The String of Pearls; Or, The Barber of Fleet Street. A Domestic Romance.

dost thou make "Cowards of us all!" What could compensate Mrs. Lovett for the abject terrors that came over her now? What could recompense her for the pang that shot across her heart, at the thought that something was amiss in the fine-drawn web of subtlety that she and Sweeney Todd had drawn? Alas! was the money in the Bank of England, upon which she expected to enjoy herself in a foreign land, now any set-off against that shuddering agony of soul with which she said to herself-- "Is all discovered?" Her strength forsook her. She quite forgot all about the cook, and the brandy she had promised him--she forgot even how necessary it was, in case any one should come, for her to keep up the appearance of composure; and tottering into the back-parlour, she sunk upon her knees on the floor, and shook as though the spirit of twenty agues possessed her. So it will be seen that Todd was not quite alone in his sufferings from those compunctious visitations, which we have seen at times come over him in his shop. But we will leave Mrs. Lovett to her reflections, hoping that even she may be made a little wiser and a little better by those soft "Whisperings of awakened sense;" and that she may find some one among the invisible hosts of spirits of another world who may whisper to her-- "Repent! repent!--it is not yet too late." Let us look at those three persons whose mysterious conduct at the shop windows had, like a match applied to gunpowder, at once awakened a fever in the breast of Mrs. Lovett, which she was scarcely aware slumbered there. These folks made their way, then, into Fleet Street; and as the reader has probably guessed already who they are, we may as well make a merit of saying that the big one was our old friend Ben, the beef-eater--the gentlemanly-looking man was Sir Richard Blunt, and the young lady was no other than Arabella Wilmot. Poor Arabella! Of all the personages concerned in our _dramatis personæ_, we have no hesitation in saying that your sufferings are the greatest. From the moment that Johanna had started upon that desperate expedition to Sweeney Todd's, peace left the bosom of her young friend. We have already traced the progress of Arabella to Sir Richard Blunt's office, and we have seen what was the result of that decidedly judicious movement; but notwithstanding she was assured over and over again subsequently by Sir Richard that Johanna was now well protected, she could not bring herself to think so, or to leave the street. It was by her lingering about in this way that she became in the company of our friend Ben. The fact was, that the kind of statement or confession that Johanna had made to Ben on that occasion of his visit to her father's house, when she found herself alone with him in the parlour, had made such an impression upon the poor fellow, that he described it himself in the most forcible possible language, by saying-- "It interferes with my meals." Now, everything that had such an effect as that, must to Ben be a matter for the most serious consideration indeed. He accordingly, finding that "The peace of the Tower was fled," so far as he was concerned, had come into the City upon a sort of voyage of discovery, to see how matters were going on. As he was proceeding along Fleet Street, he chanced to cast his eyes into the entrance of a court, nearly opposite Sweeney Todd's, and there he saw a female form crouching. There was something about this female form which Ben thought was familiar to him, and upon a close look, he felt certain it was Johanna's friend, Arabella Wilmot. Full of surprise at finding her there, Ben paused, and stared at her so long, that she at last looked at him, and recognising him, immediately flew to his side, and grasping his arm, cried-- "Oh, pity me, Mr. Ben. Pity me!" "Hold!" said Ben, who was not, as the reader is aware, the fastest thinker in the world. "Hold. Easy does it." Ben tried to look very wise then. "Oh, you will hate me, Ben." "Eh?" "I say you will hate me, Ben, when you know all." Ben shook his head. "Shan't do any such thing," he said. "Lord bless your pretty eyes, I hate you? I couldn't." "But--but--" "Come, come," added Ben, "just take your little bit of an arm under mine. Easy does it, you know. Always think of that, if anything goes amiss. Easy does it; and then you will find things come right in the long run. You may take my word for it." CHAPTER LXXV. COLONEL JEFFERY OPENS HIS EYES. Arabella was weeping, so that for some little time she could say nothing more to Ben; and he did not, in the profundity of his imagination, very well know what to say to her, except now and then muttering the maxim of "Easy does it," which Ben thought singularly applicable to all human affairs. But this was a state of things which could not last; and Arabella Wilmot, nerving herself sufficiently to speak in a few minutes, said to Ben in a low self-deprecatory tone-- "Oh, sir, I--I--have done something very wrong." "Eh?" said Ben, opening his eyes to their utmost. "Yes," added Arabella, "very wrong, indeed." "Humph!" "You would not probably have expected it of me, Mr. Ben, would you now?" "Well, a-hem!" said Ben. "Easy does it." "I am a wicked--wicked girl." "Oh, dear--oh, dear!" said Ben. "You cannot guess, Mr. Ben, what I have done; but I feel I ought to tell you, and it will be quite a relief to me to do so." Ben shook his head. "I tell you what it is, my dear," he said. "Your best plan is to go and tell your mother, my dear. That's the proper person to tell. She is sure to find it out somehow or another; and you had better tell her at once, and then--Easy does it." "My mother? Tell my mother? Oh, no--no--no!" "Well, if you have got any respectable