The String of Pearls

by Thomas Preskett Prest

  ‘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 a-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 for 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 a 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 you ever 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, ain’t 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 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 judgement had taken place to save him from the malevolence of big Ben, the beefeater; so that, taking one thing in connection 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 really had 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 artless creature, who seemed to have been created 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 someone of less aspiring feelings, and of less ardent imagination, than him 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 ignisfatuus of the swamp glitters but to betray those who trust to its delusive and flickering beams.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Johanna’s Interview with Arabella Wilmot, and the Advice

  Alas! Poor Johanna, thou hast chosen but an indifferent confidante in the person of that young and inexperienced girl to whom it seems good to thee to impart thy griefs.

  Not for one moment do we mean to say, that the young creature to whom the spectacle-maker’s daughter made up her mind to unbosom herself was not all that anyone could wish as regards honour, goodness, and friendship. But she was one of those creatures who yet look upon the world as a fresh green garden, and have not yet lost that romance of existence which the world and its ways soon banish from the breasts of all.

  She was young, almost to girlhood, and having been the idol of her family circle, she knew just about as little of the great world as a child.

  But while we cannot but to some extent regret that Johanna should have chosen such a confidante and admirer, we with feelings of great freshness and pleasure proceed to accompany her to that young girl’s house.

  Now, a visit from Johanna Oakley to the Wilmots was not so rare a thing, that it should excite any unusual surprise, but in this case it did excite unusual pleasure because she had not been there for some time.

  And the reason she had not may well be found in the peculiar circumstances that had for a considerable period environed her. She had a secret to keep which, although it might not proclaim what it was most legibly upon her countenance, yet proclaimed that it had an existence, and as she had not made Arabella a confidante, she dreaded the other’s friendly questions.

  It may seem surprising that Johanna Oakley had kept from one whom she so much esteemed, and with whom she had made such a friendship, the secret of her affections; but that must be accounted for by a difference of ages between them to a sufficient extent in that early period of life to show itself palpably.

  That difference was not quite two years, but when we likewise state, that Arabella was of that small, delicate style of beauty which makes her look like a child, when even upon the verge of womanhood, we shall not be surprised that the girl of seventeen hesitated to confide a secret of the heart to what seemed but a beautiful child.

  The last year, however, had made a great difference in the appearance of Arabella, for although she still looked a year or so younger than she really was, a more staid and thoughtful expression had come over her face, and she no longer presented, except at times when she laughed, that childlike expression, which had been as remarkable in her as it was delightful.

  She was as different-looking from Johanna as she could be, for whereas Johanna’s hair was of a rich and glossy brown, so nearly allied to blac
k that it was commonly called such, the long waving ringlets that shaded the sweet countenance of Arabella Wilmot were like amber silk blended to a pale beauty.

  Her eyes were really blue, and not that pale grey, which courtesy calls of that celestial colour, and their long, fringing lashes hung upon a cheek of the most delicate and exquisite hue that nature could produce.

  Such was the young, lovable, and amiable creature who had made one of those girlish friendships with Johanna Oakley that, when they do endure beyond the period of almost mere childhood, endure for ever, and become one among the most dear and cherished sensations of the heart.

  The acquaintance had commenced at school, and might have been of that evanescent character of so many school friendships, which, in after life, are scarcely so much remembered as the most dim visions of a dream; but it happened that they were congenial spirits, which, let them be thrown together under any circumstances whatever, would have come together with a perfect and a most endearing confidence in each other’s affections.

  That they were school companions was the mere accident that brought them together, and not the cause of their friendship.

  Such, then, was the being to whom Johanna Oakley looked for counsel and assistance; and notwithstanding all that we have said respecting the likelihood of that counsel being of an inactive and girlish character, we cannot withhold our meed of approbation to Johanna that she had selected one so much in every way worthy of her honest esteem.

  The hour at which she called was such as to insure Arabella being within, and the pleasure which showed itself upon the countenance of the young girl, as she welcomed her old playmate, was a feeling of the most delightful and unaffecting character.

  ‘Why, Johanna,’ she said, ‘you so seldom call upon me now, that I suppose I must esteem it as a very special act of grace and favour to see you.’

  ‘Arabella,’ said Johanna, ‘I do not know what you will say to me when I tell you that my present visit to you is because I am in a difficulty, and want your advice.’

  ‘Then you could not have come to a better person, for I have read all the novels in London, and know all the difficulties that anybody can possibly get into, and, what is more important, I know all the means of getting out of them, let them be what they may.’

  ‘And yet, Arabella, scarcely in your novel reading will you find anything so strange and so eventful as the circumstances, I grieve to say, it is in my power to record to you. Sit down, and listen to me, dear Arabella, and you shall know all.’

  ‘You surprise and alarm me by the serious countenance, Johanna.’

  ‘The subject is a serious one. I love.’

  ‘Oh! is that all? So do I; there’s young Captain Desbrook in the King’s Guards. He comes here to buy his gloves; and if you did but hear him sigh as he leans over the counter, you would be astonished.’

  ‘Ah! but, Arabella, I know you well. Yours is one of those fleeting passions that, like the forked lightning, appear for a moment, and ere you can say behold is gone again. Mine is deeper in my heart, so deep, that to divorce it from it would be to destroy its home for ever.’

  ‘But why so serious, Johanna? You do not mean to tell me that it is possible for you to love any man without his loving you in return?’

  ‘You are right there, Arabella. I do not come to speak to you of a hopeless passion – far from it; but you shall hear. Lend me, my dear friend, your serious attention, and you shall hear of such mysterious matters.’

  ‘Mysterious? then I shall be in my very element. For know that I quite live and exult in mystery, and you could not possibly have come to anyone who would more welcomely receive such a commission from you; I am all impatience.’

