April 20. Milan, 10.30 p.m.--We are thus far on our way homeward. I,
being decidedly de trop, travel apart from the rest as much as I can.
Having dined at the hotel here, I went out by myself; regardless of the
proprieties, for I could not stay in. I walked at a leisurely pace along
the Via Allesandro Manzoni till my eye was caught by the grand Galleria
Vittorio Emanuele, and I entered under the high glass arcades till I
reached the central octagon, where I sat down on one of a group of chairs
placed there. Becoming accustomed to the stream of promenaders, I soon
observed, seated on the chairs opposite, Caroline and Charles. This was
the first occasion on which I had seen them en tete-a-tete since my
conversation with him. She soon caught sight of me; averted her eyes;
then, apparently abandoning herself to an impulse, she jumped up from her
seat and came across to me. We had not spoken to each other since the
meeting in Venice.
'Alicia,' she said, sitting down by my side, 'Charles asks me to forgive
you, and I do forgive you.'
I pressed her hand, with tears in my eyes, and said, 'And do you forgive
him?'
'Yes,' said she, shyly.
'And what's the result?' said I.
'We are to be married directly we reach home.'
This was almost the whole of our conversation; she walked home with me,
Charles following a little way behind, though she kept turning her head,
as if anxious that he should overtake us. 'Honour and not love' seemed
to ring in my ears. So matters stand. Caroline is again happy.
April 25.--We have reached home, Charles with us. Events are now moving
in silent speed, almost with velocity, indeed; and I sometimes feel
oppressed by the strange and preternatural ease which seems to accompany
their flow. Charles is staying at the neighbouring town; he is only
waiting for the marriage licence; when obtained he is to come here, be
quietly married to her, and carry her off. It is rather resignation than
content which sits on his face; but he has not spoken a word more to me
on the burning subject, or deviated one hair's breadth from the course he
laid down. They may be happy in time to come: I hope so. But I cannot
shake off depression.
May 6.--Eve of the wedding. Caroline is serenely happy, though not
blithe. But there is nothing to excite anxiety about her. I wish I
could say the same of him. He comes and goes like a ghost, and yet
nobody seems to observe this strangeness in his mien.
I could not help being here for the ceremony; but my absence would have
resulted in less disquiet on his part, I believe. However, I may be
wrong in attributing causes: my father simply says that Charles and
Caroline have as good a chance of being happy as other people. Well, to-
morrow settles all.
May 7.--They are married: we have just returned from church. Charles
looked so pale this morning that my father asked him if he was ill. He
said, 'No: only a slight headache;' and we started for the church.
There was no hitch or hindrance; and the thing is done.
4 p.m.--They ought to have set out on their journey by this time; but
there is an unaccountable delay. Charles went out half-an-hour ago, and
has not yet returned. Caroline is waiting in the hall; but I am
dreadfully afraid they will miss the train. I suppose the trifling
hindrance is of no account; and yet I am full of misgivings . . .
Sept. 14.--Four months have passed; only four months! It seems like
years. Can it be that only seventeen weeks ago I set on this paper the
fact of their marriage? I am now an aged woman by comparison!
On that never to be forgotten day we waited and waited, and Charles did
not return. At six o'clock, when poor little Caroline had gone back to
her room in a state of suspense impossible to describe, a man who worked
in the water-meadows came to the house and asked for my father. He had
an interview with him in the study. My father then rang his bell, and
sent for me. I went down; and I then learnt the fatal news. Charles was
no more. The waterman had been going to shut down the hatches of a weir
in the meads when he saw a hat on the edge of the pool below, floating
round and round in the eddy, and looking into the pool saw something
strange at the bottom. He knew what it meant, and lowering the hatches
so that the water was still, could distinctly see the body. It is
needless to write particulars that were in the newspapers at the time.
Charles was brought to the house, but he was dead.
We all feared for Caroline; and she suffered much; but strange to say,
her suffering was purely of the nature of deep grief which found relief
in sobbing and tears. It came out at the inquest that Charles had been
accustomed to cross the meads to give an occasional half-crown to an old
man who lived on the opposite hill, who had once been a landscape painter
in an humble way till he lost his eyesight; and it was assumed that he
had gone thither for the same purpose to-day, and to bid him farewell. On
this information the coroner's jury found that his death had been caused
by misadventure; and everybody believes to this hour that he was drowned
while crossing the weir to relieve the old man. Except one: she believes
in no accident. After the stunning effect of the first news, I thought
it strange that he should have chosen to go on such an errand at the last
moment, and to go personally, when there was so little time to spare,
since any gift could have been so easily sent by another hand. Further
reflection has convinced me that this step out of life was as much a part
of the day's plan as was the wedding in the church hard by. They were
the two halves of his complete intention when he gave me on the Grand
Canal that assurance which I shall never forget: 'Very well, then; honour
shall be my word, not love. If she says "Yes," the marriage shall be.'
I do not know why I should have made this entry at this particular time;
but it has occurred to me to do it--to complete, in a measure, that part
of my desultory chronicle which relates to the love-story of my sister
and Charles. She lives on meekly in her grief; and will probably outlive
it; while I--but never mind me.