THE SCORPION’S STING.
“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 inscription, and then deliberately closed the volume and laid
it down again in the place from which she had raised it. Io went back
into the house, entered her own room, closed the door and bolted it,
but almost like one who walks in a dream. Her soul was in a state of
wild chaos; it was some time before she could sufficiently collect her
thoughts to draw any inferences, form any conjectures.
Then, like machinery suddenly put into violent motion, Io’s mind began
to work on the few facts from which she might draw some clue to the
cause of the terrible change in Oscar when he returned to England. He
had been happy when he had embarked, wretched when he landed. One idea,
like wheel within wheel, linked itself with another, while Io’s brain
seemed to turn round with the action of passionate thought.
Had Oscar loved Adelaide before he had even known of the existence of
Io? Had Mrs. Mortimer’s marriage divided her from a former lover by an
impassable gulf? After a bitter disappointment, had Oscar tried to find
solace by winning the love and confidence of an unsuspecting heart, and
asked in marriage a girl to whom he could but offer an empty casket,
from which the jewel of affection had been stolen away? On arriving in
Malta, had Oscar found the once impassable gulf bridged over; had the
unexpected meeting with Adelaide, no longer as far removed from him
as a star, revived old memories, kindled new hopes? And then had Oscar
remembered with pain that he had bound himself in honour to marry one
whom he never could love as he once had loved?
Io could not have put such ideas into words, but they were working,
and tearing her heart as a machine rends and wrenches a human limb
entangled amongst its whirling wheels. She could hardly reason, but
she keenly suffered. Hard did Io strive so to collect her ideas as to
find out whether her new discovery would account for that gloom in her
husband which had seemed to her so mysterious. Oscar had received no
letter from her at Malta, none by the Channel pilot: had her apparent
neglect caused him pain, or perhaps a sense of relief? Had he caught at
a hope that he might be _free_? What had prompted that strange question
when they met, “_Are you glad?_” Had he wished her to turn away and
say “No”? Oscar was evidently undergoing some terrible inward struggle,
and was suffering still from its effects. Was it the struggle between
inclination, love, passion, and a sense of honour, a feeling of duty?
Io remembered, almost with horror, that during the first part of his
illness Oscar could not endure to have her near him; that he only
suffered her presence when the sight of the letter which Thud had
detained had shown him the depth of the affection which, as Io now
thought in her anguish, he knew that he could never fully return. Oscar
had not even asked that a wedding-day should be fixed, till he found
that to break off his engagement would be to leave his betrothed to
poverty as well as to distress. Oscar had generously sacrificed himself
to save her, preferring honour to happiness, giving pity instead of
love! Io literally writhed under such thoughts.
“Oh, why did Oscar not speak out frankly! why did he not tell me that
he could not give me a heart which was no longer his own!” exclaimed
Io in the bitterness of her anguish. “I would not have upbraided him;
I would have set him free; I would have severed the bond between us,
had my poor heart been broken too. Oscar should never have stood at the
altar to give me that cold, corpse-like hand, or to take vows which are
now an intolerable burden to a sensitive conscience like his.”
Alas for the woman who lets the scorpion jealousy creep into the shrine
of her heart! It brings with it a brood of other reptiles――wounded
pride, unreasonable dislike, doubt of the truth of human affection,
too often doubt of the love of God. Poor Hopeful was indeed now in
the dungeon-keep of the giant. The water-lily that had risen above the
waters of trouble now appeared to be withering, dying, from the worm
secretly gnawing at its root.
In the midst of her agony of mind Io was loyal to her husband. She did
not blame him; he was generous, good, and kind. Oscar was, Io felt,
doing his utmost to keep faithfully vows that should never have been
made. He was trying by constant, most considerate kindness to make up
for the absence of love. What should she do now? She could do nothing
but accept the gracious pity which for her had a sting. _Pity!_ How Io
hated the word, and how she hated herself for so doing! In the morning
of that Sabbath day she could not have believed that she could have
fallen so far. Io seemed to herself a different being from the young
wife who had so peacefully walked to church leaning on the arm of her
husband. How some sudden temptation often opens our eyes to our own
inconsistency of character, our weakness, worthlessness, and sin! We
thought that we were safe and strong, and behold, a perilous fall!
“Perhaps the angel’s slackened hand
Hath suffered it, that we may rise,
And take a firmer, surer stand;
Or trusting less to earthly things,
May henceforth learn to use our wings.”
Whilst Io was agonizing in her own room, Oscar was in his study,
kneeling, with clasped hands, in the attitude of prayer, but the words
gasped out were not words of submission. “Any sacrifice but this, any
cross but _this_!” was all that burst, as if wrung by extreme mental
suffering, from his pale lips.