And Geoffrey told her all. When he had finished she spoke again. “By what shall I swear,” she said, “that I am not the thing which you must think me? Geoffrey, I swear by my love for you that I am innocent. If I came—oh, the shame of it! if I came—to your room last night, it was my feet which led me, not my mind that led my feet. I went to sleep, I was worn out, and then I knew no more till I heard a dreadful sound, and saw you before me in a blaze of light, after which there was darkness.” “Oh, Beatrice, do not be distressed,” he answered. “I saw that you were asleep. It is a dreadful thing which has happened, but I do not think that we were seen.” “I do not know,” she said. “Elizabeth looked at me very strangely this morning, and she sees everything. Geoffrey, for my part, I neither know nor care. What I do care for is, what must _you_ think of me? You must believe, oh!—I cannot say it. And yet I am innocent. Never, never did I dream of this. To come to you—thus—oh, it is shameless!” “Beatrice, do not talk so. I tell you I know it. Listen—I drew you. I did not mean that you should come. I did not think that you would come, but it was my doing. Listen to me, dear,” and he told her that which written words can ill express. When he had finished, she looked up, with another face; the deep shadow of her shame had left her. “I believe you, Geoffrey,” she said, “because I know that you have not invented this to shield me, for I have felt it also. See by it what you are to me. You are my master and my all. I cannot withstand you if I would. I have little will apart from yours if you choose to gainsay mine. And now promise me this upon your word. Leave me uninfluenced; do not draw me to you to be your ruin. I make no pretence, I have laid my life at your feet, but while I have any strength to struggle against it, you shall never take it up unless you can do so to your own honour, and that is not possible. Oh, my dear, we might have been very happy together, happier than men and women often are, but it is denied to us. We must carry our cross, we must crucify the flesh upon it; perhaps so—who can say?—we may glorify the spirit. I owe you a great deal. I have learnt much from you, Geoffrey. I have learned to hope again for a Hereafter. Nothing is left to me now—but that—that and an hour hence—your memory. “Oh, why should I weep? It is ungrateful, when I have your love, for which this misery is but a little price to pay. Kiss me, dear, and go—and never see me more. You will not forget me, I know now that you will _never_ forget me all your life. Afterwards—perhaps—who can tell? If not, why then—it will indeed be best—to die.” It is not well to linger over such a scene as this. After all, too, it is nothing. Only another broken heart or so. The world breaks so many this way and the other that it can have little pleasure in gloating over such stale scenes of agony.