"I am now quite convinced," said Mr. Montenero, smiling, "that Mr. Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne Mowbray."

"Is it possible you ever imagined?"

"I did not imagine, I only heard and believed—and now I have seen, and I disbelieve."

"And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?" cried I.

Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room.

"I wish it were!" said Mr. Montenero; "but I pray you, sir, do not speak, do not think of this to-night—farewell! we all want repose."

I did not think that I wanted repose till the moment I lay down in bed, and then, overpowered with bodily fatigue, I fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not awaken till late the next morning, when my man, drawing back my curtains, presented to me a note from—I could hardly believe my eyes—"from Miss Montenero"—from Berenice! I started up, and read these words written in pencil: "My father is in danger—come to us."

How quick I was in obeying may be easily imagined. I went well armed, but in the present danger arms were of no use. I found that Mr. Montenero was summoned before one of the magistrates, on a charge of having fired from his window the preceding night before the Riot Act had been read—of having killed an inoffensive passenger. Now the fact was, that no shot had ever been fired by Mr. Montenero; but such was the rage of the people at the idea that the Jew had killed a Christian, and one of their party, that the voice of truth could not be heard. They followed with execrations as he was carried before the magistrate; and waited with impatience, assembled round the house, in hopes of seeing him committed to prison to take his trial for murder. As I was not ignorant of the substantial nature of the defence which the spirit and the forms of English law provide in all cases for truth and innocence, against false accusation and party prejudice, I was not alarmed at the clamour I heard; I was concerned only for the temporary inconvenience and mortification to Mr. Montenero, and for the alarm to Berenice. The magistrate before whom Mr. Montenero appeared was an impartial and very patient man: I shall not so far try the patience of others as to record all that was positively said, but which could not be sworn to—all that was offered in evidence, but which contradicted itself, or which could not be substantiated by any good witness—at length one creditable-looking man came forward against Mr. Montenero.

He said he was an ironmonger—that he had been passing by at the time of the riot, and had been hurried along by the crowd against his will to Mr. Montenero's house, where he saw a sailor break open the window-shutter of one of the lower rooms—that he saw a shot fired by Mr. Montenero—that the sailor, after a considerable struggle, wrested the gun, with which the shot had been fired, from Mr. Montenero, and retreated with it from the window— that hearing the cry of murder in the crowd, he thought it proper to secure the weapon, that it might be produced in evidence—and that the piece which he now produced was that which had been taken from Mr. Montenero.

I perceived great concern in the countenance of the magistrate, who, addressing himself to Mr. Montenero, asked him what he had to say in his defence.

"Sir," said Mr. Montenero, "I acknowledge that to be the gun which was wrested from my hands by the sailor; and I acknowledge that I attempted with that gun to defend my family and my house from immediate violence; I am, however," continued he, "happy to have escaped having injured any person, even in the most justifiable cause, for the piece did not go off, it only flashed in the pan."

"If that be the case," said the magistrate, "the piece is still loaded."

The gun was tried, and it was found to be empty both of powder and ball. As the magistrate returned the piece to the man, I came forward and asked leave to examine it. I observed to the magistrate, that if the piece had been fired, the inside of the barrel must retain marks of the discharge, whereas, on the contrary, the inside of the barrel was perfectly smooth and clean. To this the man replied, that he had cleaned the piece when he brought it home, which might indeed have been true. At this moment, I recollected a circumstance that I had lately heard from the officers in the country, who had been talking about a fowling-piece, and of the careless manner in which fire-arms are sometimes proved [Footnote: See Manton on Gunnery.]. Upon examination, I found that what I suspected might be just possible was actually the case with respect to the piece in question—the touch-hole had never been bored through, though the piece was marked as proof! I never shall forget the satisfaction which appeared in the countenance of the humane magistrate, who from the beginning had suspected the evidence, whom he knew from former delinquency. The man was indeed called an ironmonger, but his was one of those old iron shops which were known to be receptacles of stolen goods of various descriptions. To my surprise, it now appeared that this man's name was Dutton: he was the very Dutton who had formerly been Jacob's rival, and who had been under Lord Mowbray's protection. Time and intemperance had altered him so much, that I had not, till I heard his name, the slightest recollection of his face. What his motive for appearing against Mr. Montenero might be, whether it was hatred to him as being the patron of Jacob, whom Dutton envied and detested, or whether Dutton was instigated by some other and higher person, I shall not now stop to inquire. As he had not been put upon his oath, he had not been guilty of perjury; he was discharged amidst the hootings of the mob. Notwithstanding their prejudice against the Jews, and their rage against a Jew who had harboured, as they conceived, two concealed papists and a priest, yet the moment an attempt to bear false witness against Mr. Montenero appeared, the people took his part. In England the mob is always in favour of truth and innocence, wherever these are made clearly evident to their senses. Pleased with themselves for their impartiality, it was not difficult at this moment for me to convince them, as I did, that Mr. Montenero had not harboured either papists or priest. The mob gave us three cheers. As we passed through the crowd, I saw Jacob and the orange-woman— the orange-woman, with broad expanded face of joy, stretched up her arms, and shouted loud, that all the mob might hear. Jacob, little accustomed to sympathy, and in the habit of repressing his emotions, stood as one unmoved or dumb, till his eyes met mine, and then suddenly joy spread over his features and flashed from his dark eyes—that was a face of delight I never can forget; but I could not stay: I hastened to be the first to tell Berenice of her father's safety, and of the proof which all the world had had of the falsehood of the charge against him. I ran up to the drawing-room, where she was alone. She fainted in my arms.

And now you think, that when she came to herself, there was an end of all my fears, all my suspense—you think that her love, her gratitude, overcame the objection, whatever it may be, which has hitherto been called invincible—alas! you are mistaken.

I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short time afterwards I received from her father the following note:—

"My obligations to you are great, so is my affection for you; but the happiness of my child, as well as your happiness, is at stake.

"I dare not trust my gratitude—my daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more.

"I cannot yet decide: if I shall be satisfied that the obstacle do not exist, she shall be yours; if it do exist, we sail the first of next month for America, and you, Mr. Harrington, will not be the only, or perhaps the most, unhappy person of the three.

"A. MONTENERO."



CHAPTER XVI.

The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs. Coates, as we were coming out of St. George's church. She was not in full-blown, happy importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of her city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, quite "crest-fallen." I heard some whispering that "things were going wrong at home with the Coates's—that the world was going down hill with the alderman."

But a lady, who was quite a stranger, though she did me the honour to speak to me, explained that it was "no such thing—worth a plum still, if he be worth a farthing. 'Tis only that she was greatly put out of her way last week, and frightened, till well nigh beside herself, by them rioters that came and set fire to one of the Coates's, Mr. Peter's, warehouse. Now, though poor Mrs. Coates, you'd think, is so plump and stout to look at, she is as nervous!—you've no notion, sir!—shakes like an aspen leaf, if she but takes a cup of green tea—so I prescribe bohea. But there she's curtsying, and nodding, and kissing hands to you, sir, see!—and can tell you, no doubt, all about herself."

Mrs. Coates's deplorably placid countenance, tremulous muscles, and lamentable voice and manner, confirmed to me the truth of the assertion that she had been frightened nearly out of her senses.

"Why now, sir, after all," said she, "I begin to find what fools we were, when we made such a piece of work one election year, and said that no soldiers should come into the town, 'cause we were free Britons. Why, Lord 'a mercy! 'tis a great deal better maxim to sleep safe in our beds than to be free Britons and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide Mrs. Piozzi's Letters.]."

Persons of higher pretensions to understanding and courage than poor Mrs. Coates, seemed at this time ready to adopt her maxim; and patriots feared that it might become the national sentiment. No sooner were order and tranquillity perfectly re-established in the city, than the public in general, and party politicians in particular, were intent upon the trials of the rioters, and more upon the question whether the military had suppressed the riots constitutionally or unconstitutionally. It was a question to be warmly debated in parliament; and this, after the manner in which great public and little private interests, in the chain of human events, are continually linked together, proved of important consequence to me and my love affairs.

A call of the house brought my father to town, contrary to his will, and consequently in ill-humour. This ill-humour was increased by the perplexing situation in which he found himself, with his passions on one side of the question and his principles on the other: hating the papists, and loving the ministry. In his secret soul, my father cried with the rioters, "No papists!—no French!—no Jews!—no wooden shoes!" but a cry against government was abhorrent to his very nature. My conduct, with regard to the riot at Mr. Montenero's, and towards the rioters, by whom he had been falsely accused, my father heard spoken of with approbation in the political circles which he most reverenced; and he could not but be pleased, he confessed, to hear that his son had so properly conducted himself: but still it was all in defence of the Jews, and of the father of that Jewess whose very name was intolerable to his ear.

"So, Harrington, my boy, you've gained great credit, I find, by your conduct last Wednesday night. Very lucky, too, for your mother's friend, Lady de Brantefield, that you were where you were. But after all, sir, what the devil business had you there?—and again on Thursday morning!—I acknowledge that was a good hit you made, about the gun—but I wish it had been in the defence of some good Christian: what business has a Jew with a gun at all?—Government knows best, to be sure; but I split against them once before, three-and-twenty years ago, on the naturalization bill. What is this cry which the people set up?—'No Jews!—no wooden shoes!'—ha! ha! ha!—the dogs!—but they carried it too far, the rascals!—When it comes to throwing stones at gentlemen's carriages, and pulling down gentlemen's and noblemen's dwelling-houses, it's a mob and a riot, and the rioters deserve certainly to be hanged—and I'm heartily glad my son has come forward, Mrs. Harrington, and has taken a decided and distinguished part in bringing the offenders to justice. But, Harrington, pray tell me now, young gentleman, about that Jewess."

Before I opened my lips, something in the turn of my physiognomy enraged my father to such a degree that all the blood in his body came into his face, and, starting up, he cried, "Don't answer me, sir—I ask no questions—I don't want to hear any thing about the matter! Only if—if, sir—if— that's all I have to say—if—by Jupiter Ammon—sir, I won't hear a word—a syllable! You only wish to explain—I won't have any explanation—I have business enough on my hands, without listening to a madman's nonsense!"

