"Yes," he said. "Yes, I shall see them all once again.--Once again I
shall look, perchance, upon the bounding deep blue sea. Once again I
shall feel the sun of a happier clime than this fanning my cheek. Oh,
liberty, liberty, what a precious boon art thou!" Tingle! tingle! tingle! He started from his dream of joy. The pies are
wanted; Mrs. Lovett knew well enough how long they took in doing, and
that by this time they should be ready to be placed upon the ascending
trap. Down it came. Open went the oven door, and in another minute the
note was in the shop. The cook placed his hand upon his heart to still
its tumultuous beating as he listened intently. He could hear the sound
of feet above--only dimly though, through that double roof. Once he
thought he heard high words, but all died away again, and nothing came
of it.--All was profoundly still. The batch of pies surely were sold
now, and in a paper bag he told himself his pie, _par excellence_, had
gone perhaps to the chambers of some attorney, who would be rejoiced to
have a finger in it; or to some briefless barrister, who would be
rejoiced to get his name in the papers, even if it were only connected
with a story of a pie. Yes, the dream of freedom still clung to the
imagination of the cook, and he waited, with every nerve thrilling with
expectation, the result of his plan. One, two, three hours had passed
away, and nothing came of the pie or the letter. All was as quiet and as
calm as though the malignant fates had determined that there he was to
spend his days for ever, and gradually as in a frigid situation the
narrow column of mercury in a thermometer will sink, sank his
spirits--down--down--down! "No--no," he said. "No hope. Timidity or incredulity has consigned my
letter to the flames, perhaps, or some wide-mouthed, stupid idiot has
actually swallowed it. Oh that it had choked him by the way. Oh that it
had actually stuck in his throat.--It is over, I have lost hope again. This horrible place will be my charnel-house--my family vault! Curses!--No--no. What is the use of swearing? My despair is past
that--far past that--"

"Cook!" said a voice. He sprang up, and looked to the wicket. There was Mrs. Lovett gazing in
at him. "Cook!" "Well--well.--Fiend in female shape, what would you with me? Did you not
expect to find me dead?" "Certainly not. Here is a letter for you." "A--a--letter?" "Yes. Perhaps it is an answer to the one you sent in the pie, you know." The unfortunate grasped his head, and gave a yell of despair. The
letter--for indeed Mrs. Lovett had one--was dropped upon the ground
floor from the opening through which she conversed with her prisoner,
and then, without another word, she withdrew from the little orifice,
and left him to his meditation. "Lost!--lost!--lost!" he cried. "All is lost. God, is this
enchantment? Or am I mad, and the inmate of some cell in an abode of
lunacy, and all this about pies and letters merely the delusion of my
overwrought fancy? Is there really a pie--a Mrs. Lovett--a Bell
Yard--a letter--a--a--a--damn it, is there such a wretch as I myself,
in this vast bustling world, or is all a wild and fathomless
delusion?" He cast himself upon the ground, as though from that moment he gave up
all hope and desire to save himself. It seemed as though he could have
said--

"Let death come in any shape he may, he will find me an unresisting
victim. I have fought with fate, and am, like thousands who have
preceded me in such a contest--beaten!" A kind of stupor came over him, and there he lay for more than two
hours; but youth will overcome much, and the mind, like some depressed
spring, will, in the spring of life, soon recover its rebound; so it was
with the unhappy cook. After a time he rose and looked about him. "No," he said, "it is no dream. It is no dream!" He then saw the letter lying upon the ground, which Mrs. Lovett had with
such irony cast unto him. "Surely," he said, "she might have been content to tell me she had
discovered my plans, without adding this practical sneer to it." He lifted the letter from the floor, and found it was addressed "To Mrs.
Lovett's Cook, Bell Yard, Temple Bar;" and what made it all the more
provoking was, that it seemed to have come regularly through the post,
for there were the official seal and blue stamp upon it. Curiosity
tempted him to open it, and he read as follows:--

"SIR--Having, in a most delicious pie, received the extraordinary
communication which you inserted in it, I take the earliest opportunity
of replying to you. The character of a highly respectable and pious
woman is not, sir, to be whispered away in a pie by a cook. When the
whole bench of bishops were proved, in black and white, to be the
greatest thieves and speculators in the known world, it was their
character that saved them, for, as people justly enough reasoned,
bishops should be pious and just--therefore, a bishop cannot be a thief
and a liar! Now, sir, apply this little mandate to Mrs. Lovett, and
assure yourself; but no one will believe anything you can allege against
a female with so fascinating a smile, and who attends to her religious
duties so regularly. Reflect, young man, on the evil that you have tried
to do, and for the future learn to be satisfied with the excellent
situation you have. The pie was very good." I am, you bad young man,
A Parishioner of St. Dunstan's,
SWEENEY TODD." "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.