The Invisible Girl - Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley (old books to read .txt) 📗

the hard

floor, when weariness, both of mind and body, conduced to steep their

senses in sleep.

 

Long and sound were the slumbers of the mariners. Vernon but forgot

himself for an hour; then, throwing off drowsiness, and finding his

roughcouch uncongenial to repose, he got up and placed himself at the

hole that served for a window, for glass there was none, and there being

not even a rough bench, he leant his back against the embrasure, as the

only rest he could find. He had forgotten his danger, the mysterious

beacon, and its invisible guardian: his thoughts were occupied on the

horrors of his own fate, and the unspeakable wretchedness that sat like

a night-mare on his heart.

 

It would require a good-sized volume to relate the causes which had

changed the once happy Vernon into the most woeful mourner that ever

clung to the outer trappings of grief, as slight though cherished

symbols of the wretchedness within. Henry was the only child of Sir

Peter Vernon, and as much spoiled by his father’s idolatry as the old

baronet’s violent and tyrannical temper would permit. A young orphan was

educated in his father’s house, who in the same way was treated with

generosity and kindness, and yet who lived in deep awe of Sir Peter’s

authority, who was a widower; and these two children were all he had to

exert his power over, or to whom to extend his affection. Rosina was a

cheerful-tempered girl, a little timid, and careful to avoid displeasing

her protector; but so docile, so kind-hearted, and so affectionate, that

she felt even less than Henry the discordant spirit of his parent. It is

a tale often told; they were playmates and companions in childhood, and

lovers in after days. Rosina was frightened to imagine that this secret

affection, and the vows they pledged, might be disapproved of by Sir

Peter. But sometimes she consoled herself by thinking that perhaps she

was in reality her Henry’s destined bride, brought up with him under the

design of their future union; and Henry, while he felt that this was not

the case, resolved to wait only until he was of age to declare and

accomplish his wishes in making the sweet Rosina his wife. Meanwhile he

was careful to avoid premature discovery of his intentions, so to secure

his beloved girl from persecution and insult. The old gentleman was very

conveniently blind; he lived always in the country, and the lovers spent

their lives together, unrebuked and uncontrolled. It was enough that

Rosina played on her mandoline, and sang Sir Peter to sleep every day

after dinner; she was the sole female in the house above the rank of a

servant, and had her own way in the disposal of her time. Even when Sir

Peter frowned, her innocent caresses and sweet voice were powerful to

smooth the rough current of his temper. If ever human spirit lived in an

earthly paradise, Rosina did at this time: her pure love was made happy

by Henry’s constant presence; and the confidence they felt in each

other, and the security with which they looked forward to the future,

rendered their path one of roses under a cloudless sky. Sir Peter was

the slight drawback that only rendered their tete—a—tete more

delightful, and gave value to the sympathy they each bestowed on the

other. All at once an ominous personage made its appearance in

Vernon-Place, in the shape of a widow sister of Sir Peter, who, having

succeeded in killing her husband and children with the effects of her

vile temper, came, like a harpy, greedy for new prey, under her

brother’s roof. She too soon detected the attachment of the unsuspicious

pair. She made all speed to impart her discovery to her brother, and at

once to restrain and inflame his rage. Through her contrivance Henry was

suddenly despatched on his travels abroad, that the coast might be clear

for the persecution of Rosina; and then the richest of the lovely girl’s

many admirers, whom, under Sir Peter’s single reign, she was allowed,

nay, almost commanded, to dismiss, so desirous was he of keeping her for

his own comfort, was selected, and she was ordered to marry him. The

scenes of violence to which she was now exposed, the bitter taunts of

the odious Mrs. Bainbridge, and the reckless fury of Sir Peter, were the

more frightful and overwhelming from their novelty. To all she could

only oppose a silent, tearful, but immutable steadiness of purpose: no

threats, no rage could extort from her more than a touching prayer that

they would not hate her, because she could not obey.

 

“There must he something we don’t see under all this,” said Mrs.

Bainbridge, “take my word for it, brother,—she corresponds secretly

with Henry. Let us take her down to your seat in Wales, where she will

have no pensioned beggars to assist her; and we shall see if her spirit

be not bent to our purpose.”

