What could compensate Mrs. Lovett for the abject terrors that came over
her now? What could recompense her for the pang that shot across her
heart, at the thought that something was amiss in the fine-drawn web of
subtlety that she and Sweeney Todd had drawn? Alas! was the money in the
Bank of England, upon which she expected to enjoy herself in a foreign
land, now any set-off against that shuddering agony of soul with which
she said to herself--

"Is all discovered?" Her strength forsook her. She quite forgot all about the cook, and the
brandy she had promised him--she forgot even how necessary it was, in
case any one should come, for her to keep up the appearance of
composure; and tottering into the back-parlour, she sunk upon her knees
on the floor, and shook as though the spirit of twenty agues possessed
her. So it will be seen that Todd was not quite alone in his sufferings
from those compunctious visitations, which we have seen at times come
over him in his shop. But we will leave Mrs. Lovett to her reflections,
hoping that even she may be made a little wiser and a little better by
those soft

    "Whisperings of awakened sense;"

and that she may find some one among the invisible hosts of spirits of
another world who may whisper to her--

"Repent! repent!--it is not yet too late." Let us look at those three persons whose mysterious conduct at the shop
windows had, like a match applied to gunpowder, at once awakened a fever
in the breast of Mrs. Lovett, which she was scarcely aware slumbered
there. These folks made their way, then, into Fleet Street; and as the
reader has probably guessed already who they are, we may as well make a
merit of saying that the big one was our old friend Ben, the
beef-eater--the gentlemanly-looking man was Sir Richard Blunt, and the
young lady was no other than Arabella Wilmot. Poor Arabella! Of all the
personages concerned in our _dramatis personæ_, we have no hesitation in
saying that your sufferings are the greatest. From the moment that
Johanna had started upon that desperate expedition to Sweeney Todd's,
peace left the bosom of her young friend. We have already traced the
progress of Arabella to Sir Richard Blunt's office, and we have seen
what was the result of that decidedly judicious movement; but
notwithstanding she was assured over and over again subsequently by Sir
Richard that Johanna was now well protected, she could not bring herself
to think so, or to leave the street. It was by her lingering about in
this way that she became in the company of our friend Ben. The fact was,
that the kind of statement or confession that Johanna had made to Ben on
that occasion of his visit to her father's house, when she found herself
alone with him in the parlour, had made such an impression upon the poor
fellow, that he described it himself in the most forcible possible
language, by saying--

"It interferes with my meals." Now, everything that had such an effect as that, must to Ben be a matter
for the most serious consideration indeed. He accordingly, finding that

    "The peace of the Tower was fled,"

so far as he was concerned, had come into the City upon a sort of voyage
of discovery, to see how matters were going on. As he was proceeding
along Fleet Street, he chanced to cast his eyes into the entrance of a
court, nearly opposite Sweeney Todd's, and there he saw a female form
crouching. There was something about this female form which Ben thought
was familiar to him, and upon a close look, he felt certain it was
Johanna's friend, Arabella Wilmot. Full of surprise at finding her
there, Ben paused, and stared at her so long, that she at last looked at
him, and recognising him, immediately flew to his side, and grasping his
arm, cried--

"Oh, pity me, Mr. Ben. Pity me!" "Hold!" said Ben, who was not, as the reader is aware, the fastest
thinker in the world. "Hold. Easy does it." Ben tried to look very wise then. "Oh, you will hate me, Ben." "Eh?" "I say you will hate me, Ben, when you know all." Ben shook his head. "Shan't do any such thing," he said. "Lord bless your pretty eyes, I
hate you? I couldn't." "But--but--"

"Come, come," added Ben, "just take your little bit of an arm under
mine. Easy does it, you know. Always think of that, if anything goes
amiss. Easy does it; and then you will find things come right in the
long run. You may take my word for it." CHAPTER LXXV. COLONEL JEFFERY OPENS HIS EYES. 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.