by Mary Shelley
Such is an outline of the stranger of Treby; and his actions were in conformity with the incongruities of his appearance — outwardly unemployed and tranquil; inwardly torn by throes of the most tempestuous and agonizing feelings. After landing he had strolled away, and was soon out of sight; nor did he return till night, when he looked fatigued and depressed. For form’s sake, — or for the sake of the bill at the inn, — he allowed food to be placed before him; but he neither ate nor drank — soon he hurried to the solitude of his chamber — not to bed — he paced the room for some hours; but as soon as all was still — when his watch and the quiet stars told him that it was midnight, he left the house — he wandered down to the beach — he threw himself upon the sands — and then again he started up and strode along the verge of the tide — and then sitting down, covering his face with his hands, remained motionless: early dawn found him thus — but, on the first appearance of a fisherman, he left the neighbourhood of the village, nor returned till the afternoon — and now when food was placed before him, he ate like one half famished; but after the keen sensation of extreme hunger was satisfied, he left the table and retired to his own room.
Taking a case of pistols from his portmanteau, he examined the weapons with care, and, putting them in his pocket, walked out upon the sands. The sun was fast descending in the sky, and he looked, with varying glances, at it, and at the blue sea, which slumbered peacefully, giving forth scarcely any sound, as it receded from the shore. Now he seemed wistful — now impatient — now struck by bitterer pangs, that caused drops of agony to gather on his brow. He spoke no word; but these were the thoughts that hovered, though unexpressed, upon his lips: “Another day! Another sun! Oh, never, never more for me shall day or sun exist. Coward! Why fear to die! And do I fear? No! no! I fear nothing but this pain — this unutterable anguish — this image of fell despair! If I could feel secure that memory would cease when my brain lies scattered on the earth, I should again feel joy before I die. Yet that is false. While I live, and memory lives, and the knowledge of my crime still creeps through every particle of my frame, I have a hell around me, even to the last pulsation! For ever and for ever I see her, lost and dead at my feet — I the cause — the murderer! My death shall atone. And yet even in death the curse is on me — I cannot give back the breath of life to her sweet pale lips! O fool! O villain! Haste to the last act; linger no more, lest you grow mad, and fetters and stripes become your fitter punishment than the death you covet!”
“Yet,” — after a pause, his thoughts thus continued:—”not here, nor now: there must be darkness on the earth before the deed is done! Hasten and hide thyself, O sun! Thou wilt never be cursed by the sight of my living form again!”
Thus did the transport of passion embrace the universe in its grasp; and the very sunlight seemed to have a pulse responsive to his own. The bright orb sunk lower; and the little western promontory, with its crowning spire, was thrown into bold relief against the glowing sky. As if some new idea were awakened, the stranger proceeded along the sands, towards the extremity of the headland. A short time before, unobserved by him, the little orphan had tripped along, and, scaling the cliff, had seated herself, as usual, beside her mother’s grave.
The stranger proceeded slowly, and with irregular steps. He was waiting till darkness should blind the eyes of day, which now appeared to gaze on him with intolerable scrutiny, and to read his very soul, that sickened and writhed with its burthen of sin and sorrow. When out of the immediate neighbourhood of the village, he threw himself upon a fragment of rock, and — he could not be said to meditate — for that supposes some sort of voluntary action of the mind — while to him might be applied the figure of the poet, who represented himself as hunted by his own thoughts — pursued by memory, and torn to pieces, as Actæon by his own hounds. A troop of horrid recollections assailed his soul: there was no shelter, no escape! various passions, by turns, fastened themselves upon him — jealousy, disappointed love, rage, fear, and last and worst, remorse and despair. No bodily torture, invented by revengeful tyrant, could produce agony equal to that which he had worked out for his own mind. His better nature, and the powers of his intellect, served but to sharpen and strike deeper the pangs of unavailing regret. Fool! He had foreseen nothing of all this! He had fancied that he could bend the course of fate to his own will; and that to desire with energy was to insure success. And to what had the immutable resolve to accomplish his ends brought him? She was dead — the loveliest and best of created beings: torn from the affections and the pleasures of life! from her home, her child! He had seen her stretched dead at his feet: he had heaped the earth upon her clay-cold form; — and he the cause! he the murderer!
Stung to intolerable anguish by these ideas, he felt hastily for his pistols, and rising, pursued his way. Evening was closing in; yet he could distinguish the winding path of the cliff: he ascended, opened the little gate, and entered the church-yard. Oh! how he envied the dead! — the guiltless dead, who had closed their eyes on this mortal scene, surrounded by weeping friends, cheered by religious hope. All that imaged innocence and repose, appeared in his eyes so beautiful and desirable: and how could he, the criminal, hope to rest like one of these? A star or two came out in the heavens above, and the church spire seemed almost to reach them, as it pointed upwards. The dim, silent sea was spread beneath: the dead slept around: scarcely did the tall grass bend its head to the summer air. Soft, balmy peace possessed the scene. With what thrilling sensations of self-enjoyment and gratitude to the Creator, might the mind at ease drink in the tranquil loveliness of such an hour. The stranger felt every nerve wakened to fresh anguish. His brow contracted convulsively. “Shall I ever die!” he cried; “Will not the dead reject me!”
