“I received your dear letter (it is destroyed now) in which you expressed a wish that I should come away with you to some other country, and I answered it in eight brief words.  I dared not trust myself to write more, nor had I any time.  How could you think that I should ever accept such an offer for my own sake, when to do so would have been to ruin you?  But first I will tell you all that has happened here.” (Here followed a long and exact description of those events with which we are already acquainted, including the denunciation of Beatrice by her sister, the threats of Owen Davies as regards Geoffrey himself, and the measures which she had adopted to gain time.)

“Further,” the letter continued, “I inclose you your wife’s letter to me.  And here I wish to state that I have not one word to say against Lady Honoria or her letter.  I think that she was perfectly justified in writing as she did, for after all, dear Geoffrey, you are her husband, and in loving each other we have offended against her.  She tells me truly that it is my duty to make all further communications between us impossible.  There is only one way to do this, and I take it.

“And now I have spoken enough about myself, nor do I wish to enter into details that could only give you pain.  There will be no scandal, dear, and if any word should be raised against you after I am gone, I have provided an answer in the second letter which I have inclosed.  You can print it if necessary; it will be a sufficient reply to any talk.  Nobody after reading it can believe that you were in any way connected with the accident which will happen.  Dear, one word more—­still about myself, you see!  Do not blame yourself in this matter, for you are not to blame; of my own free will I do it, because in the extremity of the circumstances I think it best that one should go and the other be saved, rather than that both should be involved in a common ruin.

“Dear, do you remember how in that strange vision of mine, I dreamed that you came and touched me on the breast and showed me light?  So it has come to pass, for you have given me love—­that is light; and now in death I shall seek for wisdom.  And this being fulfilled, shall not the rest be fulfilled in its season?  Shall I not sit in those cloudy halls till I see you come to seek me, the word of wisdom on your lips?  And since I cannot have you to myself, and be all in all to you, why I am glad to go.  For here on the world is neither rest nor happiness; as in my dream, too often does ‘Hope seem to rend her starry robes.’

“I am glad to go from such a world, in which but one happy thing has found me—­the blessing of your love.  I am worn out with the weariness and struggle, and now that I have lost you I long for rest.  I do not know if I sin in what I do; if so, may I be forgiven.  If forgiveness is impossible, so be it!  You will forgive me, Geoffrey, and you will always love me, however wicked I may be; even