“I’ll wait and see Io and have a talk with her,” said Dr. Pinfold, as he again made himself comfortable in the easy-chair, after possessing himself of a newspaper which happened to lie on the table. It was full of political articles and news, but just then politics had little attraction for Dr. Pinfold. He was thinking a great deal of his god-daughter Io—recalling the old times when she used to sit on his knee, and dive in his pocket for the sweets which he took care that she should find there. Pinfold wanted a long talk, a confidential talk with his favourite, and was as much relieved by the absence of Thud as the other gentlemen were troubled by his presence. Io did not know that her old friend was waiting, and it was some time before she made her appearance in fluttering garments white as snow, over which fell her auburn ringlets. The fair lady smiled with pleasure at finding her old doctor still in the room, and took a low seat close beside him.
“She looks lovelier than ever,” thought Dr. Pinfold.
“It was very good in you to wait so long,” said Mrs. Coldstream. “I have kept you an unreasonable time, but I could not quiet the poor child at once. Now she has cried herself to sleep.”
“How is it that you could talk to her, my rosebud?” asked the doctor. “I was astonished to hear you speak Karen. I know hardly anything of that language myself, just enough to ask a few medical questions when Karens find their way to the dispensary. These people are scattered amongst the Siamese and Burmese like poppies amongst corn.”
“Which are the poppies, which the corn?” asked Io in her old playful way. “From what Oscar has told me, it seems that these Karens are a race whom both Siamese and Burmese conspire to oppress, but who are more to be trusted than either.”
“It may be so,” said the doctor.
“My smattering of their language is easily accounted for,” continued Io. “On my husband’s first return to England, nearly three years ago, he brought with him a little Karen boy, whom he had rescued from some horrid Siamese tyrant. After our engagement, when Oscar was obliged to return to Moulmein, he left this boy in my charge, the poor little fellow being too ill to travel.”
“A kind of big keepsake to keep your lover in mind, I suppose,” observed Pinfold, “like a miniature framed in ebony.”
“I liked the child for his own sake as well as his master’s,” said Io. “I talked a great deal with him, taught him something, and he taught me his language in return. I was sorry that he only knew Karen, for that is not what is most spoken here; but I thought that to learn it was better than learning nothing, and, curiously enough, the first native in Moulmein with whom I have to do is a Karen. You cannot think how much pleased I was when I found myself understood by the motherless girl.”
“You’ll be making a match one of these days between your two brown protégés,” said the doctor gaily.
“Ah no; the poor dear boy sleeps in an English churchyard,” replied Io with a sigh. “Oscar has had a little monument placed over his grave—a cross, for the boy died a Christian.”
“Well, now, let us speak of Oscar himself,” said the doctor, who felt little interest in the death and burial of a brown Karen boy. “I want you to answer some questions about his health, for he has grown paler, and thinner, and graver. It is not natural that a man should look ten years older in less than ten months. Do you think that your husband is ill?”
The doctor almost wished the question unspoken, for it brought such a look of distress to his favourite’s face. Io, however, answered clearly and distinctly every interrogation; she had been longing to consult her experienced old friend.
“Eats as usual, you say; complains of no pain; can take a great deal of exercise; seems to have lost no physical strength! How do you account for his altered looks?”
“I suppose that I must tell you everything, dear godfather,” said Io, resting her clasped hands on the arm of the doctor’s chair; “indeed it is a great comfort to be able to consult you. How often I have wished to do so when you were far away! You know how happy, how very happy we were at the time of our engagement, for you were in England then, before Oscar returned to Moulmein.”
“You both seemed perfectly satisfied with the number which you had drawn in life’s lottery,” said the doctor smiling; “till the gilding wears off the prize, I suppose that lovers usually are so. Coldstream was certainly proud of what he had won, and bore with a fair amount of philosophy all the jests and banter of your madcap cousin Walter Manly.”
