CONINGSBY

OR THE NEW GENERATION

BY

BENJAMIN DISRAELI

EARL OF BEACONSFIELD

PUBLISHERS' NOTE

As a novelist, Benjamin Disraeli belongs to the early part of thenineteenth century. "Vivian Grey" (1826-27) and "Sybil" (1845) mark thebeginning and the end of his truly creative period; for the twoproductions of his latest years, "Lothair" (1870) and "Endymion" (1880), add nothing to the characteristics of his earlier volumes except thechanges of feeling and power which accompany old age. His period, thus, isthat of Bulwer, Dickens, and Thackeray, and of the later years of SirWalter Scott--a fact which his prominence as a statesman during the lastdecade of his life, as well as the vogue of "Lothair" and "Endymion, " hastended to obscure. His style, his material, and his views of Englishcharacter and life all date from that earlier time. He was born in 1804and died in 1881. 

"Coningsby; or, The New Generation, " published in 1844, is the best of hisnovels, not as a story, but as a study of men, manners, and principles. The plot is slight--little better than a device for stringing togethersketches of character and statements of political and economic opinions;but these are always interesting and often brilliant. The motive whichunderlies the book is political. It is, in brief, an attempt to show thatthe political salvation of England was to be sought in its aristocracy, but that this aristocracy was morally weak and socially ineffective, andthat it must mend its ways before its duty to the state could befulfilled. Interest in this aspect of the book has, of course, to a largeextent passed away with the political conditions which it reflected. As apicture of aristocratic life in England in the first part of thenineteenth century it has, however, enduring significance and charm. Disraeli does not rank with the great writers of English realisticfiction, but in this special field none of them has surpassed him. Fromthis point of view, accordingly, "Coningsby" is appropriately included inthis series. 

TO HENRY HOPE

It is not because this work was conceived and partly executed amid theglades and galleries of the DEEPDENE that I have inscribed it with yourname. Nor merely because I was desirous to avail myself of the mostgraceful privilege of an author, and dedicate my work to the friend whosetalents I have always appreciated, and whose virtues I have ever admired. 

But because in these pages I have endeavoured to picture something of thatdevelopment of the new and, as I believe, better mind of England, that hasoften been the subject of our converse and speculation. 

In this volume you will find many a thought illustrated and many aprinciple attempted to be established that we have often togetherpartially discussed and canvassed. 

Doubtless you may encounter some opinions with which you may not agree, and some conclusions the accuracy of which you may find cause to question. But if I have generally succeeded in my object, to scatter somesuggestions that may tend to elevate the tone of public life, ascertainthe true character of political parties, and induce us for the future morecarefully to distinguish between facts and phrases, realities andphantoms, I believe that I shall gain your sympathy, for I shall find areflex to their efforts in your own generous spirit and enlightened mind. 

GROSVENOR GATE: May Day 1844. 

PREFACE

'CONINGSBY' was published in the year 1844. The main purpose of its writerwas to vindicate the just claims of the Tory party to be the popularpolitical confederation of the country; a purpose which he had, more orless, pursued from a very early period of life. The occasion wasfavourable to the attempt. The youthful mind of England had just recoveredfrom the inebriation of the great Conservative triumph of 1841, and wasbeginning to inquire what, after all, they had conquered to preserve. Itwas opportune, therefore, to show that Toryism was not a phrase, but afact; and that our political institutions were the embodiment of ourpopular necessities. This the writer endeavoured to do without prejudice, and to treat of events and characters of which he had some personalexperience, not altogether without the impartiality of the future. 

It was not originally the intention of the writer to adopt the form offiction as the instrument to scatter his suggestions, but, afterreflection, he resolved to avail himself of a method which, in the temperof the times, offered the best chance of influencing opinion. 

In considering the Tory scheme, the author recognised in the CHURCH themost powerful agent in the previous development of England, and the mostefficient means of that renovation of the national spirit at which heaimed. The Church is a sacred corporation for the promulgation andmaintenance in Europe of certain Asian principles, which, although localin their birth, are of divine origin, and of universal and eternalapplication. 

In asserting the paramount character of the ecclesiastical polity and themajesty of the theocratic principle, it became necessary to ascend to theorigin of the Christian Church, and to meet in a spirit worthy of acritical and comparatively enlightened age, the position of thedescendants of that race who were the founders of Christianity. The modernJews had long laboured under the odium and stigma of mediaevalmalevolence. In the dark ages, when history was unknown, the passions ofsocieties, undisturbed by traditionary experience, were strong, and theirconvictions, unmitigated by criticism, were necessarily fanatical. TheJews were looked upon in the middle ages as an accursed race, the enemiesof God and man, the especial foes of Christianity. No one in those dayspaused to reflect that Christianity was founded by the Jews; that itsDivine Author, in his human capacity, was a descendant of King David; thathis doctrines avowedly were the completion, not the change, of Judaism;that the Apostles and the Evangelists, whose names men daily invoked, andwhose volumes they embraced with reverence, were all Jews; that theinfallible throne of Rome itself was established by a Jew; and that a Jewwas the founder of the Christian Churches of Asia. 

The European nations, relatively speaking, were then only recentlyconverted to a belief in Moses and in Christ; and, as it were, stillashamed of the wild deities whom they had deserted, they thought theyatoned for their past idolatry by wreaking their vengeance on a race towhom, and to whom alone, they were indebted for the Gospel they adored. 

In vindicating the sovereign right of the Church of Christ to be theperpetual regenerator of man, the writer thought the time had arrived whensome attempt should be made to do justice to the race which had foundedChristianity. 

The writer has developed in another work ('Tancred') the views respectingthe great house of Israel which he first intimated in 'Coningsby. ' No onehas attempted to refute them, nor is refutation possible; since all he hasdone is to examine certain facts in the truth of which all agree, and todraw from them irresistible conclusions which prejudice for a moment mayshrink from, but which reason cannot refuse to admit. 

D. GROSVENOR GATE: May 1894. 

CONINGSBY

BOOK I. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was a bright May morning some twelve years ago, when a youth of stilltender age, for he had certainly not entered his teens by more than twoyears, was ushered into the waiting-room of a house in the vicinity of St. James's Square, which, though with the general appearance of a privateresidence, and that too of no very ambitious character, exhibited at thisperiod symptoms of being occupied for some public purpose. 

The house-door was constantly open, and frequent guests even at this earlyhour crossed the threshold. The hall-table was covered with sealedletters; and the hall-porter inscribed in a book the name of everyindividual who entered. 

The young gentleman we have mentioned found himself in a room whichoffered few resources for his amusement. A large table amply covered withwriting materials, and a few chairs, were its sole furniture, except thegrey drugget that covered the floor, and a muddy mezzotinto of the Duke ofWellington that adorned its cold walls. There was not even a newspaper;and the only books were the Court Guide and the London Directory. For sometime he remained with patient endurance planted against the wall, with hisfeet resting on the rail of his chair; but at length in his shiftingposture he gave evidence of his restlessness, rose from his seat, lookedout of the window into a small side court of the house surrounded withdead walls, paced the room, took up the Court Guide, changed it for theLondon Directory, then wrote his name over several sheets of foolscappaper, drew various landscapes and faces of his friends; and then, splitting up a pen or two, delivered himself of a yawn which seemed theclimax of his weariness. 

And yet the youth's appearance did not betoken a character that, if theopportunity had offered, could not have found amusement and eveninstruction. His countenance, radiant with health and the lustre ofinnocence, was at the same time thoughtful and resolute. The expression ofhis deep blue eyes was serious. Without extreme regularity of features, the face was one that would never have passed unobserved. His short upperlip indicated a good breed; and his chestnut curls clustered over his openbrow, while his shirt-collar thrown over his shoulders was unrestrained byhandkerchief or ribbon. Add to this, a limber and graceful figure, whichthe jacket of his boyish dress exhibited to great advantage. 

Just as the youth, mounted on a chair, was adjusting the portrait of theDuke, which he had observed to be awry, the gentleman for whom he had beenall this time waiting entered the room. 

'Floreat Etona!' hastily exclaimed the gentleman, in a sharp voice; 'youare setting the Duke to rights. I have left you a long time a prisoner;but I found them so busy here, that I made my escape with somedifficulty. '

He who uttered these words was a man of middle size and age, originally inall probability of a spare habit, but now a little inclined to corpulency. Baldness, perhaps, contributed to the spiritual expression of a brow, which was, however, essentially intellectual, and gave some character ofopenness to a countenance which, though not ill-favoured, was unhappilystamped by a sinister cast that was not to be mistaken. His manner waseasy, but rather audacious than well-bred. Indeed, while a visage whichmight otherwise be described as handsome was spoilt by a dishonest glance, so a demeanour that was by no means deficient in self-possession andfacility, was tainted by an innate vulgarity, which in the long run, though seldom, yet surely developed itself. 

The youth had jumped off his chair on the entrance of the gentleman, andthen taking up his hat, said:

'Shall we go to grandpapa now, sir?'

'By all means, my dear boy, ' said the gentleman, putting his arm withinthat of the youth; and they were just on the point of leaving the waiting-room, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and two individuals, in astate of great excitement, rushed into the apartment. 

'Rigby! Rigby!' they both exclaimed at the same moment. 'By G---- they'reout!'

'Who told you?'

'The best authority; one of themselves. '

'Who? who?'

'Paul Evelyn; I met him as I passed Brookes', and he told me that LordGrey had resigned, and the King had accepted his resignation. '

But Mr. Rigby, who, though very fond of news, and much interested in thepresent, was extremely jealous of any one giving him information, wassceptical. He declared that Paul Evelyn was always wrong; that it wasmorally impossible that Paul Evelyn ever could be right; that he knew, from the highest authority, that Lord Grey had been twice yesterday withthe King; that on the last visit nothing was settled; that if he had beenat the palace again to-day, he could not have been there before twelveo'clock; that it was only now a quarter to one; that Lord Grey would havecalled his colleagues together on his return; that at least an hour musthave elapsed before anything could possibly have transpired. Then hecompared and criticised the dates of every rumoured incident of the lasttwenty-four hours, and nobody was stronger in dates than Mr. Rigby;counted even the number of stairs which the minister had to ascend anddescend in his visit to the palace, and the time their mountings anddismountings must have consumed, detail was Mr. Rigby's forte; andfinally, what with his dates, his private information, his knowledge ofpalace localities, his contempt for Paul Evelyn, and his confidence inhimself, he succeeded in persuading his downcast and disheartened friendsthat their comfortable intelligence had not the slightest foundation. 

They all left the room together; they were in the hall; the gentlemen whobrought the news looked somewhat depressed, but Mr. Rigby gay, even amidthe prostration of his party, from the consciousness that he had mostcritically demolished a piece of political gossip and conveyed a certaindegree of mortification to a couple of his companions; when a travellingcarriage and four with a ducal coronet drove up to the house. The door wasthrown open, the steps dashed down, and a youthful noble sprang from hischariot into the hall. 

'Good morning, Rigby, ' said the Duke. 

'I see your Grace well, I am sure, ' said Mr. Rigby, with a softenedmanner. 

'You have heard the news, gentlemen?' the Duke continued. 

'What news? Yes; no; that is to say, Mr. Rigby thinks--'

'You know, of course, that Lord Lyndhurst is with the King?'

'It is impossible, ' said Mr. Rigby. 

'I don't think I can be mistaken, ' said the Duke, smiling. 

'I will show your Grace that it is impossible, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'LordLyndhurst slept at Wimbledon. Lord Grey could not have seen the King untiltwelve o'clock; it is now five minutes to one. It is impossible, therefore, that any message from the King could have reached LordLyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the palace at this moment. '

'But my authority is a high one, ' said the Duke. 

'Authority is a phrase, ' said Mr. Rigby; 'we must look to time and place, dates and localities, to discover the truth. '

'Your Grace was saying that your authority--' ventured to observe Mr. Tadpole, emboldened by the presence of a duke, his patron, to struggleagainst the despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant. 

'Was the highest, ' rejoined the Duke, smiling, 'for it was Lord Lyndhursthimself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, passed his Lordship's housein Hyde Park Place as he was getting into his carriage in full dress, stopped my own, and learned in a breath that the Whigs were out, and thatthe King had sent for the Chief Baron. So I came on here at once. '

'I always thought the country was sound at bottom, ' exclaimed Mr. Taper, who, under the old system, had sneaked into the Treasury Board. 

Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither of them ever despaired ofthe Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill were passed, Taper was convincedthat the Whigs would never prove men of business; and when his friendsconfessed among themselves that a Tory Government was for the futureimpossible, Taper would remark, in a confidential whisper, that for hispart he believed before the year was over the Whigs would be turned out bythe clerks. 

'There is no doubt that there is considerable reaction, ' said Mr. Tadpole. The infamous conduct of the Whigs in the Amersham case has opened thepublic mind more than anything. '

'Aldborough was worse, ' said Mr. Taper. 

'Terrible, ' said Tadpole. 'They said there was no use discussing theReform Bill in our House. I believe Rigby's great speech on Aldborough hasdone more towards the reaction than all the violence of the PoliticalUnions put together. '

'Let us hope for the best, ' said the Duke, mildly. ''Tis a bold step onthe part of the Sovereign, and I am free to say I could have wished itpostponed; but we must support the King like men. What say you, Rigby? Youare silent. '

'I am thinking how very unfortunate it was that I did not breakfast withLyndhurst this morning, as I was nearly doing, instead of going down toEton. '

'To Eton! and why to Eton?'

'For the sake of my young friend here, Lord Monmouth's grandson. By thebye, you are kinsmen. Let me present to your Grace, MR. CONINGSBY. '

CHAPTER II. 

The political agitation which for a year and a half had shaken England toits centre, received, if possible, an increase to its intensity andvirulence, when it was known, in the early part of the month of May, 1832, that the Prime Minister had tendered his resignation to the King, whichresignation had been graciously accepted. 

The amendment carried by the Opposition in the House of Lords on theevening of the 7th of May, that the enfranchising clauses of the ReformBill should be considered before entering into the question ofdisfranchisement, was the immediate cause of this startling event. TheLords had previously consented to the second reading of the Bill with theview of preventing that large increase of their numbers with which theyhad been long menaced; rather, indeed, by mysterious rumours than by anyofficial declaration; but, nevertheless, in a manner which had carriedconviction to no inconsiderable portion of the Opposition that the threatwas not without foundation. 

During the progress of the Bill through the Lower House, the journalswhich were looked upon as the organs of the ministry had announced withunhesitating confidence, that Lord Grey was armed with what was thencalled a 'carte blanche' to create any number of peers necessary to insureits success. But public journalists who were under the control of theministry, and whose statements were never contradicted, were not the soleauthorities for this prevailing belief. Members of the House of Commons, who were strong supporters of the cabinet, though not connected with it byany official tie, had unequivocally stated in their places that theSovereign had not resisted the advice of his counsellors to create peers, if such creation were required to carry into effect what was then styled'the great national measure. ' In more than one instance, ministers hadbeen warned, that if they did not exercise that power with prompt energy, they might deserve impeachment. And these intimations and announcementshad been made in the presence of leading members of the Government, andhad received from them, at least, the sanction of their silence. 

It did not subsequently appear that the Reform ministers had been investedwith any such power; but a conviction of the reverse, fostered by thesecircumstances, had successfully acted upon the nervous temperament, or thestatesman-like prudence, of a certain section of the peers, whoconsequently hesitated in their course; were known as being no longerinclined to pursue their policy of the preceding session; had thusobtained a title at that moment in everybody's mouth, the title of 'THEWAVERERS. '

Notwithstanding, therefore, the opposition of the Duke of Wellington andof Lord Lyndhurst, the Waverers carried the second reading of the ReformBill; and then, scared at the consequences of their own headstrongtimidity, they went in a fright to the Duke and his able adviser toextricate them from the inevitable result of their own conduct. Theultimate device of these distracted counsels, where daring andpoltroonery, principle and expediency, public spirit and private intrigue, each threw an ingredient into the turbulent spell, was the celebrated andsuccessful amendment to which we have referred. 

But the Whig ministers, who, whatever may have been their faults, were atleast men of intellect and courage, were not to be beaten by 'theWaverers. ' They might have made terms with an audacious foe; they trampledon a hesitating opponent. Lord Grey hastened to the palace. 

Before the result of this appeal to the Sovereign was known, for itseffects were not immediate, on the second morning after the vote in theHouse of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made that visit to Eton which had summonedvery unexpectedly the youthful Coningsby to London. He was the orphanchild of the youngest of the two sons of the Marquess of Monmouth. It wasa family famous for its hatreds. The eldest son hated his father; and, itwas said, in spite had married a lady to whom that father was attached, and with whom Lord Monmouth then meditated a second alliance. This eldestson lived at Naples, and had several children, but maintained noconnection either with his parent or his native country. On the otherhand, Lord Monmouth hated his younger son, who had married, against hisconsent, a woman to whom that son was devoted. A system of domesticpersecution, sustained by the hand of a master, had eventually broken upthe health of its victim, who died of a fever in a foreign country, wherehe had sought some refuge from his creditors. 

His widow returned to England with her child; and, not having a relation, and scarcely an acquaintance in the world, made an appeal to her husband'sfather, the wealthiest noble in England and a man who was often prodigal, and occasionally generous. After some time, and more trouble, after urgentand repeated, and what would have seemed heart-rending, solicitations, theattorney of Lord Monmouth called upon the widow of his client's son, andinformed her of his Lordship's decision. Provided she gave up her child, and permanently resided in one of the remotest counties, he was authorisedto make her, in four quarterly payments, the yearly allowance of threehundred pounds, that being the income that Lord Monmouth, who was theshrewdest accountant in the country, had calculated a lone woman mightvery decently exist upon in a small market town in the county ofWestmoreland. 

Desperate necessity, the sense of her own forlornness, the utterimpossibility to struggle with an omnipotent foe, who, her husband hadtaught her, was above all scruples, prejudices, and fears, and who, thoughhe respected law, despised opinion, made the victim yield. But hersufferings were not long; the separation from her child, the bleak clime, the strange faces around her, sharp memory, and the dull routine of anunimpassioned life, all combined to wear out a constitution originallyfrail, and since shattered by many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby died the sameday that her father-in-law was made a Marquess. He deserved his honours. The four votes he had inherited in the House of Commons had beenincreased, by his intense volition and unsparing means, to ten; and thevery day he was raised to his Marquisate, he commenced sapping freshcorporations, and was working for the strawberry leaf. His honours wereproclaimed in the London Gazette, and her decease was not even noticed inthe County Chronicle; but the altars of Nemesis are beneath every outragedroof, and the death of this unhappy lady, apparently without an earthlyfriend or an earthly hope, desolate and deserted, and dying in obscurepoverty, was not forgotten. 

Coningsby was not more than nine years of age when he lost his lastparent; and he had then been separated from her for nearly three years. But he remembered the sweetness of his nursery days. His mother, too, hadwritten to him frequently since he quitted her, and her fond expressionshad cherished the tenderness of his heart. He wept bitterly when hisschoolmaster broke to him the news of his mother's death. True it was theyhad been long parted, and their prospect of again meeting was vague anddim; but his mother seemed to him his only link to human society. It wassomething to have a mother, even if he never saw her. Other boys went tosee their mothers! he, at least, could talk of his. Now he was alone. Hisgrandfather was to him only a name. Lord Monmouth resided almostconstantly abroad, and during his rare visits to England had found no timeor inclination to see the orphan, with whom he felt no sympathy. Even thedeath of the boy's mother, and the consequent arrangements, were notifiedto his master by a stranger. The letter which brought the sad intelligencewas from Mr. Rigby. It was the first time that name had been known toConingsby. 

Mr. Rigby was member for one of Lord Monmouth's boroughs. He was themanager of Lord Monmouth's parliamentary influence, and the auditor of hisvast estates. He was more; he was Lord Monmouth's companion when inEngland, his correspondent when abroad; hardly his counsellor, for LordMonmouth never required advice; but Mr. Rigby could instruct him inmatters of detail, which Mr. Rigby made amusing. Rigby was not aprofessional man; indeed, his origin, education, early pursuits, andstudies, were equally obscure; but he had contrived in good time tosqueeze himself into parliament, by means which no one could evercomprehend, and then set up to be a perfect man of business. The worldtook him at his word, for he was bold, acute, and voluble; with nothought, but a good deal of desultory information; and though destitute ofall imagination and noble sentiment, was blessed with a vigorous, mendacious fancy, fruitful in small expedients, and never happier thanwhen devising shifts for great men's scrapes. 

They say that all of us have one chance in this life, and so it was withRigby. After a struggle of many years, after a long series of the usualalternatives of small successes and small failures, after a few cleverishspeeches and a good many cleverish pamphlets, with a considerablereputation, indeed, for pasquinades, most of which he never wrote, andarticles in reviews to which it was whispered he had contributed, Rigby, who had already intrigued himself into a subordinate office, met with LordMonmouth. 

He was just the animal that Lord Monmouth wanted, for Lord Monmouth alwayslooked upon human nature with the callous eye of a jockey. He surveyedRigby; and he determined to buy him. He bought him; with his clear head, his indefatigable industry, his audacious tongue, and his ready andunscrupulous pen; with all his dates, all his lampoons; all his privatememoirs, and all his political intrigues. It was a good purchase. Rigbybecame a great personage, and Lord Monmouth's man. 

Mr. Rigby, who liked to be doing a great many things at the same time, andto astonish the Tadpoles and Tapers with his energetic versatility, determined to superintend the education of Coningsby. It was a relationwhich identified him with the noble house of his pupil, or, properlyspeaking, his charge: for Mr. Rigby affected rather the graceful dignityof the governor than the duties of a tutor. The boy was recalled from hishomely, rural school, where he had been well grounded by a hard-workingcurate, and affectionately tended by the curate's unsophisticated wife. Hewas sent to a fashionable school preparatory to Eton, where he found abouttwo hundred youths of noble families and connections, lodged in amagnificent villa, that had once been the retreat of a minister, superintended by a sycophantic Doctor of Divinity, already well beneficed, and not despairing of a bishopric by favouring the children of the greatnobles. The doctor's lady, clothed in cashmeres, sometimes inquired aftertheir health, and occasionally received a report as to their linen. 

Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant from this establishment, which he esteemed a Tusculum. There, surrounded by his busts and books, hewrote his lampoons and articles; massacred a she liberal (it was thoughtthat no one could lash a woman like Rigby), cut up a rising genius whosepolitics were different from his own, or scarified some unhappy wretch whohad brought his claims before parliament, proving, by garbled extractsfrom official correspondence that no one could refer to, that themalcontent instead of being a victim, was, on the contrary, a defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a 'slashing reply' against thefield. Here, too, at the end of a busy week, he found it occasionallyconvenient to entertain a clever friend or two of equivocal reputation, with whom he had become acquainted in former days of equal brotherhood. Noone was more faithful to his early friends than Mr. Rigby, particularly ifthey could write a squib. 

It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rigby found time enough, snatched from the toils of official life and parliamentary struggles, tocompose a letter on the study of History, addressed to Coningsby. Thestyle was as much like that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been writtenby the authors of the 'Rejected Addresses, ' and it began, 'My dear youngfriend. ' This polished composition, so full of good feeling andcomprehensive views, and all in the best taste, was not published. It wasonly privately printed, and a few thousand copies were distributed amongselect personages as an especial favour and mark of high consideration. Each copy given away seemed to Rigby like a certificate of character; aproperty which, like all men of dubious repute, he thoroughly appreciated. Rigby intrigued very much that the headmaster of Eton should adopt hisdiscourse as a class-book. For this purpose he dined with the Doctor, toldhim several anecdotes of the King, which intimated personal influence atWindsor; but the headmaster was inflexible, and so Mr. Rigby was obligedto be content with having his Letter on History canonized as a classic inthe Preparatory Seminary, where the individual to whom it was addressedwas a scholar. 

This change in the life of Coningsby contributed to his happiness. Thevarious characters which a large school exhibited interested a young mindwhose active energies were beginning to stir. His previous acquirementsmade his studies light; and he was fond of sports, in which he wasqualified to excel. He did not particularly like Mr. Rigby. There wassomething jarring and grating in that gentleman's voice and modes, fromwhich the chords of the young heart shrank. He was not tender, thoughperhaps he wished to be; scarcely kind: but he was good-natured, at leastto children. However, this connection was, on the whole, an agreeable onefor Coningsby. He seemed suddenly to have friends: he never passed hisholydays again at school. Mr. Rigby was so clever that he contrived alwaysto quarter Coningsby on the father of one of his school-fellows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows and all their fathers. Mr. Rigby alsocalled to see him, not unfrequently would give him a dinner at the Starand Garter, or even have him up to town for a week to Whitehall. Comparedwith his former forlorn existence, these were happy days, when he wasplaced under the gallery as a member's son, or went to the play with thebutler!

When Coningsby had attained his twelfth year, an order was received fromLord Monmouth, who was at Rome, that he should go at once to Eton. Thiswas the first great epoch of his life. There never was a youth who enteredinto that wonderful little world with more eager zest than Coningsby. Norwas it marvellous. 

That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful culture;hamlet and hall and grange; garden and grove and park; that castle-palace, grey with glorious ages; those antique spires, hoar with faith and wisdom, the chapel and the college; that river winding through the shady meads;the sunny glade and the solemn avenue; the room in the Dame's house wherewe first order our own breakfast and first feel we are free; the stirringmultitude, the energetic groups, the individual mind that leads, conquers, controls; the emulation and the affection; the noble strife and the tendersentiment; the daring exploit and the dashing scrape; the passion thatpervades our life, and breathes in everything, from the aspiring study tothe inspiring sport: oh! what hereafter can spur the brain and touch theheart like this; can give us a world so deeply and variously interesting;a life so full of quick and bright excitement, passed in a scene so fair?

CHAPTER III. 

Lord Monmouth, who detested popular tumults as much as he despised publicopinion, had remained during the agitating year of 1831 in his luxuriousretirement in Italy, contenting himself with opposing the Reform Bill byproxy. But when his correspondent, Mr. Rigby, had informed him, in theearly part of the spring of 1832, of the probability of a change in thetactics of the Tory party, and that an opinion was becoming prevalentamong their friends, that the great scheme must be defeated in detailrather than again withstood on principle, his Lordship, who was neverwanting in energy when his own interests were concerned, immediatelycrossed the Alps, and travelled rapidly to England. He indulged a hopethat the weight of his presence and the influence of his strong character, which was at once shrewd and courageous, might induce his friends torelinquish their half measure, a course to which his nature was repugnant. At all events, if they persisted in their intention, and the Bill wentinto committee, his presence was indispensable, for in that stage of aparliamentary proceeding proxies become ineffective. 

The counsels of Lord Monmouth, though they coincided with those of theDuke of Wellington, did not prevail with the Waverers. Several of thesehigh-minded personages had had their windows broken, and they were ofopinion that a man who lived at Naples was not a competent judge of thestate of public feeling in England. Besides, the days are gone by forsenates to have their beards plucked in the forum. We live in an age ofprudence. The leaders of the people, now, generally follow. The truth is, the peers were in a fright. 'Twas a pity; there is scarcely a lessdignified entity than a patrician in a panic. 

Among the most intimate companions of Coningsby at Eton, was Lord HenrySydney, his kinsman. Coningsby had frequently passed his holydays of lateat Beaumanoir, the seat of the Duke, Lord Henry's father. The Duke satnext to Lord Monmouth during the debate on the enfranchising question, andto while away the time, and from kindness of disposition, spoke, and spokewith warmth and favour, of his grandson. The polished Lord Monmouth bowedas if he were much gratified by this notice of one so dear to him. He hadtoo much tact to admit that he had never yet seen his grandchild; but heasked some questions as to his progress and pursuits, his tastes andhabits, which intimated the interest of an affectionate relative. 

Nothing, however, was ever lost upon Lord Monmouth. No one had a moreretentive memory, or a more observant mind. And the next day, when hereceived Mr. Rigby at his morning levee, Lord Monmouth performed thisceremony in the high style of the old court, and welcomed his visitors inbed, he said with imperturbable calmness, and as if he had been talking oftrying a new horse, 'Rigby, I should like to see the boy at Eton. '

There might be some objection to grant leave to Coningsby at this moment;but it was a rule with Mr. Rigby never to make difficulties, or at leastto persuade his patron that he, and he only, could remove them. Heimmediately undertook that the boy should be forthcoming, andnotwithstanding the excitement of the moment, he went off next morning tofetch him. 

They arrived in town rather early; and Rigby, wishing to know how affairswere going on, ordered the servant to drive immediately to the head-quarters of the party; where a permanent committee watched every phasis ofthe impending revolution; and where every member of the Opposition, ofnote and trust, was instantly admitted to receive or to impartintelligence. 

It was certainly not without emotion that Coningsby contemplated his firstinterview with his grandfather. All his experience of the ties ofrelationship, however limited, was full of tenderness and rapture. Hismemory often dwelt on his mother's sweet embrace; and ever and anon afitful phantom of some past passage of domestic love haunted his gushingheart. The image of his father was less fresh in his mind; but still itwas associated with a vague sentiment of kindness and joy; and theallusions to her husband in his mother's letters had cherished theseimpressions. To notice lesser sources of influence in his estimate of thedomestic tie, he had witnessed under the roof of Beaumanoir the existenceof a family bound together by the most beautiful affections. He could notforget how Henry Sydney was embraced by his sisters when he returned home;what frank and fraternal love existed between his kinsman and his elderbrother; how affectionately the kind Duke had welcomed his son once moreto the house where they had both been born; and the dim eyes, and saddenedbrows, and tones of tenderness, which rather looked than said farewell, when they went back to Eton. 

And these rapturous meetings and these mournful adieus were occasionedonly by a separation at the most of a few months, softened by constantcorrespondence and the communication of mutual sympathy. But Coningsby wasto meet a relation, his near, almost his only, relation, for the firsttime; the relation, too, to whom he owed maintenance, education; it mightbe said, existence. It was a great incident for a great drama; somethingtragical in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the imagination ofthe boy could not be insensible to its materials; and Coningsby waspicturing to himself a beneficent and venerable gentleman pressing to hisbreast an agitated youth, when his reverie was broken by the carriagestopping before the gates of Monmouth House. 

The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage rolled into ahuge court-yard. At its end Coningsby beheld a Palladian palace, withwings and colonnades encircling the court. 

A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall, adorned withcolossal busts of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco by Sir JamesThornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of gods and heroes. It ledinto a vestibule, painted in arabesques, hung with Venetian girandoles, and looking into gardens. Opening a door in this chamber, and proceedingsome little way down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived atthe base of a private staircase. Ascending a few steps, they reached alanding-place hung with tapestry. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened adoor, and ushered Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a small saloon, of beautiful proportions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate taste. 

'You will find more to amuse you here than where you were before, ' saidMr. Rigby, 'and I shall not be nearly so long absent. ' So saying, heentered into an inner apartment. 

The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue satin, held, in silver panels, portraits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher. Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in every quarter toluxurious repose; while amusement was afforded by tables covered withcaricatures, French novels, and endless miniatures of foreign dancers, princesses, and sovereigns. 

But Coningsby was so impressed with the impending interview with hisgrandfather, that he neither sought nor required diversion. Now that thecrisis was at hand, he felt agitated and nervous, and wished that he wasagain at Eton. The suspense was sickening, yet he dreaded still more thesummons. He was not long alone; the door opened; he started, grew pale; hethought it was his grandfather; it was not even Mr. Rigby. It was LordMonmouth's valet. 

'Monsieur Konigby?'

'My name is Coningsby, ' said the boy. 

'Milor is ready to receive you, ' said the valet. 

Coningsby sprang forward with that desperation which the scaffoldrequires. His face was pale; his hand was moist; his heart beat withtumult. He had occasionally been summoned by Dr. Keate; that, too, wasawful work, but compared with the present, a morning visit. Music, artillery, the roar of cannon, and the blare of trumpets, may urge a manon to a forlorn hope; ambition, one's constituents, the hell of previousfailure, may prevail on us to do a more desperate thing; speak in theHouse of Commons; but there are some situations in life, such, forinstance, as entering the room of a dentist, in which the prostration ofthe nervous system is absolute. 

The moment had at length arrived when the desolate was to find abenefactor, the forlorn a friend, the orphan a parent; when the youth, after a childhood of adversity, was to be formally received into the bosomof the noble house from which he had been so long estranged, and at lengthto assume that social position to which his lineage entitled him. Manliness might support, affection might soothe, the happy anguish of sucha meeting; but it was undoubtedly one of those situations which stir upthe deep fountains of our nature, and before which the conventionalproprieties of our ordinary manners instantaneously vanish. 

Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his guide through a bed-chamber, the sumptuousness of which he could not notice, into the dressing-room ofLord Monmouth. Mr. Rigby, facing Coningsby as he entered, was leaning overthe back of a large chair, from which as Coningsby was announced by thevalet, the Lord of the house slowly rose, for he was suffering slightlyfrom the gout, his left hand resting on an ivory stick. Lord Monmouth wasin height above the middle size, but somewhat portly and corpulent. Hiscountenance was strongly marked; sagacity on the brow, sensuality in themouth and jaw. His head was bald, but there were remains of the rich brownlocks on which he once prided himself. His large deep blue eye, madid andyet piercing, showed that the secretions of his brain were apportioned, half to voluptuousness, half to common sense. But his general mien wastruly grand; full of a natural nobility, of which no one was more sensiblethan himself. Lord Monmouth was not in dishabille; on the contrary, hiscostume was exact, and even careful. Rising as we have mentioned when hisgrandson entered, and leaning with his left hand on his ivory cane, hemade Coningsby such a bow as Louis Quatorze might have bestowed on theambassador of the United Provinces. Then extending his right hand, whichthe boy tremblingly touched, Lord Monmouth said:

'How do you like Eton?'

This contrast to the reception which he had imagined, hoped, feared, paralysed the reviving energies of young Coningsby. He felt stupefied; helooked almost aghast. In the chaotic tumult of his mind, his memorysuddenly seemed to receive some miraculous inspiration. Mysterious phrasesheard in his earliest boyhood, unnoticed then, long since forgotten, roseto his ear. Who was this grandfather, seen not before, seen now for thefirst time? Where was the intervening link of blood between him and thissuperb and icy being? The boy sank into the chair which had been placedfor him, and leaning on the table burst into tears. 

Here was a business! If there were one thing which would have made LordMonmouth travel from London to Naples at four-and-twenty hours' notice, itwas to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. He hated feelings. He saw instantlythe mistake he had made in sending for his grandchild. He was afraid thatConingsby was tender-hearted like his father. Another tender-heartedConingsby! Unfortunate family! Degenerate race! He decided in his mindthat Coningsby must be provided for in the Church, and looked at Mr. Rigby, whose principal business it always was to disembarrass his patronfrom the disagreeable. 

Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly led the boy into theadjoining apartment, Lord Monmouth's bedchamber, closing the door of thedressing-room behind him. 

'My dear young friend, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'what is all this?'

A sob the only answer. 

'What can be the matter?' said Mr. Rigby. 

'I was thinking, ' said Coningsby, 'of poor mamma!'

'Hush!' said Mr. Rigby; 'Lord Monmouth never likes to hear of people whoare dead; so you must take care never to mention your mother or yourfather. '

In the meantime Lord Monmouth had decided on the fate of Coningsby. TheMarquis thought he could read characters by a glance, and in general hewas successful, for his natural sagacity had been nurtured by greatexperience. His grandson was not to his taste; amiable no doubt, butspooney. 

We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily read. 'Tisa mystery the most profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly make asto the nature of their own offspring, bred, too, under their eyes, anddisplaying every hour their characteristics. How often in the nursery doesthe genius count as a dunce because he is pensive; while a rattling urchinis invested with almost supernatural qualities because his animal spiritsmake him impudent and flippant! The school-boy, above all others, is notthe simple being the world imagines. In that young bosom are oftenstirring passions as strong as our own, desires not less violent, avolition not less supreme. In that young bosom what burning love, whatintense ambition, what avarice, what lust of power; envy that fiends mightemulate, hate that man might fear!

CHAPTER IV. 

'Come, ' said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby was somewhat composed, 'come withme and we will see the house. '

So they descended once more the private staircase, and again entered thevestibule. 

'If you had seen these gardens when they were illuminated for a fête toGeorge IV. , ' said Rigby, as crossing the chamber he ushered his chargeinto the state apartments. The splendour and variety of the surroundingobjects soon distracted the attention of the boy, for the first time inthe palace of his fathers. He traversed saloon after saloon hung with raretapestry and the gorgeous products of foreign looms; filled with choicepictures and creations of curious art; cabinets that sovereigns mightenvy, and colossal vases of malachite presented by emperors. Coningsbyalternately gazed up to ceilings glowing with color and with gold, anddown upon carpets bright with the fancies and vivid with the tints ofAubusson and of Axminster. 

'This grandfather of mine is a great prince, ' thought Coningsby, as musinghe stood before a portrait in which he recognised the features of thebeing from whom he had so recently and so strangely parted. There hestood, Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, in his robes of state, withhis new coronet on a table near him, a despatch lying at hand thatindicated the special mission of high ceremony of which he had been theillustrious envoy, and the garter beneath his knee. 

'You will have plenty of opportunities to look at the pictures, ' saidRigby, observing that the boy had now quite recovered himself. 'Someluncheon will do you no harm after our drive;' and he opened the door ofanother apartment. 

It was a pretty room adorned with a fine picture of the chase; at a roundtable in the centre sat two ladies interested in the meal to which Rigbyhad alluded. 

'Ah, Mr. Rigby!' said the eldest, yet young and beautiful, and speaking, though with fluency, in a foreign accent, 'come and tell me some news. Have you seen Milor?' and then she threw a scrutinizing glance from a darkflashing eye at his companion. 

'Let me present to your Highness, ' said Rigby, with an air of someceremony, 'Mr. Coningsby. '

'My dear young friend, ' said the lady, extending her white hand with anair of joyous welcome, 'this is Lucretia, my daughter. We love youalready. Lord Monmouth will be so charmed to see you. What beautiful eyeshe has, Mr. Rigby. Quite like Milor. '

The young lady, who was really more youthful than Coningsby, but of a formand stature so developed that she appeared almost a woman, bowed to theguest with some ceremony, and a faint sullen smile, and then proceededwith her Perigord pie. 

'You must be so hungry after your drive, ' said the elder lady, placingConingsby at her side, and herself filling his plate. 

This was true enough; and while Mr. Rigby and the lady talked an infinitedeal about things which he did not understand, and persons of whom he hadnever heard, our little hero made his first meal in his paternal housewith no ordinary zest; and renovated by the pasty and a glass of sherry, felt altogether a different being from what he was, when he had undergonethe terrible interview in which he began to reflect he had considerablyexposed himself. His courage revived, his senses rallied, he replied tothe interrogations of the lady with calmness, but with promptness andpropriety. It was evident that he had made a favourable impression on herHighness, for ever and anon she put a truffle or some delicacy in hisplate, and insisted upon his taking some particular confectionery, becauseit was a favourite of her own. When she rose, she said, --

'In ten minutes the carriage will be at the door; and if you like, my dearyoung friend, you shall be our beau. '

'There is nothing I should like so much, ' said Coningsby. 

