Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. He had always heard that Ministers

were responsible to Parliament; and he had a vague conviction,

notwithstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed-Chamber Plot, that

the Sovereign of England was a nonentity. He took refuge in indefinite

expressions, and observed, ‘The Responsibility of Ministers is surely a

constitutional doctrine.’

‘The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; they are

not the Ministers of Parliament.’

‘But then you know virtually,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘the Parliament, that

is, the House of Commons, governs the country.’

‘It did before 1832,’ said Coningsby; ‘but that is all past now. We got

rid of that with the Venetian Constitution.’

‘The Venetian Constitution!’ said Sir Joseph.

‘To be sure,’ said Millbank. ‘We were governed in this country by the

Venetian Constitution from the accession of the House of Hanover. But

that yoke is past. And now I hope we are in a state of transition from

the Italian Dogeship to the English Monarchy.’

‘King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!’ exclaimed Sir

Joseph.

‘But they were phrases,’ said Coningsby, ‘not facts. The King was a

Doge; the Cabinet the Council of Ten. Your Parliament, that you call

Lords and Commons, was nothing more than the Great Council of Nobles.’

‘The resemblance was complete,’ said Millbank, ‘and no wonder, for it

was not accidental; the Venetian Constitution was intentionally copied.’

‘We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640,’ said Coningsby, ‘had

it not been for the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.’

‘I am sure these ideas are not very generally known,’ said Sir Joseph,

bewildered.

‘Because you have had your history written by the Venetian party,’ said

Coningsby, ‘and it has been their interest to conceal them.’

‘I will venture to say that there are very few men on our side in the

House of Commons,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘who are aware that they were born

under a Venetian Constitution.’

‘Let us go to the ladies,’ said Millbank, smiling.

Edith was reading a letter as they entered.

‘A letter from papa,’ she exclaimed, looking up at her brother with

great animation. ‘We may expect him every day; and yet, alas! he cannot

fix one.’

They now all spoke of Millbank, and Coningsby was happy that he was

familiar with the scene. At length he ventured to say to Edith, ‘You

once made me a promise which you never fulfilled. I shall claim it

to-night.’

‘And what can that be?’

‘The song that you promised me at Millbank more than three years ago.’

‘Your memory is good.’

‘It has dwelt upon the subject.’

Then they spoke for a while of other recollections, and then Coningsby

appealing to Lady Wallinger for her influence, Edith rose and took up

her guitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the air she sang gay, even

fantastically frolic, such as the girls of Granada chaunt trooping home

from some country festival; her soft, dark eye brightened with joyous

sympathy; and ever and anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, in

chorus, with her pretty hand.

The moon wanes; and Coningsby must leave these enchanted halls. Oswald

walked homeward with him until he reached the domain of his grandfather.

Then mounting his horse, Coningsby bade his friend farewell till the

morrow, and made his best way to the Castle.

CHAPTER V.

There is a romance in every life. The emblazoned page of Coningsby’s

existence was now open. It had been prosperous before, with some moments

of excitement, some of delight; but they had all found, as it were,

their origin in worldly considerations, or been inevitably mixed up with

them. At Paris, for example, he loved, or thought he loved. But there

not an hour could elapse without his meeting some person, or hearing

something, which disturbed the beauty of his emotions, or broke his

spell-bound thoughts. There was his grandfather hating the Millbanks,

or Sidonia loving them; and common people, in the common world, making

common observations on them; asking who they were, or telling who they

were; and brushing the bloom off all life’s fresh delicious fancies with

their coarse handling.

But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved passionately, and he loved

in a scene and in a society as sweet, as pure, and as refined as his

imagination and his heart. There was no malicious gossip, no callous

chatter to profane his ear and desecrate his sentiment. All that he

heard or saw was worthy of the summer sky, the still green woods, the

gushing river, the gardens and terraces, the stately and fantastic

dwellings, among which his life now glided as in some dainty and

gorgeous masque.

All the soft, social, domestic sympathies of his nature, which, however

abundant, had never been cultivated, were developed by the life he was

now leading. It was not merely that he lived in the constant presence,

and under the constant influence of one whom he adored, that made him so

happy. He was surrounded by beings who found felicity in the interchange

of kind feelings and kind words, in the cultivation of happy talents and

refined tastes, and the enjoyment of a life which their own good sense

and their own good hearts made them both comprehend and appreciate.

Ambition lost much of its splendour, even his lofty aspirations

something of their hallowing impulse of paramount duty, when Coningsby

felt how much ennobling delight was consistent with the seclusion of a

private station; and mused over an existence to be passed amid woods and

waterfalls with a fair hand locked in his, or surrounded by his friends

in some ancestral hall.

The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley Coningsby rejoined his

friends, as he had promised Oswald at their breakfast-table; and day

after day he came with the early sun, and left them only when the late

moon silvered the keep of Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote

daily, and was daily to be expected, did not arrive. A week, a week

of unbroken bliss, had vanished away, passed in long rides and longer

walks, sunset saunterings, and sometimes moonlit strolls; talking of

flowers, and thinking of things even sweeter; listening to delicious

songs, and sometimes reading aloud some bright romance or some inspiring

lay.

One day Coningsby, who arrived at the hall unexpectedly late; indeed it

was some hours past noon, for he had been detained by despatches

which arrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby, and which required his

interposition; found the ladies alone, and was told that Sir Joseph and

Oswald were at the fishing-cottage where they wished him to join them.

He was in no haste to do this; and Lady Wallinger proposed that

when they felt inclined to ramble they should all walk down to the

fishing-cottage together. So, seating himself by the side of Edith, who

was tinting a sketch which she had made of a rich oriel of Hellingsley,

the morning passed away in that slight and yet subtle talk in which a

lover delights, and in which, while asking a thousand questions, that

seem at the first glance sufficiently trifling, he is indeed often

conveying a meaning that is not expressed, or attempting to discover a

feeling that is hidden. And these are occasions when glances meet

and glances are withdrawn: the tongue may speak idly, the eye is more

eloquent, and often more true.

Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who had more than once announced

that she was going to put on her bonnet, was gone. Yet still he

continued to talk trifles; and still Edith listened.

‘Of all that you have told me,’ said Edith, ‘nothing pleases me so much

as your description of St. Geneviève. How much I should like to catch

the deer at sunset on the heights! What a pretty drawing it would make!’

‘You would like Eustace Lyle,’ said Coningsby. ‘He is so shy and yet so

ardent.’

‘You have such a band of friends! Oswald was saying this morning there

was no one who had so many devoted friends.’

‘We are all united by sympathy. It is the only bond of friendship; and

yet friendship--’

‘Edith,’ said Lady Wallinger, looking into the room from the garden,

with her bonnet on, ‘you will find me roaming on the terrace.’

‘We come, dear aunt.’

And yet they did not move. There were yet a few pencil touches to be

given to the tinted sketch; Coningsby would cut the pencils.

‘Would you give me,’ he said, ‘some slight memorial of Hellingsley and

your art? I would not venture to hope for anything half so beautiful as

this; but the slightest sketch. It would make me so happy when away to

have it hanging in my room.’

A blush suffused the cheek of Edith; she turned her head a little aside,

as if she were arranging some drawings. And then she said, in a somewhat

hushed and hesitating voice,

‘I am sure I will do so; and with pleasure. A view of the Hall itself;

I think that would be the best memorial. Where shall we take it from?

We will decide in our walk?’ and she rose, and promised immediately to

return, left the room.

Coningsby leant over the mantel-piece in deep abstraction, gazing

vacantly on a miniature of the father of Edith. A light step roused

him; she had returned. Unconsciously he greeted her with a glance of

ineffable tenderness.

They went forth; it was a grey, sultry day. Indeed it was the covered

sky which had led to the fishing scheme of the morning. Sir Joseph was

an expert and accomplished angler, and the Darl was renowned for its

sport. They lingered before they reached the terrace where they were to

find Lady Wallinger, observing the different points of view which

the Hall presented, and debating which was to form the subject of

Coningsby’s drawing; for already it was to be not merely a sketch, but a

drawing, the most finished that the bright and effective pencil of Edith

could achieve. If it really were to be placed in his room, and were

to be a memorial of Hellingsley, her artistic reputation demanded a

masterpiece.

They reached the terrace: Lady Wallinger was not there, nor could they

observe her in the vicinity. Coningsby was quite certain that she had

gone onward to the fishing-cottage, and expected them to follow her;

and he convinced Edith of the justness of his opinion. To the

fishing-cottage, therefore, they bent their steps. They emerged from the

gardens into the park, sauntering over the table-land, and seeking as

much as possible the shade, in the soft but oppressive atmosphere. At

the limit of the table-land their course lay by a wild but winding path

through a gradual and wooded declivity. While they were yet in this

craggy and romantic woodland, the big fervent drops began to fall.

Coningsby urged Edith to seek at once a natural shelter; but she, who

knew the country, assured him that the fishing-cottage was close by, and

that they might reach it before the rain could do them any harm.

And truly, at this moment emerging from the wood, they found themselves

in the valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow and winding, but

full of life; rushing, and clear but for the dark sky it reflected; with

high banks of turf and tall trees; the silver birch, above all others,

in clustering groups; infinitely picturesque. At the turn of the river,

about two hundred yards distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof

of the fishing-cottage on its banks. They descended from the woods to

the margin of the stream by a flight of turfen steps, Coningsby holding

Edith’s hand as he guided her progress.

The drops became thicker. They reached, at a rapid pace, the cottage.

The absent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the river.

The cottage was an old building of rustic logs, with a shelving roof,

so that you might obtain sufficient shelter without entering its walls.

Coningsby found a rough garden seat for Edith. The shower was now

violent.

Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the joy and

tenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are summer showers.

In this instance the vehemence of her emotion was transient, though the

tears kept stealing down her cheek for a long time, and gentle sighs and

sobs might for some period be distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere

had evaporated; the grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze

came dancing up the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and

waters; the perfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There

was a carolling of birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; freshness

and stir, and a sense of joyous life, pervaded all things; it seemed

that the heart of all creation opened.

Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, and

speculating on its progress, which did not much annoy them, had seated

himself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a maiden and a youth

more beautiful and engaging had seldom met before in a scene more fresh

and fair. Edith on her rustic seat watched the now blue and foaming

river, and the birch-trees with a livelier tint, and quivering in the

sunset air; an expression of tranquil bliss suffused her beautiful brow,

and spoke from the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby

gazed on that countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek

was flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her head;

she met that glance, and, troubled, she withdrew her own.

‘Edith!’ he said in a tone of tremulous passion, ‘Let me call you Edith!

Yes,’ he continued, gently taking her hand, let me call you my Edith! I

love you!’

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as the

impending twilight.

CHAPTER VI.

It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached the Hall;

an embarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction that they

had not to encounter a very critical inspection. What, then, were their

feelings when the first servant that they met informed them that Mr.

Millbank had arrived! Edith never could have believed that the return of

her beloved father to his home could ever have been to her other than

a cause of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard the

announcement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her existence.

But this was not the season of meditation. Her heart was still agitated

by the tremulous admission that she responded to that fervent and

adoring love whose eloquent music still sounded in her ear, and the

pictures of whose fanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision.

Unconsciously she pressed the arm of Coningsby as the servant spoke,

and then, without looking into his face, whispering him to be quick, she

sprang away.

As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, and the

ethereal joy which flowed in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbank

sounded, something like a knell. However, this was not the time to

reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most rapid toilet that

ever was consummated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes entered the

drawing-room of Hellingsley, to encounter the gentleman whom he hoped by

some means or other, quite inconceivable, might some day be transformed

into his father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent duties

towards whom he had commenced by keeping him waiting for dinner.

‘How do you do, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, extending his hand to

Coningsby. ‘You seem to have taken a long walk.’

Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady Wallinger, and half addressed

his murmured answer to her, explaining how they had lost her, and their

way, and were caught in a storm or a shower, which, as it terminated

about three hours back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than a

mile from the Hall, very satisfactorily accounted for their not being in

time for dinner.

Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds having

frightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a

little of their sport, and of their having seen an otter; but there was,

or at least there seemed to Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment

which distressed him. The fact is, keeping people from dinner under

any circumstances is distressing. They are obliged to talk at the very

moment when they wish to use their powers of expression for a very

different purpose. They are faint, and conversation makes them more

exhausted. A gentleman, too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted

to him, making a great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner

time, to please and surprise them; and finding them all dispersed,

dinner so late that he might have reached home in good time without any

great inconvenient effort; his daughter, whom he had wished a thousand

times to embrace, taking a singularly long ramble with no other

companion than a young gentleman, whom he did not exactly expect to

see; all these are circumstances, individually perhaps slight, and yet,

encountered collectively, it may be doubted they would not a little

ruffle even the sweetest temper.

Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest temper, though not a bad one;

a little quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when Edith,

who had providentially sent down a message to order dinner, entered and

embraced him at the very moment that dinner was announced, her father

forgot everything in his joy in seeing her, and his pleasure in being

surrounded by his friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger, and Sir

Joseph led away his niece. Coningsby put his arm around the astonished

neck of Oswald, as if they were once more in the playing fields of Eton.

‘By Jove! my dear fellow,’ he exclaimed, ‘I am so sorry we kept your

father from dinner.’

As Edith headed her father’s table, according to his rigid rule,

Coningsby was on one side of her. They never spoke so little; Coningsby

would have never unclosed his lips, had he followed his humour. He was

in a stupor of happiness; the dining room took the appearance of

the fishing-cottage; and he saw nothing but the flowing river. Lady

Wallinger was however next to him, and that was a relief; for he felt

always she was his friend. Sir Joseph, a good-hearted man, and

on subjects with which he was acquainted full of sound sense, was

invaluable to-day, for he entirely kept up the conversation, speaking

of things which greatly interested Mr. Millbank. And so their host soon

recovered his good temper; he addressed several times his observations

to Coningsby, and was careful to take wine with him. On the whole,

affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen, indeed, stayed much

longer over their wine than on the preceding days, and Coningsby did not

venture on the liberty of quitting the room before his host. It was as

well. Edith required repose. She tried to seek it on the bosom of her

aunt, as she breathed to her the delicious secret of her life. When the

gentlemen returned to the drawing-room the ladies were not there.

This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again; he had not seen enough of his

daughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reappear; and

even to sing. Then Coningsby went up to her and asked her to sing the

song of the Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and with a fond

yet serious look,

‘I am not in the mood for such a song, but if you wish me--’

She sang it, and with inexpressible grace, and with an arch vivacity,

that to a fine observer would have singularly contrasted with the

almost solemn and even troubled expression of her countenance a moment

afterwards.

The day was about to die; the day the most important, the most precious

in the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been

spoken, vows breathed, which were to influence their careers for ever.

For them hereafter there was to be but one life, one destiny, one world.

Each of them was still in such a state of tremulous excitement, that

neither had found time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result.

They both required solitude; they both longed to be alone. Coningsby

rose to depart. He pressed the soft hand of Edith, and his glance spoke

his soul.

‘We shall see you at breakfast to-morrow, Coningsby!’ said Oswald,

very loud, knowing that the presence of his father would make Coningsby

hesitate about coming. Edith’s heart fluttered; but she said nothing. It

was with delight she heard her father, after a moment’s pause, say,

‘Oh! I beg we may have that pleasure.’

‘Not quite at so early an hour,’ said Coningsby; ‘but if you will permit

me, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you to-morrow, sir, that

your journey has not fatigued you.’

CHAPTER VII.

To be alone; to have no need of feigning a tranquillity he could not

feel; of coining common-place courtesy when his heart was gushing

with rapture; this was a great relief to Coningsby, though gained by a

separation from Edith.

The deed was done; he had breathed his long-brooding passion, he

had received the sweet expression of her sympathy, he had gained

the long-coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of

unsophisticated breasts, and the inspiration of an exquisite nature,

combined to fashion the spell that now entranced his life. He turned to

gaze upon the moonlit towers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and

dreamlike, the picturesque pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with

the silver light and surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic

gardens tipped with the glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half

sparkling in the midnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had

been the subject of the morning’s sketch. Almost he wished there should

be some sound to assure him of his reality. But nothing broke the

all-pervading stillness. Was his life to be as bright and as tranquil?

And what was to be his life?

Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he had gained? Were the

portals of Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates that were to greet

her? How long would they greet him after the achievement of the last

four-and-twenty hours was known to their lord? Was this the return for

the confiding kindness of his grandsire? That he should pledge his troth

to the daughter of that grandsire’s foe?

Away with such dark and scaring visions! Is it not the noon of a summer

night fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with the beam that

lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian breezes? Within that

sweet and stately residence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough to

revive chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she leans on her

pensive hand, or, if perchance she dream, recalls him in her visions?

And himself, is he one who would cry craven with such a lot? What avail

his golden youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and

all his stores of wisdom, if they help not now? Does not he feel the

energy divine that can confront Fate and carve out fortunes? Besides it

is nigh Midsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign for but to aid such

a bright pair as this?

He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which but a few

hours past he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls a thousand

times the still, small voice, that murmured her agitated felicity: more

than a thousand times, for his heart clenched the idea as a diver grasps

a gem, he recalls the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had sealed

upon her blushing cheek his mystical and delicious sovereignty.

CHAPTER VIII

The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small white clouds, dull and

immovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl seemed

to have become black and almost stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsley

looked like the hard lines of a model; and the mansion itself had a

harsh and metallic character. Before the chief portal of his Hall, the

elder Millbank, with an air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and

the heavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny of the day.

Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy and restless

step he paced the raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley

church had given the chimes of noon. His son and Coningsby appeared

at the end of one of the avenues. His eye lightened; his lip became

compressed; he advanced to meet them.

‘Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald?’ he inquired of his son.

‘We had some thoughts of it, sir.’

‘A fine day for sport, I should think,’ he observed, as he turned

towards the Hall with them.

Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its twisted

columns, and Caryatides carved in dark oak.

‘Yes, it’s very well,’ said Millbank; ‘but I really do not know why I

came here; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place;

none of us do, I believe.’

‘Oh! I like it now, father; and Edith doats on it.’

‘She was very happy at Millbank,’ said the father, rather sharply.

‘We are all of us happy at Millbank,’ said Oswald.

‘I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement when I first

saw it,’ said Coningsby.

‘Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald,’ said Mr. Millbank,

‘and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the

meantime.’

The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantly

carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should

be so anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely

used it. His son had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned to

Coningsby, and said very abruptly,

‘You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; step in, for I

wish to say a word to you.’ And thus speaking, he advanced before the

astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a

door and long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished

as a library, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting

the door with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his

guest to be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his

throat, said without preface, ‘I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby,

that you are attached to my daughter?’

‘I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently,’ replied

Coningsby, in a calm and rather measured tone, but looking very pale.

‘And I have reason to believe that she returns your attachment?’ said

Mr. Millbank.

‘I believe she deigns not to disregard it,’ said Coningsby, his white

cheek becoming scarlet.

‘It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce

mutual unhappiness,’ said Mr. Millbank.

‘I would fain believe the reverse,’ said Coningsby.

‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Millbank.

‘Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality, and virtue, that

can bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return,

I have a heart, if I know myself, that would struggle to deserve her.’

‘I know you to be a man of sense; I believe you to be a man of honour,’

replied Mr. Millbank. ‘As the first, you must feel that an union between

you and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a

man of correct principle is obvious.’

‘I could conceive that our union might be attended with difficulties,’

said Coningsby, in a somewhat deprecating tone.

‘Sir, it is impossible,’ repeated Mr. Millbank, interrupting him, though

not with harshness; ‘that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage

which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasion

greater misery.’

‘The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery,’ said

Coningsby, ‘and even they may be imaginary.’

‘The sacrifices and the misery are certain and inseparable,’ said Mr.

