CHAPTER II

THE SPECTACLE-MAKER'S DAUGHTER.

"Johanna, Johanna, my dear, do you know what time it is? Johanna, I say,

my dear, are you going to get up? Here's your mother has trotted out to

Parson Lupin's, and you know I have got to go to Alderman Judd's house,

in Cripplegate, the first thing, and I haven't had a morsel of breakfast

yet. Johanna, my dear, do you hear me?"

These observations were made by Mr. Oakley, the spectacle-maker, at the

door of his daughter Johanna's chamber, on the morning after the events

we have just recorded at Sweeney Todd's; and presently, a soft sweet

voice answered him, saying,--

"I am coming, father, I am coming: in a moment, father, I shall be

down."

"Don't hurry yourself, my darling, I can wait."

The little old spectacle-maker descended the staircase again, and sat

down in the parlour at the back of the shop, where, in a few moments, he

was joined by Johanna, his only and his much-loved child.

She was indeed a creature of the rarest grace and beauty. Her age was

eighteen, but she looked rather younger, and upon her face she had that

sweetness and intelligence of expression which almost bids defiance to

the march of time. Her hair was of a glossy blackness, and what was rare

in conjunction with such a feature, her eyes were of a deep and heavenly

blue. There was nothing of the commanding or of the severe style of

beauty about her, but the expression of her face was all grace and

sweetness. It was one of those countenances which one could look at for

a long summer's day, as upon the pages of some deeply interesting

volume, which furnished the most abundant food for pleasant and

delightful reflection.

There was a touch of sadness about her voice, which, perhaps, only

tended to make it the more musical, although mournfully so, and which

seemed to indicate that at the bottom of her heart there lay some grief

which had not yet been spoken--some cherished aspiration of her pure

soul, which looked hopeless as regards completion--some remembrance of a

former joy, which had been turned to bitterness and grief; it was the

cloud in the sunny sky--the shadow through which there still gleamed

bright and beautiful sunshine, but which still proclaimed its presence.

"I have kept you waiting, father," she said, as she flung her arms about

the old man's neck, "I have kept you waiting."

"Never mind, my dear, never mind. Your mother is so taken up with Mr.

Lupin, that you know, this being Wednesday morning, she is off to his

prayer meeting, and so I have had no breakfast; and really I think I

must discharge Sam."

"Indeed, father! what has he done?"

"Nothing at all, and that's the very reason. I had to take down the

shutters myself this morning, and what do you think for? He had the

coolness to tell me he couldn't take down the shutters this morning, or

sweep out the shop, because his aunt had the toothache."

"A poor excuse, father," said Johanna, as she bustled about and got the

breakfast ready; "a very poor excuse."

"Poor indeed! but his month is up to-day, and I must get rid of him. But

I suppose I shall have no end of bother with your mother, because his

aunt belongs to Mr. Lupin's congregation; but as sure as this is the

20th day of August--"

"It is the 20th day of August," said Johanna, as she sunk into a chair

and burst into tears. "It is, it is! I thought I could have controlled

this, but I cannot, father, I cannot. It was that which made me late. I

knew mother was out; I knew that I ought to be down attending upon you,

and I was praying to Heaven for strength to do so because this was the

20th of August."

Johanna spoke these words incoherently, and amidst sobs, and when she

had finished them, she leant her sweet face upon her small hands, and

wept like a child.

The astonishment, not unmingled with positive dismay, of the old

spectacle-maker, was vividly depicted on his countenance, and for some

minutes he sat perfectly aghast, with his hands resting on his knees,

and looking in the face of his beautiful child--that is to say, as much

as he could see of it between those little taper fingers that were

spread upon it--as if he were newly awakened from some dream.

"Good God, Johanna!" he said at length, "what is this? My dear child,

what has happened? Tell me, my dear, unless you wish to kill me with

grief."

"You shall know, father," she said. "I did not think to say a word about

it, but considered I had strength enough of mind to keep my sorrows in

my own breast, but the effort has been too much for me, and I have been

compelled to yield. If you had not looked so kindly on me--if I did not

know that you loved me as you do, I should easily have kept my secret,

but, knowing that much, I cannot."

"My darling," said the old man, "you are right, there; I do love you.

What would the world be to me without you? There was a time, twenty

years ago, when your mother made up much of my happiness, but of late,

what with Mr. Lupin, and psalm-singing, and tea-drinking, I see very

little of her, and what little I do see is not very satisfactory. Tell

me, my darling, what it is that vexes you, and I'll soon put it to

rights. I don't belong to the city trainbands for nothing."

"Father, I know that your affection would do all for me that it is

possible to do, but you cannot recall the dead to life; and if this day

passes over and I see him not, nor hear from him, I know that, instead

of finding a home for me whom he loved, he has in the effort to do so

found a grave for himself. He said he would, he said he would."

Here she wrung her hands, and wept again, and with such a bitterness of

anguish that the old spectacle-maker was at his wit's end, and knew not

what on earth to do or say.

