Tales and Novels Volume IX Part 21

While Mr. Montenero and I ran over all these circ.u.mstances, understanding each other perfectly, but scarcely intelligible to either my father or mother, they looked at us both with impatience and surprise, and rejoiced when we had finished our explanations--and yet, when we had finished, an embarra.s.sing minute of silence ensued.

My mother broke it, by saying something about Miss Montenero. I do not know what--nor did she. My father stood with a sort of bravadoing look of firmness, fixing himself opposite to me, as though he were repeating to himself, "If, sir!--If--By Jupiter Ammon! I must be consistent."

Mr. Montenero appeared determined not to say any more, but something seemed to be still in reserve in his mind.

"I hope, Mr. Montenero," said I, "that now no obstacle exists."

"On my part none," replied Mr. Montenero; "but you recollect--"

"I recollect only your own words, my dear sir," cried I. "'either my daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more'--I claim your promise."

"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 r 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 spat: "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--"

"An English Protestant!" interrupted my father, "Englis.h.!.+ Englis.h.!.+ Do you hear that, Mrs. Harrington?"

"Thank Heaven! I do hear it, my dear," said my mother. "But, Mr.

Montenero, we interrupt--daughter of--?"

"Daughter of an English gentleman, of good family, who accompanied one of your amba.s.sadors to Spain."

"Of good family, Mr. Harrington," said my mother, raising her head proudly as she looked at me with a radiant countenance: "I knew she was of a good family from the first moment I saw her at the play--so different from the people she was with--even Lady de Brantefield asked who she was. From the first moment I thought--"

"You thought, Mrs. Harrington," interposed my father, "you thought, to be sure, that Miss Montenero _looked like a Christian_. Yes, yes; and no doubt you had _presentiments_ plenty."

"Granted, granted, my dear; but don't let us say any more about them now."

"Well, my boy! well, Harrington! not a word?"

"No--I am too happy!--the delight I feel--But, my dear Mr. Montenero,"

said I, "why--_why_ did not you tell all this sooner? What pain you would have spared me!"

"Had I spared you the pain, you would never have enjoyed the delight; had I spared you the trial, you would never have had the triumph--the triumph, did I say? Better than all triumph, this sober certainty of your own integrity. If, like Lord Mowbray--but peace be to the dead! and forgiveness to his faults. My daughter was determined never to marry any man who could be induced to sacrifice religion and principle to interest or to pa.s.sion. She was equally determined never to marry any man whose want of the spirit of toleration, whose prejudices against the Jews, might interfere with the filial affection she feels for her father--though he be a Jew."

"_Though_"--Grat.i.tude, joy, love, so overwhelmed me at this moment, that I could not say another syllable; but it was enough for Mr. Montenero, deeply read as he was in the human heart.

"Why did not I spare you the pain?" repeated he. "And do you think that the trial cost _me_, cost _us_ no pain?" said Mr. Montenero. "The time may come when, as my son, you may perhaps learn from Berenice--"

"The time is come!--this moment!" cried my father; "for you see the poor fellow is burning with impatience--he would not be my son if he were not."

"That is true, indeed!" said my mother.

"True--very likely," said Mr. Montenero, calmly holding me fast. "But, impetuous sir, recollect that once before you were too sudden for Berenice: after you had saved my life, you rushed in with the joyful news, and--"

"Oh! no rus.h.i.+ng, for mercy's sake, Harrington!" said my mother: "some consideration for Miss Montenero's nerves!"

"Nerves! nonsense, my dear," said my father: "what woman's nerves were ever the worse for seeing her lover at her feet? I move--and I am sure of one honourable gentleman to second my motion--I move that we all adjourn, forthwith, to Mr. Montenero's."

"This evening, perhaps, Miss Montenero would allow us," said my mother.

"This instant," said Mr. Montenero, "if you will do me the honour, Mrs.

Harrington."

"The carriage," said my mother, ringing.

"The carriage, directly," cried my father to the servant as he entered.

"Here's a fellow will certainly fly the moment you let him go," said my father.

And away I flew, with such swiftness, that at the foot of the stairs I almost fell over Jacob. He, not knowing any thing of what had happened this morning, full of the events of the preceding night, and expecting to find me the same, began to say something about a ring which he held in his hand.

"That's all settled--all over--let me pa.s.s, good Jacob."

Still he endeavoured to stop me. I was not pleased with this interruption. But there was something so beseeching and so kind in Jacob's manner that I could not help attending to him. Had the poor fellow known the cause of my impatience, he would mot certainly have detained me. He begged me, with some hesitation, to accept of a ring, which Mr. Manessa his partner and he took the liberty of offering me as a token of their grat.i.tude. It was not of any great value, but it was finished by an artist who was supposed to be one of the best in the world.

"Willingly, Jacob," said I; "and it comes at the happiest moment--if you will allow me to present it, to offer it to a lady, who--"

"Who will, I hope," said my father, appearing at the top of the stairs, "soon be his bride."

"His bride!"

Jacob saw Mr. Montenero's face behind me, and clasping his, hands, "The very thing I wished!" cried he, opening the house-door.

"Follow us, Jacob," I heard Mr. Montenero say, as we stepped into the carriage; "follow us to the house of joy, you who never deserted the house of mourning."

The ring, the history of it, and the offering it to Berenice, prepared my way in the happiest manner, and prevented the danger, which Mr.

Montenero feared, of my own or my father's precipitation. We told her in general the circ.u.mstances that had happened, but spared her the detail.

"And now, my beloved daughter," said Mr. Montenero, "I may express to you all the esteem, all the affection, all the fulness of approbation I feel for _your choice_."