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THE STRING OF PEARLS;
Or,
The Barber of Fleet Street.
A Domestic Romance.
London:
Published by E. Lloyd, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.
MDCCCL
[Illustration: From A Rare Old Painting By Reading, In The British
Museum.]
PREFACE.
THE ROMANCE OF THE STRING OF PEARLS having excited in the Literary world
an almost unprecedented interest, it behoves the author to say a few
words to his readers upon the completion of his labours.
In answer to the many inquiries that have been, from time to time, made
regarding the fact of whether there ever was such a person as Sweeney
Todd in existence, we can unhesitatingly say, that there certainly was
such a man; and the record of his crimes is still to be found in the
chronicles of criminality of this country.
The house in Fleet Street, which was the scene of Todd's crimes, is no
more. A fire, which destroyed some half-dozen buildings on that side of
the way, involved Todd's in destruction; but the secret passage,
although, no doubt, partially blocked up with the re-building of St.
Dunstan's Church, connecting the vaults of that edifice with the cellars
of what was Todd's house in Fleet Street, still remains.
From the great patronage which this work has received from the reading
public, the author has to express his deep and earnest thanks; and he
begs to state, that if anything more than another could stimulate him to
renewed exertion to please his numerous patrons, it is their kind and
liberal appreciation of his past labours.
_London_, 1850.
The String of Pearls;
or, The Sailor's Gift.
A Romance of Peculiar Interest.
"And now, Tobias, listen to me, and treasure up every word I say." "Yes,
sir." "I'll cut your throat from ear to ear, if you repeat one word of
what passes in this shop, or dare to make any supposition, or draw any
conclusion from anything you may see, or hear, or fancy you see or
hear."
[Illustration: The Barber's lesson To His Apprentice.]
CHAPTER I.
THE STRANGE CUSTOMER AT SWEENEY TODD'S.
Before Fleet-street had reached its present importance, and when George
the Third was young, and the two figures who used to strike the chimes
at old St. Dunstan's church were in all their glory--being a great
impediment to errand-boys on their progress, and a matter of gaping
curiosity to country people--there stood close to the sacred edifice a
small barber's shop, which was kept by a man of the name of Sweeney
Todd.
How it was that he came by the name of Sweeney, as a Christian
appellation, we are at a loss to conceive, but such was his name, as
might be seen in extremely corpulent yellow letters over his shop
window, by any who chose there to look for it.
Barbers by that time in Fleet-street had not become fashionable, and no
more dreamt of calling themselves artists than of taking the tower by
storm; moreover they were not, as they are now, constantly slaughtering
fine fat bears, and yet, somehow people had hair on their heads just the
same as they have at present, without the aid of that unctuous
auxiliary. Moreover, Sweeney Todd, in common with those really primitive
sort of times, did not think it at all necessary to have any waxen
effigies of humanity in his window. There was no languishing young lady
looking over the left shoulder in order that a profusion of auburn
tresses might repose upon her lily neck, and great conquerors and great
statesmen were not then, as they are now, held up to public ridicule
with dabs of rouge upon their cheeks, a quantity of gunpowder scattered
in for beard, and some bristles sticking on end for eyebrows.
No. Sweeney Todd was a barber of the old school, and he never thought of
glorifying himself on account of any extraneous circumstance. If he had
lived in Henry the Eighth's palace, it would be all the same as Henry
the Eighth's dog-kennel, and he would scarcely have believed human
nature to be so green as to pay an extra sixpence to be shaven and shorn
in any particular locality.
A long pole painted white, with a red stripe curling spirally round it,
projected into the street from his doorway, and on one of the pains of
glass in his window, was presented the following couplet:--
"Easy shaving for a penny,
As good as you will find any."
We do not put these lines forth as a specimen of the poetry of the age;
they may have been the production of some young Templar; but if they
were a little wanting in poetic fire, that was amply made up by the
clear and precise manner in which they set forth what they intended.
The barber himself, was a long, low-jointed, ill-put-together sort of
fellow, with an immense mouth, and such huge hands and feet, that he
was, in his way, quite a natural curiosity; and, what was more
wonderful, considering his trade, there never was seen such a head of
hair as Sweeney Todd's. We know not what to compare it to; probably it
came nearest to what one might suppose to be the appearance of a
thick-set hedge, in which a quantity of small wire had got entangled. In
truth, it was a most terrific head of hair; and as Sweeney Todd kept all
his combs in it--some people said his scissors likewise--when he put his
head out of the shop-door to see what sort of weather it was, he might
have been mistaken for an Indian warrior with a very remarkable
head-dress.
He had a short disagreeable kind of unmirthful laugh, which came in at
all sorts of odd times when nobody else saw anything to laugh at at all,
and which sometimes made people start again, especially when they were
being shaved, and Sweeney Todd would stop short in that operation to
indulge in one of those cachinatory effusions. It was evident that the
remembrance of some very strange and out-of-the-way joke must
occasionally flit across him, and then he gave his hyena-like laugh, but
it was so short, so sudden, striking upon the ear for a moment, and then
gone, that people have been known to look up to the ceiling, and on the
floor, and all round them, to know from whence it had come, scarcely
supposing it possible that it proceeded from mortal lips.
Mr. Todd squinted a little, to add to his charms; and so we think that
by this time the reader may, in his mind's eye, see the individual whom
we wish to present to him. Some thought him a careless enough, harmless
fellow, with not much sense in him, and at times they almost considered
he was a little cracked; but there were others who shook their heads
when they spoke of him; and while they could say nothing to his
prejudice, except that they certainly considered he was odd, yet, when
they came to consider what a great crime and misdemeanour it really is
in this world, to be odd, we shall not be surprised at the ill-odour in
which Sweeney Todd was held.
But for all that he did a most thriving business, and considered by his
neighbours to be a very well-to-do sort of man, and decidedly, in city
phraseology, warm.
It was so handy for the young students in the Temple to pop over to
Sweeney Todd's to get their chins new rasped; so that from morning to
night he drove a good business, and was evidently a thriving man.
There was only one thing that seemed in any way to detract from the
great prudence of Sweeney Todd's character, and that was that he rented
a large house, of which he occupied nothing but the shop and parlour,
leaving the upper part entirely useless, and obstinately refusing to let
it on any terms whatever.
Such was the state of things, A.D. 1785, as regarded Sweeney Todd.
The day is drawing to a close, and a small drizzling kind of rain is
falling, so that there are not many passengers in the streets, and
Sweeney Todd is sitting in his shop looking keenly in the face of a boy,
who stands in an attitude of trembling subjection before him.
"You will remember," said Sweeney Todd, and he gave his countenance a
most horrible twist as he spoke, "you will remember Tobias Ragg, that
you are now my apprentice, that you have of me had board, washing, and
lodging, with the exception that you don't sleep here, that you take
your meals at home, and that your mother, Mrs. Ragg, does your washing,
which she may very well do, being a laundress in the Temple, and making
no end of money; as for lodging, you lodge here, you know, very
comfortably in the shop all day. Now, are you not a happy dog?"
"Yes, sir," said the boy timidly.
"You will acquire a first-rate profession, quite as good as the law,
which your mother tells me she would have put you to, only that a little
weakness of the head-piece unqualified you. And now, Tobias, listen to
me, and treasure up every word I say."
"Yes, sir."
"I'll cut your throat from ear to ear, if you repeat one word of what
passes in this shop, or dare to make any supposition, or draw any
conclusion from anything you may see, or hear, or fancy you see or hear.
Now you understand me,--I'll cut your throat from ear to ear,--do you
understand me?"
"Yes, sir, I won't say nothing. I wish, sir, as I may be made into veal
pies at Lovett's in Bell-yard if I as much as says a word."
Sweeney Todd rose from his seat; and opening his huge mouth, he looked
at the boy for a minute or two in silence, as if he fully intended
swallowing him, but had not quite made up his mind where to begin.
"Very good," at length he said, "I am satisfied, I am quite satisfied;
and mark me--the shop, and the shop only, is your place."
"Yes, sir."
"And if any customer gives you a penny, you can keep it, so that if you
get enough of them you will become a rich man; only I will take care of
them for you, and when I think you want them I will let you have them.
Run out and see what's o'clock by St Dunstan's."
There was a small crowd collected opposite the church, for the figures
were about to strike three-quarters past six; and among that crowd was
one man who gazed with as much curiosity as anybody at the exhibition.
"Now for it!" he said, "they are going to begin; well, that is
ingenious. Look at the fellow lifting up his club, and down it comes
bang upon the old bell."
The three-quarters were struck by the figures; and then the people who
had loitered to see it done, many of whom had day by day looked at the
same exhibition for years past, walked away, with the exception of the
man who seemed so deeply interested.
He remained, and crouching at his feet was a noble-looking dog, who
looked likewise up at the figures; and who, observing his master's
attention to be closely fixed upon them, endeavoured to show as great an
appearance of interest as he possibly could.
"What do you think of that, Hector?" said the man.
The dog gave a short low whine, and then his master proceeded,--
"There is a barber's shop opposite, so before I go any farther, as I
have got to see the ladies, although it's on a very melancholy errand,
for I have got to tell them that poor Mark Ingestrie is no more, and
Heaven knows what poor Johanna will say--I think I should know her by
his description of her, poor fellow! It grieves me to think how he used
to talk about her in the long night-watches, when all was still, and not
a breath of air touched a curl upon his cheek. I could almost think I
saw her sometimes, as he used to tell me of her soft beaming eyes, her
little gentle pouting lips, and the dimples that played about her mouth.
Well, well, it's of no use grieving; he is dead and gone, poor fellow,
and the salt water washes over as brave a heart as ever beat. His
sweetheart, Johanna, though, shall have the string of pearls for all
that; and if she cannot be Mark Ingestrie's wife in this world, she
shall be rich and happy, poor young thing, while she stays in it, that
is to say as happy as she can be; and she must just look forward to
meeting him aloft, where there are no squalls or tempests.--And so I'll
go and get shaved at once."
He crossed the road towards Sweeney Todd's shop, and, stepping down the
low doorway, he stood face to face with the odd-looking barber.
The dog gave a low growl and sniffed the air.
"Why Hector," said his master, "what's the matter? Down, sir, down!"
"I have a mortal fear of dogs," said Sweeney Todd. "Would you mind him,
sir, sitting outside the door and waiting for you, if it's all the same?
Only look at him, he is going to fly at me!"
"Then you are the first person he ever touched without provocation,"
said the man; "but I suppose he don't like your looks, and I must
confess I aint much surprised at that. I have seen a few rum-looking
guys in my time, but hang me if ever I saw such a figure-head as yours.
What the devil noise was that?"
"It was only me," said Sweeney Todd; "I laughed."
"Laughed! do you call that a laugh? I suppose you caught it of somebody
who died of it. If that's your way of laughing, I beg you won't do it
any more."
"Stop the dog! stop the dog! I can't have dogs running into my back
parlour."
"Here, Hector, here!" cried his master; "get out!"
Most unwillingly the dog left the shop, and crouched down close to the
outer door, which the barber took care to close, muttering something
about a draught of air coming in, and then, turning to the apprentice
boy, who was screwed up in a corner, he said,--
"Tobias, my lad, go to Leadenhall-street, and bring a small bag of the
thick biscuits from Mr. Peterson's; say they are for me. Now, sir, I
suppose you want to be shaved, and it is well you have come here, for
there aint a shaving-shop, although I say it, in the city of London that
ever thinks of polishing anybody off as I do."
"I tell you what it is, master barber: if you come that laugh again, I
will get up and go. I don't like it, and there is an end of it."
"Very good," said Sweeney Todd, as he mixed up a lather. "Who are you?
where did you come from? and where are you going?"
"That's cool, at all events. Damn it! what do you mean by putting the
brush in my mouth? Now, don't laugh; and since you are so fond of asking
questions, just answer me one."
"Oh, yes, of course: what is it, sir?"
"Do you know a Mr. Oakley, who lives somewhere in London, and is a
spectacle-maker?"
"Yes, to be sure I do--John Oakley, the spectacle-maker, in Fore-street,
and he has got a daughter named Johanna, that the young bloods call the
Flower of Fore-street."
"Ah, poor thing! do they? Now, confound you! what are you laughing at
now? What do you mean by it?"
"Didn't you say, 'Ah, poor thing?' Just turn your head a little a one
side; that will do. You have been to sea, sir?"
"Yes, I have, and have only now lately come up the river from an Indian
voyage."
"Indeed! where can my strop be? I had it this minute; I must have laid
it down somewhere. What an odd thing that I can't see it! It's very
extraordinary; what can have become of it? Oh, I recollect, I took it
into the parlour. Sit still, sir, I shall not be gone a moment; sit
still, sir, if you please. By the by, you can amuse yourself with the
_Courier_, sir, for a moment."
Sweeney Todd walked into the back parlour and closed the door.
There was a strange sound suddenly, compounded of a rushing noise and
then a heavy blow, immediately after which Sweeney Todd emerged from his
parlour, and folding his arms, he looked upon _the vacant chair_ where
his customer had been seated, but the customer was _gone_, leaving not
the slightest trace of his presence behind except his hat, and that
Sweeney Todd immediately seized and thrust into a cupboard that was at
one corner of the shop.
"What's that?" he said, "what's that? I thought I heard a noise."
"If you please, sir, I have forgot the money, and have run all the way
back from St. Paul's churchyard."
In two strides Todd reached him, and clutching him by the arm he dragged
him into the farther corner of the shop, and then he stood opposite to
him, glaring him full in the face with such a demoniac expression that
the boy was frightfully terrified.
"Speak!" cried Todd, "speak! and speak the truth, or your last hour has
come. How long were you peeping through the door before you came in?"
"Peeping, sir?"
"Yes, peeping; don't repeat my words, but answer me at once, you will
find it better for you in the end."
"I wasn't peeping, sir, at all."
Sweeney Todd drew a long breath as he then said, in a strange, shrieking
sort of manner, which he intended, no doubt, should be jocose,--
"Well, well, very well; if you did peep, what then? it's no matter; I
only wanted to know, that's all; it was quite a joke, wasn't it--quite
funny, though rather odd, eh? Why don't you laugh, you dog? Come, now,
there is no harm done. Tell me what you thought about it at once, and we
will be merry over it--very merry."
"I don't know what you mean, sir," said the boy, who was quite as much
alarmed at Mr. Todd's mirth as he was at his anger. "I don't know what
you mean, sir; I only just come back because I hadn't any money to pay
for the biscuits at Peterson's."
"I mean nothing at all," said Todd, suddenly turning upon his heel;
"what's that scratching at the door?"
Tobias opened the shop-door, and there stood the dog, who looked
wistfully round the place, and then gave a howl which seriously alarmed
the barber.
"It's the gentleman's dog, sir," said Tobias, "its the gentleman's dog,
sir, that was looking at old St. Dunstan's clock, and came in here to be
shaved. It's funny, aint it, sir, that the dog didn't go away with his
master?"
"Why don't you laugh if it's funny? Turn out the dog, Tobias; we'll have
no dogs here; I hate the sight of them; turn him out--turn him out."
"I would, sir, in a minute; but I'm afraid he wouldn't let me, somehow.
Only look, sir--look; see what he is at now! did you ever see such a
violent fellow, sir? why he will have down the cupboard door."
"Stop him--stop him! the devil is in the animal! stop him I say!"
The dog was certainly getting the door open, when Sweeney Todd rushed
forward to stop him! but that he was soon admonished of the danger of
doing, for the dog gave him a grip of the leg, which made him give such
a howl, that he precipitately retreated, and left the animal to do its
pleasure. This consisted in forcing open the cupboard door, and seizing
upon the hat which Sweeney Todd had thrust therein, and dashing out of
the shop with it in triumph.
"The devil's in the beast," muttered Todd, "he's off! Tobias, you said
you saw the man who owned that fiend of a cur looking at St. Dunstan's
church."
"Yes, sir, I did see him there. If you recollect, you sent me to see the
time, and the figures were just going to strike three quarters past six;
and before I came away, I heard him say that Mark Ingestrie was dead,
and Johanna should have the string of pearls. Then I came in, and then,
if you recollect, sir, he came in, and the odd thing, you know, to me,
sir, is that he didn't take his dog with him, because you know, sir--"
"Because what?" shouted Todd.
"Because people generally do take their dogs with them, you know, sir;
and may I be made into one of Lovett's pies, if I don't--"
"Hush, some one comes; it's old Mr. Grant, from the Temple. How do you
do, Mr. Grant? glad to see you looking so well, sir. It does one's heart
good to see a gentlemen of your years looking so fresh and hearty. Sit
down, sir; a little this way, if you please. Shaved, I suppose?"
"Yes, Todd, yes. Any news?"
"No, sir, nothing stirring. Everything very quiet, sir, except the high
wind. They say it blew the king's hat off yesterday, sir, and he
borrowed Lord North's. Trade is dull too, sir. I suppose people won't
come out to be cleaned and dressed in a mizling rain. We haven't had
anybody in the shop for an hour and a half."
"Lor' sir," said Tobias, "you forget the sea-faring gentleman with the
dog, you know, sir."
"Ah! so I do," said Todd. "He went away, and I saw him get into some
disturbance, I think, just at the corner of the market."
"I wonder I didn't meet him, sir," said Tobias, "for I came that way;
and then it's so very odd leaving his dog behind him."
"Yes, very," said Todd. "Will you excuse me a moment, Mr. Grant? Tobias,
my lad, I just want you to lend me a hand in the parlour."
Tobias followed Todd very unsuspectingly into the parlour; but when they
got there and the door was closed, the barber sprang upon him like an
enraged tiger, and, grappling him by the throat, he gave his head such a
succession of knocks against the wainscot, that Mr. Grant must have
thought that some carpenter was at work. Then he tore a handful of his
hair out, after which he twisted him round, and dealt him such a kick,
that he was flung sprawling into a corner of the room, and then, without
a word, the barber walked out again to his customer, and bolted his
parlour door on the outside, leaving Tobias to digest the usage he had
received at his leisure, and in the best way he could.
When he came back to Mr. Grant, he apologised for keeping him waiting,
by saying,--
"It became necessary, sir, to teach my new apprentice a little bit of
his business. I have left him studying it now. There is nothing like
teaching young folks at once."
"Ah!" said Mr. Grant, with a sigh, "I know what it is to let young folks
grow wild; for although I have neither chick nor child of my own, I had
a sister's son to look to--a handsome, wild, harum-scarum sort of
fellow, as like me as one pea is like another. I tried to make a lawyer
of him, but it wouldn't do, and it's now more than two years ago he left
me altogether; and yet there were some good traits about Mark."
"Mark, sir! Did you say Mark?"
"Yes, that was his name, Mark Ingestrie. God knows what's become of
him."
"Oh!" said Sweeney Todd; he went on lathering the chin of Mr. Grant.
CHAPTER II
THE SPECTACLE-MAKER'S DAUGHTER.
"Johanna, Johanna, my dear, do you know what time it is? Johanna, I say,
my dear, are you going to get up? Here's your mother has trotted out to
Parson Lupin's, and you know I have got to go to Alderman Judd's house,
in Cripplegate, the first thing, and I haven't had a morsel of breakfast
yet. Johanna, my dear, do you hear me?"
These observations were made by Mr. Oakley, the spectacle-maker, at the
door of his daughter Johanna's chamber, on the morning after the events
we have just recorded at Sweeney Todd's; and presently, a soft sweet
voice answered him, saying,--
"I am coming, father, I am coming: in a moment, father, I shall be
down."
"Don't hurry yourself, my darling, I can wait."
The little old spectacle-maker descended the staircase again, and sat
down in the parlour at the back of the shop, where, in a few moments, he
was joined by Johanna, his only and his much-loved child.
She was indeed a creature of the rarest grace and beauty. Her age was
eighteen, but she looked rather younger, and upon her face she had that
sweetness and intelligence of expression which almost bids defiance to
the march of time. Her hair was of a glossy blackness, and what was rare
in conjunction with such a feature, her eyes were of a deep and heavenly
blue. There was nothing of the commanding or of the severe style of
beauty about her, but the expression of her face was all grace and
sweetness. It was one of those countenances which one could look at for
a long summer's day, as upon the pages of some deeply interesting
volume, which furnished the most abundant food for pleasant and
delightful reflection.
There was a touch of sadness about her voice, which, perhaps, only
tended to make it the more musical, although mournfully so, and which
seemed to indicate that at the bottom of her heart there lay some grief
which had not yet been spoken--some cherished aspiration of her pure
soul, which looked hopeless as regards completion--some remembrance of a
former joy, which had been turned to bitterness and grief; it was the
cloud in the sunny sky--the shadow through which there still gleamed
bright and beautiful sunshine, but which still proclaimed its presence.
"I have kept you waiting, father," she said, as she flung her arms about
the old man's neck, "I have kept you waiting."
"Never mind, my dear, never mind. Your mother is so taken up with Mr.
Lupin, that you know, this being Wednesday morning, she is off to his
prayer meeting, and so I have had no breakfast; and really I think I
must discharge Sam."
"Indeed, father! what has he done?"
"Nothing at all, and that's the very reason. I had to take down the
shutters myself this morning, and what do you think for? He had the
coolness to tell me he couldn't take down the shutters this morning, or
sweep out the shop, because his aunt had the toothache."
"A poor excuse, father," said Johanna, as she bustled about and got the
breakfast ready; "a very poor excuse."
"Poor indeed! but his month is up to-day, and I must get rid of him. But
I suppose I shall have no end of bother with your mother, because his
aunt belongs to Mr. Lupin's congregation; but as sure as this is the
20th day of August--"
"It is the 20th day of August," said Johanna, as she sunk into a chair
and burst into tears. "It is, it is! I thought I could have controlled
this, but I cannot, father, I cannot. It was that which made me late. I
knew mother was out; I knew that I ought to be down attending upon you,
and I was praying to Heaven for strength to do so because this was the
20th of August."
Johanna spoke these words incoherently, and amidst sobs, and when she
had finished them, she leant her sweet face upon her small hands, and
wept like a child.
The astonishment, not unmingled with positive dismay, of the old
spectacle-maker, was vividly depicted on his countenance, and for some
minutes he sat perfectly aghast, with his hands resting on his knees,
and looking in the face of his beautiful child--that is to say, as much
as he could see of it between those little taper fingers that were
spread upon it--as if he were newly awakened from some dream.
"Good God, Johanna!" he said at length, "what is this? My dear child,
what has happened? Tell me, my dear, unless you wish to kill me with
grief."
"You shall know, father," she said. "I did not think to say a word about
it, but considered I had strength enough of mind to keep my sorrows in
my own breast, but the effort has been too much for me, and I have been
compelled to yield. If you had not looked so kindly on me--if I did not
know that you loved me as you do, I should easily have kept my secret,
but, knowing that much, I cannot."
"My darling," said the old man, "you are right, there; I do love you.
What would the world be to me without you? There was a time, twenty
years ago, when your mother made up much of my happiness, but of late,
what with Mr. Lupin, and psalm-singing, and tea-drinking, I see very
little of her, and what little I do see is not very satisfactory. Tell
me, my darling, what it is that vexes you, and I'll soon put it to
rights. I don't belong to the city trainbands for nothing."
"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! all
was lost! all was despair! I tried to scream--I tried to cry aloud to
Heaven to have mercy upon those brave and gallant souls who had trusted
their dearest possession--life itself--to the mercy of the deep; and
while I so tried to render so inefficient succour, I saw a small speck
in the sea, and my straining eyes perceived that it was a man floating
and clinging to a piece of the wreck, and I knew it was Mark Ingestrie."
"But, my dear, surely you are not annoyed at a dream?"
"It saddened me. I stretched out my arms to save him--I heard him
pronounce my name, and call upon me for help. 'Twas all in vain; he
battled with the waves as long as human nature could battle with them.
He could do no more, and I saw him disappear before my anxious eyes."
"Don't say you saw him, my dear, say you fancy you saw him."
"It was such a fancy as I shall not lose the remembrance of for many a
day."
"Well, well, after all, my dear, it's only a dream; and it seems to me,
without at all adverting to anything that should give you pain as
regards Mark Ingestrie, that you made a very foolish bargain; for only
consider how many difficulties might arise in the way of his keeping
faith with you. You know I have your happiness so much at heart that, if
Mark had been a worthy man and an industrious one, I should not have
opposed myself to your union; but, believe me, my dear Johanna, that a
young man with great facilities for spending money, and none whatever
for earning any, is just about the worst husband you could choose, and
such a man was Mark Ingestrie. But come, we will say nothing of this to
your mother; let the secret, if we may call it such, rest with me; and
if you can inform me in what capacity and in what vessel he left
England, I will not carry my prejudice so far against him as to hesitate
about making what inquiry I can concerning his fate."
"I know nothing more, father; we parted, and never met again."
"Well, well! dry your eyes, Johanna, and, as I go to Alderman Judd's,
I'll think over the matter, which, after all, may not be so bad as you
think. The lad is a good-enough looking lad, and has, I believe, a good
ability, if he would put it to some useful purpose; but if he goes
scampering about the world in an unsettled manner, you are well rid of
him, and as for his being dead, you must not conclude that by any means
for somehow or another, like a bad penny, these fellows always come
back."
There was more consolation in the kindly tone of the spectacle-maker
than in the words he used; but, upon the whole, Johanna was well enough
pleased that she had communicated the secret to her father, for now, at
all events, she had some one to whom she could mention the name of Mark
Ingestrie, without the necessity of concealing the sentiment with which
she did so; and when her father had gone, she felt that, by the mere
relation of it to him, some of the terrors of her dream had vanished.
She sat for some time in a pleasing reverie, till she was interrupted by
Sam, the shop-boy, who came into the parlour and said,--
"Please, Miss Johanna, suppose I was to go down to the docks and try and
find out for you Mr. Mark Ingestrie. I say, suppose I was to do that. I
heard it all, and if I do find him I'll soon settle him."
"What do you mean?"
"I means that I won't stand it; didn't I tell you, more than three weeks
ago, as you was the object of my infections? Didn't I tell you that when
aunt died, I should come in for the soap and candle business, and make
you my missus?"
The only reply which Johanna gave to this was to rise and leave the
room, for her heart was too full of grief and sad speculation to enable
her to do now as she had often been in the habit of doing--viz., laugh
at Sam's protestations of affection, so he was left to chew the cud of
sweet and bitter fancy by himself.
"A thousand d----s!" said he, when he entered the shop: "I always
suspected there was some other fellow, and now I know it I am ready to
gnaw my head off that ever I consented to come here. Confound him! I
hope he is at the bottom of the sea, and eat up by this time. Oh! I
should like to smash everybody. If I had my way now I'd just walk into
society at large, as they calls it, and let it know what one, two,
three, slap in the eye, is--and down it would go."
Mr. Sam, in his rage, did upset a case of spectacles, which went down
with a tremendous crash, and which, however good imitation of the manner
in which society at large was to be knocked down, was not likely to be
at all pleasing to Mr. Oakley.
"I have done it now," he said; "but never mind; I'll try the old dodge
whenever I break anything; that is, I'll place it in old Oakley's way,
and swear he did it. I never knew such an old goose; you may persuade
him into anything; the idea, now, of his pulling down all the shutters
this morning because I told him my aunt had the tooth-ache; that was a
go, to be sure. But I'll be revenged of that fellow who has took away, I
consider, Johanna from me; I'll let him know what a blighted heart is
capable of. He won't live long enough to want a pair spectacles, I'll be
bound, or else my name ain't Sam Bolt."
CHAPTER III.
A MAN IS LOST.
The earliest dawn of morning was glistening upon the masts, the cordage,
and the sails of a fleet of vessels lying below Sheerness.
The crews were rousing themselves from their night's repose, and to make
their appearance on the decks of the vessels, from which the night-watch
had just been relieved.
A man-of-war, which had been the convoy of the fleet of merchantmen
through the channel, fired a gun as the first glimpse of the morning sun
fell upon her tapering masts. Then from a battery in the neighbourhood
came another booming report, and that was answered by another farther
off, and then another, until the whole chain of batteries that girded
the coast, for it was a time of war, had proclaimed the dawn of another
day.
The effect was very fine, in the stillness of the early morn, of this
succession of reports; and as they died away in the distance like mimic
thunder, some order was given on board the man-of-war, and, in a moment,
the masts and cordage seemed perfectly alive with human beings clinging
to them in various directions. Then, as if by magic, or as if the ship
had been a living thing itself, and had possessed wings, which at the
mere instigation of a wish, could be spread far and wide, there
fluttered out such sheets of canvas as was wonderful to see; and, as
they caught the morning light, and the ship moved from the slight breeze
that sprang up from the shore, she looked, indeed, as if she
"Walked the waters like a thing of life".
The various crews of the merchantmen stood upon the decks of their
respective vessels, gazing after the ship-of-war, as she proceeded upon
another mission similar to the one she had just performed in protecting
the commerce of the country.
As she passed one vessel, which had been, in point of fact, actually
rescued from the enemy, the crew, who had been saved from a foreign
prison, cheered lustily.
There wanted but such an impulse as this, and then every merchant-vessel
that the man-of-war passed took up the gladsome shout, and the crew of
the huge vessel were not slow in their answer, for three deafening
cheers--such as had frequently struck terror into the hearts of
England's enemies--awakened many an echo from the shore.
It was a proud and a delightful sight--such a sight as none but an
Englishman can thoroughly enjoy--to see that vessel so proudly stemming
the waste of waters. We say none but an Englishman can enjoy it, because
no other nation has ever attempted to achieve a great maritime existence
without being most signally defeated, and leaving us still, as we shall
ever be, masters of the seas.
These proceedings were amply sufficient to arouse the crews of all the
vessels, and over the taffrail of one in particular, a large-sized
merchantman, which had been trading in the Indian seas, two men were
leaning. One of them was the captain of the vessel, and the other a
passenger, who intended leaving that morning. They were engaged in
earnest conversation, and the captain, as he shaded his eyes with his
hand, and looked along the surface of the river, said, in reply to some
observation from his companion,--
"I'll order my boat the moment Lieutenant Thornhill comes on board; I
call him Lieutenant, although I have no right to do so, because he has
held that rank in the king's service, but when quite a young man was
cashiered for fighting a duel with his superior officer."
"The service has lost a good officer," said the other.
"It has, indeed, a braver man never stepped, nor a better officer; but
you see they have certain rules in the service, and everything is
sacrificed to maintain them. I can't think what keeps him; he went last
night and said he would pull up to the Temple stairs, because he wanted
to call upon somebody by the water-side, and after that he was going to
the city to transact some business of his own, and that would have
brought him nearer here, you see; and there are plenty of things coming
down the river."
"He's coming," cried the other; "don't be impatient; you will see him in
a few minutes."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because I see his dog--there, don't you see, swimming in the water, and
coming towards the ship."
"I cannot imagine--I can see the dog, certainly; but I can't see
Thornhill, nor is there any boat at hand. I know not what to make of it.
Do you know my mind misgives me that something has happened amiss? The
dog seem exhausted. Lend a hand there to Mr. Thornhill's dog, some of
you. Why, it's a hat he has in his mouth."
The dog made towards the vessel; but without the assistance of the
seamen--with the whole of whom he was an immense favourite--he certainly
could not have boarded the vessel; and when he reached the deck, he sank
down upon it in a state of complete exhaustion, with the hat still in
his grasp.
As the animal lay, panting, upon the deck, the sailors looked at each
other in amazement, and there was but one opinion among them all now,
and that was that something very serious had unquestionably happened to
Mr. Thornhill.
"I dread," said the captain, "an explanation of this occurrence. What on
earth can it mean? That's Thornhill's hat, and here is Hector. Give the
dog some meat and drink directly--he seems thoroughly exhausted."
The dog ate sparingly of some food that was put before him; and then,
seizing the hat again in his mouth, he stood by the side of the ship and
howled piteously; then he put down the hat for a moment, and, walking up
to the captain, he pulled him by the skirt of the coat.
"You understand him," said the captain to the passenger; "something has
happened to Thornhill, I'll be bound; and you see the object of the dog
is to get me to follow him to see what it's about."
"Think you so? It is a warning, if it be such at all, that I should not
be inclined to neglect; and if you will follow the dog, I will accompany
you; there may be more in it than we think of, and we ought not to allow
Mr. Thornhill to be in want of any assistance that we can render him,
when we consider what great assistance he has been to us. Look how
anxious the poor beast is."
The captain ordered a boat to be launched at once, and manned by four
stout rowers. He then sprang into it, followed by the passenger, who was
a Colonel Jeffery, of the Indian army, and the dog immediately followed
them, testifying by his manner great pleasure at the expedition they
were undertaking, and carrying the hat with him, which he evidently
showed an immense disinclination to part with.
The captain had ordered the boat to proceed up the river towards the
Temple stairs, where Hector's master had expressed his intention of
proceeding, and, when the faithful animal saw the direction in which
they were going, he lay down in the bottom of the boat perfectly
satisfied, and gave himself up to that repose, of which he was evidently
so much in need.
It cannot be said that Colonel Jeffery suspected that anything of a very
serious nature had happened; indeed, their principal anticipation, when
they came to talk it over, consisted in the probability that Thornhill
had, with an impetuosity of character they knew very well he possessed,
interfered to redress what he considered some street grievance, and had
got himself into the custody of the civil power in consequence.
"Of course," said the captain, "Master Hector would view that as a very
serious affair, and finding himself denied access to his master, you see
he has come off to us, which was certainly the most prudent thing he
could do, and I should not be at all surprised if he takes us to the
door of some watch-house, where we shall find our friend snug enough."
The tide was running up; and that Thornhill had not saved the turn of
it, by dropping down earlier to the vessel, was one of the things that
surprised the captain. However, they got up quickly, and as at that hour
there was not much on the river to impede their progress, and as at that
time the Thames was not a thoroughfare for little stinking steam-boats,
they soon reached the ancient Temple stairs.
The dog, who had until then seemed to be asleep, suddenly sprung up, and
seizing the hat again in his mouth, rushed again on shore, and was
closely followed by the captain and colonel.
He led them through the temple with great rapidity, pursuing with
admirable tact the precise path that his master had taken towards the
entrance to the Temple, in Fleet-street, opposite Chancery-lane. Darting
across the road then, he stopped with a low growl at the shop of Sweeney
Todd--a proceeding which very much surprised those who followed him, and
caused them to pause to hold a consultation ere they proceeded further.
While this was proceeding, Todd suddenly opened the door, and aimed a
blow at the dog with an iron bar, but the latter dexterously avoided it,
and, but that the door was suddenly closed again, he would have made
Sweeney Todd regret such an interference.
"We must inquire into this," said the captain; "there seems to be mutual
ill-will between that man and the dog."
They both tried to enter the barber's shop, but it was fast on the
inside; and, after repeated knockings, Todd called from within,
saying,--
"I won't open the door while that dog is there. He is mad, or has a
spite against me--I don't know nor care which--it's a fact, that's all I
am aware of."
"I will undertake," said the captain, "that the dog shall do you no
harm; but open the door, for in we must come, and will."
"I will take your promise," said Sweeney Todd; "but mind you keep it, or
I shall protect myself, and take the creature's life; so if you value
it, you had better hold it fast."
The captain pacified Hector as well as he could, and likewise tied one
end of a silk handkerchief round his neck, and held the other firmly in
his grasp, after which Todd, who seemed to have some means from within
of seeing what was going on, opened the door, and admitted his visitors.
"Well, gentlemen, shaved, or cut, or dressed, I am at your service;
which shall I begin with?"
[Illustration: The captain, the colonel, and Sweeney.]
The dog never took his eyes off Todd, but kept up a low growl from the
first moment of his entrance.
"It's rather a remarkable circumstance," said the captain, "but this is
a very sagacious dog, you see, and he belongs to a friend of ours, who
has most unaccountably disappeared."
"Has he really?" said Todd. "Tobias! Tobias!"
"Yes, sir."
"Run to Mr. Phillips's, in Cateaton-street, and get me six-pennyworth of
figs, and don't say that I don't give you the money this time when you
go a message. I think I did before, but you swallowed it; and when you
come back, just please to remember the insight into business I gave you
yesterday."
"Yes," said the boy, with a shudder, for he had a great horror of
Sweeney Todd, as well he might, after the severe discipline he had
received at his hands, and away he went.
"Well, gentlemen," said Todd, "what is it you require of me?"
"We want to know if any one having the appearance of an officer in the
navy came to your house?"
"Yes--a rather good-looking man, weather-beaten, with a bright blue eye,
and rather fair hair."
"Yes, yes! the same."
"Oh! to be sure, he came here, and I shaved him and polished him off."
"What do you mean by polishing him off?"
"Brushing him up a bit, and making him tidy; he said he had got
somewhere to go in the city, and asked me the address of a Mr. Oakley, a
spectacle-maker. I gave it him, and then he went away; but as I was
standing at my door about five minutes afterwards, it seemed to me, as
well as I could see the distance, that he got into some row near the
market."
"Did this dog come with him?"
"A dog came with him, but whether it was that dog or not I don't know."
"And that's all you know of him?"
"You never spoke a truer word in your life," said Sweeney Todd, as he
diligently stropped a razor upon his great horny hand.
This seemed something like a complete fix; and the captain looked at
Colonel Jeffery, and the colonel at the captain, for some moments, in
complete silence. At length the latter said,--
"It's a very extraordinary thing that the dog should come here if he
missed his master somewhere else. I never heard of such a thing."
"Nor I either," said Ford. "It is extraordinary; so extraordinary that
if I had not seen it, I would not have believed. I dare say you will
find him in the next watch-house."
The dog had watched the countenance of all parties during this brief
dialogue, and twice or thrice he had interrupted it by a strange howling
cry.
"I'll tell you what it is," said the barber; "if that beast stays here,
I'll be the death of him. I hate dogs--detest them; and I tell you, as I
told you before, if you value him at all, keep him away from me."
"You say you directed the person you describe to us where to find a
spectacle maker named Oakley. We happen to know that he was going in
search of such a person, and as he had property of value about him, we
will go there and ascertain if he reached his destination."
"It is in Fore-street--a little shop with two windows; you cannot miss
it."
The dog when he saw they were about to leave, grew furious; and it was
with the greatest difficulty they succeeded, by main force, in getting
him out of the shop, and dragging him some short distance with them, but
then he contrived to get free of the handkerchief that held him, and
darting back, he sat down at Sweeney Todd's door, howling most
piteously.
They had no resource but to leave him, intending fully to call as they
came back from Mr. Oakley's; and, as they looked behind them, they saw
that Hector was collecting a crowd round the barber's door, and it was a
singular thing to see a number of persons surrounding the dog, while he
to all appearance, appeared to be making efforts to explain something to
the assemblage. They walked on until they reached the spectacle-maker's,
there they paused; for they all of a sudden recollected that the mission
that Mr. Thornhill had to execute there was of a very delicate nature,
and one by no means to be lightly executed, or even so much as
mentioned, probably, in the hearing of Mr. Oakley himself.
"We must not be so hasty," said the colonel.
"But what am I to do? I sail to-night; at least I have to go round to
Liverpool with my vessel."
"Do not then call at Mr. Oakley's at all at present; but leave me to
ascertain the fact quietly and secretly."
"My anxiety for Thornhill will scarcely permit me to do so; but I
suppose I must, and if you write me a letter to the Royal Oak Hotel, at
Liverpool, it will be sure to reach me, that is to say, unless you find
Mr. Thornhill himself, in which case I need not by any means give you so
much trouble."
"You may depend upon me. My friendship for Mr. Thornhill, and gratitude,
as you know, for the great service he has rendered to us all, will
induce me to do my utmost to discover him; and, but that I know he set
his heart upon performing the message he had to deliver accurately and
well, I should recommend that we at once go into this house of Mr.
Oakley's, only that the fear of compromising the young lady--who is in
the case, and who will have quite enough to bear, poor thing, of her own
grief--restrains me."
After some more conversation of a similar nature, they decided that this
should be the plan adopted. They made an unavailing call at the
watch-house of the district, being informed there that no such person,
nor any one answering the description of Mr. Thornhill had been engaged
in any disturbance, or apprehended by any of the constables; and this
only involved the thing in greater mystery than ever, so they went back
to try and recover the dog, but that was a matter easier to be desired
and determined upon than executed, for threats and persuasions were
alike ineffectual.
Hector would not stir an inch from the barber's door. There he sat with
the hat by his side, a most melancholy and strange-looking spectacle,
and a most efficient guard was he for that hat, and it was evident, that
while he chose to exhibit the formidable row of teeth he did
occasionally, when anybody showed a disposition to touch it, it would
remain sacred. Some people, too, had thrown a few copper coins into the
hat, so that Hector, if his mind had been that way inclined, was making
a very good thing of it; but who shall describe the anger of Sweeney
Todd, when he found that he was so likely to be so beleaguered?
He doubted, if, upon the arrival of the first customer to his shop, the
dog might dart in and take him by storm; but that apprehension went off
at last, when a young gallant came from the Temple to have his hair
dressed, and the dog allowed him to pass in and out unmolested, without
making any attempt to follow him. This was something, at all events; but
whether or not it insured Sweeney Todd's personal safety, when he
himself should come out, was quite another matter.
It was an experiment, however, which he must try. It was quite out of
the question that he should remain a prisoner much longer in his own
place, so, after a time, he thought he might try the experiment, and
that it would be best done when there were plenty of people there,
because if the dog assaulted him, he would have an excuse for any amount
of violence he might think proper to use upon the occasion.
It took some time, however, to screw his courage to the sticking-place;
but at length, muttering deep curses between his clenched teeth, he made
his way to the door, and carried in his hand a long knife, which he
thought a more efficient weapon against the dog's teeth than the iron
bludgeon he had formerly used.
"I hope he will attack me," said Todd, to himself as he thought; but
Tobias, who had come back from the place where they sold the preserved
figs, heard him, and after devoutly in his own mind wishing that the dog
would actually devour Sweeney, said aloud--
"Oh dear, sir; you don't wish that, I'm sure!"
"Who told you what I wished, or what I did not? Remember, Tobias, and
keep your own counsel, or it will be the worse for you, and your mother
too--remember that."
The boy shrunk back. How had Sweeney Todd terrified the boy about his
mother! He must have done so, or Tobias would never have shrunk as he
did.
Then that rascally barber, who we begin to suspect of more crimes than
fall ordinarily to the share of man, went cautiously out of his shop
door: we cannot pretend to account for why it was so, but, as faithful
recorders of facts, we have to state that Hector did not fly at him, but
with a melancholy and subdued expression of countenance he looked up in
the face of Sweeney Todd; then he whined piteously, as if he would have
said, "Give me my master, and I will forgive you all that you have done;
give me back my beloved master, and you shall see that I am neither
revengeful nor ferocious."
This kind of expression was as legibly written in the poor creature's
countenance as if he had actually been endowed with speech, and uttered
the words themselves.
This was what Sweeney Todd certainly did not expect, and, to tell the
truth, it staggered and astonished him a little. He would have been glad
of an excuse to commit some act of violence, but he had now none, and as
he looked in the faces of the people who were around, he felt quite
convinced that it would not be the most prudent thing in the world to
interfere with the dog in any way that savoured of violence.
"Where's the dog's master?" said one.
"Ah, where indeed?" said Todd; "I should not wonder if he had come to
some foul end!"
"But I say, old soap-suds," cried a boy; "the dog says you did it."
There was a general laugh, but the barber was by no means disconcerted,
and he shortly replied.
"Does he? he is wrong then."
Sweeney Todd had no desire to enter into anything like a controversy
with the people, so he turned again and entered his own shop, in a
distant corner of which he sat down, and folding his great gaunt-looking
arms over his chest, he gave himself up to thought, and if we may judge
from the expression of his countenance, those thoughts were of a
pleasant anticipatory character, for now and then he gave such a grim
sort of smile as might well have sat upon the features of some ogre.
And now we will turn to another scene, of a widely different character.
CHAPTER IV.
THE PIE-SHOP, BELL-YARD.
Hark! twelve o'clock at mid-day is cheerily proclaimed by St. Dunstan's
church, and scarcely have the sounds done echoing throughout the
neighbourhood, and scarce has the clock of Lincoln's-inn done chiming in
with its announcement of the same hour, when Bell-yard, Temple-bar,
becomes a scene of commotion.
What a scampering of feet is there, what a laughing and talking, what a
jostling to be first; and what an immense number of manoeuvres are
resorted to by some of the throng to distance others!
And mostly from Lincoln's-inn do these persons, young and old, but most
certainly a majority of the former, come bustling and striving, although
from the neighbouring legal establishments likewise there came not a
few; the Temple contributes its numbers, and from the more distant
Gray's-inn there came a goodly lot.
Now Bell-yard is almost choked up, and a stranger would wonder what
could be the matter, and most probably stand in some doorway until the
commotion was over.
Is it a fire? is it a fight? or anything else sufficiently alarming and
extraordinary to excite the junior members of the legal profession to
such a species of madness? No, it is none of these, nor is there a fat
cause to be run for, which, in the hands of some clever practitioner,
might become quite a vested interest. No, the enjoyment is purely one of
a physical character, and all the pacing and racing--all this turmoil
and trouble--all this pushing, jostling, laughing, and shouting, is to
see who will get first to Lovett's pie-shop.
Yes, on the left-hand side of Bell-yard, going down from Carey-street,
was at the time we write of, one of the most celebrated shops for the
sale of veal and pork pies that ever London produced. High and low, rich
and poor, resorted to it; its fame had spread far and wide; it was
because the first batch of these pies came up at twelve o'clock that
there was such a rush of the legal profession to obtain them.
Their fame had spread even to great distances, and many persons carried
them to the suburbs of the city as quite a treat to friends and
relations there residing. And well did they deserve their reputation,
those delicious pies! there was about them a flavour never surpassed,
and rarely equalled; the paste was of the most delicate construction,
and impregnated with the aroma of a delicious gravy that defies
description. Then the small portions of meat which they contained were
so tender, and the fat and the lean so artistically mixed up, that to
eat one of Lovett's pies was such a provocative to eat another, that
many persons who came to lunch stayed to dine, wasting more than an
hour, perhaps, of precious time, and endangering--who knows to the
contrary?--the success of some law-suit thereby.
The counter in Lovett's shop was in the shape of a horseshoe, and it was
the custom of the young bloods from the Temple and Lincoln's-inn to set
in a row upon its edge while they partook of the delicious pies, and
chatted gaily about one concern and another.
Many an appointment for the evening was made at Lovett's pie shop, and
many a piece of gossiping scandal was there first circulated. The din of
tongues was prodigious. The ringing laugh of the boy who looked upon the
quarter of an hour he spent at Lovett's as the brightest of the whole
twenty-four, mingled gaily with the more boisterous mirth of his
seniors; and, oh! with what rapidity the pies disappeared.
They were brought up on large trays, each of which contained about a
hundred, and from these trays they were so speedily transferred to the
mouths of Mrs. Lovett's customers that it looked quite like a work of
magic.
And now we have let out some portion of the secret. There was a Mistress
Lovett; but possibly our reader guessed as much, for what but a female
hand, and that female buxom, young, and good-looking, could have
ventured upon the production of those pies. Yes, Mrs. Lovett was all
that; and every enamoured young scion of the law, as he devoured his
pie, pleased himself with the idea that the charming Mrs. Lovett had
made that pie especially for him, and that fate or predestination had
placed it in his hands.
And it was astonishing to see with what impartiality and with what tact
the fair pastry-cook bestowed her smiles upon her admirers, so that none
could say he was neglected, while it was extremely difficult for any one
to say he was preferred.
This was pleasant, but at the same time it was provoking to all except
Mrs. Lovett, in whose favour it got up a kind of excitement that paid
extraordinarily well, because some of the young fellows thought, that he
who consumed the most pies, would be in the most likely way to receive
the greatest number of smiles from the lady.
Acting upon this supposition, some of her more enthusiastic admirers
went on consuming the pies until they were almost ready to burst. But
there were others, again, of a more philosophic turn of mind, who went
for the pies only, and did not care one jot for Mrs. Lovett.
These declared that her smile was cold and uncomfortable--that it was
upon her lips, but had no place in her heart--that it was the set smile
of a ballet-dancer, which is about one of the most unmirthful things in
existence.
Then there were some who went even beyond this, and, while they admitted
the excellence of the pies, and went every day to partake of them, swore
that Mrs. Lovett had quite a sinister aspect, and that they could see
what a merely superficial affair her blandishments were, and that there
was
"A lurking devil in her eye,"
that, if once roused, would be capable of achieving some serious things,
and might not be so easily quelled again.
By five minutes past twelve Mrs. Lovett's counter was full, and the
savoury steam of the hot pies went out in fragrant clouds into
Bell-yard, being sniffed up by many a poor wretch passing by who lacked
the means of making one in the throng that were devouring the dainty
morsels within.
"Why, Tobias Ragg," said a young man, with his mouth full of pie, "where
have you been since you left Mr. Snow's in Paper-buildings? I have not
seen you for some days."
"No," said Tobias, "I have gone into another line; instead of being a
lawyer, and helping to shave the clients, I am going to shave the
lawyers now. A twopenny pork, if you please, Mrs. Lovett. Ah! who would
be an emperor, if he couldn't get pies like these?--eh, Master Clift?"
"Well, they are good; of course we know that, Tobias; but do you mean to
say you are going to be a barber?"
"Yes, I am with Sweeney Todd, the barber of Fleet-street, close to St.
Dunstan's."
"The deuce you are! well, I am going to a party to-night, and I'll drop
in and get dressed and shaved, and patronise your master."
Tobias put his mouth close to the ear of the young lawyer, and in a
fearful sort of whisper said the one word--"Don't."
"Don't! what for?"
Tobias made no answer; and, throwing down his twopence, scampered out of
the shop as fast as he could. He had only sent a message by Sweeney Todd
in the neighbourhood; but, as he heard the clock strike twelve, and two
penny pieces were lying at the bottom of his pocket, it was not in human
nature to resist running into Lovett's and converting them into a pork
pie.
"What an odd thing!" thought the young lawyer. "I'll just drop in at
Sweeney Todd's now on purpose, and ask Tobias what he means. I quite
forgot, too, while he was here, to ask him what all that riot was about
a dog at Todd's door."
"A veal!" said a young man, rushing in; "a twopenny veal, Mrs. Lovett."
When he got it he consumed it with voracity, and then noticing an
acquaintance in the shop, he whispered to him,--
"I can't stand it any more. I have cut the spectacle-maker--Johanna is
faithless, and I know not what to do."
"Have another pie."
"But what's a pie to Johanna Oakley? You know, Dilki, that I only went
there to be near the charmer. Damn the shutters and curse the
spectacles! She loves another, and I'm a desperate individual! I should
like to do some horrible and desperate act. Oh, Johanna, Johanna! you
have driven me to the verge of what do you call it--I'll take another
veal, if you please, Mrs. Lovett."
"Well, I was wondering how you got on," said his friend Dilki, "and
thinking of calling upon you."
"Oh! it was all right--it was all right at first; she smiled upon me."
"You are quite sure she didn't laugh at you?"
"Sir! Mr. Dilki!"
"I say, are you sure that instead of smiling upon you she was not
laughing at you!"
"Am I sure? Do you wish to insult me, Mr. Dilki? I look upon you as a
puppy, sir--a horrid puppy."
"Very good; now I am convinced that the girl has been having a bit of
fun at your expense.--Are you not aware, Sam, that your nose turns up so
much that it's enough to pitch you head over heels. How do you suppose
that any girl under forty-five would waste a word upon you? Mind, I
don't say this to offend you in any way, but just quietly, by way of
asking a question."
Sam looked daggers, and probably he might have attempted some desperate
act in the pie-shop, if at the moment he had not caught the eye of Mrs.
Lovett, and he saw by the expression of that lady's face, that anything
in the shape of a riot would be speedily suppressed, so he darted out of
the place at once to carry his sorrows and his bitterness elsewhere.
It was only between twelve and one o'clock that such a tremendous rush
and influx of visitors came to the pie-shop, for although there was a
good custom the whole day, and the concern was a money-making one from
morning till night, it was at that hour principally that the great
consumption of pies took place.
Tobias knew from experience that Sweeney Todd was a skilful calculator
of the time it ought to take to go to different places, and accordingly
since he had occupied some portion of that most valuable of all
commodities at Mrs. Lovett's, he arrived quite breathless at his
master's shop.
There sat the mysterious dog with the hat, and Tobias lingered for a
moment to speak to the animal. Dogs are great physiognomists; and as the
creature looked into Tobias's face he seemed to draw a favourable
conclusion regarding him, for he submitted to a caress.
"Poor fellow!" said Tobias. "I wish I knew what had become of your
master, but it made me shake like a leaf to wake up last night and ask
myself the question. You shan't starve, though, if I can help it. I
haven't much for myself, but you shall have some of it."
As he spoke, Tobias took from his pocket some not very tempting cold
meat, which was intended for his own dinner, and which he had wrapped up
in not the cleanest of cloths. He gave a piece to the dog, who took it
with a dejected air, and then crouched down at Sweeney Todd's door
again.
Just then, as Tobias was about to enter the shop, he thought he heard
from within, a strange shrieking sort of sound. On the impulse of the
moment he recoiled a step or two, and then, from some other impulse, he
dashed forward at once, and entered the shop.
The first object that presented itself to his attention, lying upon a
side table, was a hat with a handsome gold-headed walking cane lying
across it.
The arm-chair in which customers usually sat to be shaved was vacant,
and Sweeney Todd's face was just projected into the shop from the back
parlour, and wearing a most singular and hideous expression.
"Well, Tobias," he said, as he advanced, rubbing his great hands
together, "well, Tobias! so you could not resist the pie-shop?"
"How does he know?" thought Tobias. "Yes, sir, I have been to the
pie-shop, but I didn't stay a minute."
"Hark ye, Tobias! the only thing I can excuse in the way of delay upon
an errand is, for you to get one of Mrs. Lovett's pies; that I can look
over, so think no more about it. Are they not delicious, Tobias?"
"Yes, sir, they are; but some gentleman seems to have left his hat and
stick."
"Yes," said Sweeney Todd, "he has;" and lifting the stick he struck
Tobias a blow with it that felled him to the ground. "Lesson the second
to Tobias Ragg, which teaches him to make no remarks about what does not
concern him. You may think what you like, Tobias Ragg, but you shall say
only what I like."
"I won't endure it," cried the boy; "I won't be knocked about in this
way, I tell you, Sweeney Todd, I won't."
"You won't! have you forgotten your mother?"
"You say you have a power over my mother; but I don't know what it is,
and I cannot and will not believe it; I'll leave you, and, come of it
what may, I'll go to sea or anywhere rather than stay in such a place as
this."
"Oh, you will, will you? Then, Tobias, you and I must come to some
explanation. I'll tell you what power I have over your mother, and then
perhaps you will be satisfied. Last winter, when the frost had continued
eighteen weeks, and you and your mother were starving, she was employed
to clean out the chambers of a Mr. King, in the Temple, a cold-hearted,
severe man, who never forgave anything in all his life, and never will."
"I remember," said Tobias; "we were starving and owed a whole guinea for
rent; but mother borrowed it and paid it, and after that got a situation
where she now is."
"Ah, you think so. The rent was paid; but, Tobias, my boy, a word in
your ear--she took a silver candlestick from Mr. King's chambers to pay
it. I know it. I can prove it. Think of that, Tobias, and be discreet."
"Have mercy upon us," said the boy; "they would take her life!"
"Her life!" screamed Sweeney Todd; "ay, to be sure they would; they
would hang her--hang her, I say; and now mind, if you force me by any
conduct of your own, to mention this thing, you are your mother's
executioner. I had better go and be deputy hangman at once, and turn her
off."
"Horrible, horrible!"
"Oh, you don't like that? Indeed, that don't suit you, Master Tobias? Be
discreet then, and you have nothing to fear. Do not force me to show a
power which will be as complete as it is terrific."
"I will say nothing--I will think nothing."
"'Tis well; now go and put that hat and stick in yonder cupboard. I
shall be absent for a short time; and if any one comes, tell them I am
called out, and shall not return for an hour or perhaps longer, and mind
you take good care of the shop."
Sweeney Todd took off his apron, and put on an immense coat with huge
lapels, and then, clapping a three-cornered hat on his head, and casting
a strange withering kind of look at Tobias, he sallied forth into the
street.
CHAPTER V
THE MEETING IN THE TEMPLE.
Alas! poor Johanna Oakley--thy day has passed away and brought with it
no tidings of him you love; and oh! what a weary day, full of fearful
doubts and anxieties, has it been!
Tortured by doubts, hopes, and fears, that day was one of the most
wretched that poor Johanna had ever passed. Not even two years before,
when she had parted with her lover, had she felt such an exquisite pang
of anguish as now filled her heart, when she saw the day gliding away
and the evening creeping on apace, without word or token from Mark
Ingestrie.
She did not herself know, until all the agony of disappointment had come
across her, how much she had counted upon hearing something from him on
that occasion; and when the evening deepened into night, and hope grew
so slender that she could no longer rely upon it for the least support,
she was compelled to proceed to her own chamber, and, feigning
indisposition to avoid her mother's questions--for Mrs. Oakley was at
home, and making herself and everybody else as uncomfortable as
possible--she flung herself on her humble couch and gave way to a
perfect passion of tears.
"Oh, Mark, Mark!" she said, "why do you thus desert me, when I have
relied so abundantly upon your true affection? Oh, why have you not sent
me some token of your existence, and of your continued love? the merest
slightest word would have been sufficient, and I should have been
happy."
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. It was not to be wondered at, therefore, that with
the name of Mark Ingestrie upon her lips she should rush down to the
balcony in intense anxiety to hear, and see if such was really the case.
When she reached the balcony she found lying in it a scrap of paper, in
which a stone was wrapped up, in order to give it weight, so that it
might be cast with a certainty into the balcony. With trembling
eagerness she opened the paper, and read upon it the following words:--
"For news of Mark Ingestrie, come to the Temple-gardens one hour before
sunset, and do not fear addressing a man who will be holding a white
rose in his hand."
"He lives! he lives!" she cried. "He lives, and joy again becomes the
inhabitant of my bosom! Oh, it is daylight now and sunshine compared to
the black midnight of despair. Mark Ingestrie lives, and I shall be
happy yet."
She placed the little scrap of paper carefully in her bosom, and then,
with clasped hands and a delighted expression of countenance, she
repeated the brief and expressive words it contained, adding,--
"Yes, yes, I will be there; the white rose is an emblem of his purity
and affection, his spotless love, and that is why his messenger carries
it. I will be there. One hour ay, two hours before sunset, I will be
there. Joy, joy! he lives, he lives! Mark Ingestrie lives! Perchance,
too, successful in his object, he returns to tell me that he can make me
his, and that no obstacle can now interfere to frustrate our union.
Time, time, float onwards on your fleetest pinions!"
She went to her own apartment, but it was not, as she had last gone to
it, to weep; on the contrary, it was to smile at her former fears, and
to admit the philosophy of the assertion that we suffer much more from a
dread of those things that never happen than we do for actual calamities
which occur in their full force to us.
"Oh, that this messenger," she said, "had come but yesterday! What hours
of anguish I should have been spared! But I will not complain; it shall
not be said that I repine at present joy because it did not come before.
I will be happy when I can; and, in the consciousness that I shall soon
hear blissful tidings of Mark Ingestrie, I will banish every fear."
The impatience which she now felt brought its pains and its penalties
with it, and yet it was quite a different description of feeling to any
she had formerly endured, and certainly far more desirable than the
absolute anguish that had taken possession of her upon hearing nothing
of Mark Ingestrie.
It was strange, very strange, that the thought never crossed her that
the tidings she had to hear in the Temple Gardens from the stranger
might be evil ones, but certainly such a thought did not occur to her,
and she looked forward with joy and satisfaction to a meeting which she
certainly had no evidence to know, might not be of the most disastrous
character.
She asked herself over and over again if she should tell her father what
had occurred, but as often as she thought of doing so she shrank from
carrying out the mental suggestion, and all the natural disposition
again to keep to herself the secret of her happiness returned to her in
full force.
But yet she was not so unjust as not to feel that it was treating her
father but slightingly to throw all her sorrows into his lap, as it
were, and then to keep from him everything of joy appertaining to the
same circumstances.
This was a thing that she was not likely to continue doing, and so she
made up her mind to relieve her conscience from the pang it would
otherwise have had, by determining to tell him, after the interview in
the Temple Gardens, what was its result; but she could not make up her
mind to do so beforehand; it was so pleasant and so delicious to keep
the secret all to herself, and to feel that she alone knew that her
lover had so closely kept faith with her as to be only one day behind
his time in sending to her, and that day, perhaps, far from being his
fault.
And so she reasoned to herself and tried to wile away the anxious hours,
sometimes succeeding in forgetting how long it was still to sunset, and
at others feeling as if each minute was perversely swelling itself out
into ten times its usual proportion of time in order to become wearisome
to her.
She had said that she would be at the Temple Gardens two hours before
sunset instead of one, and she kept her word, for, looking happier than
she had done for weeks, she tripped down the stairs of her father's
house, and was about to leave it by the private staircase, when a
strange gaunt-looking figure attracted her attention.
This was no other than the Rev. Mr. Lupin: he was a long strange-looking
man, and upon this occasion he came upon what he called horseback, that
is to say, he was mounted upon a very small pony, which seemed quite
unequal to support his weight, and was so short that, if the reverend
gentleman had not poked his legs out at an angle, they must inevitably
have touched the ground.
"Praise the Lord!" he said: "I have intercepted the evil one. Maiden, I
have come here at thy mother's bidding, and thou shalt remain and
partake of the mixture called tea."
Johanna scarcely condescended to glance at him, but drawing her mantle
close around her, which he actually had the impertinence to endeavour to
lay hold of, she walked on, so that the reverend gentleman was left to
make the best he could of the matter.
"Stop," he cried, "stop! I can well perceive that the devil has a strong
hold of you: I can well perceive--the lord have mercy upon me! this
animal hath some design against me as sure as fate."
This last ejaculation arose from the fact that the pony had flung up his
heels behind in a most mysterious manner.
"I am afraid, sir," said a lad who was no more than our old
acquaintance, Sam--"I am afraid, sir, that there is something the matter
with the pony."
Up went the pony's heels again in the same unaccountable manner.
"God bless me!" said the reverend gentleman; "he never did such a thing
before. I--there he goes again--murder! Young man, I pray you to help me
to get down; I think I know you; you are the nephew of the goodly Mrs.
Pump--truly this animal wishes to be the death of me."
At this moment the pony gave such a vigorous kick up behind, that Mr.
Lupin was fairly pitched upon his head, and made a complete summerset,
alighting with his heels in the spectacle-maker's passage; and it
unfortunately happened that Mrs. Oakley at that moment, hearing the
altercation, came rushing out, and the first thing she did was to fall
sprawling over Mr. Lupin's feet.
Sam now felt it time to go; and as we dislike useless mysteries, we may
as well explain that these extraordinary circumstances arose from the
fact that Sam had brought from the haberdasher's opposite a
halfpenny-worth of pins, and had amused himself by making a pincushion
of the hind quarters of the Reverend Mr. Lupin's pony, which, not being
accustomed to that sort of thing, had kicked out vigorously in
opposition to the same, and produced the results we have recorded.
Johanna Oakley was some distance upon her road before the reverend
gentleman was pitched into her father's house in the manner we have
described, so that she knew nothing of it, nor would she have cared if
she had, for her mind was wholly bent upon the expedition she was
proceeding on.
As she walked upon that side of the way of Fleet-street where Sweeney
Todd's house and shop were situated, a feeling of curiosity prompted her
to stop for a moment and look at the melancholy-looking dog that stood
watching a hat at his door.
The appearance of grief upon the creature's face could not be mistaken,
and, as she gazed, she saw the shop-door gently opened and a piece of
meat thrown out.
"These are kind people," she said, "be they whom they may;" but when she
saw the dog turn away with loathing, and herself observed that there was
a white powder upon it, the idea that it was poisoned, and only intended
for the poor creature's destruction, came instantly across her mind.
And when she saw the horrible-looking face of Sweeney Todd glaring at
her from the partially-opened door, she could not doubt any further the
fact, for that face was quite enough to give a warrant for any amount of
villany whatever.
She passed on with a shudder, little suspecting, however, that that dog
had anything to do with her fate, or the circumstances which made up the
sum of her destiny.
It wanted a full hour to the appointed time of meeting when she reached
the Temple-gardens, and partly blaming herself that she was so soon,
while at the same time she would not for worlds have been away, she sat
down on one of the garden-seats to think over the past, and to recall to
her memory with all the vivid freshness of young Love's devotion, the
many gentle words which from time to time had been spoken to her two
summers since by him whose faith she had never doubted, and whose image
was enshrined at the bottom of her heart.
CHAPTER VI.
THE CONFERENCE, AND THE FEARFUL NARRATION IN THE GARDEN.
The Temple clock struck the hour of meeting, and Johanna looked
anxiously around her for any one who should seem to her to bear the
appearance of being such a person as she might suppose Mark Ingestrie
would choose for his messenger.
She turned her eyes towards the gate, for she thought she heard it
close, and then she saw a gentlemanly-looking man, attired in a cloak,
and who was looking around him, apparently in search of some one.
When his eye fell upon her he immediately produced from beneath his
cloak a white rose, and in another minute they met.
"I have the honour," he said, "of speaking to Miss Johanna Oakley?"
"Yes, sir; and you are Mark Ingestrie's messenger?"
"I am; that is to say, I am he who comes to bring you news of Mark
Ingestrie, although I grieve to say I am not the messenger that was
expressly deputed by him so to do."
"Oh! sir, your looks are sad and serious; you seem as if you would
announce that some misfortune had occurred. Tell me that it is not so;
speak to me at once, or my heart will break!"
"Compose yourself, lady, I pray you."
"I cannot--dare not do so, unless you tell me he lives. Tell me that
Mark Ingestrie lives, and then I shall be all patience: tell me that,
and you shall not hear a murmur from me. Speak the word at once--at
once! It is cruel, believe me, it is cruel to keep me in this suspense."
"This is one of the saddest errands I ever came upon," said the
stranger, as he led Johanna to a seat. "Recollect, lady, what creatures
of accident and chance we are--recollect how the slightest circumstances
will affect us, in driving us to the confines of despair, and remember
by how frail a tenure the best of us hold existence."
"No more--no more!" shrieked Johanna, as she clasped her hands--"I know
all now, and am desolate."
She let her face drop upon her hands, and shook as with a convulsion of
grief.
"Mark, Mark!" she cried, "you have gone from me! I thought not this--I
thought not this. Oh, Heaven! why have I lived so long as to have the
capacity to listen to such fearful tidings? Lost--lost--all lost! God of
Heaven! what a wilderness the world is now to me!"
"Let me pray you, lady, to subdue this passion of grief, and listen
truly to what I shall unfold to you. There is much to hear and much to
speculate upon; and if, from all that I have learnt, I cannot, dare not
tell you that Mark Ingestrie lives, I likewise shrink from telling you
he is no more."
"Speak again--say those words again! There is hope, then--oh, there is a
hope!"
"There is a hope; and better is it that your mind should receive the
first shock of the probability of the death of him whom you have so
anxiously expected, and then afterwards, from what I shall relate to
you, gather hope that it may not be so, than that from the first you
should expect too much, and then have those expectations rudely
destroyed."
"It is so--it is so; this is kind of you, and if I cannot thank you as I
ought, you will know that it is because I am in a state of too great
affliction so to do, and not from want of will; you will understand
that--I am sure you will understand that."
"Make no excuses to me. Believe me, I can fully appreciate all that you
would say, and all that you must feel. I ought to tell you who I am,
that you may have confidence in what I have to relate to you. My name is
Jeffery, and I am a colonel in the Indian army."
"I am much beholden to you, sir; but you bring with you a passport to my
confidence, in the name of Mark Ingestrie, which is at once sufficient.
I live again in the hope that you have given me of his continued
existence, and in that hope I will maintain a cheerful resignation that
shall enable me to bear up against all you have to tell me, be it what
it may, and with a feeling that through much suffering there may come
joy at last. You shall find me very patient, ay, extremely patient--so
patient that you shall scarcely see the havoc that grief has already
made here."
She pressed her hands upon her breast as she spoke, and looked in his
face with such an expression of tearful melancholy that it was quite
heartrending to witness it; and he, although not used to the melting
mood, was compelled to pause for a few moments ere he could proceed in
the task he had set himself.
"I will be as brief," he said, "as possible, consistent with stating all
that is requisite for me to state, and I must commence by asking you if
you are aware under what circumstances it was that Mark Ingestrie was
abroad?"
"I am aware of so much, that a quarrel with his uncle, Mr. Grant, was
the great cause, and that his main endeavour was to better his fortunes,
so that we might be happy, and independent of those who looked not with
an eye of favour upon our projected union."
"Yes, but, what I meant was, were you aware of the sort of adventure he
embarked in to the Indian seas?"
"No, I know nothing further; we met here on this spot, we parted at
yonder gate, and we have never met again."
"Then I have something to tell you, in order to make the narrative clear
and explicit."
They both sat upon the garden seat; and while Johanna fixed her eyes
upon her companion's face, expressive as it was of the most generous
emotions and noble feelings, he commenced relating to her the incidents
which never left her memory, and in which she took so deep an interest.
"You must know," he said, "that what it was which so much inflamed the
imagination of Mark Ingestrie, consisted in this. There came to London a
man with a well-authenticated and extremely well put together report,
that there had been discovered, in one of the small islands near the
Indian seas, a river which deposited an enormous quantity of gold-dust
in its progress to the ocean. He told his story so well, and seemed to
be such a perfect master of all the circumstances connected with it,
that there was scarcely room for a doubt upon the subject. The thing was
kept quiet and secret; and a meeting was held of some influential
men--influential on account of the money they possessed, among whom was
one who had towards Mark Ingestrie most friendly feelings; so Mark
attended the meeting with this friend of his, although he felt his utter
incapacity, from want of resources, to take any part in the affair. But
he was not aware of what his friend's generous intentions were in the
matter until they were explained to him, and they consisted in
this:--He, the friend, was to provide the necessary means for embarking
in the adventure, so far as regarded taking a share in it, and he told
Mark Ingestrie that, if he would go personally on the expedition, he
should share in the proceeds with him, be they what they might. Now, to
a young man like Ingestrie, totally destitute of personal resources, but
of ardent and enthusiastic temperament, you can imagine how extremely
tempting such an offer was likely to be. He embraced it at once with the
greatest pleasure, and from that moment he took an interest in the
affair of the closest and most powerful description. It seized
completely hold of his imagination, presenting itself to him in the most
tempting colours; and from the description that has been given me of his
enthusiastic disposition, I can well imagine with what kindness and
impetuosity he would enter into such an affair."
"You know him well?" said Johanna, gently.
"No, I never saw him. All that I say concerning him is from the
description of another who did know him well, and who sailed with him in
the vessel that ultimately left the port of London on the vague and wild
adventure I have mentioned."
"That one, be he who he may, must have known Mark Ingestrie well, and
have enjoyed much of his confidence to be able to describe him so
accurately."
"I believe that such was the case; and it is from the lips of that one,
instead of from mine, that you ought to have heard what I am now
relating. That gentleman, whose name was Thornhill, ought to have made
to you this communication; but by some strange accident it seems he has
been prevented, or you would not be here listening to me upon a subject
which would have come better from his lips."
"And was he to have come yesterday to me?"
"He was."
"Then Mark Ingestrie kept his word; and but for the adverse
circumstances which delayed his messenger, I should yesterday have heard
what you are now relating to me. I pray you go on, sir, and pardon this
interruption."
"I need not trouble you with all the negotiations, the trouble, and the
difficulty that arose before the expedition could be started
fairly--suffice it to say, that at length, after much annoyance and
trouble, it was started, and a vessel was duly chartered and manned for
the purpose of proceeding to the Indian seas in search of the treasure,
which was reported to be there for the first adventurer who had the
boldness to seek it."
"It was a gallant vessel. I saw it many a mile from England ere it sunk
beneath the waves, never to rise again."
"Sunk!"
"Yes; it was an ill-fated ship, and it did sink; but I must not
anticipated--let me proceed in my narrative with regularity. The ship
was called the Star; and if those who went with it looked upon it as the
star of their destiny, they were correct enough, and it might be
considered an evil star for them, inasmuch as nothing but disappointment
and bitterness became their ultimate portion. And Mark Ingestrie, I am
told, was the most hopeful man on board. Already in imagination he could
fancy himself homeward-bound with the vessel, ballasted and crammed with
the rich produce of that shining river. Already he fancied what he could
do with his abundant wealth, and I have not a doubt but that, in common
with many who went on that adventure, he enjoyed to the full the
spending of the wealth he should obtain in imagination--perhaps, indeed,
more than if he had obtained it in reality. Among the adventurers was
one Thornhill, who had been a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, and between
him and young Ingestrie there arose a remarkable friendship--a
friendship so strong and powerful, that there can be no doubt that they
communicated to each other all their hopes and fears; and if anything
could materially tend to beguile the tedium of such a weary voyage as
those adventurers had undertaken, it certainly would be the free
communication and confidential intercourse between two such kindred
spirits as Thornhill and Mark Ingestrie. You will bear in mind, Miss
Oakley, that in making this communication to you, I am putting together
what I myself heard at different times, so as to make it for you a
distinct narrative, which you can have no difficulty in comprehending,
because, as I before stated, I never saw Mark Ingestrie, and it was only
once, for about five minutes, that I saw the vessel in which he went
upon his perilous adventure--for perilous it turned out to be--to the
Indian seas. It was from Thornhill I got my information during the many
weary and monotonous hours consumed in a home-bound voyage from India.
It appears that without accident or cross of any description the Star
reached the Indian ocean, and the supposed immediate locality of the
spot where the treasure was to be found, and there she was spoken with
by a vessel homeward-bound from India, called the Neptune. It was
evening, and the sun had sunk in the horizon with some appearances that
betokened a storm. I was on board that Indian vessel; we did not expect
anything serious, although we made every preparation for rough weather,
and as it turned out, it was well indeed we did, for never within the
memory of the oldest seamen, had such a storm ravished the coast. A
furious gale, which it was impossible to withstand, drove us southward;
and but for the utmost precautions, aided by courage and temerity on the
part of the seamen, such as I had never before witnessed in the
merchant-service, we escaped with trifling damage, but we were driven at
least 200 miles out of our course; and instead of getting, as we ought
to have done, to the Cape by a certain time, we were an immense distance
eastward of it. It was just as the storm, which lasted three nights and
two days, began to abate, that towards the horizon we saw a dull red
light; and as it was not in a quarter of the sky where any such
appearance might be imagined, nor were we in a latitude where
electro-phenomena might be expected, we steered toward it, surmising
what turned out afterwards to be fully correct."
"It was a ship on fire!" said Johanna.
"It was."
"Alas! alas! I guessed it. A frightful suspicion from the first crossed
my mind. It was a ship on fire, and that ship was--"
The Star was bound upon its adventurous course, although driven far out
of it by adverse winds and waves. After about half an hour's sailing we
came within sight distinctly of a blazing vessel. We could hear the roar
of the flames, and through our glasses we could see them curling up the
cordage, and dancing from mast to mast, like fiery serpents, exulting in
the destruction they were making. We made all sail, and strained every
inch of canvas to reach the ill-fated vessel, for distances at sea that
look small are in reality very great, and an hour's hard sailing in a
fair wind, with every stitch of canvas set, would not do more than
enable us to reach that ill-fated bark; but fancy in an hour what
ravages the flames might make! The vessel was doomed. The fiat had gone
forth that it was to be among the things that had been; and long before
we could reach the spot upon which it floated idly on the now
comparatively calm waters, we saw a bright shower of sparks rush up into
the air. Then came a loud roaring sound over the surface of the deep,
and all was still--the ship had disappeared, and the water closed over
it for ever."
"But how knew you," said Johanna, as she clasped her hands, and the
pallid expression of her countenance betrayed the deep interest she took
in the narration, "how knew you that the ship was the Star? might it not
have been some other ill-fated vessel that met with so dreadful a fate?"
"I will tell you: although we had seen the ship go down, we kept on our
course, straining every effort to reach the spot, with the hope of
picking up some of the crew, who surely had made an effort by the boats
to leave the burning vessel. The captain of the Indiaman kept his glass
at his eye, and presently he said to me,--'There is a floating piece of
wreck, and something clinging to it; I know not if there be a man, but
what I can perceive seems to me to be the head of a dog.' I looked
through the glass myself, and saw the same object; but as we neared it,
we found it was a large piece of the wreck, with a dog and a man
supported by it, who were clinging with all the energy of desperation.
In ten minutes more we had them on board the vessel--the man was the
Lieutenant Thornhill I have before mentioned, and the dog belonged to
him. He related to us that the ship, we had seen burning was the Star;
and that it had never reached its destination, and that he believed all
had perished but himself and the dog; for, although one of the boats had
been launched, so desperate a rush was made into it by the crew that it
had swamped, and all perished. Such was his own state of exhaustion,
that, after he had made this short statement, it was some days before he
left his hammock; but when he did, and began to mingle with us, we found
an intelligent, cheerful companion--such a one, indeed, as we were glad
to have on board, and in confidence he related to the captain and myself
the object of the voyage of the Star, and the previous particulars with
which I have made you acquainted. And then, during a night-watch, when
the soft and beautiful moonlight was more than usually inviting, and he
and I were on the deck, enjoying the coolness of the night, after the
intense heat of the day in the tropics, he said to me,--'I have a very
sad mission to perform when I get to London. On board our vessel was a
young man named Mark Ingestrie; and some short time before the vessel in
which we were went down, he begged of me to call upon a young lady named
Johanna Oakley, the daughter of a spectacle-maker in London, providing I
should be saved and he perish; and of the latter event, he felt so
strong a presentiment that he gave me a string of pearls, which I was to
present to her in his name; but where he got them I have not the least
idea, for they are of immense value.' Mr. Thornhill showed me the
pearls, which were of different sizes, roughly strung together, but of
great value; and when we reached the river Thames, which was only three
days since, he left us with his dog, carrying his string of pearls with
him, to find out where you reside."
"Alas! he never came."
"No; from all the inquiries we can make, and all the information we can
learn, it seems he disappeared somewhere about Fleet-street."
"Disappeared!"
"Yes; we can trace him to the Temple-stairs, and from thence to the
barber' shop, kept by a man named Sweeny Todd; but beyond there no
information of him can be obtained."
"Sweeny Todd!"
"Yes; and what makes the affair more extraordinary, is, that neither
force nor persuasion will induce Thornhill's dog to leave the place."
"I saw it--I saw the creature, and it looked imploringly, although
kindly, in my face; but little did I think, when I paused a moment to
look upon that melancholy but faithful animal, that it held a part in my
destiny. Oh! Mark Ingestrie, Mark Ingestrie, dare I hope that you live
when all else have perished?"
"I have told you all that I can tell you, and, according as your own
judgment may dictate to you, you can encourage hope, or extinguish it
for ever. I have kept back nothing from you which can make the affair
worse or better--I have added nothing; but you have it simply as it was
told to me."
"He is lost--he is lost."
"I am one, lady, who always thinks certainty of any sort preferable to
suspense; and although, while there is no positive news of death, the
continuance of life ought fairly to be assumed, yet you must perceive,
from a review of all the circumstances, upon how very slender a
foundation all our hopes must rest."
"I have no hope--I have no hope--he is lost to me for ever! It were
madness to think he lived. Oh, Mark, Mark! and is this the end of all
our fond affection? did I indeed look my last upon that face, when on
this spot we parted?"
"The uncertainty," said Colonel Jeffery, wishing to withdraw as much as
possible from a consideration of her own sorrows, "the uncertainty, too,
that prevails with regard to the fate of poor Mr. Thornhill, is a sad
thing. I much fear that those precious pearls he had, have been seen by
some one who has not scrupled to obtain possession of them by his
death."
"Yes, it would seem so indeed; but what are pearls to me? Oh! would that
they had sunk to the bottom of that Indian sea, from whence they had
been plucked. Alas, alas! it has been their thirst for gain that has
produced all these evils. We might have been poor here, but we should
have been happy. Rich we ought to have been, in contentment; but now all
is lost, and the world to me can present nothing that is to be desired,
but one small spot large enough to be my grave."
She leant upon the arm of the garden-seat, and gave herself up to such a
passion of tears that Colonel Jeffery felt he dared not interrupt her.
There is something exceeding sacred about real grief which awes the
beholder, and it was with an involuntary feeling of respect that Colonel
Jeffery stepped a few paces off, and waited until that burst of agony
had passed away. It was during those brief moments that he overheard
some words uttered by one who seemed likewise to be suffering from that
prolific source of all affliction, disappointed affection. Seated at
some short distance was a maiden, and one not young enough to be called
a youth, but still not far enough advanced in existence to have had all
his better feelings crushed by an admixture with the cold world, and he
was listening while the maiden spoke.
"It is the neglect," she said, "which touched me to the heart. But one
word spoken or written, one message of affection, to tell me that the
memory of a love I thought would be eternal, still lingered in your
heart, would have been a world of consolation; but it came not, and all
was despair."
"Listen to me," said her companion, "and if ever in this world you can
believe that one who truly loves can be cruel to be kind, believe that I
am that one. I yielded for a time to the fascination of a passion which
should never have found a home within my heart; but yet it was far more
of a sentiment than a passion, inasmuch as never for one moment did an
evil thought mingle with its pure aspirations.
"It was a dream of joy, which for a time obliterated a remembrance that
ought never to have been forgotten; but when I was rudely awakened to
the fact that those whose opinions were of importance to your welfare
and your happiness knew nothing of love, but in its grossest aspect, it
became necessary at once to crush a feeling, which, in its continuance,
could shadow forth nothing but evil."
"You may not imagine, and you may never know--for I cannot tell the
heart-pangs that it has cost me to persevere in a line of conduct which
I felt was due to you--whatever heart-pangs it might cost me. I have
been content to imagine that your affection would turn to indifference,
perchance to hatred; that a consciousness of being slighted would arouse
in your defence all a woman's pride, and that thus you would be lifted
above regret. Farewell for ever! I dare not love you honestly and truly;
and better is it thus to part than to persevere in a delusive dream that
can but terminate in degradation and sadness."
"Do you hear those words?" whispered Colonel Jeffery to Johanna. "You
perceive that others suffer, and from the same cause, the perils of
affection."
"I do. I will go home, and pray for strength to maintain my heart
against this sad affliction."
"The course of true love never yet ran smooth; wonder not, therefore,
Johanna Oakley, that yours has suffered such a blight. It is the great
curse of the highest and noblest feelings of which humanity is capable,
that while, under felicitous circumstances, they produce to us an
extraordinary amount of happiness; when anything adverse occurs, they
are most prolific sources of misery. Shall I accompany you?"
Johanna felt grateful for the support of the colonel's arm towards her
own home, and as they passed the barber's shop they were surprised to
see that the dog and the hat were gone.
CHAPTER VII.
THE BARBER AND THE LAPIDARY.
It is night; and a man, one of the most celebrated lapidaries in London,
but yet a man frugal withal, although rich, is putting up the shutters
of his shop.
This lapidary is an old man; his scanty hair is white, and his hands
shake as he secures the fastenings, and then, over and over again, feels
and shakes each shutter, to be assured that his shop is well secured.
This shop of his is in Moorfields, then a place very much frequented by
dealers in bullion and precious stones. He was about entering his door,
just having cast a satisfied look upon the fastening of his shop, when a
tall, ungainly-looking man stepped up to him. This man had a
three-cornered hat, much too small for him, perched upon the top of his
great hideous-looking head, while the coat he wore had ample skirts
enough to have made another of ordinary dimensions.
Our readers will have no difficulty in recognising Sweeney Todd, and
well might the little old lapidary start as such a very
unprepossessing-looking personage addressed him.
"You deal," he said, "in precious stones."
"Yes, I do," was the reply; "but it's rather late. Do you want to buy or
sell?"
"To sell."
"Humph! Ah, I dare say it's something not in my line; the only order I
get is for pearls, and they are not in the market."
"And I have nothing but pearls to sell," said Sweeney Todd; "I mean to
keep all my diamonds, my garnets, topazes, brilliants, emeralds, and
rubies."
"The deuce you do! Why, you don't mean to say you have any of them? Be
off with you! I am too old to joke with, and am waiting for my supper."
"Will you look at the pearls I have?"
"Little seed pearls, I suppose; they are of no value, and I don't want
them, we have plenty of those. It's real, genuine, large pearls we want.
Pearls worth thousands."
"Will you look at mine?"
"No; good night!"
"Very good; then I will take them to Mr. Coventry up the street. He
will, perhaps, deal with me for them if you cannot."
The lapidary hesitated. "Stop," he said; "what's the use of going to Mr.
Coventry? he has not the means of purchasing what I can pay present cash
for. Come in, come in; I will, at all events, look at what you have for
sale."
Thus encouraged, Sweeney Todd entered the little, low, dusky shop, and
the lapidary having procured a light, and taken care to keep his
customer outside the counter, put on his spectacles, and said--
"Now, sir, where are your pearls?"
"There," said Sweeney Todd, as he laid a string of twenty-four pearls
before the lapidary.
The old man's eyes opened to an enormous width, and he pushed his
spectacles right upon his forehead as he glared in the face of Sweeney
Todd with undisguised astonishment. Then down came his spectacles again,
and taking up the string of pearls he rapidly examined every one of
them, after which, he exclaimed,--
"Real, real, by Heaven! All real!"
Then he pushed his spectacles up again to the top of his head, and took
another long stare at Sweeney Todd.
"I know they are real," said the latter. "Will you deal with me or will
you not?"
"Will I deal with you? Yes; I am not quite sure they are real. Let me
look again. Oh, I see, counterfeits; but so well done, that really for
the curiosity of the thing, I will give fifty pounds for them."
"I am fond of curiosities," said Sweeney Todd, "and as they are not
real, I will keep them; they will do for a present to some child or
another."
"What give those to a child? you must be mad--that is to say, not mad,
but certainly indiscreet. Come, now, at a word, I'll give you one
hundred pounds for them."
"Hark ye," said Sweeney Todd, "it neither suits my inclination nor my
time to stand here chaffing with you. I know the value of the pearls,
and, as a matter of ordinary and every-day business, I will sell them to
you so that you may get a handsome profit."
"What do you call a handsome profit?"
"The pearls are worth twelve thousand pounds, and I will let you have
them for ten. What do you think of that for an offer?"
"What odd noise was that?"
"Oh, it was only I who laughed. Come, what do you say, at once; are we
to do business or are we not?"
"Hark ye, my friend; since you do know the value of your pearls, and
this is to be a downright business transaction, I think I can find a
customer who will give eleven thousand pounds for them, and if so, I
have no objection to give you eight thousand pounds."
"Give me the eight thousand pounds," said Sweeney Todd, "and let me go.
I hate bargaining."
"Stop a bit; there are some rather important things to consider. You
must know, my friend, that a string of pearls of this value are not be
bought like a few ounces of old silver of anybody who might come with
it. Such a string of pearls as these are like a house, or an estate, and
when they change hands, the vendor must give every satisfaction as to
how he came by them, and prove how he can give to the purchaser a good
right and title to them."
"Pshaw!" said Sweeney Todd, "who will question you, you are well known
to be in the trade, and to be continually dealing in such things?"
"That's all very fine; but I don't see why I should give you the full
value of an article without evidence as to how you came by it."
"In other words you mean, you don't care how I came by them, provided I
sell them to you at a thief's price, but if I want their value you mean
to be particular."
"My good sir, you may conclude what you like. Show me that you have a
right to dispose of the pearls, and you need go no further than my shop
for a customer."
"I am no disposed to take that trouble, so I shall bid you good night,
and if you want any pearls again, I would certainly advise you not to be
so wonderfully particular where you get them."
Sweeney Todd strode towards the door, but the lapidary was not going to
part with him so easy, so springing over his counter with an agility one
would not have expected from so old a man, he was at the door in a
moment, and shouted at the top of his lungs--
"Stop thief! Stop thief! Stop him! There he goes! The big fellow with
the three-cornered hat! Stop thief! Stop thief!"
These cries, uttered with great vehemence as they were, could not be
totally ineffectual, but they roused the whole neighbourhood, and before
Sweeney Todd had proceeded many yards a man made an attempt to collar
him, but was repulsed by such a terrific blow in the face, that another
person, who had run half-way across the road with a similar object,
turned and went back again, thinking it scarcely prudent to risk his own
safety in apprehending a criminal for the good of the public. Having got
rid thus of one of his foes, Sweeney Todd, with an inward determination
to come back some day and be the death of the old lapidary, looked
anxiously about for some court down which he could plunge, and so get
out of sight of the many pursuers who were sure to attack him in the
public streets. His ignorance of the locality, however, was a great bar
to such a proceeding, for the great dread he had was, that he might get
down some blind alley, and so be completely caged, and at the mercy of
those who followed him. He pelted on at a tremendous speed, but it was
quite astonishing to see how the little old lapidary ran after him,
falling down every now and then, and never stopping to pick himself up,
as people say, but rolling on and getting on his feet in some miraculous
manner, that was quite wonderful to behold, particularly in one so aged
and so apparently unable to undertake any active exertion. There was one
thing, however, he could not continue doing, and that was to cry "stop
thief!" for he had lost his wind, and was quite incapable of uttering a
word. How long he would have continued the chase is doubtful, but his
career was suddenly put an end to, as regards that, by tripping his foot
over a projecting stone in the pavement, and shooting headlong down a
cellar which was open. But abler persons than the little old lapidary
had taken up the chase, and Sweeney Todd was hard pressed; and, although
he ran very fast, the provoking thing was, that in consequence of the
cries and shouts of his pursuers, new people took up the chase, who were
fresh and vigorous and close to him. There is something awful in seeing
a human being thus hunted by his fellows; and although we can have no
sympathy with such a man as Sweeney Todd, because, from all that has
happened, we begin to have some very horrible suspicion concerning him,
still, as a general principle, it does not decrease the fact, that it is
a dreadful thing to see a human being hunted through the streets. On he
flew at the top of his speed, striking down whoever opposed him, until
at last many who could have outrun him gave up the chase, not liking to
encounter the knock-down blow which such a hand as his seemed capable of
inflicting. His teeth were set, and his breathing became short and
laborious, just as a man sprung out at a shop-door and succeeded in
laying hold of him.
"I have got you, have I?" he said.
Sweeney Todd uttered not a word, but, putting forth an amount of
strength that was perfectly prodigious, he seized the man by a great
handful of his hair, and by his clothes behind, and flung him through a
shop-window, smashing glass, framework, and everything in its progress.
The man gave a shriek, for it was his own shop, and he was a dealer in
fancy goods of the most flimsy texture, so that the smash with which he
came down among his stock-in-trade, produced at once what the
haberdashers are so delighted with in the present day, namely, a ruinous
sacrifice. This occurrence had a great effect upon Sweeney Todd's
pursuers; it taught them the practical wisdom of not interfering with a
man possessed evidently of such tremendous powers of mischief, and
consequently, as just about this period the defeat of the little
lapidary took place, he got considerably the start of his pursuers. He
was by no means safe. The cry of "stop thief!" still sounded in his
ears, and on he flew, panting with the exertion he made, till he heard a
man behind him, say,--
"Turn into the second court on your right, and you will be safe--I'll
follow you. They shan't nab you, if I can help it."
Sweeney Todd had not much confidence in human nature--it was not likely
he would; but, panting and exhausted as he was, the voice of any one
speaking in friendly accents was welcome, and, rather impulsively than
from reflection, he darted down the second court to his right.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE THIEVES' HOME.
In a very few minutes Sweeney Todd found that this court had no
thoroughfare, and therefore there was no outlet or escape, but he
immediately concluded that something more was to be found than was at
first sight to be seen, and casting a furtive glance beside him in the
direction in which he had come, rested his hand upon a door which stood
close by. The door gave way, and Sweeney Todd, hearing, as he imagined,
a noise in the street, dashed in, and closed the door, and then he,
heedless of all consequences, walked to the end of a long dirty passage,
and, pushing open a door, descended a short flight of steps, to the
bottom of which he had scarcely got, when the door which faced him at
the bottom of the steps opened by some hand, and he suddenly found
himself in the presence of a number of men seated round a large table.
In an instant all eyes were turned towards Sweeney Todd, who was quite
unprepared for such a scene, and for a minute he knew not what to say;
but, as indecision was not Sweeney Todd's characteristic, he at once
advanced to the table and sat down. There was some surprise evinced by
the persons who were seated in that room, of whom there were many more
than a score, and much talking was going on among them, which did not
appear to cease on his entrance. Those who were near him looked hard at
him, but nothing was said for some minutes, and Sweeney Todd looked
about to understand, if he could, how he was placed, though it could not
be much a matter of doubt as to the character of the individuals
present.
Their looks were often an index to their vocations, for all grades of
the worst of characters were there, and some of them were by no means
complimentary to human nature, for there were some of the most desperate
characters that were to be found in London. Sweeney Todd gave a glance
around him, and at once satisfied himself of the desperate nature of the
assembly into which he had thrust himself. They were dressed in various
fashions, some after the manner of the city--some more gay, and some
half military, while not a few wore the garb of countrymen; but there
was in all that an air of scampish, off-hand behaviour, not unmixed with
brutality.
"Friend," said one, who sat near him, "how came you here; are you known
here?"
"I came here, because I found the door open, and I was told by some one
to come here, as I was pursued."
"Pursued?"
"Ay, some one running after me, you know."
"I know what being pursued is," replied the man, "and yet I know nothing
of you."
"That is not at all astonishing," said Sweeney, "seeing that I never saw
you before, nor you me; but that makes no difference. I'm in
difficulties, and I suppose a man may do his best to escape the
consequences?"
"Yes, he may, yet that is no reason why he should come here; this is the
place for free friends, who know and aid one another."
"And such I am willing to be; but at the same time I must have a
beginning. I cannot be initiated without some one introducing me. I have
sought protection, and I have found it; if there be any objection to my
remaining here any longer, I will leave."
"No, no," said a tall man on the other side of the table, "I have heard
what you have said, and we do not usually allow any such things; you
have come here unasked, and now we must have a little explanation--our
own safety may demand it; at all events we have our customs, and they
must be complied with."
"And what are your customs?" demanded Todd.
"This: you must answer the question which we shall propound unto you;
now answer truly what we shall ask of you."
"Speak," said Todd, "and I will answer all that you propose to me, if
possible."
"We will not tax you too hardly, depend upon it: who are you?"
"Candidly, then," said Todd, "that's a question I do not like to answer,
nor do I think it is one that you ought to ask. It is an inconvenient
thing to name oneself--you must pass by that inquiry."
"Shall we do so?" inquired the interrogator of those around him, and
gathering his cue from their looks, he, after a brief space, continued--
"Well, we will pass over that, seeing it is not necessary, but you must
tell us what you are--cutpurse, footpad, or what not?"
"I am neither."
"Then tell us in your own words," said the man, "and be candid with us.
What are you?"
"I am an artificial pearl-maker--or sham pearl-maker, whichever way you
please to call it."
"A sham pearl-maker! that may be an honest trade for all we know, and
that will hardly be your passport to our house, friend sham
pearl-maker!"
"That may be as you say," replied Todd, "but I will challenge any man to
equal me in my calling. I have made pearls that would pass with almost a
lapidary, and which would pass with nearly all the nobility."
"I begin to understand you, friend; but I would wish to have some proof
of what you say; we may hear a very good tale, and yet none of it shall
be true; we are not men to be made dupes of, besides, there are enough
to take vengeance, if we desire it."
"Ay, to be sure there is," said a gruff voice from the other end of the
table, which was echoed from one to the other, till it came to the top
of the table.
"Proof! proof! proof!" now resounded from one end of the room to the
other.
"My friends," said Sweeney Todd, rising up, and advancing to the table,
and thrusting his hand into his bosom and drawing out the string of
twenty-four pearls, "I challenge you, or any one, to make a set of
artificial pearls equal to these; they are my make, and I'll stand to it
in any reasonable sum, that you cannot bring a man who shall beat me in
my calling."
"Just hand them to me," said the man who had made himself interrogator.
Sweeney Todd threw the pearls on the table carelessly, and then said--
"There, look at them well, they'll bear it, and I reckon, though there
may be some good judges amongst you, that you cannot any of you tell
them from real pearls, if you had not been told so."
"Oh, yes, we know pretty well," said the man, "what these things are, we
have now and then a good string in our possession, and that helps us to
judge of them. Well, this is certainly a good imitation."
"Let me see it," said a fat man: "I was bred a jeweller, and I might say
born, only I couldn't stick to it; nobody likes working for years upon
little pay, and no fun with the gals. I say, hand it here!"
"Well," said Todd, "if you or anybody ever produced as good an
imitation, I'll swallow the whole string; and knowing there's poison in
the composition, it would not be a comfortable thing to think of."
"Certainly not," said the big man, "certainly not, but hand them over,
and I'll tell you all about it."
The pearls were given into his hands; and Sweeney Todd felt some
misgivings about his precious charge, and yet he showed it not, for he
turned to the man who sat beside him, saying--
"If he can tell true pearls from them, he knows more than I think he
does, for I am a maker, and have often had the true pearl in my hand."
"And I suppose," said the man, "you have tried your hand at putting the
one for the other, and so doing your confiding customers."
"Yes, yes, that is the dodge, I can see very well," said another man,
winking at the first; "and a good one too, I have known them do so with
diamonds."
"Yes, but never with pearls; however, there are some trades that it is
desirable to know."
"You're right."
The fat man now carefully examined the pearls, set them down on the
table, and looked hard at them.
"There now, I told you I could bother you. You are not so good a judge
that you would not have known, if you had not been told they were sham
pearls, but what they were real."
"I must say, you have produced the best imitations I have ever seen. Why
you ought to make your fortune in a few years--a handsome fortune!"
"So I should, but for one thing."
"And what is that?"
"The difficulty," said Todd, "of getting rid of them; if you ask
anything below their value, you are suspected, and you run the chance of
being stopped and losing them at the least, and perhaps entail a
prosecution."
"Very true; but there is risk in everything; we all run risks; but then
the harvest!"
"That may be," said Todd, "but this is peculiarly dangerous. I have not
the means of getting introduction to the nobility themselves, and if I
had I should be doubted, for they would say a working man cannot come
honestly by such valuable things, and then I must concoct a tale to
escape the Mayor of London."
"Ha!--ha!--ha!"
"Well, then, you can take them to a goldsmith."
"There are not many of them who would do so: they would not deal in
them; and, moreover, I have been to one or two of them; as for a
lapidary, why, he is not so easily cheated."
"Have you tried?"
"I did, and had to make the best of my way out, pursued as quickly as
they could run, and I thought at one time I must have been stopped, but
a few lucky turns brought me clear, when I was told to turn up this
court; and I came in here."
"Well," said one man, who had been examining the pearls, "and did the
lapidary find out they were not real?"
"Yes, he did; and he wanted to stop me and the string together, for
trying to impose upon him; however, I made a rush at the door, which he
tried to shut, but I was the stronger man, and here I am."
"It has been a close chance for you," said one.
"Yes, it just has," replied Sweeney, taking up the string of pearls,
which he replaced in his clothes, and continued to converse with some of
those around him.
Things now subsided into their general course; and little notice was
taken of Sweeney. There was some drink on the board, of which all
partook. Sweeney had some, too, and took the precaution of emptying his
pockets before them all, and gave them a share of his money to pay his
footing. This was policy, and they all drank to his success, and were
very good companions. Sweeney, however, was desirous of getting out as
soon as he could, and more than once cast his eyes towards the door; but
he saw there were eyes upon him, and dared not excite suspicion, for he
might undo all that he had done. To lose the precious treasure he
possessed would be maddening; he had succeeded to admiration in inducing
the belief that what he showed them was merely a counterfeit; but he
knew so well that they were real, and that a latent feeling that they
were humbugged might be hanging about; and that the first suspicious
movement he would be watched, and some desperate attempt made to make
him give them up. It was with no small violence to his own feelings that
he listened to their conversation, and appeared to take an interest in
their proceedings.
"Well," said one, who sat next him, "I'm just off for the north-road."
"Any fortune there?"
"Not much; and yet I mustn't complain: these last three weeks, the best
I have had has been two sixties."
"Well, that would do very well."
"Yes, the last man I stopped was a regular looby Londoner; he appeared
like a don, complete tip-top man of fashion; but, Lord! when I came to
look over him, he hadn't as much as would carry me twenty-four miles on
the road."
"Indeed! don't you think he had any hidden about him?--they do do so
now."
"Ah, ah!" returned another, "well said, old fellow; 'tis a true remark,
that we can't always judge a man from appearances. Lor! bless me, now,
who'd 'a thought your swell cove proved to be out o' luck? Well, I'm
sorry for you; but you know 'tis a long lane that has no turning, as Mr.
Somebody says--so, perhaps, you'll be more fortunate another time. But
come, cheer up, whilst I relate an adventure that occurred a little time
ago; 'twas a slice of good luck, I assure you, for I had no difficulty
in bouncing my victim, out of a good swag of tin; for you know farmers
returning from market are not always too wary and careful, especially as
the lots of wine they take at the market dinners make the cosy old boys
ripe and mellow for sleep. Well, I met one of these jolly gentlemen,
mounted on horseback, who declared he had nothing but a few paltry
guineas about him; however, that would not do--I searched him, and found
a hundred and four pounds secreted about his person."
"Where did you find it?"
"About him. I tore his clothes to ribands. A pretty figure he looked
upon horseback, I assure you. By Jove, I could hardly help laughing; in
fact, I did laugh at him, which so enraged him, that he immediately
threatened to horse-whip me, and yet he dared not defend his money; but
I threatened to shoot him, and that soon brought him to his senses."
"I should imagine so. Did you ever have a fight for it?" inquired
Sweeney Todd.
"Yes, several times. Ah! it's by no means an easy life, you may depend.
It is free, but dangerous. I have been fired at six or seven times."
"So many?"
"Yes. I was near York once, when I stopped a gentleman; I thought him an
easy conquest, but not as he turned out, for he was a regular devil."
"Resisted you?"
"Yes, he did. I was coming along when I met him, and I demanded his
money. 'I can keep it myself,' he said, 'and do not want any assistance
to take care of it.'"
"But I want it," said I; "your money or your life."
"You must have both, for we are not to be parted," he said, presenting
his pistol at me; "and then I had only time to escape from the effect of
the shot. I struck the pistol up with my riding-whip, and the bullet
passed by my temples, and almost stunned me. I cocked and fired; he did
the same, but I hit him, and he fell. He fired, however, but missed me.
I was down upon him; he begged hard for life."
"Did you give it him?"
"Yes; I dragged him to the side of the road, and then left him. Having
done so much, I mounted my horse and came away as fast as I could, and
then I made for London, and spent a merry day or two there."
"I can imagine you must enjoy your trips into the country, and then you
must have still greater relish for the change when you come to
London--the change is so great and so entire."
"So it is; but have you never any run of luck in your line? I should
think you must at times succeed in tricking the public."
"Yes, yes," said Todd, "now and then we do--but I tell you it is only
now and then; and I have been afraid of doing too much. In small sums I
have been a gainer; but I want to do something grand. I tried it on, but
at the same time I have failed."
"That is bad; but you may have more opportunities by and by. Luck is all
chance."
"Yes," said Todd, "that is true, but the sooner the better, for I am
growing impatient."
Conversation now went on; each man speaking of his exploits, which were
always some species of rascality and robbery, accompanied by violence
generally; some were midnight robbers and breakers into people's houses;
in fact, all the crimes that could be imagined. This place was, in fact,
a complete house of rendezvous for thieves, cutpurses, highwaymen,
footpads, and burglars of every grade and description--a formidable set
of men of the most determined and desperate appearance. Sweeney Todd
hardly knew how to rise and leave the place, though it was now growing
very late, and he was most anxious to get safe out of the den he was in;
but how to do that, was a problem yet to be solved.
"What is the time?" he muttered to the man next to him.
"Past midnight," was the reply.
"Then I must leave here," he answered, "for I have work that I must be
at in a very short time, and I shall not have too much time."
So saying he watched his opportunity, and rising, walked up to the door,
which he opened and went out; after that he walked up the five steps
that led to the passage, and this latter had hardly been gained when the
street-door opened, and another man came in at the same moment, and met
him face to face.
"What do you do here?"
"I am going out," said Sweeney Todd.
"You are going back; come back with me."
"I will not," said Todd. "You must be a better man than I am, if you
make me; I'll do my best to resist your attack, if you intend one."
"That I do," replied the man; and he made a determined rush upon
Sweeney, who was scarcely prepared for such a sudden onslaught, and was
pushed back till he came to the head of the stairs, where a struggle
took place, and both rolled down the steps. The door was thrown open,
and every one rushed out to see what was the matter, but it was some
moments before they could make it out.
"What does he do here?" said the first, as soon as he could speak, and
pointing to Sweeney Todd.
"It's all right."
"All wrong, I say."
"He's a sham-pearl maker, and has shown us a string of sham pearls that
are beautiful."
"Psha!"
"I will insist upon seeing them; give them to me," he said, "or you do
not leave this place."
"I will not," said Sweeney.
"You must. Here, help me--but I don't want help, I can do it by myself."
As he spoke, he made a desperate attempt to collar Sweeney and pull him
to the earth, but he had miscalculated his strength when he imagined
that he was superior to Todd, who was by far the more powerful man of
the two, and resisted the attack with success. Suddenly, by an Herculean
effort, he caught his adversary below the waist, and lifting him up, he
threw him upon the floor with great force; and then, not wishing to see
how the gang would take this--whether they would take the part of their
companion or of himself he knew not--he thought he had an advantage in
the distance, and he rushed up stairs as fast as he could, and reached
the door before they could overtake him to prevent him. Indeed, for more
than a minute they were irresolute what to do; but they were somehow
prejudicial in favour of their companion, and they rushed up after
Sweeney just as he had got to the door. He would have had time to escape
them, but, by some means, the door became fast, and he could not open
it, exert himself how he would. There was no time to lose; they were
coming to the head of the stairs, and Sweeney had hardly time to reach
the stairs, to fly upwards, when he felt himself grasped by the throat.
This he soon released himself from; for he struck the man who seized him
a heavy blow, and he fell backwards, and Todd found his way up to the
first floor, but he was closely pursued. Here was another struggle; and
again Sweeney Todd was the victor, but he was hard pressed by those who
followed him--fortunately for him there was a mop left in a pail of
water, this he seized hold of, and, swinging it over his head, he
brought it full on the head of the first man who came near him. Dab it
came, soft and wet, and splashed over some others who were close at
hand. It is astonishing what an effect a new weapon will sometimes have.
There was not a man among them, who would not have faced danger in more
ways than one, that would not have rushed headlong upon deadly and
destructive weapons, but who were quite awed when a heavy wet mop was
dashed into their faces. They were completely paralysed for a moment;
indeed, they began to look upon it as something between a joke and a
serious matter and either would have been taken just as they might be
termed.
"Get the pearls!" shouted the man who had first stopped him; "seize the
spy! seize him--secure him--rush at him! You are men enough to hold one
man!"
Sweeney Todd saw matters were growing serious, and he plied his mop most
vigorously upon those who were ascending, but they had become somewhat
used to the mop, and it had lost much of its novelty, and was by no
means a dangerous weapon. They rushed on, despite the heavy blows
showered by Sweeney, and he was compelled to give way stair after stair.
The head of the mop came off, and then there remained but the handle,
which formed an efficient weapon, and which made fearful havoc on the
heads of the assailants; and despite all that their slouched hats could
do in the way of protecting them, yet the staff came with a crushing
effect. The best fight in the world cannot last for ever; and Sweeney
again found numbers were not to be resisted for long; indeed, he could
not have physical energy enough to sustain his own efforts, supposing he
had received no blows in return. He turned and fled as he was forced
back to the landing, and then came to the next stair-head, and again he
made a desperate stand. This went on for stair after stair, and
continued for more than two or three hours. There were moments of
cessation when they all stood still and looked at each other.
"Fire upon him!" said one.
"No, no; we shall have the authorities down upon us, and then all will
go wrong."
"I think we had much better have let it alone in the first place, as he
was in, for you may be sure this won't make him keep a secret; we shall
all be split upon as sure as fate."
"Well, then, rush upon him, and down with him. Never let him out! On to
him! Hurrah!"
Away they went, but they were resolutely met by the staff of Sweeney
Todd, who had gained new strength by the short rest he had had.
"Down with the spy!"
This was shouted out by the men, but as each of them approached, they
were struck down, and at length, finding himself on the second floor
landing, and being fearful that some one was descending from above, he
rushed into one of the inner rooms. In an instant he had locked the
doors, which were strong and powerful.
"Now," he muttered, "for means to escape."
He waited a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow, and then he crossed
the floor to the windows, which were open. They were the old-fashioned
bay-windows, with the heavy ornamental work which some houses possessed,
and overhung the low door-ways, and protected them from the weather.
"This will do," he said, as he looked down to the pavement--"this will
do. I will try this descent, if I fall."
The people on the other side of the door were exerting all their force
to break it open, and it had already given one or two ominous creaks,
and a few minutes more would probably let them into the room. The
streets were clear--no human being was moving about, and there were
faint signs of the approach of morning. He paused a moment to inhale the
fresh air, and then he got outside of the window. By means of the sound
oaken ornaments, he contrived to get down to the drawing-room balcony,
and then he soon got down into the street. As he walked slowly away, he
could hear the crash of the door, and a slight cheer, as they entered
the room; and he could imagine to himself the appearance of the faces of
those who entered, when they found the bird had flown, and the room was
empty. Sweeney Todd had not far to go; he soon turned into Fleet-street,
and made for his own house. He looked about him, but there were none
near him; he was tired and exhausted, and right glad was he when he
found himself at his own door. Then stealthily he put the key into the
door, and slowly entered the house.
CHAPTER IX.
JOHANNA AT HOME, AND THE RESOLUTION.
Johanna Oakley would not allow Colonel Jeffery to accompany her all the
way home, and he, appreciating the scruples of the young girl, did not
press his attention upon her, but left her at the corner of Fore-street,
after getting from her a half promise that she would meet him again on
that day week, at the same hour, in the Temple-gardens.
"I ask this of you, Johanna Oakley," he said, "because I have resolved
to make all the exertion in my power to discover what has become of Mr.
Thornhill, in whose fate I am sure I have succeeded in interesting you,
although you care so little for the string of pearls which he has in
trust for you."
"I do, indeed, care little for them," said Johanna, "so little, that it
may be said to amount to nothing."
"But still they are yours, and you ought to have the option of disposing
of them as you please. It is not well to despise such gifts of fortune;
for if you can yourself do nothing with them, there are surely some
others whom you may know, upon whom they would bestow great happiness."
"A string of pearls, great happiness?" said Johanna, inquiringly.
"Your mind is so occupied by your grief that you quite forget such
strings are of great value. I have seen those pearls, Johanna, and can
assure you that they are in themselves a fortune."
"I suppose," she said sadly, "it is too much for human nature to expect
two blessings at once. I had the fond, warm heart that loved me without
the fortune, that would have enabled us to live in comfort and
affluence; and now, when that is perchance within my grasp, the heart,
that was by far the more costly possession, and the richest jewel of
them all, lies beneath the wave with its bright influences, and its
glorious and romantic aspirations, quenched for ever."
"You will meet me then, as I request of you, to hear if I have any news
for you?"
"I will endeavour so to do. I have all the will; but Heaven knows if I
may have the power."
"What mean you, Johanna?"
"I cannot tell what a week's anxiety may do; I know not but a sick bed
may be my resting-place, until I exchange it for the tomb. I feel even
now my strength fail me, and that I am scarcely able to totter to my
home. Farewell, sir! I owe you my best thanks, as well for the trouble
you have taken, as for the kindly manner in which you have detailed to
me what has passed."
"Remember," said Colonel Jeffery, "that I bid you adieu, with the hope
of meeting you again."
It was thus they parted, and Johanna proceeded to her father's house.
Who now that had met her and had chanced not to see that sweet face,
which could never be forgotten, would have supposed her to be the once
gay and sprightly Johanna Oakley? Her steps were sad and solemn, and all
the juvenile elasticity of her frame seemed like one prepared for death;
and she hoped that she would be able to glide, silently and unobserved,
to her own little bed-chamber--that chamber where she had slept since
she was a child, and on the little couch, on which she had so often laid
down to sleep that holy and calm slumber which such hearts as hers can
only know. But she was doomed to be disappointed, for the Rev. Mr. Lupin
was still there, and as Mrs. Oakley had placed before that pious
individual a great assortment of creature comforts, and among the rest
some mulled wine, which seemed particularly to agree with him, he showed
no disposition to depart. It unfortunately happened that this wine, of
which the reverend gentleman partook with such a holy relish, was kept
in a cellar, and Mrs. Oakley had had occasion twice to go down to
procure a fresh supply, and it was on a third journey for the same
purpose that she encountered poor Johanna, who had just let herself in
at the private door.
"Oh! you have come home, have you?" said Mrs. Oakley; "I wonder where
you have been to, gallivanting; but I suppose I may wonder long enough
before you will tell me. Go into the parlour, I want to speak to you."
Now poor Johanna had quite forgotten the very existence of Mr.
Lupin--so, rather than explain to her mother, which she knew would beget
more questions, she wished to go to bed at once, notwithstanding it was
an hour before the usual time for so doing. She walked unsuspectingly
into the parlour, and as Mr. Lupin was sitting, the slightest movement
of his chair closed the door, so she could not escape. Under any other
circumstances probably Johanna would have insisted upon leaving the
apartment; but a glance at the countenance of the pious individual was
quite sufficient to convince her that he had been sacrificing
sufficiently to Bacchus to be capable of any amount of effrontery, so
that she dreaded passing him, more especially as he swayed his arms
about like the sails of a windmill. She thought at least that when her
mother returned she would rescue her; but in that hope she was mistaken,
and Johanna had no more idea of the extent to which religious fanaticism
will carry its victim, than she had of the manners and customs of the
inhabitants of the moon. When Mrs. Oakley did return, she had some
difficulty in getting into the apartment, inasmuch as Mr. Lupin's chair
occupied so large a portion of it; but when she did obtain admission,
and Johanna said--
"Mother, I beg of you to protect me against this man, and allow me a
free passage from the apartment!"
Mrs. Oakley affected to lift up her hands in amazement, as she said--
"How dare you speak so disrespectfully of a chosen vessel? How dare you,
I say, do such a thing--it's enough to drive any one mad to see the
young girls now-a-days!"
"Don't snub her--don't snub the virgin," said Mr. Lupin; "she don't know
the honour yet that's intended her."
"She don't deserve it," said Mrs. Oakley, "she don't deserve it."
"Never mind, madam--never mind; we--we--we don't get all what we deserve
in this world."
"Take a drop of something, Mr. Lupin; you have got the hiccups."
"Yes; I--I rather think I have a little. Isn't it a shame that anybody
so intimate with the Lord should have the hiccups? What a lot of lights
you have got burning, Mrs. Oakley!"
"A lot of lights, Mr. Lupin! Why, there is only one; but perhaps you
allude to the lights of the gospel?"
"No; I--I don't, just at present; damn the lights of the gospel--that is
to say, I mean damn all backsliders! But there is a lot of lights, and
no mistake, Mrs. Oakley. Give me a drop of something, I'm as dry as
dust."
"There is some more mulled wine, Mr. Lupin; but I am surprised that you
think there is more than one light."
"It's a miracle madam, in consequence of my great faith. I have faith in
s--s--s--six lights, and here they are."
"Do you see that, Johanna?" exclaimed Mrs. Oakley, "are you not
convinced now of the holiness of Mr. Lupin?"
"I am convinced of his drunkenness, mother, and entreat of you to let me
leave the room at once."
"Tell her of the honour," said Mr. Lupin--"tell her of the honour."
"I don't know, Mr. Lupin; but don't you think it would be better to take
some other opportunity?"
"Very well, then, this is the opportunity."
"If it's your pleasure, Mr. Lupin, I will. You must know, then, Johanna,
that Mr. Lupin has been kind enough to consent to save my soul, on
condition that you marry him, and I am quite sure you can have no
reasonable objection; indeed, I think it's the least you can do, whether
you have any objection or not."
"Well put," said Mr. Lupin, "excellently well put."
"Mother," said Johanna, "if you are so far gone in superstition, as to
believe this miserable drunkard ought to come between you and heaven, I
am so lost as not to be able to reject the offer with more scorn and
contempt than ever I thought I could have entertained for any human
being; but hypocrisy never, to my mind, wears so disgusting a garb as
when it attires itself in the outward show of religion."
"This conduct is unbearable," cried Mrs. Oakley; "am I to have one of
the Lord's saints under my own roof?"
"If he were ten times a saint, mother, instead of being nothing but a
miserable, drunken profligate, it would be better that he should be
insulted ten times over, than that you should permit your own child to
have passed through the indignity of having to reject such a proposition
as that which has just been made. I must claim the protection of my
father; he will not suffer one, towards whom he has ever shown an
affection, the remembrance of which sinks deep into my heart, to meet
with so cruel an insult beneath his roof."
"That's right, my dear," cried Mr. Oakley, at that moment pushing open
the parlour-door. "That's right, my dear; you never spoke truer words in
all your life."
A faint scream came from Mrs. Oakley, and the Rev. Mr. Lupin immediately
seized upon the fresh jug of mulled wine, and finished it at a draught.
"Get behind me, Satan," he said. "Mr. Oakley, you will be damned if you
say a word to me."
"It's all the same, then," said Mr. Oakley; "for I'll be damned if I
don't. Then, Ben! Ben! come--come in, Ben."
"I'm a coming," said a deep voice, and a man about six feet four inches
in height, and nearly two-thirds of that amount in width, entered the
parlour. "I'm a coming, Oakley, my boy. Put on your blessed spectacles,
and tell me which is the fellow."
"I could have sworn it," said Mrs. Oakley, as she gave the table a knock
with her fist,--"I could have sworn when you came in, Oakley--I could
have sworn, you little snivelling, shrivelled-up wretch, you'd no more
have dared to come into this parlour as never was with those words in
your mouth, than you'd have dared to have flown, if you hadn't had your
cousin, Big Ben, the beef-eater, from the Tower, with you."
"Take it easy, ma'am," said Ben, as he sat down in a chair, which
immediately broke all to pieces with his weight. "Take it easy, ma'am;
the devil--what's this?"
"Never mind, Ben," said Mr. Oakley, "it's only a chair; get up."
"A cheer," said Ben; "do you call that a cheer? but never mind--take it
easy."
"Why, you big, bullying, idle, swilling and guttling ruffian!"
"Go on, marm, go on."
"You good-for-nothing lump of carrion; a dog wears his own coat, but you
wear your master's, you great stupid, overgrown, lurking hound. You
parish-brought-up wild beast, go and mind your lions and elephants in
the Tower, and don't come into honest people's houses, you cut-throat,
bullying, pickpocketing wretch."
"Go on, marm, go on."
This was a kind of dialogue that could not last, and Mrs. Oakley sank
down exhausted, and then Ben said--
"I tell you what, marm, I considers you--I looks upon you, marm, as a
female wariety of that ere animal as is very useful and sagacious,
marm."
There was no mistake in this allusion, and Mrs. Oakley was about to make
some reply, when the Rev. Mr. Lupin rose from his chair, saying--
"Bless you all! I think I'll go home."
"Not yet, Mr. Tulip," said Ben; "you had better sit down again--we've
got something to say to you."
"Young man, young man, let me pass. If you do not, you will endanger
your soul."
"I aint got none," said Ben; "I'm only a beef-eater, and don't pretend
to such luxuries."
"The heathen!" exclaimed Mrs. Oakley, "the horrid heathen! but there's
one consolation, and that is, that he will be fried in his own fat for
everlasting."
"Oh, that's nothing," said Ben; "I think I shall like it, especially if
it's any pleasure to you. I suppose that's what you call a Christian
consolation. Will you sit down, Mr. Tulip?"
"My name aint Tulip, but Lupin; but if you wish it, I don't mind sitting
down, of course."
The beef-eater, with a movement of his foot, kicked away the reverend
gentleman's chair, and down he sat with a dab upon the floor.
"My dear," said Mr. Oakley to Johanna, "you go to bed, and then your
mother can't say you have anything to do with this affair. I intend to
rid my house of this man. Good night, my dear, good night."
Johanna kissed her father on the cheek, and then left the room, not at
all sorry that so vigorous a movement was about being made for the
suppression of Mr. Lupin. When she was gone, Mrs. Oakley spoke, saying--
"Mr. Lupin, I bid you good night, and, of course, after the rough
treatment of these wretches, I can hardly expect you to come again. Good
night, Mr. Lupin, good night."
"That's all very well, marm," said Ben, "but before this ere wild beast
of a parson goes away, I want to admonish him. He don't seem to be wide
awake, and I must rouse him up."
Ben took hold of the reverend gentleman's nose, and gave it such an
awful pinch, that when he took his finger and thumb away, it was
perfectly blue.
"Murder! oh, murder! my nose! my nose!" shrieked Mr. Lupin, and at that
moment Mrs. Oakley, who was afraid to attack Ben, gave her husband such
an open-handed whack on the side of his head, that the little man reeled
again, and saw a great many more lights than the Rev. Mr. Lupin had done
under the influence of the mulled wine.
"Very good," said Ben; "now we are getting into, the thick of it."
[Illustration: Big Ben Compels Mr. Lupin To Do Penance.]
With this Ben took from his pocket a coil of rope, one end of which was
a noose, and that he dexterously threw over Mrs. Oakley's head.
"Murder!" she shrieked. "Oakley, are you going to see me murdered before
your eyes?"
"There is such a singing in my ears," said Mr. Oakley, "that I can't see
anything."
"This is the way," said Ben, "we manages the wild beastesses when they
shuts their ears to all sorts of argument. Now, marm, if you please, a
little this way."
Ben looked about until he found a strong hook in the wall, over which,
in consequence of his great height, he was enabled to draw the rope, and
then the other end of it he tied securely to the leg of a heavy
secretaire that was in the room, so that Mrs. Oakley was well secured.
"Murder!" she cried. "Oakley, are you a man, that you stand by and see
me treated in this way by this big brute?"
"I can't see anything," said Mr. Oakley; "there is such a singing in my
ears; I told you so before--I can't see anything."
"Now, ma'am, you may just say what you like," said Ben; "it won't matter
a bit, any more than the grumbling of a bear with a sore head; and as
for you, Mr. Tulip, you'll just get down on your knees, and beg Mr.
Oakley's pardon for coming and drinking his tea without his leave, and
having the infernal impudence to speak to his daughter."
"Don't do it, Mr. Lupin," cried Mrs. Oakley--"don't do it."
"You hear," said Ben, "what the lady advises. Now, I am quite different;
I advise you to do it--for, if you don't, I shan't hurt you, but it
strikes me I shall be obliged to fall on you and crush you."
"I think I will," said Mr. Lupin: "the saints were always forced to
yield to the Philistines."
"If you call me any names," said Ben, "I'll just wring your neck,"
"Young man, young man, let me exhort you. Allow me to go, and I will put
up prayers for your conversion."
"Confound your impudence! what do you suppose the beasts in the Tower
would do, if I was converted? Why, that 'ere tiger, we have had lately,
would eat his own tail, to think as I had turned out such an ass. Come,
I can't waste any more of my precious time; and if you don't get down on
your knees directly, we'll see what we can do."
"I must," said Mr. Lupin, "I must, I suppose;" and down he flopped on
his knees.
"Very good; now repeat after me.--I am a wolf that stole sheeps'
clothing."
"Yes; 'I am a wolf that stole sheeps' clothing'--the Lord forgive me."
"Perhaps he may, and perhaps he mayn't. Now go on--all that's wirtuous
is my loathing."
"Oh dear, yes--'all that's wirtuous is my loathing.'"
"Mr. Oakley, I have offended."
"Yes; I am a miserable sinner, Mr. Oakley, I have offended."
"And asks his pardon, on my bended--"
"Oh dear, yes--I asks his pardon on my bended--The Lord have mercy upon
us, miserable sinners!"
"Knees--I won't do so no more."
"Yes,--knees, I won't do so no more."
"As sure as I lies on this floor."
"Yes,--as sure as I lies on this floor.--Death and the devil, you've
killed me!"
Ben took hold of the reverend gentleman by the back of the neck, and
pressed his head down upon the floor, until his nose, which had before
been such a sufferer, was nearly completely flattened with his face.
"Now you may go;" said Ben.
