The Gift of the Sailor: The String of Pearls & Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street — page 395: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

“T will walk with you to your door, Johanna,” said Mark rising and tottering. “No,” said Sir Richard Blunt; “that must not be to-night. Do not let him, Johanna. He is by far too weak and unwell to do anything of the kind. A calm and long night’s rest here will do him a world of good. Business prevents me from leaving the office; but I daresay the colonel will see Johanna in safety.” “With pleasure,” said Colonel Jeffery, “if Mr. Ingestrie has no objection to my doing so.” “Sir,” said Mark, “there is no one in all the world that I would more cheerfully see protecting my Johanna. I feel that I am in too great a state of exhaustion to go out. I leave her to your care, sir.” “That is right,” said Sir Richard Blunt. “Now, good-night, Johanna, and God bless you. You will see me in the morning, recollect.” Mark Ingestrie took a parting embrace of Johanna, and then she went off with the colonel, who, on their road home, told her how he and Arabella had got so far as to fix their wedding day, and how he should not feel at all happy unless both she and Mark Ingestrie were at the ceremony. “Indeed, he hoped,” he said, “that they might give the parson only one trouble, by being married upon the same occasion.” Johanna warded this last part of the colonel’s speech; but she was fervent in her hopes that he and Arabella would be so very happy, and in her praises of her young friend; so in very pleasant discourse indeed, they reached the old spectacle-maker’s shop, and then the colonel shook hands with Johanna, and bade her a kind and friendly adieu, and she was let in by—to her immense surprise—her mother! Mrs. Oakley fell upon Johanna’s neck in a passion of tears, crying—“Come, my child—come to your mother’s heart, and tell her that you forgive her for much past neglect and unkindness.” “Oh, mother,” said Johanna, “do not speak so. There is nothing to forgive; and if you are happy and we are all good friends, we will never think of the past.” “That’s right, my dear,” said Mr. Oakley, from the passage; “that’s right, my love. Come in, both of you.” But it is necessary that we should briefly state how it was that this wonderful change in the behaviour of Mrs. Oakley came about, and for that purpose we must retrace our steps a little. The reader will be so good as to recollect that the last time Mrs. Oakley was introduced to his notice she was encumbered by Mr. Lupin, and had the pleasure of introducing that gentleman to the notice of Big Ben the beef-eater, who had quickly put all idea of escape out of the question, as regarded that highly religious personage. At that point the presence of other events compelled us to leave the lady, and repair to Todd’s shop, and to Mrs. Lovett’s little concern in Bell Yard. The appearance of Lupin’s face when he found that he was in the grasp of Big Ben, would have been quite a study for a painter. It transcended all description, and for the moment seemed as if he were bidding farewell to this world and to all his iniquities in it, without the intervention of the law. But in a few moments he recovered from this condition, and sliding on to his knees, and in a whining tone, he cried— “Mercy, Mercy! Oh, let me go!” “At the end of a rope,” said Big Ben. “Easy does it.” “What has he been and done, Mrs. O.?” “Murder, murder!” A crowd of people soon began to collect around them, and then Lupin made an effort to thrust himself out of the grasp of Big Ben, but the only result of the effort was very nearly to strangle himself. “You are killing the man, you great brute!” cried a woman. “You are throttling the poor man.” “He will be murdered,” shouted another female. “Oh, you great wretch, do you want to take his life?” “Listen to me,” said Mrs. Oakley. “He has murdered his poor wife, and that is the reason I have asked that he should be held tight.” “Murdered his wife!” exclaimed about twelve females in chorus. “Murdered his wife! Then hanging is a great deal too good for him. Hold him tight, sir, do. Oh, the wretch!” The tide of popular feeling fairly turned against Mr. Lupin, and Big Ben had as much difficulty now in preserving the half dead wretch from popular fury, as if he had been accused of any other crime, he might have had to prevent popular sympathy from aiding his escape. “Oh!” cried one lady, of rather extensive proportions, who was the wife of a baker, “I should like to have him in a brisk oven for an hour and a half.” “And I,” said the lady of a butcher, “would see him slaughtered without so much as winking at him.” “And serve him right, the wagabone!” cried Big Ben. “Come along, will you, you ill-looking scarecrow! Easy does it. Will you walk? Oh, very well, don’t. Who are you?” A little man with a constable’s staff in his hand, rushed before Ben, crying out— “What is it? what is it? I’m a constable. What is it it?” “Murder!” said Mrs. Oakley. “I give that man in charge for murdering his wife. I saw him do it.” “That will do,” said the constable. “Give him to me. I’ll take him. He dare not resist me. I'l] have him.” Big Ben looked at the constable and then he shook his head, as he said very gravely— “T tell you what it is, my little man, you ain’t fit to tussle with such a fellow as this—I’ll take him along for you. Where is he to go?” CORniclooo S CO)