upon to visit a Jewess, yet his lordship had a vast number of high connexions and relations, to all of whom he could introduce Mr. and Miss Montenero. Lady Anne Mowbray, indeed, unaccountably persisted in saying every where, that she was certain her brother had no more thought of the Jewess than of the queen of the gipsies. Whenever she saw Miss Montenero in public, her ladyship had, among her own set, a never-failing source of sarcasm and ridicule in the Spanish fashion of Miss Montenero's dress, especially her long veils—veils were not then in fashion, and Lady Anne of course pronounced them to be hideous. It was at this time, in England, the reign of high heads: a sort of triangular cushion or edifice of horsehair, suppose nine inches diagonal, three inches thick, by seven in height, called I believe a toque or a system, was fastened on the female head, I do not well know how, with black pins a quarter of a yard long; and upon and over this system, the hair was erected, and crisped, and frizzed, and thickened with soft pomatum, and filled with powder, white, brown, or red, and made to look as like as possible to a fleece of powdered wool, which battened down on each side of the triangle to the face. Then there were things called curls—nothing like what the poets understand by curls or ringlets, but layers of hair, first stiffened and then rolled up into hollow cylinders, resembling sausages, which were set on each side of the system, "artillery tier above tier," two or three of the sausages dangling from the ear down the neck. The hair behind, natural and false, plastered together to a preposterous bulk with quantum sufficit of powder and pomatum, was turned up in a sort of great bag, or club, or chignon—then at the top of the mount of hair and horsehair was laid a gauze platform, stuck full of little red daisies, from the centre of which platform rose a plume of feathers a full yard high—or in lieu of platform, flowers, and feathers, there was sometimes a fly-cap, or a wing-cap, or a pouf. If any one happens to have an old pocket-book for 1780, a single glance at the plate of fashionable heads for that year will convey a more competent idea of the same than I, unknowing in the terms of art, can produce by the most elaborate description. Suffice it for me to observe, that in comparison with this head-dress, to which, in my liberality and respect for departed fashion, I forbear to fix any of the many epithets which present themselves, the Spanish dress and veil worn by Miss Montenero, associated as it was with painting and poetry, did certainly appear to me more picturesque and graceful. In favour of the veil, I had all the poets, from Homer and Hesiod downwards, on my side; and moreover, I was backed by the opinion of the wisest of men, who has pronounced that "a veil addeth to beauty." Armed with such authority, and inspired by love, I battled stoutly with Lady Anne upon several occasions, especially one night when we met at the Pantheon. I was walking between Lady Emily B—— and Miss Montenero, and two or three times, as we went round the room, we met Lady Anne Mowbray and her party, and every time we passed, I observed scornful glances at the veil. Berenice was too well-bred to suspect ill-breeding in others; she never guessed what was going forward, till one of the youngest and boldest of these high-born vulgarians spoke so loud as she passed, and pronounced the name of Montenero, and the word Jewess, so plainly, that both Miss Montenero and Lady Emily B—— could not avoid hearing what was said. Lord Mowbray was not with us. I took an opportunity of quitting the ladies as soon as general B——, who had left us for a few minutes, returned. I went to pay my compliments to Lady Anne Mowbray, and, as delicately as I could, remonstrated against their proceedings. I said that her ladyship and her party were not aware, I was sure, how loudly they had spoken. Lady Anne defended herself and her companions by fresh attacks upon the veil, and upon the lady, "who had done vastly well to take the veil." In the midst of the nonsense which Lady Anne threw out, there now and then appeared something that was a little like her brother Mowbray's wit—little bits of sparkling things, mica, not ore. I was in no humour to admire them, and her ladyship took much offence at a general observation I made, "that people of sense submit to the reigning fashion, while others are governed by it." We parted this night so much displeased with each other, that when we met again in public, we merely exchanged bows and curtsies—in private we had seldom met of late—I never went to Lady de Brantefield's. I was really glad that the battle of the veil had ended in this cessation of intercourse between us. As soon as Miss Montenero found that her Spanish dress subjected her to the inconvenience of being remarked in public she laid it aside. I thought she was right in so doing—and in three days' time, though I had at first regretted the picturesque dress, I soon became accustomed to the change. So easily does the eye adapt itself to the fashion, so quickly do we combine the idea of grace and beauty with whatever is worn by the graceful and the beautiful, and I may add, so certainly do we learn to like whatever is associated with those we love.

The change of dress which Berenice had so prudently adopted, did not, however, produce any change in the manners of Lady Anne and of her party. Lady Anne, it was now evident, had taken an unalterable dislike to Miss Montenero. I am not coxcomb enough to imagine that she was jealous; I know that she never had the slightest regard for me, and that I was not the sort of man whom she could like; but still I had been counted, perhaps by others, in the list of her admirers, and I was a young man, and an admirer the less was always to be regretted—deserting to a Jewess, as she said, was intolerable. But I believe she was also secretly afraid, that her brother was more in earnest in his attentions to Miss Montenero, than she affected to suppose possible. From whatever cause, she certainly hated Berenice cordially, and took every means of mortifying me by the display of this aversion. I shall not be at the trouble of recording the silly and petty means she took to vex. I was not surprised at any thing of this sort from her ladyship; but I was much surprised by her brother's continuing to be absolutely blind and deaf to her proceedings. It is true, sometimes it happened that he was not present, but this was not always the case; and I was convinced that it could not be from accident or inadvertency, that it must be from settled design, that he persisted in this blindness. Combining my observations, I discovered that he wanted to make Miss Montenero feel how impossible it was for her to escape the ridicule of certain fashionable impertinents, and how impracticable it would be to get on among people of the ton in London, without the aid of such a champion as himself. One day he suddenly appeared to discover something of what was going forward, and assumed great indignation; then affecting to suppress that feeling, "wished to Heaven he were authorized to speak"—and there he paused—but no inclination to authorize him appeared. I had sometimes seen Miss Montenero distressed by the rude manner in which she had been stared at. I had seen her colour come and go, but she usually preserved a dignified silence on such occasions. Once, and but once, I heard her advert to the subject in speaking to her father, when Lord Mowbray was not present. "You see, I hope, my dear father," said she, "that I am curing myself of that morbid sensibility, that excessive susceptibility to the opinion of others, with which you used to reproach me. I have had some good lessons, and you have had some good trials of me, since we came to England."

"How much I am obliged to those persons or those circumstances, which have done what I thought was impossible, which have raised my daughter in my opinion!" said her father. The look of affectionate approbation with which these words were pronounced, and the grateful delight with which Berenice heard them, convinced me that Lord Mowbray had completely mistaken his ground—had mistaken strong sensibility for weakness of mind. It now appeared, to my entire satisfaction, that Miss Montenero was really and truly above the follies and the meanness of fashion. She did not wish to be acquainted with these fine people, nor to make a figure in public; but she did wish to see the best society in London, in order to compare it with what she had been accustomed to in other countries, and to determine what would be most for her future happiness. Through the friendship of General B—— and his family, she had sufficient opportunities of seeing in public, and enjoying in private, the best society in London. Lord Mowbray, therefore, had no power over her, as a leader of fashion; his general character for being a favourite with the ladies, and his gallant style of conversation, did not make the impression upon her that he had expected.

He did not know how to converse with one who could not be answered by a play upon words, nor satisfied by an appeal to precedents, or the authority of numbers and of high names.

Lord Chesterfield's style of conversation, and that of any of the personages in Xenophon's Cyropaedia, could not be more different, or less compatible, than the simplicity of Miss Montenero and the wit of Lord Mowbray.

I never saw any one so puzzled and provoked as was this man of wit by a character of genuine simplicity. He was as much out of his element with such a character as any of the French lovers in Marmontel's Tales would be tete-a-tete with a Roman or a Grecian matron—as much at a loss as one of the fine gentlemen in Congreve's plays might find himself, if condemned to hold parley with a heroine of Sophocles or of Euripides.

Lord Mowbray, a perfect Proteus when he wished to please, changed his manner successively from that of the sentimental lover, to that of the polite gallant and accomplished man of the world; and when this did not succeed, he had recourse to philosophy, reason, and benevolence. No hint, which cunning and address could improve to his purpose, was lost upon Mowbray. Mrs. Coates had warned me that Miss Montenero was touchy on the Jewish chapter, and his lordship was aware it was as the champion of the Jews that I had first been favourably represented by Jacob, and favourably received by Mr. Montenero. Soon Lord Mowbray appeared to be deeply interested and deeply read in very thing that had been written in their favour.

