L. THE DESCENT TO THE VAULTS…

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."

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.

"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?"

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."

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.

"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.

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.

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.

"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.

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."

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!"

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."

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."

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.

"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.

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.

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."

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."

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.

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?"

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."

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.

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.

"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."

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."