At all the seasons which should have been their happiest， heinvariably and without intending it， nay， in spite of a purposeto the contrary， reverted to this one disastrous topic. Triflingas it at first appeared， it so connected itself with innumerabletrains of thought and modes of feeling that it became thecentral point of all. With the morning twilight Aylmer openedhis eyes upon his wife’s face and recognized the symbolof imperfection； and when they sat together at the eveninghearth his eyes wandered stealthily to her cheek， and beheld，flickering with the blaze of the wood fire， the spectral handthat wrote mortality where he would fain have worshipped.
Georgiana soon learned to shudder at his gaze. It needed but aglance with the peculiar expression that his face often wore tochange the roses of her cheek into a deathlike paleness， amidwhich the crimson hand was brought strongly out， like a bassreliefof ruby on the whitest marble.
Late one night when the lights were growing dim， so ashardly to betray the stain on the poor wife’s cheek， she herself，for the first time， voluntarily took up the subject.
“Do you remember， my dear Aylmer，” said she， with a feebleattempt at a smile， “have you any recollection of a dream lastnight about this odious hand？”
“None！ none whatever！” replied Aylmer， starting； but then headded， in a dry， cold tone， affected for the sake of concealingthe real depth of his emotion， “I might well dream of it； forbefore I fell asleep it had taken a pretty firm hold of my fancy.”
“And you did dream of it？” continued Georgiana， hastily；for she dreaded lest a gush of tears should interrupt what shehad to say. “A terrible dream！ I wonder that you can forget it.
Is it possible to forget this one expression？— ‘It is in her heartnow； we must have it out！’ Reflect， my husband； for by allmeans I would have you recall that dream.”
The mind is in a sad state when Sleep， the all-involving，cannot confine her spectres within the dim region of her sway，but suffers them to break forth， affrighting this actual lifewith secrets that perchance belong to a deeper one. Aylmernow remembered his dream. He had fancied himself with hisservant Aminadab， attempting an operation for the removal ofthe birthmark； but the deeper went the knife， the deeper sankthe hand， until at length its tiny grasp appeared to have caughthold of Georgiana’s heart； whence， however， her husband wasinexorably resolved to cut or wrench it away.
When the dream had shaped itself perfectly in his memory，Aylmer sat in his wife’s presence with a guilty feeling. Truthoften finds its way to the mind close muffled in robes of sleep，and then speaks with uncompromising directness of mattersin regard to which we practise an unconscious self-deceptionduring our waking moments. Until now he had not been awareof the tyrannizing influence acquired by one idea over hismind， and of the lengths which he might find in his heart to gofor the sake of giving himself peace.
“Aylmer，” resumed Georgiana， solemnly， “I know not whatmay be the cost to both of us to rid me of this fatal birthmark.
Perhaps its removal may cause cureless deformity； or it maybe the stain goes as deep as life itself. Again： do we know thatthere is a possibility， on any terms， of unclasping the firm gripeof this little hand which was laid upon me before I came intothe world？”
“Dearest Georgiana， I have spent much thought upon thesubject，” hastily interrupted Aylmer. “I am convinced of theperfect practicability of its removal.”
“If there be the remotest possibility of it，” continuedGeorgiana， “let the attempt be made at whatever risk. Dangeris nothing to me； for life， while this hateful mark makes methe object of your horror and disgust，—life is a burden whichI would fling down with joy. Either remove this dreadful hand，or take my wretched life！ You have deep science. All the worldbears witness of it. You have achieved great wonders. Cannotyou remove this little， little mark， which I cover with the tipsof two small fingers？ Is this beyond your power， for the sake ofyour own peace， and to save your poor wife from madness？”
“Noblest， dearest， tenderest wife，” cried Aylmer， rapturously，“doubt not my power. I have already given this matterthe deepest thought—thought which might almost haveenlightened me to create a being less perfect than yourself.
Georgiana， you have led me deeper than ever into the heartof science. I feel myself fully competent to render this dearcheek as faultless as its fellow； and then， most beloved， whatwill be my triumph when I shall have corrected what Natureleft imperfect in her fairest work！ Even Pygmalion， when hissculptured woman assumed life， felt not greater ecstasy thanmine will be.”
“It is resolved， then，” said Georgiana， faintly smiling. “And，Aylmer， spare me not， though you should find the birthmarktake refuge in my heart at last.”
Her husband tenderly kissed her cheek—her right cheek—not that which bore the impress of the crimson hand.
