“There is no priest here — there are no papists here: — two protestant ladies, strangers to me, have taken refuge here, and I will not give them up,” said Mr. Montenero.
“Then we’ll pull down the house.”
“The military will be here directly,” said Mr. Montenero, coolly; “you had better go away.”
“The military! — then make haste, boys, with the work.”
And with a general cry of “No papists! — no priests! — no Jews! — no wooden shoes!” they began with a volley of stones against the windows. I ran to see where Berenice was. It had been previously agreed among us, that she and her guests, and every female in the house, should, on the first alarm, retire into a back room; but at the first shout of the mob, Lady de Brantefield lost the little sense she ever possessed: she did not faint, but she stiffened herself in the posture in which she sat, and with her hands turned down over the elbows of the huge chair, on which her arms were extended, she leaned back in all the frightful rigidity of a corpse, with a ghastly face, and eyes fixed.
Berenice, in vain, tried to persuade her to move. Her ideas were bewildered or concentrated. Only the obstinacy of pride remained alive within her.
“No,” she said, “she would never move from that spot — she would not be commanded by Jew or Jewess.”
“Don’t you hear the mob — the stones at the windows?”
“Very well. They would all pay for it on the scaffold or the gibbet.”
“But if they break in here you will be torn to pieces.”
“No — those only will be sacrificed who have sacrificed. A ‘de Brantefield’ — they dare not! — I shall not stir from this spot. Who will presume to touch Lady de Brantefield?”
Mr. Montenero and I lifted up the huge chair on which she sat, and carried her and it into the back room.
The door of this room was scarcely shut, and the tapestry covering but just closed over the entrance into the picture-gallery, when there was a cry from the hall, and the servants came rushing to tell us that one of the window-shutters had given way.
Mr. Montenero, putting the pistols into my hand, took the gun, ran down stairs, and stationed himself so as to defend the entrance to the window, at which the people were pelting with stones; declaring that he would fire on the first man who should attempt to enter.
A man leaped in, and, in the struggle, Mr. Montenero’s gun was wrested from him.
On my presenting a pistol, the man scrambled out of the window, carrying away with him the prize he had seized.
At this moment the faithful Jacob appeared amongst us as if by miracle. “Master, we are safe,” said he, “if we can defend ourselves for a few minutes. The orange-woman delivered your letter, and the military are coming. She told me how to get in here, through the house that is building next door, from the leads of which I crept through a trap-door into your garret.”
With the pistols, and with the assistance of the servants who were armed, some of them with swords, and others with whatever weapons came to hand, we made such a show of resistance as to keep the mob at bay for some moments.
“Hark!” cried Jacob; “thank Heaven, there’s the military!” There was a sudden cessation of stones at the window. We heard the joyful sound of the horses’ hoofs in the street. A prodigious uproar ensued, then gradually subsided. The mob was dispersed, and fled in different directions, and the military followed. We heard them gallop off. We listened till not a sound, either of human voice or of horse’s foot, was to be heard. There was perfect silence; and when we looked as far as our eyes could reach out of the broken window, there was not a creature to be seen in the square or in the line of street to which it opened.
We ran to let out our female prisoners; I thought only of Berenice — she, who had shown so much self-possession during the danger, seemed most overpowered at this moment of joy; she threw her arms round her father, and held him fast, as if to convince herself that he was safe. Her next look was for me, and in her eyes, voice, and manner, when she thanked me, there was an expression which transported me with joy; but it was checked, it was gone the next moment: some terrible recollection seemed to cross her mind. She turned from me to speak to that odious Lady de Brantefield. I could not see Mr. Montenero’s countenance, for he, at the same instant, left us, to single out, from the crowd assembled in the hall, the poor Irishwoman, whose zeal and intrepid gratitude had been the means of our deliverance. I was not time enough to hear what Mr. Montenero said to her, or what reward he conferred; but that the reward was judicious, and that the words were grateful to her feelings in the highest degree, I had full proof; for when I reached the hall, the widow was on her knees, with hands uplifted to Heaven, unable to speak, but with tears streaming down her hard face: she wiped them hastily away, and started up.
