Once, as we were going down stairs together, after I had disdainfully expressed my contempt of hypocrisy, and my firm belief that my plain truth would in the end prevail with Berenice against all his address, he turned upon me in sudden anger, beyond his power to control, and exclaimed, “Never!—She never shall be yours!”
It appeared as if he had some trick yet in store—some card concealed in his hand, with which he was secure, at last, of winning the game. I pondered, and calculated, but I could not make out what it could be.
One advantage, as he thought it, I was aware he had over me—he had no religious scruples; he could therefore manage so as to appear to make a great sacrifice to love, when, in fact, it would cost his conscience nothing. One evening he began to talk of Sir Charles Grandison and Clementina—he blamed Sir Charles Grandison; he declared, that for his part there was nothing he would not sacrifice to a woman he loved.
I looked at Miss Montenero at that instant—our eyes met—she blushed deeply—withdrew her eyes from me—and sighed. During the remainder of the evening, she scarcely spoke to me, or looked toward me. She appeared embarrassed; and, as I thought, displeased. Lord Mowbray was in high spirits—he seemed resolved to advance—I retired earlier than usual. Lord Mowbray stayed, and seized the moment to press his own suit. He made his proposal—he offered to sacrifice religion—every thing to love. He was refused irrevocably. I know nothing of the particulars, nor should I have known the fact but for his own intemperance of resentment. It was not only his vanity—his mortified, exasperated vanity—that suffered by this refusal; it was not only on account of his rivalship with me that he was vexed to the quick; his interest, as much as his vanity, had suffered. I did not know till this night how completely he was ruined. He had depended upon the fortune of the Jewess. What resource for him now?—None. In this condition, like one of the Indian gamblers, when they have lost all, and are ready to run amuck on all who may fall in their way, he this night, late, made his appearance at a club where he expected to find me. Fortunately, I was not there; but a gentleman who was, gave me an account of the scene. Disappointed at not finding me, with whom he had determined to quarrel, he supped in absolute silence—drank hasty and deep draughts of wine—then burst out into abuse of Mr. and Miss Montenero, and challenged any body present to defend them: he knew that several of their acquaintances were in company; but all, seeing that from the combined effects of passion and wine he was not in his senses, suffered him to exhale his fury without interruption or contradiction. Then he suddenly demanded the reason of this silence; and seemingly resolved to force some one into a quarrel, [Footnote: Strange as it may appear, this representation is true.] he began by the gentleman next to him, and said the most offensive and provoking things he could think of to him—and to each in turn; but all laughed, and told him they were determined not to quarrel with him—that he must take four-and-twenty hours to cool before they would take notice of any thing he should say. His creditors did not give him four-and-twenty hours’ time: a servant, before whom he had vented his rage against the Jewess, comprehended that all his hopes of her were over, and gave notice to the creditors, who kept him in their pay for that purpose. Mowbray was obliged the next day to leave town, or to conceal himself in London, to avoid an arrest. I heard no more of him for some time—indeed I made no inquiries. I could have no farther interest concerning a man who had conducted himself so ill. I only rejoiced that he was now out of my way, and that he had by all his treachery, and by all his artifices, given me an opportunity of seeing, more fully tried, the excellent understanding and amiable disposition of Berenice. My passion was now justified by my reason: my hopes were high, not presumptuous—nothing but the difficulty about her religion stood between me and happiness. I was persuaded that the change by which I had been alarmed in Miss Montenero’s manner towards me had arisen only from doubts of my love, or from displeasure at the delay of an explicit declaration of my passion. Determined, at all hazards, now to try my fate, I took my way across the square to Mr. Montenero’s—Across the square?—yes! I certainly took the diagonal of the square.
CHAPTER XIV.
When I arrived at Mr. Montenero’s I saw the window-shutters closed, and there was an ominous stillness in the area—no one answered to my knock. I knocked louder—I rang impatiently; no footsteps were heard in the hall: I pulled the bell incessantly. During the space of three minutes that I was forced to wait on the steps, I formed a variety of horrid imaginations. At last I heard approaching sounds: an old woman very deliberately opened the door. “Lauk, sir, how you do ring! There’s not a body to be had but me—all the servants is different ways, gone to their friends.”
“But Mr. and Miss Montenero—”
“Oh! they was off by times this morning—they be gone—”