'Ah!' said the lady, with the sweetest smile, 'he is frank. '

The ladies bowed and retired; Mr. Rigby returned to the Marquess, and thegroom of the chambers led Coningsby to his room. 

This lady, so courteous to Coningsby, was the Princess Colonna, a Romandame, the second wife of Prince Paul Colonna. The prince had first marriedwhen a boy, and into a family not inferior to his own. Of this union, inevery respect unhappy, the Princess Lucretia was the sole offspring. Hewas a man dissolute and devoted to play; and cared for nothing much buthis pleasures and billiards, in which latter he was esteemed unrivalled. According to some, in a freak of passion, according to others, to cancel agambling debt, he had united himself to his present wife, whose origin wasobscure; but with whom he contrived to live on terms of apparentcordiality, for she was much admired, and made the society of her husbandsought by those who contributed to his enjoyment. Among these especiallyfigured the Marquess of Monmouth, between whom and Prince Colonna theworld recognised as existing the most intimate and entire friendship, sothat his Highness and his family were frequent guests under the roof ofthe English nobleman, and now accompanied him on a visit to England. 

CHAPTER V. 

In the meantime, while ladies are luncheoning on Perigord pie, or coursingin whirling britskas, performing all the singular ceremonies of a Londonmorning in the heart of the season; making visits where nobody is seen, and making purchases which are not wanted; the world is in agitation anduproar. At present the world and the confusion are limited to St. James'sStreet and Pall Mall; but soon the boundaries and the tumult will beextended to the intended metropolitan boroughs; to-morrow they will spreadover the manufacturing districts. It is perfectly evident, that beforeeight-and-forty hours have passed, the country will be in a state offearful crisis. And how can it be otherwise? Is it not a truth that thesubtle Chief Baron has been closeted one whole hour with the King; thatshortly after, with thoughtful brow and compressed lip, he was marked inhis daring chariot entering the courtyard of Apsley House? Great was thepanic at Brookes', wild the hopes of Carlton Terrace; all the gentlemenwho expected to have been made peers perceived that the country was goingto be given over to a rapacious oligarchy. 

In the meantime Tadpole and Taper, who had never quitted for an instantthe mysterious head-quarters of the late Opposition, were full of hopesand fears, and asked many questions, which they chiefly answeredthemselves. 

'I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to the king, ' said Taper. 

'He has plenty of pluck, ' said Tadpole. 

'I almost wish now that Rigby had breakfasted with him this morning, ' saidTaper. 

'If the King be firm, and the country sound, ' said Tadpole, 'and LordMonmouth keep his boroughs, I should not wonder to see Rigby made a privycouncillor. '

'There is no precedent for an under-secretary being a privy councillor, 'said Taper. 

'But we live in revolutionary times, ' said Tadpole. 

'Gentlemen, ' said the groom of the chambers, in a loud voice, entering theroom, 'I am desired to state that the Duke of Wellington is with theKing. '

'There _is_ a Providence!' exclaimed an agitated gentleman, the patent ofwhose intended peerage had not been signed the day that the Duke hadquited office in 1830. 

'I always thought the King would be firm, ' said Mr. Tadpole. 

'I wonder who will have the India Board, ' said Taper. 

At this moment three or four gentlemen entered the room in a state ofgreat bustle and excitement; they were immediately surrounded. 

'Is it true?' 'Quite true; not the slightest doubt. Saw him myself. Not atall hissed; certainly not hooted. Perhaps a little hissed. One fellowreally cheered him. Saw him myself. Say what they like, there isreaction. ' 'But Constitution Hill, they say?' 'Well, there was a sort ofinclination to a row on Constitution Hill; but the Duke quite firm;pistols, and carriage doors bolted. '

Such may give a faint idea of the anxious inquiries and the satisfactoryreplies that were occasioned by the entrance of this group. 

'Up, guards, and at them!' exclaimed Tadpole, rubbing his hands in a fitof patriotic enthusiasm. 

Later in the afternoon, about five o'clock, the high change of politicalgossip, when the room was crowded, and every one had his rumour, Mr. Rigbylooked in again to throw his eye over the evening papers, and catch invarious chit-chat the tone of public or party feeling on the 'crisis. 'Then it was known that the Duke had returned from the King, havingaccepted the charge of forming an administration. An administration to dowhat? Portentous question! Were concessions to be made? And if so, what?Was it altogether impossible, and too late, 'stare super vias antiquas?'Questions altogether above your Tadpoles and your Tapers, whose idea ofthe necessities of the age was that they themselves should be in office. 

Lord Eskdale came up to Mr. Rigby. This peer was a noble Croesus, acquainted with all the gradations of life; a voluptuary who could be aSpartan; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious; the best judge in theworld of a horse or a man; he was the universal referee; a quarrel about abet or a mistress was solved by him in a moment, and in a manner whichsatisfied both parties. He patronised and appreciated the fine arts, though a jockey; respected literary men, though he only read Frenchnovels; and without any affectation of tastes which he did not possess, was looked upon by every singer and dancer in Europe as their naturalchampion. The secret of his strong character and great influence was hisself-composure, which an earthquake or a Reform Bill could not disturb, and which in him was the result of temperament and experience. He was anintimate acquaintance of Lord Monmouth, for they had many tastes incommon; were both men of considerable, and in some degree similarabilities; and were the two greatest proprietors of close boroughs in thecountry. 

'Do you dine at Monmouth House to-day?' inquired Lord Eskdale of Mr. Rigby. 

'Where I hope to meet your lordship. The Whig papers are very subdued, 'continued Mr. Rigby. 

'Ah! they have not the cue yet, ' said Lord Eskdale. 

'And what do you think of affairs?' inquired his companion. 

'I think the hounds are too hot to hark off now, ' said Lord Eskdale. 

'There is one combination, ' said Rigby, who seemed meditating an attack onLord Eskdale's button. 

'Give it us at dinner, ' said Lord Eskdale, who knew his man, and made anadroit movement forwards, as if he were very anxious to see the _Globe_newspaper. 

In the course of two or three hours these gentlemen met again in the greendrawing-room of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was sitting on a sofa by LordMonmouth, detailing in whispers all his gossip of the morn: Lord Eskdalemurmuring quaint inquiries into the ear of the Princess Lucretia. 

Madame Colonna made remarks alternately to two gentlemen, who paid herassiduous court. One of these was Mr. Ormsby; the school, the college, andthe club crony of Lord Monmouth, who had been his shadow through life;travelled with him in early days, won money with him at play, had been hiscolleague in the House of Commons; and was still one of his nominees. Mr. Ormsby was a millionaire, which Lord Monmouth liked. He liked hiscompanions to be very rich or very poor; be his equals, able to play withhim at high stakes, or join him in a great speculation; or to be histools, and to amuse and serve him. There was nothing which he despised anddisliked so much as a moderate fortune. 

The other gentleman was of a different class and character. Nature hadintended Lucian Gay for a scholar and a wit; necessity had made him ascribbler and a buffoon. He had distinguished himself at the University;but he had no patrimony, nor those powers of perseverance which success inany learned profession requires. He was good-looking, had great animalspirits, and a keen sense of enjoyment, and could not drudge. Moreover hehad a fine voice, and sang his own songs with considerable taste;accomplishments which made his fortune in society and completed his ruin. In due time he extricated himself from the bench and merged intojournalism, by means of which he chanced to become acquainted with Mr. Rigby. That worthy individual was not slow in detecting the treasure hehad lighted on; a wit, a ready and happy writer, a joyous and tractablebeing, with the education, and still the feelings and manners, of agentleman. Frequent were the Sunday dinners which found Gay a guest at Mr. Rigby's villa; numerous the airy pasquinades which he left behind, andwhich made the fortune of his patron. Flattered by the familiaracquaintance of a man of station, and sanguine that he had found the linkwhich would sooner or later restore him to the polished world that he hadforfeited, Gay laboured in his vocation with enthusiasm and success. Willingly would Rigby have kept his treasure to himself; and truly hehoarded it for a long time, but it oozed out. Rigby loved the reputationof possessing the complete art of society. His dinners were celebrated atleast for their guests. Great intellectual illustrations were found thereblended with rank and high station. Rigby loved to patronise; to play theminister unbending and seeking relief from the cares of council in thesociety of authors, artists, and men of science. He liked dukes to dinewith him and hear him scatter his audacious criticisms to Sir Thomas orSir Humphry. They went away astounded by the powers of their host, who, had he not fortunately devoted those powers to their party, mustapparently have rivalled Vandyke, or discovered the safety-lamp. 

Now in these dinners, Lucian Gay, who had brilliant conversational powers, and who possessed all the resources of boon companionship, would be aninvaluable ally. He was therefore admitted, and inspired both by thepresent enjoyment, and the future to which it might lead, his exertionswere untiring, various, most successful. Rigby's dinners became still, more celebrated. It, however, necessarily followed that the guests whowere charmed by Gay, wished Gay also to be their guest. Rigby was veryjealous of this, but it was inevitable; still by constant manoeuvre, byintimations of some exercise, some day or other, of substantial patronagein his behalf, by a thousand little arts by which he carved out work forGay which often prevented him accepting invitations to great houses in thecountry, by judicious loans of small sums on Lucian's notes of hand andother analogous devices, Rigby contrived to keep the wit in a fair stateof bondage and dependence. 

One thing Rigby was resolved on: Gay should never get into Monmouth House. That was an empyrean too high for his wing to soar in. Rigby kept thatsocial monopoly distinctively to mark the relation that subsisted betweenthem as patron and client. It was something to swagger about when theywere together after their second bottle of claret. Rigby kept hisresolution for some years, which the frequent and prolonged absence of theMarquess rendered not very difficult. But we are the creatures ofcircumstances; at least the Rigby race particularly. Lord Monmouthreturned to England one year, and wanted to be amused. He wanted a jester:a man about him who would make him, not laugh, for that was impossible, but smile more frequently, tell good stories, say good things, and singnow and then, especially French songs. Early in life Rigby would haveattempted all this, though he had neither fun, voice, nor ear. But hishold on Lord Monmouth no longer depended on the mere exercise of agreeablequalities, he had become indispensable to his lordship, by more serious ifnot higher considerations. And what with auditing his accounts, guardinghis boroughs, writing him, when absent, gossip by every post and when inEngland deciding on every question and arranging every matter which mightotherwise have ruffled the sublime repose of his patron's existence, Rigbymight be excused if he shrank a little from the minor part of table wit, particularly when we remember all his subterranean journalism, his acidsquibs, and his malicious paragraphs, and, what Tadpole called, his'slashing articles. '

These 'slashing articles' were, indeed, things which, had they appeared asanonymous pamphlets, would have obtained the contemptuous reception whichin an intellectual view no compositions more surely deserved; butwhispered as the productions of one behind the scenes, and appearing inthe pages of a party review, they were passed off as genuine coin, andtook in great numbers of the lieges, especially in the country. They werewritten in a style apparently modelled on the briefs of those sharpattorneys who weary advocates with their clever commonplace; teasing withobvious comment, and torturing with inevitable inference. The affectationof order in the statement of facts had all the lucid method of an adroitpettifogger. They dealt much in extracts from newspapers, quotations fromthe _Annual Register_, parallel passages in forgotten speeches, arrangedwith a formidable array of dates rarely accurate. When the writer was ofopinion he had made a point, you may be sure the hit was in italics, thatlast resource of the Forcible Feebles. He handled a particular inchronology as if he were proving an alibi at the Criminal Court. Thecensure was coarse without being strong, and vindictive when it would havebeen sarcastic. Now and then there was a passage which aimed at a higherflight, and nothing can be conceived more unlike genuine feeling, or moreoffensive to pure taste. And yet, perhaps, the most ludicrouscharacteristic of these facetious gallimaufreys was an occasionalassumption of the high moral and admonitory tone, which when we recurredto the general spirit of the discourse, and were apt to recall thecharacter of its writer, irresistibly reminded one of Mrs. Cole and herprayer-book. 

To return to Lucian Gay. It was a rule with Rigby that no one, ifpossible, should do anything for Lord Monmouth but himself; and as ajester must be found, he was determined that his Lordship should have thebest in the market, and that he should have the credit of furnishing thearticle. As a reward, therefore, for many past services, and a fresh claimto his future exertions, Rigby one day broke to Gay that the hour had atlength arrived when the highest object of reasonable ambition on his part, and the fulfilment of one of Rigby's long-cherished and dearest hopes, were alike to be realised. Gay was to be presented to Lord Monmouth anddine at Monmouth House. 

The acquaintance was a successful one; very agreeable to both parties. Gaybecame an habitual guest of Lord Monmouth when his patron was in England;and in his absence received frequent and substantial marks of his kindrecollection, for Lord Monmouth was generous to those who amused him. 

In the meantime the hour of dinner is at hand. Coningsby, who had lost thekey of his carpet-bag, which he finally cut open with a penknife that hefound on his writing-table, and the blade of which he broke in theoperation, only reached the drawing-room as the figure of his grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane, and following his guests, was just visible inthe distance. He was soon overtaken. Perceiving Coningsby, Lord Monmouthmade him a bow, not so formal a one as in the morning, but still a bow, and said, 'I hope you liked your drive. '

CHAPTER VI. 

A little dinner, not more than the Muses, with all the guests clever, andsome pretty, offers human life and human nature under very favourablecircumstances. In the present instance, too, every one was anxious toplease, for the host was entirely well-bred, never selfish in littlethings, and always contributed his quota to the general fund of polishedsociability. 

Although there was really only one thought in every male mind present, still, regard for the ladies, and some little apprehension of theservants, banished politics from discourse during the greater part of thedinner, with the occasional exception of some rapid and flying allusionwhich the initiated understood, but which remained a mystery to the rest. Nevertheless an old story now and then well told by Mr. Ormsby, a new jokenow and then well introduced by Mr. Gay, some dashing assertion by Mr. Rigby, which, though wrong, was startling; this agreeable blending ofanecdote, jest, and paradox, kept everything fluent, and produced thatdegree of mild excitation which is desirable. Lord Monmouth sometimessummed up with an epigrammatic sentence, and turned the conversation by aquestion, in case it dwelt too much on the same topic. Lord Eskdaleaddressed himself principally to the ladies; inquired after their morningdrive and doings, spoke of new fashions, and quoted a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna was not witty, but she had that sweet Roman frankness whichis so charming. The presence of a beautiful woman, natural and good-tempered, even if she be not a L'Espinasse or a De Stael, is animating. 

Nevertheless, owing probably to the absorbing powers of the forbiddensubject, there were moments when it seemed that a pause was impending, andMr. Ormsby, an old hand, seized one of these critical instants to addressa good-natured question to Coningsby, whose acquaintance he had alreadycultivated by taking wine with him. 

'And how do you like Eton?' asked Mr. Ormsby. 

It was the identical question which had been presented to Coningsby in thememorable interview of the morning, and which had received no reply; orrather had produced on his part a sentimental ebullition that hadabsolutely destined or doomed him to the Church. 

'I should like to see the fellow who did not like Eton, ' said Coningsby, briskly, determined this time to be very brave. 

'Gad I must go down and see the old place, ' said Mr. Ormsby, touched by apensive reminiscence. 'One can get a good bed and bottle of port at theChristopher, still?'

'You had better come and try, sir, ' said Coningsby. 'If you will come someday and dine with me at the Christopher, I will give you such a bottle ofchampagne as you never tasted yet. '

The Marquess looked at him, but said nothing. 

'Ah! I liked a dinner at the Christopher, ' said Mr. Ormsby; 'after mutton, mutton, mutton, every day, it was not a bad thing. '

'We had venison for dinner every week last season, ' said Coningsby;'Buckhurst had it sent up from his park. But I don't care for dinner. Breakfast is my lounge. '

'Ah! those little rolls and pats of butter!' said Mr. Ormsby. 'Shortcommons, though. What do you think we did in my time? We used to send overthe way to get a mutton-chop. '

'I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at breakfast, ' said Coningsby, 'with a pound of Castle's sausages!'

'What Buckhurst is that, Harry?' inquired Lord Monmouth, in a tone of someinterest, and for the first time calling him by his Christian name. 

'Sir Charles Buckhurst, sir, a Berkshire man: Shirley Park is his place. '

'Why, that must be Charley's son, Eskdale, ' said Lord Monmouth; 'I had noidea he could be so young. '

'He married late, you know, and had nothing but daughters for a longtime. '

'Well, I hope there will be no Reform Bill for Eton, ' said Lord Monmouth, musingly. 

The servants had now retired. 

'I think, Lord Monmouth, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'we must ask permission to drinkone toast to-day. '

'Nay, I will myself give it, ' he replied. 'Madame Colonna, you will, I amsure, join us when we drink, THE DUKE!'

'Ah! what a man!' exclaimed the Princess. 'What a pity it is you have aHouse of Commons here! England would be the greatest country in the worldif it were not for that House of Commons. It makes so much confusion!'

'Don't abuse our property, ' said Lord Eskdale; 'Lord Monmouth and I havestill twenty votes of that same body between us. '

'And there is a combination, ' said Rigby, 'by which you may still keepthem. '

'Ah! now for Rigby's combination, ' said Lord Eskdale. 

'The only thing that can save this country, ' said Rigby, 'is a coalitionon a sliding scale. '

'You had better buy up the Birmingham Union and the other bodies, ' saidLord Monmouth; 'I believe it might all be done for two or three hundredthousand pounds; and the newspapers too. Pitt would have settled thisbusiness long ago. '

'Well, at any rate, we are in, ' said Rigby, 'and we must do something. '

'I should like to see Grey's list of new peers, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'Theysay there are several members of our club in it. '

'And the claims to the honour are so opposite, ' said Lucian Gay; 'one, onaccount of his large estate; another, because he has none; one, because hehas a well-grown family to perpetuate the title; another, because he hasno heir, and no power of ever obtaining one. '

'I wonder how he will form his cabinet, ' said Lord Monmouth; 'the oldstory won't do. '

'I hear that Baring is to be one of the new cards; they say it will pleasethe city, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'I suppose they will pick out of hedge andditch everything that has ever had the semblance of liberalism. '

'Affairs in my time were never so complicated, ' said Mr. Ormsby. 

'Nay, it appears to me to lie in a nutshell, ' said Lucian Gay; 'one partywishes to keep their old boroughs, and the other to get their new peers. '

CHAPTER VII. 

The future historian of the country will be perplexed to ascertain whatwas the distinct object which the Duke of Wellington proposed to himselfin the political manoeuvres of May, 1832. It was known that the passing ofthe Reform Bill was a condition absolute with the King; it wasunquestionable, that the first general election under the new law mustignominiously expel the Anti-Reform Ministry from power; who would thenresume their seats on the Opposition benches in both Houses with the lossnot only of their boroughs, but of that reputation for politicalconsistency, which might have been some compensation for the parliamentaryinfluence of which they had been deprived. It is difficult to recognise inthis premature effort of the Anti-Reform leader to thrust himself againinto the conduct of public affairs, any indications of the prescientjudgment which might have been expected from such a quarter. It savouredrather of restlessness than of energy; and, while it proved in itsprogress not only an ignorance on his part of the public mind, but of thefeelings of his own party, it terminated under circumstances which werehumiliating to the Crown, and painfully significant of the future positionof the House of Lords in the new constitutional scheme. 

The Duke of Wellington has ever been the votary of circumstances. He careslittle for causes. He watches events rather than seeks to produce them. Itis a characteristic of the military mind. Rapid combinations, the resultof quick, vigilant, and comprehensive glance, are generally triumphant inthe field: but in civil affairs, where results are not immediate; indiplomacy and in the management of deliberative assemblies, where there ismuch intervening time and many counteracting causes, this velocity ofdecision, this fitful and precipitate action, are often productive ofconsiderable embarrassment, and sometimes of terrible discomfiture. It isremarkable that men celebrated for military prudence are often found to beheadstrong statesmen. In civil life a great general is frequently andstrangely the creature of impulse; influenced in his political movementsby the last snatch of information; and often the creature of the lastaide-de-camp who has his ear. 

We shall endeavour to trace in another chapter the reasons which on thisas on previous and subsequent occasions, induced Sir Robert Peel to standaloof, if possible, from official life, and made him reluctant to re-enterthe service of his Sovereign. In the present instance, even temporarysuccess could only have been secured by the utmost decision, promptness, and energy. These were all wanting: some were afraid to follow the boldexample of their leader; many were disinclined. In eight-and-forty hoursit was known there was a 'hitch. '

The Reform party, who had been rather stupefied than appalled by theaccepted mission of the Duke of Wellington, collected their scatteredsenses, and rallied their forces. The agitators harangued, the mobshooted. The City of London, as if the King had again tried to seize thefive members, appointed a permanent committee of the Common Council towatch the fortunes of the 'great national measure, ' and to report daily. Brookes', which was the only place that at first was really frightened andtalked of compromise, grew valiant again; while young Whig heroes jumpedupon club-room tables, and delivered fiery invectives. Emboldened by thesedemonstrations, the House of Commons met in great force, and passed a votewhich struck, without disguise, at all rival powers in the State;virtually announced its supremacy; revealed the forlorn position of theHouse of Lords under the new arrangement; and seemed to lay for ever thefluttering phantom of regal prerogative. 

It was on the 9th of May that Lord Lyndhurst was with the King, and on the15th all was over. Nothing in parliamentary history so humiliating as thefuneral oration delivered that day by the Duke of Wellington over the oldconstitution, that, modelled on the Venetian, had governed England sincethe accession of the House of Hanover. He described his Sovereign, whenhis Grace first repaired to his Majesty, as in a state of the greatest'difficulty and distress, ' appealing to his never-failing loyalty toextricate him from his trouble and vexation. The Duke of Wellington, representing the House of Lords, sympathises with the King, and pledgeshis utmost efforts for his Majesty's relief. But after five days'exertion, this man of indomitable will and invincible fortunes, resignsthe task in discomfiture and despair, and alleges as the only andsufficient reason for his utter and hopeless defeat, that the House ofCommons had come to a vote which ran counter to the contemplated exerciseof the prerogative. 

From that moment power passed from the House of Lords to another assembly. But if the peers have ceased to be magnificoes, may it not also happenthat the Sovereign may cease to be a Doge? It is not impossible that thepolitical movements of our time, which seem on the surface to have atendency to democracy, may have in reality a monarchical bias. 

In less than a fortnight's time the House of Lords, like James II. , havingabdicated their functions by absence, the Reform Bill passed; the ardentmonarch, who a few months before had expressed his readiness to go down toParliament, in a hackney coach if necessary, to assist its progress, nowdeclining personally to give his assent to its provisions. 

In the protracted discussions to which this celebrated measure gave rise, nothing is more remarkable than the perplexities into which the speakersof both sides are thrown, when they touch upon the nature of therepresentative principle. On one hand it was maintained, that, under theold system, the people were virtually represented; while on the other, itwas triumphantly urged, that if the principle be conceded, the peopleshould not be virtually, but actually, represented. But who are thepeople? And where are you to draw a line? And why should there be any? Itwas urged that a contribution to the taxes was the constitutionalqualification for the suffrage. But we have established a system oftaxation in this country of so remarkable a nature, that the beggar whochews his quid as he sweeps a crossing, is contributing to the imposts! Ishe to have a vote? He is one of the people, and he yields his quota to thepublic burthens. 

Amid these conflicting statements, and these confounding conclusions, itis singular that no member of either House should have recurred to theoriginal character of these popular assemblies, which have alwaysprevailed among the northern nations. We still retain in the antiquephraseology of our statutes the term which might have beneficially guideda modern Reformer in his reconstructive labours. 

When the crowned Northman consulted on the welfare of his kingdom, heassembled the ESTATES of his realm. Now an estate is a class of the nationinvested with political rights. There appeared the estate of the clergy, of the barons, of other classes. In the Scandinavian kingdoms to this day, the estate of the peasants sends its representatives to the Diet. InEngland, under the Normans, the Church and the Baronage were convoked, together with the estate of the Community, a term which then probablydescribed the inferior holders of land, whose tenure was not immediate ofthe Crown. This Third Estate was so numerous, that convenience suggestedits appearance by representation; while the others, more limited, appeared, and still appear, personally. The Third Estate was reconstructedas circumstances developed themselves. It was a Reform of Parliament whenthe towns were summoned. 

In treating the House of the Third Estate as the House of the People, andnot as the House of a privileged class, the Ministry and Parliament of1831 virtually conceded the principle of Universal Suffrage. In this pointof view the ten-pound franchise was an arbitrary, irrational, andimpolitic qualification. It had, indeed, the merit of simplicity, and sohad the constitutions of Abbé Siéyès. But its immediate and inevitableresult was Chartism. 

But if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 had announced that the time hadarrived when the Third Estate should be enlarged and reconstructed, theywould have occupied an intelligible position; and if, instead ofsimplicity of elements in its reconstruction, they had sought, on thecontrary, various and varying materials which would have neutralised thepainful predominance of any particular interest in the new scheme, andprevented those banded jealousies which have been its consequences, thenation would have found itself in a secure condition. Another class notless numerous than the existing one, and invested with privileges not lessimportant, would have been added to the public estates of the realm; andthe bewildering phrase 'the People' would have remained, what it reallyis, a term of natural philosophy, and not of political science. 

During this eventful week of May, 1832, when an important revolution waseffected in the most considerable of modern kingdoms, in a manner sotranquil, that the victims themselves were scarcely conscious at the timeof the catastrophe, Coningsby passed his hours in unaccustomed pleasures, and in novel excitement. Although he heard daily from the lips of Mr. Rigby and his friends that England was for ever lost, the assembled guestsstill contrived to do justice to his grandfather's excellent dinners; nordid the impending ruin that awaited them prevent the Princess Colonna fromgoing to the Opera, whither she very good-naturedly took Coningsby. MadameColonna, indeed, gave such gratifying accounts of her dear young friend, that Coningsby became daily a greater favourite with Lord Monmouth, whocherished the idea that his grandson had inherited not merely the colourof his eyes, but something of his shrewd and fearless spirit. 

With Lucretia, Coningsby did not much advance. She remained silent andsullen. She was not beautiful; pallid, with a lowering brow, and an eyethat avoided meeting another's. Madame Colonna, though good-natured, feltfor her something of the affection for which step-mothers are celebrated. Lucretia, indeed, did not encourage her kindness, which irritated herstep-mother, who seemed seldom to address her but to rate and chide;Lucretia never replied, but looked dogged. Her father, the Prince, did notcompensate for this treatment. The memory of her mother, whom he hadgreatly disliked, did not soften his heart. He was a man still young;slender, not tall; very handsome, but worn; a haggard Antinous; hisbeautiful hair daily thinning; his dress rich and effeminate; many jewels, much lace. He seldom spoke, but was polished, though moody. 

At the end of the week, Coningsby returned to Eton. On the eve of hisdeparture, Lord Monmouth desired his grandson to meet him in hisapartments on the morrow, before quitting his roof. This farewell visitwas as kind and gracious as the first one had been repulsive. LordMonmouth gave Coningsby his blessing and ten pounds; desired that he wouldorder a dress, anything he liked, for the approaching Montem, which LordMonmouth meant to attend; and informed his grandson that he should orderthat in future a proper supply of game and venison should be forwarded toEton for the use of himself and his friends. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

After eight o'clock school, the day following the return of Coningsby, according to custom, he repaired to Buckhurst's room, where Henry Sydney, Lord Vere, and our hero held with him their breakfast mess. They were allin the fifth form, and habitual companions, on the river or on the Fives'Wall, at cricket or at foot-ball. The return of Coningsby, their leaderalike in sport and study, inspired them to-day with unusual spirits, which, to say the truth, were never particularly depressed. Where he hadbeen, what he had seen, what he had done, what sort of fellow hisgrandfather was, whether the visit had been a success; here were materialsfor almost endless inquiry. And, indeed, to do them justice, the lastquestion was not the least exciting to them; for the deep and cordialinterest which all felt in Coningsby's welfare far outweighed thecuriosity which, under ordinary circumstances, they would have experiencedon the return of one of their companions from an unusual visit to London. The report of their friend imparted to them unbounded satisfaction, whenthey learned that his relative was a splendid fellow; that he had beenloaded with kindness and favours; that Monmouth House, the wonders ofwhich he rapidly sketched, was hereafter to be his home; that LordMonmouth was coming down to Montem; that Coningsby was to order any dresshe liked, build a new boat if he chose; and, finally, had been pouched ina manner worthy of a Marquess and a grandfather. 

'By the bye, ' said Buckhurst, when the hubbub had a little subsided, 'I amafraid you will not half like it, Coningsby; but, old fellow, I had noidea you would be back this morning; I have asked Millbank to breakfasthere. '

A cloud stole over the clear brow of Coningsby. 

'It was my fault, ' said the amiable Henry Sydney; 'but I really wanted tobe civil to Millbank, and as you were not here, I put Buckhurst up to askhim. '

'Well, ' said Coningsby, as if sullenly resigned, 'never mind; but whyshould you ask an infernal manufacturer?'

'Why, the Duke always wished me to pay him some attention, ' said LordHenry, mildly. 'His family were so civil to us when we were atManchester. '

'Manchester, indeed!' said Coningsby; 'if you knew what I do aboutManchester! A pretty state we have been in in London this week past withyour Manchesters and Birminghams!'

'Come, come, Coningsby, ' said Lord Vere, the son of a Whig minister; 'I amall for Manchester and Birmingham. '

'It is all up with the country, I can tell you, ' said Coningsby, with theair of one who was in the secret. 

'My father says it will all go right now, ' rejoined Lord Vere. 'I had aletter from my sister yesterday. '

'They say we shall all lose our estates, though, ' said Buckhurst; 'I knowI shall not give up mine without a fight. Shirley was besieged, you know, in the civil wars; and the rebels got infernally licked. '

'I think that all the people about Beaumanoir would stand by the Duke, 'said Lord Henry, pensively. 

'Well, you may depend upon it you will have it very soon, ' said Coningsby. 'I know it from the best authority. '

'It depends on whether my father remains in, ' said Lord Vere. 'He is theonly man who can govern the country now. All say that. '

At this moment Millbank entered. He was a good looking boy, somewhat shy, and yet with a sincere expression in his countenance. He was evidently notextremely intimate with those who were now his companions. Buckhurst, andHenry Sydney, and Vere, welcomed him cordially. He looked at Coningsbywith some constraint, and then said:

'You have been in London, Coningsby?'

'Yes, I have been there during all the row. '

'You must have had a rare lark. '

'Yes, if having your windows broken by a mob be a rare lark. They couldnot break my grandfather's, though. Monmouth House is in a court-yard. Allnoblemen's houses should be in court-yards. '

'I was glad to see it all ended very well, ' said Millbank. 

'It has not begun yet, ' said Coningsby. 

'What?' said Millbank. 

'Why, the revolution. '

'The Reform Bill will prevent a revolution, my father says, ' saidMillbank. 

'By Jove! here's the goose, ' said Buckhurst. 

At this moment there entered the room a little boy, the scion of a noblehouse, bearing a roasted goose, which he had carried from the kitchen ofthe opposite inn, the Christopher. The lower boy or fag, depositing hisburthen, asked his master whether he had further need of him; andBuckhurst, after looking round the table, and ascertaining that he hadnot, gave him permission to retire; but he had scarcely disappeared, whenhis master singing out, 'Lower boy, St. John!' he immediately re-entered, and demanded his master's pleasure, which was, that he should pour somewater in the teapot. This being accomplished, St. John really made hisescape, and retired to a pupil-room, where the bullying of a tutor, because he had no derivations, exceeded in all probability the bullying ofhis master, had he contrived in his passage from the Christopher to haveupset the goose or dropped the sausages. 

In their merry meal, the Reform Bill was forgotten. Their thoughts weresoon concentrated in their little world, though it must be owned thatvisions of palaces and beautiful ladies did occasionally flit over thebrain of one of the company. But for him especially there was much ofinterest and novelty. So much had happened in his absence! There was aweek's arrears for him of Eton annals. They were recounted in so fresh aspirit, and in such vivid colours, that Coningsby lost nothing by hisLondon visit. All the bold feats that had been done, and all the brightthings that had been said; all the triumphs, and all the failures, and allthe scrapes; how popular one master had made himself, and how ridiculousanother; all was detailed with a liveliness, a candour, and a picturesqueingenuousness, which would have made the fortune of a Herodotus or aFroissart. 

'I'll tell you what, ' said Buckhurst, 'I move that after twelve we five goup to Maidenhead. '

'Agreed; agreed!'

CHAPTER IX. 

Millbank was the son of one of the wealthiest manufacturers in Lancashire. His father, whose opinions were of a very democratic bent, sent his son toEton, though he disapproved of the system of education pursued there, toshow that he had as much right to do so as any duke in the land. He had, however, brought up his only boy with a due prejudice against everysentiment or institution of an aristocratic character, and had especiallyimpressed upon him in his school career, to avoid the slightest semblanceof courting the affections or society of any member of the falsely-heldsuperior class. 

The character of the son as much as the influence of the father, tended tothe fulfilment of these injunctions. Oswald Millbank was of a proud andindependent nature; reserved, a little stern. The early and constantly-reiterated dogma of his father, that he belonged to a class debarred fromits just position in the social system, had aggravated the grave andsomewhat discontented humour of his blood. His talents were considerable, though invested with no dazzling quality. He had not that quick andbrilliant apprehension, which, combined with a memory of rareretentiveness, had already advanced Coningsby far beyond his age, and madehim already looked to as the future hero of the school. But Millbankpossessed one of those strong, industrious volitions whose perseveranceamounts almost to genius, and nearly attains its results. Though Coningsbywas by a year his junior, they were rivals. This circumstance had notendency to remove the prejudice which Coningsby entertained against him, but its bias on the part of Millbank had a contrary effect. 

The influence of the individual is nowhere so sensible as at school. Therethe personal qualities strike without any intervening and counteractingcauses. A gracious presence, noble sentiments, or a happy talent, maketheir way there at once, without preliminary inquiries as to what set theyare in, or what family they are of, how much they have a-year, or wherethey live. Now, on no spirit had the influence of Coningsby, already thefavourite, and soon probably to become the idol, of the school, fallenmore effectually than on that of Millbank, though it was an influence thatno one could suspect except its votary or its victim. 

At school, friendship is a passion. It entrances the being; it tears thesoul. All loves of after-life can never bring its rapture, or itswretchedness; no bliss so absorbing, no pangs of jealousy or despair socrushing and so keen! What tenderness and what devotion; what illimitableconfidence; infinite revelations of inmost thoughts; what ecstatic presentand romantic future; what bitter estrangements and what meltingreconciliations; what scenes of wild recrimination, agitatingexplanations, passionate correspondence; what insane sensitiveness, andwhat frantic sensibility; what earthquakes of the heart and whirlwinds ofthe soul are confined in that simple phrase, a schoolboy's friendship!Tis some indefinite recollection of these mystic passages of their youngemotion that makes grey-haired men mourn over the memory of theirschoolboy days. It is a spell that can soften the acerbity of politicalwarfare, and with its witchery can call forth a sigh even amid the callousbustle of fashionable saloons. 

The secret of Millbank's life was a passionate admiration and affectionfor Coningsby. Pride, his natural reserve, and his father's injunctions, had, however, hitherto successfully combined to restrain the slightestdemonstration of these sentiments. Indeed, Coningsby and himself werenever companions, except in school, or in some public game. The demeanourof Coningsby gave no encouragement to intimacy to one, who, under anycircumstances, would have required considerable invitation to openhimself. So Millbank fed in silence on a cherished idea. It was hishappiness to be in the same form, to join in the same sport, withConingsby; occasionally to be thrown in unusual contact with him, toexchange slight and not unkind words. In their division they were rivals;Millbank sometimes triumphed, but to be vanquished by Coningsby was forhim not without a degree of mild satisfaction. Not a gesture, not a phrasefrom Coningsby, that he did not watch and ponder over and treasure up. Coningsby was his model, alike in studies, in manners, or in pastimes; theaptest scholar, the gayest wit, the most graceful associate, the mostaccomplished playmate: his standard of excellent. Yet Millbank was thevery last boy in the school who would have had credit given him by hiscompanions for profound and ardent feeling. He was not indeed unpopular. The favourite of the school like Coningsby, he could, under nocircumstances, ever have become; nor was he qualified to obtain thatgeneral graciousness among the multitude, which the sweet disposition ofHenry Sydney, or the gay profusion of Buckhurst, acquired without anyeffort. Millbank was not blessed with the charm of manner. He seemed closeand cold; but he was courageous, just, and inflexible; never bullied, andto his utmost would prevent tyranny. The little boys looked up to him as astern protector; and his word, too, throughout the school was a proverb:and truth ranks a great quality among boys. In a word, Millbank wasrespected by those among whom he lived; and school-boys scan charactermore nicely than men suppose. 

A brother of Henry Sydney, quartered in Lancashire, had been woundedrecently in a riot, and had received great kindness from the Millbankfamily, in whose immediate neighbourhood the disturbance had occurred. Thekind Duke had impressed on Henry Sydney to acknowledge with cordiality tothe younger Millbank at Eton, the sense which his family entertained ofthese benefits; but though Henry lost neither time nor opportunity inobeying an injunction, which was grateful to his own heart, he failed incherishing, or indeed creating, any intimacy with the object of hissolicitude. A companionship with one who was Coningsby's relative and mostfamiliar friend, would at the first glance have appeared, independently ofall other considerations, a most desirable result for Millbank toaccomplish. But, perhaps, this very circumstance afforded additionalreasons for the absence of all encouragement with which he received theovertures of Lord Henry. Millbank suspected that Coningsby was notaffected in his favour, and his pride recoiled from gaining, by anyindirect means, an intimacy which to have obtained in a plain and expressmanner would have deeply gratified him. However, the urgent invitation ofBuckhurst and Henry Sydney, and the fear that a persistence in refusalmight be misinterpreted into churlishness, had at length brought Millbankto their breakfast-mess, though, when he accepted their invitation, he didnot apprehend that Coningsby would have been present. 

It was about an hour before sunset, the day of this very breakfast, and agood number of boys, in lounging groups, were collected in the Long Walk. The sports and matches of the day were over. Criticism had succeeded toaction in sculling and in cricket. They talked over the exploits of themorning; canvassed the merits of the competitors, marked the fellow whoseplay or whose stroke was improving; glanced at another, whose promise hadnot been fulfilled; discussed the pretensions, and adjudged the palm. Thuspublic opinion is formed. Some, too, might be seen with their books andexercises, intent on the inevitable and impending tasks. Among these, someunhappy wight in the remove, wandering about with his hat, after parochialfashion, seeking relief in the shape of a verse. A hard lot this, to knowthat you must be delivered of fourteen verses at least in the twenty-fourhours, and to be conscious that you are pregnant of none. The lesser boys, urchins of tender years, clustered like flies round the baskets of certainvendors of sugary delicacies that rested on the Long Walk wall. The pallidcountenance, the lacklustre eye, the hoarse voice clogged with accumulatedphlegm, indicated too surely the irreclaimable and hopeless votary oflollypop, the opium-eater of schoolboys. 

'It is settled, the match to-morrow shall be between Aquatics andDrybobs, ' said a senior boy; who was arranging a future match at cricket. 

