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

"Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say--how difficult to command the pa.s.sions--such a pa.s.sion!"

"I acknowledge it is difficult, but I hope it is not impossible. We have now an opportunity of judging of the strength of your mind, the firmness of your resolution, and your power over yourself. Of these we must see proofs--without these you never could be, either with my consent or by her own choice, accepted by my daughter, even if no other obstacle intervened.--Adieu." A bright idea, a sudden ray of hope, darted into my mind. It might be all intended for a trial of me--there was, perhaps, no real obstacle! But this was only the hope of an instant--it was contradicted by Mr. Montenero's previous positive a.s.sertion. I hurried home as fast as possible, shut myself up in my own room, and bolted the door, that I might not be interrupted. I sat down to think--I could not think, I could only feel. The first thing I did was, as it were, to live the whole of the last hour over again--I recollected every word, recalled every look, carefully to impress and record them in my memory.

I felt that I was not at that moment capable of judging, but I should have the means, the facts, safe for a calmer hour. I repeated my recollections many times, pausing, and forming vague and often contradictory conjectures; then driving them all from my mind, and resolving to think no more on this mysterious subject; but on no other subject could I think--I sat motionless. How long I remained in this situation I have no means of knowing, but it must have been for some hours, for it was evening, as I remember, when I wakened to the sense of its being necessary that I should exert myself, and rouse my faculties from this dangerous state of abstraction. Since my father and mother had been in the country, I had usually dined at taverns or clubs, so that the servants had no concern with my hours of meals. My own man was much attached to me, and I should have been tormented with his attentions, but that I had sent him out of the way as soon as I had come home. I then went into the park, walking there as fast and as long as I possibly could. I returned late, quite exhausted; hoped I should sleep, and waken with a calmer mind; but I believe I had overwalked myself, or my mind had been overstrained--I was very feverish this night, and all the horrors of early a.s.sociation returned upon me. Whenever I began to doze, I felt the nervous oppression, the dreadful weight upon my chest--I saw beside my bed the old figure of Simon the Jew; but he spoke to me with the voice and in the words of Mr. Montenero. The dreams of this night were more terrible than any reality that can be conceived; and even when I was broad awake, I felt that I had not the command of my mind. My early prepossessions and _antipathies_, my mother's _presentiments_, and prophecies of evil from the connexion with the Monteneros, the prejudices which had so long, so universally prevailed against the Jews, occurred to me. I knew all this was unreasonable, but still the thoughts obtruded themselves. When the light of morning returned, which I thought never would return, I grew better.

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER XV.

Party spirit, in politics, ran very high about this time in London--it was in the year 1780. The ill success of the American war had put the people in ill-humour; they were ready to believe any thing against the ministry, and some who, for party purposes, desired to influence the minds of the people, circulated the most ridiculous reports, and excited the most absurd terrors. The populace were made to believe that the French and the papists were secret favourites of government: a French invasion, the appearance of the French in London, is an old story almost worn out upon the imaginations of the good people of England; but now came a new if not a more plausible bugbear--the Pope! It was confidently affirmed that the Pope would soon be in London, he having been seen in disguise in a gold-flowered nightgown on _St. James's_ parade at Bath.

A poor gentleman, who appeared at his door in his nightgown, had been actually taken by the Bath mob for the Pope; and they had pursued him with shouts, and hunted him, till he was forced to scramble over a wall to escape from his pursuers.

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

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

"Never fear, jewel!--Jew as you have this day the misfortune to be, you're the best Christian any way ever I happened on! so never fear, honey, for yourself nor your daughter, G.o.d bless her! Not a soul shall go near yees, nor a finger be laid on her, good or bad. Sure I know them all--not a mother's son o' the _boys_ but I can call my frind--not a captain or lader that's in it, but I can lade, dear, to the devil and back again, if I'd but whistle: so only you keep quite, and don't be advertising yourself any way for a Jew, nor be showing your cloven _fut_, with or without the wooden shoes. _Keep ourselves to ourselves_, for I'll tell you a bit of a sacret--I'm a little bit of a cat'olic myself, all as one as what _they_ call a _papish_; but I keep it to myself, and n.o.body's the wiser nor the worse--they'd tear me to pieces, may be, did they suspect _the like_, but I keep never minding, and you, jewel, do the like. They call you a Levite, don't they? then I, the Widow Levy, has a good right to advise ye; we were all brothers and sisters once--no offence--in the time of Adam, sure, and we should help one another in all times. 'Tis my turn to help _yees_ now, and, by the blessing, so I will--accordingly I'll be sitting all day and night, mounting guard on your steps there without. And little as you may think of me, the devil a guardian angel better than myself, only just the Widow Levy, such as ye see!"