“Ah, poor Walter!” sighed Io; then she continued her narration:—“Of course our first parting was a great trial, but I need not dwell upon that; we looked forward to meeting again, and the arrival of Oscar’s letters was a frequent source of delight. At last the time of separation drew to a close. Oscar wrote, ‘I shall, please God, arrive almost as soon as this letter. Be sure that you send me a welcome by the pilot.’ We knew that Oscar would land at Dover, for our house was scarce two miles from the castle. I need not say how I counted the days, how I watched every large vessel coming up the Channel. As we could not tell the exact time when the Argus would arrive, I prepared a long letter to be sent to the office at Portsmouth to greet Oscar before he should quit the vessel, as it was arranged that the pilot should take it. A very long journal letter it was—”
“Containing sweet things, as the white comb holds honey?” asked the playful doctor.
Io slightly blushed as she replied, “There were all sorts of things in my letter: scraps of news—whatever amused me, and I thought would amuse Oscar. I remember that I wrote of various friends, and of presents which I had received. I told of the favourite hunter on which Walter won the steeplechase—”
“Ah, that Walter!” interrupted the doctor; “I prophesied years ago that he would break his neck in some wild prank!”
“Your prophecy came but too true,” said Io sadly. “You must have heard of the foolish bet which cost him his life.”
“Ay, ay; he would climb up some inaccessible cliff,” observed Pinfold. “I read about it in the papers at the time. But let us return to the subject of Oscar.”
“We had arranged that a swift messenger should bring us instant news when the Argus came in sight,” continued Io; “but a sea-fog prevented the vessel’s being seen until she was almost in port;—she was to touch at Dover on her way up Channel. Not many minutes elapsed between my hearing of Oscar’s arrival and my seeing him myself.”
“You had a joyful meeting of course,” said the doctor.
Io’s head drooped, and she pressed her hand over her dark eyes, as if to hide some painful object. She was for some moments unable to speak.
“You must tell me all,” said the doctor. “How can a medical man possibly judge of a case unless he knows all the symptoms?”
Io, with her eyes still covered, made reply in a hurried, tremulous tone,—
“I shall never forget that evening. It was about an hour after sunset, and dark, but the servant was bringing in the lamps. A wild February wind had succeeded the fog—such a boisterous wind; it disturbed me, for I was straining my ear to catch the sound of a messenger’s feet, and the howling and shrieking of the blast which had suddenly risen drowned all other noises. It seemed an instinct which made me run to the hall door and open it. I was almost thrown down by the gust which rushed in and extinguished the lamp which I held in my hand. But there was the messenger indeed, and I thought of—cared for—nothing else. I cried, ‘Is the Argus in?’ I could scarcely make the question heard, but the answer made me the happiest woman on earth. I flew to my mother and sister, and proposed that we should all go forth and meet the newly arrived, for he would not tarry on the way. My mother and Jane expostulated, and spoke of the storm, which was increasing; but I rather enjoyed the rough weather, for the wind had speeded the Argus.”
Pinfold suspected, and with reason, that Io lingered over these unnecessary details in order to postpone some painful disclosure. As she paused with a gasp, he observed, “I suppose that your lover appeared before you had persuaded your good mother to go forth in the darkness and storm.”
“He appeared,” said Io, and paused again.
“How did he appear? I really must know,” said the doctor.
“It was dreadful—too dreadful to tell,” faltered Io. “The hall was dark, except for light which came from a room that was sheltered from the wild wind. A form came—almost staggered in; I could scarcely see the face, but I knew that it was Oscar’s. ‘Oh, I am so glad that you have come!’ I exclaimed, running to meet him. ‘Are you glad?’ he cried, in a voice quite unlike his own. Oscar caught hold of both my wrists, as if to push me from him, stumbled, and fell down at my feet, almost dragging me down in his fall.”
“Extraordinary, most extraordinary!” exclaimed the doctor; “do you think that he was in a fit?”
“Something like it, I suppose, for Oscar had to be raised, like a dead weight, and carried into the drawing-room, which we had just left, and laid on the sofa. Of course we sent at once for the nearest medical man, who bled him at once.”
“That looked like a fit,” observed Pinfold. “Did the bleeding soon bring him to himself?”
“Yes; Oscar awoke, but it was a terrible awaking. I do not like to speak, even to think of that fearful night and the painful days which followed.” Io’s voice was choked by a sob, and tear-drops forced their way between the slender fingers which concealed the upper part of her face.