"My dear, my dear," he cried, "who is he? I hope you don't mean--"

"Hush, father, hush! I know the name that is hovering on your lips, but

something seems even now to whisper to me he is no more, and, being so,

speak nothing of him, father, but that which is good."

"You mean Mark Ingestrie."

"I do, and if he had a thousand faults, he at least loved me; he loved

me truly and most sincerely."

"My dear," said the old spectacle-maker, "you know that I wouldn't for

all the world say anything to vex you, nor will I; but tell me what it

is that makes this day more than any other so gloomy to you."

"I will, father; you shall hear. It was on this day two years ago that

we last met; it was in the Temple-garden, and he had just had a stormy

interview with his uncle, Mr. Grant, and you will understand, father,

that Mark Ingestrie was not to blame, because--"

"Well, well, my dear, you needn't say anything more upon that point.

Girls very seldom admit their lovers are to blame, but there are two

ways, you know, Johanna, of telling a story."

"Yes; but, father, why should Mr. Grant seek to force him to the study

of a profession he so much disliked?"

"My dear, one would have thought that if Mark Ingestrie really loved

you, and found that he might make you his wife, and acquire an

honourable subsistence for you and himself--it seems a very wonderful

thing to me that he did not do so. You see, my dear, he should have

liked you well enough to do something else that he did not like."

"Yes, but father, you know it is hard, when disagreements once arise,

for a young ardent spirit to give in entirely; and so from one word,

poor Mark, in his disputes with his uncle, got to another, when perhaps

one touch of kindness or conciliation from Mr. Grant would have made him

quite pliant in his hands."

"Yes, that's the way," said Mr. Oakley; "there is no end of excuses: but

go on, my dear, go on, and tell me exactly how this affair now stands."

"I will, father. It was this day two years ago then that we met, and he

told me that he and his uncle had at last quarrelled irreconcilably, and

that nothing could possibly now patch up the difference between them. We

had a long talk."

"Ah! no doubt of that."

"And at length he told me that he must go and seek his fortune--that

fortune which he hoped to share with me. He said that he had an

opportunity of undertaking a voyage to India, and that if he were

successful he should have sufficient to return with, and commence some

pursuit in London more congenial to his thoughts and habits than the

law."

"Ah, well! what next?"

"He told me that he loved me."

"And you believed him."

"Father, you would have believed him had you heard him speak. His tones

were those of such deep sincerity that no actor who ever charmed an

audience with an unreal existence could have reached them. There are

times and seasons when we know that we are listening to the majestic

voice of truth, and there are tones which sink at once into the heart,

carrying with them a conviction of their sincerity, which neither time

nor circumstance can alter; and such were the tones in which Mark

Ingestrie spoke to me."

"And so you suppose, Johanna, that it is easy for a young man who has

not patience or energy enough to be respectable at home, to go abroad

and make his fortune. Is idleness so much in request in other countries,

that it receives such a rich reward, my dear?"

"You judge him harshly, father; you do not know him."

"Heaven forbid that I should judge any one harshly! and I will freely

admit that you may know more of his real character than I can, who of

course have only seen its surface; but go on, my dear, and tell me all."

"We made an agreement, father, that on that day two years he was to come

to me or send me some news of his whereabouts; if I heard nothing of him

I was to conclude he was no more, and I cannot help so concluding now."

"But the day has not yet passed."

"I know it has not, and yet I rest upon but a slender hope, father. Do

you believe that dreams ever really shadow forth coming events?"

"I cannot say, my child; I am not disposed to yield credence to any

supposed fact because I have dreamt it, but I must confess to having

heard some strange instances where these visions of the night have come

strictly true."

"Heaven knows but this may be one of them! I had a dream last night. I

thought that I was sitting upon the sea-shore, and that all before me

was nothing but a fathomless waste of waters. I heard the roar and the

dash of the waves distinctly, and each moment the wind grew more furious

and fierce, and I saw in the distance a ship--it was battling with the

waves, which at one moment lifted it mountains high, and at another

plunged it far down into such an abyss, that not a vestige of it could

be seen but the topmost spars of the tall mast. And still the storm

increased each moment in its fury, and ever and anon there came a

strange sullen sound across the waters, and I saw a flash of fire, and

knew that those in the ill-fated vessel were thus endeavouring to

attract attention and some friendly aid. Father, from the first to the

last I knew that Mark Ingestrie was there--my heart told me so: I was

certain he was there, and I was helpless--utterly helpless, utterly and

entirely unable to lend the slightest aid. I could only gaze upon what

was going forward as a silent and terrified spectator of the scene. And

at last I heard a cry come over the deep--a strange, loud, wailing

cry--which proclaimed to me the fate of the vessel. I saw its mass

shiver for a moment in the blackened air, and then all was still for a

few seconds, until there arose a strange, wild shriek, that I knew was

the despairing cry of those who sank, never to rise again, in that

vessel. Oh! that was a frightful sound--it was a sound to linger on the

ears, and haunt the memory of sleep--it was a sound never to be

forgotten when once heard, but such as might again and again be

remembered with horror and affright."

