Tales and Stories: Now First CollectedShelley, Mary Wollstonecraft
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Tales and Stories: Now First Collected
Shelley, Mary Wollstonecraft
English fiction -- 19th century; Short stories, English
“The morning sunbeams, as creeping down the hill-side they at last fell
upon my face, awoke me. At first I had forgotten all thought of the
events of the past night, and my first impulse was to spring up, crying
aloud, where am I? but the stiffness of my limbs and their weakness,
soon revealed the truth. Gladly I now welcomed the sound of voices, and
marked the approach of a number of peasants along the ravine. Hitherto,
strange to say, I had thought only of myself; but with the ideas of
succour came the recollection of my companion, and the tale of the
previous night. I glanced eagerly to where he lay; his posture disclosed
his state; he was still, and stiff, and dead. Yet his countenance was
calm and beautiful. He had died in the dear hope of meeting his sister,
and her image had shed peace over the last moment of life.
“I am ashamed to revert to myself. The death of Constantine is the true
end of my tale. My wound was a severe one. I was forced to leave Greece,
and for some months remained between life and death in Cefalonia, till a
good constitution saved me, when at once I returned to England.”
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XVI.
_THE ELDER SON._
MY father was the second son of a wealthy baronet. As he and his elder
brother formed all the family of my grandfather, he inherited the whole
of his mother’s fortune, which was considerable, and settled on the
younger children. He married a lady whom he tenderly loved; and having
taken orders, and procured preferment, retired to his deanery in the
north of Ireland, and there took up his abode. When I was about ten
years old he lost my mother. I was their only child.
My father was something of an ascetic, if such name can be given to a
rigid adherence to the precepts of morality, which arose from the
excess, and not the absence of feeling. He adored my mother; he mourned
for her to the verge of insanity; but his grief was silent, devouring,
and gloomy. He never formed another matrimonial engagement: secluding
himself entirely from society, and given up to the duties of his sacred
calling, he passed his days in solitude, or in works of charity among
the poor.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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