Mr. Lupin scrambled to his feet; but Ben followed him into the passage,
and did not yet let him go, until he had accelerated his movements by
two hearty kicks. And then the victorious beef-eater returned to the
parlour.
"Why, Ben," said Mr. Oakley, "you are quite a poet."
"I believe you, Oakley, my boy," said Ben, "and now let us be off, and
have a pint round the corner."
"What!" exclaimed Mrs. Oakley, "and leave me here, you wretches?"
"Yes," said Ben, "unless you promises never to be a female variety of a
useful animal again, and begs pardon of Mr. Oakley, for giving him all
this trouble; as for me, I'll let you off cheap, you shall only give me
a kiss, and say you loves me."
"If I do, may I be--"
"Damned, you mean."
"No, I don't; choked I was going to say."
"Then you may be choked, for you have nothing to do but to let your legs
go from under you, and you will be hung as comfortable as possible--come
along, Oakley."
"Mr. Oakley--stop, stop--don't leave me here. I am sorry."
"That's enough," said Mr. Oakley; "and now, my dear, bear in mind one
thing from me--I intend from this time forward to be master in my own
house. If you and I are to live together, we must do so on very
different terms to what we have been living, and if you won't make
yourself agreeable, Lawyer Hutchins tells me that I can turn you out and
give you a maintenance; and, in that case, I'll have my sister Rachel
home to mind house for me; so now you know my determination, and what
you have to expect. If you wish to begin, well, do so at once, by
getting something nice and tasty for Ben's supper."
Mrs. Oakley made the required promise, and being released, she set about
preparations for the supper in real earnest, but whether was really
subdued or not we shall, in due time, see.
CHAPTER X.
THE COLONEL AND HIS FRIEND.
Colonel Jeffery was not at all satisfied with the state of affairs, as
regarded the disappointment of Mr. Thornhill, for whom he entertained a
sincere regard, both on account of the private estimation in which he
held him, and on account of actual services rendered to Thornhill by
him. Not to detain Johanna Oakley in the Temple-gardens, he had stopped
his narrative, completely at the point when what concerned her had
ceased, and had said nothing of much danger which the ship "Neptune" and
its crew and passengers had gone through, after Mr. Thornhill had been
taken on board with his dog. The fact is, the storm which he had
mentioned was only the first of a series of gales of wind that buffeted
the ship about for some weeks, doing it much damage, and enforcing
almost the necessity of putting in somewhere for repairs. But a glance
at the map will be sufficient to show that, situated as the "Neptune"
was, the nearest port at which they could at all expect assistance, was
the British Colony, at the Cape of Good Hope; but such was the contrary
nature of the winds and waves, that just upon the evening of a
tempestuous day, they found themselves bearing down close in shore, on
the eastern coast of Madagascar. There was much apprehension that the
vessel would strike on a rocky shore; but the water was deep, and the
vessel rode well; there was a squall, and they let go both anchors to
secure the vessel, as they were so close in shore, lest they should be
driven in and stranded. It was fortunate they had so secured themselves,
for the gale while it lasted blew half a hurricane, and the ship lost
some of her mast, and some other trifling damage, which, however,
entailed upon them the necessity of remaining there a few days, to cut
timber to repair their masts, and to obtain a few supplies. There is but
little to interest a general reader in the description of a gale. Order
after order was given until the masts and spars went one by one, and
then the orders for clearing the wreck were given. There was much work
to be done, and but little pleasure in doing it, for it was wet and
miserable while it lasted, and there was the danger of being driven upon
a lee shore, and knocked to pieces upon the rocks. This danger was
averted, and they anchored safe at a very short distance from the shore
in comparative security.
"We are safe now," remarked the captain, as he gave his second in
command charge of the deck, and approached Mr. Thornhill and Colonel
Jeffery.
"I am happy it is so," replied Jeffery.
"Well, captain," said Mr. Thornhill, "I am glad we have done with being
knocked about; we are anchored, and the water here appears smooth
enough."
"It is so, and I dare say it will remain so; it is a beautiful basin of
water--deep and good anchorage; but you see it is not large enough to
make a fine harbour."
"True; but it is rocky."
"It is, and that may make it sometimes dangerous, though I don't know
that it would be so in some gales. The sea may beat in at the opening,
which is deep enough for anything to enter--even Noah's ark would enter
easily enough."
"What will you do now?"
"Stay here a day or so, and send boats ashore to cut some pine trees, to
refit the ship with masts."
"You have no staves, then?"
"Not enough for such a purpose; and we never do go out stored with such
things."
"You obtain them wherever you may go to."
"Yes, any part of the world will furnish them in some shape or other."
"When you send ashore, will you permit me to accompany the boat's crew?"
said Jeffery.
"Certainly; but the natives of this country are violent and intractable,
and should you get into any row with them, there is every probability of
your being captured, or some bodily injury done you."
"But I will take care to avoid all that."
"Very well, colonel, you shall be welcome to go."
"I must beg the same permission," said Mr. Thornhill, "for I should much
like to see the country, as well as to have some acquaintance with the
natives themselves."
"By no means trust yourself alone with them," said the captain, "for if
you live you will have cause to repent it--depend upon what I say."
"I will," said Thornhill; "I will go nowhere but where the boat's
company goes."
"You will be safe then."
"But do you apprehend any hostile attack from the natives?" inquired
Colonel Jeffery.
"No, I do not expect it; but such things have happened before to-day,
and I have seen them when least expected, though I have been on this
coast before, and yet I never met with any ill-treatment; but there have
been many who have touched on this coast, who have had a brush with the
natives and come off second best, the natives generally retiring when
the ship's company muster strong in number, and calling out the chiefs,
who come down in great force, that we may not conquer them."
* * * * *
The next morning the boats were ordered out to go ashore with crews,
prepared for cutting timber, and obtaining such staves as the ship was
in want of. With these boats old Thornhill and Colonel Jeffery went both
of them on board, and after a short ride they reached the shore of
Madagascar. It was a beautiful country, and one in which vegetables
appear luxuriant and abundant, and the party in search of timber for
shipbuilding purposes soon came to some lordly monarchs of the forest,
which would have made vessels of themselves. But this was not what was
wanted; but where the trees grew thicker and taller, they began to cut
some tall pine-trees down. This was the wood they most desired; in fact,
it was exactly what they wanted; but they hardly got through a few such
trees, when the natives came down upon them, apparently to reconnoitre.
At first they were quiet and tractable enough, but anxious to see and
inspect everything, being very inquisitive and curious. However, that
was easily borne, but at length they became more numerous, and began to
pilfer all they could lay their hands upon, which, of course brought
resentment, and, after some time, a blow or two was exchanged. Colonel
Jeffery was forward, and endeavouring to prevent some violence being
offered to one of the wood-cutters; in fact, he was interposing himself
between the two contending parties, and tried to restore order and
peace, but several armed natives rushed suddenly upon him, secured him,
and were hurrying him away to death before any one could stir in his
behalf. His doom appeared certain, for, had they succeeded, they would
have cruelly and brutally murdered him. However, just at that moment aid
was at hand, and Mr. Thornhill, seeing how matters stood, seized a
musket from one of the sailors, and rushed after the natives who had
Colonel Jeffery. There were three of them, two others had gone on to
apprise, it was presumed, the chiefs. When Mr. Thornhill arrived, they
had thrown a blanket over the head of Jeffery; but Mr. Thornhill in an
instant hurled one down with a blow from the butt-end of his musket, and
the second met the same fate, as he turned to see what was the matter.
The third, seeing the colonel free, and the musket levelled at his own
head, immediately ran after the other two, to avoid any serious
consequences to himself.
[Illustration: Thornhill Rescues Colonel Jeffery From The Savages.]
"Thornhill, you have saved my life," said Colonel Jeffery, excitedly.
"Come away, don't stop here--to the ship!--to the ship!" And as he
spoke, they hurried after the crew and they succeeded in reaching the
boats and the ship in safety; congratulating themselves not a little
upon so lucky an escape from a people quite warlike enough to do
mischief, but not civilized enough to distinguish when to do it.
When men are far away from home, and in foreign lands with the skies of
other climes above them, their hearts become more closely knit together
in those ties of brotherhood which certainly ought to actuate the whole
universe, but which as certainly do not do so, except in very rare
instances. One of these instances, however, would be found in the
conduct of Colonel Jeffery and Mr. Thornhill, even under any
circumstances, for they were most emphatically what might be termed
kindred spirits; but when we come to unite to that fact the remarkable
manner in which they had been thrown together, and the mutual services
that they had it in their power to render to each other, we should not
be surprised at the almost romantic friendship that arose between them.
It was then that Thornhill made the colonel's breast the depository of
all his thoughts and all his wishes, and a freedom of intercourse and a
community of feeling ensued between them, which when it does take place
between persons of really congenial dispositions, produces the most
delightful results of human companionship. No one who has not endured
the tedium of a sea voyage, can at all be aware of what a pleasant thing
it is to have some one on board, in the rich stores of whose intellect
and fancy one can find a never-ending amusement. The winds might now
whistle through the cordage, and the waves toss the great ship on their
foaming crests, still Thornhill and Jeffery were together, finding in
the midst of danger, solace in each other's society, and each animating
the other to the performance of deeds of daring that astonished the
crew. The whole voyage was one of the greatest peril, and some of the
oldest seamen on board did not scruple, during the continuance of their
night watches to intimate to their companions that the ship, in their
opinion, would never reach England, and that she would founder somewhere
along the long stretch of the African coast. The captain, of course,
made every possible exertion to put a stop to such prophetic sayings,
but when once they commenced, in a short time there is no such thing as
completely eradicating them; and they, of course, produced the most
injurious effect, paralysing the exertions of the crew in times of
danger, and making them believe that they are in a doomed ship, and
consequently all they can do is useless. Sailors are extremely
superstitious on such matters, and there cannot be any reasonable doubt,
but that some of the disasters that befel the Neptune on her homeward
voyage from India, may be attributed to this feeling of fatality getting
hold of the seamen, and inducing them to think that, let them try what
they might, they could not save the ship. It happened that after they
had rounded the Cape, a dense fog came on, such as had not been known on
that coast for many a year; although the western shore of Africa at some
seasons of the year is rather subject to such a species of vaporous
exhalation. Every object was wrapped in the most profound gloom, and yet
there was a strong eddy or current of the ocean, flowing parallel with
the land, and as the captain hoped, rather off than on the shore. Still
there was a suspicion that the ship was making lee-way, which must
eventually bring it on shore, by some of the low promontories that were
by the maps indicated to be upon the coast. In consequence of this fear,
the greatest anxiety prevailed on board the vessel, and lights were left
burning on all parts of the deck, while two men were continually engaged
making soundings. It was about half-an-hour after midnight, as the
chronometer indicated a storm, that suddenly the men, who were on watch
on the deck, raised a loud cry of dismay. They had suddenly seen close
on to the larboard bow, lights which must belong to some vessel that,
like the Neptune, was encompassed in the fog, and a collision was quite
inevitable, for neither ship had time to put about. The only doubt,
which was a fearful and an agonising one to have solved, was whether the
stronger vessel was of sufficient bulk and power to run them down, or
they it; and that fearful question was one which a few moments must
settle. In fact, almost before the echo of that cry of horror which had
come from the men, had died away, the vessels met. There was a hideous
crash--one shriek of dismay and horror, and then all was still. The
Neptune, with considerable damage, and some of her bulwarks stove in,
sailed on; but the other ship went, with a surging sound, to the bottom
of the sea. Alas! nothing could be done. The fog was so dense, that
coupled, too, as it was with the darkness of the night, there could be
no hope of rescuing one of the ill-fated crew of the ship; and the
officers and seamen of the Neptune, although they shouted for some time,
and then listened, to hear if any survivors of the ship that had been
run down were swimming, no answer came to them; and when in about six
hours more, they sailed out of the fog into a clear sunshine, where
there was not so much as a cloud to be seen, they looked at each other
like men newly awakened from some strange and fearful dream. They never
discovered the name of the ship they had run down, and the whole affair
remained a profound mystery. When the Neptune reached the port of
London, the affair was repeated, and every exertion was made to obtain
some information concerning the ill-fated ship that had met with so
fearful a doom. Such were the circumstances which awakened all the
liveliest feelings of gratitude on the part of Colonel Jeffery towards
Mr. Thornhill; and hence was it that he considered it a sacred duty, now
that he was in London, and had the necessary leisure to do so, to leave
no stone unturned to discover what had become of him. After deep and
anxious thought, and feeling convinced that there was some mystery which
it was beyond his power to discover, he resolved upon asking the opinion
of a friend, likewise in the army, a Captain Rathbone, concerning the
whole of the facts. This gentleman, and a gentleman he was in the
fullest acceptance of the term, was in London; in fact, he had retired
from active service, and inhabited a small but pleasant house in the
outskirts of the metropolis. It was one of those old-fashioned cottage
residences, with all sorts of odd places and corners about it, and a
thriving garden full of fine old wood, such as are rather rare near to
London, and which are daily becoming more rare, in consequence of the
value of land immediately contiguous to the metropolis not permitting
large pieces to remain attached to small residences. Captain Rathbone
had an amiable family about him, such as he was and might well be proud
of, and was living in as great a state of domestic felicity as this
world could very well afford him. It was to this gentleman, then, that
Colonel Jeffery resolved upon going to lay all the circumstances before
him concerning the probable fate of poor Thornhill. This distance was
not so great but that he could walk it conveniently, and he did so,
arriving, towards the dusk of the evening, on the following day to that
which had witnessed his deeply interesting interview with Johanna Oakley
in the Temple-gardens. There is nothing on earth so delightfully
refreshing, after a dusty and rather a long country walk, as to suddenly
enter a well-kept and extremely verdant garden; and this was the case
especially to the feelings of Colonel Jeffery, when he arrived at Lime
Tree Lodge, the residence of Captain Rathbone. He met him with a most
cordial and frank welcome--a welcome which he expected, but which was
none the less delightful on that account; and, after sitting awhile with
the family in the house, he and the captain strolled into the garden,
and then Colonel Jeffery commenced his revelation. The captain, with
very few interruptions, heard him to an end; and, when he concluded by
saying--
"And now I am come to ask your advice upon all these matters;" the
captain immediately replied, in his warm, off-hand manner--
"I am afraid you won't find my advice of much importance; but I offer
you my active co-operation in anything you think ought to be done or can
be done in this affair, which, I assure you deeply interests me, and
gives me the greatest possible impulse to exertion. You have but to
command me in the matter, and I am completely at your disposal."
"I was quite certain you would say as much. But, notwithstanding the
manner in which you shrink from giving an opinion, I am anxious to know
what you really think with regard to what are, you will allow, most
extraordinary circumstances."
"The most natural thing in the world," said Captain Rathbone, "at the
first flush of the affair, seemed to be, that we ought to look for your
friend Thornhill at the point where he disappeared."
"At the barber's in Fleet-street?"
"Precisely. Did he leave the barber, or did he not?"
"Sweeney Todd says that he left him, and proceeded down the street
towards the city, in pursuance of a direction he had given him to Mr.
Oakley, the spectacle-maker, and that he saw him get into some sort of
disturbance at the end of the market; but to put against that, we have
the fact of the dog remaining by the barber's door, and his refusing to
leave it on any amount of solicitation. Now the very fact that a dog
could act in such a way proclaims an amount of sagacity that seems to
tell loudly against the presumption that such a creature could make any
mistake."
"It does. What say you, now, to go into town to-morrow morning, and
making a call at the barber's, without proclaiming we have any special
errand, except to be shaved and dressed? Do you think he would know you
again?"
"Scarcely, in plain clothes. I was in my undress uniform when I called
with the captain of the Neptune, so that his impression of me must be of
decidedly a military character; and the probability is, that he would
not know me at all in the clothes of a civilian. I like the idea of
giving a call at the barber's."
"Do you think your friend Thornhill was a man likely to talk about the
valuable pearls he had in his possession?"
"Certainly not."
"I merely ask you, because they might have offered a great temptation;
and if he has experienced any foul play at the hands of the barber, the
idea of becoming possessed of such a valuable treasure might have been
the inducement."
"I do not think it probable, but it has struck me that, if we obtain any
information whatever of Thornhill, it will be in consequence of these
very pearls. They are of great value, and not likely to be overlooked;
and yet, unless a customer be found for them, they are of no value at
all; and nobody buys jewels of that character but from the personal
vanity of making, of course, some public display of them."
"That is true; and so, from hand to hand, we might trace those pearls
until we come to the individual who must have had them from Thornhill
himself, and who might be forced to account most strictly for the manner
in which they came into his possession."
After some more desultory conversation upon the subject, it was agreed
that Colonel Jeffery should take a bed for the night at Lime Tree Lodge,
and that, in the morning, they should both start for London, and,
disguising themselves as respectable citizens, make some attempts, by
talking about jewels and precious stones, to draw out the barber into a
confession that he had something of the sort to dispose of; and,
moreover, they fully intended to take away the dog, with the care of
which Captain Rathbone charged himself. We may pass over the pleasant,
social evening which the colonel passed with the amiable family of the
Rathbones, and, skipping likewise a conversation of some strange and
confused dreams which Jeffery had during the night concerning his friend
Thornhill, we will presume that both the colonel and the captain have
breakfasted, and that they have proceeded to London and are at the shop
of a clothier in the neighbourhood of the Strand, in order to procure
coats, wigs, and hats, that should disguise them for their visit to
Sweeney Todd. Then, arm in arm, they walked towards Fleet-street, and
soon arrived opposite the little shop within which there appears to be
so much mystery.
"The dog, you perceive, is not here," said the colonel; "I had my
suspicions, however, when I passed with Johanna Oakley that something
was amiss with him, and I have no doubt but that the rascally barber has
fairly compassed his destruction."
"If the barber be innocent," said Captain Rathbone, "you must admit that
it would be one of the most confoundedly annoying things in the world to
have a dog continually at his door assuming such an aspect of
accusation, and in that case I can scarcely wonder at his putting the
creature out of the way."
"No, presuming upon his innocence, certainly; but we will say nothing
about all that, and remember we must come in as perfect strangers,
knowing nothing of the affair of the dog, and presuming nothing about
the disappearance of any one in this locality."
"Agreed, come on; if he should see us through the window, hanging about
at all or hesitating, his suspicions will be at once awakened, and we
shall do no good."
They both entered the shop and found Sweeney Todd wearing an
extraordinary singular appearance, for there was a black patch over one
of his eyes, which was kept in its place by a green riband that went
round his head, so that he looked more fierce and diabolical than ever;
and having shaved off a small whisker that he used to wear, his
countenance, although to the full as hideous as ever, certainly had a
different character of ugliness to that which had before characterised
it, and attracted the attention of the colonel. That gentleman would
hardly have known him again any where but in his own shop, and when we
come to consider Sweeney Todd's adventures of the preceding evening, we
shall feel not surprised that he saw the necessity of endeavouring to
make as much change in his appearance as possible, for fear he should
come across any of the parties who had chased him, and who, for all he
knew to the contrary, might, quite unsuspectingly, drop in to be shaved
in the course of the morning, perhaps to retail at that acknowledged
mart for all sorts of gossip--a barber's shop--some of the very
incidents which he has so well qualified himself to relate.
"Shaved and dressed, gentlemen?" said Sweeney Todd, as his customers
made their appearance.
"Shaved only." said Captain Rathbone, who had agreed to be principal
spokesman, in case Sweeney Todd should have any remembrance of the
colonel's voice, and so suspect him.
"Pray be seated," said Sweeney Todd to Colonel Jeffery. "I'll soon
polish off your friend, sir, and then I'll begin upon you. Would you
like to see the morning paper, sir? it's at your service. I was just
looking myself, sir, at a most mysterious circumstance, if it's true,
but you can't believe, you know sir, all that is put in newspapers."
"Thank you--thank you," said the colonel.
Captain Rathbone sat down to be shaved, for he had purposely omitted
that operation at home, in order that it should not appear a mere excuse
to get into Sweeney Todd's shop.
"Why, sir," continued Sweeney Todd, "as I was saying, it is a most
remarkable circumstance."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir, an old gentleman of the name of Fidler had been to receive a
sum of money at the west-end of the town, and has never been heard of
since; that was yesterday, sir, and here is a description of him in the
papers of to-day. 'A snuff-coloured coat, and velvet smalls--black
velvet, I should have said--silk stockings, and silver shoe-buckles, and
a gold-headed cane, with W. D. F. upon it, meaning "William Dumpledown
Fidler"--a most mysterious affair, gentlemen.'"
A sort of groan came from the corner of the shop, and, on the impulse of
the moment, Colonel Jeffery sprang to his feet, exclaiming--
"What's that--what's that?"
"Oh, it's only my apprentice, Tobias Ragg. He has got a pain in his
stomach from eating too many of Lovett's pork pies. Aint that it,
Tobias, my bud?"
"Yes, sir," said Tobias with another groan.
"Oh, indeed," said the colonel, "it ought to make him more careful for
the future."
"It's to be hoped it will, sir; Tobias, do you hear what this gentleman
says: it ought to make you more careful in future. I am too indulgent to
you, that's the fact. Now, sir, I believe you are as clean shaved as
ever you were in your life."
"Why, yes," said Captain Rathbone, "I think that will do very well; and
now, Mr. Green"--addressing the colonel by that assumed named--"and now,
Mr. Green, be quick, or we shall be too late for the duke, and so lose
the sale of some of our jewels."
"We shall indeed," said the colonel, "if we don't mind. We sat too long
over our breakfast at the inn, and his grace is too rich and too good a
customer to lose--he don't mind what price he gives for things that take
his fancy, or the fancy of his duchess."
"Jewel merchants, gentlemen, I presume," said Sweeney Todd.
"Yes, we have been in that line for some time; and by one of us trading
in one direction, and the other in another, we manage extremely well,
because we exchange what suits our different customers, and keep up two
distinct connexions."
"A very good plan," said Sweeney Todd. "I'll be as quick as I can with
you, sir. Dealing in jewels is better than shaving."
"I dare say it is."
"Of course, it is, sir; here have I been slaving for some years in this
shop, and not done much good--that is to say, when I talk of not having
done much good, I admit I have made enough to retire upon quietly and
comfortably, and I mean to do so very shortly. There you are, sir,
shaved with celerity you seldom meet with, and as clean as possible, for
the small charge of one penny. Thank you, gentlemen--there's your
change; good morning."
They had no resource but to leave the shop; and when they had gone
Sweeney Todd, as he stropped the razor he had been using upon his hand,
gave a most diabolical grin, muttering--
"Clever--very ingenious--but it won't do. Oh dear, no, not at all! I am
not so easily taken in--diamond merchants, ah! ah! and no objection, of
course, to deal in pearls--a good jest that, truly, a capital jest. If I
had been accustomed to be so easily defeated, I had not now been here a
living man. Tobias, Tobias, I say."
"Yes, sir," said the lad, dejectedly.
"Have you forgotten your mother's danger in case you breathe a syllable
of anything that has occurred here, or that you think has occurred here,
or so much as dream of?"
"No," said the boy, "indeed I have not. I never can forget it, if I were
to live a hundred years."
"That's well, prudent, excellent, Tobias. Go out now, and if those two
persons who were here last, waylay you in the street, let them say what
they will, and do you reply to them as shortly as possible; but be sure
you come back to me quickly and report what they do say. They turned to
the left, towards the city--now be off with you."
* * * * *
"It's of no use," said Colonel Jeffery to the captain; "the barber is
either too cunning for me, or he is really innocent of all participation
in the disappearance of Thornhill."
"And yet there are suspicious circumstances. I watched his countenance
when the subject of jewels was mentioned, and I saw a sudden change come
over it; it was but momentary, but still it gave me a suspicion that he
knew something which caution alone kept within the recesses of his
breast. The conduct of the boy, too, was strange; and then again, if he
has the string of pearls, their value would give him all the power to do
what he says he is about to do--viz., to retire from business with an
independence."
"Hush! There, did you see that lad?"
"Yes; why it's the barber's boy."
"It is the same lad he called Tobias--shall we speak to him?"
"Let's make a bolder push, and offer him an ample reward for any
information he may give us."
"Agreed, agreed."
They both walked up to Tobias, who was listlessly walking along the
streets, and when they reached him, they were both struck with the
appearance of care and sadness that was upon the boy's face. He looked
perfectly haggard and careworn--an expression sad to see upon the face
of one so young; and, when the colonel accosted him in a kindly tone, he
seemed so unnerved that tears immediately darted to his eyes, although
at the same time he shrank back as if alarmed.
"My lad," said the colonel, "you reside, I think, with Sweeney Todd, the
barber. Is he not a kind master to you, that you seem so unhappy?"
"No, no--that is, I mean yes, I have nothing to tell. Let me pass on."
"What is the meaning of this confusion?"
"Nothing, nothing."
"I say, my lad, here is a guinea for you, if you will tell us what
became of the man of a sea-faring appearance, who came with a dog to
your master's house, some days since, to be shaved."
"I cannot tell you," said the boy, "I cannot tell you what I do not
know."
"But, you have some idea, probably. Come, we will make it worth your
while, and thereby protect you from Sweeney Todd. We have the power to
do so, and all the inclination; but you must be quite explicit with us,
and tell us frankly what you think, and what you know concerning the man
in whose fate we are interested."
"I know nothing, I think nothing," said Tobias. "Let me go, I have
nothing to say, except that he was shaved, and went away."
"But how came he to leave his dog behind him?"
"I cannot tell. I know nothing."
"It is evident that you do know something, but hesitate either from fear
or some other motive to tell it; as you are inaccessible to fair means,
we must resort to others, and you shall at once come before a
magistrate, who will force you to speak out."
"Do with me what you will," said Tobias, "I cannot help it. I have
nothing to say to you, nothing whatever. Oh, my poor mother, if it were
not for you--"
"What then?"
"Nothing! nothing! nothing!"
It was but a threat of the colonel to take the boy before a magistrate,
for he had really no grounds for so doing; and if the boy chose to keep
a secret, if he had one, not all the magistrates in the world could
force words from his lips that he felt not inclined to utter; and so,
after one more effort, they felt that they must leave him.
"Boy," said the colonel, "you are young, and cannot well judge of the
consequences of particular lines of conduct; you ought to weigh well
what you are about, and hesitate long before you determine keeping
dangerous secrets: we can convince you that we have the power of
completely protecting you from all that Sweeney Todd could possibly
attempt. Think again, for this is an opportunity of saving yourself
perhaps from much future misery, that may never arise again."
"I have nothing to say," said the boy, "I have nothing to say."
He uttered these words with such an agonized expression of countenance,
that they were both convinced he had something to say, and that, too, of
the first importance--a something which would be valuable to them in the
way of information, extremely valuable probably, and yet which they felt
the utter impossibility of wringing from him. They were compelled to
leave him, and likewise with the additional mortification, that, far
from making any advance in the matter, they had placed themselves and
their cause in a much worse position, in so far as they had awakened all
Sweeney Todd's suspicions if he were guilty, and yet advanced not one
step in the transaction. And then, to make the matter all the more
perplexing, there was still the possibility that they might be
altogether upon a wrong scent, and that the barber of Fleet-street had
no more to do with the disappearance of Mr. Thornhill than they had
themselves.
CHAPTER XI.
THE STRANGER AT LOVETT'S.
Towards the dusk of the evening of that day, after the last batch of
pies at Lovett's had been disposed of, there walked into the shop a man
most miserably clad, and who stood for a few moments staring with
weakness and hunger at the counter before he spoke. Mrs. Lovett was
there, but she had no smile for him, and instead of its usual bland
expression, her countenance wore an aspect of anger, as she forestalled
what the man had to say, by exclaiming--
"Go away, we never give anything to beggars."
There came a flush of colour for the moment across the features of the
stranger, and then he replied--
"Mistress Lovett, I do not come to ask alms of you, but to know if you
can recommend me to any employment?"
"Recommend you! recommend a ragged wretch like you?"
"I am a ragged wretch, and, moreover, quite destitute. In better times I
have sat at your counter, and paid cheerfully for what I wanted, and
then one of your softest smiles has ever been at my disposal. I do not
say this as a reproach to you, because the cause of your smile was well
known to be a self-interested one, and when that cause had passed away,
I can no longer expect it; but I am so situated, that I am willing to do
anything for a mere subsistence."
"Oh, yes, and then when you get into a better case again, I have no
doubt but you have quite sufficient insolence to make you unbearable;
besides, what employment can we have but pie-making, and we have a man
already who suits us very well with the exception that he, as you would
do if we were to exchange him, has grown insolent, and fancies himself
master of the place."
[Illustration: The Stranger At Mrs. Lovett's Pie Shop.]
"Well, well," said the stranger, "of course, there is always sufficient
argument against the poor and destitute to keep them so. If you will
assert that my conduct will be the nature you describe, it is quite
impossible for me to prove the contrary."
He turned and was about to leave the shop, but Mrs. Lovett called after
him saying--
"Come in again in two hours."
He paused a moment or two, and then, turning his emaciated countenance
upon her, said--
"I will if my strength permit me--water from the pumps in the street is
but a poor thing for a man to subsist upon for twenty-four hours."
"You may take one pie."
The half-famished, miserable-looking man seized upon a pie, and devoured
it in an instant.
"My name," he said, "is Jarvis Williams; I'll be here, never fear, Mrs.
Lovett, in two hours; and, notwithstanding all you have said, you shall
find no change in my behaviour because I may be well kept and better
clothed; but if I should feel dissatisfied with my situation, I will
leave it, and no harm done."
So saying, he walked from the shop, and when he was gone, a strange
expression came across the countenance of Mrs. Lovett, and she said in a
low tone to herself--
"He might suit for a few months, like the rest, and it is clear that we
must get rid of the one we have; I must think of it."
* * * * *
There is a cellar of vast extent, and of dim and sepulchral aspect--some
rough red tiles are laid upon the floor, and pieces of flint and large
jagged stones have been hammered into the earthen walls to strengthen
them; while here and there rough huge pillars made by beams of timber
rise perpendicularly from the floor, and prop large flat pieces of wood
against the ceiling, to support it. Here and there gleaming lights seem
to be peeping out from furnaces, and there is a strange hissing,
simmering sound going on, while the whole air is impregnated with a rich
and savoury vapour. This is Lovett's pie manufactory beneath the
pavement of Bell-yard and at this time a night-batch of some thousands
is being made for the purpose of being sent by carts the first thing in
the morning all over the suburbs of London. By the earliest dawn of day
a crowd of itinerant hawkers of pies would make their appearance,
carrying off a large quantity to regular customers who had them daily,
and no more thought of being without them, than of forbidding the
milkman or the baker to call at their residences. It will be seen and
understood, therefore, that the retail part of Mrs. Lovett's business,
which took place principally between the hours of twelve and one, was by
no means the most important or profitable portion of a concern which was
really of immense magnitude, and which brought in a large yearly income.
To stand in the cellar when this immense manufacture of what, at first
sight, would appear such a trivial article was carried on, and to look
about as far as the eye could reach, was by no means to have a
sufficient idea of the extent of the place; for there were as many doors
in different directions and singular low-arched entrances to different
vaults, which all appeared as black as midnight, that one might almost
suppose the inhabitants of all the surrounding neighbourhood had, by
common consent given up their cellars to Lovett's pie factory. There is
but one miserable light, except the occasional fitful glare that comes
from the ovens where the pies are stewing, hissing, and spluttering in
their own luscious gravy. There is but one man, too, throughout all the
place, and he is sitting on a low three-legged stool in one corner, with
his head resting upon his hands, and gently rocking to and fro, as he
utters scarcely audible moans. He is but lightly clad; in fact, he seems
to have but little on him except a shirt and a pair of loose canvas
trousers. The sleeves of the former are turned up beyond his elbows, and
on his head he has a white night-cap. It seems astonishing that such a
man, even with the assistance of Mrs. Lovett, could make so many pies as
are required in a day; but then, system does wonders, and in those
cellars there are various mechanical contrivances for kneading the
dough, chopping up the meat, &c., which greatly reduced the labour. But
what a miserable object is that man--what a sad and soul-striken wretch
he looks! His face is pale and haggard, his eyes deeply sunken; and, as
he removes his hands from before his visage, and looks about him, a more
perfect picture of horror could not have been found.
"I must leave to-night," he said, in coarse accents--"I must leave
to-night. I know too much--my brain is full of horrors. I have not slept
now for five nights, nor dare I eat anything but the raw flour. I will
leave to-night if they do not watch me too closely. Oh! if I could but
get into the streets--if I could but once again breathe the fresh air!
Hush! what's that? I thought I heard a noise."
He rose, and stood trembling and listening; but all was still, save the
simmering and hissing of the pies, and then he resumed his seat with a
deep sigh.
"All the doors fastened upon me," he said, "what can it mean? It's very
horrible, and my heart dies within me. Six weeks only have I been
here--only six weeks. I was starving before I came. Alas, alas! how much
better to have starved! I should have been dead before now, and spared
all this agony."
"Skinner!" cried a voice, and it was a female one--"Skinner, how long
will the ovens be?"
"A quarter of an hour--a quarter of an hour, Mrs. Lovett. God help me!"
"What is that you say?"
"I said, God help me!--surely a man may say that without offence."
A door slammed shut, and the miserable man was alone again.
"How strangely," he said, "on this night my thoughts go back to early
days, and to what I once was. The pleasant scenes of my youth recur to
me. I see again the ivy-mantled porch, and the pleasant village green. I
hear again the merry ringing laughter of my playmates, and there, in my
mind's eye, appears to me the bubbling stream, and the ancient mill, the
old mansion-house, with its tall turrets, and its air of silent
grandeur. I hear the music of the birds, and the winds making rough
melody among the trees. 'Tis very strange that all those sights and
sounds should come back to me at such a time as this, as if just to
remind me what a wretch I am."
He was silent for a few moments, during which he trembled with emotion;
then he spoke again, saying--
"Thus the forms of those whom I once knew, and many of whom have gone
already to the silent tomb, appear to come thronging round me. They bend
their eyes momentarily upon me, and, with settled expressions, show
acutely the sympathy they feel for me. I see her, too, who first, in my
bosom, lit up the flame of soft affection. I see her gliding past me
like the dim vision of a dream, indistinct, but beautiful; no more than
a shadow--and yet to me most palpable. What am I now--what am I now?"
He resumed his former position, with his head resting upon his hands; he
rocked himself slowly to and fro, uttering those moans of a tortured
spirit, which we have before noticed. But see, one of the small arch
doors open, in the gloom of those vaults, and a man, in a stooping
posture, creeps in--a half-mask is upon his face, and he wears a cloak;
but both his hands are at liberty. In one of them he carries a
double-headed hammer, with a powerful handle, of about ten inches in
length. He has probably come out of a darker place than the one into
which he now so cautiously creeps, for he shades the light from his
eyes, as if it were suddenly rather too much for him, and then he looks
cautiously round the vault, until he sees the crouched-up figure of the
man whose duty it is to attend the ovens. From that moment he looks at
nothing else; but advances towards him, steadily and cautiously. It is
evident that great secresy is his object, for he is walking on his
stocking soles only; and it is impossible to hear the slightest sounds
of his foot-steps. Nearer and nearer he comes, so slowly, and yet so
surely, towards him, who still keeps up the low moaning sound,
indicative of mental anquish. Now he is close to him, and he bends over
him for a moment, with a look of fiendish malice. It is a look which,
despite his mask, glances full from his eyes, and then grasping the
hammer tightly, in both hands, he raises it slowly above his head, and
gives it a swinging motion through the air. There is no knowing what
induced the man that was crouching on the stool to rise at that moment;
but he did so, and paced about with great quickness. A sudden shriek
burst from his lips, as he beheld so terrific an apparition before him;
but, before he could repeat the word, the hammer descended, crushing
into his skull, and he fell lifeless, without a moan.
* * * * *
"And so, Mr. Jarvis Williams, you have kept your word," said Mrs. Lovett
to the emaciated, care-worn stranger, who had solicited employment of
her, "and so, Jarvis Williams, you have kept your word, and come for
employment?"
"I have, madam, and hope that you can give it to me: I frankly tell you
that I would seek for something better, and more congenial to my
disposition, if I could; but who would employ one presenting such a
wretched appearance as I do? You see that I am all in rags, and I have
told you that I have been half starved, and therefore it is only some
common and ordinary employment that I can hope to get, and that made me
come to you."
"Well, I don't see why we should not make a trial of you, at all events,
so if you like to go down into the bakehouse, I will follow you, and
show you what you have to do. You remember that you have to live
entirely upon the pies, unless you like to purchase for yourself
anything else, which you may do if you can get the money. We give none,
and you must likewise agree never to leave the bakehouse."
"Never to leave it?"
"Never, unless you leave it for good, and for all; if upon those
conditions you choose to accept the situation, you may, and if not, you
can go about your business at once, and leave it alone."
"Alas, madam, I have no resource; but you spoke of having a man
already."
"Yes; but he has gone to his friends; he has gone to some of his very
oldest friends, who will be quite glad to see him, so now say the
word:--are you willing or are you not, to take the situation?"
"My poverty and my destitution consent, if my will be averse, Mrs.
Lovett; but, of course, I quite understand that I leave when I please."
"Oh, of course, we never think of keeping anybody many hours after they
begin to feel uncomfortable. If you be ready, follow me."
"I am quite ready, and thankful for a shelter. All the brightest visions
of my early life have long since faded away, and it matters little or
indeed nothing what now becomes of me; I will follow you, madam, freely,
upon the conditions you have mentioned."
Mrs. Lovett lifted up a portion of the counter which permitted him to
pass behind it, and then he followed her into a small room, which was at
the back of the shop. She then took a key from her pocket, and opened an
old door which was in the wainscoting, and immediately behind which was
a flight of stairs. These she descended, and Jarvis Williams followed
her, to a considerable depth, after which she took an iron bar from
behind another door, and flung it open, showing her new assistant the
interior of that vault which we have already very briefly described.
"These," she said, "are the ovens, and I will proceed to show you how
you can manufacture the pies, feed the furnaces, and make yourself
generally useful. Flour will be always let down through a trap-door from
the upper shop, as well as everything required for making the pies but
the meat, and that you will always find ranged upon shelves either in
lumps or steaks, in a small room through this door, but it is only at
particular times you will find the door open; and whenever you do so,
you had better always take out what meat you think you will require for
the next batch."
"I understand all that, madam," said Williams, "but how does it get
there?"
"That's no business of yours; so long as you are supplied with it, that
is sufficient for you; and now I will go through the process of making
one pie, so that you may know how to proceed, and you will find with
what amazing quickness they can be manufactured if you set about them in
the proper manner."
She then showed him how a piece of meat thrown into a machine became
finely minced up, by merely turning a handle; and then how flour and
water and lard were mixed up together, to make the crust of the pies, by
another machine, which threw out the paste thus manufactured in small
pieces, each just large enough for a pie. Lastly, she showed him how a
tray, which just held a hundred, could be filled, and, by turning a
windlass, sent up to the shop, through a square trap-door, which went
right up to the very counter.
"And now," she said, "I must leave you. As long as you are industrious
you will go on very well, but as soon as you begin to be idle, and
neglect the orders which are sent to you by me, you will get a piece of
information which will be useful, and which if you be a prudent man will
enable you to know what you are about."
"What is that? you may as well give it to me now."
"No; we seldom find there is occasion for it at first, but, after a
time, when you get well fed, you are pretty sure to want it."
So saying she left the place, and he heard the door by which he had
entered, carefully barred after her. Suddenly then he heard her voice
again, and so clearly and distinctly, too, that he thought she must have
come back again; but upon looking up at the door, he found that that
arose from her speaking through a small grating at the upper part of it,
to which her mouth was closely placed.
"Remember your duty," she said, "and I warn you, that any attempt to
leave here will be as futile as it will be dangerous."
"Except with your consent, when I relinquish the situation."
"Oh, certainly--certainly, you are quite right there, everybody who
relinquishes the situation goes to his old friends, whom he has not seen
for many years, perhaps."
"What a strange manner of talking she has!" said Jarvis Williams to
himself, when he found he was alone. "There seems to be some singular
and hidden meaning in every word she utters. What can she mean by a
communication being made to me, if I neglect my duty! It is very
strange; and what a singular looking place this is! I think it would be
quite unbearable if it were not for the delightful odour of the pies,
and they are indeed delicious--perhaps more delicious to me, who has
been famished so long, and have gone through so much wretchedness; there
is no one here but myself, and I am hungry now--frightfully hungry, and
whether the pies be done or not, I'll have half a dozen of them at any
rate, so here goes."
He opened one of the ovens, and the fragrant steam that came out was
perfectly delicious, and he sniffed it up with a satisfaction such as he
had never felt before, as regards anything that was eatable.
"Is it possible," he said "that I shall be able to make such delicious
pies? At all events one can't starve here, and if it be a kind of
imprisonment, it's a pleasant one. Upon my soul, they are nice, even
half-cooked--delicious! I'll have another half-dozen, there are lots of
them--delightful! I can't keep the gravy from running out of the corners
of my mouth. Upon my soul, Mrs. Lovett, I don't know where you get your
meat, but it's all as tender as young chickens, and the fat actually
melts away in one's mouth. Ah, these are pies, something like
pies!--they are positively fit for the gods!"
Mrs. Lovett's new man ate twelve threepenny pies, and then he thought of
leaving off. It was a little drawback not to have anything to wash them
down with but cold water; but he reconciled himself to this.
"For," as he said, "after all it would be a pity to take the flavour of
such pies out of one's mouth--indeed it would be a thousand pities, so I
won't think of it, but just put up with what I have got and not
complain. I might have gone further and fared worse with a vengeance,
and I cannot help looking upon it as a singular piece of good fortune
that made me think of coming here in my deep distress to try and get
something to do. I have no friends and no money; she whom I loved is
faithless, and here I am, master of as many pies as I like, and to all
appearance monarch of all I survey; for there really seems to be no one
to dispute my supremacy. To be sure my kingdom is rather a gloomy one;
but then I can abdicate it when I like, and when I am tired of those
delicious pies, if such a thing be possible, which I really very much
doubt, I can give up my situation, and think of something else. If I do
that, I will leave England for ever; it's no place for me after the many
disappointments I have had. No friend left me--my girl false--not a
relation but who would turn his back upon me! I will go somewhere where
I am unknown and can form new connexions, and perhaps make new
friendships of a more permanent and stable character than the old ones,
which have all proved so false to me; and, in the meantime, I'll make
and eat pies as fast as I can."
CHAPTER XII.
THE RESOLUTION COME TO BY JOHANNA OAKLEY.
The beautiful Johanna--when in obedience to the command of her father
she left him, and begged him (the beef-eater) to manage matters with the
Rev. Mr. Lupin--did not proceed directly up stairs to her apartment, but
lingered on the staircase to hear what ensued; and if anything in her
dejected state of mind could have given her amusement, it would
certainly have been the way in which the beef-eater exacted a
retribution from the reverend personage, who was not likely again to
intrude himself into the house of the spectacle-maker. But when he was
gone, and she heard that a sort of peace had been patched up with her
mother--a peace which, from her knowledge of the high contracting
parties, she conjectured would not last long--she returned to her room,
and locked herself in; so that if any attempt were made to get her down
to partake of the supper, it might be supposed she was asleep, for she
felt herself totally unequal to the task of making one in any party,
however much she might respect the individual members that composed it.
And she did respect Ben the beef-eater; for she had a lively
recollection of much kindness from him during her early years, and she
knew that he had never come to the house when she was a child without
bringing her some token of his regard in the shape of a plaything, or
some little article of doll's finery, which at that time was very
precious. She was not wrong in her conjectures that Ben would make an
attempt to get her down stairs, for her father came up at the
beef-eater's request, and tapped at her door. She thought the best plan,
as indeed it was, would be to make no answer, so that the old
spectacle-maker concluded at once what she wished him to conclude,
namely, that she had gone to sleep; and he walked quietly down the
stairs again, glad that he had not disturbed her, and told Ben as much.
Now, feeling herself quite secure from interruption for the night,
Johanna did not attempt to seek repose, but set herself seriously to
reflect upon what had occurred. She almost repeated to herself, word for
word, what Colonel Jeffery had told her; and, as she revolved the matter
over and over again in her brain, a strange thought took possession of
her, which she could not banish, and which, when once it found a home
within her breast, began to gather probability from every slight
circumstance that was in any way connected with it. This thought,
strange as it may appear, was, that the Mr. Thornhill, of whom Colonel
Jeffery spoke in terms of such high eulogium, was no other than Mark
Ingestrie himself. It is astonishing, when once a thought occurs to the
mind, that makes a strong impression, how, with immense rapidity, a rush
of evidence will appear to come to support it. And thus it was with
regard to this supposition of Johanna Oakley. She immediately remembered
a host of little things which favoured the idea, and among the rest, she
fully recollected that Mark Ingestrie had told her he meant to change
his name when he left England; for that he wished her and her only to
know anything of him, or what had become of him; and that his intention
was to baffle inquiry, in case it should be made, particularly by Mr.
Grant, towards whom he felt a far greater amount of indignation, than
the circumstances at all warranted him in feeling. Then she recollected
all that Colonel Jeffery had said with regard to the gallant and noble
conduct of this Mr. Thornhill, and, girl like, she thought that those
high and noble qualities could surely belong to no one but her own
lover, to such an extent; and that, therefore, Mr. Thornhill and Mark
Ingestrie must be one and the same person. Over and over again, she
regretted she had not asked Colonel Jeffery for a personal description
of Mr. Thornhill, for that would have settled all her doubts at once,
and the idea that she had it still in her power to do so, in consequence
of the appointment he had made with her for that day week brought her
some consolation.
"It must have been he," she said; "his anxiety to leave the ship, and
get here by the day he mentions, proves it; besides, how improbable it
is, that at the burning of the ill-fated vessel, Ingestrie should place
in the hands of another what he intended for me, when that other was
quite as likely, and perhaps more so, to meet with death as Mark
himself."
Thus she reasoned, forcing herself each moment into a stronger belief of
the identity of Thornhill with Mark Ingestrie, and so certainly
narrowing her anxieties to a consideration of the fate of one person
instead of two.
"I will meet Colonel Jeffery," she said, "and ask him if this Mr.
Thornhill had fair hair, and a soft and pleasing expression about the
eyes, that could not fail to be remembered. I will ask him how he spoke,
and how he looked; and get him, if he can, to describe to me even the
very tones of his voice; and then I shall be sure, without the shadow of
a doubt, that it is Mark. But then, oh! then comes the anxious question,
of what has been his fate?"
When poor Johanna began to consider the multitude of things that might
have happened to her lover during his progress from Sweeney Todd's, in
Fleet-street, to her father's house, she became quite lost in a perfect
maze of conjecture, and then her thoughts always painfully reverted back
to the barber's shop where the dog had been stationed; and she trembled
to reflect for a moment upon the frightful danger to which that string
of pearls might have subjected him.
"Alas! alas!" she cried, "I can well conceive that the man whom I saw
attempting to poison the dog would be capable of any enormity. I saw his
face but for a moment, and yet it was one never again to be forgotten.
It was a face in which might be read cruelty and evil passions; besides,
the man who would put an unoffending animal to a cruel death, shows an
absence of feeling, and a baseness of mind, which make him capable of
any crime he thinks he can commit with impunity. What can I do--oh! what
can I do to unravel this mystery?"
No one could have been more tenderly and gently brought up than Johanna
Oakley, but yet, inhabitive of her heart, was a spirit and a
determination which few indeed could have given her credit for, by
merely looking on the gentle and affectionate countenance which she
ordinarily presented. But it is no new phenomenon in the history of the
human heart to find that some of the most gentle and loveliest of human
creatures are capable of the highest efforts of perversion; and when
Johanna Oakley told herself, which she did, she was determined to devote
her existence to a discovery of the mystery that enveloped the fate of
Mark Ingestrie, she likewise made up her mind that the most likely man
for accomplishing that object should not be rejected by her on the score
of danger, and she at once set to work considering what those means
should be. This seemed an endless task, but still she thought that if,
by any means whatever, she could get admittance to the barber's house,
she might be able to come to some conclusion as to whether or not it was
there where Thornhill, whom she believed to be Ingestrie, had been
stayed in his progress.
"Aid me Heaven," she cried, "in the adoption of some means of action on
the occasion. Is there any one with whom I dare advise? Alas! I fear
not, for the only person in whom I have put my whole heart is my father,
and his affection for me would prompt him at once to interpose every
possible obstacle to my proceeding, for fear danger should come of it.
To be sure, there is Arabella Wilmot, my old school fellow and bosom
friend, she would advise me to the best of her ability, but I much fear
she is too romantic and full of odd, strange actions, that she has taken
from books, to be a good adviser; and yet what can I do? I must speak to
some one, if it be but in case any accident happening to me, my father
may get news of it, and I know of no one else whom I can trust but
Arabella."
After some little more consideration, Johanna made up her mind that on
the following morning she would go to the house of her old school
friend, which was in the immediate vicinity, and hold a conversation
with her.
"I shall hear something," she said, "at least of a kindly and a
consoling character; for what Arabella may want in calm and steady
judgment, she fully compensates for in actual feeling, and what is most
of all, I know I can trust her word implicitly, and that my secret will
remain as safely locked in her breast as if it were in my own."
It was something to come to a conclusion to ask advice, and she felt
that some portion of her anxiety was lifted from her mind by the mere
fact that she had made so firm a mental resolution, that neither danger
nor difficulty should deter her from seeking to know the fate of her
lover. She retired to rest now with a greater hope, and while she is
courting repose, notwithstanding the chance of the discovered images
that fancy may present to her in her slumbers, we will take a glance at
the parlour below, and see how far Mrs. Oakley is conveying out the
pacific intention she had so tacitly expressed, and how the supper is
going forward, which, with not the best grace in the world, she is
preparing for her husband, who for the first time in his life had begun
to assert his rights, and for big Ben, the beef-eater, whom she as
cordially disliked as it was possible for any woman to detest any man.
Mrs. Oakley by no means preserved her taciturn demeanour, for after a
little she spoke, saying--
"There's nothing tasty in the house; suppose I run over the way to
Waggarge's, and get some of those Epping sausages with the peculiar
flavour."
"Ah, do," said Mr. Oakley, "they are beautiful, Ben, I can assure you."
"Well, I don't know," said Ben the beef-eater, "sausages are all very
well in their way, but you need such a plaguey lot of them; for if you
only eat them one at a time, how soon will you get through a dozen or
two."
"A dozen or two," said Mrs. Oakley; "why, there are only five to a
pound."
"Then," said Ben, making a mental calculation, "then, I think, ma'am,
that you ought not to get more than nine pounds of them, and that will
be a matter of forty-five mouthfuls for us."
"Get nine pounds of them," said Mr. Oakley, "if they be wanted; I know
Ben has an appetite."
"Indeed," said Ben, "but I have fell off lately, and don't take to my
wittals as I used; you can order, missus, if you please, a gallon of
half-and-half as you go along. One must have a drain of drink of some
sort; and mind you don't be going to any expense on my account, and
getting anything but the little snack I have mentioned, for ten to one I
shall take supper when I get to the Tower; only human nature is weak,
you know, missus, and requires something to be a continually a holding
of it up."
"Certainly," said Mr. Oakley, "certainly, have what you like, Ben; just
say the word before Mrs. Oakley goes out; is there anything else?"
"No, no," said Ben, "oh dear no, nothing to speak of; but if you should
pass a shop where they sells fat bacon, about four or five pounds, cut
into rashers, you'll find, missus, will help down the blessed sausages."
"Gracious Providence," said Mrs. Oakley, "who is to cook it?"
"Who is to cook it, ma'am? why the kitchen fire, I suppose; but mind ye
if the man aint got any sausages, there's a shop where they sells biled
beef at the corner, and I shall be quite satisfied if you brings in
about ten or twelve pounds of that. You can make it up into about half a
dozen sandwiches."
"Go, my dear, go at once," said Mr. Oakley, "and get Ben his supper. I
am quite sure he wants it, and be as quick as you can."
"Ah," said Ben, when Mrs. Oakley was gone, "I didn't tell you how I was
sarved last week at Mrs. Harveys. You know they are so precious genteel
there that they don't speak above their blessed breaths for fear of
wearing themselves out; and they sits down in a chair as if it were
balanced only on one leg, and a little more one way or t'other would
upset them. Then, if they sees a crumb a laying on the floor they rings
the bell, and a poor half-starved devil of a servant comes and says,
'Did you ring, ma'am?' and then they says 'Yes, bring a dust-shovel and
a broom, there is a crumb a laying there,' and then says I--'Damn you
all,' says I, 'bring a scavenger's cart, and half-dozen birch brooms,
there's a cinder just fell out of the fire.' Then in course they gets
shocked, and looks as blue as possible, and arter that, when they see as
I aint agoing, one of them says 'Mr. Benjamin Blumergutts, would you
like to take a glass of wine?' 'I should think so,' says I. Then he
says, says he, 'which would you prefer, red or white?' says he. 'White,'
says I, 'while you are screwing up your courage to pull out the red,' so
out they pull it; and as soon as I got hold of the bottle, I knocked the
neck of it off over the top bar of the fire-place, and then drank it all
up. 'Now, damn ye,' says I, 'you thinks all this is mighty genteel and
fine, but I don't, and consider you to be the blessedest set of humbugs
ever I set my eyes on; and, if ever you catch me here again, I'll be
genteel too, and I can't say more than that. Go to the devil, all of
ye.' So out I went, only I met with a little accident in the hall, for
they had got a sort of lamp hanging there, and somehow or 'nother, my
head went bang into it, and I carried it out round my neck; but when I
did get out, I took it off, and shied it slap in at the parlour window.
You never heard such a smash in all your life. I dare say they all
fainted away for about a week, the blessed humbugs."
"Well, I should not wonder," said Mr. Oakley, "I never go near them,
because I don't like their foolish pomposity and pride, which, upon very
slender resources, tries to ape what it don't at all understand; but
here is Mrs. Oakley with the sausages, and I hope you will make yourself
comfortable, Ben."
"Comfortable! I believe ye, I rather shall. I means it, and no mistake."
"I have brought three pounds," said Mrs. Oakley, "and told the man to
call in a quarter of an hour, in case there is any more wanted."
"The devil you have; and the bacon, Mrs. Oakley, the bacon!"
"I could not get any--the man had nothing but hams."
"Lor', ma'am, I'd put up with a ham cut thick, and never have said a
word about it. I am a angel of a temper, and if you did but know it.
Hilloa, look, is that the fellow with the half-and half?"
"Yes, here it is--a pot."
"A what?"
"A pot, to be sure."
"Well, I never; you are getting genteel, Mrs. Oakley. Then give us a
hold of it."
Ben took the pot, and emptied it at a draught, and then he gave a tap at
the bottom of it with his knuckles, to signify that he had accomplished
that feat, and then he said, "I tells you what, ma'am, if you takes me
for a baby, it's a great mistake, and any one would think you did, to
see you offering me a pot merely; it's an insult, ma'am."
"Fiddle-de-dee," said Mrs. Oakley; "it's a much greater insult to drink
it all up, and give nobody a drop."
"Is it? I wants to know how you are to stop it, ma'am, when you gets it
to your mouth? that's what I axes you--how are you to stop it, ma'am?
You didn't want me to spew it back again, did you, eh, ma'am?"
"You vile, low wretch!"
"Come, come, my dear," said Mr. Oakley, "you know our cousin. Ben don't
live among the most refined society, and so you ought to be able to look
over a little of--of--his--I may say, I am sure, without offence,
roughness now and then;--come, come, there is no harm done, I'm sure.
Forget and forgive say I. That's my maxim, and has always been, and will
always be."
"Well," said the beef-eater, "it's a good one to get through the world
with, and so there's an end of it. I forgives you, Mother Oakley."
"You forgive--"
"Yes, to be sure. Though I am only a beaf-eater, I suppose as I may
forgive people for all that--eh, Cousin Oakley?"
"Oh, of course, Ben, of course. Come, come, wife, you know as well as I
that Ben has many good qualities, and that take him for all in all, as
the man in the play says, we shan't in a hurry look upon his like
again."
"And I'm sure I don't want to look upon his like again," said Mrs.
Oakley; "I'd rather by a good deal keep him a week than a fortnight.
He's enough to breed a famine in the land, that he is."
"Oh, bless you, no," said Ben, "that's amongst your little mistakes,
ma'am, I can assure you. By the bye, what a blessed long time that
fellow is coming with the rest of the beer and the other sausages--why,
what's the matter with you, cousin Oakley--eh, old chap, you look out of
sorts?"
"I don't feel just the thing, do you know, Ben."
"Not--the thing--why--why, now you come to mention it, I somehow feel as
if all my blessed inside was on a turn and a twist. The devil--I--don't
feel comfortable at all I don't."
"And I'm getting very ill," gasped Mr. Oakley.
"And I'm getting iller," said the beef-eater, manufacturing a word for
the occasion. "Bless my soul! there's something gone wrong in my inside.
I know there's murder--there's a go--oh, Lord! it's a doubling me up, it
is."
"I feel as if my last hour had come," said Mr. Oakley--"I'm a--a--dying
man--I am--oh, good gracious! there was a twinge!"
Mrs. Oakley, with all the coolness in the world, took down her bonnet
from behind the parlour-door where it hung, and, as she put it on
said,--
"I told you both that some judgment would come over you, and now you see
it has. How do you like it? Providence is good, of course, to its own,
and I have--"
"What--what--?"
"_Pisoned_ the half-and-half."
Big Ben, the beef-eater, fell off his chair with a deep groan, and poor
Mr. Oakley sat glaring at his wife, and shivering with apprehension,
quite unable to speak, while she placed a shawl over her shoulders, as
she added in the same tone of calmness she had made the terrific
announcement concerning the poisoning--
"Now, you wretches, you see what a woman can do when she makes up her
mind for vengeance. As long as you all live, you'll recollect me; but,
if you don't, that won't much matter, for you won't live long, I can
tell you, and now I'm going to my sister's, Mrs. Tiddiblow."
So saying, Mrs. Oakley turned quickly round, and, with an insulting toss
of her head, and not at all caring for the pangs and sufferings of her
poor victims, she left the place, and proceeded to her sister's house,
where she slept as comfortably as if she had not by any means committed
two diabolical murders. But has she done so, or shall we, for the honour
of human nature, discover that she went to a neighbouring chemist's, and
only purchased some dreadfully powerful medicinal compound, which she
placed in the half-and-half, and which began to give those pangs to Big
Ben, the beef-eater, and to Mr. Oakley, concerning which they were both
so eloquent? This must have been the case; for Mrs. Oakley could not
have been such a fiend in a human guise as to laugh as she passed the
chemist's shop. Oh no! she might not have felt remorse, but that is a
very different thing, indeed, from laughing at the matter, unless it
were really laughable and not serious, at all. Big Ben and Mr. Oakley
must have at length found out how they had been hoaxed, and the most
probable thing was that the before-mentioned chemist himself told them;
for they sent for him in order to know if anything could be done to save
their lives. Ben from that day forthwith made a determination that he
would not visit Mr. Oakley, and the next time they met he said--
"I tell you what it is, that old hag, your wife, is one too many for us,
that's a fact; she gets the better of me altogether--so, whenever you
feels a little inclined for a gossip about old times, just you come down
to the Tower."
"I will, Ben."
"Do; we can always find something to drink, and you can amuse yourself,
too, by looking at the animals. Remember, feeding time is two o'clock;
so, now and then, I shall expect to see you, and, above all, be sure you
let me know if that canting parson, Lupin, comes any more to your
house."
"I will, Ben."
"Ah, do; and I'll give him another lesson if he should, and I tell you
how I'll do it. I'll get a free admission to the wild _beastesses_ in
the Tower, and when he comes to see 'em, for them 'ere sort of fellows
always goes everywhere they can go for nothing, I'll just manage to pop
him into a cage along of some of the most _cantankerous_ creatures as we
have."
"But would not that be dangerous?"
"Oh dear no! we has a laughing hyaena as would frighten him out of his
wits; but I don't think as he'd bite him much, do you know. He's as
playful as a kitten, and very fond of standing on his head."
"Well, then, Ben, I have, of course, no objection, although I do think
that the lesson you have already given to the reverend gentleman will
and ought to be fully sufficient for all purposes, and I don't expect we
shall see him again."
"But how does Mrs. O. behave to you?" asked Ben.
"Well, Ben, I don't think there's much difference; sometimes she's a
little civil, and sometimes she ain't; it's just as she takes it into
her head."
"Ah! that all comes of marrying."
"I have often wondered, though, Ben, that you never married." Ben gave a
chuckle as he replied--
"Have you though, really? Well, Cousin Oakley, I don't mind telling you,
but the real fact is, once I was very near being served out in that sort
of way."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. I'll tell you how it was; there was a girl called Angelina Day,
and a nice-looking enough creature she was as you'd wish to see, and
didn't seem as if she'd got any claws at all; leastways she kept them
in, like a cat at meal times."
"Upon my word, Ben, you have a great knowledge of the world."
"I believe you, I have! Haven't I been brought up among the wild beasts
in the Tower all my life? That's the place to get a knowledge of the
world in, my boy. I ought to know a thing or two, and in course I does."
"Well, but how was it, Ben, that you did not marry this Angelina you
speak of?"
"I'll tell you; she thought she had me as safe as a hare in a trap, and
she was as amiable as a lump of cotton. You'd have thought, to look at
her, that she did nothing but smile; and, to hear her, that she said
nothing but nice, mild, pleasant things, and I really began to think as
I had found out the proper sort of animal."
"But you were mistaken?"
"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 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 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 any 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 ever you 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, aint 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 only
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 judgment had taken place
to save him from the malevolence of Big Ben, the beef-eater; so that,
taking one thing in connexion 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 had really 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 gentle,
creature, who seemed to have been created with all the capacity 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 some one of less
aspiring feelings, and of less ardent imagination, than he possessed 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 ignis-fatuus of the swamp glitters but to betray those
who trust to its delusive and flickering beams.
CHAPTER XIII.
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 any one 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 had not yet lost
that romance of existence which the world and its ways soon banish from
the breasts of all. She was young, even 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 confidant 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 they had not been
there for some time. And the reason that 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 confidant,
she dreaded the other's friendly questions of the young creature. 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 very 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, at times when she
laughed, that child-like 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 black 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 nearly 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, loveable,
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
ensure 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 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, too, I know all the
means of getting out of them, let them be what they may."
"And yet, Arabella, scarcely in all 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 that serious countenance, Johanna."
"The subject is a serious one. I love."
"Oh! is that all? So do I; there's a 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 any
one 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 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 that
they had ended in such calamities most deeply and truly did she mourn to
be compelled to state. And 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, or rather the mystery, which hangs over 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 poor 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 misadventures, you
should have had nothing to complain of on the score of want of
confidence; but I will own I did hesitate to inflict on 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 wore a pleasant aspect? True friendship
surely is 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 a confidant of, what I suppose I must call, this ill-fated
passion."
"No, not ill-fated, Johanna. Let us still 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
seas; but, Arabella, there is one supposition which, from the first
moment that 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, Johanna."
"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! for 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 tales of love and of 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 those 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 this man, Todd, do you think he
is one who would hesitate even at 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."
"Say on, Arabella, I shall listen to you with deep attention."
"A short time since, about six months, I think, an apprentice of my
father, in the last week of his servitude, was sent to the west-end of
the town, to take a considerable sum of money; but he never came back
with it, and from that day to this we have heard nothing of him,
although, from inquiry that my father made, he ascertained that he
received the money, and that he met an acquaintance in the Strand, who
parted from him at the corner of Milford-lane, and to whom he said that
he intended to call at Sweeney Todd's, the barber, in Fleet-street, to
have his hair dressed, because there was to be a regatta on the Thames,
and he was determined to go to it whether my father liked or not."
"And he was never heard of?"
"Never. Of course, my father made every inquiry upon the subject, and
called upon Sweeney Todd for the purpose; but, as he declared that no
such person had ever called at his shop, the inquiry there terminated."
"'Tis very strange."
"And most mysterious; for the friends of the youth were indeed
indefatigable in their searches for him; and, by subscribing together
for the purpose, they offered a large reward to any one who could or
would give them information regarding his fate."
"And was it all in vain?"
"All; nothing could be learned whatever. Not even the remotest clue was
obtained, and there the affair has rested, in the most profound of
mysteries."
Johanna shuddered, and for some few moments the two young girls were
silent. It was Johanna who broke that silence, by exclaiming--
"Arabella, assist me with what advice you can, so that I may set about
what I purpose with the best prospect of success and the least danger;
not that I shrink on my own account from risk, but if any misadventure
were to occur to me, I might thereby be incapacitated from pursuing that
object, to which I will now devote the remainder of my life."
"But what can you do, my dear Johanna? It was but a short time since
there was a placard in the barber's window to say that he wanted a lad
as an assistant in his business, but that has been removed, or we might
have procured some one to take the situation for the express purpose of
playing the spy upon the barber's proceedings."
"But, perchance, still there may be an opportunity of accomplishing
something in that way, if you knew of any one that would undertake the
adventure."
"There will be no difficulty, Johanna, in discovering one willing to do
so, although we might be long in finding one of sufficient capacity that
we could trust; but I am adventurous, Johanna, as you know, and I think
I could have got my cousin Albert to personate the character, only that
I think he's rather a giddy youth, and scarcely to be trusted with a
mission of so much importance."
"Yes, and a mission likewise, Arabella, which, by a single false step,
might be made frightfully dangerous."
"It might indeed."
"Then it will be unfair to place it upon any one but those who feel most
deeply for its success."
"Johanna, the enthusiasm with which you speak awakens in me a thought
which I shrink from expressing to you, and which, I fear, perhaps more
originates from a certain feeling of romance, which, I believe, is a
besetting sin, than from any other cause."
"Name it, Arabella; name it."
"It would be possible for you or I to accomplish the object, by going
disguised to the barber's, and accepting such a situation, if it were
vacant, for a period of about twenty-four hours, in order that during
that time an opportunity might be taken of searching in his house for
some evidence upon the subject nearest to your heart."
"It is a happy thought," said Johanna, "and why should I hesitate at
encountering any risk, or toil, or difficulty, for him who has risked so
much for me? What is there to hinder me from carrying out such a
resolution? At any moment, if great danger should beset me, I can rush
into the street, and claim protection from the passers-by."
"And moreover, Johanna, if you went on such a mission, remember you go
with my knowledge, and that consequently I would bring you assistance,
if you appeared not in the specified time for your return."
"Each moment, Arabella, the plan assumes to my mind a better shape. If
Sweeney Todd be innocent of contriving anything against the life and
liberty of those who seek his shop, I have nothing to fear; but if, on
the contrary, he be guilty, danger to me would be the proof of such
guilt, and that is a proof which I am willing to chance encountering for
the sake of the great object I have in view; but how am I to provide
myself with the necessary means?"
"Be at rest upon that score. My cousin Albert and you are as nearly of a
size as possible. He will be staying here shortly, and I will secure
from his wardrobe a suit of clothes, which I am certain will answer your
purpose. But let me implore you to wait until you have had your second
interview with Colonel Jeffery."
"That is well thought of; I will meet him, and question him closely as
to the personal appearance of this Mr. Thornhill; beside, I shall hear
if he has any confirmed suspicion on the subject."
"That is well, you will soon meet him, for the week is running on; and
let me implore you, Johanna, to come to me the morning after you have so
met him, and then we will again consult upon this plan of operations,
which appears to us feasible and desirable."
Some more conversation of a similar character ensued between these young
girls; and upon the whole, Johanna Oakley felt much comforted by her
visit, and more able to think calmly as well as seriously upon the
subject which engrossed her whole thoughts and feelings; and when she
returned to her own home, she found that much of the excitement of
despair which had formerly had possession of her, had given way to hope;
and with that natural feeling of joyousness, and that elasticity of mind
which belongs to the young, she began to build in her imagination some
airy fabrics of future happiness. Certainly, these suppositions went
upon the fact that Mark Ingestrie was a prisoner, and not that his life
had been taken by the mysterious barber; for although the possibility of
his having been murdered had found a home in her imagination, still to
her pure spirit it seemed by far too hideous to be true, and she
scarcely could be said really and truly to entertain it as a matter
which was likely to be true.
CHAPTER XIV.
TOBIAS'S THREAT, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
Perhaps one of the most pitiable objects now in our history is poor
Tobias, Sweeney Todd's boy, who certainly had his suspicions aroused in
the most terrific manner, but who was terrified, by the threats of what
the barber was capable of doing against his mother, from making any
disclosures. The effect upon his personal appearance of this wear and
tear of his intellect was striking and manifest. The hue of youth and
health entirely departed from his cheeks, and he looked so sad and
careworn, that it was quite a terrible thing to look upon a young lad
so, as it were, upon the threshold of existence, and in whom anxious
thoughts were making such war upon the physical energies. His cheeks
were pale and sunken; his eyes had an unnatural brightness about them,
and, to look upon his lips, one would think they had never parted in a
smile for many a day, so sadly were they compressed together. He seemed
ever to be watching likewise for something fearful, and even as he
walked the streets he would frequently turn and look inquiringly around
him with a shudder; and in his brief interview with Colonel Jeffery and
his friend the captain, we can have a tolerably good comprehension of
the state of his mind. Oppressed with fears, and all sorts of dreadful
thoughts, panting to give utterance to what he knew and to what he
suspected, yet terrified into silence for his mother's sake, we cannot
but view him as signally entitled to the sympathy of the reader, and as,
in all respects, one sincerely to be pitied for the cruel circumstances
in which he was placed. The sun is shining brightly, and even that busy
region of trade and commerce, Fleet-street, is looking gay and
beautiful; but not for that poor spirit-stricken lad are any of the
sights and sounds which used to make up the delight of his existence,
reaching his eyes or ears now with their accustomed force. He sits moody
and alone, and in the position which he always assumes when Sweeney Todd
is from home--that is to say, with his head resting on his hands, and
looking the picture of melancholy abstraction.
"What shall I do?" he said to himself, "what will become of me? I think
if I live here any longer, I shall go out of my senses. Sweeney Todd is
a murderer--I am quite certain of it, and I wish to say so, but I dare
not for my mother's sake. Alas! alas! the end of it will be, that he
will kill me, or that I shall go out of my senses, and then I shall die
in some mad-house, and no one will care what I say."
The boy wept bitterly after he had uttered these melancholy reflections,
and he felt his tears something of a relief to him, so that he looked up
after a little time, and glanced around him.
"What a strange thing," he said, "that people should come into this
shop, to my certain knowledge, who never go out of it again, and yet
what becomes of them I cannot tell."
He looked with a shuddering anxiety towards the parlour, the door of
which Sweeney Todd took care to lock always when he left the place, and
he thought that he should like much to have a thorough examination of
that room.
"I have been in it," he said, "and it seems full of cupboards and
strange holes and corners, such as I never saw before, and there is an
odd stench in it that I cannot make out at all; but it's out of the
question thinking of ever being in it above a few minutes at a time, for
Sweeney Todd takes good care of that."
The boy rose, and opened a small cupboard that was in the shop. It was
perfectly empty.
"Now, that's strange," he said, "there was a walking-stick with an ivory
top to it here just before he went out, and I could swear it belonged to
a man who came in to be shaved. More than once--ah! and more than twice,
too, when I have come in suddenly, I have seen people's hats, and
Sweeney Todd would try and make me believe that people go away after
being shaved, and leave their hats behind them."
He walked up to the shaving chair as it was called, which was a large,
old-fashioned piece of furniture, made of oak, and carved; and, as the
boy threw himself into it, he said--
"What an odd thing it is that this chair is screwed so tight to the
floor! Here is a complete fixture, and Sweeney Todd says it is so
because it's in the best possible light, and if he were not to make it
fast in such a way, the customers would shift it about from place to
place, so that he could not conveniently shave them; it may be true, but
I don't know."
"And you have your doubts," said the voice of Sweeney Todd, as that
individual, with a noiseless step, walked into the shop--"you have your
doubts, Tobias? I shall have to cut your throat, that is quite clear."
[Illustration: Tobias Alarmed At The Mysterious Appearance Of Todd.]
"No, no, have mercy upon me; I did not mean what I said."
"Then it's uncommonly imprudent to say it, Tobias. Do you remember our
last conversation? Do you remember that I can hang your mother when I
please, because, if you do not, I beg to put you in mind of that
pleasant little circumstance?"
"I cannot forget--I do not forget."
"'Tis well; and mark me, I will not have you assume such an aspect as
you wear when I am not here. You don't look cheerful, Tobias; and,
notwithstanding your excellent situation, with little to do, and the
number of Lovett's pies you eat, you fall away."
"I cannot help it," said Tobias, "since you told me what you did
concerning my mother. I have been so anxious that I cannot help--"
"Why should you be anxious? Her preservation depends upon yourself, and
upon yourself wholly. You have but to keep silent, and she is safe; but
if you utter one word that shall be displeasing to me about my affairs,
mark me, Tobias, she comes to the scaffold; and if I cannot conveniently
place you in the same mad-house where the last boy I had was placed, I
shall certainly be under the troublesome necessity of cutting your
throat."
"I will be silent--I will say nothing, Mr. Todd. I know I shall die
soon, and then you will get rid of me altogether, and I don't care how
soon that may be, for I am quite weary of my life--I shall be glad when
it is over."
"Very good," said the barber; "that's all a matter of taste. And now,
Tobias, I desire that you look cheerful and smile, for a gentleman is
outside feeling his chin with his hand, and thinking he may as well come
in and be shaved. I may want you, Tobias, to go to Billingsgate, and
bring me a pennyworth of shrimps."
"Yes," thought Tobias, with a groan--"yes, while you murder him."
CHAPTER XV.
THE SECOND INTERVIEW BETWEEN JOHANNA AND THE COLONEL IN THE TEMPLE
GARDENS.
Now that there was a great object to gain by a second interview with
Colonel Jeffery, the anxiety of Johanna Oakley to have it became
extremely great, and she counted the very hours until the period should
arrive when she could again proceed to the Temple-gardens with something
like a certainty of finding him. The object, of course, was to ask him
for a description of Mr. Thornhill, sufficiently accurate to enable her
to come to something like a positive conclusion as to whether she ought
to call him to her own mind as Mark Ingestrie or not. And Colonel
Jeffery was not a bit the less anxious to see her than she was to look
upon him; for although in divers lands he had looked upon many a fair
face, and heard many a voice that had sounded soft and musical in his
ears, he had seen none that, to his mind, was so fair, and had heard no
voice that he had considered really so musical and charming to listen
to, as Johanna Oakley's. A man of more honourable and strict sense of
honour than Colonel Jeffery could not have been found, and, therefore,
it was that he allowed himself to admire the beautiful under any
circumstances, because he knew that his admiration was of no dangerous
quality, but that, on the contrary, it was one of those feelings which
might exist in a bosom such as his, quite undebased by a meaner
influence. We think it necessary, however, before he has his second
meeting with Johanna Oakley, to give such an explanation of his thoughts
and feelings as it is in our power. When first he met her, the purity of
her mind, and the genuine and beautiful candour of all she said, struck
him most forcibly, as well as her great beauty, which could not fail to
be extremely manifest. After that he began to reason with himself as to
what ought to be his feelings with regard to her--namely, what portion
of these ought to be suppressed, and what ought to be encouraged. If
Mark Ingestrie were dead, there was not a shadow of interference or
dishonour in him, Colonel Jeffery, loving the beautiful girl, who was
surely not to be shut out of the pale of all affection because the first
person to whom her heart had warmed with a pure and holy passion, was no
more.
"It may be," he thought, "that she is incapable of feeling a sentiment
which can at all approach that which once she has felt; but still she
may be happy and serene, and may pass many joyous hours as the wife of
another."
He did not positively make these reflections as applicable to himself,
although they had a tendency that way, and he was fast verging to a
state of mind which might induce him to give them a more actual
application. He did not tell himself that he loved her--no, the word
"admiration" took the place of the more powerful term; but then, can we
not doubt that, at this time, the germ of a very pure and holy affection
was lighted up in the heart of Colonel Jeffery for the beautiful
creature who suffered the pangs of so much disappointment, and who loved
one so well, who, we almost fear, if he were living, was scarcely the
sort of person fully to requite such an affection. But we know so little
of Mark Ingestrie, and there appears to be so much doubt as to whether
he be alive or dead, that we should not prejudge him upon such very
insufficient evidence. Johanna Oakley did think of taking Arabella
Wilmot with her to this meeting with Colonel Jeffery, but she abandoned
the idea, because it really looked as if she was either afraid of him or
afraid of herself, so she resolved to go alone; and when the hour of
appointment came, she was then walking upon that broad gravelled path,
which has been trodden by some of the best, and some of the most
eminent, as well as some of the worst of human beings. It was not likely
that with the feelings of Colonel Jeffery towards her, he would keep her
waiting. Indeed, he was then a good hour before the time, and his only
great dread was, that she might not come. He had some reason for this
dread, because it will be readily recollected by the reader, that she
had not positively promised to come; so that all he had was a hope that
way tending and nothing further. As minute after minute had passed away,
she came not, although the time had not yet really arrived; his
apprehension that she would not give him the meeting had grown in his
mind almost to a certainty, when he saw her timidly advancing along the
garden walk. He rose to meet her at once, and for a few moments after he
had greeted her with kind civility she could do nothing but look
inquiringly in his face, to know if he had any news to tell her of the
object of her anxious solicitude.
"I have heard nothing, Miss Oakley," he said, "that can give you any
satisfaction concerning the fate of Mr. Thornhill, but we have much
suspicion--I say we, because I have taken a friend into my
confidence--that something serious must have happened to him, and that
the barber, Sweeney Todd, in Fleet-street, at whose door the dog so
mysteriously took his post, knows something of that circumstance, be it
what it may."
He led her to a seat as she spoke, and when she had recovered
sufficiently the agitation of her feelings to speak, she said in a
timid, hesitating voice--
"Had Mr. Thornhill fair hair, and large, clear, grey eyes?"
"Yes, he had such; and, I think, his smile was the most singularly
beautiful I ever beheld in a man."
"Heaven help me!" said Johanna.
"Have you any reason for asking that question concerning Thornhill?"
"God grant I had not; but, alas! I have indeed. I feel that in
Thornhill, I must recognise Mark Ingestrie himself."
"You astonish me."
"It must be so, it must be so; you have described him to me, and I
cannot doubt it; Mark Ingestrie and Thornhill are one! I knew that he
was going to change his name, when he went out upon that wild adventure
to the Indian Sea. I was well aware of that fact."
"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. I will be careful, you may depend, for many
considerations. My father, I know, centres all his affections in me, and
for his sake I will be careful."
"I shall be content then, and now may I hope that this day week I may
see you here again, in order that I may tell you if I have made any
discovery, and that you may tell me the same; for my interest in
Thornhill is that of a sincere friend, to say nothing of the deep
interest in your happiness which I feel, and which now has become an
element in the transaction of the highest value?"
"I will come," said Johanna, "if I can come."
"You do not doubt?"
"No, no. I will come, and I hope to bring you some news of him in whom
you are so much interested. It shall be no fault of mine if I come not."
He walked with her from the gardens, and together they passed the shop
of Sweeney Todd, but the door was close shut, and they saw nothing of
the barber, or of that poor boy, his apprentice, who was so much to be
pitied. He parted with Johanna near to her father's house, and he walked
slowly away with his mind so fully impressed with the excellence and
beauty of the spectacle-maker's daughter, that it was quite clear, as
long as he lived, he would not be able to rid himself of the favourable
impression she had made upon him.
"I love her," he said; "I love her, but she seems in no respect willing
to enchain her affections. Alas! alas! how sad it is for me, that the
being who above all others I could wish to call my own, instead of a joy
to me, I have only encountered that she might impart a pang to my heart.
Beautiful and excellent Johanna, I love you, but I can see that your own
affections are withered for ever."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BARBER MAKES ANOTHER ATTEMPT TO SELL THE STRING OF PEARLS.
It would seem as if Sweeney Todd, after his adventure in already trying
to dispose of the string of pearls which he possessed, began to feel
little doubtful about his chances of success in that matter, for he
waited patiently for a considerable period before he again made the
attempt, and then he made it after a totally different fashion. Towards
the close of night on that same evening when Johanna Oakley had met
Colonel Jeffery, for the second time, in the Temple Garden, and while
Tobias sat alone in the shop in his usual deep dejection, a stranger
entered the place, with a large blue bag in his hand, and looked
inquiringly about him.
"Hilloa, my lad!" said he, "is this Mr. Todd's?"
"Yes," said Tobias; "but he is not at home. What do you want?"
"Well, I'll be hanged," said the man, "if this don't beat everything;
you don't mean to tell me he is a barber, do you?"
"Indeed I do; don't you see?"
"Yes, I see to be sure; but I'll be shot if I thought of it beforehand.
What do you think he has been doing?"
"Doing," said Tobias, with animation; "do you think he will be hung?"
"Why, no, I don't say it is a hanging matter, although you seem as if
you wished it was; but I'll just tell you now we are artists at the
west-end of the town."
"Artists! Do you mean to say you draw pictures?"
"No, no, we make clothes; but we call ourselves artists now, because
tailors are out of fashion."
"Oh, that's it, is it?"
"Yes, that's it; and you would scarcely believe it, but he came to our
shop actually, and ordered a suit of clothes, which were to come to no
less a sum than thirty pounds, and told us to make them up in such a
style that they were to do for any nobleman, and he gave his name and
address, as Mr. Todd, at this number in Fleet-street, but I hadn't the
least idea that he was a barber; if I had, I am quite certain the
clothes would not have been finished in the style they are, but quite
the reverse."
"Well," said Tobias, "I can't think what he wants such clothing for, but
I suppose it's all right. Was he a tall, ugly-looking fellow?"
"As ugly as the very devil. I'll just show you the things, as he is not
at home. The coat is of the finest velvet, lined with silk, and trimmed
with lace. Did you ever, in all your life, see such a coat for a
barber?"
"Indeed, I never did; but it is some scheme of his, of course. It is a
superb coat."
"Yes, and all the rest of the dress is of the same style; what on earth
he can be going to do with it I can't think, for it's only fit to go to
court in."
"Oh, well, I know nothing about it," said Tobias, with a sigh, "you can
leave it or not as you like, it is all one to me."
"Well, you do seem the most melancholy wretch ever I came near; what's
the matter with you?"
"The matter with me? Oh, nothing. Of course, I am as happy as I can be.
Ain't I Sweeney Todd's apprentice, and ain't that enough to make anybody
sing all day long?"
"It may be for all I know, but certainly you don't seem to be in a
singing humour; but, however, we artists cannot waste our time, so just
be so good as to take care of the clothes, and be sure you give them to
your master; and so I wash my hands of the transaction."
"Very good, he shall have them; but do you mean to leave such valuable
clothes without getting the money for them?"
"Not exactly, for they are paid for."
"Oh! that makes all the difference--he shall have them."
Scarcely had this tailor left the place, when a boy arrived with a
parcel, and, looking around him with undisguised astonishment, said--
"Isn't there some other Mr. Todd, in Fleet-street?"
"Not that I know of," said Tobias. "What have you got there?"
"Silk stockings, gloves, lace, cravats, ruffles, and so on."
"The deuce you have; I dare say it's all right."
"I shall leave them--they are paid for. This is the name, and this is
the number."
"Now, stupid!"
This last exclamation arose from the fact that this boy, in going out,
ran up against another who was coming in.
"Can't you see where you are going?" said the new arrival.
"What's that to you? I have a good mind to punch your head."
"Do it, and then come down our court, and see what a licking I'll give
you."
"Will you? Why don't you? Only let me catch you, that's all."
They stood for some moments so closely together that their noses very
nearly touched; and then, after mutual assertions of what they would do
if they caught each other--although, in either case, to stretch out an
arm would have been quite sufficient to have accomplished that
object--they separated, and the last comer said to Tobias, in a tone of
irritation, probably consequent upon the misunderstanding he had just
had with the hosier's boy--
"You can tell Mr. Todd that the carriage will be ready at half-past
seven precisely."
And then he went away, leaving Tobias in a state of great bewilderment
as to what Sweeney Todd could possibly be about to do with such an
amount of finery as that which was evidently coming home for him.
"I can't make it out," he said. "It's some villany, of course, but I
can't make out what it is--I wish I knew; I might thwart him in it. He
is a villain, and neither could nor would project anything good; but
what can I do? I am quite helpless in this, and will just let it take
its course. I can only wish for a power of action I shall never possess.
Alas, alas! I am very sad, and know not what will become of me. I wish
that I was in my grave, and there I am sure I shall be soon, unless
something happens to turn the tide of all this wretched evil fortune
that has come upon me."
It was in vain for Tobias to think of vexing himself with conjectures as
to what Sweeney Todd was about to do with so much finery, for he had not
the remotest foundation to go upon in the matter, and could not for the
life of him imagine any possible contingency or chance which should make
it necessary for the barber to deck himself in such gaudy apparel. All
he could do was to lay down in his own mind a general principle as
regarded Sweeney Todd's conduct, and that consisted in the fact, that
whatever might be his plans, and whatever might be his objects, they
were for no good purpose; but, on the contrary, were most certainly
intended for the accomplishment of some great evil which that most
villanous person intended to perpetrate.
"I will observe all I can," thought Tobias to himself, "and do what I
can to put a stop to his mischiefs; but I fear it will be very little he
will allow me to observe, and perhaps still less that he will allow me
to do; but I can but try, and do my best."
Poor Tobias's best, as regarded achieving anything against Sweeney Todd,
we may well suppose would be little indeed, for that individual was not
the man to give anybody an opportunity of doing much; and, possessed as
he was of the most consummate art, as well as the greatest possible
amount of unscrupulousness, there can be very little doubt but that any
attempt poor Tobias might make would recoil upon himself. In about half
an hour the barber returned, and his first question was--
"Have any things been left for me?"
"Yes, sir," said Tobias, "here are two parcels, and a boy has been to
say that the carriage will be ready at half-past seven precisely."
"'Tis well," said the barber, "that will do; and Tobias, you will be
careful, whilst I am gone, of the shop. I shall be back in half an hour,
mind you, and not later; and be sure that I find you here at your post.
But you may say, if any one comes here on business, there will be
neither shaving nor dressing to-night. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir, certainly."
Sweeney Todd then took the bundles which contained the costly apparel,
and retired into the parlour with them; and, as it was then seven
o'clock, Tobias correctly enough supposed that he had gone to dress
himself, and he waited with a considerable amount of curiosity to see
what sort of an appearance the barber would cut in his fine apparel.
Tobias had not to control his impatience long, for in less than twenty
minutes, out came Sweeney Todd, attired in the very height of fashion
for the period. His waistcoat was something positively gorgeous, and his
fingers were loaded with such costly rings, that they quite dazzled the
sight of Tobias to look upon; then, moreover, he wore a sword with a
jewelled hilt, but it was one which Tobias really thought he had seen
before, for he had a recollection that a gentleman had come to have his
hair dressed, and had taken it off, and laid just such a sword across
his hat during the operation.
"Remember," said Sweeney Todd, "remember your instructions; obey them to
the letter, and no doubt you will ultimately become happy and
independent."
With these words, Sweeney Todd left the place, and poor Tobias looked
after him with a frown, as he repeated the words--
"Happy and independent. Alas! what a mockery it is of this man to speak
to me in such a way--I only wish that I were dead!"
But we will leave Tobias to his own reflections, and follow the more
interesting progress of Sweeney Todd, who, for some reason best known to
himself, was then playing so grand a part, and casting away so large a
sum of money. He made his way to a livery-stables in the immediate
neighbourhood, and there, sure enough, the horses were being placed to a
handsome carriage; and all being very soon in readiness, Sweeney Todd
gave some whispered directions to the driver, and the vehicle started
off westward. At that time Hyde Park Corner was very nearly out of town,
and it looked as if you were getting a glimpse of the country, and
actually seeing something of the peasantry of England, when you got
another couple of miles off, and that was the direction in which Sweeney
Todd went; and as he goes, we may as well introduce to the reader the
sort of individual whom he was going to visit in so much state, and for
whom he thought it necessary to go to such great expense. At that period
the follies and vices of the nobility were somewhere about as great as
they are now, and consequently extravagance induced on many occasions
tremendous sacrifice of money, and it was found extremely convenient on
many occasions for them to apply to a man of the name of John Mundel, an
exceedingly wealthy person, a Dutchman by extraction, who was reported
to make immense sums of money by lending to the nobility and others what
they required on emergencies, at enormous rates of interest. But it must
not be supposed that John Mundel was so confiding as to lend his money
without security. It was quite the reverse, for he took care to have the
jewels, some costly plate, or the title-deeds of an estate, perchance,
as security, before he would part with a single shilling of his cash. In
point of fact, John Mundel was nothing more than a pawnbroker on a very
extensive scale, and, although he had an office in town, he usually
received his more aristocratic customers at his private residence, which
was about two miles off, on the Uxbridge Road. After this explanation,
it can very easily be imagined what was the scheme of Sweeney Todd, and
that he considered, if he borrowed from John Mundel a sum equal in
amount to half the real value of the pearls, he should be well rid of a
property which he certainly could not sufficiently well account for the
possession of, to enable him to dispose of it openly to the highest
bidder. We give Sweeney Todd great credit for the scheme he proposed. It
was eminently calculated to succeed, and one which, in the way he
undertook it, was certainly set about in the best possible style. During
the ride, he revolved in his mind exactly what he should say to John
Mundel, and, from what we know of him, we may be well convinced that
Sweeney Todd was not likely to fail from any amount of bashfulness in
the transaction; but that, on the contrary, he was just the man to
succeed in any scheme which required great assurance to carry it
through; for he was most certainly master of great assurance, and
possessed of a kind of diplomatic skill, which, had fortune placed him
in a more elevated position of life, would no doubt have made a great
man of him, and gained him great political reputation. John Mundel's
villa, which was called, by the by, Mundel House, was a large, handsome,
and modern structure, surrounded by a few acres of pleasure-gardens,
which, however, the money-lender never looked at, for his whole soul was
too much engrossed by his love for cash to enable him to do so; and, if
he derived any satisfaction at all from it, that satisfaction must have
been entirely owing to the fact, that he had wrung mansion, grounds, and
all the costly furnishing of the former, from an improvident debtor, who
had been forced to fly the country, and leave his property wholly in the
hands of the money-lender and usurer. It was but a short drive with the
really handsome horses that Sweeney Todd had succeeded in hiring for the
occasion, and he soon found himself opposite the entrance gates of the
residence of John Mundel. His great object now was that the usurer
should see the equipage which he had brought down; and he accordingly
desired the footman who accompanied him at once to ring the bell at the
entrance-gate, and to say that a gentleman was waiting in his carriage
to see Mr. Mundel. This was done; and when the money-lender's servant
reported to him that the equipage was a costly one, and that, in his
opinion, the visitor must be some nobleman of great rank, John Mundel
made no difficulty about the matter, but walked down to the gate at
once, where he immediately mentally subscribed to the opinion of his
servant, by admitting to himself that the equipage was faultless, and
presumed at once that it did belong to some person of great rank. He was
proportionally humble, as such men always are, and, advancing to the
side of the carriage, he begged to know what commands his lordship--for
so he called him at once--had for him?
[Illustration: The Barber Acts The Duke To Pawn The Pearls.]
"I wish to know," said Sweeney Todd, "Mr. Mundel, if you are inclined to
lay under an obligation a rather illustrious lady, by helping her out of
a little pecuniary difficulty?"
John Mundel glanced again at the equipage, and he likewise saw something
of the rich dress of his visitor, who had not disputed the title which
had been applied to him, of lord; and he made up his mind accordingly
that it was just one of the transactions that would suit him, provided
the security that would be offered was of a tangible nature. That was
the only point upon which John Mundel had the remotest doubt, but, at
all events, he urgently pressed his visitor to alight and walk in.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE GREAT CHANGE IN THE PROSPECTS OF SWEENEY TODD.
As Sweeney Todd's object, so far as regarded the money-lender having
seen the carriage, was fully answered, he had no objection to enter the
house, which he accordingly did at once, being preceded by John Mundel,
who became each moment more and more impressed with the fact, as he
considered it, that his guest was some person of very great rank and
importance in society. He ushered him into a splendidly-furnished
apartment, and after offering him refreshments, which Sweeney Todd
politely declined, he waited with no small degree of impatience for his
visitor to be more explicit with regard to the object of his visit.
"I should," said Sweeney Todd, "have myself accommodated the illustrious
lady with the sum of money she requires, but as I could not do so
without incumbering some estates, she positively forbade me to think of
it."
"Certainly," said Mr. Mundel, "she is a very illustrious lady, I
presume?"
"Very illustrious indeed, but it must be a condition of this
transaction, if you at all enter into it, that you are not to inquire
precisely who she is, nor are you to inquire precisely who I am."
"It's not my usual way of conducting business, but if everything else be
satisfactory, I shall not cavil at that."
"Very good; by everything else being satisfactory, I presume you mean
the security offered?"
"Why, yes, that is of great importance, my lord."
"I informed the illustrious lady, that, as the affair was to be wrapped
up in something of a mystery, the security must be extremely ample."
"That's a very proper view to take of the matter, my lord. I wonder,"
thought John Mundel, "if he is a duke; I'll call him 'your grace' next
time, and see if he objects to it."
"Therefore," continued Sweeney Todd, "the illustrious lady placed in my
hands security to a third greater amount than she required."
"Certainly, certainly, a very proper arrangement, your grace; may I ask
the nature of the proffered security?"
"Jewels."
"Highly satisfactory and unexceptionable security; they go into a small
space, and do not deteriorate in value."
"And if they do," said the barber, "deteriorate in value, it would make
no difference to you, for the illustrious person's honour would be
committed to your redemption."
"I don't doubt that, your grace, in the least; I merely made the remark
incidentally, quite incidentally."
"Of course, of course; and I trust, before going further, that you are
quite in a position to enter into this subject."
"Certainly I am, and, I am proud to say, to any amount. Show me the
money's worth, your grace, and I will show you the money--that's my way
of doing business; and no one can say that John Mundel ever shrunk from
a matter that was brought fairly before him, and that he considered
worth his going into."
"It was by hearing such a character of you that I was induced to come to
you. What do you think of that?"
Sweeney Todd took from his pocket, with a careless air, the string of
pearls, and cast them down before the eyes of the money-lender, who took
them up and ran them rapidly through his fingers for a few seconds
before he said--
"I thought there was but one string like this in the kingdom, and those
belonged to the Queen."
"Well," said Sweeney Todd.
"I humbly beg your grace's pardon. How much money does your grace
require on these pearls?"
"Twelve thousand pounds is their current value, if a sale of them was
enforced; eight thousand pounds are required of you on their security."
"Eight thousand is a large sum. As a general thing I lend but half the
value upon anything; but in this case, to oblige your grace and the
illustrious personage, I do not, of course, hesitate for one moment but
shall for one month lend you the required amount."
"That will do," said Sweeney Todd, scarcely concealing the exultation he
felt at getting so much more from John Mundel than he expected, and
which he certainly would not have got if the money-lender had not been
most fully and completely impressed with the idea that the pearls
belonged to the Queen, and that he had actually at length majesty itself
for a customer. He did not suppose for one moment that it was the queen
who wanted the money; but his view of the case was, that she had lent
the pearls to this nobleman to meet some exigency of his own, and that,
of course, they would be redeemed very shortly. Altogether a more
pleasant transaction for John Mundel could not have been imagined. It
was just the sort of thing he would have looked out for, and had the
greatest satisfaction in bringing to a conclusion, and he considered it
was opening the door to the highest class of business in his way that he
was capable of doing.
"In what name, your grace," he said, "shall I draw a cheque upon my
banker?"
"In the name of Colonel George."
"Certainly, certainly; and if your grace will give me an acknowledgment
for eight thousand pounds, and please to understand that at the end of a
month from this time the transaction will be renewed if necessary, I
will give you a cheque for seven thousand five hundred pounds."
"Why seven thousand five hundred only, when you mentioned eight thousand
pounds?"
"The five hundred pounds is my little commission upon the transaction.
Your grace will perceive that I appreciate highly the honour of your
grace's custom, and consequently charge the lowest possible price. I can
assure your grace I could get more for my money by a great deal, but the
pleasure of being able to meet your grace's views is so great, that I am
willing to make a sacrifice, and therefore it is that I say five
hundred, when I really ought to say one thousand pounds, taking into
consideration the great scarcity of money at the present juncture; and I
can assure your grace that--"
"Peace, peace," said Sweeney Todd; "and if it be not convenient to
redeem the jewels at the end of a month from this time, you will hear
from me most assuredly."
"I am quite satisfied of that," said John Mundel, and he accordingly
drew a cheque for seven thousand five hundred pounds, which he handed to
Sweeney Todd, who put it in his pocket, not a little delighted that at
last he had got rid of his pearls, even at a price so far beneath their
real value.
"I need scarcely urge upon you, Mr. Mundel," he said, "the propriety of
keeping this affair profoundly secret."
"Indeed you need not, your grace, for it is part of my business to be
discreet and cautious. I should very soon have nothing to do in my line,
your grace may depend, if I were to talk about it. No, this transaction
will for ever remain locked up in my own breast, and no living soul but
your grace and I need know what has occurred."
With this, John Mundel showed Sweeney Todd to his carriage, with
abundance of respect, and in two minutes more he was travelling along
towards town with what might be considered a small fortune in his
pocket. We should have noticed earlier that Sweeney Todd had, upon the
occasion of his going to sell the pearls to the lapidary, in the city,
made some great alterations in his appearance, so that it was not likely
he should be recognised again to a positive certainly. For
example--having no whiskers whatever of his own, he had put on a large
black pair of false ones, as well as moustachios, and he had given some
colour to his cheeks likewise which had so completely altered his
appearance, that those who were most intimate with him would not have
known him except by his voice, and that he took good care to alter in
his intercourse with John Mundel, so that it should not become a future
means of detection.
"I thought that this would succeed," he muttered to himself, as he went
towards town, "and I have not been deceived. For three months longer,
and only three, I will carry on the business in Fleet-street, so that
any sudden alteration in my fortunes may not give rise to suspicion."
He was then silent for some minutes, during which he appeared to be
revolving some very knotty question in his brain, and then he said,
suddenly--
"Well, well, as regards Tobias, I think it will be safer,
unquestionably, to put him out of the way by taking his life, than to
try to dispose of him in a mad-house, and I think there are one or two
more persons whom it will be highly necessary to prevent being
mischievous, at all events at present. I must think--I must think."
When such a man as Sweeney Todd set about thinking, there could be no
possible doubt but that some serious mischief was meditated, and any one
who could have watched his face during that ride home from the
money-lender's, would have seen by its expression that the thoughts
which agitated him were of a dark and desperate character, and such as
anybody but himself would have shrunk from aghast. But he was not a man
to shrink from anything, and, on the contrary, the more a set of
circumstances presented themselves in a gloomy and a terrific aspect,
the better they seemed to suit him, and the peculiar constitution of his
mind. There can be no doubt but that the love of money was the
predominant feeling in Sweeney Todd's intellectual organization, and
that, by the amount it would bring him, or the amount it would deprive
him of, he measured everything. With such a man, then, no question of
morality or ordinary feeling could arise, and there can be no doubt that
he would quite willingly have sacrificed the whole human race, if, by so
doing, he could have achieved any of the objects of his ambition. And
so, on his road homeward, he probably made up his mind to plunge still
deeper into criminality, and perchance to indulge in acts that a man not
already so deeply versed in iniquity would have shrunk from with the
most positive terror. And by a strange style of reasoning, such men as
Sweeney Todd reconcile themselves to the most heinous crimes upon the
ground of what they call policy. That is to say, that having committed
some serious offence, they are compelled to commit a great number more
for the purpose of endeavouring to avoid the consequences of the first
lot, and hence the continuance of criminality becomes a matter necessary
to self-defence, and an essential ingredient in their consideration of
self-preservation. Probably Sweeney Todd had been for the greater part
of his life, aiming at the possession of extensive pecuniary resources,
and, no doubt, by the aid of a superior intellect, and a mind full of
craft and design, he had managed to make others subservient to his
views; and now that those views were answered, and that his underlings
and accomplices were no longer required, they became positively
dangerous. He was well aware of that cold-blooded policy which teaches
that it is far safer to destroy than to cast away the tools by which a
man carves his way to power and fortune.
"They shall die," said Sweeney Todd--"dead men tell no tales, nor women
nor boys either, and they shall all die; after which there will, I
think, be a serious fire in Fleet-street. Ha! ha! it may spread to what
mischief it likes, always provided it stops not short of the entire
destruction of my house and premises. Rare sport--rare sport will it be
to me, for then I will at once commence a new career, in which the
barber will be forgotten, and the man of fashion only seen and
remembered, for with this sad addition to my means, I am fully capable
of vying with the highest and the noblest, let them be whom they may."
This seemed a pleasant train of reflections to Sweeney Todd, and as the
coach entered Fleet-street, there sat such a grim smile upon his
countenance that he looked like some fiend in human shape, who had just
completed the destruction of a human soul. When he reached the livery
stables to which he directed them to drive, instead of his own shop, he
rewarded all who had gone with him most liberally, so that the coachman
and footman, who were both servants out of place, would have had no
objection for Sweeney Todd every day to have gone on some such an
expedition, so that they should receive as liberal wages for the small
part they enacted in it as they did upon that occasion. He then walked
from the stables toward his own house, but upon reaching there a little
disappointment awaited him, for he found to his surprise that no light
was burning; and when he placed his hand upon the shop-door, it opened,
but there was no trace of Tobias, although he, Sweeney Todd, called
loudly upon him the moment he set foot within the shop. Then a feeling
of apprehension crept across the barber, and he groped anxiously about
for some matches, by the aid of which he hoped to procure a light, and
then an explanation of the mysterious absence of Tobias. But in order
that we may, in its proper form, relate how it was that Tobias had had
the daring thus, in open contradiction of his master, to be away from
the shop, we must devote to Tobias a chapter, which will plead his
extenuation.
CHAPTER XV.
TOBIAS'S ADVENTURES DURING THE ABSENCE OF SWEENEY TODD.
Tobias guessed, and guessed rightly too, that when Sweeney Todd said he
would be away half an hour, he only mentioned that short period of time,
in order to keep the lad's vigilance on the alert, and to prevent him
from taking any advantage of a more protracted absence. The very style
and manner in which he had gone out, precluded the likelihood of it
being for so short a period of time; and that circumstance set Tobias
seriously thinking over a situation which was becoming more intolerable
every day. The lad had the sense to feel that he could not go on much
longer as he was going on, and that in a short time such a life would
destroy him.
"It is beyond endurance," he said, "and I know not what to do; and since
Sweeney Todd has told me that the boy he had before went out of his
senses, and is now in the cell of a mad-house, I feel that such will be
my fate, and that I too shall come to that dreadful end, and then no one
will believe a word I utter, but consider everything to be mere raving."
After a time, as the darkness increased, he lit the lamp which hung in
the shop, and which, until it was closed for the night, usually shed a
dim ray from the window. Then he sat down to think again, and he said to
himself--
"If I could now but summon courage to ask my mother about this robbery
which Sweeney Todd imputes to her, she might assure me it was false, and
that she never did such a deed; but then it is dreadful for me to ask
her such a question, because it may be true; and then, how shocking it
would be for her to be forced to confess to me, her own son, such a
circumstance."
These were the honourable feelings which prevented Tobias from
questioning his mother as regarded Todd's accusation of her--an
accusation too dreadful to believe implicitly, and yet sufficiently
probable for him to have a strong suspicion that it might be true after
all. It is to be deeply regretted that Tobias's philosophy did not carry
him a little further, and make him see, the moment the charge was made,
that he ought unquestionably to investigate it to the very utmost. But
still we could hardly expect, from a mere boy, that acute reasoning and
power of action, which depend so much upon the knowledge of the world
and an extensive practice in the usages of society. It was sufficient if
he felt correctly--we could scarcely expect him to reason so. But upon
this occasion, above all others, he seemed completely overcome by the
circumstances which surrounded him; and from his excited manner, one
might have almost imagined that the insanity he himself predicted at the
close of his career was really not far off. He wrung his hands, and he
wept, every now and then, in sad speech, bitterly bemoaning his
situation, until at length, with a sudden resolution, he sprang to his
feet, exclaiming--
"This night shall end it. I can endure it no more. I will fly from this
place, and seek my fortune elsewhere. Any amount of distress, danger, or
death itself even, is preferable to the dreadful life I lead."
He walked some paces towards the door, and then he paused, as he said to
himself in a low tone--
"Todd will surely not be home yet awhile, and why should I then neglect
the only opportunity I may ever have of searching this house to satisfy
my mind as regards any of the mysteries that it contains?"
He paused over this thought, and considered well its danger, for
dangerous indeed it was to no small extent, but he was desperate; and
with a resolution that scarcely could have been expected from him, he
determined upon taking that step, above all others, which Todd was
almost sure to punish with death. He closed the shop door, and bolted it
upon the inside, so that he could not be suddenly interrupted, and then
he looked round him carefully for some weapon, by the aid of which he
should be able to break his way into the parlour, which the barber
always kept closed and locked in his absence. A weapon that would answer
the purpose of breaking any lock, if he, Tobias, chose to proceed so
roughly to work, was close at hand in the iron bar, which, when the
place was closed at night, secured a shutter to the door. Wrought up as
he was to almost frenzy, Tobias seized this bar, and, advancing towards
the parlour door, he with one blow smashed the lock to atoms, and the
door yielded. The moment it did so, there was a crash of glass, and when
Tobias entered the room he saw that upon its threshold lay a wine-glass
shattered to atoms, and he felt certain that it had been placed in some
artful position by Sweeney Todd as a detector, when he should return, of
any attempt that had been made upon the door of the parlour. And now
Tobias felt that he was so far committed that he might as well go on
with his work, and accordingly he lit a candle, which he found upon the
parlour table, and then proceeded to make what discoveries he could.
Several of the cupboards in the room yielded at once to his hands, and
in them he found nothing remarkable; but there was one that he could not
open; so, without a moment's hesitation, he had recourse to the bar of
iron again, and broke its lock, when the door swung open,--and to his
astonishment there tumbled out of this cupboard such a volley of hats of
all sorts and descriptions, some looped with silver, some
three-cornered, and some square, that they formed quite a museum of that
article of attire, and excited the greatest surprise in the mind of
Tobias, at the same time that they tended very greatly to confirm some
other thoughts and feelings which he had concerning Sweeney Todd. This
was the only cupboard which was fast, although there was another door
which looked as if it opened into one, but when Tobias broke that down
with the bar of iron, he found it was the door which led to the
staircase conducting to the upper part of the house--that upper part
which Sweeney Todd, with all his avarice, would never let, and of which
the shutters were kept continually closed, so that the opposite
neighbours never caught a glimpse into any of the apartments. With
cautious and slow steps, which he adopted instantaneously, although he
knew that there was no one in the house but himself, Tobias ascended the
staircase.
"I will go to the very top rooms first," he said to himself, "and so
examine them all as I come down, and then if Todd should return
suddenly, I shall have a better chance of hearing him, than as if I
began below and went upwards."
Acting upon this prudent scheme, he went up to the attics, all the doors
of which were swinging open, and there was nothing in any of them
whatever. He descended to the second floor with the like result, and a
feeling of great disappointment began to creep over him at the thought
that, after all, the barber's house might not repay the trouble of
examination. But when he reached the first floor he soon found abundant
reason to alter his opinion. The doors were fast, and he had to burst
them open; and, when he got in, he found that those rooms were partially
furnished, and that they contained a great quantity of miscellaneous
property of all kinds and descriptions. In one corner was an enormous
quantity of walking-sticks, some of which were of a very costly and
expensive character, with gold and silver chased tops to them, and in
another corner was a great number of umbrellas--in fact, at least a
hundred of them. Then there were boots and shoes lying upon the floor,
partially covered up, as if to keep them from dirt; there were thirty or
forty swords of different styles and patterns, many of them appearing to
be very firm blades, and in one or two cases the scabbards were richly
ornamented. At one end of the front and larger of these two rooms, was
an old-fashioned-looking bureau of great size, and with as much
wood-work in it as seemed required to make at least a couple of such
articles of furniture. This was very securely locked, and presented more
difficulties in the way of opening it than any of the doors had done,
for the lock was of great strength and apparent durability. Moreover it
was not so easily got at, but at length by using the bar as a sort of
lever, instead of as a mere machine to strike with, Tobias succeeded in
forcing this bureau open, and then his eyes were perfectly dazzled with
the amount of jewellery and trinkets of all kinds and descriptions that
were exhibited to his gaze. There was a great number of watches, gold
chains, silver and gold snuff-boxes, and a large assortment of rings,
shoe-buckles, and brooches. These articles must have been of great
value, and Tobias could not help exclaiming aloud--
"How could Sweeney Todd come by these articles, except by the murder of
their owners?"
This, indeed, seemed but too probable a supposition, and the more
especially so, as in a further part of this bureau a great quantity of
apparel was found by Tobias. He stood with a candle in his hand, looking
upon these various objects for more than a quarter of an hour, and then
as a sudden and a natural thought came across him of how completely a
few of them even would satisfy his wants and his mother's for a long
time to come, he stretched forth his hand towards the glittering mass,
but he drew it back again with a shudder, saying--
"No--no, these things are the plunder of the dead. Let Sweeney Todd keep
them to himself, and look upon them, if he can, with eyes of enjoyment.
I will have none of them; they would bring misfortune along with every
guinea that they might be turned into."
As he spoke, he heard St. Dunstan's clock strike nine, and he started at
the sound, for it let him know that already Sweeney Todd had been away
an hour beyond the time he said he would be absent, so that there was a
probability of his quick return now, and it would scarcely be safe to
linger longer in his house.
"I must be gone--I must be gone. I should like to look upon my mother's
face once more before I leave London for ever perhaps. I may tell her of
the danger she is in from Todd's knowledge of her secret; no--no, I
cannot speak to her of that; I must go, and leave her to those chances
which I hope and trust will work favourably for her."
Flinging down the iron bar which had done him such good service, Tobias
stopped not to close any of those receptacles which contained the
plunder that Sweeney Todd had taken most probably from murdered persons,
but he rushed down stairs into the parlour again, where the boots that
had fallen out of the cupboard still lay upon the floor in wild
disorder. It was a strange and sudden whim that took him, rather than a
matter of reflection, that induced him, instead of his own hat, to take
one of those which were lying so indiscriminately at his feet; and he
did so. By mere accident it turned out to be an exceedingly handsome
hat, of rich workmanship and material, and then Tobias, feeling
terrified lest Sweeney Todd should return before he could leave the
place, paid no attention to anything, but turned from the shop, merely
pulling the door after him, and then darting over the road towards the
Temple like a hunted hare; for his great wish was to see his mother, and
then he had an undefined notion that his best plan for escaping the
clutches of Sweeney Todd would be to go to sea. In common with all boys
of his age, who know nothing whatever of the life of a sailor, it
presented itself in the most fascinating colours. A sailor ashore and a
sailor afloat, are about as two different things as the world can
present; but, to the imagination of Tobias Ragg, a sailor was somebody
who was always dancing hornpipes, spending money, and telling wonderful
stories. No wonder, then, that the profession presented itself under
such fascinating colours to all such persons as Tobias; and as it
seemed, and seems still, to be a sort of general understanding that the
real condition of a sailor should be mystified in every possible way and
shape by both novelist and dramatist, it is no wonder that it requires
actual experience to enable those parties who are in the habit of being
carried away by just what they hear, to come to a correct conclusion.
"I will go to sea!" ejaculated Tobias. "Yes, I will go to sea!"
As he spoke these words he passed out of the gate of the Temple leading
into Whitefriars, in which ancient vicinity his mother dwelt,
endeavouring to eke out a living as best she might. She was very much
surprised (for she happened to be at home) at the unexpected visit of
her son, Tobias, and uttered a faint scream as she let fall a flat-iron
very nearly upon his toes.
"Mother," he said, "I cannot stay with Sweeney Todd any longer, so do
not ask me."
"Not stay with such a respectable man?"
"A respectable man, mother! Alas, alas, how little you know of him! But
what am I saying? I dare not speak! Oh, that fatal, fatal candlestick!"
"But how are you to live, and what do you mean by a fatal candlestick?"
"Forgive me--I did not mean to say that! Farewell, mother! I am going to
sea."
"To see what, my dear?" said Mrs. Ragg, who was much more difficult to
talk to, than even Hamlet's grave-digger. "You don't know how much I am
obliged to Sweeney Todd."
"Yes, I do, and that's what drives me mad to think of. Farewell, mother,
perhaps for ever! If I can, of course I will communicate with you, but
now I dare not stay."
"Oh! what have you done, Tobias--what have you done?"
"Nothing--nothing! but Sweeney Todd is--"
"What--what?"
"No matter--no matter! Nothing--nothing! And yet at this last moment I
am almost tempted to ask you concerning a candlestick."
"Don't mention that," said Mrs. Ragg; "I don't want to hear anything
said about it."
"It is true, then?"
"Yes; but did Mr. Todd tell you?"
"He did--he did. I have now asked the question I never thought could
have passed my lips. Farewell, mother; for ever farewell!"
Tobias rushed out of the place, leaving old Mrs. Ragg astonished at his
behaviour, and with a strong suspicion that some accession of insanity
had come over him.
"The Lord have mercy upon us!" she said, "what shall I do? I am
astonished at Mr. Todd telling him about the candlestick; it's true
enough, though, for all that. I recollect it as well as though it were
yesterday; it was a very hard winter, and I was minding a set of
chambers, when Todd came to shave the gentleman, and I saw him with my
own eyes put a silver candlestick in his pocket. Then I went over to his
shop and reasoned with him about it, and he gave it me back again, and I
brought it to the chambers, and laid it down exactly on the spot where
he took it from."
"To be sure," said Mrs. Ragg, after a pause of a few moments, "to be
sure, he has been a very good friend to me ever since, but that I
suppose is for fear I should tell, and get him hung or transported. But,
however, we must take the good with the bad, and when Tobias comes to
think of it, he will go back again to his work, I dare say; for, after
all, it's a very foolish thing for him to trouble his head whether Mr.
Todd stole a silver candlestick or not."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE STRANGE ODOUR IN OLD ST. DUNSTAN'S CHURCH.
About this time, and while the incidents of our most strange and
eventful narrative were taking place, the pious frequenters of old St.
Dunstan's church began to perceive a strange and most abominable odour
throughout that sacred edifice. It was in vain that old women who came
to hear the sermons, although they were too deaf to catch a third part
of them, brought smelling bottles and other means of stifling their
noses; still that dreadful charnel-house sort of smell would make itself
most painfully and most disagreeably apparent. And the Rev. Joseph
Stillingport, who was the regular preacher, smelt it in the pulpit; and
had been seen to sneeze in the midst of a most pious discourse indeed,
and to hold to his pious mouth a handkerchief, in which was some strong
and pungent essence, for the purpose of trying to overcome the horrible
effluvia. The organ-blower and the organ-player were both nearly
stifled, for the horrible odour seemed to ascend to the upper part of
the church; although those who sat in what may be called the pit, by no
means escaped it. The churchwardens looked at each other in their pews
with contorted countenances, and were almost afraid to breathe; and the
only person who did not complain bitterly of the dreadful odour in St.
Dunstan's church, was an old woman who had been a pew-opener for many
years; but then she had lost the faculties of her nose, which, perhaps,
accounted satisfactorily for that circumstance. At length, however, the
nuisance became so intolerable, that the beadle, whose duty it was in
the morning to open the church doors, used to come up to them with the
massive key in one hand, and a cloth soaked in vinegar in the other,
just as the people used to do in the time of the great plague of London;
and when he had opened the doors, he used to run over to the other side
of the way.
"Ah, Mr. Blunt!" he used to say to the bookseller, who lived
opposite--"ah! Mr. Blunt, I is obligated to cut over here, leastways
till the _atymouspheric_ air is mixed up all along with the
_stinkifications_ which come from the church."
By this it will be seen that the beadle was rather a learned man, and no
doubt went to some mechanics' institution of those days, where he
learned something of everything but what was calculated to be of some
service to him. As might be supposed, from the fact that this sort of
thing had gone on for a few months, it began to excite some attention
with a view to a remedy; for, in the great city of London, a nuisance of
any sort or description requires to become venerable by age before any
one thinks of removing it; and after that, it is quite clear that that
becomes a good argument against removing it at all. But at last, the
churchwardens began to have a fear that some pestilential disease would
be the result if they for any longer period of time put up with the
horrible stench, and that they might be among its first victims, so they
began to ask each other what could be done to obviate it. Probably, if
this frightful stench, being suggestive, as it was, of all sorts of
horrors, had been graciously pleased to confine itself to some poor
locality, nothing would have been heard of it; but when it became
actually offensive to a gentleman in a metropolitan pulpit, and when it
began to make itself perceptible to the sleepy faculties of the
churchwardens of St. Dunstan's church, Fleet-street, so as to prevent
them even from dozing through the afternoon sermon, it became a very
serious matter indeed. But what was it, what could it be, and what was
to be done to get rid of it? These were the anxious questions that were
asked right and left, as regarded the serious nuisance, without the
fates graciously acceding any reply. But yet one thing seemed to be
generally agreed, and that was, that it did come, and must come, somehow
or other, out of the vaults from beneath the church. But then, as the
pious and hypocritical Mr. Butterwick, who lived opposite, said--
"How could that be, when it was satisfactorily proved by the present
books that nobody had been buried in the vaults for some time, and
therefore it was a very odd thing that dead people, after leaving off
smelling and being disagreeable, should all of a sudden burst out again
in that line, and be twice as bad as ever they were at first."
And on Wednesdays sometimes, too, when pious people were not satisfied
with the Sunday's devotion, but began again in the middle of the week,
that stench was positively terrific. Indeed, so bad was it, that some of
the congregation were forced to leave, and have been seen to slink into
Bell-yard, where Lovett's pie-shop was situated, and then and there
solace themselves with a pork or a veal pie, in order that their mouths
and noses should be full of a delightful and agreeable flavour, instead
of one most peculiarly and decidedly the reverse. At last there was a
confirmation to be held at St. Dunstan's church, and a great concourse
of persons assembled, for a sermon was to be preached by the bishop
after the confirmation; and a very great fuss indeed was to be made
about really nobody knew exactly what. Preparations, as newspapers say,
upon an extensive scale, and regardless of expense, were made for the
purpose of adding lustre to the ceremony, and surprising the bishop,
when he came, with a good idea that the people who attended St.
Dunstan's church were somebodies, and really worth confirming. The
confirmation was to take place at twelve o'clock, and the bells ushered
in the morning with their most pious tones, for it was not every day
that the authorities of St. Dunstan succeeded in catching a bishop, and
when they did so, they were determined to make the most of him. And the
numerous authorities, including churchwardens, and even the very beadle,
were in an uncommon fluster, and running about, and impeding each other,
as authorities always do upon public occasions. But, to those who only
look to the surface of things, and who came to admire what was grand and
magnificent in the preparations, the beadle certainly carried away the
palm, for that functionary was attired in a completely new cocked hat
and coat, and certainly looked very splendid and showy upon the
occasion. Moreover, that beadle had been well and judiciously selected,
and the parish authorities made no secret of it, when there was an
election for beadle, that they threw all their influence into the scale
of that candidate who happened to be the biggest, and consequently, who
was calculated to wear the official costume with an air that no smaller
man could have possibly aspired to on any account. At half-past eleven
o'clock the bishop made his gracious appearance, and was duly ushered
into the vestry, where there was a comfortable fire, and on the table in
which, likewise, were certain cold chickens and bottles of rare wines;
for confirming a number of people, and preaching a sermon besides, was
considered no joke, and might, for all they knew, be provocative of a
great appetite in the bishop. And with what a bland and courtly air the
bishop smiled as he ascended the steps of St. Dunstan's Church. How
affable he was to the churchwardens, and he actually smiled upon a poor
miserable charity boy, who, his eyes glaring wide open, and his muffin
cap in his hand, was taking his first stare at a real live bishop. To be
sure, the beadle knocked him down directly the bishop had passed, for
having the presumption to look at such a great personage, but then that
was to be expected fully and completely, and only proved that the
proverb, which permits a cat to look at a king, is not equally
applicable to charity boys and bishops. When the bishop got to the
vestry, some very complimentary words were uttered to him by the usual
officiating clergyman, but, somehow or other, the bland smile had left
the lips of the great personage, and, interrupting the vicar in the
midst of a fine flowing speech, he said--
"That's all very well, but what a terrible stink there is here!"
The churchwardens gave a groan, for they had flattered themselves that
perhaps the bishop would not notice the dreadful smell, or that, if he
did, he would think it was accidental, and say nothing about it; but
now, when he really did mention it, they found all their hopes scattered
to the winds, and that it was necessary to say something.
"Is this horrid charnel-house sort of smell always here?"
"I am afraid it is," said one of the churchwardens.
"Afraid!" said the bishop, "surely you know; you seem to me to have a
nose."
"Yes," said the churchwarden, in great confusion, "I have that honour,
and I have the pleasure of informing you, my Lord Bishop--I mean I have
the honour of informing you that this smell is always here."
The bishop sniffed several times, and then he said--
"It is very dreadful; and I hope that by the next time I come to St.
Dunstan's, you will have the pleasure and the honour, both, of informing
me that it has gone away."
The churchwarden bowed, and got into an extreme corner, saying to
himself--
"This is the bishop's last visit here, and I don't wonder at it, for, as
if out of pure spite, the smell is ten times worse than ever to-day."
And so it was, for it seemed to come up through all the crevices of the
flooring of the church, with a power and perseverance that was
positively dreadful.
The people coughed, and held their handkerchiefs to their noses,
remarking to each other--
"Isn't it dreadful?--did you ever know the smell in St. Dunstan's so bad
before," and everybody agreed that they never had known it anything like
so bad, for that it was positively awful--and so indeed it was.
The anxiety of the bishop to get away was quite manifest, and, if he
could have decently taken his departure without confirming anybody at
all, there is no doubt but that he would have willingly done so, and
left all the congregation to die and be--something or another. But this
he could not do, but he could cut it short, and he did so. The people
found themselves confirmed before they almost knew where they were, and
the bishop would not go into the vestry again on any account, but
hurried down the steps of the church, and into his carriage, with the
greatest precipitation in the world, thus proving that holiness is no
proof against a most abominable stench. As may be well supposed, after
this, the subject assumed a much more serious aspect, and on the
following day a solemn meeting was held of all the church authorities,
at which it was determined that men should be employed to make a
thorough and searching examination of the vaults of St. Dunstan's, with
the view of discovering, if possible, from whence particularly the
abominable stench emanated. And then it was decided that the stench was
to be put down, and that the bishop was to be apprized it was put down,
and that he might visit the church in perfect safety.
CHAPTER XVII.
SWEENEY TODD'S PROCEEDINGS CONSEQUENT UPON THE DEPARTURE OF TOBIAS.
We left the barber in his own shop, much wondering that Tobias had not
responded to the call which he had made upon him, but yet scarcely
believing it possible that he could have ventured upon the height of
iniquity, which we know Tobias had really been guilty of. He paused for
a few moments, and held up the light which he had procured, and gazed
around him with inquiring eyes, for he could, indeed, scarcely believe
it possible that Tobias had sufficiently cast off his dread of him,
Sweeney Todd, to be enabled to achieve any act for his liberation. But
when he saw that the lock of the parlour-door was open, positive rage
obtained precedence over every other feeling.
"The villain!" he cried, "has he dared really to consummate an act I
thought he could not have dreamt of for a moment? Is it possible that he
can have presumed so far as to have searched the house?"
That Tobias, however, had presumed so far, the barber soon discovered,
and when he went into his parlour and saw what had actually occurred,
and that not only was every cupboard door broken open, but that likewise
the door which led to the staircase and the upper part of the house had
not escaped, he got perfectly furious, and it was some time before he
could sufficiently calm himself to reflect upon the probable and
possible amount of danger he might run in consequence of these
proceedings. When he did, his active mind at once told him that there
was not much to be dreaded immediately, for that most probably Tobias,
still having the fear before his eyes of what he might do as regarded
his mother, had actually run away; and, "in all likelihood," muttered
the barber, "he has taken with him something which would allow me to fix
upon him the stigma of robbery, but that I must see to."
Having fastened the shop-door securely, he took the light in his hands,
and ascended to the upper part of his house--that is to say, the first
floor, where alone anything was to be found. He saw at once the open
bureau, with all its glittering display of jewels, and as he gazed upon
the heap, he muttered--
"I have not so accurate a knowledge of what is here as to be able to say
if anything be extracted or not, but I know the amount of money, if I do
not know the precise number of jewels which this bureau contains."