He rummaged over Tovey and Ockley; and "Priestley's Letters to the Jews," and "The Letters of certain Jews to M. de Voltaire," were books which he now continually quoted in conversation. With great address he wondered that he had never happened to meet with them till lately; and confessed that he believed he never should have thought of reading them, but that really the subject had of late become so interesting! Of Voltaire's illiberal attacks upon the Jews, and of the King of Prussia's intolerance towards them, he could not express sufficient detestation; nor could he ever adequately extol Cumberland's benevolent "Jew," or Lessing's "Nathan the Wise." Quotations from one or the other were continually in readiness, uttered with all the air of a man so deeply impressed with certain sentiments, that they involuntarily burst from him on every occasion. This I could also perceive to be an imitation of what he had seen suceed with me; and I was not a little flattered by observing, that Berenice was unconsciously pleased, if not caught by the counterfeit. The affectation was skilfully managed, with a dash of his own manner, and through the whole preserving an air of nature and consistency: so that he had all the appearance of a person whose understanding, naturally liberal, had, on one particular subject, been suddenly warmed and exalted by the passion of love. It has often been said, that liars have need of good memories. Mowbray had really an excellent memory, but yet it was not sufficient for all his occasions. He contradicted himself sometimes without perceiving it, but not without its being perceived. Intent upon one point, he laboured that admirably; but be sometimes forgot that any thing could be seen beyond that point—he forgot the bearings and connexions. He never forgot his liberality about the Jews, and about every thing relative to Hebrew ground; but on other questions, in which he thought Mr. Montenero and his daughter had no concern, his party spirit and his want of toleration for other sects broke out.

One day a Rabbi came to Mr. Montenero's while we were there, to solicit his contribution towards the building or repairing a synagogue. The priest was anxious to obtain leave to build on certain lands which belonged to the crown. These lands were in the county where Lord Mowbray's or Lady de Brantefield's property lay. With the most engaging liberality of manner, Lord Mowbray anticipated the wishes of the Jewish priest, declaring that he was happy on this occasion publicly and practically to show his principles of toleration; he would immediately use whatever influence he might possess with government to obtain the desired grant; and if that application should fail, there was still a resource in future. At present, unfortunately, his mother's opinions differing from his own, nothing could be done; but he could, in future, offer a site for a synagogue in the very part of the country that was desired, on lands that must in time be his.

The priest was down to the ground, bowing, full of acknowledgments, and admiration of his lordship's generosity and liberality of principle. A few minutes afterwards, however, his lordship undid all he had done with Berenice and with her father, by adding that he regretted that his mother had given a lease of a bit of land to some confounded dissenters: he was determined, he said, whenever the estate should come into his own hands, to break that lease—he would have no meeting-house, no dissenting chapel on his estate—he considered them as nuisances—he would raze the chapel to the ground—he would much rather have a synagogue on that spot.

Lord Mowbray walked to the window with the Jewish priest, who was eager to press his own point while his lordship was in the humour.

Mowbray looked back for Mr. Montenero, but, to his evident mortification, neither Mr. Montenero nor Berenice followed to this consultation. Mr. Montenero turned to me, and, with a peculiar look of his, an expression of grave humour and placid penetration, said, "Did you ever hear, Mr. Harrington, of a sect of Jews called the Caraites?"

"Never, sir."

"The Caraites are what we may call Jewish dissenters. Lord Mowbray's notions of toleration remind me of the extraordinary liberality of one of our Rabbies, who gave it as his opinion that if a Caraites and a Christian were drowning, we Jews ought to make a bridge of the body of the Caraite, for the purpose of saving the Christian."

Berenice smiled; and I saw that my fears of her being duped by mock philanthropy were vain. Lord Mowbray was soon tired of his colloquy with the priest, and returned to us, talking of the Hebrew chanting at some synagogue in town which he had lately visited; and which, he said, was the finest thing he had ever heard. A Jewish festival was in a few days to be celebrated, and I determined, I said, to go on that day to hear the chanting, and to see the ceremony. In the countenance of Berenice, to whom my eyes involuntarily turned as I spoke, I saw an indefinable expression, on which I pondered, and finished by interpreting favourably to my wishes. I settled that she was pleased, but afraid to show this too distinctly. Lord Mowbray regretted, what I certainly did not in the least regret, that he should be on duty at Windsor on the day of this festival. I was the more determined to be at the synagogue, and there accordingly I went punctually; but, to my disappointment, Berenice did not appear. Mr. Montenero saw me come in, and made room for me near him. The synagogue was a spacious, handsome building; not divided into pews like our churches, but open, like foreign churches, to the whole congregation. The women sat apart in a gallery. The altar was in the centre, on a platform, raised several steps and railed round. Within this railed space were the high-priest and his assistants. The high-priest with his long beard and sacerdotal vestments, struck me as a fine venerable figure. The service was in Hebrew: but I had a book with a translation of it. All I recollect are the men and women's thanksgivings.

"Blessed art thou, O Everlasting King! that thou hast not made me a woman."

The woman's lowly response is, "Blessed art thou, O Lord! that thou hast made me according to thy will."

But of the whole ceremony I must confess that I have but a very confused recollection. Many things conspired to distract my attention. Whether it was that my disappointment at not seeing Berenice indisposed me to be pleased, or whether the chanting was not this day, or at this synagogue, as fine as usual, it certainly did not answer my expectations. However pleasing it might be to other ears, to mine it was discordant; and I was afraid that Mr. Montenero should perceive this. I saw that he observed me from time to time attentively, and I thought he wanted to discover whether there was within me any remains of my old antipathies. Upon this subject I knew he was peculiarly susceptible. Under this apprehension, I did my utmost to suppress my feelings; and the constraint became mentally and corporeally irksome. The ceremonials, which were quite new to me, contributed at once to strain my attention, and to increase the painful confusion of my mind. I felt relieved when the service was over; but when I thought that it was finished, all stood still, as if in expectation, and there was a dead silence. I saw two young children appear from the crowd: way was made for them to the altar. They walked slowly, hand in hand, and when they had ascended the steps, and approached the altar, the priest threw over them a white scarf, or vestment, and they kneeled, and raising their little hands, joined them together, in the attitude of supplication. They prayed in silence. They were orphans, praying for their father and mother, whom they had lately lost. Mr. Montenero told me that it is the Jewish custom for orphans, during a year after the death of their parents, to offer up at the altar, on every public meeting of their synagogue, this solemn commemoration of their loss. While the children were still kneeling, a man walked silently round the synagogue, collecting contributions for the orphans. I looked, and saw, as he came nearer to me, that this was Jacob. Just as I had taken out my purse, I was struck by the sight of a face and figure that had terrible power over my associations—a figure exactly resembling one of the most horrible of the Jewish figures which used to haunt me when I was a child. The face with terrible eyes stood fixed opposite to me. I was so much surprised and startled by this apparition, that a nervous tremor seized me in every limb. I let the purse, which I had in my hand, fall upon the ground. Mr. Montenero took it up again, and presented it to me, asking me, in a very kind voice, "if I was ill." I recollected myself—when I looked again, the figure had disappeared in the crowd. I had no reason to believe that Mr. Montenero saw the cause of my disorder. He seemed to attribute it to sudden illness, and hastened to get out of the synagogue into the fresh air. His manner, on this occasion, was so kind towards me, and the anxiety he showed about my health so affectionate, that all my fears of his misinterpreting my feelings vanished; and to me the result of all that had passed was a firmer conviction, than I had ever yet felt, of his regard.

It was evident, I thought, that after all the disadvantages I had had on some points, and after all the pains that Lord Mowbray had taken to please, Mr. Montenero far preferred me, and was interested in the highest degree about my health, and about every thing that concerned me. Nevertheless, Lord Mowbray persevered in showing the most profound respect for Mr. Montenero, by acting an increasing taste for his conversation, deference for his talents, and affection for his virtues. This certainly succeeded better with Berenice than any thing else his lordship had tried; but when he found it please, he overdid it a little. The exaggeration was immediately detected by Berenice: the heart easily detects flattery. Once, when Lord Mowbray praised her father for some accomplishment which he did not possess—for pronouncing and reading English remarkably well—his daughter's glance at the flatterer expressed indignation, suddenly extinguished by contempt. Detected and baffled, he did not well know how, by a woman whom he considered as so much his inferior in ability and address, Lord Mowbray found it often difficult to conceal his real feelings of resentment, and then it was that he began to hate her. I, who knew his countenance too well to be deceived by his utmost command of face, saw the evil turn of the eye—saw looks from time to time that absolutely alarmed me—looks of hatred, malice, vengeance, suddenly changed to smiles, submission, and softness of demeanour. Though extremely vain, and possessed with an opinion that no woman could resist him, yet, with his understanding and his experience in gallantry, I could not conceive it possible that, after all the signs and tokens he had seen, he should persist in the hope of succeeding; he was certainly aware that I was preferred. I knew it to be natural that jealousy and anger should increase with fears and doubts of success; and yet there was something incomprehensible in the manner which, before Mr. Montenero, he now adopted towards me: he appeared at once to yield the palm to me, and yet to be resolved not to give up the contest; he seemed as if he was my rival against his will, and my friend if I would but permit it; he refrained, with ostentatious care, from giving me any provocation, checking himself often, and drawing back with such expressions as these:—"If it were any other man upon earth—but Mr. Harrington might say and do what he pleased—in any other circumstances, he could not hazard contradicting or quarrelling with him; indeed he could never forget—"

Then he would look at Berenice and at Mr. Montenero, and they would look as if they particularly approved of his conduct. Berenice softened towards him, and I trembled. As she softened towards him, I fancied she became graver and more reserved towards me. I was more provoked by the new tone of sentimental regret from Mowbray than I had been by any of his other devices, because I thought I saw that it imposed more than any thing else had done on Berenice and Mr. Montenero, and because I knew it to be so utterly false.

