It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen race with

whom he sympathised; whose fathers had been his friends in the days of

his hot youth; whose mothers he had made love to; whose palaces had been

his home; whose brilliant fêtes he remembered; whose fanciful splendour

excited his early imagination; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury

had developed his own predisposition for boundless enjoyment. Soubise

and his suppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and

embarrassed De Lauragais, who sighed for ‘entire ruin,’ as for a strange

luxury, which perpetually eluded his grasp; these were the heroes of the

olden time that Lord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of our ancestors

which he appreciated; and he turned to their recollection for relief

from the vulgar prudence of the degenerate days on which he had fallen:

days when nobles must be richer than other men, or they cease to have

any distinction.

It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance of Lady

Monmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet preparatory to the

ball; white satin and minever, a brilliant tiara. Her fine form, her

costume of a fashion as perfect as its materials were sumptuous, and her

presence always commanding and distinguished, produced a general effect

to which few could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien over mere

beauty of countenance.

The hotel of Madame S. de R----d is not more distinguished by its

profuse decoration, than by the fine taste which has guided the vast

expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost without a rival; there is

not the slightest embellishment in which the hand and feeling of art are

not recognised. The rooms were very crowded; everybody distinguished in

Paris was there: the lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the

wife of the financier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy, the

modern Bourse, were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers

of the Crown, Dukes and Marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the

Oeil de Boeuf; diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreigners of all

nations, deputies who led sections, members of learned and scientific

academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras,

brilliant bouquets, glittering stars, and glowing ribbons, many

beautiful faces, many famous ones: unquestionably the general air of a

firstrate Parisian saloon, on a great occasion, is not easily equalled.

In London there is not the variety of guests; nor the same size and

splendour of saloons. Our houses are too small for reception.

Coningsby, who had stolen away from his grandfather’s before the rest of

the guests, was delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. He had

been in Paris long enough to make some acquaintances, and mostly with

celebrated personages. In his long fruitless endeavour to enter the

saloon in which they danced, he found himself hustled against the

illustrious Baron von H----t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few

days before at Count M----é’s.

‘It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus of Panama,

Baron,’ said Coningsby, alluding to a past conversation.

‘Infinitely,’ replied M. de H., smiling; ‘for I would undertake to

cut through the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that I shall enter this

ball-room.’

Time, however, brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber. What a

blaze of light and loveliness! How coquettish are the costumes! How

vivid the flowers! To sounds of stirring melody, beautiful beings move

with grace. Grace, indeed, is beauty in action.

Here, where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is

suddenly arrested by one object, a form of surpassing grace among the

graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of unrivalled beauty.

She was young among the youthful; a face of sunshine amid all that

artificial light; her head placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with

a queen-like grace; a coronet of white roses on her dark brown hair; her

only ornament. It was the beauty of the picture-gallery.

The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance ceased, he had an

opportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with her cavalier,

and he was conscious that she observed him. Finally he remarked that she

resumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mistaken for her mother, but

had afterwards understood to be Lady Wallinger.

Coningsby returned to the other saloons: he witnessed the entrance and

reception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. Soon

after this, Sidonia arrived; he came in with the still handsome and ever

courteous Duke D----s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to present him to

the Duke. While thus conversing, the Duke, who is fond of the English,

observed, ‘See, here is your beautiful countrywoman that all the world

are talking of. That is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one of

your lords, whose name I cannot recollect.’

And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. The Duke

addressed them: asked them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on

the next Thursday; and, after a thousand compliments, moved on. Sidonia

stopped; Coningsby could not refrain from lingering, but stood a little

apart, and was about to move away, when there was a whisper, of which,

without hearing a word, he could not resist the impression that he was

the subject. He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he

heard Sidonia reply to an inquiry of the lady, ‘The same,’ and then,

turning to Coningsby, said aloud, ‘Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that

you have forgotten her.’

Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal

his surprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not without

confusion, and for an instant looked down. Coningsby recalled at that

moment the long dark eyelashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance

that had so charmed him at Millbank; but two years had otherwise

effected a wonderful change in the sister of his school-day friend,

and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing

beauty and of the most graceful and impressive mien.

‘It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect my niece,’

said Sir Joseph, addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their mutual

embarrassment; ‘but it is impossible for her, or for anyone connected

with her, not to be anxious at all times to express to him our sense of

what we all owe him.’

Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine conversation,

consisting of questions; how long she had been at Paris; when she had

heard last from Millbank; how her father was; also, how was her brother.

Sidonia made an observation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then

himself moved on; Coningsby accompanying his new friends, in a contrary

direction, to the refreshment-room, to which they were proceeding.

‘And you have passed a winter at Rome,’ said Coningsby. ‘How I envy you!

I feel that I shall never be able to travel.’

‘And why not?’

‘Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great cause that

keeps one at home.’

‘Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of which

they once could only read.’

‘The golden and silver sides of the shield,’ said Coningsby, with a

smile.

‘And you, like a good knight, will maintain your own.’

‘No, I would follow yours.’

‘You have not heard lately from Oswald?’

‘Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents as we are; I

only wish we could meet.’

‘You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford; quite a monk; and

you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are much occupied.’

‘Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes, when I once paid

you a visit, I might have found your brother.’

‘But that was such a rapid visit,’ said Miss Millbank.

‘I always remember it with delight,’ said Coningsby.

‘You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwithstanding Rome,

commands my affections, and in spite of this surrounding splendour, I

could have wished to have passed my Christmas in Lancashire.’

‘Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very beautiful place in the county.

I became acquainted with Hellingsley when staying at my grandfather’s.’

‘Ah! I have never seen it; indeed, I was much surprised that papa became

its purchaser, because he never will live there; and Oswald, I am sure,

could never be tempted to quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic

ideas he has of his order?’

‘Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and pure. I always duly

appreciated your brother’s great abilities, and, what is far more

important, his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton days, I cannot

understand how more than two years have passed away without our being

together. I am sure the fault is mine. I might now have been at Oxford

instead of Paris. And yet,’ added Coningsby, ‘that would have been a sad

mistake, since I should not have had the happiness of being here.

‘Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mistake,’ said Miss Millbank.

‘Edith,’ said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom he had been

momentarily separated, ‘Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers.’

In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting near the

entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He was, as

usual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and yet not without a delicate

deference which is flattering to women, especially if not altogether

unworthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, and preferred her

society to that of most persons. But the Lady was in error in supposing

that she had conquered or could vanquish his heart. Sidonia was one of

those men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink, above all things,

from an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. He had

neither time nor temper for sentimental circumvolutions. He detested the

diplomacy of passion: protocols, protracted negotiations, conferences,

correspondence, treaties projected, ratified, violated. He had no genius

for the tactics of intrigue; your reconnoiterings, and marchings, and

countermarchings, sappings, and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders,

and sometimes repulses. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies were to

him infinitely wearisome; and if the movements were not merely formal,

they irritated him, distracted his feelings, disturbed the tenor of his

mind, deranged his nervous system. Something of the old Oriental vein

influenced him in his carriage towards women. He was oftener behind the

scenes of the Opera-house than in his box; he delighted, too, in the

society of _etairai_; Aspasia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in

what is esteemed pure society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever

women, because they interested him; but in such saloons his feminine

acquaintances were merely psychological. No lady could accuse him of

trifling with her feelings, however decided might be his predilection

for her conversation. He yielded at once to an admirer; never trespassed

by any chance into the domain of sentiment; never broke, by any accident

or blunder, into the irregular paces of flirtation; was a man who

notoriously would never diminish by marriage the purity of his race;

and one who always maintained that passion and polished life were quite

incompatible. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the Desert, but he

would not consent that either should trench on their mutual privileges.

The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sidonia’s

society at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriage was impossible.

But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. Now they met again,

and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much

admired, and followed, and courted, and very powerful. It is our great

moralist who tells us, in the immortal page, that an affair of gallantry

with a great lady is more delightful than with ladies of a lower degree.

In this he contradicts the good old ballad; but certain it is that

Dr. Johnson announced to Boswell, ‘Sir, in the case of a Countess the

imagination is more excited.’

But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities of life

produced as little effect as a flake falling on the glaciers of the high

Alps. His comprehension of the world and human nature was too vast

and complete; he understood too well the relative value of things to

appreciate anything but essential excellence; and that not too much. A

charming woman was not more charming to him because she chanced to be

an empress in a particular district of one of the smallest planets; a

charming woman under any circumstances was not an unique animal. When

Sidonia felt a disposition to be spellbound, he used to review in his

memory all the charming women of whom he had read in the books of all

literatures, and whom he had known himself in every court and clime,

and the result of his reflections ever was, that the charming woman in

question was by no means the paragon, which some who had read, seen,

and thought less, might be inclined to esteem her. There was, indeed,

no subject on which Sidonia discoursed so felicitously as on woman, and

none on which Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him.