“It’s not a little thing brings me to this,” said she; “none ever drew a tear from my eyes afore, since the boy I lost.”
She drew the hood of her cloak over her head, and pushed her way through the servants to get out of the hall-door; I unbolted and unchained it for her, and as I was unlocking it, she squeezed up close to me, and laying her iron hand on mine, said in a whisper, “God bless yees! and don’t forget my thanks to the sweet Jewish — I can’t speak ’em now, ’tis you can best, and joined in my prayers ye shall ever be!” said our guardian angel, as I opened the door; and as she passed out, she added, “You are right, jewel — she’s worth all the fine ladies in Lon’on, feathers an’ all in a bag.”
I had long been entirely of the Widow Levy’s opinion, though the mode of expression would never have occurred to me. What afterwards became of Lady Anne and of her mother this night, I do not distinctly recollect. Lady de Brantefield, when the alarm was over, I believe, recovered her usual portion of sense, and Lady Anne her silly spirits; but neither of them, I know, showed any feeling, except for themselves. I have an image of Lady de Brantefield standing up, and making, at parting, such ungracious acknowledgments to her kind hostess and generous protector, as her pride and her prejudices would permit. Both their ladyships seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the house, and I know that I rejoiced in their departure. I was in hopes of one moment, one explanatory word or look from Berenice. She was retiring to her own apartment, as I returned, with her father, after putting those two women into their carriage.
“I am now quite convinced,” said Mr. Montenero, smiling, “that Mr. Harrington never could have been engaged or attached to Lady Anne Mowbray.”
“Is it possible you ever imagined?”
“I did not imagine, I only heard and believed — and now I have seen, and I disbelieve.”
“And is this the obstacle, the invincible obstacle?” cried I.
Berenice sighed, and walked on to her room.
“I wish it were!” said Mr. Montenero; “but I pray you, sir, do not speak, do not think of this to-night — farewell! we all want repose.”
I did not think that I wanted repose till the moment I lay down in bed, and then, overpowered with bodily fatigue, I fell into a profound sleep, from which I did not awaken till late the next morning, when my man, drawing back my curtains, presented to me a note from — I could hardly believe my eyes—”from Miss Montenero” — from Berenice! I started up, and read these words written in pencil: “My father is in danger — come to us.”
How quick I was in obeying may be easily imagined. I went well armed, but in the present danger arms were of no use. I found that Mr. Montenero was summoned before one of the magistrates, on a charge of having fired from his window the preceding night before the Riot Act had been read — of having killed an inoffensive passenger. Now the fact was, that no shot had ever been fired by Mr. Montenero; but such was the rage of the people at the idea that the Jew had killed a Christian, and one of their party, that the voice of truth could not be heard. They followed with execrations as he was carried before the magistrate; and waited with impatience, assembled round the house, in hopes of seeing him committed to prison to take
his trial for murder. As I was not ignorant of the substantial nature of the defence which the spirit and the forms of English law provide in all cases for truth and innocence, against false accusation and party prejudice, I was not alarmed at the clamour I heard; I was concerned only for the temporary inconvenience and mortification to Mr. Montenero, and for the alarm to Berenice. The magistrate before whom Mr. Montenero appeared was an impartial and very patient man: I shall not so far try the patience of others as to record all that was positively said, but which could not be sworn to — all that was offered in evidence, but which contradicted itself, or which could not be substantiated by any good witness — at length one creditable-looking man came forward against Mr. Montenero.
He said he was an ironmonger — that he had been passing by at the time of the riot, and had been hurried along by the crowd against his will to Mr. Montenero’s house, where he saw a sailor break open the window-shutter of one of the lower rooms — that he saw a shot fired by Mr. Montenero — that the sailor, after a considerable struggle, wrested the gun, with which the shot had been fired, from Mr. Montenero, and retreated with it from the window — that hearing the cry of murder in the crowd, he thought it proper to secure the weapon, that it might be produced in evidence — and that the piece which he now produced was that which had been taken from Mr. Montenero.