Once, as we were going down stairs together, after I had disdainfully expressed my contempt of hypocrisy, and my firm belief that my plain truth would in the end prevail with Berenice against all his address, he turned upon me in sudden anger, beyond his power to control, and exclaimed, "Never!—She never shall be yours!"

It appeared as if he had some trick yet in store—some card concealed in his hand, with which he was secure, at last, of winning the game. I pondered, and calculated, but I could not make out what it could be.

One advantage, as he thought it, I was aware he had over me—he had no religious scruples; he could therefore manage so as to appear to make a great sacrifice to love, when, in fact, it would cost his conscience nothing. One evening he began to talk of Sir Charles Grandison and Clementina—he blamed Sir Charles Grandison; he declared, that for his part there was nothing he would not sacrifice to a woman he loved.

I looked at Miss Montenero at that instant—our eyes met—she blushed deeply—withdrew her eyes from me—and sighed. During the remainder of the evening, she scarcely spoke to me, or looked toward me. She appeared embarrassed; and, as I thought, displeased. Lord Mowbray was in high spirits—he seemed resolved to advance—I retired earlier than usual. Lord Mowbray stayed, and seized the moment to press his own suit. He made his proposal—he offered to sacrifice religion—every thing to love. He was refused irrevocably. I know nothing of the particulars, nor should I have known the fact but for his own intemperance of resentment. It was not only his vanity—his mortified, exasperated vanity—that suffered by this refusal; it was not only on account of his rivalship with me that he was vexed to the quick; his interest, as much as his vanity, had suffered. I did not know till this night how completely he was ruined. He had depended upon the fortune of the Jewess. What resource for him now?—None. In this condition, like one of the Indian gamblers, when they have lost all, and are ready to run amuck on all who may fall in their way, he this night, late, made his appearance at a club where he expected to find me. Fortunately, I was not there; but a gentleman who was, gave me an account of the scene. Disappointed at not finding me, with whom he had determined to quarrel, he supped in absolute silence—drank hasty and deep draughts of wine—then burst out into abuse of Mr. and Miss Montenero, and challenged any body present to defend them: he knew that several of their acquaintances were in company; but all, seeing that from the combined effects of passion and wine he was not in his senses, suffered him to exhale his fury without interruption or contradiction. Then he suddenly demanded the reason of this silence; and seemingly resolved to force some one into a quarrel, [Footnote: Strange as it may appear, this representation is true.] he began by the gentleman next to him, and said the most offensive and provoking things he could think of to him—and to each in turn; but all laughed, and told him they were determined not to quarrel with him—that he must take four-and-twenty hours to cool before they would take notice of any thing he should say. His creditors did not give him four-and-twenty hours' time: a servant, before whom he had vented his rage against the Jewess, comprehended that all his hopes of her were over, and gave notice to the creditors, who kept him in their pay for that purpose. Mowbray was obliged the next day to leave town, or to conceal himself in London, to avoid an arrest. I heard no more of him for some time—indeed I made no inquiries. I could have no farther interest concerning a man who had conducted himself so ill. I only rejoiced that he was now out of my way, and that he had by all his treachery, and by all his artifices, given me an opportunity of seeing, more fully tried, the excellent understanding and amiable disposition of Berenice. My passion was now justified by my reason: my hopes were high, not presumptuous—nothing but the difficulty about her religion stood between me and happiness. I was persuaded that the change by which I had been alarmed in Miss Montenero's manner towards me had arisen only from doubts of my love, or from displeasure at the delay of an explicit declaration of my passion. Determined, at all hazards, now to try my fate, I took my way across the square to Mr. Montenero's—Across the square?—yes! I certainly took the diagonal of the square.



CHAPTER XIV.

When I arrived at Mr. Montenero's I saw the window-shutters closed, and there was an ominous stillness in the area—no one answered to my knock. I knocked louder—I rang impatiently; no footsteps were heard in the hall: I pulled the bell incessantly. During the space of three minutes that I was forced to wait on the steps, I formed a variety of horrid imaginations. At last I heard approaching sounds: an old woman very deliberately opened the door. "Lauk, sir, how you do ring! There's not a body to be had but me—all the servants is different ways, gone to their friends."

"But Mr. and Miss Montenero—"

"Oh! they was off by times this morning—they be gone—"

"Gone?"

I suppose my look and accent of despair struck the old woman with some pity, for she added, "Lauk, sir, they be only gone for a few days."

I recovered my breath. "And can you, my good lady, tell me where they are gone?"

"Somewhere down in Surrey—Lord knows—I forget the names—but to General somebody's."

"General B——'s, perhaps."

"Ay, ay,—that's it."

My imagination ran over in an instant all the general's family, the gouty brother, and the white-toothed aide-de-camp.

"How long are they to stay at General B——'s, can you tell me, my good lady?"

"Dear heart! I can't tell, not I's, how they'll cut and carve their visitings—all I know is, they be to be back here in ten days or a fortnight or so."

I put a golden memorandum, with my card, into the old woman's hand, and she promised that the very moment Mr. and Miss Montenero should return to town I should have notice.

During this fortnight my anxiety was increased by hearing from Mrs. Coates, whom I accidentally met at a fruit-shop, that "Miss Montenero was taken suddenly ill of a scarlet fever down in the country at General B——'s, where," as Mrs. Coates added, "they could get no advice for her at all, but a country apothecary, which was worse than nobody."

Mrs. Coates, who was not an ill-natured, though a very ill-bred woman, observing the terrible alarm into which she had thrown me by her intelligence, declared she was quite sorry she had outed with the news so sudden upon me. Mrs. Coates now stood full in the doorway of the fruit-shop, so as to stop me completely from effecting my retreat; and while her footman was stowing into her carriage the loads of fruit which she had purchased, I was compelled to hear her go on in the following style.

"Now, Mr. Harrington—no offence—but I couldn't have conceived it was so re'lly over head and ears an affair with you, as by your turning as pale as the table-cloth I see it re'lly is. For there was my son Peter, he admired her, and the alderman was not against it; but then the Jewess connexion was always a stumbling-block Peter could not swallow;—and as for my Lord Mowbray, that the town talked of so much as in love with the Jewess heiress—heiress, says I, very like, but not Jewess, I'll engage; and, said I, from the first, he is no more in love with her than I am. So many of them young men of the ton is always following of them heiresses up and down for fashion or fortin's sake, without caring sixpence about them, that—I ask your pardon, Mr. Harrington—but I thought you might, in the alderman's phrase, be of the same kidney; but since I see 'tis a real downright affair of the heart, I shall make it my business to call myself at your house to-morrow in my carriage. No—that would look odd, and you a bachelor, and your people out o'town. But I'll send my own footman with a message, I promise you now, let 'em be ever so busy, if I hear any good news. No need to send if it be bad, for ill news flies apace evermore, all the world over, as Peter says. Tom! I say! is the fruit all in, Tom?—Oh! Mr. Harrington, don't trouble yourself—you're too polite, but I always get into my coach best myself, without hand or arm, except it be Tom's. A good morning, sir—I sha'n't forget to-morrow: so live upon hope—lover's fare!—Home, Tom."

The next day, Mrs. Coates, more punctual to her word than many a more polished person, sent as early as it was possible "to set my heart at ease about Miss Montenero's illness, and other matters." Mrs. Coates enclosed in her note two letters, which her maid had received that morning and last Tuesday. This was the way, as Mrs. Coates confessed, that the report reached her ears. The waiting-maid's first letter had stated "that her lady, though she did not complain, had a cold and sore throat coming down, and this was alarming, with a spotted fever in the neighbourhood." Mrs. Coates's maid had, in repeating the news, "turned the sore throat into a spotted fever, or a scarlet fever, she did not rightly know which, but both were said by the apothecary to be generally fatal, where there was any Jewish taint in the blood."

