“Fearful odds, I own. The first flourish of trumpets, by that trumpeter of yours, Jacob, has been in favour of the champion of the Jew pedlars; and the lady with bright Jewish eyes has bowed to her knight, and he has walked the field triumphantly alone; but Mowbray—Lord Mowbray appears! Farewell, Harrington!”
He bowed, laughing, and left me. ‘Twas well he did; I could not have borne it another second, and I could not insult the man in my own house—anger, disdainful anger, possessed me. My heart had, in the course of a few hours, been successively a prey to many violent conflicting passions; and at the moment when I most wanted the support, the sympathy of a friend, I found myself duped, deserted, ridiculed! I felt alone in the world, and completely miserable.
A truce for this day was agreed upon. I had a few hours’ time for reflection—much wanted. During this interval, which appeared to me a most painful suspense, I had leisure to reconsider my difficulties. Now that I was left to my own will entirely, should I decide to make an immediate declaration? As I revolved this question in my thoughts, my mind altered with every changing view which the hopes and fears of a lover threw upon the subject. I was not perfectly well informed as to the material point, whether the Jewish religion and Jewish customs permitted intermarriages with Christians. Mowbray’s levity had suggested alarming doubts: perhaps he had purposely thrown them out; be that as it would, I must be satisfied. I made general inquiries as to the Jewish customs from Jacob, and he, careful to answer with propriety, kept also to general terms, lest he should appear to understand my particular views: he could tell me only, that in some cases, more frequently on the continent and in America than in England, Jews have married Christian women, and the wives have continued undisturbed in their faith; whether such marriages were regularly permitted or not, Jacob could not say—no precedent that he could recollect was exactly a case in point. This difficulty concerning religion increased, instead of diminishing, in magnitude and importance, the more my imagination dwelt upon it—the longer it was considered by my reason: I must take more time before I could determine. Besides, I was curious—I would not allow that I was anxious—to see how Miss Montenero would conduct herself towards Lord Mowbray—a man of rank—a man of fashion—supposed to be a man of fortune—known to be a man of wit and gallantry: I should have an opportunity, such as I had never before had, of seeing her tried; and I should be able to determine whether I had really obtained any interest in her heart. On this last point particularly, I could now, without hazard of a mortifying refusal, or of a precipitate engagement, decide. Add to these distinct reasons, many mixed motives, which acted upon me without my defining or allowing them in words. I had spoken and thought with contempt of Lord Mowbray’s chance of success; but in spite of my pride in my own superiority of principle and character, in spite of my confidence in Berenice and in myself, I had my secret, very secret, quailings of the heart. I thought, when it came to the point, that it would be best to wait a little longer, before I hazarded that declaration which must bring her to direct acceptance or rejection; in short, I determined not to throw myself at her feet precipitately. I took Mowbray’s advice after all; but I took it when I had made it my own opinion: and still I rejoiced that my resistance to the arrogant manner in which Lord Mowbray had laid down the law of gallantry, had produced that struggle of the passions, in the height of which his mask had fallen off. I never could decide whether the thought of becoming my rival really struck him, as he said it did, from the pique of the moment; or whether he only seized the occasion to declare a design he had previously formed: no matter—we were now declared rivals.
CHAPTER XIII.
After our declaration of hostilities, Lord Mowbray and I first met on neutral ground at the Opera—Miss Montenero was there. We were both eager to mark our pretensions to her publicly. I appeared this night to great disadvantage: I certainly did not conduct myself prudently—I lost the command of my temper. Lord Mowbray met me with the same self-possession, the same gay, careless manner which had provoked me so much during our last interview. To the by-standers, who knew nothing of what had passed between us, his lordship must have appeared the pink of courtesy, the perfection of gentlemanlike ease and good-humour; whilst I, unable to suppress symptoms of indignation, of contempt, and perhaps of jealousy, appeared, in striking contrast, captious, haughty, and at best incomprehensible. Mr. Montenero looked at me with much surprise, and some concern. In Miss Montenero’s countenance I thought I saw more concern than surprise; she was alarmed—she grew pale, and I repented of some haughty answer I had made to Lord Mowbray, in maintaining a place next to her, which he politely ceded to my impetuosity: he seated himself on the other side of her, in a place which, if I had not been blinded by passion, I might have seen and taken as quietly as he did. I was more and more vexed by perceiving that Mr. Montenero appeared to be, with all his penetration, duped this night by Mowbray’s show of kindness towards me; he whispered once or twice to Mr. Montenero, and they seemed as if they were acting in concert, both observing that I was out of temper, and Lord Mowbray showing Mr. Montenero how he bore with me. In fact, I desired nothing so much as an opportunity of quarrelling with him, and he, though determined to put me ostensibly and flagrantly in the wrong, desired nothing better than to commence his operation by the eclat of a duel. If Miss Montenero had understood her business as a heroine, a duel, as every body expected, must have taken place between us, in consequence of the happy dispositions in which we both were this night: nothing but the presence of mind and unexpected determination of Miss Montenero could have prevented it. I sat regretting that I had given a moment’s pain or alarm to her timid sensibility, while I observed the paleness of her cheek, and a tremor in her under lip, which betrayed how much she had been agitated. Some talking lady of the party began to give an account, soon afterwards, of a duel in high life, which was then the conversation of the day: Lord Mowbray and I were both attentive, and so was Miss Montenero. When she observed that our attention was fixed, and when there was a pause in the conversation in which her low voice could be distinctly heard, she, conquering her extreme timidity, and with a calmness that astonished us all, said, that she did not pretend to be a judge of what gentlemen might think right or wrong about duels, but that for her own part she had formed a resolution—an unalterable resolution, never to marry a man who had fought a duel in which he had been the challenger. Her father, who was behind her, leaned forward, and asked what his daughter said—she deliberately repeated her words.