My father began to open his morning's packet of letters and newspapers. One letter, which had been directed to his house in the country, and which had followed him to town, seemed to, alarm him terribly. He put the letter into my mother's hand, cursed all the post-masters in England, who were none of them to blame for its not reaching him sooner, called for his hat and cane, said he must go instantly to the city, but "feared all was, too late, and that we were undone." With this comfortable assurance he left us. The letter was from a broker in Lombard-street, who did business for my father, and who wrote to let him know that, "in consequence of the destruction of a great brewery in the late riots, several mercantile houses had been injured. Alderman Coates had died suddenly of an apoplexy, it was said: his house had closed on Saturday; and it was feared that Baldwin's bank would not stand the run made on it."

Now in Baldwin's bank, as my mother informed me, my father had eight days before lodged L30,000, the purchase money of that estate which he had been obliged to sell to pay for his three elections. This sum was, in fact, every shilling of it due to creditors, who had become clamorous; and "if this be gone," said my mother, "we are lost indeed!—this house must go, and the carriages, and every thing; the Essex estate is all we shall have left, and live there as we can—very ill it must be, to us who have been used to affluence and luxury. Your father, who expects his table, and every individual article of his establishment, to be in the first style, as if by magic, without ever reflecting on the means, but just inviting people, and leaving it to me to entertain them properly—oh! I know how bitterly he would feel even retrenchment!—and this would be ruin; and every thing that vexes him of late brings on directly a fit of the gout—and then you know what his temper is! Heaven knows what I had to go through with my nerves, and my delicate health, during the last fit, which came on the very day after we left you, and lasted six weeks, and which he sets down to your account, Harrington, and to the account of your Jewess."

I had too much feeling for my mother's present distress to increase her agitation by saying any thing on this tender subject. I let her accuse me as she pleased—and she very soon began to defend me. The accounts she had heard in various letters of the notice that had been taken of Miss Montenero by some of the leading persons in the fashionable world, the proposals that had been made to her, and especially the addresses of Lord Mowbray, which had been of sufficient publicity, had made, I found, a considerable alteration in my mother's judgment or feelings. She observed that it was a pity my father was so violently prejudiced and obstinate, for that, after all, it would not be an unprecedented marriage. My mother, after a pause, went on to say, that though she was not, she hoped, an interested person, and should scorn the idea of her son's being a fortune-hunter—and indeed I had given pretty sufficient proof that I was not of that description of suitors; yet, if the Jewess were really amiable, and as capable of generous attachment, it would be, my mother at last acknowledged, the best thing I could do, to secure an independent establishment with the wife of my choice.

I was just going to tell my mother of the conversation that I had had with Mr. Montenero, and of the obstacle, when her mind reverted to the Lombard-street letter, and to Baldwin's bank; and for a full hour we discussed the probability of Baldwin's standing or failing, though neither of us had any means of judging—of this, being perhaps the least anxious of the two, I became sensible the first. I finished, by stationing myself at the window to watch for my father's return, of which I promised to give my mother notice, if she would lie down quietly on the sofa, and try to compose her spirits; she had given orders to be denied to all visitors, but every knock at the door made her start, and "There's your father! There's Mr. Harrington!" was fifty times repeated before the hour when it was even possible that my father could have returned from the city.

When the probable time came and passed, when it grew later and later without my father's appearing, our anxiety and impatience rose to the highest pitch.

At last I gave my mother notice that I saw among the walkers at the end of the street which joined our square, an elderly gentleman with a cane.

"But there are so many elderly gentlemen with canes," said my mother, joining me at the window. "Is it Mr. Harrington?"

"It is very like my father, ma'am. Now you can see him plainly picking his way over the crossing."

"He is looking down," said my mother; "that is a very bad sign.—But is he not looking up now?"

"No, ma'am; and now he is taking snuff."

"Taking snuff! is he? Then there is some hope," said my mother.

During the last forty yards of my father's walk, we each drew innumerable and often opposite conclusions, from his slightest gestures and motions, interpreting them all as favourable or unfavourable omens. In the course of five minutes my mother's presentiments varied fifty times. At length came his knock at the door. My mother grew pale—to her ear it said "all's lost;" to mine it sounded like "all's safe."

"He stays to take off his great coat! a good sign; but he comes heavily up stairs." Our eyes were fixed on the door—he opened it, and advanced towards us without uttering one syllable.

"All's lost—and all's safe," said my father. "My fortune's safe, Mrs. Harrington."

"What becomes of your presentiments, my dear mother?" said I.

"Thank Heaven!" said my mother, "I was wrong for once."

"You might thank Heaven for more than once, madam," said my father.

"But then what did you mean by all's lost, Mr. Harrington; if all's safe, how can all be lost?"

"My all, Mrs. Harrington, is not all fortune. There is such a thing as credit as well as fortune, Mrs. Harrington."

"But if you have not lost your fortune, you have not lost your credit, I presume," said my mother.

"I have a character as a gentleman, Mrs. Harrington."

"Of course."

"A character for consistency, Mrs. Harrington, to preserve."

"'Tis a hard thing to preserve, no doubt," said my mother.

"But I wish you'd speak plain, for my nerves can't bear it."

"Then I can tell you, Mrs. Harrington, your nerves have a great deal to bear yet. What will your nerves feel, madam—what will your enthusiasm say, sir—when I tell you, that I have lost my heart to—a Jewess?"

"Berenice!" cried I.

"Impossible!" cried my mother. "How came you to see her?"

"That's not for you to know yet; but first, young gentleman, you who are hanging on tenter-hooks, you must hang there a little longer."

"As long as you please, my dear father," said I.

"Your dear father!—ay, I'm very dear to you now, because you are in hopes, sir, I shall turn fool, and break my vow into the bargain; but I am not come to that yet, my good sir—I have some consistency."

"Oh! never mind your consistency, for mercy's sake, Mr. Harrington," said my mother, "only tell us your story, for I really am dying to hear it, and I am so weak."

"Ring the bell for dinner," said my father, "for Mrs. Harrington's so weak, I'll keep my story till after dinner." My mother protested she was quite strong, and we both held my father fast, insisting—he being in such excellent humour and spirits that we might insist—insisting upon his telling his story before he should have any dinner.

"Where was I?" said he.

"You know best," said my mother; "you said you had lost your heart to a Jewess, and Harrington exclaimed Berenice! and that's all I've heard yet."

"Very well, then, let us leave Berenice for the present"—I groaned—"and go to her father, Mr. Montenero, and to a certain Mrs. Coates."

"Mrs. Coates! did you see her too?" cried my mother: "you seem to have seen every body in the world this morning, Mr. Harrington. How happened it that you saw vulgar Mrs. Coates?"

"Unless I shut my eyes, how can I avoid seeing vulgar people, madam? and how can I tell my story, Mrs. Harrington, if you interrupt me perpetually, to ask how I came to see every soul and body I mention?"

"I will interrupt you no more," said my mother, submissively, for she was curious.

I placed an arm-chair for my father—in my whole life I never felt so dutiful or so impatient.

"There, now," said my father, taking his seat in the chair, "if you will promise not to interrupt me any more, I will tell you my story regularly. I went to Baldwin's bank: I found a great crowd, all pressing their demands— the clerks as busy as they could be, and all putting a good face upon the matter. The head-clerk I saw was vexed at the sight of me—he came out from behind his desk, and begged I would go up stairs to Mr. Baldwin, who wished to speak to me. I was shown up stairs to Mr. Baldwin, with whom I found a remarkably gentlemanlike foreign-looking man.

"Yes, sir—yes, ma'am—Mr. Montenero: it is well you did not either of you interrupt me to tell me his name, for if you had, I would not have told you a word more. Well, Mr. Baldwin, evidently wishing me at the devil, came forward to receive me, and, in great perplexity, said he would be at my command; he would settle my business immediately; but must beg my pardon for five minutes, while he settled with this gentleman, Mr. Montenero. On hearing the name, I am sure my look would have said plain enough to any man alive but Baldwin, that I did not choose to be introduced; but Baldwin has no breeding: so it was Mr. Montenero, Mr. Harrington—Mr. Harrington, Mr. Montenero. I bowed, and wished the Jew in the Red Sea, and Baldwin along with him. I then took up a newspaper and retreated to the window, begging that I might not be any interruption. The cursed paper was four days old, so I put it down; and as I stood looking at nothing out of the window, I heard Baldwin going on with your Jew. They had a load of papers on the table, which Baldwin kept shuffling, as he talked about the losses the house had sustained by the sudden death of Alderman Coates, and the sad bankruptcy of the executors. Baldwin seasoned high with compliments to the Jew upon his known liberality and generosity, and was trying to get him to enter into some security, which the Jew refused, saying that what he gave he gave willingly, but he would not enter into security: he added, that the alderman and his family had been unjustifiably extravagant; but on condition that all was given up fairly to the creditors, and a new course entered upon, he and his daughter would take care that the widow should be provided for properly. As principal creditor, Mr. Baldwin would, by this means, be first satisfied. I could not help thinking that all the Jew said was fair enough, and firm too; but when he had said and done, I wondered that he did not go away. He and Baldwin came to the window to which I had retreated, and Baldwin, like a city bear as he is, got in his awkward way between us, and seizing one button of my coat and one of Mr. Montenero's, held us there face to face, while he went on talking of my demand on the house.

"'You see, Mr. Harrington,' said he, 'how we are circumstanced. The property of the firm is able to answer all fair demands in due course. But here's a set and a run made against us, and no house could stand without the assistance, that is, the forbearance of friends—that's what we must look to. Some of our friends, in particular Mr. Montenero, have been very friendly indeed—very handsome and liberal—and we have nothing to say; we cannot, in reason, expect him to do more for the Coates's or for us.' And then came accounts of the executors, &c., in his banking jargon.

