Alicia’s Diary by Thomas Hardy
CHAPTER I.—SHE MISSES HER SISTER
July 7.—I wander about the house in a mood of unutterable
sadness, for my dear sister Caroline has left home to-day with my mother,
and I shall not see them again for several weeks. They have accepted
a long-standing invitation to visit some old friends of ours, the Marlets,
who live at Versailles for cheapness—my mother thinking that it
will be for the good of Caroline to see a little of France and Paris.
But I don’t quite like her going. I fear she may lose some
of that childlike simplicity and gentleness which so characterize her,
and have been nourished by the seclusion of our life here. Her
solicitude about her pony before starting was quite touching, and she
made me promise to visit it daily, and see that it came to no harm.
Caroline gone abroad, and I left here! It is the reverse of
an ordinary situation, for good or ill-luck has mostly ordained that
I should be the absent one. Mother will be quite tired out by
the young enthusiasm of Caroline. She will demand to be taken
everywhere—to Paris continually, of course; to all the stock shrines
of history’s devotees; to palaces and prisons; to kings’
tombs and queens’ tombs; to cemeteries and picture-galleries,
and royal hunting forests. My poor mother, having gone over most
of this ground many times before, will perhaps not find the perambulation
so exhilarating as will Caroline herself. I wish I could have
gone with them. I would not have minded having my legs walked
off to please Caroline. But this regret is absurd: I could not,
of course, leave my father with not a soul in the house to attend to
the calls of the parishioners or to pour out his tea.
July 15.—A letter from Caroline to-day. It is
very strange that she tells me nothing which I expected her to tell—only
trivial details. She seems dazzled by the brilliancy of Paris—which
no doubt appears still more brilliant to her from the fact of her only
being able to obtain occasional glimpses of it. She would see
that Paris, too, has a seamy side if you live there. I was not
aware that the Marlets knew so many people. If, as mother has
said, they went to reside at Versailles for reasons of economy, they
will not effect much in that direction while they make a practice of
entertaining all the acquaintances who happen to be in their neighbourhood.
They do not confine their hospitalities to English people, either.
I wonder who this M. de la Feste is, in whom Caroline says my mother
is so much interested.
July 18.—Another letter from Caroline. I have
learnt from this epistle, that M. Charles de la Feste is ‘only
one of the many friends of the Marlets’; that though a Frenchman
by birth, and now again temporarily at Versailles, he has lived in England
many many years; that he is a talented landscape and marine painter,
and has exhibited at the Salon, and I think in London.
His style and subjects are considered somewhat peculiar in Paris—rather
English than Continental. I have not as yet learnt his age, or
his condition, married or single. From the tone and nature of
her remarks about him he sometimes seems to be a middle-aged family
man, sometimes quite the reverse. From his nomadic habits I should
say the latter is the most likely. He has travelled and seen a
great deal, she tells me, and knows more about English literature than
she knows herself.
July 21.—Letter from Caroline. Query: Is ‘a
friend of ours and the Marlets,’ of whom she now anonymously and
mysteriously speaks, the same personage as the ‘M. de la Feste’
of her former letters? He must be the same, I think, from his
pursuits. If so, whence this sudden change of tone? . . . I have
been lost in thought for at least a quarter of an hour since writing
the preceding sentence. Suppose my dear sister is falling in love
with this young man—there is no longer any doubt about his age;
what a very awkward, risky thing for her! I do hope that my mother
has an eye on these proceedings. But, then, poor mother never
sees the drift of anything: she is in truth less of a mother to Caroline
than I am. If I were there, how jealously I would watch him, and
ascertain his designs!
I am of a stronger nature than Caroline. How I have supported
her in the past through her little troubles and great griefs!
Is she agitated at the presence of this, to her, new and strange feeling?
But I am assuming her to be desperately in love, when I have no proof
of anything of the kind. He may be merely a casual friend, of
whom I shall hear no more.
July 24.—Then he is a bachelor, as I suspected.
‘If M. de la Feste ever marries he will,’ etc. So
she writes. They are getting into close quarters, obviously.
Also, ‘Something to keep my hair smooth, which M. de la Feste
told me he had found useful for the tips of his moustache.’
Very naively related this; and with how much unconsciousness of the
intimacy between them that the remark reveals! But my mother—what
can she be doing? Does she know of this? And if so, why
does she not allude to it in her letters to my father? . . . I have
been to look at Caroline’s pony, in obedience to her reiterated
request that I would not miss a day in seeing that she was well cared
for. Anxious as Caroline was about this pony of hers before starting,
she now never mentioned the poor animal once in her letters. The
image of her pet suffers from displacement.
August 3.—Caroline’s forgetfulness of her pony
has naturally enough extended to me, her sister. It is ten days
since she last wrote, and but for a note from my mother I should not
know if she were dead or alive.
CHAPTER II.—NEWS INTERESTING AND SERIOUS
August 5.—A cloud of letters. A letter from Caroline,
another from mother; also one from each to my father.
The probability to which all the intelligence from my sister has
pointed of late turns out to be a fact. There is an engagement,
or almost an engagement, announced between my dear Caroline and M. de
la Feste—to Caroline’s sublime happiness, and my mother’s
entire satisfaction; as well as to that of the Marlets. They and
my mother seem to know all about the young man—which is more than
I do, though a little extended information about him, considering that
I am Caroline’s elder sister, would not have been amiss.
I half feel with my father, who is much surprised, and, I am sure, not
altogether satisfied, that he should not have been consulted at all
before matters reached such a definite stage, though he is too amiable
to say so openly. I don’t quite say that a good thing should
have been hindered for the sake of our opinion, if it is a good thing;
but the announcement comes very suddenly. It must have been foreseen
by my mother for some time that this upshot was probable, and Caroline
might have told me more distinctly that M. de la Feste was her lover,
instead of alluding so mysteriously to him as only a friend of the Marlets,
and lately dropping his name altogether. My father, without exactly
objecting to him as a Frenchman, ‘wishes he were of English or
some other reasonable nationality for one’s son-in-law,’
but I tell him that the demarcations of races, kingdoms, and creeds,
are wearing down every day, that patriotism is a sort of vice, and that
the character of the individual is all we need think about in this case.
I wonder if, in the event of their marriage, he will continue to live
at Versailles, or if he will come to England.
August 7.—A supplemental letter from Caroline, answering,
by anticipation, some of the aforesaid queries. She tells me that
‘Charles,’ though he makes Versailles his present home,
is by no means bound by his profession to continue there; that he will
live just where she wishes, provided it be not too far from some centre
of thought, art, and civilization. My mother and herself both
think that the marriage should not take place till next year.
He exhibits landscapes and canal scenery every year, she says; so I
suppose he is popular, and that his income is sufficient to keep them
in comfort. If not, I do not see why my father could not settle
something more on them than he had intended, and diminish by a little
what he had proposed for me, whilst it was imagined that I should be
the first to stand in need of such.