He would tell you Talmudical stories about our mother Eve and the Queen

of Sheba, which would have astonished you. There was not a free lady of

Greece, Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl

Thonis, respecting whom he could not tell you as many diverting tales as

if they were ladies of Loretto; not a nook of Athenseus, not an obscure

scholiast, not a passage in a Greek orator, that could throw light on

these personages, which was not at his command. What stories he would

tell you about Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot

drawn by tigers! What a character would he paint of that Flora who gave

her gardens to the Roman people! It would draw tears to your eyes. No

man was ever so learned in the female manners of the last centuries of

polytheism as Sidonia. You would have supposed that he had devoted his

studies peculiarly to that period if you had not chanced to draw him

to the Italian middle ages. And even these startling revelations were

almost eclipsed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III. of France,

with every character of which he was as familiar as with the brilliant

groups that at this moment filled the saloons of Madame de R----d.

CHAPTER III.

The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought of Coningsby, as he

sank into an agitated slumber. To him had hitherto in general been

accorded the precious boon of dreamless sleep. Homer tells us these

phantasms come from Jove; they are rather the children of a distracted

soul. Coningsby this night lived much in past years, varied by

painful perplexities of the present, which he could neither subdue

nor comprehend. The scene flitted from Eton to the castle of his

grandfather; and then he found himself among the pictures of the Rue de

Tronchet, but their owner bore the features of the senior Millbank. A

beautiful countenance that was alternately the face in the mysterious

picture, and then that of Edith, haunted him under all circumstances. He

woke little refreshed; restless, and yet sensible of some secret joy.

He woke to think of her of whom he had dreamed. The light had dawned on

his soul. Coningsby loved.

Ah! what is that ambition that haunts our youth, that thirst for power

or that lust of fame that forces us from obscurity into the sunblaze of

the world, what are these sentiments so high, so vehement, so ennobling?

They vanish, and in an instant, before the glance of a woman!

Coningsby had scarcely quitted her side the preceding eve. He hung

upon the accents of that clear sweet voice, and sought, with tremulous

fascination, the gleaming splendour of those soft dark eyes. And now

he sat in his chamber, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. All thoughts and

feelings, pursuits, desires, life, merge in one absorbing sentiment.

It is impossible to exist without seeing her again, and instantly. He

had requested and gained permission to call on Lady Wallinger; he would

not lose a moment in availing himself of it. As early as was tolerably

decorous, and before, in all probability, they could quit their hotel,

Coningsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his respects to his new

friends.

As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful speculations which connected

Edith and the mysterious portrait of his mother. He felt himself, as

it were, near the fulfilment of some fate, and on the threshold of some

critical discovery. He recalled the impatient, even alarmed, expressions

of Rigby at Montem six years ago, when he proposed to invite young

Millbank to his grandfather’s dinner; the vindictive feud that existed

between the two families, and for which political opinion, or even party

passion, could not satisfactorily account; and he reasoned himself into

a conviction, that the solution of many perplexities was at hand, and

that all would be consummated to the satisfaction of every one, by his

unexpected but inevitable agency.

Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The worthy Baronet was at any rate

no participator in Mr. Millbank’s vindictive feelings against Lord

Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high respect for a Marquess,

whatever might be his opinions, and no mean consideration for a

Marquess’ grandson.

Sir Joseph had inherited a large fortune made by commerce, and had

increased it by the same means. He was a middle-class Whig, had

faithfully supported that party in his native town during the days they

wandered in the wilderness, and had well earned his share of the milk

and honey when they had vanquished the promised land. In the springtide

of Liberalism, when the world was not analytical of free opinions, and

odious distinctions were not drawn between Finality men and progressive

Reformers, Mr. Wallinger had been the popular leader of a powerful

body of his fellow-citizens, who had returned him to the first Reformed

Parliament, and where, in spite of many a menacing registration, he

had contrived to remain. He had never given a Radical vote without

the permission of the Secretary of the Treasury, and was not afraid

of giving an unpopular one to serve his friends. He was not like that

distinguished Liberal, who, after dining with the late Whig Premier,

expressed his gratification and his gratitude, by assuring his Lordship

that he might count on his support on all popular questions.

‘I want men who will support the government on all unpopular questions,’

replied the witty statesman.

Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and strong purse

were always in the front rank in the hour of danger. His support in the

House was limited to his votes; but in other places equally important,

at a meeting at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could find

his tongue, take what is called a ‘practical’ view of a question, adopt

what is called an ‘independent tone,’ reanimate confidence in ministers,

check mutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A man

of his property, and high character, and sound views, so practical and

so independent, this was evidently the block from which a Baronet should

be cut, and in due time he figured Sir Joseph.

A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and of a good Catalan family, flying

during a political convulsion to England, arrived with his two

daughters at Liverpool, and bore letters of introduction to the house

of Wallinger. Some little time after this, by one of those stormy

vicissitudes of political fortune, of late years not unusual in the

Peninsula, he returned to his native country, and left his children, and

the management of that portion of his fortune that he had succeeded in

bringing with him, under the guardianship of the father of the present

Sir Joseph. This gentleman was about again to become an exile, when

he met with an untimely end in one of those terrible tumults of which

Barcelona is the frequent scene.

The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of his father’s

wards. Her beauty of a character to which he was unaccustomed,

her accomplishments of society, and the refinement of her manners,

conspicuous in the circle in which he lived, captivated him; and though

they had no heir, the union had been one of great felicity. Sir Joseph

was proud of his wife; he secretly considered himself, though his ‘tone’

was as liberal and independent as in old days, to be on the threshold of

aristocracy, and was conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not

unworthily in the elevated circles in which they now frequently found

themselves. Sir Joseph was fond of great people, and not averse to

travel; because, bearing a title, and being a member of the British

Parliament, and always moving with the appendages of wealth, servants,

carriages, and couriers, and fortified with no lack of letters from

the Foreign Office, he was everywhere acknowledged, and received,

and treated as a personage; was invited to court-balls, dined with

ambassadors, and found himself and his lady at every festival of

distinction.

The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger’s youthful friend.

Different as were their dispositions and the rate of their abilities,

their political opinions were the same; and commerce habitually

connected their interests. During a visit to Liverpool, Millbank had

made the acquaintance of the sister of Lady Wallinger, and had been a

successful suitor for her hand. This lady was the mother of Edith and of

the schoolfellow of Coningsby. It was only within a very few years

that she had died; she had scarcely lived long enough to complete the

education of her daughter, to whom she was devoted, and on whom she

lavished the many accomplishments that she possessed. Lady Wallinger

having no children, and being very fond of her niece, had watched over

Edith with infinite solicitude, and finally had persuaded Mr. Millbank,

that it would be well that his daughter should accompany them in their

somewhat extensive travels. It was not, therefore, only that nature

had developed a beautiful woman out of a bashful girl since Coningsby’s

visit to Millbank; but really, every means and every opportunity that

could contribute to render an individual capable of adorning the most

accomplished circles of life, had naturally, and without effort, fallen

to the fortunate lot of the manufacturer’s daughter. Edith possessed

an intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing the native

simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and which

the strong and original bent of her father’s mind had fostered, she had

imbibed all the refinement and facility of the polished circles in which

she moved. She had a clear head, a fine taste, and a generous spirit;

had received so much admiration, that, though by no means insensible to

homage, her heart was free; was strongly attached to her family; and,

notwithstanding all the splendour of Rome, and the brilliancy of Paris,

her thoughts were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and

busy factories of Millbank.

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord Monmouth,

was not very anxious that the ladies should immediately appear. He

thought this a good opportunity of getting at what are called ‘the

real feelings of the Tory party;’ and he began to pump with a seductive

semblance of frankness. For his part, he had never doubted that a

Conservative government was ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John

so two years ago, and, between themselves, Lord John was of the same

opinion. The present position of the Whigs was the necessary fate of

all progressive parties; could not see exactly how it would end; thought

sometimes it must end in a fusion of parties; but could not well see how

that could be brought about, at least at present. For his part, should

be happy to witness an union of the best men of all parties, for the

preservation of peace and order, without any reference to any particular

opinions. And, in that sense of the word, it was not at all impossible

he might find it his duty some day to support a Conservative government.

Sir Joseph was much astonished when Coningsby, who being somewhat

impatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt than his

wont, told the worthy Baronet that he looked, upon a government without

distinct principles of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread and

demoralising anarchy; that he for one could not comprehend how a free

government could endure without national opinions to uphold it; and that

governments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else,

had better be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of

Europe. As for Conservative government, the natural question was, What

do you mean to conserve? Do you mean to conserve things or only names,

realities or merely appearances? Or, do you mean to continue the

system commenced in 1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the

principles, and a superstitious adhesion to the forms, of the old

exclusive constitution, carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice?

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that any inkling of the

views of the New Generation had caught his ear. They were strange and

unaccustomed accents. He was extremely perplexed; could by no means make

out what his companion was driving at; at length, with a rather knowing

smile, expressive as much of compassion as comprehension, he remarked,

‘Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman.’

‘I look upon an Orangeman,’ said Coningsby, ‘as a pure Whig; the only

professor and practiser of unadulterated Whiggism.’