"And all this was in your dream?"

"It was, father, it was."

"And you were helpless?"

"I was--utterly and entirely helpless."

"It was very sad."

"It was, as you shall hear. The ship went down, and that cry that I had

heard was the last despairing one given by those who clung to the wreck

with scarce a hope, and yet because it was their only refuge, for where

else had they to look for the smallest ray of consolation? where else,

save in the surging waters, were they to turn for safety? Nowhere! all

was lost! all was despair! I tried to scream--I tried to cry aloud to

Heaven to have mercy upon those brave and gallant souls who had trusted

their dearest possession--life itself--to the mercy of the deep; and

while I so tried to render so inefficient succour, I saw a small speck

in the sea, and my straining eyes perceived that it was a man floating

and clinging to a piece of the wreck, and I knew it was Mark Ingestrie."

"But, my dear, surely you are not annoyed at a dream?"

"It saddened me. I stretched out my arms to save him--I heard him

pronounce my name, and call upon me for help. 'Twas all in vain; he

battled with the waves as long as human nature could battle with them.

He could do no more, and I saw him disappear before my anxious eyes."

"Don't say you saw him, my dear, say you fancy you saw him."

"It was such a fancy as I shall not lose the remembrance of for many a

day."

"Well, well, after all, my dear, it's only a dream; and it seems to me,

without at all adverting to anything that should give you pain as

regards Mark Ingestrie, that you made a very foolish bargain; for only

consider how many difficulties might arise in the way of his keeping

faith with you. You know I have your happiness so much at heart that, if

Mark had been a worthy man and an industrious one, I should not have

opposed myself to your union; but, believe me, my dear Johanna, that a

young man with great facilities for spending money, and none whatever

for earning any, is just about the worst husband you could choose, and

such a man was Mark Ingestrie. But come, we will say nothing of this to

your mother; let the secret, if we may call it such, rest with me; and

if you can inform me in what capacity and in what vessel he left

England, I will not carry my prejudice so far against him as to hesitate

about making what inquiry I can concerning his fate."

"I know nothing more, father; we parted, and never met again."

"Well, well! dry your eyes, Johanna, and, as I go to Alderman Judd's,

I'll think over the matter, which, after all, may not be so bad as you

think. The lad is a good-enough looking lad, and has, I believe, a good

ability, if he would put it to some useful purpose; but if he goes

scampering about the world in an unsettled manner, you are well rid of

him, and as for his being dead, you must not conclude that by any means

for somehow or another, like a bad penny, these fellows always come

back."

There was more consolation in the kindly tone of the spectacle-maker

than in the words he used; but, upon the whole, Johanna was well enough

pleased that she had communicated the secret to her father, for now, at

all events, she had some one to whom she could mention the name of Mark

Ingestrie, without the necessity of concealing the sentiment with which

she did so; and when her father had gone, she felt that, by the mere

relation of it to him, some of the terrors of her dream had vanished.

She sat for some time in a pleasing reverie, till she was interrupted by

Sam, the shop-boy, who came into the parlour and said,--

"Please, Miss Johanna, suppose I was to go down to the docks and try and

find out for you Mr. Mark Ingestrie. I say, suppose I was to do that. I

heard it all, and if I do find him I'll soon settle him."

"What do you mean?"

"I means that I won't stand it; didn't I tell you, more than three weeks

ago, as you was the object of my infections? Didn't I tell you that when

aunt died, I should come in for the soap and candle business, and make

you my missus?"

The only reply which Johanna gave to this was to rise and leave the

room, for her heart was too full of grief and sad speculation to enable

her to do now as she had often been in the habit of doing--viz., laugh

at Sam's protestations of affection, so he was left to chew the cud of

sweet and bitter fancy by himself.

"A thousand d----s!" said he, when he entered the shop: "I always

suspected there was some other fellow, and now I know it I am ready to

gnaw my head off that ever I consented to come here. Confound him! I

hope he is at the bottom of the sea, and eat up by this time. Oh! I

should like to smash everybody. If I had my way now I'd just walk into

society at large, as they calls it, and let it know what one, two,

three, slap in the eye, is--and down it would go."

Mr. Sam, in his rage, did upset a case of spectacles, which went down

with a tremendous crash, and which, however good imitation of the manner

in which society at large was to be knocked down, was not likely to be

at all pleasing to Mr. Oakley.

"I have done it now," he said; "but never mind; I'll try the old dodge

whenever I break anything; that is, I'll place it in old Oakley's way,

and swear he did it. I never knew such an old goose; you may persuade

him into anything; the idea, now, of his pulling down all the shutters

this morning because I told him my aunt had the tooth-ache; that was a

go, to be sure. But I'll be revenged of that fellow who has took away, I

consider, Johanna from me; I'll let him know what a blighted heart is

capable of. He won't live long enough to want a pair spectacles, I'll be

bound, or else my name ain't Sam Bolt."