She wept then such bitter tears as only such a heart as her's can know,
when it feels the deep and bitter anguish of desertion, and when the
rock, upon which it supposed it had built its fondest hopes, resolves
itself to a mere quicksand, in which becomes engulphed all of good that
this world can afford to the just and the beautiful. Oh, it is heartrending to think that such a one as she, Johanna Oakley,
a being so full of all those holy and gentle emotions which should
constitute the truest felicity, should thus feel that life to her had
lost its greatest charms, and that nothing but despair remained. "I will wait until midnight," she said; "and even then it will be a
mockery to seek repose, and to-morrow I must myself make some exertion
to discover some tidings of him." Then she began to ask herself what that exertion could be, and in what
manner a young and inexperienced girl, such as she was, could hope to
succeed in her inquiries. And the midnight hour came at last, telling
her that, giving the utmost latitude to the word day, it had gone at
last, and she was left despairing. She lay the whole of that night sobbing, and only at times dropping into
an unquiet slumber, during which painful images were presented to her,
all, however, having the same tendency, and pointing towards the
presumed fact that Mark Ingestrie was no more. But the weariest night to the weariest waker will pass away, and at
length the soft and beautiful dawn stole into the chamber of Johanna
Oakley, chasing away some of the more horrible visions of the night, but
having little effect in subduing the sadness that had taken possession
of her. She felt that it would be better for her to make her appearance below,
than to hazard the remarks and conjectures that her not doing so would
give rise to, so all unfitted as she was to engage in the most ordinary
intercourse, she crept down to the breakfast-parlour, looking more like
the ghost of her former self than the bright and beautiful being we have
represented her to the reader. Her father understood what it was that robbed her cheeks of their bloom;
and although he saw it with much distress, yet he fortified himself with
what he considered were some substantial reasons for future hopefulness. It had become part of his philosophy--it generally is a part of the
philosophy of the old--to consider that those sensations of the mind
that arise from disappointed affection are of the most evanescent
character; and that, although for a time they exhibit themselves with
violence, they, like grief for the dead, soon pass away, scarcely
leaving a trace behind of their former existence. And perhaps he was right as regards the greater number of those
passions; but he was certainly wrong when he applied that sort of
worldly-wise knowledge to his daughter Johanna. She was one of those
rare beings whose hearts are not won by every gaudy flutterer who may
buz the accents of admiration in their ears. No; she was qualified,
eminently qualified, to love once, but only once; and, like the
passion-flower, that blooms into abundant beauty once, and never
afterwards puts forth a blossom, she allowed her heart to expand to the
soft influence of affection, which, when crushed by adversity, was gone
for ever. "Really, Johanna," said Mrs. Oakley, in the true conventicle twang, "you
look so pale and ill that I must positively speak to Mr. Lupin about
you." "Mr. Lupin, my dear," said the spectacle-maker, "may be all very well in
his way, as a parson; but I don't see what he can have to do with
Johanna looking pale." "A pious man, Mr. Oakley, has to do with everything and everybody." "Then he must be the most intolerable bore in existence; and I don't
wonder at his being kicked out of some people's houses, as I have heard
Mr. Lupin has been." "And if he has, Mr. Oakley, I can tell you he glories in it. Mr. Lupin
likes to suffer for the faith; and if he were to be made a martyr of
to-morrow, I am quite certain it would give him a deal of pleasure." "My dear, I am quite sure it would not give him half the pleasure it
would me." "I understand your insinuation, Mr. Oakley: you would like to have him
murdered on account of his holiness; but, though you can say these kind
of things at your own breakfast-table, you won't say as much to him when
he comes to tea this afternoon." "To tea, Mrs. Oakley! haven't I told you over and over again, that I
will not have that man in my house?" "And haven't I told you, Mr. Oakley, twice that number of times that he
shall come to tea? and I have asked him now, and it can't be altered." "But, Mrs. Oakley--"

"It's of no use, Mr. Oakley, your talking. Mr. Lupin is coming to tea,
and come he shall; and if you don't like it, you can go out. There now,
I am sure you can't complain, now you have actually the liberty of going
out; but you are like the dog in the manger, Mr. Oakley, I know that
well enough, and nothing will please you." "A fine liberty, indeed, the liberty of going out of my own house to let
somebody else into it that I don't like!" "Johanna, my dear," said Mrs. Oakley, "I think my old complaint is
coming on, of the beating of the heart, and the hysterics. I know what
produces it--it's your father's brutality; and, just because Dr. Fungus
said over and over again that I was to be perfectly quiet, your father
seizes upon the opportunity like a wild beast, or a raving maniac, to
try and make me ill."

Mr. Oakley jumped up, stamped his feet upon the floor and uttering
something about the probability of his becoming a maniac in a very short
time, rushed into his shop, and set to polishing the spectacles as if he
were doing it for a wager. This little affair between her father and mother, certainly had had the
effect, for a time, of diverting attention from Johanna, and she was
able to assume a cheerfulness she did not feel; but she had something of
her father's spirit in her as regarded Mr. Lupin, and most decidedly
objected to sitting down to any meal whatever with that individual, so
that Mrs. Oakley was left in a minority of one upon the occasion, which
perhaps, as she fully expected it, was no great matter after all. Johanna went up stairs to her own room, which commanded a view of the
street. It was an old-fashioned house, with a balcony in front, and as
she looked listlessly out into Fore-street, which was far then from
being the thoroughfare it is now, she saw standing in a doorway on the
opposite side of the way a stranger, who was looking intently at the
house, and who, when he caught her eye, walked instantly across to it,
and cast something into the balcony of the first floor. Then he touched
his cap, and walked rapidly from the street. The thought immediately occurred to Johanna that this might possibly be
some messenger from him concerning whose existence and welfare she was
so deeply anxious.