‘Of engaging manner, attractive appearance, and virtuous character,’
is the reply I receive from her in answer to my request for a personal
description. That is vague enough, and I would rather have had
one definite fact of complexion, voice, deed, or opinion. But
of course she has no eye now for material qualities; she cannot see
him as he is. She sees him irradiated with glories such as never
appertained and never will appertain to any man, foreign, English, or
Colonial. To think that Caroline, two years my junior, and so
childlike as to be five years my junior in nature, should be engaged
to be married before me. But that is what happens in families
more often than we are apt to remember.
August 16.—Interesting news to-day. Charles, she
says, has pleaded that their marriage may just as well be this year
as next; and he seems to have nearly converted my mother to the same
way of thinking. I do not myself see any reason for delay, beyond
the standing one of my father having as yet had no opportunity of forming
an opinion upon the man, the time, or anything. However, he takes
his lot very quietly, and they are coming home to talk the question
over with us; Caroline having decided not to make any positive arrangements
for this change of state till she has seen me. Subject to my own
and my father’s approval, she says, they are inclined to settle
the date of the wedding for November, three months from the present
time, that it shall take place here in the village, that I, of course,
shall be bridesmaid, and many other particulars. She draws an
artless picture of the probable effect upon the minds of the villagers
of this romantic performance in the chancel of our old church, in which
she is to be chief actor—the foreign gentleman dropping down like
a god from the skies, picking her up, and triumphantly carrying her
off. Her only grief will be separation from me, but this is to
be assuaged by my going and staying with her for long months at a time.
This simple prattle is very sweet to me, my dear sister, but I cannot
help feeling sad at the occasion of it. In the nature of things
it is obvious that I shall never be to you again what I hitherto have
been: your guide, counsellor, and most familiar friend.
M. de la Feste does certainly seem to be all that one could desire
as protector to a sensitive fragile child like Caroline, and for that
I am thankful. Still, I must remember that I see him as yet only
through her eyes. For her sake I am intensely anxious to meet
him, and scrutinise him through and through, and learn what the man
is really made of who is to have such a treasure in his keeping.
The engagement has certainly been formed a little precipitately; I quite
agree with my father in that: still, good and happy marriages have been
made in a hurry before now, and mother seems well satisfied.
August 20.—A terrible announcement came this morning;
and we are in deep trouble. I have been quite unable to steady
my thoughts on anything to-day till now—half-past eleven at night—and
I only attempt writing these notes because I am too restless to remain
idle, and there is nothing but waiting and waiting left for me to do.
Mother has been taken dangerously ill at Versailles: they were within
a day or two of starting; but all thought of leaving must now be postponed,
for she cannot possibly be moved in her present state. I don’t
like the sound of haemorrhage at all in a woman of her full habit, and
Caroline and the Marlets have not exaggerated their accounts I am certain.
On the receipt of the letter my father instantly decided to go to her,
and I have been occupied all day in getting him off, for as he calculates
on being absent several days, there have been many matters for him to
arrange before setting out—the chief being to find some one who
will do duty for him next Sunday—a quest of no small difficulty
at such short notice; but at last poor old feeble Mr. Dugdale has agreed
to attempt it, with Mr. Highman, the Scripture reader, to assist him
in the lessons.
I fain would have gone with my father to escape the irksome anxiety
of awaiting her; but somebody had to stay, and I could best be spared.
George has driven him to the station to meet the last train by which
he will catch the midnight boat, and reach Havre some time in the morning.
He hates the sea, and a night passage in particular. I hope he
will get there without mishap of any kind; but I feel anxious for him,
stay-at-home as he is, and unable to cope with any difficulty.
Such an errand, too; the journey will be sad enough at best. I
almost think I ought to have been the one to go to her.
August 21.—I nearly fell asleep of heaviness of spirit
last night over my writing. My father must have reached Paris
by this time; and now here comes a letter . . .
Later.—The letter was to express an earnest hope that
my father had set out. My poor mother is sinking, they fear.
What will become of Caroline? O, how I wish I could see mother;
why could not both have gone?
Later.—I get up from my chair, and walk from window
to window, and then come and write a line. I cannot even divine
how poor Caroline’s marriage is to be carried out if mother dies.
I pray that father may have got there in time to talk to her and receive
some directions from her about Caroline and M. de la Feste—a man
whom neither my father nor I have seen. I, who might be useful
in this emergency, am doomed to stay here, waiting in suspense.
August 23.—A letter from my father containing the sad
news that my mother’s spirit has flown. Poor little Caroline
is heart-broken—she was always more my mother’s pet than
I was. It is some comfort to know that my father arrived in time
to hear from her own lips her strongly expressed wish that Caroline’s
marriage should be solemnized as soon as possible. M. de la Feste
seems to have been a great favourite of my dear mother’s; and
I suppose it now becomes almost a sacred duty of my father to accept
him as a son-in-law without criticism.
CHAPTER III.—HER GLOOM LIGHTENS A LITTLE
September 10.—I have inserted nothing in my diary for
more than a fortnight. Events have been altogether too sad for
me to have the spirit to put them on paper. And yet there comes
a time when the act of recording one’s trouble is recognized as
a welcome method of dwelling upon it . . .
My dear mother has been brought home and buried here in the parish.
It was not so much her own wish that this should be done as my father’s,
who particularly desired that she should lie in the family vault beside
his first wife. I saw them side by side before the vault was closed—two
women beloved by one man. As I stood, and Caroline by my side,
I fell into a sort of dream, and had an odd fancy that Caroline and
I might be also beloved of one, and lie like these together—an
impossibility, of course, being sisters. When I awoke from my
reverie Caroline took my hand and said it was time to leave.
September 14.—The wedding is indefinitely postponed.
Caroline is like a girl awakening in the middle of a somnambulistic
experience, and does not realize where she is, or how she stands.
She walks about silently, and I cannot tell her thoughts, as I used
to do. It was her own doing to write to M. de la Feste and tell
him that the wedding could not possibly take place this autumn as originally
planned. There is something depressing in this long postponement
if she is to marry him at all; and yet I do not see how it could be
October 20.—I have had so much to occupy me in consoling
Caroline that I have been continually overlooking my diary. Her
life was much nearer to my mother’s than mine was. She has
never, as I, lived away from home long enough to become self-dependent,
and hence in her first loss, and all that it involved, she drooped like
a rain-beaten lily. But she is of a nature whose wounds soon heal,
even though they may be deep, and the supreme poignancy of her sorrow
has already passed.
My father is of opinion that the wedding should not be delayed too
long. While at Versailles he made the acquaintance of M. de la
Feste, and though they had but a short and hurried communion with each
other, he was much impressed by M. de la Feste’s disposition and
conduct, and is strongly in favour of his suit. It is odd that
Caroline’s betrothed should influence in his favour all who come
near him. His portrait, which dear Caroline has shown me, exhibits
him to be of a physique that partly accounts for this: but there must
be something more than mere appearance, and it is probably some sort
of glamour or fascinating power—the quality which prevented Caroline
from describing him to me with any accuracy of detail. At the
same time, I see from the photograph that his face and head are remarkably
well formed; and though the contours of his mouth are hidden by his
moustache, his arched brows show well the romantic disposition of a
true lover and painter of Nature. I think that the owner of such
a face as this must be tender and sympathetic and true.
