To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husbandfound it necessary to devote to the processes of combinationand analysis， Georgiana turned over the volumes of hisscientific library. In many dark old tomes， she met withchapters full of romance and poetry. They were the worksof the philosophers of the middle ages， such as AlbertusMagnus， Cornelius Agrippa， Paracelsus， and the famousfriar who created the prophetic Brazen Head. All theseantique naturalists stood in advance of their centuries， yetwere imbued with some of their credulity， and thereforewere believed， and perhaps imagined themselves， to haveacquired from the investigation of nature a power abovenature， and from physics a sway over the spiritual world.
Hardly less curious and imaginative were the early volumesof the Transactions of the Royal Society， in which themembers， knowing little of the limits of natural possibility，were continually recording wonders， or proposing methodswhereby wonders might be wrought.
But， to Georgiana， the most engrossing volume was alarge folio from her husband’s own hand， in which he hadrecorded every experiment of his scientific career， with itsoriginal aim， the methods adopted for its development，and its final success or failure， with the circumstances towhich 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 handledphysical details， as if there were nothing beyond them；yet spiritualized them all， and redeemed himself frommaterialism， by his strong and eager aspiration towardsthe infinite. In his grasp， the veriest clod of earth assumeda soul. Georgiana， as she read， reverenced Aylmer， andloved him more profoundly than ever， but with a lessentire dependence on his judgment than heretofore.
Much as he had accomplished， she could not but observethat his most splendid successes were almost invariablyfailures， if compared with the ideal at which he aimed. Hisbrightest diamonds were the merest pebbles， and felt tobe so by himself， in comparison with the inestimable gemswhich lay hidden beyond his reach. The volume， rich withachievements that had won renown for its author， was yetas melancholy a record as ever mortal hand had penned.
It was the sad confession， and continual exemplification，of the short-comings of the composite man—the spiritburthened with clay and working in matter—and of thedespair that assails the higher nature， at finding itself somiserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every manof genius， in whatever sphere， might recognize the imageof his own experience in Aylmer’s journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana， thatshe laid her face upon the open volume， and burst intotears. 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 anddispleased. “Georgiana， there are pages in that volume，which I can scarcely glance over and keep my senses. Takeheed 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 worshipme 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 toquench the thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave，with a boyish exuberance of gaiety， assuring her that herseclusion would endure but a little longer， and that theresult was already certain. Scarcely had he departed， whenGeorgiana felt irresistibly impelled to follow him. She hadforgotten to inform Aylmer of a symptom， which， for twoor 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 firsttime， into the laboratory.
The first thing that struck her eye was the furnace， thathot and feverish worker， with the intense glow of its fire，which， by the quantities of soot clustered above it， seemedto have been burning for ages. There was a distillingapparatus in full operation. Around the room wereretorts， tubes， cylinders， crucibles， and other apparatus ofchemical research. An electrical machine stood ready forimmediate use. The atmosphere felt oppressively close，and was tainted with gaseous odors， which had beentormented forth by the processes of science. The severeand homely simplicity of the apartment， with its nakedwalls and brick pavement， looked strange， accustomed asGeorgiana had become to the fantastic elegance of herboudoir. But what chiefly， indeed almost solely， drew herattention， was the aspect of Aylmer himself.
He was pale as death， anxious， and absorbed， andhung over the furnace as if it depended upon his utmostwatchfulness whether the liquid， which it was distilling，should be the draught of immortal happiness or misery.
How different from the sanguine and joyous mien that hehad assumed for Georgiana’s encouragement！
“Carefully now， Aminadab！ Carefully， thou humanmachine！ Carefully， thou man of clay！” muttered Aylmer，more to himself than his assistant. “Now， if there be athought 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， thengrew paler than ever， on beholding Georgiana. He rushedtowards her， and seized her arm with a gripe that left theprint of his fingers upon it.
“Why do you come hither？ Have you no trust in yourhusband？” cried he impetuously. “Would you throw theblight of that fatal birth-mark over my labors？ It is notwell done. Go， prying woman， go！”
“Nay， Aylmer，” said Georgiana， with the firmness ofwhich she possessed no stinted endowment， “it is not youthat have a right to complain. You mistrust your wife！
