“Nothing,” replied Mr. Brownlow—“nothing to you. But it was
hers; and even at this distance of time brings back to me, an old
man, the glow and thrill which I once felt, only to hear it repeated
by a stranger. I am very glad you have changed it—very—very.”
“This is all mighty fine,” said Monks (to retain his assumed
designation) after a long silence, during which he had jerked
himself in sullen defiance to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat,
shading his face with his hand. “But what do you want with me?”
“You have a brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, rousing himself; “a
brother, the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came
behind you in the street, was, in itself, almost enough to make you
accompany me hither, in wonder and alarm.”
“I have no brother,” replied Monks. “You know I was an only
child. Why do you talk to me of brothers? You know that, as well
as I.”
“Attend to what I do know, and you may not,” said Mr.
Brownlow. “I shall interest you by and by. I know that of the
wretched marriage, into which family pride, and the most sordid
and narrowest of all ambition, forced your unhappy father when a
mere boy, you were the sole and most unnatural issue.”
“I don’t care for hard names,” interrupted Monks, with a
jeering laugh. “You know the fact, and that’s enough for me.”
“But I also know,” pursued the old gentleman, “the misery, the
slow torture, the protracted anguish of that ill-assorted union. I
know how listlessly and wearily each of that wretched pair
dragged on their heavy chain through a world that was poisoned
to them both. I know how cold formalities were succeeded by open
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taunts; how indifference gave place to dislike, dislike to hate, and
hate to loathing, until at last they wrenched the clanking bond
asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, carried each a galling
fragment, of which nothing but death could break the rivets, to
hide it in new society beneath the gayest looks they could assume.
Your mother succeeded; she forgot it soon. But it rusted and
cankered at your father’s heart for years.”
“Well, they were separated,” said Monks, “and what of that?”
“When they had been separated for some time,” returned Mr.
Brownlow, “and your mother, wholly given up to continental
frivolities, had utterly forgotten the young husband ten good years
her junior, who, with prospects blighted, lingered on at home, he
fell among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know
already.”
“Not I,” said Monks, turning away his eyes and beating his foot
upon the ground, as a man who is determined to deny everything.
“Not I.”
“Your manner, no less than your actions, assures me that you
have never forgotten it, or ceased to think of it with bitterness,”
returned Mr. Brownlow. “I speak of fifteen years ago, when you
were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-andthirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to
marry. Must I go back to events which cast a shade upon the
memory of your parent, or will you spare it, and disclose to me the
truth?”
“I have nothing to disclose,” rejoined Monks. “You must talk on
if you will.”
“These new friends, then,” said Mr. Brownlow, “were a naval
officer retired from active service, whose wife had died some half a
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year before, and left him with two children—there had been more,
but, of all their family, happily but two survived. They were both
daughters; one a beautiful creature of nineteen, and the other a
mere child of two or three years old.”
“What’s this to me?” asked Monks.
“They resided,” said Mr. Brownlow, without seeming to hear
the interruption, “in a part of the country to which your father in
his wanderings had repaired, and where he had taken up his
abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast followed on each
other. Your father was gifted as few men are. He had his sister’s
soul and person. As the old officer knew him more and more, he
grew to love him. I would that it had ended there. His daughter did
the same.”
The old gentleman paused; Monks was biting his lips, with his
eyes fixed upon the floor; seeing this, he immediately resumed:
“The end of a year found him contracted, solemnly contracted,
to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only passion
of a guileless girl.”
“Your tale is of the longest,” observed Monks, moving restlessly
in his chair.
“It is a true tale of grief, and trial, and sorrow, young man,”
returned Mr. Brownlow, “and such tales usually are; if it were one
of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length,
one of those rich relations to strengthen whose interest and
importance your father had been sacrificed, as others are often—it
is no uncommon case—died, and to repair the misery he had been
instrumental in occasioning, left him his panacea for all griefs—
money. It was necessary that he should immediately repair to
Rome, whither this man had sped for health, and where he had
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died, leaving his affairs in great confusion. He went; was seized
with mortal illness there; was followed, the moment the
intelligence reached Paris, by your mother, who carried you with
her; he died the day after her arrival, leaving no will—no will—so
that the whole property fell to her and you.”
