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 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.