I perceived great concern in the countenance of the magistrate, who, addressing himself to Mr. Montenero, asked him what he had to say in his defence.
“Sir,” said Mr. Montenero, “I acknowledge that to be the gun which was wrested from my hands by the sailor; and I acknowledge that I attempted with that gun to defend my family and my house from immediate violence; I am, however,” continued he, “happy to have escaped having injured any person, even in the most justifiable cause, for the piece did not go off, it only flashed in the pan.”
“If that be the case,” said the magistrate, “the piece is still loaded.”
The gun was tried, and it was found to be empty both of powder and ball. As the magistrate returned the piece to the man, I came forward and asked leave to examine it. I observed to the magistrate, that if the piece had been fired, the inside of the barrel must retain marks of the discharge, whereas, on the contrary, the inside of the barrel was perfectly smooth and clean. To this the man replied, that he had cleaned the piece when he brought it home, which might indeed have been true. At this moment, I recollected a circumstance that I had lately heard from the officers in the country, who had been talking about a fowling-piece, and of the careless manner in which fire-arms are sometimes proved [Footnote: See Manton on Gunnery.]. Upon examination, I found that what I suspected might be just possible was actually the case with respect to the piece in question — the touch-hole had never been bored through, though the piece was marked as proof! I never shall forget the satisfaction which appeared in the countenance of the humane magistrate, who from the beginning had suspected the evidence, whom he knew from former delinquency. The man was indeed called an ironmonger, but his was one of those old iron shops which were known to be receptacles of stolen goods of various descriptions. To my surprise, it now appeared that this man’s name was Dutton: he was the very Dutton who had formerly been Jacob’s rival, and who had been under Lord Mowbray’s protection. Time and intemperance had altered him so much, that I had not, till I heard his name, the slightest recollection of his face. What his motive for appearing against Mr. Montenero might be, whether it was hatred to him as being the patron of Jacob, whom Dutton envied and detested, or whether Dutton was instigated by some other and higher person, I shall not now stop to inquire. As he had not been put upon his oath, he had not been guilty of perjury; he was discharged amidst the hootings of the mob. Notwithstanding their prejudice against the Jews, and their rage against a Jew who had harboured, as they conceived, two concealed papists and a priest, yet the moment an attempt to bear false witness against Mr. Montenero appeared, the people took his part. In England the mob is always in favour of truth and innocence, wherever these are made clearly evident to their senses. Pleased with themselves for their impartiality, it was not difficult at this moment for me to convince them, as I did, that Mr. Montenero had not harboured either papists or priest. The mob gave us three cheers. As we passed through the crowd, I saw Jacob and the orange-woman — the orange-woman, with broad expanded face of joy, stretched up her arms, and shouted loud, that all the mob might hear. Jacob, little accustomed to sympathy, and in the habit of repressing his emotions, stood as one unmoved or dumb, till his eyes met mine, and then suddenly joy spread over his features and flashed from his dark eyes — that was a face of delight I never can forget; but I could not stay: I hastened to be the first to tell Berenice of her father’s safety, and of the proof which all the world had had of the falsehood of the charge against him. I ran up to the drawing-room, where she was alone. She fainted in my arms.
And now you think, that when she came to herself, there was an end of all my fears, all my suspense — you think that her love, her gratitude, overcame the objection, whatever it may be, which has hitherto been called invincible — alas! you are mistaken.
I was obliged to resign Berenice to the care of her attendants. A short time afterwards I received from her father the following note: —
“My obligations to you are great, so is my affection for you; but the happiness of my child, as well as your happiness, is at stake.
“I dare not trust my gratitude — my daughter and you must never meet again, or must meet to part no more.
“I cannot yet decide: if I shall be satisfied that the obstacle do not exist, she shall be yours; if it do exist, we sail the first of next month for America, and you, Mr. Harrington, will not be the only, or perhaps the most, unhappy person of the three.
