My indignation rose.
“Honour and friendship to me, my lord, are out of the question: forgive me, if I own that I do not think your lordship would there have any chance of success.”
“At all events you know you are safe; I cannot make the trial without your permission.” “Your lordship is perfectly at liberty, if you think proper, to make the trial.”
“Indeed!—Are you in earnest?—Now you have put it into my head, I will think of it seriously.”
Then in a careless, pick-tooth manner, he stood, as if for some moments debating the matter with himself.
“I have no great taste for matrimony or for Jewesses, but a Jewish heiress in the present state of my affairs—Harrington, you know the pretty little gipsy—the actress who played Jessica that night, so famous in your imagination, so fatal to us both—well, my little Jessica has, since that time, played away at a rare rate with my ready money—dipped me confoundedly—‘twould be poetic justice to make one Jewess pay for another, if one could. Two hundred thousand pounds, Miss Montenero is, I think they say. ‘Pon my sincerity, ‘tis a temptation! Now it strikes me—if I am not bound in honour—”
I walked away in disgust, while Mowbray, in the same tone, continued, “Let me see, now—suppose—only suppose—any thing may be by supposition—suppose we were rivals. As rivals, things would be wonderfully fair and even between us. You, Harrington, I grant, have the advantage of first impressions—she has smiled upon you; while I, bound in honour, stood by like a mummy—but unbound, set at liberty by express permission—give me a fortnight’s time, and if I don’t make her blush, my name’s not Mowbray!—and no matter whom a woman smiles upon, the man who makes her blush is the man. But seriously, Harrington, am I hurting your feelings? If what is play to me is death to you, I have done. Bind me over again to my good behaviour you may, by a single word. Instead of defying me, only swear, or, stay—I won’t put you to your oath—say candidly, upon your honour, Lord Mowbray puts you in fear of your love.”
“I neither defy you nor fear you, my lord!” said I, with a tone and look which at any other time Lord Mowbray, who was prompt enough to take offence, would have understood as it was meant. But he was now determined not to be provoked by any thing I could say or look. Standing still at ease, he continued, “Not fear me!—Not bind me in honour!—Then I have nobody’s feelings to consult but my own. So, as I was considering, things are marvellously nicely balanced between us. In point of fortune, both beggars—nearly; for though my father did not disinherit me, I have disinherited myself. Then our precious mothers will go mad on the spot, in white satin, if either of us marry a Jewess. Well! that is even between us. Then religious scruples—you have some, have not you?”
“I have, my lord.”
“Dry enough—there I have the advantage—I have none. Mosque—high church—low church—no church—don’t let me shock you. I thought you were for universal toleration; I am for liberty of conscience, in marriage at least. You are very liberal, I know. You’re in love, and you’d marry even a Jewess, would not you, if you could not contrive to convert her? I am not in love, but shall be soon, I feel; and when once I am in love!—I turn idolater, plump. Now, an idolater’s worse than a Jew: so I should make it a point of conscience to turn Jew, to please the fair Jewess, if requisite.”