What spells and charms were worked on me, I cannot tell. When six months after I found myself at Amnest, brought by means I knew nothing of, all desire of vengeance as of life had gone. It seemed to me, while Sir Humphreville lived, I could not publish this history to the world: for--perhaps by some enchantment learned in his pursuit of hidden knowledge--he had gained a great power over me. No will was left: I was doomed to feebleness both of mind and body. Yet this scripture must be done, for traduction hath been at work with a most noble lady, and before I go to her I would fain have the world to understand. MIDSUMMER MADNESS PART I THE MARRIAGE EVE She had never looked fairer, for the full moonlight fell on her bosom and arms, and threw into her sweet face a statuesque quietness. For a while the curious question of whether the garden were or not a fitting background for her beauty puzzled me; but soon, with a self-pitying smile, I gave my attention again to her whose inspirations governed mine. She was leaning against a great vase, from whose margin toad’s flax and creeping violets--flowers she loved--hung in clusters, with odours floating about in almost tangible clouds. We were to be married on the morrow, and I was excited and was scarce myself. I dared not think of my courtship; for the knowledge that her affection was too great a gift--that I was indeed unworthy to approach that white, delicious creature whose subtle potency forced me against my will to love her--this knowledge, I say, confounded me beyond belief. Fate had thrown us together, ironically matching a woman whose story was irredeemably sad with a man wounded in a thousand struggles, who bore no other trophy to lay at her feet than a dead youth. She had stooped with more than human tenderness, and had raised me to her breast, and pressed my head there until the heated brow had cooled, and the temple-throbbings ceased. As time passed I essayed a question. Had it not been desecration I would have leaned forward and pressed that bare shoulder with my lips. As it was, the purity hindered me: I could as soon have kissed the heavens. ‘Once more, Phyllida, for the last time in our unwedded life,’ I said, ‘tell me, with all your heart, if you love me?’ I looked for her simple assurance, accompanied by the fond chiding that maddened me; and waited tremulously for answering. None such came, and looking into her face I saw a strange air of abstraction. Wounded by her indifference, I repeated my question. She turned wearily. ‘Why do you ask?’ she said. ‘I have often said that I love you. Let me be silent for awhile--not alone, (seeing that I was hurt, and that I moved away)--‘your presence is enough for me: to know that you are here, and that I may touch you when I will.’