The waiting-maid's second epistle, on which Mrs. Coates had written, "a sugar plum for a certain gentleman," contained the good tidings "that the first was all a mistake. There was no spotted fever, the general's own man would take his Bible oath, within ten miles round—and Miss Montenero's throat was gone off—and she was come out of her room. But as to spirits and good looks, she had left both in St. James'-square, Lon'on; where her heart was, fur certain. For since she come to the country, never was there such a change in any living lady, young or old—quite moped!—The general, and his aide-de-camp, and every body, noticing it at dinner even. To be sure if it did not turn out a match, which there was some doubts of, on account of the family's and the old gentleman's particular oaths and objections, as she had an inkling of, there would be two broken hearts. Lord forbid!—though a Jewish heart might be harder to break than another's, yet it looked likely."

The remainder of the letter, Mrs. Coates, or her maid, had very prudently torn off. I was now relieved from all apprehensions of spotted fever; and though I might reasonably have doubted the accuracy of all the intelligence conveyed by such a correspondent, yet I could not help having a little faith in some of her observations. My hopes, at least, rose delightfully; and with my hope, my ardent impatience to see Berenice again. At last, the joyful notice of Mr. and Miss Montenero's return to town was brought to me by the old woman. Mr. Montenero admitted me the moment I called. Miss Montenero was not at home, or not visible. I was shown into Mr. Montenero's study. The moment I entered, the moment I saw him, I was struck with some change in his countenance—some difference in his manner of receiving me. In what the difference consisted, I could not define; but it alarmed me.

"Good Heavens!" I exclaimed, "is Miss Montenero ill?"

"My daughter is perfectly well, my dear sir."

"Thank Heaven! But you, sir?"

"I," said Mr. Montenero, "am also in perfect health. What alarms you?"

"I really don't well know," said I, endeavouring to laugh at myself, and my own apprehensions; "but I thought I perceived some change in the expression of your countenance towards me, my dear Mr. Montenero. You must know, that all my life, my quickness of perception of the slightest change in the countenance and manner of those I love, has ever been a curse to me; for my restless imagination always set to work to invent causes—and my causes, though ingenious, unluckily, seldom happened to be the real causes. Many a vain alarm, many a miserable hour, has this superfluous activity of imagination cost me—so I am determined to cure myself."

At the moment I was uttering the determination, I stopped short, for I felt that I could not keep it, on this occasion. Mr. Montenero sighed, or I thought he sighed, and there was such an unusual degree of gravity and deliberation in the mildness of his manner, that I could not believe my alarm was without cause. I took the chair which he placed for me, and we both sat down: but he looked so prepared to listen, that I could not articulate. There was a sudden revulsion in my spirits, and all my ideas were in utter confusion. Mr. Montenero, the kindness of whose manner was not changed towards me, I saw pitied my confusion. He began to talk of his excursion into the country—he spoke of General B—— and of the whole county of Surrey. The words reached my ears, but conveyed no ideas to my mind, except the general notion that Mr. Montenero was giving me time to recover myself. I was grateful for the kind intention, and somewhat encouraged by the softness of voice, and look of pity. But still there was something so measured—so guarded—so prepared!—At last, when he had exhausted all that he could say about the county of Surrey, and a dead silence threatened me, I took courage, and plunged into the middle of things at once. I cannot remember exactly the words, but what I said was to this effect.

"Mr. Montenero, you know so much of the human heart, and of my heart, that you must be aware of the cause of my present embarrassment and emotion. You must have seen my passion for your incomparable daughter."

"I have seen it, I own—I am well aware of it, Mr. Harrington," replied Mr. Montenero, in a mild and friendly tone; but there was something of self- accusation and repentance in the tone, which alarmed me inexpressibly.

"I hope, my dear good sir, that you do not repent of your kindness," said I, "in having permitted me to cultivate your society, in having indulged me in some hours of the most exquisite pleasure I ever yet enjoyed."

He sighed; and I went on with vehement incoherence.

"I hope you cannot suspect me of a design to abuse your confidence, to win, if it were in my power, your daughter's affections, without your knowledge, surreptitiously, clandestinely. She is an heiress, a rich heiress, I know, and my circumstances—Believe me, sir, I have never intended to deceive you; but I waited till—There I was wrong. I wish I had abided by my own opinion! I wish I had followed my first impulse! Believe me, sir, it was my first thought, my first wish, to speak to you of all the circumstances; if I delayed, it was from the fear that a precipitate declaration would have been imputed to presumption. As Heaven is my judge, I had no other motive. I abhor artifice. I am incapable of the base treachery of taking advantage of any confidence reposed in me."

"My good sir," said Mr. Montenero, when at last I was forced to pause for breath, "why this vehemence of defence? I do not accuse—I do not suspect you of any breach of confidence. Pray compose yourself."

Calmed by this assurance, I recovered some presence of mind, and proceeded, as I thought, in a most tranquil manner to express my regret, at all events, that I should not have been the first person to have explained to him my unfortunate circumstances. "But this," I said, "was like the rest of Lord Mowbray's treacherous conduct."

I was going on again in a tone of indignation, when Mr. Montenero again begged me to compose myself, and asked "to what unfortunate circumstances I alluded?"

"You do not know then? You have not been informed? Then I did Lord Mowbray injustice."

I explained to Mr. Montenero to what circumstances I had so unintelligibly alluded. I gained courage as I went on, for I saw that the history of my father's vow, of which Mr. Montenero had evidently never heard till this moment, did not shock or offend him, as I had expected that it would.

With the most philosophic calmness and benevolence, he said that he could forgive my father for his prejudices the more readily, because he was persuaded that if he had ever become known to my father, it would not have been impossible to conquer this prepossession.

I sighed, for I was convinced this was a vain hope. There was some confusion in the tenses in Mr. Montenero's sentence too, which I did not quite like, or comprehend; he seemed as if he were speaking of a thing that might have been possible, at some time that was now completely past. I recollect having a painful perception of this one instant, and the next accounting for it satisfactorily, by supposing that his foreign idiom was the cause of his confusion of speech.

After a pause, he proceeded. "Fortune," said he, "is not an object to me in the choice of a son-in-law: considering the very ample fortune which my daughter will possess, I am quite at ease upon that point."

Still, though he had cleared away the two first great obstacles, I saw there was some greater yet unnamed. I thought it was the difference of our religion. We were both silent, and the difficulty seemed to me at this moment greater, and more formidable, than it had ever yet appeared. While I was considering how I should touch upon the subject, Mr. Montenero turned to me and said, "I hate all mysteries, and yet I cannot be perfectly explicit with you, Mr. Harrington; as far as I possibly can, however, I will speak with openness—with sincerity, you may depend upon it, I have always spoken, and ever shall speak. You must have perceived that your company is particularly agreeable to me. Your manners, your conversation, your liberal spirit, and the predilection you have shown for my society— the politeness, the humanity, you showed my daughter the first evening you met—and the partiality for her, which a father's eye quickly perceived that you felt, altogether won upon my heart. My regard for you has been strengthened and confirmed by the temper, prudence, and generosity, I have seen you evince towards a rival. I have studied your character, and I think I know it as thoroughly as I esteem and value it. If I were to choose a son-in-law after my own heart, you should be the man. Spare me your thanks—spare me this joy," continued he; "I have now only said what it was just to say—just to you and to myself."

He spoke with difficulty and great emotion, as he went on to say, that he feared he had acted very imprudently for my happiness in permitting, in encouraging me to see so much of his daughter; for an obstacle—he feared an obstacle that—His voice almost failed.

"I am aware of it," said I.

"Aware of it?" said he, looking up at me suddenly with astonishment: he repeated more calmly, "Aware of it? Let us understand one another, my dear sir."

"I understand you perfectly," cried I. "I am well aware of the nature of the obstacle. At once I declare that I can make no sacrifice, no compromise of my religious principles, to my passion."

"You would be unworthy of my esteem if you could," said Mr. Montenero. "I rejoice to hear this declaration unequivocally made; this is what I expected from you."

"But," continued I, eagerly, "Miss Montenero could be secure of the free exercise of her own religion. You know my principles of toleration—you know my habits; and though between man and wife a difference of religion may be in most cases a formidable obstacle to happiness, yet permit me to hope—"

"I cannot permit you to hope," interrupted Mr. Montenero. "You are mistaken as to the nature of the obstacle. A difference of religion would be a most formidable objection, I grant; but we need not enter upon that subject— that is not the obstacle to which I allude."

"Then of what nature can it be? Some base slander—Lord Mowbray—Nothing shall prevent me!" cried I, starting up furiously.

"Gently—command yourself, and listen to reason and truth," said Mr. Montenero, laying his hand on my arm. "Am I a man, do you think, to listen to base slander? Or, if I had listened to any such, could I speak to you with the esteem and confidence with which I have just spoken? Could I look at you with the tenderness and affection which I feel for you at this instant?"

