CONFESSION.
“What would Oscar do but for Io? is it Io who keeps him from peace?”
A white trembling hand was on Coldstream’s arm, and he turned to meet
the wistful, pleading gaze of his wife, whose light footstep he had not
heard when she came to seek him. Her husband could not reply.
“O Oscar――my life! there is some terrible secret which you would keep
even from me. You have done something――something wrong. This is like a
thorn in your conscience; you cannot find peace until it is taken away.”
Io unconsciously pressed very tightly the arm which she grasped.
“I cannot take the thorn out of my own breast to plant it in yours,”
said her husband.
“I would welcome it, if my sorrow could give you peace,” exclaimed Io.
“Mine own, my beloved, tell me all; let me judge――let your Io judge
whether there is anything too painful for her to suffer, if she can
only help to remove from her Oscar this secret, terrible pain. It is
my desire――my entreaty――my _right_――at least to judge for myself.”
“Judge then, for you shall know all. I will hide nothing, even
if confession should rob me of my most precious possession――your
affection,” said Oscar gloomily, motioning to Io to sit down on the
large trunk, and then taking his place at her side. Io would have
rested her head on her husband’s breast, but he made a movement to
prevent her so doing. “Not now, not now,” murmured Oscar; “wait till
you have heard all.”
Io waited for several minutes till Oscar should break the silence which
followed. She felt somewhat as a wretch condemned to be blown from a
cannon might feel while awaiting the fatal explosion. When Oscar spoke
at last it was with rapid utterance, as if to shorten suspense and pain.
“You remember our happiness at the time of our engagement――happiness
almost perfect, till one day I showed petulance, and cost you the first
tears which I ever saw you shed.”
“Yes,” replied Io sadly: “you were annoyed when Walter climbed higher
than yourself to bring a flower from a very steep place, and I was
foolish enough to put the flower in my hair. I was a silly, vain child,”
she added humbly. “It was new to me to be loved as you loved me; I am
afraid that I liked to tease, and show my power by playing with your
feelings.”
“A woman who does so plays with edge-tools,” muttered Oscar.
“But all was set right at once,” cried Io. “I convinced you that I had
never loved any man but yourself; that I merely amused myself with poor
Walter because he was my cousin, brought up in the same nursery, and
I liked his fun and his practical jokes. Surely I quite convinced you,
Oscar?”
“You did convince me, Io. I saw that I had been a jealous, unreasonable
fool. You and I were happy once more.”
“And it was never possible that my unfortunate cousin could give
you a moment’s uneasiness again,” said Io. “He died about the time
of your return. Walter had made a foolish bet that he would climb an
inaccessible cliff; he failed――fell――and, alas! perished.”
“Walter did not fail, nor fall――till he was thrown down by these
accursed hands,” said Oscar abruptly. He dared not look at his wife as
he spoke; he could not have met her look of horror.
“Now you know why I could not lead the devotions of others, why I
dared not approach the Holy Table. Could I――wretch that I am――offer
up petitions with guilty lips, take the emblems of redeeming love into
a murderer’s blood-stained hand? No, I could not have so played the
hypocrite, or I might have been struck dead on the spot.”
“I cannot believe this frightful tale,” gasped Io; “you have been
dreaming it in some fit of delirium. Why should you injure my poor
cousin, from whom you parted in friendship, and whom you had not even
seen for two years?”
“You know the worst; now hear what may possibly extenuate a little
my madness――my guilt.” Oscar spoke in a calmer tone, for he already
felt something of relief from frank confession. “When I started from
Moulmein to return and claim you as my bride, I was the happiest mortal
on earth. Paradise seemed to open before me. The first check to my joy
came at Malta, where I found no letter from Io.”
“The one which Thud detained told you why. My mother had been suddenly
taken with a fit; in my great anxiety for her dear life I had forgotten
the day for writing to Malta. But surely the missing of one post need
not have caused you much distress.”
