"Now was there ever such a piece of cool rascality as this?" cried the cook, "Sweeney Todd—Todd—Todd. Who the devil is he? This is some scheme of Mrs. Lovett's to drive me mad."
He dashed the letter upon the floor.
"Not another pie will I make! No—no—no. Welcome death—welcome that dissolution which may be my lot, rather than the continued endurance of this terrible imprisonment. Am I, at my time of life, to be made the slave of such a demon in human shape as this woman? Am I to grow old and grey here, a mere pie machine? No—no, death a thousand times rather!"
Tears! yes, bitter scalding tears came to his relief, and he wept abundantly, but those tears were blessed, for as they flowed, the worst bitterness of his heart flowed with them, and he suddenly looked up, saying—
"I am only twenty-four."
There was magic in the sound of those words. They seemed in themselves to contain a volume of philosophy. Only twenty-four. Should he, at that green and unripe age, get rid of hope? Should he, at twenty-four only, lie down and say—"Let me die!" just because things had gone a little adverse, and he was the enforced cook of Mrs. Lovett?
"No—no," he said. "No, I will endure much, and I will hope much. Hitherto, it is true, I have been unsuccessful in what I have attempted for my release, but the diabolical cunning, even of this woman, may fail her at some moment, and I may have my time of revenge. No—no, I need not ask for revenge, justice will do—common justice. I will keep myself alive. Hope shall be my guiding star. They shall not subdue the proud spirit they have succeeded in caging, quite so easily, I will not give up, I live and have youthful blood in my veins, I will not despair. Despair? No—Hence, fiend!—I am as yet only twenty-four. Ha—ha! Only twenty-four."
CHAPTER XXXI.
SHOWS HOW TOBIAS GOT TO LONDON.
We will now take a peep at Tobias. On—on—on, like the wind, went the poor belated boy from the vicinity of that frightful prison-house at Peckham. Terror was behind him—terror with dishevelled locks was upon his right hand, and terror shrieking in his ear was upon his left. On—on, he flew like a whirlwind. Alas, poor Tobias, will your young intellects yet stand these trials? We shall see! Through the deep mud of the Surrey roads—past pedestrians—past horsemen, and past coaches flew poor Tobias, on—on. He had but one thought, and that was to place miles and miles of space between him and Mr. Fogg's establishment. The perspiration poured down his face—his knees shook under him—his heart beat as though in some wild pulsation it would burst, but he passed on until he saw afar off the old Bridge of London. The route to Blackfriars he had by some chance avoided. Many, who for the last two miles of Tobias's progress, had seen him, had tried to stop him. They had called after him, but he had heeded them not. Some fast runners had pursued him for a short distance, and then given up the chase in despair. He reached the bridge.
"Stop that boy!" cried a man, "he looks mad!"