A DISCOVERY.
Monday came. The huge bulk of the elephant, with its howdah outside,
darkened the veranda; servants were busy lading mules; there were boxes
of provisions, the small tent, trunks, knapsacks, cooking vessels, and
many other _et cætera_ to be packed, the weight duly apportioned, and
the ropes securely fastened. To start on a camping expedition in Siam
is a very different thing indeed from going on a railway journey in
England. Foresight is required, readiness of resource, and a large
amount of patience; no necessary article must be forgotten, no possible
contingency overlooked.
Io, who had completed her packing arrangements, sat in the drawing-room
writing her letters for the English mail, to have them sent off before
she should start. Every now and then she laid down her pen, that she
might run to the veranda to see how the packing was progressing. The
novelty and bustle of the scene were to the youthful Englishwoman
somewhat amusing.
Io was just finishing her despatch when Oscar entered the room, with
his little packet of letters in his hand.
“Is your letter to your mother ready?” said he. “We had better send off
our budget to the post before we start.”
Io folded up her large sheet in the then approved style (envelopes
are a modern invention; paste wafers, now a thing of the past, were in
common use then, when the more formal wax seal was not required). As
lucifer matches were unknown, sealing was a more troublesome operation
in those days than in the reign of our gracious Queen.
“Is all ready for our start?” asked Io, as she pressed the seal down
on the wafer. “Is the luggage at last all packed on the mules, and
Lightfoot saddled and bridled? I think that I shall set out on my pony.”
“I am sorry to say that we cannot take Lightfoot at all,” replied Oscar.
“Why? Nothing the matter, I hope?”
“Master Thud had his own reasons for staying away from church
yesterday,” answered Coldstream in a tone of displeasure. “The boy
chose to ride Lightfoot, and let him down. Thud has no idea of riding.”
“Oh, I hope that my poor pony is not much hurt!” cried Io.
“Not permanently injured, I think,” replied Oscar; “but he is
lame, and must not be mounted till our return. I am annoyed at your
disappointment, and have been rebuking Thud pretty sharply; but he is
so encased in self-complacency that it is not easy to touch him. He
told me that the fall was entirely the fault of the pony.”
“I fear that poor Thud is a great trial to you, dear Oscar,” observed
Io.
“He would have been a greater trial to those at home. I do not regret
that we brought him. I own that if we had any one with whom to leave
him, Thud should not, after this last prank, accompany us to Tavoy. But
I cannot burden poor Lawrence, and Pogson is out of the question――so
are the Cottles.”
“Dr. Pinny?” suggested Io.
Oscar Coldstream shook his head. “I would not say a word against your
old friend,” he observed; “but you yourself would hardly think the good
doctor a desirable guardian for your young brother.”
“No, perhaps not,” said Io slowly, looking down as she spoke; and as
she did so her eyes fell on the little packet of Oscar’s letters which
he had laid down on her writing-table whilst speaking of Thud. The
address on the uppermost of those letters made Io start and flush to
her temples. It was directed to _Mrs. Mortimer_.
“Who is she?” exclaimed Io, impatience and indignation forcing out the
words against her will.
Oscar looked at his wife with surprise. “She is my more than friend,”
he replied. “You must often have heard of her from me.”
“I never heard the name from your lips,” exclaimed Io.
“What! not heard of my mother’s old friend, my godmother――she who wrote
to you so warmly after our engagement?”
“That was Mrs. Winter, the dear, sweet lady who nursed you through the
small-pox when you were quite a little child.”
“Mrs. Winter and Mrs. Mortimer are one. I must have forgotten to
tell you of her second marriage, which took place when I was last in
Moulmein. My friend married a cousin of her own who was going, in a
state of hopeless consumption, to Malta. Mrs. Winter married him in
order to be able to go with the dying sufferer and nurse him to the
last.”
“O Oscar, what a fool I have been!” exclaimed Io, bursting into tears;
but the tears were those of relief, and shed on the bosom of her
husband.
“And can it be,” said Oscar, in a tone of gentle reproach, “that my Io
for one moment thought me so base, so utterly worthless, as to be even
in thought faithless to her to whom I had pledged my troth? Could you
not trust me, Io?”
Io, very penitently, took her husband’s hand and kissed it passionately.
“Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” she sobbed; “we should never, never doubt
one whom we love.”
Oscar’s reply was a heavy sigh, almost a groan.
Io looked up anxiously into his face. “O my beloved husband,” she
cried, “you have now found out the secret of my sadness; and now that
you know all, my soul is relieved of its burden. Will you not also open
your heart? will you not tell me why your life has lost its brightness?
There should be no secret between husband and wife.”
Oscar took both hands of his Io, and his eyes gazed into hers with
an expression of mingled love and sorrow which she remembered to her
dying day. “There should be no secret between us. Io, I would tell
you everything were not your peace dearer to me than my own.” (‡ See
illustration.)
“Any knowledge is better than ignorance,” exclaimed Io in an agitated
tone.
“Did Eve find it so?” asked Oscar. “No, my beloved,” he continued,
still holding her hand in his own; “on this one subject you must not
press me to speak. You cannot relieve me of my burden; you cannot even
help me to bear it. Let this be the last time that you even allude to
its existence. I ask only your silence and your prayers.” Oscar pressed
a tender kiss on Io’s brow, took up his letters, and quitted the room.