He opened a small drawer which had entirely escaped the scrutiny of
Tobias, and proceeded to count a large number of guineas which were
there.
"These are correct," he said, when he had finished his
examination--"these are correct, and he has touched none of them."
He then opened another drawer, in which were a great many packets of
silver done up in paper, and these likewise he carefully counted, and
was satisfied they were right.
"It is strange," he said, "that he has taken nothing, but yet perhaps it
is better that it should be so, inasmuch as it shows a wholesome fear of
me. The slightest examination would have shown him these hoards of
money; and since he has not made that slight examination, nor discovered
any of them, it seems to my mind decisive upon the subject, that he has
taken nothing, and perchance I shall discover him easier than I
imagine."
[Illustration: Tobias Discovers The Barber's Hidden Plunder.]
He repaired to the parlour again, and carefully divested himself of
everything which had enabled him so successfully to impose upon John
Mundel, and replaced them by his ordinary costume, after which he
fastened up his house and sallied forth, taking his way direct to Mrs.
Ragg's humble home, in the expectation that there he would hear
something of Tobias, which would give him a clue where to search for
him, for search for him he fully intended; but what were his precise
intentions perhaps he could hardly have told himself, until he actually
found him. When he reached Mrs. Ragg's house, and made his appearance
abruptly before that lady, who seemed somehow or another to be always
ironing and always to drop the iron when any one came in, very near
their toes, he said--
"Where did your son Tobias go after he left you to-night?"
"Lor! Mr. Todd, is it you? You are as good as a conjuror, sir, for he
was here; but bless you, sir, I know no more where he is gone to, than
the man in the moon. He said he was going to sea, but I am sure I should
not have thought it, that I should not."
"To sea!--then the probability is that he would go down to the docks,
but surely not to-night. Do you not expect him back here to sleep?"
"Well, sir, that's a very good thought of yours; and he may come back
here to sleep, for all I know to the contrary."
"But you do not know it for a fact?"
"He didn't say so; but he may come, you know, sir, for all that."
"Did he tell you his reason for leaving me?"
"Indeed no, sir; he really did not, and he seemed to me to be a little
bit out of his senses."
"Ah! Mrs. Ragg," said Sweeney Todd, "there you have it. From the first
moment that he came into my service, I knew and felt confident that he
was out of his senses. There was a strangeness of behaviour about him,
which soon convinced me of that fact, and I am only anxious about him,
in order that some effort may be made to cure him of such a malady, for
it is a serious, and a dreadful one, and one which, unless taken in
time, will be yet the death of Tobias."
These words were spoken with such solemn seriousness, that they had a
wonderful effect upon Mrs. Ragg, who, like most ignorant persons, began
immediately to confirm that which she most dreaded.
"Oh, it's too true," she said, "it's too true. He did say some
extraordinary things to-night, Mr. Todd, and he said he had something to
tell, which was too horrid to speak of. Now the idea, you know, Mr.
Todd, of anybody having anything at all to tell, and not telling it at
once, is quite singular."
"It is!--and I am sure that his conduct is such you never would be
guilty of, Mrs. Ragg;--but hark! what's that?"
"It's a knock, Mr. Todd."
"Hush, stop a moment--what if it be Tobias?"
"Gracious goodness! it can't be him, for he would have come in at once."
"No; I slipped the bolt of the door, because I wished to talk to you
without observation; so it may be Tobias, you perceive, after all. But
let me hide somewhere, so that I may hear what he says, and be able to
judge how his mind is affected. I will not hesitate to do something for
him, let it cost what it may."
"There's the cupboard, Mr. Todd. To be sure there is some dirty
saucepans and a frying-pan in it, and of course it aint a fit place to
ask you to go into."
"Never mind that--never mind that; only you be careful, for the sake of
Tobias's very life, to keep secret that I am here."
The knocking at the door increased each moment in vehemence, and
scarcely had Sweeney Todd succeeded in getting into the cupboard along
with Mrs. Ragg's pots and pans, and thoroughly concealed himself, when
she opened the door; and, sure enough--Tobias, heated, tired, and
looking ghastly pale--staggered into the room.
"Mother," he said, "I have taken a new thought, and have come back to
you."
"Well, I thought you would, Tobias; and a very good thing it is that you
have."
"Listen to me: I thought of flying from England for ever, and of never
again setting foot upon its shores. I have altered that determination
completely, and I feel now that it is my duty to do something else."
"To do what, Tobias?"
"To tell all I know--to make a clean breast, mother, and, let the
consequences be what they may, to let justice take its course."
"What do you mean, Tobias?"
"Mother, I have come to a conclusion, that what I have to tell is of
such vast importance, compared with any consequences that may arise from
the petty robbery of the candlestick, which you know of, that I ought
not to hesitate a moment in revealing everything."
"But, my dear Tobias, remember that that is a dreadful secret, and one
that must be kept."
"It cannot matter--it cannot matter; and, besides, it is more than
probable that by revealing what I actually know, and which is of such
great magnitude, I may, mother, in a manner of speaking, perchance
completely exonerate you from the consequences of that transaction.
Besides, it was long ago, and the prosecutor may have mercy; but, be all
that how it may, and be the consequences what they may, I must and will
tell what I now know."
"But what is it Tobias, that you know?"
"Something too dreadful for me to utter to you alone. Go into the
Temple, mother, to some of the chambers you attend to, and ask them to
come to me, and listen to what I have got to say. They will be amply
repaid for their trouble, for they will hear that which may, perhaps,
save their own lives."
"He is quite gone," thought Mrs. Ragg, "and Mr. Todd is correct; poor
Tobias is as mad as he can be!" "Alas, alas, Tobias, why don't you try
to reason yourself into a better state of mind! You don't know a bit
what you are saying, any more than the man in the moon."
"I know I am half mad, mother, but yet I know what I am saying well; so
do not fancy that it is not to be relied upon, but go and fetch some one
at once to listen to what I have to relate."
"Perhaps," thought Mrs. Ragg, "if I were to pretend to humour him, it
would be as well, and, while I am gone, Mr. Todd can speak to him."
This was a bright idea of Mrs. Ragg's, and she forthwith proceeded to
carry it into execution, saying--
"Well, my dear, if it must be, it must be--and I will go; but I hope
while I have gone, somebody will speak to you, and convince you that you
ought to try to quiet yourself."
These words Mrs. Ragg uttered aloud, for the special benefit of Sweeney
Todd, who, she considered, would have been there to take the hint
accordingly. It is needless to say he did hear them, and how far he
profited by them, we shall quickly perceive. As for poor Tobias, he had
not the remotest idea of the close proximity of his arch enemy; if he
had, he would quickly have left that spot, where he might well to
conjecture so much danger awaited him; for although Sweeney Todd, under
the circumstances, probably felt that he dared not take Tobias's life,
still he might exchange something that could place it in his power to do
so shortly, with the least personal danger to himself. The door closed
after the retreating form of Mrs. Ragg, and as, considering the mission
she was gone upon, it was very clear some minutes must elapse before she
could return, Sweeney Todd did not feel that there was any very
particular hurry in the transaction.
"What shall I do?" he said to himself. "Shall I await his mother's
coming again, and get her to aid me, or shall I of myself adopt some
means which will put an end to trouble on this boy's account?"
Sweeney Todd was a man tolerably rapid in thought, and he contrived to
make up his mind that the best plan, unquestionably, would be to lay
hold of Tobias at once, and so prevent the possibility of any appeal to
his mother becoming effective. Tobias, when his mother left the place,
as he imagined, for the purpose of procuring some one to listen to what
he considered to be Sweeney Todd's delinquencies, rested his face upon
his hands, and gave himself up to painful and deep thought. He felt that
he had arrived at quite a crisis in his history, and that the next few
hours could not surely but be very important to him in their results;
and so they were indeed, but not certainly exactly in the way that he
all along anticipated, for he thought of nothing but of the arrest and
discomfiture of Todd, little expecting how close was his proximity to
that formidable personage.
"Surely," thought Tobias, "I shall, by disclosing all that I know about
Todd, gain some consideration for my mother, and after all, she may not
be prosecuted for the robbery of the candlestick, for how very trifling
is that affair compared to the much more dreadful things which I more
than suspect Sweeney Todd to be guilty of. He is and must be, from all
that I have seen and heard, a murderer, although how he disposes of his
victims is involved in the most complete mystery, and is to me a matter
past all human power of comprehension. I have no idea even upon that
subject whatever."
This, indeed, was a great mystery; for, even admitting that Sweeney Todd
was a murderer, and it must be allowed that as yet we have only
circumstantial evidence of that fact, we can form no conclusion from
such evidence as to how he perpetrated the deed, or how afterwards he
disposed of the body of his victim. This grand and principal difficulty
in the way of committing murder with impunity, namely, the disposal of a
corpse, certainly did not seem at all to have any effect upon Sweeney
Todd; for if he made corpses, he had some means of getting rid of them
with the most wonderful expedition as well as secrecy.
"He is a murderer," thought Tobias. "I know he is, although I have never
seen him do the deed, or seen any appearances in the shop of a deed of
blood having been committed. Yet why is it that occasionally, when a
better dressed person than usual comes into the shop, that he sends me
out on some errand to a distant part of the town?"
Tobias did not forget, too, that on more than one occasion he had come
back quicker than he had been expected, and that he had caught Sweeney
Todd in some little confusion, and seen the hat, the stick, or perhaps
the umbrella of the last customer quietly waiting there, although the
customer had gone; and even if the glaring improbability of a man
leaving his hat behind him in a barber's shop was got over, why did he
not come back for it? This was a circumstance which was entitled to all
the weight which Tobias, during his mental cogitations, could give to
it, and there could be but one possible explanation of a man not coming
back for his hat, and that was that he had not the power to do so.
"This house will be searched," thought Tobias, "and all those things,
which of course must have belonged to so many different people, will be
found, and then they will be identified, and he will be required to say
how he came by them, which, I think, will be a difficult task indeed for
Sweeney Todd to accomplish. What a relief it will be to me, to be sure,
when he is hanged, as I think he is tolerably sure to be!"
"What a relief," muttered Sweeney Todd, as he slowly opened the door,
unseen by Tobias--"what a relief it will be to me when this boy is in
his grave, as he will be soon, or else I have forgotten all my moral
learning, and turned chicken-hearted--neither of them very likely
circumstances."
CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MISADVENTURE OF TOBIAS.--THE MAD-HOUSE ON PECKHAM-RYE.
Sweeney Todd paused for a moment at the cupboard door, before he made up
his mind as to whether he should pounce upon poor Tobias at once, or
adopt a more creeping, cautious mode of operation. The latter course was
by far the most congenial to his mind, and so he adopted it in a moment
or so, and stole quietly from his place of concealment, and with so
little noise, that Tobias could not have the least suspicion that any
one was in the room but himself. Treading, as if each step might involve
some serious consequences, he thus at length got completely behind the
chair on which Tobias was sitting, and stood with folded arms, and such
a hideous smile upon his face, that they together formed no inapt
representation of the Mephistopheles of the German drama.
"I shall at length," murmured Tobias, "be free from my present dreadful
state of mind, by thus accusing Todd. He is a murderer--of that I have
no doubt: it is but a duty of mine to stand forward as his accuser."
Sweeney Todd stretched out his two brawny hands, and clutched Tobias by
the head, which he turned round till the boy could see him, and then he
said--
"Indeed, Tobias; and did it never strike you that Todd was not so easily
to be overcome as you would wish him, eh, Tobias?"
The shock of this astonishing and sudden appearance of Sweeney Todd was
so great, that for a few moments Tobias was deprived of all power of
speech or action, and with his head so strangely twisted as to seem to
threaten the destruction of his neck. He glared in the triumphant and
malignant countenance of his persecutor, as he would into that of the
arch enemy of all mankind, which probably he now began to think the
barber really was. If one thing more than another was calculated to
delight such a man as Todd, it certainly was to perceive what a dreadful
effect his presence had upon Tobias, who remained for about a minute and
a half in this state before he ventured upon uttering a shriek, which,
however, when it did come, almost frightened Todd himself. It was one of
those cries which can only come from a heart in its utmost agony--a cry
which might have heralded the spirit to another world, and proclaimed,
as it very nearly did the destruction of the intellect for ever. The
barber staggered back a pace or two as he heard it, for it was too
terrific even for him, but it was for a very brief period that it had
that stunning effect upon him, and then, with a full consciousness of
the danger to which it subjected him, he sprang upon poor Tobias as a
tiger might be supposed to do upon a lamb, and clutched him by the
throat, exclaiming--
"Such another cry, and it is the last you ever live to utter, although
it cover me with difficulties to escape the charge of killing you.
Peace! I say, peace!"
This exhortation was quite needless, for Tobias could not have uttered a
word, had he been ever so much inclined to do so; the barber held his
throat with such an iron clutch, as if it had been in a vise.
"Villain," growled Todd, "villain; so this is the way in which you have
dared to disregard my injunctions. But no matter, no matter!--you shall
have plenty of leisure to reflect upon what you have done for yourself.
Fool! to think that you could cope with me--Sweeney Todd! Ha! ha!"
He burst into a laugh, so much more hideous, than his ordinary efforts
in that way, that, had Tobias heard it--which he did not, for his head
had dropped upon his breast, and he had become insensible--it would have
terrified him almost as much as Sweeney Todd's sudden appearance had
done.
"So," muttered the barber, "he has fainted, has he? Dull child, that is
all the better. For once in a way, Tobias, I will carry you--not to
oblige you, but to oblige myself. By all that's damnable, it was a
lively thought that brought me here to-night, or else I might, by the
dawn of the morning, have had some very troublesome inquiries made of
me."
He took Tobias up as easily as if he had been an infant, and strode from
the chambers with him, leaving Mrs. Ragg to draw whatever inference she
chose from his absence; but feeling convinced that she was too much
under his controul, to take any steps of a nature to give him the
smallest amount of uneasiness.
"The woman," he muttered to himself, "is a double-distilled ass, and can
be made to believe anything, so that I have no fear whatever of her. I
dare not kill Tobias, because it is necessary, in case of the matter
being at any other period mentioned, that his mother shall be in a
position to swear that she saw him after this night alive and well."
The barber strode through the Temple, carrying the boy, who seemed not
at all in a hurry to recover from the nervous and partial state of
suffocation into which he had fallen. As they passed through the gate
opening into Fleet-street, the porter, who knew the barber well by
sight, said--
"Hilloa, Mr. Todd, is that you? Why, who are you carrying?"
"Yes, it's I," said Todd, "and I am carrying my apprentice boy, Tobias
Ragg, poor fellow."
"Poor fellow!--why, what's the matter with him?"
"I can hardly tell you, but he seems to me and to his mother to have
gone out of his senses. Good night to you, good night. I'm looking for a
coach."
"Good night, Mr. Todd; I don't think you'll get one nearer than the
market--what a kind thing now of him to carry the boy! It ain't every
master would do that; but we must not judge of people by their looks,
and even Sweeney Todd, though he has a face that one would not like to
meet in a lonely place on a dark night, may be a kind-hearted man."
Sweeney Todd walked rapidly down Fleet-street, towards old Fleet Market,
which was then in all its glory, if that could be called glory which
consisted in all sorts of filth, enough to produce a pestilence within
the city of London. When there, he addressed a large bundle of great
coats, in the middle of which was supposed to be a hackney coachman of
the regular old school, and who was lounging over his vehicle, which was
as long and lumbering as a city barge.
"Jarvey," he said, "what will you take me to Peckham Rye for?"
"Peckham Rye--you and the boy--there ain't any more of you waiting round
the corner, are there--'cos, you know, that won't be fair?"
"No, no, no."
"Well, don't be in a passion, master. I only asked, you know, so you
need not be put out about it; I will take you for twelve shillings, and
that's what I call remarkably cheap, all things considered."
"I'll give half the amount," said Sweeney Todd, "and you may consider
yourself well paid."
"Half, master?--that is cutting it low; but, howsomdever, I suppose I
must put up with it, and take you. Get in, I must try and make it up by
some better fare out of somebody else."
The barber paid no heed to these renewed remonstrances of the coachman,
but got into the vehicle, carrying Tobias with him, apparently with
great care and consideration; but when the coach door closed, and no one
was observing him, he flung him down among the straw that was at the
bottom of the vehicle, and resting his immense feet upon him, he gave
one of his disagreeable laughs, as he said--
"Well, I think I have you now, Master Tobias; your troubles will soon be
over. I am really very much afraid that you will die suddenly, and then
there will be an end of you altogether, which will be a very sad thing,
though I don't think I shall go into mourning, because I have an opinion
that that only keeps alive the bitterness of regret, and that it's a
great deal better done without, Master Tobias."
The hackney coach swung about from side to side, in the proper approved
manner of hackney coaches in the olden time, when they used to be called
"bone setters," and to be thought wonderful if they made a progress of
three miles and a half an hour. This was the sort of vehicle, then, in
which poor Tobias, still perfectly insensible, was rumbled over
Blackfriars-bridge, and so on towards Peckham, which Sweeney Todd had
announced to be his place of destination. Going at the rate they did, it
was nearly two hours before they arrived upon Peckham Rye; and any one
acquainted with that locality is well aware that there are two roads,
the one to the left, and the other to the right, both of which are
pleasantly enough studded with villa residences. Sweeney Todd directed
the coachman to take the road to the left, which he accordingly did, and
they pursued it for a distance of about a mile and a half. It must not
be supposed that this pleasant district of country was then in the state
it is now, as regards inhabitants or cultivation. On the contrary, it
was rather a wild spot, on which now and then a serious robbery had been
committed; and which had witnessed some of the exploits of those
highwaymen, whose adventures, in the present day, if one may judge from
the public patronage they may receive, are viewed with such a great
amount of interest. There was a lonely, large, rambling, old-looking
house by the way side, on the left. A high wall surrounded it, which
only allowed the topmost portion of it to be visible, and that presented
great symptoms of decay, in the dilapidated character of the
chimney-pot, and the general appearance of discomfort which pervaded it.
There Sweeney Todd directed the coachman to stop, and when the vehicle,
after swinging to and fro for several minutes, did indeed at last
resolve itself into a state of repose, Sweeney Todd got out himself, and
rang a bell, the handle of which hung invitingly at the gate. He had to
wait several minutes before an answer was given to this summons, but at
length a noise proceeded from within, as if several bars and bolts were
being withdrawn; and presently the door was opened, and a huge,
rough-looking man made his appearance on the threshold.
[Illustration: The Barber Carries Off Tobias To A Private Mad-House.]
"Well! what is it now?" he cried.
"I have a patient for Mr. Fogg," said Sweeney Todd. "I want to see him
immediately."
"Oh! well, the more the merrier: it don't matter to me a bit. Have you
got him with you--and is he tolerably quiet?"
"It's a mere boy, and he is not violently mad, but very decidedly so as
regards what he says."
"Oh! that's it, is it? He can say what he likes here, it can make no
difference in the world to us. Bring him in--Mr. Fogg is in his own
room."
"I know the way: you take charge of the lad, and I will go and speak to
Mr. Fogg about him. But stay, give the coachman these six shillings, and
discharge him."
The doorkeeper of the lunatic asylum, for such it was, went out to obey
the injunctions of Sweeney Todd, while that rascally individual himself
walked along a wide passage to a door which was at the further extremity
of it.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE MADHOUSE CELL.
When the porter of the madhouse went out to the coach, his first
impression was, that the boy, who was said to be insane, was dead--for
not even the jolting ride to Peckham had been sufficient to arouse him
to a consciousness of how he was situated; and there he lay still at the
bottom of the coach alike insensible to joy or sorrow.
"Is he dead?" said the man to the coachman.
"How should I know?" was the reply; "he may be or he may not, but I want
to know how long I am to wait here for my fare?"
"There is your money, be off with you. I can see now that the boy is all
right, for he breathes, although it's after an odd fashion that he does
so. I should rather think he has had a knock on the head, or something
of that kind."
As he spoke, he conveyed Tobias within the building, and the coachman,
since he had got his six shillings, feeling that he had no further
interest in the matter, drove away at once, and paid no more attention
to it whatever. When Sweeney Todd reached the door at the end of the
passage, he tapped at it with his knuckles, and a voice cried--
"Who knocks--who knocks? Curses on you all! Who knocks?"
Sweeney Todd did not make any verbal reply to this polite request, but
opening the door he walked into the apartment, which is one that really
deserves some description. It was a large room with a vaulted roof, and
in the centre was a superior oaken table, at which sat a man
considerably advanced in years, as was proclaimed by his grizzled locks
that graced the sides of his head, but whose herculean frame and robust
constitution had otherwise successfully resisted the assaults of time. A
lamp swung from the ceiling, which had a shade over the top of it, so
that it cast a tolerably bright glow upon the table below, which was
covered with books and papers, as well as glasses and bottles of
different kinds, which showed that the madhouse-keeper was, at all
events, as far as himself was concerned, not at all indifferent to
personal comfort. The walls, however, presented the most curious aspect,
for they were hung with a variety of tools and implements, which would
have puzzled any one not initiated into the matter even to guess at
their uses. These were, however, in point of fact, specimens of the
different kinds of machinery which were used for the purpose of coercing
the unhappy persons whose evil destiny made them members of that
establishment. Those were what is "called the good old times," when all
sorts of abuses flourished in perfection, and when the unhappy insane
were actually punished as if they were guilty of some great offence.
Yes, and worse than that were they punished, for a criminal who might
have injustice done to him by any who were in authority over him, could
complain, and if he got hold of a person of higher power, his complaints
might be listened to, but no one heeded what was said by the poor
maniac, whose bitterest accusations of his keepers, let their conduct be
what it might, was only listened to and set down as a further proof of
his mental disorder. This was indeed a most awful and sad state of
things, and, to the disgrace of this country, it is a social evil
allowed until very late years to continue in full force. Mr. Fogg, the
madhouse-keeper fixed his keen eyes from beneath his shaggy brows, upon
Sweeney Todd, as the latter entered his apartment, and then he said--
"Mr. Todd, I think, unless my memory deceives me."
"The same," said the barber, making a hideous face, "I believe I am not
easily forgotten."
"True," said Mr. Fogg, as he reached a book, the edge of which was cut
into a lot of little slips, on each of which was a capital letter, in
the order of the alphabet--"true, you are not easily forgotten, Mr.
Todd."
He then opened the book at the letter T, and read from it:--
"Mr. Sweeney Todd, Fleet-street, London, paid one year's keep and burial
of Thomas Simkins, aged 15, found dead in his bed, after a residence in
the asylum of 10 months and 4 days. I think, Mr. Todd, that was our last
little transaction; what can I do now for you, sir?"
"I am rather unfortunate," said Todd, "with my boys. I have got another
here, who has shown such decided symptoms of insanity, that it becomes
absolutely necessary to place him under your care."
"Indeed!--does he rave?"
"Why, yes he does, and it's the most absurd nonsense in the world that
he raves about; for, to hear him, one would really think that, instead
of being one of the most humane of men, I was, in point of fact, an
absolute murderer."
"A murderer, Mr. Todd!"
"Yes, a murderer--a murderer to all intents and purposes; could anything
be more absurd than such an accusation?--I, that have the milk of human
kindness flowing in every vein, and whose very appearance ought to be
sufficient to convince anybody at once of my kindness of disposition."
Sweeney Todd finished his speech by making such a hideous face, that the
madhouse-keeper could not for the life of him tell what to say to it;
and then there came one of those short, disagreeable laughs which Todd
would at times utter, which, somehow or other, never appeared exactly to
come from his mouth, but always made people look up at the walls and
ceiling of the apartment in which they were, in great doubt as to whence
the remarkable sound came.
"For how long," said the madhouse-keeper, "do you think this malady will
continue?"
"I will pay," said Sweeney Todd, as he leaned over the table, and looked
in the face of his questioner, "I will pay for twelve months; but I
don't think between you and I, that the case will last anything like so
long--I think he will die suddenly."
"I shouldn't wonder if he did. Some of our patients do die very
suddenly, and, somehow or other, we never know exactly how it happens;
but it must be some sort of fit, for they are found dead in the morning
in their beds, and then we bury them privately and quietly, without
troubling anybody about it at all, which is decidedly the best way,
because it saves a great annoyance to friends and relations, as well as
prevents any extra expense which otherwise might be foolishly gone to."
"You are wonderfully correct and considerate," said Todd, "and it's no
more than what I expected from you, or what any one might expect from a
person of your great experience, knowledge, and acquirements. I must
confess I am quite delighted to hear you talk in so elevated a strain."
"Why," said Mr. Fogg, with a strange leer upon his face, "we are forced
to make ourselves useful, like the rest of the community; and we could
not expect people to send their mad friends and relatives here, unless
we took good care that their ends and views were answered by so doing.
We make no remarks, and we ask no questions. Those are the principles
upon which we have conducted business so successfully and so long; those
are the principles upon which we shall continue to conduct it, and to
merit, we hope, the patronage of the British public."
"Unquestionably--most unquestionably."
"You may as well introduce me to your patient at once, Mr. Todd, for I
suppose, by this time, he has been brought into this house."
"Certainly, certainly--I shall have great pleasure in showing him to
you."
The madhouse-keeper rose, and so did Mr. Todd, and the former, pointing
to the bottles and glasses on the table, said--
"When this business is settled, we can have a friendly glass together."
To this proposition Sweeney Todd assented with a nod, and then they both
proceeded to what was called a reception-room in the asylum, and where
poor Tobias had been conveyed and laid upon a table, when he showed
slight symptoms of recovering from the state of insensibility into which
he had fallen, and a man was sluicing water on his face by the
assistance of a hearth broom occasionally dipped into a pailful of that
fluid.
"Quite young," said the madhouse-keeper, as he looked upon the pale and
interesting face of Tobias.
"Yes," said Sweeney Todd, "he is young--more's the pity--and, of course,
we deeply regret his present situation."
"Oh, of course, of course; but see, he opens his eyes, and will speak
directly."
"Rave, you mean, rave!" said Todd; "don't call it speaking, it is not
entitled to the name. Hush! listen to him."
"Where am I?" said Tobias, "where am I? Todd is a murderer--I denounce
him."
"You hear--you hear?" said Todd.
"Mad indeed," said the keeper.
"Oh, save me from him--save me from him!" said Tobias, fixing his eyes
upon Mr. Fogg. "Save me from him; it is my life he seeks because I know
his secrets. He is a murderer--and many a person comes into his shop,
who never leaves it again in life, if at all."
"You hear him?" said Todd. "Was there ever anybody so mad?"
[Illustration: Tobias In The Hands Of The Mad-House Keepers.]
"Desperately mad," said the keeper. "Come, come, young fellow, we shall
be under the necessity of putting you in a strait waistcoat if you go on
in that way. We must do it, for there is no help in such cases if we
don't."
Todd slunk back into the dark of the apartment, so that he was not seen,
and Tobias continued, in an imploring tone--
"I do not know who you are, sir, or where I am; but let me beg of you to
cause the house of Sweeney Todd, the barber, in Fleet-street, near St.
Dunstan's church, to be searched, and you will find that he is a
murderer. There are at least a hundred hats, quantities of walking
sticks, umbrellas, watches, and rings, all belonging to unfortunate
persons who, from time to time, have met with their deaths through him."
"How uncommonly mad!" said Mr. Fogg.
"No, no," said Tobias, "I am not mad. Why call me mad, when the truth or
falsehood of what I say can be ascertained so easily? Search his house,
and if those things be not found there, say that I am mad, and have but
dreamed of them. I do not know how he kills the people. That is a great
mystery to me yet; but that he does kill them, I have no doubt--I cannot
have a doubt."
"Watson!" cried the mad-house keeper. "Hilloa! here, Watson."
"I am here, sir," said the man, who had been dashing water upon poor
Tobias's face.
"You will take this lad, Watson, as he seems extremely feverish and
unsettled. You will take him and shave his head, Watson, and put a
strait waistcoat upon him, and let him be put in one of the dark, damp
cells. We must be careful of him, and too much light encourages delirium
and fever."
"Oh! no, no!" cried Tobias; "What have I done that I should be subjected
to such cruel treatment? what have I done that I should be placed in a
cell? If this be a madhouse, I am not mad. Oh! have mercy upon me!--have
mercy upon me!"
"You will give him nothing but bread and water, Watson; and the first
symptom of his recovery, which will produce better treatment, will be
his exonerating his master from what he has said about him; for he must
be mad so long as he continues to accuse such a gentleman as Mr. Todd of
such things; nobody but a mad man or a mad boy would think of it."
"Then," said Tobias, "I shall continue mad; for if it be madness to know
and aver that Sweeney Todd, the barber, of Fleet-street, is a murderer,
mad am I, for I know it, and aver it. It is true--it is true."
"Take him away, Watson, and do as I desired you. I begin to find that
the boy is a very dangerous character, and more viciously mad than
anybody we have had here for a considerable time."
The man named Watson seized upon Tobias, who again uttered a shriek
something similar to the one which had come from his lips when Sweeney
Todd clutched hold of him in his mother's room. But they were used to
such things in that madhouse, and cared little for them, so no one
heeded the cry in the least; but poor Tobias was carried to the door
half maddened in reality by the horrors that surrounded him. Just as he
was being conveyed out, Sweeney Todd stepped up to him, and putting his
mouth close to his ear, he whispered--
"Ha! ha! Tobias! how do you feel now? Do you think Sweeney Todd will be
hung, or will you die in the cell of a madhouse?"
CHAPTER XX.
THE NEW COOK TO MRS. LOVETT GETS TIRED OF HIS SITUATION.
From what we have already had occasion to record about Mrs. Lovett's new
cook, who ate so voraciously in the cellar, our readers will no doubt be
induced to believe that he was a gentleman likely enough soon to be
tired of his situation. To a starving man, and one who seemed completely
abandoned even by hope, Lovett's bake-house, with an unlimited leave to
eat as much as possible, must of course present itself in the most
desirable and lively colours: and no wonder therefore, that, banishing
all scruple, a man so placed, would take the situation, with very little
inquiry. But people will tire of good things; and it is a remarkable
well-authenticated fact that human nature is prone to be discontented.
And those persons who are well acquainted with the human mind, and who
know well how little value people set upon things which they possess,
while those which they are pursuing, and which seem to be beyond their
reach, assume the liveliest colours imaginable, adopt various means of
turning this to account. Napoleon took good care that the meanest of his
soldiers should see in perspective the possibility of grasping a
marshal's baton. Confectioners at the present day, when they take a new
apprentice, tell him to eat as much as he likes of those tempting tarts
and sweetmeats, one or two of which before had been a most delicious
treat. The soldier goes on fighting away, and never gets the marshal's
baton. The confectioner's boy crams himself with Banbury cakes, gets
dreadfully sick, and never touches one afterwards. And now, to revert to
our friend in Mrs. Lovett's bakehouse. At first everything was
delightful, and, by the aid of the machinery, he found that it was no
difficult matter to keep up the supply of pies by really a very small
amount of manual labour. And that labour also was such a labour of love,
for the pies were delicious; there could be no mistake about that. He
tasted them half cooked, he tasted them wholly, and he tasted them
over-done; hot and cold; pork and veal with seasoning, and without
seasoning, until at last he had had them in every possible way and
shape; and when the fourth day came after his arrival in the cellar, he
might have been sitting in rather a contemplative attitude with a pie
before him. It was twelve o'clock: he had heard that sound come from the
shop. Yes, it was twelve o'clock, and he had eaten nothing yet; but he
kept his eye fixed upon the pie that lay untouched before him.
"The pies are all very well," he said; "in fact, of course they are
capital pies; and now that I see how they are made, and know that there
is nothing wrong in them, I, of course, relish them more than ever; but
one can't always live upon pies; it's quite impossible one can subsist
upon pies from one end of the year to the other, if they were the finest
pies the world ever saw, or ever will see. I don't say anything against
the pies--I know they are made of the finest flour, the best possible
butter, and that the meat, which comes from God knows where, is the most
delicate looking and tender I ever ate in all my life."
He stretched out his hand and broke a small portion of the crust from
the pie that was before him, and he tried to eat it. He certainly did
succeed; but it was a great effort; and when he had done, he shook his
head, saying--
"No, no!--d--n it! I cannot eat it, and that's the fact--one cannot be
continually eating pies: it is out of the question, quite out the
question; and all I have to remark is--d--n the pies! I really don't
think I shall be able to let another one pass my lips."
He rose and paced with rapid strides the place in which he was, and then
suddenly he heard a noise; and, looking up, he saw a trap door in the
roof open, and a sack of flour begin gradually to come down.
"Hilloa, hilloa!" he cried, "Mrs. Lovett--Mrs. Lovett!"
Down came the flour, and the trap door was closed.
"Oh, I can't stand this sort of thing," he exclaimed; "I cannot be made
into a mere machine for the manufacture of pies. I cannot and will not
endure it--it is past all bearing."
For the first time almost since his incarceration, for such it really
was, he began to think that he would take an accurate survey of the
place where this tempting manufacture was carried on. The fact was, his
mind had been so intensely occupied during the time he had been there in
providing merely for his physical wants, that he had scarcely had time
to think or reason upon the probabilities of an uncomfortable
termination of his career; but now, when he had really become quite
surfeited with the pies, and tired of the darkness and gloom of the
place, many unknown fears began to creep across him, and he really
trembled, as he asked himself what was to be the end of all. It was with
such a feeling as this that he now set about a careful and accurate
survey of the place; and taking a little lamp in his hand, he resolved
upon peering into every corner of it, with a hope that surely he should
find some means by which he should effect an escape from what otherwise
threatened to be an intolerable imprisonment. The vault in which the
ovens were situated was the largest; and although a number of smaller
ones communicated with it, containing the different mechanical
contrivances for pie-making, he could not from any one of them discover
an outlet. But it was to the vault where the meat was deposited upon
stone shelves that he paid the greatest share of attention, for to that
vault he felt convinced there must be some hidden and secret means of
ingress, and therefore of egress likewise, or else how came the shelves
always so well stocked with meat as they were? This vault was larger
than any of the other subsidiary ones, and the roof was very high, and,
come into it when he would, it always happened that he found meat enough
upon the shelves, cut into large lumps, and sometimes into slices, to
make a batch of pies with. When it got there, was not so much a mystery
to him as how it got there; for, of course, as he must sleep sometimes,
he concluded, naturally enough, that it was brought in by some means
during the period that he devoted to repose. He stood in the centre of
this vault with the lamp in his hand, and he turned slowly round,
surveying the walls and the ceilings with the most critical and marked
attention, but not the smallest appearance of an outlet was observable.
In fact, the walls were so entirely filled up with the stone shelves,
that there was no space left for a door; and as for the ceiling, it
seemed perfectly entire. Then the floor was of earth; so that the idea
of a trap door opening in it was out of the question, because there was
no one on his side of it to place the earth again over it, and give it
its compact and usual appearance.
"This is most mysterious," he said; "and if ever I could have been
brought to believe that any one had the assistance of the devil himself
in conducting human affairs, I should say that by some means Mrs. Lovett
had made it worth the while of that elderly individual to assist her;
for, unless the meat gets here by some supernatural agency, I really
cannot see how it can get here at all. And yet here it is--so fresh, and
pure, and white-looking, although I never could tell the pork from the
veal myself, for they seemed to me both alike."
He now made a still narrower examination of this vault, but he gained
nothing by that. He found that the walls at the back of the shelves were
composed of flat pieces of stone, which, no doubt, were necessary for
the support of the shelves themselves; but beyond that he made no
further discovery, and he was about leaving the place, when he fancied
he saw some writing on the inner side of the door. A closer inspection
convinced him that there were a number of lines written with lead
pencil, and after some difficulty he decyphered them as follows:--
"Whatever unhappy wretch reads these lines may bid adieu to the world
and all hope, for he is a doomed man! He will never emerge from these
vaults with life, for there is a secret connected with them so awful and
so hideous, that to write it makes one's blood curdle, and the flesh to
creep upon my bones. That secret is this--and you may be assured,
whoever is reading these lines, that I write the truth, and that it is
as impossible to make that awful truth worse by any exaggeration, as it
would be by a candle at mid-day to attempt to add any new lustre to the
sunbeams."
Here, most unfortunately, the writing broke off, and our friend, who, up
to this point, had perused the lines with the most intense interest,
felt great bitterness of disappointment, from the fact that enough
should have been written to stimulate his curiosity to the highest
possible point, but not enough to gratify it.
"This is, indeed, most provoking," he exclaimed. "What can this most
dreadful secret be, which it is impossible to exaggerate? I cannot, for
a moment, divine to what it can allude."
In vain he searched over the door for some more writing--there was none
to be found, and from the long straggling pencil-mark, which followed
the last word, it seemed as if he who had been then writing had been
interrupted, and possibly met the fate that he had predicted, and was
about to explain the reason of.
"This is worse than no information. I had better have remained in
ignorance than have received so indistinct a warning; but they shall not
find me an easy victim, and, besides, what power on earth can force me
to make pies unless I like, I should wish to know?"
As he stepped out of the place in which the meat was kept into the large
vault where the ovens were, he trod upon a piece of paper that was lying
upon the ground, and which he was quite certain he had not observed
before. It was fresh and white, and clean too, so that it could not have
been long there, and he picked it up with some curiosity. That curiosity
was, however, soon turned to dismay when he saw what was written upon
it, which was to the following effect, and well calculated to produce a
considerable amount of alarm in the breast of any one situated as he
was, so entirely friendless and so entirely hopeless of any extraneous
aid in those dismal vaults, which he began, with a shudder, to suspect
would be his tomb:--
"You are getting dissatisfied, and therefore it becomes necessary to
explain to you your real position, which is simply this:--You are a
prisoner, and were such from the first moment that you set foot where
you now are; and you will find, unless you are resolved upon sacrificing
your life, that your best plan will be to quietly give into the
circumstances in which you find yourself placed. Without going into any
argument or details upon the subject, it is sufficient to inform you
that so long as you continue to make the pies, you will be safe; but if
you refuse, then the first time you are caught asleep your throat will
be cut."
This document was so much to the purpose, and really had so little of
verbosity about it, that it was extremely difficult to doubt its
sincerity. It dropped from the half-paralysed hands of that man, who, in
the depth of his distress, and urged on by great necessity, had accepted
a situation that he would have given worlds to escape from, had he been
possessed of them.
"Gracious Heaven!" he exclaimed, "and am I then indeed condemned to such
a slavery? Is it possible, that even in the heart of London, I am a
prisoner, and without the means of resisting the most frightful threats
that are uttered against me? Surely, surely this must be all a dream! It
is too terrific to be true!"
He sat down upon that low stool where his predecessor had sat before,
receiving his death-wound from the assassin who had glided in behind
him, and dealt him that crashing blow, whose only mercy was that it had
at once deprived the victim of existence. He could have wept bitterly,
wept as he there sat, for he thought over days long passed away, of
opportunities let go by with the heedless laugh of youth; he thought
over all the chances and fortunes of his life, and now to find himself
the miserable inhabitant of a cellar, condemned to a mean and
troublesome employment, without even the liberty of leaving that, to
starve if he chose, upon pain of death--a frightful death, which had
been threatened him, was indeed torment! No wonder that at times he felt
himself unnerved, and that a child might have conquered him, while at
other moments such a feeling of despair would come across him, that he
called aloud upon his enemies to make their appearance, and give him at
least the chance of a struggle for his life.
"If I am to die," he cried, "let me die with some weapon in my hand, as
a brave man ought, and I will not complain, for there is little indeed
in life now which should induce me to cling to it; but I will not be
murdered in the dark."
He sprang to his feet, and rushing up to the door, which opened from the
house into the vaults, he made a violent and desperate effort to shake
it. But such a contingency as this had surely been looked forward to and
provided against, for the door was of amazing strength, and most
effectually resisted all his efforts, so that the result of his
endeavours was but to exhaust himself, and he staggered back, panting
and despairing, to the seat he had so recently left. Then he heard a
voice, and upon looking up he saw that the small square opening in the
upper part of the door, through which he had been before addressed, was
open, and a face there appeared, but it was not the face of Mrs. Lovett.
On the contrary, it was a large and hideous male physiognomy, and the
voice that came from it was croaking and harsh, sounding most
unmusically upon the ears of the unfortunate man who was thus made a
victim to Mrs. Lovett's pie popularity.
"Continue at your work," said the voice, "or death will be your portion
as soon as sleep overcomes you, and you sink exhausted to that repose
which you will never awaken from, except to feel the pangs of death, and
to be conscious that you are weltering in your blood. Continue at your
work, and you will escape all this--neglect it, and your doom is
sealed."
[Illustration: The Stranger In Mrs. Lovett's Bakehouse.]
"What have I done that I should be made such a victim of? Let me go, and
I will swear never to divulge the fact that I have been in these vaults,
so I cannot disclose any of their secrets, even if knew them."
"Make pies," said the voice, "eat them, and be happy. How many a man
would envy your position--withdrawn from all the struggles of existence,
amply provided with board and lodging, and engaged in a pleasant and
delightful occupation; it is astonishing how you can be dissatisfied!"
Bang! went the little square orifice at the top of the door, and the
voice was heard no more. The jeering mockery of those tones, however,
still lingered upon the ear of the unhappy prisoner, and he clasped his
head in his hands with a fearful impression upon his brain that he
surely must be going mad.
"He will drive me to insanity," he cried; "already I feel a sort of
slumber stealing over me for want of exercise, and the confined air of
these vaults hinder me from taking regular repose; but now, if I close
an eye, I shall expect to find the assassin's knife at my throat."
He sat for some time longer, and not even the dread he had of sleep
could prevent a drowsiness creeping across his faculties, and this
weariness would not be shaken off by any ordinary means, until at length
he sprang to his feet, and shaking himself roughly, like one determined
to be wide awake, he said to himself, mournfully--
"I must do their bidding or die; hope may be a delusion here, but I
cannot altogether abandon it, and not until its faintest image has
departed from my breast can I lie down to sleep and say--Let death come
in any shape it may, it is welcome."
With a desperate and despairing energy he set about replenishing the
furnaces of the oven, and, when he had got them all in a good state, he
commenced manufacturing a batch of one hundred pies, which, when he had
finished and placed upon the tray, and set the machine in motion which
conducted them up to the shop, he considered to be a sort of price paid
for his continued existence, and flinging himself upon the ground, he
fell into a deep slumber.
CHAPTER XXI.
THE NIGHT AT THE MADHOUSE.
When Sweeney Todd had, with such diabolical want of feeling, whispered
the few words of mockery which we have recorded in Tobias's ear, when he
was carried out of Mr. Fogg's reception-room to be taken to a cell, the
villanous barber drew back and indulged in rather a longer laugh than
usual.
"Mr. Todd," said Fogg, "I find that you still retain your habit of
merriment; but yours ain't the most comfortable laugh in the world, and
we seldom hear anything equal to it, even from one of our cells."
"No!" said Sweeney Todd, "I don't suppose you do, and for my part I
never heard of a cell laughing yet."
"Oh! you know what I mean, Mr. Todd, well enough."
"That may be," said Todd, "but it would be just as well to say it for
all that. I think, however, as I came in you said something about
refreshment?"
"I certainly did; and, if you will honour me by stepping back to my
room, I think I can offer you, Mr. Todd, a glass of as nice wine as the
king himself could put on his table, if he were any judge of that
commodity, which I am inclined to think he is not."
"What do you expect," said Sweeney Todd, "that such an idiot should be a
judge of?--but I shall have great pleasure in tasting your wine, for I
have no hesitation in saying that my work to-night has made me thirsty."
At this moment a shriek was heard, and Sweeney Todd shrank away from the
door.
"Oh! it's nothing, it's nothing," said Mr. Fogg; "if you had resided
here as long as I have, you would get accustomed to now and then hearing
a slight noise. The worst of it is, when half a dozen of the mad fellows
get shrieking against each other in the middle of the night. Then, I
grant, it is a little annoying."
"What do you do with them?"
"We send in one of the keepers with the lash, and soon put a stop to
that. We are forced to keep the upper hand of them, or else we should
have no rest. Hark! do you not hear that fellow now?--he is generally
pretty quiet, but he has taken it into his head to be outrageous to-day;
but one of my men will soon put a stop to that. This way, Mr. Todd, if
you please, and as we don't often meet, I think when we do we ought to
have a social glass."
Sweeney Todd made several horrible faces as he followed the
madhouse-keeper, and he looked as if it would have given him quite as
much pleasure, and no doubt it would, to brain that individual, as to
drink his wine, although probably he would have preferred doing the
latter process first, and executing the former afterwards, and at his
leisure. They soon reached the room which was devoted to the use of Mr.
Fogg and his friends, and which contained the many little curiosities in
the way of madhouse discipline that were in that age considered
indispensable in such establishments. Mr. Fogg moved away with his hands
a great number of the books and papers which were on the table, so as to
leave a vacant space, and then drawing the cork of a bottle, he filled
himself a large glass of its contents, and invited Sweeney Todd to do
the same, who was by no means slow in following his example. While these
two villains are carousing, and caring nothing for the scenes of misery
with which they are surrounded, poor Tobias, in conformity with the
orders that had been issued with regard to him, was conveyed along a
number of winding passages, and down several staircases, towards the
cells of the establishment. In vain he struggled to get free from his
captor--as well might a hare have struggled in the fangs of a wolf--nor
were his cries at all heeded; although, now and then, the shrieks he
uttered were terrible to hear, and enough to fill any one with dismay.
"I am not mad," said he, "indeed I am not mad--let me go, and I will say
nothing--not one word shall ever pass my lips regarding Mr. Todd--let me
go, oh, let me go, and I will pray for you as long as I live."
Mr. Watson whistled a lively tune.
"If I promise--if I swear to tell nothing, Mr. Todd will not wish me
kept here--all he wants is my silence, and I will take any oath he
likes. Speak to him for me, I implore you, and let me go."
Mr. Watson commenced the second part of his lively tune, and by that
time he reached a door, which he unlocked, and then, setting down Tobias
upon the threshold, he gave him a violent kick, which flung him down two
steps on to the stone floor of a miserable cell, from the roof of which
continual moisture was dripping, the only accommodation it possessed
being a truss of damp straw flung into one corner.
"There," said Mr. Watson, "my lad, you can stay there and make yourself
comfortable till somebody comes to shave your head, and after that you
will find yourself quite a gentleman."
"Mercy! mercy--have mercy upon me!"
"Mercy!--what the devil do you mean by mercy? Well, that's a good joke;
but I can tell you, you have come to the wrong shop for that; we don't
keep it in stock here, and if we wanted ever so little of it, we should
have to go somewhere else for it."
[Illustration]
Mr. Watson laughed so much at his own joke, that he felt quite amiable,
and told Tobias that if he were perfectly quiet, and said "thank you"
for everything, he wouldn't put him on the strait waistcoat, although
Mr. Fogg had ordered it; "for," added Mr. Watson, "so far as that goes,
I don't care a straw what Mr. Fogg says, or what he does; he can't do
without me, damn him! because I know too many of his secrets."
Tobias made no answer to this promise, but he lay upon his back on the
floor of the cell wringing his hands despairingly, and feeling that
almost already the very atmosphere of that place seemed pregnant with
insanity, and giving himself up for lost entirely.
"I shall never--never," he said, "look upon the bright sky and the green
fields again. I shall be murdered here, because I know too much; what
can save me now? Oh, what an evil chance it was that brought me back
again to my mother, when I ought to have been far, far away by this
time, instead of being, as I know I am, condemned to death in this
frightful place. Despair seizes upon me! What noise is that--a shriek?
Yes, yes, there is some other blighted heart beside mine in this
dreadful house. Oh, Heaven! what will become of me? I feel already
stifled and sick, and faint with the air of this dreadful cell. Help,
help, help! have mercy upon me, and I will do anything, promise
anything, swear anything."
If poor Tobias had uttered his complaints on the most desolate shore
that ever a shipwrecked mariner was cast upon, they could not have been
more unheeded than they were in that house of terror. He screamed and
shrieked for aid. He called upon all the friends he had ever known in
early life, and at that moment he seemed to remember the name of every
one who had ever uttered a kind word to him; and to those persons who,
alas! could not hear him, but were far enough removed away from his
cries, he called for aid in that hour of his deep distress. At length,
faint, wearied and exhausted, he lay a mere living wreck in that damp,
unwholesome cell, and felt almost willing that death should come and
relieve him, at least from the pang of constantly expecting it! His
cries, however, had had the effect of summoning up all the wild spirits
in that building; and, as he now lay in the quiet of absolute
exhaustion, he heard from far and near smothered cries and shrieks and
groans, such as one might expect would fill the air of the infernal
regions with dismal echoes. A cold and clammy perspiration broke out
upon him, as these sounds each moment more plainly fell upon his ear,
and as he gazed upon the profound darkness of the cell, his excited
fancy began to people it with strange unearthly beings, and he could
suppose that he saw hideous faces grinning at him, and huge mis-shapen
creatures crawling on the walls, and floating in the damp, pestiferous
atmosphere of the wretched cell. In vain he covered his eyes with his
hands; those creatures of his imagination were not to be shut out from
the mind, and he saw them, if possible, more vividly than before, and
presenting themselves in more frightfully tangible shapes. Truly, if
such visions should continue to haunt him, poor Tobias was likely enough
to follow the fate of many others who had been placed in that
establishment perfectly sane, but in a short time exhibited in it as
raving lunatics.
* * * * *
"A nice clear cool glass of wine," said Sweeney Todd, as he held up his
glass between him and the light, "and pleasant drinking; so soft and
mild in the mouth, and yet gliding down the throat with a pleasant
strength of flavour!"
"Yes," said Mr. Fogg, "it might be worse. You see some patients, who are
low and melancholy mad, require stimulants, and their friends send them
wine. This is some that was so sent."
"Then you don't trouble the patients with it?"
"What! give a madman wine, while I am here in my senses to drink it? Oh,
dear no! that won't do on any account."
"I should certainly, Mr. Fogg, not expect such an act of indiscretion
from you, knowing you as I do to be quite a man of the world."
"Thank you for the compliment. This wine, now, was sent for an old
gentleman who had turned so melancholy, that he not only would not take
food enough to keep life and soul together, but he really terrified his
friends so by threatening suicide that they sent him here for a few
months; and, as stimulants were recommended for him, they sent this
wine, you see; but I stimulated him without it quite as well, for I
drink the wine myself and give him an infernal good kick or two every
day, and that stimulates him, for it puts him in such a devil of a
passion that I am quite sure he doesn't want any wine."
"A good plan," said Sweeney Todd, "but I wonder you don't contrive that
your own private room should be free from the annoyance of hearing such
sounds as those that have been coming upon my ears for the last five or
ten minutes."
"It's impossible; you cannot get out of the way if you live in the house
at all; and you see, as regards these mad fellows, they are quite like a
pack of wolves, and when once one of them begins howling and shouting,
the others are sure to chime in, in full chorus, and make no end of
disturbance till we stop them, as I have already told you we do, with a
strong hand."
"While I think of it," said Sweeney Todd, as he drew from his pocket a
leathern bag, "while I think of it, I may as well pay you the year's
money for the lad I have now brought you; you see I have not forgot the
excellent rule you have of being paid in advance. There is the amount."
"Ah, Mr. Todd," said the madhouse-keeper as he counted the money, and
then placed it in his pocket, "it's a pleasure to do business with a
thorough business man like yourself. The bottle stands with you, Mr.
Todd, and I beg you will not spare it. Do you know, Mr. Todd, this is a
line of life which I have often thought would have suited you; I am
certain you have a genius for such things."
"Not equal to you," said Todd; "but as I am fond, certainly, of what is
strange and out of the way, some of the scenes and characters you come
across would, I have no doubt, be highly entertaining to me."
"Scenes and characters--I believe you! During the course of a business
like ours, we come across all sorts of strange things; and if I choose
to do it, which of course I don't, I could tell a few tales which would
make some people shake in their shoes; but I have no right to tell them,
for I have been paid, and what the deuce is it to me?"
"Oh, nothing, of course nothing. But just while we are sipping our wine,
now, couldn't you tell me something that would not be betraying
anybody's confidence?"
"I could, I could; I don't mean to say that I could not, and I don't
care much if I do to you."
CHAPTER XXII.
MR. FOGG'S STORY AT THE MADHOUSE TO SWEENEY TODD.
After a short pause, during which Mr. Fogg appeared to be referring to
the cells of memory, with the view of being refreshed in a matter that
had long since been a by-gone, but which he desired to place as clearly
before his listener as he could, in fact, to make, if possible, the
relation real to him, and to omit nothing during its progress that
should be told; or possibly, that amiable individual was engaged in
considering if there were any salient point that might criminate
himself, or give even a friend a handle to make use of against him; but
apparently there was nothing of the kind, for, after a loud "hem!" he
filled the glasses, saying--
"Well, now, as you are a friend, I don't mind telling you how we do
business here--things that have been done, you know, by others; but I
have had my share as well as others--I have known a thing or two, Mr.
Todd, and I may say I have done a thing or two, too."
"Well, we must live and let live," said Sweeney Todd, "there's no going
against that, you know; if all I have done could speak, why--but no
matter, I am listening to you--however, if deeds could speak, one or two
clever things would come out rather, I think."
"Ay, 'tis well they don't," said Mr. Fogg, with much solemnity, "if they
did they would be constantly speaking at times when it would be very
inconvenient to hear them, and dangerous besides."
"So it would," said Sweeney, "a still tongue makes a wise head--but then
the silent system would bring no grist to the mill, and we must speak
when we know we are right and among friends."
"Of course," said Fogg, "of course, that's the right use of speech, and
one may as well be without it, as to have it and not use it; but
come--drink, and fill again before I begin, and then to my tale. But we
may as well have a sentiment. Sentiment, you know," continued Fogg, "is
the very soul of friendship. What do you say to 'The heart that can feel
for another?'"
"With all my soul," said Sweeney Todd; "it's very touching--very
touching, indeed. 'The heart that can feel for another!'" and as he
spoke, he emptied the glass, which he pushed towards Fogg to refill.
"Well," said Fogg, as he complied, "we have had the sentiment, we may as
well have the exemplification."
"Ha! ha! ha!" said Todd, "very good, very good indeed; pray go on, that
will do capitally."
"I may as well tell you the whole matter, as it occurred; I will then
let you know all I know, and in the same manner. None of the parties are
now living, or, at least, they are not in this country, which is just
the same thing, so far as I am concerned."
"Then that is an affair settled and done with," remarked Sweeney Todd,
parenthetically.
"Yes, quite.--Well, it was one night--such a one as this, and pretty
well about the same hour, perhaps somewhat earlier than this. However,
it doesn't signify a straw about the hour, but it was quite night, a
dark and wet night too, when a knock came at the street-door--a sharp
double knock--it was. I was sitting alone, as I might have been now,
drinking a glass or two of wine; I was startled, for I was thinking
about an affair I had on hand at that very moment, of which there was a
little stir. However, I went to the door, and peeped through a grating
that I had there, and saw only a man; he had drawn his horse inside the
gate, and secured him. He wore a large Whitney riding-coat, with a nap
that would have thrown off a deluge. I fancied, or thought I could tell,
that he meant no mischief; so I opened the door at once and saw a tall,
gentlemanly man, but wrapped up so, that you could not tell who or what
he was; but my eyes are sharp, you know, Mr. Todd. We haven't seen so
much of the world without learning to distinguish what kind of person
one has to deal with?"
"I should think not," said Todd.
"'Well,' said I, 'what is your pleasure, sir?'
"The stranger paused a moment or two before he made any reply to me.
"'Is your name Fogg?' he said.
"'Yes, it is,' said I; 'my name is Fogg--what is your pleasure with me,
sir?'
"'Why,' said he, after another pause, during which he fixed his keen eye
very hard upon me--'why, I wish to have a little private conversation
with you, if you can spare so much time, upon a very important matter
which I have in hand.'
"'Walk in, sir,' said I, as soon as I heard what it was he wanted, and
he followed me in. 'It is a very unpleasant night, and it's coming on to
rain harder. I think it is fortunate you have got housed.'
"'Yes,' he replied; 'but I am tolerably well protected against the rain,
at all events.'
"He came into this very parlour, and took a seat before the fire, with
his back to the light, so that I couldn't see his face very well.
However, I was determined that I would be satisfied in these
particulars, and so, when he had taken off his hat, I stirred up the
fire, and had a blaze that illuminated the whole room, and which showed
me the sharp, thin visage of my visitor, who was a dark man, with keen
grey eyes that were very restless--'
"'Will you have a glass of wine?' said I; 'the night is cold as well as
wet.'
"'Yes, I will,' he replied; 'I am cold with riding. You have a lonely
place about here; your house, I see, stands alone too. You have not many
neighbours.'
"'No, sir,' said I, 'we hadn't need, for when any of the poor things set
to screaming, it would make them feel very uncomfortable indeed.'
"'So it would, there is an advantage in that to yourself as well as to
them. It would be disagreeable to you to know that you were disturbing
your neighbours, and they would feel equally uncomfortable in being
disturbed, and yet you must do your duty.'
"'Ay! to be sure,' said I; 'I must do my duty, and people won't pay me
for letting madmen go, though they may for keeping them; and besides
that, I think some on 'em would get their throats cut, if I did.'
"'You are right--quite right,' said he; 'I am glad to find you of that
mind, for I came to you concerning an affair that requires some delicacy
about it, since it is a female patient.'
"'Ah!' said I, 'I always pay great attention, very great attention; and
I don't recollect a case, however violent it may be, but what I can
overcome. I always make 'em acknowledge me, and there's much art in
that.'
"'To be sure, there must be.'
"'And, moreover, they wouldn't so soon crouch and shrink away from me,
and do what I tell 'em, if I did not treat them with kindness, that is,
as far as is consistent with one's duty, for I mustn't forget that.'
"'Exactly,' he replied; 'those are my sentiments exactly.'
"'And now, sir, will you inform me in what way I can serve you?'
"'Why I have a relative, a female relative, who is unhappily affected
with a brain disease; we have tried all we can do, without any effect.
Do what we will, it comes to the same thing in the end.'
"'Ah!' said I; 'poor thing--what a dreadful thing it must be to you or
any of her friends, who have the charge of her, to see her day by day an
incurable maniac. Why, it is just as bad as when a friend or relative is
dead, and you are obliged to have the dead body constantly in your
house, and before your eyes.'
"'Exactly, my friend,' said the stranger; 'exactly, you are a man of
discernment, Mr. Fogg. I see, that is truly the state of the case. You
may then guess at the state of our feelings, when we have to part with
one beloved by us.'
"As he spoke, he turned right round, and faced me, looking very hard
into my face.
"'Well,' said I, 'your's is a hard case; but to have one afflicted about
you in the manner the young lady is, is truly distressing; it's like
having a perpetual lumbago in your back.'
"'Exactly,' said the stranger. 'I tell you what, you are the very man to
do this thing for me.'
"'I am sure of it,' said I.
"'Then we understand each other, eh?' said the stranger. 'I must say I
like your appearance, it is not often such people as you and I meet.'
"'I hope it will be to our mutual advantage,' said I, 'because such
people don't meet every day, and we oughtn't to meet to no purpose; so,
in anything delicate and confidential you may command me.'
"'I see, you are a clever man,' said he; 'well, well, I must pay you in
proportion to your talents. How do you do business--by the job, or by
the year?'
"'Well,' said I, 'where it's a matter of some nicety, it may be
both--but it entirely depends upon circumstances. I had better know
exactly what it is I have to do.'
"'Why, you see, it is a young female about eighteen, and she is somewhat
troublesome--takes to screaming, and all that kind of thing. I want her
taken care of, though you must be very careful she neither runs away nor
suddenly commits any mischief, as her madness does not appear to me to
have any particular form, and would at times completely deceive the best
of us, and then suddenly she will break out violently, and snap or fly
at anybody with her teeth.'
"'Is she so bad as that?'
"'Yes, quite. So it is quite impossible to keep her at home; and I
expect it will be a devil of a job to get her here. I tell you what you
shall have; I'll pay you your yearly charge for board and care, and I'll
give you a ten-pound note for your trouble, if you'll come and assist me
in securing her, and bringing her down. It will take some trouble.'
"'Very well,' said I, 'that will do, but you must double the note and
make it twenty, if you please; it will cost something to come and do the
thing well.'
"'I see--very well--we won't disagree about a ten-pound note; but you'll
know how to dispose of her if she comes here.'
"'Oh, yes--very healthy place.'
"'But I don't know that health is a very great blessing to any one under
such circumstances; indeed, who could regret an early grave to one so
severely afflicted?'
"'Nobody ought,' said I; 'if they knew what mad people went through,
they would not, I'm sure.'
"'That is very true again, but the fact is, they don't, and they only
look at one side of the picture; for my own part, I think that it ought
to be so ordained, that when people are so afflicted, nature ought to
sink under the affliction, and so insensibly to revert to the former
state of nonentity.'
"'Well,' said I, 'that may be as you please, I don't understand all
that; but I tell you what, I hope if she were to die much sooner than
you expect, you would not think it too much trouble to afford me some
compensation for my loss.'
"'Oh dear no! and to show you that I shall entertain no such illiberal
feeling, I will give you two hundred pounds, when the certificate of her
burial can be produced. You understand me?'
"'Certainly.'
"'Her death will be of little value to me, without the legal proof,'
said the stranger; 'so she must die at her own pleasure, or live while
she can.'
"'Certainly,' said I.
"'But what terrifies me,' continued the stranger, 'most is, her
terror-stricken countenance, always staring us in our faces; and it
arose from her being terrified; indeed I think if she were thoroughly
frightened, she would fall dead. I am sure, if any wickedly-disposed
person were to do so, death would no doubt result.'
"'Ah!' said I, 'it would be a bad job; now tell me where I am to see
you, and how about the particulars.'
"'Oh, I will tell you; now, can you be at the corner of
Grosvenor-street, near Park-lane?'
"'Yes,' I replied, 'I will.'
"'With a coach too. I wish you to have a coach, and one that you can
depend upon, because there may be a little noise. I will try to avoid
it, if possible, but we cannot always do what we desire; but you must
have good horses.'
"'Now, I tell you what is my plan; that is, if you don't mind the
damages, if any happen.'
"'What are they?'
"'This:--suppose a horse falls, and is hurt, or an upset--would you
stand the racket?'
"'I would, of course.'
"'Then listen to me; I have had more of these affairs than you have, no
doubt. Well, then, I have had experience, which you have not. Now, I'll
get a trotting-horse, and a covered cart or chaise--one that will go
along well at ten miles an hour, and no mistake about it.'
"'But will it hold enough?'
"'Yes, four or five or six, and, upon a push, I have known eight to cram
in it; but then you know we were not particular how we were placed; but
still it will hold as many as a hackney coach, only not so conveniently;
but then we have nobody in the affair to drive us, and there can't be
too few.'
"'Well, that is perhaps best; but have you a man on whom you can
depend?--because if you have, why, I would not be in the affair at all.'
"'You must,' said I; 'in the first place, I can depend upon one man
best; him I must leave here to mind the place; so if you can manage the
girl, I will drive, and I know the road as well as the way to my own
mouth--I would rather have as few in it as possible.'
"'Your precaution is very good, and I think I will try and so manage it,
that there shall be only you and I acquainted with the transaction; at
all events, should it become necessary, it will be time enough to let
some other person into the secret at the moment their services are
required. That, I think, will be the best arrangement that I can come
to--what do you say?'
"'That will do very well--when we get her here, and when I have seen her
a few days, I can tell what to do with her.'
"'Exactly; and now, good night--there is the money I promised, and now
again, good night! I shall see you at the appointed time.'
"'You will,' said I--'one glass more, it will do you good, and keep the
rain out.'
"He took off a glass of wine, and then pulled his hat over his face, and
left the house. It was a dark, wet night, and the wind blew, and we
heard the sound of his horse's hoofs for some time; however, I shut the
door and went in, thinking over in my own mind what would be the gain of
my own exertions.
* * * * *
"Well, at the appointed hour, I borrowed a chaise cart, a covered one,
with what you call a head to it, and I trotted to town in it. At the
appointed time I was at the corner of Grosvenor-street; it was late, and
yet I waited there an hour or more before I saw any one. I walked into a
little house to get a glass of spirits to keep up the warmth of the
body, and when I came out again, I saw some one standing at my horse's
head. I immediately went up.
"'Oh, you are here,' he said.
"'Yes I am,' said I, 'I have been here the Lord knows how long. Are you
ready?'
"'Yes, I am; come,' said he, as he got into the cart--'come to the place
I shall tell you--I shall only get her into the cart, and you must do
the rest.'
"'You'll come back with me; I shall want help on the road, and I have no
one with me.'
"'Yes, I will come with you, and manage the girl, but you must drive,
and take all the casualties of the road, for I shall have enough to do
to hold her and keep her from screaming when she does awake.'
"'What! is she asleep?'
"'I have given her a small dose of laudanum, which will cause her to
sleep comfortably for an hour or two, but the cold air and disturbance
will most probably awaken her at first.'
"'Throw something over her, and keep her warm, and have something ready
to thrust into her mouth, in case she takes to screaming, and then you
are all right.'
"'Good,' he replied: 'now wait here. I am going to yon house. When I
have entered, and disappeared several minutes, you may quietly drive up,
and take your station on the other side of the lamp-post.'
"As he spoke he got out, and walked to a large house, which he entered
softly, and left the door ajar; and after he had gone in, I walked the
horse quietly up to the lamp-post, and as I placed it, the horse and
front of the cart were completely in the dark. I had scarcely got up to
the spot, when the door opened, and he looked out to see if anybody was
passing. I gave him the word, and out he came, leaving the door, and
came with what looked like a bundle of clothes, but which was the young
girl and some clothes he had brought with him.
"'Give her to me,' said I, 'and jump up and take the reins; go on as
quickly as you can.'
"I took the girl into my arms, and handed her into the back part of the
chaise, while he jumped up, and drove away. I placed the young girl in
an easy position upon some hay, and stuffed the clothes under her, so as
to prevent the jolting from hurting her.
"'Well,' said I, 'you may as well come back here, and sit beside her:
she is all right. You seem rather in a stew.'
"'Well, I have run with her in my arms, and altogether it has flurried
me.'
"'You had better have some brandy,' said I.
"'No, no! don't stop.'
"'Pooh, pooh!' I replied, pulling up, 'here is the last house we shall
come to, to have a good stiff tumbler of hot brandy and water. Come,
have you any change--about a sovereign will do, because I shall want
change on the road? Come, be quick.'
"He handed me a sovereign, saying--
"'Don't you think it's dangerous to stop--we may be watched, or she may
wake.'
"'Not a bit of it. She snores too loudly to wake just now, and you'll
faint without the cordial; so keep a good look-out upon the wench, and
you will recover your nerves again.'
"As I spoke I jumped out, and got two glasses of brandy and water, hot,
strong, and sweet, I had in about two minutes made, out of the house.
"'Here,' said I, 'drink--drink it all up--it will make your eyes start
out of your head.'
"I spoke the truth, for what with my recommendations, and his
nervousness and haste, he drank nearly half of it at a gulp.
"I shall never forget his countenance. Ha! ha! ha! I can't keep my mirth
to myself. Just imagine the girl inside a covered cart, all dark, so
dark that you could hardly see the outline of the shadow of a man, and
then imagine, if you can, a pair of keen eyes, that shone in the dark
like cat's eyes, suddenly give out a flash of light, and then turn round
in their sockets, showing the whites awfully, and then listen to the
fall of the glass, and see him grasp his throat with one hand, and
thrust the other hand into his stomach. There was a queer kind of voice
came from his throat, and then something like a curse and a groan
escaped him.
"'Damn it,' said I, 'what is the matter now?--you've upset all the
liquor--you are very nervous--you had better have another dose.'
"'No more--no more,' he said faintly and huskily, 'no more--for God's
sake no more. I am almost choked--my throat is scalded, and my entrails
on fire!'
"'I told you it was hot,' said I.
"'Yes, hot, boiling hot--go on. I'm mad with pain--push on.'
"'Will you have any water, or anything to cool your throat?' said I.
"'No, no--go on.'
"'Yes,' said I, 'but the brandy and water is hot; however, it's going
down very fast now--very fast indeed, here is the last mouthful;' and as
I said so, I gulped it down, returned with the one glass, and then paid
for the damage.
"This did not occupy five minutes, and away we came along the road at a
devil of a pace, and we were all right enough; my friend behind me got
over his scald, though he had a very sore gullet, and his intestines
were in a very uncomfortable state; but he was better. Away we rattled,
the ground rattling to the horse's hoofs and the wheels of the vehicle,
the young girl still remaining in the same state of insensibility in
which she had first been brought out. No doubt she had taken a stronger
dose of the opium than she was willing to admit. That was nothing to me,
but made it all the better, because she gave the less trouble, and made
it safer. We got here easy enough, drove slap up to the door, which was
opened in an instant, jumped out, took the girl, and carried her in.
When once these doors are shut upon any one, they may rest assured that
it is quite a settled thing, and they don't get out very easy, save in a
wooden surtout; indeed, I never lost a boarder by any other means; we
always keep one connection, and they are usually so well satisfied, that
they never take any one away from us. Well, well! I carried her indoors,
and left her in a room by herself on a bed. She was a nice girl--a
handsome girl, I suppose people would call her, and had a low, sweet,
and plaintive voice. But enough of this.
"'She's all right,' said I, when I returned to this room, 'It's all
right--I have left her.'
"'She isn't dead,' he inquired, with much terror.
"'Oh! no, no! she is only asleep, and has not woke up yet from the
effects of the laudanum. Will you now give me one year's pay in
advance?'
"'Yes,' he replied, as he handed the money, and the remainder of the
bonds. 'Now, how am I to do about getting back to London to-night?'
"'You had better remain here.'
"'Oh, no! I should go mad too, if I were to remain here; I must leave
here soon.'
"'Well, will you go to the village inn?'
"'How far is that off?'
"'About a mile--you'll reach it easy enough; I'll drive you over for the
matter of that, and leave you there. I shall take the cart there.'
"'Very well, let it be so; I will go. Well, well, I am glad it is all
over, and the sooner it is over for ever, the better. I am truly sorry
for her, but it cannot be helped. It will kill her, I have no doubt; but
that is all the better: she will escape the misery consequent upon her
departure, and release us from a weight of care.'
"'So it will,' said I 'but come, we must go at once, if going you are.'
"'Yes, yes,' he said hurriedly.
"'Well then, come along; the horse is not yet unharnessed, and if we do
not make haste, we shall be too late to obtain a lodging for the night.'
"'That is very good,' he said, somewhat wildly: 'I am quite
ready--quite.'
"We left the house, and trotted off to the inn at a good rate, where we
arrived in about ten minutes or less, and then I put up the horse, and
saw him to the inn, and came back as quick as I could on foot. 'Well,
well,' I thought, 'this will do, I have had a good day of it--paid well
for business, and haven't wanted for sport on the road.'
"Well, I came to the conclusion that if the whole affair was to speedily
end, it would be more in my pocket than if she were living, and she
would be far happier in heaven than here, Mr. Todd."
"Undoubtedly," said Mr. Sweeney Todd, "undoubtedly, that is a very just
observation of yours."
"Well, then, I set to work to find out how the matter could be managed,
and I watched her until she awoke. She looked around her, and seemed
much surprised and confused, and did not seem to understand her
position, while I remained at hand."
"She sighed deeply, and put her hand to her head, and appeared for a
time to be quite unable to comprehend what had happened to her, or where
she was. I sent some tea to her, as I was not prepared to execute my
purpose, and she seemed to recover, and asked some questions, but my man
was dumb for the occasion, and would not speak, and the result was, she
was very much frightened. I left her so for a week or two, and then, one
day, I went into her cell. She had greatly altered in her appearance,
and looked very pale.
"'Well,' said I, 'how do you find yourself, now?'
"She looked up into my face, and shuddered; but she said in a calm
voice, looking round her--
"'Where am I?'
"'You are here!' said I, 'and you'll be very comfortable if you only
take on kindly, but you will have a strait waistcoat put on you if you
do not.'
"'Good God!' she exclaimed, clasping her hands, 'have they put me
here--in--in--'
"She could not finish the sentence, and I supplied the word which she
did not utter, and then she screamed loudly--
"'Come,' said I, 'this will never do; you must learn to be quiet, or
you'll have fearful consequences.'
"'Oh mercy, mercy! I will do no wrong! What have I done that I should be
brought here?--what have I done? They may take all I have if they will
let me live in freedom. I care not where or how poor I may be. Oh,
Henry! Henry!--if you knew where I was, would you not fly to my rescue?
Yes, you would, you would!'
"'Ah,' said I, 'there is no Henry here, and you must be content to do
without one.'
"'I could not have believed that my brother would have acted such a base
part. I did not think him wicked, although I knew him to be selfish,
mean, and stern, yet I did not think he intended such wickedness; but he
thinks to rob me of all my property; yes, that is the object he has in
sending me here.'
"'No doubt,' said I.
"'Shall I ever get out?' she inquired, in a pitiful tone; 'do not say my
life is to be spent here!'
"'Indeed it is,' said I; 'while he lives, you will never leave these
walls.'
"'He shall not attain his end, for I have deeds about me that he will
never be able to obtain; indeed, he may kill me, but he cannot benefit
by my death.'
"'Well,' said I, 'it serves him right. And how did you manage that
matter? how did you contrive to get the deeds away?'
"'Never mind that; it is a small deed, and I have secured it. I did not
think he would have done this thing; but he may yet relent. Will you aid
me? I shall be rich, and can pay you well.'
"'But your brother,' said I.
"'Oh, he is rich without mine, but he is over-avaricious; but say you
will help me--only help me to get out, and you shall be no loser by the
affair.'
"'Very well,' said I. 'Will you give me this deed as a security that you
will keep your word?'
"'Yes,' she replied, drawing forth the deed--a small parchment--from her
bosom. 'Take it; and now let me out. You shall be handsomely rewarded.'
"'Ah!' said I; 'but you must allow me first to settle this matter with
my employers. You must really be mad. We do not hear of young ladies
carrying deeds and parchments about them when they are in their senses.'
"'You do not mean to betray me?' she said, springing up wildly and
rushing towards the deed, which I carefully placed in my breast
coat-pocket.
"'Oh dear no! but I shall retain the deed, and speak to your brother
about this matter.'
"'My God! my God!' she exclaimed, and then she sank back on her bed, and
in another moment she was covered with blood. She had burst a
blood-vessel. I sent for a surgeon and physician, and they both gave it
as their opinion that she could not be saved, and that a few hours would
see the last of her. This was the fact. She was dead before another half
hour, and then I sent to the authorities for the purpose of burial; and,
producing the certificate of the medical men, I had no difficulty, and
she was buried all comfortably without any trouble.
* * * * *
"'Well,' thought I, 'this is a very comfortable affair; but it will be
more profitable than I had any idea of, and I must get my first reward
first, and if there should be any difficulty, I have the deed to fall
back upon. He came down next day, and appeared with rather a long face.
"'Well,' said he, 'how do matters go on here?'
"'Very well,' said I, 'how is your throat?'
"I thought he cast a malicious look at me, as much as to imply he laid
it all to my charge.
"'Pretty well,' he replied; 'but I was ill for three days. How is the
patient?'
"'As well as you could possibly wish,' said I.
"'She takes it kindly, eh? Well, I hardly expected it--but no matter.
She'll be a long while on hand, I perceive. You haven't tried the
frightening system yet, then?'
"'Hadn't any need,' I replied, putting the certificate of her burial in
his hand, and he jumped as if he had been stung by an adder, and turned
pale; but he soon recovered, and smiled complaisantly as he said--
"'Ah! well, I see you have been diligent, but I should have liked to
have seen her, to have asked her about a missing deed; but no matter.'
"'Now about the two hundred pounds,' said I.
"'Why,' said he, 'I think one will do when you come to consider what you
have received, and the short space of time and all: you had a year's
board in advance.'
"'I know I had; but because I have done more than you expected, and in a
shorter time, instead of giving me more, you have the conscience to
offer me less.'
"'No, no, not the--the--what did you call it?--we'll have nothing said
about that,--but here is a hundred pounds, and you are well paid.'
"'Well,' said I, taking the money, 'I must have five hundred pounds at
any rate, and unless you give it me, I will tell other parties where a
certain deed is to be found.'
"'What deed?'
"'The one you were alluding to. Give me four hundred more, and you shall
have the deeds.'
"After much conversation and trouble he gave it to me, and I gave him
the deed, with which he was well pleased, but looked hard at the money,
and seemed to grieve at it very much.
"Since that time I have heard that he was challenged by his sister's
lover, and they went out to fight a duel, and he fell--and died. The
lover went to the continent, where he has since lived.
"Ah," said Sweeney Todd, "you have had decidedly the best of this
affair: nobody gained anything but you."
"Nobody at all that I know of, save distant relations, and I did very
well; but then, you know, I can't live upon nothing: it costs me
something to keep my house and cellar, but I stick to business, and so I
shall as long as business sticks to me."
CHAPTER XXIV.
COLONEL JEFFERY MAKES ANOTHER EFFORT TO COME AT SWEENEY TODD'S SECRET.
If we were to say that Colonel Jeffery was satisfied with the state of
affairs as regarded the disappearance of his friend Thornhill, or that
he made up his mind now contentedly to wait until chance, or the mere
progress of time, blew something of a more defined nature in his way, we
should be doing that gentleman a very great injustice indeed. On the
contrary, he was one of those chivalrous persons who when they do
commence anything, take the most ample means to bring it to a
conclusion, and are not satisfied that they have made one great effort,
which, having failed, is sufficient to satisfy them. Far from this, he
was a man who, when he commenced any enterprise, looked forward to but
one circumstance that could possibly end it, and that was its full and
complete accomplishment in every respect; so that in this affair of Mr.
Thornhill, he certainly did not intend by any means to abandon it. But
he was not precipitate. His habits of military discipline, and the long
life he had led in camps, where anything in the shape of hurry and
confusion is much reprobated, made him pause before he decided upon any
particular course of action; and this pause was not one contingent upon
a belief, or even a surmise in the danger of the course that suggested
itself, for such a consideration had no effect whatever upon him; and if
some other mode had suddenly suggested itself, which, while it placed
his life in the most imminent peril, would have seemed more likely to
accomplish his object, it would have been at once most gladly welcomed.
And now, therefore, he set about thinking deeply over what could
possibly be done further in a matter that as yet appeared to be involved
in the most profound of possible mysteries. That the barber's boy, who
had been addressed by him, and by his friend, the captain, knew
something of an extraordinary character, which fear prevented him from
disclosing, he had no doubt, and, as the colonel remarked--
"If fear keeps that lad silent upon the subject, fear may make him
speak; and I do not see why we should not endeavour to make ourselves a
match for Sweeney Todd in such a matter."
"What do you propose then?" said the captain.
"I should say that the best plan would be, to watch the barber's shop,
and take possession of the boy, as we may chance to find an opportunity
of so doing."
"Carry him off?"
"Yes, certainly; and as in all likelihood his fear of the barber is but
a visionary affair after all, it can easily, when we have him to
ourselves, be dispelled; and then, when he finds that we can and will
protect him, we shall hear all he has to say."
After some further conversation, the plan was resolved upon; and the
captain and the colonel, after making a careful "reconnoissance," as
they called it, of Fleet-street, found that by taking up a station at
the window of a tavern, which was nearly opposite to the barber's shop,
they should be able to take such effectual notice of whoever went in and
came out, that they would be sure to see the boy some time during the
course of the day. This plan of operations would no doubt have been
greatly successful, and Tobias would have fallen into their hands, had
he not, alas! for him, poor fellow, already been treated by Sweeney Todd
as we have described by being incarcerated in that fearful madhouse on
Peckham Rye, which was kept by so unscrupulous a personage as Fogg. And
we cannot but consider that it was most unfortunate for the happiness of
all those persons in whose fate we take so deep an interest--and in whom
we hope, as regards the reader, we have likewise awakened a feeling of
great sympathy--if Tobias had not been so infatuated as to make the
search he did of the barber's house, but had waited even for twenty-four
hours before doing so; in that case, not only would he have escaped the
dreadful doom which had awaited him, but Johanna Oakley would have been
saved from much danger which afterwards befel her. But we must not
anticipate; and the fearful adventures which it was her doom to pass
through, before she met with the reward of her great virtue, and her
noble perseverance will speak for themselves, trumpet-tongued indeed. It
was at a very early hour in the morning that the two friends took up
their station at the public-house so nearly opposite to Sweeney Todd's,
in Fleet street; and then, having made an arrangement with the landlord
of the house, that they were to have undisturbed possession of the room
as long as they liked, they both sat at the window, and kept an eye upon
Todd's house. It was during the period of time there spent, that Colonel
Jeffery first made the captain acquainted with the fact of his great
affection for Johanna, and that in her he thought he had at length fixed
his wandering fancy, and found, really, the only being with whom he
thought he could, in this world taste the sweets of domestic life, and
know no regret.
"She is all," he said, "in beauty that the warmest imagination can
possibly picture, and along with these personal charms, which certainly
are most peerless, I have seen enough of her to feel convinced that she
has a mind of the purest order that ever belonged to any human being in
the world."
"With such sentiments and feelings towards her, the wonder would be,"
said the captain, "if you did not love her, as you now avow you do."
"I could not be insensible to her attractions. But, understand me, my
dear friend, I do not, on account of my own suddenly-conceived
partiality for this young and beautiful creature, intend to commit the
injustice of not trying might and main, and with heart and hand, to
discover if, as she supposes, it be true that Thornhill and Mark
Ingestrie be one and the same person; and when I say that I love her
with a depth and a sincerity of affection that makes her happiness of
greater importance to me than my own--you know, I think, enough of me to
feel convinced that I am speaking only what I really feel."
"I can," said the captain, "and I do give you credit for the greatest
possible amount of sincerity, and I feel sufficiently interested myself
in the future fate of this fair young creature to wish that she may be
convinced her lover is no more, and may so much better herself, as I am
quite certain she would, by becoming your wife; for all we can hear of
this Ingestrie seems to prove that he is not the most stable-minded of
individuals the world ever produced, and perhaps not exactly the sort of
man--however, of course, she may think to the contrary, and he may in
all sincerity think so likewise--to make such a girl as Johanna Oakley
happy."
"I thank you for the kind feeling towards me, my friend, which has
dictated that speech, but--"
"Hush!" said the captain, suddenly, "hush! look at the barber!"
"The barber? Sweeney Todd?"
"Yes, yes, there he is; do you not see him? There he is, and he looks as
if he had come off a long journey. What can he have been about, I
wonder? He is draggled in mud!"
Yes, there was Sweeney Todd, opening his shop from the outside with a
key, that after a vast amount of fumbling, he took from his pocket; and,
as the captain said, he did indeed look as if he had come off a long
journey, for he was draggled with mud, and his appearance altogether was
such as to convince any one that he must have been out in most of the
heavy rain which had fallen during the early part of the morning upon
London and its suburbs. And this was just the fact, for after staying
with the madhouse-keeper in the hope that the bad weather which had set
in would be alleviated, he had been compelled to give up all chance of
such a thing, and as no conveyance of any description was to be had, he
enjoyed the pleasure, if it could be called such, of walking home up to
his knees in the mud of that dirty neighbourhood. It was, however, some
satisfaction to him to feel that he had got rid of Tobias, who, from
what he had done as regarded the examination of the house, had become
extremely troublesome indeed, and perhaps the most serious enemy that
Sweeney Todd had ever had.
"Ha!" he said, as he came within sight of his shop in
Fleet-street,--"ha! Master Tobias is safe enough; he will give me no
more trouble, that is quite clear. What a wonderfully convenient thing
it is to have such a friend as Fogg, who for a consideration will do so
much towards ridding one of an uncomfortable encumbrance. It is possible
enough that that boy might have compassed my destruction. I wish I dared
now chance, with the means I have for the sale of the string of pearls,
joined to my other resources, leaving business, and so not be obliged to
run the risk and have the trouble of another boy."
Yes, Sweeney Todd would have been glad now to shut up his shop in
Fleet-street at once and for ever, but he dreaded that when John Mundel
found that his customer did not come back to him to redeem the pearls,
that he (John Mundel) would proceed to sell them, and that then their
beauty and great worth would excite much attention, and some one might
come forward who knew more about their early history than he did.
"I must keep quiet," he thought,--"I must keep quiet; for although I
think I was pretty well disguised, and it is not at all likely that any
one--no, not even the acute John Mundel himself--would recognise in
Sweeney Todd, the poor barber of Fleet-street, the nobleman who came
from the queen to borrow £8,000 upon a string of pearls; yet there is a
remote possibility of danger; and should there be a disturbance about
the precious stones, it is better that I should remain in obscurity
until that disturbance is completely over."
This was no doubt admirable policy on the part of Todd, who, although he
found himself a rich man, had not, as many people do when they make that
most gratifying and interesting discovery, forgotten all the prudence
and tact that made him one of that most envied class of personages. He
was some few minutes before he could get the key to turn in the lock of
his street door, but at length he effected that object and disappeared
from before the eyes of the colonel and his friend into his own house,
and the door was instantly again closed upon him.
"Well," said Colonel Jeffery, "what do you think of that?"
"I don't know what to think, further than that your friend Todd has been
out of town, as the state of his boots abundantly testifies."
"They do, indeed, and he has the appearance of having been a
considerable distance, for the mud that is upon his boots is not London
mud."
"Certainly not; it is quite of a different character altogether. But
see, he is coming out again."
Sweeney Todd strode out of his house, bareheaded now, and proceeded to
take down the shutters of his shop, which, there being but three, he
accomplished in a few seconds of time, and walked in again with them in
his hand, along with the iron bar which had secured them, and which he
had released from the inside. This was all the ceremony that took place
at the opening of Sweeney Todd's shop, and the only surprise our
friends, who were at the public-house window, had upon the subject was,
that having a boy, he, Todd, should condescend to make himself so useful
as to open his own shop. And nothing could be seen of the lad, although
the hour, surely, for his attendance must have arrived; and Todd,
equally surely, was not the sort of man to be so indulgent to a boy,
whom he employed to make himself generally useful, as to allow him to
come when all the dirty work of the early morning was over. But yet such
to all appearance would seem to be the case, for presently Todd appeared
with a broom in his hand, sweeping out his shop with a rapidity and a
vengeance which seemed to say, that he did not perform that operation
with the very best grace in the world.
"Where can the boy be?" said the captain. "Do you know, little reason as
I may really appear to have for such a supposition, I cannot help in my
own mind connecting Todd's having been out of town somehow with the fact
of that boy's non-appearance this morning."
"Indeed!--the coincidence is curious, for such was my own thought
likewise upon the occasion; and the more I do think of it, the more I
feel convinced that such must be the case, and that our watch will be a
fruitless one completely. Is it likely--for possible enough it is--that
the villain has found out that we have been asking some questions of the
boy, and has thought proper to take his life?"
"Do not let us go too far," said the captain, "in mere conjecture;
recollect that as yet, let us suspect what we may, we know nothing, and
that the mere facts of our not being able to trace Thornhill beyond the
shop of this man, will not be sufficient to found an action upon."
"I know all that, and I feel how very cautious we must be; and yet to my
mind the whole of the circumstances have been day by day assuming a most
hideous air of probability, and I look upon Todd as a murderer already."
"Shall we continue our watch?"
"I scarcely see its utility. Perchance we may see some proceedings which
may interest us; but I have a powerful impression that we certainly
shall not see the boy we want. But, at all events, the barber, you
perceive, has a customer already."
As they looked across the way, they saw a well dressed looking man, who,
from a certain air and manner which he had, could be detected not to be
a Londoner. He rather resembled some substantial yeoman, who had come to
town to pay or to receive money, and, as he came near to Sweeney Todd's
shop he might have been observed to stroke his chin, as debating in his
mind the necessity or otherwise of a shave. The debate, if it were
taking place in his mind, ended by the ayes having it, for he walked
into Todd's shop, being most unquestionably the first customer which he
had had that morning. Situated as the colonel and his friend were, they
could not see into Todd's shop, even if the door had been opened, but
they saw that after the customer had been in for a few moments, it was
closed, so that, had they been close to it, all the interior of the
shaving establishment would have been concealed. They felt no great
degree of interest in this man, who was a commonplace personage enough,
who had entered Sweeney Todd's shop; but when an unreasonable time had
elapsed, and he did not come out, they did begin to feel a little
uneasy. And when another man, went in and was only about five minutes
before he emerged, shaved, and yet the first man did not come, they knew
not what to make of it, and looked at each other for some few moments in
silence. At length the colonel spoke--and he did so in a tone of
excitement, saying--
"My friend, have we waited here for nothing now? What can have become of
that man whom we saw go into the barber's shop; but who, I suppose, we
feel ourselves to be in a condition to take our oaths never came out?"
"I could take my oath; and what conclusion can we come to?"
"None, but that he met his death there; and that, let his fate be what
it may, it is the same which poor Thornhill has suffered. I can endure
this no longer. Do you stay here, and let me go alone."
"Not for worlds--you would rush into an unknown danger; you cannot know
what may be the powers of mischief that man possesses. You shall not go
alone, colonel, you shall not indeed; but something must be done."
"Agreed; and yet that something surely need not be of the desperate
character you meditate."
"Desperate emergencies require desperate remedies; and yet I think that
in this case everything is to be lost by precipitation, and nothing is
to be gained. We have to do with one who, to all appearance, is keen and
subtle, and if anything is to be accomplished contrary to his wishes, it
is not to be done by that open career, which for its own sake, under
ordinary circumstances, both you and I would gladly embrace."
"Well, well," said the colonel, "I do not and will not say but you are
right."
"I know I am--I am certain I am; and now hear me: I think we have gone
quite far enough unaided in this transaction, and that it is time we
drew some others into the plot."
"I do not understand what you mean."
"I will soon explain. I mean, that if in the pursuit of this enterprise,
which grows each moment to my mind more serious, anything should happen
to you and me, it is absolutely frightful to think that there would then
be an end of it."
"True, true; and as for poor Johanna and her friend Arabella, what could
they do?"
"Nothing, but expose themselves to great danger. Come, now, colonel, I
am glad to see that we understand each other better about this business;
you have heard, of course, of Sir Richard Blunt?"
"Sir Richard Blunt--Blunt--oh, you mean the magistrate?"
"I do; and what I propose is that we have a private and confidential
interview with him about the matter--that we make him possessed of all
the circumstances, and take his advice what to do. The result of placing
the affair in such hands will, at all events, be that if, in anything we
may attempt, we may by force or fraud be overpowered, we shall not fall
wholly unavenged."
"Reason backs your proposition."
"I knew it would, when you came to reflect. Oh, Colonel Jeffery, you are
too much a creature of impulse."
"Well," said the colonel, half jestingly, "I must say that I do not
think the accusation comes well from you, for I have certainly seen you
do some rather impulsive things, I think."
"We won't dispute about that; but since you think with me upon the
matter, you will have no objection to accompany me at once to Sir
Richard Blunt's?"
"None in the least; on the contrary, if anything is to be done at all,
for Heaven's sake let it be done quickly. I am quite convinced that some
fearful tragedy is in progress, and that, if we are not most prompt in
our measures, we shall be too late to counteract its dire influence upon
the fortunes of those in whom we have become deeply interested."
"Agreed, agreed! Come this way, and let us now for a brief space, at all
events, leave Mr. Todd and his shop to take care of each other, while we
take an effectual means of circumventing him. Why do you linger?"
"I do linger. Some mysterious influence seems to chain me to the spot."
"Some mysterious fiddlestick! Why, you are getting superstitious,
colonel."
"No, no! Well, I suppose I must come with you. Lead the way, lead the
way; and believe me that it requires all my reason to induce me to give
up a hope of making some important discovery by going to Sweeney Todd's
shop."
"Yes, you might make an important discovery; and only suppose now that
the discovery you did make was that he murdered some of his customers.
If he does so, you may depend that such a man takes good care to do the
deed effectually, and you might make the discovery just a little too
late. You understand that?"
"I do, I do. Come along, for I positively declare, that if we see
anybody else go into the barber's, I shall not be able to resist rushing
forward at once, and giving an alarm."
It was certainly a good thing that the colonel's friend was not quite so
enthusiastic as he was, or from what we happen actually to know of
Sweeney Todd, and from what we suspect, the greatest amount of danger
might have befallen Jeffery, and instead of being in a position to help
others in unravelling the mysteries connected with Sweeney Todd's
establishment, he might himself have been past all help, and most
absolutely one of the mysteries. But such was not to be.
CHAPTER XXV.
TOBIAS MAKES AN ATTEMPT TO ESCAPE FROM THE MADHOUSE.
We cannot find it in our hearts to force upon the mind of the reader the
terrible condition of poor Tobias. No one, certainly, of all the
_dramatis personæ_ of our tale, is suffering so much as he; and,
consequently, we feel it to be a sort of duty to come to a consideration
of his thoughts and feelings as he lay in that dismal cell, in the
madhouse at Peckham Rye. Certainly Tobias Ragg was as sane as any
ordinary Christian need wish to be, when the scoundrel, Sweeney Todd,
put him into the coach to take him to Mr. Fogg's establishment; but if
by any ingenious process the human intellect can be toppled from its
throne, certainly that process must consist in putting a sane person
into a lunatic asylum. To the imagination of a boy, too, and that boy
one of vivid imagination, as was poor Tobias, a madhouse must be
invested with a world of terrors. That enlarged experience which enables
persons of more advanced age to shake off much of the unreal, which
seemed so strangely to take up its abode in the mind of the young
Tobias, had not reached him; and no wonder, therefore, that to him his
present situation was one of acute and horrible misery and suffering.
* * * * *
He lay for a long time in the gloomy dungeon-like cell into which he had
been thrust, in a kind of stupor, which might or might not be the actual
precursor of insanity, although, certainly, the chances were all in
favour of being so. For many hours he neither moved hand nor foot, and
as it was a part of the policy of Mr. Fogg to leave well alone, as he
said, he never interfered, by any intrusive offers of refreshment, with
the quiet or the repose of his patients. Tobias, therefore, if he had
chosen to remain as still as an Indian fakir, might have died in one
position, without any remonstrances from any one. It would be quite an
impossibility to describe the strange visionary thoughts and scenes that
passed through the mind of Tobias during this period. It seemed as if
his intellect was engulphed in the charmed waters of some whirlpool, and
that all the different scenes and actions which, under ordinary
circumstances, would have been clear and distinct, were mingled together
in inextricable confusion. In the midst of all this, at length, he began
to be conscious of one particular impression or feeling, and that was,
that some one was singing in a low, soft voice, very near to him. This
feeling, strange as it was in such a place, momentarily increased in
volume, until at length it began in its intensity to absorb almost every
other; and he gradually awakened from the sort of stupor that had come
over him. Yes some one was singing. It was a female voice, he was sure
of that, and as his mind became more occupied with that one subject of
thought, and his perceptive faculties became properly exercised, his
intellect altogether assumed a healthier tone. He could not distinguish
the words that were sung, but the voice itself was very sweet and
musical; and as Tobias listened, he felt as if the fever of his blood
was abating, and that healthier thoughts were taking the place of those
disordered fancies that had held sway within the chambers of his brain.
"What sweet sounds!" he said. "Oh! I do hope that singing will go on. I
feel happier to hear it; I do so hope it will continue. What sweet
music! Oh, mother, mother, if you could but see me now!"
He pressed his hands over his eyes, but he could not stop the gush of
tears that came from them, and which would trickle through his fingers.
Tobias did not wish to weep; but those tears, after all the horrors of
the night, did him a world of good, and he felt wonderfully better after
they had been shed. Moreover, the voice kept singing without
intermission.
"Who can it be," thought Tobias, "that don't tire with so much of it."
Still the singer continued; but now and then Tobias felt certain that a
very wild note or two was mingled with the ordinary melody; and that
bred a suspicion in his mind, which gave him a shudder to think of,
namely, that the singer was mad.
"It must be so," said he. "No one in their senses could or would
continue for so long a period of time such strange snatches of song.
Alas! alas! it is some one who is really mad, and confined for life in
this dreadful place; for life do I say, am not I too confined for life
here? Oh! help! help! help!"
Tobias called out in so loud a tone, that the singer of the sweet
strains that had for a time lulled him to composure, heard him, and the
strains which had before been redolent of the softest and sweetest
melody, suddenly changed to the most terrific shrieks that can be
imagined. In vain did Tobias place his hands over his ears, to shut out
the horrible sounds. They would not be shut out, but ran, as it were,
into every crevice of his brain, nearly driving him distracted by their
vehemence. But hoarser tones soon came upon his ears, and he heard the
loud, rough voice of a man say--
"What, do you want the whip so early this morning? The whip--do you
understand that?"
These words were followed by the lashing of what must have been a heavy
carter's whip, and then the shrieks died away in deep groans, every one
of which went to the heart of poor Tobias.
"I can never live amid all these horrors," he said. "Oh, why don't you
kill me at once? it would be much better, and much more merciful. I can
never live long here. Help! help! help!"
When he shouted this word "help," it was certainly not with the most
distant idea of getting any help, but it was a word that came at once
uppermost to his tongue; and so he called it out with all his might,
that he should attract the attention of some one; for the solitude, and
the almost total darkness of the place he was in, was beginning to fill
him with new dismay. There was a faint light in the cell, which made him
know the difference between day and night; but where that faint light
came from he could not tell, for he could see no grating or opening
whatever; but yet that was in consequence of his eyes not being fully
accustomed to the obscurity of the place; otherwise he would have seen
that close up to the roof there was a narrow aperture, certainly not
larger than any one could have passed a hand through, although of some
four or five feet in length; and from a passage beyond that, there came
the dim borrowed light which made darkness visible in Tobias's cell.
With a kind of desperation, heedless of what might be the result, Tobias
continued to call aloud for help; and after about a quarter of an hour,
he heard the sound of a heavy footstep. Some one was coming; yes, surely
some one was coming, and he was not to be left to starve to death. Oh,
how intently he now listened to every sound, indicative of the near
approach of whoever it was who was coming to his prison-house. Now he
heard the lock move, and a heavy bar of iron was let down with a
clanging sound.
"Help! help!" he cried again, "help! help!" for he feared that whoever
it was they might even yet go away again after making so much progress
to get at him. The cell door was flung open, and the first intimation
that poor Tobias got of the fact of his cries having been heard,
consisted in a lash with a whip, which, if it had struck him as fully as
it was intended to do, would have done him serious injury.
"So, do you want it already?" said the same voice he had before heard.
"Oh no--mercy! mercy!" said Tobias.
"Oh, that's it now, is it? I tell you what it is, if we have any
disturbance here, this is the persuader to silence that we always use:
what do you think of that for an argument, eh?"
As he spoke, the man gave the whip a loud smack in the air, and
confirmed the truth of the argument, by inducing poor Tobias to absolute
silence; indeed the boy trembled so that he could not speak.
"Well, now, my man," added the fellow, "I think we understand each
other. What do you want?"
"Oh, let me go," said Tobias, "let me go. I will tell nothing. Say to
Mr. Todd that I will do what he pleases, and tell nothing, only let me
go out of this dreadful place. Have mercy upon me--I am not at all
mad--indeed I am not."
The man closed the door, as he whistled a lively tune.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE MADHOUSE YARD, AND TOBIAS'S NEW FRIEND.
This sudden retreat of the man was unexpected by Tobias, who at least
thought it was the practice to feed people, even if they were confined
to such a place; but the unceremonious departure of the keeper, without
so much as mentioning anything about breakfast, began to make Tobias
think that the plan by which he was to be got rid of was starvation; and
yet that was impossible, for how easy it was to kill him if they felt so
disposed.
"Oh, no, no," he repeated to himself, "surely they will not starve me to
death."
As he uttered these words, he heard the plaintive singing commence
again; and he could not help thinking that it sounded like some requiem
for the dead, and that it was a sort of signal that his hours were
numbered. Despair again began to take possession of him, and despite the
savage threats of the keeper, he would again have loudly called for
help, had he not become conscious that there were footsteps close at
hand. By dint of listening most intently he heard a number of doors
opened and shut, and sometimes when one was opened there was a shriek,
and the lashing of the whips, which very soon succeeded in drowning all
other noises. It occurred to Tobias, and correctly too, for such was the
fact, that the inmates of that most horrible abode were living, like so
many wild beasts, in cages fed. Then he thought how strange it was that
even for any amount of money human beings could be got to do the work of
such an establishment. And by the time Tobias had made this reflection
to himself, his own door was once more opened upon its rusty hinges.
There was the flash of a light, and then a man came in with a water-can
in his hand, to which there was a long spout, and this he placed to the
mouth of Tobias, who fearing that if he did not drink then he might be a
long time without, swallowed some not over-savoury ditch water, as it
seemed to him, which was thus brought to him. A coarse, brown-looking,
hard loaf was then thrown at his feet, and the party was about to leave
his cell, but he could not forbear speaking, and in a voice of the most
supplicating earnestness he said--
"Oh, do not keep me here. Let me go, and I will say nothing of Todd. I
will go to sea at once if you will let me out of this place, indeed I
will; but I shall really go mad here!"
"Good that, Watson, ain't it?" said Mr. Fogg, who happened to be one of
the party.
"Very good, sir. Lord bless you, the cunning of 'em is beyond anything
in the world, sir; you'd be surprised at what they say to me sometimes."
"But I'm not mad--indeed I'm not mad!" cried Tobias.
"Oh," said Fogg, "it's a bad case I'm afraid; the strongest proof of
insanity in my opinion, Watson, is the constant reiteration of the
statement that he is not mad on the part of a lunatic. Don't you think
it is so, Mr. Watson?"
"Oh, of course, sir, of course."
"Ah! I thought you would be of that opinion; but I suppose as this is a
mere lad, we may do without chaining him up; and, besides, you know that
to-day is inspection day, when we get an old fool of a superannuated
physician to make us a visit."
"Yes, sir," said Watson, with a grin, "and a report that all is well
conducted."
"Exactly. Who shall we have this time, do you think? I always give a ten
guinea fee."
"Why, sir, there's old Dr. Popplejoy, he's 84 years old, they say, and
sand blind; he'll take it as a great compliment, he will, and no doubt
we can humbug him easily."
"I dare say we may; I'll see to it; and we will have him at twelve
o'clock, Watson. You will take care to have everything ready, of course,
you know; make all the usual preparations."
Tobias was astonished that before him they chose thus to speak so
freely, but despairing as he was, he little knew how completely he was
in the power of Mr. Fogg, and how utterly he was shut out from all human
sympathy. Tobias said nothing; but he could not help thinking that,
however old and stupid the physician whom they mentioned might be,
surely there was a hope that he would be able to discover Tobias's
perfect sanity. But the wily Mr. Fogg knew perfectly well what he was
about, and when he retired to his own room, he wrote the following note
to Dr. Popplejoy, who was a retired physician, who had purchased a
country house in the neighbourhood. The note will speak for itself,
being as fine a specimen of hypocrisy as we can ever expect to lay
before our readers--
"The Asylum, Peckham.
"SIR,--Probably you may recognise my name as that of the keeper of a
lunatic asylum in this neighbourhood. Consistent with a due regard for
the safety of that most unhappy class of the community submitted to my
care, I am most anxious, with the blessing of Divine Providence, to
ameliorate as far as possible, by kindness, that most shocking of all
calamities--insanity. Once a year it is my custom to call in some
experienced, able, and enlightened physician to see my patients (I
enclose a fee)--a physician who has nothing to do with the
establishment, and therefore cannot be biassed. If you, sir, would do me
the favour at about twelve o'clock to-day, to make a short visit of
inspection, I shall esteem it a great honour, as well as a great favour.
"Believe me to be, sir, with the most profound respect, your most
obedient and humble servant,
"O. D. FOGG."
"To Dr. Popplejoy, &c."
This note, as might be expected, brought the old purblind, superannuated
Dr. Popplejoy to the asylum, and Mr. Fogg received him in due form, and
with great gravity, saying, almost with tears in his eyes--
"My dear sir, the whole aim of my existence now, is to endeavour to
soften the rigours of the necessary confinement of the insane, and I
wish this inspection of my establishment to be made by you in order that
I may thus for a time stand clear with the world--with my own conscience
I am, of course, always clear; and if your report be satisfactory about
the treatment of the unhappy persons I have here, not the slightest
breath of slander can touch me."
"Oh yes, yes," said the old garrulous physician; "I--I--very good--eugh,
eugh--I have a slight cough."
"A very slight one, sir. Will you, first of all, take a look at one of
the sleeping chambers of the insane?"
The doctor agreed, and Mr. Fogg led him into a very comfortable
sleeping-room, which the old gentleman declared was very satisfactory
indeed, and when they returned to the apartment into which they had
already been, Mr. Fogg said--
"Well then, sir, all we have to do is to bring in the patients, one by
one, to you as fast as we can, so as not to occupy more of your valuable
time than necessary; and any questions you ask will, no doubt, be
answered, and I, being by, can give you the heads of any case that may
excite your especial notice."
"Exactly, exactly. I--I--quite correct. Eugh--eugh!"
The old man was placed in a chair of state, reposing on some very
comfortable cushions; and take him altogether, he was so pleased with
the ten guineas and the flattery of Mr. Fogg--for nobody had given him a
fee for the last fifteen years--that he was quite ready to be the
foolish tool of the madhouse-keeper in almost any way that he chose to
dictate to him. We need not pursue the examination of the various
unfortunates who were brought before old Dr. Popplejoy; it will suffice
for us if we carry the reader through the examination of Tobias, who is
our principal care, without, at the same time, detracting from the
genial sympathy we must feel for all who, at that time, were subject to
the tender mercies of Mr. Fogg. At about half-past twelve the door of
Tobias's cell was opened by Mr. Watson, who, walking in, laid hold of
the boy by the collar, and said--
"Hark you, my lad! you are going before a physician, and the less you
say the better. I speak to you for your own sake; you can do yourself no
good, but you can do yourself a great deal of harm. You know we keep a
cart-whip here. Come along."
Tobias said not a word in answer to this piece of altogether gratuitous
advice, but he made up his mind that, if the physician was not
absolutely deaf, he should hear him. Before, however, the unhappy boy
was taken into the room where old Dr. Popplejoy was waiting, he was
washed and brushed down generally, so that he presented a much more
respectable appearance than he would have done had he been ushered in in
his soiled state, as he was taken from the dirty mad-house cell.
"Surely, surely," thought Tobias, "the extent of cool impudence can go
no further than this; but I will speak to the physician, if my life
should be sacrificed for so doing. Yes, of that I am determined."
In another minute he was in the room, face to face with Mr. Fogg and Dr.
Popplejoy.
"What--what?--eugh! eugh!" coughed the old doctor; "a boy, Mr. Fogg, a
mere boy. Dear me! I--I--eugh! eugh! eugh! My cough is a little
troublesome I think, to-day--eugh! eugh!"
"Yes, sir," said Fogg, with a deep sigh, and making a pretence to dash a
tear from his eye; "here you have a mere boy. I am always affected when
I look upon him, doctor. We were boys ourselves once, you know, and to
think that the divine spark of intelligence has gone out in one so
young, is enough to make any feeling heart throb with agony. This lad
though, sir, is only a monomaniac. He has a fancy that some one named
Sweeney Todd is a murderer, and that he can discover his bad practices.
On all other subjects he is sane enough; but upon that, and upon his
presumed freedom from mental derangement, he is furious."
"It is false, sir, it is false!" said Tobias, stepping up. "Oh, sir, if
you are not one of the creatures of this horrible place, I beg that you
will hear me, and let justice be done."
"Oh, yes--I--I--eugh! Of course--I--eugh!"
"Sir, I am not mad, but I am placed here because I have become dangerous
to the safety of criminal persons."
"Oh, indeed! Ah--oh--yes."
"I am a poor lad, sir, but I hate wickedness; and because I found out
that Sweeney Todd was a murderer, I am placed here."
"You hear him, sir," said Fogg; "just as I said."
"Oh, yes, yes. Who is Sweeney Todd, Mr. Fogg?"
"Oh, sir, there is no such person in the world."
"Ah, I thought as much--I thought as much--a sad case, a very sad case,
indeed. Be calm, my little lad, and Mr. Fogg will do all that can be
done for you, I'm sure."
"Oh! how can you be so foolish, sir," cried Tobias, "as to be deceived
by that man, who is making a mere instrument of you to cover his own
villany? What I say to you is true, and I am not mad!"
"I think, Dr. Popplejoy," said Fogg, with a smile, "it would take rather
a cleverer fellow than I am to make a fool of you; but you perceive,
sir, that in a little while the boy would get quite furious, that he
would. Shall I take him away?"
"Yes, yes--poor fellow!"
"Hear me--oh, hear me," shrieked Tobias. "Sir, on your death-bed you may
repent this day's work--I am not mad--Sweeney Todd is a murderer--he is
a barber in Fleet-street--I am not mad!"
"It's melancholy, sir, is it not?" said Fogg, as he again made an effort
to wipe away a tear from his eyes. "It's very melancholy."
"Oh! very, very."
"Watson, take away poor Tobias Ragg, but take him very gently, and stay
with him a little, in his nice comfortable room, and try to soothe him;
speak to him of his mother, Watson, and get him round if you can. Alas,
poor child! my heart quite bleeds to see him. I am not fit exactly for
this life, doctor, I ought to be made of sterner stuff, indeed I ought."
* * * * *
"Well," said Mr. Watson, as he saluted poor Tobias with a kick outside
the door, "what a deal of good you have done!"
The boy's patience was exhausted; he had borne all that he could bear,
and this last insult maddened him. He turned with the quickness of
thought, and sprang at Mr. Watson's throat. So sudden was the attack,
and so completely unprepared for it was that gentleman, that down he
fell in the passage, with such a blow of his head against the stone
floor that he was nearly insensible; and, before anybody could get to
his assistance, Tobias had so pommelled and clawed his face, that there
was scarcely a feature discernible, and one of his eyes seemed to be in
fearful jeopardy. The noise of this assault soon brought Mr. Fogg to the
spot, as well as old Dr. Popplejoy, and the former tore Tobias from his
victim, whom he seemed intent upon murdering.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE CONSULTATION OF COLONEL JEFFERY WITH THE MAGISTRATE.
The advice which his friend had given to Colonel Jeffery was certainly
the very best that could have been tendered to him; and, under the whole
of these circumstances, it would have been something little short of
absolute folly to have ventured into the shop of Sweeney Todd without
previously taking every possible precaution to ensure the safety of so
doing. Sir Richard was within when they reached his house, and, with the
acuteness of a man of business, he at once entered into the affair. As
the colonel, who was the spokesman, proceeded, it was evident that the
magistrate became deeply interested. Colonel Jeffery concluded by
saying--
"You will thus, at all events, perceive that there is great mystery
somewhere."
"And guilt, I should say," replied the magistrate.
"You are of that opinion, Sir Richard?"
"I am, most decidedly."
"Then what would you propose to do? Believe me, I do not ask out of any
idle curiosity, but from a firm faith, that what you set about will be
accomplished in a satisfactory manner."
"Why, in the first place, I shall certainly go and get shaved at Todd's
shop."
"You will venture that?"
"Oh, yes; but do not fancy that I am so headstrong and foolish as to run
any unnecessary risks in the matter--I shall do no such thing: you may
be assured that I will do all in my power to provide for my own safety;
and if I did not think I could do that most effectually, I should not be
at all in love with the adventure; but, on the contrary, carefully avoid
it to the best of my ability. We have before heard something of Mr.
Todd."
"Indeed!--and of a criminal character?"
"Yes; a lady once in the street took a fancy to a pair of shoe-buckles
of imitation diamonds that Todd had on, when he was going to some city
entertainment; she screamed out, and declared that they had belonged to
her husband, who had gone out one morning, from his house in
Fetter-lane, to get himself shaved. The case came before me, but the
buckles were of too common a kind to enable the lady to persevere in her
statement; and Todd, who preserved the most imperturbable coolness
throughout the affair, was, of course, discharged."
"But the matter left a suspicion upon your mind?"
"It did; and more than once I have resolved in my own mind what means
could be adopted of coming at the truth: other affairs, however, of more
immediate urgency have occupied me, but the circumstances you detail
revive all my former feelings upon the subject; and I shall now feel
that the matter has come before me in a shape to merit immediate
attention."
This was gratifying to Colonel Jeffery, because it not only took a great
weight off his shoulders, but it led him to think, from the well-known
tact of the magistrate, that something certainly would be accomplished,
and that very shortly too, towards unravelling the secret that had as
yet only appeared to be more complicated and intricate the more it was
inquired into. He made the warmest acknowledgments to the magistrate for
the courtesy of his reception, and then took his leave. As soon as the
magistrate was alone, he rang a small hand-bell that was upon the table,
and the summons was answered by a man, to whom he said--
"Is Crotchet here?"
"Yes, your worship."
"Then, tell him I want him at once, will you?"
The messenger retired, but he presently returned, bringing with him
about as rough a specimen of humanity as the world could have produced.
He was tall and stout, and his face looked as if, by repeated injuries,
it had been knocked out of all shape, for the features were most
strangely jumbled together indeed, and an obliquity of vision, which
rendered it always a matter of doubt who and what he was looking at, by
no means added to his personal charms.
"Sit down, Crotchet," said the magistrate, "and listen to me without a
word of interruption."
If Mr. Crotchet had no other good quality on earth, he still had that of
listening attentively, and he never opened his mouth while the
magistrate related to him what had just formed the subject matter of Mr.
Jeffery's communication; indeed, Crotchet seemed to be looking out of
the window all the while; but then Sir Richard knew the little
peculiarities of his visual organs. When he concluded his statement, Sir
Richard said--
"Well, Crotchet, what do you think of all that? What does Sweeney Todd
do with his customers?"
Mr. Crotchet gave a singular and peculiar kind of grin, as he said,
still looking apparently out of the window, although his eyes were
really fixed upon the magistrate--
"He _smugs_ 'em."
"What?"
"Uses 'em up, yer worship; it's as clear to me as mud in a wine-glass,
that it is. Lor' bless you! I've been thinking he did that 'ere sort of
thing a deuce of a while, but I didn't like to interfere too soon, you
see."
"What do you advise, Crotchet? I know I can trust to your sagacity in
such a case."
"Why, your worship, I'll think it over a bit in the course of the day,
and let your worship know what I think. It's a awkward job rather, for a
wariety of reasons, but howsomdever there's always a something to be
done, and if we don't do it, I'll be hung if I know who can, that's
all!"
"True, true, you are right there; and, perhaps, before you see me again,
you will walk down Fleet-street, and see if you can make any
observations that will be of advantage in the matter. It is an affair
which requires great caution indeed."
"Trust me, yer worship: I'll do it, and no mistake. Lor' bless you, it's
easy for anybody now to go lounging about Fleet-street, without being
taken much notice of; for the fact is, the whole place is agog about the
horrid smell as has been for never so long in the old church of St.
Dunstan."
"Smell--smell--in St. Dunstan's church! I never heard of that before,
Crotchet."
"Oh, Lor' yes, it's enough to pison the devil himself, Sir Richard; and
t'other day when the blessed bishop went to _'firm_ a lot of people, he
as good as told 'em they might all be damned first, afore he 'firm
nobody in such a place."
The magistrate was in a deep thought for a few minutes, and then he said
suddenly--
"Well, well, Crotchet, you turn the matter over in your mind and see
what you can make of it; I will think it over likewise. Do you
hear?--mind you are with me at six this evening punctually; I do not
intend to let the matter rest, and you may depend, that from this moment
I will give it my greatest attention."
"Wery good, yer worship; wery good indeed; I'll be here, and something
seems to strike me uncommon forcible that we shall unearth this fox very
soon, yer worship."
"I sincerely hope so."
Mr. Crotchet took his leave, and when he was alone the magistrate rose
and paced his apartment for some time with rapid strides, as if he was
much agitated by the reflections that were passing through his mind. At
length he flung himself into a chair with something like a groan, as he
said--
"A horrible idea forces itself upon my consideration--most horrible!
most horrible! most horrible! Well, well, we shall see--we shall see. It
may not be so: and yet what a hideous probability stares me in the face!
I will go down at once to St. Dunstan's and see what they are really
about. Yes, yes, I shall not get much sleep I think now, until some of
these mysteries are developed. A most horrible idea, truly!"
The magistrate left some directions at home concerning some business
calls which he fully expected in the course of the next two hours, and
then he put on a plain, sad-coloured cloak and a hat destitute of all
ornament, and left his house with a rapid step. He took the most direct
route towards St. Dunstan's church, and finding the door of the sacred
edifice yielded to the touch, he at once entered it; but he had not
advanced many steps before he was met and accosted by the beadle, who
said, in a tone of great dignity and authority--
"This ain't Sunday, sir; there ain't no service here to-day."
"I don't suppose there is," replied the magistrate; "but I see you have
workmen here. What is it you are about?"
"Well, of all the impudence that ever I came near, this is the
worstest--to ask a beadle what he is about; I beg to say, sir, this is
quite private, and there's the door."
"Yes, I see it, and you may go out at it just as soon as you think
proper."
"Oh, _conwulsions_! oh, _conwulsions_! This to a beadle."
"What is all this about?" said a gentlemanly-looking man, stepping
forward from a part of the church where several masons were employed in
raising some of the huge flag-stones with which it was paved. "What
disturbance is this?"
"I believe, Mr. Antrobus, you know me," said the magistrate.
"Oh, Sir Richard, certainly. How do you do?"
"Gracious," said the beadle, "I've put my blessed foot in it. Lor' bless
us, sir, how should I know as you was Sir Richard? I begs as you won't
think nothing o' what I said. If I had a knowed you, in course I
shouldn't have said it, you may depend, Sir Richard--I humbly begs your
pardon."
"It's of no consequence--I ought to have announced myself; and you are
perfectly justified in keeping strangers out of the church, my friend."
The magistrate walked up the aisle with Mr. Antrobus, who was one of the
churchwardens; and as he did so, he said, in a low, confidential tone of
voice--
"I have heard some strange reports about a terrible stench in the
church. What does it mean? I suppose you know all about it, and what it
arises from?"
"Indeed I do not. If you have heard that there is a horrible smell in
the church after it has been shut up for some time, and upon the least
change in the weather, from dry or wet, or cold or warm, you know as
much as we know upon the subject. It is a most serious nuisance, and, in
fact, my presence here to-day is to try and make some discovery of the
cause of the stench; and you see we are going to work our way into some
of the old vaults that have not been opened for some time, with a hope
of finding out the cause of this disagreeable odour."
"Have you any objection to my being a spectator?"
"None in the least."
"I thank you. Let us now join the workmen, and I can only now tell you
that I feel the strongest possible curiosity to ascertain what can be
the meaning of all this, and shall watch the proceedings with the
greatest amount of interest."
"Come along then; I can only say, for my part, that, as an individual, I
am glad you are here, and as a magistrate, likewise, it gives me great
satisfaction to have you."
CHAPTER XXVIII.
TOBIAS'S ESCAPE FROM MR. FOGG'S ESTABLISHMENT.
The rage into which Mr. Fogg was thrown by the attack which the
desperate Tobias had made upon his representative, Mr. Watson, was so
great, that, had it not been for the presence of stupid old Dr.
Popplejoy in the house, no doubt he would have taken some most exemplary
vengeance upon him. As it was, however, Tobias was thrown into his cell
with a promise of vengeance as soon as the coast was clear. These were a
kind of promises which Mr. Fogg was pretty sure to keep, and when the
first impulse of his passion had passed away, poor Tobias, as well
indeed he might, gave himself up to despair.
"Now all is over," he said; "I shall be half murdered! Oh, why do they
not kill me at once? There would be some mercy in that. Come and murder
me at once, you wretches! You villains, murder me at once!"
In his new excitement, he rushed to the door of the cell, and banged at
it with his fists, when to his surprise it opened, and he found himself
nearly falling into the stone corridor from which the various cell doors
opened. It was evident that Mr. Watson thought he had locked him in, for
the bolt of the lock was shot back, but had missed its hold--a
circumstance probably arising from the state of rage and confusion Mr.
Watson was in, as a consequence of Tobias's daring attack upon him. It
almost seemed to the boy as if he had already made some advance towards
his freedom, when he found himself in the narrow passage beyond his cell
door, but his heart for some minutes beat so tumultuously with the
throng of blissful associations connected with freedom, that it was
quite impossible for him to proceed. A slight noise, however, in another
part of the building roused him again, and he felt that it was only now
by a great coolness and self-possession, as well as great courage, that
he could at all hope to turn to account the fortunate incident which had
enabled him, at all events, to make that first step towards liberty.
"Oh, if I could but get out of this dreadful place," he thought; "if I
could but once again breathe the pure fresh air of heaven, and see the
deep blue sky, I think I should ask for no other blessings."
Never do the charms of nature present themselves to the imagination in
more lovely guise than when some one with an imagination full of such
beauties, and a mind to appreciate the glories of the world, is shut up
from real, actual contemplation. To Tobias now the thought of green
fields, sunshine and flowers, was at once rapture and agony.
"I must," he said, "I must--I will be free."
A thorough determination to do anything, we are well convinced, always
goes a long way towards its accomplishment; and certainly Tobias now
would cheerfully have faced death in any shape, rather than he would
again have been condemned to the solitary horrors of the cell, from
which he had by such a chance got free. He conjectured the stupid old
Dr. Popplejoy had not left the house, by the unusual quiet that reigned
in it, and he began to wonder if, while that quiet subsisted, there was
the remotest chance of his getting into the garden, and then scaling the
wall, and so reaching the open common. While this thought was
establishing itself in his mind, and he was thinking that he would
pursue the passage in which he was until he saw where it led to, he
heard the sound of footsteps, and he shrank back. For a few seconds they
appeared as if they were approaching where he was; and he began to dread
that the cell would be searched, and his absence discovered, in which
case there would be no chance for him but death. Suddenly, however, the
approaching footsteps paused, and then he heard a door banged shut. It
was still, even now, some minutes before Tobias could bring himself to
traverse the passage again, and when he did, it was with a slow and
stealthy step. He had not, however, gone above thirty paces, before he
heard the indistinct murmur of voices, and being guided by the sound, he
paused at a door on his right hand, which he thought must be the one he
had heard closed but a few minutes previously. It was from the interior
of the room which that was the door of, that the sound of voices came,
and as it was a matter of the very first importance to Tobias to
ascertain in what part of the house his enemies were, he placed his ear
against the panel, and listened attentively. He recognised both the
voices: they were those of Watson and Fogg. It was a very doubtful and
ticklish situation that poor Tobias was now in, but it was wonderful
how, by dint of strong resolution, he had stilled the beating of his
heart and the general nervousness of his disposition. There was but a
frail door between him and his enemies, and yet he stood profoundly
still and listened. Mr. Fogg was speaking.
"You quite understand me, Watson, I think," he said, "as concerns that
little viper, Tobias Ragg; he is too cunning, and much too dangerous to
live long. He almost staggered old superannuated Popplejoy."
"Oh, confound him!" replied Watson, "and he's quite staggered me."
"Why, certainly your face is rather scratched."
"Yes, the little devil! but it's all in the way of business, that, Mr.
Fogg, and you never heard me grumble at such little matters yet; and
I'll be bound never will, that's more."
"I give you credit for that, Watson; but between you and I, I think the
disease of that boy is of a nature that will carry him off very
suddenly."
"I think so too," said Watson, with a chuckle.
"It strikes me forcibly that he will be found dead in his bed some
morning, and I should not in the least wonder if that were to-morrow
morning: what's your opinion, Watson?"
"Oh, damn it, what's the use of all this round-about nonsense between
us? the boy is to die, and there's an end of it, and die he shall during
the night--I owe him a personal grudge, of course, now."
"Of course you do--he has disfigured you."
"Has he? Well, I can return the compliment; and I say, Mr. Fogg, my
opinion is, that it's very dangerous having these medical inspections
you have such a fancy for."
"My dear fellow, it is dangerous, that I know as well as you can tell
me, but it is from that danger we gather safety. If anything in the
shape of a disturbance should arise about any patient, you don't know of
what vast importance a report from such a man as old Dr. Popplejoy might
be."
"Well, well, have it your own way. I shall not go near Master Tobias for
the whole day, and shall see what starvation and solitude does towards
taming him down a bit."
"As you please; but it is time you went your regular rounds."
"Yes, of course."
