The next morning, before I left my room to go down to breakfast, my servant told me that Lady de Brantefield’s housekeeper, Mrs. Fowler, begged to speak to me—she had been come some time. I went into my mother’s dressing-room, where she was waiting alone. I could not bear to fix my eyes upon her; I advanced towards her, wishing, as I believe I said aloud, that she had spared me the pain of this interview. I waited in silence for her to speak, but she did not say a word—I heard the unhappy woman sobbing violently. Suddenly she took her handkerchief from before her face, and her sobs ceasing, she exclaimed, “I know you hate me, Mr. Harrington, and you have reason to hate me—more—much more than you know of! But Lord Mowbray is the most to blame.”

I stood in astonishment. I conceived either that the woman was out of her senses, or that she had formed the not unprecedented design of affecting insanity, in hope of escaping the punishment of guilt: she threw herself at my feet—she would have clasped my knees, but I started back from her insufferable touch; provoked by this, she exclaimed, in a threatening tone, “Take care, sir!—The secret is still in my power.”

Then observing, I believe, that her threat made no impression, her tone changed again to the whine of supplication.

“Oh, Mr. Harrington, if I could hope for your forgiveness, I could reveal such a secret—a secret that so concerns you!”

I retreated, saying that I would not hear any secret from her. But I stopped, and was fixed to the spot, when she added, under her breath, the name of Montenero. Then, in a hypocritical voice, she went on—“Oh, Mr. Harrington!—Oh, sir, I have, been a great sinner! led on—led on by them that was worse than myself; but if you will plead for me with my lady, and prevail upon her not to bring me to public shame about this unfortunate affair of the ring, I will confess all to you—I will throw myself on your mercy. I will quit the country if you will prevail on my lady—to let my daughter’s marriage go on, and not to turn her out of favour.”

I refused to make any terms; but my mother, whose curiosity could refrain no longer, burst into the room; and to her Fowler did not plead in vain. Shocked as she was with the detection of this woman’s fraud, my mother was so eager to learn the secret concerning me, that she promised to obtain a pardon from Lady de Brantefield for the delinquent, if she would immediately communicate the secret. I left the room.

I met my father with letters and newspapers in his hand. He looked in consternation, and beckoned to me to follow him into his own room.

“I was just going in search of you, Harrington,” said he: “here’s a devil of a stroke for your mother’s friend, Lady de Brantefield.”

“The loss of her jewels, do you mean, sir?” said I: “they are found.”

“Jewels!” said my father; “I don’t know what you are talking of.”

“I don’t know then what you mean, sir,” said I.

“No, to be sure you do not, how could you? for the news is but this instant come—in this letter which I was carrying to you—which is addressed to you, as I found, when I got to the middle of it. I beg your pardon for opening it. Stay, stay—this is not the right letter.”

My father seemed much hurried, and looked over his parcel of letters, while he went on, saying, “This is directed to William Harrington, instead of William Harrington Harrington. Never mind about that now, only I don’t like to open letters that don’t belong to me—here it is—run your eye over it as fast as you can, and tell me—for I stopped, as soon as I saw it was not to me—tell me how it is with Mowbray—I never liked the fellow, nor his mother either; but one can’t help pitying—and being shocked—shocked indeed I was, the moment I read the letter.”

The letter, which appeared to have been written in great perturbation, and at two or three different times, with different inks, was from a brother officer of Lord Mowbray’s. It began in a tolerably composed and legible hand, with an account of a duel, in which the writer of the letter said that he had been second to Lord Mowbray. His lordship had been wounded, but it was hoped he would do well. Then came the particulars of the duel, which the second stated, of course, as advantageously for himself and his principal as he could; but even by his own statement it appeared that Lord Mowbray had been the aggressor; that he had been intemperate; and, in short, entirely in the wrong: the person with whom he fought was a young officer, who had been his schoolfellow: the dispute had begun about some trivial old school quarrel, on the most nonsensical subject; something about a Jew boy of the name of Jacob, and a pencil-case; the young gentleman had appealed to the evidence of Mr. Harrington, whom he had lately met on a fishing-party, and who, he said, had a perfect recollection of the circumstance. Lord Mowbray grew angry; and in the heat of contradiction, which, as his second said, his lordship could never bear, he gave his opponent the lie direct. A duel was the necessary consequence. Lord Mowbray insisted on their firing across the table: his opponent was compelled to it. They fired, as it was agreed, at the same instant: Lord Mowbray fell. So far was written while the surgeon was with his patient. Afterwards, the letter went on in a more confused manner. The surgeon begged that Lord Mowbray’s friends might be informed, to prepare them for the event; but still there were hopes. Lord Mowbray had begun to write a letter to Mr. Harrington, but could not go on—had torn it to bits—and had desired the writer of the present letter to say, “that he could not go out of the world easy, without his forgiveness—to refer him to a woman of the name of Fowler, for explanation—a waiting-maid—a housekeeper now, in his mother’s family. Lord Mowbray assured Mr. Harrington, that he did not mean to have carried the jest (the word jest scratched out), the thing farther than to show him his power to break off matters, if he pleased—but he now repented.”

