In his interviews with Georgiana， Aylmer generally mademinute inquiries as to her sensations and whether the confinementof the rooms and the temperature of the atmosphere agreedwith her. These questions had such a particular drift thatGeorgiana began to conjecture that she was already subjectedto certain physical influences， either breathed in with thefragrant air or taken with her food. She fancied likewise， butit might be altogether fancy， that there was a stirring up ofher system—a strange， indefinite sensation creeping throughher veins， and tingling， half painfully， half pleasurably， at herheart. So， whenever she dared to look into the mirror， thereshe beheld herself pale as a white rose and with the crimsonbirthmark stamped upon her cheek. Not even Aylmer nowhated it so much as she.
To dispel the tedium of the hours which her husband foundit necessary to devote to the processes of combination andanalysis， Georgiana turned over the volumes of his scientificlibrary. In many dark old tomes she met with chapters full ofromance and poetry. They were the works of philosophers ofthe middle ages， such as Albertus Magnus， Cornelius Agrippa，Paracelsus， and the famous friar who created the propheticBrazen Head. All these antique naturalists stood in advance oftheir centuries， yet were imbued with some of their credulity，and therefore were believed， and perhaps imagined themselvesto have acquired from the investigation of Nature a powerabove Nature， and from physics a sway over the spiritualworld. Hardly less curious and imaginative were the earlyvolumes of the Transactions of the Royal Society， in whichthe members， 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 a largefolio from her husband’s own hand， in which he had recordedevery experiment of his scientific career， its original aim， themethods adopted for its development， and its final successor failure， with the circumstances to which either event wasattributable. The book， in truth， was both the history andemblem of his ardent， ambitious， imaginative， yet practicaland laborious life. He handled physical details as if there werenothing beyond them； yet spiritualized them all， and redeemedhimself from materialism by his strong and eager aspirationtowards the infinite. In his grasp the veriest clod of earthassumed a soul. Georgiana， as she read， reverenced Aylmer andloved him more profoundly than ever， but with a less entiredependence on his judgment than heretofore. Much as he hadaccomplished， she could not but observe that his most splendidsuccesses were almost invariably failures， if compared withthe ideal at which he aimed. His brightest diamonds were themerest pebbles， and felt to be so by himself， in comparisonwith the inestimable gems which lay hidden beyond his reach.
The volume， rich with achievements that had won renownfor its author， was yet as melancholy a record as ever mortalhand had penned. It was the sad confession and continualexemplification of the shortcomings of the composite man，the spirit burdened with clay and working in matter， and ofthe despair that assails the higher nature at finding itself somiserably thwarted by the earthly part. Perhaps every man ofgenius in whatever sphere might recognize the image of hisown experience in Aylmer’s journal.
So deeply did these reflections affect Georgiana that shelaid her face upon the open volume and burst into tears. In thissituation she was found by her husband.
“It is dangerous to read in a sorcerer’s books，” said he witha smile， though his countenance was uneasy and displeased.
“Georgiana， there are pages in that volume which I canscarcely glance over and keep my senses. Take heed lest itprove 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. Butcome， I have sought you for the luxury of your voice. Sing tome， dearest.”
So she poured out the liquid music of her voice to quenchthe thirst of his spirit. He then took his leave with a boyishexuberance of gayety， assuring her that her seclusion wouldendure but a little longer， and that the result was alreadycertain. Scarcely had he departed when Georgiana feltirresistibly impelled to follow him. She had forgotten toinform Aylmer of a symptom which for two or three hourspast had begun to excite her attention. It was a sensation in thefatal birthmark， not painful， but which induced a restlessnessthroughout her system. Hastening after her husband， sheintruded for the first time 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 were retorts，tubes， cylinders， crucibles， and other apparatus of chemicalresearch. An electrical machine stood ready for immediateuse. The atmosphere felt oppressively close， and was taintedwith gaseous odors which had been tormented forth by theprocesses of science. The severe and homely simplicity of theapartment， with its naked walls and brick pavement， lookedstrange， accustomed as Georgiana had become to the fantasticelegance of her boudoir. But what chiefly， indeed almostsolely， drew her attention， was the aspect of Aylmer himself.
He was pale as death， anxious and absorbed， and hung overthe furnace as if it depended upon his utmost watchfulnesswhether the liquid which it was distilling should be the draughtof immortal happiness or misery. How different from thesanguine and joyous mien that he had assumed for Georgiana’sencouragement！