This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge did not

reach much further back than the ministry of the Mediocrities; hardly

touched the times of the Corresponding Society. But he was a cautious

man, and never replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, when

he experienced the golden advantage of gaining time, for the ladies

entered.

The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She extended to him

her hand; her face radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger seemed

gratified also by his visit. She had much elegance in her manner;

a calm, soft address; and she spoke English with a sweet Doric

irregularity. They all sat down, talked of the last night’s ball, of a

thousand things. There was something animating in the frank, cheerful

spirit of Edith. She had a quick eye both for the beautiful and the

ridiculous, and threw out her observations in terse and vivid phrases.

An hour, and more than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby still found

some excuse not to depart. It seemed that on this morning they were

about to make an expedition into the antique city of Paris, to visit

some old hotels which retained their character; especially they had

heard much of the hotel of the Archbishop of Sens, with its fortified

courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interest in the subject, and showed

some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to join the party, which of all

things in the world was what he most desired.

CHAPTER IV.

Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of Edith. Time

was precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge

already began to loom in the distance, and he resolved to make the most

determined efforts not to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call

every morning in the Rue de Rivoli was an exploit which surpassed even

the audacity of love! More than once, making the attempt, his courage

failed him, and he turned into the gardens of the Tuileries, and only

watched the windows of the house. Circumstances, however, favoured him:

he received a letter from Oswald Millbank; he was bound to communicate

in person this evidence of his friend’s existence; and when he had to

reply to the letter, he must necessarily inquire whether his friend’s

relatives had any message to transmit to him. These, however, were only

slight advantages. What assisted Coningsby in his plans and wishes was

the great pleasure which Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of

his time, took in the society of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia

presented Lady Wallinger with his opera-box during her stay at Paris;

invited them frequently to his agreeable dinner-parties; and announced

his determination to give a ball, which Lady Wallinger esteemed a

delicate attention to Edith; while Lady Monmouth flattered herself that

the festival sprang from the desire she had expressed of seeing the

celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage.

Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemed

always welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he did not find

himself in the society of Edith. She seemed not to wish to conceal that

his presence gave her pleasure, and though she had many admirers, and

had an airy graciousness for all of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged

the exquisite suspicion that there was a flattering distinction in her

carriage to himself. Under the influence of these feelings, he began

daily to be more conscious that separation would be an intolerable

calamity; he began to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half

term, and of postponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer

the time when Edith would probably return to England.

In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete which

was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day

when dining at his grandfather’s. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on

the occasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his

part, he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their

houses. That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked

to find it under his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they

would not insist upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat

his good dinners instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones.

‘But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is a gem, they say,’ observed an Attaché of

an embassy.

‘I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man

of sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false

move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot

deceive him, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a

rubber more. Then he would be perfect.’

‘They say he is going to be married,’ said the Attaché.

‘Poh!’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Married!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘To whom?’

‘To your beautiful countrywoman, “la belle Anglaise,” that all the world

talks of,’ said the Attaché.

‘And who may she be, pray?’ said the Marquess. ‘I have so many beautiful

countrywomen.’

‘Mademoiselle Millbank,’ said the Attaché.

‘Millbank!’ said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. ‘There are so many

Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?’ he inquired of his

grandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassed

and even agitated spirit.

‘What, sir; yes, Millbank?’ said Coningsby.

‘I say, do you know who this Millbank is?’

‘Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is, I know a daughter of the

gentleman who purchased some property near you.’

‘Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?’

‘The most beautiful girl in Paris,’ said the Attaché.

‘Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty, that Sidonia is going to

marry?’ he added, with a fiendish laugh.

‘I have seen the young lady,’ said Lady Monmouth; ‘but I had not heard

that Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her.’

‘Is she so very beautiful?’ inquired another gentleman.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Monmouth, calm, but pale.

‘Poh!’ said the Marquess again.

‘I assure you that it is a fact,’ said the Attaché, ‘not at least an

_on-dit_. I have it from a quarter that could not well be mistaken.’

Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very

painful impression on the minds of three individuals who were present.

The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth’s mind a sense of defeat,

discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby;

three subjects which Lord Monmouth had succeeded for a time in expelling

from his sensations. His lordship thought that, in all probability, this

beauty of whom they spoke so highly was not really the daughter of his

foe; that it was some confusion which had arisen from the similarity of

names: nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever

she might be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and a

number of images had been raised in his mind that touched his spleen. He

took his wine freely, and, the usual consequence of that proceeding with

Lord Monmouth, became silent and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she

had learnt that Sidonia, whatever might be the result, was paying very

marked attention to another woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving

that very ball which she had flattered herself was a homage to her

wishes, and for which she had projected a new dress of eclipsing

splendour.

Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia’s marriage

with Edith was the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the

imagination of man; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But the

idlest and wildest report that the woman you love is about to marry

another is not comfortable. Besides, he could not conceal from himself

that, between the Wallingers and Sidonia there existed a remarkable

intimacy, fully extended to their niece. He had seen her certainly on

more than one occasion in lengthened and apparently earnest conversation

with Sidonia, who, by-the-bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and

never concealed his admiration of her charms or the interest he found

in her society. And Edith; what, after all, had passed between Edith

and himself which should at all gainsay this report, which he had been

particularly assured was not a mere report, but came from a quarter that

could not well be mistaken? She had received him with kindness. And

how should she receive one who was the friend and preserver of her only

brother, and apparently the intimate and cherished acquaintance of

her future husband? Coningsby felt that sickness of the heart that

accompanies one’s first misfortune. The illusions of life seemed to

dissipate and disappear. He was miserable; he had no confidence in

himself, in his future. After all, what was he? A dependent on a man of

very resolute will and passions. Could he forget the glance with which

Lord Monmouth caught the name of Millbank, and received the intimation

of Hellingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto or a Caravaggio to

catch and immortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to marry Sidonia,

how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? Oh! what a

future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery awaited him! Was

there ever yet born a being with a destiny so dark and dismal? He was

the most forlorn of men, utterly wretched! He had entirely mistaken

his own character. He had no energy, no abilities, not a single eminent

quality. All was over!

CHAPTER V.

It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that ball,

the anticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure and some

pangs.

On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed

the souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby,

the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton.

About the centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off

at a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with

exertion still very powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses,

had not one of the reins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the

Marquess kept his seat; Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was

dashed against the trunk of a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at

the very instant that one of the outriders had succeeded in heading the

equipage and checking the horses.

The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from the

phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous

house was opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a

babble of tongues, great confusion.

‘Get surgeons and send for her maid,’ said Lord Monmouth to one of his

servants.

In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followed

by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysées. The empty

phaeton, reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of

a misadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantly

dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless

and prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the

injudicious efforts of the bystanders.

‘Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,’ said Sidonia, exchanging a

recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the

dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assisted

him. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present.

‘I would hope there is no fracture,’ said Sidonia, placing her on a

sofa, ‘nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, though

considerable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse.

Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself.’

The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, which

Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silent

and very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow of

Lucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon entered

the chamber.

‘The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse,’ said the surgeon;

‘there is no fracture.’

‘How pale she is!’ said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a

picture.

‘The colour seems to me to return,’ said Sidonia.

The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. The

face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred.

‘She revives,’ said the surgeon.

The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened her

eyes, and then instantly closed them.

‘If I could but get her to take this draught,’ said the surgeon.

‘Stop! moisten her lips first,’ said Sidonia.

They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her hand

as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed.

‘She is herself,’ said the surgeon.

‘Lucretia!’ said the Marquess.

‘Sidonia!’ said the Marchioness.

Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come forward.

‘Lady Monmouth!’ said Sidonia, in a gentle voice.

She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. ‘Where am I?’

she exclaimed.

‘With me,’ said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took her

hand.

‘Sidonia!’ she again exclaimed, in a voice of inquiry.

‘Is here,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘He carried you in after our accident.’

‘Accident! Why is he going to marry?’

The Marquess took a pinch of snuff.

There was an awkward pause in the chamber.

‘I think now,’ said Sidonia to the surgeon, ‘that Lady Monmouth would

take the draught.’

She refused it.

‘Try you, Sidonia,’ said the Marquess, rather dryly.

‘You feel yourself again?’ said Sidonia, advancing.

‘Would I did not!’ said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. ‘What

has happened? Why am I here? Are you married?’

‘She wanders a little,’ said Sidonia.

The Marquess took another pinch of snuff.

‘I could have borne even repulsion,’ said Lady Monmouth, in a voice of

desolation, ‘but not for another!’

‘M. Villebecque!’ said the Marquess.

‘My Lord?’

Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which would

daunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, ‘The carriage

should have arrived by this time. Let us get home.’

CHAPTER VI.

After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless

and disquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in the

distraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind.

His first resolution was immediately to depart for England; but when, on

reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had

so agitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of many

circumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his

firm resolution began to waver.