  Johanna then, with great earnestness, related to her friend the whole of the particulars connected with her deep and sincere attachment to Mark Ingestrie. She told her how, in spite of all circumstances which appeared to have a tendency to cast a shadow and a blight upon their young affection, they had loved and loved truly; how Ingestrie, disliking, both from principle and distaste, the study of the law, had quarrelled with his uncle Mr Grant, and then how, as a bold adventurer, he had gone to seek his fortunes in the Indian seas, fortunes which promised to be splendid; but which might end in disappointment and defeat, and they had ended in such calamities most deeply and truly did she mourn to be compelled to state. And now she concluded by saying, –

  ‘And now, Arabella, you know all I have to tell you. You know how truly I have loved, and how after teaching myself to expect happiness, I have met with nothing but despair; and you may judge for yourself, how sadly the fate of Mark Ingestrie must deeply affect me, and how lost my mind must be in all kinds of conjecture concerning him.’

  The hilarity of spirits which had characterised Arabella, in the earlier part of their interview, entirely left her, as Johanna proceeded in her mournful narration, and by the time she had concluded, tears of the most genuine sympathy stood in her eyes.

  She took the hands of Johanna in both her own, and said to her, –

  ‘Why, my dear Johanna, I never expected to hear from your lips so sad a tale. This is most mournful, indeed very mournful; and although I was half inclined before to quarrel with you for this tardy confidence – for you must recollect that it is the first I have heard of this whole affair – but now the misfortunes that oppress you are quite sufficient, Heaven knows, without me adding to them by the shadow of a reproach.’

  ‘They are indeed, Arabella, and believe me if the course of my love ran smoothly, instead of being, as it has been, full of misadventure, you should have had nothing to complain of on the score of want of confidence; but I will own I did hesitate to inflict upon you my miseries, for miseries they have been and alas! miseries they seem destined to remain.’

  ‘Johanna, you could not have used an argument more delusive than that. It is not one which should have come from your lips to me.’

  ‘But surely it was a good motive, to spare you pain?’

  ‘And did you think so lightly of my friendship that it was to be entrusted with nothing but what were a pleasant aspect? True friendship is surely best shown in the encounter of difficulty and distress. I grieve, Johanna, indeed, that you have so much mistaken me.’

  ‘Nay, now you do me an injustice: it was not that I doubted your friendship for one moment, but that I did indeed shrink from casting the shadow of my sorrows over what should be, and what I hope is, the sunshine of your heart. That was the respect which deterred me from making you aware of what I suppose I must call this ill-fated passion.’

  ‘No, not ill-fated, Johanna. Let us believe that the time will come when it will be far otherwise than ill-fated.’

  ‘But what do you think of all that I have told you? Can you gather from it any hope?’

  ‘Abundance of hope, Johanna. You have no certainty of the death of Ingestrie.’

  ‘I certainly have not, as far as regards the loss of him in the Indian sea; but, Arabella, there is one supposition which, from the moment it found a home in my breast, has been growing stronger and stronger, and that supposition is, that this Mr Thornhill was no other than Mark Ingestrie himself.’

  ‘Indeed! Think you so? That would be a strange supposition. Have you any special reasons for such a thought?’

  ‘None – further than a something which seemed ever to tell my heart from the first moment that such was the case, and a consideration of the improbability of the story related by Thornhill. Why should Mark Ingestrie have given him the string of pearls and the message to me, trusting to the preservation of this Thornhill, and assuming, for some strange reason, that he himself must fall?’

  ‘There is good argument in that, Joanna.’

  ‘And moreover, Mark Ingestrie told me he intended altering his name upon the expedition.’

  ‘It is strange; but now you mention such a supposition, it appears, do you know, Johanna, each moment more probable to me. Oh, that fatal string of pearls.’

  ‘Fatal, indeed! f
or if Mark Ingestrie and Thornhill be one and the same person, the possession of those pearls has been the temptation to destroy him.’

  ‘There cannot be a doubt upon that point, Johanna, and so you will find in all the tales of love and romance, that jealousy and wealth have been the sources of all the abundant evils which fond and attached hearts have from time to time suffered.’

  ‘It is so; I believe, it is so, Arabella; but advise me what to do, for truly I am myself incapable of action. Tell me what you think it is possible to do, under these disastrous circumstances, for there is nothing which I will not dare attempt.’

  ‘Why, my dear Johanna, you must perceive that all the evidence you have regarding this Thornhill follows him up to that barber’s shop in Fleet Street, and no farther.’

  ‘It does, indeed.’

  ‘Can you not imagine, then, that there lies the mystery of his fate, and, from what you have yourself seen of that man, Todd, do you think he is one who would hesitate even at a murder?’

  ‘Oh, horror! my own thoughts have taken that dreadful turn, but I dreaded to pronounce the word which would embody them. If, indeed, that fearful-looking man fancied that by any deed of blood he could become possessed of such a treasure as that which belonged to Mark Ingestrie, unchristian and illiberal as it may sound, the belief clings to me, that he would not hesitate to do it.’

  ‘Do not, however, conclude, Johanna, that such is the case. It would appear, from all you have heard and seen of these circumstances, that there is some fearful mystery; but do not, Johanna, conclude hastily, that that mystery is one of death.’

  ‘Be it so or not,’ said Johanna, ‘I must solve it, or go distracted. Heaven have mercy upon me; for even now I feel a fever in my brain, that precludes almost the possibility of rational thought.’

  ‘Be calm, be calm, we will think the matter over, calmly and seriously; and who knows but that, mere girls as we are, we may think of some adventitious mode of arriving at a knowledge of the truth; and now I am going to tell you something, which your narrative has recalled to my mind.’