“I am a little uneasy about her,” began Oscar, but the doctor rather rudely cut him short.
“You’d better be more than a little uneasy; I never saw her look so ill and pale in my life.”
“I have a slight headache,” said Io, rising. It was very unpleasant to her to have attention called to her looks, so she made an excuse for retiring which was at least a true one. Pinfold followed his god-daughter as far as the door of her room, to put a few questions and feel her pulse. He then returned to the dining-room, where he found Oscar alone, and looking exceedingly anxious. A terrible dread had arisen in the mind of Coldstream that he was to be chastised through the sufferings of his young wife.
“I can’t find out that there’s anything particular the matter with Io,” said Pinfold, resuming his seat; “butshe’s out of spirits. And no wonder: flowers always lose their colour if kept in the darkness of a cellar. My pretty god-child needs more light, more sunshine, more cheerful society. She—by nature full of fun, the merriest, most lively of girls—cannot keep up her spirits whilst she never sees a smile on the face of her husband.”
Pinfold had resolved on getting to the bottom of the mystery of Mr. Coldstream’s melancholy; the doctor had often revolved in his mind how to approach so delicate a subject, and now, seeing the evil affecting his favourite’s happiness, the old man resolved on throwing false delicacy aside. Coldstream had to endure close questioning, and bore it as he might have done the pain of an operation, only lancet and knife would not have inflicted suffering so acute to a sensitive nature. To Pinfold’s questions Oscar returned short, straightforward replies. As he had perceived that the chaplain had suspected him of freethinking, so he was perfectly aware that the doctor doubted his sanity, and Oscar determined to lay that question to rest. No, none of his family had ever been mentally afflicted; he himself had never been in youth subject to depression; he had never been bitten by dog or fox.
“Then why are you so changed—so gloomy?” asked Pinfold. “Any pecuniary trouble? Perhaps you have fallen into debt?”
Coldstream shook his head. “I have neither lent nor borrowed; I have no anxiety connected with money.”
“Then what is on your mind?” asked the baffled inquisitor.
“That question hardly lies within the province of a medical man,” said Coldstream rather sternly, for patience had been strained to the utmost point.
Even Pinfold saw that he had gone too far. Rising, he concluded the disagreeable interview with a few emphatic injunctions:—