious blast, and then a longer pause. The sun on the ocean’s verge peeped out yet more golden, and the waves seemed to obey the beaming wands of light that were stretched out over them. The boat laboured less, and there was some hope of its making a little inlet of the sea, sheltered by the cliff, where he could land. Hope now mastered fear; the tearful mother hastened to the spot: the sea here was more tranquil, and after a few moments of suspense, on going about once again, the boat got yet nearer to the wind, and entered calmer water. Yet a brief interval, and Charles, all sea-drenched and faint, yet bearing up with an unflinching spirit, was clasped in his mother’s arms!
THE MORTAL IMMORTAL
July 16, 1833. — This is a memorable anniversary for me; on it I complete my three hundred and twenty-third year!
The Wandering Jew? — certainly not. More than eighteen centuries have passed over his head. In comparison with him, I am a very young Immortal.
Am I, then, immortal? This is a question which I have asked myself, by day and night, for now three hundred and three years, and yet cannot answer it. I detected a grey hair amidst my brown locks this very day — that surely signifies decay. Yet it may have remained concealed there for three hundred years — for some persons have become entirely white-headed before twenty years of age.
I will tell my story, and my reader shall judge for me. I will tell my story, and so contrive to pass some few hours of a long eternity, become so wearisome to me. For ever! Can it be? to live for ever! I have heard of enchantments, in which the victims were plunged into a deep sleep, to wake, after a hundred years, as fresh as ever: I have heard of the Seven Sleepers — thus to be immortal would not be so burthensome: but, oh! the weight of never-ending time — the tedious passage of the still-succeeding hours! How happy was the fabled Nourjahad! — But to my task.
All the world has heard of Cornelius Agrippa. His memory is as immortal as his arts have made me. All the world has also heard of his scholar, who, unawares, raised the foul fiend during his master’s absence, and was destroyed by him. The report, true or false, of this accident, was attended with many inconveniences to the renowned philosopher. All his scholars at once deserted him — his servants disappeared. He had no one near him to put coals on his ever-burning fires while he slept, or to attend to the changeful colours of his medicines while he studied. Experiment after experiment failed, because one pair of hands was insufficient to complete them: the dark spirits laughed at him for not being able to retain a single mortal in his service.
I was then very young — very poor — and very much in love. I had been for about a year the pupil of Cornelius, though I was absent when this accident took place. On my return, my friends implored me not to return to the alchymist’s abode. I trembled as I listened to the dire tale they told; I required no second warning; and when Cornelius came and offered me a purse of gold if I would remain under his roof, I felt as if Satan himself tempted me. My teeth chattered — my hair stood on end; — I ran off as fast as my trembling knees would permit.
My failing steps were directed whither for two years they had every evening been attracted, — a gently bubbling spring of pure living water, beside which lingered a dark-haired girl, whose beaming eyes were fixed on the path I was accustomed each night to tread. I cannot remember the hour when I did not love Bertha; we had been neighbours and playmates from infancy, — her parents, like mine were of humble life, yet respectable, — our attachment had been a source of pleasure to them. In an evil hour, a malignant fever carried off both her father and mother, and Bertha became an orphan. She would have found a home beneath my paternal roof, but, unfortunately, the old lady of the near castle, rich, childless, and solitary, declared her intention to adopt her. Henceforth Bertha was clad in silk — inhabited a marble palace — and was looked on as being highly favoured by fortune. But in her new situation among her new associates, Bertha remained true to the friend of her humbler days; she often visited the cottage of my father, and when forbidden to go thither, she would stray towards the neighbouring wood, and meet me beside its shady fountain.
She often declared that she owed no duty to her new protectress equal in sanctity to that which bound us. Yet still I was too poor to marry, and she grew weary of being tormented on my account. She had a haughty but an impatient spirit, and grew angry at the obstacle that prevented our union. We met now after an absence, and she had been sorely beset while I was away; she complained bitterly, and almost reproached me for being poor. I replied hastily, —
“I am honest, if I am poor! — were I not, I might soon become rich!”
This exclamation produced a thousand questions. I feared to shock her by owning the truth, but she drew it from me; and then, casting a look of disdain on me, she said, —
“You pretend to love, and you fear to face the Devil for my sake!”
I protested that I had only dreaded to offend her; — while she dwelt on the magnitude of the reward that I should receive. Thus encouraged — shamed by her — led on by love and hope, laughing at my later fears, with quick steps and a light heart, I returned to accept the offers of the alchymist, and was instantly installed in my office.
A year passed away. I became possessed of no insignificant sum of money. Custom had banished my fears. In spite of the most painful vigilance, I had never detected the trace of a cloven foot; nor was the studious silence of our abode ever disturbed b
y demoniac howls. I still continued my stolen interviews with Bertha, and Hope dawned on me — Hope — but not perfect joy: for Bertha fancied that love and security were enemies, and her pleasure was to divide them in my bosom. Though true of heart, she was something of a coquette in manner; I was jealous as a Turk. She slighted me in a thousand ways, yet would never acknowledge herself to be in the wrong. She would drive me mad with anger, and then force me to beg her pardon. Sometimes she fancied that I was not sufficiently submissive, and then she had some story of a rival, favoured by her protectress. She was surrounded by silk-clad youths — the rich and gay. What chance had the sad-robed scholar of Cornelius compared with these?
On one occasion, the philosopher made such large demands upon my time, that I was unable to meet her as I was wont. He was engaged in some mighty work, and I was forced to remain, day and night, feeding his furnaces and watching his chemical preparations. Bertha waited for me in vain at the fountain. Her haughty spirit fired at this neglect; and when at last I stole out during a few short minutes allotted to me for slumber, and hoped to be consoled by her, she received me with disdain, dismissed me in scorn, and vowed that any man should possess her hand rather than he who could not be in two places at once for her sake. She would be revenged! And truly she was. In my dingy retreat I heard that she had been hunting, attended by Albert Hoffer. Albert Hoffer was favoured by her protectress, and the three passed in cavalcade before my smoky window. Methought that they mentioned my name; it was followed by a laugh of derision, as her dark eyes glanced contemptuously towards my abode.
Jealousy, with all its venom and all its misery, entered my breast. Now I shed a torrent of tears, to think that I should never call her mine; and, anon, I imprecated a thousand curses on her inconstancy. Yet, still I must stir the fires of the alchymist, still attend on the changes of his unintelligible medicines.