"What the deuce was all this to me, you know? and how awkward I felt, held by the button there, to rejudge Mr. Montenero's acts! I had nothing for it but my snuff-box. But Baldwin's a mere clerk—cannot guess at the feelings of a gentleman. Mr. Montenero, I observed, looked down upon Baldwin all the time with so much the air of a high-bred gentleman, that I began to think he could not be the Jew—Montenero.

"Baldwin, still thinking only of holding him up as an example to me, went on, saying, 'Mr. Montenero, who is a foreigner, and a stranger to the house, has done so and so, and we trust our old friends will do as much— Mr. Harrington in particular. There's our books on the table, open to Mr. Harrington—he will see we shall be provided on the fifteenth instant; but, in short, if Mr. Harrington draws his L30,000 to-day, he drives us to pay in sixpences—so there's the case.' In short, it came to this: if I drew, I certainly ruined them; if I did not draw, I ran a great hazard of being ruined myself. No, Baldwin would not have it that way—so when he had stated it after his own fashion, and put it into and out of his banker's jargon, it came out to be, that if I drew directly I was certain to lose the whole; and if I did not draw, I should have a good chance of losing a great part. I pulled my button away from the fellow, and without listening to any more of his jabbering, for I saw he was only speaking against time, and all on his own side of the question, I turned to look at the books, of which I knew I never should make head or tail, being no auditor of accounts, but a plain country gentleman. While I was turning over their confounded day-books and ledgers in despair, your Jew, Harrington, came up to me, and with such a manner as I did not conceive a Jew could have—but he is a Spanish Jew—that makes all the difference, I suppose—'Mr. Harrington,' said he, 'though I am a stranger to you, permit me to offer my services in this business—I have some right to do so, as I have accepted of services, and am under real obligations to Mr. Harrington, your son, a young gentleman for whom I feel the highest attachment as well as gratitude, but of whom I will now say only, that he has been one of the chief means of saving my life and my character. His father cannot, therefore, I think, refuse to let me show at least some sense of the obligations I have willingly received. My collection of Spanish pictures, which, without your son's exertions, I could not have saved on the night of the riot, has been estimated by your best English connoisseurs at L60,000. Three English noblemen are at this moment ready to pay down L30,000 for a few of these pictures: this will secure Mr. Harrington's demand on this house. If you, Mr. Baldwin, pay him, before three hours are over the money shall be with you. It is no sacrifice of my taste or of my pictures,' continued your noble Jew, in answer to my scruples: 'I lodge them with three different bankers only for security for the money. If Mr. Baldwin stands the storm, we are all as we were—my pictures into the bargain. If the worst happen, I lose only a few instead of all my collection.'

"This was very generous—quite noble, but you know I am an obstinate old fellow. I had still the Jewess, the daughter, running in my head, and I thought, perhaps, I was to be asked for my consent, you know, Harrington, or some sly underplot of that kind.

"Mr. Montenero has a quick eye—I perceived that he saw into my thoughts; but we could not speak to our purpose before Baldwin, and Baldwin would never think of stirring, if one was dying to get him out of the room. Luckily, however, he was called away by one of the clerks.

"Then Mr. Montenero, who speaks more to the point than any man I ever heard, spoke directly of your love for his daughter, and said he understood that it would not be a match that I should approve. I pleaded my principles and religious difficulties:—he replied, 'We need not enter into that, for the present business I must consider as totally independent of any view to future connexion:'—if his daughter was going to be married to-morrow to another man, he should do exactly the same as he now proposed to do. He did not lessen her fortune:—he should say nothing of what her sense of gratitude was and ought to be—she had nothing to do with the business.

"When I found that my Jupiter Amman was in no danger, and that the love affair was to be kept clear out of the question, I was delighted with your generous Jew, Harrington, and I frankly accepted his offer. Baldwin came in again, was quite happy when he heard how it was settled, gave me three drafts at thirty-one days for my money on the bankers Mr. Montenero named: here I have them safe in my pocket. Mr. Montenero then said, he would go immediately and perform his part of the business; and, as he left the room, he begged Mr. Baldwin to tell his daughter that he would call for her in an hour.

"I now, for the first time, understood that the daughter was in the house; and I certainly felt a curiosity to see her. Baldwin told me she was settling some business, signing some papers in favour of poor Mrs. Coates, the alderman's widow. He added, that the Jewess was a charming creature, and as generous as her father:—he told all she had done for this widow and her children, on account of some kindness her mother had received in early life from the Coates's family; and then there was a history of some other family of Manessas—I never heard Baldwin eloquent but this day, in speaking of your Jewess:—Harrington, I believe he is in love with her himself. I said I should like to see her, if it could be managed.

"Nothing easier, if I would partake of a cold collation just serving in the next room for the friends of the house.

"You know the nearer a man is to being ruined, the better he must entertain his friends. I walked into the next room, when collation time came, and I saw Miss Montenero. Though I had given him a broad hint—but the fellow understands nothing but his IOU's—he fell to introducing of course: she is a most interesting-looking creature, I acknowledge, my boy, if—she were not a Jewess. I thought she would have sunk into the earth when she heard my name. I could not eat one morsel of the man's collation—so—Ring for dinner, and let us say no more about the matter at present: there is my oath against it, you know—there is an end of the matter—don't let me hear a word from you, Harrington—I am tired to death, quite exhausted, body and mind."

I refrained most dutifully, and most prudently, from saying one word more on the subject, till my father, after dinner, and after being refreshed by a sound and long-protracted sleep, began again to speak of Mr. and Miss Montenero. This was the first time he omitted to call them the Jew and Jewess. He condescended to say repeatedly, and with many oaths, that they both deserved to be Christians—that if there was any chance of the girl's conversion, even he would overlook the father's being a Jew, as he was such a noble fellow. Love could do wonders—as my father knew when he was a young man—perhaps I might bring about her conversion, and then all would be smooth and right, and no oath against it.

I thanked my father for the kind concessions he now appeared willing to make for my happiness, and from step to step, at each step repeating that he did not want to hear a syllable about the matter, he made me tell him every thing that had passed. Mowbray's rivalship and treachery excited his indignation in the highest degree: he was heartily glad that fellow was refused—he liked the girl for refusing him—some spirit—he liked spirit— and he should be glad that his son carried away the prize.

He interrupted himself to tell me some of the feats of gallantry of his younger days, and of the manner in which he had at last carried off my mother from a rascal of a rival—a Lord Mowbray of those times.

When my father had got to this point, my mother ventured to ask whether I had ever gone so far as to propose, actually to propose, for Miss Montenero.

"Yes."

Both father and mother turned about, and asked, "What answer?"

I repeated, as nearly as I could, Mr. Montenero's words—and I produced his note.

Both excited surprise and curiosity.

"What can this obstacle—this mysterious obstacle be?" said my mother.

"An obstacle on their side!" exclaimed my father: "is that possible?"

I had now, at least, the pleasure of enjoying their sympathy: and of hearing them go over all the conjectures by which I had been bewildered. I observed that the less chance there appeared to be of the match, the more my father and mother inclined towards it.

"At least," said my mother, "I hope we shall know what the objection is."

"It is very extraordinary, after all, that it should be on their side," repeated my father.

My mother's imagination, and my father's pride, were both strongly excited; and I let them work without interruption.



CHAPTER XVII.

The time appointed for Mr. Montenero's final decision approached. In a few days my fate was to be decided. The vessel that was to sail for America was continually before my eyes.

It was more difficult to me to endure the suspense of these few days than all the rest. My mother's sympathy, and the strong interest which had been excited on the subject in my father's mind, were at first highly agreeable; but there was so much more of curiosity and of pride in their feelings than in mine, that at last it became irksome to me to hear their conjectures and reflections. I did not like to answer any questions—I could not bear to speak of Berenice, or even of Mr. Montenero.

I took refuge in silence—my mother reproached me for my silence. I talked on fast of any thing but that which interested me most.

My mother became extremely alarmed for my health, and I believe with more reason than usual; for I could scarcely either eat, drink, or sleep, and was certainly very feverish; but still I walked about, and to escape from the constraint to which I put myself in her company, to avoid giving her pain—to relieve myself from her hourly fond inquiries—from the effort of talking, when I wished to be silent—of appearing well, and in spirits, when I was ill, and when my heart was dying within me, I escaped from her presence as much as possible. To feed upon my thoughts in solitude, I either shut myself up in my room, or walked all day in those streets where I was not likely to meet with any one who knew me, or whom I knew; and there I was at least safe from all notice, and secure from all sympathy: I am sure I experienced at this time the truth of what some one has quaintly but justly asserted, that an individual can never feel more completely alone than in the midst of a crowded metropolis.

One evening when I was returning homewards through the city, fatigued, but still prolonging my walk, that I might not be at home too early for dinner, I was met and stopped by Jacob: I had not thought of him lately, and when I looked up in his face, I was surprised by an appearance of great perturbation. He begged pardon for stopping me, but he had been to my house—he had been all over the town searching for me, to consult me about a sad affair, in which he was unfortunately concerned. We were not far from Manessa's, the jeweller's shop; I went in there with Jacob, as he wished, he said, that I should hear Mr. Manessa's evidence on the business, as well as his own. The affair was this: Lady de Brantefield had, some time ago, brought to Mr. Manessa's some very fine antique jewels, to be re-set for her daughter, Lady Anne Mowbray. One day, immediately after the riots, both the ladies called at Mr. Manessa's, to inquire if the jewels were ready. They were finished; the new setting was approved: but Lady de Brantefield having suffered great losses by the destruction of her house and furniture in the riots, and her son, Lord Mowbray, being also in great pecuniary difficulties, it was suggested by Lady Anne Mowbray, that her mother would be glad if Mr. Manessa could dispose of some of the jewels, without letting it be known to whom they had belonged. Mr. Manessa, willing to oblige, promised secresy, and offered immediately to purchase the jewels himself; in consequence, the jewels were all spread out upon a little table in the back parlour—no one present but Jacob, Mr. Manessa, and the two ladies. A great deal of conversation passed, and the ladies were a long time settling what trinkets they would part with.

