Oliver Twist
MONKS AND MR. BROWNLOW AT LENGTH MEET. THEIR CONVERSATION, AND THE INTELLIGENCE THAT INTERRUPTS IT
The was to close in, when Mr. Brownlow from a hackney-coach at his own door, and softly. The door being opened, a man got out of the coach and himself on one of the steps, while another man, who had been seated on the box, too, and upon the other side. At a from Mr. Brownlow, they helped out a third man, and taking him them, him into the house. This man was Monks.
They walked in the same manner up the stairs without speaking, and Mr. Brownlow, them, the way into a back-room. At the door of this apartment, Monks, who had with reluctance, stopped. The two men looked at the old as if for instructions.
“He the alternative,” said Mr. Browlow. “If he or moves a but as you him, him into the street, call for the of the police, and him as a in my name.”
“How you say this of me?” asked Monks.
“How you me to it, man?” Mr. Brownlow, him with a look. “Are you to this house? Unhand him. There, sir. You are free to go, and we to follow. But I you, by all I most and most sacred, that will have you on a of and robbery. I am and immoveable. If you are to be the same, your blood be upon your own head!”
“By what authority am I in the street, and here by these dogs?” asked Monks, looking from one to the other of the men who him.
“By mine,” Mr. Brownlow. “Those are by me. If you complain of being of your liberty—you had power and opportunity to it as you came along, but you it to quiet—I say again, for protection on the law. I will to the law too; but when you have gone too to recede, do not to me for leniency, when the power will have passed into other hands; and do not say I you the into which you rushed, yourself.”
Monks was disconcerted, and besides. He hesitated.
“You will decide quickly,” said Mr. Brownlow, with perfect and composure. “If you wish me to my publicly, and you to a the of which, although I can, with a shudder, foresee, I cannot control, once more, I say, for you know the way. If not, and you to my forbearance, and the of those you have injured, seat yourself, without a word, in that chair. It has waited for you two whole days.”
Monks some words, but still.
“You will be prompt,” said Mr. Brownlow. “A word from me, and the has gone for ever.”
Still the man hesitated.
“I have not the to parley,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and, as I the of others, I have not the right.”
“Is there—” Monks with a tongue,—“is there—no middle course?”
“None.”
Monks looked at the old gentleman, with an eye; but, reading in his nothing but and determination, walked into the room, and, his shoulders, sat down.
“Lock the door on the outside,” said Mr. Brownlow to the attendants, “and come when I ring.”
The men obeyed, and the two were left alone together.
“This is treatment, sir,” said Monks, his and cloak, “from my father’s friend.”
“It is I was your father’s friend, man,” returned Mr. Brownlow; “it is the and of and happy years were up with him, and that of his blood and who her God in youth, and left me here a solitary, man: it is he with me his only sisters’s death-bed when he was yet a boy, on the that would—but Heaven otherwise—have her my wife; it is my to him, from that time forth, through all his and errors, till he died; it is old and my heart, and the of you with it old of him; it is of all these that I am moved to you now—yes, Edward Leeford, now—and for your who the name.”
“What has the name to do with it?” asked the other, after contemplating, in silence, and in wonder, the of his companion. “What is the name to me?”
“Nothing,” Mr. Brownlow, “nothing to you. But it was hers, and at this of time to me, an old man, the and which I once felt, only to it by a stranger. I am very you have it—very—very.”
“This is all fine,” said Monks (to his designation) after a long silence, which he had himself in to and fro, and Mr. Brownlow had sat, his with his hand. “But what do you want with me?”
“You have a brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, himself: “a brother, the of name in your ear when I came you in the street, was, in itself, almost to make you me hither, in wonder and alarm.”
“I have no brother,” 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 you by and by. I know that of the marriage, into which family pride, and the most and of all ambition, your father when a boy, you were the and most issue.”
“I don’t for hard names,” Monks with a laugh. “You know the fact, and that’s for me.”