At this part of the recital, Monks held his breath, and listened
with a face of intense eagerness, though his eyes were not directed
towards the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he changed his
position with the air of one who has experienced a sudden relief,
and wiped his hot face and hands.
“Before he went abroad, and as he passed through London on
his way,” said Mr. Brownlow slowly, and fixing his eyes upon the
other’s face, “he came to me.”
“I never heard of that,” interrupted Monks, in a tone intended
to appear incredulous, but savouring more of disagreeable
surprise.
“He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a
picture—a portrait painted by himself—a likeness of this poor
girl—which he did not wish to leave behind, and could not carry
forward on his hasty journey. He was worn by anxiety and
remorse almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, distracted way, of
ruin and dishonour worked by himself; confided in me his
intention to convert his whole property, at any loss, into money,
and, having settled on his wife and you a portion of his recent
acquisition, to fly the country—I guessed too well he would not fly
alone—and never see it more. Even from me, his old and early
friend, whose strong attachment had taken root in the earth and
covered one most dear to both—even from me he withheld any
more particular confession, promising to write and tell me all, and
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after that to see me once again, for the last time on earth. Alas!
That was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him more.
“I went,” said Mr. Brownlow after a short pause—“I went,
when all was over, to the scene of his—I will use the term the
world would freely use, for worldly harshness or favour are now
alike to him—of his guilty love, resolved that if her fears were
realised, that erring child should find one heart and home to
shelter and compassionate her. The family had left that part a
week before; they had called in such trifling debts as were
outstanding, discharged them, and left the place by night. Why, or
whither, none can tell.”
Monks drew his breath yet more freely, and looked round with
a smile of triumph.
“When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, drawing nearer to
the other’s chair—“when your brother—a feeble, ragged,
neglected child—was cast in my way by a stronger hand than
chance, and rescued by me from a life of vice and infamy—”
“What?” cried Monks.
“By me,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I told you I should interest you
before long. I say by me—I see that your cunning associate
suppressed my name, although for aught he knew, it would be
quite strange to your ears. When he was rescued by me, then, and
lay recovering from sickness in my house, his strong resemblance
to this picture I have spoken of, struck me with astonishment.
Even when I first saw him in all his dirt and misery, there was a
lingering expression in his face that came upon me like a glimpse
of some old friend flashing on one in a vivid dream. I need not tell
you he was snared away before I knew his history—”
“Why not?” asked Monks hastily.
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“Because you know it well.”
“I!”
“Denial to me is vain,” replied Mr. Brownlow. “I shall show you
that I know more than that.”
“You—you—can’t prove anything against me,” stammered
Monks. “I defy you to do it!”
“We shall see,” returned the old gentleman, with a searching
glance. “I lost the boy, and no efforts of mine could recover him.
Your mother being dead, I knew that you alone could solve the
mystery if anybody could, and as, when I had last heard of you,
you were on your own estate in the West Indies—whither, as you
well know, you retired upon your mother’s death to escape the
consequences of vicious courses here—I made the voyage. You
had left it, months before, and were supposed to be in London, but
no one could tell where. I returned. Your agents had no clue to
your residence. You came and went, they said, as strangely as you
had ever done, sometimes for days together and sometimes not for
months, keeping, to all appearance, the same low haunts and
mingling with the same infamous herd who had been your
associates when a fierce, ungovernable boy. I wearied them with
new applications. I paced the streets by night and day, but until
two hours ago, all my efforts were fruitless, and I never saw you
for an instant.”
“And now you do see me,” said Monks, rising boldly, “what
then? Fraud and robbery are high-sounding words—justified, you
think, by a fancied resemblance in some young imp to an idle daub
of a dead man’s. Brother! You don’t even know that a child was
born of this maudlin pair; you don’t even known that.”
“I did not,” replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; “but within the
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last fortnight I have learned it all. You have a brother; you know it,
and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, leaving
the secret and the gain to you at her own death. It contained a
reference to some child likely to be the result of this sad
connection; which child was born, and accidentally encountered
by you, when your suspicions were first awakened by his
resemblance to his father. You repaired to the place of his birth.