October 30.—As my sister’s grief for her mother becomes
more and more calmed, her love for M. de la Feste begins to reassume
its former absorbing command of her. She thinks of him incessantly,
and writes whole treatises to him by way of letters. Her blank
disappointment at his announcement of his inability to pay us a visit
quite so soon as he had promised, was quite tragic. I, too, am
disappointed, for I wanted to see and estimate him. But having
arranged to go to Holland to seize some aerial effects for his pictures,
which are only to be obtained at this time of the autumn, he is obliged
to postpone his journey this way, which is now to be made early in the
new year. I think myself that he ought to have come at all sacrifices,
considering Caroline’s recent loss, the sad postponement of what
she was looking forward to, and her single-minded affection for him.
Still, who knows; his professional success is important. Moreover,
she is cheerful, and hopeful, and the delay will soon be overpast.
CHAPTER IV.—SHE BEHOLDS THE ATTRACTIVE STRANGER
February 16.—We have had such a dull life here all the
winter that I have found nothing important enough to set down, and broke
off my journal accordingly. I resume it now to make an entry on
the subject of dear Caroline’s future. It seems that she
was too grieved, immediately after the loss of our mother, to answer
definitely the question of M. de la Feste how long the postponement
was to be; then, afterwards, it was agreed that the matter should be
discussed on his autumn visit; but as he did not come, it has remained
in abeyance till this week, when Caroline, with the greatest simplicity
and confidence, has written to him without any further pressure on his
part, and told him that she is quite ready to fix the time, and will
do so as soon as he arrives to see her. She is a little frightened
now, lest it should seem forward in her to have revived the subject
of her own accord; but she may assume that his question has been waiting
on for an answer ever since, and that she has, therefore, acted only
within her promise. In truth, the secret at the bottom of it all
is that she is somewhat saddened because he has not latterly reminded
her of the pause in their affairs—that, in short, his original
impatience to possess her is not now found to animate him so obviously.
I suppose that he loves her as much as ever; indeed, I am sure he must
do so, seeing how lovable she is. It is mostly thus with all men
when women are out of their sight; they grow negligent. Caroline
must have patience, and remember that a man of his genius has many and
important calls upon his time. In justice to her I must add that
she does remember it fairly well, and has as much patience as any girl
ever had in the circumstances. He hopes to come at the beginning
of April at latest. Well, when he comes we shall see him.
April 5.—I think that what M. de la Feste writes is
reasonable enough, though Caroline looks heart-sick about it.
It is hardly worth while for him to cross all the way to England and
back just now, while the sea is so turbulent, seeing that he will be
obliged, in any event, to come in May, when he has to be in London for
professional purposes, at which time he can take us easily on his way
both coming and going. When Caroline becomes his wife she will
be more practical, no doubt; but she is such a child as yet that there
is no contenting her with reasons. However, the time will pass
quickly, there being so much to do in preparing a trousseau for her,
which must now be put in hand in order that we may have plenty of leisure
to get it ready. On no account must Caroline be married in half-mourning;
I am sure that mother, could she know, would not wish it, and it is
odd that Caroline should be so intractably persistent on this point,
when she is usually so yielding.
April 30.—This month has flown on swallow’s wings.
We are in a great state of excitement—I as much as she—I
cannot quite tell why. He is really coming in ten days, he says.
May 9. Four p.m.—I am so agitated I can
scarcely write, and yet am particularly impelled to do so before leaving
my room. It is the unexpected shape of an expected event which
has caused my absurd excitement, which proves me almost as much a school-girl
M. de la Feste was not, as we understood, to have come till to-morrow;
but he is here—just arrived. All household directions have
devolved upon me, for my father, not thinking M. de la Feste would appear
before us for another four-and-twenty hours, left home before post time
to attend a distant consecration; and hence Caroline and I were in no
small excitement when Charles’s letter was opened, and we read
that he had been unexpectedly favoured in the dispatch of his studio
work, and would follow his letter in a few hours. We sent the
covered carriage to meet the train indicated, and waited like two newly
strung harps for the first sound of the returning wheels. At last
we heard them on the gravel; and the question arose who was to receive
him. It was, strictly speaking, my duty; but I felt timid; I could
not help shirking it, and insisted that Caroline should go down.
She did not, however, go near the door as she usually does when anybody
is expected, but waited palpitating in the drawing-room. He little
thought when he saw the silent hall, and the apparently deserted house,
how that house was at the very same moment alive and throbbing with
interest under the surface. I stood at the back of the upper landing,
where nobody could see me from downstairs, and heard him walk across
the hall—a lighter step than my father’s—and heard
him then go into the drawing-room, and the servant shut the door behind
him and go away.
What a pretty lover’s meeting they must have had in there all
to themselves! Caroline’s sweet face looking up from her
black gown—how it must have touched him. I know she wept
very much, for I heard her; and her eyes will be red afterwards, and
no wonder, poor dear, though she is no doubt happy. I can imagine
what she is telling him while I write this—her fears lest anything
should have happened to prevent his coming after all—gentle, smiling
reproaches for his long delay; and things of that sort. His two
portmanteaus are at this moment crossing the landing on the way to his
room. I wonder if I ought to go down.
A little later.—I have seen him! It was not at
all in the way that I intended to encounter him, and I am vexed.
Just after his portmanteaus were brought up I went out from my room
to descend, when, at the moment of stepping towards the first stair,
my eyes were caught by an object in the hall below, and I paused for
an instant, till I saw that it was a bundle of canvas and sticks, composing
a sketching tent and easel. At the same nick of time the drawing-room
door opened and the affianced pair came out. They were saying
they would go into the garden; and he waited a moment while she put
on her hat. My idea was to let them pass on without seeing me,
since they seemed not to want my company, but I had got too far on the
landing to retreat; he looked up, and stood staring at me—engrossed
to a dream-like fixity. Thereupon I, too, instead of advancing
as I ought to have done, stood moonstruck and awkward, and before I
could gather my weak senses sufficiently to descend, she had called
him, and they went out by the garden door together. I then thought
of following them, but have changed my mind, and come here to jot down
these few lines. It is all I am fit for . . .
He is even more handsome than I expected. I was right in feeling
he must have an attraction beyond that of form: it appeared even in
that momentary glance. How happy Caroline ought to be. But
I must, of course, go down to be ready with tea in the drawing-room
by the time they come indoors.
11 p.m.—I have made the acquaintance of M. de la Feste; and
I seem to be another woman from the effect of it. I cannot describe
why this should be so, but conversation with him seems to expand the
view, and open the heart, and raise one as upon stilts to wider prospects.