Millbank. ‘Come now, see how we stand! I speak without reserve, for this

is a subject which cannot permit misconception, but with no feelings

towards you, sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of

my Lord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his

bounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you

may be the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and

myself are foes; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle to

mince phrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may regret that

they have ever arisen; I may regret it especially at this exigency. They

are not the feelings of good Christians; they may be altogether to be

deplored and unjustifiable; but they exist, mutually exist; and have not

been confined to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, had he the power,

like a worm; and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not

for this feeling I should not be here; I purchased this estate merely

to annoy him, as I have done a thousand other acts merely for his

discomfiture and mortification. In our long encounter I have done him

infinitely more injury than he could do me; I have been on the spot,

I am active, vigilant, the maker of my fortunes. He is an epicurean,

continually in foreign parts, obliged to leave the fulfilment of his

will to others. But, for these very reasons, his hate is more intense.

I can afford to hate him less than he hates me; I have injured him more.

Here are feelings to exist between human beings! But they do exist;

and now you are to go to this man, and ask his sanction to marry my

daughter!’

‘But I would appease these hatreds; I would allay these dark passions,

the origin of which I know not, but which never could justify the end,

and which lead to so much misery. I would appeal to my grandfather; I

would show him Edith.’

‘He has looked upon as fair even as Edith,’ said Mr. Millbank, rising

suddenly from his seat, and pacing the room, ‘and did that melt his

heart? The experience of your own lot should have guarded you from the

perils that you have so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery

which you have been preparing for others besides yourself. Is my

daughter to be treated like your mother? And by the same hand? Your

mother’s family were not Lord Monmouth’s foes. They were simple and

innocent people, free from all the bad passions of our nature, and

ignorant of the world’s ways. But because they were not noble, because

they could trace no mystified descent from a foreign invader, or the

sacrilegious minion of some spoliating despot, their daughter was hunted

from the family which should have exulted to receive her, and the land

of which she was the native ornament. Why should a happier lot await you

than fell to your parents? You are in the same position as your father;

you meditate the same act. The only difference being aggravating

circumstances in your case, which, even if I were a member of the same

order as my Lord Monmouth, would prevent the possibility of a prosperous

union. Marry Edith, and you blast all the prospects of your life, and

entail on her a sense of unceasing humiliation. Would you do this?

Should I permit you to do this?’

Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, his face a little shaded,

his eyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There was a pause;

broken by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without changing his posture or

raising his glance, he said, ‘It seems, sir, that you were acquainted

with my mother!’

‘I knew sufficient of her,’ replied Mr. Millbank, with a kindling cheek,

‘to learn the misery that a woman may entail on herself by marrying out

of her condition. I have bred my children in a respect for their class.

I believe they have imbibed my feeling; though it is strange how in

the commerce of the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparently

baffled my designs.’

‘Oh! do not say it is chance, sir,’ said Coningsby, looking up, and

speaking with much fervour. ‘The feelings that animate me towards

your family are not the feelings of chance: they are the creation of

sympathy; tried by time, tested by thought. And must they perish? Can

they perish? They were inevitable; they are indestructible. Yes, sir, it

is in vain to speak of the enmities that are fostered between you and

my grandfather; the love that exists between your daughter and myself is

stronger than all your hatreds.’

‘You speak like a young man, and a young man that is in love,’ said Mr.

Millbank. ‘This is mere rhapsody; it will vanish in an instant

before the reality of life. And you have arrived at that reality,’ he

continued, speaking with emphasis, leaning over the back of his chair,

and looking steadily at Coningsby with his grey, sagacious eye; ‘my

daughter and yourself can meet no more.’

‘It is impossible you can be so cruel!’ exclaimed Coningsby.

‘So kind; kind to you both; for I wish to be kind to you as well as to

her. You are entitled to kindness from us all; though I will tell you

now, that, years ago, when the news arrived that my son’s life had been

saved, and had been saved by one who bore the name of Coningsby, I had

a presentiment, great as was the blessing, that it might lead to

unhappiness.’

‘I can answer for the misery of one,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great

despondency. ‘I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! why should there be such

wretchedness? Why are there family hatreds and party feuds? Why am I the

most wretched of men?’

‘My good young friend, you will live, I doubt not, to be a happy one.

Happiness is not, as we are apt to fancy, entirely dependent on these

contingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure what you are now

suffering, and they can look back to such conjunctures through the vista

of years with calmness.’

‘I may see Edith now?’

‘Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is in her room; I have had some

conversation with her. Of course she suffers not less than yourself. To

see her again will only aggravate woe. You leave under this roof, sir,

some sad memories, but no unkind ones. It is not likely that I can

serve you, or that you may want my aid; but whatever may be in my power,

remember you may command it; without reserve and without restraint. If I

control myself now, it is not because I do not respect your affliction,

but because, in the course of my life, I have felt too much not to be

able to command my feelings.’

‘You never could have felt what I feel now,’ said Coningsby, in a tone

of anguish.

‘You touch on delicate ground,’ said Millbank; ‘yet from me you may

learn to suffer. There was a being once, not less fair than the peerless

girl that you would fain call your own, and her heart was my proud

possession. There were no family feuds to baffle our union, nor was

I dependent on anything, but the energies which had already made me

flourishing. What happiness was mine! It was the first dream of my life,

and it was the last; my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my

heart. Ah! you dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through

life, you think there is no romance in the loves of a man who lives in

the toil and turmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid my career

of travail, there was ever a bright form which animated exertion,

inspired my invention, nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and

life I first made many of those discoveries, and entered into many

of those speculations, that have since been the foundation of my wide

prosperity.

‘Her faith was pledged to me; I lived upon her image; the day was even

talked of when I should bear her to the home that I had proudly prepared

for her.

‘There came a young noble, a warrior who had never seen war, glittering

with gewgaws. He was quartered in the town where the mistress of my

heart, who was soon to share my life and my fortunes, resided. The tale

is too bitter not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that

he loved her; she gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she

found she had never given to me; and instead of bearing the name I had

once hoped to have called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to

one who, like you, was called, CONINGSBY.’

‘My mother!’

‘You see, I too have had my griefs.’

‘Dear sir,’ said Coningsby, rising and taking Mr. Millbank’s hand, ‘I am

most wretched; and yet I wish to part from you even with affection. You

have explained circumstances that have long perplexed me. A curse, I

fear, is on our families. I have not mind enough at this moment even

to ponder on my situation. My head is a chaos. I go; yes, I quit this

Hellingsley, where I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy.

Nay, let me go, dear sir! I must be alone, I must try to think. And tell

her, no, tell her nothing. God will guard over us!’

Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered step, his

countenance lost, as it were, in a wild abstraction, Coningsby

encountered Oswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his turbulent

thoughts, and throwing on Oswald one look that seemed at the same time

to communicate woe and to demand sympathy, flung himself into his arms.

‘My friend!’ he exclaimed, and then added, in a broken voice, ‘I need a

friend.’

Then in a hurried, impassioned, and somewhat incoherent strain, leaning

on Oswald’s arm, as they walked on together, he poured forth all that

had occurred, all of which he had dreamed; his baffled bliss, his

actual despair. Alas! there was little room for solace, and yet all

that earnest affection could inspire, and a sagacious brain and a brave

spirit, were offered for his support, if not his consolation, by the

friend who was devoted to him.

In the midst of this deep communion, teeming with every thought and

sentiment that could enchain and absorb the spirit of man, they came to

one of the park-gates of Coningsby. Millbank stopped. The command of

his father was peremptory, that no member of his family, under any

circumstances, or for any consideration, should set his foot on that

domain. Lady Wallinger had once wished to have seen the Castle, and

Coningsby was only too happy in the prospect of escorting her and Edith

over the place; but Oswald had then at once put his veto on the project,

as a thing forbidden; and which, if put in practice, his father would

never pardon. So it passed off, and now Oswald himself was at the gates

of that very domain with his friend who was about to enter them, his

friend whom he might never see again; that Coningsby who, from their

boyish days, had been the idol of his life; whom he had lived to see

appeal to his affections and his sympathy, and whom Oswald was now going

to desert in the midst of his lonely and unsolaced woe.

‘I ought not to enter here,’ said Oswald, holding the hand of Coningsby

as he hesitated to advance; ‘and yet there are duties more sacred even

than obedience to a father. I cannot leave you thus, friend of my best

heart!’

The morning passed away in unceasing yet fruitless speculation on the

future. One moment something was to happen, the next nothing could

occur. Sometimes a beam of hope flashed over the fancy of Coningsby,

and jumping up from the turf, on which they were reclining, he seemed

to exult in his renovated energies; and then this sanguine paroxysm was

succeeded by a fit of depression so dark and dejected that nothing but

the presence of Oswald seemed to prevent Coningsby from flinging himself

into the waters of the Darl.

The day was fast declining, and the inevitable moment of separation was

at hand. Oswald wished to appear at the dinner-table of Hellingsley,

that no suspicion might arise in the mind of his father of his having

accompanied Coningsby home. But just as he was beginning to mention the

necessity of his departure, a flash of lightning seemed to transfix the

heavens. The sky was very dark; though studded here and there with dingy

spots. The young men sprang up at the same time.

‘We had better get out of these trees,’ said Oswald.

‘We had better get to the Castle,’ said Coningsby.

A clap of thunder that seemed to make the park quake broke over their

heads, followed by some thick drops. The Castle was close at hand;

Oswald had avoided entering it; but the impending storm was so menacing

that, hurried on by Coningsby, he could make no resistance; and, in a

few minutes, the companions were watching the tempest from the windows

of a room in Coningsby Castle.

The fork-lightning flashed and scintillated from every quarter of the

horizon: the thunder broke over the Castle, as if the keep were rocking

with artillery: amid the momentary pauses of the explosion, the rain was

heard descending like dissolving water-spouts.

Nor was this one of those transient tempests that often agitate

the summer. Time advanced, and its fierceness was little mitigated.

Sometimes there was a lull, though the violence of the rain never

appeared to diminish; but then, as in some pitched fight between

contending hosts, when the fervour of the field seems for a moment to

allay, fresh squadrons arrive and renew the hottest strife, so a low

moaning wind that was now at intervals faintly heard bore up a great

reserve of electric vapour, that formed, as it were, into field in

the space between the Castle and Hellingsley, and then discharged its

violence on that fated district.

Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. ‘You must not think of going home

at present, my dear fellow,’ said the first. ‘I am sure your father

would not be displeased. There is not a being here who even knows you,

and if they did, what then?’

The servant entered the room, and inquired whether the gentlemen were

ready for dinner.

‘By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I feel reckless as the tempest;

let us drown our cares in wine!’

Coningsby, in fact, was exhausted by all the agitation of the day, and

all the harassing spectres of the future. He found wine a momentary

solace. He ordered the servants away, and for a moment felt a degree of

wild satisfaction in the company of the brother of Edith.

Thus they sat for a long time, talking only of one subject, and

repeating almost the same things, yet both felt happier in being

together. Oswald had risen, and opening the window, examined the

approaching night. The storm had lulled, though the rain still fell; in

the west was a streak of light. In a quarter of an hour, he calculated

on departing. As he was watching the wind he thought he heard the sound

of wheels, which reminded him of Coningsby’s promise to lend him a light

carriage for his return.

They sat down once more; they had filled their glasses for the last

time; to pledge to their faithful friendship, and the happiness of

Coningsby and Edith; when the door of the room opened, and there

appeared, MR. RIGBY!

END OF BOOK VII.

BOOK VIII.

CHAPTER I.

It was the heart of the London season, nearly four years ago, twelve

months having almost elapsed since the occurrence of those painful

passages at Hellingsley which closed the last book of this history, and

long lines of carriages an hour before midnight, up the classic mount of

St. James and along Piccadilly, intimated that the world were received

at some grand entertainment in Arlington Street.

It was the town mansion of the noble family beneath whose roof at

Beaumanoir we have more than once introduced the reader, to gain whose

courtyard was at this moment the object of emulous coachmen, and to

enter whose saloons was to reward the martyr-like patience of their

lords and ladies.

Among the fortunate who had already succeeded in bowing to their hostess

were two gentlemen, who, ensconced in a good position, surveyed the

scene, and made their observations on the passing guests. They

were gentlemen who, to judge from their general air and the great

consideration with which they were treated by those who were

occasionally in their vicinity, were personages whose criticism bore

authority.

‘I say, Jemmy,’ said the eldest, a dandy who had dined with the Regent,

but who was still a dandy, and who enjoyed life almost as much as in the

days when Carlton House occupied the terrace which still bears its name.

‘I say, Jemmy, what a load of young fellows there are! Don’t know their

names at all. Begin to think fellows are younger than they used to be.

Amazing load of young fellows, indeed!’

At this moment an individual who came under the fortunate designation

of a young fellow, but whose assured carriage hardly intimated that

this was his first season in London, came up to the junior of the two

critics, and said, ‘A pretty turn you played us yesterday at White’s,

Melton. We waited dinner nearly an hour.’

‘My dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry; but I was obliged to go down to

Windsor, and I missed the return train. A good dinner? Who had you?’

‘A capital party, only you were wanted. We had Beaumanoir and Vere, and

Jack Tufton and Spraggs.’

‘Was Spraggs rich?’

‘Wasn’t he! I have not done laughing yet. He told us a story about the

little Biron who was over here last year; I knew her at Paris; and an

Indian screen. Killing! Get him to tell it you. The richest thing you

ever heard!’

‘Who’s your friend?’ inquired Mr. Melton’s companion, as the young man

moved away.

‘Sir Charles Buckhurst.’

‘A--h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen him. They say he

is going it.’

‘He knows what he is about.’

‘Egad! so they all do. A young fellow now of two or three and twenty

knows the world as men used to do after as many years of scrapes. I

wonder where there is such a thing as a greenhorn. Effie Crabbs says

the reason he gives up his house is, that he has cleaned out the old

generation, and that the new generation would clean him.’

‘Buckhurst is not in that sort of way: he swears by Henry Sydney, a

younger son of the Duke, whom you don’t know; and young Coningsby; a

sort of new set; new ideas and all that sort of thing. Beau tells me

a good deal about it; and when I was staying with the Everinghams,

at Easter, they were full of it. Coningsby had just returned from his

travels, and they were quite on the _qui vive_. Lady Everingham is one

of their set. I don’t know what it is exactly; but I think we shall hear

more of it.’

‘A sort of animal magnetism, or unknown tongues, I take it from your

description,’ said his companion.

‘Well, I don’t know what it is,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but it has got hold

of all the young fellows who have just come out. Beau is a little bit

himself. I had some idea of giving my mind to it, they made such a fuss

about it at Everingham; but it requires a devilish deal of history, I

believe, and all that sort of thing.’

‘Ah! that’s a bore,’ said his companion. ‘It is difficult to turn to

with a new thing when you are not in the habit of it. I never could

manage charades.’

Mr. Ormsby, passing by, stopped. ‘They told me you had the gout,

Cassilis?’ he said to Mr. Melton’s companion.

‘So I had; but I have found out a fellow who cures the gout instanter.

Tom Needham sent him to me. A German fellow. Pumicestone pills; sort

of a charm, I believe, and all that kind of thing: they say it rubs the

gout out of you. I sent him to Luxborough, who was very bad; cured him

directly. Luxborough swears by him.’

‘Luxborough believes in the Millennium,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘But here’s a new thing that Melton has been telling me of, that all the

world is going to believe in,’ said Mr. Cassilis, ‘something patronised

by Lady Everingham.’

‘A very good patroness,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘Have you heard anything about it?’ continued Mr. Cassilis. ‘Young

Coningsby brought it from abroad; didn’t you you say so, Jemmy?’

‘No, no, my dear fellow; it is not at all that sort of thing.’

‘But they say it requires a deuced deal of history,’ continued Mr.

Cassilis. ‘One must brush up one’s Goldsmith. Canterton used to be the

fellow for history at White’s. He was always boring one with William the

Conqueror, Julius Caesar, and all that sort of thing.’

‘I tell you what,’ said Mr. Ormsby, looking both sly and solemn, ‘I

should not be surprised if, some day or another, we have a history about

Lady Everingham and young Coningsby.’

‘Poh!’ said Mr. Melton; ‘he is engaged to be married to her sister, Lady

Theresa.’

‘The deuce!’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘well, you are a friend of the family, and

I suppose you know.’

‘He is a devilish good-looking fellow, that young Coningsby,’ said Mr.

Cassilis. ‘All the women are in love with him, they say. Lady Eleanor

Ducie quite raves about him.’

‘By-the-bye, his grandfather has been very unwell,’ said Mr. Ormsby,

looking mysteriously.

‘I saw Lady Monmouth here just now,’ said Mr. Melton.

‘Oh! he is quite well again,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘Got an odd story at White’s that Lord Monmouth was going to separate

from her,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘No foundation,’ said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head.

‘They are not going to separate, I believe,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but I

rather think there was a foundation for the rumour.’

Mr. Ormsby still shook his head.

‘Well,’ continued Mr. Melton, ‘all I know is, that it was looked upon

last winter at Paris as a settled thing.’

‘There was some story about some Hungarian,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘No, that blew over,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘it was Trautsmansdorff the row

was about.’

All this time Mr. Ormsby, as the friend of Lord and Lady Monmouth,

remained shaking his head; but as a member of society, and therefore

delighting in small scandal, appropriating the gossip with the greatest

avidity.

‘I should think old Monmouth was not the sort of fellow to blow up a

woman,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Provided she would leave him quietly,’ said Mr. Melton.

‘Yes, Lord Monmouth never could live with a woman more than two years,’

said Mr. Ormsby, pensively. ‘And that I thought at the time rather an

objection to his marriage.’

We must now briefly revert to what befell our hero after those unhappy

occurrences in the midst of whose first woe we left him.

The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the Castle, Coningsby quitted

it for London, and before a week had elapsed had embarked for Cadiz. He

felt a romantic interest in visiting the land to which Edith owed some

blood, and in acquiring the language which he had often admired as she

spoke it. A favourable opportunity permitted him in the autumn to visit

Athens and the AEgean, which he much desired. In the pensive beauties

of that delicate land, where perpetual autumn seems to reign, Coningsby

found solace. There is something in the character of Grecian scenery

which blends with the humour of the melancholy and the feelings of

the sorrowful. Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The wish of his

grandfather had rendered it necessary for him to return to England

somewhat abruptly. Lord Monmouth had not visited his native country

since his marriage; but the period that had elapsed since that event had

considerably improved the prospects of his party. The majority of the

Whig Cabinet in the House of Commons by 1840 had become little more than

nominal; and though it was circulated among their friends, as if from

the highest authority, that ‘one was enough,’ there seemed daily a

better chance of their being deprived even of that magical unit. For the

first time in the history of this country since the introduction of the

system of parliamentary sovereignty, the Government of England depended

on the fate of single elections; and indeed, by a single vote, it is

remarkable to observe, the fate of the Whig Government was ultimately

decided.

This critical state of affairs, duly reported to Lord Monmouth, revived

his political passions, and offered him that excitement which he was

ever seeking, and yet for which he had often sighed. The Marquess, too,

was weary of Paris. Every day he found it more difficult to be amused.

Lucretia had lost her charm. He, from whom nothing could be concealed,

perceived that often, while she elaborately attempted to divert him, her

mind was wandering elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was quite superior to all

petty jealousy and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals, but his

sublime selfishness required devotion. He had calculated that a wife

or a mistress who might be in love with another man, however powerfully

their interests might prompt them, could not be so agreeable or amusing

to their friends and husbands as if they had no such distracting hold

upon their hearts or their fancy. Latterly at Paris, while Lucretia

became each day more involved in the vortex of society, where all

admired and some adored her, Lord Monmouth fell into the easy habit of

dining in his private rooms, sometimes tête-à-tête with Villebecque,

whose inexhaustible tales and adventures about a kind of society which

Lord Monmouth had always preferred infinitely to the polished and

somewhat insipid circles in which he was born, had rendered him the

prime favourite of his great patron. Sometimes Villebecque, too, brought

a friend, male or otherwise, whom he thought invested with the rare

faculty of distraction: Lord Monmouth cared not who or what they were,

provided they were diverting.

Villebecque had written to Coningsby at Rome, by his grandfather’s

desire, to beg him to return to England and meet Lord Monmouth there.