“I want to know the symptoms of the disease;—I suppose that you helped to nurse him. Was Coldstream like one suffering from brain-fever?” asked the doctor.
“He would not let me nurse him,” murmured Io, in an almost inaudible voice; “he could not endure to have me near him—that was the worst trial of all.”
Dr. Pinfold looked exceedingly grave; his experience told him that this symptom was of a very alarming nature. As a medical man, he knew that hatred shown towards the very being once most tenderly loved is a not unfrequent sign of madness.
“My poor child!” said Dr. Pinfold, as he laid his hand gently on the soft auburn ringlets of the young head drooping beside him; “how long did this painful phase of the malady last?”
“It seemed to me for ages,” said Io, “but I believe for not many days. I used to wander in misery up and down the passage into which opened the door which I dared not enter. My mother, herself suffering from a recent bereavement, nursed my Oscar. Everything that could possibly excite or distress him was kept from him. He was not told of the death in our family; nor of the breaking of the bank in which all our small property had been lodged, so that, except my mother’s trifling pension, absolutely nothing remained. Oscar knew not of our trouble, our poverty. He never asked questions; he scarcely ever uttered a word.”
“Madness,” said the doctor to himself, then he asked the question aloud, “What broke this spell of silence?”
“I went one day into our little parlour to get pen and ink to write a note to the medical man. I saw papers of Thud’s lying about,—he often writes on scraps or backs of letters. My eyes fell on a sealed letter which I recognized at once. Its outside was scribbled all over with some calculation made by Thud, but I knew my own handwriting in the address. The letter was directed to O. Coldstream, Esq., passenger on board the Argus; to be forwarded by the pilot-boat. The letter had never been opened—never sent; Thud had forgotten to take it to the post.”
“He deserved to have his neck wrung!” cried the indignant doctor. “What did you do on discovering your letter?”
Io uncovered her eyes; she looked pale, but her manner was calmer than before. “The sight of that letter gave me a gleam of hope,” she said. “I could now see some kind of reason for Oscar’s displeasure. I had promised to write by the pilot, and I had apparently broken my word.”
“An absurd reason for a man’s behaving like a maniac,” said Dr. Pinfold; “but those in love sometimes act like fools. What did you do when you found the letter?”
“I said to myself, ‘This is my last chance of regaining his—what I have lost. I will venture into the room; I will have a full explanation.’”
“Go on, go on,” said Pinfold, with impatient interest.
“Oscar was seated writing at a table, for he was not then confined to a sick-bed; indeed he hardly ever went to sleep, but, night and day, paced up and down his apartment. Summoning all the courage I could, I walked straight up to Oscar,—I felt my life’s happiness was at stake,—and I silently laid my letter on the table before him. Oscar started at the sight of the address, and eagerly, almost passionately, tore the letter open. His hand trembled violently as he read the contents. I could not see his face, for I stood behind him; but Oscar knew that I was there. Suddenly he started up from his seat and faced me. ‘You did then love me!’ he exclaimed. ‘More than life,’ I answered. ‘Oh that I had received this before!’ cried Oscar, with a sound like a convulsive sob; and he took me into his arms—to his heart.”
“Now, this is a very romantic story, very,” said Dr. Pinfold, speaking partly to give Io time to recover from her agitation; “but to an old bachelor like myself it seems incomprehensible that a man, a sensible man too, should make himself and every one else wretched merely because a letter miscarried. Dry your eyes, dear, and tell me the rest. I suppose that after the explanation all went merry as a marriage bell.”
“More like a funeral bell,” sighed Io. “Oscar became well—that is, he recovered his bodily health, but not his spirits. He joined us in the sitting-room, he was willing to have me constantly near him, but he never asked me to settle a time for our marriage. Oscar never even entered on the subject; which distressed my poor mother, who was beginning to be in actual straits. Then my mother and Jane consulted together, and agreed that Oscar must be told of the breaking of the bank and the loss of our fortunes. It was only honourable to let him know that if he wedded me at all, it would be as a portionless bride. Of course I was anxious that Oscar should be made aware of our losses.”
“How did he take the news?” asked the doctor.
