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.