“Lady Anne Mowbray’s voice! and Lady de Brantefield!” cried I.
Swiftly, before I could pass her, Berenice ran down stairs, unlocked — threw open the hall-door, and let them in. Breathless, trembling so that they could not speak, they sunk upon the first seat they could reach; the servants hearing the hall-door unchained, ran into the hall, and when sent away for water, the three footmen returned with each something in his hand, and stood with water and salvers as a pretence to satisfy their curiosity; along with them came the orange-woman, who, wiping her mouth, put in her head between the footmen’s elbows, and stood listening, and looking at the two ladies with no friendly eye. She then worked her way round to me, and twitching my elbow, drew me back, and whispered—”What made ye let ’em in? Take care but one’s a mad woman, and t’other a bad woman.” Lady Anne, who had by this time drank water, and taken hartshorn, and was able to speak, was telling, though in a very confused manner, what had happened. She said that she had been dressed for the opera — the carriage was at the door — her mother, who was to set her down at Lady Somebody’s, who was to chaperon her, had just put on her hood and cloak, and was coming down stairs, when they heard a prodigious noise of the mob in the street. The mob had seized their carriage — and had found in one of the pockets a string of beads, which had been left there by the Portuguese ambassador’s lady, whom Lady De Brantefield had taken home from chapel the preceding day. The mob had seen the carriage stop at the chapel, and the lady and her confessor get into it; and this had led to the suspicion that Lady de Brantefield was a catholic, or in their language, a concealed papist.
On searching the carriage farther, they had found a breviary, and one of them had read aloud the name of a priest, written in the beginning of the book — a priest whose name was peculiarly obnoxious to some of the leaders.
As soon as they found the breviary, and the rosary, and this priest’s name, the mob grew outrageous, broke the carriage, smashed the windows of the house, and were bursting open the door, when, as Lady Anne told us, she and her mother, terrified almost out of their senses, escaped through the back door just in the dress they were, and made their way through the stables, and a back lane, and a cross street: still hearing, or fancying they heard, the shouts of the mob, they had run on without knowing how, or where, till they found themselves in this square, and saw me at the open window.
“What is it? Tell me, dear,” whispered the orange-woman, drawing me back behind the footman. “Tell me, for I can’t understand her for looking at the figure of her. Tell me plain, or it may be the ruen of yees all before ye’d know it.”
I repeated Lady Anne’s story, and from me the orange-woman understood it; and it seemed to alarm her more than any of us.
“But are they Romans?” (Roman Catholics) said she. “How is that, when they’re not Irish! — for I’ll swear to their not being Irish, tongue or pluck. I don’t believe but they’re impostors — no right Romans, sorrow bit of the likes; but howsomdever, no signs of none following them yet — thanks above! Get rid on ’em any way as smart as ye can, dear; tell Mr. Montenero.”
As all continued perfectly quiet, both in the back and front of the house, we were in hopes that they would not be pursued or discovered by the mob. We endeavoured to quiet and console them with this consideration; and we represented that, if the mob should break into their house, they would, after they had searched and convinced themselves that the obnoxious priest was not concealed there, disperse without attempting to destroy or pillage it “Then,” said Lady de Brantefield, rising, and turning to her daughter, “Lady Anne, we had better think of returning to our own house.”
Though well aware of the danger of keeping these suspected ladies this night, and though our guardian angel repeatedly twitched us, reiterating, “Ah! let ’em go — don’t be keeping ‘em!” yet Mr. Montenero and Berenice pressed them, in the kindest and most earnest manner, to stay where they were safe. Lady Anne seemed most willing, Lady de Brantefield most unwilling to remain; yet her fears struggled with her pride, and at last she begged that a servant might be sent to her house to see how things were going on, and to order chairs for her, if their return was practicable.
“Stop!” cried the orange-woman, laying a strong detaining hand on the footman’s arm; “stop you—’tis I’ll go with more sense — and speed.”
“What is that person — that woman?” cried Lady de Brantefield, who now heard and saw the orange-woman for the first time.
“Woman! — is it me she manes?” said the orange-woman, coming forward quite composedly, shouldering on her cloak.
“Is it who I am? — I’m the Widow Levy. — Any commands?”
“How did she get in?” continued Lady de Brantefield, still with a look of mixed pride and terror: “how did she get in?”
“Very asy! — through the door — same way you did, my lady, if ye had your senses. Where’s the wonder? But what commands? — don’t be keeping of me.”
“Anne! — Lady Anne! — Did she follow us in?” said Lady de Brantefield.
“Follow yees! — not I! — no follower of yours nor the likes. But what commands, nevertheless? — I’ll do your business the night, for the sake of them I love in my heart’s core,” nodding at Mr. and Miss Montenero; “so, my lady, I’ll bring ye word, faithful, how it’s going with ye at home — which is her house, and where, on God’s earth?” added she, turning to the footmen.
“If my satisfaction be the object, sir, or madam,” said Lady de Brantefield, addressing herself with much solemnity to Mr. and Miss Montenero, “I must take leave to request that a fitter messenger be sent; I should, in any circumstances, be incapable of trusting to the representations of such a person.”
