diff options
Diffstat (limited to '7412-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | 7412-0.txt | 17972 |
1 files changed, 17972 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/7412-0.txt b/7412-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6bf1122 --- /dev/null +++ b/7412-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,17972 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Coningsby, by Benjamin Disraeli + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Coningsby + +Author: Benjamin Disraeli + + +Release Date: February, 2005 [EBook #7412] +This file was first posted on April 25, 2003 +Last Updated: September 30, 2017 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONINGSBY *** + + + + +Produced by Anne Soulard, Tiffany Vergon, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + + + + + +CONINGSBY + +OR THE NEW GENERATION + +By Benjamin Disraeli + +Earl Of Beaconsfield + + + + +PUBLISHERS’ NOTE + + +As a novelist, Benjamin Disraeli belongs to the early part of the +nineteenth century. “Vivian Grey” (1826-27) and “Sybil” (1845) mark +the beginning and the end of his truly creative period; for the two +productions of his latest years, “Lothair” (1870) and “Endymion” (1880), +add nothing to the characteristics of his earlier volumes except the +changes of feeling and power which accompany old age. His period, thus, +is that of Bulwer, Dickens, and Thackeray, and of the later years of Sir +Walter Scott--a fact which his prominence as a statesman during the last +decade of his life, as well as the vogue of “Lothair” and “Endymion,” + has tended to obscure. His style, his material, and his views of English +character and life all date from that earlier time. He was born in 1804 +and died in 1881. + +“Coningsby; or, The New Generation,” published in 1844, is the best +of his novels, not as a story, but as a study of men, manners, and +principles. The plot is slight--little better than a device for +stringing together sketches of character and statements of political and +economic opinions; but these are always interesting and often brilliant. +The motive which underlies the book is political. It is, in brief, an +attempt to show that the political salvation of England was to be sought +in its aristocracy, but that this aristocracy was morally weak and +socially ineffective, and that it must mend its ways before its duty to +the state could be fulfilled. Interest in this aspect of the book has, +of course, to a large extent passed away with the political conditions +which it reflected. As a picture of aristocratic life in England in +the first part of the nineteenth century it has, however, enduring +significance and charm. Disraeli does not rank with the great writers +of English realistic fiction, but in this special field none of them +has surpassed him. From this point of view, accordingly, “Coningsby” is +appropriately included in this series. + + + + +TO HENRY HOPE + + +It is not because this work was conceived and partly executed amid the +glades and galleries of the DEEPDENE that I have inscribed it with your +name. Nor merely because I was desirous to avail myself of the most +graceful privilege of an author, and dedicate my work to the friend +whose talents I have always appreciated, and whose virtues I have ever +admired. + +But because in these pages I have endeavoured to picture something of +that development of the new and, as I believe, better mind of England, +that has often been the subject of our converse and speculation. + +In this volume you will find many a thought illustrated and many a +principle attempted to be established that we have often together +partially discussed and canvassed. + +Doubtless you may encounter some opinions with which you may not +agree, and some conclusions the accuracy of which you may find cause +to question. But if I have generally succeeded in my object, to scatter +some suggestions that may tend to elevate the tone of public life, +ascertain the true character of political parties, and induce us for +the future more carefully to distinguish between facts and phrases, +realities and phantoms, I believe that I shall gain your sympathy, for +I shall find a reflex to their efforts in your own generous spirit and +enlightened mind. + +GROSVENOR GATE: May Day 1844. + + + + +PREFACE + + +‘CONINGSBY’ was published in the year 1844. The main purpose of its +writer was to vindicate the just claims of the Tory party to be the +popular political confederation of the country; a purpose which he had, +more or less, pursued from a very early period of life. The occasion +was favourable to the attempt. The youthful mind of England had just +recovered from the inebriation of the great Conservative triumph of +1841, and was beginning to inquire what, after all, they had conquered +to preserve. It was opportune, therefore, to show that Toryism was not +a phrase, but a fact; and that our political institutions were the +embodiment of our popular necessities. This the writer endeavoured to do +without prejudice, and to treat of events and characters of which he had +some personal experience, not altogether without the impartiality of the +future. + +It was not originally the intention of the writer to adopt the form +of fiction as the instrument to scatter his suggestions, but, after +reflection, he resolved to avail himself of a method which, in the +temper of the times, offered the best chance of influencing opinion. + +In considering the Tory scheme, the author recognised in the CHURCH the +most powerful agent in the previous development of England, and the most +efficient means of that renovation of the national spirit at which +he aimed. The Church is a sacred corporation for the promulgation and +maintenance in Europe of certain Asian principles, which, although +local in their birth, are of divine origin, and of universal and eternal +application. + +In asserting the paramount character of the ecclesiastical polity and +the majesty of the theocratic principle, it became necessary to ascend +to the origin of the Christian Church, and to meet in a spirit worthy +of a critical and comparatively enlightened age, the position of the +descendants of that race who were the founders of Christianity. The +modern Jews had long laboured under the odium and stigma of mediaeval +malevolence. In the dark ages, when history was unknown, the passions +of societies, undisturbed by traditionary experience, were strong, and +their convictions, unmitigated by criticism, were necessarily fanatical. +The Jews were looked upon in the middle ages as an accursed race, the +enemies of God and man, the especial foes of Christianity. No one in +those days paused to reflect that Christianity was founded by the Jews; +that its Divine Author, in his human capacity, was a descendant of King +David; that his doctrines avowedly were the completion, not the change, +of Judaism; that the Apostles and the Evangelists, whose names men daily +invoked, and whose volumes they embraced with reverence, were all Jews; +that the infallible throne of Rome itself was established by a Jew; and +that a Jew was the founder of the Christian Churches of Asia. + +The European nations, relatively speaking, were then only recently +converted to a belief in Moses and in Christ; and, as it were, still +ashamed of the wild deities whom they had deserted, they thought they +atoned for their past idolatry by wreaking their vengeance on a race to +whom, and to whom alone, they were indebted for the Gospel they adored. + +In vindicating the sovereign right of the Church of Christ to be the +perpetual regenerator of man, the writer thought the time had arrived +when some attempt should be made to do justice to the race which had +founded Christianity. + +The writer has developed in another work [‘Tancred’) the views +respecting the great house of Israel which he first intimated in +‘Coningsby.’ No one has attempted to refute them, nor is refutation +possible; since all he has done is to examine certain facts in the truth +of which all agree, and to draw from them irresistible conclusions which +prejudice for a moment may shrink from, but which reason cannot refuse +to admit. + +D. + +GROSVENOR GATE: May 1894. + + + + +CONINGSBY + + + + +BOOK I. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +It was a bright May morning some twelve years ago, when a youth of still +tender age, for he had certainly not entered his teens by more than two +years, was ushered into the waiting-room of a house in the vicinity +of St. James’s Square, which, though with the general appearance of +a private residence, and that too of no very ambitious character, +exhibited at this period symptoms of being occupied for some public +purpose. + +The house-door was constantly open, and frequent guests even at this +early hour crossed the threshold. The hall-table was covered with sealed +letters; and the hall-porter inscribed in a book the name of every +individual who entered. + +The young gentleman we have mentioned found himself in a room which +offered few resources for his amusement. A large table amply covered +with writing materials, and a few chairs, were its sole furniture, +except the grey drugget that covered the floor, and a muddy mezzotinto +of the Duke of Wellington that adorned its cold walls. There was not +even a newspaper; and the only books were the Court Guide and the London +Directory. For some time he remained with patient endurance planted +against the wall, with his feet resting on the rail of his chair; but +at length in his shifting posture he gave evidence of his restlessness, +rose from his seat, looked out of the window into a small side court of +the house surrounded with dead walls, paced the room, took up the Court +Guide, changed it for the London Directory, then wrote his name over +several sheets of foolscap paper, drew various landscapes and faces of +his friends; and then, splitting up a pen or two, delivered himself of a +yawn which seemed the climax of his weariness. + +And yet the youth’s appearance did not betoken a character that, if +the opportunity had offered, could not have found amusement and even +instruction. His countenance, radiant with health and the lustre of +innocence, was at the same time thoughtful and resolute. The expression +of his deep blue eyes was serious. Without extreme regularity of +features, the face was one that would never have passed unobserved. His +short upper lip indicated a good breed; and his chestnut curls clustered +over his open brow, while his shirt-collar thrown over his shoulders +was unrestrained by handkerchief or ribbon. Add to this, a limber and +graceful figure, which the jacket of his boyish dress exhibited to great +advantage. + +Just as the youth, mounted on a chair, was adjusting the portrait of the +Duke, which he had observed to be awry, the gentleman for whom he had +been all this time waiting entered the room. + +‘Floreat Etona!’ hastily exclaimed the gentleman, in a sharp voice; ‘you +are setting the Duke to rights. I have left you a long time a prisoner; +but I found them so busy here, that I made my escape with some +difficulty.’ + +He who uttered these words was a man of middle size and age, originally +in all probability of a spare habit, but now a little inclined to +corpulency. Baldness, perhaps, contributed to the spiritual expression +of a brow, which was, however, essentially intellectual, and gave some +character of openness to a countenance which, though not ill-favoured, +was unhappily stamped by a sinister cast that was not to be mistaken. +His manner was easy, but rather audacious than well-bred. Indeed, while +a visage which might otherwise be described as handsome was spoilt by +a dishonest glance, so a demeanour that was by no means deficient in +self-possession and facility, was tainted by an innate vulgarity, which +in the long run, though seldom, yet surely developed itself. + +The youth had jumped off his chair on the entrance of the gentleman, and +then taking up his hat, said: + +‘Shall we go to grandpapa now, sir?’ + +‘By all means, my dear boy,’ said the gentleman, putting his arm within +that of the youth; and they were just on the point of leaving +the waiting-room, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and two +individuals, in a state of great excitement, rushed into the apartment. + +‘Rigby! Rigby!’ they both exclaimed at the same moment. ‘By G---- +they’re out!’ + +‘Who told you?’ + +‘The best authority; one of themselves.’ + +‘Who? who?’ + +‘Paul Evelyn; I met him as I passed Brookes’, and he told me that Lord +Grey had resigned, and the King had accepted his resignation.’ + +But Mr. Rigby, who, though very fond of news, and much interested in the +present, was extremely jealous of any one giving him information, was +sceptical. He declared that Paul Evelyn was always wrong; that it was +morally impossible that Paul Evelyn ever could be right; that he knew, +from the highest authority, that Lord Grey had been twice yesterday with +the King; that on the last visit nothing was settled; that if he had +been at the palace again to-day, he could not have been there before +twelve o’clock; that it was only now a quarter to one; that Lord Grey +would have called his colleagues together on his return; that at +least an hour must have elapsed before anything could possibly have +transpired. Then he compared and criticised the dates of every rumoured +incident of the last twenty-four hours, and nobody was stronger in dates +than Mr. Rigby; counted even the number of stairs which the minister +had to ascend and descend in his visit to the palace, and the time their +mountings and dismountings must have consumed, detail was Mr. Rigby’s +forte; and finally, what with his dates, his private information, his +knowledge of palace localities, his contempt for Paul Evelyn, and his +confidence in himself, he succeeded in persuading his downcast and +disheartened friends that their comfortable intelligence had not the +slightest foundation. + +They all left the room together; they were in the hall; the gentlemen +who brought the news looked somewhat depressed, but Mr. Rigby gay, even +amid the prostration of his party, from the consciousness that he had +most critically demolished a piece of political gossip and conveyed a +certain degree of mortification to a couple of his companions; when a +travelling carriage and four with a ducal coronet drove up to the house. +The door was thrown open, the steps dashed down, and a youthful noble +sprang from his chariot into the hall. + +‘Good morning, Rigby,’ said the Duke. + +‘I see your Grace well, I am sure,’ said Mr. Rigby, with a softened +manner. + +‘You have heard the news, gentlemen?’ the Duke continued. + +‘What news? Yes; no; that is to say, Mr. Rigby thinks--’ + +‘You know, of course, that Lord Lyndhurst is with the King?’ + +‘It is impossible,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘I don’t think I can be mistaken,’ said the Duke, smiling. + +‘I will show your Grace that it is impossible,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘Lord +Lyndhurst slept at Wimbledon. Lord Grey could not have seen the King +until twelve o’clock; it is now five minutes to one. It is impossible, +therefore, that any message from the King could have reached Lord +Lyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the palace at this moment.’ + +‘But my authority is a high one,’ said the Duke. + +‘Authority is a phrase,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘we must look to time and +place, dates and localities, to discover the truth.’ + +‘Your Grace was saying that your authority--’ ventured to observe Mr. +Tadpole, emboldened by the presence of a duke, his patron, to struggle +against the despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant. + +‘Was the highest,’ rejoined the Duke, smiling, ‘for it was Lord +Lyndhurst himself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, passed his +Lordship’s house in Hyde Park Place as he was getting into his carriage +in full dress, stopped my own, and learned in a breath that the Whigs +were out, and that the King had sent for the Chief Baron. So I came on +here at once.’ + +‘I always thought the country was sound at bottom,’ exclaimed Mr. Taper, +who, under the old system, had sneaked into the Treasury Board. + +Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither of them ever despaired +of the Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill were passed, Taper was +convinced that the Whigs would never prove men of business; and when his +friends confessed among themselves that a Tory Government was for the +future impossible, Taper would remark, in a confidential whisper, that +for his part he believed before the year was over the Whigs would be +turned out by the clerks. + +‘There is no doubt that there is considerable reaction,’ said Mr. +Tadpole. The infamous conduct of the Whigs in the Amersham case has +opened the public mind more than anything.’ + +‘Aldborough was worse,’ said Mr. Taper. + +‘Terrible,’ said Tadpole. ‘They said there was no use discussing the +Reform Bill in our House. I believe Rigby’s great speech on Aldborough +has done more towards the reaction than all the violence of the +Political Unions put together.’ + +‘Let us hope for the best,’ said the Duke, mildly. ‘’Tis a bold step on +the part of the Sovereign, and I am free to say I could have wished it +postponed; but we must support the King like men. What say you, Rigby? +You are silent.’ + +‘I am thinking how very unfortunate it was that I did not breakfast with +Lyndhurst this morning, as I was nearly doing, instead of going down to +Eton.’ + +‘To Eton! and why to Eton?’ + +‘For the sake of my young friend here, Lord Monmouth’s grandson. By the +bye, you are kinsmen. Let me present to your Grace, MR. CONINGSBY.’ + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The political agitation which for a year and a half had shaken England +to its centre, received, if possible, an increase to its intensity and +virulence, when it was known, in the early part of the month of May, +1832, that the Prime Minister had tendered his resignation to the King, +which resignation had been graciously accepted. + +The amendment carried by the Opposition in the House of Lords on the +evening of the 7th of May, that the enfranchising clauses of the +Reform Bill should be considered before entering into the question of +disfranchisement, was the immediate cause of this startling event. The +Lords had previously consented to the second reading of the Bill with +the view of preventing that large increase of their numbers with which +they had been long menaced; rather, indeed, by mysterious rumours than +by any official declaration; but, nevertheless, in a manner which had +carried conviction to no inconsiderable portion of the Opposition that +the threat was not without foundation. + +During the progress of the Bill through the Lower House, the journals +which were looked upon as the organs of the ministry had announced with +unhesitating confidence, that Lord Grey was armed with what was then +called a ‘carte blanche’ to create any number of peers necessary to +insure its success. But public journalists who were under the control of +the ministry, and whose statements were never contradicted, were not +the sole authorities for this prevailing belief. Members of the House of +Commons, who were strong supporters of the cabinet, though not connected +with it by any official tie, had unequivocally stated in their places +that the Sovereign had not resisted the advice of his counsellors to +create peers, if such creation were required to carry into effect what +was then styled ‘the great national measure.’ In more than one instance, +ministers had been warned, that if they did not exercise that power with +prompt energy, they might deserve impeachment. And these intimations and +announcements had been made in the presence of leading members of the +Government, and had received from them, at least, the sanction of their +silence. + +It did not subsequently appear that the Reform ministers had been +invested with any such power; but a conviction of the reverse, fostered +by these circumstances, had successfully acted upon the nervous +temperament, or the statesman-like prudence, of a certain section of the +peers, who consequently hesitated in their course; were known as being +no longer inclined to pursue their policy of the preceding session; had +thus obtained a title at that moment in everybody’s mouth, the title of +‘THE WAVERERS.’ + +Notwithstanding, therefore, the opposition of the Duke of Wellington and +of Lord Lyndhurst, the Waverers carried the second reading of the Reform +Bill; and then, scared at the consequences of their own headstrong +timidity, they went in a fright to the Duke and his able adviser to +extricate them from the inevitable result of their own conduct. +The ultimate device of these distracted counsels, where daring and +poltroonery, principle and expediency, public spirit and private +intrigue, each threw an ingredient into the turbulent spell, was the +celebrated and successful amendment to which we have referred. + +But the Whig ministers, who, whatever may have been their faults, were +at least men of intellect and courage, were not to be beaten by ‘the +Waverers.’ They might have made terms with an audacious foe; they +trampled on a hesitating opponent. Lord Grey hastened to the palace. + +Before the result of this appeal to the Sovereign was known, for its +effects were not immediate, on the second morning after the vote in the +House of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made that visit to Eton which had summoned +very unexpectedly the youthful Coningsby to London. He was the orphan +child of the youngest of the two sons of the Marquess of Monmouth. It +was a family famous for its hatreds. The eldest son hated his father; +and, it was said, in spite had married a lady to whom that father was +attached, and with whom Lord Monmouth then meditated a second alliance. +This eldest son lived at Naples, and had several children, but +maintained no connection either with his parent or his native country. +On the other hand, Lord Monmouth hated his younger son, who had married, +against his consent, a woman to whom that son was devoted. A system of +domestic persecution, sustained by the hand of a master, had eventually +broken up the health of its victim, who died of a fever in a foreign +country, where he had sought some refuge from his creditors. + +His widow returned to England with her child; and, not having a +relation, and scarcely an acquaintance in the world, made an appeal to +her husband’s father, the wealthiest noble in England and a man who was +often prodigal, and occasionally generous. After some time, and +more trouble, after urgent and repeated, and what would have seemed +heart-rending, solicitations, the attorney of Lord Monmouth called +upon the widow of his client’s son, and informed her of his Lordship’s +decision. Provided she gave up her child, and permanently resided in +one of the remotest counties, he was authorised to make her, in four +quarterly payments, the yearly allowance of three hundred pounds, that +being the income that Lord Monmouth, who was the shrewdest accountant in +the country, had calculated a lone woman might very decently exist upon +in a small market town in the county of Westmoreland. + +Desperate necessity, the sense of her own forlornness, the utter +impossibility to struggle with an omnipotent foe, who, her husband had +taught her, was above all scruples, prejudices, and fears, and who, +though he respected law, despised opinion, made the victim yield. But +her sufferings were not long; the separation from her child, the bleak +clime, the strange faces around her, sharp memory, and the dull routine +of an unimpassioned life, all combined to wear out a constitution +originally frail, and since shattered by many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby +died the same day that her father-in-law was made a Marquess. He +deserved his honours. The four votes he had inherited in the House of +Commons had been increased, by his intense volition and unsparing means, +to ten; and the very day he was raised to his Marquisate, he commenced +sapping fresh corporations, and was working for the strawberry leaf. His +honours were proclaimed in the London Gazette, and her decease was not +even noticed in the County Chronicle; but the altars of Nemesis are +beneath every outraged roof, and the death of this unhappy lady, +apparently without an earthly friend or an earthly hope, desolate and +deserted, and dying in obscure poverty, was not forgotten. + +Coningsby was not more than nine years of age when he lost his last +parent; and he had then been separated from her for nearly three years. +But he remembered the sweetness of his nursery days. His mother, +too, had written to him frequently since he quitted her, and her fond +expressions had cherished the tenderness of his heart. He wept bitterly +when his schoolmaster broke to him the news of his mother’s death. True +it was they had been long parted, and their prospect of again meeting +was vague and dim; but his mother seemed to him his only link to human +society. It was something to have a mother, even if he never saw her. +Other boys went to see their mothers! he, at least, could talk of his. +Now he was alone. His grandfather was to him only a name. Lord Monmouth +resided almost constantly abroad, and during his rare visits to England +had found no time or inclination to see the orphan, with whom he felt +no sympathy. Even the death of the boy’s mother, and the consequent +arrangements, were notified to his master by a stranger. The letter +which brought the sad intelligence was from Mr. Rigby. It was the first +time that name had been known to Coningsby. + +Mr. Rigby was member for one of Lord Monmouth’s boroughs. He was the +manager of Lord Monmouth’s parliamentary influence, and the auditor of +his vast estates. He was more; he was Lord Monmouth’s companion when in +England, his correspondent when abroad; hardly his counsellor, for Lord +Monmouth never required advice; but Mr. Rigby could instruct him +in matters of detail, which Mr. Rigby made amusing. Rigby was not a +professional man; indeed, his origin, education, early pursuits, and +studies, were equally obscure; but he had contrived in good time to +squeeze himself into parliament, by means which no one could ever +comprehend, and then set up to be a perfect man of business. The world +took him at his word, for he was bold, acute, and voluble; with no +thought, but a good deal of desultory information; and though destitute +of all imagination and noble sentiment, was blessed with a vigorous, +mendacious fancy, fruitful in small expedients, and never happier than +when devising shifts for great men’s scrapes. + +They say that all of us have one chance in this life, and so it was with +Rigby. After a struggle of many years, after a long series of the +usual alternatives of small successes and small failures, after a +few cleverish speeches and a good many cleverish pamphlets, with a +considerable reputation, indeed, for pasquinades, most of which he +never wrote, and articles in reviews to which it was whispered he had +contributed, Rigby, who had already intrigued himself into a subordinate +office, met with Lord Monmouth. + +He was just the animal that Lord Monmouth wanted, for Lord Monmouth +always looked upon human nature with the callous eye of a jockey. He +surveyed Rigby; and he determined to buy him. He bought him; with his +clear head, his indefatigable industry, his audacious tongue, and his +ready and unscrupulous pen; with all his dates, all his lampoons; all +his private memoirs, and all his political intrigues. It was a good +purchase. Rigby became a great personage, and Lord Monmouth’s man. + +Mr. Rigby, who liked to be doing a great many things at the same time, +and to astonish the Tadpoles and Tapers with his energetic versatility, +determined to superintend the education of Coningsby. It was a relation +which identified him with the noble house of his pupil, or, properly +speaking, his charge: for Mr. Rigby affected rather the graceful dignity +of the governor than the duties of a tutor. The boy was recalled +from his homely, rural school, where he had been well grounded by +a hard-working curate, and affectionately tended by the curate’s +unsophisticated wife. He was sent to a fashionable school preparatory +to Eton, where he found about two hundred youths of noble families +and connections, lodged in a magnificent villa, that had once been +the retreat of a minister, superintended by a sycophantic Doctor of +Divinity, already well beneficed, and not despairing of a bishopric by +favouring the children of the great nobles. The doctor’s lady, clothed +in cashmeres, sometimes inquired after their health, and occasionally +received a report as to their linen. + +Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant from this establishment, +which he esteemed a Tusculum. There, surrounded by his busts and books, +he wrote his lampoons and articles; massacred a she liberal (it was +thought that no one could lash a woman like Rigby), cut up a rising +genius whose politics were different from his own, or scarified some +unhappy wretch who had brought his claims before parliament, proving, +by garbled extracts from official correspondence that no one could refer +to, that the malcontent instead of being a victim, was, on the contrary, +a defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a ‘slashing reply’ +against the field. Here, too, at the end of a busy week, he found it +occasionally convenient to entertain a clever friend or two of equivocal +reputation, with whom he had become acquainted in former days of equal +brotherhood. No one was more faithful to his early friends than Mr. +Rigby, particularly if they could write a squib. + +It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rigby found time enough, +snatched from the toils of official life and parliamentary struggles, +to compose a letter on the study of History, addressed to Coningsby. +The style was as much like that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been +written by the authors of the ‘Rejected Addresses,’ and it began, ‘My +dear young friend.’ This polished composition, so full of good feeling +and comprehensive views, and all in the best taste, was not published. +It was only privately printed, and a few thousand copies were +distributed among select personages as an especial favour and mark +of high consideration. Each copy given away seemed to Rigby like a +certificate of character; a property which, like all men of dubious +repute, he thoroughly appreciated. Rigby intrigued very much that the +headmaster of Eton should adopt his discourse as a class-book. For this +purpose he dined with the Doctor, told him several anecdotes of the +King, which intimated personal influence at Windsor; but the headmaster +was inflexible, and so Mr. Rigby was obliged to be content with +having his Letter on History canonized as a classic in the Preparatory +Seminary, where the individual to whom it was addressed was a scholar. + +This change in the life of Coningsby contributed to his happiness. The +various characters which a large school exhibited interested a young +mind whose active energies were beginning to stir. His previous +acquirements made his studies light; and he was fond of sports, in which +he was qualified to excel. He did not particularly like Mr. Rigby. There +was something jarring and grating in that gentleman’s voice and modes, +from which the chords of the young heart shrank. He was not tender, +though perhaps he wished to be; scarcely kind: but he was good-natured, +at least to children. However, this connection was, on the whole, an +agreeable one for Coningsby. He seemed suddenly to have friends: he +never passed his holydays again at school. Mr. Rigby was so clever that +he contrived always to quarter Coningsby on the father of one of his +school-fellows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows and all their +fathers. Mr. Rigby also called to see him, not unfrequently would give +him a dinner at the Star and Garter, or even have him up to town for +a week to Whitehall. Compared with his former forlorn existence, these +were happy days, when he was placed under the gallery as a member’s son, +or went to the play with the butler! + +When Coningsby had attained his twelfth year, an order was received from +Lord Monmouth, who was at Rome, that he should go at once to Eton. +This was the first great epoch of his life. There never was a youth +who entered into that wonderful little world with more eager zest than +Coningsby. Nor was it marvellous. + +That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful +culture; hamlet and hall and grange; garden and grove and park; that +castle-palace, grey with glorious ages; those antique spires, hoar with +faith and wisdom, the chapel and the college; that river winding through +the shady meads; the sunny glade and the solemn avenue; the room in the +Dame’s house where we first order our own breakfast and first feel we +are free; the stirring multitude, the energetic groups, the individual +mind that leads, conquers, controls; the emulation and the affection; +the noble strife and the tender sentiment; the daring exploit and the +dashing scrape; the passion that pervades our life, and breathes in +everything, from the aspiring study to the inspiring sport: oh! what +hereafter can spur the brain and touch the heart like this; can give us +a world so deeply and variously interesting; a life so full of quick and +bright excitement, passed in a scene so fair? + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +Lord Monmouth, who detested popular tumults as much as he despised +public opinion, had remained during the agitating year of 1831 in his +luxurious retirement in Italy, contenting himself with opposing the +Reform Bill by proxy. But when his correspondent, Mr. Rigby, had +informed him, in the early part of the spring of 1832, of the +probability of a change in the tactics of the Tory party, and that +an opinion was becoming prevalent among their friends, that the great +scheme must be defeated in detail rather than again withstood on +principle, his Lordship, who was never wanting in energy when his own +interests were concerned, immediately crossed the Alps, and travelled +rapidly to England. He indulged a hope that the weight of his presence +and the influence of his strong character, which was at once shrewd and +courageous, might induce his friends to relinquish their half measure, +a course to which his nature was repugnant. At all events, if they +persisted in their intention, and the Bill went into committee, his +presence was indispensable, for in that stage of a parliamentary +proceeding proxies become ineffective. + +The counsels of Lord Monmouth, though they coincided with those of the +Duke of Wellington, did not prevail with the Waverers. Several of these +high-minded personages had had their windows broken, and they were of +opinion that a man who lived at Naples was not a competent judge of the +state of public feeling in England. Besides, the days are gone by for +senates to have their beards plucked in the forum. We live in an age of +prudence. The leaders of the people, now, generally follow. The truth +is, the peers were in a fright. ‘Twas a pity; there is scarcely a less +dignified entity than a patrician in a panic. + +Among the most intimate companions of Coningsby at Eton, was Lord Henry +Sydney, his kinsman. Coningsby had frequently passed his holydays of +late at Beaumanoir, the seat of the Duke, Lord Henry’s father. The +Duke sat next to Lord Monmouth during the debate on the enfranchising +question, and to while away the time, and from kindness of disposition, +spoke, and spoke with warmth and favour, of his grandson. The polished +Lord Monmouth bowed as if he were much gratified by this notice of one +so dear to him. He had too much tact to admit that he had never yet +seen his grandchild; but he asked some questions as to his progress +and pursuits, his tastes and habits, which intimated the interest of an +affectionate relative. + +Nothing, however, was ever lost upon Lord Monmouth. No one had a more +retentive memory, or a more observant mind. And the next day, when he +received Mr. Rigby at his morning levee, Lord Monmouth performed this +ceremony in the high style of the old court, and welcomed his visitors +in bed, he said with imperturbable calmness, and as if he had been +talking of trying a new horse, ‘Rigby, I should like to see the boy at +Eton.’ + +There might be some objection to grant leave to Coningsby at this +moment; but it was a rule with Mr. Rigby never to make difficulties, or +at least to persuade his patron that he, and he only, could remove +them. He immediately undertook that the boy should be forthcoming, and +notwithstanding the excitement of the moment, he went off next morning +to fetch him. + +They arrived in town rather early; and Rigby, wishing to know how +affairs were going on, ordered the servant to drive immediately to the +head-quarters of the party; where a permanent committee watched every +phasis of the impending revolution; and where every member of the +Opposition, of note and trust, was instantly admitted to receive or to +impart intelligence. + +It was certainly not without emotion that Coningsby contemplated his +first interview with his grandfather. All his experience of the ties of +relationship, however limited, was full of tenderness and rapture. His +memory often dwelt on his mother’s sweet embrace; and ever and anon a +fitful phantom of some past passage of domestic love haunted his gushing +heart. The image of his father was less fresh in his mind; but still +it was associated with a vague sentiment of kindness and joy; and the +allusions to her husband in his mother’s letters had cherished these +impressions. To notice lesser sources of influence in his estimate of +the domestic tie, he had witnessed under the roof of Beaumanoir the +existence of a family bound together by the most beautiful affections. +He could not forget how Henry Sydney was embraced by his sisters when he +returned home; what frank and fraternal love existed between his kinsman +and his elder brother; how affectionately the kind Duke had welcomed his +son once more to the house where they had both been born; and the dim +eyes, and saddened brows, and tones of tenderness, which rather looked +than said farewell, when they went back to Eton. + +And these rapturous meetings and these mournful adieus were occasioned +only by a separation at the most of a few months, softened by constant +correspondence and the communication of mutual sympathy. But Coningsby +was to meet a relation, his near, almost his only, relation, for the +first time; the relation, too, to whom he owed maintenance, education; +it might be said, existence. It was a great incident for a great drama; +something tragical in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the +imagination of the boy could not be insensible to its materials; and +Coningsby was picturing to himself a beneficent and venerable gentleman +pressing to his breast an agitated youth, when his reverie was broken by +the carriage stopping before the gates of Monmouth House. + +The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage rolled into +a huge court-yard. At its end Coningsby beheld a Palladian palace, with +wings and colonnades encircling the court. + +A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall, adorned +with colossal busts of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco by Sir James +Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of gods and heroes. It led +into a vestibule, painted in arabesques, hung with Venetian girandoles, +and looking into gardens. Opening a door in this chamber, and proceeding +some little way down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at +the base of a private staircase. Ascending a few steps, they reached a +landing-place hung with tapestry. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened a +door, and ushered Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a small saloon, +of beautiful proportions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate +taste. + +‘You will find more to amuse you here than where you were before,’ said +Mr. Rigby, ‘and I shall not be nearly so long absent.’ So saying, he +entered into an inner apartment. + +The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue satin, held, +in silver panels, portraits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher. +Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in every quarter to +luxurious repose; while amusement was afforded by tables covered with +caricatures, French novels, and endless miniatures of foreign dancers, +princesses, and sovereigns. + +But Coningsby was so impressed with the impending interview with his +grandfather, that he neither sought nor required diversion. Now that the +crisis was at hand, he felt agitated and nervous, and wished that he was +again at Eton. The suspense was sickening, yet he dreaded still more the +summons. He was not long alone; the door opened; he started, grew pale; +he thought it was his grandfather; it was not even Mr. Rigby. It was +Lord Monmouth’s valet. + +‘Monsieur Konigby?’ + +‘My name is Coningsby,’ said the boy. + +‘Milor is ready to receive you,’ said the valet. + +Coningsby sprang forward with that desperation which the scaffold +requires. His face was pale; his hand was moist; his heart beat with +tumult. He had occasionally been summoned by Dr. Keate; that, too, +was awful work, but compared with the present, a morning visit. Music, +artillery, the roar of cannon, and the blare of trumpets, may urge a man +on to a forlorn hope; ambition, one’s constituents, the hell of previous +failure, may prevail on us to do a more desperate thing; speak in the +House of Commons; but there are some situations in life, such, for +instance, as entering the room of a dentist, in which the prostration of +the nervous system is absolute. + +The moment had at length arrived when the desolate was to find a +benefactor, the forlorn a friend, the orphan a parent; when the youth, +after a childhood of adversity, was to be formally received into the +bosom of the noble house from which he had been so long estranged, and +at length to assume that social position to which his lineage entitled +him. Manliness might support, affection might soothe, the happy anguish +of such a meeting; but it was undoubtedly one of those situations +which stir up the deep fountains of our nature, and before which the +conventional proprieties of our ordinary manners instantaneously vanish. + +Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his guide through a +bed-chamber, the sumptuousness of which he could not notice, into +the dressing-room of Lord Monmouth. Mr. Rigby, facing Coningsby as +he entered, was leaning over the back of a large chair, from which as +Coningsby was announced by the valet, the Lord of the house slowly rose, +for he was suffering slightly from the gout, his left hand resting on +an ivory stick. Lord Monmouth was in height above the middle size, but +somewhat portly and corpulent. His countenance was strongly marked; +sagacity on the brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw. His head was +bald, but there were remains of the rich brown locks on which he once +prided himself. His large deep blue eye, madid and yet piercing, +showed that the secretions of his brain were apportioned, half to +voluptuousness, half to common sense. But his general mien was truly +grand; full of a natural nobility, of which no one was more sensible +than himself. Lord Monmouth was not in dishabille; on the contrary, his +costume was exact, and even careful. Rising as we have mentioned when +his grandson entered, and leaning with his left hand on his ivory cane, +he made Coningsby such a bow as Louis Quatorze might have bestowed on +the ambassador of the United Provinces. Then extending his right hand, +which the boy tremblingly touched, Lord Monmouth said: + +‘How do you like Eton?’ + +This contrast to the reception which he had imagined, hoped, feared, +paralysed the reviving energies of young Coningsby. He felt stupefied; +he looked almost aghast. In the chaotic tumult of his mind, his memory +suddenly seemed to receive some miraculous inspiration. Mysterious +phrases heard in his earliest boyhood, unnoticed then, long since +forgotten, rose to his ear. Who was this grandfather, seen not before, +seen now for the first time? Where was the intervening link of blood +between him and this superb and icy being? The boy sank into the chair +which had been placed for him, and leaning on the table burst into +tears. + +Here was a business! If there were one thing which would have made Lord +Monmouth travel from London to Naples at four-and-twenty hours’ notice, +it was to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. He hated feelings. He saw +instantly the mistake he had made in sending for his grandchild. He +was afraid that Coningsby was tender-hearted like his father. Another +tender-hearted Coningsby! Unfortunate family! Degenerate race! He +decided in his mind that Coningsby must be provided for in the Church, +and looked at Mr. Rigby, whose principal business it always was to +disembarrass his patron from the disagreeable. + +Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly led the boy into the +adjoining apartment, Lord Monmouth’s bedchamber, closing the door of the +dressing-room behind him. + +‘My dear young friend,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘what is all this?’ + +A sob the only answer. + +‘What can be the matter?’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘I was thinking,’ said Coningsby, ‘of poor mamma!’ + +‘Hush!’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘Lord Monmouth never likes to hear of people +who are dead; so you must take care never to mention your mother or your +father.’ + +In the meantime Lord Monmouth had decided on the fate of Coningsby. The +Marquis thought he could read characters by a glance, and in general +he was successful, for his natural sagacity had been nurtured by great +experience. His grandson was not to his taste; amiable no doubt, but +spooney. + +We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily read. +‘Tis a mystery the most profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly +make as to the nature of their own offspring, bred, too, under their +eyes, and displaying every hour their characteristics. How often in the +nursery does the genius count as a dunce because he is pensive; while a +rattling urchin is invested with almost supernatural qualities because +his animal spirits make him impudent and flippant! The school-boy, above +all others, is not the simple being the world imagines. In that young +bosom are often stirring passions as strong as our own, desires not less +violent, a volition not less supreme. In that young bosom what burning +love, what intense ambition, what avarice, what lust of power; envy that +fiends might emulate, hate that man might fear! + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +‘Come,’ said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby was somewhat composed, ‘come with +me and we will see the house.’ + +So they descended once more the private staircase, and again entered the +vestibule. + +‘If you had seen these gardens when they were illuminated for a fête to +George IV.,’ said Rigby, as crossing the chamber he ushered his charge +into the state apartments. The splendour and variety of the surrounding +objects soon distracted the attention of the boy, for the first time in +the palace of his fathers. He traversed saloon after saloon hung with +rare tapestry and the gorgeous products of foreign looms; filled with +choice pictures and creations of curious art; cabinets that sovereigns +might envy, and colossal vases of malachite presented by emperors. +Coningsby alternately gazed up to ceilings glowing with color and with +gold, and down upon carpets bright with the fancies and vivid with the +tints of Aubusson and of Axminster. + +‘This grandfather of mine is a great prince,’ thought Coningsby, as +musing he stood before a portrait in which he recognised the features of +the being from whom he had so recently and so strangely parted. There +he stood, Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, in his robes of state, +with his new coronet on a table near him, a despatch lying at hand that +indicated the special mission of high ceremony of which he had been the +illustrious envoy, and the garter beneath his knee. + +‘You will have plenty of opportunities to look at the pictures,’ said +Rigby, observing that the boy had now quite recovered himself. ‘Some +luncheon will do you no harm after our drive;’ and he opened the door of +another apartment. + +It was a pretty room adorned with a fine picture of the chase; at a +round table in the centre sat two ladies interested in the meal to which +Rigby had alluded. + +‘Ah, Mr. Rigby!’ said the eldest, yet young and beautiful, and speaking, +though with fluency, in a foreign accent, ‘come and tell me some news. +Have you seen Milor?’ and then she threw a scrutinizing glance from a +dark flashing eye at his companion. + +‘Let me present to your Highness,’ said Rigby, with an air of some +ceremony, ‘Mr. Coningsby.’ + +‘My dear young friend,’ said the lady, extending her white hand with +an air of joyous welcome, ‘this is Lucretia, my daughter. We love you +already. Lord Monmouth will be so charmed to see you. What beautiful +eyes he has, Mr. Rigby. Quite like Milor.’ + +The young lady, who was really more youthful than Coningsby, but of a +form and stature so developed that she appeared almost a woman, bowed +to the guest with some ceremony, and a faint sullen smile, and then +proceeded with her Perigord pie. + +‘You must be so hungry after your drive,’ said the elder lady, placing +Coningsby at her side, and herself filling his plate. + +This was true enough; and while Mr. Rigby and the lady talked an +infinite deal about things which he did not understand, and persons +of whom he had never heard, our little hero made his first meal in his +paternal house with no ordinary zest; and renovated by the pasty and +a glass of sherry, felt altogether a different being from what he +was, when he had undergone the terrible interview in which he began to +reflect he had considerably exposed himself. His courage revived, +his senses rallied, he replied to the interrogations of the lady with +calmness, but with promptness and propriety. It was evident that he had +made a favourable impression on her Highness, for ever and anon she put +a truffle or some delicacy in his plate, and insisted upon his taking +some particular confectionery, because it was a favourite of her own. +When she rose, she said,-- + +‘In ten minutes the carriage will be at the door; and if you like, my +dear young friend, you shall be our beau.’ + +‘There is nothing I should like so much,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Ah!’ said the lady, with the sweetest smile, ‘he is frank.’ + +The ladies bowed and retired; Mr. Rigby returned to the Marquess, and +the groom of the chambers led Coningsby to his room. + +This lady, so courteous to Coningsby, was the Princess Colonna, a Roman +dame, the second wife of Prince Paul Colonna. The prince had first +married when a boy, and into a family not inferior to his own. Of this +union, in every respect unhappy, the Princess Lucretia was the sole +offspring. He was a man dissolute and devoted to play; and cared for +nothing much but his pleasures and billiards, in which latter he was +esteemed unrivalled. According to some, in a freak of passion, according +to others, to cancel a gambling debt, he had united himself to his +present wife, whose origin was obscure; but with whom he contrived to +live on terms of apparent cordiality, for she was much admired, and +made the society of her husband sought by those who contributed to his +enjoyment. Among these especially figured the Marquess of Monmouth, +between whom and Prince Colonna the world recognised as existing the +most intimate and entire friendship, so that his Highness and his family +were frequent guests under the roof of the English nobleman, and now +accompanied him on a visit to England. + + + +CHAPTER V. + +In the meantime, while ladies are luncheoning on Perigord pie, or +coursing in whirling britskas, performing all the singular ceremonies of +a London morning in the heart of the season; making visits where nobody +is seen, and making purchases which are not wanted; the world is in +agitation and uproar. At present the world and the confusion are limited +to St. James’s Street and Pall Mall; but soon the boundaries and the +tumult will be extended to the intended metropolitan boroughs; to-morrow +they will spread over the manufacturing districts. It is perfectly +evident, that before eight-and-forty hours have passed, the country will +be in a state of fearful crisis. And how can it be otherwise? Is it not +a truth that the subtle Chief Baron has been closeted one whole hour +with the King; that shortly after, with thoughtful brow and compressed +lip, he was marked in his daring chariot entering the courtyard of +Apsley House? Great was the panic at Brookes’, wild the hopes of +Carlton Terrace; all the gentlemen who expected to have been made peers +perceived that the country was going to be given over to a rapacious +oligarchy. + +In the meantime Tadpole and Taper, who had never quitted for an instant +the mysterious head-quarters of the late Opposition, were full of +hopes and fears, and asked many questions, which they chiefly answered +themselves. + +‘I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to the king,’ said Taper. + +‘He has plenty of pluck,’ said Tadpole. + +‘I almost wish now that Rigby had breakfasted with him this morning,’ +said Taper. + +‘If the King be firm, and the country sound,’ said Tadpole, ‘and Lord +Monmouth keep his boroughs, I should not wonder to see Rigby made a +privy councillor.’ + +‘There is no precedent for an under-secretary being a privy councillor,’ +said Taper. + +‘But we live in revolutionary times,’ said Tadpole. + +‘Gentlemen,’ said the groom of the chambers, in a loud voice, entering +the room, ‘I am desired to state that the Duke of Wellington is with the +King.’ + +‘There _is_ a Providence!’ exclaimed an agitated gentleman, the patent +of whose intended peerage had not been signed the day that the Duke had +quited office in 1830. + +‘I always thought the King would be firm,’ said Mr. Tadpole. + +‘I wonder who will have the India Board,’ said Taper. + +At this moment three or four gentlemen entered the room in a state of +great bustle and excitement; they were immediately surrounded. + +‘Is it true?’ ‘Quite true; not the slightest doubt. Saw him myself. Not +at all hissed; certainly not hooted. Perhaps a little hissed. One +fellow really cheered him. Saw him myself. Say what they like, there is +reaction.’ ‘But Constitution Hill, they say?’ ‘Well, there was a sort +of inclination to a row on Constitution Hill; but the Duke quite firm; +pistols, and carriage doors bolted.’ + +Such may give a faint idea of the anxious inquiries and the satisfactory +replies that were occasioned by the entrance of this group. + +‘Up, guards, and at them!’ exclaimed Tadpole, rubbing his hands in a fit +of patriotic enthusiasm. + +Later in the afternoon, about five o’clock, the high change of political +gossip, when the room was crowded, and every one had his rumour, Mr. +Rigby looked in again to throw his eye over the evening papers, and +catch in various chit-chat the tone of public or party feeling on the +‘crisis.’ Then it was known that the Duke had returned from the +King, having accepted the charge of forming an administration. An +administration to do what? Portentous question! Were concessions to +be made? And if so, what? Was it altogether impossible, and too late, +‘stare super vias antiquas?’ Questions altogether above your Tadpoles +and your Tapers, whose idea of the necessities of the age was that they +themselves should be in office. + +Lord Eskdale came up to Mr. Rigby. This peer was a noble Croesus, +acquainted with all the gradations of life; a voluptuary who could be a +Spartan; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious; the best judge in the +world of a horse or a man; he was the universal referee; a quarrel about +a bet or a mistress was solved by him in a moment, and in a manner which +satisfied both parties. He patronised and appreciated the fine arts, +though a jockey; respected literary men, though he only read French +novels; and without any affectation of tastes which he did not possess, +was looked upon by every singer and dancer in Europe as their natural +champion. The secret of his strong character and great influence was his +self-composure, which an earthquake or a Reform Bill could not disturb, +and which in him was the result of temperament and experience. He was +an intimate acquaintance of Lord Monmouth, for they had many tastes +in common; were both men of considerable, and in some degree similar +abilities; and were the two greatest proprietors of close boroughs in +the country. + +‘Do you dine at Monmouth House to-day?’ inquired Lord Eskdale of Mr. +Rigby. + +‘Where I hope to meet your lordship. The Whig papers are very subdued,’ +continued Mr. Rigby. + +‘Ah! they have not the cue yet,’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘And what do you think of affairs?’ inquired his companion. + +‘I think the hounds are too hot to hark off now,’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘There is one combination,’ said Rigby, who seemed meditating an attack +on Lord Eskdale’s button. + +‘Give it us at dinner,’ said Lord Eskdale, who knew his man, and made an +adroit movement forwards, as if he were very anxious to see the _Globe_ +newspaper. + +In the course of two or three hours these gentlemen met again in the +green drawing-room of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was sitting on a sofa +by Lord Monmouth, detailing in whispers all his gossip of the morn: +Lord Eskdale murmuring quaint inquiries into the ear of the Princess +Lucretia. + +Madame Colonna made remarks alternately to two gentlemen, who paid her +assiduous court. One of these was Mr. Ormsby; the school, the college, +and the club crony of Lord Monmouth, who had been his shadow through +life; travelled with him in early days, won money with him at play, had +been his colleague in the House of Commons; and was still one of his +nominees. Mr. Ormsby was a millionaire, which Lord Monmouth liked. He +liked his companions to be very rich or very poor; be his equals, able +to play with him at high stakes, or join him in a great speculation; or +to be his tools, and to amuse and serve him. There was nothing which he +despised and disliked so much as a moderate fortune. + +The other gentleman was of a different class and character. Nature had +intended Lucian Gay for a scholar and a wit; necessity had made him a +scribbler and a buffoon. He had distinguished himself at the University; +but he had no patrimony, nor those powers of perseverance which success +in any learned profession requires. He was good-looking, had great +animal spirits, and a keen sense of enjoyment, and could not drudge. +Moreover he had a fine voice, and sang his own songs with considerable +taste; accomplishments which made his fortune in society and completed +his ruin. In due time he extricated himself from the bench and merged +into journalism, by means of which he chanced to become acquainted with +Mr. Rigby. That worthy individual was not slow in detecting the treasure +he had lighted on; a wit, a ready and happy writer, a joyous and +tractable being, with the education, and still the feelings and manners, +of a gentleman. Frequent were the Sunday dinners which found Gay a +guest at Mr. Rigby’s villa; numerous the airy pasquinades which he +left behind, and which made the fortune of his patron. Flattered by +the familiar acquaintance of a man of station, and sanguine that he had +found the link which would sooner or later restore him to the polished +world that he had forfeited, Gay laboured in his vocation with +enthusiasm and success. Willingly would Rigby have kept his treasure +to himself; and truly he hoarded it for a long time, but it oozed out. +Rigby loved the reputation of possessing the complete art of +society. His dinners were celebrated at least for their guests. Great +intellectual illustrations were found there blended with rank and high +station. Rigby loved to patronise; to play the minister unbending and +seeking relief from the cares of council in the society of authors, +artists, and men of science. He liked dukes to dine with him and hear +him scatter his audacious criticisms to Sir Thomas or Sir Humphry. +They went away astounded by the powers of their host, who, had he not +fortunately devoted those powers to their party, must apparently have +rivalled Vandyke, or discovered the safety-lamp. + +Now in these dinners, Lucian Gay, who had brilliant conversational +powers, and who possessed all the resources of boon companionship, would +be an invaluable ally. He was therefore admitted, and inspired both +by the present enjoyment, and the future to which it might lead, his +exertions were untiring, various, most successful. Rigby’s dinners +became still, more celebrated. It, however, necessarily followed that +the guests who were charmed by Gay, wished Gay also to be their guest. +Rigby was very jealous of this, but it was inevitable; still by constant +manoeuvre, by intimations of some exercise, some day or other, of +substantial patronage in his behalf, by a thousand little arts by +which he carved out work for Gay which often prevented him accepting +invitations to great houses in the country, by judicious loans of +small sums on Lucian’s notes of hand and other analogous devices, Rigby +contrived to keep the wit in a fair state of bondage and dependence. + +One thing Rigby was resolved on: Gay should never get into Monmouth +House. That was an empyrean too high for his wing to soar in. Rigby kept +that social monopoly distinctively to mark the relation that subsisted +between them as patron and client. It was something to swagger about +when they were together after their second bottle of claret. Rigby kept +his resolution for some years, which the frequent and prolonged absence +of the Marquess rendered not very difficult. But we are the creatures +of circumstances; at least the Rigby race particularly. Lord Monmouth +returned to England one year, and wanted to be amused. He wanted a +jester: a man about him who would make him, not laugh, for that was +impossible, but smile more frequently, tell good stories, say good +things, and sing now and then, especially French songs. Early in life +Rigby would have attempted all this, though he had neither fun, voice, +nor ear. But his hold on Lord Monmouth no longer depended on the mere +exercise of agreeable qualities, he had become indispensable to his +lordship, by more serious if not higher considerations. And what with +auditing his accounts, guarding his boroughs, writing him, when absent, +gossip by every post and when in England deciding on every question and +arranging every matter which might otherwise have ruffled the sublime +repose of his patron’s existence, Rigby might be excused if he shrank a +little from the minor part of table wit, particularly when we remember +all his subterranean journalism, his acid squibs, and his malicious +paragraphs, and, what Tadpole called, his ‘slashing articles.’ + +These ‘slashing articles’ were, indeed, things which, had they appeared +as anonymous pamphlets, would have obtained the contemptuous reception +which in an intellectual view no compositions more surely deserved; but +whispered as the productions of one behind the scenes, and appearing in +the pages of a party review, they were passed off as genuine coin, and +took in great numbers of the lieges, especially in the country. They +were written in a style apparently modelled on the briefs of those sharp +attorneys who weary advocates with their clever commonplace; teasing +with obvious comment, and torturing with inevitable inference. The +affectation of order in the statement of facts had all the lucid method +of an adroit pettifogger. They dealt much in extracts from newspapers, +quotations from the _Annual Register_, parallel passages in forgotten +speeches, arranged with a formidable array of dates rarely accurate. +When the writer was of opinion he had made a point, you may be sure +the hit was in italics, that last resource of the Forcible Feebles. He +handled a particular in chronology as if he were proving an alibi at +the Criminal Court. The censure was coarse without being strong, and +vindictive when it would have been sarcastic. Now and then there was +a passage which aimed at a higher flight, and nothing can be conceived +more unlike genuine feeling, or more offensive to pure taste. And +yet, perhaps, the most ludicrous characteristic of these facetious +gallimaufreys was an occasional assumption of the high moral and +admonitory tone, which when we recurred to the general spirit of +the discourse, and were apt to recall the character of its writer, +irresistibly reminded one of Mrs. Cole and her prayer-book. + +To return to Lucian Gay. It was a rule with Rigby that no one, if +possible, should do anything for Lord Monmouth but himself; and as a +jester must be found, he was determined that his Lordship should have +the best in the market, and that he should have the credit of furnishing +the article. As a reward, therefore, for many past services, and a fresh +claim to his future exertions, Rigby one day broke to Gay that the hour +had at length arrived when the highest object of reasonable ambition +on his part, and the fulfilment of one of Rigby’s long-cherished and +dearest hopes, were alike to be realised. Gay was to be presented to +Lord Monmouth and dine at Monmouth House. + +The acquaintance was a successful one; very agreeable to both parties. +Gay became an habitual guest of Lord Monmouth when his patron was in +England; and in his absence received frequent and substantial marks +of his kind recollection, for Lord Monmouth was generous to those who +amused him. + +In the meantime the hour of dinner is at hand. Coningsby, who had lost +the key of his carpet-bag, which he finally cut open with a penknife +that he found on his writing-table, and the blade of which he broke +in the operation, only reached the drawing-room as the figure of his +grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane, and following his guests, +was just visible in the distance. He was soon overtaken. Perceiving +Coningsby, Lord Monmouth made him a bow, not so formal a one as in the +morning, but still a bow, and said, ‘I hope you liked your drive.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +A little dinner, not more than the Muses, with all the guests clever, +and some pretty, offers human life and human nature under very +favourable circumstances. In the present instance, too, every one was +anxious to please, for the host was entirely well-bred, never selfish in +little things, and always contributed his quota to the general fund of +polished sociability. + +Although there was really only one thought in every male mind present, +still, regard for the ladies, and some little apprehension of the +servants, banished politics from discourse during the greater part +of the dinner, with the occasional exception of some rapid and flying +allusion which the initiated understood, but which remained a mystery +to the rest. Nevertheless an old story now and then well told by Mr. +Ormsby, a new joke now and then well introduced by Mr. Gay, some +dashing assertion by Mr. Rigby, which, though wrong, was startling; +this agreeable blending of anecdote, jest, and paradox, kept everything +fluent, and produced that degree of mild excitation which is desirable. +Lord Monmouth sometimes summed up with an epigrammatic sentence, and +turned the conversation by a question, in case it dwelt too much on the +same topic. Lord Eskdale addressed himself principally to the ladies; +inquired after their morning drive and doings, spoke of new fashions, +and quoted a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna was not witty, but she +had that sweet Roman frankness which is so charming. The presence of +a beautiful woman, natural and good-tempered, even if she be not a +L’Espinasse or a De Stael, is animating. + +Nevertheless, owing probably to the absorbing powers of the forbidden +subject, there were moments when it seemed that a pause was impending, +and Mr. Ormsby, an old hand, seized one of these critical instants to +address a good-natured question to Coningsby, whose acquaintance he had +already cultivated by taking wine with him. + +‘And how do you like Eton?’ asked Mr. Ormsby. + +It was the identical question which had been presented to Coningsby in +the memorable interview of the morning, and which had received no reply; +or rather had produced on his part a sentimental ebullition that had +absolutely destined or doomed him to the Church. + +‘I should like to see the fellow who did not like Eton,’ said Coningsby, +briskly, determined this time to be very brave. + +‘Gad I must go down and see the old place,’ said Mr. Ormsby, touched by +a pensive reminiscence. ‘One can get a good bed and bottle of port at +the Christopher, still?’ + +‘You had better come and try, sir,’ said Coningsby. ‘If you will come +some day and dine with me at the Christopher, I will give you such a +bottle of champagne as you never tasted yet.’ + +The Marquess looked at him, but said nothing. + +‘Ah! I liked a dinner at the Christopher,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘after +mutton, mutton, mutton, every day, it was not a bad thing.’ + +‘We had venison for dinner every week last season,’ said Coningsby; +‘Buckhurst had it sent up from his park. But I don’t care for dinner. +Breakfast is my lounge.’ + +‘Ah! those little rolls and pats of butter!’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘Short +commons, though. What do you think we did in my time? We used to send +over the way to get a mutton-chop.’ + +‘I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at breakfast,’ said Coningsby, +‘with a pound of Castle’s sausages!’ + +‘What Buckhurst is that, Harry?’ inquired Lord Monmouth, in a tone of +some interest, and for the first time calling him by his Christian name. + +‘Sir Charles Buckhurst, sir, a Berkshire man: Shirley Park is his +place.’ + +‘Why, that must be Charley’s son, Eskdale,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I had +no idea he could be so young.’ + +‘He married late, you know, and had nothing but daughters for a long +time.’ + +‘Well, I hope there will be no Reform Bill for Eton,’ said Lord +Monmouth, musingly. + +The servants had now retired. + +‘I think, Lord Monmouth,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘we must ask permission to +drink one toast to-day.’ + +‘Nay, I will myself give it,’ he replied. ‘Madame Colonna, you will, I +am sure, join us when we drink, THE DUKE!’ + +‘Ah! what a man!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘What a pity it is you have +a House of Commons here! England would be the greatest country in +the world if it were not for that House of Commons. It makes so much +confusion!’ + +‘Don’t abuse our property,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Lord Monmouth and I have +still twenty votes of that same body between us.’ + +‘And there is a combination,’ said Rigby, ‘by which you may still keep +them.’ + +‘Ah! now for Rigby’s combination,’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘The only thing that can save this country,’ said Rigby, ‘is a coalition +on a sliding scale.’ + +‘You had better buy up the Birmingham Union and the other bodies,’ said +Lord Monmouth; ‘I believe it might all be done for two or three hundred +thousand pounds; and the newspapers too. Pitt would have settled this +business long ago.’ + +‘Well, at any rate, we are in,’ said Rigby, ‘and we must do something.’ + +‘I should like to see Grey’s list of new peers,’ said Lord Eskdale. +‘They say there are several members of our club in it.’ + +‘And the claims to the honour are so opposite,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one, +on account of his large estate; another, because he has none; one, +because he has a well-grown family to perpetuate the title; another, +because he has no heir, and no power of ever obtaining one.’ + +‘I wonder how he will form his cabinet,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the old +story won’t do.’ + +‘I hear that Baring is to be one of the new cards; they say it will +please the city,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I suppose they will pick out +of hedge and ditch everything that has ever had the semblance of +liberalism.’ + +‘Affairs in my time were never so complicated,’ said Mr. Ormsby. + +‘Nay, it appears to me to lie in a nutshell,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one +party wishes to keep their old boroughs, and the other to get their new +peers.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +The future historian of the country will be perplexed to ascertain what +was the distinct object which the Duke of Wellington proposed to himself +in the political manoeuvres of May, 1832. It was known that the passing +of the Reform Bill was a condition absolute with the King; it was +unquestionable, that the first general election under the new law must +ignominiously expel the Anti-Reform Ministry from power; who would then +resume their seats on the Opposition benches in both Houses with the +loss not only of their boroughs, but of that reputation for political +consistency, which might have been some compensation for the +parliamentary influence of which they had been deprived. It is difficult +to recognise in this premature effort of the Anti-Reform leader to +thrust himself again into the conduct of public affairs, any indications +of the prescient judgment which might have been expected from such a +quarter. It savoured rather of restlessness than of energy; and, while +it proved in its progress not only an ignorance on his part of the +public mind, but of the feelings of his own party, it terminated +under circumstances which were humiliating to the Crown, and painfully +significant of the future position of the House of Lords in the new +constitutional scheme. + +The Duke of Wellington has ever been the votary of circumstances. He +cares little for causes. He watches events rather than seeks to produce +them. It is a characteristic of the military mind. Rapid combinations, +the result of quick, vigilant, and comprehensive glance, are generally +triumphant in the field: but in civil affairs, where results are +not immediate; in diplomacy and in the management of deliberative +assemblies, where there is much intervening time and many counteracting +causes, this velocity of decision, this fitful and precipitate action, +are often productive of considerable embarrassment, and sometimes of +terrible discomfiture. It is remarkable that men celebrated for military +prudence are often found to be headstrong statesmen. In civil life +a great general is frequently and strangely the creature of impulse; +influenced in his political movements by the last snatch of information; +and often the creature of the last aide-de-camp who has his ear. + +We shall endeavour to trace in another chapter the reasons which on +this as on previous and subsequent occasions, induced Sir Robert Peel to +stand aloof, if possible, from official life, and made him reluctant +to re-enter the service of his Sovereign. In the present instance, even +temporary success could only have been secured by the utmost decision, +promptness, and energy. These were all wanting: some were afraid to +follow the bold example of their leader; many were disinclined. In +eight-and-forty hours it was known there was a ‘hitch.’ + +The Reform party, who had been rather stupefied than appalled by the +accepted mission of the Duke of Wellington, collected their scattered +senses, and rallied their forces. The agitators harangued, the mobs +hooted. The City of London, as if the King had again tried to seize the +five members, appointed a permanent committee of the Common Council to +watch the fortunes of the ‘great national measure,’ and to report daily. +Brookes’, which was the only place that at first was really frightened +and talked of compromise, grew valiant again; while young Whig heroes +jumped upon club-room tables, and delivered fiery invectives. Emboldened +by these demonstrations, the House of Commons met in great force, and +passed a vote which struck, without disguise, at all rival powers in the +State; virtually announced its supremacy; revealed the forlorn position +of the House of Lords under the new arrangement; and seemed to lay for +ever the fluttering phantom of regal prerogative. + +It was on the 9th of May that Lord Lyndhurst was with the King, and on +the 15th all was over. Nothing in parliamentary history so humiliating +as the funeral oration delivered that day by the Duke of Wellington +over the old constitution, that, modelled on the Venetian, had governed +England since the accession of the House of Hanover. He described his +Sovereign, when his Grace first repaired to his Majesty, as in a +state of the greatest ‘difficulty and distress,’ appealing to his +never-failing loyalty to extricate him from his trouble and vexation. +The Duke of Wellington, representing the House of Lords, sympathises +with the King, and pledges his utmost efforts for his Majesty’s +relief. But after five days’ exertion, this man of indomitable will and +invincible fortunes, resigns the task in discomfiture and despair, and +alleges as the only and sufficient reason for his utter and hopeless +defeat, that the House of Commons had come to a vote which ran counter +to the contemplated exercise of the prerogative. + +From that moment power passed from the House of Lords to another +assembly. But if the peers have ceased to be magnificoes, may it +not also happen that the Sovereign may cease to be a Doge? It is not +impossible that the political movements of our time, which seem on +the surface to have a tendency to democracy, may have in reality a +monarchical bias. + +In less than a fortnight’s time the House of Lords, like James II., +having abdicated their functions by absence, the Reform Bill passed; the +ardent monarch, who a few months before had expressed his readiness to +go down to Parliament, in a hackney coach if necessary, to assist its +progress, now declining personally to give his assent to its provisions. + +In the protracted discussions to which this celebrated measure gave +rise, nothing is more remarkable than the perplexities into which the +speakers of both sides are thrown, when they touch upon the nature of +the representative principle. On one hand it was maintained, that, under +the old system, the people were virtually represented; while on the +other, it was triumphantly urged, that if the principle be conceded, the +people should not be virtually, but actually, represented. But who are +the people? And where are you to draw a line? And why should there +be any? It was urged that a contribution to the taxes was the +constitutional qualification for the suffrage. But we have established +a system of taxation in this country of so remarkable a nature, that the +beggar who chews his quid as he sweeps a crossing, is contributing +to the imposts! Is he to have a vote? He is one of the people, and he +yields his quota to the public burthens. + +Amid these conflicting statements, and these confounding conclusions, it +is singular that no member of either House should have recurred to +the original character of these popular assemblies, which have always +prevailed among the northern nations. We still retain in the antique +phraseology of our statutes the term which might have beneficially +guided a modern Reformer in his reconstructive labours. + +When the crowned Northman consulted on the welfare of his kingdom, he +assembled the ESTATES of his realm. Now an estate is a class of the +nation invested with political rights. There appeared the estate of the +clergy, of the barons, of other classes. In the Scandinavian kingdoms +to this day, the estate of the peasants sends its representatives to the +Diet. In England, under the Normans, the Church and the Baronage were +convoked, together with the estate of the Community, a term which then +probably described the inferior holders of land, whose tenure was +not immediate of the Crown. This Third Estate was so numerous, that +convenience suggested its appearance by representation; while the +others, more limited, appeared, and still appear, personally. The Third +Estate was reconstructed as circumstances developed themselves. It was a +Reform of Parliament when the towns were summoned. + +In treating the House of the Third Estate as the House of the People, +and not as the House of a privileged class, the Ministry and Parliament +of 1831 virtually conceded the principle of Universal Suffrage. In this +point of view the ten-pound franchise was an arbitrary, irrational, and +impolitic qualification. It had, indeed, the merit of simplicity, and so +had the constitutions of Abbé Siéyès. But its immediate and inevitable +result was Chartism. + +But if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 had announced that the time +had arrived when the Third Estate should be enlarged and reconstructed, +they would have occupied an intelligible position; and if, instead of +simplicity of elements in its reconstruction, they had sought, on the +contrary, various and varying materials which would have neutralised the +painful predominance of any particular interest in the new scheme, and +prevented those banded jealousies which have been its consequences, the +nation would have found itself in a secure condition. Another class not +less numerous than the existing one, and invested with privileges not +less important, would have been added to the public estates of the +realm; and the bewildering phrase ‘the People’ would have remained, +what it really is, a term of natural philosophy, and not of political +science. + +During this eventful week of May, 1832, when an important revolution +was effected in the most considerable of modern kingdoms, in a manner +so tranquil, that the victims themselves were scarcely conscious at +the time of the catastrophe, Coningsby passed his hours in unaccustomed +pleasures, and in novel excitement. Although he heard daily from the +lips of Mr. Rigby and his friends that England was for ever lost, the +assembled guests still contrived to do justice to his grandfather’s +excellent dinners; nor did the impending ruin that awaited them +prevent the Princess Colonna from going to the Opera, whither she +very good-naturedly took Coningsby. Madame Colonna, indeed, gave such +gratifying accounts of her dear young friend, that Coningsby became +daily a greater favourite with Lord Monmouth, who cherished the idea +that his grandson had inherited not merely the colour of his eyes, but +something of his shrewd and fearless spirit. + +With Lucretia, Coningsby did not much advance. She remained silent and +sullen. She was not beautiful; pallid, with a lowering brow, and an eye +that avoided meeting another’s. Madame Colonna, though good-natured, +felt for her something of the affection for which step-mothers are +celebrated. Lucretia, indeed, did not encourage her kindness, which +irritated her step-mother, who seemed seldom to address her but to rate +and chide; Lucretia never replied, but looked dogged. Her father, the +Prince, did not compensate for this treatment. The memory of her mother, +whom he had greatly disliked, did not soften his heart. He was a man +still young; slender, not tall; very handsome, but worn; a haggard +Antinous; his beautiful hair daily thinning; his dress rich and +effeminate; many jewels, much lace. He seldom spoke, but was polished, +though moody. + +At the end of the week, Coningsby returned to Eton. On the eve of +his departure, Lord Monmouth desired his grandson to meet him in his +apartments on the morrow, before quitting his roof. This farewell visit +was as kind and gracious as the first one had been repulsive. Lord +Monmouth gave Coningsby his blessing and ten pounds; desired that he +would order a dress, anything he liked, for the approaching Montem, +which Lord Monmouth meant to attend; and informed his grandson that he +should order that in future a proper supply of game and venison should +be forwarded to Eton for the use of himself and his friends. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +After eight o’clock school, the day following the return of Coningsby, +according to custom, he repaired to Buckhurst’s room, where Henry +Sydney, Lord Vere, and our hero held with him their breakfast mess. They +were all in the fifth form, and habitual companions, on the river or on +the Fives’ Wall, at cricket or at foot-ball. The return of Coningsby, +their leader alike in sport and study, inspired them to-day with unusual +spirits, which, to say the truth, were never particularly depressed. +Where he had been, what he had seen, what he had done, what sort of +fellow his grandfather was, whether the visit had been a success; here +were materials for almost endless inquiry. And, indeed, to do them +justice, the last question was not the least exciting to them; for the +deep and cordial interest which all felt in Coningsby’s welfare far +outweighed the curiosity which, under ordinary circumstances, they +would have experienced on the return of one of their companions from +an unusual visit to London. The report of their friend imparted to +them unbounded satisfaction, when they learned that his relative was a +splendid fellow; that he had been loaded with kindness and favours; that +Monmouth House, the wonders of which he rapidly sketched, was hereafter +to be his home; that Lord Monmouth was coming down to Montem; that +Coningsby was to order any dress he liked, build a new boat if he chose; +and, finally, had been pouched in a manner worthy of a Marquess and a +grandfather. + +‘By the bye,’ said Buckhurst, when the hubbub had a little subsided, ‘I +am afraid you will not half like it, Coningsby; but, old fellow, I +had no idea you would be back this morning; I have asked Millbank to +breakfast here.’ + +A cloud stole over the clear brow of Coningsby. + +‘It was my fault,’ said the amiable Henry Sydney; ‘but I really wanted +to be civil to Millbank, and as you were not here, I put Buckhurst up to +ask him.’ + +‘Well,’ said Coningsby, as if sullenly resigned, ‘never mind; but why +should you ask an infernal manufacturer?’ + +‘Why, the Duke always wished me to pay him some attention,’ said +Lord Henry, mildly. ‘His family were so civil to us when we were at +Manchester.’ + +‘Manchester, indeed!’ said Coningsby; ‘if you knew what I do about +Manchester! A pretty state we have been in in London this week past with +your Manchesters and Birminghams!’ + +‘Come, come, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, the son of a Whig minister; ‘I +am all for Manchester and Birmingham.’ + +‘It is all up with the country, I can tell you,’ said Coningsby, with +the air of one who was in the secret. + +‘My father says it will all go right now,’ rejoined Lord Vere. ‘I had a +letter from my sister yesterday.’ + +‘They say we shall all lose our estates, though,’ said Buckhurst; ‘I +know I shall not give up mine without a fight. Shirley was besieged, you +know, in the civil wars; and the rebels got infernally licked.’ + +‘I think that all the people about Beaumanoir would stand by the Duke,’ +said Lord Henry, pensively. + +‘Well, you may depend upon it you will have it very soon,’ said +Coningsby. ‘I know it from the best authority.’ + +‘It depends on whether my father remains in,’ said Lord Vere. ‘He is the +only man who can govern the country now. All say that.’ + +At this moment Millbank entered. He was a good looking boy, somewhat +shy, and yet with a sincere expression in his countenance. He was +evidently not extremely intimate with those who were now his companions. +Buckhurst, and Henry Sydney, and Vere, welcomed him cordially. He looked +at Coningsby with some constraint, and then said: + +‘You have been in London, Coningsby?’ + +‘Yes, I have been there during all the row.’ + +‘You must have had a rare lark.’ + +‘Yes, if having your windows broken by a mob be a rare lark. They could +not break my grandfather’s, though. Monmouth House is in a court-yard. +All noblemen’s houses should be in court-yards.’ + +‘I was glad to see it all ended very well,’ said Millbank. + +‘It has not begun yet,’ said Coningsby. + +‘What?’ said Millbank. + +‘Why, the revolution.’ + +‘The Reform Bill will prevent a revolution, my father says,’ said +Millbank. + +‘By Jove! here’s the goose,’ said Buckhurst. + +At this moment there entered the room a little boy, the scion of a noble +house, bearing a roasted goose, which he had carried from the kitchen of +the opposite inn, the Christopher. The lower boy or fag, depositing +his burthen, asked his master whether he had further need of him; and +Buckhurst, after looking round the table, and ascertaining that he had +not, gave him permission to retire; but he had scarcely disappeared, +when his master singing out, ‘Lower boy, St. John!’ he immediately +re-entered, and demanded his master’s pleasure, which was, that he +should pour some water in the teapot. This being accomplished, St. John +really made his escape, and retired to a pupil-room, where the bullying +of a tutor, because he had no derivations, exceeded in all probability +the bullying of his master, had he contrived in his passage from the +Christopher to have upset the goose or dropped the sausages. + +In their merry meal, the Reform Bill was forgotten. Their thoughts were +soon concentrated in their little world, though it must be owned that +visions of palaces and beautiful ladies did occasionally flit over the +brain of one of the company. But for him especially there was much of +interest and novelty. So much had happened in his absence! There was a +week’s arrears for him of Eton annals. They were recounted in so fresh +a spirit, and in such vivid colours, that Coningsby lost nothing by his +London visit. All the bold feats that had been done, and all the bright +things that had been said; all the triumphs, and all the failures, +and all the scrapes; how popular one master had made himself, and how +ridiculous another; all was detailed with a liveliness, a candour, and +a picturesque ingenuousness, which would have made the fortune of a +Herodotus or a Froissart. + +‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Buckhurst, ‘I move that after twelve we five +go up to Maidenhead.’ + +‘Agreed; agreed!’ + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +Millbank was the son of one of the wealthiest manufacturers in +Lancashire. His father, whose opinions were of a very democratic bent, +sent his son to Eton, though he disapproved of the system of education +pursued there, to show that he had as much right to do so as any duke in +the land. He had, however, brought up his only boy with a due prejudice +against every sentiment or institution of an aristocratic character, +and had especially impressed upon him in his school career, to avoid the +slightest semblance of courting the affections or society of any member +of the falsely-held superior class. + +The character of the son as much as the influence of the father, tended +to the fulfilment of these injunctions. Oswald Millbank was of a +proud and independent nature; reserved, a little stern. The early and +constantly-reiterated dogma of his father, that he belonged to a class +debarred from its just position in the social system, had aggravated the +grave and somewhat discontented humour of his blood. His talents were +considerable, though invested with no dazzling quality. He had not that +quick and brilliant apprehension, which, combined with a memory of rare +retentiveness, had already advanced Coningsby far beyond his age, +and made him already looked to as the future hero of the school. But +Millbank possessed one of those strong, industrious volitions whose +perseverance amounts almost to genius, and nearly attains its results. +Though Coningsby was by a year his junior, they were rivals. This +circumstance had no tendency to remove the prejudice which Coningsby +entertained against him, but its bias on the part of Millbank had a +contrary effect. + +The influence of the individual is nowhere so sensible as at school. +There the personal qualities strike without any intervening and +counteracting causes. A gracious presence, noble sentiments, or a happy +talent, make their way there at once, without preliminary inquiries as +to what set they are in, or what family they are of, how much they +have a-year, or where they live. Now, on no spirit had the influence of +Coningsby, already the favourite, and soon probably to become the idol, +of the school, fallen more effectually than on that of Millbank, though +it was an influence that no one could suspect except its votary or its +victim. + +At school, friendship is a passion. It entrances the being; it tears +the soul. All loves of after-life can never bring its rapture, or its +wretchedness; no bliss so absorbing, no pangs of jealousy or despair +so crushing and so keen! What tenderness and what devotion; what +illimitable confidence; infinite revelations of inmost thoughts; what +ecstatic present and romantic future; what bitter estrangements and what +melting reconciliations; what scenes of wild recrimination, agitating +explanations, passionate correspondence; what insane sensitiveness, and +what frantic sensibility; what earthquakes of the heart and whirlwinds +of the soul are confined in that simple phrase, a schoolboy’s +friendship! Tis some indefinite recollection of these mystic passages of +their young emotion that makes grey-haired men mourn over the memory +of their schoolboy days. It is a spell that can soften the acerbity of +political warfare, and with its witchery can call forth a sigh even amid +the callous bustle of fashionable saloons. + +The secret of Millbank’s life was a passionate admiration and affection +for Coningsby. Pride, his natural reserve, and his father’s injunctions, +had, however, hitherto successfully combined to restrain the slightest +demonstration of these sentiments. Indeed, Coningsby and himself +were never companions, except in school, or in some public game. The +demeanour of Coningsby gave no encouragement to intimacy to one, who, +under any circumstances, would have required considerable invitation to +open himself. So Millbank fed in silence on a cherished idea. It was +his happiness to be in the same form, to join in the same sport, with +Coningsby; occasionally to be thrown in unusual contact with him, +to exchange slight and not unkind words. In their division they were +rivals; Millbank sometimes triumphed, but to be vanquished by Coningsby +was for him not without a degree of mild satisfaction. Not a gesture, +not a phrase from Coningsby, that he did not watch and ponder over and +treasure up. Coningsby was his model, alike in studies, in manners, +or in pastimes; the aptest scholar, the gayest wit, the most graceful +associate, the most accomplished playmate: his standard of excellent. +Yet Millbank was the very last boy in the school who would have had +credit given him by his companions for profound and ardent feeling. He +was not indeed unpopular. The favourite of the school like Coningsby, he +could, under no circumstances, ever have become; nor was he qualified +to obtain that general graciousness among the multitude, which the sweet +disposition of Henry Sydney, or the gay profusion of Buckhurst, acquired +without any effort. Millbank was not blessed with the charm of manner. +He seemed close and cold; but he was courageous, just, and inflexible; +never bullied, and to his utmost would prevent tyranny. The little boys +looked up to him as a stern protector; and his word, too, throughout the +school was a proverb: and truth ranks a great quality among boys. In +a word, Millbank was respected by those among whom he lived; and +school-boys scan character more nicely than men suppose. + +A brother of Henry Sydney, quartered in Lancashire, had been wounded +recently in a riot, and had received great kindness from the Millbank +family, in whose immediate neighbourhood the disturbance had occurred. +The kind Duke had impressed on Henry Sydney to acknowledge with +cordiality to the younger Millbank at Eton, the sense which his family +entertained of these benefits; but though Henry lost neither time nor +opportunity in obeying an injunction, which was grateful to his own +heart, he failed in cherishing, or indeed creating, any intimacy +with the object of his solicitude. A companionship with one who was +Coningsby’s relative and most familiar friend, would at the first +glance have appeared, independently of all other considerations, a most +desirable result for Millbank to accomplish. But, perhaps, this +very circumstance afforded additional reasons for the absence of all +encouragement with which he received the overtures of Lord Henry. +Millbank suspected that Coningsby was not affected in his favour, and +his pride recoiled from gaining, by any indirect means, an intimacy +which to have obtained in a plain and express manner would have deeply +gratified him. However, the urgent invitation of Buckhurst and +Henry Sydney, and the fear that a persistence in refusal might be +misinterpreted into churlishness, had at length brought Millbank to +their breakfast-mess, though, when he accepted their invitation, he did +not apprehend that Coningsby would have been present. + +It was about an hour before sunset, the day of this very breakfast, and +a good number of boys, in lounging groups, were collected in the +Long Walk. The sports and matches of the day were over. Criticism had +succeeded to action in sculling and in cricket. They talked over the +exploits of the morning; canvassed the merits of the competitors, marked +the fellow whose play or whose stroke was improving; glanced at another, +whose promise had not been fulfilled; discussed the pretensions, and +adjudged the palm. Thus public opinion is formed. Some, too, might +be seen with their books and exercises, intent on the inevitable +and impending tasks. Among these, some unhappy wight in the remove, +wandering about with his hat, after parochial fashion, seeking relief +in the shape of a verse. A hard lot this, to know that you must be +delivered of fourteen verses at least in the twenty-four hours, and to +be conscious that you are pregnant of none. The lesser boys, urchins of +tender years, clustered like flies round the baskets of certain vendors +of sugary delicacies that rested on the Long Walk wall. The pallid +countenance, the lacklustre eye, the hoarse voice clogged with +accumulated phlegm, indicated too surely the irreclaimable and hopeless +votary of lollypop, the opium-eater of schoolboys. + +‘It is settled, the match to-morrow shall be between Aquatics and +Drybobs,’ said a senior boy; who was arranging a future match at +cricket. + +‘But what is to be done about Fielding major?’ inquired another. ‘He has +not paid his boating money, and I say he has no right to play among the +Aquatics before he has paid his money.’ + +‘Oh! but we must have Fielding major, he is such a devil of a swipe.’ + +‘I declare he shall not play among the Aquatics if he does not pay his +boating money. It is an infernal shame.’ + +‘Let us ask Buckhurst. Where is Buckhurst?’ + +‘Have you got any toffy?’ inquired a dull looking little boy, in a +hoarse voice, of one of the vendors of scholastic confectionery. + +‘Tom Trot, sir.’ + +‘No; I want toffy.’ + +‘Very nice Tom Trot, sir.’ + +‘No, I want toffy; I have been eating Tom Trot all day.’ + +‘Where is Buckhurst? We must settle about the Aquatics.’ + +‘Well, I for one will not play if Fielding major plays amongst the +Aquatics. That is settled.’ + +‘Oh! nonsense; he will pay his money if you ask him.’ + +‘I shall not ask him again. The captain duns us every day. It is an +infernal shame.’ + +‘I say, Burnham, where can one get some toffy? This fellow never has +any.’ + +‘I will tell you; at Barnes’ on the bridge. The best toffy in the +world.’ + +‘I will go at once. I must have some toffy.’ + +‘Just help me with this verse, Collins,’ said one boy to another, in an +imploring tone, ‘that’s a good fellow.’ + +‘Well, give it us: first syllable in _fabri_ is short; three false +quantities in the two first lines! You’re a pretty one. There, I have +done it for you.’ + +‘That’s a good fellow.’ + +‘Any fellow seen Buckhurst?’ + +‘Gone up the river with Coningsby and Henry Sydney.’ + +‘But he must be back by this time. I want him to make the list for the +match to-morrow. Where the deuce can Buckhurst be?’ + +And now, as rumours rise in society we know not how, so there was +suddenly a flying report in this multitude, the origin of which no one +in his alarm stopped to ascertain, that a boy was drowned. + +Every heart was agitated. + +What boy? When, where, how? Who was absent? Who had been on the river +to-day? Buckhurst. The report ran that Buckhurst was drowned. Great were +the trouble and consternation. Buckhurst was ever much liked; and now no +one remembered anything but his good qualities. + +‘Who heard it was Buckhurst?’ said Sedgwick, captain of the school, +coming forward. + +‘I heard Bradford tell Palmer it was Buckhurst,’ said a little boy. + +‘Where is Bradford?’ + +‘Here.’ + +‘What do you know about Buckhurst?’ + +‘Wentworth told me that he was afraid Buckhurst was drowned. He heard it +at the Brocas; a bargeman told him about a quarter of an hour ago.’ + +‘Here is Wentworth! Here is Wentworth!’ a hundred voices exclaimed, and +they formed a circle round him. + +‘Well, what did you hear, Wentworth?’ asked Sedgwick. + +‘I was at the Brocas, and a bargee told me that an Eton fellow had been +drowned above Surley, and the only Eton boat above Surley to-day, as I +can learn, is Buckhurst’s four-oar. That is all.’ + +There was a murmur of hope. + +‘Oh! come, come,’ said Sedgwick, ‘there is come chance. Who is with +Buckhurst; who knows?’ + +‘I saw him walk down to the Brocas with Vere,’ said a boy. + +‘I hope it is not Vere,’ said a little boy, with a tearful eye; ‘he +never lets any fellow bully me.’ + +‘Here is Maltravers,’ halloed out a boy; ‘he knows something.’ + +‘Well, what do you know, Maltravers?’ + +‘I heard Boots at the Christopher say that an Eton fellow was drowned, +and that he had seen a person who was there.’ + +‘Bring Boots here,’ said Sedgwick. + +Instantly a band of boys rushed over the way, and in a moment the +witness was produced. + +‘What have you heard, Sam, about this accident?’ said Sedgwick. + +‘Well, sir, I heard a young gentleman was drowned above Monkey Island,’ +said Boots. + +‘And no name mentioned?’ + +‘Well, sir, I believe it was Mr. Coningsby.’ + +A general groan of horror. + +‘Coningsby, Coningsby! By Heavens I hope not,’ said Sedgwick. + +‘I very much fear so,’ said Boots; ‘as how the bargeman who told me saw +Mr. Coningsby in the Lock House laid out in flannels.’ + +‘I had sooner any fellow had been drowned than Coningsby,’ whispered one +boy to another. + +‘I liked him, the best fellow at Eton,’ responded his companion, in a +smothered tone. + +‘What a clever fellow he was!’ + +‘And so deuced generous!’ + +‘He would have got the medal if he had lived.’ + +‘And how came he to be drowned? for he was such a fine swimmer!’ + +‘I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another’s life,’ continued Boots in +his evidence, ‘which makes it in a manner more sorrowful.’ + +‘Poor Coningsby!’ exclaimed a boy, bursting into tears: ‘I move the +whole school goes into mourning.’ + +‘I wish we could get hold of this bargeman,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now stop, +stop, don’t all run away in that mad manner; you frighten the people. +Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go down to the Brocas and inquire.’ + +But just at this moment, an increased stir and excitement were evident +in the Long Walk; the circle round Sedgwick opened, and there appeared +Henry Sydney and Buckhurst. + +There was a dead silence. It was impossible that suspense could be +strained to a higher pitch. The air and countenance of Sydney and +Buckhurst were rather excited than mournful or alarmed. They needed no +inquiries, for before they had penetrated the circle they had become +aware of its cause. + +Buckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was of course the first to +speak. Henry Sydney indeed looked pale and nervous; but his companion, +flushed and resolute, knew exactly how to hit a popular assembly, and at +once came to the point. + +‘It is all a false report, an infernal lie; Coningsby is quite safe, and +nobody is drowned.’ + +There was a cheer that might have been heard at Windsor Castle. Then, +turning to Sedgwick, in an undertone Buckhurst added, + +‘It _is_ all right, but, by Jove! we have had a shaver. I will tell you +all in a moment, but we want to keep the thing quiet, and so let the +fellows disperse, and we will talk afterwards.’ + +In a few moments the Long Walk had resumed its usual character; but +Sedgwick, Herbert, and one or two others turned into the playing fields, +where, undisturbed and unnoticed by the multitude, they listened to the +promised communication of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney. + +‘You know we went up the river together,’ said Buckhurst. ‘Myself, Henry +Sydney, Coningsby, Vere, and Millbank. We had breakfasted together, and +after twelve agreed to go up to Maidenhead. Well, we went up much higher +than we had intended. About a quarter of a mile before we had got to the +Lock we pulled up; Coningsby was then steering. Well, we fastened the +boat to, and were all of us stretched out on the meadow, when Millbank +and Vere said they should go and bathe in the Lock Pool. The rest of us +were opposed; but after Millbank and Vere had gone about ten minutes, +Coningsby, who was very fresh, said he had changed his mind and should +go and bathe too. So he left us. He had scarcely got to the pool when he +heard a cry. There was a fellow drowning. He threw off his clothes and +was in in a moment. The fact is this, Millbank had plunged in the pool +and found himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting of two currents. +He called out to Vere not to come, and tried to swim off. But he was +beat, and seeing he was in danger, Vere jumped in. But the stream was +so strong, from the great fall of water from the lasher above, that Vere +was exhausted before he could reach Millbank, and nearly sank himself. +Well, he just saved himself; but Millbank sank as Coningsby jumped in. +What do you think of that?’ + +‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, and all. The favourite oath of +schoolboys perpetuates the divinity of Olympus. + +‘And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank when he rose, but +he found himself in the midst of the same strong current that had before +nearly swamped Vere. What a lucky thing that he had taken into his head +not to pull to-day! Fresher than Vere, he just managed to land Millbank +and himself. The shouts of Vere called us, and we arrived to find the +bodies of Millbank and Coningsby apparently lifeless, for Millbank was +quite gone, and Coningsby had swooned on landing.’ + +‘If Coningsby had been lost,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘I never would have +shown my face at Eton again.’ + +‘Can you conceive a position more terrible?’ said Buckhurst. ‘I declare +I shall never forget it as long as I live. However, there was the Lock +House at hand; and we got blankets and brandy. Coningsby was soon all +right; but Millbank, I can tell you, gave us some trouble. I thought it +was all up. Didn’t you, Henry Sydney?’ + +‘The most fishy thing I ever saw,’ said Henry Sydney. + +‘Well, we were fairly frightened here,’ said Sedgwick. ‘The first +report was, that you had gone, but that seemed without foundation; but +Coningsby was quite given up. Where are they now?’ + +‘They are both at their tutors’. I thought they had better keep quiet. +Vere is with Millbank, and we are going back to Coningsby directly; but +we thought it best to show, finding on our arrival that there were all +sorts of rumours about. I think it will be best to report at once to my +tutor, for he will be sure to hear something.’ + +‘I would if I were you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater importance +than the most sublime and comprehensive speculations! In what fanciful +schemes to obtain the friendship of Coningsby had Millbank in his +reveries often indulged! What combinations that were to extend over +years and influence their lives! But the moment that he entered the +world of action, his pride recoiled from the plans and hopes which his +sympathy had inspired. His sensibility and his inordinate self-respect +were always at variance. And he seldom exchanged a word with the being +whose idea engrossed his affection. + +And now, suddenly, an event had occurred, like all events, unforeseen, +which in a few, brief, agitating, tumultuous moments had singularly and +utterly changed the relations that previously subsisted between him and +the former object of his concealed tenderness. Millbank now stood with +respect to Coningsby in the position of one who owes to another the +greatest conceivable obligation; a favour which time could permit him +neither to forget nor to repay. Pride was a sentiment that could no +longer subsist before the preserver of his life. Devotion to that being, +open, almost ostentatious, was now a duty, a paramount and absorbing +tie. The sense of past peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish +for the life so nearly forfeited, a deep sentiment of devout gratitude +to the providence that had guarded over him, for Millbank was an +eminently religious boy, a thought of home, and the anguish that might +have overwhelmed his hearth; all these were powerful and exciting +emotions for a young and fervent mind, in addition to the peculiar +source of sensibility on which we have already touched. Lord Vere, who +lodged in the same house as Millbank, and was sitting by his bedside, +observed, as night fell, that his mind wandered. + +The illness of Millbank, the character of which soon transpired, and was +soon exaggerated, attracted the public attention with increased interest +to the circumstances out of which it had arisen, and from which the +parties principally concerned had wished to have diverted notice. The +sufferer, indeed, had transgressed the rules of the school by bathing at +an unlicensed spot, where there were no expert swimmers in attendance, +as is customary, to instruct the practice and to guard over the lives of +the young adventurers. But the circumstances with which this violation +of rules had been accompanied, and the assurance of several of the party +that they had not themselves infringed the regulations, combined with +the high character of Millbank, made the authorities not over anxious +to visit with penalties a breach of observance which, in the case of +the only proved offender, had been attended with such impressive +consequences. The feat of Coningsby was extolled by all as an act +of high gallantry and skill. It confirmed and increased the great +reputation which he already enjoyed. + +‘Millbank is getting quite well,’ said Buckhurst to Coningsby a few days +after the accident. ‘Henry Sydney and I are going to see him. Will you +come?’ + +‘I think we shall be too many. I will go another day,’ replied +Coningsby. + +So they went without him. They found Millbank up and reading. + +‘Well, old fellow,’ said Buckhurst, ‘how are you? We should have come up +before, but they would not let us. And you are quite right now, eh?’ + +‘Quite. Has there been any row about it?’ + +‘All blown over,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘C*******y behaved like a trump.’ + +‘I have seen nobody yet,’ said Millbank; ‘they would not let me till +to-day. Vere looked in this morning and left me this book, but I was +asleep. I hope they will let me out in a day or two. I want to thank +Coningsby; I never shall rest till I have thanked Coningsby.’ + +‘Oh, he will come to see you,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘I asked him just now +to come with us.’ + +‘Yes!’ said Millbank, eagerly; ‘and what did he say?’ + +‘He thought we should be too many.’ + +‘I hope I shall see him soon,’ said Millbank, ‘somehow or other.’ + +‘I will tell him to come,’ said Buckhurst. + +‘Oh! no, no, don’t tell him to come,’ said Millbank. ‘Don’t bore him.’ + +‘I know he is going to play a match at fives this afternoon,’ said +Buckhurst, ‘for I am one.’ + +‘And who are the others?’ inquired Millbank. + +‘Herbert and Campbell.’ + +‘Herbert is no match for Coningsby,’ said Millbank. + +And then they talked over all that had happened since his absence; and +Buckhurst gave him a graphic report of the excitement on the afternoon +of the accident; at last they were obliged to leave him. + +‘Well, good-bye, old fellow; we will come and see you every day. What +can we do for you? Any books, or anything?’ + +‘If any fellow asks after me,’ said Millbank, ‘tell him I shall be glad +to see him. It is very dull being alone. But do not tell any fellow to +come if he does not ask after me.’ + +Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, +Coningsby could not easily bring himself to call on Millbank. He felt a +constraint. It seemed as if he went to receive thanks. He would rather +have met Millbank again in school, or in the playing fields. Without +being able then to analyse his feelings, he shrank unconsciously from +that ebullition of sentiment, which in more artificial circles is +described as a scene. Not that any dislike of Millbank prompted him to +this reserve. On the contrary, since he had conferred a great obligation +on Millbank, his prejudice against him had sensibly decreased. How it +would have been had Millbank saved Coningsby’s life, is quite another +affair. Probably, as Coningsby was by nature generous, his sense of +justice might have struggled successfully with his painful sense of the +overwhelming obligation. But in the present case there was no element +to disturb his fair self-satisfaction. He had greatly distinguished +himself; he had conferred on his rival an essential service; and the +whole world rang with his applause. He began rather to like Millbank; +we will not say because Millbank was the unintentional cause of his +pleasurable sensations. Really it was that the unusual circumstances had +prompted him to a more impartial judgment of his rival’s character. +In this mood, the day after the visit of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, +Coningsby called on Millbank, but finding his medical attendant with +him, Coningsby availed himself of that excuse for going away without +seeing him. + +The next day he left Millbank a newspaper on his way to school, time not +permitting a visit. Two days after, going into his room, he found on his +table a letter addressed to ‘Harry Coningsby, Esq.’ + +ETON, May--, 1832. + +‘DEAR CONINGSBY, I very much fear that you must think me a very +ungrateful fellow, because you have not heard from me before; but I was +in hopes that I might get out and say to you what I feel; but whether I +speak or write, it is quite impossible for me to make you understand the +feelings of my heart to you. Now, I will say at once, that I have always +liked you better than any fellow in the school, and always thought you +the cleverest; indeed, I always thought that there was no one like you; +but I never would say this or show this, because you never seemed to +care for me, and because I was afraid you would think I merely wanted to +con with you, as they used to say of some other fellows, whose names I +will not mention, because they always tried to do so with Henry Sydney +and you. I do not want this at all; but I want, though we may not speak +to each other more than before, that we may be friends; and that you +will always know that there is nothing I will not do for you, and that +I like you better than any fellow at Eton. And I do not mean that this +shall be only at Eton, but afterwards, wherever we may be, that you will +always remember that there is nothing I will not do for you. Not because +you saved my life, though that is a great thing, but because before that +I would have done anything for you; only, for the cause above mentioned, +I would not show it. I do not expect that we shall be more together than +before; nor can I ever suppose that you could like me as you like Henry +Sydney and Buckhurst, or even as you like Vere; but still I hope you +will always think of me with kindness now, and let me sign myself, if +ever I do write to you, ‘Your most attached, affectionate, and devoted +friend, + +‘OSWALD MILLBANK.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adventure on the river, it was +Montem. One need hardly remind the reader that this celebrated +ceremony, of which the origin is lost in obscurity, and which now occurs +triennially, is the tenure by which Eton College holds some of its +domains. It consists in the waving of a flag by one of the scholars, on +a mount near the village of Salt Hill, which, without doubt, derives its +name from the circumstance that on this day every visitor to Eton, and +every traveller in its vicinity, from the monarch to the peasant, are +stopped on the road by youthful brigands in picturesque costume, and +summoned to contribute ‘salt,’ in the shape of coin of the realm, to +the purse collecting for the Captain of Eton, the senior scholar on the +Foundation, who is about to repair to King’s College, Cambridge. + +On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as his +title: indeed, each sixth-form boy represents in his uniform, though not +perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse Guards, an officer of +the army. One is a marshal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, +too; and the remainder are sergeants. Each of those who are intrusted +with these ephemeral commissions has one or more attendants, the number +of these varying according to his rank. These servitors are selected +according to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, out of +the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are below the +fifth form; and all these attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy +dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to +the Captain of the school, figure also in fancy costume, and are called +‘Saltbearers.’ It is their business, together with the twelve senior +Collegers of the fifth form, who are called ‘Runners,’ and whose +costume is also determined by the taste of the wearers, to levy the +contributions. And all the Oppidans of the fifth form, among whom ranked +Coningsby, class as ‘Corporals;’ and are severally followed by one or +more lower boys, who are denominated ‘Polemen,’ but who appear in their +ordinary dress. + +It was a fine, bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang +merrily; everybody was astir, and every moment some gay equipage +drove into the town. Gaily clustering in the thronged precincts of +the College, might be observed many a glistening form: airy Greek or +sumptuous Ottoman, heroes of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who +had fought at Pavia, Highland Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in +the tartan of Prince Charlie. The Long Walk was full of busy groups in +scarlet coats or fanciful uniforms; some in earnest conversation, some +criticising the arriving guests; others encircling some magnificent +hero, who astounded them with his slashed doublet or flowing plume. + +A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall, with their feet swinging +in the air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost. + +‘I say, Townshend,’ said one, ‘there’s Grobbleton; he _was_ a bully. I +wonder if that’s his wife? Who’s this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn’t +an Eton fellow? Yes, he was. He was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! +his name is in the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, +Townshend, did you see Saville’s turban? What was it made of? He says +his mother brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn’t he just look like the +Saracen’s Head? Here are some Dons. That’s Hallam! We’ll give him a +cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn’t think small +beer of himself. I wonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington’s valet come +to say his master is engaged. