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.