CHAPTER XII.

THE RESOLUTION COME TO BY JOHANNA OAKLEY.

The beautiful Johanna--when in obedience to the command of her father

she left him, and begged him (the beef-eater) to manage matters with the

Rev. Mr. Lupin--did not proceed directly up stairs to her apartment, but

lingered on the staircase to hear what ensued; and if anything in her

dejected state of mind could have given her amusement, it would

certainly have been the way in which the beef-eater exacted a

retribution from the reverend personage, who was not likely again to

intrude himself into the house of the spectacle-maker. But when he was

gone, and she heard that a sort of peace had been patched up with her

mother--a peace which, from her knowledge of the high contracting

parties, she conjectured would not last long--she returned to her room,

and locked herself in; so that if any attempt were made to get her down

to partake of the supper, it might be supposed she was asleep, for she

felt herself totally unequal to the task of making one in any party,

however much she might respect the individual members that composed it.

And she did respect Ben the beef-eater; for she had a lively

recollection of much kindness from him during her early years, and she

knew that he had never come to the house when she was a child without

bringing her some token of his regard in the shape of a plaything, or

some little article of doll's finery, which at that time was very

precious. She was not wrong in her conjectures that Ben would make an

attempt to get her down stairs, for her father came up at the

beef-eater's request, and tapped at her door. She thought the best plan,

as indeed it was, would be to make no answer, so that the old

spectacle-maker concluded at once what she wished him to conclude,

namely, that she had gone to sleep; and he walked quietly down the

stairs again, glad that he had not disturbed her, and told Ben as much.

Now, feeling herself quite secure from interruption for the night,

Johanna did not attempt to seek repose, but set herself seriously to

reflect upon what had occurred. She almost repeated to herself, word for

word, what Colonel Jeffery had told her; and, as she revolved the matter

over and over again in her brain, a strange thought took possession of

her, which she could not banish, and which, when once it found a home

within her breast, began to gather probability from every slight

circumstance that was in any way connected with it. This thought,

strange as it may appear, was, that the Mr. Thornhill, of whom Colonel

Jeffery spoke in terms of such high eulogium, was no other than Mark

Ingestrie himself. It is astonishing, when once a thought occurs to the

mind, that makes a strong impression, how, with immense rapidity, a rush

of evidence will appear to come to support it. And thus it was with

regard to this supposition of Johanna Oakley. She immediately remembered

a host of little things which favoured the idea, and among the rest, she

fully recollected that Mark Ingestrie had told her he meant to change

his name when he left England; for that he wished her and her only to

know anything of him, or what had become of him; and that his intention

was to baffle inquiry, in case it should be made, particularly by Mr.

Grant, towards whom he felt a far greater amount of indignation, than

the circumstances at all warranted him in feeling. Then she recollected

all that Colonel Jeffery had said with regard to the gallant and noble

conduct of this Mr. Thornhill, and, girl like, she thought that those

high and noble qualities could surely belong to no one but her own

lover, to such an extent; and that, therefore, Mr. Thornhill and Mark

Ingestrie must be one and the same person. Over and over again, she

regretted she had not asked Colonel Jeffery for a personal description

of Mr. Thornhill, for that would have settled all her doubts at once,

and the idea that she had it still in her power to do so, in consequence

of the appointment he had made with her for that day week brought her

some consolation.

"It must have been he," she said; "his anxiety to leave the ship, and

get here by the day he mentions, proves it; besides, how improbable it

is, that at the burning of the ill-fated vessel, Ingestrie should place

in the hands of another what he intended for me, when that other was

quite as likely, and perhaps more so, to meet with death as Mark

himself."

Thus she reasoned, forcing herself each moment into a stronger belief of

the identity of Thornhill with Mark Ingestrie, and so certainly

narrowing her anxieties to a consideration of the fate of one person

instead of two.

"I will meet Colonel Jeffery," she said, "and ask him if this Mr.

Thornhill had fair hair, and a soft and pleasing expression about the

eyes, that could not fail to be remembered. I will ask him how he spoke,

and how he looked; and get him, if he can, to describe to me even the

very tones of his voice; and then I shall be sure, without the shadow of

a doubt, that it is Mark. But then, oh! then comes the anxious question,

of what has been his fate?"