The letter was couched with all the respect and good feeling which

Villebecque really entertained for him whom he addressed; still a letter

on such a subject from such a person was not agreeable to Coningsby, and

his reply to it was direct to his grandfather; Lord Monmouth, however,

had entirely given over writing letters.

Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to England, Lord and Lady

Everingham, and he had returned with them. This revival of an old

acquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate for our hero. The vivacity

of a clever and charming woman pleasantly disturbed the brooding memory

of Coningsby. There is no mortification however keen, no misery however

desperate, which the spirit of woman cannot in some degree lighten or

alleviate. About, too, to make his formal entrance into the great

world, he could not have secured a more valuable and accomplished

female friend. She gave him every instruction, every intimation that

was necessary; cleared the social difficulties which in some degree are

experienced on their entrance into the world even by the most highly

connected, unless they have this benign assistance; planted him

immediately in the position which was expedient; took care that he was

invited at once to the right houses; and, with the aid of her husband,

that he should become a member of the right clubs.

‘And who is to have the blue ribbon, Lord Eskdale?’ said the Duchess to

that nobleman, as he entered and approached to pay his respects.

‘If I were Melbourne, I would keep it open,’ replied his Lordship. ‘It

is a mistake to give away too quickly.’

‘But suppose they go out,’ said her Grace.

‘Oh! there is always a last day to clear the House. But they will be

in another year. The cliff will not be sapped before then. We made a

mistake last year about the ladies.’

‘I know you always thought so.’

‘Quarrels about women are always a mistake. One should make it a rule to

give up to them, and then they are sure to give up to us.’

‘You have no great faith in our firmness?’

‘Male firmness is very often obstinacy: women have always something

better, worth all qualities; they have tact.’

‘A compliment to the sex from so finished a critic as Lord Eskdale is

appreciated.’

But at this moment the arrival of some guests terminated the

conversation, and Lord Eskdale moved away, and approached a group which

Lady Everingham was enlightening.

‘My dear Lord Fitz-booby,’ her Ladyship observed, ‘in politics we

require faith as well as in all other things.’

Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed; but, possessed of considerable

official experience, having held high posts, some in the cabinet, for

nearly a quarter of a century, he was too versed to acknowledge that he

had not understood a single word that had been addressed to him for the

last ten minutes. He looked on with the same grave, attentive stolidity,

occasionally nodding his head, as he was wont of yore when he received

a deputation on sugar duties or joint-stock banks, and when he made,

as was his custom when particularly perplexed, an occasional note on a

sheet of foolscap paper.

‘An Opposition in an age of revolution,’ continued Lady Everingham,

‘must be founded on principles. It cannot depend on mere personal

ability and party address taking advantage of circumstances. You have

not enunciated a principle for the last ten years; and when you seemed

on the point of acceding to power, it was not on a great question of

national interest, but a technical dispute respecting the constitution

of an exhausted sugar colony.’

‘If you are a Conservative party, we wish to know what you want to

conserve,’ said Lord Vere.

‘If it had not been for the Whig abolition of slavery,’ said Lord

Fitz-booby, goaded into repartee, ‘Jamaica would not have been an

exhausted sugar colony.’

‘Then what you do want to conserve is slavery?’ said Lord Vere.

‘No,’ said Lord Fitz-booby, ‘I am never for retracing our steps.’

‘But will you advance, will you move? And where will you advance, and

how will you move?’ said Lady Everingham.

‘I think we have had quite enough of advancing,’ said his Lordship. ‘I

had no idea your Ladyship was a member of the Movement party,’ he added,

with a sarcastic grin.

‘But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby, to move where we are, as you

and your friends have always maintained, how can you reconcile it to

principle to remain there?’ said Lord Vere.

‘I would make the best of a bad bargain,’ said Lord Fitz-booby. ‘With

a Conservative government, a reformed Constitution would be less

dangerous.’

‘Why?’ said Lady Everingham. ‘What are your distinctive principles that

render the peril less?’

‘I appeal to Lord Eskdale,’ said Lord Fitz-booby; ‘there is Lady

Everingham turned quite a Radical, I declare. Is not your Lordship of

opinion that the country must be safer with a Conservative government

than with a Liberal?’

‘I think the country is always tolerably secure,’ said Lord Eskdale.

Lady Theresa, leaning on the arm of Mr. Lyle, came up at this moment,

and unconsciously made a diversion in favour of Lord Fitz-booby.

‘Pray, Theresa,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘where is Mr. Coningsby?’

Let us endeavour to ascertain. It so happened that on this day Coningsby

and Henry Sydney dined at Grillion’s, at an university club, where,

among many friends whom Coningsby had not met for a long time, and among

delightful reminiscences, the unconscious hours stole on. It was late

when they quitted Grillion’s, and Coningsby’s brougham was detained for

a considerable time before its driver could insinuate himself into the

line, which indeed he would never have succeeded in doing had not he

fortunately come across the coachman of the Duke of Agincourt, who being

of the same politics as himself, belonging to the same club, and always

black-balling the same men, let him in from a legitimate party feeling;

so they arrived in Arlington Street at a very late hour.

Coningsby was springing up the staircase, now not so crowded as it had

been, and met a retiring party; he was about to say a passing word to a

gentleman as he went by, when, suddenly, Coningsby turned deadly pale.

The gentleman could hardly be the cause, for it was the gracious and

handsome presence of Lord Beaumanoir: the lady resting on his arm was

Edith. They moved on while he was motionless; yet Edith and himself

had exchanged glances. His was one of astonishment; but what was the

expression of hers? She must have recognised him before he had observed

her. She was collected, and she expressed the purpose of her mind in

a distant and haughty recognition. Coningsby remained for a moment

stupefied; then suddenly turning back, he bounded downstairs and hurried

into the cloak-room. He met Lady Wallinger; he spoke rapidly, he held

her hand, did not listen to her answers, his eyes wandered about. There

were many persons present, at length he recognised Edith enveloped in

her mantle. He went forward, he looked at her, as if he would have read

her soul; he said something. She changed colour as he addressed her,

but seemed instantly by an effort to rally and regain her equanimity;

replied to his inquiries with extreme brevity, and Lady Wallinger’s

carriage being announced, moved away with the same slight haughty salute

as before, on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir.

CHAPTER II.

Sadness fell over the once happy family of Millbank after the departure

of Coningsby from Hellingsley. When the first pang was over, Edith

had found some solace in the sympathy of her aunt, who had always

appreciated and admired Coningsby; but it was a sympathy which aspired

only to soften sorrow, and not to create hope. But Lady Wallinger,

though she lengthened her visit for the sake of her niece, in time

quitted them; and then the name of Coningsby was never heard by Edith.

Her brother, shortly after the sorrowful and abrupt departure of his

friend, had gone to the factories, where he remained, and of which, in

future, it was intended that he should assume the principal direction.

Mr. Millbank himself, sustained at first by the society of his friend

Sir Joseph, to whom he was attached, and occupied with daily reports

from his establishment and the transaction of the affairs with his

numerous and busy constituents, was for a while scarcely conscious of

the alteration which had taken place in the demeanour of his daughter.

But when they were once more alone together, it was impossible any

longer to be blind to the great change. That happy and equable gaiety of

spirit, which seemed to spring from an innocent enjoyment of existence,

and which had ever distinguished Edith, was wanting. Her sunny glance

was gone. She was not indeed always moody and dispirited, but she was

fitful, unequal in her tone. That temper whose sweetness had been a

domestic proverb had become a little uncertain. Not that her affection

for her father was diminished, but there were snatches of unusual

irritability which momentarily escaped her, followed by bursts of

tenderness that were the creatures of compunction. And often, after some

hasty word, she would throw her arms round her father’s neck with the

fondness of remorse. She pursued her usual avocations, for she had

really too well-regulated a mind, she was in truth a person of

too strong an intellect, to neglect any source of occupation and

distraction. Her flowers, her pencil, and her books supplied her with

these; and music soothed, and at times beguiled, her agitated thoughts.

But there was no joy in the house, and in time Mr. Millbank felt it.

Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. Edith, his Edith, the pride

and delight of his existence, who had been to him only a source of

exultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was perhaps pining away;

and there was the appearance, the unjust appearance that he, her fond

father, was the cause and occasion of all this wretchedness. It would

appear that the name of Coningsby, to which he now owed a great debt of

gratitude, was still doomed to bear him mortification and misery. Truly

had the young man said that there was a curse upon their two families.

And yet, on reflection, it still seemed to Mr. Millbank that he had

acted with as much wisdom and real kindness as decision. How otherwise

was he to have acted? The union was impossible; the speedier their

separation, therefore, clearly the better. Unfortunate, indeed, had been

his absence from Hellingsley; unquestionably his presence might have

prevented the catastrophe. Oswald should have hindered all this. And

yet Mr. Millbank could not shut his eyes to the devotion of his son to

Coningsby. He felt he could count on no assistance in this respect from

that quarter. Yet how hard upon him that he should seem to figure as

a despot or a tyrant to his own children, whom he loved, when he had

absolutely acted in an inevitable manner! Edith seemed sad, Oswald

sullen; all was changed. All the objects for which this clear-headed,

strong-minded, kind-hearted man had been working all his life, seemed

to be frustrated. And why? Because a young man had made love to his

daughter, who was really in no manner entitled to do so.

As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley, under existing

circumstances, extremely wearisome; and he proposed to his daughter that

they should pay a visit to their earlier home. Edith assented without

difficulty, but without interest. And yet, as Mr. Millbank immediately

perceived, the change was a judicious one; for certainly the spirits

of Edith seemed to improve after her return to their valley. There were

more objects of interest: change, too, is always beneficial. If

Mr. Millbank had been aware that Oswald had received a letter from

Coningsby, written before he quitted Spain, perhaps he might have

recognised a more satisfactory reason for the transient liveliness of

his daughter which had so greatly gratified him.

About a month after Christmas, the meeting of Parliament summoned Mr.

