"I cannot think, Miss Oakley, that you are correct in that supposition. There are many things which induce me to think otherwise; and the first
and foremost of them is, that the ingenuous character of Mr. Thornhill
forbids the likelihood of such a thing occurring. You may depend it is
not--cannot be, as you suppose." "The proofs are too strong for me, and I find I dare not doubt them. It
is so, Colonel Jeffery, as time, perchance, may show; it is sad, very
sad, to think that it is so, but I dare not doubt it, now that you have
described him to me exactly as he lived." "I must own, that in giving an opinion on such a point to you, I may be
accused of arrogance and presumption, for I have had no description of
Mark Ingestrie, and never saw him; and although you never saw certainly
Mr. Thornhill, yet I have described him to you, and therefore you are
able to judge from that description something of him." "I am indeed, and I cannot--dare not doubt. It is horrible to be
positive on this point to me, because I do fear with you that something
dreadful has occurred, and that the barber in Fleet-street could unravel
a frightful secret, if he chose, connected with Mark Ingestrie's fate." "I do sincerely hope from my heart that you are wrong; I hope it,
because I tell you frankly, dim and obscure as the hope that Mark
Ingestrie may have been picked up from the wreck of his vessel, it is
yet stronger than the supposition that Thornhill has escaped the
murderous hands of Sweeney Todd, the barber." Johanna looked in his face so imploringly, and with such an expression
of hopelessness, that it was most sad indeed to see her, and quite
involuntarily he exclaimed--

"If the sacrifice of my life would be to you a relief, and save you from
the pangs you suffer, believe me, it should be made." She started as she said--

"No, no: Heaven knows enough has been sacrificed already--more than
enough, much more than enough. But do not suppose that I am ungrateful
for the generous interest you have taken in me. Do not suppose that I
think any the less of the generosity and nobility of soul that would
offer a sacrifice, because it is one that I would hesitate to accept. No, believe me, Colonel Jeffery, that among the few names that are
enrolled in my breast--and such to me will ever be honoured--remember
yours will be found while I live, but that will not be long--but that
will not be long." "Nay, do not speak so despairingly." "Have I not cause for despair?" "Cause have you for great grief, but yet scarcely for despair. You are
young yet, and let me entertain a hope that even if a feeling of regret
may mingle with your future thoughts, time will achieve something in
tempering your sorrow; and if not great happiness, you may know yet
great serenity." "I dare not hope it, but I know your words are kindly spoken, and most
kindly meant." "You may well assure yourself that they are so." "I will ascertain his fate, or perish." "You alarm me by those words, as well as by your manner of uttering
them. Let me implore you, Miss Oakley, to attempt nothing rash; remember
how weak and inefficient must be the exertions of a young girl like
yourself, one who knows so little of the world, and can really
understand so little of its wickedness." "Affection conquers all obstacles, and the weakest and most inefficient
girl that ever stepped, if she have strong within her that love which,
in all its sacred intensity, knows no fear, shall indeed accomplish
much. I feel that, in such a cause, I could shake off all girlish
terrors and ordinary alarms; and if there be danger, I would ask, what
is life to me without all that could adorn it and make it beautiful?" "This, indeed, is the very enthusiasm of affection, when, believe me, it
will lead you to some excess--to some romantic exercise of feeling, such
as will bring great danger in its train, to the unhappiness of those who
love you." "Those who love me--who is there to love me now?" "Johanna Oakley, I dare not and will not utter words that come thronging
to my lips, but which I fear might be unwelcome to your ears; I will not
say that I can answer the question that you have asked, because it would
sound ungenerous at such a time as this, when you have met me to talk
about the fate of another. Oh! forgive me, that, hurried away by the
feeling of a moment, I have uttered these words, for I meant not to
utter them." Johanna looked at him in silence, and it might be that there was the
slightest possible tinge of reproach in her look, but it was very
slight, for one glance at that ingenuous countenance would be sufficient
to convince the most sceptical of the truth and single-mindedness of its
owner: of this there could be no doubt whatever, and if anything in the
shape of a reproach was upon the point of coming from her lips, she
forbore to utter it. "May I hope," he added, "that I have not lowered myself in your esteem,
Miss Oakley, by what I have said?" "I hope," she said gently, "that you will continue to be my friend." He laid an emphasis on the word "friend," and he fully understood what
she meant to imply thereby, and after a moment's pause said--

"Heaven forbid that ever, by word or by action, Johanna, I should do
aught to deprive myself of that privilege. Let me be yet your friend,
since--"

He left the sentence unfinished, but if he had added the words--"Since I
can do no more," he could not have made it more evident to Johanna that
those were the words he intended to utter. "And now," he added, "that I hope and trust we understand each other
better than we did, and you are willing to call me by the name of
friend, let me once more ask of you, by the privilege of such a title,
to be careful of yourself, and not to risk much in order that you may,
perhaps, have some remote chance of achieving very little." "But can I endure this dreadful suspense?" "It is, alas! too common an infliction on human nature, Johanna. Pardon
me for addressing you as Johanna." "Nay, it requires no excuse. I am accustomed so to be addressed by all
who feel a kindly interest for me. Call me Johanna if you will, and I
shall feel a greater assurance of your friendship and your esteem." "I will then avail myself of that permission, and again and again I will
entreat you to leave to me the task of making what attempts may be made
to discover the fate of Mr. Thornhill. There must be danger even in
inquiring for him, if he has met with any foul play, and therefore I ask
you to let that danger be mine." Johanna asked herself if she should or not tell him of the scheme of
operations that had been suggested by Arabella Wilmot, but, somehow or
another, she shrank most wonderfully from so doing, both on account of
the censure which she concluded he would be likely to cast upon it, and
the romantic, strange nature of the plan itself, so she said, gently and
quickly--

"I will attempt nothing that shall not have some possibility of success
attending it.