Mrs. Cottle plumped down on a chair, and made it crack with her weight. Io also seated herself, for she was hardly able to stand.
“Only tell me, my dear, that this shocking rumour is not true,” cried Mrs. Cottle.
“It is true that we must quit Moulmein,” said Io sadly; “and of course Mr. Coldstream will part with the house.”
“Such a beauty! green poplin furniture—curtains tomatch—pictures, mirrors!” cried Mrs. Cottle, glancing around, the idea of auction-sale and cheap bargains flitting through her mind. “My dear, you must make a stand—you must persuade; and if persuasion won’t do, must resist.”
“I never resist my husband’s will,” replied Io, an indignant flush giving a brief colour to her pale cheek.
“That’s it,” said Mrs. Cottle; “you’re much too soft. Men love to play the tyrant and lord it over the meek Griseldas. We all see what you suffer.”
“Mrs. Cottle, I am not accustomed to such language, and I will not bear it!” cried Io, rising from her seat. “I have the best, the kindest of husbands, and would willingly go with him to the end of the world!” Unable to bear the conversation longer, Io made a hasty apology to her visitor, and retreated into the house.
“Ah, that’s what always happens,” said Mrs. Cottle to herself, as she went on her way. “You can’t come between a man and his wife. If he were beating her to death, and you interfered, she would tell you to go about your business. But I’m sorry for that poor, silly girl! I always said that she had made a dreadful mistake in marrying a gloomy tyrant like Coldstream.”
Mrs. Cottle went to comfort herself for the briefness of her interview with Io by talking over the miseries of a woman wedded to a Bluebeard with every gossip in the station.
Even in her home, shut up in her own room to bemore safe from intrusion, Io was not to be left to herself. Presently Dr. Pinfold’s loud voice resounded through the dwelling.