"Oh! Mr. Montenero," said I, "you know how to touch me to the heart; but answer me one, only one question—has Lord Mowbray any thing to do with this, whatever it is?"

"I have not seen or heard from him since I saw you last."

"Your word is sufficient," said I. "Then I suspected him unjustly."

"Heaven forbid," said Mr. Montenero, "that I should raise suspicion in a mind which, till now, I have always seen and thought to be above that meanness. The torture of suspense I must inflict, but inflict not on yourself the still worse torture of suspicion—ask me no farther questions —I can answer none—time alone can solve the difficulty. I have now to request that you will never more speak to me on this subject: as soon as my own mind is satisfied, depend upon it I shall let you know it. In the mean time I rely upon your prudence and your honour, that you will not declare your attachment to my daughter, that you will take no means, direct or indirect, to draw her into any engagement, or to win her affections: in short, I wish to see you here as a friend of mine—not a suitor of hers. If you are capable of this necessary self-control, continue your visits; but if this effort be beyond your power, I charge you, as you regard her happiness and your own, see her no more. Consider well, before you decide."

I had confidence in my own strength of mind and honour; I knew that want of resolution was not the defect of my character. Difficult as the conditions were, I submitted to them—I promised that if Mr. Montenero permitted me to continue my visits, I would strictly comply with all he desired. The moment I had given this promise, I was in haste to quit the room, lest Berenice should enter, before I had time to recover from the excessive agitation into which I had been thrown.

Mr. Montenero followed me to the antechamber. "My daughter is not at home— she is taking an airing in the park. One word more before we part—one word more before we quit this painful subject," said he: "do not, my dear young friend, waste your time, your ingenuity, in vain conjectures—you will not discover that which I cannot impart; nor would the discovery, if made, diminish the difficulty, or in the least add to your happiness, though it might to your misery. It depends not on your will to remove the obstacle— by no talents, no efforts of yours can it be obviated: one thing, and but one, is in your power—to command your own mind."

"Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say—how difficult to command the passions—such a passion!"

"I acknowledge it is difficult, but I hope it is not impossible. We have now an opportunity of judging of the strength of your mind, the firmness of your resolution, and your power over yourself. Of these we must see proofs —without these you never could be, either with my consent or by her own choice, accepted by my daughter, even if no other obstacle intervened.— Adieu." A bright idea, a sudden ray of hope, darted into my mind. It might be all intended for a trial of me—there was, perhaps, no real obstacle! But this was only the hope of an instant—it was contradicted by Mr. Montenero's previous positive assertion. I hurried home as fast as possible, shut myself up in my own room, and bolted the door, that I might not be interrupted. I sat down to think—I could not think, I could only feel. The first thing I did was, as it were, to live the whole of the last hour over again—I recollected every word, recalled every look, carefully to impress and record them in my memory. I felt that I was not at that moment capable of judging, but I should have the means, the facts, safe for a calmer hour. I repeated my recollections many times, pausing, and forming vague and often contradictory conjectures; then driving them all from my mind, and resolving to think no more on this mysterious subject; but on no other subject could I think—I sat motionless. How long I remained in this situation I have no means of knowing, but it must have been for some hours, for it was evening, as I remember, when I wakened to the sense of its being necessary that I should exert myself, and rouse my faculties from this dangerous state of abstraction. Since my father and mother had been in the country, I had usually dined at taverns or clubs, so that the servants had no concern with my hours of meals. My own man was much attached to me, and I should have been tormented with his attentions, but that I had sent him out of the way as soon as I had come home. I then went into the park, walking there as fast and as long as I possibly could. I returned late, quite exhausted; hoped I should sleep, and waken with a calmer mind; but I believe I had overwalked myself, or my mind had been overstrained—I was very feverish this night, and all the horrors of early association returned upon me. Whenever I began to doze, I felt the nervous oppression, the dreadful weight upon my chest—I saw beside my bed the old figure of Simon the Jew; but he spoke to me with the voice and in the words of Mr. Montenero. The dreams of this night were more terrible than any reality that can be conceived; and even when I was broad awake, I felt that I had not the command of my mind. My early prepossessions and antipathies, my mother's presentiments, and prophecies of evil from the connexion with the Monteneros, the prejudices which had so long, so universally prevailed against the Jews, occurred to me. I knew all this was unreasonable, but still the thoughts obtruded themselves. When the light of morning returned, which I thought never would return, I grew better.

Mr. Montenero's impressive advice, and all the kindness of his look and manner, recurred to my mind. The whole of his conduct—the filial affection of Berenice—the gratitude of Jacob—the attachment of friends, who had known him for years, all assured me of his sincerity towards myself; and the fancies, I will not call them suspicions, of the night, were dispelled.

I was determined not to see either Mr. Montenero or Berenice for a few days. I knew that the best thing I could do, would be to take strong bodily exercise, and totally to change the course of my daily occupations. There was an excellent riding-house at this time in London, and I had been formerly in the habit of riding there. I was a favourite with the master— he was glad to see me again. I found the exercise, and the immediate necessity of suspending all other thoughts to attend to the management of my horse, of sovereign use. I thus disciplined my imagination at the time when I seemed only to be disciplining an Arabian horse. I question whether reading Seneca, or Epictetus, or any moral or philosophic writer, living or dead, would have as effectually medicined my mind. While I was at the riding-house, General B—— came in with some young officers. The general, who had distinguished me with peculiar kindness, left the young men who were with him, and walked home with me. I refrained from asking any questions about Mr. or Miss Montenero's visit at his house in Surrey; but he led to the subject himself, and spoke of her having been less cheerful than usual—dwelt on his wish that she and her father should settle in England—said there was a young American, a relation of the Manessas, just come over; he hoped there was no intention of returning with him to America. I felt a terrible twinge, like what I had experienced when the general had first mentioned his brother-in-law—perhaps, said I to myself, it may he as vain. General B—— was going to speak further on the subject, but though my curiosity was much raised, I thought I was bound in honour not to obtain intelligence by any secondary means. I therefore requested the general to let us change the subject. He tapped my shoulder: "You are right," said he; "I understand your motives—you are right—I like your principles."

On returning from the riding-house, I had the pleasure of hearing that Mr. Montenero had called during my absence, and had particularly inquired from my own man after my health.

I forgot to mention, that in one of the young officers whom I met at the riding-house, I recognized a schoolfellow, that very little boy, who, mounted upon the step-ladder on the day of Jacob's election, turned the election in his favour by the anecdote of the silver pencil-case. My little schoolfellow, now a lath of a young man, six feet high, was glad to meet me again, and to talk over our schoolboy days. He invited me to join him and some of his companions, who were going down to the country on a fishing party. They promised themselves great sport in dragging a fish-pond. I compelled myself to join this party for the mere purpose of changing the course of my thoughts. For three days I was hurried from place to place, and not a single thing that I liked to do did I do—I was completely put out of my own way—my ideas were forced into new channels. I heard of nothing but of fishing and fishing-tackle—of the pleasures there would be in the shooting season—of shooting-jackets, and powder-horns, and guns, and proof guns. All this was terribly irksome at the time, and yet I was conscious that it was of service to me, and I endured it with heroic patience.

I was heartily glad when I got back to town. When I felt that I was able to bear the sight of Berenice, I went again to Mr. Montenero's. From that hour I maintained my resolution, I strictly adhered to my promise, and I felt that I was rewarded by Mr. Montenero's increasing esteem and affection. My conversation was now addressed chiefly to him, and I remarked that I was always the chief object of his attention. I observed that Berenice was much paler, and not in such good spirits as formerly: she was evidently under great constraint and anxiety, and the expression of her countenance towards me was changed; there was an apprehensiveness, which she in vain endeavoured to calm—her attention to whatever I was saying or doing, even when she appeared to be occupied with other things, was constant. I was convinced that I was continually in her thoughts; I felt that I was not indifferent to her: yet the expression of her countenance was changed—it was not love—or it was love strongly repressed by fear—by fear!—was it of her father's disapprobation? I had been assured by Mr. Montenero, in whom I had perfect confidence, that no power of mine could remove the obstacle, if it existed—then his advice was wise not to waste my thoughts and spirits in vain conjectures. As far as it was in human nature, I took his advice, repressed my curiosity, and turned my thoughts from that too interesting subject. I know not how long I should have maintained my fortitude in this passive state of forbearance. Events soon called me again into active exertion.



CHAPTER XV.