'But what is to be done about Fielding major?' inquired another. 'He hasnot paid his boating money, and I say he has no right to play among theAquatics before he has paid his money. '

'Oh! but we must have Fielding major, he is such a devil of a swipe. '

'I declare he shall not play among the Aquatics if he does not pay hisboating money. It is an infernal shame. '

'Let us ask Buckhurst. Where is Buckhurst?'

'Have you got any toffy?' inquired a dull looking little boy, in a hoarsevoice, of one of the vendors of scholastic confectionery. 

'Tom Trot, sir. '

'No; I want toffy. '

'Very nice Tom Trot, sir. '

'No, I want toffy; I have been eating Tom Trot all day. '

'Where is Buckhurst? We must settle about the Aquatics. '

'Well, I for one will not play if Fielding major plays amongst theAquatics. That is settled. '

'Oh! nonsense; he will pay his money if you ask him. '

'I shall not ask him again. The captain duns us every day. It is aninfernal shame. '

'I say, Burnham, where can one get some toffy? This fellow never has any. '

'I will tell you; at Barnes' on the bridge. The best toffy in the world. '

'I will go at once. I must have some toffy. '

'Just help me with this verse, Collins, ' said one boy to another, in animploring tone, 'that's a good fellow. '

'Well, give it us: first syllable in _fabri_ is short; three falsequantities in the two first lines! You're a pretty one. There, I have doneit for you. '

'That's a good fellow. '

'Any fellow seen Buckhurst?'

'Gone up the river with Coningsby and Henry Sydney. '

'But he must be back by this time. I want him to make the list for thematch to-morrow. Where the deuce can Buckhurst be?'

And now, as rumours rise in society we know not how, so there was suddenlya flying report in this multitude, the origin of which no one in his alarmstopped to ascertain, that a boy was drowned. 

Every heart was agitated. 

What boy? When, where, how? Who was absent? Who had been on the river to-day? Buckhurst. The report ran that Buckhurst was drowned. Great were thetrouble and consternation. Buckhurst was ever much liked; and now no oneremembered anything but his good qualities. 

'Who heard it was Buckhurst?' said Sedgwick, captain of the school, comingforward. 

'I heard Bradford tell Palmer it was Buckhurst, ' said a little boy. 

'Where is Bradford?'

'Here. '

'What do you know about Buckhurst?'

'Wentworth told me that he was afraid Buckhurst was drowned. He heard itat the Brocas; a bargeman told him about a quarter of an hour ago. '

'Here is Wentworth! Here is Wentworth!' a hundred voices exclaimed, andthey formed a circle round him. 

'Well, what did you hear, Wentworth?' asked Sedgwick. 

'I was at the Brocas, and a bargee told me that an Eton fellow had beendrowned above Surley, and the only Eton boat above Surley to-day, as I canlearn, is Buckhurst's four-oar. That is all. '

There was a murmur of hope. 

'Oh! come, come, ' said Sedgwick, 'there is come chance. Who is withBuckhurst; who knows?'

'I saw him walk down to the Brocas with Vere, ' said a boy. 

'I hope it is not Vere, ' said a little boy, with a tearful eye; 'he neverlets any fellow bully me. '

'Here is Maltravers, ' halloed out a boy; 'he knows something. '

'Well, what do you know, Maltravers?'

'I heard Boots at the Christopher say that an Eton fellow was drowned, andthat he had seen a person who was there. '

'Bring Boots here, ' said Sedgwick. 

Instantly a band of boys rushed over the way, and in a moment the witnesswas produced. 

'What have you heard, Sam, about this accident?' said Sedgwick. 

'Well, sir, I heard a young gentleman was drowned above Monkey Island, 'said Boots. 

'And no name mentioned?'

'Well, sir, I believe it was Mr. Coningsby. '

A general groan of horror. 

'Coningsby, Coningsby! By Heavens I hope not, ' said Sedgwick. 

'I very much fear so, ' said Boots; 'as how the bargeman who told me sawMr. Coningsby in the Lock House laid out in flannels. '

'I had sooner any fellow had been drowned than Coningsby, ' whispered oneboy to another. 

'I liked him, the best fellow at Eton, ' responded his companion, in asmothered tone. 

'What a clever fellow he was!'

'And so deuced generous!'

'He would have got the medal if he had lived. '

'And how came he to be drowned? for he was such a fine swimmer!'

'I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another's life, ' continued Boots in hisevidence, 'which makes it in a manner more sorrowful. '

'Poor Coningsby!' exclaimed a boy, bursting into tears: 'I move the wholeschool goes into mourning. '

'I wish we could get hold of this bargeman, ' said Sedgwick. 'Now stop, stop, don't all run away in that mad manner; you frighten the people. Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go down to the Brocas and inquire. '

But just at this moment, an increased stir and excitement were evident inthe Long Walk; the circle round Sedgwick opened, and there appeared HenrySydney and Buckhurst. 

There was a dead silence. It was impossible that suspense could bestrained to a higher pitch. The air and countenance of Sydney andBuckhurst were rather excited than mournful or alarmed. They needed noinquiries, for before they had penetrated the circle they had become awareof its cause. 

Buckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was of course the first to speak. Henry Sydney indeed looked pale and nervous; but his companion, flushedand resolute, knew exactly how to hit a popular assembly, and at once cameto the point. 

'It is all a false report, an infernal lie; Coningsby is quite safe, andnobody is drowned. '

There was a cheer that might have been heard at Windsor Castle. Then, turning to Sedgwick, in an undertone Buckhurst added, 'It _is_ all right, but, by Jove! we have had a shaver. I will tell youall in a moment, but we want to keep the thing quiet, and so let thefellows disperse, and we will talk afterwards. '

In a few moments the Long Walk had resumed its usual character; butSedgwick, Herbert, and one or two others turned into the playing fields, where, undisturbed and unnoticed by the multitude, they listened to thepromised communication of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney. 

'You know we went up the river together, ' said Buckhurst. 'Myself, HenrySydney, Coningsby, Vere, and Millbank. We had breakfasted together, andafter twelve agreed to go up to Maidenhead. Well, we went up much higherthan we had intended. About a quarter of a mile before we had got to theLock we pulled up; Coningsby was then steering. Well, we fastened the boatto, and were all of us stretched out on the meadow, when Millbank and Veresaid they should go and bathe in the Lock Pool. The rest of us wereopposed; but after Millbank and Vere had gone about ten minutes, Coningsby, who was very fresh, said he had changed his mind and should goand bathe too. So he left us. He had scarcely got to the pool when heheard a cry. There was a fellow drowning. He threw off his clothes and wasin in a moment. The fact is this, Millbank had plunged in the pool andfound himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting of two currents. Hecalled out to Vere not to come, and tried to swim off. But he was beat, and seeing he was in danger, Vere jumped in. But the stream was so strong, from the great fall of water from the lasher above, that Vere wasexhausted before he could reach Millbank, and nearly sank himself. Well, he just saved himself; but Millbank sank as Coningsby jumped in. What doyou think of that?'

'By Jove!' exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, and all. The favourite oath ofschoolboys perpetuates the divinity of Olympus. 

'And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank when he rose, but hefound himself in the midst of the same strong current that had beforenearly swamped Vere. What a lucky thing that he had taken into his headnot to pull to-day! Fresher than Vere, he just managed to land Millbankand himself. The shouts of Vere called us, and we arrived to find thebodies of Millbank and Coningsby apparently lifeless, for Millbank wasquite gone, and Coningsby had swooned on landing. '

'If Coningsby had been lost, ' said Henry Sydney, 'I never would have shownmy face at Eton again. '

'Can you conceive a position more terrible?' said Buckhurst. 'I declare Ishall never forget it as long as I live. However, there was the Lock Houseat hand; and we got blankets and brandy. Coningsby was soon all right; butMillbank, I can tell you, gave us some trouble. I thought it was all up. Didn't you, Henry Sydney?'

'The most fishy thing I ever saw, ' said Henry Sydney. 

'Well, we were fairly frightened here, ' said Sedgwick. 'The first reportwas, that you had gone, but that seemed without foundation; but Coningsbywas quite given up. Where are they now?'

'They are both at their tutors'. I thought they had better keep quiet. Vere is with Millbank, and we are going back to Coningsby directly; but wethought it best to show, finding on our arrival that there were all sortsof rumours about. I think it will be best to report at once to my tutor, for he will be sure to hear something. '

'I would if I were you. '

CHAPTER X. 

What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater importance thanthe most sublime and comprehensive speculations! In what fanciful schemesto obtain the friendship of Coningsby had Millbank in his reveries oftenindulged! What combinations that were to extend over years and influencetheir lives! But the moment that he entered the world of action, his priderecoiled from the plans and hopes which his sympathy had inspired. Hissensibility and his inordinate self-respect were always at variance. Andhe seldom exchanged a word with the being whose idea engrossed hisaffection. 

And now, suddenly, an event had occurred, like all events, unforeseen, which in a few, brief, agitating, tumultuous moments had singularly andutterly changed the relations that previously subsisted between him andthe former object of his concealed tenderness. Millbank now stood withrespect to Coningsby in the position of one who owes to another thegreatest conceivable obligation; a favour which time could permit himneither to forget nor to repay. Pride was a sentiment that could no longersubsist before the preserver of his life. Devotion to that being, open, almost ostentatious, was now a duty, a paramount and absorbing tie. Thesense of past peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish for the lifeso nearly forfeited, a deep sentiment of devout gratitude to theprovidence that had guarded over him, for Millbank was an eminentlyreligious boy, a thought of home, and the anguish that might haveoverwhelmed his hearth; all these were powerful and exciting emotions fora young and fervent mind, in addition to the peculiar source ofsensibility on which we have already touched. Lord Vere, who lodged in thesame house as Millbank, and was sitting by his bedside, observed, as nightfell, that his mind wandered. 

The illness of Millbank, the character of which soon transpired, and wassoon exaggerated, attracted the public attention with increased interestto the circumstances out of which it had arisen, and from which theparties principally concerned had wished to have diverted notice. Thesufferer, indeed, had transgressed the rules of the school by bathing atan unlicensed spot, where there were no expert swimmers in attendance, asis customary, to instruct the practice and to guard over the lives of theyoung adventurers. But the circumstances with which this violation ofrules had been accompanied, and the assurance of several of the party thatthey had not themselves infringed the regulations, combined with the highcharacter of Millbank, made the authorities not over anxious to visit withpenalties a breach of observance which, in the case of the only provedoffender, had been attended with such impressive consequences. The feat ofConingsby was extolled by all as an act of high gallantry and skill. Itconfirmed and increased the great reputation which he already enjoyed. 

'Millbank is getting quite well, ' said Buckhurst to Coningsby a few daysafter the accident. 'Henry Sydney and I are going to see him. Will youcome?'

'I think we shall be too many. I will go another day, ' replied Coningsby. 

So they went without him. They found Millbank up and reading. 

'Well, old fellow, ' said Buckhurst, 'how are you? We should have come upbefore, but they would not let us. And you are quite right now, eh?'

'Quite. Has there been any row about it?'

'All blown over, ' said Henry Sydney; 'C*******y behaved like a trump. '

'I have seen nobody yet, ' said Millbank; 'they would not let me till to-day. Vere looked in this morning and left me this book, but I was asleep. I hope they will let me out in a day or two. I want to thank Coningsby; Inever shall rest till I have thanked Coningsby. '

'Oh, he will come to see you, ' said Henry Sydney; 'I asked him just now tocome with us. '

'Yes!' said Millbank, eagerly; 'and what did he say?'

'He thought we should be too many. '

'I hope I shall see him soon, ' said Millbank, 'somehow or other. '

'I will tell him to come, ' said Buckhurst. 

'Oh! no, no, don't tell him to come, ' said Millbank. 'Don't bore him. '

'I know he is going to play a match at fives this afternoon, ' saidBuckhurst, 'for I am one. '

'And who are the others?' inquired Millbank. 

'Herbert and Campbell. '

'Herbert is no match for Coningsby, ' said Millbank. 

And then they talked over all that had happened since his absence; andBuckhurst gave him a graphic report of the excitement on the afternoon ofthe accident; at last they were obliged to leave him. 

'Well, good-bye, old fellow; we will come and see you every day. What canwe do for you? Any books, or anything?'

'If any fellow asks after me, ' said Millbank, 'tell him I shall be glad tosee him. It is very dull being alone. But do not tell any fellow to comeif he does not ask after me. '

Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby could not easily bring himself to call on Millbank. He felt aconstraint. It seemed as if he went to receive thanks. He would ratherhave met Millbank again in school, or in the playing fields. Without beingable then to analyse his feelings, he shrank unconsciously from thatebullition of sentiment, which in more artificial circles is described asa scene. Not that any dislike of Millbank prompted him to this reserve. Onthe contrary, since he had conferred a great obligation on Millbank, hisprejudice against him had sensibly decreased. How it would have been hadMillbank saved Coningsby's life, is quite another affair. Probably, asConingsby was by nature generous, his sense of justice might havestruggled successfully with his painful sense of the overwhelmingobligation. But in the present case there was no element to disturb hisfair self-satisfaction. He had greatly distinguished himself; he hadconferred on his rival an essential service; and the whole world rang withhis applause. He began rather to like Millbank; we will not say becauseMillbank was the unintentional cause of his pleasurable sensations. Reallyit was that the unusual circumstances had prompted him to a more impartialjudgment of his rival's character. In this mood, the day after the visitof Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby called on Millbank, but findinghis medical attendant with him, Coningsby availed himself of that excusefor going away without seeing him. 

The next day he left Millbank a newspaper on his way to school, time notpermitting a visit. Two days after, going into his room, he found on histable a letter addressed to 'Harry Coningsby, Esq. '

ETON, May--, 1832. 

'DEAR CONINGSBY, I very much fear that you must think me a very ungratefulfellow, because you have not heard from me before; but I was in hopes thatI might get out and say to you what I feel; but whether I speak or write, it is quite impossible for me to make you understand the feelings of myheart to you. Now, I will say at once, that I have always liked you betterthan any fellow in the school, and always thought you the cleverest;indeed, I always thought that there was no one like you; but I never wouldsay this or show this, because you never seemed to care for me, andbecause I was afraid you would think I merely wanted to con with you, asthey used to say of some other fellows, whose names I will not mention, because they always tried to do so with Henry Sydney and you. I do notwant this at all; but I want, though we may not speak to each other morethan before, that we may be friends; and that you will always know thatthere is nothing I will not do for you, and that I like you better thanany fellow at Eton. And I do not mean that this shall be only at Eton, butafterwards, wherever we may be, that you will always remember that thereis nothing I will not do for you. Not because you saved my life, thoughthat is a great thing, but because before that I would have done anythingfor you; only, for the cause above mentioned, I would not show it. I donot expect that we shall be more together than before; nor can I eversuppose that you could like me as you like Henry Sydney and Buckhurst, oreven as you like Vere; but still I hope you will always think of me withkindness now, and let me sign myself, if ever I do write to you, 'Yourmost attached, affectionate, and devoted friend, 'OSWALD MILLBANK. '

CHAPTER XI. 

About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adventure on the river, it wasMontem. One need hardly remind the reader that this celebrated ceremony, of which the origin is lost in obscurity, and which now occurstriennially, is the tenure by which Eton College holds some of itsdomains. It consists in the waving of a flag by one of the scholars, on amount near the village of Salt Hill, which, without doubt, derives itsname from the circumstance that on this day every visitor to Eton, andevery traveller in its vicinity, from the monarch to the peasant, arestopped on the road by youthful brigands in picturesque costume, andsummoned to contribute 'salt, ' in the shape of coin of the realm, to thepurse collecting for the Captain of Eton, the senior scholar on theFoundation, who is about to repair to King's College, Cambridge. 

On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as histitle: indeed, each sixth-form boy represents in his uniform, though notperhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse Guards, an officer ofthe army. One is a marshal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, too;and the remainder are sergeants. Each of those who are intrusted withthese ephemeral commissions has one or more attendants, the number ofthese varying according to his rank. These servitors are selectedaccording to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, out ofthe ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are below the fifthform; and all these attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to the Captain ofthe school, figure also in fancy costume, and are called 'Saltbearers. ' Itis their business, together with the twelve senior Collegers of the fifthform, who are called 'Runners, ' and whose costume is also determined bythe taste of the wearers, to levy the contributions. And all the Oppidansof the fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class as 'Corporals;' andare severally followed by one or more lower boys, who are denominated'Polemen, ' but who appear in their ordinary dress. 

It was a fine, bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang merrily;everybody was astir, and every moment some gay equipage drove into thetown. Gaily clustering in the thronged precincts of the College, might beobserved many a glistening form: airy Greek or sumptuous Ottoman, heroesof the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, HighlandChiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in the tartan of Prince Charlie. The Long Walk was full of busy groups in scarlet coats or fancifuluniforms; some in earnest conversation, some criticising the arrivingguests; others encircling some magnificent hero, who astounded them withhis slashed doublet or flowing plume. 

A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall, with their feet swinging inthe air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost. 

'I say, Townshend, ' said one, 'there's Grobbleton; he _was_ a bully. Iwonder if that's his wife? Who's this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn't anEton fellow? Yes, he was. He was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! his nameis in the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend, did you see Saville's turban? What was it made of? He says his motherbrought it from Grand Cairo. Didn't he just look like the Saracen's Head?Here are some Dons. That's Hallam! We'll give him a cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn't think small beer of himself. Iwonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington's valet come to say his master isengaged. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won'twe give him a cheer!'

'By Jove! who is this?' exclaimed Townshend, and he jumped from the wall, and, followed by his companions, rushed towards the road. 

Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses of mettle, and eachaccompanied by outriders as well mounted, were advancing at a rapid pacealong the road that leads from Slough to the College. But they weredestined to an irresistible check. About fifty yards before they hadreached the gate that leads into Weston's Yard, a ruthless but splendidAlbanian, in crimson and gold embroidered jacket, and snowy camise, started forward, and holding out his silver-sheathed yataghan commandedthe postilions to stop. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road gavea simultaneous command, and would infallibly have transfixed the outriderswith an arrow from his unerring bow, had they for an instant hesitated. The Albanian Chief then advanced to the door of the carriage, which heopened, and in a tone of great courtesy, announced that he was under thenecessity of troubling its inmates for 'salt. ' There was no delay. TheLord of the equipage, with the amiable condescension of a 'grandmonarque, ' expressed his hope that the collection would be an ample one, and as an old Etonian, placed in the hands of the Albanian hiscontribution, a magnificent purse, furnished for the occasion, and heavywith gold. 

'Don't be alarmed, ladies, ' said a very handsome young officer, laughing, and taking off his cocked hat. 

'Ah!' exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the voice, and starting alittle. 'Ah! it is Mr. Coningsby. '

Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next carriage. 'Do they come downpretty stiff?' he inquired, and then, pulling forth a roll of bank-notesfrom the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished them good morning. 

The courtly Provost, then the benignant Goodall, a man who, though hisexperience of life was confined to the colleges in which he had passed hisdays, was naturally gifted with the rarest of all endowments, the talentof reception; and whose happy bearing and gracious manner, a smile ever inhis eye and a lively word ever on his lip, must be recalled by all withpleasant recollections, welcomed Lord Monmouth and his friends to anassemblage of the noble, the beautiful, and the celebrated gatheredtogether in rooms not unworthy of them, as you looked upon theirinteresting walls, breathing with the portraits of the heroes whom Etonboasts, from Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded in the quadrangle of theCollege, in which the boys were already quickly assembling. The Duke ofWellington had arrived, and the boys were cheering a hero, who was an Etonfield-marshal. From an oriel window in one of the Provost's rooms, LordMonmouth, surrounded by every circumstance that could make lifedelightful, watched with some intentness the scene in the quadranglebeneath. 

'I would give his fame, ' said Lord Monmouth, 'if I had it, and my wealth, to be sixteen. '

Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, high spirits, and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the quadrangle. They formed intorank, and headed by a band of the Guards, thrice they marched round thecourt. Then quitting the College, they commenced their progress 'adMontem. ' It was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling through theplaying fields, those bowery meads; the river sparkling in the sun, thecastled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; behind them, thepinnacles of their College. 

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; the broadfields as far as eye could range were covered with human beings. Amid theburst of martial music and the shouts of the multitude, the band ofheroes, as if they were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, tosome heroic deed, encircled the mount; the ensign reaches its summit, andthen, amid a deafening cry of 'Floreat Etona!' he unfurls, and thricewaves the consecrated standard. 

'Lord Monmouth, ' said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, 'wishes that you should begyour friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask Lord Henry and yourfriend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and is there any one else that you wouldlike to invite?'

'Why, there is Vere, ' said Coningsby, hesitating, 'and--'

'Vere! What Lord Vere?' said Rigby. 'Hum! He is one of your friends, ishe? His father has done a great deal of mischief, but still he is LordVere. Well, of course, you can invite Vere. '

'There is another fellow I should like to ask very much, ' said Coningsby. 'if Lord Monmouth would not think I was asking too many. '

'Never fear that; he sent me particularly to tell you to invite as many asyou liked. '

'Well, then, I should like to ask Millbank. '

'Millbank!' said Mr. Rigby, a little excited, and then he added, 'Is thata son of Lady Albinia Millbank?'

'No; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but he is a great friend of mine. His father is a Lancashire manufacturer. '

'By no means, ' exclaimed Mr. Rigby, quite agitated. 'There is nothing inthe world that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as Manchester manufacturers, and particularly if they bear the name of Millbank. It must not be thoughtof, my dear Harry. I hope you have not spoken to the young man on thesubject. I assure you it is out of the question. It would make LordMonmouth quite ill. It would spoil everything, quite upset him. '

It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby to urge his wishes againstsuch representations. He was disappointed, rather amazed; but MadameColonna having sent for him to introduce her to some of the scenes anddetails of Eton life, his vexation was soon absorbed in the pride ofacting in the face of his companions as the cavalier of a beautiful lady, and becoming the cicerone of the most brilliant party that had attendedMontem. He presented his friends, too, to Lord. Monmouth, who gave them acordial invitation to dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, which theywarmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the Marquess by his reckless genius. Even Lucretia deigned to appear amused; especially when, on visiting theupper school, the name of CARDIFF, the title Lord Monmouth bore in hisyouthful days, was pointed out to her by Coningsby, cut with hisgrandfather's own knife on the classic panels of that memorable wall inwhich scarcely a name that has flourished in our history, since thecommencement of the eighteenth century, may not be observed with curiousadmiration. 

It was the humour of Lord Monmouth that the boys should be entertainedwith the most various and delicious banquet that luxury could devise ormoney could command. For some days beforehand orders had been given forthe preparation of this festival. Our friends did full justice to theirLucullus; Buckhurst especially, who gave his opinion on the most refineddishes with all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occasionally shookhis head over a glass of Hermitage or Côte Rôtie with a dissatisfactionwhich a satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. Considering all things, Coningsby and his friends exhibited a great deal of self-command; but theywere gay, even to the verge of frolic. But then the occasion justified it, as much as their youth. All were in high spirits. Madame Colonna declaredthat she had met nothing in England equal to Montem; that it was aProtestant Carnival; and that its only fault was that it did not lastforty days. The Prince himself was all animation, and took wine with everyone of the Etonians several times. All went on flowingly until Mr. Rigbycontradicted Buckhurst on some point of Eton discipline, which Buckhurstwould not stand. He rallied Mr. Rigby roundly, and Coningsby, full ofchampagne, and owing Rigby several years of contradiction, followed up theassault. Lord Monmouth, who liked a butt, and had a weakness forboisterous gaiety, slily encouraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose histemper and get noisy. 

The lads had the best of it; they said a great many funny things, anddelivered themselves of several sharp retorts; whereas there was somethingridiculous in Rigby putting forth his 'slashing' talents against suchyounkers. However, he brought the infliction on himself by his strangehabit of deciding on subjects of which he knew nothing, and of alwayscontradicting persons on the very subjects of which they were necessarilymasters. 

To see Rigby baited was more amusement to Lord Monmouth even than Montem. Lucian Gay, however, when the affair was getting troublesome, came forwardas a diversion. He sang an extemporaneous song on the ceremony of the day, and introduced the names of all the guests at the dinner, and of a greatmany other persons besides. This was capital! The boys were in raptures, but when the singer threw forth a verse about Dr. Keate, the applausebecame uproarious. 

'Good-bye, my dear Harry, ' said Lord Monmouth, when he bade his grandsonfarewell. 'I am going abroad again; I cannot remain in this Radical-riddencountry. Remember, though I am away, Monmouth House is your home, at leastso long as it belongs to me. I understand my tailor has turned Liberal, and is going to stand for one of the metropolitan districts, a friend ofLord Durham; perhaps I shall find him in it when I return. I fear thereare evil days for the NEW GENERATION!'

END OF BOOK I. 

BOOK II. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was early in November, 1834, and a large shooting party was assembledat Beaumanoir, the seat of that great nobleman, who was the father ofHenry Sydney. England is unrivalled for two things, sporting and politics. They were combined at Beaumanoir; for the guests came not merely toslaughter the Duke's pheasants, but to hold council on the prospects ofthe party, which it was supposed by the initiated, began at this time toindicate some symptoms of brightening. 

The success of the Reform Ministry on their first appeal to the newconstituency which they had created, had been fatally complete. But thetriumph was as destructive to the victors as to the vanquished. 

'We are too strong, ' prophetically exclaimed one of the fortunate cabinet, which found itself supported by an inconceivable majority of threehundred. It is to be hoped that some future publisher of private memoirsmay have preserved some of the traits of that crude and short-livedparliament, when old Cobbett insolently thrust Sir Robert from theprescriptive seat of the chief of opposition, and treasury understrapperssneered at the 'queer lot' that had arrived from Ireland, littleforeseeing what a high bidding that 'queer lot' would eventually command. Gratitude to Lord Grey was the hustings-cry at the end of 1832, thepretext that was to return to the new-modelled House of Commons none butmen devoted to the Whig cause. The successful simulation, like everythingthat is false, carried within it the seeds of its own dissolution. Ingratitude to Lord Grey was more the fashion at the commencement of 1834, and before the close of that eventful year, the once popular ReformMinistry was upset, and the eagerly-sought Reformed Parliament dissolved!

It can scarcely be alleged that the public was altogether unprepared forthis catastrophe. Many deemed it inevitable; few thought it imminent. Thecareer of the Ministry, and the existence of the Parliament, had indeedfrom the first been turbulent and fitful. It was known, from authority, that there were dissensions in the cabinet, while a House of Commons whichpassed votes on subjects not less important than the repeal of a tax, orthe impeachment of a judge, on one night, and rescinded its resolutions onthe following, certainly established no increased claims to the confidenceof its constituents in its discretion. Nevertheless, there existed at thisperiod a prevalent conviction that the Whig party, by a great stroke ofstate, similar in magnitude and effect to that which in the precedingcentury had changed the dynasty, had secured to themselves the governmentof this country for, at least, the lives of the present generation. Andeven the well-informed in such matters were inclined to look upon theperplexing circumstances to which we have alluded rather as symptoms of awant of discipline in a new system of tactics, than as evidences of anyessential and deeply-rooted disorder. 

The startling rapidity, however, of the strange incidents of 1834; theindignant, soon to become vituperative, secession of a considerablesection of the cabinet, some of them esteemed too at that time among itsmost efficient members; the piteous deprecation of 'pressure fromwithout, ' from lips hitherto deemed too stately for entreaty, followed bythe Trades' Union, thirty thousand strong, parading in procession toDowning-street; the Irish negotiations of Lord Hatherton, strange blendingof complex intrigue and almost infantile ingenuousness; the stillinexplicable resignation of Lord Althorp, hurriedly followed by his stillmore mysterious resumption of power, the only result of his precipitatemovements being the fall of Lord Grey himself, attended by circumstanceswhich even a friendly historian could scarcely describe as honourable tohis party or dignified to himself; latterly, the extemporaneous address ofKing William to the Bishops; the vagrant and grotesque apocalypse of theLord Chancellor; and the fierce recrimination and memorable defiance ofthe Edinburgh banquet, all these impressive instances of public affairsand public conduct had combined to create a predominant opinion that, whatever might be the consequences, the prolonged continuance of thepresent party in power was a clear impossibility. 

It is evident that the suicidal career of what was then styled the Liberalparty had been occasioned and stimulated by its unnatural excess ofstrength. The apoplectic plethora of 1834 was not less fatal than theparalytic tenuity of 1841. It was not feasible to gratify so manyambitions, or to satisfy so many expectations. Every man had his double;the heels of every placeman were dogged by friendly rivals ready to tripthem up. There were even two cabinets; the one that met in council, andthe one that met in cabal. The consequence of destroying the legitimateOpposition of the country was, that a moiety of the supporters ofGovernment had to discharge the duties of Opposition. 

Herein, then, we detect the real cause of all that irregular and unsettledcarriage of public men which so perplexed the nation after the passing ofthe Reform Act. No government can be long secure without a formidableOpposition. It reduces their supporters to that tractable number which canbe managed by the joint influences of fruition and of hope. It offersvengeance to the discontented, and distinction to the ambitious; andemploys the energies of aspiring spirits, who otherwise may prove traitorsin a division or assassins in a debate. 

The general election of 1832 abrogated the Parliamentary Opposition ofEngland, which had practically existed for more than a century and a half. And what a series of equivocal transactions and mortifying adventures didthe withdrawal of this salutary restraint entail on the party which thenso loudly congratulated themselves and the country that they were atlength relieved from its odious repression! In the hurry of existence oneis apt too generally to pass over the political history of the times inwhich we ourselves live. The two years that followed the Reform of theHouse of Commons are full of instruction, on which a young man would dowell to ponder. It is hardly possible that he could rise from the study ofthese annals without a confirmed disgust for political intrigue; adazzling practice, apt at first to fascinate youth, for it appeals at onceto our invention and our courage, but one which really should only be theresource of the second-rate. Great minds must trust to great truths andgreat talents for their rise, and nothing else. 

While, however, as the autumn of 1834 advanced, the people of this countrybecame gradually sensible of the necessity of some change in the councilsof their Sovereign, no man felt capable of predicting by what means it wasto be accomplished, or from what quarry the new materials were to beextracted. The Tory party, according to those perverted views of Toryismunhappily too long prevalent in this country, was held to be literallydefunct, except by a few old battered crones of office, crouched round theembers of faction which they were fanning, and muttering 'reaction' inmystic whispers. It cannot be supposed indeed for a moment, that thedistinguished personage who had led that party in the House of Commonspreviously to the passing of the act of 1832, ever despaired inconsequence of his own career. His then time of life, the perfection, almost the prime, of manhood; his parliamentary practice, doubly estimablein an inexperienced assembly; his political knowledge; his fair characterand reputable position; his talents and tone as a public speaker, which hehad always aimed to adapt to the habits and culture of that middle classfrom which it was concluded the benches of the new Parliament were mainlyto be recruited, all these were qualities the possession of which musthave assured a mind not apt to be disturbed in its calculations by anyintemperate heats, that with time and patience the game was yet for him. 

Unquestionably, whatever may have been insinuated, this distinguishedperson had no inkling that his services in 1834 might be claimed by hisSovereign. At the close of the session of that year he had quitted Englandwith his family, and had arrived at Rome, where it was his intention topass the winter. The party charges that have imputed to him a previous andsinister knowledge of the intentions of the Court, appear to have beenmade not only in ignorance of the personal character, but of the realposition, of the future minister. 

It had been the misfortune of this eminent gentleman when he first enteredpublic life, to become identified with a political connection which, having arrogated to itself the name of an illustrious historical party, pursued a policy which was either founded on no principle whatever, or onprinciples exactly contrary to those which had always guided the conductof the great Tory leaders. The chief members of this official confederacywere men distinguished by none of the conspicuous qualities of statesmen. They had none of the divine gifts that govern senates and guide councils. They were not orators; they were not men of deep thought or happyresource, or of penetrative and sagacious minds. Their political ken wasessentially dull and contracted. They expended some energy in obtaining adefective, blundering acquaintance with foreign affairs; they knew aslittle of the real state of their own country as savages of an approachingeclipse. This factious league had shuffled themselves into power byclinging to the skirts of a great minister, the last of Tory statesmen, but who, in the unparalleled and confounding emergencies of his latteryears, had been forced, unfortunately for England, to relinquish Toryism. His successors inherited all his errors without the latent genius, whichin him might have still rallied and extricated him from the consequencesof his disasters. His successors did not merely inherit his errors; theyexaggerated, they caricatured them. They rode into power on a springtideof all the rampant prejudices and rancorous passions of their time. Fromthe King to the boor their policy was a mere pandering to publicignorance. Impudently usurping the name of that party of whichnationality, and therefore universality, is the essence, these pseudo-Tories made Exclusion the principle of their political constitution, andRestriction the genius of their commercial code. 

The blind goddess that plays with human fortunes has mixed up the memoryof these men with traditions of national glory. They conducted to aprosperous conclusion the most renowned war in which England has ever beenengaged. Yet every military conception that emanated from their cabinetwas branded by their characteristic want of grandeur. Chance, however, sent them a great military genius, whom they treated for a long time withindifference, and whom they never heartily supported until his career hadmade him their master. His transcendent exploits, and European events evengreater than his achievements, placed in the manikin grasp of the Englishministry, the settlement of Europe. 

The act of the Congress of Vienna remains the eternal monument of theirdiplomatic knowledge and political sagacity. Their capital feats were thecreation of two kingdoms, both of which are already erased from the map ofEurope. They made no single preparation for the inevitable, almostimpending, conjunctures of the East. All that remains of the pragmaticarrangements of the mighty Congress of Vienna is the mediatisation of thepetty German princes. 

But the settlement of Europe by the pseudo-Tories was the dictate ofinspiration compared with their settlement of England. The peace of Parisfound the government of this country in the hands of a body of men of whomit is no exaggeration to say that they were ignorant of every principle ofevery branch of political science. So long as our domestic administrationwas confined merely to the raising of a revenue, they levied taxes withgross facility from the industry of a country too busy to criticise orcomplain. But when the excitement and distraction of war had ceased, andthey were forced to survey the social elements that surrounded them, theyseemed, for the first time, to have become conscious of their ownincapacity. These men, indeed, were the mere children of routine. Theyprided themselves on being practical men. In the language of this defunctschool of statesmen, a practical man is a man who practises the blundersof his predecessors. 

Now commenced that Condition-of-England Question of which our generationhears so much. During five-and-twenty years every influence that candevelop the energies and resources of a nation had been acting withconcentrated stimulation on the British Isles. National peril and nationalglory; the perpetual menace of invasion, the continual triumph ofconquest; the most extensive foreign commerce that was ever conducted by asingle nation; an illimitable currency; an internal trade supported byswarming millions whom manufacturers and inclosure-bills summoned intoexistence; above all, the supreme control obtained by man over mechanicpower, these are some of the causes of that rapid advance of materialcivilisation in England, to which the annals of the world can afford noparallel. But there was no proportionate advance in our moralcivilisation. In the hurry-skurry of money-making, men-making, andmachine-making, we had altogether outgrown, not the spirit, but theorganisation, of our institutions. 

The peace came; the stimulating influences suddenly ceased; the people, ina novel and painful position, found themselves without guides. They wentto the ministry; they asked to be guided; they asked to be governed. Commerce requested a code; trade required a currency; the unfranchisedsubject solicited his equal privilege; suffering labour clamoured for itsrights; a new race demanded education. What did the ministry do?

They fell into a panic. Having fulfilled during their lives the duties ofadministration, they were frightened because they were called upon, forthe first time, to perform the functions of government. Like all weak men, they had recourse to what they called strong measures. They determined toput down the multitude. They thought they were imitating Mr. Pitt, becausethey mistook disorganisation for sedition. 

Their projects of relief were as ridiculous as their system of coercionwas ruthless; both were alike founded in intense ignorance. When we recallMr. Vansittart with his currency resolutions; Lord Castlereagh with hisplans for the employment of labour; and Lord Sidmouth with his plots forensnaring the laborious; we are tempted to imagine that the present epochhas been one of peculiar advances in political ability, and marvel howEngland could have attained her present pitch under a series of suchgovernors. 

We should, however, be labouring under a very erroneous impression. Runover the statesmen that have figured in England since the accession of thepresent family, and we may doubt whether there be one, with the exceptionperhaps of the Duke of Newcastle, who would have been a worthy colleagueof the council of Mr. Perceval, or the early cabinet of Lord Liverpool. Assuredly the genius of Bolingbroke and the sagacity of Walpole would havealike recoiled from such men and such measures. And if we take theindividuals who were governing England immediately before the FrenchRevolution, one need only refer to the speeches of Mr. Pitt, andespecially to those of that profound statesman and most instructed man, Lord Shelburne, to find that we can boast no remarkable superiority eitherin political justice or in political economy. One must attribute thisdegeneracy, therefore, to the long war and our insular position, actingupon men naturally of inferior abilities, and unfortunately, in addition, of illiterate habits. 

In the meantime, notwithstanding all the efforts of the politicalPanglosses who, in evening Journals and Quarterly Reviews were continuallyproving that this was the best of all possible governments, it was evidentto the ministry itself that the machine must stop. The class of Rigbysindeed at this period, one eminently favourable to that fungous tribe, greatly distinguished themselves. They demonstrated in a manner absolutelyconvincing, that it was impossible for any person to possess any ability, knowledge, or virtue, any capacity of reasoning, any ray of fancy orfaculty of imagination, who was not a supporter of the existingadministration. If any one impeached the management of a department, thepublic was assured that the accuser had embezzled; if any one complainedof the conduct of a colonial governor, the complainant was announced as areturned convict. An amelioration of the criminal code was discountenancedbecause a search in the parish register of an obscure village proved thatthe proposer had not been born in wedlock. A relaxation of the commercialsystem was denounced because one of its principal advocates was aSocinian. The inutility of Parliamentary Reform was ever obvious since Mr. Rigby was a member of the House of Commons. 

To us, with our _Times_ newspaper every morning on our breakfast-table, bringing, on every subject which can interest the public mind, a degree ofinformation and intelligence which must form a security against anyprolonged public misconception, it seems incredible that only five-and-twenty years ago the English mind could have been so ridden andhoodwinked, and that, too, by men of mean attainments and moderateabilities. But the war had directed the energies of the English peopleinto channels by no means favourable to political education. Conquerors ofthe world, with their ports filled with the shipping of every clime, andtheir manufactories supplying the European continent, in the art of self-government, that art in which their fathers excelled, they had becomeliterally children; and Rigby and his brother hirelings were the nursesthat frightened them with hideous fables and ugly words. 

Notwithstanding, however, all this successful mystification, the Arch-Mediocrity who presided, rather than ruled, over this Cabinet ofMediocrities, became hourly more conscious that the inevitable transitionfrom fulfilling the duties of an administration to performing thefunctions of a government could not be conducted without talents andknowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had himself some glimmering traditions ofpolitical science. He was sprung from a laborious stock, had received sometraining, and though not a statesman, might be classed among those whomthe Lord Keeper Williams used to call 'statemongers. ' In a subordinateposition his meagre diligence and his frigid method might not have beenwithout value; but the qualities that he possessed were misplaced; nor canany character be conceived less invested with the happy properties of aleader. In the conduct of public affairs his disposition was exactly thereverse of that which is the characteristic of great men. He wasperemptory in little questions, and great ones he left open. 

