Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  “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.”

  “My lord, this trifling I can bear no longer; I must beg seriously that we may understand each other.”

  “Trifling! — Never was more serious in my life. I’d turn Jew — I’d turn any thing, for a woman I loved.”

  “Have you, or have you not, my lord, any intention of addressing Miss Montenero?”

  “Since I have your permission — since you have put it in my head — since you have piqued me — frankly — yes.”

  “I thank you for your frankness, my lord; I understand you. Now we understand each other,” said I.

  “Why, yes — and ’tis time we should,” said Mowbray, coolly, “knowing one another, as we have done, even from our boyish days. You may remember, I never could bear to be piqued, en honneur; especially by you, my dear Harrington. It was written above, that we were to be rivals. But still, if we could command our tempers — I was the hottest of the two, when we were boys; but seeing something of the world, abroad and at home, has done wonders for me. If you could coolly pursue this business as I wish, in the comic rather than the heroic style, we might still, though rivals, be friends — very good friends.”

  “No, my lord, no: here all friendship between us ends.” “Be it so,” said Lord Mowbray: “then sworn foes instead of sworn friends — and open war is the word!”

  “Open war! — yes — better than hollow peace.”

  “Then a truce for to-day; to-morrow, with your good leave, I enter the lists.”

  “When you please, my lord.”

  “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 opp
ortunity 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.

  But my rival was a man of infinite resource; when one mode of attack failed, he tried another. Vanity, in some form, he was from experience convinced must be the ruling passion of the female heart — and vanity is so accessible, so easily managed. Miss Montenero was a stranger, a Jewess, just entering into the fashionable world — just doubting, as he understood, whether she should make London her future residence, or return to her retirement in the wilds of America. Lord Mowbray wished to make her sensible that his public attentions would bring her at once into fashion; and though his mother, the prejudiced Lady De Brantefield, could not be prevailed upon to visit a Jewess, yet his lordship had a vast number of high connexions and relations, to all of whom he could introduce Mr. and Miss Montenero. Lady Anne Mowbray, indeed, unaccountably persisted in saying every where, that she was certain her brother had no more thought of the Jewess than of the queen of the gipsies. Whenever she saw Miss Montenero in public, her ladyship had, among her own set, a never-failing source of sarcasm and ridicule in the Spanish fashion of Miss Montenero’s dress, especially her long veils — veils were not then in fashion, and Lady Anne of course pronounced them to be hideous. It was at this time, in England, the reign of high heads: a sort of triangular cushion or edifice of horsehair, suppose nine inches diagonal, three inches thick, by seven in height, called I believe a toque or a system, was fastened on the female head, I do not well know how, with black pins a quarter of a yard long; and upon and over this system, the hair was erected, and crisped, and frizzed, and thickened with soft pomatum, and filled with powder, white, brown, or red, and made to look as like as possible to a fleece of powdered wool, which battened down on each side of the triangle to the face. Then there were things called curls — nothing like what the poets understand by curls or ringlets, but layers of hair, first stiffened and then rolled up into hollow cylinders,
resembling sausages, which were set on each side of the system, “artillery tier above tier,” two or three of the sausages dangling from the ear down the neck. The hair behind, natural and false, plastered together to a preposterous bulk with quantum sufficit of powder and pomatum, was turned up in a sort of great bag, or club, or chignon — then at the top of the mount of hair and horsehair was laid a gauze platform, stuck full of little red daisies, from the centre of which platform rose a plume of feathers a full yard high — or in lieu of platform, flowers, and feathers, there was sometimes a fly-cap, or a wing-cap, or a pouf. If any one happens to have an old pocket-book for 1780, a single glance at the plate of fashionable heads for that year will convey a more competent idea of the same than I, unknowing in the terms of art, can produce by the most elaborate description. Suffice it for me to observe, that in comparison with this head-dress, to which, in my liberality and respect for departed fashion, I forbear to fix any of the many epithets which present themselves, the Spanish dress and veil worn by Miss Montenero, associated as it was with painting and poetry, did certainly appear to me more picturesque and graceful. In favour of the veil, I had all the poets, from Homer and Hesiod downwards, on my side; and moreover, I was backed by the opinion of the wisest of men, who has pronounced that “a veil addeth to beauty.” Armed with such authority, and inspired by love, I battled stoutly with Lady Anne upon several occasions, especially one night when we met at the Pantheon. I was walking between Lady Emily B —— and Miss Montenero, and two or three times, as we went round the room, we met Lady Anne Mowbray and her party, and every time we passed, I observed scornful glances at the veil. Berenice was too well-bred to suspect ill-breeding in others; she never guessed what was going forward, till one of the youngest and boldest of these high-born vulgarians spoke so loud as she passed, and pronounced the name of Montenero, and the word Jewess, so plainly, that both Miss Montenero and Lady Emily B —— could not avoid hearing what was said. Lord Mowbray was not with us. I took an opportunity of quitting the ladies as soon as general B —— , who had left us for a few minutes, returned. I went to pay my compliments to Lady Anne Mowbray, and, as delicately as I could, remonstrated against their proceedings. I said that her ladyship and her party were not aware, I was sure, how loudly they had spoken. Lady Anne defended herself and her companions by fresh attacks upon the veil, and upon the lady, “who had done vastly well to take the veil.” In the midst of the nonsense which Lady Anne threw out, there now and then appeared something that was a little like her brother Mowbray’s wit — little bits of sparkling things, mica, not ore. I was in no humour to admire them, and her ladyship took much offence at a general observation I made, “that people of sense submit to the reigning fashion, while others are governed by it.” We parted this night so much displeased with each other, that when we met again in public, we merely exchanged bows and curtsies — in private we had seldom met of late — I never went to Lady de Brantefield’s. I was really glad that the battle of the veil had ended in this cessation of intercourse between us. As soon as Miss Montenero found that her Spanish dress subjected her to the inconvenience of being remarked in public she laid it aside. I thought she was right in so doing — and in three days’ time, though I had at first regretted the picturesque dress, I soon became accustomed to the change. So easily does the eye adapt itself to the fashion, so quickly do we combine the idea of grace and beauty with whatever is worn by the graceful and the beautiful, and I may add, so certainly do we learn to like whatever is associated with those we love.