Party spirit, in politics, ran very high about this time in London—it was in the year 1780. The ill success of the American war had put the people in ill-humour; they were ready to believe any thing against the ministry, and some who, for party purposes, desired to influence the minds of the people, circulated the most ridiculous reports, and excited the most absurd terrors. The populace were made to believe that the French and the papists were secret favourites of government: a French invasion, the appearance of the French in London, is an old story almost worn out upon the imaginations of the good people of England; but now came a new if not a more plausible bugbear—the Pope! It was confidently affirmed that the Pope would soon be in London, he having been seen in disguise in a gold-flowered nightgown on St. James's parade at Bath. A poor gentleman, who appeared at his door in his nightgown, had been actually taken by the Bath mob for the Pope; and they had pursued him with shouts, and hunted him, till he was forced to scramble over a wall to escape from his pursuers.

Ludicrous as this may appear, the farce, we all know, soon turned to tragedy. From the smallest beginnings, the mischief grew and spread; half- a-dozen people gathered in one street, and began the cry of "No popery!—no papists!—no French!"—The idle joined the idle, and the discontented the discontented, and both were soon drawn in to assist the mischievous; and the cowardly, surprised at their own prowess, when joined with numbers, and when no one opposed them, grew bolder and bolder. Monday morning Mr. Strachan was insulted; Lord Mansfield treated it as a slight irregularity. Monday evening Lord Mansfield himself was insulted by the mob, they pulled down his house, and burnt his furniture. Newgate was attacked next; the keeper went to the Lord Mayor, and, at his return, he found the prison in a blaze; that night the Fleet, and the King's Bench prisons, and the popish chapels, were on fire, and the glare of the conflagration reached the skies. I was heartily glad my father and mother were safe in the country.

Mr. Montenero and Berenice were preparing to go to a villa in Surrey, which he had just purchased; but they apprehended no danger for themselves, as they were inoffensive strangers, totally unconnected with party or politics. The fury of the mob had hitherto been directed chiefly against papists, or persons supposed to favour their cause. The very day before Mr. Montenero was to leave town, without any conceivable reason, suddenly a cry was raised against the Jews: unfortunately, Jews rhymed to shoes: these words were hitched into a rhyme, and the cry was, "No Jews, no wooden shoes!" Thus, without any natural, civil, religious, moral, or political connexion, the poor Jews came in remainder to the ancient anti-Gallican antipathy felt by English feet and English fancies against the French wooden shoes. Among the London populace, however, the Jews had a respectable body of friends, female friends of noted influence in a mob— the orange-women—who were most of them bound by gratitude to certain opulent Jews. It was then, and I believe it still continues to be, a customary mode of charity with the Jews to purchase and distribute large quantities of oranges among the retail sellers, whether Jews or Christians. The orange-women were thus become their staunch friends. One of them in particular, a warm-hearted Irishwoman, whose barrow had, during the whole season, been continually replenished by Mr. Montenero's bounty, and by Jacob's punctual care, now took her station on the steps of Mr. Montenero's house; she watched her opportunity, and when she saw the master appear in the hall, she left her barrow in charge with her boy, came up the steps, walked in, and addressed herself to him thus, in a dialect and tone as new, almost to me, as they seemed to be to Mr. Montenero.

"Never fear, jewel!—Jew as you have this day the misfortune to be, you're the best Christian any way ever I happened on! so never fear, honey, for yourself nor your daughter, God bless her! Not a soul shall go near yees, nor a finger be laid on her, good or bad. Sure I know them all—not a mother's son o' the boys but I can call my frind—not a captain or lader that's in it, but I can lade, dear, to the devil and back again, if I'd but whistle: so only you keep quite, and don't be advertising yourself any way for a Jew, nor be showing your cloven fut, with or without the wooden shoes. Keep ourselves to ourselves, for I'll tell you a bit of a sacret— I'm a little bit of a cat'olic myself, all as one as what they call a papish; but I keep it to myself, and nobody's the wiser nor the worse— they'd tear me to pieces, may be, did they suspect the like, but I keep never minding, and you, jewel, do the like. They call you a Levite, don't they? then I, the Widow Levy, has a good right to advise ye; we were all brothers and sisters once—no offence—in the time of Adam, sure, and we should help one another in all times. 'Tis my turn to help yees now, and, by the blessing, so I will—accordingly I'll be sitting all day and night, mounting guard on your steps there without. And little as you may think of me, the devil a guardian angel better than myself, only just the Widow Levy, such as ye see!"

The Widow Levy took her stand, and kept her word. I stayed at Mr. Montenero's all day, saw every thing that passed, and had frequent opportunities of admiring her address.

She began by making the footman take down "the outlandish name from off the door; for no name at all, sure, was better nor a foreign name these times." She charged the footman to "say sorrow word themselves to the mob for their lives, in case they would come; but to lave it all entirely to her, that knew how to spake to them. For see!" said she, aside to me— "For see! them powdered numskulls would spoil all—they'd be taking it too high or too low, and never hit the right kay, nor mind when to laugh or cry in the right place; moreover, when they'd get frighted with a cross-examination, they'd be apt to be cutting themselves. Now, the ould one himself, if he had me on the table even, I'd defy to get the truth out of me, if not convanient, and I in the sarvice of a frind."

In the pleasure of telling a few superfluous lies it seemed to be necessary that our guardian angel should be indulged; and there she sat on the steps quite at ease, smoking her pipe, or wiping and polishing her oranges. As parties of the rioters came up, she would parley and jest with them, and by alternate wit and humour, and blunder, and bravado, and flattery, and fabling, divert their spirit of mischief, and forward them to distant enterprise. In the course of the day, we had frequent occasion to admire her intrepid ingenuity and indefatigable zeal. Late at night, when all seemed perfectly quiet in this part of the town, she, who had never stirred from her post all day, was taken into the kitchen by the servants to eat some supper. While she was away, I was standing at an open window of the drawing-room, watching and listening—all was silence; but suddenly I heard a shriek, and two strange female figures appeared from the corner of the square, hurrying, as if in danger of pursuit, though no one followed them. One was in black, with a hood, and a black cloak streaming behind; the other in white, neck and arms bare, head full dressed, with high feathers blown upright. As they came near the window at which I stood, one of the ladies called out, "Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington! For Heaven's sake let us in!"

"Lady Anne Mowbray's voice! and Lady de Brantefield!" cried I.

Swiftly, before I could pass her, Berenice ran down stairs, unlocked—threw open the hall-door, and let them in. Breathless, trembling so that they could not speak, they sunk upon the first seat they could reach; the servants hearing the hall-door unchained, ran into the hall, and when sent away for water, the three footmen returned with each something in his hand, and stood with water and salvers as a pretence to satisfy their curiosity; along with them came the orange-woman, who, wiping her mouth, put in her head between the footmen's elbows, and stood listening, and looking at the two ladies with no friendly eye. She then worked her way round to me, and twitching my elbow, drew me back, and whispered—"What made ye let 'em in? Take care but one's a mad woman, and t'other a bad woman." Lady Anne, who had by this time drank water, and taken hartshorn, and was able to speak, was telling, though in a very confused manner, what had happened. She said that she had been dressed for the opera—the carriage was at the door—her mother, who was to set her down at Lady Somebody's, who was to _chaperon_ her, had just put on her hood and cloak, and was coming down stairs, when they heard a prodigious noise of the mob in the street. The mob had seized their carriage—and had found in one of the pockets a string of beads, which had been left there by the Portuguese ambassador's lady, whom Lady De Brantefield had taken home from chapel the preceding day. The mob had seen the carriage stop at the chapel, and the lady and her confessor get into it; and this had led to the suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a catholic, or in their language, a concealed papist_.

On searching the carriage farther, they had found a breviary, and one of them had read aloud the name of a priest, written in the beginning of the book—a priest whose name was peculiarly obnoxious to some of the leaders.

As soon as they found the breviary, and the rosary, and this priest's name, the mob grew outrageous, broke the carriage, smashed the windows of the house, and were bursting open the door, when, as Lady Anne told us, she and her mother, terrified almost out of their senses, escaped through the back door just in the dress they were, and made their way through the stables, and a back lane, and a cross street: still hearing, or fancying they heard, the shouts of the mob, they had run on without knowing how, or where, till they found themselves in this square, and saw me at the open window.

"What is it? Tell me, dear," whispered the orange-woman, drawing me back behind the footman. "Tell me, for I can't understand her for looking at the figure of her. Tell me plain, or it may be the ruen of yees all before ye'd know it."

I repeated Lady Anne's story, and from me the orange-woman understood it; and it seemed to alarm her more than any of us.

"But are they Romans?" (Roman Catholics) said she. "How is that, when they're not Irish!—for I'll swear to their not being Irish, tongue or pluck. I don't believe but they're impostors—no right Romans, sorrow bit of the likes; but howsomdever, no signs of none following them yet—thanks above! Get rid on 'em any way as smart as ye can, dear; tell Mr. Montenero."