In the natural course of events, in 1819 there ought to have been a changeof government, and another party in the state should have entered intooffice; but the Whigs, though they counted in their ranks at that periodan unusual number of men of great ability, and formed, indeed, a compactand spirited opposition, were unable to contend against the new adjustmentof borough influence which had occurred during the war, and under theprotracted administration by which that war had been conducted. Newfamilies had arisen on the Tory side that almost rivalled old Newcastlehimself in their electioneering management; and it was evident that, unless some reconstruction of the House of Commons could be effected, theWhig party could never obtain a permanent hold of official power. Hence, from that period, the Whigs became Parliamentary Reformers. 

It was inevitable, therefore, that the country should be governed by thesame party; indispensable that the ministry should be renovated by newbrains and blood. Accordingly, a Mediocrity, not without repugnance, wasinduced to withdraw, and the great name of Wellington supplied his placein council. The talents of the Duke, as they were then understood, werenot exactly of the kind most required by the cabinet, and his colleagueswere careful that he should not occupy too prominent a post; but still itwas an impressive acquisition, and imparted to the ministry a semblance ofrenown. 

There was an individual who had not long entered public life, but who hadalready filled considerable, though still subordinate offices. Havingacquired a certain experience of the duties of administration, anddistinction for his mode of fulfilling them, he had withdrawn from hispublic charge; perhaps because he found it a barrier to the attainment ofthat parliamentary reputation for which he had already shown both a desireand a capacity; perhaps because, being young and independent, he was notover-anxious irremediably to identify his career with a school of politicsof the infallibility of which his experience might have already made him alittle sceptical. But he possessed the talents that were absolutelywanted, and the terms were at his own dictation. Another, and a verydistinguished Mediocrity, who would not resign, was thrust out, and Mr. Peel became Secretary of State. 

From this moment dates that intimate connection between the Duke ofWellington and the present First Minister, which has exercised aconsiderable influence over the career of individuals and the course ofaffairs. It was the sympathetic result of superior minds placed amonginferior intelligences, and was, doubtless, assisted by a then mutualconviction, that the difference of age, the circumstance of sitting indifferent houses, and the general contrast of their previous pursuits andaccomplishments, rendered personal rivalry out of the question. From thismoment, too, the domestic government of the country assumed a newcharacter, and one universally admitted to have been distinguished by aspirit of enlightened progress and comprehensive amelioration. 

A short time after this, a third and most distinguished Mediocrity died;and Canning, whom they had twice worried out of the cabinet, where theyhad tolerated him some time in an obscure and ambiguous position, wasrecalled just in time from his impending banishment, installed in thefirst post in the Lower House, and intrusted with the seals of the ForeignOffice. The Duke of Wellington had coveted them, nor could Lord Liverpoolhave been insensible to his Grace's peculiar fitness for such duties; butstrength was required in the House of Commons, where they had only oneSecretary of State, a young man already distinguished, yet untried as aleader, and surrounded by colleagues notoriously incapable to assist himin debate. 

The accession of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, in a position, too, ofsurpassing influence, soon led to a further weeding of the Mediocrities, and, among other introductions, to the memorable entrance of Mr. Huskisson. In this wise did that cabinet, once notable only for theabsence of all those qualities which authorise the possession of power, come to be generally esteemed as a body of men, who, for parliamentaryeloquence, official practice, political information, sagacity in council, and a due understanding of their epoch, were inferior to none that haddirected the policy of the empire since the Revolution. 

If we survey the tenor of the policy of the Liverpool Cabinet during thelatter moiety of its continuance, we shall find its characteristic to be apartial recurrence to those frank principles of government which Mr. Pitthad revived during the latter part of the last century from precedentsthat had been set us, either in practice or in dogma, during its earlierperiod, by statesmen who then not only bore the title, but professed theopinions, of Tories. Exclusive principles in the constitution, andrestrictive principles in commerce, have grown up together; and havereally nothing in common with the ancient character of our politicalsettlement, or the manners and customs of the English people. Confidencein the loyalty of the nation, testified by munificent grants of rights andfranchises, and favour to an expansive system of traffic, were distinctivequalities of the English sovereignty, until the House of Commons usurpedthe better portion of its prerogatives. A widening of our electoralscheme, great facilities to commerce, and the rescue of our Roman Catholicfellow-subjects from the Puritanic yoke, from fetters which have beenfastened on them by English Parliaments in spite of the protests andexertions of English Sovereigns; these were the three great elements andfundamental truths of the real Pitt system, a system founded on thetraditions of our monarchy, and caught from the writings, the speeches, the councils of those who, for the sake of these and analogous benefits, had ever been anxious that the Sovereign of England should never bedegraded into the position of a Venetian Doge. 

It is in the plunder of the Church that we must seek for the primary causeof our political exclusion, and our commercial restraint. That unhallowedbooty created a factitious aristocracy, ever fearful that they might becalled upon to regorge their sacrilegious spoil. To prevent this they tookrefuge in political religionism, and paltering with the disturbedconsciences, or the pious fantasies, of a portion of the people, theyorganised them into religious sects. These became the unconsciousPraetorians of their ill-gotten domains. At the head of thesereligionists, they have continued ever since to govern, or powerfully toinfluence this country. They have in that time pulled down thrones andchurches, changed dynasties, abrogated and remodelled parliaments; theyhave disfranchised Scotland and confiscated Ireland. One may admire thevigour and consistency of the Whig party, and recognise in their careerthat unity of purpose that can only spring from a great principle; but theWhigs introduced sectarian religion, sectarian religion led to politicalexclusion, and political exclusion was soon accompanied by commercialrestraint. 

It would be fanciful to assume that the Liverpool Cabinet, in theirameliorating career, was directed by any desire to recur to the primordialtenets of the Tory party. That was not an epoch when statesmen cared toprosecute the investigation of principles. It was a period of happy andenlightened practice. A profounder policy is the offspring of a time likethe present, when the original postulates of institutions are called inquestion. The Liverpool Cabinet unconsciously approximated to theseopinions, because from careful experiment they were convinced of theirbeneficial tendency, and they thus bore an unintentional and impartialtestimony to their truth. Like many men, who think they are inventors, they were only reproducing ancient wisdom. 

But one must ever deplore that this ministry, with all their talents andgenerous ardour, did not advance to principles. It is always perilous toadopt expediency as a guide; but the choice may be sometimes imperative. These statesmen, however, took expediency for their director, whenprinciple would have given them all that expediency ensured, and muchmore. 

This ministry, strong in the confidence of the sovereign, the parliament, and the people, might, by the courageous promulgation of great historicaltruths, have gradually formed a public opinion, that would have permittedthem to organise the Tory party on a broad, a permanent, and nationalbasis. They might have nobly effected a complete settlement of Ireland, which a shattered section of this very cabinet was forced a few yearsafter to do partially, and in an equivocating and equivocal manner. Theymight have concluded a satisfactory reconstruction of the third estate, without producing that convulsion with which, from its violentfabrication, our social system still vibrates. Lastly, they might haveadjusted the rights and properties of our national industries in a mannerwhich would have prevented that fierce and fatal rivalry that is nowdisturbing every hearth of the United Kingdom. 

We may, therefore, visit on the _laches_ of this ministry the introductionof that new principle and power into our constitution which ultimately mayabsorb all, AGITATION. This cabinet, then, with so much brilliancy on itssurface, is the real parent of the Roman Catholic Association, thePolitical Unions, the Anti-Corn-Law League. 

There is no influence at the same time so powerful and so singular as thatof individual character. It arises as often from the weakness of thecharacter as from its strength. The dispersion of this clever and showyministry is a fine illustration of this truth. One morning the Arch-Mediocrity himself died. At the first blush, it would seem that littledifficulties could be experienced in finding his substitute. His longoccupation of the post proved, at any rate, that the qualification was notexcessive. But this cabinet, with its serene and blooming visage, had beenall this time charged with fierce and emulous ambitions. They waited thesignal, but they waited in grim repose. The death of the nominal leader, whose formal superiority, wounding no vanity, and offending no pride, secured in their councils equality among the able, was the tocsin of theiranarchy. There existed in this cabinet two men, who were resolvedimmediately to be prime ministers; a third who was resolved eventually tobe prime minister, but would at any rate occupy no ministerial postwithout the lead of a House of Parliament; and a fourth, who felt himselfcapable of being prime minister, but despaired of the revolution whichcould alone make him one; and who found an untimely end when thatrevolution had arrived. 

Had Mr. Secretary Canning remained leader of the House of Commons underthe Duke of Wellington, all that he would have gained by the death of LordLiverpool was a master. Had the Duke of Wellington become Secretary ofState under Mr. Canning he would have materially advanced his politicalposition, not only by holding the seals of a high department in which hewas calculated to excel, but by becoming leader of the House of Lords. Buthis Grace was induced by certain court intriguers to believe that the Kingwould send for him, and he was also aware that Mr. Peel would no longerserve under any ministry in the House of Commons. Under any circumstancesit would have been impossible to keep the Liverpool Cabinet together. Thestruggle, therefore, between the Duke of Wellington and 'my dear Mr. Canning' was internecine, and ended somewhat unexpectedly. 

And here we must stop to do justice to our friend Mr. Rigby, whose conducton this occasion was distinguished by a bustling dexterity which was quitecharming. He had, as we have before intimated, on the credit of someclever lampoons written during the Queen's trial, which were, in fact, theeffusions of Lucian Gay, wriggled himself into a sort of occasionalunworthy favour at the palace, where he was half butt and half buffoon. Here, during the interregnum occasioned by the death, or rather inevitableretirement, of Lord Liverpool, Mr. Rigby contrived to scrape up aconviction that the Duke was the winning horse, and in consequence thereappeared a series of leading articles in a notorious evening newspaper, inwhich it was, as Tadpole and Taper declared, most 'slashingly' shown, thatthe son of an actress could never be tolerated as a Prime Minister ofEngland. Not content with this, and never doubting for a moment theauthentic basis of his persuasion, Mr. Rigby poured forth his coarsevolubility on the subject at several of the new clubs which he was gettingup in order to revenge himself for having been black-balled at White's. 

What with arrangements about Lord Monmouth's boroughs, and the luckybottling of some claret which the Duke had imported on Mr. Rigby'srecommendation, this distinguished gentleman contrived to pay almosthourly visits at Apsley House, and so bullied Tadpole and Taper that theyscarcely dared address him. About four-and-twenty hours before the result, and when it was generally supposed that the Duke was in, Mr. Rigby, whohad gone down to Windsor to ask his Majesty the date of some obscurehistorical incident, which Rigby, of course, very well knew, found thataudiences were impossible, that Majesty was agitated, and learned, from anhumble but secure authority, that in spite of all his slashing articles, and Lucian Gay's parodies of the Irish melodies, Canning was to be PrimeMinister. 

This would seem something of a predicament! To common minds; there are nosuch things as scrapes for gentlemen with Mr. Rigby's talents for action. He had indeed, in the world, the credit of being an adept in machinations, and was supposed ever to be involved in profound and complicatedcontrivances. This was quite a mistake. There was nothing profound aboutMr. Rigby; and his intellect was totally incapable of devising orsustaining an intricate or continuous scheme. He was, in short, a man whoneither felt nor thought; but who possessed, in a very remarkable degree, a restless instinct for adroit baseness. On the present occasion he gotinto his carriage, and drove at the utmost speed from Windsor to theForeign Office. The Secretary of State was engaged when he arrived; butMr. Rigby would listen to no difficulties. He rushed upstairs, flung openthe door, and with agitated countenance, and eyes suffused with tears, threw himself into the arms of the astonished Mr. Canning. 

'All is right, ' exclaimed the devoted Rigby, in broken tones; 'I haveconvinced the King that the First Minister must be in the House ofCommons. No one knows it but myself; but it is certain. '

We have seen that at an early period of his career, Mr. Peel withdrew fromofficial life. His course had been one of unbroken prosperity; the hero ofthe University had become the favourite of the House of Commons. Hisretreat, therefore, was not prompted by chagrin. Nor need it have beensuggested by a calculating ambition, for the ordinary course of events wasfast bearing to him all to which man could aspire. One might rathersuppose, that he had already gained sufficient experience, perhaps in hisIrish Secretaryship, to make him pause in that career of superficialsuccess which education and custom had hitherto chalked out for him, rather than the creative energies of his own mind. A thoughtful intellectmay have already detected elements in our social system which required afiner observation, and a more unbroken study, than the gyves and trammelsof office would permit. He may have discovered that the representation ofthe University, looked upon in those days as the blue ribbon of the Houseof Commons, was a sufficient fetter without unnecessarily adding to itsrestraint. He may have wished to reserve himself for a happier occasion, and a more progressive period. He may have felt the strong necessity ofarresting himself in his rapid career of felicitous routine, to survey hisposition in calmness, and to comprehend the stirring age that wasapproaching. 

For that, he could not but be conscious that the education which he hadconsummated, however ornate and refined, was not sufficient. That age ofeconomical statesmanship which Lord Shelburne had predicted in 1787, whenhe demolished, in the House of Lords, Bishop Watson and the Balance ofTrade, which Mr. Pitt had comprehended; and for which he was preparing thenation when the French Revolution diverted the public mind into a strongerand more turbulent current, was again impending, while the interveninghistory of the country had been prolific in events which had aggravatedthe necessity of investigating the sources of the wealth of nations. Thetime had arrived when parliamentary preeminence could no longer beachieved or maintained by gorgeous abstractions borrowed from Burke, orshallow systems purloined from De Lolme, adorned with Horatian points, orvaried with Virgilian passages. It was to be an age of abstrusedisquisition, that required a compact and sinewy intellect, nurtured in aclass of learning not yet honoured in colleges, and which might arrive atconclusions conflicting with predominant prejudices. 

Adopting this view of the position of Mr. Peel, strengthened as it is byhis early withdrawal for a while from the direction of public affairs, itmay not only be a charitable but a true estimate of the motives whichinfluenced him in his conduct towards Mr. Canning, to conclude that he wasnot guided in that transaction by the disingenuous rivalry usually imputedto him. His statement in Parliament of the determining circumstances ofhis conduct, coupled with his subsequent and almost immediate policy, mayperhaps always leave this a painful and ambiguous passage in his career;but in passing judgment on public men, it behoves us ever to take largeand extended views of their conduct; and previous incidents will oftensatisfactorily explain subsequent events, which, without theirillustrating aid, are involved in misapprehension or mystery. 

It would seem, therefore, that Sir Robert Peel, from an early period, meditated his emancipation from the political confederacy in which he wasimplicated, and that he has been continually baffled in this project. Hebroke loose from Lord Liverpool; he retired from Mr. Canning. Forced againinto becoming the subordinate leader of the weakest government inparliamentary annals, he believed he had at length achieved hisemancipation, when he declared to his late colleagues, after the overthrowof 1830, that he would never again accept a secondary position in office. But the Duke of Wellington was too old a tactician to lose so valuable anally. So his Grace declared after the Reform Bill was passed, as itsinevitable result, that thenceforth the Prime Minister must be a member ofthe House of Commons; and this aphorism, cited as usual by the Duke'sparasites as demonstration of his supreme sagacity, was a graceful mode ofresigning the preeminence which had been productive of such great partydisasters. It is remarkable that the party who devised and passed theReform Bill, and who, in consequence, governed the nation for ten years, never once had their Prime Minister in the House of Commons: but that doesnot signify; the Duke's maxim is still quoted as an oracle almost equal inprescience to his famous query, 'How is the King's government to becarried on?' a question to which his Grace by this time has contrived togive a tolerably practical answer. 

Sir Robert Peel, who had escaped from Lord Liverpool, escaped from Mr. Canning, escaped even from the Duke of Wellington in 1832, was at lengthcaught in 1834; the victim of ceaseless intriguers, who neithercomprehended his position, nor that of their country. 

CHAPTER II. 

Beaumanoir was one of those Palladian palaces, vast and ornate, such asthe genius of Kent and Campbell delighted in at the beginning of theeighteenth century. Placed on a noble elevation, yet screened from thenorthern blast, its sumptuous front, connected with its far-spreadingwings by Corinthian colonnades, was the boast and pride of the midlandcounties. The surrounding gardens, equalling in extent the size ofordinary parks, were crowded with temples dedicated to abstract virtuesand to departed friends. Occasionally a triumphal arch celebrated ageneral whom the family still esteemed a hero; and sometimes a votivecolumn commemorated the great statesman who had advanced the family a stepin the peerage. Beyond the limits of this pleasance the hart and hindwandered in a wilderness abounding in ferny coverts and green and statelytrees. 

The noble proprietor of this demesne had many of the virtues of his class;a few of their failings. He had that public spirit which became hisstation. He was not one of those who avoided the exertions and thesacrifices which should be inseparable from high position, by the hollowpretext of a taste for privacy, and a devotion to domestic joys. He wasmunificent, tender, and bounteous to the poor, and loved a flowinghospitality. A keen sportsman, he was not untinctured by letters, and hadindeed a cultivated taste for the fine arts. Though an ardent politician, he was tolerant to adverse opinions, and full of amenity to his opponents. A firm supporter of the corn-laws, he never refused a lease. Notwithstanding there ran through his whole demeanour and the habit of hismind, a vein of native simplicity that was full of charm, his manner wasfinished. He never offended any one's self-love. His good breeding, indeed, sprang from the only sure source of gentle manners, a kind heart. To have pained others would have pained himself. Perhaps, too, this noblesympathy may have been in some degree prompted by the ancient blood in hisveins, an accident of lineage rather rare with the English nobility. Onecould hardly praise him for the strong affections that bound him to hishearth, for fortune had given him the most pleasing family in the world;but, above all, a peerless wife. 

The Duchess was one of those women who are the delight of existence. Shewas sprung from a house not inferior to that with which she had blended, and was gifted with that rare beauty which time ever spares, so that sheseemed now only the elder sister of her own beautiful daughters. She, too, was distinguished by that perfect good breeding which is the result ofnature and not of education: for it may be found in a cottage, and may bemissed in a palace. 'Tis a genial regard for the feelings of others thatsprings from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, indeed, was in everysense a fine lady; her manners were refined and full of dignity; butnothing in the world could have induced her to appear bored when anotherwas addressing or attempting to amuse her. She was not one of those vulgarfine ladies who meet you one day with a vacant stare, as if unconscious ofyour existence, and address you on another in a tone of impertinentfamiliarity. Her temper, perhaps, was somewhat quick, which made thisconsideration for the feelings of others still more admirable, for it wasthe result of a strict moral discipline acting on a good heart. Althoughthe best of wives and mothers, she had some charity for her neighbours. Needing herself no indulgence, she could be indulgent; and would by nomeans favour that strait-laced morality that would constrain the innocentplay of the social body. She was accomplished, well read, and had a livelyfancy. Add to this that sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and cheerful spiritin its mistress, and one might form some faint idea of this graciouspersonage. 

The eldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his two youngerbrothers, one was with his regiment and the other was Coningsby's friendat Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two eldest daughters had just married, onthe same day, and at the same altar; and the remaining one, Theresa, wasstill a child. 

The Duke had occupied a chief post in the Household under the lateadministration, and his present guests chiefly consisted of his formercolleagues in office. There were several members of the late cabinet, several members for his Grace's late boroughs, looking very much likemartyrs, full of suffering and of hope. Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper werealso there; they too had lost their seats since 1832; but being men ofbusiness, and accustomed from early life to look about them, they hadalready commenced the combinations which on a future occasion were to bearthem back to the assembly where they were so missed. 

Taper had his eye on a small constituency which had escaped the fatalschedules, and where he had what they called a 'connection;' that is tosay, a section of the suffrages who had a lively remembrance of Treasuryfavours once bestowed by Mr. Taper, and who had not been so liberallydealt with by the existing powers. This connection of Taper was in time toleaven the whole mass of the constituent body, and make it rise in fullrebellion against its present liberal representative, who being one of amajority of three hundred, could get nothing when he called at Whitehallor Downing Street. 

Tadpole, on the contrary, who was of a larger grasp of mind than Taper, with more of imagination and device but not so safe a man, was coquettingwith a manufacturing town and a large constituency, where he was tosucceed by the aid of the Wesleyans, of which pious body he had suddenlybecome a fervent admirer. The great Mr. Rigby, too, was a guest out ofParliament, nor caring to be in; but hearing that his friends had somehopes, he thought he would just come down to dash them. 

The political grapes were sour for Mr. Rigby; a prophet of evil, hepreached only mortification and repentance and despair to his latecolleagues. It was the only satisfaction left Mr. Rigby, except assuringthe Duke that the finest pictures in his gallery were copies, andrecommending him to pull down Beaumanoir, and rebuild it on a design withwhich Mr. Rigby would furnish him. 

The battue and the banquet were over; the ladies had withdrawn; and thebutler placed fresh claret on the table. 

'And you really think you could give us a majority, Tadpole?' said theDuke. 

Mr. Tadpole, with some ceremony, took a memorandum-book out of his pocket, amid the smiles and the faint well-bred merriment of his friends. 

'Tadpole is nothing without his book, ' whispered Lord Fitz-Booby. 

'It is here, ' said Mr. Tadpole, emphatically patting his volume, 'a clearworking majority of twenty-two. '

'Near sailing that!' cried the Duke. 

'A far better majority than the present Government have, ' said Mr. Tadpole. 

'There is nothing like a good small majority, ' said Mr. Taper, 'and a goodregistration. '

'Ay! register, register, register!' said the Duke. 'Those were immortalwords. '

'I can tell your Grace three far better ones, ' said Mr. Tadpole, with aself-complacent air. 'Object, object, object!'

'You may register, and you may object, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'but you willnever get rid of Schedule A and Schedule B. '

'But who could have supposed two years ago that affairs would be in theirpresent position?' said Mr. Taper, deferentially. 

'I foretold it, ' said Mr. Rigby. 'Every one knows that no government nowcan last twelve months. '

'We may make fresh boroughs, ' said Taper. 'We have reduced Shabbyton atthe last registration under three hundred. '

'And the Wesleyans!' said Tadpole. 'We never counted on the Wesleyans!'

'I am told these Wesleyans are really a respectable body, ' said Lord Fitz-Booby. 'I believe there is no material difference between their tenets andthose of the Establishment. I never heard of them much till lately. Wehave too long confounded them with the mass of Dissenters, but theirconduct at several of the later elections proves that they are far frombeing unreasonable and disloyal individuals. When we come in, somethingshould be done for the Wesleyans, eh, Rigby?'

'All that your Lordship can do for the Wesleyans is what they will veryshortly do for themselves, appropriate a portion of the Church Revenues totheir own use. '

'Nay, nay, ' said Mr. Tadpole with a chuckle, 'I don't think we shall findthe Church attacked again in a hurry. I only wish they would try! A goodChurch cry before a registration, ' he continued, rubbing his hands; 'eh, my Lord, I think that would do. '

'But how are we to turn them out?' said the Duke. 

'Ah!' said Mr. Taper, 'that is a great question. '

'What do you think of a repeal of the Malt Tax?' said Lord Fitz-Booby. 'They have been trying it on in ----shire, and I am told it goes down verywell. '

'No repeal of any tax, ' said Taper, sincerely shocked, and shaking hishead; 'and the Malt Tax of all others. I am all against that. '

'It is a very good cry though, if there be no other, ' said Tadpole. 

'I am all for a religious cry, ' said Taper. 'It means nothing, and, ifsuccessful, does not interfere with business when we are in. '

'You will have religious cries enough in a short time, ' said Mr. Rigby, rather wearied of any one speaking but himself, and thereat he commenced adiscourse, which was, in fact, one of his 'slashing' articles in petto onChurch Reform, and which abounded in parallels between the present affairsand those of the reign of Charles I. Tadpole, who did not pretend to knowanything but the state of the registration, and Taper, whose politicalreading was confined to an intimate acquaintance with the Red Book andBeatson's Political Index, which he could repeat backwards, were silenced. The Duke, who was well instructed and liked to be talked to, sipped hisclaret, and was rather amused by Rigby's lecture, particularly by one ortwo statements characterised by Rigby's happy audacity, but which the Dukewas too indolent to question. Lord Fitz-Booby listened with his mouthopen, but rather bored. At length, when there was a momentary pause, hesaid:

'In my time, the regular thing was to move an amendment on the address. '

'Quite out of the question, ' exclaimed Tadpole, with a scoff. 

'Entirely given up, ' said Taper, with a sneer. 

'If you will drink no more claret, we will go and hear some music, ' saidthe Duke. 

CHAPTER III. 

A breakfast at Beaumanoir was a meal of some ceremony. Every guest wasexpected to attend, and at a somewhat early hour. Their host and hostessset them the example of punctuality. 'Tis an old form rigidly adhered toin some great houses, but, it must be confessed, does not contrast veryagreeably with the easier arrangements of establishments of lesspretension and of more modern order. 

The morning after the dinner to which we have been recently introduced, there was one individual absent from the breakfast-table whose non-appearance could scarcely be passed over without notice; and severalinquired with some anxiety, whether their host were indisposed. 

'The Duke has received some letters from London which detain him, ' repliedthe Duchess. 'He will join us. '

'Your Grace will be glad to hear that your son Henry is very well, ' saidMr. Rigby; 'I heard of him this morning. Harry Coningsby enclosed me aletter for his grandfather, and tells me that he and Henry Sydney had justhad a capital run with the King's hounds. '

'It is three years since we have seen Mr. Coningsby, ' said the Duchess. 'Once he was often here. He was a great favourite of mine. I hardly everknew a more interesting boy. '

'Yes, I have done a great deal for him, ' said Mr. Rigby. 'Lord Monmouth isfond of him, and wishes that he should make a figure; but how any one isto distinguish himself now, I am really at a loss to comprehend. '

'But are affairs so very bad?' said the Duchess, smiling. 'I thought thatwe were all regaining our good sense and good temper. '

'I believe all the good sense and all the good temper in England areconcentrated in your Grace, ' said Mr. Rigby, gallantly. 

'I should be sorry to be such a monopolist. But Lord Fitz-Booby was givingme last night quite a glowing report of Mr. Tadpole's prospects for thenation. We were all to have our own again; and Percy to carry the county. '

'My dear Madam, before twelve months are past, there will not be a countyin England. Why should there be? If boroughs are to be disfranchised, whyshould not counties be destroyed?'

At this moment the Duke entered, apparently agitated. He bowed to hisguests, and apologised for his unusual absence. 'The truth is, ' hecontinued, 'I have just received a very important despatch. An event hasoccurred which may materially affect affairs. Lord Spencer is dead. '

A thunderbolt in a summer sky, as Sir William Temple says, could not haveproduced a greater sensation. The business of the repast ceased in amoment. The knives and forks were suddenly silent. All was still. 

'It is an immense event, ' said Tadpole. 

'I don't see my way, ' said Taper. 

'When did he die?' said Lord Fitz-Booby. 

'I don't believe it, ' said Mr. Rigby. 

'They have got their man ready, ' said Tadpole. 

'It is impossible to say what will happen, ' said Taper. 

'Now is the time for an amendment on the address, ' said Fitz-Booby. 

'There are two reasons which convince me that Lord Spencer is not dead, 'said Mr. Rigby. 

'I fear there is no doubt of it, ' said the Duke, shaking his head. 

'Lord Althorp was the only man who could keep them together, ' said LordFitz-Booby. 

'On the contrary, ' said Tadpole. 'If I be right in my man, and I have nodoubt of it, you will have a radical programme, and they will be strongerthan ever. '

'Do you think they can get the steam up again?' said Taper, musingly. 

'They will bid high, ' replied Tadpole. 'Nothing could be more unfortunatethan this death. Things were going on so well and so quietly! TheWesleyans almost with us!'

'And Shabbyton too!' mournfully exclaimed Taper. 'Another registration andquiet times, and I could have reduced the constituency to two hundred andfifty. '

'If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th, ' said Rigby, 'it must have beenknown to Henry Rivers. And I have a letter from Henry Rivers by this post. Now, Althorp is in Northamptonshire, mark that, and Northampton is acounty--'

'My dear Rigby, ' said the Duke, 'pardon me for interrupting you. Unhappily, there is no doubt Lord Spencer is dead, for I am one of hisexecutors. '

This announcement silenced even Mr. Rigby, and the conversation nowentirely merged in speculations on what would occur. Numerous were theconjectures hazarded, but the prevailing impression was, that thisunforeseen event might embarrass those secret expectations of Courtsuccour in which a certain section of the party had for some time reasonto indulge. 

From the moment, however, of the announcement of Lord Spencer's death, achange might be visibly observed in the tone of the party at Beaumanoir. They became silent, moody, and restless. There seemed a general, thoughnot avowed, conviction that a crisis of some kind or other was at hand. The post, too, brought letters every day from town teeming with fancifulspeculations, and occasionally mysterious hopes. 

'I kept this cover for Peel, ' said the Duke pensively, as he loaded hisgun on the morning of the 14th. 'Do you know, I was always against hisgoing to Rome. '

'It is very odd, ' said Tadpole, 'but I was thinking of the very samething. '

'It will be fifteen years before England will see a Tory Government, ' saidMr. Rigby, drawing his ramrod, 'and then it will only last five months. '

'Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham, all in the Lords, ' said Taper. 'Threeleaders! They must quarrel. '

'If Durham come in, mark me, he will dissolve on Household Suffrage andthe Ballot, ' said Tadpole. 

'Not nearly so good a cry as Church, ' replied Taper. 

'With the Malt Tax, ' said Tadpole. 'Church, without the Malt Tax, will notdo against Household Suffrage and Ballot. '

'Malt Tax is madness, ' said Taper. 'A good farmer's friend cry withoutMalt Tax would work just as well. '

'They will never dissolve, ' said the Duke. 'They are so strong. '

'They cannot go on with three hundred majority, ' said Taper. 'Forty is asmuch as can be managed with open constituencies. '

'If he had only gone to Paris instead of Rome!' said the Duke. 

'Yes, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'I could have written to him then by every post, and undeceived him as to his position. '

'After all he is the only man, ' said the Duke; 'and I really believe thecountry thinks so. '

'Pray, what is the country?' inquired Mr. Rigby. 'The country is nothing;it is the constituency you have to deal with. '

'And to manage them you must have a good cry, ' said Taper. 'All nowdepends upon a good cry. '

'So much for the science of politics, ' said the Duke, bringing down apheasant. 'How Peel would have enjoyed this cover!'

'He will have plenty of time for sport during his life, ' said Mr. Rigby. 

On the evening of the 15th of November, a despatch arrived at Beaumanoir, informing his Grace that the King had dismissed the Whig Ministry, andsent for the Duke of Wellington. Thus the first agitating suspense wasover; to be succeeded, however, by expectation still more anxious. It wasremarkable that every individual suddenly found that he had particularbusiness in London which could not be neglected. The Duke very properlypleaded his executorial duties; but begged his guests on no account to bedisturbed by his inevitable absence. Lord Fitz-Booby had just received aletter from his daughter, who was indisposed at Brighton, and he was mostanxious to reach her. Tadpole had to receive deputations from Wesleyans, and well-registered boroughs anxious to receive well-principledcandidates. Taper was off to get the first job at the contingent Treasury, in favour of the Borough of Shabbyton. Mr. Rigby alone was silent; but hequietly ordered a post-chaise at daybreak, and long before his fellowguests were roused from their slumbers, he was halfway to London, ready togive advice, either at the pavilion or at Apsley House. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Although it is far from improbable that, had Sir Robert Peel been inEngland in the autumn of 1834, the Whig government would not have beendismissed; nevertheless, whatever may now be the opinion of the policy ofthat measure; whether it be looked on as a premature movement whichnecessarily led to the compact reorganisation of the Liberal party, or asa great stroke of State, which, by securing at all events a dissolution ofthe Parliament of 1832, restored the healthy balance of parties in theLegislature, questions into which we do not now wish to enter, it must begenerally admitted, that the conduct of every individual eminentlyconcerned in that great historical transaction was characterised by therarest and most admirable quality of public life, moral courage. TheSovereign who dismissed a Ministry apparently supported by an overwhelmingmajority in the Parliament and the nation, and called to his councils theabsent chief of a parliamentary section, scarcely numbering at that momentone hundred and forty individuals, and of a party in the country supposedto be utterly discomfited by a recent revolution; the two ministers who inthis absence provisionally administered the affairs of the kingdom in theteeth of an enraged and unscrupulous Opposition, and perhaps themselvesnot sustained by a profound conviction, that the arrival of their expectedleader would convert their provisional into a permanent position; aboveall the statesman who accepted the great charge at a time and undercircumstances which marred probably the deep projects of his own prescientsagacity and maturing ambition; were all men gifted with a high spirit ofenterprise, and animated by that active fortitude which is the soul offree governments. 

It was a lively season, that winter of 1834! What hopes, what fears, andwhat bets! From the day on which Mr. Hudson was to arrive at Rome to theelection of the Speaker, not a contingency that was not the subject of awager! People sprang up like mushrooms; town suddenly became full. Everybody who had been in office, and everybody who wished to be inoffice; everybody who had ever had anything, and everybody who everexpected to have anything, were alike visible. All of course by mereaccident; one might meet the same men regularly every day for a month, whowere only 'passing through town. '

Now was the time for men to come forward who had never despaired of theircountry. True they had voted for the Reform Bill, but that was to preventa revolution. And now they were quite ready to vote against the ReformBill, but this was to prevent a dissolution. These are the true patriots, whose confidence in the good sense of their countrymen and in their ownselfishness is about equal. In the meantime, the hundred and forty threw agrim glance on the numerous waiters on Providence, and amiable trimmers, who affectionately enquired every day when news might be expected of SirRobert. Though too weak to form a government, and having contributed in nowise by their exertions to the fall of the late, the cohort ofParliamentary Tories felt all the alarm of men who have accidentallystumbled on some treasure-trove, at the suspicious sympathy of new allies. But, after all, who were to form the government, and what was thegovernment to be? Was it to be a Tory government, or an Enlightened-Spirit-of-the-Age Liberal-Moderate-Reform government; was it to be agovernment of high philosophy or of low practice; of principle or ofexpediency; of great measures or of little men? A government of statesmenor of clerks? Of Humbug or of Humdrum? Great questions these, butunfortunately there was nobody to answer them. They tried the Duke; butnothing could be pumped out of him. All that he knew, which he told in hiscurt, husky manner, was, that he had to carry on the King's government. Asfor his solitary colleague, he listened and smiled, and then in hismusical voice asked them questions in return, which is the best possiblemode of avoiding awkward inquiries. It was very unfair this; for no oneknew what tone to take; whether they should go down to their publicdinners and denounce the Reform Act or praise it; whether the Church wasto be re-modelled or only admonished; whether Ireland was to be conqueredor conciliated. 

'This can't go on much longer, ' said Taper to Tadpole, as they reviewedtogether their electioneering correspondence on the 1st of December; 'wehave no cry. '

'He is half way by this time, ' said Tadpole; 'send an extract from aprivate letter to the _Standard_, dated Augsburg, and say he will be herein four days. '

At last he came; the great man in a great position, summoned from Rome togovern England. The very day that he arrived he had his audience with theKing. 

It was two days after this audience; the town, though November, in a stateof excitement; clubs crowded, not only morning rooms, but halls andstaircases swarming with members eager to give and to receive rumoursequally vain; streets lined with cabs and chariots, grooms and horses; itwas two days after this audience that Mr. Ormsby, celebrated for hispolitical dinners, gave one to a numerous party. Indeed his saloons to-day, during the half-hour of gathering which precedes dinner, offered inthe various groups, the anxious countenances, the inquiring voices, andthe mysterious whispers, rather the character of an Exchange or Boursethan the tone of a festive society. 

Here might be marked a murmuring knot of greyheaded privy-councillors, whohad held fat offices under Perceval and Liverpool, and who looked back tothe Reform Act as to a hideous dream; there some middle-aged aspirantsmight be observed who had lost their seats in the convulsion, but whoflattered themselves they had done something for the party in theinterval, by spending nothing except their breath in fighting hopelessboroughs, and occasionally publishing a pamphlet, which really producedless effect than chalking the walls. Light as air, and proud as a youngpeacock, tripped on his toes a young Tory, who had contrived to keep hisseat in a Parliament where he had done nothing, but who thought an Under-Secretaryship was now secure, particularly as he was the son of a nobleLord who had also in a public capacity plundered and blundered in the goodold time. The true political adventurer, who with dull desperation hadstuck at nothing, had never neglected a treasury note, had been present atevery division, never spoke when he was asked to be silent, and was alwaysready on any subject when they wanted him to open his mouth; who hadtreated his leaders with servility even behind their backs, and was happyfor the day if a future Secretary of the Treasury bowed to him; who hadnot only discountenanced discontent in the party, but had regularlyreported in strict confidence every instance of insubordination which cameto his knowledge; might there too be detected under all the agonies of thecrisis; just beginning to feel the dread misgiving, whether being a slaveand a sneak were sufficient qualifications for office, without family orconnection. Poor fellow! half the industry he had wasted on his cheerlesscraft might have made his fortune in some decent trade!

In dazzling contrast with these throes of low ambition, were somebrilliant personages who had just scampered up from Melton, thinking itprobable that Sir Robert might want some moral lords of the bed-chamber. Whatever may have been their private fears or feelings, all however seemedsmiling and significant, as if they knew something if they chose to tellit, and that something very much to their own satisfaction. The only gravecountenance that was occasionally ushered into the room belonged to someindividual whose destiny was not in doubt, and who was already practisingthe official air that was in future to repress the familiarity of hisformer fellow-stragglers. 

'Do you hear anything?' said a great noble who wanted something in thegeneral scramble, but what he knew not; only he had a vague feeling heought to have something, having made such great sacrifices. 

'There is a report that Clifford is to be Secretary to the Board ofControl, ' said Mr. Earwig, whose whole soul was in this subalternarrangement, of which the Minister of course had not even thought; 'but Icannot trace it to any authority. '

'I wonder who will be their Master of the Horse, ' said the great noble, loving gossip though he despised the gossiper. 

'Clifford has done nothing for the party, ' said Mr. Earwig. 

'I dare say Rambrooke will have the Buckhounds, ' said the great noble, musingly. 

'Your Lordship has not heard Clifford's name mentioned?' continued Mr. Earwig. 

'I should think they had not come to that sort of thing, ' said the greatnoble, with ill-disguised contempt. ' The first thing after the Cabinet isformed is the Household: the things you talk of are done last;' and heturned upon his heel, and met the imperturbable countenance and clearsarcastic eye of Lord Eskdale. 

'You have not heard anything?' asked the great noble of his brotherpatrician. 

'Yes, a great deal since I have been in this room; but unfortunately it isall untrue. '

'There is a report that Rambrooke is to have the Buck-hounds; but I cannottrace it to any authority. '

'Pooh!' said Lord Eskdale. 

'I don't see that Rambrooke should have the Buckhounds any more thananybody else. What sacrifices has he made?'

'Past sacrifices are nothing, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'Present sacrifices arethe thing we want: men who will sacrifice their principles and join us. '

'You have not heard Rambrooke's name mentioned?'

'When a Minister has no Cabinet, and only one hundred and forty supportersin the House of Commons, he has something else to think of than places atCourt, ' said Lord Eskdale, as he slowly turned away to ask Lucian Gaywhether it were true that Jenny Colon was coming over. 