“A. MONTENERO.”
CHAPTER XVI.
The Sunday after the riots, I happened to see Mrs. Coates, as we were coming out of St. George’s church. She was not in full-blown, happy importance, as formerly: she looked ill and melancholy; or, as one of her city neighbours, who was following her out of church, expressed it, quite “crest-fallen.” I heard some whispering that “things were going wrong at home with the Coates’s — that the world was going down hill with the alderman.”
But a lady, who was quite a stranger, though she did me the honour to speak to me, explained that it was “no such thing — worth a plum still, if he be worth a farthing. ’Tis only that she was greatly put out of her way last week, and frightened, till well nigh beside herself, by them rioters that came and set fire to one of the Coates’s, Mr. Peter’s, warehouse. Now, though poor Mrs. Coates, you’d think, is so plump and stout to look at, she is as nervous! — you’ve no notion, sir! — shakes like an aspen leaf, if she but takes a cup of green tea — so I prescribe bohea. But there she’s curtsying, and nodding, and kissing hands to you, sir, see! — and can tell you, no doubt, all about herself.”
Mrs. Coates’s deplorably placid countenance, tremulous muscles, and lamentable voice and manner, confirmed to me the truth of the assertion that she had been frightened nearly out of her senses.
“Why now, sir, after all,” said she, “I begin to find what fools we were, when we made such a piece of work one election year, and said that no soldiers should come into the town, ‘cause we were free Britons. Why, Lord ‘a mercy! ’tis a great deal better maxim to sleep safe in our beds than to be free Britons and burnt to death [Footnote: Vide Mrs. Piozzi’s Letters.].”
Persons of higher pretensions to understanding and courage than poor Mrs. Coates, seemed at this time ready to adopt her maxim; and patriots feared that it might become the national sentiment. No sooner were order and tranquillity perfectly re-established in the city, than the public in general, and party politicians in particular, were intent upon the trials of the rioters, and more upon the question whether the military had suppressed the riots constitutionally or unconstitutionally. It was a question to be warmly debated in parliament; and this, after the manner in wh
ich great public and little private interests, in the chain of human events, are continually linked together, proved of important consequence to me and my love affairs.
A call of the house brought my father to town, contrary to his will, and consequently in ill-humour. This ill-humour was increased by the perplexing situation in which he found himself, with his passions on one side of the question and his principles on the other: hating the papists, and loving the ministry. In his secret soul, my father cried with the rioters, “No papists! — no French! — no Jews! — no wooden shoes!” but a cry against government was abhorrent to his very nature. My conduct, with regard to the riot at Mr. Montenero’s, and towards the rioters, by whom he had been falsely accused, my father heard spoken of with approbation in the political circles which he most reverenced; and he could not but be pleased, he confessed, to hear that his son had so properly conducted himself: but still it was all in defence of the Jews, and of the father of that Jewess whose very name was intolerable to his ear.
“So, Harrington, my boy, you’ve gained great credit, I find, by your conduct last Wednesday night. Very lucky, too, for your mother’s friend, Lady de Brantefield, that you were where you were. But after all, sir, what the devil business had you there? — and again on Thursday morning! — I acknowledge that was a good hit you made, about the gun — but I wish it had been in the defence of some good Christian: what business has a Jew with a gun at all? — Government knows best, to be sure; but I split against them once before, three-and-twenty years ago, on the naturalization bill. What is this cry which the people set up?—’No Jews! — no wooden shoes!’ — ha! ha! ha! — the dogs! — but they carried it too far, the rascals! — When it comes to throwing stones at gentlemen’s carriages, and pulling down gentlemen’s and noblemen’s dwelling-houses, it’s a mob and a riot, and the rioters deserve certainly to be hanged — and I’m heartily glad my son has come forward, Mrs. Harrington, and has taken a decided and distinguished part in bringing the offenders to justice. But, Harrington, pray tell me now, young gentleman, about that Jewess.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 186