He has a good intellectual forehead, perfect eyebrows, dark hair and
eyes, an animated manner, and a persuasive voice. His voice is
soft in quality—too soft for a man, perhaps; and yet on second
thoughts I would not have it less so. We have been talking of
his art: I had no notion that art demanded such sacrifices or such tender
devotion; or that there were two roads for choice within its precincts,
the road of vulgar money-making, and the road of high aims and consequent
inappreciation for many long years by the public. That he has
adopted the latter need not be said to those who understand him.
It is a blessing for Caroline that she has been chosen by such a man,
and she ought not to lament at postponements and delays, since they
have arisen unavoidably. Whether he finds hers a sufficiently
rich nature, intellectually and emotionally, for his own, I know not,
but he seems occasionally to be disappointed at her simple views of
things. Does he really feel such love for her at this moment as
he no doubt believes himself to be feeling, and as he no doubt hopes
to feel for the remainder of his life towards her?
It was a curious thing he told me when we were left for a few minutes
alone; that Caroline had alluded so slightly to me in her conversation
and letters that he had not realized my presence in the house here at
all. But, of course, it was only natural that she should write
and talk most about herself. I suppose it was on account of the
fact of his being taken in some measure unawares, that I caught him
on two or three occasions regarding me fixedly in a way that disquieted
me somewhat, having been lately in so little society; till my glance
aroused him from his reverie, and he looked elsewhere in some confusion.
It was fortunate that he did so, and thus failed to notice my own.
It shows that he, too, is not particularly a society person.
May 10.—Have had another interesting conversation with
M. de la Feste on schools of landscape painting in the drawing-room
after dinner this evening—my father having fallen asleep, and
left nobody but Caroline and myself for Charles to talk to. I
did not mean to say so much to him, and had taken a volume of Modern
Painters from the bookcase to occupy myself with, while leaving
the two lovers to themselves; but he would include me in his audience,
and I was obliged to lay the book aside. However, I insisted on
keeping Caroline in the conversation, though her views on pictorial
art were only too charmingly crude and primitive.
To-morrow, if fine, we are all three going to Wherryborne Wood, where
Charles will give us practical illustrations of the principles of coloring
that he has enumerated to-night. I am determined not to occupy
his attention to the exclusion of Caroline, and my plan is that when
we are in the dense part of the wood I will lag behind, and slip away,
and leave them to return by themselves. I suppose the reason of
his attentiveness to me lies in his simply wishing to win the good opinion
of one who is so closely united to Caroline, and so likely to influence
her good opinion of him.
May 11. Late.—I cannot sleep, and in desperation
have lit my candle and taken up my pen. My restlessness is occasioned
by what has occurred to-day, which at first I did not mean to write
down, or trust to any heart but my own. We went to Wherryborne
Wood—Caroline, Charles and I, as we had intended—and walked
all three along the green track through the midst, Charles in the middle
between Caroline and myself. Presently I found that, as usual,
he and I were the only talkers, Caroline amusing herself by observing
birds and squirrels as she walked docilely alongside her betrothed.
Having noticed this I dropped behind at the first opportunity and slipped
among the trees, in a direction in which I knew I should find another
path that would take me home. Upon this track I by and by emerged,
and walked along it in silent thought till, at a bend, I suddenly encountered
M. de la Feste standing stock still and smiling thoughtfully at me.
‘Where is Caroline?’ said I.
‘Only a little way off,’ says he. ‘When we
missed you from behind us we thought you might have mistaken the direction
we had followed, so she has gone one way to find you and I have come
We then went back to find Caroline, but could not discover her anywhere,
and the upshot was that he and I were wandering about the woods alone
for more than an hour. On reaching home we found she had given
us up after searching a little while, and arrived there some time before.
I should not be so disturbed by the incident if I had not perceived
that, during her absence from us, he did not make any earnest effort
to rediscover her; and in answer to my repeated expressions of wonder
as to whither she could have wandered he only said, ‘Oh, she’s
quite safe; she told me she knew the way home from any part of this
wood. Let us go on with our talk. I assure you I value this
privilege of being with one I so much admire more than you imagine;’
and other things of that kind. I was so foolish as to show a little
perturbation—I cannot tell why I did not control myself; and I
think he noticed that I was not cool. Caroline has, with her simple
good faith, thought nothing of the occurrence; yet altogether I am not
CHAPTER V.—HER SITUATION IS A TRYING ONE
May 15.—The more I think of it day after day, the more
convinced I am that my suspicions are true. He is too interested
in me—well, in plain words, loves me; or, not to degrade that
phrase, has a wild passion for me; and his affection for Caroline is
that towards a sister only. That is the distressing truth; how
it has come about I cannot tell, and it wears upon me.
A hundred little circumstances have revealed this to me, and the
longer I dwell upon it the more agitating does the consideration become.
Heaven only can help me out of the terrible difficulty in which this
places me. I have done nothing to encourage him to be faithless
to her. I have studiously kept out of his way; have persistently
refused to be a third in their interviews. Yet all to no purpose.
Some fatality has seemed to rule, ever since he came to the house, that
this disastrous inversion of things should arise. If I had only
foreseen the possibility of it before he arrived, how gladly would I
have departed on some visit or other to the meanest friend to hinder
such an apparent treachery. But I blindly welcomed him—indeed,
made myself particularly agreeable to him for her sake.
There is no possibility of my suspicions being wrong; not until they
have reached absolute certainty have I dared even to admit the truth
to myself. His conduct to-day would have proved them true had
I entertained no previous apprehensions. Some photographs of myself
came for me by post, and they were handed round at the breakfast table
and criticised. I put them temporarily on a side table, and did
not remember them until an hour afterwards when I was in my own room.
On going to fetch them I discovered him standing at the table with his
back towards the door bending over the photographs, one of which he
raised to his lips.
The witnessing this act so frightened me that I crept away to escape
observation. It was the climax to a series of slight and significant
actions all tending to the same conclusion. The question for me
now is, what am I to do? To go away is what first occurs to me,
but what reason can I give Caroline and my father for such a step; besides,
it might precipitate some sort of catastrophe by driving Charles to
desperation. For the present, therefore, I have decided that I
can only wait, though his contiguity is strangely disturbing to me now,
and I hardly retain strength of mind to encounter him. How will
the distressing complication end?
May 19.—And so it has come! My mere avoidance
of him has precipitated the worst issue—a declaration. I
had occasion to go into the kitchen garden to gather some of the double
ragged-robins which grew in a corner there. Almost as soon as
I had entered I heard footsteps without. The door opened and shut,
and I turned to behold him just inside it. As the garden is closed
by four walls and the gardener was absent, the spot ensured absolute
privacy. He came along the path by the asparagus-bed, and overtook
‘You know why I come, Alicia?’ said he, in a tremulous
I said nothing, and hung my head, for by his tone I did know.
‘Yes,’ he went on, ‘it is you I love; my sentiment
towards your sister is one of affection too, but protective, tutelary
affection—no more. Say what you will I cannot help it.