Tobias heard Watson rise. The crisis was a serious one. His eye fell
upon a bolt that was outside the door, and, with the quickness of
thought, he shot it into its socket, and then made his way down the
passage towards his cell, the door of which he shut close. His next
movement was to run to the end of the passage and descend some stairs. A
door opposed him, but a push opened it, and he found himself in a small,
dimly-lighted room, in one corner of which, upon a heap of straw, lay a
woman, apparently sleeping. The noise which Tobias made in entering the
cell, for such it was, roused her up, and she said--
"Oh! no, no; not the lash! not the lash! I am quiet. God, how quiet I
am, although the heart within is breaking. Have mercy upon me!"
"Have mercy upon me," said Tobias, "and hide me if you can."
"Hide you! hide you! God of Heaven, who are you?"
"A poor victim, who has escaped from one of the cells, and I--"
"Hush!" said the woman; and she made Tobias shrink down in the corner of
the cell, cleverly covering him up with the straw, and then lying down
herself in such a position that he was completely screened. The
precaution was not taken a moment too soon, for, by the time it was
completed, Watson had burst open the door of the room which Tobias had
bolted, and stood in the narrow passage.
"How the devil," he said, "came that door shut, I wonder?"
"Oh! save me," whispered Tobias.
"Hush! hush! He will only look in," was the answer. "You are safe. I
have been only waiting for some one who could assist me, in order to
attempt an escape. You must remain here until night, and then I will
show you how it may be done. Hush!--he comes." Watson did come, and
looked into the cell, muttering an oath, as he said--
"Oh, you have enough bread and water till to-morrow morning, I should
say; so you need not expect to see me again till then."
"Oh! we are saved! we shall escape," said the poor creature, after
Watson had been gone some minutes.
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, yes! Oh, boy, I do not know what brought you here, but if you have
suffered one-tenth part of the cruelty and oppression that I have
suffered, you are indeed to be pitied."
"If we are to stay here," said Tobias, "till night, before making any
attempt to escape, it will, perhaps, ease your mind, and beguile the
time, if you were to tell me how you came here."
"God knows! it might--it might."
Tobias was very urgent upon the poor creature to tell her story, to
beguile the tedium of the time of waiting, and after some amount of
persuasion she consented to do so.
"You shall now hear," she said to Tobias, "if you will listen, such a
catalogue of wrongs, unredressed and still enduring, that would indeed
drive any human being mad; but I have been able to preserve so much of
my mental faculties as will enable me to recollect and understand the
many acts of cruelty and injustice that I have endured here for many a
long and weary day. My persecutions began when I was very young--so
young that I could not comprehend their cause, and used to wonder why I
should be treated with greater rigour or with greater cruelty than
people used to treat those who were really disobedient and wayward
children. I was scarcely seven years old when a maiden aunt died; she
was the old person whom I remember as having been uniformly kind to me;
though I can only remember her indistinctly, yet I know she was kind to
me; I know also I used to visit her, and she used to look upon me as her
favourite, for I used to sit at her feet upon a stool, watching her as
she sat amusing herself by embroidering, silent and motionless
sometimes, and then I asked her some questions which she answered. This
is the chief feature of my recollection of my aunt: she soon after died,
but while she lived, I had no unkindness from anybody; it was only after
that that I felt the cruelty and coolness of my family. It appeared that
I was a favourite with my aunt above all others, either in our family or
any other; she loved me, and promised that when she died, she would
leave me provided for, and that I should not be dependent upon any one.
Well, I was, from the day after the funeral, an altered being. I was
neglected, and no one paid any attention to me whatsoever; I was thrust
about, and nobody appeared to care even if I had the necessaries of
life. Such a change I could not understand. I could not believe the
evidence of my own senses; I thought it must be something that I did not
understand; perhaps my poor aunt's death had caused this distress and
alteration in people's demeanour to me. However, I was a child, and
though I was quick enough at noting all this, yet I was too young to
feel acutely the conduct of my friends. My father and mother were
careless of me, and let me run where I would; they cared not when I was
hurt, they cared not when I was in danger. Come what would, I was left
to take my chance. I recollect one day when I had fallen from the top to
the bottom of some stairs and hurt myself very much; but no one
comforted me; I was thrust out of the drawing-room, because I cried. I
then went to the top of the stairs, where I sat weeping bitterly for
some time. At length, an old servant came out of one of the attics, and
said--
"'Oh! Miss Mary, what has happened to you, that you sit crying so
bitterly on the stair head? Come in here!'
"I arose and went into the attic with her, when she set me on a chair,
and busied herself with my bruises, and said to me--
"'Now, tell me what are you crying about, and why did they turn you out
of the drawing-room--tell me now?'
"'Ay,' said I, 'they turned me out because I cried when I was hurt. I
fell all the way down stairs, but they don't mind.'
"'No, they do not, and yet in many families they would have taken more
care of you than they do here!'
"'And why do you think they would have done so?' I inquired.
"'Don't you know what good fortune has lately fallen into your lap? I
thought you knew all about it.'
"'I don't know anything, save they are very unkind to me lately.'
"'They have been very unkind to you, child, and I am sure I don't know
why, nor can I tell you why they have not told you of your fortune.'
"'My fortune,' said I; 'what fortune?'
"'Why, don't you know that when your poor aunt died you were her
favourite?'
"'I know my aunt loved me,' I said; 'she loved me, and was kind to me;
but since she has been dead, nobody cares for me.'
"'Well, my child, she has left a will behind her which says that all her
fortune shall be yours; when you are old enough you shall have all her
fine things; you shall have all her money and her house.'
"'Indeed!' said I; 'who told you so?'
"'Oh, I have heard it from those who were present at the reading of the
will, that you are, when you are old enough, to have all. Think what a
great lady you will be then! You will have servants of your own.'
"'I don't think I shall live till then.'
"'Oh yes, you will--or at least I hope so.'
"'And if I should not, what will become of all those fine things that
you have told me of? Who'll have them?'
"'Why, if you do not live till you are of age, your fortune will go to
your father and mother, who take all.'
"'Then they would sooner I should die than live?'
"'What makes you think so?' she inquired.
"'Why,' said I, 'they don't care anything for me now, and they will have
my fortune if I were dead--so they don't want me.'
"'Ah, my child!' said the old woman, 'I have thought of that more than
once; and now you can see it. I believe that it will be so. There has
many a word been spoken truly enough by a child before now, and I am
sure you are right--but do you be a good child, and be careful of
yourself, and you will always find that Providence will keep you out of
any trouble.'
"'I hope so,' I said.
"'And be sure you don't say who told you about this.'
"'Why not,' I inquired; 'why may I not tell who told me about it?'
"'Because,' she replied, 'if it were known that I told you anything
about it, as you have not been told by them, they might discharge me,
and I should be turned out.'
"'I will not do that,' I replied; 'they shall not learn who told me,
though I should like to hear them say the same thing.'
"'You may hear them do so one of these days,' she replied, 'if you are
not impatient: it will come out one of these days--two may know of it.'
"'More than my father and mother?'
"'Yes, more--several.'
"No more was said then about the matter; but I treasured it up in my
mind. I resolved that I would act differently, and not have anything to
do with them--that is, I would not be more in their sight than I could
help--I would not be in their sight at all, save at meal times--and when
there was any company there I always appeared. I cannot tell why; but I
think it was because I sometimes attracted the attention of others, and
I hoped to be able to hear something respecting my fortune; and in the
end I succeeded in doing so, and then I was satisfied--not that it made
any alteration in my conduct, but I felt I was entitled to a fortune.
How such an impression became imprinted upon a girl of eight years of
age, I know not: but it took hold of me, and I had some kind of notion
that I was entitled to more consideration than I was treated to.
"'Mother,' said I one day to her.
"'Well, Mary, what do you want to tease me about now?'
"'Didn't Mrs. Carter the other day say that my aunt left me a fortune?'
"'What is the child dreaming about?' said my mother. 'Do you know what
you are talking about, child?--you can't comprehend.'
"'I don't know, mother, but you said it was so to Mrs. Carter.'
"'Well, then, what if I did, child?'
"'Why, you must have told the truth or a falsehood.'
"'Well, Miss Impudence!--I told the truth, what then?'
"'Why, then I am to have a fortune when I grow up, that's all I mean,
mother, and then people will take care of me. I shall not be forgotten,
but everything will be done for me, and I shall be thought of first.'
"My mother looked at me very hard for a moment or two, and then, as if
she was actuated by remorse, she made an attempt to speak, but checked
herself, and then anger came to her aid, and she said--
"'Upon my word, miss! what thoughts have you taken into your fancy now?
I suppose we shall be compelled to be so many servants to you! I am sure
you ought to be ashamed of yourself--you ought, indeed!'
"'I didn't know I had done wrong,' I said.
"'Hold your tongue, will you, or I shall be obliged to flog you!' said
my mother, giving me a sound box on the ears that threw me down. 'Now,
hold your tongue and go up stairs, and give me no more insolence.'
"I arose and went up stairs, sobbing as if my heart would break. I
cannot recollect how many bitter hours I spent there, crying by
myself--how many tears I shed upon this matter, and how I compared
myself to other children, and how much my situation was worse than
theirs by a great deal. They, I thought, had their companions--they had
their hours of play. But what companions had I? and what had I in the
way of relaxation? What had I to do save to pine over the past, the
present, and the future? My infantile thoughts and hours were alike
occupied by the sad reflections that belonged to a more mature age than
mine; and yet I was so. Days, weeks, and months passed on--there was no
change, and I grew apace; but I was always regarded by my family with
dislike, and always neglected. I could not account for it in any other
way than they wished me dead. It may appear very dreadful--very dreadful
indeed--but what else was I to think? The old servant's words came upon
my mind full of their meaning--if I died before I was one-and-twenty,
they would have all my aunt's money.
"'They wish me to die,' I thought, 'they wish me to die; and I shall
die--I am sure I shall die! But they will kill me--they have tried it by
neglecting me, and making me sad. What can I do--what can I do?'
"These thoughts were the current matter of my mind, and how often do
they recur to my recollection now I am in this dull, dreadful place! I
can never forget the past. I am here because I have rights elsewhere,
which others can enjoy, and do enjoy. However, that is an old evil. I
have thus suffered long. But to return. After a year had gone by--two, I
think, must have passed over my head--before I met with anything that
was at all calculated to injure me. I must have been near ten years old,
when, one evening, I had no sooner got into bed, than I found I had been
put into damp--I may say wet sheets. They were so damp that I could not
doubt but this was done on purpose. I am sure no negligence ever came to
anything so positive and so abominable in all my life. I got out of bed
and took them off, and then wrapped myself up in the blankets and slept
till morning, without awaking any one. When morning came, I inquired who
put the sheets there?
"'What do you mean, minx?' said my mother.
"'Only that somebody was bad and wicked enough to put positively wet
sheets in the bed; it could not have been done through carelessness--it
must have been done through sheer wilfulness. I'm quite convinced of
that.'
"'You will get yourself well thrashed if you talk like that,' said my
mother. 'The sheets are not damp; there are none in the house that are
damp.'
"'These are wet.'
"This reply brought her hand down heavily upon my shoulder, and I was
forced upon my knees. I could not help myself, so violent was the blow.
"'There,' added my mother, 'take that, and that, and answer me if you
dare.'
"As she said this she struck me to the ground, and my head came in
violent contact with the table, and I was rendered insensible. How long
I continued so I cannot tell. What I first saw when I awoke was the
dreariness of one of the attics into which I had been thrust, and thrown
upon a small bed without any furniture. I looked around and saw nothing
that indicated comfort, and upon looking at my clothes there were traces
of blood. This, I had no doubt, came from myself. I was hurt, and upon
putting my hand to my head, found that I was much hurt, as my head was
bound up. At that moment the door was opened, and the old servant came
in.
"'Well, Miss Mary,' she said, 'and so you have come round again? I
really began to be afraid you were killed. What a fall you must have
had!'
"'Fall,' said I; 'who said it was a fall?'
"'They told me so.'
"'I was struck down.'
"'Struck, Miss Mary! Who could strike you? And what did you do to
deserve such a severe chastisement? Who did it?'
"'I spoke to my mother about the wet sheets.'
"'Ah! what a mercy you were not killed! If you had slept in them, your
life would not have been worth a farthing. You would have caught cold,
and you would have died of inflammation, I am sure of it. If anybody
wants to commit murder without being found out, they have only to put
them into damp sheets.'
"'So I thought, and I took them out.'
"'You did quite right--quite right.'
"'What have you heard about them?' said I.
"'Oh! I only went into the room in which you sleep, and I at once found
how damp they were, and how dangerous it was; and I was going to tell
your mamma, when I met her, and she told me to hold my tongue, but to go
down and take you away, as you had fallen down in a fit, and she could
not bear to see you lying there.'
"'And she didn't do anything for me?'
"'Oh, no, not as I know of, because you were lying on the floor
bleeding. I picked you up, and brought you here.'
"'And has she not inquired after me since?'
"'Not once.'
"'And don't know whether I am yet sensible or not?'
"'She does not yet know that.'
"'Well,' I replied, 'I think they don't care much for me, I think not at
all, but the time may come when they will act differently.'
"'No, miss, they think, or affect to think, that you have injured them;
but that cannot be, because you could not be cunning enough to dispose
your aunt to leave you all, and so deprive them of what they think they
are entitled to.'
"'I never could have believed half so much.'
"'Such, however, is the case.'
"'What can I do?'
"'Nothing, my dear, but lie still till you get better, and don't say any
more; but sleep, if you can sleep, will do you more good than anything
else now for an hour or so, so lie down and sleep.'
* * * * *
"The old woman left the room, and I endeavoured to compose myself to
sleep; but could not do so for some time, my mind being too actively
engaged in considering what I had better do, and I determined upon a
course of conduct by which I thought to escape much of my present
persecution. It was some days, however, before I could put it in
practice, and one day I found my father and mother together, and I said
to her--
"'Mother, why do you not send me to school?'
"'You--send you to school! did you mean you, miss?'
"'Yes, I meant myself, because other people go to school to learn
something, but I have not been sent at all.'
"'Are you not contented?'
"'I am not,' I answered, 'because other people learn something; but at
the same time, I should be more out of your way, since I am more trouble
to you, as you complain of me; it would not cost more than living at
home.'
"'What is the matter with the child?' asked my father.
"'I cannot tell,' said my mother.
"'The better way will be to take care of her, and confine her to some
part of the house, if she does not behave better.'
"'The little minx will be very troublesome.'
"'Do you think so?'
"'Yes, decidedly.'
"'Then we must adopt some more active measures, or we shall have to do
what we do not wish. I am amused at her asking to be sent to school! Was
ever there heard of such wickedness? Well, I could not have believed
such ingratitude could have existed in human nature.'
"'Go out of the room, you hussy,' said my mother; 'go out of the room,
and don't let me hear a word from you more.'
"'I left the room terrified at the storm I had raised up against me. I
knew not that I had done wrong, and went up crying to my attic alone,
and found the old servant, who asked what was the matter. I told her all
I had said, and what had been the result, and how I had been abused.
"'Why, you should let things take their own course, my dear.'
"'Yes, but I can learn nothing.'
"'Never mind; you will have plenty of money when you grow older, and
that will cure many defects; people who have money never want for
friends.'
"'But I have them not, and yet I have money.'
"'Most certainly--most certainly, but you have it not in your power, and
you are not old enough to make use of it, if you had it.'
"'Who has it?' I inquired.
"'Your father and mother.'
"No more was said at that time, and the old woman left me to myself, and
I recollect I long and deeply pondered over this matter, and yet could
see no way out of it, and resolved that I would take things as easily as
I could; but I feared that I was not likely to have a very quiet life;
indeed, active cruelty was exercised against me. They would lock me up
in a room a whole day at a time, so that I was debarred the use of my
limbs. I was even kept without food, and on every occasion I was knocked
about, from one to the other, without remorse--every one took a delight
in tormenting me, and in showing me how much they dared do. Of course
servants and all would not treat me with neglect and harshness if they
did not see it was agreeable to my parents. This was shocking cruelty;
but yet I found that this was not all. Many were the little contrivances
made and invented to cause me to fall down stairs--to slip--to trip, or
do anything that might have ended in some fatal accident, which would
have left them at liberty to enjoy my legacy, and no blame would be
attached to them for the accident, and I should most likely get blamed
for what was done, and from which I had been the sufferer--indeed, I
should have been deemed to have suffered justly. On one occasion, after
I had been in bed some time, I found it was very damp, and upon
examination I found the bed itself had been made quite wet, with the
sheets put over it to hide it. This I did not discover until it was too
late, for I caught a violent cold, and it took me some weeks to get over
it, and yet I escaped eventually, though after some months' illness. I
recovered, and it evidently made them angry because I did live. They
must have believed me to be very obstinate; they thought me obdurate in
the extreme--they called me all the names they could imagine, and
treated me with every indignity they could heap upon me. Well, time ran
on, and in my twelfth year I obtained the notice of one or two of our
friends, who made some inquiries about me. I always remarked that my
parents disliked any one to speak to, or take any notice of me. They did
not permit me to say much--they did not like my speaking; and on one
occasion, when I made some remark respecting school, she replied--
"'Her health is so bad that I have not yet sent her, but shall do so by
and by, when she grows stronger.'
"There was a look bent upon me that told me at once what I must expect,
if I persisted in my half-formed resolve of contradicting all that had
been said. When the visitor went I was well aware of what kind of a life
I should have had, if I did not absolutely receive some serious injury.
I was terrified, and held my tongue. Soon after that I was seized with
violent pains and vomiting. I was very ill, and the servant being at
home only, a doctor was sent for, who at once said I had been poisoned,
and ordered me to be taken care of. I know how it was done: I had some
cake given me--it was left out for me; and that was the only thing I had
eaten, and it astonished me, for I had not had such a thing given me for
years, and that is why I believe the poison was put in the cake, and I
think others thought so too. However, I got over that after a time,
though I was a long while before I did so; but at the same time I was
very weak, and the surgeon said that had I been a little longer without
assistance, or had I not thrown it up, I must have sunk beneath the
effects of a violent poison. He advised my parents to take some measures
to ascertain who it was that had administered the poison to me; but
though they promised compliance, they never troubled themselves about
it--but I was for a long time very cautious of what I took, and was in
great fear of the food that was given to me. However, nothing more of
that character took place, and at length I quite recovered, and began to
think in my own mind that I ought to take some active steps in the
matter, and that I ought to seek an asylum elsewhere. I was now nearly
fifteen years of age, and could well see how inveterate was the dislike
with which I was regarded by my family: I thought that they ought to use
me better, for I could remember no cause for it. I had given no deadly
offence, nor was there any motive why I should be treated thus with
neglect and disdain. It was, then, a matter of serious consideration
with me, as to whether I should not go and throw myself upon the
protection of some friend, and beg their interference in my behalf; but
then there was no one whom I felt that would do so much for me--no one
from whom I expected so great an act of friendship. It was hardly to be
expected from any one that they should interfere between me and my
parents; they would have had their first say, and I should have
contradicted all they said, and should have appeared in a very bad light
indeed. I could not say they had neglected my education--I could not say
that, because there I had been careful myself, and I had assiduously
striven when alone to remedy this defect, and had actually succeeded; so
that, if I were examined, I should have denied my own assertions by
contrary facts, which would injure me. Then again, if I were neglected I
could not prove any injury, because I had all the means of existence;
and all I could say would either be attributed to some evil source, or
it was entirely false--but at the same time I felt that I had great
cause of complaint, and none of gratitude. I could hold no communion
with any one--all alike deserted me, and I knew none who could say aught
for me if I requested their good-will. I had serious thoughts of
possessing myself of some money, and then leaving home, and staying away
until I had arrived at age; but this I deferred doing, seeing that there
were no means, and I could not do more than I then did--that is, to live
on without any mischief happening, and wait for a few years more. I
contracted an acquaintance with a young man who came to visit my
father--he came several times, and paid me more civility and attention
than any one else ever did, and I felt that he was the only friend I
possessed. It is no wonder I looked upon him as being my best and my
only friend. I thought him the best and the handsomest man I ever
beheld. This put other thoughts into my head. I did not dress as others
did, much less had I the opportunity of becoming possessed of many of
those little trinkets that most young women of my age had. But this made
no alteration in the good opinion of the young gentleman, who took no
notice of that, but made me several pretty presents. These were
treasures to me, and I must say I gloated over them, and often, when
alone, I have spent hours in admiring them; trifling as they were, they
made me happier. I knew now one person who cared for me, and a
delightful feeling it was too. I shall never know it again--it is quite
impossible. Here, among the dark walls and unwholesome cells, we have no
cheering ray of life or hope--all is dreary and cold; a long and
horrible punishment takes place, to which there is no end save with
life, and in which there is no one mitigating circumstance--all is bad
and dark. God help me!"
* * * * *
"However, my dream of happiness was soon disturbed. By some means my
parents had got an idea of this, and the young man was dismissed the
house, and forbidden to come to it again. This he determined to do, and
more than once we met, and then in secret I told him all my woes. When
he had heard all I said, he expressed the deepest commiseration, and
declared I had been most unjustly and harshly treated, and thought that
there was not a harder or harsher treatment than that which I had
received. He then advised me to leave home.
"'Leave home,' I said; 'where shall I fly? I have no friend.'
"'Come to me, I will protect you; I will stand between you and all the
world; they shall not stir hand or foot to your injury.'
"'But I cannot, dare not to do that; if they found me out, they would
force me back with all the ignominy and shame that could be felt from
having done a bad act; not any pity would they show me.'
"'Nor need you; you would be my wife--I mean to make you my wife.'
"'You?'
"'Yes! I dreamed not of anything else. You shall be my wife; we will
hide ourselves, and remain unknown to all until the time shall have
arrived when you are of age--when you can claim all your property, and
run no risk of being poisoned or killed by any other means.'
"'This is a matter,' said I, 'that ought to be considered well before
adopting anything so violent and so sudden.'
"'It does; and it is not one that I think will injure by being reflected
upon by those who are the principal actors; for my own part my mind is
made up, and I am ready to perform my share of the engagement.'
"I resolved to consider the matter well in my own mind, and felt every
inclination to do what he proposed, because it took me away from home,
and because it would give me one of my own. My parents had become
utterly estranged from me: they did not act as parents, they did not act
as friends, they had steeled my heart against them; they never could
have borne any love to me, I am sure of it, who could have committed
such great crimes against me. As the hour drew near, that in which I was
likely to become an object of still greater hatred and dislike to them,
I thought I was often the subject of their private thoughts, and often
when I entered the room my mother and father, and the rest, would
suddenly leave off speaking, and look at me, as if to ascertain if I had
overheard them say anything. On one occasion I remember very well I
heard them conversing in a low tone. The door happened to have opened of
itself, the hasp not having been allowed to enter the mortise. I heard
my name mentioned: I paused and listened.
"'We must soon get rid of her,' said my mother.
"'Undoubtedly,' he replied; 'if we do not, we shall have her about our
ears: she'll get married, or some infernal thing, and then we shall have
to refund.'
"'We could prevent that.'
"'Not if her husband were to insist upon it, we could not; but the only
plan I can now form is, what I told you of already.'
"'Putting her into a madhouse?'
"'Yes: there, you see, she will be secured, and cannot get away.
Besides, those who go there die in a natural way before many years.'
"'But she can speak.'
"'So she may; but who attends to the ravings of a mad woman? No, no;
depend upon it, that is the best plan: send her to a lunatic asylum--a
private madhouse. I can obtain all that is requisite in a day or two.'
"'Then we will consider that settled?'
"'Certainly.'
"'In a few days, then?'
"'Before next Sunday; because we can enjoy ourselves on that day without
any restraint, or without any uncomfortable feelings of uncertainty
about us.'
* * * * *
"I waited to hear no more: I had heard enough to tell me what I had to
expect. I went back to my own room, and having put on my bonnet and
shawl I went out to see the individual to whom I have alluded, and saw
him. I then informed him of all that had taken place, and heard him
exclaim against them in terms of rising indignation.
"'Come to me,' he said; 'come to me at once.'
"'Not at once.'
"'Don't stop a day.'
"'Hush!' said I, 'there's no danger; I will come the day after
to-morrow; and then I will bid adieu to all these unhappy moments, to
all these persecutions; and in three years' time I shall be able to
demand my fortune, which will be yours.'
* * * * *
"We were to meet the next day but one, early in the morning; there was
not, in fact, to be more than thirty hours elapse before I was to leave
home--if home I could call it--however, there was no time to be lost. I
made up a small bundle and had all in readiness before I went to bed,
and placed in security, intending to rise early, and let myself out and
leave the house. That, however, was never to happen. While I slept, at a
late hour of the night, I was awakened by two men standing by my
bedside, who desired me to get up and follow them. I refused, and they
pulled me rudely out of bed. I called out for aid, and exclaimed against
the barbarity of their proceedings.
"'It is useless to listen to her,' said my father, 'you know what a mad
woman will say!'
"'Ay, we do,' replied the men, 'they are the cunningest devils we ever
heard. We have seen enough of them to know that.'
"To make the matter plain, I was seized, gagged, and thrust into a
coach, and brought here, where I have remained ever since."
CHAPTER XXIX.
TOBIAS'S RAPID JOURNEY TO LONDON.
There was something extremely touching in the tone, and apparently in
the manner in which the poor persecuted one detailed the story of her
wrongs, and she had a tribute of a willing tear from Tobias.
"After the generous confidence you have had in me," he said, "I ought to
tell you something of myself."
"Do so," she replied, "we are companions in misfortune."
"We are indeed."
Tobias then related to her at large all about Sweeney Todd's villanies,
and how at length he, Tobias, had been placed where he was for the
purpose of silencing his testimony of the evil and desperate practices
of the barber. After that, he related to her what he had overheard about
the intention to murder him that very night, and he concluded by
saying--
"If you have any plan of escape from this horrible place, let me implore
you to tell it to me, and let us put it into practice to-night, and if
we fail, death is at any time preferable to continued existence here."
"It is--it is--listen to me."
"I will indeed," said Tobias: "you will say you never had such attention
as I will now pay to you."
"You must know, then, that this cell is paved with flag-stones, as you
see, and that the wall here at the back forms likewise part of the wall
of an old wood-house in the garden, which is never visited."
"Yes, I understand."
"Well, as I have been here so long, I managed to get up one of the
flag-stones that forms the flooring here, and to work under the wall
with my hands--a slow labour, and one of pain, until I made a regular
kind of excavation, one end of which is here, and the other in the
wood-house."
"Glorious!" said Tobias. "I see--I see--go on."
"I should have made my escape if I could, but the height of the garden
wall has always been the obstacle. I thought of tearing this miserable
quilt into strips, and making a sort of rope of it; but then how was I
to get it on the wall? you, perhaps will, with your activity and youth,
be able to accomplish that."
"Oh, yes, yes! you're right enough there; it is not a wall shall stop
me."
They waited until, from a church clock in the vicinity, they heard ten
strike, and they began operations. Tobias assisted his new friend to
raise the stone in the cell, and there, immediately beneath, appeared
the excavation leading to the wood-house, just sufficiently wide for one
person to creep through. It did not take long to do that, and Tobias
took with him a piece of work, upon which he had been occupied for the
last two hours, namely the quilt torn up into long pieces, twisted and
tied together, so that it formed a very tolerable rope, which Tobias
thought would sustain the weight of his companion. The wood-house was a
miserable-looking hole enough, and Tobias at once thought that the door
of it was fastened, but by a little pressure it came open; it had only
stuck through the dampness of the woodwork at that low point of the
garden. And now they were certainly both of them at liberty, with the
exception of surmounting the wall, which rose frowningly before him in
all its terrors. There was a fine cool fresh air in the garden, which
was indeed most grateful to the senses of Tobias, and he seemed doubly
nerved for anything that might be required of him after inhaling that
delicious, cool fresh breeze. There grew close to the wall one of those
beautiful mountain-ash trees, which bend over into such graceful
foliage, and which are so useful in the formation of pretty
summer-houses. Tobias saw that if he ascended to the top of this tree
there would not be much trouble in getting from there to the wall.
"We shall do it," he said, "we shall succeed."
"Thank God, I hear you say so," replied his companion.
Tobias tied one end of the long rope they had made of the quilt to his
waist, so that he might carry it up with him, and yet leave him free use
of his hands and feet, and then he commenced ascending the tree. In
three minutes he was on the wall. The moon shone sweetly. There was not
a tree or house in the vicinity that was not made beautiful now, in some
portions of it, by the sweet, soft light that poured down upon them,
Tobias could not resist pausing a moment to look around him on the
glorious scene; but the voice of her for whom he was bound to do all
that was possible, aroused him.
"Oh, Tobias!" she said, "quick, quick--lower the rope; oh, quick!"
"In a moment--in a moment," he cried.
The top of the wall was here and there armed with iron spikes, and some
of these formed an excellent grappling place for the torn quilt. In the
course of another minute Tobias had his end of it secure.
"Now," he said, "can you climb up by it, do you think? Don't hurry about
it. Remember, there is no alarm, and for all we know we have hours to
ourselves yet."
"Yes, yes--oh, yes--thank God!" he heard her say.
Tobias was not where he could, by any exertion of strength, render her
now the least assistance, and he watched the tightening of the frail
support by which she was gradually climbing to the top of the wall with
the most intense and painful interest that can be imagined.
"I come--I come," she said, "I am saved."
"Come slowly--for God's sake, do not hurry."
"No, no."
At this moment Tobias heard the frail rope giving way; there was a
tearing sound--it broke, and she fell. Lights, too, at that unlucky
moment, flashed from the house, and it was now evident an alarm had been
given. What could he do? if two could not be saved he might himself be
saved. He turned, and flung his feet over the wall; he hung by his hands
as low as he could, and then he dropped the remainder of the distance.
He was hurt, but in a moment he sprang to his feet, for he felt that
safety could only lie in instant and rapid flight. The terror of pursuit
was so strong upon him that he forgot his bruises.
* * * * *
"Thank Heaven," exclaimed Tobias, "I am at last free from that horrible
place. Oh, if I can but reach London now, I shall be safe; and as for
Sweeney Todd, let him beware, for a day of retribution for him cannot be
far off."
So saying, Tobias turned his steps towards the city, and at a hard trot,
soon left Peckham Rye far behind him as he pursued his route.
CHAPTER XXX.
MRS. LOVETT'S COOK MAKES A DESPERATE ATTEMPT.
There are folks who can and who will bow like reeds to the decrees of
evil fortune, and with a patient, ass-like placidity, go on bearing the
ruffles of a thankless world without complaining, but Mrs. Lovett's new
cook was not one of those. The more destiny seemed to say to him--"Be
quiet!" the more he writhed, and wriggled, and fumed, and could not be
quiet. The more fate whispered in his ears--"You can do nothing," the
more intent he was upon doing something, let it be what it might. And he
had a little something, in the shape of a respite too, now, for had he
not baked a batch of pies, and sent them up to the devouring fangs of
the lawyers' clerks in all their gelatinous, beauty and gushing
sweetness, to be devoured. To be sure he had, and therefore having, for
a space, obeyed the behests of his task-mistress, he could sit with his
head resting upon his hands and think. Thought! What a luxury! Where is
the Indian satrap--where the arch Inquisitor--where the grasping,
dishonest, scheming employer who can stop a man from thinking?--and as
Shakspeare, says of sleep,
"From that sleep, what dreams may come?"
so might he have said of thought,
From that thought what acts may come?
Now we are afraid that, in the first place, the cook, in spite of
himself, uttered some expression concerning Mrs. Lovett of neither an
evangelical or a polite character, and with these we need not trouble
the reader. They acted as a sort of safety-valve to his feelings, and
after consigning that fascinating female to a certain warm place, where
we may fancy everybody's pie might be cooked on the very shortest
notice, he got a little more calm.
"What shall I do?--what shall I do?"
Such was the rather vague question he asked of himself. Alas! how often
are those four simple words linked together, finding but a vain echo in
the over-charged heart. What shall I do? Ay, what!--small power had he
to do anything, except the quietest thing of all--that one thing which
Heaven in its mercy has left for every wretch to do if it so pleases
him--to die! But, somehow or another, a man upon the up-hill side of
life is apt to think he may do something rather than that, and our cook,
although he was about as desperate a cook as the world ever saw, did not
like yet to say die. Now, in that curious combination of passions,
impulses, and prejudices in the mind of this man it would be a hard case
if some scheme of action did not present itself, even in circumstances
of the greatest possible seeming depression, and so, after a time, the
cook did think of something to do.
"Many of these pies," he said to himself, "are not eaten in the shop,
_ergo_ they are eaten out of the shop, and possibly at the respective
houses of the purchasers--what more feasible mode of disclosing my
position, and 'the secrets of my prison-house,' can there be than the
enclosing a note in one of Mrs. Lovett's pies?"
After reviewing all the _pros_ and _cons_ of this scheme, there only
appeared a few little difficulties in the way, but, although they were
rather serious, they were not insurmountable. In the first place, it was
possible enough that the unfortunate pie in which the note might be
enclosed might be eaten in the shop, in which event the note might go
down the throat of some hungry lawyer's clerk, and it might be handed to
Mrs. Lovett, with a "God bless me, ma'am, what's this in the pie?" and
then Mrs. Lovett might, by a not very remote possibility, say to
herself--"This cook is a scheming, long-headed sort of a cook, and
notwithstanding he does his duty by the pies, he shall be sent upon an
errand to another and a better world," and in that case the delectable
scheme of the note could only end in the total destruction of the
unfortunate who conceived it. Objection the second was, that, although
nothing is so easy as to say--"Oh, write a note all about it," nothing
is so difficult as to write a note about anything without paper, ink,
and a pen. The cook rubbed his forehead, and cried--
"D----n it!"
This seemed to have the desired effect, for he at once recollected that
he was supplied with a thin piece of paper for the purpose of laying
over the pies if the oven should by chance be over heated, and so
subject them to an over-browning process.
"Surely," he thought, "I shall be able to make a substitute for a pen,
and as for ink, a little coal and water, or--ah, I have it, black from
my lights, of course. Ha--ha! How difficulties vanish when a man has
thoroughly made up his mind to overcome them. Ha--ha! I write a note--I
post it in a pie--some lawyer sends his clerk for a pie, and he gets
_that_ pie. He opens it and sees the note--he reads it--he flies to a
police-office, and gets a private interview with a magistrate--a couple
of Bow-street runners walk down to Bell Yard, and seize Mrs. Lovett--I
hear a row in the shop, and cry--'Here I am--I am here--make haste--here
I am--here I am!' Ha--ha--ha--ha--ha--ha!"
"Are you mad?"
The cook started to his feet--
"Who spoke--who spoke?"
"I," said Mrs. Lovett, looking through the ingenious little wicket at
the top of the door. "What do you mean by that laughing? If you have
gone mad, as one cook once did, death will be a relief to you. Only
convince me of that fact, and in two hours you sleep the long sleep."
"I beg your pardon, ma'am, I am not at all mad."
"Then why did you laugh in such a way that it reached even my ears
above?"
"Why, ma'am, are you not a widow?"
"Well?"
"Well then, you could not have possibly looked at me as you ought to
have done, or you would have seen that I am anything but a bad looking
fellow, and as I am decidedly single, what do you say to taking me for
better or for worse? The pie business is a thriving one, and, of course,
if I had an interest in it, I should say nothing of affairs down below
here."
"Fool!"
"Thank you, madam, for the compliment, but I assure you, the idea of
such an arrangement made me laugh, and at all events, provided I do my
duty, you don't mind my laughing a little at it?"
Mrs. Lovett disdained any further conversation with the cook, and closed
the little wicket. When she was gone he took himself seriously to task
for being so foolish as to utter his thoughts aloud, but yet he did not
think he had gone so far as to speak loud enough about the plan of
putting the letter in a pie for her to hear that.
"Oh, no--no, I am safe enough. It was the laughing that made her come. I
am safe as yet!"
Having satisfied himself fully upon this point, he at once set to work
to manufacture his note. The paper, as he had said, was ready at hand.
To be sure, it was of a thin and flimsy texture, and decidedly brown,
but a man in his situation could be hardly supposed to stand upon
punctilios. After some trouble he succeeded in making an apology for a
pen by the aid of a piece of stick, and he manufactured some very
tolerable ink, at least, as good as the soot and water commonly sold in
London for the best "japan," and then he set about writing his note. As
we have an opportunity of looking over his shoulder, we give the note
verbatim.
"SIR--(OR MADAM)--I am a prisoner beneath the shop of Mrs. Lovett, the
pie female, in Bell Yard. I am threatened with death if I attempt to
escape from my now enforced employment. Moreover, I am convinced that
there is some dreadful secret connected with the pies, which I can
hardly trust my imagination to dwell upon, much less here set it down.
Pray instantly, upon receipt of this, go to the nearest police-office
and procure me immediate aid, or I shall soon be numbered with the dead.
In the sacred names of justice and humanity, I charge you to do this."
The cook did not, for fear of accidents, put his name to this epistle.
It was sufficient, he thought, that he designated his condition, and
pointed out where he was. This note he folded into a close flat shape,
and pressed it with his hands, so that it would take up a very small
portion of room in a pie, and yet, from its size and nature, if the pie
fell into the hands of some gourmand who commenced eating it violently,
he could not fail to feel that there was a something in his mouth more
indigestible than the delicate mutton or veal and the flaky crust of
which Mrs. Lovett's delicacies were composed. Having proceeded thus far,
he concluded that the only real risk he ran was, that the pie might be
eaten in the shop, and the enclosure, without examination, handed over
to Mrs. Lovett merely as a piece of paper which had insinuated itself
where it had no right to be. But as no design whatever can be carried
out without some risk or another, he was not disposed to give up his,
because some contingency of that character was attached to it. The
prospect of deliverance from the horrible condition to which he was
reduced, now spread over his mind a pleasing calm, and he set about the
manufacture of a batch of pies, so as to have it ready for the oven when
the bell should ring.--Into one of them he carefully introduced his
note. Oh, what an eye he kept upon that individual pie. How often he
carefully lifted the upper crust, to have a peep at the little missive
which was about to go upon an errand of life or death.--How he tried to
picture to his mind's eye the sort of person into whose hands it might
fall, and then how he thought he would listen for any sounds during the
next few hours, which should be indicative of the arrest of Mrs. Lovett,
and the presence of the police in the place. He thought, then, that if
his laugh had been sufficiently loud when merely uttered to himself, to
reach the ears of Mrs. Lovett, surely his shout to the police would be
heard above all other sounds, and at once bring them to his aid. Tingle!
tingle! tingle! went a bell. It was the signal for him to get a batch of
pies ready for the oven.
"Good," he said, "it is done."
He waited until the signal was given to him to put them in to be cooked,
and then, after casting one more look at the pie that contained his
note, in went the batch to the hot air of the oven, which came out upon
his face like the breath of some giant in a highly febrile state.
"'Tis done," he said. "'Tis done, and I am saved!"
He sat down and covered his face with his hands, while delicious dreamy
thoughts of freedom came across his brain. Green fields, trees, meadows
and uplands, and the sweet blue sky, all appeared before him in bright
and beautiful array.
"Yes," he said. "Yes, I shall see them all once again.--Once again I
shall look, perchance, upon the bounding deep blue sea. Once again I
shall feel the sun of a happier clime than this fanning my cheek. Oh,
liberty, liberty, what a precious boon art thou!"
Tingle! tingle! tingle! He started from his dream of joy. The pies are
wanted; Mrs. Lovett knew well enough how long they took in doing, and
that by this time they should be ready to be placed upon the ascending
trap. Down it came. Open went the oven door, and in another minute the
note was in the shop. The cook placed his hand upon his heart to still
its tumultuous beating as he listened intently. He could hear the sound
of feet above--only dimly though, through that double roof. Once he
thought he heard high words, but all died away again, and nothing came
of it.--All was profoundly still. The batch of pies surely were sold
now, and in a paper bag he told himself his pie, _par excellence_, had
gone perhaps to the chambers of some attorney, who would be rejoiced to
have a finger in it; or to some briefless barrister, who would be
rejoiced to get his name in the papers, even if it were only connected
with a story of a pie. Yes, the dream of freedom still clung to the
imagination of the cook, and he waited, with every nerve thrilling with
expectation, the result of his plan. One, two, three hours had passed
away, and nothing came of the pie or the letter. All was as quiet and as
calm as though the malignant fates had determined that there he was to
spend his days for ever, and gradually as in a frigid situation the
narrow column of mercury in a thermometer will sink, sank his
spirits--down--down--down!
"No--no," he said. "No hope. Timidity or incredulity has consigned my
letter to the flames, perhaps, or some wide-mouthed, stupid idiot has
actually swallowed it. Oh that it had choked him by the way. Oh that it
had actually stuck in his throat.--It is over, I have lost hope again.
This horrible place will be my charnel-house--my family vault!
Curses!--No--no. What is the use of swearing? My despair is past
that--far past that--"
"Cook!" said a voice.
He sprang up, and looked to the wicket. There was Mrs. Lovett gazing in
at him.
"Cook!"
"Well--well.--Fiend in female shape, what would you with me? Did you not
expect to find me dead?"
"Certainly not. Here is a letter for you."
"A--a--letter?"
"Yes. Perhaps it is an answer to the one you sent in the pie, you know."
The unfortunate grasped his head, and gave a yell of despair. The
letter--for indeed Mrs. Lovett had one--was dropped upon the ground
floor from the opening through which she conversed with her prisoner,
and then, without another word, she withdrew from the little orifice,
and left him to his meditation.
"Lost!--lost!--lost!" he cried. "All is lost. God, is this
enchantment? Or am I mad, and the inmate of some cell in an abode of
lunacy, and all this about pies and letters merely the delusion of my
overwrought fancy? Is there really a pie--a Mrs. Lovett--a Bell
Yard--a letter--a--a--a--damn it, is there such a wretch as I myself,
in this vast bustling world, or is all a wild and fathomless
delusion?"
He cast himself upon the ground, as though from that moment he gave up
all hope and desire to save himself. It seemed as though he could have
said--
"Let death come in any shape he may, he will find me an unresisting
victim. I have fought with fate, and am, like thousands who have
preceded me in such a contest--beaten!"
A kind of stupor came over him, and there he lay for more than two
hours; but youth will overcome much, and the mind, like some depressed
spring, will, in the spring of life, soon recover its rebound; so it was
with the unhappy cook. After a time he rose and looked about him.
"No," he said, "it is no dream. It is no dream!"
He then saw the letter lying upon the ground, which Mrs. Lovett had with
such irony cast unto him.
"Surely," he said, "she might have been content to tell me she had
discovered my plans, without adding this practical sneer to it."
He lifted the letter from the floor, and found it was addressed "To Mrs.
Lovett's Cook, Bell Yard, Temple Bar;" and what made it all the more
provoking was, that it seemed to have come regularly through the post,
for there were the official seal and blue stamp upon it. Curiosity
tempted him to open it, and he read as follows:--
"SIR--Having, in a most delicious pie, received the extraordinary
communication which you inserted in it, I take the earliest opportunity
of replying to you. The character of a highly respectable and pious
woman is not, sir, to be whispered away in a pie by a cook. When the
whole bench of bishops were proved, in black and white, to be the
greatest thieves and speculators in the known world, it was their
character that saved them, for, as people justly enough reasoned,
bishops should be pious and just--therefore, a bishop cannot be a thief
and a liar! Now, sir, apply this little mandate to Mrs. Lovett, and
assure yourself; but no one will believe anything you can allege against
a female with so fascinating a smile, and who attends to her religious
duties so regularly. Reflect, young man, on the evil that you have tried
to do, and for the future learn to be satisfied with the excellent
situation you have. The pie was very good."
I am, you bad young man,
A Parishioner of St. Dunstan's,
SWEENEY TODD."
"Now was there ever such a piece of cool rascality as this?" cried the
cook, "Sweeney Todd--Todd--Todd. Who the devil is he? This is some
scheme of Mrs. Lovett's to drive me mad."
He dashed the letter upon the floor.
"Not another pie will I make! No--no--no. Welcome death--welcome that
dissolution which may be my lot, rather than the continued endurance of
this terrible imprisonment. Am I, at my time of life, to be made the
slave of such a demon in human shape as this woman? Am I to grow old and
grey here, a mere pie machine? No--no, death a thousand times rather!"
Tears! yes, bitter scalding tears came to his relief, and he wept
abundantly, but those tears were blessed, for as they flowed, the worst
bitterness of his heart flowed with them, and he suddenly looked up,
saying--
"I am only twenty-four."
There was magic in the sound of those words. They seemed in themselves
to contain a volume of philosophy. Only twenty-four. Should he, at that
green and unripe age, get rid of hope? Should he, at twenty-four only,
lie down and say--"Let me die!" just because things had gone a little
adverse, and he was the enforced cook of Mrs. Lovett?
"No--no," he said. "No, I will endure much, and I will hope much.
Hitherto, it is true, I have been unsuccessful in what I have attempted
for my release, but the diabolical cunning, even of this woman, may fail
her at some moment, and I may have my time of revenge. No--no, I need
not ask for revenge, justice will do--common justice. I will keep myself
alive. Hope shall be my guiding star. They shall not subdue the proud
spirit they have succeeded in caging, quite so easily, I will not give
up, I live and have youthful blood in my veins, I will not despair.
Despair? No--Hence, fiend!--I am as yet only twenty-four. Ha--ha! Only
twenty-four."
CHAPTER XXXI.
SHOWS HOW TOBIAS GOT TO LONDON.
We will now take a peep at Tobias. On--on--on, like the wind, went the
poor belated boy from the vicinity of that frightful prison-house at
Peckham. Terror was behind him--terror with dishevelled locks was upon
his right hand, and terror shrieking in his ear was upon his left.
On--on, he flew like a whirlwind. Alas, poor Tobias, will your young
intellects yet stand these trials? We shall see! Through the deep mud of
the Surrey roads--past pedestrians--past horsemen, and past coaches flew
poor Tobias, on--on. He had but one thought, and that was to place miles
and miles of space between him and Mr. Fogg's establishment. The
perspiration poured down his face--his knees shook under him--his heart
beat as though in some wild pulsation it would burst, but he passed on
until he saw afar off the old Bridge of London. The route to Blackfriars
he had by some chance avoided. Many, who for the last two miles of
Tobias's progress, had seen him, had tried to stop him. They had called
after him, but he had heeded them not. Some fast runners had pursued him
for a short distance, and then given up the chase in despair. He reached
the bridge.
"Stop that boy!" cried a man, "he looks mad!"
"No--no," shrieked Tobias, "I am not mad! I am not mad!"
A man held out his arms to stop him, but Tobias dashed past him like a
flash of lightning, and was off again.
"Stop him!" cried twenty voices. "Stop thief!" shouted some who could
not conceive that anybody was to be stopped on any other account.
"No, no," gasped Tobias, as he flew onwards--"not mad, not mad!"
[Illustration: The Flight Of Tobias From Peckham Mad-House.]
His feet failed him. He reeled a few more paces like a drunken man, and
then fell heavily upon some stone steps, where he lay bathed in
perspiration. Blood too gushed from his mouth. A gentleman's horse was
standing at the door, and the man came out to mount him at that moment,
and he saw the rapidly collecting crowd. With the reins of his steed in
his hand, he pushed his way through the mob, saying--
"What is it? what is it?"
"A mad boy, sir," said some. "Only look at him. Did you ever see the
like. He looks as if he had run a hundred miles."
"Good God!" cried the gentleman. "It is he! It is he!"
"Who, sir? who, sir?"
"A poor lad that I know, I will take charge of him. My name is Jeffery,
I am Colonel Jeffery. A couple of guineas to any strong man who will
carry him to the nearest surgeon's. Alas! poor boy, what a state is this
to meet him in."
It was quite astonishing the numbers of strong men that there were all
of a sudden in the crowd, who were each anxious and willing to earn the
colonel's two guineas. There was danger of a fight arising upon the
subject, when one man, after knocking down two others and threatening
the remainder, stepped up, and lifting Tobias as though he had been an
infant, exclaimed--
"Ale does it! ale does it! Come on, my little 'un."
All gave way before the gigantic proportions of no other than our old
friend Big Ben the Beef Eater, who, as chance would have it, was upon
the spot, and who, without a thought of the colonel's two guineas, only
heard that a poor sick boy had to be carried to the nearest medical man.
Tobias could not be in better hands than Ben's, for the latter carried
him much more carefully than ever nursemaid carried a child out of sight
of its mother.
"Follow me," said Colonel Jeffery, as he saw in the distance a
party-coloured lamp, which hung over a door appertaining to a chemist.
"Follow, and I will reward you."
"Doesn't want it," said Ben. "It's ale as does it."
"What?"
"Ale does it. Here you is. Come on."
Colonel Jeffery was rather surprised at the droll customer he had picked
up in the street, but provided he carried Tobias in safety, which
by-the-bye he (the colonel) would not have scrupled to do himself, had
he not been encumbered by his horse, it was all one to him, and that he
saw Ben was effectually doing. Tobias had shown some slight symptoms of
vitality before being lifted from the step of the door close to which he
had fallen, but by the time they all reached the chemist's shop, he was
in a complete state of insensibility. Of course the usual crowd that
collects on such occasions followed them, and during the walk the
colonel had time to think, and the result of those thoughts was, that it
would be a most desirable thing to keep the knowledge to himself that
Tobias _was_ Tobias. He had, in order to awe the mob from any
interference with him, announced who he was, but had not announced
Tobias. At least if he had uttered his name, he felt certain that it was
in an interjectional sort of way, and not calculated to awaken any
suspicion.
"I will keep it to myself," he thought, "that Tobias is in my
possession, otherwise if such a fact should travel round to Sweeney
Todd, there's no saying to what extent it might put that scoundrel upon
his guard."
By the time the colonel had arrived at this conclusion the whole party
had reached the chemist's, and Big Ben walked in with Tobias, and placed
him at once upon the top of a plate-glass counter, which had upon it a
large collection of trumpery scent bottles and wonderful specifics for
everything, through which Tobias went with a crash.
"There he is!" said Ben--"ale does it."
"Fire! murder! my glass case!" cried the chemist, "Oh, you monster!"
"Ale does it. What do you mean, eh?"
Big Ben backed a pace or two and went head and shoulders through a glass
case of similar varieties that was against the wall.
"Gracious bless the beasteses," said Ben, "is your house made of glass?
What do you mean by it, eh? A fellow can't turn round here without going
through something. You ought to be persecuted according to law, that you
ought."
Now this learned chemist had in the glass case against which Big Ben had
tumbled a skeleton, which, from the stunning and terrible look it had in
his shop, brought him many customers, and it was against this remnant of
humanity that Big Ben's head met, after going through the glass as a
preparatory step. By some means or another Ben caught his head under the
skeleton's ribs, and the consequence was that out he hooked him from the
glass case, and the first intimation Ben had of anything unusual,
consisted of seeing a pair of bony legs dangling down on each side of
him. So unexpected a phenomenon gave Ben what he called a "blessed
turn," and out he bounced from the shop, carrying the skeleton for all
the world like what is called pick-a-back, for the wires that supplied
the place of cartilages held it erect, and so awful a sight surely was
never seen in the streets of London as Big Ben with a skeleton upon his
back. People fled before--some turned in at shop doors; and an old lady
with a large umbrella and a pair of gigantic pattens went clean through
a silversmith's window. But we must leave Ben and the skeleton to get on
as well as they can _en route_ to the Tower, while we turn our attention
to Tobias.
"Are you a surgeon?" cried Colonel Jeffery.
"A--a surgeon? No, I'm only a druggist; but is that any reason why a
second Goliath should come into my shop and destroy everything?"
Colonel Jeffery did not wait for anything more, but snatching Tobias
from the remnants of the plate glass, he ran to the door with him, and
handing him to the first person he saw there, he cried--
"When I am mounted give me the boy."
"Yes, sir."
He sprang upon his horse; Tobias was handed to him like a bale of goods,
and laying him comfortably as he could upon the saddle before him, off
set the colonel at a good round trot through Finsbury to his own house.
Colonel Jeffery had no sort of intention that the chemist should be a
sufferer, but in his hurry to be off with Tobias, and speedily get
medical advice for him, he forgot to say so, and accordingly there stood
the man of physic then fairly bewildered by the events of the last few
moments, during which his stock in trade had been materially damaged and
a valuable amount of glass broken, to say nothing of the singular and
most unexpected abduction of his friend the skeleton.
"Here's a pretty day's work!" he said. "Here's a pretty day's work! More
mischief done than enough, and the worst of it is, my wife will hear of
it, and then there will be a deal of peace in the house. Oh, dear--oh,
dear--was there ever such an unfort--I knew it--"
A good rap upon his head from a pair of bellows wielded by a little
meagre-faced woman, that he was big enough to have swallowed, confined
his words. While all this was going on, Colonel Jeffery had ridden fast,
and passing through Finsbury and up the City-road, had reached his house
in the fashionable--but now quite the reverse, as the man says in the
play--district of Pentonville.
"This is a prize," thought the colonel, "worth the taking. It will go
hard with me but I will extract from this boy all that he knows of
Sweeney Todd, and we shall see how far that knowledge will go towards
the confirmation of my suspicions regarding him."
He carried Tobias himself to a comfortable bed-room, and immediately
sent for a medical practitioner of good repute in the neighbourhood, who
happening fortunately to be at home, obeyed the summons immediately. He
sent likewise for his friend the captain, whom he knew would be
overjoyed to hear of what he would call the capture of Tobias Ragg. The
medical man made his appearance first, as being much closer at hand, and
the colonel led him to the apartment of the invalid boy, saying to him
as he went--
"I know nothing of what is the matter with this lad--I have been very
anxious to see him on account of certain information that he possesses,
and only found him this morning upon a door step in the street, in the
state you see him."
"Is he very ill?"
"I am afraid he is."
The medical man followed the colonel to the room in which poor Tobias
lay, and after gazing upon him for a few moments, and opening with his
fingers the closed eyelids of Tobias, he shook his head.
"I wish I knew," he said, "what has produced this state. Can you not
inform me, sir?"
"Indeed I cannot, but I suspect that the boy's imagination has been
cruelly acted upon by a man, whom you will excuse me from naming just at
present, but whom I sincerely hope to bring to justice shortly."
"The boy's brain, no doubt, is in a bad condition. I do not take upon
myself to say that, as an organ, it is diseased, but fractionally it is
damaged. However, we must do the best we can to recover him from this
condition of collapse in which he is."
"Can you form any opinion as to his probable recovery?"
"Indeed I cannot, but he is young, and youth is a great thing. The best
that can be done shall be done."
"I thank you. Spare nothing for the lad, and pay him every attention, as
though he were a son or a brother of my own; I long to hear him speak,
and to convince him that he is really among friends, who are not only
willing to protect him, but have likewise the power to do so."
The medical man bowed, as he said--
"May I ask his name, sir?"
He had his tablets in his hand ready to book the name of Tobias, but the
colonel was so very much afraid that Sweeney Todd might by some means
learn that Tobias was in his house, and so take an alarm, that he would
not trust even the medical man, who, no doubt, had no other motive in
asking the name than merely to place it in his list of calls.
"Smith," said the colonel.
The medical man gave a short dry sort of cough, as he wrote "Master
Smith" upon his tablets, and then promising to return in half an hour,
he took his leave. At the expiration of half an hour Tobias was put
under a course of treatment. His head was shaved, and a blister clapped
upon the back of his neck. The room was darkened, and strict quiet was
enjoined.
"As soon as he betrays any signs of consciousness, pray send for me,
sir," said the surgeon.
"Certainly."
In the course of the day the captain made his appearance, and Colonel
Jeffery detailed to him all that had taken place, only lamenting that,
after so happily getting possession of Tobias, he should be in so sorry
a condition. The captain expressed a wish to see him, and they both went
to the chamber, where a woman had been hired to sit with Tobias, in
order to give the first intimation of his stirring. Of course, as it was
her duty, and what she was specially hired for, to keep wide awake, she
was fast asleep, and snoring loud enough to awaken any one much worse
than poor Tobias. But that was to to be expected.
"Oh," said the captain, "this is a professional nurse."
"A professional devil!" said the colonel. "How did you know that?"
"By her dropping off so comfortably to sleep, and her utter neglect of
her charge. I never knew one that did not do so, and, in good truth, I
am inclined to think it is the very best thing they can do, for if they
are not asleep they are obnoxiously awake."
The colonel took a pin from his cravat, and rather roughly inserted its
point into the fat arm of the nurse. She started up, exclaiming--
"Drat the fleas, can't a mortal sleep in peace for them?"
"Madam," said the colonel, "how much is owing to you for sleeping here a
few hours?"
"Lord bless me, sir, is this you? The poor soul has never so much as
stirred. How my heart bleeds continually for him, to be sure. Ah, dear
me, we are all born like sparks, and keep continually flying upward, as
the psalm says."
"How much do I owe you?"
"Here to-day, and gone to-morrow. Bless his innocent face."
The colonel rung the bell, and a strapping footman made his appearance.
"You will see this woman to the door, John," he said, "and pay her for
being here about three hours."
"Why, you mangy skin-flint," cried the woman. "What do you--"
She was cut short in her vituperative eloquence by John, who handed her
down stairs with such dispatch that a pint bottle of gin rolled out of
her pocket and was smashed, filling the house with an odour that was
quite unmistakeable.
"What do you propose to do?" said the captain.
"Why, as we have dined, if you have no objection we will sit here and
keep this poor benighted one company for awhile. He is better with no
one than such as she whom I have dislodged; but before night he shall
have a more tender and less professional nurse. You know more of the
world, after all, than I do, captain."
CHAPTER XXII.
TOBIAS HAS A MIND DISEASED.
With a bottle of claret upon the table between them, Colonel Jeffery and
his old friend sat over the fire in the bed-room devoted to the use of
poor Tobias Ragg. Alas! poor boy, kindness and wealth that now
surrounded him came late in the day. Before he first crossed the
threshold of Sweeney Todd's odious abode, what human heart could have
more acutely felt genuine kindness than Tobias's, but his destiny had
been an evil one. Guilt has its victims, and Tobias was in all senses
one of the victims of Sweeney Todd.
"I am sufficiently, perhaps superstitious, you will call it," said
Colonel Jeffery in a low tone of voice, "to think that my meeting with
this boy was not altogether accidental."
"Indeed?"
"No. Many things have happened to me during life--although I admit that
they may be all accounted for as natural coincidences, curious only at
the best but still suggestive of something very different, and make me
at times a convert to the belief in an interfering special Providence,
and this is one of them."
"It is a dangerous doctrine, my friend."
"Think you so?"
"Yes. It is much better and much safer both for the judgment and
imagination to account naturally for all those things which admit of a
natural explanation, than to fall back upon a special Providence, and
fancy that it is continually interfering with the great and immutable
laws that govern the world. I do not--mark me--deny such a thing, but I
would not be hasty in asserting it. No man's experience can have been
without numerous instances such as you mention."
"Certainly not."
"Then I should say to you, as St. Paul said to the Athenians--'In all
things I find you superstitious.' What's that?"
A faint moan had come upon both their ears, and after listening for a
few moments another made itself heard, and they fancied, by the
direction of the sound, that Tobias's lips must have uttered it. Placing
his finger against his mouth to indicate silence, the colonel stepped up
to the bedside, and hiding behind the curtains, he said, in the softest
and kindest voice he could assume--
"Tobias! Tobias! fear nothing now you are with friends, Tobias; and,
above all, you are perfectly free from the power of Sweeney Todd."
"I am not mad! I am not mad!" shouted Tobias with a shrill vehemence
that made both the colonel and his friend start.
"Nay, who says you are mad, Tobias? We know you are not mad, my lad.
Don't alarm yourself about that, we know you are not mad."
"Mercy! mercy! I will say nothing--nothing. How fiend-like he looks. Oh,
Mr. Todd, spare me, and I will go far, far away, and die somewhere else,
but do not kill me now, I am yet such--such a boy only, and my poor
father is dead--dead--dead!"
"Ring the bell," said Jeffery to his friend, "and tell John to go for
Mr. Chisolm, the surgeon. Come--come, Tobias, you still fancy you are
under the power of Todd, but it is not so--you are quite safe here."
"Hush! hush! mother--oh, where are you, mother--did you leave me here,
mother? Say you took, in a moment of thoughtlessness, the silver
candlestick! Is Todd to be a devil, because you were thoughtless once?
Hide me from him--hide me--hide! hide! I am not mad. Hark! I hear
him--one--two--three--four--five--six steps, and all Todd's. Each one
leaves blood in its track. Look at him now! His face changes--'tis a
fox's--a serpent's--hideous--hideous--God--God! I am mad--mad--mad!"
The boy dashed his head from side to side, and would have flung himself
from the bed had not Colonel Jeffery advanced and held him.
"Poor fellow," he said, "this is very shocking. Tobias! Tobias!"
"Hush! I hear--poor thing, did they say you was mad too?--Hide me
in the straw! There--there--what a strange thing it is for all the
air to be so full of blood. Do we breathe blood, and only fancy it
air? Hush! not a word--he comes with a serpent's face--oh, tell me
why does God let such beings ever riot upon the beautiful
earth--one--two--three--four--five--six--Hiss--hiss! Off--off! I
am not mad--not mad. Ha! ha! ha!"
An appalling shriek concluded this paroxysm, and for a few moments
Tobias was still. The medical man at this time entered the room.
"Oh," he said, "we have roused him up again, have we." Medical men are
rather fond of the plural identifying style of talking.
"Yes," said Colonel Jeffery, "but he had better have slept the sleep of
death than have awakened to be what he is, poor fellow."
"A little--eh?"
The doctor tapped his forehead.
"Not a little."
"Far away over the sea!" said Tobias, "oh, yes--in any ship, only do
not kill me, Mr. Todd--let me go and I will say nothing, I will work
and send my poor mother hard-earned gold, and your name shall never
pass our lips. Oh, no--no--no, do not say that I am mad. Do you see
these tears? I have--I have not cried so since my poor father called
me to him and held me in a last embrace of his wasted arms, saying,
'Tobias, my darling, I am going--going far from you. God's blessing be
upon you, poor child.' I thought my heart would break then, but it did
not, I saw him put from the face of the living into the grave, and I
did not quite break my heart then, but it is broken--broken now! Mad!
mad! oh, no, not mad--no--no, but the last--but the last. I tell you,
sir, that I am--am--am _not_ mad. Why do you look at me, I am not
mad--one--two--three--four--five--six. God--God--God! I am mad--mad.
Ha! ha! ha! There they come, all the serpents, and Todd is their king.
How the shadows fly about--they shrink--I cannot shrink. Help! God!
God! God!"
"This is horrible," said Colonel Jeffery.
"It is appalling, from the lips of one so young," said the captain.
The medical man rubbed his hands together as he said--
"Why, a-hem! it certainly is strangely indicative of a considerable
amount of mental derangement, but we shall be able, I dare say, to
subdue that. I think, if he could be persuaded to swallow a little
draught I have here, it would be beneficial, and allay this irritation,
which is partly nervous."
"There cannot be much difficulty," said the colonel, "in making him
swallow anything, I should think."
"Let us try."
They held Tobias up while the doctor poured the contents of a small
phial into his mouth. Nature preferred performing the office of
deglutition to choking, and it was taken. The effect of the opiate was
rapid, and after some inarticulate moans and vain attempts to spring
from the bed, a deep sleep came over poor Tobias.
"Now, gentlemen," said Mr. Chisolm, "I beg to inform you that this is a
bad case."
"I feared as much."
"A very bad case. Some very serious shock indeed has been given to the
lad's brain, and if he at all recovers from it, he will be a long time
doing so. I do not think those violent paroxysms will continue, but they
may leave a kind of fatuity behind them which may be exceedingly
difficult to grapple with."
"In that case, he will not be able to give me the information I desire,
and all I can do is to take care that he is kindly treated somewhere,
poor lad. Poor fellow, his has been a hard lot. He evidently has a mind
of uncommon sensibility, as is manifest from his ravings."
"Yes, and that makes the case worse. However, we must hope for the best,
and I will call again in the morning."
"Will he awake soon?"
"Not for six or eight hours at least, and when he does, it is very
unlikely that those paroxysms will again ensue. He will be quiet
enough."
"Then it will be scarcely necessary, during that time, to watch him,
poor fellow?"
"Not at all. Of course, when he awakens it will be very desirable that
some one should be here to speak to him; for, finding himself in a
strange place, he will otherwise naturally be terrified."
All this was promised by the colonel, and the medical man left the
house, evidently with very slender hopes in his own mind of the recovery
of Tobias. The colonel and his friend retired to another room, and then,
after a consultation, they agreed that it was highly proper they should
inform Sir Richard Blunt of what had taken place, for although poor
Tobias was in no present condition to give any information, yet his
capture, if it might be called by such a term, was so important an event
that it would be unpardonable to keep it from the magistrate. They
accordingly went together to his house, and luckily finding him at home,
they at once communicated to him their errand. He listened to them with
the most profound attention, and when they had concluded, he said--
"Gentlemen, it will be everything, if this lad recovers sufficiently to
be a witness against his rascal of a master, for that is just what we
want. However, from the account you give me of him, I am very much
afraid the poor fellow's mind is too severely affected."
"That, too, is our fear."
"Well, we must do the best we can, and I should advise that when he
awakens some one should be by him with whose voice, as a friendly sound,
he will be familiar."
"Who can we get?"
"His poor mother."
"Ah, yes, I will set about that at once."
"Leave it to me," said Sir Richard Blunt, "leave that to me--I know
where to find Mrs. Ragg, and what's best to say to her in the case. Let
me see, in about four hours from now probably Tobias may be upon the
point of recovery."
"Most probably."
"Then, sir, expect me at your house in that time with Mrs. Ragg. I will
take care that the old lady's mind is put completely at ease, so that
she will aid us in any respect to bring about the recovery of her son,
who no doubt has suffered severely from some plan of Todd's to put him
out of the way. That seems to me to be the most likely solution to the
mystery of his present condition."
"Todd, I am convinced," said Colonel Jeffery, "would stop at no
villany."
"Certainly not. My own belief is, that he is so steeped to the lips in
crime, that he sees no other mode of covering his misdeeds already done
than by the commission of new ones. But his career is nearly at an end,
gentlemen."
The colonel and the captain took the rising of the magistrate from his
chair as a polite hint that he had something else to do than to gossip
with them any longer, and they took their leave, after expressing again
to him how much they appreciated his exertions.
"If the mystery of the fate of my unhappy friend," said the colonel, "is
ever cleared up, it will be by your exertion, Sir Richard, and he and I,
and society at large, will owe to you a heavy debt of gratitude for
unmasking so horrible a villain as Sweeney Todd, for that he is such no
one can doubt."
CHAPTER XXXIII.
JOHANNA WALKS ABROAD IN DISGUISE.
But, amid all the trials, and perplexities, and anxieties that beset the
dramatis personæ of our story, who suffered like Johanna? What heart
bled as hers bled? What heart heaved with sad emotion as hers heaved?
Alas! poor Johanna, let the fate of Mark Ingestrie be what it might, he
could not feel the pangs that tore thy gentle heart. Truly might she
have said--
"Man's love is of his life a thing apart
'Tis woman's whole existence,"
for she felt that her joy--her life itself, was bartered for the
remembrance of how she had been loved by him whose fate was involved in
one of the most painful and most inscrutable of mysteries. Where could
she seek for consolation, where for hope? The horizon of her young life
seemed ever darkening, and the more she gazed upon it with the fond hope
of singing--
"The first faint star of coming joy,"
the more confounded her gentle spirit became by the blackness of
despair. It is sad indeed that the young, the good, and the gentle,
should be the grand sufferers in this world, but so it is. The exquisite
capacity to feel acutely is certain to find ample food for agony. If
human nature could wrap itself up in the chill mantle of selfishness,
and be perfectly insensible to all human feeling, it might escape, but
such cannot be done by those who, like the fine and noble-minded Johanna
Oakley, sympathise with all that is beautiful and great in creation.
Already the pangs of hope deferred were feeding upon the damask of her
cheeks. The lily had usurped the rose, and although still exquisitely
beautiful, it was the pale beauty of a statue that she began to show to
those who loved her. In the street people would turn to gaze after her
with admiration blended with pity. They already looked upon her as half
an angel, for already it seemed as though she had shaken off much of her
earthly lurements, and was hastening to
"Rejoin the stars."
[Illustration: The Schoolfellows, Johanna And Arabella.]
Let us look at her as she lies weeping upon the breast of her friend
Arabella Wilmot. The tears of the two young girls are mingling together,
but the one is playing the part of comforter, while the other mourns
over much.
"Now, Johanna," sobbed Arabella, "you talk of doing something to save
Mark Ingestrie, if he be living, or to bring to justice the man whom you
suspect to be his murderer. Let me ask you what you can hope to do, if
you give way to such an amount of distress as this?"
"Nothing--nothing."
"And are you really to do nothing? Have you not agreed, Johanna, to make
an attempt, in the character of a boy, to find out the secret of
Ingestrie's disappearance, and have not I provided for you all that you
require to support the character? Courage, courage, courage.--Oh, I
could tell you such stories of fine ladies dressing as pages, and
following gallant knights to the field of battle, that you would feel as
though you could go through anything."
"But the age of chivalry is gone."
"Yes, and why--because folks will not be chivalric. To those who will,
the age of chivalry comes back again in all its glory."
"Listen to me, Arabella: if I really thought that Mark was no more, and
lost to me for ever, I could lie down and die, leaving to Heaven the
punishment of those who have taken his life, but in the midst of all my
grief--in the moments of my deepest depression, the thought clings to
me, that he lives yet. I do not know how it is, but the thought of Mark
Ingestrie dead, is but a vague one, compared to the thought of Mark
Ingestrie suffering."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, and at times it seems as if a voice whispered to me, that he was
yet to be saved, if there existed a heart fair enough and loving enough
in its strength to undertake the task. It is for that reason, and not
from any romantic love of adventure, or hope of visiting with punishment
a bad man, that my imagination clings to the idea of going in boy's
apparel to Fleet-street, to watch, and perchance to enter that house to
which he last went, and from which, according to all evidence, he never
emerged."
"And you are really bold enough?"
"I hope so--I think, if I am not, God will help me."
A sob that followed these words, sufficiently testified how much in need
of God's help poor Johanna was, but after a few minutes she succeeded in
recovering herself from her emotion, and she said more cheerfully--
"Come, Arabella, we talked of a rehearsal of my part; but I shall be
more at ease when I go to act it in reality, and with danger. I shall be
able to comport myself well, with only you for a companion, and such
chance passengers as the streets of the city may afford for my
audience."
"I am glad," said Arabella, "that you keep in this mind. Now come and
dress yourself, and we will go out together. You will be taken for my
brother, you know."
In the course of a quarter of an hour, Johanna presented the appearance
of as good-looking a lad of about fourteen as the world ever saw, and if
she could but have imparted a little more confidence and boyish bustle
to her gait and manner, she would have passed muster under the most
vigilant scrutiny. But as it was, nothing could be more unlikely than
that any one should penetrate her disguise, for what is not suspected,
is seldom seen very readily.
"You will do capitally," said Arabella, "I must take your arm, you know.
We will not go far."
"Only to Fleet Street."
"Fleet Street. You surely will not go so far as that?"
"Yes, Arabella. Now that I have attired myself in these garments for a
special purpose, let me do a something towards the carrying it out. By
walking that distance I shall accustom myself to the road; and,
moreover, a dreadful kind of fascination drags me to that man's shop."
Arabella, if the truth must be told, shook a little as they, after
watching an opportunity, emerged into the street, for although the
spirit of romantic adventure had induced her to give the advice to
Johanna that she had, her own natural feminine sensibilities shrunk from
the carrying of it out. Ashamed, however, of being the first to condemn
her own suggestion, she took the arm of Johanna, and those two young
creatures were in the tide of human life that ebbs and flows in the
great city. The modest walk and gentle demeanour of the seeming young
boy won Johanna many a passing glance as she and Arabella proceeded down
Ludgate Hill towards Fleet Street, but it was quite clear that no one
suspected the disguise which, to do Arabella justice, in its general
arrangement was very perfect, and as Johanna wore a cap, which concealed
much of the upper part of her face, and into which was gathered all her
hair, she might have really deceived those who were the most intimate
with her, so that it was no wonder she passed unobserved with mere
strangers. In this way, then, they reached Fleet Street without
obstruction, and Johanna's heart beat rapidly as they approached the
shop of Sweeney Todd.
"It will be imprudent to stop for even a moment at his door or window,"
said Arabella, "for, remember, you have no opportunity of varying your
disguise."
"I will not stop. We will pass rapidly on, but--but it is something to
look upon the doorstep over which the shadow of Mark has last passed."
In another moment they were on a level with the shop. Johanna cast a
glance at the window, and then shrunk back with affright as she saw,
occupying one of the upper panes of glass, the hideous face of Todd. He
was not looking at her though, for with an awful squint that revealed
all the whites of his eyes--we were going to say, but the dirty yellows
would have been much nearer the truth--he seemed to be observing
something up the street.
"Come on--come on," whispered Johanna.
Arabella had not happened to observe this apparition of Todd in the
window, and she looked round to see what occasioned Johanna's sudden
terror, when a young Temple clerk, who chanced to be a few paces behind
them, immediately, with the modesty peculiar to his class, imagined the
glance of the blooming girl to be a tribute to his attractions. He
kissed the end of a faded glove, and put on what he considered a
first-class fascinating aspect.
[Illustration: Johanna's Alarm At The Sight Of Sweeney Todd.]
"Come on--come on," said Arabella now in her turn.
Johanna, of course, thought that Arabella too had caught sight of the
hideous and revolting countenance of Sweeney Todd, and so they both
hastened on together.
"Don't look back," said Arabella.
"Is he following?"
"Oh, yes--yes."
Johanna thought she meant Todd, while Arabella really meant the Temple
gent, but, notwithstanding the mutual mistake, they hurried on, and the
clerk taking that as quite sufficient encouragement, pursued them,
putting his cravat to rights as he did so, in order that when he came up
to them, he should present the most fascinating aspect possible.
"No--no." said Johanna, as she glanced behind. "You must have been
mistaken, Arabella. He is not pursuing us."
"Oh, I am so glad."
Arabella looked back, and the Temple gent kissed his dilapidated glove.
"Oh, Johanna," she said, "how could you tell me he was not following,
when there he is."
"What, Todd?"
"No. That impertinent ugly puppy with the soiled cravat."
"And you meant him?"
"To be sure."
"Oh, what a relief, I was flying on, fancying that Todd was in pursuit
of us, and yet my judgment ought at once to have told me that that could
not be the case, knowing nothing of us. How our fears overcome all
reason. Do you know that strange-looking young man?"
"Know him? Not I."
"Well, my darling," said the gent, reaching to within a couple of paces
of Arabella, "how do you do to-day?--a-hem! Are you going far? Ain't you
afraid that somebody will run away with such a pretty gal as you--'pon
soul, you are a charmer."
"Cross," whispered Arabella, and the two young girls at once crossed
Fleet Street. It was not then so difficult an operation to get from one
side of that thoroughfare to the other as it is now. The gent was by no
means disconcerted at this evident wish to get out of his way, but he
crossed likewise, and commenced a series of persecution, which such
animals call gallantry, and which, to any respectable young female, are
specially revolting.
"Now, my dear," he said, "St. Dunstan's is just going to strike the
hour, and you will see the clubs hit the bells if you look, and I shall
expect a kiss when it's all over."
"You are impertinent," said Johanna.
"Come, that's a good joke--why, you little whipper snapper, I suppose
you came out to take care of your sister. Here's a penny to go and buy
yourself a cold pie at Mrs. Lovett's. I'll see to your sister while you
are gone. Oh, you need not look so wild about it. Did you never hear of
a gent talking to a pretty gal in the street?"
"Often," said Johanna, "but I never heard of a gentleman doing so."
"Upon my word, you are as sharp as a needle, so I'll just pull your ears
to teach you better manners, you young rascal--come--come, it's no use
your kicking."
"Help--help!" cried Arabella.
They were now just opposite the principal entrance to the Temple, and as
Arabella cried "help," who should emerge from under the gateway but Ben
the Beef Eater. The fact is, that he was on his way to the Tower just
previous to the meeting with Colonel Jeffery and Tobias. Arabella, who
had twice or thrice seen him at the Oakley's, knew him at once.
"Oh, sir," she cried, "I am Johanna's friend, Miss Wilmot, and
this--this gent won't leave me and my cousin here alone."
The gent made an effort to escape, but Ben caught him by the hinder part
of his apparel, and held him tight.
"Is this him?"
"Yes--yes."
"Oh dear no--oh dear no, my good sir. It's that fellow there, with the
white hat. There he goes, up Chancery Lane. My dear sir, you are quite
mistaken; I wanted to protect the young lady, and as for the lad, bless
his heart. I--oh dear, it wasn't me."
Still holding the gent by the first grasp he had taken of him, Ben
suddenly crossed the road to where a parish pump stood, at the corner of
Bell Yard, and holding him under the spout with one hand, he worked the
handle with the other, despite the shrieks and groans of his victim, who
in a few moments was rendered so limp and wet, that when Ben let him go,
he fell into the sink below the pump, and there lay, until some small
boys began pelting him. During the confusion and laughter of the
bystanders, Arabella and Johanna rapidly retreated towards the City
again, for they thought Ben might insist upon escorting them, and that,
in such a case, it was possible enough the disguise of Johanna, good as
it was, might not suffice to save her from the knowledge of one so well
acquainted with her.
"Let us cross, Arabella," she said. "Let us cross, if it be but for one
moment, to hear what the subject of the conversation between Todd and
that man is."
"If you wish it, Johanna."
"I do, I do."
They crossed, and once again passed the shop of Todd, when they heard
the man say--
"Well, if he has gone he has gone, but I think it is the strangest thing
I ever heard of."
"So do I," said Todd.
Without lingering, and so perhaps exciting Todd's attention and
suspicion, they could hear no more, but Johanna had heard enough to give
the spur to imagination, and when they had again crossed Fleet-street,
and were making their way rapidly up Ludgate-hill, she whispered to
Arabella--
"Another! another!"
"Another what, Johanna? You terrify me by that tone. Oh, be calm. Be
calm, I pray you. Some one will observe your agitation."
"Another victim," continued Johanna. "Another victim--another victim.
Did you not hear what the man said? Was it not suggestive of another
murder? Oh, Heaven preserve my reason, for each day, each hour, brings
to me such accumulating proof of horrors, that I fear I shall go mad."
"Hush! hush! Johanna--Johanna!"
"My poor, poor Mark--"
"Remember that you are in the street, Johanna, and for my sake, I pray
you to be calm. Those tears and that flushed cheek will betray you. Oh,
why did I ever advise you to come upon such an enterprise as this? It is
my fault, all my fault."
The terror and the self-accusation of Arabella Wilmot did more to bring
Johanna to a reasonable state than anything else, and she made an effort
to overcome her feelings, saying--
"Forgive me--forgive me, my dear friend--I, only, am to blame. But at
the moment I was overcome by the thought that, in the heart of London,
such a system of cold-blooded murder--"
She was unable to proceed, and Arabella, holding her arm tightly within
her own, said--
"Do not attempt to say another word until we get home. There, in my
chamber, you can give free vent to your feelings, but let the danger, as
well as the impropriety of doing so in the open street, be present to
your mind. Say no more now, I implore you; say no more."
This was prudent advice, and Johanna had sufficient command of herself
to take it, for she uttered not one other word until they were both
almost breathless with the haste they had made to Arabella's chamber.
Then, being no longer under the restraint of locality or circumstances,
the tears of Johanna burst forth, and she wept abundantly. Arabella's
romantic reading did sometimes, as it would appear, stand her in good
stead, and upon this occasion she did not attempt to stem the torrent of
grief that was making its way from the eyes of her fair young friend.
She told herself that with those tears a load of oppressive grief would
be washed from Johanna's spirit, and the result fully justified her
prognostications. The tears subsided into sobs, and the sobs to sighs.
"Ah, my dear friend," she said, "how much have you to put up with from
me. What a world of trouble I am to you."
"No," said Arabella, "that you are not, Johanna; I am only troubled when
I see you overcome with too excessive grief, and then, I confess, my
heart is heavy."
"It shall not be so again. Forgive me this once, dear Arabella."
Johanna flung herself into her friend's arms, and while they kissed each
other, and Arabella was about commencing a hopeful kind of speech, a
servant girl, with open mouth and eyes, looked into the room, transfixed
with amazement.
"Well, Miss Bella," she cried at last, "you is fond of boys!"
Arabella started, and so did Johanna.
"Is that you, Susan?"
"Yes, Miss Bella, it is me. Well I never! The idea! I shall never get
the better of this here! Only to think of you, Miss Bella, having a boy
at your time of life."
"What do you mean, Susan? How dare you use such language to me? Get you
gone!"
"Oh, yes, I'm a-going in course; but if I had anybody in the house, it
shouldn't be a little impudent looking boy with no whiskers."
"She must know all," whispered Johanna.
"No, no," said Arabella, "I will not, feeling my innocence, be forced
into making a confidant of a servant. Let her go."
"But she will speak."
"Let her speak."
Susan left the room, and went direct to the kitchen, holding up her
hands all the way, and giving free expression to her feelings as she did
so--
"Well, the _idea_ now, of a little stumpy looking boy, when there's sich
a lot of nice young men with whiskers to be had just for the wagging of
one's little finger. Only to think of it. Sitting in her lap too, and
them a kissing one another like--like--coach horses. Well I never. Now
there's Lines's, the cheesemonger's, young man as I has in of a night,
he is somebody, and such loves of whiskers I never seed in my born days
afore; but I is surprised at Miss Bella, that I is--a shrimp of a boy in
her lap! Oh dear, oh dear!"
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. FOGG FINDS THAT ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
We feel that we ought not entirely to take leave of that unfortunate,
who failed in escaping with Tobias Ragg, from Mr. Fogg's establishment
at Peckham, without a passing notice. It will be recollected that Tobias
had enough to do to get away himself, and that he was in such a state of
mind that it was quite a matter of new mechanical movement of his limbs
that enabled him to fly from the madhouse. Horror of the place, and
dread of the people who called it theirs, had lighted up the glare of a
partial insanity in his brain, and he flew to London, we admit, without
casting another thought upon the wretched creature who had fallen in the
attempt to free herself from those fiends in human shape who made a
frightful speculation in the misery of their fellow creatures. The alarm
was already spread in the madhouse, and Mr. Fogg himself arrived at the
spot where the poor creature lay stunned and wounded by her fall.
"Watson! Watson!" he cried.
"Here," said that official, as he presented himself.
"Take this carcase up, Watson. I'm afraid Todd's boy is gone."
"Ha! ha!"
"Why do you laugh?"
"Why where's the odds if he has. I tell you what it is, Fogg, I haven't
been here so long without knowing what's what. If that boy ever recovers
his senses enough to tell a rational tale, I'll eat him. However, I'll
soon go and hunt him up. We'll have him again."
"Well, Watson, you give me hopes, for you have upon two different
occasions brought back runaways. Bring the woman in and--and, Watson?
"Aye, aye."
"I think I would put her in No. 10."
"Ho! ho!--No. 10. Then she's booked. Well, well, come on Fogg, come on,
it's all one. I suppose the story will be 'An attempt to escape owing to
too much indulgence;' and some hints consequent on that, and then
brought back to her own warm comfortable bed, where she went asleep so
comfortably that we all thought she was as happy as an Emperor, and
then--"
"She never woke again," put in Fogg. "But in this case you are wrong,
Watson. It is true that twice or thrice I have thought, for the look of
the thing, it would be desirable to have an inquest upon somebody, but
in this case I will not. The well is not full!"
"Full?"
"No, I say the well is not full, Watson; and it tells no tales."
"It would hold a hundred bodies one upon another yet," said Watson, "and
tell no tales. Ha! ha!"
"Good!"
"It is good. She is to go there, is she? well, so be it."
Watson carried the miserable female in his arms to the house.
"By-the-bye, it is a second thought," he said, "about No. 10."
"Yes, yes, there's no occasion. Watson, could you not at once--eh? It is
a good hour. Could you not go right through the house, my good Watson,
and at once--eh?"
"At once what?"
"Oh, you know. Ha! ha! You are not the dull fellow at comprehending a
meaning you would fain make out; but you, Watson--you understand me well
enough, you know you do. We understand each other, and always shall."
"I hope so, but if you want anything done I'll trouble you to speak out.
What do you mean by 'couldn't you go through the house at once--eh?'"
"Pho! pho! Put her down the well at once. Humanity calls upon us to do
it. Why should she awaken to a sense of her disappointment, Watson? Put
her down at once, and she will never awaken at all to a sense of
anything."
"Very well. Come on, business is business."
"You--you don't want me?"
"Don't I," said Watson, bending his shaggy brows upon him, and looking
extra hideous on account of a large black patch over one eye, which he
bore as a relict of his encounter with Tobias. "Don't I? Hark you, Fogg;
if you won't come and help me to do it, you shall have it to do by
yourself, without me at all."
"Why--why, Watson, Watson. This language--"
"Is nothing new, Fogg."
"Well, well, come on.--Come on--if it must be so, it must.--I--I will
hold a lantern for you, of course; and you know, Watson, I make things
easy to you, in the shape of salary, and all that sort of thing."
Watson made no reply to all this, but went through the house to the back
part of the grounds, carrying with him his insensible burthen, and Fogg
followed him, trembling in every limb. The fact was, that he, Fogg, had
not for some time had a refresher in the shape of some brandy. The old
deserted well to which they were bound was at a distance of about fifty
yards from the back of the house; towards it the athletic Watson
hastened with speed, closely followed by Fogg, who was truly one of
those who did not mind holding a candle to the devil. The walls of that
building were high, and it was not likely that any intruder from the
outside could see what was going on, so Watson took no precaution.--The
well was reached, and Fogg cried to him--
"Now--now--quick about it, lest she recovers."
Another moment and she would have been gone in her insensibility, but as
if Fogg's words were prophetic, she did recover, and clinging
convulsively to Watson, she shrieked--
"Mercy! mercy! Oh, have mercy upon me! Help! help!"
"Ah, she recovers!" cried Fogg, "I was afraid of that. Throw her in.
Throw her in, Watson."
"Confound her!"
"Why don't you throw her in?"
[Illustration: The Murder At The Well By Fogg And Watson.]
"She clings to me like a vice. I cannot--Give me a knife, Fogg. You will
find one in my coat pocket--a knife--a knife!"
"Mercy! mercy! Have mercy upon me! No--no--no,--Help! Oh God! God!"
"The knife! The knife, I say!"
"Here, here," cried Fogg, as he hastily took it from Watson's pocket and
opened it. "Here! Finish her, and quickly too, Watson!"
The scene that followed is too horrible for description. The hands of
the wretched victim were hacked from their hold by Watson, and in the
course of another minute, with one last appalling shriek, down she went
like a flash of lightning to the bottom of the well.
"Gone!" said Watson.
Another shriek and Fogg, even, stopped his ears, so appalling was that
cry, coming as it did so strangely from the bottom of the well.
"Throw something upon her," said Fogg. "Here's a brick--"
"Bah!" cried Watson, "bah! there's no occasion to throw anything on her.
She'll soon get sick of such squealing."
Another shriek, mingled with a strange frothy cry, as though some one
had managed to utter it under water, arose. The perspiration stood in
large drops upon the face of Fogg.--He seized the brick he had spoken
of, and cast it into the well. All was still as the grave before it
reached the bottom, and then he wiped his face and looked at Watson.
"This is the worst job," he said, "that ever we have had--"
"Not a whit.--Brandy--give me a tumbler of brandy, Fogg. Some of our own
particular, for I have something to say to you now, that a better
opportunity than this for saying is not likely to occur."
"Come into my room then," said Fogg, "and we can talk quietly.--Do you
think--that--that--"
"What?"
"That she is quite dead?"
"What do I care.--Let her crawl out of that, if she can."
With a jerk of his thumb, Watson intimated that the well was the "that"
he referred to, and then he followed Fogg into the house, whistling as
he went the same lively air with which he had frequently solaced his
feelings in the hearing of poor Tobias Ragg. Never had Fogg been in such
a state of agitation, except once, and that was long ago, upon the
occasion of his first crime. Then he had trembled as he now trembled,
but the
"Dull custom of iniquity"
had effectually blunted soon the keen edge of his conscience, and he had
for years carried on a career of infamy without any other feeling than
exultation at his success.--Why then did he suffer now? Had the well in
the garden ever before received a victim? Was he getting alive to the
excellence of youth and beauty?--Oh no--no. Fogg was getting old. He
could not stand what he once stood in the way of conscience. When he
reached his room--that room in which he had held the conference with
Todd, he sank into a chair with a deep groan.
"What's the matter now?" cried Watson, who got insolent in proportion as
Fogg's physical powers appeared to be upon the wane.
"Nothing, nothing."
"Nothing?--Well, I never knew anybody look so white with nothing the
matter. Come, I want a drop of brandy; where is it?"
"In that cupboard; I want some myself likewise. Get it out, Watson. You
will find glasses there."
Watson was not slow in obeying this order. The brandy was duly produced,
and, after Fogg had drank as much as would have produced intoxication in
any one not so used to the ardent spirit as himself, he spoke more
calmly, for it only acted upon him as a gentle sedative.
"You wished to say something to me, Watson."
"Yes."
"What is it?"
"I am tired, completely tired, Fogg."
"Tired? Then why don't you retire to rest at once, Watson? There is, I
am sure, nothing to keep you up now; I am going myself in a minute."
"You don't understand me, or you won't, which is much the same thing. I
did not mean that I was tired of the day, but I am tired of doing all
the work, Fogg, while you--while you--"
"Well--while I--"
"Pocket all the profit. Do you understand that? Now hark you. We will go
partners, Fogg, not only in the present and the future, but in the past.
I will have half of your hoarded up gains, or--"
"Or what?"
Mr. Watson made a peculiar movement, supposed to indicate the last kick
of a culprit executed at the Old Bailey.
"You mean you will hang yourself," said Fogg. "My dear Watson, pray do
so as soon as you think proper. Don't let me hinder you."
"Hark you, Fogg. You may be a fox, but I am a badger. I mean that I will
hang you, and this is the way to do it. My wife--"
"Your what?"
"My wife," cried Watson, "has, in writing, the full particulars of all
your crimes. She don't live far off, but still far enough to make it a
puzzle for you to find her. If she don't see me once in every
forty-eight hours, she is to conclude something has happened to me, and
then she is to go at once to Bow Street with the statement, and lay it
before a magistrate. You understand. Now I have contrived, with what I
got from you by fair means as well as by foul, and by robbing the
patients besides, to save some money, and if you and I don't agree, Mrs.
Watson and I will start for New Zealand, or some such place, but--but,
Fogg--"
"Well?"
"We will denounce you before we go."
"And what is to be the end of all this? The law has a long as well as a
strong arm, Watson."
"I know it. You would say it might be long enough to strike me."
Fogg nodded.
"Leave me to take care of that. But as you want to know the result of
all this, it is just this. I want to have my share, and I will have it.
Give me a couple of thousand down, and half for the future."
Fogg was silent for a moment or two, and then he said--
"Too much, Watson, too much. I have not so much."
"Bah! At your banker's now you have exactly £11,267."
Fogg writhed.
"You have been prying. Well, you shall have the two thousand."
"On account."
Fogg writhed again. "I say you shall have so much, Watson, and you shall
keep the books, and have your clear half of all future proceeds. Is
there anything else you have set your mind upon, because if you have,
while we are talking about business, you may as well state it, you
know."
"No, there's nothing else--I am satisfied. All I have to add is, that
you had better put your head into the fire than attempt to play any
tricks with me. You understand?"
"Perfectly."
Watson was not altogether satisfied. He would have been better pleased
if Fogg had made more resistance. The easy compliance of such a man with
anything that touched his pocket looked suspicious, and filled the mind
of Watson with a thousand vague conjectures. Already--aye, even before
he left Fogg's room, Watson began to feel the uneasiness of his new
position, and to pay dearly for the money he was to have. Even money may
be given an exorbitant price for. When he was by himself, as he
traversed the passage leading to his own sleeping room, Watson could not
forbear looking cautiously around him at times, as though gaunt murder
stalked behind him, and he fastened his bed-room door with more than his
usual caution. The wish to sleep came not to him, and sitting down upon
his bed-side he rested his chin upon his hand and said to himself in a
low anxious shrinking kind of whisper--
"What does Fogg mean to do?"
Nor was the recent interview without its after effects upon the
mad-house keeper himself. When the door closed upon Watson he shook his
clenched hand in the direction he had taken, and muttered curses,
"Not loud, but deep."
"The time will come," he said, "Master Watson, and that quickly too,
when I will let you see that I am still the master spirit. You shall be
satisfied for the present, but your death-warrant is preparing. You will
not live long to triumph over me by threats of what your low cunning can
accomplish."
He rose and drank more raw brandy, after which, still muttering
maledictions upon Watson, he returned to his bed-room, where, if he did
not sleep, and if during the still hours of the night his brain was not
too much vexed, he hoped to be able to concoct some scheme which should
present him with a prospect of exemplary vengeance upon Watson.
CHAPTER XXXV.
MRS. LOVETT'S NEW LOVER.
Mrs. Lovett was a woman of luxurious habits. Perhaps the constant
savoury hot pie atmosphere in which she dwelt contributed a something to
the development of her tastes, but certainly that lady, in dress,
jewellery, and men, had her fancies. Did the reader think that she saw
anything attractive in the satyr-like visage of Todd, with its
eccentricities of vision? Did the reader think that the lawyers' clerks
frequenting her shop suited her taste, varying, as all the world knows
that class of bipeds does, between the fat and flabby, and the white and
candle looking, if we may be allowed the expression? Ah, no,--Mrs.
Lovett's dreams of man had a loftier range, but we must not anticipate.
Facts will speak trumpet-tongued for themselves.
It is the hour when lawyers' clerks
From many a gloomy chamber stalk;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Are heard in every Temple walk.
Mrs. Lovett was behind her counter all alone, but the loneliness
continued but for a very brief period, for from Carey-street, with a
nervousness of gait highly suggestive of a fear of bailiffs--bailiffs
were there in all their glory--comes a--a what shall we say? Truly there
are some varieties of the genus homo that defy minute classification,
but perhaps this individual who hastened down Bell Yard was the nearest
in approximation to what used to be called "a swaggering companion,"
that can be found. He was a gent upon town--that is to say, according to
his own phraseology, he lived upon his wits; and if the reader will
substitute dishonesty for wits, he will have a much clearer notion of
what the swaggering companion of modern days lived upon. He was tall,
burly, forty years of age, and his bloated countenance and sleepy eyes
betrayed the effects of a long course of intemperance. He wore mock
jewellery of an outrageous size; his attire was flashy and gaudy--his
linen ... the less we say about that the better--enormous black whiskers
(false) shaded his cheeks, and mangey-looking moustache (real) covered
his upper lip--add to all this, such a stock of ignorance and impudence
as may be supposed to thoroughly saturate one individual, and the reader
has the swaggering companion before him. At a rapid pace he neared Mrs.
Lovett's, muttering to himself as he went--
"I wonder if I can gammon her out of a couple of guineas."
Yes, reader, this compound of vulgarity, ignorance, impudence and
debauchery was Mrs. Lovett's gentle fancy--her taste--her--her, what
shall we say?--her personification of all that a man should be. Do not
start; Mrs. Lovett has many imitators, for, without libelling the
fairer, better, and more gentle of that sex, who can be such angels as
well as such--a-hem!--there are thousands who would be quite smitten
with the "swaggering companion." When he reached the shop-window, he
placed his nose against it for a moment to reconnoitre who was in the
shop, and seeing the fair one alone, he at once crossed the threshold.
"Ah, charmer, how do the fates get on with you?"
"Sir--"
A smile upon the face of Mrs. Lovett was a practical contradiction to
the rebuff which her reception of him by words of mouth seemed to carry.
"Oh, you bewitching--a--a--"
The remainder of the sentence was lost in the devouring a pie, which the
"swaggering companion" took from the shop counter.
"Really, sir," said Mrs. Lovett--"I wish you would not come here, I am
all alone, and--"
"Alone? You beautiful female.--Oh you nice creature.--Allow me."
The "swaggering companion" lifted up that portion of the counter which
enabled Mrs. Lovett to pass from one side of it to the other, and as
coolly as possible walked into the parlour. Mrs. Lovett followed him,
protesting at what she called his impudence. But for all that, a bottle
of spirits and some biscuits were procured. The "swaggering companion,"
however, pushed the biscuits aside, saying--
"Pies for me. Pies for me."
Mrs. Lovett looked at him scrutinisingly as she said--
"And do you really like the pies, or do you only eat them out of
compliment to me?"
"Really like them? I tell you what it is; out of compliment to you, of
course, I could eat anything, but the pies are delicacies.--Where do you
get your veal?"
"Well, if you will have pies you shall, Major Bounce."--That was the
name which the "swaggering companion" appended to his disgusting
corporealty.
"Certainly, my dear, certainly. As I was saying, I could freely, to
compliment you, eat old Tomkins, the tailor, of Fleet Street."
"Really. How do you think he would taste?"
"Tough!"
"Ha! Ha!"
It was an odd laugh that of Mrs. Lovett's. Had she borrowed it from
Todd?
"My dear Mrs. L.," said the major, "what made you laugh in that sort of
way? Ah, if I could only persuade you to go from L to B--"
"Sir?"
"Now, my charmer, seriously speaking:--Here am I, Major Bounce, a
gentleman with immense expectations, ready and willing to wed the most
charming woman under the sun, if she will only say 'yes.'"
"Have you any objection to America?"
"America? None in the least.--With you for a companion, America would be
a Paradise. A regular garden of, what do you call it, my dear? Only say
the word, my darling."
The major's arm was gently insinuated round the lady's waist, and after
a few moments she spoke.
"Major Bounce, I--I have made money."
"The devil!--so have I, but the police one day--a-hem!--a-hem!--what a
cough I have."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Oh, nothing--nothing--only a joke. You said you had made money, and
that put me in mind of what I read in the 'Chronicle' to-day of some
coiners, that's all. Ha-ha!"
"When I spoke of making money, I meant in the way of trade, but having
made it, I should not like to spend it in London, and be pointed out as
the well-known pie-woman."
"Pie-woman! Oh, the wretches--only let--"
"Peace. Hold your tongue, and hear me out. If I marry and retire, it
will be far from here--very far indeed."
"Ah, any land, with you." The major absolutely saluted the lady.
"Be quiet. Pray, in what service are you a major?"
"The South American, my love. A much higher service than the British."
"Indeed."
"Lord bless you, yes. If I was now to go to my estates in South America,
there would be a jubilee of ten days at the very least, and the people
as well as the government would not know how to make enough of me, I can
assure you. In fact, I have as much right to take the rank of general as
of major, but the natural modesty of a military man, and of myself in
particular, steps in and says 'A major be it.'"
"Then you have property?"
"Property--property? I believe you, I have. Lots!"
The major dealt his forehead a slap as he spoke, which might be taken as
an indication that that was where his property was situated, and that it
consisted of his ignorance and impudence--very good trading capitals in
this world for, strange to say, the parties solely possessing such
qualifications get on much better than education, probity, and genius
can push forward their unhappy victims. Mrs. Lovett was silent for some
minutes, during which the major saluted her again. Then, suddenly
rising, she said--
"I will give you an answer to-morrow. Go away now. We shall be soon
interrupted. If I do consent to be yours, there will be something to do
before we leave England."
"By Jove, only mention it to me, and it is as good as done. By-the-bye,
there is something to do before I leave here, and that is, my charmer,
to pay you for the pies."
"Oh, no--no."
"Yes, yes--my honour. Touch my honour, even in regard of a pie, and
touch my life.--I put two guineas in one end of my purse, to pay my
glover in the Strand, and at the other end are some small coins--where
the deuce--can--I--have--put--it."
The major made an affectation of feeling in all his pockets for his lost
purse, and then, with a serio-comic look, he said--
"By Jove, some rascal has picked my pocket."
"Never mind me," said Mrs. Lovett, "I don't want payment for the pies."
"Well, but--the--the glover. Poor devil, and I promised him his money
this morning. For a soldier and a man of honour to break his word is
death. What shall I do?--Mrs. L., could you lend me a couple of guineas
until I have the happiness of seeing you again?"
"Certainly, major, certainly I can."
The gallant son of Mars pocketed the coins, and after saluting Mrs.
Lovett some half score of times--and she, the beast, liked it--he left
the shop and went chuckling into the Strand, where in a few minutes he
was in a pot-house, from whence he emerged not until he had liquidated
one of the guineas. Was Mrs. Lovett taken in by the major? Did she
believe his title, or his wealth, and his common honesty? Did she
believe in the story of the purse and of the two guineas that were to be
paid to the poor glover because he wanted them? No--no--certainly not.
But for all that, she admired the major.--He was her _beau ideal_ of a
fine man! That was sufficient. Moreover, being what he was--a rogue,
cheat, and common swindler--she could exercise, so she thought, a
species of control over him which no decent man would put up with, and
so in her own mind she had determined to marry the major and fly; but as
she said--"There was a little something to be done first." Did that
relate to the disposal of Todd? We shall see. If she calculated upon the
major putting Sweeney Todd out of the way, she sadly miscalculated; but
the wisest heads will blunder. Compared to Todd, the major was indeed a
poor creature; but Mrs. Lovett, in the stern courage of her own
intellect, could not conceive the possibility of the great, puffy,
bloated, fierce Major Bounce being as arrant a coward as ever was
kicked. He was so, though, for all that. After he had left her, Mrs.
Lovett sat for a long time in a profound reverie, and as it happened
that no one came into the shop; the current of her evil thoughts was
uninterrupted.
"I have sufficient," she said; "and before it gets too late, I will
leave this mode of life. Why did I--tempted by the fiend Todd--undertake
it, but that I might make wealth by it, and so assume a position that my
heart panted for. I will not delay until it is too late, or I may lose
the enjoyment that I have sacrificed so much to find the means of
getting. I live in this world but for the gratification of the senses,
and finding that I could not gratify them without abundant means, I fell
upon this plan. I--ah--that is he--"
Suddenly the swaggering companion, the redoubtable Major Bounce, rushed
past the shop-window, without so much as looking in for a single moment,
and made his way towards Carey Street. Mrs. Lovett started up and made
her way into the front shop. Major Bounce was out of sight, but from
Fleet Street came a poor, draggled, miserable looking woman, making vain
efforts at a speed which her weakness prevented her from keeping
up.--She called aloud--
"Stop! stop!--only a moment, Flukes! Only a moment, John. Stop!--stop!"
Her strength failed her, and she fell exhausted upon Mrs. Lovett's
door-step.
"Heartless!--heartless ever!" she cried. "May the judgment of the
Almighty reach him--may he suffer--yes--may he suffer only what I have
suffered."
"Who and what are you?" said Mrs. Lovett.
"Poor, and therefore everything that is abject and despicable in
London."
"What a truth," said Mrs. Lovett. "What a truth that is. Who would not
do even as I do to avoid poverty in a widowed life!--It is too horrible.
Amid savages it is nothing, but here it is indeed criminality of the
deepest dye. Whom did you call after, woman?"
"My husband."
"Husband. Describe him."
"A sottish-looking man, with moustache. Once seen, he is not easily
mistaken--ruffian and villain are stamped by nature upon his face."
Mrs. Lovett winced a little.
"Come in," she said, "I will relieve you for the present. Come in."
The woman by a great effort succeeded in rising and crossing the
threshold. Mrs. Lovett gave her a seat, and having presented her with a
glass of cordial and a pie, she waited until the poor creature should be
sufficiently recovered to speak composedly, and then she said to her
with perfect calmness, as though she was by no manner of means
personally interested in the matter--
"Now tell me--Is the man with moustache and the braided coat, who passed
hastily up Bell Yard a few moments only before you, really your
husband?"
"Yes, madam, that is Flukes--"
"Who?"
"Flukes, madam."
"And pray who and what is Flukes?"
"He was a tailor, and he might have been as respectable a man, and
earned as honest and good a living as any one in the trade, but a love
of idleness and dissipation undid him."
"Flukes--a tailor?"
"Yes, madam; and now that I am utterly destitute, and in want of the
common necessaries of life, if I chance to meet him in the streets and
ask him for the merest trifle to relieve my necessities, he flies from
me in the manner he has done to-day."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, madam. If we were in a lonely place he would strike me, so that I
should, from the injury he would do me, be unable to follow him, but
that in the public streets he dare-not do, for he fears some man would
interfere and put a stop to his cruelty."
"There, my good woman," said Mrs. Lovett, "there are five shillings for
you. Go now, for I expect to be busy very shortly."
With a profusion of thanks, that while they lasted were quite stunning,
poor Mrs. Flukes left the pie-shop and hobbled homewards. When she was
gone the colour went and came several times upon the face of Mrs.
Lovett, and then she repeated to herself--"Flukes--a tailor!"
"Pies ready?" said a voice at the door.
"Not quite."
"How long, mum; we want half a dozen of the muttons to-day."
"In about ten minutes."
"Thank you, I'll look in again."
"Flukes--a tailor? Indeed!--Flukes--a tailor? Well I ought to have
expected something like this. What a glorious thing it is really to care
for no one but oneself after all. I shall lose my faith in--in--fine
men."
CHAPTER XXXVI.
TOBIAS'S MOTHER AWAKENS OLD RECOLLECTIONS.
Poor Tobias still remains upon his bed of sickness. The number of hours
at the expiration of which the medical man had expected him to recover
were nearly gone. In Colonel Jeffery's parlour three persons, besides
himself, were assembled. These three were his friend the captain, Sir
Richard Blunt, and Mrs. Ragg. The lady was sitting with a not over clean
handkerchief at her eyes, and keeping up a perpetual motion with her
knee, as though she were nursing some fractious baby, and Mrs. Ragg had
been used of late to go out as a monthly nurse occasionally, which,
perhaps, accounted for this little peculiarity.
"Now, madam," said the colonel, "you quite understand, I hope, that you
are not to mention to any living soul the fact of your son Tobias being
with me."
"Oh, dear me, no, sir. Who should I mention it to?"
"That we can't tell," interrupted the captain, "you are simply desired
not to tell it."
"I'm sure I don't see anybody once in a week, sir."
"Good God! woman," cried the colonel, "does that mean that when you do
see any one you will tell it?"
"Lord love you, sir, it's few people as comes to see you when you are
down in the world. I'm sure it's seldom enough a soul taps at my door
with a 'Mrs. Ragg, how are you?'"
"Now was there ever such an incorrigible woman as this?"
"If you were to talk to her for a month," said Sir Robert Blunt, "you
would not get a direct answer from her. Allow me to try something
else--Mrs. Ragg."
"Yes, sir--humbly at your service, sir."
"If you tell any one that Tobias is here, or indeed anywhere within your
knowledge, I will apprehend you about a certain candlestick."
"Goodness gracious, deliver us."
"Do you understand that, Mrs. Ragg? You keep silence about Tobias, and I
keep silence about the candlestick. You speak about Tobias, and I speak
about the candlestick."
Mrs. Ragg shook her head and let fall a torrent of tears, which the
magistrate took as sufficient evidence that she did understand him and
would act accordingly, so he added--
"Shall we all proceed up stairs? for a great deal will depend upon the
boy's first impression when he awakens--and in this case we should not
lose a chance."
In pursuance of this sound advice they all proceeded to poor Tobias's
bed-room, and there he lay in that profound repose which the powerful
opiate administered to him had had the effect of producing. It did not
seem as though he had moved head or foot since they had left him. His
face was very pale, and when Mrs. Ragg saw him she burst into tears,
exclaiming--
"He is dead--he is dead!"
"No such thing, madam," said Colonel Jeffery. "He only sleeps."
"But, oh deary me, what makes him look so old and so strange now? He was
bad enough when I saw him last, poor fellow, but not like this."
"He has received ill-usage from someone, and that is precisely what we
want to find out. If you can get from him the particulars of what he has
suffered, we will take care those who have made him suffer shall not
escape."
"Bless you, gentlemen, what's the use of that if my poor boy is killed?"
There was a good home truth in these words from Mrs. Ragg, although,
upon the score of general social policy, they might well be answered. An
argument with Mrs. Ragg, however, upon such a subject was not very
a-propos. The colonel made her sit down by Tobias's bed-side, and he was
then upon the point of remarking to his friend, the captain, that it
would be as well, since so many hours had passed, to send for the
medical man, when that personage made his appearance.
"Has he awakened?" he asked.
"No--not yet."
"Oh, I see you have a nurse."
"It is his mother. We hope that she, by talking to him familiarly, may
produce a good effect, and possibly rid him of that bewilderment of
intellect under which he now labours. What think you, sir?"
"That it is a good thought. Let us darken the room as much as possible,
as twilight will be most grateful to him upon awakening, which he must
do shortly."
The curtains of the window were so arranged that the room was in a state
of semi-darkness, and then they all waited with no small anxiety for
Tobias to recover from the deep and death-like sleep that had come over
him. After about five minutes he moved uneasily and uttered a low moan.
"Speak to him, Mrs. a--a--what's your name?"
"Ragg, sir."
"Aye, Ragg, just speak to him; of course he is well acquainted with your
voice, and it may have the effect of greatly rousing him from his
lethargic condition."
Poor Mrs. Ragg considered that she had some very extraordinary post to
perform, and accordingly she collected to her aid all her learning,
which, interrupted by her tears, and now and then by a sob, which she
had to gulp down like a large globule of castor oil, had certainly
rather a droll effect.
"My dear Tobias--my dear--lie a bed, sluggard, you know--well, I
never--Put the kettle on, Polly, and let's all have tea. Tobias, my
dear--bless us and save us, are you going to stay in bed all day?"
Another groan from Tobias.
"Well, my dear, perhaps you won't mind getting up and just running
towards the corner for a bunch of water cresses? Dear heart alive, there
goes the muffin-man like a lamplighter!"
It was by such domestic themes that Mrs. Ragg sought to recall the
wandering senses of poor Tobias to a cognizance of the present. But
alas! his thoughts were still in the dim and misty land of visions.
Suddenly he spoke--
[Illustration: Tobias's Delirium.]
"Hush--hush! There they come!--elephants!--elephants!--on--on--on. Now
for the soldiers, and all mad--mad--mad! Hide me in the straw--deep in a
world of straw. Hush! He comes. Sing, oh sing again!--and he--he will
not suspect."
The surgeon made a sign to Mrs. Ragg to speak again.
"Why, Tobias, my dear, what are you talking about? Do you mean the
Elephant and Castle?"
"Call to his remembrance," said the surgeon, "some old scenes."
"Yes, sir, but when one's heart and all that sort of thing is in one's
mouth it's very difficult to recollect things oneself. Tobias!"
"Yes--yes. Ha-ha!"
It was a low, plaintive, strange laugh that, that came from the poor boy
whose mind had been so overthrown, and it jarred upon the feelings of
all who heard it.
"Tobias, do you recollect the little cottage down the lane at Holloway,
where we lived, and the cock roaches, and the strange cat, you know,
Tobias, that would not go away? Don't you recollect, Tobias, how the
coals there were all slates, and how your poor father, as is dead and
gone--"
"Yes, I see him now."
Mrs. Ragg gave a faint scream.
"Father!--father!" said Tobias, as he held out his arms, and the big
tears rolled down his cheeks. "Father--father, Todd has not got me now.
Don't cry so, father. Stand out of the way of the elephants."
"My dear! my dear!" cried Mrs. Ragg, "do you want to break my heart?"
Tobias rose to a sitting position in the bed, and looked his mother in
the face--
"Are you, too, mad?" he said. "Are you, too, mad? Did you tell of Todd?"
"Yes, the only way," said Colonel Jeffery, "for people not to be mad, is
to tell of Todd."
"Yes--yes."
"And so you, Tobias, will tell us all you know. That is what we want you
to do, and then you will be quite happy and comfortable for the
remainder of your days, and live with your mother again far from any
apprehension from Todd. Do you understand me?"
Tobias opened his mouth several times in an eager, gasping sort of
manner, as though he would have said something rapidly, but he could
not. He placed his hands upon his brain, and rocked to and fro for a few
moments, and then he broke out into the same low, peculiar laugh that
had before so strangely affected Colonel Jeffery and the others who were
there present in that room. The surgeon shook his head as he said,
mournfully--
"It is of no use!"
"Do you really think so?" said the colonel.
"For the present, I am convinced that it is of no use to attempt to
recall his wandering senses. Time will do wonders, and he has the one
grand element of youth in his favour. That, as well as time, will do
wonders. The case is a bad one, and the shock the brain of this lad has
received must be a most fearful one."
"Do not," said Sir Richard Blunt, "give up so readily, Mrs. Ragg; I
would have you try him again. Speak to him again of his father--that
seemed to be the topic that most moved him."
Mrs. Ragg could hardly do so for her tears, but she managed to stammer
out--
"Tobias, do you recollect when your father bought you the rabbit, and
out of vexation, the creature eat its way out of a willow-work cage in
the night? Do you remember your poor father's funeral, Tobias, and how
we went, you and I, my poor boy, to take the last look at the only one
who--who--who--"
Mrs. Ragg could get no further.
"Ha--ha--ha!" laughed Tobias, "who told of Todd?"
"Who is this Todd," said the surgeon, "that he continually speaks of,
and shudders at the very name of?"
Colonel Jeffery glanced at Sir Richard Blunt, and the latter, who wished
the affair by no means to transpire, merely said--
"We are quite as much in the dark as you, sir. It is just what we should
like to know, who this Todd is, whose very name seems to hold the
imagination of this poor boy in a grasp of iron. I begin to think that
nothing more can be done now."
"Nothing, gentlemen, you may depend," said the surgeon. "How old is the
lad?"
"Sixteen as never was," replied Mrs. Ragg, "and a hard time I had of it,
sir, as you may suppose."
The surgeon did not exactly see how he was called upon to suppose
anything of the sort; however he made no further remark to Mrs. Ragg,
but continued in conversation for some time with Colonel Jeffery, who
informed him that Tobias should remain for a time where he was, so that
there should be every possible chance given for his recovery.
"I wish you to continue attending upon him, sir," he added, "for I would
spare nothing that medical advice can suggest to restore him. He has, I
am convinced, been a great sufferer."
"That is sufficiently clear, sir. You may rely upon my utmost
attention."
"Mrs. Ragg," said the colonel, "can you cook?"
"Cook, sir? Lord bless you, sir. I can cook as well as here and there a
one, though I say it that oughtn't, and if poor Tobias was but all
right, I should not go to be after making myself miserable now about
bygones. What's to be cured must be endured--it's a long lane as hasn't
a turning. As poor Mr. Ragg often used to say when he was
alive--'Grizzling ain't fattening.'"
"I should think it was not. It so happens, Mrs. Ragg, that there is a
vacancy in my house for a cook, and if you like to come and take the
place, you can look after Tobias as well, you know, for I intend him to
remain here for the present. Only remember, you tell this to no one."
"Me, sir! Lord bless you, sir, who do I see?"
The colonel was by no means anxious to convince himself a second time of
the impossibility of bringing Mrs. Ragg to a precise answer, so he
changed the subject, and it was finally arranged that without a word to
any one upon the subject, that very night Mrs. Ragg was to take up her
abode with Tobias. After this had been all arranged, the three gentlemen
proceeded to the dining room, and held a consultation.
"Of the guilt of Todd," said the magistrate, "I entertain no doubt, but
I own that I am extremely anxious to bring the crime legally home to
him."
"Exactly," said the colonel, "and I can only say that every plan you can
suggest will be cheerfully acquiesced in by me and my friend here."
The captain signified his assent.
"Be assured, gentlemen," added Sir Richard Blunt, "that something shall
be done of a decisive character before many days are past. I have seen
the higher powers upon the subject, and have full authority, and you may
rest satisfied that I shall not mind running a little personal risk to
unravel the mysteries that surround the career of Sweeney Todd. I think
one thing may be done conveniently."
"What is that, sir?"
"Why, It seems to be pretty well understood that no one resides in
Todd's house but himself, and as now he has no boy--unless he has
provided himself with one already--he must go out sometimes and leave
the place to itself, and upon one of those occasions an opportunity
might be found of thoroughly searching the upper part, at all events, of
his house."
"Could that be done with safety?"
"I think so. At all events, I feel inclined to try it. If I do so, and
make any discovery, you may depend upon my letting you know without an
hour's delay, and I sincerely hope that all that will take place may
have the effect of setting your mind at rest regarding your friend, Mr.
Ingestrie."
"But not of restoring him to us?"
The magistrate shook his head.
"I think, sir," he said, "that you ought to consider that he has, if any
one has, fallen a victim to Sweeney Todd."
"Alas! I fear so."
"All the evidence points that way, and we can only take measures in the
best way possible to bring his murderer to justice--that that murderer
is Sweeney Todd, I cannot for one moment of time bring myself to doubt."
Sir Richard Blunt shortly afterwards left Colonel Jeffery's house and
proceeded to the execution of a plan of proceeding, with the particulars
of which he had not thought proper to entrust to the colonel, and his
friend the captain. Long habits of caution had led the magistrate--who
was not one of the fancy magistrates of the present day, but a real
police officer--active, cool, and determined--to trust no one but
himself with his secrets, and so he kept to himself what he meant to do
that night. When he was gone, Colonel Jeffery had a long talk with his
friend, and the subject gradually turned to Johanna, whom the colonel
yet hoped, he said, to be able one day to call his own.
"No one," he remarked, "would be more truly rejoiced than I to restore
Mark Ingestrie to her whom he loves, and whose affection for him is of
so enduring and remarkable a character, but if, as Sir Richard Blunt
supposes, he is really no more, I think Johanna, by being mine, would
stand a better chance of recovering her serenity, if not of enjoying all
the happiness in this world that she deserves."
"Hope for the best," said the captain, "and recollect what the surgeon
said as regarded Tobias, that time works wonders."
CHAPTER XXXVII.
THE SEARCH AT TODD'S.
The house in Fleet Street, next door to Todd's, was kept by a shoemaker,
named Whittle, and in this shoemaker's window was a bill, only put up on
the very day of poor Tobias's escape from Peckham, announcing--"An Attic
to Let." This was rather an alluring announcement to Sir Richard Blunt.
At about half an hour after sunset on the same evening that had
witnessed the utter discomfiture of the attempt to restore poor Tobias
Ragg to his senses, two men stood in the deep recess of a doorway
immediately opposite to the house of Sweeney Todd. These two men were
none other than Sir Richard and his esteemed but rather eccentric
officer, Mr. Crotchet. After some few moments' silence, Sir Richard
spoke, saying--
"Well, Crotchet--what do you think of the affair now?"
"Nothink."
"Nothing? You do not mean that, Crotchet?"
"Says what I means--means what I says, and then leaves it alone."
"But you have some opinion, Crotchet?"
"Had, master--had--"
"Well, Crotchet; I think we can now cross over the way, and endeavour to
get possession of the shoemaker's attic, from which we can get into
Todd's house."
"And find nothink criminatory."
"You think not; but do you know, Crotchet, I am of opinion that the
greatest and cleverest rogues not unfrequently leave themselves open to
detection, in some little particular, which they have most strangely and
unaccountably neglected. I am not without a hope that we shall find the
man, Sweeney Todd, to be one of that class, and if so, we shall not fail
to do some good by our visit to the house.--You remain here and watch
for his going out, and when he is gone, come over the way and ask for
Mr. Smith. Have you seen Fletcher?"
"No, but he will be here presently, and will wait till that 'ere fellow
goes away, if so be as he goes out, and then when you and me hears two
notes on the key-bugle, it will be time all for us to go for to come to
mizzle."
"Very good," said Sir Richard Blunt, and he crossed over to the
shoemaker's shop, leaving Crotchet on the watch in the deep doorway.
The fact is, they had been waiting there for some time, in the hope that
Todd would go out, but he had not stirred, so that the magistrate
thought it would be as well to let Crotchet remain while he secured the
shoemaker's attic, with a view to ulterior proceedings. The magistrate
was dressed as a respectable, staid clerk, and he walked into the
shoemaker's shop with a gravity of gait that was quite imposing.
"You have an attic to let," he said. "Is it furnished?"
"Oh yes, sir, and comfortably too. My missus looks after all that, I can
tell you."
"Very well, I want just such a place; for, do you know, since I have
left a widower, I like to live in some lively situation, and as all my
friends are at Cambridge, and not a soul that I know in London, I don't
half fancy going into an out-of-the-way place to live; though, I dare
say, for all that, London is safe enough."
"Why, I don't know that," said the shoemaker. "However, you'll be safe
enough here, sir, never doubt. The rent is four shillings a week."
"Very good. I think, if you will show it to me, we shall suit each
other. The great object with me is to find myself in the house of a
respectable man, and one look at you, sir, is quite sufficient to show
me that you are one."
This was all highly flattering to the shoemaker, and he was so well
pleased to get such a respectable, civil-spoken, middle aged gentleman
into his house, that he was prepared, upon half a word to that effect,
to come down a whole sixpence a week in the rent, if needs were. Of
course, the would-be-lodger was well enough pleased with the attic, and
turning to the shoemaker, he handed him four shillings, saying--
"As my friends are all so far off, I ought to give you a week's rent in
advance, instead of a reference, and there it is."
After this, who could ask any further questions? The magistrate, just,
of his own accord, added that his name was Smith, and that he would stay
a short time in his room if the shoemaker could oblige him with a light,
which was done accordingly, and when the shoemaker's wife came
home--that lady having been out to gossip with no less a personage than
Mrs. Lovett--he was quite elated to tell her what a lodger they had, and
as he handed her the four shillings, saying "My dear, that will buy you
the ribbon at Mrs. Keating's, the mercer, that you had set your mind
upon," how could she be other than quite amiable?
"Well, John," she said, "for once in a way, I must say that you have
shown great judgment, and if I had been at home myself, I could not have
managed better."
This, we are quite sure, our lady readers will agree with us was as much
as any married female ought to say. Sir Richard Blunt ascended to the
attic, of which he was now, by virtue of a weekly tenancy, lord and
master, with a light, and closing the door, he cast his eyes around the
apartment. Its appointments were decidedly not luxurious. In one corner
a stump-bedstead awakened anything but lively associations, while the
miserable little grate, the front of which was decidedly composed of
some portions of an old iron hoop from a barrel, did not look redolent
of comforts. The rest of the apartments were what the auctioneers call
_en suite_, the said auctioneers having but a dreamy notion of what _en
suite_ means. But the appointments or disappointments of his attic were
of little consequence to Sir Richard Blunt. It was the window that
offered attractions to him. Softly opening it, he looked out, and found
that there was a leaden gutter, with only the average amount of filth in
it, the drain being, of course, stopped up by a dishclout and a cracked
flower-pot, which is perfectly according to custom in London. He saw
enough at a glance, however, to convince him that there would be no
difficulty whatever in getting to the attic of Todd's house, and that
fact once ascertained, he waited with exemplary and placid patience the
return of Crotchet. Now, Sweeney Todd was, during much of that day, in
what is denominated a brown study. He could not make up his mind in what
way he was to make up for the loss of the senses of Tobias. It was with
him an equal choice of disagreeables. To have a boy, or not to have a
boy, which to do became an anxious question.
"A boy is a spy," muttered Todd to himself--"a spy upon all my
actions--a perpetual police-officer in a small way, constantly at my
elbow--an alarum continually crying to me 'Todd! Todd! beware!' Curses
on them all, and yet what a slave am I to this place without a lad; and,
after all, when they do become too troublesome and inquisitive, I can
but dispose of them as I have disposed of him."
Todd patrolled his shop for some time, thus communing with himself; but
as yet he could not make up his mind which to do.--A boy or not a
boy?--that was the question. He remained in this unsatisfactory state of
mind until sunset had passed away and the dim twilight was wrapping all
things in obscurity. Then, without deciding upon either course, he
suddenly, in a very hurried manner, shut up his shop, and closing the
outer door carefully, he walked rapidly towards Bell Yard. He was going
to Mrs. Lovett's, whither we shall follow him at a more convenient
opportunity, but just now we have Sir Richard Blunt's enterprise to
treat of. Todd had no sooner got fairly out of sight, than Mr. Crotchet
emerged from the doorway in which he was concealed, and went a few paces
down Fleet Street, towards the Temple.--He soon met a man genteelly
dressed, who seemed to be sauntering along in an idle fashion.
"All's right, Fletcher," said Crotchet.
"Oh, is it?"
"Yes. Have you got that ere little article with you?"
"The bugle? Oh, yes."
"Mind you blows it then, if you sees Todd come home, and no gammon."
"Trust to me old fellow."
Without another word, Mr. Crotchet crossed over the road, and opened the
shop-door of the shoemaker. Now the face of Mr. Crotchet was not the
most engaging in the world, and when he looked in upon the shoemaker,
that industrious workman felt a momentary pang of alarm, and
particularly when Mr. Crotchet, imparting a horrible obliquity to his
vision, said--
"How is yer, old un?"
