The String of Pearls (1850), p. 400

"Really, Mr. Oakley, a visit from you is such a rarity that we ought not to know how to make enough of you when you do come. Why, it must have been Christmas twelvemonths since you were last beneath this roof! Don't you remember when your dear, good, pretty Johanna won all hearts?"
"Yes! yes," said Oakley, glancing triumphantly at Lupin. "My dear child, whom all the world loves— God bless her! She is pure, and good, and faultless as an angel."
"That, Mr Oakley," said the lady, "I believe she is. We are as fond of her here, and always as glad to see her, as though she belonged to us. Indeed, we quite envy you such a treasure as she is."
Tears gushed into the grateful father's eyes, as he heard his child— his own Johanna— she who reigned all alone in his heart, and yet filled it so completely—so spoken of. How glad he was that there was some one besides himself present to hear all that, although that one was an enemy! With what a triumphant glance he looked around him.
"Humph!" said Lupin.
That humph recalled Oakley to the business of his visit, and yet how hot and parched his lips got, when he would have framed the all-important question, "Is my child here?"— and how he shook, and gasped for breath a moment before he could speak.
At length, he found courage—notto ask if Johanna was there,&#8212. No— no. He felt that he dared not doubt that. It would have been madness to doubt it, sheer insanity. So he put the question indirectly, and he contrived to say—
"I hope the two girls are quite well, quite— quite— well."
"Two girls!" said the aunt. " Two girls!"
"Yes," gasped Oakley. " Johanna and Arabella, you know— your Arabella, and my Johanna—my child."
"You ought to know, Mr. Oakley, considering that they are at your house, you know I hope that neither of them have been at all indisposed? Surely that is not the case, and this is not your strange way of breaking it to us, Mr. Oakley?"
The bereaved father— yes, at that moment he felt that he was a bereaved father— clutched the arms of the chair upon which he sat, and his face turned of a ghastly paleness. He made an inarticulate effort to speak, but could only produce a strange gurgling noise.
"Gracious Heavens! he is ill," cried Arabellas aunt.^
"No, madam." said Lupin. "He is only convinced."
"Convinced of what?"
"Of what he himself will tell you, madam."
"Help! help!" cried Oakley. "Help! My child—my Johanna— my beautiful child. Mercy— help. Give her to my arms again. Oh, no— no— no, she could not leave me thus. It is false— it is some desperate juggle . My child—my child, come once again to these arms.—God— God help me!"
Arabella's aunt rose in the greatest alarm, and rung the bell so sharply, that it brought evervbody that was in the house to that room, and Mr. Lupin, when he saw what a congregation there was, rose up and said in a snuffling voice—
"Is there any objection to a prayer?"
"The greatest at present, sir," said Arabella's aunt. "Sir, there is a time for all things. The state of poor Mr. Oakley, now claims all our care, it you are is friend —"
At these words, Oakley appeared to shake off much of the prostrating effects of the first dreadful conviction, that what Lupin had told him was true, and he said—
"No—no, he is no friend— he is a bitter enemy. The enemy of my peace, and of my dear child. I am calmer now, and I demand— I implore, that that man be made to leave this house."