These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had ever

experienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which

he was hazarding on a most uncertain die.

The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, and was informed that the

family were not at home. He was returning under the arcades, towards the

Rue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, on

horseback, and at a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed by

him, could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his

progress. He saw him enter the court of the hotel where the Wallinger

family were staying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby

stood still and pale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered

himself that Sidonia was only speaking to the porter. Then he would

fain believe Sidonia was writing a note. Then, crossing the street, he

mounted by some steps the terrace of the Tuileries, nearly opposite the

Hotel of the Minister of Finance, and watched the house. A quarter of an

hour elapsed; Sidonia did not come forth. They were at home to him; only

to him. Sick at heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his

steps, dreading even to meet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that

his tongue would refuse the office of conversation, he contrived to

reach his grandfather’s hotel, and was about to bury himself in his

chamber, when on the staircase he met Flora.

Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her now, his

heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one

else at this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but

the gentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so

kind a heart as Coningsby’s.

He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. Her step trembled, while

she still hastened on.

‘What is the matter?’ inquired Coningsby.

‘My Lord, the Marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage.’

Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that had occurred; that M.

Villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only this

moment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to the

centre. Coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely

emerged from the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought

Lord and Lady Monmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were

immediately at its door.

‘All is right, Harry,’ said the Marquess, calm and grave.

Coningsby pressed his grandfather’s hand. Then he assisted Lucretia to

alight.

‘I am quite well,’ she said, ‘now.’

‘But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth,’ Coningsby said in a

tone of tenderness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from him. And he

supported her into the hall of the hotel.

Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, and with

unwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with

a glance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an

almost winning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to

his countenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly

presented, he said,

‘Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor child!’

He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm from

Flora, and thanked her with all his courtesy.

‘You are not hurt, then, sir?’ she ventured to ask with a look that

expressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture to

convey.

‘By no means, my good little girl;’ and he extended his hand to her,

which she reverently bent over and embraced.

CHAPTER VII.

When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather’s hotel that morning, it

was with a determination to leave Paris the next day for England;

but the accident to Lady Monmouth, though, as it ultimately appeared,

accompanied by no very serious consequences, quite dissipated this

intention. It was impossible to quit them so crudely at such a moment.

So he remained another day, and that was the day preceding Sidonia’s

fête, which he particularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite

impossible that he could again endure the sight of either Sidonia or

Edith. He looked upon them as persons who had deeply injured him;

though they really were individuals who had treated him with invariable

kindness. But he felt their existence was a source of mortification and

misery to him. With these feelings, sauntering away the last hours at

Paris, disquieted, uneasy; no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope;

really, positively, undeniably unhappy; unhappy too for the first time

in his life; the first unhappiness; what a companion piece for the

first love! Coningsby, of all places in the world, in the gardens of the

Luxembourg, encountered Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith.

To avoid them was impossible; they met face to face; and Sir Joseph

stopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three days since they

had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprecedented a neglect. And

it seemed that Edith, though she said not as much, felt the same. And

Coningsby turned round and walked with them. He told them he was going

to leave Paris on the morrow.

‘And miss Monsieur de Sidonia’s fête, of which we have all talked

so much!’ said Edith, with unaffected surprise, and an expression of

disappointment which she in vain attempted to conceal.

‘The festival will not be less gay for my absence,’ said Coningsby, with

that plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing lovers.

‘If we were all to argue from the same premises, and act accordingly,’

said Edith, ‘the saloons would be empty. But if any person’s absence

would be remarked, I should really have thought it would be yours. I

thought you were one of Monsieur de Sidonia’s great friends?’

‘He has no friends,’ said Coningsby. ‘No wise man has. What are friends?

Traitors.’

Edith looked much astonished. And then she said,

‘I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, for we have

just parted with him.’

‘I have no doubt you have,’ thought Coningsby.

‘And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than he spoke

of you.’ Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Sidonia

to express himself so warmly.

‘Sidonia is a great man, and carries everything before him,’ said

Coningsby. ‘I am nothing; I cannot cope with him; I retire from the

field.’

‘What field?’ inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch the drift

of these observations. ‘It appears to me that a field for action is

exactly what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his abilities and

intelligence. He wastes his energy in travelling from capital to capital

like a King’s messenger. The morning after his fête he is going to

Madrid.’

This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith spoke of

her return to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon see

Oswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that though he was going to leave

Paris, he had no intention of returning to England; that he had not yet

quite made up his mind whither he should go; but thought that he

should travel direct to St. Petersburg. He wished to travel overland to

Astrachan. That was the place he was particularly anxious to visit.

After this incomprehensible announcement, they walked on for some

minutes in silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables, with which

Coningsby responded at hazard to the sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As

they approached the Palace a party of English who were visiting the

Chamber of Peers, and who were acquainted with the companions of

Coningsby, encountered them. Amid the mutual recognitions, Coningsby,

was about to take his leave somewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth

her hand, and said,

‘Is this indeed farewell?’

His heart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained her hand

amid the chattering tourists, too full of their criticisms and their

egotistical commonplaces to notice what was passing. A sentimental

ebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. Their eyes met.

The look of Edith was mournful and inquiring.

‘We will say farewell at the ball,’ said Coningsby, and she rewarded him

with a radiant smile.

CHAPTER VIII.

Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in

old days, had belonged to the Crillons; but it had received at his hands

such extensive alterations, that nothing of the original decoration, and

little of its arrangement, remained.

A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into a

hall of great dimensions, which was at the same time an orangery and

a gallery of sculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, yet soft

and subdued light, which harmonised with the beautiful repose of the

surrounding forms, and with the exotic perfume that was wafted about.

A gallery led from this hall to an inner hall of quite a different

character; fantastic, glittering, variegated; full of strange shapes and

dazzling objects.

The roof was carved and gilt in that honeycomb style prevalent in the

Saracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich

and vivid patterns; the floor was a flood of mosaic; about were statues

of negroes of human size with faces of wild expression, and holding

in their outstretched hands silver torches that blazed with an almost

painful brilliancy.

From this inner hall a double staircase of white marble led to the grand

suite of apartments.

These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, had been decorated

principally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of Munich. The

three principal rooms were only separated from each other by columns,

covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn aside. The decoration

of each chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the walls of the

ball-room nymphs and heroes moved in measure in Sicilian landscapes,

or on the azure shores of Aegean waters. From the ceiling beautiful

divinities threw garlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that

the roses, unwilling to quit Olympus, would not descend on earth.

The general effect of this fair chamber was heightened, too, by

that regulation of the house which did not permit any benches in the

ball-room. That dignified assemblage who are always found ranged in

precise discipline against the wall, did not here mar the flowing grace

of the festivity. The chaperons had no cause to complain. A large saloon

abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their service, where their

delicate charges might rest when weary, or find distraction when not

engaged.

All the world were at this fête of Sidonia. It exceeded in splendour and

luxury every entertainment that had yet been given. The highest rank,

even Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, fame, all assembled in a

magnificent and illuminated palace, resounding with exquisite melody.

Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was not insensible to the magic

of the scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that

tone, that glance, he had certainly felt much relieved, happier. And yet

if all were, with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly

desire, where was he then? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that fell

look, that voice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him?

Where, what was the mystery? for of some he could not doubt. The Spanish

parentage of Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It offered no

solution. There could be no connection between a Catalan family and his

mother, the daughter of a clergyman in a midland county. That there

was any relationship between the Millbank family and his mother was

contradicted by the conviction in which he had been brought up, that

his mother had no relations; that she returned to England utterly

friendless; without a relative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom

she could appeal. Her complete forlornness was stamped upon his brain.

Tender as were his years when he was separated from her, he could yet

recall the very phrases in which she deplored her isolation; and there

were numerous passages in her letters which alluded to it. Coningsby

had taken occasion to sound the Wallingers on this subject; but he felt

assured, from the manner in which his advances were met, that they knew

nothing of his mother, and attributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank

to his grandfather, solely to political emulation and local rivalries.

Still there were the portrait and the miniature. That was a fact; a clue

which ultimately, he was persuaded, must lead to some solution.

Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was at once a

favourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. He was a specimen

of the highest style of English beauty, which is popular in France. His

air was acknowledged as distinguished. The men also liked him; he

had not quite arrived at that age when you make enemies. The moment,

therefore, that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was

accosted by many whose notice was flattering; but his eye wandered,

while he tried to be courteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where was

she? He had nearly reached the ball-room when he met her. She was on

the arm of Lord Beaumanoir, who had made her acquaintance at Rome, and

originally claimed it as the member of a family who, as the reader may

perhaps not forget, had experienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks.

There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young men; great

explanations where they had been, what they were doing, where they were

going. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases

at Rome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal.

Coningsby securing Edith’s hand for the next dance, they all moved on

together to her aunt.

Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences with the

Marquess.

‘And you are not going to Astrachan to-morrow?’ said Edith.

‘Not to-morrow,’ said Coningsby.

‘You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these days to

permit travel to a man?’

