"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."