As all continued perfectly quiet, both in the back and front of the house, we were in hopes that they would not be pursued or discovered by the mob. We endeavoured to quiet and console them with this consideration; and we represented that, if the mob should break into their house, they would, after they had searched and convinced themselves that the obnoxious priest was not concealed there, disperse without attempting to destroy or pillage it "Then," said Lady de Brantefield, rising, and turning to her daughter, "Lady Anne, we had better think of returning to our own house."

Though well aware of the danger of keeping these suspected ladies this night, and though our guardian angel repeatedly twitched us, reiterating, "Ah! let 'em go—don't be keeping 'em!" yet Mr. Montenero and Berenice pressed them, in the kindest and most earnest manner, to stay where they were safe. Lady Anne seemed most willing, Lady de Brantefield most unwilling to remain; yet her fears struggled with her pride, and at last she begged that a servant might be sent to her house to see how things were going on, and to order chairs for her, if their return was practicable.

"Stop!" cried the orange-woman, laying a strong detaining hand on the footman's arm; "stop you—'tis I'll go with more sense—and speed."

"What is that person—that woman?" cried Lady de Brantefield, who now heard and saw the orange-woman for the first time.

"Woman!—is it me she manes?" said the orange-woman, coming forward quite composedly, shouldering on her cloak.

"Is it who I am?—I'm the Widow Levy.—Any commands?"

"How did she get in?" continued Lady de Brantefield, still with a look of mixed pride and terror: "how did she get in?"

"Very asy!—through the door—same way you did, my lady, if ye had your senses. Where's the wonder? But what commands?—don't be keeping of me."

"Anne!—Lady Anne!—Did she follow us in?" said Lady de Brantefield.

"Follow yees!—not I!—no follower of yours nor the likes. But what commands, nevertheless?—I'll do your business the night, for the sake of them I love in my heart's core," nodding at Mr. and Miss Montenero; "so, my lady, I'll bring ye word, faithful, how it's going with ye at home—which is her house, and where, on God's earth?" added she, turning to the footmen.

"If my satisfaction be the object, sir, or madam," said Lady de Brantefield, addressing herself with much solemnity to Mr. and Miss Montenero, "I must take leave to request that a fitter messenger be sent; I should, in any circumstances, be incapable of trusting to the representations of such a person."

The fury of the orange-woman kindled—her eyes flashed fire—her arms a-kimbo, she advanced repeating, "Fitter!—Fitter!—What's that ye say?— You're not Irish—not a bone in your skeleton!"

Lady Anne screamed. Mr. Montenero forced the orange-woman back, and Berenice and I hurried Lady de Brantefield and her daughter across the hall into the eating-room. Mr. Montenero followed an instant afterwards, telling Lady de Brantefield that he had despatched one of his own servants for intelligence. Her ladyship bowed her head without speaking. He then explained why the orange-woman happened to be in his house, and spoke of the zeal and ability with which she had this day served us. Lady de Brantefield continued at intervals to bow her head while Mr. Montenero spoke, and to look at her watch, while Lady Anne, simpering, repeated, "Dear, how odd!" Then placing herself opposite to a large mirror, Lady Anne re-adjusted her dress. That settled, she had nothing to do but to recount her horrors over again. Her mother, lost in reverie, sat motionless. Berenice, meantime, while the messenger was away, made the most laudable and kind efforts, by her conversation, to draw the attention of her guests from themselves and their apprehensions; but apparently without effect, and certainly without thanks.

At length, Berenice and her father being called out of the room, I was left alone with Lady de Brantefield and Lady Anne: the mother broke silence, and turning to the daughter, said, in a most solemn tone of reproach, "Anne! Lady Anne Mowbray!—how could you bring me into this house of all others—a Jew's—when you know the horror I have always felt—"

"La, mamma! I declare I was so terrified, I didn't know one house from another. But when I saw Mr. Harrington, I was so delighted I never thought about it's being the Jew's house—and what matter?"

"What matter!" repeated Lady de Brantefield: "are you my daughter, and a descendant of Sir Josseline de Mowbray, and ask what matter?"

"Dear mamma, that's the old story! that's so long ago!—How can you think of such old stuff at such a time as this? I'm sure I was frightened out of my wits—I forgot even my detestation of——But I must not say that before Mr. Harrington. But now I see the house, and all that, I don't wonder at him so much; I declare it's a monstrous handsome house—as rich as a Jew! I'm sure I hope those wretches will not destroy our house—and, oh! the great mirror, mamma!"

Mr. and Miss Montenero returned with much concern in their countenances: they announced that the messenger had brought word that the mob were actually pulling down Lady de Brantefield's house—that the furniture had all been dragged out into the street, and that it was now burning. Pride once more gave way to undisguised terror in Lady de Brantefield's countenance, and both ladies stood in speechless consternation. Before we had time to hear or to say more, the orange-woman opened the door, and putting in her head, called out in a voice of authority, "Jantlemen, here's one wants yees, admits of no delay; lave all and come out, whether you will or no, the minute."

We went out, and with an indescribable gesture, and wink of satisfaction, the moment she had Mr. Montenero and me in the hall, she said in a whisper, "'Tis only myself, dears, but 'tis I am glad I got yees out away from being bothered by the presence of them women, whiles ye'd be settling all for life or death, which we must now do—for don't be nursing and dandling yourselves in the notion that the boys will not be wid ye. It's a folly to talk—they will; my head to a China orange they will, now: but take it asy, jewels—we've got an hour's law—they've one good hour's work first— six garrets to gut, where they are, and tree back walls, with a piece of the front, still to pull down. Oh! I larnt all. He is a 'cute lad you sent, but not being used to it, just went and ruined and murdered us all by what he let out! What do ye tink? But when one of the boys was questioning him who he belonged to, and what brought him in it, he got frighted, and could think of noting at all but the truth to tell: so they've got the scent, and they'll follow the game. Ogh! had I been my own messenger, in lieu of minding that woman within, I'd have put 'em off the scent. But it's past me now—so what next?" While Mr. Montenero and I began to consult together, she went on—"I'll tell you what you'll do: you'll send for two chairs, or one—less suspicious, and just get the two in asy, the black one back, the white for'ard, beca'ase she's coming nat'ral from the Opera—if stopped, and so the chairmen, knowing no more than Adam who they would be carrying, might go through the thick of the boys at a pinch safe enough, or round any way, sure; they know the town, and the short cuts, and set 'em down (a good riddance!) out of hand, at any house at all they mention, who'd resave them of their own frinds, or kith and kin—for, to be sure, I suppose they have frinds, tho' I'm not one. You'll settle with them by the time it's come, where they'll set down, and I'll step for the chair, will I?"

"No," said Mr. Montenero, "not unless it be the ladies' own desire to go: I cannot turn them out of my house, if they choose to stay; at all hazards they shall have every protection I can afford. Berenice, I am sure, will think and feel as I do."

Mr. Montenero returned to the drawing-room, to learn the determination of his guests.

"There goes as good a Christian!" cried the Widow Levy, holding up her forefinger, and shaking it at Mr. Montenero the moment his back was turned: "didn't I tell ye so from the first? Oh! if he isn't a jewel of a Jew!—and the daughter the same!" continued she, following me as I walked up and down the hall: "the kind-hearted cratur, how tinder she looked at the fainting Jezabel—while the black woman turning from her in her quality scowls.— Oh! I seed it all, and with your own eyes, dear—but I hope they'll go—and once we get a riddance of them women. I'll answer for the rest. Bad luck to the minute they come into the house! I wish the jantleman would be back— Oh! here he is—and will they go, jewel?" cried she, eagerly. "The ladies will stay," said Mr. Montenero.

"Murder!—but you can't help it—so no more about it—but what arms have ye?"

No arms were to be found in the house but a couple of swords, a pair of pistols of Mr. Montenero's, and one gun, which had been left by the former proprietor. Mr. Montenero determined to write immediately to his friend General B—, to request that a party of the military might be sent to guard his house.

"Ay, so best, send for the dragoons, the only thing left on earth for us now: but don't let 'em fire on the boys—disperse 'em with the horse, asy, ye can, without a shot; so best—I'll step down and feel the pulse of all below."

While Mr. Montenero wrote, Berenice, alarmed for her father, stood leaning on the back of his chair, in silence.

"Oh! Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!" repeated Lady Anne, "what will become of us! If Colonel Topham was but here! Do send to the Opera, pray, pray, with my compliments—Lady Anne Mowbray's compliments—he'll come directly, I'm sure."

"That my son, Lord Mowbray, should be out of town, how extraordinary and how unfortunate!" cried Lady de Brantefield, "when we might have had his protection, his regiment, without applying to strangers."