‘I wish nothing was stirring,’ said Coningsby. ‘I wish nothing to

change. All that I wish is, that this fête should never end.’

‘Is it possible that you can be capricious? You perplex me very much.’

‘Am I capricious because I dislike change?’

‘But Astrachan?’

‘It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert,’ said

Coningsby.

Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a ball that

he had first met her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences;

all most interesting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. All mysteries, all

difficulties, were driven from his recollection; he lived only in the

exciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in love!

Some time after this, Coningsby, who was inevitably separated from

Edith, met his host.

‘Where have you been, child,’ said Sidonia, ‘that I have not seen you

for some days? I am going to Madrid tomorrow.’

‘And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge.’

‘Well, you have seen something; you will find it more profitable when

you have digested it: and you will have opportunity. That’s the true

spring of wisdom: meditate over the past. Adventure and Contemplation

share our being like day and night.’

The resolute departure for England on the morrow had already changed

into a supposed necessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. In

fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith was an impossibility.

He silenced the remonstrance of his conscience by the expedient of

keeping a half-term, and had no difficulty in persuading himself that

a short delay in taking his degree could not really be of the slightest

consequence.

It was the hour for supper. The guests at a French ball are not seen to

advantage at this period. The custom of separating the sexes for this

refreshment, and arranging that the ladies should partake of it by

themselves, though originally founded in a feeling of consideration

and gallantry, and with the determination to secure, under all

circumstances, the convenience and comfort of the fair sex, is really,

in its appearance and its consequences, anything but European, and

produces a scene which rather reminds one of the harem of a sultan than

a hall of chivalry. To judge from the countenances of the favoured fair,

they are not themselves particularly pleased; and when their repast is

over they necessarily return to empty halls, and are deprived of the

dance at the very moment when they may feel most inclined to participate

in its graceful excitement.

These somewhat ungracious circumstances, however, were not attendant on

the festival of this night. There was opened in the Hotel of Sidonia for

the first time a banqueting-room which could contain with convenience

all the guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, the golden panels

of the walls containing festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by

encaustic tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantes

encircling Dionysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged

the various tables from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and flower.

The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated from Edith. The

Duchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir of one of the

Imperial illustrations, had determined to appropriate Coningsby as

her cavalier for the moment. Distracted, he made his escape; but his

wandering eye could not find the object of its search; and he fell

prisoner to the charming Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist chieftain,

whose witty words avenged the cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered

nobility.

Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! All the

circumstances of his life at this moment were such as acted forcibly

on the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from Edith, he had still the

delight of seeing her the paragon of that bright company, the consummate

being whom he adored! and who had spoken to him in a voice sweeter than

a serenade, and had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight! The

lord of the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his

boundless treasure, was his chosen friend; gained under circumstances

of romantic interest, when the reciprocal influence of their personal

qualities was affected by no accessory knowledge of their worldly

positions. He himself was in the very bloom of youth and health; the

child of a noble house, rich for his present wants, and with a future of

considerable fortunes. Entrancing love and dazzling friendship, a

high ambition and the pride of knowledge, the consciousness of a great

prosperity, the vague, daring energies of the high pulse of twenty-one,

all combined to stimulate his sense of existence, which, as he looked

around him at the beautiful objects and listened to the delicious

sounds, seemed to him a dispensation of almost supernatural ecstasy.

About an hour after this, the ball-room still full, but the other

saloons gradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which seemed

deserted. Yet he heard sounds, as it were, of earnest conversation. It

was the voice that invited his progress; he advanced another step, then

suddenly stopped. There were two individuals in the room, by whom he was

unnoticed. They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a

sofa, Sidonia holding her hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe

her. Her tones were tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond

and confiding. It was all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly

withdrew, yet could not escape hearing an earnest request from Edith to

her companion that he would write to her.

In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, and the

next day found him on his road to England.

END OF BOOK VI.

BOOK VII.

CHAPTER I.

It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seemed to linger

as if they wished to celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps the

beautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises a more effective

influence on the soul than when it descends on the aspect of some

distant and splendid city. What a contrast between the serenity and

repose of our own bosoms and the fierce passions and destructive cares

girt in the walls of that multitude whose domes and towers rise in

purple lustre against the resplendent horizon!

And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance

of humanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a light

burden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of our

history leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning,

and of faith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome of the

Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen,

sanctifying the spires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary’s.

A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in the

sunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, in

meditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful

of some engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached

the High Street as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star

Hotel, with that brilliant precision which even the New Generation can

remember, and yet which already ranks among the traditions of English

manners. A peculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival

of a firstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine,

crowded with so many passengers, the foaming and curvetting leaders, the

wheelers more steady and glossy, as if they had not done their ten miles

in the hour, the triumphant bugle of the guard, and the haughty routine

with which the driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the

obedient ostlers in attendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a

little awestruck, and looking for the moment at the lowest official of

the stable with considerable respect, altogether made a picture which

one recollects with cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary

market-town.

Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of a

thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. The general character of

his countenance was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almost

bewitching smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang forward

and welcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off the

Blenheim.

‘Well, Coningsby!’ he exclaimed, extending both his hands.

‘By Jove! my dear Millbank, we have met at last,’ said his friend.

And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred to Coningsby

since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The

wound he had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all,

none had outraged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had

loved one who had loved another. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And

yet ‘tis a bitter pang under any circumstances to find another preferred

to yourself. It is about the same blow as one would probably feel if

falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling

existence, scarcely superior to that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed

only from utter insensibility by your frank detestation of your rival.

It is quite impossible to conceal that Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia

a certain degree of aversion, which, in these days of exaggerated

phrase, might even be described as hatred. And Edith was so beautiful!

And there had seemed between them a sympathy so native and spontaneous,

creating at once the charm of intimacy without any of the disenchanting

attributes that are occasionally its consequence. He would recall the

tones of her voice, the expression of her soft dark eye, the airy spirit

and frank graciousness, sometimes even the flattering blush, with which

she had ever welcomed one of whom she had heard so long and so kindly.

It seemed, to use a sweet and homely phrase, that they were made for

each other; the circumstances of their mutual destinies might have

combined into one enchanting fate.

And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon, her heart, with what

aspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to his

grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing, and the gracious favour

of an establishment for the daughter of his foe, of a man whose name was

never mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery

that connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood of

the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath

the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject

both with Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries

only involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternal

relatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on

other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn

the conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness

of their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet;

then he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he

recollected some specimens of Mr. Millbank’s collection, and after

touching on several which could not excite suspicion, he came to

‘a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a portrait or an ideal

countenance?’

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no means

certain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of the

original, if there were an original.

Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired of

the uncle explicitly whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Joseph

was of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere ‘picked

up.’ Millbank used often to ‘pick up’ pictures.

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement

of study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The

softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred

to his habitual reveries of political greatness and public distinction.

And as it ever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete

for the career which he planned for himself, he devoted himself with

increased ardour to that digestion of knowledge which converts it into

wisdom. His life at Cambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the

exception of a few Eton friends, he avoided all society. And, indeed,

his acquisitions during this term were such as few have equalled, and

could only have been mastered by a mental discipline of a severe and

exalted character. At the end of the term Coningsby took his degree, and

in a few days was about to quit that university where, on the whole,

he had passed three serene and happy years in the society of fond and

faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. He had many plans for his

impending movements, yet none of them very mature ones. Lord Vere wished

Coningsby to visit his family in the north, and afterwards to go to

Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined to travel for a year.

Amid this hesitation a circumstance occurred which decided him to adopt

neither of these courses.

It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John’s,

Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were

visiting the marvels and rarities of the university. They were alone.

Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abrupt

manner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with

so much cordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning,

became their companion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at

length, in a depressed tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether

they had lately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the

extreme light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she

was in England, at Millbank, with her family. He always very much liked

Lady Wallinger, but this morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished

on her unceasing and the most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only

in the idea of making the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge;

and no one else was to be their guide at any place or under any

circumstances. He told them exactly what they were to see; how they were

to see it; when they were to see it. He told them of things which nobody

did see, but which they should. He insisted that Sir Joseph should dine

with him in hall; Sir Joseph could not think of leaving Lady Wallinger;

Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir Joseph missing an opportunity that

might never offer again. Besides, they might both join her after dinner.

Except to give her husband a dinner, Coningsby evidently intended never

to leave her side.

And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone with the

lady, Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly,

with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, ‘I was

pleased, I mean surprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank;

I thought by this time she might have borne another name?’

Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, and

then said, ‘Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitate

in marrying. Marriage is for a woman _the_ event. Edith is too precious

to be carelessly bestowed.’

‘But I understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘when I left Paris,’ and here, he

became very confused, ‘that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point of

marriage.’

‘With whom?’

‘Our friend Sidonia.’

‘I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor

Monsieur de Sidonia, Edith. ‘Tis a preposterous idea!’ said Lady

Wallinger.

‘But he very much admired her?’ said Coningsby with a searching eye.

