Banishment for life to the Andaman Islands—to the place which the natives of India speak of as “beyond the black waters,” a kind of Stygian pit into which the foul drains of guilt, the slimy streams of vice throughout Hindostan, empty themselves; where there is the society of murderers and thieves; a place of mysterious misery, like the fabled infernal regions;—to Oscar Coldstream this was a sentence more terrible even than that of public execution. Such banishment was a kind of living death which, to one not yet thirty years of age, might endure for forty years or more! What frightful consequences had been entailed on Oscar by half a minute’s yielding to passion! When he received the final sentence, Coldstream realized to the full extent what earthly misery he had brought on himself. By the same ship which carried the decision regarding Oscar’s fate, came also a letter from his sister-in-law, Jane Thorn, addressed to himself. Jane deplored Oscar’s miserable condition; but earnestly, solemnly implored him not to let his innocent wife share in his exile. The home which was about to be Jane’s should always, she wrote, be shared by her dearly-loved sister. Let Io return to England and try to forget the past.
“Yes, let her forget me—the unworthy, the guilty! Why should her young life be blighted? I do not wish to be remembered in my living grave!” And with the brief comment, “You had better do what your sister desires,” Oscar handed the open letter to Io.
Her eyes streaming with tears, her hands clasped round the neck of her husband, Io replied in the words of Ruth, “Entreat me not to leave thee, nor to depart from following after thee; for where thou goest, I will go; and where thou diest, I will die.” The last word was lost in a sob.
“But, my beloved, you have not permission to go with—a convict,” said Oscar, scarcely able to command his voice.
“I will have it! I will have it!” cried Io.
The door of the cell opened; the jailer was bringing in the prisoner’s meal. Io availed herself of the opportunity of quitting the place in which she had been locked up with her husband. Repeating, “I will have it; I will not return without it,” she ran—she almost flew—down the long corridor, like a bird escaping from a snare. Until the rebound came, Io had scarcely realized how heavy had been the pressure of a weight on her heart—the fear, the secret dread that Oscar’s might be a capital sentence. Relieved from that weight, the poor wife’s spirit rebounded almost into joy. “He is safe—his precious, precious life is safe!” Io kept repeating to herself, as she quitted the dark, dismal prison. “The Lord can make him happy yet; and as for me, it is happiness to be with him.”
Io did not find the palanquin at the entrance, for no one had expected her to quit the prison so soon. She stopped the first empty conveyance which she saw. “To Government House” was the direction which she gave to the driver. She had entered that lordly building but once before—on her arrival as a bride at Calcutta. Io had gone in goodly apparel, and her beauty had attracted much admiration. “Coldstream has drawn a prize,” had been the Governor-General’s remark to a friend. How changed was all now! And yet Io was fairer in the dark weeds which she wore for her mother, nobler in the devotion which she showed to a husband ruined and disgraced, than she had been at her presentation at a semi-regal court.
On her arrival at the stately palace in which the ruler of India resided, Io found that her humble vehicle could not be driven up to the handsome entrance. Before the pillared portico stood a splendid carriage drawn by tall camels with trappings o............