Millbank up to London; and he had wished Edith to accompany him. But

London in February to Edith, without friends or connections, her father

always occupied and absent from her day and night, seemed to them

all, on reflection, to be a life not very conducive to health or

cheerfulness, and therefore she remained with her brother. Oswald had

heard from Coningsby again from Rome; but at the period he wrote he did

not anticipate his return to England. His tone was affectionate, but

dispirited.

Lady Wallinger went up to London after Easter for the season, and Mr.

Millbank, now that there was a constant companion for his daughter, took

a house and carried Edith back with him to London. Lady Wallinger,

who had great wealth and great tact, had obtained by degrees a

not inconsiderable position in society. She had a fine house in a

fashionable situation, and gave profuse entertainments. The Whigs

were under obligations to her husband, and the great Whig ladies were

gratified to find in his wife a polished and pleasing person, to whom

they could be courteous without any annoyance. So that Edith, under the

auspices of her aunt, found herself at once in circles which otherwise

she might not easily have entered, but which her beauty, grace, and

experience of the most refined society of the Continent, qualified

her to shine in. One evening they met the Marquis of Beaumanoir, their

friend of Rome and Paris, and admirer of Edith, who from that time was

seldom from their side. His mother, the Duchess, immediately called both

on the Millbanks and the Wallingers; glad, not only to please her son,

but to express that consideration for Mr. Millbank which the Duke always

wished to show. It was, however, of no use; nothing would induce Mr.

Millbank ever to enter what he called aristocratic society. He liked the

House of Commons; never paired off; never missed a moment of it; worked

at committees all the morning, listened attentively to debates all the

night; always dined at Bellamy’s when there was a house; and when there

was not, liked dining at the Fishmongers’ Company, the Russia Company,

great Emigration banquets, and other joint-stock festivities. That was

his idea of rational society; business and pleasure combined; a good

dinner, and good speeches afterwards.

Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned to England, for her brother

had heard from him on his arrival; but Oswald had not heard since.

A season in London only represented in the mind of Edith the chance,

perhaps the certainty, of meeting Coningsby again; of communing together

over the catastrophe of last summer; of soothing and solacing each

other’s unhappiness, and perhaps, with the sanguine imagination of

youth, foreseeing a more felicitous future. She had been nearly a

fortnight in town, and though moving frequently in the same circles as

Coningsby, they had not yet met. It was one of those results which

could rarely occur; but even chance enters too frequently in the

league against lovers. The invitation to the assembly at ---- House was

therefore peculiarly gratifying to Edith, since she could scarcely

doubt that if Coningsby were in town, which her casual inquiries of Lord

Beaumanoir induced her to believe was the case, he would be present.

Never, therefore, had she repaired to an assembly with such a flattering

spirit; and yet there was a fascinating anxiety about it that bewilders

the young heart.

In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch the form of that being, whom

for a moment she had never ceased to cherish and muse over. He was not

there; and at the very moment when, disappointed and mortified, she most

required solace, she learned from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney,

whom she chanced to admire, was going to be married, and to Mr.

Coningsby!

What a revelation! His silence, perhaps his shunning of her were no

longer inexplicable. What a return for all her romantic devotion in her

sad solitude at Hellingsley. Was this the end of their twilight rambles,

and the sweet pathos of their mutual loves? There seemed to be no truth

in man, no joy in life! All the feelings that she had so generously

lavished, all returned upon herself. She could have burst into a passion

of tears and buried herself in a cloister.

Instead of that, civilisation made her listen with a serene though

tortured countenance; but as soon as it was in her power, pleading a

headache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought she had effected,

her escape from a scene which harrowed her heart.

As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night, agitated by the

unexpected presence of Edith and distracted by the manner in which

she had received him. To say that her appearance had revived all his

passionate affection for her would convey an unjust impression of the

nature of his feelings. His affection had never for a moment swerved; it

was profound and firm. But unquestionably this sudden vision had brought

before him, in startling and more vivid colours, the relations that

subsisted between them. There was the being whom he loved and who loved

him; and whatever were the barriers which the circumstances of life

placed against their union, they were partakers of the solemn sacrament

of an unpolluted heart.

Coningsby, as we have mentioned, had signified to Oswald his return to

England: he had hitherto omitted to write again; not because his spirit

faltered, but he was wearied of whispering hope without foundation, and

mourning over his chagrined fortunes. Once more in England, once more

placed in communication with his grandfather, he felt with increased

conviction the difficulties which surrounded him. The society of Lady

Everingham and her sister, who had been at the same time her visitor,

had been a relaxation, and a beneficial one, to a mind suffering

too much from the tension of one idea. But Coningsby had treated the

matrimonial project of his gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity

in which he believed it had first half originated. He admired and liked

Lady Theresa; but there was a reason why he should not marry her, even

had his own heart not been absorbed by one of those passions from which

men of deep and earnest character never emancipate themselves.

After musing and meditating again and again over everything that had

occurred, Coningsby fell asleep when the morning had far advanced,

resolved to rise when a little refreshed and find out Lady Wallinger,

who, he felt sure, would receive him with kindness.

Yet it was fated that this step should not be taken, for while he was

at breakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Monmouth House,

apprising him that his grandfather wished to see him as soon as possible

on urgent business.

CHAPTER III.

Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing-room in which he was

first introduced to the reader; on the table were several packets of

papers that were open and in course of reference; and he dictated his

observations to Monsieur Villebecque, who was writing at his left hand.

Thus were they occupied when Coningsby was ushered into the room.

‘You see, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘that I am much occupied to-day,

yet the business on which I wish to communicate with you is so pressing

that it could not be postponed.’ He made a sign to Villebecque, and his

secretary instantly retired.

‘I was right in pressing your return to England,’ continued Lord

Monmouth to his grandson, who was a little anxious as to the impending

communication, which he could not in any way anticipate. ‘These are not

times when young men should be out of sight. Your public career will

commence immediately. The Government have resolved on a dissolution. My

information is from the highest quarter. You may be astonished, but

it is a fact. They are going to dissolve their own House of Commons.

Notwithstanding this and the Queen’s name, we can beat them; but the

race requires the finest jockeying. We can’t give a point. Tadpole has

been here to me about Darlford; he came specially with a message, I may

say an appeal, from one to whom I can refuse nothing; the Government

count on the seat, though with the new Registration ‘tis nearly a tie.

If we had a good candidate we could win. But Rigby won’t do. He is too

much of the old clique; used up; a hack; besides, a beaten horse. We are

assured the name of Coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable

section who support the present fellow who will not vote against a

Coningsby. They have thought of you as a fit person, and I have approved

of the suggestion. You will, therefore, be the candidate for Darlford

with my entire sanction and support, and I have no doubt you will be

successful. You may be sure I shall spare nothing: and it will be very

gratifying to me, after being robbed of all our boroughs, that the only

Coningsby who cares to enter Parliament, should nevertheless be able to

do so as early as I could fairly desire.’

Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the hustings of Darlford!

Vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe! The fierce passions,

the gross insults, the hot blood and the cool lies, the ruffianism and

the ribaldry, perhaps the domestic discomfiture and mortification, which

he was about to be the means of bringing on the roof he loved best

in the world, occurred to him with anguish. The countenance of

Edith, haughty and mournful last night, rose to him again. He saw her

canvassing for her father, and against him. Madness! And for what was

he to make this terrible and costly sacrifice For his ambition? Not even

for that Divinity or Daemon for which we all immolate so much! Mighty

ambition, forsooth, to succeed to the Rigbys! To enter the House of

Commons a slave and a tool; to move according to instructions, and

to labour for the low designs of petty spirits, without even the

consolation of being a dupe. What sympathy could there exist between

Coningsby and the ‘great Conservative party,’ that for ten years in

an age of revolution had never promulgated a principle; whose only

intelligible and consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, very

grateful of course to the feelings of an English Royalist, to revive

Irish Puritanism; who when in power in 1835 had used that power only to

evince their utter ignorance of Church principles; and who were at this

moment, when Coningsby was formally solicited to join their ranks, in

open insurrection against the prerogatives of the English Monarchy?

‘Do you anticipate then an immediate dissolution, sir?’ inquired

Coningsby after a moment’s pause.

‘We must anticipate it; though I think it doubtful. It may be next

month; it may be in the autumn; they may tide over another year, as Lord

Eskdale thinks, and his opinion always weighs with me. He is very safe.

Tadpole believes they will dissolve at once. But whether they dissolve

now, or in a month’s time, or in the autumn, or next year, our course

is clear. We must declare our intentions immediately. We must hoist our

flag. Monday next, there is a great Conservative dinner at Darlford. You

must attend it; that will be the finest opportunity in the world for you

to announce yourself.’

‘Don’t you think, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘that such an announcement would

be rather premature? It is, in fact, embarking in a contest which may

last a year; perhaps more.’

‘What you say is very true,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘no doubt it is very

troublesome; very disgusting; any canvassing is. But we must take things

as we find them. You cannot get into Parliament now in the good old

gentlemanlike way; and we ought to be thankful that this interest has

been fostered for our purpose.’

Coningsby looked on the carpet, cleared his throat as if about to speak,

and then gave something like a sigh.

‘I think you had better be off the day after to-morrow,’ said Lord

Monmouth. ‘I have sent instructions to the steward to do all he can in

so short a time, for I wish you to entertain the principal people.’

‘You are most kind, you are always most kind to me, dear sir,’ said

Coningsby, in a hesitating tone, and with an air of great embarrassment,

‘but, in truth, I have no wish to enter Parliament.’

‘What?’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘I feel that I am not sufficiently prepared for so great a

responsibility as a seat in the House of Commons,’ said Coningsby.

‘Responsibility!’ said Lord Monmouth, smiling. ‘What responsibility is

there? How can any one have a more agreeable seat? The only person to

whom you are responsible is your own relation, who brings you in. And I

don’t suppose there can be any difference on any point between us. You

are certainly still young; but I was younger by nearly two years when

I first went in; and I found no difficulty. There can be no difficulty.

All you have got to do is to vote with your party. As for speaking, if

you have a talent that way, take my advice; don’t be in a hurry. Learn

to know the House; learn the House to know you. If a man be discreet, he

cannot enter Parliament too soon.’

‘It is not exactly that, sir,’ said Coningsby.