The fury of the orange-woman kindled — her eyes flashed fire — her arms a-kimbo, she advanced repeating, “Fitter! — Fitter! — What’s that ye say? — You’re not Irish — not a bone in your skeleton!”
Lady Anne screamed. Mr. Montenero forced the orange-woman back, and Berenice and I hurried Lady de Brantefield and her daughter across the hall into the eating-room. Mr. Montenero followed an instant afterwards, telling Lady de Brantefield that he had despatched one of his own servants for intelligence. Her ladyship bowed her head without speaking. He then explained why the orange-woman happened to be in his house, and spoke of the zeal and ability with which she had this day served us. Lady de Brantefield continued at intervals to bow her head while Mr. Montenero spoke, and to look at her watch, while Lady Anne, simpering, repeated, “Dear, how odd!” Then placing herself opposite to a large mirror, Lady Anne re-adjusted her dress. That settled, she had nothing to do but to recount her horrors over again. Her mother, lost in reverie, sat motionless. Berenice, meantime, while the messenger was away, made the most laudable and kind efforts, by her conversation, to draw the attention of her guests from themselves and their apprehensions; but apparently without effect, and certainly without thanks.
At length, Berenice and her father being called out of the room, I was left alone with Lady de Brantefield and Lady Anne: the mother broke silence, and turning to the daughter, said, in a most solemn tone of reproach, “Anne! Lady Anne Mowbray! — how could you bring me into this house of all others — a Jew’s — when you know the horror I have always felt—”
“La, mamma! I declare I was so terrified, I didn’t know one house from another. But when I saw Mr. Harrington, I was so delighted I never thought about it’s being the Jew’s house — and what matter?”
“What matter!” repeated Lady de Brantefield: “are you my daughter, and a descendant of Sir Josseline de Mowbray, and ask what matter?”
“Dear mamma, that’s the old story! that’s so long ago! — How can you think of such old stuff at such a time as this? I’m sure I was frightened out of my wits — I forgot even my detestation of —— But I must not say that before Mr. Harrington. But now I see the house, and all that, I don’t wonder at him so much; I declare it’s a monstrous handsome house — as rich as a Jew! I�
��m sure I hope those wretches will not destroy our house — and, oh! the great mirror, mamma!”
Mr. and Miss Montenero returned with much concern in their countenances: they announced that the messenger had brought word that the mob were actually pulling down Lady de Brantefield’s house — that the furniture had all been dragged out into the street, and that it was now burning. Pride once more gave way to undisguised terror in Lady de Brantefield’s countenance, and both ladies stood in speechless consternation. Before we had time to hear or to say more, the orange-woman opened the door, and putting in her head, called out in a voice of authority, “Jantlemen, here’s one wants yees, admits of no delay; lave all and come out, whether you will or no, the minute.”
We went out, and with an indescribable gesture, and wink of satisfaction, the moment she had Mr. Montenero and me in the hall, she said in a whisper, “’Tis only myself, dears, but ’tis I am glad I got yees out away from being bothered by the presence of them women, whiles ye’d be settling all for life or death, which we must now do — for don’t be nursing and dandling yourselves in the notion that the boys will not be wid ye. It’s a folly to talk — they will; my head to a China orange they will, now: but take it asy, jewels — we’ve got an hour’s law — they’ve one good hour’s work first — six garrets to gut, where they are, and tree back walls, with a piece of the front, still to pull down. Oh! I larnt all. He is a ‘cute lad you sent, but not being used to it, just went and ruined and murdered us all by what he let out! What do ye tink? But when one of the boys was questioning him who he belonged to, and what brought him in it, he got frighted, and could think of noting at all but the truth to tell: so they’ve got the scent, and they’ll follow the game. Ogh! had I been my own messenger, in lieu of minding that woman within, I’d have put ’em off the scent. But it’s past me now — so what next?” While Mr. Montenero and I began to consult together, she went on—”I’ll tell you what you’ll do: you’ll send for two chairs, or one — less suspicious, and just get the two in asy, the black one back, the white for’ard, beca’ase she’s coming nat’ral from the Opera — if stopped, and so the chairmen, knowing no more than Adam who they would be carrying, might go through the thick of the boys at a pinch safe enough, or round any way, sure; they know the town, and the short cuts, and set ’em down (a good riddance!) out of hand, at any house at all they mention, who’d resave them of their own frinds, or kith and kin — for, to be sure, I suppose they have frinds, tho’ I’m not one. You’ll settle with them by the time it’s come, where they’ll set down, and I’ll step for the chair, will I?”
“No,” said Mr. Montenero, “not unless it be the ladies’ own desire to go: I cannot turn them out of my house, if they choose to stay; at all hazards they shall have every protection I can afford. Berenice, I am sure, will think and feel as I do.”
Mr. Montenero returned to the drawing-room, to learn the determination of his guests.
