“I went one day into our little parlour to get pen and ink to write a note to the medical man. I saw papers of Thud’s lying about,—he often writes on scraps or backs of letters. My eyes fell on a sealed letter which I recognized at once. Its outside was scribbled all over with some calculation made by Thud, but I knew my own handwriting in the address. The letter was directed to O. Coldstream, Esq., passenger on board the Argus; to be forwarded by the pilot-boat. The letter had never been opened—never sent; Thud had forgotten to take it to the post.”
“He deserved to have his neck wrung!” cried the indignant doctor. “What did you do on discovering your letter?”
Io uncovered her eyes; she looked pale, but her manner was calmer than before. “The sight of that letter gave me a gleam of hope,” she said. “I could now see some kind of reason for Oscar’s displeasure. I had promised to write by the pilot, and I had apparently broken my word.”
“An absurd reason for a man’s behaving like a maniac,” said Dr. Pinfold; “but those in love sometimes act like fools. What did you do when you found the letter?”
“I said to myself, ‘This is my last chance of regaining his—what I have lost. I will venture into the room; I will have a full explanation.’”
“Go on, go on,” said Pinfold, with impatient interest.
“Oscar was seated writing at a table, for he was not then confined to a sick-bed; indeed he hardly ever went to sleep, but, night and day, paced up and down his apartment. Summoning all the courage I could, I walked straight up to Oscar,—I felt my life’s happiness was at stake,—and I silently laid my letter on the table before him. Oscar started at the sight of the address, and eagerly, almost passionately, tore the letter open. His hand trembled violently as he read the contents. I could not see his face, for I stood behind him; but Oscar knew that I was there. Suddenly he started up from his seat and faced me. ‘You did then love me!’ he exclaimed. ‘More than life,’ I answered. ‘Oh that I had received this before!’ cried Oscar, with a sound likea convulsive sob; and he took me into his arms—to his heart.”
“Now, this is a very romantic story, very,” said Dr. Pinfold, speaking partly to give Io time to recover from her agitation; “but to an old bachelor like myself it seems incomprehensible that a man, a sensible man too, should make himself and every one else wretched merely because a letter miscarried. Dry your eyes, dear, and tell me the rest. I suppose that after the explanation all went merry as a marriage bell.”
“More like a funeral bell,” sighed Io. “Oscar became well—that is, he recovered his bodily health, but not his spirits. He joined us in the sitting-room, he was willing to have me constantly near him, but he never asked me to settle a time for our marriage. Oscar never even entered on the subject; which distressed my poor mother, who was beginning to be in actual straits. Then my mother and Jane consulted together, and agreed that Oscar must be told of the breaking of the bank and the loss of our fortunes. It was only honourable to let him know that if he wedded me at all, it would be as a portionless bride. Of course I was anxious that Oscar should be made aware of our losses.”
“How did he take the news?” asked the doctor.