He looked round with the natural instinct that leads a human being, at the moment of dissolution, to withdraw into a cave or corner, where least to offend the eyes of the living by the loathsome form of death. The ivyed wall and paling, overhung by trees, formed a nook, whose shadow at that hour was becoming deep. He approached the spot; for a moment he stood looking afar: he knew not at what; and drew forth his pistol, cocked it, and, throwing himself on the grassy mound, raised the mouth of the fatal instrument to his forehead. “Oh go away! go away from mamma!” were words that might have met his ear, but that every sense was absorbed. As he drew the trigger, his arm was pulled; the ball whizzed harmlessly by his ear: but the shock of the sound, the unconsciousness that he had been touched at that moment — the belief that the mortal wound was given, made him fall back; and, as he himself said afterwards, he fancied that he had uttered the scream he heard, which had, indeed, proceeded from other lips.
In a few seconds he recovered himself. Yet so had he worked up his mind to die; so impossible did it appear that his aim should fail him, that in those few seconds, the earth and all belonging to it had passed away — and his first exclamation, as he started up, was, “Where am I!” Something caught his gaze; a little white figure, which lay but a few paces distant, and two eyes that gleamed on him — the horrible thought darted into his head — had another instead of himself been the victim? and he exclaimed in agony, “Gracious God! who are you? — speak! What have I done!” Still more was he horror-struck when he saw that it was a little child who lay before him — he raised her — but her eyes had glared with terror, not death; she did not speak; but she was not wounded, and he endeavoured to comfort and re-assure her, till she, a little restored, began to cry bitterly, and he felt, thankfully, that her tears were a pledge that the worst consequences of her fright had passed away. He lifted her from the ground, while she, in the midst of her tears, tried to get him away from the grave he desecrated. The twilight scarcely showed her features; but her surpassing fairness — her lovely countenance and silken hair, so betokened a child of love and care, that he was the more surprised to find her alone, at that hour, in the solitary church-yard.
He soothed her gently, and asked, “How came you here? what could you be doing so late,
so far from home?”
“I came to see mamma.”
“To see mamma! Where? how? Your mother is not here.”
“Yes, she is; mamma is there;” and she pointed with her little finger to the grave.
The stranger started up — there was something awful in this childish simplicity and affection: he tried to read the inscription on the stone near — he could just make out the name of Edwin Raby. “That is not your mother’s grave,” he said.
“No; papa is there — mamma is here, next to him.”
The man, just bent on self-destruction, with a conscience burning him to the heart’s core — all concentrated in the omnipotence of his own sensations — shuddered at the tale of dereliction and misery these words conveyed; he looked earnestly on the child, and was fascinated by her angel look; she spoke with a pretty seriousness, shaking her head, her lips trembling — her large eyes shining in brimming tears. “My poor child,” he said, “your name is Raby, then?”
“Mamma used to call me Baby,” she replied; “they call me Missy at home — my name is Elizabeth.”
“Well, dear Elizabeth, let me take you home; you cannot stay all night with mamma.”
“O no; I was just going home, when you frightened me.”
“You must forget that; I will buy you a doll to make it up again, and all sorts of toys; — see, here is a pretty thing for you!” and he took the chain of his watch, and threw it over her head; he wanted so to distract her attention, as to make her forget what had passed, and not to tell a shocking story when she got home.
“But,” she said, looking up into his face, “you will not be so naughty again, and sit down where mamma is lying.”
The stranger promised, and kissed her, and, taking her hand, they walked together to the village; she prattled as she went, and he sometimes listened to her stories of mamma, and answered, and sometimes thought with wonder that he still lived — that the ocean’s tide still broke at his feet — and the stars still shone above; he felt angry and impatient at the delay, as if it betokened a failing of purpose. They walked along the sands, and stopped at last at Mrs. Baker’s door. She was standing at it, and exclaimed, “Here you are, Missy, at last! What have you been doing with yourself? I declare I was quite frightened — it is long past your bed-time.”
“You must not scold her,” said the stranger; “I detained her. But why do you let her go out alone? it is not right.”
“Lord, sir,” she replied, “there is none hereabouts to do her a harm — and she would not thank me if I kept her from going to see her mamma, as she calls it. I have no one to spare to go with her; it’s hard enough on me to keep her on charity, as I do. But,” — and her voice changed, as a thought flashed across her,—”I beg your pardon, sir, perhaps you come for Missy, and know all about her. I am sure I have done all I can; it’s a long time since her mamma died; and, but for me, she must have gone to the parish. I hope you will judge that I have done my duty toward her.”
“You mistake,” said the stranger; “I know nothing of this young lady, nor of her parents, who, it would seem, are both dead. Of course she has other relations?”
