“I never saw you before,” said Rose faintly.
“I have seen you often,” returned Monks.
“The father of the unhappy Agnes had two daughters,” said Mr. Brownlow. “What was the fate of the other—the child?”
“The child,” replied Monks, “when her father died in a strange place, in a strange name, without a letter, book, or scrap of paper that yielded the faintest clue by which his friends or relatives could be traced—the child was taken by some wretched cottagers, who reared it as their own.”
“Go on,” said Mr. Brownlow, signing to Mrs. Maylie to approach. “Go on!”
“You couldn’t find the spot to which these people had repaired,” said Monks, “but where friendship fails, hatred will often force a way. My mother found it after a year of cunning search—ay, and found the child.”
“She took it, did she?”
“No. The people were poor, and began to sicken—at least the man did—of their fine humanity; so she left it with them, giving them a small present of money which would not last long, and promising more, which she never meant to send. She didn’t quite rely, however, on their discontent and poverty for the child’s unhappiness, but told the history of the sister’s shame with such alterations as suited her, bade them take good heed of the child, for she came of bad blood, and told them she was illegitimate, and sure to go wrong one time or other. The circumstances countenanced all this; the people believed it; and there the child dragged on an existence miserable enough even to satisfy us, until a widow lady, residing then at Chester, saw the girl by chance, pitied her, and took her home. There was some cursed spell against us, for in spite of all our efforts she remained there and was happy: I lost sight of her two or three years ago, and saw her no more until a few months back.”
“Do you see her now?”
“Yes—leaning on your arm.”