I mistook my feeling for her, and I know how much I am to blame for
my want of self-knowledge. I have fought against this discovery
night and day; but it cannot be concealed. Why did I ever see
you, since I could not see you till I had committed myself? At
the moment my eyes beheld you on that day of my arrival, I said, “This
is the woman for whom my manhood has waited.” Ever since
an unaccountable fascination has riveted my heart to you. Answer
‘O, M. de la Feste!’ I burst out. What I said more
I cannot remember, but I suppose that the misery I was in showed pretty
plainly, for he said, ‘Something must be done to let her know;
perhaps I have mistaken her affection, too; but all depends upon what
‘I cannot tell what I feel,’ said I, ‘except that
this seems terrible treachery; and every moment that I stay with you
here makes it worse! . . . Try to keep faith with
her—her young heart is tender; believe me there is no mistake
in the quality of her love for you. Would there were! This
would kill her if she knew it!’
He sighed heavily. ‘She ought never to be my wife,’
he said. ‘Leaving my own happiness out of the question,
it would be a cruelty to her to unite her to me.’
I said I could not hear such words from him, and begged him in tears
to go away; he obeyed, and I heard the garden door shut behind him.
What is to be the end of the announcement, and the fate of Caroline?
May 20.—I put a good deal on paper yesterday, and yet
not all. I was, in truth, hoping against hope, against conviction,
against too conscious self-judgment. I scarcely dare own the truth
now, yet it relieves my aching heart to set it down. Yes, I love
him—that is the dreadful fact, and I can no longer parry, evade,
or deny it to myself though to the rest of the world it can never be
owned. I love Caroline’s betrothed, and he loves me.
It is no yesterday’s passion, cultivated by our converse; it came
at first sight, independently of my will; and my talk with him yesterday
made rather against it than for it, but, alas, did not quench it.
God forgive us both for this terrible treachery.
May 25.—All is vague; our courses shapeless. He
comes and goes, being occupied, ostensibly at least, with sketching
in his tent in the wood. Whether he and she see each other privately
I cannot tell, but I rather think they do not; that she sadly awaits
him, and he does not appear. Not a sign from him that my repulse
has done him any good, or that he will endeavour to keep faith with
her. O, if I only had the compulsion of a god, and the self-sacrifice
of a martyr!
May 31.—It has all ended—or rather this act of
the sad drama has ended—in nothing. He has left us.
No day for the fulfilment of the engagement with Caroline is named,
my father not being the man to press any one on such a matter, or, indeed,
to interfere in any way. We two girls are, in fact, quite defenceless
in a case of this kind; lovers may come when they choose, and desert
when they choose; poor father is too urbane to utter a word of remonstrance
or inquiry. Moreover, as the approved of my dead mother, M. de
la Feste has a sort of autocratic power with my father, who holds it
unkind to her memory to have an opinion about him. I, feeling
it my duty, asked M. de la Feste at the last moment about the engagement,
in a voice I could not keep firm.
‘Since the death of your mother all has been indefinite—all!’
he said gloomily. That was the whole. Possibly, Wherryborne
Rectory may see him no more.
June 7 .—M. de la Feste has written—one letter
to her, one to me. Hers could not have been very warm, for she
did not brighten on reading it. Mine was an ordinary note of friendship,
filling an ordinary sheet of paper, which I handed over to Caroline
when I had finished looking it through. But there was a scrap
of paper in the bottom of the envelope, which I dared not show any one.
This scrap is his real letter: I scanned it alone in my room, trembling,
hot and cold by turns. He tells me he is very wretched; that he
deplores what has happened, but was helpless. Why did I let him
see me, if only to make him faithless. Alas, alas!
June 21 .—My dear Caroline has lost appetite, spirits,
health. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick. His letters
to her grow colder—if indeed he has written more than one.
He has refrained from writing again to me—he knows it is no use.
Altogether the situation that he and she and I are in is melancholy
in the extreme. Why are human hearts so perverse?
CHAPTER VI.—HER INGENUITY INSTIGATES HER
September 19.—Three months of anxious care—till
at length I have taken the extreme step of writing to him. Our
chief distress has been caused by the state of poor Caroline, who, after
sinking by degrees into such extreme weakness as to make it doubtful
if she can ever recover full vigour, has to-day been taken much worse.
Her position is very critical. The doctor says plainly that she
is dying of a broken heart—and that even the removal of the cause
may not now restore her. Ought I to have written to Charles sooner?
But how could I when she forbade me? It was her pride only which
instigated her, and I should not have obeyed.
Sept. 26.—Charles has arrived and has seen her.
He is shocked, conscience-stricken, remorseful. I have told him
that he can do no good beyond cheering her by his presence. I
do not know what he thinks of proposing to her if she gets better, but
he says little to her at present: indeed he dares not: his words agitate
Sept. 28.—After a struggle between duty and selfishness,
such as I pray to Heaven I may never have to undergo again, I have asked
him for pity’s sake to make her his wife, here and now, as she
lies. I said to him that the poor child would not trouble him
long; and such a solemnization would soothe her last hours as nothing
else could do. He said that he would willingly do so, and had
thought of it himself; but for one forbidding reason: in the event of
her death as his wife he can never marry me, her sister, according to
our laws. I started at his words. He went on: ‘On
the other hand, if I were sure that immediate marriage with me would
save her life, I would not refuse, for possibly I might after a while,
and out of sight of you, make myself fairly content with one of so sweet
a disposition as hers; but if, as is probable, neither my marrying her
nor any other act can avail to save her life, by so doing I lose both
her and you.’ I could not answer him.
Sept. 29.—He continued firm in his reasons for refusal
till this morning, and then I became possessed with an idea, which I
at once propounded to him. It was that he should at least consent
to a form of marriage with Caroline, in consideration of her
love; a form which need not be a legal union, but one which would satisfy
her sick and enfeebled soul. Such things have been done, and the
sentiment of feeling herself his would inexpressibly comfort her mind,
I am sure. Then, if she is taken from us, I should not have lost
the power of becoming his lawful wife at some future day, if it indeed
should be deemed expedient; if, on the other hand, she lives, he can
on her recovery inform her of the incompleteness of their marriage contract,
the ceremony can be repeated, and I can, and I am sure willingly would,
avoid troubling them with my presence till grey hairs and wrinkles make
his unfortunate passion for me a thing of the past. I put all
this before him; but he demurred.
Sept. 30.—I have urged him again. He says he will
consider. It is no time to mince matters, and as a further inducement
I have offered to enter into a solemn engagement to marry him myself
a year after her death.
Sept. 30. Later.—An agitating interview.