Shortly after this, Henry Sydney's father, who dined with Mr. Ornisby, drew Lord Eskdale into a window, and said in an undertone:

'So there is to be a kind of programme: something is to be written. '

'Well, we want a cue, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'I heard of this last night:Rigby has written something. '

The Duke shook his head. 

'No; Peel means to do it himself. '

But at this moment Mr. Ornisby begged his Grace to lead them to dinner. 

'Something is to be written. ' It is curious to recall the vague terms inwhich the first projection of documents, that are to exercise a vastinfluence on the course of affairs or the minds of nations, is oftenmentioned. This 'something to be written' was written; and speedily; andhas ever since been talked of. 

We believe we may venture to assume that at no period during the movementsof 1834-5 did Sir Robert Peel ever believe in the success of hisadministration. Its mere failure could occasion him littledissatisfaction; he was compensated for it by the noble opportunityafforded to him for the display of those great qualities, both moral andintellectual, which the swaddling-clothes of a routine prosperity had longrepressed, but of which his opposition to the Reform Bill had given to thenation a significant intimation. The brief administration elevated him inpublic opinion, and even in the eye of Europe; and it is probable that amuch longer term of power would not have contributed more to his fame. 

The probable effect of the premature effort of his party on his futureposition as a Minister was, however, far from being so satisfactory. Atthe lowest ebb of his political fortunes, it cannot be doubted that SirRobert Peel looked forward, perhaps through the vista of many years, to aperiod when the national mind, arrived by reflection and experience atcertain conclusions, would seek in him a powerful expositor of itsconvictions. His time of life permitted him to be tranquil in adversity, and to profit by its salutary uses. He would then have acceded to power asthe representative of a Creed, instead of being the leader of aConfederacy, and he would have been supported by earnest and enduringenthusiasm, instead of by that churlish sufferance which is the result ofa supposed balance of advantages in his favour. This is the consequence ofthe tactics of those short-sighted intriguers, who persisted in lookingupon a revolution as a mere party struggle, and would not permit the mindof the nation to work through the inevitable phases that awaited it. In1834, England, though frightened at the reality of Reform, still adheredto its phrases; it was inclined, as practical England, to maintainexisting institutions; but, as theoretical England, it was suspicious thatthey were indefensible. 

No one had arisen either in Parliament, the Universities, or the Press, tolead the public mind to the investigation of principles; and not tomistake, in their reformations, the corruption of practice for fundamentalideas. It was this perplexed, ill-informed, jaded, shallow generation, repeating cries which they did not comprehend, and wearied with theendless ebullitions of their own barren conceit, that Sir Robert Peel wassummoned to govern. It was from such materials, ample in quantity, but inall spiritual qualities most deficient; with great numbers, largely acred, consoled up to their chins, but without knowledge, genius, thought, truth, or faith, that Sir Robert Peel was to form a 'great Conservative party ona comprehensive basis. ' That he did this like a dexterous politician, whocan deny? Whether he realised those prescient views of a great statesmanin which he had doubtless indulged, and in which, though still clogged bythe leadership of 1834, he may yet find fame for himself and salvation forhis country, is altogether another question. His difficult attempt wasexpressed in an address to his constituents, which now ranks among statepapers. We shall attempt briefly to consider it with the impartiality ofthe future. 

CHAPTER V. 

The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an attempt to construct a party withoutprinciples; its basis therefore was necessarily Latitudinarianism; and itsinevitable consequence has been Political Infidelity. 

At an epoch of political perplexity and social alarm, the confederationwas convenient, and was calculated by aggregation to encourage the timidand confused. But when the perturbation was a little subsided, and menbegan to inquire why they were banded together, the difficulty of definingtheir purpose proved that the league, however respectable, was not aparty. The leaders indeed might profit by their eminent position to obtainpower for their individual gratification, but it was impossible to securetheir followers that which, after all, must be the great recompense of apolitical party, the putting in practice of their opinions; for they hadnone. 

There was indeed a considerable shouting about what they calledConservative principles; but the awkward question naturally arose, whatwill you conserve? The prerogatives of the Crown, provided they are notexercised; the independence of the House of Lords, provided it is notasserted; the Ecclesiastical estate, provided it is regulated by acommission of laymen. Everything, in short, that is established, as longas it is a phrase and not a fact. 

In the meantime, while forms and phrases are religiously cherished inorder to make the semblance of a creed, the rule of practice is to bend tothe passion or combination of the hour. Conservatism assumes in theorythat everything established should be maintained; but adopts in practicethat everything that is established is indefensible. To reconcile thistheory and this practice, they produce what they call 'the best bargain;'some arrangement which has no principle and no purpose, except to obtain atemporary lull of agitation, until the mind of the Conservatives, withouta guide and without an aim, distracted, tempted, and bewildered, isprepared for another arrangement, equally statesmanlike with the precedingone. 

Conservatism was an attempt to carry on affairs by substituting thefulfilment of the duties of office for the performance of the functions ofgovernment; and to maintain this negative system by the mere influence ofproperty, reputable private conduct, and what are called good connections. Conservatism discards Prescription, shrinks from Principle, disavowsProgress; having rejected all respect for Antiquity, it offers no redressfor the Present, and makes no preparation for the Future. It is obviousthat for a time, under favourable circumstances, such a confederationmight succeed; but it is equally clear, that on the arrival of one ofthose critical conjunctures that will periodically occur in all states, and which such an unimpassioned system is even calculated ultimately tocreate, all power of resistance will be wanting: the barren curse ofpolitical infidelity will paralyse all action; and the ConservativeConstitution will be discovered to be a Caput Mortuum. 

CHAPTER VI. 

In the meantime, after dinner, Tadpole and Taper, who were among theguests of Mr. Ormsby, withdrew to a distant sofa, out of earshot, andindulged in confidential talk. 

'Such a strength in debate was never before found on a Treasury bench, 'said Mr. Tadpole; 'the other side will be dumbfounded. '

'And what do you put our numbers at now?' inquired Mr. Taper. 

'Would you take fifty-five for our majority?' rejoined Mr. Tadpole. 

'It is not so much the tail they have, as the excuse their junction willbe for the moderate, sensible men to come over, ' said Taper. 'Our friendSir Everard for example, it would settle him. '

'He is a solemn impostor, ' rejoined Mr. Tadpole; 'but he is a baronet anda county member, and very much looked up to by the Wesleyans. The othermen, I know, have refused him a peerage. '

'And we might hold out judicious hopes, ' said Taper. 

'No one can do that better than you, ' said Tadpole. 'I am apt to say toomuch about those things. '

'I make it a rule never to open my mouth on such subjects, ' said Taper. 'Anod or a wink will speak volumes. An affectionate pressure of the handwill sometimes do a great deal; and I have promised many a peerage withoutcommitting myself, by an ingenious habit of deference which cannot bemistaken by the future noble. '

'I wonder what they will do with Rigby, ' said Tadpole. 

'He wants a good deal, ' said Taper. 

'I tell you what, Mr. Taper, the time is gone by when a Marquess ofMonmouth was Letter A, No. 1. '

'Very true, Mr. Tadpole. A wise man would do well now to look to the greatmiddle class, as I said the other day to the electors of Shabbyton. '

'I had sooner be supported by the Wesleyans, ' said Mr. Tadpole, 'than byall the marquesses in the peerage. '

'At the same time, ' said Mr. Taper, 'Rigby is a considerable man. If wewant a slashing article--'

'Pooh!' said Mr. Tadpole. 'He is quite gone by. He takes three months forhis slashing articles. Give me the man who can write a leader. Rigby can'twrite a leader. '

'Very few can, ' said Mr. Taper. 'However, I don't think much of the press. Its power is gone by. They overdid it. '

'There is Tom Chudleigh, ' said Tadpole. 'What is he to have?'

'Nothing, I hope, ' said Taper. 'I hate him. A coxcomb! Cracking his jokesand laughing at us. '

'He has done a good deal for the party, though, ' said Tadpole. 'That, tobe sure, is only an additional reason for throwing him over, as he is toofar committed to venture to oppose us. But I am afraid from something thatdropped to-day, that Sir Robert thinks he has claims. '

'We must stop them, ' said Taper, growing pale. 'Fellows like Chudleigh, when they once get in, are always in one's way. I have no objection toyoung noblemen being put forward, for they are preferred so rapidly, andthen their fathers die, that in the long run they do not practicallyinterfere with us. '

'Well, his name was mentioned, ' said Tadpole. 'There is no concealingthat. '

'I will speak to Earwig, ' said Taper. 'He shall just drop into SirRobert's ear by chance, that Chudleigh used to quiz him in the smoking-room. Those little bits of information do a great deal of good. '

'Well, I leave him to you, ' said Tadpole. 'I am heartily with you inkeeping out all fellows like Chudleigh. They are very well for opposition;but in office we don't want wits. '

'And when shall we have the answer from Knowsley?' inquired Taper. 'Youanticipate no possible difficulty?'

'I tell you it is "carte blanche, "' replied Tadpole. 'Four places in thecabinet. Two secretaryships at the least. Do you happen to know anygentleman of your acquaintance, Mr. Taper, who refuses Secretaryships ofState so easily, that you can for an instant doubt of the presentarrangement?'

'I know none indeed, ' said Mr. Taper, with a grim smile. 

'The thing is done, ' said Mr. Tadpole. 

'And now for our cry, ' said Mr. Taper. 

'It is not a Cabinet for a good cry, ' said Tadpole; 'but then, on theother hand, it is a Cabinet that will sow dissension in the oppositeranks, and prevent them having a good cry. '

'Ancient institutions and modern improvements, I suppose, Mr. Tadpole?'

'Ameliorations is the better word, ameliorations. Nobody knows exactlywhat it means. '

'We go strong on the Church?' said Mr. Taper. 

'And no repeal of the Malt Tax; you were right, Taper. It can't belistened to for a moment. '

'Something might be done with prerogative, ' said Mr. Taper; 'the King'sconstitutional choice. '

'Not too much, ' replied Mr. Tadpole. 'It is a raw time yet forprerogative. '

'Ah! Tadpole, ' said Mr. Taper, getting a little maudlin; 'I often think, if the time should ever come, when you and I should be joint Secretariesof the Treasury!'

'We shall see, we shall see. All we have to do is to get into Parliament, work well together, and keep other men down. '

'We will do our best, ' said Taper. 'A dissolution you hold inevitable?'

'How are you and I to get into Parliament if there be not one? We mustmake it inevitable. I tell you what, Taper, the lists must prove adissolution inevitable. You understand me? If the present Parliament goeson, where shall we be? We shall have new men cropping up every session. '

'True, terribly true, ' said Mr. Taper. 'That we should ever live to see aTory government again! We have reason to be very thankful. '

'Hush!' said Mr. Tadpole. 'The time has gone by for Tory governments; whatthe country requires is a sound Conservative government. '

'A sound Conservative government, ' said Taper, musingly. 'I understand:Tory men and Whig measures. '

CHAPTER VII. 

Amid the contentions of party, the fierce struggles of ambition, and theintricacies of political intrigue, let us not forget our Eton friends. During the period which elapsed from the failure of the Duke of Wellingtonto form a government in 1832, to the failure of Sir Robert Peel to carryon a government in 1835, the boys had entered, and advanced in youth. Theties of friendship which then united several of them had only beenconfirmed by continued companionship. Coningsby and Henry Sydney, andBuckhurst and Vere, were still bound together by entire sympathy, and bythe affection of which sympathy is the only sure spring. But theirintimacies had been increased by another familiar friend. There had risenup between Coningsby and Millbank mutual sentiments of deep, and evenardent, regard. Acquaintance had developed the superior qualities ofMillbank. His thoughtful and inquiring mind, his inflexible integrity, hisstern independence, and yet the engaging union of extreme tenderness ofheart with all this strength of character, had won the goodwill, and oftenexcited the admiration, of Coningsby. Our hero, too, was gratified by theaffectionate deference that was often shown to him by one who condescendedto no other individual; he was proud of having saved the life of a memberof their community whom masters and boys alike considered; and he ended byloving the being on whom he had conferred a great obligation. 

The friends of Coningsby, the sweet-tempered and intelligent Henry Sydney, the fiery and generous Buckhurst, and the calm and sagacious Vere, hadever been favourably inclined to Millbank, and had they not been, theexample of Coningsby would soon have influenced them. He had obtained overhis intimates the ascendant power, which is the destiny of genius. Nor wasthis submission of such spirits to be held cheap. Although they werewilling to take the colour of their minds from him, they were in intellectand attainments, in personal accomplishments and general character, theleaders of the school; an authority not to be won from five hundred high-spirited boys without the possession of great virtues and great talents. 

As for the dominion of Coningsby himself, it was not limited to theimmediate circle of his friends. He had become the hero of Eton; the beingof whose existence everybody was proud, and in whose career every boy tookan interest. They talked of him, they quoted him, they imitated him. Fameand power are the objects of all men. Even their partial fruition isgained by very few; and that too at the expense of social pleasure, health, conscience, life. Yet what power of manhood in passionateintenseness, appealing at the same time to the subject and the votary, canrival that which is exercised by the idolised chieftain of a great publicschool? What fame of after days equals the rapture of celebrity thatthrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare emotion he recites histriumphant verses amid the devoted plaudits of the flower of England?That's fame, that's power; real, unquestioned, undoubted, catholic. Alas!the schoolboy, when he becomes a man, finds that power, even fame, likeeverything else, is an affair of party. 

Coningsby liked very much to talk politics with Millbank. He heard thingsfrom Millbank which were new to him. Himself, as he supposed, a high Tory, which he was according to the revelation of the Rigbys, he was alsosufficiently familiar with the hereditary tenets of his Whig friend, LordVere. Politics had as yet appeared to him a struggle whether the countrywas to be governed by Whig nobles or Tory nobles; and he thought it veryunfortunate that he should probably have to enter life with his friendsout of power, and his family boroughs destroyed. But in conversing withMillbank, he heard for the first time of influential classes in thecountry who were not noble, and were yet determined to acquire power. Andalthough Millbank's views, which were of course merely caught up from hisfather, without the intervention of his own intelligence, were doubtlesscrude enough, and were often very acutely canvassed and satisfactorilydemolished by the clever prejudices of another school, which Coningsby hadat command, still they were, unconsciously to the recipient, materials forthought, and insensibly provoked in his mind a spirit of inquiry intopolitical questions, for which he had a predisposition. 

It may be said, indeed, that generally among the upper boys there might beobserved at this time, at Eton, a reigning inclination for politicaldiscussion. The school truly had at all times been proud of its statesmenand its parliamentary heroes, but this was merely a superficial feeling incomparison with the sentiment which now first became prevalent. The greatpublic questions that were the consequence of the Reform of the House ofCommons, had also agitated their young hearts. And especially thecontroversies that were now rife respecting the nature and character ofecclesiastical establishments, wonderfully addressed themselves to theirexcited intelligence. They read their newspapers with a keen relish, canvassed debates, and criticised speeches; and although in their debatingsociety, which had been instituted more than a quarter of a century, discussion on topics of the day was prohibited, still by fixing on periodsof our history when affairs were analogous to the present, many a youthfulorator contrived very effectively to reply to Lord John, or to refute thefallacies of his rival. 

As the political opinions predominant in the school were what in ordinaryparlance are styled Tory, and indeed were far better entitled to thatglorious epithet than the flimsy shifts which their fathers wereprofessing in Parliament and the country; the formation and the fall ofSir Robert Peel's government had been watched by Etonians with greatinterest, and even excitement. The memorable efforts which the Ministerhimself made, supported only by the silent votes of his numerousadherents, and contending alone against the multiplied assaults of hisable and determined foes, with a spirit equal to the great occasion, andwith resources of parliamentary contest which seemed to increase withevery exigency; these great and unsupported struggles alone werecalculated to gain the sympathy of youthful and generous spirits. Theassault on the revenues of the Church; the subsequent crusade against theHouse of Lords; the display of intellect and courage exhibited by LordLyndhurst in that assembly, when all seemed cowed and faint-hearted; allthese were incidents or personal traits apt to stir the passions, andcreate in breasts not yet schooled to repress emotion, a sentiment even ofenthusiasm. It is the personal that interests mankind, that fires theirimagination, and wins their hearts. A cause is a great abstraction, andfit only for students; embodied in a party, it stirs men to action; butplace at the head of that party a leader who can inspire enthusiasm, liecommands the world. Divine faculty! Rare and incomparable privilege! Aparliamentary leader who possesses it, doubles his majority; and he whohas it not, may shroud himself in artificial reserve, and study withundignified arrogance an awkward haughtiness, but he will nevertheless beas far from controlling the spirit as from captivating the hearts of hissullen followers. 

However, notwithstanding this general feeling at Eton, in 1835, in favourof 'Conservative principles, ' which was, in fact, nothing more than aconfused and mingled sympathy with some great political truths, which wereat the bottom of every boy's heart, but nowhere else; and with thepersonal achievements and distinction of the chieftains of the party; whenall this hubbub had subsided, and retrospection, in the course of a year, had exercised its moralising influence over the more thoughtful part ofthe nation, inquiries, at first faint and unpretending, and confinedindeed for a long period to limited, though inquisitive, circles, begangently to circulate, what Conservative principles were. 

These inquiries, urged indeed with a sort of hesitating scepticism, earlyreached Eton. They came, no doubt, from the Universities. They were of acharacter, however, far too subtile and refined to exercise any immediateinfluence over the minds of youth. To pursue them required previousknowledge and habitual thought. They were not yet publicly prosecuted byany school of politicians, or any section of the public press. They hadnot a local habitation or a name. They were whispered in conversation by afew. A tutor would speak of them in an esoteric vein to a favourite pupil, in whose abilities he had confidence, and whose future position in lifewould afford him the opportunity of influencing opinion. Among others, they fell upon the ear of Coningsby. They were addressed to a mind whichwas prepared for such researches. 

There is a Library at Eton formed by the boys and governed by the boys;one of those free institutions which are the just pride of that nobleschool, which shows the capacity of the boys for self-government, andwhich has sprung from the large freedom that has been wisely concededthem, the prudence of which confidence has been proved by their rarelyabusing it. This Library has been formed by subscriptions of the presentand still more by the gifts of old Etonians. Among the honoured names ofthese donors may be remarked those of the Grenvilles and Lord Wellesley;nor should we forget George IV. , who enriched the collection with amagnificent copy of the Delphin Classics. The Institution is governed bysix directors, the three first Collegers and the three first Oppidans forthe time being; and the subscribers are limited to the one hundred seniormembers of the school. 

It is only to be regretted that the collection is not so extensive at itis interesting and choice. Perhaps its existence is not so generally knownas it deserves to be. One would think that every Eton man would be asproud of his name being registered as a donor in the Catalogue of thisLibrary, as a Venetian of his name being inscribed in the Golden Book. Indeed an old Etonian, who still remembers with tenderness the sacredscene of youth, could scarcely do better than build a Gothic apartment forthe reception of the collection. It cannot be doubted that the Provost andfellows would be gratified in granting a piece of ground for the purpose. 

Great were the obligations of Coningsby to this Eton Library. Itintroduced him to that historic lore, that accumulation of facts andincidents illustrative of political conduct, for which he had imbibed anearly relish. His study was especially directed to the annals of his owncountry, in which youth, and not youth alone, is frequently so deficient. This collection could afford him Clarendon and Burnet, and the authenticvolumes of Coxe: these were rich materials for one anxious to be versed inthe great parliamentary story of his country. During the last year of hisstay at Eton, when he had completed his eighteenth year, Coningsby led amore retired life than previously; he read much, and pondered with all thepride of acquisition over his increasing knowledge. 

And now the hour has come when this youth is to be launched into a worldmore vast than that in which he has hitherto sojourned, yet for which thismicrocosm has been no ill preparation. He will become more wise; will heremain as generous? His ambition may be as great; will it be as noble?What, indeed, is to be the future of this existence that is now to be sentforth into the great aggregate of entities? Is it an ordinary organisationthat will jostle among the crowd, and be jostled? Is it a finertemperament, susceptible of receiving the impressions and imbibing theinspirations of superior yet sympathising spirits? Or is it a primordialand creative mind; one that will say to his fellows, 'Behold, God hasgiven me thought; I have discovered truth, and you shall believe?'

The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone in his room, before he retiredto rest, he opened the lattice and looked for the last time upon thelandscape before him; the stately keep of Windsor, the bowery meads ofEton, soft in the summer moon and still in the summer night. He gazed uponthem; his countenance had none of the exultation, that under suchcircumstances might have distinguished a more careless glance, eager forfancied emancipation and passionate for a novel existence. Its expressionwas serious, even sad; and he covered his brow with his hand. 

END OF BOOK II. 

BOOK III. 

CHAPTER I. 

There are few things more full of delight and splendour, than to travelduring the heat of a refulgent summer in the green district of someancient forest. 

In one of our midland counties there is a region of this character, towhich, during a season of peculiar lustre, we would introduce the reader. 

It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan tracts wherein Norman kingsonce hunted, and Saxon outlaws plundered; and although the plough had forcenturies successfully invaded brake and bower, the relics retained alltheir original character of wildness and seclusion. Sometimes the greenearth was thickly studded with groves of huge and vigorous oaks, intersected with those smooth and sunny glades, that seem as if they mustbe cut for dames and knights to saunter on. Then again the undulatingground spread on all sides, far as the eye could range, covered with copseand fern of immense growth. Anon you found yourself in a turfy wilderness, girt in apparently by dark woods. And when you had wound your way a littlethrough this gloomy belt, the landscape still strictly sylvan, wouldbeautifully expand with every combination and variety of woodland; whilein its centre, the wildfowl covered the waters of a lake, and the deerbasked on the knolls that abounded on its banks. 

It was in the month of August, some six or seven years ago, that atraveller on foot, touched, as he emerged from the dark wood, by thebeauty of this scene, threw himself under the shade of a spreading tree, and stretched his limbs on the turf for enjoyment rather than repose. Thesky was deep-coloured and without a cloud, save here and there a minute, sultry, burnished vapour, almost as glossy as the heavens. Everything wasstill as it was bright; all seemed brooding and basking; the bee upon itswing was the only stirring sight, and its song the only sound. 

The traveller fell into a reverie. He was young, and therefore his musingswere of the future. He had felt the pride of learning, so ennobling toyouth; he was not a stranger to the stirring impulses of a high ambition, though the world to him was as yet only a world of books, and all that heknew of the schemes of statesmen and the passions of the people, were tobe found in their annals. Often had his fitful fancy dwelt withfascination on visions of personal distinction, of future celebrity, perhaps even of enduring fame. But his dreams were of another colour now. The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet; so abstracted fromall the tumult of the world, its strife, its passions, and its cares: hadfallen on his heart with its soft and subduing spirit; had fallen on aheart still pure and innocent, the heart of one who, notwithstanding allhis high resolves and daring thoughts, was blessed with that tenderness ofsoul which is sometimes linked with an ardent imagination and a strongwill. The traveller was an orphan, more than that, a solitary orphan. Thesweet sedulousness of a mother's love, a sister's mystical affection, hadnot cultivated his early susceptibility. No soft pathos of expression hadappealed to his childish ear. He was alone, among strangers calmly andcoldly kind. It must indeed have been a truly gentle disposition thatcould have withstood such hard neglect. All that he knew of the power ofthe softer passions might be found in the fanciful and romantic annals ofschoolboy friendship. 

And those friends too, so fond, so sympathising, so devoted, where werethey now? Already they were dispersed; the first great separation of lifehad been experienced; the former schoolboy had planted his foot on thethreshold of manhood. True, many of them might meet again; many of themthe University must again unite, but never with the same feelings. Thespace of time, passed in the world before they again met, would be an ageof sensation, passion, experience to all of them. They would meet againwith altered mien, with different manners, different voices. Their eyeswould not shine with the same light; they would not speak the same words. The favourite phrases of their intimacy, the mystic sounds that spoke onlyto their initiated ear, they would be ashamed to use them. Yes, they mightmeet again, but the gushing and secret tenderness was gone for ever. 

Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from himself that it was affection, and mainly affection, that had bound him to these dear companions. Theycould not be to him what he had been to them. His had been the inspiringmind that had guided their opinions, formed their tastes, directed thebent and tenor of their lives and thoughts. Often, indeed, had he needed, sometimes he had even sighed for, the companionship of an equal orsuperior mind; one who, by the comprehension of his thought, and therichness of his knowledge, and the advantage of his experience, mightstrengthen and illuminate and guide his obscure or hesitating orunpractised intelligence. He had scarcely been fortunate in this respect, and he deeply regretted it; for he was one of those who was not contentwith excelling in his own circle, if he thought there was one superior toit. Absolute, not relative distinction, was his noble aim. 

Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the solitude of his life andmind. His heart and his intellect seemed both to need a companion. Books, and action, and deep thought, might in time supply the want of thatintellectual guide; but for the heart, where was he to find solace?

Ah! if she would but come forth from that shining lake like a beautifulOndine! Ah, if she would but step out from the green shade of that secretgrove like a Dryad of sylvan Greece! O mystery of mysteries, when youthdreams his first dream over some imaginary heroine!

Suddenly the brooding wildfowl rose from the bosom of the lake, soared inthe air, and, uttering mournful shrieks, whirled in agitated tumult. Thedeer started from their knolls, no longer sunny, stared around, and rushedinto the woods. Coningsby raised his eyes from the turf on which they hadbeen long fixed in abstraction, and he observed that the azure sky hadvanished, a thin white film had suddenly spread itself over the heavens, and the wind moaned with a sad and fitful gust. 

He had some reason to believe that on the other side of the opposite woodthe forest was intersected by a public road, and that there were somehabitations. Immediately rising, he descended at a rapid pace into thevalley, passed the lake, and then struck into the ascending wood on thebank opposite to that on which he had mused away some precious time. 

The wind howled, the branches of the forest stirred, and sent forth soundslike an incantation. Soon might be distinguished the various voices of themighty trees, as they expressed their terror or their agony. The oakroared, the beech shrieked, the elm sent forth its deep and long-drawngroan; while ever and anon, amid a momentary pause, the passion of the ashwas heard in moans of thrilling anguish. 

Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less close. All that he aspired towas to gain more open country. Now he was in a rough flat land, coveredonly here and there with dwarf underwood; the horizon bounded at no greatdistance by a barren hill of moderate elevation. He gained its height withease. He looked over a vast open country like a wild common; in theextreme distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected by twogood roads: the sky entirely clouded, but in the distance black as ebony. 

A place of refuge was at hand: screened from his first glance by some elm-trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a roof, which Coningsby reachedbefore the tempest broke. The forest-inn was also a farmhouse. There was acomfortable-enough looking kitchen; but the ingle nook was full ofsmokers, and Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only private roomfor the simple meal which they offered him, only eggs and bacon; but verywelcome to a pedestrian, and a hungry one. 

As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching the largedrops that were the heralds of a coming hurricane, and waiting for hisrepast, a flash of lightning illumined the whole country, and a horsemanat full speed, followed by his groom, galloped up to the door. 

The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby's attentionthat it prevented him catching even a glimpse of the rider, who rapidlydismounted and entered the inn. The host shortly after came in and askedConingsby whether he had any objection to a gentleman, who was driventhere by the storm, sharing his room until it subsided. The consequence ofthe immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the landlord retired and soonreturned, ushering in an individual, who, though perhaps ten years olderthan Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, in the period oflusty youth. He was above the middle height, and of a distinguished airand figure; pale, with an impressive brow, and dark eyes of greatintelligence. 

'I am glad that we have both escaped the storm, ' said the stranger; 'and Iam greatly indebted to you for your courtesy. ' He slightly and graciouslybowed, as he spoke in a voice of remarkable clearness; and his manner, though easy, was touched with a degree of dignity that was engaging. 

'The inn is a common home, ' replied Coningsby, returning his salute. 

'And free from cares, ' added the stranger. Then, looking through thewindow, he said, 'A strange storm this. I was sauntering in the sunshine, when suddenly I found I had to gallop for my life. 'Tis more like a whitesquall in the Mediterranean than anything else. '

'I never was in the Mediterranean, ' said Coningsby. 'There is nothing Ishould like so much as to travel. '

'You are travelling, ' rejoined his companion. 'Every moment is travel, ifunderstood. '

'Ah! but the Mediterranean!' exclaimed Coningsby. 'What would I not giveto see Athens!'

'I have seen it, ' said the stranger, slightly shrugging his shoulders;'and more wonderful things. Phantoms and spectres! The Age of Ruins ispast. Have you seen Manchester?'

'I have seen nothing, ' said Coningsby; 'this is my first wandering. I amabout to visit a friend who lives in this county, and I have sent on mybaggage as I could. For myself, I determined to trust to a less common-place conveyance. '

'And seek adventures, ' said the stranger, smiling, 'Well, according toCervantes, they should begin in an inn. '

'I fear that the age of adventures is past, as well as that of ruins, 'replied Coningsby. 

'Adventures are to the adventurous, ' said the stranger. 

At this moment a pretty serving-maid entered the room. She laid the dappercloth and arranged the table with a self-possession quite admirable. Sheseemed unconscious that any being was in the chamber except herself, orthat there were any other duties to perform in life beyond filling asaltcellar or folding a napkin. 

'She does not even look at us, ' said Coningsby, when she had quitted theroom; 'and I dare say is only a prude. '

'She is calm, ' said the stranger, 'because she is mistress of her subject;'tis the secret of self-possession. She is here as a duchess at court. '

They brought in Coningsby's meal, and he invited the stranger to join him. The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness. 

''Tis but simple fare, ' said Coningsby, as the maiden uncovered the stillhissing bacon and the eggs, that looked like tufts of primroses. 

'Nay, a national dish, ' said the stranger, glancing quickly at the table, 'whose fame is a proverb. And what more should we expect under a simpleroof! How much better than an omelette or a greasy olla, that they wouldgive us in a posada! 'Tis a wonderful country this England! What a napkin!How spotless! And so sweet; I declare 'tis a perfume. There is not aprincess throughout the South of Europe served with the cleanliness thatmeets us in this cottage. '

'An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?' said Coningsby. 'I apprehend thenorthern nations have a greater sense of cleanliness, of propriety, ofwhat we call comfort?'

'By no means, ' said the stranger; 'the East is the land of the Bath. Mosesand Mahomet made cleanliness religion. '

'You will let me help you?' said Coningsby, offering him a plate which hehad filled. 

'I thank you, ' said the stranger, 'but it is one of my bread days. Withyour permission this shall be my dish;' and he cut from the large loaf asupply of crusts. 

''Tis but unsavoury fare after a gallop, ' said Coningsby. 

'Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs, ' said the stranger, smiling, 'but I love corn and wine. They are our chief and our oldestluxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, but how inferior! Man hasdeified corn and wine! but not even the Chinese or the Irish have raisedtemples to tea and potatoes. '

'But Ceres without Bacchus, ' said Coningsby, 'how does that do? Think you, under this roof, we could Invoke the god?'

'Let us swear by his body that we will try, ' said the stranger. 

Alas! the landlord was not a priest to Bacchus. But then these inquiriesled to the finest perry in the world. The young men agreed they had seldomtasted anything more delicious; they sent for another bottle. Coningsby, who was much interested by his new companion, enjoyed himself amazingly. 

A cheese, such as Derby alone can produce, could not induce the strangerto be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his talk was asvivacious as if the talker had been stimulated by the juices of the finestbanquet. Coningsby had never met or read of any one like this chancecompanion. His sentences were so short, his language so racy, his voicerang so clear, his elocution was so complete. On all subjects his mindseemed to be instructed, and his opinions formed. He flung out a result ina few words; he solved with a phrase some deep problem that men muse overfor years. He said many things that were strange, yet they immediatelyappeared to be true. Then, without the slightest air of pretension orparade, he seemed to know everybody as well as everything. Monarchs, statesmen, authors, adventurers, of all descriptions and of all climes, iftheir names occurred in the conversation, he described them in anepigrammatic sentence, or revealed their precise position, character, calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All this, too, without any excitementof manner; on the contrary, with repose amounting almost to nonchalance. If his address had any fault in it, it was rather a deficiency ofearnestness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even whenyou deemed him most serious; you were startled by his sudden transitionsfrom profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very singular freedom frompassion and prejudice on every topic on which they treated, might be somecompensation for this want of earnestness, perhaps was its consequence. Certainly it was difficult to ascertain his precise opinions on manysubjects, though his manner was frank even to abandonment. And yetthroughout his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word, not a circumstance escaped him, by which you could judge of his positionor purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover those ofhis companion. He did not by any means monopolise the conversation. Farfrom it; he continually asked questions, and while he received answers, orhad engaged his fellow-traveller in any exposition of his opinion orfeelings, he listened with a serious and fixed attention, lookingConingsby in the face with a steadfast glance. 

'I perceive, ' said Coningsby, pursuing a strain of thought which the otherhad indicated, 'that you have great confidence in the influence ofindividual character. I also have some confused persuasions of that kind. But it is not the Spirit of the Age. '

'The age does not believe in great men, because it does not possess any, 'replied the stranger. 'The Spirit of the Age is the very thing that agreat man changes. '

'But does he not rather avail himself of it?' inquired Coningsby. 

'Parvenus do, ' rejoined his companion; 'but not prophets, greatlegislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they create. '

'But are these times for great legislators and great conquerors?' urgedConingsby. 

'When were they wanted more?' asked the stranger. 'From the throne to thehovel all call for a guide. You give monarchs constitutions to teach themsovereignty, and nations Sunday-schools to inspire them with faith. '

'But what is an individual, ' exclaimed Coningsby, 'against a vast publicopinion?'

'Divine, ' said the stranger. 'God made man in His own image; but thePublic is made by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, Excise Officers, PoorLaw Guardians. Would Philip have succeeded if Epaminondas had not beenslain? And if Philip had not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed hadFrederick not been born? And if Frederick had not been born? What wouldhave been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, andCharles I. , as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?'

'But when men are young they want experience, ' said Coningsby; 'and whenthey have gained experience, they want energy. '

'Great men never want experience, ' said the stranger. 

'But everybody says that experience--'

'Is the best thing in the world, a treasure for you, for me, for millions. But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost everything that isgreat has been done by youth. '

'It is at least a creed flattering to our years, ' said Coningsby, with asmile. 

'Nay, ' said the stranger; 'for life in general there is but one decree. Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not suppose, 'he added, smiling, 'that I hold that youth is genius; all that I say is, that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains of ancientand modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Youth, extremeyouth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto attwenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it not been for thejealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been Emperor ofMauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor onthe plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Condé and Rocroy at the sameage. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: thatwonderful Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more thanthirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice ofSaxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of thegreatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there isNelson, Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there aregreater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But takethe most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III. , thegreatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. Johnde Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and according to Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. He was Pope asLeo X. At thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province atthirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley, they worked with youngbrains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made his pilgrimage and wrote the"Spiritual Exercises. " Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, and died atthirty-seven, the greatest of Frenchmen. 

'Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as aman than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphaelwhen he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there wereBolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General attwenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruledevery cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was thirty-seven. What a career!' exclaimed the stranger; rising from his chair and walkingup and down the room; 'the secret sway of Europe! That was indeed aposition! But it is needless to multiply instances! The history of Heroesis the history of Youth. '

'Ah!' said Coningsby, 'I should like to be a great man. '

The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His countenance wasserious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody:

'Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makesheroes. '

'You seem to me a hero, ' said Coningsby, in a tone of real feeling, which, half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness. 

'I am and must ever be, ' said the stranger, 'but a dreamer of dreams. 'Then going towards the window, and changing into a familiar tone as if todivert the conversation, he added, 'What a delicious afternoon! I lookforward to my ride with delight. You rest here?'

'No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep. '

'And I in the opposite direction. ' And he rang the bell, and ordered hishorse. 

'I long to see your mare again, ' said Coningsby. 'She seemed to me sobeautiful. '

'She is not only of pure race, ' said the stranger, 'but of the highest andrarest breed in Arabia. Her name is "the Daughter of the Star. " She is afoal of that famous mare, which belonged to the Prince of the Wahabees;and to possess which, I believe, was one of the principal causes of warbetween that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me, and I would not change her for her statue in pure gold, even carved byLysippus. Come round to the stable and see her. '

They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh fromthe rain, but mild and exhilarating. 

The groom brought forth the mare. 'The Daughter of the Star' stood beforeConingsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little ears, dark speakingeye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her master, and whither wasshe about to take him?

Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was notcuriosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think alittle, and then say:

'I am sorry to part. '

'I also, ' said the stranger. 'But life is constant separation. '

'I hope we may meet again, ' said Coningsby. 

'If our acquaintance be worth preserving, ' said the stranger, 'you may besure it will not be lost. '

'But mine is not worth preserving, ' said Coningsby, earnestly. 'It isyours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have longmused. '

The stranger took the bridle of 'the Daughter of the Star, ' and turninground with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion. 

'Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts, ' said Coningsby;'your actions should be heroic. '

'Action is not for me, ' said the stranger; 'I am of that faith that theApostles professed before they followed their master. '

He vaulted into his saddle, 'the Daughter of the Star' bounded away as ifshe scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had alikesprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation. 

CHAPTER II. 

The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived atBeaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited the family of hisfriend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his boyish days had oftenproved that they were not unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit thathad been long counted on, long promised, and which a variety ofcircumstances had hitherto prevented. It was to have been made by theschoolboy; it was to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a charactercould Coningsby under any circumstances now consent to claim, since he wasclosely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it appearedmanifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, he had but fewyears to wait before the full development of his power. Visions of Gastonsde Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen giving up cricket to governnations, beardless Jesuits plunged in profound abstraction in omnipotentcabinets, haunted his fancy from the moment he had separated from hismysterious and deeply interesting companion. To nurture his mind withgreat thoughts had ever been Coningsby's inspiring habit. Was it alsodestined that he should achieve the heroic?

There are some books, when we close them; one or two in the course of ourlife, difficult as it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause; our mindsseem to have made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive light; amultitude of indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect grasps andgrapples with all subjects with a capacity, a flexibility, and a vigour, before unknown to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, which arenot even touched or referred to in the volume just closed. What is thismagic? It is the spirit of the supreme author, by a magentic influenceblending with our sympathising intelligence, that directs and inspires it. By that mysterious sensibility we extend to questions which he has nottreated, the same intellectual force which he has exercised over thosewhich he has expounded. His genius for a time remains in us. 'Tis the samewith human beings as with books. All of us encounter, at least once in ourlife, some individual who utters words that make us think for ever. 

There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence thesecrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character orillustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater thanall is the talk of a great man. 

And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a victoriousGeneral? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A Field Marshal covered withstars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A King, even an Emperor? It may beall these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not necessarily greatmen. A great man is one who affects the mind of his generation: whether hebe a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing theGranicus, and giving a new character to the Pagan World. 

Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a state of meditation. He alsodesired to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes impelsyouth to momentary exertion, by which they sometimes obtain a distinctionas evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our hero was altogether ofa different character. It was, indeed, at present not a little vague, indefinite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. What were hispowers? what should be his aim? were often to him, as to all youngaspirants, questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. But, on thewhole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his many dazzlingqualities and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity, which hasspoiled so much promise, a vein of grave simplicity that was theconsequence of an earnest temper, and of an intellect that would becontent with nothing short of the profound. 