"Sir?" said the shoemaker.
"You couldn't show a fellow the way up to Smith's _hattic_, I supposes?"
"Smith--Smith?--Oh, dear me, that's the new lodger. I'll call him down
if you wait here."
"No occasion. I'll toddle up, my tulip. He's a relation o' mine, don't
you see the likeness atween us?--We was considered the handsomest pair
'o men as was in London at one time, and it sticks to us now, I can tell
you."
"If you wish, sir, to go up, instead of having Mr. Smith called down, of
course, sir, you can, as you are an old friend. Allow me to light you,
sir."
"Not the least occasion. Only tell me where it isn't, and I'll find out
where it is, old chap."
"It's the front attic."
"All's right. Don't be sich a hass as to be flaring away arter me, with
that ere double dip, I can find my way in _worserer_ places than this
here. All's right--easy does it."
To the surprise of the shoemaker, his mysterious visitor opened the
little door at the back of the shop, which led to the staircase, and in
a moment disappeared up them.
"Upon my life, this Mr. Smith," thought the shoemaker, "seems to have
some very strange connexions. He told me he knew nobody in London, and
then here comes one of the ugliest fellows, I think, I ever saw in all
my life, and claims acquaintance with him. What ought I to do?--Ought I
to tell Mrs. W. of it?"
At this moment Mrs. W. made her appearance from the mercer's, with the
ribbon that had tickled her feminine fancy--all smiles and sweetness.
The heart of the shoemaker died within him, for well he knew what
visitation he was likely to come in for, if anything connected with the
lodger turned out wrong.
"A-hem! a-hem! Well, my dear, have you got the ribbon?"
"Oh yes, to be sure, and a love it is--"
"Ah!--ah!"
"What's the matter?"
"Nothing, my dove. I was only thinking that it wasn't the ribbon that
makes folks look lovely, but the person who wears it. You would look
beautiful in any ribbon."
"Why, my dear, that may be very true, but still one ought to look as
well as one can, you know, for the credit of one's maker."
"Oh, yes, yes, but I was only thinking--"
"Thinking of what? Bless me, Mr. Wheeler, how mystifying you are
to-night, to be sure. What do you mean by this conduct? Was ever a woman
so pestered and tormented with a fool of a man, who looks like an owl in
an ivy bush for all the world, or a crow peeping into a marrowbone."
"My duck, how can you say so?"
"Duck indeed? Keep your ducks to yourself. Hoity toity. Duck, indeed.
You low good-for-nothing--"
"My dear, my dear. I was only thinking, and not in the least wishing to
offend."
"But you do offend me, you nasty insinuating, sneering wretch.--What
were you thinking about? Tell me this moment."
"Why, that a pretty silver-grey satin mantle would set off your figure
so well, that--"
"Oh, John!"
"That, though quarter-day is near at hand, I think you ought to have
one."
"Really, Jackey."
"Yes, my dear."
"What a man you are. Ah, Jackey, after all, though we have, like all
people, our little tiffs and wiffs and sniffs--after all, I say it,
perhaps, that should not say it, you are a dear, good, obliging--"
"Don't mention it."
"Yes, but--"
"No, don't. By-the-bye, do you know, Susey, that I begin to have my
suspicions--mind, I may be wrong, but I begin to have my suspicions, do
you know, that our attic lodger is, after all, no better than he should
be."
"Gracious!"
"Hush! hush! There has been a man here; so ugly--so--so--squintified, if
I may say so, that between you and me and the post, my dear, it's enough
to frighten any one to look at him, it is indeed.--But as for the
silver-grey satin, don't stint the quality for a sixpence or so."
"The wretch!"
"And take care to have plenty of rich trimming to it."
"The monster!"
"And have something pretty to match it, so that when you go to St.
Dunstan's next Sunday, all the folks will ask what fine lady from court
has come into the city out of curiosity to see the old church."
"Oh, Jackey."
"That's what I call," muttered Mr. Wheeler, "pouring oil upon the
troubled waters." He then spoke aloud, saying--"Now, my dear, it is your
judgment and advice I want. What shall we do in this case? for you
see--first of all, the new lodger denies knowing a soul, and then, in
half an hour, an old acquaintance calls upon him here."
The silver-grey satin--the flattering allusion to the probable opinion
of the people in St. Dunstan's Church on the next Sunday--the obscure
allusion to a something else to match it, and the appeal to her
judgment, all had the effect desired upon Mrs. Wheeler, who, dropping
entirely the hectoring tone, fell into her husband's views, and began
calmly and dispassionately, without abuse or crimination, to discuss the
merits, or rather the probable demerits, of the new lodger.
"I tell you, my dear, my opinion," said the lady. "As for stopping in
the house and not knowing who and what he is, I won't."
"Certainly not, my love."
"Then, Mr. W., the only thing to do, is for you and I to go up stairs,
and say that as I was out you did not know a Mr. Jones had spoken about
the lodging, but that, if he could give a reference in London, we would
still have him for a lodger."
"Very well. That will be only civil, and if he says he can't, but must
send to Cambridge--"
"Why then, my dear, you must say that he may stay till he writes, and
I'll be guided by his looks. If I give you a nudge, so, with my elbow,
you may consider that it's pretty right."
"Very well, my dove."
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
SIR RICHARD PRIES INTO TODD'S SECRETS.
Crotchet soon reached the attic floor of the shoemaker's house, and
although in profound darkness, he managed, as he thought, to touch the
right door. Tap! tap! went Crotchet's knuckles, and as he did so he
followed a habit very general, when the knock is only a matter of
ceremony, and opened the door at the same moment. He popped his head
into a room where there was a light, and said--
"Here yer is."
A scream was the reply to him, and then Crotchet saw, by the state of
affairs there, that he had made a little mistake in the topography of
the attic landing. The attic in which he found himself, for he had
crossed the threshold, was in the occupation of an elderly gaunt-looking
female, who was comforting her toes by keeping them immersed in a pan of
water by the side of a little miserable fire, which was feebly
pretending to look cheerful in the little grate.
"Lor, mum!" said Crotchet. "Who'd a thought o' seeing of you?"
"Oh, you monster. You base man, what do you want here?"
"Nothink!"
"Be off with you, or else I'll call the _perlice_."
"Oh, I'm a going, mum. How do you bring it in, mum, in a general way?"
"Help! Murder!"
"Lord bless us, what a racket. Don't you go for to fancy, mum, that I
comed up these here attic stairs for to see you. Quite the rewerse,
mum."
"Then, pray who did you come to see, you big ugly monster you? The other
attic is empty. Oh, you base infidel. I believe I knows what men are by
this time."
"No doubt on it, mum. Howsomedever this here's the wrong door, I take
it. No harm done, mum. I wish you and your toes, mum, a remarkably good
evening."
"Crotchet," said a voice.
"Here yer is."
Sir Richard Blunt had been attentively listening for Crotchet, and when
he heard the screams of the old lady in the next attic, he opened the
door of his apartment, and looked out. He soon discovered what was
amiss, and called out accordingly.
"Bless us, who's that?"
"The Emperor o' Russia, mum," said Crotchet. "He's took that 'ere attic
next to you, cos he's heard so much o' the London chumbley pots, and he
wants to have a good look at them at his leisure."
With these words Mr. Crotchet left the old lady's attic, and closed the
door carefully, leaving her, no doubt, in a considerable state of
bewilderment. In another moment he was with the magistrate.
"Crotchet," said Sir Richard, "I thought I told you to do this thing as
quietly as you possibly could."
"Down as a hammer, sir."
"I think it is anything but down."
"Right as a trivet, sir, with a hextra leg. Lots o' fear, but no danger.
Now for it, Sir Richard. What lay is we to go on?"
It certainly never occurred to Sir Richard Blunt to hold any argument
with Mr. Crotchet. He had long since found out that he must, if he would
avail himself of his services--and for courage and fidelity he was
unequalled--put up with his eccentricities; so upon this occasion he
said no more about Crotchet's mistake, but, after a few moments' pause,
pointing to the attic door, he said--
"Secure it."
"All's right."
Crotchet took a curious little iron instrument from his pocket, and
secured it into the wall by the side of the door. It did not take him
more than a moment to do so, and then, fully satisfied of the efficacy
of his work, he said--
"Let 'em get over that if they can."
While he was so occupied. Sir Richard Blunt himself had opened the
window, and fastened it open securely.
"Now, Crotchet," he said, "look to your pistols."
"All's right, sir."
The magistrate carefully examined the priming of his own arms, and
seeing that all was right, he at once emerged from the attic through the
window on to the parapet of the house. He might have crept along the
gutter just within the parapet, but the gutter aforesaid was not exactly
in the most salubrious condition. Indeed, from its filthy state, one
might have fancied it to be peculiarly under the direction of the city
commissioners of sewers. Crotchet followed Sir Richard closely, and in a
moment or two they had traversed a sufficient portion of the parapet to
find themselves at the attic window of Todd's house. It would have been
next thing to a miracle if they had been seen in their progress, for the
roof was very dark coloured, and the night had fairly enough set in, so
that if any one had by chance looked up from the street below, they
would scarcely have discovered that there was anybody creeping along the
parapet. Now there was a slight creaking noise for about half a minute,
and then the window of Sweeney Todd's attic swung open.
"Come on," said Sir Richard, and he softly alighted in the apartment.
Crotchet followed him, and then the magistrate carefully closed the
window again, and left it in such a way, that a touch from within would
open it. Then they were in profound darkness, and as it was no part of
the policy of Sir Richard Blunt to run any unnecessary risks, he did not
move one inch from the place upon which he stood until he had lighted a
small hand lantern, which had a powerful reflector and a tin shade,
which in a moment could be passed over the glass, so as to hide the
light upon an emergency.
"Now, Crotchet," he said, "we shall see where we are."
"_Reether_," said Crotchet.
By holding the light some height up, they were able to command a good
view of the attic. It was a miserable looking room: the walls were in a
state of premature decay, and in several places lumps of mortar had
fallen from the ceiling, making a litter of broken plaster upon the
floor. It was entirely destitute of furniture, with the exception of an
old stump bedstead, upon which there lay what looked like a quantity of
old clothes.
"Safe enough," said Sir Richard.
"Stop!" said Crotchet.
"What's the matter?"
"There's something odd on the floor here. Don't you see as the dust has
got into a crevice as is bigger nor all the other crevices, and goes
right along this ways and then along that ways? Don't you move, sir.
I'll be down upon it in a minute."
Mr. Crotchet laid himself down flat upon the floor, and then crept on
until he came to that part of the flooring which had excited his
suspicions. As soon as he pressed upon it with both his hands it gave
way under them plainly, by the elevation of the other end of the three
boards of which this trap was composed, proclaiming that it was a
moveable portion of the floor, revolving or turning upon one of the
joists as a centre.
"Oh dear, how clever!" said Crotchet. "If Mr. Todd goes on a cutting
away his joists in this here way he'll bring his blessed old house down
with a run some day. How nice and handy, now, if any one was to step
upon here--they'd go down into the room below, and perhaps break their
blessed legs as they went."
[Illustration: The Secret Trap Discovered In Todd's House.]
"Escape the first for us!" said Sir Richard.
"Oh, lor, yes. Now this here Todd thinks, by putting this here man-trap
here, as he has _perwided_ again any accidents; but we ain't them 'ere
sort o' birds as is catched by chaff, not we. Why he must have spilted
his blessed ceiling down below to make this here sort of a jigamaree
concern."
"It's not a bad contrivance though, Crotchet. Its own weight, you see,
restores it to its place again, and so there's no trouble with it."
"Oh dear, no. It's a what I calls a self-acting catch-'em-who-can sort
o' machine. Yes, Sir Richard, I never did think that 'ere Todd was wery
green. He don't know quite so much as we know; but yet he's a rum 'un."
"No doubt of it. Do you think, Crotchet, there is anything else in this
attic to beware of?"
"Not likely; when he'd finished this here nice little piece of
handywork, I dare say he said to himself--'This will catch 'em,' and so
down stairs he toddled, and grinned like a monkey as has swallowed a
whole nut by haccident, and gived himself a pain in the side in
consekence. 'That'll catch 'em,' says he."
Mr. Crotchet seemed so much amused at the picture he drew to himself of
the supposed exultation of Todd, that for some moments he did nothing
but laugh. The reader must not suppose, however, that in the
circumstances of peril in which they were, he indulged in a regular "Ha!
ha!"--quite the contrary. He had a mode of laughing under such
circumstances that was entirely his own, and which, while it made no
noise, shook his huge frame as though some commotion had taken sudden
possession of it, and the most ridiculous part of the process was the
alarming suddenness with which he would become preternaturally serious
again. But Sir Richard Blunt knew his peculiarities, and paid no
attention to them, unless they very much interfered with business.
"We must not waste time. Come on, Crotchet."
Sir Richard walked to the door of the attic and tried it. It was as fast
as though it had been part of the wall itself.
"So--so," he said. "Master Todd has taken some precautions against being
surprised from the top of his house. He has nailed up this door as
surely as any door was ever nailed up."
"Has he really, though?"
"Yes. Quick, Crotchet. You have your tools about you, I suppose."
"Never fear," said Crotchet. "I'm the _indiwedal_ as never forgets
nothink, and if I don't have the middle panel out o' this door a'most as
soon as look at it, it's only cos it takes more time."
With this philosophical and indisputable remark, Mr. Crotchet stooped
down before the door, and taking various exquisitely made tools from his
pocket, he began to work at the door. He knocked nearly noiselessly, and
it looked like something little short of magic to see how the panel was
forced out of the door without any of the hammering and flustering which
a carpenter would have made of it.
"All's right," he said. "If we can't creep through here, we are bigger
than I think we is."
"That will do. Hush!"
They both listened attentively, for Sir Richard thought he heard a faint
noise from the lower part of the house. As, however, five minutes of
attentive listening passed away, and no repetition of it occurred, they
thought it was only some one of those accidental sounds which will at
times be heard in all houses whether occupied or not. Crotchet took the
lead by creeping clearly enough through the opening that he had made in
the door of the attic, and Sir Richard followed him. They were both,
now, at the head of the staircase, and Sir Richard held up the lantern
so as to have a good look around him. The walls looked damp and
neglected. There were two other doors opening from that landing, but
neither of them was fastened, so that they entered the rooms easily.
They took care, though, not to go beyond the threshold for fear of
accidents, although it was very unlikely that Todd would take the
trouble to construct a trap-door in any other attic than the one which
was so easily accessible from the parapet.
"Old clothes--old clothes!" said Crotchet. "There seems to be nothing
else in these rooms."
"So it would appear," said Sir Richard.
He lifted up some of the topmost of a heap of garments upon the floor,
and a cloud of moths flew upwards in confusion.
"There's the toggery," said Mr. Crotchet, "of the _smugged 'uns_!"
"You really think so."
"Knows it."
"Well, Crotchet, I don't think from what I know myself that we shall
disagree about Todd's guilt. The grand thing is to discover how, and in
what way he is guilty."
"Just so. I'm quite sure we have seed all as there is to see up here, so
suppose we toddle down stairs now, sir. There's, perhaps, quite a lot o'
wonders and natur', and art, down below."
"Stop a bit. Hold the lamp."
Crotchet did so, while Sir Richard took from his pocket a pair of thick
linsey-woolsey stockings, and carefully drew them on over his boots, for
the purpose of deadening the sound of his footsteps; and then he held
the light, while Mr. Crotchet, who was similarly provided with
linsey-woolseys, went through the same process. After this, they moved
like spectres, so perfectly noiseless were their footsteps upon the
stairs. Sir Richard went first, while Crotchet now carried the light,
holding it sufficiently high that the magistrate could see the stairs
before him very well, as he proceeded. It was quite evident, from the
state of those stairs, as regarded undisturbed dust, that they had not
been ascended for a considerable time; and indeed, Todd, considering the
top of his house as perfectly safe after the precautions he had taken,
did not trouble himself to visit it. Our adventurers reached the landing
upon the second floor in perfect safety; and after giving a few minutes
more to the precautionary measure of listening, they opened the first
door that presented itself to the observation, and entered the room.
They both paused in astonishment, for such a miscellaneous collection of
matters as was in this room, could only have been expected to be met
with in the shop of a general dealer. Several chairs and tables were
loaded with wearing apparel of all kinds and conditions. The corners of
the room were literally crowded with mobs of swords, walking sticks, and
umbrellas; while a countless heap of hats lay upon the floor in
disorder. You could not have stepped into that room for miscellaneous
personal appointments of one sort or another; and Mr. Crotchet and Sir
Richard Blunt trod upon the hats as they walked across the floor, from
sheer inability to get out of the way.
"Well," said Crotchet, "if so be as shaving should go out of fashion,
Todd could set up a clothier's shop, and not want for stock to begin
with."
"I can imagine," muttered the magistrate to himself, "what a trouble and
anxiety all these things must be to Todd, and woollen goods are so
difficult to burn. Crotchet, select some of the swords, and look if
there are maker's names upon the blades."
While Crotchet was preparing this order. Sir Richard was making a hasty
but sufficiently precise examination of the room.
CHAPTER XXXIX.
THE MYSTERIOUS CUPBOARD.
"Here they are," said Crotchet. "Some of these are worth something."
"Get a cane or two, likewise."
"All's right, sir. I tell you what it is, sir. If there's such things as
ghosts in the world, I wonder how this Todd can sleep o' nights, for he
must have a plaguy lot of 'em about his bed of a night."
"Perhaps he satisfied himself upon that head, Crotchet, before he began
his evil practices, for all we know; but let us make our way into
another room, for I think we have seen all there is to see in this one."
"Not a doubt of it. It's only a kind of store-room, this, and from the
size of it, I should say it ain't the largest on this floor."
Sir Richard walked out of the room on to the landing place. All was
perfectly still in the barber's house, and as he had heard nothing of
the bugle sound in Fleet-street, he felt quite satisfied that Todd had
not returned. It was a great thing, in all his daring exploits in
discovering criminals, and successfully ferreting out their haunts, that
he (Sir Richard) could thoroughly depend upon his subordinates. He knew
they were not only faithful but brave. He knew that, let what might
happen, they would never leave him in the lurch. Hence, in the present
instance, he felt quite at his ease in the house of Todd, so long as he
did not hear the sound of the bugle. Of course, personal danger he did
not consider, for he knew he was, if even he had been alone, more than a
match for Todd; but what he wanted was, not to overcome Sweeney Todd,
but to find out exactly what were his practices. He could, upon the
information he already had, have walked into Todd's shop at any time,
and have apprehended him, but that would not have answered. What he
wanted to do was to
"Pluck out the heart of his mystery,"
and, in order to do that, it was not only necessary that Todd should be
at large, but that he should have no hint that such a person as he, Sir
Richard Blunt, had his eyes wide open to his actions and manoeuvres.
Hence was it that, in this examination of the house, he wished to keep
himself so secret, and free from any observation. There were three rooms
upon the second floor of Todd's house, and the very next one they met
with, was the one immediately beneath the trap in the floor of the
attic. A glance at the ceiling enabled them easily to perceive it. This
room was larger than the other considerably, and in it were many boxes
and chests, as well as in the centre an immense old-fashioned
counting-house desk, with six immense flaps to it, three upon each side,
while a brass railing went along the middle.
"Ah!" said Sir Richard, "here will be something worth the examining, I
hope."
"Let's take the cupboards first," said Crotchet. "There are two here,
and as they are the first we have seen, let's look at 'em, Sir Richard.
I never likes to be in a strange room long, without a peep in the
cupboard."
"Very well, Crotchet. Look in that one to the left, while I look in this
one to the right."
Sir Richard opened a cupboard door to the right of the fire-place in
this room, while Crotchet opened one to the left.
"More clothes," said Sir Richard. "What's in yours, Crotchet?"
"Nothing at all. Yet stay. There's a something high up here. I don't
know what it is, but I'll try and reach it if I can."
Crotchet went completely into the cupboard, but he had no sooner done
so, than Sir Richard Blunt heard a strange crushing sound, and then all
was still.
"Hilloa! What's that, Crotchet?"
He hastily stepped to the cupboard. The door had swung close. It was
evidently hung upon its hinges in a manner to do so. With his disengaged
hand, the magistrate at once pulled it open. Crotchet was gone. The
astonishment of Sir Richard Blunt for a moment was excessive. There was
the flooring of the cupboard perfectly safe, but no Crotchet. Nothing to
his eyes had looked so like a magical disappearance as this, and with
the trap in his hand, he stood while any one might have counted twenty,
completely motionless and transfixed by astonishment. Starting then from
this lethargic condition, he drew a pistol from his pocket, and rushed
to the door of the room. At this instant, he heard the bugle sound
clearly and distinctly in the street. Before the echo of the sound had
died away, the magistrate was upon the landing-place outside the door of
the second floor. He listened intently, and heard some one below
coughing. It was not the cough of Crotchet. What was he to do? If he did
not make a signal to the officers in the street that all was safe, the
house would soon be stormed, and, for all he knew, that might ensure the
destruction of Crotchet, instead of saving him. For a moment, the
resolution to go down the staircase at all hazards and face Todd--for he
had no doubt but that he had come home--possessed him, but a moment's
reflection turned the scale of thought in another direction. If the
officers, not finding him make a signal that he was safe, did attack the
house, they would not do so for some minutes. It was their duty not to
be precipitate. He leant on the balustrade, and listened with an
intentness that was perfectly painful. He heard the cough again from
quite the lower part of the house, and then he became aware that some
one was slowly creeping up the stairs. He had placed the slide over the
bull's eye of his little lamp, so that all was darkness, but he heard
the breathing of the person who was coming up towards him. He shrunk
back close to the wall, determined to seize, and with an iron hand, any
one who should reach the landing. Suddenly, from quite the lower part of
the building, he heard the cough again. The thought, then, that it must
be Crotchet who was coming up, impressed itself upon him, but he would
not speak. In a few moments some one reached the landing, and stretching
out his right arm, Sir Richard caught whoever it was, and said in a
whisper--
"Any resistance will cost you your life."
"Crotchet it is," said the new comer.
"Ah, how glad I am it is you!"
"Reether. Hush. The old 'un is below. Ain't I shook a bit. It's a
precious good thing as my bones is in the blessed habit o' holding on,
one of 'em to the rest and all the rest to one, or else I should have
tumbled to bits."
"Hush! hush!"
"Oh, he's a good way off. That 'ere cupboard has got a descending floor
with ropes and pullies, so down I went and was rolled out into a room
below and up went the bit of flooring again. I was very nearly startled
a little."
"Nearly?"
"Reether, but here I is. I got out and crept up stairs as soon as I
could, cos, says I, the governor will wonder what the deuce has become
of me."
"I did, indeed."
"Just as I thought. Sir Richard, just listen to me! I've got a fancy for
Todd."
"A fancy for Todd?"
"Yes, and I want to stay here a few hours--yes, go and let them as is
outside know all's right, and leave me here, I think somehow I shall
like to be in this crib alone with Todd for an hour or two. You have got
other business to see to, you know, so just leave me here; and mind yer,
if I don't get here by six in the morning, just consider as he's got the
better of me."
"No, Crotchet, I cannot."
"Can't what?"
"Consent to leave you here alone."
"Bother! what's the row, and where's the danger, I should like to know?
Who's Todd? Who am I? Gammon!"
Sir Richard shook his head, although Crotchet could not very well see
him shake it, and after a pause he added--
"I don't suppose exactly that there is much danger, Crotchet, but, at
all events, I don't like it said that I brought you into this place and
then left you here."
"Bother!"
"You go and leave me."
"A likely joke that. No, I tell yer what it is, Sir Richard. You knows
me and I knows you, so what does it matter what other folks say?
Business is business I hope, and don't you believe that I'm going to be
such a flat as to throw away my life upon such a fellow as Todd. I think
I can do some good by staying here; if I can't I'll come away, but I
don't think, in either case, that Todd will see me. If he does I shall,
perhaps, be forced to nab him, and that, after all, is the worst that
can come of it."
"Well, Crotchet, you shall have your own way."
"Good."
"I will return to the attic as soon as I conveniently can, and, let what
will happen to you, remember that you are not deserted."
"I knows it."
"Good bye. Take care of yourself, old friend."
"I means it."
"I should be indeed afflicted if anything were to happen to you."
"Gammon."
Sir Richard left him his own pistols, in addition to the pair which he,
Crotchet, always had about him, so that he was certainly well-armed, let
what would happen to him in that house of Sweeney Todd's, which had now
become something more than a mere object of suspicion to the police.
Well, they knew Todd's guilt--it was the mode in which he was guilty
only that still remained a mystery. The moment Sir Richard Blunt reached
the attic again, he held his arm out at full length from the window, and
waved to and fro the little lantern as a signal to the officers in the
street that he was safe. This done, he would not return to the room he
had hired of the bootmaker, but he resolved to wait about ten minutes
longer in case anything should happen in the house below that might
sound alarming. After that period of time, he resolved upon leaving for
an hour or two, but he, of course, would not do so without apprising his
officers of Crotchet's situation. During the time that had been passed
by Crotchet and Sir Richard Blunt in Sweeney Todd's house, the shoemaker
and his wife had had an adventure which created in their minds abundance
of surprise. It will be recollected that the shoemaker's wife had
decided upon what was to be done regarding the new lodger--namely, that
under the pretence that a Mr. Jones was a more satisfactory lodger, he
was to be asked to be so good as to quit the attic he had so strangely
taken. The arrival of Mr. Crotchet with so different a story from that
told by Sir Richard Blunt certainly had the effect of engendering many
suspicions in the minds of Sir Richard's new landlord and landlady.
"Well, my dear," said the shoemaker, "if you are willing to come up
stairs, I will say what you wish to this man, particularly as his
pretended friend don't seem to be coming down stairs again."
"Very well, my dear; I'll take the kitchen poker and follow you, and
while I am behind you, if I think he is a pleasant man, you know, and we
had better let him stay, I will give you a slight poke."
"A-hem! Thank you--yes."
Armed with the poker, the lady of the mansion followed her husband up
the staircase, and perhaps we may fairly say that curiosity was as
strong a feeling with her as any other in the business. To tell the
truth, the shoemaker did not half like the job; but what will a man, who
is under proper control at home, not do to keep up the shallow treaty of
peace which his compliance produces between him and his better half? Is
there anything which a hen-pecked husband dares say he will not do, when
the autocrat of his domestic hearth bids him do it? Up--up the long dark
staircase they went! Our ancestors, as one of their pieces of wisdom,
had a knack of making steep dark staircases; and, to tell the truth,
there are many modern architects equally ingenious. At length the attic
landing was reached. The shoemaker knew the localities of his house
better than to make such a mistake as Crotchet had done; so the old
lady, with her feet in the pan of water, was saved such another
interruption as had already taken place into her peaceful domains.
"Now, my dear, knock boldly," said the lady of the mansion. "Knock like
a man."
"Yes, my love."
The shoemaker tapped at the door with about the energy of a fly. The
soft appeal produced no effect whatever, and the lady growing impatient,
then poised the poker, and dealt the door a blow which induced her
husband to start aside, lest the lodger should open it quickly, and rush
out in great wrath. All was profoundly still, however; and then they
tried the lock, and found it fast.
"He's gone to bed," said the shoemaker.
"He can't," said the lady, "for there are no sheets on the bed. Besides,
they have not both gone to bed. I tell you what it is. There's some
mystery in this that I should like to find out. Now, all the keys of all
the attics are alike. Just wait here, and I'll borrow Mrs.
Macconikie's."
The shoemaker waited in no small amount of trepidation, while this
process of key-borrowing from the old lady who enjoyed a pan of water,
took place upon the part of his wife.
CHAPTER XL.
CROTCHET ASTONISHES MR. TODD.
The key was soon procured, but it will be recollected that Crotchet had
fastened the door rather too securely for it to be opened by any such
ordinary implement as a key, and so disappointment was the portion of
the shoemaker's wife.
"Don't you think, my love," said the shoemaker, "that it will be just as
well to leave this affair until the morning, before taking any further
notice of it?"
"And pray, then, am I to sleep all night, if I don't know the rights of
it, I should like to know? Perhaps, if you can tell me that, you are a
little wiser than I think you. Marry, come up!"
"Oh, well, I only--"
"You only! Then only don't. That's the only favour I ask of you, sir, is
to only don't."
What extraordinary favour this was, the lady did not condescend to
explain any more particulars, but it was quite enough for the husband to
understand that a storm was brewing, and to become humble and submissive
accordingly.
"Well, my dear, I'm sure I only wish you to do just what you like;
that's all, my dear, I'm sure."
"Very good."
After this, she made the most vigorous efforts to get into the attic,
and if any one had been there--which at that juncture there was
not--they might truly have asked "Who's that knocking at the door?"
Finding that all her efforts were ineffectual, she took to peeping
through the key-hole, but nothing was to be seen; and then, for the
first time, the idea struck her that there was something supernatural
about the business, and in a few moments this notion gained sufficient
strength to engender some lively apprehensions.
"I tell you what," she said to her husband, "if you don't fetch a
constable at once, and have the door opened, and see all about, I'm
afraid--indeed I'm quite sure--I shall be very ill."
"Oh, dear--oh, dear."
"It's of no use your standing here and saying 'Oh, dear,' like a great
stupid as you are--always was and always will be. Go for a constable, at
once."
"A constable?"
"Yes, There's Mr. Otton, the beadle of St. Dunstan's, lives opposite, as
you well know, and he's a constable. Run over the way and fetch him,
this minute."
She began hastily to descend the stairs, and the shoemaker followed her,
remonstrating, for the idea of fetching a constable, and making him and
his house the talk of the whole neighbourhood, was by no means a
proposition that met with his approval. The lady was positive, however,
and Mr. Otton, the beadle of St. Dunstan's, was brought from over the
way, and the case stated to him at length.
"_Conwulsions!_" exclaimed Otton, "what can I do?"
"_Burst_ open the door," said the lady.
"_Burst_ a door open, mum! What is you a thinking on? Why, that's
contrary to _Habus Corpus_, mum, and all that sort of thing.
Conwulsions, mum! you mustn't do it. But I tell you what, now, will be
the thing."
Here Mr. Otton put his finger to the side of his nose, and looked so
cunning that you would hardly have believed it possible.
"What?--what?"
"Why, suppose, mum, we ask Mr. Todd, next door, to give us leave to go
up into his attic, and get out at the window and look in at yours, mum?"
"That'll do. Run in--"
"Me!" cried the shoemaker. "Oh, M--Mr. Todd is a strange man--a very
strange man--not at all a neighbourly sort of man, and I don't like to
go to him.--I won't go, that's flat--unless, my love, you particularly
wish it."
"Conwulsions!" cried the beadle. "Ain't I a-going with you? Ain't I a
constabulary force, I should like to know? Conwulsions! What is yer
afeard on? Come on. Lor, what's the meaning o' that, I wonders, now; I
should just like to take that ere fellow up. Whoever heard of a horn
being blowed at such a rate, in the middle o' Fleet-street, afore,
unless it was somethin' as consarned the parish? Conwulsions! it's
contrary to _Habus Corpus_, it is. Is me a constabulary force, or is me
not?"
This was the bugle sound which warned Sir Richard Blunt and his friend
Crotchet that Sweeney Todd had returned to his shop; and, in fact, while
this very conversation was going on at the shoemaker's, Todd had lit the
lamp in his shop, and actually opened it for business again, as the
evening was by no means very far advanced. Mr. Otton went to the door,
and looked about for the audacious bugle player, but he was not to be
seen; so he returned to the back parlour of the shoemaker, uttering his
favourite expletive of "Conwulsions" very frequently.
"Now, if you is ready," he said, "I is; so let's come at once, and speak
to Mr. Todd. He may be a strange man, but for all that, he knows, I
_dessay_, what's proper respect to a _beetle_."
With this strange transformation of his own title upon his lips, Mr.
Otton stalked on rather majestically, as he thought, to the street, and
thence to Todd's shop door, with the shoemaker following him. The gait
of the latter expressed reluctance, and there was a dubious expression
upon his face, which was quite amusing to behold.
"Really, Mr. Otton," he said, "don't you think, after all, it would be
better to leave this affair alone till the morning? We can easily tell
my wife, you know, that Mr. Todd won't let us into his attic. That must
satisfy her, for what can she say to it?"
"Sir," said the beadle, "when you call in the _constabullary_ force, you
must do just what they say, or lasteways you acts contrary to _Habus
Corpuses_. Come on. Conwulsions! is we to be brought over the street,
and then is we to do nothing to go down to prosperity?"
The beadle uttered these words with such an air of pomposity and
importance that the shoemaker, who had a vague idea that _Habus Corpus_
was some fearful engine of the law at the command of all its
administrators, no longer offered any opposition, but, as meekly as any
lamb, followed Mr. Otton into Sweeney Todd's shop. The door yielded to a
touch, and Mr. Otton presented his full rubicund countenance to the gaze
of Sweeney Todd, who was at the further end of the shop, as though he
had just come from the parlour at the back of it, or was just going
there. He did not at first see the shoemaker, who was rather obscured by
the portly person of the beadle, and Todd's first idea was, the most
natural one in the world, namely, that the beadle came upon an emergency
to be shaved. Giving him an hideous leer, Todd said--
"A fine night for a clean shave."
"Werry. In course, Mr. T., you is the best judge o' that 'ere, but I
does for myself."
As he spoke, Mr. Otton rubbed his chin, to intimate that it was to his
shaving himself that he alluded just then.
"Hair cut?" said Todd, giving a snap to the blades of a large pair of
scissors, that made Mr. Otton jump again, and nearly induced the
shoemaker to run out of the shop into the street.
"No," said the beadle; and taking off his hat, he felt his hair, as
though to satisfy himself that it was all there, just as usual. "No."
Todd looked as though he would have shaved him with extreme pleasure,
and advancing a few steps, he added--
"Then what is it that you bring your wieldy carcase here for, you gross
lump of stupidity? Ha! ha! ha!"
"What? Conwulsions!"
"Pho!--Pho! Can't you take a joke, Mr. Otton? I know you well enough.
It's my funny way to call people, whom I admire very much, all the hard
names I can think of."
"Is it?"
"Oh, dear, yes. I thought you and all my neighbours knew that well
enough. I'm one of the drollest dogs alive. That I am. Won't you sit
down?"
"Well, Mr. Todd, a joke may be a joke." The beadle looked very
sententious at this discovery. "But you have the oddest way of poking
your fun at any one that ever I heard of; but, I comes to you now as a
respectable parishioner, to--"
"Oh," said Todd, putting his hands, very deliberately into his pockets,
"how much?"
"It ain't anything to pay. It's a mere trifle. I just want to go up to
your front attic, and--"
"What?"
"Your front attic, and get out of the window to look into the front
attic next door. We won't trouble you if you will oblige us with a
candle. That's all."
Todd advanced two steps further towards the beadle and looked peeringly
in his face. All the suspicious qualities of his nature rose up in
alarm. Every feeling of terror regarding the instability of his
position, and the danger by which he was surrounded, rushed upon him. At
once he conjectured that danger was approaching him, and that in this
covert manner the beadle was intent upon getting into the house, for the
purpose of searching it to his detriment. As the footpad sees in each
bush an officer, so, in the most trivial circumstances, even the acute
intellect of Sweeney Todd saw dangers, and rumours of dangers, which no
one but himself could have had the remotest idea of. He glared upon the
beadle with positive ferocity, and so much affected was Otton by that
lynx-like observation of Sweeney Todd's, that he stepped aside and
disclosed that he was not alone. If anything could have confirmed Todd
in his suspicions that there was a dead-set at him, it was finding that
the beadle was not alone. And yet the shoemaker was well known to him.
But what will lull such suspicion as Sweeney Todd had in his mind? Once
engendered, it was like the jealousy that--
"Makes the meat it feeds on!"
He advanced, step by step, glaring upon the beadle and upon the
shoemaker. Reaching up his hand, he suddenly turned the lamp that hung
from the ceiling clear round, so that, in lieu of its principal light
falling upon him, it fell upon the faces of those who had paid him so
unceremonious a visit.
"Lawks!" said the beadle.
"Excuse us, Mr. Todd," said the shoemaker, "I assure you we only
meant--"
"What?" thundered Todd. Then suddenly softening his voice, he
added--"You are very welcome here indeed. Pray what do you want?"
"Why, sir," said Otton, "you must know that this gentleman has a
lodger."
"A what?"
"A lodger, sir, and so you see that's just the case. You understand that
this lodger--lor, Mr. Todd, this is your neighbour the shoemaker, you
know. The front attic, you know, and all that sort of thing. After this
explanation, I hope you'll lend us a candle at once, Mr. Todd, and let
us up to the attic."
Todd shaded his eyes with his hands, and looked yet more earnestly at
the beadle.
"Why, Mr. Otton," he said, "indeed you do want a shave."
"A shave?"
"Yes, Mr. Otton, I have a good razor here that will go over your chin
like a piece of butter. Only take a seat, sir, and if you, neighbour,
will go home comfortably to your own fireside, I will send for you when
Mr. Otton is shaved."
"But really," said the beadle, rubbing his chin, "I was shaved this
morning, and as I do for myself always, you see, why I don't think I
require. Conwulsions! Mr. Todd, why do you look at a man so? Remember
the _Habus Corpus_. That's what we call the _paladermius_ of the British
Constitution, you know."
By this time the beadle had satisfied himself that he did not at all
require shaving, and turning to the shoemaker, he said--
"Why don't you be shaved?"
"Well, I don't care if I do, and perhaps, in the meantime you, Mr.
Otton, will go up to the attic, and take a peep into the next one, and
see if my lodger is up or in bed, or what the deuce has become of him.
It's a very odd thing, Mr. Todd, that a man should take one's attic, and
then disappear without coming down stairs."
"Disappear without coming down stairs?" said Todd.
"Yes, and my wife says--"
Todd made an impatient gesture.
"Gentlemen, I will look in my attic myself. The fact is, that the
flooring is rather out of order, and unless you know exactly where to
step you will be apt to fall through a hole into the second floor."
"The deuce you are!" said Otton.
"Yes; so I would not advise either of you to make the attempt. Just
remain there, and I'll go at once."
The proposition suited both parties, and Mr. Todd immediately passed
through a door at the back of his shop, which he immediately closed
behind him again. Instead of going up stairs, however, he slid aside a
small opening in the panel of this door, and placed his ear to it. "If
people say anything impudent, it is the moment they are free from the
company that has held them in check," was one of Sweeney Todd's maxims.
His first notion that the beadle and the shoemaker had come covertly to
search his house, had given way a little, and he wanted to convince
himself of the innocency or the reverse of their intentions, before he
put himself to any further trouble.
"I don't like it," said the shoemaker.
"Like what? Conwulsions! what don't you like?"
"Intruding upon Mr. Todd. What does he care about my lodgers? It ain't
as if he let any of his own house, and had a fellow feeling with us."
"Werry good," said the beadle, "but you send for me, and you ask me
what's best, and I tell yer that _Habus Corpus_, and one thing and
another, what I advised was the only thing, that was to get into Mr.
Todd's attic, and then get on the parapet and into yours. But if so be
as there's holes in Mr. Todd's attic, that will alter the affair, you
know."
"Fool--fool!" muttered Todd. "After all, they only come upon their own
twaddling affairs, and I was idiot enough to suspect such muddy pated
rascals."
In an instant he was in the shop again.
"Nobody there, gentlemen; I have looked into the attic, and there's
nobody there."
"Well, I'm very much obliged to you, Mr. Todd," said the shoemaker, "for
taking so much trouble. I'll go, and rather astonish my wife, I think."
"Conwulsions!" said the beadle. "It's an odd thing, but you know, Mr.
Todd, _Habus Corpus_ must have his way."
CHAPTER XLI.
TODD'S VISION.
When they had left, Todd remained for some minutes in an attitude of
thought.
"Is this an accident?" he said, "or is it but the elaboration of some
deep design to entrap me. What am I to think?"
Todd was an imaginative man quite. He was just the individual to think,
and think over the affair until he made something of it, very different
from what it really was, and yet there was some hope that the matter was
no more than what it appeared to be, by the character of the parties who
had come upon the mission. If anything serious had come to the ears of
the authorities, he thought, that surely two such people as the beadle
of St. Dunstan's, and his neighbour the shoemaker, would not be employed
to unravel such a mystery. He sat down in an arm chair and rested his
head upon his hand, and while he was in that attitude the door of his
shop opened, and a man in the dress of a carter made his appearance.
"Be this Mister Todd's?"
"Well," said Todd, "what then?"
"Why, then, this be for him like. It's a letter, but larning waren't
much i' the fashion in my young days, so I can't read what's on it."
Todd stretched out his hand. An instant examination showed him it bore
the Peckham post-mark.
"Ah!" he muttered, "from Fogg. Thank you, my man, that will do. That
will do. What do you wait for?"
"Please to remember the carter, your honour!"
Todd looked daggers at him, and slowly handed out twopence, which the
man took with a very ill grace.
"What," said Todd, "would you charge me more for carrying a letter than
King George the Third does, you extortionate rascal?"
The carter gave a nod.
"Get out with you, or by--"
Todd snatched up a razor, and the carter was off like a shot, for he
really believed, from the awful looks of Todd, that his life was not
worth a minute's purchase. Todd opened the letter with great
gravity.--It contained the following words:--
"DEAR SIR,"
"The lad, T. R., I grieve to say, is no more. Let us hope he is gone
where the weary are at rest, and where there is neither sin nor
sorrow.
"I am, dear Sir, yours faithfully,
"JACOB B. FOGG."
"Humph!" said Todd.
He held the letter in the flame of the lamp until it fell a piece of
airy tinder at his feet.
"Humph!" he repeated, and that humph was all that he condescended to say
of poor Tobias Ragg, whom the madhouse-keeper had thought proper to say
was dead; hoping that Todd might never be undeceived, for the barber was
a good customer.
If, however, Tobias should turn up to the confusion of Fogg and of Todd,
what could the latter do for the deceit that had been practised upon
him?--literally nothing.
"No sooner," said Todd, "does one cloud disappear from my route than
another takes its place. What can that story mean about the attic next
door? It sounds to my ears strange and portentous. What am I to think of
it?"
He rose and paced his shop with rapid strides. At length he paused as
though he had come to a determination.
"The want of a boy is troublesome to me," he said. "I must get one, but
for the present this must suffice."
He wrote upon a small slip of paper the words--"Gone to the Temple--will
return shortly." He then, by the aid of a wafer, affixed this
announcement to the upper part of the half-glass door leading into his
shop. Locking this door securely on the inside, and starting a couple of
bolts into their sockets, he lit a candle and left his shop. With a
stealthy, cat-like movement, Todd passed through the room immediately
behind his business apartment, and opening another door he made his way
towards the staircase. Then he paused a moment. He thought some sound
from above had come upon his ears, but he was not quite sure. To
suspect, however, was with such a man as Todd to be prepared for the
worst, and accordingly he went back to the room behind his shop again,
and from a table-drawer he took a knife, such as is used by butchers in
their trade, and firmly clutching it in his right hand, while he carried
the candle in his left, he once more approached the staircase.
"I do not think," he said, "that for nine years now any mortal
footsteps, but my own, have trod upon these stairs or upon the flooring
of the rooms above. Woe be to those who may now attempt to do so. Woe, I
say, be to them, for their death is at hand."
These words were spoken in a deep hollow voice, that sounded like tones
from a sepulchre, as they came from the lips of that man of many crimes.
To give Todd his due, he did not seem to shrink from the unknown and
dimly appreciated danger that might be up stairs in his house. He was
courageous, but it was not the high-souled courage that nerves a man to
noble deeds. No, Sweeney Todd's courage was that of hate--hatred to the
whole human race, which he considered, with a strange inconsistency, had
conspired against him; whereas he had been the one to place an
impassable barrier between himself and the amenities of society. He
ascended the stairs with great deliberation. When he reached the landing
upon the first floor, he cast his eyes suspiciously about him, shading
the light as he did so with his hand--that same hand that held the
knife, the shadow of which fell upon the wall in frightful proportions.
"All is still," he said. "Is fancy, after all, only playing me such
tricks as she might have played me twenty years ago? I thought I was too
old for such freaks of the imagination."
Todd did not suspect that there was a second period in his life, when
the mental infirmities of his green youth might come back to him, with
many superadded horrors accumulated, with a consciousness of guilt. He
slowly approached a door and pushed it open, saying as he did so--
"No--no--no. Above all things, I must not be superstitious. If I were
so, into what a world of horrors might I not plunge. No--no, I will not
people the darkness with horrible phantasies, I will not think that it
is possible that men with
"Twenty murders on their heads,"
can revisit this world to drive those who have done them to death with
shrieking madness--this world do I say? There is no other. Bah! Priests
may talk, and the weak-brained fools who gape at what they do not
understand, may believe them, but when man dies--when the electric
condition that has imputed to his humanity what is called life, flies,
he is indeed
"Dust to dust!"
Ha! ha! I have lived as I will die, fearing nothing and believing
nothing."
As he uttered those words--words which found no real echo in his heart,
for at the bottom of it lay a trembling belief in, and a dread of the
great God that rules all things, and who is manifest in the meanest
seeming thing that crawls upon the earth--he entered one of the rooms
upon that floor, and glanced uneasily around him. All was still. There
were trunks--clothes upon chairs, and a vast amount of miscellaneous
property in this room, but nothing in the shape of a human being. Todd's
spirits rose, and he held the long knife more carelessly than he had
done.
"Pho! pho!" he said. "I do, indeed, at times make myself the slave of a
disturbed fancy. Pho! pho! I will no more listen to vague sounds,
meaning nothing; but wrapping myself up in my consciousness of having
nothing to fear, I will pursue my course, hideous though it may be."
He turned and took his way towards the landing place of the staircase
again. He was now carrying both the light and the knife rather
carelessly, and everybody knows that when a candle is held before a
person's face, that but little indeed can be seen in the hazy vapour
that surrounds it. So it was with Todd. He had got about two paces from
the door, when a strange consciousness of something being in his way
came over him. He immediately raised his hand--that hand that still
carried the knife, to shade the light, and then, horror! horror! He saw
standing upon the landing a figure attired in faded apparel, whose face
was dabbled in blood, and the stony eyes which were fixed upon the face
of Todd, with so awful an expression, that had the barber's heart been
made of much more flinty materials than it was, he could not have
resisted the terrors of that awful moment. With a shriek that echoed
through the house, Todd fell upon the landing. The light rolled from
stair to stair until it was finally extinguished, and all was darkness.
[Illustration: Sweeney Todd Astonished By Crotchet, The Bow-Street
Officer.]
"Good," said Crotchet, for it was he who had enacted the ghost. "Good!
I'm blessed if I didn't think that ere would nail him. These sort o'
chaps are always on the look-out for something or another to be
frightened at, and you have only to show yourself to put 'em almost out
of their seven senses. It was a capital idea that of me to cut my finger
a little, and get some blood to smear over my face. It's astonishing
what a long way a little drop will go, to be sure. I dare say it makes
me look precious rum."
Mr. Crotchet was quite right regarding the appearance which the blood,
smeared over his face, gave to him. It made him look perfectly hideous,
and any one whose conscience was not--
"With injustice corrupted!"
might well have been excused for a cold chill, and, perchance, even a
swoon, like Sweeney Todd's, at his appearance.
"I rather think," added Crotchet, "that's a settler; so I'll just take
the liberty, old fellow, of lighting your candle again, and then
_mizzling_, for I don't somehow think much good is to be done in this
crib just now."
By the aid of his phosphorus match Crotchet soon succeeded in
re-illumining the candle, which he found on a mat in the passage; but
notwithstanding his opinion that he had seen about as much as there was
to see in Todd's house, he, when he had the candle alight, thought he
might just as well peep into the parlour immediately behind the shop,
before going up-stairs again. The door offered no opposition, for Todd
had certainly not expected any one down stairs, and Mr. Crotchet found
himself in the parlour about as soon as he had formed the wish to be
there. This parlour was perfectly crammed with furniture, and all of the
bureau kind, that is to say, large shapeless looking pieces of mahogany,
with no end of drawers. Crotchet made an attempt at several before he
found one that yielded to his efforts to open it, and that only did so
because the hasp into which the lock was shot had given way, and no
longer held it close. This drawer was full of watches.
"Humph!" said Crotchet, "Todd ought to know the time of day certainly,
and no mistake. Ah, these ere machines, if they had tongues now, I
rather think, could tell a tale or two. Howsomedever, I'll pocket some
of 'em."
Mr. Crotchet put about a dozen watches in his pocket forthwith, and then
he began to think that, as he did not wish to take Mr. Todd just then
into custody, it would be just as well if he left the house. Besides,
the barber had only fell into a swoon through fright, so that his
recovery was a matter that could be calculated upon with something like
certainty in a short time.
"It would be a world of pities if he was to find out as the ghost was
only me," said Crotchet, "so I'll be off before he comes to himself."
Extinguishing the light, Crotchet wound his way up the staircase again,
but when he got to the landing he stopped, and said--
"Bless us! I've not got them canes and swords as Sir Richard wanted me
to bring away with me. Well, the watches will answer better than them,
for all he wants is to compare 'em with the descriptions of some folks
as has been missed by their blessed relations in London, so that's all
right. Hilloa!"
This latter ejaculation arose from Crotchet having trodden upon Todd.
"The deuce!" he added, "I thought I had got clear of him."
He paused, and heard Todd utter a deep groan. Mr. Crotchet took this as
a signal that he had better be off; and accordingly he ascended the next
staircase quickly, and in a very few minutes reached the attic of Todd's
house. When there, he quickly made his appearance in the shoemaker's
attic, and found that Sir Richard Blunt had left the door of it just
upon the latch for him. He was upon the point of passing out of the
room, and going down stairs, when he heard a confused sound approaching
the attic, and he paused instantly. The sound came nearer and nearer,
until Crotchet found that some half dozen people were upon the landing,
and all talking together in anxious whispers.
"What the deuce is up now?" he thought.
He approached the door and listened.
"I tell you what it is, Mr. Otton," said a female voice. "It's now
getting on for ten o'clock, and I positively can't sleep in my bed
unless I know something more about this horrid attic."
"Well, but, mum--"
"Don't speak to me. Here's an attic, and two men go into it. Then all at
once there's no men in it; and then all at once, one man comes down and
walks out as cool as a cucumber, and says nothing at all; and then we
know well enough as there was two men, and only one--"
"But, mum--"
"Don't speak to me, and only one has come down."
"And here's the t'other!" cried Crotchet, suddenly bouncing out of the
attic.
The confusion that ensued baffles all description. A grand rush was made
into the apartments of the lady who was fond of putting her feet into
hot water; and in the midst of the confusion, Crotchet quickly enough
went down stairs, and made his escape from the shoemaker's house.
CHAPTER XLII.
THE GREAT SACRIFICE.
While all these things were going on at Sweeney Todd's, in Fleet-street,
Mrs. Lovett was not quite idle as regarded her own affairs and feelings.
That lady's--what shall we say--certainly not affections, for she had
none--passions is a better word--were inconceivably shocked by the
discovery she had made of the perfidy of her flaunting and moustachied
lover. It will be perceived, by this little affair of Mrs. Lovett's, how
strong-minded women have their little weaknesses. The hour of the
appointment, which she (Mrs. Lovett) had made with her military-looking
beau, came round; and there she sat, looking rather disconsolate.
"Am I never to succeed," she muttered to herself, "in finding one with
whom I can make my escape from this sea of horrors that surrounds me? Am
I, notwithstanding I have so fully accomplished all I wished to
accomplish, by--by"--she shuddered and paused.--"Well, well, the time
will come--I must go alone. Let Todd go alone, and let me go alone. Why
should he wish to trammel my actions? He cannot surely think, for a
moment, that with him I will consent to pass the remainder of my life!"
The scornful curl of the lip, and the indignant toss of the head, which
accompanied these words, would have been quite sufficient to convince
Todd, had he seen them, of the hopelessness of any such notion.
"No," she added, after a pause, "I shall be alone in the world, or, if I
make ties, they shall be made in another country. There it is possible I
may be--oh, no, no--not happy; but I may be powerful, and have cringing
slaves about me, who, finding that I am rich, will tell me that I am
beautiful, and I shall be able to drink deeply of the intoxicating cup
of pleasure, in some land where prudery, or what is called propriety,
has not set up its banner as it has in this land of outward virtue. As
for Todd--I--I will try to be assured that he is a corpse before I
breathe freely; and if I fail in that, I will hope that we shall be
thousands of leagues asunder."
A shadow passed the window. Mrs. Lovett started to her feet.
"Ah! who comes? 'Tis he--no--God! 'tis Todd."
For a moment she pressed her hands upon her face, as though she would
squeeze out the traces of passion from the muscles, and then her old set
smile came back again. Todd entered the shop. For a few moments they
looked at each other in silence, and then Todd said--
"Alone?"
"Quite," she replied.
He gave one of his peculiar laughs, and then glided into the parlour
behind the shop. Mrs. Lovett followed him.
"News?" he said.
"None."
"Hem! The time is coming."
"The time to leave off this--"
"Yes. The time to quit business, Mrs. Lovett. All goes well--swimmingly.
Ha! ha!"
She shuddered as she said--
"Do not laugh."
"Let those laugh who win," replied Todd. "How old are you, Sarah?"
"Old?"
"Yes, or to shape the question perhaps more to a woman's liking, how
young are you? Have you yet many years before you in which to enjoy the
fruits of our labours? Have you the iron frame which will enable you to
say--'I shall revel for years in the soft enjoyments of luxury stolen
from a world I hate?' Tell me."
Mrs. Lovett fell into a musing attitude, and Todd thought she was
reflecting upon her age; but at length she said--
"I sometimes think I would give half of what is mine if I could forget
how I became possessed of the whole."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, Todd. Has no such feeling ever crossed you?"
"Never! I am implacable. Fate made me a barber, but nature made me
something else. In the formation of man there is a something that gives
weakness to his resolves, and makes him pause upon the verge of
enterprise with a shrinking horror. That is what the world calls
conscience. It has no hold of me. I have but one feeling towards the
human race, and that is hatred. I saw that while they pretended to bow
down to God, they had in reality set up another idol in their heart of
hearts. Gold! gold! Tell me--how many men there are in this great city
who do not worship gold far more sincerely and heartily than they
worship Heaven?"
"Few--few."
"Few? None, I say, none. No. The future is a dream--an _ignis fatuus_--a
vapour. The present we can grasp--ha!"
"What is our wealth, Todd?"
"Hundreds of thousands."
He shaded his eyes with his hands, and peered from the parlour into the
shop.
"Who is that keeps dodging past the window each moment, and peeping in
at every convenient open space in the glass that he can find?"
Mrs. Lovett looked, and then, after an effort, she said--
"Todd, I was going to speak to you of that man."
"Ah!"
"Listen; I suspect him. For some days past he has haunted the shop, and
makes endeavours to become acquainted with me. I did not think it sound
policy wholly to shun him, but gave him such encouragement as might
supply me with opportunities of judging if he were a spy or not."
"Humph!"
"I think him dangerous."
Todd's eyes glistened like burning coals.
"Should he come into your shop to be shaved, Todd--"
"Ha! ha!"
The horrible laugh rang through the place, and Mrs. Lovett's lover, with
the moustache, sprung to the other side of Bell Yard, for the unearthly
sound even reached his ears as he was peeping through the window to
catch a glimpse of the charming widow.
"You understand me, Todd?"
"Perfectly--perfectly--I shall know him again. Ah, my dear Mrs. Lovett,
how dangerous it is to be safe in this world. Even our virtue cannot
escape detraction; but we will live in hopes of better times. You and I
will show the world, yet, what wealth is."
"Yes--yes."
Todd crept close to her, and was about to place his arm round her waist,
but she started from him, exclaiming--
"No--no, Todd--a thousand times no. Have we not before quarrelled upon
this point. Do not approach me, or our compact, infernal as it is, is at
an end. I have sold my soul to you, but I have not bartered myself."
The expression of Todd's countenance at this juncture was that of an
incarnate fiend. He glared at Mrs. Lovett as though with the horrible
fascination of his ugliness he would overcome her, and then slowly
rising, he said--
"Her soul--ha! She has sold her soul to me--ha! I will call to-morrow."
He left the shop, and as he passed the gent who, by force of his
moustache, hoped to win the affections of Mrs. Lovett, he gave him such
a look that he terrified him and the gent found himself in the shop
before he was aware.
"Bless me, what a horrid looking fellow! I swear by my courage and
honour I never saw such a face. Ah, my charmer! Who was that left your
charming presence just now?"
"Some one who came for a pie."
"'Pon honour, he's enough to poison all the pies! Oh, you beauty,
yo--ou--ou--ou--"
The gallant's mouth was so full of a veal pie that he had stuffed into
it that for some few moments he could not produce an intelligible sound.
When he had recovered, he walked into the parlour and sat down, saying--
"Now, Mrs. Lovett, here am I, 'pon honour, your humble servant, and stop
my breath if I'd say as much to the commander-in-chief. When's the happy
day to be?"
"Do you really love me?"
"Do I love you? Do I love fighting? Do I love honour--glory? Do I love
eating and drinking? Do I love myself?"
"Ah, Major Bounce, you military men are so gallant."
"'Pon honour we are. General Cavendish used to say to me--'Bounce,' says
he, 'if you don't make your fortune by war, which you ought to do,
Bounce, 'pon honour, you will make it by love.' 'General,' says I--now I
was always ready for a smart answer, Mrs. Lovett--so 'General,' says I,
'the same to you!'"
"Very smart."
"Yes, wasn't it. 'Pon honour it was, and 'pon soul you looks more and
more charming every day that I see you."
"Oh you flatterer!"
"No--no. Bar flattering--bar flattering. His Majesty has often said,
'Talk of flattery. Oh dear, Bounce is the man for me. He is right
down--straight up-off handed. And no sort of mistake, on--on--on.'"
Another pie converted the oratory of the major into something between a
grunt and a sigh.
"But major, I'm afraid that you will regret marrying me. If I convert
all I have into money"--the major pricked up his ears--"I could not make
of it more than fifty thousand pounds."
The major's eyes opened to the size of pint saucers, as he said--
"Fifty--fift--fif.--Say it again!"
"Fifty thousand pounds."
The major rose and embraced Mrs. Lovett. Tears actually came into his
eyes, and gulping down the pie, he cried--
"You have fifty thousand charms. Only let me be your slave, your dog,
damme--your dog, Mrs. Lovett, and I shall consider myself the luckiest
dog in the world, but not for the money--not for the money. No, as the
Marquis of Cleveland once said, 'If you want a thoroughly disinterested
man, go to Bounce.'"
"Well, major, since we understand each other so well, there are two
little things that I must name as my conditions."
"Name 'em--name 'em. Do you want me to bring you the king's eye-tooth,
or her majesty's wig and snuff-box--only say the word."
"One is, that I will leave England. I have a private reason for so
doing."
"Damme, so have I. That is a-hem! If you have a reason, that is a reason
to me, you know."
"Exactly. In some other capital of Europe we may spend our money and
enjoy all the delights of existence. Do you speak French?"
"Ah-hem! Oh, of course. I never tried particularly, but as Lord North
said to the Duke of Bridgewater, 'Bounce is the man if you want anything
done of an out of-the-way character.'"
"Very well, then. My next condition is, that you shave off your
moustache."
"What?"
"Shave off your moustache; I have the greatest possible aversion to
moustache, therefore I make that a positive condition without which I
shall say no more to you."
"My charmer, do you think I hesitate? If you were to say to me, 'Bounce,
off with your head,' in a moment it would roll at your feet."
"Go, then, to Mr. Todd's, the barber, in Fleet-street, and have them
taken off at once, and then come back to me, for I declare I won't speak
another word to you while you have them on."
"But, dear creature--"
Mrs. Lovett shook her head.
"'Pon honour!"
She shook her head again.
"I'll go at once then, 'pon soul, and have 'em taken off. I'll be back
in a jiffy, Mrs. Lovett. Oh, you duck, I adore you. Confound the cash!
It's you I knuckle under to. Man doats on Venus, and I love Lovett. Bye,
bye; I'll get it done and soon be back. Fifty thousand--fifty--fif.--Oh,
lor' why Flukes, your fortune is made at last."
These last words did not reach the ear of Mrs. Lovett. That lady threw
herself into a chair, where the gallant major had left her.
"Another!" she said. "Another! Why did he try to deceive me? The fool,
to pitch upon me, of all persons, to make his victim. I must have found
him out, and poisoned him, if I had married him. It is better that Todd
should take vengeance for me, and then the time shall come when he shall
fall. Yes, so soon as I can, by cajollery or scheming, get sufficient of
the plunder into my own hands, Todd's hours are numbered."
After this, Mrs. Lovett fell into a train of musing, and her face
assumed an expression so different from that with which she was wont to
welcome her customers in the shop, that not one of them would have known
her. But we must look at Todd. It was upon his return home from several
calls, the last of which had been this recent visit to Mrs. Lovett, that
he had heard the noise in his house, which had terminated in his going
up stairs, and being so terrified by Crotchet. It will be recollected
that he fell insensible upon the staircase, and that Crotchet took that
opportunity of making good his retreat. How long he lay there, he, Todd,
had no means of knowing, for all was profound darkness upon the
staircase, but his first sensation consisted of a tingling in his feet
and hands, similar to the sensation which is properly called "your limbs
going to sleep." Then a knocking noise came upon his sense of hearing.
"What's that? Where am I?" he cried. "No--no. Don't hang me. Where's
Mrs. Lovett? Hang her. She is guilty!"
Knock!--knock!--knock!
"Hush! hush! What is it? Who wants me? Good God--no--no. There is no
good God for me!"
Knock! knock! knock! came again with increased violence at the door of
the shop below.
CHAPTER XLIII.
AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.
Todd scrambled to his feet. He held his head in his hand.
"What does it all mean? What does it all mean?"
Knock! knock! knock!
Todd's senses were slowly returning to him. He began to recollect events
at first confusedly, and then the proper order of their occurrence--how
he had come home, and then heard a noise, and gone up stairs and
seen--what? There he paused in his catalogue of events. What had he
seen?"
Knock! knock! knock!
"Curses!" he muttered. "Who can that be hammering with such devilish
perseverance at my door? By all that's horrible they shall pay dearly
for thus disturbing me. Who can it be? Not any one to arrest me? No--no!
They would not knock so long. An enforced entrance long before this
would have brought them to me. What did I see? What did I see? What did
I see? Dare I give it a name?"
He slowly descended the stairs, and reaching the shop, he peeped through
a place in the door which he had made for such a purpose. There stood
the hero of the moustachios knocking away with all his might to get the
behests of Mrs. Lovett obeyed. Todd suddenly flung open the door, and in
fell Major Bounce, alias Flukes.
"The devil! What do you want?"
"'Pon honour. Damn it. Is this the way to treat a military man?"
Todd turned to the side of the shop, and hastily put on a wig--by an
adroit movement of his fingers, he pulled his cravat sufficiently out
from his neck to be able to bury his chin in it, and when he turned to
the mock major, the latter had no suspicion that he looked upon the same
person who had so alarmed him by a look, in Bell Yard.
"Shaved or dressed sir?" said Todd.
"Confound you. Why did you open the door so quick?"
"Thought you knocked, sir."
"I did, but stop my breath, if you haven't given me an ugly fall. But no
matter. None but the brave deserve the fair. You perceive I am a
military man?"
"Oh, yes, sir, anybody may see that by your martial air."
"A-hem! You are right. Well then, Mr. Barber, I want my moustache shaved
off. It's a fancy of a lady. One of the most charming of her sex. One
with a fifty thousand pound charm. 'Pon my valour, she has. Ah! I am a
lucky dog. Thirty-eight--handsome as Apollo, and beloved by the fairest
of the fair."
"Life is a jolly thing,
Life is a jolly thing,
While I drink deep and go frolicking,
Fair maids, wives, and widows,
Fair maids, wives, and widows
Doat on the youth that goes frolicking."
"Ha! ha! ha! Life's a bumper. Upon my valour, Mr. Barber, I feel like a
young colt, that I do."
"Really, sir. You don't say so?"
"Oh, yes, yes! Ha! ha! All's right. All's right. Now, Mr.
What's-your-name. Off with the moustache. It's only in the cause of the
fair that I would condescend to part with them, that's a fact, but when
a lady's in the case--upon my valour, you are an ugly fellow."
"You don't say so," replied Todd, as he made a most hideous contortion.
"Most people think me so fascinating that they stay with me."
"Ha! ha! A good joke."
Major Bounce--we may as well still call the poor wretch Major
Bounce--placed his hat upon a chair, and his sword upon the top of it.
"Pray, sir, be seated," said Todd.
"Ah! Damme, is this seat a fixture?"
"Yes, sir, it's in the proper light, you see, sir."
"Oh, very well--I--pluff, pluff--puff, puff! Confound you, what have you
filled my mouth with soap-suds for?"
"Quite an accident, sir. Quite an accident, for which I humbly beg your
pardon, I assure you, sir. If you keep your mouth shut, and your eyes
open, you will get on amazingly. Have you seen the paper to-day, sir?"
"No!"
"Sorry for that, sir. A very odd case, sir--a little on one side--a most
remarkable case, I may say. A gentleman, sir, went into a barber's shop,
and--"
"Eh!--puff! sleush! puff! Am I to be poisoned by your soap-suds? Upon my
valour, I shall have to make an example of you to all barbers."
"You opened your mouth at the wrong time, sir."
"The wrong devil. Don't keep me here all night."
"Certainly not, sir. But as I was saying about this curious case in the
paper. A military gentleman went into a barber's shop to be shaved."
"Well. The devil--pluff, pluff! Good God! Am I to endure all this?"
"Certainly not, sir. I'll show you the paper itself. You must know, sir,
that the paragraph is headed 'Mysterious disappearance of a gentleman.'"
"Damn it, what do I care about it? Get on with the shaving."
"Certainly, sir."
Todd gave a horrible scrape to Major Bounce's face with a blunt razor.
"Quite easy, sir?"
"Easy? Good gracious, do you want to skin me?"
"Oh, dear no, sir. What an idea. To skin a military gentleman. Certainly
not, sir. I see you require one of my best keen razors--one of the
Magnum Bonums. Ha! ha!"
"Eh? What was that?"
"Only me giving a slight smile, sir."
"The deuce it was. Don't do it again, then, that's all; and get your
keen razor at once, and make an end of the business."
"I will--make an end of the business. Sit still, sir. I'll be back in a
moment."
Todd went into the parlour.
"£50,000!" muttered Major Bounce. "I am a happy fellow. At last, after
so many ups and downs, I light upon my feet. A charming widow!--and she
wishes to leave England. How lucky. I wish the very same thing.
£50,000!--50,000 charms!"
* * * * *
"Good God! what's that?" said a man, who was passing Todd's window, in
Fleet-street. "What a horrid shriek. Did you hear it, mum?"
"Oh dear, yes," said a woman. "I'm all of a tremble."
"It came from the barber's shop, here. Let's go in, and ask if anything
is the matter?"
The man and woman crossed Todd's threshold, and opened the shop door. A
glance showed them that a man's face was at a small opening of the
parlour door. _The shaving chair was empty._
"What's the matter?" said the man.
"With whom?" said Todd.
"Well, I don't know, but I thought somebody cried out."
Todd crept along the floor until he came close to the man, and then he
said--
"My friend, have you anything to do?"
"Yes, thank God."
"Then, go and do it; and the next time you hear me cry out with the
stomach-ache, ask yourself if it is your business to come in and ask me
any questions about it. As for you, ma'am, unless you want to be shaved,
I don't know, for the life of me, what you do here."
"Well, we only thought--"
Todd gave a hideous howl, which so terrified both the intruders, that
they left the shop in a moment. His countenance then assumed that awful
satanic expression which it sometimes bore, and he stood for the space
of about five minutes in deep thought. Starting then suddenly, he took
up the sword and hat of Major Bounce, and was in the act of putting both
into a cupboard, when a smothered cry met his ears. Todd unsheathed the
sword, and after fastening his shop door, he went into the parlour. He
was absent about ten minutes, and when he returned he had not the sword,
but he hastily washed his hands.
"Done!" he said.
Scratch! scratch! scratch! came something at his door, and Todd bent
forward in an attitude of listening. Scratch!--scratch!--scratch!--His
face turned ghastly pale, and his knees knocked together as he whispered
to himself--
"What is that?--what is that?"
Todd was getting superstitious. Since his adventure with Mr. Crotchet,
his nerves had been out of order, notwithstanding the exertions he had
made to control himself, and to convince his judgment that it was all a
matter of imagination. Yet now, somehow or another, although there was
no visible connection between the two things, he could not help mentally
connecting this scratching at the door with the vision on the staircase.
It is strange how the fancy will play such tricks, but it is no less
strange than true that she does so, yoking together matters most
dissimilar, and leading the judgment into strange disorder.
Scratch!--scratch!--scratch!
"What--what is it?" gasped Todd.
But time works wonders, and after the first shock to his nerves, the
barber began to think that some one must be playing him a trick, and,
for all he knew, it might be the very man whom he had snubbed so for
interfering with him, or it might be some boy--the boys would at times
tease Sweeney Todd. This supposition gathered strength each moment.
"It is a trick--a trick," he said. "I will be revenged!"
He took a thick stick from a corner, and stealthily approached the door.
The odd scratching noise continued, and he again paused for a few
moments to listen to it.
"A boy--a boy," he growled. "It is one of the infernal boys."
Opening the door a little way with great quickness, Todd aimed a blow
through the opening. There was a short angry bark, and his old enemy,
the dog that had belonged to the mariner, thrust in his head, and glared
at Todd.
"Help!--help! Murder!" cried Todd. "The dog again!"
He made a vain effort to shut the door; but Hector was too strong for
him, and, as he had got his head in, he seemed to be determined to force
in his whole body, which he fully succeeded in doing. Todd dropped the
stick, and rushed into the back-parlour for safety, from whence, through
a small square of glass near the top of the door, he glared at the
proceedings of his four-footed foe. The dog went direct to the cupboard
from which he had taken his master's hat, and, opening the door, he
dragged out an assemblage of miscellaneous property, as though he hoped
to find among it some other vestige of the dear master he had lost.
When, however, after tossing the things about, he found that they were
all strange to him, he gave a melancholy howl. Hector then appeared to
be considering what he should do next, and, after a few moments'
consideration, he made a general survey of the shop, and finally ended
by leaping into the shaving-chair, where he sat and commenced such a
series of melancholy howls, that Todd was nearly driven out of his mind
at the conviction that the whole street must be soon in a state of
alarm. Oh! how glad he would have been to have shot Hector; but then,
although he had pistols in the parlour, he might miss him, and send the
bullet into Fleet-street through his own window, and, perchance, hit
somebody, and that would be a trouble. The report, too, would bring a
crowd round his shop, and the old story of him and the accusing dog--for
had not that dog accused him?--would be brought up again. But yet
something must be done.
"Am I to be a prisoner here," said Todd, "while that infernal dog sits
in the shaving chair, howling?"
Now and then, for the space of about half-a-minute, the dog would be
quiet, but then the prolonged howl that he would give plainly showed
that he had only been gathering breath to give it. Todd got desperate.
"I must and will shoot him," he said.
Going to a sideboard he opened a drawer, and took from it a large
double-barrelled pistol. He looked carefully at the priming, and
satisfying himself that all was right, he crept again to the parlour
door.
"I must and will shoot him at any risk," he said. "This infernal dog
will be else the bane and torment of my life. I thought I had been
successful in poisoning the brute as he suddenly disappeared from my
door, but he has been preserved by some sort of miracle on purpose to
torment me."
Howl went the dog again. Sweeney Todd took a capital aim with the
pistol. To be sure his nerves were not quite in such good order as they
sometimes were, but then the distance was so short that how could he
miss such an object as a Newfoundland dog?
"I have him--I have him," he muttered. "Ha! ha! I have him!"
He pulled the trigger of the pistol--snap went the lock, and the powder
in the pan flashed up in Todd's face, but that was all. Before he could
utter even an oath the shop door was opened, and a man's voice cried--
"Hasn't nobody seen nothing of never a great dog nowheres? Oh, there you
is, my tulip. Come to your father, you rogue you. So you guved me the
slip at last did you, you willain!"
CHAPTER XLIV.
TODD AND THE SILVERSMITH.
[Illustration: Sweeney Todd Re-Visited By The Dog Of One Of His
Victims.]
Hector whined a kind of recognition of this man, but he did not move
from the chair in Todd's shop upon which he had seated himself.
"Come, old fellow," said the man, "you don't want to be shaved, do you?"
Hector gave a short bark, but he wagged his tail as much as to
intimate--"Mind, I am not at all angry with you." And indeed it was
quite evident, from the manner of the dog to this man, that there was a
good understanding between them.
"Come now, Pison," said the man, "don't be making a fool of yourself
here any more. You ain't on friendly terms here, my tulip."
"Hilloa!" cried Todd.
The man gave a start, and Hector uttered an angry growl.
"Hilloa! Who are you?"
"Why, I'm the ostler at the 'Bullfinch!' _oppesite_."
"Is that your dog?"
"Why in a manner o' speaking, for want of a better master, he's got me."
The ostler, by dint of shading his eyes with his hands, and looking very
intently, at last saw Todd, and then he added--
"Oh, it's you, master, is it?"
"Take away that animal directly," cried Todd. "Take him away. I hate
dogs. Curses on both you and him; how came he here?"
"Ah, Pison, Pison, why did you come here, you good for nothink feller
you? You ought to have knowed better. Didn't I always say to
you--leastways, since I've had you--didn't I say to you--'Don't you go
over the way, for that ere barber is your natural enemy, Pison,' and yet
here yer is."
As he spoke, the ostler embraced Hector, who was not at all backward in
returning the caress, although in the midst of it he turned his head in
the direction of the back-parlour, and gave a furious bark at Todd.
"There is some mystery at the bottom of all this," muttered Todd; and
then raising his voice, he added--"How did you come by the dog?"
"Why, I'll tell you, master. For a matter of two days, you know, he
stuck at your door with a hat as belonged--"
"Well, well!"
"Yes, his master, folks said, was murdered."
"Ha! ha!"
"Eh? Oh, Lord, what was that?"
"Only me; I laughed at the idea of anybody being murdered in Fleet
Street, that was all."
"Oh, ah! It don't seem very likely. Well, as I was a saying, arter you
had finished off his master--"
"I?"
"Oh, I begs your pardon! Only, you see, the dog would have it that you
had, and so folks say so as natural as possible; but, howsomdever, I
comed by and seed this here dog in the agonies o' conwulsions all along
o' pison. Now where I come from, the old man--that's my father as
was--had lots o' dogs, and consekewently I knowed somethink about them
ere creturs; so I takes up this one and carries him on my back over the
way to the stables, and there I cures him and makes a pet of him, and I
called him Pison, cos, you see, as he had been pisoned. Lor, sir, you
should only have seed him, when he was a getting a little better, how he
used to look at me and try to say--'Bill, don't I love you neither!'
It's affection--that it is, blow me!"
Todd gave an angry snarl of derision.
"I tell you what it is, my man," he said; "if you will hang that dog, I
will give you a guinea."
"Hang Pison? No, old 'un, I'd much rather hang you for half that ere
money. Come along, my daffydowndilly. Don't you stay here any more. Why,
I do believe it was you as pisoned him, you old bloak."
The ostler seized Hector, or Pison, as he had fresh christened him,
round the neck, and fairly dragged him away out of the shop. To be sure,
if Hector had resisted, the ostler, with all the power of resistance he
possessed, it would indeed have been no easy matter to remove him; but
it was wonderful to see how nicely the grateful creature graduated his
struggles, so that they fell short of doing the smallest hurt to his
preserver, and yet showed how much he wished to remain as a terror and a
reproach to Sweeney Todd. When they were both fairly gone, Todd emerged
from his parlour again, and the horrible oaths and imprecations he
uttered will not bear transcription. With eager haste he again bundled
into the cupboard all the things that the dog had dragged out of it, and
then stamping his foot, he said--
"Am I, after defeating the vigilance of heaven only knows who, and for
so long preserving myself from almost suspicion, to live in dread of a
dog? Am I to be tormented with the thought that that fiend of an animal
is opposite to me, and ready at any moment to fly over here and chase me
out of my own shop. Confound it! I cannot and will not put up with such
a state of things. Oh, if I could but get one fair blow at him. Only one
fair blow!"
As he spoke he took up a hammer that was in a corner of the shop, and
made a swinging movement with it through the air. Some one at that
moment opened the shop door, and narrowly escaped a blow upon the head,
that would have finished their mortal career.
"Hilloa! Are you mad?"
"Mad!" said Todd.
"Yes: do you knock folks' brains out when they come to be shaved?"
"Mine's a sedentary employment," said Todd, "and when I am alone, I like
exercise to open my chest. That's all. Ain't it rather late to be
shaved? I was just about to shut up."
"Why it is rather late, Mr. Todd; but the fact is, I am going to York by
the early coach from the Bullfinch Inn, opposite, and I want a shave
before I get upon my journey, as I shan't have an opportunity you see,
again, for some time."
"Very well, sir."
"Come in, Charley."
Todd started.
"What's that?" he said. He felt afraid that it was the dog again, under
some new name. Truly, conscience was beginning to make a coward of
Sweeney Todd, although he denied to himself the possession of such an
article. Charley came in the shape of a little boy, of about eight years
of age.
"Now you sit down, and don't do any mischief," said the father, "while I
get Mr. Todd to shave me. I am a late customer indeed. You see the coach
goes in two hours, and as I have got to call the last thing upon
Alderman Stantons, I thought I would be shaved first, and my little lad
here would come with me."
"Oh, certainly, sir," said Todd; "I believe I have the pleasure of
speaking to Mr. Brown, the silversmith."
"Yes--yes. The alderman gave me some jewels, worth about three thousand
pounds, to re-set, and though they are not done, I really don't like to
have them at home while I take such a journey, so I want to lodge them
with him again until I come back."
Todd lathered away at Mr. Brown's chin, as he said with an air of
innocence--
"Can you carry so many jewels about with you, sir?"
"So many? Aye, ten times as many. Why they are all in a little narrow
case, that would not hold a pair of razors."
"Indeed!"
Todd began the shaving.
"And so this is your little boy? A sharp lad, no doubt."
"Tolerable."
"The whiskers as they are, sir?"
"Oh, yes--yes."
"I suppose you never trust him out alone in the streets?"
"Oh, yes; often."
"Is it possible. Well, now, I should hardly have thought it. What a
sweet child he looks, and such a nice complexion, too. It's quite a
pleasure to see him. I was considered myself a very fine child a good
while ago."
Todd took care to lift the razor judiciously, so as to give Mr. Brown
opportunities of replying; and the silversmith said--
"Oh, yes; he's a nice little fellow. He's got his mother's complexion."
"And he shan't lose it," said Todd, "if there's any virtue in
_pearlometrical savonia_."
"In what?"
"Oh, that's the name I give to a soap that preserves the complexion in
all its purity. I have only a small parcel of it, so I don't sell it,
but I give it away now and then, to my lady customers. Excuse me for one
moment."
"Oh, certainly."
Todd opened a glass case, and took out two pieces of soap, of a
yellowish tint.
"There, Charley," he said as he handed them to the little fellow.
"There's a piece for you, and a piece for mamma."
"Really you are very kind, Mr. Todd," said Brown.
"Oh, don't mention it. Run home at once, Charley, with them, and by the
time you get back your father will be--finished. Run along."
"I won't," said Charley.
"Ah, come--come," said his father.
"I won't go, and I don't like soap."
"And why don't you like soap, my little man?" said Todd, as he
recommenced operations upon the silversmith's face.
"Because I don't like to be washed at all, it scrubs so, and I don't
like you, either, you are so dreadfully ugly--that I don't."
Todd smiled blandly.
"Now, Charley," said his father, "I am very angry with you. You are a
very bad boy indeed. Why don't you do as Mr. Todd tells you?"
"Because I won't."
"Bless him," said Todd, "bless his heart. But don't you think, Mr.
B."--here Todd's voice sank to a whisper--"don't you think that it's
rather injudicious to encourage this obstinacy--if one may call it
such--thus early in life? It may, you know, grow upon the dear little
fellow."
"You are right, Mr. Todd; and I know that he is spoiled; but I have a
more than ordinary affection for him, since, under most critical
circumstances, once I saved his life. From that time, I confess that I
have been weak enough to allow him too much of his own way. Thank you,
Mr. Todd. A very clean comfortable shave indeed."
Mr. Brown rose from his chair and approached the little boy.
"Charley, my dear," he said; "you will save papa's life some day, won't
you?"
"Yes," said Charley.
The father kissed him; as he added--
"How affected I feel to-night. I suppose it's the thought of the long
journey I am going."
"No doubt," said Todd.
"Good night, Mr. Todd. Come along, Charley."
"Won't you give me a kiss, you darling, before you go?" said Todd.
"No, ugly, I won't."
"Oh, Charley--Charley, your behaviour to Mr. Todd is really anything but
right. You are a very bad boy to-night. Come along."
Away they went, and Todd stood stropping the lately-used razor upon his
hand, as he glared upon them, and muttered--
"Jewels worth three thousand pounds! And so you saved the child's life,
did you? By all that's devilish he has returned the obligation."
He went to the door and looked after the retreating figures of the
silversmith and his child. He saw with what tender care the father
lifted the little one over the road-way, and again he muttered--
"Three thousand pounds gone!--gone, when it was almost within my grasp.
All this is new. I used not to be the sport of such accidents and
adverse circumstances. Time was, when by the seeming irresistible force
of my will, I could bend circumstances to my purposes, but now I am the
sport of dogs and children. What is the meaning of it all? Is my ancient
cunning deserting me? Is my brain no longer active and full of daring?"
He crept back into his shop again. The hour was now getting late, and
after sitting for some time in silent musing he rose, and without a
word, commenced closing his establishment for the night.
"I must have another boy," he said, as he put up the last shutter and
secured it in its place. "I must have another boy. This state of things
will not do. I must certainly have another boy. Tobias Ragg would have
suited me very well, if he had not been so--so--what shall I call it,
confoundedly imaginative. But he is dead--dead! that is a comfort. He is
dead, and I must have another boy."
Bang! went Sweeney Todd's shop door. The beautiful moon climbed over the
house-tops in old Fleet Street. The clock of St. Dunstan's struck the
hour of eleven. The streets began to be thin of pedestrians, and the din
of carriages had almost entirely ceased. London then, although it was so
not long ago, presented a very different aspect at the hour of eleven to
what it does now. The old hackney-coaches had not been ousted from the
streets by the cabs and the omnibuses, and the bustle of the city was
indeed but a faint echo then, of what it is now. Time changes all
things.
CHAPTER XLV.
JOHANNA'S NEW SITUATION.
"Johanna, attend to me," said Mrs. Oakley, upon the morning after these
events.
"Well, mother?"
"Your father is an idiot."
"Mother, mother! I dissent from the opinion, and if it were true, it
comes with the worst possible grace from you, but I am sick at heart. I
pray you to spare me reproaches or angry words, mother."
"Haity taity, one must not speak next, I suppose. Some people fancy that
other people know nothing, but there is such a thing as overhearing what
some people say to other people."
Johanna had not the most remote notion of what her mother meant, but
Mrs. Oakley's tongue was like many pieces of machinery, that when once
set in motion are not without considerable trouble brought to a
standstill again, so on she went.
"Of course. I now know quite well why the godly man who would have made
you a chosen vessel was refused. It was all owing to that scamp, Mark
Ingestrie."
"Mother!"
"Marry come up! you need not look at me in such a way. We don't all of
us see with the same eyes. A scamp he is, and a scamp he will be."
"Mother, he whom you so name is with his God. Mention him no more. The
wild ocean rolls over his body--his soul is in heaven. Speak not
irreverently of one whose sole crime was that he loved me. Oh, mother,
mother, you--"
Johanna could say no more, she burst into tears.
"Well," said Mrs. Oakley, "if he is dead, pray what hinders you from
listening to the chosen vessel, I should like to know?"
"Do not. Oh do not, mother, say any more to me--I cannot, dare not trust
myself to speak to you upon such a subject."
"What is this?" said Mr. Oakley, stepping into the room. "Johanna in
tears! What has happened?"
[Illustration: Mr. Oakley Defends Johanna From The Violence Of Her
Mother.]
"Father--dear father!"
"And Mr. O.," cried Mrs. Oakley, "what business is it of yours, I should
like to know? Be so good, sir, as to attend to your spectacles, and such
like rubbish, and not to interfere with my daughter."
"Dear me!--ain't she my daughter likewise?"
"Oh yes, Mr. O.! Go on with your base, vile, wretched, contemptible,
unmanly insinuations. Do go on, pray--I like it. Oh, you odious wretch!
You spectacle-making monster!"
"Do not," cried Johanna, who saw the heightened colour of her father's
cheek. "Oh, do not let me be the unhappy cause of any quarrelling.
Father! father!"
"Hush, my dear, don't you say another word. Cousin Ben is coming to take
a little bit of lunch with us to-day."
"I know it," cried Mrs. Oakley, clapping her hands together with a
vengeance that made Oakley jump again. "I know it. Oh, you wretch. You
couldn't have put on such airs if your bully had not been coming; I
thought the last time he came here was enough for him. Aye, and for you
too, Mr. O."
"It was nearly too much," said the spectacle-maker, shaking his head.
"Tow row, row, row, row!" cried Big Ben, popping his head into the
parlour, "what do you all bring it in now? Wilful murder with the chill
off or what? Ah, mother Oakley, what's the price of vinegar now,
wholesale--pluck does it. Here you is. Ha, ha! Aint we a united family.
Couldn't stay away from you, Mother Oakley, no more nor I could from
that ere laughing hyena we has in the Tower."
"Eugh!--wretch!"
"Sit down, Ben," said Mr. Oakley. "I am glad to see you, and I am quite
sure Johanna is."
"Oh, yes, yes."
"That's it," said Ben. "It's on Johanna's account I came. Now, little
one, just tell me--"
Johanna had just time to place her finger upon her lips, unobserved by
any one, and shake her head at Ben.
"Ah--hem! How are you, eh?" he said, turning the conversation. "Come,
Mother O., stir your old stumps and be alive, will you? I have come to
lunch with your lord and master, so bustle--bustle."
Mrs. Oakley rose, and placing her hands upon her hips, she looked at
Ben, as she said--
"You great, horrid, man-mountain of a wretch. I only wonder you ain't
afraid, after the proper punishment you had on the occasion of your last
visit, to show your horrid face here again?"
"You _deludes_ to the physicking, I suppose, mum. Lor bless you, it did
us no end of good; but, howsomedever, we provide agin wice in animals
when we knows on it aforehand, do you see. Oh, there you is."
A boy howled out from the shop--"Did a gentleman order two gallons of
half-and-half here, please?"
"All's right," said Ben. "Now, Mother O., the only thing I'll trouble
you for, is a knife and fork. As for the rest of the combustibles, here
they is."
Ben took from one capacious pocket a huge parcel, containing about six
pounds of boiled beef, and from the other he took as much ham.
"Hold hard!" he cried to the boy who brought the beer. "Take this
half-crown, my lad, and get three quartern loaves."
"But, Ben," said old Mr. Oakley, "I really had no intention, when I
asked you to come to lunch this morning, of making you provide it
yourself. We have, or we ought to have, plenty of everything in the
house."
"Old birds," said Ben, "isn't to be caught twice. A fellow, arter he has
burnt his fingers, is afeard o' playing with the fire. No, Mrs. O., you
gave us a benefit last time, and I ain't a-going to try my luck again.
All's right--pitch into the grub. How is the chosen vessel, Mother O.?
All right, eh?"
Mrs. Oakley waited until Ben had made an immense sandwich of ham and
beef; and then in an instant, before he was aware of what she was about,
she caught it up, and slapped it in his face with a vengeance that was
quite staggering.
"Easy does it," said Ben.
"Take that, you great, fat elephant."
"Go it--go it."
Mrs. Oakley bounced out of the room. Johanna looked her sorrow; and Mr.
Oakley rose from his chair, but Ben made him sit down again, saying--
"Easy does it--easy does it. Never mind her, cousin Oakley. She must
have her way sometimes. Let her kick and be off. There's no harm
done--not a bit. Lord bless you. I'm used to all sorts of cantankerous
animals."
Mr. Oakley shook his head.
"Forget it, father," said Johanna.
"I only wish, my dear, I could forget many things; and yet there are so
many others, that I want to remember, mixed up with them, that I don't
know how I should manage to separate them one from the other."
"You couldn't do it," said Ben. "Here's luck in a bag, and shake it out
as you want it."
This sentiment was uttered while Ben's head was deep in the recesses of
the two-gallon can of beer, so that it had a peculiar solemn and
sonorous effect with it. After drinking about a quart, Ben withdrew the
can, and drew a long breath.
"Has he brought yours?" he said.
"What?--who?"
"Why the other two gallons for you and Johanna."
"Good gracious, Ben, you don't mean that?"
"Don't I, though. Oh, here he is. All's right. Now, my lad, get the
little pint jug, with the silver top to it, and if we don't mull a drop,
I'm a sinner. Now, you'll see if Mrs. O. don't come round quite
handsome."
Ben, by the aid of some sugar, succeeded in making a very palatable
drink, and just as the steam began to salute the nostrils of old Oakley
and himself, the door of the parlour was opened, and who should
heedlessly step into the room but the pious Mr. Lupin himself. Mr. Lupin
was so transfixed by finding Ben there, that for a moment or two he
could not gather strength to retreat; and during that brief period, Ben
had shifted his chair, until he got quite behind the reverend gentleman,
who, when he did step back, in consequence fell into Ben's lap.
"What do yer mean?" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder.
"Oh, murder--murder! Have mercy upon me! I only looked in as I was
passing, to ask how all the family was."
"Yes," said Mr. Oakley, "and because you, no doubt, heard I was going to
Tottenham, to Judge Merivale's, to fit him with a pair of spectacles."
"Oh, dear! Oh, dear! Let me go, sir."
"I don't want you," said Ben; "but as you are here, let's make an end of
all differences, and have a pint together."
"A pint?"
"Yes, to be sure. By the look of your nose, I should say it knows pretty
well what a pint is."
"Oh, dear--man is sinful alway. I bear no malice, and if the truly
right-minded and pious Mrs. Oakley was only here, we might drink down
all differences, Mr. a--a--"
"Ben."
"Mr. Ben. Thank you, sir."
"Oh, Mr. Lupin," cried Mrs. Oakley, at this moment bursting into the
parlour. "Is it possible that you can give your mind in this way to the
Philistines? Is not this backsliding?"
"Let us hope for the best, sister," said Mr. Lupin, with an evangelical
twang. "Let us hope for the best. If people will drink, they had much
better drink with the saints, who may take some favourable opportunity
of converting them, than with sinners."
"Sit down, mum," said Ben, "and let's bury all animosities in the can.
Easy does it. Don't you go, Johanna."
"Yes, but, Ben, I--"
"Now don't."
Ben saw by the direction of Johanna's eyes, that the Rev. gentleman was
resting one of his red raw-looking hands upon her arm, and, situated as
she was, she could not get out of his way but by rising.
"Sit still," said Ben. "Easy does it."
Lifting up the can, then, he pretended to drink out of it, and then
brought it with such a thundering crack upon Mr. Lupin's head, that it
quite staggered him.
"Paws off," said Ben. "Just attend to that ere gentle hint, old friend."
Mr. Lupin sat down with a groan.
"Now, mum," said Ben, who all the while had held fast the stone mug of
mulled porter. "Now, mum, here's some hot, that don't suit me so well as
the cold, perhaps you and Mr. Lupin will take that, while I cuts a few
more sandwiches."
He placed the jug before Mr. Lupin, who thereupon left off rubbing his
head, and said--
"I'm sure it would be highly unchristian of me to bear any malice, so,
with the Lord's leave, I will even partake of some of this worldly
liquor, called mulled porter."
Now while Mr. Lupin drank the savoury stream from the jug, it assailed
the senses of Mrs. Oakley, and when the porter was placed before her,
she raised it to her lips, saying--
"If folks are civil to me, I'm civil to them, only I don't like my godly
friends to be ill-treated. I'm sure nobody knows what I have gone
through for my family, and nobody thinks what a mother and wife I have
been. What would have become of Oakley if it hadn't been for me, is a
question I often ask myself in the middle of the night?"
"She's a wonderful woman," sighed Lupin.
"Oh, uncommon," said Ben.
"Let me go," whispered Johanna to Ben.
"No, no! Wait for the fun."
"What fun?"
"Oh, you'll see. You don't know what a trouble it has cost me, to be
sure. Only wait a bit, there's a duck, do."
Johanna did not like to say she would not, so she shrunk back in her
chair in no small curiosity, to know what was about to happen. Mrs.
Oakley lifted the jug to her lips and drunk deep. The aroma of the
liquor must have been peculiarly grateful to the palate of Mrs. Oakley,
for she certainly kept the jug at her mouth for a length of time, that,
to judge by the look of impatience upon the countenance of Mr. Lupin,
was something outrageous.
"Sister!" he said. "Mind your breath."
Down came the jug, and Mrs. Oakley, when she could draw breath, gasped--
"Very good indeed. A dash of allspice would make it delicious."
"Oh, sister," cried Lupin as he grasped the jug, that was gently pushed
towards him by Ben after Mrs. Oakley had set it down. "Oh, sister, don't
give your mind to carnal things, I beg of you. Why, she's drank it all."
Mr. Lupin peered into the jug. He shut the right eye and looked in with
the left, and then he shut the left eye and looked in with the right,
and then he moved the jug about until the silver lid came down with a
clap, that nearly snapped his nose off.
"What's the matter?" said Ben.
"I--I--don't exactly--" Mr. Lupin raised the lid again and again, and
peered into the jug in something of the fashion which popular belief
supposes a crow to look into a marrow bone.
At length he turned the jug upside down, and struck the bottom of it
with his pious knuckles. A huge toad fell sprawling upon the table. Mrs.
Oakley gave a shriek, and rushed into the yard. Mr. Lupin gave a groan,
and flew into the street, and the party in the parlour could hear them
in a state of horrible sickness.
"Easy does it," said Ben, "it's only a piece of wood shaped like a toad
and painted, that's all. Now I'm easy. I owed 'em one."
CHAPTER XLVI.
TOBIAS'S HEART IS TOUCHED.
Tobias is no worse all this time. But is he better? Has the godlike
spirit of reason come back to the mind-benighted boy? Has that pure and
gentle spirit recovered from its fearful thraldom, and once again opened
its eyes to the world and the knowledge of the past? We shall see.
Accompany us, reader, once again to the house of Colonel Jeffery. You
will not regret looking upon the pale face of poor Tobias again. The
room is darkened, for the sun is shining brightly, and an almond tree in
the front garden is not sufficiently umbrageous in its uncongenial soil
to keep the bright rays from resting too strongly upon the face of the
boy. There he lies! His eyes are closed, and the long lashes--for
Tobias, poor fellow, was a pretty boy--hung upon his cheek, held down by
the moisture of a tear. The face is pale, oh, so pale and thin, and the
one arm and hand that lies outside the coverlet of the bed, show the
blue veins through the thin transparent skin. And all this is the work
of Sweeney Todd. Well, well! heaven is patient! In the room is
everything that can conduce to the comfort of the slumbering boy.
Colonel Jeffery has kept his word. And now that we have taken a look at
Tobias, tread gently on tip-toe, reader, and come with us down stairs to
the back drawing-room, where Colonel Jeffery, his friend Captain
Rathbone, the surgeon, and Mrs. Ragg are assembled. Mrs. Ragg is "crying
her eyes out," as the saying is.
"Sit down, Mrs. Ragg," said the colonel, "sit down and compose yourself.
Come, now, there is no good done by this immoderate grief."
"But I can't help it."
"You can control it. Sit down."
"But I oughtn't to sit down. I'm the cook, you know, sir."
"Well, well; never mind that, if you are my cook. If I ask you to be
seated, you may waive all ceremony. We want to ask you a few questions,
Mrs. Ragg."
Upon this Tobias's mother did sit down, but it was upon the extreme edge
of a chair, so that the slightest touch to it in the world would have
knocked it from under her, and down she would have gone on to the floor.
"I'm sure, gentlemen, I'll answer anything I know, and more too, with
all the pleasure in life, for, as I often said to poor Mr. Ragg, who is
dead and gone, and buried accordingly in St. Martin's, as he naturally
might, and a long illness he had, and what with one thing and--"
"Yes! yes! we know all that. Just attend to us for one moment, if you
please, and do not speak until you thoroughly understand the nature of
the question we are about to put to you."
"Certainly not, sir. Why should I speak, for as I often and often said,
when--"
"Hush, hush!"
Mrs. Ragg was silent at last, and then the surgeon spoke to her calmly
and deliberately, for he much wished her clearly to understand what he
was saying to her.
"Mrs. Ragg, we still think that the faculties of your son Tobias are not
permanently injured, and that they are only suffering from a frightful
shock."
"Yes, sir, they is frightfully shook."
"Hush! We think that if anything that greatly interested him could be
brought to bear upon the small amount of perception that remains to him
he would recover. Do you now know of anything that might exercise a
strong influence over him?"
"Lord bless you--no, sir."
"How old is he?"
"Fifteen, sir, and you would hardly believe what a time of it I had with
Tobias. All the neighbours said--'Well, if Mrs. Ragg gets over this,
she's a woman of ten thousand;' and Mrs. Whistlesides, as lived next
door, and had twins herself, owned she never--"
"Good God, will you be quiet, madam?"
"Quiet, sir? I'm sure I haven't said two words since I've been in the
blessed room. I appeal to the _kernel_."
"Well! well! it appears then, Mrs. Ragg, you can think of nothing that
is at all likely to aid us in this plan of awakening, by some strong
impression, the dormant faculties of Tobias?"
"No, gentlemen, no! I only wish I could, poor boy; and there's somebody
else wasting away for grief about him; poor little thing, when she heard
that Tobias was mad, I'm sure I thought she'd have broke her heart, for
if Tobias ever loved anybody in all the world, it was little Minna Gray.
Ah! it's affecting to think how such children love each other, ain't it,
sir? Lord bless you, the sound of her footstep was enough for him, and
his eyes would get like two stars, as he'd clap his hands together, and
cry--'Ah! that's dear Minna.' That was before he went to Mr. Todd's,
poor fellow."
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir, oh, you haven't an idea."
"I think I have. Who is this Minna Gray, who so enthralled his boyish
fancy?"
"Why, she's widow Gray's only child, and they live in Milford Lane,
close to the Temple, you see, and even Tobias used to go with me to
drink tea with Mrs. Gray, as we was both _bequeathed_ women in a world
of trouble."
"You were what?"
"Bequeathed."
"Bereaved you mean, I suppose, Mrs. Ragg; but how could you tell me that
you knew of no means of moving Tobias's feelings. This Minna Gray, if he
really loves her, is the very thing."
"Lor, sir. What do you mean?"
"Why, I mean that if you can get this Minna Gray here, the possibility
is that it will be the recovery of Tobias. At all events, it is the only
chance of that kind that presents itself. If that fails, we must only
trust to time. How old is this girl?"
"About fourteen, sir, and though I say it--"
"Well, well. Do you now, as a woman of the world, Mrs. Ragg, think that
she has an affection for poor Tobias?"
"Do I think? Lor bless you, sir, she doats on the ground he walks on,
that she does--poor young thing. Hasn't she grizzled a bit. It puts me
in mind of--"
"Yes, yes. Of course it does. Now, Mrs. Ragg, you understand it is an
object with our friend the colonel here, that no one but yourself should
know that Tobias is here. Could you get this young girl to come to tea,
for instance, with you, without telling her what else she is wanted
for?"
"Dear me, yes, sir; for, as I used to say to Mr. Ragg, who is dead and
gone, and buried in St. Martin's--"
"Exactly. Now go and get her by all means, and when she comes here we
will speak to her, but above all things be careful what you say."
"I think Mrs. Ragg is already aware," said Colonel Jeffery, "that her
son's safety, as well as her own, depends upon her discretion in keeping
his whereabouts a profound secret. We will instruct this young girl when
she comes here."
Colonel Jeffery, when he heard that the medical man was of opinion that
the experiment of awakening the feelings of Tobias, by bringing Minna
Gray, was worth trying, at once acquiesced, and urged upon Mrs. Ragg to
go and see Minna. After many more speeches, about as much to the purpose
as those which we have already formed, Mrs. Ragg got herself dressed and
went upon her errand. She was instructed to say that she had found
herself unequal to being a laundress in the Temple, and so had thought
it was better to return to her own original occupation of cook in a
gentleman's family, and that, as she had the liberty to do so, she
wished Minna Gray to come and take tea with her. Thus forewarned of the
part she was to play, Mrs. Ragg started upon her mission, in which we
need not follow her, for the result of it is all that we particularly
care about, and that consisted in her bringing Minna in great triumph to
the colonel's house. Colonel Jeffery, and Captain Rathbone, who was
staying to dine with him, saw the young girl as she came up the garden
path. She was one of those small, delicately beautiful young creatures,
who seem specially made to love and be loved. Her light auburn hair hung
in dancing curls down her fair cheeks, and her beautifully shaped lips
and pearly teeth were of themselves features that imparted much
loveliness to her countenance. She had, too, about her face all the
charm of childish beauty, which bespoke her so young as to have lost
little of that springtide grace, which, alas! is so fleeting. Add to all
this a manner so timid, so gentle, and so retiring, that she seemed to
be an inhabitant of some quieter world than this, and you have Minna
Gray, who had crept into the boyish heart of poor Tobias, before your
eyes.
"What a gentle quiet looking little creature," said the captain.
"She is indeed; and what a contrast!"
"Between her and Mrs. Ragg, you mean? It does indeed look like an
elephant escorting a fawn. But Mrs. Ragg has her good qualities."
"She has, and they are numerous. She is honest and candid as the day,
and almost the only fault that can be laid to her charge is her
garrulity."
"How do you mean to proceed?"
"Why, Rathbone, I mean to condescend to do what, under any other
circumstances, would be most unjustifiable--that is, listen to the
conversation of Mrs. Ragg with Minna Gray; I do so with the concurrence
of the old lady, who is to lead her to speak of Tobias, and it is solely
for the purpose of judging if she really loves the boy, and making a
proper report to the surgeon, that I do so."
"You are right enough, Jeffery; the end in this case, at all events,
sanctifies the means, however defective such a system of philosophy may
be as a general thing. May I likewise be an auditor?"
"I was going to ask you to so far oblige me, for I shall then have the
advantage of your opinion; so you will do me a favour."
There was a small pantry called a butler's pantry close to the kitchen,
into which Mrs. Ragg had taken Minna Gray. A door opened from this
pantry into the kitchen, and another on to the landing at the foot of
the kitchen stairs. Now Mrs. Ragg was to take care that the door opening
to the kitchen should be just ajar, and the colonel and his friend could
get into the pantry by the other mode of entrance. Colonel Jeffery was a
gentleman in the fullest sense of the term, and he kept no useless
bloated menials about him, so the butler's pantry had no butler to
interfere with him, the colonel, in his own house. In the course of a
few minutes Jeffery and Rathbone were in the pantry, from whence they
could both see and hear what passed in the kitchen. To be sure there was
a certain air of restraint about Mrs. Ragg at the thought that her
master was listening to what passed, and that lady had a propensity to
use hard words, of the meaning of which she was in the most delightful
state of ignorance; but as it was to Minna Gray's conversation that the
colonel wanted to listen, these little peculiarities of Mrs. Ragg upon
the occasion did not much matter. Of course, Minna thought she had no
other auditors than her old friend. Mrs. Ragg was quite busy over the
tea.
"Well, my dear," she said to Minna, "this is a world we live in."
Mrs. Ragg, no doubt, intended this as a discursive sort of remark that
might open any conversation very well, and lead to anything, and she was
not disappointed, for it seemed to give to the young girl courage to
utter that which was struggling to her lips.
"Mrs.--Mrs. Ragg," she began, hesitatingly.
"Yes. My dear, let me fill your cup."
"Thank you; but I was going to say--"
"A little more sugar?"
"No, no. But I cannot place a morsel in my lips, Mrs. Ragg, or think or
speak to you of anything else, until you have told me if you have heard
any news of poor--poor--"
"Tobias?"
"Yes--yes--yes!"
Minna Gray placed her two little hands upon her face and burst into
tears. Mrs. Ragg made a snuffling sort of noise that, no doubt, was
highly sympathetic, and after a pause of a few moments' duration, Minna
gathered courage to speak again.
"You know, Mrs. Ragg, the last you told me of him was that--that Mr.
Todd had said he was mad, you know, and then you went to fetch somebody,
and when you came back he was gone; and Mr. Todd told you the next day
that poor Tobias ran off at great speed and disappeared. Has anything
been heard of him since?"
"Ah, my dear, alas! alas!"
"Why do you cry alas?--Have you any more sad news to tell me?"
"He was my only son--and all the world and his wife, as the saying is,
can't tell how much I loved him."
Minna Gray clasped her hands, and, while the tears coursed down her
young fair cheeks, she said--
"And I, too, loved him!"
"I always thought you did, my dear, and I'm sure, if you had been an
angel out of Heaven, my poor boy could not have thought more of you than
he did. There was nothing that you said or did that was not excellent.
He loved the ground you walked on; and a little old worsted mitten, that
you left at our place once, he used to wear round his neck, and kiss it
when he thought no one was nigh, and say--'This was my Minna's!'"
The young girl let her head rest upon her hands, and sobbed
convulsively.
"Lost--lost!" she said, "and poor, kind, good Tobias is lost!"
"No, my dear, it's a long lane that hasn't a turning. Pluck up your
courage, and your courage will pluck up you. Keep sixpence in one
pocket, and hope in another. When things are at the worst they mend. You
can't get further down in a well than the bottom."
Minna sobbed on.
"And so, my dear," added Mrs. Ragg, "I do know something more of
Tobias."
The young girl looked up.
"He lives!--he lives!"
"Lor a mussy, don't lay hold of a body so. Of course he lives, and,
what's more, the doctor says that you ought to see him--he's up stairs."
"Here?--here?"
"Yes, to be sure. That's why I brought you to tea."
Minna Gray took a fit of trembling, and then, making great efforts to
compose herself, she said--
"Tell me all--tell me all!"
"Well, my dear, it's an ill wind that blows nobody good, and so here I
am, cook in as good a place as mortal woman would wish to have. I can't
tell you all the rights of the story, because I don't know it. But
certainly Tobias is up stairs in bed like a gentleman, only they say as
his brains is--is something or another that makes him not understand
anything or anybody, and so you see the doctor says if you speak to him,
who knows but what he may come to himself?"
With an intuitive tact that belongs to some minds, and which Minna Gray,
despite the many disadvantages of her social position, possessed in an
eminent degree, she understood at once the whole affair. Tobias was
suffering from some aberration of intellect, which the voice and the
presence of one whom he loved fondly might dissipate. Would she shrink
from the trial?--would her delicacy take the alarm and overcome her
great desire to recover Tobias? Oh, no; she loved him with a love that
far outstripped all smaller feelings, and, if ever there was a time when
that love took complete possession of her heart, it was at this
affecting moment, when she was told that her voice might have the magic
power of calling back to him the wandering reason that harshness and
ill-usage had for a time toppled from its throne.
"Take me to him!" she cried--"take me to him! If all that is wanted to
recover him be the voice of affection, he will soon be as he was once to
us."
"Well, my dear, take your tea, and I'll go and speak to the _kernel_."
It was now time for Colonel Jeffery and his friend, the captain, to
retire from the pantry, where we need not say that they had been pleased
and affected listeners to what had passed between Mrs. Ragg and the fair
and intelligent Minna Gray, who, in beauty and intelligence, far
exceeded their utmost expectations.
CHAPTER XLVII.
TOBIAS RECOVERS HIS INTELLECT.
In the course of a quarter of an hour the surgeon was sent for, and then
Mrs. Ragg tapped at the drawing-room door, to give the colonel an
account of the success of her mission; but he at once said to her--
"We know all, Mrs. Ragg. We merely wish to see Tobias first, so that the
medical gentleman may see exactly his condition, and then if you will
bring Minna Gray here I will speak to her, and, I hope, put her quite at
her ease as regards what she has to do."
"Certainly, sir, certainly. Hold fast, and good comes at last."
The surgeon and the two gentlemen went to Tobias's chamber, and there
they found him in the same lethargic condition that, with only
occasional interruptions, he had continued in since he had been in the
colonel's house. These interruptions consisted in moaning appeals for
mercy, and at times the name of Todd would pass his lips, in accents
which showed what a name of terror it was to him. The surgeon placed his
hand upon Tobias's head.
"Tobias!" he said, "Tobias!"
A deep sigh was his answer.
"Tobias! Tobias!"
"Oh, God! God!" cried Tobias, feebly. "Spare me--I will tell nothing.
Oh, spare me, Mr. Todd.--Repent now. There, there--the blood! What a
crowd of dead men. Dead--dead--dead--all dead!"
"No better?" said the colonel.
"Not a bit. On the contrary, the longer he remains in this condition,
the less chance there will be of his recovery. I shall lose hope, if
this last experiment produces no good results. Let us go and speak to
the young girl."
They all descended to the drawing-room, and Minna Gray was summoned.
Colonel Jeffery took her kindly by the hand and led her to a seat, and
then he said to her--
"Now, Miss Gray, remember that all here are friends to you and to
Tobias, and that we all feel deeply for him and for you. You are very
young, both of you, but that is no reason on earth why you should not
love each other."
Minna looked up at him through her tears, as she said--
"Is he very--very ill?"
"He is indeed. We suspect--indeed, I may say we know, that his mind has
received so severe a shock that, for a time, it is deranged; but we hope
that, as that derangement, you understand, has not arisen from any
disease, pleasant and agreeable impressions may restore him. What we
want you to do is to speak to him as you, no doubt, have been in the
habit of doing in happier times."
"Yes, yes, sir."
"I think you know exactly what we mean?"
"I do, sir--indeed I do."
"Oh, bless you, sir, she understands," said Mrs. Ragg. "A nod is as good
as a wink to a blind horse, you know, gentlemen. Handsome is as handsome
does--as I used to say to the late Mr. Ragg, who is naturally dead and
gone, and accordingly buried in St. Martin's--"
"You can tell us that another time, madam," said the surgeon. "At
present, you see we are rather busy. Now, Miss Gray, if you will have
the goodness to come with me, we will see what can be done for our young
friend above stairs."
Poor Minna Gray! How her colour went and came like the sunlight of an
April day, as she accompanied the three gentlemen and Mrs. Ragg up
stairs to Tobias's chamber. How she trembled when they reached the
landing; and what a faintness came over her when the door was opened,
and she saw that dimly-lighted room.
"Courage," whispered Colonel Jeffery to her. "This is a holy errand you
are upon."
"Yes, yes."
"Cut your coat according to your cloth," said Mrs. Ragg, who, provided
she thought of a proverb, was not very particular with regard to its
applicability to the circumstances under which she uttered it. "Keep
your feet to the length of your sheet."
"Pray, madam," said the surgeon, who seemed to have quite a horror of
Mrs. Ragg. "Pray, madam, oblige me by being silent."
"A still tongue makes a wise head."
"Good God, colonel! will you speak to her?"
"Hush, Mrs. Ragg!" said Colonel Jeffery. "Hush! You will perhaps be the
means of spoiling this important effort for the recovery of your son if
you are not perfectly quiet."
Thus admonished, Mrs. Ragg shrank into the background a little, and the
colonel went to the window and let in a little more light. The surgeon
conducted Minna Gray to the bed-side, and she looked upon the boy who
had won her childish heart through a world of tears.
"It is--it is--Tobias!"
"Is he much altered?"
"Oh, yes; much--much. He--he used to look so happy. His--his face was
like a piece of sunshine!"
She sank upon a chair that was by the bed-side, and sobbed.
"This will never do," said the surgeon.
"Wait--oh, wait a little," she whispered. "Only wait a little.--I shall
be better soon."
The surgeon nodded; and then stepping back to the colonel and the
captain, he said--
"This burst of grief must have its way, or it will mar all. We must have
patience."
They all hid themselves behind the folds of the bed furniture, and Mrs.
Ragg sat down in an obscure corner of the room, working her knee up and
down, as though she were nursing an imaginary baby. Gradually the sobs
of Minna Gray subsided, until all was still. She then gently took one of
the thin wasted hands of poor Tobias in her own, and looked at it. Oh,
how changed it was. She then bent over him, and looked in his face. What
permeative lines of care were there, battling with rounded muscles of
early youth! Then she summoned all her courage to speak. She placed her
lips close to his ear, and in the soft sweet accents that had long
before sank deep into his heart, she said--
"Tobias!--my Tobias!"
The boy started.
"Dear Tobias, it is I. Minna!"
He opened his eyes, which had been closed and seemingly cemented by
tears.
"Tobias! Tobias, dear!"
A smile--a heavenly smile. It was the first that had played upon his
lips since he set foot in the shop of Sweeney Todd, now broke like a
sunbeam over his face.
"I am mad--mad!" he said, gently, "or that is the voice of my Minna."
"It is your Minna. It is--it is, Tobias; look at me."
He rose up in the bed--he cast one glance at the well-known and dearly
remembered face, and then, with a gasping sob of joy, he clasped her in
his arms.
"It's done," said the surgeon.
"Thank God!" said Colonel Jeffery.
Mrs. Ragg drew her breath so hard through her nose that she made a noise
like some wild animal in the agonies of suffocation.
"You really know me, Tobias?"
"Know you, dear? Oh, why should I not know you, Minna? God bless you!"
"May He bless you, Tobias."
They wept together; Minna forgot that there was anybody in the world but
herself and Tobias, and parting the long straggling masses of his hair
from before his face, she kissed him.
"For my sake, Tobias, now you will take care of yourself, and recover
quickly."
"Dear--dear Minna."
He seemed never tired of holding her hands and kissing them. Suddenly
the surgeon stepped forward with a small vial in his hand.
"Now, Tobias," he said, "you are much better, but you must take this."
The look of surprise and consternation with which Tobias regarded him
was beyond description. Then he glanced at the bedstead and the rich
hangings, and he said--
"Oh, Minna, what is all this? Where am I? Is it a dream?"
"Give it to him," said the surgeon, handing the vial to Minna. She
placed the neck of it to his lips.
"Drink, Tobias."
Had it been deadly poison she had offered him, Tobias would have taken
it. The vial was drained. He looked in her face again with a smile.
"If this is indeed a dream, my Minna, may I never
awaken--dear--dear--one--I--I--"
[Illustration: Tobias Restored To His Senses By Minna's Assistance.]
He fell back upon the pillow. The smile still lingered upon his face,
but the narcotic which the surgeon had had administered to him had
produced its effect, and the enfeebled Tobias fell into deep sleep.
Minna Gray looked rather alarmed at this sudden falling off of Tobias
from waking to sleeping, but the surgeon quieted her fears.
"All is right," he said. "He will awaken in some hours wonderfully
refreshed, and I have the pleasure of now predicting his perfect cure."
"You do not know," said Colonel Jeffery, "what pleasure that assurance
gives me."
"And me," said the captain.
Minna looked all that she thought, but she could not speak, and Mrs.
Ragg, still kept up the mysterious noise she produced by hard breathing
with her mouth close shut.
"Now, madam," said the surgeon to her, "our young friend must be left
alone for some hours. It is now six o'clock, and I do not expect he will
awaken until twelve. When he does so, I am very much mistaken if you do
not all of you find him perfectly restored and composed, although very
weak."
"I will take care to be at hand," said the colonel. "Miss Gray, perhaps
you will call and see how he is to-morrow, and all I can say is, that
you will be quite welcome to my house whenever you think proper, but let
me impress upon you one thing."
"What is it, sir?"
"The absolute necessity of your keeping Tobias's place of abode and
anything concerning him a most profound secret."
"I will do so."
"If you do not, you will not only endanger the cause of justice, but in
all probability his life, for he has an enemy with great resources, and
of the most unscrupulous disposition in the use of them: I say this much
to you, because the least indiscretion might be fatal."
"I will guard the secret, sir, as I would guard his life."
"That will do--now come down stairs, and let us have a glass of wine to
drink to the speedy restoration to perfect health of Tobias. Come,
Rathbone, what do you think? Shall we be one too many yet for Todd?"
"I begin to think we shall."
"I feel certain of it. So soon as we see that Tobias is sufficiently
well to make any statement, it will be necessary to send for Sir Richard
Blunt."
"Certainly."
"And then I hope and trust that we shall get at something that will
elucidate the mystery that is still attached to the fate of poor
Thornhill."
"Ah, I fear he is gone!"
"Dead?"
"Yes. That fatal string of pearls has heralded him to death, I fear;
but, perhaps we shall hear a something concerning that yet from Tobias."
They all sat down in the drawing-room, and with tearful pleasure Minna
Gray drank a glass of wine to the health of Tobias, after which Mrs.
Ragg saw her home again to Milford Lane, and no doubt all the road from
this colonel's house to there did not want for a prolific subject of
conversation. How happy Minna felt when she put up to Heaven her simple
prayer that night, previous to seeking repose.
CHAPTER XLVIII.
JOHANNA MAKES A NEW CONFIDANT.
We left the spectacle-maker and his family rather in a state of
confusion. Big Ben the Beef-eater had had his revenge upon both Mrs.
Oakley and the Saint, and it was a revenge that really did them no harm,
so that in that respect it had turned out well. The Rev. Josiah Lupin
did not return to the house, but Mrs. Oakley, in a terrible state of
prostration from the effects of the sickness that had come over her,
staggered again into the parlour. She looked at Mr. Oakley, as she
said--
"If you were half a man you would take the life of that villain for
treating me in the way he has; I have no doubt but he meant to take the
life of the pious Mr. Lupin, and so add him to the list of martyrs."
"My dear," said the spectacle-maker, "if Mr. Lupin intrudes himself into
my house, and any friend of mine turns him out, I am very much obliged
to him."
"Perhaps you would be equally obliged to this monster, whom you call
your friend, if he would turn me out?"
Mr. Oakley shook his head as he said--
"My dear, there are some burthens which can be got rid of, and some that
must be borne."
"Come--come, Mother Oakley," said Ben. "Don't bear malice. You played me
a trick the last time I came here, and now I have played you one. That's
all. It wasn't in human nature not to do it, so don't bear malice."
Mrs. Oakley, if she had been in a condition to do so, no doubt would
have carried on the war with Big Ben, but she decidedly was not, and
after a shudder or two, which looked as though she thought the toad was
beginning again to oppress her, she rose to leave the room.
"Mother," said Johanna, "it was not a real toad."
"But you are!" said Mrs. Oakley, sharply. "You have no more feeling for
your mother than as if she were a brickbat."
Feeling now that at all events she had had the last word at somebody,
Mrs. Oakley made a precipitate retreat, and sought the consolations and
solitude of her own chamber. Mr. Oakley was about to make some speech,
which he prefaced with a sigh, when some one coming into the shop called
his attention, and he left Johanna and Big Ben the Beef-eater together
in the parlour. The moment they were alone, Ben began shaking his head
and making some very mysterious signs, which completely mystified
Johanna. Indeed she began to be afraid that Ben's intellects were not
quite right, although an ordinary observer might have very well supposed
there was something the matter with his nether garments, for he pointed
to them repeatedly, and shook his head at Johanna.
"What is the matter, cousin?" she said.
"Oh, dear!--oh, dear!--oh--oh--oh!"
"Are you ill?"
"No, but I only wonder as you ain't. Didn't I see you in Fleet-street
with these here on?--oh!--oh!--not these here exactly, but another pair.
These would be a trifle too large for you. Oh, dear-a-me! my heart bled
all for to see such a young and delicate little puss as you a taking to
wear the thingamies so soon."
Johanna now began to understand what Ben meant, namely, that he had seen
her in Fleet-street disguised in male attire, with her young friend
Arabella Wilmot.
"Oh, Ben," she said, "you must not think ill of me on that account."
"But--but," said Ben, rather hesitatingly, as if he were only putting a
doubtful proposition, "wasn't it rather unusual?"
"Yes, Ben, but there were reasons why I put on such garments. Surely it
was better to do so than--than--to--"
"Than to go without any?" said Ben.
"No--no, I did not say that--I mean it was better for me to forget a
little of that maiden delicacy which--which--than to let him--"
She burst into tears.
"Holloa!" cried Ben, as he immediately folded her in an immense embrace,
that went very near to smothering her. "Don't you cry, and you may wear
what you like, and I'll come and help you to put 'em on. Come, come,
there's a nice little dear, don't you cry. Lord bless you! you know how
fond I am of you, and always was since you was a little tottering thing,
and couldn't say my name right. Don't you cry. You shall wear 'em as
often as you like, and I'll go behind you in the street, and if anybody
only so much as says half a word to you, I'll be down upon 'em. Fetch
'em now and put 'em on, my dear."
Johanna must have laughed if her life had depended upon her gravity, for
all that Ben said upon the subject was uttered in the sheer simplicity
of a kind heart, and well she knew that in his rough way he doated on
her, and thought there was not such another being in the whole world as
she. And yet he looked upon her as a child, and the imperceptible flight
of time had made no difference in Ben's ideas concerning Johanna. She
was still to him the sweet little child he had so often dandled upon his
knee, and brought fruit and sweetmeats to, when such things were great
treasures. After a few moments he let her go, and Johanna was able to
draw breath again.
"Ben," she said, "I will tell you all."
"All what?"
"How I came to put on--the--the--"
"Oh, these here--very good. Cut on, and let's know all the particulars.
I suppose you felt cold, my dear, eh?"
"No--no."
"No? Well then, tell it quick, for I was always a mortal bad hand at
guessing. Your father is fitting an old gentleman with a pair of
spectacles, and he seems hard to please, so we shall have lots of time.
Go on."
"Your good opinion is of such moment to me," said Johanna, "for I have
very few to love me; now that you have seen me in such a disguise, I
should feel unhappy if I did not tell why I wore it."
Ben lent the most attentive ear to what she said, and then Johanna
briefly and distinctly told him all the story of Mark Ingestrie, and how
he had, as she thought, mysteriously disappeared at the barber's shop in
Fleet-street. It will be seen that she still clung to the idea that the
Thornhill of the arrived ship was no other than her lover. Ben heard her
all out with the most fixed attention. His mouth and eyes gradually
opened wider and wider as she proceeded, partly from wonder at the whole
affair, and partly from intense admiration at the way in which she told
it, which he thought was better than any book he had ever read. When she
had concluded, Ben again folded her in his arms, and she had to struggle
terribly to get away.
"My dear child," he said, "you are a prodigy. Why, there's not an animal
as ever I knew comes near you; and so the poor fellow had his throat cut
in the barber's for his string of pearls?"
"I fear he was murdered."
"Not a doubt of it."
"You really think so, Ben?"
The tone of agony with which this question was put to him, and the look
of utter desolation which accompanied it, alarmed Ben, and he hastily
said--
"Come, come, I didn't mean that. No doubt something has happened; but it
will be all right some day or another, you may depend. Oh, dear!--oh,
dear! The idea of your going to watch the barber with some boy's clothes
on!"
"Tell me what I can do, for my heart and brain are nearly distracted by
my sufferings?"
Ben looked all round the room, and then up at the ceiling, as though he
had a hope and expectation of finding some startling suggestion written
legibly before his eyes somewhere. At length he spoke, saying--
"I tell you what, Johanna, my dear, whatever you do, don't you put on
them things again. You leave it all to me."
"But what will you do?--what can you do, Ben?"
"Well, I don't know exactly; but I'll let you know when it's done."
"But do not run into any danger for my sake."
"Danger? danger? I should like to see the barber that would interfere
with me. No, my dear, no; I'm too well used to all sorts of animals for
that. I'll see what I can do, and let you know all about it to-morrow,
and in the meantime, you stick to the petticoats, and don't be putting
on those thingamies again. You leave it to me--will you now?"
"Until to-morrow?"
"Yes, I'll be here to-morrow about this time, my dear, and I hope I
shall have some news for you. Well, I declare, it's just like a book, it
is. You are quite a prodigy."
