“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 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 seat: “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—”