CHAPTER VIII.--SHE TRAVELS IN PURSUIT
April 16. Evening, Paris, Hotel --.--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 morning.
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, then?'
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 for me!'
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 kindness?'
'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-a-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 it then.
'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 you.'
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.
