Was he ever a smiling infant, with
pretty dimples? Was there at his or her birth much joy? Did a mother's
tears ever fall upon his or her cheek, in sweet gratitude to God for
such a glorious gift? No--no. We cannot--we will not believe that such
persons as Sweeney Todd and Mrs. Lovett ever came into this world
otherwise than ready-made man and woman! Any other belief, concerning
such fiends in human shape is too repugnant. But we are forgetting that
Mrs. Lovett is upon the sofa all this while, and that her metallic smile
has quite vanished, giving way to such a look of utter abandonment of
spirit, that you would have shuddered to have cast but one glance upon
her. She could bear the quietude of the attitude she had assumed but for
a very short time, and then she sprang to her feet. "Yes," she said, "it must, and it shall come to an end!" She stood for some few moments trembling, as though the dim echo of that
word end, as she had jerked it forth, had awakened in her mind a world
of horrifying thoughts. Again she sank upon the couch, and speaking in a
low, plaintive voice, she said--

"Yes. I have need of the waters of oblivion, one draught of which shuts
out for ever all memory of the past. Oh, that I had but a cup of such
nectar at my lips!" Not a doubt of it, Mrs. Lovett. It is the memory of the wicked that
constitutes that retribution, which is assuredly to be found in this
world as day follows night. "I--I must have this," she muttered. "Let Todd be dead or alive, I must
have it. I am going mad--I feel certain. That I am going mad, and the
only way to save myself, is to flee. I must collect as much money as I
can and then flee far away. If I cannot quite obliterate the past from
my memory, I can at least leave it as it is, and add nothing to it. Yes,
that man may live. He seems to bear a charmed life. But I must flee." She rested her head upon her hands, and in a softer voice, said--

"Let me think--let me think of the means, now that I have yet a little
time. What do I dread most? The man below? Yes. He is at work for his
deliverance. I feel that he is, and if he succeed before I flee from
here, all is lost--all is lost! I must speak to him." Filled with this idea, and with an unknown dread of what the
discontented cook might do, Mrs. Lovett stepped into the shop first, and
made the door fast by slipping a bolt at the back of it. It was not very
often that immediately after the disposal of a batch of pies any
customers came in, and if they should attempt to do so for the purpose
of purchasing any stale pies, she was by far too intent upon what she
was come about, and considered it by far too important to heed what they
might think or say upon finding the door fast. She then opened the
seeming cupboard in the parlour, which conducted to the strong iron
door, with the small grating at the top of it. She reached that point of
observation with great rapidity, and peered into the cavernous
dungeon-like bakehouse. At first she could see nothing by the uncertain
light that was there, but as her eyes got accustomed to the absence of
daylight, she could just see the figure of the cook sitting upon a
stool, and apparently watching one of the fires. "It is a long--long time." "What is a long time?" cried Mrs. Lovett. The captive cook sprang to his feet in a moment, and in a voice of
alarm, he said--

"Who spoke? Who is that?" "I," replied Mrs. Lovett. "Do you not know me?" "Ah," said the cook, directing his eyes to the grating above the door,
"I know you too well. What do you want with me? Have I failed in doing
your bidding here? Have I disappointed you of a single batch of those
execrable pies?" "Certainly not, but I have come to see--if--if you are quite
comfortable." "Comfortable! What an insult!" "Nay, you wrong me." "That is impossible. This is the commencement only of some new misery. Speak on, madam. Speak on. I am helpless here, and condemned to suffer." Notwithstanding these words of the cook there was a certain tone of
hilarity about him, that Mrs. Lovett might well be surprised at, and she
asked herself what does he hope. The fact is that much as he wished
still to enact the character of a man full of despair, the cook could
not get out of his head and heart the promises of Sir Richard
Blunt--promises which still rung in his ears, like a peal of joy bells. "Come, come," said Mrs. Lovett, "you are getting reconciled to your
fate. Confess as much." "I reconciled? Never." "But you are not so unhappy?" "Worse--worse. This apathetic condition that I am now in, and which to
you may look like the composure of resignation, will end, in all
likelihood, in raging madness." "Indeed?" "Yes, madam, I feel already the fire in my brain." "Be calm." "Calm--calm! Ha!--ha! Calm. It is all very well for you upon that side
of the iron door to talk of calmness, madam, but upon this side the
words sound strange." "It will not sound so strange when I tell you that I have absolute
compassion upon you, and that the cause of my present visit was to talk
to you of some means by which the worst portion of your fate here might
be in some measure ameliorated, and your existence rendered tolerable." CHAPTER LXXIV. BIG BEN CREATES A SENSATION. The cook was so surprised at these words from Mrs. Lovett that for some
moments he made no answer to them. "Pray, speak again," he said at length, when he could find words in
which to express himself. "I repeat," she said, "that I am desirous, as far as lies in my power,
to ameliorate your condition, of which you so much complain." "Indeed!" "Ah, you are too suspicious." "Humph! I think, madam, when you come to consider all things, you will
hardly think it possible for me to be too suspicious." "You are wrong again. I dare say now, in your mind, you attribute most
of your evils to me." "Well, madam, candidly speaking, should I be far wrong by so doing?" "You would be quite wrong. Alas! alas! I--"

"You what, madam? Pray, speak up." "I am the victim of another. You cannot suppose that, of my own free
will, I should shut up in these gloomy places a person of your age, and
by no means ill-looking." "I have him there," thought Mrs. Lovett; "what
human heart is proof against the seductions of flattery? Oh, I have him
there." The cook was silent for some few moments, and then he said, quite
calmly, as though the tribute to his personal appearance had not had the
smallest effect--

"Pray go on, madam, I am quite anxious to hear all that you may have to
say to me." This composed manner of meeting her compliments rather discomposed Mrs.
Lovett; but after all, she thought--"He is only acting an indifference
he is far from feeling." With this impression she resolved to persevere,
and she added, in a kind and conciliating tone of voice--

"I grant that circumstances are such that you may well be excused for
any amount of doubt that you may feel regarding the honesty of my words
and intentions towards you." "I quite agree with you there, madam," said the cook.