"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!