The lady early laid herself down to rest, but not to sleep. Feverish and restless Io remained through what appeared to be an almost interminable night. If a few minutes of slumber 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 marvelled to see how calmly he rested. The cause of this was partly physical fatigue and reaction after aviolent inward struggle, but partly that his confession 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 lame old man, had gone to see the rajah’s fireworks. No fires were lighted in the compound, no lamp in the dwelling. 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 dreary cominghome, 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 rift 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 Saviour in visible presence—a pleading, imploring 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 prostrate indeed, but, like Saul of Tarsus, in deep humility, 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 supplication was ended, the “Amen” came from her lips with a sob.
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.