THE COOK BECOMES A VERY IMPORTANT PERSONAGE.
At this last declaration of Mrs. Lovett's late cook, regarding the
tender adieu that he and comfort had taken of each other, Sir Richard
Blunt only smiled faintly, and slightly inclined his hand as much as to
say--
"That is all very well, but I am waiting to hear your story, if you
please."
"Well, sir," added the cook. "You already know that I am not exactly
what I seem, and that my being in that most abominable woman's
employment as a cook, was one of those odd freaks of fortune, which will
at times detract the due order of society, and place people in the most
extraordinary positions."
"Exactly."
"I am, sir, an orphan, and was brought up by an uncle with every
expectation that he would be kind and liberal to me as I progressed in
years; but he had taken his own course and had made up his mind as to
what I was to be, how I was to look, and what I was to say and to do,
without asking himself the question, if nature was good enough to
coincide with him or not. The consequence was then, that directly he
found me very different from what he wished me to be, he was very angry
indeed, and then I put the finishing stroke to his displeasure, by
committing the greatest crime that in his eyes I could commit: I fell in
love."
"Humph!"
"Yes, sir, that was just what he said at first, when some officious
friend told of it, and sending for me he said--'You must give up all
love nonsense if you wish to preserve my favour,' upon which I
said--'Sir, did you never love?' 'That is not the question,' he said.
'It is of your follies now, not mine, that we are speaking,' and so he
turned me out of the room."
"And what did you do? Did you give up your love?"
"No, sir; if he had asked me to give up my life that would have been
much easier to me."
"Go on. What then happened?"
"Why, sir, my uncle and I met very seldom, but there was one upon my
track that he paid to follow me, and to report my actions to him; and
that spy--oh, that I had caught him! that spy made my uncle acquainted
with the fact, that I continued, despite his prohibition, to meet with
the only being who ever awakened in my bosom a tender feeling; and so I
was abandoned by my relative, and left penniless almost."
"But you had youth and health?"
"I had, and I resolved to make use of those advantages as best I might,
by endeavouring while they lasted, frail and fluttering possessions as
they are, to make a home for myself and for her whom I loved."
"The feeling, I presume, was reciprocal?"
"I thought so."
"Was it only a thought, then?"
"Alas! no. It was a certainty; and if an angel with wings fresh spread
from Heaven, and carrying upon them the soft light of an eternal world,
had come to me and told me that she would be false to me, I would not
have believed as much."
"And yet--"
"And yet, as you say, I have found her false. Well--well, Sir
Richard--let me proceed. The thought of her unmans me at moments, but in
time I may recover from such feelings."
"Most unquestionably you will; and then you will look to your present
condition of mind with such a smile of incredulity, and only a faint
faith in your own memory that paints you such feelings."
"I cannot say, sir, that it will not be so, but I do not think so. To
proceed, however. I heard that an expedition was about to start to
explore some rich islands in the Southern Sea. If successful, every one
who took part in it would be enriched; and if unsuccessful, I could not
lose my life in a better cause then in trying to make a happy home for
her whom I love. I at once embraced the proposition, and became one of
the adventurers, much against the inclination of the gentle girl whom I
loved, and who in imagination pictured to herself a thousand dangers as
involved in the enterprise."
"You went?"
"I did, and with every hope of returning in about a year an independent
man. I thought little of the perils I was about to encounter in my
voyage. I and the fair girl upon whom I had fixed my best hopes and
affections parted, after many tears and protestations of fidelity. I
kept my faith."
"And she?"
"Broke hers."
"As you think--as you think. You cannot be too cautious, my young
friend, in making assertions of that character."
"Cautious, sir? Am I to believe the evidence of my own eyes, or am I
not?"
"Not always," said Sir Richard Blunt, calmly. "But I pray you go on with
your narrative."
"I will. The principal object of the voyage failed entirely; but by pure
accident I got possession of a String of Pearls, of very great value
indeed, which, provided I could get home in safety, would value in
Europe quite a sufficient sum to enable us to live in comfort. But the
dangers of the deep assailed us. We were wrecked; and fully believing
that I should not survive, I handed the pearls to a stronger comrade,
and begged him to take them to her whom I had loved, to tell herself my
fate, and to bid her not weep for me, since I had died happy in the
thought that I had achieved something for her; and so, my friend and I
parted. I was preserved and got on board a merchant vessel bound for
England, where I arrived absolutely penniless. But I had a heart full of
hope and joy; for if I could but find my poor girl faithful to me, I
felt that we might yet be happy, whether my comrade had lived to bring
to her the pearls or not."
"And you found her?"
"You shall hear, sir. I walked from Southampton to London, subsisting on
the road as best I could. Sometimes I met with kind treatment at
farm-houses, and sometimes with quite the reverse, until at length I
reached London tolerably exhausted, as you may suppose, and in anything
but a good plight."
"Well, but you found your girl all right, I suppose?"
"No. I walked up the Strand; and as some of our happiest interviews had
taken place in the Temple Gardens, I could not resist turning aside for
a moment to look at the old familiar spot, when what do you think was
the sight that met my eyes?"
"I really can't say."
"I will tell you, sir. I saw her whom I loved--the young and beautiful
girl for whom I had gone through so much--the being upon whose faith and
constancy I would at any time have staked my life--the, as I thought,
most innocent, guileless creature upon the face of the earth--"
"Well, well, my good friend, what did you see this paragon of perfection
about?"
"You will not believe it, sir."
"Oh, yes, I shall--do not be afraid of that--I shall believe it. Your
narrative bears too much the stamp of truth about it for me to doubt it
for a moment. I pray you to go on."
