“Where have you been, Thud?” inquired Io, as, a few hours after her return from church, her brother sauntered into the drawing-room, smelling of tobacco, and with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. “I’ve had a good chat and smoke with Pogson,” replied Thud, throwing himself on the sofa; “and as talking and tobacco make one dry, we had something to wet our whistles. He’s no water-drinker, like Oscar.”
“I do not think that Pogson is a good companion for you, Thud,” said Io.
“That’s little you know,” was the rude reply. Thud could treat his sister as he liked when her husband was absent.
“What did you talk about?” inquired Io.
“Oh, a lot of things, scientific and other; but Pogson is not scientific. He only laughed at my theory of there being animalcula in fire, as well as in water and air. He said I’d burn my fingers in trying to find them, though it goes to reason that what is found in three elements is sure to be in the fourth, though philosophers have not yet found them out.”
“I do not wonder at Pogson’s not caring for such theories,” said Io. “Perhaps your search for animalcula in the candle will result in the grand discovery of some poor moths who have singed off their wings in the flame.”
“We talked of other matters too, not scientific,” said Thud, who was busying himself in picking out threads from the fringe of a handsome cushion. “Pogson told me a great deal about his voyage in the Argus. You would have liked that, for he spoke so much about Oscar.”
“What did he say of my husband?” asked Io, roused to interest.
“Oh! that he was very sociable and very amusing; sang songs and told anecdotes without end, except when he walked up and down the deck, holding grave discourse with a man called Mace. During the latter part of the voyage, however, Oscar was much taken up with reading poetry, and carrying about chairs for, and playing the agreeable to, a handsome widow whom they picked up at Malta.”
“What widow?” asked Io Coldstream.
“One whose husband had died at Malta, and who took the opportunity of returning home in the Argus. Pogson says that she was a former friend of Oscar, a very particular friend, probably before her marriage. Anyways, Mrs. Mortimer—that’s her name—told Pogson that she has a picture in which she and Oscar are taken together, she sitting on a mossy bank, and Oscar offering her a rose.”
“Thud, you talk nonsense!” exclaimed Io indignantly. Her cheek was flushed and burning, but her hands trembled as if with cold.
“I never talk nonsense,” said Thud majestically, “and I have no reason to think that Pogson does so either. The widow’s Christian name is Adelaide, for she said that hers is the same as the Queen’s. She usually addressed Oscar by his Christian name, in quite a familiar way. He used to take great care of her; she was clearly a very particular friend indeed. You had better ask Oscar about her.”
Io felt as if her heart had suddenly become like a stone; but she reproached herself indignantly for giving one moment’s credit to such idle gossip. She would not let Thud see that he had inflicted a pang; but had his thick fingers not been so engaged in spoiling the fringe, had he glanced up for a moment, even Thud would have seen in his sister’s face the annoyance caused by his words.
“I wish that you would leave that cushion alone,” said Io sharply. It was to hide her agitation under the semblance of anger.
“You are as cross as a crustacean to-day,” said Thud, throwing the cushion away. “I don’t see the use of your church-going, if you come back in such a bad temper;” and so saying, he quitted the room.
“How foolish, how absurd, how wrong in me to think anything of such talk!” said Io to herself. “My dear husband is always courteous, to a widow he would be doubly so; as for what that silly fellow said about the picture, I would not credit it for a moment. Adelaide Mortimer!” Io revolved in her mind whether she had ever heard the name from Oscar’s lips; but no, she could not recall his having once mentioned to her this very particular friend.
It still wanted an hour to dinner time; that hour might be pleasantly and profitably spent in reading, especially if Io read with Oscar. The lady chose her book, and then went into the veranda to look for her husband. Oscar was not there, but he had left the small volume of Herbert’s poems on the chair on which he had been seated during his interview with the chaplain.
“A few of Herbert’s quaint verses will be refreshing,” thought Io. “I never possessed a copy of his works of my own. What dainty delicate binding!” and the lady took up the pretty volume.
Io opened at the title-page to see who had published the graceful edition. But it was not on title of work or publisher’s name that her eyes were riveted now; it was no thought of Herbert that made her cheek, so lately flushed, turn almost as white as the paper on which she looked. Above the printed title was written, in a delicate feminine hand: Oscar William Coldstream. With Adelaide Mortimer’s love.
Io uttered no exclamation, gave no start; she gazed for several minutes on the inscrip............