‘Then what is it, my dear Harry? You see to-day I have much to do; yet

as your business is pressing, I would not postpone seeing you an hour. I

thought you would have been very much gratified.’

‘You mentioned that I had nothing to do but to vote with my party, sir,’

replied Coningsby. ‘You mean, of course, by that term what is understood

by the Conservative party.’

‘Of course; our friends.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Coningsby, rather pale, but speaking with firmness,

‘I am sorry that I could not support the Conservative party.’

‘By ----!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, starting in his seat, ‘some woman

has got hold of him, and made him a Whig!’

‘No, my dear grandfather,’ said Coningsby, scarcely able to repress a

smile, serious as the interview was becoming, ‘nothing of the kind, I

assure you. No person can be more anti-Whig.’

‘I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a

hard, dry tone.

‘I wish to be frank, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘and am very sensible of your

goodness in permitting me to speak to you on the subject. What I mean to

say is, that I have for a long time looked upon the Conservative party

as a body who have betrayed their trust; more from ignorance, I admit,

than from design; yet clearly a body of individuals totally unequal

to the exigencies of the epoch, and indeed unconscious of its real

character.’

‘You mean giving up those Irish corporations?’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Well, between ourselves, I am quite of the same opinion. But we must

mount higher; we must go to ‘28 for the real mischief. But what is the

use of lamenting the past? Peel is the only man; suited to the times and

all that; at least we must say so, and try to believe so; we can’t go

back. And it is our own fault that we have let the chief power out of

the hands of our own order. It was never thought of in the time of your

great-grandfather, sir. And if a commoner were for a season permitted

to be the nominal Premier to do the detail, there was always a secret

committee of great 1688 nobles to give him his instructions.’

‘I should be very sorry to see secret committees of great 1688 nobles

again,’ said Coningsby.

‘Then what the devil do you want to see?’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Political faith,’ said Coningsby, ‘instead of political infidelity.’

‘Hem!’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Before I support Conservative principles,’ continued Coningsby, ‘I

merely wish to be informed what those principles aim to conserve. It

would not appear to be the prerogative of the Crown, since the principal

portion of a Conservative oration now is an invective against a late

royal act which they describe as a Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church

which they wish to conserve? What is a threatened Appropriation Clause

against an actual Church Commission in the hands of Parliamentary

Laymen? Could the Long Parliament have done worse? Well, then, if it

is neither the Crown nor the Church, whose rights and privileges this

Conservative party propose to vindicate, is it your House, the House

of Lords, whose powers they are prepared to uphold? Is it not notorious

that the very man whom you have elected as your leader in that House,

declares among his Conservative adherents, that henceforth the assembly

that used to furnish those very Committees of great revolution nobles

that you mention, is to initiate nothing; and, without a struggle, is

to subside into that undisturbed repose which resembles the Imperial

tranquillity that secured the frontiers by paying tribute?’

‘All this is vastly fine,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘but I see no means by

which I can attain my object but by supporting Peel. After all, what is

the end of all parties and all politics? To gain your object. I want to

turn our coronet into a ducal one, and to get your grandmother’s barony

called out of abeyance in your favour. It is impossible that Peel can

refuse me. I have already purchased an ample estate with the view

of entailing it on you and your issue. You will make a considerable

alliance; you may marry, if you please, Lady Theresa Sydney. I hear the

report with pleasure. Count on my at once entering into any arrangement

conducive to your happiness.’

‘My dear grandfather, you have ever been to me only too kind and

generous.’

‘To whom should I be kind but to you, my own blood, that has never

crossed me, and of whom I have reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, it

gratifies me to hear you admired and to learn your success. All I want

now is to see you in Parliament. A man should be in Parliament early.

There is a sort of stiffness about every man, no matter what may be his

talents, who enters Parliament late in life; and now, fortunately, the

occasion offers. You will go down on Friday; feed the notabilities

well; speak out; praise Peel; abuse O’Connell and the ladies of the

Bed-chamber; anathematise all waverers; say a good deal about Ireland;

stick to the Irish Registration Bill, that’s a good card; and, above

all, my dear Harry, don’t spare that fellow Millbank. Remember, in

turning him out you not only gain a vote for the Conservative cause

and our coronet, but you crush my foe. Spare nothing for that object; I

count on you, boy.’

‘I should grieve to be backward in anything that concerned your

interest or your honour, sir,’ said Coningsby, with an air of great

embarrassment.

‘I am sure you would, I am sure you would,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a

tone of some kindness.

‘And I feel at this moment,’ continued Coningsby, ‘that there is no

personal sacrifice which I am not prepared to make for them, except one.

My interests, my affections, they should not be placed in the balance,

if yours, sir, were at stake, though there are circumstances which might

involve me in a position of as much mental distress as a man could well

endure; but I claim for my convictions, my dear grandfather, a generous

tolerance.’

‘I can’t follow you, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, again in his hard tone.

‘Our interests are inseparable, and therefore there can never be

any sacrifice of conduct on your part. What you mean by sacrifice of

affections, I don’t comprehend; but as for your opinions, you have no

business to have any other than those I uphold. You are too young to

form opinions.’

‘I am sure I wish to express them with no unbecoming confidence,’

replied Coningsby; ‘I have never intruded them on your ear before;

but this being an occasion when you yourself said, sir, I was about

to commence my public career, I confess I thought it was my duty to be

frank; I would not entail on myself long years of mortification by one

of those ill-considered entrances into political life which so many

public men have cause to deplore.’

‘You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman; you are not to consider

your opinions, like a philosopher or a political adventurer.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘but men going with their

families like gentlemen, and losing sight of every principle on which

the society of this country ought to be established, produced the Reform

Bill.’

‘D---- the Reform Bill!’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘if the Duke had not

quarrelled with Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we should never have had

the Reform Bill. And Grey would have gone to Ireland.’

‘You are in as great peril now as you were in 1830,’ said Coningsby.

‘No, no, no,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the Tory party is organised now; they

will not catch us napping again: these Conservative Associations have

done the business.’

‘But what are they organised for?’ said Coningsby. ‘At the best to turn

out the Whigs. And when you have turned out the Whigs, what then? You

may get your ducal coronet, sir. But a duke now is not so great a man

as a baron was but a century back. We cannot struggle against the

irresistible stream of circumstances. Power has left our order; this is

not an age for factitious aristocracy. As for my grandmother’s barony, I

should look upon the termination of its abeyance in my favour as the

act of my political extinction. What we want, sir, is not to fashion

new dukes and furbish up old baronies, but to establish great principles

which may maintain the realm and secure the happiness of the people. Let

me see authority once more honoured; a solemn reverence again the habit

of our lives; let me see property acknowledging, as in the old days

of faith, that labour is his twin brother, and that the essence of all

tenure is the performance of duty; let results such as these be brought

about, and let me participate, however feebly, in the great fulfilment,

and public life then indeed becomes a noble career, and a seat in

Parliament an enviable distinction.’

‘I tell you what it is, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, very drily, ‘members

of this family may think as they like, but they must act as I please.

You must go down on Friday to Darlford and declare yourself a candidate

for the town, or I shall reconsider our mutual positions. I would say,

you must go to-morrow; but it is only courteous to Rigby to give him a

previous intimation of your movement. And that cannot be done to-day. I

sent for Rigby this morning on other business which now occupies me, and

find he is out of town. He will return to-morrow; and will be here at

three o’clock, when you can meet him. You will meet him, I doubt not,

like a man of sense,’ added Lord Monmouth, looking at Coningsby with a

glance such as he had never before encountered, ‘who is not prepared to

sacrifice all the objects of life for the pursuit of some fantastical

puerilities.’

His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque; and to prevent

any further conversation, resumed his papers.

CHAPTER IV.

It would have been difficult for any person, unconscious of crime,

to have felt more dejected than Coningsby when he rode out of the

court-yard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith would have consoled

him for the destruction of his prosperity; the proud fulfilment of his

ambition might in time have proved some compensation for his crushed

affections; but his present position seemed to offer no single source

of solace. There came over him that irresistible conviction that is at

times the dark doom of all of us, that the bright period of our life is

past; that a future awaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification,

despair; that none of our resplendent visions can ever be realised:

and that we add but one more victim to the long and dreary catalogue of

baffled aspirations.

Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to extricate

himself from the perils that were encompassing him. There was something

about his grandfather that defied persuasion. Prone as eloquent

youth generally is to believe in the resistless power of its appeals,

Coningsby despaired at once of ever moving Lord Monmouth. There had been

a callous dryness in his manner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit,

that at once baffled all attempts at influence. Nor could Coningsby

forget the look he received when he quitted the room. There was no

possibility of mistaking it; it said at once, without periphrasis,

‘Cross my purpose, and I will crush you!’

This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the counsels, of

friendship might have been grateful. A clever woman might have afforded

even more than sympathy; some happy device that might have even released

him from the mesh in which he was involved. And once Coningsby had

turned his horse’s head to Park Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But

surely if there were a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which

subsisted between himself and Edith. No, that must never be violated.

Then there was Lady Wallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to

her. He resolved to tell her all. He looked in for a moment at a club

to take up the ‘Court Guide’ and find her direction. A few men were

standing in a bow window. He heard Mr. Cassilis say,

‘So Beau, they say, is booked at last; the new beauty, have you heard?’

‘I saw him very sweet on her last night,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Has

she any tin?’

‘Deuced deal, they say,’ replied Mr. Cassilis.’ The father is a cotton

lord, and they all have loads of tin, you know. Nothing like them now.’

‘He is in Parliament, is not he?’

‘’Gad, I believe he is,’ said Mr. Cassilis; ‘I never know who is in

Parliament in these days. I remember when there were only ten men in the

House of Commons who were not either members of Brookes’ or this place.

Everything is so deuced changed.’

‘I hear ‘tis an old affair of Beau,’ said another gentleman. ‘It was all

done a year ago at Rome or Paris.’

‘They say she refused him then,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer’s daughter,’ said his

friend. ‘What next?’

‘I wonder how the Duke likes it?’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Or the Duchess?’ added one of his friends.

‘Or the Everinghams?’ added the other.

‘The Duke will be deuced glad to see Beau settled, I take it,’ said Mr.