That instant I recovered perfect command of temper—I resolved that at all events I never would be the person to give the challenge, and Lord Mowbray, at the same instant, I believe, resolved that I should, if he could so manage it without appearing to be the aggressor. We were both of us firmly convinced that Miss Montenero was in earnest; the manner in which she spoke, and the strong evidence of her power over herself at this moment, impressed us completely with this conviction. A young lady, a stranger in London, averse from appearing, infinitely more averse from speaking before numbers, who, when all eyes, and some of them no friendly eyes, were fixed upon her, could so far conquer her excessive susceptibility to the opinion of others, as to pronounce, in such circumstances, such a new and extraordinary determination, was certainly to be deemed capable of abiding by her resolution. She was much blamed, I heard afterwards, for the resolution, and more for the declaration. It was said to be “quite unfit for a lady, and particularly for so young a lady. Till swords were actually drawn, she should never have thought of such a thing: then, to presume that she or her fortune were of such consequence, that her declaration could influence gentlemen—could have any effect on Lord Mowbray! He did her a vast deal too much honour in paying her any of those attentions which every body knew meant nothing—a Jewess, too!”
Miss Montenero never afterwards spoke on the subject; the effect she desired was produced, and no other power, I am persuaded, could have been sufficient to have made me preserve command of myself, during my daily, hourly trials of temper, in those contentions for her favour which ensued. Lord Mowbray, by every secret art that could pique my pride, my jealousy, or my love, endeavoured to provoke me to challenge him. At first this struggle in my mind was violent—I had reason to fear my rival’s address, and practised powers of pleasing. He used his utmost skill, and that skill was great. He began by exerting all his wit, humour, and vivacity, to entertain in conversation; while I, with a spell over my faculties, could not produce to advantage any one thing I knew or had ever known. What became of my ideas I know not, but I was sensible of my being very stupid and disagreeable. Aware of the contrast, aware that Miss Montenero saw and felt it, I grew ten times worse, more silent, and more stupid. Mowbray, happy and confident, went on, secure of victory. He was an excellent actor, and he was now to act falling in love, which he did by such fine degrees, and with a nicety of art which so exquisitely imitated nature, that none but the most suspicious or the most practised could have detected the counterfeit. From being the most entertaining, lively man in London, Lord Mowbray became serious, grave, and sentimental. From being a gallant, gay Lothario, he was reformed, likely to make the best husband in the world, provided he marry the woman he loves, and who has influence over him sufficient to make his reformation last for life. This Lord Mowbray, in every possible form of insinuation, gave Miss Montenero to understand was precisely her case and his; she had first, he said, given him a taste for refined female society, disgusted him with his former associates, especially with the women of whom he could not now bear to think; he had quarrelled with—parted with all his mistresses—his Jessica, the best beloved—parted from irrevocably. This was dropped with propriety in conversation with Mr. Montenero. The influence of a virtuous attachment is well known. The effects on Lord Mowbray were, as he protested, wonderful; he scarcely knew himself—indeed I scarcely knew him, though I had been, as it were, behind the scenes, and had seen him preparing for his character. Though he knew that I knew that he was acting, yet this never disconcerted him in the slightest degree—never gave him one twinge of conscience, or hesitation from shame, in my presence. Whenever I attempted openly—I was too honourable, and he knew I was too honourable, to betray his confidence, or to undermine him secretly—whenever I attempted openly to expose him, he foiled me—his cunning was triumphant, and the utmost I could accomplish was, in the acme of my indignation, to keep my temper, and recollect Miss Montenero’s resolution.
Though she seemed not at first in the least to suspect Lord Mowbray’s sincerity, she was, as I rejoiced to perceive, little interested by his professions: she was glad he was reformed, for his sake; but for her own part, her vanity was not flattered. There seemed to be little chance on this plea of persuading her to take charge of him for life. My heart beat again with hope—how I admired her!—and I almost forgave Lord Mowbray. My indignation against him, I must own, was not always as steadily proportioned to his deserts as for the sake of my pride and consistency I could wish to represent it. In recording this part of the history of my life, truth obliges me to acknowledge that my anger rose or fell in proportion to the degree of fear I felt of the possibility of his success; whenever my hope and my confidence in myself increased, I found it wonderfully easy to command my temper.