When poor Johanna began to consider the multitude of things that might

have happened to her lover during his progress from Sweeney Todd's, in

Fleet-street, to her father's house, she became quite lost in a perfect

maze of conjecture, and then her thoughts always painfully reverted back

to the barber's shop where the dog had been stationed; and she trembled

to reflect for a moment upon the frightful danger to which that string

of pearls might have subjected him.

"Alas! alas!" she cried, "I can well conceive that the man whom I saw

attempting to poison the dog would be capable of any enormity. I saw his

face but for a moment, and yet it was one never again to be forgotten.

It was a face in which might be read cruelty and evil passions; besides,

the man who would put an unoffending animal to a cruel death, shows an

absence of feeling, and a baseness of mind, which make him capable of

any crime he thinks he can commit with impunity. What can I do--oh! what

can I do to unravel this mystery?"

No one could have been more tenderly and gently brought up than Johanna

Oakley, but yet, inhabitive of her heart, was a spirit and a

determination which few indeed could have given her credit for, by

merely looking on the gentle and affectionate countenance which she

ordinarily presented. But it is no new phenomenon in the history of the

human heart to find that some of the most gentle and loveliest of human

creatures are capable of the highest efforts of perversion; and when

Johanna Oakley told herself, which she did, she was determined to devote

her existence to a discovery of the mystery that enveloped the fate of

Mark Ingestrie, she likewise made up her mind that the most likely man

for accomplishing that object should not be rejected by her on the score

of danger, and she at once set to work considering what those means

should be. This seemed an endless task, but still she thought that if,

by any means whatever, she could get admittance to the barber's house,

she might be able to come to some conclusion as to whether or not it was

there where Thornhill, whom she believed to be Ingestrie, had been

stayed in his progress.

"Aid me Heaven," she cried, "in the adoption of some means of action on

the occasion. Is there any one with whom I dare advise? Alas! I fear

not, for the only person in whom I have put my whole heart is my father,

and his affection for me would prompt him at once to interpose every

possible obstacle to my proceeding, for fear danger should come of it.

To be sure, there is Arabella Wilmot, my old school fellow and bosom

friend, she would advise me to the best of her ability, but I much fear

she is too romantic and full of odd, strange actions, that she has taken

from books, to be a good adviser; and yet what can I do? I must speak to

some one, if it be but in case any accident happening to me, my father

may get news of it, and I know of no one else whom I can trust but

Arabella."

After some little more consideration, Johanna made up her mind that on

the following morning she would go to the house of her old school

friend, which was in the immediate vicinity, and hold a conversation

with her.

"I shall hear something," she said, "at least of a kindly and a

consoling character; for what Arabella may want in calm and steady

judgment, she fully compensates for in actual feeling, and what is most

of all, I know I can trust her word implicitly, and that my secret will

remain as safely locked in her breast as if it were in my own."

It was something to come to a conclusion to ask advice, and she felt

that some portion of her anxiety was lifted from her mind by the mere

fact that she had made so firm a mental resolution, that neither danger

nor difficulty should deter her from seeking to know the fate of her

lover. She retired to rest now with a greater hope, and while she is

courting repose, notwithstanding the chance of the discovered images

that fancy may present to her in her slumbers, we will take a glance at

the parlour below, and see how far Mrs. Oakley is conveying out the

pacific intention she had so tacitly expressed, and how the supper is

going forward, which, with not the best grace in the world, she is

preparing for her husband, who for the first time in his life had begun

to assert his rights, and for big Ben, the beef-eater, whom she as

cordially disliked as it was possible for any woman to detest any man.

Mrs. Oakley by no means preserved her taciturn demeanour, for after a

little she spoke, saying--

"There's nothing tasty in the house; suppose I run over the way to

Waggarge's, and get some of those Epping sausages with the peculiar

flavour."

"Ah, do," said Mr. Oakley, "they are beautiful, Ben, I can assure you."