“I was only somewhat troubled,” continued Oscar; “I thought that
my betrothed might be ill, I never thought that she could be false.
When the pilot met us in the Channel I made sure of a letter, and
was foremost in the throng that crowded to the vessel’s side to seize
on the contents of his bag. To my great disappointment there was no
letter for me in your familiar hand, only one in your cousin’s. I tore
that open with feverish haste: Walter would tell me whether you were
ill, perhaps――as my fears suggested――dying. There were only two lines
written in that fatal letter; they were branded on my brain as with
burning iron――‘_Io is mine; I have won the prize._’”
“Oh, the poor foolish boy!” exclaimed Io. “He did not tell you that he
had given my name to his hunter, and that in a steeple-chase she was
first. I remember Walter’s saying to me that he had played on you a
practical joke.”
“A joke which cost the poor fellow his life, and has blasted mine,”
groaned Oscar. “The jealousy which I had deemed stifled for ever
suddenly blazed up within me, till my soul was as a furnace sevenfold
heated. When the _Argus_ neared Dover pier I sprang out, narrowly
missing falling into the sea――spectators must have thought me mad.
Would that I had been drowned, and so had never lived to look on him
whom I hated! I determined to see you at once, and learn the whole
truth from your lips. I hurried along the shortest path, that at the
top of the cliffs, so often trodden with you. As I passed on I heard
a voice gasp out my name; I saw two hands grasping the ground not two
yards from the path, and I saw the head of the climber who had just
reached the top of the cliff. The face had the flush caused by violent
physical effort, but I deemed it the flush of triumph. It was Walter’s
face; he had just breath enough left to cry, ‘_I’ve won!_’ Those were
his last words. For a moment I appeared to be possessed by a demon――I
was possessed, for I did the deed of which I repented even before I
heard the sound of the crash below.”
Io hid her face in her hands and shuddered.
“Then on I sped――a second Cain――resolved but on one thing――to see you,
to tax you with your perfidy, and then――I knew not what would follow.
You met me with open arms and a cry of delight. You know the rest. For
me there is memory of nothing but a kind of hideous dream, till――I know
not how long afterwards――you laid before me that letter which proved
that you had always been true, and that I had been not only a villain
but a fool. Io, for some time I felt that I could not offer you a
murderer’s hand; that I should fly from you and the world. Then your
altered circumstances, and your mother’s, made me change my mind. I
might still give you a husband’s protection, more than a husband’s love,
and you should never know that marriage had linked you to one whom you
might justly abhor. Io, do you not hate me?”
Io’s only reply was throwing herself on her husband’s breast, with her
arms clinging round his neck. Oscar’s confession, made at cost of so
much shame and anguish, made him seem dearer than ever.
“Oscar, I love you, oh so fondly! God loves you too, and He will
forgive. Remember the thief on the cross.”
“He confessed and found mercy, but it was from a cross,” said Oscar
Coldstream. “I have not yet taken up mine; I have shunned it――I shun
it still.”
“What do you mean?” cried Io, raising her head; “you have confessed,
and fully. You are not a Romanist; you look not for priestly
absolution.”
“Io, I have not only broken God’s law, but the laws of my country.
Justice demands a victim. My cross is to let the world know my guilt,
publicly to confess my crime and accept its penalty, even should
it be a death of shame. Nothing less than this can give to a guilty
conscience peace. You have said that it is your desire――your right――to
judge; judge then what course should I take. I leave the decision in
the hands of my wife.”
“I cannot judge, I cannot think――my brain turns round,” faltered Io,
her white lips with difficulty uttering the words, while she pressed
her head with both her hands.
“Sahib, all ready for starting.” How strangely the native servant’s
commonplace announcement broke on the terrible stillness which had
followed the exclamation of Io.
Mrs. Coldstream started to her feet. “Let us go, let us go quickly!”
she cried wildly; “let us leave this terrible spot! I must have time
to think――time to pray. I will give you my answer――_to-morrow_!”