Ben would have treated Johanna to another of the suffocating embraces,
but she contrived to elude him; and, as by this time the old gentleman
in the shop was suited with a pair of spectacles, Mr. Oakley returned to
the parlour. Johanna placed her finger upon her lips as an indication to
Ben that he was to say nothing to her father of what had passed between
them, for, although Mr. Oakley knew generally the story of his
daughter's attachment to Mark Ingestrie, as the reader is aware, he knew
nothing of the expedition to Fleet-street in disguise. Ben, feeling that
he had now an important secret to keep, shut his mouth hard, for fear it
should escape, and looked so mysterious, that any one more sharp-sighted
than the old spectacle-maker must have guessed that something very
unusual was the matter. Mr. Oakley, however, had no suspicions; but as
this state of things was very irksome to Ben, he soon rose to take his
leave.
"I shall look in again to-morrow," he said, "Cousin Oakley."
"We shall be glad to see you," said Mr. Oakley.
"Yes," added Johanna, who felt it incumbent upon her to say something,
"we shall be very glad to see you indeed."
"Ah," said her father, "you and Ben were always great friends."
"And we always shall be," said Ben. Then he thought that he would add
something wonderfully clever, so as completely to ward off all
suspicions of Oakley's, if he had any, and he added--"She ain't like
some young creatures that think nothing of putting on what they
shouldn't. Oh dear, no--not she. Bye, bye. I'll come to-morrow."
Ben was quite pleased when he got out of the house, for among the things
that he (Ben) found it difficult to do, was to keep a secret.
"Well," he said, when he was fairly in the open air, "if I ain't rather
nonplussed at all this. What shall I do?"
This was a question much easier asked than answered, as Ben found; but,
however, he felt an irresistible desire to go and have a look at the
shop of Sweeney Todd.
"I can easily," he said, "go to Fleet-street, and then, if I find myself
late, I can take a boat at Blackfriars for the Tower-stairs, and after
all get in to dinner comfortably enough."
With this conclusion, Ben set off at a good pace down Snow-hill, and was
soon at the beginning of Fleet-street. He walked on until he came to
Sweeney Todd's shop, and there he paused. Now we have previously
remarked that there was one great peculiarity in the shop-window of
Todd, and that was that the articles in it were so well arranged that
some one always was in the way of obtaining any view from the outside
into the establishment. Todd was therefore secure against the dangers
arising from peeping and prying. Big Ben placed himself close to the
window, and made an attempt, by flattening his nose against the panes of
glass, to peep in; but it was all in vain. He could not obtain the
smallest glimpse into the inside.
"Confound it," he cried, "what a cunning sort of animal this is to be
sure--he won't let one peep through the bars of his cage, that he
won't."
Now Sweeney Todd became aware, by the additional darkness of his shop,
that some one must be quite close to the window, and therefore, availing
himself of a peep-hole that he had expressly for the purpose of
reconnoitering the passing world without, he took a long look at Big
Ben. It was some moments before Ben caught sight of a great eye in the
window of Sweeney Todd glancing at him. This eye appeared as if it were
set in the centre of a placard, which announced in glowing language the
virtues of some condiment for the hair or the skin, and it had a most
ferocious aspect. Big Ben looked fascinated and transfixed to the spot,
and then he muttered to himself--
"Well, if that's his eye, it's a rum 'un. Howsomdever, it's no use
staying outside: I'll pop in and get shaved, and then I shall be able to
look about me. Who's afraid?"
As Ben turned round, he saw a plainly-attired man close to his elbow;
but he took no notice of him, although from his close proximity to him
it was quite impossible that the plain-looking man could have failed to
overhear what Ben said. In another moment Big Ben was in Todd's shop.
"Shaved or dressed, sir?" said Todd.
"Shaved," said Ben, as he cast his eyes round the shop.
"Looking for anything, sir?" said Todd.
"Oh, no--nothing at all. Only a friend of mine, you see, said this was
such a nice shop, you understand, to be shaved in."
"Was your friend finished off here, sir?"
"Well, I rather think he was."
"Pray sit down. Fine weather, sir, for the season. Now, pussy, my dear,
get out of the way of the hot water." Todd was addressing an imaginary
cat. "Are you fond of animals, sir? Lord bless me, I'm fond of all the
world. God made us all, sir, from a creeping beetle to a beef-eater."
"Very likely," said Big Ben, as he seated himself in the barber's chair.
"And so," added Todd, as he mixed up a lather, and made the most
horrible faces, "we ought to love each other in this world of care. How
is your friend, sir, who was so kind as to recommend my shop?"
"I should like to know."
"What, is he in eternity? Dear me!"
"Well, I rather think he is."
"Was it the gentleman who was hung last Monday, sir?"
"Confound you, no. But there's somebody else who I think will be hung
some Monday. I tell you what it is, Mr. Barber, my friend never got
further than this infernal shop, so I'm come to enquire about him."
"What sort of man, sir?" said Todd, with the most imperturbable
coolness.
"What kind of man?"
"Yes, sir. If you favour me with his description, perhaps I may be able
to tell you something about him. By the bye, if you will excuse me for
one moment, I'll bring you something that a gentleman left here one
day."
"What is it?"
"I will satisfy you directly, sir, and I'm quite certain your mind will
be at rest about your friend, sir, whoever he was. Remarkable weather,
sir, for the time of year."
Todd had got only half way from the shop to the parlour, when the
shop-door opened, and the plain-looking man walked in--the very same
plain man who had stood so close to Big Ben at Todd's window.
"Shaved," he said.
Todd paused.
"If, sir, you will call again in a few minutes, or if you have any call
to make and can conveniently look in as you come back--"
"No, I'll take a seat."
[Illustration: Todd And The Beefeater Have Some Words.]
The plain-looking man sat down close to the door, and looked as calm and
as unconcerned as any one possibly could. The look with which Todd
regarded him for a moment, and only one moment, was truly horrible. He
then quietly went into his back parlour. In a moment he entered with a
common kid glove, and said to Ben--
"Did this belong to your friend?--a gentleman left it here one day."
Ben shook his head.
"I really don't know," he said. "Come, Mr. Barber, finish the shaving,
for that gentleman is waiting."
Ben was duly shaved; while the plain-looking man sat quietly in the
chair by the door, and when the operation was finished, Ben looked in
Todd's face, and said, solemnly--
"A string of pearls."
"Sir," said Todd, without changing countenance in the least.
"A string of pearls.--Murder!"
"A what, sir?"
Ben look staggered. He well knew that if he had cut any one's throat for
a string of pearls, that such words said to him would have driven him
frantic, but when he saw no change in Todd's face, he begun to think
that, after all, the accusation must be unfounded, and muttering to
himself--
"It must be nothing but the child's fancy after all," he hastily threw
down twopence and left the shop.
"Now, sir," said Todd, to the plain-looking man.
"Thank you."
The plain-looking man rose, and as he did so he seemed just to glance
through the door into the street as it was opened by Ben. Immediately
his face was full of smiles, as he cried--
"Ah, Jenkins, is that you? Ha, ha! I missed you this morning.--Excuse
me, Mr. Barber, I'll look in again. My old friend Jenkins has just gone
by."
With this, out he flew from Todd's shop like a shot, and was gone
towards Temple Bar, before the barber could move or lay down the shaving
cloth which he had in his hands all ready to tuck under his chin. Todd
stood for a few moments in an attitude of irresolution. Then he spoke--
"What does all this mean?" he said. "Is there danger? Curses on them
both, I would have--; but no matter, I must be wrong--very wrong. That
string of pearls may yet destroy me.--Destroy! no--no--no. They must
have yet more wit before they get the better of me, and yet how I
calculated upon the destruction of that man. I must think--I must
think."
Todd sat down in his own strong chair, and gave himself up to what is
popularly denominated a brown study.
CHAPTER XLIX.
THE VAULTS OF ST. DUNSTAN'S.
A ponderous stone was raised in the flooring of St. Dunstan's church.
The beadle, the churchwarden, and the workmen shrunk back--back--back,
until they could get no further.
"Ain't it a _norrid_ smell," said the beadle.
Then the plain-looking man who had been at Sweeney Todd's advanced. He
was no other than Sir Richard Blunt, and whispering to the churchwarden,
he said--
"If what I expect be found here, we cannot have too few witnesses to it.
Let the workmen be dismissed."
"As you please, Sir Richard. Faugh! what an awful--fuff!--stench there
is. I have no doubt they won't be sorry to get away. Here, my men,
here's half-a-crown for you. Go and get something to drink and come back
in an hour."
"Thank yer honour!" cried one of the men. "An' sure, by St. Patrick's
bones, we want something to drink, for the stench in the church sticks
in my blessed throat like a marrow bone, so it does."
"Get out," said the beadle; "I hates low people, and _hirish_. They
thinks no more of beetles than nothink in the world."
The workmen retired, laughing; and when the church was clear of them,
the churchwarden said to Sir Richard Blunt--
"Did you ever, Sir Richard, smell such a horrid charnel-house sort of
stench as comes up from that opening in the floor of the old church?"
Sir Richard shook his head, and was about to say something, when the
sound of a footstep upon the pavement of the church made him look round,
and he saw a fat, pursy-looking individual approaching.
"Oh, it's Mr. Vickley, the overseer," said the beadle. "I hopes as yer
is well, Mr. Vickley. Here's a horrid smell."
"God bless me!" cried the overseer, as with his fat finger and thumb he
held his snub nose. "What's this? It's worse and worse."
"Yes, sir," said the beadle; "talking of the smell, we have let the cat
out of the bag, I think."
"Good gracious! put her in again, then. It can't be a cat."
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Vickley, I only spoke _anatomically_. If you
comes here, sir, you'll find that all the smell comes out of this here
opening."
"What! An opening close to my pew! My family pew, where I every Sunday
enjoy my repose--I mean my hopes of everlasting glory? Upon my life, I
think it's a piece of--of d--d impudence to open the floor of the
church, close to my pew. If there was to be anything of the sort done,
couldn't it have been done somewhere among the free sittings, I should
like to know?"
"Mr. Vickley," said Sir Richard, "pray be satisfied that I have
sufficient authority for what I do here; and if I had thought it
necessary to take up the flooring of your pew while you had been in it,
I should have done it."
"And pray, sir," said Mr. Vickley, swelling himself out to as large a
size as possible, and glancing at his watch chain, to see that all the
seals hung upon the convexity of his paunch as usual--"who are you?"
"Oh, dear--oh, dear," said the beadle. "Conwulsions!--conwulsions! What
a thing it is to see authorities a-going it at each other.
Gentlemen--gentlemen. Conwulsions!--ain't there lots of poor people in
the world? Don't you be a-going it at each other."
"I am a magistrate," said Sir Richard.
"And I am an over--seer. Ah!"
"You may be an overseer or an underseer, if you like. I am going to
search the vaults of St. Dunstan's."
The churchwarden now took the overseer aside, and after a while
succeeded in calming down his irascibility.
"Oh, well--well," said Mr. Vickley. "Authorities is authorities; and if
so be as the horrid smell in the church can be got rid of, I'm as
willing as possible. It has often prevented me sleeping--I mean
listening to the sermon. Your servant, sir--I shall, of course, be very
happy to assist you."
The beadle wiped his face with his large yellow handkerchief as he
said--
"Now this here is delightful and affecting, to see authorities agreeing
together. Lord, why should authorities snap each other's noses off, when
there's lots o' poor people as can be said anything to and done anything
to, and they may snap themselves?"
"Well, well," added Mr. Vickley. "I am quite satisfied. Of course, if
there's anything disagreeable to be done in a church, and it can be done
among the free seats, it's all the better; and indeed, if the smell in
St. Dunstan's could have been kept away from the respectable part of the
congregation, I don't know that it would have mattered much."
"_Conwulsions!_" cried the beadle. "It wouldn't have mattered at all,
gentlemen. But only think o' the bishop smelling it. Upon my life,
gentlemen, I did think, when I saw the Right Rev. Father in God's nose a
looking up and down, like a cat when she smells a bunch o' lights, and
knowed as it was all owing to the smell in the church, I did think as I
could have gone down through the floor, cocked hat and all, that I did.
_Conwulsions_--that was a moment."
"It was," said the churchwarden.
"Mercy--mercy," said Mr. Vickley.
The beadle was so affected at the remembrance of what had happened at
the confirmation, that he was forced to blow his nose with an energy
that produced a trumpet-like sound in the empty church, and echoed again
from nave to gallery. Sir Richard Blunt had let all the discourse go on
without paying the least attention to it. He was quietly waiting for the
foul vapours that arose from the vaults beneath the church to dissipate
a little before he ventured upon exploring them. Now, however, he
advanced and spoke.
"Gentlemen, I hope I shall be able to rid St. Dunstan's of the stench
which for a long time has given it so unenviable a reputation."
"If you can do that," said the churchwarden, "you will delight the whole
parish. It has been a puzzle to us all where the stench could come
from."
"Where is the puzzle now?" said Sir Richard Blunt, as he pointed to the
opening in the floor of the church, from whence issued like a steamy
vapour such horrible exhalations.
"Why, certainly it must come from the vaults."
"But," said the overseer, "the parish books show that there has not been
any one buried in any of the vaults directly beneath the church for
thirty years."
"Then," said the beadle, "it's a very wrong thing of respectable
parishioners--for, of course, them as has waults is respectable--to keep
quiet for thirty years and then begin stinking like blazes. It's
uncommon wrong--_conwulsions_!"
Sir Richard Blunt took a paper from his pocket and unfolded it.
"From this plan," he said, "that I have procured of the vaults of St.
Dunstan's, it appears that the stone we have raised, and which was
numbered thirty, discloses a stone staircase communicating with two
passages, from which all the vaults can be reached. I propose searching
them; and now, gentlemen, and you, Mr. Beadle, listen to me."
They all three looked at him with surprise as he took another letter
from his pocket.
"Here," he said, "are a few words from the Secretary of State. Pray read
them, Mr. Vickley."
The overseer read as follows--
"The Secretary of State presents his compliments to Sir Richard Blunt,
and begs to say that as regards the affair at St. Dunstan's, Sir Richard
is to consider himself armed with any extraordinary powers he may
consider necessary."
"Now, gentlemen," added Sir Richard Blunt, "if you will descend with me
into the vaults, all I require of you is the most profound secrecy with
regard to what you may see there. Do you fully understand?"
"Yes," stammered Mr. Vickley, "but I rather think I--I would as soon not
go."
"Then, sir, be silent regarding the going of others. Will you go, sir?"
to the churchwarden.
"Why yes, I--I think I ought."
"I shall be obliged to go. I may feel the want of a witness. We will
take you with us, Mr. Beadle, of course."
"Me--me? Conwulsions!"
"Yes--yes. You go, you know, _ex officio_."
"Ex, the deuce, I don't want to go. Oh conwulsions! conwulsions!"
"We cannot dispense with your services," said the churchwarden. "If you
refuse to go, it will be my duty to lay your conduct before the vestry."
"Oh--oh--oh!"
"Get a torch," said Sir Richard Blunt, "and I will lower it down the
opening in the floor. If the air is not so bad as to extinguish the
light, it will not be too bad for us to breathe for a short space of
time."
Most reluctantly, and with terrible misgivings of what might be the
result of the frightful adventure into which he was about to be dragged,
the beadle fetched a link from the vestry. It was lighted, and Sir
Richard Blunt tying a string to it, let it down into the passage beneath
the church. The light was not extinguished, but it burnt feebly and with
but a wan and sickly lustre.
"It will do," said Sir Richard. "We can live in that place, although a
protracted stay might be fatal. Follow me; I will go first, and I hope
we shall not have our trouble only for our pains."
CHAPTER L.
THE DESCENT TO THE VAULTS.
Sir Richard commenced the descent.
"Come on," he said. "Come on."
He got down about half a dozen steps, but finding that no one followed
him he paused, and called out--
"Remember that time is precious. Come on!"
"Why don't you go?" said the churchwarden to the beadle.
"What! Me go afore a blessed churchwarden? Conwulsions--no! I thinks and
I hopes as I knows my place better."
"Well, but upon this occasion, if I don't mind it--"
"No--no, I could not. Conwulsions--no!"
"Ah!" said Sir Richard Blunt. "I see how it is; I shall have to do all
this business alone, and a pretty report I shall have to make to the
Secretary of State about the proceedings of the authorities of St.
Dunstan's."
The churchwarden groaned.
"I'm a coming, Sir Richard--I'm a coming. Oh dear, I tell you what it
is, Mr. Beadle, if you don't follow me, and close too, I'll have you
dismissed as sure as eggs is eggs."
"Conwulsions! conwulsions! I'm a coming."
The churchwarden descended the stairs, and the beadle followed him.
Down--down they went, guided by the dim light of the torch carried by
Sir Richard, who had not waited for them after the last words he had
spoken.
"Can you fetch your blessed breath, sir?" said the beadle.
"Hardly," said the churchwarden, gasping. "It is a dreadful place."
"Oh, yes--yes."
"Stop--Stop. Sir Richard--Sir Richard!"
There was no reply. The light from the torch grew more and more
indistinct as Sir Richard Blunt increased his distance from them, and at
length they were in profound darkness.
"I can't stand this," cried the churchwarden; and he faced about to
ascend to the church again. In his effort to do so quickly, he stretched
out his hand, and seized the beadle by the ancle, and as that personage
was not quite so firm upon his legs as might be desired, the effort of
this sudden assault was to upset him, and he rolled over upon the
churchwarden, with a force that brought them both sprawling to the
bottom of the little staircase together. Luckily they had not far to
fall, for they had not been more than six or eight steps from the foot
of the little flight. Terror and consternation for a few moments
deprived each of them of the power of speech. The beadle, however, was
the first to recover, and he in a stentorian voice called--
"Murder! Murder!"
Then the churchwarden joined in the cries, and they buffeted each other
in vain efforts to rise, each impeding the other to a degree that
rendered it a matter of impossibility for either of them to get to their
feet. Mr. Vickley, who was waiting in the church above, with no small
degree of anxiety, the report from below, heard these sounds of
contention and calls for help with mingled horror. He at once made a
rush to the door of the church, and, no doubt, would have endangered the
success of all Sir Richard Blunt's plans, if he had not been caught in
the arms of a tall stout man upon the very threshold of the church door.
"Help! murder! Who are you?"
"Crotchet they calls me, and Crotchet's my name. London my birth place,
is yourn the same? What's the row?"
"Call a constable. There's blue murder going on in the vaults below."
"The devil there is. Just you get in there, will you, and don't you stir
for your life, old fellow."
So saying, Mr. Crotchet, who knew the importance of secrecy in the whole
transaction, and who had been purposely awaiting for Sir Richard Blunt,
thrust Vickley into a pew, and slammed the door of it shut. Down fell
the overseer to the floor, paralysed with terror; and then Mr. Crotchet
at once proceeded to the opening in the floor of the church, and
descended without a moment's hesitation.
"Hilloa!" he cried, as he alighted at the bottom of the stairs upon the
churchwarden's back. "Hilloa, Sir Richard, where are you?"
"Here," said a voice, and with the torch nearly extinguished, Sir
Richard Blunt made his appearance from the passage. "Who is there?"
"Crotchet, it is."
"Indeed. Why, what brought you here?"
"What a row."
"Why--why, what's all this? You are standing upon somebody. Why bless my
heart it's--"
Out went the torch.
"Fire!--help!--murder!" shouted the beadle, "I'm being suffocated. Oh,
conwulsions! Here's a death for a beadle. Murder! robbery.
Fire--oh--oh--oh."
The churchwarden groaned awfully.
"Ascend, and get a light," said Sir Richard. "Quick, Crotchet, quick!
God only knows what is the matter with all these people."
Both Crotchet and Sir Richard Blunt scrambled over the bodies of the
churchwarden and the beadle, and soon reached the church. The
churchwarden made a desperate effort, and, shaking himself free of the
beadle, he ascended likewise, and rolled into a pew, upon the floor of
which he sat, looking a little deranged.
"If you don't come up," said Sir Richard Blunt, directing his voice down
the staircase, "we will replace the stone, and you may bid adieu to the
world."
"Conwulsions!" roared the beadle. "Oh, don't--conwulsions!"
Up he tumbled, with the most marvellous celerity, and rolled into the
church, never stopping until he was brought up by the steps in front of
the communion-table, and there he lay, panting and glaring around him,
having left his cocked hat in the regions below. Sir Richard Blunt
looked ghastly pale, which Crotchet observing, induced him to take a
small flask from his pocket, filled with choice brandy, which he handed
to his chief.
"Thank you," said Sir Richard.
The magistrate took a draught, and then he handed it to the
churchwarden, as he said--
"I'll fill it again."
"All's right."
The churchwarden took a pull at the brandy, and then the beadle was
allowed to finish it. They were both wonderfully recovered.
"Oh, Sir Richard," said the churchwarden, "what have you seen?"
"Nothing particular."
"Indeed!"
"No. You can have the stone replaced as soon as you like, over the
opening to the vaults."
"And you have seen nothing?" said the beadle.
"Nothing to speak of. If you have any doubts or any curiosity, you can
easily satisfy yourself. There's the opening. Pray descend. You see I
have escaped, so it cannot be very dangerous to do so. I will not myself
go again, but I will wait for either of you, if you please. Now,
gentlemen, go, and you will be able to make your own discoveries."
"Me?" cried the beadle. "Me? Oh, conwulsions! I thinks I sees me."
"Not I," said the churchwarden. "Cover it up--cover it up. I don't want
to go down. I would not do so for a thousand pounds."
A covert smile was upon the lips of Sir Richard Blunt as he heard this,
and he added--
"Very well; I have no objection, of course, to its being at once covered
up; and I think the least that is said about it, will be the better."
"No doubt of that," said the churchwarden.
"Conwulsions! yes," said the beadle. "If I was only quite sure as all my
ribs was whole, I shouldn't mind; but somebody stood a-top of me for a
good quarter of an hour, I'm sure."
Some of the workmen now began to arrive, and Sir Richard Blunt pointed
to them, as he said to the churchwarden--
"Then the stone can be replaced without any difficulty, now; and, sir,
let me again caution you to say nothing about what has passed here
to-day."
"Not a word--not a word. If you fancy somebody stood upon your ribs, Mr.
Beadle, I am quite sure somebody did upon mine."
The workmen were now directed to replace the stone in its former
position; and when that was completely done, and some mortar pressed
into the crevices, Sir Richard Blunt gave a signal to Crotchet to follow
him, and they both left the church together.
"Now, Crotchet, understand me."
"I'll try," said Crotchet.
"No one, for the future, is to be shaved in Sweeney Todd's shop alone."
"Alone?"
"Yes. You will associate with King, Morgan, and Godfrey; I will stand
all necessary expenses, and one or the other of you will always follow
whoever goes into the shop, and there wait until he comes out again.
Make what excuses you like. Manage it how you will; but only remember,
Todd is never again to have a customer all to himself."
"Humph!"
"Why do you say humph?"
"Oh, nothing partickler; only hadn't we better grab him at once?"
"No; he has an accomplice or accomplices, and their discovery is most
important. I don't like to do things by halves, Crotchet; and so long as
I know that no mischief will result from a little delay, and it will
not, if you obey my instructions, I think it better to wait."
"Very good."
"Go at once, then, and get your brother officers, and remember that
nothing is to withdraw your and their attention from this piece of
business."
"All's right. You know, Sir Richard, you have only to say what's to be
done, and it's as good as done. Todd may shave now as many people as he
likes, but I don't think he'll polish 'em off in his old way quite so
easy."
"That's right. Good day."
"When shall we see you, Sir Richard?" "About sunset."
By the time this little conversation was over, Sir Richard Blunt and
Crotchet had got through Temple Bar, and then they parted, Crotchet
taking his way back to Fleet Street, and Sir Richard Blunt walking
hastily to Downing Street. When he got there he entered the official
residence of the Secretary of State for the Home Department, and being
well known to the clerk, he was at once conducted into a little room
carefully hung round with crimson cloth, so as to deaden the sound of
any voices that might be raised in it. In the course of a few minutes a
small door was opened, and a shabby looking man entered, with a
hesitating expression upon his face.
"Ah, Sir Richard Blunt," he said, "is that you?"
"Yes, your lordship, and if you are disengaged for a few minutes, I have
something to communicate."
"Ah, some new plot. Confound those Jacobin rascals!"
"No, my lord, the affair is quite domestic and social. It has no shade
of politics about it."
The look of interest which the face of the secretary had assumed was
gone in a moment, but still he could not very well refuse now to hear
what Sir Richard Blunt had to say, and the conference lasted a quarter
of an hour. At its termination, as Sir Richard was leaving the room, the
secretary said--
"Oh, yes, of course, take full discretionary powers, and the Home-office
will pay all expenses. I never heard of such a thing in all my life."
"Nor I, my lord."
"It's really horrible."
"It is even so far as we know already, and yet I think there is much to
learn. I shall, of course, communicate to your lordship anything that
transpires."
"Certainly--certainly. Good day."
Sir Richard Blunt left the Secretary of State, and proceeded to his own
residence, and while he is there, making some alteration in his dress,
we may as well take a glance at Crotchet, and see what that energetic
but somewhat eccentric individual is about. After parting with Sir
Richard Blunt at Temple Bar, he walked up Fleet Street, upon Sweeney
Todd's side of the way, until he overtook a man with a pair of
spectacles on, and a stoop in his gait, as though age had crept upon
him.
"King," said Crotchet.
"All right," said the spectacled old gentleman in a firm voice. "What's
the news?"
"A long job, I think. Where's Morgan?"
"On the other side of the way."
"Well, just listen to me as we walk along, and if you see him, beckon
him over to us."
As they walked along Crotchet told King what were the orders of Sir
Richard Blunt, and they were soon joined by Morgan. The other officer,
Godfrey, who had been mentioned by the magistrate, was sent for.
"Now," said Crotchet, "here we are, four of us, and so you see we can
take it two and two for four hours at a stretch as long as this
confounded barber's shop keeps open."
"But," said Morgan, "he will suspect something."
"Well, we can't help that. It's quite clear he smugs the people, and all
we have got to do is to prevent him smugging any more of 'em you see."
"Well, well, we must do the best we can."
"Exactly; so now keep a bright look out, and hang it all, we have been
in enough rum adventures to be able to get the better of a rascally
barber, I should think. Look out--look out; there's somebody going in
now."
CHAPTER LI.
JOHANNA RUSHES TO HER DESTINY.
Johanna had enough confidants now. Her father--Colonel Jeffery--Big
Ben--and Arabella Wilmot, all knew
"The sad story of her love."
It will be a hard case if, among so many councillors, she hits upon the
worst--a most truly hazardous course of proceeding; but then it is a
fault of the young to mistake daring for ability, and to fancy that that
course of proceeding which involves the most personal risk is
necessarily the most likely to be successful. Colonel Jeffery was, of
all Johanna Oakley's advisers, the one who was most likely to advise her
well, but unfortunately he had told her that he loved her, and from that
time, with an instinctive delicacy of feeling which no one could have to
greater perfection than Johanna, she had shunned him. And yet the
reader, who knows the colonel well, knows that, quite irrespective of
the attachment that had sprung up in his bosom for the beautiful and
heart-stricken girl, he would have played the part of a sincere friend
to her and stood manfully between her and all danger. But it was not to
be. From the moment that he had breathed to her the secret of his
attachment, a barrier was, in her imagination, raised between them. Her
father evidently was not one who could or who would advise anything at
all energetic; and as for Big Ben, the conversation she had had with him
upon the subject had quite been sufficient to convince her that to take
him out of the ordinary routine of his thoughts and habits was
thoroughly to bewilder him, and that he was as little calculated to plot
and to plan in any emergency as a child. She would indeed have trembled
at the result of the confidential communication to Big Ben, if she had
been aware of the frightfully imprudent manner in which he had thrown
himself into communication and collision with Todd, the consequences of
which glaring act of indiscretion he was only saved from by Sir Richard
Blunt entering the shop, and remaining there until he (Ben) was shaved.
Under all these circumstances, then, Johanna found herself thrown back
upon her old friend Arabella Wilmot. Now, Arabella was the worst adviser
of all, for the romantic notions she had received from her novel
reading, imparted so strong a tone to her character, that she might be
said in imagination to live in a world of the mind. It was, as the
reader will recollect, to Arabella Wilmot that Johanna owed the idea of
going to Todd in boy's apparel--a measure fraught with frightful danger,
and yet, to the fancy of the young girl, fascinating upon that very
account, because it had the appearance as though she were doing
something really serious for Mark Ingestrie. To Arabella, then, Johanna
went, after Ben had left her, and finding her young friend within, she
told her all that had occurred since they last met.
"What shall I do?" she said. "I tell my tale of woe, and people look
kind upon me, but no one helps me."
"Oh, Johanna, can you say that of me?"
"No, no. Not of you, Arabella, for you see I have come to you again; but
of all others, I can and may say it."
"Comfort yourself, my dear Johanna. Comfort yourself, my dear friend.
Come, now--you will make me weep too, if I see those tears."
"What shall I do?--what shall I do?"
"There, now, I am putting on my things; and as you are dressed, we will
go out for a walk, and as we go along we can talk of the affair, and you
will find your spirits improve by exercise. Come, my dear Johanna. Don't
you give way so."
"I cannot help it. Let us go."
"We will walk round St. Paul's Churchyard."
"No--no. To Fleet Street--to Fleet Street!"
"Why would you wish to add to your sorrows, by again looking upon that
shop?"
"I do not know, I cannot tell you; but a horrible species of fascination
draws me there, and if I come from home, I seem as though I were drawn
from all other places towards that one by an irresistible attraction. It
seems as though the blood of Mark Ingestrie called aloud to me to
revenge his murder, by bringing the perpetrators of it to justice. Oh,
my friend--my Arabella, I think I shall go mad."
Johanna sunk upon her knees by a chair, and hid her fair face in her
hands, as she trembled with excess of emotion. Arabella Wilmot began to
be really alarmed at the consequences of her friend's excited and
overwrought feelings.
"Oh, Johanna--Johanna!" she cried, "cheer up. You shall go when you
please, so that you will not give way to this sorrow. You do not know
how much you terrify me. Rise--rise, I implore you. We will go to Fleet
Street, since such is your wish."
After a time, Johanna recovered from the burst of emotion that had taken
such certain possession of her, and she was able to speak more calmly
and composedly to her friend than she had yet done during that visit.
The tears she had shed, and the show of feeling that had crept over her,
had been a great relief in reality.
"Can you pardon me for thus tormenting you with my grief?" said Johanna.
"Do not talk so. Rather wonder how I should pardon you if you tell your
griefs elsewhere. To whom should you bring them but to the bosom of one
who, however she may err in judgment regarding you, cannot err in
feeling."
Johanna could only press her friend's hand in her own, and look the
gratitude which she had not the language to give utterance to. It being
then settled that they were to go to Fleet Street, it next became a
matter of rather grave debate between them whether they were to go as
they were, or Johanna was to again equip herself in the disguise of a
boy.
"This is merely a visit of observation, Johanna; I will go as I am."
"Very well, dear."
They accordingly set out, and as the distance from the house of Arabella
Wilmot's father was but short to the shop of Sweeney Todd, they soon
caught sight of the projecting pole that was his sign.
"Now be satisfied," said Arabella, "by passing twice; once up Fleet
Street, and once down it."
"I will," said Johanna.
Todd's shop was closed as usual. There was never an open door to that
establishment, so that it was, after all, but a barren satisfaction for
poor Johanna to pass the place where her imagination, strengthened by
many circumstantial pieces of evidence, told her Mark Ingestrie had met
with his death; still, as she had said to Arabella before starting, a
horrible sort of fascination drew her to the spot, and she could not
resist the fearful attraction that the outside of Todd's shop had for
her. They passed rather rapidly, for Arabella Wilmot did not wish
Johanna to pause, for fear she should be unable to combat her feelings,
and make some sort of exhibition of them in the open street.
"Are you content, Johanna?" she said. "Must we pass again?"
"Oh, yes--yes. Again and again; I can almost fancy that by continued
looking at that place I could see what has been the fate of Mark."
"But this is imagination and folly."
"It may be so, but when the realities of life have become so hideously
full of horrors, one may be excused for seeking some consolation from
the fairy cave. Arabella, let us turn again."
They had got as far as Temple Bar, when they again turned, and this time
Johanna would not pass the shop so abruptly as she had done before, and
any one, to see the marked interest with which she paused at the window,
would have imagined that she must have some lover there whom she could
see, notwithstanding the interior of the shop was so completely
impervious to all ordinary gazers.
"There is nothing to see," said Arabella.
"No. But yet--ha!--look--look!"
Johanna pointed to one particular spot of the window, and there was the
eye of Sweeney Todd glaring upon them.
"We are observed," whispered Arabella; "it will be much better to leave
the window at once. Come away--oh, come away, Johanna."
"Not yet--not yet. Oh, if I could look well at that man's face, I think
I ought to be able to judge if he were likely to be the murderer of Mark
Ingestrie."
Todd came to his door.
"Good God, he is here!" said Arabella. "Come away. Come!"
"Never. No! Perhaps this is providential. I will, I must look at this
man, happen what may."
Todd glared at the two young girls like some ogre intent upon their
destruction, and as Johanna looked at him, a painter who loved contrast,
might have indeed found a study, from the wonderful difference between
those two human countenances. They neither spoke for some few moments,
and it was reserved for Todd to break the silence.
"What do you want here?" he cried, in a hoarse rough voice. "Be off with
you. What do you mean by knocking at the window of an honest tradesman?
I don't want to have anything to say to such as you."
"He--he did it!" gasped Johanna.
"Did what?" said Todd, advancing in a menacing attitude, while his face
assumed a most diabolical expression of concealed hatred. "Did what?"
"Stop him! Stop him!" cried a voice from the other side of the street.
"Stop Pison, he's given me the slip, and I'm blessed if he won't pitch
into that ere barber. Stop him. Pison! Pison! Come here, boy. Come here!
Oh, lor, he's nabbed him. I knew'd he would, as sure as a horse's hind
leg ain't a gammon o' bacon. My eyes, won't there be a row--he's nabbed
the barber, like ninepence."
Before the ostler at the Bullfinch, for it was from his lips this speech
came, could get one half of it uttered, the dog--who is known to the
readers by the name of Hector, as well as his new name of Pison--dashed
over the road, apparently infuriated at the sight of Todd, and rushing
upon him, seized him with his teeth. Todd gave a howl of rage and pain,
and fell to the ground. The whole street was in an uproar in a moment,
but the ostler rushing over the way, seized the dog by the throat, and
made him release Todd, who crawled upon all fours into his own shop. In
another moment he rushed out with a razor in his hand.
[Illustration: Hector's Attack On Sweeney Todd.]
"Where's the dog?" he cried. "Where's the fiend in the shape of a dog?"
"Hold hard!" said the ostler, who held Hector between his knees. "Hold
hard. I have got him, old chap."
"Get out of the way. I'll have his life."
"No you won't."
"Humph!" cried a butcher's boy who was passing. "Why that's the same dog
as said the barber had done for his master, and collected never such a
lot of halfpence in his hat to pay the expenses of burying of him."
"You villain!" cried Todd.
"Go to blazes!" said the boy. "Who killed the dog's master? Ah, ah! Who
did it? Ah, ah!"
The people began to laugh.
"I insist upon killing that dog!" cried Todd.
"Do you?" said the ostler; "now, this here dog is a partickler friend of
mine, so you see I can't have it done. What do you say to that now, old
stick-in-the-mud? If you walk into him, you must walk through me first.
Only just put down that razor, and I'll give you such a wolloping, big
as you are, that you'll recollect for some time."
"Down with the razor! Down with the razor!" cried the mob, who was now
every moment increasing.
Johanna stood like one transfixed for a few moments in the middle of all
this tumult, and then she said with a shudder--
"What ought I to do?"
"Come away at once, I implore you," said Arabella Wilmot. "Come away, I
implore you, Johanna, for my sake as well as for your own. You have
already done all that can be done. Oh, Johanna, are you distracted?"
"No--no. I will come--I will come."
They hastily left the spot and hurried away in the direction of Ludgate
Hill, but the confusion at the shop door of the barber did not terminate
for some time. The people took the part of the dog and his new master,
and it was in vain that Sweeney Todd exhibited his rent garments to show
where he had been attacked by the animal. Shouts of laughter and various
satirical allusions to his beauty were the only response. Suddenly,
without a word, Todd then gave up the contest and retired into his shop,
upon which the ostler conveyed Pison over the way and shut him up in one
of the stables of the Bullfinch. Todd, it is true, retired to his shop
with an appearance of equanimity, but it was like most appearances in
this world--rather deceitful. The moment the door was closed between him
and observation he ground his teeth together and positively howled with
rage.
"The time will come--the time will come," he said, "when I shall have
the joy of seeing Fleet Street in a blaze, and of hearing the shrieks of
those who are frying in the flames. Oh, that I could with one torch
ignite London, and sweep it and all its inhabitants from the face of the
earth. Oh, that all those who are now without my shop had but one
throat. Ha! ha! how I would cut it."
He caught up a razor as he spoke, and threw himself into a ferocious
attitude at the moment that the door opened, and a gentleman neatly
dressed looked in, saying--
"Do you dress artificial hair?"
CHAPTER LII.
TODD'S ANNOUNCEMENT.
"Yes," said Todd, as he commenced stropping the razor upon his hand as
though nothing at all was the matter. "I do anything in an honest and
religious sort of way for a living in these bad times."
"Oh, very well. A gentleman is ill in bed and wants his peruke properly
dressed, as he has an important visit to make. Can you come to his
house?"
"Yes, of course. But can't the peruke be brought here, sir?"
"Yes. But he wants a shave as well, and although he can go in a sedan
chair to pay his visit, he is too ill to come to your shop."
Todd looked a little suspicious, but only a little, and then he said--
"It's an awkward thing that I have no boy at present, but I must get
one--I must get one, and in the meantime, when I am called out I have no
resource but to shut up my shop."
At this moment a stout man came in, saying--
"Shaved--oh, you are busy. I can wait, Mr. Todd--I can wait," and down
he sat.
Todd looked at the new-comer with a strange sort of scowl, as he said--
"My friend, have not I seen you here before, or somewhere else?"
"Very likely," said the man.
"Humph, I am busy and cannot shave you just now, as I have to go out
with this gentleman."
"Very well, I can wait here and amuse myself until you come back."
Todd fairly staggered for a moment, and then he said--
"Wait here--in my shop--and amuse yourself until I come back? No, sir, I
don't suffer any one. But it don't matter. Ha! ha! Come in, I am ready
to attend you. But stop, are you in a very great hurry for two minutes,
sir?"
"Oh, dear no, not for two minutes."
"Then it will only just take me that time to polish off this gentleman;
and if, you will give the address I am to come to, I will be with you
almost as soon, sir, as you can get home, I assure you."
"Oh, dear no," cried the stranger, who had come in to be shaved,
suddenly starting up, "I really could not think of such a thing. I will
call again."
"It's only in Norfolk Street," said the applicant for the dressing of
the artificial hair, "and two minutes can't make any difference to my
friend, at all."
"Do you think," said the other, "that I would really interrupt business
in this way? No, may I perish if I would do anything so unhandsome--not
I. I will look in again, Mr. Todd, you may depend, when you are not
going out. I shall be passing again, I know, in the course of the day.
Pray attend to this gentleman's orders, I beg of you."
So saying, the shaving customer bounced out of the shop without another
word; and as he crossed the threshold, he gave a wink to Crotchet, who
was close at hand, and when that gentleman followed him, he said--
"Crotchet, Todd very nearly got me into a line. He was going out with
the person we saw go to the shop, but I got away, or else, as he said,
he would have polished me off."
"Not a doubt of it, in this here world, Foster," said Crotchet. "Ah,
he's a rum 'un, he is. We haven't come across sich a one as he for one
while, and it will be a jolly lot o' Sundays afore we meets with sich
another."
"It will, indeed. Is Fletcher keeping an eye on the shop?"
"Oh, yes, right as a trivet. He's there, and so is Godfrey."
While this brief conversation was going on between the officers who had
been left to watch Sweeney Todd's shop, that individual himself
accompanied the customer, whom he had been conversing with, to Norfolk
Street, Strand. The well-dressed personage stopped at a good-looking
house, and said--
"Mr. Mundell only lodges here for the present. His state of mind, in
consequence of a heavy loss he has sustained, would not permit him to
stay in his own house at Kensington."
"Mr. Mundell?" said Todd.
"Yes. That is the gentleman you are to shave and dress."
"May I presume to ask, sir, what he is?"
"Oh, he is a--a--kind of merchant, you understand, and makes what use of
his money he thinks proper."
"The same!" gasped Todd.
The door of the house was opened, and there was no retreat, although, at
the moment, Todd felt as though he would much rather not shave and dress
the man of whom he had procured the £8,000 upon the string of pearls;
but to show any hesitation now might beget enquiry and enquiry might be
awkward, so summoning all his natural audacity to his aid, Todd followed
his guide into the house. He was a little puzzled to know who this
person could be, until a woman made her appearance from one of the rooms
upon the ground floor, and cried--
"There now, go out, do. We don't want you any more; you have got your
pocket money, so be off with you, and don't let me see your face again
till night."
"No, my dear," said the well-dressed personage. "Certainly not. This is
the barber."
"Good God, Blisset, do you think I am blind, that I can't see the
barber. Will you go? The captain is waiting for me to pour out his
coffee, and attend to his other concerns, which nobody knows better than
you, and yet you will be perpetually in the way."
"No, my dear. I--I only--"
"Hoity toity, are we going to have a disturbance, Mr. B? Recollect, sir,
that I dress you well and give you money, and expect you to make
yourself agreeable while I attend to the gentlemen lodgers, so be off
with you; I'm sure, of all the troublesome husbands for a woman to have,
you are about the worst, for you have neither the spirit to act like a
man, nor the sense to keep out of the way."
"Ha!" said Todd.
Both the lodging-house keeper and his wife started at the odd sound.
"What was that?" said the woman.
"Only me, madam," said Todd, "I laughed slightly at that blue-bottle
walking on the ceiling, that's all."
"What a laugh," said Blisset, as he left the house; and then the lady of
the mansion turning to Todd, said--
"You are to attend to Mr. Mundell, poor man. You will find him in the
front room on the second floor, poor man."
"Is he ill, madam?"
"Oh, I don't know, I rather think he's grizzling about some of his
money, that's all, but it don't matter one way or the other. They say he
is as rich as a Jew, and I'll take good care he pays enough here."
"Mrs. B--Mrs. B," cried a voice from the parlour.
"Yes, captain, I'm coming.--I'm coming, captain."
The lady bounced into the breakfast-parlour and closed the door, leaving
Todd to find his way up stairs as he best could. After a hideous chuckle
at the thought of Mr. Blisset's singular position in society, he
commenced ascending the stairs. He accomplished the first flight without
meeting with any one, but upon the second he encountered a servant girl
with a pail, and Todd gave her such a hideous glance, accompanied by
such a frightful contortion of his visage, that down went the pail, and
the girl flew up stairs again, and locked herself in one of the attics.
Without waiting to ascertain what effect the descent of the pail might
have upon the nerves of the captain and the landlady, Todd pursued his
course to the room whither he had been directed, and tapped at the door.
"Come in," said a meek, tremulous voice. "Come in."
Todd opened the door, and stood in the presence of the man over whose
long tried skill and habitual cunning he had obtained such a triumph in
the affair of the pearls at Mundell Villa. John Mundell now, though, was
far from looking like the John Mundell of the villa. He sat by the fire,
wrapped up in a flannel dressing-gown, with a beard of portentous
length. His cheeks had fallen in. His brow was corrugated by premature
wrinkles, and the corners of his mouth were drawn down as though a look
of mental distress had become quite a thing of habit with him now.
"Who are you?" he growled out, as Todd came into the room, and with a
show of carefulness closed the door after him. "Who are you, eh?"
"Come to shave you, sir, and dress your hair."
"Ah!" cried Mundell, as he gave a start. "Where have I heard that voice
before? Why does it put me in mind of my loss? My £8000! My money--my
money. Am I to lose another £8000? That will make £16,000. Oh, dear. Oh,
dear. Oh dear! Who are you? Speak, friend. Who are you?"
"Only a barber, sir," said Todd, "come to shave you, and dress your
hair. Ain't you well, sir? Shall I call again?"
"No--no--no! My losses distracts me. Only the barber? Ah, yes to be
sure--only the barber. I must go to court, and ask for the duke of
something. Good God, yes! I will see all the dukes, until I find out my
duke. He who had my £8000, and has left me so poor and so wretched. Oh,
dear! Oh, dear, my money--my hard-earned money. Oh, gracious, if I were
to lose another £8000, I should go mad--mad--mad!"
"Shall I begin, sir?" said Todd.
"Begin? Begin what? Oh, yes, my hair; and I must be shaved too, or they
won't let me in at all. I will have the pearls or my money. I will see
all the dukes, and pounce upon _my_ duke. Oh, yes, I will have the
pearls or the money."
"Pearls, sir?" said Todd, as he began to arrange the shaving apparatus
he had brought with him. "Did you say pearls?"
"Bah! what do you know about pearls, who, I dare say, never saw one.
Bah! You--a poor beggarly barber. But I will have them back, or my
money. I will raise London, but I will find them. I will see the queen
herself, and know what duke she gave the pearls to, and then I will find
him and have my money."
"Now, sir. A little this way." "Oh, dear--oh, dear! What do you charge?"
"Anything you please, sir. When I come to a gentleman, I always leave it
to his generosity to pay me what he pleases."
"Ah! more expense. More expense. That means that I am to pay for the
service done me, and something else besides for the sake of a compliment
upon my liberality. But I ain't liberal. I won't be generous. Where's my
money, my pearls; and now to go to all sorts of expense to go to court,
and see dukes. Oh, the devil. Eh? Eh?"
"Sir?"
"Stop. What an odd thing. Why, you are very--very--"
"Very what, sir?" said Todd, making a hideous face.
"Like the duke, or my fancy leads me astray. Wait a bit. Don't move."
Mundell placed his hands over his eyes for a moment, and then suddenly
withdrawing them he looked at Todd again.
"Yes, you are like the duke. How came you to be like a duke, the
villain. Oh, if I could but see my pearls."
"What duke, sir?"
"I would give £500--no, I mean £100, that is £50, to know what duke,"
screamed Mundell with vehemence. Then suddenly lapsing into quietness,
he added--"Shave me. Shave me, I will go to court, and St. James's shall
ring again with the story of my pearls. Lost! lost! lost! Did he abscond
from his wife with them, or was he murdered? I wonder? I wonder?--£8000
gone all at once. I might have borne such a loss by degrees, but d--n
it--"
"Really, sir, if you will go on talking about pearls and dukes, the
shaving brush will go into your mouth, and there's no such thing as
avoiding it."
"Confound you. Go on. Shave me and have done with it. Oh, dear! Oh,
dear!"
John Mundell now contented himself by uttering drawn sighs, with now and
then the accompaniment of a hideous groan, while Todd lathered his face
with great affected care. The sighs and the groans both, however, ceased
soon, and Todd became aware that the eyes of John Mundell were fixed
upon him with a steady stare. No doubt, the usurer was recalling bit by
bit to his memory the features of the sham duke, and comparing them with
Todd's. To be sure, upon the occasion of his visit to Mundell Villa,
Todd had taken every precaution to disguise his features; but then it
must be admitted that the features of the barber were rather peculiar,
and that John Mundell was professionally a more than ordinary keen
observer, and thus it was that, as Todd lathered away, he became more
and more impressed by the fact that there was a startling resemblance
between Todd and the nobleman who had borrowed £8000 upon the string of
pearls.
"What's your name?" he said.
"Todd."
"Humph! a well-to-do man?"
"Poor as Job."
"How very like you are to a great man. Do you ever go to court? I
think--I am sure I have seen you somewhere."
"Very likely," said Todd, "for I often go there."
"What, to court?"
"Nay, sir, not to court, but somewhere. Will you have the whiskers left
just as they are, or taken off entirely, sir?"
Tap! tap! came at the chamber door, and a boy peeped in, saying--
"Please, sir, the tailor has brought the things."
CHAPTER LIII.
THE MURDER OF THE USURER.
"Come in! Come in! More expense. More losses. As if an honest man, who
only does what he can with his own, could not come to the court with a
hope of meeting with a civil reception, unless he were decked out like a
buffoon. Come in. Well, who are you?"
"Augustus Snipes, sir, at your service. Brought home the clothes, sir.
The full dress suit you were so good as to order to be ready to-day,
sir."
"Oh, you are a tailor?"
"Oh, dear no, sir. We are not tailors now a days. We are artists."
"Curse you, whatever you are. I don't care. Some artist I'm afraid has
done me out of £8000. Oh, dear. Put down the things. What do they come
to?"
"Eighteen pounds ten shillings and threepence, sir."
John Mundell gave a deep groan, and the tailor brushed past Todd to
place the clothes upon a side table. As he returned he caught sight of
Todd's face, and in an instant his face lighting up, he cried--
"Ah! how do? How do?"
"Eh!" said Todd.
"How did the Pompadour coloured coat and the velvet smalls do, eh?--Fit
well? Lord, what a rum start for a barber to have a suit of clothes fit
for a duke."
"Duke!" cried Mundell.
Todd lifted one of his huge feet and gave the "artist" a kick that sent
him sprawling to the door of the room.
"That," he said, "will teach you to make game of a poor man with a large
family, you scoundrel. What, you won't go, won't you? The--"
The artist shot out at the door like lightning, and flew down the stairs
as though the devil himself was at his heels. Todd carefully closed the
door again, and fastened it by a little bolt that was upon it. A strange
expression was upon the countenance of John Mundell. His face looked
perfectly convulsed, and he slowly rose from his chair. Todd placed one
of his huge hands upon his breast and pushed him back again.
"What's the matter?" said Todd.
"He--he--knows you."
"Well."
"The Pompadour coloured coat! Ah, I recollect the Pompadour coloured
coat, too. I thought I knew your face. There was a something, too, about
your voice that haunted me like the remembrance of a dream.
You--you--are--"
"What?"
"Help--help! Tell me if I be mad, or if you are a duke in the disguise
of a barber, or a barber in the likeness of a duke. Ah, that Pompadour
coloured coat, it sticks--sticks in my throat."
"I wish it did," growled Todd. "What do you mean, Mr. Mundell?--Pray
express yourself. What do you mean by those incoherent expressions?"
"Are you human?"
"Dear me, I hope so. Really, sir, you look quite wild."
"Stop--stop--let me think--the face--the voice--the Pompadour coat--the
costume fit for a duke. It must be so.--Man or devil, I will grapple
with you, for you have got my pearls and my money. My £8000--my gold
that I have lived, that I have toiled for--that I have schemed, and
cheated to keep up--that I have shut my eyes to all sights for--and my
heart to all tender emotions. You have my money, and I will denounce
you!"
"Stop," said Todd.
The usurer paused in what he was saying, but he still glared at Todd
fiercely, and his eyes protruded from their orbits, while the muscles of
his mouth worked as though he were still trying to utter audible sounds,
but by some power was denied the capacity to utter them.
"You say you have lost pearls?"
"Yes--yes.--Orient pearls."
Todd dived his hand into the breast of his apparel and produced the
string of pearls. He held them before the ravished and dazzled eyes of
John Mundell, as he said--
"Were they like these?"
With a cry of joy Mundell grasped at the pearls. Tears of gratified
avarice gushed from his eyes.
"My own--my own pearls--my beautiful pearls!--Oh, blessed chance--my
pearls back again. Ha! ha! ha!"
"Ha!" echoed Todd, as he stepped behind the chair on which John Mundell
was sitting.
With his left hand he took one vigorous grasp of the remaining
hair upon the head of the usurer, and forced his back against the
chair. In another instant there was a sickening gushing sound.
Todd, with the razor he held in his right hand, had nearly cut
John Mundell's head off. Then he held him still by the hair.
Gasp--gasp--gasp--bubble--gasp--bubble.--Ah! ah! ah!--Goggle--goggle. A
slight convulsive movement of the lashes, and the eyes set, and became
opaquely dim. The warm blood still bubbled, but John Mundell was dead.
Todd picked up the pearls and carefully replaced them in his bosom
again.
"How many strange events," he said, "hang upon these baubles. Ah, it's
only one more--a dirty job rather--but business is business!"
He stood in the room as silent as a statue, and listened intently. Not
the slightest sound indicative of the proximity of any one came upon his
ears. He felt quite convinced that the deed of blood had been done in
perfect secrecy. But then there he was.--Who but he could be accused?
There he stood, the self-convicted murderer. Had he not done the deed
with the weapon of his handicraft that he had brought to the house? How
was Todd to escape the seeming inevitable cold-blooded murder? We shall
see. Huddled up in the chair, was the dead body. Mundell had not fallen
out of the capacious easy seat in which he sat when he breathed his
last. The blood rolled to the floor, where it lay in a steaming mass.
Todd was careful--very careful not to tread in it, and he looked down
his garments to see if there were any tell-tale spots of gore; but
standing behind the chair to do the deed, as he had done, he had been
saved from anything of the sort. There he stood, externally spotless,
like many a seeming and smirking sinner in this world--but oh, how black
and stained within!
"Humph!" said Todd; "John Mundell was half distracted by a heavy loss.
He was ill, and his mind was evidently affected. He could not even shave
himself. Oh, it is quite evident that John Mundell, unable to bear his
miseries, real or ideal, any longer, in a fit of partial insanity, cut
his throat. Yes, that will do."
Todd still kept the razor in his grasp. What is he going to do?--Murder
again the murdered?--Is he afraid that a man,
"With twenty murders on his head!"
will jostle him from his perilous pinnacle of guilty safety?--No. He
takes one of the clammy dead hands in his own--he clasps the half rigid
fingers over the handle of the razor, and then he holds them until, in
the course of a minute or so, they have assumed the grasp he wishes, and
the razor, with which he, Todd, did the deed of blood, is held
listlessly, but most significantly, in the hand of the dead.
[Illustration: The Murder Of The Usurer.]
"That will do," said Todd.
The door is reached and unfastened, and the barber slips out of the
room. He closes the door again upon the fetid hot aroma of the blood
that is there, fresh from the veins of a human being like
himself--no--no--not like himself.--No one can be like Sweeney Todd. He
is a being of his own species--distinct, alone, an incarnation of evil!
Todd was in no particular hurry to descend the stairs. He gained the
passage with tolerable deliberation, and then he heard voices in the
parlour.
"What a man you are!" said Mrs. Blisset.
"Ah, my dear, I am indeed. Who would not be a man for your sake? As for
Mr. Blisset, I don't think him worth attention."
"Nor I," said the lady, snapping her fingers, "I don't value him that.
The poor mean-spirited wretch--he's not to be compared to you, captain."
"I should think not, my love. Have you got any change in your pocket?"
"Yes. I--I-think I have about seven shillings or so."
"That will do. Much obliged to you, madam--I mean, my dear Mrs. B. Ah,
if you would but smother Blisset, so that I might have the joy of making
you Mrs. Captain Coggan, what a happy man I should be."
Todd tapped at the door.
"What was that?" cried the captain in evident alarm; "Is it Blisset?"
"No, captain--oh, no; I should like to see him interrupt me, indeed. A
pretty thing that I cannot do what I like in the house I keep. Come in."
Todd just opened the door far enough to introduce his hideous head; and
having done so, stared at the pair with such a selection of frightful
physiognomical changes, that they both sat transfixed with horror. At
length Todd broke the silence by saying--
"He's frightfully nervous."
"What?--what?--who?" gasped the captain.
"What?" repeated Mrs. Blisset.
"What's his name, upstairs, that I was sent for to shave just now."
"What, Mr. Mundell. Ah, poor man, he has been in a very nervous state
ever since he has been here. He continually talks of a heavy loss he has
had."
"Yes," said Todd, "I suppose he means you to pay me."
"Me?"
"Yes, ma'am. He says he is too nervous and excited for me to shave him
just now, but he has borrowed a razor from me and says he will shave
himself in the course of an hour or so, and send it back to me."
"Oh, very well. Your money will be sent with the razor, no doubt; for
although Mr. Mundell is so continually talking of his losses, they tell
me he is as rich as a Jew."
"Thank you, ma'am. Good morning; good morning, sir."
The captain cast a supercilious glance upon Todd, but did not deign to
make the remotest reply to the mock civility with which he was bidden
good morning. No one stands so much upon his dignity, as he whose title
to any at all is exceedingly doubtful. The female heart, however, is
mollified by devotion, and Mrs. Blisset returned the adieu of Todd. When
he got into the passage, he uttered one of his extraordinary laughs, and
then opening the street door, he let himself out. Todd by no means
hurried back to Fleet Street, but as he walked along he now and then
shrugged his shoulders and shook his huge hands, which, to those
acquainted with his peculiarities, would have been sufficient
indications of the fact that he was enjoying himself greatly. At length
he spoke--
"So--so--what a Providence we have, after all, watching over us. The
moment I am in any real danger as regards the string of pearls, up
starts some circumstance that enables me to ward it off. Well, well,
some day I almost think I shall turn religious and build a church, and
endow it. Ha!"
Todd was so tickled at the idea of his building a church and endowing
it, that he stopped at the corner of Milford Lane, to enjoy an unusual
amount of laughter; as he did so he saw no other than Mrs. Ragg, slowly
coming towards him.
"Ah," he said, "Tobias's mother. The mother of the Tobias that was!--I
will avoid her."
He darted on, and was through Temple Bar before Mrs. Ragg could make up
her mind which way to run, for run she fully intended to do, when she
saw Todd standing at the corner of Milford Lane. But she had no occasion
for hurrying from him, as he walked in the direction of his shop as
speedily as possible. Although he was perfectly satisfied with the
clever manner he had ridded himself of the usurer, who probably might
have been a source of annoyance to him, and who might eventually have
been the means of bringing him to justice, he thought that he might be
losing opportunities of making more victims for the accumulation of his
ill-gotten wealth.
CHAPTER LIV.
SIR RICHARD BLUNT'S PROGRESS.
We will now return, and see with what zeal Sir Richard Blunt and his
active co-operators are at work, and how that persevering gentleman has
taken the cause of humanity in hand, with a determined will to bring the
atrocious criminals to a just tribunal. Sir Richard and his men
continued to pass and repass Todd's window, and one or other had an eye
upon the door, so that it was almost impossible for any one to go in
without the officers seeing them; and as some one of the officers
followed each customer into the shop, under some pretence, and did not
return till the strangers had been shaved, it was impossible that he
could continue his murderous trade. The barouet, however, could not
continue to remain long in the vicinity of Todd's shop without exciting
the suspicions of that crafty demon in human form. Todd seemed very ill
at ease, and his eye was more frequently at the hole which commanded a
view of everything within range of his window, and in spite of the
various guises the officers assumed, he seemed to take a more close
survey of their features than he had done when they had first visited
his shop. It was rarely that his customers came in pairs, otherwise it
would have continually prevented his schemes; but now none came alone,
each one had his companion or attendant. One morning, almost as soon as
the barber had opened his shutters, a seafaring man entered his shop in
haste, and throwing himself on a chair, requested to be shaved
immediately. He appeared to have but lately returned from India, or some
other hot climate, for his features were well bronzed, and from his
general aspect and conversation, he appeared to be a man of superior
station in life. However, in this manner, the barber reasoned and came
to the conclusion that he should have a good morning's work if none of
his tormentors came to avert his intentions.
"A fine morning, sir," said Todd.
"Very," said the stranger; "but make haste and accomplish your task; I
have a payment to make to a merchant in the city this morning by nine
o'clock, and it is now more than half-past eight."
"I will polish you off in no time," said the barber, with a grin; "then
you can proceed and transact your business in good time. Sit a little
nearer this way, sir, the chair will only stand firmly in one position,
and it is exceedingly uncomfortable for gentlemen to remain, even for a
few moments, on an unsteady chair."
Todd adjusted the chair, by dint of what appeared to the stranger to be
a deal of unnecessary trouble, and he said--
"You seem remarkably anxious to put the chair in what you call a
comfortable position, but we sailors are rather rough, therefore you
need not make so much fuss about my comfort for so short a time, but
proceed with the business."
Todd seemed rather disconcerted at the stranger's remarks, and could not
understand whether his words were uttered by chance, or imported more
than Todd liked.
"It is a maxim of mine, sir," said Todd, "to make everybody that comes
to my shop as comfortable as possible during the short time they remain
with me. One half-inch further this way, sir, and you will be in a
better position."
As he spoke he drew the chair to the spot he wished it, which
circumstance seemed to please him, for he looked around him, and
indulged in one of those hideous grins he executed just when he was on
the point of committing some diabolical act. The gurgling noise he made
in his throat caused the seaman to give a sudden start, which Todd
perceiving, said--
"Did you hear the noise my poor old cat made, sir? she often does so
when strangers come in, sir."
"It did not sound much like a cat; but if I had an animal that made such
a demoniacal noise, I should soon send her to rest. Every one to their
taste, though; I suppose you term the noise, that almost startled me,
agreeable."
"Yes, sir," said the barber; "I like to hear her, because I think she is
enjoying herself; and you know men and beasts require a something to
stimulate the system."
By this time the lather was over the seaman's face. He could not speak,
except at the imminent risk of swallowing a considerable quantity of the
soap that Todd had covered his face with. The barber seemed dexterously
to ply a razor on the seaman's face, which caused him to make wry faces,
indicating that the operation was painful; the grimaces grew more
fantastic to the beholder, but evidently less able to be withstood by
the person operated upon.
"Good God, barber," he at length ejaculated, "why the devil don't you
keep better materials?--I cannot stand this. The razor you are
attempting to shave me with has not been ground, I should think, for a
twelvemonth. Get another and finish me off, as you term it, in no time."
"Exactly, sir--I will get one more suited to your beard, and will return
in one minute, when you will be polished off to my satisfaction."
He entered the little parlour at the back of the shop, but previously he
took the precaution of putting his eye to the hole that gave a sight
into the street; turning round, apparently satisfied with his scrutiny,
he went in search of the superior razor he spoke of. A low grating
sound, like that of a ragged cord commencing the moving of pullies, was
to be heard, when Sir Richard Blunt threw the door open, and took a seat
in the shop near where the stranger was sitting. He was so disguised
that Todd could not recognise him as the same person that had been in
his shop so many times before. The barber's face was purple with rage
and disappointment; but he restrained it by an immense effort, and spoke
to Sir Richard in a tolerably calm tone--
"Hair cut, sir, or shaved, sir? I shall not be long before I have
finished this gentleman off--perhaps you would like to call in again in
a few minutes?"
"Thank you; I am not in a particular hurry, and being rather tired I
will rest myself in your shop, if you have no objection."
"My shop is but just open, and our ventilation being bad, it is much
more pleasant to inhale the street air for a few minutes, than the
vitiated air of houses in this neighbourhood."
"I am not much afraid of my health for a few minutes, therefore would
rather take rest."
Todd turned his face away and ground his teeth, when he found that all
his arguments were unavailing in moving the will of his new customer;
therefore he soon finished shaving the first customer.
"At your service, sir," said Todd to Sir Richard, who seemed absorbed in
reading a newspaper he took from his pocket. He looked up, and saw that
the stranger was nearly ready to leave, therefore he continued reading
till the stranger was in the act of passing out of the shop, when he
said--
"What time do the royal family pass through Temple-bar to the City this
morning?"
"Half-past nine," said Todd.
"Then I have not time to be shaved now--I will call in again. Good
morning." Saying which he also left the shop.
In a few minutes after leaving the shop of Todd, Sir Richard and the men
employed by him were in consultation; and he urged strongly that the men
should remain nearer to the shop than they had hitherto done, for if Sir
Richard had been two minutes later, most likely he who had escaped the
angry billows, would have been launched into eternity by the villanous
barber.
For the remainder of the day Todd was more closely besieged than ever,
and when night came on, Sir Richard Blunt, with two of his men, set
watch upon the house of Mrs. Lovett. Sir Richard had provided himself
with skeleton keys, candles, and other housebreaking implements, for the
purpose of entering Mrs. Lovett's house after that lady had retired, as
he had the full sanction of the law to use every means he could think of
in bringing the culprits to justice. About eleven o'clock Mrs. Lovett
was seen in her bedroom, with a candle in her hand, and making every
preparation for retiring; in a few minutes the light was put out, and
everything seemed still as death. Nothing was to be heard in the
adjoining streets but the monotonous tread of the watchmen, with an
occasional drawling forth of the hour of the night. This was the time
Sir Richard had waited for--it was the time for him to act. He
approached the street door and applied his implements with success, for
the door yielded to the baronet's tools, and he soon was in the shop of
the piemaker. As complete a silence reigned within as was maintained
without.
He waited for some time yet, though, before he moved. Finding, at
length, that all was profoundly still, and feeling quite convinced that
Mrs. Lovett had really retired for the night, the magistrate set about
procuring a light. By the aid of some chemical matches that he had with
him, this was soon accomplished, and a faint blue light shone upon the
various articles in the pie-shop of Mrs. Lovett. He then took a small
piece of wax taper from his pocket, and lit it. This gave him sufficient
light to enable him to distinguish with accuracy any object in the
place. Once again he listened, in order to be quite sure that Mrs.
Lovett was not stirring, and then, finding himself perfectly satisfied
upon that head, he fearlessly commenced an examination of the shop.
There was nothing to excite any very particular attention, except the
apparatus for lowering the platform upon which the pies were sent up
from the ovens below, and in a few moments the whole attention of Sir
Richard Blunt was concentrated upon that contrivance. He did not meddle
with it further, than looking at it sufficiently to fully comprehend it,
for he had other views just then. After, then, making himself quite
master of the details of that piece of machinery, he turned his whole
attention to the parlour. By the aid of a skeleton-key which he took
from his pocket, he opened the door with ease, and at once entered that
room, where lay the remains of the supper which Mrs. Lovett had so
liberally provided for Sweeney Todd. This parlour was rather a large
rambling-room, with a number of snug, handy looking cupboards in various
corners. It was towards those cupboards that Sir Richard Blunt directed
his attention. They were all locked, but with the means he had with him,
ordinary locks presented no impediment to the prosecution of his
research.
CHAPTER LV.
MRS. LOVETT'S WALK.
Suddenly he heard, or fancied he heard a noise above in the house, like
the sudden shutting of a door.
"Oh," thought Sir Richard, "all is safe. She is shutting herself in for
the night, I suppose. Well, Mrs. Lovett, we will see what we can find in
your cupboards."
The little bit of wax light, which Sir Richard had lighted, gave but a
weak kind of twilight while he moved about with it in his hand, but when
he stuck it on a corner of the mantel-shelf it burnt much clearer, and
was sufficient to enable him just to see what he was about. So
thoroughly impressed was he with the idea that Mrs. Lovett had retired
to rest, that he paid no sort of attention to the house, and may be
said, in a manner of speaking, to have negligently shut his ears to all
sounds that did not violently attack them. He opened a cupboard, in
which were some books, and on the top-shelf, lying in a confused kind of
heap, were some watches, and several sets of very rich buckles for
shoes. There were, likewise, several snuff-boxes in the lot. Were these
little trifles presented to Mrs. Lovett, by Todd, as proofs of the
thriving business he was carrying on? Sir Richard put two of the watches
in his pocket.
"These may be identified," he said. "And now, if I can but find the door
by which she descends to the oven below, I--"
At this moment he was startled by a sudden accession of light in the
room. His first idea, and a natural enough one too, was, that the little
wax light was playing some vagaries incidental to all lights, and he
turned rapidly from the cupboard to look at it. What was his
astonishment to see the door that led to the upper part of the house
open, and Mrs. Lovett, partially undressed, standing upon the threshold
with a chamber-candlestick in her hand in which was a rushlight, the dim
and dubious rays from which had produced the extra illumination that had
first startled Sir Richard Blunt. No wonder that, with amazement upon
his countenance, he now glanced upon this vision, for such it looked
like at the moment; and yet he saw that Mrs. Lovett it was to all
intents and purposes, and that he was discovered in his exploring
expedition in her parlour appeared to be one of those facts it would
have required no small share of moral hardihood to dispute. Seeing,
however, should not always be believing, despite the venerable saying
which asserts as much.
[Illustration: Mrs. Lovett In A State Of Somnambulism.]
"I must apprehend her, now," thought Sir Richard Blunt; "I have no
resource but to apprehend her at once."
With this object he was about to dart forward, when something strange
about the appearance of Mrs. Lovett arrested his attention, and stayed
his progress. He paused and remained leaning partly upon the back of a
chair, while she slowly advanced into the room, and then as she came
nearer to him he became convinced of what he had begun to suspect,
namely--that she was walking in her sleep. There is something awful in
this wandering of the mortal frame when its senses seem to be locked up
in death. It looks like a resurrection from the grave--as though a
corpse was again revisiting
"The glimpses of the pale moon;"
and even Sir Richard Blunt, with all his constitutional and acquired
indifference to what would be expected to startle any one else could not
help shrinking back a little, and feeling an unusual sort of terror.
This transient nervousness of his, though, soon passed away, and then he
set himself to watch the actions of Mrs. Lovett with all the keenness of
intense interest and vividly awakened curiosity. She did not disappoint
him. Moving forward into the room with a slow and stately action, so
that the little flame of the rushlight was by no means disturbed, she
reached the middle of the parlour and then she paused. She assumed such
a natural attitude of listening, that Sir Richard Blunt voluntarily
shrunk down behind the chair, for it seemed to him at the moment that
she must have heard him. Then, in a low and slightly indistinct tone,
she spoke--
"Hush! hush! So still. The poison! Where is the poison?--Will he take
it? Ah, that is the question, and yet how clear it is. But he is
fiend-like in his suspicions. When will he come?"
She moved on towards the cupboard, in which the decanter of poisoned
wine had been placed, and opening it, she felt in vain upon the shelf
for it. It was still upon the table, and if anything more than another
could have been a convincing proof of the mere mechanical actions of the
somnambulist, this fact, that she passed the wine where it was, and only
recollected where it had been, would have been amply sufficient. After
finding that her search was ineffectual, she turned from the cupboard,
and stood for a few moments in silence. Then a horror shook her frame,
and she said--
"They must all die. Bandage your eyes, and you will shut out the death
shrieks. Yes, that will be something, to get rid of those frightful
echoes. Bandage after bandage will, and shall do it."
Sir Richard stood silently watching; but such was the horror of the
tones in which she spoke, that even his heart felt cold, as though the
blood flowed but sluggishly through its accustomed channels.
"Who," he thought to himself, "for the world's wealth, would have this
woman's memory of the past?"
She still held the light, and it appeared to him as though she were
about to go into the shop, but she paused before she reached the
half-glass door of communication between it and the parlour, and shook
like one in an ague.
"Another!--another!" she said. "How strange it is that I always know.
The air seems full of floating particles of blood, and they all fall
upon me! Off, off. Oh, horror! horror! I choke--I choke. Off, I say. How
the hot blood steams up in a sickly vapour. There--there, now! Why does
Todd let them shriek in such a fashion?"
She now shook so, that Sir Richard Blunt made sure she would either drop
the light she carried, or, at all events, shake it out, but neither of
these contingencies took place; and, after a few moments, she got more
calm. The violent agitation of her nerves gradually subsided. She spoke
horrors, but it was in a different tone; and abandoning, apparently, the
intention of going into the shop, she approached a portion of the
parlour which had not yet been subjected to the scrutiny of Sir Richard
Blunt, although it would not ultimately have escaped him. The appearance
of this part of the room was simply that there was there a cupboard, but
the back of this seeming cupboard formed, in reality, the door that led
down the flight of stairs to the other strong iron door that effectually
shut in the captive cook to his duties among the ovens. This was just
the place that Sir Richard Blunt wanted to find out; and here we may as
well state, that Sir Richard had an erroneous, but very natural idea,
under the circumstances, that the cook or cooks were accomplices of Mrs.
Lovett in her nefarious transactions. Had he been at all aware of the
real state of affairs below, our friend, who had become so thoroughly
disgusted with the pies, would not have been left for so long in so
precarious a situation. Mrs. Lovett paused, after opening the lock of
the cupboard, and in a strange, sepulchral sort of voice, she said--
"Has he done it?"
"Done what?" Sir Richard would fain have asked; but, although he had
heard that people, when walking in their sleep, will answer questions
put to them under such circumstances, he was doubtful of the fact, and
by no means wished to break the trance of Mrs. Lovett.
"Has he done it?" she again repeated. "Is he no more? How many does it
make? One--two--three--four--five--six--seven. Yes, seven, it must be
the seventh, and I have heard all. Hush! hush! Todd--Todd--Todd, I say.
Are you dead? No--no. He would not drink the wine. The devil, his
master, whispered to him that it had in it the potent drug that would
send his spirits howling to its Maker, and he would not drink. God! he
would not drink! No--no--no!"
She pronounced these words in such a tone of agony, that her awakening
from the strange sleep she was in, seemed to be a natural event from
such a strong emotion, but it did not take place. No doubt Mrs. Lovett
had been long habituated to these nocturnal rambles. She now began
slowly and carefully the descent of the stairs leading to the oven; but
she had not got many paces, when a current of air from below, and which,
no doubt, came through the small grating in the iron door, extinguished
her light. This circumstance, however, appeared to be perfectly
unnoticed by her, and she proceeded in the profound darkness with the
same ease as though she had had a light. Sir Richard would have followed
her as he was, but in the dark he did not feel sufficient confidence in
her as a guide to do so; and with as noiseless a tread as possible, he
went back, and fetched from the chimney-piece shelf his own little wax
light, which was still burning, and carefully guarding its flame from a
similar catastrophe to what had happened to Mrs. Lovett's light, he
descended the staircase, slowly and cautiously, after her. She went with
great deliberation, and it was not until being rather surprised at the
total absence of sound from her tread, that upon looking down to her
feet, he found that they were bare. After this, he could have no doubt
but that, almost immediately upon her lying down in bed, this
somnambulistic trance had come over her, and she had risen to creep
below, and go through the singular scene we are describing. Step by step
they both descended, until Mrs. Lovett came to the iron door. She did
not attempt to open it. If she had, Heaven only knows what might have
resulted from the desperate risk the captive cook might have made to
escape. But even in the madness of Mrs. Lovett--for a sort of madness
the scene she was enacting might be called--there was a kind of method,
and she had no idea of opening the iron door that shut the cook from the
upper world. Pausing, then, at the door leading to the ovens, she, with
as much facility as though she had had broad daylight to do it in,
unfastened the small square wicket in the top part of the window. A dull
reddish glare of light came through it from the furnaces, which night
nor day were extinguished.
"Hist! hist!" said Mrs. Lovett.
"Who speaks?" said a dull hollow voice, which sounded as if coming from
the tomb. "Who speaks to me?"
Mrs. Lovett shut the small wicket in a moment.
"He has not done it, yet," she said. "He has not done it
yet. No--no--no. But blood will flow--yes. It must be so.
One--two--three--four--five--six--seven. The seventh, and not the last.
Horrible! horrible!--most horrible! If, now, I could forget--"
She began rapidly to ascend the stairs, so that Sir Richard Blunt had to
take two at a step, and once three, in order to be up before her, and
even then she reached the parlour so close upon him, that it was a
wonder she did not touch him; but he succeeded in evading her by a
hair's breadth, and then she stood profoundly still for a few moments
with her hands clasped. This quiescent state, however, did not last
long, for suddenly, with eagerness, she leaned forward, and spoke again.
"No suspicion!" she said; "all is well!--Dear me, heap up thousands
more. Oh, Todd, have we not enough?--There, clean up that blood!--Here
is a cloth!--Stop it up--don't you see where it is running to, like a
live thing?--He is not dead yet.--How clumsy.--Another blow with the
hammer!--There--there--on the forehead!--What a crash!--Did the bone go
that time?--Why the eyes have started out!--Horror! horror!--Oh, God,
no--no--no--I cannot come here again.--Oh, God!--Oh, God!"
She sunk down upon the floor in a huddled up mass, and Sir Richard
Blunt, who could not forbear shuddering at the last words that had come
from her lips now he thought that her trance was over, rapidly
approaching her, said--
"Wretched woman, your career is over."
She suddenly rose, and with the same stately movement as before, she
made her way from the parlour by the door leading to the staircase.
During all the strange scenes she had gone through, she had not
abandoned the light, and although the air in the narrow passage of the
staircase had extinguished it, she still continued to carry it with the
same care as though it lit her on her way. Seeing that she still walked
in that strange and hideous sleep, the magistrate let her pass him, nor
did he make any attempt to follow her.
"Be it so," he said. "Let her awaken once again in the fancied security
of her guilt. The doom of the murderess is hanging over her, and she
shall not escape. But there is time yet."
He watched her until, by the turn of the stairs, she disappeared from
his sight, and then he sat down to think. And there, for a brief space,
we leave Sir Richard, while we take a peep at Tobias.
CHAPTER LVI.
TOBIAS UNBOSOMS HIMSELF.
Mrs. Ragg, when she met Sweeney Todd, after he had so comfortably put
out of this world of care, John Mundell, the usurer, was really upon a
mission to Minna Gray, to tell her that Tobias was, to use her own
expressive phraseology--"Never so much better." Together with this news,
Mrs. Ragg, at the colonel's suggestion, sought the company of Minna to
tea upon that afternoon; and the consent of all parties whom it might
concern being duly obtained to that arrangement, we will suppose Minna
upon her way to Colonel Jeffery's. Timidly, and with a bashful boldness,
if we may use the expression, did the fair young girl ring the area bell
at the colonel's. But he and his friend, Captain Rathbone, were both in
the parlour, and saw her advance, so that she was at once welcomed into
that portion of the house. The colonel, like most gentlemen, had the
happy knack of making those with whom he spoke at their ease, so that
Minna in a very short time recovered her first agitation--for if she had
gone a thousand times to that house, agitated she would have been at
first--and was able to discourse with all that gentle fervour and candid
simplicity which belongs to such minds as hers.
"A most favourable change," said the colonel, "has taken place in
Tobias--a change which I attribute to the strong influence which your
visit had upon him; such an opinion is not a mere fancy of mine, for the
medical gentleman who is in attendance upon him fully concurs in that
view of the case."
Minna had no need to say that she was pleased, for she looked all the
delight that such a communication was calculated to give her.
"Under these circumstances, then," continued the colonel, "that which
was only a faint hope of his recovery, has become a certainty."
Minna's eyes filled with tears.
"Yes," added Captain Rathbone, "and we expect that to you he will make
such revelations as shall bring proper punishment upon all those who
have in any way been the cause of this calamity."
"Oh, forgive them all, now," said Minna. "Since he recovers, we can
forgive them all, you know, now."
"That cannot be, for the persecution that Tobias has endured is but part
of a system which he will be the means of exposing. Will you come up
stairs at once now, Miss Gray, and see him?"
"Oh, yes--yes."
How her heart beat as she ascended the staircase, and how quickly she
inspired and respired when she actually got to the door of Tobias's
room. But then she heard the kind, although not very musical voice of
Mrs. Ragg from within, say--
"But, my dear, you will give her time to come?"
"A long time, mother," said Tobias.
Ah, how well Minna knew that voice. It was the voice of Tobias as of
old. The same voice, in tone perhaps only a little weakened, and
rendered more soft by sickness than it had been, but to her it was like
the soft memory of some well remembered tone that she had heard, and
wept with joy to hear in happier days.
"I am here, Tobias! I am here."
"Minna--Minna!"
She entered the room radiant and beautiful as some fairy come to breathe
joy by the magic of some spell, Tobias stretched out his arms towards
her. She paused a moment, and then with a soft and gentle movement,
embraced him. It was but for an instant she held him in her arms, and
then she stepped back a pace or two and looked at him.
"Quite well," said Tobias, understanding the look.
"Quite?"
"Oh, yes, Minna, and as happy--as--as--fifty kings."
"Are kings happy?"
"Well, I don't know that they are, Minna, but at all events if they are,
they can't possibly be happier than I am."
"Bless the boy," said Mrs. Ragg, "how he does talk, to be sure."
"Why, Tobias," said Colonel Jeffery, "you are wonderfully improved
within this last hour."
"Yes, sir, and still more wonderfully since the best physician in the
world has come to see me."
The direction of his eyes towards Minna Gray let them know, if they had
not guessed it before, who Tobias considered the best physician in the
world to him. Minna shook her head, and said--
"But, Tobias, it is to this gentleman that you owe your life."
"Yes," replied Tobias, "and if ever I forget to be grateful to him for
all that he has done for me, I shall consider myself the worst person in
the world. Aye, as bad, quite as--as Sweeney Todd."
Tobias shuddered perceptibly as he pronounced Todd's name, and it was
quite evident that even in safety, as he could not but feel himself, and
profoundly protected from the deadly malice of his late master, he could
not divest himself of the absolute horror which even a mere remembrance
of him engendered.
"Well, Tobias," said the colonel, as he drew a chair close to him,
"since you have named Todd, pray tell us all about him."
"All?"
"Yes, all, Tobias."
"I will tell all I know. Come closer to me, Minna; I feel, when you are
near me, as though God had sent one of his angels to keep Todd from me.
Oh, yes, I will tell all I know. How can he harm me now?"
"How indeed, Tobias?" said Minna.
Tobias still trembled. What a shock that bold, bad, unscrupulous man had
given to the nerves of that boy. His bodily health might be restored,
and his mind once more be brought back to sanity, but if Tobias Ragg
were to live to the age of a patriarch, the name of Todd would be to him
a something yet to shrink from, and the tone of his nervous system could
never be what it once was. Minna looked up in his face, and the colonel,
too, gazed fully upon him, so that Tobias found he was absolutely called
upon to say something.
"Yes," he began, "I remember that people came to the shop, and--and that
they never went out of it again."
"Can you particularise any instance?"
"Yes, the gentleman with the dog."
Colonel Jeffery showed by his countenance how much he was interested.
"Go on," he said. "What about the gentleman with the dog?"
"I don't know how it was," added Tobias, "but that circumstance seemed
to tell more upon my fancy than any other. I suppose it was the conduct
of the dog."
"What sort of a dog was it?"
"A large handsome dog, and Todd would not let it remain in the shop, so
his master made him wait outside."
"Did he name the dog?"
Tobias passed his hand across his brow several times, and then his
countenance suddenly brightening up, he said--
"Hector! Yes, Hector!"
Colonel Jeffery nodded.
"What then happened, Tobias?" said Minna.
"Why, I think Todd sent me out upon some message, and when I came back
the gentleman was gone, but not the dog."
"Now, Tobias, can you tell us what sort of a man the man with the dog
was?"
"Yes, fresh-coloured, and good-looking rather, with hair that curled. I
should know him again."
"Ah, Tobias," said the colonel, "I am afraid we shall none of us ever
see him again in this world."
"Never!" said Tobias. "Todd killed him. How he did it, or what he did
with the body, I know not; but he did kill him, and many more, I am
certain as that I am now here. Many people came into the shop that never
left it again."
"No doubt; and now, Tobias, how came you in the street by London Bridge
so utterly overcome and destitute?"
"The madhouse."
"Madhouse?"
"Yes, I shall recollect it all. Where are you, mother?"
"Bless us and save us!--here, to be sure," said Mrs. Ragg.
"Did I not come to you at your room and find you ironing, and did I not
tell you that I had something to say about Todd, and ask you to fetch
somebody?"
"To be sure."
"Well, when you left, Todd came, and after once looking in his face, I
almost forgot what happened, except that there was a madhouse and a man
named Watson."
"Watson?" said Colonel Jeffery, as he made a note of the name.
"Yes," added Tobias, "and Fogg."
"Good! Fogg, I have it. Now, Tobias, where did you encounter this Fogg
and Watson?"
"That I cannot tell. I recollect trees, and a large house, and rooms,
and a kind of garden, and some dark and dismal cells, and then my mind
seems, when I think of all those things, like some large room full of
horrors, and anything comes before me just like some dreadful dream. I
recollect falling, I think, from some wall, and then running at my
utmost speed until I fell, and then the next thing that I remember was
hearing the voice of Minna in this house."
"One thing," said Captain Rathbone, "is pretty certain, and that is,
that this madhouse, if it were one in reality, must be in the immediate
vicinity of London, or else the strength of Tobias would not have
enabled him to run so far as to London from it."
"Mrs. Ragg, I believe Todd told you that he had placed Tobias in a
madhouse, did he not?" said the colonel.
"Yes, sir, he did, the wagabone!"
"Well, I am inclined to think that it was a madhouse--one of those
private dens of iniquity which are, and have been for many years, a
disgrace to the jurisprudence of this country."
"If so, then," said the captain, "there will be no great difficulty in
finding it with the clue that Tobias has given us respecting the names."
"I will not be satisfied until I have rooted out that den," said the
colonel, "but at present all our exertions must be directed to ascertain
the fate of poor Ingestrie. Every circumstance appears really to combine
in favour of the opinion of Johanna Oakley, to the effect that this
Thornhill and Mark Ingestrie were the same."
"It does look marvellously probable," said the captain.
"Do you recollect any more, Tobias?" said Minna.
"Not clearly, Minna, and I am afraid that what I have recollected is not
very clear, but it was the dog that made an impression upon my memory.
Many things are, however, now each moment crowding to my mind, and I
think that I shall soon be able to recollect much more."
"Not a doubt, Tobias. Do not attempt to strain your memory too far now.
Things will come back to you gently, and by degrees."
"I have no doubt of that, sir, but--but--"
"But what, Tobias?"
"Oh, sir, you are quite sure--"
"Sure of what?"
"That when I least expect it, round the curtains of my bed, or from
behind some chair, or from some cupboard about twilight, I shall not see
the hideous face of Sweeney Todd, and feel his eyes glancing upon me?"
Poor Tobias covered his eyes with both his hands, as he gave almost
frenzied utterance to these words, and both Colonel Jeffery and his
friend, the captain, looked on with aspects of deep commiseration. The
former, after the pause of a few moments, to allow the renewed
excitement of Tobias fully to subside, spoke to him in a kind but firm
voice.
"Tobias, listen to me. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, sir--oh, yes."
"Then I have to tell you that it is impossible Sweeney Todd can now come
upon you in the way you mention, or in any other way."
"Impossible, sir?"
"Yes, quite. He is now watched by the officers of justice, day and
night. His house door is never lost sight of for a moment while he is
within it, and when he is abroad, he is closely followed and carefully
watched by men, any one of whom is more than a match for him; so be at
peace upon that head, for Sweeney Todd is more securely kept now than
any wild beast in his den."
CHAPTER LVII.
SIR RICHARD BLUNT'S ADVENTURES CONTINUED.
All left Sir Richard Blunt, not in a critical situation, but in what may
be called an embarrassing one, inasmuch as he could not very well make
up his mind what to do next. He had heard much towards her enunciation
from the lips of Mrs. Lovett, and he had possessed himself of some
property, which he hoped would be authenticated as having belonged to
some of Todd's victims. He had likewise found out the mode of secret
communication with the ovens below, but whether or not to make any
further use of that information just then was a question. While he was
debating these matters in his mind, he saw that his little wax light was
expiring. He accordingly produced another from his pocket, and lit it,
and during the process of so doing, he made up his mind to risk a
descent into the regions below, so far as the iron door. He at first
took his light in his hand to take it with him, but a few moments'
reflection decided him to go in the dark, and placing it upon a corner
of the shelf, as he had done before, he opened the cupboard, at the back
of which was the secret door, and soon found himself upon the little
staircase. Of course, the object of Sir Richard Blunt was to make what
discovery he could, without betraying the fact of his own presence; and,
accordantly with such a design, hastened lightly as foot could fall, so
that he was some few minutes in reaching the iron door, which he felt
with his left hand, which he kept during his progress outstretched
before him. The next object was to get the little wicket open without
noise, for he recollected that Mrs. Lovett had made a sharp sound by the
sudden withdrawal of a bolt that secured it on the side next to the
staircase. By carefully feeling over the door, he at last lit upon this
bolt, and then, by taking his time over it, he succeeded in drawing it
back without creating the least sound. When this was done, the wicket
yielded easily, for it had no other fastening than that bolt, and when
it opened, which it did towards the stairs, the same dull reddish glare
came through the small aperture that he had noticed when Mrs. Lovett was
there, but he found what he had not noticed upon that occasion, namely,
that when the wicket was removed there were iron bars farther securing
the opening, so that it was quite clear it was intended to be a thing of
strength. When, however, the magistrate found that there was nothing
between him and the region of the ovens but this grating, he placed his
ear close to it, in order to listen if any one was stirring. After a few
moments, he heard a deep groan. Somewhat startled at this sound--for it
was certainly unexpected--he tried to pierce with his eyes the obscurity
of the place, but the darkness, although not absolute, was of that
puzzling character that the more he looked the more all sorts of odd
images seemed to be conjured up before his eyes. He began, too, to think
that the groan must have been only some accidental sound that he had
mistaken, but he was quickly relieved from such an opinion by hearing it
again, much more distinctly and unequivocally than it had before sounded
upon his ears. There was no possibility of mistaking this groan now; but
while the certainty that a groan it was came upon his ears, he became
only the more puzzled to account for it; and this state of feeling in
him certainly arose from the difficulty he naturally had in conceiving
the possibility of any one being upon the premises, and engaged in the
service of Mrs. Lovett, unless they were accomplices of that lady. The
idea of the captive cook was not at all likely to cross the imagination
of any one, and in her revelations upon that head, during her
somnambulistic tour, Mrs. Lovett had not been sufficiently explicit to
enable Sir Richard Blunt to come to a different conclusion.
"I will listen for it again," he thought.
After a few moments more he was rewarded for his patience by not only
hearing another groan, but a voice, in accents of the most woe-begone
character, said--
"I cannot sleep. It is of no avail. Alas! who dare sleep here! God help
me, for I am past all human aid."
"Who on earth can this be?" said the magistrate to himself.
"It would be better for them to kill me at once," continued the voice.
"Anything would be preferable to this continued horror; but I suppose
they have not suited themselves yet with some one to take my place, so I
am not to be sent to see my old friends. Oh, bitter--bitter fate. I
would that I were dead!"
[Illustration: The Captive Piemaker Contemplates Suicide.]
There was a heartiness in the pronunciation of the last word, that quite
convinced Sir Richard Blunt of their sincerity; but yet he thought he
ought to listen to a little more before he ran the risk of falling into
any trap that might be laid for him by Mrs. Lovett or her satellites, if
she had any. He had not to wait long, for whoever it was that was
speaking had got into a good train of groaning, and did not seem
inclined to leave off for some time.
"Is she a woman, or the devil in petticoats?" said the voice.
"Humph!" thought Sir Richard Blunt, "that would be rather a hard
question to answer upon oath."
"How much longer am I to bear this load of misery?" continued the voice.
"No sleep--no food, but just what will sustain nature in her continued
sufferings. Oh, it is most horrible. Have I been preserved from death
under many adventurous and fearful circumstances, at last to die here
like a rat in a hole?"
"What on earth can be the matter with this man?" thought Sir Richard.
There was a pause in the lamentations of the man now for a few seconds,
during which he only groaned once or twice, just as if by way of letting
any one know, who might be listening, that he was not pacified. At
length, with a sudden burst of passion, he cried--
"I can bear it no longer. Death of my own seeking, and by my own choice
as to method, is far preferable to this state of existence. Farewell,
all--farewell to you, fair and gentle girl, whom I loved and whose
falseness first gave me a pang such as the assassin's dagger could not
have inflicted. Farewell, dear companions of my youth, whom I had hoped
to see again!"
"Stop!" said Sir Richard Blunt.
The captive cook was still.
"Stop!" cried Sir Richard Blunt again.
"Good God! who is that?" said the voice from the region of the oven.
"Your good genius, if I save you from doing anything rash; who and what
are you? Tell me all."
"To be betrayed. Ah, you are some spy of Mrs. Lovett's of course, and
you only wish to draw me into conversation for my destruction."
"What were you going to do just now?"
"Take my own life."
"Well, if you find I am an enemy instead of a friend, as I profess to
be, you can but carry out your intention."
"That's true."
The captive cook pronounced these two words in such a solemn tone, that
the magistrate was more than ever convinced of his sincerity, and that
he was far more a victim of Mrs. Lovett and her associate, the barber,
than an accomplice.
"Speak freely," said Sir Richard. "Who and what are you?"
"I am the most unhappy wretch that ever breathed. I am cribbed and
cabined and confined, I live upon raw flour and water. I curse the hour
that I was born, and wish I had been a blind kitten and drowned, rather
than what I am."
"But what do you do here?"
"Make numberless pies."
"Well?"
"It's all very fine for you to say well, whoever you are, but it is
anything but well with me. Where are you?"
"Upon the staircase, near an iron door."
"Ah, you are at the aperture through which that abominable Mrs. Lovett
issues to me her commands and her threats. If you have any compassion in
your nature, and the smallest desire to hear a story that will curdle
your blood, you will find out the means of opening that door, and then I
will climb up to it and make one effort for freedom."
"My good friend, I am very much afraid it would materially derange my
plans to do so."
"Derange your what?"
"My plans."
"And are any plans to be placed in competition with my life and liberty?
Oh, human nature--human nature, what a difference there is in you when
you are upon the right side of the door from what you are when you are
upon the wrong."
"My friend," said Sir Richard Blunt, "that is a very philosophical
remark, and I compliment you upon it. But now answer me truly one
question, and for your own sake, and for the sake of justice, I beg you
to answer me truly."
"What is it?"
"Are you in present fear of death?"
"No. Not while I continue to make the pies."
"Very good!"
"Very good? Now by all that's abominable, I only wish you had but to
make them here for one week, and at the same time know as much as I
know--I rather suspect that you would never say very good again."
"One week?"
"Yes, only a week."
"Pray how long have you been here?"
"I have lost count of the long weary days and the anxious nights. Oh,
sir, be you whom you may, do not sport with me, for I am very--very
wretched!"
"If I could but be sure that you are a victim of the woman who lives
above," said Sir Richard.
"Sure that I am a victim? Oh, God, you suspect me of being her
accomplice. Well, well, it is but natural, finding me here--I ought to
expect as much. What can I say--what can I do to convince you of the
contrary?"
"Reveal all."
"Do you not know then that--that--"
"That what? I may suspect much, but I know nothing."
"Then--then--"
The man's voice sunk to a husky whisper, and when he had spoken a few
words there was a death-like silence between him and Sir Richard Blunt.
The latter at length said--
"And you affirm this?"
"I am willing to swear to it. Release me from here and take me to any
court of justice you please, and I will affirm it. If you have any
suspicion of my good faith, manacle me--bind me up in iron until I tell
all."
"I am convinced."
"Oh, joy, I shall look upon the blessed sun again. I shall see the green
fields--I shall hear the lark sing, and drink in the odour of sweet
flowers. I--I am not quite desolate."
Sir Richard Blunt could hear him sobbing like a child. The magistrate
did not interrupt this burst of feeling. He was, on the contrary, quite
glad to be a witness of it, for it convinced him of the sincerity of the
man. He could not think it possible he should find attending upon Mrs.
Lovett's ovens so consummate an actor as it would have taken to play
that part. After a few moments, however, he spoke, saying--
"Now, my friend, are you one who will listen to reason in preference to
merely acting upon the feelings and suggestions of the moment?"
"I hope so."
"Well, then, I think I could set you free to-night, but to do so would
materially interfere with the course of that justice which is about
speedily to overtake Mrs. Lovett. By remaining here you will keep things
as they are for the present, and that, I assure you, is a great object.
You say that while you continue making pies, your life is not in
positive peril; I ask of you, for the sake of justice, to put up with
your present position a short time longer."
"Liberty is sweet."
"It is, but you would not like such a woman as Mrs. Lovett to take the
alarm and escape the consequences of her crimes."
"Oh! no--no. I will remain. For how long will it be?"
"I cannot say exactly, but the time may be counted by hours, and not one
shall be lost. Have but a little patience, and I will come to you again.
When next you hear my voice at the grating, it will be to give the
signal of liberty."
"How can I thank you?"
"Never mind that. Good night, and take care of yourself. All will be
well."
"Good night. Good night."
CHAPTER LVII.
BIG BEN MAKES A DISCOVERY.
At seven o'clock on the morning following these strange events, there
were early prayers at St. Dunstan's, and the bells called together the
devout at half-past six. Todd was there! Is the reader surprised? Has he
never yet in his mundane experience met with a case of sanctimonious
villany? Does he think that going to prayer is incompatible with such a
life as Todd's? Pho--pho! Live and learn. Todd met the beadle upon the
steps of the church.
"Ah, Mr. T.," said that functionary. "It does one good to see you, that
it does--a deal of good. I say that, of all the tradesmen in Fleet
Street, you is the _piousest_."
"We owe a duty to our creator," said Todd, "which all the pomps and
vanities of this world ought to make us neglect."
"Have you heard o' the suicide in Norfolk Street?"
Todd shook his head.
"Why, the beadle of St. Clement's was asking of me only last night, what
sort of man you was."
"I?"
"Yes, to be sure. It's a gentleman as you went to shave, and as you lent
a razor to, as has cut his blessed throat in Norfolk Street."
"God bless me," said Todd, "you don't mean that? Dear! dear! We are
indeed here to-day and gone to-morrow. How true it is that flesh is
grass;--and so the gentleman cut his throat with my razor, did he?"
"Above a bit."
"Well, well, it is to be hoped that the Lord will be merciful to the
little frailties of his creatures."
"Conwulsions! Do you call that a little frailty?"
Todd had passed on into the body of the church, and any minute observer
might have noticed, that when he got there, there was a manifest and
peculiar twitching of his nose, strongly resembling the evolutions of a
certain ex-chancellor. Then, in a low tone to himself, Todd muttered--
"They make a great fuss about the smell in St. Dunstan's, but I don't
think it is so very bad after all."
Perhaps one of Todd's notions in going to early morning prayers was to
satisfy himself upon the point of the stench in the church. The morning
service was very short, so that Todd got back to his shop in ample time
to open it for the business of the day. He gave a glance at the window,
to be quite sure that the placard announcing the want of a pious lad was
there, and then with all the calmness in the world he set about
sharpening his razors. Not many minutes elapsed ere a man came in,
leading by the hand a boy of about thirteen years of age.
"Mr. Todd," he said, "you want a lad."
"Yes."
"You don't know me, but I am Cork, the greengrocer in the market."
"Oh," said Todd.
"You see this is Fred, by the first Mrs. C., and the second Mrs. C.
thinks he'd better go out to something now; if you will take him
'prentice we will provide him, and he can run into our place for his
meals and tell us all the gossip of the shop, which will amuse Mrs. C.,
as she's in a delicate condition, and I have no doubt you will find him
just the lad for you."
"Dear! dear!" said Todd.
"What's the matter, Mr. T.?"
"I'm so aggravated.--Is he pious?"
"Decidedly."
"Does he know his catechism and his belief?"
"Oh, yes. Only ask him, Mr. Todd. Only ask him."
"Come here, my dear boy. Who was Shindrad, the great uncle of Joshua,
and why did Nebuchadnezar call him Zichophobattezer the cousin of
Neozobulcoxacride?"
"Eh?" said the boy. "Lor!"
"What learning!" said the greengrocer. "Ah, Mr. Todd, you are one too
many for Fred, but he knows his catechiz."
"Well," said Todd, "if the boy that I have promised to think about don't
suit me, I'll give you a call, Mr. Cork. But, you see, I am such a slave
to my word, that if I promise to think about anything, I go on thinking
until it would astonish you how I get through it."
"Well, I'm sure we are very much obliged to you, Mr. Todd. Come along,
Fred."
"Indeed!" said Todd, when he was once more alone. "That would suit me
certainly. A lying, gossiping boy, to be running home three or four
times a day with all the news of the shop. Good--very good indeed."
Todd stropped away at the razors with great vehemence, until he suddenly
became aware that some one must be blocking up nearly the whole of the
window, for a sudden darkness, like an eclipse, had stolen over the
shop. We have before had occasion to remark that Todd had a kind of
peephole amid the multifarious articles which blocked up his windows, so
that he was enabled to look out upon the passing world when he pleased.
Upon this occasion he availed himself of this mode of ascertaining who
it was that had stopped the light from making its way into the shop. It
was no other than our old acquaintance, Big Ben from the Tower, who was
on his way to Mr. Oakley's. The heart of Ben had been sensibly touched
by the distress of Johanna, and he was going to give her a word or two
of comfort and encouragement, which would wholly consist of advising her
to "never mind." But still Ben's intention was good, however weak might
be the means by which he carried it out. As for passing Todd's window
without looking in, he could no more help having a good stare, than he
could help doing justice to a flagon of old ale, if it were placed
before him; and upon this occasion the little placard, announcing the
want of a pious youth, fixed the whole of Ben's wonder and attraction.
"A pious lad!" said Ben. "Oh, the villain. Never mind. Easy does
it--easy does it."
"Curses on that fellow!" muttered Todd. "What is he staring at?"
"A pious lad!" ejaculated Ben. "Pious--oh--oh. Pious!"
"Shaved this morning, sir?" said Todd, appearing at his door with a
razor in his hand. "Shaved or dressed? Polish you off surprisingly, in
no time, sir."
"Eh?"
"Walk in, sir--walk in. A nice comfortable shave makes a man feel quite
another thing. Pray walk in, sir. I think I have had the pleasure of
seeing you before."
Ben cast an indignant look at Sweeney Todd; and then, as upon the spur
of the moment--for Ben was rather a shrewd thinker--he could not find
anything strong enough to say, he wisely held his peace, and walked on.
Todd looked after him with a savage scowl.
"Not much plunder," he muttered, "but suitable enough in another point
of view. Well--well, we shall see--we shall see."
Ben continued his course towards the city, ever and anon repeating as he
went--"A pious lad!--a pious lad. Oh, the rascal."
When he reached within a few doors of the spectacle-maker's, he saw a
boy with a letter in his hand looking about him, and probably seeing
that Ben had a good-humoured countenance, he said to him--
"If you please, sir, can you tell me which is Mr. Oakley's?"
"Yes, to be sure. Is that letter for him?"
"No, sir, it's for Miss Oakley."
Ben laid his finger upon the side of his nose, and tried to think.
"Miss Oakley," he said. "A letter for Miss Oakley;" and then, as nothing
very alarming consequent upon that proposition presented itself to him,
he said, "Easy does it."
"Do you know the house, sir?" asked the boy.
"Yes, to be sure. Come along, boy."
"Yes, sir."
"Who's the letter from?"
"A gentleman, sir, as is waiting at the Unicorn, in Addle Street."
"A gentleman as is waiting at the Addle in Unicorn Street," said Ben;
and then, not being able still to hit upon anything very outrageous in
all that, he contented himself once more with an "Easy does it."
The boy accompanied him to the door of Mr. Oakley's, and then Ben said
to him--
"I'll give the letter to Miss Oakley if you like, and if you don't like,
you can wait till I send her to you. Easy does it."
"Thank you, sir," said the boy, "I'd rather give it to the young lady
myself."
"Very good," said Ben. "Rise betimes, and hear early chimes."
With this effort of proverbial lore, Ben marched into the shop, where
old Oakley was, with a magnifying glass fitted to his eyes, performing
some extraordinary operation upon a microscope. Ben merely said "How is
you?" and then passed on to the back-room, having received from the old
optician a slight nod by way of a return of the friendly salutation. Ben
always esteemed it a stroke of good fortune when he found Johanna alone,
which, in the present instance, he did. She rose to receive him, and
placed one of her small hands in his, where for a moment or two it was
completely hidden.
"All right?" said Ben.
"Yes, as usual. No news."
"I saw a boy at the door with a letter from a unicorn."
"From a what?"
"No, an addle--no. Let me see. A unicorn, waiting with a gentleman in
addle something. Easy does it. That ain't it, neither. Where is she?"
Guessing that it was some one with a communication from some friend to
her, Johanna had glided to the door, and got the letter from the boy.
She came with it to the parlour at once, and opened it. It was from
Colonel Jeffery, and ran as follows:--
"DEAR MISS OAKLEY,--If you will oblige me with another meeting in
the Temple Gardens this evening, at or about six, I have something
to tell you, although I am afraid nothing cheering.--Believe me to
be your sincere friend,
"JOHN JEFFERY."
She read it aloud to Ben, and then said--
"It is from the gentleman who, I told you, Ben, had interested himself
so much in the fate of poor Mark."
"Oh, ah," said Ben. "Easy does it. Tell him, if he'd like to see the
beasts at the Tower any time, only to ask for me."
"Yes, Ben."
"Well, my dear, I came by the barber's, and what do you think?"
Johanna shook her head.
"Guess again."
"Spare me, Ben. If you have any news for me, pray tell me. Do not keep
me in suspense."
Ben considered a little whether what he had to say was news or not; and
then taking rather an enlarged view of the word, he added--
"Yes, I have. Todd wants a pious boy."
"A what?"
"A pious boy. He's got a bill in his window to say that he wants a pious
boy. What do you think of that, now? Did you ever hear of such a
villain? Easy does it. And he came out, too, and wanted to 'polish me
off.'"
"Oh, Ben."
"Oh, Johanna. Take things easy."
"I mean that you should be very careful indeed not to go into that man's
shop. Promise me that you will never do so."
"All's right. Never be afeard, or you'd never tame the beastesses. If I
was only to go into that fellow's shop and fix a eye on him so--you'd
see!"
Ben fixed one of his eyes upon Johanna in such a manner, that she was
glad to escape from its glare, which was quite gratifying to him (Ben),
inasmuch as it was a kind of tacit acknowledgment of the extraordinary
powers of his vision.
"Easy does it," he said. "All's right. Do you mean to meet this
colonel?"
"Yes, Ben."
"All's right. Only take care of yourself down Fleet Street, that's all."
"I will, indeed."
"What do you say to taking me with you?"
"Where, Ben?"
"Why, where you go to meet the colonel, my dear."
"Personally, I should not entertain the smallest objection; but there is
no danger in the transaction. I know that Colonel Jeffery is a man of
honour, and that in meeting him upon such an occasion I am perfectly
safe."
"Good again," said Ben. "Easy does it. Hilloa! what's that in the shop?"
"Only my mother come home."
"Only? The deuce! Excuse me, my dear, I must be off. Somehow or another
your mother and I don't agree, you see, and ever since I had that
dreadful stomach ache one night here, it gives me a twinge to see her,
so I'll be off. But remember--easy does it."
CHAPTER LVIII.
THE GRAND CONSULTATION IN THE TEMPLE.
With this sage aphorism, Ben effected a hasty retreat from the
optician's house by the private door, so that he should not run the risk
of encountering Mrs. Oakley, who had made her appearance by the shop
way. When Johanna was alone, she once again read the little missive from
the colonel; and then, burying her face in her hands, she tried still to
think that it was possible he might have some good news to tell her. And
yet, if such had been the case, would he not have written it? Would he,
feeling for her as she knew he did, have kept her in a state of suspense
upon such a subject? Ah, no. He would rather have, in spite of all
obstacles, made his way into the shop, and called to her--"Johanna, Mark
Ingestrie lives," if he had really been in a position to say so much. As
these thoughts chased each other through the mind of the young girl, she
shed abundance of tears; and so absorbed was she in her grief, that she
was not aware that any one was present, until she felt a light touch
upon her shoulder, and upon starting round suddenly, she saw her friend
Arabella Wilmot standing close to her.
"Johanna?"
"Yes--yes, Arabella. I am here."
"Yes, dear Johanna. But you are weeping."
"I am--I am. To you these tears shall be no secret, Arabella. Alas!
alas! You, who know my heart, know how much I have to weep for. You can
bear with me. You are the only one in all the world whom I would
willingly let see these bitter--bitter tears."
At those words, Johanna wept afresh, and the heart of her young friend
was melted; but recovering sooner than Johanna, Arabella was able to
speak somewhat composedly to her, saying--
"Have you heard anything, Johanna, new?"
"No--no. Except that Mr. Jeffery wishes to see me again to tell me
something, and as he has not said in his letter what it is, I can guess
it is no good news."
"Nay; is not that assuming too much?"
"No--no. I know he would, if he had had any joyous intelligence for me,
have written it. He would feel of what a suspense even a few hours would
be upon such a subject. No, Arabella, I feel that what he has to say is
some terrible confirmation of my worst fears."
Arabella found it no easy task to combat this course of reasoning upon
the part of Johanna. She felt its force, and yet she felt at the same
time that it was somewhat incumbent upon her to resist it, and to make
at least the endeavour to ward off the deep depression that had seized
upon Johanna.
"Now listen to me," she said. "Perhaps what Colonel Jeffery has to say
to you is, after all, a something hopeful; but, at the same time, being
only hopeful, and nothing positive, he may have felt how difficult it
was to write it, without exciting undue effects in your mind, and so
prefers saying it, when he can accompany it by all the little collateral
circumstances which alone can give it its proper value."
There was something like a gleam of sunshine in this idea.
"Do you understand me, dear Johanna?"
"Yes--yes."
Johanna spoke more firmly than before. The last argument of her friend
had had all its weight with her, and had chased away many of the gloomy
thoughts that had but a few moments before possessed her. What a strange
compound is the human mind, and how singularly does it take its texture,
cameleon-like, from surrounding circumstances? But a few moments since,
and, to Johanna the brief epistle of the colonel was suggestive of
nothing but despair. How different now was its aspect? Arabella Wilmot
had, by a few simple words, placed it in a new light, so that it started
to the imagination of Johanna symbols of life.
"Ah! you are hoping now," said Arabella.
"I am--I am. Perhaps it is as you say, Arabella. I will think it is."
Miss Wilmot was now almost afraid that she had gone too far, and
conjured up too much hope; but she could not bear the idea of dashing
down again the fairy fabric of expectation she had moved in the bosom of
Johanna, and merely added--
"Well, Johanna, since you find that the letter will, at all events, bear
two interpretations, I am sure that, until you may be convinced it owns
to the worst, you will be as composed as possible."
"I will. And now, Arabella, will you, and can you accompany me this
evening to the Temple Gardens, to meet Colonel Jeffery?"
"Yes, Johanna. I both can and will, if such is your wish."
"It is, Arabella, much my wish, for I feel that if what our friend, the
colonel, has to say, should not be of a hopeful character, I should
never be able to repeat it to you, so as to have your opinion of it."
"Then we will go together. But we will not pass that dreadful man's
shop."
"Todd's?"
"Yes."
"Why not, Arabella? I feel, the moment that I leave this house, as
though some irresistible fascination dragged me there, and I think I
could no more pass down Fleet Street without directing my eyes to that
building, which perchance has proved fatal to poor Mark, than I could
fly."
"But--but, I shrink from that man recognising us again."
"We will pass upon the other side of the way, Arabella; but do not say
nay to me, for pass I must."
There was such a frantic sort of earnestness in the manner in which
Johanna urged this point, that Arabella no longer made any sort of
opposition to it, and the two young girls soon arranged a time of
meeting, when they would proceed together to the Temple Gardens, to give
Colonel Jeffery the meeting he so much desired. As nothing of a very
particular character occurred that day, we will at once follow Arabella
and Johanna upon the mission, premising that the hours have slipped away
which intervened between the time of Johanna receiving the note from
Colonel Jeffery, and the time when, if she kept the appointment with
him, it would be necessary for her to start from home to do so. Both the
young girls made as great alterations in their attire as they could upon
this occasion, so that they should not be strikingly recognisable again
by Todd; and then Arabella reminding Johanna that the bargain between
them was to pass upon the other side of the way, they both set off from
the old spectacle-maker's. As they neared Fleet Street, the agitation of
Johanna became more and more apparent, and Arabella was compelled to
counsel her to calmness, lest the passers-by should notice how much she
felt, from some cause to them unknown.
"My dear Johanna," she said. "Your arm trembles in mine. Oh! pray be
calm."
"I will--I will. Are we near?"
"Yes. Let us cross."
They reached the other side of the way from that on which Todd's shop
was situated, to the great relief of Arabella, who as yet knew not of
the placard that Todd had exhibited in his window, announcing the want
of a pious youth. The sight of the shop, however, seemed to bring that
circumstance to the mind of Johanna, and she told her young friend of it
at once.
"Oh! Johanna," said Arabella, "does it not seem as though--"
She paused, and Johanna looked enquiringly at her, saying--
"What would you say, Arabella? What would you say?"
"Nothing now, Johanna. Nothing now. A thought struck me, and when we
return from this meeting with your friend, the colonel, I will
communicate it to you. Oh! do not look opposite. Do not."
All such injunctions were thrown away upon Johanna. Look opposite she
did, and as she herself had truly said, it would have been quite
impossible for her to avoid the doing so, even if the greatest personal
risk had been risked in the action. But Todd's shop, to look at from the
other side of the way, presented no terrors. It simply presented the
idea of a little barber's shop, of no very great pretensions, but of
sufficient respectability, as barber's shops were in those days, not to
make any decent person shrink from going into it. No doubt, in the crowd
of Fleet Street--for Fleet Street was then crowded, although not to the
extent it is now--Johanna and her friend passed quite unnoticed by Todd,
even if he had been looking out. At all events, they reached Temple Bar
without any obstruction or adventure. Finding, then, that they had
passed the main entrance to the Temple, they went down the nearest
adjacent street, and pursuing a circuitous route through some
curious-looking courts, they reached their destination yet a little
before the appointed hour. Colonel Jeffery, however, was not likely to
keep Johanna Oakley waiting.
"There," said Arabella. "Is that the colonel?"
Johanna looked up just as the colonel approached, and lifted his hat.
"Yes, yes."
In another moment he was with them. There was a look upon the
countenance of Colonel Jeffery of deep concern, and that look, at one
glance that was bestowed upon it by Johanna Oakley, was quite sufficient
to banish all hidden hopes that she might yet have cherished regarding
the character of the news that he had to impart to her. Arabella Wilmot,
too, was of the same opinion regarding the physiognomical expression of
the colonel, who bowed to her profoundly.
[Illustration: Johanna And Arabella Meet And Consult Colonel Jeffery, In
Temple Gardens.]
"I have brought my dearest friend with me," said Johanna, "from whom I
have no secrets."
"Nor I," said the colonel, "now that I hear she stands in such an
enviable relation to you, Miss Oakley."
Arabella slightly bowed; and Johanna fixing her eyes, in which tears
were glistening, upon him, said--
"You have come to tell me that I may abandon all hope?"
"No--no; Heaven forbid!"
A bright flush came over the face of the young girl, and clasping her
hands, she said--
"Oh, sir, do not play with feelings that perhaps you scarcely guess at.
Do not tamper with a heart so near breaking as mine. It is
cruel--cruel!"
"Do I deserve such a charge," said the colonel, "even by implication?"
"No--no," said Arabella. "Recollect yourself, Johanna. You are unjust to
one who has shown himself to be your friend, and a friend to him whom
you hope to see again."
Johanna held out her little child-like hand to the colonel, and looking
appealingly in his face, she said--
"Can you forgive me? It was not I who spoke, but it was the agony of my
heart that fashioned itself at the moment into words my better judgment
and my better feelings will not own. Can you forgive me?"
"Can I, Miss Oakley! Oh, do not ask me. God grant that I could make you
happy."
"I thank you, sir, deeply and truly thank you; and--and--now--now--"
"Now, you would say, tell me my news."
"Yes. Oh, yes."
"Then let us walk upon this broad path, by the river, while, in the
first instance, I tell you that it was only from a deep sense of duty,
and a feeling that I ought not, upon any consideration, to keep anything
from you, that I came here to-day to give you some more information, and
yet fresh information."
"You are very--very good to me, sir."
"No--no, do not say that, Miss Oakley. I am a friend. I am only very
selfish; but, in brief, the lad who was in the barber's service at the
time we think Mark Ingestrie called at the shop with the string of
pearls in his possession, has told us all he knows upon the subject,
freely."
"Yes--yes; and--and--"
"He knows very little."
"But that little?"
"Just amounts to this:--That such a person did come to the shop, and
that he is quite clear that he never left it."
"Quite clear that he never left it!" repeated Johanna--"that he never
left it. Quite clear that--that--"
She burst into tears, and clung to Arabella Wilmot for support. The
colonel looked inexpressibly distressed, but he did not speak. He felt
that any common-place topics of consolation would have been an insult;
and he had seen enough of human feelings to know that such bursts of
passionate grief cannot be stemmed, but must have their course, and that
such tears will flow like irresistible torrents into the ocean of
eternity. Arabella was greatly distressed. She had not expected that
Johanna would have given way in such a manner, and she looked at Colonel
Jeffery as though she would have said--"Is it possible that you can say
nothing to calm this grief?" He shook his head, but made no reply in
words. In a few moments, however, Johanna was wonderfully recovered. She
was able to speak more composedly than she had done since the
commencement of the interview.
"Tell me all, now," she said. "I can bear to hear it all."
"You know all, Miss Oakley. The poor boy, in whose fate I have felt
sufficiently interested to take him into my care, says that such a man
as Thornhill did come to his master's shop. That he (the boy) was sent
out upon some trivial errand, merely to get him out of the way, and
that, pending his return, the visitor disappeared. He deposes to the
fact of the dog watching the door."
"The dog?"
"Yes. Thornhill, it seems, had a faithful dog with him."
"Ah, Arabella, we must have seen that dog."
"Has not the creature, then, fallen a victim to Todd's malevolence?"
"We think not, sir," said Arabella.
"Go on--go on," said Johanna; "what more?"
"The boy states that he is certain he saw the hat of the visitor with
the dog in Todd's house, after Todd had declared he had left, and
proceeded to the city."
"The hat--the dog. Alas! alas!"
"Nay, Miss Oakley, do not forget one thing, and that is, that neither
you nor any one else have as yet identified this Mr. Thornhill as Mr.
Ingestrie."
"No, not positively; but my heart tells me--"
"Ah, Miss Oakley, the heart is the slave of the feelings and of the
imagination. You must not always trust to its testimony or emotions upon
cold fact."
"There is yet hope, then, Johanna," said Arabella. "A bright hope for
you to cling to, for, as this gentleman says, there is nothing positive
to prove that Mr. Thornhill was Mark Ingestrie. I would not, were I you,
abandon that hope on any account, while I lived, and could still clutch
it. Would it not be a great thing, sir, if any papers or documents which
this Thornhill might have had about him, could be recovered?"
"It would indeed."
Arabella at first seemed upon the point of saying something contingent
upon this remark of the colonel's, or rather this acquiescence of his in
her remark, but she thought better of it, and was silent, upon which
Johanna spoke, saying--
"And that is really all, sir?"
"It is, Miss Oakley."
"But will nothing be done? Will no steps be taken to bring this man,
Todd to justice?"
"Yes, everything will be done; and indeed, anything that can be done
consistently with sound policy is actually now. Sir Richard Blunt, one
of the most acute, active, and personally daring of the magistrates of
London, has the affair in hand, and you may be quite assured that he
will pursue it with zeal."
"And what is he doing?"
"Collecting such evidence against Todd, that at a moment the law will be
enabled to come upon him with a certainty that by no ingenious quibble
can he escape."
Johanna shuddered.
"I thank you, sir, from my heart," she said, "for all the kindness
and--and--I need not again trespass upon your time or your patience."
"Ah, Miss Oakley, will you deny me your friendship?"
"Oh, no--no."
"Then why deny me the privilege of a friend to see you sometimes. If I
cannot say to you anything positively of a consoling character regarding
him whom you so much regret, I can at least share your sorrows, and
sympathise with your feelings."
Johanna was silent, but after a few moments she began to feel that she
was acting both with harshness and injustice towards one who had been
all that the kindest and most generous friend could be to her. She held
out her hand to the colonel, saying--
"Yes, sir, I shall be always happy to see you."
The colonel pressed her hand in his, and then turning to Arabella
Wilmot, they parted at the garden.
CHAPTER LIX.
THE PROPOSAL OF ARABELLA.
"Johanna," said Arabella Wilmot, as they passed out of the Temple by the
old gate at Whitefriars, "Johanna, if there had been no Mark Ingestrie
in the world, could you not have loved some one else truly?"
"No, no--oh, no."
"Not such a one as Colonel Jeffery?"
"No, Arabella, I respect and admire Colonel Jeffery. He comes fully up
to all my notions of what a gentleman should be, but I cannot love him."
Arabella sighed. The two young girls passed Todd's shop upon the other
side of the way, and Johanna shuddered as she did so, and repeated in a
low voice--
"He went there, but he never left."
"Nay, but you should remember that was Thornhill."
"Yes, Thornhill, alias Ingestrie."
"You will cling to that idea."
"I cannot help it, Arabella. Oh, that I could solve the dreadful doubt.
You speak to me of finding consolation and hope from the possibility
that this Thornhill might not have been Ingestrie; but I feel, Arabella,
that the agony of that constant doubt, and the pangs of never ending
thought and speculation upon that subject will drive me mad. I cannot
endure them--I must be resolved one way or the other. It is suspense
that will kill me. I might in the course of time reconcile myself to the
fact that poor Mark had gone before me to that world where we shall
assuredly meet again; but the doubt as to his fate is--is indeed
madness!"
There was a manner about Johanna, as she pronounced these words, that
was quite alarming to Arabella. Perhaps it was this alarm which went a
long way towards inducing her, Arabella, to say what she now said to
Johanna--
"Have you forgotten your idea of going disguised to Todd's, Johanna? And
have you forgotten what Mr. Ben, your friend from the Tower, told you?"
"What? Oh, what, Arabella--what did he tell me that I should remember?"
"Why that Todd had placed a placard in his window, stating that he
wanted a boy in his shop. Oh, Johanna, it would be so romantic; and to
be sure, I have read of such things. Do you think you would have courage
sufficient to dress yourself again in my cousin's clothes, and go to
Todd's shop?"
"Yes, yes--I understand you--and apply for the vacant situation."
"Yes, Johanna; it might, you know, afford you an opportunity of
searching the place, and then, if you found nothing which could assure
you of the presence at one time there of Mark Ingestrie, you would come
away with a heart more at ease."
"I should--I should. He could but kill me?"
"Who? who?"
"Sweeney Todd."
"Oh, no--no, Johanna, your stay would not exceed a few short hours."
"Oh, what long hours they would be."
"Well, Johanna, I almost dread the counsel I am giving to you. It is
fraught probably with a thousand mischiefs and dangers, that neither you
nor I have sufficient experience to see; and now that I have said what I
have, I beg of you to think no further of it, and from my heart I wish
it all unsaid."
"No, Arabella, why should you wish it unsaid? It is true that the course
you suggest to me is out of the ordinary way, and most romantic, but,
then, are not all the circumstances connected with this sad affair far
out of the ordinary course?"
"Yes, yes--and yet--"
"Arabella, I will do it."
"Oh, Johanna, Johanna--if any harm should come to you--"
"Then absolve yourself, Arabella, from all reproach upon the subject.
Remember always that I go upon my own responsibility, and against your
wishes, feelings, and advice. All that I now ask of you is that you will
once more lend me that disguise, and assist me in further making myself
look like that I would represent myself, and I shall then, perhaps, ask
no more of your friendship in this world."
Arabella was horrified. The plan she had proposed had, from her course
of romantic reading, such charms for her imagination, that she could not
have forborne mentioning it, but, now that in earnest Johanna talked of
carrying it out, she became terrified at what might be the consequences.
In the open streets she was afraid of making a scene by any further
opposition to Johanna, whose feelings, she saw, were in a great state of
excitement; but she hoped that she would be able yet to dissuade her
from her purpose when she got her home.
"Say no more now of it, Johanna, and come home with me, when we will
talk it over more at large."
"I am resolved," said Johanna. "The very resolution to do something bold
and definite has given me already a world of ease. I am different quite
in feeling to what I was. I am sure that God is, even now, giving me
strength and calmness to do this much for him who would have risked
anything for me."
To reason with any one impressed with such notions would have been folly
indeed, and Arabella forbore doing so at that juncture. She could not
but be amazed, however, at the firmness of manner of Johanna now, in
comparison with the frantic burst of grief which she had so recently
been indulging in. Her step was firm, her lips were compressed, and her
countenance, although more than usually pale, was expressive in every
feature of highly-wrought determination.
"She will do it or die," thought Arabella, "and if anything happens to
her, I shall wish myself dead likewise."
In this state of feeling--not a very amiable one--the two young girls
reached the abode of Arabella Wilmot. The strongly marked feeling of
composure and determination by no means left Johanna, but, if anything,
seemed to be rather upon the increase, while occasionally she would
mutter to herself--
"Yes--yes; I will know all--I will know the worst."
When they were alone in the little chamber of Arabella--that little
chamber which had witnessed so many of the mutual confidences of those
two young girls--Arabella at once began to say something that might
provoke a discussion about the propriety of the hazardous expedition to
Todd's, but Johanna stopped her by saying as she laid her hands gently
upon her arm--
"Arabella, will you do me two favours?"
"A hundred; but--"
"Nay, hear me out, dear friend, before you say another word. The first
of those favours is, that you will not, by word or look, try to dissuade
me from my purpose of going in disguise to Todd's. The second is, that
you will keep my secret when I do go."
