had always lived here at the Priory—his lordship had been abroad-was in the army-always on the move-did not know where he was now-probably in town her present ladies had her good word-but her heart, she confessed, was always with her first mistress, Mrs. Harrington, and poor master Harrington —never to be mentioned without a sigh—that was noted in her instructions. All that I or Mowbray had mentioned before Mr. Montenero of my aversion to Fowler now appeared to be but the dislike which an insane person is apt to take against those about them, even to those who treat them most kindly. Fowler was a good actress, and she was well prompted-she produced, in her own justification, instructions, in unsigned letters of lord Mowbray's. I knew his hand, however disguised. She was directed to take particular care not to go too far-to let things be drawn from her-to refuse to give further information lest she should do mischief. When assured that the Monteneros were friends, then to tell circumstances agreed upon-to end with a promise to produce a keeper who had attended the poor gentleman not long since, who could satisfy all doubts. Lord Mowbray noted that this must be promised to be done within the ensuing month-something about a ship's sailing for America was scratched out in these last instructions.

I have calmly related the facts, but I cannot give an idea of the transports of passion into which my father burst when he heard them. It was with the utmost difficulty that we could restrain him till the woman had finished her confession. Lord Mowbray was dead. His death-his penitence-pity for his family, quenched my father's rage against Mowbray; all his fury rose with tenfold violence against Fowler.

It was with the greatest difficulty that I got her out of the room in safety:-he followed, raging; and my mother, seeing me put Fowler into a parlour, and turn the key in the door, began beseeching that I would not keep her another instant in the house. I begged-I insisted, however, upon being permitted to detain her till her confession should be put into writing, or till Mr. Montenero could hear it from her own lips: I represented that if once she quitted the house we might never see her again; she might make her escape out of town; might, for some new interest, deny all she had said, and leave me in as great difficulties as ever.

My father, sudden in all his emotions, snatched his hat from the hall-table, seized his cane, and declared he would that instant go and settle the point at once with Mr. Montenero and the daughter. My mother and I, one on each side of him, pleaded that it would be best not to speak so suddenly as he proposed to do, especially to Berenice. Heaven bless my mother! she called her Berenice: this did not escape my ear. My father let us take off his hat, and carry away his cane. He sat down and wrote directly to Mr. Montenero, requesting to see him immediately, on particular business.

My mother's carriage was at the door; it was by this time the hour for visiting.

"I will bring Mr. Montenero back with me," said my mother," for I am going to pay a visit I should have paid long ago-to miss Montenero!"

I kissed my mother's hand I don't know how many times, till my father told me I was a fool.

"But," turning to me, when the carriage had driven off, " though I am delighted that the obstacle will be removed on their part, yet remember, Har

VOL. XIII.

T

rington, I can go no further-not an inch-not an inch sorry for it—but you know all I have saidby Jupiter Ammon, I cannot eat my own words!"

"But you ought to eat your own words, sir,” said I, venturing to jest, as I knew that I might in his present humour, and while his heart was warmed; your words were a libel upon Jews and Jewesses, and the most appropriate and approved punishment invented for the libeller is-to eat his own words."

CHAPTER XIX.

im

My mother returned almost as quickly as my patience expected, and from afar I saw that Mr. Montenero was in the carriage with her. My heart did certainly beat violently; but I must not stop to describe, if I could, my various sensations.

My mother, telling Mr. Montenero all the time that she would tell him nothing, had told him every thing that was to be told: I was glad of it-it spared me the task of detailing lord Mowbray's villany. He had once been my friend, or at least I had once been his-and just after his death it was a painful subject. Besides, on my own account, I was heartily glad to leave it to my father to complete what my mother had so well begun. He spoke with great vehemence. I stood by, proud all the time to show Mr. Montenero my calmness and self-possession; while Fowler, who was under salutary terror of my father, repeated, without much prevarication, all the material parts of her confession, and gave up to him lord Mowbray's letters. Astonishment and horror at the discovery of

such villany were Mr. Montenero's first feelings-he looked at lord Mowbray's writing again and again, and shuddered in silence, as he cast his eyes upon Fowler's guilty countenance. We all were glad when she was dismissed.

Mr. Montenero turned to me, and I saw tears in his eyes.

"There is no obstacle between us now, I hope," said I, eagerly seizing the hand which he held out to

me.

Mr. Montenero pressed me in his arms, with the affection of a parent.

Heyday! heyday!" said my father, in a tone between pleasure and anger," do you at all know what you are about, Harrington?-remember!" "Oh! Mr. Montenero," said mother, my speak, for Heaven's sake, and tell me that you are perfectly convinced that there was no shadow of truth."

"Nonsense! my dear, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Harrington," said my father," to be sure he is convinced, he is not an idiot-all my astonishment is, how he could ever be made to believe such a thing!"

Mr. Montenero answered my mother and my father alternately, assuring my mother that he was quite convinced, and agreeing with my father that he had been strangely imposed upon. He turned again to me, and I believe at the same instant the same recollections occurred to us both-new light seemed to break upon us, and we saw in a different point of view a variety of past circumstances. Almost from the moment of my acquaintance with Berenice, I could trace lord Mowbray's artifices. Even from the time of our first going out together at Westminster Abbey, when Mr. Montenero said he loved enthusiasm, how Mowbray encouraged, excited me to

follow that line. At the Tower, my kneeling in raptures to the figure of the Black Prince-my exaggerated expressions of enthusiasm-my poetic and dramatic declamation and gesture-my start of horror at Mowbray's allusion to the tapestry-chamber and the picture of sir Josseline-my horror afterwards at the auction, where Mowbray had prepared for me the sight of the picture of the Dentition of the Jew-and the appearance of the figure with the terrible eyes at the synagogue; all, I now found, had been contrived or promoted by lord Mowbray: Fowler had dressed up the figure for the purpose. They had taken the utmost pains to work on my imagination on this particular point, on which he knew my early associations might betray me to symptoms of apparent insanity. Upon comparing and explaining these circumstances, Mr. Montenero further laid open to me the treacherous ingenuity of the man who had so duped me by the show of sympathy and friendship. By dexterous insinuations he had first excited curiosity-then suggested suspicions, worked every accidental circumstance to his purpose, and at last, rendered desperate by despair, and determined that I should not win the prize which he had been compelled to resign, had employed so boldly his means and accomplices that he was dreadfully near effecting my ruin.

While Mr. Montenero and I ran over all these circumstances, 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 embarrassing minute of silence ensued.

My mother broke it, by saying something about miss Montenero. I do not know what-nor did she.