His was a mind that loved to pursue every question to the centre. But itwas not a spirit of scepticism that impelled this habit; on the contrary, it was the spirit of faith. Coningsby found that he was born in an age ofinfidelity in all things, and his heart assured him that a want of faithwas a want of nature. But his vigorous intellect could not take refuge inthat maudlin substitute for belief which consists in a patronage offantastic theories. He needed that deep and enduring conviction that theheart and the intellect, feeling and reason united, can alone supply. Heasked himself why governments were hated, and religions despised? Whyloyalty was dead, and reverence only a galvanised corpse?

These were indeed questions that had as yet presented themselves to histhought in a crude and imperfect form; but their very occurrence showedthe strong predisposition of his mind. It was because he had not foundguides among his elders, that his thoughts had been turned to thegeneration that he himself represented. The sentiment of veneration was sodeveloped in his nature, that he was exactly the youth that would havehung with enthusiastic humility on the accents of some sage of old in thegroves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But as yet he had found age onlyperplexed and desponding; manhood only callous and desperate. Some thoughtthat systems would last their time; others, that something would turn up. His deep and pious spirit recoiled with disgust and horror from such lax, chance-medley maxims, that would, in their consequences, reduce man to thelevel of the brutes. Notwithstanding a prejudice which had haunted himfrom his childhood, he had, when the occasion offered, applied to Mr. Rigby for instruction, as one distinguished in the republic of letters, aswell as the realm of politics; who assumed the guidance of the publicmind, and, as the phrase runs, was looked up to. Mr. Rigby listened atfirst to the inquiries of Coningsby, urged, as they ever were, with amodesty and deference which do not always characterise juvenileinvestigations, as if Coningsby were speaking to him of the unknowntongues. But Mr. Rigby was not a man who ever confessed himself at fault. He caught up something of the subject as our young friend proceeded, andwas perfectly prepared, long before he had finished, to take the wholeconversation into his own hands. 

Mr. Rigby began by ascribing everything to the Reform Bill, and thenreferred to several of his own speeches on Schedule A. Then he toldConingsby that want of religious Faith was solely occasioned by want ofchurches; and want of Loyalty, by George IV. Having shut himself up toomuch at the cottage in Windsor Park, entirely against the advice of Mr. Rigby. He assured Coningsby that the Church Commission was operatingwonders, and that with private benevolence, he had himself subscribed1, 000_l. _, for Lord Monmouth, we should soon have churches enough. Thegreat question now was their architecture. Had George IV. Lived all wouldhave been right. They would have been built on the model of the Budhistpagoda. As for Loyalty, if the present King went regularly to Ascot races, he had no doubt all would go right. Finally, Mr. Rigby impressed onConingsby to read the Quarterly Review with great attention; and to makehimself master of Mr. Wordy's History of the late War, in twenty volumes, a capital work, which proves that Providence was on the side of theTories. 

Coningsby did not reply to Mr. Rigby again; but worked on with his ownmind, coming often enough to sufficiently crude conclusions, and oftenmuch perplexed and harassed. He tried occasionally his inferences on hiscompanions, who were intelligent and full of fervour. Millbank was morethan this. He was of a thoughtful mood; had also caught up from a newschool some principles, which were materials for discussion. One way orother, however, before he quitted Eton there prevailed among this circleof friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating from Coningsby, anearnest, though a rather vague, conviction that the present state offeeling in matters both civil and religious was not healthy; that theremust be substituted for this latitudinarianism something sound and deep, fervent and well defined, and that the priests of this new faith must befound among the New Generation; so that when the bright-minded rider of'the Daughter of the Star' descanted on the influence of individualcharacter, of great thoughts and heroic actions, and the divine power ofyouth and genius, he touched a string that was the very heart-chord of hiscompanion, who listened with fascinated enthusiasm as he introduced him tohis gallery of inspiring models. 

Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir at a season when men can neither hunt norshoot. Great internal resources should be found in a country family undersuch circumstances. The Duke and Duchess had returned from London only afew days with their daughter, who had been presented this year. They wereall glad to find themselves again in the country, which they loved andwhich loved them. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, and Henry Sydney, completed the party. 

There are few conjunctures in life of a more startling interest, than tomeet the pretty little girl that we have gambolled with in our boyhood, and to find her changed in the lapse of a very few years, which in someinstances may not have brought a corresponding alteration in our ownappearance, into a beautiful woman. Something of this flitted overConingsby's mind, as he bowed, a little agitated from his surprise, toLady Theresa Sydney. All that he remembered had prepared him for beauty;but not for the degree or character of beauty that he met. It was a rich, sweet face, with blue eyes and dark lashes, and a nose that we have noepithet in English to describe, but which charmed in Roxalana. Her brownhair fell over her white and well turned shoulders in long and luxurianttresses. One has met something as brilliant and dainty in a medallion ofold Sèvres, or amid the terraces and gardens of Watteau. 

Perhaps Lady Theresa, too, might have welcomed him with more freedom hadhis appearance also more accorded with the image which he had left behind. Coningsby was a boy then, as we described him in our first chapter. Thoughonly nineteen now, he had attained his full stature, which was above themiddle height, and time had fulfilled that promise of symmetry in hisfigure, and grace in his mien, then so largely intimated. Time, too, whichhad not yet robbed his countenance of any of its physical beauty, hadstrongly developed the intellectual charm by which it had ever beendistinguished. As he bowed lowly before the Duchess and her daughter, itwould have been difficult to imagine a youth of a mien more prepossessingand a manner more finished. 

A manner that was spontaneous; nature's pure gift, the reflex of hisfeeling. No artifice prompted that profound and polished homage. Not oneof those influences, the aggregate of whose sway produces, as they tellus, the finished gentleman, had ever exercised its beneficent power on ourorphan, and not rarely forlorn, Coningsby. No clever and refined woman, with her quick perception, and nice criticism that never offends our self-love, had ever given him that education that is more precious thanUniversities. The mild suggestions of a sister, the gentle raillery ofsome laughing cousin, are also advantages not always appreciated at thetime, but which boys, when they have become men, often think over withgratitude, and a little remorse at the ungracious spirit in which theywere received. Not even the dancing-master had afforded his mechanical aidto Coningsby, who, like all Eton boys of his generation, viewed thatprofessor of accomplishments with frank repugnance. But even in theboisterous life of school, Coningsby, though his style was free andflowing, was always well-bred. His spirit recoiled from that grossfamiliarity that is the characteristic of modern manners, and which woulddestroy all forms and ceremonies merely because they curb and controltheir own coarse convenience and ill-disguised selfishness. To women, however, Coningsby instinctively bowed, as to beings set apart forreverence and delicate treatment. Little as his experience was of them, his spirit had been fed with chivalrous fancies, and he entertained forthem all the ideal devotion of a Surrey or a Sydney. Instructed, if notlearned, as books and thought had already made him in men, he could notconceive that there were any other women in the world than fair Geraldinesand Countesses of Pembroke. 

There was not a country-house in England that had so completely the air ofhabitual residence as Beaumanoir. It is a charming trait, and very rare. In many great mansions everything is as stiff, formal, and tedious, as ifyour host were a Spanish grandee in the days of the Inquisition. No ease, no resources; the passing life seems a solemn spectacle in which you playa part. How delightful was the morning room at Beaumanoir; from whichgentlemen were not excluded with that assumed suspicion that they cannever enter it but for felonious purposes. Such a profusion of flowers!Such a multitude of books! Such a various prodigality of writingmaterials! So many easy chairs too, of so many shapes; each in itself acomfortable home; yet nothing crowded. Woman alone can organise a drawing-room; man succeeds sometimes in a library. And the ladies' work! Howgraceful they look bending over their embroidery frames, consulting overthe arrangement of a group, or the colour of a flower. The panniers andfanciful baskets, overflowing with variegated worsted, are gay and full ofpleasure to the eye, and give an air of elegant business that isvivifying. Even the sight of employment interests. 

Then the morning costume of English women is itself a beautiful work ofart. At this period of the day they can find no rivals in other climes. The brilliant complexions of the daughters of the north dazzle indaylight; the illumined saloon levels all distinctions. One should seethem in their well-fashioned muslin dresses. What matrons, and whatmaidens! Full of graceful dignity, fresher than the morn! And the marriedbeauty in her little lace cap. Ah, she is a coquette! A charming characterat all times; in a country-house an invaluable one. 

A coquette is a being who wishes to please. Amiable being! If you do notlike her, you will have no difficulty in finding a female companion of adifferent mood. Alas! coquettes are but too rare. 'Tis a career thatrequires great abilities, infinite pains, a gay and airy spirit. 'Tis thecoquette that provides all amusement; suggests the riding party, plans thepicnic, gives and guesses charades, acts them. She is the stirring elementamid the heavy congeries of social atoms; the soul of the house, the saltof the banquet. Let any one pass a very agreeable week, or it may be tendays, under any roof, and analyse the cause of his satisfaction, and onemight safely make a gentle wager that his solution would present him withthe frolic phantom of a coquette. 

'It is impossible that Mr. Coningsby can remember me!' said a clear voice;and he looked round, and was greeted by a pair of sparkling eyes and thegayest smile in the world. 

It was Lady Everingham, the Duke's married daughter. 

CHAPTER III. 

'And you walked here!' said Lady Everingham to Coningsby, when the stir ofarranging themselves at dinner had subsided. 'Only think, papa, Mr. Coningsby walked here! I also am a great walker. '

'I had heard much of the forest, ' said Coningsby. 

'Which I am sure did not disappoint you, ' said the Duke. 

'But forests without adventures!' said Lady Everingham, a little shruggingher pretty shoulders. 

'But I had an adventure, ' said Coningsby. 

'Oh! tell it us by all means!' said the Lady, with great animation. 'Adventures are my weakness. I have had more adventures than any one. HaveI not had, Augustus?' she added, addressing her husband. 

'But you make everything out to be an adventure, Isabel, ' said LordEveringham. I dare say that Mr. Coningsby's was more substantial. ' Andlooking at our young friend, he invited him to inform them. 

'I met a most extraordinary man, ' said Coningsby. 

'It should have been a heroine, ' exclaimed Lady Everingham. 

'Do you know anybody in this neighbourhood who rides the finest Arab inthe world?' asked Coningsby. 'She is called "the Daughter of the Star, "and was given to her rider by the Pacha of Egypt. '

'This is really an adventure, ' said Lady Everingham, interested. 

'The Daughter of the Star!' said Lady Theresa. 'What a pretty name! Percyhas a horse called "Sunbeam. "'

'A fine Arab, the finest in the world!' said the Duke, who was fond ofhorse. 'Who can it be?'

'Can you throw any light on this, Mr. Lyle?' asked the Duchess of a youngman who sat next her. 

He was a neighbour who had joined their dinner-party, Eustace Lyle, aRoman Catholic, and the richest commoner in the county; for he hadsucceeded to a great estate early in his minority, which had only thisyear terminated. 

'I certainly do not know the horse, ' said Mr. Lyle; 'but if Mr. Coningsbywould describe the rider, perhaps--'

'He is a man something under thirty, ' said Coningsby, 'pale, with darkhair. We met in a sort of forest-inn during a storm. A most singular man!Indeed, I never met any one who seemed to me so clever, or to say suchremarkable things. '

'He must have been the spirit of the storm, ' said Lady Everingham. 

'Charles Verney has a great deal of dark hair, ' said Lady Theresa. 'Butthen he is anything but pale, and his eyes are blue. '

'And certainly he keeps his wonderful things for your ear, Theresa, ' saidher sister. 

'I wish that Mr. Coningsby would tell us some of the wonderful things hesaid, ' said the Duchess, smiling. 

'Take a glass of wine first with my mother, Coningsby, ' said Henry Sydney, who had just finished helping them all to fish. 

Coningsby had too much tact to be entrapped into a long story. He alreadyregretted that he had been betrayed into any allusion to the stranger. Hehad a wild, fanciful notion, that their meeting ought to have beenpreserved as a sacred secret. But he had been impelled to refer to it inthe first instance by the chance observation of Lady Everingham; and hehad pursued his remark from the hope that the conversation might have ledto the discovery of the unknown. When he found that his inquiry in thisrespect was unsuccessful, he was willing to turn the conversation. Inreply to the Duchess, then, he generally described the talk of thestranger as full of lively anecdote and epigrammatic views of life; andgave them, for example, a saying of an illustrious foreign Prince, whichwas quite new and pointed, and which Coningsby told well. This led to anew train of discourse. The Duke also knew this illustrious foreignPrince, and told another story of him; and Lord Everingham had playedwhist with this illustrious foreign Prince often at the Travellers', andthis led to a third story; none of them too long. Then Lady Everinghamcame in again, and sparkled agreeably. She, indeed, sustained throughoutdinner the principal weight of the conversation; but, as she askedquestions of everybody, all seemed to contribute. Even the voice of Mr. Lyle, who was rather bashful, was occasionally heard in reply. Coningsby, who had at first unintentionally taken a more leading part than he aspiredto, would have retired into the background for the rest of the dinner, butLady Everingham continually signalled him out for her questions, and asshe sat opposite to him, he seemed the person to whom they wereprincipally addressed. 

At length the ladies rose to retire. A very great personage in a foreign, but not remote country, once mentioned to the writer of these pages, thathe ascribed the superiority of the English in political life, in theirconduct of public business and practical views of affairs, in a greatmeasure to 'that little half-hour' that separates, after dinner, the darkfrom the fair sex. The writer humbly submitted, that if the period ofdisjunction were strictly limited to a 'little half-hour, ' its salutaryconsequences for both sexes need not be disputed, but that in England the'little half-hour' was too apt to swell into a term of far more awfulcharacter and duration. Lady Everingham was a disciple of the 'very littlehalf-hour' school; for, as she gaily followed her mother, she said toConingsby, whose gracious lot it was to usher them from the apartment:

'Pray do not be too long at the Board of Guardians to-day. '

These were prophetic words; for no sooner were they all again seated, thanthe Duke, filling his glass and pushing the claret to Coningsby, observed, 'I suppose Lord Monmouth does not trouble himself much about the New PoorLaw?'

'Hardly, ' said Coningsby. 'My grandfather's frequent absence from England, which his health, I believe, renders quite necessary, deprives him of theadvantage of personal observation on a subject, than which I can myselfconceive none more deeply interesting. '

'I am glad to hear you say so, ' said the Duke, 'and it does you greatcredit, and Henry too, whose attention, I observe, is directed very muchto these subjects. In my time, the young men did not think so much of suchthings, and we suffer consequently. By the bye, Everingham, you, who are aChairman of a Board of Guardians, can give me some information. Supposinga case of out-door relief--'

'I could not suppose anything so absurd, ' said the son-in-law. 

'Well, ' rejoined the Duke, 'I know your views on that subject, and itcertainly is a question on which there is a good deal to be said. Butwould you under any circumstances give relief out of the Union, even ifthe parish were to save a considerable sum?'

'I wish I knew the Union where such a system was followed, ' said LordEveringham; and his Grace seemed to tremble under his son-in-law's glance. 

The Duke had a good heart, and not a bad head. If he had not made in hisyouth so many Latin and English verses, he might have acquiredconsiderable information, for he had a natural love of letters, though hispack were the pride of England, his barrel seldom missed, and his fortuneon the turf, where he never betted, was a proverb. He was good, and hewished to do good; but his views were confused from want of knowledge, andhis conduct often inconsistent because a sense of duty made himimmediately active; and he often acquired in the consequent experience aconviction exactly contrary to that which had prompted his activity. 

His Grace had been a great patron and a zealous administrator of the NewPoor Law. He had been persuaded that it would elevate the condition of thelabouring class. His son-in-law, Lord Everingham, who was a Whig, and aclearheaded, cold-blooded man, looked upon the New Poor Law as anotherMagna Charta. Lord Everingham was completely master of the subject. He washimself the Chairman of one of the most considerable Unions of thekingdom. The Duke, if he ever had a misgiving, had no chance in argumentwith his son-in-law. Lord Everingham overwhelmed him with quotations fromCommissioners' rules and Sub-commissioners' reports, statistical tables, and references to dietaries. Sometimes with a strong case, the Dukestruggled to make a fight; but Lord Everingham, when he was at fault for areply, which was very rare, upbraided his father-in-law with the abuses ofthe old system, and frightened him with visions of rates exceedingrentals. 

Of late, however, a considerable change had taken place in the Duke'sfeelings on this great question. His son Henry entertained strong opinionsupon it, and had combated his father with all the fervour of a youngvotary. A victory over his Grace, indeed, was not very difficult. Hisnatural impulse would have enlisted him on the side, if not of oppositionto the new system, at least of critical suspicion of its spirit andprovisions. It was only the statistics and sharp acuteness of his son-in-law that had, indeed, ever kept him to his colours. Lord Henry would notlisten to statistics, dietary tables, Commissioners' rides, Sub-commissioners' reports. He went far higher than his father; far deeperthan his brother-in-law. He represented to the Duke that the order of thepeasantry was as ancient, legal, and recognised an order as the order ofthe nobility; that it had distinct rights and privileges, though forcenturies they had been invaded and violated, and permitted to fall intodesuetude. He impressed upon the Duke that the parochial constitution ofthis country was more important than its political constitution; that itwas more ancient, more universal in its influence; and that this parochialconstitution had already been shaken to its centre by the New Poor Law. Heassured his father that it would never be well for England until thisorder of the peasantry was restored to its pristine condition; not merelyin physical comfort, for that must vary according to the economicalcircumstances of the time, like that of every class; but to its conditionin all those moral attributes which make a recognised rank in a nation;and which, in a great degree, are independent of economics, manners, customs, ceremonies, rights, and privileges. 

'Henry thinks, ' said Lord Everingham, 'that the people are to be fed bydancing round a May-pole. '

'But will the people be more fed because they do not dance round a May-pole?' urged Lord Henry. 

'Obsolete customs!' said Lord Everingham. 

'And why should dancing round a May-pole be more obsolete than holding aChapter of the Garter?' asked Lord Henry. 

The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this a home thrust. 'I must say, 'said his Grace, 'that I for one deeply regret that our popular customshave been permitted to fall so into desuetude. '

'The Spirit of the Age is against such things, ' said Lord Everingham. 

'And what is the Spirit of the Age?' asked Coningsby. 

'The Spirit of Utility, ' said Lord Everingham. 

'And you think then that ceremony is not useful?' urged Coningsby, mildly. 

'It depends upon circumstances, ' said Lord Everingham. 'There are someceremonies, no doubt, that are very proper, and of course very useful. Butthe best thing we can do for the labouring classes is to provide them withwork. '

'But what do you mean by the labouring classes, Everingham?' asked LordHenry. 'Lawyers are a labouring class, for instance, and by the byesufficiently provided with work. But would you approve of Westminster Hallbeing denuded of all its ceremonies?'

'And the long vacation being abolished?' added Coningsby. 

'Theresa brings me terrible accounts of the sufferings of the poor aboutus, ' said the Duke, shaking his head. 

'Women think everything to be suffering!' said Lord Everingham. 

'How do you find them about you, Mr. Lyle?' continued the Duke. 

'I have revived the monastic customs at St. Genevieve, ' said the youngman, blushing. 'There is an almsgiving twice a-week. '

'I am sure I wish I could see the labouring classes happy, ' said the Duke. 

'Oh! pray do not use, my dear father, that phrase, the labouring classes!'said Lord Henry. 'What do you think, Coningsby, the other day we had ameeting in this neighbourhood to vote an agricultural petition that was tocomprise all classes. I went with my father, and I was made chairman ofthe committee to draw up the petition. Of course, I described it as thepetition of the nobility, clergy, gentry, yeomanry, and peasantry of thecounty of ----; and, could you believe it, they struck out _peasantry_ asa word no longer used, and inserted _labourers_. '

'What can it signify, ' said Lord Everingham, 'whether a man be called alabourer or a peasant?'

'And what can it signify, ' said his brother-in-law, 'whether a man becalled Mr. Howard or Lord Everingham?'

They were the most affectionate family under this roof of Beaumanoir, andof all members of it, Lord Henry the sweetest tempered, and yet it wasastonishing what sharp skirmishes every day arose between him and hisbrother-in-law, during that 'little half-hour' that forms so happily thepolitical character of the nation. The Duke, who from experience felt thata guerilla movement was impending, asked his guests whether they wouldtake any more claret; and on their signifying their dissent, moved anadjournment to the ladies. 

They joined the ladies in the music-room. Coningsby, not experienced infeminine society, and who found a little difficulty from want of practicein maintaining conversation, though he was desirous of succeeding, wasdelighted with Lady Everingham, who, instead of requiring to be amused, amused him; and suggested so many subjects, and glanced at so many topics, that there never was that cold, awkward pause, so common with sullenspirits and barren brains. Lady Everingham thoroughly understood the artof conversation, which, indeed, consists of the exercise of two finequalities. You must originate, and you must sympathise; you must possessat the same time the habit of communicating and the habit of listening. The union is rather rare, but irresistible. 

Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, but she was somethinginfinitely more delightful, a captivating woman. There were combined, inher, qualities not commonly met together, great vivacity of mind withgreat grace of manner. Her words sparkled and her movements charmed. Therewas, indeed, in all she said and did, that congruity that indicates acomplete and harmonious organisation. It was the same just proportionwhich characterised her form: a shape slight and undulating with grace;the most beautifully shaped ear; a small, soft hand; a foot that wouldhave fitted the glass slipper; and which, by the bye, she lost noopportunity of displaying; and she was right, for it was a model. 

Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang like a seraph: a rich voice, agrand style. And her sister could support her with grace and sweetness. And they did not sing too much. The Duke took up a review, and looked atRigby's last slashing article. The country seemed ruined, but it appearedthat the Whigs were still worse off than the Tories. The assassins hadcommitted suicide. This poetical justice is pleasing. Lord Everingham, lounging in an easy chair, perused with great satisfaction his _MorningChronicle_, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. Rigby's article, notquite so 'slashing' as the Right Honourable scribe's manifesto, but withsome searching mockery, that became the subject and the subject-monger. 

Mr. Lyle seated himself by the Duchess, and encouraged by her amenity, andspeaking in whispers, became animated and agreeable, occasionally pattingthe lap-dog. Coningsby stood by the singers, or talked with them when themusic had ceased: and Henry Sydney looked over a volume of Strutt's_Sports and Pastimes_, occasionally, without taking his eyes off thevolume, calling the attention of his friends to his discoveries. 

Mr. Lyle rose to depart, for he had some miles to return; he came forwardwith some hesitation, to hope that Coningsby would visit his bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had told him Coningsby had expressed a wish to do. LadyEveringham remarked that she had not been at St. Genevieve since she was agirl, and it appeared Lady Theresa had never visited it. Lady Everinghamproposed that they should all ride over on the morrow, and she appealed toher husband for his approbation, instantly given, for though she lovedadmiration, and he apparently was an iceberg, they were really devoted toeach other. Then there was a consultation as to their arrangements. TheDuchess would drive over in her pony chair with Theresa. The Duke, asusual, had affairs that would occupy him. The rest were to ride. It was ahappy suggestion, all anticipated pleasure; and the evening terminatedwith the prospect of what Lady Everingham called an adventure. 

The ladies themselves soon withdrew; the gentlemen lingered for a while;the Duke took up his candle, and bid his guests good night; LordEveringham drank a glass of Seltzer water, nodded, and vanished. LordHenry and his friend sat up talking over the past. They were too young tocall them old times; and yet what a life seemed to have elapsed since theyhad quitted Eton, dear old Eton! Their boyish feelings, and still latentboyish character, developed with their reminiscences. 

'Do you remember Bucknall? Which Bucknall? The eldest: I saw him the otherday at Nottingham; he is in the Rifles. Do you remember that day at SirlyHall, that Paulet had that row with Dickinson? Did you like Dickinson?Hum! Paulet was a good fellow. I tell you who was a good fellow, Paulet'slittle cousin. What! Augustus Le Grange? Oh! I liked Augustus Le Grange. Iwonder where Buckhurst is? I had a letter from him the other day. He hasgone with his uncle to Paris. We shall find him at Cambridge in October. Isuppose you know Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has he, though! I wonder whowill have our room at Cookesley's? Cookesley was a good fellow! Oh, capital! How well he behaved when there was that row about our going outwith the hounds? Do you remember Vere's face? It makes me laugh now when Ithink of it. I tell you who was a good fellow, Kangaroo Gray; I liked him. I don't know any fellow who sang a better song!'

'By the bye, ' said Coningsby, 'what sort of fellow is Eustace Lyle? Irather liked his look. '

'Oh! I will tell you all about him, ' said Lord Henry. 'He is a great allyof mine, and I think you will like him very much. It is a Roman Catholicfamily, about the oldest we have in the county, and the wealthiest. Yousee, Lyle's father was the most violent ultra Whig, and so were allEustace's guardians; but the moment he came of age, he announced that heshould not mix himself up with either of the parties in the county, andthat his tenantry might act exactly as they thought fit. My father thinks, of course, that Lyle is a Conservative, and that he only waits theoccasion to come forward; but he is quite wrong. I know Lyle well, and hespeaks to me without disguise. You see 'tis an old Cavalier family, andLyle has all the opinions and feelings of his race. He will not allyhimself with anti-monarchists, and democrats, and infidels, andsectarians; at the same time, why should he support a party who pretend tooppose these, but who never lose an opportunity of insulting his religion, and would deprive him, if possible, of the advantages of the veryinstitutions which his family assisted in establishing?'

'Why, indeed? I am glad to have made his acquaintance, ' said Coningsby. 'Is he clever?'

'I think so, ' said Lord Henry. 'He is the most shy fellow, especiallyamong women, that I ever knew, but he is very popular in the county. Hedoes an amazing deal of good, and is one of the best riders we have. Myfather says, the very best; bold, but so very certain. '

'He is older than we are?'

'My senior by a year: he is just of age. '

'Oh, ah! twenty-one. A year younger than Gaston de Foix when he wonRavenna, and four years younger than John of Austria when he won Lepanto, 'observed Coningsby, musingly. 'I vote we go to bed, old fellow!'

CHAPTER IV. 

In a valley, not far from the margin of a beautiful river, raised on alofty and artificial terrace at the base of a range of wooded heights, wasa pile of modern building in the finest style of Christian architecture. It was of great extent and richly decorated. Built of a white andglittering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles in the sunshine as itrose in strong relief against its verdant background. The winding valley, which was studded, but not too closely studded, with clumps of old trees, formed for a great extent on either side of the mansion a grassy demesne, which was called the Lower Park; but it was a region bearing the name ofthe Upper Park, that was the peculiar and most picturesque feature of thissplendid residence. The wooded heights that formed the valley were not, asthey appeared, a range of hills. Their crest was only the abrupttermination of a vast and enclosed tableland, abounding in all thequalities of the ancient chase: turf and trees, a wilderness of underwood, and a vast spread of gorse and fern. The deer, that abounded, lived herein a world as savage as themselves: trooping down in the evening to theriver. Some of them, indeed, were ever in sight of those who were in thevalley, and you might often observe various groups clustered on the greenheights above the mansion, the effect of which was most inspiriting andgraceful. Sometimes in the twilight, a solitary form, magnified by theillusive hour, might be seen standing on the brink of the steep, large andblack against the clear sky. 

We have endeavoured slightly to sketch St. Geneviève as it appeared to ourfriends from Beaumanoir, winding into the valley the day after Mr. Lylehad dined with them. The valley opened for about half-a-mile opposite themansion, which gave to the dwellers in it a view over an extensive andrichly-cultivated country. It was through this district that the partyfrom Beaumanoir had pursued their way. The first glance at the building, its striking situation, its beautiful form, its brilliant colour, itsgreat extent, a gathering as it seemed of galleries, halls, and chapels, mullioned windows, portals of clustered columns, and groups of airypinnacles and fretwork spires, called forth a general cry of wonder and ofpraise. 

The ride from Beaumanoir had been delightful; the breath of summer inevery breeze, the light of summer on every tree. The gay laugh of LadyEveringham rang frequently in the air; often were her sunny eyes directedto Coningsby, as she called his attention to some fair object or somepretty effect. She played the hostess of Nature, and introduced him to allthe beauties. 

Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered forward with greetings on a fatlittle fawn-coloured pony, with a long white mane and white flowing tail, and the wickedest eye in the world. He rode by the side of the Duchess, and indicated their gently-descending route. 

They arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning themselves on theturrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them. 

'I can remember the old house, ' said the Duchess, as she took Mr. Lyle'sarm; 'and I am happy to see the new one. The Duke had prepared me for muchbeauty, but the reality exceeds his report. '

They entered by a short corridor into a large hall. They would havestopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but their hostsuggested that they should refresh themselves after their ride, and theyfollowed him through several apartments into a spacious chamber, its oakenpanels covered with a series of interesting pictures, representing thesiege of St. Geneviève by the Parliament forces in 1643: the variousassaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of the rebels. In allthese figured a brave and graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and buffjerkin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. The sight of these pictureswas ever a source of great excitement to Henry Sydney, who always lamentedhis ill-luck in not living in such days; nay, would insist that all othersmust equally deplore their evil destiny. 

'See, Coningsby, this battery on the Upper Park, ' said Lord Henry. 'Thisdid the business: how it rakes up the valley; Sir Eustace works ithimself. Mother, what a pity Beaumanoir was not besieged!'

'It may be, ' said Coningsby. 

'I always fancy a siege must be so interesting, ' said Lady Everingham. 'Itmust be so exciting. '

'I hope the next siege may be at Beaumanoir, instead of St. Geneviève, 'said Lyle, laughing; 'as Henry Sydney has such a military predisposition. Duchess, you said the other day that you liked Malvoisie, and here issome. 

 'Now broach me a cask of Malvoisie, Bring pasty from the doe;'

said the Duchess. 'That has been my luncheon. '

'A poetic repast, ' said Lady Theresa. 

'Their breeds of sheep must have been very inferior in old days, ' saidLord Everingham, 'as they made such a noise about their venison. For mypart I consider it a thing as much gone by as tilts and tournaments. '

'I am sorry that they have gone by, ' said Lady Theresa. 

'Everything has gone by that is beautiful, ' said Lord Henry. 

'Life is much easier, ' said Lord Everingham. 

'Life easy!' said Lord Henry. 'Life appears to me to be a fiercestruggle. '

'Manners are easy, ' said Coningsby, 'and life is hard. '

'And I wish to see things exactly the reverse, ' said Lord Henry. 'Themeans and modes of subsistence less difficult; the conduct of life moreceremonious. '

'Civilisation has no time for ceremony, ' said Lord Everingham. 

'How very sententious you all are!' said his wife. 'I want to see the halland many other things. ' And they all rose. 

There were indeed many other things to see: a long gallery, rich inancestral portraits, specimens of art and costume from Holbein toLawrence; courtiers of the Tudors, and cavaliers of the Stuarts, terminating in red-coated squires fresh from the field, and gentlemenbuttoned up in black coats, and sitting in library chairs, with theirbacks to a crimson curtain. Woman, however, is always charming; and thepresent generation may view their mothers painted by Lawrence, as if theywere patronesses of Almack's; or their grandmothers by Reynolds, asRobinettas caressing birds, with as much delight as they gaze on the dewy-eyed matrons of Lely, and the proud bearing of the heroines of Vandyke. But what interested them more than the gallery, or the rich saloons, oreven the baronial hall, was the chapel, in which art had exhausted all itsinvention, and wealth offered all its resources. The walls and vaultedroofs entirely painted in encaustic by the first artists of Germany, andrepresenting the principal events of the second Testament, the splendourof the mosaic pavement, the richness of the painted windows, thesumptuousness of the altar, crowned by a masterpiece of Carlo Dolce andsurrounded by a silver rail, the tone of rich and solemn light thatpervaded all, and blended all the various sources of beauty into oneabsorbing and harmonious whole: all combined to produce an effect whichstilled them into a silence that lasted for some minutes, until the ladiesbreathed their feelings in an almost inarticulate murmur of reverence andadmiration; while a tear stole to the eye of the enthusiastic HenrySydney. 

Leaving the chapel, they sauntered through the gardens, until, arriving attheir limit, they were met by the prettiest sight in the world; a group oflittle pony chairs, each drawn by a little fat fawn-coloured pony, likethe one that Mr. Lyle had been riding. Lord Henry drove his mother; LordEveringham, Lady Theresa; Lady Everingham was attended by Coningsby. Theirhost cantered by the Duchess's side, and along winding roads of easyascent, leading through beautiful woods, and offering charming landscapes, they reached in due time the Upper Park. 

'One sees our host to great advantage in his own house, ' said LadyEveringham. 'He is scarcely the same person. I have not observed him onceblush. He speaks and moves with ease. It is a pity that he is not moregraceful. Above all things I like a graceful man. '

'That chapel, ' said Coningsby, 'was a fine thing. '

'Very!' said Lady Everingham. 'Did you observe the picture over the altar, the Virgin with blue eyes? I never observed blue eyes before in such apicture. What is your favourite colour for eyes?'

Coningsby felt embarrassed: he said something rather pointless aboutadmiring everything that was beautiful. 

'But every one has a favourite style; I want to know yours. Regularfeatures, do you like regular features? Or is it expression that pleasesyou?'

'Expression; I think I like expression. Expression must be alwaysdelightful. '

'Do you dance?'

'No; I am no great dancer. I fear I have few accomplishments. I am fond offencing. '

'I don't fence, ' said Lady Everingham, with a smile. 'But I think you areright not to dance. It is not in your way. You are ambitious, I believe?'she added. 

'I was not aware of it; everybody is ambitious. '

'You see I know something of your character. Henry has spoken of you to mea great deal; long before we met, --met again, I should say, for we are oldfriends, remember. Do you know your career much interests me? I likeambitious men. '

There is something fascinating in the first idea that your careerinterests a charming woman. Coningsby felt that he was perhaps driving aMadame de Longueville. A woman who likes ambitious men must be no ordinarycharacter; clearly a sort of heroine. At this moment they reached theUpper Park, and the novel landscape changed the current of their remarks. 

Far as the eye could reach there spread before them a savage sylvan scene. It wanted, perhaps, undulation of surface, but that deficiency was greatlycompensated for by the multitude and prodigious size of the trees; theywere the largest, indeed, that could well be met with in England; andthere is no part of Europe where the timber is so huge. The broadinterminable glades, the vast avenues, the quantity of deer browsing orbounding in all directions, the thickets of yellow gorse and green fern, and the breeze that even in the stillness of summer was ever playing overthis table-land, all produced an animated and renovating scene. It waslike suddenly visiting another country, living among other manners, andbreathing another air. They stopped for a few minutes at a pavilion builtfor the purposes of the chase, and then returned, all gratified by thisvisit to what appeared to be the higher regions of the earth. 

As they approached the brow of the hill that hung over St. Geneviève, theyheard the great bell sound. 

'What is that?' asked the Duchess. 

'It is almsgiving day, ' replied Mr. Lyle, looking a little embarrassed, and for the first time blushing. 'The people of the parishes with which Iam connected come to St. Geneviève twice a-week at this hour. '

'And what is your system?' inquired Lord Everingham, who had stopped, interested by the scene. 'What check have you?'

'The rectors of the different parishes grant certificates to those who intheir belief merit bounty according to the rules which I have established. These are again visited by my almoner, who countersigns the certificate, and then they present it at the postern-gate. The certificate explains thenature of their necessities, and my steward acts on his discretion. 

'Mamma, I see them!' exclaimed Lady Theresa. 

'Perhaps your Grace may think that they might be relieved without all thisceremony, ' said Mr. Lyle, extremely confused. 'But I agree with Henry andMr. Coningsby, that Ceremony is not, as too commonly supposed, an idleform. I wish the people constantly and visibly to comprehend that Propertyis their protector and their friend. '

'My reason is with you, Mr. Lyle, ' said the Duchess, 'as well as myheart. '

They came along the valley, a procession of Nature, whose groups an artistmight have studied. The old man, who loved the pilgrimage too much toavail himself of the privilege of a substitute accorded to his grey hairs, came in person with his grandchild and his staff. There also came thewidow with her child at the breast, and others clinging to her form; somesorrowful faces, and some pale; many a serious one, and now and then afrolic glance; many a dame in her red cloak, and many a maiden with herlight basket; curly-headed urchins with demure looks, and sometimes astalwart form baffled for a time of the labour which he desired. But not aheart there that did not bless the bell that sounded from the tower of St. Geneviève!

CHAPTER V. 

'My fathers perilled their blood and fortunes for the cause of theSovereignty and Church of England, ' said Lyle to Coningsby, as they werelying stretched out on the sunny turf in the park of Beaumanoir, ' and Iinherit their passionate convictions. They were Catholics, as theirdescendant. No doubt they would have been glad to see their ancient faithpredominant in their ancient land; but they bowed, as I bow, to an adverseand apparently irrevocable decree. But if we could not have the Church ofour fathers, we honoured and respected the Church of their children. Itwas at least a Church; a 'Catholic and Apostolic Church, ' as it dailydeclares itself. Besides, it was our friend. When we were persecuted byPuritanic Parliaments, it was the Sovereign and the Church of England thatinterposed, with the certainty of creating against themselves odium andmistrust, to shield us from the dark and relentless bigotry of Calvinism. '

'I believe, ' said Coningsby, 'that if Charles I. Had hanged all theCatholic priests that Parliament petitioned him to execute, he would neverhave lost his crown. '

'You were mentioning my father, ' continued Lyle. 'He certainly was a Whig. Galled by political exclusion, he connected himself with that party in theState which began to intimate emancipation. After all, they did notemancipate us. It was the fall of the Papacy in England that founded theWhig aristocracy; a fact that must always lie at the bottom of theirhearts, as, I assure you, it does of mine. 

'I gathered at an early age, ' continued Lyle, 'that I was expected toinherit my father's political connections with the family estates. Underordinary circumstances this would probably have occurred. In times thatdid not force one to ponder, it is not likely I should have recoiled fromuniting myself with a party formed of the best families in England, andever famous for accomplished men and charming women. But I enter life inthe midst of a convulsion in which the very principles of our politicaland social systems are called in question. I cannot unite myself with theparty of destruction. It is an operative cause alien to my being. What, then, offers itself? The Duke talks to me of Conservative principles; buthe does not inform me what they are. I observe indeed a party in the Statewhose rule it is to consent to no change, until it is clamorously calledfor, and then instantly to yield; but those are Concessionary, notConservative principles. This party treats institutions as we do ourpheasants, they preserve only to destroy them. But is there a statesmanamong these Conservatives who offers us a dogma for a guide, or definesany great political truth which we should aspire to establish? It seems tome a, barren thing, this Conservatism, an unhappy cross-breed; the mule ofpolitics that engenders nothing. What do you think of all this, Coningsby?I assure you I feel confused, perplexed, harassed. I know I have publicduties to perform; I am, in fact, every day of my life solicited by allparties to throw the weight of my influence in one scale or another; but Iam paralysed. I often wish I had no position in the country. The sense ofits responsibility depresses me; makes me miserable. I speak to youwithout reserve; with a frankness which our short acquaintance scarcelyauthorises; but Henry Sydney has so often talked to me of you, and I haveso long wished to know you, that I open my heart without restraint. '

'My dear fellow, ' said Coningsby, 'you have but described my feelings whenyou depicted your own. My mind on these subjects has long been a chaos. Ifloat in a sea of troubles, and should long ago have been wrecked had Inot been sustained by a profound, however vague, conviction, that thereare still great truths, if we could but work them out; that Government, for instance, should be loved and not hated, and that Religion should be afaith and not a form. '

The moral influence of residence furnishes some of the most interestingtraits of our national manners. The presence of this power was veryapparent throughout the district that surrounded Beaumanoir. The ladies ofthat house were deeply sensible of the responsibility of their position;thoroughly comprehending their duties, they fulfilled them withoutaffectation, with earnestness, and with that effect which springs from aknowledge of the subject. The consequences were visible in the tone of thepeasantry being superior to that which we too often witness. The ancientfeudal feeling that lingers in these sequestered haunts is an instrumentwhich, when skilfully wielded, may be productive of vast social benefit. The Duke understood this well; and his family had imbibed all his views, and seconded them. Lady Everingham, once more in the scene of her pastlife, resumed the exercise of gentle offices, as if she had never ceasedto be a daughter of the house, and as if another domain had not its claimsupon her solicitude. Coningsby was often the companion of herself and hersister in their pilgrimages of charity and kindness. He admired thegraceful energy, and thorough acquaintance with details, with which LadyEveringham superintended schools, organised societies of relief, and thediscrimination which she brought to bear upon individual cases ofsuffering or misfortune. He was deeply interested as he watched the magicof her manner, as she melted the obdurate, inspired the slothful, consoledthe afflicted, and animated with her smiles and ready phrase the energeticand the dutiful. Nor on these occasions was Lady Theresa seen under lessfavourable auspices. Without the vivacity of her sister, there was in herdemeanour a sweet seriousness of purpose that was most winning; andsometimes a burst of energy, a trait of decision, which strikinglycontrasted with the somewhat over-controlled character of her life indrawing-rooms. 