It was very difficult to accommodate at once the personal vanity of the daughter, the family pride of the mother, and their pecuniary difficulties. There occurred, in particular, a question about a topaz ring, of considerable value, but of antique setting, which Lady Anne Mowbray wished her mother to part with, instead of some more fashionable diamond ornament that Lady Anne wanted to keep for herself. Lady de Brantefield had, however, resisted all her daughter's importunities—had talked a vast deal about the ring—told that it had been Sir Josseline de Mowbray's—that it had come into his possession by ducal and princely descent—that it was one of four rings, which had been originally a present from Pope Innocent to King John, of which rings there was a full description in some old chronicle [Footnote: Rymer's Foedera.], and in Mr. Hume's History of England, to which her ladyship referred Mr. Manessa: his curiosity [Footnote: For the satisfaction of any readers who may have more curiosity upon the subject than Mr. Manessa had, but yet who would not willingly rise from their seats to gratify their curiosity, the passage is here given gratis. "Innocent wrote John a mollifying letter, and sent him four golden rings, set with precious stones; and endeavoured to enhance the value of the present, by informing him of the many mysteries which were implied by it. He begged him to consider, seriously, the form of the rings, their number, their matter, and their colour. Their form, he said, being round, shadowed out eternity, which has neither beginning nor end. Their number, four, being a square, denoted steadiness of mind, not to be subverted either by adversity or prosperity, fixed for ever on the four cardinal virtues. Gold, which is the matter, signified wisdom. The blue of the sapphire, faith. The verdure of the emerald, hope. The redness of the ruby, charity. And splendour of the topaz, good works." "By these conceits," continued the historian, "Innocent endeavoured to repay John for one of the most important prerogatives of the crown."], however, was perfectly satisfied upon the subject, and he was, with all due deference, willing to take the whole upon her ladyship's word, without presuming to verify her authorities. While she spoke, she took the ring from her finger, and put it into Jacob's hand, desiring to know if he could make it fit her finger better, as it was rather too large. Jacob told her it could be easily lessened, if her ladyship would leave it for an hour or two with him. But her ladyship said she could not let Sir Josseline's ring out of her own sight, it was of such inestimable value. The troublesome affair of satisfying both the vain daughter and the proud mother being accomplished— the last bows were made at the door—the carriage drove away, and Manessa and Jacob thanked Heaven that they had done with these difficult customers. Two hours had scarcely elapsed before a footman came from Lady de Brantefield with the following note:—

"Lady de Brantefield informs Mr. Manessa that she is in the greatest anxiety—not finding Sir Josseline de Mowbray's ring on her finger, upon her return home. Her ladyship now recollects having left it in the hands of one of Mr. Manessa's shopmen, a young man she believes of the name of Jacob, the only person except Mr. Manessa, who was in the little parlour, while her ladyship and Lady Anne Mowbray were there.

"Lady de Brantefield requests that Mr. Manessa will bring the ring himself to Lady Warbeck's, Hanover-square, where Lady de Brantefield is at present.

"Lady de Brantefield desires Mr. M. will make no delay, as her ladyship must remain in indescribable anxiety till Sir Josseline's ring shall be restored. Her ladyship could not answer for such a loss to her family and posterity.

"Hanover-square, Tuesday."

* * * * *

Jacob was perfectly certain that her ladyship had not left the ring with him; nevertheless he made diligent search for it, and afterwards accompanied Mr. Manessa to Lady Warbeck's, to assure Lady de Brantefield that the ring was not in their house. He endeavoured to bring to her recollection her having put it on her finger just before she got into the carriage; but this her ladyship would not admit. Lady Anne supported her mother's assertions; and Lady de Brantefield ended by being haughtily angry, declaring she would not be contradicted by a shopman, and that she was positive the ring had never been returned to her. Within eight-and- forty hours the story was told by Lady de Brantefield and her friends at every card-table at the polite end of the town, and it was spread by Lady Anne through the park and the ball-rooms; and the ladies'-maids had repeated it, with all manner of exaggerations, through their inferior but not less extensive circles. The consequence was, that the character of Mr. Manessa's house was hurt, and Jacob, who was the person accused as the cause of it, was very unhappy. The confidence Mr. Manessa had in him, and the kindness he showed him, increased his regret. Lady de Brantefield had, in a high tone, threatened a prosecution for the value of her inestimable ring. This was what both Jacob and Mr. Manessa would have desired—a public trial, they knew, would bring the truth to light; but her ladyship was probably discouraged by her legal advisers from a prosecution, so that Mr. Manessa and Jacob were still left to suffer by the injustice of private whisperings. Jacob offered to replace, as far as he could, the value of this ring; but in Lady de Brantefield's opinion nothing could compensate for its loss. Poor Jacob was in despair. Before I heard this story, I thought that nothing could have forced my attention from my own affairs; but I could not be so selfish as to desert or neglect Jacob in his distress. I went with my mother this evening to see Lady de Brantefield; her ladyship was still at her relation's, Lady Warbeck's house, where she had apartments to herself, in which she could receive what company she pleased. There was to be a ball in the house this evening, but Lady de Brantefield never mixed in what she called idle gaieties; she abhorred a bustle, as it infringed upon her personal dignity, and did not agree with her internal persuasion that she was, or ought to be, the first object in all company. We found her ladyship in her own retired apartment; her eyes were weak, and the room had so little light in it, that when we first went in, I could scarcely distinguish any object: I saw, however, a young woman, who had been reading to her ladyship, rise as we entered, put down her book, and prepare to retire. My mother stopped her as she was passing, and turning to me, said, that this was a young person, she was sure, I should be glad to see, the daughter of an old friend of mine.

I looked, and saw a face which awakened the most painful associations of my childhood.

"Did not I perceive any likeness?" my mother continued. "But it was so many years since I had seen poor Fowler, and I was so very young a child, no wonder I should not in the least recollect."

I had some recollection—if I was not mistaken—I stammered—I stopped. In fact, I recollected too well to be able to pay the expected compliment. However, after I had got over the first involuntary shudder, I tried to say something to relieve the embarrassment which I fancied the girl must feel.

She, in a mincing, waiting-gentlewoman's manner, and with a certain unnatural softness of voice, which again brought all the mother to my mind, assured me that if I'd forgot her mother, she had not forgot me; for that she'd often and often heard her mother talk of me, and she was morally confident her mother had never loved any child so doatingly, except, to be sure, her own present lady's, Lady Anne Mowbray. Her mother had often and often regretted she could never get a sight or sentence of me since I grew up to be a great gentleman, she always having been stationary down at my lady's, in Surrey, at the Priory—housekeeper—and I never there; but if I'd have the condescension to wish to gratify her mother, as it would be the greatest gratification in life—if Lady de Brantefield—"

"Presently, perhaps—when I ring," said Lady de Brantefield, "and you, Nancy Fowler, may come back yourself with my treble ruffles: Mrs. Harrington, I know, will have the goodness to permit. I keep her as much under my own eye, and suffer her to be as much even in the room with me, as possible," added Lady de Brantefield, as Nancy left the room; "for she is a young person quite out of the common line, and her mother i—but you first recommended her to me, Mrs. Harrington, I remember."

"The most faithful creature!" said my mother, in the very tone I had heard it pronounced twenty years before.

I was carried back so far, so forcibly, and so suddenly, that it was some time before I could recover myself sufficiently to recollect what was the order of the day; but no matter—my mother passed on quite easily to the jewels, and my silence was convenient, and had an air of perfect deference for Lady de Brantefield's long story of Sir Josseline's ring, now told over, I believe, for the ninety-ninth time this season. She ended where she began, with the conviction that, if the secretary of state would, as he ought, on such an occasion, grant a general search-warrant, as she was informed had been done for papers, and things of much less value, her ring would be found in that Jacob's possession—that Jacob, of whom she had a very bad opinion!

I took the matter up as quietly as was in my nature, and did not begin with a panegyric on my friend Jacob, but simply asked, what reason her ladyship had for her very bad opinion of him?

Too good reason, her ladyship emphatically said: she had heard her son, Lord Mowbray, express a very bad opinion of him.

Lord Mowbray had known this Jacob, she believed, when a boy, and afterwards when a man at Gibraltar, and had always thought ill of him. Lord Mowbray had said, that Jacob was avaricious and revengeful; as you know Jews always are, added her ladyship.

I wondered she had trusted her jewels, then, in such hands.

There, she owned, she had for once been wrong—overruled by others—by her daughter, Lady Anne, who said the jewels could be more fashionably set at Manessa's than any where else.

She had never acted against her own judgment in her life, without repenting of it. Another circumstance, Lady de Brantefield said, prepossessed her, she owned, against this Jacob; he was from the very dregs of the people; the son absolutely of an old clothes-man, she had been informed. What could be expected from such a person, when temptation came in his way? and could we trust to any thing such a low sort of person would say?

Lady Anne Mowbray, before I had time to answer, entered dressed for the ball, with her jewels in full blaze, and for some time there was a suspension of all hope of coming to any thing like common sense. When her mother appealed to her about Jacob, Lady Anne protested she took a horrid dislike to his face the moment she saw him; she thought he had a shocking Jewish sort of countenance, and she was positive he would swear falsely, because he was ready to swear that her mamma had the ring on her finger when she got into the carriage—now Lady Anne was clear she had not.

"Has your ladyship," I asked, "any particular reason for remembering this fact?"

"Oh, yes! several very particular reasons."

There is sometimes wisdom in listening to a fool's reasons; for ten to one that the reasons will prove the contrary to what they are brought to support, or will at least bring out some fact, the distant bearing of which on the point of question the fool does not perceive. But when two fools pour out their reasons at once, it is difficult to profit even by their folly. The mother's authority at last obtaining precedency, I heard Lady de Brantefield's cause of belief, first: her ladyship declared that she never wore Sir Josseline's ring without putting on after it a guard ring, a ring which, being tighter than Sir Josseline's, kept it safe on her finger. She remembered drawing off the guard ring when she took off Sir Josseline's, and put that into Jacob's hands; her ladyship said it was clear to her mind that she could not have put on Sir Josseline's again, because here was the guard ring on her wrong finger—a finger on which she never in her life wore it when she wore Sir Josseline's, for Sir Josseline's was so loose, it would drop off, unless she had the guard on.