“But I also know,” the old gentleman, “the misery, the slow torture, the of that ill-assorted union. I know how and each of that pair on their through a world that was to them both. I know how cold were succeeded by open taunts; how gave place to dislike, to hate, and to loathing, until at last they the asunder, and retiring a wide space apart, each a fragment, of which nothing but death the rivets, to it in new the looks they assume. Your mother succeeded; she it soon. But it and at your father’s for years.”
“Well, they were separated,” said Monks, “and what of that?”
“When they had been for some time,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and your mother, up to frivolities, had the husband ten good years her junior, who, with blighted, on at home, he among new friends. This circumstance, at least, you know already.”
“Not I,” said Monks, away his and his upon the ground, as a man who is to everything. “Not I.”
“Your manner, no less than your actions, me that you have it, or 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-and-thirty—for he was, I repeat, a boy, when his father ordered him to marry. Must I go to events which a upon the memory of your parent, or will you it, and to me the truth?”
“I have nothing to disclose,” Monks. “You must talk on if you will.”
“These new friends, then,” said Mr. Brownlow, “were a officer retired from active service, wife had died some half-a-year before, and left him with two children—there had been more, but, of all their family, but two survived. They were daughters; one a of nineteen, and the other a child of two or three years old.”
“What’s this to me?” asked Monks.
“They resided,” said Mr. Brownlow, without to the interruption, “in a part of the country to which your father in his had repaired, and where he had taken up his abode. Acquaintance, intimacy, friendship, fast on each other. Your father was as men are. He had his sister’s and person. As the old officer him more and more, he to love him. I would that it had ended there. His did the same.”
The old paused; Monks was his lips, with his upon the floor; this, he resumed:
“The end of a year him contracted, contracted, to that daughter; the object of the first, true, ardent, only of a girl.”
“Your is of the longest,” Monks, moving in his chair.
“It is a true of and trial, and sorrow, man,” returned Mr. Brownlow, “and such are; if it were one of and happiness, it would be very brief. At length one of those rich relations to and your father had been sacrificed, as others are often—it is no case—died, and to repair the he had been in occasioning, left him his for all griefs—Money. It was necessary that he should repair to Rome, this man had for health, and where he had died, his in great confusion. He went; was with there; was followed, the moment the Paris, by your mother who you with her; he died the day after her arrival, no will—no will—so that the whole property to her and you.”
At this part of the Monks his breath, and with a of eagerness, though his were not the speaker. As Mr. Brownlow paused, he his position with the air of one who has a relief, and his and hands.
“Before he abroad, and as he passed through London on his way,” said Mr. Brownlow, slowly, and his upon the other’s face, “he came to me.”
“I of that,” Monks in a to appear incredulous, but more of surprise.
“He came to me, and left with me, among some other things, a picture—a portrait painted by himself—a of this girl—which he did not wish to behind, and not on his journey. He was by and almost to a shadow; talked in a wild, way, of and by himself; to me his to his whole property, at any loss, into money, and, having settled on his wife and you a of his acquisition, to the country—I too well he would not alone—and see it more. Even from me, his old and early friend, had taken in the earth that one most dear to both—even from me he any more particular confession, promising to and tell me all, and 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 saw him more.”
“I went,” said Mr. Brownlow, after a pause, “I went, when all was over, to the of his—I will use the term the world would use, for or are now to him—of his love, that if my were that child should one and home to and her. The family had left that part a week before; they had called in such as were outstanding, them, and left the place by night. Why, or whither, none can tell.”
Monks his yet more freely, and looked with a of triumph.
“When your brother,” said Mr. Brownlow, nearer to the other’s chair, “When your brother: a feeble, ragged, neglected child: was in my way by a hand than chance, and by me from a life of and infamy—”
“What?” Monks.
“By me,” said Mr. Brownlow. “I told you I should you long. I say by me—I see that your my name, although for he knew, it would be to your ears. When he was by me, then, and from in my house, his to this picture I have spoken of, me with astonishment. Even when I saw him in all his and misery, there was a in his that came upon me like a of some old friend on one in a dream. I need not tell you he was away I his history—”
“Why not?” asked Monks hastily.
“Because you know it well.”
“I!”