He says he will agree to whatever I propose, the three possibilities
and our contingent acts being recorded as follows: First, in the event
of dear Caroline being taken from us, I marry him on the expiration
of a year: Second, in the forlorn chance of her recovery I take upon
myself the responsibility of explaining to Caroline the true nature
of the ceremony he has gone through with her, that it was done at my
suggestion to make her happy at once, before a special licence could
be obtained, and that a public ceremony at church is awaiting her: Third,
in the unlikely event of her cooling, and refusing to repeat the ceremony
with him, I leave England, join him abroad, and there wed him, agreeing
not to live in England again till Caroline has either married another
or regards her attachment to Charles as a bygone matter. I have
thought over these conditions, and have agreed to them all as they stand.
11 p.m.—I do not much like this scheme, after all.
For one thing, I have just sounded my father on it before parting with
him for the night, my impression having been that he would see no objection.
But he says he could on no account countenance any such unreal proceeding;
however good our intentions, and even though the poor girl were dying,
it would not be right. So I sadly seek my pillow.
October 1.—I am sure my father is wrong in his view.
Why is it not right, if it would be balm to Caroline’s wounded
soul, and if a real ceremony is absolutely refused by Charles—moreover
is hardly practicable in the difficulty of getting a special licence,
if he were agreed? My father does not know, or will not believe,
that Caroline’s attachment has been the cause of her hopeless
condition. But that it is so, and that the form of words would
give her inexpressible happiness, I know well; for I whispered tentatively
in her ear on such marriages, and the effect was great. Henceforth
my father cannot be taken into confidence on the subject of Caroline.
He does not understand her.
12 o’clock noon.—I have taken advantage of my
father’s absence to-day to confide my secret notion to a thoughtful
young man, who called here this morning to speak to my father.
He is the Mr. Theophilus Higham, of whom I have already had occasion
to speak—a Scripture reader in the next town, and is soon going
to be ordained. I told him the pitiable case, and my remedy.
He says ardently that he will assist me—would do anything for
me (he is, in truth, an admirer of mine); he sees no wrong in such an
act of charity. He is coming again to the house this afternoon
before my father returns, to carry out the idea. I have spoken
to Charles, who promises to be ready. I must now break the news
11 o’clock p.m.—I have been in too much excitement till
now to set down the result. We have accomplished our plan; and
though I feel like a guilty sinner, I am glad. My father, of course,
is not to be informed as yet. Caroline has had a seraphic expression
upon her wasted, transparent face ever since. I should hardly
be surprised if it really saved her life even now, and rendered a legitimate
union necessary between them. In that case my father can be informed
of the whole proceeding, and in the face of such wonderful success cannot
disapprove. Meanwhile poor Charles has not lost the possibility
of taking unworthy me to fill her place should she—. But
I cannot contemplate that alternative unmoved, and will not write it.
Charles left for the South of Europe immediately after the ceremony.
He was in a high-strung, throbbing, almost wild state of mind at first,
but grew calmer under my exhortations. I had to pay the penalty
of receiving a farewell kiss from him, which I much regret, considering
its meaning; but he took me so unexpectedly, and in a moment was gone.
Oct. 6.—She certainly is better, and even when she found
that Charles had been suddenly obliged to leave, she received the news
quite cheerfully. The doctor says that her apparent improvement
may be delusive; but I think our impressing upon her the necessity of
keeping what has occurred a secret from papa, and everybody, helps to
give her a zest for life.
Oct. 8.—She is still mending. I am glad to have
saved her—my only sister—if I have done so; though I shall
now never become Charles’s wife.
CHAPTER VII.—A SURPRISE AWAITS HER
Feb. 5.—Writing has been absolutely impossible for a
long while; but I now reach a stage at which it seems possible to jot
down a line. Caroline’s recovery, extending over four months,
has been very engrossing; at first slow, latterly rapid. But a
fearful complication of affairs attends it!
O what a tangled web we weave
When first we practise to deceive!
Charles has written reproachfully to me from Venice, where he is.
He says how can he fulfil in the real what he has enacted in the counterfeit,
while he still loves me? Yet how, on the other hand, can he leave
it unfulfilled? All this time I have not told her, and up to this
minute she believes that he has indeed taken her for better, for worse,
till death them do part. It is a harassing position for me, and
all three. In the awful approach of death, one’s judgment
loses its balance, and we do anything to meet the exigencies of the
moment, with a single eye to the one who excites our sympathy, and from
whom we seem on the brink of being separated for ever.
Had he really married her at that time all would be settled now.
But he took too much thought; she might have died, and then he had his
reason. If indeed it had turned out so, I should now be perhaps
a sad woman; but not a tempest-tossed one . . . The possibility of his
claiming me after all is what lies at the root of my agitation.
Everything hangs by a thread. Suppose I tell her the marriage
was a mockery; suppose she is indignant with me and with him for the
deception—and then? Otherwise, suppose she is not indignant
but forgives all; he is bound to marry her; and honour constrains me
to urge him thereto, in spite of what he protests, and to smooth the
way to this issue by my method of informing her. I have meant
to tell her the last month—ever since she has been strong enough
to bear such tidings; but I have been without the power—the moral
force. Surely I must write, and get him to come and assist me.
March 14.—She continually wonders why he does not come,
the five months of his enforced absence having expired; and still more
she wonders why he does not write oftener. His last letter was
cold, she says, and she fears he regrets his marriage, which he may
only have celebrated with her for pity’s sake, thinking she was
sure to die. It makes one’s heart bleed to hear her hovering
thus so near the truth, and yet never discerning its actual shape.
A minor trouble besets me, too, in the person of the young Scripture
reader, whose conscience pricks him for the part he played. Surely
I am punished, if ever woman were, for a too ingenious perversion of
her better judgment!
April 2.—She is practically well. The faint pink
revives in her cheek, though it is not quite so full as heretofore.
But she still wonders what she can have done to offend ‘her dear
husband,’ and I have been obliged to tell the smallest part of
the truth—an unimportant fragment of the whole, in fact, I said
that I feared for the moment he might regret the precipitancy of the
act, which her illness caused, his affairs not having been quite sufficiently
advanced for marriage just then, though he will doubtless come to her
as soon as he has a home ready. Meanwhile I have written to him,
peremptorily, to come and relieve me in this awful dilemma. He
will find no note of love in that.
April 10.—To my alarm the letter I lately addressed
to him at Venice, where he is staying, as well as the last one she sent
him, have received no reply. She thinks he is ill. I do
not quite think that, but I wish we could hear from him. Perhaps
the peremptoriness of my words had offended him; it grieves me to think
it possible. I offend him! But too much of this.
I must tell her the truth, or she may in her ignorance commit
herself to some course or other that may be ruinously compromising.
She said plaintively just now that if he could see her, and know how
occupied with him and him alone is her every waking hour, she is sure
he would forgive her the wicked presumption of becoming his wife.
Very sweet all that, and touching. I could not conceal my tears.
April 15.—The house is in confusion; my father is angry
and distressed, and I am distracted. Caroline has disappeared—gone
away secretly. I cannot help thinking that I know where she is
gone to. How guilty I seem, and how innocent she! O that
I had told her before now!