old aunt now, who is a good, kind old soul, and would not make too much fuss, you had better tell her; but goodness gracious, my dear, what puts it into your head to tell me?" "Because I think you are kind-hearted." "Well, but--well, but--" "And, then, of course, as you are mixed up, you know, Mr. Ben, in the whole transaction, it is only proper that you should know what has happened at last." Ben turned fairly round, and looked down into the face of Arabella Wilmot with such a coarse expression of alarm upon his face, that at any other than so serious a time she must have laughed. "Me?" he cried. "Me?" "Yes, Mr. Ben." "Me mixed up in the--the--Oh dear!" "Ah, Mr. Ben, you know you are by far too kind not to be; and so I feel as though it would be quite a relief to me to tell you everything." "Everything?" "Yes, all--all." "Not all the particulars, surely. Come--come. I ain't an old woman, you know, my dear." "An old woman, Ben?" "No, my dear, I say I ain't an elderly female, so I don't think I ought to listen to all the particulars, do you know. Come--come, you go home now, and say no more about it to me. Easy does it, you know; and keep your own counsel. I won't say a word; but don't you, because you are in such a state of mind as you hardly know what you are about, go on blubbering to me about all the particulars, when perhaps to-morrow you'll give one of your pretty little ears that you had not said a word to me about it." "Alas!--Alas!" "Pho! Pho! Easy does it." "Who am I to cling to but you?" "Cling to me? Perhaps you'll say it's me?" "What's you, Mr. Ben? Explain yourself. How strange you talk. What do you mean, Mr. Ben?" "Well, that's cool," said Ben. "What's cool?" "I tell you what it is, Miss Arabella W., I'm disappointed in you; ain't you ashamed to look me in the face?" "Ashamed?" "Yes, positively ashamed?" "No, Mr. Ben. I may regret the indiscretion that is past; but I cannot see in it anything to be ashamed of." "You don't?" "Indeed, Mr. Ben, I do not." "Then, Miss A. W., you are about the coolest little piece of goods I have met with for some time. Come--come, easy does it; but haven't you been telling me all this time about something you have been about, that--that--was rather improper, in a manner of speaking?" It might have been the tone in which Ben pronounced the word improper, or it might have been the sagacious shake of the head which Ben accompanied his words with, or it might have been that Arabella was drawing a conclusion from the whole transaction; but certain it is, that she began to have a glimmering perception that Mr. Ben was making a great mistake. "Oh, heaven!" she said. "What are you saying Mr. Ben? I am speaking of the advice I was foolish enough to give Johanna." "Advice?" "Yes, that is all. Into what mischief could you have tortured my meaning? I am much mistaken in you, sir." "What? Then, it isn't--a-hem! That is to say, you haven't--dear me, I shall put my foot in it directly. What a fool I am." "You are, indeed," said the now indignant Arabella, and a slight flush upon her cheeks showed how deeply wronged she was by the unworthy construction Ben had put upon her innocent words. "Good-bye, Miss A. W.," added Ben. "Good-bye; I see I am out of your books; but if you fancy I meant any harm, you don't know me. God bless you. Take care of yourself my dear, and go home. I won't stay to plague you any longer. Good-bye." "Stop! Stop!" Ben paused. "I am sure, Mr. Ben, you did not mean to say a single word that could be offensive to a friendless girl in the street." "Then, then?--Easy does it." "Let us be friends again then, Mr. Ben, and I will tell you all, and you will then blame me for being so romantic as to give Johanna advice which has induced her to take a step which, although my reason tells me she is now well protected in, my imagination still peoples with horror." Ben's eyes opened to an alarming width. "You recollect meeting us in this street, Ben?" "Oh, yes." "When Johanna was disguised?" "Yes, Miss A. When she had on them, a-hem! You may depend upon it, my dear, there's no good comes of young girls putting on pairs of thingamys. Don't you ever do it." "But, Mr. Ben, hear me." "Well--well. I was only saying. You stick to the petticoats, my dear. They become you, and you become them, and don't you be trusting your nice little legs into what-do-you-call-'ems." "Mr. Ben?" "I've done. Easy does it. Now go on and tell us what happened, my dear. Don't mind me. Go on." "Then Johanna, in boy's cloathes, is now--" "Now? Oh, the little vixen. Didn't I tell her not." "Is now filling the situation of errand boy at Sweeney Todd's, opposite. Can I be otherwise than wretched, most wretched!" "Arrant boy?" "No, not arrant boy. Errand boy." "At Todd's--opposite--in--boys--clothes? Oh--oh--just you wait here, and I'll soon put that to rights. I'll--I'll. Only you wait in this door-way, Miss A. W., just a moment or two, and I'll teach her to go and do such things. I'll--I'll--" "No--no Ben. You will ruin all, you will, indeed. I implore you to stay with me. Let me tell you all that has happened, and how Johanna is protected. In the first place, Ben, you must know that Sir Richard Blunt the Magistrate has her under his special protection now, and he says that he has made such arrangements that it is quite impossible she can come to any harm." "But--" "Nay, listen me out. He says that nothing can now expose her to any danger, but some injudicious interference. I ought not, you see, to have told you, Mr. Ben; but since I have, I only ask of you, for Johanna's sake, for her life's sake, to do nothing." Ben looked aghast. "And--and how long is the little lamb to be left there?" he asked. "Only a few hours I think now, Ben--only a few hours. Where are we now, Mr. Ben?"