‘Possibly,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘but he never even intimated his

admiration.’

‘But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank?’

‘Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect.’

‘You have known Sidonia a long time?’

‘It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who introduced us to the care

of Mr. Wallinger,’ said Lady Wallinger, ‘and therefore I have ever

entertained for his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as

a compatriot. Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us,

especially to Edith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great

number of jewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain;

and, what she prized infinitely more, the whole of her mother’s

correspondence which she maintained with this relative since her

marriage. Nothing but the influence of Sidonia could have effected this.

Therefore, of course, Edith is attached to him almost as much as I am.

In short, he is our dearest friend; our counsellor in all our cares. But

as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous to those who know Monsieur

Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever induce him to impair that

purity of race on which he prides himself. Besides, there are other

obvious objections which would render an alliance between him and my

niece utterly impossible: Edith is quite as devoted to her religion as

Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race.’

A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger said

these words. The agitated interview, which never could be explained

away, already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became

pensive, remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he

had hitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of

the day that the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit

to Hellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that

Mr. Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like the

change of life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with

Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished place,

with fine gardens, of which his niece was particularly fond.

When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon

about to quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his

removal, his eye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald

Millbank. Coningsby had often projected a visit to Oxford, which he much

desired to make, but hitherto it had been impossible for him to effect

it, except in the absence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed

it that he might combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning

with one to his old schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable.

And immediately Coningsby wrote to apprise Millbank that he had

taken his degree, was free, and prepared to pay him immediately the

long-projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed since they had

quitted Eton. How much had happened in the interval! What new ideas, new

feelings, vast and novel knowledge! Though they had not met, they were

nevertheless familiar with the progress and improvement of each other’s

minds. Their suggestive correspondence was too valuable to both of them

to have been otherwise than cherished. And now they were to meet on

the eve of entering that world for which they had made so sedulous a

preparation.

CHAPTER II.

There are few things in life more interesting than an unrestrained

interchange of ideas with a congenial spirit, and there are few things

more rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the world a man of great

abilities, acquirements, experience, who will unmask his mind, unbutton

his brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque phrase all the

results of his studies and observation; his knowledge of men, books, and

nature. On the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives

an original idea, he hoards it as if it were old gold; and rather avoids

the subject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you may

appropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of our

renowned dulness in conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy.

It must be admitted that in this respect authors, but especially poets,

bear the palm. They never think they are sufficiently appreciated, and

live in tremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. Artists have

the repute of being nearly as bad. And as for a small rising politician,

a clever speech by a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office

destroys his appetite and disturbs his slumbers.

One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is, that one is

perpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and rare

acquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these discourses

the intellect makes daring leaps and marvellous advances. The tone that

colours our afterlife is often caught in these chance colloquies, and

the bent given that shapes a career.

And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more open, the

brain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue more

prompt and eloquent, than when two school-day friends, knit by every

sympathy of intelligence and affection, meet at the close of their

college careers, after a long separation, hesitating, as it were, on

the verge of active life, and compare together their conclusions of the

interval; impart to each other all their thoughts and secret plans

and projects; high fancies and noble aspirations; glorious visions of

personal fame and national regeneration.

Ah! why should such enthusiasm ever die! Life is too short to be

little. Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and

expresses himself with frankness and with fervour.

Most assuredly there never was a congress of friendship wherein more was

said and felt than in this meeting, so long projected, and yet perhaps

on the whole so happily procrastinated, between Coningsby and Millbank.

In a moment they seemed as if they had never parted. Their faithful

correspondence indeed had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken.

But details are only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind

without stint. Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment

but was canvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a

principle they had adopted that was not confessed. Often, with boyish

glee still lingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as they

discovered that they had formed the same opinion or adopted the same

conclusion. They talked all day and late into the night. They condensed

into a week the poignant conclusions of three years of almost unbroken

study. And one night, as they sat together in Millbank’s rooms at

Oriel, their conversation having for some time taken a political colour,

Millbank said,

‘Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be the state of

parties in this country; for it seems to me that if we penetrate the

surface, the classification must be more simple than their many names

would intimate.’

‘The principle of the exclusive constitution of England having been

conceded by the Acts of 1827-8-32,’ said Coningsby, ‘a party has arisen

in the State who demand that the principle of political liberalism

shall consequently be carried to its extent; which it appears to them is

impossible without getting rid of the fragments of the old constitution

that remain. This is the destructive party; a party with distinct and

intelligible principles. They seek a specific for the evils of our

social system in the general suffrage of the population.

‘They are resisted by another party, who, having given up exclusion,

would only embrace as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment;

who, without any embarrassing promulgation of principles, wish to keep

things as they find them as long as they can, and then will manage them

as they find them as well as they can; but as a party must have the

semblance of principles, they take the names of the things that they

have destroyed. Thus they are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown,

although in truth the Crown has been stripped of every one of its

prerogatives; they affect a great veneration for the constitution in

Church and State, though every one knows that the constitution in Church

and State no longer exists; they are ready to stand or fall with the

“independence of the Upper House of Parliament”, though, in practice,

they are perfectly aware that, with their sanction, “the Upper House”

has abdicated its initiatory functions, and now serves only as a court

of review of the legislation of the House of Commons. Whenever public

opinion, which this party never attempts to form, to educate, or to

lead, falls into some violent perplexity, passion, or caprice, this

party yields without a struggle to the impulse, and, when the storm has

passed, attempts to obstruct and obviate the logical and, ultimately,

the inevitable results of the very measures they have themselves

originated, or to which they have consented. This is the Conservative

party.

‘I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories, Radicals or

Chartists, or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race may

designate themselves; but these two divisions comprehend at present the

English nation.

‘With regard to the first school, I for one have no faith in the

remedial qualities of a government carried on by a neglected democracy,

who, for three centuries, have received no education. What prospect does

it offer us of those high principles of conduct with which we have

fed our imaginations and strengthened our will? I perceive none of the

elements of government that should secure the happiness of a people and

the greatness of a realm.

‘But in my opinion, if Democracy be combated only by Conservatism,

Democracy must triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is our

position. The man who enters public life at this epoch has to choose

between Political Infidelity and a Destructive Creed.’

‘This, then,’ said Millbank, ‘is the dilemma to which we are brought

by nearly two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary

Church.’

‘’Tis true,’ said Coningsby. ‘We cannot conceal it from ourselves,

that the first has made Government detested, and the second Religion

disbelieved.’

‘Many men in this country,’ said Millbank, ‘and especially in the class

to which I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy;

because they have accustomed themselves to believe, that it is the

only power by which we can sweep away those sectional privileges and

interests that impede the intelligence and industry of the community.’

‘And yet,’ said Coningsby, ‘the only way to terminate what, in the

language of the present day, is called Class Legislation, is not to

entrust power to classes. You would find a Locofoco majority as much

addicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. The only

power that has no class sympathy is the Sovereign.’

‘But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign, what would be your

check against him?’

‘The same as against an arbitrary Parliament.’

‘But a Parliament is responsible.’

‘To whom?’

‘To their constituent body.’

‘Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?’

‘But public opinion would prevent that.’

‘And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than on a

body?’

‘But public opinion may be indifferent. A nation may be misled, may be

corrupt.’

‘If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the elected body

will resemble it. The nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But this

only shows that there is something to be considered beyond forms of

government, national character. And herein mainly should we repose our

hopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and the great, depend upon

it, whatever be its form, the government will respond to its convictions

and its sentiments.’

‘Do you then declare against Parliamentary government.’

‘Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of evils,

for it comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the permanence of

the existing settlement, if the very individuals who established it are,

year after year, proposing their modifications or their reconstructions;

so also, while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare ourselves for

the change we deem impending?

‘Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow-citizens, should

be taken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who opposed the Reform

Bill offered contrary objections to it which destroyed each other, so

ignorant were they of its real character, its historical causes, its

political consequences. We should now so act that, when the occasions

arrives, we should clearly comprehend what we want, and have formed an

opinion as to the best means by which that want can be supplied.

‘For this purpose I would accustom the public mind to the contemplation

of an existing though torpid power in the constitution, capable

of removing our social grievances, were we to transfer to it those

prerogatives which the Parliament has gradually usurped, and used in

a manner which has produced the present material and moral

disorganisation. The House of Commons is the house of a few; the

Sovereign is the sovereign of all. The proper leader of the people is

the individual who sits upon the throne.’

‘Then you abjure the Representative principle?’

‘Why so? Representation is not necessarily, or even in a principal

sense, Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet

the nation is represented in its highest as well as in its most minute

interests. Not a grievance escapes notice and redress. I see in the

newspaper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally chastised his

pupil. It is a fact known over all England. We must not forget that a

principle of government is reserved for our days that we shall not find

in our Aristotles, or even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon

Wittenagemotes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is now

supreme, and Opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press is

far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentary

representation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it was

admirably adapted: an age of semi-civilisation, when there was a leading

class in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude.