1 o’clock.—No trace of her as yet. We find
also that the little waiting-maid we have here in training has disappeared
with Caroline, and there is not much doubt that Caroline, fearing to
travel alone, has induced this girl to go with her as companion.
I am almost sure she has started in desperation to find him, and that
Venice is her goal. Why should she run away, if not to join her
husband, as she thinks him? Now that I consider, there have been
indications of this wish in her for days, as in birds of passage there
lurk signs of their incipient intention; and yet I did not think she
would have taken such an extreme step, unaided, and without consulting
me. I can only jot down the bare facts—I have no time for
reflections. But fancy Caroline travelling across the continent
of Europe with a chit of a girl, who will be more of a charge than an
assistance! They will be a mark for every marauder who encounters
Evening: 8 o’clock.—Yes, it is as I surmised.
She has gone to join him. A note posted by her in Budmouth Regis
at daybreak has reached me this afternoon—thanks to the fortunate
chance of one of the servants calling for letters in town to-day, or
I should not have got it until to-morrow. She merely asserts her
determination of going to him, and has started privately, that nothing
may hinder her; stating nothing about her route. That such a gentle
thing should suddenly become so calmly resolute quite surprises me.
Alas, he may have left Venice—she may not find him for weeks—may
not at all.
My father, on learning the facts, bade me at once have everything
ready by nine this evening, in time to drive to the train that meets
the night steam-boat. This I have done, and there being an hour
to spare before we start, I relieve the suspense of waiting by taking
up my pen. He says overtake her we must, and calls Charles the
hardest of names. He believes, of course, that she is merely an
infatuated girl rushing off to meet her lover; and how can the wretched
I tell him that she is more, and in a sense better than that—yet
not sufficiently more and better to make this flight to Charles anything
but a still greater danger to her than a mere lover’s impulse.
We shall go by way of Paris, and we think we may overtake her there.
I hear my father walking restlessly up and down the hall, and can write
CHAPTER VIII.—SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT
April 16. Evening, Paris, Hôtel ---.—There
is no overtaking her at this place; but she has been here, as I thought,
no other hotel in Paris being known to her. We go on to-morrow
April 18. Venice.—A morning of adventures
and emotions which leave me sick and weary, and yet unable to sleep,
though I have lain down on the sofa of my room for more than an hour
in the attempt. I therefore make up my diary to date in a hurried
fashion, for the sake of the riddance it affords to ideas which otherwise
remain suspended hotly in the brain.
We arrived here this morning in broad sunlight, which lit up the
sea-girt buildings as we approached so that they seemed like a city
of cork floating raft-like on the smooth, blue deep. But I only
glanced from the carriage window at the lovely scene, and we were soon
across the intervening water and inside the railway station. When
we got to the front steps the row of black gondolas and the shouts of
the gondoliers so bewildered my father that he was understood to require
two gondolas instead of one with two oars, and so I found him in one
and myself in another. We got this righted after a while, and
were rowed at once to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni where M.
de la Feste had been staying when we last heard from him, the way being
down the Grand Canal for some distance, under the Rialto, and then by
narrow canals which eventually brought us under the Bridge of Sighs—harmonious
to our moods!—and out again into open water. The scene was
purity itself as to colour, but it was cruel that I should behold it
for the first time under such circumstances.
As soon as I entered the hotel, which is an old-fashioned place,
like most places here, where people are taken en pension as well
as the ordinary way, I rushed to the framed list of visitors hanging
in the hall, and in a moment I saw Charles’s name upon it among
the rest. But she was our chief thought. I turned to the
hall porter, and—knowing that she would have travelled as ‘Madame
de la Feste’—I asked for her under that name, without my
father hearing. (He, poor soul, was making confused inquiries
outside the door about ‘an English lady,’ as if there were
not a score of English ladies at hand.)
‘She has just come,’ said the porter. ‘Madame
came by the very early train this morning, when Monsieur was asleep,
and she requested us not to disturb him. She is now in her room.’
Whether Caroline had seen us from the window, or overheard me, I
do not know, but at that moment I heard footsteps on the bare marble
stairs, and she appeared in person descending.
‘Caroline!’ I exclaimed, ‘why have you done this?’
and rushed up to her.
She did not answer; but looked down to hide her emotion, which she
conquered after the lapse of a few seconds, putting on a practical tone
that belied her.
‘I am just going to my husband,’ she said. ‘I
have not yet seen him. I have not been here long.’
She condescended to give no further reason for her movements, and made
as if to move on. I implored her to come into a private room where
I could speak to her in confidence, but she objected. However,
the dining-room, close at hand, was quite empty at this hour, and I
got her inside and closed the door. I do not know how I began
my explanation, or how I ended it, but I told her briefly and brokenly
enough that the marriage was not real.
‘Not real?’ she said vacantly.
‘It is not,’ said I. ‘You will find that
it is all as I say.’
She could not believe my meaning even then. ‘Not his
wife?’ she cried. ‘It is impossible. What am
I added more details, and reiterated the reason for my conduct as
well as I could; but Heaven knows how very difficult I found it to feel
a jot more justification for it in my own mind than she did in hers.
The revulsion of feeling, as soon as she really comprehended all,
was most distressing. After her grief had in some measure spent
itself she turned against both him and me.
‘Why should have I been deceived like this?’ she demanded,
with a bitter haughtiness of which I had not deemed such a tractable
creature capable. ‘Do you suppose that anything could
justify such an imposition? What, O what a snare you have spread
I murmured, ‘Your life seemed to require it,’ but she
did not hear me. She sank down in a chair, covered her face, and
then my father came in. ‘O, here you are!’ he said.
‘I could not find you. And Caroline!’
‘And were you, papa, a party to this strange deed of
‘To what?’ said he.
Then out it all came, and for the first time he was made acquainted
with the fact that the scheme for soothing her illness, which I had
sounded him upon, had been really carried out. In a moment he
sided with Caroline. My repeated assurance that my motive was
good availed less than nothing. In a minute or two Caroline arose
and went abruptly out of the room, and my father followed her, leaving
me alone to my reflections.
I was so bent upon finding Charles immediately that I did not notice
whither they went. The servants told me that M. de la Feste was
just outside smoking, and one of them went to look for him, I following;
but before we had gone many steps he came out of the hotel behind me.
I expected him to be amazed; but he showed no surprise at seeing me,
though he showed another kind of feeling to an extent which dismayed
me. I may have revealed something similar; but I struggled hard
against all emotion, and as soon as I could I told him she had come.
He simply said ‘Yes’ in a low voice.
‘You know it, Charles?’ said I.
‘I have just learnt it,’ he said.
‘O, Charles,’ I went on, ‘having delayed completing
your marriage with her till now, I fear—it has become a serious
position for us. Why did you not reply to our letters?’
‘I was purposing to reply in person: I did not know how to
address her on the point—how to address you. But what has
become of her?’
‘She has gone off with my father,’ said I; ‘indignant
with you, and scorning me.’