"Oh! Johanna! Johanna!"
"Promise me."
"Yes. I do--I do."
"I am satisfied. And now, my own dear Arabella, let me tell you that I
do not think that there is any such danger as you suppose in the
expedition. In the first place, I do not think Todd will easily discover
me to be aught else than what I pretend to be, and if I should see that
I am in any danger, Fleet Street, with all its living population, is
close at hand, and such a cry for aid as I, being, as I am, forearmed by
being forewarned, could raise, would soon bring me many defenders."
Arabella sobbed.
"And then, after all, I only want to stay until, by one absence of
Todd's from the house, I shall be able to make a search for some
memorial of the visit of Mark Ingestrie there. If I find it not, I
return to you at once better satisfied, and with better hopes than I
went forth. If I do find it, I will call upon the tardy law for
justice."
"Johanna--Johanna, you are not the same creature that you were!"
"I know it. I am changed. I feel that I am."
Arabella looked at the sweet childish beauty of the face before her, and
her eyes filled with tears again at the thought that something near akin
to despair had implanted upon it that look of unnatural calmness and
determination it wore.
"You doubt me?" said Johanna.
"Oh! no--no. I feel now that you will do it, and feeling that, I
likewise feel that I ought not to drive you to seek assistance from
another, in your enterprise. But something must be arranged between us."
"In what respect?"
"Such as, if I should not hear of you within a certain time, I--I--"
"You would feel bound to find me some help. Be it so, Arabella. If I do
not come to you or send to you, before the midnight of to-morrow, do
what you will, and I shall not think that you have committed any breach
of faith."
"I am content, Johanna, to abide by those conditions; and now I will say
nothing to you to bend you from your purpose, but I will pray to Heaven
that you may become successful, not in finding any record of Mark
Ingestrie, but in procuring peace to your mind by the utter absence of
such record."
"I will go now."
"No--no, Johanna. Bethink you what pain your unexplained absence would
give to your father. Something must be said or done to make him feel at
ease during the, perhaps, many hours that you will be absent."
"It is well thought of, Arabella. Oh! how selfish we become when
overwhelmed by our own strange emotions! I had forgotten that I had a
father."
It was now agreed between the two young girls that Johanna should go
home, and that Arabella Wilmot should call for her, and ask Mr. Oakley's
permission for her (Johanna) to come to her upon a visit for two days.
It was no very unusual thing for Johanna to pass a night with her
friend, so that it was thought such a course now would have the effect
of quieting all anxiety on account of the absence of the young girl from
her parental home.
CHAPTER LX.
TODD FINDS A BOY.
"Temporary insanity, and a dividend of one shilling upon the razor!"
Such was the enlightened verdict of twelve sapient shopkeepers in the
Strand upon John Mundell--peace to his manes! He is gone where there are
no discounts--no usury laws--no unredeemed pledges, and no strings of
pearls! Good day to you, John Mundell!
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" laughed Sweeney Todd. "That affair is settled in an
uncommonly satisfactory manner. What an odd thing it is, though, that
nobody now comes into my shop, but somebody else, upon some shuffling
excuse or another, comes in within two minutes afterwards. Now, if I
were superstitious, which--I--I am not--"
Here Todd looked first over his right shoulder and then over his left,
with two perceptible shudders.
"If, as I say, I were superstitious which--Hilloa! who's this?"
"Oh, I beg your pardon, Mr. Todd," said a woman in widow's weeds, as she
entered the shop, "but they do say that--that--"
"What?" screamed Todd, "what?"
"That you are charitable to the poor."
"Oh, that's all. I--I. That's all. Very good. I am charitable to the
poor. Very--very charitable to the poor. What may your business be,
madam?"
"You don't know me, Mr. Todd, I dare say, but my name is Slick."
"Slick--Slick? No, madam, I have not the pleasure of knowing you; and
may I again ask why I am honoured with the visit?"
"Why, sir, I have got up a little humble petition. You see, sir, my
husband, Solomon Slick, is a watch-maker, and one day, about a month
ago, he went out to go to the city with two chronometers, to take to
Brown, Smuggins, Bugsby, and Podd, who employ him, and he was never
afterwards heard of, leaving me with six children, and one at the
breast. Now, Mr. Brown is a kind sort of man, and spoke to Podd about
doing something, but Bugsby and Smuggins, they will have it that my
husband ran away with the watches, and that we are only watching the
best time to go to him; but my aunt, Mrs. Longfinch, in Bedfordshire,
will do something for us if we go there; so I am trying to get up a
pound or two to take me and the little ones."
Todd made a chuckling noise, like a hen in a farm-yard, and looked the
picture of compassionate commiseration.
"Dear--dear, what a shocking thing."
"It is indeed, sir."
"And have you no idea of what has become of him, madam?"
"Not in the least, sir--not in the least. But I said to myself--'I dare
say Mr. Todd will be so good as to assist us in our necessities.'"
"Certainly, madam--certainly. Do you know what is the most nourishing
thing you can give to your children?"
"Alas! sir, the poor things, since their poor father went, have had
little choice of one thing or another. It was he who supported them. But
what is it, sir?"
"Mrs. Lovett's pies."
"Ah, sir, they had one a-piece, poor things, the very day after poor
Solomon Slick disappeared. A compassionate neighbour brought them, and
all the while they ate them, they thought of their father that was
gone."
"Very natural, that," said Todd. "Now, Mrs. Slick, I am but a poor man,
but I will give you my advice, and something more substantial. The
advice is, that if anybody is moved to compassion, and bestows upon you
a few pence for your children, you go and lay it out in pies at Mrs.
Lovett's; and as for the more substantial something, take that, and read
it at your leisure."
Todd, as he spoke, took from a drawer a religious tract, entitled "The
Spiritual Quartern Loaf for the Hungry Sinner," and handed it to Mrs.
Slick. The poor woman received it with a look of disappointment, and
said, with a slight shudder--
"And is this all you can do, Mr. Todd?"
"All!" cried Todd. "All? Good gracious, what more do you want?
Recollect, my good woman, that there is another world where the poor
will have their reward, provided that in this they are not too annoying
to the rich and the comfortable. Go away. Dear--dear, and this is
gratitude. I must go and pray for the hardness of heart and the Egyptian
darkness of the common and the lower orders in general, and you in
particular, Mrs. Slick."
The woman was terrified at the extraordinary faces that Todd made during
the delivery of this harangue, and hastily left the shop, having dropped
the "Spiritual Quartern Loaf for Hungry Sinners" in the doorway.
"Ha! ha!" said Todd when she was gone. "They thought of their father,
did they, while they ate Lovett's pies. Ha! ha!"
At this moment a man made his appearance in the shop, and looked with a
sly twinkle at Sweeney Todd. The latter started, for in that man he
imagined no other than an under attendant at the establishment of Mr.
Fogg, at Peckham. That this man came with some message from Fogg, he did
not for a moment doubt, but what could it possibly be, since he (Todd)
fully believed that Tobias Ragg was no more.
"Do you know me?" said the man.
As a general proposition, Todd did not like to say yes to anything, so
he looked dubious, and remarked that he thought it might rain soon, but
if he (the man) wanted a clean shave, he (Todd) would soon do for him.
"But, really, Mr. Todd, don't you know me?"
"I know nobody," said Todd.
The man chuckled with a hideous grimace, that seemed habitual to him,
for he at times indulged in it, when, to all appearance, no subject
whatever of hilarity was on the topic, and then he said--
"I come from Fogg."
"Fogg's, not Fogg?"
The man did not at first seem to understand this nice distinction that
Todd drew between coming from Fogg's establishment and coming from Fogg
himself; but after knitting his brows, and considering a little, he
said--
"Oh--ah--I see. No, I don't come from Fogg, confound him, he don't use
me well, so I thought I'd come to tell you--"
The shop door opened, and a stout burly-looking man made his appearance.
Todd turned upon him, with a face livid with passion, as he said--
"Well, sir, what now?"
"Eh?" said the stout burly man. "Ain't this a barber's shop?"
"To be sure it is; and, once for all, do you want to be shaved, or do
you not?"
"Why, what else could I come in for?"
"I don't know; but you have been here more than once--more than
twice--more than thrice, and yet you have never been shaved yet."
"Well, that is a good one."
"A good what?"
"Mistake, for I have only just come to London to-day; but I'll wait
while you shave this gentleman. I am in no hurry."
"No, sir," said Todd; "this gentleman is a private friend of mine, and
don't come to be shaved at all."
The stout burly-looking man seemed rather confused for a moment, and
then he turned to the stranger, and said--
"Are you really a private friend of Mr. Todd's?"
"Very," said the other.
"Then I scorn to interrupt any one in their confidential discourse, just
because my beard happens to be a day old. No; I trust that time, and old
English politeness, will ever prevent me from doing such a thing; so,
Mr. Todd, I will look in upon some other occasion, if you please."
"No--no," said Todd, "sit down: business is business. Pray sit down. You
don't know how disappointed I shall feel if I don't polish you off, now
that you are here, sir."
"Could not think of it," said the other, in whom the reader has, no
doubt, recognised one of Sir Richard Blunt's officers. "Could not for a
moment think of it. Good day."
Before Todd could utter another remonstrance, he was out of the shop,
and when he got about twelve paces off, he met Crotchet, who said--
"Well, what do yer bring it in now?"
"I must cut it. Todd is beginning to recollect me, and to think there is
something odd going on."
Mr. Crotchet gave a slight whistle, and then said--
"Wery good; but did you leave a _hindevidel_ in the shaving crib, to be
done for?"
"Yes; but he said he was a private friend of Todd's."
"Good agin, that will do. He's safe enough, I dare say, and if he isn't,
why he ought to be more _petikler_ in a-dressing of his acquaintances.
Do you know where the governor is?"
"No. I have not seen him; but will you tell him, Crotchet, why I think
it's better for me to be scarce for a day or two?"
"To be sure, old fellow. You can go on some other day."
"Surely--surely."
CHAPTER LXI.
TODD RECEIVES SOME STARTLING INTELLIGENCE.
It took Todd, master as he was, or used to be, in the art of
dissimulation, some few minutes to recover his composure, after the
officer had left the shop, and during that time, the gentleman from
Fogg's looked at him with the quiet sniggering kind of laugh so peculiar
to him. Todd was evidently, day by day, losing that amount of nerve
which had at one time formed his principal characteristic. It was
getting, in fact, clear to himself that he was not near so well fitted
for the business he was carrying on as he had been. Turning to the man
from Fogg's, he said, while he put on as bland a smile as he could--
"Well, my friend, I suppose you have sought me with some motive? Pray
speak out, and tell me what it is."
The man laughed.
"I have had a row with Fogg," he said, "and we parted in anger. I told
him I would split upon the den, but he is a deep one, and he only
coughed. Fogg, though, somehow don't laugh as he used. However, as well
as he could laugh, he did, and, says he, 'Peter, my lad,' says he, 'if
you do split upon the old den, I'll get you transported, as safe as you
think yourself.'"
"Well?"
"Well. I--I--didn't like that."
"Then you are probably," said Todd in a bland manner--"you are probably
aware that you may be obnoxious to the law."
"A few!" said the fellow.
"And what followed?"
"'Why, Peter,' added Fogg, 'you may leave me if you like, and once a
month there will be a couple of guineas here for you. There's the door,
so away, I insist;' and it has struck me, that if Fogg gives me a couple
of shiners a month to hold my tongue, other gentlemen might do as much,
and through one and another, I might pick up a crust and something to
moisten it with."
The man laughed again. Todd nodded his head, as much as to say--"You
could not have explained yourself clearer," and then he said--
"Peter, in your way you have a certain sort of genius. I might just
remark, however, that after paying Fogg handsomely for what he has done,
it is rather hard that Fogg's cast-off officials should come upon Fogg's
best customers, and threaten them out of any more."
"I know it's hard," said the man.
"Then why do you do it?"
"Because, to my thinking, it would be a deuced sight harder for me to
want anything; and besides, I might get into trouble, and be in the
hands of the police, when who knows but that in some soft moment some
one might get hold of me, and get it all out of me. Wouldn't that be
harder still for all?"
"It would."
"Ah! Mr. Todd, I always thought you were a man of judgment, that I did."
"You do me infinite honour."
"Not at all. I say what I think, you may take your oath of that. But
when I saw you come about that last boy, I said to myself--'Mr. Todd is
carrying on some nice game, but what it is I don't know. Howsomdever he
is a man with something more than would go into a small tea-spoon
here-abouts.'"
Mr. Peter tapped his forehead with his finger as he spoke, to intimate
that he alluded to the intellectual capacity of Todd.
"You are very obliging," said Todd.
"Not at all. Not at all. How much will you stand, now?"
"I suppose, if I say the same as Mr. Fogg, you will be satisfied, Mr.
Peter. Times are very bad, you know."
Peter laughed again.
"No, no! Mr. Todd, times are not very bad, but I do think what you say
is very fair, and that if you stand the same as Fogg, I ought not to say
one word against it."
"How charming it is," said Todd, casting his eyes up to the ceiling, as
though communing with himself or some higher intelligence supposed to be
in that direction. "How charming it is to feel that you are at any time
transacting business with one who is so very obliging and so very
reasonable."
Somehow Peter winced a little before the look of Todd. The barber had
come into his proposal a little too readily. It almost looked as though
he saw his way too clearly out of it again. If he had declaimed loudly,
and made a great fuss about the matter, Mr. Peter would have been better
pleased, but as it was he felt, he scarcely knew why, wonderfully
fidgetty.
"That boy," he said, "to change the conversation. That boy, used to say
some odd things of you, Mr. Todd."
"Insanity," said Todd, "is a great calamity."
"Oh, very."
"And so clouds the faculties, that the poor boy no doubt said things of
me, his best friend, that, if he had been restored to reason, he would
have heard spoken of with a smile of incredulity."
"Ha! ha! By the bye--Ha! ha!"
"Well, sir?" said Todd, who did not in the smallest degree join in the
odd laugh of Peter. "Well, sir?"
"I was merely going to say. Have you, by any chance, heard anything more
of him?"
Todd walked close to Peter, and placed his two brawny hands upon his
shoulders, as he slowly repeated--
"Have I by any chance heard anything more of him? What do you mean?
Speak out, or by all that's powerful, this is the last moment of your
existence. Speak out, I say."
"Murder!"
"Fool! Be more explicit, and you are safe. Be open and candid with me,
and not a hair of your head shall suffer injury. What do you mean by
asking me if I have heard anything more of him?"
"Don't throttle me."
"Speak."
"I--I can't while you hold me so tight. I--I--can--hardly--breathe."
Todd took his hands off him, and crossing his arms over his breast, he
said in tones of most unnatural calmness--
"Now speak."
"Well, Mr. Todd--I--I--only--."
"You only what?"
"Asked you naturally enough, if you had heard anything of the boy Tobias
Ragg, you know, since he ran away from Fogg's. That's all."
"Since he what?"
"Ran away from Fogg's one night."
"Then he--he is not dead? The villain Fogg sent word to me that he was
dead."
"Did he though? Well I never. That was so like Fogg. Only to think now.
Lord bless you, Mr. Todd, he made his escape and ran away, and we never
heard anything more of him from that time to this. The idea now of Fogg
telling you he was dead. Well, I did wonder at your taking the thing so
easy, and never coming down to enquire about it."
"Not dead? Not dead?"
"Not as I know on."
"Curses!"
"Ah! that will do you good, Mr. Todd. Whenever I am put out, I set to
swearing like a good one, and that's the way I come round again. Don't
mind me. You swear as long as you like. It was a shame for Fogg not to
tell you he had bolted, but I suppose he thought he'd take his chance."
"The villain!"
"_Worser!_ _worser!_ nor a _willain_!" said Peter. "Who knows now what
mischief may be done, all through that boy. Why, he may be now being
gammoned by the police and a parson to tell all he knows. Oh, dear! Oh,
dear!"
Todd sunk upon a chair--not the shaving one--and resting his hand upon
his head, he uttered a sepulchral groan.
Peter shook himself.
"You don't seem well, Mr. Todd. I didn't think you was the sort of man
to be down on your blessed luck in this sort of way. Cheer up. What's
the use of grieving? as the old song says."
Todd groaned again.
"And if so be as the kid," continued Peter, "did run away, my opinion is
as he'd seen enough and felt enough, while he was at Fogg's, to make him
as mad as a March hare."
There was hope in that suggestion, and Todd looked up.
"You really think, then, Mr. Peter, that--that his intellects--"
"His what?"
"His mind, I mean, has not withstood the shock of what he went through
while he was in Fogg's establishment?"
"How could it? Once or twice things very nigh infected me, and how
should he stand up agin 'em? But arter all, Mr. Fogg, what was it all
about? That's what used to bother me. Was there anything in what he
said, or wasn't there?"
"My good fellow," said Todd, "I have only one question to ask you--"
"Fire away."
"And that is, if you would prefer to have a sum of money down, and not
trouble me any more?"
"Down!"
"Yes, down."
"On the nail? Well, its temptatious, I own. Let me see. Thus Fogg's
riglar annuity, as a fellow may call it, and a good round sum down from
you, Mr. T. I think you said a good round sum down on the nail, didn't
you?"
"Yes--yes. Any sum in reason."
"Done, then. I'll do it. Honour bright and shining. Mr. T., when I says
a thing, it's said, and no mistake, and if I takes something down, you
won't hear no more of me; whatever you may think, Mr. T., I ain't one of
them fellows as will spend their tin, and then come asking for more--not
I. Oh, dear no! Only give me what's reasonable down, and the thing's
settled."
"Very good," said Todd, in a voice which was calm and composed. "Just
step this way, into the back parlour, and I'll satisfy you. As for
troubling me any more, I am, I assure you, as perfectly easy upon that
point as it is at all possible to be."
CHAPTER LXII.
TODD CLEARS OFF CIRCUMSTANCES.
The arrangement come to between Todd and his visitor seemed to give
equal satisfaction to both, and Mr. Peter, if he had what the
phrenologists call an organ of caution at all developed, must have had
acquisitiveness so large as completely to overpower its action at the
present time. The idea of getting from Todd's fears a sum of money at
once, and from Fogg's fears a regular small annuity, was to him a most
felicitous combination of circumstances, and his reflections upon the
pleasant consequences resulting therefrom had such full possession of
him, that his scruples vanished, and as he followed Todd into the back
parlour from the shop, he muttered to himself--
"I'll try and get enough out of him to open a public-house."
Todd heard the wish, and turning quickly with what he intended should be
an engaging smile, he said--
"And why not, Peter--and why not? Nothing would give me more sincere
gratification than seeing you in a public-house, for although a man may
be a publican, he need not be a sinner, you know."
"Eh?"
"I say he need not be a sinner; and there would be nothing in the world,
Peter, to prevent you from having prayers night and morning, and I am
sure I should be most happy to come now and then, if it were only to say
'Amen!'"
"Humph!" said Peter. "You are too good, you are. Much too good, really."
"Not at all, Peter. Let us be as good as we may, we cannot be too good.
Human nature is a strange compound, you know, mixed up of several things
opposite to each other, like a lather in a shaving dish."
With this sentiment Todd held open the door of the sanctum behind his
shop, and by a cautious wave of his hand invited Mr. Peter to enter.
That gentleman did so.
"Now," said Todd, in quite a confidential tone, "what is your peculiar
affection in the--"
Here Mr. Todd went through the pantomimic action of draining a glass.
Peter laughed, and then shaking his head waggishly, he said--
"What a rum 'un you are! Fogg had his funny ways, but I do think you
beat him, that you do. Well, if I must say I have a partiality, it's to
brandy. Do you know, I think, between you and me and the post, that a
drop of good brandy is rather one of them things that makes human nature
what it is."
"What a just remark," said Todd.
Peter looked as sage as possible. He was getting upon wonderfully good
terms with his own sagacity--a certain sign that he was losing his
ordinary discretion. Todd opened a small cupboard in the wall--what a
number of small cupboards in the wall Todd had--and produced a
long-necked bottle and a couple of glasses. He held the bottle up to the
dim light, saying--
"That's the thing, rather."
"It looks like it," said Peter.
"And it is," said Todd, "what it looks. This bottle and the liquor
within it have basked in the sun of a fairer clime than ours, Peter, and
the laughing glades of the sweet south have capped it in beauty."
Peter looked puzzled.
"What a learned man you are, Mr. T.," he said. "You seem to know
something of everything, and I dare say the brandy is to the full as
good as it looks."
This was decidedly a quiet sort of hint to decant some of it without
further loss of time, and Todd at once complied. He filled Peter's glass
to the brim, and his own more moderately; and as the golden liquor came
out with a pleasant bubble from the bottle, Peter's eyes glistened, and
he sniffed up the aroma of that pure champaign brandy with the utmost
complaisance.
"Beautiful! beautiful!" he exclaimed.
"Pretty well," said Todd.
"Pretty well? It's glorious!"
Mr. Peter raised the glass to his lips, and giving a nod to Todd over
the rim of it, he said--
"I looks towards you."
Todd nodded, and then, in another moment Peter put down his empty glass.
"Out and out!" he gasped. "Out and out! Ah, that is the stuff."
Todd tossed off the glass, with the toast of "A long life, and a merry
one!" which was duly acknowledged by Peter, who replied--
"The same to you, Mr. T., and lots of 'em."
"It's like milk," said Todd, as he filled Peter's glass again. "It's for
all the world like milk, and never can do any one any harm."
"No--no. Enough. There--stop."
Todd did stop, when the glass was within a hair's breadth of running
over, but not before; and then again he helped himself, and when he set
the bottle upon the table, he said--
"A biscuit?"
"Not for me. No."
"Nay. You will find it pleasant with the brandy. I have one or two here.
Rather hard, perhaps, but good."
"Well, I will, then. I was afraid you would have to go out for them,
that was all, Mr. T., and I wouldn't give you any trouble for the world.
I only hope we shall often meet in this quiet comfortable way, Mr. T. I
always did respect you, for, as I often said to Fogg, of all the
customers that come here, Mr. Todd for me. He takes things in an easy
way, and if he is a thundering rogue, he is at all events a clever one."
"How kind!"
"No offence, I hope, Mr. Todd?"
"Offence, my dear fellow? Oh, dear me! How could you think of such a
thing? Offence, indeed! You cannot possibly offend me!"
"I'm rejoiced to hear you say so, Mr. T., I am really; and this is--this
is--the--very best--ah--brandy that ever I--where are you going, Mr.
T.?"
"Only to get the biscuits. They are in the cupboard behind you; but
don't stir, I beg. You are not at all in the way."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
Todd stepped easily between Peter's chair and the wall, and opening
another of the mysterious small cupboards, he laid his hand upon a
hammer, with a long handle, that was upon the shelf.
"If this," said Peter, "was the last word I had to say in the world, I
would swear to the goodness of the brandy."
As he uttered the words he turned his head sharply, and faced Todd. The
hammer was upraised, and would, if he had not so turned, have descended
with fatal effect upon the top of his head. As it was, Peter had only
time to utter one shriek, when down it came upon the lower part of his
face. The crush was hideous. The lower jaw fell crushed and mangled,
and, with a frightful oath, Todd again raised the hammer: but the victim
closed with him, and face to face they grappled. The hammer was useless,
and Todd cast it from him as he felt that he required all his strength
to grapple with the man who, at that moment, fastened on him with the
strength of madness. Over chair--over the table, to the destruction of
all that was on it, they went, coiled up in each other's
embrace--dashing here and there with a vehemence that threatened
destruction to them both, and yet not a word spoken. The frightful
injury that Peter had received effectually prevented him from
articulating, and Todd had nothing to say. Down! down they both come;
but Todd is uppermost. Yes; he has got his victim upon the floor, and
his knee is upon his chest! He drags him a few inches further towards
the fire-place--inches were sufficient, and then grappling him by the
throat, he lifts his head and dashes it against the sharp edge of an
iron fender! Crash!--crash!--crash! The man is dead! Crash again! That
last crash was only an injury to a corpse! Once more Todd raised the now
lax and smashed skull, but he let it go again. It fell with a heavy blow
upon the floor!
"That will do," said Todd.
[Illustration: Sweeney Todd Butchers The Turnkey.]
He slowly rose, and left his cravat in the hands of the dead man. He
shook himself, and again that awful oath, which cannot be transcribed,
came from his lips. Rap! rap! rap! Todd listened. What's that? Somebody
in the shop? Yes, it must be--or some one wanting to come in, rather,
for he had taken the precaution to make the outer door fast. Rap! rap!
rap!
"I must go," said Todd. "Stop.--Let me see."
He snatched a glass from the wall, and looked at himself. There was
blood upon his face. With his hand, he hastily wiped it off, and then,
walking as composedly as he could into the shop, he opened the door. A
man stood upon the threshold with quite a smile upon his face, as he
said--
"Busy, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir," said Todd. "I was just finishing off a gentleman. Shaved or
dressed, sir?"
"Shaved, if you please. But don't let me hurry you, by any means. I can
wait a little."
"Thank you, sir, if you will oblige me for a moment or two. You will
find some amusements, sir, from the _Evening Courant_, I dare say."
As he spoke, he handed the then popular newspaper to his customer, and
left him. Todd took good care to close the door leading into the
parlour, and then proceeding up to the body of the murdered Peter, he,
with his foot, turned it over and over, until it was under the table,
where it was most completely hidden by a cover that hung down to within
an inch of the floor. Before Todd had got this operation well completed,
he heard his shop door open. That door creaked most villanously; by so
doing, while he was otherwise engaged, he could always hear if it was
opened or attempted to be opened. Todd was in the shop in a moment, and
saw a respectable-looking personage, dressed in rather clerical costume,
who said--
"You keep powder?"
"Certainly, sir."
"Then I wish my hair powdered; but do not let me interrupt this
gentleman. I can wait."
"Perhaps, sir, if you could make it convenient to look in again," said
Todd, "you will probably be more amused by looking at the shops, than by
waiting here while this gentleman is shaved."
"Thank you, you are very kind; but I am rather tired, and glad of the
opportunity of having a rest."
"Certainly, sir. As you please. The _Courant_, sir, at your service."
"Thank you--thank you."
The clerical looking old gentleman sat down to read the _Courant_, while
Todd commenced the operation of shaving his first customer. When that
operation was half completed, he said--
"They report, sir, that St. Dunstan's is giving way."
"Giving way," said the clerical looking gentleman. "How do you mean
about giving way?"
"Why, sir," said Todd, with an air quite of reverential respect, "they
say that the old church has a leaning towards Temple Bar, and that, if
you stand at the opposite side of the way, you may just see it. I can't,
but they do say so."
"Bless me," said the clerical looking gentleman. "That is a very sad
thing indeed, and nobody can be more sorry than I am to hear such a tale
of the old church."
"Well sir, it may not be true."
"I hope not, indeed. Nothing would give me greater pain than to be
assured it was true. The stench in the body of the church that so much
has been said about in the parish is nothing to what you say, for who
ought to put his nose into competition with his eternal welfare?"
"Who, indeed, sir! What is your opinion of that alarming stench in old
St. Dunstan's?"
"I am quite at a loss to make it out."
"And so am I, sir--so am I. But begging your pardon, sir, if I am not
making too free, I thought as you were probably a clergyman, sir, you
might have heard something more about it than we common folks."
"No--no. Not a word. But what you say of the church having a leaning to
Temple Bar is grievous."
"Well, sir, if you were to go and look, you might find out that it was
no such thing, and by the time you return I shall have completely
finished off this gentleman."
"No--no. I make no sort of doubt in the world but that you would by that
time have finished off the gentleman, but as for my going to look at the
old church with any idea that it had a leaning to anything but itself, I
can only say that my feelings as a man and a member of the glorious
establishment will not permit me."
"But, my dear sir, you might satisfy yourself that such was really not
the case."
"No--no. Imagination would make me think that the church had a leaning
in all sorts of directions, until at last fancy might cheat me into a
belief that it actually tottered."
The clerical-looking gentleman pronounced these words with so much
feeling, that the person who was being shaved nearly got cut by twisting
his head round in order to see him.
"True, sir," said Todd. "Very true--very true indeed, and very just;
imagination does indeed play strange freaks with us at times, I well
know."
The horrible face that Todd made as he spoke ought to have opened the
eyes of any one to the fact that he was saying anything but what he
thought, but no one saw it. When he pleased, Todd generally took care to
keep his faces to himself.
"I don't wonder, Rev. sir," he said, "that your feelings prompt you to
say what you do. I'm afraid I have taken off a little too much whisker,
sir."
"Oh, never mind. It will grow again," said the person who was being
shaved.
Todd suddenly struck his own head with the flat of his hand, as a man
will do to whose mind some sudden thought has made itself apparent, and
in a voice of doubt and some alarm, he pronounced the one word--
"Powder!"
"What's the matter? You are a long time shaving me."
"Powder!" said Todd again.
"Gunpowder," said the three-quarter shaved man, while the
clerical-looking personage entirely hid his face, with the _Courant_.
"No," said Todd. "Hair powder. I told this gentleman, whose feelings
regarding the church do him so much honour, that I had hair powder in
the house, and it has just come over me like a wet blanket that I have
not a particle."
The clerical-looking gentleman quickly laid down the _Courant_, and said
wildly--
"Are you sure you have none?"
"Quite sure, sir."
"Then I won't occupy your shop and read your _Courant_ for nothing, and
as I am here I will have a shave."
"That's very kind of you, sir," said Todd. "Very kind."
"Not at all," said the gentleman, taking up the paper again with all the
coolness in the world. "Not at all. Don't mention it, I always like to
carry out the moral maxim of--Do unto others as you would that others
should do unto you."
"How charming!" exclaimed Todd, lifting up his hands, in one of which
was the razor. "How charming it is in this indifferent and selfish age
to meet with any one who is so charitable as to do more than merely
speak of such a sentiment as a curiosity in morals."
"You are above your condition as regards education," said the
clerical-looking gentleman.
"Why, to tell the truth, sir--"
"Psha!" said he who was being or rather not being shaved--"psha! And all
this while the very soap is drying upon my face."
"A thousand pardons," said Todd.
"Many apologies," said the clerical gentleman, hastily resuming the
perusal of the _Courant_.
"Sir," added Todd, as he finished the shaving and whipped off the cloth
from the patient. "Sir, I should have finished you five minutes ago, so
that I am sure no one would have heard the slightest complaint from you,
but for the truly engaging conversation of this gentleman here, whom I
shall have great pleasure now in polishing off."
"Oh, don't name it," said the shaved customer, laying down a penny.
"Don't name it, I said I was in no hurry, so I can hardly blame you for
taking your time."
He went through the usual operation of a partial sloush of cold water
from a pewter basin, and then dried himself upon a jack towel, and left
the shop.
"Now, sir," said Todd.
The clerical-looking gentleman waved his hand as though he would have
said--
"For goodness sake don't interrupt me until I have finished this
paragraph."
Todd fixed his eyes upon him, and began slowly stropping the razor he
had been recently using.
"Now, sir, if you please."
"One moment--one--mo--ment, I shall get through the deaths in an
in--stant."
Todd continued stropping the razor, when suddenly the _Courant_ dropped
from the hands of the clerical-looking gentleman, and he uttered a groan
that made Todd start.
"Hopkins--Hopkins--Gabriel Hopkins!"
"Sir."
"Hop--kins! my friend--my councillor--my fellow student--my
companion--my Mentor--my--my Hopkins."
The clerical-looking gentleman shut up his face in his hands, and rocked
to and fro in an agony of grief.
"Good God, sir," cried Todd, advancing. "What is the meaning of this?"
"In that paper you will find the death of Hopkins inserted, sir. Yes, in
the obituary of that paper. Gabriel Hopkins--the true--the gentle--the
affectionate--the christian--Hop--kins!"
"How sorry I am, sir," said Todd. "But, pray sit in this chair, sir, a
shave will compose your feelings."
"A shave! You barbarian. Do you think I could think of being shaved
within two minutes of hearing of the death of the oldest and best friend
I ever had in the world. No--no. Oh, Hopkins--Hop--kins!"
The Rev. gentleman in a paroxysm of grief rushed from the house, and
Todd himself sunk upon the shaving chair.
"It is, it must be so," cried Todd, as his face became livid with rage
and apprehension. "There is more in these coincidences than mere chance
will suffice to account for. Why is it that, if I have a customer here,
some one else will be sure to come in, and then after waiting until he
is gone himself, leave upon some frivolous excuse? Do I stand upon a
mine? Am I suspected?--am I watched? or--or more terrible, ten times
more terrible question still, am--am I at length, with all my care,
discovered?"
CHAPTER LXIII.
JOHANNA STARTS FOR TODD'S.
We will leave Todd to the indulgence of some of the most uncomfortable
reflections that ever passed through his mind, while we once again seek
the sweet companionship of the fair Johanna, and her dear romantic
friend, Arabella Wilmot. The project which these two young and
inexperienced girls were bent upon, was one that might well appal the
stoutest heart that ever beat in human bosom. It was one which, with a
more enlarged experience of the world, they would not for one moment
have entertained, but by long thought and much grief upon the subject of
her hopeless love, Johanna had much observed that clearness of
perception that otherwise would have saved her from what to all
appearance is a piece of extravagance. As for Arabella, she had
originally conceived the idea from her love for the romantic, and it was
only when it came near to the execution of it that she started at the
possible and indeed highly probable danger of the loss to one whom she
loved so sincerely as she loved Johanna. But all that has passed away.
The remonstrances have been made, and made in vain; Arabella is
silenced, and nothing remains but to detail to the reader the steps by
which the courageous girl sought to carry out a plan so fraught with a
thousand dangers. Both Arabella and Johanna sought the abode of the
latter's father, for the first step in the affair was to say something
there which was to account seemingly satisfactorily for any lengthened
stay of Johanna from home. This was by no manner of means a task of any
difficulty, for in addition to the old spectacle maker being innocence
itself as regarded the secreting anything in the shape of a plot,
Arabella Wilmot was the very last person in all the world he would have
thought capable of joining in one. As for Mrs. Oakley, she was by far
too intent, as she said herself frequently, upon things which are
eternal, to trouble herself much about terrestrial affairs, always
except they came to her in the shape of something enticing to the
appetites. What a state of things, that a mother should forget the trust
that is placed in her when she is given a child, and fancy she is really
propitiating the Almighty by neglecting a stewardship which He has
imposed upon her! But so it is. There are, we fear, in different ways, a
great many Mrs. Oakleys in the world.
"Ah, my dear Miss Wilmot," said the old spectacle-maker to Arabella,
when he saw her. "How glad I am to see you. How fresh you look."
Arabella's face was flushed with excitement, and some shame that the
errand she came upon was to deceive. She had not heard yet of the
spurious philosophy that the end sanctifies the means.
"I have come to--to--to--"
"Yes, my dear. To stay awhile, and let us look at your pretty face.
Come, my dear Johanna, your mother is out. What can you get for your
friend, Miss Wilmot? Here, my dear, take this half-crown and get some
sweetmeats, and I will open for you a bottle of the old Malaga wine."
[Illustration: Johanna's Farewell Of Her Father Prior To Her Encounter
With Todd.]
Johanna's eyes filled with tears, and she was compelled to turn aside to
conceal those tell-tale traces of emotion from her father. Arabella saw
that if anything was to be said or done in furtherance of the affair
upon which Johanna had now set her heart, she must do it or say it.
Summoning all her courage, she said--
"My dear sir--"
"Sir?--sir? Bless me, my child, when did you begin to call your old kind
friend sir?"
"My dear Mr. Oakley--"
"Ah, that's nearer the old way. Well, my dear Arabella, what would you
say to me?"
"Will you trust Johanna with me to-night, and perhaps to-morrow night?"
"I don't think Johanna can come to much harm with you, my dear," said
Mr. Oakley. "You are older than she a little, and at your age a little
goes a long way, so take her, Arabella, and bring her back to me when
you like."
With what a shrill of agony did Arabella hear Johanna thus committed to
her care. She was compelled to grasp the back of the old
spectacle-maker's chair for support.
"Yes, yes, sir," she said. "Oh, yes, Mr. Oakley."
"Well, my dears, go, and God bless you both."
To both Arabella and Johanna's perception there was something ominous
about this blessing, at such a time, and yet it had really about it
nothing at all unusual, for Mr. Oakley was very much in the habit of
saying to them "God bless you," when they left him; but feeling, as they
did, the hazard that she (Johanna) might encounter before again she
heard that voice say "God bless you," if, indeed, she ever again heard
it, no wonder the words sank deep into their hearts, and called up the
most painful emotions. Johanna certainly could not speak. Arabella tried
to laugh, to hide an emotion that would not be hidden, and only
succeeded in producing an hysterical sound, that surprised Mr. Oakley.
"What's the matter, my dear?" he said.
"Oh, nothing--nothing, dear Mr. Oakley, nothing."
"Well, I'm glad to hear it. Perhaps I only fancy it; but you both
seem--seem--"
"What do we seem, father?" said Johanna, looking very pale, and speaking
with a great effort.
"Not quite as usual, my darling."
"That--that," gasped Johanna, "can only be--be fancy."
"Of course not," said Oakley. "Fancy, I think I said it was, or if I did
not, I meant to say so, my love."
"Come," said Arabella.
"Yes--yes. Father--father. Good day."
She kissed his cheek; and then, before the old man could say another
word, she rushed to the door.
"Farewell!" said Arabella. "Good day, Mr. Oakley. I--I thank you, sir.
Good day, sir."
"Dear, dear," said the old man, "what is the matter with the girls? How
odd they both seem to-day. What can be the cause of it? I never before
saw them so strange in their manner. Ah! I have it. My wife has met
them, I dare say, and has said some unkind things to them about hats or
ribbons, or some harmless little piece of girlish pride. Well--well. All
that will pass away. I'm glad I hit upon it, for--"
At this moment old Oakley was astounded by the sudden entrance of
Johanna, who, clasping him in her arms, cried in a voice, half choked
with tears--
"Good bye, father--good bye. God help me!"
Without, then, waiting for a word from the spectacle-maker, she again
rushed from the shop, and joining Arabella a few doors off, they both
hurried to the house of the latter. Old Oakley tottered back until he
came to a seat, upon which he sank, with an air of abstraction and
confusion, that threatened to last him for some time; and in that, for
the present, we must leave him, while we look narrowly at the conduct of
the two young creatures, who have, in the pride of their virtue and
their nobleness of purpose, presumed to set up their innocence against
the deep craft of such a man as Sweeney Todd. Well might Johanna say
"God help me!"
"It is done!" said Johanna, as she clutched her friend by the arm. "It
is done now. The worst is over."
"Oh, Johanna--Johanna--"
"Well, Arabella, why do you pause? What would you say?"
"I scarcely know, and yet I feel that it ought to be something that I
have promised you. I would not say."
"Let your lips be sealed, then, dear friend; and be assured that now
nothing but the visible interposition of God shall turn me from my
purpose. I am calm and resolved."
These words, few as they were, were too significant, and spoken with too
evident sincerity to permit a doubt of their deep intensity and truth,
and from that moment Arabella Wilmot looked upon the scheme of Johanna
going in disguise to Todd's as quite settled so far as regarded the
attempt. It was the result now only that had to be looked to.
"I will say no more, Johanna, except as regards detail. In that I may
offer you advice."
"Oh, yes--yes, Arabella. Thankfully received advice, as well you know.
What is it you would say?"
"That you ought to wait until the morning."
"And so perhaps lose precious hours. Oh, no--no. Do not ask me now to
submit to any delays, Arabella."
"But if there be reason, Johanna?"
"Well, the reason, then--the reason?"
"I think that, if possible, it would be well to avoid the necessity of
remaining a night at Todd's; and so if you go in the morning, you see,
Johanna, you may have an opportunity before nightfall of making all the
discoveries you wish, or of satisfying yourself that they are not to be
made at all."
"It might be so, and yet--yet I almost think night will be the best time
of all."
"But by waiting until to-morrow morning, Johanna, you will have both day
and night."
"Yes, yes. I wish I knew what would be the best, Arabella. My feelings
are wound up to this enterprise, and I am altogether in such a frightful
state of excitement concerning it, that--that I know not how I should be
able to support myself under the delay of the remainder of to-day and
the whole of the ensuing night."
"In the night you will have repose, and to-morrow morning, with much
more calmness and effect, you will be able to start upon your errand.
Believe me, Johanna, I don't counsel this delay with any hope, or wish,
or expectation, that it will turn you from your purpose, but simply
because I think it will the better ensure its successful termination."
"Successful! What will you call successful, Arabella?"
"Your coming back to me uninjured, Johanna."
"Ah, that speaks your love for me, while I--I love him for whose sake I
am about to undergo so much, sufficiently to feel that were I sure he
was no more, my own death at the hands of Sweeney Todd would be
success."
"Johanna--Johanna, don't speak in such a strain. Have you no thought for
me? have you no thought for your poor father, to whom, as you well know,
you are the dearest tie that he has in the world? Oh, Johanna, do not be
so selfish."
"Selfish?"
"Yes, it is selfish, when you know what others must suffer because they
love you, to speak as though it were a thing to be desired that you
should die by violence."
"Arabella, can you forgive me? can you make sufficient allowances for
this poor distracted heart, to forgive its ravings?"
"I can--I do, Johanna, and in the words of your father, I am ever ready
to say 'God bless you!' You will not go till to-morrow?"
After the pause of a few moments, Johanna said faintly--
"I will not--I will not."
"Oh that is much. Then at least for another night we shall enjoy our old
sweet companionship."
They by this time had reached the home of Arabella, and as it was an
understood thing that Johanna was not expected home, the two young girls
retired to converse in unrestrained freedom upon all their hopes and
fears.
CHAPTER LXIV.
TODD COMMENCES PACKING UP.
"Yes," said Todd, as he suddenly with a spring rose from the
shaving-chair, upon which we left him enjoying reflections of no very
pleasant character. "Yes, the game is up."
He stood for a few moments now in silence, confronting a small piece of
looking glass that hung upon the wall exactly opposite to him, and it
would appear that he was struck very much by the appearance of his own
face, for he suddenly said--
"How old and worn I look."
No one could have looked upon the countenance of Todd for one moment
without fully concurring in this opinion. In truth, he did look old and
worn. But a comparatively short time has elapsed since we first
presented him to the readers of this most veracious narrative. Then he
was a man whose hideous ugliness was combined with such a look of cool
triumphant villany, that one did not know which most to ponder upon. Now
his face had lost its colour; a yellowish whiteness was the
predominating tint, and his cheeks had fallen. There was a wild and an
earnest restlessness about his eyes that made him look very much like
some famished wolf, with a touch of hydrophobia to set him off; and
certainly, take him for all in all, one would not be over anxious
"To see his like again!"
"Old and worn," he repeated, "and the game is up; I am decided. Off and
away! is my game--off and away!--I have enough to be a prince anywhere
where money is worshipped, and that of course must be the case in all
civilised and religious communities. I must keep in some such. In the
more savage wilds of nature man is prized for what he is, but, thank
God, in highly cultivated and educated states he is only prized for what
he has been. Ha! ha! If mankind had worshipped virtue, I would have been
virtuous, for I love power."
A thought seemed suddenly to strike Todd; and he went into the parlour
muttering to himself--
"My friend Peter must be effectually disposed of."
He raised the cover which was upon the table, and with a grunt of
satisfaction, added--
"Gone!--that will do."
There was no trace of the body that he had kicked under the table. By
some strange mysterious agency it had entirely disappeared, and then
Todd went somehow to the back of the house and got a wet mop, by the aid
of which he got rid of some stains of blood upon the floor and the
fender.
"All's right," he said, "I have done some service to Fogg, and I will,
when I am far enough off for any sting not to recoil upon myself, take
good care that the law pays him a visit. The villain as well as the
fool, to deceive me regarding the boy Tobias. What can have become of
him?"
This was a question that gave Todd some uneasiness, but at length he
came to the conclusion that the dreadful treatment he, Tobias, had
received at the asylum had really driven him mad, and that in all human
probability he had fallen or cast himself into the river, or gone into
some field to die.
"Were it otherwise," he said, "I should and must have heard something of
him before now."
Todd then fairly began packing up. From beneath several tables in the
room he dragged out large trunks, and opening then some of the drawers
and cupboards that abounded in his parlour, he began placing their
valuable contents in the boxes.
"My course is simple enough," he said--"very simple; I must and will, by
violence--for she is by far too wily and artful to allow me to do so by
any other means--get rid of Mrs. Lovett. Then I must and will possess
myself of all that she calls her share of the proceeds of business.
Then, at night--the dead hour of the night--after having previously sent
all my boxes full of such valuables as from their likelihood to be
identified I dare not attempt to dispose of in England, to Hamburgh, I
will set the whole house in a flame."
The idea of burning down his house, and if possible involving a great
portion of Fleet Street in the conflagration, always seemed to be
delightful enough to Todd to raise his spirits a little.
"Yes," he added, with a demoniac grin. "There is no knowing what amount
of mischief I may do to society at large upon that one night, besides
destroying amid the roar of the flames a mass of accumulated evidence
against myself that would brand my memory with horrors, and, for aught I
know, cause a European search after me."
As he spoke, watches--rings--shoe buckles--brooches--silver heads of
walking canes--snuff boxes, and various articles of bijouterie were
placed row upon row in the box he was packing.
"Yes," he added, "I know--I feel that there is danger; I know now that I
have spies upon me--that I am watched; but it is from that very
circumstance that I ground my belief that as yet I am safe. They fancy
there is something to find out, and they are trying to find it out. If
they really knew anything, of course it would be--Todd, you are wanted."
Having placed in one of the boxes as many articles of gold and silver as
made up a considerable weight, Todd lifted it at one end, and feeling
satisfied that if he were to place any more metal in the box it would be
too heavy for carriage, he opened a cupboard which was full of hats, and
filled up the box with them. By this means he filled up the box, so that
the really valuable articles within it would not shake about, and then
he securely locked it.
"One," he said. "Some half-dozen of such will be sufficient to carry all
that I shall think worth the taking. As for my money, that will be
safest about me. Ah, I will outwit them yet, I will be off and
away--only just in time. Suspicion will take a long time to ripen into
certainty, and before it does, the flaming embers of this house will be
making the night sky as fair and magnificent as the most golden sunset
of summer." Another box was now opened, and in that, as it was of
considerable length, he began to pack swords of a valuable character. He
went to the rooms above stairs, which, as the reader is already aware,
contained much valuable property, and brought down troops of things,
which with complacent looks he carefully placed in the chest. Ever and
anon, as he went through this process, he kept muttering to himself his
hopes and fears. "What is to hinder me, in some principality of Germany,
from purchasing a title which shall smother all remembrance of what I
now am, and as the Baron Something, I shall commence a new life, for I
am not old; no--no, I am not old--far from old, although late anxieties
have made me look so. I am not so nervous and fearful of slight things
as I was, although my imagination has played me some tricks of late."
Some slight noise, that sounded as if in the house, although it was in
all probability in the next one, came upon his ears, and with a howl of
terror he shrunk down by the side of the box he had been packing.
[Illustration: Todd Alarmed At Strange Sounds Whilst Packing His
Plunder.]
"Help! mercy! What is that?"
The noise was not repeated, but for the space of about ten minutes or
so, Todd was perfectly incapable of moving except a violent attack of
trembling, which kept every limb in motion, and terribly distorted his
countenance, if it might be called so.
"What--what was it?" he at length gasped. "I thought I heard something,
nay, I am sure I heard something--a slight noise, but yet slight noises
are to me awfully suggestive of something that may follow. Am I really
getting superstitious now?"
He slowly rose and looked fearfully round him. All was still. True, he
had heard a voice, but that was all. No consequences had resulted from
it, and the fit of trembling that had seized him was passing away. He
went to the cupboard where he kept that strong stimulant that had so
much excited the admiration of Peter. He did not go through the ceremony
of procuring a glass, but placing the neck of the bottle to his throat,
he took a draught of the contents which would have been amply sufficient
to confound the faculties of any ordinary person. Upon Todd, however, it
had only a sort of sedative effect, and he gradually recovered his
former diabolical coolness.
"It was nothing," he said. "It was nothing. My fears and my imaginations
are beginning now to play the fool with me. If there were none others,
such would be sufficient warnings to me to be off and away."
He continued the packing of the box which had been temporarily
suspended, but ever and anon he would pause, and lifting up one of his
huge hands, placed it at his ear to listen more acutely, and when
nothing in the shape of alarm reached him he would say with a tone of
greater calmness and contentment--
"All is still--all is still. I shall be off and away soon--off and
away!"
The dusky twilight had crept on while Todd was thus engaged, and he was
thinking of going out, when he heard the creaking noise of his shop door
opening. As he was but in the parlour, he made his way to the shop at
once, and saw a young man, who spoke with an affected lisp, as he said--
"Mr. Todd, can you give my locks a little twirl? I'm going to a party
to-night, and want to look fascinating."
"Allow me," said Todd, as he rapidly passed him and bolted the door. "I
am annoyed by a drunken man, so, while I am dressing your hair, I wish
to shut him out, or else I might scorch you with the tongs."
"Oh, certainly. If there's anything, do you know, Mr. Todd, that I
really dislike more than another, it's a drunken man."
"There's only one thing in society," said Todd, "can come near it.--Sit
here, sir."
"What's that?"
"Why, a drunken woman, sir."
"Werry good--Werry good."
Some one made an effort to enter the shop, but the bolt which Todd had
shot into its place effectually resisted anything short of violence
sufficient to break the door completely down.
"Mr. Todd--Mr. Todd," cried a voice.
"In a moment, sir," said Todd. "In a moment."
He darted into the parlour. There was a loud bang in the shop as though
something had fallen, and then a half-stifled shriek. Todd reappeared.
The shaving chair in which the young man had been sitting was empty.
Todd took up his hat, and threw it into the parlour. He then unbolted
the door, and admitted a man who glanced around him, and then, without a
word, backed out again, looking rather pale. Todd did not hear him
mutter to himself, as he reached the street--
"Sir Richard will be frantic at this. I must post off to him at once,
and let him know that it was none of our faults. What an awkward affair
to be sure."
CHAPTER LXV.
A MOONLIGHT VISIT TO ST. DUNSTAN'S VAULTS.
For the remainder of that day Todd was scarcely visible, so we will
leave him to his occupation, which was that of packing up valuables,
while we take a peep at a very solemn hour indeed at old St. Dunstan's
Church. The two figures on the outside of the ancient edifice had struck
with their clubs the sonorous metal, and the hour of two had been
proclaimed to such of the inhabitants of the vicinity who had the
misfortune to be awake to hear it. The watchman at the gate of the
Temple woke up and said "past six," while another watchman, who was
snugly ensconced in a box at the corner of Chancery Lane, answered that
it was "four o'clock and a rainy morning." Now it was neither four
o'clock nor a rainy morning--for the sky, although by no means entirely
destitute of clouds, was of that speckled clearness which allows the
little stars to pass out at all sorts of odd crevices, like young
beauties through the jalousies of some Spanish Castle. The moon, too,
had, considering all things, a pretty good time of it, for the clouds
were not dense enough to hide her face, and when behind them, she only
looked like some young bride, with the faint covering of bashful blonde
before her radiant countenance. And at times, too, she would peep out at
some break in that veil with such a blaze of silvery beauty as was
dazzling to behold, and quite stopped the few passengers who were in the
streets at that lone hour.
"Look," said one of four gentlemen, who were walking towards Temple Bar
from the Strand. "Look! Is not that lovely?"
"Yes," said another. "A million fires are out in London now, and one can
see the blue sky as it was seen when--"
"Wild in the woods the painted savage ran."
"But, after all," said another, "I prefer good broad cloth to red ochre.
What say you, Sir Richard?"
"I am of your lordship's opinion," said Sir Richard Blunt, who was one
of the party of four: "I certainly think we have gained something by not
being Ancient Britons any longer than was absolutely necessary. This is,
in truth, a most splendid night."
"It is--it is," they all said.
By this time, strolling along in an independent sort of fashion, they
had reached Temple Bar, and then Sir Richard, bowing to the one who had
not yet made any sort of remark, said--
"Mr. Villimay, you have not forgotten the keys?"
"Oh no, Sir Richard; oh no."
"Then, gentlemen, we are very near our place of destination. It will be
advisable that we look about us, and use the utmost precaution, to be
sure that we are not watched by any one."
"Yes--yes," said the other. "You will be the best judge of that Sir
Richard; with your tact, you will be able to come to a conclusion upon
that subject much better than we can."
Sir Richard Blunt made a slight kind of bow in acknowledgment of the
compliment to his tact, and then, while what we may call the main body
waited under the arch of Temple Bar, he advanced alone into Fleet
Street. After advancing for a short distance, he took from his pocket a
small silver whistle, and produced upon it a peculiar thrilling note. In
a moment a tall man, with a great coat on him, merged from behind a
column that lent its support to a door-way.
"Here you is," said the man.
"Is all right, Crotchet?" said Sir Richard.
"Yes; everything is quiet enough. Not a blessed mouse hasn't wagged his
tail or smoothened his whiskers for the last half hour or so."
"Very good, Crotchet. I'm afraid, though, I cannot dismiss you just yet,
as the business is very important."
"What's the odds," said Crotchet, "as long as you are happy?"
Sir Richard Blunt smiled, as he added--
"Well, Crotchet, you deserve, and you shall have an ample reward for the
services you are doing and have done, in this affair. I and some
gentlemen will go into the church, and I wish you to remain at the
porch, and if you find occasion to give any warning, I think your
whistle will be quite shrill enough to reach my ears."
"Not a doubt on it, Sir Richard. If what they calls the last trumpet is
only half as loud as my last whistle, it will wake up the coves, and no
mistake."
"Very good, Crotchet. Only don't make any profane allusions in the
hearing of the gentlemen with me, for one of them is the Under Secretary
of State, and the other two are men of account. We have to meet some one
else in the church."
"Then he hasn't come."
"That's awkward. The Lord Mayor was to meet us. Ah! who is this?"
A private carriage stopped on the other side of the way, and some one
alighted, and a voice cried--
"Go home now, Samuel, and put up the horses. I shall not want you any
more to-night. Go home."
"Shan't we call anywhere for you, my lord?" said Samuel, the coachman.
"No--no, I say. Go away at once."
"That's the Lord Mayor," said Sir Richard. "He is pretty true to his
time."
As he spoke, Sir Richard crossed the road, and addressed the chief
magistrate of the city, saying--
"A fine night, my lord."
"Oh, Sir Richard, is that you? Well, I am very glad to meet with you so
soon. If I were to tell you the difficulty I have had to get here, you
would not believe me. Indeed you could not."
"Really, my lord."
"Yes. You must know, Sir Richard, between you and I, and--and"--Here the
Lord Mayor, who did not like to say post, looked about him, and his eyes
falling upon Temple Bar, added--"Bar, I say; between you and me and the
Bar, the Lady Mayoress, although a most excellent woman--indeed I may
say an admirable woman--has at times her little faults of temper. You
understand?"
"Who is without?" said Sir Richard.
"Ah, who indeed--who indeed, Sir Richard. That is a very sensible remark
of yours. Who is without? as you justly enough say."
"The Lord Mayor!" said Sir Richard, who had been gradually leading his
lordship to Temple Bar, and now announced his arrival to the three
gentlemen who were there in waiting.
The three gentlemen professed themselves to be quite delighted to see
the Lord Mayor, and the Lord Mayor professed to be quite in raptures to
see the three gentlemen, so that a pleasanter party than they all made,
could not have been imagined.
"Now," said Sir Richard Blunt, "I think, with all deference, gentlemen,
that the sooner we proceed to business the better."
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Villimay, who was the senior churchwarden. "Oh,
yes--certainly."
"And yet," said the Lord Mayor, "we must be very cautious."
"Oh, very--very cautious," cried Villimay.
"But a bold front is the best," remarked Sir Richard.
"Yes. As you say, sir, there's nothing like a bold front," cried
Villimay.
Sir Richard, with a quiet smile, said to the under secretary--
"A very obliging person, you perceive, Mr. Villimay is."
"Oh, very," laughed the secretary.
Preceded now by the churchwarden, they all made their way towards the
church, but the watchman at the corner of Chancery Lane must have had
something upon his mind, he was so very wakeful, for after they had all
passed but Crotchet, he looked out of his box, and said--"Thieves!"
"What's that to you?" said Crotchet, facing him with a look of defiance,
"eh? Can't you be quiet when you is told?"
"Murder!" said the watchman, as he began to fumble for his rattle.
"Hark ye, old pump," said Crotchet. "I've settled eight watchmen atween
this here and Charing Cross, and you'll make nine, if you opens your
mouth again."
The appalled watchman shrank back into his box.
"Eight, did you say?"
"Yes."
Crotchet took the lantern off its hook in front of the box, and smashed
it upon the head of the guardian of the night, whereupon the aforesaid
guardian shrank completely down to the bottom of the box, with the
fragments of the lantern hanging about him, and said not another word.
"I rather think," said Mr. Crotchet to himself, "as I've settled that
old fellow comfortable."
With this conviction upon his mind--the amiability or the non-amiability
of which we shall not stop to discuss--Mr. Crotchet ran hastily after
the rest of the party, and stationed himself by the church porch,
according to orders. By this time, Mr. Villimay, the churchwarden, had
produced a little gothic-looking key, and proceeding to a small side
door, he, after some rattling, partly consequent upon the lock being in
a state of desuetude, and partly from personal nervousness, he did
succeed in turning the rusty wards, and then, with an ominous groan, the
door yielded. Sir Richard Blunt had quite satisfied himself that there
were no eaves-droppers at hand, so he was anxious to get the party
housed--perhaps in this instance churched would be a more appropriate
expression.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the night is stealing past, and we have much to
do."
"That is true, Sir Richard," said the secretary. "Come on, Donkin, and
let us get through it."
The Lord Mayor shook a little as he passed through the little door,
last, having, although king of the city, given the _pas_ to every one of
his companions, upon that most mysterious mission to old St. Dunstan's
church at such an hour. Perhaps he had a faint hope that they might
leave him entirely behind, and shut the door precipitately, so that he
could not get in. If he had any such hope, however, it was doomed, like
too many human hopes, to bitter disappointment, for Sir Richard Blunt
held the door open for him, saying blandly--
"Now, my lord. We could not get on without you."
"Oh, thank you--thank you. You are very good."
The Lord Mayor crossed the threshold, and then Mr. Villimay, who had
occupied a remote and mysterious position at the back of the door,
closed it, and locked it on the inside.
"If--if you were to lose the key, Mr. Villimay?" said the Lord Mayor.
"Why, then," interposed Sir Richard Blunt, "I'm afraid we should have to
stay there until Sunday, unless some couple kindly got married in the
meantime."
The Lord Mayor gave a very odd kind of cough, as he said--
"What would the Lady Mayoress say?"
The air without had been cold, but what was that compared with the
coldness within? At least, the street breeze had been dry, but in the
church there was such a fearful dampness pervading the narrow passage in
which the party found itself, that every one felt as though his very
marrow was cold.
"This passage," said Mr. Villimay, "hasn't been opened for many a long
day."
"Indeed!" said the secretary.
"No, my lord, it has not: and it's only a wonder that, after a good hunt
in the vestry cupboard, I at all found the key of it."
"Fortunate that you did," said Sir Richard Blunt, who was all this time
making exertions to procure a light, which were as often defeated by the
dampness of the air. At length he was successful in igniting a piece of
wax candle, and he said--
"Gentlemen, this will show us our way through the church to the vestry,
where we can get lanthorns."
"Yes," said the Lord Mayor, who was getting so nervous that he thought
himself called upon to make some reply to anything and anybody. "Yes,
lanthorns in the vestry."
"Well," said the secretary, "my Lord Mayor, your mayoralty will be
distinguished by this dreadful affair for all time to come."
"Many thanks to your lordship, it will."
The secretary smiled as he whispered to his friend Donkin--
"The city magistrate don't seem happy, Donkin."
"Far from it."
At the end of the little narrow, damp, gloomy, cobwebby passage in which
they were, was another little door, the upper half of which was of
highly ornamented iron fret work, the side of which next to the church
interior being gilt. This door likewise yielded to a key which Mr.
Villimay produced, and then they found themselves at once in the western
aisle of the church.
"The stench don't seem so bad," said Sir Richard.
"No, sir," said Villimay. "We have got all the windows open far up above
there, and there's quite a current of air, too, right up the belfry."
CHAPTER LXVI.
THE COOK'S VISITORS.
Sir Richard shaded with his hand the little light that he carried as he
walked solemnly across the nave towards the chancel, where the vestry
room was situated. He was followed closely by the whole party, and the
audible breathing of the Lord Mayor sufficiently proclaimed the uneasy
state of his lordship's nerves.
"How strange it is," said the secretary, "that men will pile up stones
and timber until they make something to enter, which then terrifies
their weak natures, and they become the slaves of the very materials
that they have made to enclose and roof in a certain space upon which
otherwise they would stand unmoved."
"It is so," said Donkin.
"Why the fact is, I suppose," said Sir Richard Blunt, "that it is what
is called original sin that sticks to us, and so--
'Conscience doth make cowards of us all!'
whether we are personally or not obnoxious to the pangs of the still
small voice."
"Upon my word, Sir Richard," said the secretary, "you are quite a
free-thinker--indeed you are."
Suddenly the whole party paused, for something resembling a moan was
heard from among the pews in the centre of the church, and every one was
anxious to listen for a repetition of the sound.
"Did you hear it?" whispered the secretary.
"In faith, I did," said Mr. Donkin.
"And I," said Sir Richard Blunt.
"And we," said the Lord Mayor, in defiance of grammar. "I--I--feel
rather unwell, gentlemen, do you know."
"Hush! let us listen," said the secretary.
They all stood profoundly still for a few minutes, and then, just as
they were one and all beginning to think that after all it must be a
mere thing of fancy, the same mournful moan came once more upon their
ears.
"There can be no mistake," said Sir Richard. "We all hear that; is it
not so, gentlemen?"
"Yes--yes!" said everybody.
"I'm getting worser," said the Lord Mayor.
"This mystery must be cleared up," said the secretary. "Is it a trick
upon us, do you think, Sir Richard?"
"No, my lord, certainly not."
"Then we cannot go on until this is cleared up. You are armed, of
course, Sir Richard?"
"Yes, my lord."
Sir Richard Blunt took from his pocket a double-barrelled pistol. There
was now a sort of pause, as though each of those present expected the
others to say or to do something which should have the effect of
discovering what the singular noise portended. Of course, Sir Richard
Blunt felt that in such an emergency he would be the man naturally
looked to.
"It is absolutely necessary," he said, "that we should find out what
this means before proceeding farther."
"Yes, yes," said the Lord Mayor, "no doubt of it; and in the meantime
I'll run to the Mansion House and get some assistance, gentlemen."
"Oh, no, my lord--oh, no," said the secretary to the chief magistrate of
the city. "We cannot think of sparing you."
"But--but--"
"Certainly not," said Sir Richard Blunt, who was keenly alive to the
tone of irony in which the secretary spoke. "Certainly not; and as I
fancy the sound which has excited our curiosity comes from about the
centre of the pews, you and I, my lord, will go and find out who it is.
Come, if you please, at once."
"I--I--" stammered the Lord Mayor, "I really--humph! If I felt quite
well, do you know, Sir Richard, I should not hesitate a moment."
"Pho! pho!" said Sir Richard, taking his arm, and leading him
unwillingly forward. "Remember that the eyes of those are upon you whose
opinions are to you of importance."
With a groan the unfortunate Lord Mayor, who from the first had shrunk
from the enterprise altogether, being fearful that it might possibly
involve dangerous consequences, allowed himself to be dragged by Sir
Richard Blunt in the direction of the pews.
"If you have a pistol," said the magistrate, "you had better keep it in
your hand ready for service."
"Lord bless you," said the Lord Mayor, in a nervous whisper, "I never
fired off a pistol in all my life."
"Is that possible?"
"I don't know about being possible, but it's true."
"Well, you do surprise me."
"So--so you see, Sir Richard," added his temporary lordship, suddenly
popping into the churchwarden's pew, which they had just reached--"so
I'll stay here and keep an eye upon you."
Sir Richard Blunt was not at all sorry to get rid of such a companion as
the Lord Mayor, so with a cough, he left him in the pew, and went
forward alone, determined to find out what it was that made the
extraordinary noise. As he went forward, towards the spot from whence it
had come, he heard it once again, and in such close proximity to him,
that albeit, unaccustomed to allow anything to affect his nerves, he
started back a pace. Shading, then, the little bit of wax candle that he
had in his hand, he looked steadily in the direction of the low moaning
sound. In an instant he found a solution of the mystery. A couple of
pigeons stood upon the hand rail of one of the pews, and it was the
peculiar sound made by these birds, that, by the aid of echo in the
silent empty church, had seemed to be of a very different character from
its ordinary one.
"And from such simple causes," said Sir Richard, "arise all the
well-authenticated stories of superstition which fancy and cowardice
give credence to."
He looked up, and saw that in the wish to ventilate the church, the
windows had been liberally opened, which had afforded the means of
ingress to the pigeons, who, no doubt, would have slumbered soundly
enough until morning, if not disturbed by the arrival of the party at
the church. As Sir Richard Blunt retraced his steps, he passed the pew
where the Lord Mayor was; and willing to punish that functionary for his
cowardice, he said, in a well-affected voice of alarm--
"Gracious Heaven! what will become of us?"
With a groan, the Lord Mayor flopped down to the floor of the pew, and
there he lay, crouching under one of the seats in such an agony of
terror, that Sir Richard felt certain he and the others would be able to
transact all the business they came about, before he would venture to
move from that place of concealment. The magistrate speedily informed
the rest of the party what was the cause of the alarm, and likewise
hinted the position of the Lord Mayor, upon which the secretary said--
"Let him be. Of course, as a matter of courtesy, I was obliged to write
to him upon the subject; but we are as well, and perhaps better without
him."
"I am of the same opinion," said Sir Richard.
They now went at once to the vestry, and two good lanterns were then
procured, and lit. The magistrate at once led the way to the stone that
had been raised by the workmen, in the floor of the church, and which
had never been effectually fastened down again. In a corner, where no
one was likely to look, Sir Richard placed his hand for a crow-bar which
he knew to be there, and, having found it, he quickly raised the stone
on one side. The other gentlemen lent their assistance, and it was
turned fairly over, having exposed the steps that led down to the vaults
of old St. Dunstan's church.
"Let us descend at once," said the secretary, who, to tell the truth, in
the whole affair, showed no lack of personal courage.
"Allow me to precede you, gentlemen," said Sir Richard Blunt; "and you,
Mr. Villimay, will, perhaps, bring up the rear."
"Yes, oh, yes," said the churchwarden, with some degree of nervousness,
but he was quite a hero compared to the Lord Mayor.
Sir Richard handed one of the lanterns, then, to Mr. Villimay, and took
the other himself. Without another moment's delay, then, he began the
descent. They could all, as they went, feel conscious that there was
certainly a most unearthly smell in the vaults--a smell which,
considering the number of years that had elapsed since any interments
had taken place in them, was perfectly unaccountable. As they proceeded,
this stench became more and more sickening, and the secretary said, as
he held a handkerchief to his mouth and nose--
"The Bishop of London spoke to me of this, but I really thought he was
exaggerating."
"It would be difficult to do that," said Sir Richard. "It is as bad
almost as it can very well be, and the measures taken for the purpose of
ventilation, have not as yet had a very great effect upon it."
"I should say not."
With tolerable speed the magistrate led the party on through a vast
number of vaults, and through several narrow and rather tortuous
passages, after which he came to an iron door. It was locked, but
placing the lantern for a few moments upon the floor, he soon succeeded
in opening it with a skeleton key. The moment he had done so, the
secretary exclaimed--
"Hey day! This is something different."
"In what respect, my lord?"
"Why, if my senses don't deceive me, the horrible charnel-house smell,
which we have been enduring for some time past, has given way to one
much more grateful."
"What is it like, my lord?"
"Well, I should say some delicious cooking was going on."
"You are right. There is cooking going on. We are not very far from Mrs.
Lovett's pie manufactory."
"Indeed!"
"Yes; and the smell, or rather I ought to say the odour of which the air
is full, comes from the bakehouse."
The secretary gave a perceptible shudder, and Mr. Villimay uttered a
groan. The gentleman who was with the secretary was about to say
something, but the magistrate, in a low voice, interrupted him, saying--
"Pardon me, but now we are in close proximity to the place of our
destination, I would recommend the profoundest caution and silence."
"Certainly--certainly. We will only be silent spectators."
"It is better, I think," added Sir Richard Blunt, "to allow me to carry
on the whole of the conversation that is to ensue; and at the same time,
any of you gentlemen can suggest to me a question to ask, and I will at
once put it to the man we come to speak to."
"That will do, Sir Richard, that will do."
The magistrate now hurried on as though those savoury steams that
scented the air from the bakehouse of Mrs. Lovett's pies were to him
more disagreeable than the horrible smell in the vaults that made
everybody shake again. In a few minutes he arrived at a room, for it
could not be called a vault. It had a floor of rough stone flags, which
seemed as though they had originally belonged to some of the vaults, and
had been pulled up and carried to this place to make a rude flooring.
There was nothing very remarkable about the walls of this place, save at
one part, and there there was evidently a door, across which was placed
a heavy iron bar.
"It is through there," said Sir Richard.
"But--but you do not intend to open it?"
"Certainly not. There is a small crevice through which there will be no
difficulty in maintaining a conversation with the imprisoned cook, if I
can only make him hear me from this spot."
CHAPTER LXVII.
THE REVELATIONS IN THE VAULTS.
The object of Sir Richard Blunt was, of course, to make the cook hear
him, but no one else. With this aim he took a crown-piece from his
pocket and tapped with the edge of it upon the stone-work which at that
place protruded from the wall to the extent of nearly a foot. The stone
shelves upon the other side were let into the wall in that fashion. The
monotonous ringing sound of the coin against the stone was likely enough
to reverberate through the wall, and that the cook was rather a light
sleeper, or did not sleep at all, was soon sufficiently manifest, for a
voice, which the magistrate recognised as his, cried from the other
side--
"Who is there? If a friend, speak quickly, for God knows I have need of
such. If an enemy, your utmost malice cannot make my situation worse
than it is."
Sir Richard placed his mouth close to a crevice, and said--
"A friend, and the same who has spoken to you before."
"Ah! I know that voice. Do you bring me freedom?"
"Soon. But I have much to ask of you."
"Let me look at the daylight, and then ask what you will, I shall not
tire of answering."
"Nay, the principal thing I have to ask of you is yet a little more
patience."
"Patience! patience! It seems that I have been years in this place, and
yet you ask me to have more patience. Oh, blessed liberty, am I not to
hail you yet?"
"Can you forget that you have another object--namely, to bring to the
just punishment of the law those who have placed you and others in this
awful position?"
"Yes--yes. But--"
"But you would forego all that to be free, a few short hours before you
would be free with the accomplishment of all that justice and society
required?"
"No--no. God help me! I will have patience. What is it that you demand
of me now? Speak."
"Your name?"
"Alas!--alas!"
"Surely you cannot hesitate to tell one, who has run some risks to
befriend you, who you are?"
"If, by my telling that, I saw that those risks were made less, I would
not hesitate; but, as it is, London, and all that it contains now, is so
hateful to me, that I shall leave it the instant I can. Falsehood, where
I most expected truth, has sunk deeply, like a barbed arrow, into my
heart."
"Well, I certainly had hoped you would have placed in me that amount of
confidence."
"No. I dare not."
"Dare not?"
"Yes, that is the word. The knowledge of my name spread abroad--that is
to say, my real name, would inflict much misery for all, I can just now
say to the contrary, upon one whom I yet wish all the happiness that God
can give his creatures in this world. Let it be thought that I and the
world have parted company."
"You are a strange man."
"I am. But the story I have to tell of the doings in this den of infamy,
will come as well from a Mr. Smith as from any one else."
"I wish you now, in a few words, to relate to me what you know, fully
and freely."
"Anticipating that a statement would be wanted, I have, with no small
amount of trouble, manufactured for myself pens and ink, and have
written all that I have to say. How can I give you the document?"
"There is a chink here in the wall, through which I am addressing you.
Can you pass it through?"
"I will try. I see the chink now for the first time since my long and
painful residence here. Your light upon the other side has made it quite
apparent to me. I think, by folding my paper close, I can pass it
through to you."
"Try it."
In about half a minute Sir Richard Blunt got hold of a piece of folded
paper, which was pushed partly through the chink. He pulled it quite
through, and handed it to the secretary, who, with a nod, at once put it
in his pocket.
"And now for how long," said the cook, "am I to pine for freedom from
this dreadful place? Recollect that each hour here has upon its passing
wings a load of anxieties and miseries, such as I only can appreciate."
"I have brought a letter for you," said Sir Richard, "which will contain
all the intelligence you wish, and give you such instructions as shall
not only ensure your safety, but enable you to aid materially in
bringing your persecutors to justice. Place your hand to the crevice and
take it."
"I have it."
"Well, read it at your leisure. Have you any means of knowing the time
of day in your prison?"
"Oh yes. There is a clock in the bakehouse, by which I am forced to
regulate the different batches of pies."
"That will do. Have you had any more threats from Mrs. Lovett?"
"None. As long as I perform my loathsome duty here, I see no one and
hear of no one."
"Be of good cheer, your desolate condition will not last long. It is not
easy under present circumstances to enter at large into matters which
might induce you to declare who you really are, but when you and I meet
in the bright sunshine from which you have been debarred for so long,
you will think very differently from what you do now upon many things."
"Well, sir, perhaps I shall."
"Good night to you. Take what rest and refreshment you can, my good
friend, and believe that there are better days in store for you."
"I will strive to think so.--Good night."
There was such a mournful cadence in the voice of the imprisoned young
man, as he said "Good night," that the secretary remarked in a low voice
to Sir Richard--
"Would it not be a mercy now to let him free, and take him away with
us?"
"I don't like his concealing his name, my lord."
"Well, it is not the thing exactly."
"His imprisonment now will be of very short duration indeed, and his
liberation is certain, unless by some glaring act of imprudence he mars
his own fortune. But now, gentlemen, I have a sight to show you in these
vaults that you have come to see, and yet, that I think it would have
been wise if you had left unseen."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. You will soon agree with me in opinion."
Sir Richard, bearing the lantern in his hand, led the way for a
considerable distance back again, until they were fairly under the
church, and then he said--
"A large vault belonging to a family named Weston, which is extinct I
fancy, for we can find no one to claim it, has been opened near this
spot."
"By whom?"
"That you will have no difficulty in guessing. It is that vault that I
wish to show you. There are others in the same condition, but one will
be enough to satiate your appetites for such sights. This way,
gentlemen, if you please."
As the light from the two lanterns fell upon the faces of Sir Richard
Blunt's companions, curiosity and excitement could be seen paramount
upon their features. They followed him as their guide without a word,
but they could not but see that he trod slowly, and that now and then a
shudder crossed his frame.
"Even you are affected," said the secretary, when the silence had lasted
some minutes.
"I were something more or less than human," replied Sir Richard Blunt
"if I could go unmoved into the presence of that sight, that I feel it
to be my duty to show to you."
"It must be horrible indeed."
"It is more horrible than all the horrors your imagination can suggest.
Let us go quicker."
Apparently with a desperate feeling of resolution, such as might actuate
a man who had some great danger to encounter, and who after shrinking
from it for a time, should cry "Well, the sooner it is over the better,"
did the magistrate now quicken his steps, nor paused he until he arrived
at the door of the vault of which he had spoken.
"Now, Mr. Villimay," he said. "Be so good as to hold up your lantern as
high as you can, at the same time not to get it above the doorway, and I
will do the same by mine. All that we want is a brief but clear view."
"Yes, yes. Quite brief," said the secretary.
Sir Richard Blunt laid his hand upon the door of the vault, which was
unfastened, and flung it open.
"Behold!" he said, "one of the vaults of old St. Dunstan's."
For the space of about a minute and a half no one uttered a word, so it
behoves us to state what that vault contained, to strike such horror
into the hearts of bold educated men. Piled one upon each other on the
floor, and reaching half way up to the ceiling lay, a decomposing mass
of human remains. Heaped up one upon another, heedlessly tossed into the
disgusting heap any way, lay the gaunt skeletons with pieces of flesh
here and there only adhering to the bones. A steam--a foetid steam rose
up from the dead, and upon the floor was a pool of corruption, creeping
along as the declivities warranted. Eyes, teeth, hands half denuded of
flesh--glistening vermin, shiny and sleek with the luxurious feeding
they there got, slipped glibly in and out of the heaped-up horror.
[Illustration: Todd's Victims In The Vaults Of Old St. Dunstan's
Church.]
"No more--no more!" cried the secretary.
"I sicken," said his friend, "I am faint."
Sir Richard Blunt let go the door, and it slammed shut with a hollow
sound.
"Thank God!" he said.
"For--for what?" gasped Mr. Villimay.
"That you and I, my friend, need not look upon this sight again. We are
all sufficient evidence upon our oaths that it is here to see."
"Yes--yes."
"Come away," said the secretary. "You told me something of what was to
see, Sir Richard Blunt, but my imagination did not picture it to be what
it is."
"I told you that likewise, my lord."
"You did--you did."
With hurried steps they now followed the magistrate; and it was with a
feeling of exquisite relief that they all found themselves, after a few
minutes, fairly in the body of the church, and some distance from that
frightful spectacle they had each thought it to be their duty to look
upon.
"Let us go to the vestry," said the secretary, "and take something. I am
sick at heart and stomach both."
"And I am everything, and hungry too," cried a voice, and the Lord Mayor
popped his head up from the churchwardens' pew.
No one could help laughing at this, although, to tell the truth, those
men, after what they had seen, were in no laughing mood, as the reader
may well imagine.
"Is that our friend, the King of the City?" said the secretary.
"It is," said Sir Richard.
"Well, I must say that he has set a good example of bravery in his
dominions."
"He has indeed."
"Gentlemen--gentlemen," added the Lord Mayor, as he rolled out of the
churchwardens' pew, "don't think of going into the vestry without me,
for it was I who gave a hint to have refreshments put there, and I have
been dying for some of them for this last half-hour, I assure you."
CHAPTER LXVIII.
RETURNS TO JOHANNA.
We return to Johanna Oakley.
"What is the meaning of all this?" said Sweeney Todd, as he sat in his
shop about the hour of twelve on the morning following that upon which
Johanna Oakley and her friend Arabella had concerted so romantic a plan
of operations regarding him. "What is the meaning of all this? Am I
going mad?"
Now Todd's question was no doubt a result of some peculiar sensations
that had come over him; but, propounded as it was to silence and to
vacancy, it of course got no answer. A cold perspiration had suddenly
broke out upon his brow, and, for the space of about ten minutes, he was
subject to one of those strange foreshadowings of coming ills to him,
which of late had begun to make his waking hours anything but joyous,
and his dreams hideous.
"What can it mean?" he said. "What can it mean?"
He wiped his face with a miserable looking handkerchief, and then, with
a deep sigh, he said--
"It is that fiend in the shape of a woman!"
No doubt he meant his dear friend, Mrs. Lovett. Alas! what a thorn she
was in the side of Sweeney Todd. How poor a thing, by way of recompense
for the dark and terrible suspicions he had of her, was his heaped up
wealth? Todd--yes, Sweeney Todd, who had waded knee-deep--knee-deep do
we say?--lip-deep in blood for gold, had begun to find that there was
something more precious still which he had bartered for it--peace! That
peace of mind--that sweet serenity of soul, which, like the love of God,
is beautiful, and yet passeth understanding. Yes, Todd was beginning to
find out that he had bartered the jewel for the setting! What a common
mistake. Does not all the world do it? They do; but the difference
between Todd and common people merely was that he played the game with
high stakes.
"Yes," added Todd, after a pause, "curses on her, it is that fiend in
the shape of a woman, who
'Cows my better part of man,'
and she or I must fall. That is settled; yes--she or I. There was a time
when I used to say she and I could not live in the same country; but now
I feel that we cannot both live in the same world. She must go--she must
lapse into the sleep of death."
Todd rose, and stalked to and fro in his shop. He felt as if something
was going to happen: that undefinable fidgetty feeling which will attack
all persons at times, came over him, and yet it was not a feeling of
deep apprehension that was at his heart.
"Oh," he muttered, "it is the recollection of that dreadful woman--that
fiend, who, with a seeming prescience, knows when there is poison in her
glass, and baffles me. It is the dim and shadowy thought of what I must
do with her that shatters me. If poison will not do the deed, steel or a
bullet must. Ah!"
Some one was trying the handle of the shop door, and so timidly was it
tried, that Todd stood still to listen, without saying "Come in," or
otherwise encouraging the visitor.
"Who is it?" he gasped.
Still the handle of the door-lock only shook. To be sure, it was a
difficult door to open to all who did not know it well. Todd had taken
care of that, for if there was anything more than another which such a
man as he might be fairly enough presumed to dislike, it would be to be
glided in upon by the sudden opening of an easy-going door.
"Come in," he now cried.
The person without was evidently anxious to obey the invitation, and a
more strenuous effort was made to unfasten the door. It yielded at
length. A young and pretty looking lad, apparently of about thirteen or
fourteen years of age, stood upon the threshold. He and Sweeney Todd
looked at each other in silence for a few moments. If a painter or a
sculptor could have caught them as they stood, and transferred them to
canvas or to marble, he might have called them an idea of Guilt and
Innocence. There was Todd, with evil passions and wickedness written
upon every feature of his face. There was the boy, with the rosy
gentleness and innocence of Heaven upon his brow. God made both these
creatures! It was Todd who broke the silence. A gathering flush was upon
the face of the boy, and he could not speak.
"What do you want?" said Todd.
He rattled his chair as he spoke, as though he would have said, "It is
not to be shaved." The boy was too much engaged with his own thoughts to
pay much attention to Todd's pantomime. He evidently, though, wished to
say something, which he could not command breath to give utterance to.
Like the "Amen" of Macbeth, something he would fain have uttered, seemed
to stick in his throat.
"What is it?" again demanded Todd, eagerly.
This roused the boy. The boy, do we say. Ah, our readers have already
recognised in that boy the beautiful and enthusiastic Johanna Oakley.
"There is a bill in your window--"
[Illustration: Johanna Applies To Todd To Become His Errand Boy.]
"A what?"
Todd had forgotten the announcement regarding the youth he wanted, with
a taste for piety.
"A bill. You want a boy, sir."
"Oh," said Todd, as the object of the visit at once thus became clear
and apparent to him. "Oh, that's it."
"Yes, sir."
Todd held up his hand to his eyes, as though he were shading them from
sunlight, as he gazed upon Johanna, and then, in an abrupt tone of
voice, he said--
"You won't do."
"Thank you, sir."
She moved towards the door. Her hand touched the handle. It was not
fast. The door opened. Another moment, and she would have been gone.
"Stop!" cried Todd.
She returned at once.
"You don't look like a lad in want of a situation. Your clothes are
good--your whole appearance is that of a young gentleman. What do you
mean by coming here to ask to be an errand boy in a barber's shop? I
don't understand it. You had different expectations."
"Yes, sir. But Mrs. Green--"
"Mrs. who?"
"Green, sir, my mother-in-law, don't use me well, and I would rather go
to sea, or seek my living in any way, than go back again to her; and if
I were to come into your service, all I would ask would be, that you did
not let her know where I was."
"Humph! Your mother-in-law, you say?"
"Yes, sir. I have been far happier since I ran away from her, than I
have been for a long time past."
"Ah, you ran away? Where lives she?"
"At Oxford. I came to London in the waggon, and at every step the lazy
horses took, I felt a degree of pleasure that I was placing a greater
distance between me and oppression."
"Your own name?"
"Charley Green. It was all very well as long as my father lived; but
when he was no more, my mother-in-law began her ill-usage of me. I bore
it as long as I could, and then I ran away. If you can take me, sir, I
hope you will."
"Go along with you. You won't suit me at all. I wonder at your impudence
in coming."
"No harm done, sir. I will try my fortune elsewhere."
Todd began sharpening a razor, as the boy went to the door again.
"Shall I take him?" he said to himself. "I do want some one for the
short time I shall be here. Humph! An orphan--strange in London. No one
to care for him. The very thing for me. No prying friends--nowhere to
run, the moment he is sent of an errand, with open mouth, proclaiming
this and that has happened in the shop. I will have him."
He darted to the door.
"Hoi!--hoi!"
Johanna turned round, and came back in a minute. Todd had caught at the
bait at last. She got close to the door.
"Upon consideration," said Todd, "I will speak to you again. But just
run and see what the time is by St. Dunstan's Church."
"St.--St. who?" said Johanna, looking around her with a bewildered,
confused sort of air. "St. who?"
"St. Dunstan's, in Fleet Street."
"Fleet Street? If you will direct me, sir, I dare say I shall find
it--oh, yes. I am good at finding places."
"He _is_ strange in London," muttered Todd. "I am satisfied of that. He
is strange. Come in--come in, and shut the door after you."
With a heart beating with violence, that was positively fearful, Johanna
followed Todd into the shop, carefully closing the door behind her, as
she had been ordered to do.
"Now," said Todd, "nothing in the world but my consideration for your
orphan and desolate condition, could possibly induce me to think of
taking you in; but the fact is, being an orphan myself--(here Todd made
a hideous grimace)--I say, being an orphan myself, with little to
distress me amid the oceans and quicksands of this wicked world, some
very strong sense of religion--(another hideous grimace)--I naturally
feel for you."
"Thank you, sir."
"Are you decidedly pious?"
"I hope so, sir."
"Humph! Well, we will say more upon that all-important subject another
time, and if I consent to be your master, a--a--a--"
"Charley Green, sir."
"Ay, Charley Green. If I consent to take you for a week upon trial, you
must wholly attribute it to my feelings."
"Certainly, sir."
"Have you any idea yourself as to terms?"
"None in the least, sir."
"Very good. Then you will not be disappointed. I shall give you sixpence
a week, and your board wages of threepence a day, besides perquisites.
The threepence I advise you to spend in three penny pies, at Mrs.
Lovett's, in Bell Yard. They are the most nutritious and appetizing
things you can buy; and in the Temple you will find an excellent pump,
so that the half hour you will be allowed for dinner will be admirably
consumed in your walk to the pie shop, and from thence to the pump, and
then home here again."
"Yes, sir."
"You will sleep under the counter, here, of a night, and the perquisites
I mention will consist of the use of the pewter wash-hand basin, the
soap, and the end of a towel."
"Yes, sir."
"You will hear and see much in this place. Perhaps now and then you will
be surprised at something; but--but, master Charley, if you go and
gossip about me or my affairs, or what you see, or what you hear, or
what you think you would like to see or hear, I'll cut your throat!"
"Charley" started.
"Oh! sir," he said, "you may rely upon me. I will be quite discreet. I
am a fortunate lad to get so soon into the employment of such an
exemplary master."
"Ha!"
Todd, for a space of two minutes made the most hideous and extraordinary
grimaces.
"Fortunate lad," he said. "Exemplary master! How true. Ha!"--Poor
Johanna shuddered at that dreadful charnel-house sort of laugh.
"My God," she thought, "was that the last sound that rung in the ears of
my poor Mark, ere he bade adieu to this world for ever?" Then she could
not but utter a sort of groan.
"What's that?" said Todd.
"What, sir?"
"I--I thought some one groaned, or--or sighed. Was it you? No.--Well, it
was nothing. See if that water on the fire is hot. Do you hear me?
Well--well don't be alarmed. Is it hot?"
"I think."
"Think! Put your hand in it."
"Quite hot, sir."
"Well, then, master Charley--Ah! A customer! Come in, sir; come in, if
you please, sir. A remarkably fine day, sir. Cloudy, though. Pray be
seated, sir. A-hem! Now, Charley, bustle--bustle. Shaved, sir, I
presume? D--n the door!"
Todd was making exertions to shut the door after the entrance of a
stout-built man, in an ample white coat and a broad brimmed farmer
looking hat; but he could not get it close, and then the stout-built man
cried out--
"Why don't you come in, Bob--leave off your tricks. Why you is old
enough to know better."
"It's only me," said another stout-built man, in another white coat, as
he came in with a broad grin upon his face. "It's only me, Mr.
Barber--ha! ha! ha!"
Todd looked quite bland, as he said--
"Well, it was a good joke. I could not for the moment think what it was
kept the door from shutting, and I always close it, because there's a
mad dog in the neighbourhood, you see, gentlemen."
Crack went something to the floor.
"It's this mug, sir," said Charley. "I dropped it."
"Well--well, my dear, don't mind that. Accidents, you know, will happen;
bless you."
Todd, as he said this, caught up a small piece of Charley's hair in his
finger and thumb, and gave it a terrific pinch. Poor Johanna with
difficulty controlled her tears.
"Now, sir, be seated if you please. From the country, I suppose, sir?"
"Yes. A clean shave, if you please. We comed up from Barkshire, both on
us, with beasts."
"You and your brother, sir?"
"My cousin, t'other'un is; ain't you Bill?"
"Yes, to be sure."
"Now, Charley, the soap dish. Look alive--look alive, my little man,
will you?"
"Yes, sir."
"You must excuse him being rather slow, gentlemen, but he's not used to
the business yet, poor boy--no father, no mother, no friend in all the
world but me, sir."
"Really!"
"Yes, poor lad, but thank God I have a heart--Leave the whiskers as they
are, sir?--Yes, and I can feel for the distresses of a fellow creature.
Many's the--Your brother--I beg pardon, cousin, will be shaved likewise,
sir?--pound I have given away in the name of the Lord. Charley, will you
look alive with that soap dish. A pretty boy, sir; is he not?"
"Very. His complexion is like--like a pearl."
Johanna dropped the soap dish, and clasped her hands over her eyes. That
word "pearl" had for the moment got the better of her.
CHAPTER LXIX.
TAKES A PEEP AT ARABELLA.
We regret to leave Johanna in such a predicament, but the progress and
due understanding of our tale compel us briefly to revert to some
proceedings of Arabella Wilmot, a short detail of which can nowhere come
in so well as at this juncture. Up to the moment of parting with
Johanna, when the latter went upon her perilous interprise, Arabella had
kept up pretty well, but from that moment her spirits began to fail. All
the romantic feelings which had at first prompted the advice that
concentrated Johanna's expedition to Todd's, evaporated before the hard
truthful fact that she, Arabella, had led her young friend into a
situation of the greatest peril. Each moment added to the mental agony
of the young girl; and at length her sufferings became too acute for
further dallying with, and wringing her hands, all she could ask herself
was--
"What shall I do to save her?--What shall I do to save her?"
Arabella felt that it would kill her to endure the suspense of one hour
instead of four-and-twenty; but to whom was she to turn in this sad
condition of her feelings? If she went to old Mr. Oakley, what could she
expect but the greatest reproaches for leading one so dear to him into
such a path of danger; and those reproaches would not be the less
stinging on account, probably, of their being only implied, and not
spoken. If she appealed to her own friends, it would only be a kind of
second-hand mode of appealing to Mr. Oakley, for they, of courses, would
go to him.
"Oh, wretched girl that I am," she cried, as she wrung her hands. "What
shall I do?--What ought I to do?"
It was very improbable that, in the midst of such a state of feeling as
this, Arabella Wilmot should think of the wisest and best thing to do;
and yet strange to say, she did. By mere accident the name of Sir
Richard Blunt came to her mind. She had heard Colonel Jeffery speak of
him; and from common report, too, she knew he was a man who, of all
others, was likely, from inclination as well as power and duty, to aid
her. The idea of going to him gained strength and consistency each
moment in her mind, as good ideas will.
"Yes--yes!" she exclaimed, as with frantic eagerness she arrayed herself
for the event, for she had gone home after seeing Johanna on her way;
"yes--yes! I will go to him--I will tell him all. He shall know what a
silly, foolish, wicked girl I have been, and how by my mad--mad council,
I have perhaps destroyed Johanna. But he will save her--oh, yes, he will
save her from the consequences of the visit to Todd, and save me from
madness."
Now, a more decidedly prudent resolve than this could not possibly have
been aimed at by Arabella, had she been as cool and collected; as, on
the contrary, she was nervous and excited, and it had all the effect
upon her mind; for it was astonishing how the mere feeling that she was
about to take a good course calmed her down. She had the prudence to
interpose no delays by speaking to any one of her intention; but hastily
getting into the street, she ran on for some time without reflecting
that she had but a very vague idea of where Sir Richard Blunt was to be
found. It is astonishing how, under the passions of extraordinary
circumstances, people will boldly do things which ordinarily they would
shrink from. It was so with Arabella Wilmot. She walked into a shop, and
at once asked if they could tell her the exact address of Sir Richard
Blunt, the magistrate.
"Yes, it is at No. 6, Essex Street, Strand."
Off she went again. Fleet Street was passed. True, she lingered a little
opposite to Todd's shop, and the idea came across her of rushing in, and
saying, "Johanna, come away." But she controlled that feeling, from a
conviction that she was doing better by going to the magistrate, who, if
it were necessary to take that course, could take it much more
effectually than she could. Essex Street was gained, and Arabella's
trembling hand sounded an alarm upon the knocker.
"Is Sir Richard within?"
"No. But if you particularly want him, he is at his private office in
Craven Street."
To Craven Street then she sped. The number she had been told was 10, and
upon the door of that house being opened, she asked a man who was big
enough to block up all the passage, and who did so, for the magistrate.
"Yes, but you can't see him. He's busy."
"I must."
"But you can't, my dear."
"I will."
The man whistled.
"Will is a short word, my dear, for you to use. How do you mean to do
it, eh?"
A door opened, and with his hat on, ready to go out, Sir Richard Blunt
himself appeared. Another minute and Arabella would have missed him, and
then God knows where, for the next twelve hours, he would be.
"What is this, Davis?" he said.
"Here's a little 'un, says she will see you, Sir Richard."
"Ah, thank God!" cried Arabella, rushing forward and catching a tight
hold of the magistrate by the arm. "Yes, I will see you, sir; I have a
matter of life and death to speak to you of."
"Walk in," said Sir Richard. "Don't hurry yourself in the least, Miss.
Pray be composed; I am quite at your disposal."
Arabella followed him into a small room. She still kept close to him,
and in her eagerness she placed her hand upon her breast, as she said--
"Sir--sir. You--and you only. Todd, Todd--oh, God! he will kill her, and
I am more her murderer than he. Johanna--Johanna, my poor Johanna!"
Sir Richard slightly changed colour at the sound of those names; and
then he said, calmly and slowly--
"I don't think, unless you can assume a greater command of your
feelings, that you will ever be able to tell me what you came about."
"Oh, yes--yes."
"Be seated, I pray you."
"Yes--yes. In a moment. Oh, how calm and unimpassioned you are, sir."
"It would not do for us both to lose our judgment."
Arabella began to feel a little piqued, and that feeling restored her
powers to her, probably quicker than any other could have possibly done.
She spoke rapidly, but distinctly.
"Sir, Miss Johanna Oakley has gone to Sweeney Todd's to find out what
has become of Mr. Mark Ingestrie, and I advised her to do so; but now
the knowledge that I did so advise her has driven me nearly mad. It will
drive me quite mad!"
Sir Richard rose from the arm chair into which he had thrown himself,
and said--
"'Miss Oakley?' said you? Why--why--what folly. But she has gone home
again."
"No, she is disguised as a boy, and has taken the situation that Todd
put a placard in his window about, and she will be found out of course,
and murdered."
"No doubt of it."
"Oh, God! Oh, God! Is there no lightning to strike me dead?"
"I hope not," said Sir Richard Blunt; "I don't want a thunder storm in
my parlour."
"But, sir--"
"But, Miss Wilmot. Is she there now?"
"She is--she is."
"When did she go?"
"About two hours since. Oh, sir--you must do something--you shall do
something to save her, or I will run into the streets, and call upon any
passenger I meet, that has the form of a man, to aid me; I will raise
the town, sir, but I will save her."
"That course would be about as wise as the original advice to Miss
Oakley to go upon the expedition at all. Now answer me calmly what I
shall ask of you."
"I will--I will."
"What is the prime cause of action that Miss Oakley projects as the
result of this disguised entrance into Todd's shop, provided he be
deceived by it?"
"To search the place upon the first opportunity for some relic of Mark
Ingestrie, and so put an end to the torturing suspense regarding his
fate."
Sir Richard Blunt shook his head.
"Do you think that Sweeney Todd would leave such relics within such easy
acquisition and inspection? Is he the sort of man, think you, to expose
himself to such danger? Oh, Miss Wilmot, this is indeed a hair-brained
scheme."
"It is--it is, and I have come to you for aid, and--"
"Hush! Is the secret of this expedition entirely confined to you and to
Miss Oakley?"
"It is--it is."
"Will her friends not miss her?"
"No--no. All has been arranged with what now I cannot help calling a
horrible ingenuity. She is like one led to slaughter, and she will pass
away from the world, leaving the secret of her disappearance to you and
to me only. Sir, I am young, and there are those in this great city who
love me, but if Johanna be not saved, I will no longer live to be the
most wretched of beings. If there can be found a poison that will let me
leave the world, to cast myself at the feet of God, and of Johanna in
another, I will take it."
Sir Richard looked at his watch.
"An hour and a half, you say?"
"More than that. Let me think. It was twelve--yes, it was twelve. More
you see, sir, than that. Tell me, sir. Tell me at once what can be done.
Speak--oh speak to me. What will you do?"
"I don't know, Miss Wilmot."
With a deep sigh Arabella fainted.
* * * * *
It was seldom indeed that, even amid his adventurous life, the
magistrate found a circumstance that affected him so strongly as that
which Arabella Wilmot had related to him. For a short time, even he,
with all his powers of rapid thought, and with all the means and
appliances which natural skill and practice had given him to meet any
emergency, could not think of any mode of escape from the peculiarly
awkward position into which this frightfully imprudent step of Johanna
had plunged him.
"My good girl," he said. "Oh, she has fainted."
He rung a hand-bell, and, when a man appeared in answer to the summons,
he said--
"Is Mrs. Long within?"
"Yes, Sir Richard."
"Then bring her here, and tell her to pay every attention to this young
lady, who is a friend of mine; and when she recovers, say to her that I
shall return in an hour."
"Certainly, Sir Richard."
In a few moments a matronly-looking woman, who acted in that house as a
sort of general manager, made her appearance, and had Arabella removed
to a chamber. Before that, the magistrate had hastily put on his hat,
and at a quick pace was walking towards Fleet Street. What he intended
to do in the emergency--for emergency he evidently thought it was--we
shall see quickly. Certain it is that, even by that time, he had made up
his mind to some plan of proceeding, and our readers have sufficient
knowledge of him to feel that it is likely to be the very best that
could be adopted under the circumstances. Certainly Johanna had, by the
bold step she had taken, brought affairs to something like a crisis,
much earlier than he, Sir Richard Blunt, expected. What the result will
be remains to be seen.
CHAPTER LXX.
RETURNS TO JOHANNA.
We left Johanna in rather an awkward situation. The two graziers were in
Todd's shop, and she--at the pronunciation of the word "pearl," which
had too forcibly at the moment reminded her of the String of Pearls,
which no doubt had been fatal to Mark Ingestrie--had dropped the
soap-dish, and covered her face with her hands.
"What is this?" cried Todd.
"What, sir?"
"What is that, I say? What do you mean by that, you stupid hound? If I
only--"
He advanced in a threatening attitude with a razor in his hand; but
Johanna quickly saw what a fault she had committed, and felt that, if
she were to hope to do any good by her visit to Todd's shop, she must
leave all such manifestations of feelings outside the threshold.
"I have broken it," she said.
"To be sure you have; but--"
"And then, you see, sir, I was overcome at the moment by the thought
that as this was my first day here, how stupid you would think me."
"Stupid, indeed."
"Poor little chap," said one of the graziers. "Let him off this once,
Mr. Barber--he seems a delicate little lad."
Todd smiled. Yes, Todd admirably got up a smile, or a something that
looked like a smile. It was a contortion of feature which did duty for a
piece of amiability upon his face; and, in a voice that he no doubt
fully intended should be dulcet and delightful, he spoke--
"I'm quite a fool to my feelings and to my good nature," he said. "Lord
bless you, gentlemen, I could not hurt a fly--not I. I used at school to
be called Affectionate Todd."
"In joke?" said one of the graziers.
"No, gentlemen, no; in earnest."
"You don't say so! Well, my boy, you see no harm will come to you, as
your master forgives you about the soap-dish, and we are in no sort of
hurry."
"Well," said Todd, as he bustled about for another article in which to
mix the lather. "Well, do you know, sir, I'm so glad to hear that you
are in no hurry."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir; because, if you are strangers in London both of you, it will
give you an opportunity of seeing some of the curiosities, which will do
for you to talk of when you get home, you know."
"Why, that would take too much time."
"Not at all, sir. Now, for example--Charley, my dear, whip up that
lather--there's the church of St. Dunstan's, which, although I say
it--Now, Charley, look sharp--is one of the greatest of London
curiosities. The figures at the clock I allude to more particularly. I
think you said the whiskers were to be left just as they are, sir?"
"Yes."
"Well then, gentlemen, if you have never seen the figures in the front
of old St. Dunstan's strike the chimes, it's one of those things that
it's quite a pity to leave London without watching narrowly. They may
talk of the Tower, sir, or of the wild beasts at Exeter Change; but give
me for a sight where there is real ingenuity, the figures striking the
chimes at old St. Dunstan's."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. Let me see. Ah, it's just a half hour nearly now, and your friend
can go, although you are being shaved, and then by the time you are
comfortably finished off, the next quarter will be getting on. Charley?"
"Yes, sir."
"Put on your cap, and go with that gentleman to St. Dunstan's. You must
cross over the way, and then you will soon see the old church and the
two figures, as large as life, and five times as natural."
Johanna took up the cap she had worn in her disguise, and stood by the
door.
"Why don't you go, Bill?" said the grazier who was being shaved.
"Why, the fact is," said the other, "I would not give a pin's head to
see it without you. Do you know, Mr. Barber, he makes such comical
remarks at anything, that it's worth one half the fun to hear him? Oh,
no, I can't go without him."
"Very good," said Todd, "then I'll finish him off, and you shall both go
together in a few moments, though I am afraid you will miss this time of
the chimes striking."
There was now a silence of a few moments' duration in the shop; but
nothing in the shape of rage or disappointment was visible in the manner
of Todd, although both of those passions were struggling at his heart.
"Now, sir," he said at length, and with a whisk he took the cloth from
under the grazier's chair. "That will do; I thank you, sir. Towel and
plenty of water in that corner, sir."
"Thank you."
"No, I shall do," said the other grazier, in reply to a mute imitation
from Todd to sit down in the shaving chair, "I shall do pretty well, I
thank you, till to-morrow."
"Very good, sir. Hope I shall have the pleasure of your patronage
another time, as well as your recommendation, gentlemen."
"You may depend," said the grazier, who had been shaved, "that we shall
do all we can for you, and shall not lose sight of you."
Todd bowed like a Frenchman, and the graziers left the shop. No sooner
was the door closed upon them, than his countenance altered, as if by
magic, and the most wofully diabolical expression came over it, as with
eyes flashing with rage, he cried--
"Curses on you both! But I will have one of you, yet. May the bitterest
curse of--but, no matter, I--"
"What, sir?" said Johanna. "What do you say, sir?"
"Hell's fury! what is that to you? Do dare you, you devil's cub, to ask
me what I said? By all that's furious, I'll tear out your teeth with
red-hot pincers, and scoop your eyes from their gory sockets with an old
oyster knife. D--n you, I'll--I'll flay you!"
Johanna shrank back aghast. The pure spirit of the young girl, that had
been used to little else but words of love and kindness, started at the
furious and brutal abuse that was launched at it by Todd.
"Did I not tell you," he continued, "that I would have no prying--no
peeping--no remarking about this or the other? I'll crush the life out
of you, as I would that from a mad dog!"
A strange howling cry at the door at this moment came upon the ears of
Todd. His countenance changed, and his lips moved as though he was still
saying something, but he had not power to give it audibly. At length,
somewhat mastering his emotion, he said--
"What--what's that?"
"A dog, sir."
"A dog! Confound all dogs."
Another howl, and a violent scratching at the door, was farther and most
conclusive evidence of the canine character of the visitor.
"Charley," said Todd, in quite a soft tone--"Charley."
"Yes, sir."
"Take the poor dog something to eat--or--or to drink, rather I should
say. You will find a saucer in yon cupboard, with some milk in it.
If--if he only, bless him, takes one lick at it, I shall be satisfied.
You know, Charley, God made all things, and we should be good to his
creatures."
"Yes, sir," said Johanna, with a shudder.
She went to the cupboard, and found the saucer, in which there seemed to
be a drop of fresh milk. She walked to the door, while Todd, as though
he did not feel by any means sure of the pacific intentions of the dog,
at once rushed into his back parlour, and locked himself in. Todd had a
peep-hole from the back parlour into the shop, but he could not see
further than the shop door. Moreover, Johanna's back was towards him, so
he could only guess at what was going on if the dog did not actually
come across the threshold. That the milk which Todd was so solicitous
should be given to the dog was poisoned, occurred to Johanna in a
moment; and just before opening the door, she threw it into a corner,
upon some loose shavings, and odds and ends of waste paper, that were
there. Johanna then opened the door. In an instant Hector, the large dog
of the unfortunate Thornhill, whose identity with Mark Ingestrie
appeared to be so established in the mind of Johanna, sprang upon her
with an angry growl. It was only for one brief moment, however, that
Hector made any such mistake as fancying Johanna to be Sweeney Todd; and
then he, with an affectionate whine, licked the hands of the young girl.
"Pison! Pison!" cried a loud voice, and in another moment, the ostler,
from the coach-office opposite, rushed to the door, and caught the dog
around the neck.
"Ah, there ye is agin. Why, what a goose of a feller you is, to be sure,
Pison. Don't you know, now, as well as I do, that that barber will do
you a mischief yet, you great blockhead you? Come home, will yer? Come
home, now. Come along wi' yer!"
"Yes--yes," said Johanna. "Take him away--take him away."
"Won't I, that's all. I suppose you are a young shaver? Only let me
catch you a-interfering with Pison, that's all, and won't I let you know
what's what, young feller."
The ostler having uttered this most uncalled-for threat to poor Johanna,
took Pison in triumph over the way. Johanna closed the door.
"Is he gone?" said Todd.
"Yes, sir."
"And the milk? Is that gone, likewise?"
"Every drop of it."
"Ha! ha! ha! Well--well. Only to think, now. Ha! ha! I hope that milk
won't disagree with the noble animal. How fond I am of him! How often he
has been over here, in his little pretty playful way, to try and bite
pieces out of my legs. Bless him. If now that milk should give him a
stomach ache, what a pity it would be. Did I hear a man's voice?"
"Yes, sir; some man came and called the dog away."
"How good of him, and what a pity it would have been if he had called
the noble animal away before the milk was all consumed. Dear me, some
people would grudge a creature a drop of milk. A-hem--Charley?"
"Yes, sir."
"I am going out."
Johanna's heart beat rapidly.
"If any one should come, you can say it is of no use their waiting, for
I am gone to shave and dress a whole family, at some distance off, and
may not be back for some hours; but, Charley, for your own private
information, let me tell you that I may look in at any moment, and that,
although I shall be busy, I shall be able to come in for a minute or so,
when I am least expected."
Todd gave an awful leer at Johanna as he spoke.
"Yes, sir," she said.
Todd carefully locked the parlour door.
"Charley. How do you like your place?"
"Very well, sir; and I think in a little time I shall like it better."
"Good lad! Good lad! Well, well. Perhaps I ought not to say too much so
soon, but if you merit my esteem, Charley, I shall do as much for you as
I did for the last lad I had. After some term of service with me, I
provided him with an independant home. A large house, and a garden. Ha!"
"How very kind."
"Yes. Very."
"And is he happy?"
"Quite, in a manner of speaking, notwithstanding human nature is prone
to be discontented, and there are persons, who would sigh, if in
Paradise, for some change, even if it were to a region supposed to be
its opposite zone. Charley, however, I think will be of a different
mind; and when your time comes--which it certainly will--Ha!--to reap
the fruits of your service with me, I am sure that no one will hear you
complain."
"I will not be ungrateful sir."
"Well, well, we shall see; and now while I am gone let there be no
peeping or prying about. No attempts to open doors or force locks. No
scrambling to look upon shelves or raking in odd corners. If you
do--I--Ha! ha! I will cut your throat, Charley, with the bluntest razor
I have. Ha!"
Todd had got on his gloves by this time, and then he left the shop.
Johanna was alone! Yes, there she was, at last, alone in that dreadful
place, which now for days upon days had been food for her young
imagination. There she was in that place, which her waking thoughts and
her dreams had alike peopled with horrors. There she was between those
walls, which had perchance echoed to the last despairing death cry of
him whom she had loved better than life itself. There she was in the
very atmosphere of murders. His blood might form part of the stains that
were upon the dingy walls and the begrimed floor. Oh, it was horrible!
"God help me now! God help me now!" said Johanna, as she covered her
face with her hands and wept convulsively.
She heard a faint sound. It was the chiming of St. Dunstan's clock, and
she started. It put her in mind that time, her great ally, now was
fleeting.
"Away tears!" she cried as she dashed the heavy moisture from her long
eye-lashes. "Away tears! I have been strong in purpose. I have already
waded through a sea of horrors, and I must be firm now. The time has
come. The time that I looked forward to when I thus attired myself, and
thought it possible to deceive this dreadful man. Courage! Courage! I
have now much to do."
First she crept to the door and looked out into the street. A vague
suspicion that Todd, after all, might only be watching near at hand,
somewhere, took possession of her. She looked long and anxiously to the
right and to the left, but she saw nothing of him. Then she fastened the
door upon the inside.
"If he should return very suddenly," she said, "I shall have notice of
it by his efforts to open the door. That will give me a moment for
preparation possibly."
Then with such an anxious look as no language could do justice to in its
delineation, Johanna looked round the shop. Where was she to begin her
investigation? There were drawers, cupboards, chests, shelves. What was
she to look at first? or was she in dread of some contrivances of Todd's
to find out that she had looked at all, yet at this the last moment,
forego the risk and rush into the street and so home?
"No, no! I am in God's hands," she said, "and I will not flinch."
And yet, although she felt that she was quite alone in that place, how
cautiously she trod. How gently she touched one thing and then another,
and with what a shudder she laid her hand for a moment to steady
herself, upon the arm of the shaving chair. By so leaning upon it she
found that it was a fixture; and upon a further examination of it, she
found that it was nailed or screwed to the floor firmly. It was an old
fashioned massive chair, with a wide deep reclining seat. A strange
feeling of horror came over her as she regarded it.
CHAPTER LXXI.
THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER.
What was there in the chair that Johanna should for some few moments,
now that she had begun to look at it, not be able to take her eyes off
it? She tried to shake it, but it was as fast as a rock, and for all she
knew it was quite usual to have a shaving chair fixed to the floor. In
all likelihood it was in the best position for light which the dingy
shop afforded. She left the chair at last, and then a large cupboard in
one corner of the room attracted her attention. It was locked. In vain
did she try to force it open. It would not yield. She tried, too, the
parlour door without effect. That was quite fast; but as she turned the
handle of the lock, she fancied she heard, or she really did hear
something move in the room. A faint feeling came over her for a moment,
and she was glad to hold by the wall, close at hand, to support herself.
"It must have been fancy," she said faintly. "I am learning nothing, and
the time is flying fast."
A kind of counter ran parallel to the window, and beneath it was a space
covered in by doors. Todd surely had forgotten that, for one of the
doors was open. Johanna looked in and beheld quite a collection of
sticks and umbrellas. Some clothing too lay upon the lowest shelf. With
trembling hands, Johanna pulled at the sleeve of some article and found
it to be a jacket, such as a sailor of the better sort might wear, for
it was exquisitively fine, and had no end of silver buttons upon it. Her
sight was dimmed by tears, as she said to herself--
"Oh, God! was this his?"
She held the jacket up to the light, and she found the breast portion of
it stained, and all the buttons there tarnished. What was it but blood?
The blood of the hapless wearer of that article of dress, that produced
such an effect; but yet how was she to prove to herself that it had been
Mark Ingestrie? Then it was that the thought struck her of how ill
conceived had been that undertaking, which might, in the midst of all
its frightful dangers, only end in furnishing her with more food for the
most horrible surmises, without banishing one sad image of her
imagination, or confirming one dreadful dream of the fate of her lover.
"'Tis all in vain!" she gasped. "All in vain! I shall know nothing, and
only feel more desolate. It would be a mercy if that were to kill me!
Ah! no. Not yet--not yet!"
Some one was trying the handle of the shop door. With frightful energy
Johanna hid the jacket, but not in its proper place, for she only thrust
it beneath the cushion of a chair close at hand, and then shutting the
door of the receptacle beneath the counter, she rose to her feet, and
with a face pale as monumental marble, and her hands clasped rigidly,
she said--
"Who--who is there?"
"Hilloa! Open the door!" said a voice.
Some one again tried the handle, and then kicked vigorously at the lower
panel.
"Patience," said Johanna, "patience."
She opened the door.
"Is Mr. Todd at hand?" said a lad.
"No--no."
"You are his boy, are you not?"
"I am."
"Then take this."
The lad handed a sealed letter to Johanna, and in a moment left the
door. She held the letter in her hand scarcely looking at it. Of course
she thought it was for Todd, but after a few moments her eyes fell upon
the superscription, and there, to her surprise, she read as follows--
"To Miss Oakley, who is requested to read the enclosed quickly, and
secretly, and then to destroy it."
[Illustration: Johanna Receives A Mysterious Letter In Todd's Shop.]
To tear open the letter was the work of a moment. The sheet of paper
tumbled in Johanna's hands as she read as follows--
"From Sir Richard Blunt to Miss Oakley.
"Miss Oakley, the expedition upon which you are at present says much
more for your courage and chivalrous spirit than it can ever say for
your discretion or the discretion of her who permitted you so far to
commit your life to such chances. You should, considering your youth
and sex, have left it to others to carry out such schemes; and it is
well that those others are aware of your position, and so, in a
great measure, enabled to shield you from, perhaps, the worst
consequences of your great indiscretion, for it cannot be called
anything else.
"Your young friend, Miss Wilmot, herself awakened, when, thank God,
it was not too late, to the utter romantic character of the office,
and communicated all to me. I blame both you and her very much
indeed, and cannot speak in too strong language of the reprehensible
character of your expedition; and now, my dear girl, do not be under
any kind of apprehension, for you are well looked after, and Sweeney
Todd shall not hurt a hair of your head.
"If you should find yourself in any danger, seize the first small
heavy article at hand and throw it, with all the strength you can,
through the shop window. Assistance will immediately come to you.
"And now, as you are where you are, I pray you to have confidence in
me, and to remain until some one shall come to you and say 'St.
Dunstan,' upon which you will know that he is a friend, and you will
follow his directions.
"God bless you.--
"RICHARD BLUNT."
Every word of this letter fell like sunshine upon the heart of Johanna,
and she could not help mentally ejaculating--
"I am saved--I am saved! Yes--yes? I am not deserted. Strong, bold, good
men will look to me. Oh! what kindness breathes in every sentence of
this letter! Yes--yes; I am not forsaken--not forsaken!"
Tears came into the eyes of the young girl, and she wept abundantly. Her
overcharged heart was relieving itself. After a few moments she began to
be more composed, and had just crumpled up the letter and cast it into
the fire for fear of accidents, when a shadow darkened the door-way, she
saw Todd looking in above the curtain that was over the upper half of
the door, and partially concealed some panes of glass that were let into
it. As soon as Todd saw Johanna's eyes upon him, he entered the shop.
"What's that?" he said, pointing to the burning letter.
"Paper, sir."
"What paper?"
"A bill that a boy left. Something about Churchwardens, sir, and the
parish of St. Brides, Fleet Street, and how things mean to--"
"Bah! any one else been?"
"No, sir."
Todd stood in the middle of the shop, and cast his eyes slowly round
him, to see that all was as he had left. Then in a low growling tone, he
added--
"No peeping and prying, eh? No rummaging in odd corners, and looking at
things that don't concern you, eh?"
"Certainly not, sir."
Johanna crept close to the counter upon which lay a tolerably large
piece of stone used for grinding razors upon. She thought that would do
very well to throw through the window, and she kept an eye upon it with
that intent, if such an act should by a trick of Todd's appear to be
necessary. Todd took the key of the parlour-door from his pocket, and
placed it in the lock. Before he opened the door, though, he turned the
handle, and as he did so Johanna thought that he inclined his head and
listened attentively. She threw down a chair, which made a lumbering
noise.
"Confound you," roared Todd.
He passed into the parlour; but in a moment, with a glance of fury, he
looked out, saying--
"You tried this door?"
"I, sir?" said Johanna, creeping closer still to the sharpening stone.
"Yes, villain, you. At least, I think so--I am pretty sure; but mark me,
if I were quite sure, you should suffer for it."
He closed the door again; and then when he was alone, he placed his two
hands upon his head for a few moments, and said--
"What does it mean? A boy brought him a letter; I saw him come and go.
At least it looked like a letter. Could it be the bill he spoke of, and
then the sudden upset of that chair, which prevented me from hearing if
the piece of cat-gut I had fastened to the handle of the door had been
moved, before I touched it or not. I will kill him. That is safe. It is
the only plan; I will kill all who is now in my way. All--all. Yes, I
will, if needs be, wade up to my neck in blood to the accomplishment of
my wishes."
Todd went to a cupboard and got out a large knife, such as is used by
slaughtermen in the shambles, and hid it under the table cover, but in
such a place that he could lay hold of it and draw it out in a moment.
"Charley," he cried, "Charley."
"Yes, sir."
"Step in here a moment; I want you, my boy."
"Shall I or shall I not," thought Johanna. "Is this danger, or only the
appearance of it? Heaven direct me now! Oh, what shall I do? What shall
I do?"
"Charley? Are you coming, my boy?"
"Yes, sir, I--I am coming. God protect me!"
"The barber at home?" cried a voice at the door; and in another moment a
man with a ruddy, jolly-looking countenance, made his appearance in the
shop. "Barber at home, eh? my little lad?"
"Yes--yes."
Johanna heard a bitter execration come from the lips of Todd; and then
with quite a serene smile upon his face, as though he were in the most
unruffled mood possible, he made his appearance.
"Could you make me a wig?" said the man, taking off his hat, and showing
that his hair was closely cropped.
"Certainly, sir. If you will sit down and allow me to measure your head,
I shall have great pleasure--Charley!"
"Yes, Sir."
"You can go to Lovett's, in Bell-yard, and get your dinner now. There's
two-pence for you, my lad, and if you have not yet tasted Mrs. Lovett's
pies, you will say when you do, that they are the most delicious things
in the whole world of cookery."
"Shaved, if you please," said another man, walking into the shop, and
pouncing down upon a chair as though it were his own property. "Ah dear
me, I'm tired rather. Don't hurry yourself, Mr. Todd, I can wait while
you are doing what you have to do for that gentleman."
"Charley," said Todd, with quite a sweet expression of face. "You need
not go just yet; I want the hot water. See to it."
"Yes, sir."
Todd then, in the most careful and business-like manner, proceeded to
take the measure of the gentleman's head for a "real head of hair," and
when he had finished, he said--
"Now, sir, if you will leave it all to me, I will match your hair to a
shade."
"Match it?"
"Yes, sir."
"But that's just what I don't want. I have had my hair all cut off, and
am going to wear a wig, for the sole reason that I have got tired of the
old colour."
"Well then, sir, what colour do you propose now?"
"A few shades lighter than my own. But pray shave this gentleman, and I
will tell you how I wish it to look at my leisure."
The man took a seat and crossed one leg over the other with the most
home sort of look in the world; and the one who had come in to be shaved
plumped into the shaving chair, and gave his chin a rub as though he
would say "I don't care how soon you begin."
Todd smiled.
"Charley, the lather."
"Yes, sir. Here it is."
"Here, my little man," said the gentleman in want of a wig. "If you can
tie a bow, just make one in front of my cravat.--A small one."
The gentleman slipped a small piece of paper into Johanna's jacket
pocket.
CHAPTER LXXII.
ANOTHER VICTIM.
Johanna started.
"St. Dunstan's," said the stranger.
"What?" said Todd.
"St. Dunstan's last Sunday, I don't think was so highly-scented with the
flavour of the grave as usual."
"Oh," said Todd.
Johanna trembled, for certainly Todd looked suspicious, and yet what
could he have seen? Literally nothing, for he was so situated that the
slight action of the stranger, in putting the slip of paper into her
jacket-pocket, must have escaped him with all his watchfulness. She
gathered courage. Todd glanced at her, saying--
"What is the matter, Charley? you don't look well at all, my lad."
"I am not very well, sir."
"How sorry I am; I think, do you know, Charley,"--Todd was lathering the
man's face as he spoke--"that one of Mrs. Lovett's hot pies would be the
thing for you."
"Very likely, sir."
"Then, I think I can manage now to spare you."
As he said this, Todd bent an eagle glance upon the gentleman who had
ordered the wig, and it seemed as if he doled out his words to Johanna
with a kind of reference to the movements of that personage. The
gentleman had found a hat-brush, and was carefully rubbing up his hat.
"I do hope," he said, "that the wig will be as natural as possible."
"Depend upon it, sir," said Todd. "I'll warrant if you look in here, and
try it on some day when there's no one here but you and I to set you
against it, you will never complain of it."
"No doubt. Good morning."
Todd made his best bow, accompanied by the flourish of his razor, that
made the man who was being shaved shrink again, as the reflected light
from its highly-polished blade flashed again in his eyes.
"Now, Charley, I think you may go for your pie," added Todd, "and don't
hurry, for if anything is wrong with your stomach, that will only make
it worse, you know."
"You are a good master to the lad," said the man who was lathered ready
for shaving.
"I hope so, sir," said Todd. "With the help of Providence we all ought
to do our best in this world, and yet what a deal of wickedness and
suffering there is in it too."
"Ah, there is."
"I am sure, sir, it makes my heart bleed sometimes to think of the
amount of suffering that only twenty-four hours of this sad work-a-day
world sees. But I was always of a tender and sympathetic turn from my
cradle--yes from my cradle."
Todd made here one of his specially horrible grimaces, which the man
happened to see in a glass opposite to him, the reflective focus of
which Todd had not calculated upon; and then as the sympathetic barber
stropped his razor, the man looked at him as though he would have
speculated upon how could such an article looked in a cradle.
"Now, sir, a little to this side. Are you going, Charley?"
"Yes, sir."
"That will do, sir. I'll polish you off very shortly, indeed, sir. Are
you going, Charley?"
Johanna darted from the shop, and the moment she got clear of it, she by
natural impulse drew the little slip of paper from her pocket, and read
upon it--
"Miss O. do not if you can help it leave any one alone in Todd's shop,
as circumstances may prevent us from always following his customers in;
but if you should be forced to leave while any one is there, knock at
No. 133 Fleet Street. This is from your friend R. B."
"133?" said Johanna, as she glanced around her, "133? Ah, it is close at
hand. Here--here."
The number was only a short distance from Todd's, and Johanna was making
her way to it, when some one stopped her.
"From Todd's," said a voice.
"Yes--yes. A man is there."
"Alone?"
"Yes, and--"
Before she could say another word the stranger darted from her, and made
his way into Todd's shop. Johanna paused, and shrinking into a doorway,
stood trembling like an aspen leaf.
"Oh, Heaven!" she ejaculated, "into what a sea of troubles have I
plunged. Murder and I will become familiar, and I shall learn to breathe
an atmosphere of blood. Oh, horror! horror! horror!"
The crowd in that dense thoroughfare passed on, and no one took heed of
the seeming boy, as he wept and sobbed in that doorway. Some had no time
to waste upon the sorrows of other people;--some buttoned up their
pockets as though they feared that the tears that stood upon that pale
face were but the preludes to some pecuniary demand;--others again
passed on rapidly, for they were so comfortable and cosy that they
really could not have their feelings lacerated by any tale of misery,
not they. And so Johanna wept alone.
Ding dong! ding dong!
What is that? Oh, St. Dunstan's chimes. How long has she been from the
shop? Shall she return to it, or fly at once and seek for refuge from
all the sorrows and from all the horrors that surround her, in the arms
of her father?
"Direct me, oh God!" she cried.
Some one suddenly clasps her arm.
"Johanna! Johanna!"
It was Arabella Wilmot.
[Illustration: Johanna Disguised As A Boy, Is Found Weeping By Arabella,
Near St. Dunstan's.]