This dictated part of the letter was so confused, and so much like the delirium of a man in a fever, that I should certainly have concluded it to be without real meaning, had it not coincided with the words which Fowler had said to me. On turning over the page I saw a postscript—Lord Mowbray, at two o’clock that morning, had expired. His brother officer gave no particulars, and expressed little regret, but begged me to represent the affair properly; and added something about the lieutenant-colonelcy, which was blotted so much, either purposely or accidentally, that I could not read it.

My father, who was a truly humane man, was excessively shocked by the letter; and at first, so much engrossed by the account of the manner of the young man’s death, and by the idea of the shock and distress of the mother and sister, that he scarcely adverted to the unintelligible messages to me. He observed, indeed, that the writer of the letter seemed to be a fool, and to have very little feeling. We agreed that my mother was the fittest person to break the matter to poor Lady de Brantefield. If my mother should not feel herself equal to the task, my father said he would undertake it himself, though he had rather have a tooth pulled out than go through it.

We went together to my mother. We found her in hysterics, and Fowler beside her; my mother, the moment she saw us, recovered some recollection, and pushing Fowler from her with both her hands, she cried, “Take her away—out of my sight—out of my sight.” I took the hartshorn from Fowler, and bid her leave the room; ordering her, at her peril, not to leave the house.

“Why did you tell Mrs. Harrington so suddenly, Mrs. Fowler?” my father began, supposing that my mother’s hysterics were the consequence of having been told, too suddenly, the news of Lord Mowbray’s death.

“I did not tell her, sir; I never uttered a sentence of his lordship’s death.”

In her confusion, the woman betrayed her knowledge of the circumstance, though on her first speaking to me she had not mentioned it. While I assisted and soothed my mother, I heard my father questioning her. “She heard the news that morning, early, in a letter from Lord Mowbray’s gentleman—had not yet had the heart to mention it to her lady—believed she had given a hint of it to Lady Anne—was indeed so flurried, and still was so flurried—”

My father, perceiving that Fowler did not know what she was saying, good-naturedly attributed her confusion to her sorrow for her ladies; and did not wonder, he said, she was flurried: he was not nervous, but it had given him a shock. “Sit down, poor Fowler.”

The words caught my mother’s ear, who had now recovered her recollection completely; and with an effort, which I had never before seen her make, to command her own feelings—an effort, for which I thank her, as I knew it arose from her strong affection for me, she calmly said, “I will bear that woman—that fiend, in my sight, a few minutes longer, for your sake, Harrington, till her confession be put in writing and signed: this will, I suppose, be necessary.”

“I desire to know, directly, what all this means?” said my father, speaking in a certain repressed tone, which we and which Fowler knew to be the symptom of his being on the point of breaking out into violent anger.

“Oh! sir,” said Fowler, “I have been a very sad sinner; but indeed I was not so much to blame as them that knew better, and ought to know better—that bribed and deceived me, and lured me by promises to do that—to say that—but indeed I was made to believe it was all to end in no harm—only a jest.”

“A jest! Oh, wretch!” cried my mother.

“I was a wretch, indeed, ma’am; but Lord Mowbray was, you’ll allow, the wickedest.”

“And at the moment he is dead,” said my father, “is this a time—”

Fowler, terrified to her inmost coward soul at the sight of the powerful indignation which appeared in my father’s eyes, made an attempt to throw herself at his feet, but he caught strong hold of her arm.

“Tell me the plain fact at once, woman.”

Now she literally could not speak; she knew my father was violent, and dreaded lest what she had to say should incense him beyond all bounds.

My mother rose, and said that she would tell the plain fact.

Fowler, still more afraid that my mother should tell it—as she thought, I suppose, she could soften it best herself—interposed, saying, “Sir, if you will give me a moment’s time for recollection, sir, I will tell all. Dear sir, if one had committed murder, and was going to be put to death, one should have that much mercy shown—hard to be condemned unheard.”

My father let go her arm from his strong grasp, and sat down, resolved to be patient. It was just, he said, that she, that every human creature should be heard before they were condemned.

When she came to the facts, I was so much interested that I cannot recollect the exact words in which the account was given; but this was the substance. Lord Mowbray, when refused by Miss Montenero, had sworn that he would be revenged on her and on me. Indeed, from our first acquaintance with her, he had secretly determined to supplant me; and a circumstance soon occurred which served to suggest the means. He had once heard Miss Montenero express strongly her terror at seeing an insane person—her horror at the idea of a marriage which a young friend of hers had made with a man who was subject to fits of insanity. Upon this hint Mowbray set to work.

Before he opened his scheme to Fowler, he found how he could bribe her, as he thought, effectually, and secure her secrecy by making her an accomplice. Fowler had a mind to marry her daughter to a certain apothecary, who, though many years older than the girl, and quite old enough to be her father, was rich, and would raise her to be a lady. This apothecary lived in a country town near the Priory; the house, and ground belonging to it, which the apothecary rented, was on her ladyship’s estate, and would be the inheritance of Lord Mowbray. He promised that he would renew this lease to her future son-in-law, provided she and the apothecary continued to preserve his good opinion. His lordship had often questioned Fowler as to the strange nervous fits I had had when a boy. He had repeated all he had heard reported; and certainly exaggerated stories in abundance had, at the time, been circulated. Lord Mowbray affirmed that most people were of opinion it was insanity. Fowler admitted that was always her own opinion—Lord Mowbray supposed that was the secret reason for her quitting my mother’s service—it certainly was, though she was too delicate, and afraid at the time, to mention it. By degrees he worked Fowler partly to acquiesce in all he asserted, and to assert all he insinuated. The apothecary had been an apprentice to the London apothecary who attended me; he had seen me often at the time I was at the worst; he had heard the reports too, and he had heard opinions of medical men, and he was brought to assert whatever his future mother-in-law pleased, for he was much in love with the young girl. This combination was formed about the period when I first became attached to Miss Montenero: the last stroke had been given at the time when Mr. Montenero and Berenice were at General B——‘s, in Surrey. The general’s house was within a few miles of the country town in which the said apothecary lived; it was ten or twelve miles from the Priory, where Fowler was left, at that time, to take care of the place. The apothecary usually attended the chief families in the neighbourhood, and was recommended to General B——‘s family. Miss Montenero had a slight sore throat, and no physician being near, this apothecary was sent for; he made use of this opportunity, spoke of the friends he had formerly had in London, in particular of Mr. Harrington’s family, for whom he expressed much gratitude and attachment; inquired anxiously and mysteriously about young Mr. Harrington’s state of health. One day Miss Montenero and her father called at this apothecary’s, to see some curious things that had been found in a Roman bath, just dug up in the county of Surrey. Fowler, who had been apprised of the intended visit, was found in the little parlour behind the shop talking to the apothecary about poor young Mr. Harrington. While Mr. and Miss Montenero were looking at the Roman curiosities, Fowler contrived, in half sentences, to let out what she wished to be overheard about that poor young gentleman’s strange fits; and she questioned the apothecary whether they had come on ever very lately, and hoped that for the family’s sake, as well as his own, it would never break out publicly. All which observations and questions the apothecary seemed discreetly and mysteriously to evade answering. Fowler confessed that she could not get out on this occasion the whole of what she had been instructed to say, because Miss Montenero grew so pale, they thought she would have dropped on the floor.

The apothecary pretended to think the young lady had been made sick by the smell of the shop. It passed off—nothing more was done at that time. Mr. Montenero, before he left the house, made inquiries who Fowler was—learned that she had been, for many years, a servant in the Harrington family,—children’s maid. Her evidence, and that of the apothecary who had attended me in my extraordinary illness, agreed; and there seemed no reason to suspect its truth. Mr. and Miss Montenero went with a party from General B——‘s to see Brantefield Priory. Fowler attended the company through the house: Mr. Montenero took occasion to question her most minutely—asked, in particular, about a tapestry room—a picture of Sir Josseline and the Jew—received such answers as Lord Mowbray had prepared Fowler to give: so artfully had he managed, that his interference could not be suspected. Fowler pretended to know scarcely any thing of her young lord—she 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 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, Harrington, I can go no farther—not an inch—not an inch: sorry for it—but you know all I have said—by 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.”