"But was not it possible," I asked, "that your ladyship might this once have put on Sir Josseline's ring without recollecting the guard?"

No, absolutely impossible: if Jacob and all the Jews upon earth swore it (who, by-the-bye, would swear any thing), she could not be convinced against her reason—she knew her own habits—her private reasons to her were unanswerable.

Lady Anne's private reasons to her were equally unanswerable; but they were so confused, and delivered with so much volubility, as to be absolutely unintelligible. All I could gather was, that Fowler and her daughter Nancy were in the room when Lady Anne and her mother first missed the ring—that when her mother drew off her glove, and exclaimed, "Bless me, Sir Josseline's not here!" Lady Anne ran up to the dressing-table, at which her mother was standing, to try to find the ring, thinking that her mother might have dropped it in drawing off her glove; "but it certainly was not drawn off with the glove."

"But might not it be left in the glove?" I asked.

"Oh! dear, no: I shook the glove myself, and Fowler turned every finger inside out, and Nancy moved every individual box upon the dressing-table. We were all in such a fuss, because you know mamma's so particular about Sir Josseline; and to tell you the truth, I was uncommonly anxious, because I knew if mamma was vexed and lost the ring, she would not give me a certain diamond cross, that makes me so particularly remember every circumstance—and I was in such a flurry, that I know I threw down a bottle of aether that was on mamma's toilette, on her muff—and it had such a horrid smell!"

The muff! I asked if the muff, as well as the glove, had been searched carefully.

"La! to be sure—I suppose so—of course it was shaken, as every thing else in the room was, a hundred times over: the toilette and mamma's petticoats even, and cloak, and gloves, as I told you."

"Yes, but the muff, did your ladyship examine it yourself?"

"Did I examine it? I don't recollect. No, indeed, after the aether, how could I touch it? you know: but of course it was shaken, it was examined, I am sure; but really I know nothing about it—but this, that it could not possibly be in it, the ring, I mean, because mamma had her glove on."

I requested permission to see the muff.

"Oh, mamma was forced to give it away because of the horrid smell—she bid Fowler take it out of the room that minute, and never let it come near her again; but if you want to see it, ring for Fowler: you can examine it as much as you please; depend upon it the ring's no more there than I am—send for Fowler and Nancy, and they can tell you how we shook every thing to no purpose. The ring's gone, and so am I, for Colonel Topham's waiting, and I must lead off." And away her ladyship tripped, flirting her perfumed fan as she went. Persisting in my wish to see the muff, Lady de Brantefield desired me to ring for Fowler.

Her ladyship wondered, she said, how I could, after the reasons she had given me for her being morally certain that she had left the ring with Jacob, and after Lady Anne had justly remarked that the ring could not get through her glove, entertain a hope of finding it in such a ridiculous place as a muff. But since I was so possessed with this idea, the muff should be produced—there was nothing like ocular demonstration in these cases, except internal conviction: "Did you ring, Mr. Harrington?"

"I did."

And Miss Nancy with the treble ruffles in her hand now appeared.

"'Tis your mother, child, I want," said Lady de Brantefield.

"Yes, my lady, she is only just finished assisting to lay out the ball supper."

"But I want her—directly."

"Certainly, my lady, directly."

"And bid her bring—" A whisper from me to my mother, and from my mother to her ladyship, failed of effect: after turning half round, as if to ask me what I said—a look which did not pass unnoticed by Miss Nancy—her ladyship finished her sentence—"And tell Fowler I desire she will bring me the muff that I gave her last week—the day I lost my ring."

This message would immediately put Fowler upon her guard, and I was at first sorry that it had been so worded; but I recollected having heard an eminent judge, a man of great abilities and experience, say, that if he were called upon to form a judgment of any character, or to discover the truth in any case, he would rather that the persons whom he was to examine were previously put on their guard, than that they were not; for that he should know, by what they guarded, of what they were afraid.

Fowler appeared—twenty years had so changed her face and figure, that the sight of her did not immediately shock me as I feared it would. The daughter, who, I suppose, more nearly resembled what her mother had been at the time I had known her, was, of the two, the most disagreeable to my sight and feelings. Fowler's voice was altered by the loss of a tooth, and it was even by this change less odious to my ear. The daughter's voice I could scarcely endure. I was somewhat relieved from the fear of being prejudiced against Fowler by the perception of this change in her; and while she was paying me her compliments, I endeavoured to fortify the resolution I had made to judge of her with perfect impartiality. Her delight at seeing me, however, I could not believe to be sincere; and the reiterated repetition of her sorrow for her never having been able to get a sight of me before, I thought ill-judged: but no matter; many people in her station make these sort of unmeaning speeches. If I had suffered my imagination to act, I should have fancied that under a sort of prepared composure there was constraint and alarm in her look as she spoke to me. I thought she trembled; but I resolved not to be prejudiced—and this I repeated to myself many times.

"Well, Fowler, but the muff," said Lady de Brantefield.

"The muff—oh! dear, my lady, I'm so sorry I can't have it for you—it's not in the house nowhere—I parted with it out of hand directly upon your saying, my lady, that you desired it might never be suffered to come nigh your ladyship again. Then, says I to myself, since my lady can't abide the smell, I can't never wear it, which it would have been my pride to do; so I thought I could never get it fast enough out of the house."

"And what did you do with it?"

"I made a present of it, my lady, to poor Mrs. Baxter, John Dutton's sister, my lady, who was always so much attached to the family, and would have a regard for even the smallest relic, vestige, or vestment, I knew, above all things in nature, poor old soul!—she has, what with the rheumatic pains, and one thing or another, lost the use of her right arm, so it was particularly agreeable and appropriate—and she kissed the muff— oh! my lady, I'm sure I only wish your ladyship could have witnessed the poor soul's veneration."

In reply to a question which made my mother ask about the "poor soul," I further learned that Mrs. Baxter was wife to a pawnbroker in Swallow- street. Fowler added, "If my lady wished any way for the muff, I can get it to-morrow morning by breakfast, or by the time you's up, my lady."

"Very well, very well, that will do, I suppose, will it not, Mr. Harrington?"

I bowed, and said not a word more—Fowler, I saw, was glad to get rid of the subject, and to go on to the treble ruffles, on which while she and my mother and Lady de Brantefield were descanting, I made my exit, and went to the ball-room.

I found Lady Anne Mowbray—talked nonsense to her ladyship for a quarter of an hour—and at last, a propos to her perfumed fan, I brought in the old muff with the horrid smell, on purpose to obtain a full description of it.

She told me that it was a gray fox-skin, lined with scarlet; that it had great pompadour-coloured knots at each end, and that it was altogether hideous. Lady Anne declared that she was heartily glad it would never shock her eyes more.

It was now just nine o'clock; people then kept better hours than they do at present; I was afraid that all the shops would be shut; but I recollected that pawnbrokers' shops were usually kept open late. I lost no time in pursuing my object.

I took a hackney coach, bribed the coachman to drive very fast to Mr. Manessa—found Manessa and Jacob going to bed sleepy—but at sight of me Jacob was alert in an instant, and joyfully ready to go with me immediately to Baxter, the pawnbroker's.

I made Jacob furnish me with an old surtout and slouched hat, desiring to look as shabby as possible, that the pawnbroker might take me for one of his usual nightly customers, and might not be alarmed at the sight of a gentleman.

"That won't do yet, Mr. Harrington," said Jacob, when I had equipped myself in the old hat and coat. "Mr. Baxter will see the look of a gentleman through all that. It is not the shabby coat that will make the gentleman look shabby, no more than the fine coat can ever make the shabby look like the gentleman. The pawnbroker, who is used to observe and find out all manner of people, will know that as well as I—but now you shall see how well at one stroke I will disguise the gentleman."

Jacob then twisted a dirty silk handkerchief round my throat, and this did the business so completely, that I defied the pawnbroker and all his penetration.

We drove as fast as we could to Swallow-street—dismissed our hackney coach, and walked up to the pawnbroker's.

Light in the shop!—all alive!—and business going on. The shop was so full of people, that we stood for some minutes unnoticed.

We had leisure to look about us, as we had previously agreed to do, for Lady De Brantefield's muff.

I had a suspicion that, notwithstanding the veneration with which it had been said to be treated, it might have come to the common lot of cast clothes.

Jacob at one side, and I at the other, took a careful survey of the multifarious contents of the shop; of all that hung from the ceiling; and all that was piled on the shelves; and all that lay huddled in corners, or crammed into dark recesses.

In one of the darkest and most ignominious of these, beneath a heap of sailors' old jackets and trowsers, I espied a knot of pompadour riband. I hooked it out a little with the stick I had in my hand; but Jacob stopped me, and called to the shopboy, who now had his eye upon us, and with him we began to bargain hard for some of the old clothes that lay upon the muff.

The shopboy lifted them up to display their merits, by the dimness of the candle-light, and, as he raised them up, there appeared beneath the gray fox-skin with its scarlet lining and pompadour knots, the Lady de Brantefield's much venerated muff.

I could scarcely refrain from seizing upon it that moment, but Jacob again restrained me.

He went on talking about the sailors' jackets, for which we had been in treaty; and he insisted upon having the old muff into the bargain. It actually was at last thrown in as a makeweight. Had she been witness to this bargain, I believe Lady De Brantefield would have dropped down in a swoon.