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the +Duke will come? Won’t we give him a cheer!’ + +‘By Jove! who is this?’ exclaimed Townshend, and he jumped from the +wall, and, followed by his companions, rushed towards the road. + +Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses of mettle, and each +accompanied by outriders as well mounted, were advancing at a rapid +pace along the road that leads from Slough to the College. But they were +destined to an irresistible check. About fifty yards before they had +reached the gate that leads into Weston’s Yard, a ruthless but splendid +Albanian, in crimson and gold embroidered jacket, and snowy camise, +started forward, and holding out his silver-sheathed yataghan commanded +the postilions to stop. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road +gave a simultaneous command, and would infallibly have transfixed the +outriders with an arrow from his unerring bow, had they for an instant +hesitated. The Albanian Chief then advanced to the door of the carriage, +which he opened, and in a tone of great courtesy, announced that he was +under the necessity of troubling its inmates for ‘salt.’ There was no +delay. The Lord of the equipage, with the amiable condescension of a +‘grand monarque,’ expressed his hope that the collection would be an +ample one, and as an old Etonian, placed in the hands of the Albanian +his contribution, a magnificent purse, furnished for the occasion, and +heavy with gold. + +‘Don’t be alarmed, ladies,’ said a very handsome young officer, +laughing, and taking off his cocked hat. + +‘Ah!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the voice, and starting a +little. ‘Ah! it is Mr. Coningsby.’ + +Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next carriage. ‘Do they come down +pretty stiff?’ he inquired, and then, pulling forth a roll of bank-notes +from the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished them good morning. + +The courtly Provost, then the benignant Goodall, a man who, though his +experience of life was confined to the colleges in which he had passed +his days, was naturally gifted with the rarest of all endowments, the +talent of reception; and whose happy bearing and gracious manner, +a smile ever in his eye and a lively word ever on his lip, must be +recalled by all with pleasant recollections, welcomed Lord Monmouth +and his friends to an assemblage of the noble, the beautiful, and the +celebrated gathered together in rooms not unworthy of them, as you +looked upon their interesting walls, breathing with the portraits of the +heroes whom Eton boasts, from Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded in +the quadrangle of the College, in which the boys were already quickly +assembling. The Duke of Wellington had arrived, and the boys were +cheering a hero, who was an Eton field-marshal. From an oriel window +in one of the Provost’s rooms, Lord Monmouth, surrounded by every +circumstance that could make life delightful, watched with some +intentness the scene in the quadrangle beneath. + +‘I would give his fame,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘if I had it, and my +wealth, to be sixteen.’ + +Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, high +spirits, and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the quadrangle. +They formed into rank, and headed by a band of the Guards, thrice they +marched round the court. Then quitting the College, they commenced their +progress ‘ad Montem.’ It was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling +through the playing fields, those bowery meads; the river sparkling +in the sun, the castled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; +behind them, the pinnacles of their College. + +The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; the broad +fields as far as eye could range were covered with human beings. Amid +the burst of martial music and the shouts of the multitude, the band of +heroes, as if they were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, to +some heroic deed, encircled the mount; the ensign reaches its summit, +and then, amid a deafening cry of ‘Floreat Etona!’ he unfurls, and +thrice waves the consecrated standard. + +‘Lord Monmouth,’ said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, ‘wishes that you should +beg your friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask Lord Henry and +your friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and is there any one else that you +would like to invite?’ + +‘Why, there is Vere,’ said Coningsby, hesitating, ‘and--’ + +‘Vere! What Lord Vere?’ said Rigby. ‘Hum! He is one of your friends, is +he? His father has done a great deal of mischief, but still he is Lord +Vere. Well, of course, you can invite Vere.’ + +‘There is another fellow I should like to ask very much,’ said +Coningsby, ‘if Lord Monmouth would not think I was asking too many.’ + +‘Never fear that; he sent me particularly to tell you to invite as many +as you liked.’ + +‘Well, then, I should like to ask Millbank.’ + +‘Millbank!’ said Mr. Rigby, a little excited, and then he added, ‘Is +that a son of Lady Albinia Millbank?’ + +‘No; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but he is a great friend of mine. +His father is a Lancashire manufacturer.’ + +‘By no means,’ exclaimed Mr. Rigby, quite agitated. ‘There is nothing +in the world that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as Manchester +manufacturers, and particularly if they bear the name of Millbank. It +must not be thought of, my dear Harry. I hope you have not spoken to +the young man on the subject. I assure you it is out of the question. +It would make Lord Monmouth quite ill. It would spoil everything, quite +upset him.’ + +It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby to urge his wishes against +such representations. He was disappointed, rather amazed; but Madame +Colonna having sent for him to introduce her to some of the scenes and +details of Eton life, his vexation was soon absorbed in the pride of +acting in the face of his companions as the cavalier of a beautiful +lady, and becoming the cicerone of the most brilliant party that had +attended Montem. He presented his friends, too, to Lord Monmouth, who +gave them a cordial invitation to dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, +which they warmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the Marquess by his +reckless genius. Even Lucretia deigned to appear amused; especially +when, on visiting the upper school, the name of CARDIFF, the title Lord +Monmouth bore in his youthful days, was pointed out to her by Coningsby, +cut with his grandfather’s own knife on the classic panels of that +memorable wall in which scarcely a name that has flourished in our +history, since the commencement of the eighteenth century, may not be +observed with curious admiration. + +It was the humour of Lord Monmouth that the boys should be entertained +with the most various and delicious banquet that luxury could devise or +money could command. For some days beforehand orders had been given for +the preparation of this festival. Our friends did full justice to their +Lucullus; Buckhurst especially, who gave his opinion on the most refined +dishes with all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occasionally +shook his head over a glass of Hermitage or Côte Rôtie with a +dissatisfaction which a satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. +Considering all things, Coningsby and his friends exhibited a great deal +of self-command; but they were gay, even to the verge of frolic. But +then the occasion justified it, as much as their youth. All were in high +spirits. Madame Colonna declared that she had met nothing in England +equal to Montem; that it was a Protestant Carnival; and that its only +fault was that it did not last forty days. The Prince himself was all +animation, and took wine with every one of the Etonians several times. +All went on flowingly until Mr. Rigby contradicted Buckhurst on some +point of Eton discipline, which Buckhurst would not stand. He rallied +Mr. Rigby roundly, and Coningsby, full of champagne, and owing Rigby +several years of contradiction, followed up the assault. Lord Monmouth, +who liked a butt, and had a weakness for boisterous gaiety, slily +encouraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose his temper and get noisy. + +The lads had the best of it; they said a great many funny things, +and delivered themselves of several sharp retorts; whereas there was +something ridiculous in Rigby putting forth his ‘slashing’ talents +against such younkers. However, he brought the infliction on himself by +his strange habit of deciding on subjects of which he knew nothing, and +of always contradicting persons on the very subjects of which they were +necessarily masters. + +To see Rigby baited was more amusement to Lord Monmouth even than +Montem. Lucian Gay, however, when the affair was getting troublesome, +came forward as a diversion. He sang an extemporaneous song on the +ceremony of the day, and introduced the names of all the guests at the +dinner, and of a great many other persons besides. This was capital! The +boys were in raptures, but when the singer threw forth a verse about Dr. +Keate, the applause became uproarious. + +‘Good-bye, my dear Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, when he bade his +grandson farewell. ‘I am going abroad again; I cannot remain in this +Radical-ridden country. Remember, though I am away, Monmouth House is +your home, at least so long as it belongs to me. I understand my tailor +has turned Liberal, and is going to stand for one of the metropolitan +districts, a friend of Lord Durham; perhaps I shall find him in it when +I return. I fear there are evil days for the NEW GENERATION!’ + +END OF BOOK I. + + + + +BOOK II. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +It was early in November, 1834, and a large shooting party was assembled +at Beaumanoir, the seat of that great nobleman, who was the father +of Henry Sydney. England is unrivalled for two things, sporting and +politics. They were combined at Beaumanoir; for the guests came not +merely to slaughter the Duke’s pheasants, but to hold council on the +prospects of the party, which it was supposed by the initiated, began at +this time to indicate some symptoms of brightening. + +The success of the Reform Ministry on their first appeal to the new +constituency which they had created, had been fatally complete. But the +triumph was as destructive to the victors as to the vanquished. + +‘We are too strong,’ prophetically exclaimed one of the fortunate +cabinet, which found itself supported by an inconceivable majority of +three hundred. It is to be hoped that some future publisher of private +memoirs may have preserved some of the traits of that crude and +short-lived parliament, when old Cobbett insolently thrust Sir Robert +from the prescriptive seat of the chief of opposition, and treasury +understrappers sneered at the ‘queer lot’ that had arrived from Ireland, +little foreseeing what a high bidding that ‘queer lot’ would eventually +command. Gratitude to Lord Grey was the hustings-cry at the end of 1832, +the pretext that was to return to the new-modelled House of Commons +none but men devoted to the Whig cause. The successful simulation, +like everything that is false, carried within it the seeds of its +own dissolution. Ingratitude to Lord Grey was more the fashion at the +commencement of 1834, and before the close of that eventful year, the +once popular Reform Ministry was upset, and the eagerly-sought Reformed +Parliament dissolved! + +It can scarcely be alleged that the public was altogether unprepared for +this catastrophe. Many deemed it inevitable; few thought it imminent. +The career of the Ministry, and the existence of the Parliament, had +indeed from the first been turbulent and fitful. It was known, from +authority, that there were dissensions in the cabinet, while a House +of Commons which passed votes on subjects not less important than +the repeal of a tax, or the impeachment of a judge, on one night, and +rescinded its resolutions on the following, certainly established +no increased claims to the confidence of its constituents in its +discretion. Nevertheless, there existed at this period a prevalent +conviction that the Whig party, by a great stroke of state, similar in +magnitude and effect to that which in the preceding century had changed +the dynasty, had secured to themselves the government of this country +for, at least, the lives of the present generation. And even the +well-informed in such matters were inclined to look upon the perplexing +circumstances to which we have alluded rather as symptoms of a want +of discipline in a new system of tactics, than as evidences of any +essential and deeply-rooted disorder. + +The startling rapidity, however, of the strange incidents of 1834; the +indignant, soon to become vituperative, secession of a considerable +section of the cabinet, some of them esteemed too at that time among +its most efficient members; the piteous deprecation of ‘pressure from +without,’ from lips hitherto deemed too stately for entreaty, followed +by the Trades’ Union, thirty thousand strong, parading in procession +to Downing-street; the Irish negotiations of Lord Hatherton, strange +blending of complex intrigue and almost infantile ingenuousness; the +still inexplicable resignation of Lord Althorp, hurriedly followed by +his still more mysterious resumption of power, the only result of his +precipitate movements being the fall of Lord Grey himself, attended by +circumstances which even a friendly historian could scarcely describe +as honourable to his party or dignified to himself; latterly, the +extemporaneous address of King William to the Bishops; the vagrant +and grotesque apocalypse of the Lord Chancellor; and the fierce +recrimination and memorable defiance of the Edinburgh banquet, all these +impressive instances of public affairs and public conduct had +combined to create a predominant opinion that, whatever might be the +consequences, the prolonged continuance of the present party in power +was a clear impossibility. + +It is evident that the suicidal career of what was then styled the +Liberal party had been occasioned and stimulated by its unnatural excess +of strength. The apoplectic plethora of 1834 was not less fatal than +the paralytic tenuity of 1841. It was not feasible to gratify so many +ambitions, or to satisfy so many expectations. Every man had his double; +the heels of every placeman were dogged by friendly rivals ready to trip +them up. There were even two cabinets; the one that met in council, and +the one that met in cabal. The consequence of destroying the legitimate +Opposition of the country was, that a moiety of the supporters of +Government had to discharge the duties of Opposition. + +Herein, then, we detect the real cause of all that irregular and +unsettled carriage of public men which so perplexed the nation after the +passing of the Reform Act. No government can be long secure without a +formidable Opposition. It reduces their supporters to that tractable +number which can be managed by the joint influences of fruition and of +hope. It offers vengeance to the discontented, and distinction to the +ambitious; and employs the energies of aspiring spirits, who otherwise +may prove traitors in a division or assassins in a debate. + +The general election of 1832 abrogated the Parliamentary Opposition of +England, which had practically existed for more than a century and +a half. And what a series of equivocal transactions and mortifying +adventures did the withdrawal of this salutary restraint entail on the +party which then so loudly congratulated themselves and the country that +they were at length relieved from its odious repression! In the hurry of +existence one is apt too generally to pass over the political history +of the times in which we ourselves live. The two years that followed the +Reform of the House of Commons are full of instruction, on which a young +man would do well to ponder. It is hardly possible that he could rise +from the study of these annals without a confirmed disgust for political +intrigue; a dazzling practice, apt at first to fascinate youth, for it +appeals at once to our invention and our courage, but one which really +should only be the resource of the second-rate. Great minds must trust +to great truths and great talents for their rise, and nothing else. + +While, however, as the autumn of 1834 advanced, the people of this +country became gradually sensible of the necessity of some change in the +councils of their Sovereign, no man felt capable of predicting by what +means it was to be accomplished, or from what quarry the new materials +were to be extracted. The Tory party, according to those perverted views +of Toryism unhappily too long prevalent in this country, was held to +be literally defunct, except by a few old battered crones of office, +crouched round the embers of faction which they were fanning, and +muttering ‘reaction’ in mystic whispers. It cannot be supposed indeed +for a moment, that the distinguished personage who had led that party in +the House of Commons previously to the passing of the act of 1832, ever +despaired in consequence of his own career. His then time of life, the +perfection, almost the prime, of manhood; his parliamentary practice, +doubly estimable in an inexperienced assembly; his political knowledge; +his fair character and reputable position; his talents and tone as a +public speaker, which he had always aimed to adapt to the habits and +culture of that middle class from which it was concluded the benches of +the new Parliament were mainly to be recruited, all these were qualities +the possession of which must have assured a mind not apt to be disturbed +in its calculations by any intemperate heats, that with time and +patience the game was yet for him. + +Unquestionably, whatever may have been insinuated, this distinguished +person had no inkling that his services in 1834 might be claimed by +his Sovereign. At the close of the session of that year he had quitted +England with his family, and had arrived at Rome, where it was his +intention to pass the winter. The party charges that have imputed to him +a previous and sinister knowledge of the intentions of the Court, appear +to have been made not only in ignorance of the personal character, but +of the real position, of the future minister. + +It had been the misfortune of this eminent gentleman when he first +entered public life, to become identified with a political connection +which, having arrogated to itself the name of an illustrious historical +party, pursued a policy which was either founded on no principle +whatever, or on principles exactly contrary to those which had always +guided the conduct of the great Tory leaders. The chief members of this +official confederacy were men distinguished by none of the conspicuous +qualities of statesmen. They had none of the divine gifts that govern +senates and guide councils. They were not orators; they were not men of +deep thought or happy resource, or of penetrative and sagacious minds. +Their political ken was essentially dull and contracted. They expended +some energy in obtaining a defective, blundering acquaintance with +foreign affairs; they knew as little of the real state of their own +country as savages of an approaching eclipse. This factious league had +shuffled themselves into power by clinging to the skirts of a great +minister, the last of Tory statesmen, but who, in the unparalleled +and confounding emergencies of his latter years, had been forced, +unfortunately for England, to relinquish Toryism. His successors +inherited all his errors without the latent genius, which in him might +have still rallied and extricated him from the consequences of his +disasters. His successors did not merely inherit his errors; they +exaggerated, they caricatured them. They rode into power on a springtide +of all the rampant prejudices and rancorous passions of their time. +From the King to the boor their policy was a mere pandering to +public ignorance. Impudently usurping the name of that party of +which nationality, and therefore universality, is the essence, +these pseudo-Tories made Exclusion the principle of their political +constitution, and Restriction the genius of their commercial code. + +The blind goddess that plays with human fortunes has mixed up the memory +of these men with traditions of national glory. They conducted to a +prosperous conclusion the most renowned war in which England has ever +been engaged. Yet every military conception that emanated from their +cabinet was branded by their characteristic want of grandeur. Chance, +however, sent them a great military genius, whom they treated for a long +time with indifference, and whom they never heartily supported until +his career had made him their master. His transcendent exploits, and +European events even greater than his achievements, placed in the +manikin grasp of the English ministry, the settlement of Europe. + +The act of the Congress of Vienna remains the eternal monument of their +diplomatic knowledge and political sagacity. Their capital feats were +the creation of two kingdoms, both of which are already erased from +the map of Europe. They made no single preparation for the inevitable, +almost impending, conjunctures of the East. All that remains of +the pragmatic arrangements of the mighty Congress of Vienna is the +mediatisation of the petty German princes. + +But the settlement of Europe by the pseudo-Tories was the dictate of +inspiration compared with their settlement of England. The peace of +Paris found the government of this country in the hands of a body of men +of whom it is no exaggeration to say that they were ignorant of every +principle of every branch of political science. So long as our domestic +administration was confined merely to the raising of a revenue, they +levied taxes with gross facility from the industry of a country too busy +to criticise or complain. But when the excitement and distraction of +war had ceased, and they were forced to survey the social elements +that surrounded them, they seemed, for the first time, to have become +conscious of their own incapacity. These men, indeed, were the mere +children of routine. They prided themselves on being practical men. In +the language of this defunct school of statesmen, a practical man is a +man who practises the blunders of his predecessors. + +Now commenced that Condition-of-England Question of which our generation +hears so much. During five-and-twenty years every influence that can +develop the energies and resources of a nation had been acting with +concentrated stimulation on the British Isles. National peril and +national glory; the perpetual menace of invasion, the continual triumph +of conquest; the most extensive foreign commerce that was ever conducted +by a single nation; an illimitable currency; an internal trade supported +by swarming millions whom manufacturers and inclosure-bills summoned +into existence; above all, the supreme control obtained by man over +mechanic power, these are some of the causes of that rapid advance of +material civilisation in England, to which the annals of the world can +afford no parallel. But there was no proportionate advance in our moral +civilisation. In the hurry-skurry of money-making, men-making, and +machine-making, we had altogether outgrown, not the spirit, but the +organisation, of our institutions. + +The peace came; the stimulating influences suddenly ceased; the people, +in a novel and painful position, found themselves without guides. +They went to the ministry; they asked to be guided; they asked to be +governed. Commerce requested a code; trade required a currency; the +unfranchised subject solicited his equal privilege; suffering labour +clamoured for its rights; a new race demanded education. What did the +ministry do? + +They fell into a panic. Having fulfilled during their lives the duties +of administration, they were frightened because they were called upon, +for the first time, to perform the functions of government. Like all +weak men, they had recourse to what they called strong measures. They +determined to put down the multitude. They thought they were imitating +Mr. Pitt, because they mistook disorganisation for sedition. + +Their projects of relief were as ridiculous as their system of coercion +was ruthless; both were alike founded in intense ignorance. When we +recall Mr. Vansittart with his currency resolutions; Lord Castlereagh +with his plans for the employment of labour; and Lord Sidmouth with his +plots for ensnaring the laborious; we are tempted to imagine that the +present epoch has been one of peculiar advances in political ability, +and marvel how England could have attained her present pitch under a +series of such governors. + +We should, however, be labouring under a very erroneous impression. Run +over the statesmen that have figured in England since the accession +of the present family, and we may doubt whether there be one, with the +exception perhaps of the Duke of Newcastle, who would have been a worthy +colleague of the council of Mr. Perceval, or the early cabinet of Lord +Liverpool. Assuredly the genius of Bolingbroke and the sagacity of +Walpole would have alike recoiled from such men and such measures. And +if we take the individuals who were governing England immediately before +the French Revolution, one need only refer to the speeches of Mr. Pitt, +and especially to those of that profound statesman and most instructed +man, Lord Shelburne, to find that we can boast no remarkable superiority +either in political justice or in political economy. One must attribute +this degeneracy, therefore, to the long war and our insular position, +acting upon men naturally of inferior abilities, and unfortunately, in +addition, of illiterate habits. + +In the meantime, notwithstanding all the efforts of the political +Panglosses who, in evening Journals and Quarterly Reviews were +continually proving that this was the best of all possible governments, +it was evident to the ministry itself that the machine must stop. The +class of Rigbys indeed at this period, one eminently favourable to that +fungous tribe, greatly distinguished themselves. They demonstrated in a +manner absolutely convincing, that it was impossible for any person to +possess any ability, knowledge, or virtue, any capacity of reasoning, +any ray of fancy or faculty of imagination, who was not a supporter of +the existing administration. If any one impeached the management of a +department, the public was assured that the accuser had embezzled; +if any one complained of the conduct of a colonial governor, the +complainant was announced as a returned convict. An amelioration of +the criminal code was discountenanced because a search in the parish +register of an obscure village proved that the proposer had not been +born in wedlock. A relaxation of the commercial system was denounced +because one of its principal advocates was a Socinian. The inutility of +Parliamentary Reform was ever obvious since Mr. Rigby was a member of +the House of Commons. + +To us, with our _Times_ newspaper every morning on our breakfast-table, +bringing, on every subject which can interest the public mind, a degree +of information and intelligence which must form a security against +any prolonged public misconception, it seems incredible that only +five-and-twenty years ago the English mind could have been so ridden +and hoodwinked, and that, too, by men of mean attainments and moderate +abilities. But the war had directed the energies of the English people +into channels by no means favourable to political education. Conquerors +of the world, with their ports filled with the shipping of every clime, +and their manufactories supplying the European continent, in the art +of self-government, that art in which their fathers excelled, they had +become literally children; and Rigby and his brother hirelings were the +nurses that frightened them with hideous fables and ugly words. + +Notwithstanding, however, all this successful mystification, the +Arch-Mediocrity who presided, rather than ruled, over this Cabinet +of Mediocrities, became hourly more conscious that the inevitable +transition from fulfilling the duties of an administration to performing +the functions of a government could not be conducted without talents and +knowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had himself some glimmering traditions +of political science. He was sprung from a laborious stock, had received +some training, and though not a statesman, might be classed among +those whom the Lord Keeper Williams used to call ‘statemongers.’ In a +subordinate position his meagre diligence and his frigid method might +not have been without value; but the qualities that he possessed were +misplaced; nor can any character be conceived less invested with the +happy properties of a leader. In the conduct of public affairs his +disposition was exactly the reverse of that which is the characteristic +of great men. He was peremptory in little questions, and great ones he +left open. + +In the natural course of events, in 1819 there ought to have been a +change of government, and another party in the state should have entered +into office; but the Whigs, though they counted in their ranks at that +period an unusual number of men of great ability, and formed, indeed, a +compact and spirited opposition, were unable to contend against the new +adjustment of borough influence which had occurred during the war, +and under the protracted administration by which that war had been +conducted. New families had arisen on the Tory side that almost rivalled +old Newcastle himself in their electioneering management; and it was +evident that, unless some reconstruction of the House of Commons could +be effected, the Whig party could never obtain a permanent hold of +official power. Hence, from that period, the Whigs became Parliamentary +Reformers. + +It was inevitable, therefore, that the country should be governed by the +same party; indispensable that the ministry should be renovated by new +brains and blood. Accordingly, a Mediocrity, not without repugnance, was +induced to withdraw, and the great name of Wellington supplied his place +in council. The talents of the Duke, as they were then understood, were +not exactly of the kind most required by the cabinet, and his colleagues +were careful that he should not occupy too prominent a post; but +still it was an impressive acquisition, and imparted to the ministry a +semblance of renown. + +There was an individual who had not long entered public life, but who +had already filled considerable, though still subordinate offices. +Having acquired a certain experience of the duties of administration, +and distinction for his mode of fulfilling them, he had withdrawn +from his public charge; perhaps because he found it a barrier to the +attainment of that parliamentary reputation for which he had already +shown both a desire and a capacity; perhaps because, being young and +independent, he was not over-anxious irremediably to identify his career +with a school of politics of the infallibility of which his experience +might have already made him a little sceptical. But he possessed the +talents that were absolutely wanted, and the terms were at his own +dictation. Another, and a very distinguished Mediocrity, who would not +resign, was thrust out, and Mr. Peel became Secretary of State. + +From this moment dates that intimate connection between the Duke +of Wellington and the present First Minister, which has exercised a +considerable influence over the career of individuals and the course of +affairs. It was the sympathetic result of superior minds placed among +inferior intelligences, and was, doubtless, assisted by a then mutual +conviction, that the difference of age, the circumstance of sitting in +different houses, and the general contrast of their previous pursuits +and accomplishments, rendered personal rivalry out of the question. From +this moment, too, the domestic government of the country assumed a new +character, and one universally admitted to have been distinguished by a +spirit of enlightened progress and comprehensive amelioration. + +A short time after this, a third and most distinguished Mediocrity died; +and Canning, whom they had twice worried out of the cabinet, where they +had tolerated him some time in an obscure and ambiguous position, was +recalled just in time from his impending banishment, installed in the +first post in the Lower House, and intrusted with the seals of the +Foreign Office. The Duke of Wellington had coveted them, nor could Lord +Liverpool have been insensible to his Grace’s peculiar fitness for such +duties; but strength was required in the House of Commons, where they +had only one Secretary of State, a young man already distinguished, yet +untried as a leader, and surrounded by colleagues notoriously incapable +to assist him in debate. + +The accession of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, in a position, too, of +surpassing influence, soon led to a further weeding of the Mediocrities, +and, among other introductions, to the memorable entrance of Mr. +Huskisson. In this wise did that cabinet, once notable only for the +absence of all those qualities which authorise the possession of power, +come to be generally esteemed as a body of men, who, for parliamentary +eloquence, official practice, political information, sagacity in +council, and a due understanding of their epoch, were inferior to none +that had directed the policy of the empire since the Revolution. + +If we survey the tenor of the policy of the Liverpool Cabinet during the +latter moiety of its continuance, we shall find its characteristic to be +a partial recurrence to those frank principles of government which +Mr. Pitt had revived during the latter part of the last century from +precedents that had been set us, either in practice or in dogma, during +its earlier period, by statesmen who then not only bore the title, +but professed the opinions, of Tories. Exclusive principles in the +constitution, and restrictive principles in commerce, have grown up +together; and have really nothing in common with the ancient character +of our political settlement, or the manners and customs of the English +people. Confidence in the loyalty of the nation, testified by munificent +grants of rights and franchises, and favour to an expansive system of +traffic, were distinctive qualities of the English sovereignty, until +the House of Commons usurped the better portion of its prerogatives. A +widening of our electoral scheme, great facilities to commerce, and the +rescue of our Roman Catholic fellow-subjects from the Puritanic yoke, +from fetters which have been fastened on them by English Parliaments in +spite of the protests and exertions of English Sovereigns; these were +the three great elements and fundamental truths of the real Pitt system, +a system founded on the traditions of our monarchy, and caught from the +writings, the speeches, the councils of those who, for the sake of these +and analogous benefits, had ever been anxious that the Sovereign of +England should never be degraded into the position of a Venetian Doge. + +It is in the plunder of the Church that we must seek for the primary +cause of our political exclusion, and our commercial restraint. That +unhallowed booty created a factitious aristocracy, ever fearful that +they might be called upon to regorge their sacrilegious spoil. To +prevent this they took refuge in political religionism, and paltering +with the disturbed consciences, or the pious fantasies, of a portion of +the people, they organised them into religious sects. These became the +unconscious Praetorians of their ill-gotten domains. At the head +of these religionists, they have continued ever since to govern, or +powerfully to influence this country. They have in that time pulled +down thrones and churches, changed dynasties, abrogated and remodelled +parliaments; they have disfranchised Scotland and confiscated Ireland. +One may admire the vigour and consistency of the Whig party, and +recognise in their career that unity of purpose that can only spring +from a great principle; but the Whigs introduced sectarian religion, +sectarian religion led to political exclusion, and political exclusion +was soon accompanied by commercial restraint. + +It would be fanciful to assume that the Liverpool Cabinet, in their +ameliorating career, was directed by any desire to recur to the +primordial tenets of the Tory party. That was not an epoch when +statesmen cared to prosecute the investigation of principles. It was +a period of happy and enlightened practice. A profounder policy is the +offspring of a time like the present, when the original postulates of +institutions are called in question. The Liverpool Cabinet unconsciously +approximated to these opinions, because from careful experiment they +were convinced of their beneficial tendency, and they thus bore an +unintentional and impartial testimony to their truth. Like many men, who +think they are inventors, they were only reproducing ancient wisdom. + +But one must ever deplore that this ministry, with all their talents and +generous ardour, did not advance to principles. It is always perilous to +adopt expediency as a guide; but the choice may be sometimes imperative. +These statesmen, however, took expediency for their director, when +principle would have given them all that expediency ensured, and much +more. + +This ministry, strong in the confidence of the sovereign, the +parliament, and the people, might, by the courageous promulgation of +great historical truths, have gradually formed a public opinion, that +would have permitted them to organise the Tory party on a broad, a +permanent, and national basis. They might have nobly effected a complete +settlement of Ireland, which a shattered section of this very cabinet +was forced a few years after to do partially, and in an equivocating +and equivocal manner. They might have concluded a satisfactory +reconstruction of the third estate, without producing that convulsion +with which, from its violent fabrication, our social system still +vibrates. Lastly, they might have adjusted the rights and properties +of our national industries in a manner which would have prevented that +fierce and fatal rivalry that is now disturbing every hearth of the +United Kingdom. + +We may, therefore, visit on the _laches_ of this ministry the +introduction of that new principle and power into our constitution which +ultimately may absorb all, AGITATION. This cabinet, then, with so much +brilliancy on its surface, is the real parent of the Roman Catholic +Association, the Political Unions, the Anti-Corn-Law League. + +There is no influence at the same time so powerful and so singular as +that of individual character. It arises as often from the weakness of +the character as from its strength. The dispersion of this clever and +showy ministry is a fine illustration of this truth. One morning the +Arch-Mediocrity himself died. At the first blush, it would seem that +little difficulties could be experienced in finding his substitute. His +long occupation of the post proved, at any rate, that the qualification +was not excessive. But this cabinet, with its serene and blooming +visage, had been all this time charged with fierce and emulous +ambitions. They waited the signal, but they waited in grim repose. +The death of the nominal leader, whose formal superiority, wounding no +vanity, and offending no pride, secured in their councils equality among +the able, was the tocsin of their anarchy. There existed in this cabinet +two men, who were resolved immediately to be prime ministers; a third +who was resolved eventually to be prime minister, but would at any rate +occupy no ministerial post without the lead of a House of Parliament; +and a fourth, who felt himself capable of being prime minister, but +despaired of the revolution which could alone make him one; and who +found an untimely end when that revolution had arrived. + +Had Mr. Secretary Canning remained leader of the House of Commons under +the Duke of Wellington, all that he would have gained by the death of +Lord Liverpool was a master. Had the Duke of Wellington become Secretary +of State under Mr. Canning he would have materially advanced his +political position, not only by holding the seals of a high department +in which he was calculated to excel, but by becoming leader of the +House of Lords. But his Grace was induced by certain court intriguers to +believe that the King would send for him, and he was also aware that Mr. +Peel would no longer serve under any ministry in the House of Commons. +Under any circumstances it would have been impossible to keep the +Liverpool Cabinet together. The struggle, therefore, between the Duke of +Wellington and ‘my dear Mr. Canning’ was internecine, and ended somewhat +unexpectedly. + +And here we must stop to do justice to our friend Mr. Rigby, whose +conduct on this occasion was distinguished by a bustling dexterity which +was quite charming. He had, as we have before intimated, on the credit +of some clever lampoons written during the Queen’s trial, which were, +in fact, the effusions of Lucian Gay, wriggled himself into a sort of +occasional unworthy favour at the palace, where he was half butt and +half buffoon. Here, during the interregnum occasioned by the death, or +rather inevitable retirement, of Lord Liverpool, Mr. Rigby contrived +to scrape up a conviction that the Duke was the winning horse, and in +consequence there appeared a series of leading articles in a notorious +evening newspaper, in which it was, as Tadpole and Taper declared, most +‘slashingly’ shown, that the son of an actress could never be tolerated +as a Prime Minister of England. Not content with this, and never +doubting for a moment the authentic basis of his persuasion, Mr. Rigby +poured forth his coarse volubility on the subject at several of the new +clubs which he was getting up in order to revenge himself for having +been black-balled at White’s. + +What with arrangements about Lord Monmouth’s boroughs, and the lucky +bottling of some claret which the Duke had imported on Mr. Rigby’s +recommendation, this distinguished gentleman contrived to pay almost +hourly visits at Apsley House, and so bullied Tadpole and Taper that +they scarcely dared address him. About four-and-twenty hours before the +result, and when it was generally supposed that the Duke was in, Mr. +Rigby, who had gone down to Windsor to ask his Majesty the date of some +obscure historical incident, which Rigby, of course, very well knew, +found that audiences were impossible, that Majesty was agitated, and +learned, from an humble but secure authority, that in spite of all his +slashing articles, and Lucian Gay’s parodies of the Irish melodies, +Canning was to be Prime Minister. + +This would seem something of a predicament! To common minds; there are +no such things as scrapes for gentlemen with Mr. Rigby’s talents for +action. He had indeed, in the world, the credit of being an adept in +machinations, and was supposed ever to be involved in profound and +complicated contrivances. This was quite a mistake. There was nothing +profound about Mr. Rigby; and his intellect was totally incapable of +devising or sustaining an intricate or continuous scheme. He was, in +short, a man who neither felt nor thought; but who possessed, in a +very remarkable degree, a restless instinct for adroit baseness. On the +present occasion he got into his carriage, and drove at the utmost speed +from Windsor to the Foreign Office. The Secretary of State was engaged +when he arrived; but Mr. Rigby would listen to no difficulties. He +rushed upstairs, flung open the door, and with agitated countenance, and +eyes suffused with tears, threw himself into the arms of the astonished +Mr. Canning. + +‘All is right,’ exclaimed the devoted Rigby, in broken tones; ‘I have +convinced the King that the First Minister must be in the House of +Commons. No one knows it but myself; but it is certain.’ + +We have seen that at an early period of his career, Mr. Peel withdrew +from official life. His course had been one of unbroken prosperity; the +hero of the University had become the favourite of the House of Commons. +His retreat, therefore, was not prompted by chagrin. Nor need it have +been suggested by a calculating ambition, for the ordinary course of +events was fast bearing to him all to which man could aspire. One +might rather suppose, that he had already gained sufficient experience, +perhaps in his Irish Secretaryship, to make him pause in that career of +superficial success which education and custom had hitherto chalked out +for him, rather than the creative energies of his own mind. A thoughtful +intellect may have already detected elements in our social system which +required a finer observation, and a more unbroken study, than the gyves +and trammels of office would permit. He may have discovered that the +representation of the University, looked upon in those days as the +blue ribbon of the House of Commons, was a sufficient fetter without +unnecessarily adding to its restraint. He may have wished to reserve +himself for a happier occasion, and a more progressive period. He may +have felt the strong necessity of arresting himself in his rapid career +of felicitous routine, to survey his position in calmness, and to +comprehend the stirring age that was approaching. + +For that, he could not but be conscious that the education which he had +consummated, however ornate and refined, was not sufficient. That age +of economical statesmanship which Lord Shelburne had predicted in 1787, +when he demolished, in the House of Lords, Bishop Watson and the +Balance of Trade, which Mr. Pitt had comprehended; and for which he was +preparing the nation when the French Revolution diverted the public mind +into a stronger and more turbulent current, was again impending, while +the intervening history of the country had been prolific in events which +had aggravated the necessity of investigating the sources of the wealth +of nations. The time had arrived when parliamentary preeminence could no +longer be achieved or maintained by gorgeous abstractions borrowed from +Burke, or shallow systems purloined from De Lolme, adorned with Horatian +points, or varied with Virgilian passages. It was to be an age of +abstruse disquisition, that required a compact and sinewy intellect, +nurtured in a class of learning not yet honoured in colleges, and which +might arrive at conclusions conflicting with predominant prejudices. + +Adopting this view of the position of Mr. Peel, strengthened as it is by +his early withdrawal for a while from the direction of public affairs, +it may not only be a charitable but a true estimate of the motives which +influenced him in his conduct towards Mr. Canning, to conclude that he +was not guided in that transaction by the disingenuous rivalry +usually imputed to him. His statement in Parliament of the determining +circumstances of his conduct, coupled with his subsequent and almost +immediate policy, may perhaps always leave this a painful and ambiguous +passage in his career; but in passing judgment on public men, it behoves +us ever to take large and extended views of their conduct; and previous +incidents will often satisfactorily explain subsequent events, which, +without their illustrating aid, are involved in misapprehension or +mystery. + +It would seem, therefore, that Sir Robert Peel, from an early period, +meditated his emancipation from the political confederacy in which +he was implicated, and that he has been continually baffled in this +project. He broke loose from Lord Liverpool; he retired from Mr. +Canning. Forced again into becoming the subordinate leader of the +weakest government in parliamentary annals, he believed he had at length +achieved his emancipation, when he declared to his late colleagues, +after the overthrow of 1830, that he would never again accept a +secondary position in office. But the Duke of Wellington was too old a +tactician to lose so valuable an ally. So his Grace declared after the +Reform Bill was passed, as its inevitable result, that thenceforth +the Prime Minister must be a member of the House of Commons; and this +aphorism, cited as usual by the Duke’s parasites as demonstration of his +supreme sagacity, was a graceful mode of resigning the preeminence which +had been productive of such great party disasters. It is remarkable +that the party who devised and passed the Reform Bill, and who, in +consequence, governed the nation for ten years, never once had their +Prime Minister in the House of Commons: but that does not signify; the +Duke’s maxim is still quoted as an oracle almost equal in prescience +to his famous query, ‘How is the King’s government to be carried on?’ +a question to which his Grace by this time has contrived to give a +tolerably practical answer. + +Sir Robert Peel, who had escaped from Lord Liverpool, escaped from Mr. +Canning, escaped even from the Duke of Wellington in 1832, was at +length caught in 1834; the victim of ceaseless intriguers, who neither +comprehended his position, nor that of their country. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Beaumanoir was one of those Palladian palaces, vast and ornate, such +as the genius of Kent and Campbell delighted in at the beginning of the +eighteenth century. Placed on a noble elevation, yet screened from the +northern blast, its sumptuous front, connected with its far-spreading +wings by Corinthian colonnades, was the boast and pride of the midland +counties. The surrounding gardens, equalling in extent the size of +ordinary parks, were crowded with temples dedicated to abstract virtues +and to departed friends. Occasionally a triumphal arch celebrated a +general whom the family still esteemed a hero; and sometimes a votive +column commemorated the great statesman who had advanced the family a +step in the peerage. Beyond the limits of this pleasance the hart and +hind wandered in a wilderness abounding in ferny coverts and green and +stately trees. + +The noble proprietor of this demesne had many of the virtues of his +class; a few of their failings. He had that public spirit which became +his station. He was not one of those who avoided the exertions and the +sacrifices which should be inseparable from high position, by the hollow +pretext of a taste for privacy, and a devotion to domestic joys. He +was munificent, tender, and bounteous to the poor, and loved a flowing +hospitality. A keen sportsman, he was not untinctured by letters, +and had indeed a cultivated taste for the fine arts. Though an ardent +politician, he was tolerant to adverse opinions, and full of amenity +to his opponents. A firm supporter of the corn-laws, he never refused +a lease. Notwithstanding there ran through his whole demeanour and the +habit of his mind, a vein of native simplicity that was full of charm, +his manner was finished. He never offended any one’s self-love. His good +breeding, indeed, sprang from the only sure source of gentle manners, +a kind heart. To have pained others would have pained himself. Perhaps, +too, this noble sympathy may have been in some degree prompted by the +ancient blood in his veins, an accident of lineage rather rare with the +English nobility. One could hardly praise him for the strong affections +that bound him to his hearth, for fortune had given him the most +pleasing family in the world; but, above all, a peerless wife. + +The Duchess was one of those women who are the delight of existence. She +was sprung from a house not inferior to that with which she had blended, +and was gifted with that rare beauty which time ever spares, so that she +seemed now only the elder sister of her own beautiful daughters. She, +too, was distinguished by that perfect good breeding which is the result +of nature and not of education: for it may be found in a cottage, and +may be missed in a palace. ‘Tis a genial regard for the feelings of +others that springs from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, indeed, +was in every sense a fine lady; her manners were refined and full of +dignity; but nothing in the world could have induced her to appear bored +when another was addressing or attempting to amuse her. She was not one +of those vulgar fine ladies who meet you one day with a vacant stare, as +if unconscious of your existence, and address you on another in a tone +of impertinent familiarity. Her temper, perhaps, was somewhat quick, +which made this consideration for the feelings of others still more +admirable, for it was the result of a strict moral discipline acting +on a good heart. Although the best of wives and mothers, she had some +charity for her neighbours. Needing herself no indulgence, she could be +indulgent; and would by no means favour that strait-laced morality +that would constrain the innocent play of the social body. She was +accomplished, well read, and had a lively fancy. Add to this that +sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and cheerful spirit in its mistress, and +one might form some faint idea of this gracious personage. + +The eldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his +two younger brothers, one was with his regiment and the other was +Coningsby’s friend at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two eldest daughters +had just married, on the same day, and at the same altar; and the +remaining one, Theresa, was still a child. + +The Duke had occupied a chief post in the Household under the late +administration, and his present guests chiefly consisted of his former +colleagues in office. There were several members of the late cabinet, +several members for his Grace’s late boroughs, looking very much like +martyrs, full of suffering and of hope. Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper were +also there; they too had lost their seats since 1832; but being men of +business, and accustomed from early life to look about them, they had +already commenced the combinations which on a future occasion were to +bear them back to the assembly where they were so missed. + +Taper had his eye on a small constituency which had escaped the fatal +schedules, and where he had what they called a ‘connection;’ that is to +say, a section of the suffrages who had a lively remembrance of Treasury +favours once bestowed by Mr. Taper, and who had not been so liberally +dealt with by the existing powers. This connection of Taper was in time +to leaven the whole mass of the constituent body, and make it rise in +full rebellion against its present liberal representative, who being +one of a majority of three hundred, could get nothing when he called at +Whitehall or Downing Street. + +Tadpole, on the contrary, who was of a larger grasp of mind than +Taper, with more of imagination and device but not so safe a man, was +coquetting with a manufacturing town and a large constituency, where he +was to succeed by the aid of the Wesleyans, of which pious body he had +suddenly become a fervent admirer. The great Mr. Rigby, too, was a guest +out of Parliament, nor caring to be in; but hearing that his friends had +some hopes, he thought he would just come down to dash them. + +The political grapes were sour for Mr. Rigby; a prophet of evil, he +preached only mortification and repentance and despair to his late +colleagues. It was the only satisfaction left Mr. Rigby, except assuring +the Duke that the finest pictures in his gallery were copies, and +recommending him to pull down Beaumanoir, and rebuild it on a design +with which Mr. Rigby would furnish him. + +The battue and the banquet were over; the ladies had withdrawn; and the +butler placed fresh claret on the table. + +‘And you really think you could give us a majority, Tadpole?’ said the +Duke. + +Mr. Tadpole, with some ceremony, took a memorandum-book out of his +pocket, amid the smiles and the faint well-bred merriment of his +friends. + +‘Tadpole is nothing without his book,’ whispered Lord Fitz-Booby. + +‘It is here,’ said Mr. Tadpole, emphatically patting his volume, ‘a +clear working majority of twenty-two.’ + +‘Near sailing that!’ cried the Duke. + +‘A far better majority than the present Government have,’ said Mr. +Tadpole. + +‘There is nothing like a good small majority,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘and a +good registration.’ + +‘Ay! register, register, register!’ said the Duke. ‘Those were immortal +words.’ + +‘I can tell your Grace three far better ones,’ said Mr. Tadpole, with a +self-complacent air. ‘Object, object, object!’ + +‘You may register, and you may object,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘but you will +never get rid of Schedule A and Schedule B.’ + +‘But who could have supposed two years ago that affairs would be in +their present position?’ said Mr. Taper, deferentially. + +‘I foretold it,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Every one knows that no government now +can last twelve months.’ + +‘We may make fresh boroughs,’ said Taper. ‘We have reduced Shabbyton at +the last registration under three hundred.’ + +‘And the Wesleyans!’ said Tadpole. ‘We never counted on the Wesleyans!’ + +‘I am told these Wesleyans are really a respectable body,’ said Lord +Fitz-Booby. ‘I believe there is no material difference between their +tenets and those of the Establishment. I never heard of them much till +lately. We have too long confounded them with the mass of Dissenters, +but their conduct at several of the later elections proves that they are +far from being unreasonable and disloyal individuals. When we come in, +something should be done for the Wesleyans, eh, Rigby?’ + +‘All that your Lordship can do for the Wesleyans is what they will very +shortly do for themselves, appropriate a portion of the Church Revenues +to their own use.’ + +‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Tadpole with a chuckle, ‘I don’t think we shall +find the Church attacked again in a hurry. I only wish they would try! A +good Church cry before a registration,’ he continued, rubbing his hands; +‘eh, my Lord, I think that would do.’ + +‘But how are we to turn them out?’ said the Duke. + +‘Ah!’ said Mr. Taper, ‘that is a great question.’ + +‘What do you think of a repeal of the Malt Tax?’ said Lord Fitz-Booby. +‘They have been trying it on in ----shire, and I am told it goes down +very well.’ + +‘No repeal of any tax,’ said Taper, sincerely shocked, and shaking his +head; ‘and the Malt Tax of all others. I am all against that.’ + +‘It is a very good cry though, if there be no other,’ said Tadpole. + +‘I am all for a religious cry,’ said Taper. ‘It means nothing, and, if +successful, does not interfere with business when we are in.’ + +‘You will have religious cries enough in a short time,’ said Mr. Rigby, +rather wearied of any one speaking but himself, and thereat he commenced +a discourse, which was, in fact, one of his ‘slashing’ articles in petto +on Church Reform, and which abounded in parallels between the present +affairs and those of the reign of Charles I. Tadpole, who did not +pretend to know anything but the state of the registration, and Taper, +whose political reading was confined to an intimate acquaintance with +the Red Book and Beatson’s Political Index, which he could repeat +backwards, were silenced. The Duke, who was well instructed and liked +to be talked to, sipped his claret, and was rather amused by Rigby’s +lecture, particularly by one or two statements characterised by Rigby’s +happy audacity, but which the Duke was too indolent to question. Lord +Fitz-Booby listened with his mouth open, but rather bored. At length, +when there was a momentary pause, he said: + +‘In my time, the regular thing was to move an amendment on the address.’ + +‘Quite out of the question,’ exclaimed Tadpole, with a scoff. + +‘Entirely given up,’ said Taper, with a sneer. + +‘If you will drink no more claret, we will go and hear some music,’ said +the Duke. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +A breakfast at Beaumanoir was a meal of some ceremony. Every guest was +expected to attend, and at a somewhat early hour. Their host and hostess +set them the example of punctuality. ‘Tis an old form rigidly adhered to +in some great houses, but, it must be confessed, does not contrast +very agreeably with the easier arrangements of establishments of less +pretension and of more modern order. + +The morning after the dinner to which we have been recently introduced, +there was one individual absent from the breakfast-table whose +non-appearance could scarcely be passed over without notice; and several +inquired with some anxiety, whether their host were indisposed. + +‘The Duke has received some letters from London which detain him,’ +replied the Duchess. ‘He will join us.’ + +‘Your Grace will be glad to hear that your son Henry is very well,’ said +Mr. Rigby; ‘I heard of him this morning. Harry Coningsby enclosed me a +letter for his grandfather, and tells me that he and Henry Sydney had +just had a capital run with the King’s hounds.’ + +‘It is three years since we have seen Mr. Coningsby,’ said the Duchess. +‘Once he was often here. He was a great favourite of mine. I hardly ever +knew a more interesting boy.’ + +‘Yes, I have done a great deal for him,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Lord Monmouth +is fond of him, and wishes that he should make a figure; but how any one +is to distinguish himself now, I am really at a loss to comprehend.’ + +‘But are affairs so very bad?’ said the Duchess, smiling. ‘I thought +that we were all regaining our good sense and good temper.’ + +‘I believe all the good sense and all the good temper in England are +concentrated in your Grace,’ said Mr. Rigby, gallantly. + +‘I should be sorry to be such a monopolist. But Lord Fitz-Booby was +giving me last night quite a glowing report of Mr. Tadpole’s prospects +for the nation. We were all to have our own again; and Percy to carry +the county.’ + +‘My dear Madam, before twelve months are past, there will not be +a county in England. Why should there be? If boroughs are to be +disfranchised, why should not counties be destroyed?’ + +At this moment the Duke entered, apparently agitated. He bowed to his +guests, and apologised for his unusual absence. ‘The truth is,’ he +continued, ‘I have just received a very important despatch. An event has +occurred which may materially affect affairs. Lord Spencer is dead.’ + +A thunderbolt in a summer sky, as Sir William Temple says, could not +have produced a greater sensation. The business of the repast ceased in +a moment. The knives and forks were suddenly silent. All was still. + +‘It is an immense event,’ said Tadpole. + +‘I don’t see my way,’ said Taper. + +‘When did he die?’ said Lord Fitz-Booby. + +‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘They have got their man ready,’ said Tadpole. + +‘It is impossible to say what will happen,’ said Taper. + +‘Now is the time for an amendment on the address,’ said Fitz-Booby. + +‘There are two reasons which convince me that Lord Spencer is not dead,’ +said Mr. Rigby. + +‘I fear there is no doubt of it,’ said the Duke, shaking his head. + +‘Lord Althorp was the only man who could keep them together,’ said Lord +Fitz-Booby. + +‘On the contrary,’ said Tadpole. ‘If I be right in my man, and I have +no doubt of it, you will have a radical programme, and they will be +stronger than ever.’ + +‘Do you think they can get the steam up again?’ said Taper, musingly. + +‘They will bid high,’ replied Tadpole. ‘Nothing could be more +unfortunate than this death. Things were going on so well and so +quietly! The Wesleyans almost with us!’ + +‘And Shabbyton too!’ mournfully exclaimed Taper. ‘Another registration +and quiet times, and I could have reduced the constituency to two +hundred and fifty.’ + +‘If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th,’ said Rigby, ‘it must have been +known to Henry Rivers. And I have a letter from Henry Rivers by this +post. Now, Althorp is in Northamptonshire, mark that, and Northampton is +a county--’ + +‘My dear Rigby,’ said the Duke, ‘pardon me for interrupting you. +Unhappily, there is no doubt Lord Spencer is dead, for I am one of his +executors.’ + +This announcement silenced even Mr. Rigby, and the conversation now +entirely merged in speculations on what would occur. Numerous were +the conjectures hazarded, but the prevailing impression was, that this +unforeseen event might embarrass those secret expectations of Court +succour in which a certain section of the party had for some time reason +to indulge. + +From the moment, however, of the announcement of Lord Spencer’s death, a +change might be visibly observed in the tone of the party at Beaumanoir. +They became silent, moody, and restless. There seemed a general, though +not avowed, conviction that a crisis of some kind or other was at hand. +The post, too, brought letters every day from town teeming with fanciful +speculations, and occasionally mysterious hopes. + +‘I kept this cover for Peel,’ said the Duke pensively, as he loaded his +gun on the morning of the 14th. ‘Do you know, I was always against his +going to Rome.’ + +‘It is very odd,’ said Tadpole, ‘but I was thinking of the very same +thing.’ + +‘It will be fifteen years before England will see a Tory Government,’ +said Mr. Rigby, drawing his ramrod, ‘and then it will only last five +months.’ + +‘Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham, all in the Lords,’ said Taper. ‘Three +leaders! They must quarrel.’ + +‘If Durham come in, mark me, he will dissolve on Household Suffrage and +the Ballot,’ said Tadpole. + +‘Not nearly so good a cry as Church,’ replied Taper. + +‘With the Malt Tax,’ said Tadpole. ‘Church, without the Malt Tax, will +not do against Household Suffrage and Ballot.’ + +‘Malt Tax is madness,’ said Taper. ‘A good farmer’s friend cry without +Malt Tax would work just as well.’ + +‘They will never dissolve,’ said the Duke. ‘They are so strong.’ + +‘They cannot go on with three hundred majority,’ said Taper. ‘Forty is +as much as can be managed with open constituencies.’ + +‘If he had only gone to Paris instead of Rome!’ said the Duke. + +‘Yes,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘I could have written to him then by every post, +and undeceived him as to his position.’ + +‘After all he is the only man,’ said the Duke; ‘and I really believe the +country thinks so.’ + +‘Pray, what is the country?’ inquired Mr. Rigby. ‘The country is +nothing; it is the constituency you have to deal with.’ + +‘And to manage them you must have a good cry,’ said Taper. ‘All now +depends upon a good cry.’ + +‘So much for the science of politics,’ said the Duke, bringing down a +pheasant. ‘How Peel would have enjoyed this cover!’ + +‘He will have plenty of time for sport during his life,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +On the evening of the 15th of November, a despatch arrived at +Beaumanoir, informing his Grace that the King had dismissed the Whig +Ministry, and sent for the Duke of Wellington. Thus the first agitating +suspense was over; to be succeeded, however, by expectation still more +anxious. It was remarkable that every individual suddenly found that he +had particular business in London which could not be neglected. The Duke +very properly pleaded his executorial duties; but begged his guests on +no account to be disturbed by his inevitable absence. Lord Fitz-Booby +had just received a letter from his daughter, who was indisposed at +Brighton, and he was most anxious to reach her. Tadpole had to receive +deputations from Wesleyans, and well-registered boroughs anxious to +receive well-principled candidates. Taper was off to get the first job +at the contingent Treasury, in favour of the Borough of Shabbyton. +Mr. Rigby alone was silent; but he quietly ordered a post-chaise at +daybreak, and long before his fellow guests were roused from their +slumbers, he was halfway to London, ready to give advice, either at the +pavilion or at Apsley House. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Although it is far from improbable that, had Sir Robert Peel been in +England in the autumn of 1834, the Whig government would not have been +dismissed; nevertheless, whatever may now be the opinion of the policy +of that measure; whether it be looked on as a premature movement which +necessarily led to the compact reorganisation of the Liberal party, +or as a great stroke of State, which, by securing at all events a +dissolution of the Parliament of 1832, restored the healthy balance of +parties in the Legislature, questions into which we do not now wish +to enter, it must be generally admitted, that the conduct of every +individual eminently concerned in that great historical transaction was +characterised by the rarest and most admirable quality of public +life, moral courage. The Sovereign who dismissed a Ministry apparently +supported by an overwhelming majority in the Parliament and the nation, +and called to his councils the absent chief of a parliamentary section, +scarcely numbering at that moment one hundred and forty individuals, and +of a party in the country supposed to be utterly discomfited by a +recent revolution; the two ministers who in this absence provisionally +administered the affairs of the kingdom in the teeth of an enraged +and unscrupulous Opposition, and perhaps themselves not sustained by +a profound conviction, that the arrival of their expected leader would +convert their provisional into a permanent position; above all +the statesman who accepted the great charge at a time and under +circumstances which marred probably the deep projects of his own +prescient sagacity and maturing ambition; were all men gifted with a +high spirit of enterprise, and animated by that active fortitude which +is the soul of free governments. + +It was a lively season, that winter of 1834! What hopes, what fears, and +what bets! From the day on which Mr. Hudson was to arrive at Rome to the +election of the Speaker, not a contingency that was not the subject of +a wager! People sprang up like mushrooms; town suddenly became full. +Everybody who had been in office, and everybody who wished to be in +office; everybody who had ever had anything, and everybody who ever +expected to have anything, were alike visible. All of course by mere +accident; one might meet the same men regularly every day for a month, +who were only ‘passing through town.’ + +Now was the time for men to come forward who had never despaired of +their country. True they had voted for the Reform Bill, but that was to +prevent a revolution. And now they were quite ready to vote against the +Reform Bill, but this was to prevent a dissolution. These are the true +patriots, whose confidence in the good sense of their countrymen and in +their own selfishness is about equal. In the meantime, the hundred and +forty threw a grim glance on the numerous waiters on Providence, and +amiable trimmers, who affectionately enquired every day when news might +be expected of Sir Robert. Though too weak to form a government, and +having contributed in no wise by their exertions to the fall of the +late, the cohort of Parliamentary Tories felt all the alarm of men who +have accidentally stumbled on some treasure-trove, at the suspicious +sympathy of new allies. But, after all, who were to form the government, +and what was the government to be? Was it to be a Tory government, or an +Enlightened-Spirit-of-the-Age Liberal-Moderate-Reform government; was it +to be a government of high philosophy or of low practice; of principle +or of expediency; of great measures or of little men? A government of +statesmen or of clerks? Of Humbug or of Humdrum? Great questions these, +but unfortunately there was nobody to answer them. They tried the Duke; +but nothing could be pumped out of him. All that he knew, which he +told in his curt, husky manner, was, that he had to carry on the King’s +government. As for his solitary colleague, he listened and smiled, and +then in his musical voice asked them questions in return, which is the +best possible mode of avoiding awkward inquiries. It was very unfair +this; for no one knew what tone to take; whether they should go down to +their public dinners and denounce the Reform Act or praise it; whether +the Church was to be re-modelled or only admonished; whether Ireland was +to be conquered or conciliated. + +‘This can’t go on much longer,’ said Taper to Tadpole, as they reviewed +together their electioneering correspondence on the 1st of December; ‘we +have no cry.’ + +‘He is half way by this time,’ said Tadpole; ‘send an extract from a +private letter to the _Standard_, dated Augsburg, and say he will be +here in four days.’ + +At last he came; the great man in a great position, summoned from Rome +to govern England. The very day that he arrived he had his audience with +the King. + +It was two days after this audience; the town, though November, in a +state of excitement; clubs crowded, not only morning rooms, but halls +and staircases swarming with members eager to give and to receive +rumours equally vain; streets lined with cabs and chariots, grooms and +horses; it was two days after this audience that Mr. Ormsby, celebrated +for his political dinners, gave one to a numerous party. Indeed his +saloons to-day, during the half-hour of gathering which precedes dinner, +offered in the various groups, the anxious countenances, the inquiring +voices, and the mysterious whispers, rather the character of an Exchange +or Bourse than the tone of a festive society. + +Here might be marked a murmuring knot of greyheaded privy-councillors, +who had held fat offices under Perceval and Liverpool, and who looked +back to the Reform Act as to a hideous dream; there some middle-aged +aspirants might be observed who had lost their seats in the convulsion, +but who flattered themselves they had done something for the party +in the interval, by spending nothing except their breath in fighting +hopeless boroughs, and occasionally publishing a pamphlet, which really +produced less effect than chalking the walls. Light as air, and proud as +a young peacock, tripped on his toes a young Tory, who had contrived to +keep his seat in a Parliament where he had done nothing, but who thought +an Under-Secretaryship was now secure, particularly as he was the son of +a noble Lord who had also in a public capacity plundered and blundered +in the good old time. The true political adventurer, who with dull +desperation had stuck at nothing, had never neglected a treasury note, +had been present at every division, never spoke when he was asked to be +silent, and was always ready on any subject when they wanted him to open +his mouth; who had treated his leaders with servility even behind their +backs, and was happy for the day if a future Secretary of the Treasury +bowed to him; who had not only discountenanced discontent in the party, +but had regularly reported in strict confidence every instance of +insubordination which came to his knowledge; might there too be detected +under all the agonies of the crisis; just beginning to feel the +dread misgiving, whether being a slave and a sneak were sufficient +qualifications for office, without family or connection. Poor fellow! +half the industry he had wasted on his cheerless craft might have made +his fortune in some decent trade! + +In dazzling contrast with these throes of low ambition, were some +brilliant personages who had just scampered up from Melton, thinking it +probable that Sir Robert might want some moral lords of the bed-chamber. +Whatever may have been their private fears or feelings, all however +seemed smiling and significant, as if they knew something if they chose +to tell it, and that something very much to their own satisfaction. +The only grave countenance that was occasionally ushered into the room +belonged to some individual whose destiny was not in doubt, and who was +already practising the official air that was in future to repress the +familiarity of his former fellow-stragglers. + +‘Do you hear anything?’ said a great noble who wanted something in the +general scramble, but what he knew not; only he had a vague feeling he +ought to have something, having made such great sacrifices. + +‘There is a report that Clifford is to be Secretary to the Board of +Control,’ said Mr. Earwig, whose whole soul was in this subaltern +arrangement, of which the Minister of course had not even thought; ‘but +I cannot trace it to any authority.’ + +‘I wonder who will be their Master of the Horse,’ said the great noble, +loving gossip though he despised the gossiper. + +‘Clifford has done nothing for the party,’ said Mr. Earwig. + +‘I dare say Rambrooke will have the Buckhounds,’ said the great noble, +musingly. + +‘Your Lordship has not heard Clifford’s name mentioned?’ continued Mr. +Earwig. + +‘I should think they had not come to that sort of thing,’ said the great +noble, with ill-disguised contempt.’ The first thing after the Cabinet +is formed is the Household: the things you talk of are done last;’ and +he turned upon his heel, and met the imperturbable countenance and clear +sarcastic eye of Lord Eskdale. + +‘You have not heard anything?’ asked the great noble of his brother +patrician. + +‘Yes, a great deal since I have been in this room; but unfortunately it +is all untrue.’ + +‘There is a report that Rambrooke is to have the Buck-hounds; but I +cannot trace it to any authority.’ + +‘Pooh!’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘I don’t see that Rambrooke should have the Buckhounds any more than +anybody else. What sacrifices has he made?’ + +‘Past sacrifices are nothing,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘Present sacrifices +are the thing we want: men who will sacrifice their principles and join +us.’ + +‘You have not heard Rambrooke’s name mentioned?’ + +‘When a Minister has no Cabinet, and only one hundred and forty +supporters in the House of Commons, he has something else to think of +than places at Court,’ said Lord Eskdale, as he slowly turned away to +ask Lucian Gay whether it were true that Jenny Colon was coming over. + +Shortly after this, Henry Sydney’s father, who dined with Mr. Ornisby, +drew Lord Eskdale into a window, and said in an undertone: + +‘So there is to be a kind of programme: something is to be written.’ + +‘Well, we want a cue,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I heard of this last night: +Rigby has written something.’ + +The Duke shook his head. + +‘No; Peel means to do it himself.’ + +But at this moment Mr. Ornisby begged his Grace to lead them to dinner. + +‘Something is to be written.’ It is curious to recall the vague terms +in which the first projection of documents, that are to exercise a vast +influence on the course of affairs or the minds of nations, is often +mentioned. This ‘something to be written’ was written; and speedily; and +has ever since been talked of. + +We believe we may venture to assume that at no period during the +movements of 1834-5 did Sir Robert Peel ever believe in the success +of his administration. Its mere failure could occasion him little +dissatisfaction; he was compensated for it by the noble opportunity +afforded to him for the display of those great qualities, both moral and +intellectual, which the swaddling-clothes of a routine prosperity had +long repressed, but of which his opposition to the Reform Bill had +given to the nation a significant intimation. The brief administration +elevated him in public opinion, and even in the eye of Europe; and it +is probable that a much longer term of power would not have contributed +more to his fame. + +The probable effect of the premature effort of his party on his future +position as a Minister was, however, far from being so satisfactory. At +the lowest ebb of his political fortunes, it cannot be doubted that Sir +Robert Peel looked forward, perhaps through the vista of many years, to +a period when the national mind, arrived by reflection and experience +at certain conclusions, would seek in him a powerful expositor of its +convictions. His time of life permitted him to be tranquil in adversity, +and to profit by its salutary uses. He would then have acceded to power +as the representative of a Creed, instead of being the leader of a +Confederacy, and he would have been supported by earnest and enduring +enthusiasm, instead of by that churlish sufferance which is the +result of a supposed balance of advantages in his favour. This is +the consequence of the tactics of those short-sighted intriguers, who +persisted in looking upon a revolution as a mere party struggle, and +would not permit the mind of the nation to work through the inevitable +phases that awaited it. In 1834, England, though frightened at the +reality of Reform, still adhered to its phrases; it was inclined, +as practical England, to maintain existing institutions; but, as +theoretical England, it was suspicious that they were indefensible. + +No one had arisen either in Parliament, the Universities, or the Press, +to lead the public mind to the investigation of principles; and not +to mistake, in their reformations, the corruption of practice for +fundamental ideas. It was this perplexed, ill-informed, jaded, shallow +generation, repeating cries which they did not comprehend, and wearied +with the endless ebullitions of their own barren conceit, that Sir +Robert Peel was summoned to govern. It was from such materials, ample +in quantity, but in all spiritual qualities most deficient; with +great numbers, largely acred, consoled up to their chins, but without +knowledge, genius, thought, truth, or faith, that Sir Robert Peel was to +form a ‘great Conservative party on a comprehensive basis.’ That he +did this like a dexterous politician, who can deny? Whether he realised +those prescient views of a great statesman in which he had doubtless +indulged, and in which, though still clogged by the leadership of 1834, +he may yet find fame for himself and salvation for his country, is +altogether another question. His difficult attempt was expressed in +an address to his constituents, which now ranks among state papers. +We shall attempt briefly to consider it with the impartiality of the +future. + + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an attempt to construct a +party without principles; its basis therefore was necessarily +Latitudinarianism; and its inevitable consequence has been Political +Infidelity. + +At an epoch of political perplexity and social alarm, the confederation +was convenient, and was calculated by aggregation to encourage the timid +and confused. But when the perturbation was a little subsided, and +men began to inquire why they were banded together, the difficulty of +defining their purpose proved that the league, however respectable, was +not a party. The leaders indeed might profit by their eminent position +to obtain power for their individual gratification, but it was +impossible to secure their followers that which, after all, must be the +great recompense of a political party, the putting in practice of their +opinions; for they had none. + +There was indeed a considerable shouting about what they called +Conservative principles; but the awkward question naturally arose, what +will you conserve? The prerogatives of the Crown, provided they are not +exercised; the independence of the House of Lords, provided it is not +asserted; the Ecclesiastical estate, provided it is regulated by a +commission of laymen. Everything, in short, that is established, as long +as it is a phrase and not a fact. + +In the meantime, while forms and phrases are religiously cherished in +order to make the semblance of a creed, the rule of practice is to +bend to the passion or combination of the hour. Conservatism assumes in +theory that everything established should be maintained; but adopts +in practice that everything that is established is indefensible. To +reconcile this theory and this practice, they produce what they call +‘the best bargain;’ some arrangement which has no principle and no +purpose, except to obtain a temporary lull of agitation, until the mind +of the Conservatives, without a guide and without an aim, distracted, +tempted, and bewildered, is prepared for another arrangement, equally +statesmanlike with the preceding one. + +Conservatism was an attempt to carry on affairs by substituting the +fulfilment of the duties of office for the performance of the functions +of government; and to maintain this negative system by the mere +influence of property, reputable private conduct, and what are called +good connections. Conservatism discards Prescription, shrinks from +Principle, disavows Progress; having rejected all respect for Antiquity, +it offers no redress for the Present, and makes no preparation for the +Future. It is obvious that for a time, under favourable circumstances, +such a confederation might succeed; but it is equally clear, that on +the arrival of one of those critical conjunctures that will periodically +occur in all states, and which such an unimpassioned system is even +calculated ultimately to create, all power of resistance will be +wanting: the barren curse of political infidelity will paralyse all +action; and the Conservative Constitution will be discovered to be a +Caput Mortuum. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +In the meantime, after dinner, Tadpole and Taper, who were among the +guests of Mr. Ormsby, withdrew to a distant sofa, out of earshot, and +indulged in confidential talk. + +‘Such a strength in debate was never before found on a Treasury bench,’ +said Mr. Tadpole; ‘the other side will be dumbfounded.’ + +‘And what do you put our numbers at now?’ inquired Mr. Taper. + +‘Would you take fifty-five for our majority?’ rejoined Mr. Tadpole. + +‘It is not so much the tail they have, as the excuse their junction will +be for the moderate, sensible men to come over,’ said Taper. ‘Our friend +Sir Everard for example, it would settle him.’ + +‘He is a solemn impostor,’ rejoined Mr. Tadpole; ‘but he is a baronet +and a county member, and very much looked up to by the Wesleyans. The +other men, I know, have refused him a peerage.’ + +‘And we might hold out judicious hopes,’ said Taper. + +‘No one can do that better than you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I am apt to say too +much about those things.’ + +‘I make it a rule never to open my mouth on such subjects,’ said Taper. +‘A nod or a wink will speak volumes. An affectionate pressure of the +hand will sometimes do a great deal; and I have promised many a peerage +without committing myself, by an ingenious habit of deference which +cannot be mistaken by the future noble.’ + +‘I wonder what they will do with Rigby,’ said Tadpole. + +‘He wants a good deal,’ said Taper. + +‘I tell you what, Mr. Taper, the time is gone by when a Marquess of +Monmouth was Letter A, No. 1.’ + +‘Very true, Mr. Tadpole. A wise man would do well now to look to +the great middle class, as I said the other day to the electors of +Shabbyton.’ + +‘I had sooner be supported by the Wesleyans,’ said Mr. Tadpole, ‘than by +all the marquesses in the peerage.’ + +‘At the same time,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘Rigby is a considerable man. If we +want a slashing article--’ + +‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘He is quite gone by. He takes three months +for his slashing articles. Give me the man who can write a leader. Rigby +can’t write a leader.’ + +‘Very few can,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘However, I don’t think much of the +press. Its power is gone by. They overdid it.’ + +‘There is Tom Chudleigh,’ said Tadpole. ‘What is he to have?’ + +‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Taper. ‘I hate him. A coxcomb! Cracking his +jokes and laughing at us.’ + +‘He has done a good deal for the party, though,’ said Tadpole. ‘That, +to be sure, is only an additional reason for throwing him over, as he +is too far committed to venture to oppose us. But I am afraid from +something that dropped to-day, that Sir Robert thinks he has claims.’ + +‘We must stop them,’ said Taper, growing pale. ‘Fellows like Chudleigh, +when they once get in, are always in one’s way. I have no objection to +young noblemen being put forward, for they are preferred so rapidly, +and then their fathers die, that in the long run they do not practically +interfere with us.’ + +‘Well, his name was mentioned,’ said Tadpole. ‘There is no concealing +that.’ + +‘I will speak to Earwig,’ said Taper. ‘He shall just drop into +Sir Robert’s ear by chance, that Chudleigh used to quiz him in the +smoking-room. Those little bits of information do a great deal of good.’ + +‘Well, I leave him to you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I am heartily with you +in keeping out all fellows like Chudleigh. They are very well for +opposition; but in office we don’t want wits.’ + +‘And when shall we have the answer from Knowsley?’ inquired Taper. ‘You +anticipate no possible difficulty?’ + +‘I tell you it is “carte blanche,”’ replied Tadpole. ‘Four places in +the cabinet. Two secretaryships at the least. Do you happen to know any +gentleman of your acquaintance, Mr. Taper, who refuses Secretaryships +of State so easily, that you can for an instant doubt of the present +arrangement?’ + +‘I know none indeed,’ said Mr. Taper, with a grim smile. + +‘The thing is done,’ said Mr. Tadpole. + +‘And now for our cry,’ said Mr. Taper. + +‘It is not a Cabinet for a good cry,’ said Tadpole; ‘but then, on the +other hand, it is a Cabinet that will sow dissension in the opposite +ranks, and prevent them having a good cry.’ + +‘Ancient institutions and modern improvements, I suppose, Mr. Tadpole?’ + +‘Ameliorations is the better word, ameliorations. Nobody knows exactly +what it means.’ + +‘We go strong on the Church?’ said Mr. Taper. + +‘And no repeal of the Malt Tax; you were right, Taper. It can’t be +listened to for a moment.’ + +‘Something might be done with prerogative,’ said Mr. Taper; ‘the King’s +constitutional choice.’ + +‘Not too much,’ replied Mr. Tadpole. ‘It is a raw time yet for +prerogative.’ + +‘Ah! Tadpole,’ said Mr. Taper, getting a little maudlin; ‘I often think, +if the time should ever come, when you and I should be joint Secretaries +of the Treasury!’ + +‘We shall see, we shall see. All we have to do is to get into +Parliament, work well together, and keep other men down.’ + +‘We will do our best,’ said Taper. ‘A dissolution you hold inevitable?’ + +‘How are you and I to get into Parliament if there be not one? We must +make it inevitable. I tell you what, Taper, the lists must prove a +dissolution inevitable. You understand me? If the present Parliament +goes on, where shall we be? We shall have new men cropping up every +session.’ + +‘True, terribly true,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘That we should ever live to see +a Tory government again! We have reason to be very thankful.’ + +‘Hush!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘The time has gone by for Tory governments; +what the country requires is a sound Conservative government.’ + +‘A sound Conservative government,’ said Taper, musingly. ‘I understand: +Tory men and Whig measures.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Amid the contentions of party, the fierce struggles of ambition, and the +intricacies of political intrigue, let us not forget our Eton friends. +During the period which elapsed from the failure of the Duke of +Wellington to form a government in 1832, to the failure of Sir Robert +Peel to carry on a government in 1835, the boys had entered, and +advanced in youth. The ties of friendship which then united several of +them had only been confirmed by continued companionship. Coningsby +and Henry Sydney, and Buckhurst and Vere, were still bound together by +entire sympathy, and by the affection of which sympathy is the only +sure spring. But their intimacies had been increased by another familiar +friend. There had risen up between Coningsby and Millbank mutual +sentiments of deep, and even ardent, regard. Acquaintance had developed +the superior qualities of Millbank. His thoughtful and inquiring mind, +his inflexible integrity, his stern independence, and yet the engaging +union of extreme tenderness of heart with all this strength of +character, had won the goodwill, and often excited the admiration, of +Coningsby. Our hero, too, was gratified by the affectionate deference +that was often shown to him by one who condescended to no other +individual; he was proud of having saved the life of a member of their +community whom masters and boys alike considered; and he ended by loving +the being on whom he had conferred a great obligation. + +The friends of Coningsby, the sweet-tempered and intelligent Henry +Sydney, the fiery and generous Buckhurst, and the calm and sagacious +Vere, had ever been favourably inclined to Millbank, and had they not +been, the example of Coningsby would soon have influenced them. He had +obtained over his intimates the ascendant power, which is the destiny +of genius. Nor was this submission of such spirits to be held cheap. +Although they were willing to take the colour of their minds from him, +they were in intellect and attainments, in personal accomplishments and +general character, the leaders of the school; an authority not to be +won from five hundred high-spirited boys without the possession of great +virtues and great talents. + +As for the dominion of Coningsby himself, it was not limited to the +immediate circle of his friends. He had become the hero of Eton; the +being of whose existence everybody was proud, and in whose career every +boy took an interest. They talked of him, they quoted him, they imitated +him. Fame and power are the objects of all men. Even their partial +fruition is gained by very few; and that too at the expense of social +pleasure, health, conscience, life. Yet what power of manhood in +passionate intenseness, appealing at the same time to the subject and +the votary, can rival that which is exercised by the idolised chieftain +of a great public school? What fame of after days equals the rapture of +celebrity that thrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare emotion he +recites his triumphant verses amid the devoted plaudits of the flower +of England? That’s fame, that’s power; real, unquestioned, undoubted, +catholic. Alas! the schoolboy, when he becomes a man, finds that power, +even fame, like everything else, is an affair of party. + +Coningsby liked very much to talk politics with Millbank. He heard +things from Millbank which were new to him. Himself, as he supposed, a +high Tory, which he was according to the revelation of the Rigbys, he +was also sufficiently familiar with the hereditary tenets of his Whig +friend, Lord Vere. Politics had as yet appeared to him a struggle +whether the country was to be governed by Whig nobles or Tory nobles; +and he thought it very unfortunate that he should probably have to enter +life with his friends out of power, and his family boroughs destroyed. +But in conversing with Millbank, he heard for the first time of +influential classes in the country who were not noble, and were yet +determined to acquire power. And although Millbank’s views, which were +of course merely caught up from his father, without the intervention of +his own intelligence, were doubtless crude enough, and were often very +acutely canvassed and satisfactorily demolished by the clever prejudices +of another school, which Coningsby had at command, still they were, +unconsciously to the recipient, materials for thought, and insensibly +provoked in his mind a spirit of inquiry into political questions, for +which he had a predisposition. + +It may be said, indeed, that generally among the upper boys there might +be observed at this time, at Eton, a reigning inclination for political +discussion. The school truly had at all times been proud of its +statesmen and its parliamentary heroes, but this was merely a +superficial feeling in comparison with the sentiment which now first +became prevalent. The great public questions that were the consequence +of the Reform of the House of Commons, had also agitated their young +hearts. And especially the controversies that were now rife respecting +the nature and character of ecclesiastical establishments, wonderfully +addressed themselves to their excited intelligence. They read their +newspapers with a keen relish, canvassed debates, and criticised +speeches; and although in their debating society, which had been +instituted more than a quarter of a century, discussion on topics of +the day was prohibited, still by fixing on periods of our history when +affairs were analogous to the present, many a youthful orator contrived +very effectively to reply to Lord John, or to refute the fallacies of +his rival. + +As the political opinions predominant in the school were what in +ordinary parlance are styled Tory, and indeed were far better entitled +to that glorious epithet than the flimsy shifts which their fathers were +professing in Parliament and the country; the formation and the fall +of Sir Robert Peel’s government had been watched by Etonians with great +interest, and even excitement. The memorable efforts which the Minister +himself made, supported only by the silent votes of his numerous +adherents, and contending alone against the multiplied assaults of his +able and determined foes, with a spirit equal to the great occasion, and +with resources of parliamentary contest which seemed to increase +with every exigency; these great and unsupported struggles alone were +calculated to gain the sympathy of youthful and generous spirits. The +assault on the revenues of the Church; the subsequent crusade against +the House of Lords; the display of intellect and courage exhibited +by Lord Lyndhurst in that assembly, when all seemed cowed and +faint-hearted; all these were incidents or personal traits apt to stir +the passions, and create in breasts not yet schooled to repress emotion, +a sentiment even of enthusiasm. It is the personal that interests +mankind, that fires their imagination, and wins their hearts. A cause is +a great abstraction, and fit only for students; embodied in a party, it +stirs men to action; but place at the head of that party a leader who +can inspire enthusiasm, he commands the world. Divine faculty! Rare and +incomparable privilege! A parliamentary leader who possesses it, doubles +his majority; and he who has it not, may shroud himself in artificial +reserve, and study with undignified arrogance an awkward haughtiness, +but he will nevertheless be as far from controlling the spirit as from +captivating the hearts of his sullen followers. + +However, notwithstanding this general feeling at Eton, in 1835, in +favour of ‘Conservative principles,’ which was, in fact, nothing more +than a confused and mingled sympathy with some great political truths, +which were at the bottom of every boy’s heart, but nowhere else; and +with the personal achievements and distinction of the chieftains of +the party; when all this hubbub had subsided, and retrospection, in the +course of a year, had exercised its moralising influence over the +more thoughtful part of the nation, inquiries, at first faint and +unpretending, and confined indeed for a long period to limited, though +inquisitive, circles, began gently to circulate, what Conservative +principles were. + +These inquiries, urged indeed with a sort of hesitating scepticism, +early reached Eton. They came, no doubt, from the Universities. They +were of a character, however, far too subtile and refined to exercise +any immediate influence over the minds of youth. To pursue them required +previous knowledge and habitual thought. They were not yet publicly +prosecuted by any school of politicians, or any section of the public +press. They had not a local habitation or a name. They were whispered in +conversation by a few. A tutor would speak of them in an esoteric vein +to a favourite pupil, in whose abilities he had confidence, and whose +future position in life would afford him the opportunity of influencing +opinion. Among others, they fell upon the ear of Coningsby. They were +addressed to a mind which was prepared for such researches. + +There is a Library at Eton formed by the boys and governed by the boys; +one of those free institutions which are the just pride of that noble +school, which shows the capacity of the boys for self-government, and +which has sprung from the large freedom that has been wisely conceded +them, the prudence of which confidence has been proved by their rarely +abusing it. This Library has been formed by subscriptions of the present +and still more by the gifts of old Etonians. Among the honoured names of +these donors may be remarked those of the Grenvilles and Lord Wellesley; +nor should we forget George IV., who enriched the collection with a +magnificent copy of the Delphin Classics. The Institution is governed +by six directors, the three first Collegers and the three first Oppidans +for the time being; and the subscribers are limited to the one hundred +senior members of the school. + +It is only to be regretted that the collection is not so extensive at +it is interesting and choice. Perhaps its existence is not so generally +known as it deserves to be. One would think that every Eton man would +be as proud of his name being registered as a donor in the Catalogue of +this Library, as a Venetian of his name being inscribed in the Golden +Book. Indeed an old Etonian, who still remembers with tenderness the +sacred scene of youth, could scarcely do better than build a Gothic +apartment for the reception of the collection. It cannot be doubted that +the Provost and fellows would be gratified in granting a piece of ground +for the purpose. + +Great were the obligations of Coningsby to this Eton Library. It +introduced him to that historic lore, that accumulation of facts and +incidents illustrative of political conduct, for which he had imbibed an +early relish. His study was especially directed to the annals of his +own country, in which youth, and not youth alone, is frequently so +deficient. This collection could afford him Clarendon and Burnet, and +the authentic volumes of Coxe: these were rich materials for one anxious +to be versed in the great parliamentary story of his country. During +the last year of his stay at Eton, when he had completed his eighteenth +year, Coningsby led a more retired life than previously; he read much, +and pondered with all the pride of acquisition over his increasing +knowledge. + +And now the hour has come when this youth is to be launched into a world +more vast than that in which he has hitherto sojourned, yet for which +this microcosm has been no ill preparation. He will become more wise; +will he remain as generous? His ambition may be as great; will it be as +noble? What, indeed, is to be the future of this existence that is now +to be sent forth into the great aggregate of entities? Is it an ordinary +organisation that will jostle among the crowd, and be jostled? Is it a +finer temperament, susceptible of receiving the impressions and imbibing +the inspirations of superior yet sympathising spirits? Or is it a +primordial and creative mind; one that will say to his fellows, ‘Behold, +God has given me thought; I have discovered truth, and you shall +believe?’ + +The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone in his room, before he +retired to rest, he opened the lattice and looked for the last time upon +the landscape before him; the stately keep of Windsor, the bowery meads +of Eton, soft in the summer moon and still in the summer night. He gazed +upon them; his countenance had none of the exultation, that under such +circumstances might have distinguished a more careless glance, eager +for fancied emancipation and passionate for a novel existence. Its +expression was serious, even sad; and he covered his brow with his hand. + +END OF BOOK II. + + + + +BOOK III. + + + +CHAPTER I. + + +There are few things more full of delight and splendour, than to travel +during the heat of a refulgent summer in the green district of some +ancient forest. + +In one of our midland counties there is a region of this character, +to which, during a season of peculiar lustre, we would introduce the +reader. + +It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan tracts wherein Norman +kings once hunted, and Saxon outlaws plundered; and although the plough +had for centuries successfully invaded brake and bower, the relics +retained all their original character of wildness and seclusion. +Sometimes the green earth was thickly studded with groves of huge and +vigorous oaks, intersected with those smooth and sunny glades, that seem +as if they must be cut for dames and knights to saunter on. Then again +the undulating ground spread on all sides, far as the eye could range, +covered with copse and fern of immense growth. Anon you found yourself +in a turfy wilderness, girt in apparently by dark woods. And when you +had wound your way a little through this gloomy belt, the landscape +still strictly sylvan, would beautifully expand with every combination +and variety of woodland; while in its centre, the wildfowl covered the +waters of a lake, and the deer basked on the knolls that abounded on its +banks. + +It was in the month of August, some six or seven years ago, that a +traveller on foot, touched, as he emerged from the dark wood, by the +beauty of this scene, threw himself under the shade of a spreading tree, +and stretched his limbs on the turf for enjoyment rather than repose. +The sky was deep-coloured and without a cloud, save here and there +a minute, sultry, burnished vapour, almost as glossy as the heavens. +Everything was still as it was bright; all seemed brooding and basking; +the bee upon its wing was the only stirring sight, and its song the only +sound. + +The traveller fell into a reverie. He was young, and therefore his +musings were of the future. He had felt the pride of learning, so +ennobling to youth; he was not a stranger to the stirring impulses of a +high ambition, though the world to him was as yet only a world of books, +and all that he knew of the schemes of statesmen and the passions of +the people, were to be found in their annals. Often had his fitful fancy +dwelt with fascination on visions of personal distinction, of future +celebrity, perhaps even of enduring fame. But his dreams were of another +colour now. The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet; so +abstracted from all the tumult of the world, its strife, its passions, +and its cares: had fallen on his heart with its soft and subduing +spirit; had fallen on a heart still pure and innocent, the heart of +one who, notwithstanding all his high resolves and daring thoughts, was +blessed with that tenderness of soul which is sometimes linked with an +ardent imagination and a strong will. The traveller was an orphan, more +than that, a solitary orphan. The sweet sedulousness of a mother’s +love, a sister’s mystical affection, had not cultivated his early +susceptibility. No soft pathos of expression had appealed to his +childish ear. He was alone, among strangers calmly and coldly kind. +It must indeed have been a truly gentle disposition that could have +withstood such hard neglect. All that he knew of the power of the softer +passions might be found in the fanciful and romantic annals of schoolboy +friendship. + +And those friends too, so fond, so sympathising, so devoted, where were +they now? Already they were dispersed; the first great separation of +life had been experienced; the former schoolboy had planted his foot on +the threshold of manhood. True, many of them might meet again; many of +them the University must again unite, but never with the same feelings. +The space of time, passed in the world before they again met, would be +an age of sensation, passion, experience to all of them. They would meet +again with altered mien, with different manners, different voices. Their +eyes would not shine with the same light; they would not speak the same +words. The favourite phrases of their intimacy, the mystic sounds that +spoke only to their initiated ear, they would be ashamed to use them. +Yes, they might meet again, but the gushing and secret tenderness was +gone for ever. + +Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from himself that it was +affection, and mainly affection, that had bound him to these dear +companions. They could not be to him what he had been to them. His had +been the inspiring mind that had guided their opinions, formed their +tastes, directed the bent and tenor of their lives and thoughts. +Often, indeed, had he needed, sometimes he had even sighed for, +the companionship of an equal or superior mind; one who, by the +comprehension of his thought, and the richness of his knowledge, and the +advantage of his experience, might strengthen and illuminate and guide +his obscure or hesitating or unpractised intelligence. He had scarcely +been fortunate in this respect, and he deeply regretted it; for he was +one of those who was not content with excelling in his own circle, if +he thought there was one superior to it. Absolute, not relative +distinction, was his noble aim. + +Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the solitude of his life and +mind. His heart and his intellect seemed both to need a companion. +Books, and action, and deep thought, might in time supply the want of +that intellectual guide; but for the heart, where was he to find solace? + +Ah! if she would but come forth from that shining lake like a beautiful +Ondine! Ah, if she would but step out from the green shade of that +secret grove like a Dryad of sylvan Greece! O mystery of mysteries, when +youth dreams his first dream over some imaginary heroine! + +Suddenly the brooding wildfowl rose from the bosom of the lake, soared +in the air, and, uttering mournful shrieks, whirled in agitated tumult. +The deer started from their knolls, no longer sunny, stared around, and +rushed into the woods. Coningsby raised his eyes from the turf on which +they had been long fixed in abstraction, and he observed that the azure +sky had vanished, a thin white film had suddenly spread itself over the +heavens, and the wind moaned with a sad and fitful gust. + +He had some reason to believe that on the other side of the opposite +wood the forest was intersected by a public road, and that there were +some habitations. Immediately rising, he descended at a rapid pace into +the valley, passed the lake, and then struck into the ascending wood on +the bank opposite to that on which he had mused away some precious time. + +The wind howled, the branches of the forest stirred, and sent forth +sounds like an incantation. Soon might be distinguished the various +voices of the mighty trees, as they expressed their terror or their +agony. The oak roared, the beech shrieked, the elm sent forth its deep +and long-drawn groan; while ever and anon, amid a momentary pause, the +passion of the ash was heard in moans of thrilling anguish. + +Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less close. All that he aspired +to was to gain more open country. Now he was in a rough flat land, +covered only here and there with dwarf underwood; the horizon bounded at +no great distance by a barren hill of moderate elevation. He gained its +height with ease. He looked over a vast open country like a wild common; +in the extreme distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected +by two good roads: the sky entirely clouded, but in the distance black +as ebony. + +A place of refuge was at hand: screened from his first glance by some +elm-trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a roof, which Coningsby +reached before the tempest broke. The forest-inn was also a farmhouse. +There was a comfortable-enough looking kitchen; but the ingle nook was +full of smokers, and Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only +private room for the simple meal which they offered him, only eggs and +bacon; but very welcome to a pedestrian, and a hungry one. + +As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching the large +drops that were the heralds of a coming hurricane, and waiting for his +repast, a flash of lightning illumined the whole country, and a horseman +at full speed, followed by his groom, galloped up to the door. + +The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby’s attention +that it prevented him catching even a glimpse of the rider, who rapidly +dismounted and entered the inn. The host shortly after came in and asked +Coningsby whether he had any objection to a gentleman, who was driven +there by the storm, sharing his room until it subsided. The consequence +of the immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the landlord retired and +soon returned, ushering in an individual, who, though perhaps ten years +older than Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, in the period +of lusty youth. He was above the middle height, and of a distinguished +air and figure; pale, with an impressive brow, and dark eyes of great +intelligence. + +‘I am glad that we have both escaped the storm,’ said the stranger; +‘and I am greatly indebted to you for your courtesy.’ He slightly and +graciously bowed, as he spoke in a voice of remarkable clearness; and +his manner, though easy, was touched with a degree of dignity that was +engaging. + +‘The inn is a common home,’ replied Coningsby, returning his salute. + +‘And free from cares,’ added the stranger. Then, looking through +the window, he said, ‘A strange storm this. I was sauntering in the +sunshine, when suddenly I found I had to gallop for my life. ‘Tis more +like a white squall in the Mediterranean than anything else.’ + +‘I never was in the Mediterranean,’ said Coningsby. ‘There is nothing I +should like so much as to travel.’ + +‘You are travelling,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Every moment is travel, +if understood.’ + +‘Ah! but the Mediterranean!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘What would I not give +to see Athens!’ + +‘I have seen it,’ said the stranger, slightly shrugging his shoulders; +‘and more wonderful things. Phantoms and spectres!’ + +‘The Age of Ruins is past. Have you seen Manchester?’ + +‘I have seen nothing,’ said Coningsby; ‘this is my first wandering. I am +about to visit a friend who lives in this county, and I have sent on +my baggage as I could. For myself, I determined to trust to a less +common-place conveyance.’ + +‘And seek adventures,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘Well, according to +Cervantes, they should begin in an inn.’ + +‘I fear that the age of adventures is past, as well as that of ruins,’ +replied Coningsby. + +‘Adventures are to the adventurous,’ said the stranger. + +At this moment a pretty serving-maid entered the room. She laid the +dapper cloth and arranged the table with a self-possession quite +admirable. She seemed unconscious that any being was in the chamber +except herself, or that there were any other duties to perform in life +beyond filling a saltcellar or folding a napkin. + +‘She does not even look at us,’ said Coningsby, when she had quitted the +room; ‘and I dare say is only a prude.’ + +‘She is calm,’ said the stranger, ‘because she is mistress of her +subject; ‘tis the secret of self-possession. She is here as a duchess at +court.’ + +They brought in Coningsby’s meal, and he invited the stranger to join +him. The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness. + +‘’Tis but simple fare,’ said Coningsby, as the maiden uncovered the +still hissing bacon and the eggs, that looked like tufts of primroses. + +‘Nay, a national dish,’ said the stranger, glancing quickly at the +table, ‘whose fame is a proverb. And what more should we expect under +a simple roof! How much better than an omelette or a greasy olla, that +they would give us in a posada! ‘Tis a wonderful country this England! +What a napkin! How spotless! And so sweet; I declare ‘tis a perfume. +There is not a princess throughout the South of Europe served with the +cleanliness that meets us in this cottage.’ + +‘An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?’ said Coningsby. ‘I apprehend +the northern nations have a greater sense of cleanliness, of propriety, +of what we call comfort?’ + +‘By no means,’ said the stranger; ‘the East is the land of the Bath. +Moses and Mahomet made cleanliness religion.’ + +‘You will let me help you?’ said Coningsby, offering him a plate which +he had filled. + +‘I thank you,’ said the stranger, ‘but it is one of my bread days. With +your permission this shall be my dish;’ and he cut from the large loaf a +supply of crusts. + +‘’Tis but unsavoury fare after a gallop,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs,’ said the stranger, +smiling, ‘but I love corn and wine. They are our chief and our oldest +luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, but how inferior! Man has +deified corn and wine! but not even the Chinese or the Irish have raised +temples to tea and potatoes.’ + +‘But Ceres without Bacchus,’ said Coningsby, ‘how does that do? Think +you, under this roof, we could Invoke the god?’ + +‘Let us swear by his body that we will try,’ said the stranger. + +Alas! the landlord was not a priest to Bacchus. But then these inquiries +led to the finest perry in the world. The young men agreed they had +seldom tasted anything more delicious; they sent for another bottle. +Coningsby, who was much interested by his new companion, enjoyed himself +amazingly. + +A cheese, such as Derby alone can produce, could not induce the stranger +to be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his talk was as +vivacious as if the talker had been stimulated by the juices of the +finest banquet. Coningsby had never met or read of any one like this +chance companion. His sentences were so short, his language so racy, his +voice rang so clear, his elocution was so complete. On all subjects his +mind seemed to be instructed, and his opinions formed. He flung out a +result in a few words; he solved with a phrase some deep problem that +men muse over for years. He said many things that were strange, yet +they immediately appeared to be true. Then, without the slightest air of +pretension or parade, he seemed to know everybody as well as everything. +Monarchs, statesmen, authors, adventurers, of all descriptions and of +all climes, if their names occurred in the conversation, he described +them in an epigrammatic sentence, or revealed their precise position, +character, calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All this, too, without any +excitement of manner; on the contrary, with repose amounting almost +to nonchalance. If his address had any fault in it, it was rather a +deficiency of earnestness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his +speech even when you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his +sudden transitions from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very +singular freedom from passion and prejudice on every topic on which +they treated, might be some compensation for this want of earnestness, +perhaps was its consequence. Certainly it was difficult to ascertain his +precise opinions on many subjects, though his manner was frank even to +abandonment. And yet throughout his whole conversation, not a stroke of +egotism, not a word, not a circumstance escaped him, by which you could +judge of his position or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care +to discover those of his companion. He did not by any means monopolise +the conversation. Far from it; he continually asked questions, and +while he received answers, or had engaged his fellow-traveller in any +exposition of his opinion or feelings, he listened with a serious and +fixed attention, looking Coningsby in the face with a steadfast glance. + +‘I perceive,’ said Coningsby, pursuing a strain of thought which the +other had indicated, ‘that you have great confidence in the influence +of individual character. I also have some confused persuasions of that +kind. But it is not the Spirit of the Age.’ + +‘The age does not believe in great men, because it does not possess +any,’ replied the stranger. ‘The Spirit of the Age is the very thing +that a great man changes.’ + +‘But does he not rather avail himself of it?’ inquired Coningsby. + +‘Parvenus do,’ rejoined his companion; ‘but not prophets, great +legislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they create.’ + +‘But are these times for great legislators and great conquerors?’ urged +Coningsby. + +‘When were they wanted more?’ asked the stranger. ‘From the throne to +the hovel all call for a guide. You give monarchs constitutions to +teach them sovereignty, and nations Sunday-schools to inspire them with +faith.’ + +‘But what is an individual,’ exclaimed Coningsby, ‘against a vast public +opinion?’ + +‘Divine,’ said the stranger. ‘God made man in His own image; but the +Public is made by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, Excise Officers, +Poor Law Guardians. Would Philip have succeeded if Epaminondas had not +been slain? And if Philip had not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed +had Frederick not been born? And if Frederick had not been born? What +would have been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, +and Charles I., as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?’ + +‘But when men are young they want experience,’ said Coningsby; ‘and when +they have gained experience, they want energy.’ + +‘Great men never want experience,’ said the stranger. + +‘But everybody says that experience--’ + +‘Is the best thing in the world, a treasure for you, for me, for +millions. But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost everything +that is great has been done by youth.’ + +‘It is at least a creed flattering to our years,’ said Coningsby, with a +smile. + +‘Nay,’ said the stranger; ‘for life in general there is but one decree. +Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not +suppose,’ he added, smiling, ‘that I hold that youth is genius; all that +I say is, that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains +of ancient and modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! +Youth, extreme youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria +won Lepanto at twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it +not been for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been +Emperor of Mauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood +a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Condé and Rocroy +at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his +captains: that wonderful Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. +Banier himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was +little more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. +When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the +loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. +Then there is Nelson, Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may +think there are greater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord +of Hosts. But take the most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. +Innocent III., the greatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom +at thirty-seven. John de Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and according +to Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon +himself. He was Pope as Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him +of his richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John +Wesley, they worked with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he +made his pilgrimage and wrote the “Spiritual Exercises.” Pascal wrote +a great work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven, the greatest of +Frenchmen. + +‘Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as +a man than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael +when he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven. +Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there were +Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket. +Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at +twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, +ruled every cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was +thirty-seven. What a career!’ exclaimed the stranger; rising from his +chair and walking up and down the room; ‘the secret sway of Europe! That +was indeed a position! But it is needless to multiply instances! The +history of Heroes is the history of Youth.’ + +‘Ah!’ said Coningsby, ‘I should like to be a great man.’ + +The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His countenance was +serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody: + +‘Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes +heroes.’ + +‘You seem to me a hero,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of real feeling, +which, half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness. + +‘I am and must ever be,’ said the stranger, ‘but a dreamer of dreams.’ +Then going towards the window, and changing into a familiar tone as if +to divert the conversation, he added, ‘What a delicious afternoon! I +look forward to my ride with delight. You rest here?’ + +‘No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep.’ + +‘And I in the opposite direction.’ And he rang the bell, and ordered his +horse. + +‘I long to see your mare again,’ said Coningsby. ‘She seemed to me so +beautiful.’ + +‘She is not only of pure race,’ said the stranger, ‘but of the highest +and rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is “the Daughter of the Star.” + She is a foal of that famous mare, which belonged to the Prince of the +Wahabees; and to possess which, I believe, was one of the principal +causes of war between that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt +gave her to me, and I would not change her for her statue in pure gold, +even carved by Lysippus. Come round to the stable and see her.’ + +They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh +from the rain, but mild and exhilarating. + +The groom brought forth the mare. ‘The Daughter of the Star’ stood +before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her +burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little +ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her +master, and whither was she about to take him? + +Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was not +curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a +little, and then say: + +‘I am sorry to part.’ + +‘I also,’ said the stranger. ‘But life is constant separation.’ + +‘I hope we may meet again,’ said Coningsby. + +‘If our acquaintance be worth preserving,’ said the stranger, ‘you may +be sure it will not be lost.’ + +‘But mine is not worth preserving,’ said Coningsby, earnestly. ‘It is +yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long +mused.’ + +The stranger took the bridle of ‘the Daughter of the Star,’ and turning +round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion. + +‘Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,’ said Coningsby; +‘your actions should be heroic.’ + +‘Action is not for me,’ said the stranger; ‘I am of that faith that the +Apostles professed before they followed their master.’ + +He vaulted into his saddle, ‘the Daughter of the Star’ bounded away as +if she scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had +alike sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived at +Beaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited the family of his +friend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his boyish days had often +proved that they were not unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit +that had been long counted on, long promised, and which a variety of +circumstances had hitherto prevented. It was to have been made by the +schoolboy; it was to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a character +could Coningsby under any circumstances now consent to claim, since he +was closely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it +appeared manifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, +he had but few years to wait before the full development of his power. +Visions of Gastons de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen giving +up cricket to govern nations, beardless Jesuits plunged in profound +abstraction in omnipotent cabinets, haunted his fancy from the moment he +had separated from his mysterious and deeply interesting companion. To +nurture his mind with great thoughts had ever been Coningsby’s inspiring +habit. Was it also destined that he should achieve the heroic? + +There are some books, when we close them; one or two in the course of +our life, difficult as it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause; our +minds seem to have made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive +light; a multitude of indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect +grasps and grapples with all subjects with a capacity, a flexibility, +and a vigour, before unknown to us. It masters questions hitherto +perplexing, which are not even touched or referred to in the volume just +closed. What is this magic? It is the spirit of the supreme author, by +a magentic influence blending with our sympathising intelligence, that +directs and inspires it. By that mysterious sensibility we extend to +questions which he has not treated, the same intellectual force which he +has exercised over those which he has expounded. His genius for a time +remains in us. ‘Tis the same with human beings as with books. All of us +encounter, at least once in our life, some individual who utters words +that make us think for ever. + +There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence the +secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character or +illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater +than all is the talk of a great man. + +And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a victorious +General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A Field Marshal covered +with stars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A King, even an Emperor? +It may be all these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not +necessarily great men. A great man is one who affects the mind of his +generation: whether he be a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, +or a monarch crossing the Granicus, and giving a new character to the +Pagan World. + +Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a state of meditation. He also +desired to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes +impels youth to momentary exertion, by which they sometimes obtain a +distinction as evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our hero was +altogether of a different character. It was, indeed, at present not a +little vague, indefinite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. +What were his powers? what should be his aim? were often to him, as to +all young aspirants, questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. +But, on the whole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his +many dazzling qualities and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity, +which has spoiled so much promise, a vein of grave simplicity that was +the consequence of an earnest temper, and of an intellect that would be +content with nothing short of the profound. + +His was a mind that loved to pursue every question to the centre. But +it was not a spirit of scepticism that impelled this habit; on the +contrary, it was the spirit of faith. Coningsby found that he was born +in an age of infidelity in all things, and his heart assured him that a +want of faith was a want of nature. But his vigorous intellect could not +take refuge in that maudlin substitute for belief which consists in +a patronage of fantastic theories. He needed that deep and enduring +conviction that the heart and the intellect, feeling and reason united, +can alone supply. He asked himself why governments were hated, +and religions despised? Why loyalty was dead, and reverence only a +galvanised corpse? + +These were indeed questions that had as yet presented themselves to his +thought in a crude and imperfect form; but their very occurrence showed +the strong predisposition of his mind. It was because he had not found +guides among his elders, that his thoughts had been turned to the +generation that he himself represented. The sentiment of veneration was +so developed in his nature, that he was exactly the youth that would +have hung with enthusiastic humility on the accents of some sage of old +in the groves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But as yet he had found +age only perplexed and desponding; manhood only callous and desperate. +Some thought that systems would last their time; others, that something +would turn up. His deep and pious spirit recoiled with disgust and +horror from such lax, chance-medley maxims, that would, in their +consequences, reduce man to the level of the brutes. Notwithstanding +a prejudice which had haunted him from his childhood, he had, when +the occasion offered, applied to Mr. Rigby for instruction, as one +distinguished in the republic of letters, as well as the realm of +politics; who assumed the guidance of the public mind, and, as the +phrase runs, was looked up to. Mr. Rigby listened at first to the +inquiries of Coningsby, urged, as they ever were, with a modesty and +deference which do not always characterise juvenile investigations, as +if Coningsby were speaking to him of the unknown tongues. But Mr. +Rigby was not a man who ever confessed himself at fault. He caught +up something of the subject as our young friend proceeded, and was +perfectly prepared, long before he had finished, to take the whole +conversation into his own hands. + +Mr. Rigby began by ascribing everything to the Reform Bill, and then +referred to several of his own speeches on Schedule A. Then he told +Coningsby that want of religious Faith was solely occasioned by want of +churches; and want of Loyalty, by George IV. having shut himself up too +much at the cottage in Windsor Park, entirely against the advice of Mr. +Rigby. He assured Coningsby that the Church Commission was operating +wonders, and that with private benevolence, he had himself subscribed +1,000_l._, for Lord Monmouth, we should soon have churches enough. The +great question now was their architecture. Had George IV. lived all +would have been right. They would have been built on the model of the +Budhist pagoda. As for Loyalty, if the present King went regularly to +Ascot races, he had no doubt all would go right. Finally, Mr. Rigby +impressed on Coningsby to read the Quarterly Review with great +attention; and to make himself master of Mr. Wordy’s History of the late +War, in twenty volumes, a capital work, which proves that Providence was +on the side of the Tories. + +Coningsby did not reply to Mr. Rigby again; but worked on with his own +mind, coming often enough to sufficiently crude conclusions, and often +much perplexed and harassed. He tried occasionally his inferences on his +companions, who were intelligent and full of fervour. Millbank was more +than this. He was of a thoughtful mood; had also caught up from a new +school some principles, which were materials for discussion. One way or +other, however, before he quitted Eton there prevailed among this circle +of friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating from Coningsby, an +earnest, though a rather vague, conviction that the present state of +feeling in matters both civil and religious was not healthy; that there +must be substituted for this latitudinarianism something sound and deep, +fervent and well defined, and that the priests of this new faith must be +found among the New Generation; so that when the bright-minded rider +of ‘the Daughter of the Star’ descanted on the influence of individual +character, of great thoughts and heroic actions, and the divine power of +youth and genius, he touched a string that was the very heart-chord of +his companion, who listened with fascinated enthusiasm as he introduced +him to his gallery of inspiring models. + +Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir at a season when men can neither hunt +nor shoot. Great internal resources should be found in a country family +under such circumstances. The Duke and Duchess had returned from London +only a few days with their daughter, who had been presented this year. +They were all glad to find themselves again in the country, which they +loved and which loved them. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, and +Henry Sydney, completed the party. + +There are few conjunctures in life of a more startling interest, than to +meet the pretty little girl that we have gambolled with in our boyhood, +and to find her changed in the lapse of a very few years, which in some +instances may not have brought a corresponding alteration in our own +appearance, into a beautiful woman. Something of this flitted over +Coningsby’s mind, as he bowed, a little agitated from his surprise, to +Lady Theresa Sydney. All that he remembered had prepared him for beauty; +but not for the degree or character of beauty that he met. It was a +rich, sweet face, with blue eyes and dark lashes, and a nose that we +have no epithet in English to describe, but which charmed in Roxalana. +Her brown hair fell over her white and well turned shoulders in long and +luxuriant tresses. One has met something as brilliant and dainty in a +medallion of old Sèvres, or amid the terraces and gardens of Watteau. + +Perhaps Lady Theresa, too, might have welcomed him with more freedom +had his appearance also more accorded with the image which he had left +behind. Coningsby was a boy then, as we described him in our first +chapter. Though only nineteen now, he had attained his full stature, +which was above the middle height, and time had fulfilled that promise +of symmetry in his figure, and grace in his mien, then so largely +intimated. Time, too, which had not yet robbed his countenance of any +of its physical beauty, had strongly developed the intellectual charm +by which it had ever been distinguished. As he bowed lowly before the +Duchess and her daughter, it would have been difficult to imagine a +youth of a mien more prepossessing and a manner more finished. + +A manner that was spontaneous; nature’s pure gift, the reflex of his +feeling. No artifice prompted that profound and polished homage. Not one +of those influences, the aggregate of whose sway produces, as they tell +us, the finished gentleman, had ever exercised its beneficent power on +our orphan, and not rarely forlorn, Coningsby. No clever and refined +woman, with her quick perception, and nice criticism that never offends +our self-love, had ever given him that education that is more precious +than Universities. The mild suggestions of a sister, the gentle raillery +of some laughing cousin, are also advantages not always appreciated at +the time, but which boys, when they have become men, often think over +with gratitude, and a little remorse at the ungracious spirit in +which they were received. Not even the dancing-master had afforded his +mechanical aid to Coningsby, who, like all Eton boys of his generation, +viewed that professor of accomplishments with frank repugnance. But even +in the boisterous life of school, Coningsby, though his style was free +and flowing, was always well-bred. His spirit recoiled from that gross +familiarity that is the characteristic of modern manners, and which +would destroy all forms and ceremonies merely because they curb and +control their own coarse convenience and ill-disguised selfishness. To +women, however, Coningsby instinctively bowed, as to beings set apart +for reverence and delicate treatment. Little as his experience was +of them, his spirit had been fed with chivalrous fancies, and he +entertained for them all the ideal devotion of a Surrey or a Sydney. +Instructed, if not learned, as books and thought had already made him in +men, he could not conceive that there were any other women in the world +than fair Geraldines and Countesses of Pembroke. + +There was not a country-house in England that had so completely the air +of habitual residence as Beaumanoir. It is a charming trait, and +very rare. In many great mansions everything is as stiff, formal, and +tedious, as if your host were a Spanish grandee in the days of the +Inquisition. No ease, no resources; the passing life seems a solemn +spectacle in which you play a part. How delightful was the morning room +at Beaumanoir; from which gentlemen were not excluded with that assumed +suspicion that they can never enter it but for felonious purposes. +Such a profusion of flowers! Such a multitude of books! Such a various +prodigality of writing materials! So many easy chairs too, of so many +shapes; each in itself a comfortable home; yet nothing crowded. Woman +alone can organise a drawing-room; man succeeds sometimes in a library. +And the ladies’ work! How graceful they look bending over their +embroidery frames, consulting over the arrangement of a group, or the +colour of a flower. The panniers and fanciful baskets, overflowing with +variegated worsted, are gay and full of pleasure to the eye, and give an +air of elegant business that is vivifying. Even the sight of employment +interests. + +Then the morning costume of English women is itself a beautiful work of +art. At this period of the day they can find no rivals in other climes. +The brilliant complexions of the daughters of the north dazzle in +daylight; the illumined saloon levels all distinctions. One should see +them in their well-fashioned muslin dresses. What matrons, and what +maidens! Full of graceful dignity, fresher than the morn! And the +married beauty in her little lace cap. Ah, she is a coquette! A charming +character at all times; in a country-house an invaluable one. + +A coquette is a being who wishes to please. Amiable being! If you do not +like her, you will have no difficulty in finding a female companion of +a different mood. Alas! coquettes are but too rare. ‘Tis a career that +requires great abilities, infinite pains, a gay and airy spirit. ‘Tis +the coquette that provides all amusement; suggests the riding party, +plans the picnic, gives and guesses charades, acts them. She is the +stirring element amid the heavy congeries of social atoms; the soul of +the house, the salt of the banquet. Let any one pass a very agreeable +week, or it may be ten days, under any roof, and analyse the cause of +his satisfaction, and one might safely make a gentle wager that his +solution would present him with the frolic phantom of a coquette. + +‘It is impossible that Mr. Coningsby can remember me!’ said a clear +voice; and he looked round, and was greeted by a pair of sparkling eyes +and the gayest smile in the world. + +It was Lady Everingham, the Duke’s married daughter. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +‘And you walked here!’ said Lady Everingham to Coningsby, when the stir +of arranging themselves at dinner had subsided. ‘Only think, papa, Mr. +Coningsby walked here! I also am a great walker.’ + +‘I had heard much of the forest,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Which I am sure did not disappoint you,’ said the Duke. + +‘But forests without adventures!’ said Lady Everingham, a little +shrugging her pretty shoulders. + +‘But I had an adventure,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Oh! tell it us by all means!’ said the Lady, with great animation. +‘Adventures are my weakness. I have had more adventures than any one. +Have I not had, Augustus?’ she added, addressing her husband. + +‘But you make everything out to be an adventure, Isabel,’ said Lord +Everingham. I dare say that Mr. Coningsby’s was more substantial.’ And +looking at our young friend, he invited him to inform them. + +‘I met a most extraordinary man,’ said Coningsby. + +‘It should have been a heroine,’ exclaimed Lady Everingham. + +‘Do you know anybody in this neighbourhood who rides the finest Arab in +the world?’ asked Coningsby. ‘She is called “the Daughter of the Star,” + and was given to her rider by the Pacha of Egypt.’ + +‘This is really an adventure,’ said Lady Everingham, interested. + +‘The Daughter of the Star!’ said Lady Theresa. ‘What a pretty name! +Percy has a horse called “Sunbeam.”’ + +‘A fine Arab, the finest in the world!’ said the Duke, who was fond of +horse. ‘Who can it be?’ + +‘Can you throw any light on this, Mr. Lyle?’ asked the Duchess of a +young man who sat next her. + +He was a neighbour who had joined their dinner-party, Eustace Lyle, +a Roman Catholic, and the richest commoner in the county; for he had +succeeded to a great estate early in his minority, which had only this +year terminated. + +‘I certainly do not know the horse,’ said Mr. Lyle; ‘but if Mr. +Coningsby would describe the rider, perhaps--’ + +‘He is a man something under thirty,’ said Coningsby, ‘pale, with dark +hair. We met in a sort of forest-inn during a storm. A most singular +man! Indeed, I never met any one who seemed to me so clever, or to say +such remarkable things.’ + +‘He must have been the spirit of the storm,’ said Lady Everingham. + +‘Charles Verney has a great deal of dark hair,’ said Lady Theresa. ‘But +then he is anything but pale, and his eyes are blue.’ + +‘And certainly he keeps his wonderful things for your ear, Theresa,’ +said her sister. + +‘I wish that Mr. Coningsby would tell us some of the wonderful things he +said,’ said the Duchess, smiling. + +‘Take a glass of wine first with my mother, Coningsby,’ said Henry +Sydney, who had just finished helping them all to fish. + +Coningsby had too much tact to be entrapped into a long story. He +already regretted that he had been betrayed into any allusion to the +stranger. He had a wild, fanciful notion, that their meeting ought to +have been preserved as a sacred secret. But he had been impelled to +refer to it in the first instance by the chance observation of Lady +Everingham; and he had pursued his remark from the hope that the +conversation might have led to the discovery of the unknown. When he +found that his inquiry in this respect was unsuccessful, he was willing +to turn the conversation. In reply to the Duchess, then, he generally +described the talk of the stranger as full of lively anecdote and +epigrammatic views of life; and gave them, for example, a saying of an +illustrious foreign Prince, which was quite new and pointed, and which +Coningsby told well. This led to a new train of discourse. The Duke also +knew this illustrious foreign Prince, and told another story of him; and +Lord Everingham had played whist with this illustrious foreign Prince +often at the Travellers’, and this led to a third story; none of them +too long. Then Lady Everingham came in again, and sparkled agreeably. +She, indeed, sustained throughout dinner the principal weight of the +conversation; but, as she asked questions of everybody, all seemed to +contribute. Even the voice of Mr. Lyle, who was rather bashful, was +occasionally heard in reply. Coningsby, who had at first unintentionally +taken a more leading part than he aspired to, would have retired +into the background for the rest of the dinner, but Lady Everingham +continually signalled him out for her questions, and as she sat opposite +to him, he seemed the person to whom they were principally addressed. + +At length the ladies rose to retire. A very great personage in a +foreign, but not remote country, once mentioned to the writer of these +pages, that he ascribed the superiority of the English in political +life, in their conduct of public business and practical views of +affairs, in a great measure to ‘that little half-hour’ that separates, +after dinner, the dark from the fair sex. The writer humbly submitted, +that if the period of disjunction were strictly limited to a ‘little +half-hour,’ its salutary consequences for both sexes need not be +disputed, but that in England the ‘little half-hour’ was too apt +to swell into a term of far more awful character and duration. Lady +Everingham was a disciple of the ‘very little half-hour’ school; for, as +she gaily followed her mother, she said to Coningsby, whose gracious lot +it was to usher them from the apartment: + +‘Pray do not be too long at the Board of Guardians to-day.’ + +These were prophetic words; for no sooner were they all again seated, +than the Duke, filling his glass and pushing the claret to Coningsby, +observed, + +‘I suppose Lord Monmouth does not trouble himself much about the New +Poor Law?’ + +‘Hardly,’ said Coningsby. ‘My grandfather’s frequent absence from +England, which his health, I believe, renders quite necessary, deprives +him of the advantage of personal observation on a subject, than which I +can myself conceive none more deeply interesting.’ + +‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ said the Duke, ‘and it does you great +credit, and Henry too, whose attention, I observe, is directed very much +to these subjects. In my time, the young men did not think so much of +such things, and we suffer consequently. By the bye, Everingham, +you, who are a Chairman of a Board of Guardians, can give me some +information. Supposing a case of out-door relief--’ + +‘I could not suppose anything so absurd,’ said the son-in-law. + +‘Well,’ rejoined the Duke, ‘I know your views on that subject, and it +certainly is a question on which there is a good deal to be said. But +would you under any circumstances give relief out of the Union, even if +the parish were to save a considerable sum?’ + +‘I wish I knew the Union where such a system was followed,’ said Lord +Everingham; and his Grace seemed to tremble under his son-in-law’s +glance. + +The Duke had a good heart, and not a bad head. If he had not made in +his youth so many Latin and English verses, he might have acquired +considerable information, for he had a natural love of letters, though +his pack were the pride of England, his barrel seldom missed, and his +fortune on the turf, where he never betted, was a proverb. He was good, +and he wished to do good; but his views were confused from want of +knowledge, and his conduct often inconsistent because a sense of duty +made him immediately active; and he often acquired in the consequent +experience a conviction exactly contrary to that which had prompted his +activity. + +His Grace had been a great patron and a zealous administrator of the New +Poor Law. He had been persuaded that it would elevate the condition of +the labouring class. His son-in-law, Lord Everingham, who was a Whig, +and a clearheaded, cold-blooded man, looked upon the New Poor Law as +another Magna Charta. Lord Everingham was completely master of the +subject. He was himself the Chairman of one of the most considerable +Unions of the kingdom. The Duke, if he ever had a misgiving, had no +chance in argument with his son-in-law. Lord Everingham overwhelmed +him with quotations from Commissioners’ rules and Sub-commissioners’ +reports, statistical tables, and references to dietaries. Sometimes with +a strong case, the Duke struggled to make a fight; but Lord Everingham, +when he was at fault for a reply, which was very rare, upbraided his +father-in-law with the abuses of the old system, and frightened him with +visions of rates exceeding rentals. + +Of late, however, a considerable change had taken place in the Duke’s +feelings on this great question. His son Henry entertained strong +opinions upon it, and had combated his father with all the fervour of a +young votary. A victory over his Grace, indeed, was not very difficult. +His natural impulse would have enlisted him on the side, if not of +opposition to the new system, at least of critical suspicion of its +spirit and provisions. It was only the statistics and sharp acuteness +of his son-in-law that had, indeed, ever kept him to his colours. Lord +Henry would not listen to statistics, dietary tables, Commissioners’ +rides, Sub-commissioners’ reports. He went far higher than his father; +far deeper than his brother-in-law. He represented to the Duke that the +order of the peasantry was as ancient, legal, and recognised an order as +the order of the nobility; that it had distinct rights and privileges, +though for centuries they had been invaded and violated, and permitted +to fall into desuetude. He impressed upon the Duke that the parochial +constitution of this country was more important than its political +constitution; that it was more ancient, more universal in its influence; +and that this parochial constitution had already been shaken to its +centre by the New Poor Law. He assured his father that it would never be +well for England until this order of the peasantry was restored to its +pristine condition; not merely in physical comfort, for that must vary +according to the economical circumstances of the time, like that of +every class; but to its condition in all those moral attributes which +make a recognised rank in a nation; and which, in a great degree, are +independent of economics, manners, customs, ceremonies, rights, and +privileges. + +‘Henry thinks,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘that the people are to be fed by +dancing round a May-pole.’ + +‘But will the people be more fed because they do not dance round a +May-pole?’ urged Lord Henry. + +‘Obsolete customs!’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘And why should dancing round a May-pole be more obsolete than holding a +Chapter of the Garter?’ asked Lord Henry. + +The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this a home thrust. ‘I must say,’ +said his Grace, ‘that I for one deeply regret that our popular customs +have been permitted to fall so into desuetude.’ + +‘The Spirit of the Age is against such things,’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘And what is the Spirit of the Age?’ asked Coningsby. + +‘The Spirit of Utility,’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘And you think then that ceremony is not useful?’ urged Coningsby, +mildly. + +‘It depends upon circumstances,’ said Lord Everingham. ‘There are some +ceremonies, no doubt, that are very proper, and of course very useful. +But the best thing we can do for the labouring classes is to provide +them with work.’ + +‘But what do you mean by the labouring classes, Everingham?’ asked Lord +Henry. ‘Lawyers are a labouring class, for instance, and by the bye +sufficiently provided with work. But would you approve of Westminster +Hall being denuded of all its ceremonies?’ + +‘And the long vacation being abolished?’ added Coningsby. + +‘Theresa brings me terrible accounts of the sufferings of the poor about +us,’ said the Duke, shaking his head. + +‘Women think everything to be suffering!’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘How do you find them about you, Mr. Lyle?’ continued the Duke. + +‘I have revived the monastic customs at St. Genevieve,’ said the young +man, blushing. ‘There is an almsgiving twice a-week.’ + +‘I am sure I wish I could see the labouring classes happy,’ said the +Duke. + +‘Oh! pray do not use, my dear father, that phrase, the labouring +classes!’ said Lord Henry. ‘What do you think, Coningsby, the other day +we had a meeting in this neighbourhood to vote an agricultural petition +that was to comprise all classes. I went with my father, and I was +made chairman of the committee to draw up the petition. Of course, I +described it as the petition of the nobility, clergy, gentry, yeomanry, +and peasantry of the county of ----; and, could you believe it, +they struck out _peasantry_ as a word no longer used, and inserted +_labourers_.’ + +‘What can it signify,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘whether a man be called a +labourer or a peasant?’ + +‘And what can it signify,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘whether a man be +called Mr. Howard or Lord Everingham?’ + +They were the most affectionate family under this roof of Beaumanoir, +and of all members of it, Lord Henry the sweetest tempered, and yet it +was astonishing what sharp skirmishes every day arose between him and +his brother-in-law, during that ‘little half-hour’ that forms so happily +the political character of the nation. The Duke, who from experience +felt that a guerilla movement was impending, asked his guests whether +they would take any more claret; and on their signifying their dissent, +moved an adjournment to the ladies. + +They joined the ladies in the music-room. Coningsby, not experienced +in feminine society, and who found a little difficulty from want +of practice in maintaining conversation, though he was desirous +of succeeding, was delighted with Lady Everingham, who, instead of +requiring to be amused, amused him; and suggested so many subjects, +and glanced at so many topics, that there never was that cold, awkward +pause, so common with sullen spirits and barren brains. Lady Everingham +thoroughly understood the art of conversation, which, indeed, consists +of the exercise of two fine qualities. You must originate, and you must +sympathise; you must possess at the same time the habit of communicating +and the habit of listening. The union is rather rare, but irresistible. + +Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, but she was something +infinitely more delightful, a captivating woman. There were combined, +in her, qualities not commonly met together, great vivacity of mind with +great grace of manner. Her words sparkled and her movements charmed. +There was, indeed, in all she said and did, that congruity that +indicates a complete and harmonious organisation. It was the same just +proportion which characterised her form: a shape slight and undulating +with grace; the most beautifully shaped ear; a small, soft hand; a foot +that would have fitted the glass slipper; and which, by the bye, she +lost no opportunity of displaying; and she was right, for it was a +model. + +Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang like a seraph: a rich voice, a +grand style. And her sister could support her with grace and sweetness. +And they did not sing too much. The Duke took up a review, and looked +at Rigby’s last slashing article. The country seemed ruined, but it +appeared that the Whigs were still worse off than the Tories. The +assassins had committed suicide. This poetical justice is pleasing. Lord +Everingham, lounging in an easy chair, perused with great satisfaction +his _Morning Chronicle_, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. Rigby’s +article, not quite so ‘slashing’ as the Right Honourable scribe’s +manifesto, but with some searching mockery, that became the subject and +the subject-monger. + +Mr. Lyle seated himself by the Duchess, and encouraged by her amenity, +and speaking in whispers, became animated and agreeable, occasionally +patting the lap-dog. Coningsby stood by the singers, or talked with +them when the music had ceased: and Henry Sydney looked over a volume +of Strutt’s _Sports and Pastimes_, occasionally, without taking his eyes +off the volume, calling the attention of his friends to his discoveries. + +Mr. Lyle rose to depart, for he had some miles to return; he came +forward with some hesitation, to hope that Coningsby would visit his +bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had told him Coningsby had expressed +a wish to do. Lady Everingham remarked that she had not been at St. +Genevieve since she was a girl, and it appeared Lady Theresa had never +visited it. Lady Everingham proposed that they should all ride over +on the morrow, and she appealed to her husband for his approbation, +instantly given, for though she loved admiration, and he apparently was +an iceberg, they were really devoted to each other. Then there was a +consultation as to their arrangements. The Duchess would drive over in +her pony chair with Theresa. The Duke, as usual, had affairs that +would occupy him. The rest were to ride. It was a happy suggestion, all +anticipated pleasure; and the evening terminated with the prospect of +what Lady Everingham called an adventure. + +The ladies themselves soon withdrew; the gentlemen lingered for a +while; the Duke took up his candle, and bid his guests good night; Lord +Everingham drank a glass of Seltzer water, nodded, and vanished. Lord +Henry and his friend sat up talking over the past. They were too young +to call them old times; and yet what a life seemed to have elapsed since +they had quitted Eton, dear old Eton! Their boyish feelings, and still +latent boyish character, developed with their reminiscences. + +‘Do you remember Bucknall? Which Bucknall? The eldest: I saw him the +other day at Nottingham; he is in the Rifles. Do you remember that day +at Sirly Hall, that Paulet had that row with Dickinson? Did you like +Dickinson? Hum! Paulet was a good fellow. I tell you who was a good +fellow, Paulet’s little cousin. What! Augustus Le Grange? Oh! I liked +Augustus Le Grange. I wonder where Buckhurst is? I had a letter from him +the other day. He has gone with his uncle to Paris. We shall find him at +Cambridge in October. I suppose you know Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has +he, though! I wonder who will have our room at Cookesley’s? Cookesley +was a good fellow! Oh, capital! How well he behaved when there was that +row about our going out with the hounds? Do you remember Vere’s face? It +makes me laugh now when I think of it. I tell you who was a good fellow, +Kangaroo Gray; I liked him. I don’t know any fellow who sang a better +song!’ + +‘By the bye,’ said Coningsby, ‘what sort of fellow is Eustace Lyle? I +rather liked his look.’ + +‘Oh! I will tell you all about him,’ said Lord Henry. ‘He is a great +ally of mine, and I think you will like him very much. It is a Roman +Catholic family, about the oldest we have in the county, and the +wealthiest. You see, Lyle’s father was the most violent ultra Whig, +and so were all Eustace’s guardians; but the moment he came of age, he +announced that he should not mix himself up with either of the parties +in the county, and that his tenantry might act exactly as they thought +fit. My father thinks, of course, that Lyle is a Conservative, and that +he only waits the occasion to come forward; but he is quite wrong. I +know Lyle well, and he speaks to me without disguise. You see ‘tis an +old Cavalier family, and Lyle has all the opinions and feelings of his +race. He will not ally himself with anti-monarchists, and democrats, +and infidels, and sectarians; at the same time, why should he support a +party who pretend to oppose these, but who never lose an opportunity +of insulting his religion, and would deprive him, if possible, of +the advantages of the very institutions which his family assisted in +establishing?’ + +‘Why, indeed? I am glad to have made his acquaintance,’ said Coningsby. +‘Is he clever?’ + +‘I think so,’ said Lord Henry. ‘He is the most shy fellow, especially +among women, that I ever knew, but he is very popular in the county. He +does an amazing deal of good, and is one of the best riders we have. My +father says, the very best; bold, but so very certain.’ + +‘He is older than we are?’ + +‘My senior by a year: he is just of age.’ + +‘Oh, ah! twenty-one. A year younger than Gaston de Foix when he won +Ravenna, and four years younger than John of Austria when he won +Lepanto,’ observed Coningsby, musingly. ‘I vote we go to bed, old +fellow!’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +In a valley, not far from the margin of a beautiful river, raised on a +lofty and artificial terrace at the base of a range of wooded heights, +was a pile of modern building in the finest style of Christian +architecture. It was of great extent and richly decorated. Built of +a white and glittering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles in the +sunshine as it rose in strong relief against its verdant background. +The winding valley, which was studded, but not too closely studded, with +clumps of old trees, formed for a great extent on either side of the +mansion a grassy demesne, which was called the Lower Park; but it was +a region bearing the name of the Upper Park, that was the peculiar and +most picturesque feature of this splendid residence. The wooded heights +that formed the valley were not, as they appeared, a range of hills. +Their crest was only the abrupt termination of a vast and enclosed +tableland, abounding in all the qualities of the ancient chase: turf and +trees, a wilderness of underwood, and a vast spread of gorse and fern. +The deer, that abounded, lived here in a world as savage as themselves: +trooping down in the evening to the river. Some of them, indeed, were +ever in sight of those who were in the valley, and you might often +observe various groups clustered on the green heights above the mansion, +the effect of which was most inspiriting and graceful. Sometimes in the +twilight, a solitary form, magnified by the illusive hour, might be seen +standing on the brink of the steep, large and black against the clear +sky. + +We have endeavoured slightly to sketch St. Geneviève as it appeared to +our friends from Beaumanoir, winding into the valley the day after +Mr. Lyle had dined with them. The valley opened for about half-a-mile +opposite the mansion, which gave to the dwellers in it a view over an +extensive and richly-cultivated country. It was through this district +that the party from Beaumanoir had pursued their way. The first glance +at the building, its striking situation, its beautiful form, its +brilliant colour, its great extent, a gathering as it seemed of +galleries, halls, and chapels, mullioned windows, portals of clustered +columns, and groups of airy pinnacles and fretwork spires, called forth +a general cry of wonder and of praise. + +The ride from Beaumanoir had been delightful; the breath of summer in +every breeze, the light of summer on every tree. The gay laugh of +Lady Everingham rang frequently in the air; often were her sunny eyes +directed to Coningsby, as she called his attention to some fair object +or some pretty effect. She played the hostess of Nature, and introduced +him to all the beauties. + +Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered forward with greetings on a +fat little fawn-coloured pony, with a long white mane and white flowing +tail, and the wickedest eye in the world. He rode by the side of the +Duchess, and indicated their gently-descending route. + +They arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning themselves on the +turrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them. + +‘I can remember the old house,’ said the Duchess, as she took Mr. Lyle’s +arm; ‘and I am happy to see the new one. The Duke had prepared me for +much beauty, but the reality exceeds his report.’ + +They entered by a short corridor into a large hall. They would have +stopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but their host +suggested that they should refresh themselves after their ride, and they +followed him through several apartments into a spacious chamber, its +oaken panels covered with a series of interesting pictures, representing +the siege of St. Geneviève by the Parliament forces in 1643: the various +assaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of the rebels. In all +these figured a brave and graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and +buff jerkin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. The sight of these +pictures was ever a source of great excitement to Henry Sydney, who +always lamented his ill-luck in not living in such days; nay, would +insist that all others must equally deplore their evil destiny. + +‘See, Coningsby, this battery on the Upper Park,’ said Lord Henry. +‘This did the business: how it rakes up the valley; Sir Eustace works it +himself. Mother, what a pity Beaumanoir was not besieged!’ + +‘It may be,’ said Coningsby. + +‘I always fancy a siege must be so interesting,’ said Lady Everingham. +‘It must be so exciting.’ + +‘I hope the next siege may be at Beaumanoir, instead of St. +Geneviève,’ said Lyle, laughing; ‘as Henry Sydney has such a military +predisposition. Duchess, you said the other day that you liked +Malvoisie, and here is some. + + ‘Now broach me a cask of Malvoisie, + Bring pasty from the doe;’ + +said the Duchess. ‘That has been my luncheon.’ + +‘A poetic repast,’ said Lady Theresa. + +‘Their breeds of sheep must have been very inferior in old days,’ said +Lord Everingham, ‘as they made such a noise about their venison. For my +part I consider it a thing as much gone by as tilts and tournaments.’ + +‘I am sorry that they have gone by,’ said Lady Theresa. + +‘Everything has gone by that is beautiful,’ said Lord Henry. + +‘Life is much easier,’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘Life easy!’ said Lord Henry. ‘Life appears to me to be a fierce +struggle.’ + +‘Manners are easy,’ said Coningsby, ‘and life is hard.’ + +‘And I wish to see things exactly the reverse,’ said Lord Henry. ‘The +means and modes of subsistence less difficult; the conduct of life more +ceremonious.’ + +‘Civilisation has no time for ceremony,’ said Lord Everingham. + +‘How very sententious you all are!’ said his wife. ‘I want to see the +hall and many other things.’ And they all rose. + +There were indeed many other things to see: a long gallery, rich in +ancestral portraits, specimens of art and costume from Holbein to +Lawrence; courtiers of the Tudors, and cavaliers of the Stuarts, +terminating in red-coated squires fresh from the field, and gentlemen +buttoned up in black coats, and sitting in library chairs, with their +backs to a crimson curtain. Woman, however, is always charming; and the +present generation may view their mothers painted by Lawrence, as if +they were patronesses of Almack’s; or their grandmothers by Reynolds, +as Robinettas caressing birds, with as much delight as they gaze on +the dewy-eyed matrons of Lely, and the proud bearing of the heroines +of Vandyke. But what interested them more than the gallery, or the rich +saloons, or even the baronial hall, was the chapel, in which art had +exhausted all its invention, and wealth offered all its resources. +The walls and vaulted roofs entirely painted in encaustic by the first +artists of Germany, and representing the principal events of the second +Testament, the splendour of the mosaic pavement, the richness of +the painted windows, the sumptuousness of the altar, crowned by a +masterpiece of Carlo Dolce and surrounded by a silver rail, the tone +of rich and solemn light that pervaded all, and blended all the various +sources of beauty into one absorbing and harmonious whole: all combined +to produce an effect which stilled them into a silence that lasted for +some minutes, until the ladies breathed their feelings in an almost +inarticulate murmur of reverence and admiration; while a tear stole to +the eye of the enthusiastic Henry Sydney. + +Leaving the chapel, they sauntered through the gardens, until, arriving +at their limit, they were met by the prettiest sight in the world; a +group of little pony chairs, each drawn by a little fat fawn-coloured +pony, like the one that Mr. Lyle had been riding. Lord Henry drove his +mother; Lord Everingham, Lady Theresa; Lady Everingham was attended by +Coningsby. Their host cantered by the Duchess’s side, and along winding +roads of easy ascent, leading through beautiful woods, and offering +charming landscapes, they reached in due time the Upper Park. + +‘One sees our host to great advantage in his own house,’ said Lady +Everingham. ‘He is scarcely the same person. I have not observed him +once blush. He speaks and moves with ease. It is a pity that he is not +more graceful. Above all things I like a graceful man.’ + +‘That chapel,’ said Coningsby, ‘was a fine thing.’ + +‘Very!’ said Lady Everingham. ‘Did you observe the picture over the +altar, the Virgin with blue eyes? I never observed blue eyes before in +such a picture. What is your favourite colour for eyes?’ + +Coningsby felt embarrassed: he said something rather pointless about +admiring everything that was beautiful. + +‘But every one has a favourite style; I want to know yours. Regular +features, do you like regular features? Or is it expression that pleases +you?’ + +‘Expression; I think I like expression. Expression must be always +delightful.’ + +‘Do you dance?’ + +‘No; I am no great dancer. I fear I have few accomplishments. I am fond +of fencing.’ + +‘I don’t fence,’ said Lady Everingham, with a smile. ‘But I think you +are right not to dance. It is not in your way. You are ambitious, I +believe?’ she added. + +‘I was not aware of it; everybody is ambitious.’ + +‘You see I know something of your character. Henry has spoken of you to +me a great deal; long before we met,--met again, I should say, for we +are old friends, remember. Do you know your career much interests me? I +like ambitious men.’ + +There is something fascinating in the first idea that your career +interests a charming woman. Coningsby felt that he was perhaps driving +a Madame de Longueville. A woman who likes ambitious men must be no +ordinary character; clearly a sort of heroine. At this moment they +reached the Upper Park, and the novel landscape changed the current of +their remarks. + +Far as the eye could reach there spread before them a savage sylvan +scene. It wanted, perhaps, undulation of surface, but that deficiency +was greatly compensated for by the multitude and prodigious size of the +trees; they were the largest, indeed, that could well be met with in +England; and there is no part of Europe where the timber is so huge. +The broad interminable glades, the vast avenues, the quantity of deer +browsing or bounding in all directions, the thickets of yellow gorse and +green fern, and the breeze that even in the stillness of summer was ever +playing over this table-land, all produced an animated and renovating +scene. It was like suddenly visiting another country, living among other +manners, and breathing another air. They stopped for a few minutes at +a pavilion built for the purposes of the chase, and then returned, all +gratified by this visit to what appeared to be the higher regions of the +earth. + +As they approached the brow of the hill that hung over St. Geneviève, +they heard the great bell sound. + +‘What is that?’ asked the Duchess. + +‘It is almsgiving day,’ replied Mr. Lyle, looking a little embarrassed, +and for the first time blushing. ‘The people of the parishes with which +I am connected come to St. Geneviève twice a-week at this hour.’ + +‘And what is your system?’ inquired Lord Everingham, who had stopped, +interested by the scene. ‘What check have you?’ + +‘The rectors of the different parishes grant certificates to those +who in their belief merit bounty according to the rules which I have +established. These are again visited by my almoner, who countersigns +the certificate, and then they present it at the postern-gate. The +certificate explains the nature of their necessities, and my steward +acts on his discretion. + +‘Mamma, I see them!’ exclaimed Lady Theresa. + +‘Perhaps your Grace may think that they might be relieved without all +this ceremony,’ said Mr. Lyle, extremely confused. ‘But I agree with +Henry and Mr. Coningsby, that Ceremony is not, as too commonly supposed, +an idle form. I wish the people constantly and visibly to comprehend +that Property is their protector and their friend.’ + +‘My reason is with you, Mr. Lyle,’ said the Duchess, ‘as well as my +heart.’ + +They came along the valley, a procession of Nature, whose groups an +artist might have studied. The old man, who loved the pilgrimage too +much to avail himself of the privilege of a substitute accorded to his +grey hairs, came in person with his grandchild and his staff. There also +came the widow with her child at the breast, and others clinging to her +form; some sorrowful faces, and some pale; many a serious one, and +now and then a frolic glance; many a dame in her red cloak, and many a +maiden with her light basket; curly-headed urchins with demure looks, +and sometimes a stalwart form baffled for a time of the labour which he +desired. But not a heart there that did not bless the bell that sounded +from the tower of St. Geneviève! + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +‘My fathers perilled their blood and fortunes for the cause of the +Sovereignty and Church of England,’ said Lyle to Coningsby, as they were +lying stretched out on the sunny turf in the park of Beaumanoir,’ and +I inherit their passionate convictions. They were Catholics, as their +descendant. No doubt they would have been glad to see their ancient +faith predominant in their ancient land; but they bowed, as I bow, to an +adverse and apparently irrevocable decree. But if we could not have the +Church of our fathers, we honoured and respected the Church of their +children. It was at least a Church; a ‘Catholic and Apostolic Church,’ +as it daily declares itself. Besides, it was our friend. When we were +persecuted by Puritanic Parliaments, it was the Sovereign and the Church +of England that interposed, with the certainty of creating against +themselves odium and mistrust, to shield us from the dark and relentless +bigotry of Calvinism.’ + +‘I believe,’ said Coningsby, ‘that if Charles I. had hanged all the +Catholic priests that Parliament petitioned him to execute, he would +never have lost his crown.’ + +‘You were mentioning my father,’ continued Lyle. ‘He certainly was a +Whig. Galled by political exclusion, he connected himself with that +party in the State which began to intimate emancipation. After all, they +did not emancipate us. It was the fall of the Papacy in England that +founded the Whig aristocracy; a fact that must always lie at the bottom +of their hearts, as, I assure you, it does of mine. + +‘I gathered at an early age,’ continued Lyle, ‘that I was expected to +inherit my father’s political connections with the family estates. Under +ordinary circumstances this would probably have occurred. In times that +did not force one to ponder, it is not likely I should have recoiled +from uniting myself with a party formed of the best families in England, +and ever famous for accomplished men and charming women. But I enter +life in the midst of a convulsion in which the very principles of our +political and social systems are called in question. I cannot unite +myself with the party of destruction. It is an operative cause alien +to my being. What, then, offers itself? The Duke talks to me of +Conservative principles; but he does not inform me what they are. I +observe indeed a party in the State whose rule it is to consent to no +change, until it is clamorously called for, and then instantly to yield; +but those are Concessionary, not Conservative principles. This party +treats institutions as we do our pheasants, they preserve only to +destroy them. But is there a statesman among these Conservatives who +offers us a dogma for a guide, or defines any great political truth +which we should aspire to establish? It seems to me a barren thing, +this Conservatism, an unhappy cross-breed; the mule of politics that +engenders nothing. What do you think of all this, Coningsby? I assure +you I feel confused, perplexed, harassed. I know I have public duties to +perform; I am, in fact, every day of my life solicited by all parties +to throw the weight of my influence in one scale or another; but I am +paralysed. I often wish I had no position in the country. The sense +of its responsibility depresses me; makes me miserable. I speak to you +without reserve; with a frankness which our short acquaintance scarcely +authorises; but Henry Sydney has so often talked to me of you, and +I have so long wished to know you, that I open my heart without +restraint.’ + +‘My dear fellow,’ said Coningsby, ‘you have but described my feelings +when you depicted your own. My mind on these subjects has long been +a chaos. I float in a sea of troubles, and should long ago have +been wrecked had I not been sustained by a profound, however vague, +conviction, that there are still great truths, if we could but work them +out; that Government, for instance, should be loved and not hated, and +that Religion should be a faith and not a form.’ + +The moral influence of residence furnishes some of the most interesting +traits of our national manners. The presence of this power was very +apparent throughout the district that surrounded Beaumanoir. The ladies +of that house were deeply sensible of the responsibility of their +position; thoroughly comprehending their duties, they fulfilled them +without affectation, with earnestness, and with that effect which +springs from a knowledge of the subject. The consequences were visible +in the tone of the peasantry being superior to that which we too often +witness. The ancient feudal feeling that lingers in these sequestered +haunts is an instrument which, when skilfully wielded, may be productive +of vast social benefit. The Duke understood this well; and his family +had imbibed all his views, and seconded them. Lady Everingham, once more +in the scene of her past life, resumed the exercise of gentle offices, +as if she had never ceased to be a daughter of the house, and as if +another domain had not its claims upon her solicitude. Coningsby was +often the companion of herself and her sister in their pilgrimages +of charity and kindness. He admired the graceful energy, and thorough +acquaintance with details, with which Lady Everingham superintended +schools, organised societies of relief, and the discrimination which she +brought to bear upon individual cases of suffering or misfortune. He was +deeply interested as he watched the magic of her manner, as she melted +the obdurate, inspired the slothful, consoled the afflicted, and +animated with her smiles and ready phrase the energetic and the dutiful. +Nor on these occasions was Lady Theresa seen under less favourable +auspices. Without the vivacity of her sister, there was in her demeanour +a sweet seriousness of purpose that was most winning; and sometimes a +burst of energy, a trait of decision, which strikingly contrasted with +the somewhat over-controlled character of her life in drawing-rooms. + +In the society of these engaging companions, time for Coningsby glided +away in a course which he sometimes wished nothing might disturb. Apart +from them, he frequently felt himself pensive and vaguely disquieted. +Even the society of Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, much as under +ordinary circumstances they would have been adapted to his mood, did not +compensate for the absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, +yet sweet excitement, which he felt, he knew not exactly how or why, +stealing over his senses. Sometimes the countenance of Theresa Sydney +flitted over his musing vision; sometimes the merry voice of Lady +Everingham haunted his ear. But to be their companion in ride or ramble; +to avoid any arrangement which for many hours should deprive him of +their presence; was every day with Coningsby a principal object. + +One day he had been out shooting rabbits with Lyle and Henry Sydney, and +returned with them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. He had not enjoyed his +sport, and he had not shot at all well. He had been dreamy, silent, had +deeply felt the want of Lady Everingham’s conversation, that was ever so +poignant and so interestingly personal to himself; one of the secrets of +her sway, though Coningsby was not then quite conscious of it. Talk to a +man about himself, and he is generally captivated. That is the real way +to win him. The only difference between men and women in this respect +is, that most women are vain, and some men are not. There are some men +who have no self-love; but if they have, female vanity is but a trifling +and airy passion compared with the vast voracity of appetite which in +the sterner sex can swallow anything, and always crave for more. + +When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, there seemed a somewhat unusual +bustle in the room, but as the twilight had descended, it was at first +rather difficult to distinguish who was present. He soon perceived that +there were strangers. A gentleman of pleasing appearance was near a sofa +on which the Duchess and Lady Everingham were seated, and discoursing +with some volubility. His phrases seemed to command attention; his +audience had an animated glance, eyes sparkling with intelligence and +interest; not a word was disregarded. Coningsby did not advance as was +his custom; he had a sort of instinct, that the stranger was discoursing +of matters of which he knew nothing. He turned to a table, he took up a +book, which he began to read upside downwards. A hand was lightly placed +on his shoulder. He looked round, it was another stranger; who said, +however, in a tone of familiar friendliness, + +‘How do you do, Coningsby?’ + +It was a young man about four-and-twenty years of age, tall, +good-looking. Old recollections, his intimate greeting, a strong family +likeness, helped Coningsby to conjecture correctly who was the person +who addressed him. It was, indeed, the eldest son of the Duke, the +Marquis of Beaumanoir, who had arrived at his father’s unexpectedly with +his friend, Mr. Melton, on their way to the north. + +Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest fashion, and a great favourite +in society. He was about thirty, good-looking, with an air that +commanded attention, and manners, though facile, sufficiently finished. +He was communicative, though calm, and without being witty, had at his +service a turn of phrase, acquired by practice and success, which was, +or which always seemed to be, poignant. The ladies seemed especially to +be delighted at his arrival. He knew everything of everybody they cared +about; and Coningsby listened in silence to names which for the first +time reached his ears, but which seemed to excite great interest. Mr. +Melton frequently addressed his most lively observations and his most +sparkling anecdotes to Lady Everingham, who evidently relished all that +he said, and returned him in kind. + +Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton maintained what +appeared a most entertaining conversation, principally about things and +persons which did not in any way interest our hero; who, however, had +the satisfaction of hearing Lady Everingham, in the drawing-room, say in +a careless tone to the Duchess. + +‘I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted some +amusement.’ + +What a confession! What a revelation to Coningsby of his infinite +insignificance! Coningsby entertained a great aversion for Mr. Melton, +but felt his spirit unequal to the social contest. The genius of +the untutored, inexperienced youth quailed before that of the +long-practised, skilful man of the world. What was the magic of this +man? What was the secret of this ease, that nothing could disturb, and +yet was not deficient in deference and good taste? And then his dress, +it seemed fashioned by some unearthly artist; yet it was impossible +to detect the unobtrusive causes of the general effect that was +irresistible. Coningsby’s coat was made by Stultz; almost every fellow +in the sixth form had his coats made by Stultz; yet Coningsby fancied +that his own garment looked as if it had been furnished by some rustic +slopseller. He began to wonder where Mr. Melton got his boots from, and +glanced at his own, which, though made in St. James’s Street, seemed to +him to have a cloddish air. + +Lady Everingham was determined that Mr. Melton should see Beaumanoir to +the greatest advantage. Mr. Melton had never been there before, except +at Christmas, with the house full of visitors and factitious gaiety. Now +he was to see the country. Accordingly, there were long rides every day, +which Lady Everingham called expeditions, and which generally produced +some slight incident which she styled an adventure. She was kind to +Coningsby, but had no time to indulge in the lengthened conversations +which he had previously found so magical. Mr. Melton was always on +the scene, the monopolising hero, it would seem, of every thought, and +phrase, and plan. Coningsby began to think that Beaumanoir was not so +delightful a place as he had imagined. He began to think that he had +stayed there perhaps too long. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby, +to inform him that he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning +of September, to meet Lord Monmouth, who had returned to England, and +for grave and special reasons was about to reside at his chief seat, +which he had not visited for many years. Coningsby had intended to have +remained at Beaumanoir until that time; but suddenly it occurred to +him, that the Age of Ruins was past, and that he ought to seize the +opportunity of visiting Manchester, which was in the same county as the +castle of his grandfather. So difficult is it to speculate upon +events! Muse as we may, we are the creatures of circumstances; and the +unexpected arrival of a London dandy at the country-seat of an English +nobleman sent this representative of the New Generation, fresh from +Eton, nursed in prejudices, yet with a mind predisposed to inquiry +and prone to meditation, to a scene apt to stimulate both intellectual +processes; which demanded investigation and induced thought, the great +METROPOLIS OF LABOUR. + +END OF BOOK III. + + + + +BOOK IV + + +CHAPTER I. + + +A great city, whose image dwells in the memory of man, is the type of +some great idea. Rome represents conquest; Faith hovers over the towers +of Jerusalem; and Athens embodies the pre-eminent quality of the antique +world, Art. + +In modern ages, Commerce has created London; while Manners, in the most +comprehensive sense of the word, have long found a supreme capital in +the airy and bright-minded city of the Seine. + +Art was to the ancient world, Science is to the modern: the distinctive +faculty. In the minds of men the useful has succeeded to the beautiful. +Instead of the city of the Violet Crown, a Lancashire village has +expanded into a mighty region of factories and warehouses. Yet, rightly +understood, Manchester is as great a human exploit as Athens. + +The inhabitants, indeed, are not so impressed with their idiosyncrasy as +the countrymen of Pericles and Phidias. They do not fully comprehend the +position which they occupy. It is the philosopher alone who can conceive +the grandeur of Manchester, and the immensity of its future. There are +yet great truths to tell, if we had either the courage to announce or +the temper to receive them. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +A feeling of melancholy, even of uneasiness, attends our first entrance +into a great town, especially at night. Is it that the sense of all this +vast existence with which we have no connexion, where we are utterly +unknown, oppresses us with our insignificance? Is it that it is terrible +to feel friendless where all have friends? + +Yet reverse the picture. Behold a community where you are unknown, but +where you will be known, perhaps honoured. A place where you have no +friends, but where, also, you have no enemies. A spot that has hitherto +been a blank in your thoughts, as you have been a cipher in its +sensations, and yet a spot, perhaps, pregnant with your destiny! + +There is, perhaps, no act of memory so profoundly interesting as to +recall the careless mood and moment in which we have entered a town, +a house, a chamber, on the eve of an acquaintance or an event that has +given colour and an impulse to our future life. + +What is this Fatality that men worship? Is it a Goddess? + +Unquestionably it is a power that acts mainly by female agents. Women +are the Priestesses of Predestination. + +Man conceives Fortune, but Woman conducts it. + +It is the Spirit of Man that says, ‘I will be great;’ but it is the +Sympathy of Woman that usually makes him so. + +It was not the comely and courteous hostess of the Adelphi Hotel, +Manchester, that gave occasion to these remarks, though she may deserve +them, and though she was most kind to our Coningsby as he came in late +at night very tired, and not in very good humour. + +He had travelled the whole day through the great district of labour, +his mind excited by strange sights, and at length wearied by their +multiplication. He had passed over the plains where iron and coal +supersede turf and corn, dingy as the entrance of Hades, and flaming +with furnaces; and now he was among illumined factories with more +windows than Italian palaces, and smoking chimneys taller than Egyptian +obelisks. Alone in the great metropolis of machinery itself, sitting +down in a solitary coffee-room glaring with gas, with no appetite, a +whirling head, and not a plan or purpose for the morrow, why was he +there? Because a being, whose name even was unknown to him, had met him +in a hedge alehouse during a thunderstorm, and told him that the Age of +Ruins was past. + +Remarkable instance of the influence of an individual; some evidence of +the extreme susceptibility of our hero. + +Even his bedroom was lit by gas. Wonderful city! That, however, could be +got rid of. He opened the window. The summer air was sweet, even in this +land of smoke and toil. He feels a sensation such as in Lisbon or Lima +precedes an earthquake. The house appears to quiver. It is a sympathetic +affection occasioned by a steam-engine in a neighbouring factory. + +Notwithstanding, however, all these novel incidents, Coningsby slept the +deep sleep of youth and health, of a brain which, however occasionally +perplexed by thought, had never been harassed by anxiety. He rose early, +freshened, and in fine spirits. And by the time the deviled chicken and +the buttered toast, that mysterious and incomparable luxury, which can +only be obtained at an inn, had disappeared, he felt all the delightful +excitement of travel. + +And now for action! Not a letter had Coningsby; not an individual in +that vast city was known to him. He went to consult his kind hostess, +who smiled confidence. He was to mention her name at one place, his +own at another. All would be right; she seemed to have reliance in the +destiny of such a nice young man. + +He saw all; they were kind and hospitable to the young stranger, +whose thought, and earnestness, and gentle manners attracted them. One +recommended him to another; all tried to aid and assist him. He entered +chambers vaster than are told of in Arabian fable, and peopled with +habitants more wondrous than Afrite or Peri. For there he beheld, in +long-continued ranks, those mysterious forms full of existence without +life, that perform with facility, and in an instant, what man can fulfil +only with difficulty and in days. A machine is a slave that neither +brings nor bears degradation; it is a being endowed with the greatest +degree of energy, and acting under the greatest degree of excitement, +yet free at the same time from all passion and emotion. It is, +therefore, not only a slave, but a supernatural slave. And why should +one say that the machine does not live? It breathes, for its breath +forms the atmosphere of some towns. It moves with more regularity than +man. And has it not a voice? Does not the spindle sing like a merry girl +at her work, and the steam-engine roar in jolly chorus, like a strong +artisan handling his lusty tools, and gaining a fair day’s wages for a +fair day’s toil? + +Nor should the weaving-room be forgotten, where a thousand or fifteen +hundred girls may be observed in their coral necklaces, working like +Penelope in the daytime; some pretty, some pert, some graceful and +jocund, some absorbed in their occupation; a little serious some, few +sad. And the cotton you have observed in its rude state, that you have +seen the silent spinner change into thread, and the bustling weaver +convert into cloth, you may now watch as in a moment it is tinted +with beautiful colours, or printed with fanciful patterns. And yet the +mystery of mysteries is to view machines making machines; a spectacle +that fills the mind with curious, and even awful, speculation. + +From early morn to the late twilight, our Coningsby for several days +devoted himself to the comprehension of Manchester. It was to him a new +world, pregnant with new ideas, and suggestive of new trains of thought +and feeling. In this unprecedented partnership between capital and +science, working on a spot which Nature had indicated as the fitting +theatre of their exploits, he beheld a great source of the wealth of +nations which had been reserved for these times, and he perceived that +this wealth was rapidly developing classes whose power was imperfectly +recognised in the constitutional scheme, and whose duties in the social +system seemed altogether omitted. Young as he was, the bent of his mind, +and the inquisitive spirit of the times, had sufficiently prepared him, +not indeed to grapple with these questions, but to be sensible of their +existence, and to ponder. + +One evening, in the coffee-room of the hotel, having just finished his +well-earned dinner, and relaxing his mind for the moment in a fresh +research into the Manchester Guide, an individual, who had also been +dining in the same apartment, rose from his table, and, after lolling +over the empty fireplace, reading the framed announcements, looking +at the directions of several letters waiting there for their owners, +picking his teeth, turned round to Coningsby, and, with an air of uneasy +familiarity, said,-- + +‘First visit to Manchester, sir?’ + +‘My first.’ + +‘Gentleman traveller, I presume?’ + +‘I am a traveller.’ said Coningsby. + +‘Hem! From south?’ + +‘From the south.’ + +‘And pray, sir, how did you find business as you came along? Brisk, I +dare say. And yet there is a something, a sort of a something; didn’t +it strike you, sir, there was a something? A deal of queer paper about, +sir!’ + +‘I fear you are speaking on a subject of which I know nothing,’ said +Coningsby, smiling; ‘I do not understand business at all; though I am +not surprised that, being at Manchester, you should suppose so.’ + +‘Ah! not in business. Hem! Professional?’ + +‘No,’ said Coningsby, ‘I am nothing.’ + +‘Ah! an independent gent; hem! and a very pleasant thing, too. Pleased +with Manchester, I dare say?’ continued the stranger. + +‘And astonished,’ said Coningsby; ‘I think, in the whole course of my +life, I never saw so much to admire.’ + +‘Seen all the lions, have no doubt?’ + +‘I think I have seen everything,’ said Coningsby, rather eager and with +some pride. + +‘Very well, very well,’ exclaimed the stranger, in a patronising tone. +‘Seen Mr. Birley’s weaving-room, I dare say?’ + +‘Oh! isn’t it wonderful?’ said Coningsby. + +‘A great many people.’ said the stranger, with a rather supercilious +smile. + +‘But after all,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘it is the machinery +without any interposition of manual power that overwhelms me. It haunts +me in my dreams,’ continued Coningsby; ‘I see cities peopled with +machines. Certainly Manchester is the most wonderful city of modern +times!’ + +The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm of his companion, and +then picked his teeth. + +‘Of all the remarkable things here,’ said Coningsby, ‘what on the whole, +sir, do you look upon as the most so?’ + +‘In the way of machinery?’ asked the stranger. + +‘In the way of machinery.’ + +‘Why, in the way of machinery, you know,’ said the stranger, very +quietly, ‘Manchester is a dead letter.’ + +‘A dead letter!’ said Coningsby. + +‘Dead and buried,’ said the stranger, accompanying his words with +that peculiar application of his thumb to his nose that signifies so +eloquently that all is up. + +‘You astonish me!’ said Coningsby. + +‘It’s a booked place though,’ said the stranger, ‘and no mistake. We +have all of us a very great respect for Manchester, of course; look upon +her as a sort of mother, and all that sort of thing. But she is behind +the times, sir, and that won’t do in this age. The long and short of it +is, Manchester is gone by.’ + +‘I thought her only fault might be she was too much in advance of the +rest of the country,’ said Coningsby, innocently. + +‘If you want to see life,’ said the stranger, ‘go to Staleybridge or +Bolton. There’s high pressure.’ + +‘But the population of Manchester is increasing,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Why, yes; not a doubt. You see we have all of us a great respect for +the town. It is a sort of metropolis of this district, and there is +a good deal of capital in the place. And it has some firstrate +institutions. There’s the Manchester Bank. That’s a noble institution, +full of commercial enterprise; understands the age, sir; high-pressure +to the backbone. I came up to town to see the manager to-day. I am +building a new mill now myself at Staleybridge, and mean to open it by +January, and when I do, I’ll give you leave to pay another visit to Mr. +Birley’s weaving-room, with my compliments.’ + +‘I am very sorry,’ said Coningsby, ‘that I have only another day left; +but pray tell me, what would you recommend me most to see within a +reasonable distance of Manchester?’ + +‘My mill is not finished,’ said the stranger musingly, ‘and though there +is still a great deal worth seeing at Staleybridge, still you had +better wait to see my new mill. And Bolton, let me see; Bolton, there is +nothing at Bolton that can hold up its head for a moment against my new +mill; but then it is not finished. Well, well, let us see. What a pity +this is not the 1st of January, and then my new mill would be at work! I +should like to see Mr. Birley’s face, or even Mr. Ashworth’s, that day. +And the Oxford Road Works, where they are always making a little change, +bit by bit reform, eh! not a very particular fine appetite, I suspect, +for dinner, at the Oxford Road Works, the day they hear of my new mill +being at work. But you want to see something tip-top. Well, there’s +Millbank; that’s regular slap-up, quite a sight, regular lion; if I were +you I would see Millbank.’ + +‘Millbank!’ said Coningsby; ‘what Millbank?’ + +‘Millbank of Millbank, made the place, made it himself. About three +miles from Bolton; train to-morrow morning at 7.25, get a fly at the +station, and you will be at Millbank by 8.40.’ + +‘Unfortunately I am engaged to-morrow morning,’ said Coningsby, ‘and yet +I am most anxious, particularly anxious, to see Millbank.’ + +‘Well, there’s a late train,’ said the stranger, ‘3.15; you will be +there by 4.30.’ + +‘I think I could manage that,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Do,’ said the stranger; ‘and if you ever find yourself at Staleybridge, +I shall be very happy to be of service. I must be off now. My train goes +at 9.15.’ And he presented Coningsby with his card as he wished him good +night. + +MR. G. O. A. HEAD, STALEYBRIDGE. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to that district of factories +on which we have already touched, a clear and powerful stream flows +through a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, adorned, rather than +shadowed, by some old elm-trees, for they are too distant to serve +except for ornament, rises a vast deep red brick pile, which though +formal and monotonous in its general character, is not without a +certain beauty of proportion and an artist-like finish in its occasional +masonry. The front, which is of great extent, and covered with many +tiers of small windows, is flanked by two projecting wings in the same +style, which form a large court, completed by a dwarf wall crowned +with a light, and rather elegant railing; in the centre, the principal +entrance, a lofty portal of bold and beautiful design, surmounted by a +statue of Commerce. + +This building, not without a degree of dignity, is what is technically, +and not very felicitously, called a mill; always translated by the +French in their accounts of our manufacturing riots, ‘moulin;’ and which +really was the principal factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that +youth whom, we trust, our readers have not quite forgotten. + +At some little distance, and rather withdrawn from the principal stream, +were two other smaller structures of the same style. About a quarter of +a mile further on, appeared a village of not inconsiderable size, and +remarkable from the neatness and even picturesque character of its +architecture, and the gay gardens that surrounded it. On a sunny +knoll in the background rose a church, in the best style of Christian +architecture, and near it was a clerical residence and a school-house +of similar design. The village, too, could boast of another public +building; an Institute where there were a library and a lecture-room; +and a reading-hall, which any one might frequent at certain hours, and +under reasonable regulations. + +On the other side of the principal factory, but more remote, about +half-a-mile up the valley, surrounded by beautiful meadows, and built +on an agreeable and well-wooded elevation, was the mansion of +the mill-owner; apparently a commodious and not inconsiderable +dwelling-house, built in what is called a villa style, with a variety +of gardens and conservatories. The atmosphere of this somewhat striking +settlement was not disturbed and polluted by the dark vapour, which, +to the shame of Manchester, still infests that great town, for Mr. +Millbank, who liked nothing so much as an invention, unless it were an +experiment, took care to consume his own smoke. + +The sun was declining when Coningsby arrived at Millbank, and the +gratification which he experienced on first beholding it, was not a +little diminished, when, on enquiring at the village, he was informed +that the hour was past for seeing the works. Determined not to +relinquish his purpose without a struggle, he repaired to the principal +mill, and entered the counting-house, which was situated in one of the +wings of the building. + +‘Your pleasure, sir?’ said one of three individuals sitting on high +stools behind a high desk. + +‘I wish, if possible, to see the works.’ + +‘Quite impossible, sir;’ and the clerk, withdrawing his glance, +continued his writing. ‘No admission without an order, and no admission +with an order after two o’clock.’ + +‘I am very unfortunate,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Sorry for it, sir. Give me ledger K. X., will you, Mr. Benson?’ + +‘I think Mr. Millbank would grant me permission,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Very likely, sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very much +engaged.’ He pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass doors +permitted Coningsby to observe several individuals in close converse. + +‘Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?’ inquired Coningsby. + +‘Mr. Oswald is in Belgium,’ said the clerk. + +‘Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend of his son’s +at Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes very much to see +his works?’ + +‘Can’t possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, sir; but, if you like to sit +down, you can wait and see him yourself.’ + +Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very impatient at the +end of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching +of the pens of the three silent clerks, irritated him. At length, voices +were heard, doors opened, and the clerk said, ‘Mr. Millbank is coming, +sir,’ but nobody came; voices became hushed, doors were shut; again +nothing was heard, save the ticking of the clock and the scratching of +the pen. + +At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth, Mr. +Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair face +inclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel eye, the whitest teeth, +and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and there slightly tinged with +grey. It was a visage of energy and decision. + +He was about to pass through the counting-house with his companions, +with whom his affairs were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby, +who had risen. + +‘This gentleman wishes to see me?’ he inquired of his clerk, who bowed +assent. + +‘I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I have finished with these +gentlemen.’ + +‘The gentleman wishes to see the works, sir,’ said the clerk. + +‘He can see the works at proper times,’ said Mr. Millbank, somewhat +pettishly; ‘tell him the regulations;’ and he was about to go. + +‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Coningsby, coming forward, and with an +air of earnestness and grace that arrested the step of the manufacturer. +‘I am aware of the regulations, but would beg to be permitted to +infringe them.’ + +‘It cannot be, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, moving. + +‘I thought, sir, being here only for a day, and as a friend of your +son--’ + +Mr. Millbank stopped and said, + +‘Oh! a friend of Oswald’s, eh? What, at Eton?’ + +‘Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped perhaps to have found him here.’ + +‘I am very much engaged, sir, at this moment,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘I am +sorry I cannot pay you any personal attention, but my clerk will show +you everything. Mr. Benson, let this gentleman see everything;’ and he +withdrew. + +‘Be pleased to write your name here, sir,’ said Mr. Benson, opening +a book, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his visit to +Millbank: + + ‘HARRY CONINGSBY, Sept. 2, 1836.’ + +Coningsby beheld in this great factory the last and the most refined +inventions of mechanical genius. The building had been fitted up by a +capitalist as anxious to raise a monument of the skill and power of his +order, as to obtain a return for the great investment. + +‘It is the glory of Lancashire!’ exclaimed the enthusiastic Mr. Benson. + +The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom he evidently idolised, and +his great achievements, and Coningsby encouraged him. He detailed to +Coningsby the plans which Mr. Millbank had pursued, both for the moral +and physical well-being of his people; how he had built churches, +and schools, and institutes; houses and cottages on a new system of +ventilation; how he had allotted gardens; established singing classes. + +‘Here is Mr. Millbank,’ continued the clerk, as he and Coningsby, +quitting the factory, re-entered the court. + +Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, and the moment that he +observed them, he quickened his pace. + +‘Mr. Coningsby?’ he said, when he reached them. His countenance was +rather disturbed, and his voice a little trembled, and he looked on our +friend with a glance scrutinising and serious. Coningsby bowed. + +‘I am sorry that you should have been received at this place with +so little ceremony, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but had your name been +mentioned, you would have found it cherished here.’ He nodded to the +clerk, who disappeared. + +Coningsby began to talk about the wonders of the factory, but Mr. +Millbank recurred to other thoughts that were passing in his mind. He +spoke of his son: he expressed a kind reproach that Coningsby should +have thought of visiting this part of the world without giving them +some notice of his intention, that he might have been their guest, that +Oswald might have been there to receive him, that they might have made +arrangements that he should see everything, and in the best manner; in +short, that they might all have shown, however slightly, the deep sense +of their obligations to him. + +‘My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental,’ said +Coningsby. ‘I am bound for the other division of the county, to pay a +visit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth; but an irresistible desire came +over me during my journey to view this famous district of industry. It +is some days since I ought to have found myself at Coningsby, and this +is the reason why I am so pressed.’ + +A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name of Lord +Monmouth was mentioned, but he said nothing. Turning towards Coningsby, +with an air of kindness: + +‘At least,’ said he, ‘let not Oswald hear that you did not taste our +salt. Pray dine with me to-day; there is yet an hour to dinner; and +as you have seen the factory, suppose we stroll together through the +village.’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +The village clock struck five as Mr. Millbank and his guest entered the +gardens of his mansion. Coningsby lingered a moment to admire the beauty +and gay profusion of the flowers. + +‘Your situation,’ said Coningsby, looking up the green and silent +valley, ‘is absolutely poetic.’ + +‘I try sometimes to fancy,’ said Mr. Millbank, with a rather fierce +smile, ‘that I am in the New World.’ + +They entered the house; a capacious and classic hall, at the end a +staircase in the Italian fashion. As they approached it, the sweetest +and the clearest voice exclaimed from above, ‘Papa! papa!’ and instantly +a young girl came bounding down the stairs, but suddenly seeing a +stranger with her father she stopped upon the landing-place, and was +evidently on the point of as rapidly retreating as she had advanced, +when Mr. Millbank waved his hand to her and begged her to descend. She +came down slowly; as she approached them her father said, ‘A friend you +have often heard of, Edith: this is Mr. Coningsby.’ + +She started; blushed very much; and then, with a trembling and uncertain +gait, advanced, put forth her hand with a wild unstudied grace, and said +in a tone of sensibility, ‘How often have we all wished to see and to +thank you!’ + +This daughter of his host was of tender years; apparently she could +scarcely have counted sixteen summers. She was delicate and fragile, but +as she raised her still blushing visage to her father’s guest, Coningsby +felt that he had never beheld a countenance of such striking and such +peculiar beauty. + +‘My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith; a Saxon name, for she is the +daughter of a Saxon.’ + +But the beauty of the countenance was not the beauty of the Saxons. It +was a radiant face, one of those that seem to have been touched in +their cradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained all their brilliancy and +suffused and mantling lustre. One marks sometimes such faces, diaphanous +with delicate splendour, in the southern regions of France. Her eye, +too, was the rare eye of Aquitaine; soft and long, with lashes drooping +over the cheek, dark as her clustering ringlets. + +They entered the drawing-room. + +‘Mr. Coningsby,’ said Millbank to his daughter, ‘is in this part of the +world only for a few hours, or I am sure he would become our guest. He +has, however, promised to stay with us now and dine.’ + +‘If Miss Millbank will pardon this dress,’ said Coningsby, bowing an +apology for his inevitable frock and boots; the maiden raised her eyes +and bent her head. + +The hour of dinner was at hand. Millbank offered to show Coningsby to +his dressing-room. He was absent but a few minutes. When he returned he +found Miss Millbank alone. He came somewhat suddenly into the room. She +was playing with her dog, but ceased the moment she observed Coningsby. + +Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady Everingham, flattered +himself that he had advanced in small talk, and was not sorry that +he had now an opportunity of proving his prowess, made some lively +observations about pets and the breeds of lapdogs, but he was not +fortunate in extracting a response or exciting a repartee. He began then +on the beauty of Millbank, which he would on no account have avoided +seeing, and inquired when she had last heard of her brother. The young +lady, apparently much distressed, was murmuring something about Antwerp, +when the entrance of her father relieved her from her embarrassment. + +Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his fair companion, +who took it with her eyes fixed on the ground. + +‘You are very fond, I see, of flowers,’ said Coningsby, as they moved +along; and the young lady said ‘Yes.’ + +The dinner was plain, but perfect of its kind. The young hostess seemed +to perform her office with a certain degree of desperate determination. +She looked at a chicken and then at Coningsby, and murmured something +which he understood. Sometimes she informed herself of his tastes +or necessities in more detail, by the medium of her father, whom she +treated as a sort of dragoman; in this way: ‘Would not Mr. Coningsby, +papa, take this or that, or do so and so?’ Coningsby was always careful +to reply in a direct manner, without the agency of the interpreter; but +he did not advance. Even a petition for the great honour of taking a +glass of sherry with her only induced the beautiful face to bow. And yet +when she had first seen him, she had addressed him even with emotion. +What could it be? He felt less confidence in his increased power of +conversation. Why, Theresa Sydney was scarcely a year older than +Miss Millbank, and though she did not certainly originate like Lady +Everingham, he got on with her perfectly well. + +Mr. Millbank did not seem to be conscious of his daughter’s silence: +at any rate, he attempted to compensate for it. He talked fluently +and well; on all subjects his opinions seemed to be decided, and his +language was precise. He was really interested in what Coningsby had +seen, and what he had felt; and this sympathy divested his manner of the +disagreeable effect that accompanies a tone inclined to be dictatorial. +More than once Coningsby observed the silent daughter listening with +extreme attention to the conversation of himself and her father. + +The dessert was remarkable. Millbank was proud of his fruit. A bland +expression of self-complacency spread over his features as he surveyed +his grapes, his peaches, his figs. + +‘These grapes have gained a medal,’ he told Coningsby. ‘Those too are +prize peaches. I have not yet been so successful with my figs. These +however promise, and perhaps this year I may be more fortunate.’ + +‘What would your brother and myself have given for such a dessert at +Eton!’ said Coningsby to Miss Millbank, wishing to say something, and +something too that might interest her. + +She seemed infinitely distressed, and yet this time would speak. + +‘Let me give you some,’ He caught by chance her glance immediately +withdrawn; yet it was a glance not only of beauty, but of feeling +and thought. She added, in a hushed and hurried tone, dividing very +nervously some grapes, ‘I hardly know whether Oswald will be most +pleased or grieved when he hears that you have been here.’ + +‘And why grieved?’ said Coningsby. + +‘That he should not have been here to welcome you, and that your stay is +for so brief a time. It seems so strange that after having talked of you +for years, we should see you only for hours.’ + +‘I hope I may return,’ said Coningsby, ‘and that Millbank may be here to +welcome me; but I hope I may be permitted to return even if he be not.’ + +But there was no reply; and soon after, Mr. Millbank talking of the +American market, and Coningsby helping himself to a glass of claret, the +daughter of the Saxon, looking at her father, rose and left the room, so +suddenly and so quickly that Coningsby could scarcely gain the door. + +‘Yes,’ said Millbank, filling his glass, and pursuing some previous +observations, ‘all that we want in this country is to be masters of our +own industry; but Saxon industry and Norman manners never will agree; +and some day, Mr. Coningsby, you will find that out.’ + +‘But what do you mean by Norman manners?’ inquired Coningsby. + +‘Did you ever hear of the Forest of Rossendale?’ said Millbank. ‘If +you were staying here, you should visit the district. It is an area of +twenty-four square miles. It was disforested in the early part of the +sixteenth century, possessing at that time eighty inhabitants. +Its rental in James the First’s time was 120_l._ When the woollen +manufacture was introduced into the north, the shuttle competed with the +plough in Rossendale, and about forty years ago we sent them the Jenny. +The eighty souls are now increased to upwards of eighty thousand, and +the rental of the forest, by the last county assessment, amounts to more +than 50,000_l._, 41,000 per cent, on the value in the reign of James +I. Now I call that an instance of Saxon industry competing successfully +with Norman manners.’ + +‘Exactly,’ said Coningsby, ‘but those manners are gone.’ + +‘From Rossendale,’ said Millbank, with a grim smile; ‘but not from +England.’ + +‘Where do you meet them?’ + +‘Meet them! In every place, at every hour; and feel them, too, in every +transaction of life.’ + +‘I know, sir, from your son,’ said Coningsby, inquiringly, ‘that you are +opposed to an aristocracy.’ + +‘No, I am not. I am for an aristocracy; but a real one, a natural one.’ + +‘But, sir, is not the aristocracy of England,’ said Coningsby, ‘a real +one? You do not confound our peerage, for example, with the degraded +patricians of the Continent.’ + +‘Hum!’ said Millbank. ‘I do not understand how an aristocracy can exist, +unless it be distinguished by some quality which no other class of the +community possesses. Distinction is the basis of aristocracy. If you +permit only one class of the population, for example, to bear arms, they +are an aristocracy; not one much to my taste; but still a great fact. +That, however, is not the characteristic of the English peerage. I have +yet to learn they are richer than we are, better informed, wiser, or +more distinguished for public or private virtue. Is it not monstrous, +then, that a small number of men, several of whom take the titles of +Duke and Earl from towns in this very neighbourhood, towns which they +never saw, which never heard of them, which they did not form, or +build, or establish, I say, is it not monstrous, that individuals +so circumstanced, should be invested with the highest of conceivable +privileges, the privilege of making laws? Dukes and Earls indeed! I say +there is nothing in a masquerade more ridiculous.’ + +‘But do you not argue from an exception, sir?’ said Coningsby. ‘The +question is, whether a preponderance of the aristocratic principle in a +political constitution be, as I believe, conducive to the stability and +permanent power of a State; and whether the peerage, as established +in England, generally tends to that end? We must not forget in such an +estimate the influence which, in this country, is exercised over opinion +by ancient lineage.’ + +‘Ancient lineage!’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘I never heard of a peer with an +ancient lineage. The real old families of this country are to be found +among the peasantry; the gentry, too, may lay some claim to old blood. +I can point you out Saxon families in this county who can trace their +pedigrees beyond the Conquest; I know of some Norman gentlemen whose +fathers undoubtedly came over with the Conqueror. But a peer with an +ancient lineage is to me quite a novelty. No, no; the thirty years of +the wars of the Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I take it, after +the battle of Tewkesbury, a Norman baron was almost as rare a being in +England as a wolf is now.’ + +‘I have always understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘that our peerage was the +finest in Europe.’ + +‘From themselves,’ said Millbank, ‘and the heralds they pay to paint +their carriages. But I go to facts. When Henry VII. called his first +Parliament, there were only twenty-nine temporal peers to be found, +and even some of them took their seats illegally, for they had been +attainted. Of those twenty-nine not five remain, and they, as the +Howards for instance, are not Norman nobility. We owe the English +peerage to three sources: the spoliation of the Church; the open +and flagrant sale of its honours by the elder Stuarts; and the +boroughmongering of our own times. Those are the three main sources of +the existing peerage of England, and in my opinion disgraceful ones. But +I must apologise for my frankness in thus speaking to an aristocrat.’ + +‘Oh, by no means, sir, I like discussion. Your son and myself at Eton +have had some encounters of this kind before. But if your view of the +case be correct,’ added Coningsby, smiling, ‘you cannot at any rate +accuse our present peers of Norman manners.’ + +‘Yes, I do: they adopted Norman manners while they usurped Norman +titles. They have neither the right of the Normans, nor do they fulfil +the duty of the Normans: they did not conquer the land, and they do not +defend it.’ + +‘And where will you find your natural aristocracy?’ asked Coningsby. + +‘Among those men whom a nation recognises as the most eminent for +virtue, talents, and property, and, if you please, birth and standing +in the land. They guide opinion; and, therefore, they govern. I am no +leveller; I look upon an artificial equality as equally pernicious with +a factitious aristocracy; both depressing the energies, and checking the +enterprise of a nation. I like man to be free, really free: free in his +industry as well as his body. What is the use of Habeas Corpus, if a man +may not use his hands when he is out of prison?’ + +‘But it appears to me you have, in a great measure, this natural +aristocracy in England.’ + +‘Ah, to be sure! If we had not, where should we be? It is the +counteracting power that saves us, the disturbing cause in the +calculations of short-sighted selfishness. I say it now, and I have said +it a hundred times, the House of Commons is a more aristocratic body +than the House of Lords. The fact is, a great peer would be a greater +man now in the House of Commons than in the House of Lords. Nobody +wants a second chamber, except a few disreputable individuals. It is +a valuable institution for any member of it who has no distinction, +neither character, talents, nor estate. But a peer who possesses all or +any of these great qualifications, would find himself an immeasurably +more important personage in what, by way of jest, they call the Lower +House.’ + +‘Is not the revising wisdom of a senate a salutary check on the +precipitation of a popular assembly?’ + +‘Why should a popular assembly, elected by the flower of a nation, +be precipitate? If precipitate, what senate could stay an assembly so +chosen? No, no, no! the thing has been tried over and over again; +the idea of restraining the powerful by the weak is an absurdity; the +question is settled. If we wanted a fresh illustration, we need only +look to the present state of our own House of Lords. It originates +nothing; it has, in fact, announced itself as a mere Court of +Registration of the decrees of your House of Commons; and if by any +chance it ventures to alter some miserable detail in a clause of a bill +that excites public interest, what a clatter through the country, at +Conservative banquets got up by the rural attorneys, about the power, +authority, and independence of the House of Lords; nine times nine, and +one cheer more! No, sir, you may make aristocracies by laws; you can +only maintain them by manners. The manners of England preserve it +from its laws. And they have substituted for our formal aristocracy an +essential aristocracy; the government of those who are distinguished by +their fellow-citizens.’ + +‘But then it would appear,’ said Coningsby, ‘that the remedial action of +our manners has removed all the political and social evils of which you +complain?’ + +‘They have created a power that may remove them; a power that has the +capacity to remove them. But in a great measure they still exist, and +must exist yet, I fear, for a long time. The growth of our civilisation +has ever been as slow as our oaks; but this tardy development is +preferable to the temporary expansion of the gourd.’ + +‘The future seems to me sometimes a dark cloud.’ + +‘Not to me,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘I am sanguine; I am the Disciple of +Progress. But I have cause for my faith. I have witnessed advance. My +father has often told me that in his early days the displeasure of +a peer of England was like a sentence of death to a man. Why it was +esteemed a great concession to public opinion, so late as the reign of +George II., that Lord Ferrars should be executed for murder. The king of +a new dynasty, who wished to be popular with the people, insisted on +it, and even then he was hanged with a silken cord. At any rate we +may defend ourselves now,’ continued Mr. Millbank, ‘and, perhaps, do +something more. I defy any peer to crush me, though there is one who +would be very glad to do it. No more of that; I am very happy to see you +at Millbank, very happy to make your acquaintance,’ he continued, with +some emotion, ‘and not merely because you are my son’s friend and more +than friend.’ + +The walls of the dining-room were covered with pictures of great merit, +all of the modern English school. Mr. Millbank understood no other, he +was wont to say! and he found that many of his friends who did, bought +a great many pleasing pictures that were copies, and many originals that +were very displeasing. He loved a fine free landscape by Lee, that gave +him the broad plains, the green lanes, and running streams of his own +land; a group of animals by Landseer, as full of speech and sentiment as +if they were designed by Aesop; above all, he delighted in the household +humour and homely pathos of Wilkie. And if a higher tone of imagination +pleased him, he could gratify it without difficulty among his favourite +masters. He possessed some specimens of Etty worthy of Venice when +it was alive; he could muse amid the twilight ruins of ancient cities +raised by the magic pencil of Danby, or accompany a group of fair +Neapolitans to a festival by the genial aid of Uwins. + +Opposite Coningsby was a portrait, which had greatly attracted his +attention during the whole dinner. It represented a woman, young and of +a rare beauty. The costume was of that classical character prevalent in +this country before the general peace; a blue ribbon bound together as +a fillet her clustering chestnut curls. The face was looking out of the +canvas, and Coningsby never raised his eyes without catching its glance +of blended vivacity and tenderness. + +There are moments when our sensibility is affected by circumstances of +a trivial character. It seems a fantastic emotion, but the gaze of this +picture disturbed the serenity of Coningsby. He endeavoured sometimes to +avoid looking at it, but it irresistibly attracted him. More than once +during dinner he longed to inquire whom it represented; but it is a +delicate subject to ask questions about portraits, and he refrained. +Still, when he was rising to leave the room, the impulse was +irresistible. He said to Mr. Millbank, ‘By whom is that portrait, sir?’ + +The countenance of Millbank became disturbed; it was not an expression +of tender reminiscence that fell upon his features. On the contrary, the +expression was agitated, almost angry. + +‘Oh! that is by a country artist,’ he said,’ of whom you never heard,’ +and moved away. + +They found Miss Millbank in the drawing-room; she was sitting at a round +table covered with working materials, apparently dressing a doll. + +‘Nay,’ thought Coningsby, ‘she must be too old for that.’ + +He addressed her, and seated himself by her side. There were several +dolls on the table, but he discovered, on examination, that they were +pincushions; and elicited, with some difficulty, that they were making +for a fancy fair about to be held in aid of that excellent institution, +the Manchester Athenaeum. Then the father came up and said, + +‘My child, let us have some tea;’ and she rose and seated herself at the +tea-table. Coningsby also quitted his seat, and surveyed the apartment. + +There were several musical instruments; among others, he observed a +guitar; not such an instrument as one buys in a music shop, but such an +one as tinkles at Seville, a genuine Spanish guitar. Coningsby repaired +to the tea-table. + +‘I am glad that you are fond of music, Miss Millbank.’ + +A blush and a bow. + +‘I hope after tea you will be so kind as to touch the guitar.’ + +Signals of great distress. + +‘Were you ever at Birmingham?’ + +‘Yes:’ a sigh. + +‘What a splendid music-hall! They should build one at Manchester.’ + +‘They ought,’ in a whisper. + +The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was conversing with Mr. Millbank, +who was asking him questions about his son; what he thought of Oxford; +what he thought of Oriel; should himself have preferred Cambridge; but +had consulted a friend, an Oriel man, who had a great opinion of Oriel; +and Oswald’s name had been entered some years back. He rather regretted +it now; but the thing was done. Coningsby, remembering the promise of +the guitar, turned round to claim its fulfilment, but the singer +had made her escape. Time elapsed, and no Miss Millbank reappeared. +Coningsby looked at his watch; he had to go three miles to the train, +which started, as his friend of the previous night would phrase it, at +9.45. + +‘I should be happy if you remained with us,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but as +you say it is out of your power, in this age of punctual travelling +a host is bound to speed the parting guest. The carriage is ready for +you.’ + +‘Farewell, then, sir. You must make my adieux to Miss Millbank, and +accept my thanks for your great kindness.’ + +‘Farewell, Mr. Coningsby,’ said his host, taking his hand, which he +retained for a moment, as if he would say more. Then leaving it, he +repeated with a somewhat wandering air, and in a voice of emotion, +‘Farewell, farewell, Mr. Coningsby.’ + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +Towards the end of the session of 1836, the hopes of the Conservative +party were again in the ascendant. The Tadpoles and the Tapers had +infused such enthusiasm into all the country attorneys, who, in their +turn, had so bedeviled the registration, that it was whispered in the +utmost confidence, but as a flagrant truth, that Reaction was at length +‘a great fact.’ All that was required was the opportunity; but as the +existing parliament was not two years old, and the government had an +excellent working majority, it seemed that the occasion could scarcely +be furnished. Under these circumstances, the backstairs politicians, +not content with having by their premature movements already seriously +damaged the career of their leader, to whom in public they pretended to +be devoted, began weaving again their old intrigues about the court, and +not without effect. + +It was said that the royal ear lent itself with no marked repugnance to +suggestions which might rid the sovereign of ministers, who, after all, +were the ministers not of his choice, but of his necessity. But William +IV., after two failures in a similar attempt, after his respective +embarrassing interviews with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne, on their +return to office in 1832 and 1835, was resolved never to make another +move unless it were a checkmate. The king, therefore, listened and +smiled, and loved to talk to his favourites of his private feelings and +secret hopes; the first outraged, the second cherished; and a little of +these revelations of royalty was distilled to great personages, who +in their turn spoke hypothetically to their hangers-on of royal +dispositions, and possible contingencies, while the hangers-on and +go-betweens, in their turn, looked more than they expressed; took +county members by the button into a corner, and advised, as friends, the +representatives of boroughs to look sharply after the next registration. + +Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than in adversity, and whose +favourite excitement was to aim at the impossible, had never been more +resolved on a Dukedom than when the Reform Act deprived him of the +twelve votes which he had accumulated to attain that object. While +all his companions in discomfiture were bewailing their irretrievable +overthrow, Lord Monmouth became almost a convert to the measure, which +had furnished his devising and daring mind, palled with prosperity, and +satiated with a life of success, with an object, and the stimulating +enjoyment of a difficulty. + +He had early resolved to appropriate to himself a division of the county +in which his chief seat was situate; but what most interested him, +because it was most difficult, was the acquisition of one of the +new boroughs that was in his vicinity, and in which he possessed +considerable property. The borough, however, was a manufacturing town, +and returning only one member, it had hitherto sent up to Westminster a +radical shopkeeper, one Mr. Jawster Sharp, who had taken what is called +‘a leading part’ in the town on every ‘crisis’ that had occurred since +1830; one of those zealous patriots who had got up penny subscriptions +for gold cups to Lord Grey; cries for the bill, the whole bill, and +nothing but the bill; and public dinners where the victual was devoured +before grace was said; a worthy who makes speeches, passes resolutions, +votes addresses, goes up with deputations, has at all times the +necessary quantity of confidence in the necessary individual; confidence +in Lord Grey; confidence in Lord Durham; confidence in Lord Melbourne: +and can also, if necessary, give three cheers for the King, or three +groans for the Queen. + +But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp were over in this borough as +well as in many others. He had contrived in his lustre of agitation +to feather his nest pretty successfully; by which he had lost public +confidence and gained his private end. Three hungry Jawster Sharps, +his hopeful sons, had all become commissioners of one thing or another; +temporary appointments with interminable duties; a low-church son-in-law +found himself comfortably seated in a chancellor’s living; and several +cousins and nephews were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp himself +was as pure as Cato. He had always said he would never touch the public +money, and he had kept his word. It was an understood thing that Jawster +Sharp was never to show his face again on the hustings of Darlford; the +Liberal party was determined to be represented in future by a man of +station, substance, character, a true Reformer, but one who wanted +nothing for himself, and therefore might, if needful, get something for +them. They were looking out for such a man, but were in no hurry. The +seat was looked upon as a good thing; a contest certainly, every place +is contested now, but as certainly a large majority. Notwithstanding +all this confidence, however, Reaction or Registration, or some other +mystification, had produced effects even in this creature of the Reform +Bill, the good Borough of Darlford. The borough that out of gratitude +to Lord Grey returned a jobbing shopkeeper twice to Parliament as its +representative without a contest, had now a Conservative Association, +with a banker for its chairman, and a brewer for its vice-president, and +four sharp lawyers nibbing their pens, noting their memorandum-books, +and assuring their neighbours, with a consoling and complacent air, that +‘Property must tell in the long run.’ Whispers also were about, that +when the proper time arrived, a Conservative candidate would certainly +have the honour of addressing the electors. No name mentioned, but it +was not concealed that he was to be of no ordinary calibre; a tried man, +a distinguished individual, who had already fought the battle of the +constitution, and served his country in eminent posts; honoured by +the nation, favoured by his sovereign. These important and encouraging +intimations were ably diffused in the columns of the Conservative +journal, and in a style which, from its high tone, evidently +indicated no ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed, there appeared +occasionally in this paper, articles written with such unusual vigour, +that the proprietors of the Liberal journal almost felt the necessity +of getting some eminent hand down from town to compete with them. It was +impossible that they could emanate from the rival Editor. They knew well +the length of their brother’s tether. Had they been more versant in the +periodical literature of the day, they might in this ‘slashing’ style +have caught perhaps a glimpse of the future candidate for their borough, +the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby. + +Lord Monmouth, though he had been absent from England since 1832, had +obtained from his vigilant correspondent a current knowledge of all that +had occurred in the interval: all the hopes, fears, plans, prospects, +manoeuvres, and machinations; their rise and fall; how some had bloomed, +others were blighted; not a shade of reaction that was not represented +to him; not the possibility of an adhesion that was not duly reported; +he could calculate at Naples at any time, within ten, the result of a +dissolution. The season of the year had prevented him crossing the Alps +in 1834, and after the general election he was too shrewd a practiser +in the political world to be deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord +Eskdale, in whose judgment he had more confidence than in that of any +individual, had told him from the first that the pear was not ripe; +Rigby, who always hedged against his interest by the fulfilment of his +prophecy of irremediable discomfiture, was never very sanguine. Indeed, +the whole affair was always considered premature by the good judges; +and a long time elapsed before Tadpole and Taper recovered their secret +influence, or resumed their ostentatious loquacity, or their silent +insolence. + +The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord Eskdale wrote that after +the forthcoming registration a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth had the +satisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at Naples into a cool thousand +on the event. Soon after this he returned to England, and determined +to pay a visit to Coningsby Castle, feast the county, patronise the +borough, diffuse that confidence in the party which his presence never +failed to do; so great and so just was the reliance in his unerring +powers of calculation and his intrepid pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule +A, the prestige of his power had not sensibly diminished, for his +essential resources were vast, and his intellect always made the most of +his influence. + +True, however, to his organisation, Lord Monmouth, even to save his +party and gain his dukedom, must not be bored. He, therefore, filled his +castle with the most agreeable people from London, and even secured for +their diversion a little troop of French comedians. Thus supported, he +received his neighbours with all the splendour befitting his immense +wealth and great position, and with one charm which even immense wealth +and great position cannot command, the most perfect manner in the world. +Indeed, Lord Monmouth was one of the most finished gentlemen that +ever lived; and as he was good-natured, and for a selfish man even +good-humoured, there was rarely a cloud of caprice or ill-temper to +prevent his fine manners having their fair play. The country neighbours +were all fascinated; they were received with so much dignity and +dismissed with so much grace. Nobody would believe a word of the stories +against him. Had he lived all his life at Coningsby, fulfilled every +duty of a great English nobleman, benefited the county, loaded the +inhabitants with favours, he would not have been half so popular as he +found himself within a fortnight of his arrival with the worst county +reputation conceivable, and every little squire vowing that he would not +even leave his name at the Castle to show his respect. + +Lord Monmouth, whose contempt for mankind was absolute; not a +fluctuating sentiment, not a mournful conviction, ebbing and flowing +with circumstances, but a fixed, profound, unalterable instinct; who +never loved any one, and never hated any one except his own children; +was diverted by his popularity, but he was also gratified by it. At +this moment it was a great element of power; he was proud that, with a +vicious character, after having treated these people with unprecedented +neglect and contumely, he should have won back their golden opinions +in a moment by the magic of manner and the splendour of wealth. His +experience proved the soundness of his philosophy. + +Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, if necessary, he could squander +it like a caliph. He had even a respect for very rich men; it was his +only weakness, the only exception to his general scorn for his species. +Wit, power, particular friendships, general popularity, public opinion, +beauty, genius, virtue, all these are to be purchased; but it does not +follow that you can buy a rich man: you may not be able or willing to +spare enough. A person or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became +invested, in the eyes of Lord Monmouth, with a kind of halo amounting +almost to sanctity. + +As the prey rose to the bait, Lord Monmouth resolved they should be +gorged. His banquets were doubled; a ball was announced; a public +day fixed; not only the county, but the principal inhabitants of the +neighbouring borough, were encouraged to attend; Lord Monmouth wished +it, if possible, to be without distinction of party. He had come to +reside among his old friends, to live and die where he was born. +The Chairman of the Conservative Association and the Vice President +exchanged glances, which would have become Tadpole and Taper; the +four attorneys nibbed their pens with increased energy, and vowed that +nothing could withstand the influence of the aristocracy ‘in the long +run.’ All went and dined at the Castle; all returned home overpowered +by the condescension of the host, the beauty of the ladies, several real +Princesses, the splendour of his liveries, the variety of his viands, +and the flavour of his wines. It was agreed that at future meetings of +the Conservative Association, they should always give ‘Lord Monmouth +and the House of Lords!’ superseding the Duke of Wellington, who was to +figure in an after-toast with the Battle of Waterloo. + +It was not without emotion that Coningsby beheld for the first time the +castle that bore his name. It was visible for several miles before he +even entered the park, so proud and prominent was its position, on the +richly-wooded steep of a considerable eminence. It was a castellated +building, immense and magnificent, in a faulty and incongruous style +of architecture, indeed, but compensating in some degree for these +deficiencies of external taste and beauty by the splendour and +accommodation of its exterior, and which a Gothic castle, raised +according to the strict rules of art, could scarcely have afforded. The +declining sun threw over the pile a rich colour as Coningsby approached +it, and lit up with fleeting and fanciful tints the delicate foliage of +the rare shrubs and tall thin trees that clothed the acclivity on which +it stood. Our young friend felt a little embarrassed when, without a +servant and in a hack chaise, he drew up to the grand portal, and +a crowd of retainers came forth to receive him. A superior servant +inquired his name with a stately composure that disdained to be +supercilious. It was not without some degree of pride and satisfaction +that the guest replied, ‘Mr. Coningsby.’ The instantaneous effect was +magical. It seemed to Coningsby that he was borne on the shoulders +of the people to his apartment; each tried to carry some part of his +luggage; and he only hoped his welcome from their superiors might be as +hearty. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +It appeared to Coningsby in his way to his room, that the Castle was in +a state of great excitement; everywhere bustle, preparation, moving to +and fro, ascending and descending of stairs, servants in every +corner; orders boundlessly given, rapidly obeyed; many desires, equal +gratification. All this made him rather nervous. It was quite unlike +Beaumanoir. That also was a palace, but it was a home. This, though it +should be one to him, seemed to have nothing of that character. Of +all mysteries the social mysteries are the most appalling. Going to +an assembly for the first time is more alarming than the first battle. +Coningsby had never before been in a great house full of company. It +seemed an overwhelming affair. The sight of the servants bewildered him; +how then was he to encounter their masters? + +That, however, he must do in a moment. A groom of the chambers indicates +the way to him, as he proceeds with a hesitating yet hurried step +through several ante-chambers and drawing-rooms; then doors are suddenly +thrown open, and he is ushered into the largest and most sumptuous +saloon that he had ever entered. It was full of ladies and gentlemen. +Coningsby for the first time in his life was at a great party. His +immediate emotion was to sink into the earth; but perceiving that no +one even noticed him, and that not an eye had been attracted to his +entrance, he regained his breath and in some degree his composure, and +standing aside, endeavoured to make himself, as well as he could, master +of the land. + +Not a human being that he had ever seen before! The circumstance of not +being noticed, which a few minutes since he had felt as a relief, became +now a cause of annoyance. It seemed that he was the only person standing +alone whom no one was addressing. He felt renewed and aggravated +embarrassment, and fancied, perhaps was conscious, that he was blushing. +At length his ear caught the voice of Mr. Rigby. The speaker was not +visible; he was at a distance surrounded by a wondering group, whom he +was severally and collectively contradicting, but Coningsby could not +mistake those harsh, arrogant tones. He was not sorry indeed that Mr. +Rigby did not observe him. Coningsby never loved him particularly, which +was rather ungrateful, for he was a person who had been kind, and, on +the whole, serviceable to him; but Coningsby writhed, especially as he +grew older, under Mr. Rigby’s patronising air and paternal tone. Even in +old days, though attentive, Coningsby had never found him affectionate. +Mr. Rigby would tell him what to do and see, but never asked him what +he wished to do and see. It seemed to Coningsby that it was always +contrived that he should appear the _protégé_, or poor relation, of a +dependent of his family. These feelings, which the thought of Mr. Rigby +had revived, caused our young friend, by an inevitable association of +ideas, to remember that, unknown and unnoticed as he might be, he was +the only Coningsby in that proud Castle, except the Lord of the Castle +himself; and he began to be rather ashamed of permitting a sense of his +inexperience in the mere forms and fashions of society so to oppress +him, and deprive him, as it were, of the spirit and carriage which +became alike his character and his position. Emboldened and greatly +restored to himself, Coningsby advanced into the body of the saloon. + +On his legs, wearing his blue ribbon and bending his head frequently +to a lady who was seated on a sofa, and continually addressed him, +Coningsby recognised his grandfather. Lord Monmouth was somewhat balder +than four years ago, when he had come down to Montem, and a little +more portly perhaps; but otherwise unchanged. Lord Monmouth +never condescended to the artifices of the toilet, and, indeed, +notwithstanding his life of excess, had little need of them. Nature had +done much for him, and the slow progress of decay was carried off by his +consummate bearing. He looked, indeed, the chieftain of a house of whom +a cadet might be proud. + +For Coningsby, not only the chief of his house, but his host too. In +either capacity he ought to address Lord Monmouth. To sit down to dinner +without having previously paid his respects to his grandfather, to whom +he was so much indebted, and whom he had not seen for so many years, +struck him not only as uncourtly, but as unkind and ungrateful, and, +indeed, in the highest degree absurd. But how was he to do it? Lord +Monmouth seemed deeply engaged, and apparently with some very great +lady. And if Coningsby advanced and bowed, in all probability he would +only get a bow in return. He remembered the bow of his first interview. +It had made a lasting impression on his mind. For it was more than +likely Lord Monmouth would not recognise him. Four years had not +sensibly altered Lord Monmouth, but four years had changed Harry +Coningsby from a schoolboy into a man. Then how was he to make himself +known to his grandfather? To announce himself as Coningsby, as his +Lordship’s grandson, seemed somewhat ridiculous: to address his +grandfather as Lord Monmouth would serve no purpose: to style Lord +Monmouth ‘grandfather’ would make every one laugh, and seem stiff and +unnatural. What was he to do? To fall into an attitude and exclaim, +‘Behold your grandchild!’ or, ‘Have you forgotten your Harry?’ + +Even to catch Lord Monmouth’s glance was not an easy affair; he was +much occupied on one side by the great lady, on the other were several +gentlemen who occasionally joined in the conversation. But something +must be done. + +There ran through Coningsby’s character, as we have before mentioned, a +vein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It resulted, no doubt, +in a great degree from the earnestness of his nature. There never was a +boy so totally devoid of affectation, which was remarkable, for he had a +brilliant imagination, a quality that, from its fantasies, and the +vague and indefinite desires it engenders, generally makes those whose +characters are not formed, affected. The Duchess, who was a fine judge +of character, and who greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this +trait as one which, combined with his great abilities and acquirements +so unusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. In the present +instance it happened that, while Coningsby was watching his grandfather, +he observed a gentleman advance, make his bow, say and receive a few +words and retire. This little incident, however, made a momentary +diversion in the immediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and before they +could all resume their former talk and fall into their previous +positions, an impulse sent forth Coningsby, who walked up to Lord +Monmouth, and standing before him, said, + +‘How do you do, grandpapa?’ + +Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive and penetrating +glance took in every point with a flash. There stood before him one of +the handsomest youths he had ever seen, with a mien as graceful as his +countenance was captivating; and his whole air breathing that freshness +and ingenuousness which none so much appreciates as the used man of the +world. And this was his child; the only one of his blood to whom he had +been kind. It would be exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth’s heart +was touched; but his goodnature effervesced, and his fine taste was +deeply gratified. He perceived in an instant such a relation might be +a valuable adherent; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a +brilliant tool to work out the Dukedom. All these impressions and ideas, +and many more, passed through the quick brain of Lord Monmouth ere the +sound of Coningsby’s words had seemed to cease, and long before the +surrounding guests had recovered from the surprise which they had +occasioned them, and which did not diminish, when Lord Monmouth, +advancing, placed his arms round Coningsby with a dignity of affection +that would have become Louis XIV., and then, in the high manner of the +old Court, kissed him on each cheek. + +‘Welcome to your home,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘You have grown a great +deal.’ + +Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great lady, who was +a Princess and an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm gracefully in +that of his grandson, he led him across the room, and presented him +in due form to some royal blood that was his guest, in the shape of +a Russian Grand-duke. His Imperial Highness received our hero as +graciously as the grandson of Lord Monmouth might expect; but no +greeting can be imagined warmer than the one he received from the lady +with whom the Grand-duke was conversing. She was a dame whose beauty was +mature, but still radiant. Her figure was superb; her dark hair crowned +with a tiara of curious workmanship. Her rounded arm was covered with +costly bracelets, but not a jewel on her finely formed bust, and the +least possible rouge on her still oval cheek. Madame Colonna retained +her charms. + +The party, though so considerable, principally consisted of the guests +at the Castle. The suite of the Grand-duke included several counts and +generals; then there were the Russian Ambassador and his lady; and a +Russian Prince and Princess, their relations. The Prince and Princess +Colonna and the Princess Lucretia were also paying a visit to the +Marquess; and the frequency of these visits made some straight-laced +magnificoes mysteriously declare it was impossible to go to Coningsby; +but as they were not asked, it did not much signify. The Marquess knew +a great many very agreeable people of the highest _ton_, who took a more +liberal view of human conduct, and always made it a rule to presume the +best motives instead of imputing the worst. There was Lady St. Julians, +for example, whose position was of the highest; no one more sought; she +made it a rule to go everywhere and visit everybody, provided they had +power, wealth, and fashion. She knew no crime except a woman not +living with her husband; that was past pardon. So long as his presence +sanctioned her conduct, however shameless, it did not signify; but if +the husband were a brute, neglected his wife first, and then deserted +her; then, if a breath but sullies her name she must be crushed; unless, +indeed, her own family were very powerful, which makes a difference, and +sometimes softens immorality into indiscretion. + +Lord and Lady Gaverstock were also there, who never said an unkind thing +of anybody; her ladyship was pure as snow; but her mother having been +divorced, she ever fancied she was paying a kind of homage to her +parent, by visiting those who might some day be in the same predicament. +There were other lords and ladies of high degree; and some who, though +neither lords nor ladies, were charming people, which Lord Monmouth +chiefly cared about; troops of fine gentlemen who came and went; and +some who were neither fine nor gentlemen, but who were very amusing +or very obliging, as circumstances required, and made life easy and +pleasant to others and themselves. + +A new scene this for Coningsby, who watched with interest all that +passed before him. The dinner was announced as served; an affectionate +arm guides him at a moment of some perplexity. + +‘When did you arrive, Harry? We shall sit together. How is the Duchess?’ +inquired Mr. Rigby, who spoke as if he had seen Coningsby for the first +time; but who indeed had, with that eye which nothing could escape, +observed his reception by his grandfather, marked it well, and inwardly +digested it. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +There was to be a first appearance on the stage of Lord Monmouth’s +theatre to-night, the expectation of which created considerable interest +in the party, and was one of the principal subjects of conversation at +dinner. Villebecque, the manager of the troop, had married the actress +Stella, once celebrated for her genius and her beauty; a woman who had +none of the vices of her craft, for, though she was a fallen angel, +there were what her countrymen style extenuating circumstances in +her declension. With the whole world at her feet, she had remained +unsullied. Wealth and its enjoyments could not tempt her, although +she was unable to refuse her heart to one whom she deemed worthy of +possessing it. She found her fate in an Englishman, who was the father +of her only child, a daughter. She thought she had met in him a hero, a +demi-god, a being of deep passion and original and creative mind; but +he was only a voluptuary, full of violence instead of feeling, and +eccentric, because he had great means with which he could gratify +extravagant whims. Stella found she had made the great and irretrievable +mistake. She had exchanged devotion for a passionate and evanescent +fancy, prompted at first by vanity, and daily dissipating under the +influence of custom and new objects. Though not stainless in conduct, +Stella was pure in spirit. She required that devotion which she had +yielded; and she separated herself from the being to whom she had made +the most precious sacrifice. He offered her the consoling compensation +of a settlement, which she refused; and she returned with a broken +spirit to that profession of which she was still the ornament and the +pride. + +The animating principle of her career was her daughter, whom she +educated with a solicitude which the most virtuous mother could not +surpass. To preserve her from the stage, and to secure for her an +independence, were the objects of her mother’s life; but nature +whispered to her, that the days of that life were already numbered. +The exertions of her profession had alarmingly developed an inherent +tendency to pulmonary disease. Anxious that her child should not be left +without some protector, Stella yielded to the repeated solicitations +of one who from the first had been her silent admirer, and she married +Villebecque, a clever actor, and an enterprising man who meant to be +something more. Their union was not of long duration, though it was +happy on the side of Villebecque, and serene on that of his wife. Stella +was recalled from this world, where she had known much triumph and more +suffering; and where she had exercised many virtues, which elsewhere, +though not here, may perhaps be accepted as some palliation of one great +error. + +Villebecque acted becomingly to the young charge which Stella had +bequeathed to him. He was himself, as we have intimated, a man of +enterprise, a restless spirit, not content to move for ever in the +sphere in which he was born. Vicissitudes are the lot of such aspirants. +Villebecque became manager of a small theatre, and made money. If +Villebecque without a sou had been a schemer, Villebecque with a small +capital was the very Chevalier Law of theatrical managers. He took a +larger theatre, and even that succeeded. Soon he was recognised as the +lessee of more than one, and still he prospered. Villebecque began to +dabble in opera-houses. He enthroned himself at Paris; his envoys +were heard of at Milan and Naples, at Berlin and St. Petersburg. His +controversies with the Conservatoire at Paris ranked among state papers. +Villebecque rolled in chariots and drove cabriolets; Villebecque gave +refined suppers to great nobles, who were honoured by the invitation; +Villebecque wore a red ribbon in the button-hole of his frock, and more +than one cross in his gala dress. + +All this time the daughter of Stella increased in years and stature, +and we must add in goodness: a mild, soft-hearted girl, as yet with no +decided character, but one who loved calmness and seemed little fitted +for the circle in which she found herself. In that circle, however, +she ever experienced kindness and consideration. No enterprise however +hazardous, no management however complicated, no schemes however vast, +ever for a moment induced Villebecque to forget ‘La Petite.’ If only for +one breathless instant, hardly a day elapsed but he saw her; she was his +companion in all his rapid movements, and he studied every comfort and +convenience that could relieve her delicate frame in some degree from +the inconvenience and exhaustion of travel. He was proud to surround +her with luxury and refinement; to supply her with the most celebrated +masters; to gratify every wish that she could express. + +But all this time Villebecque was dancing on a volcano. The catastrophe +which inevitably occurs in the career of all great speculators, and +especially theatrical ones, arrived to him. Flushed with his prosperity, +and confident in his constant success, nothing would satisfy him +but universal empire. He had established his despotism at Paris, his +dynasties at Naples and at Milan; but the North was not to him, and +he was determined to appropriate it. Berlin fell before a successful +campaign, though a costly one; but St. Petersburg and London still +remained. Resolute and reckless, nothing deterred Villebecque. One +season all the opera-houses in Europe obeyed his nod, and at the end +of it he was ruined. The crash was utter, universal, overwhelming; and +under ordinary circumstances a French bed and a brasier of charcoal +alone remained for Villebecque, who was equal to the occasion. But +the thought of La Petite and the remembrance of his promise to Stella +deterred him from the deed. He reviewed his position in a spirit +becoming a practical philosopher. Was he worse off than before he +commenced his career? Yes, because he was older; though to be sure he +had his compensating reminiscences. But was he too old to do anything? +At forty-five the game was not altogether up; and in a large theatre, +not too much lighted, and with the artifices of a dramatic toilet, +he might still be able successfully to reassume those characters of +coxcombs and muscadins, in which he was once so celebrated. Luxury had +perhaps a little too much enlarged his waist, but diet and rehearsals +would set all right. + +Villebecque in their adversity broke to La Petite, that the time had +unfortunately arrived when it would be wise for her to consider the most +effectual means for turning her talents and accomplishments to account. +He himself suggested the stage, to which otherwise there were +doubtless objections, because her occupation in any other pursuit would +necessarily separate them; but he impartially placed before her the +relative advantages and disadvantages of every course which seemed to +lie open to them, and left the preferable one to her own decision. La +Petite, who had wept very much over Villebecque’s misfortunes, and often +assured him that she cared for them only for his sake, decided for the +stage, solely because it would secure their not being parted; and yet, +as she often assured him, she feared she had no predisposition for the +career. + +Villebecque had now not only to fill his own parts at the theatre +at which he had obtained an engagement, but he had also to be the +instructor of his ward. It was a life of toil; an addition of labour +and effort that need scarcely have been made to the exciting exertion +of performance, and the dull exercise of rehearsal; but he bore it all +without a murmur; with a self-command and a gentle perseverance which +the finest temper in the world could hardly account for; certainly not +when we remember that its possessor, who had to make all these exertions +and endure all this wearisome toil, had just experienced the most +shattering vicissitudes of fortune, and been hurled from the possession +of absolute power and illimitable self-gratification. + +Lord Eskdale, who was always doing kind things to actors and actresses, +had a great regard for Villebecque, with whom he had often supped. He +had often been kind, too, to La Petite. Lord Eskdale had a plan for +putting Villebecque, as he termed it, ‘on his legs again.’ It was to +establish him with a French Company in London at some pretty theatre; +Lord Eskdale to take a private box and to make all his friends do the +same. Villebecque, who was as sanguine as he was good-tempered, was +ravished by this friendly scheme. He immediately believed that he should +recover his great fortunes as rapidly as he had lost them. He foresaw in +La Petite a genius as distinguished as that of her mother, although as +yet not developed, and he was boundless in his expressions of gratitude +to his patron. And indeed of all friends, a friend in need is the most +delightful. Lord Eskdale had the talent of being a friend in need. +Perhaps it was because he knew so many worthless persons. But it often +happens that worthless persons are merely people who are worth nothing. + +Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby of his intention to reside for +some months at Coningsby, and having mentioned that he wished a troop of +French comedians to be engaged for the summer, Mr. Rigby had immediately +consulted Lord Eskdale on the subject, as the best current authority. +Thinking this a good opportunity of giving a turn to poor Villebecque, +and that it might serve as a capital introduction to their scheme of the +London company, Lord Eskdale obtained for him the engagement. + +Villebecque and his little troop had now been a month at Coningsby, and +had hitherto performed three times a-week. Lord Monmouth was content; +his guests much gratified; the company, on the whole, much approved +of. It was, indeed, considering its limited numbers, a capital company. +There was a young lady who played the old woman’s parts, nothing +could be more garrulous and venerable; and a lady of maturer years who +performed the heroines, gay and graceful as May. Villebecque himself was +a celebrity in characters of airy insolence and careless frolic. Their +old man, indeed, was rather hard, but handy; could take anything either +in the high serious, or the low droll. Their sentimental lover was +rather too much bewigged, and spoke too much to the audience, a fault +rare with the French; but this hero had a vague idea that he was +ultimately destined to run off with a princess. + +In this wise, affairs had gone on for a month; very well, but not too +well. The enterprising genius of Villebecque, once more a manager, +prompted him to action. He felt an itching desire to announce a novelty. +He fancied Lord Monmouth had yawned once or twice when the heroine came +on. Villebecque wanted to make a _coup._ It was clear that La Petite +must sooner or later begin. Could she find a more favourable audience, +or a more fitting occasion, than were now offered? True it was she had +a great repugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed more to her +advantage that she should make her first appearance at a private theatre +than at a public one; supported by all the encouraging patronage of +Coningsby Castle, than subjected to all the cynical criticism of the +stalls of St. James’. + +These views and various considerations were urged and represented by +Villebecque to La Petite, with all the practised powers of plausibility +of which so much experience as a manager had made him master. La Petite +looked infinitely distressed, but yielded, as she ever did. And the +night of Coningsby’s arrival at the Castle was to witness in its private +theatre the first appearance of MADEMOISELLE FLORA. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they repaired to the +theatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Coningsby +a haughty, but not ungracious bow; which he returned, unconscious of +the person to whom he bent. She was, however, a striking person; not +beautiful, her face, indeed, at the first glance was almost repulsive, +yet it ever attracted a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished +her; her features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were +her eyes fine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of no +ordinary character or capacity. Her figure was as fine and commanding as +her face was void of charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immortality, +could have presented nothing more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she +swept along like a resistless Fate. + +Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet +of the performance. It announced in striking characters the _début_ of +Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, came +forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to the +Grand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was +ready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were +following; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her +beau. + +It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated here +and there; the painting just touched; a little gilding on a cornice. +There were no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended, was +carpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with a +new and rich curtain of green velvet. + +They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied +by another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody +evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the +scene. In a moment the curtain will rise also. + +‘Have you seen Lucretia?’ said the Princess to Coningsby. ‘She is so +anxious to resume her acquaintance with you.’ + +But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose. + +The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward and maintained +a conversation with his housekeeper; not bad. The young woman who played +the grave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite, +and was ever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully +furnished; a table with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a +lap-dog on a cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially +the ladies; they like to recognise signs of _bon ton_ in the details of +the scene. A rather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was +greeted with even vehement approbation. Her agitation is extreme; +she curtseys and bows her head, as if to hide her face. The face was +pleasing, and pretty enough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and +rather graceful. Nothing could be more perfect than her costume; purely +white, but the fashion consummate; a single rose her only ornament. All +admitted that her hair was arranged to admiration. + +At length she spoke; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution, +though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, and +nodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien, +that she instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not +long, but it was successful. + +Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one +of the act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and +rather of an impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He +entered first on the stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed +with more spirit. You would not have given him five-and-twenty years; he +seemed redolent of youth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied +the most distinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had +outdone them all. The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great +connoisseur, a celebrated French nobleman, Count D’O----y, who had been +one of the guests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch +of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box. + +Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not +seem, however, that in the interval she had gained courage; she looked +agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned. +She had to speak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to +confess that she loved another; her emotion was exquisitely performed, +the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout +the audience, a dead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of +the unrivalled artist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but +while they were fascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The +emotion was the disturbance of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of +her tones thrilled from the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with +all the exhaustion of woe; an expression of agony flitted over her +countenance; and she burst into tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and +carried, rather than led, her from the stage; the audience looking at +each other, some of them suspecting that this movement was a part of the +scene. + +‘She has talent,’ said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, +‘but wants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the +provinces.’ + +At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret +that the sudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it +impossible for the company to proceed with the piece; but that the +curtain would descend to rise again for the second and last piece +announced. + +All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted the +heroines now came forward and disported most jocundly. The failure of +Flora had given fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed +the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in male +attire; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of +the field. She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his +grandpapa. + +The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused, +chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to +the saloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances. +Nobody thought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her +in her grief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her +future. And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least, +thought one of the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd, +absorbed in their coming amusements. + +Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with great +advantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from the +beginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound. +He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled from the cruelty +and the callousness that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy, +could leave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and +who was suffering for her trial. + +He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora. +They pointed to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora was +sitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque was +there, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress in +which he had performed in the last piece. + +‘I took the liberty,’ said Coningsby, ‘of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;’ +and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, ‘I am sure +my grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for making +such exertions when you were suffering under so much indisposition.’ + +‘This is very amiable of you, sir,’ said the young lady, looking at him +with earnestness. + +‘Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,’ said Villebecque, making an +observation by way of diversion. + +‘And yet that must be the soul of fine acting,’ said Coningsby; ‘I look +forward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion on +which you will favour us.’ + +‘Never!’ said La Petite, in a plaintive tone; ‘oh, I hope, never!’ + +‘Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,’ said Coningsby, ‘how much +her talent is appreciated. I assure you, sir,’ he added, turning +to Villebecque, ‘I heard but one opinion, but one expression of +gratification at her feeling and her fine taste.’ + +‘The talent is hereditary,’ said Villebecque. + +‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much of +another this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir, +to reassure Mademoiselle.’ + +‘I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our sakes as well +as her own, her indisposition.’ + +‘It is not indisposition,’ said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyes +cast down. + +‘Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a first +appearance,’ said Villebecque. + +‘A last appearance,’ said La Petite: ‘yes, it must be the last.’ She +rose gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his +breast, and placed her arms round his neck, ‘My father, my best father, +yes, say it is the last.’ + +‘You are the mistress of your lot, Flora,’ said Villebecque; ‘but with +such a distinguished talent--’ + +‘No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am +not of those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still +life. I have no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to +me than the stage.’ + +‘But you hear what this gentleman says,’ said Villebecque, returning +her embrace. ‘He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I +believe, sir, that every one, that--’ + +‘Oh, no, no, no!’ said Flora, shaking her head. ‘He comes here because +he is generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe the +soul that he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for +me and before me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your +daughter have parted for ever.’ + +‘Nay, Mademoiselle,’ said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take her +hand, a soft hand, ‘make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque +can have no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me, +‘tis not I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must +respect you.’ + +‘I prefer respect to admiration,’ said Flora; ‘but I fear that respect +is not the appanage of such as I am.’ + +‘All must respect those who respect themselves,’ said Coningsby. ‘Adieu, +Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.’ He bowed +to Villebecque and retired. + +In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very different +character from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to +brilliancy, groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, universal +content, and Russian dances! + +‘And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?’ said +Madame Colonna. + +‘I cannot dance at all,’ said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose his +pride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton he had thought it +spirited to despise. + +‘Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you,’ +said the Princess; ‘nothing will please her so much.’ + +On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in the +entertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in being +instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess +was all very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not +pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them +trying to put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every +other occasion, proved herself a more finished performer than even the +Russians themselves. + +Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter. +They were people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man +of good estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey +was even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she +could sing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress +of the art of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had +taken care to call at Monmouth House the instant the _Morning Post_ +apprised her he had arrived in England; the consequence was an +invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, in point of +variety, fancy, and fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and evening, +every day a new dress equally striking; and a riding habit that was the +talk and wonder of the whole neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created +far more sensation in the borough when she rode down the High Street, +than what the good people called the real Princesses. + +At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her over +their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal +question, ‘Who is she?’ After dinner they formed always into polite +groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if +ever the Princess Colonna, impelled partly by goodnature, and partly +from having known her on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St. +Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was sure, by an adroit appeal +to Her Highness on some point which could not be decided without moving, +to withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted companion. + +It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. Guy +Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing to +one’s self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at +prints, in a fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don’t speak +to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by +storm, was not to be driven out of its drawing-room by the tactics +even of a Lady St. Julians. Experience convinced her that all that was +required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her +quickness, her ever ready accomplishments, and her practised powers of +attraction. And she was right. She was always sure of an ally the moment +the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner +was only too happy to meet her again. More than once, too, she had +caught her noble host, though a whole garrison was ever on the watch to +prevent her, and he was greatly amused, and showed that he was greatly +amused by her society. Then she suggested plans to him to divert his +guests. In a country-house the suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow +or other, before a week passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of +everything, was always surrounded by a cluster of admirers, and with +what are called ‘the best men’ ever ready to ride with her, dance +with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The fine ladies found it +absolutely necessary to thaw: they began to ask her questions after +dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She was an adroit +flatterer, with a temper imperturbable, and gifted with a ceaseless +energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patterns for new +fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and what with +some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues and +salt for their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + + +Nothing could present a greater contrast than the respective interiors +of Coningsby and Beaumanoir. That air of habitual habitation, which so +pleasingly distinguished the Duke’s family seat, was entirely wanting +at Coningsby. Everything, indeed, was vast and splendid; but it seemed +rather a gala-house than a dwelling; as if the grand furniture and +the grand servants had all come down express from town with the grand +company, and were to disappear and to be dispersed at the same time. And +truly there were manifold traces of hasty and temporary arrangement; +new carpets and old hangings; old paint, new gilding; battalions of odd +French chairs, squadrons of queer English tables; and large tasteless +lamps and tawdry chandeliers, evidently true cockneys, and only taking +the air by way of change. There was, too, throughout the drawing-rooms +an absence of all those minor articles of ornamental furniture that are +the offering of taste to the home we love. There were no books neither; +few flowers; no pet animals; no portfolios of fine drawings by our +English artists like the album of the Duchess, full of sketches by +Landseer and Stanfield, and their gifted brethren; not a print even, +except portfolios of H. B.’s caricatures. The modes and manners of the +house were not rural; there was nothing of the sweet order of a country +life. Nobody came down to breakfast; the ladies were scarcely seen +until dinner-time; they rolled about in carriages together late in the +afternoon as if they were in London, or led a sort of factitious boudoir +life in their provincial dressing-rooms. + +The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morning after his arrival and asked +him to breakfast with him in his private rooms. Nothing could be +more kind or more agreeable than his grandfather. He appeared to be +interested in his grandson’s progress, was glad to find Coningsby had +distinguished himself at Eton, solemnly adjured him not to neglect his +French. A classical education, he said, was a very admirable thing, and +one which all gentlemen should enjoy; but Coningsby would find some day +that there were two educations, one which his position required, and +another which was demanded by the world. ‘French, my dear Harry,’ he +continued, ‘is the key to this second education. In a couple of years +or so you will enter the world; it is a different thing to what you read +about. It is a masquerade; a motley, sparkling multitude, in which +you may mark all forms and colours, and listen to all sentiments and +opinions; but where all you see and hear has only one object, plunder. +When you get into this crowd you will find that Greek and Latin are not +so much diffused as you imagine. I was glad to hear you speaking French +yesterday. Study your accent. There are a good many foreigners here with +whom you may try your wing a little; don’t talk to any of them too +much. Be very careful of intimacies. All the people here are good +acquaintance; at least pretty well. Now, here,’ said the Marquess, +taking up a letter and then throwing it on the table again, ‘now here is +a man whom I should like you to know, Sidonia. He will be here in a few +days. Lay yourself out for him if you have the opportunity. He is a +man of rare capacity, and enormously rich. No one knows the world like +Sidonia. I never met his equal; and ‘tis so pleasant to talk with one +that can want nothing of you.’ + +Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to take a drive with him in the +afternoon. The Marquess wished to show a part of his domain to the +Ambassadress. Only Lucretia, he said, would be with them, and there was +a place for him. This invitation was readily accepted by Coningsby, who +was not yet sufficiently established in the habits of the house exactly +to know how to pass his morning. His friend and patron, Mr. Rigby, was +entirely taken up with the Grand-duke, whom he was accompanying all +over the neighbourhood, in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby +himself saw for the first time, but all of which he fluently explained +to his Imperial Highness. In return for this, he extracted much +information from the Grand-duke on Russian plans and projects, materials +for a ‘slashing’ article against the Russophobia that he was preparing, +and in which he was to prove that Muscovite aggression was an English +interest, and entirely to be explained by the want of sea-coast, which +drove the Czar, for the pure purposes of commerce, to the Baltic and the +Euxine. + +When the hour for the drive arrived, Coningsby found Lucretia, a young +girl when he had first seen her only four years back, and still his +junior, in that majestic dame who had conceded a superb recognition to +him the preceding eve. She really looked older than Madame Colonna; who, +very beautiful, very young-looking, and mistress of the real arts of +the toilet, those that cannot be detected, was not in the least altered +since she first so cordially saluted Coningsby as her dear young friend +at Monmouth House. + +The day was delightful, the park extensive and picturesque, the +Ambassadress sparkling with anecdote, and occasionally, in a low voice, +breathing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who bowed his graceful +consciousness of her distinguished confidence. Coningsby occasionally +took advantage of one of those moments, when the conversation ceased to +be general, to address Lucretia, who replied in calm, fine smiles, and +in affable monosyllables. She indeed generally succeeded in conveying an +impression to those she addressed, that she had never seen them before, +did not care to see them now, and never wished to see them again. And +all this, too, with an air of great courtesy. + +They arrived at the brink of a wooded bank; at their feet flowed a +fine river, deep and rushing, though not broad; its opposite bank the +boundary of a richly-timbered park. + +‘Ah! this is beautiful!’ exclaimed the Ambassadress. ‘And is that yours, +Lord Monmouth?’ + +‘Not yet,’ said the Marquess. ‘That is Hellingsley; it is one of the +finest places in the county, with a splendid estate; not so considerable +as Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to an old, a very old man, +without a relative in the world. It is known that the estate will be +sold at his death, which may be almost daily expected. Then it is mine. +No one can offer for it what I can afford. For it gives me this division +of the county, Princess. To possess Hellingsley is one of my objects.’ +The Marquess spoke with an animation unusual with him, almost with a +degree of excitement. + +The wind met them as they returned, the breeze blew rather freshly. +Lucretia all of a sudden seemed touched with unusual emotion. She was +alarmed lest Lord Monmouth should catch cold; she took a kerchief from +her own well-turned throat to tie round his neck. He feebly resisted, +evidently much pleased. + +The Princess Lucretia was highly accomplished. In the evening, having +refused several distinguished guests, but instantly yielding to the +request of Lord Monmouth, she sang. It was impossible to conceive a +contralto of more thrilling power, or an execution more worthy of the +voice. Coningsby, who was not experienced in fine singing, listened as +if to a supernatural lay, but all agreed it was of the highest class of +nature and of art; and the Grand-duke was in raptures. Lucretia received +even his Highness’ compliments with a graceful indifference. Indeed, to +those who watched her demeanour, it might be remarked that she seemed to +yield to none, although all bowed before her. + +Madame Colonna, who was always kind to Coningsby, expressed to him +her gratification from the party of the morning. It must have been +delightful, she assured Coningsby, for Lord Monmouth to have had both +Lucretia and his grandson with him; and Lucretia too, she added, must +have been so pleased. + +Coningsby could not make out why Madame Colonna was always intimating +to him that the Princess Lucretia took such great interest in his +existence, looked forward with such gratification to his society, +remembered with so much pleasure the past, anticipated so much happiness +from the future. It appeared to him that he was to Lucretia, if not an +object of repugnance, as he sometimes fancied, certainly one only of +absolute indifference; but he said nothing. He had already lived long +enough to know that it is unwise to wish everything explained. + +In the meantime his life was agreeable. Every day, he found, added to +his acquaintance. He was never without a companion to ride or to shoot +with; and of riding Coningsby was very fond. His grandfather, too, was +continually giving him goodnatured turns, and making him of consequence +in the Castle: so that all the guests were fully impressed with the +importance of Lord Monmouth’s grandson. Lady St. Julians pronounced him +distinguished; the Ambassadress thought diplomacy should be his part, +as he had a fine person and a clear brain; Madame Colonna spoke of him +always as if she took intense interest in his career, and declared she +liked him almost as much as Lucretia did; the Russians persisted +in always styling him ‘the young Marquess,’ notwithstanding the +Ambassador’s explanations; Mrs. Guy Flouncey made a dashing attack +on him; but Coningsby remembered a lesson which Lady Everingham had +graciously bestowed on him. He was not to be caught again easily. +Besides, Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a little too much, and talked a +little too loud. + +As time flew on, there were changes of visitors, chiefly among the +single men. At the end of the first week after Coningsby’s arrival, Lord +Eskdale appeared, bringing with him Lucian Gay; and soon after followed +the Marquess of Beaumanoir and Mr. Melton. These were all heroes who, +in their way, interested the ladies, and whose advent was hailed +with general satisfaction. Even Lucretia would relax a little to Lord +Eskdale. He was one of her oldest friends, and with a simplicity of +manner which amounted almost to plainness, and with rather a cynical +nonchalance in his carriage towards men, Lord Eskdale was invariably a +favourite with women. To be sure his station was eminent; he was noble, +and very rich, and very powerful, and these are qualities which tell as +much with the softer as the harsher sex; but there are individuals with +all these qualities who are nevertheless unpopular with women. Lord +Eskdale was easy, knew the world thoroughly, had no prejudices, and, +above all, had a reputation for success. A reputation for success has as +much influence with women as a reputation for wealth has with men. Both +reputations may be, and often are, unjust; but we see persons daily make +good fortunes by them all the same. Lord Eskdale was not an impostor; +and though he might not have been so successful a man had he not been +Lord Eskdale, still, thrown over by a revolution, he would have lighted +on his legs. + +The arrival of this nobleman was the occasion of giving a good turn to +poor Flora. He went immediately to see his friend Villebecque and his +troop. Indeed it was a sort of society which pleased Lord Eskdale more +than that which is deemed more refined. He was very sorry about ‘La +Petite;’ but thought that everything would come right in the long run; +and told Villebecque that he was glad to hear him well spoken of here, +especially by the Marquess, who seemed to take to him. As for Flora, he +was entirely against her attempting the stage again, at least for the +present, but as she was a good musician, he suggested to the Princess +Lucretia one night, that the subordinate aid of Flora might be of +service to her, and permit her to favour her friends with some pieces +which otherwise she must deny to them. This suggestion was successful; +Flora was introduced occasionally, soon often, to their parties in the +evening, and her performances were in every respect satisfactory. There +was nothing to excite the jealousy of Lucretia either in her style or +her person. And yet she sang well enough, and was a quiet, refined, +retiring, by no means disagreeable person. She was the companion of +Lucretia very often in the morning as well as in the illumined saloon; +for the Princess was devoted to the art in which she excelled. This +connexion on the whole contributed to the happiness of poor Flora. True +it was, in the evening she often found herself sitting or standing alone +and no one noticing her; she had no dazzling quality to attract men of +fashion, who themselves love to worship ever the fashionable. Even +their goddesses must be _à la mode_. But Coningsby never omitted an +opportunity to show Flora some kindness under these circumstances. +He always came and talked to her, and praised her singing, and would +sometimes hand her refreshments and give her his arm if necessary. These +slight attentions coming from the grandson of Lord Monmouth were for +the world redoubled in their value, though Flora thought only of their +essential kindness; all in character with that first visit which dwelt +on the poor girl’s memory, though it had long ago escaped that of her +visitor. For in truth Coningsby had no other impulse for his conduct but +kind-heartedness. + +Thus we have attempted to give some faint idea how life glided away at +the Castle the first fortnight that Coningsby passed there. Perhaps we +ought not to omit that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, to the infinite disgust of +Lady St. Julians, who had a daughter with her, successfully entrapped +the devoted attentions of the young Marquess of Beaumanoir, who was +never very backward if a lady would take trouble enough; while his +friend, Mr. Melton, whose barren homage Lady St. Julians wished +her daughter ever particularly to shun, employed all his gaiety, +good-humour, frivolity, and fashion in amusing that young lady, and with +irresistible effect. For the rest, they continued, though they had only +partridges to shoot, to pass the morning without weariness. The weather +was fine; the stud numerous; all might be mounted. The Grand-duke and +his suite, guided by Mr. Rigby, had always some objects to visit, and +railroads returned them just in time for the banquet with an appetite +which they had earned, and during which Rigby recounted their +achievements, and his own opinions. + +The dinner was always firstrate; the evening never failed; music, +dancing, and the theatre offered great resources independently of the +soul-subduing sentiment harshly called flirtation, and which is the +spell of a country house. Lord Monmouth was satisfied, for he had +scarcely ever felt wearied. All that he required in life was to be +amused; perhaps that was not all he required, but it was indispensable. +Nor was it wonderful that on the present occasion he obtained his +purpose, for there were half a hundred of the brightest eyes +and quickest brains ever on the watch or the whirl to secure him +distraction. The only circumstance that annoyed him was the non-arrival +of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth could not bear to be disappointed. He could +not refrain from saying, notwithstanding all the resources and all the +exertions of his guests, + +‘I cannot understand why Sidonia does not come. I wish Sidonia were +here.’ + +‘So do I,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Sidonia is the only man who tells one +anything new.’ + +‘We saw Sidonia at Lord Studcaster’s,’ said Lord Beaumanoir. ‘He told +Melton he was coming here.’ + +‘You know he has bought all Studcaster’s horses,’ said Mr. Melton. + +‘I wonder he does not buy Studcaster himself,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I +would if I were he; Sidonia can buy anything,’ he turned to Mrs. Guy +Flouncey. + +‘I wonder who Sidonia is,’ thought Mrs. Guy Flouncey, but she was +determined no one should suppose she did not know. + +At length one day Coningsby met Madame Colonna in the vestibule before +dinner. + +‘Milor is in such good temper, Mr. Coningsby,’ she said; ‘Monsieur de +Sidonia has arrived.’ + +About ten minutes before dinner there was a stir in the chamber. +Coningsby looked round. He saw the Grand-duke advancing, and holding out +his hand in a manner the most gracious. A gentleman, of distinguished +air, but with his back turned to Coningsby, was bowing as he received +his Highness’ greeting. There was a general pause in the room. Several +came forward: even the Marquess seemed a little moved. Coningsby could +not resist the impulse of curiosity to see this individual of whom he +had heard so much. He glided round the room, and caught the countenance +of his companion in the forest inn; he who announced to him, that ‘the +Age of Ruins was past.’ + + + + +CHAPTER X. + + +Sidonia was descended from a very ancient and noble family of Arragon, +that, in the course of ages, had given to the state many distinguished +citizens. In the priesthood its members had been peculiarly eminent. +Besides several prelates, they counted among their number an Archbishop +of Toledo; and a Sidonia, in a season of great danger and difficulty, +had exercised for a series of years the paramount office of Grand +Inquisitor. + +Yet, strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless a fact, of which there +is no lack of evidence, that this illustrious family during all this +period, in common with two-thirds of the Arragonese nobility, secretly +adhered to the ancient faith and ceremonies of their fathers; a belief +in the unity of the God of Sinai, and the rights and observances of the +laws of Moses. + +Whence came those Mosaic Arabs whose passages across the strait from +Africa to Europe long preceded the invasion of the Mohammedan Arabs, it +is now impossible to ascertain. Their traditions tell us that from time +immemorial they had sojourned in Africa; and it is not improbable that +they may have been the descendants of some of the earlier dispersions; +like those Hebrew colonies that we find in China, and who probably +emigrated from Persia in the days of the great monarchies. Whatever may +have been their origin in Africa, their fortunes in Southern Europe +are not difficult to trace, though the annals of no race in any age can +detail a history of such strange vicissitudes, or one rife with more +touching and romantic incident. Their unexampled prosperity in the +Spanish Peninsula, and especially in the south, where they had become +the principal cultivators of the soil, excited the jealousy of the +Goths; and the Councils of Toledo during the sixth and seventh +centuries attempted, by a series of decrees worthy of the barbarians who +promulgated them, to root the Jewish Arabs out of the land. There is no +doubt the Council of Toledo led, as directly as the lust of Roderick, +to the invasion of Spain by the Moslemin Arabs. The Jewish population, +suffering under the most sanguinary and atrocious persecution, looked to +their sympathising brethren of the Crescent, whose camps already gleamed +on the opposite shore. The overthrow of the Gothic kingdoms was as much +achieved by the superior information which the Saracens received from +their suffering kinsmen, as by the resistless valour of the Desert. The +Saracen kingdoms were established. That fair and unrivalled civilisation +arose which preserved for Europe arts and letters when Christendom was +plunged in darkness. The children of Ishmael rewarded the children of +Israel with equal rights and privileges with themselves. During these +halcyon centuries, it is difficult to distinguish the follower of Moses +from the votary of Mahomet. Both alike built palaces, gardens, and +fountains; filled equally the highest offices of the state, competed +in an extensive and enlightened commerce, and rivalled each other in +renowned universities. + +Even after the fall of the principal Moorish kingdoms, the Jews of +Spain were still treated by the conquering Goths with tenderness and +consideration. Their numbers, their wealth, the fact that, in Arragon +especially, they were the proprietors of the soil, and surrounded by +warlike and devoted followers, secured for them an usage which, for +a considerable period, made them little sensible of the change of +dynasties and religions. But the tempest gradually gathered. As the +Goths grew stronger, persecution became more bold. Where the Jewish +population was scanty they were deprived of their privileges, or obliged +to conform under the title of ‘Nuevos Christianos.’ At length the union +of the two crowns under Ferdinand and Isabella, and the fall of the +last Moorish kingdom, brought the crisis of their fate both to the New +Christian and the nonconforming Hebrew. The Inquisition appeared, the +Institution that had exterminated the Albigenses and had desolated +Languedoc, and which, it should ever be remembered, was established in +the Spanish kingdoms against the protests of the Cortes and amid the +terror of the populace. The Dominicans opened their first tribunal at +Seville, and it is curious that the first individuals they summoned +before them were the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquess of Cadiz, and +the Count of Arcos; three of the most considerable personages in Spain. +How many were burned alive at Seville during the first year, how many +imprisoned for life, what countless thousands were visited with severe +though lighter punishments, need not be recorded here. In nothing was +the Holy Office more happy than in multiform and subtle means by which +they tested the sincerity of the New Christians. + +At length the Inquisition was to be extended to Arragon. The +high-spirited nobles of that kingdom knew that its institution was for +them a matter of life or death. The Cortes of Arragon appealed to the +King and to the Pope; they organised an extensive conspiracy; the chief +Inquisitor was assassinated in the cathedral of Saragossa. Alas! it +was fated that in this, one of the many, and continual, and continuing +struggles between the rival organisations of the North and the South, +the children of the sun should fall. The fagot and the San Benito were +the doom of the nobles of Arragon. Those who were convicted of secret +Judaism, and this scarcely three centuries ago, were dragged to the +stake; the sons of the noblest houses, in whose veins the Hebrew taint +could be traced, had to walk in solemn procession, singing psalms, and +confessing their faith in the religion of the fell Torquemada. + +This triumph in Arragon, the almost simultaneous fall of the last +Moorish kingdom, raised the hopes of the pure Christians to the +highest pitch. Having purged the new Christians, they next turned their +attention to the old Hebrews. Ferdinand was resolved that the delicious +air of Spain should be breathed no longer by any one who did not profess +the Catholic faith. Baptism or exile was the alternative. More than +six hundred thousand individuals, some authorities greatly increase +the amount, the most industrious, the most intelligent, and the most +enlightened of Spanish subjects, would not desert the religion of their +fathers. For this they gave up the delightful land wherein they +had lived for centuries, the beautiful cities they had raised, the +universities from which Christendom drew for ages its most precious +lore, the tombs of their ancestors, the temples where they had +worshipped the God for whom they had made this sacrifice. They had but +four months to prepare for eternal exile, after a residence of as many +centuries; during which brief period forced sales and glutted markets +virtually confiscated their property. It is a calamity that the +scattered nation still ranks with the desolations of Nebuchadnezzar +and of Titus. Who after this should say the Jews are by nature a sordid +people? But the Spanish Goth, then so cruel and so haughty, where is +he? A despised suppliant to the very race which he banished, for some +miserable portion of the treasure which their habits of industry have +again accumulated. Where is that tribunal that summoned Medina Sidonia +and Cadiz to its dark inquisition? Where is Spain? Its fall, its +unparalleled and its irremediable fall, is mainly to be attributed +to the expulsion of that large portion of its subjects, the most +industrious and intelligent, who traced their origin to the Mosaic and +Mohammedan Arabs. + +The Sidonias of Arragon were Nuevos Christianos. Some of them, no doubt, +were burned alive at the end of the fifteenth century, under the system +of Torquemada; many of them, doubtless, wore the San Benito; but they +kept their titles and estates, and in time reached those great offices +to which we have referred. + +During the long disorders of the Peninsular war, when so many openings +were offered to talent, and so many opportunities seized by the +adventurous, a cadet of a younger branch of this family made a large +fortune by military contracts, and supplying the commissariat of the +different armies. At the peace, prescient of the great financial future +of Europe, confident in the fertility of his own genius, in his original +views of fiscal subjects, and his knowledge of national resources, this +Sidonia, feeling that Madrid, or even Cadiz, could never be a base +on which the monetary transactions of the world could be regulated, +resolved to emigrate to England, with which he had, in the course of +years, formed considerable commercial connections. He arrived here after +the peace of Paris, with his large capital. He staked all he was +worth on the Waterloo loan; and the event made him one of the greatest +capitalists in Europe. + +No sooner was Sidonia established in England than he professed Judaism; +which Torquemada flattered himself, with the fagot and the San Benito, +he had drained out of the veins of his family more than three centuries +ago. He sent over, also, for several of his brothers, who were as +good Catholics in Spain as Ferdinand and Isabella could have possibly +desired, but who made an offering in the synagogue, in gratitude for +their safe voyage, on their arrival in England. + +Sidonia had foreseen in Spain that, after the exhaustion of a war of +twenty-five years, Europe must require capital to carry on peace. He +reaped the due reward of his sagacity. Europe did require money, and +Sidonia was ready to lend it to Europe. France wanted some; Austria +more; Prussia a little; Russia a few millions. Sidonia could furnish +them all. The only country which he avoided was Spain; he was too well +acquainted with its resources. Nothing, too, would ever tempt him to +lend anything to the revolted colonies of Spain. Prudence saved him from +being a creditor of the mother-country; his Spanish pride recoiled from +the rebellion of her children. + +It is not difficult to conceive that, after having pursued the career we +have intimated for about ten years, Sidonia had become one of the most +considerable personages in Europe. He had established a brother, or +a near relative, in whom he could confide, in most of the principal +capitals. He was lord and master of the money-market of the world, and +of course virtually lord and master of everything else. He literally +held the revenues of Southern Italy in pawn; and monarchs and ministers +of all countries courted his advice and were guided by his suggestions. +He was still in the vigour of life, and was not a mere money-making +machine. He had a general intelligence equal to his position, and looked +forward to the period when some relaxation from his vast enterprises and +exertions might enable him to direct his energies to great objects of +public benefit. But in the height of his vast prosperity he suddenly +died, leaving only one child, a youth still of tender years, and heir to +the greatest fortune in Europe, so great, indeed, that it could only be +calculated by millions. + +Shut out from universities and schools, those universities and schools +which were indebted for their first knowledge of ancient philosophy +to the learning and enterprise of his ancestors, the young Sidonia was +fortunate in the tutor whom his father had procured for him, and who +devoted to his charge all the resources of his trained intellect and +vast and varied erudition. A Jesuit before the revolution; since then an +exiled Liberal leader; now a member of the Spanish Cortes; Rebello +was always a Jew. He found in his pupil that precocity of intellectual +development which is characteristic of the Arabian organisation. The +young Sidonia penetrated the highest mysteries of mathematics with +a facility almost instinctive; while a memory, which never had any +twilight hours, but always reflected a noontide clearness, seemed to +magnify his acquisitions of ancient learning by the promptness with +which they could be reproduced and applied. + +The circumstances of his position, too, had early contributed to give +him an unusual command over the modern languages. An Englishman, and +taught from his cradle to be proud of being an Englishman, he first +evinced in speaking his native language those remarkable powers of +expression, and that clear and happy elocution, which ever afterwards +distinguished him. But the son of a Spaniard, the sonorous syllables +of that noble tongue constantly resounded in his ear; while the foreign +guests who thronged his father’s mansion habituated him from an early +period of life to the tones of languages that were not long strange to +him. When he was nineteen, Sidonia, who had then resided some time +with his uncle at Naples, and had made a long visit to another of his +father’s relatives at Frankfort, possessed a complete mastery over the +principal European languages. + +At seventeen he had parted with Rebello, who returned to Spain, and +Sidonia, under the control of his guardians, commenced his travels. He +resided, as we have mentioned, some time in Germany, and then, having +visited Italy, settled at Naples, at which city it may be said he +made his entrance into life. With an interesting person, and highly +accomplished, he availed himself of the gracious attentions of a +court of which he was principal creditor; and which, treating him as a +distinguished English traveller, were enabled perhaps to show him some +favours that the manners of the country might not have permitted them +to accord to his Neapolitan relatives. Sidonia thus obtained at an +early age that experience of refined and luxurious society, which is a +necessary part of a finished education. It gives the last polish to the +manners; it teaches us something of the power of the passions, early +developed in the hot-bed of self-indulgence; it instils into us that +indefinable tact seldom obtained in later life, which prevents us from +saying the wrong thing, and often impels us to do the right. + +Between Paris and Naples Sidonia passed two years, spent apparently in +the dissipation which was perhaps inseparable from his time of life. He +was admired by women, to whom he was magnificent, idolised by artists +whom he patronised, received in all circles with great distinction, and +appreciated for his intellect by the very few to whom he at all +opened himself. For, though affable and gracious, it was impossible +to penetrate him. Though unreserved in his manner, his frankness was +strictly limited to the surface. He observed everything, thought ever, +but avoided serious discussion. If you pressed him for an opinion, he +took refuge in raillery, or threw out some grave paradox with which it +was not easy to cope. + +The moment he came of age, Sidonia having previously, at a great family +congress held at Naples, made arrangements with the heads of the houses +that bore his name respecting the disposition and management of his vast +fortune, quitted Europe. + +Sidonia was absent from his connections for five years, during which +period he never communicated with them. They were aware of his existence +only by the orders which he drew on them for payment, and which arrived +from all quarters of the globe. It would appear from these documents +that he had dwelt a considerable time in the Mediterranean regions; +penetrated Nilotic Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia; traversed the +Asiatic continent to Tartary, whence he had visited Hindostan, and the +isles of that Indian Sea which are so little known. Afterwards he was +heard of at Valparaiso, the Brazils, and Lima. He evidently remained +some time at Mexico, which he quitted for the United States. One +morning, without notice, he arrived in London. + +Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of human knowledge; he was master +of the learning of every nation, of all tongues dead or living, of every +literature, Western and Oriental. He had pursued the speculations +of science to their last term, and had himself illustrated them by +observation and experiment. He had lived in all orders of society, had +viewed every combination of Nature and of Art, and had observed man +under every phasis of civilisation. He had even studied him in the +wilderness. The influence of creeds and laws, manners, customs, +traditions, in all their diversities, had been subjected to his personal +scrutiny. + +He brought to the study of this vast aggregate of knowledge a +penetrative intellect that, matured by long meditation, and assisted +by that absolute freedom from prejudice, which, was the compensatory +possession of a man without a country, permitted Sidonia to fathom, +as it were by intuition, the depth of questions apparently the most +difficult and profound. He possessed the rare faculty of communicating +with precision ideas the most abstruse, and in general a power of +expression which arrests and satisfies attention. + +With all this knowledge, which no one knew more to prize, with boundless +wealth, and with an athletic frame, which sickness had never tried, and +which had avoided excess, Sidonia nevertheless looked upon life with +a glance rather of curiosity than content. His religion walled him +out from the pursuits of a citizen; his riches deprived him of the +stimulating anxieties of a man. He perceived himself a lone being, alike +without cares and without duties. + +To a man in his position there might yet seem one unfailing source +of felicity and joy; independent of creed, independent of country, +independent even of character. He might have discovered that perpetual +spring of happiness in the sensibility of the heart. But this was a +sealed fountain to Sidonia. In his organisation there was a peculiarity, +perhaps a great deficiency. He was a man without affections. It would be +harsh to say he had no heart, for he was susceptible of deep emotions, +but not for individuals. He was capable of rebuilding a town that was +burned down; of restoring a colony that had been destroyed by some awful +visitation of Nature; of redeeming to liberty a horde of captives; and +of doing these great acts in secret; for, void of all self-love, public +approbation was worthless to him; but the individual never touched him. +Woman was to him a toy, man a machine. + +The lot the most precious to man, and which a beneficent Providence +has made not the least common; to find in another heart a perfect and +profound sympathy; to unite his existence with one who could share all +his joys, soften all his sorrows, aid him in all his projects, respond +to all his fancies, counsel him in his cares, and support him in +his perils; make life charming by her charms, interesting by her +intelligence, and sweet by the vigilant variety of her tenderness; +to find your life blessed by such an influence, and to feel that your +influence can bless such a life: this lot, the most divine of divine +gifts, that power and even fame can never rival in its delights, all +this Nature had denied to Sidonia. + +With an imagination as fiery as his native Desert, and an intellect as +luminous as his native sky, he wanted, like that land, those softening +dews without which the soil is barren, and the sunbeam as often a +messenger of pestilence as an angel of regenerative grace. + +Such a temperament, though rare, is peculiar to the East. It inspired +the founders of the great monarchies of antiquity, the prophets that the +Desert has sent forth, the Tartar chiefs who have overrun the world; +it might be observed in the great Corsican, who, like most of the +inhabitants of the Mediterranean isles, had probably Arab blood in his +veins. It is a temperament that befits conquerors and legislators, but, +in ordinary times and ordinary situations, entails on its possessor only +eccentric aberrations or profound melancholy. + +The only human quality that interested Sidonia was Intellect. He cared +not whence it came; where it was to be found: creed, country, class, +character, in this respect, were alike indifferent to him. The author, +the artist, the man of science, never appealed to him in vain. Often he +anticipated their wants and wishes. He encouraged their society; was as +frank in his conversation as he was generous in his contributions; but +the instant they ceased to be authors, artists, or philosophers, and +their communications arose from anything but the intellectual quality +which had originally interested him, the moment they were rash enough +to approach intimacy and appealed to the sympathising man instead of +the congenial intelligence, he saw them no more. It was not however +intellect merely in these unquestionable shapes that commanded his +notice. There was not an adventurer in Europe with whom he was not +familiar. No Minister of State had such communication with secret agents +and political spies as Sidonia. He held relations with all the clever +outcasts of the world. The catalogue of his acquaintance in the shape of +Greeks, Armenians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gipsies, wandering +Poles and Carbonari, would throw a curious light on those subterranean +agencies of which the world in general knows so little, but which +exercise so great an influence on public events. His extensive travels, +his knowledge of languages, his daring and adventurous disposition, and +his unlimited means, had given him opportunities of becoming acquainted +with these characters, in general so difficult to trace, and of gaining +their devotion. To these sources he owed that knowledge of strange and +hidden things which often startled those who listened to him. Nor was it +easy, scarcely possible, to deceive him. Information reached him from +so many, and such contrary quarters, that with his discrimination and +experience, he could almost instantly distinguish the truth. The secret +history of the world was his pastime. His great pleasure was to contrast +the hidden motive, with the public pretext, of transactions. + +One source of interest Sidonia found in his descent and in the +fortunes of his race. As firm in his adherence to the code of the great +Legislator as if the trumpet still sounded on Sinai, he might have +received in the conviction of divine favour an adequate compensation +for human persecution. But there were other and more terrestrial +considerations that made Sidonia proud of his origin, and confident +in the future of his kind. Sidonia was a great philosopher, who took +comprehensive views of human affairs, and surveyed every fact in its +relative position to other facts, the only mode of obtaining truth. + +Sidonia was well aware that in the five great varieties into which +Physiology has divided the human species; to wit, the Caucasian, the +Mongolian, the Malayan, the American, the Ethiopian; the Arabian tribes +rank in the first and superior class, together, among others, with the +Saxon and the Greek. This fact alone is a source of great pride and +satisfaction to the animal Man. But Sidonia and his brethren could +claim a distinction which the Saxon and the Greek, and the rest of +the Caucasian nations, have forfeited. The Hebrew is an unmixed race. +Doubtless, among the tribes who inhabit the bosom of the Desert, +progenitors alike of the Mosaic and the Mohammedan Arabs, blood may be +found as pure as that of the descendants of the Scheik Abraham. But the +Mosaic Arabs are the most ancient, if not the only, unmixed blood that +dwells in cities. + +An unmixed race of a firstrate organisation are the aristocracy of +Nature. Such excellence is a positive fact; not an imagination, a +ceremony, coined by poets, blazoned by cozening heralds, but perceptible +in its physical advantages, and in the vigour of its unsullied +idiosyncrasy. + +In his comprehensive travels, Sidonia had visited and examined the +Hebrew communities of the world. He had found, in general, the lower +orders debased; the superior immersed in sordid pursuits; but he +perceived that the intellectual development was not impaired. This gave +him hope. He was persuaded that organisation would outlive persecution. +When he reflected on what they had endured, it was only marvellous +that the race had not disappeared. They had defied exile, massacre, +spoliation, the degrading influence of the constant pursuit of gain; +they had defied Time. For nearly three thousand years, according to +Archbishop Usher, they have been dispersed over the globe. To the +unpolluted current of their Caucasian structure, and to the segregating +genius of their great Law-giver, Sidonia ascribed the fact that they +had not been long ago absorbed among those mixed races, who presume +to persecute them, but who periodically wear away and disappear, while +their victims still flourish in all the primeval vigour of the pure +Asian breed. + +Shortly after his arrival in England, Sidonia repaired to the principal +Courts of Europe, that he might become personally acquainted with +the monarchs and ministers of whom he had heard so much. His position +insured him a distinguished reception; his personal qualities +immediately made him cherished. He could please; he could do more, he +could astonish. He could throw out a careless observation which would +make the oldest diplomatist start; a winged word that gained him the +consideration, sometimes the confidence, of Sovereigns. When he had +fathomed the intelligence which governs Europe, and which can only be +done by personal acquaintance, he returned to this country. + +The somewhat hard and literal character of English life suited one who +shrank from sensibility, and often took refuge in sarcasm. Its masculine +vigour and active intelligence occupied and interested his mind. +Sidonia, indeed, was exactly the character who would be welcomed in our +circles. His immense wealth, his unrivalled social knowledge, his clear +vigorous intellect, the severe simplicity of his manners, frank, but +neither claiming nor brooking familiarity, and his devotion to field +sports, which was the safety-valve of his energy, were all circumstances +and qualities which the English appreciate and admire; and it may be +fairly said of Sidonia that few men were more popular, and none less +understood. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + + +At dinner, Coningsby was seated on the same side as Sidonia, and distant +from him. There had been, therefore, no mutual recognition. Another +guest had also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He came straight from London, +full of rumours, had seen Tadpole, who, hearing he was on the wing for +Coningsby Castle, had taken him into a dark corner of a club, and +shown him his book, a safe piece of confidence, as Mr. Ormsby was very +near-sighted. It was, however, to be received as an undoubted fact, that +all was right, and somehow or other, before very long, there would be +national demonstration of the same. This arrival of Mr. Ormsby, and the +news that he bore, gave a political turn to the conversation after the +ladies had left the room. + +‘Tadpole wants me to stand for Birmingham,’ said Mr. Ormsby, gravely. + +‘You!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and throwing himself back in his chair, +he broke into a real, hearty laugh. + +‘Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two candidates; a manufacturer +they have got, and they have written up to Tadpole for a “West-end +man.”’ + +‘A what?’ + +‘A West-end man, who will make the ladies patronise their fancy +articles.’ + +‘The result of the Reform Bill, then,’ said Lucian Gay, ‘will be to give +Manchester a bishop, and Birmingham a dandy.’ + +‘I begin to believe the result will be very different from what we +expected,’ said Lord Monmouth. + +Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to prophesy, when Lord Eskdale, +who liked talk to be short, and was of opinion that Rigby should keep +his amplifications for his slashing articles, put in a brief careless +observation, which balked his inspiration. + +‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘when the guns were firing over Vyvyan’s +last speech and confession, I never expected to be asked to stand for +Birmingham.’ + +‘Perhaps you may be called up to the other house by the title,’ said +Lucian Gay. ‘Who knows?’ + +‘I agree with Tadpole,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘that if we only stick to the +Registration the country is saved.’ + +‘Fortunate country!’ said Sidonia, ‘that can be saved by a good +registration!’ + +‘I believe, after all, that with property and pluck,’ said Lord +Monmouth, ‘Parliamentary Reform is not such a very bad thing.’ + +Here several gentlemen began talking at the same time, all agreeing +with their host, and proving in their different ways, the irresistible +influence of property and pluck; property in Lord Monmouth’s mind +meaning vassals, and pluck a total disregard for public opinion. Mr. Guy +Flouncey, who wanted to get into parliament, but why nobody knew, who +had neither political abilities nor political opinions, but had some +floating idea that it would get himself and his wife to some more +balls and dinners, and who was duly ticketed for ‘a good thing’ in the +candidate list of the Tadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion that an +immense deal might be done by properly patronising borough races. That +was his specific how to prevent revolution. + +Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth said, ‘I should like to know +what you think of this question, Sidonia?’ + +‘I am scarcely a competent judge,’ he said, as if wishing to disclaim +any interference in the conversation, and then added, ‘but I have been +ever of opinion that revolutions are not to be evaded.’ + +‘Exactly my views,’ said Mr. Rigby, eagerly; ‘I say it now, I have said +it a thousand times, you may doctor the registration as you like, but +you can never get rid of Schedule A.’ + +‘Is there a person in this room who can now tell us the names of the +boroughs in Schedule A?’ said Sidonia. + +‘I am sure I cannot, ‘said Lord Monmouth, ‘though six of them belong to +myself.’ + +‘But the principle,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘they represented a principle.’ + +‘Nothing else, certainly,’ said Lucian Gay. + +‘And what principle?’ inquired Sidonia. + +‘The principle of nomination.’ + +‘That is a practice, not a principle,’ said Sidonia. ‘Is it a practice +that no longer exists?’ + +‘You think then,’ said Lord Eskdale, cutting in before Rigby, ‘that the +Reform Bill has done us no harm?’ + +‘It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken the aristocracy of this +country, but the means by which that Bill was carried,’ replied Sidonia. + +‘Physical force?’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘Or social power?’ said Sidonia. + +Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient at any one giving the tone in a +political discussion but himself, and chafing under the vigilance of +Lord Eskdale, which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, violently +assaulted the argument, and astonished several country gentlemen present +by its volubility. They at length listened to real eloquence. At the +end of a long appeal to Sidonia, that gentleman only bowed his head and +said, ‘Perhaps;’ and then, turning to his neighbour, inquired whether +birds were plentiful in Lancashire this season; so that Mr. Rigby was +reduced to the necessity of forming the political opinions of Mr. Guy +Flouncey. + +As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Coningsby, though at some +distance, was observed by Sidonia, who stopped instantly, then advanced +to Coningsby, and extending his hand said, ‘I said we should meet again, +though I hardly expected so quickly.’ + +‘And I hope we shall not separate so soon,’ said Coningsby; ‘I was much +struck with what you said just now about the Reform Bill. Do you know +that the more I think the more I am perplexed by what is meant by +Representation?’ + +‘It is a principle of which a limited definition is only current in +this country,’ said Sidonia, quitting the room with him. ‘People may be +represented without periodical elections of neighbours who are incapable +to maintain their interests, and strangers who are unwilling.’ + +The entrance of the gentlemen produced the same effect on the saloon as +sunrise on the world; universal animation, a general though gentle stir. +The Grand-duke, bowing to every one, devoted himself to the daughter +of Lady St. Julians, who herself pinned Lord Beaumanoir before he could +reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby instead talked nonsense to that lady. +Brilliant cavaliers, including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beautiful +damsels grouped on a large ottoman. Everywhere sounded a delicious +murmur, broken occasionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too loud. +Sidonia and Lord Eskdale did not join the ladies. They stood for a few +moments in conversation, and then threw themselves on a sofa. + +‘Who is that?’ asked Sidonia of his companion rather earnestly, as +Coningsby quitted them. + +‘’Tis the grandson of Monmouth; young Coningsby.’ + +‘Ah! The new generation then promises. I met him once before, by chance; +he interests me.’ + +‘They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a prodigious favourite here, and +I should not be surprised if Monmouth made him his heir.’ + +‘I hope he does not dream of inheritance,’ said Sidonia. ‘’Tis the most +enervating of visions.’ + +‘Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?’ said Mrs. Guy Flouncey to +Coningsby. + +‘I admire no one except yourself.’ + +‘Oh! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby!’ + +‘When should men be gallant, if not to the brilliant and the beautiful!’ +said Coningsby. + +‘Ah! you are laughing at me.’ + +‘No, I am not. I am quite grave.’ + +‘Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, Lord Henry Sydney is a +very great friend of yours?’ + +‘Very.’ + +‘He is very amiable.’ + +‘Very.’ + +‘He does a great deal for the poor at Beaumanoir. A very fine place, is +it not?’ + +‘Very.’ + +‘As fine as Coningsby?’ + +‘At present, with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beaumanoir would have +no chance.’ + +‘Ah! you laugh at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, what do you +think we shall do to-night? I look upon you, you know, as the real +arbiter of our destinies.’ + +‘You shall decide,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Mon cher Harry,’ said Madame Colonna, coming up, ‘they wish Lucretia to +sing and she will not. You must ask her, she cannot refuse you.’ + +‘I assure you she can,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire me to beg you to ask her to +sing.’ + +So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucretia, who was talking with the +Russian Ambassador. + +‘I am sent upon a fruitless mission,’ said Coningsby, looking at her, +and catching her glance. + +‘What and why?’ she replied. + +‘The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; and the +cause of its failure will be that I am the envoy.’ + +‘If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be the +envoy, you need never fear failure with me.’ + +‘I must presume then to lead you away,’ said Coningsby, bending to the +Ambassador. + +‘Remember,’ said Lucretia, as they approached the instrument, ‘that I am +singing to you.’ + +‘It is impossible ever to forget it,’ said Coningsby, leading her to the +piano with great politeness, but only with great politeness. + +‘Where is Mademoiselle Flora?’ she inquired. + +Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it were behind some furniture, +and apparently looking over some music. She looked up as he approached, +and a smile stole over her countenance. ‘I am come to ask a favour,’ he +said, and he named his request. + +‘I will sing,’ she replied; ‘but only tell me what you like.’ + +Coningsby felt the difference between the courtesy of the head and of +the heart, as he contrasted the manner of Lucretia and Flora. Nothing +could be more exquisitely gracious than the daughter of Colonna was +to-night; Flora, on the contrary, was rather agitated and embarrassed; +and did not express her readiness with half the facility and the grace +of Lucretia; but Flora’s arm trembled as Coningsby led her to the piano. + +Meantime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are in deep converse. + +‘Hah! that is a fine note!’ said Sidonia, and he looked round. ‘Who is +that singing? Some new _protégée_ of Lord Monmouth?’ + +‘’Tis the daughter of the Colonnas,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘the Princess +Lucretia.’ + +‘Why, she was not at dinner to-day.’ + +‘No, she was not there.’ + +‘My favourite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When I was a +boy, it made me almost in love even with Pisaroni.’ + +‘Well, the Princess is scarcely more lovely. ‘Tis a pity the plumage is +not as beautiful as the note. She is plain.’ + +‘No; not plain with that brow.’ + +‘Well, I rather admire her myself,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘She has fine +points.’ + +‘Let us approach,’ said Sidonia. + +The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, made his compliments, and then +said, ‘You were not at dinner to-day.’ + +‘Why should I be?’ said the Princess. + +‘For our sakes, for mine, if not for your own,’ said Lord Eskdale, +smiling. ‘Your absence has been remarked, and felt, I assure you, by +others as well as myself. There is my friend Sidonia so enraptured with +your thrilling tones, that he has abruptly closed a conversation which I +have been long counting on. Do you know him? May I present him to you?’ + +And having obtained a consent, not often conceded, Lord Eskdale looked +round, and calling Sidonia, he presented his friend to the Princess. + +‘You are fond of music, Lord Eskdale tells me?’ said Lucretia. + +‘When it is excellent,’ said Sidonia. + +‘But that is so rare,’ said the Princess. + +‘And precious as Paradise,’ said Sidonia. ‘As for indifferent music, +‘tis Purgatory; but when it is bad, for my part I feel myself--’ + +‘Where?’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘In the last circle of the Inferno,’ said Sidonia. + +Lord Eskdale turned to Flora. + +‘And in what circle do you place us who are here?’ the Princess inquired +of Sidonia. + +‘One too polished for his verse,’ replied her companion. + +‘You mean too insipid,’ said the Princess. ‘I wish that life were a +little more Dantesque.’ + +‘There is not less treasure in the world,’ said Sidonia, ‘because we use +paper currency; and there is not less passion than of old, though it is +_bon ton_ to be tranquil.’ + +‘Do you think so?’ said the Princess, inquiringly, and then looking +round the apartment. ‘Have these automata, indeed, souls?’ + +‘Some of them,’ said Sidonia. ‘As many as would have had souls in the +fourteenth century.’ + +‘I thought they were wound up every day,’ said the Princess. + +‘Some are self-impelling,’ said Sidonia. + +‘And you can tell at a glance?’ inquired the Princess. ‘You are one of +those who can read human nature?’ + +‘’Tis a book open to all.’ + +‘But if they cannot read?’ + +‘Those must be your automata.’ + +‘Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller?’ + +‘I have not discovered a new world.’ + +‘But you have visited it?’ + +‘It is getting old.’ + +‘I would sooner recall the old than discover the new,’ said the +Princess. + +‘We have both of us cause,’ said Sidonia. ‘Our names are the names of +the Past.’ + +‘I do not love a world of Utility,’ said the Princess. + +‘You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable,’ said Sidonia. + +‘It seems to me that the world is withering under routine.’ + +‘’Tis the inevitable lot of humanity,’ said Sidonia. ‘Man must ever +be the slave of routine: but in old days it was a routine of great +thoughts, and now it is a routine of little ones.’ + +The evening glided on; the dance succeeded the song; the ladies were +fast vanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a movement, when Lord +Beaumanoir, as he passed him, said, ‘Come to Lucian Gay’s room; we are +going to smoke a cigar.’ + +This was a favourite haunt, towards midnight, of several of the younger +members of the party at the Castle, who loved to find relaxation from +the decorous gravities of polished life in the fumes of tobacco, the +inspiration of whiskey toddy, and the infinite amusement of Lucian Gay’s +conversation and company. This was the genial hour when the good story +gladdened, the pun flashed, and the song sparkled with jolly mirth +or saucy mimicry. To-night, being Coningsby’s initiation, there was a +special general meeting of the Grumpy Club, in which everybody was to +say the gayest things with the gravest face, and every laugh carried a +forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable president. He told a tale for which +he was famous, of ‘the very respectable county family who had been +established in the shire for several generations, but who, it was +a fact, had been ever distinguished by the strange and humiliating +peculiarity of being born with sheep’s tails.’ The remarkable +circumstances under which Lucian Gay had become acquainted with this +fact; the traditionary mysteries by which the family in question had +succeeded for generations in keeping it secret; the decided measures to +which the chief of the family had recourse to stop for ever the rumour +when it first became prevalent; and finally the origin and result of the +legend; were details which Lucian Gay, with the most rueful countenance, +loved to expend upon the attentive and expanding intelligence of a new +member of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as all present were with the story +whose stimulus of agonising risibility they had all in turn experienced, +it was with extreme difficulty that any of them could resist the fatal +explosion which was to be attended with the dreaded penalty. Lord +Beaumanoir looked on the table with desperate seriousness, an ominous +pucker quivering round his lip; Mr. Melton crammed his handkerchief into +his mouth with one hand, while he lighted the wrong end of a cigar with +the other; one youth hung over the back of his chair pinching himself +like a faquir, while another hid his countenance on the table. + +‘It was at the Hunt dinner,’ continued Lucian Gay, in an almost solemn +tone, ‘that an idea for a moment was prevalent, that Sir Mowbray +Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head of the family, had resolved +to terminate for ever these mysterious aspersions on his race, that had +circulated in the county for more than two centuries; I mean that the +highly respectable family of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs had the +misfortune to be graced with that appendage to which I have referred. +His health being drunk, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh +rose. He was a little unpopular at the moment, from an ugly story about +killing foxes, and the guests were not as quiet as orators generally +desire, so the Honourable Baronet prayed particular attention to a +matter personal to himself. Instantly there was a dead silence--’ but +here Coningsby, who had moved for some time very restlessly on his +chair, suddenly started up, and struggling for a moment against the +inward convulsion, but in vain, stamped against the floor, and gave a +shout. + +‘A song from Mr. Coningsby,’ said the president of the Grumpy Club, amid +an universal, and now permissible roar of laughter. + +Coningsby could not sing; so he was to favour them as a substitute +with a speech or a sentiment. But Lucian Gay always let one off these +penalties easily, and, indeed, was ever ready to fulfil them for all. +Song, speech, or sentiment, he poured them all forth; nor were pastimes +more active wanting. He could dance a Tarantella like a Lazzarone, and +execute a Cracovienne with all the mincing graces of a ballet heroine. + +His powers of mimicry, indeed, were great and versatile. But in nothing +was he so happy as in a Parliamentary debate. And it was remarkable +that, though himself a man who on ordinary occasions was quite incapable +without infinite perplexity of publicly expressing his sense of the +merest courtesy of society, he was not only a master of the style of +every speaker of distinction in either house, but he seemed in his +imitative play to appropriate their intellectual as well as their +physical peculiarities, and presented you with their mind as well as +their manner. There were several attempts to-night to induce Lucian to +indulge his guests with a debate, but he seemed to avoid the exertion, +which was great. As the night grew old, however, and every hour he +grew more lively, he suddenly broke without further pressure into the +promised diversion; and Coningsby listened really with admiration to a +discussion, of which the only fault was that it was more parliamentary +than the original, ‘plus Arabe que l’Arabie.’ + +The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Robert more specious; he was as +fiery as Stanley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he do their opponents +less justice. Lord Palmerston himself never treated a profound subject +with a more pleasant volatility; and when Lucian rose at an early hour +of morn, in a full house alike exhausted and excited, and after having +endured for hours, in sarcastic silence, the menacing finger of Sir +Robert, shaking over the green table and appealing to his misdeeds in +the irrevocable records of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have +afforded a more perfect representative of pluck. + +But loud as was the laughter, and vehement the cheering, with which +Lucian’s performances were received, all these ebullitions sank into +insignificance compared with the reception which greeted what he himself +announced was to be the speech of the night. Having quaffed full many +a quaigh of toddy, he insisted on delivering, it on the table, a +proposition with which his auditors immediately closed. + +The orator appeared, the great man of the night, who was to answer +everybody on both sides. Ah! that harsh voice, that arrogant style, +that saucy superficiality which decided on everything, that insolent +ignorance that contradicted everybody; it was impossible to mistake +them! And Coningsby had the pleasure of seeing reproduced before him the +guardian of his youth and the patron of the mimic, the Right Honourable +Nicholas Rigby! + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + + +Madame Colonna, with that vivacious energy which characterises the +south, had no sooner seen Coningsby, and heard his praises celebrated +by his grandfather, than she resolved that an alliance should sooner +or later take place between him and her step-daughter. She imparted her +projects without delay to Lucretia, who received them in a different +spirit from that in which they were communicated. Lucretia bore as +little resemblance to her step-mother in character, as in person. If +she did not possess her beauty, she was born with an intellect of far +greater capacity and reach. She had a deep judgment. A hasty alliance +with a youth, arranged by their mutual relatives, might suit very well +the clime and manners of Italy, but Lucretia was well aware that it was +altogether opposed to the habits and feelings of this country. She had +no conviction that either Coningsby would wish to marry her, or, if +willing, that his grandfather would sanction such a step in one as yet +only on the threshold of the world. Lucretia therefore received +the suggestions and proposals of Madarne Colonna with coldness and +indifference; one might even say contempt, for she neither felt respect +for this lady, nor was she sedulous to evince it. Although really +younger than Coningsby, Lucretia felt that a woman of eighteen is, in +all worldly considerations, ten years older than a youth of the same +age. She anticipated that a considerable time might elapse before +Coningsby would feel it necessary to seal his destiny by marriage, +while, on the other hand, she was not only anxious, but resolved, not +to delay on her part her emancipation from the galling position in which +she very frequently found herself. + +Lucretia felt rather than expressed these ideas and impressions. She +was not naturally communicative, and conversed with no one with less +frankness and facility than with her step-mother. Madame Colonna +therefore found no reasons in her conversation with Lucretia to change +her determination. As her mind was not ingenious she did not see +questions in those various lights which make us at the same time infirm +of purpose and tolerant. What she fancied ought to be done, she fancied +must be done; for she perceived no middle course or alternative. For +the rest, Lucretia’s carriage towards her gave her little discomfort. +Besides, she herself, though good-natured, was obstinate. Her feelings +were not very acute; nothing much vexed her. As long as she had fine +dresses, good dinners, and opera-boxes, she could bear her plans to be +crossed like a philosopher; and her consolation under her unaccomplished +devices was her admirable consistency, which always assured her that her +projects were wise, though unfulfilled. + +She broke her purpose to Mr. Rigby, that she might gain not only his +adhesion to her views, but his assistance in achieving them. As Madame +Colonna, in Mr. Rigby’s estimation, exercised more influence over Lord +Monmouth than any other individual, faithful to his policy or practice, +he agreed with all Madame Colonna’s plans and wishes, and volunteered +instantly to further them. As for the Prince, his wife never consulted +him on any subject, nor did he wish to be consulted. On the contrary, he +had no opinion about anything. All that he required was that he should +be surrounded by what contributed to his personal enjoyment, that he +should never be troubled, and that he should have billiards. He was not +inexpert in field-sports, rode indeed very well for an Italian, but +he never cared to be out-of-doors; and there was only one room in the +interior which passionately interested him. It was where the echoing +balls denoted the sweeping hazard or the effective cannonade. That was +the chamber where the Prince Colonna literally existed. Half-an-hour +after breakfast he was in the billiard-room; he never quitted it until +he dressed for dinner; and he generally contrived, while the world were +amused or amusing themselves at the comedy or in the dance, to steal +down with some congenial sprites to the magical and illumined chamber, +and use his cue until bedtime. + +Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia had made no difference +in her demeanour to Coningsby to that which she offered to the other +guests. Polite, but uncommunicative; ready to answer, but never +originating conversation; she charmed him as little by her manner as by +her person; and after some attempts, not very painstaking, to interest +her, Coningsby had ceased to address her. The day passed by with only a +faint recognition between them; even that sometimes omitted. + +When, however, Lucretia observed that Coningsby had become one of the +most notable persons in the Castle; when she heard everywhere of +his talents and accomplishments, his beauty and grace and great +acquirements, and perceived that he was courted by all; that Lord +Monmouth omitted no occasion publicly to evince towards him his regard +and consideration; that he seemed generally looked upon in the light of +his grandfather’s heir; and that Lady St. Julians, more learned in that +respect than any lady in the kingdom, was heard more than once to regret +that she had not brought another daughter with her, Clara Isabella, as +well as Augustina; the Princess Lucretia began to imagine that Madame +Colonna, after all, might not be so extravagant in her purpose as she +had first supposed. She, therefore, surprised Coningsby with the almost +affectionate moroseness with which, while she hated to sing, she yet +found pleasure in singing for him alone. And it is impossible to say +what might not have been the next move in her tactics in this respect, +had not the very night on which she had resolved to commence the +enchantment of Coningsby introduced to her Sidonia. + +The Princess Lucretia encountered the dark still glance of the friend of +Lord Eskdale. He, too, beheld a woman unlike other women, and with his +fine experience, both as a man and as a physiologist, felt that he was +in the presence of no ordinary organisation. From the evening of his +introduction Sidonia sought the society of the Princess Lucretia. He +could not complain of her reserve. She threw out her mind in various and +highly-cultivated intelligence. He recognised in her a deep and subtile +spirit, considerable reading for a woman, habits of thought, and a soul +passionate and daring. She resolved to subdue one whose appreciation she +had gained, and who had subdued her. The profound meaning and the calm +manner of Sidonia combined to quell her spirit. She struggled against +the spell. She tried to rival his power; to cope with him, and with +the same weapons. But prompt as was her thought and bright as was +its expression, her heart beat in tumult; and, with all her apparent +serenity, her agitated soul was a prey of absorbing passion. She could +not contend with that intelligent, yet inscrutable, eye; with that +manner so full of interest and respect, and yet so tranquil. Besides, +they were not on equal terms. Here was a girl contending with a man +learned in the world’s way. + +Between Sidonia and Coningsby there at once occurred companionship. The +morning after his arrival they went out shooting together. After a long +ramble they would stretch themselves on the turf under a shady tree, +often by the side of some brook where the cresses grow, that added +a luxury to their sporting-meal; and then Coningsby would lead their +conversation to some subject on which Sidonia would pour out his mind +with all that depth of reflection, variety of knowledge, and richness +of illustrative memory, which distinguished him; and which offered so +striking a contrast to the sharp talent, the shallow information, and +the worldly cunning, that make a Rigby. + +This fellowship between Sidonia and Coningsby elevated the latter still +more in the estimation of Lucretia, and rendered her still more desirous +of gaining his good will and opinion. A great friendship seemed to have +arisen between them, and the world began to believe that there must be +some foundation for Madame Colonna’s innuendos. That lady herself +was not in the least alarmed by the attention which Sidonia paid her +step-daughter. It was, of course, well known that Sidonia was not a +marrying man. He was, however, a great friend of Mr. Coningsby, his +presence and society brought Coningsby and Lucretia more together; and +however flattered her daughter might be for the moment by Sidonia’s +homage, still, as she would ultimately find out, if indeed she ever +cared so to do, that Sidonia could only be her admirer, Madame Colonna +had no kind of doubt that ultimately Coningsby would be Lucretia’s +husband, as she had arranged from the first. + +The Princess Lucretia was a fine horse-woman, though she rarely joined +the various riding-parties that were daily formed at the Castle. Often, +indeed, attended only by her groom, she met the equestrians. Now she +would ride with Sidonia and Coningsby, and as a female companion was +indispensable, she insisted upon La Petite accompanying her. This was a +fearful trial for Flora, but she encountered it, encouraged by the kind +solicitude of Coningsby, who always seemed her friend. + +Very shortly after the arrival of Sidonia, the Grand-duke and his suite +quitted the Castle, which had been his Highness’ head-quarters during +his visit to the manufacturing districts; but no other great change in +the assembled company occurred for some little time. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + + +‘You will observe one curious trait,’ said Sidonia to Coningsby, ‘in the +history of this country: the depository of power is always unpopular; +all combine against it; it always falls. Power was deposited in the +great Barons; the Church, using the King for its instrument, crushed the +great Barons. Power was deposited in the Church; the King, bribing the +Parliament, plundered the Church. Power was deposited in the King; the +Parliament, using the People, beheaded the King, expelled the King, +changed the King, and, finally, for a King substituted an administrative +officer. For one hundred and fifty years Power has been deposited in the +Parliament, and for the last sixty or seventy years it has been becoming +more and more unpopular. In 1830 it was endeavoured by a reconstruction +to regain the popular affection; but, in truth, as the Parliament then +only made itself more powerful, it has only become more odious. As we +see that the Barons, the Church, the King, have in turn devoured each +other, and that the Parliament, the last devourer, remains, it is +impossible to resist the impression that this body also is doomed to be +destroyed; and he is a sagacious statesman who may detect in what form +and in what quarter the great consumer will arise.’ + +‘You take, then, a dark view of our position?’ + +‘Troubled, not dark. I do not ascribe to political institutions that +paramount influence which it is the feeling of this age to attribute to +them. The Senate that confronted Brennus in the Forum was the same body +that registered in an after-age the ribald decrees of a Nero. Trial +by jury, for example, is looked upon by all as the Palladium of our +liberties; yet a jury, at a very recent period of our own history, the +reign of Charles II., was a tribunal as iniquitous as the Inquisition.’ +And a graver expression stole over the countenance of Sidonia as he +remembered what that Inquisition had operated on his own race and his +own destiny. ‘There are families in this country,’ he continued, ‘of +both the great historical parties, that in the persecution of their +houses, the murder and proscription of some of their most illustrious +members, found judges as unjust and relentless in an open jury of their +countrymen as we did in the conclaves of Madrid and Seville.’ + +‘Where, then, would you look for hope?’ + +‘In what is more powerful than laws and institutions, and without which +the best laws and the most skilful institutions may be a dead letter, +or the very means of tyranny in the national character. It is not in +the increased feebleness of its institutions that I see the peril of +England; it is in the decline of its character as a community.’ + +‘And yet you could scarcely describe this as an age of corruption?’ + +‘Not of political corruption. But it is an age of social +disorganisation, far more dangerous in its consequences, because far +more extensive. You may have a corrupt government and a pure community; +you may have a corrupt community and a pure administration. Which would +you elect?’ + +Neither,’ said Coningsby; ‘I wish to see a people full of faith, and a +government full of duty.’ + +‘Rely upon it,’ said Sidonia, ‘that England should think more of the +community and less of the government.’ + +‘But tell me, what do you understand by the term national character?’ + +‘A character is an assemblage of qualities; the character of England +should be an assemblage of great qualities.’ + +‘But we cannot deny that the English have great virtues.’ + +‘The civilisation of a thousand years must produce great virtues; but we +are speaking of the decline of public virtue, not its existence.’ + +‘In what, then, do you trace that decline?’ + +‘In the fact that the various classes of this country are arrayed +against each other.’ + +‘But to what do you attribute those reciprocal hostilities?’ + +‘Not entirely, not even principally, to those economical causes of which +we hear so much. I look upon all such as secondary causes, which, in a +certain degree, must always exist, which obtrude themselves in troubled +times, and which at all times it is the business of wise statesmen to +watch, to regulate, to ameliorate, to modify.’ + +‘I am speaking to elicit truth, not to maintain opinions,’ said +Coningsby; ‘for I have none,’ he added, mournfully. + +‘I think,’ said Sidonia, ‘that there is no error so vulgar as to believe +that revolutions are occasioned by economical causes. They come in, +doubtless, very often to precipitate a catastrophe; very rarely do they +occasion one. I know no period, for example, when physical comfort +was more diffused in England than in 1640. England had a moderate +population, a very improved agriculture, a rich commerce; yet she was +on the eve of the greatest and most violent changes that she has as yet +experienced.’ + +‘That was a religious movement.’ + +‘Admit it; the cause, then, was not physical. The imagination of England +rose against the government. It proves, then, that when that faculty is +astir in a nation, it will sacrifice even physical comfort to follow its +impulses.’ + +‘Do you think, then, there is a wild desire for extensive political +change in the country?’ + +‘Hardly that: England is perplexed at the present moment, not inventive. +That will be the next phasis in her moral state, and to that I wish +to draw your thoughts. For myself, while I ascribe little influence to +physical causes for the production of this perplexity, I am still less +of opinion that it can be removed by any new disposition of political +power. It would only aggravate the evil. That would be recurring to +the old error of supposing you can necessarily find national content in +political institutions. A political institution is a machine; the motive +power is the national character. With that it rests whether the +machine will benefit society, or destroy it. Society in this country is +perplexed, almost paralysed; in time it will move, and it will devise. +How are the elements of the nation to be again blended together? In what +spirit is that reorganisation to take place?’ + +‘To know that would be to know everything.’ + +‘At least let us free ourselves from the double ignorance of the +Platonists. Let us not be ignorant that we are ignorant.’ + +‘I have emancipated myself from that darkness for a long time,’ said +Coningsby. ‘Long has my mind been musing over these thoughts, but to me +all is still obscurity.’ + +‘In this country,’ said Sidonia, ‘since the peace, there has been an +attempt to advocate a reconstruction of society on a purely rational +basis. The principle of Utility has been powerfully developed. I speak +not with lightness of the labours of the disciples of that school. I bow +to intellect in every form: and we should be grateful to any school of +philosophers, even if we disagree with them; doubly grateful in this +country, where for so long a period our statesmen were in so pitiable an +arrear of public intelligence. There has been an attempt to reconstruct +society on a basis of material motives and calculations. It has failed. +It must ultimately have failed under any circumstances; its failure in +an ancient and densely-peopled kingdom was inevitable. How limited is +human reason, the profoundest inquirers are most conscious. We are not +indebted to the Reason of man for any of the great achievements which +are the landmarks of human action and human progress. It was not Reason +that besieged Troy; it was not Reason that sent forth the Saracen +from the Desert to conquer the world; that inspired the Crusades; that +instituted the Monastic orders; it was not Reason that produced +the Jesuits; above all, it was not Reason that created the French +Revolution. Man is only truly great when he acts from the passions; +never irresistible but when he appeals to the imagination. Even Mormon +counts more votaries than Bentham.’ + +‘And you think, then, that as Imagination once subdued the State, +Imagination may now save it?’ + +‘Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not command him, if +you give him nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divinities, and +find a chieftain in his own passions.’ + +‘But where can we find faith in a nation of sectaries? Who can feel +loyalty to a sovereign of Downing Street?’ + +‘I speak of the eternal principles of human nature, you answer me with +the passing accidents of the hour. Sects rise and sects disappear. Where +are the Fifth-Monarchy men? England is governed by Downing Street; once +it was governed by Alfred and Elizabeth.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + + +About this time a steeple-chase in the West of England had attracted +considerable attention. This sport was then of recent introduction in +England, and is, in fact, an importation of Irish growth, although it +has flourished in our soil. A young guardsman, who was then a guest at +the Castle, and who had been in garrison in Ireland, had some experience +of this pastime in the Kildare country, and he proposed that they should +have a steeple-chase at Coningsby. This was a suggestion very agreeable +to the Marquess of Beaumanoir, celebrated for his feats of horsemanship, +and, indeed, to most of the guests. It was agreed that the race should +come off at once, before any of the present company, many of whom +gave symptoms of being on the wing, had quitted the Castle. The young +guardsman and Mr. Guy Flouncey had surveyed the country and had selected +a line which they esteemed very appropriate for the scene of action. +From a hill of common land you looked down upon the valley of Coningsby, +richly cultivated, deeply ditched, and stiffly fenced; the valley was +bounded by another rising ground, and the scene was admirably calculated +to give an extensive view to a multitude. + +The distance along the valley was to be two miles out, and home again; +the starting-post being also the winning-post, and the flags, which were +placed on every fence which the horses were to pass, were to be passed +on the left hand of the rider both going and coming; so that although +the horses had to leap the same fences forward and backward, they +could not come over the same place twice. In the last field before they +turned, was a brook seventeen feet clear from side to side, with good +taking off both banks. Here real business commenced. + +Lord Monmouth highly approved the scheme, but mentioned that the stakes +must be moderate, and open to the whole county. The neighbourhood had +a week of preparation, and the entries for the Coningsby steeple-chase +were numerous. Lord Monmouth, after a reserve for his own account, +placed his stable at the service of his guests. For himself, he offered +to back his horse, Sir Robert, which was to be ridden by his grandson. + +Now, nothing was spoken or thought of at Coningsby Castle except the +coming sport. The ladies shared the general excitement. They embroidered +handkerchiefs, and scarfs, and gloves, with the respective colours of +the rivals, and tried to make jockey-caps. Lady St. Julians postponed +her intended departure in consequence. Madame Colonna wished that some +means could be contrived by which they might all win. + +Sidonia, with the other competitors, had ridden over the ground and +glanced at the brook with the eye of a workman. On his return to the +Castle he sent a despatch for some of his stud. + +Coningsby was all anxiety to win. He was proud of the confidence of +his grandfather in backing him. He had a powerful horse and a firstrate +fencer, and he was resolved himself not to flinch. On the night before +the race, retiring somewhat earlier than usual to his chamber, he +observed on his dressing-table a small packet addressed to his name, and +in an unknown handwriting. Opening it, he found a pretty racing-jacket +embroidered with his colours of pink and white. This was a perplexing +circumstance, but he fancied it on the whole a happy omen. And who was +the donor? Certainly not the Princess Lucretia, for he had observed her +fashioning some maroon ribbons, which were the colours of Sidonia. It +could scarcely be from Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Perhaps Madame Colonna to +please the Marquess? Thinking over this incident he fell asleep. + +The morning before the race Sidonia’s horses arrived. All went to +examine them at the stables. Among them was an Arab mare. Coningsby +recognised the Daughter of the Star. She was greatly admired for her +points; but Guy Flouncey whispered to Mr. Melton that she never could do +the work. + +‘But Lord Beaumanoir says he is all for speed against strength in these +affairs,’ said Mr. Melton. + +Guy Flouncey smiled incredulously. + +The night before the race it rained rather heavily. + +‘I take it the country will not be very like the Deserts of Arabia,’ +said Mr. Guy Flouncey, with a knowing look to Mr. Melton, who was noting +a bet in his memorandum-book. + +The morning was fine, clear, and sunny, with a soft western breeze. The +starting-post was about three miles from the Castle; but, long before +the hour, the surrounding hills were covered with people; squire and +farmer; with no lack of their wives and daughters; many a hind in his +smock-frock, and many an ‘operative’ from the neighbouring factories. +The ‘gentlemen riders’ gradually arrived. The entries were very +numerous, though it was understood that not more than a dozen would +come to the post, and half of these were the guests of Lord Monmouth. +At half-past one the _cortège_ from the Castle arrived, and took up the +post which had been prepared for them on the summit of the hill. Lord +Monmouth was much cheered on his arrival. In the carriage with him +were Madame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. The Princess Lucretia, Lady +Gaythorp, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other +cavaliers, formed a brilliant company. There was scarcely a domestic +in the Castle who was not there. The comedians, indeed, did not care to +come, but Villebecque prevailed upon Flora to drive with him to the race +in a buggy he borrowed of the steward. + +The start was to be at two o’clock. The ‘gentlemen jockeys’ are +mustered. Never were riders mounted and appointed in better style. The +stewards and the clerk of the course attend them to the starting-post. +There they are now assembled. Guy Flouncey takes up his stirrup-leathers +a hole; Mr. Melton looks at his girths. In a few moments, the +irrevocable monosyllable will be uttered. + +The bugle sounds for them to face about; the clerk of the course sings +out, ‘Gentlemen, are you all ready?’ No objection made, the word given +to go, and fifteen riders start in excellent style. + +Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, took the lead, followed +close by a stout yeoman on an old white horse of great provincial +celebrity, who made steady running, and, from his appearance and action, +an awkward customer. The rest, with two exceptions, followed in a +cluster at no great distance, and in this order they continued, with +very slight variation, for the first two miles, though there were +several ox-fences, and one or two of them remarkably stiff. Indeed, they +appeared more like horses running over a course than over a country. The +two exceptions were Lord Beaumanoir on his horse Sunbeam, and Sidonia on +the Arab. These kept somewhat slightly in the rear. + +Almost in this wise they approached the dreaded brook. Indeed, with the +exception of the last two riders, who were about thirty yards behind, it +seemed that you might have covered the rest of the field with a sheet. +They arrived at the brook at the same moment: seventeen feet of water +between strong sound banks is no holiday work; but they charged with +unfaltering intrepidity. But what a revolution in their spirited order +did that instant produce! A masked battery of canister and grape could +not have achieved more terrible execution. Coningsby alone clearly +lighted on the opposing bank; but, for the rest of them, it seemed for a +moment that they were all in the middle of the brook, one over another, +splashing, kicking, swearing; every one trying to get out and keep +others in. Mr. Melton and the stout yeoman regained their saddles and +were soon again in chase. The Prince lost his horse, and was not alone +in his misfortune. Mr. Guy Flouncey lay on his back with a horse across +his diaphragm; only his head above the water, and his mouth full of +chickweed and dockleaves. And if help had not been at hand, he and +several others might have remained struggling in their watery bed for +a considerable period. In the midst of this turmoil, the Marquess and +Sidonia at the same moment cleared the brook. + +Affairs now became interesting. Here Coningsby took up the running, +Sidonia and the Marquess lying close at his quarters. Mr. Melton had +gone the wrong side of a flag, and the stout yeoman, though close at +hand, was already trusting much to his spurs. In the extreme distance +might be detected three or four stragglers. Thus they continued until +within three fields of home. A ploughed field finished the old white +horse; the yeoman struck his spurs to the rowels, but the only effect +of the experiment was, that the horse stood stock-still. Coningsby, +Sidonia, and the Marquess were now all together. The winning-post is in +sight, and a high and strong gate leads to the last field. Coningsby, +looking like a winner, gallantly dashed forward and sent Sir Robert at +the gate, but he had over-estimated his horse’s powers at this point of +the game, and a rattling fall was the consequence: however, horse and +rider were both on the right side, and Coningsby was in his saddle and +at work again in a moment. It seemed that the Marquess was winning. +There was only one more fence; and that the foot people had made a +breach in by the side of a gate-post, and wide enough, as was said, for +a broad-wheeled waggon to travel by. Instead of passing straight over +this gap, Sunbeam swerved against the gate and threw his rider. This +was decisive. The Daughter of the Star, who was still going beautifully, +pulling double, and her jockey sitting still, sprang over the gap +and went in first; Coningsby, on Sir Robert, being placed second. The +distance measured was about four miles; there were thirty-nine leaps; +and it was done under fifteen minutes. + +Lord Monmouth was well content with the prowess of his grandson, and +his extreme cordiality consoled Coningsby under a defeat which was very +vexatious. It was some alleviation that he was beaten by Sidonia. +Madame Colonna even shed tears at her young friend’s disappointment, and +mourned it especially for Lucretia, who had said nothing, though a flush +might be observed on her usually pale countenance. Villebecque, who had +betted, was so extremely excited by the whole affair, especially during +the last three minutes, that he quite forgot his quiet companion, and +when he looked round he found Flora fainting. + +‘You rode well,’ said Sidonia to Coningsby; ‘but your horse was more +strong than swift. After all, this thing is a race; and, notwithstanding +Solomon, in a race speed must win.’ + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + + +Notwithstanding the fatigues of the morning, the evening was passed with +great gaiety at the Castle. The gentlemen all vowed that, far from being +inconvenienced by their mishaps, they felt, on the whole, rather better +for them. Mr. Guy Flouncey, indeed, did not seem quite so limber +and flexible as usual; and the young guardsman, who had previously +discoursed in an almost alarming style of the perils and feats of the +Kildare country, had subsided into a remarkable reserve. The Provincials +were delighted with Sidonia’s riding, and even the Leicestershire +gentlemen admitted that he was a ‘customer.’ + +Lord Monmouth beckoned to Coningsby to sit by him on the sofa, and spoke +of his approaching University life. He gave his grandson a great deal of +good advice: told him to avoid drinking, especially if he ever chanced +to play cards, which he hoped he never would; urged the expediency of +never borrowing money, and of confining his loans to small sums, and +then only to friends of whom he wished to get rid; most particularly +impressed on him never to permit his feelings to be engaged by any +woman; nobody, he assured Coningsby, despised that weakness more than +women themselves. Indeed, feeling of any kind did not suit the present +age: it was not _bon ton_; and in some degree always made a man +ridiculous. Coningsby was always to have before him the possible +catastrophe of becoming ridiculous. It was the test of conduct, Lord +Monmouth said; a fear of becoming ridiculous is the best guide in life, +and will save a man from all sorts of scrapes. For the rest, Coningsby +was to appear at Cambridge as became Lord Monmouth’s favourite grandson. +His grandfather had opened an account for him with Drummonds’, on whom +he was to draw for his considerable allowance; and if by any chance he +found himself in a scrape, no matter of what kind, he was to be sure to +write to his grandfather, who would certainly get him out of it. + +‘Your departure is sudden,’ said the Princess Lucretia, in a low deep +tone to Sidonia, who was sitting by her side and screened from general +observation by the waltzers who whirled by. + +‘Departures should be sudden.’ + +‘I do not like departures,’ said the Princess. + +‘Nor did the Queen of Sheba when she quitted Solomon. You know what she +did?’ + +‘Tell me.’ + +‘She wept very much, and let one of the King’s birds fly into the +garden. “You are freed from your cage,” she said; “but I am going back +to mine.”’ + +‘But you never weep?’ said the Princess. + +‘Never.’ + +‘And are always free?’ + +‘So are men in the Desert.’ + +‘But your life is not a Desert?’ + +‘It at least resembles the Desert in one respect: it is useless.’ + +‘The only useless life is woman’s.’ + +‘Yet there have been heroines,’ said Sidonia. + +‘The Queen of Sheba,’ said the Princess, smiling. + +‘A favourite of mine,’ said Sidonia. + +‘And why was she a favourite of yours?’ rather eagerly inquired +Lucretia. + +‘Because she thought deeply, talked finely, and moved gracefully.’ + +‘And yet might be a very unfeeling dame at the same time,’ said the +Princess. + +‘I never thought of that,’ said Sidonia. + +‘The heart, apparently, does not reckon in your philosophy.’ + +‘What we call the heart,’ said Sidonia, ‘is a nervous sensation, like +shyness, which gradually disappears in society. It is fervent in the +nursery, strong in the domestic circle, tumultuous at school. The +affections are the children of ignorance; when the horizon of +our experience expands, and models multiply, love and admiration +imperceptibly vanish.’ + +‘I fear the horizon of your experience has very greatly expanded. With +your opinions, what charm can there be in life?’ + +‘The sense of existence.’ + +‘So Sidonia is off to-morrow, Monmouth,’ said Lord Eskdale. + +‘Hah!’ said the Marquess. ‘I must get him to breakfast with me before he +goes.’ + +The party broke up. Coningsby, who had heard Lord Eskdale announce +Sidonia’s departure, lingered to express his regret, and say farewell. + +‘I cannot sleep,’ said Sidonia, ‘and I never smoke in Europe. If you are +not stiff with your wounds, come to my rooms.’ + +This invitation was willingly accepted. + +‘I am going to Cambridge in a week,’ said Coningsby. I was almost in +hopes you might have remained as long.’ + +‘I also; but my letters of this morning demand me. If it had not been +for our chase, I should have quitted immediately. The minister +cannot pay the interest on the national debt; not an unprecedented +circumstance, and has applied to us. I never permit any business of +State to be transacted without my personal interposition; and so I must +go up to town immediately.’ + +‘Suppose you don’t pay it,’ said Coningsby, smiling. + +‘If I followed my own impulse, I would remain here,’ said Sidonia. ‘Can +anything be more absurd than that a nation should apply to an individual +to maintain its credit, and, with its credit, its existence as an +empire, and its comfort as a people; and that individual one to whom its +laws deny the proudest rights of citizenship, the privilege of sitting +in its senate and of holding land? for though I have been rash enough +to buy several estates, my own opinion is, that, by the existing law of +England, an Englishman of Hebrew faith cannot possess the soil.’ + +‘But surely it would be easy to repeal a law so illiberal--’ + +‘Oh! as for illiberality, I have no objection to it if it be an element +of power. Eschew political sentimentalism. What I contend is, that if +you permit men to accumulate property, and they use that permission to a +great extent, power is inseparable from that property, and it is in the +last degree impolitic to make it the interest of any powerful class to +oppose the institutions under which they live. The Jews, for example, +independently of the capital qualities for citizenship which they +possess in their industry, temperance, and energy and vivacity of mind, +are a race essentially monarchical, deeply religious, and shrinking +themselves from converts as from a calamity, are ever anxious to see +the religious systems of the countries in which they live flourish; +yet, since your society has become agitated in England, and powerful +combinations menace your institutions, you find the once loyal +Hebrew invariably arrayed in the same ranks as the leveller, and the +latitudinarian, and prepared to support the policy which may even +endanger his life and property, rather than tamely continue under a +system which seeks to degrade him. The Tories lose an important election +at a critical moment; ‘tis the Jews come forward to vote against them. +The Church is alarmed at the scheme of a latitudinarian university, and +learns with relief that funds are not forthcoming for its establishment; +a Jew immediately advances and endows it. Yet the Jews, Coningsby, +are essentially Tories. Toryism, indeed, is but copied from the mighty +prototype which has fashioned Europe. And every generation they must +become more powerful and more dangerous to the society which is hostile +to them. Do you think that the quiet humdrum persecution of a decorous +representative of an English university can crush those who have +successively baffled the Pharaohs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and the Feudal +ages? The fact is, you cannot destroy a pure race of the Caucasian +organisation. It is a physiological fact; a simple law of nature, which +has baffled Egyptian and Assyrian Kings, Roman Emperors, and Christian +Inquisitors. No penal laws, no physical tortures, can effect that a +superior race should be absorbed in an inferior, or be destroyed by it. +The mixed persecuting races disappear; the pure persecuted race remains. +And at this moment, in spite of centuries, of tens of centuries, of +degradation, the Jewish mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs +of Europe. I speak not of their laws, which you still obey; of their +literature, with which your minds are saturated; but of the living +Hebrew intellect. + +‘You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe in which +the Jews do not greatly participate. The first Jesuits were Jews; that +mysterious Russian Diplomacy which so alarms Western Europe is organised +and principally carried on by Jews; that mighty revolution which is at +this moment preparing in Germany, and which will be, in fact, a second +and greater Reformation, and of which so little is as yet known in +England, is entirely developing under the auspices of Jews, who almost +monopolise the professorial chairs of Germany. Neander, the founder of +Spiritual Christianity, and who is Regius Professor of Divinity in the +University of Berlin, is a Jew. Benary, equally famous, and in the same +University, is a Jew. Wehl, the Arabic Professor of Heidelberg, is a +Jew. Years ago, when I was In Palestine, I met a German student who was +accumulating materials for the History of Christianity, and studying +the genius of the place; a modest and learned man. It was Wehl; then +unknown, since become the first Arabic scholar of the day, and the +author of the life of Mahomet. But for the German professors of this +race, their name is Legion. I think there are more than ten at Berlin +alone. + +‘I told you just now that I was going up to town tomorrow, because I +always made it a rule to interpose when affairs of State were on +the carpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of peace and war in +newspapers, but I am never alarmed, except when I am informed that the +Sovereigns want treasure; then I know that monarchs are serious. + +‘A few years back we were applied, to by Russia. Now, there has been +no friendship between the Court of St. Petersburg and my family. It +has Dutch connections, which have generally supplied it; and our +representations in favour of the Polish Hebrews, a numerous race, but +the most suffering and degraded of all the tribes, have not been very +agreeable to the Czar. However, circumstances drew to an approximation +between the Romanoffs and the Sidonias. I resolved to go myself to St. +Petersburg. I had, on my arrival, an interview with the Russian Minister +of Finance, Count Cancrin; I beheld the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The +loan was connected with the affairs of Spain; I resolved on repairing to +Spain from Russia. I travelled without intermission. I had an audience +immediately on my arrival with the Spanish Minister, Senor Mendizabel; I +beheld one like myself, the son of a Nuevo Christiano, a Jew of Arragon. +In consequence of what transpired at Madrid, I went straight to Paris +to consult the President of the French Council; I beheld the son of a +French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, and very properly so, for who +should be military heroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts?’ + +‘And is Soult a Hebrew?’ + +‘Yes, and others of the French marshals, and the most famous; Massena, +for example; his real name was Manasseh: but to my anecdote. The +consequence of our consultations was, that some Northern power should +be applied to in a friendly and mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia; +and the President of the Council made an application to the Prussian +Minister, who attended a few days after our conference. Count Arnim +entered the cabinet, and I beheld a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear +Coningsby, that the world is governed by very different personages from +what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.’ + +‘You startle, and deeply interest me.’ + +‘You must study physiology, my dear child. Pure races of Caucasus may be +persecuted, but they cannot be despised, except by the brutal ignorance +of some mongrel breed, that brandishes fagots and howls extermination, +but is itself exterminated without persecution, by that irresistible law +of Nature which is fatal to curs.’ + +‘But I come also from Caucasus,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Verily; and thank your Creator for such a destiny: and your race is +sufficiently pure. You come from the shores of the Northern Sea, land +of the blue eye, and the golden hair, and the frank brow: ‘tis a +famous breed, with whom we Arabs have contended long; from whom we have +suffered much: but these Goths, and Saxons, and Normans were doubtless +great men.’ + +‘But so favoured by Nature, why has not your race produced great poets, +great orators, great writers?’ + +‘Favoured by Nature and by Nature’s God, we produced the lyre of David; +we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. +Favoured by Nature we still remain: but in exact proportion as we have +been favoured by Nature we have been persecuted by Man. After a thousand +struggles; after acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equalled; +deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have +never excelled; we have endured fifteen hundred years of supernatural +slavery, during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man has +been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child +has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that +ungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fine +portion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a +public; we have been content with the immortal melodies that we sung +more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They +record our triumphs; they solace our affliction. Great orators are the +creatures of popular assemblies; we were permitted only by stealth to +meet even in our temples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not +blank. What are all the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? And +as for modern philosophy, all springs from Spinoza. + +‘But the passionate and creative genius, that is the nearest link to +Divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert +it; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired +sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence; has found a +medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices and +your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, +the fancy teeming with combinations, the imagination fervent with +picture and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have +preserved unpolluted, have endowed us with almost the exclusive +privilege of Music; that science of harmonious sounds, which the +ancients recognised as most divine, and deified in the person of their +most beautiful creation. I speak not of the past; though, were I to +enter into the history of the lords of melody, you would find it the +annals of Hebrew genius. But at this moment even, musical Europe is +ours. There is not a company of singers, not an orchestra in a single +capital, that is not crowded with our children under the feigned names +which they adopt to conciliate the dark aversion which your posterity +will some day disclaim with shame and disgust. Almost every great +composer, skilled musician, almost every voice that ravishes you with +its transporting strains, springs from our tribes. The catalogue is too +vast to enumerate; too illustrious to dwell for a moment on secondary +names, however eminent. Enough for us that the three great creative +minds to whose exquisite inventions all nations at this moment yield, +Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, are of Hebrew race; and little do your +men of fashion, your muscadins of Paris, and your dandies of London, as +they thrill into raptures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi, little do +they suspect that they are offering their homage to “the sweet singers +of Israel!”’ + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + + +It was the noon of the day on which Sidonia was to leave the Castle. The +wind was high; the vast white clouds scudded over the blue heaven; the +leaves yet green, and tender branches snapped like glass, were whirled +in eddies from the trees; the grassy sward undulated like the ocean with +a thousand tints and shadows. From the window of the music-room Lucretia +Colonna gazed on the turbulent sky. + +The heaven of her heart, too, was disturbed. + +She turned from the agitated external world to ponder over her inward +emotion. She uttered a deep sigh. + +Slowly she moved towards her harp; wildly, almost unconsciously, she +touched with one hand its strings, while her eyes were fixed on the +ground. An imperfect melody resounded; yet plaintive and passionate. It +seemed to attract her soul. She raised her head, and then, touching +the strings with both her hands, she poured forth tones of deep, yet +thrilling power. + + ‘I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee? + To the castle of my fathers in the green mountains; to the palace of my + fathers in the ancient city? + There is no flag on the castle of my fathers in the green mountains, + silent is the palace of my fathers in the ancient city. + Is there no home for the homeless? Can the unloved never find love? + Ah! thou fliest away, fleet cloud: he will leave us swifter than thee! + Alas! cutting wind, thy breath is not so cold as his heart! + I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee?’ + +The door of the music-room slowly opened. It was Sidonia. His hat was in +his hand; he was evidently on the point of departure. + +‘Those sounds assured me,’ he said calmly but kindly, as he advanced, +‘that I might find you here, on which I scarcely counted at so early an +hour.’ + +‘You are going then?’ said the Princess. + +‘My carriage is at the door; the Marquess has delayed me; I must be in +London to-night. I conclude more abruptly than I could have wished one +of the most agreeable visits I ever made; and I hope you will permit +me to express to you how much I am indebted to you for a society which +those should deem themselves fortunate who can more frequently enjoy.’ + +He held forth his hand; she extended hers, cold as marble, which he bent +over, but did not press to his lips. + +‘Lord Monmouth talks of remaining here some time,’ he observed; ‘but I +suppose next year, if not this, we shall all meet in some city of the +earth?’ + +Lucretia bowed; and Sidonia, with a graceful reverence, withdrew. + +The Princess Lucretia stood for some moments motionless; a sound +attracted her to the window; she perceived the equipage of Sidonia +whirling along the winding roads of the park. She watched it till it +disappeared; then quitting the window, she threw herself into a chair, +and buried her face in her shawl. + +END OF BOOK IV. + + + + +BOOK V. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +An University life did not bring to Coningsby that feeling of +emancipation usually experienced by freshmen. The contrast between +school and college life is perhaps, under any circumstances, less +striking to the Etonian than to others: he has been prepared for +becoming his own master by the liberty wisely entrusted to him in his +boyhood, and which is, in general, discreetly exercised. But there were +also other reasons why Coningsby should have been less impressed with +the novelty of his life, and have encountered less temptations than +commonly are met with in the new existence which an University opens to +youth. In the interval which had elapsed between quitting Eton and going +to Cambridge, brief as the period may comparatively appear, Coningsby +had seen much of the world. Three or four months, indeed, may not seem, +at the first blush, a course of time which can very materially influence +the formation of character; but time must not be counted by calendars, +but by sensations, by thought. Coningsby had felt a good deal, reflected +more. He had encountered a great number of human beings, offering a vast +variety of character for his observation. It was not merely manners, but +even the intellectual and moral development of the human mind, which +in a great degree, unconsciously to himself, had been submitted to his +study and his scrutiny. New trains of ideas had been opened to him; his +mind was teeming with suggestions. The horizon of his intelligence had +insensibly expanded. He perceived that there were other opinions in the +world, besides those to which he had been habituated. The depths of his +intellect had been stirred. He was a wiser man. + +He distinguished three individuals whose acquaintance had greatly +influenced his mind; Eustace Lyle, the elder Millbank, above all, +Sidonia. He curiously meditated over the fact, that three English +subjects, one of them a principal landed proprietor, another one of the +most eminent manufacturers, and the third the greatest capitalist in the +kingdom, all of them men of great intelligence, and doubtless of a +high probity and conscience, were in their hearts disaffected with the +political constitution of the country. Yet, unquestionably, these were +the men among whom we ought to seek for some of our first citizens. +What, then, was this repulsive quality in those institutions which we +persisted in calling national, and which once were so? Here was a great +question. + +There was another reason, also, why Coningsby should feel a little +fastidious among his new habits, and, without being aware of it, a +little depressed. For three or four months, and for the first time in +his life, he had passed his time in the continual society of refined and +charming women. It is an acquaintance which, when habitual, exercises a +great influence over the tone of the mind, even if it does not produce +any more violent effects. It refines the taste, quickens the perception, +and gives, as it were, a grace and flexibility to the intellect. +Coningsby in his solitary rooms arranging his books, sighed when he +recalled the Lady Everinghams and the Lady Theresas; the gracious +Duchess; the frank, good-natured Madame Colonna; that deeply interesting +enigma the Princess Lucretia; and the gentle Flora. He thought with +disgust of the impending dissipation of an University, which could only +be an exaggeration of their coarse frolics at school. It seemed rather +vapid this mighty Cambridge, over which they had so often talked in +the playing fields of Eton, with such anticipations of its vast and +absorbing interest. And those University honours that once were the +great object of his aspirations, they did not figure in that grandeur +with which they once haunted his imagination. + +What Coningsby determined to conquer was knowledge. He had watched the +influence of Sidonia in society with an eye of unceasing vigilance. +Coningsby perceived that all yielded to him; that Lord Monmouth even, +who seemed to respect none, gave place to his intelligence; appealed +to him, listened to him, was guided by him. What was the secret of this +influence? Knowledge. On all subjects, his views were prompt and clear, +and this not more from his native sagacity and reach of view, than from +the aggregate of facts which rose to guide his judgment and illustrate +his meaning, from all countries and all ages, instantly at his command. + +The friends of Coningsby were now hourly arriving. It seemed when he +met them again, that they had all suddenly become men since they had +separated; Buckhurst especially. He had been at Paris, and returned with +his mind very much opened, and trousers made quite in a new style. All +his thoughts were, how soon he could contrive to get back again; and +he told them endless stories of actresses, and dinners at fashionable +_cafés_. Vere enjoyed Cambridge most, because he had been staying +with his family since he quitted Eton. Henry Sydney was full of +church architecture, national sports, restoration of the order of the +Peasantry, and was to maintain a constant correspondence on these and +similar subjects with Eustace Lyle. Finally, however, they all fell into +a very fair, regular, routine life. They all read a little, but not +with the enthusiasm which they had once projected. Buckhurst drove +four-in-hand, and they all of them sometimes assisted him; but not +immoderately. Their suppers were sometimes gay, but never outrageous; +and, among all of them, the school friendship was maintained unbroken, +and even undisturbed. + +The fame of Coningsby preceded him at Cambridge. No man ever went up +from whom more was expected in every way. The dons awaited a sucking +member for the University, the undergraduates were prepared to welcome +a new Alcibiades. He was neither: neither a prig nor a profligate; but +a quiet, gentlemanlike, yet spirited young man, gracious to all, but +intimate only with his old friends, and giving always an impression in +his general tone that his soul was not absorbed in his University. + +And yet, perhaps, he might have been coddled into a prig, or flattered +into a profligate, had it not been for the intervening experience which +he had gained between his school and college life. That had visibly +impressed upon him, what before he had only faintly acquired from books, +that there was a greater and more real world awaiting him, than to be +found in those bowers of Academus to which youth is apt at first to +attribute an exaggerated importance. A world of action and passion, +of power and peril; a world for which a great preparation was indeed +necessary, severe and profound, but not altogether such an one as was +now offered to him. Yet this want must be supplied, and by himself. +Coningsby had already acquirements sufficiently considerable, with some +formal application, to ensure him at all times his degree. He was no +longer engrossed by the intention he once proudly entertained of trying +for honours, and he chalked out for himself that range of reading, +which, digested by his thought, should furnish him in some degree with +that various knowledge of the history of man to which he aspired. No, we +must not for a moment believe that accident could have long diverted +the course of a character so strong. The same desire that prevented the +Castle of his grandfather from proving a Castle of Indolence to +him, that saved him from a too early initiation into the seductive +distractions of a refined and luxurious society, would have preserved +Coningsby from the puerile profligacy of a college life, or from being +that idol of private tutors, a young pedant. It was that noble ambition, +the highest and the best, that must be born in the heart and organised +in the brain, which will not let a man be content, unless his +intellectual power is recognised by his race, and desires that it should +contribute to their welfare. It is the heroic feeling; the feeling that +in old days produced demigods; without which no State is safe; without +which political institutions are meat without salt; the Crown a +bauble, the Church an establishment, Parliaments debating-clubs, and +Civilisation itself but a fitful and transient dream. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Less than a year after the arrival of Coningsby at Cambridge, and which +he had only once quitted in the interval, and that to pass a short +time in Berkshire with his friend Buckhurst, occurred the death of +King William IV. This event necessarily induced a dissolution of the +Parliament, elected under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel in 1834, and +after the publication of the Tamworth Manifesto. + +The death of the King was a great blow to what had now come to be +generally styled the ‘Conservative Cause.’ It was quite unexpected; +within a fortnight of his death, eminent persons still believed that +‘it was only the hay-fever.’ Had his Majesty lived until after the then +impending registration, the Whigs would have been again dismissed. Nor +is there any doubt that, under these circumstances, the Conservative +Cause would have secured for the new ministers a parliamentary majority. +What would have been the consequences to the country, if the four years +of Whig rule, from 1837 to 1841, had not occurred? It is easier to +decide what would have been the consequences to the Whigs. Some of their +great friends might have lacked blue ribbons and lord-lieutenancies, +and some of their little friends comfortable places in the Customs and +Excise. They would have lost, undoubtedly, the distribution of four +years’ patronage; we can hardly say the exercise of four years’ power; +but they would have existed at this moment as the most powerful and +popular Opposition that ever flourished in this country, if, indeed, the +course of events had not long ere this carried them back to their old +posts in a proud and intelligible position. The Reform Bill did not +do more injury to the Tories, than the attempt to govern this country +without a decided Parliamentary majority did the Whigs. The greatest of +all evils is a weak government. They cannot carry good measures, they +are forced to carry bad ones. + +The death of the King was a great blow to the Conservative Cause; that +is to say, it darkened the brow of Tadpole, quailed the heart of Taper, +crushed all the rising hopes of those numerous statesmen who believe +the country must be saved if they receive twelve hundred a-year. It is a +peculiar class, that; 1,200_l._ per annum, paid quarterly, is their idea +of political science and human nature. To receive 1,200_l._ per annum is +government; to try to receive 1,200_l._ per annum is opposition; to wish +to receive 1,200_l._ per annum is ambition. If a man wants to get into +Parliament, and does not want to get 1,200_l._ per annum, they look upon +him as daft; as a benighted being. They stare in each other’s face, +and ask, ‘What can ***** want to get into Parliament for?’ They have no +conception that public reputation is a motive power, and with many men +the greatest. They have as much idea of fame or celebrity, even of the +masculine impulse of an honourable pride, as eunuchs of manly joys. + +The twelve-hundred-a-yearers were in despair about the King’s death. +Their loyal souls were sorely grieved that his gracious Majesty had not +outlived the Registration. All their happy inventions about ‘hay-fever,’ +circulated in confidence, and sent by post to chairmen of Conservative +Associations, followed by a royal funeral! General election about to +take place with the old registration; government boroughs against them, +and the young Queen for a cry. What a cry! Youth, beauty, and a Queen! +Taper grew pale at the thought. What could they possibly get up to +countervail it? Even Church and Corn-laws together would not do; and +then Church was sulky, for the Conservative Cause had just made it a +present of a commission, and all that the country gentlemen knew of +Conservatism was, that it would not repeal the Malt Tax, and had made +them repeal their pledges. Yet a cry must be found. A dissolution +without a cry, in the Taper philosophy, would be a world without a sun. +A rise might be got by ‘Independence of the House of Lords;’ and Lord +Lyndhurst’s summaries might be well circulated at one penny per hundred, +large discount allowed to Conservative Associations, and endless credit. +Tadpole, however, was never very fond of the House of Lords; besides, it +was too limited. Tadpole wanted the young Queen brought in; the rogue! +At length, one morning, Taper came up to him with a slip of paper, and a +smile of complacent austerity on his dull visage, ‘I think, Mr. Tadpole, +that will do!’ + +Tadpole took the paper and read, ‘OUR YOUNG QUEEN, AND OUR OLD +INSTITUTIONS.’ + +The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had met a gnomic sentence of +Periander or Thales; then turning to Taper, he said, + +‘What do you think of “ancient,” instead of “old”?’ + +‘You cannot have “Our modern Queen and our ancient Institutions,”’ said +Mr. Taper. + +The dissolution was soon followed by an election for the borough of +Cambridge. The Conservative Cause candidate was an old Etonian. That was +a bond of sympathy which imparted zeal even to those who were a little +sceptical of the essential virtues of Conservatism. Every undergraduate +especially who remembered ‘the distant spires,’ became enthusiastic. +Buckhurst took a very decided part. He cheered, he canvassed, he brought +men to the poll whom none could move; he influenced his friends and +his companions. Even Coningsby caught the contagion, and Vere, who had +imbibed much of Coningsby’s political sentiment, prevailed on himself to +be neutral. The Conservative Cause triumphed in the person of its Eton +champion. The day the member was chaired, several men in Coningsby’s +rooms were talking over their triumph. + +‘By Jove!’ said the panting Buckhurst, throwing himself on the sofa, ‘it +was well done; never was any thing better done. An immense triumph! The +greatest triumph the Conservative Cause has had. And yet,’ he added, +laughing, ‘if any fellow were to ask me what the Conservative Cause is, +I am sure I should not know what to say.’ + +‘Why, it is the cause of our glorious institutions,’ said Coningsby. ‘A +Crown robbed of its prerogatives; a Church controlled by a commission; +and an Aristocracy that does not lead.’ + +‘Under whose genial influence the order of the Peasantry, “a country’s +pride,” has vanished from the face of the land,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘and +is succeeded by a race of serfs, who are called labourers, and who burn +ricks.’ + +‘Under which,’ continued Coningsby, ‘the Crown has become a cipher; the +Church a sect; the Nobility drones; and the People drudges.’ + +‘It is the great constitutional cause,’ said Lord Vere, ‘that refuses +everything to opposition; yields everything to agitation; conservative +in Parliament, destructive out-of-doors; that has no objection to any +change provided only it be effected by unauthorised means.’ + +‘The first public association of men,’ said Coningsby, ‘who have worked +for an avowed end without enunciating a single principle.’ + +‘And who have established political infidelity throughout the land,’ +said Lord Henry. + +‘By Jove!’ said Buckhurst, ‘what infernal fools we have made ourselves +this last week!’ + +‘Nay,’ said Coningsby, smiling, ‘it was our last schoolboy weakness. +Floreat Etona, under all circumstances.’ + +‘I certainly, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, ‘shall not assume the +Conservative Cause, instead of the cause for which Hampden died in the +field, and Sydney on the scaffold.’ + +‘The cause for which Hampden died in the field and Sydney on the +scaffold,’ said Coningsby, ‘was the cause of the Venetian Republic.’ + +‘How, how?’ cried Buckhurst. + +‘I repeat it,’ said Coningsby. ‘The great object of the Whig leaders +in England from the first movement under Hampden to the last most +successful one in 1688, was to establish in England a high aristocratic +republic on the model of the Venetian, then the study and admiration of +all speculative politicians. Read Harrington; turn over Algernon +Sydney; then you will see how the minds of the English leaders in the +seventeenth century were saturated with the Venetian type. And they at +length succeeded. William III. found them out. He told the Whig leaders, +“I will not be a Doge.” He balanced parties; he baffled them as the +Puritans baffled them fifty years before. The reign of Anne was a +struggle between the Venetian and the English systems. Two great Whig +nobles, Argyle and Somerset, worthy of seats in the Council of Ten, +forced their Sovereign on her deathbed to change the ministry. They +accomplished their object. They brought in a new family on their own +terms. George I. was a Doge; George II. was a Doge; they were what +William III., a great man, would not be. George III. tried not to be +a Doge, but it was impossible materially to resist the deeply-laid +combination. He might get rid of the Whig magnificoes, but he could not +rid himself of the Venetian constitution. And a Venetian constitution +did govern England from the accession of the House of Hanover until +1832. Now I do not ask you, Vere, to relinquish the political tenets +which in ordinary times would have been your inheritance. All I say is, +the constitution introduced by your ancestors having been subverted by +their descendants your contemporaries, beware of still holding Venetian +principles of government when you have not a Venetian constitution to +govern with. Do what I am doing, what Henry Sydney and Buckhurst are +doing, what other men that I could mention are doing, hold yourself +aloof from political parties which, from the necessity of things, have +ceased to have distinctive principles, and are therefore practically +only factions; and wait and see, whether with patience, energy, honour, +and Christian faith, and a desire to look to the national welfare and +not to sectional and limited interests; whether, I say, we may not +discover some great principles to guide us, to which we may adhere, and +which then, if true, will ultimately guide and control others.’ + +‘The Whigs are worn out,’ said Vere, ‘Conservatism is a sham, and +Radicalism is pollution.’ + +‘I certainly,’ said Buckhurst, ‘when I get into the House of Commons, +shall speak my mind without reference to any party whatever; and all +I hope is, we may all come in at the same time, and then we may make a +party of our own.’ + +‘I have always heard my father say,’ said Vere, ‘that there was nothing +so difficult as to organise an independent party in the House of +Commons.’ + +‘Ay! but that was in the Venetian period, Vere,’ said Henry Sydney, +smiling. + +‘I dare say,’ said Buckhurst, ‘the only way to make a party in the +House of Commons is just the one that succeeds anywhere else. Men must +associate together. When you are living in the same set, dining together +every day, and quizzing the Dons, it is astonishing how well men +agree. As for me, I never would enter into a conspiracy, unless the +conspirators were fellows who had been at Eton with me; and then there +would be no treachery.’ + +‘Let us think of principles, and not of parties,’ said Coningsby. + +‘For my part,’ said Buckhurst, ‘whenever a political system is breaking +up, as in this country at present, I think the very best thing is to +brush all the old Dons off the stage. They never take to the new road +kindly. They are always hampered by their exploded prejudices and +obsolete traditions. I don’t think a single man, Vere, that sat in the +Venetian Senate ought to be allowed to sit in the present English House +of Commons.’ + +‘Well, no one does in our family except my uncle Philip,’ said Lord +Henry; ‘and the moment I want it, he will resign; for he detests +Parliament. It interferes so with his hunting.’ + +‘Well, we all have fair parliamentary prospects,’ said Buckhurst. ‘That +is something. I wish we were in now.’ + +‘Heaven forbid!’ said Coningsby. ‘I tremble at the responsibility of a +seat at any time. With my present unsettled and perplexed views, there +is nothing from which I should recoil so much as the House of Commons.’ + +‘I quite agree with you,’ said Henry Sydney. ‘The best thing we can do +is to keep as clear of political party as we possibly can. How many +men waste the best part of their lives in painfully apologising for +conscientious deviation from a parliamentary course which they adopted +when they were boys, without thought, or prompted by some local +connection, or interest, to secure a seat.’ + +It was the midnight following the morning when this conversation +took place, that Coningsby, alone, and having just quitted a rather +boisterous party of wassailers who had been celebrating at Buckhurst’s +rooms the triumph of ‘Eton Statesmen,’ if not of Conservative +principles, stopped in the precincts of that Royal College that reminded +him of his schooldays, to cool his brow in the summer air, that even +at that hour was soft, and to calm his mind in the contemplation of the +still, the sacred, and the beauteous scene that surrounded him. + +There rose that fane, the pride and boast of Cambridge, not unworthy +to rank among the chief temples of Christendom. Its vast form was +exaggerated in the uncertain hour; part shrouded in the deepest +darkness, while a flood of silver light suffused its southern side, +distinguished with revealing beam the huge ribs of its buttresses, and +bathed with mild lustre its airy pinnacles. + +‘Where is the spirit that raised these walls?’ thought Coningsby. ‘Is it +indeed extinct? Is then this civilisation, so much vaunted, inseparable +from moderate feelings and little thoughts? If so, give me back +barbarism! But I cannot believe it. Man that is made in the image of the +Creator, is made for God-like deeds. Come what come may, I will cling to +the heroic principle. It can alone satisfy my soul.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +We must now revert to the family, or rather the household, of Lord +Monmouth, in which considerable changes and events had occurred since +the visit of Coningsby to the Castle in the preceding autumn. + +In the first place, the earliest frost of the winter had carried off +the aged proprietor of Hellingsley, that contiguous estate which Lord +Monmouth so much coveted, the possession of which was indeed one of the +few objects of his life, and to secure which he was prepared to pay +far beyond its intrinsic value, great as that undoubtedly was. Yet Lord +Monmouth did not become its possessor. Long as his mind had been intent +upon the subject, skilful as had been his combinations to secure his +prey, and unlimited the means which were to achieve his purpose, another +stepped in, and without his privity, without even the consolation of a +struggle, stole away the prize; and this too a man whom he hated, almost +the only individual out of his own family that he did hate; a man who +had crossed him before in similar enterprises; who was his avowed foe; +had lavished treasure to oppose him in elections; raised associations +against his interest; established journals to assail him; denounced him +in public; agitated against him in private; had declared more than +once that he would make ‘the county too hot for him;’ his personal, +inveterate, indomitable foe, Mr. Millbank of Millbank. + +The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disappointment to Lord Monmouth; +but the loss of it to such an adversary touched him to the quick. He did +not seek to control his anger; he could not succeed even in concealing +his agitation. He threw upon Rigby that glance so rare with him, but +under which men always quailed; that play of the eye which Lord Monmouth +shared in common with Henry VIII., that struck awe into the trembling +Commons when they had given an obnoxious vote, as the King entered the +gallery of his palace, and looked around him. + +It was a look which implied that dreadful question, ‘Why have I bought +you that such things should happen? Why have I unlimited means and +unscrupulous agents?’ It made Rigby even feel; even his brazen tones +were hushed. + +To fly from everything disagreeable was the practical philosophy of Lord +Monmouth; but he was as brave as he was sensual. He would not shrink +before the new proprietor of Hellingsley. He therefore remained at +the Castle with an aching heart, and redoubled his hospitalities. An +ordinary mind might have been soothed by the unceasing consideration and +the skilful and delicate flattery that ever surrounded Lord Monmouth; +but his sagacious intelligence was never for a moment the dupe of his +vanity. He had no self-love, and as he valued no one, there were really +no feelings to play upon. He saw through everybody and everything; and +when he had detected their purpose, discovered their weakness or their +vileness, he calculated whether they could contribute to his pleasure +or his convenience in a degree that counterbalanced the objections which +might be urged against their intentions, or their less pleasing and +profitable qualities. To be pleased was always a principal object with +Lord Monmouth; but when a man wants vengeance, gay amusement is not +exactly a satisfactory substitute. + +A month elapsed. Lord Monmouth with a serene or smiling visage to his +guests, but in private taciturn and morose, scarcely ever gave a word +to Mr. Rigby, but continually bestowed on him glances which painfully +affected the appetite of that gentleman. In a hundred ways it was +intimated to Mr. Rigby that he was not a welcome guest, and yet +something was continually given him to do which rendered it impossible +for him to take his departure. In this state of affairs, another event +occurred which changed the current of feeling, and by its possible +consequences distracted the Marquess from his brooding meditations over +his discomfiture in the matter of Hellingsley. The Prince Colonna, who, +since the steeple-chase, had imbibed a morbid predilection for such +amusements, and indeed for every species of rough-riding, was thrown +from his horse and killed on the spot. + +This calamity broke up the party at Coningsby, which was not at the +moment very numerous. Mr. Rigby, by command, instantly seized the +opportunity of preventing the arrival of other guests who were expected. +This catastrophe was the cause of Mr. Rigby resuming in a great measure +his old position in the Castle. There were a great many things to +be done, and all disagreeable; he achieved them all, and studied +everybody’s convenience. Coroners’ inquests, funerals especially, +weeping women, these were all spectacles which Lord Monmouth could not +endure, but he was so high-bred, that he would not for the world +that there should be in manner or degree the slightest deficiency in +propriety or even sympathy. But he wanted somebody to do everything that +was proper; to be considerate and consoling and sympathetic. Mr. Rigby +did it all; gave evidence at the inquest, was chief mourner at the +funeral, and arranged everything so well that not a single emblem of +death crossed the sight of Lord Monmouth; while Madame Colonna found +submission in his exhortations, and the Princess Lucretia, a little more +pale and pensive than usual, listened with tranquillity to his discourse +on the vanity of all sublunary things. + +When the tumult had subsided, and habits and feelings had fallen into +their old routine and relapsed into their ancient channels, the +Marquess proposed that they should all return to London, and with great +formality, though with warmth, begged that Madame Colonna would ever +consider his roof as her own. All were glad to quit the Castle, which +now presented a scene so different from its former animation, and Madame +Colonna, weeping, accepted the hospitality of her friend, until the +impending expansion of the spring would permit her to return to Italy. +This notice of her return to her own country seemed to occasion the +Marquess great disquietude. + +After they had remained about a month in London, Madame Colonna sent +for Mr. Rigby one morning to tell him how very painful it was to her +feelings to remain under the roof of Monmouth House without the sanction +of a husband; that the circumstance of being a foreigner, under such +unusual affliction, might have excused, though not authorised, the step +at first, and for a moment; but that the continuance of such a course +was quite out of the question; that she owed it to herself, to her +step-child, no longer to trespass on this friendly hospitality, which, +if persisted in, might be liable to misconstruction. Mr. Rigby +listened with great attention to this statement, and never in the least +interrupted Madame Colonna; and then offered to do that which he was +convinced the lady desired, namely, to make the Marquess acquainted with +the painful state of her feelings. This he did according to his fashion, +and with sufficient dexterity. Mr. Rigby himself was anxious to +know which way the wind blew, and the mission with which he had been +entrusted, fell in precisely with his inclinations and necessities. The +Marquess listened to the communication and sighed, then turned gently +round and surveyed himself in the mirror and sighed again, then said to +Rigby, + +‘You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby. It is quite ridiculous their +going, and infinitely distressing to me. They must stay.’ + +Rigby repaired to the Princess full of mysterious bustle, and with a +face beaming with importance and satisfaction. He made much of the +two sighs; fully justified the confidence of the Marquess in his +comprehension of unexplained intentions; prevailed on Madame Colonna to +have some regard for the feelings of one so devoted; expatiated on the +insignificance of worldly misconstructions, when replied to by such +honourable intentions; and fully succeeded in his mission. They did +stay. Month after month rolled on, and still they stayed; every +month all the family becoming more resigned or more content, and more +cheerful. As for the Marquess himself, Mr. Rigby never remembered him +more serene and even joyous. His Lordship scarcely ever entered general +society. The Colonna family remained in strict seclusion; and he +preferred the company of these accomplished and congenial friends to the +mob of the great world. + +Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby there had always subsisted +considerable confidence. Now, that gentleman seemed to have achieved +fresh and greater claims to her regard. In the pleasure with which he +looked forward to her approaching alliance with his patron, he reminded +her of the readiness with which he had embraced her suggestions for the +marriage of her daughter with Coningsby. Always obliging, she was never +wearied of chanting his praises to her noble admirer, who was apparently +much gratified she should have bestowed her esteem on one of whom she +would necessarily in after-life see so much. It is seldom the lot of +husbands that their confidential friends gain the regards of their +brides. + +‘I am glad you all like Rigby,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘as you will see so +much of him.’ + +The remembrance of the Hellingsley failure seemed to be erased from the +memory of the Marquess. Rigby never recollected him more cordial and +confidential, and more equable in his manner. He told Rigby one day, +that he wished that Monmouth House should possess the most sumptuous +and the most fanciful boudoir in London or Paris. What a hint for Rigby! +That gentleman consulted the first artists, and gave them some hints in +return; his researches on domestic decoration ranged through all +ages; he even meditated a rapid tour to mature his inventions; but his +confidence in his native taste and genius ultimately convinced him that +this movement was unnecessary. + +The summer advanced; the death of the King occurred; the dissolution +summoned Rigby to Coningsby and the borough of Darlford. His success was +marked certain in the secret books of Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturing +town, enfranchised under the Reform Act, already gained by the +Conservative cause! Here was reaction; here influence of property! +Influence of character, too; for no one was so popular as Lord Monmouth; +a most distinguished nobleman of strict Conservative principles, who, +if he carried the county and the manufacturing borough also, merited the +strawberry-leaf. + +‘There will be no holding Rigby,’ said Taper; ‘I’m afraid he will be +looking for something very high.’ + +‘The higher the better,’ rejoined Tadpole, ‘and then he will not +interfere with us. I like your high-flyers; it is your plodders I +detest, wearing old hats and high-lows, speaking in committee, and +thinking they are men of business: d----n them!’ + +Rigby went down, and made some impressive speeches; at least they read +very well in some of his second-rate journals, where all the uproar +figured as loud cheering, and the interruption of a cabbage-stalk was +represented as a question from some intelligent individual in the crowd. +The fact is, Rigby bored his audience too much with history, especially +with the French Revolution, which he fancied was his ‘forte,’ so that +the people at last, whenever he made any allusion to the subject, were +almost as much terrified as if they had seen the guillotine. + +Rigby had as yet one great advantage; he had no opponent; and without +personal opposition, no contest can be very bitter. It was for some days +Rigby _versus_ Liberal principles; and Rigby had much the best of it; +for he abused Liberal principles roundly in his harangues, who, not +being represented on the occasion, made no reply; while plenty of ale, +and some capital songs by Lucian Gay, who went down express, gave the +right cue to the mob, who declared in chorus, beneath the windows of +Rigby’s hotel, that he was ‘a fine old English gentleman!’ + +But there was to be a contest; no question about that, and a sharp +one, although Rigby was to win, and well. The Liberal party had been so +fastidious about their new candidate, that they had none ready though +several biting. Jawster Sharp thought at one time that sheer necessity +would give him another chance still; but even Rigby was preferable to +Jawster Sharp, who, finding it would not do, published his long-prepared +valedictory address, in which he told his constituents, that having long +sacrificed his health to their interests, he was now obliged to retire +into the bosom of his family. And a very well-provided-for family, too. + +All this time the Liberal deputation from Darlford, two aldermen, three +town-councillors, and the Secretary of the Reform Association, were +walking about London like mad things, eating luncheons and looking for +a candidate. They called at the Reform Club twenty times in the morning, +badgered whips and red-tapers; were introduced to candidates, badgered +candidates; examined would-be members as if they were at a cattle-show, +listened to political pedigrees, dictated political pledges, referred +to Hansard to see how men had voted, inquired whether men had spoken, +finally discussed terms. But they never could hit the right man. If +the principles were right, there was no money; and if money were ready, +money would not take pledges. In fact, they wanted a Phoenix: a very +rich man, who would do exactly as they liked, with extremely low +opinions and with very high connections. + +‘If he would go for the ballot and had a handle to his name, it would +have the best effect,’ said the secretary of the Reform Association, +‘because you see we are fighting against a Right Honourable, and you +have no idea how that takes with the mob.’ + +The deputation had been three days in town, and urged by despatches +by every train to bring affairs to a conclusion; jaded, perplexed, +confused, they were ready to fall into the hands of the first jobber +or bold adventurer. They discussed over their dinner at a Strand +coffee-house the claims of the various candidates who had presented +themselves. Mr. Donald Macpherson Macfarlane, who would only pay the +legal expenses; he was soon despatched. Mr. Gingerly Browne, of Jermyn +Street, the younger son of a baronet, who would go as far as 1000_l._ +provided the seat was secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, 2000_l._ man; +but would not agree to any annual subscriptions. Sir Baptist Placid, +vague about expenditure, but repeatedly declaring that ‘there could +be no difficulty on that head.’ He however had a moral objection to +subscribing to the races, and that was a great point at Darlford. Sir +Baptist would subscribe a guinea per annum to the infirmary, and the +same to all religious societies without any distinction of sects; but +races, it was not the sum, 100_l._ per annum, but the principle. He had +a moral objection. + +In short, the deputation began to suspect, what was the truth, that they +were a day after the fair, and that all the electioneering rips that +swarm in the purlieus of political clubs during an impending dissolution +of Parliament, men who become political characters in their small circle +because they have been talked of as once having an intention to stand +for places for which they never offered themselves, or for having stood +for places where they never could by any circumstance have succeeded, +were in fact nibbling at their dainty morsel. + +At this moment of despair, a ray of hope was imparted to them by a +confidential note from a secretary of the Treasury, who wished to +see them at the Reform Club on the morrow. You may be sure they were +punctual to their appointment. The secretary received them with great +consideration. He had got them a candidate, and one of high mark, the +son of a Peer, and connected with the highest Whig houses. Their eyes +sparkled. A real honourable. If they liked he would introduce them +immediately to the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. He had only to introduce +them, as there was no difficulty either as to means or opinions, +expenses or pledges. + +The secretary returned with a young gentleman, whose diminutive stature +would seem, from his smooth and singularly puerile countenance, to be +merely the consequence of his very tender years; but Mr. De Crecy was +really of age, or at least would be by nomination-day. He did not say +a word, but looked like the rosebud which dangled in the button-hole of +his frock-coat. The aldermen and town-councillors were what is +sometimes emphatically styled flabbergasted; they were speechless from +bewilderment. ‘Mr. De Crecy will go for the ballot,’ said the secretary +of the Treasury, with an audacious eye and a demure look, ‘and for Total +and Immediate, if you press him hard; but don’t, if you can help it, +because he has an uncle, an old county member, who has prejudices, and +might disinherit him. However, we answer for him. And I am very happy +that I have been the means of bringing about an arrangement which, +I feel, will be mutually advantageous.’ And so saying, the secretary +effected his escape. + +Circumstances, however, retarded for a season the political career of +the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. While the Liberal party at Darlford +were suffering under the daily inflictions of Mr. Rigby’s slashing +style, and the post brought them very unsatisfactory prospects of a +champion, one offered himself, and in an address which intimated that he +was no man of straw, likely to recede from any contest in which he +chose to embark. The town was suddenly placarded with a letter to +the Independent Electors from Mr. Millbank, the new proprietor of +Hellingsley. + +He expressed himself as one not anxious to obtrude himself on their +attention, and founding no claim to their confidence on his recent +acquisition; but at the same time as one resolved that the free and +enlightened community, with which he must necessarily hereafter be much +connected, should not become the nomination borough of any Peer of the +realm without a struggle, if they chose to make one. And so he offered +himself if they could not find a better candidate, without waiting for +the ceremony of a requisition. He was exactly the man they wanted; and +though he had ‘no handle to his name,’ and was somewhat impracticable +about pledges, his fortune was so great, and his character so high, that +it might be hoped that the people would be almost as content as if +they were appealed to by some obscure scion of factitious nobility, +subscribing to political engagements which he could not comprehend, +and which, in general, are vomited with as much facility as they are +swallowed. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +The people of Darlford, who, as long as the contest for their +representation remained between Mr. Rigby and the abstraction called +Liberal Principles, appeared to be very indifferent about the result, +the moment they learned that for the phrase had been substituted a +substance, and that, too, in the form of a gentleman who was soon +to figure as their resident neighbour, became excited, speedily +enthusiastic. All the bells of all the churches rang when Mr. Millbank +commenced his canvass; the Conservatives, on the alert, if not alarmed, +insisted on their champion also showing himself in all directions; and +in the course of four-and-twenty hours, such is the contagion of popular +feeling, the town was divided into two parties, the vast majority of +which were firmly convinced that the country could only be saved by the +return of Mr. Rigby, or preserved from inevitable destruction by the +election of Mr. Millbank. + +The results of the two canvasses were such as had been anticipated from +the previous reports of the respective agents and supporters. In these +days the personal canvass of a candidate is a mere form. The whole +country that is to be invaded has been surveyed and mapped out before +entry; every position reconnoitred; the chain of communications +complete. In the present case, as was not unusual, both candidates were +really supported by numerous and reputable adherents; and both had good +grounds for believing that they would be ultimately successful. But +there was a body of the electors sufficiently numerous to turn the +election, who would not promise their votes: conscientious men who felt +the responsibility of the duty that the constitution had entrusted to +their discharge, and who would not make up their minds without duly +weighing the respective merits of the two rivals. This class of deeply +meditative individuals are distinguished not only by their pensive turn +of mind, but by a charitable vein that seems to pervade their being. Not +only will they think of your request, but for their parts they wish both +sides equally well. Decision, indeed, as it must dash the hopes of one +of their solicitors, seems infinitely painful to them; they have always +a good reason for postponing it. If you seek their suffrage during the +canvass, they reply, that the writ not having come down, the day of +election is not yet fixed. If you call again to inform them that the +writ has arrived, they rejoin, that perhaps after all there may not be a +contest. If you call a third time, half dead with fatigue, to give them +friendly notice that both you and your rival have pledged yourselves to +go to the poll, they twitch their trousers, rub their hands, and with a +dull grin observe, + +‘Well, sir, we shall see.’ + +‘Come, Mr. Jobson,’ says one of the committee, with an insinuating +smile, ‘give Mr. Millbank one.’ + +‘Jobson, I think you and I know each other,’ says a most influential +supporter, with a knowing nod. + +‘Yes, Mr. Smith, I should think we did.’ + +‘Come, come, give us one.’ + +‘Well, I have not made up my mind yet, gentlemen.’ + +‘Jobson!’ says a solemn voice, ‘didn’t you tell me the other night you +wished well to this gentleman?’ + +‘So I do; I wish well to everybody,’ replies the imperturbable Jobson. + +‘Well, Jobson,’ exclaims another member of the committee, with a sigh, +‘who could have supposed that you would have been an enemy?’ + +‘I don’t wish to be no enemy to no man, Mr. Trip.’ + +‘Come, Jobson,’ says a jolly tanner, ‘if I wanted to be a Parliament +man, I don’t think you could refuse me one!’ + +‘I don’t think I could, Mr. Oakfield.’ + +‘Well, then, give it to my friend.’ + +‘Well, sir, I’ll think about it.’ + +‘Leave him to me,’ says another member of the committee, with a +significant look. ‘I know how to get round him. It’s all right.’ + +‘Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank; he knows how to manage him.’ + +But all the same, Jobson continues to look as little tractable and +lamb-like as can be well fancied. + +And here, in a work which, in an unpretending shape, aspires to take +neither an uninformed nor a partial view of the political history of the +ten eventful years of the Reform struggle, we should pause for a +moment to observe the strangeness, that only five years after the +reconstruction of the electoral body by the Whig party, in a borough +called into political existence by their policy, a manufacturing +town, too, the candidate comprising in his person every quality and +circumstance which could recommend him to the constituency, and +his opponent the worst specimen of the Old Generation, a political +adventurer, who owed the least disreputable part of his notoriety to +his opposition to the Reform Bill; that in such a borough, under such +circumstances, there should be a contest, and that, too, one of a very +doubtful issue. + +What was the cause of this? Are we to seek it in the ‘Reaction’ of the +Tadpoles and the Tapers? That would not be a satisfactory solution. +Reaction, to a certain extent, is the law of human existence. In the +particular state of affairs before us, England after the Reform Act, it +never could be doubtful that Time would gradually, and in some instances +rapidly, counteract the national impulse of 1832. There never could +have been a question, for example, that the English counties would +have reverted to their natural allegiance to their proprietors; but the +results of the appeals to the third Estate in 1835 and 1837 are not to +be accounted for by a mere readjustment of legitimate influences. + +The truth is, that, considerable as are the abilities of the Whig +leaders, highly accomplished as many of them unquestionably must be +acknowledged in parliamentary debate, experienced in council, sedulous +in office, eminent as scholars, powerful from their position, the +absence of individual influence, and of the pervading authority of a +commanding mind, have been the cause of the fall of the Whig party. + +Such a supremacy was generally acknowledged in Lord Grey on the +accession of this party to power: but it was the supremacy of a +tradition rather than of a fact. Almost at the outset of his authority +his successor was indicated. When the crisis arrived, the intended +successor was not in the Whig ranks. It is in this virtual absence of +a real and recognised leader, almost from the moment that they passed +their great measure, that we must seek a chief cause of all that +insubordination, all those distempered ambitions, and all those dark +intrigues, that finally broke up, not only the Whig government, but the +Whig party; demoralised their ranks, and sent them to the country, both +in 1835 and 1837, with every illusion, which had operated so happily in +their favour in 1832, scattered to the winds. In all things we trace the +irresistible influence of the individual. + +And yet the interval that elapsed between 1835 and 1837 proved, that +there was all this time in the Whig array one entirely competent to the +office of leading a great party, though his capacity for that fulfilment +was too tardily recognised. + +LORD JOHN RUSSELL has that degree of imagination, which, though evinced +rather in sentiment than expression, still enables him to generalise +from the details of his reading and experience; and to take those +comprehensive views, which, however easily depreciated by ordinary +men in an age of routine, are indispensable to a statesman in the +conjunctures in which we live. He understands, therefore, his position; +and he has the moral intrepidity which prompts him ever to dare that +which his intellect assures him is politic. He is consequently, at the +same time, sagacious and bold in council. As an administrator he is +prompt and indefatigable. He is not a natural orator, and labours under +physical deficiencies which even a Demosthenic impulse could scarcely +overcome. But he is experienced in debate, quick in reply, fertile in +resource, takes large views, and frequently compensates for a dry and +hesitating manner by the expression of those noble truths that flash +across the fancy, and rise spontaneously to the lip, of men of poetic +temperament when addressing popular assemblies. If we add to this, a +private life of dignified repute, the accidents of his birth and rank, +which never can be severed from the man, the scion of a great historic +family, and born, as it were, to the hereditary service of the State, it +is difficult to ascertain at what period, or under what circumstances, +the Whig party have ever possessed, or could obtain, a more efficient +leader. + +But we must return to the Darlford election. The class of thoughtful +voters was sufficiently numerous in that borough to render the result +of the contest doubtful to the last; and on the eve of the day of +nomination both parties were equally sanguine. + +Nomination-day altogether is an unsatisfactory affair. There is little +to be done, and that little mere form. The tedious hours remain, and no +one can settle his mind to anything. It is not a holiday, for every one +is serious; it is not business, for no one can attend to it; it is not +a contest, for there is no canvassing; nor an election, for there is no +poll. It is a day of lounging without an object, and luncheons without +an appetite; of hopes and fears; confidence and dejection; bravado bets +and secret hedging; and, about midnight, of furious suppers of grilled +bones, brandy-and-water, and recklessness. + +The president and vice-president of the Conservative Association, the +secretary and the four solicitors who were agents, had impressed upon +Mr. Rigby that it was of the utmost importance, and must produce a +great moral effect, if he obtain the show of hands. With his powers of +eloquence and their secret organisation, they flattered themselves it +might be done. With this view, Rigby inflicted a speech of more than +two hours’ duration on the electors, who bore it very kindly, as the mob +likes, above all things, that the ceremonies of nomination-day should +not be cut short: moreover, there is nothing that the mob likes so much +as a speech. Rigby therefore had, on the whole, a far from unfavourable +audience, and he availed himself of their forbearance. He brought in +his crack theme, the guillotine, and dilated so elaborately upon its +qualities, that one of the gentlemen below could not refrain from +exclaiming, ‘I wish you may get it.’ This exclamation gave Mr. Rigby +what is called a great opening, which, like a practised speaker, he +immediately seized. He denounced the sentiment as ‘un-English,’ and got +much cheered. Excited by this success, Rigby began to call everything +else ‘un-English’ with which he did not agree, until menacing murmurs +began to rise, when he shifted the subject, and rose into a grand +peroration, in which he assured them that the eyes of the whole empire +were on this particular election; cries of ‘That’s true,’ from all +sides; and that England expected every man to do his duty. + +‘And who do you expect to do yours?’ inquired a gentleman below, ‘about +that ’ere pension?’ + +‘Rigby,’ screeched a hoarse voice, ‘don’t you mind; you guv it them +well.’ + +‘Rigby, keep up your spirits, old chap: we will have you.’ + +‘Now!’ said a stentorian voice; and a man as tall as Saul looked round +him. This was the engaged leader of the Conservative mob; the eye of +every one of his minions was instantly on him. ‘Now! Our young Queen and +our Old Institutions! Rigby for ever!’ + +This was a signal for the instant appearance of the leader of the +Liberal mob. Magog Wrath, not so tall as Bully Bluck, his rival, had +a voice almost as powerful, a back much broader, and a countenance far +more forbidding. ‘Now, my boys, the Queen and Millbank for ever!’ + +These rival cries were the signals for a fight between the two bands of +gladiators in the face of the hustings, the body of the people little +interfering. Bully Bluck seized Magog Wrath’s colours; they wrestled, +they seized each other; their supporters were engaged in mutual contest; +it appeared to be a most alarming and perilous fray; several ladies from +the windows screamed, one fainted; a band of special constables pushed +their way through the mob; you heard their staves resounded on the +skulls of all who opposed them, especially the little boys: order was at +length restored; and, to tell the truth, the only hurts inflicted were +those which came from the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog +Wrath, with all their fierce looks, flaunting colours, loud cheers, and +desperate assaults, were, after all, only a couple of Condottieri, who +were cautious never to wound each other. They were, in fact, a peaceful +police, who kept the town in awe, and prevented others from being +mischievous who were more inclined to do harm. Their hired gangs were +the safety-valves for all the scamps of the borough, who, receiving a +few shillings per head for their nominal service, and as much drink as +they liked after the contest, were bribed and organised into peace +and sobriety on the days in which their excesses were most to be +apprehended. + +Now Mr. Millbank came forward: he was brief compared with Mr. Rigby; but +clear and terse. No one could misunderstand him. He did not favour his +hearers with any history, but gave them his views about taxes, free +trade, placemen, and pensioners, whoever and wherever they might be. + +‘Hilloa, Rigby, about that ‘ere pension?’ + +‘Millbank for ever! We will have him.’ + +‘Never mind, Rigby, you’ll come in next time.’ + +Mr. Millbank was energetic about resident representatives, but did not +understand that a resident representative meant the nominee of a great +Lord, who lived in a great castle; great cheering. There was a Lord +once who declared that, if he liked, he would return his negro valet to +Parliament; but Mr. Millbank thought those days were over. It remained +for the people of Darlford to determine whether he was mistaken. + +‘Never!’ exclaimed the mob. ‘Millbank for ever! Rigby in the river! No +niggers, no walets!’ + +‘Three groans for Rigby.’ + +‘His language ain’t as purty as the Lunnun chap’s,’ said a critic below; +‘but he speaks from his ‘art: and give me the man who ‘as got a ‘art.’ + +‘That’s your time of day, Mr. Robinson.’ + +‘Now!’ said Magog Wrath, looking around. ‘Now, the Queen and Millbank +for ever! Hurrah!’ + +The show of hands was entirely in favour of Mr. Millbank. Scarcely a +hand was held up for Mr. Rigby below, except by Bully Bluck and his +praetorians. The Chairman and the Deputy Chairman of the Conservative +Association, the Secretary, and the four agents, severally and +respectively went up to Mr. Rigby and congratulated him on the result, +as it was a known fact, ‘that the show of hands never won.’ + +The eve of polling-day was now at hand. This is the most critical period +of an election. All night parties in disguise were perambulating the +different wards, watching each other’s tactics; masks, wigs, false +noses, gentles in livery coats, men in female attire, a silent carnival +of manoeuvre, vigilance, anxiety, and trepidation. The thoughtful voters +about this time make up their minds; the enthusiasts who have told you +twenty times a-day for the last fortnight, that they would get up in the +middle of the night to serve you, require the most watchful cooping; all +the individuals who have assured you that ‘their word is their bond,’ +change sides. + +Two of the Rigbyites met in the market-place about an hour after +midnight. + +‘Well, how goes it?’ said one. + +‘I have been the rounds. The blunt’s going like the ward-pump. I saw +a man come out of Moffatt’s house, muffled up with a mask on. I dodged +him. It was Biggs.’ + +‘You don’t mean that, do you? D----e, I’ll answer for Moffatt.’ + +‘I never thought he was a true man.’ + +‘Told Robins?’ + +‘I could not see him; but I met young Gunning and told him.’ + +‘Young Gunning! That won’t do.’ + +‘I thought he was as right as the town clock.’ + +‘So did I, once. Hush! who comes here? The enemy, Franklin and Sampson +Potts. Keep close.’ + +‘I’ll speak to them. Good night, Potts. Up rather late to-night?’ + +‘All fair election time. You ain’t snoring, are you?’ + +‘Well, I hope the best man will win.’ + +‘I am sure he will.’ + +‘You must go for Moffatt early, to breakfast at the White Lion; that’s +your sort. Don’t leave him, and poll him your-self. I am going off to +Solomon Lacey’s. He has got four Millbankites cooped up very drunk, and +I want to get them quietly into the country before daybreak.’ + +‘Tis polling-day! The candidates are roused from their slumbers at an +early hour by the music of their own bands perambulating the town, and +each playing the ‘conquering hero’ to sustain the courage of their jaded +employers, by depriving them of that rest which can alone tranquillise +the nervous system. There is something in that matin burst of music, +followed by a shrill cheer from the boys of the borough, the only +inhabitants yet up, that is very depressing. + +The committee-rooms of each candidate are soon rife with black reports; +each side has received fearful bulletins of the preceding night +campaign; and its consequences as exemplified in the morning, +unprecedented tergiversations, mysterious absences; men who breakfast +with one side and vote with the other; men who won’t come to breakfast; +men who won’t leave breakfast. + +At ten o’clock Mr. Rigby was in a majority of twenty-eight. + +The polling was brisk and equal until the middle of the day, when it +became slack. Mr. Rigby kept a majority, but an inconsiderable one. +Mr. Millbank’s friends were not disheartened, as it was known that +the leading members of Mr. Rigby’s committee had polled; whereas his +opponent’s were principally reserved. At a quarter-past two there was +great cheering and uproar. The four voters in favour of Millbank, whom +Solomon Lacey had cooped up, made drunk, and carried into the country, +had recovered iheir senses, made their escape, and voted as they +originally intended. Soon after this, Mr. Millbank was declared by his +committee to be in a majority of one, but the committee of Mr. Rigby +instantly posted a placard, in large letters, to announce that, on the +contrary, their man was in a majority of nine. + +‘If we could only have got another registration,’ whispered the +principal agent to Mr. Rigby, at a quarter-past four. + +‘You think it’s all over, then?’ + +‘Why, I do not see now how we can win. We have polled all our dead men, +and Millbank is seven ahead.’ + +‘I have no doubt we shall be able to have a good petition,’ said the +consoling chairman of the Conservative Association. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +It was not with feelings of extreme satisfaction that Mr. Rigby returned +to London. The loss of Hellingsley, followed by the loss of the borough +to Hellingsley’s successful master, were not precisely the incidents +which would be adduced as evidence of Mr. Rigby’s good management or +good fortune. Hitherto that gentleman had persuaded the world that he +was not only very clever, but that he was also always in luck; a quality +which many appreciate more even than capacity. His reputation was +unquestionably damaged, both with his patron and his party. But what +the Tapers and the Tadpoles thought or said, what even might be the +injurious effect on his own career of the loss of this election, assumed +an insignificant character when compared with its influence on the +temper and disposition of the Marquess of Monmouth. + +And yet his carriage is now entering the courtyard of Monmouth House, +and, in all probability, a few minutes would introduce him to that +presence before which he had, ere this, trembled. The Marquess was at +home, and anxious to see Mr. Rigby. In a few minutes that gentleman was +ascending the private staircase, entering the antechamber, and waiting +to be received in the little saloon, exactly as our Coningsby did more +than five years ago, scarcely less agitated, but by feelings of a very +different character. + +‘Well, you made a good fight of it,’ exclaimed the Marquess, in a +cheerful and cordial tone, as Mr. Rigby entered his dressing-room. +‘Patience! We shall win next time.’ + +This reception instantly reassured the defeated candidate, though its +contrast to that which he expected rather perplexed him. He entered into +the details of the election, talked rapidly of the next registration, +the propriety of petitioning; accustomed himself to hearing his voice +with its habitual volubility in a chamber where he had feared it might +not sound for some time. + +‘D----n politics!’ said the Marquess. ‘These fellows are in for this +Parliament, and I am really weary of the whole affair. I begin to think +the Duke was right, and it would have been best to have left them to +themselves. I am glad you have come up at once, for I want you. The fact +is, I am going to be married.’ + +This was not a startling announcement to Mr. Rigby; he was prepared for +it, though scarcely could have hoped that he would have been favoured +with it on the present occasion, instead of a morose comment on his +misfortunes. Marriage, then, was the predominant idea of Lord Monmouth +at the present moment, in whose absorbing interest all vexations were +forgotten. Fortunate Rigby! Disgusted by the failure of his political +combinations, his disappointments in not dictating to the county and not +carrying the borough, and the slight prospect at present of obtaining +the great object of his ambition, Lord Monmouth had resolved to +precipitate his fate, was about to marry immediately, and quit England. + +‘You will be wanted, Rigby,’ continued the Marquess. ‘We must have a +couple of trustees, and I have thought of you as one. You know you are +my executor; and it is better not to bring in unnecessarily new names +into the management of my affairs. Lord Eskdale will act with you.’ + +Rigby then, after all, was a lucky man. After such a succession of +failures, he had returned only to receive fresh and the most delicate +marks of his patron’s good feeling and consideration. Lord Monmouth’s +trustee and executor! ‘You know you are my executor.’ Sublime truth! It +ought to be blazoned in letters of gold in the most conspicuous part of +Rigby’s library, to remind him perpetually of his great and impending +destiny. Lord Monmouth’s executor, and very probably one of his +residuary legatees! A legatee of some sort he knew he was. What a +splendid _memento mori_! What cared Rigby for the borough of Darlford? +And as for his political friends, he wished them joy of their barren +benches. Nothing was lost by not being in this Parliament. + +It was then with sincerity that Rigby offered his congratulations to +his patron. He praised the judicious alliance, accompanied by every +circumstance conducive to worldly happiness; distinguished beauty, +perfect temper, princely rank. Rigby, who had hardly got out of his +hustings’ vein, was most eloquent in his praises of Madame Colonna. + +‘An amiable woman,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘and very handsome. I always +admired her; and an agreeable person too; I dare say a very good temper, +but I am not going to marry her.’ + +‘Might I then ask who is--’ + +‘Her step-daughter, the Princess Lucretia,’ replied the Marquess, +quietly, and looking at his ring. + +Here was a thunderbolt! Rigby had made another mistake. He had been +working all this time for the wrong woman! The consciousness of being a +trustee alone sustained him. There was an inevitable pause. The Marquess +would not speak however, and Rigby must. He babbled rather incoherently +about the Princess Lucretia being admired by everybody; also that she +was the most fortunate of women, as well as the most accomplished; he +was just beginning to say he had known her from a child, when discretion +stopped his tongue, which had a habit of running on somewhat rashly; +but Rigby, though he often blundered in his talk, had the talent of +extricating himself from the consequence of his mistakes. + +‘And Madame must be highly gratified by all this?’ observed Mr. Rigby, +with an enquiring accent. He was dying to learn how she had first +received the intelligence, and congratulated himself that his absence at +his contest had preserved him from the storm. + +‘Madame Colonna knows nothing of our intentions,’ said Lord Monmouth. +‘And by the bye, that is the very business on which I wish to see you, +Rigby. I wish you to communicate them to her. We are to be married, +and immediately. It would gratify me that the wife of Lucretia’s father +should attend our wedding. You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby; I +must have no scenes. Always happy to see the Princess Colonna under my +roof; but then I like to live quietly, particularly at present; +harassed as I have been by the loss of these elections, by all this bad +management, and by all these disappointments on subjects in which I was +led to believe success was certain. Madame Colonna is at home;’ and the +Marquess bowed Mr. Rigby out of the room. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby Castle, in the autumn, +determined the Princess Lucretia on a step which had for some time +before his arrival occupied her brooding imagination. Nature had +bestowed on this lady an ambitious soul and a subtle spirit; she could +dare much and could execute finely. Above all things she coveted power; +and though not free from the characteristic susceptibility of her sex, +the qualities that could engage her passions or fascinate her fancy must +partake of that intellectual eminence which distinguished her. Though +the Princess Lucretia in a short space of time had seen much of the +world, she had as yet encountered no hero. In the admirers whom her +rank, and sometimes her intelligence, assembled around her, her master +had not yet appeared. Her heart had not trembled before any of those +brilliant forms whom she was told her sex admired; nor did she envy any +one the homage which she did not appreciate. There was, therefore, no +disturbing element in the worldly calculations which she applied to that +question which is, to woman, what a career is to man, the question of +marriage. She would marry to gain power, and therefore she wished to +marry the powerful. Lord Eskdale hovered around her, and she liked +him. She admired his incomparable shrewdness; his freedom from ordinary +prejudices; his selfishness which was always good-natured, and the +imperturbability that was not callous. But Lord Eskdale had hovered +round many; it was his easy habit. He liked clever women, young, but who +had seen something of the world. The Princess Lucretia pleased him much; +with the form and mind of a woman even in the nursery. He had watched +her development with interest; and had witnessed her launch in that +world where she floated at once with as much dignity and consciousness +of superior power, as if she had braved for seasons its waves and its +tempests. + +Musing over Lord Eskdale, the mind of Lucretia was drawn to the image +of his friend; her friend; the friend of her parents. And why not marry +Lord Monmouth? The idea pleased her. There was something great in the +conception; difficult and strange. The result, if achieved, would give +her all that she desired. She devoted her mind to this secret thought. +She had no confidants. She concentrated her intellect on one point, +and that was to fascinate the grandfather of Coningsby, while her +step-mother was plotting that she should marry his grandson. The +volition of Lucretia Colonna was, if not supreme, of a power most +difficult to resist. There was something charm-like and alluring in the +conversation of one who was silent to all others; something in the tones +of her low rich voice which acted singularly on the nervous system. It +was the voice of the serpent; indeed, there was an undulating movement +in Lucretia, when she approached you, which irresistibly reminded you of +that mysterious animal. + +Lord Monmouth was not insensible to the spell, though totally +unconscious of its purpose. He found the society of Lucretia very +agreeable to him; she was animated, intelligent, original; her inquiries +were stimulating; her comments on what she saw, and heard, and read, +racy and often indicating a fine humour. But all this was reserved for +his ear. Before her parents, as before all others, Lucretia was silent, +a little scornful, never communicating, neither giving nor seeking +amusement, shut up in herself. + +Lord Monmouth fell therefore into the habit of riding and driving with +Lucretia alone. It was an arrangement which he found made his life more +pleasant. Nor was it displeasing to Madame Colonna. She looked upon +Lord Monmouth’s fancy for Lucretia as a fresh tie for them all. Even the +Prince, when his wife called his attention to the circumstance, observed +it with satisfaction. It was a circumstance which represented in his +mind a continuance of good eating and good drinking, fine horses, +luxurious baths, unceasing billiards. + +In this state of affairs appeared Sidonia, known before to her +step-mother, but seen by Lucretia for the first time. Truly, he came, +saw, and conquered. Those eyes that rarely met another’s were fixed upon +his searching yet unimpassioned glance. She listened to that voice, +full of music yet void of tenderness; and the spirit of Lucretia Colonna +bowed before an intelligence that commanded sympathy, yet offered none. + +Lucretia naturally possessed great qualities as well as great talents. +Under a genial influence, her education might have formed a being +capable of imparting and receiving happiness. But she found herself +without a guide. Her father offered her no love; her step-mother gained +from her no respect. Her literary education was the result of her +own strong mind and inquisitive spirit. She valued knowledge, and she +therefore acquired it. But not a single moral principle or a single +religious truth had ever been instilled into her being. Frequent +absence from her own country had by degrees broken off even an habitual +observance of the forms of her creed; while a life of undisturbed +indulgence, void of all anxiety and care, while it preserved her from +many of the temptations to vice, deprived her of that wisdom ‘more +precious than rubies,’ which adversity and affliction, the struggles and +the sorrows of existence, can alone impart. + +Lucretia had passed her life in a refined, but rather dissolute society. +Not indeed that a word that could call forth a maiden blush, conduct +that could pain the purest feelings, could be heard or witnessed in +those polished and luxurious circles. The most exquisite taste pervaded +their atmosphere; and the uninitiated who found themselves in those +perfumed chambers and those golden saloons, might believe, from all that +passed before them, that their inhabitants were as pure, as orderly, and +as irreproachable as their furniture. But among the habitual dwellers +in these delicate halls there was a tacit understanding, a +prevalent doctrine that required no formal exposition, no proofs and +illustrations, no comment and no gloss; which was indeed rather a +traditional conviction than an imparted dogma; that the exoteric public +were, on many subjects, the victims of very vulgar prejudices, which +these enlightened personages wished neither to disturb nor to adopt. + +A being of such a temper, bred in such a manner; a woman full +of intellect and ambition, daring and lawless, and satiated with +prosperity, is not made for equable fortunes and an uniform existence. +She would have sacrificed the world for Sidonia, for he had touched +the fervent imagination that none before could approach; but that +inscrutable man would not read the secret of her heart; and prompted +alike by pique, the love of power, and a weariness of her present life, +Lucretia resolved on that great result which Mr. Rigby is now about to +communicate to the Princess Colonna. + +About half-an-hour after Mr. Rigby had entered that lady’s apartments +it seemed that all the bells of Monmouth House were ringing at the same +time. The sound even reached the Marquess in his luxurious recess; who +immediately took a pinch of snuff, and ordered his valet to lock the +door of the ante-chamber. The Princess Lucretia, too, heard the sounds; +she was lying on a sofa, in her boudoir, reading the _Inferno_, and +immediately mustered her garrison in the form of a French maid, and gave +directions that no one should be admitted. Both the Marquess and +his intended bride felt that a crisis was at hand, and resolved to +participate in no scenes. + +The ringing ceased; there was again silence. Then there was another +ring; a short, hasty, and violent pull; followed by some slamming of +doors. The servants, who were all on the alert, and had advantages +of hearing and observation denied to their secluded master, caught a +glimpse of Mr. Rigby endeavouring gently to draw back into her apartment +Madame Colonna, furious amid his deprecatory exclamations. + +‘For heaven’s sake, my dear Madame; for your own sake; now really; now +I assure you; you are quite wrong; you are indeed; it is a complete +misapprehension; I will explain everything. I entreat, I implore, +whatever you like, just what you please; only listen.’ + +Then the lady, with a mantling visage and flashing eye, violently +closing the door, was again lost to their sight. A few minutes after +there was a moderate ring, and Mr. Rigby, coming out of the apartments, +with his cravat a little out of order, as if he had had a violent +shaking, met the servant who would have entered. + +‘Order Madame Colonna’s travelling carriage,’ he exclaimed in a loud +voice, ‘and send Mademoiselle Conrad here directly. I don’t think the +fellow hears me,’ added Mr. Rigby, and following the servant, he added +in a low tone and with a significant glance, ‘no travelling carriage; no +Mademoiselle Conrad; order the britska round as usual.’ + +Nearly another hour passed; there was another ring; very moderate +indeed. The servant was informed that Madame Colonna was coming down, +and she appeared as usual. In a beautiful morning dress, and leaning on +the arm of Mr. Rigby, she descended the stairs, and was handed into her +carriage by that gentleman, who, seating himself by her side, ordered +them to drive to Richmond. + +Lord Monmouth having been informed that all was calm, and that Madame +Colonna, attended by Mr. Rigby, had gone to Richmond, ordered his +carriage, and accompanied by Lucretia and Lucian Gay, departed +immediately for Blackwall, where, in whitebait, a quiet bottle of +claret, the society of his agreeable friends, and the contemplation of +the passing steamers, he found a mild distraction and an amusing repose. + +Mr. Rigby reported that evening to the Marquess on his return, that all +was arranged and tranquil. Perhaps he exaggerated the difficulties, +to increase the service; but according to his account they were +considerable. It required some time to make Madame Colonna comprehend +the nature of his communication. All Rigby’s diplomatic skill was +expended in the gradual development. When it was once fairly put before +her, the effect was appalling. That was the first great ringing of +bells. Rigby softened a little what he had personally endured; but +he confessed she sprang at him like a tigress balked of her prey, and +poured forth on him a volume of epithets, many of which Rigby +really deserved. But after all, in the present instance, he was not +treacherous, only base, which he always was. Then she fell into a +passion of tears, and vowed frequently that she was not weeping for +herself, but only for that dear Mr. Coningsby, who had been treated so +infamously and robbed of Lucretia, and whose heart she knew must break. +It seemed that Rigby stemmed the first violence of her emotion by +mysterious intimations of an important communication that he had to +make; and piquing her curiosity, he calmed her passion. But really +having nothing to say, he was nearly involved in fresh dangers. He took +refuge in the affectation of great agitation which prevented exposition. +The lady then insisted on her travelling carriage being ordered and +packed, as she was determined to set out for Rome that afternoon. This +little occurrence gave Rigby some few minutes to collect himself, at +the end of which he made the Princess several announcements of intended +arrangements, all of which pleased her mightily, though they were so +inconsistent with each other, that if she had not been a woman in a +passion, she must have detected that Rigby was lying. He assured her +almost in the same breath, that she was never to be separated from them, +and that she was to have any establishment in any country she liked. He +talked wildly of equipages, diamonds, shawls, opera-boxes; and while +her mind was bewildered with these dazzling objects, he, with intrepid +gravity, consulted her as to the exact amount she would like to have +apportioned, independent of her general revenue, for the purposes of +charity. + +At the end of two hours, exhausted by her rage and soothed by these +visions, Madame Colonna having grown calm and reasonable, sighed and +murmured a complaint, that Lord Monmouth ought to have communicated this +important intelligence in person. Upon this Rigby instantly assured +her, that Lord Monmouth had been for some time waiting to do so, but +in consequence of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his Lordship had +departed for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped that Madame Colonna +and Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a morning drive and +suburban dinner; Rigby, after what he had gone through, finding no +difficulty in accounting for the other guests not being present, and +bringing home Madame Colonna in the evening, at times almost as gay and +good-tempered as usual, and almost oblivious of her disappointment. + +When the Marquess met Madame Colonna he embraced her with great +courtliness, and from that time consulted her on every arrangement. He +took a very early occasion of presenting her with a diamond necklace of +great value. The Marquess was fond of making presents to persons to whom +he thought he had not behaved very well, and who yet spared him scenes. + +The marriage speedily followed, by special license, at the villa of the +Right Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who gave away the bride. The wedding was very +select, but brilliant as the diamond necklace: a royal Duke and Duchess, +Lady St. Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby presented the bride with +a bouquet of precious stones, and Lord Eskdale with a French fan in +a diamond frame. It was a fine day; Lord Monmouth, calm as if he were +winning the St. Leger; Lucretia, universally recognised as a beauty; all +the guests gay, the Princess Colonna especially. + +The travelling carriage is at the door which is to bear away the happy +pair. Madame Colonna embraces Lucretia; the Marquess gives a grand bow: +they are gone. The guests remain awhile. A Prince of the blood will +propose a toast; there is another glass of champagne quaffed, another +ortolan devoured; and then they rise and disperse. Madame Colonna leaves +with Lady St. Julians, whose guest for a while she is to become. And in +a few minutes their host is alone. + +Mr. Rigby retired into his library: the repose of the chamber must +have been grateful to his feelings after all this distraction. It was +spacious, well-stored, classically adorned, and opened on a beautiful +lawn. Rigby threw himself into an ample chair, crossed his legs, and +resting his head on his arm, apparently fell into deep contemplation. + +He had some cause for reflection, and though we did once venture to +affirm that Rigby never either thought or felt, this perhaps may be the +exception that proves the rule. + +He could scarcely refrain from pondering over the strange event which he +had witnessed, and at which he had assisted. + +It was an incident that might exercise considerable influence over his +fortunes. His patron married, and married to one who certainly did +not offer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy management as her +step-mother! Here were new influences arising; new characters, new +situations, new contingencies. Was he thinking of all this? He suddenly +jumps up, hurries to a shelf and takes down a volume. It is his +interleaved peerage, of which for twenty years he had been threatening +an edition. Turning to the Marquisate of Monmouth, he took up his pen +and thus made the necessary entry: + +‘_Married, second time, August 3rd, 1837, The Princess Lucretia Colonna, +daughter of Prince Paul Colonna, born at Rome, February 16th, 1819._’ + +That was what Mr. Rigby called ‘a great fact.’ There was not a +peerage-compiler in England who had that date save himself. + +Before we close this slight narrative of the domestic incidents that +occurred in the family of his grandfather since Coningsby quitted the +Castle, we must not forget to mention what happened to Villebecque and +Flora. Lord Monmouth took a great liking to the manager. He found him +very clever in many things independently of his profession; he was +useful to Lord Monmouth, and did his work in an agreeable manner. And +the future Lady Monmouth was accustomed to Flora, and found her useful +too, and did not like to lose her. And so the Marquess, turning all the +circumstances in his mind, and being convinced that Villebecque could +never succeed to any extent in England in his profession, and probably +nowhere else, appointed him, to Villebecque’s infinite satisfaction, +intendant of his household, with a considerable salary, while Flora +still lived with her kind step-father. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +Another year elapsed; not so fruitful in incidents to Coningsby as the +preceding ones, and yet not unprofitably passed. It had been spent in +the almost unremitting cultivation of his intelligence. He had read +deeply and extensively, digested his acquisitions, and had practised +himself in surveying them, free from those conventional conclusions +and those traditionary inferences that surrounded him. Although he had +renounced his once cherished purpose of trying for University honours, +an aim which he found discordant with the investigations on which his +mind was bent, he had rarely quitted Cambridge. The society of his +friends, the great convenience of public libraries, and the general +tone of studious life around, rendered an University for him a genial +residence. There is a moment in life, when the pride and thirst of +knowledge seem to absorb our being, and so it happened now to Coningsby, +who felt each day stronger in his intellectual resources, and each day +more anxious and avid to increase them. The habits of public +discussion fostered by the Debating Society were also for Coningsby no +Inconsiderable tie to the University. This was the arena in which he +felt himself at home. The promise of his Eton days was here fulfilled. +And while his friends listened to his sustained argument or his +impassioned declamation, the prompt reply or the apt retort, they looked +forward with pride through the vista of years to the time when the hero +of the youthful Club should convince or dazzle in the senate. It is +probable then that he would have remained at Cambridge with slight +intervals until he had taken his degree, had not circumstances occurred +which gave altogether a new turn to his thoughts. + +When Lord Monmouth had fixed his wedding-day he had written himself +to Coningsby to announce his intended marriage, and to request his +grandson’s presence at the ceremony. The letter was more than kind; it +was warm and generous. He assured his grandson that this alliance +should make no difference in the very ample provision which he had +long intended for him; that he should ever esteem Coningsby his +nearest relative; and that, while his death would bring to Coningsby as +considerable an independence as an English gentleman need desire, so +in his lifetime Coningsby should ever be supported as became his birth, +breeding, and future prospects. Lord Monmouth had mentioned to Lucretia, +that he was about to invite his grandson to their wedding, and the lady +had received the intimation with satisfaction. It so happened that a +few hours after, Lucretia, who now entered the private rooms of Lord +Monmouth without previously announcing her arrival, met Villebecque with +the letter to Coningsby in his hand. Lucretia took it away from him, +and said it should be posted with her own letters. It never reached its +destination. Our friend learnt the marriage from the newspapers, which +somewhat astounded him; but Coningsby was fond of his grandfather, and +he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of congratulation, full of feeling and +ingenuousness, and which, while it much pleased the person to whom it +was addressed, unintentionally convinced him that Coningsby had never +received his original communication. Lord Monmouth spoke to Villebecque, +who could throw sufficient light upon the subject, but it was never +mentioned to Lady Monmouth. The Marquess was a man who always found out +everything, and enjoyed the secret. + +Rather more than a year after the marriage, when Coningsby had completed +his twenty-first year, the year which he had passed so quietly at +Cambridge, he received a letter from his grandfather, informing him that +after a variety of movements Lady Monmouth and himself were established +in Paris for the season, and desiring that he would not fail to come +over as soon as practicable, and pay them as long a visit as the +regulations of the University would permit. So, at the close of the +December term, Coningsby quitted Cambridge for Paris. + +Passing through London, he made his first visit to his banker at Charing +Cross, on whom he had periodically drawn since he commenced his college +life. He was in the outer counting-house, making some inquiries about a +letter of credit, when one of the partners came out from an inner room, +and invited him to enter. This firm had been for generations the bankers +of the Coningsby family; and it appeared that there was a sealed box +in their possession, which had belonged to the father of Coningsby, and +they wished to take this opportunity of delivering it to his son. This +communication deeply interested him; and as he was alone in London, at +an hotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, he requested permission +at once to examine it, in order that he might again deposit it with +them: so he was shown into a private room for that purpose. The seal was +broken; the box was full of papers, chiefly correspondence: among them +was a packet described as letters from ‘my dear Helen,’ the mother of +Coningsby. In the interior of this packet there was a miniature of that +mother. He looked at it; put it down; looked at it again and again. +He could not be mistaken. There was the same blue fillet in the bright +hair. It was an exact copy of that portrait which had so greatly excited +his attention when at Millbank! This was a mysterious and singularly +perplexing incident. It greatly agitated him. He was alone in the room +when he made the discovery. When he had recovered himself, he sealed up +the contents of the box, with the exception of his mother’s letters and +the miniature, which he took away with him, and then re-delivered it to +his banker for custody until his return. + +Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a splendid hotel in the +Faubourg St. Honoré, near the English Embassy. His grandfather looked at +him with marked attention, and received him with evident satisfaction. +Indeed, Lord Monmouth was greatly pleased that Harry had come to Paris; +it was the University of the World, where everybody should graduate. +Paris and London ought to be the great objects of all travellers; the +rest was mere landscape. + +It cannot be denied that between Lucretia and Coningsby there existed +from the first a certain antipathy; and though circumstances for a short +time had apparently removed or modified the aversion, the manner of the +lady when Coningsby was ushered into her boudoir, resplendent with all +that Parisian taste and luxury could devise, was characterised by that +frigid politeness which had preceded the days of their more genial +acquaintance. If the manner of Lucretia were the same as before her +marriage, a considerable change might however be observed in her +appearance. Her fine form had become more developed; while her dress, +that she once neglected, was elaborate and gorgeous, and of the last +mode. Lucretia was the fashion of Paris; a great lady, greatly admired. +A guest under such a roof, however, Coningsby was at once launched +into the most brilliant circles of Parisian society, which he found +fascinating. + +The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly comprehended and +completely practised in the bright metropolis of France. An Englishman +cannot enter a saloon without instantly feeling he is among a race more +social than his compatriots. What, for example, is more consummate +than the manner in which a French lady receives her guests! She unites +graceful repose and unaffected dignity, with the most amiable regard for +others. She sees every one; she speaks to every one; she sees them at +the right moment; she says the right thing; it is utterly impossible +to detect any difference in the position of her guests by the spirit in +which she welcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle of +Parisian society, from the chateau to the cabaret, a sincere homage to +intellect; and this without any maudlin sentiment. None sooner than +the Parisians can draw the line between factitious notoriety and honest +fame; or sooner distinguished between the counterfeit celebrity and +the standard reputation. In England, we too often alternate between a +supercilious neglect of genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In +England when a new character appears in our circles, the first question +always is, ‘Who is he?’ In France it is, ‘What is he?’ In England, ‘How +much a-year?’ In France, ‘What has he done?’ + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +About a week after Coningsby’s arrival in Paris, as he was sauntering on +the soft and sunny Boulevards, soft and sunny though Christmas, he met +Sidonia. + +‘So you are here?’ said Sidonia. ‘Turn now with me, for I see you are +only lounging, and tell me when you came, where you are, and what you +have done since we parted. I have been here myself but a few days.’ + +There was much to tell. And when Coningsby had rapidly related all that +had passed, they talked of Paris. Sidonia had offered him hospitality, +until he learned that Lord Monmouth was in Paris, and that Coningsby was +his guest. + +‘I am sorry you cannot come to me,’ he remarked; ‘I would have shown you +everybody and everything. But we shall meet often.’ + +‘I have already seen many remarkable things,’ said Coningsby; ‘and met +many celebrated persons. Nothing strikes me more in this brilliant +city than the tone of its society, so much higher than our own. What an +absence of petty personalities! How much conversation, and how little +gossip! Yet nowhere is there less pedantry. Here all women are as +agreeable as is the remarkable privilege in London of some half-dozen. +Men too, and great men, develop their minds. A great man in England, +on the contrary, is generally the dullest dog in company. And yet, how +piteous to think that so fair a civilisation should be in such imminent +peril!’ + +‘Yes! that is a common opinion: and yet I am somewhat sceptical of +its truth,’ replied Sidonia. ‘I am inclined to believe that the social +system of England is in infinitely greater danger than that of France. +We must not be misled by the agitated surface of this country. The +foundations of its order are deep and sure. Learn to understand France. +France is a kingdom with a Republic for its capital. It has been always +so, for centuries. From the days of the League to the days of the +Sections, to the days of 1830. It is still France, little changed; and +only more national, for it is less Frank and more Gallic; as England has +become less Norman and more Saxon.’ + +‘And it is your opinion, then, that the present King may maintain +himself?’ + +‘Every movement in this country, however apparently discordant, seems to +tend to that inevitable end. He would not be on the throne if the nature +of things had not demanded his presence. The Kingdom of France required +a Monarch; the Republic of Paris required a Dictator. He comprised in +his person both qualifications; lineage and intellect; blood for the +provinces, brains for the city.’ + +‘What a position! what an individual!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘Tell me,’ +he added, eagerly, ‘what is he? This Prince of whom one hears in all +countries at all hours; on whose existence we are told the tranquillity, +almost the civilisation, of Europe depends, yet of whom we receive +accounts so conflicting, so contradictory; tell me, you who can tell me, +tell me what he is.’ + +Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. ‘I have a creed of mine own,’ he +remarked, ‘that the great characters of antiquity are at rare epochs +reproduced for our wonder, or our guidance. Nature, wearied +with mediocrity, pours the warm metal into an heroic mould. When +circumstances at length placed me in the presence of the King of France, +I recognised, ULYSSES!’ + +‘But is there no danger,’ resumed Coningsby, after the pause of a few +moments, ‘that the Republic of Paris may absorb the Kingdom of France?’ + +‘I suspect the reverse,’ replied Sidonia. ‘The tendency of advanced +civilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy. Monarchy is indeed a +government which requires a high degree of civilisation for its full +development. It needs the support of free laws and manners, and of +a widely-diffused intelligence. Political compromises are not to be +tolerated except at periods of rude transition. An educated nation +recoils from the imperfect vicariate of what is called a representative +government. Your House of Commons, that has absorbed all other powers +in the State, will in all probability fall more rapidly than it rose. +Public opinion has a more direct, a more comprehensive, a more efficient +organ for its utterance, than a body of men sectionally chosen. The +Printing-press is a political element unknown to classic or feudal +times. It absorbs in a great degree the duties of the Sovereign, the +Priest, the Parliament; it controls, it educates, it discusses. That +public opinion, when it acts, would appear in the form of one who has no +class interests. In an enlightened age the Monarch on the throne, free +from the vulgar prejudices and the corrupt interests of the subject, +becomes again divine!’ + +At this moment they reached that part of the Boulevards which leads into +the Place of the Madeleine, whither Sidonia was bound; and Coningsby was +about to quit his companion, when Sidonia said: + +‘I am only going a step over to the Rue Tronchet to say a few words to a +friend of mine, M. P----s. I shall not detain you five minutes; and you +should know him, for he has some capital pictures, and a collection of +Limoges ware that is the despair of the dilettanti.’ + +So saying they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine, and soon +entered the court of the hotel of M. P----s. That gentleman received +them in his gallery. After some general conversation, Coningsby turned +towards the pictures, and left Sidonia with their host. The collection +was rare, and interested Coningsby, though unacquainted with art. He +sauntered on from picture to picture until he reached the end of the +gallery, where an open door invited him into a suite of rooms also +full of pictures and objects of curiosity and art. As he was entering +a second chamber, he observed a lady leaning back in a cushioned +chair, and looking earnestly on a picture. His entrance was unheard and +unnoticed, for the lady’s back was to the door; yet Coningsby, advancing +in an angular direction, obtained nearly a complete view of her +countenance. It was upraised, gazing on the picture with an expression +of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while the large sable cloak of the +gazer had fallen partly off. The countenance was more beautiful than the +beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of the gallery to which love, +and genius, and devotion had lent their inspiration, seemed without +life and lustre by the radiant expression and expressive presence which +Coningsby now beheld. + +The finely-arched brow was a little elevated, the soft dark eyes were +fully opened, the nostril of the delicate nose slightly dilated, the +small, yet rich, full lips just parted; and over the clear, transparent +visage, there played a vivid glance of gratified intelligence. + +The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, looked at it earnestly for +a few moments, and then, turning in a direction opposite to Coningsby, +walked away. She was somewhat above the middle stature, and yet could +scarcely be called tall; a quality so rare, that even skilful dancers +do not often possess it, was hers; that elastic gait that is so winning, +and so often denotes the gaiety and quickness of the spirit. + +The fair object of his observation had advanced into other chambers, +and as soon as it was becoming, Coningsby followed her. She had joined a +lady and gentleman, who were examining an ancient carving in ivory. The +gentleman was middle-aged and portly; the elder lady tall and elegant, +and with traces of interesting beauty. Coningsby heard her speak; the +words were English, but the accent not of a native. + +In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby, apparently engaged in +examining some of that famous Limoges ware of which Sidonia had spoken, +watched with interest and intentness the beautiful being whom he had +followed, and whom he concluded to be the child of her companions. After +some little time, they quitted the apartment on their return to the +gallery; Coningsby remained behind, caring for none of the rare and +fanciful objects that surrounded him, yet compelled, from the fear of +seeming obtrusive, for some minutes to remain. Then he too returned +to the gallery, and just as he had gained its end, he saw the portly +gentleman in the distance shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies +apparently expressing their thanks and gratification to M. P----s, and +then all vanishing by the door through which Coningsby had originally +entered. + +‘What a beautiful countrywoman of yours!’ said M. P----s, as Coningsby +approached him. + +‘Is she my countrywoman? I am glad to hear it; I have been admiring +her,’ he replied. + +‘Yes,’ said M. P----s, ‘it is Sir Wallinger: one of your deputies; don’t +you know him?’ + +‘Sir Wallinger!’ said Coningsby, ‘no, I have not that honour.’ He looked +at Sidonia. + +‘Sir Joseph Wallinger,’ said Sidonia, ‘one of the new Whig baronets, +and member for ----. I know him. He married a Spaniard. That is not his +daughter, but his niece; the child of his wife’s sister. It is not easy +to find any one more beautiful.’ + +END OF BOOK V. + + + + +BOOK VI. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +The knowledge that Sidonia was in Paris greatly agitated Lady Monmouth. +She received the intimation indeed from Coningsby at dinner with +sufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord Monmouth himself was quite +pleased at the announcement. Sidonia was his especial favourite; he knew +so much, had such an excellent judgment, and was so rich. He had always +something to tell you, was the best man in the world to bet on, and +never wanted anything. A perfect character according to the Monmouth +ethics. + +In the evening of the day that Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady Monmouth made +a little visit to the charming Duchess de G----t who was ‘at home’ +every other night in her pretty hotel, with its embroidered white satin +draperies, its fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of famous +name, brave marshals and bright princesses of the olden time, on its +walls. These receptions without form, yet full of elegance, are what +English ‘at homes’ were before the Continental war, though now, by a +curious perversion of terms, the easy domestic title distinguishes in +England a formally-prepared and elaborately-collected assembly, in which +everything and every person are careful to be as little ‘homely’ as +possible. In France, on the contrary, ‘tis on these occasions, and in +this manner, that society carries on that degree and kind of intercourse +which in England we attempt awkwardly to maintain by the medium of +that unpopular species of visitation styled a morning call; which all +complain that they have either to make or to endure. + +Nowhere was this species of reception more happily conducted than at +the Duchess de G----t’s. The rooms, though small, decorated with taste, +brightly illumined; a handsome and gracious hostess, the Duke the very +pearl of gentlemen, and sons and daughters worthy of such parents. Every +moment some one came in, and some one went away. In your way from a +dinner to a ball, you stopped to exchange agreeable _on dits_. It seemed +that every woman was pretty, every man a wit. Sure you were to find +yourself surrounded by celebrities, and men were welcomed there, if they +were clever, before they were famous, which showed it was a house that +regarded intellect, and did not seek merely to gratify its vanity by +being surrounded by the distinguished. + +Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl, and leaning back on a sofa, Lady +Monmouth was engaged in conversation with the courtly and classic Count +M----é, when, on casually turning her head, she observed entering the +saloon, Sidonia. She just caught his form bowing to the Duchess, and +instantly turned her head and replunged into her conversation with +increased interest. Lady Monmouth was a person who had the power of +seeing all about her, everything and everybody, without appearing to +look. She was conscious that Sidonia was approaching her neighbourhood. +Her heart beat in tumult; she dreaded to catch the eye of that very +individual whom she was so anxious to meet. He was advancing towards +the sofa. Instinctively, Lady Monmouth turned from the Count, and began +speaking earnestly to her other neighbour, a young daughter of the +house, innocent and beautiful, not yet quite fledged, trying her wings +in society under the maternal eye. She was surprised by the extreme +interest which her grand neighbour suddenly took in all her pursuits, +her studies, her daily walks in the Bois de Boulogne. Sidonia, as the +Marchioness had anticipated, had now reached the sofa. But no, it was to +the Count, and not to Lady Monmouth that he was advancing; and they were +immediately engaged in conversation. After some little time, when she +had become accustomed to his voice, and found her own heart throbbing +with less violence, Lucretia turned again, as if by accident, to the +Count, and met the glance of Sidonia. She meant to have received him +with haughtiness, but her self-command deserted her; and slightly rising +from the sofa, she welcomed him with a countenance of extreme pallor and +with some awkwardness. + +His manner was such as might have assisted her, even had she been more +troubled. It was marked by a degree of respectful friendliness. He +expressed without reserve his pleasure at meeting her again; inquired +much how she had passed her time since they last parted; asked more than +once after the Marquess. The Count moved away; Sidonia took his seat. +His ease and homage combined greatly relieved her. She expressed to +him how kind her Lord would consider his society, for the Marquess had +suffered in health since Sidonia last saw him. His periodical gout had +left him, which made him ill and nervous. The Marquess received his +friends at dinner every day. Sidonia, particularly amiable, offered +himself as a guest for the following one. + +‘And do you go to the great ball to-morrow?’ inquired Lucretia, +delighted with all that had occurred. + +‘I always go to their balls,’ said Sidonia, ‘I have promised.’ + +There was a momentary pause; Lucretia happier than she had been for a +long time, her face a little flushed, and truly in a secret tumult of +sweet thoughts, remembered she had been long there, and offering her +hand to Sidonia, bade him adieu until to-morrow, while he, as was his +custom, soon repaired to the refined circle of the Countess de C-s-l-ne, +a lady whose manners he always mentioned as his fair ideal, and whose +house was his favourite haunt. + +Before to-morrow comes, a word or two respecting two other characters +of this history connected with the family of Lord Monmouth. And first +of Flora. La Petite was neither very well nor very happy. Her hereditary +disease developed itself; gradually, but in a manner alarming to those +who loved her. She was very delicate, and suffered so much from the +weakness of her chest, that she was obliged to relinquish singing. This +was really the only tie between her and the Marchioness, who, without +being a petty tyrant, treated her often with unfeeling haughtiness. She +was, therefore, now rarely seen in the chambers of the great. In her own +apartments she found, indeed, some distraction in music, for which she +had a natural predisposition, but this was a pursuit that only fed +the morbid passion of her tender soul. Alone, listening only to sweet +sounds, or indulging in soft dreams that never could be realised, her +existence glided away like a vision, and she seemed to become every day +more fair and fragile. Alas! hers was the sad and mystic destiny to love +one whom she never met, and by whom, if she met him, she would scarcely, +perhaps, be recognised. Yet in that passion, fanciful, almost ideal, +her life was absorbed; nor for her did the world contain an existence, +a thought, a sensation, beyond those that sprang from the image of +the noble youth who had sympathised with her in her sorrows, and had +softened the hard fortunes of dependence by his generous sensibility. +Happy that, with many mortifications, it was still her lot to live under +the roof of one who bore his name, and in whose veins flowed the same +blood! She felt indeed for the Marquess, whom she so rarely saw, and +from whom she had never received much notice, prompted, it would seem, +by her fantastic passion, a degree of reverence, almost of affection, +which seemed occasionally, even to herself, as something inexplicable +and without reason. + +As for her fond step-father, M. Villebecque, the world fared very +differently with him. His lively and enterprising genius, his ready and +multiform talents, and his temper which defied disturbance, had made +their way. He had become the very right hand of Lord Monmouth; his only +counsellor, his only confidant; his secret agent; the minister of his +will. And well did Villebecque deserve this trust, and ably did he +maintain himself in the difficult position which he achieved. There was +nothing which Villebecque did not know, nothing which he could not do, +especially at Paris. He was master of his subject; in all things the +secret of success, and without which, however they may from accident +dazzle the world, the statesman, the orator, the author, all alike feel +the damning consciousness of being charlatans. + +Coningsby had made a visit to M. Villebecque and Flora the day after +his arrival. It was a recollection and a courtesy that evidently greatly +gratified them. Villebecque talked very much and amusingly; and Flora, +whom Coningsby frequently addressed, very little, though she listened +with great earnestness. Coningsby told her that he thought, from all he +heard, she was too much alone, and counselled her to gaiety. But nature, +that had made her mild, had denied her that constitutional liveliness of +being which is the graceful property of French women. She was a lily of +the valley, that loved seclusion and the tranquillity of virgin glades. +Almost every day, as he passed their _entresol_, Coningsby would look +into Villebecque’s apartments for a moment, to ask after Flora. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Sidonia was to dine at Lord Monmouth’s the day after he met Lucretia, +and afterwards they were all to meet at a ball much talked of, and +to which invitations were much sought; and which was to be given that +evening by the Baroness S. de R----d. + +Lord Monmouth’s dinners at Paris were celebrated. It was generally +agreed that they had no rivals; yet there were others who had as skilful +cooks, others who, for such a purpose, were equally profuse in their +expenditure. What, then, was the secret spell of his success? The +simplest in the world, though no one seemed aware of it. His Lordship’s +plates were always hot: whereas at Paris, in the best appointed houses, +and at dinners which, for costly materials and admirable art in their +preparation, cannot be surpassed, the effect is always considerably +lessened, and by a mode the most mortifying: by the mere circumstance +that every one at a French dinner is served on a cold plate. The reason +of a custom, or rather a necessity, which one would think a nation so +celebrated for their gastronomical taste would recoil from, is really, +it is believed, that the ordinary French porcelain is so very inferior +that it cannot endure the preparatory heat for dinner. The common white +pottery, for example, which is in general use, and always found at the +cafés, will not bear vicinage to a brisk kitchen fire for half-an-hour. +Now, if we only had that treaty of commerce with France which has been +so often on the point of completion, the fabrics of our unrivalled +potteries, in exchange for their capital wines, would be found +throughout France. The dinners of both nations would be improved: the +English would gain a delightful beverage, and the French, for the first +time in their lives, would dine off hot plates. An unanswerable instance +of the advantages of commercial reciprocity. + +The guests at Lord Monmouth’s to-day were chiefly Carlists, individuals +bearing illustrious names, that animate the page of history, and are +indissolubly bound up with the glorious annals of their great country. +They are the phantoms of a past, but real Aristocracy; an Aristocracy +that was founded on an intelligible principle; which claimed great +privileges for great purposes; whose hereditary duties were such, that +their possessors were perpetually in the eye of the nation, and +who maintained, and, in a certain point of view justified, their +pre-eminence by constant illustration. + +It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen race with +whom he sympathised; whose fathers had been his friends in the days of +his hot youth; whose mothers he had made love to; whose palaces had been +his home; whose brilliant fêtes he remembered; whose fanciful splendour +excited his early imagination; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury +had developed his own predisposition for boundless enjoyment. Soubise +and his suppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and +embarrassed De Lauragais, who sighed for ‘entire ruin,’ as for a strange +luxury, which perpetually eluded his grasp; these were the heroes of the +olden time that Lord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of our ancestors +which he appreciated; and he turned to their recollection for relief +from the vulgar prudence of the degenerate days on which he had fallen: +days when nobles must be richer than other men, or they cease to have +any distinction. + +It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance of Lady +Monmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet preparatory to the +ball; white satin and minever, a brilliant tiara. Her fine form, her +costume of a fashion as perfect as its materials were sumptuous, and her +presence always commanding and distinguished, produced a general effect +to which few could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien over mere +beauty of countenance. + +The hotel of Madame S. de R----d is not more distinguished by its +profuse decoration, than by the fine taste which has guided the vast +expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost without a rival; there is +not the slightest embellishment in which the hand and feeling of art are +not recognised. The rooms were very crowded; everybody distinguished in +Paris was there: the lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the +wife of the financier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy, the +modern Bourse, were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers +of the Crown, Dukes and Marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the +Oeil de Boeuf; diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreigners of all +nations, deputies who led sections, members of learned and scientific +academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras, +brilliant bouquets, glittering stars, and glowing ribbons, many +beautiful faces, many famous ones: unquestionably the general air of a +firstrate Parisian saloon, on a great occasion, is not easily equalled. +In London there is not the variety of guests; nor the same size and +splendour of saloons. Our houses are too small for reception. + +Coningsby, who had stolen away from his grandfather’s before the rest of +the guests, was delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. He had +been in Paris long enough to make some acquaintances, and mostly with +celebrated personages. In his long fruitless endeavour to enter the +saloon in which they danced, he found himself hustled against the +illustrious Baron von H----t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few +days before at Count M----é’s. + +‘It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus of Panama, +Baron,’ said Coningsby, alluding to a past conversation. + +‘Infinitely,’ replied M. de H., smiling; ‘for I would undertake to +cut through the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that I shall enter this +ball-room.’ + +Time, however, brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber. What a +blaze of light and loveliness! How coquettish are the costumes! How +vivid the flowers! To sounds of stirring melody, beautiful beings move +with grace. Grace, indeed, is beauty in action. + +Here, where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is +suddenly arrested by one object, a form of surpassing grace among the +graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of unrivalled beauty. + +She was young among the youthful; a face of sunshine amid all that +artificial light; her head placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with +a queen-like grace; a coronet of white roses on her dark brown hair; her +only ornament. It was the beauty of the picture-gallery. + +The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance ceased, he had an +opportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with her cavalier, +and he was conscious that she observed him. Finally he remarked that she +resumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mistaken for her mother, but +had afterwards understood to be Lady Wallinger. + +Coningsby returned to the other saloons: he witnessed the entrance and +reception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. Soon +after this, Sidonia arrived; he came in with the still handsome and ever +courteous Duke D----s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to present him to +the Duke. While thus conversing, the Duke, who is fond of the English, +observed, ‘See, here is your beautiful countrywoman that all the world +are talking of. That is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one of +your lords, whose name I cannot recollect.’ + +And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. The Duke +addressed them: asked them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on +the next Thursday; and, after a thousand compliments, moved on. Sidonia +stopped; Coningsby could not refrain from lingering, but stood a little +apart, and was about to move away, when there was a whisper, of which, +without hearing a word, he could not resist the impression that he was +the subject. He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he +heard Sidonia reply to an inquiry of the lady, ‘The same,’ and then, +turning to Coningsby, said aloud, ‘Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that +you have forgotten her.’ + +Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal +his surprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not without +confusion, and for an instant looked down. Coningsby recalled at that +moment the long dark eyelashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance +that had so charmed him at Millbank; but two years had otherwise +effected a wonderful change in the sister of his school-day friend, +and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing +beauty and of the most graceful and impressive mien. + +‘It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect my niece,’ +said Sir Joseph, addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their mutual +embarrassment; ‘but it is impossible for her, or for anyone connected +with her, not to be anxious at all times to express to him our sense of +what we all owe him.’ + +Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine conversation, +consisting of questions; how long she had been at Paris; when she had +heard last from Millbank; how her father was; also, how was her brother. +Sidonia made an observation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then +himself moved on; Coningsby accompanying his new friends, in a contrary +direction, to the refreshment-room, to which they were proceeding. + +‘And you have passed a winter at Rome,’ said Coningsby. ‘How I envy you! +I feel that I shall never be able to travel.’ + +‘And why not?’ + +‘Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great cause that +keeps one at home.’ + +‘Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of which +they once could only read.’ + +‘The golden and silver sides of the shield,’ said Coningsby, with a +smile. + +‘And you, like a good knight, will maintain your own.’ + +‘No, I would follow yours.’ + +‘You have not heard lately from Oswald?’ + +‘Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents as we are; I +only wish we could meet.’ + +‘You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford; quite a monk; and +you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are much occupied.’ + +‘Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes, when I once paid +you a visit, I might have found your brother.’ + +‘But that was such a rapid visit,’ said Miss Millbank. + +‘I always remember it with delight,’ said Coningsby. + +‘You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwithstanding Rome, +commands my affections, and in spite of this surrounding splendour, I +could have wished to have passed my Christmas in Lancashire.’ + +‘Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very beautiful place in the county. +I became acquainted with Hellingsley when staying at my grandfather’s.’ + +‘Ah! I have never seen it; indeed, I was much surprised that papa became +its purchaser, because he never will live there; and Oswald, I am sure, +could never be tempted to quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic +ideas he has of his order?’ + +‘Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and pure. I always duly +appreciated your brother’s great abilities, and, what is far more +important, his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton days, I cannot +understand how more than two years have passed away without our being +together. I am sure the fault is mine. I might now have been at Oxford +instead of Paris. And yet,’ added Coningsby, ‘that would have been a sad +mistake, since I should not have had the happiness of being here. + +‘Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mistake,’ said Miss Millbank. + +‘Edith,’ said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom he had been +momentarily separated, ‘Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers.’ + +In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting near the +entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He was, as +usual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and yet not without a delicate +deference which is flattering to women, especially if not altogether +unworthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, and preferred her +society to that of most persons. But the Lady was in error in supposing +that she had conquered or could vanquish his heart. Sidonia was one of +those men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink, above all things, +from an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. He had +neither time nor temper for sentimental circumvolutions. He detested the +diplomacy of passion: protocols, protracted negotiations, conferences, +correspondence, treaties projected, ratified, violated. He had no genius +for the tactics of intrigue; your reconnoiterings, and marchings, and +countermarchings, sappings, and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders, +and sometimes repulses. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies were to +him infinitely wearisome; and if the movements were not merely formal, +they irritated him, distracted his feelings, disturbed the tenor of his +mind, deranged his nervous system. Something of the old Oriental vein +influenced him in his carriage towards women. He was oftener behind the +scenes of the Opera-house than in his box; he delighted, too, in the +society of _etairai_; Aspasia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in +what is esteemed pure society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever +women, because they interested him; but in such saloons his feminine +acquaintances were merely psychological. No lady could accuse him of +trifling with her feelings, however decided might be his predilection +for her conversation. He yielded at once to an admirer; never trespassed +by any chance into the domain of sentiment; never broke, by any accident +or blunder, into the irregular paces of flirtation; was a man who +notoriously would never diminish by marriage the purity of his race; +and one who always maintained that passion and polished life were quite +incompatible. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the Desert, but he +would not consent that either should trench on their mutual privileges. + +The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sidonia’s +society at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriage was impossible. +But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. Now they met again, +and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much +admired, and followed, and courted, and very powerful. It is our great +moralist who tells us, in the immortal page, that an affair of gallantry +with a great lady is more delightful than with ladies of a lower degree. +In this he contradicts the good old ballad; but certain it is that +Dr. Johnson announced to Boswell, ‘Sir, in the case of a Countess the +imagination is more excited.’ + +But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities of life +produced as little effect as a flake falling on the glaciers of the high +Alps. His comprehension of the world and human nature was too vast +and complete; he understood too well the relative value of things to +appreciate anything but essential excellence; and that not too much. A +charming woman was not more charming to him because she chanced to be +an empress in a particular district of one of the smallest planets; a +charming woman under any circumstances was not an unique animal. When +Sidonia felt a disposition to be spellbound, he used to review in his +memory all the charming women of whom he had read in the books of all +literatures, and whom he had known himself in every court and clime, +and the result of his reflections ever was, that the charming woman in +question was by no means the paragon, which some who had read, seen, +and thought less, might be inclined to esteem her. There was, indeed, +no subject on which Sidonia discoursed so felicitously as on woman, and +none on which Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him. +He would tell you Talmudical stories about our mother Eve and the Queen +of Sheba, which would have astonished you. There was not a free lady of +Greece, Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl +Thonis, respecting whom he could not tell you as many diverting tales as +if they were ladies of Loretto; not a nook of Athenseus, not an obscure +scholiast, not a passage in a Greek orator, that could throw light on +these personages, which was not at his command. What stories he would +tell you about Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot +drawn by tigers! What a character would he paint of that Flora who gave +her gardens to the Roman people! It would draw tears to your eyes. No +man was ever so learned in the female manners of the last centuries of +polytheism as Sidonia. You would have supposed that he had devoted his +studies peculiarly to that period if you had not chanced to draw him +to the Italian middle ages. And even these startling revelations were +almost eclipsed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III. of France, +with every character of which he was as familiar as with the brilliant +groups that at this moment filled the saloons of Madame de R----d. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought of Coningsby, as he +sank into an agitated slumber. To him had hitherto in general been +accorded the precious boon of dreamless sleep. Homer tells us these +phantasms come from Jove; they are rather the children of a distracted +soul. Coningsby this night lived much in past years, varied by +painful perplexities of the present, which he could neither subdue +nor comprehend. The scene flitted from Eton to the castle of his +grandfather; and then he found himself among the pictures of the Rue de +Tronchet, but their owner bore the features of the senior Millbank. A +beautiful countenance that was alternately the face in the mysterious +picture, and then that of Edith, haunted him under all circumstances. He +woke little refreshed; restless, and yet sensible of some secret joy. + +He woke to think of her of whom he had dreamed. The light had dawned on +his soul. Coningsby loved. + +Ah! what is that ambition that haunts our youth, that thirst for power +or that lust of fame that forces us from obscurity into the sunblaze of +the world, what are these sentiments so high, so vehement, so ennobling? +They vanish, and in an instant, before the glance of a woman! + +Coningsby had scarcely quitted her side the preceding eve. He hung +upon the accents of that clear sweet voice, and sought, with tremulous +fascination, the gleaming splendour of those soft dark eyes. And now +he sat in his chamber, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. All thoughts and +feelings, pursuits, desires, life, merge in one absorbing sentiment. + +It is impossible to exist without seeing her again, and instantly. He +had requested and gained permission to call on Lady Wallinger; he would +not lose a moment in availing himself of it. As early as was tolerably +decorous, and before, in all probability, they could quit their hotel, +Coningsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his respects to his new +friends. + +As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful speculations which connected +Edith and the mysterious portrait of his mother. He felt himself, as +it were, near the fulfilment of some fate, and on the threshold of some +critical discovery. He recalled the impatient, even alarmed, expressions +of Rigby at Montem six years ago, when he proposed to invite young +Millbank to his grandfather’s dinner; the vindictive feud that existed +between the two families, and for which political opinion, or even party +passion, could not satisfactorily account; and he reasoned himself into +a conviction, that the solution of many perplexities was at hand, and +that all would be consummated to the satisfaction of every one, by his +unexpected but inevitable agency. + +Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The worthy Baronet was at any rate +no participator in Mr. Millbank’s vindictive feelings against Lord +Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high respect for a Marquess, +whatever might be his opinions, and no mean consideration for a +Marquess’ grandson. + +Sir Joseph had inherited a large fortune made by commerce, and had +increased it by the same means. He was a middle-class Whig, had +faithfully supported that party in his native town during the days they +wandered in the wilderness, and had well earned his share of the milk +and honey when they had vanquished the promised land. In the springtide +of Liberalism, when the world was not analytical of free opinions, and +odious distinctions were not drawn between Finality men and progressive +Reformers, Mr. Wallinger had been the popular leader of a powerful +body of his fellow-citizens, who had returned him to the first Reformed +Parliament, and where, in spite of many a menacing registration, he +had contrived to remain. He had never given a Radical vote without +the permission of the Secretary of the Treasury, and was not afraid +of giving an unpopular one to serve his friends. He was not like that +distinguished Liberal, who, after dining with the late Whig Premier, +expressed his gratification and his gratitude, by assuring his Lordship +that he might count on his support on all popular questions. + +‘I want men who will support the government on all unpopular questions,’ +replied the witty statesman. + +Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and strong purse +were always in the front rank in the hour of danger. His support in the +House was limited to his votes; but in other places equally important, +at a meeting at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could find +his tongue, take what is called a ‘practical’ view of a question, adopt +what is called an ‘independent tone,’ reanimate confidence in ministers, +check mutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A man +of his property, and high character, and sound views, so practical and +so independent, this was evidently the block from which a Baronet should +be cut, and in due time he figured Sir Joseph. + +A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and of a good Catalan family, flying +during a political convulsion to England, arrived with his two +daughters at Liverpool, and bore letters of introduction to the house +of Wallinger. Some little time after this, by one of those stormy +vicissitudes of political fortune, of late years not unusual in the +Peninsula, he returned to his native country, and left his children, and +the management of that portion of his fortune that he had succeeded in +bringing with him, under the guardianship of the father of the present +Sir Joseph. This gentleman was about again to become an exile, when +he met with an untimely end in one of those terrible tumults of which +Barcelona is the frequent scene. + +The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of his father’s +wards. Her beauty of a character to which he was unaccustomed, +her accomplishments of society, and the refinement of her manners, +conspicuous in the circle in which he lived, captivated him; and though +they had no heir, the union had been one of great felicity. Sir Joseph +was proud of his wife; he secretly considered himself, though his ‘tone’ +was as liberal and independent as in old days, to be on the threshold of +aristocracy, and was conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not +unworthily in the elevated circles in which they now frequently found +themselves. Sir Joseph was fond of great people, and not averse to +travel; because, bearing a title, and being a member of the British +Parliament, and always moving with the appendages of wealth, servants, +carriages, and couriers, and fortified with no lack of letters from +the Foreign Office, he was everywhere acknowledged, and received, +and treated as a personage; was invited to court-balls, dined with +ambassadors, and found himself and his lady at every festival of +distinction. + +The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger’s youthful friend. +Different as were their dispositions and the rate of their abilities, +their political opinions were the same; and commerce habitually +connected their interests. During a visit to Liverpool, Millbank had +made the acquaintance of the sister of Lady Wallinger, and had been a +successful suitor for her hand. This lady was the mother of Edith and of +the schoolfellow of Coningsby. It was only within a very few years +that she had died; she had scarcely lived long enough to complete the +education of her daughter, to whom she was devoted, and on whom she +lavished the many accomplishments that she possessed. Lady Wallinger +having no children, and being very fond of her niece, had watched over +Edith with infinite solicitude, and finally had persuaded Mr. Millbank, +that it would be well that his daughter should accompany them in their +somewhat extensive travels. It was not, therefore, only that nature +had developed a beautiful woman out of a bashful girl since Coningsby’s +visit to Millbank; but really, every means and every opportunity that +could contribute to render an individual capable of adorning the most +accomplished circles of life, had naturally, and without effort, fallen +to the fortunate lot of the manufacturer’s daughter. Edith possessed +an intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing the native +simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and which +the strong and original bent of her father’s mind had fostered, she had +imbibed all the refinement and facility of the polished circles in which +she moved. She had a clear head, a fine taste, and a generous spirit; +had received so much admiration, that, though by no means insensible to +homage, her heart was free; was strongly attached to her family; and, +notwithstanding all the splendour of Rome, and the brilliancy of Paris, +her thoughts were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and +busy factories of Millbank. + +Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord Monmouth, +was not very anxious that the ladies should immediately appear. He +thought this a good opportunity of getting at what are called ‘the +real feelings of the Tory party;’ and he began to pump with a seductive +semblance of frankness. For his part, he had never doubted that a +Conservative government was ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John +so two years ago, and, between themselves, Lord John was of the same +opinion. The present position of the Whigs was the necessary fate of +all progressive parties; could not see exactly how it would end; thought +sometimes it must end in a fusion of parties; but could not well see how +that could be brought about, at least at present. For his part, should +be happy to witness an union of the best men of all parties, for the +preservation of peace and order, without any reference to any particular +opinions. And, in that sense of the word, it was not at all impossible +he might find it his duty some day to support a Conservative government. + +Sir Joseph was much astonished when Coningsby, who being somewhat +impatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt than his +wont, told the worthy Baronet that he looked, upon a government without +distinct principles of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread and +demoralising anarchy; that he for one could not comprehend how a free +government could endure without national opinions to uphold it; and that +governments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else, +had better be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of +Europe. As for Conservative government, the natural question was, What +do you mean to conserve? Do you mean to conserve things or only names, +realities or merely appearances? Or, do you mean to continue the +system commenced in 1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the +principles, and a superstitious adhesion to the forms, of the old +exclusive constitution, carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice? + +Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that any inkling of the +views of the New Generation had caught his ear. They were strange and +unaccustomed accents. He was extremely perplexed; could by no means make +out what his companion was driving at; at length, with a rather knowing +smile, expressive as much of compassion as comprehension, he remarked, + +‘Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman.’ + +‘I look upon an Orangeman,’ said Coningsby, ‘as a pure Whig; the only +professor and practiser of unadulterated Whiggism.’ + +This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge did not +reach much further back than the ministry of the Mediocrities; hardly +touched the times of the Corresponding Society. But he was a cautious +man, and never replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, when +he experienced the golden advantage of gaining time, for the ladies +entered. + +The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She extended to him +her hand; her face radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger seemed +gratified also by his visit. She had much elegance in her manner; +a calm, soft address; and she spoke English with a sweet Doric +irregularity. They all sat down, talked of the last night’s ball, of a +thousand things. There was something animating in the frank, cheerful +spirit of Edith. She had a quick eye both for the beautiful and the +ridiculous, and threw out her observations in terse and vivid phrases. +An hour, and more than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby still found +some excuse not to depart. It seemed that on this morning they were +about to make an expedition into the antique city of Paris, to visit +some old hotels which retained their character; especially they had +heard much of the hotel of the Archbishop of Sens, with its fortified +courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interest in the subject, and showed +some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to join the party, which of all +things in the world was what he most desired. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of Edith. Time +was precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge +already began to loom in the distance, and he resolved to make the most +determined efforts not to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call +every morning in the Rue de Rivoli was an exploit which surpassed even +the audacity of love! More than once, making the attempt, his courage +failed him, and he turned into the gardens of the Tuileries, and only +watched the windows of the house. Circumstances, however, favoured him: +he received a letter from Oswald Millbank; he was bound to communicate +in person this evidence of his friend’s existence; and when he had to +reply to the letter, he must necessarily inquire whether his friend’s +relatives had any message to transmit to him. These, however, were only +slight advantages. What assisted Coningsby in his plans and wishes was +the great pleasure which Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of +his time, took in the society of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia +presented Lady Wallinger with his opera-box during her stay at Paris; +invited them frequently to his agreeable dinner-parties; and announced +his determination to give a ball, which Lady Wallinger esteemed a +delicate attention to Edith; while Lady Monmouth flattered herself that +the festival sprang from the desire she had expressed of seeing the +celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage. + +Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemed +always welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he did not find +himself in the society of Edith. She seemed not to wish to conceal that +his presence gave her pleasure, and though she had many admirers, and +had an airy graciousness for all of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged +the exquisite suspicion that there was a flattering distinction in her +carriage to himself. Under the influence of these feelings, he began +daily to be more conscious that separation would be an intolerable +calamity; he began to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half +term, and of postponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer +the time when Edith would probably return to England. + +In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete which +was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day +when dining at his grandfather’s. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on +the occasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his +part, he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their +houses. That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked +to find it under his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they +would not insist upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat +his good dinners instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones. + +‘But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is a gem, they say,’ observed an Attaché of +an embassy. + +‘I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man +of sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false +move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot +deceive him, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a +rubber more. Then he would be perfect.’ + +‘They say he is going to be married,’ said the Attaché. + +‘Poh!’ said Lord Monmouth. + +‘Married!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘To whom?’ + +‘To your beautiful countrywoman, “la belle Anglaise,” that all the world +talks of,’ said the Attaché. + +‘And who may she be, pray?’ said the Marquess. ‘I have so many beautiful +countrywomen.’ + +‘Mademoiselle Millbank,’ said the Attaché. + +‘Millbank!’ said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. ‘There are so many +Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?’ he inquired of his +grandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassed +and even agitated spirit. + +‘What, sir; yes, Millbank?’ said Coningsby. + +‘I say, do you know who this Millbank is?’ + +‘Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is, I know a daughter of the +gentleman who purchased some property near you.’ + +‘Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?’ + +‘The most beautiful girl in Paris,’ said the Attaché. + +‘Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty, that Sidonia is going to +marry?’ he added, with a fiendish laugh. + +‘I have seen the young lady,’ said Lady Monmouth; ‘but I had not heard +that Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her.’ + +‘Is she so very beautiful?’ inquired another gentleman. + +‘Yes,’ said Lady Monmouth, calm, but pale. + +‘Poh!’ said the Marquess again. + +‘I assure you that it is a fact,’ said the Attaché, ‘not at least an +_on-dit_. I have it from a quarter that could not well be mistaken.’ + +Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very +painful impression on the minds of three individuals who were present. + +The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth’s mind a sense of defeat, +discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby; +three subjects which Lord Monmouth had succeeded for a time in expelling +from his sensations. His lordship thought that, in all probability, this +beauty of whom they spoke so highly was not really the daughter of his +foe; that it was some confusion which had arisen from the similarity of +names: nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever +she might be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and a +number of images had been raised in his mind that touched his spleen. He +took his wine freely, and, the usual consequence of that proceeding with +Lord Monmouth, became silent and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she +had learnt that Sidonia, whatever might be the result, was paying very +marked attention to another woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving +that very ball which she had flattered herself was a homage to her +wishes, and for which she had projected a new dress of eclipsing +splendour. + +Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia’s marriage +with Edith was the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the +imagination of man; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But the +idlest and wildest report that the woman you love is about to marry +another is not comfortable. Besides, he could not conceal from himself +that, between the Wallingers and Sidonia there existed a remarkable +intimacy, fully extended to their niece. He had seen her certainly on +more than one occasion in lengthened and apparently earnest conversation +with Sidonia, who, by-the-bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and +never concealed his admiration of her charms or the interest he found +in her society. And Edith; what, after all, had passed between Edith +and himself which should at all gainsay this report, which he had been +particularly assured was not a mere report, but came from a quarter that +could not well be mistaken? She had received him with kindness. And +how should she receive one who was the friend and preserver of her only +brother, and apparently the intimate and cherished acquaintance of +her future husband? Coningsby felt that sickness of the heart that +accompanies one’s first misfortune. The illusions of life seemed to +dissipate and disappear. He was miserable; he had no confidence in +himself, in his future. After all, what was he? A dependent on a man of +very resolute will and passions. Could he forget the glance with which +Lord Monmouth caught the name of Millbank, and received the intimation +of Hellingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto or a Caravaggio to +catch and immortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to marry Sidonia, +how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? Oh! what a +future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery awaited him! Was +there ever yet born a being with a destiny so dark and dismal? He was +the most forlorn of men, utterly wretched! He had entirely mistaken +his own character. He had no energy, no abilities, not a single eminent +quality. All was over! + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that ball, +the anticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure and some +pangs. + +On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed +the souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, +the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton. +About the centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off +at a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with +exertion still very powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses, +had not one of the reins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the +Marquess kept his seat; Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was +dashed against the trunk of a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at +the very instant that one of the outriders had succeeded in heading the +equipage and checking the horses. + +The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from the +phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous +house was opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a +babble of tongues, great confusion. + +‘Get surgeons and send for her maid,’ said Lord Monmouth to one of his +servants. + +In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followed +by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysées. The empty +phaeton, reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of +a misadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantly +dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless +and prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the +injudicious efforts of the bystanders. + +‘Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,’ said Sidonia, exchanging a +recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the +dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assisted +him. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present. + +‘I would hope there is no fracture,’ said Sidonia, placing her on a +sofa, ‘nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, though +considerable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse. +Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself.’ + +The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, which +Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silent +and very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow of +Lucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon entered +the chamber. + +‘The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse,’ said the surgeon; +‘there is no fracture.’ + +‘How pale she is!’ said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a +picture. + +‘The colour seems to me to return,’ said Sidonia. + +The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. The +face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred. + +‘She revives,’ said the surgeon. + +The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened her +eyes, and then instantly closed them. + +‘If I could but get her to take this draught,’ said the surgeon. + +‘Stop! moisten her lips first,’ said Sidonia. + +They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her hand +as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed. + +‘She is herself,’ said the surgeon. + +‘Lucretia!’ said the Marquess. + +‘Sidonia!’ said the Marchioness. + +Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come forward. + +‘Lady Monmouth!’ said Sidonia, in a gentle voice. + +She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. ‘Where am I?’ +she exclaimed. + +‘With me,’ said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took her +hand. + +‘Sidonia!’ she again exclaimed, in a voice of inquiry. + +‘Is here,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘He carried you in after our accident.’ + +‘Accident! Why is he going to marry?’ + +The Marquess took a pinch of snuff. + +There was an awkward pause in the chamber. + +‘I think now,’ said Sidonia to the surgeon, ‘that Lady Monmouth would +take the draught.’ + +She refused it. + +‘Try you, Sidonia,’ said the Marquess, rather dryly. + +‘You feel yourself again?’ said Sidonia, advancing. + +‘Would I did not!’ said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. ‘What +has happened? Why am I here? Are you married?’ + +‘She wanders a little,’ said Sidonia. + +The Marquess took another pinch of snuff. + +‘I could have borne even repulsion,’ said Lady Monmouth, in a voice of +desolation, ‘but not for another!’ + +‘M. Villebecque!’ said the Marquess. + +‘My Lord?’ + +Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which would +daunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, ‘The carriage +should have arrived by this time. Let us get home.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless +and disquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in the +distraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind. +His first resolution was immediately to depart for England; but when, on +reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had +so agitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of many +circumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his +firm resolution began to waver. + +These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had ever +experienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which +he was hazarding on a most uncertain die. + +The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, and was informed that the +family were not at home. He was returning under the arcades, towards the +Rue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, on +horseback, and at a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed by +him, could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his +progress. He saw him enter the court of the hotel where the Wallinger +family were staying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby +stood still and pale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered +himself that Sidonia was only speaking to the porter. Then he would +fain believe Sidonia was writing a note. Then, crossing the street, he +mounted by some steps the terrace of the Tuileries, nearly opposite the +Hotel of the Minister of Finance, and watched the house. A quarter of an +hour elapsed; Sidonia did not come forth. They were at home to him; only +to him. Sick at heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his +steps, dreading even to meet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that +his tongue would refuse the office of conversation, he contrived to +reach his grandfather’s hotel, and was about to bury himself in his +chamber, when on the staircase he met Flora. + +Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her now, his +heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one +else at this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but +the gentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so +kind a heart as Coningsby’s. + +He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. Her step trembled, while +she still hastened on. + +‘What is the matter?’ inquired Coningsby. + +‘My Lord, the Marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage.’ +Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that had occurred; that M. +Villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only this +moment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to the +centre. Coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely +emerged from the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought +Lord and Lady Monmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were +immediately at its door. + +‘All is right, Harry,’ said the Marquess, calm and grave. + +Coningsby pressed his grandfather’s hand. Then he assisted Lucretia to +alight. + +‘I am quite well,’ she said, ‘now.’ + +‘But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth,’ Coningsby said in a +tone of tenderness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from him. And he +supported her into the hall of the hotel. + +Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, and with +unwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with +a glance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an +almost winning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to +his countenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly +presented, he said, + +‘Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor child!’ + +He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm from +Flora, and thanked her with all his courtesy. + +‘You are not hurt, then, sir?’ she ventured to ask with a look that +expressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture to +convey. + +‘By no means, my good little girl;’ and he extended his hand to her, +which she reverently bent over and embraced. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather’s hotel that morning, it +was with a determination to leave Paris the next day for England; +but the accident to Lady Monmouth, though, as it ultimately appeared, +accompanied by no very serious consequences, quite dissipated this +intention. It was impossible to quit them so crudely at such a moment. +So he remained another day, and that was the day preceding Sidonia’s +fête, which he particularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite +impossible that he could again endure the sight of either Sidonia or +Edith. He looked upon them as persons who had deeply injured him; +though they really were individuals who had treated him with invariable +kindness. But he felt their existence was a source of mortification and +misery to him. With these feelings, sauntering away the last hours at +Paris, disquieted, uneasy; no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope; +really, positively, undeniably unhappy; unhappy too for the first time +in his life; the first unhappiness; what a companion piece for the +first love! Coningsby, of all places in the world, in the gardens of the +Luxembourg, encountered Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith. + +To avoid them was impossible; they met face to face; and Sir Joseph +stopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three days since they +had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprecedented a neglect. And +it seemed that Edith, though she said not as much, felt the same. And +Coningsby turned round and walked with them. He told them he was going +to leave Paris on the morrow. + +‘And miss Monsieur de Sidonia’s fête, of which we have all talked +so much!’ said Edith, with unaffected surprise, and an expression of +disappointment which she in vain attempted to conceal. + +‘The festival will not be less gay for my absence,’ said Coningsby, with +that plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing lovers. + +‘If we were all to argue from the same premises, and act accordingly,’ +said Edith, ‘the saloons would be empty. But if any person’s absence +would be remarked, I should really have thought it would be yours. I +thought you were one of Monsieur de Sidonia’s great friends?’ + +‘He has no friends,’ said Coningsby. ‘No wise man has. What are friends? +Traitors.’ + +Edith looked much astonished. And then she said, + +‘I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, for we have +just parted with him.’ + +‘I have no doubt you have,’ thought Coningsby. + +‘And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than he spoke +of you.’ Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Sidonia +to express himself so warmly. + +‘Sidonia is a great man, and carries everything before him,’ said +Coningsby. ‘I am nothing; I cannot cope with him; I retire from the +field.’ + +‘What field?’ inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch the drift +of these observations. ‘It appears to me that a field for action is +exactly what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his abilities and +intelligence. He wastes his energy in travelling from capital to capital +like a King’s messenger. The morning after his fête he is going to +Madrid.’ + +This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith spoke of +her return to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon see +Oswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that though he was going to leave +Paris, he had no intention of returning to England; that he had not yet +quite made up his mind whither he should go; but thought that he +should travel direct to St. Petersburg. He wished to travel overland to +Astrachan. That was the place he was particularly anxious to visit. + +After this incomprehensible announcement, they walked on for some +minutes in silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables, with which +Coningsby responded at hazard to the sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As +they approached the Palace a party of English who were visiting the +Chamber of Peers, and who were acquainted with the companions of +Coningsby, encountered them. Amid the mutual recognitions, Coningsby, +was about to take his leave somewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth +her hand, and said, + +‘Is this indeed farewell?’ + +His heart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained her hand +amid the chattering tourists, too full of their criticisms and their +egotistical commonplaces to notice what was passing. A sentimental +ebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. Their eyes met. +The look of Edith was mournful and inquiring. + +‘We will say farewell at the ball,’ said Coningsby, and she rewarded him +with a radiant smile. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + + +Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in +old days, had belonged to the Crillons; but it had received at his hands +such extensive alterations, that nothing of the original decoration, and +little of its arrangement, remained. + +A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into a +hall of great dimensions, which was at the same time an orangery and +a gallery of sculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, yet soft +and subdued light, which harmonised with the beautiful repose of the +surrounding forms, and with the exotic perfume that was wafted about. +A gallery led from this hall to an inner hall of quite a different +character; fantastic, glittering, variegated; full of strange shapes and +dazzling objects. + +The roof was carved and gilt in that honeycomb style prevalent in the +Saracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich +and vivid patterns; the floor was a flood of mosaic; about were statues +of negroes of human size with faces of wild expression, and holding +in their outstretched hands silver torches that blazed with an almost +painful brilliancy. + +From this inner hall a double staircase of white marble led to the grand +suite of apartments. + +These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, had been decorated +principally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of Munich. The +three principal rooms were only separated from each other by columns, +covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn aside. The decoration +of each chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the walls of the +ball-room nymphs and heroes moved in measure in Sicilian landscapes, +or on the azure shores of Aegean waters. From the ceiling beautiful +divinities threw garlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that +the roses, unwilling to quit Olympus, would not descend on earth. +The general effect of this fair chamber was heightened, too, by +that regulation of the house which did not permit any benches in the +ball-room. That dignified assemblage who are always found ranged in +precise discipline against the wall, did not here mar the flowing grace +of the festivity. The chaperons had no cause to complain. A large saloon +abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their service, where their +delicate charges might rest when weary, or find distraction when not +engaged. + +All the world were at this fête of Sidonia. It exceeded in splendour and +luxury every entertainment that had yet been given. The highest rank, +even Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, fame, all assembled in a +magnificent and illuminated palace, resounding with exquisite melody. + +Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was not insensible to the magic +of the scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that +tone, that glance, he had certainly felt much relieved, happier. And yet +if all were, with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly +desire, where was he then? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that fell +look, that voice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him? +Where, what was the mystery? for of some he could not doubt. The Spanish +parentage of Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It offered no +solution. There could be no connection between a Catalan family and his +mother, the daughter of a clergyman in a midland county. That there +was any relationship between the Millbank family and his mother was +contradicted by the conviction in which he had been brought up, that +his mother had no relations; that she returned to England utterly +friendless; without a relative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom +she could appeal. Her complete forlornness was stamped upon his brain. +Tender as were his years when he was separated from her, he could yet +recall the very phrases in which she deplored her isolation; and there +were numerous passages in her letters which alluded to it. Coningsby +had taken occasion to sound the Wallingers on this subject; but he felt +assured, from the manner in which his advances were met, that they knew +nothing of his mother, and attributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank +to his grandfather, solely to political emulation and local rivalries. +Still there were the portrait and the miniature. That was a fact; a clue +which ultimately, he was persuaded, must lead to some solution. + +Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was at once a +favourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. He was a specimen +of the highest style of English beauty, which is popular in France. His +air was acknowledged as distinguished. The men also liked him; he +had not quite arrived at that age when you make enemies. The moment, +therefore, that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was +accosted by many whose notice was flattering; but his eye wandered, +while he tried to be courteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where was +she? He had nearly reached the ball-room when he met her. She was on +the arm of Lord Beaumanoir, who had made her acquaintance at Rome, and +originally claimed it as the member of a family who, as the reader may +perhaps not forget, had experienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks. + +There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young men; great +explanations where they had been, what they were doing, where they were +going. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases +at Rome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal. +Coningsby securing Edith’s hand for the next dance, they all moved on +together to her aunt. + +Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences with the +Marquess. + +‘And you are not going to Astrachan to-morrow?’ said Edith. + +‘Not to-morrow,’ said Coningsby. + +‘You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these days to +permit travel to a man?’ + +‘I wish nothing was stirring,’ said Coningsby. ‘I wish nothing to +change. All that I wish is, that this fête should never end.’ + +‘Is it possible that you can be capricious? You perplex me very much.’ + +‘Am I capricious because I dislike change?’ + +‘But Astrachan?’ + +‘It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert,’ said +Coningsby. + +Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a ball that +he had first met her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences; +all most interesting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. All mysteries, all +difficulties, were driven from his recollection; he lived only in the +exciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in love! + +Some time after this, Coningsby, who was inevitably separated from +Edith, met his host. + +‘Where have you been, child,’ said Sidonia, ‘that I have not seen you +for some days? I am going to Madrid tomorrow.’ + +‘And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge.’ + +‘Well, you have seen something; you will find it more profitable when +you have digested it: and you will have opportunity. That’s the true +spring of wisdom: meditate over the past. Adventure and Contemplation +share our being like day and night.’ + +The resolute departure for England on the morrow had already changed +into a supposed necessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. In +fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith was an impossibility. +He silenced the remonstrance of his conscience by the expedient of +keeping a half-term, and had no difficulty in persuading himself that +a short delay in taking his degree could not really be of the slightest +consequence. + +It was the hour for supper. The guests at a French ball are not seen to +advantage at this period. The custom of separating the sexes for this +refreshment, and arranging that the ladies should partake of it by +themselves, though originally founded in a feeling of consideration +and gallantry, and with the determination to secure, under all +circumstances, the convenience and comfort of the fair sex, is really, +in its appearance and its consequences, anything but European, and +produces a scene which rather reminds one of the harem of a sultan than +a hall of chivalry. To judge from the countenances of the favoured fair, +they are not themselves particularly pleased; and when their repast is +over they necessarily return to empty halls, and are deprived of the +dance at the very moment when they may feel most inclined to participate +in its graceful excitement. + +These somewhat ungracious circumstances, however, were not attendant on +the festival of this night. There was opened in the Hotel of Sidonia for +the first time a banqueting-room which could contain with convenience +all the guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, the golden panels +of the walls containing festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by +encaustic tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantes +encircling Dionysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged +the various tables from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and flower. + +The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated from Edith. The +Duchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir of one of the +Imperial illustrations, had determined to appropriate Coningsby as +her cavalier for the moment. Distracted, he made his escape; but his +wandering eye could not find the object of its search; and he fell +prisoner to the charming Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist chieftain, +whose witty words avenged the cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered +nobility. + +Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! All the +circumstances of his life at this moment were such as acted forcibly +on the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from Edith, he had still the +delight of seeing her the paragon of that bright company, the consummate +being whom he adored! and who had spoken to him in a voice sweeter than +a serenade, and had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight! The +lord of the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his +boundless treasure, was his chosen friend; gained under circumstances +of romantic interest, when the reciprocal influence of their personal +qualities was affected by no accessory knowledge of their worldly +positions. He himself was in the very bloom of youth and health; the +child of a noble house, rich for his present wants, and with a future of +considerable fortunes. Entrancing love and dazzling friendship, a +high ambition and the pride of knowledge, the consciousness of a great +prosperity, the vague, daring energies of the high pulse of twenty-one, +all combined to stimulate his sense of existence, which, as he looked +around him at the beautiful objects and listened to the delicious +sounds, seemed to him a dispensation of almost supernatural ecstasy. + +About an hour after this, the ball-room still full, but the other +saloons gradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which seemed +deserted. Yet he heard sounds, as it were, of earnest conversation. It +was the voice that invited his progress; he advanced another step, then +suddenly stopped. There were two individuals in the room, by whom he was +unnoticed. They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a +sofa, Sidonia holding her hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe +her. Her tones were tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond +and confiding. It was all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly +withdrew, yet could not escape hearing an earnest request from Edith to +her companion that he would write to her. + +In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, and the +next day found him on his road to England. + +END OF BOOK VI. + + + + +BOOK VII. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seemed to linger +as if they wished to celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps the +beautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises a more effective +influence on the soul than when it descends on the aspect of some +distant and splendid city. What a contrast between the serenity and +repose of our own bosoms and the fierce passions and destructive cares +girt in the walls of that multitude whose domes and towers rise in +purple lustre against the resplendent horizon! + +And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance +of humanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a light +burden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of our +history leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, +and of faith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome of the +Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, +sanctifying the spires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary’s. + +A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in the +sunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, in +meditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful +of some engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached +the High Street as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star +Hotel, with that brilliant precision which even the New Generation can +remember, and yet which already ranks among the traditions of English +manners. A peculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival +of a firstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine, +crowded with so many passengers, the foaming and curvetting leaders, the +wheelers more steady and glossy, as if they had not done their ten miles +in the hour, the triumphant bugle of the guard, and the haughty routine +with which the driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the +obedient ostlers in attendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a +little awestruck, and looking for the moment at the lowest official of +the stable with considerable respect, altogether made a picture which +one recollects with cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary +market-town. + +Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of a +thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. The general character of +his countenance was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almost +bewitching smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang forward +and welcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off the +Blenheim. + +‘Well, Coningsby!’ he exclaimed, extending both his hands. + +‘By Jove! my dear Millbank, we have met at last,’ said his friend. + +And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred to Coningsby +since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The +wound he had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all, +none had outraged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had +loved one who had loved another. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And +yet ‘tis a bitter pang under any circumstances to find another preferred +to yourself. It is about the same blow as one would probably feel if +falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling +existence, scarcely superior to that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed +only from utter insensibility by your frank detestation of your rival. +It is quite impossible to conceal that Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia +a certain degree of aversion, which, in these days of exaggerated +phrase, might even be described as hatred. And Edith was so beautiful! +And there had seemed between them a sympathy so native and spontaneous, +creating at once the charm of intimacy without any of the disenchanting +attributes that are occasionally its consequence. He would recall the +tones of her voice, the expression of her soft dark eye, the airy spirit +and frank graciousness, sometimes even the flattering blush, with which +she had ever welcomed one of whom she had heard so long and so kindly. +It seemed, to use a sweet and homely phrase, that they were made for +each other; the circumstances of their mutual destinies might have +combined into one enchanting fate. + +And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon, her heart, with what +aspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to his +grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing, and the gracious favour +of an establishment for the daughter of his foe, of a man whose name was +never mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery +that connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood of +the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath +the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject +both with Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries +only involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternal +relatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on +other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn +the conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness +of their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet; +then he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he +recollected some specimens of Mr. Millbank’s collection, and after +touching on several which could not excite suspicion, he came to +‘a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a portrait or an ideal +countenance?’ + +Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no means +certain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of the +original, if there were an original. + +Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired of +the uncle explicitly whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Joseph +was of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere ‘picked +up.’ Millbank used often to ‘pick up’ pictures. + +Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement +of study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The +softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred +to his habitual reveries of political greatness and public distinction. +And as it ever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete +for the career which he planned for himself, he devoted himself with +increased ardour to that digestion of knowledge which converts it into +wisdom. His life at Cambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the +exception of a few Eton friends, he avoided all society. And, indeed, +his acquisitions during this term were such as few have equalled, and +could only have been mastered by a mental discipline of a severe and +exalted character. At the end of the term Coningsby took his degree, and +in a few days was about to quit that university where, on the whole, +he had passed three serene and happy years in the society of fond and +faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. He had many plans for his +impending movements, yet none of them very mature ones. Lord Vere wished +Coningsby to visit his family in the north, and afterwards to go to +Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined to travel for a year. +Amid this hesitation a circumstance occurred which decided him to adopt +neither of these courses. + +It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John’s, +Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were +visiting the marvels and rarities of the university. They were alone. +Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abrupt +manner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with +so much cordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning, +became their companion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at +length, in a depressed tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether +they had lately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the +extreme light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she +was in England, at Millbank, with her family. He always very much liked +Lady Wallinger, but this morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished +on her unceasing and the most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only +in the idea of making the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; +and no one else was to be their guide at any place or under any +circumstances. He told them exactly what they were to see; how they were +to see it; when they were to see it. He told them of things which nobody +did see, but which they should. He insisted that Sir Joseph should dine +with him in hall; Sir Joseph could not think of leaving Lady Wallinger; +Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir Joseph missing an opportunity that +might never offer again. Besides, they might both join her after dinner. +Except to give her husband a dinner, Coningsby evidently intended never +to leave her side. + +And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone with the +lady, Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, +with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, ‘I was +pleased, I mean surprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank; +I thought by this time she might have borne another name?’ + +Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, and +then said, ‘Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitate +in marrying. Marriage is for a woman _the_ event. Edith is too precious +to be carelessly bestowed.’ + +‘But I understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘when I left Paris,’ and here, he +became very confused, ‘that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point of +marriage.’ + +‘With whom?’ + +‘Our friend Sidonia.’ + +‘I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor +Monsieur de Sidonia, Edith. ‘Tis a preposterous idea!’ said Lady +Wallinger. + +‘But he very much admired her?’ said Coningsby with a searching eye. + +‘Possibly,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘but he never even intimated his +admiration.’ + +‘But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank?’ + +‘Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect.’ + +‘You have known Sidonia a long time?’ + +‘It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who introduced us to the care +of Mr. Wallinger,’ said Lady Wallinger, ‘and therefore I have ever +entertained for his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as +a compatriot. Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us, +especially to Edith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great +number of jewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain; +and, what she prized infinitely more, the whole of her mother’s +correspondence which she maintained with this relative since her +marriage. Nothing but the influence of Sidonia could have effected this. +Therefore, of course, Edith is attached to him almost as much as I am. +In short, he is our dearest friend; our counsellor in all our cares. But +as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous to those who know Monsieur +Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever induce him to impair that +purity of race on which he prides himself. Besides, there are other +obvious objections which would render an alliance between him and my +niece utterly impossible: Edith is quite as devoted to her religion as +Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race.’ + +A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger said +these words. The agitated interview, which never could be explained +away, already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became +pensive, remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he +had hitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of +the day that the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit +to Hellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that +Mr. Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like the +change of life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with +Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished place, +with fine gardens, of which his niece was particularly fond. + +When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon +about to quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his +removal, his eye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald +Millbank. Coningsby had often projected a visit to Oxford, which he much +desired to make, but hitherto it had been impossible for him to effect +it, except in the absence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed +it that he might combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning +with one to his old schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable. +And immediately Coningsby wrote to apprise Millbank that he had +taken his degree, was free, and prepared to pay him immediately the +long-projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed since they had +quitted Eton. How much had happened in the interval! What new ideas, new +feelings, vast and novel knowledge! Though they had not met, they were +nevertheless familiar with the progress and improvement of each other’s +minds. Their suggestive correspondence was too valuable to both of them +to have been otherwise than cherished. And now they were to meet on +the eve of entering that world for which they had made so sedulous a +preparation. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +There are few things in life more interesting than an unrestrained +interchange of ideas with a congenial spirit, and there are few things +more rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the world a man of great +abilities, acquirements, experience, who will unmask his mind, unbutton +his brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque phrase all the +results of his studies and observation; his knowledge of men, books, and +nature. On the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives +an original idea, he hoards it as if it were old gold; and rather avoids +the subject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you may +appropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of our +renowned dulness in conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy. +It must be admitted that in this respect authors, but especially poets, +bear the palm. They never think they are sufficiently appreciated, and +live in tremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. Artists have +the repute of being nearly as bad. And as for a small rising politician, +a clever speech by a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office +destroys his appetite and disturbs his slumbers. + +One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is, that one is +perpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and rare +acquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these discourses +the intellect makes daring leaps and marvellous advances. The tone that +colours our afterlife is often caught in these chance colloquies, and +the bent given that shapes a career. + +And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more open, the +brain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue more +prompt and eloquent, than when two school-day friends, knit by every +sympathy of intelligence and affection, meet at the close of their +college careers, after a long separation, hesitating, as it were, on +the verge of active life, and compare together their conclusions of the +interval; impart to each other all their thoughts and secret plans +and projects; high fancies and noble aspirations; glorious visions of +personal fame and national regeneration. + +Ah! why should such enthusiasm ever die! Life is too short to be +little. Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and +expresses himself with frankness and with fervour. + +Most assuredly there never was a congress of friendship wherein more was +said and felt than in this meeting, so long projected, and yet perhaps +on the whole so happily procrastinated, between Coningsby and Millbank. +In a moment they seemed as if they had never parted. Their faithful +correspondence indeed had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken. +But details are only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind +without stint. Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment +but was canvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a +principle they had adopted that was not confessed. Often, with boyish +glee still lingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as they +discovered that they had formed the same opinion or adopted the same +conclusion. They talked all day and late into the night. They condensed +into a week the poignant conclusions of three years of almost unbroken +study. And one night, as they sat together in Millbank’s rooms at +Oriel, their conversation having for some time taken a political colour, +Millbank said, + +‘Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be the state of +parties in this country; for it seems to me that if we penetrate the +surface, the classification must be more simple than their many names +would intimate.’ + +‘The principle of the exclusive constitution of England having been +conceded by the Acts of 1827-8-32,’ said Coningsby, ‘a party has arisen +in the State who demand that the principle of political liberalism +shall consequently be carried to its extent; which it appears to them is +impossible without getting rid of the fragments of the old constitution +that remain. This is the destructive party; a party with distinct and +intelligible principles. They seek a specific for the evils of our +social system in the general suffrage of the population. + +‘They are resisted by another party, who, having given up exclusion, +would only embrace as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment; +who, without any embarrassing promulgation of principles, wish to keep +things as they find them as long as they can, and then will manage them +as they find them as well as they can; but as a party must have the +semblance of principles, they take the names of the things that they +have destroyed. Thus they are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown, +although in truth the Crown has been stripped of every one of its +prerogatives; they affect a great veneration for the constitution in +Church and State, though every one knows that the constitution in Church +and State no longer exists; they are ready to stand or fall with the +“independence of the Upper House of Parliament”, though, in practice, +they are perfectly aware that, with their sanction, “the Upper House” + has abdicated its initiatory functions, and now serves only as a court +of review of the legislation of the House of Commons. Whenever public +opinion, which this party never attempts to form, to educate, or to +lead, falls into some violent perplexity, passion, or caprice, this +party yields without a struggle to the impulse, and, when the storm has +passed, attempts to obstruct and obviate the logical and, ultimately, +the inevitable results of the very measures they have themselves +originated, or to which they have consented. This is the Conservative +party. + +‘I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories, Radicals or +Chartists, or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race may +designate themselves; but these two divisions comprehend at present the +English nation. + +‘With regard to the first school, I for one have no faith in the +remedial qualities of a government carried on by a neglected democracy, +who, for three centuries, have received no education. What prospect does +it offer us of those high principles of conduct with which we have +fed our imaginations and strengthened our will? I perceive none of the +elements of government that should secure the happiness of a people and +the greatness of a realm. + +‘But in my opinion, if Democracy be combated only by Conservatism, +Democracy must triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is our +position. The man who enters public life at this epoch has to choose +between Political Infidelity and a Destructive Creed.’ + +‘This, then,’ said Millbank, ‘is the dilemma to which we are brought +by nearly two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary +Church.’ + +‘’Tis true,’ said Coningsby. ‘We cannot conceal it from ourselves, +that the first has made Government detested, and the second Religion +disbelieved.’ + +‘Many men in this country,’ said Millbank, ‘and especially in the class +to which I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy; +because they have accustomed themselves to believe, that it is the +only power by which we can sweep away those sectional privileges and +interests that impede the intelligence and industry of the community.’ + +‘And yet,’ said Coningsby, ‘the only way to terminate what, in the +language of the present day, is called Class Legislation, is not to +entrust power to classes. You would find a Locofoco majority as much +addicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. The only +power that has no class sympathy is the Sovereign.’ + +‘But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign, what would be your +check against him?’ + +‘The same as against an arbitrary Parliament.’ + +‘But a Parliament is responsible.’ + +‘To whom?’ + +‘To their constituent body.’ + +‘Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?’ + +‘But public opinion would prevent that.’ + +‘And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than on a +body?’ + +‘But public opinion may be indifferent. A nation may be misled, may be +corrupt.’ + +‘If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the elected body +will resemble it. The nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But this +only shows that there is something to be considered beyond forms of +government, national character. And herein mainly should we repose our +hopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and the great, depend upon +it, whatever be its form, the government will respond to its convictions +and its sentiments.’ + +‘Do you then declare against Parliamentary government.’ + +‘Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of evils, +for it comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the permanence of +the existing settlement, if the very individuals who established it are, +year after year, proposing their modifications or their reconstructions; +so also, while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare ourselves for +the change we deem impending? + +‘Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow-citizens, should +be taken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who opposed the Reform +Bill offered contrary objections to it which destroyed each other, so +ignorant were they of its real character, its historical causes, its +political consequences. We should now so act that, when the occasions +arrives, we should clearly comprehend what we want, and have formed an +opinion as to the best means by which that want can be supplied. + +‘For this purpose I would accustom the public mind to the contemplation +of an existing though torpid power in the constitution, capable +of removing our social grievances, were we to transfer to it those +prerogatives which the Parliament has gradually usurped, and used in +a manner which has produced the present material and moral +disorganisation. The House of Commons is the house of a few; the +Sovereign is the sovereign of all. The proper leader of the people is +the individual who sits upon the throne.’ + +‘Then you abjure the Representative principle?’ + +‘Why so? Representation is not necessarily, or even in a principal +sense, Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet +the nation is represented in its highest as well as in its most minute +interests. Not a grievance escapes notice and redress. I see in the +newspaper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally chastised his +pupil. It is a fact known over all England. We must not forget that a +principle of government is reserved for our days that we shall not find +in our Aristotles, or even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon +Wittenagemotes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is now +supreme, and Opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press is +far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentary +representation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it was +admirably adapted: an age of semi-civilisation, when there was a leading +class in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude. +It is controlled by a system of representation more vigorous and +comprehensive; which absorbs its duties and fulfils them more +efficiently, and in which discussion is pursued on fairer terms, and +often with more depth and information.’ + +‘And to what power would you entrust the function of Taxation?’ + +‘To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in creating +our present amount of debt, and in establishing our present system of +imposts. + +‘In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect its ends +by the influence of opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms. +Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to our +consideration the idea of a free monarchy, established on fundamental +laws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government, +ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual press. +Before such a royal authority, supported by such a national opinion, the +sectional anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system, +where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, even +statesmen would be educated; we should have no more diplomatists who +could not speak French, no more bishops ignorant of theology, no more +generals-in-chief who never saw a field. + +‘Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions, our +feelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of great ends +and appealing to high sentiments; a polity which, in my opinion, would +render government an object of national affection, which would terminate +sectional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and extinguish Chartism.’ + +‘You said to me yesterday,’ said Millbank after a pause, ‘quoting the +words of another, which you adopted, that Man was made to adore and to +obey. Now you have shown to me the means by which you deem it possible +that government might become no longer odious to the subject; you have +shown how man may be induced to obey. But there are duties and interests +for man beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and national +greatness, higher interests and greater duties. How would you deal +with their spiritual necessities? You think you can combat political +infidelity in a nation by the principle of enlightened loyalty; how +would you encounter religious infidelity in a state? By what means is +the principle of profound reverence to be revived? How, in short, is man +to be led to adore?’ + +‘Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten,’ replied Coningsby. +‘I know from your letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts. +I confess to you that it has often filled mine with perplexity and +depression. When we were at Eton, and both of us impregnated with the +contrary prejudices in which we had been brought up, there was still +between us one common ground of sympathy and trust; we reposed with +confidence and affection in the bosom of our Church. Time and thought, +with both of us, have only matured the spontaneous veneration of our +boyhood. But time and thought have also shown me that the Church of our +heart is not in a position, as regards the community, consonant with its +original and essential character, or with the welfare of the nation.’ + +‘The character of a Church is universality,’ replied Millbank. ‘Once +the Church in this country was universal in principle and practice; when +wedded to the State, it continued at least universal in principle, if +not in practice. What is it now? All ties between the State and +the Church are abolished, except those which tend to its danger and +degradation. + +‘What can be more anomalous than the present connection between State +and Church? Every condition on which it was originally consented to +has been cancelled. That original alliance was, in my view, an equal +calamity for the nation and the Church; but, at least, it was an +intelligible compact. Parliament, then consisting only of members of +the Established Church, was, on ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and +might, in some points of view, be esteemed a necessary portion of Church +government. But you have effaced this exclusive character of Parliament; +you have determined that a communion with the Established Church shall +no longer be part of the qualification for sitting in the House of +Commons. There is no reason, so far as the constitution avails, why +every member of the House of Commons should not be a dissenter. But the +whole power of the country is concentrated in the House of Commons. +The House of Lords, even the Monarch himself, has openly announced and +confessed, within these ten years, that the will of the House of Commons +is supreme. A single vote of the House of Commons, in 1832, made the +Duke of Wellington declare, in the House of Lords, that he was obliged +to abandon his sovereign in “the most difficult and distressing +circumstances.” The House of Commons is absolute. It is the State. +“L’Etat c’est moi.” The House of Commons virtually appoints the bishops. +A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the Established Church. +They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was expelled the throne +because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliament +might do this to-morrow with impunity. And this is the constitution in +Church and State which Conservative dinners toast! The only consequences +of the present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of the +State, there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, and +on the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those principles +on which alone Church government can be established, and by the +influence of which alone can the Church of England again become +universal.’ + +‘But it is urged that the State protects its revenues?’ + +‘No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe that require protection. +Modern history is a history of Church spoliation. And by whom? Not by +the people; not by the democracy. No; it is the emperor, the king, the +feudal baron, the court minion. The estate of the Church is the estate +of the people, so long as the Church is governed on its real principles. +The Church is the medium by which the despised and degraded classes +assert the native equality of man, and vindicate the rights and power +of intellect. It made, in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of +a Saxon pedlar Primate of England, and placed Nicholas Breakspear, a +Hertfordshire peasant, on the throne of the Caesars. It would do as +great things now, if it were divorced from the degrading and tyrannical +connection that enchains it. You would have other sons of peasants +Bishops of England, instead of men appointed to that sacred office +solely because they were the needy scions of a factitious aristocracy; +men of gross ignorance, profligate habits, and grinding extortion, who +have disgraced the episcopal throne, and profaned the altar.’ + +‘But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the present +bench?’ + +‘Surely not: I speak of the past, of the past that has produced so much +present evil. We live in decent times; frigid, latitudinarian, alarmed, +decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our days a fit successor to the +authors of the gospels, if he be not the editor of a Greek play; and he +who follows St. Paul must now at least have been private tutor of +some young nobleman who has taken a good degree! And then you are +all astonished that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but the +indestructibleness of its principles, however feebly pursued, could have +maintained even the disorganised body that still survives. + +‘And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and all its +present deficiencies, it is by the Church; I would have said until I +listened to you to-night; by the Church alone that I see any chance of +regenerating the national character. The parochial system, though +shaken by the fatal poor-law, is still the most ancient, the most +comprehensive, and the most popular institution of the country; the +younger priests are, in general, men whose souls are awake to the high +mission which they have to fulfil, and which their predecessors so +neglected; there is, I think, a rising feeling in the community, that +parliamentary intercourse in matters ecclesiastical has not tended +either to the spiritual or the material elevation of the humbler +orders. Divorce the Church from the State, and the spiritual power that +struggled against the brute force of the dark ages, against tyrannical +monarchs and barbarous barons, will struggle again in opposition to +influences of a different form, but of a similar tendency; equally +selfish, equally insensible, equally barbarising. The priests of God are +the tribunes of the people. O, ignorant! that with such a mission they +should ever have cringed in the antechambers of ministers, or bowed +before parliamentary committees!’ + +‘The Utilitarian system is dead,’ said Coningsby. ‘It has passed through +the heaven of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, and +peppering, and it has melted away. And yet can we wonder that it found +some success, when we consider the political ignorance and social torpor +which it assailed? Anointed kings turned into chief magistrates, and +therefore much overpaid; estates of the realm changed into parliaments +of virtual representation, and therefore requiring real reform; holy +Church transformed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled +at by all the nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable +harvest of sedition, radicalism, infidelity! I really think there is no +society, however great its resources, that could long resist the united +influences of chief magistrate, virtual representation, and Church +establishment!’ + +‘I have immense faith in the new generation,’ said Millbank, eagerly. + +‘It is a holy thing to see a state saved by its youth,’ said Coningsby; +and then he added, in a tone of humility, if not of depression, +‘But what a task! What a variety of qualities, what a combination +of circumstances is requisite! What bright abilities and what noble +patience! What confidence from the people, what favour from the Most +High!’ + +‘But He will favour us,’ said Millbank. ‘And I say to you as Nathan said +unto David, “Thou art the man!” You were our leader at Eton; the friends +of your heart and boyhood still cling and cluster round you! they are +all men whose position forces them into public life. It is a nucleus of +honour, faith, and power. You have only to dare. And will you not dare? +It is our privilege to live in an age when the career of the highest +ambition is identified with the performance of the greatest good. Of the +present epoch it may be truly said, “Who dares to be good, dares to be +great.”’ + +‘Heaven is above all,’ said Coningsby. ‘The curtain of our fate is +still undrawn. We are happy in our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever +lights, we will stand together. For myself, I prefer fame to life; +and yet, the consciousness of heroic deeds to the most wide-spread +celebrity.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +The beautiful light of summer had never shone on a scene and surrounding +landscape which recalled happier images of English nature, and better +recollections of English manners, than that to which we would now +introduce our readers. One of those true old English Halls, now +unhappily so rare, built in the time of the Tudors, and in its elaborate +timber-framing and decorative woodwork indicating, perhaps, the scarcity +of brick and stone at the period of its structure, as much as the +grotesque genius of its fabricator, rose on a terrace surrounded +by ancient and very formal gardens. The hall itself, during many +generations, had been vigilantly and tastefully preserved by its +proprietors. There was not a point which was not as fresh as if it had +been renovated but yesterday. It stood a huge and strange blending +of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with a wild dash of the +fantastic in addition. The lantern watch-towers of a baronial castle +were placed in juxtaposition with Doric columns employed for chimneys, +while under oriel windows might be observed Italian doorways with +Grecian pediments. Beyond the extensive gardens an avenue of Spanish +chestnuts at each point of the compass approached the mansion, or led +into a small park which was table-land, its limits opening on all sides +to beautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling with cultivation, except +at one point, where the river Darl formed the boundary of the domain, +and then spread in many a winding through the rich country beyond. + +Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was about to +visit for the first time. Coningsby and himself had travelled together +as far as Darlford, where their roads diverged, and they had separated +with an engagement on the part of Coningsby to visit Hellingsley on the +morrow. As they had travelled along, Coningsby had frequently led the +conversation to domestic topics; gradually he had talked, and +talked much of Edith. Without an obtrusive curiosity, he extracted, +unconsciously to his companion, traits of her character and early days, +which filled him with a wild and secret interest. The thought that in a +few hours he was to meet her again, infused into his being a degree of +transport, which the very necessity of repressing before his companion +rendered more magical and thrilling. How often it happens in life that +we have with a grave face to discourse of ordinary topics, while all the +time our heart and memory are engrossed with some enchanting secret! + +The castle of his grandfather presented a far different scene on the +arrival of Coningsby from that which it had offered on his first visit. +The Marquess had given him a formal permission to repair to it at +his pleasure, and had instructed the steward accordingly. But he came +without notice, at a season of the year when the absence of all sports +made his arrival unexpected. The scattered and sauntering household +roused themselves into action, and contemplated the conviction that it +might be necessary to do some service for their wages. There was a stir +in that vast, sleepy castle. At last the steward was found, and came +forward to welcome their young master, whose simple wants were limited +to the rooms he had formerly occupied. + +Coningsby reached the castle a little before sunset, almost the same +hour that he had arrived there more than three years ago. How much had +happened in the interval! Coningsby had already lived long enough to +find interest in pondering over the past. That past too must inevitably +exercise a great influence over his present. He recalled his morning +drive with his grandfather, to the brink of that river which was +the boundary between his own domain and Hellingsley. Who dwelt at +Hellingsley now? + +Restless, excited, not insensible to the difficulties, perhaps the +dangers of his position, yet full of an entrancing emotion in which all +thoughts and feelings seemed to merge, Coningsby went forth into the +fair gardens to muse over his love amid objects as beautiful. A rosy +light hung over the rare shrubs and tall fantastic trees; while a rich +yet darker tint suffused the distant woods. This euthanasia of the day +exercises a strange influence on the hearts of those who love. Who has +not felt it? Magical emotions that touch the immortal part! + +But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that softens the heart made +his spirit brave. Amid the ennobling sympathies of nature, the pursuits +and purposes of worldly prudence and conventional advantage subsided +into their essential nothingness. He willed to blend his life and fate +with a being beautiful as that nature that subdued him, and he felt in +his own breast the intrinsic energies that in spite of all obstacles +should mould such an imagination into reality. + +He descended the slopes, now growing dimmer in the fleeting light, into +the park. The stillness was almost supernatural; the jocund sounds of +day had died, and the voices of the night had not commenced. His heart +too was still. A sacred calm had succeeded to that distraction of +emotion which had agitated him the whole day, while he had mused over +his love and the infinite and insurmountable barriers that seemed to +oppose his will. Now he felt one of those strong groundless convictions +that are the inspirations of passion, that all would yield to him as to +one holding an enchanted wand. + +Onward he strolled; it seemed without purpose, yet always proceeding. A +pale and then gleaming tint stole over the masses of mighty timber; and +soon a glittering light flooded the lawns and glades. The moon was high +in her summer heaven, and still Coningsby strolled on. He crossed the +broad lawns, he traversed the bright glades: amid the gleaming and +shadowy woods, he traced his prescient way. + +He came to the bank of a rushing river, foaming in the moonlight, and +wafting on its blue breast the shadow of a thousand stars. + +‘O river!’ he said, ‘that rollest to my mistress, bear her, bear her my +heart!’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in the morning room of +Hellingsley, the morrow after the arrival of Oswald. Edith was arranging +flowers in a vase, while her aunt was embroidering a Spanish peasant in +correct costume. The daughter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant +as the fair creations that surrounded her. Beautiful to watch her as she +arranged their forms and composed their groups; to mark her eye glance +with gratification at some happy combination of colour, or to listen to +her delight as they wafted to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald and +Sir Joseph were surveying the stables; Mr. Millbank, who had been daily +expected for the last week from the factories, had not yet arrived. + +‘I must say he gained my heart from the first,’ said Lady Wallinger. + +‘I wish the gardener would send us more roses,’ said Edith. + +‘He is so very superior to any young man I ever met,’ continued Lady +Wallinger. + +‘I think we must have this vase entirely of roses; don’t you think so, +aunt?’ inquired her niece. + +‘I am fond of roses,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘What beautiful bouquets Mr. +Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith!’ + +‘Beautiful!’ + +‘I must say, I was very happy when I met Mr. Coningsby again at +Cambridge,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘It gave me much greater pleasure than +seeing any of the colleges.’ + +‘How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a companion +again!’ said Edith. + +‘And very naturally,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘Oswald ought to deem +himself fortunate in having such a friend. I am sure the kindness of Mr. +Coningsby when we met him at Cambridge is what I never shall forget. But +he always was my favourite from the first time I saw him at Paris. Do +you know, Edith, I liked him best of all your admirers.’ + +‘Oh! no, aunt,’ said Edith, smiling, ‘not more than Lord Beaumanoir; you +forget your great favourite, Lord Beaumanoir.’ + +‘But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘I +cannot agree that anybody is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I cannot tell you +how pleased I am that he is our neighbour!’ + +As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to the jacket of her +Andalusian, Edith, vividly blushing, yet speaking in a voice of affected +calmness, said, + +‘Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt.’ + +And, truly, at this moment our hero might be discerned, approaching the +hall by one of the avenues; and in a few minutes there was a ringing at +the hall bell, and then, after a short pause, the servants announced Mr. +Coningsby, and ushered him into the morning room. + +Edith was embarrassed; the frankness and the gaiety of her manner had +deserted her; Coningsby was rather earnest than self-possessed. Each +felt at first that the presence of Lady Wallinger was a relief. The +ordinary topics of conversation were in sufficient plenty; reminiscences +of Paris, impressions of Hellingsley, his visit to Oxford, Lady +Wallinger’s visit to Cambridge. In ten minutes their voices seemed to +sound to each other as they did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their mutual +perplexity had in a great degree subsided. + +Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room, and the conversation became +general. Hellingsley was the subject on which Coningsby dwelt; he was +charmed with all that he had seen! wished to see more. Sir Joseph was +quite prepared to accompany him; but Lady Wallinger, who seemed to read +Coningsby’s wishes in his eyes, proposed that the inspection should be +general; and in the course of half an hour Coningsby was walking by the +side of Edith, and sympathising with all the natural charms to which her +quick taste and lively expression called his notice and appreciation. +Few things more delightful than a country ramble with a sweet companion! +Exploring woods, wandering over green commons, loitering in shady lanes, +resting on rural stiles; the air full of perfume, the heart full of +bliss! + +It seemed to Coningsby that he had never been happy before. A thrilling +joy pervaded his being. He could have sung like a bird. His heart was as +sunny as the summer scene. Past and Future were absorbed in the flowing +hour; not an allusion to Paris, not a speculation on what might arrive; +but infinite expressions of agreement, sympathy; a multitude of slight +phrases, that, however couched, had but one meaning, congeniality. He +felt each moment his voice becoming more tender; his heart gushing +in soft expressions; each moment he was more fascinated; her step was +grace, her glance was beauty. Now she touched him by some phrase of +sweet simplicity; or carried him spell-bound by her airy merriment. + +Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to dine with them. There was not +even the ceremony of invitation. Coningsby could not but remember his +dinner at Millbank, and the timid hostess whom he then addressed so +often in vain, as he gazed upon the bewitching and accomplished woman +whom he now passionately loved. It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald, +happy in his friend being his guest, under his own roof, indulged in +unwonted gaiety. + +The ladies withdrew; Sir Joseph began to talk politics, although the +young men had threatened their fair companions immediately to follow +them. This was the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, when Sir Robert Peel +accepted and resigned power in the course of three days. Sir Joseph, +who had originally made up his mind to support a Conservative government +when he deemed it inevitable, had for the last month endeavoured to +compensate for this trifling error by vindicating the conduct of his +friends, and reprobating the behaviour of those who would deprive her +Majesty of the ‘friends-of-her-youth.’ Sir Joseph was a most chivalrous +champion of the ‘friends-of-her-youth’ principle. Sir Joseph, who was +always moderate and conciliatory in his talk, though he would go, at any +time, any lengths for his party, expressed himself to-day with +extreme sobriety, as he was determined not to hurt the feelings of +Mr. Coningsby, and he principally confined himself to urging temperate +questions, somewhat in the following fashion:-- + +‘I admit that, on the whole, under ordinary circumstances, it would +perhaps have been more convenient that these appointments should have +remained with Sir Robert; but don’t you think that, under the peculiar +circumstances, being friends of her Majesty’s youth?’ &c. &c. + +Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when Coningsby replied that he +thought, under no circumstances, should any appointment in the Royal +Household be dependent on the voice of the House of Commons, though he +was far from admiring the ‘friends-of-her-youth’ principle, which he +looked upon as impertinent. + +‘But surely,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘the Minister being responsible to +Parliament, it must follow that all great offices of State should be +filled at his discretion.’ + +‘But where do you find this principle of Ministerial responsibility?’ +inquired Coningsby. + +‘And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?’ inquired Millbank. + +Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. He had always heard that Ministers +were responsible to Parliament; and he had a vague conviction, +notwithstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed-Chamber Plot, that +the Sovereign of England was a nonentity. He took refuge in indefinite +expressions, and observed, ‘The Responsibility of Ministers is surely a +constitutional doctrine.’ + +‘The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; they are +not the Ministers of Parliament.’ + +‘But then you know virtually,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘the Parliament, that +is, the House of Commons, governs the country.’ + +‘It did before 1832,’ said Coningsby; ‘but that is all past now. We got +rid of that with the Venetian Constitution.’ + +‘The Venetian Constitution!’ said Sir Joseph. + +‘To be sure,’ said Millbank. ‘We were governed in this country by the +Venetian Constitution from the accession of the House of Hanover. But +that yoke is past. And now I hope we are in a state of transition from +the Italian Dogeship to the English Monarchy.’ + +‘King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!’ exclaimed Sir +Joseph. + +‘But they were phrases,’ said Coningsby, ‘not facts. The King was a +Doge; the Cabinet the Council of Ten. Your Parliament, that you call +Lords and Commons, was nothing more than the Great Council of Nobles.’ + +‘The resemblance was complete,’ said Millbank, ‘and no wonder, for it +was not accidental; the Venetian Constitution was intentionally copied.’ + +‘We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640,’ said Coningsby, ‘had +it not been for the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.’ + +‘I am sure these ideas are not very generally known,’ said Sir Joseph, +bewildered. + +‘Because you have had your history written by the Venetian party,’ said +Coningsby, ‘and it has been their interest to conceal them.’ + +‘I will venture to say that there are very few men on our side in the +House of Commons,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘who are aware that they were born +under a Venetian Constitution.’ + +‘Let us go to the ladies,’ said Millbank, smiling. + +Edith was reading a letter as they entered. + +‘A letter from papa,’ she exclaimed, looking up at her brother with +great animation. ‘We may expect him every day; and yet, alas! he cannot +fix one.’ + +They now all spoke of Millbank, and Coningsby was happy that he was +familiar with the scene. At length he ventured to say to Edith, ‘You +once made me a promise which you never fulfilled. I shall claim it +to-night.’ + +‘And what can that be?’ + +‘The song that you promised me at Millbank more than three years ago.’ + +‘Your memory is good.’ + +‘It has dwelt upon the subject.’ + +Then they spoke for a while of other recollections, and then Coningsby +appealing to Lady Wallinger for her influence, Edith rose and took up +her guitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the air she sang gay, even +fantastically frolic, such as the girls of Granada chaunt trooping home +from some country festival; her soft, dark eye brightened with joyous +sympathy; and ever and anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, in +chorus, with her pretty hand. + +The moon wanes; and Coningsby must leave these enchanted halls. Oswald +walked homeward with him until he reached the domain of his grandfather. +Then mounting his horse, Coningsby bade his friend farewell till the +morrow, and made his best way to the Castle. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +There is a romance in every life. The emblazoned page of Coningsby’s +existence was now open. It had been prosperous before, with some moments +of excitement, some of delight; but they had all found, as it were, +their origin in worldly considerations, or been inevitably mixed up with +them. At Paris, for example, he loved, or thought he loved. But there +not an hour could elapse without his meeting some person, or hearing +something, which disturbed the beauty of his emotions, or broke his +spell-bound thoughts. There was his grandfather hating the Millbanks, +or Sidonia loving them; and common people, in the common world, making +common observations on them; asking who they were, or telling who they +were; and brushing the bloom off all life’s fresh delicious fancies with +their coarse handling. + +But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved passionately, and he loved +in a scene and in a society as sweet, as pure, and as refined as his +imagination and his heart. There was no malicious gossip, no callous +chatter to profane his ear and desecrate his sentiment. All that he +heard or saw was worthy of the summer sky, the still green woods, the +gushing river, the gardens and terraces, the stately and fantastic +dwellings, among which his life now glided as in some dainty and +gorgeous masque. + +All the soft, social, domestic sympathies of his nature, which, however +abundant, had never been cultivated, were developed by the life he was +now leading. It was not merely that he lived in the constant presence, +and under the constant influence of one whom he adored, that made him so +happy. He was surrounded by beings who found felicity in the interchange +of kind feelings and kind words, in the cultivation of happy talents and +refined tastes, and the enjoyment of a life which their own good sense +and their own good hearts made them both comprehend and appreciate. +Ambition lost much of its splendour, even his lofty aspirations +something of their hallowing impulse of paramount duty, when Coningsby +felt how much ennobling delight was consistent with the seclusion of a +private station; and mused over an existence to be passed amid woods and +waterfalls with a fair hand locked in his, or surrounded by his friends +in some ancestral hall. + +The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley Coningsby rejoined his +friends, as he had promised Oswald at their breakfast-table; and day +after day he came with the early sun, and left them only when the late +moon silvered the keep of Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote +daily, and was daily to be expected, did not arrive. A week, a week +of unbroken bliss, had vanished away, passed in long rides and longer +walks, sunset saunterings, and sometimes moonlit strolls; talking of +flowers, and thinking of things even sweeter; listening to delicious +songs, and sometimes reading aloud some bright romance or some inspiring +lay. + +One day Coningsby, who arrived at the hall unexpectedly late; indeed it +was some hours past noon, for he had been detained by despatches +which arrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby, and which required his +interposition; found the ladies alone, and was told that Sir Joseph and +Oswald were at the fishing-cottage where they wished him to join them. +He was in no haste to do this; and Lady Wallinger proposed that +when they felt inclined to ramble they should all walk down to the +fishing-cottage together. So, seating himself by the side of Edith, who +was tinting a sketch which she had made of a rich oriel of Hellingsley, +the morning passed away in that slight and yet subtle talk in which a +lover delights, and in which, while asking a thousand questions, that +seem at the first glance sufficiently trifling, he is indeed often +conveying a meaning that is not expressed, or attempting to discover a +feeling that is hidden. And these are occasions when glances meet +and glances are withdrawn: the tongue may speak idly, the eye is more +eloquent, and often more true. + +Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who had more than once announced +that she was going to put on her bonnet, was gone. Yet still he +continued to talk trifles; and still Edith listened. + +‘Of all that you have told me,’ said Edith, ‘nothing pleases me so much +as your description of St. Geneviève. How much I should like to catch +the deer at sunset on the heights! What a pretty drawing it would make!’ + +‘You would like Eustace Lyle,’ said Coningsby. ‘He is so shy and yet so +ardent.’ + +‘You have such a band of friends! Oswald was saying this morning there +was no one who had so many devoted friends.’ + +‘We are all united by sympathy. It is the only bond of friendship; and +yet friendship--’ + +‘Edith,’ said Lady Wallinger, looking into the room from the garden, +with her bonnet on, ‘you will find me roaming on the terrace.’ + +‘We come, dear aunt.’ + +And yet they did not move. There were yet a few pencil touches to be +given to the tinted sketch; Coningsby would cut the pencils. + +‘Would you give me,’ he said, ‘some slight memorial of Hellingsley and +your art? I would not venture to hope for anything half so beautiful as +this; but the slightest sketch. It would make me so happy when away to +have it hanging in my room.’ + +A blush suffused the cheek of Edith; she turned her head a little aside, +as if she were arranging some drawings. And then she said, in a somewhat +hushed and hesitating voice, + +‘I am sure I will do so; and with pleasure. A view of the Hall itself; +I think that would be the best memorial. Where shall we take it from? +We will decide in our walk?’ and she rose, and promised immediately to +return, left the room. + +Coningsby leant over the mantel-piece in deep abstraction, gazing +vacantly on a miniature of the father of Edith. A light step roused +him; she had returned. Unconsciously he greeted her with a glance of +ineffable tenderness. + +They went forth; it was a grey, sultry day. Indeed it was the covered +sky which had led to the fishing scheme of the morning. Sir Joseph was +an expert and accomplished angler, and the Darl was renowned for its +sport. They lingered before they reached the terrace where they were to +find Lady Wallinger, observing the different points of view which +the Hall presented, and debating which was to form the subject of +Coningsby’s drawing; for already it was to be not merely a sketch, but a +drawing, the most finished that the bright and effective pencil of Edith +could achieve. If it really were to be placed in his room, and were +to be a memorial of Hellingsley, her artistic reputation demanded a +masterpiece. + +They reached the terrace: Lady Wallinger was not there, nor could they +observe her in the vicinity. Coningsby was quite certain that she had +gone onward to the fishing-cottage, and expected them to follow her; +and he convinced Edith of the justness of his opinion. To the +fishing-cottage, therefore, they bent their steps. They emerged from the +gardens into the park, sauntering over the table-land, and seeking as +much as possible the shade, in the soft but oppressive atmosphere. At +the limit of the table-land their course lay by a wild but winding path +through a gradual and wooded declivity. While they were yet in this +craggy and romantic woodland, the big fervent drops began to fall. +Coningsby urged Edith to seek at once a natural shelter; but she, who +knew the country, assured him that the fishing-cottage was close by, and +that they might reach it before the rain could do them any harm. + +And truly, at this moment emerging from the wood, they found themselves +in the valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow and winding, but +full of life; rushing, and clear but for the dark sky it reflected; with +high banks of turf and tall trees; the silver birch, above all others, +in clustering groups; infinitely picturesque. At the turn of the river, +about two hundred yards distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof +of the fishing-cottage on its banks. They descended from the woods to +the margin of the stream by a flight of turfen steps, Coningsby holding +Edith’s hand as he guided her progress. + +The drops became thicker. They reached, at a rapid pace, the cottage. +The absent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the river. +The cottage was an old building of rustic logs, with a shelving roof, +so that you might obtain sufficient shelter without entering its walls. +Coningsby found a rough garden seat for Edith. The shower was now +violent. + +Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the joy and +tenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are summer showers. +In this instance the vehemence of her emotion was transient, though the +tears kept stealing down her cheek for a long time, and gentle sighs and +sobs might for some period be distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere +had evaporated; the grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze +came dancing up the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and +waters; the perfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There +was a carolling of birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; freshness +and stir, and a sense of joyous life, pervaded all things; it seemed +that the heart of all creation opened. + +Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, and +speculating on its progress, which did not much annoy them, had seated +himself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a maiden and a youth +more beautiful and engaging had seldom met before in a scene more fresh +and fair. Edith on her rustic seat watched the now blue and foaming +river, and the birch-trees with a livelier tint, and quivering in the +sunset air; an expression of tranquil bliss suffused her beautiful brow, +and spoke from the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby +gazed on that countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek +was flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her head; +she met that glance, and, troubled, she withdrew her own. + +‘Edith!’ he said in a tone of tremulous passion, ‘Let me call you Edith! +Yes,’ he continued, gently taking her hand, let me call you my Edith! I +love you!’ + +She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as the +impending twilight. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached the Hall; +an embarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction that they +had not to encounter a very critical inspection. What, then, were their +feelings when the first servant that they met informed them that Mr. +Millbank had arrived! Edith never could have believed that the return of +her beloved father to his home could ever have been to her other than +a cause of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard the +announcement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her existence. +But this was not the season of meditation. Her heart was still agitated +by the tremulous admission that she responded to that fervent and +adoring love whose eloquent music still sounded in her ear, and the +pictures of whose fanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision. +Unconsciously she pressed the arm of Coningsby as the servant spoke, +and then, without looking into his face, whispering him to be quick, she +sprang away. + +As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, and the +ethereal joy which flowed in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbank +sounded, something like a knell. However, this was not the time to +reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most rapid toilet that +ever was consummated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes entered the +drawing-room of Hellingsley, to encounter the gentleman whom he hoped by +some means or other, quite inconceivable, might some day be transformed +into his father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent duties +towards whom he had commenced by keeping him waiting for dinner. + +‘How do you do, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, extending his hand to +Coningsby. ‘You seem to have taken a long walk.’ + +Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady Wallinger, and half addressed +his murmured answer to her, explaining how they had lost her, and their +way, and were caught in a storm or a shower, which, as it terminated +about three hours back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than a +mile from the Hall, very satisfactorily accounted for their not being in +time for dinner. + +Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds having +frightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a +little of their sport, and of their having seen an otter; but there was, +or at least there seemed to Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment +which distressed him. The fact is, keeping people from dinner under +any circumstances is distressing. They are obliged to talk at the very +moment when they wish to use their powers of expression for a very +different purpose. They are faint, and conversation makes them more +exhausted. A gentleman, too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted +to him, making a great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner +time, to please and surprise them; and finding them all dispersed, +dinner so late that he might have reached home in good time without any +great inconvenient effort; his daughter, whom he had wished a thousand +times to embrace, taking a singularly long ramble with no other +companion than a young gentleman, whom he did not exactly expect to +see; all these are circumstances, individually perhaps slight, and yet, +encountered collectively, it may be doubted they would not a little +ruffle even the sweetest temper. + +Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest temper, though not a bad one; +a little quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when Edith, +who had providentially sent down a message to order dinner, entered and +embraced him at the very moment that dinner was announced, her father +forgot everything in his joy in seeing her, and his pleasure in being +surrounded by his friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger, and Sir +Joseph led away his niece. Coningsby put his arm around the astonished +neck of Oswald, as if they were once more in the playing fields of Eton. + +‘By Jove! my dear fellow,’ he exclaimed, ‘I am so sorry we kept your +father from dinner.’ + +As Edith headed her father’s table, according to his rigid rule, +Coningsby was on one side of her. They never spoke so little; Coningsby +would have never unclosed his lips, had he followed his humour. He was +in a stupor of happiness; the dining room took the appearance of +the fishing-cottage; and he saw nothing but the flowing river. Lady +Wallinger was however next to him, and that was a relief; for he felt +always she was his friend. Sir Joseph, a good-hearted man, and +on subjects with which he was acquainted full of sound sense, was +invaluable to-day, for he entirely kept up the conversation, speaking +of things which greatly interested Mr. Millbank. And so their host soon +recovered his good temper; he addressed several times his observations +to Coningsby, and was careful to take wine with him. On the whole, +affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen, indeed, stayed much +longer over their wine than on the preceding days, and Coningsby did not +venture on the liberty of quitting the room before his host. It was as +well. Edith required repose. She tried to seek it on the bosom of her +aunt, as she breathed to her the delicious secret of her life. When the +gentlemen returned to the drawing-room the ladies were not there. + +This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again; he had not seen enough of his +daughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reappear; and +even to sing. Then Coningsby went up to her and asked her to sing the +song of the Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and with a fond +yet serious look, + +‘I am not in the mood for such a song, but if you wish me--’ + +She sang it, and with inexpressible grace, and with an arch vivacity, +that to a fine observer would have singularly contrasted with the +almost solemn and even troubled expression of her countenance a moment +afterwards. + +The day was about to die; the day the most important, the most precious +in the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been +spoken, vows breathed, which were to influence their careers for ever. +For them hereafter there was to be but one life, one destiny, one world. +Each of them was still in such a state of tremulous excitement, that +neither had found time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result. +They both required solitude; they both longed to be alone. Coningsby +rose to depart. He pressed the soft hand of Edith, and his glance spoke +his soul. + +‘We shall see you at breakfast to-morrow, Coningsby!’ said Oswald, +very loud, knowing that the presence of his father would make Coningsby +hesitate about coming. Edith’s heart fluttered; but she said nothing. It +was with delight she heard her father, after a moment’s pause, say, + +‘Oh! I beg we may have that pleasure.’ + +‘Not quite at so early an hour,’ said Coningsby; ‘but if you will permit +me, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you to-morrow, sir, that +your journey has not fatigued you.’ + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +To be alone; to have no need of feigning a tranquillity he could not +feel; of coining common-place courtesy when his heart was gushing +with rapture; this was a great relief to Coningsby, though gained by a +separation from Edith. + +The deed was done; he had breathed his long-brooding passion, he +had received the sweet expression of her sympathy, he had gained +the long-coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of +unsophisticated breasts, and the inspiration of an exquisite nature, +combined to fashion the spell that now entranced his life. He turned to +gaze upon the moonlit towers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and +dreamlike, the picturesque pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with +the silver light and surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic +gardens tipped with the glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half +sparkling in the midnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had +been the subject of the morning’s sketch. Almost he wished there should +be some sound to assure him of his reality. But nothing broke the +all-pervading stillness. Was his life to be as bright and as tranquil? +And what was to be his life? + +Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he had gained? Were the +portals of Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates that were to greet +her? How long would they greet him after the achievement of the last +four-and-twenty hours was known to their lord? Was this the return for +the confiding kindness of his grandsire? That he should pledge his troth +to the daughter of that grandsire’s foe? + +Away with such dark and scaring visions! Is it not the noon of a summer +night fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with the beam that +lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian breezes? Within that +sweet and stately residence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough to +revive chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she leans on her +pensive hand, or, if perchance she dream, recalls him in her visions? +And himself, is he one who would cry craven with such a lot? What avail +his golden youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and +all his stores of wisdom, if they help not now? Does not he feel the +energy divine that can confront Fate and carve out fortunes? Besides it +is nigh Midsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign for but to aid such +a bright pair as this? + +He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which but a few +hours past he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls a thousand +times the still, small voice, that murmured her agitated felicity: more +than a thousand times, for his heart clenched the idea as a diver grasps +a gem, he recalls the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had sealed +upon her blushing cheek his mystical and delicious sovereignty. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + + +The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small white clouds, dull and +immovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl seemed +to have become black and almost stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsley +looked like the hard lines of a model; and the mansion itself had a +harsh and metallic character. Before the chief portal of his Hall, the +elder Millbank, with an air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and +the heavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny of the day. + +Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy and restless +step he paced the raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley +church had given the chimes of noon. His son and Coningsby appeared +at the end of one of the avenues. His eye lightened; his lip became +compressed; he advanced to meet them. + +‘Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald?’ he inquired of his son. + +‘We had some thoughts of it, sir.’ + +‘A fine day for sport, I should think,’ he observed, as he turned +towards the Hall with them. + +Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its twisted +columns, and Caryatides carved in dark oak. + +‘Yes, it’s very well,’ said Millbank; ‘but I really do not know why I +came here; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place; +none of us do, I believe.’ + +‘Oh! I like it now, father; and Edith doats on it.’ + +‘She was very happy at Millbank,’ said the father, rather sharply. + +‘We are all of us happy at Millbank,’ said Oswald. + +‘I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement when I first +saw it,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald,’ said Mr. Millbank, +‘and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the +meantime.’ + +The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantly +carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should +be so anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely +used it. His son had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned to +Coningsby, and said very abruptly, + +‘You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; step in, for I +wish to say a word to you.’ And thus speaking, he advanced before the +astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a +door and long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished +as a library, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting +the door with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his +guest to be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his +throat, said without preface, ‘I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, +that you are attached to my daughter?’ + +‘I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently,’ replied +Coningsby, in a calm and rather measured tone, but looking very pale. + +‘And I have reason to believe that she returns your attachment?’ said +Mr. Millbank. + +‘I believe she deigns not to disregard it,’ said Coningsby, his white +cheek becoming scarlet. + +‘It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce +mutual unhappiness,’ said Mr. Millbank. + +‘I would fain believe the reverse,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Millbank. + +‘Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality, and virtue, that +can bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return, +I have a heart, if I know myself, that would struggle to deserve her.’ + +‘I know you to be a man of sense; I believe you to be a man of honour,’ +replied Mr. Millbank. ‘As the first, you must feel that an union between +you and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a +man of correct principle is obvious.’ + +‘I could conceive that our union might be attended with difficulties,’ +said Coningsby, in a somewhat deprecating tone. + +‘Sir, it is impossible,’ repeated Mr. Millbank, interrupting him, though +not with harshness; ‘that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage +which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasion +greater misery.’ + +‘The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery,’ said +Coningsby, ‘and even they may be imaginary.’ + +‘The sacrifices and the misery are certain and inseparable,’ said Mr. +Millbank. ‘Come now, see how we stand! I speak without reserve, for this +is a subject which cannot permit misconception, but with no feelings +towards you, sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of +my Lord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his +bounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you +may be the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and +myself are foes; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle to +mince phrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may regret that +they have ever arisen; I may regret it especially at this exigency. They +are not the feelings of good Christians; they may be altogether to be +deplored and unjustifiable; but they exist, mutually exist; and have not +been confined to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, had he the power, +like a worm; and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not +for this feeling I should not be here; I purchased this estate merely +to annoy him, as I have done a thousand other acts merely for his +discomfiture and mortification. In our long encounter I have done him +infinitely more injury than he could do me; I have been on the spot, +I am active, vigilant, the maker of my fortunes. He is an epicurean, +continually in foreign parts, obliged to leave the fulfilment of his +will to others. But, for these very reasons, his hate is more intense. +I can afford to hate him less than he hates me; I have injured him more. +Here are feelings to exist between human beings! But they do exist; +and now you are to go to this man, and ask his sanction to marry my +daughter!’ + +‘But I would appease these hatreds; I would allay these dark passions, +the origin of which I know not, but which never could justify the end, +and which lead to so much misery. I would appeal to my grandfather; I +would show him Edith.’ + +‘He has looked upon as fair even as Edith,’ said Mr. Millbank, rising +suddenly from his seat, and pacing the room, ‘and did that melt his +heart? The experience of your own lot should have guarded you from the +perils that you have so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery +which you have been preparing for others besides yourself. Is my +daughter to be treated like your mother? And by the same hand? Your +mother’s family were not Lord Monmouth’s foes. They were simple and +innocent people, free from all the bad passions of our nature, and +ignorant of the world’s ways. But because they were not noble, because +they could trace no mystified descent from a foreign invader, or the +sacrilegious minion of some spoliating despot, their daughter was hunted +from the family which should have exulted to receive her, and the land +of which she was the native ornament. Why should a happier lot await you +than fell to your parents? You are in the same position as your father; +you meditate the same act. The only difference being aggravating +circumstances in your case, which, even if I were a member of the same +order as my Lord Monmouth, would prevent the possibility of a prosperous +union. Marry Edith, and you blast all the prospects of your life, and +entail on her a sense of unceasing humiliation. Would you do this? +Should I permit you to do this?’ + +Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, his face a little shaded, +his eyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There was a pause; +broken by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without changing his posture or +raising his glance, he said, ‘It seems, sir, that you were acquainted +with my mother!’ + +‘I knew sufficient of her,’ replied Mr. Millbank, with a kindling cheek, +‘to learn the misery that a woman may entail on herself by marrying out +of her condition. I have bred my children in a respect for their class. +I believe they have imbibed my feeling; though it is strange how in +the commerce of the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparently +baffled my designs.’ + +‘Oh! do not say it is chance, sir,’ said Coningsby, looking up, and +speaking with much fervour. ‘The feelings that animate me towards +your family are not the feelings of chance: they are the creation of +sympathy; tried by time, tested by thought. And must they perish? Can +they perish? They were inevitable; they are indestructible. Yes, sir, it +is in vain to speak of the enmities that are fostered between you and +my grandfather; the love that exists between your daughter and myself is +stronger than all your hatreds.’ + +‘You speak like a young man, and a young man that is in love,’ said Mr. +Millbank. ‘This is mere rhapsody; it will vanish in an instant +before the reality of life. And you have arrived at that reality,’ he +continued, speaking with emphasis, leaning over the back of his chair, +and looking steadily at Coningsby with his grey, sagacious eye; ‘my +daughter and yourself can meet no more.’ + +‘It is impossible you can be so cruel!’ exclaimed Coningsby. + +‘So kind; kind to you both; for I wish to be kind to you as well as to +her. You are entitled to kindness from us all; though I will tell you +now, that, years ago, when the news arrived that my son’s life had been +saved, and had been saved by one who bore the name of Coningsby, I had +a presentiment, great as was the blessing, that it might lead to +unhappiness.’ + +‘I can answer for the misery of one,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great +despondency. ‘I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! why should there be such +wretchedness? Why are there family hatreds and party feuds? Why am I the +most wretched of men?’ + +‘My good young friend, you will live, I doubt not, to be a happy one. +Happiness is not, as we are apt to fancy, entirely dependent on these +contingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure what you are now +suffering, and they can look back to such conjunctures through the vista +of years with calmness.’ + +‘I may see Edith now?’ + +‘Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is in her room; I have had some +conversation with her. Of course she suffers not less than yourself. To +see her again will only aggravate woe. You leave under this roof, sir, +some sad memories, but no unkind ones. It is not likely that I can +serve you, or that you may want my aid; but whatever may be in my power, +remember you may command it; without reserve and without restraint. If I +control myself now, it is not because I do not respect your affliction, +but because, in the course of my life, I have felt too much not to be +able to command my feelings.’ + +‘You never could have felt what I feel now,’ said Coningsby, in a tone +of anguish. + +‘You touch on delicate ground,’ said Millbank; ‘yet from me you may +learn to suffer. There was a being once, not less fair than the peerless +girl that you would fain call your own, and her heart was my proud +possession. There were no family feuds to baffle our union, nor was +I dependent on anything, but the energies which had already made me +flourishing. What happiness was mine! It was the first dream of my life, +and it was the last; my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my +heart. Ah! you dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through +life, you think there is no romance in the loves of a man who lives in +the toil and turmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid my career +of travail, there was ever a bright form which animated exertion, +inspired my invention, nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and +life I first made many of those discoveries, and entered into many +of those speculations, that have since been the foundation of my wide +prosperity. + +‘Her faith was pledged to me; I lived upon her image; the day was even +talked of when I should bear her to the home that I had proudly prepared +for her. + +‘There came a young noble, a warrior who had never seen war, glittering +with gewgaws. He was quartered in the town where the mistress of my +heart, who was soon to share my life and my fortunes, resided. The tale +is too bitter not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that +he loved her; she gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she +found she had never given to me; and instead of bearing the name I had +once hoped to have called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to +one who, like you, was called, CONINGSBY.’ + +‘My mother!’ + +‘You see, I too have had my griefs.’ + +‘Dear sir,’ said Coningsby, rising and taking Mr. Millbank’s hand, ‘I am +most wretched; and yet I wish to part from you even with affection. You +have explained circumstances that have long perplexed me. A curse, I +fear, is on our families. I have not mind enough at this moment even +to ponder on my situation. My head is a chaos. I go; yes, I quit this +Hellingsley, where I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy. +Nay, let me go, dear sir! I must be alone, I must try to think. And tell +her, no, tell her nothing. God will guard over us!’ + +Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered step, his +countenance lost, as it were, in a wild abstraction, Coningsby +encountered Oswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his turbulent +thoughts, and throwing on Oswald one look that seemed at the same time +to communicate woe and to demand sympathy, flung himself into his arms. + +‘My friend!’ he exclaimed, and then added, in a broken voice, ‘I need a +friend.’ + +Then in a hurried, impassioned, and somewhat incoherent strain, leaning +on Oswald’s arm, as they walked on together, he poured forth all that +had occurred, all of which he had dreamed; his baffled bliss, his +actual despair. Alas! there was little room for solace, and yet all +that earnest affection could inspire, and a sagacious brain and a brave +spirit, were offered for his support, if not his consolation, by the +friend who was devoted to him. + +In the midst of this deep communion, teeming with every thought and +sentiment that could enchain and absorb the spirit of man, they came to +one of the park-gates of Coningsby. Millbank stopped. The command of +his father was peremptory, that no member of his family, under any +circumstances, or for any consideration, should set his foot on that +domain. Lady Wallinger had once wished to have seen the Castle, and +Coningsby was only too happy in the prospect of escorting her and Edith +over the place; but Oswald had then at once put his veto on the project, +as a thing forbidden; and which, if put in practice, his father would +never pardon. So it passed off, and now Oswald himself was at the gates +of that very domain with his friend who was about to enter them, his +friend whom he might never see again; that Coningsby who, from their +boyish days, had been the idol of his life; whom he had lived to see +appeal to his affections and his sympathy, and whom Oswald was now going +to desert in the midst of his lonely and unsolaced woe. + +‘I ought not to enter here,’ said Oswald, holding the hand of Coningsby +as he hesitated to advance; ‘and yet there are duties more sacred even +than obedience to a father. I cannot leave you thus, friend of my best +heart!’ + +The morning passed away in unceasing yet fruitless speculation on the +future. One moment something was to happen, the next nothing could +occur. Sometimes a beam of hope flashed over the fancy of Coningsby, +and jumping up from the turf, on which they were reclining, he seemed +to exult in his renovated energies; and then this sanguine paroxysm was +succeeded by a fit of depression so dark and dejected that nothing but +the presence of Oswald seemed to prevent Coningsby from flinging himself +into the waters of the Darl. + +The day was fast declining, and the inevitable moment of separation was +at hand. Oswald wished to appear at the dinner-table of Hellingsley, +that no suspicion might arise in the mind of his father of his having +accompanied Coningsby home. But just as he was beginning to mention the +necessity of his departure, a flash of lightning seemed to transfix the +heavens. The sky was very dark; though studded here and there with dingy +spots. The young men sprang up at the same time. + +‘We had better get out of these trees,’ said Oswald. + +‘We had better get to the Castle,’ said Coningsby. + +A clap of thunder that seemed to make the park quake broke over their +heads, followed by some thick drops. The Castle was close at hand; +Oswald had avoided entering it; but the impending storm was so menacing +that, hurried on by Coningsby, he could make no resistance; and, in a +few minutes, the companions were watching the tempest from the windows +of a room in Coningsby Castle. + +The fork-lightning flashed and scintillated from every quarter of the +horizon: the thunder broke over the Castle, as if the keep were rocking +with artillery: amid the momentary pauses of the explosion, the rain was +heard descending like dissolving water-spouts. + +Nor was this one of those transient tempests that often agitate +the summer. Time advanced, and its fierceness was little mitigated. +Sometimes there was a lull, though the violence of the rain never +appeared to diminish; but then, as in some pitched fight between +contending hosts, when the fervour of the field seems for a moment to +allay, fresh squadrons arrive and renew the hottest strife, so a low +moaning wind that was now at intervals faintly heard bore up a great +reserve of electric vapour, that formed, as it were, into field in +the space between the Castle and Hellingsley, and then discharged its +violence on that fated district. + +Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. ‘You must not think of going home +at present, my dear fellow,’ said the first. ‘I am sure your father +would not be displeased. There is not a being here who even knows you, +and if they did, what then?’ + +The servant entered the room, and inquired whether the gentlemen were +ready for dinner. + +‘By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I feel reckless as the tempest; +let us drown our cares in wine!’ + +Coningsby, in fact, was exhausted by all the agitation of the day, and +all the harassing spectres of the future. He found wine a momentary +solace. He ordered the servants away, and for a moment felt a degree of +wild satisfaction in the company of the brother of Edith. + +Thus they sat for a long time, talking only of one subject, and +repeating almost the same things, yet both felt happier in being +together. Oswald had risen, and opening the window, examined the +approaching night. The storm had lulled, though the rain still fell; in +the west was a streak of light. In a quarter of an hour, he calculated +on departing. As he was watching the wind he thought he heard the sound +of wheels, which reminded him of Coningsby’s promise to lend him a light +carriage for his return. + +They sat down once more; they had filled their glasses for the last +time; to pledge to their faithful friendship, and the happiness of +Coningsby and Edith; when the door of the room opened, and there +appeared, MR. RIGBY! + +END OF BOOK VII. + + + + +BOOK VIII. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +It was the heart of the London season, nearly four years ago, twelve +months having almost elapsed since the occurrence of those painful +passages at Hellingsley which closed the last book of this history, and +long lines of carriages an hour before midnight, up the classic mount of +St. James and along Piccadilly, intimated that the world were received +at some grand entertainment in Arlington Street. + +It was the town mansion of the noble family beneath whose roof at +Beaumanoir we have more than once introduced the reader, to gain whose +courtyard was at this moment the object of emulous coachmen, and to +enter whose saloons was to reward the martyr-like patience of their +lords and ladies. + +Among the fortunate who had already succeeded in bowing to their hostess +were two gentlemen, who, ensconced in a good position, surveyed the +scene, and made their observations on the passing guests. They +were gentlemen who, to judge from their general air and the great +consideration with which they were treated by those who were +occasionally in their vicinity, were personages whose criticism bore +authority. + +‘I say, Jemmy,’ said the eldest, a dandy who had dined with the Regent, +but who was still a dandy, and who enjoyed life almost as much as in the +days when Carlton House occupied the terrace which still bears its name. +‘I say, Jemmy, what a load of young fellows there are! Don’t know their +names at all. Begin to think fellows are younger than they used to be. +Amazing load of young fellows, indeed!’ + +At this moment an individual who came under the fortunate designation +of a young fellow, but whose assured carriage hardly intimated that +this was his first season in London, came up to the junior of the two +critics, and said, ‘A pretty turn you played us yesterday at White’s, +Melton. We waited dinner nearly an hour.’ + +‘My dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry; but I was obliged to go down to +Windsor, and I missed the return train. A good dinner? Who had you?’ + +‘A capital party, only you were wanted. We had Beaumanoir and Vere, and +Jack Tufton and Spraggs.’ + +‘Was Spraggs rich?’ + +‘Wasn’t he! I have not done laughing yet. He told us a story about the +little Biron who was over here last year; I knew her at Paris; and an +Indian screen. Killing! Get him to tell it you. The richest thing you +ever heard!’ + +‘Who’s your friend?’ inquired Mr. Melton’s companion, as the young man +moved away. + +‘Sir Charles Buckhurst.’ + +‘A--h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen him. They say he +is going it.’ + +‘He knows what he is about.’ + +‘Egad! so they all do. A young fellow now of two or three and twenty +knows the world as men used to do after as many years of scrapes. I +wonder where there is such a thing as a greenhorn. Effie Crabbs says +the reason he gives up his house is, that he has cleaned out the old +generation, and that the new generation would clean him.’ + +‘Buckhurst is not in that sort of way: he swears by Henry Sydney, a +younger son of the Duke, whom you don’t know; and young Coningsby; a +sort of new set; new ideas and all that sort of thing. Beau tells me +a good deal about it; and when I was staying with the Everinghams, +at Easter, they were full of it. Coningsby had just returned from his +travels, and they were quite on the _qui vive_. Lady Everingham is one +of their set. I don’t know what it is exactly; but I think we shall hear +more of it.’ + +‘A sort of animal magnetism, or unknown tongues, I take it from your +description,’ said his companion. + +‘Well, I don’t know what it is,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but it has got hold +of all the young fellows who have just come out. Beau is a little bit +himself. I had some idea of giving my mind to it, they made such a fuss +about it at Everingham; but it requires a devilish deal of history, I +believe, and all that sort of thing.’ + +‘Ah! that’s a bore,’ said his companion. ‘It is difficult to turn to +with a new thing when you are not in the habit of it. I never could +manage charades.’ + +Mr. Ormsby, passing by, stopped. ‘They told me you had the gout, +Cassilis?’ he said to Mr. Melton’s companion. + +‘So I had; but I have found out a fellow who cures the gout instanter. +Tom Needham sent him to me. A German fellow. Pumicestone pills; sort +of a charm, I believe, and all that kind of thing: they say it rubs the +gout out of you. I sent him to Luxborough, who was very bad; cured him +directly. Luxborough swears by him.’ + +‘Luxborough believes in the Millennium,’ said Mr. Ormsby. + +‘But here’s a new thing that Melton has been telling me of, that all the +world is going to believe in,’ said Mr. Cassilis, ‘something patronised +by Lady Everingham.’ + +‘A very good patroness,’ said Mr. Ormsby. + +‘Have you heard anything about it?’ continued Mr. Cassilis. ‘Young +Coningsby brought it from abroad; didn’t you you say so, Jemmy?’ + +‘No, no, my dear fellow; it is not at all that sort of thing.’ + +‘But they say it requires a deuced deal of history,’ continued Mr. +Cassilis. ‘One must brush up one’s Goldsmith. Canterton used to be the +fellow for history at White’s. He was always boring one with William the +Conqueror, Julius Caesar, and all that sort of thing.’ + +‘I tell you what,’ said Mr. Ormsby, looking both sly and solemn, ‘I +should not be surprised if, some day or another, we have a history about +Lady Everingham and young Coningsby.’ + +‘Poh!’ said Mr. Melton; ‘he is engaged to be married to her sister, Lady +Theresa.’ + +‘The deuce!’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘well, you are a friend of the family, and +I suppose you know.’ + +‘He is a devilish good-looking fellow, that young Coningsby,’ said Mr. +Cassilis. ‘All the women are in love with him, they say. Lady Eleanor +Ducie quite raves about him.’ + +‘By-the-bye, his grandfather has been very unwell,’ said Mr. Ormsby, +looking mysteriously. + +‘I saw Lady Monmouth here just now,’ said Mr. Melton. + +‘Oh! he is quite well again,’ said Mr. Ormsby. + +‘Got an odd story at White’s that Lord Monmouth was going to separate +from her,’ said Mr. Cassilis. + +‘No foundation,’ said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head. + +‘They are not going to separate, I believe,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but I +rather think there was a foundation for the rumour.’ + +Mr. Ormsby still shook his head. + +‘Well,’ continued Mr. Melton, ‘all I know is, that it was looked upon +last winter at Paris as a settled thing.’ + +‘There was some story about some Hungarian,’ said Mr. Cassilis. + +‘No, that blew over,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘it was Trautsmansdorff the row +was about.’ + +All this time Mr. Ormsby, as the friend of Lord and Lady Monmouth, +remained shaking his head; but as a member of society, and therefore +delighting in small scandal, appropriating the gossip with the greatest +avidity. + +‘I should think old Monmouth was not the sort of fellow to blow up a +woman,’ said Mr. Cassilis. + +‘Provided she would leave him quietly,’ said Mr. Melton. + +‘Yes, Lord Monmouth never could live with a woman more than two years,’ +said Mr. Ormsby, pensively. ‘And that I thought at the time rather an +objection to his marriage.’ + +We must now briefly revert to what befell our hero after those unhappy +occurrences in the midst of whose first woe we left him. + +The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the Castle, Coningsby quitted +it for London, and before a week had elapsed had embarked for Cadiz. He +felt a romantic interest in visiting the land to which Edith owed some +blood, and in acquiring the language which he had often admired as she +spoke it. A favourable opportunity permitted him in the autumn to visit +Athens and the AEgean, which he much desired. In the pensive beauties +of that delicate land, where perpetual autumn seems to reign, Coningsby +found solace. There is something in the character of Grecian scenery +which blends with the humour of the melancholy and the feelings of +the sorrowful. Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The wish of his +grandfather had rendered it necessary for him to return to England +somewhat abruptly. Lord Monmouth had not visited his native country +since his marriage; but the period that had elapsed since that event had +considerably improved the prospects of his party. The majority of the +Whig Cabinet in the House of Commons by 1840 had become little more than +nominal; and though it was circulated among their friends, as if from +the highest authority, that ‘one was enough,’ there seemed daily a +better chance of their being deprived even of that magical unit. For the +first time in the history of this country since the introduction of the +system of parliamentary sovereignty, the Government of England depended +on the fate of single elections; and indeed, by a single vote, it is +remarkable to observe, the fate of the Whig Government was ultimately +decided. + +This critical state of affairs, duly reported to Lord Monmouth, revived +his political passions, and offered him that excitement which he was +ever seeking, and yet for which he had often sighed. The Marquess, too, +was weary of Paris. Every day he found it more difficult to be amused. +Lucretia had lost her charm. He, from whom nothing could be concealed, +perceived that often, while she elaborately attempted to divert him, her +mind was wandering elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was quite superior to all +petty jealousy and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals, but his +sublime selfishness required devotion. He had calculated that a wife +or a mistress who might be in love with another man, however powerfully +their interests might prompt them, could not be so agreeable or amusing +to their friends and husbands as if they had no such distracting hold +upon their hearts or their fancy. Latterly at Paris, while Lucretia +became each day more involved in the vortex of society, where all +admired and some adored her, Lord Monmouth fell into the easy habit of +dining in his private rooms, sometimes tête-à-tête with Villebecque, +whose inexhaustible tales and adventures about a kind of society which +Lord Monmouth had always preferred infinitely to the polished and +somewhat insipid circles in which he was born, had rendered him the +prime favourite of his great patron. Sometimes Villebecque, too, brought +a friend, male or otherwise, whom he thought invested with the rare +faculty of distraction: Lord Monmouth cared not who or what they were, +provided they were diverting. + +Villebecque had written to Coningsby at Rome, by his grandfather’s +desire, to beg him to return to England and meet Lord Monmouth there. +The letter was couched with all the respect and good feeling which +Villebecque really entertained for him whom he addressed; still a letter +on such a subject from such a person was not agreeable to Coningsby, and +his reply to it was direct to his grandfather; Lord Monmouth, however, +had entirely given over writing letters. + +Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to England, Lord and Lady +Everingham, and he had returned with them. This revival of an old +acquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate for our hero. The vivacity +of a clever and charming woman pleasantly disturbed the brooding memory +of Coningsby. There is no mortification however keen, no misery however +desperate, which the spirit of woman cannot in some degree lighten or +alleviate. About, too, to make his formal entrance into the great +world, he could not have secured a more valuable and accomplished +female friend. She gave him every instruction, every intimation that +was necessary; cleared the social difficulties which in some degree are +experienced on their entrance into the world even by the most highly +connected, unless they have this benign assistance; planted him +immediately in the position which was expedient; took care that he was +invited at once to the right houses; and, with the aid of her husband, +that he should become a member of the right clubs. + +‘And who is to have the blue ribbon, Lord Eskdale?’ said the Duchess to +that nobleman, as he entered and approached to pay his respects. + +‘If I were Melbourne, I would keep it open,’ replied his Lordship. ‘It +is a mistake to give away too quickly.’ + +‘But suppose they go out,’ said her Grace. + +‘Oh! there is always a last day to clear the House. But they will be +in another year. The cliff will not be sapped before then. We made a +mistake last year about the ladies.’ + +‘I know you always thought so.’ + +‘Quarrels about women are always a mistake. One should make it a rule to +give up to them, and then they are sure to give up to us.’ + +‘You have no great faith in our firmness?’ + +‘Male firmness is very often obstinacy: women have always something +better, worth all qualities; they have tact.’ + +‘A compliment to the sex from so finished a critic as Lord Eskdale is +appreciated.’ + +But at this moment the arrival of some guests terminated the +conversation, and Lord Eskdale moved away, and approached a group which +Lady Everingham was enlightening. + +‘My dear Lord Fitz-booby,’ her Ladyship observed, ‘in politics we +require faith as well as in all other things.’ + +Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed; but, possessed of considerable +official experience, having held high posts, some in the cabinet, for +nearly a quarter of a century, he was too versed to acknowledge that he +had not understood a single word that had been addressed to him for the +last ten minutes. He looked on with the same grave, attentive stolidity, +occasionally nodding his head, as he was wont of yore when he received +a deputation on sugar duties or joint-stock banks, and when he made, +as was his custom when particularly perplexed, an occasional note on a +sheet of foolscap paper. + +‘An Opposition in an age of revolution,’ continued Lady Everingham, +‘must be founded on principles. It cannot depend on mere personal +ability and party address taking advantage of circumstances. You have +not enunciated a principle for the last ten years; and when you seemed +on the point of acceding to power, it was not on a great question of +national interest, but a technical dispute respecting the constitution +of an exhausted sugar colony.’ + +‘If you are a Conservative party, we wish to know what you want to +conserve,’ said Lord Vere. + +‘If it had not been for the Whig abolition of slavery,’ said Lord +Fitz-booby, goaded into repartee, ‘Jamaica would not have been an +exhausted sugar colony.’ + +‘Then what you do want to conserve is slavery?’ said Lord Vere. + +‘No,’ said Lord Fitz-booby, ‘I am never for retracing our steps.’ + +‘But will you advance, will you move? And where will you advance, and +how will you move?’ said Lady Everingham. + +‘I think we have had quite enough of advancing,’ said his Lordship. ‘I +had no idea your Ladyship was a member of the Movement party,’ he added, +with a sarcastic grin. + +‘But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby, to move where we are, as you +and your friends have always maintained, how can you reconcile it to +principle to remain there?’ said Lord Vere. + +‘I would make the best of a bad bargain,’ said Lord Fitz-booby. ‘With +a Conservative government, a reformed Constitution would be less +dangerous.’ + +‘Why?’ said Lady Everingham. ‘What are your distinctive principles that +render the peril less?’ + +‘I appeal to Lord Eskdale,’ said Lord Fitz-booby; ‘there is Lady +Everingham turned quite a Radical, I declare. Is not your Lordship of +opinion that the country must be safer with a Conservative government +than with a Liberal?’ + +‘I think the country is always tolerably secure,’ said Lord Eskdale. + +Lady Theresa, leaning on the arm of Mr. Lyle, came up at this moment, +and unconsciously made a diversion in favour of Lord Fitz-booby. + +‘Pray, Theresa,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘where is Mr. Coningsby?’ + +Let us endeavour to ascertain. It so happened that on this day Coningsby +and Henry Sydney dined at Grillion’s, at an university club, where, +among many friends whom Coningsby had not met for a long time, and among +delightful reminiscences, the unconscious hours stole on. It was late +when they quitted Grillion’s, and Coningsby’s brougham was detained for +a considerable time before its driver could insinuate himself into the +line, which indeed he would never have succeeded in doing had not he +fortunately come across the coachman of the Duke of Agincourt, who being +of the same politics as himself, belonging to the same club, and always +black-balling the same men, let him in from a legitimate party feeling; +so they arrived in Arlington Street at a very late hour. + +Coningsby was springing up the staircase, now not so crowded as it had +been, and met a retiring party; he was about to say a passing word to a +gentleman as he went by, when, suddenly, Coningsby turned deadly pale. +The gentleman could hardly be the cause, for it was the gracious and +handsome presence of Lord Beaumanoir: the lady resting on his arm was +Edith. They moved on while he was motionless; yet Edith and himself +had exchanged glances. His was one of astonishment; but what was the +expression of hers? She must have recognised him before he had observed +her. She was collected, and she expressed the purpose of her mind in +a distant and haughty recognition. Coningsby remained for a moment +stupefied; then suddenly turning back, he bounded downstairs and hurried +into the cloak-room. He met Lady Wallinger; he spoke rapidly, he held +her hand, did not listen to her answers, his eyes wandered about. There +were many persons present, at length he recognised Edith enveloped in +her mantle. He went forward, he looked at her, as if he would have read +her soul; he said something. She changed colour as he addressed her, +but seemed instantly by an effort to rally and regain her equanimity; +replied to his inquiries with extreme brevity, and Lady Wallinger’s +carriage being announced, moved away with the same slight haughty salute +as before, on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +Sadness fell over the once happy family of Millbank after the departure +of Coningsby from Hellingsley. When the first pang was over, Edith +had found some solace in the sympathy of her aunt, who had always +appreciated and admired Coningsby; but it was a sympathy which aspired +only to soften sorrow, and not to create hope. But Lady Wallinger, +though she lengthened her visit for the sake of her niece, in time +quitted them; and then the name of Coningsby was never heard by Edith. +Her brother, shortly after the sorrowful and abrupt departure of his +friend, had gone to the factories, where he remained, and of which, in +future, it was intended that he should assume the principal direction. +Mr. Millbank himself, sustained at first by the society of his friend +Sir Joseph, to whom he was attached, and occupied with daily reports +from his establishment and the transaction of the affairs with his +numerous and busy constituents, was for a while scarcely conscious of +the alteration which had taken place in the demeanour of his daughter. +But when they were once more alone together, it was impossible any +longer to be blind to the great change. That happy and equable gaiety of +spirit, which seemed to spring from an innocent enjoyment of existence, +and which had ever distinguished Edith, was wanting. Her sunny glance +was gone. She was not indeed always moody and dispirited, but she was +fitful, unequal in her tone. That temper whose sweetness had been a +domestic proverb had become a little uncertain. Not that her affection +for her father was diminished, but there were snatches of unusual +irritability which momentarily escaped her, followed by bursts of +tenderness that were the creatures of compunction. And often, after some +hasty word, she would throw her arms round her father’s neck with the +fondness of remorse. She pursued her usual avocations, for she had +really too well-regulated a mind, she was in truth a person of +too strong an intellect, to neglect any source of occupation and +distraction. Her flowers, her pencil, and her books supplied her with +these; and music soothed, and at times beguiled, her agitated thoughts. +But there was no joy in the house, and in time Mr. Millbank felt it. + +Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. Edith, his Edith, the pride +and delight of his existence, who had been to him only a source of +exultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was perhaps pining away; +and there was the appearance, the unjust appearance that he, her fond +father, was the cause and occasion of all this wretchedness. It would +appear that the name of Coningsby, to which he now owed a great debt of +gratitude, was still doomed to bear him mortification and misery. Truly +had the young man said that there was a curse upon their two families. +And yet, on reflection, it still seemed to Mr. Millbank that he had +acted with as much wisdom and real kindness as decision. How otherwise +was he to have acted? The union was impossible; the speedier their +separation, therefore, clearly the better. Unfortunate, indeed, had been +his absence from Hellingsley; unquestionably his presence might have +prevented the catastrophe. Oswald should have hindered all this. And +yet Mr. Millbank could not shut his eyes to the devotion of his son to +Coningsby. He felt he could count on no assistance in this respect from +that quarter. Yet how hard upon him that he should seem to figure as +a despot or a tyrant to his own children, whom he loved, when he had +absolutely acted in an inevitable manner! Edith seemed sad, Oswald +sullen; all was changed. All the objects for which this clear-headed, +strong-minded, kind-hearted man had been working all his life, seemed +to be frustrated. And why? Because a young man had made love to his +daughter, who was really in no manner entitled to do so. + +As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley, under existing +circumstances, extremely wearisome; and he proposed to his daughter that +they should pay a visit to their earlier home. Edith assented without +difficulty, but without interest. And yet, as Mr. Millbank immediately +perceived, the change was a judicious one; for certainly the spirits +of Edith seemed to improve after her return to their valley. There were +more objects of interest: change, too, is always beneficial. If +Mr. Millbank had been aware that Oswald had received a letter from +Coningsby, written before he quitted Spain, perhaps he might have +recognised a more satisfactory reason for the transient liveliness of +his daughter which had so greatly gratified him. + +About a month after Christmas, the meeting of Parliament summoned Mr. +Millbank up to London; and he had wished Edith to accompany him. But +London in February to Edith, without friends or connections, her father +always occupied and absent from her day and night, seemed to them +all, on reflection, to be a life not very conducive to health or +cheerfulness, and therefore she remained with her brother. Oswald had +heard from Coningsby again from Rome; but at the period he wrote he did +not anticipate his return to England. His tone was affectionate, but +dispirited. + +Lady Wallinger went up to London after Easter for the season, and Mr. +Millbank, now that there was a constant companion for his daughter, took +a house and carried Edith back with him to London. Lady Wallinger, +who had great wealth and great tact, had obtained by degrees a +not inconsiderable position in society. She had a fine house in a +fashionable situation, and gave profuse entertainments. The Whigs +were under obligations to her husband, and the great Whig ladies were +gratified to find in his wife a polished and pleasing person, to whom +they could be courteous without any annoyance. So that Edith, under the +auspices of her aunt, found herself at once in circles which otherwise +she might not easily have entered, but which her beauty, grace, and +experience of the most refined society of the Continent, qualified +her to shine in. One evening they met the Marquis of Beaumanoir, their +friend of Rome and Paris, and admirer of Edith, who from that time was +seldom from their side. His mother, the Duchess, immediately called both +on the Millbanks and the Wallingers; glad, not only to please her son, +but to express that consideration for Mr. Millbank which the Duke always +wished to show. It was, however, of no use; nothing would induce Mr. +Millbank ever to enter what he called aristocratic society. He liked the +House of Commons; never paired off; never missed a moment of it; worked +at committees all the morning, listened attentively to debates all the +night; always dined at Bellamy’s when there was a house; and when there +was not, liked dining at the Fishmongers’ Company, the Russia Company, +great Emigration banquets, and other joint-stock festivities. That was +his idea of rational society; business and pleasure combined; a good +dinner, and good speeches afterwards. + +Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned to England, for her brother +had heard from him on his arrival; but Oswald had not heard since. +A season in London only represented in the mind of Edith the chance, +perhaps the certainty, of meeting Coningsby again; of communing together +over the catastrophe of last summer; of soothing and solacing each +other’s unhappiness, and perhaps, with the sanguine imagination of +youth, foreseeing a more felicitous future. She had been nearly a +fortnight in town, and though moving frequently in the same circles as +Coningsby, they had not yet met. It was one of those results which +could rarely occur; but even chance enters too frequently in the +league against lovers. The invitation to the assembly at ---- House was +therefore peculiarly gratifying to Edith, since she could scarcely +doubt that if Coningsby were in town, which her casual inquiries of Lord +Beaumanoir induced her to believe was the case, he would be present. +Never, therefore, had she repaired to an assembly with such a flattering +spirit; and yet there was a fascinating anxiety about it that bewilders +the young heart. + +In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch the form of that being, whom +for a moment she had never ceased to cherish and muse over. He was not +there; and at the very moment when, disappointed and mortified, she most +required solace, she learned from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney, +whom she chanced to admire, was going to be married, and to Mr. +Coningsby! + +What a revelation! His silence, perhaps his shunning of her were no +longer inexplicable. What a return for all her romantic devotion in her +sad solitude at Hellingsley. Was this the end of their twilight rambles, +and the sweet pathos of their mutual loves? There seemed to be no truth +in man, no joy in life! All the feelings that she had so generously +lavished, all returned upon herself. She could have burst into a passion +of tears and buried herself in a cloister. + +Instead of that, civilisation made her listen with a serene though +tortured countenance; but as soon as it was in her power, pleading a +headache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought she had effected, +her escape from a scene which harrowed her heart. + +As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night, agitated by the +unexpected presence of Edith and distracted by the manner in which +she had received him. To say that her appearance had revived all his +passionate affection for her would convey an unjust impression of the +nature of his feelings. His affection had never for a moment swerved; it +was profound and firm. But unquestionably this sudden vision had brought +before him, in startling and more vivid colours, the relations that +subsisted between them. There was the being whom he loved and who loved +him; and whatever were the barriers which the circumstances of life +placed against their union, they were partakers of the solemn sacrament +of an unpolluted heart. + +Coningsby, as we have mentioned, had signified to Oswald his return to +England: he had hitherto omitted to write again; not because his spirit +faltered, but he was wearied of whispering hope without foundation, and +mourning over his chagrined fortunes. Once more in England, once more +placed in communication with his grandfather, he felt with increased +conviction the difficulties which surrounded him. The society of Lady +Everingham and her sister, who had been at the same time her visitor, +had been a relaxation, and a beneficial one, to a mind suffering +too much from the tension of one idea. But Coningsby had treated the +matrimonial project of his gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity +in which he believed it had first half originated. He admired and liked +Lady Theresa; but there was a reason why he should not marry her, even +had his own heart not been absorbed by one of those passions from which +men of deep and earnest character never emancipate themselves. + +After musing and meditating again and again over everything that had +occurred, Coningsby fell asleep when the morning had far advanced, +resolved to rise when a little refreshed and find out Lady Wallinger, +who, he felt sure, would receive him with kindness. + +Yet it was fated that this step should not be taken, for while he was +at breakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Monmouth House, +apprising him that his grandfather wished to see him as soon as possible +on urgent business. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing-room in which he was +first introduced to the reader; on the table were several packets of +papers that were open and in course of reference; and he dictated his +observations to Monsieur Villebecque, who was writing at his left hand. + +Thus were they occupied when Coningsby was ushered into the room. + +‘You see, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘that I am much occupied to-day, +yet the business on which I wish to communicate with you is so pressing +that it could not be postponed.’ He made a sign to Villebecque, and his +secretary instantly retired. + +‘I was right in pressing your return to England,’ continued Lord +Monmouth to his grandson, who was a little anxious as to the impending +communication, which he could not in any way anticipate. ‘These are not +times when young men should be out of sight. Your public career will +commence immediately. The Government have resolved on a dissolution. My +information is from the highest quarter. You may be astonished, but +it is a fact. They are going to dissolve their own House of Commons. +Notwithstanding this and the Queen’s name, we can beat them; but the +race requires the finest jockeying. We can’t give a point. Tadpole has +been here to me about Darlford; he came specially with a message, I may +say an appeal, from one to whom I can refuse nothing; the Government +count on the seat, though with the new Registration ‘tis nearly a tie. +If we had a good candidate we could win. But Rigby won’t do. He is too +much of the old clique; used up; a hack; besides, a beaten horse. We are +assured the name of Coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable +section who support the present fellow who will not vote against a +Coningsby. They have thought of you as a fit person, and I have approved +of the suggestion. You will, therefore, be the candidate for Darlford +with my entire sanction and support, and I have no doubt you will be +successful. You may be sure I shall spare nothing: and it will be very +gratifying to me, after being robbed of all our boroughs, that the only +Coningsby who cares to enter Parliament, should nevertheless be able to +do so as early as I could fairly desire.’ + +Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the hustings of Darlford! +Vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe! The fierce passions, +the gross insults, the hot blood and the cool lies, the ruffianism and +the ribaldry, perhaps the domestic discomfiture and mortification, which +he was about to be the means of bringing on the roof he loved best +in the world, occurred to him with anguish. The countenance of +Edith, haughty and mournful last night, rose to him again. He saw her +canvassing for her father, and against him. Madness! And for what was +he to make this terrible and costly sacrifice For his ambition? Not even +for that Divinity or Daemon for which we all immolate so much! Mighty +ambition, forsooth, to succeed to the Rigbys! To enter the House of +Commons a slave and a tool; to move according to instructions, and +to labour for the low designs of petty spirits, without even the +consolation of being a dupe. What sympathy could there exist between +Coningsby and the ‘great Conservative party,’ that for ten years in +an age of revolution had never promulgated a principle; whose only +intelligible and consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, very +grateful of course to the feelings of an English Royalist, to revive +Irish Puritanism; who when in power in 1835 had used that power only to +evince their utter ignorance of Church principles; and who were at this +moment, when Coningsby was formally solicited to join their ranks, in +open insurrection against the prerogatives of the English Monarchy? + +‘Do you anticipate then an immediate dissolution, sir?’ inquired +Coningsby after a moment’s pause. + +‘We must anticipate it; though I think it doubtful. It may be next +month; it may be in the autumn; they may tide over another year, as Lord +Eskdale thinks, and his opinion always weighs with me. He is very safe. +Tadpole believes they will dissolve at once. But whether they dissolve +now, or in a month’s time, or in the autumn, or next year, our course +is clear. We must declare our intentions immediately. We must hoist our +flag. Monday next, there is a great Conservative dinner at Darlford. You +must attend it; that will be the finest opportunity in the world for you +to announce yourself.’ + +‘Don’t you think, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘that such an announcement would +be rather premature? It is, in fact, embarking in a contest which may +last a year; perhaps more.’ + +‘What you say is very true,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘no doubt it is very +troublesome; very disgusting; any canvassing is. But we must take things +as we find them. You cannot get into Parliament now in the good old +gentlemanlike way; and we ought to be thankful that this interest has +been fostered for our purpose.’ + +Coningsby looked on the carpet, cleared his throat as if about to speak, +and then gave something like a sigh. + +‘I think you had better be off the day after to-morrow,’ said Lord +Monmouth. ‘I have sent instructions to the steward to do all he can in +so short a time, for I wish you to entertain the principal people.’ + +‘You are most kind, you are always most kind to me, dear sir,’ said +Coningsby, in a hesitating tone, and with an air of great embarrassment, +‘but, in truth, I have no wish to enter Parliament.’ + +‘What?’ said Lord Monmouth. + +‘I feel that I am not sufficiently prepared for so great a +responsibility as a seat in the House of Commons,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Responsibility!’ said Lord Monmouth, smiling. ‘What responsibility is +there? How can any one have a more agreeable seat? The only person to +whom you are responsible is your own relation, who brings you in. And I +don’t suppose there can be any difference on any point between us. You +are certainly still young; but I was younger by nearly two years when +I first went in; and I found no difficulty. There can be no difficulty. +All you have got to do is to vote with your party. As for speaking, if +you have a talent that way, take my advice; don’t be in a hurry. Learn +to know the House; learn the House to know you. If a man be discreet, he +cannot enter Parliament too soon.’ + +‘It is not exactly that, sir,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Then what is it, my dear Harry? You see to-day I have much to do; yet +as your business is pressing, I would not postpone seeing you an hour. I +thought you would have been very much gratified.’ + +‘You mentioned that I had nothing to do but to vote with my party, sir,’ +replied Coningsby. ‘You mean, of course, by that term what is understood +by the Conservative party.’ + +‘Of course; our friends.’ + +‘I am sorry,’ said Coningsby, rather pale, but speaking with firmness, +‘I am sorry that I could not support the Conservative party.’ + +‘By ----!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, starting in his seat, ‘some woman +has got hold of him, and made him a Whig!’ + +‘No, my dear grandfather,’ said Coningsby, scarcely able to repress a +smile, serious as the interview was becoming, ‘nothing of the kind, I +assure you. No person can be more anti-Whig.’ + +‘I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a +hard, dry tone. + +‘I wish to be frank, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘and am very sensible of your +goodness in permitting me to speak to you on the subject. What I mean to +say is, that I have for a long time looked upon the Conservative party +as a body who have betrayed their trust; more from ignorance, I admit, +than from design; yet clearly a body of individuals totally unequal +to the exigencies of the epoch, and indeed unconscious of its real +character.’ + +‘You mean giving up those Irish corporations?’ said Lord Monmouth. +‘Well, between ourselves, I am quite of the same opinion. But we must +mount higher; we must go to ‘28 for the real mischief. But what is the +use of lamenting the past? Peel is the only man; suited to the times and +all that; at least we must say so, and try to believe so; we can’t go +back. And it is our own fault that we have let the chief power out of +the hands of our own order. It was never thought of in the time of your +great-grandfather, sir. And if a commoner were for a season permitted +to be the nominal Premier to do the detail, there was always a secret +committee of great 1688 nobles to give him his instructions.’ + +‘I should be very sorry to see secret committees of great 1688 nobles +again,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Then what the devil do you want to see?’ said Lord Monmouth. + +‘Political faith,’ said Coningsby, ‘instead of political infidelity.’ + +‘Hem!’ said Lord Monmouth. + +‘Before I support Conservative principles,’ continued Coningsby, ‘I +merely wish to be informed what those principles aim to conserve. It +would not appear to be the prerogative of the Crown, since the principal +portion of a Conservative oration now is an invective against a late +royal act which they describe as a Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church +which they wish to conserve? What is a threatened Appropriation Clause +against an actual Church Commission in the hands of Parliamentary +Laymen? Could the Long Parliament have done worse? Well, then, if it +is neither the Crown nor the Church, whose rights and privileges this +Conservative party propose to vindicate, is it your House, the House +of Lords, whose powers they are prepared to uphold? Is it not notorious +that the very man whom you have elected as your leader in that House, +declares among his Conservative adherents, that henceforth the assembly +that used to furnish those very Committees of great revolution nobles +that you mention, is to initiate nothing; and, without a struggle, is +to subside into that undisturbed repose which resembles the Imperial +tranquillity that secured the frontiers by paying tribute?’ + +‘All this is vastly fine,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘but I see no means by +which I can attain my object but by supporting Peel. After all, what is +the end of all parties and all politics? To gain your object. I want to +turn our coronet into a ducal one, and to get your grandmother’s barony +called out of abeyance in your favour. It is impossible that Peel can +refuse me. I have already purchased an ample estate with the view +of entailing it on you and your issue. You will make a considerable +alliance; you may marry, if you please, Lady Theresa Sydney. I hear the +report with pleasure. Count on my at once entering into any arrangement +conducive to your happiness.’ + +‘My dear grandfather, you have ever been to me only too kind and +generous.’ + +‘To whom should I be kind but to you, my own blood, that has never +crossed me, and of whom I have reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, it +gratifies me to hear you admired and to learn your success. All I want +now is to see you in Parliament. A man should be in Parliament early. +There is a sort of stiffness about every man, no matter what may be his +talents, who enters Parliament late in life; and now, fortunately, the +occasion offers. You will go down on Friday; feed the notabilities +well; speak out; praise Peel; abuse O’Connell and the ladies of the +Bed-chamber; anathematise all waverers; say a good deal about Ireland; +stick to the Irish Registration Bill, that’s a good card; and, above +all, my dear Harry, don’t spare that fellow Millbank. Remember, in +turning him out you not only gain a vote for the Conservative cause +and our coronet, but you crush my foe. Spare nothing for that object; I +count on you, boy.’ + +‘I should grieve to be backward in anything that concerned your +interest or your honour, sir,’ said Coningsby, with an air of great +embarrassment. + +‘I am sure you would, I am sure you would,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a +tone of some kindness. + +‘And I feel at this moment,’ continued Coningsby, ‘that there is no +personal sacrifice which I am not prepared to make for them, except one. +My interests, my affections, they should not be placed in the balance, +if yours, sir, were at stake, though there are circumstances which might +involve me in a position of as much mental distress as a man could well +endure; but I claim for my convictions, my dear grandfather, a generous +tolerance.’ + +‘I can’t follow you, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, again in his hard tone. +‘Our interests are inseparable, and therefore there can never be +any sacrifice of conduct on your part. What you mean by sacrifice of +affections, I don’t comprehend; but as for your opinions, you have no +business to have any other than those I uphold. You are too young to +form opinions.’ + +‘I am sure I wish to express them with no unbecoming confidence,’ +replied Coningsby; ‘I have never intruded them on your ear before; +but this being an occasion when you yourself said, sir, I was about +to commence my public career, I confess I thought it was my duty to be +frank; I would not entail on myself long years of mortification by one +of those ill-considered entrances into political life which so many +public men have cause to deplore.’ + +‘You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman; you are not to consider +your opinions, like a philosopher or a political adventurer.’ + +‘Yes, sir,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘but men going with their +families like gentlemen, and losing sight of every principle on which +the society of this country ought to be established, produced the Reform +Bill.’ + +‘D---- the Reform Bill!’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘if the Duke had not +quarrelled with Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we should never have had +the Reform Bill. And Grey would have gone to Ireland.’ + +‘You are in as great peril now as you were in 1830,’ said Coningsby. + +‘No, no, no,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the Tory party is organised now; they +will not catch us napping again: these Conservative Associations have +done the business.’ + +‘But what are they organised for?’ said Coningsby. ‘At the best to turn +out the Whigs. And when you have turned out the Whigs, what then? You +may get your ducal coronet, sir. But a duke now is not so great a man +as a baron was but a century back. We cannot struggle against the +irresistible stream of circumstances. Power has left our order; this is +not an age for factitious aristocracy. As for my grandmother’s barony, I +should look upon the termination of its abeyance in my favour as the +act of my political extinction. What we want, sir, is not to fashion +new dukes and furbish up old baronies, but to establish great principles +which may maintain the realm and secure the happiness of the people. Let +me see authority once more honoured; a solemn reverence again the habit +of our lives; let me see property acknowledging, as in the old days +of faith, that labour is his twin brother, and that the essence of all +tenure is the performance of duty; let results such as these be brought +about, and let me participate, however feebly, in the great fulfilment, +and public life then indeed becomes a noble career, and a seat in +Parliament an enviable distinction.’ + +‘I tell you what it is, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, very drily, ‘members +of this family may think as they like, but they must act as I please. +You must go down on Friday to Darlford and declare yourself a candidate +for the town, or I shall reconsider our mutual positions. I would say, +you must go to-morrow; but it is only courteous to Rigby to give him a +previous intimation of your movement. And that cannot be done to-day. I +sent for Rigby this morning on other business which now occupies me, and +find he is out of town. He will return to-morrow; and will be here at +three o’clock, when you can meet him. You will meet him, I doubt not, +like a man of sense,’ added Lord Monmouth, looking at Coningsby with a +glance such as he had never before encountered, ‘who is not prepared to +sacrifice all the objects of life for the pursuit of some fantastical +puerilities.’ + +His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque; and to prevent +any further conversation, resumed his papers. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +It would have been difficult for any person, unconscious of crime, +to have felt more dejected than Coningsby when he rode out of the +court-yard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith would have consoled +him for the destruction of his prosperity; the proud fulfilment of his +ambition might in time have proved some compensation for his crushed +affections; but his present position seemed to offer no single source +of solace. There came over him that irresistible conviction that is at +times the dark doom of all of us, that the bright period of our life is +past; that a future awaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification, +despair; that none of our resplendent visions can ever be realised: +and that we add but one more victim to the long and dreary catalogue of +baffled aspirations. + +Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to extricate +himself from the perils that were encompassing him. There was something +about his grandfather that defied persuasion. Prone as eloquent +youth generally is to believe in the resistless power of its appeals, +Coningsby despaired at once of ever moving Lord Monmouth. There had been +a callous dryness in his manner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit, +that at once baffled all attempts at influence. Nor could Coningsby +forget the look he received when he quitted the room. There was no +possibility of mistaking it; it said at once, without periphrasis, +‘Cross my purpose, and I will crush you!’ + +This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the counsels, of +friendship might have been grateful. A clever woman might have afforded +even more than sympathy; some happy device that might have even released +him from the mesh in which he was involved. And once Coningsby had +turned his horse’s head to Park Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But +surely if there were a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which +subsisted between himself and Edith. No, that must never be violated. +Then there was Lady Wallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to +her. He resolved to tell her all. He looked in for a moment at a club +to take up the ‘Court Guide’ and find her direction. A few men were +standing in a bow window. He heard Mr. Cassilis say, + +‘So Beau, they say, is booked at last; the new beauty, have you heard?’ + +‘I saw him very sweet on her last night,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Has +she any tin?’ + +‘Deuced deal, they say,’ replied Mr. Cassilis.’ The father is a cotton +lord, and they all have loads of tin, you know. Nothing like them now.’ + +‘He is in Parliament, is not he?’ + +‘’Gad, I believe he is,’ said Mr. Cassilis; ‘I never know who is in +Parliament in these days. I remember when there were only ten men in the +House of Commons who were not either members of Brookes’ or this place. +Everything is so deuced changed.’ + +‘I hear ‘tis an old affair of Beau,’ said another gentleman. ‘It was all +done a year ago at Rome or Paris.’ + +‘They say she refused him then,’ said Mr. Cassilis. + +‘Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer’s daughter,’ said his +friend. ‘What next?’ + +‘I wonder how the Duke likes it?’ said Mr. Cassilis. + +‘Or the Duchess?’ added one of his friends. + +‘Or the Everinghams?’ added the other. + +‘The Duke will be deuced glad to see Beau settled, I take it,’ said Mr. +Cassilis. + +‘A good deal depends on the tin,’ said his friend. + +Coningsby threw down the ‘Court Guide’ with a sinking heart. In spite +of every insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all his +aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost unconsciously +to himself, was Edith. It was over. The strange manner of last night was +fatally explained. The heart that once had been his was now another’s. +To the man who still loves there is in that conviction the most profound +and desolate sorrow of which our nature is capable. All the recollection +of the past, all the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend into +one bewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the club, and mounting his +horse, rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his direction. +He found himself at length in a green lane near Willesden, silent and +undisturbed; he pulled up his horse, and summoned all his mind to the +contemplation of his prospects. + +Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, accept his +mission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour and fortune, power, +prosperity, rank, distinction would be the consequence of this step; +might not he add even vengeance? Was there to be no term to his +endurance? Might not he teach this proud, prejudiced manufacturer, with +all his virulence and despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his +daughter, too, this betrothed, after all, of a young noble, with her +flush futurity of splendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, +if indeed she heard of him at all, as of one toiling or trifling in the +humbler positions of existence; and wonder, with a blush, that he ever +could have been the hero of her romantic girlhood? What degradation in +the idea? His cheek burnt at the possibility of such ignominy! + +It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He thought of +his companions who looked up to him with such ardent anticipations of +his fame, of delight in his career, and confidence in his leading; were +all these high and fond fancies to be balked? On the very threshold of +life was he to blunder? ‘Tis the first step that leads to all, and +his was to be a wilful error. He remembered his first visit to his +grandfather, and the delight of his friends at Eton at his report on his +return. After eight years of initiation was he to lose that favour then +so highly prized, when the results which they had so long counted on +were on the very eve of accomplishment? Parliament and riches, and rank +and power; these were facts, realities, substances, that none could +mistake. Was he to sacrifice them for speculations, theories, shadows, +perhaps the vapours of a green and conceited brain? No, by heaven, no! +He was like Caesar by the starry river’s side, watching the image of the +planets on its fatal waters. The die was cast. + +The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exaltation +of his spirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and +tranquillity and consolation, came clustering round his heart like +seraphs. He thought of Edith in her hours of fondness; he thought of +the pure and solemn moments when to mingle his name with the heroes of +humanity was his aspiration, and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring +purpose of his life. What were the tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition +to him? No domestic despot could deprive him of his intellect, his +knowledge, the sustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. If he +possessed the intelligence in which he had confidence, the world +would recognise his voice even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the +principles of his philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation +would respond to their expression. Coningsby felt at this moment a +profound conviction which never again deserted him, that the conduct +which would violate the affections of the heart, or the dictates of the +conscience, however it may lead to immediate success, is a fatal error. +Conscious that he was perhaps verging on some painful vicissitude of his +life, he devoted himself to a love that seemed hopeless, and to a fame +that was perhaps a dream. + +It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions that he wrote, +on his return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed +all that affection which he really felt for his grandfather, and all +the pangs which it cost him to adhere to the conclusions he had already +announced. In terms of tenderness, and even humility, he declined to +become a candidate for Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as +the master of his own conduct. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir which +had been fitted up under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as he +then believed for the Princess Colonna. The walls were hung with amber +satin, painted by Delaroche with such subjects as might be expected from +his brilliant and picturesque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines +in dazzling costume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what is +commonly styled civilisation, moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid +palaces and gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fashion +of the Saracens, was richly gilt and picked out in violet. Upon a violet +carpet of velvet was represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche. + +It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth House, and +Flora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth as was her custom, to read to +her as she was employed with some light work. + +‘’Tis a new book of Sue,’ said Lucretia. ‘They say it is good.’ + +Flora, seated by her side, began to read. Reading was an accomplishment +which distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice faltered, her expression +was uncertain; she seemed but imperfectly to comprehend her page. More +than once Lady Monmouth looked round at her with an inquisitive glance. +Suddenly Flora stopped and burst into tears. + +‘O! madam,’ she at last exclaimed, ‘if you would but speak to Mr. +Coningsby, all might be right!’ + +‘What is this?’ said Lady Monmouth, turning quickly on the sofa; then, +collecting herself in an instant, she continued with less abruptness, +and more suavity than usual, ‘Tell me, Flora, what is it; what is the +matter?’ + +‘My Lord,’ sobbed Flora, ‘has quarrelled with Mr. Coningsby.’ + +An expression of eager interest came over the countenance of Lucretia. + +‘Why have they quarrelled?’ + +‘I do not know they have quarrelled; it is not, perhaps, a right term; +but my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby.’ + +‘Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and about what?’ + +‘Oh! very angry, madam,’ said Flora, shaking her head mournfully. ‘My +Lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter +the house again.’ + +‘Was it to-day?’ asked Lucretia. + +‘This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will not +do what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not know +exactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: my +father is frightened even to go into his room when he is so.’ + +‘Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day?’ asked Lucretia. + +‘Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this morning +before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby was not in town. +That is why I know it.’ + +Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa, and walked once or twice up and down +the room. Then turning to Flora, she said, ‘Go away now: the book is +stupid; it does not amuse me. Stop: find out all you can for me about +the quarrel before I speak to Mr. Coningsby.’ + +Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained for some time in meditation; +then she wrote a few lines, which she despatched at once to Mr. Rigby. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +What a great man was the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby! Here was one +of the first peers of England, and one of the finest ladies in London, +both waiting with equal anxiety his return to town; and unable to +transact two affairs of vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without +his interposition! What was the secret of the influence of this man, +confided in by everybody, trusted by none? His counsels were not deep, +his expedients were not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could +create no sympathy. It is that, in most of the transactions of life, +there is some portion which no one cares to accomplish, and which +everybody wishes to be achieved. This was always the portion of Mr. +Rigby. In the eye of the world he had constantly the appearance of being +mixed up with high dealings, and negotiations and arrangements of fine +management, whereas in truth, notwithstanding his splendid livery and +the airs he gave himself in the servants’ hall, his real business in +life had ever been, to do the dirty work. + +Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa of late. He was concocting, +you could not term it composing, an article, a ‘very slashing article,’ +which was to prove that the penny postage must be the destruction of the +aristocracy. It was a grand subject, treated in his highest style. His +parallel portraits of Rowland Hill the conqueror of Almarez and Rowland +Hill the deviser of the cheap postage were enormously fine. It was full +of passages in italics, little words in great capitals, and almost drew +tears. The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel. +Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and general, who had been in +office with himself, and who were inspired with an equal zeal against +that spirit of reform of which they had alike been victims, supplied him +with information which nothing but a breach of ministerial duty could +have furnished. The prophetic peroration as to the irresistible progress +of democracy was almost as powerful as one of Rigby’s speeches on +Aldborough or Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good +hearty kick to the people like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of +the populace, this was disinterested. What could be more patriotic and +magnanimous than his Jeremiads over the fall of the Montmorencis and the +Crillons, or the possible catastrophe of the Percys and the Manners! The +truth of all this hullabaloo was that Rigby had a sly pension which, +by an inevitable association of ideas, he always connected with the +maintenance of an aristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the +French revolution were impelled by this secret influence; and when he +wailed over ‘la guerre aux châteaux,’ and moaned like a mandrake over +Nottingham Castle in flames, the rogue had an eye all the while to +quarter-day! + +Arriving in town the day after Coningsby’s interview with his +grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a summons to Monmouth House waiting him, +and an urgent note from Lucretia begging that he would permit nothing +to prevent him seeing her for a few minutes before he called on the +Marquess. + +Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had in the +course of four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and accurate +details of the cause of contention between Coningsby and her husband. +She could inform Mr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was +highly incensed against his grandson, but that the cause of their +misunderstanding arose about a seat in the House of Commons, and that +seat too the one which Mr. Rigby had long appropriated to himself, +and over whose registration he had watched with such affectionate +solicitude. + +Lady Monmouth arranged this information like a firstrate artist, and +gave it a grouping and a colour which produced the liveliest effect +upon her confederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as +he received the intelligence; a grin, half of malice, half of terror, +played over his features. + +‘I told you to beware of him long ago,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is, he +has ever been, in the way of both of us.’ + +‘He is in my power,’ said Rigby. ‘We can crush him!’ + +‘How?’ + +‘He is in love with the daughter of Millbank, the man who bought +Hellingsley.’ + +‘Hah!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a prolonged tone. + +‘He was at Coningsby all last summer, hanging about her. I found the +younger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a fact which, of +itself, if known to Lord Monmouth, would ensure the lad’s annihilation.’ + +‘And you kept this fine news for a winter campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,’ +said Lady Monmouth, with a subtle smile. ‘It was a weapon of service. I +give you my compliments.’ + +‘The time is not always ripe,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘But it is now most mature. Let us not conceal it from ourselves that, +since his first visit to Coningsby, we have neither of us really been in +the same position which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy. +My Lord, though you would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this +boy; and though I by my marriage, and you by your zealous ability, +have apparently secured a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never +doubted that when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit +is plucked by one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is +no reason why we two should clash together: we can both of us find what +we want, and more securely if we work in company.’ + +‘I trust my devotion to you has never been doubted, dear madam.’ + +‘Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now: the game is before you. Rid +me of this Coningsby, and I will secure you all that you want. Doubt not +me. There is no reason. I want a firm ally. There must be two.’ + +‘It shall be done,’ said Rigby; ‘it must be done. If once the notion +gets wind that one of the Castle family may perchance stand for +Darlford, all the present combinations will be disorganised. It must be +done at once. I know that the Government will dissolve.’ + +‘So I hear for certain,’ said Lucretia. ‘Be sure there is no time to +lose. What does he want with you to-day?’ + +‘I know not: there are so many things.’ + +‘To be sure; and yet I cannot doubt he will speak of this quarrel. +Let not the occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be +introduced. If good, you will guide him more easily; if dark, the love +for the Hellingsley girl, the fact of the brother being in his castle, +drinking his wine, riding his horses, ordering about his servants; you +will omit no details: a Millbank quite at home at Coningsby will lash +him to madness! ‘Tis quite ripe. Not a word that you have seen me. Go, +go, or he may hear that you have arrived. I shall be at home all the +morning. It will be but gallant that you should pay me a little visit +when you have transacted your business. You understand. _Au revoir!_’ + +Lady Monmouth took up again her French novel; but her eyes soon glanced +over the page, unattached by its contents. Her own existence was too +interesting to find any excitement in fiction. It was nearly three years +since her marriage; that great step which she ever had a conviction was +to lead to results still greater. Of late she had often been filled with +a presentiment that they were near at hand; never more so than on +this day. Irresistible was the current of associations that led her to +meditate on freedom, wealth, power; on a career which should at the same +time dazzle the imagination and gratify her heart. Notwithstanding the +gossip of Paris, founded on no authentic knowledge of her husband’s +character or information, based on the haphazard observations of the +floating multitude, Lucretia herself had no reason to fear that her +influence over Lord Monmouth, if exerted, was materially diminished. But +satisfied that he had formed no other tie, with her ever the test of +her position, she had not thought it expedient, and certainly would have +found it irksome, to maintain that influence by any ostentatious means. +She knew that Lord Monmouth was capricious, easily wearied, soon palled; +and that on men who have no affections, affection has no hold. Their +passions or their fancies, on the contrary, as it seemed to her, are +rather stimulated by neglect or indifference, provided that they are not +systematic; and the circumstance of a wife being admired by one who is +not her husband sometimes wonderfully revives the passion or renovates +the respect of him who should be devoted to her. + +The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject which never was long absent +from the vigilance or meditation of Lucretia. She was well assured that +his life was no longer secure. She knew that after their marriage he had +made a will, which secured to her a large portion of his great wealth in +case of their having no issue, and after the accident at Paris all +hope in that respect was over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord +Monmouth had evinced about terminating the abeyance of the barony to +which his first wife was a co-heiress in favour of his grandson, had +alarmed Lucretia. To establish in the land another branch of the house +of Coningsby was evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, and +perhaps a permanent one. If the idea were once accepted, notwithstanding +the limit to its endowment which Lord Monmouth might at the first start +contemplate, Lucretia had sufficiently studied his temperament to be +convinced that all his energies and all his resources would ultimately +be devoted to its practical fulfilment. Her original prejudice against +Coningsby and jealousy of his influence had therefore of late been +considerably aggravated; and the intelligence that for the first time +there was a misunderstanding between Coningsby and her husband filled +her with excitement and hope. She knew her Lord well enough to feel +assured that the cause for displeasure in the present instance could not +be a light one; she resolved instantly to labour that it should not +be transient; and it so happened that she had applied for aid in this +endeavour to the very individual in whose power it rested to accomplish +all her desire, while in doing so he felt at the same time he was +defending his own position and advancing his own interests. + +Lady Monmouth was now waiting with some excitement the return of Mr. +Rigby. His interview with his patron was of unusual length. An hour, and +more than an hour, had elapsed. Lady Monmouth again threw aside the book +which more than once she had discarded. She paced the room, restless +rather than disquieted. She had complete confidence in Rigby’s ability +for the occasion; and with her knowledge of Lord Monmouth’s character, +she could not contemplate the possibility of failure, if the +circumstances were adroitly introduced to his consideration. Still time +stole on: the harassing and exhausting process of suspense was acting +on her nervous system. She began to think that Rigby had not found +the occasion favourable for the catastrophe; that Lord Monmouth, from +apprehension of disturbing Rigby and entailing explanations on himself, +had avoided the necessary communication; that her skilful combination +for the moment had missed. Two hours had now elapsed, and Lucretia, in a +state of considerable irritation, was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby +were with his Lordship when the door of her boudoir opened, and that +gentleman appeared. + +‘How long you have been!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘Now sit down and +tell me what has passed.’ + +Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which Flora had occupied. + +‘I thank your Ladyship,’ said Mr. Rigby, with a somewhat grave and yet +perplexed expression of countenance, and seating himself at some little +distance from his companion, ‘but I am very well here.’ + +There was a pause. Instead of responding to the invitation of Lady +Monmouth to communicate with his usual readiness and volubility, Mr. +Rigby was silent, and, if it were possible to use such an expression +with regard to such a gentleman, apparently embarrassed. + +‘Well,’ said Lady Monmouth, ‘does he know about the Millbanks?’ + +‘Everything,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘And what did he say?’ + +‘His Lordship was greatly shocked,’ replied Mr. Rigby, with a pious +expression of features. ‘Such monstrous ingratitude! As his Lordship +very justly observed, “It is impossible to say what is going on under my +own roof, or to what I can trust.”’ + +‘But he made an exception in your favour, I dare say, my dear Mr. +Rigby,’ said Lady Monmouth. + +‘Lord Monmouth was pleased to say that I possessed his entire +confidence,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and that he looked to me in his +difficulties.’ + +‘Very sensible of him. And what is to become of Mr. Coningsby?’ + +‘The steps which his Lordship is about to take with reference to the +establishment generally,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘will allow the connection +that at present subsists between that gentleman and his noble relative, +now that Lord Monmouth’s eyes are open to his real character, to +terminate naturally, without the necessity of any formal explanation.’ + +‘But what do you mean by the steps he is going to take in his +establishment generally?’ + +‘Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change of scene.’ + +‘Oh! is he going to drag me abroad again?’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, with +great impatience. + +‘Why, not exactly,’ said Mr. Rigby, rather demurely. + +‘I hope he is not going again to that dreadful castle in Lancashire.’ + +‘Lord Monmouth was thinking that, as you were tired of Paris, you might +find some of the German Baths agreeable.’ + + ‘Why, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as a German +bathing-place!’ + +‘Exactly,’ said Mr. Rigby. + +‘Then how capricious in him wanting to go to them?’ + +‘He does not want to go to them!’ + +‘What do you mean, Mr. Rigby?’ said Lady Monmouth, in a lower voice, and +looking him full in the face with a glance seldom bestowed. + +There was a churlish and unusual look about Rigby. It was as if +malignant, and yet at the same time a little frightened, he had screwed +himself into doggedness. + +‘I mean what Lord Monmouth means. He suggests that if your Ladyship were +to pass the summer at Kissengen, for example, and a paragraph in the +_Morning Post_ were to announce that his Lordship was about to join you +there, all awkwardness would be removed; and no one could for a moment +take the liberty of supposing, even if his Lordship did not ultimately +reach you, that anything like a separation had occurred.’ + +‘A separation!’ said Lady Monmouth. + +‘Quite amicable,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘I would never have consented to +interfere in the affair, but to secure that most desirable point.’ + +‘I will see Lord Monmouth at once,’ said Lucretia, rising, her natural +pallor aggravated into a ghoul-like tint. + +‘His Lordship has gone out,’ said Mr. Rigby, rather stubbornly. + +‘Our conversation, sir, then finishes; I wait his return.’ She bowed +haughtily. + +‘His Lordship will never return to Monmouth House again.’ + +Lucretia sprang from the sofa. + +‘Miserable craven!’ she exclaimed. ‘Has the cowardly tyrant fled? And +he really thinks that I am to be crushed by such an instrument as this! +Pah! He may leave Monmouth House, but I shall not. Begone, sir!’ + +‘Still anxious to secure an amicable separation,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘your +Ladyship must allow me to place the circumstances of the case fairly +before your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth has decided upon a course: +you know as well as I that he never swerves from his resolutions. He has +left peremptory instructions, and he will listen to no appeal. He has +empowered me to represent to your Ladyship that he wishes in every way +to consider your convenience. He suggests that everything, in short, +should be arranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily no more; +that your Ladyship should at once enter into your jointure, which +shall be made payable quarterly to your order, provided you can find +it convenient to live upon the Continent,’ added Mr. Rigby, with some +hesitation. + +‘And suppose I cannot?’ + +‘Why, then, we will leave your Ladyship to the assertion of your +rights.’ + +‘We!’ + +‘I beg your Ladyship’s pardon. I speak as the friend of the family, the +trustee of your marriage settlement, well known also as Lord Monmouth’s +executor,’ said Mr. Rigby, his countenance gradually regaining its +usual callous confidence, and some degree of self-complacency, as he +remembered the good things which he enumerated. + +‘I have decided,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘I will assert my rights. Your +master has mistaken my character and his own position. He shall rue the +day that he assailed me.’ + +‘I should be sorry if there were any violence,’ said Mr. Rigby, +‘especially as everything is left to my management and control. An +office, indeed, which I only accepted for your mutual advantage. +I think, upon reflection, I might put before your Ladyship some +considerations which might induce you, on the whole, to be of opinion +that it will be better for us to draw together in this business, as we +have hitherto, indeed, throughout an acquaintance now of some years.’ +Rigby was assuming all his usual tone of brazen familiarity. + +‘Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord Monmouth’s estimate of it,’ said +Lucretia. + +‘Now, now, you are unkind. Your Ladyship mistakes my position. I am +interfering in this business for your sake. I might have refused the +office. It would have fallen to another, who would have fulfilled +it without any delicacy and consideration for your feelings. View my +interposition in that light, my dear Lady Monmouth, and circumstances +will assume altogether a new colour.’ + +‘I beg that you will quit the house, sir.’ + +Mr. Rigby shook his head. ‘I would with pleasure, to oblige you, were +it in my power; but Lord Monmouth has particularly desired that I should +take up my residence here permanently. The servants are now my servants. +It is useless to ring the bell. For your Ladyship’s sake, I wish +everything to be accomplished with tranquillity, and, if possible, +friendliness and good feeling. You can have even a week for the +preparations for your departure, if necessary. I will take that upon +myself. Any carriages, too, that you desire; your jewels, at least all +those that are not at the bankers’. The arrangement about your jointure, +your letters of credit, even your passport, I will attend to myself; +only too happy if, by this painful interference, I have in any way +contributed to soften the annoyance which, at the first blush, you may +naturally experience, but which, like everything else, take my word, +will wear off.’ + +‘I shall send for Lord Eskdale,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is a +gentleman.’ + +‘I am quite sure,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘that Lord Eskdale will give you the +same advice as myself, if he only reads your Ladyship’s letters,’ he +added slowly, ‘to Prince Trautsmansdorff.’ + +‘My letters?’ said Lady Monmouth. + +‘Pardon me,’ said Rigby, putting his hand in his pocket, as if to guard +some treasure, ‘I have no wish to revive painful associations; but I +have them, and I must act upon them, if you persist in treating me as +a foe, who am in reality your best friend; which indeed I ought to be, +having the honour of acting as trustee under your marriage settlement, +and having known you so many years.’ + +‘Leave me for the present alone,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘Send me my +servant, if I have one. I shall not remain here the week which you +mention, but quit at once this house, which I wish I had never entered. +Adieu! Mr. Rigby, you are now lord of Monmouth House, and yet I cannot +help feeling you too will be discharged before he dies.’ + +Mr. Rigby made Lady Monmouth a bow such as became the master of the +house, and then withdrew. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +A paragraph in the _Morning Post_, a few days after his interview with +his grandfather, announcing that Lord and Lady Monmouth had quitted town +for the baths of Kissengen, startled Coningsby, who called the same day +at Monmouth House in consequence. There he learnt more authentic details +of their unexpected movements. It appeared that Lady Monmouth had +certainly departed; and the porter, with a rather sceptical visage, +informed Coningsby that Lord Monmouth was to follow; but when, he could +not tell. At present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few days was +about to take possession of a villa at Richmond, which had for some time +been fitting up for him under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, who, as +Coningsby also learnt, now permanently resided at Monmouth House. All +this intelligence made Coningsby ponder. He was sufficiently acquainted +with the parties concerned to feel assured that he had not learnt the +whole truth. What had really taken place, and what was the real cause of +the occurrences, were equally mystical to him: all he was convinced of +was, that some great domestic revolution had been suddenly effected. + +Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. With the +exception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experienced from +Lord Monmouth nothing but kindness both in phrase and deed. There was +also something in Lord Monmouth, when he pleased it, rather fascinating +to young men; and as Coningsby had never occasioned him any feelings but +pleasurable ones, he was always disposed to make himself delightful to +his grandson. The experience of a consummate man of the world, advanced +in life, detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness and +facility, is bewitching. Lord Monmouth was never garrulous: he was +always pithy, and could be picturesque. He revealed a character in a +sentence, and detected the ruling passion with the hand of a master. +Besides, he had seen everybody and had done everything; and though, on +the whole, too indolent for conversation, and loving to be talked to, +these were circumstances which made his too rare communications the more +precious. + +With these feelings, Coningsby resolved, the moment that he learned that +his grandfather was established at Richmond, to pay him a visit. He +was informed that Lord Monmouth was at home, and he was shown into a +drawing-room, where he found two French ladies in their bonnets, whom he +soon discovered to be actresses. They also had come down to pay a visit +to his grandfather, and were by no means displeased to pass the interval +that must elapse before they had that pleasure in chatting with his +grandson. Coningsby found them extremely amusing; with the finest +spirits in the world, imperturbable good temper, and an unconscious +practical philosophy that defied the devil Care and all his works. And +well it was that he found such agreeable companions, for time flowed on, +and no summons arrived to call him to his grandfather’s presence, and +no herald to announce his grandfather’s advent. The ladies and Coningsby +had exhausted badinage; they had examined and criticised all the +furniture, had rifled the vases of their prettiest flowers; and +Clotilde, who had already sung several times, was proposing a duet to +Ermengarde, when a servant entered, and told the ladies that a carriage +was in attendance to give them an airing, and after that Lord Monmouth +hoped they would return and dine with him; then turning to Coningsby, he +informed him, with his lord’s compliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry +he was too much engaged to see him. + +Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerably good face upon it. +‘Embrace Lord Monmouth for me,’ said Coningsby to his fair friends, ‘and +tell him I think it very unkind that he did not ask me to dinner with +you.’ + +Coningsby said this with a gay air, but really with a depressed spirit. +He felt convinced that his grandfather was deeply displeased with him; +and as he rode away from the villa, he could not resist the strong +impression that he was destined never to re-enter it. Yet it was decreed +otherwise. It so happened that the idle message which Coningsby had left +for his grandfather, and which he never seriously supposed for a moment +that his late companions would have given their host, operated entirely +in his favour. Whatever were the feelings with respect to Coningsby at +the bottom of Lord Monmouth’s heart, he was actuated in his refusal to +see him not more from displeasure than from an anticipatory horror of +something like a scene. Even a surrender from Coningsby without terms, +and an offer to declare himself a candidate for Darlford, or to do +anything else that his grandfather wished, would have been disagreeable +to Lord Monmouth in his present mood. As in politics a revolution is +often followed by a season of torpor, so in the case of Lord Monmouth +the separation from his wife, which had for a long period occupied his +meditation, was succeeded by a vein of mental dissipation. He did not +wish to be reminded by anything or any person that he had still in +some degree the misfortune of being a responsible member of society. +He wanted to be surrounded by individuals who were above or below the +conventional interests of what is called ‘the World.’ He wanted to hear +nothing of those painful and embarrassing influences which from our +contracted experience and want of enlightenment we magnify into such +undue importance. For this purpose he wished to have about him persons +whose knowledge of the cares of life concerned only the means of +existence, and whose sense of its objects referred only to the sources +of enjoyment; persons who had not been educated in the idolatry of +Respectability; that is to say, of realising such an amount of what is +termed character by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices of the +community as may enable them, at suitable times, and under convenient +circumstances and disguises, to plunder the public. This was the +Monmouth Philosophy. + +With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled at this moment from +grandsons and relations and ties of all kinds. He did not wish to be +reminded of his identity, but to swim unmolested and undisturbed in +his Epicurean dream. When, therefore, his fair visitors; Clotilde, who +opened her mouth only to breathe roses and diamonds, and Ermengarde, who +was so good-natured that she sacrificed even her lovers to her friends; +saw him merely to exclaim at the same moment, and with the same voices +of thrilling joyousness,-- + +‘Why did not you ask him to dinner?’ + +And then, without waiting for his reply, entered with that rapidity of +elocution which Frenchwomen can alone command into the catalogue of his +charms and accomplishments, Lord Monmouth began to regret that he really +had not seen Coningsby, who, it appeared, might have greatly contributed +to the pleasure of the day. The message, which was duly given, +however, settled the business. Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of +explanations, or even allusions to the past, was out of the question; +and to defend himself from the accusations of his animated guests, he +said, + +‘Well, he shall come to dine with you next time.’ + +There is no end to the influence of woman on our life. It is at the +bottom of everything that happens to us. And so it was, that, in spite +of all the combinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, and the mortification +and resentment of Lord Monmouth, the favourable impression he casually +made on a couple of French actresses occasioned Coningsby, before a +month had elapsed since his memorable interview at Monmouth House, to +receive an invitation again to dine with his grandfather. + +The party was agreeable. Clotilde and Ermengarde had wits as sparkling +as their eyes. There was a manager of the Opera, a great friend of +Villebecque, and his wife, a splendid lady, who had been a prima donna +of celebrity, and still had a commanding voice for a chamber; a Carlist +nobleman who lived upon his traditions, and who, though without a sou, +could tell of a festival given by his family, before the revolution, +which had cost a million of francs; and a Neapolitan physician, in whom +Lord Monmouth had great confidence, and who himself believed in the +elixir vitae, made up the party, with Lucian Gay, Coningsby, and Mr. +Rigby. Our hero remarked that Villebecque on this occasion sat at the +bottom of the table, but Flora did not appear. + +In the meantime, the month which brought about this satisfactory and +at one time unexpected result was fruitful also in other circumstances +still more interesting. Coningsby and Edith met frequently, if to +breathe the same atmosphere in the same crowded saloons can be described +as meeting; ever watching each other’s movements, and yet studious never +to encounter each other’s glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had +become an universal topic, they were celebrated in ball-rooms, they were +discussed at clubs: Edith was the beauty of the season. All admired her, +many sighed even to express their admiration; but the devotion of Lord +Beaumanoir, who always hovered about her, deterred them from a rivalry +which might have made the boldest despair. As for Coningsby, he passed +his life principally with the various members of the Sydney family, and +was almost daily riding with Lady Everingham and her sister, generally +accompanied by Lord Henry and his friend Eustace Lyle, between whom, +indeed, and Coningsby there were relations of intimacy scarcely less +inseparable. Coningsby had spoken to Lady Everingham of the rumoured +marriage of her elder brother, and found, although the family had not +yet been formally apprised of it, she entertained little doubt of +its ultimate occurrence. She admired Miss Millbank, with whom her +acquaintance continued slight; and she wished, of course, that her +brother should marry and be happy. ‘But Percy is often in love,’ she +would add, ‘and never likes us to be very intimate with his inamoratas. +He thinks it destroys the romance; and that domestic familiarity may +compromise his heroic character. However,’ she added, ‘I really believe +that will be a match.’ + +On the whole, though he bore a serene aspect to the world, Coningsby +passed this month in a state of restless misery. His soul was brooding +on one subject, and he had no confidant: he could not resist the spell +that impelled him to the society where Edith might at least be seen, and +the circle in which he lived was one in which her name was frequently +mentioned. Alone, in his solitary rooms in the Albany, he felt all his +desolation; and often a few minutes before he figured in the world, +apparently followed and courted by all, he had been plunged in the +darkest fits of irremediable wretchedness. + +He had, of course, frequently met Lady Wallinger, but their salutations, +though never omitted, and on each side cordial, were brief. There seemed +to be a tacit understanding between them not to refer to a subject +fruitful in painful reminiscences. + +The season waned. In the fulfilment of a project originally formed +in the playing-fields of Eton, often recurred to at Cambridge, and +cherished with the fondness with which men cling to a scheme of early +youth, Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Vere, and Buckhurst had engaged some +moors together this year; and in a few days they were about to quit town +for Scotland. They had pressed Eustace Lyle to accompany them, but he, +who in general seemed to have no pleasure greater than their society, +had surprised them by declining their invitation, with some vague +mention that he rather thought he should go abroad. + +It was the last day of July, and all the world were at a breakfast +given, at a fanciful cottage situate in beautiful gardens on the banks +of the Thames, by Lady Everingham. The weather was as bright as the +romances of Boccaccio; there were pyramids of strawberries, in bowls +colossal enough to hold orange-trees; and the choicest band filled the +air with enchanting strains, while a brilliant multitude sauntered on +turf like velvet, or roamed in desultory existence amid the quivering +shades of winding walks. + +‘My fête was prophetic,’ said Lady Everingham, when she saw Coningsby. +‘I am glad it is connected with an incident. It gives it a point.’ + +‘You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell me what we are to +celebrate.’ + +‘Theresa is going to be married.’ + +‘Then I, too, will prophesy, and name the hero of the romance, Eustace +Lyle.’ + +‘You have been more prescient than I,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘perhaps +because I was thinking too much of some one else.’ + +‘It seems to me an union which all must acknowledge perfect. I hardly +know which I love best. I have had my suspicions a long time; and when +Eustace refused to go to the moors with us, though I said nothing, I was +convinced.’ + +‘At any rate,’ said Lady Everingham, sighing, with a rather smiling +face, ‘we are kinsfolk, Mr. Coningsby; though I would gladly have wished +to have been more.’ + +‘Were those your thoughts, dear lady? Ever kind to me! Happiness,’ he +added, in a mournful tone, ‘I fear can never be mine.’ + +‘And why?’ + +‘Ah! ‘tis a tale too strange and sorrowful for a day when, like Seged, +we must all determine to be happy.’ + +‘You have already made me miserable.’ + +‘Here comes a group that will make you gay,’ said Coningsby as he +moved on. Edith and the Wallingers, accompanied by Lord Beaumanoir, Mr. +Melton, and Sir Charles Buckhurst, formed the party. They seemed profuse +in their congratulations to Lady Everingham, having already learnt the +intelligence from her brother. + +Coningsby stopped to speak to Lady St. Julians, who had still a daughter +to marry. Both Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and Clara +Isabella, who ought to have been there, had each secured the right man. +But Adelaide Victoria had now appeared, and Lady St. Julians had a great +regard for the favourite grandson of Lord Monmouth, and also for the +influential friend of Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. In case +Coningsby did not determine to become her son-in-law himself, he might +counsel either of his friends to a judicious decision on an inevitable +act. + +‘Strawberries and cream?’ said Lord Eskdale to Mr. Ormsby, who seemed +occupied with some delicacies. + +‘Egad! no, no, no; those days are passed. I think there is a little +easterly wind with all this fine appearance.’ + +‘I am for in-door nature myself,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘Do you know, I do +not half like the way Monmouth is going on? He never gets out of that +villa of his. He should change his air more. Tell him.’ + +‘It is no use telling him anything. Have you heard anything of Miladi?’ + +‘I had a letter from her to-day: she writes in good spirits. I am sorry +it broke up, and yet I never thought it would last so long.’ + +‘I gave them two years,’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘Lord Monmouth lived with his +first wife two years. And afterwards with the Mirandola at Milan, at +least nearly two years; it was a year and ten months. I must know, +for he called me in to settle affairs. I took the lady to the baths at +Lucca, on the pretence that Monmouth would meet us there. He went to +Paris. All his great affairs have been two years. I remember I wanted +to bet Cassilis, at White’s, on it when he married; but I thought, being +his intimate friend; the oldest friend he has, indeed, and one of his +trustees; it was perhaps as well not to do it.’ + +‘You should have made the bet with himself,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘and +then there never would have been a separation.’ + +‘Hah, hah, hah! Do you know, I feel the wind?’ + +About an hour after this, Coningsby, who had just quitted the Duchess, +met, on a terrace by the river, Lady Wallinger, walking with Mrs. Guy +Flouncey and a Russian Prince, whom that lady was enchanting. Coningsby +was about to pass with some slight courtesy, but Lady Wallinger stopped +and would speak to him, on slight subjects, the weather and the fête, +but yet adroitly enough managed to make him turn and join her. Mrs. +Guy Flouncey walked on a little before with her Russian admirer. Lady +Wallinger followed with Coningsby. + +‘The match that has been proclaimed to-day has greatly surprised me,’ +said Lady Wallinger. + +‘Indeed!’ said Coningsby: ‘I confess I was long prepared for it. And it +seems to me the most natural alliance conceivable, and one that every +one must approve.’ + +‘Lady Everingham seems much surprised at it.’ + +‘Ah! Lady Everingham is a brilliant personage, and cannot deign to +observe obvious circumstances.’ + +‘Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you were engaged to +Lady Theresa?’ + +‘I!’ + +‘Indeed, we were informed more than a month ago that you were positively +going to be married to her.’ + +‘I am not one of those who can shift their affections with such +rapidity, Lady Wallinger.’ + +Lady Wallinger looked distressed. ‘You remember our meeting you on the +stairs at ---- House, Mr. Coningsby?’ + +‘Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain.’ + +‘Edith had just been informed that you were going to be married to Lady +Theresa.’ + +‘Not surely by him to whom she is herself going to be married?’ said +Coningsby, reddening. + +‘I am not aware that she is going to be married to any one. Lord +Beaumanoir admires her, has always admired her. But Edith has given +him no encouragement, at least gave him no encouragement as long as she +believed; but why dwell on such an unhappy subject, Mr. Coningsby? I +am to blame; I have been to blame perhaps before, but indeed I think it +cruel, very cruel, that Edith and you are kept asunder.’ + +‘You have always been my best, my dearest friend, and are the most +amiable and admirable of women. But tell me, is it indeed true that +Edith is not going to be married?’ + +At this moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned round, and assuring Lady +Wallinger that the Prince and herself had agreed to refer some point +to her about the most transcendental ethics of flirtation, this deeply +interesting conversation was arrested, and Lady Wallinger, with +becoming suavity, was obliged to listen to the lady’s lively appeal of +exaggerated nonsense and the Prince’s affected protests, while Coningsby +walked by her side, pale and agitated, and then offered his arm to Lady +Wallinger, which she accepted with an affectionate pressure. At the end +of the terrace they met some other guests, and soon were immersed in the +multitude that thronged the lawn. + +‘There is Sir Joseph,’ said Lady Wallinger, and Coningsby looked up, +and saw Edith on his arm. They were unconsciously approaching them. Lord +Beaumanoir was there, but he seemed to shrink into nothing to-day before +Buckhurst, who was captivated for the moment by Edith, and hearing +that no knight was resolute enough to try a fall with the Marquess, was +impelled by his talent for action to enter the lists. He had talked down +everybody, unhorsed every cavalier. Nobody had a chance against him: +he answered all your questions before you asked them; contradicted +everybody with the intrepidity of a Rigby; annihilated your anecdotes by +historiettes infinitely more piquant; and if anybody chanced to make a +joke which he could not excel, declared immediately that it was a Joe +Miller. He was absurd, extravagant, grotesque, noisy; but he was young, +rattling, and interesting, from his health and spirits. Edith was +extremely amused by him, and was encouraging by her smile his spiritual +excesses, when they all suddenly met Lady Wallinger and Coningsby. + +The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since they so +cruelly encountered on the staircase of ---- House. A deep, quick blush +suffused her face, her eyes gleamed with a sudden coruscation; suddenly +and quickly she put forth her hand. + +Yes! he presses once more that hand which permanently to retain is the +passion of his life, yet which may never be his! It seemed that for the +ravishing delight of that moment he could have borne with cheerfulness +all the dark and harrowing misery of the year that had passed away since +he embraced her in the woods of Hellingsley, and pledged his faith by +the waters of the rushing Darl. + +He seized the occasion which offered itself, a moment to walk by her +side, and to snatch some brief instants of unreserved communion. + +‘Forgive me!’ she said. + +‘Ah! how could you ever doubt me?’ said Coningsby. + +‘I was unhappy.’ + +‘And now we are to each other as before?’ + +‘And will be, come what come may.’ + +END OF BOOK VIII. + + + + +BOOK IX. + + +CHAPTER I. + + +It was merry Christmas at St. Geneviève. There was a yule log blazing +on every hearth in that wide domain, from the hall of the squire to the +peasant’s roof. The Buttery Hatch was open for the whole week from noon +to sunset; all comers might take their fill, and each carry away as much +bold beef, white bread, and jolly ale as a strong man could bear in +a basket with one hand. For every woman a red cloak, and a coat of +broadcloth for every man. All day long, carts laden with fuel and warm +raiment were traversing the various districts, distributing comfort and +dispensing cheer. For a Christian gentleman of high degree was Eustace +Lyle. + +Within his hall, too, he holds his revel, and his beauteous bride +welcomes their guests, from her noble parents to the faithful tenants of +the house. All classes are mingled in the joyous equality that becomes +the season, at once sacred and merry. There are carols for the eventful +eve, and mummers for the festive day. + +The Duke and Duchess, and every member of the family, had consented this +year to keep their Christmas with the newly-married couple. Coningsby, +too, was there, and all his friends. The party was numerous, gay, +hearty, and happy; for they were all united by sympathy. + +They were planning that Henry Sydney should be appointed Lord of +Misrule, or ordained Abbot of Unreason at the least, so successful had +been his revival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse not forgotten. +Their host had entrusted to Lord Henry the restoration of many old +observances; and the joyous feeling which this celebration of Christmas +had diffused throughout an extensive district was a fresh argument in +favour of Lord Henry’s principle, that a mere mechanical mitigation of +the material necessities of the humbler classes, a mitigation which must +inevitably be limited, can never alone avail sufficiently to ameliorate +their condition; that their condition is not merely ‘a knife and fork +question,’ to use the coarse and shallow phrase of the Utilitarian +school; that a simple satisfaction of the grosser necessities of our +nature will not make a happy people; that you must cultivate the heart +as well as seek to content the belly; and that the surest means to +elevate the character of the people is to appeal to their affections. + +There is nothing more interesting than to trace predisposition. An +indefinite, yet strong sympathy with the peasantry of the realm had been +one of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord Henry at Eton. Yet a +schoolboy, he had busied himself with their pastimes and the details of +their cottage economy. As he advanced in life the horizon of his views +expanded with his intelligence and his experience; and the son of one of +the noblest of our houses, to whom the delights of life are offered with +fatal facility, on the very threshold of his career he devoted his +time and thought, labour and life, to one vast and noble purpose, the +elevation of the condition of the great body of the people. + +‘I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Misrule,’ said Lord Henry: ‘I will +be content with being his gentleman usher.’ + +‘It shall be put to the vote,’ said Lord Vere. + +‘No one has a chance against Buckhurst,’ said Coningsby. + +‘Now, Sir Charles,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘your absolute sway is about +to commence. And what is your will?’ + +‘The first thing must be my formal installation,’ said Buckhurst. ‘I +vote the Boar’s head be carried in procession thrice round the hall, and +Beau shall be the champion to challenge all who may question my right. +Duke, you shall be my chief butler, the Duchess my herb-woman. She is to +walk before me, and scatter rosemary. Coningsby shall carry the Boar’s +head; Lady Theresa and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle; Lord +Everingham shall be marshal of the lists, and put all in the stocks who +are found sober and decorous; Lyle shall be the palmer from the Holy +Land, and Vere shall ride the Hobby-horse. Some must carry cups of +Hippocras, some lighted tapers; all must join in chorus.’ + +He ceased his instructions, and all hurried away to carry them into +effect. Some hastily arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, the ladies +in robes of white, with garlands of flowers; some drew pieces of armour +from the wall, and decked themselves with helm and hauberk; others waved +ancient banners. They brought in the Boar’s head on a large silver dish, +and Coningsby raised it aloft. They formed into procession, the Duchess +distributing rosemary; Buckhurst swaggering with all the majesty of +Tamerlane, his mock court irresistibly humorous with their servility; +and the sweet voice of Lady Everingham chanting the first verse of the +canticle, followed in the second by the rich tones of Lady Theresa: + + I. + Caput Apri defero + Reddens laudes Domino. + The Boar’s heade in hande bring I, + With garlandes gay and rosemary: + I pray you all singe merrily, + Qui estis in convivio. + + II. + Caput Apri defero + Reddens laudes Domino. + The Boar’s heade I understande + Is the chief servyce in this lande + Loke whereever it be fande, + Servite cum cantico. + +The procession thrice paraded the hall. Then they stopped; and the Lord +of Misrule ascended his throne, and his courtiers formed round him +in circle. Behind him they held the ancient banners and waved their +glittering arms, and placed on a lofty and illuminated pedestal the +Boar’s head covered with garlands. It was a good picture, and the Lord +of Misrule sustained his part with untiring energy. He was addressing +his court in a pompous rhapsody of merry nonsense, when a servant +approached Coningsby, and told him that he was wanted without. + +Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch had arrived for him from +London. Without any prescience of its purpose, he nevertheless broke +the seal with a trembling hand. His presence was immediately desired in +town: Lord Monmouth was dead. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + + +This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby; yet, like many critical +epochs, the person most interested in it was not sufficiently aware +of its character. The first feeling which he experienced at the +intelligence was sincere affliction. He was fond of his grandfather; had +received great kindness from him, and at a period of life when it was +most welcome. The neglect and hardships of his early years, instead of +leaving a prejudice against one who, by some, might be esteemed their +author, had by their contrast only rendered Coningsby more keenly +sensible of the solicitude and enjoyment which had been lavished on his +happy youth. + +The next impression on his mind was undoubtedly a natural and reasonable +speculation on the effect of this bereavement on his fortunes. Lord +Monmouth had more than once assured Coningsby that he had provided for +him as became a near relative to whom he was attached, and in a manner +which ought to satisfy the wants and wishes of an English gentleman. The +allowance which Lord Monmouth had made him, as considerable as usually +accorded to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, might justify him in +estimating his future patrimony as extremely ample. He was aware, +indeed, that at a subsequent period his grandfather had projected for +him fortunes of a still more elevated character. He looked to Coningsby +as the future representative of an ancient barony, and had been +purchasing territory with the view of supporting the title. But +Coningsby did not by any means firmly reckon on these views being +realised. He had a suspicion that in thwarting the wishes of his +grandfather in not becoming a candidate for Darlford, he had at the +moment arrested arrangements which, from the tone of Lord Monmouth’s +communication, he believed were then in progress for that purpose; +and he thought it improbable, with his knowledge of his grandfather’s +habits, that Lord Monmouth had found either time or inclination to +resume before his decease the completion of these plans. Indeed there +was a period when, in adopting the course which he pursued with respect +to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled more than the +large fortune which was to accompany the barony. Had not a separation +between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken place simultaneously with +Coningsby’s difference with his grandfather, he was conscious that the +consequences might have been even altogether fatal to his prospects; but +the absence of her evil influence at such a conjuncture, its permanent +removal, indeed, from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not +formal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from his +memory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it impossible at the +time to shut his eyes. Before he left town for Scotland he had made a +farewell visit to his grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in +old days, had been gracious; and Coningsby, during his excursion to the +moors, and his various visits to the country, had continued at intervals +to write to his grandfather, as had been for some years his custom. On +the whole, with an indefinite feeling which, in spite of many a rational +effort, did nevertheless haunt his mind, that this great and sudden +event might exercise a vast and beneficial influence on his worldly +position, Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the +affliction which he sincerely experienced, in the hope that he might at +all events now offer to Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, +and her love. + +Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet +reconciliation in the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never +long without indirect intelligence of the incidents of her life; and the +correspondence between Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they +were at the moors, had apprised him that Lord Beaumanoir’s suit had +terminated unsuccessfully almost immediately after his brother had +quitted London. + +It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town: he called at +once on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth’s executors; and he +persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, to dine with him alone. + +‘You should not be seen at a club,’ said the good-natured peer; ‘and I +remember myself in old days what was the wealth of an Albanian larder.’ + +Lord Eskdale, at dinner, talked frankly of the disposition of Lord +Monmouth’s property. He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby was +his grandfather’s principal heir. + +‘I don’t know whether you will be happier with a large fortune?’ said +Lord Eskdale. ‘It is a troublesome thing: nobody is satisfied with +what you do with it; very often not yourself. To maintain an equable +expenditure; not to spend too much on one thing, too little on another, +is an art. There must be a harmony, a keeping, in disbursement, which +very few men have. Great wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten +thousand a year, and the world to think you have only five. There is +some enjoyment then; one is let alone. But the instant you have a large +fortune, duties commence. And then impudent fellows borrow your money; +and if you ask them for it again, they go about town saying you are a +screw.’ + +Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, which latterly +he never quitted, at a little supper, with no persons near him but those +who were amusing. He suddenly found he could not lift his glass to his +lips, and being extremely polite, waited a few minutes before he asked +Clotilde, who was singing a sparkling drinking-song, to do him that +service. When, in accordance with his request, she reached him, it was +too late. The ladies shrieked, being frightened: at first they were +in despair, but, after reflection, they evinced some intention of +plundering the house. Villebecque, who was absent at the moment, arrived +in time; and everybody became orderly and broken-hearted. + +The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it had been embalmed +and laid in state. The funeral was not numerously attended. There was +nobody in town; some distinguished connections, however, came up from +the country, though it was a period inconvenient for such movements. +After the funeral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of +Monmouth House, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited the +boyish wonder of Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal roof, and +now hung in black, adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer. + +The testamentary dispositions of the late lord were still unknown, +though the names of his executors had been announced by his family +solicitor, in whose custody the will and codicils had always remained. +The executors under the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. +Rigby. By a subsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. All these +individuals were now present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, +stood on the right hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long +table, round which, in groups, were ranged all who had attended the +funeral, including several of the superior members of the household, +among them M. Villebecque. + +The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth had been in +the habit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, the original +will, however changed or modified, had never been revoked; it was +therefore necessary to commence by reading that instrument. So saying, +he sat down, and breaking the seals of a large packet, he produced the +will of Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been retained +in his custody since its execution. + +By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 10,000_l._ was left to +Coningsby, then unknown to his grandfather; the same sum to Mr. Rigby. +There was a great number of legacies, none of superior amount, most of +them of less: these were chiefly left to old male companions, and women +in various countries. There was an almost inconceivable number of small +annuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners. +The residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three of +whom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests, therefore, +had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom, according to the +terms of the will, all would have consequently centred, was Mr. Rigby. + +There followed several codicils which did not materially affect the +previous disposition; one of them leaving a legacy of 20,000_l._ to +the Princess Colonna; until they arrived at the latter part of the year +1832, when a codicil increased the 10,000_l._ left under the will to +Coningsby to 50,000_l._. + +After Coningsby’s visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important change +occurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth’s estate. The legacy of +50,000_l._ in his favour was revoked, and the same sum left to the +Princess Lucretia. A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Rigby; and +Coningsby was left sole residuary legatee. + +The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of about +nine thousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, and was +therefore in his own disposition, was left to Coningsby. The legacy to +Mr. Rigby was reduced to 20,000_l._, and the whole of his residue left +to his issue by Lady Monmouth. In case he died without issue, the estate +bequeathed to Coningsby to be taken into account, and the residue then +to be divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was +under this instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor and +to whom Lord Monmouth left, among others, the celebrated picture of +the Holy Family by Murillo, as his friend had often admired it. To Lord +Eskdale he left all his female miniatures, and to Mr. Ormsby his rare +and splendid collection of French novels, and all his wines, except his +Tokay, which he left, with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; though this +legacy was afterwards revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert’s conduct +about the Irish corporations. + +The solicitor paused and begged permission to send for a glass of water. +While this was arranging there was a murmur at the lower part of the +room, but little disposition to conversation among those in the vicinity +of the lawyer. Coningsby was silent, his brow a little knit. Mr. Rigby +was pale and restless, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of +snuff, and offered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to him. They +exchanged glances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia +stood apart, with his arms folded. He had not, of course attended the +funeral, nor had he as yet exchanged any recognition with Coningsby. + +‘Now, gentlemen,’ said the solicitor, ‘if you please, I will proceed.’ + +They came to the year 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hellingsley. This +appeared to be a critical period in the fortunes of Lady Monmouth; while +Coningsby’s reached to the culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to +his original legacy under the will of 10,000_l._; a sum of equal amount +was bequeathed to Armand Villebecque, in acknowledgment of faithful +services; all the dispositions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, +and she was limited to her moderate jointure of 3,000_l._ per annum, +under the marriage settlement; while everything, without reserve, was +left absolutely to Coningsby. + +A subsequent codicil determined that the 10,000_l._ left to Mr. Rigby +should be equally divided between him and Lucian Gay; but as some +compensation Lord Monmouth left to the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby +the bust of that gentleman, which he had himself presented to his +Lordship, and which, at his desire, had been placed in the vestibule +at Coningsby Castle, from the amiable motive that after Lord Monmouth’s +decease Mr. Rigby might wish, perhaps, to present it to some other +friend. + +Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care not to catch the eye of Mr. Rigby. +As for Coningsby, he saw nobody. He maintained, during the extraordinary +situation in which he was placed, a firm demeanour; but serene and +regulated as he appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really +strung to a high pitch. + +There was yet another codicil. It bore the date of June 1840, and was +made at Brighton, immediately after the separation with Lady Monmouth. +It was the sight of this instrument that sustained Rigby at this great +emergency. He had a wild conviction that, after all, it must set all +right. He felt assured that, as Lady Monmouth had already been disposed +of, it must principally refer to the disinheritance of Coningsby, +secured by Rigby’s well-timed and malignant misrepresentations of what +had occurred in Lancashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom +could Lord Monmouth leave his money? However he might cut and carve up +his fortunes, Rigby, and especially at a moment when he had so served +him, must come in for a considerable slice. + +His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour of ‘my +grandson Harry Coningsby’ were revoked; and he inherited from his +grandfather only the interest of the sum of 10,000_l._ which had been +originally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. The executors had +the power of investing the principal in any way they thought proper +for his advancement in life, provided always it was not placed in ‘the +capital stock of any manufactory.’ + +Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look; he caught the eye +of Rigby; he read the latent malice of that nevertheless anxious +countenance. What passed through the mind and being of Coningsby was +thought and sensation enough for a year; but it was as the flash that +reveals a whole country, yet ceases to be ere one can say it lightens. +There was a revelation to him of an inward power that should baffle +these conventional calamities, a natural and sacred confidence in his +youth and health, and knowledge and convictions. Even the recollection +of Edith was not unaccompanied with some sustaining associations. At +least the mightiest foe to their union was departed. + +All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with the reading +of the words of form with which the last testamentary disposition of the +Marquess of Monmouth left the sum of 30,000_l._ to Armand Villebecque; +and all the rest, residue, and remainder of his unentailed property, +wheresoever and whatsoever it might be, amounting in value to nearly a +million sterling, was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, commonly +called Flora Villebecque, the step-child of the said Armand Villebecque, +‘but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at +the Théâtre Français in the years 1811-15, by the name of Stella.’ + + + + +CHAPTER III. + + +‘This is a crash!’ said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitated +countenance, to Sidonia, as his friend came up to greet him, without, +however, any expression of condolence. + +‘This time next year you will not think so,’ said Sidonia. + +Coningsby shrugged his shoulders. + +‘The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage,’ said Sidonia, +‘is the condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am +going home to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we +will not speak of it.’ So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby +out of the room. + +They walked together to Sidonia’s house in Carlton Gardens, neither of +them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiring +where he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, and +himself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling +in his manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidonia +ordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between the +command and its appearance, he called Coningsby’s attention to an old +German painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint +costumes. + +‘Eat, and an appetite will come,’ said Sidonia, when he observed +Coningsby somewhat reluctant. ‘Take some of that Chablis: it will put +you right; you will find it delicious.’ + +In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they +were alone together. + +‘I have been thinking all this time of your position,’ said Sidonia. + +‘A sorry one, I fear,’ said Coningsby. + +‘I really cannot see that,’ said his friend. ‘You have experienced this +morning a disappointment, but not a calamity. If you had lost your eye +it would have been a calamity: no combination of circumstances could +have given you another. There are really no miseries except natural +miseries; conventional misfortunes are mere illusions. What seems +conventionally, in a limited view, a great misfortune, if subsequently +viewed in its results, is often the happiest incident in one’s life.’ + +‘I hope the day may come when I may feel this.’ + +‘Now is the moment when philosophy is of use; that is to say, now is +the moment when you should clearly comprehend the circumstances which +surround you. Holiday philosophy is mere idleness. You think, for +example, that you have just experienced a great calamity, because you +have lost the fortune on which you counted?’ + +‘I must say I do.’ + +‘I ask you again, which would you have rather lost, your grandfather’s +inheritance or your right leg?’ + +‘Most certainly my inheritance,’ + +‘Or your left arm?’ + +‘Still the inheritance.’ + +‘Would you have received the inheritance on condition that your front +teeth should be knocked out?’ + +‘No.’ + +‘Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?’ + +‘Even at twenty-three I would have refused the terms.’ + +‘Come, come, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great.’ + +‘Why, you have put it in an ingenious point of view; and yet it is +not so easy to convince a man, that he should be content who has lost +everything.’ + +‘You have a great many things at this moment that you separately prefer +to the fortune that you have forfeited. How then can you be said to have +lost everything?’ + +‘What have I?’ said Coningsby, despondingly. + +‘You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable +knowledge, a fine courage, a lofty spirit, and no contemptible +experience. With each of these qualities one might make a fortune; the +combination ought to command the highest.’ + +‘You console me,’ said Coningsby, with a faint blush and a fainter +smile. + +‘I teach you the truth. That is always solacing. I think you are a most +fortunate young man; I should not have thought you more fortunate if +you had been your grandfather’s heir; perhaps less so. But I wish you +to comprehend your position: if you understand it you will cease to +lament.’ + +‘But what should I do?’ + +‘Bring your intelligence to bear on the right object. I make you no +offers of fortune, because I know you would not accept them, and indeed +I have no wish to see you a lounger in life. If you had inherited a +great patrimony, it is possible your natural character and previous +culture might have saved you from its paralysing influence; but it is a +question, even with you. Now you are free; that is to say, you are free, +if you are not in debt. A man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is +harassed with glittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, +cannot live on 300_l._ per annum; but you can. You have nothing to haunt +your thoughts, or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You have seen +the most beautiful women; you have banqueted in palaces; you know what +heroes, and wits, and statesmen are made of: and you can draw on +your memory instead of your imagination for all those dazzling and +interesting objects that make the inexperienced restless, and are the +cause of what are called scrapes. But you can do nothing if you be in +debt. You must be free. Before, therefore, we proceed, I must beg you +to be frank on this head. If you have any absolute or contingent +incumbrances, tell me of them without reserve, and permit me to clear +them at once to any amount. You will sensibly oblige me in so doing: +because I am interested in watching your career, and if the racer start +with a clog my psychological observations will be imperfect.’ + +‘You are, indeed, a friend; and had I debts I would ask you to pay +them. I have nothing of the kind. My grandfather was so lavish in his +allowance to me that I never got into difficulties. Besides, there +are horses and things without end which I must sell, and money at +Drummonds’.’ + +‘That will produce your outfit, whatever the course you adopt. I +conceive there are two careers which deserve your consideration. In the +first place there is Diplomacy. If you decide upon that, I can assist +you. There exist between me and the Minister such relations that I can +at once secure you that first step which is so difficult to obtain. +After that, much, if not all, depends on yourself. But I could advance +you, provided you were capable. You should, at least, not languish for +want of preferment. In an important post, I could throw in your way +advantages which would soon permit you to control cabinets. Information +commands the world. I doubt not your success, and for such a career, +speedy. Let us assume it as a fact. Is it a result satisfactory? Suppose +yourself in a dozen years a Plenipotentiary at a chief court, or at +a critical post, with a red ribbon and the Privy Council in immediate +perspective; and, after a lengthened career, a pension and a peerage. +Would that satisfy you? You don’t look excited. I am hardly surprised. +In your position it would not satisfy me. A Diplomatist is, after all, +a phantom. There is a want of nationality about his being. I always look +upon Diplomatists as the Hebrews of politics; without country, political +creeds, popular convictions, that strong reality of existence which +pervades the career of an eminent citizen in a free and great country.’ + +‘You read my thoughts,’ said Coningsby. ‘I should be sorry to sever +myself from England.’ + +‘There remains then the other, the greater, the nobler career,’ said +Sidonia, ‘which in England may give you all, the Bar. I am absolutely +persuaded that with the requisite qualifications, and with perseverance, +success at the Bar is certain. It may be retarded or precipitated by +circumstances, but cannot be ultimately affected. You have a right to +count with your friends on no lack of opportunities when you are ripe +for them. You appear to me to have all the qualities necessary for the +Bar; and you may count on that perseverance which is indispensable, for +the reason I have before mentioned, because it will be sustained by your +experience.’ + +‘I have resolved,’ said Coningsby; ‘I will try for the Great Seal.’ + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + + +Alone in his chambers, no longer under the sustaining influence of +Sidonia’s converse and counsel, the shades of night descending +and bearing gloom to the gloomy, all the excitement of his spirit +evaporated, the heart of Coningsby sank. All now depended on himself, +and in that self he had no trust. Why should he succeed? Success was the +most rare of results. Thousands fail; units triumph. And even success +could only be conducted to him by the course of many years. His career, +even if prosperous, was now to commence by the greatest sacrifice which +the heart of man could be called upon to sustain. Upon the stern altar +of his fortunes he must immolate his first and enduring love. Before, +he had a perilous position to offer Edith; now he had none. The future +might then have aided them; there was no combination which could improve +his present. Under any circumstances he must, after all his thoughts and +studies, commence a new novitiate, and before he could enter the arena +must pass years of silent and obscure preparation. ‘Twas very bitter. +He looked up, his eye caught that drawing of the towers of Hellingsley +which she had given him in the days of their happy hearts. That was all +that was to remain of their loves. He was to bear it to the future +scene of his labours, to remind him through revolving years of toil and +routine, that he too had had his romance, had roamed in fair gardens, +and whispered in willing ears the secrets of his passion. That drawing +was to become the altar-piece of his life. + +Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken sleep, waking often with a +consciousness of having experienced some great misfortune, yet with an +indefinite conception of its nature. He woke exhausted and dispirited. +It was a gloomy day, a raw north-easter blowing up the cloisters of +the Albany, in which the fog was lingering, the newspaper on his +breakfast-table, full of rumoured particulars of his grandfather’s +will, which had of course been duly digested by all who knew him. What +a contrast to St. Geneviève! To the bright, bracing morn of that merry +Christmas! That radiant and cheerful scene, and those gracious and +beaming personages, seemed another world and order of beings to the +one he now inhabited, and the people with whom he must now commune. The +Great Seal indeed! It was the wild excitement of despair, the frenzied +hope that blends inevitably with absolute ruin, that could alone have +inspired such a hallucination! His unstrung heart deserted him. His +energies could rally no more. He gave orders that he was at home to no +one; and in his morning gown and slippers, with his feet resting on the +fireplace, the once high-souled and noble-hearted Coningsby delivered +himself up to despair. + +The day passed in a dark trance rather than a reverie. Nothing rose +to his consciousness. He was like a particle of chaos; at the best, +a glimmering entity of some shadowy Hades. Towards evening the wind +changed, the fog dispersed, there came a clear starry night, brisk and +bright. Coningsby roused himself, dressed, and wrapping his cloak around +him, sallied forth. Once more in the mighty streets, surrounded by +millions, his petty griefs and personal fortunes assumed their proper +position. Well had Sidonia taught him, view everything in its relation +to the rest. ‘Tis the secret of all wisdom. Here was the mightiest of +modern cities; the rival even of the most celebrated of the ancient. +Whether he inherited or forfeited fortunes, what was it to the passing +throng? They would not share his splendour, or his luxury, or his +comfort. But a word from his lip, a thought from his brain, expressed +at the right time, at the right place, might turn their hearts, might +influence their passions, might change their opinions, might affect +their destiny. Nothing is great but the personal. As civilisation +advances, the accidents of life become each day less important. +The power of man, his greatness and his glory, depend on essential +qualities. Brains every day become more precious than blood. You must +give men new ideas, you must teach them new words, you must modify +their manners, you must change their laws, you must root out prejudices, +subvert convictions, if you wish to be great. Greatness no longer +depends on rentals, the world is too rich; nor on pedigrees, the world +is too knowing. + +‘The greatness of this city destroys my misery,’ said Coningsby, ‘and my +genius shall conquer its greatness.’ + +This conviction of power in the midst of despair was a revelation of +intrinsic strength. It is indeed the test of a creative spirit. From +that moment all petty fears for an ordinary future quitted him. He felt +that he must be prepared for great sacrifices, for infinite suffering; +that there must devolve on him a bitter inheritance of obscurity, +struggle, envy, and hatred, vulgar prejudice, base criticism, petty +hostilities, but the dawn would break, and the hour arrive, when the +welcome morning hymn of his success and his fame would sound and be +re-echoed. + +He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. He slept the deep sleep of +a man void of anxiety, that has neither hope nor fear to haunt his +visions, but is prepared to rise on the morrow collected for the great +human struggle. + +And the morning came. Fresh, vigorous, not rash or precipitate, yet +determined to lose no time in idle meditation, Coningsby already +resolved at once to quit his present residence, was projecting a visit +to some legal quarter, where he intended in future to reside, when his +servant brought him a note. The handwriting was feminine. The note was +from Flora. The contents were brief. She begged Mr. Coningsby, with +great earnestness, to do her the honour and the kindness of calling on +her at his earliest convenience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she +now resided. + +It was an interview which Coningsby would rather have avoided; yet it +seemed to him, after a moment’s reflection, neither just, nor kind, nor +manly, to refuse her request. Flora had not injured him. She was, after +all, his kin. Was it for a moment to be supposed that he was envious of +her lot? He replied, therefore, that in an hour he would wait upon her. + +In an hour, then, two individuals are to be brought together whose first +meeting was held under circumstances most strangely different. Then +Coningsby was the patron, a generous and spontaneous one, of a being +obscure, almost friendless, and sinking under bitter mortification. +His favour could not be the less appreciated because he was the +chosen relative of a powerful noble. That noble was no more; his vast +inheritance had devolved on the disregarded, even despised actress, +whose suffering emotions Coningsby had then soothed, and whose fortune +had risen on the destruction of all his prospects, and the balk of all +his aspirations. + +Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered into the room. The extreme +delicacy of her appearance was increased by her deep mourning; and +seated in a cushioned chair, from which she seemed to rise with an +effort, she certainly presented little of the character of a fortunate +and prosperous heiress. + +‘You are very good to come to me,’ she said, faintly smiling. + +Coningsby extended his hand to her affectionately, in which she placed +her own, looking down much embarrassed. + +‘You have an agreeable situation here,’ said Coningsby, trying to break +the first awkwardness of their meeting. + +‘Yes; but I hope not to stop here long?’ + +‘You are going abroad?’ + +‘No; I hope never to leave England!’ + +There was a slight pause; and then Flora sighed and said, + +‘I wish to speak to you on a subject that gives me pain; yet of which I +must speak. You think I have injured you?’ + +‘I am sure,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great kindness, ‘that you +could injure no one.’ + +‘I have robbed you of your inheritance.’ + +‘It was not mine by any right, legal or moral. There were others who +might have urged an equal claim to it; and there are many who will now +think that you might have preferred a superior one.’ + +‘You had enemies; I was not one. They sought to benefit themselves by +injuring you. They have not benefited themselves; let them not say that +they have at least injured you.’ + +‘We will not care what they say,’ said Coningsby; ‘I can sustain my +lot.’ + +‘Would that I could mine!’ said Flora. She sighed again with a downcast +glance. Then looking up embarrassed and blushing deeply, she added, ‘I +wish to restore to you that fortune of which I have unconsciously and +unwillingly deprived you.’ + +‘The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right,’ said Coningsby, +much moved; ‘and there is no one who wishes more fervently that it may +contribute to your happiness than I do.’ + +‘It is killing me,’ said Flora, mournfully; then speaking with unusual +animation, with a degree of excitement, she continued, ‘I must tell what +I feel. This fortune is yours. I am happy in the inheritance, if you +generously receive it from me, because Providence has made me the means +of baffling your enemies. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be +if you will generously accept this fortune, always intended for you. I +have lived then for a purpose; I have not lived in vain; I have returned +to you some service, however humble, for all your goodness to me in my +unhappiness.’ + +‘You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and most +tender-hearted of beings. But you misconceive our mutual positions, +my gentle Flora. The custom of the world does not permit such acts to +either of us as you contemplate. The fortune is yours. It is left you by +one on whose affections you had the highest claim. I will not say +that so large an inheritance does not bring with it an alarming +responsibility; but you are not unequal to it. Have confidence in +yourself. You have a good heart; you have good sense; you have a +well-principled being. Your spirit will mount with your fortunes, and +blend with them. You will be happy.’ + +‘And you?’ + +‘I shall soon learn to find content, if not happiness, from other +sources,’ said Coningsby; ‘and mere riches, however vast, could at no +time have secured my felicity.’ + +‘But they may secure that which brings felicity,’ said Flora, speaking +in a choking voice, and not meeting the glance of Coningsby. ‘You had +some views in life which displeased him who has done all this; they may +be, they must be, affected by this fatal caprice. Speak to me, for I +cannot speak, dear Mr. Coningsby; do not let me believe that I, who +would sacrifice my life for your happiness, am the cause of such +calamities!’ + +‘Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain it,’ said Coningsby, with a +cheek of scarlet. + +‘Ah! he is angry with me,’ exclaimed Flora; ‘he is angry with me!’ and +the tears stole down her pale cheek. + +‘No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no other feelings to you than those of +affection and respect,’ and Coningsby, much agitated, drew his chair +nearer to her, and took her hand. ‘I am gratified by these kind wishes, +though they are utterly impracticable; but they are the witnesses of +your sweet disposition and your noble spirit. There never shall exist +between us, under any circumstances, other feelings than those of kin +and kindness.’ + +He rose as if to depart. When she saw that, she started, and seemed to +summon all her energies. + +‘You are going,’ she exclaimed, ‘and I have said nothing, I have said +nothing; and I shall never see you again. Let me tell you what I mean. +This fortune is yours; it must be yours. It is an arrow in my heart. Do +not think I am speaking from a momentary impulse. I know myself. I have +lived so much alone, I have had so little to deceive or to delude me, +that I know myself. If you will not let me do justice you declare my +doom. I cannot live if my existence is the cause of all your prospects +being blasted, and the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. When +I die, these riches will be yours; that you cannot prevent. Refuse my +present offer, and you seal the fate of that unhappy Flora whose fragile +life has hung for years on the memory of your kindness.’ + +‘You must not say these words, dear Flora; you must not indulge in these +gloomy feelings. You must live, and you must live happily. You have +every charm and virtue which should secure happiness. The duties and +the affections of existence will fall to your lot. It is one that will +always interest me, for I shall ever be your friend. You have conferred +on me one of the most delightful of feelings, gratitude, and for that I +bless you. I will soon see you again.’ Mournfully he bade her farewell. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + + +About a week after this interview with Flora, as Coningsby one morning +was about to sally forth from the Albany to visit some chambers in the +Temple, to which his notice had been attracted, there was a loud ring, a +bustle in the hall, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst were ushered in. + +There never was such a cordial meeting; and yet the faces of his +friends were serious. The truth is, the paragraphs in the newspapers had +circulated in the country, they had written to Coningsby, and after a +brief delay he had confirmed their worst apprehensions. Immediately they +came up to town. Henry Sydney, a younger son, could offer little but +sympathy, but he declared it was his intention also to study for the +bar, so that they should not be divided. Buckhurst, after many embraces +and some ordinary talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, ‘My dear fellow, +I have no objection to Henry Sydney hearing everything I say, but still +these are subjects which men like to be discussed in private. Of course +I expect you to share my fortune. There is enough for both. We will have +an exact division.’ + +There was something in Buckhurst’s fervent resolution very lovable and a +little humorous, just enough to put one in good temper with human nature +and life. If there were any fellow’s fortune in the world that Coningsby +would share, Buckhurst’s would have had the preference; but while he +pressed his hand, and with a glance in which a tear and a smile seemed +to contend for mastery, he gently indicated why such arrangements were, +with our present manners, impossible. + +‘I see,’ said Buckhurst, after a moment’s thought, ‘I quite agree with +you. The thing cannot be done; and, to tell you the truth, a fortune +is a bore. What I vote that we three do at once is, to take plenty of +ready-money, and enter the Austrian service. By Jove! it is the only +thing to do.’ + +‘There is something in that,’ said Coningsby. ‘In the meantime, suppose +you two fellows walk with me to the Temple, for I have an appointment to +look at some chambers.’ + +It was a fine day, and it was by no means a gloomy walk. Though the +two friends had arrived full of indignation against Lord Monmouth, and +miserable about their companion, once more in his society, and finding +little difference in his carriage, they assumed unconsciously their +habitual tone. As for Buckhurst, he was delighted with the Temple, which +he visited for the first time. The name enchanted him. The tombs in the +church convinced him that the Crusades were the only career. He would +have himself become a law student if he might have prosecuted his +studies in chain armour. The calmer Henry Sydney was consoled for the +misfortunes of Coningsby by a fanciful project himself to pass a portion +of his life amid these halls and courts, gardens and terraces, that +maintain in the heart of a great city in the nineteenth century, so much +of the grave romance and picturesque decorum of our past manners. +Henry Sydney was sanguine; he was reconciled to the disinheritance of +Coningsby by the conviction that it was a providential dispensation to +make him a Lord Chancellor. + +These faithful friends remained in town with Coningsby until he was +established in Paper Buildings, and had become a pupil of a celebrated +special pleader. They would have remained longer had not he himself +suggested that it was better that they should part. It seemed a terrible +catastrophe after all the visions of their boyish days, their college +dreams, and their dazzling adventures in the world. + +‘And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, that we all +loved, that was to be our leader!’ said Buckhurst to Lord Henry as +they quitted him. ‘Well, come what may, life has lost something of its +bloom.’ + +‘The great thing now,’ said Lord Henry, ‘is to keep up the chain of +our friendship. We must write to him very often, and contrive to be +frequently together. It is dreadful to think that in the ways of life +our hearts may become estranged. I never felt more wretched than I do at +this moment, and yet I have faith that we shall not lose him.’ + +‘Amen!’ said Buckhurst; ‘but I feel my plan about the Austrian service +was, after all, the only thing. The Continent offers a career. He might +have been prime minister; several strangers have been; and as for war, +look at Brown and Laudohn, and half a hundred others. I had a much +better chance of being a field-marshal than he has of being a Lord +Chancellor.’ + +‘I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will be Lord Chancellor,’ said +Henry Sydney, gravely. + +This change of life for Coningsby was a great social revolution. It was +sudden and complete. Within a month after the death of his grandfather +his name had been erased from all his fashionable clubs, and his horses +and carriages sold, and he had become a student of the Temple. He +entirely devoted himself to his new pursuit. His being was completely +absorbed in it. There was nothing to haunt his mind; no unexperienced +scene or sensation of life to distract his intelligence. One sacred +thought alone indeed there remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary +of his heart and consciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a +hope. The moment that he had fairly recovered from the first shock of +his grandfather’s will; had clearly ascertained the consequences to +himself, and had resolved on the course to pursue; he had communicated +unreservedly with Oswald Millbank, and had renounced those pretensions +to the hand of his sister which it ill became the destitute to prefer. + +His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Sydney and +Buckhurst at the chambers of Coningsby. Once more they were all +four together; but under what different circumstances, and with what +different prospects from those which attended their separation at Eton! +Alone with Coningsby, Millbank spoke to him things which letters could +not convey. He bore to him all the sympathy and devotion of Edith; but +they would not conceal from themselves that, at this moment, and in the +present state of affairs, all was hopeless. In no way did Coningsby ever +permit himself to intimate to Oswald the cause of his disinheritance. He +was, of course, silent on it to his other friends; as any communication +of the kind must have touched on a subject that was consecrated in his +inmost soul. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + + +The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 offered +a most remarkable contrast to their condition at the period commemorated +in the first chapter of this work. The banners of the Conservative camp +at this moment lowered on the Whig forces, as the gathering host of the +Norman invader frowned on the coast of Sussex. The Whigs were not +yet conquered, but they were doomed; and they themselves knew it. The +mistake which was made by the Conservative leaders in not retaining +office in 1839; and, whether we consider their conduct in a national +and constitutional light, or as a mere question of political tactics and +party prudence, it was unquestionably a great mistake; had infused into +the corps of Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which only the +superficial could mistake for vitality. Even to form a basis for their +future operations, after the conjuncture of ‘39, the Whigs were obliged +to make a fresh inroad on the revenue, the daily increasing debility +of which was now arresting attention and exciting public alarm. It was +clear that the catastrophe of the government would be financial. + +Under all the circumstances of the case, the conduct of the Whig +Cabinet, in their final propositions, cannot be described as deficient +either in boldness or prudence. The policy which they recommended was +in itself a sagacious and spirited policy; but they erred in supposing +that, at the period it was brought forward, any measure promoted by the +Whigs could have obtained general favour in the country. The Whigs were +known to be feeble; they were looked upon as tricksters. The country +knew they were opposed by a powerful party; and though there certainly +never was any authority for the belief, the country did believe that +that powerful party were influenced by great principles; had in their +view a definite and national policy; and would secure to England, +instead of a feeble administration and fluctuating opinions, energy and +a creed. + +The future effect of the Whig propositions of ‘41 will not be +detrimental to that party, even if in the interval they be appropriated +piecemeal, as will probably be the case, by their Conservative +successors. But for the moment, and in the plight in which the Whig +party found themselves, it was impossible to have devised measures more +conducive to their precipitate fall. Great interests were menaced by a +weak government. The consequence was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper +saw it in a moment. They snuffed the factious air, and felt the coming +storm. Notwithstanding the extreme congeniality of these worthies, +there was a little latent jealousy between them. Tadpole worshipped +Registration: Taper, adored a Cry. Tadpole always maintained that it +was the winnowing of the electoral lists that could alone gain the day; +Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancient traditions, was ever of +opinion that the game must ultimately be won by popular clamour. It +always seemed so impossible that the Conservative party could ever be +popular; the extreme graciousness and personal popularity of the leaders +not being sufficiently apparent to be esteemed an adequate set-off +against the inveterate odium that attached to their opinions; that the +Tadpole philosophy was the favoured tenet in high places; and Taper had +had his knuckles well rapped more than once for manoeuvring too actively +against the New Poor-law, and for hiring several link-boys to bawl +a much-wronged lady’s name in the Park when the Court prorogued +Parliament. + +And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was +a great clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was against the Whigs +and in favour of Conservative principles. What Canadian timber-merchants +meant by Conservative principles, it is not difficult to conjecture; +or West Indian planters. It was tolerably clear on the hustings +what squires and farmers, and their followers, meant by Conservative +principles. What they mean by Conservative principles now is another +question: and whether Conservative principles mean something higher than +a perpetuation of fiscal arrangements, some of them impolitic, none of +them important. But no matter what different bodies of men understood by +the cry in which they all joined, the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole; +and the great Conservative party beat the shattered and exhausted Whigs. + +Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could +not be altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political +world of course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were +deeply interested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which +he would permit them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional +fellowship, a visit now and then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes +on Flora, who lived at Richmond, comprised his social relations. His +general acquaintance did not desert him, but he was out of sight, and +did not wish to be remembered. Mr. Ormsby asked him to dinner, and +occasionally mourned over his fate in the bow window of White’s; while +Lord Eskdale even went to see him in the Temple, was interested in his +progress, and said, with an encouraging look, that, when he was called +to the bar, all his friends must join and get up the steam. Coningsby +had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking with the Duke of Agincourt, +which was probably the reason he could not notice a lawyer. Mr. Rigby +cut Coningsby. + +Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to the +cause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen +fortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdale +his sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but Lord +Eskdale, without dwelling on the subject, had assured him that he had +reason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have +been different. He had altered the disposition of his property at a +moment of great and general irritation and excitement; and had been too +indolent, perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling ever to +acknowledge, to recur to a calmer and more equitable settlement. Lord +Eskdale had been more frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about +the refusal to become a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the +communication of Rigby to Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald +Millbank at the castle, and the love of Coningsby for his sister; all +these details, furnished by Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly +transferred by that nobleman to his co-executor; and Sidonia, when he +had sufficiently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger acquainted with +the whole history. + +The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the project of +which had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody +believed to the last moment, at length took place. All the world was +dispersed in the heart of the season, and our solitary student of the +Temple, in his lonely chambers, notwithstanding all his efforts, found +his eye rather wander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered +that the great event to which he had so looked forward was now +occurring, and he, after all, was no actor in the mighty drama. It was +to have been the epoch of his life; when he was to have found himself +in that proud position for which all the studies, and meditations, and +higher impulses of his nature had been preparing him. It was a keen +trial of a man. Every one of his friends and old companions were +candidates, and with sanguine prospects. Lord Henry was certain for a +division of his county; Buckhurst harangued a large agricultural +borough in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood in coalition for +a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited the suffrages of an +important manufacturing constituency. They sent their addresses to +Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them the influence +of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to which he +had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no +unimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an address to +an isolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements +of political parties might have detected in these public declarations +some intimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that +has unfortunately been too long absent from the public life of this +country. + +It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun shooting +down Pall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors +of the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express +arrived with the agitating bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. +Coningsby was walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford +and Cambridge Club, the only club on whose list he had retained his +name, that he might occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or +Cambridge friend without the annoyance of encountering any of his former +fashionable acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and +Mr. Taper, both of whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. +Tadpole, more good-natured, bestowed on him a rough nod, not unmarked by +a slight expression of coarse pity. + +Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, where +he learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurst +denouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement of several +thousand persons, apparently not a little terrified by this unknown +danger, now first introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, +they were all against Buckhurst’s opponent, who was of the Venetian +party, and who ended by calling out Buckhurst for his personalities. + +Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter +brought up a third edition of the _Sun_, with electioneering bulletins +from the manufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large +letters which expressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There +seemed great excitement in that borough; strange proceedings had +happened. The column was headed, ‘Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of +the Liberal Candidate! Two Tory Candidates in the field!!!’ + +His eye glanced over an animated speech of Mr. Millbank, his +countenance changed, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned +the representation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations +demanded his presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his +place, but his son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a +deep interest in the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the +link between the borough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud +cheering; he wished in parting from them to take a step which should +conciliate all parties, put an end to local heats and factious +contentions, and secure the town an able and worthy representative. For +these reasons he begged to propose to them a gentleman who bore a +name which many of them greatly honoured; for himself, he knew the +individual, and it was his firm opinion that whether they considered his +talents, his character, or the ancient connection of his family with +the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthy of their +confidence than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ. + +This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which +occasionally bursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest +between Millbank and Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was +over-confident. The Conservatives were not particularly zealous in +behalf of their champion; there was no Marquess of Monmouth and no +Coningsby Castle now to back him; he was fighting on his own resources, +and he was a beaten horse. The Liberals did not like the prospect of a +defeat, and dreaded the mortification of Rigby’s triumph. The Moderate +men, who thought more of local than political circumstances, liked the +name of Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading +supporters for the substitution. Some traits of the character and +conduct of Coningsby had been cleverly circulated. Thus there was a +combination of many favourable causes in his favour. In half an hour’s +time his image was stamped on the brain of every inhabitant of the +borough as an interesting and accomplished youth, who had been wronged, +and who deserved to be rewarded. It was whispered that Rigby was his +enemy. Magog Wrath and his mob offered Mr. Millbank’s committee to throw +Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn down his hotel, in case he was +prudent enough not to show. Mr. Rigby determined to fight to the last. +All his hopes were now staked on the successful result of this contest. +It were impossible if he were returned that his friends could refuse him +high office. The whole of Lord Monmouth’s reduced legacy was devoted +to this end. The third edition of the _Sun_ left Mr. Rigby in vain +attempting to address an infuriated populace. + +Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When his +grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was +not verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his seat, and was +surprised that all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark +his agitation. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour +to midnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to +the poll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his +chambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had +been twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, +and had reached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off +instantly to London, and left at his friend’s chambers a rapid narrative +of what had happened, with information that he should call on him +again on the morrow at nine o’clock, when they were to repair together +immediately to Darlford in time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one +entertained a doubt of his triumph. + +Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he rose early +felt fresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He +felt as an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation had +been despaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event +had occurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate the +ultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that +when all seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by +the father of Edith, and his vanquished rival who was to bite the dust +before him was the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, +Justice, the glorious pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant +sense of complete and absolute success, here were chaotic materials from +which order was at length evolved; and all subsided in an overwhelming +feeling of gratitude to that Providence that had so signally protected +him. + +There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemed +that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner +was energetic. + +‘We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute to +spare.’ + +During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairs +which gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his +favour. We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of +the circumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance +of Coningsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter, +afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had +conferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness of +Coningsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities. He had ever been +the favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted in +blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a +judicious man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, but +good, just, and honourable, with some impulses, only a little afraid +of them; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the +right direction. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby’s +admirable conduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband +should express to others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison +with herself. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, who stared; but Sir +Joseph spoke feebly. Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence, and +all her impressions, to Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked +with his father, who, making no admissions, listened with interest, +inveighed against Lord Monmouth, and condemned his will. + +After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Coningsby, took an +interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he +was called to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince +their sincerity. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought +that circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on +the subject. The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had +necessarily made him acquainted with the affairs and fortune of his +father. When he computed the vast wealth which he knew was at his +parent’s command, and recalled Coningsby in his humble chambers, toiling +after all his noble efforts without any results, and his sister pining +in a provincial solitude, Oswald began to curse wealth, and to +ask himself what was the use of all their marvellous industry and +supernatural skill? He addressed his father with that irresistible +frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire. What are the objects +of wealth, if not to bless those who possess our hearts? The only +daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted for his life, +here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, and both are +unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was already +convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct of +Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for +him. He wished to be assured of its authenticity. He was resolved to +convince himself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet +for a little time, and watched the progress of the experiment, +already interested and delighted by what had reached him, had not the +dissolution brought affairs to a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the +position of Coningsby, the silent sadness of Edith, his own conviction, +which assured him that he could do nothing wiser or better than take +this young man to his heart, so ordained it that Mr. Millbank, who +was after all the creature of impulse, decided suddenly, and decided +rightly. Never making a single admission to all the representations of +his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his son could have dared +to desire. + +This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred +at Millbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the +enchanting intelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby during their +rapid travel. When they arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger +and a despatch, informing Coningsby, that at mid-day, at Darlford, he +was at the head of the poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. +Rigby had resigned. He was, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, +as they did not wish him to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so +he was to arrive there in the morning. At Birmingham, therefore, they +remained. + +There was Oswald’s election to talk of as well as Coningsby’s. They had +hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. +Men must have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting +thus, and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked +of these things, and assumed these results; but those were words and +dreams, these were positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in +the freshness of their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby +were members of the British Parliament; public characters, responsible +agents, with a career. + +This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually +falls to the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under +that degree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had +enough to talk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful +subject. There was rapture in their again meeting under such +circumstances. Then there were their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who +had just been called out for styling his opponent a Venetian, and all +their companions of early days. What a sudden and marvellous change in +all their destinies! Life was a pantomime; the wand was waved, and it +seemed that the schoolfellows had of a sudden become elements of power, +springs of the great machine. + +A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, to seek diversion in the +dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, +a little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with +which one greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance, +were lounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors +were thrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who +had dined, was greatly tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, +but he refrained. Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently +used up; a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last blow; +he had met his fate. + +‘My dear fellow,’ said Coningsby, ‘I remember I wanted you to dine with +my grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is +life!’ + +About eleven o’clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlford +station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who received +Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him into a car covered +with satin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six beautiful grey horses, +caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips +were blue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the +multitude were marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, +fell into the procession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest +corner. Preceded and followed by thousands, with colours flying, +trumpets sounding, and endless huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving +from every window, and every balcony filled with dames and maidens +bedecked with his colours, Coningsby was borne through enthusiastic +Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Uncovered, still +in deep mourning, his fine figure, and graceful bearing, and his +intelligent brow, at once won every female heart. + +The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody +cheered him, every house was adorned with his colours. His triumphal +return was no party question. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked +together like lambs at the head of his procession. + +The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street. It was +Mr. Millbank’s committee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as +every one declared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. +Every window was full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, +and the populace gave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, +surrounded by his friends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up +with Coningsby’s colours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic +letters formed of dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby +caught the form of Edith, who was leaning on her father’s arm. + +The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsby +was carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, +for the first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were +to hear him, it was long before their enthusiasm could subside into +silence. At length that silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his +powerful and rich tones reached every ear. In five minutes’ time every +one looked at his neighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there +never was anything like this heard in Darlford before. + +He addressed them for a considerable time, for he had a great deal to +say; not only to express his gratitude for the unprecedented manner in +which he had become their representative, and for the spirit in which +they had greeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition +of the views and opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly +chosen, without even a formal declaration of his sentiments. + +He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed and +popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. His +lively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when, +towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be the +character of his future and lasting connection with the town, the vast +throng was singularly affected. There were a great many present at that +moment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willingly +have then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he had +spoken from his own. His spirit had entirely magnetised them. Darlford +believed in Coningsby: and a very good creed. + +And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked through +the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands +with him. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang +up the stairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the +greatest warmth, and offered his hearty congratulations. + +‘It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for all this,’ said +Coningsby. + +‘No,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘it is to your own high principles, great +talents, and good heart.’ + +After he had been presented by the late member to the principal +personages in the borough, Mr. Millbank said, + +‘I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me,’ he +added, ‘here is some one who will be very glad to see you.’ + +Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, and placing his arm in +Coningsby’s with great affection opened the door of an apartment. There +was Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitated +hearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined their +hands, and blessed them with words of tenderness. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + + +The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. +It was solemnised at Millbank, and they passed their first moon at +Hellingsley, which place was in future to be the residence of the member +for Darlford. The estate was to devolve to Coningsby after the death of +Mr. Millbank, who in the meantime made arrangements which permitted +the newly-married couple to reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its +occupants. All these settlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, +were effected not only with the sanction, but at the express instance, +of his son. + +An event, however, occurred not very long after the marriage of +Coningsby, which rendered this generous conduct of his father-in-law no +longer necessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot its exercise. +The gentle and unhappy daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with +which her spirit had never greatly sympathised. Perhaps she might have +lingered in life for yet a little while, had it not been for that fatal +inheritance which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting +her heart with the recollection that she had been the unconscious +instrument of injuring the only being whom she loved, and embarrassing +and encumbering her with duties foreign to her experience and her +nature. The marriage of Coningsby had greatly affected her, and from +that day she seemed gradually to decline. She died towards the end +of the autumn, and, subject to an ample annuity to Villebecque, she +bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the husband of Edith. Gratifying +as it was to him to present such an inheritance to his wife, it was not +without a pang that he received the intelligence of the death of Flora. +Edith sympathised in his affectionate feelings, and they raised a +monument to her memory in the gardens of Hellingsley. + +Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his beautiful +and gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart +and his youth. + +They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in the leash, +but in a moment they will be slipped. What will be their fate? Will they +maintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths which, in +study and in solitude, they have embraced? Or will their courage exhaust +itself in the struggle, their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-hearted +ridicule, their generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to the +tawdry temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligence +subside into being the adroit tool of a corrupt party? Will Vanity +confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? Or will +they remain brave, single, and true; refuse to bow before shadows and +worship phrases; sensible of the greatness of their position, recognise +the greatness of their duties; denounce to a perplexed and disheartened +world the frigid theories of a generalising age that have destroyed +the individuality of man, and restore the happiness of their country by +believing in their own energies, and daring to be great? + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Coningsby, by Benjamin Disraeli + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CONINGSBY *** + +***** This file should be named 7412-0.txt or 7412-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/7/4/1/7412/ + +Produced by Anne Soulard, Tiffany Vergon, and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at + www.gutenberg.org/license. + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at 809 +North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email +contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the +Foundation’s web site and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. +To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + |