The String of Pearls; Or, The Barber of Fleet Street. A Domestic Romance.
why did I ever advise you to come upon such an enterprise as this? It is
my fault, all my fault."
The terror and the self-accusation of Arabella Wilmot did more to bring
Johanna to a reasonable state than anything else, and she made an effort
to overcome her feelings, saying--
"Forgive me--forgive me, my dear friend--I, only, am to blame. But at
the moment I was overcome by the thought that, in the heart of London,
such a system of cold-blooded murder--"
She was unable to proceed, and Arabella, holding her arm tightly within
her own, said--
"Do not attempt to say another word until we get home. There, in my
chamber, you can give free vent to your feelings, but let the danger, as
well as the impropriety of doing so in the open street, be present to
your mind. Say no more now, I implore you; say no more."
This was prudent advice, and Johanna had sufficient command of herself
to take it, for she uttered not one other word until they were both
almost breathless with the haste they had made to Arabella's chamber.
Then, being no longer under the restraint of locality or circumstances,
the tears of Johanna burst forth, and she wept abundantly. Arabella's
romantic reading did sometimes, as it would appear, stand her in good
stead, and upon this occasion she did not attempt to stem the torrent of
grief that was making its way from the eyes of her fair young friend.
She told herself that with those tears a load of oppressive grief would
be washed from Johanna's spirit, and the result fully justified her
prognostications. The tears subsided into sobs, and the sobs to sighs.
"Ah, my dear friend," she said, "how much have you to put up with from
me. What a world of trouble I am to you."
"No," said Arabella, "that you are not, Johanna; I am only troubled when
I see you overcome with too excessive grief, and then, I confess, my
heart is heavy."
"It shall not be so again. Forgive me this once, dear Arabella."
Johanna flung herself into her friend's arms, and while they kissed each
other, and Arabella was about commencing a hopeful kind of speech, a
servant girl, with open mouth and eyes, looked into the room, transfixed
with amazement.
"Well, Miss Bella," she cried at last, "you is fond of boys!"
Arabella started, and so did Johanna.
"Is that you, Susan?"
"Yes, Miss Bella, it is me. Well I never! The idea! I shall never get
the better of this here! Only to think of you, Miss Bella, having a boy
at your time of life."
"What do you mean, Susan? How dare you use such language to me? Get you
gone!"
"Oh, yes, I'm a-going in course; but if I had anybody in the house, it
shouldn't be a little impudent looking boy with no whiskers."
"She must know all," whispered Johanna.
"No, no," said Arabella, "I will not, feeling my innocence, be forced
into making a confidant of a servant. Let her go."
"But she will speak."
"Let her speak."
Susan left the room, and went direct to the kitchen, holding up her
hands all the way, and giving free expression to her feelings as she did
so--
"Well, the _idea_ now, of a little stumpy looking boy, when there's sich
a lot of nice young men with whiskers to be had just for the wagging of
one's little finger. Only to think of it. Sitting in her lap too, and
them a kissing one another like--like--coach horses. Well I never. Now
there's Lines's, the cheesemonger's, young man as I has in of a night,
he is somebody, and such loves of whiskers I never seed in my born days
afore; but I is surprised at Miss Bella, that I is--a shrimp of a boy in
her lap! Oh dear, oh dear!"
CHAPTER XXXIV.
MR. FOGG FINDS THAT ALL IS NOT GOLD THAT GLITTERS.
We feel that we ought not entirely to take leave of that unfortunate,
who failed in escaping with Tobias Ragg, from Mr. Fogg's establishment
at Peckham, without a passing notice. It will be recollected that Tobias
had enough to do to get away himself, and that he was in such a state of
mind that it was quite a matter of new mechanical movement of his limbs
that enabled him to fly from the madhouse. Horror of the place, and
dread of the people who called it theirs, had lighted up the glare of a
partial insanity in his brain, and he flew to London, we admit, without
casting another thought upon the wretched creature who had fallen in the
attempt to free herself from those fiends in human shape who made a
frightful speculation in the misery of their fellow creatures. The alarm
was already spread in the madhouse, and Mr. Fogg himself arrived at the
spot where the poor creature lay stunned and wounded by her fall.
"Watson! Watson!" he cried.
"Here," said that official, as he presented himself.
"Take this carcase up, Watson. I'm afraid Todd's boy is gone."
"Ha! ha!"
"Why do you laugh?"
"Why where's the odds if he has. I tell you what it is, Fogg, I haven't
been here so long without knowing what's what. If that boy ever recovers
his senses enough to tell a rational tale, I'll eat him. However, I'll
soon go and hunt him up. We'll have him again."
"Well, Watson, you give me hopes, for you have upon two different
occasions brought back runaways. Bring the woman in and--and, Watson?
"Aye, aye."
"I think I would put her in No. 10."
"Ho! ho!--No. 10. Then she's booked. Well, well, come on Fogg, come on,
it's all one. I suppose the story will be 'An attempt to escape owing to
too much indulgence;' and some hints consequent on that, and then
brought back to her own warm comfortable bed, where she went asleep so
comfortably that we all thought she was as happy as an Emperor, and
then--"
"She never woke again," put in Fogg. "But in this case you are wrong,
Watson. It is true that twice or thrice I have thought, for the look of
the thing, it would be desirable to have an inquest upon somebody, but
in this case I will not. The well is not full!"
"Full?"
"No, I say the well is not full, Watson; and it tells no tales."
"It would hold a hundred bodies one upon another yet," said Watson, "and
tell no tales. Ha! ha!"
"Good!"
"It is good. She is to go there, is she? well, so be it."
Watson carried the miserable female in his arms to the house.
"By-the-bye, it is a second thought," he said, "about No. 10."
"Yes, yes, there's no occasion. Watson, could you not at once--eh? It is
a good hour. Could you not go right through the house, my good Watson,
and at once--eh?"
"At once what?"
"Oh, you know. Ha! ha! You are not the dull fellow at comprehending a
meaning you would fain make out; but you, Watson--you understand me well
enough, you know you do. We understand each other, and always shall."
"I hope so, but if you want anything done I'll trouble you to speak out.
What do you mean by 'couldn't you go through the house at once--eh?'"
"Pho! pho! Put her down the well at once. Humanity calls upon us to do
it. Why should she awaken to a sense of her disappointment, Watson? Put
her down at once, and she will never awaken at all to a sense of
anything."
"Very well. Come on, business is business."
"You--you don't want me?"
"Don't I," said Watson, bending his shaggy brows upon him, and looking
extra hideous on account of a large black patch over one eye, which he
bore as a relict of his encounter with Tobias. "Don't I? Hark you, Fogg;
if you won't come and help me to do it, you shall have it to do by
yourself, without me at all."
"Why--why, Watson, Watson. This language--"
"Is nothing new, Fogg."
"Well, well, come on.--Come on--if it must be so, it must.--I--I will
hold a lantern for you, of course; and you know, Watson, I make things
easy to you, in the shape of salary, and all that sort of thing."
Watson made no reply to all this, but went through the house to the back
part of the grounds, carrying with him his insensible burthen, and Fogg
followed him, trembling in every limb. The fact was, that he, Fogg, had
not for some time had a refresher in the shape of some brandy. The old
deserted well to which they were bound was at a distance of about fifty
yards from the back of the house; towards it the athletic Watson
hastened with speed, closely followed by Fogg, who was truly one of
those who did not mind holding a candle to the devil. The walls of that
building were high, and it was not likely that any intruder from the
outside could see what was going on, so Watson took no precaution.--The
well was reached, and Fogg cried to him--
"Now--now--quick about it, lest she recovers."
Another moment and she would have been gone in her insensibility, but as
if Fogg's words were prophetic, she did recover, and clinging
convulsively to Watson, she shrieked--
"Mercy! mercy! Oh, have mercy upon me! Help! help!"
"Ah, she recovers!" cried Fogg, "I was afraid of that. Throw her in.
Throw her in, Watson."
"Confound her!"
"Why don't you throw her in?"
"She clings to me like a vice. I cannot--Give me a knife, Fogg. You will
find one in my coat pocket--a knife--a knife!"
"Mercy! mercy! Have mercy upon me! No--no--no,--Help! Oh God! God!"
"The knife! The knife, I say!"
"Here, here," cried Fogg, as he hastily took it from Watson's pocket and
opened it. "Here! Finish her, and quickly too, Watson!"
The scene that followed is too horrible for description. The hands of
the wretched victim were hacked from their hold by Watson, and in the
course of another minute, with one last appalling shriek, down she went
like a flash of lightning to the bottom of the well.
"Gone!" said Watson.
Another shriek and Fogg, even, stopped his ears, so appalling was that
cry, coming as it did so strangely from the bottom of the well.
"Throw something upon her," said Fogg. "Here's a brick--"
"Bah!" cried Watson, "bah! there's no occasion to throw anything on her.
She'll soon get sick of such squealing."
Another shriek, mingled with a strange frothy cry, as though some one
had managed to utter it under water, arose. The perspiration stood in
large drops upon the face of Fogg.--He seized the brick he had spoken
of, and cast it into the well. All was still as the grave before it
reached the bottom, and then he wiped his face and looked at Watson.
"This is the worst job," he said, "that ever we have had--"
"Not a whit.--Brandy--give me a tumbler of brandy, Fogg. Some of our own
particular, for I have something to say to you now, that a better
opportunity than this for saying is not likely to occur."
"Come into my room then," said Fogg, "and we can talk quietly.--Do you
think--that--that--"
"What?"
"That she is quite dead?"
"What do I care.--Let her crawl out of that, if she can."
With a jerk of his thumb, Watson intimated that the well was the "that"
he referred to, and then he followed Fogg into the house, whistling as
he went the same lively air with which he had frequently solaced his
feelings in the hearing of poor Tobias Ragg. Never had Fogg been in such
a state of agitation, except once, and that was long ago, upon the
occasion of his first crime. Then he had trembled as he now trembled,
but the
"Dull custom of iniquity"
had effectually blunted soon the keen edge of his conscience, and he had
for years carried on a career of infamy without any other feeling than
exultation at his success.--Why then did he suffer now? Had the well in
the garden ever before received a victim? Was he getting alive to the
excellence of youth and beauty?--Oh no--no. Fogg was getting old. He
could not stand what he once stood in the way of conscience. When he
reached his room--that room in which he had held the conference with
Todd, he sank into a chair with a deep groan.
"What's the matter now?" cried Watson, who got insolent in proportion as