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“This child；” said Mr。 Brownlow； drawing Oliver to him； and
laying his hand upon his head； “is your half…brother； the
illegitimate son of your father； my dear friend Edwin Leeford； by
poor young Agnes Fleming； who died in giving him birth。”
“Yes；” said Monks； scowling at the trembling boy； the beating of
whose heart he might have heard。 “That is their bastard child。”
“The term you use；” said Mr。 Brownlow sternly； “is a reproach
to those who have long since passed beyond the feeble censure of
the world。 It reflects disgrace on no one living； except you who use
it。 Let that pass。 He was born in this town。”
“In the workhouse of this town；” was the sullen reply。 “You
have the story there。” He pointed impatiently to the papers as he
spoke。
“I must have it here； too；” said Mr。 Brownlow； looking round
upon the listeners。
“Listen then！ You！” returned Monks。 “His father being taken ill
at Rome； was joined by his wife； my mother； from whom he had
been long separated； who went from Paris； and took me with her—
to look after his property； for what I know； for she had no great
affection for him； nor he for her。 He knew nothing of us； for his
senses were gone； and he slumbered on till next day； when he
died。 Among the papers in his desk； were two； dated on the night
his illness first came on； directed to yourself；” he addressed
himself to Mr。 Brownlow； “and inclosed in a few short lines to you；
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with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be
forwarded till after he was dead。 One of these papers was a letter
to this girl Agnes； the other a will。”
“What of the letter？” asked Mr。 Brownlow。
“The letter？—A sheet of paper crossed and crossed again； with
a penitent confession； and prayers to God to help her。 He had
palmed a tale on the girl that some secret mystery—to be
explained one day—prevented his marrying her just then； and so
she had gone on； trusting patiently in him； until she trusted too
far； and lost what none could ever give her back。 She was； at that
time； within a few months of her confinement。 He told her all he
had meant to do； to hide her shame； if he had lived； and prayed
her； if he died； not to curse his memory； or think the consequences
of their sin would be visited on her or their young child； for all the
guilt was his。 He reminded her of the day he had given her the
little locket and the ring with her Christian name engraved upon
it； and a blank left for that which he hoped one day to have
bestowed upon her—prayed her yet to keep it； and wear it next
her heart； as she had done before—and then ran on； wildly； in the
same words； over and over again； as if he had gone distracted。 I
believe he had。”
“The will；” said Mr。 Brownlow； as Oliver’s tears fell fast。”
Monks was silent。
“The will；” said Mr。 Brownlow； speaking for him； “was in the
same spirit as the letter。 He talked of miseries which his wife had
brought upon him； of the rebellious disposition； vice； malice； and
premature bad passions of you his only son； who had been trained
to hate him； and left you； and your mother； each an annuity of
eight hundred pounds。 The bulk of his property he divided into
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two equal portions—one for Agnes Fleming； and the other for
their child； if it should be born alive； and ever come of age。 If it
were a girl； it was to inherit the money unconditionally； but if a
boy； only on the stipulation that in his minority he should never
have stained his name with any public act of dishonour； meanness；
cowardice； or wrong。 He did this； he said； to mark his confidence
in the mother； and his conviction—only strengthened by
approaching death—that the child would share her gentle heart；
and noble nature。 If he were disappointed in this expectation； then
the money was to come to you； for then； and not till then； when
both children were equal； would he recognise your prior claim
upon his purse； who had none upon his heart； but had from an
infant； repulsed him with coldness and aversion。”
“My mother；” said Monks； in a louder tone； “did what a woman
should have done。 She burned this will。 The letter never reached
its destination； but that； and other proofs； she kept； in case they
ever tried to lie away the blot。 The girl’s father had the truth from
her with every aggravation that her violent hate—I love her for it