In the society of these engaging companions, time for Coningsby glidedaway in a course which he sometimes wished nothing might disturb. Apartfrom them, he frequently felt himself pensive and vaguely disquieted. Eventhe society of Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, much as under ordinarycircumstances they would have been adapted to his mood, did not compensatefor the absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, yet sweetexcitement, which he felt, he knew not exactly how or why, stealing overhis senses. Sometimes the countenance of Theresa Sydney flitted over hismusing vision; sometimes the merry voice of Lady Everingham haunted hisear. But to be their companion in ride or ramble; to avoid any arrangementwhich for many hours should deprive him of their presence; was every daywith Coningsby a principal object. 

One day he had been out shooting rabbits with Lyle and Henry Sydney, andreturned with them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. He had not enjoyed hissport, and he had not shot at all well. He had been dreamy, silent, haddeeply felt the want of Lady Everingham's conversation, that was ever sopoignant and so interestingly personal to himself; one of the secrets ofher sway, though Coningsby was not then quite conscious of it. Talk to aman about himself, and he is generally captivated. That is the real way towin him. The only difference between men and women in this respect is, that most women are vain, and some men are not. There are some men whohave no self-love; but if they have, female vanity is but a trifling andairy passion compared with the vast voracity of appetite which in thesterner sex can swallow anything, and always crave for more. 

When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, there seemed a somewhat unusualbustle in the room, but as the twilight had descended, it was at firstrather difficult to distinguish who was present. He soon perceived thatthere were strangers. A gentleman of pleasing appearance was near a sofaon which the Duchess and Lady Everingham were seated, and discoursing withsome volubility. His phrases seemed to command attention; his audience hadan animated glance, eyes sparkling with intelligence and interest; not aword was disregarded. Coningsby did not advance as was his custom; he hada sort of instinct, that the stranger was discoursing of matters of whichhe knew nothing. He turned to a table, he took up a book, which he beganto read upside downwards. A hand was lightly placed on his shoulder. Helooked round, it was another stranger; who said, however, in a tone offamiliar friendliness, 'How do you do, Coningsby?'

It was a young man about four-and-twenty years of age, tall, good-looking. Old recollections, his intimate greeting, a strong family likeness, helpedConingsby to conjecture correctly who was the person who addressed him. Itwas, indeed, the eldest son of the Duke, the Marquis of Beaumanoir, whohad arrived at his father's unexpectedly with his friend, Mr. Melton, ontheir way to the north. 

Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest fashion, and a great favouritein society. He was about thirty, good-looking, with an air that commandedattention, and manners, though facile, sufficiently finished. He wascommunicative, though calm, and without being witty, had at his service aturn of phrase, acquired by practice and success, which was, or whichalways seemed to be, poignant. The ladies seemed especially to bedelighted at his arrival. He knew everything of everybody they caredabout; and Coningsby listened in silence to names which for the first timereached his ears, but which seemed to excite great interest. Mr. Meltonfrequently addressed his most lively observations and his most sparklinganecdotes to Lady Everingham, who evidently relished all that he said, andreturned him in kind. 

Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton maintained whatappeared a most entertaining conversation, principally about things andpersons which did not in any way interest our hero; who, however, had thesatisfaction of hearing Lady Everingham, in the drawing-room, say in acareless tone to the Duchess. 

'I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted some amusement. '

What a confession! What a revelation to Coningsby of his infiniteinsignificance! Coningsby entertained a great aversion for Mr. Melton, butfelt his spirit unequal to the social contest. The genius of theuntutored, inexperienced youth quailed before that of the long-practised, skilful man of the world. What was the magic of this man? What was thesecret of this ease, that nothing could disturb, and yet was not deficientin deference and good taste? And then his dress, it seemed fashioned bysome unearthly artist; yet it was impossible to detect the unobtrusivecauses of the general effect that was irresistible. Coningsby's coat wasmade by Stultz; almost every fellow in the sixth form had his coats madeby Stultz; yet Coningsby fancied that his own garment looked as if it hadbeen furnished by some rustic slopseller. He began to wonder where Mr. Melton got his boots from, and glanced at his own, which, though made inSt. James's Street, seemed to him to have a cloddish air. 

Lady Everingham was determined that Mr. Melton should see Beaumanoir tothe greatest advantage. Mr. Melton had never been there before, except atChristmas, with the house full of visitors and factitious gaiety. Now hewas to see the country. Accordingly, there were long rides every day, which Lady Everingham called expeditions, and which generally producedsome slight incident which she styled an adventure. She was kind toConingsby, but had no time to indulge in the lengthened conversationswhich he had previously found so magical. Mr. Melton was always on thescene, the monopolising hero, it would seem, of every thought, and phrase, and plan. Coningsby began to think that Beaumanoir was not so delightful aplace as he had imagined. He began to think that he had stayed thereperhaps too long. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby, to inform himthat he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of September, tomeet Lord Monmouth, who had returned to England, and for grave and specialreasons was about to reside at his chief seat, which he had not visitedfor many years. Coningsby had intended to have remained at Beaumanoiruntil that time; but suddenly it occurred to him, that the Age of Ruinswas past, and that he ought to seize the opportunity of visitingManchester, which was in the same county as the castle of his grandfather. So difficult is it to speculate upon events! Muse as we may, we are thecreatures of circumstances; and the unexpected arrival of a London dandyat the country-seat of an English nobleman sent this representative of theNew Generation, fresh from Eton, nursed in prejudices, yet with a mindpredisposed to inquiry and prone to meditation, to a scene apt tostimulate both intellectual processes; which demanded investigation andinduced thought, the great METROPOLIS OF LABOUR. 

END OF BOOK III. 

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I. 

A great city, whose image dwells in the memory of man, is the type of somegreat idea. Rome represents conquest; Faith hovers over the towers ofJerusalem; and Athens embodies the pre-eminent quality of the antiqueworld, Art. 

In modern ages, Commerce has created London; while Manners, in the mostcomprehensive sense of the word, have long found a supreme capital in theairy and bright-minded city of the Seine. 

What Art was to the ancient world, Science is to the modern: thedistinctive faculty. In the minds of men the useful has succeeded to thebeautiful. Instead of the city of the Violet Crown, a Lancashire villagehas expanded into a mighty region of factories and warehouses. Yet, rightly understood, Manchester is as great a human exploit as Athens. 

The inhabitants, indeed, are not so impressed with their idiosyncrasy asthe countrymen of Pericles and Phidias. They do not fully comprehend theposition which they occupy. It is the philosopher alone who can conceivethe grandeur of Manchester, and the immensity of its future. There are yetgreat truths to tell, if we had either the courage to announce or thetemper to receive them. 

CHAPTER II. 

A feeling of melancholy, even of uneasiness, attends our first entranceinto a great town, especially at night. Is it that the sense of all thisvast existence with which we have no connexion, where we are utterlyunknown, oppresses us with our insignificance? Is it that it is terribleto feel friendless where all have friends?

Yet reverse the picture. Behold a community where you are unknown, butwhere you will be known, perhaps honoured. A place where you have nofriends, but where, also, you have no enemies. A spot that has hithertobeen a blank in your thoughts, as you have been a cipher in itssensations, and yet a spot, perhaps, pregnant with your destiny!

There is, perhaps, no act of memory so profoundly interesting as to recallthe careless mood and moment in which we have entered a town, a house, achamber, on the eve of an acquaintance or an event that has given colourand an impulse to our future life. 

What is this Fatality that men worship? Is it a Goddess?

Unquestionably it is a power that acts mainly by female agents. Women arethe Priestesses of Predestination. 

Man conceives Fortune, but Woman conducts it. 

It is the Spirit of Man that says, 'I will be great;' but it is theSympathy of Woman that usually makes him so. 

It was not the comely and courteous hostess of the Adelphi Hotel, Manchester, that gave occasion to these remarks, though she may deservethem, and though she was most kind to our Coningsby as he came in late atnight very tired, and not in very good humour. 

He had travelled the whole day through the great district of labour, hismind excited by strange sights, and at length wearied by theirmultiplication. He had passed over the plains where iron and coalsupersede turf and corn, dingy as the entrance of Hades, and flaming withfurnaces; and now he was among illumined factories with more windows thanItalian palaces, and smoking chimneys taller than Egyptian obelisks. Alonein the great metropolis of machinery itself, sitting down in a solitarycoffee-room glaring with gas, with no appetite, a whirling head, and not aplan or purpose for the morrow, why was he there? Because a being, whosename even was unknown to him, had met him in a hedge alehouse during athunderstorm, and told him that the Age of Ruins was past. 

Remarkable instance of the influence of an individual; some evidence ofthe extreme susceptibility of our hero. 

Even his bedroom was lit by gas. Wonderful city! That, however, could begot rid of. He opened the window. The summer air was sweet, even in thisland of smoke and toil. He feels a sensation such as in Lisbon or Limaprecedes an earthquake. The house appears to quiver. It is a sympatheticaffection occasioned by a steam-engine in a neighbouring factory. 

Notwithstanding, however, all these novel incidents, Coningsby slept thedeep sleep of youth and health, of a brain which, however occasionallyperplexed by thought, had never been harassed by anxiety. He rose early, freshened, and in fine spirits. And by the time the deviled chicken andthe buttered toast, that mysterious and incomparable luxury, which canonly be obtained at an inn, had disappeared, he felt all the delightfulexcitement of travel. 

And now for action! Not a letter had Coningsby; not an individual in thatvast city was known to him. He went to consult his kind hostess, whosmiled confidence. He was to mention her name at one place, his own atanother. All would be right; she seemed to have reliance in the destiny ofsuch a nice young man. 

He saw all; they were kind and hospitable to the young stranger, whosethought, and earnestness, and gentle manners attracted them. Onerecommended him to another; all tried to aid and assist him. He enteredchambers vaster than are told of in Arabian fable, and peopled withhabitants more wondrous than Afrite or Peri. For there he beheld, in long-continued ranks, those mysterious forms full of existence without life, that perform with facility, and in an instant, what man can fulfil onlywith difficulty and in days. A machine is a slave that neither brings norbears degradation; it is a being endowed with the greatest degree ofenergy, and acting under the greatest degree of excitement, yet free atthe same time from all passion and emotion. It is, therefore, not only aslave, but a supernatural slave. And why should one say that the machinedoes not live? It breathes, for its breath forms the atmosphere of sometowns. It moves with more regularity than man. And has it not a voice?Does not the spindle sing like a merry girl at her work, and the steam-engine roar in jolly chorus, like a strong artisan handling his lustytools, and gaining a fair day's wages for a fair day's toil?

Nor should the weaving-room be forgotten, where a thousand or fifteenhundred girls may be observed in their coral necklaces, working likePenelope in the daytime; some pretty, some pert, some graceful and jocund, some absorbed in their occupation; a little serious some, few sad. And thecotton you have observed in its rude state, that you have seen the silentspinner change into thread, and the bustling weaver convert into cloth, you may now watch as in a moment it is tinted with beautiful colours, orprinted with fanciful patterns. And yet the mystery of mysteries is toview machines making machines; a spectacle that fills the mind withcurious, and even awful, speculation. 

From early morn to the late twilight, our Coningsby for several daysdevoted himself to the comprehension of Manchester. It was to him a newworld, pregnant with new ideas, and suggestive of new trains of thoughtand feeling. In this unprecedented partnership between capital andscience, working on a spot which Nature had indicated as the fittingtheatre of their exploits, he beheld a great source of the wealth ofnations which had been reserved for these times, and he perceived thatthis wealth was rapidly developing classes whose power was imperfectlyrecognised in the constitutional scheme, and whose duties in the socialsystem seemed altogether omitted. Young as he was, the bent of his mind, and the inquisitive spirit of the times, had sufficiently prepared him, not indeed to grapple with these questions, but to be sensible of theirexistence, and to ponder. 

One evening, in the coffee-room of the hotel, having just finished hiswell-earned dinner, and relaxing his mind for the moment in a freshresearch into the Manchester Guide, an individual, who had also beendining in the same apartment, rose from his table, and, after lolling overthe empty fireplace, reading the framed announcements, looking at thedirections of several letters waiting there for their owners, picking histeeth, turned round to Coningsby, and, with an air of uneasy familiarity, said, --

'First visit to Manchester, sir?'

'My first. '

'Gentleman traveller, I presume?'

'I am a traveller. ' said Coningsby. 

'Hem! From south?'

'From the south. '

'And pray, sir, how did you find business as you came along? Brisk, I daresay. And yet there is a something, a sort of a something; didn't it strikeyou, sir, there was a something? A deal of queer paper about, sir!'

'I fear you are speaking on a subject of which I know nothing, ' saidConingsby, smiling;' I do not understand business at all; though I am notsurprised that, being at Manchester, you should suppose so. '

'Ah! not in business. Hem! Professional?'

'No, ' said Coningsby, 'I am nothing. '

'Ah! an independent gent; hem! and a very pleasant thing, too. Pleasedwith Manchester, I dare say?' continued the stranger. 

'And astonished, ' said Coningsby; 'I think, in the whole course of mylife, I never saw so much to admire. '

'Seen all the lions, have no doubt?'

'I think I have seen everything, ' said Coningsby, rather eager and withsome pride. 

'Very well, very well, ' exclaimed the stranger, in a patronising tone. 'Seen Mr. Birley's weaving-room, I dare say?'

'Oh! isn't it wonderful?' said Coningsby. 

'A great many people. ' said the stranger, with a rather supercilioussmile. 

'But after all, ' said Coningsby, with animation, 'it is the machinerywithout any interposition of manual power that overwhelms me. It haunts mein my dreams, ' continued Coningsby; 'I see cities peopled with machines. Certainly Manchester is the most wonderful city of modern times!'

The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm of his companion, and thenpicked his teeth. 

'Of all the remarkable things here, ' said Coningsby, 'what on the whole, sir, do you look upon as the most so?'

'In the way of machinery?' asked the stranger. 

'In the way of machinery. '

'Why, in the way of machinery, you know, ' said the stranger, very quietly, 'Manchester is a dead letter. '

'A dead letter!' said Coningsby. 

'Dead and buried, ' said the stranger, accompanying his words with thatpeculiar application of his thumb to his nose that signifies so eloquentlythat all is up. 

'You astonish me!' said Coningsby. 

'It's a booked place though, ' said the stranger, 'and no mistake. We haveall of us a very great respect for Manchester, of course; look upon her asa sort of mother, and all that sort of thing. But she is behind the times, sir, and that won't do in this age. The long and short of it is, Manchester is gone by. '

'I thought her only fault might be she was too much in advance of the restof the country, ' said Coningsby, innocently. 

'If you want to see life, ' said the stranger, 'go to Staleybridge orBolton. There's high pressure. '

'But the population of Manchester is increasing, ' said Coningsby. 

'Why, yes; not a doubt. You see we have all of us a great respect for thetown. It is a sort of metropolis of this district, and there is a gooddeal of capital in the place. And it has some firstrate institutions. There's the Manchester Bank. That's a noble institution, full ofcommercial enterprise; understands the age, sir; high-pressure to thebackbone. I came up to town to see the manager to-day. I am building a newmill now myself at Staleybridge, and mean to open it by January, and whenI do, I'll give you leave to pay another visit to Mr. Birley's weaving-room, with my compliments. '

'I am very sorry, ' said Coningsby, 'that I have only another day left; butpray tell me, what would you recommend me most to see within a reasonabledistance of Manchester?'

'My mill is not finished, ' said the stranger musingly, 'and though thereis still a great deal worth seeing at Staleybridge, still you had betterwait to see my new mill. And Bolton, let me see; Bolton, there is nothingat Bolton that can hold up its head for a moment against my new mill; butthen it is not finished. Well, well, let us see. What a pity this is notthe 1st of January, and then my new mill would be at work! I should liketo see Mr. Birley's face, or even Mr. Ashworth's, that day. And the OxfordRoad Works, where they are always making a little change, bit by bitreform, eh! not a very particular fine appetite, I suspect, for dinner, atthe Oxford Road Works, the day they hear of my new mill being at work. But you want to see something tip-top. Well, there's Millbank; that'sregular slap-up, quite a sight, regular lion; if I were you I would seeMillbank. '

'Millbank!' said Coningsby; 'what Millbank?'

'Millbank of Millbank, made the place, made it himself. About three milesfrom Bolton; train to-morrow morning at 7. 25, get a fly at the station, and you will be at Millbank by 8. 40. '

'Unfortunately I am engaged to-morrow morning, ' said Coningsby, 'and yet Iam most anxious, particularly anxious, to see Millbank. '

'Well, there's a late train, ' said the stranger, '3. 15; you will be thereby 4. 30. '

'I think I could manage that, ' said Coningsby. 

'Do, ' said the stranger; 'and if you ever find yourself at Staleybridge, Ishall be very happy to be of service. I must be off now. My train goes at9. 15. ' And he presented Coningsby with his card as he wished him goodnight. 

MR. G. O. A. HEAD, STALEYBRIDGE. 

CHAPTER III. 

In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to that district of factorieson which we have already touched, a clear and powerful stream flowsthrough a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, adorned, rather thanshadowed, by some old elm-trees, for they are too distant to serve exceptfor ornament, rises a vast deep red brick pile, which though formal andmonotonous in its general character, is not without a certain beauty ofproportion and an artist-like finish in its occasional masonry. The front, which is of great extent, and covered with many tiers of small windows, isflanked by two projecting wings in the same style, which form a largecourt, completed by a dwarf wall crowned with a light, and rather elegantrailing; in the centre, the principal entrance, a lofty portal of bold andbeautiful design, surmounted by a statue of Commerce. 

This building, not without a degree of dignity, is what is technically, and not very felicitously, called a mill; always translated by the Frenchin their accounts of our manufacturing riots, 'moulin;' and which reallywas the principal factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that youthwhom, we trust, our readers have not quite forgotten. 

At some little distance, and rather withdrawn from the principal stream, were two other smaller structures of the same style. About a quarter of amile further on, appeared a village of not inconsiderable size, andremarkable from the neatness and even picturesque character of itsarchitecture, and the gay gardens that surrounded it. On a sunny knoll inthe background rose a church, in the best style of Christian architecture, and near it was a clerical residence and a school-house of similar design. The village, too, could boast of another public building; an Institutewhere there were a library and a lecture-room; and a reading-hall, whichany one might frequent at certain hours, and under reasonable regulations. 

On the other side of the principal factory, but more remote, about half-a-mile up the valley, surrounded by beautiful meadows, and built on anagreeable and well-wooded elevation, was the mansion of the mill-owner;apparently a commodious and not inconsiderable dwelling-house, built inwhat is called a villa style, with a variety of gardens andconservatories. The atmosphere of this somewhat striking settlement wasnot disturbed and polluted by the dark vapour, which, to the shame ofManchester, still infests that great town, for Mr. Millbank, who likednothing so much as an invention, unless it were an experiment, took careto consume his own smoke. 

The sun was declining when Coningsby arrived at Millbank, and thegratification which he experienced on first beholding it, was not a littlediminished, when, on enquiring at the village, he was informed that thehour was past for seeing the works. Determined not to relinquish hispurpose without a struggle, he repaired to the principal mill, and enteredthe counting-house, which was situated in one of the wings of thebuilding. 

'Your pleasure, sir?' said one of three individuals sitting on high stoolsbehind a high desk. 

'I wish, if possible, to see the works. '

'Quite impossible, sir;' and the clerk, withdrawing his glance, continuedhis writing. 'No admission without an order, and no admission with anorder after two o'clock. '

'I am very unfortunate, ' said Coningsby. 

'Sorry for it, sir. Give me ledger K. X. , will you, Mr. Benson?'

'I think Mr. Millbank would grant me permission, ' said Coningsby. 

'Very likely, sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very muchengaged. ' He pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass doorspermitted Coningsby to observe several individuals in close converse. 

'Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?' inquired Coningsby. 

'Mr. Oswald is in Belgium, ' said the clerk. 

'Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend of his son'sat Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes very much to see hisworks?'

'Can't possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, sir; but, if you like to sitdown, you can wait and see him yourself. '

Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very impatient at theend of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching ofthe pens of the three silent clerks, irritated him. At length, voices wereheard, doors opened, and the clerk said, 'Mr. Millbank is coming, sir, 'but nobody came; voices became hushed, doors were shut; again nothing washeard, save the ticking of the clock and the scratching of the pen. 

At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth, Mr. Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair faceinclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel eye, the whitest teeth, and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and there slightly tinged with grey. It was a visage of energy and decision. 

He was about to pass through the counting-house with his companions, withwhom his affairs were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby, who hadrisen. 

'This gentleman wishes to see me?' he inquired of his clerk, who bowedassent. 

'I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I have finished with thesegentlemen. '

'The gentleman wishes to see the works, sir, ' said the clerk. 

'He can see the works at proper times, ' said Mr. Millbank, somewhatpettishly; 'tell him the regulations;' and he was about to go. 

'I beg your pardon, sir, ' said Coningsby, coming forward, and with an airof earnestness and grace that arrested the step of the manufacturer. 'I amaware of the regulations, but would beg to be permitted to infringe them. '

'It cannot be, sir, ' said Mr. Millbank, moving. 

'I thought, sir, being here only for a day, and as a friend of your son--'

Mr. Millbank stopped and said, 'Oh! a friend of Oswald's, eh? What, at Eton?'

'Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped perhaps to have found him here. '

'I am very much engaged, sir, at this moment, ' said Mr. Millbank; 'I amsorry I cannot pay you any personal attention, but my clerk will show youeverything. Mr. Benson, let this gentleman see everything;' and hewithdrew. 

'Be pleased to write your name here, sir, ' said Mr. Benson, opening abook, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his visit to Millbank:

 'HARRY CONINGSBY, Sept. 2, 1836. '

Coningsby beheld in this great factory the last and the most refinedinventions of mechanical genius. The building had been fitted up by acapitalist as anxious to raise a monument of the skill and power of hisorder, as to obtain a return for the great investment. 

'It is the glory of Lancashire!' exclaimed the enthusiastic Mr. Benson. 

The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom he evidently idolised, and hisgreat achievements, and Coningsby encouraged him. He detailed to Coningsbythe plans which Mr. Millbank had pursued, both for the moral and physicalwell-being of his people; how he had built churches, and schools, andinstitutes; houses and cottages on a new system of ventilation; how he hadallotted gardens; established singing classes. 

'Here is Mr. Millbank, ' continued the clerk, as he and Coningsby, quittingthe factory, re-entered the court. 

Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, and the moment that he observedthem, he quickened his pace. 

'Mr. Coningsby?' he said, when he reached them. His countenance was ratherdisturbed, and his voice a little trembled, and he looked on our friendwith a glance scrutinising and serious. Coningsby bowed. 

'I am sorry that you should have been received at this place with solittle ceremony, sir, ' said Mr. Millbank; 'but had your name beenmentioned, you would have found it cherished here. ' He nodded to theclerk, who disappeared. 

Coningsby began to talk about the wonders of the factory, but Mr. Millbankrecurred to other thoughts that were passing in his mind. He spoke of hisson: he expressed a kind reproach that Coningsby should have thought ofvisiting this part of the world without giving them some notice of hisintention, that he might have been their guest, that Oswald might havebeen there to receive him, that they might have made arrangements that heshould see everything, and in the best manner; in short, that they mightall have shown, however slightly, the deep sense of their obligations tohim. 

'My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental, ' saidConingsby. 'I am bound for the other division of the county, to pay avisit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth; but an irresistible desire cameover me during my journey to view this famous district of industry. It issome days since I ought to have found myself at Coningsby, and this is thereason why I am so pressed. '

A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name of LordMonmouth was mentioned, but he said nothing. Turning towards Coningsby, with an air of kindness:

'At least, ' said he, 'let not Oswald hear that you did not taste our salt. Pray dine with me to-day; there is yet an hour to dinner; and as you haveseen the factory, suppose we stroll together through the village. '

CHAPTER IV. 

The village clock struck five as Mr. Millbank and his guest entered thegardens of his mansion. Coningsby lingered a moment to admire the beautyand gay profusion of the flowers. 

'Your situation, ' said Coningsby, looking up the green and silent valley, 'is absolutely poetic. '

'I try sometimes to fancy, ' said Mr. Millbank, with a rather fierce smile, 'that I am in the New World. '

They entered the house; a capacious and classic hall, at the end astaircase in the Italian fashion. As they approached it, the sweetest andthe clearest voice exclaimed from above, 'Papa! papa!' and instantly ayoung girl came bounding down the stairs, but suddenly seeing a strangerwith her father she stopped upon the landing-place, and was evidently onthe point of as rapidly retreating as she had advanced, when Mr. Millbankwaved his hand to her and begged her to descend. She came down slowly; asshe approached them her father said, 'A friend you have often heard of, Edith: this is Mr. Coningsby. '

She started; blushed very much; and then, with a trembling and uncertaingait, advanced, put forth her hand with a wild unstudied grace, and saidin a tone of sensibility, 'How often have we all wished to see and tothank you!'

This daughter of his host was of tender years; apparently she couldscarcely have counted sixteen summers. She was delicate and fragile, butas she raised her still blushing visage to her father's guest, Coningsbyfelt that he had never beheld a countenance of such striking and suchpeculiar beauty. 

'My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith; a Saxon name, for she is thedaughter of a Saxon. '

But the beauty of the countenance was not the beauty of the Saxons. It wasa radiant face, one of those that seem to have been touched in theircradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained all their brilliancy andsuffused and mantling lustre. One marks sometimes such faces, diaphanouswith delicate splendour, in the southern regions of France. Her eye, too, was the rare eye of Aquitaine; soft and long, with lashes drooping overthe cheek, dark as her clustering ringlets. 

They entered the drawing-room. 

'Mr. Coningsby, ' said Millbank to his daughter, 'is in this part of theworld only for a few hours, or I am sure he would become our guest. Hehas, however, promised to stay with us now and dine. '

'If Miss Millbank will pardon this dress, ' said Coningsby, bowing anapology for his inevitable frock and boots; the maiden raised her eyes andbent her head. 

The hour of dinner was at hand. Millbank offered to show Coningsby to hisdressing-room. He was absent but a few minutes. When he returned he foundMiss Millbank alone. He came somewhat suddenly into the room. She wasplaying with her dog, but ceased the moment she observed Coningsby. 

Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady Everingham, flattered himselfthat he had advanced in small talk, and was not sorry that he had now anopportunity of proving his prowess, made some lively observations aboutpets and the breeds of lapdogs, but he was not fortunate in extracting aresponse or exciting a repartee. He began then on the beauty of Millbank, which he would on no account have avoided seeing, and inquired when shehad last heard of her brother. The young lady, apparently much distressed, was murmuring something about Antwerp, when the entrance of her fatherrelieved her from her embarrassment. 

Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his fair companion, who took it with her eyes fixed on the ground. 

'You are very fond, I see, of flowers, ' said Coningsby, as they movedalong; and the young lady said 'Yes. '

The dinner was plain, but perfect of its kind. The young hostess seemed toperform her office with a certain degree of desperate determination. Shelooked at a chicken and then at Coningsby, and murmured something which heunderstood. Sometimes she informed herself of his tastes or necessities inmore detail, by the medium of her father, whom she treated as a sort ofdragoman; in this way: 'Would not Mr. Coningsby, papa, take this or that, or do so and so?' Coningsby was always careful to reply in a directmanner, without the agency of the interpreter; but he did not advance. Even a petition for the great honour of taking a glass of sherry with heronly induced the beautiful face to bow. And yet when she had first seenhim, she had addressed him even with emotion. What could it be? He feltless confidence in his increased power of conversation. Why, TheresaSydney was scarcely a year older than Miss Millbank, and though she didnot certainly originate like Lady Everingham, he got on with her perfectlywell. 

Mr. Millbank did not seem to be conscious of his daughter's silence: atany rate, he attempted to compensate for it. He talked fluently and well;on all subjects his opinions seemed to be decided, and his language wasprecise. He was really interested in what Coningsby had seen, and what hehad felt; and this sympathy divested his manner of the disagreeable effectthat accompanies a tone inclined to be dictatorial. More than onceConingsby observed the silent daughter listening with extreme attention tothe conversation of himself and her father. 

The dessert was remarkable. Millbank was proud of his fruit. A blandexpression of self-complacency spread over his features as he surveyed hisgrapes, his peaches, his figs. 

'These grapes have gained a medal, ' he told Coningsby. 'Those too areprize peaches. I have not yet been so successful with my figs. Thesehowever promise, and perhaps this year I may be more fortunate. '

'What would your brother and myself have given for such a dessert atEton!' said Coningsby to Miss Millbank, wishing to say something, andsomething too that might interest her. 

She seemed infinitely distressed, and yet this time would speak. 

'Let me give you some, ' He caught by chance her glance immediatelywithdrawn; yet it was a glance not only of beauty, but of feeling andthought. She added, in a hushed and hurried tone, dividing very nervouslysome grapes, 'I hardly know whether Oswald will be most pleased or grievedwhen he hears that you have been here. '

'And why grieved?' said Coningsby. 

'That he should not have been here to welcome you, and that your stay isfor so brief a time. It seems so strange that after having talked of youfor years, we should see you only for hours. '

'I hope I may return, ' said Coningsby, 'and that Millbank may be here towelcome me; but I hope I may be permitted to return even if he be not. '

But there was no reply; and soon after, Mr. Millbank talking of theAmerican market, and Coningsby helping himself to a glass of claret, thedaughter of the Saxon, looking at her father, rose and left the room, sosuddenly and so quickly that Coningsby could scarcely gain the door. 

'Yes, ' said Millbank, filling his glass, and pursuing some previousobservations, 'all that we want in this country is to be masters of ourown industry; but Saxon industry and Norman manners never will agree; andsome day, Mr. Coningsby, you will find that out. '

'But what do you mean by Norman manners?' inquired Coningsby. 

'Did you ever hear of the Forest of Rossendale?' said Millbank. 'If youwere staying here, you should visit the district. It is an area of twenty-four square miles. It was disforested in the early part of the sixteenthcentury, possessing at that time eighty inhabitants. Its rental in Jamesthe First's time was 120_l. _ When the woollen manufacture was introducedinto the north, the shuttle competed with the plough in Rossendale, andabout forty years ago we sent them the Jenny. The eighty souls are nowincreased to upwards of eighty thousand, and the rental of the forest, bythe last county assessment, amounts to more than 50, 000_l. _, 41, 000 percent, on the value in the reign of James I. Now I call that an instance ofSaxon industry competing successfully with Norman manners. '

'Exactly, ' said Coningsby, 'but those manners are gone. '

'From Rossendale, 'said Millbank, with a grim smile; 'but not fromEngland. '

'Where do you meet them?'

'Meet them! In every place, at every hour; and feel them, too, in everytransaction of life. '

'I know, sir, from your son, ' said Coningsby, inquiringly, 'that you areopposed to an aristocracy. '

'No, I am not. I am for an aristocracy; but a real one, a natural one. '

'But, sir, is not the aristocracy of England, ' said Coningsby, 'a realone? You do not confound our peerage, for example, with the degradedpatricians of the Continent. '

'Hum!' said Millbank. 'I do not understand how an aristocracy can exist, unless it be distinguished by some quality which no other class of thecommunity possesses. Distinction is the basis of aristocracy. If youpermit only one class of the population, for example, to bear arms, theyare an aristocracy; not one much to my taste; but still a great fact. That, however, is not the characteristic of the English peerage. I haveyet to learn they are richer than we are, better informed, wiser, or moredistinguished for public or private virtue. Is it not monstrous, then, that a small number of men, several of whom take the titles of Duke andEarl from towns in this very neighbourhood, towns which they never saw, which never heard of them, which they did not form, or build, orestablish, I say, is it not monstrous, that individuals so circumstanced, should be invested with the highest of conceivable privileges, theprivilege of making laws? Dukes and Earls indeed! I say there is nothingin a masquerade more ridiculous. '

'But do you not argue from an exception, sir?' said Coningsby. 'Thequestion is, whether a preponderance of the aristocratic principle in apolitical constitution be, as I believe, conducive to the stability andpermanent power of a State; and whether the peerage, as established inEngland, generally tends to that end? We must not forget in such anestimate the influence which, in this country, is exercised over opinionby ancient lineage. '

'Ancient lineage!' said Mr. Millbank; 'I never heard of a peer with anancient lineage. The real old families of this country are to be foundamong the peasantry; the gentry, too, may lay some claim to old blood. Ican point you out Saxon families in this county who can trace theirpedigrees beyond the Conquest; I know of some Norman gentlemen whosefathers undoubtedly came over with the Conqueror. But a peer with anancient lineage is to me quite a novelty. No, no; the thirty years of thewars of the Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I take it, after thebattle of Tewkesbury, a Norman baron was almost as rare a being in Englandas a wolf is now. '

'I have always understood, ' said Coningsby, 'that our peerage was thefinest in Europe. '

'From themselves, ' said Millbank, 'and the heralds they pay to paint theircarriages. But I go to facts. When Henry VII. Called his first Parliament, there were only twenty-nine temporal peers to be found, and even some ofthem took their seats illegally, for they had been attainted. Of thosetwenty-nine not five remain, and they, as the Howards for instance, arenot Norman nobility. We owe the English peerage to three sources: thespoliation of the Church; the open and flagrant sale of its honours by theelder Stuarts; and the boroughmongering of our own times. Those are thethree main sources of the existing peerage of England, and in my opiniondisgraceful ones. But I must apologise for my frankness in thus speakingto an aristocrat. '

'Oh, by no means, sir, I like discussion. Your son and myself at Eton havehad some encounters of this kind before. But if your view of the case becorrect, ' added Coningsby, smiling, 'you cannot at any rate accuse ourpresent peers of Norman manners. '

'Yes, I do: they adopted Norman manners while they usurped Norman titles. They have neither the right of the Normans, nor do they fulfil the duty ofthe Normans: they did not conquer the land, and they do not defend it. '

'And where will you find your natural aristocracy?' asked Coningsby. 

'Among those men whom a nation recognises as the most eminent for virtue, talents, and property, and, if you please, birth and standing in the land. They guide opinion; and, therefore, they govern. I am no leveller; I lookupon an artificial equality as equally pernicious with a factitiousaristocracy; both depressing the energies, and checking the enterprise ofa nation. I like man to be free, really free: free in his industry as wellas his body. What is the use of Habeas Corpus, if a man may not use hishands when he is out of prison?'

'But it appears to me you have, in a great measure, this naturalaristocracy in England. '

'Ah, to be sure! If we had not, where should we be? It is thecounteracting power that saves us, the disturbing cause in thecalculations of short-sighted selfishness. I say it now, and I have saidit a hundred times, the House of Commons is a more aristocratic body thanthe House of Lords. The fact is, a great peer would be a greater man nowin the House of Commons than in the House of Lords. Nobody wants a secondchamber, except a few disreputable individuals. It is a valuableinstitution for any member of it who has no distinction, neithercharacter, talents, nor estate. But a peer who possesses all or any ofthese great qualifications, would find himself an immeasurably moreimportant personage in what, by way of jest, they call the Lower House. '

'Is not the revising wisdom of a senate a salutary check on theprecipitation of a popular assembly?'

'Why should a popular assembly, elected by the flower of a nation, beprecipitate? If precipitate, what senate could stay an assembly so chosen?No, no, no! the thing has been tried over and over again; the idea ofrestraining the powerful by the weak is an absurdity; the question issettled. If we wanted a fresh illustration, we need only look to thepresent state of our own House of Lords. It originates nothing; it has, infact, announced itself as a mere Court of Registration of the decrees ofyour House of Commons; and if by any chance it ventures to alter somemiserable detail in a clause of a bill that excites public interest, whata clatter through the country, at Conservative banquets got up by therural attorneys, about the power, authority, and independence of the Houseof Lords; nine times nine, and one cheer more! No, sir, you may makearistocracies by laws; you can only maintain them by manners. The mannersof England preserve it from its laws. And they have substituted for ourformal aristocracy an essential aristocracy; the government of those whoare distinguished by their fellow-citizens. '

'But then it would appear, ' said Coningsby, 'that the remedial action ofour manners has removed all the political and social evils of which youcomplain?'

'They have created a power that may remove them; a power that has thecapacity to remove them. But in a great measure they still exist, and mustexist yet, I fear, for a long time. The growth of our civilisation hasever been as slow as our oaks; but this tardy development is preferable tothe temporary expansion of the gourd. '

'The future seems to me sometimes a dark cloud. '

'Not to me, ' said Mr. Millbank. 'I am sanguine; I am the Disciple ofProgress. But I have cause for my faith. I have witnessed advance. Myfather has often told me that in his early days the displeasure of a peerof England was like a sentence of death to a man. Why it was esteemed agreat concession to public opinion, so late as the reign of George II. , that Lord Ferrars should be executed for murder. The king of a newdynasty, who wished to be popular with the people, insisted on it, andeven then he was hanged with a silken cord. At any rate we may defendourselves now, ' continued Mr. Millbank, 'and, perhaps, do something more. I defy any peer to crush me, though there is one who would be very glad todo it. No more of that; I am very happy to see you at Millbank, very happyto make your acquaintance, ' he continued, with some emotion, 'and notmerely because you are my son's friend and more than friend. '

The walls of the dining-room were covered with pictures of great merit, all of the modern English school. Mr. Millbank understood no other, he waswont to say! and he found that many of his friends who did, bought a greatmany pleasing pictures that were copies, and many originals that were verydispleasing. He loved a fine free landscape by Lee, that gave him thebroad plains, the green lanes, and running streams of his own land; agroup of animals by Landseer, as full of speech and sentiment as if theywere designed by Aesop; above all, he delighted in the household humourand homely pathos of Wilkie. And if a higher tone of imagination pleasedhim, he could gratify it without difficulty among his favourite masters. He possessed some specimens of Etty worthy of Venice when it was alive; hecould muse amid the twilight ruins of ancient cities raised by the magicpencil of Danby, or accompany a group of fair Neapolitans to a festival bythe genial aid of Uwins. 

