CHAPTER XXVII

Monks and Mr. Brownlow Meet at Last

It was getting dark when Mr. Brownlow descended from a coach at his own door and knocked softly. The door being opened, a strong man got out of the coach and stood at one side of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the coachman's seat, dismounted too, and stood upon the other side. At a sign from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him between them, hurried him into the house. This man was Monks.

They walked in the same manner upstairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow led the way into a back room. At the door of this room Monks stopped. The two men looked to the old gentleman as for instructions.

"If he hesitates or refuses to obey you," said Mr. Brownlow, "drag him into the street, call the police and let them arrest him as a criminal."

"How dare you say that of me?" asked Monks.

"How dare you urge me to it, young man?" said Mr. Brownlow. "Are you mad enough to leave this house? Release him. There, sir, you are free to go, and we to follow. But I warn you that the instant you set foot in the street I will have you arrested on a charge of fraud and robbery."

"By what authority am I kidnapped in the street, and brought here by these dogs?" asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who stood beside him.

"By mine," replied Mr. Brownlow. "If you complain of being deprived of your liberty, ask for the protection of the law. I will appeal to the law too. But do not ask me for mercy when it is too late."

Monks was plainly alarmed. He hesitated.

"You will decide quickly," said Mr. Brownlow, firmly. "If you want me to charge you in public, you know the way. If not, and you appeal to my forgiveness and the mercy of those whom you have deeply injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days."

"Is there ... no middle course?" asked Monks.

"None."

Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an anxious eye; but reading in his face nothing but a firm determination, he walked into the room and sat down.

"Lock the door on the outside," said Mr. Brownlow to the two men, "and come when I ring."

The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.

"This is pretty treatment, sir," said Monks, throwing down his hat and cloak, "from my father's oldest friend."

"It is because I was your father's oldest friend, young man," returned Mr. Brownlow, "it is because he knelt with me beside the death-bed of his only sister when he was yet a boy, on the morning that would have made her my young wife; it is because of all this that I am moved to treat you gently now ... yes, Edward Leeford, even now ... and blush for your own wickedness, you who bear the name."

"What is the name to me?" asked Monks.

"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 thrill which I once felt when I heard it. I am glad you have changed it."

"This is all very well," said Monks, "but what do you want with me?"

"You have a brother," said Mr. Brownlow, "the whisper of whose name in your ear when I came behind you in the street was enough to make you accompany me here, 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?"

"I know," said Mr. Brownlow, "that of the wretched marriage into which family pride and ambition forced your unhappy father you were the only child. But I also know that their marriage was a slow torture to both parties until at last they were separated."

"Well," said Monks, "they were separated, and what of that?"

"When they had been separated for some time," returned Mr. Brownlow, "your father fell among new friends. This, at least, you knew already."

"Not I," replied 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 assures me that you have never forgotten it," returned Mr. Brownlow. "I speak of fifteen years ago, when you were not more than eleven years old, and your father but one-and-thirty. These new friends were a retired naval officer whose wife had died and left him a daughter, a beautiful creature of nineteen. Your father fell in love passionately with her, and the result of this guilty love was your brother."

"Your tale is a long one," observed Monks, moving restlessly in his chair.

"It is a true tale of grief and trial, young man," returned Mr. Brownlow, "and such tales usually are long; if it were one of unmixed joy and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of your father's rich relations died and left him considerable property. It was necessary that your father should go to Rome, where this rich relation had died. And there your father was seized with illness; he was followed, the moment the news 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 to you."

Here Monks, who had been listening with eager interest, showed signs of 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.

"He came to me, and left with me a picture painted by himself 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; talked of ruin and dishonour brought about by himself, and confided to me his intention to sell his property and settle a part of the money on his wife and you and then leave the country and never see it any more. But even from me he kept the confession of the secret fruit of his guilty love. He promised to write and tell me all, and after that to see me once again. Alas! that was the last time. I had no letter, and I never saw him again.

"I went," said Mr. Brownlow, after a short pause, "to the scene of his unhappy love, resolved to find the poor girl and give her shelter. But the family had left that part of the country a week before. It was by the strong hand of chance that your poor neglected brother was thrown in my way. And when I rescued him from a life of vice and crime I was struck by his strong similarity to this picture I have spoken of. I need not tell you he was snared away before I knew his history ... "

"Why not?" asked Monks hastily.

"Because you know it well."

"I!"

"It is no use denying," replied Mr. Brownlow. "I shall show you that I know more than that."

"You ... you ... can't prove anything against me," said Monks.

"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. I searched for you everywhere in London, where I had found you were keeping company with the lowest of criminals. I walked the streets day and night, 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? Do you think you can prove your charges against me by a fancied similarity between a miserable child and a badly painted picture? Brother! You don't even know that a child was born; you don't even know that."

"I did not," replied Mr. Brownlow, rising too; "but during the last fortnight I have learnt it all. 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 connexion. According to the will the child was to inherit all his father's property if he grew up to be a worthy man; if, on the other hand, he became a man of low character like yourself, the property was to be equally shared between you two. The child was born and you accidentally met him; your suspicions were first aroused by his resemblance to your father. You went to the place of his birth where there were proofs of his origin. Those proofs were destroyed by you, and now, in your own words to your partner the Jew, 'the only proofs of the boy's identity lie at the bottom of the river, and the old woman that received them from the mother is in her grave.' Unworthy son, coward, liar—you who hold your councils with thieves and murderers in dark rooms at night, you, Edward Leeford, do you still challenge me?"

"No, no, no!" replied the coward.

"Every word!" cried the old gentleman, "every word that has passed between you and this villain is known to me. Shadows on the wall have caught your whispers, and brought them to my ear. Murder has been done, to which you were morally if not actually a party."

"No, no," interrupted Monks. "I ... I ... know nothing of that; I was going to inquire the truth of the story when you caught me. I didn't know the reason, I thought it was a common quarrel."

"It was the partial revealing of your secrets," said Mr. Brownlow, "that was the cause of the murder. And now will you sign a true statement of facts and repeat it before witnesses?"

"I will."

"You must do more than that," said Mr. Brownlow. "You must repair the injury you have done to an innocent child, and carry out your father's will so far as the child is concerned. Then you may go where you please."

While Monks was walking up and down the room, thinking with dark and evil looks, torn by his fears on the one hand and his hatred on the other, the door was hurriedly unlocked, and a gentleman entered the room in great excitement.

"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, and there seems little doubt that his master is hiding near by, under cover of darkness. I have spoken to the men who are pursuing him, and they tell me he cannot escape. A reward of a hundred pounds is proclaimed by the government tonight."

"And I will give fifty more," said Mr. Brownlow. "What about Fagin? Any news of him?"

"He has not yet been taken, but they're sure to get him."

"Have you made up your mind?" asked Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.

"Yes," he replied. "You ... you ... will keep my secret?"

"I will, if you sign now a true statement of facts before witnesses and restore to Oliver Twist the money and property you have unlawfully seized from him."

The statement having been duly made and signed by Monks, he was released.