‘Do not promise too much. My—this letter bids me do what, of my own free will, I never could have done—tell you the story of my life. Perhaps I had better write to you; yet no, it might be still more difficult. I will tell you all, at once. And then hate me or despise me, as you will. You must at least remember that I have never courted your love.’ ‘I know that you have been the most cruel among women, the most inexorable—’ ‘I was not so once, but rather the weakest. Hear my story, as briefly, as plainly as I can tell it. Years ago I was a guest at a great lady’s house—a visitor among people who were above me in rank, but who were pleased to take a fancy to me, as the phrase goes, because I had some little talent for music. I sang and played well enough to amuse them and their guests. The lady was an amateur, raved about music, and delighted in bringing musical people about her. Among her favourites when I visited her was one who had a rare genius—a man with whom music was a second nature, whose whole being seemed to be absorbed by his art. Violinist, pianist, organist, with a power of passionate expression that gave a new magic even to the most familiar melodies, he seemed the very genius of music. I heard him, and, like my patroness, was enchanted. She was amused to see my delight; threw us much together; wove a little romance out of our companionship; made us play and sing together; and in a word, with the most innocent and kindly intentions, prepared the way for my deepest misery.’ ‘You loved this man!’ cried Geoffrey, ready to hate him on that ground. ‘Loved him! I thought so then. There are times when I believe I never really loved him, that the glamour which he cast around me was only the magic of his art. But for the time being my mind was utterly subjugated by his influence; I had no thought but of him, and, fascinated by his genius, deemed him worthy of a self-sacrificing love. He was a creature of mystery—a mere waif and stray, admitted to the house where I met him on no better recommendation than his genius. He had the manners and education of a gentleman, the eccentricities of an artist. He asked me to be his wife, disregarded my refusal, pursued me with an unwearying persistence, and, aided by the wondrous power of his genius, triumphed over every argument, conquered every opposition, wrung from me my consent to a secret union. It would be useless to repeat his specious statements—his pretended reasons for desiring a secret marriage. I was weak enough, wicked enough, to consent to the arrangement he proposed; but not until after many a bitter struggle.’ ‘Why pain yourself by these wretched memories?’ exclaimed Geoffrey. ‘Tell me nothing except that you will be my wife. I will take all the rest upon trust. There is no such thing as truth or purity in woman if you are not worthy of an honest man’s love.’