The private-office of Sir Richard, it will be recollected, was in Craven
Street, at the bottom of the Strand. Upon the route there, Mr. Crotchet and the cook held a long and very
serious discourse about the proceedings of Mrs. Lovett, and if the cook
was able to tell the active and enterprising Crotchet much that was
curious regarding the underground operations at Mrs. Lovett's, he, in
return, received some curious edifying information concerning the lady's
business connexion with Sweeney Todd, with the particulars of which the
cook had been completely ignorant. By the time they reached Craven Street, therefore, the cook's eyes were
considerably opened, and many matters that had been to him extremely
obscure, became all at once quite clear, so that he was upon the whole
far from sorry for the companionship of the eccentric Crotchet on the
road down the Strand to the magistrate's private office. Sir Richard was at home, and anxiously expecting them, so that upon the
first hint of their presence they were introduced to him, and he
received the report of the officer with evident satisfaction. "Thank God," he said, "two of the greatest malefactors the world ever
saw are now in the hands of justice." "Yes," said Crotchet. "They are cotched." "You may depend all of you," added Sir Richard, "that your conduct and
great skill in exertions in this affair shall be by me communicated to
the Secretary of State, who will not leave you unrewarded. Pray wait for
me in the outer room, I have some private business with this gentleman." The officers were a little surprised to hear Sir Richard Blunt call Mrs.
Lovett's cook, "this gentleman;" but they of course took no notice of
the circumstance while in the presence of their principal, and in a few
moments the magistrate was alone with the cook. From a cupboard in his room, then Sir Richard Blunt took wine and other
refreshments, and laid them before the cook, saying--

"Refresh yourself, my friend; but for your own sake, as your fare has
been but indifferent for some time, I beg you to be sparing." "I will, sir. I owe you much--very much!" "You are free now." "I--am--sir." "And yet you are very unhappy." The cook started and changed colour slightly. He filled, for himself, a
glass of wine, and after drinking it he heaved a sigh, as he said--

"Sir, I am unhappy. I do not care how soon the world and I part, sir. The hope--the dream of my life has gone from me. All that I lived
for--all that I cherished as the brightest expectation of joy in this
world has passed away like a vapour, and left not a rack behind. I am
unhappy, and better, far better, would it have been for me if Sweeney
Todd had taken my life, or if by some subtle poison, Mrs. Lovett had
shuffled me out of the world--I am unhappy." "Indeed! And you really think you have nothing in this world now to live
for?" "I do. But it is not a thought only. It is a knowledge--it is a fact
that cannot be gainsaid or controverted. I tell you, sir, that I can
never now hope to realise the happiness which was the day-dream of my
existence, and which has passed from me like a dream, never--never to
come again. It was in the despair contingent upon such thoughts and
feelings, that I went to Mrs. Lovett and became her slave; but now I
will be off far away from England, and on some foreign shore I will lay
my bones." "But, my good sir, you will be wanted on the trial of your old friend,
Mrs. Lovett." "Cannot you hang the woman without my help?" "Yes, I think we might, but so material a witness to her infamy as
yourself cannot be dispensed with. Of course I do not pretend to be a
conjuror, or to say to any man--'You shall be happy in spite of all your
prognostications to the contrary;' but from what you have told me of
your story, I must confess that to my perception you take much too
gloomy a view of your condition." "Too gloomy!" exclaimed the cook, as he filled himself up another glass
of wine. "Too gloomy! My dear, sir, you don't know how I loved that
girl--you don't know how I--I--But it is no matter now--all that is
past. Oh God! that she should be false to me--she of all persons in the
great world!" "And so you will let this little disappointment of the heart, place you
in your youth quite beside all possible enjoyment? Is this wise, sir? Is
it even manly?" The poor cook was silent for a few moments, and then in a voice of deep
emotion, he said--

"Sir, you don't know how much I loved her. You do not know how I
pictured to myself happiness with her alone. You do not know, sir, how,
even when death stared me in the face, I thought of her and her only,
and how--But no matter--no matter, sir. She is false, and it is madness
to speak of her. Let her go, sir. It is just possible that in the time
to come, I may outlive the despair that now fills my heart." "You surely will." "I do not think it. But I will hope that I may." "And have you really no hope--no innate lurking supposition in your
mind, that you may be doing her an injustice in your suspicions of her
faith?" "Suspicions?" "Ay, sir, suspicions, for even you must admit that you know nothing." "Know nothing, sir?" "Absolutely nothing. You will find, if you come to consider the affair,
that, as I say, you know nothing, but suspect much; and so upon mere
suspicion you will make your future life miserable. I would not so bend
to circumstances if the whole world stood up before me, and told me I
was right in my dread thoughts of one whom I had loved." The poor cook glanced at Sir Richard Blunt, and for the space of about
half a minute, not one word passed between them. Then in a low voice,
the cook said--

"You have read Romeo and Juliet, sir?" "Yes--what then?" "There is one line there, in which we read that

    'He jests at scars who never felt a wound.'" "Well, how would you apply that line to the present circumstances?" "I would say you have never loved, sir, and I have loved." "A broad assumption that, my friend," said Sir Richard Blunt, "a very
broad assertion, indeed. But come, I have to spare a short time. Will
you, in recompense for what I have done for you, relate to me more fully
than you have done, how it is that you suspect her whom you loved of
falsehood to you?" "Do not say loved, sir; I love her still." "I am glad to hear it. I pray you to go on, and tell me now all, if you
feel that you can have sufficient confidence in me, and that you can
view me with a sufficient friendly feeling." "Oh, sir, why do you doubt me? Do I not owe to you my life? Do I not owe
it to you that I escaped the death that without a doubt was designed for
me by Todd? and was it not by your persevering, that at length I had
patience enough to wait until the proper time had come for my release,
when it could be accomplished without the shadow of a doubt as to the
result?"