Mowbray was curious, he said, to know how the Jewess would look by daylight, and he begged that he might accompany me to see the pictures. As I had told him that I had permission to take with me any of my friends, I could not refuse his request, though I must own that I would rather have gone without him. I was a little afraid of his raillery, and of the quickness of his observation. During our walk, however, he with address—with that most irresistible kind of address, which assumes an air of perfect frankness and cordiality, contrived to dissipate my feelings of embarrassment; and by the time we got to Mr. Montenero’s door, I rejoiced that I had with me a friend and supporter.
“A handsome house—a splendid house, this,” said Mowbray, looking up at the front, as we waited for admission. “If the inside agree with the out, faith, Harrington, your Jewish heiress will soon be heard of on ‘Change, and at court too, you’ll see. Make haste and secure your interest in her, I advise you.”
To our great disappointment the servant told us that neither Mr. nor Miss Montenero was at home. But orders had been left with a young man of his to attend me and my company. At this moment I heard a well-known voice on the stairs, and Jacob, poor Jacob, appeared: joy flashed in his face at the sight of me; he flew down stairs, and across the hall, exclaiming, “It is—it is my own good Mr. Harrington!”
But he started back at the sight of Mowbray, and his whole countenance and manner changed. In an embarrassed voice, he began to explain why Mr. Montenero was not at home; that he had waited yesterday in hopes of seeing me at the appointed time, till my note of apology had arrived. I had not positively named any day for my visit, and Mr. Montenero had particular business that obliged him to go out this morning, but that he would be back in an hour: “Meantime, sir, as Mr. Montenero has desired,” said Jacob, “I shall have the honour of showing the pictures to you and your friend.”
It was not till he came to the words your friend, that Jacob recollected to bow to Lord Mowbray, and even then it was a stiff-necked bow. Mowbray, contrary to his usual assurance, looked a little embarrassed, yet spoke to Jacob as to an old acquaintance.
Jacob led us through several handsome, I might say splendid, apartments, to the picture-room.
“Good! Good!” whispered Mowbray, as we went along, till the moment we entered the picture-room; then making a sudden stop, and start of recollection, and pulling out his watch, he declared that he had till that minute forgotten an indispensable engagement—that he must come some other day to see these charming pictures. He begged that I would settle that for him—he was excessively sorry, but go he must—and off he went immediately.
The instant he was out of sight, Jacob seemed relieved from the disagreeable constraint under which he laboured, and his delight was manifest when he had me to himself. I conceived that Jacob still felt resentment against Mowbray, for the old quarrel at school. I was surprised at this, and in my own mind I blamed Jacob.
I have always found it the best way to speak openly, and to go to the bottom of mysteries and quarrels at once: so turning to Jacob, I asked him, whether, in right of our former acquaintance, I might speak to him with the freedom of one who heartily wished him well? The tears came into his eyes, and he could only say, “Speak, pray—and thank you, sir.”
“Then, Jacob,” said I, “I thought you could not for such a number of years bear malice for a schoolboy’s offence; and yet your manner just now to Lord Mowbray—am I mistaken?—set me right, if I am—did I misinterpret your manner, Jacob?”