“They are begging you to leave Maha with them, my love. The woman says that she has lost her only child, and desires to adopt Maha as her daughter. I have spoken to Ko Thah Byu, who gives to the widow a high character for piety5.”
The object of the petition was mutely standing6 by with her hands clasped, and her dark eyes watching the face of her mistress.
“These are Karens, mine own people,” replied Maha, with a wistful glance at the widow; “and she is so like my dead mother.”
“Would it pain you to part with your protégée, my Io?” asked Oscar.
“Pain? no, nothing pains now, but—” She paused, and pressed her hand on her heart. Io was somewhat like the poor victim broken on the wheel, who, after the first crushing blow had paralyzed sensation, mocked at the idea of any other stroke having power to hurt.
Oscar hastily completed the arrangement, and then, turning towards Ko Thah Byu, warmly grasped his brown hand.
“You have done much for me—more than you know, my brother,” said the Englishman to the Karen. “You have helped to release me from bonds which I believed would have bound me for ever.”
It was a relief to the Coldstreams when Mouang was left behind, though Maha and others followed Io’s litter for more than a mile, the Karen girl weeping bitterly at parting from the mistress whom she honoured and loved. At length the last farewell was said, and Io felt alone; for Oscar dropped behind the litter, respecting his wife’s wish for absolute silence—a wish which, after the excitement of the morning, he fully7 shared. Io closed her eyes to shut out all sights, but the mind’s eye could not be closed. The less she saw the more she thought. The face of poor Walter, her childhood’s companion, continually rose before her! It was some comfort to her now, as it had been when she had first heard of his sudden death, that her merry hare-brained young cousin had had serious thoughts on religion; that with all his giddiness he had received the truth with the simple faith of a child. Io would not have had this comfort had her brother been the one to be suddenly taken.
The halting-place for the night was reached at last, where the little tent was already pitched, the fire lighted, the meal prepared. Coldstream avoided any allusion8 to painful subjects as he sat beside his pale wife, and helped her to food which Io in vain attempted to eat. Coldstream related all that he had heard from Ko Thah Byu of the Karen’s former life; and Io, though she made no comment on the strange tale, readily understood what influence it had had on the mind of her husband.
The lady early laid herself down to rest, but not to sleep. Feverish9 and restless Io remained through what appeared to be an almost interminable night. If a few minutes of slumber10 came, they were rendered horrible by dreams in which the terrible tragedy of the cliff was acted over again. But Oscar was able to sleep; his wife marvelled11 to see how calmly he rested. The cause of this was partly physical fatigue12 and reaction after a violent inward struggle, but partly that his confession13 to his wife had in some measure relieved his conscience. He had taken the first step—or rather desperate leap—under the weight of the cross which he had at last dared to take up.
Day dawned, and with it came the morning’s preparations, the morning’s start.
“Oscar, will you arrange that we do not reach Moulmein till quite after dark?” said Io, as she took her place in the litter. “The moon does not rise now so early. I wish no one to know of our arrival. I could not endure to-day to meet Thud or the doctor.”
“There is no fear of our meeting till to-morrow morning,” replied Oscar. “All the English residents of Moulmein were invited to spend this Thursday evening at a fête given by the rajah.”
“Thursday! I thought that this was Saturday,” said Io dreamily. “It seems as if this week would never come to an end.”
It was not till after dark that the Coldstreams reached their home, where they were expected by no one. All their servants, except one lame14 old man, had gone to see the rajah’s fireworks. No fires were lighted in the compound, no lamp in the dwelling15. It was with some difficulty that even the door was opened to receive the master of the house. The furniture was in the holland wrappings in which Io had left her things when expecting to be absent for weeks. It was a dreary16 coming home, but more congenial to sad feelings than a cheerful greeting would have been.
“I will go to rest at once,” said Io. Nature was demanding sleep; after the last two terrible nights the lady could scarcely keep her eyes open.
“Shall we first pray together?” suggested Oscar.
Blessed rift17 in the dark, dark cloud! Oscar could at last kneel down by the side of his wife and pray aloud. And what a prayer was his! It seemed to be poured out at the feet of a Saviour18 in visible presence—a pleading, imploring19 prayer for mercy on the guiltiest of the guilty. But it was a prayer uttered in faith and hope—faith that there is indeed a Fountain to wash away sin; hope that its stain had already been removed from a penitent’s soul. The sinner was prostrate20 indeed, but, like Saul of Tarsus, in deep humility21, not in despair. Io drank in each word of the prayer. It refreshed her, it strengthened her, while it made her tears flow fast. When the supplication22 was ended, the “Amen” came from her lips with a sob23.
Then the husband and wife arose from their knees. Oscar knew that the mail for Calcutta would start on the morrow, and Io had promised to give her answer on the day which had now passed into night.
“What would you have me do now, my beloved?” Oscar inquired, taking the hand of his wife.
The husband pressed a long, tender kiss on Io’s cold brow. Not another word passed between them. Io went to her own room, and Coldstream retired25 to his study.
Seated in that study, Oscar wrote a brief but full account of his crime in an official letter addressed to Government House. He omitted nothing, except the cause of the hatred26 which he owned that he had felt towards his unfortunate victim; he made not the slightest reference to his wife. Oscar wrote with a strange calmness which was to himself a matter of surprise. He then lighted a taper27 and sealed up his document, placed it in his desk, which he locked, read awhile in his Bible, and then retired to rest.
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1
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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2
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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3
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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4
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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6
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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7
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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8
allusion
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| n.暗示，间接提示 | |
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feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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10
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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11
marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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12
fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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13
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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14
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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15
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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16
dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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17
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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18
saviour
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| n.拯救者，救星 | |
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19
imploring
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| 恳求的，哀求的 | |
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20
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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21
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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22
supplication
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| n.恳求，祈愿，哀求 | |
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23
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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24
faltered
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| （嗓音）颤抖( falter的过去式和过去分词 )； 支吾其词； 蹒跚； 摇晃 | |
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25
retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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26
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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27
taper
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| n.小蜡烛，尖细，渐弱；adj.尖细的；v.逐渐变小 | |
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