He was silent: and I suggested that we should follow them, pointing
out the direction which I fancied their gondola had taken. As
the one we got into was doubly manned we soon came in view of their
two figures ahead of us, while they were not likely to observe us, our
boat having the ‘felze’ on, while theirs was uncovered.
They shot into a narrow canal just beyond the Giardino Reale, and by
the time we were floating up between its slimy walls we saw them getting
out of their gondola at the steps which lead up near the end of the
Via 22 Marzo. When we reached the same spot they were walking
up and down the Via in consultation. Getting out he stood on the
lower steps watching them. I watched him. He seemed to fall
into a reverie.
‘Will you not go and speak to her?’ said I at length.
He assented, and went forward. Still he did not hasten to join
them, but, screened by a projecting window, observed their musing converse.
At last he looked back at me; whereupon I pointed forward, and he in
obedience stepped out, and met them face to face. Caroline flushed
hot, bowed haughtily to him, turned away, and taking my father’s
arm violently, led him off before he had had time to use his own judgment.
They disappeared into a narrow calle, or alley, leading to the
back of the buildings on the Grand Canal.
M. de la Feste came slowly back; as he stepped in beside me I realized
my position so vividly that my heart might almost have been heard to
beat. The third condition had arisen—the least expected
by either of us. She had refused him; he was free to claim me.
We returned in the boat together. He seemed quite absorbed
till we had turned the angle into the Grand Canal, when he broke the
silence. ‘She spoke very bitterly to you in the salle-à-manger,’
he said. ‘I do not think she was quite warranted in speaking
so to you, who had nursed her so tenderly.’
‘O, but I think she was,’ I answered. ‘It
was there I told her what had been done; she did not know till then.’
‘She was very dignified—very striking,’ he murmured.
‘You were more.’
‘But how do you know what passed between us,’ said I.
He then told me that he had seen and heard all. The dining-room
was divided by folding-doors from an inner portion, and he had been
sitting in the latter part when we entered the outer, so that our words
were distinctly audible.
‘But, dear Alicia,’ he went on, ‘I was more impressed
by the affection of your apology to her than by anything else.
And do you know that now the conditions have arisen which give me liberty
to consider you my affianced?’ I had been expecting this,
but yet was not prepared. I stammered out that we would not discuss
‘Why not?’ said he. ‘Do you know that we
may marry here and now? She has cast off both you and me.’
‘It cannot be,’ said I, firmly. ‘She has
not been fairly asked to be your wife in fact—to repeat the service
lawfully; and until that has been done it would be grievous sin in me
to accept you.’
I had not noticed where the gondoliers were rowing us. I suppose
he had given them some direction unheard by me, for as I resigned myself
in despairing indolence to the motion of the gondola, I perceived that
it was taking us up the Canal, and, turning into a side opening near
the Palazzo Grimani, drew up at some steps near the end of a large church.
‘Where are we?’ said I.
‘It is the Church of the Frari,’ he replied. ‘We
might be married there. At any rate, let us go inside, and grow
calm, and decide what to do.’
When we had entered I found that whether a place to marry in or not,
it was one to depress. The word which Venice speaks most constantly—decay—was
in a sense accentuated here. The whole large fabric itself seemed
sinking into an earth which was not solid enough to bear it. Cobwebbed
cracks zigzagged the walls, and similar webs clouded the window-panes.
A sickly-sweet smell pervaded the aisles. After walking about
with him a little while in embarrassing silences, divided only by his
cursory explanations of the monuments and other objects, and almost
fearing he might produce a marriage licence, I went to a door in the
south transept which opened into the sacristy.
I glanced through it, towards the small altar at the upper end.
The place was empty save of one figure; and she was kneeling here in
front of the beautiful altarpiece by Bellini. Beautiful though
it was she seemed not to see it. She was weeping and praying as
though her heart was broken. She was my sister Caroline.
I beckoned to Charles, and he came to my side, and looked through the
door with me.
‘Speak to her,’ said I. ‘She will forgive
I gently pushed him through the doorway, and went back into the transept,
down the nave, and onward to the west door. There I saw my father,
to whom I spoke. He answered severely that, having first obtained
comfortable quarters in a pension on the Grand Canal, he had gone back
to the hotel on the Riva degli Schiavoni to find me; but that I was
not there. He was now waiting for Caroline, to accompany her back
to the pension, at which she had requested to be left to herself
as much as possible till she could regain some composure.
I told him that it was useless to dwell on what was past, that I
no doubt had erred, that the remedy lay in the future and their marriage.
In this he quite agreed with me, and on my informing him that M. de
la Feste was at that moment with Caroline in the sacristy, he assented
to my proposal that we should leave them to themselves, and return together
to await them at the pension, where he had also engaged a room
for me. This we did, and going up to the chamber he had chosen
for me, which overlooked the Canal, I leant from the window to watch
for the gondola that should contain Charles and my sister.
They were not long in coming. I recognized them by the colour
of her sunshade as soon as they turned the bend on my right hand.
They were side by side of necessity, but there was no conversation between
them, and I thought that she looked flushed and he pale. When
they were rowed in to the steps of our house he handed her up.
I fancied she might have refused his assistance, but she did not.
Soon I heard her pass my door, and wishing to know the result of their
interview I went downstairs, seeing that the gondola had not put off
with him. He was turning from the door, but not towards the water,
intending apparently to walk home by way of the calle which led
into the Via 22 Marzo.
‘Has she forgiven you?’ said I.
‘I have not asked her,’ he said.
‘But you are bound to do so,’ I told him.
He paused, and then said, ‘Alicia, let us understand each other.
Do you mean to tell me, once for all, that if your sister is willing
to become my wife you absolutely make way for her, and will not entertain
any thought of what I suggested to you any more?’
‘I do tell you so,’ said I with dry lips. ‘You
belong to her—how can I do otherwise?’
‘Yes; it is so; it is purely a question of honour,’ he
returned. ‘Very well then, honour shall be my word, and
not my love. I will put the question to her frankly; if she says
yes, the marriage shall be. But not here. It shall be at
your own house in England.’
‘When?’ said I.
‘I will accompany her there,’ he replied, ‘and
it shall be within a week of her return. I have nothing to gain
by delay. But I will not answer for the consequences.’
‘What do you mean?’ said I. He made no reply, went
away, and I came back to my room.
CHAPTER IX.—SHE WITNESSES THE END
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 tête-à-tête
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.
CHAPTER X.—SHE ADDS A NOTE LONG AFTER
Five-years later.—I have lighted upon this old diary,
which it has interested me to look over, containing, as it does, records
of the time when life shone more warmly in my eye than it does now.
I am impelled to add one sentence to round off its record of the past.
About a year ago my sister Caroline, after a persistent wooing, accepted
the hand and heart of Theophilus Higham, once the blushing young Scripture
reader who assisted at the substitute for a marriage I planned, and
now the fully-ordained curate of the next parish. His penitence
for the part he played ended in love. We have all now made atonement
for our sins against her: may she be deceived no more.