"Well, I don't know," said Ben the beef-eater, "sausages are all very

well in their way, but you need such a plaguey lot of them; for if you

only eat them one at a time, how soon will you get through a dozen or

two."

"A dozen or two," said Mrs. Oakley; "why, there are only five to a

pound."

"Then," said Ben, making a mental calculation, "then, I think, ma'am,

that you ought not to get more than nine pounds of them, and that will

be a matter of forty-five mouthfuls for us."

"Get nine pounds of them," said Mr. Oakley, "if they be wanted; I know

Ben has an appetite."

"Indeed," said Ben, "but I have fell off lately, and don't take to my

wittals as I used; you can order, missus, if you please, a gallon of

half-and-half as you go along. One must have a drain of drink of some

sort; and mind you don't be going to any expense on my account, and

getting anything but the little snack I have mentioned, for ten to one I

shall take supper when I get to the Tower; only human nature is weak,

you know, missus, and requires something to be a continually a holding

of it up."

"Certainly," said Mr. Oakley, "certainly, have what you like, Ben; just

say the word before Mrs. Oakley goes out; is there anything else?"

"No, no," said Ben, "oh dear no, nothing to speak of; but if you should

pass a shop where they sells fat bacon, about four or five pounds, cut

into rashers, you'll find, missus, will help down the blessed sausages."

"Gracious Providence," said Mrs. Oakley, "who is to cook it?"

"Who is to cook it, ma'am? why the kitchen fire, I suppose; but mind ye

if the man aint got any sausages, there's a shop where they sells biled

beef at the corner, and I shall be quite satisfied if you brings in

about ten or twelve pounds of that. You can make it up into about half a

dozen sandwiches."

"Go, my dear, go at once," said Mr. Oakley, "and get Ben his supper. I

am quite sure he wants it, and be as quick as you can."

"Ah," said Ben, when Mrs. Oakley was gone, "I didn't tell you how I was

sarved last week at Mrs. Harveys. You know they are so precious genteel

there that they don't speak above their blessed breaths for fear of

wearing themselves out; and they sits down in a chair as if it were

balanced only on one leg, and a little more one way or t'other would

upset them. Then, if they sees a crumb a laying on the floor they rings

the bell, and a poor half-starved devil of a servant comes and says,

'Did you ring, ma'am?' and then they says 'Yes, bring a dust-shovel and

a broom, there is a crumb a laying there,' and then says I--'Damn you

all,' says I, 'bring a scavenger's cart, and half-dozen birch brooms,

there's a cinder just fell out of the fire.' Then in course they gets

shocked, and looks as blue as possible, and arter that, when they see as

I aint agoing, one of them says 'Mr. Benjamin Blumergutts, would you

like to take a glass of wine?' 'I should think so,' says I. Then he

says, says he, 'which would you prefer, red or white?' says he. 'White,'

says I, 'while you are screwing up your courage to pull out the red,' so

out they pull it; and as soon as I got hold of the bottle, I knocked the

neck of it off over the top bar of the fire-place, and then drank it all

up. 'Now, damn ye,' says I, 'you thinks all this is mighty genteel and

fine, but I don't, and consider you to be the blessedest set of humbugs

ever I set my eyes on; and, if ever you catch me here again, I'll be

genteel too, and I can't say more than that. Go to the devil, all of

ye.' So out I went, only I met with a little accident in the hall, for

they had got a sort of lamp hanging there, and somehow or 'nother, my

head went bang into it, and I carried it out round my neck; but when I

did get out, I took it off, and shied it slap in at the parlour window.

You never heard such a smash in all your life. I dare say they all

fainted away for about a week, the blessed humbugs."

"Well, I should not wonder," said Mr. Oakley, "I never go near them,

because I don't like their foolish pomposity and pride, which, upon very

slender resources, tries to ape what it don't at all understand; but

here is Mrs. Oakley with the sausages, and I hope you will make yourself

comfortable, Ben."

"Comfortable! I believe ye, I rather shall. I means it, and no mistake."

"I have brought three pounds," said Mrs. Oakley, "and told the man to

call in a quarter of an hour, in case there is any more wanted."

"The devil you have; and the bacon, Mrs. Oakley, the bacon!"