now—could add。 Goaded by shame and dishonour he fled with his
children into a remote corner of Wales； changing his very name
that his friends might never know of his retreat； and here； no great
while afterwards； he was found dead in his bed。 The girl had left
her home； in secret； some weeks before； he had searched for her；
on foot； in every town and village near； it was on the night when
he returned home； assured that she had destroyed herself？ to hide
her shame and his； that his old heart broke。”
There was a short silence here； until Mr。 Brownlow took up the
thread of the narrative。
“Years after this；” he said； “this man’s—Edward Leeford’s—
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mother came to me。 He had left her； when only eighteen； robbed
her of jewels and money； gambled； squandered； forged； and fled to
London； where for two years he had associated with the lowest
outcasts。 She was sinking under a painful and incurable disease；
and wished to recover him before she died。 Inquiries were set on
foot； and strict searches made。 They were unavailing for a long
time； but ultimately successful； and he went back with her to
France。”
“There she died；” said Monks； “after a lingering illness； and； on
her deathbed； she bequeathed these secrets to me； together with
her unquenchable and deadly hatred of all whom they involved—
though she need not have left me that； for I had inherited it long
before。 She would not believe that the girl had destroyed herself；
and the child too； but was filled with the impression that a male
child had been born； and was alive。 I swore to her； if ever it
crossed my path； to hunt it down； never to let it rest； to pursue it
with the bitterest and most unrelenting animosity； to vent upon it
the hatred that I deeply felt； and to spit upon the empty vaunt of
that insulting will by dragging it； if I could； to the very gallows…
foot。 She was right。 He came in my way at last。 I began well； and；
but for babbling drabs； I would have finished as I began！”
As the villain folded his arms tight together； and muttered
curses on himself in the impotence of baffled malice； Mr。
Brownlow turned to the terrified group beside him； and explained
that the Jew； who had been his old accomplice and confidant； had
a large reward for keeping Oliver ensnared； of which some part
was to be given up； in the event of his being rescued； and that a
dispute on this head had led to their visit to the country houses for
the purpose of identifying hum。
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“The locket and ring？” said Mr。 Brownlow； turning to Monks。
“I bought them from the man and woman I told you of； who
stole them from the nurse； who stole them from the corpse；”
answered Monks； without raising his eyes。 “You know what
became of them。”
Mr。 Brownlow merely nodded to Mr。 Grimwig； who
disappearing with great alacrity； shortly returned； pushing in Mrs。
Bumble； and dragging her unwilling consort after him。
“Do my hi’s deceive me！” cried Mr。 Bumble； with ill…feigned
enthusiasm； “or is that little Oliver？ Oh； O…li…ver； if you know’d
how I’ve been a…grieving for you—”
“Hold your tongue； fool；” murmured Mrs。 Bumble。
“Isn’t natur’； natur’； Mrs。 Bumble？” remonstrated the
workhouse master。 “Can’t I be supposed to feel—I as brought him
up porochially—when I see him a…setting here among ladies and
gentlemen of the very affablest description！ I always loved that
boy as if he’d been my—my—my own grandfather；” said Mr。
Bumble； halting for an appropriate comparison。 “Master Oliver；
my dear； you remember the blessed gentleman in the white
waistcoat？ Ah！ he went to heaven last week； in a oak coffin with
plated handles； Oliver。”
“Come； sir；” said Mr。 Grimwig tartly； “suppress your feelings。
“I will do my endeavours； sir；” replied Mr。 Bumble。 “How do
you do； sir？ I hope you are very well” This salutation was
addressed to Mr。 Brownlow； who had stepped up to within a short
distance of the respectable couple。 He inquired； as he pointed to
Monks：
“Do you know that person？”
“No；” replied Mrs。 Bumble flatly。
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“Perhaps you don’t？” said Mr。 Brownlow； addressing her
spouse。
“I never saw him in all my life；” said Mr。 Bumble。
“Nor sold him anything； perhaps？”
“No；” replied Mr。 Bumble。
“You never had； perhaps； a certain gold locket and ring？” said
Mr。 Brownlow。
“Certainly not；” replied the matro