There existed proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and
parentage. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your
own words to your accomplice the Jew, ‘the only proofs of the boy’s
identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old hag that received
them from the mother is rotting in her coffin.’ Unworthy son,
coward, liar—you, who hold your councils with thieves and
murderers in dark rooms at night, you, whose plots and wiles have
brought a violent death upon the head of one worth millions such
as you—you, who from your cradle were gall and bitterness to
your own father’s heart, and in whom all evil passions, vice, and
profligacy, festered, till they found a vent in a hideous disease
which has made your face an index even to your mind—you,
Edward Leeford, do you still brave me?”
“No, no, no!” returned the coward, overwhelmed by these
accumulated charges.
“Every word!” cried the old gentleman—“every word that has
passed between you and this detested villain, is known to me.
Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought
them to my ear; the sight of the persecuted child has turned vice
itself, and given it the courage and almost the attributes of virtue.
Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not really a
party.”
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“No, no,” interposed Monks. “I—I know nothing of that; I was
going to inquire the truth of the story when you overtook me. I
didn’t know the cause. I thought it was a common quarrel.”
“It was the partial disclosure of your secrets,” replied Mr.
Brownlow. “Will you disclose the whole?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Set your hand to a statement of truth and facts, and repeat it
before witnesses?”
“That I promise, too.”
“Remain quietly here, until such a document is drawn up, and
proceed with me to such a place as I may deem most advisable, for
the purpose of attesting it?”
“If you insist upon that, I’ll do that also,” replied Monks.
“You must do more than that,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Make
restitution to an innocent and unoffending child, for such he is,
although the offspring of a guilty and most miserable love. You
have not forgotten the provisions of the will. Carry them into
execution so far as your brother is concerned, and then go where
you please. In this world you need meet no more.”
While Monks was pacing up and down, meditating with dark
and evil looks on this disposal and the possibilities of evading it,
torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other, the
door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman (Mr. Losberne)
entered the room in violent agitation.
“The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken tonight!”
“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, yes,” replied the other. “His dog has been seen lurking
about some old haunt, and there seems little doubt that his master
either is, or will be, there, under cover of darkness. Spies are
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hovering about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who
are charged with his capture, and they tell me he can never
escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by
Government tonight.”
“I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and proclaim it
with my own lips upon the spot, if I can reach it. Where is Mr.
Maylie?”
“Harry? As soon as he had seen your friend here, safe in a
coach with you, he hurried off to where he heard this,” replied the
doctor, “and, mounting his horse, sallied forth to join the first
party at some place in the outskirts agreed upon between them.”
“Fagin,” said Mr. Brownlow; “what of him?”
“When I last heard, he had not been taken; but he will be, or is,
by this time. They’re sure of him.”
“Have you made up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low
voice, of Monks.
“Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be secret with me?”
“I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only hope of safety.”
They left the room, and the door was again locked.
“What have you done?” asked the doctor, in a whisper.
“All that I could hope to do, and even more. Coupling the poor
girl’s intelligence with my previous knowledge, and the result of
our good friend’s inquiries on the spot, I left him no loophole of
escape, and laid bare the whole villainy which by these lights
became plain as day. Write and appoint the evening after
tomorrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be down there, a few
hours before, but shall require rest; especially the young lady, who
may have greater need of firmness than either you or I can quite
foresee just now. But my blood boils to avenge this poor murdered
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creature. Which way have they taken?”
“Drive straight to the office and you will be in time,” replied Mr.
Losberne. “I will remain here.”
The two gentlemen hastily separated; each in a fever of
excitement wholly uncontrollable.
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Chapter 50
The Pursuit And Escape.
Near to that part of the Thames on which the church at
Rotherhithe abuts, where the buildings on the banks are
dirtiest and the vessels on the river blackest with the dust
of colliers and the smoke of close-built, low-roofed houses, there
exists the filthiest, the strangest, the most extraordinary of the
many localities that are hidden in London, wholly unknown, even
by name, to the great mass of its inhabitants.
To reach this place, the visitor has to penetrate through a maze
of close, narrow, and muddy streets, thronged by the roughest and
poorest of waterside people, and devoted to the traffic they may be
supposed to occasion. The cheapest and least delicate provisions
are heaped in the shops; the coarsest and commonest articles of