"I could not get any--the man had nothing but hams."

"Lor', ma'am, I'd put up with a ham cut thick, and never have said a

word about it. I am a angel of a temper, and if you did but know it.

Hilloa, look, is that the fellow with the half-and half?"

"Yes, here it is--a pot."

"A what?"

"A pot, to be sure."

"Well, I never; you are getting genteel, Mrs. Oakley. Then give us a

hold of it."

Ben took the pot, and emptied it at a draught, and then he gave a tap at

the bottom of it with his knuckles, to signify that he had accomplished

that feat, and then he said, "I tells you what, ma'am, if you takes me

for a baby, it's a great mistake, and any one would think you did, to

see you offering me a pot merely; it's an insult, ma'am."

"Fiddle-de-dee," said Mrs. Oakley; "it's a much greater insult to drink

it all up, and give nobody a drop."

"Is it? I wants to know how you are to stop it, ma'am, when you gets it

to your mouth? that's what I axes you--how are you to stop it, ma'am?

You didn't want me to spew it back again, did you, eh, ma'am?"

"You vile, low wretch!"

"Come, come, my dear," said Mr. Oakley, "you know our cousin. Ben don't

live among the most refined society, and so you ought to be able to look

over a little of--of--his--I may say, I am sure, without offence,

roughness now and then;--come, come, there is no harm done, I'm sure.

Forget and forgive say I. That's my maxim, and has always been, and will

always be."

"Well," said the beef-eater, "it's a good one to get through the world

with, and so there's an end of it. I forgives you, Mother Oakley."

"You forgive--"

"Yes, to be sure. Though I am only a beaf-eater, I suppose as I may

forgive people for all that--eh, Cousin Oakley?"

"Oh, of course, Ben, of course. Come, come, wife, you know as well as I

that Ben has many good qualities, and that take him for all in all, as

the man in the play says, we shan't in a hurry look upon his like

again."

"And I'm sure I don't want to look upon his like again," said Mrs.

Oakley; "I'd rather by a good deal keep him a week than a fortnight.

He's enough to breed a famine in the land, that he is."

"Oh, bless you, no," said Ben, "that's amongst your little mistakes,

ma'am, I can assure you. By the bye, what a blessed long time that

fellow is coming with the rest of the beer and the other sausages--why,

what's the matter with you, cousin Oakley--eh, old chap, you look out of

sorts?"

"I don't feel just the thing, do you know, Ben."

"Not--the thing--why--why, now you come to mention it, I somehow feel as

if all my blessed inside was on a turn and a twist. The devil--I--don't

feel comfortable at all I don't."

"And I'm getting very ill," gasped Mr. Oakley.

"And I'm getting iller," said the beef-eater, manufacturing a word for

the occasion. "Bless my soul! there's something gone wrong in my inside.

I know there's murder--there's a go--oh, Lord! it's a doubling me up, it

is."

"I feel as if my last hour had come," said Mr. Oakley--"I'm a--a--dying

man--I am--oh, good gracious! there was a twinge!"

Mrs. Oakley, with all the coolness in the world, took down her bonnet

from behind the parlour-door where it hung, and, as she put it on

said,--

"I told you both that some judgment would come over you, and now you see

it has. How do you like it? Providence is good, of course, to its own,

and I have--"

"What--what--?"

"_Pisoned_ the half-and-half."

Big Ben, the beef-eater, fell off his chair with a deep groan, and poor

Mr. Oakley sat glaring at his wife, and shivering with apprehension,

quite unable to speak, while she placed a shawl over her shoulders, as

she added in the same tone of calmness she had made the terrific

announcement concerning the poisoning--

"Now, you wretches, you see what a woman can do when she makes up her

mind for vengeance. As long as you all live, you'll recollect me; but,

if you don't, that won't much matter, for you won't live long, I can

tell you, and now I'm going to my sister's, Mrs. Tiddiblow."