"Johanna--dear, dear Johanna, you are safe--quite safe. Come home
now--oh, come--oh, come--come."
"You here, Arabella?"
"Yes, I am mad--mad!--at least, I was going mad, Johanna; in my agony to
know what had become of you, and notwithstanding I have told Sir Richard
Blunt, I had no faith in the love and the courage of any one but myself.
I was coming to Todd's."
"To Todd's?"
"Yes, dear, to Todd's. I could no longer exist unless I saw with my own
eyes that you were safe."
"What a fatal step that might have been."
"It might. Perhaps it would; but God, in his goodness, has again, my
dear Johanna, averted it by enabling me to meet you here. Come home
now--come at once."
"Yes, I--I think--"
"Come--come;--you have done already much. Let, for the future, your
feelings be, that for Mark Ingestrie you have adventured what not one
girl in a million would adventure."
At this mention of the name of Mark Ingestrie, a sharp cry of mental
agony burst from the lips of Johanna.
"Oh, I thank you, Arabella."
"Thank me?"
"Yes, you have recalled me to myself. You have, by the mention of that
name, recalled me to my duty, from which I was shrinking and falling
away. You have told me in the most eloquent language that could be used
that as yet I have done nothing for him who is, dead or alive, my
heart's best treasure."
"Oh, Johanna, you will kill me."
"No, Arabella--no. Good bye. Go home, love--go home, and--and pray for
me--pray for me!"
"Johanna, for mercy's sake! what are you about to do? Speak to me. Do
not look upon me in that way. What are you about to to do, Johanna?"
"Go to the shop."
"To Todds?"
"Yes. It is my place--I am in search of Mark Ingestrie. If he be living,
it is I who must clear that man who is suspected of his murder. If he be
no more, it is I, who weak and fragile as I am, must drag him to
justice."
"No--no--no."
"I say yes. Do not stay me if you love me."
Arabella clasped the arm of Johanna, but with a strength that only the
immense amount of mental excitement she was suffering from could have
given her. Johanna freed herself from the hold of her friend, and
dashing from the doorway, was in another moment lost to the sight of
Arabella in the barber's shop.
"What now?" cried Todd, fiercely, as Johanna bounded into the shop so
hurriedly.
"Nothing, sir--only the dog."
"Bolt the door--bolt the door."
"Yes, sir."
Todd wiped his brow.
"That infernal dog," he muttered, "will be the death of me yet; and so,
Charley, the malignant beast flew at you, did he? the savage will attack
you, will he?"
"Yes, sir, so it seems."
"We will kill it. I should like to cut its throat. It would be a
pleasure, Charley. How strange that strong poisons have no effect upon
that dog. Curses on it!"
"Indeed, sir."
"None whatever. It is very odd."
Todd remained in a musing attitude for some time, and then suddenly
starting, he said--
"Charley, if that man come again after his wig, get him into talk, will
you, and learn all you can about him. I have to go a little way into the
city just now, and shall speedily return. I hoped you liked the pie?"
"Pie, sir?"
"Yes, Lovett's pie."
"Oh, yes--delicious."
"Ha! ha! he! he! ho!"
Drawing on a pair of huge worsted gloves, Todd walked out of the shop
without saying another word. The moment he was gone, Johanna passed both
her hands upon her breast, as if to stay the wild beating of her heart,
as she whispered to herself--
"Alone--alone once more."
It was well that she had only whispered that much, for in the next
moment Todd gently put his head into the shop. She started.
"Oh, sir--oh, sir, you frightened me."
"Beware!" was all he said. "Beware!"
The frightful head, more terrifying to Johanna than would have been the
fabled Medusa's, was withdrawn again, and this time Johanna resolved to
be certain that he was gone before she gave the smallest outbreak to her
feelings, or permitted herself to glance around her in any way that
could be construed into prying curiosity. She made a feint of clearing
up the place a little, and, with a broom that had about six hairs only
left in it, she swept the hobs of the little miserable grate in which a
fire was kept for the shaving-water. This occupied some little time; but
still not feeling sure that Todd was really gone, she then went to the
door, and looked right and left. He was not to be seen; and so, when she
went back, she bolted the shop-door upon the inside again, and really
felt that she was alone once more in that dreadful place. That poor
Johanna was now in a great state of mental excitement is not a matter of
surprise, for the events that had recently taken place were decidedly of
a character to produce such a mental condition. The interview with
Arabella had, no doubt, materially aided in such an effect. With
trembling eagerness she now began again to look about her, and her great
aim was by some means to get into the parlour, for if anywhere, she
thought that surely there she should find some traces of that lost one
who occupied, since the suspicions of the foul usage he had met with, a
larger place in her affections than before. Feeling how surrounded she
was by friends, probably Johanna was a little more reckless as regarded
the means she adopted of carrying out her intention. The parlour-door
was quite fast; but surely in the shop she thought she might find some
weapon, by the aid of which it could be burst open; and even if Todd
should suddenly return, it was but a rush, and she would reach the
street; and if he intercepted her in that, as God knew he might, she
could take the means of summoning assistance pointed out to her by Sir
Richard Blunt, and cast something through the window into the street.
Full of these thoughts and feelings, then, and only alive to the mad
wish she had of discovering some traces of her lover, Johanna hunted the
shop over for some weapon with which to attack the parlour-door. She
opened a cupboard. A hat fell from within at her feet! One glance at
that hat was sufficient; it was of a peculiar colour--she remembered it.
It was the hat of the man whom she had left being shaved when she was
sent ostensibly to purchase a pie at Mrs. Lovett's, in Bell-yard.
Johanna's hurry was over. A sickening feeling came over her as she asked
herself what was the probable fate of the owner of the hat.
"Another victim!--another victim!" she gasped.
She tottered back overpowered by the thought that there had been a time
when, opening that cupboard door, the carelessly cast-in hat of Mark
Ingestrie would have fallen to her feet, even as did that of the
stranger, who, no doubt, now was numbered with the dead. She sank almost
in a state of fainting into the shaving-chair.
"Oh, yes, yes," she said. "This is horribly, frightfully condusive. My
poor Mark. You have gone before me to that home where alone we may hope
to meet again. Alas! alas! that I should live to feel such a truth."
She burst into tears, and sobbed so bitterly, that any one who had seen
her would have truly thought her heart was breaking in that wild
paroxysm of grief. What a mercy it was that Todd did not come in at such
a moment as that, was it not? The sobs subsided into sighs. The tears no
longer flowed in abundance; and after about five minutes Johanna arose,
tottering and pale. She drenched her eyes and face with cold water,
until the traces of the storm of emotion were no longer visible upon her
face; and then she knelt by the shaving chair, and clasping her hands,
she said--
"Great God, I ask for justice upon the murderer!"
She rose, and felt calmer than before; and then, sitting down by the
little miserable fire, she buried her face in her hands, and tried to
think--to think how she should bring to justice the man who had been the
blight of her young existence--the canker in the rose-bud of her youth.
You would have been shocked if you could just for a moment have looked
into Sweeney Todd's shop, and seen that girl in such an attitude,
without a sigh and without a tear, while all her dearest hopes lay about
her heart in the very chaos of a frightful wreck.
CHAPTER LXXIII.
STARTLING EVENTS.
Business at Mrs. Lovett's was brisk. During the whole of that day--that
most eventful day upon which the fair Johanna Oakley had gone upon her
desperate errand to Sweeney Todd's--the shop in Bell Yard had been
besieged by customers. Truly it was a pity to give up such an excellent
business. The tills groaned with money, and Mrs. Lovett's smiles and
pies never appeared so perfect as upon that day. At about half-past
twelve o'clock, when the Lord Chancellor suddenly got up from his chair,
in the great hall of Lincoln's Inn, and put on his furry-looking hat,
and when the curtain which shuts in his lordship from invidious blasts
was withdrawn with a screaming jerk, and a gentleman was stopped in the
middle of an argument, what a rush of lawyer's clerks there was to the
pie-shop in Bell Yard. Then was it that the anxious solicitor's fag, who
must know something, and have some brains, smiled at the prospect of the
luxurious repast he was about to have, and jingled the twopence he had
kept in a side pocket for only one pie, and grudged it not out of his
hard-earned pittance. Then was it that the bloated barrister's clerk,
who had grown shining and obese upon fares, and who is not required to
know anything but the complete art of insolence to his brothers, nor to
have any more brains than will suffice him to make up his book in the
long vacation, smacks his lips at the thought of Lovett's pies, and
sends the expectant boy of the chamber--the snob of a snob--for three
twopennies. Lean and hungry-looking young men start into Bell Yard from
the Strand, producing crumbled pieces of paper, bag their twopenny, and
retire to eat it in some corner of the old Temple. All is bustle--all is
animation, and the side counter--that one, you know, which ran parallel
to the window--was lined by clerks, who sat eating and driving their
heels against the boarding, and joking, and laughing "Ha! ha!" how they
did laugh! And then what stories they told of their "Governors;" and how
such an one was going out of practice; and how such another one was a
screw, and so on, to the great delight of the mere boys, who hoped one
day to wear their hair long and grey, and to dress in an outrageous
caricature of the mode! As the machine that let down at the back of the
counter, to bring up the pies, went down for the one o'clock batch, it
was noticed that Mrs. Lovett looked a little anxious. The fact was, that
the cook had been so prompt upon that day in his movements, that she
began to think there must be, as folks say, "Something in it," and she
was beginning to terrify herself with the idea that he had some scheme
of redemption for himself in view, that might most unseasonably develope
itself before the customers.
"Ah, Mrs. Lovett," said one young gent, while the gravy ran down the
sides of his mouth from the pie he was consuming. "You don't seem at all
yourself to-day. Indeed you don't."
"Who do I seem, then?"
"Ha! ha! Upon my life that's good!" roared another.
A small amount of wit did for Lovett's pie shop. It was like the House
of Commons in that particular, and "loud laughter" was sure to welcome
the smallest joke. Mrs. Lovett's eyes were bent upon the abyss, down
which the trap had descended but a moment before.
"Ain't they a-coming, mum?" said one.
"Oh, don't I sniff 'em," said another, working his nose like an
ex-chancellor. "Don't I sniff 'em."
"De--licious!" cried another.
A feeling of relief was visible upon the face of Mrs. Lovett as the trap
slowly ascended, bringing with it the one o'clock batch, in all their
steaming glory. The whole shop was in a moment filled with the fresh
appetite-giving aroma of those bubbling hot pies; and as the French
newspapers say, when a member of the extreme right, or half way to the
left, or two degrees from the centre, swerves, there was "a sensation."
Five minutes--only five minutes--and the whole batch was cleared off,
not one was left!
"Another batch of one hundred, gentlemen, at two," said Mrs. Lovett,
with a bland look.
"At two, mum?" cried a customer. "Why, what's to become of the half-past
one batch?"
"We are rather short of--of meat," said Mrs. Lovett, with one of her
strange metallic smiles.
"The devil you are! Ain't there butchers enough?"
"Oh, dear, yes; but we could not get such meat as we put in our pies, at
the butcher's."
"You kill your own, mum, then, I suppose?"
"We do," replied Mrs. Lovett, with another smile, more metallic than the
former.
"And where is your farm, mum?"
"Really, sir, you want to know too much. I appeal to those gentlemen if
any of them know where my farm is."
"No--no. D--n it, no, nor don't care," said all the lawyer's clerks.
"Don't know anything about it."
"And don't care," said another. "Sufficient for the day is the pie
thereof."
"Very good--Ha! ha!--Very good."
The crowd gradually dispersed. Mrs. Lovett put a placard in the window,
announcing--
"A hot batch at two o'clock."
She then closed the shop door, and retired to the parlour. She cast
herself upon a sofa, and hiding the light from her eyes with one of her
arms, she gave herself up to thought. Yes, that bold bad woman was
beginning to have her moments of thought, during which it appeared to be
as though a thousand mocking fiends were thronging around her. No holy
thoughts or impulses crossed her mind. Solitude, that best of company to
the good and just, was to her peopled with countless horrors; and yet
there must have been a time when that woman was pure, and her soul
spotless--a time when it was free from
"The black engraved spots"
which now deformed it. And yet who, to look upon her now, could fancy
that she was ever other than what she seemed? Who could bring themselves
to think that she had not been placed at once by the arch-fiend as she
was upon the beautiful world, to make in the small circle around her a
pestilence, a blight, and a desolation? There are persons in the world
that it would be the greatest violence to our feelings ever to attempt
to picture to our imaginations as children; and as such, surely were
Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett. Was she ever some gentle little girl,
fondly clinging to a mother's arms? Was he ever a smiling infant, with
pretty dimples? Was there at his or her birth much joy? Did a mother's
tears ever fall upon his or her cheek, in sweet gratitude to God for
such a glorious gift? No--no. We cannot--we will not believe that such
persons as Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett ever came into this world
otherwise than ready-made man and woman! Any other belief, concerning
such fiends in human shape is too repugnant. But we are forgetting that
Mrs. Lovett is upon the sofa all this while, and that her metallic smile
has quite vanished, giving way to such a look of utter abandonment of
spirit, that you would have shuddered to have cast but one glance upon
her. She could bear the quietude of the attitude she had assumed but for
a very short time, and then she sprang to her feet.
"Yes," she said, "it must, and it shall come to an end!"
She stood for some few moments trembling, as though the dim echo of that
word end, as she had jerked it forth, had awakened in her mind a world
of horrifying thoughts. Again she sank upon the couch, and speaking in a
low, plaintive voice, she said--
"Yes. I have need of the waters of oblivion, one draught of which shuts
out for ever all memory of the past. Oh, that I had but a cup of such
nectar at my lips!"
Not a doubt of it, Mrs. Lovett. It is the memory of the wicked that
constitutes that retribution, which is assuredly to be found in this
world as day follows night.
"I--I must have this," she muttered. "Let Todd be dead or alive, I must
have it. I am going mad--I feel certain. That I am going mad, and the
only way to save myself, is to flee. I must collect as much money as I
can and then flee far away. If I cannot quite obliterate the past from
my memory, I can at least leave it as it is, and add nothing to it. Yes,
that man may live. He seems to bear a charmed life. But I must flee."
She rested her head upon her hands, and in a softer voice, said--
"Let me think--let me think of the means, now that I have yet a little
time. What do I dread most? The man below? Yes. He is at work for his
deliverance. I feel that he is, and if he succeed before I flee from
here, all is lost--all is lost! I must speak to him."
Filled with this idea, and with an unknown dread of what the
discontented cook might do, Mrs. Lovett stepped into the shop first, and
made the door fast by slipping a bolt at the back of it. It was not very
often that immediately after the disposal of a batch of pies any
customers came in, and if they should attempt to do so for the purpose
of purchasing any stale pies, she was by far too intent upon what she
was come about, and considered it by far too important to heed what they
might think or say upon finding the door fast. She then opened the
seeming cupboard in the parlour, which conducted to the strong iron
door, with the small grating at the top of it. She reached that point of
observation with great rapidity, and peered into the cavernous
dungeon-like bakehouse. At first she could see nothing by the uncertain
light that was there, but as her eyes got accustomed to the absence of
daylight, she could just see the figure of the cook sitting upon a
stool, and apparently watching one of the fires.
"It is a long--long time."
"What is a long time?" cried Mrs. Lovett.
The captive cook sprang to his feet in a moment, and in a voice of
alarm, he said--
"Who spoke? Who is that?"
"I," replied Mrs. Lovett. "Do you not know me?"
"Ah," said the cook, directing his eyes to the grating above the door,
"I know you too well. What do you want with me? Have I failed in doing
your bidding here? Have I disappointed you of a single batch of those
execrable pies?"
"Certainly not, but I have come to see--if--if you are quite
comfortable."
"Comfortable! What an insult!"
"Nay, you wrong me."
"That is impossible. This is the commencement only of some new misery.
Speak on, madam. Speak on. I am helpless here, and condemned to suffer."
Notwithstanding these words of the cook there was a certain tone of
hilarity about him, that Mrs. Lovett might well be surprised at, and she
asked herself what does he hope. The fact is that much as he wished
still to enact the character of a man full of despair, the cook could
not get out of his head and heart the promises of Sir Richard
Blunt--promises which still rung in his ears, like a peal of joy bells.
"Come, come," said Mrs. Lovett, "you are getting reconciled to your
fate. Confess as much."
"I reconciled? Never."
"But you are not so unhappy?"
"Worse--worse. This apathetic condition that I am now in, and which to
you may look like the composure of resignation, will end, in all
likelihood, in raging madness."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, madam, I feel already the fire in my brain."
"Be calm."
"Calm--calm! Ha!--ha! Calm. It is all very well for you upon that side
of the iron door to talk of calmness, madam, but upon this side the
words sound strange."
"It will not sound so strange when I tell you that I have absolute
compassion upon you, and that the cause of my present visit was to talk
to you of some means by which the worst portion of your fate here might
be in some measure ameliorated, and your existence rendered tolerable."
CHAPTER LXXIV.
BIG BEN CREATES A SENSATION.
The cook was so surprised at these words from Mrs. Lovett that for some
moments he made no answer to them.
"Pray, speak again," he said at length, when he could find words in
which to express himself.
"I repeat," she said, "that I am desirous, as far as lies in my power,
to ameliorate your condition, of which you so much complain."
"Indeed!"
"Ah, you are too suspicious."
"Humph! I think, madam, when you come to consider all things, you will
hardly think it possible for me to be too suspicious."
"You are wrong again. I dare say now, in your mind, you attribute most
of your evils to me."
"Well, madam, candidly speaking, should I be far wrong by so doing?"
"You would be quite wrong. Alas! alas! I--"
"You what, madam? Pray, speak up."
"I am the victim of another. You cannot suppose that, of my own free
will, I should shut up in these gloomy places a person of your age, and
by no means ill-looking." "I have him there," thought Mrs. Lovett; "what
human heart is proof against the seductions of flattery? Oh, I have him
there."
The cook was silent for some few moments, and then he said, quite
calmly, as though the tribute to his personal appearance had not had the
smallest effect--
"Pray go on, madam, I am quite anxious to hear all that you may have to
say to me."
This composed manner of meeting her compliments rather discomposed Mrs.
Lovett; but after all, she thought--"He is only acting an indifference
he is far from feeling." With this impression she resolved to persevere,
and she added, in a kind and conciliating tone of voice--
"I grant that circumstances are such that you may well be excused for
any amount of doubt that you may feel regarding the honesty of my words
and intentions towards you."
"I quite agree with you there, madam," said the cook.
"Then all I have to do is, by deeds, to convince you that I am sincere
in my feelings towards you. As I have before said, I am in the power of
another, and therefore is it that, contrary to my nature, I may seem to
do cruel things at which my heart revolts."
"I cannot conceive anything so distressing," said the cook, "except
being the unfortunate victim as I am of such a train of circumstances."
"That is what I am coming to."
"Are you? I wish you were."
There was a tone of irony about the enforced cook which Mrs. Lovett did
not at all like; but she had an object to gain, and that was to fully
persuade him that the shortest way to his freedom would be to remain
profoundly quiet for a day or two, and then she would be able to make
her own arrangements and be off without troubling either him or Todd
with any news of her departure or her whereabouts.
"You still doubt me," she said. "But listen, and I think you will soon
be of opinion that although I have wronged you as yet, I can do
something to repair that wrong."
"I am all attention, madam."
"Then, in the first place, you are quite tired of eating pies, and must
have some other kind of food."
"You never said a truer thing in all your life, madam."
"That other food, then, I will provide for you. You shall, within an
hour from now, have anything to eat or to drink that you may please to
name. Speak, what is it to be?"
"Well," he said, "that is kind indeed. But I can do without food further
than I have here, for I have hit upon a mode of making cakes that please
me. Nevertheless, if you can bring me a bottle of brandy, in order that
I may slightly qualify the water that I drink, I shall be obliged to
you."
"You shall have it; and now I hope you will be convinced of the
sincerity of my desire to be of service to you."
"But my liberty, madam, my liberty. That is the grand thing after all
that I must ever pant for."
"True, and that is what you shall have at my hands. In the course of
two, or it may be three days, I shall have perfected some arrangements
which will enable me to throw open your prison for you, and then--"
"Then what?"
"May I hope that you will not think so harshly of me as you have done?"
"Certainly not."
"Then I shall be repaid for all I do. You must believe me to be the
victim of the most cruel circumstances, of which some day you may be
informed. At present, to do so, would only be to involve both you and
myself in one common destruction."
"Then don't mention it."
"I will not. But beware of one thing."
"What is that?"
"Simply this, that any attempts upon your own part to escape from here
previous to the time when I shall have completed my arrangements to set
you free, will not only derange all that I am planning for you, but end
in your utter destruction; for he who has forced me into my present
cruel situation will not for one moment hesitate at the murder of us
both; so if you wish to be free in a few days you will try nothing, but
if on the contrary you wish to destroy both yourself and me, you will
make some attempts to rescue yourself from here."
Mrs. Lovett waited rather anxiously for his answer to this speech.
"I dare say you are right," he said at length.
"You may be assured I am."
"Then I consent."
Mrs. Lovett drew a long breath of relief, as she muttered to herself--
"It will do--I have him in the toils; and come what may, I am free from
the torturing thought that he may achieve something that may have the
effect of delivering me up to the hands of justice. When I am gone, he
may remain where he is, and rot for all I care."--"You have done
wisely," she said aloud, "and if anything could more powerfully than
another incite me to the greatest exertions to liberate you, it would be
the handsome manner in which you have placed confidence in me."
"Oh, don't mention it."
Again there was that tone of sarcasm about the cook's voice, which
created a doubt in the mind of Mrs. Lovett if, after all, he was not
merely playing with her, and in his heart utterly disregarding all that
she said to him. It is quite questionable if this doubt was not in its
bitterness worse than the former anxieties that had preyed upon the mind
of the lady; but she found she could do nothing to put an end to it, so
she merely said--
"Well, I feel much happier now; so I will go at once and get you the
brandy that you ask for." "I hope he will drink it freely--it will aid
him in drowning reflection."
"Thank you," said the cook, "I shall expect it with impatience."
"Confound her, she can't very well put anything queer in the brandy. I
will take care to taste a very small portion of it first; for Sir
Richard Blunt has cautioned me particularly to be careful of poison."
"I am going," said Mrs. Lovett.
"Good-bye, madam; I only hope you will be able to carry your benevolent
intentions into effect--and," added the cook to himself, "that I may
some fine morning have the pleasure of seeing you hanged."
"Farewell," said Mrs. Lovett; and she, too, had her _aside_ as she
ascended the stairs, for she muttered--"If I were only a little better
assured than I am that you meditated something dangerous, I would steal
upon you while you slept, and with a knife soon put an end to all
trouble regarding you."
[Illustration: Mrs. Lovett Alarmed At The Strange Faces At Her Window In
The Pie-Shop.]
Now, it happened that when Mrs. Lovett reached her shop, she saw three
people outside the window. The actions of these people attracted her
observation. One was a big stout man, of such a size as was rarely seen
in the streets of London. The other was a young girl, nicely attired,
but with a look of great grief and agitation upon her countenance. The
third person of the group was a gentlemanly-looking man, attired in a
great coat which was buttoned up to his chin. The big stout man was
making a kind of movement towards the door of the pie-shop, and the
gentleman with the great-coat was holding up his hand and shaking his
head, as though forbidding him. The big stout man then looked angry; and
then Mrs. Lovett saw the young girl cling to him, and heard her say--
"Oh, no--no; I said I wanted nothing.--Come away."
Then the gentleman with the great-coat pulled his collar down a little;
upon which the young girl sprang towards him, and, clasping his arm,
cried in tones of intense interest--
"Ah, sir, is it indeed you? Tell me is she saved--oh, is she saved?"
"She will be," was the reply of the gentleman in the great-coat. "Come
away."
The big stout man appeared to be getting rather furious at the idea of
the gentleman with the great-coat dictating what he and the young girl
should do; but she by a few words pacified him; and then, as if they
were the best friends in the world, they all walked away towards the
Strand, conversing very seriously and rapidly.
"What does this mean?" said Mrs. Lovett.
Terror overspread her countenance. Oh, conscience! conscience! how truly
dost thou make
"Cowards of us all!"
What could compensate Mrs. Lovett for the abject terrors that came over
her now? What could recompense her for the pang that shot across her
heart, at the thought that something was amiss in the fine-drawn web of
subtlety that she and Sweeney Todd had drawn? Alas! was the money in the
Bank of England, upon which she expected to enjoy herself in a foreign
land, now any set-off against that shuddering agony of soul with which
she said to herself--
"Is all discovered?"
Her strength forsook her. She quite forgot all about the cook, and the
brandy she had promised him--she forgot even how necessary it was, in
case any one should come, for her to keep up the appearance of
composure; and tottering into the back-parlour, she sunk upon her knees
on the floor, and shook as though the spirit of twenty agues possessed
her. So it will be seen that Todd was not quite alone in his sufferings
from those compunctious visitations, which we have seen at times come
over him in his shop. But we will leave Mrs. Lovett to her reflections,
hoping that even she may be made a little wiser and a little better by
those soft
"Whisperings of awakened sense;"
and that she may find some one among the invisible hosts of spirits of
another world who may whisper to her--
"Repent! repent!--it is not yet too late."
Let us look at those three persons whose mysterious conduct at the shop
windows had, like a match applied to gunpowder, at once awakened a fever
in the breast of Mrs. Lovett, which she was scarcely aware slumbered
there. These folks made their way, then, into Fleet Street; and as the
reader has probably guessed already who they are, we may as well make a
merit of saying that the big one was our old friend Ben, the
beef-eater--the gentlemanly-looking man was Sir Richard Blunt, and the
young lady was no other than Arabella Wilmot. Poor Arabella! Of all the
personages concerned in our _dramatis personæ_, we have no hesitation in
saying that your sufferings are the greatest. From the moment that
Johanna had started upon that desperate expedition to Sweeney Todd's,
peace left the bosom of her young friend. We have already traced the
progress of Arabella to Sir Richard Blunt's office, and we have seen
what was the result of that decidedly judicious movement; but
notwithstanding she was assured over and over again subsequently by Sir
Richard that Johanna was now well protected, she could not bring herself
to think so, or to leave the street. It was by her lingering about in
this way that she became in the company of our friend Ben. The fact was,
that the kind of statement or confession that Johanna had made to Ben on
that occasion of his visit to her father's house, when she found herself
alone with him in the parlour, had made such an impression upon the poor
fellow, that he described it himself in the most forcible possible
language, by saying--
"It interferes with my meals."
Now, everything that had such an effect as that, must to Ben be a matter
for the most serious consideration indeed. He accordingly, finding that
"The peace of the Tower was fled,"
so far as he was concerned, had come into the City upon a sort of voyage
of discovery, to see how matters were going on. As he was proceeding
along Fleet Street, he chanced to cast his eyes into the entrance of a
court, nearly opposite Sweeney Todd's, and there he saw a female form
crouching. There was something about this female form which Ben thought
was familiar to him, and upon a close look, he felt certain it was
Johanna's friend, Arabella Wilmot. Full of surprise at finding her
there, Ben paused, and stared at her so long, that she at last looked at
him, and recognising him, immediately flew to his side, and grasping his
arm, cried--
"Oh, pity me, Mr. Ben. Pity me!"
"Hold!" said Ben, who was not, as the reader is aware, the fastest
thinker in the world. "Hold. Easy does it."
Ben tried to look very wise then.
"Oh, you will hate me, Ben."
"Eh?"
"I say you will hate me, Ben, when you know all."
Ben shook his head.
"Shan't do any such thing," he said. "Lord bless your pretty eyes, I
hate you? I couldn't."
"But--but--"
"Come, come," added Ben, "just take your little bit of an arm under
mine. Easy does it, you know. Always think of that, if anything goes
amiss. Easy does it; and then you will find things come right in the
long run. You may take my word for it."
CHAPTER LXXV.
COLONEL JEFFERY OPENS HIS EYES.
Arabella was weeping, so that for some little time she could say nothing
more to Ben; and he did not, in the profundity of his imagination, very
well know what to say to her, except now and then muttering the maxim of
"Easy does it," which Ben thought singularly applicable to all human
affairs. But this was a state of things which could not last; and
Arabella Wilmot, nerving herself sufficiently to speak in a few minutes,
said to Ben in a low self-deprecatory tone--
"Oh, sir, I--I--have done something very wrong."
"Eh?" said Ben, opening his eyes to their utmost.
"Yes," added Arabella, "very wrong, indeed."
"Humph!"
"You would not probably have expected it of me, Mr. Ben, would you now?"
"Well, a-hem!" said Ben. "Easy does it."
"I am a wicked--wicked girl."
"Oh, dear--oh, dear!" said Ben.
"You cannot guess, Mr. Ben, what I have done; but I feel I ought to tell
you, and it will be quite a relief to me to do so."
Ben shook his head.
"I tell you what it is, my dear," he said. "Your best plan is to go and
tell your mother, my dear. That's the proper person to tell. She is sure
to find it out somehow or another; and you had better tell her at once,
and then--Easy does it."
"My mother? Tell my mother? Oh, no--no--no!"
"Well, if you have got any respectable old aunt now, who is a good, kind
old soul, and would not make too much fuss, you had better tell her; but
goodness gracious, my dear, what puts it into your head to tell me?"
"Because I think you are kind-hearted."
"Well, but--well, but--"
"And, then, of course, as you are mixed up, you know, Mr. Ben, in the
whole transaction, it is only proper that you should know what has
happened at last."
Ben turned fairly round, and looked down into the face of Arabella
Wilmot with such a coarse expression of alarm upon his face, that at any
other than so serious a time she must have laughed.
"Me?" he cried. "Me?"
"Yes, Mr. Ben."
"Me mixed up in the--the--Oh dear!"
"Ah, Mr. Ben, you know you are by far too kind not to be; and so I feel
as though it would be quite a relief to me to tell you everything."
"Everything?"
"Yes, all--all."
"Not all the particulars, surely. Come--come. I ain't an old woman, you
know, my dear."
"An old woman, Ben?"
"No, my dear, I say I ain't an elderly female, so I don't think I ought
to listen to all the particulars, do you know. Come--come, you go home
now, and say no more about it to me. Easy does it, you know; and keep
your own counsel. I won't say a word; but don't you, because you are in
such a state of mind as you hardly know what you are about, go on
blubbering to me about all the particulars, when perhaps to-morrow
you'll give one of your pretty little ears that you had not said a word
to me about it."
"Alas!--Alas!"
"Pho! Pho! Easy does it."
"Who am I to cling to but you?"
"Cling to me? Perhaps you'll say it's me?"
"What's you, Mr. Ben? Explain yourself. How strange you talk. What do
you mean, Mr. Ben?"
"Well, that's cool," said Ben.
"What's cool?"
"I tell you what it is, Miss Arabella W., I'm disappointed in you; ain't
you ashamed to look me in the face?"
"Ashamed?"
"Yes, positively ashamed?"
"No, Mr. Ben. I may regret the indiscretion that is past; but I cannot
see in it anything to be ashamed of."
"You don't?"
"Indeed, Mr. Ben, I do not."
"Then, Miss A. W., you are about the coolest little piece of goods I
have met with for some time. Come--come, easy does it; but haven't you
been telling me all this time about something you have been about,
that--that--was rather improper, in a manner of speaking?"
It might have been the tone in which Ben pronounced the word improper,
or it might have been the sagacious shake of the head which Ben
accompanied his words with, or it might have been that Arabella was
drawing a conclusion from the whole transaction; but certain it is, that
she began to have a glimmering perception that Mr. Ben was making a
great mistake.
"Oh, heaven!" she said. "What are you saying Mr. Ben? I am speaking of
the advice I was foolish enough to give Johanna."
"Advice?"
"Yes, that is all. Into what mischief could you have tortured my
meaning? I am much mistaken in you, sir."
"What? Then, it isn't--a-hem! That is to say, you haven't--dear me, I
shall put my foot in it directly. What a fool I am."
"You are, indeed," said the now indignant Arabella, and a slight flush
upon her cheeks showed how deeply wronged she was by the unworthy
construction Ben had put upon her innocent words.
"Good-bye, Miss A. W.," added Ben. "Good-bye; I see I am out of your
books; but if you fancy I meant any harm, you don't know me. God bless
you. Take care of yourself my dear, and go home. I won't stay to plague
you any longer. Good-bye."
"Stop! Stop!"
Ben paused.
"I am sure, Mr. Ben, you did not mean to say a single word that could be
offensive to a friendless girl in the street."
"Then, then?--Easy does it."
"Let us be friends again then, Mr. Ben, and I will tell you all, and you
will then blame me for being so romantic as to give Johanna advice which
has induced her to take a step which, although my reason tells me she is
now well protected in, my imagination still peoples with horror."
Ben's eyes opened to an alarming width.
"You recollect meeting us in this street, Ben?"
"Oh, yes."
"When Johanna was disguised?"
"Yes, Miss A. When she had on them, a-hem! You may depend upon it, my
dear, there's no good comes of young girls putting on pairs of
thingamys. Don't you ever do it."
"But, Mr. Ben, hear me."
"Well--well. I was only saying. You stick to the petticoats, my dear.
They become you, and you become them, and don't you be trusting your
nice little legs into what-do-you-call-'ems."
"Mr. Ben?"
"I've done. Easy does it. Now go on and tell us what happened, my dear.
Don't mind me. Go on."
"Then Johanna, in boy's cloathes, is now--"
"Now? Oh, the little vixen. Didn't I tell her not."
"Is now filling the situation of errand boy at Sweeney Todd's, opposite.
Can I be otherwise than wretched, most wretched!"
"Arrant boy?"
"No, not arrant boy. Errand boy."
"At Todd's--opposite--in--boys--clothes? Oh--oh--just you wait here, and
I'll soon put that to rights. I'll--I'll. Only you wait in this
door-way, Miss A. W., just a moment or two, and I'll teach her to go and
do such things. I'll--I'll--"
"No--no Ben. You will ruin all, you will, indeed. I implore you to stay
with me. Let me tell you all that has happened, and how Johanna is
protected. In the first place, Ben, you must know that Sir Richard Blunt
the Magistrate has her under his special protection now, and he says
that he has made such arrangements that it is quite impossible she can
come to any harm."
"But--"
"Nay, listen me out. He says that nothing can now expose her to any
danger, but some injudicious interference. I ought not, you see, to have
told you, Mr. Ben; but since I have, I only ask of you, for Johanna's
sake, for her life's sake, to do nothing."
Ben looked aghast.
"And--and how long is the little lamb to be left there?" he asked.
"Only a few hours I think now, Ben--only a few hours. Where are we now,
Mr. Ben?"
"Why, this, my dear, is Bell-yard we have strolled into; and that is the
famous pie-shop of which they talk so much. They say the woman has made
an immense fortune by selling them."
As Ben made a kind of movement towards Mrs. Lovett's window, it was then
that Sir Richard Blunt, who had followed him and Arabella Wilmot from
Fleet-street, and who had, in fact, overheard some portion of their
conversation, stepped up in the manner that Mrs. Lovett had remarked
from within the shop.
* * * * *
We have before stated that the three personages, consisting of the
magistrate, big Ben the beef-eater, and Arabella Wilmot, walked to
Fleet-street together from Bell-yard. Sir Richard Blunt shook his head
at Arabella Wilmot, as he said--
"Miss Wilmot, I cannot help saying that it would have been better in
every respect, and possibly much more conducive to the safety of Miss
Oakley, if you had gone home quietly, and not lingered about
Fleet-street."
"I could not go, sir."
"But yet a consideration for Miss Oakley's safety should have induced
you to put that violence upon your own feelings."
"I felt that when once you, sir, had pledged yourself for her safety,
that safe she was; and that my weeping perchance in a doorway in
Fleet-street could not be so important as to compromise her."
"I am fairly enough answered," said Sir Richard Blunt, with a slight
smile. "But what say you to coming with me to the Temple?"
"The Temple?"
Arabella cast a lingering look towards Todd's shop, which Sir Richard at
once translated, and replied to it by saying--
"Fear nothing for your young friend. She knows she is protected; but
even she does not know the extent to which she is so protected. I tell
you, Miss Wilmot, that I pledge my own life for her safety--and that,
although to all seeming she is in the power of Todd, such is not the
case."
"Indeed?"
"I have a force of no less than twenty-five men in Fleet-street now--one
half of whom have their eyes upon Todd's shop. By Heaven! I would not
have a hair of that young and noble girl's head injured for the worth of
this great kingdom!"
"Bravo!" cried Ben, as he seized Sir Richard by the hand, and gave it a
squeeze that nearly brought the tears into the eyes of the magistrate;
"bravo! that's what I like to hear. All's right. Bless you, sir, easy
does it. You are the man for my money!"
"Will you both come with me, then?"
"To be sure," said Ben; "to be sure; and as we go along, I'll tell you
what a sad mistake I made about Miss Arabella here. You must know that I
met her crying in Fleet-street, and she--"
Arabella shook her head, and frowned.
"And--and--and--she--nothing."
"Well," said Sir Richard, "I must confess I have heard anecdotes with a
little more point to them."
"You don't say so!" said Ben.
"I think I will go home," said Arabella, gently.
"If you will," replied the magistrate, "of course, I cannot say anything
to stay you; but I think it will be a great disappointment to Colonel
Jeffery not to meet with you to-day."
"Colonel Jeffery!" exclaimed Arabella, while her face became of the
colour of a rose-bud; "Colonel Jeffery?"
There was just the ghost of a smile upon the face of Sir Richard Blunt,
as he calmly replied--
"Yes; I am on my way to meet that gentleman in the garden of the Temple;
and I am sure he would be glad to see you."
"Glad to see me?"
"Yes, as so true a friend of Johanna's, he will be more than glad; he
will be delighted."
"Delighted?"
"Do you doubt the Colonel's friendly feeling towards you?"
"Oh no--no. I--no--certainly not."
"Then let me beg of you to come."
"No. Not now; I will go home. It will look particular for me to go to
the garden to meet him."
"It will look much more particular to refuse, I think, Miss Wilmot. You
are with me, and with your old friend, and Johanna's relative, Mr.
a--a--"
"They calls me Ben."
"Mr. Ben; and so you cannot refuse," he said, "to go to meet Colonel
Jeffery, you know. Come, come, I pray you come. Indeed, I know the
Colonel wishes to speak to you; and as it would be obviously out of
order for him to call upon you, I think you ought, seeing that you're
not alone, to give him, as a gentleman of wealth and honour, this
opportunity of doing so."
"You say, he wishes to speak to me?"
"He does, indeed. What do you say, Mr. Ben? Don't you think Miss Wilmot
might as well come with us?"
"Easy does it," said Ben, "and that's my opinion all the world over."
"Then allow me to look upon it that we have prevailed with you, Miss
Wilmot. Pray do me the favour to take my arm."
Arabella trembled, but she did take the arm of Sir Richard Blunt, and
made no further opposition to proceeding to that Temple Gardens, where
already such affecting interviews had taken place between the Colonel
and poor Johanna. The gardens appeared to be empty when they reached it,
but from behind some shrubs Colonel Jeffery in a moment made his
appearance, for Sir Richard, in consequence of his meeting with Ben and
Arabella, was considerably behind his time.
CHAPTER LXXVI.
ARABELLA AND THE COLONEL.
If any one had been looking at the face of Arabella Wilmot at this
particular juncture, and if the party so looking had chanced to be
learned in reading the various emotions of the heart from the expression
of the features, they might have chanced upon some curious revelations.
It was only one glance that Arabella gave to the Colonel, but that was
sufficient. A word slightly spoken, and in due season, may say more than
a volume of preaching; and so one transient glance, fleeting as a
sun-beam in an English April, may, with most eloquent meaning, preach a
sermon that would puzzle many a divine. But we have become so familiar
with the reader, and put ourselves upon such a cordial shake-hands sort
of feeling, in particular with you, Miss, who are now reading this
passage, that we will whisper a secret in your ear, and the more
readily, too, as to whisper we must come particularly close to that soft
downy cheek, and almost be able to look askance into those eyes in which
the light of Heaven seems dancing,--Arabella Wilmot is in love!
Yes, Arabella Wilmot is in love with Colonel Jeffery; and small blame to
her, as they say in Ireland, for is he not a gentleman in the true
acceptation of the term? Not a manufactured gentleman, but one of
nature's gentlemen.
You will have promised, my dear what's-your-name, that Arabella, to
herself even, has hardly confessed her feelings; but still they are
creeping upon her most insidiously as such feelings somehow or other
will and do creep.
To be sure, if any one were to stop her in the street or any where else
to say, "Arabella, you are in love with Colonel Jeffery," she would
say--"No, no, no!" many times over.
But yet it is true.
"You read it in her glistening eyes,
And thus alone should love be read:
She says it in her gentle sighs,
And thus alone should love be said."
After this, who will be hardy enough, my dear, to dispute the fact with
you and I?
And now we will watch her, ay, that we will, and see how she will behave
herself under such trying circumstances.
Colonel Jeffery advanced, and as in duty and gallantry called upon, he,
after slightly bowing to the gentlemen, spoke to Arabella.
"This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Wilmot," he said. "I hope I see
you well. Here is a seat close at hand. May I have the pleasure of
conducting you to it?"
"Johanna is--is--is--" stammered Arabella.
"Well, I hope," interposed the colonel.
"Oh, no--no--that is, yes."
The colonel looked puzzled. He was not a conjurer, and so might look
puzzled, if he looked like any ordinary man, who hears any one say no,
and yes in the same breath, without any injury to his reputation.
"Mr. Ben," said Sir Richard Blunt, "I have something for your private
ear, if you will just step on with me."
"My private ear?" said Ben with a confused look, as if he would have
liked to add, "which is that?"
"Yes. This way if you please."
Ben walked on with the magistrate, and Colonel Jeffery was alone with
Arabella Wilmot. Yes, alone with the one person who insensibly had crept
into her affections. Alas! Is the pure love of that young creature
scattered to the winds? Is she one of those who drag about them in this
world the heavy chain of unrequited affection? We shall see. Arabella
had permitted the colonel to hand her to one of the garden-seats near at
hand. How could she prevent him? If he had chosen instead to hand her
into the river it would have been just the same, and she would have
gone. He led her by that wreath of flowers which in old Arcadia was
first linked by Cupid, and which, in all time since, has wound itself
around the hearts of all the boy-god's victims.
"Miss Wilmot," said the colonel, and now his voice faltered a little, "I
have much wished to see you."
"Very fine, indeed," said Arabella. "You said something about the
weather, did you not?"
"Not exactly," he said; "I had much wished to see you."
"Me?"
"Yes, and to begin at the beginning, you know I--I--loved Johanna
Oakley. Yes, I loved her."
"Yes--yes."
"I loved her for her beauty, and for the gentle and the chivalrous
devotion of her character, you understand. I loved her for the very
tears she shed for another, and for the very constancy with which she
clung to the memory of his affection for her. I saw in her such
child-like purity of mind, such generosity of disposition, such
enchanting humanity of soul, that I could not but love her."
"Yes, yes," gasped Arabella. "Yes."
"Will you pardon me for saying all this to you?"
"Oh yes. Go on--go on, unless you have said all?"
"I have not."
"Then, then you have only to add that you love her still?"
"Yes, but--"
Arabella's heart beat painfully.
"Ah," she said, "has true love any reservations? You love her, and yet
you have something else to say."
"I have. I love her still. But it is not as I loved her. She has
convinced me of her constancy to her first affection, that--that--"
"Yes, yes."
"That being so convinced, I now love her, but with that love a brother
might feel for a dear sister, and I almost think it was a kind of
preparation to try to awaken in the smouldering fires of her lost love a
new passion. She has made me feel that the love of woman once truly
awakened is an undying passion and can know no change--no extinction."
"True. Oh, how true!"
"I have learnt from her that when once the heart of a young and gentle
girl--one in whom there are no evil passions, no world-wise failings nor
earthly varieties--is touched by the holy flame of affection, it may
consume her being, but it never can be extinguished."
Arabella burst into tears.
"Love," added the colonel, "may be trodden down, but like truth it can
never be trodden out!"
"Never! never!" sobbed Arabella. "Let me go now! Oh, sir, let me go home
now?"
"One moment!"
She trembled, but she sat still.
"Only a moment, Arabella, while I tell you that man's love is different
from this. That man can reason upon his affections, and that when the
first beauty and excellence upon which he may cast his eyes is denied to
his arms, he can look for equal beauty--equal excellence--equal charms
of mind and person in another, and--"
Arabella tried to go, but somehow she felt spell-bound and could not
rise from that garden seat.
"And," added the colonel, "with as pure a passion, man can make an idol
of her who can be his, as he approached her who could not.--Miss Wilmot,
I love you!"
"Oh, no, no--Johanna."
[Illustration: Colonel Jeffery Declares His Love For Arabella.]
"I do not shrink from the pronunciation of that name; I have said that I
loved Johanna. If she had been fancy-free and would have looked upon me
with eyes of favour, I would have made her my wife; but such was not to
be, and for the same qualities that I loved her I love you. I am afraid
I have not explained my feelings well."
"Oh, yes. That is, I don't know."
"And now, Miss Wilmot, will you allow me to hope that what I have said
to you may not be all in vain? That--"
"No, no."
"No?"
"Allow me to go, now. My mind is too full of the fate of Johanna even to
permit me to reject in the language taught--"
"Reject?"
"Yes," she said, "reject. I wish you all the happiness this world can
afford to you, Colonel Jeffery."
"Then you will be mine?"
"No, no, no. Farewell."
She rose, and this time the colonel did not attempt to detain her. He
stepped back a pace or two, and bowed, and then rose and walked a pace
or two away. Then she turned, and holding out her hand, she cried--
"We may--may be friends."
The colonel took the little hand in silence, but the expression of his
face was one of deep chagrin.
"Good-bye," said Arabella.
How courageous she had become all of a sudden, as it were.
"And is this all?" said Jeffery.
"Yes, all. When I see Johanna I will remember you to her."
The colonel bowed again, as he replied--
"I shall be much beholden to you, Miss Wilmot, for that kindness."
"And--and I hope you will find--find--that is, meet with some one,
who--who don't chance to know that your love is a kind of
second-hand--that is, I don't mean that, but a--a--Yes, that is all."
Arabella was saying too much. The colonel replied gently--
"I am truly obliged for the highly explanatory speech just uttered by
Arabella Wilmot, whom I have the honour to wish a very good-day."
Arabella trembled.
"No, no. Not thus, Colonel Jeffery. We are friends, indeed."
"Remarkable good acquaintances," said the colonel, as he walked away
towards Sir Richard Blunt and Ben. Arabella walked hastily on, having
but one idea at the moment, and that was to leave the garden, but she
could not find the gate, and Ben ran after her as well as he could,
calling--
"Miss A. W.--Miss A. W., where are you a-going? Don't you go yet. I'll
take care of you and see you all right, you know, or perhaps you'd like
to take a wherry here at the Temple stairs, and go to the Tower, and see
the animals fed?"
"Yes, no--that is, anything," replied Arabella. "I will go home now, I
am so very--very wretched!"
"What, wretched? Here, Colonel thingumy, she says she--"
"If you dare!" said Arabella, as she placed her hand upon the arm of
Ben. "If you dare!"
"Lor!" said Ben, as he looked down from his altitude upon the frail and
beautiful young creature. "Lor! easy does it!"
The voice of Ben, however, had brought both the colonel and Sir Richard
Blunt to the spot. During that brief time that had elapsed since the
colonel had last spoken to Arabella, Sir Richard had told him of the
perilous position of Johanna, and the look of anxiety upon his face was
most marked. Arabella heard him say--
"Make use of me in any way you please, Sir Richard. Regard my safety or
even my life as nothing compared to her preservation."
Arabella knew what he meant.
"Ben," she said, "will you come with me, and see me a part of my way
home?"
"Yes, my dear, to be sure. Then you won't come and see the criturs fed
to-day, I supposes?"
"No, no."
"Very well. Easy does it. Come along, my dear--come along. Lord love
you! I'll take care of you. I should only like to see anybody look at
you while you are with me, my duck. Bless your little bits of twinkling
eyes!"
"Thank you--thank you."
"Lor! it's enough to make a fellow go mad in love, to see such criturs
as you, my dear; but whenever I thinks of such things, I says to
myself--'I'll just pop in and see Mother Oakley,' and that soon puts it
all out of my head, I can tell you."
"Indeed?"
"Yes. You should go in at feeding time some day, and see her a-coming it
strong with fried ingins."
"Fried what?"
"Ingins--ingins; round things. Ingions--ah! that's it."
"Onions?"
"Very like--very like. But come on, my dear--come on. Easy does it!
Always remember that whenever you gets into any fix. Easy does it!"
Did Arabella think the colonel would run after her and say something?
Yes she did; but he came not. Did she think he would be loath to part
with her upon such terms as they had seemed to part? Yes, yes. Surely he
could not let her go without some kinder, softer, word that he had last
spoken to her? But he did. He only watched her with his eyes; and when
Sir Richard Blunt, who, it would appear, knew something of the colonel's
feelings, said to him--
"All right, I suppose, Colonel Jeffery?"
He only shook his head.
"What, anything amiss?"
"She has rejected me!"
"Oh, is that all?"
"All? And enough too."
"Phoo! She was sure to do that. Don't you know the old adage, that--
"Woman's nay still stands for nought."
"Why, man, No comes as naturally to the tip of a young girl's tongue
when she means Yes, as Don't when she expects to be kissed. I tell you,
she loves you. She adores the very ground you walk on."
"And yet she taunted me with my passion for Johanna, and called me a
second-hand lover."
"Did she, though? Ha! ha! ha! ha! Upon my life that was good--was it
not?"
CHAPTER LXXVII.
MRS. LOVETT VISITS THE BANK.
Mrs. Lovett, Mrs. Lovett, we are neglecting you! Excuse us, fascinating
piece of wickedness. We are now in Bell-yard again. It will be
recollected what a mental ferment the appearance of Ben, and Arabella,
and Sir Richard Blunt, at the window of her shop had put her in. Not
that she knew any of those parties--nor that she connected any of them
in any way with her feelings, except so far as their attitudes might at
that moment lead her to suppose. The attitudes certainly were such as to
create suspicion. All this, joined to the previous state of mind of Mrs.
Lovett, did not tend to produce that heavenly calm, which philosophers
tell us is such a remarkably nice thing. On the contrary, the mind of
Mrs. Lovett rather resembled a raging torrent, boiling and bubbling to
some destruction which was afar off, and which could only be reached
through the perils and dangers of some stormy passage. She was sighing
for peace. She had begun to sicken for the results of her life of
iniquity--not those results which an indignant and outraged public would
have visited her with, but those results which she and all persons, who
deliberately and systematically commence a career of guilt, picture to
themselves. Criminality is never engaged in for its own sake. There is
always some ultimate object in view, which makes the retrospect less
horrible, and the prospect dim and dubious, though it may be yet a thing
of pleasurable anticipation. Of course, we are only reasoning upon those
minds that reflect. There are many who lead a life of criminality, who
do so as the manifestation of an intellect that can picture nothing
else. But the reader knows that Mrs. Lovett was not of such an order.
She was to some extent an educated, and to a considerable extent a
clever woman. Hence, then, she had always pictured to herself wealth and
retirement, respect and power, as the ends for which she was striving
with such unscrupulous means. But of late, with a shuddering horror, she
had begun to dread that all she had hoped for was getting only more
distant. She had contracted a strong notion of the bad faith of Todd,
and if such were really the case, all was indeed lost. If he allowed his
cupidity just to induce him to commit the crime that would be one too
many, destruction must fall upon them both. If likewise he instantly
made an effort to take to himself all the profits of the unholy traffic
that they were mutually engaged in, all would be lost to both; for was
she a likely woman to crouch down in silence under such a blow? No! the
scaffold prepared by her instrumentality for Todd, would be scarcely
less a triumph to her that she herself would share it with him. He ought
to have known better than he did. How clear and long-sighted we find
people upon subjects that from this distance may be supposed to present
difficulties, and yet how shallow they are upon what is close to them.
One would have thought that such a man as Todd could easily have said to
himself, with regard to Mrs. Lovett, "I dare not tamper with the objects
of that woman," and he would have said it with truth; but on the
contrary, he only looked upon her as a convenient tool, which was to be
thrown aside when it had served all the purposes for which he intended
it. There could not have been a more fatal mistake upon the part of Todd
as concerned his safety. But to return to Mrs. Lovett. The brandy she
had promised to the prisoner was quite forgotten. She sat revolving in
her mind, how she could put an end to the state of horrible doubt and
perplexity in which she was. There were some little difficulties in the
way of Mrs. Lovett emerging from her present condition. It has been
before hinted at, that Todd and the fair lady of the pie-shop had
between them accumulated a large sum of money, and that the money was
duly deposited in the hands of a stock-broker, who was by no means to
part with it to either of them, except upon an order signed by both. So
far all looked fair enough; and as they were likewise bound together by
such a bond of mutual guilt, it did not look likely that either would
make an endeavour to get the better of the other. Suppose there was
£40,000 in the hands of the stock-broker, it did not seem, we say, under
all the circumstances likely that Todd--being fairly entitled as between
them, to £20,000--would peril the safety of both their necks, by getting
up a quarrel about the division equitably of the spoil. The same
reasoning will apply to Mrs. Lovett. But these unlikely things are the
very things that do come to pass to upset the finest plans. Todd never
from the first--whenever that was--meant that Mrs. Lovett should share
with him; no, he thought that he, as the superior genius, the greater
villain, would manage to cheat her, and that she would, for her own
safety's sake, be obliged to put up with what he chose to give her. That
would have been only such a pittance, as to keep her constantly in a
state of dependance upon him. Now, to do Mrs. Lovett justice upon the
old equitable principle of giving the devil his due, she never had any
intention, until she saw symptoms of bad faith in Todd, of attempting to
act otherwise than fairly by him. She loathed him; and all she meant to
do, was when the division of the spoil should take place, to ascertain
where he was going, and then to get as far off him as possible. Of late,
however, finding that Todd was getting lucky, and feeling quite
convinced that he aimed at her life, other views had dawned upon her, as
we are already well aware. She did not so much care for all the money as
she would have liked in her retirement, wherever it was, to have felt
sure that Todd was not
"An inhabitant of the earth;"
and hence she had taken the pains, all of which had been frustrated, to
put him into another world. But a feeling, superstitiously consequent
upon her failure, had started up in her mind that he bore a charmed
life; and hence she bethought herself of flying from England; but the
money--how was she to get the money to do so? How was she, without his
cognisance, to get her share of the funds which had been placed in the
hands of a stock-broker? Now, since she had begun to feel uncomfortable
regarding the faith of Todd, Mrs. Lovett had kept what cash she saved at
home; therefore some weeks had elapsed since she had paid a monetary
visit to the city. If she had gone as usual, she might have got some
news. To a woman of lively and discursive imagination like Mrs. Lovett,
a plan of operation was not long in suggesting itself. Why, she asked
herself, should she hesitate to put Todd's name to the document
necessary to get her half of the money from the stock-broker? What a
natural consequence from this question it was to ask herself another,
which was--If I am forging Todd's signature at all, might I not do it
for the whole amount as for half, and so take the only revenge upon him
which he would feel, or which I dare offer myself the gratification of
exacting from him? When such a question as this is asked, it is
practically answered in the affirmative. Mrs. Lovett felt quite decided
upon it. She was a woman of courage. No faint-hearted scruple interposed
between the thought and the execution of a project with her. The recent
scene that had taken place in front of her window decided her. Now or
never! she told herself. Now or never is the time to escape. I have
nothing to encumber myself with. Let Todd keep his jewels and trinkets.
All I want is the money which is in the hands of Mr. Anthony Brown, the
stock-broker, and that I will have forthwith. Mrs. Lovett did not know
the exact amount; but as it was a joint account, such an amount of
ignorance need not appear at all surprising to the stock-broker; so she
drew up an order for the money, and signed it with both Todd's name and
her own, leaving a blank for the amount. She then carefully locked up
all doors but that of the outer shop, and having procured the services
of a young girl from a greengrocer's shop in the vicinity, to mind the
place for an hour, as she said, she considered she was all right. The
girl had attended to the shop before for Mrs. Lovett at times when no
batches of pies were expected from the regions below, so she did not
feel at all surprised at the call upon her services.
"I shall be an hour," said Mrs. Lovett. "You can take a pie or two for
yourself if you feel at all hungry; and if Mr. Todd should come in, say
I'm gone to call upon a dress-maker in Bond-street."
"Yes, mum!"
Mrs. Lovett left the shop. At the corner of Bell-yard she turned and
cast a glance at it. She hoped it was a farewell one--She shuddered and
passed on; and then she muttered to herself--
"If I am--which assuredly I shall be--successful in the city, I will
take post-horses there at once for some sea-port, and from thence reach
the Continent, before Todd can dream of pursuit, or find out what I have
done, or where bestowed myself."
She was not so impudent as to pass Todd's shop, but she went down one of
the streets upon the opposite side of Fleet-street, and came up another,
which was considerably past the house which was so full of horrors. A
lumbering old hackney coach met her gaze. It was disengaged, and Mrs.
Lovett got into it.
"To Lothbury," she said; and after swaying to and fro for a few moments,
the machine was set in action, and duly steering up Ludgate Hill.
The impatience of Mrs. Lovett was so great, that she would gladly have
done anything to induce the horses to go at a faster rate than the safe
two miles and a half an hour to which they were accustomed, but she
dreaded that if she exhibited any signs of extreme impatience she might
excite suspicion. To the guilty, any observation of a more than ordinary
character is a thing to dread. They would fain glide through life
gently, and not at all do they sigh to be--
"The observed of all observers."
But the longest journey even in the slowest hackney coach must come to
an end. As Ben the beef-eater would have said--"Easy does it;" and as
Mrs. Lovett's journey was anything but a long one, the gloomy precincts
of Lothbury soon loomed upon her gaze. After the customary oscillations,
and wheezing and creaking of all its joints and springs, the coach
stopped.
"Wait," said Mrs. Lovett with commendable brevity; and alighting, she
entered a dark door-way upon the side of which was painted, in letters
that had contracted so much the colour of the wood-work that they were
nearly illegible, "Mr. Anthony Brown."
This was the stock-broker, who held charge of the ill-gotten gains of
that pair of un-worthies, Mrs. Lovett and Sweeney Todd. A small door,
covered with what had been green baize, but which was now of some
perfectly original brown, opened into the outer office of the man of
business, and there a spruce clerk held dominion. At the sound of the
rustling silks of Mrs. Lovett, he raised his head from poring over the
cumbrous ledger; and then seeing, to use his own vernacular, it was "a
monstrous fine woman," he condescended to alight from his high stool,
and he demanded the lady's pleasure.
"Mr. Brown."
"Yes, madam. Certainly. Mr. B. is in his private room. What name shall I
have the pleasure of saying?"
"Lovett."
"Lovett? Yes, madam. Certainly--a-hem! Pray be seated, madam, if you
please."
Mrs. Lovett made a gesture of dissent, and the clerk went upon his
errand. He was scarcely absent a moment, and then holding open a door,
he said, with quite a chivalric air--
"This way, if you please, madam.--A monstrous fine woman," he added to
himself.
The door closed after Mrs. Lovett, and she was in the private room of
Mr. Anthony Brown.
"Ah, Mrs. Lovett. Pray be seated, madam. I am truly glad to see you
well. Well, to be sure, you do look younger, and younger, and younger,
every time I have the pleasure of a visit from you."
"Thank you, Mr. Brown, for the compliment. My visits have not been so
numerous as usual of late."
"Why, no ma'am, they have not; but I hope we are going to resume
business again in the old way?"
"Not exactly."
"Well, my dear madam, whatever it is that has procured me the honour and
the pleasure of this visit, I am sure I am very glad of it, and shall
not quarrel with it. He! he! Nice weather, Mrs. Lovett."
"Very."
"Ah, madam--ah, it was a world of pities to disturb the investments. It
was indeed. But ladies will be ladies."
"Sir?"
"I--I merely said ladies will be ladies you know. And indeed--he! he!--I
fully expected the interesting ceremony had come off before now, I did
indeed; and I should have wagered a new hat."
"Mr. Brown, what are you talking about?"
"About?"
"Yes, what do you mean?"
"Why, a--a--that is--the--a--a--about--concerning--the--my dear madam,
if I have inadvertently trodden upon your sensibilities, I--I really--"
"You really what?"
Mr. Brown looked perplexed. Mrs. Lovett looked a little furious.
"Sir," she said. "Before I explain the cause of my visit to you, I
insist upon knowing to what all your mysterious hints and remarks
allude. Speak freely and plainly, sir."
"Well then, madam, when Mr. Todd was last here, he said that you had at
last consented to reward years of devotion to you by becoming his, and
that the ceremony which was to make him a happy man by uniting him to so
much excellence and beauty, was to come off almost immediately, and that
that was the reason you had both agreed to withdraw all the money I had
in such snug and comfortable safe investments for you both. He! he! he!"
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
MUTUAL DEFIANCE.
Be so good, reader, as to picture to yourself the look of Mrs. Lovett.
We feel that one brief moment of imagination will do more to enable you
to feel and to see with
"Your mind's eye"
her aspect, than as if we were to try a paragraph upon the subject. How
that he! he! he! of Mr. Brown's rung in her ears. It was at any time
almost enough to provoke a saint, and we need not say that this time of
all others was not one at which Mrs. Lovett's feelings were attuned to
gentleness and patience. Besides, she certainly was no saint. A rather
heavy inkstand stood upon the table between Mrs. Lovett and the
stock-broker. The next moment it narrowly escaped his head, leaving in
its progress over his frontispiece a long streak of ink down his visage.
"Wretch!" said Mrs. Lovett. "It is not true."
"Murder!" cried Mr. Brown.
Mrs. Lovett covered her face with both her hands for a moment, as
though, to enable her to think clearly, it were necessary to shut out
the external world; and then starting up, she advanced to the door of
the room.
"Murder!" said the stock-broker again.
"Silence!"
"A constable."
"If you dare to say one word of this interview, I will return, and tear
you limb from limb."
Mrs. Lovett opened the door of the private room with such a vengeance
that the nose of the clerk, who had been listening upon the other side,
was seriously damaged thereby. He started back with a howl of pain.
"Fool!" said Mrs. Lovett, as she passed him, and that was all she
condescended to say to him;--not by any means an agreeable reminiscence
of his last words with a lady to a gentleman who prided himself upon his
looks--rather!
Mrs. Lovett reached the street, and walked for some distance as though
street it was not. She was only roused to a sense of the world in which
she was, by hearing the sound of a voice calling--
"Mum--mum! Here yer is--mum--mum! woo!"
She turned and saw the coach in which she had come to the stock-broker.
"Going back, mum?" said the man.
"Yes, yes."
She stepped into the vehicle, looking more like an animated statue than
aught human. The man stood touching what was once the brim of a hat, as
he said--
"Where to, mum?"
Mrs. Lovett looked at him with an air of such abstraction that it was
quite clear she did not see him, but she heard the question, that came
to her like an echo in the air.
"Where to, mum?"
"To Fleet-street!"
Wheeze--creak--wheeze--creak--sway--sway, and the coach moved on again.
Mrs. Lovett sunk down among the straw with which the lower part of the
vehicle was plentifully strewed; and then, with her head resting upon
the seat, her throbbing temples clasped in her hands, she tried to
think. Yes--she called upon all that calmness--that decision--that
talent or tact, call it which you will that had saved her for so long,
not to desert her now in this hour of her dire extremity. She called
upon everything for aid but upon Heaven! and then, to ease her mind, she
cursed a little. Somebody says--
"Swearing when the passions are at war,
And light the chambers of the brain with angers flash.
Has an effect quite moral--a kind of safety valve,
Sparing what might be a tremendous crash!"
and so Mrs. Lovett got cooler, but not a whit the less determined, as
the crazy vehicle conveyed her to Fleet-street. She fully intended now
to measure conclusions with Todd. The distance was so short that even a
hackney-coach performed it with tolerable promptitude. Mrs. Lovett did
not wish to alight exactly at the door of Todd's shop; so she was rather
glad upon finding the coach stop at the corner of Fleet-street by the
old Market, and the driver demanded what number?
"This will do."
She was in the street in another minute. It took a minute to get out of
a hackney-coach. It was like watching the moment to spring from a boat
to the shore in a heavy surf. And yet, oh much vilified old
hackney-coach! how much superior wert thou to thy bastard son, the
present odious rattling, bumping, angular, bone-dislocating, horrid cab!
The driver received about double his fare, and a cab-man of the present
day would have gathered a mob by his vociferations, and blackguarded you
into a shop, if you had treated him in such a way. Nothing less than
three times what he's entitled to ever lights up the smallest spark of
civility in the soul of a modern cab-driver, but the old
hackney-coach-man was always content with double; so upon this occasion
Mrs. Lovett got a "thank ye, mum;" and a long straw that had taken an
affection for the skirt of her dress was arrested by jarvey and restored
to the coach again.
Mrs. Lovett walked to all appearance composedly up Fleet-street. Alas!
in this world who can trust to appearances? She had time, before
reaching the shop of Sweeney Todd, to arrange slightly what she should
say to that worthy. Of course, he could know nothing of her visit to the
City--of her interview with Mr. Brown, and she need not blurt that out
too soon. She would argue with him a little, and then she would be down
upon him with the knowledge of his knavery and treachery. She reached
the shop. No wonder she paused there a moment or two to draw breath. You
would have done the same; and after all, Mrs. Lovett was mortal. But she
did not hesitate for long. The threshold was crossed--the handle of the
door was in her hand--it was turned, and she stood in Todd's shop. Todd
was looking at something in a bottle, which he was holding up to the
light; and Mrs. Lovett saw, too, that a pretty genteel-looking lad was
poking about the fire, as if to rouse it.
"Ah, Mrs. Lovett!" said Todd, "how do you do? Some more of that fine
grease for the hair, I suppose, madam?" Todd winked towards the lad (our
dear friend Johanna), as though he would have said--"Don't appear to
know me too well before this boy. Be careful, if you please."
"I have something to say to you, Mr. Todd."
"Oh, certainly, madam. Pray walk in--this way, if you please, madam--to
my humble bachelor-parlour, madam. It is not fit exactly to ask a lady
into; but we poor miserable single men, you know, madam, can only do the
best we can. Ha! ha! This way."
"No."
"Eh? Not come in?"
"No. I have something to say to you, Mr. Todd; but I will say it here."
And now Mrs. Lovett gave a sidelong glance at the seeming boy, as much
as to say--
"You can easily send him away if you don't want him to listen to our
discourse."
Todd saw the glance; and the diabolical look that he sent to Mrs. Lovett
in return would indeed have appalled any one of less nerve than she was
possessed of. But she had come to that place wound up firmly to a
resolution, and she would not shrink. Todd had no resource.
"Charley," he said, "you can go and take a little turn--here is a penny
to spend; get yourself something in the market. But be sure you are back
within half an hour, for we shall have some customers, no doubt."
"Yes, sir."
Johanna did not exactly know whether to think that Mrs. Lovett came in
anger or friendship; but, at all events, she felt that it would be
hazardous to remain after so marked a dismissal from Todd, although she
would gladly have heard what the subject of the conversation between
those two was to be. Neither Mrs. Lovett nor Todd now spoke until
Johanna had fairly gone and closed the door after her. Then Todd, as he
folded his arms, and looked Mrs. Lovett fully in the face, said--
"Well?"
"The time has come."
"What time?"
"For the end of our partnership--the dissolution of our agreement. I
will go on no further. You can do as you please; but I am content."
"Humph!" said Todd.
"After much thought, I have come to this conclusion, Todd. Of course,
let me be where I may, the secret of our road to fortune remains hidden
here (she struck her breast as she spoke). All I want is my half of the
proceeds, and then we part, I hope, for ever."
"Humph!" said Todd.
"And--and the sooner we can forget, if that be possible, the past, the
better it will be for us both--only tell me where you purpose going, and
I will take care to avoid you."
"Humph!"
Passion was boiling in the heart of Mrs. Lovett; and that was just what
Todd wanted; for well he knew that something had gone amiss, and that as
long as Mrs. Lovett could keep herself calm and reasonable, he should
stand but a poor chance of finding out what it was, unless she chose, as
part of her arrangement, to tell it; but if he could but rouse her
passion, he should know all. Therefore was it that he kept on replying
to what she said with that cold insulting sort of "humph!"
"Man, do you hear me?"
"Humph!"
"You villain!"
"Humph!"
Mrs. Lovett took from a side-table an iron, which, in the mystery of
hair-dressing, was used for some purpose, and in a cool, calm voice, she
said--
"If you do not answer me as you ought, I will throw this through your
window, into the street; and the first person who comes in, in
consequence, I will ask to seize Todd, the murderer! and offer myself as
evidence of his numerous atrocities--contrite evidence--myself repenting
of my share in them, and relying upon the mercy of the crown, which, in
recompense for my denouncing you may graciously pardon me."
"And so it has come to this?" said Todd.
"You see and hear that it has."
It was rather a curious coincidence, that Mrs. Lovett had threatened
Todd that she would awaken public attention to his shop by the same
means that Sir Richard Blunt had recommended to Johanna to use in case
of any emergency--namely, throwing something through the window into the
street. If Mrs. Lovett had been goaded by Todd to throw the iron through
a pane of his glass, the officers of Sir Richard would quickly have made
their appearance to hear her denunciation of the barber. Unhappy woman!
If she had but known what the future had in store for her, that act
which she threatened Todd with, and which to her imagination seemed such
a piece of pure desperation, would have been the most prudent thing she
could have done. But it was not to be! There was a few moments silence
now between them. It was broken by Todd.
"Are you mad?" he said.
"No."
"Then, what, in the name of all that is devilish, has got possession of
you?"
"I have told you my determination. Give me twenty thousand pounds--you
may profit by the odd sum--give me that amount, and I will go in peace.
You know I am entitled to more; but there is no occasion for us to
reckon closely. Give me the sum I seek, and you will see me no more.
"You take me by surprise. Just step into the parlour, and--"
"No--no."
"Why not? Do you suspect--"
"I suspect nothing; but I am sure of much. Now, for me to set foot
within your parlour would be tantamount to the commission of suicide,
and I am not yet come to that--you understand me?"
Todd understood her. His hand strayed to a razor that lay partially open
close to him. Mrs. Lovett raised the iron.
[Illustration: Mrs. Lovett And Todd Quarrel.]
"Beware!" she said.
Todd shrunk back.
"Pho! pho! this is child's play," he said. "You and I, Mrs. Lovett,
ought to be above all this--far above it. You want your half of the
proceeds of our joint business, and I must confess, at the moment, that
the demand rather staggered and distressed me; but the more I think of
it, the more reasonable it appears."
"Very well. Give it to me, then."
"Why, really now, my dear Mrs. Lovett, you quite forget that all our
joint savings are in the hands of Mr. Brown."
Todd glared at her as though he would read her very soul. She felt that
he more than suspected she knew all, and she adopted at once the bold
policy of avowing it.
"I do not forget anything that it is essential should be remembered,"
she said; "and among other things, I know that, by forging my name, you
have withdrawn the whole of the money from the hands of Brown. It is not
worth our while to dispute concerning your motives for such an act. Let
it suffice that I know it, and that I am here to demand my due."
"Ha! ha!"
"You laugh?"
"I do, indeed. Why, really now--ha! ha!--this is good; and so it is this
withdrawal of the money from Brown that has made all this riot in your
brain? Why, I withdrew it from him simply because I had certain secret
information that his affairs were not in the best order; and from a
fear, grounded upon that information, that he might be tempted to put
his hand into our purse, if he found nothing in his own."
"Well, well; it matters not what were your reasons. Give me my half. It
will be then out of your custody, and you will have no anxiety
concerning it, while I can have no suspicions."
"In a moment--"
"You will?"
"If I had it here; but I have re-invested the whole, you see, and cannot
get it at a moment's notice. I have moved it from the hands of Brown to
those of Black."
CHAPTER LXXIX.
MRS. LOVETT FINDS THAT IN THIS WORLD THERE IS RETRIBUTION.
"Black?" said Mrs. Lovett.
"Yes, Black."
"Do you think me so--" green, she was going to say, but the accidental
conjunction of the colours--brown, black, and green--suddenly struck her
as ludicrous, and she altered it to foolish. "Do you think me so foolish
as for one moment to credit you?"
"Hark you, Mrs. Lovett," pursued Todd, suddenly assuming quite a
different tone. "You have come here full of passion, because you thought
I was deceiving you."
"You are."
"Allow me to proceed. It is, I believe, one of the penalties of all
associations for--for--why do I hesitate about a word?--guilty purposes
that there should be mutual distrust. I tell you again, that if I had
not moved the money from Brown, we should have lost it all."
"But why not come to me and get my signature?"
"There--really--was--not--time," said Todd, dropping his words out one
by one, with a _staccato_ expression.
"That is too absurd."
Todd shrugged his shoulders, as though he would have said--"Well, if you
will have it so, I cannot help it;" and then he said--
"I was in the City. I heard the rumour of the instability of Brown. I
flew into a shop. I wrote the order like a flash of lightning. I went to
Brown's like an avalanche, and I brought away the money, as if Heaven
and earth were coming together."
There was not the ghost of a smile upon Todd's face as he made use of
these superlatives. Mrs. Lovett began to be staggered.
"Then you have it here?"
"No, no!"
"You have. Tell me that you have, and that this Mr. Black you mentioned
is a mere delusion."
"Black may be no colour, but it is not a delusion."
"You trifle with me. Beware!"
"In a word then, my charming Mrs. Lovett, I dreaded to bring the money
here. I thought my house the most unsafe place in the world for it. I
and you stand upon the brink of a precipice--a slumbering volcano is
beneath our feet. Pshaw! Where is your old acuteness, that you do not
see at once how truly foolish it would have been to bring the money
here?"
"Juggler! Fiend!"
"Hard words, Mrs. Lovett."
She dashed her hand across her brow, as though by that physical effort
she could brush from her intellect the sophistical cobwebs that Todd had
endeavoured to move before it, and then she said--
"I know not. I care not. All I ask--all I demand--is my share of the
money. Give it to me, and let me go."
"I will."
"When?"
"This day. Stay, the day is fast going, but I will say this night, if
you really, in your cool judgment, insist upon it."
"I do. I do!"
"Well, you shall have. This night after business was over and the shop
was closed, I intended to have come to you, and fully planned all this
that you have unfortunately tortured yourself by finding out. I regret
that you think of so quickly leaving the profits of a partnership which,
in a short time longer, would have made us rich as monarchs. Of course,
if you leave, I am compelled."
"You compelled?"
"Yes. How can I carry on business without you? How could I, without your
aid, dispose of the--"
"Hush, hush!"
Mrs. Lovett shuddered.
"As you please," said Todd. "I only say, I regret that a co-partnership
that promised such happy results should now be broken up. However, that
is a matter for your personal consideration merely. If I had thought of
leaving, and being content with what I had already got, of course it
would have compelled you to do so. Therefore I cannot complain, although
I may regret your excuse of a right of action that equally belonged to
me."
"If I only thought you sincere--"
"And why not?"
"If I could only bring myself to believe that the money was once more
rightly invested--"
"You shall come with me yourself, if you like, in the morning to Mr.
Black the broker in Abchurch Lane, No. 3, and ascertain that all is
right. You shall there sign your name in his book, so that he may know
it, and then you will be satisfied, I presume?"
"Yes, I should then."
"And this dream of leaving off business would vanish?"
"Perhaps it would. But--but--"
"But what?"
"Why did you say to Brown that our union was to take place?"
"Because it was necessary to say something, to account for the sudden
withdrawal of the money; and surely I may be pardoned, charming Mrs.
Lovett, for even in imagination dreaming, that so much beauty was mine."
The horrible leer with which Todd looked upon her at this moment made
her shudder again; and the expression of palpable hatred and disgust
that her countenance wore, added yet another, and not the least
considerable, link to the chain of revenge which Todd cherished against
her in his cruel and most secret heart. While he was philosophising
about guilty associations producing a feeling of mutual distrust, he
should have likewise added that they soon produce mutual hatred. For a
few moments they looked at each other--that guilty pair--with
expressions that sought to read each other's souls; but they were both
tolerable adepts in the art of dissimulation. The silence was the most
awkward for Todd, so he broke it first by saying--
"You are satisfied, let me hope?"
"I will be."
"You shall be."
"Yes, when I have my money. Henceforward, Todd, we will have much
shorter reckonings, so shall we keep much longer friends. If you keep,
in some secret place, your half of the proceeds of our--our--"
"Business," said Todd.
Mrs. Lovett made a sort of gulph of the word, but she adopted it.
"If you, I say, keep your half of the proceeds of our business, and I
keep mine, I don't see how it is possible for us to quarrel."
"Quite impossible."
He began to strop a razor diligently, and to try its edge across his
thumb nail. Mrs. Lovett's passion--that overwhelming passion which had
induced her to enter Todd's shop, and defy him to a species of single
combat of wits--had in a great measure subsided, giving place to a
calmer and more reflective feeling. One of the results of that feeling
was a self-question to the effect of, "What will be the result of an
open quarrel with Todd?" Mrs. Lovett shook a little at the answer she
felt forced to give herself to this question. That answer was continued
in two words--mutual destruction! Yes, that would be the consequence.
"Todd," she said in a softened tone, "if I had forged your name, and
gone to the city and possessed myself of all the money, what would you
have thought? Tell me that."
"Just what you thought--that it was the most scandalous breach of faith
that could possibly be; but an explanation ought to put that right."
"It has."
"Then you are satisfied?"
"I am. At what time shall we go together, to-morrow morning, to Mr.
Black's in Abchurch Lane?"
"Name your own time," said Todd with the most assumed air in the world.
"Black lives at Ballam Hill, and don't get to business until ten; but
any time after that will do."
"I will come here at ten, then."
"So be it. Ah, Mrs. Lovett, how charming it is to be able to explain
away these little difficulties of sentiment. Never trust to appearances.
How very deceitful they are apt to be."
There was an air of candour about Todd, that might have deceived the
devil himself. Notwithstanding all his hideous ugliness--notwithstanding
his voice was of the lowest order, and notwithstanding that frightful
laugh, and that obliquity of vision that seemed peculiar to himself in
its terrible malignancy, there was a plausibility about his manner, when
he pleased, that was truly astonishing. Even Mrs. Lovett, with all her
knowledge of the man, felt that it was a hard struggle to disbelieve his
representations. What must it have been to those who knew him not?
"No," said Mrs. Lovett, "it don't do to trust to appearances."
She still held the iron in her hand.
"Nor," added Todd, giving the razor he had been putting an edge to, a
flourish, "nor will it do to listen always to the dictates of
compassion; for if we did, what miseries might we inflict upon
ourselves. Now, here is a cure in point."
"Where?"
"I allude to this little affair between us. If you had flown to
Bow-street, and there, to spite me, made a full disclosure of certain
little facts, why, the result would have been that we might both have
slept in Newgate to-night."
"Yes, yes."
"And then there would have been no recal. You could not have freed us by
telling the police that you had made a mistake. Then the gallows would
have risen up in our dreams."
"Horrible!"
"And it being easily discovered that it was no love of public justice or
feeling of remorse, that induced you to the betrayal, they would have
shown you no mercy, but you would have swung from the halter amid the
shouts and execrations of--"
"No, no!"
"I say yes."
"No more of this--no more of this. Can you bear to paint such a
picture--does it not seem to you as though you stood upon that scaffold,
and heard those shouts? Oh, horror, horror!"
"You don't like the picture?"
"No, no!"
"Ha! ha! Well, Mrs. Lovett, you and I had far better be friends than
foes; and above all, you ought by this time to feel that you could trust
me. The very fact that to all the world else I am false, ought to prove
to you that to you I am true. No human being can exist purely isolated,
and I am not an exception."
"Say no more--say no more. We will meet to-morrow."
"To-morrow be it, then."
"At ten."
"At ten be it, and then we will go to Black. Come now, since all this is
settled, take a glass of wine to our--"
"No, no. Not that. I--I am not very well, A throbbing head-ache--a--a.
That is, no!"
"As you please--as you please. By-the-by, did Black give me a receipt,
or did he say it was not usual? Stay a moment, I will look in my
secretaire. Sit down a moment in the shaving chair; I will be with you
again directly."
"We will settle that to-morrow," said Mrs. Lovett; "I feel convinced
that Black did not give you a receipt. Good-day."
She left the shop, unceremoniously carrying the iron with her. Todd
breathed more freely when Mrs. Lovett was gone. He gave one of his
horrible laughs as he watched her through the opening in his window.
"Ha! ha! Curses on her; but I will have her life first, ere she sees one
guinea of my hoard!"
He saw Charley Green crossing the road.
"Ah, the boy comes back. 'Tis well. I don't know how or why it is, but
the sight of that boy makes me uneasy. I think it will be better to cut
his throat and have done with him. I--"
Todd was suddenly silent. He saw two women pass, and as they did so, one
pointed to his shop and said something to the other, who lifted up her
hands as though in pious horror. One of these women was Mrs. Ragg, poor
Tobias's mother. The other was a stranger to Todd, but she looked like
what Mrs. Ragg had been, namely, a laundress in the temple.
"Curses," he muttered.
Johanna entered the shop. Todd caught up his hat.
"Charley?"
"Yes, sir."
"I shall be gone five minutes. Be vigilant. If any one should come, you
can say I have stepped a few doors off to trim Mr. Pentwheezle's
whiskers."
"Yes, sir."
Todd darted from the shop. Mrs. Ragg and her friend were in that deep
and earnest course that is a foe to rapid locomotion, so they had not
got many yards from Todd's door. He was rarely seen, however, for either
to--
"Paint a moral or adorn a tale"
Mrs. Ragg turned suddenly and pointed to the shop, and then both the
ladies lifted up their hands as though in horror, after which they
resumed their deep and all-absorbing discourse as before. Todd followed
them closely, and yet with abundance of caution.
CHAPTER LXXX.
TODD TAKES A JOURNEY TO THE TEMPLE.
The two females took their way to the Temple. Todd had been quite right
in his conjectures. The friend of Mrs. Ragg was one of the old
compatriots of the laundress tribe; and that good lady herself,
although, while there was no temptation to do otherwise, she had kept
well the secret of her son's residence at Colonel Jeffery's, broke down
like a frail and weak vessel as she was with the weight of the secret
the moment she got into a gossip with an old friend. Now Mrs. Ragg had
only come into that neighbourhood upon some little errand of her own,
and with a positive promise of returning to the colonel's house as soon
as possible. She would have kept this promise, but that amid the
purlieus of Fetter-lane she encountered Martha Jones her old
acquaintance. One word begot another, and at last as they walked up
Fleet-street, Mrs. Ragg could not help, with many head-shakings and
muttered interjectional phrases, letting Martha Jones know that she had
a secret. Nay, as she passed Todd's shop, she could not help intimating
that she fully believed certain persons, not a hundred miles off, who
might be barbers or who might not, would some day come to a bad end in
front of Newgate, in the Old Bailey. It was at this insinuation that
Martha Jones lifted up her hands, and Mrs. Ragg lifted up hers in
sympathy. Todd had seen this action upon the part of the ladies. To
overhear what they were saying was to Todd a great object. That it in
some measure concerned him he could not for a moment doubt, since the
head-shaking and hand-uplifting reference that had been made to his shop
by them both as they passed, could not mean anything else. And so, as we
have said, he followed them cautiously, dodging behind bulky passengers,
so that they should not see him by any sudden glance backwards. One
corpulent old lady served him for a shield half up Fleet Street, until,
indeed, she turned into a religious bookseller's shop, and left him
nothing but thin passengers to interfere between him and the possibility
of observation. But Mrs. Ragg and her friend Martha Jones were much too
fully engaged to look behind them. In due course, they arrived opposite
to the Temple; and then, after much flurrying, in consequence of real
and supposed danger from the passing vehicles, they got across the way.
They at once dived into the recesses of the legally-learned Temple. Todd
dashed after them.
"Now, my dear Mrs. Ragg," said Martha Jones, "you must not say No. It's
got a beautiful head upon it, and will do you good."
"No--no. Really."
"Like cream."
"But, really, I--I--"
"Come, come, it ain't often you is in the Temple, and I knew very well
he don't miss a bottle now and then; and 'twix you and me and the pump,
I think we has as much a right to that beautiful bottled ale as Mr.
Juggas has, for I'd take my bible oath, he don't mean to pay for it,
Mrs. Ragg."
"You don't say so?"
"Yes, I does, Mrs. Ragg. Oh, he's a bad 'un, he is. Ah, Mrs. Ragg, you
don't know, nor nobody else, what takes place in his chambers of a
night."
"Is it possible?"
"Yes. I often say to myself what universal profundity he must be
possessed with, for he was once intended, he says, for the church, and I
heard him say he'd have stuck to it like bricks, if he could have heard
of any church that was intended for him."
"Shocking!"
"Yes, Mrs. Ragg. There's profundity for you."
Did Martha Jones mean profanity?
"Ah," interposed Mrs. Ragg, "we live in a world."
"Yes, Mrs. Ragg, we does; but as you was a saying?"
"Eh?"
"As you was a saying about somebody being hung, if rights was rights,
you know."
"Oh, dear, really you must not ask me. Indeed you must not."
"Well, I won't; but here we are, in Pump Court."
Todd darted into a door-way, and watched them up the staircase of No. 6,
in that highly classic locality. He slunk into the door-way, and by
taking a perspective glance up the staircase, he saw them stop upon the
first floor. He saw that they turned to the right. He darted up a few
stairs, and just caught sight of a black door. Then there was a sharp
sound, as of some small latch closing suddenly, after which all was
still. Todd ascended the stairs.
"Curses on them!" he muttered. "What can they mean by looking in such a
manner at my shop? I thought the last time I saw that woman, Ragg, that
she was cognizant of something. If now she, in her babbling, would give
me any news of Tobias--Pho! he is--he must be dead."
By this time Todd had got to the top of the first flight of stairs, and
stood upon the landing, close to several open doors--that is to say,
outer black heavy-looking doors--and within them were smaller ones,
armed with knockers.
"To the right," he muttered. "They went to the right--this must be the
door."
He paused at one and listened. Not a sound met his ears, and his
impatience began to get extreme. That these two women were going to have
a conference about him he fully believed; and that he should be so near
at hand, and yet not near enough to listen to it, was indeed galling. In
a few moments it became insupportable.
"I must and will know what they mean," he said. "My threats may wring
the truth from them; and if necessary, I should not scruple to silence
them both. Dead men tell no tales, so goes the proverb, and it applies
equally well to dead women."
Todd smiled. He was always fond of a conceit.
"Yes," he muttered, "every circumstance says to me now in audible
language, 'Go--go--go!' and go I will, far away from England. I feel
that I have not now many hours to spare. This _fracas_ with Mrs. Lovett
expedites my departure wonderfully, and to-morrow's dawn shall not see
me in London. But I will--I must ascertain what these women are about.
Yes, and I will do so at all risks."
A glance showed him that the act of temerity was a safe one. The door
opened upon a dingy sort of passage, in which were some mops, pails, and
brooms. At its further extremity there was another door, but it was not
quite shut, and from the room into which it opened, came the murmer of
voices. There were other doors right and left, but Todd heeded only that
one which conducted to the room inhabited. He crept along the passage at
a snail's pace; and then having achieved a station exactly outside the
door, he placed one of his hands behind one of his elephantine-looking
ears, and while his countenance looked like that of some malignant
demon, he listened to what was going on within that apartment. Martha
Jones was speaking.
[Illustration: Todd Listens And Learns A Dangerous Secret.]
"It is good, indeed, Mrs. Ragg, as you may well say, and the glasses
sticks to the table, when they is left over-night, showing, as Mr.
Juggus says, as it's a gluetenious quality this ale is."
"Sticks to the table?" said Mrs. Ragg.
"Yes, mum, sticks. But as you was a saying?"
"Well, Martha, in course I know that what goes to you goes no farther."
"Not a step."
"And you won't mention it to no one?"
"Not a soul. Another glass?"
"No, no."
"Only one. Nonsense! it don't get into your head. It's as harmless as
milk, Mr. Juggus says."
"But ain't you afeard, Martha, he may come in?"
"Not he, Mrs. Ragg. Chambers won't see him agin till night. Oh, he's a
shocking young man. Well, Mrs. Ragg, as you was a saying?"
"Well, it is good. As I was a saying, Martha, I don't feel uneasy now
about Tobias, poor boy; for if ever a poor lad, as was a orphan in a
half-and-half kind of way, seeing that I am his natural mother, and
living, and thanking God for the same, and health, leastways, as far as
it goes at this present moment of speakin, I--I--Bless me, where was I?"
"At Tobias."
"Oh, yes, I was at Tobias. As I was saying, if ever a poor body was well
provided for, Tobias is. The colonel--"
"The who?"
"The colonel, Martha--the colonel as has took the care of him, and who,
sooner or later, will have all the truth out of him about the _Toddey
Sween_."
"Who? Who?"
"Bless my poor head, I mean Sweeney Todd. Dear me, what am I thinking
of?"
"The barber?"
"Yes, Martha; that horrid barber in Fleet-street; and between you and
me, there isn't in all the mortal world a more horrid wretch living than
he is."
"I'm all of a shake."
"He--he--"
"Yes, yes. What--"
"He takes folks in and does for 'em."
"Kills 'em?"
"Kills 'em."
"What--why--what--? You don't mean to say--why--? Take another glass
Mrs. Ragg. You don't mean to say that Tobias says, that Todd the barber
is a murderer?--My dear Mrs. Ragg, take another glass, and tell us all
about it; only look at the cream on the top of it."
"You'll excuse me, Mrs. Jones, but the truth is, I aught not to say more
than I have said; and if the colonel only knew I'd said as much, I can
tell you, I think he'd be like a roaring lion. But Tobias is quite a
gentleman now, you see, and sleeps in as fine a bed as a nobleman could
have for love or money. The colonel is very good to him; and there never
was such a kind good--good--."
Mrs. Ragg began to run over with tears of ale.
"Bless me, and where does he live?"
"Who?"
"The colonel. The good, kind, colonel--colonel--a--a dear me, I forget
what you said his name was."
"Jeffery, and may his end be peace. He will get the reward of all his
good actions in another world than this, Martha. Ah, Martha, such men as
he can afford to smile at their latter ends.--No--no, I couldn't."
"Only half a glass; look at the--"
"No--no--"
"Cream on it."
"I must go, indeed. In course the colonel, since I have been his cook,
knows what cooking is, for though I say it, perhaps as should not, I am
a cook, and not a spiler of folks' victuals. Of course what's said, goes
no further. I know I can trust you, Martha."
"Oh dear, yes, in course. I'll just put on my shawl and walk a little
way with you, Mrs. Ragg. Dear me--dear me!"
"What is it, Martha?"
"Its a raining like cats and dogs, it is. Well, I never; what shall you
do, Mrs. Ragg? What shall you do?"
"Call a coach, I shall, Martha. The last words the colonel said to me
was, 'Mrs. Ragg, rather than there should be any delay in your return,'
says he, 'as Tobias may want you, call a coach, and I will pay for it.'"
Todd had only just time to dart down the staircase before the two ladies
made their appearance; and then hiding sometimes in doorways, and
sometimes behind columns and corners, he dodged them into Fleet-street.
A coach was duly called, and Mrs. Ragg by the assistance of Martha
Jones, was safely bestowed inside it. Todd heard distinctly the
colonel's address given to the coachman, who would have it twice over,
so that he should be sure he had it all right.
"That will do," said Todd.
He darted across the street, and made the best of his way to his shop
again. He listened at the door for a few moments before he entered, and
he thought he heard the sound of weeping. He listened more attentively,
and then he was sure. Some one was sobbing bitterly within the shop.
"It must be Charley," thought Todd.
He placed his ear quite close to the panel of the door, in the hope that
the boy would speak. Todd was quite an adept at listening, but this time
he was disappointed, for the sham Charley Green spoke not one word. Yet
the deep sobs continued. Todd was not in the best of tempers. He could
stand the delay no longer, and bouncing into the shop, he cried--
"What the devil is the meaning of all this? What is the meaning of it,
you young rascal? I suspect--"
"Yes, sir," said Johanna, looking Todd full in the face, "and so do I."
"You--you? suspect what?"
"That I shall have to have it out, for its aching distracts me. Did you
ever have the tooth-ache, sir?"
"The tooth-ache?"
"Yes, sir. It's--it's worse than the heart-ache, and that I have had."
"Ah!--humph! Any one been?"
"One gentleman, sir, to be shaved; he says he will call again."
"Very good--very good."
Todd took from his pocket the key of the back-parlour--that key without
which in his own possession he never left the shop; and then, after
casting upon Johanna a somewhat sinister and threatening look, he
muttered to himself--
"I suspect that boy. If he refuse to come into the parlour, I will cut
his throat in the shop; but if he come in I shall be better satisfied.
Charley? Come here."
"Yes, sir," said Johanna, and she walked boldly into the parlour.
"Shut the door."
She closed it.
"Humph," said Todd. "It is no matter. I will call you again when I want
you."
CHAPTER LXXXI.
JOHANNA IS ENCOURAGED.
Was Todd satisfied with Johanna's excuse about the toothache? Was he
satisfied of the good foible of the supposed Charley Green, by the
readiness with which she had come into the parlour? We shall see. If he
were not satisfied, he was staggered in his suspicions sufficiently to
delay--and delay just then was to Sweeney Todd--one of the most fatal
things that could be imagined. There are crumbs of consolation under all
circumstances. When Johanna was best sent out of the shop, upon the
occasion of the visit of Mrs. Lovett to Todd, she had scarcely got a
half dozen steps from the door of the barber's, when a man in passing
her, and without pausing a moment, said--
"Miss Oakley, be so good as to follow me."
Johanna at once obeyed the mandate. The man walked rapidly on until a
fruiterer's shop was gained, into which he at once walked.
"Mr. Oston," he said to a man behind the counter, "is your parlour
vacant?"
"Yes, Sir Richard, and quite at your service," said the fruiterer.
By this Johanna found that she had made no mistake, and that the person
she had followed was no other than Sir Richard Blunt, the magistrate,
who was interesting himself so much for her safety, as well as for the
discovery of what had befallen Mark Ingestrie. The fruiterer's parlour
was a prettily fitted up place, where a couple of lovers might in a very
romantic manner, if they chose, eat strawberries and cream, and quite
enjoy each other's blissful society, in whispered nothing the while. Sir
Richard handed Johanna a seat as he said--"Miss Oakley, I am very much
pleased, indeed, to have this opportunity of seeing you, and of saying a
few words to you."
"Ah, Sir, how much do I owe you."
"Nay, Miss Oakley, you owe me nothing. When once I happily become aware
of your situation, it becomes my duty as well as my inclination to
protect you in every way against what, I am sure you will forgive me,
for calling your rashness."
"Call it what you will, sir."
"Well, Miss Oakley, we will dismiss that part of the subject. Are you
going upon any errand, or have you a little time to spare."
"I have some time."
"Then it is a very proper thing that you should enjoy it in taking some
proper refreshment."
"I want nothing."
"Nay, but you shall have something whether you want it or not, before I
say any more to you about Todd and his affairs."
Johanna, whose mental excitement had prevented her completely from
feeling the amount of exhaustion, which otherwise must by that time have
come over her, would still have protested that she wanted nothing, but
Sir Richard Blunt opened the door of the parlour, and called out--
"Mr. Orton, is your daughter at home?"
"Yes, Sir Richard, Ann is up stairs."
"Very good. My young friend here can find the way, I dare say. Is it the
first floor?"
"Yes, don't you hear her practising upon her spinet."
The tinkling sounds of a spinet, then all the fashion; came upon their
ears, and Sir Richard, said to Johanna--
"Go up stairs, now, to that young lady. She is about your own age, and
her father's housekeeper. She will find you something to eat and drink,
and then come down to me, as soon as you can."
Sir Richard nodded to Mr. Orton, who nodded in return, and then Johanna
seeing that it was all right, ascended the staircase, and guided by the
sound of the spinet, soon found herself in a tolerably handsome room,
upon the first floor.
A young girl with a profusion of chesnut curls hanging down her back,
was seated at the spinet. Johanna made up to her at once, and throwing
her arms round her neck, said--
"And will you say a kind word to me?"
The girl gave a slight scream, and rose.
"Well, I'm sure, you impertinant--handsome--"
"Girl," said Johanna.
"Boy," faltered Miss Orton.
"No, girl," added Johanna. "Your father sent me to you, and Sir Richard
Blunt suggested it. Shall I leave you again."
"Oh, no--no," said Ann Orton, as she sprang towards Johanna, and kissed
her on both cheeks, "you are Miss Johanna Oakley."
"How is it that you know me?"
"My father is an old friend of Sir Richard's, and he has told us all
your story. How truly delighted I am to see you. And so you have escaped
from that odious Todd, and--"
"Immediate refreshment, my dear, and all the attention you can cram into
a very short space of time to Miss Oakley, my dear," said Mr. Orton,
just putting his head so far into the room as to make himself plainly
and distinctly heard.
"Yes, father, yes."
"How kind you all are," said Johanna.
"No--no--at least we wish to be, but what I mean is that we are no
kinder than we ought to be. My father is so good, I have no mother."
"And I, too, am motherless."
"Yes, I--I heard that Mrs. Oakley--"
"Lived, you would say; and yet am I motherless."
Johanna burst into tears. The sense of desolation that came over the
young girl's heart whenever she thought how little of a mother the
fanatical personage who owned that title was to her, generally overcame
all her firmness, as upon the present occasion. Ann flung her arms
around Johanna, and the two young creatures wept in unison. We will
leave them to their sacred intercourse.
* * * * *
Sir Richard Blunt remained in conversation with Mr. Orton for about a
quarter of an hour, and then both Johanna and Ann came down stairs.
Johanna looked calmer and happier. Ann had said some kind things to
her--such as none but a young girl can say to a young girl.
"I am ready," said Johanna.
"Ready for what?" enquired Sir Richard Blunt, with a look of earnest
affection in the face of the beautiful heroine--for if ever there were a
heroine, we really think Johanna Oakley was one, and we are quite sure
that you agree with us.
"For my mission," said Johanna, "I am ready."
"And can you really find courage to go again to that--that--"
Sir Richard could not find a fitting name for Todd's home, but Johanna
understood him, and she replied gently--
"I may not pause now. It is my duty."
"Your duty?"
"Yes. Oh, Mark--Mark, I cannot restore you from the dead, but in the
sacred cause of justice I may bring your murderer to the light of day.
It is my duty to do so much for your memory."
Ann turned aside to hide her tears. Mr. Orton, too, was much affected,
and there was an unwonted jar, as though some false note had had been
struck in voice of Sir Richard Blunt as he spoke, saying--
"Miss Oakley, I will not--I cannot deny that by your going back to
Todd's house, you may materially assist in the cause of justice. But yet
I advise you not to do so."
"I know you are all careful of my safety, while I--"
"Ah, Johanna," said Ann, "you do not know yet that you are so desolate
as to wish to die."
"Yes, yes--I am desolate."
"And so," added Sir Richard, "because you loved one who has been,
according to your judgment upon the circumstances that have come to your
knowledge, torn from you by death, you will admit no other ties which
could bind you to the world. Is that right? Is it like you?"
The tones of voice in which these words were uttered, as well as the
sentiment embodied in them, sunk deeply into Johanna's heart. Clasping
her hands together, she cried--
"Oh, no, no! Do no think me so inhuman. Do not think me so very
ungrateful."
"Had you forgotten, Arabella Wilmot? Had you forgotten your father? Nay,
had you forgotten the brave Colonel Jeffery?"
"No, no! I ought not to forget any, when so many have so kindly
remembered me, and you too, sir, I ought not, and will not forget you,
for you have been a kind friend to me."
"Nay, I am nothing."
"Seek not, sir, to disparage what you have done, you have been all
kindness to me."
Before he was aware of what she was about, Johanna had seized the hand
of Sir Richard Blunt, and for one brief moment touched it with her lips.
The good magistrate was sensibly affected.
"God bless me!" said Mr. Orton, "something very big keeps blocking up
the whole of my window."
They all looked, and as they were silent at that moment, they heard a
voice from the street, say--
"Come! Come, my dear! Don't set the water-works a-going. Always
remember, that easy does it. You come in here, and have something to
eat, if you won't go home. Lor bless me! what will they think has become
of me at the tower?"
"Why, it is Ben!" cried Johanna.
"Ben?" said Ann. "Who is Ben?"
"Hush! Stop," said Sir Richard, "I pray you, stop."
Johanna would have rushed out to speak to Ben, who certainly was at the
window of the fruiterer's shop, with Arabella Wilmot upon his arm,
endeavouring to persuade her to enter, and partake of some refreshment.
"I will bring him in," said Sir Richard. "Retire into the parlour, I beg
of you, Miss Oakley, for he will make quite a scene in the shop if you
do not."
Johanna knew well Ben's affection for her, and doubted not, but that as
Sir Richard said, he would not scruple to show it, even in the open
shop, probably to the great edification of the passers by. She
accordingly retired to the parlour with Ann. In a few moments, Sir
Richard Blunt ushered in both Ben and Arabella Wilmot. Arabella with a
shriek of joy, rushed into Johanna's arms, and then with excess of
emotion she fainted. Ben caught up Johanna fairly off her feet, as
though he had been dancing some little child, and holding her in a
sitting posture upon one arm, he said--
"Bless you! Easy does it. Easy I say--does--it. Don't you think I'm a
crying. It's a tea-chest has flew in my eye from that grocer's shop
opposite. Oh, you little rogue, you. Easy does it. What you have got
them what do you call 'ems on, have you?"
The kiss that Ben gave her might have been heard at Sweeney Todd's, and
then when prevailed upon to sit down, he would insist upon holding her
fast upon his knee.
"I must go," said Johanna, and then looking at Arabella, she added--"Let
me go, before she awakens from her transient forgetfulness to beg me to
stay."
Ben was furious at the idea of Johanna going back to Todd's, but Sir
Richard, overruled him, and after some trouble, got him to consent. Then
turning to Johanna, he said--
"The moment night comes on, you will have some visitors, and remember,
Miss Oakley, that St. Dunstan's is the watch-word. Whoever comes to you
with that in his mouth, is a friend."
"I will remember, and now farewell and God bless and reward you for all
your goodness to me. I will live for the many who love me yet, and whom
I love in this world."
* * * * *
Was it not a world of wonders that amid all this, Johanna did not go
mad? Surely something more than mortal strength must have sustained that
young and innocent girl in the midst of all these strange events. No
human power that she possessed, could have possibly prevented her mind
from sinking, and the hideous fascinations of an overcharged fancy from
breeding
"Rude riot in her brain."
But there was a power who supported her--a power which from the
commencement of the world has supported many--a power which while the
world continues, will support many more, strengthening the weak and
trampling on the strong. The power of love in all the magic of its deep
and full intensity. Yes, this was the power which armed that frail and
delicate-looking girl with strength to cope with such a man--man shall
we call him? no, we may say such a fiend as Sweeney Todd. If it required
no small amount of moral courage to go in the first instance upon that
expedition--so fraught with danger, to Todd's shop--what did it require
now to enable her to return after having passed through much peril, and
tasting the sweets of friendship and sympathy? Surely any heart but
Johanna's must have shrunk aghast from ever again even in thought,
approaching that dreadful place. And yet she went. Yes upon her mission
of justice she went. To be sure, she was told that as far as human means
went, she would be upheld and supported from those without; but what
could that assure to her further than that if she fell she should not
fall unavenged? Truly, if some higher, some far nobler impulse than that
derived from any consciousness that she was looked after, had not
strengthened her, the girl's spirit, must have sunk beneath the weight
of many terrors. With a sad smile she once again crossed the threshold
of that house, which she now no longer suspected to be the murderer's
haunt. She knew it.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
TODD PLANS.
How she sped with Todd we are already aware. Let us take a peep at the
arch-demon in that parlour, which he considered his sanctuary, his city
of refuge as it were. At least Todd considered it to be such, whether it
was or not. He sits at a table, the table beneath which there was no
floor, and covering up his face with his huge hands, he sets about
thinking. Yes, that man now abandons himself to thought, as to how he
is, with a blaze of wickedness, to disappear from the scene of his
iniquities. It was not remorse that now filled his brain. It was not any
feeling of bitter heart-felt regret for what he had done that oppressed
him now. No such feeling might possibly find a home in his heart at the
hour of success, but now when he saw and felt that he was surrounded by
many difficulties, it had no home in his brain. But yet he thought that
they were only difficulties that now surrounded; he did not as yet dream
of positive danger. He still reasoned, as you have heard him reason
before, namely, that if anything beyond mere suspicion were entertained
regarding his mode of life, he would be at once apprehended. He thought
that somebody--most likely Colonel Jeffery--was trying to find out
something, and the fact that he, Todd, was there in his own parlour, a
free man, appeared to him proof-sufficient that nothing was found out.
"How fallacious!"
If he had but known that he was virtually in custody even then, as he,
indeed, really was, for Fleet-street was alive with officers and the
emissaries of the police. If he had but guessed so much for a moment
what a wild tumult would have been raised in his brain. But he knew
nothing and suspected little. After a time from generalizing upon his
condition, Todd began to be particular, and then he laid down, as it
were, one proposition or fact which he intended should be the groundwork
of all in other proceedings. That proposition was contained in the
words--
"Before the dawn of to-morrow I must be off!" "That's settled," said
Todd, and he gave the table a blow with his hand. "Yes, that's settled."
The table creaked ominously, and Todd rose to peep into the shop to see
what his boy was doing. Charley Green, alias, Johanna Oakley, was
sitting upon a low stool reading a bill that some one had thrown into
the shop, and which detailed the merits of some merchandize. How far
away from the contents of that bill which she held before her face, were
her thoughts?
"Good," said Todd. "That boy, at all events, suspects nothing, and yet
his death is one of the things which had better not be left to chance.
He shall fall in the general way of this place. What proper feeling
errand-boy would wish to survive his master's absence. Ha!"
Of late Todd had not been very profuse in his laughs, but now he came
out with one quite of the old sort.
The sound startled himself, and he retired to the table again.
By the dim light he opened a desk and supplied himself with writing
materials; the twilight was creeping on, and he could only just see.
Spreading a piece of paper before him, he proceeded to make a memoranda
of what he had to do.
It was no bad plan this of Todd's, and the paper, when it was finished
was quite a curiosity in its way.
It ran thus--
_Mem._--To go to Colonel Jeffery's, and by some means get into the house
and murder Tobias.
_Mem._--To pack off goods to the wharf where the Hamburg vessel, called
the Dianna, sails from.
_Mem._--To arrange combustibles for setting fire to the house.
_Mem._--To cut Charley Green's throat, if any suspicion arise--if not to
let him be smothered in the fire.
_Mem._--To have a letter ready to post to Sir Richard Blunt, the
magistrate, accusing Mrs. Lovett of her own crimes, and mine likewise.
"I think that is all," said Todd.
He folded the paper and placed it in his bosom, after which he came out
of the parlour into the shop, and called to Johanna.
"Charles?"
"Yes, sir."
"Go to the market, and get me a couple of stout porter--I want something
carried a short distance."
"Yes, sir."
Away went Johanna, but before she got half way down to Fleet Market she
met Sir Richard, who said--
"What is it?"
"He wants a couple of porters to carry something."
"Very well, get them. Depend upon me."
"I do, sir. I feel now in good heart to go through with anything, for
you are near to me, and I know that I am safe."
"You are safe. It will need to be some very extraordinary circumstances,
indeed, that could compromise you. But go at once for these porters; I,
and my men will take good care to find where they go to."
There was no difficulty in finding parties in abundance at the end of
Fleet Market, and Johanna speedily returned, followed by two sturdy
fellows. Todd had quite a smile upon his face, as he received them.
"This way," he said--"This way. I hope you have been lucky to day, and
have had plenty of work."
"No, master," said one, "we haven't, I'm sorry to say."
"Indeed," added Todd. "Well, I am very glad I have a little job for you.
You see these two little boxes. You can carry one each of you, and I
will go with you and show you where to."
One of the porters raised one of the boxes, and then he gave a long
whistle, as he said--
"I say, master is there penny pieces or paving stones in this here, its
deuced heavy, that it is."
"And so is this, Bill," said the other. "Oh, my eyes ain't it. There
must be a quarter of a pound of goose feathers in here."
"Ha! ha!" said Todd, "How funny you both are."
"Funny?"
"Yes, to be sure, but come. This will put strength into you if you had
none before."
He took a bottle and glass from a cupboard, and gave each of the men a
full measure of such frightfully strong spirits, that they winked again,
and the tears came into their eyes, as they drank it.
"Now shoulder the little boxes, and come along," he said, "and I tell
you what I'll do. If you step in here in the evening, and I should
happen to be at home, I'll give each of you a shave for nothing, and
polish you off in such a manner, that you will recollect it as long you
live."
"Thank you, master--thank you. We'll come."
One of the porters helped his companion with the chest on to his back
and head, and Todd then lent a helping hand with the other.
"Charley," he said. "I shall be back in a quarter of an hour."
Away he went, preceding the porter by some half dozen steps only, but
yet ever and anon keeping a wary eye upon the two chests, which
contained cash, and jewels, sufficient to found a little kingdom. If he
got clear off with those two chests only, he felt that he would not give
himself much uneasiness about what was left behind. But was Todd going
to trust these two porters from out his own immediate neighbourhood,
with the secret of the destination of the boxes? No. He was by far too
crafty for that. After proceeding some distance, he took them round the
unfrequented side of St. Paul's Church yard, and stopping suddenly at
the door of a house that was to let, he said--
"This will do."
"In here, master."
"This will do. Put them down."
The porters complied, and Todd set down upon one of the boxes, as he
said--
"How much?"
"A shilling each of us, master."
"There's double the money, and now be off, both of you, about your
business."
The porters were rather surprised, but as they considered themselves
sufficiently paid, they made no objection, and walked off with
considerable alacrity, leaving Todd, and his treasure in the street.
"Now for a coach," he muttered. "Now for a coach. Here boy"--to a ragged
boy who was creeping on at some short distance. "Earn a penny by
fetching me a coach directly."
The boy darted off, and in a very few minutes brought Todd a hackney
coach. The boxes, too, were got upon it by the united efforts of Todd,
the coachman, and the boy, and then, and not till then did Todd give the
correct address of the wharf in Thames Street from which the Hamburg
ship was going, and in which he fully intended to embark that night. The
ship was advertised to sail at the turn of the tide, which would be
about four o'clock in the morning. All this did not take long to do. The
coach rumbled along Thames Street, but Todd was not aware that Mr.
Crotchet had got up behind the vehicle, but such was the fact, and when
the lumbering old machine stopped at the wharf, that gentleman got down,
and felt quite satisfied with the discovery he had made. "He's a trying
of it on," soliloquised Mr. Crotchet in the bolting line, "but it ain't
no manner of a go. He'll swing, and he can't help it, if he were to book
himself to the moon, and there was a coach or a ship as went all the
way, and no stoppages."
"_Mem_," said Todd to himself. "To go to Colonel Jeffery's and murder
Tobias--Ha!"
"Lor!" said the coachman, "was that you, sir?"
"What do you mean?"
"Why as made that horrid sort of noise."
"Mind your business, my friend, and tell me if you can take me quickly
to Islington, for I have no time to lose."
"Like the wind, sir, you can go with these here _osses_," replied the
coachman, "did you ever see sich bits o' blood, sir, one on 'ems blind,
and' t'other on 'em is deaf, which is advantages as you don't get in one
pair."
"Advantages?"
"Lor bless you, yes, sir. The blind 'un goes unknown quick, cos you
sees, sir, he thinks he's only in some dark place, and in course he
wants to get out on it as soon as he can."
"Indeed?"
"Yes, sir, and the deaf 'un, he goes quick too, cos as he hears nothink,
he thinks as there never was sich a quiet place as he's go's, and he
does it out o' feeling and gratitude, sir, yer sees."
"Be quick then, and charge your own price."
Todd sprang into the vehicle, and stimulated by the idea of charging his
own price, the coachman certainly did make the bits of blood do wonders,
and in quite an incredibly short space of time, Todd found himself in
the immediate neighbourhood of the Colonel's house. It was now getting
dark, but that was what he wished. He dismissed the coach, and took from
the angle of a wall, near at hand, a long and earnest look at the
Colonel's house, and as he did so dark and hideous thoughts concerning
Tobias passed through his mind.
CHAPTER LXXXII.
TODD VISITS THE COLONEL
"Well, Tobias," said Colonel Jeffery, as he entered the pretty, cheerful
room into which the now convalescent boy had been removed. "Well,
Tobias, how are you now?"
"Much better, sir. Oh, sir,--I--I--"
"What would you say?"
"I feel that when I see you, sir, I ought to say so much to convince you
of how truly, and deeply grateful I am to you, and yet I can scarcely
ever say a word about it. I pray for your happiness, sir, indeed I do.
Your name and my mother's, and--and Minna Gray's, are always uttered to
God by me."
"Now, Tobias," said Colonel Jeffery gravely. "I am quite satisfied that
as regards all that has passed, you feel as you ought to feel, and for
my own part, I beg you to feel and to know that your saying anything
about it only distresses me."
"Distresses you, sir?"
"Yes, it does, indeed. I see your eyes are upon the door. You expect
Minna, to day, I am sure."
"Yes, sir,--she--she--my mother was to bring her, sir."
A ringing at a bell now came upon Tobias's ear, and his colour went and
came fitfully.
"You are still very weak, my poor boy," said the colonel, "but you are
certainly much improved. Do you feel any confusion in your head now?"
"None at all, only when I think of Todd suddenly, ever it makes me feel
cold and sick, and something seems to rush through my heart."
"Oh, that will go away. That is nothing. There, I will draw up the blind
for you. The evening is coming, and the sky is overclouded. You can see
better now, and there is one coming whom I know you wish to lose no
sight of."
"I hear her foot upon the stairs," said Tobias.
"Do you?--It is more than I do."
"Ah, sir, the senses are sharpened, I think, by illness."
"Not so much as by love. Tobias! do you hear her footstep now?"
"Yes, and it is like music."
He had his head on one side in an attitude of listening; and then with
joy sparkling from every feature of his face, he spoke again--
"She comes--she comes. Ah, she comes fast. My own--my beautiful. She
come--she comes."
"This is real love," said the colonel, and he stepped from the room.
Nearly on the landing at the head of the stairs, he met Minna Gray.
"Welcome," he said as he held out his hand to her. "You will find your
young friend up and much better."
Minna could only look her thanks. Mrs. Ragg was following her, and as
the ascent of stairs was always rather a task to that good Lady, she was
making a noise like a stranded grampus in breathing.
"Ah, colonel," she said, "young legs get up stairs faster than old ones,
sir, as you see. Well--well, there was a time when first I knew poor
dear Ragg, who is of course dead and gone, quite premature."
"Exactly, Mrs. Ragg," said the colonel, as he rapidly descended the
stairs.
"Did you ever, my dear, know such a strange man?" said Mrs. Ragg to
Minna.
"Who?"
"The colonel, to be sure. So soon as I begin to tell him any little what
do you call it. No it ain't _nannygoat_--that's ridiculous.
It's--it's--what is it?"
"Anecdote do you mean, Mrs. Ragg?"
"Yes, to be sure. Well, as I was a saying, no sooner do I begin telling
him a little nannygoat--no, I mean anecdote, than off he is like a
shot."
Minna smiled to herself, and she was far from wondering that the colonel
was off like a shot, for well she knew, that when Mrs. Ragg did begin
anything concerning the late Mr. Ragg, it usually lasted three quarters
of an hour at the very least.
"Minna, Minna!" called Tobias.
"I am here, Tobias."
In another moment she was in the room. Truly it was a pleasant thing to
see the face of Tobias, when, his sunshine, as he called Minna, came
close to him, and in her soft voice asked him if he was better.
"Don't mind me," said Mrs. Ragg, "I am going to darn a stocking or two.
that's all. Just say what you both like. Young folks will be young
folks. Bless me, I recollect just as if it were only yesterday, when I
used to speak to poor departed Mr. Ragg, who is, premature, dead and
gone, in a manner of speaking. Ah, dear me! How the world goes round and
round--round and round, continually."
Tobias and Minna were so well accustomed to the garrulity of Mrs. Ragg,
and so well aware that she required no answer, that they let her talk
on, and did not mind her, as she requested they would not; and so the
evening grew apace, and the light gradually began to wane, as those two
young loving hearts spoke together of the future, and indulged in that
day dream of happiness which can only belong to youth and love.
* * * * *
Todd is skulking round the angle of the garden wall, from which he can
get a view of the colonel's house, and yet not be seen himself.
The more he looked the more the desire grew upon him, notwithstanding
the immense risk he ran of personal detection, by so doing, to get into
the house, and finish the career of poor Tobias. He would have had no
particular objection rather to have taken the life of Mrs. Ragg, if it
could be easily and comfortably done.
It has been said that there are folks in the world who never forgive any
one for doing them a kindness; and such paradoxical views of human
nature have been attempted to be laid down as truths; but whether this
be so or not, is still to be proved, although it is certain that nothing
stirs the evil passions of men who will inflict injury upon the
innocent, as to find themselves baffled in their villany. From that
moment the matter becomes a personal affair of vengeance.
Hence, since Todd had become thoroughly aware that Tobias had escaped
from the death he had intended for him at the mad-house, his rage
against the boy knew no bounds.
Indeed, the reader will conclude that it must have been a feeling of no
ordinary strength, that, at such a busy and ticklish time, would take
Todd to the colonel's house at all.
It was revenge--bitter, uncompromising revenge!
Now, you must know the colonel's house was one of those half-villa,
half-mansion-like residences, that are so common in the neighbourhood of
London. There was a kind of terrace in the front, and a garden with
flowering shrubs, that had a pretty enough appearance, and which at
night afforded abundance of shelter.
It was by this front garden that Todd hoped to reach the house.
When it was nearly dark, he slunk in, crouching down among the trees and
shrubs, and crawling along like a serpent as he was. He soon came to a
flight of stone steps that led to the kitchens.
By the time Todd had got thus far, some of her domestic duties had
called Mrs. Ragg to the lower part of the house. He saw by the
fire-light that some one was going about the kitchen, close to the foot
of the stone steps; but he could not exactly, by that dim and uncertain
radiance, take upon himself to say that it was Mrs. Ragg.
She soon lit a candle, though, and then all was clear. He saw the good
lady preparing divers lights for the upper rooms.
While Todd was half-way down the stone steps, peeping into the kitchen,
one of the other servants of the house came into that receptacle for
culinary articles, and commenced putting on a bonnet and shawl. Todd
could not hear one word of what was said by Mrs. Ragg and this young
woman who was getting ready to go out; but he saw them talk, and by
their manner he felt convinced that it was only upon ordinary topics.
If the young woman left the house by the steps upon which Todd was, and
which it was more than likely she would do, his situation would be
anything but a pleasant one, and discovery would be certain.
To obviate the chance of this, he stepped back, and crouched down in
among the shrubs in the garden.
He was not wrong in his conjectures, for in a few moments the servant,
who was going out, ascended the steps, and passed him so closely, that
by stretching out his hand, he could, if he had been so minded, have
touched her dress. In a short time she was out of ear-shot.
Todd emerged from his concealment again, and crept down the steps, and
once more peeped into the kitchen.
Mrs. Ragg was still busy with the candles.
He was just considering what he should do, when he heard the tramp of
horses' feet in the road above. He ascended sufficient of the steps to
enable himself to get a peep at what was going on. He saw a groom well
mounted, and leading another horse. Then no other than Colonel Jeffrey
himself, although he did not of his own knowledge, feel assured that it
was him, come out at the front door of the house and mounted.
"Now, William," said the colonel, "we must ride sharply."
"Yes, sir," said the groom.
Another moment and they were gone.
"This is lucky," said Todd. "It is not likely that there is any other
room in the house; and if not, I have the game in my own hands."
He crept down the remainder of the stone steps, and placed his ear quite
close to the kitchen window.
Mrs. Ragg was enjoying a little conversation to herself.
"Ah!" she said, "it's always the way--girls will be girls; but what I
blame her for is, that she don't ask the colonel's leave at once, and
say--'Sir, your _disorderly_ has won my _infections_, and may he come
here and take a cup of tea?'"
This was Greek to Todd.
"What is the old fool talking about," he muttered. "But I will soon give
her a subject that will last for her life."
He now arrived at the door of the kitchen. It was very unlikely to be
locked or otherwise fastened, so immediately after the young woman, who
had left the house, and passed so close to him, Todd. Yet he listened
for a few moments more, as Mrs. Ragg kept making observations to
herself.
"Listeners hear no good of themselves, says the proverb, and at all
events it was verified in this instance."
"_Lor' a mussy_," ejaculated Mrs. Ragg, "how my mind do run upon that
horrid old ugly monster of a Todd to day. Well, I do hope I shall never
look upon his frightful face again, and how awful he did squint, too.
Dear me, what did the colonel say he had with his vision--could it be--a
something _afixity_? No that isn't it."
"Obliquity!" said Todd, popping his head in at the kitchen door. "It was
obliquity, and if you scream or make the least alarm, I'll skin you, and
strew this kitchen with your mangled remains!"
Mrs. Ragg sank into a chair with a melo-dramatic groan, that would have
made her fortune over the water in domestic tragedy if she could have
done it so naturally. Todd kept his eye upon her. That basilisk-like
eye, which had fascinated the good woman often, and this time it acted
as a kind of spell, for truly might he have said, or rather might some
one have said for him,
"He held her with his glittering eye."
Todd's first care now was to get between Mrs. Ragg and the kitchen door,
lest upon some sudden impulse she should rise and flee. Then he folded
his arms, and looked at her calmly, and with such a devilish smile as
might have become Mephistopheles himself, while contemplating the ruin
of a soul. He took from his pocket a razor.
"Mercy," gasped Mrs. Ragg.
"Where is Tobias?"
[Illustration: Todd Horrifies Mrs. Ragg.]
"Up stairs. Back room, second floor, looking into the garden."
"Alone?"
"No, Minna Grey is with him."
"Listen to me. If you stir from here until I come to you again, I will
not only murder you, but Tobias likewise, and every one whom I meet with
in this house. You know me, and can come to some opinion as to whether
or not I am a man likely to keep my word. Remain where you are; move
not, speak not, and all will be well."
Mrs. Ragg slowly slid off her chair, and fell to the floor of the
kitchen, where she lay, in what seemed a swoon.
"That will do as well," said Todd as he glanced at her, "and yet as I
return." He made a movement with his hand across his throat to indicate
what he would do, and then feeling assured that he had little or,
indeed, no opposition to expect in the house, he left the kitchen, and
walked up stairs.
When he reached the top of the kitchen stairs he paused to listen. All
was very still in the house.
"'Tis well," he said "tis well. This deed of blood shall be done, and
long before it can be thought that it was I who struck the blow, I shall
be gone."
Alas! After passing through so much! After being persued in so almost a
miraculous manner from the murderous intentions of Todd, backed by the
cupidity of Fogg, and his subordinate Watson, was poor Tobias yet to die
a terrible death as a victim to the cruel passions of his relentless
persecutor? No, we will not yet believe that such is to be the fate of
poor honest Tobias, although at the present time, his prospects look
gloomy. Todd may, and no doubt has taken as worthy lives, but we will
hope that the hand of Providence will prevent him from taking this one.
He reached the landing of the first floor, and he paused to listen
again. He thought this time, that he heard the faint sound of voices
above, but he was not quite sure. Otherwise all was quiet. This was a
critical situation for Todd. If any one, who was a painter of pictures
or of morals had but seen him, Sweeney Todd, as he there stood, they
would no longer have doubted either that there was a devil, or that some
persons in this world, were actuated by a devilish fiend. He looked the
incarnate fiend!--the Mephistopheles of the imagination, such as he is
painted by the German enthusiast. His laugh too? Was not that satanic?
He set himself to listen to the voices that he heard in that quiet rooms
and the sounds, holy and full of affection as they were, awakened no
chord of answering feeling, in that bold, bad man's breast. He stood
apart from human nature, a solitary being. A wreck upon the ocean of
society
"None loving, and by none beloved."
Who would be Sweeney Todd, for all the wealth, real or fabled, of a
million Californias?
"He is here," he said, "I know his voice. Tobias is here. Ah! he
mentions the name of God. Ha! He is more fitting to go to that heaven he
can talk of so glibly, but there is none. There is none! No, no! all
that is a fable."
Of course Todd could not believe in a divinity of goodness and mercy. If
he had, what on earth could have saved him from absolute madness?