The moment I got possession of it, I turned it inside out.—There were several small rents in the lining—but one in particular had obviously been cut open with scissars. The shopboy, who thought I was pointing out the rents to disparage my purchase, assured me that any woman, clever at her needle, would with half-a-dozen stitches sew all up, and make the muff as good again as new. Jacob desired the boy to show him some old seals, rings, and trinkets, fit for a pedlar to carry into the country; Jacob was, for this purpose, sent to the most respectable place at the counter, and promoted to the honour of dealing face to face with Mr. Baxter himself:— drawers, which had before been invisible, were now produced; and I stood by while Jacob looked over all the new and old trinkets. I was much surprised by the richness and value of various brooches, picture settings, watches, and rings, which had come to this fate: at last, in a drawer with many valuables, which Mr. Baxter told us that some great man's mistress had, last week, been obliged to leave with him, Jacob and I, at the same moment, saw "the splendour of the topaz"—Lady de Brantefield's inestimable ring! I must do myself the justice to say that I behaved incomparably well—did not make a single exclamation, though I was sure it was the identical ring, the moment I caught a glimpse of the topaz—and though a glance from Jacob convinced me I was right. I said I could wait no longer, but would call again for him in half an hour's time. This was what we had agreed upon beforehand should be the signal for my summoning a Bow-street officer, whom Mr. Manessa had in readiness. Jacob identified and swore to the property—Mr. Baxter was seized. He protested he did not know the ring was stolen goods—he could not recollect who had sold it to him; but when we mentioned Fowler's name, he grew pale, was disconcerted, and not knowing how much or how little we knew, decided at once to get out of the scrape himself by giving her up, and turning evidence against her. He stated that she had found it in the old muff, but that he never knew That this muff had belonged to Lady de Brantefield. Mrs. Fowler had assured Him that it had been left to her along with the wardrobe of a lady with Whom she had formerly lived.

As soon as Baxter had told all the lies he chose to invent, and confessed as much of the truth as he thought would serve his purpose, his deposition was taken and sworn to. This was all that could then be done, as it was near twelve o'clock.

Poor Jacob's joy at having his innocence proved, and at being relieved from the fear of injuring the credit of his master's house, raised his spirits higher than I ever saw them in my life before. But still his joy and gratitude were more shown by looks than words. He thanked me once, and but once, warmly and strongly.

"Ah! Mr. Harrington," said he, "from the time you were Master Harrington at school, you were my best friend—always my friend in most need—I trusted in you, and still I hoped!—hoped that the truth would stand, and the lie fall. See at last our Hebrew proverb right—'A lie has no feet.'"



CHAPTER XVIII.

The next morning, before I left my room to go down to breakfast, my servant told me that Lady de Brantefield's housekeeper, Mrs. Fowler, begged to speak to me—she had been come some time. I went into my mother's dressing-room, where she was waiting alone. I could not bear to fix my eyes upon her; I advanced towards her, wishing, as I believe I said aloud, that she had spared me the pain of this interview. I waited in silence for her to speak, but she did not say a word—I heard the unhappy woman sobbing violently. Suddenly she took her handkerchief from before her face, and her sobs ceasing, she exclaimed, "I know you hate me, Mr. Harrington, and you have reason to hate me—more—much more than you know of! But Lord Mowbray is the most to blame."

I stood in astonishment. I conceived either that the woman was out of her senses, or that she had formed the not unprecedented design of affecting insanity, in hope of escaping the punishment of guilt: she threw herself at my feet—she would have clasped my knees, but I started back from her insufferable touch; provoked by this, she exclaimed, in a threatening tone, "Take care, sir!—The secret is still in my power."

Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone changed again to the whine of supplication.

"Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could reveal such a secret—a secret that so concerns you!"

I retreated, saying that I would not hear any secret from her. But I stopped, and was fixed to the spot, when she added, under her breath, the name of Montenero. Then, in a hypocritical voice, she went on—"Oh, Mr. Harrington!—Oh, sir, I have, been a great sinner! led on—led on by them that was worse than myself; but if you will plead for me with my lady, and prevail upon her not to bring me to public shame about this unfortunate affair of the ring, I will confess all to you—I will throw myself on your mercy. I will quit the country if you will prevail on my lady—to let my daughter's marriage go on, and not to turn her out of favour."

I refused to make any terms; but my mother, whose curiosity could refrain no longer, burst into the room; and to her Fowler did not plead in vain. Shocked as she was with the detection of this woman's fraud, my mother was so eager to learn the secret concerning me, that she promised to obtain a pardon from Lady de Brantefield for the delinquent, if she would immediately communicate the secret. I left the room.

I met my father with letters and newspapers in his hand. He looked in consternation, and beckoned to me to follow him into his own room.

"I was just going in search of you, Harrington," said he: "here's a devil of a stroke for your mother's friend, Lady de Brantefield."

"The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?" said I: "they are found."

"Jewels!" said my father; "I don't know what you are talking of."

"I don't know then what you mean, sir," said I.

"No, to be sure you do not, how could you? for the news is but this instant come—in this letter which I was carrying to you—which is addressed to you, as I found, when I got to the middle of it. I beg your pardon for opening it. Stay, stay—this is not the right letter."

My father seemed much hurried, and looked over his parcel of letters, while he went on, saying, "This is directed to William Harrington, instead of William Harrington Harrington. Never mind about that now, only I don't like to open letters that don't belong to me—here it is—run your eye over it as fast as you can, and tell me—for I stopped, as soon as I saw it was not to me—tell me how it is with Mowbray—I never liked the fellow, nor his mother either; but one can't help pitying—and being shocked—shocked indeed I was, the moment I read the letter."

The letter, which appeared to have been written in great perturbation, and at two or three different times, with different inks, was from a brother officer of Lord Mowbray's. It began in a tolerably composed and legible hand, with an account of a duel, in which the writer of the letter said that he had been second to Lord Mowbray. His lordship had been wounded, but it was hoped he would do well. Then came the particulars of the duel, which the second stated, of course, as advantageously for himself and his principal as he could; but even by his own statement it appeared that Lord Mowbray had been the aggressor; that he had been intemperate; and, in short, entirely in the wrong: the person with whom he fought was a young officer, who had been his schoolfellow: the dispute had begun about some trivial old school quarrel, on the most nonsensical subject; something about a Jew boy of the name of Jacob, and a pencil-case; the young gentleman had appealed to the evidence of Mr. Harrington, whom he had lately met on a fishing-party, and who, he said, had a perfect recollection of the circumstance. Lord Mowbray grew angry; and in the heat of contradiction, which, as his second said, his lordship could never bear, he gave his opponent the lie direct. A duel was the necessary consequence. Lord Mowbray insisted on their firing across the table: his opponent was compelled to it. They fired, as it was agreed, at the same instant: Lord Mowbray fell. So far was written while the surgeon was with his patient. Afterwards, the letter went on in a more confused manner. The surgeon begged that Lord Mowbray's friends might be informed, to prepare them for the event; but still there were hopes. Lord Mowbray had begun to write a letter to Mr. Harrington, but could not go on—had torn it to bits—and had desired the writer of the present letter to say, "that he could not go out of the world easy, without his forgiveness—to refer him to a woman of the name of Fowler, for explanation—a waiting-maid—a housekeeper now, in his mother's family. Lord Mowbray assured Mr. Harrington, that he did not mean to have carried the jest (the word jest scratched out), the thing farther than to show him his power to break off matters, if he pleased—but he now repented."

This dictated part of the letter was so confused, and so much like the delirium of a man in a fever, that I should certainly have concluded it to be without real meaning, had it not coincided with the words which Fowler had said to me. On turning over the page I saw a postscript—Lord Mowbray, at two o'clock that morning, had expired. His brother officer gave no particulars, and expressed little regret, but begged me to represent the affair properly; and added something about the lieutenant-colonelcy, which was blotted so much, either purposely or accidentally, that I could not read it.

My father, who was a truly humane man, was excessively shocked by the letter; and at first, so much engrossed by the account of the manner of the young man's death, and by the idea of the shock and distress of the mother and sister, that he scarcely adverted to the unintelligible messages to me. He observed, indeed, that the writer of the letter seemed to be a fool, and to have very little feeling. We agreed that my mother was the fittest person to break the matter to poor Lady de Brantefield. If my mother should not feel herself equal to the task, my father said he would undertake it himself, though he had rather have a tooth pulled out than go through it.

We went together to my mother. We found her in hysterics, and Fowler beside her; my mother, the moment she saw us, recovered some recollection, and pushing Fowler from her with both her hands, she cried, "Take her away—out of my sight—out of my sight." I took the hartshorn from Fowler, and bid her leave the room; ordering her, at her peril, not to leave the house.

"Why did you tell Mrs. Harrington so suddenly, Mrs. Fowler?" my father began, supposing that my mother's hysterics were the consequence of having been told, too suddenly, the news of Lord Mowbray's death.

"I did not tell her, sir; I never uttered a sentence of his lordship's death."

In her confusion, the woman betrayed her knowledge of the circumstance, though on her first speaking to me she had not mentioned it. While I assisted and soothed my mother, I heard my father questioning her. "She heard the news that morning, early, in a letter from Lord Mowbray's gentleman—had not yet had the heart to mention it to her lady—believed she had given a hint of it to Lady Anne—was indeed so flurried, and still was so flurried—"

My father, perceiving that Fowler did not know what she was saying, good-naturedly attributed her confusion to her sorrow for her ladies; and did not wonder, he said, she was flurried: he was not nervous, but it had given him a shock. "Sit down, poor Fowler."

The words caught my mother's ear, who had now recovered her recollection completely; and with an effort, which I had never before seen her make, to command her own feelings—an effort, for which I thank her, as I knew it arose from her strong affection for me, she calmly said, "I will bear that woman—that fiend, in my sight, a few minutes longer, for your sake, Harrington, till her confession be put in writing and signed: this will, I suppose, be necessary."

"I desire to know, directly, what all this means?" said my father, speaking in a certain repressed tone, which we and which Fowler knew to be the symptom of his being on the point of breaking out into violent anger.

"Oh! sir," said Fowler, "I have been a very sad sinner; but indeed I was not so much to blame as them that knew better, and ought to know better— that bribed and deceived me, and lured me by promises to do that—to say that—but indeed I was made to believe it was all to end in no harm—only a jest."