So saying, Mrs. Oakley turned quickly round, and, with an insulting toss

of her head, and not at all caring for the pangs and sufferings of her

poor victims, she left the place, and proceeded to her sister's house,

where she slept as comfortably as if she had not by any means committed

two diabolical murders. But has she done so, or shall we, for the honour

of human nature, discover that she went to a neighbouring chemist's, and

only purchased some dreadfully powerful medicinal compound, which she

placed in the half-and-half, and which began to give those pangs to Big

Ben, the beef-eater, and to Mr. Oakley, concerning which they were both

so eloquent? This must have been the case; for Mrs. Oakley could not

have been such a fiend in a human guise as to laugh as she passed the

chemist's shop. Oh no! she might not have felt remorse, but that is a

very different thing, indeed, from laughing at the matter, unless it

were really laughable and not serious, at all. Big Ben and Mr. Oakley

must have at length found out how they had been hoaxed, and the most

probable thing was that the before-mentioned chemist himself told them;

for they sent for him in order to know if anything could be done to save

their lives. Ben from that day forthwith made a determination that he

would not visit Mr. Oakley, and the next time they met he said--

"I tell you what it is, that old hag, your wife, is one too many for us,

that's a fact; she gets the better of me altogether--so, whenever you

feels a little inclined for a gossip about old times, just you come down

to the Tower."

"I will, Ben."

"Do; we can always find something to drink, and you can amuse yourself,

too, by looking at the animals. Remember, feeding time is two o'clock;

so, now and then, I shall expect to see you, and, above all, be sure you

let me know if that canting parson, Lupin, comes any more to your

house."

"I will, Ben."

"Ah, do; and I'll give him another lesson if he should, and I tell you

how I'll do it. I'll get a free admission to the wild _beastesses_ in

the Tower, and when he comes to see 'em, for them 'ere sort of fellows

always goes everywhere they can go for nothing, I'll just manage to pop

him into a cage along of some of the most _cantankerous_ creatures as we

have."

"But would not that be dangerous?"

"Oh dear no! we has a laughing hyaena as would frighten him out of his

wits; but I don't think as he'd bite him much, do you know. He's as

playful as a kitten, and very fond of standing on his head."

"Well, then, Ben, I have, of course, no objection, although I do think

that the lesson you have already given to the reverend gentleman will

and ought to be fully sufficient for all purposes, and I don't expect we

shall see him again."

"But how does Mrs. O. behave to you?" asked Ben.

"Well, Ben, I don't think there's much difference; sometimes she's a

little civil, and sometimes she ain't; it's just as she takes it into

her head."

"Ah! that all comes of marrying."

"I have often wondered, though, Ben, that you never married." Ben gave a

chuckle as he replied--

"Have you though, really? Well, Cousin Oakley, I don't mind telling you,

but the real fact is, once I was very near being served out in that sort

of way."

"Indeed!"

"Yes. I'll tell you how it was; there was a girl called Angelina Day,

and a nice-looking enough creature she was as you'd wish to see, and

didn't seem as if she'd got any claws at all; leastways she kept them

in, like a cat at meal times."

"Upon my word, Ben, you have a great knowledge of the world."

"I believe you, I have! Haven't I been brought up among the wild beasts

in the Tower all my life? That's the place to get a knowledge of the

world in, my boy. I ought to know a thing or two, and in course I does."

"Well, but how was it, Ben, that you did not marry this Angelina you

speak of?"

"I'll tell you; she thought she had me as safe as a hare in a trap, and

she was as amiable as a lump of cotton. You'd have thought, to look at

her, that she did nothing but smile; and, to hear her, that she said

nothing but nice, mild, pleasant things, and I really began to think as

I had found out the proper sort of animal."

"But you were mistaken?"

"I believe you, I was. One day I'd been there to see her, I mean, at her

father's house, and she'd been as amiable as she could be; I got up to

go away, with a determination that the next time I got there I would ask

her to say yes, and when I had got a little way out of the garden of the

house where they lived--it was out of town some distance--I found I had

left my little walking-cane behind me, so I goes back to get it, and

when I got into the garden I heard a voice."

"Whose voice?"

"Why Angelina's, to be sure; she was speaking to a poor little dab of a

servant they had; and oh, my eye! how she did rap out, to be sure! Such

a speech as I never heard in all my life. She went on a matter of ten

minutes without stopping, and every other word was some ill name or

another; and her voice--oh, gracious! it was like a bundle of wire all

of a tangle--it was."