“That she has, and rich ones too,” replied Mrs. Baker, “if one could but find them out. It’s hard upon me, who am a widow woman, with four children of my own, to have other people’s upon me — very-hard, sir, as you must allow; and often I think that I cannot answer it to myself, taking the bread from my own children and grandchildren, to feed a stranger. But, to be sure, Missy has rich relations, and some day they will inquire for her; though come the tenth of next August, and it’s a year since her mother died, and no one has come to ask good or bad about her, or Missy.”
“Her father died also in this village?” asked the stranger.
“True enough,” said the woman; “both father and mother died in this very house, and lie up in the church-yard yonder. Come, Missy, don’t cry; that’s an old story now, and it’s no use fretting.”
The poor child, who had hitherto listened in simple ignorance, began to sob at this mention of her parents; and the stranger, shocked by the woman’s unfeeling tone, said, “I should like to hear more of this sad story. Pray let the poor dear child be put to bed, and then if you will relate what you know of her parents, I dare say I can give you some advice, to enable you to discover her relations, and relieve you from the burthen of her maintenance.”
“These are the first comfortable words I have heard a long time,” said Mrs. Baker. “Come, Missy, Nancy shall put you to bed; it’s far past your hour. Don’t cry, dear; this kind gentleman will take you along with him, to a fine house, among grand folks, and all our troubles will be over. Be pleased, sir, to step into the parlour, and I will show you a letter of the lady, and tell you all I know. I dare say, if you are going to London, you will find out that Missy ought to be riding in her coach at this very moment.”
This was a golden idea of Mrs. Baker, and, in truth, went a little beyond her anticipations; but she had got tired of her first dreams of greatness, and feared that, in sad truth, the little orphan’s relations would entirely disown her; but it struck her that if she could persuade this strange gentleman that all she said was true, he might be induced to take the little girl with him, when he went away, and undertake the task of restoring her to her father’s family, by which means she at least would be released from all further care on her account:—”Upon this hint she spake.”
She related how Mr. and Mrs. Raby had arrived with their almost infant child — death already streaked the brow of the dying man; each day threatened to be his last; yet he lived on. His sufferings were great; and night and day his wife was at his side, waiting on him, watching each turn of his eye, each change of complexion, or of pulse. They were poor, and had only one servant, hired at the village soon after their arrival, when Mrs. Raby found herself unable to bestow adequate attention on both husband and child; yet she did so much as evidently to cause her to sink beneath her too great exertions. She was delicate and fragile in appearance; but she never owned to being fatigued, or relaxed in her attentions. Her voice was always attuned to cheerfulness, her eyes beaming with tenderness; she, doubtless, wept in secret; but when conversing with her husband, or playing with her child, a natural vivacity animated her, that looked like hope; indeed, it was certain that, in spite of every fatal symptom, she did not wholly despair. When her husband declared himself better, and resumed for a day his task of instructor to his little girl, she believed that his disorder had taken a favourable turn, and would say, “O, Mrs. Baker, please God, he is really better; doctors are not infallible; he may live!” And as she spoke, her eyes swam in tears, while a smile lay like a sunbeam on her features. She did not sink till her husband died, and even then struggled, both with her grief and the wasting malady already at work within her, with a fortitude a mother only could practise; for all her exertions were for her dear child; and she could smile on her, a wintry smile — yet sweet as if warmed by seraphic faith and love. She lingered thus, hovering on the very limits of life and death; her heart warm and affectionate, and hoping, and full of fire to the end, for her child’s sake, while she herself pined for the freedom of the grave, and to soar from the cares and sorrows of a sordid world, to the heaven already open to receive her. In homely phrase, Mrs. Baker dwelt upon this touching mixture of maternal tenderness and soft languor, that would not mourn for him she was so soon to join. The woman then described her sudden death, and placed the fragment of her last letter before her auditor.
Deeply interested, the stranger began to read, when suddenly he became ghastly pale, and, trembling all over, he asked, “To whom was this letter addressed?”
“Ah, sir,” replied Mrs. Baker, “would that I could tell, and all my troubles would be over. Read on, sir, and you will see that Mrs. Raby feels sure that the lady would have been a mother to poor Missy; but who, or where she is, is past all my guessing.”
The stranger strove to read on, but violent emotion, and the struggle to hide
what he felt, hindered him from taking in the meaning of a single word. At length he told Mrs. Baker, that, with her leave, he would take the letter away, and read it at his leisure. He promised her his aid in discovering Miss Raby’s relatives, and assured her that there would be small difficulty in so doing. He then retired, and Mrs. Baker exclaimed, “Please God, this will prove a good day’s work.”
A voice from the grave had spoken to the stranger. It was not the dead mother’s voice — she, whatever her merits and sufferings had been, was to him an image of the mind only — he had never known her. But her benefactress, her hope and trust, who and where was she? Alithea! the warm-hearted friend — the incomparable mother! She to whom all hearts in distress turned, sure of relief — who went before the desires of the necessitous; whose generous and free spirit made her empress of all hearts; who, while she lived, spread, as does the sun, radiance and warmth around — her pulses were stilled; her powers cribbed up in the grave. She was nothing now; and he had reduced to this nothing the living frame of this glorious being.