"Well," said Sir Richard Blunt, with a smile, "I hope then that I have
established some claim upon you; so now tell me your story, my friend,
and at the end of it I will, from my experience, do what I can to bring
you substantial comfort." "You shall hear all, sir," said the cook, "but comfort and I have parted
long since, I fear, from each other for ever." CHAPTER CXV. THE COOK BECOMES A VERY IMPORTANT PERSONAGE. At this last declaration of Mrs. Lovett's late cook, regarding the
tender adieu that he and comfort had taken of each other, Sir Richard
Blunt only smiled faintly, and slightly inclined his hand as much as to
say--

"That is all very well, but I am waiting to hear your story, if you
please." "Well, sir," added the cook. "You already know that I am not exactly
what I seem, and that my being in that most abominable woman's
employment as a cook, was one of those odd freaks of fortune, which will
at times detract the due order of society, and place people in the most
extraordinary positions." "Exactly." "I am, sir, an orphan, and was brought up by an uncle with every
expectation that he would be kind and liberal to me as I progressed in
years; but he had taken his own course and had made up his mind as to
what I was to be, how I was to look, and what I was to say and to do,
without asking himself the question, if nature was good enough to
coincide with him or not. The consequence was then, that directly he
found me very different from what he wished me to be, he was very angry
indeed, and then I put the finishing stroke to his displeasure, by
committing the greatest crime that in his eyes I could commit: I fell in
love." "Humph!" "Yes, sir, that was just what he said at first, when some officious
friend told of it, and sending for me he said--'You must give up all
love nonsense if you wish to preserve my favour,' upon which I
said--'Sir, did you never love?' 'That is not the question,' he said. 'It is of your follies now, not mine, that we are speaking,' and so he
turned me out of the room." "And what did you do? Did you give up your love?" "No, sir; if he had asked me to give up my life that would have been
much easier to me." "Go on. What then happened?" "Why, sir, my uncle and I met very seldom, but there was one upon my
track that he paid to follow me, and to report my actions to him; and
that spy--oh, that I had caught him! that spy made my uncle acquainted
with the fact, that I continued, despite his prohibition, to meet with
the only being who ever awakened in my bosom a tender feeling; and so I
was abandoned by my relative, and left penniless almost." "But you had youth and health?" "I had, and I resolved to make use of those advantages as best I might,
by endeavouring while they lasted, frail and fluttering possessions as
they are, to make a home for myself and for her whom I loved." "The feeling, I presume, was reciprocal?" "I thought so." "Was it only a thought, then?" "Alas! no. It was a certainty; and if an angel with wings fresh spread
from Heaven, and carrying upon them the soft light of an eternal world,
had come to me and told me that she would be false to me, I would not
have believed as much." "And yet--"

"And yet, as you say, I have found her false. Well--well, Sir
Richard--let me proceed. The thought of her unmans me at moments, but in
time I may recover from such feelings." "Most unquestionably you will; and then you will look to your present
condition of mind with such a smile of incredulity, and only a faint
faith in your own memory that paints you such feelings." "I cannot say, sir, that it will not be so, but I do not think so. To
proceed, however. I heard that an expedition was about to start to
explore some rich islands in the Southern Sea. If successful, every one
who took part in it would be enriched; and if unsuccessful, I could not
lose my life in a better cause then in trying to make a happy home for
her whom I love. I at once embraced the proposition, and became one of
the adventurers, much against the inclination of the gentle girl whom I
loved, and who in imagination pictured to herself a thousand dangers as
involved in the enterprise." "You went?" "I did, and with every hope of returning in about a year an independent
man. I thought little of the perils I was about to encounter in my
voyage. I and the fair girl upon whom I had fixed my best hopes and
affections parted, after many tears and protestations of fidelity. I
kept my faith." "And she?" "Broke hers." "As you think--as you think. You cannot be too cautious, my young
friend, in making assertions of that character." "Cautious, sir? Am I to believe the evidence of my own eyes, or am I
not?" "Not always," said Sir Richard Blunt, calmly. "But I pray you go on with
your narrative." "I will. The principal object of the voyage failed entirely; but by pure
accident I got possession of a String of Pearls, of very great value
indeed, which, provided I could get home in safety, would value in
Europe quite a sufficient sum to enable us to live in comfort. But the
dangers of the deep assailed us. We were wrecked; and fully believing
that I should not survive, I handed the pearls to a stronger comrade,
and begged him to take them to her whom I had loved, to tell herself my
fate, and to bid her not weep for me, since I had died happy in the
thought that I had achieved something for her; and so, my friend and I
parted. I was preserved and got on board a merchant vessel bound for
England, where I arrived absolutely penniless. But I had a heart full of
hope and joy; for if I could but find my poor girl faithful to me, I
felt that we might yet be happy, whether my comrade had lived to bring
to her the pearls or not." "And you found her?" "You shall hear, sir. I walked from Southampton to London, subsisting on
the road as best I could. Sometimes I met with kind treatment at
farm-houses, and sometimes with quite the reverse, until at length I
reached London tolerably exhausted, as you may suppose, and in anything
but a good plight." "Well, but you found your girl all right, I suppose?" "No. I walked up the Strand; and as some of our happiest interviews had
taken place in the Temple Gardens, I could not resist turning aside for
a moment to look at the old familiar spot, when what do you think was
the sight that met my eyes?" "I really can't say." "I will tell you, sir. I saw her whom I loved--the young and beautiful
girl for whom I had gone through so much--the being upon whose faith and
constancy I would at any time have staked my life--the, as I thought,
most innocent, guileless creature upon the face of the earth--"

"Well, well, my good friend, what did you see this paragon of perfection
about?" "You will not believe it, sir." "Oh, yes, I shall--do not be afraid of that--I shall believe it. Your
narrative bears too much the stamp of truth about it for me to doubt it
for a moment. I pray you to go on." "I will then.