“Denial to me is vain,” Mr. Brownlow. “I shall you that I know more than that.”
“You—you—can’t prove anything against me,” Monks. “I you to do it!”
“We shall see,” returned the old with a glance. “I the boy, and no of mine him. Your mother being dead, I that you alone solve the if could, and as when I had last of you you were on your own in the West Indies—whither, as you well know, you retired upon your mother’s death to the of here—I the voyage. You had left it, months before, and were to be in London, but no one tell where. I returned. Your had no to your residence. You came and went, they said, as as you had done: sometimes for days together and sometimes not for months: to all the same low and with the same who had been your when a boy. I them with new applications. I the by night and day, but until two hours ago, all my were fruitless, and I saw you for an instant.”
“And now you do see me,” said Monks, boldly, “what then? Fraud and are high-sounding words—justified, you think, by a in some to an of a man’s Brother! You don’t know that a child was of this pair; you don’t know that.”
“I did not,” Mr. Brownlow, too; “but the last I have learnt it all. You have a brother; you know it, and him. There was a will, which your mother destroyed, the and the to you at her own death. It a to some child likely to be the result of this sad connection, which child was born, and by you, when your were by his to your father. You repaired to the place of his birth. There proofs—proofs long suppressed—of his birth and parentage. Those proofs were by you, and now, in your own to your the Jew, ‘the only proofs of the boy’s identity at the of the river, and the old that them from the mother is in her coffin.’ Unworthy son, coward, liar,—you, who your with and in dark rooms at night,—you, plots and have a death upon the of one millions such as you,—you, who from your were and to your own father’s heart, and in all passions, vice, and profligacy, festered, till they a in a which had your an to your mind—you, Edward Leeford, do you still me!”
“No, no, no!” returned the coward, by these charges.
“Every word!” the gentleman, “every word that has passed you and this villain, is to me. Shadows on the have your whispers, and them to my ear; the of the child has itself, and it the and almost the of virtue. Murder has been done, to which you were if not a party.”
“No, no,” Monks. “I—I nothing of that; I was going to the truth of the when you me. I didn’t know the cause. I it was a common quarrel.”
“It was the of your secrets,” Mr. Brownlow. “Will you the whole?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Set your hand to a of truth and facts, and repeat it witnesses?”
“That I promise too.”
“Remain here, until such a document is up, and with me to such a place as I may most advisable, for the purpose of it?”
“If you upon that, I’ll do that also,” Monks.
“You must do more than that,” said Mr. Brownlow. “Make to an and child, for such he is, although the of a and most love. You have not the of the will. Carry them into so as your is concerned, and then go where you please. In this world you need meet no more.”
While Monks was up and down, with dark and looks on this and the possibilities of it: by his on the one hand and his on the other: the door was unlocked, and a (Mr. Losberne) entered the room in agitation.
“The man will be taken,” he cried. “He will be taken to-night!”
“The murderer?” asked Mr. Brownlow.
“Yes, yes,” the other. “His dog has been about some old haunt, and there little that his master either is, or will be, there, under of the darkness. Spies are about in every direction. I have spoken to the men who are with his capture, and they tell me he cannot escape. A of a hundred is by Government to-night.”
“I will give fifty more,” said Mr. Brownlow, “and it with my own upon the spot, if I can it. Where is Mr. Maylie?”
“Harry? As soon as he had your friend here, safe in a coach with you, he off to where he this,” the doctor, “and his to join the party at some place in the upon 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 up your mind?” asked Mr. Brownlow, in a low voice, of Monks.
“Yes,” he replied. “You—you—will be with me?”
“I will. Remain here till I return. It is your only 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 to do, and more. Coupling the girl’s with my previous knowledge, and the result of our good friend’s on the spot, I left him no of escape, and the whole which by these lights plain as day. Write and the after to-morrow, at seven, for the meeting. We shall be there, a hours before, but shall rest: the lady, who may have need of than either you or I can just now. But my blood to this creature. Which way have they taken?”
“Drive to the office and you will be in time,” Mr. Losberne. “I will here.”
The two separated; each in a of uncontrollable.