"A jest! Oh, wretch!" cried my mother.

"I was a wretch, indeed, ma'am; but Lord Mowbray was, you'll allow, the wickedest."

"And at the moment he is dead," said my father, "is this a time—"

Fowler, terrified to her inmost coward soul at the sight of the powerful indignation which appeared in my father's eyes, made an attempt to throw herself at his feet, but he caught strong hold of her arm.

"Tell me the plain fact at once, woman."

Now she literally could not speak; she knew my father was violent, and dreaded lest what she had to say should incense him beyond all bounds.

My mother rose, and said that she would tell the plain fact.

Fowler, still more afraid that my mother should tell it—as she thought, I suppose, she could soften it best herself—interposed, saying, "Sir, if you will give me a moment's time for recollection, sir, I will tell all. Dear sir, if one had committed murder, and was going to be put to death, one should have that much mercy shown—hard to be condemned unheard."

My father let go her arm from his strong grasp, and sat down, resolved to be patient. It was just, he said, that she, that every human creature should be heard before they were condemned.

When she came to the facts, I was so much interested that I cannot recollect the exact words in which the account was given; but this was the substance. Lord Mowbray, when refused by Miss Montenero, had sworn that he would he revenged on her and on me. Indeed, from our first acquaintance with her, he had secretly determined to supplant me; and a circumstance soon occurred which served to suggest the means. He had once heard Miss Montenero express strongly her terror at seeing an insane person—her horror at the idea of a marriage which a young friend of hers had made with a man who was subject to fits of insanity. Upon this hint Mowbray set to work.

Before he opened his scheme to Fowler, he found how he could bribe her, as he thought, effectually, and secure her secrecy by making her an accomplice. Fowler had a mind to marry her daughter to a certain apothecary, who, though many years older than the girl, and quite old enough to be her father, was rich, and would raise her to be a lady. This apothecary lived in a country town near the Priory; the house, and ground belonging to it, which the apothecary rented, was on her ladyship's estate, and would be the inheritance of Lord Mowbray. He promised that he would renew this lease to her future son-in-law, provided she and the apothecary continued to preserve his good opinion. His lordship had often questioned Fowler as to the strange nervous fits I had had when a boy. He had repeated all he had heard reported; and certainly exaggerated stories in abundance had, at the time, been circulated. Lord Mowbray affirmed that most people were of opinion it was insanity. Fowler admitted that was always her own opinion—Lord Mowbray supposed that was the secret reason for her quitting my mother's service—it certainly was, though she was too delicate, and afraid at the time, to mention it. By degrees he worked Fowler partly to acquiesce in all he asserted, and to assert all he insinuated. The apothecary had been an apprentice to the London apothecary who attended me; he had seen me often at the time I was at the worst; he had heard the reports too, and he had heard opinions of medical men, and he was brought to assert whatever his future mother-in-law pleased, for he was much in love with the young girl. This combination was formed about the period when I first became attached to Miss Montenero: the last stroke had been given at the time when Mr. Montenero and Berenice were at General B——'s, in Surrey. The general's house was within a few miles of the country town in which the said apothecary lived; it was ten or twelve miles from the Priory, where Fowler was left, at that time, to take care of the place. The apothecary usually attended the chief families in the neighbourhood, and was recommended to General B——'s family. Miss Montenero had a slight sore throat, and no physician being near, this apothecary was sent for; he made use of this opportunity, spoke of the friends he had formerly had in London, in particular of Mr. Harrington's family, for whom he expressed much gratitude and attachment; inquired anxiously and mysteriously about young Mr. Harrington's state of health. One day Miss Montenero and her father called at this apothecary's, to see some curious things that had been found in a Roman bath, just dug up in the county of Surrey. Fowler, who had been apprised of the intended visit, was found in the little parlour behind the shop talking to the apothecary about poor young Mr. Harrington. While Mr. and Miss Montenero were looking at the Roman curiosities, Fowler contrived, in half sentences, to let out what she wished to be overheard about that poor young gentleman's strange fits; and she questioned the apothecary whether they had come on ever very lately, and hoped that for the family's sake, as well as his own, it would never break out publicly. All which observations and questions the apothecary seemed discreetly and mysteriously to evade answering. Fowler confessed that she could not get out on this occasion the whole of what she had been instructed to say, because Miss Montenero grew so pale, they thought she would have dropped on the floor.

The apothecary pretended to think the young lady had been made sick by the smell of the shop. It passed off—nothing more was done at that time. Mr. Montenero, before he left the house, made inquiries who Fowler was— learned that she had been, for many years, a servant in the Harrington family,—children's maid. Her evidence, and that of the apothecary who had attended me in my extraordinary illness, agreed; and there seemed no reason to suspect its truth. Mr. and Miss Montenero went with a party from General B——'s to see Brantefield Priory. Fowler attended the company through the house: Mr. Montenero took occasion to question her most minutely—asked, in particular, about a tapestry room—a picture of Sir Josseline and the Jew—received such answers as Lord Mowbray had prepared Fowler to give: so artfully had he managed, that his interference could not be suspected. Fowler pretended to know scarcely any thing of her young lord—she had always lived here at the Priory—his lordship had been abroad—was in the army—always on the move—did not know where he was now—probably in town: her present ladies had her good word—but her heart, she confessed, was always with her first mistress, Mrs. Harrington, and poor Master Harrington—never to be mentioned without a sigh—that was noted in her instructions. All that I or Mowbray had mentioned before Mr. Montenero of my aversion to Fowler, now appeared to be but the dislike which an insane person is apt to take against those about them, even to those who treat them most kindly. Fowler was a good actress, and she was well prompted—she produced, in her own justification, instructions, in unsigned letters of Lord Mowbray's. I knew his hand, however disguised. She was directed to take particular care not to go too far—to let things be drawn from her—to refuse to give further information lest she should do mischief. When assured that the Monteneros were friends, then to tell circumstances agreed upon—to end with a promise to produce a keeper who had attended the poor gentleman not long since, who could satisfy all doubts. Lord Mowbray noted that this must be promised to be done within the ensuing month—something about a ship's sailing for America was scratched out in these last instructions.

I have calmly related the facts, but I cannot give an idea of the transports of passion into which my father burst when he heard them. It was with the utmost difficulty that we could restrain him till the woman had finished her confession. Lord Mowbray was dead. His death—his penitence— pity for his family, quenched my father's rage against Mowbray; all his fury rose with tenfold violence against Fowler. It was with the greatest difficulty that I got her out of the room in safety:—he followed, raging; and my mother, seeing me put Fowler into a parlour, and turn the key in the door, began beseeching that I would not keep her another instant in the house. I insisted, however, upon being permitted to detain her till her confession should be put into writing, or till Mr. Montenero could hear it from her own lips: I represented that if once she quitted the house, we might never see her again; she might make her escape out of town; might, for some new interest, deny all she had said, and leave me in as great difficulties as ever.

My father, sudden in all his emotions, snatched his hat from the hall- table, seized his cane, and declared he would that instant go and settle the point at once with Mr. Montenero and the daughter. My mother and I, one on each side of him, pleaded that it would be best not to speak so suddenly as he proposed to do, especially to Berenice. Heaven bless my mother! she called her Berenice: this did not escape my ear. My father let us take off his hat, and carry away his cane. He sat down and wrote directly to Mr. Montenero, requesting to see him immediately, on particular business.

My mother's carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for visiting.

"I will bring Mr. Montenero back with me," said my mother, "for I am going to pay a visit I should have paid long ago—to Miss Montenero."

I kissed my mother's hand I don't know how many times, till my father told me I was a fool.

"But," turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, "though I am delighted that the obstacle will be removed on their part, yet remember, Harrington, I can go no farther—not an inch—not an inch: sorry for it— but you know all I have said—by Jupiter Ammon, I cannot eat my own words!"

"But you ought to eat your own words, sir," said I, venturing to jest, as I knew that I might in his present humour, and while his heart was warmed; "your words were a libel upon Jews and Jewesses; and the most appropriate and approved punishment invented for the libeller is—to eat his own words."



CHAPTER XIX.

My mother returned almost as quickly as my impatience expected, and from afar I saw that Mr. Montenero was in the carriage with her. My heart did certainly beat violently; but I must not stop to describe, if I could, my various sensations. My mother, telling Mr. Montenero all the time that she would tell him nothing, had told him every thing that was to be told: I was glad of it—it spared me the task of detailing Lord Mowbray's villany. He had once been my friend, or at least I had once been his—and just after his death it was a painful subject. Besides, on my own account, I was heartily glad to leave it to my father to complete what my mother had so well begun.

He spoke with great vehemence. I stood by, proud all the time to show Mr. Montenero my calmness and self-possession; while Fowler, who was under salutary terror of my father, repeated, without much prevarication, all the material parts of her confession, and gave up to him Lord Mowbray's letters. Astonishment and horror at the discovery of such villany were Mr. Montenero's first feelings—he looked at Lord Mowbray's writing again and again, and shuddered in silence, as he cast his eyes upon Fowler's guilty countenance. We all were glad when she was dismissed.

Mr. Montenero turned to me, and I saw tears in his eyes.

"There is no obstacle between us now, I hope," said I, eagerly seizing the hand which he held out to me.

Mr. Montenero pressed me in his arms, with the affection of a parent.

"Heyday! heyday!" said my father, in a tone between pleasure and anger,— "do you at all know what you are about, Harrington?—remember!"

"Oh! Mr. Montenero," said my mother, "speak, for Heaven's sake, and tell me that you are perfectly convinced that there was no shadow of truth."

"Nonsense! my dear, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington," said my father,— "to be sure he is convinced, he is not an idiot—all my astonishment is, how he could ever be made to believe such a thing!"

