Arabella was weeping, so that for some little time she could say nothing more to Ben; and he did not, in the profundity of his imagination, very well know what to say to her, except now and then muttering the maxim of "Easy does it," which Ben thought singularly applicable to all human affairs. But this was a state of things which could not last; and Arabella Wilmot, nerving herself sufficiently to speak in a few minutes, said to Ben in a low self-deprecatory tone— "Oh, sir, I—I—have done something very wrong."
"Eh?" said Ben, opening his eyes to their utmost.
"Yes," added Arabella, "very wrong, indeed."
"Humph!"
"You would not probably have expected it of me, Mr. Ben, would you now?"
"Well, a-hem!" said Ben. "Easy does it."
"I am a wicked—wicked girl."
"Oh, dear—oh, dear!" said Ben.
"You cannot guess, Mr. Ben, what I have done; but I feel I ought to tell you, and it will be quite a relief to me to do so."
Ben shook his head.
"I tell you what it is, my dear," he said. "Your best plan is to go and tell your mother, my dear. That's the proper person to tell. She is sure to find it out somehow or another; and you had better tell her at once, and then—Easy does it."
"My mother? Tell my mother? Oh, no—no—no!"
"Well, if you have got any respectable old aunt now, who is a good, kind old soul, and would not make too much fuss, you had better tell her; but goodness gracious, my dear, what puts it into your head to tell me?"
"Because I think you are kind-hearted."
"Well, but—well, but—"
"And, then, of course, as you are mixed up, you know, Mr. Ben, in the whole transaction, it is only proper that you should know what has happened at last."
Ben turned fairly round, and looked down into the face of Arabella Wilmot with such a coarse expression of alarm upon his face, that at any other than so serious a time she must have laughed.
"Me?" he cried. "Me?"
"Yes, Mr. Ben."
"Me mixed up in the—the—Oh dear!"
"Ah, Mr. Ben, you know you are by far too kind not to be; and so I feel as though it would be quite a relief to me to tell you everything."
"Everything?"
"Yes, all—all."
"Not all the particulars, surely. Come—come. I ain't an old woman, you know, my dear."
"An old woman, Ben?"
"No, my dear, I say I ain't an elderly female, so I don't think I ought to listen to all the particulars, do you know. Come—come, you go home now, and say no more about it to me. Easy does it, you know; and keep your own counsel. I won't say a word; but don't you, because you are in such a state of mind as you hardly know what you are about, go on blubbering to me about all the particulars, when perhaps to-morrow you'll give one of your pretty little ears that you had not said a word to me about it."
"Alas!—Alas!"
"Pho! Pho! Easy does it."
"Who am I to cling to but you?"
"Cling to me? Perhaps you'll say it's me?"
"What's you, Mr. Ben? Explain yourself. How strange you talk. What do you mean, Mr. Ben?"
"Well, that's cool," said Ben.
"What's cool?"
"I tell you what it is, Miss Arabella W., I'm disappointed in you; ain't you ashamed to look me in the face?"
"Ashamed?"
"Yes, positively ashamed?"
"No, Mr. Ben. I may regret the indiscretion that is past; but I cannot see in it anything to be ashamed of."
"You don't?"
"Indeed, Mr. Ben, I do not."
"Then, Miss A. W., you are about the coolest little piece of goods I have met with for some time. Come—come, easy does it; but haven't you been telling me all this time about something you have been about, that—that—was rather improper, in a manner of speaking?"
It might have been the tone in which Ben pronounced the word improper, or it might have been the sagacious shake of the head which Ben accompanied his words with, or it might have been that Arabella was drawing a conclusion from the whole transaction; but certain it is, that she began to have a glimmering perception that Mr. Ben was making a great mistake.
"Oh, heaven!" she said. "What are you saying Mr. Ben? I am speaking of the advice I was foolish enough to give Johanna."
"Advice?"
"Yes, that is all. Into what mischief could you have tortured my meaning? I am much mistaken in you, sir."
"What? Then, it isn't—a-hem! That is to say, you haven't—dear me, I shall put my foot in it directly. What a fool I am."
"You are, indeed," said the now indignant Arabella, and a slight flush upon her cheeks showed how deeply wronged she was by the unworthy construction Ben had put upon her innocent words.
"Good-bye, Miss A. W.," added Ben. "Good-bye; I see I am out of your books; but if you fancy I meant any harm, you don't know me. God bless you. Take care of yourself my dear, and go home. I won't stay to plague you any longer. Good-bye."
"Stop! Stop!"
Ben paused.
"I am sure, Mr. Ben, you did not mean to say a single word that could be offensive to a friendless girl in the street."
"Then, then?—Easy does it."
"Let us be friends again then, Mr. Ben, and I will tell you all, and you will then blame me for being so romantic as to give Johanna advice which has induced her to take a step which, although my reason tells me she is now well protected in, my imagination still peoples with horror."
Ben's eyes opened to an alarming width.
"You recollect meeting us in this street, Ben?"
"Oh, yes."
"When Johanna was disguised?"
"Yes, Miss A. When she had on them, a-hem! You may depend upon it, my dear, there's no good comes of young girls putting on pairs of thingamys. Don't you ever do it."
"But, Mr. Ben, hear me."
"Well—well. I was only saying. You stick to the petticoats, my dear. They become you, and you become them, and don't you be trusting your nice little legs into what-do-you-call-'ems."
"Mr. Ben?"
"I've done. Easy does it. Now go on and tell us what happened, my dear. Don't mind me. Go on."
"Then Johanna, in boy's cloathes, is now—"
"Now? Oh, the little vixen. Didn't I tell her not."
"Is now filling the situation of errand boy at Sweeney Todd's, opposite. Can ............