It is controlled by a system of representation more vigorous and

comprehensive; which absorbs its duties and fulfils them more

efficiently, and in which discussion is pursued on fairer terms, and

often with more depth and information.’

‘And to what power would you entrust the function of Taxation?’

‘To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in creating

our present amount of debt, and in establishing our present system of

imposts.

‘In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect its ends

by the influence of opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms.

Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to our

consideration the idea of a free monarchy, established on fundamental

laws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government,

ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual press.

Before such a royal authority, supported by such a national opinion, the

sectional anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system,

where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, even

statesmen would be educated; we should have no more diplomatists who

could not speak French, no more bishops ignorant of theology, no more

generals-in-chief who never saw a field.

‘Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions, our

feelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of great ends

and appealing to high sentiments; a polity which, in my opinion, would

render government an object of national affection, which would terminate

sectional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and extinguish Chartism.’

‘You said to me yesterday,’ said Millbank after a pause, ‘quoting the

words of another, which you adopted, that Man was made to adore and to

obey. Now you have shown to me the means by which you deem it possible

that government might become no longer odious to the subject; you have

shown how man may be induced to obey. But there are duties and interests

for man beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and national

greatness, higher interests and greater duties. How would you deal

with their spiritual necessities? You think you can combat political

infidelity in a nation by the principle of enlightened loyalty; how

would you encounter religious infidelity in a state? By what means is

the principle of profound reverence to be revived? How, in short, is man

to be led to adore?’

‘Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten,’ replied Coningsby.

‘I know from your letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts.

I confess to you that it has often filled mine with perplexity and

depression. When we were at Eton, and both of us impregnated with the

contrary prejudices in which we had been brought up, there was still

between us one common ground of sympathy and trust; we reposed with

confidence and affection in the bosom of our Church. Time and thought,

with both of us, have only matured the spontaneous veneration of our

boyhood. But time and thought have also shown me that the Church of our

heart is not in a position, as regards the community, consonant with its

original and essential character, or with the welfare of the nation.’

‘The character of a Church is universality,’ replied Millbank. ‘Once

the Church in this country was universal in principle and practice; when

wedded to the State, it continued at least universal in principle, if

not in practice. What is it now? All ties between the State and

the Church are abolished, except those which tend to its danger and

degradation.

‘What can be more anomalous than the present connection between State

and Church? Every condition on which it was originally consented to

has been cancelled. That original alliance was, in my view, an equal

calamity for the nation and the Church; but, at least, it was an

intelligible compact. Parliament, then consisting only of members of

the Established Church, was, on ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and

might, in some points of view, be esteemed a necessary portion of Church

government. But you have effaced this exclusive character of Parliament;

you have determined that a communion with the Established Church shall

no longer be part of the qualification for sitting in the House of

Commons. There is no reason, so far as the constitution avails, why

every member of the House of Commons should not be a dissenter. But the

whole power of the country is concentrated in the House of Commons.

The House of Lords, even the Monarch himself, has openly announced and

confessed, within these ten years, that the will of the House of Commons

is supreme. A single vote of the House of Commons, in 1832, made the

Duke of Wellington declare, in the House of Lords, that he was obliged

to abandon his sovereign in “the most difficult and distressing

circumstances.” The House of Commons is absolute. It is the State.

“L’Etat c’est moi.” The House of Commons virtually appoints the bishops.

A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the Established Church.

They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was expelled the throne

because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliament

might do this to-morrow with impunity. And this is the constitution in

Church and State which Conservative dinners toast! The only consequences

of the present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of the

State, there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, and

on the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those principles

on which alone Church government can be established, and by the

influence of which alone can the Church of England again become

universal.’

‘But it is urged that the State protects its revenues?’

‘No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe that require protection.

Modern history is a history of Church spoliation. And by whom? Not by

the people; not by the democracy. No; it is the emperor, the king, the

feudal baron, the court minion. The estate of the Church is the estate

of the people, so long as the Church is governed on its real principles.

The Church is the medium by which the despised and degraded classes

assert the native equality of man, and vindicate the rights and power

of intellect. It made, in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of

a Saxon pedlar Primate of England, and placed Nicholas Breakspear, a

Hertfordshire peasant, on the throne of the Caesars. It would do as

great things now, if it were divorced from the degrading and tyrannical

connection that enchains it. You would have other sons of peasants

Bishops of England, instead of men appointed to that sacred office

solely because they were the needy scions of a factitious aristocracy;

men of gross ignorance, profligate habits, and grinding extortion, who

have disgraced the episcopal throne, and profaned the altar.’

‘But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the present

bench?’

‘Surely not: I speak of the past, of the past that has produced so much

present evil. We live in decent times; frigid, latitudinarian, alarmed,

decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our days a fit successor to the

authors of the gospels, if he be not the editor of a Greek play; and he

who follows St. Paul must now at least have been private tutor of

some young nobleman who has taken a good degree! And then you are

all astonished that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but the

indestructibleness of its principles, however feebly pursued, could have

maintained even the disorganised body that still survives.

‘And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and all its

present deficiencies, it is by the Church; I would have said until I

listened to you to-night; by the Church alone that I see any chance of

regenerating the national character. The parochial system, though

shaken by the fatal poor-law, is still the most ancient, the most

comprehensive, and the most popular institution of the country; the

younger priests are, in general, men whose souls are awake to the high

mission which they have to fulfil, and which their predecessors so

neglected; there is, I think, a rising feeling in the community, that

parliamentary intercourse in matters ecclesiastical has not tended

either to the spiritual or the material elevation of the humbler

orders. Divorce the Church from the State, and the spiritual power that

struggled against the brute force of the dark ages, against tyrannical

monarchs and barbarous barons, will struggle again in opposition to

influences of a different form, but of a similar tendency; equally

selfish, equally insensible, equally barbarising. The priests of God are

the tribunes of the people. O, ignorant! that with such a mission they

should ever have cringed in the antechambers of ministers, or bowed

before parliamentary committees!’

‘The Utilitarian system is dead,’ said Coningsby. ‘It has passed through

the heaven of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, and

peppering, and it has melted away. And yet can we wonder that it found

some success, when we consider the political ignorance and social torpor

which it assailed? Anointed kings turned into chief magistrates, and

therefore much overpaid; estates of the realm changed into parliaments

of virtual representation, and therefore requiring real reform; holy

Church transformed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled

at by all the nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable

harvest of sedition, radicalism, infidelity! I really think there is no

society, however great its resources, that could long resist the united

influences of chief magistrate, virtual representation, and Church

establishment!’

‘I have immense faith in the new generation,’ said Millbank, eagerly.

‘It is a holy thing to see a state saved by its youth,’ said Coningsby;

and then he added, in a tone of humility, if not of depression,

‘But what a task! What a variety of qualities, what a combination

of circumstances is requisite! What bright abilities and what noble

patience! What confidence from the people, what favour from the Most

High!’

‘But He will favour us,’ said Millbank. ‘And I say to you as Nathan said

unto David, “Thou art the man!” You were our leader at Eton; the friends

of your heart and boyhood still cling and cluster round you! they are

all men whose position forces them into public life. It is a nucleus of

honour, faith, and power. You have only to dare. And will you not dare?

It is our privilege to live in an age when the career of the highest

ambition is identified with the performance of the greatest good. Of the

present epoch it may be truly said, “Who dares to be good, dares to be

great.”’

‘Heaven is above all,’ said Coningsby. ‘The curtain of our fate is

still undrawn. We are happy in our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever

lights, we will stand together. For myself, I prefer fame to life;

and yet, the consciousness of heroic deeds to the most wide-spread

celebrity.’

CHAPTER III.

The beautiful light of summer had never shone on a scene and surrounding

landscape which recalled happier images of English nature, and better

recollections of English manners, than that to which we would now

introduce our readers. One of those true old English Halls, now

unhappily so rare, built in the time of the Tudors, and in its elaborate

timber-framing and decorative woodwork indicating, perhaps, the scarcity

of brick and stone at the period of its structure, as much as the

grotesque genius of its fabricator, rose on a terrace surrounded

by ancient and very formal gardens. The hall itself, during many

generations, had been vigilantly and tastefully preserved by its

proprietors. There was not a point which was not as fresh as if it had

been renovated but yesterday. It stood a huge and strange blending

of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with a wild dash of the

fantastic in addition. The lantern watch-towers of a baronial castle

were placed in juxtaposition with Doric columns employed for chimneys,

while under oriel windows might be observed Italian doorways with

Grecian pediments. Beyond the extensive gardens an avenue of Spanish

chestnuts at each point of the compass approached the mansion, or led

into a small park which was table-land, its limits opening on all sides

to beautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling with cultivation, except

at one point, where the river Darl formed the boundary of the domain,

and then spread in many a winding through the rich country beyond.

Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was about to

visit for the first time. Coningsby and himself had travelled together

as far as Darlford, where their roads diverged, and they had separated

with an engagement on the part of Coningsby to visit Hellingsley on the

morrow. As they had travelled along, Coningsby had frequently led the

conversation to domestic topics; gradually he had talked, and

talked much of Edith. Without an obtrusive curiosity, he extracted,

unconsciously to his companion, traits of her character and early days,

which filled him with a wild and secret interest. The thought that in a

few hours he was to meet her again, infused into his being a degree of

transport, which the very necessity of repressing before his companion

rendered more magical and thrilling. How often it happens in life that

we have with a grave face to discourse of ordinary topics, while all the

time our heart and memory are engrossed with some enchanting secret!

The castle of his grandfather presented a far different scene on the

arrival of Coningsby from that which it had offered on his first visit.

The Marquess had given him a formal permission to repair to it at

his pleasure, and had instructed the steward accordingly. But he came

without notice, at a season of the year when the absence of all sports

made his arrival unexpected. The scattered and sauntering household

roused themselves into action, and contemplated the conviction that it

might be necessary to do some service for their wages. There was a stir

in that vast, sleepy castle. At last the steward was found, and came

forward to welcome their young master, whose simple wants were limited

to the rooms he had formerly occupied.

Coningsby reached the castle a little before sunset, almost the same

hour that he had arrived there more than three years ago. How much had

happened in the interval! Coningsby had already lived long enough to

find interest in pondering over the past. That past too must inevitably

exercise a great influence over his present. He recalled his morning

drive with his grandfather, to the brink of that river which was

the boundary between his own domain and Hellingsley. Who dwelt at

Hellingsley now?

Restless, excited, not insensible to the difficulties, perhaps the

dangers of his position, yet full of an entrancing emotion in which all

thoughts and feelings seemed to merge, Coningsby went forth into the

fair gardens to muse over his love amid objects as beautiful. A rosy

light hung over the rare shrubs and tall fantastic trees; while a rich

yet darker tint suffused the distant woods. This euthanasia of the day

exercises a strange influence on the hearts of those who love. Who has

not felt it? Magical emotions that touch the immortal part!

But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that softens the heart made

his spirit brave. Amid the ennobling sympathies of nature, the pursuits

and purposes of worldly prudence and conventional advantage subsided

into their essential nothingness. He willed to blend his life and fate

with a being beautiful as that nature that subdued him, and he felt in

his own breast the intrinsic energies that in spite of all obstacles

should mould such an imagination into reality.

He descended the slopes, now growing dimmer in the fleeting light, into

the park. The stillness was almost supernatural; the jocund sounds of

day had died, and the voices of the night had not commenced. His heart

too was still. A sacred calm had succeeded to that distraction of

emotion which had agitated him the whole day, while he had mused over

his love and the infinite and insurmountable barriers that seemed to

oppose his will. Now he felt one of those strong groundless convictions

that are the inspirations of passion, that all would yield to him as to

one holding an enchanted wand.

Onward he strolled; it seemed without purpose, yet always proceeding. A

pale and then gleaming tint stole over the masses of mighty timber; and

soon a glittering light flooded the lawns and glades. The moon was high

in her summer heaven, and still Coningsby strolled on. He crossed the

broad lawns, he traversed the bright glades: amid the gleaming and

shadowy woods, he traced his prescient way.

He came to the bank of a rushing river, foaming in the moonlight, and

wafting on its blue breast the shadow of a thousand stars.

‘O river!’ he said, ‘that rollest to my mistress, bear her, bear her my

heart!’

CHAPTER IV.

Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in the morning room of

Hellingsley, the morrow after the arrival of Oswald. Edith was arranging

flowers in a vase, while her aunt was embroidering a Spanish peasant in

correct costume. The daughter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant

as the fair creations that surrounded her. Beautiful to watch her as she

arranged their forms and composed their groups; to mark her eye glance

with gratification at some happy combination of colour, or to listen to

her delight as they wafted to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald and

Sir Joseph were surveying the stables; Mr. Millbank, who had been daily

expected for the last week from the factories, had not yet arrived.

‘I must say he gained my heart from the first,’ said Lady Wallinger.

‘I wish the gardener would send us more roses,’ said Edith.

‘He is so very superior to any young man I ever met,’ continued Lady

Wallinger.

‘I think we must have this vase entirely of roses; don’t you think so,

aunt?’ inquired her niece.

‘I am fond of roses,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘What beautiful bouquets Mr.

Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith!’

‘Beautiful!’

‘I must say, I was very happy when I met Mr. Coningsby again at

Cambridge,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘It gave me much greater pleasure than

seeing any of the colleges.’

‘How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a companion

again!’ said Edith.

‘And very naturally,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘Oswald ought to deem

himself fortunate in having such a friend. I am sure the kindness of Mr.

Coningsby when we met him at Cambridge is what I never shall forget. But

he always was my favourite from the first time I saw him at Paris. Do

you know, Edith, I liked him best of all your admirers.’

‘Oh! no, aunt,’ said Edith, smiling, ‘not more than Lord Beaumanoir; you

forget your great favourite, Lord Beaumanoir.’

‘But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘I

cannot agree that anybody is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I cannot tell you

how pleased I am that he is our neighbour!’

As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to the jacket of her

Andalusian, Edith, vividly blushing, yet speaking in a voice of affected

calmness, said,

‘Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt.’

And, truly, at this moment our hero might be discerned, approaching the

hall by one of the avenues; and in a few minutes there was a ringing at

the hall bell, and then, after a short pause, the servants announced Mr.

Coningsby, and ushered him into the morning room.

Edith was embarrassed; the frankness and the gaiety of her manner had

deserted her; Coningsby was rather earnest than self-possessed. Each

felt at first that the presence of Lady Wallinger was a relief. The

ordinary topics of conversation were in sufficient plenty; reminiscences

of Paris, impressions of Hellingsley, his visit to Oxford, Lady

Wallinger’s visit to Cambridge. In ten minutes their voices seemed to

sound to each other as they did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their mutual

perplexity had in a great degree subsided.

Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room, and the conversation became

general. Hellingsley was the subject on which Coningsby dwelt; he was

charmed with all that he had seen! wished to see more. Sir Joseph was

quite prepared to accompany him; but Lady Wallinger, who seemed to read

Coningsby’s wishes in his eyes, proposed that the inspection should be

general; and in the course of half an hour Coningsby was walking by the

side of Edith, and sympathising with all the natural charms to which her

quick taste and lively expression called his notice and appreciation.

Few things more delightful than a country ramble with a sweet companion!

Exploring woods, wandering over green commons, loitering in shady lanes,

resting on rural stiles; the air full of perfume, the heart full of

bliss!

It seemed to Coningsby that he had never been happy before. A thrilling

joy pervaded his being. He could have sung like a bird. His heart was as

sunny as the summer scene. Past and Future were absorbed in the flowing

hour; not an allusion to Paris, not a speculation on what might arrive;

but infinite expressions of agreement, sympathy; a multitude of slight

phrases, that, however couched, had but one meaning, congeniality. He

felt each moment his voice becoming more tender; his heart gushing

in soft expressions; each moment he was more fascinated; her step was

grace, her glance was beauty. Now she touched him by some phrase of

sweet simplicity; or carried him spell-bound by her airy merriment.

Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to dine with them. There was not

even the ceremony of invitation. Coningsby could not but remember his

dinner at Millbank, and the timid hostess whom he then addressed so

often in vain, as he gazed upon the bewitching and accomplished woman

whom he now passionately loved. It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald,

happy in his friend being his guest, under his own roof, indulged in

unwonted gaiety.

The ladies withdrew; Sir Joseph began to talk politics, although the

young men had threatened their fair companions immediately to follow

them. This was the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, when Sir Robert Peel

accepted and resigned power in the course of three days. Sir Joseph,

who had originally made up his mind to support a Conservative government

when he deemed it inevitable, had for the last month endeavoured to

compensate for this trifling error by vindicating the conduct of his

friends, and reprobating the behaviour of those who would deprive her

Majesty of the ‘friends-of-her-youth.’ Sir Joseph was a most chivalrous

champion of the ‘friends-of-her-youth’ principle. Sir Joseph, who was

always moderate and conciliatory in his talk, though he would go, at any

time, any lengths for his party, expressed himself to-day with

extreme sobriety, as he was determined not to hurt the feelings of

Mr. Coningsby, and he principally confined himself to urging temperate

questions, somewhat in the following fashion:--

‘I admit that, on the whole, under ordinary circumstances, it would

perhaps have been more convenient that these appointments should have

remained with Sir Robert; but don’t you think that, under the peculiar

circumstances, being friends of her Majesty’s youth?’ &c. &c.

Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when Coningsby replied that he

thought, under no circumstances, should any appointment in the Royal

Household be dependent on the voice of the House of Commons, though he

was far from admiring the ‘friends-of-her-youth’ principle, which he

looked upon as impertinent.

‘But surely,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘the Minister being responsible to

Parliament, it must follow that all great offices of State should be

filled at his discretion.’

‘But where do you find this principle of Ministerial responsibility?’

inquired Coningsby.

‘And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?’ inquired Millbank.