“Gently--command yourself, and listen to reason and truth,” said Mr. Montenero, laying his hand on my arm. “Am I a man, do you think, to listen to base slander? Or, if I had listened to any such, could I speak to you with the esteem and confidence with which I have just spoken? Could I look at you with the tenderness and affection which I feel for you at this instant?” “Oh! Mr. Montenero,” said I, “you know how to touch me to the heart; but answer me one, only one question--has Lord Mowbray any thing to do with this, whatever it is?” “I have not seen or heard from him since I saw you last.” “Your word is sufficient,” said I. “Then I suspected him unjustly.” “Heaven forbid,” said Mr. Montenero, “that I should raise suspicion in a mind which, till now, I have always seen and thought to be above that meanness. The torture of suspense I must inflict, but inflict not on yourself the still worse torture of suspicion--ask me no farther questions--I can answer none--time alone can solve the difficulty. I have now to request that you will never more speak to me on this subject: as soon as my own mind is satisfied, depend upon it I shall let you know it. In the mean time I rely upon your prudence and your honour, that you will not declare your attachment to my daughter, that you will take no means, direct or indirect, to draw her into any engagement, or to win her affections: in short, I wish to see you here as a friend of mine--not a suitor of hers. If you are capable of this necessary self-control, continue your visits; but if this effort be beyond your power, I charge you, as you regard her happiness and your own, see her no more. Consider well, before you decide.” I had confidence in my own strength of mind and honour; I knew that want of resolution was not the defect of my character. Difficult as the conditions were, I submitted to them--I promised that if Mr. Montenero permitted me to continue my visits, I would strictly comply with all he desired. The moment I had given this promise, I was in haste to quit the room, lest Berenice should enter, before I had time to recover from the excessive agitation into which I had been thrown. Mr. Montenero followed me to the antechamber. “My daughter is not at home--she is taking an airing in the park. One word more before we part--one word more before we quit this painful subject,” said he: “do not, my dear young friend, waste your time, your ingenuity, in vain conjectures--you will not discover that which I cannot impart; nor would the discovery, if made, diminish the difficulty, or in the least add to your happiness, though it might to your misery. It depends not on your will to remove the obstacle--by no talents, no efforts of yours can it be obviated: one thing, and but one, is in your power--to command your own mind.” “Command my own mind! Oh! Mr. Montenero, how easy to say--how difficult to command the passions--such a passion!”