 

Sir Peter consented, and they all three posted down to ,—shire, and

took up their abode in the solitary and dreary looking house before

alluded to as belonging to the family. Here poor Rosina’s sufferings

grew intolerable:—before, surrounded by well-known scenes, and in

perpetual intercourse with kind and familiar faces, she had not

despaired in the end of conquering by her patience the cruelty of her

persecutors;—nor had she written to Henry, for his name had not been

mentioned by his relatives, nor their attachment alluded to, and she

felt an instinctive wish to escape the dangers about her without his

being annoyed, or the sacred secret of her love being laid bare, and

wronged by the vulgar abuse of his aunt or the bitter curses of his

father. But when she was taken to Wales, and made a prisoner in her

apartment, when the flinty mountains about her seemed feebly to imitate

the stony hearts she had to deal with, her courage began to fail. The

only attendant permitted to approach her was Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid; and

under the tutelage of her fiend-like mistress, this woman was used as a

decoy to entice the poor prisoner into confidence, and then to be

betrayed. The simple, kind-hearted Rosina was a facile dupe, and at

last, in the excess of her despair, wrote to Henry, and gave the letter

to this woman to be forwarded. The letter in itself would have softened

marble; it did not speak of their mutual vows, it but asked him to

intercede with his father, that he would restore her to the kind place

she had formerly held in his affections, and cease from a cruelty that

would destroy her. “For I may die,” wrote the hapless girl, “but marry

another—never!” That single word, indeed, had sufficed to betray her

secret, had it not been already discovered; as it was, it gave increased

fury to Sir Peter, as his sister triumphantly pointed it out to him, for

it need hardly be said that while the ink of the address was yet wet,

and the seal still warm, Rosina’s letter was carried to this lady. The

culprit was summoned before them; what ensued none could tell; for their

own sakes the cruel pair tried to palliate their part. Voices were high,

and the soft murmur of Rosina’s tone was lost in the howling of Sir

Peter and the snarling of his sister. “Out of doors you shall go,”

roared the old man; “under my roof you shall not spend another night.”

And the words “infamous seductress,” and worse, such as had never met

the poor girl’s ear before, were caught by listening servants; and to

each angry speech of the baronet, Mrs. Bainbridge added an envenomed

point worse than all.

 

More dead than alive, Rosina was at last dismissed. Whether guided by

despair, whether she took Sir Peter’s threats literally, or whether his

sister’s orders were more decisive, none knew, but Rosina left the

house; a servant saw her cross the park, weeping, and wringing her hands

as she went. What became of her none could tell; her disappearance was

not disclosed to Sir Peter till the following day, and then he showed by

his anxiety to trace her steps and to find her, that his words had been

but idle threats. The truth was, that though Sir Peter went to frightful

lengths to prevent the marriage of the heir of his house with the

portionless orphan, the object of his charity, yet in his heart he loved

Rosina, and half his violence to her rose from anger at himself for

treating her so ill. Now remorse began to sting him, as messenger after

messenger came back without tidings of his victim; he dared not confess

his worst fears to himself; and when his inhuman sister, trying to

harden her conscience by angry words, cried, “The vile hussy has too

surely made away with herself out of revenge to us;” an oath, the most

tremendous, and a look sufficient to make even her tremble, commanded

her silence. Her conjecture, however, appeared too true: a dark and

rushing stream that flowed at the extremity of the park had doubtless

received the lovely form, and quenched the life of this unfortunate

girl. Sir Peter, when his endeavours to find her proved fruitless,

returned to town, haunted by the image of his victim, and forced to

acknowledge in his own heart that he would willingly lay down his life,

could he see her again, even though it were as the bride of his son—his

son, before whose questioning he quailed like the veriest coward; for

when Henry was told of the death of Rosina, he suddenly returned from

abroad to ask the cause—to visit her grave, and mourn her loss in the

groves and valleys which had been the scenes of their mutual happiness.

He made a thousand inquiries, and an ominous silence alone replied.

Growing more earnest and more anxious, at length he drew from servants

and dependants, and his odious aunt herself, the whole dreadful truth.

From that moment despair struck his heart, and misery named him her own.

He fled from his father’s presence; and the recollection that one whom

he ought to revere was guilty of so dark a crime, haunted him, as of old

the Eumenides tormented the souls of men given up to their torturings.

 

His first, his only wish, was to visit Wales, and to learn if any new

discovery had been made, and whether it were possible to recover the

mortal remains of the lost Rosina, so to satisfy the unquiet longings of

his miserable heart. On this expedition was he bound, when he made his

appearance at the village before named; and now in the deserted tower,

his thoughts were busy with images of despair and death, and what his

beloved one had suffered before her gentle nature had been goaded to

such a deed of woe.

 

While immersed in gloomy reverie, to which the monotonous roaring of the

sea made fit accompaniment, hours flew on, and Vernon was at last aware

that the light of morning was creeping from out its eastern retreat, and

dawning over the wild ocean, which still broke in furious tumult on the

rocky beach. His companions now roused themselves, and prepared to

depart. The food they had brought with them was damaged by sea water,

and their hunger, after hard labour and many hours fasting, had become

ravenous. It was impossible to put to sea in their shattered boat; but

there stood a fisher’s cot about two miles off, in a recess in the bay,

of which the promontory on which the tower stood formed one side, and to

this they hastened to repair; they did not spend a second thought on the

light which had saved them, nor its cause, but left the ruin in search

of a more