"And what did you do, then, upon making such a discovery as that in so

very odd and unexpected a manner?"

"Do! What do you suppose I did?"

"I really cannot say, as you are rather an eccentric fellow."

"Well then, I'll tell you. I went up to the house, and just popped in my

head, and says I, 'Angelina, I find out that all cats have claws after

all; good evening, and no more from your humble servant, who don't mind

the job of taming any wild animal but a woman;' and then off I walked,

and I never heard of her afterwards."

"Ah, Ben, it's true enough! You never know them beforehand; but after a

little time, as you say, then out come the claws."

"They does--they does."

"And I suppose you since, then, made up your mind to be a bachelor for

the rest of your life, Ben?"

"Of course I did. After such experience as that, I should have deserved

all I got, and no mistake, I can tell you; and if ever you catches me

paying any attention to a female woman, just put me in mind of Angelina

Day, and you'll see how I shall be off at once like a shot."

"Ah!" said Mr. Oakley, with a sigh, "everybody, Ben, aint born with your

good luck, I can tell you. You are a most fortunate man, Ben, and that's

a fact. You must have been born under some lucky planet I think, Ben, or

else you never would have had such a warning as you have had about the

claws. I found 'em out, Ben, but it was a deal too late; so I had only

to put up with my fate, and put the best face I could upon the matter."

"Yes, that's what learned folks call--what's its

name--fill--fill--something."

"Philosophy, I suppose you mean, Ben."

"Ah, that's it--you must put up with what you can't help, it means, I

take it. It's a fine name for saying you must grin and bear it."

"I suppose that is about the truth, Ben."

It cannot, however, be exactly said that the little incident connected

with Mr. Lupin had no good effect upon Mrs. Oakley, for it certainly

shook most alarmingly her confidence in that pious individual. In the

first place, it was quite clear that he shrank from the horrors of

martyrdom; and, indeed, to escape any bodily inconvenience, was

perfectly willing to put up with any amount of degradation or

humiliation that he could be subjected to; and that was, to the

apprehension of Mrs. Oakley, a great departure from what a saint ought

to be. Then again, her faith in the fact that Mr. Lupin was such a

chosen morsel as he had represented himself, was shaken from the

circumstance that no miracle in the shape of a judgment had taken place

to save him from the malevolence of Big Ben, the beef-eater; so that,

taking one thing in connexion with another, Mrs. Oakley was not near so

religious a character after that evening as she had been before it, and

that was something gained. Then circumstances soon occurred, of which

the reader will very shortly be fully aware, which were calculated to

awaken all the feelings of Mrs. Oakley, if she had really any feelings

to awaken, and to force her to make common cause with her husband in an

affair that touched him to the very soul, and did succeed in awakening

some feelings in her heart that had lain dormant for a long time, but

which were still far from being completely destroyed. These

circumstances were closely connected with the fate of one in whom we

hope, that by this time, the reader has taken a deep and kindly

interest--we mean Johanna--that young and beautiful, and gentle,

creature, who seemed to have been created with all the capacity to be so

very happy, and yet whose fate had become so clouded by misfortune, and

who appears now to be doomed through her best affections to suffer so

great an amount of sorrow, and to go through so many sad difficulties.

Alas, poor Johanna Oakley! Better had you loved some one of less

aspiring feelings, and of less ardent imagination, than he possessed to

whom you have given your heart's young affections. It is true that Mark

Ingestrie possessed genius, and perhaps it was the glorious light that

hovers around that fatal gift which prompted you to love him. But genius

is not only a blight and a desolation to its possessor, but it is so to

all who are bound to the gifted being by the ties of fond affection. It

brings with it that unhappy restlessness of intellect which is ever

straining after the unattainable, and which is never content to know the

end and ultimatum of earthly hopes and wishes; no, the whole life of

such persons is spent in one long struggle for a fancied happiness,

which like the ignis-fatuus of the swamp glitters but to betray those

who trust to its delusive and flickering beams.