Stranica 266 [266]
OCR
202 they were present conversed apart. Once Mrs. Maylie was called away, and after being absent for nearly an hour, returned with eyes swollen with weeping. All these things made Rose and Oliver, who were not in any new secrets, nervous and uncomfortable. They sat wondering in silence, or, if they exchanged a few words, spoke in whispers, as if they were afraid to hear the sound of their own voices. At length, when nine o’clock had come, and they began to think they were to hear no more that night, Mr. Losberne and Mr. Grimwig entered the room, followed by Mr. Brownlow and a man whom Oliver almost shrieked with surprise to see; for they told him it was his brother, and it market-town, and seen looking in with Fagin at the window of his little room. ile cast a look of hate, which even then he could not dissemble, at the astonished boy, and sat down near the door. Mr. Brownlow, who had papers in his hand, walked to a table, near which Rose and Oliver were seated. “This isa painful task,” said he. * But these declarations, which have been signed in London before many gentlemen, must be in substance repeated here. I would have spared you the degradation, but we must have them from your own lips before we part, and you know why.” “Go on," said the person addressed, turning away his face. “ Quick. I have done enough. Don’t keep me here.” 6 "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, and 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 long since passed beyond the feeble censure of this world. It reflects true disgrace on no one living except you who this town?’ 66 In the workhouse of this town,” was the sullen reply. " You have the story there.” He pointed emphatically to the papers as he spoke. “Tl must have it here, too,” said Mr. Brownlow, icoxing round upon the listeners. * Listen, then,” returned Monks. “ His father being taken ill at Rome, as you know, 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, and enclosed in a few short lines to you, with an intimation on the cover of the package that it was not to be forwarded till he was dead. One of these papers was a letter to this girl Agnes, and 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 upon 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 to him, until she trusted too far, and lost what none could 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—as I believe he had.” c "The will,” said Mr. Brownlow, as Oliver’s tears fell fast. “I will go on to that. The will was in the same spirit. 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 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 was a girl, it was to come into the money uncondl