The Widow Levy took her stand, and kept her word. I stayed at Mr.

Montenero's all day, saw every thing that pa.s.sed, and had frequent opportunities of admiring her address.

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

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

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

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

The mob had seized their carriage--and had found in one of the pockets a string of beads, which had been left there by the Portuguese amba.s.sador's lady, whom Lady De Brantefield had taken home from chapel the preceding day. The mob had seen the carriage stop at the chapel, and the lady and her confessor get into it; and this had led to the suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a catholic, or in their language, a concealed _papist_.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Lady Anne screamed. Mr. Montenero forced the orange-woman back, and Berenice and I hurried Lady de Brantefield and her daughter across the hall into the eating-room. Mr. Montenero followed an instant afterwards, telling Lady de Brantefield that he had despatched one of his own servants for intelligence. Her ladyship bowed her head without speaking.

He then explained why the orange-woman happened to be in his house, and spoke of the zeal and ability with which she had this day served us.

Lady de Brantefield continued at intervals to bow her head while Mr.

Montenero spoke, and to look at her watch, while Lady Anne, simpering, repeated, "Dear, how odd!" Then placing herself opposite to a large mirror, Lady Anne re-adjusted her dress. That settled, she had nothing to do but to recount her horrors over again. Her mother, lost in reverie, sat motionless. Berenice, meantime, while the messenger was away, made the most laudable and kind efforts, by her conversation, to draw the attention of her guests from themselves and their apprehensions; but apparently without effect, and certainly without thanks.

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

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

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

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

Mr. and Miss Montenero returned with much concern in their countenances: they announced that the messenger had brought word that the mob were actually pulling down Lady de Brantefield's house--that the furniture had all been dragged out into the street, and that it was now burning.

Pride once more gave way to undisguised terror in Lady de Brantefield's countenance, and both ladies stood in speechless consternation. Before we had time to hear or to say more, the orange-woman opened the door, and putting in her head, called out in a voice of authority, "Jantlemen, here's one wants yees, admits of no delay; lave all and come out, whether you will or no, the minute."

We went out, and with an indescribable gesture, and wink of satisfaction, the moment she had Mr. Montenero and me in the hall, she said in a whisper, "'Tis only myself, dears, but 'tis I am glad I got yees out away from being bothered by the presence of them women, whiles ye'd be settling all for life or death, which we must now do--for don't be nursing and dandling yourselves in the notion that _the boys_ will not be wid ye. It's a folly to talk--they will; my head to a China orange they will, now: but take it asy, jewels--we've got an hour's law--they've one good hour's work first--six garrets to gut, where they are, and tree back walls, with a piece of the front, still to pull down.

Oh! I larnt all. He is a _'cute_ lad you sent, but not being used to it, just went and ruined and murdered us all by what he let out! What do ye tink? But when one of the boys was questioning him who he belonged to, and what brought him in it, he got frighted, and could think of noting at all but the truth to tell: so they've got the scent, and they'll follow the game. Ogh! had I been my own messenger, in lieu of minding that woman within, I'd have put 'em off the scent. But it's past me now--so what next?" While Mr. Montenero and I began to consult together, she went on--"I'll tell you what you'll do: you'll send for two chairs, or one--less suspicious, and just get the two in asy, the black one back, the white for'ard, beca'ase she's coming nat'ral from the Opera--if stopped, and so the chairmen, knowing no more than Adam who they would be carrying, might go through the thick of the boys at a pinch safe enough, or round any way, sure; they know the town, and the short cuts, and set 'em down (a good riddance!) out of hand, at any house at all they mention, who'd resave them of their own frinds, or kith and kin--for, to be sure, I suppose they _have_ frinds, tho' I'm not one. You'll settle with them by the time it's come, where they'll set down, and I'll step for the chair, will I?"

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

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