"I will then. The first object that met my eyes in that Temple Garden
was the being whom I loved so fondly leaning upon the arm of a man in a
military undress--leaning, did I say, upon his arm? she was almost upon
his breast, and he was actually supporting her with one of his arms
round her waist."
"Well?"
"What, sir! Is that all you can say to it? Would you say 'Well?' if you
saw the only creature you ever loved in such a situation, sir? Well,
indeed!"
"My dear friend, do not get excited, now."
"Oh, sir, it would excite a stick or a stone."
"Excuse me, then, for having said 'Well,' and go on with your story.
What did she say to excuse herself to you?"
"'Tis well, sir--of course, I cannot expect others to feel as I do upon
such an occasion. I did not speak to her, sir. The sight of such perfidy
was enough for me. From that moment she fell from the height I had
raised her to in my imagination, and nothing she could say, and nothing
I could say, would raise her up again."
"And you, then, only walked away?"
"That is all. With such a pang at my heart at the moment as I wonder did
not kill me, I walked away, and left her to her own conclusions."
"Then--then, my young friend, you did the very reverse of what I should
have done, for you should have gone up to her, and politely taken leave
of her, so as to let her know at all events that you were aware of her
perfidy. I should not have been content to let her have the satisfaction
of thinking I was at the bottom of the sea while she was enjoying a
flirtation with her officer; but, of course, different people take
different courses upon emergencies. There is one thing, however, that I
wonder you did not inquire about."
"What was that?"
"Your String of Pearls. How could you tell but that your friend had got
to London, and had actually given her the Pearls with your message
appended to them? I really am surprised that you did not step forward
and say, 'Oblige me, miss, with my pearls, if you no longer favour me
with your affections!'"
"No, no. To tell the truth, I was too heart-broken at the time to care
about anything in all the world; I had lost her who was to me the
greatest jewel it had ever contained, and I cared for nothing else. I do
believe I was a little mad, for I walked about the rest of that day, not
knowing where I went to, and at last I found myself, tired, worn out,
famishing, opposite to Mrs. Lovett's shop-window, and the steam of those
abominable pies began to tempt me, so much that I went into the shop,
and after some talk, I actually accepted the situation of cook to her,
and there, but for you, I should have breathed my last."
"Not a doubt of it. And now, my young friend, you know that I am a
police-magistrate, and I dare say you have heard a great deal about my
sources of information, and the odd way in which I find out things when
folks think they keep them a profound secret. You have told me all your
history, but you have thought proper, as you were, if you pleased, quite
justified in doing, to withhold your name."
"I have done so, but I hardly know why. I will tell it to you, however,
now."
"Hold, I know it."
"You know it, sir?"
"Yes, your name is Mark Ingestrie!"
"It is, indeed. But how you came to know that, sir, is to me most
mysterious."
"Oh, I know more than that. The name of the young lady who, you believe,
played you such a trick, is Johanna Oakley."
Mark Ingestrie, for it was indeed no other, sprang to his feet,
exclaiming--
"Are you man or devil, that you know what I have never breathed to you?"
"Don't be surprised, my young friend. I can tell you a little more than
that even. The friend to whom you intrusted your String of Pearls, was
named Francis Thornhill; and his dog--let me see--Oh, his large dog was
called 'Hector.'"
Mark Ingestrie trembled excessively, and sinking back in his seat, he
turned very pale.
"This must be a dream," he said, "or you, sir, get your information from
the spirits of the dead."
"Not at all. But have you faith in my inspiration now sufficient to
induce you to believe anything that I may tell you?"
"In good truth, I have; and I may well have, for after what you have
already told me, your power of knowledge cannot by me be for one moment
doubted."
"Very well, then. In the first place, Mr. Francis Thornhill reached
London in safety."
"He did?"
"I tell you so. He arrived in London with your String of Pearls in his
pocket. He fully believed you were dead. Indeed, he fancied that he had
seen the last of you, and was quite prepared to say as much to Miss
Johanna Oakley."
"And he did? That will be some excuse for her, if she thought that I was
gone."
"No, he did not. On his route he turned into the shop of Sweeney Todd to
be shaved, and there he was murdered."
"Murdered!"
"Yes, most foully murdered; and the String of Pearls got into the
possession of that man, proving ultimately one of the means by which his
frightful villainous crime came to light. The dog remained at Todd's
door seeking for its master, to the great discomfiture of the murderer,
who made every effort within his power for its destruction, in which
however he did not succeed."
"Gracious Heaven! my poor friend Thornhill to meet with such a fate! Oh
God! and all on account of that fatal String of Pearls! Oh,
Thornhill--Thornhill! rather would I have sunk for ever beneath the
wave, than such a dreadful end should have been yours."
"The past cannot be recalled," said Sir Richard. "It is only with the
present, and with the future that we have anything to do now. Would you
like to hear more?"
"More? Of whom? Is he not dead?--my poor friend?"
"Yes, he is dead; but I can tell you more of other people. I can tell
you that Johanna Oakley was faithful to you. I can tell you that she
mourned your loss as you would wish her to mourn it, knowing how you
would mourn hers. I can tell you that the gentleman's arm she was
leaning upon was only a dear friend, and that the fact of her having to
be supported by him at the unlucky moment when you saw this was solely
owing to the deep grief she was plunged into upon your account."
"Oh no--no--no!"
"I say yes. It was so, Mr. Ingestrie; and if you had at that moment
stepped forward, you would have saved yourself much misery, and you
would have saved her such heart-breaking thoughts, and such danger, as
it will frighten you to listen to."