“Hearing of our poverty seemed to be to him almost a consolation. With more animation than he had shown in his manner since his illness, my dear generous Oscar told me how much gratified he would be if my mother would permit him to settle on her an annual allowance, and, to give him some right to such a privilege, he asked if I would name a day when he might call me his wife.”
“Just like him—just like him,” said Pinfold; “and Coldstream cumbered himself with your precious brother into the bargain.”
“That was such a relief to my mother,” said Io. “Oscar promised to help to educate Thud himself, and to try to procure for him some little employment here.”
“And that after the fellow had played you such an owlish trick with the letter!” exclaimed Pinfold. “I should have been tempted to kick him downstairs. And how did Master Thud get on with his studies under your husband?” The doctor wanted to coax a smile into his god-daughter’s face.
“Not very well, I must confess. The studies were begun on board ship, and Oscar was wonderfully patient; but when he attempted to teach, Thud was determined to argue. I believe that he considers himself to be a good deal more clever than Oscar. Thud says that philosophers are born, not made.”
“The only way to make that boy do anything for his own living is to treat him as they do young dogs,—fling him into the middle of a pond to teach him to swim.”
“But what if the poor dog should sink?” observed Io.
“Likely enough, with a mill-stone of nonsensical theories hanging about his neck,” cried the doctor; “but there is no other plan that has a chance of success. Turn Thud out of your comfortable house, for he will never work as long as he can eat good mutton at your table, without even the trouble of carving the slice. But now, let’s return to the subject of your wedding,” continued Pinfold, for, looking at Coldstream’s conduct from a medical point of view, he was anxious for precise information.
“Ours was a very, very quiet wedding,” said Io gravely.
“But Coldstream did not do anything—very peculiar?” inquired the medical man.
“No,” said Io, with a little hesitation; “only, when he took my hand in church,—it was on a hot day in June,—his felt cold as ice, cold as the hand of a corpse.”
“Strange, very strange!” muttered Pinfold under his breath, as he tried to recall to mind any similar case. “Do you see any change in him as regards other matters?” he asked, looking keenly at the young wife.
“No—except—I’d rather not say,” replied Io, a flush rising to her pale cheek.
“But it is as a medical adviser that I wish to know all,” said Pinfold.
“This has nothing to do with medical matters. I do not wish to say more; I have had as much as I can bear,” said Io, rising from her low seat.
The doctor felt that it was time to end the interview, which had caused a most painful strain on his young friend. He also rose, and bade Io good-bye in his own lively manner, which, however, was a little forced on the present occasion. The good-natured doctor looked grave enough as he passed through the flower-mantled veranda.
“Poor fellow! poor fellow!” he muttered to himself. “I never heard that there was insanity in the Coldstream family. I must try to find out; but it would be awkward to ask a man like Mr. Coldstream whether either of his parents was ever in a lunatic asylum. Perhaps Oscar had a touch of the sun during his voyage in the Argus. I should like to question on this point one of his fellow-passengers. As good luck will have it, yonder comes Pogson, who went home in that vessel on short leave to see a sick mother. I’ll hail him, and ask a question or two, to decide the point of sunstroke. If Coldstream had a sharp one, that might account for all.”
The young man called Pogson, a clerk in Government employ, approached, taking a cigar from his mouth to return the greeting of the doctor.
“Pogson, you went home in the Argus with Coldstream?” said Pinfold, almost as soon as the two met.
“Yes, we went home together; but I had to return earlier than he did,” was Pogson’s reply.
“Had Coldstream any illness, anything like sunstroke on the voyage?” asked the doctor.
“Not he; no one had better health,” replied Pogson.
“But he was a bit melancholy, perhaps—had occasional fits of depression?”
Pogson burst out laughing at the question. “Coldstream was merry as a lark,” he said. “He was the life and soul of our party.”
“Then there must be a taint of hereditary madness,” mused Pinfold, as he again went on his way. “I don’t pretend to be a saint, like Coldstream, but I do say this for myself, that had I been in his place I would not have done so unprincipled, so cruel a thing as to have linked my fortunes with those of a bright, happy, trusting young creature like Io!”