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 them.

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 no more.