She walked up and down the room with the air of a princess in chains. The orange-woman bolted into the room, and pushed past her ladyship, while Mr. Montenero was sealing his note.

"Give it, jewel!—It's I'll be the bearer; for all your powdered men below has taken fright by the dread the first messenger got, and dares not be carrying a summons for the military through the midst of them: but I'll take it for yees—and which way will I go to get quickest to your general's? and how will I know his house?—for seven of them below bothered my brains."

Mr. Montenero repeated the direction—she listened coolly, then stowing the letter in her bosom, she stood still for a moment with a look of deep deliberation—her head on one side, her forefinger on her cheek-bone, her thumb under her chin, and the knuckle of the middle-finger compressing her lips.

"See, now, they'll be apt to come up the stable lane for the back o' the house, and another party of them will be in the square, in front; so how will it be with me to get into the house to yees again, without opening the doors for them, in case they are wid ye afore I'd get the military up? —I have it," cried she.

She rushed to the door, but turned back again to look for her pipe, which she had laid on the table.

"Where's my pipe?—Lend it me—What am I without my pipe?"

"The savage!" cried Lady de Brantefield.

"The fool!" said Lady Anne.

The Widow Levy nodded to each of the two ladies, as she lit the pipe again, but without speaking to them, turned to us, and said, "If the boys would meet me without my pipe, they'd not know me; or smell something odd, and guess I was on some unlawful errand."

As she passed Berenice and me, who were standing together, she hastily added, "Keep a good heart, sweetest!—At the last push, you have one will shed the heart's drop for ye!"

A quick, scarcely perceptible motion of her eye towards me marked her meaning; and one involuntary look from Berenice at that moment, even in the midst of alarm, spread joy through my whole frame. In the common danger we were drawn closer together—we thought together;—I was allowed to help her in the midst of the general bustle.

It was necessary, as quickly as possible, to determine what articles in the house were of most value, and to place these in security. It was immediately decided that the pictures were inestimable.—What was to be done with them? Berenice, whose presence of mind never forsook her, and whose quickness increased with the occasion, recollected that the unfinished picture-gallery, which had been built behind the house, adjoining to the back drawing-room, had no window opening to the street: it was lighted by a sky-light; it had no communication with any of the apartments in the house, except with the back drawing-room, into which it was intended to open by large glass doors; but fortunately these were not finished, and, at this time, there was no access to the picture-gallery but by a concealed door behind the gobelin tapestry of the back drawing-room— an entrance which could hardly be discovered by any stranger. In the gallery were all the plasterers' trestles, and the carpenters' lumber; however, there was room soon made for the pictures: all hands were in motion, every creature busy and eager, except Lady de Brantefield and her daughter, who never offered the smallest assistance, though we were continually passing with our loads through the front drawing-room, in which the two ladies now were. Lady Anne standing up in the middle of the room looked like an actress ready dressed for some character, but without one idea of her own. Her mind, naturally weak, was totally incapacitated by fear: she kept incessantly repeating as we passed and repassed, "Bless me! one would think the day of judgment was coming!"

Lady de Brantefield all the time sat in the most remote part of the room, fixed in a huge arm-chair. The pictures and the most valuable things were, by desperately hard work, just stowed into our place of safety, when we heard the shouts of the mob, at once at the back and front of the house, and soon a thundering knocking at the hall-door. Mr. Montenero and I went to the door, of course without opening it, and demanded, in a loud voice, what they wanted.

"We require the papists," one answered for the rest, "the two women papists and the priest you've got within, to be given up, for your lives!"

"There is no priest here—there are no papists here:—two protestant ladies, strangers to me, have taken refuge here, and I will not give them up," said Mr. Montenero.

"Then we'll pull down the house."

"The military will be here directly," said Mr. Montenero, coolly; "you had better go away."

"The military!—then make haste, boys, with the work."

And with a general cry of "No papists!—no priests!—no Jews!—no wooden shoes!" they began with a volley of stones against the windows. I ran to see where Berenice was. It had been previously agreed among us, that she and her guests, and every female in the house, should, on the first alarm, retire into a back room; but at the first shout of the mob, Lady de Brantefield lost the little sense she ever possessed: she did not faint, but she stiffened herself in the posture in which she sat, and with her hands turned down over the elbows of the huge chair, on which her arms were extended, she leaned back in all the frightful rigidity of a corpse, with a ghastly face, and eyes fixed.

Berenice, in vain, tried to persuade her to move. Her ideas were bewildered or concentrated. Only the obstinacy of pride remained alive within her.

"No," she said, "she would never move from that spot—she would not be commanded by Jew or Jewess."

"Don't you hear the mob—the stones at the windows?"

"Very well. They would all pay for it on the scaffold or the gibbet."

"But if they break in here you will be torn to pieces."

"No—those only will be sacrificed who have sacrificed. A 'de Brantefield'—they dare not!—I shall not stir from this spot. Who will presume to touch Lady de Brantefield?"

Mr. Montenero and I lifted up the huge chair on which she sat, and carried her and it into the back room.

The door of this room was scarcely shut, and the tapestry covering but just closed over the entrance into the picture-gallery, when there was a cry from the hall, and the servants came rushing to tell us that one of the window-shutters had given way.

Mr. Montenero, putting the pistols into my hand, took the gun, ran down stairs, and stationed himself so as to defend the entrance to the window, at which the people were pelting with stones; declaring that he would fire on the first man who should attempt to enter.

A man leaped in, and, in the struggle, Mr. Montenero's gun was wrested from him.

On my presenting a pistol, the man scrambled out of the window, carrying away with him the prize he had seized.

At this moment the faithful Jacob appeared amongst us as if by miracle. "Master, we are safe," said he, "if we can defend ourselves for a few minutes. The orange-woman delivered your letter, and the military are coming. She told me how to get in here, through the house that is building next door, from the leads of which I crept through a trap-door into your garret."

With the pistols, and with the assistance of the servants who were armed, some of them with swords, and others with whatever weapons came to hand, we made such a show of resistance as to keep the mob at bay for some moments.

"Hark!" cried Jacob; "thank Heaven, there's the military!" There was a sudden cessation of stones at the window. We heard the joyful sound of the horses' hoofs in the street. A prodigious uproar ensued, then gradually subsided. The mob was dispersed, and fled in different directions, and the military followed. We heard them gallop off. We listened till not a sound, either of human voice or of horse's foot, was to be heard. There was perfect silence; and when we looked as far as our eyes could reach out of the broken window, there was not a creature to be seen in the square or in the line of street to which it opened.

We ran to let out our female prisoners; I thought only of Berenice—she, who had shown so much self-possession during the danger, seemed most overpowered at this moment of joy; she threw her arms round her father, and held him fast, as if to convince herself that he was safe. Her next look was for me, and in her eyes, voice, and manner, when she thanked me, there was an expression which transported me with joy; but it was checked, it was gone the next moment: some terrible recollection seemed to cross her mind. She turned from me to speak to that odious Lady de Brantefield. I could not see Mr. Montenero's countenance, for he, at the same instant, left us, to single out, from the crowd assembled in the hall, the poor Irishwoman, whose zeal and intrepid gratitude had been the means of our deliverance. I was not time enough to hear what Mr. Montenero said to her, or what reward he conferred; but that the reward was judicious, and that the words were grateful to her feelings in the highest degree, I had full proof; for when I reached the hall, the widow was on her knees, with hands uplifted to Heaven, unable to speak, but with tears streaming down her hard face: she wiped them hastily away, and started up.

"It's not a little thing brings me to this," said she; "none ever drew a tear from my eyes afore, since the boy I lost."

She drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and pushed her way through the servants to get out of the hall-door; I unbolted and unchained it for her, and as I was unlocking it, she squeezed up close to me, and laying her iron hand on mine, said in a whisper, "God bless yees! and don't forget my thanks to the sweet Jewish—I can't speak 'em now, 'tis you can best, and joined in my prayers ye shall ever be!" said our guardian angel, as I opened the door; and as she passed out, she added, "You are right, jewel— she's worth all the fine ladies in Lon'on, feathers an' all in a bag."

I had long been entirely of the Widow Levy's opinion, though the mode of expression would never have occurred to me. What afterwards became of Lady Anne and of her mother this night, I do not distinctly recollect. Lady de Brantefield, when the alarm was over, I believe, recovered her usual portion of sense, and Lady Anne her silly spirits; but neither of them, I know, showed any feeling, except for themselves. I have an image of Lady de Brantefield standing up, and making, at parting, such ungracious acknowledgments to her kind hostess and generous protector, as her pride and her prejudices would permit. Both their ladyships seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the house, and I know that I rejoiced in their departure. I was in hopes of one moment, one explanatory word or look from Berenice. She was retiring to her own apartment, as I returned, with her father, after putting those two women into their carriage.