Agnes took a short moment to compose herself and then addressed the audience at large.
"Jack is too modest. It was a tribute to the power of his human spirit that he had not allowed himself to give up and continue in his former ways. Once arrived at the 'Melting Pot, he became a reformed character, and his essential good nature was free to express itself.
We very quickly became very fond of each other, so much, that we agreed that the baby should keep his first name as 'Oliver,' but abandon the surname ' Twist' forever.
Agnes and I became inseparable, and as the time for Jack's departure grew closer, we confessed our love for each other and the desire to share what remained of our lives together.
But we had to face the awful truth that even if we managed to meet again in an alternative London, an event by no means certain in such a huge city, we might not recognise each other.
The reason for this is that the transition between The Melting Pot and London would temporarily cause us to lose all memory of our time together. I had no idea of how soon it would return, and I could only hope that whoever brought us together would not see us parted for long.
When Jack had gone, there was too much time to brood, and I grew afraid that the most fundamentalist of the moral powers governing our lives would argue that my rescue at the doors of the workhouse, where I was destined to die, had robbed them of the rightful death of a sinner. I convinced myself that, unable to find me, they would instead seek to punish Oliver. For the crime of being born illegitimate, he would be sent back to the workhouse.
I believed that they would have agents out looking for us when we arrived in London, and I adopted the name 'Millie' to put them off the scent."
Agnes hesitated; she had not finished.
"That is the end of our story, a story that is to end happily in a marriage, and our life together with baby Oliver. But I have more to tell.
"Something that will prove to be of great interest to Earnest, Albert, and all others who are interested in what it truly means to exist within a multi-reality universe."
Agnes glanced at Jack and then continued.
"I have memories of an alternative past that differs from the one described in the novel."
She paused to allow the importance of what she had just said to filter through our minds.
"I don't understand, Agnes," I said. The background details of your story, as described in the completed novel by the author, are fixed and unchangeable. It was the first time you came into existence as an imaginary character created by the author. There was nothing before that.
"Yes, that is what I had previously understood to be the case," she said.
Ernest shifted uncomfortably in his seat and spoke directly to Agnes.
"Are you aware of the significance of your statement, Agnes?"
She nodded.
"You have had a considerable time to think about this before today?"
"Yes, sir."
"And you honestly believe it to be the truth and not imagined?"
"I do, sir."
"Then, perhaps you would be good enough to tell us about your newly recalled past life."
Agnes shot a glance at Jack, who smiled back in reassurance.
My other history does not differ entirely from what is depicted in the novel. My parents threw me out of the house when they discovered I was pregnant, but the circumstances leading to that event were entirely different. I was an only child, and my cold and unloving parents raised me in a large house in Surrey. They had me privately tutored at home, and I was not very academic but possessed a natural talent for art. I knew little of the outside world apart from day trips with my governess and a week's holiday with her at the seaside during the summer. I never went on holiday with my parents, but at Christmas and Easter, we visited relatives, and I met my cousins. They were the only friends I had of my age.
" My mother had experienced a tough time at my birth, and for that, she never forgave me. For the rest of her life, she was a hypochondriac who spent every day in bed. My father worked long hours in the two antiquarian bookshops and a print shop that he owned and ran in the city. He would often tell my mother that he had finished too late to make the long journey home and would sleep at his club. I saw little of either of them.
"I will spare you the circumstances that led to my pregnancy, but I somehow managed to conceal it from my parents until near the end. Having a slender figure and the fact that all the additional weight I gained was confined to my waist, helped in my deception.
"My talent for art became a sort of paying hobby. I painted illustrations for children's books in an attic studio at the top of the house, and seldom left, even to the extent of having my meals there. My only visitor during my confinement was a clerk from the publisher who collected my completed work and provided me with details of the next commission.
I had no inkling of how much the publisher paid for my work, as the money went directly to my father. On the day he disowned me, I only had nine pounds and ten shillings—my total savings from birthday and Christmas gifts from relatives.
"My father ordered me to leave the house by the next morning when he realised my condition. All my mother did was complain that the news would kill her. I never saw either of them again.
"Quite unexpectedly, it was the old gardener who tended our grounds who came to my rescue. He had worked there since I was a child, but I knew nothing about him. The only time we had ever spoken was when we exchanged friendly words about how the garden was doing. I was near the end of my confinement and feeling weak the morning I left home. Even the bag containing the little I owned felt heavy, and the gardener offered to help me carry it to the station. As we walked down the Lane, I stumbled and fell, and he took me to his nearby cottage to recover.
"His wife was kindness itself and insisted that I stay until I got my strength back and promised to keep my presence a secret. Two weeks later, the baby was born, and I was still there. They were the kindest and most Christian people I have ever known, and I believe they would have let me stay there forever. But one day, about a month later, a rumour went around the village that my father had found out I was still in the area. If he discovered that it was his gardener who had been sheltering me, he would have sacked him and evicted the couple from their tied cottage.
I had to leave, and after a tearful farewell, I spent a few precious shillings on a train to London. There was nowhere else I could think of going. From then on, my story remained the same as I had previously told. I found myself walking on Westminster Bridge, half-starved, and Oliver was six months old.
She bowed her head, and Jack stood up to comfort her, placing his arm around her shoulders.
"Best leave it for now," he said, "I need to take her home."
"I think that is a good idea," said Ernest, "and I suggest we all take a break to consider what we have heard."
The group dispersed, but Earnest indicated that I should stay.