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.