Mr. Montenero answered my mother and my father alternately, assuring my mother that he was quite convinced, and agreeing with my father that he had been strangely imposed upon. He turned again to me, and I believe at the same instant the same recollections occurred to us both—new light seemed to break upon us, and we saw in a different point of view a variety of past circumstances. Almost from the moment of my acquaintance with Berenice, I could trace Lord Mowbray's artifices. Even from the time of our first going out together at Westminster Abbey, when Mr. Montenero said he loved enthusiasm, how Mowbray encouraged, excited me to follow that line. At the Tower, my kneeling in raptures to the figure of the Black Prince—my exaggerated expressions of enthusiasm—my poetic and dramatic declamation and gesture—my start of horror at Mowbray's allusion to the tapestry- chamber and the picture of Sir Josseline—my horror afterwards at the auction, where Mowbray had prepared for me the sight of the picture of the Dentition of the Jew—and the appearance of the figure with the terrible eyes at the synagogue; all, I now found, had been contrived or promoted by Lord Mowbray: Fowler had dressed up the figure for the purpose. They had taken the utmost pains to work on my imagination on this particular point, on which he knew my early associations might betray me to symptoms of apparent insanity. Upon comparing and explaining these circumstances, Mr. Montenero further laid open to me the treacherous ingenuity of the man who had so duped me by the show of sympathy and friendship. By dexterous insinuations he had first excited curiosity—then suggested suspicions, worked every accidental circumstance to his purpose, and at last, rendered desperate by despair, and determined that I should not win the prize which he had been compelled to resign, had employed so boldly his means and accomplices, that he was dreadfully near effecting my ruin.

While Mr. Montenero and I ran over all these circumstances, understanding each other perfectly, but scarcely intelligible to either my father or mother, they looked at us both with impatience and surprise, and rejoiced when we had finished our explanations—and yet, when we had finished, an embarrassing minute of silence ensued.

My mother broke it, by saying something about Miss Montenero. I do not know what—nor did she. My father stood with a sort of bravadoing look of firmness, fixing himself opposite to me, as though he were repeating to himself, "If, sir!—If—By Jupiter Ammon! I must be consistent."

Mr. Montenero appeared determined not to say any more, but something seemed to be still in reserve in his mind.

"I hope, Mr. Montenero," said I, "that now no obstacle exists."

"On my part none," replied Mr. Montenero; "but you recollect—"

"I recollect only your own words, my dear sir," cried I. "'either my daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more'—I claim your promise."

"At all hazards?" said Mr. Montenero.

"No hazards with such a woman as Berenice," said I, "though her religion—"

"I would give," exclaimed my father, "I would give one of my fingers this instant, that she was not a Jewess!"

"Is your objection, sir, to her not being a Christian, or to her being the daughter of a Jew?"

"Can you conceive, Mr. Montenero," cried my father, "that after all I have seen of you—all you have done for me—can you conceive me to be such an obstinately prejudiced brute? My r prejudices against the Jews I give up— you have conquered them—all, all. But a difference of religion between man and wife—"

"Is a very serious objection indeed," said Mr. Montenero; "but if that be the only objection left in your mind, I have the pleasure to tell you, Mr. Harrington," addressing himself to me, "that your love and duty are not at variance: I have tried you to the utmost, and am satisfied both of the steadiness of your principles and of the strength of your attachment to my daughter—Berenice is not a Jewess."

"Not a Jewess!" cried my father, starting from his spat: "Not a Jewess! Then my Jupiter Ammon may go to the devil! Not a Jewess!—give you joy, Harrington, my boy!—give me joy, my dear Mrs. Harrington—give me joy, excellent—(Jew, he was on the point of saying) excellent Mr. Montenero; but, is not she your daughter?"

"She is, I hope and believe, my daughter," said Mr. Montenero smiling; "but her mother was a Christian; and according to my promise to Mrs. Montenero, Berenice has been bred in her faith—a Christian—a Protestant."

"A Christian! a Protestant!" repeated my father.

"An English Protestant: her mother was daughter of—"

"An English Protestant!" interrupted my father, "English! English! Do you hear that, Mrs. Harrington?"

"Thank Heaven! I do hear it, my dear," said my mother. "But, Mr. Montenero, we interrupt—daughter of—?"

"Daughter of an English gentleman, of good family, who accompanied one of your ambassadors to Spain."

"Of good family, Mr. Harrington," said my mother, raising her head proudly as she looked at me with a radiant countenance: "I knew she was of a good family from the first moment I saw her at the play—so different from the people she was with—even Lady de Brantefield asked who she was. From the first moment I thought—"

"You thought, Mrs. Harrington," interposed my father, "you thought, to be sure, that Miss Montenero looked like a Christian. Yes, yes; and no doubt you had presentiments plenty."

"Granted, granted, my dear; but don't let us say any more about them now."

"Well, my boy! well, Harrington! not a word?"

"No—I am too happy!—the delight I feel—But, my dear Mr. Montenero," said I, "why—why did not you tell all this sooner? What pain you would have spared me!"

"Had I spared you the pain, you would never have enjoyed the delight; had I spared you the trial, you would never have had the triumph—the triumph, did I say? Better than all triumph, this sober certainty of your own integrity. If, like Lord Mowbray—but peace be to the dead! and forgiveness to his faults. My daughter was determined never to marry any man who could be induced to sacrifice religion and principle to interest or to passion. She was equally determined never to marry any man whose want of the spirit of toleration, whose prejudices against the Jews, might interfere with the filial affection she feels for her father—though he be a Jew."

"Though"—Gratitude, joy, love, so overwhelmed me at this moment, that I could not say another syllable; but it was enough for Mr. Montenero, deeply read as he was in the human heart.

"Why did not I spare you the pain?" repeated he. "And do you think that the trial cost me, cost us no pain?" said Mr. Montenero. "The time may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice—"

"The time is come!—this moment!" cried my father; "for you see the poor fellow is burning with impatience—he would not be my son if he were not."

"That is true, indeed!" said my mother.

"True—very likely," said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. "But, impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for Berenice: after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful news, and—"

"Oh! no rushing, for mercy's sake, Harrington!" said my mother: "some consideration for Miss Montenero's nerves!"

"Nerves! nonsense, my dear," said my father: "what woman's nerves were ever the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move—and I am sure of one honourable gentleman to second my motion—I move that we all adjourn, forthwith, to Mr. Montenero's."

"This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us," said my mother.

"This instant," said Mr. Montenero, "if you will do me the honour, Mrs. Harrington."

"The carriage," said my mother, ringing.

"The carriage, directly," cried my father to the servant as he entered.

"Here's a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go," said my father.

And away I flew, with such swiftness, that at the foot of the stairs I almost fell over Jacob. He, not knowing any thing of what had happened this morning, full of the events of the preceding night, and expecting to find me the same, began to say something about a ring which he held in his hand.

"That's all settled—all over—let me pass, good Jacob."

Still he endeavoured to stop me. I was not pleased with this interruption. But there was something so beseeching and so kind in Jacob's manner that I could not help attending to him. Had the poor fellow known the cause of my impatience, he would mot certainly have detained me. He begged me, with some hesitation, to accept of a ring, which Mr. Manessa his partner and he took the liberty of offering me as a token of their gratitude. It was not of any great value, but it was finished by an artist who was supposed to be one of the best in the world.

"Willingly, Jacob," said I; "and it comes at the happiest moment—if you will allow me to present it, to offer it to a lady, who—"

"Who will, I hope," said my father, appearing at the top of the stairs, "soon be his bride."

"His bride!"

Jacob saw Mr. Montenero's face behind me, and clasping his, hands, "The very thing I wished!" cried he, opening the house-door.

"Follow us, Jacob," I heard Mr. Montenero say, as we stepped into the carriage; "follow us to the house of joy, you who never deserted the house of mourning."

The ring, the history of it, and the offering it to Berenice, prepared my way in the happiest manner, and prevented the danger, which Mr. Montenero feared, of my own or my father's precipitation. We told her in general the circumstances that had happened, but spared her the detail.

"And now, my beloved daughter," said Mr. Montenero, "I may express to you all the esteem, all the affection, all the fulness of approbation I feel for your choice."

"And I, Miss Montenero!—Let me speak, pray, Mrs. Harrington," said my father.

"By and by," whispered my mother; "not yet, my love."

"Ay, put the ring on her finger—that's right, boy!" cried my father, as my mother drew him back.

Berenice accepted of the ring in the most gracious, the most graceful manner.

"I accept this with pleasure," said she; "I shall prize it more than ever Lady de Brantefield valued her ring: as a token of goodness and gratitude, it will be more precious to me than any, jewel could be; and it will ever be dear to me," added she, with a softened voice, turning to her father, "very dear, as a memorial of the circumstances which have removed the only obstacle to, our happiness."

"Our," repeated my father: "noble girl! Above all affectation. Boy, a truce with your transports! She is my own daughter—I must have a kiss."

"For shame, my dear," said my mother; "you make Miss Montenero blush!"

"Blushes are very becoming—I always thought yours so, Mrs. Harrington— that's the reason I have given you occasion to blush for me so often. Now you may take me out of the room, madam. I have some discretion, though you think you have it all to yourself," said my father.

I have some discretion, too, hereditary or acquired. I am aware that the moment two lovers cease to be miserable, they begin to be tiresome; their best friends and the generous public are satisfied to hear as little as possible concerning their prosperous loves.

It was otherwise, they say, in the days of Theagenes and Chariclea.

"How! will you never be satisfied with hearing?" says their historian, who, when he came to a prosperous epoch in their history, seems to have had a discreet suspicion that he might be too long; "Is not my discourse yet tedious?"

"No," the indefatigable auditor is made to reply; "and who is he, unless he have a heart of adamant or iron, that would not listen content to hear the loves of Theagenes and Chariclea, though the story should last a year? Therefore, continue it, I beseech you."

"Continue, I beseech you:" dear flattering words! Though perhaps no one, at this minute, says or feels this, I must add a few lines more—not about myself, but about Mr. Montenero.

In the moment of joy, when the heart opens, you can see to the very bottom of it; and whether selfish or generous, revengeful or forgiving, the real disposition is revealed. We were all full of joy and congratulations, when Mr. Montenero, at the first pause of silence, addressed himself in his most persuasive tone to me.