She gave to me all she had to give, and in so doing

she tried to satisfy some hunger of her being that lay beyond my

comprehension or interpretation. For, note this—she gave herself into

my keeping, I remember, with a sigh.

It seems as of yesterday the actual moment when, urged by my

vehement desires, I made her consent to be my wife; I remember, too,

the doubt, the shame, the hesitation that made themselves felt in me

before the climax when her beauty overpowered me, sweeping reflection

utterly away. I can hear to-day the sigh, half of satisfaction, yet

half, it seemed, of pain, with which she sank into my arms at last, as

though her victory brought intense relief, yet was not wholly gamed in

the way that she had wanted. Her physical beauty, perhaps, was the last

weapon she had wished to use for my enslavement; she knew quite surely

that the appeal to what was highest in me had not succeeded…

The party in our mother’s house that week in July included yourself;

there is no need for me to remind you of its various members, nor of

the strong attraction Marion, then a girl of twenty-five, exercised

upon the men belonging to it. Nor have you forgotten, I feel sure, the

adroit way in which she contrived so often to find herself alone with

me, both in the house and out of it, even to the point of sometimes

placing me in a quasi-false position. That she tempted me is, perhaps,

an overstatement, though that she availed herself of every legitimate

use of feminine magic to entrap me is certainly the truth.

Opportunities of marriage, it was notorious, had been frequently given

to her, and she had as frequently declined them; she was older than her

years; to inexperience she certainly had no claim: and from the very

first it was clear to me—if conceited, I cannot pretend that I was

also blind—that flirtation was not her object and that marriage was.

Yet it was marriage with a purpose that she desired, and that purpose

had to do, I felt, with sacrifice. She burned to give her very best,

her all, and for my highest welfare. It was in this sense, I got the

impression strangely, that she had need of me.

The battle seemed, at first, uneven, since, as a woman, she did not

positively attract me. I was first amused at her endeavours and her

skill; but respect for her as a redoubtable antagonist soon followed.

This respect, doubtless, was the first blood she drew from me, since it

gained my attention and fixed my mind upon her presence. From that

moment she entered my consciousness as a woman; when she was near me I

became more and more aware of her, and the room, the picnic, the game

of tennis that included her were entirely different from such occasions

when she was absent, I became self-conscious. It was impossible to

ignore her as formerly had been my happy case.

It was then I first knew how beautiful she was, and that her beauty

made a certain difference to my mood. The next step may seem a big one,

but, I believe, is very natural: her physical beauty gave me definite

pleasure. And the instant this change occurred she was aware of it. The

curious fact, however, is that, although aware of this gain of power,

she made no direct use of it at first. She did not draw this potent

weapon for my undoing; it was ever with her, but was ever sheathed. Did

she discern my weakness, perhaps, and know that the subtle power would

work upon me most effectively if left to itself? Did she, rich in

experience, deem that its too direct use might waken a reaction in my

better self? I cannot say, I do not know…. Every feminine art was at

her disposal, as every use of magic pertaining to young and comely

womanhood was easily within her reach. As you and I might express it

bluntly, she knew men thoroughly, she knew every trick; she drew me on,

then left me abruptly in the wrong, puzzled, foolish, angry, only to

forgive me later with the most enchanting smile or word imaginable. But

never once did she deliberately make use of the merciless weapon of her

physical beauty although—perhaps because— she knew that it was the

most powerful in all her armoury.

For listen to this: when at last I took her in my arms with passion

that would not be denied, she actually resented it. She even sought to

repel me from her touch that had undone me. I repeat what I said

before: She did not wish to win me in that way. The sigh of happiness

she drew in that moment—I can swear to it—included somewhere, too,

the pain of bitter disappointment.

The weapon, however, that she did use without hesitation was her

singing. There was nothing special either in its quality or skill; it

was a voice untrained, I believe, and certainly without ambition; her

repertoire was limited; she sang folk-songs mostly, the simple

love-songs of primitive people, of peasants and the like, yet sang them

with such truth and charm, with such power and conviction, somehow,

that I knew enchantment as I listened. This, too, she instantly

divined, and that behind my compliments lay hid a weakness of deep

origin she could play upon to her sure advantage. She did so without

mercy, until gradually I passed beneath her sway.

I will not now relate in detail the steps of my descent, or if you

like it better, of my capture. This is a summary merely. So let me say

in brief that her singing to the harp combined with the revelation of

her physical beauty to lead me swiftly to the point where I ardently

desired her, and that in this turmoil of desire I sought eagerly to

find real love.