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

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

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

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

During this fortnight my anxiety was increased by hearing from Mrs.

Coates, whom I accidentally met at a fruit-shop, that "Miss Montenero was taken suddenly ill of a scarlet fever down in the country at General B----'s, where," as Mrs. Coates added, "they could get no advice for her at all, but a country apothecary, which was worse than n.o.body."

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

"Now, Mr. Harrington--no offence--but I couldn't have conceived it was so re'lly over head and ears an affair with you, as by your turning as pale as the table-cloth I see it re'lly is. For there was my son Peter, he admired her, and the alderman was not against it; but then the Jewess connexion was always a stumbling-block Peter could not swallow;--and as for my Lord Mowbray, that the town talked of so much as in love with the Jewess heiress--heiress, says I, very like, but not Jewess, I'll engage; and, said I, from the first, he is no more in love with her than I am. So many of them young men of the ton is always following of them heiresses up and down for fashion or _fortin's_ sake, without caring sixpence about them, that--I ask your pardon, Mr. Harrington--but I thought you might, in the alderman's phrase, be _of the same kidney_; but since I see 'tis a real downright affair of the heart, I shall make it my business to call myself at your house to-morrow in my carriage.

No--that would look odd, and you a bachelor, and your people out o'town.

But I'll send my own footman with a message, I promise you now, let 'em be ever so busy, if I hear any good news. No need to send if it be bad, for ill news flies apace evermore, all the world over, as Peter says.

Tom! I say! is the fruit all in, Tom?--Oh! Mr. Harrington, don't trouble yourself--you're too polite, but I always get into my coach best myself, without hand or arm, except it be Tom's. A good morning, sir--I sha'n't forget to-morrow: so live upon hope--lover's fare!--Home, Tom."

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

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

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

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

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

"Thank Heaven! But you, sir?"

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

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

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

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

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

"I hope, my dear good sir, that you do not repent of your kindness,"

said I, "in having permitted me to cultivate your society, in having indulged me in some hours of the most exquisite pleasure I ever yet enjoyed."

He sighed; and I went on with vehement incoherence.

"I hope you cannot suspect me of a design to abuse your confidence, to win, if it were in my power, your daughter's affections, without your knowledge, surrept.i.tiously, clandestinely. She is an heiress, a rich heiress, I know, and my circ.u.mstances--Believe me, sir, I have never intended to deceive you; but I waited till--There I was wrong. I wish I had abided by my own opinion! I wish I had followed my first impulse!

Believe me, sir, it was my first thought, my first wish, to speak to you of all the circ.u.mstances; if I delayed, it was from the fear that a precipitate declaration would have been imputed to presumption.

As Heaven is my judge, I had no other motive. I abhor artifice. I am incapable of the base treachery of taking advantage of any confidence reposed in me."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Still, though he had cleared away the two first great obstacles, I saw there was some greater yet unnamed. I thought it was the difference of our religion. We were both silent, and the difficulty seemed to me at this moment greater, and more formidable, than it had ever yet appeared.

While I was considering how I should touch upon the subject, Mr.

Montenero turned to me and said, "I hate all mysteries, and yet I cannot be perfectly explicit with you, Mr. Harrington; as far as I possibly can, however, I will speak with openness--with sincerity, you may depend upon it, I have always spoken, and ever shall speak. You must have perceived that your company is particularly agreeable to me. Your manners, your conversation, your liberal spirit, and the predilection you have shown for my society--the politeness, the humanity, you showed my daughter the first evening you met--and the partiality for her, which a father's eye quickly perceived that you felt, altogether won upon my heart. My regard for you has been strengthened and confirmed by the temper, prudence, and generosity, I have seen you evince towards a rival. I have studied your character, and I think I know it as thoroughly as I esteem and value it. If I were to choose a son-in-law after my own heart, you should be the man. Spare me your thanks--spare me this joy," continued he; "I have now only said what it was just to say--just to you and to myself."

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

"I am aware of it," said I.

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

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

"You would be unworthy of my esteem if you could," said Mr. Montenero.

"I rejoice to hear this declaration unequivocally made; this is what I expected from you."

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

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

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

"Gently--command yourself, and listen to reason and truth," said Mr.

Montenero, laying his hand on my arm. "Am I a man, do you think, to listen to base slander? Or, if I had listened to any such, could I speak to you with the esteem and confidence with which I have just spoken?

Could I look at you with the tenderness and affection which I feel for you at this instant?"

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

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

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

"Heaven forbid," said Mr. Montenero, "that I should raise suspicion in a mind which, till now, I have always seen and thought to be above that meanness. The torture of suspense I must inflict, but inflict not on yourself the still worse torture of suspicion--ask me no farther questions--I can answer none--time alone can solve the difficulty.

I have now to request that you will never more speak to me on this subject: as soon as my own mind is satisfied, depend upon it I shall let you know it. In the mean time I rely upon your prudence and your honour, that you will not declare your attachment to my daughter, that you will take no means, direct or indirect, to draw her into any engagement, or to win her affections: in short, I wish to see you here as a friend of mine--not a suitor of hers. If you are capable of this necessary self-control, continue your visits; but if this effort be beyond your power, I charge you, as you regard her happiness and your own, see her no more. Consider well, before you decide."

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