“There goes as good a Christian!” cried the Widow Levy, holding up her forefinger, and shaking it at Mr. Montenero the moment his back was turned: “didn’t I tell ye so from the first? Oh! if he isn’t a jewel of a Jew! — and the daughter the same!” continued she, following me as I walked up and down the hall: “the kind-hearted cratur, how tinder she looked at the fainting Jezabel — while the black woman turning from her in her quality scowls. — Oh! I seed it all, and with your own eyes, dear — but I hope they’ll go — and once we get a riddance of them women. I’ll answer for the rest. Bad luck to the minute they come into the house! I wish the jantleman would be back — Oh! here he is — and will they go, jewel?” cried she, eagerly. “The ladies will stay,” said Mr. Montenero.
“Murder! — but you can’t help it — so no more about it — but what arms have ye?”
No arms were to be found in the house but a couple of swords, a pair of pistols of Mr. Montenero’s, and one gun, which had been left by the former proprietor. Mr. Montenero determined to write immediately to his friend General B — , to request that a party of the military might be sent to guard his house.
“Ay, so best, send for the dragoons, the only thing left on earth for us now: but don’t let ’em fire on the boys — disperse ’em with the horse, asy, ye can, without a shot; so best — I’ll step down and feel the pulse of all below.”
While Mr. Montenero wrote, Berenice, alarmed for her father, stood leaning on the back of his chair, in silence.
“Oh! Mr. Harrington! Mr. Harrington!” repeated Lady Anne, “what will become of us! If Colonel Topham was but here! Do send to the Opera, pray, pray, with my compliments — Lady Anne Mowbray’s compliments — he’ll come directly, I’m sure.”
“That my son, Lord Mowbray, should be out of town, how extraordinary and how unfortunate!” cried Lady de Brantefield, “when we might have had his protection, his regiment, without applying to strangers.”
She walked up and down the room with the air of a princess in chains. The orange-woman bolted into the room, and pushed past her ladyship, while Mr. Montenero was sealing his note.
“Give it, jewel! — It’s I’ll be the bearer; for all your powdered men below has taken fright by the dread the first messenger got, and dares not be carrying a summons for the military through the midst of them: but I’ll take it for yees — and which way will I go to get quickest to your general’s? and how will I know his house? — for seven of them below bothered my brains.”
Mr. Montenero repeated the direction — she listened coolly, then stowing the letter in her bosom, she stood still for a moment with a look of deep deliberation — her head on one side, her forefinger on her cheek-bone, her thumb under her chin, and the knuckle of the middle-finger compressing her lips.
“See, now, they’ll be apt to come up the stable lane for the back o’ the house, and another party of them will be in the square, in front; so how will it be with me to get into the house to yees again, without opening the doors for them, in case they are wid ye afore I’d get the military up? — I have it,” cried she.
She rushed to the door, but turned back again to look for her pipe, which she had laid on the table.
“Where’s my pipe? — Lend it me — What am I without my pipe?”
“The savage!” cried Lady de Brantefield.
“The fool!” said Lady Anne.
The Widow Levy nodded to each of the two ladies, as she lit the pipe again, but without speaking to them, turned to us, and said, “If the boys would meet me without my pipe, they’d not know me; or smell something odd, and guess I was on some unlawful errand.”
As she passed Berenice and me, who were standing together, she hastily added, “Keep a good heart, sweetest! — At the last push, you have one will shed the heart’s drop for ye!”
A quick, scarcely perceptible motion of her eye towards me marked her meaning; and one involuntary look from Berenice at that moment, even in the midst of alarm, spread joy through my whole frame. In the common danger we were drawn closer together — we thought together; — I was allowed to help her in the midst of the general bustle.
It was necessary, as quickly as possible, to determine what articles in the house were of most value, and to place these in security. It was immediately decided that the pictures were inestimable. — What was to be done with them? Berenice, whose presence of mind never forsook her, and whose quickness increased with the occasion, recollected that the unfinished picture-gallery, which had been built behind the house, adjoining to the back drawing-room, had no window opening to the street: it was lighted by a sky-light; it had no communication with any of the apartments in the house, except with the back drawing-room, into which it was intended to open by large glass doors; but fortunately these were not finished, and, at this time, there was no access to the picture-gallery but by a concealed door behind the gobelin tapestry of the back drawing-room — an entrance which could hardly be discovered by any stranger. In the gallery were all the plasterers’ trestles, and the carpenters’ lumber; however, there was room soon made
for the pictures: all hands were in motion, every creature busy and eager, except Lady de Brantefield and her daughter, who never offered the smallest assistance, though we were continually passing with our loads through the front drawing-room, in which the two ladies now were. Lady Anne standing up in the middle of the room looked like an actress ready dressed for some character, but without one idea of her own. Her mind, naturally weak, was totally incapacitated by fear: she kept incessantly repeating as we passed and repassed, “Bless me! one would think the day of judgment was coming!”
Lady de Brantefield all the time sat in the most remote part of the room, fixed in a huge arm-chair. The pictures and the most valuable things were, by desperately hard work, just stowed into our place of safety, when we heard the shouts of the mob, at once at the back and front of the house, and soon a thundering knocking at the hall-door. Mr. Montenero and I went to the door, of course without opening it, and demanded, in a loud voice, what they wanted.
“We require the papists,” one answered for the rest, “the two women papists and the priest you’ve got within, to be given up, for your lives!”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 185