Cassilis.

‘A good deal depends on the tin,’ said his friend.

Coningsby threw down the ‘Court Guide’ with a sinking heart. In spite

of every insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all his

aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost unconsciously

to himself, was Edith. It was over. The strange manner of last night was

fatally explained. The heart that once had been his was now another’s.

To the man who still loves there is in that conviction the most profound

and desolate sorrow of which our nature is capable. All the recollection

of the past, all the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend into

one bewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the club, and mounting his

horse, rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his direction.

He found himself at length in a green lane near Willesden, silent and

undisturbed; he pulled up his horse, and summoned all his mind to the

contemplation of his prospects.

Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, accept his

mission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour and fortune, power,

prosperity, rank, distinction would be the consequence of this step;

might not he add even vengeance? Was there to be no term to his

endurance? Might not he teach this proud, prejudiced manufacturer, with

all his virulence and despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his

daughter, too, this betrothed, after all, of a young noble, with her

flush futurity of splendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only,

if indeed she heard of him at all, as of one toiling or trifling in the

humbler positions of existence; and wonder, with a blush, that he ever

could have been the hero of her romantic girlhood? What degradation in

the idea? His cheek burnt at the possibility of such ignominy!

It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He thought of

his companions who looked up to him with such ardent anticipations of

his fame, of delight in his career, and confidence in his leading; were

all these high and fond fancies to be balked? On the very threshold of

life was he to blunder? ‘Tis the first step that leads to all, and

his was to be a wilful error. He remembered his first visit to his

grandfather, and the delight of his friends at Eton at his report on his

return. After eight years of initiation was he to lose that favour then

so highly prized, when the results which they had so long counted on

were on the very eve of accomplishment? Parliament and riches, and rank

and power; these were facts, realities, substances, that none could

mistake. Was he to sacrifice them for speculations, theories, shadows,

perhaps the vapours of a green and conceited brain? No, by heaven, no!

He was like Caesar by the starry river’s side, watching the image of the

planets on its fatal waters. The die was cast.

The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exaltation

of his spirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and

tranquillity and consolation, came clustering round his heart like

seraphs. He thought of Edith in her hours of fondness; he thought of

the pure and solemn moments when to mingle his name with the heroes of

humanity was his aspiration, and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring

purpose of his life. What were the tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition

to him? No domestic despot could deprive him of his intellect, his

knowledge, the sustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. If he

possessed the intelligence in which he had confidence, the world

would recognise his voice even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the

principles of his philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation

would respond to their expression. Coningsby felt at this moment a

profound conviction which never again deserted him, that the conduct

which would violate the affections of the heart, or the dictates of the

conscience, however it may lead to immediate success, is a fatal error.

Conscious that he was perhaps verging on some painful vicissitude of his

life, he devoted himself to a love that seemed hopeless, and to a fame

that was perhaps a dream.

It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions that he wrote,

on his return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed

all that affection which he really felt for his grandfather, and all

the pangs which it cost him to adhere to the conclusions he had already

announced. In terms of tenderness, and even humility, he declined to

become a candidate for Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as

the master of his own conduct.

CHAPTER V.

Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir which

had been fitted up under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as he

then believed for the Princess Colonna. The walls were hung with amber

satin, painted by Delaroche with such subjects as might be expected from

his brilliant and picturesque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines

in dazzling costume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what is

commonly styled civilisation, moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid

palaces and gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fashion

of the Saracens, was richly gilt and picked out in violet. Upon a violet

carpet of velvet was represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche.

It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth House, and

Flora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth as was her custom, to read to

her as she was employed with some light work.

‘’Tis a new book of Sue,’ said Lucretia. ‘They say it is good.’

Flora, seated by her side, began to read. Reading was an accomplishment

which distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice faltered, her expression

was uncertain; she seemed but imperfectly to comprehend her page. More

than once Lady Monmouth looked round at her with an inquisitive glance.

Suddenly Flora stopped and burst into tears.

‘O! madam,’ she at last exclaimed, ‘if you would but speak to Mr.

Coningsby, all might be right!’

‘What is this?’ said Lady Monmouth, turning quickly on the sofa; then,

collecting herself in an instant, she continued with less abruptness,

and more suavity than usual, ‘Tell me, Flora, what is it; what is the

matter?’

‘My Lord,’ sobbed Flora, ‘has quarrelled with Mr. Coningsby.’

An expression of eager interest came over the countenance of Lucretia.

‘Why have they quarrelled?’

‘I do not know they have quarrelled; it is not, perhaps, a right term;

but my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and about what?’

‘Oh! very angry, madam,’ said Flora, shaking her head mournfully. ‘My

Lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter

the house again.’

‘Was it to-day?’ asked Lucretia.

‘This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will not

do what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not know

exactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: my

father is frightened even to go into his room when he is so.’

‘Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day?’ asked Lucretia.

‘Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this morning

before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby was not in town.

That is why I know it.’

Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa, and walked once or twice up and down

the room. Then turning to Flora, she said, ‘Go away now: the book is

stupid; it does not amuse me. Stop: find out all you can for me about

the quarrel before I speak to Mr. Coningsby.’

Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained for some time in meditation;

then she wrote a few lines, which she despatched at once to Mr. Rigby.

CHAPTER VI.

What a great man was the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby! Here was one

of the first peers of England, and one of the finest ladies in London,

both waiting with equal anxiety his return to town; and unable to

transact two affairs of vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without

his interposition! What was the secret of the influence of this man,

confided in by everybody, trusted by none? His counsels were not deep,

his expedients were not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could

create no sympathy. It is that, in most of the transactions of life,

there is some portion which no one cares to accomplish, and which

everybody wishes to be achieved. This was always the portion of Mr.

Rigby. In the eye of the world he had constantly the appearance of being

mixed up with high dealings, and negotiations and arrangements of fine

management, whereas in truth, notwithstanding his splendid livery and

the airs he gave himself in the servants’ hall, his real business in

life had ever been, to do the dirty work.

Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa of late. He was concocting,

you could not term it composing, an article, a ‘very slashing article,’

which was to prove that the penny postage must be the destruction of the

aristocracy. It was a grand subject, treated in his highest style. His

parallel portraits of Rowland Hill the conqueror of Almarez and Rowland

Hill the deviser of the cheap postage were enormously fine. It was full

of passages in italics, little words in great capitals, and almost drew

tears. The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel.

Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and general, who had been in

office with himself, and who were inspired with an equal zeal against

that spirit of reform of which they had alike been victims, supplied him

with information which nothing but a breach of ministerial duty could

have furnished. The prophetic peroration as to the irresistible progress

of democracy was almost as powerful as one of Rigby’s speeches on

Aldborough or Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good

hearty kick to the people like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of

the populace, this was disinterested. What could be more patriotic and

magnanimous than his Jeremiads over the fall of the Montmorencis and the

Crillons, or the possible catastrophe of the Percys and the Manners! The

truth of all this hullabaloo was that Rigby had a sly pension which,

by an inevitable association of ideas, he always connected with the

maintenance of an aristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the

French revolution were impelled by this secret influence; and when he

wailed over ‘la guerre aux châteaux,’ and moaned like a mandrake over

Nottingham Castle in flames, the rogue had an eye all the while to

quarter-day!

Arriving in town the day after Coningsby’s interview with his

grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a summons to Monmouth House waiting him,

and an urgent note from Lucretia begging that he would permit nothing

to prevent him seeing her for a few minutes before he called on the

Marquess.

Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had in the

course of four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and accurate

details of the cause of contention between Coningsby and her husband.

She could inform Mr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was

highly incensed against his grandson, but that the cause of their

misunderstanding arose about a seat in the House of Commons, and that

seat too the one which Mr. Rigby had long appropriated to himself,

and over whose registration he had watched with such affectionate

solicitude.

Lady Monmouth arranged this information like a firstrate artist, and

gave it a grouping and a colour which produced the liveliest effect

upon her confederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as

he received the intelligence; a grin, half of malice, half of terror,

played over his features.

‘I told you to beware of him long ago,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is, he

has ever been, in the way of both of us.’

‘He is in my power,’ said Rigby. ‘We can crush him!’

‘How?’

‘He is in love with the daughter of Millbank, the man who bought

Hellingsley.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a prolonged tone.

‘He was at Coningsby all last summer, hanging about her. I found the

younger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a fact which, of

itself, if known to Lord Monmouth, would ensure the lad’s annihilation.’

‘And you kept this fine news for a winter campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,’

said Lady Monmouth, with a subtle smile. ‘It was a weapon of service. I

give you my compliments.’

‘The time is not always ripe,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘But it is now most mature. Let us not conceal it from ourselves that,

since his first visit to Coningsby, we have neither of us really been in

the same position which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy.

My Lord, though you would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this

boy; and though I by my marriage, and you by your zealous ability,

have apparently secured a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never

doubted that when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit

is plucked by one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is

no reason why we two should clash together: we can both of us find what

we want, and more securely if we work in company.’

‘I trust my devotion to you has never been doubted, dear madam.’

‘Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now: the game is before you. Rid

me of this Coningsby, and I will secure you all that you want. Doubt not

me. There is no reason. I want a firm ally. There must be two.’

‘It shall be done,’ said Rigby; ‘it must be done. If once the notion

gets wind that one of the Castle family may perchance stand for

Darlford, all the present combinations will be disorganised. It must be

done at once. I know that the Government will dissolve.’

‘So I hear for certain,’ said Lucretia. ‘Be sure there is no time to

lose. What does he want with you to-day?’

‘I know not: there are so many things.’

‘To be sure; and yet I cannot doubt he will speak of this quarrel.

Let not the occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be

introduced. If good, you will guide him more easily; if dark, the love

for the Hellingsley girl, the fact of the brother being in his castle,

drinking his wine, riding his horses, ordering about his servants; you

will omit no details: a Millbank quite at home at Coningsby will lash

him to madness! ‘Tis quite ripe. Not a word that you have seen me. Go,

go, or he may hear that you have arrived. I shall be at home all the

morning. It will be but gallant that you should pay me a little visit

when you have transacted your business. You understand. _Au revoir!_’