In the latter part of the last century， there lived a man ofscience—an eminent proficient in every branch of naturalphilosophy—who， not long before our story opens， hadmade experience of a spiritual affinity， more attractivethan any chemical one. He had left his laboratory to thecare of an assistant， cleared his fine countenance fromthe furnace-smoke， washed the stain of acids from hisfingers， and persuaded a beautiful woman to becomehis wife. In those days， when the comparatively recentdiscovery of electricity， and other kindred mysteries ofnature， seemed to open paths into the region of miracle，it was not unusual for the love of science to rival the loveof woman， in its depth and absorbing energy. The higherintellect， the imagination， the spirit， and even the heart，might all find their congenial aliment in pursuits which， assome of their ardent votaries believed， would ascend fromone step of powerful intelligence to another， until thephilosopher should lay his hand on the secret of creativeforce， and perhaps make new worlds for himself. We knownot whether Aylmer possessed this degree of faith in man’sultimate control over nature. He had devoted himself，however， too unreservedly to scientific studies， ever tobe weaned from them by any second passion. His lovefor his young wife might prove the stronger of the two；but it could only be by intertwining itself with his love ofscience， and uniting the strength of the latter to its own.
Such an union accordingly took place， and was attendedwith truly remarkable consequences， and a deeplyimpressive moral. One day， very soon after their marriage，Aylmer sat gazing at his wife， with a trouble in hiscountenance that grew stronger， until he spoke.
“Georgiana，” said he， “has it never occurred to you thatthe mark upon your cheek might be removed？”
“No， indeed，” said she， smiling； but perceiving theseriousness of his manner， she blushed deeply. “To tell youthe truth， it has been so often called a charm， that I wassimple enough to imagine it might be so.”
“Ah， upon another face， perhaps it might，” replied herhusband. “But never on yours！ No， dearest Georgiana， youcame so nearly perfect from the hand of Nature， that thisslightest possible defect—which we hesitate whether toterm a defect or a beauty—shocks me， as being the visiblemark of earthly imperfection.”
“Shocks you， my husband！” cried Georgiana， deeplyhurt； at first reddening with momentary anger， but thenbursting into tears. “Then why did you take me from mymother’s side？ You cannot love what shocks you！”
To explain this conversation， it must be mentioned，that， in the centre of Georgiana’s left cheek， there wasa singular mark， deeply interwoven， as it were， with thetexture and substance of her face. In the usual state of hercomplexion， —a healthy， though delicate bloom， —themark wore a tint of deeper crimson， which imperfectlydefined its shape amid the surrounding rosiness. When sheblushed， it gradually became more indistinct， and finallyvanished amid the triumphant rush of blood， that bathedthe whole cheek with its brilliant glow. But， if any shiftingemotion caused her to turn pale， there was the mark again，a crimson stain upon the snow， in what Aylmer sometimesdeemed an almost fearful distinctness. Its shape borenot a little similarity to the human hand， though of thesmallest pigmy size. Georgiana’s lovers were wont to say，that some fairy， at her birth-hour， had laid her tiny handupon the infant’s cheek， and left this impress there， intoken of the magic endowments that were to give hersuch sway over all hearts. Many a desperate swain wouldhave risked life for the privilege of pressing his lips to themysterious hand. It must not be concealed， however， thatthe impression wrought by this fairy sign-manual variedexceedingly， according to the difference of temperamentin the beholders. Some fastidious persons—but they wereexclusively of her own sex—affirmed that the BloodyHand， as they chose to call it， quite destroyed the effectof Georgiana’s beauty， and rendered her countenance evenhideous. But it would be as reasonable to say， that oneof those small blue stains， which sometimes occur in thepurest statuary marble， would convert the Eve of Powersto a monster. Masculine observers， if the birth-mark didnot heighten their admiration， contented themselves withwishing it away， that the world might possess one livingspecimen of ideal loveliness， without the semblance of aflaw. After his marriage—for he thought little or nothingof the matter before—Aylmer discovered that this was thecase with himself.
Had she been less beautiful—if Envy’s self could havefound aught else to sneer at—he might have felt hisaffection heightened by the prettiness of this mimic hand，now vaguely portrayed， now lost， now stealing forth again，and glimmering to-and-fro with every pulse of emotionthat throbbed within her heart. But， seeing her otherwiseso perfect， he found this one defect grow more and moreintolerable， with every moment of their united lives. Itwas the fatal flaw of humanity， which Nature， in one shapeor another， stamps ineffaceably on all her productions，either to imply that they are temporary and finite， orthat their perfection must be wrought by toil and pain.
The Crimson Hand expressed the ineludible gripe， inwhich mortality clutches the highest and purest of earthlymould， degrading them into kindred with the lowest， andeven with the very brutes， like whom their visible framesreturn to dust. In this manner， selecting it as the symbol ofhis wife’s liability to sin， sorrow， decay， and death， Aylmer’ssombre imagination was not long in rendering the birthmarka frightful object， causing him more trouble andhorror than ever Georgiana’s beauty， whether of soul orsense， had given him delight.