Opposite Coningsby was a portrait, which had greatly attracted hisattention during the whole dinner. It represented a woman, young and of arare beauty. The costume was of that classical character prevalent in thiscountry before the general peace; a blue ribbon bound together as a fillether clustering chestnut curls. The face was looking out of the canvas, andConingsby never raised his eyes without catching its glance of blendedvivacity and tenderness. 

There are moments when our sensibility is affected by circumstances of atrivial character. It seems a fantastic emotion, but the gaze of thispicture disturbed the serenity of Coningsby. He endeavoured sometimes toavoid looking at it, but it irresistibly attracted him. More than onceduring dinner he longed to inquire whom it represented; but it is adelicate subject to ask questions about portraits, and he refrained. Still, when he was rising to leave the room, the impulse was irresistible. He said to Mr. Millbank, 'By whom is that portrait, sir?'

The countenance of Millbank became disturbed; it was not an expression oftender reminiscence that fell upon his features. On the contrary, theexpression was agitated, almost angry. 

'Oh! that is by a country artist, ' he said, ' of whom you never heard, ' andmoved away. 

They found Miss Millbank in the drawing-room; she was sitting at a roundtable covered with working materials, apparently dressing a doll. 

'Nay, ' thought Coningsby, 'she must be too old for that. '

He addressed her, and seated himself by her side. There were several dollson the table, but he discovered, on examination, that they werepincushions; and elicited, with some difficulty, that they were making fora fancy fair about to be held in aid of that excellent institution, theManchester Athenaeum. Then the father came up and said, 'My child, let us have some tea;' and she rose and seated herself at thetea-table. Coningsby also quitted his seat, and surveyed the apartment. 

There were several musical instruments; among others, he observed aguitar; not such an instrument as one buys in a music shop, but such anone as tinkles at Seville, a genuine Spanish guitar. Coningsby repaired tothe tea-table. 

'I am glad that you are fond of music, Miss Millbank. '

A blush and a bow. 

'I hope after tea you will be so kind as to touch the guitar. '

Signals of great distress. 

'Were you ever at Birmingham?'

'Yes:' a sigh. 

'What a splendid music-hall! They should build one at Manchester. '

'They ought, ' in a whisper. 

The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was conversing with Mr. Millbank, whowas asking him questions about his son; what he thought of Oxford; what hethought of Oriel; should himself have preferred Cambridge; but hadconsulted a friend, an Oriel man, who had a great opinion of Oriel; andOswald's name had been entered some years back. He rather regretted itnow; but the thing was done. Coningsby, remembering the promise of theguitar, turned round to claim its fulfilment, but the singer had made herescape. Time elapsed, and no Miss Millbank reappeared. Coningsby looked athis watch; he had to go three miles to the train, which started, as hisfriend of the previous night would phrase it, at 9. 45. 

'I should be happy if you remained with us, ' said Mr. Millbank; 'but asyou say it is out of your power, in this age of punctual travelling a hostis bound to speed the parting guest. The carriage is ready for you. '

'Farewell, then, sir. You must make my adieux to Miss Millbank, and acceptmy thanks for your great kindness. '

'Farewell, Mr. Coningsby, ' said his host, taking his hand, which heretained for a moment, as if he would say more. Then leaving it, herepeated with a somewhat wandering air, and in a voice of emotion, 'Farewell, farewell, Mr. Coningsby. '

CHAPTER V. 

Towards the end of the session of 1836, the hopes of the Conservativeparty were again in the ascendant. The Tadpoles and the Tapers had infusedsuch enthusiasm into all the country attorneys, who, in their turn, had sobedeviled the registration, that it was whispered in the utmostconfidence, but as a flagrant truth, that Reaction was at length 'a greatfact. ' All that was required was the opportunity; but as the existingparliament was not two years old, and the government had an excellentworking majority, it seemed that the occasion could scarcely be furnished. Under these circumstances, the backstairs politicians, not content withhaving by their premature movements already seriously damaged the careerof their leader, to whom in public they pretended to be devoted, beganweaving again their old intrigues about the court, and not without effect. 

It was said that the royal ear lent itself with no marked repugnance tosuggestions which might rid the sovereign of ministers, who, after all, were the ministers not of his choice, but of his necessity. But WilliamIV. , after two failures in a similar attempt, after his respectiveembarrassing interviews with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne, on their returnto office in 1832 and 1835, was resolved never to make another move unlessit were a checkmate. The king, therefore, listened and smiled, and lovedto talk to his favourites of his private feelings and secret hopes; thefirst outraged, the second cherished; and a little of these revelations ofroyalty was distilled to great personages, who in their turn spokehypothetically to their hangers-on of royal dispositions, and possiblecontingencies, while the hangers-on and go-betweens, in their turn, lookedmore than they expressed; took county members by the button into a corner, and advised, as friends, the representatives of boroughs to look sharplyafter the next registration. 

Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than in adversity, and whosefavourite excitement was to aim at the impossible, had never been moreresolved on a Dukedom than when the Reform Act deprived him of the twelvevotes which he had accumulated to attain that object. While all hiscompanions in discomfiture were bewailing their irretrievable overthrow, Lord Monmouth became almost a convert to the measure, which had furnishedhis devising and daring mind, palled with prosperity, and satiated with alife of success, with an object, and the stimulating enjoyment of adifficulty. 

He had early resolved to appropriate to himself a division of the countyin which his chief seat was situate; but what most interested him, becauseit was most difficult, was the acquisition of one of the new boroughs thatwas in his vicinity, and in which he possessed considerable property. Theborough, however, was a manufacturing town, and returning only one member, it had hitherto sent up to Westminster a radical shopkeeper, one Mr. Jawster Sharp, who had taken what is called 'a leading part' in the townon every 'crisis' that had occurred since 1830; one of those zealouspatriots who had got up penny subscriptions for gold cups to Lord Grey;cries for the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill; and publicdinners where the victual was devoured before grace was said; a worthy whomakes speeches, passes resolutions, votes addresses, goes up withdeputations, has at all times the necessary quantity of confidence in thenecessary individual; confidence in Lord Grey; confidence in Lord Durham;confidence in Lord Melbourne: and can also, if necessary, give threecheers for the King, or three groans for the Queen. 

But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp were over in this borough as wellas in many others. He had contrived in his lustre of agitation to featherhis nest pretty successfully; by which he had lost public confidence andgained his private end. Three hungry Jawster Sharps, his hopeful sons, hadall become commissioners of one thing or another; temporary appointmentswith interminable duties; a low-church son-in-law found himselfcomfortably seated in a chancellor's living; and several cousins andnephews were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp himself was as pure asCato. He had always said he would never touch the public money, and he hadkept his word. It was an understood thing that Jawster Sharp was never toshow his face again on the hustings of Darlford; the Liberal party wasdetermined to be represented in future by a man of station, substance, character, a true Reformer, but one who wanted nothing for himself, andtherefore might, if needful, get something for them. They were looking outfor such a man, but were in no hurry. The seat was looked upon as a goodthing; a contest certainly, every place is contested now, but as certainlya large majority. Notwithstanding all this confidence, however, Reactionor Registration, or some other mystification, had produced effects even inthis creature of the Reform Bill, the good Borough of Darlford. Theborough that out of gratitude to Lord Grey returned a jobbing shopkeepertwice to Parliament as its representative without a contest, had now aConservative Association, with a banker for its chairman, and a brewer forits vice-president, and four sharp lawyers nibbing their pens, notingtheir memorandum-books, and assuring their neighbours, with a consolingand complacent air, that 'Property must tell in the long run. ' Whispersalso were about, that when the proper time arrived, a Conservativecandidate would certainly have the honour of addressing the electors. Noname mentioned, but it was not concealed that he was to be of no ordinarycalibre; a tried man, a distinguished individual, who had already foughtthe battle of the constitution, and served his country in eminent posts;honoured by the nation, favoured by his sovereign. These important andencouraging intimations were ably diffused in the columns of theConservative journal, and in a style which, from its high tone, evidentlyindicated no ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed, there appearedoccasionally in this paper, articles written with such unusual vigour, that the proprietors of the Liberal journal almost felt the necessity ofgetting some eminent hand down from town to compete with them. It wasimpossible that they could emanate from the rival Editor. They knew wellthe length of their brother's tether. Had they been more versant in theperiodical literature of the day, they might in this 'slashing' style havecaught perhaps a glimpse of the future candidate for their borough, theRight Honourable Nicholas Rigby. 

Lord Monmouth, though he had been absent from England since 1832, hadobtained from his vigilant correspondent a current knowledge of all thathad occurred in the interval: all the hopes, fears, plans, prospects, manoeuvres, and machinations; their rise and fall; how some had bloomed, others were blighted; not a shade of reaction that was not represented tohim; not the possibility of an adhesion that was not duly reported; hecould calculate at Naples at any time, within ten, the result of adissolution. The season of the year had prevented him crossing the Alps in1834, and after the general election he was too shrewd a practiser in thepolitical world to be deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord Eskdale, inwhose judgment he had more confidence than in that of any individual, hadtold him from the first that the pear was not ripe; Rigby, who alwayshedged against his interest by the fulfilment of his prophecy ofirremediable discomfiture, was never very sanguine. Indeed, the wholeaffair was always considered premature by the good judges; and a long timeelapsed before Tadpole and Taper recovered their secret influence, orresumed their ostentatious loquacity, or their silent insolence. 

The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord Eskdale wrote that after theforthcoming registration a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth had thesatisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at Naples into a cool thousandon the event. Soon after this he returned to England, and determined topay a visit to Coningsby Castle, feast the county, patronise the borough, diffuse that confidence in the party which his presence never failed todo; so great and so just was the reliance in his unerring powers ofcalculation and his intrepid pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule A, theprestige of his power had not sensibly diminished, for his essentialresources were vast, and his intellect always made the most of hisinfluence. 

True, however, to his organisation, Lord Monmouth, even to save his partyand gain his dukedom, must not be bored. He, therefore, filled his castlewith the most agreeable people from London, and even secured for theirdiversion a little troop of French comedians. Thus supported, he receivedhis neighbours with all the splendour befitting his immense wealth andgreat position, and with one charm which even immense wealth and greatposition cannot command, the most perfect manner in the world. Indeed, Lord Monmouth was one of the most finished gentlemen that ever lived; andas he was good-natured, and for a selfish man even good-humoured, therewas rarely a cloud of caprice or ill-temper to prevent his fine mannershaving their fair play. The country neighbours were all fascinated; theywere received with so much dignity and dismissed with so much grace. Nobody would believe a word of the stories against him. Had he lived allhis life at Coningsby, fulfilled every duty of a great English nobleman, benefited the county, loaded the inhabitants with favours, he would nothave been half so popular as he found himself within a fortnight of hisarrival with the worst county reputation conceivable, and every littlesquire vowing that he would not even leave his name at the Castle to showhis respect. 

Lord Monmouth, whose contempt for mankind was absolute; not a fluctuatingsentiment, not a mournful conviction, ebbing and flowing withcircumstances, but a fixed, profound, unalterable instinct; who neverloved any one, and never hated any one except his own children; wasdiverted by his popularity, but he was also gratified by it. At thismoment it was a great element of power; he was proud that, with a viciouscharacter, after having treated these people with unprecedented neglectand contumely, he should have won back their golden opinions in a momentby the magic of manner and the splendour of wealth. His experience provedthe soundness of his philosophy. 

Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, if necessary, he could squander itlike a caliph. He had even a respect for very rich men; it was his onlyweakness, the only exception to his general scorn for his species. Wit, power, particular friendships, general popularity, public opinion, beauty, genius, virtue, all these are to be purchased; but it does not follow thatyou can buy a rich man: you may not be able or willing to spare enough. Aperson or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became invested, in theeyes of Lord Monmouth, with a kind of halo amounting almost to sanctity. 

As the prey rose to the bait, Lord Monmouth resolved they should begorged. His banquets were doubled; a ball was announced; a public dayfixed; not only the county, but the principal inhabitants of theneighbouring borough, were encouraged to attend; Lord Monmouth wished it, if possible, to be without distinction of party. He had come to resideamong his old friends, to live and die where he was born. The Chairman ofthe Conservative Association and the Vice President exchanged glances, which would have become Tadpole and Taper; the four attorneys nibbed theirpens with increased energy, and vowed that nothing could withstand theinfluence of the aristocracy 'in the long run. ' All went and dined at theCastle; all returned home overpowered by the condescension of the host, the beauty of the ladies, several real Princesses, the splendour of hisliveries, the variety of his viands, and the flavour of his wines. It wasagreed that at future meetings of the Conservative Association, theyshould always give 'Lord Monmouth and the House of Lords!' superseding theDuke of Wellington, who was to figure in an after-toast with the Battle ofWaterloo. 

It was not without emotion that Coningsby beheld for the first time thecastle that bore his name. It was visible for several miles before he evenentered the park, so proud and prominent was its position, on the richly-wooded steep of a considerable eminence. It was a castellated building, immense and magnificent, in a faulty and incongruous style ofarchitecture, indeed, but compensating in some degree for thesedeficiencies of external taste and beauty by the splendour andaccommodation of its exterior, and which a Gothic castle, raised accordingto the strict rules of art, could scarcely have afforded. The decliningsun threw over the pile a rich colour as Coningsby approached it, and litup with fleeting and fanciful tints the delicate foliage of the rareshrubs and tall thin trees that clothed the acclivity on which it stood. Our young friend felt a little embarrassed when, without a servant and ina hack chaise, he drew up to the grand portal, and a crowd of retainerscame forth to receive him. A superior servant inquired his name with astately composure that disdained to be supercilious. It was not withoutsome degree of pride and satisfaction that the guest replied, 'Mr. Coningsby. ' The instantaneous effect was magical. It seemed to Coningsbythat he was borne on the shoulders of the people to his apartment; eachtried to carry some part of his luggage; and he only hoped his welcomefrom their superiors might be as hearty. 

CHAPTER VI. 

It appeared to Coningsby in his way to his room, that the Castle was in astate of great excitement; everywhere bustle, preparation, moving to andfro, ascending and descending of stairs, servants in every corner; ordersboundlessly given, rapidly obeyed; many desires, equal gratification. Allthis made him rather nervous. It was quite unlike Beaumanoir. That alsowas a palace, but it was a home. This, though it should be one to him, seemed to have nothing of that character. Of all mysteries the socialmysteries are the most appalling. Going to an assembly for the first timeis more alarming than the first battle. Coningsby had never before been ina great house full of company. It seemed an overwhelming affair. The sightof the servants bewildered him; how then was he to encounter theirmasters?

That, however, he must do in a moment. A groom of the chambers indicatesthe way to him, as he proceeds with a hesitating yet hurried step throughseveral ante-chambers and drawing-rooms; then doors are suddenly thrownopen, and he is ushered into the largest and most sumptuous saloon that hehad ever entered. It was full of ladies and gentlemen. Coningsby for thefirst time in his life was at a great party. His immediate emotion was tosink into the earth; but perceiving that no one even noticed him, and thatnot an eye had been attracted to his entrance, he regained his breath andin some degree his composure, and standing aside, endeavoured to makehimself, as well as he could, master of the land. 

Not a human being that he had ever seen before! The circumstance of notbeing noticed, which a few minutes since he had felt as a relief, becamenow a cause of annoyance. It seemed that he was the only person standingalone whom no one was addressing. He felt renewed and aggravatedembarrassment, and fancied, perhaps was conscious, that he was blushing. At length his ear caught the voice of Mr. Rigby. The speaker was notvisible; he was at a distance surrounded by a wondering group, whom he wasseverally and collectively contradicting, but Coningsby could not mistakethose harsh, arrogant tones. He was not sorry indeed that Mr. Rigby didnot observe him. Coningsby never loved him particularly, which was ratherungrateful, for he was a person who had been kind, and, on the whole, serviceable to him; but Coningsby writhed, especially as he grew older, under Mr. Rigby's patronising air and paternal tone. Even in old days, though attentive, Coningsby had never found him affectionate. Mr. Rigbywould tell him what to do and see, but never asked him what he wished todo and see. It seemed to Coningsby that it was always contrived that heshould appear the _protégé_, or poor relation, of a dependent of hisfamily. These feelings, which the thought of Mr. Rigby had revived, causedour young friend, by an inevitable association of ideas, to remember that, unknown and unnoticed as he might be, he was the only Coningsby in thatproud Castle, except the Lord of the Castle himself; and he began to berather ashamed of permitting a sense of his inexperience in the mere formsand fashions of society so to oppress him, and deprive him, as it were, ofthe spirit and carriage which became alike his character and his position. Emboldened and greatly restored to himself, Coningsby advanced into thebody of the saloon. 

On his legs, wearing his blue ribbon and bending his head frequently to alady who was seated on a sofa, and continually addressed him, Coningsbyrecognised his grandfather. Lord Monmouth was somewhat balder than fouryears ago, when he had come down to Montem, and a little more portlyperhaps; but otherwise unchanged. Lord Monmouth never condescended to theartifices of the toilet, and, indeed, notwithstanding his life of excess, had little need of them. Nature had done much for him, and the slowprogress of decay was carried off by his consummate bearing. He looked, indeed, the chieftain of a house of whom a cadet might be proud. 

For Coningsby, not only the chief of his house, but his host too. Ineither capacity he ought to address Lord Monmouth. To sit down to dinnerwithout having previously paid his respects to his grandfather, to whom hewas so much indebted, and whom he had not seen for so many years, struckhim not only as uncourtly, but as unkind and ungrateful, and, indeed, inthe highest degree absurd. But how was he to do it? Lord Monmouth seemeddeeply engaged, and apparently with some very great lady. And if Coningsbyadvanced and bowed, in all probability he would only get a bow in return. He remembered the bow of his first interview. It had made a lastingimpression on his mind. For it was more than likely Lord Monmouth wouldnot recognise him. Four years had not sensibly altered Lord Monmouth, butfour years had changed Harry Coningsby from a schoolboy into a man. Thenhow was he to make himself known to his grandfather? To announce himselfas Coningsby, as his Lordship's grandson, seemed somewhat ridiculous: toaddress his grandfather as Lord Monmouth would serve no purpose: to styleLord Monmouth 'grandfather' would make every one laugh, and seem stiff andunnatural. What was he to do? To fall into an attitude and exclaim, 'Behold your grandchild!' or, 'Have you forgotten your Harry?'

Even to catch Lord Monmouth's glance was not an easy affair; he was muchoccupied on one side by the great lady, on the other were severalgentlemen who occasionally joined in the conversation. But something mustbe done. 

There ran through Coningsby's character, as we have before mentioned, avein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It resulted, no doubt, in a great degree from the earnestness of his nature. There never was aboy so totally devoid of affectation, which was remarkable, for he had abrilliant imagination, a quality that, from its fantasies, and the vagueand indefinite desires it engenders, generally makes those whosecharacters are not formed, affected. The Duchess, who was a fine judge ofcharacter, and who greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this traitas one which, combined with his great abilities and acquirements sounusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. In the present instanceit happened that, while Coningsby was watching his grandfather, heobserved a gentleman advance, make his bow, say and receive a few wordsand retire. This little incident, however, made a momentary diversion inthe immediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and before they could all resumetheir former talk and fall into their previous positions, an impulse sentforth Coningsby, who walked up to Lord Monmouth, and standing before him, said, 'How do you do, grandpapa?'

Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive and penetratingglance took in every point with a flash. There stood before him one of thehandsomest youths he had ever seen, with a mien as graceful as hiscountenance was captivating; and his whole air breathing that freshnessand ingenuousness which none so much appreciates as the used man of theworld. And this was his child; the only one of his blood to whom he hadbeen kind. It would be exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth's heart wastouched; but his goodnature effervesced, and his fine taste was deeplygratified. He perceived in an instant such a relation might be a valuableadherent; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a brilliant toolto work out the Dukedom. All these impressions and ideas, and many more, passed through the quick brain of Lord Monmouth ere the sound ofConingsby's words had seemed to cease, and long before the surroundingguests had recovered from the surprise which they had occasioned them, andwhich did not diminish, when Lord Monmouth, advancing, placed his armsround Coningsby with a dignity of affection that would have become LouisXIV. , and then, in the high manner of the old Court, kissed him on eachcheek. 

'Welcome to your home, ' said Lord Monmouth. 'You have grown a great deal. '

Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great lady, who was aPrincess and an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm gracefully in thatof his grandson, he led him across the room, and presented him in due formto some royal blood that was his guest, in the shape of a Russian Grand-duke. His Imperial Highness received our hero as graciously as thegrandson of Lord Monmouth might expect; but no greeting can be imaginedwarmer than the one he received from the lady with whom the Grand-duke wasconversing. She was a dame whose beauty was mature, but still radiant. Herfigure was superb; her dark hair crowned with a tiara of curiousworkmanship. Her rounded arm was covered with costly bracelets, but not ajewel on her finely formed bust, and the least possible rouge on her stilloval cheek. Madame Colonna retained her charms. 

The party, though so considerable, principally consisted of the guests atthe Castle. The suite of the Grand-duke included several counts andgenerals; then there were the Russian Ambassador and his lady; and aRussian Prince and Princess, their relations. The Prince and PrincessColonna and the Princess Lucretia were also paying a visit to theMarquess; and the frequency of these visits made some straight-lacedmagnificoes mysteriously declare it was impossible to go to Coningsby; butas they were not asked, it did not much signify. The Marquess knew a greatmany very agreeable people of the highest _ton_, who took a more liberalview of human conduct, and always made it a rule to presume the bestmotives instead of imputing the worst. There was Lady St. Julians, forexample, whose position was of the highest; no one more sought; she madeit a rule to go everywhere and visit everybody, provided they had power, wealth, and fashion. She knew no crime except a woman not living with herhusband; that was past pardon. So long as his presence sanctioned herconduct, however shameless, it did not signify; but if the husband were abrute, neglected his wife first, and then deserted her; then, if a breathbut sullies her name she must be crushed; unless, indeed, her own familywere very powerful, which makes a difference, and sometimes softensimmorality into indiscretion. 

Lord and Lady Gaverstock were also there, who never said an unkind thingof anybody; her ladyship was pure as snow; but her mother having beendivorced, she ever fancied she was paying a kind of homage to her parent, by visiting those who might some day be in the same predicament. Therewere other lords and ladies of high degree; and some who, though neitherlords nor ladies, were charming people, which Lord Monmouth chiefly caredabout; troops of fine gentlemen who came and went; and some who wereneither fine nor gentlemen, but who were very amusing or very obliging, ascircumstances required, and made life easy and pleasant to others andthemselves. 

A new scene this for Coningsby, who watched with interest all that passedbefore him. The dinner was announced as served; an affectionate arm guideshim at a moment of some perplexity. 

'When did you arrive, Harry? We shall sit together. How is the Duchess?'inquired Mr. Rigby, who spoke as if he had seen Coningsby for the firsttime; but who indeed had, with that eye which nothing could escape, observed his reception by his grandfather, marked it well, and inwardlydigested it. 

CHAPTER VII. 

There was to be a first appearance on the stage of Lord Monmouth's theatreto-night, the expectation of which created considerable interest in theparty, and was one of the principal subjects of conversation at dinner. Villebecque, the manager of the troop, had married the actress Stella, once celebrated for her genius and her beauty; a woman who had none of thevices of her craft, for, though she was a fallen angel, there were whather countrymen style extenuating circumstances in her declension. With thewhole world at her feet, she had remained unsullied. Wealth and itsenjoyments could not tempt her, although she was unable to refuse herheart to one whom she deemed worthy of possessing it. She found her fatein an Englishman, who was the father of her only child, a daughter. Shethought she had met in him a hero, a demi-god, a being of deep passion andoriginal and creative mind; but he was only a voluptuary, full of violenceinstead of feeling, and eccentric, because he had great means with whichhe could gratify extravagant whims. Stella found she had made the greatand irretrievable mistake. She had exchanged devotion for a passionate andevanescent fancy, prompted at first by vanity, and daily dissipating underthe influence of custom and new objects. Though not stainless in conduct, Stella was pure in spirit. She required that devotion which she hadyielded; and she separated herself from the being to whom she had made themost precious sacrifice. He offered her the consoling compensation of asettlement, which she refused; and she returned with a broken spirit tothat profession of which she was still the ornament and the pride. 

The animating principle of her career was her daughter, whom she educatedwith a solicitude which the most virtuous mother could not surpass. Topreserve her from the stage, and to secure for her an independence, werethe objects of her mother's life; but nature whispered to her, that thedays of that life were already numbered. The exertions of her professionhad alarmingly developed an inherent tendency to pulmonary disease. Anxious that her child should not be left without some protector, Stellayielded to the repeated solicitations of one who from the first had beenher silent admirer, and she married Villebecque, a clever actor, and anenterprising man who meant to be something more. Their union was not oflong duration, though it was happy on the side of Villebecque, and sereneon that of his wife. Stella was recalled from this world, where she hadknown much triumph and more suffering; and where she had exercised manyvirtues, which elsewhere, though not here, may perhaps be accepted as somepalliation of one great error. 

Villebecque acted becomingly to the young charge which Stella hadbequeathed to him. He was himself, as we have intimated, a man ofenterprise, a restless spirit, not content to move for ever in the spherein which he was born. Vicissitudes are the lot of such aspirants. Villebecque became manager of a small theatre, and made money. IfVillebecque without a sou had been a schemer, Villebecque with a smallcapital was the very Chevalier Law of theatrical managers. He took alarger theatre, and even that succeeded. Soon he was recognised as thelessee of more than one, and still he prospered. Villebecque began todabble in opera-houses. He enthroned himself at Paris; his envoys wereheard of at Milan and Naples, at Berlin and St. Petersburg. Hiscontroversies with the Conservatoire at Paris ranked among state papers. Villebecque rolled in chariots and drove cabriolets; Villebecque gaverefined suppers to great nobles, who were honoured by the invitation;Villebecque wore a red ribbon in the button-hole of his frock, and morethan one cross in his gala dress. 

All this time the daughter of Stella increased in years and stature, andwe must add in goodness: a mild, soft-hearted girl, as yet with no decidedcharacter, but one who loved calmness and seemed little fitted for thecircle in which she found herself. In that circle, however, she everexperienced kindness and consideration. No enterprise however hazardous, no management however complicated, no schemes however vast, ever for amoment induced Villebecque to forget 'La Petite. ' If only for onebreathless instant, hardly a day elapsed but he saw her; she was hiscompanion in all his rapid movements, and he studied every comfort andconvenience that could relieve her delicate frame in some degree from theinconvenience and exhaustion of travel. He was proud to surround her withluxury and refinement; to supply her with the most celebrated masters; togratify every wish that she could express. 

But all this time Villebecque was dancing on a volcano. The catastrophewhich inevitably occurs in the career of all great speculators, andespecially theatrical ones, arrived to him. Flushed with his prosperity, and confident in his constant success, nothing would satisfy him butuniversal empire. He had established his despotism at Paris, his dynastiesat Naples and at Milan; but the North was not to him, and he wasdetermined to appropriate it. Berlin fell before a successful campaign, though a costly one; but St. Petersburg and London still remained. Resolute and reckless, nothing deterred Villebecque. One season all theopera-houses in Europe obeyed his nod, and at the end of it he was ruined. The crash was utter, universal, overwhelming; and under ordinarycircumstances a French bed and a brasier of charcoal alone remained forVillebecque, who was equal to the occasion. But the thought of La Petiteand the remembrance of his promise to Stella deterred him from the deed. He reviewed his position in a spirit becoming a practical philosopher. Washe worse off than before he commenced his career? Yes, because he wasolder; though to be sure he had his compensating reminiscences. But was hetoo old to do anything? At forty-five the game was not altogether up; andin a large theatre, not too much lighted, and with the artifices of adramatic toilet, he might still be able successfully to reassume thosecharacters of coxcombs and muscadins, in which he was once so celebrated. Luxury had perhaps a little too much enlarged his waist, but diet andrehearsals would set all right. 

Villebecque in their adversity broke to La Petite, that the time hadunfortunately arrived when it would be wise for her to consider the mosteffectual means for turning her talents and accomplishments to account. Hehimself suggested the stage, to which otherwise there were doubtlessobjections, because her occupation in any other pursuit would necessarilyseparate them; but he impartially placed before her the relativeadvantages and disadvantages of every course which seemed to lie open tothem, and left the preferable one to her own decision. La Petite, who hadwept very much over Villebecque's misfortunes, and often assured him thatshe cared for them only for his sake, decided for the stage, solelybecause it would secure their not being parted; and yet, as she oftenassured him, she feared she had no predisposition for the career. 

Villebecque had now not only to fill his own parts at the theatre at whichhe had obtained an engagement, but he had also to be the instructor of hisward. It was a life of toil; an addition of labour and effort that needscarcely have been made to the exciting exertion of performance, and thedull exercise of rehearsal; but he bore it all without a murmur; with aself-command and a gentle perseverance which the finest temper in theworld could hardly account for; certainly not when we remember that itspossessor, who had to make all these exertions and endure all thiswearisome toil, had just experienced the most shattering vicissitudes offortune, and been hurled from the possession of absolute power andillimitable self-gratification. 

Lord Eskdale, who was always doing kind things to actors and actresses, had a great regard for Villebecque, with whom he had often supped. He hadoften been kind, too, to La Petite. Lord Eskdale had a plan for puttingVillebecque, as he termed it, 'on his legs again. ' It was to establish himwith a French Company in London at some pretty theatre; Lord Eskdale totake a private box and to make all his friends do the same. Villebecque, who was as sanguine as he was good-tempered, was ravished by this friendlyscheme. He immediately believed that he should recover his great fortunesas rapidly as he had lost them. He foresaw in La Petite a genius asdistinguished as that of her mother, although as yet not developed, and hewas boundless in his expressions of gratitude to his patron. And indeed ofall friends, a friend in need is the most delightful. Lord Eskdale had thetalent of being a friend in need. Perhaps it was because he knew so manyworthless persons. But it often happens that worthless persons are merelypeople who are worth nothing. 

Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby of his intention to reside forsome months at Coningsby, and having mentioned that he wished a troop ofFrench comedians to be engaged for the summer, Mr. Rigby had immediatelyconsulted Lord Eskdale on the subject, as the best current authority. Thinking this a good opportunity of giving a turn to poor Villebecque, andthat it might serve as a capital introduction to their scheme of theLondon company, Lord Eskdale obtained for him the engagement. 

Villebecque and his little troop had now been a month at Coningsby, andhad hitherto performed three times a-week. Lord Monmouth was content; hisguests much gratified; the company, on the whole, much approved of. Itwas, indeed, considering its limited numbers, a capital company. There wasa young lady who played the old woman's parts, nothing could be moregarrulous and venerable; and a lady of maturer years who performed theheroines, gay and graceful as May. Villebecque himself was a celebrity incharacters of airy insolence and careless frolic. Their old man, indeed, was rather hard, but handy; could take anything either in the highserious, or the low droll. Their sentimental lover was rather too muchbewigged, and spoke too much to the audience, a fault rare with theFrench; but this hero had a vague idea that he was ultimately destined torun off with a princess. 

In this wise, affairs had gone on for a month; very well, but not toowell. The enterprising genius of Villebecque, once more a manager, prompted him to action. He felt an itching desire to announce a novelty. He fancied Lord Monmouth had yawned once or twice when the heroine cameon. Villebecque wanted to make a _coup. _ It was clear that La Petite mustsooner or later begin. Could she find a more favourable audience, or amore fitting occasion, than were now offered? True it was she had a greatrepugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed more to her advantage thatshe should make her first appearance at a private theatre than at a publicone; supported by all the encouraging patronage of Coningsby Castle, thansubjected to all the cynical criticism of the stalls of St. James'. 

These views and various considerations were urged and represented byVillebecque to La Petite, with all the practised powers of plausibility ofwhich so much experience as a manager had made him master. La Petitelooked infinitely distressed, but yielded, as she ever did. And the nightof Coningsby's arrival at the Castle was to witness in its private theatrethe first appearance of MADEMOISELLE FLORA. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they repaired to thetheatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Coningsby ahaughty, but not ungracious bow; which he returned, unconscious of theperson to whom he bent. She was, however, a striking person; notbeautiful, her face, indeed, at the first glance was almost repulsive, yetit ever attracted a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished her;her features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were her eyesfine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of no ordinarycharacter or capacity. Her figure was as fine and commanding as her facewas void of charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immortality, could havepresented nothing more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she swept alonglike a resistless Fate. 

Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet ofthe performance. It announced in striking characters the _début_ ofMademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, cameforward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to theGrand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy wasready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest werefollowing; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her beau. 

It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated here andthere; the painting just touched; a little gilding on a cornice. Therewere no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended, wascarpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with anew and rich curtain of green velvet. 

They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied byanother great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody evidentlycrosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the scene. In amoment the curtain will rise also. 

'Have you seen Lucretia?' said the Princess to Coningsby. 'She is soanxious to resume her acquaintance with you. '

But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose. 

The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward and maintained aconversation with his housekeeper; not bad. The young woman who played thegrave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite, and wasever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully furnished; atable with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a lap-dog on acushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially the ladies;they like to recognise signs of _bon ton_ in the details of the scene. Arather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was greeted witheven vehement approbation. Her agitation is extreme; she curtseys and bowsher head, as if to hide her face. The face was pleasing, and prettyenough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and rather graceful. Nothingcould be more perfect than her costume; purely white, but the fashionconsummate; a single rose her only ornament. All admitted that her hairwas arranged to admiration. 

At length she spoke; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution, though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, andnodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien, thatshe instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not long, but it was successful. 

Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one of theact, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and rather ofan impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He entered first onthe stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed with more spirit. Youwould not have given him five-and-twenty years; he seemed redolent ofyouth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied the mostdistinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had outdone them all. The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great connoisseur, acelebrated French nobleman, Count D'O----y, who had been one of theguests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box. 

Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not seem, however, that in the interval she had gained courage; she looked agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned. She had tospeak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to confess thatshe loved another; her emotion was exquisitely performed, the mournfultenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout the audience, adead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of the unrivalledartist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but while they werefascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The emotion was thedisturbance of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilledfrom the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with all the exhaustion ofwoe; an expression of agony flitted over her countenance; and she burstinto tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and carried, rather than led, herfrom the stage; the audience looking at each other, some of themsuspecting that this movement was a part of the scene. 

'She has talent, ' said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, 'butwants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the provinces. '

At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret that thesudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it impossible forthe company to proceed with the piece; but that the curtain would descendto rise again for the second and last piece announced. 

All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted theheroines now came forward and disported most jocundly. The failure ofFlora had given fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She seemedthe very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in maleattire; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his grandpapa. 

The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused, chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to thesaloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances. Nobodythought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her in hergrief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her future. And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least, thought oneof the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd, absorbed intheir coming amusements. 

Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with greatadvantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from thebeginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound. He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled from the cruelty andthe callousness that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy, couldleave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and who wassuffering for her trial. 

He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora. They pointed to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora wassitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque wasthere, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress inwhich he had performed in the last piece. 

'I took the liberty, ' said Coningsby, 'of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;'and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, 'I am suremy grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for makingsuch exertions when you were suffering under so much indisposition. '

'This is very amiable of you, sir, ' said the young lady, looking at himwith earnestness. 

'Mademoiselle has too much sensibility, ' said Villebecque, making anobservation by way of diversion. 

'And yet that must be the soul of fine acting, ' said Coningsby; 'I lookforward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion onwhich you will favour us. '

'Never!' said La Petite, in a plaintive tone; 'oh, I hope, never!'

'Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment, ' said Coningsby, 'how much hertalent is appreciated. I assure you, sir, ' he added, turning toVillebecque, 'I heard but one opinion, but one expression of gratificationat her feeling and her fine taste. '

'The talent is hereditary, ' said Villebecque. 

'Indeed you have reason to say so, ' said Coningsby. 

'Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much ofanother this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir, toreassure Mademoiselle. '

'I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our sakes as well asher own, her indisposition. '

'It is not indisposition, ' said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyescast down. 

'Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a firstappearance, ' said Villebecque. 

'A last appearance, ' said La Petite: 'yes, it must be the last. ' She rosegently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his breast, andplaced her arms round his neck, 'My father, my best father, yes, say it isthe last. '

'You are the mistress of your lot, Flora, ' said Villebecque; 'but withsuch a distinguished talent--'

'No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am notof those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still life. Ihave no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to me thanthe stage. '

'But you hear what this gentleman says, ' said Villebecque, returning herembrace. 'He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I believe, sir, that every one, that--'

'Oh, no, no, no!' said Flora, shaking her head. 'He comes here because heis generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe the soulthat he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for me andbefore me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your daughterhave parted for ever. '

'Nay, Mademoiselle, ' said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take herhand, a soft hand, 'make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque canhave no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me, 'tisnot I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must respectyou. '

'I prefer respect to admiration, ' said Flora; 'but I fear that respect isnot the appanage of such as I am. '

'All must respect those who respect themselves, ' said Coningsby. 'Adieu, Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself. ' He bowedto Villebecque and retired. 

In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very differentcharacter from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to brilliancy, groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, universal content, andRussian dances!

'And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?' said MadameColonna. 

'I cannot dance at all, ' said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose hispride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton he had thought itspirited to despise. 

'Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you, ' saidthe Princess; 'nothing will please her so much. '

On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in theentertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in beinginstructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess wasall very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not pardonwas, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them tryingto put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every other occasion, proved herself a more finished performer than even the Russiansthemselves. 

Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter. Theywere people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man ofgood estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey waseven very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she couldsing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress of theart of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had taken careto call at Monmouth House the instant the _Morning Post_ apprised her hehad arrived in England; the consequence was an invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, in point of variety, fancy, and fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and evening, every day a new dress equallystriking; and a riding habit that was the talk and wonder of the wholeneighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created far more sensation in the boroughwhen she rode down the High Street, than what the good people called thereal Princesses. 

At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her overtheir shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatalquestion, 'Who is she?' After dinner they formed always into politegroups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if everthe Princess Colonna, impelled partly by goodnature, and partly fromhaving known her on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St. Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was sure, by an adroit appeal toHer Highness on some point which could not be decided without moving, towithdraw her from her pretty and persecuted companion. 

It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. GuyFlouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing to one'sself-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at prints, ina fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don't speak to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by storm, was not to bedriven out of its drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. Julians. Experience convinced her that all that was required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever readyaccomplishments, and her practised powers of attraction. And she wasright. She was always sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner was only too happy to meether again. More than once, too, she had caught her noble host, though awhole garrison was ever on the watch to prevent her, and he was greatlyamused, and showed that he was greatly amused by her society. Then shesuggested plans to him to divert his guests. In a country-house thesuggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, before a week passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of everything, was always surrounded bya cluster of admirers, and with what are called 'the best men' ever readyto ride with her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. Thefine ladies found it absolutely necessary to thaw: they began to ask herquestions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She wasan adroit flatterer, with a temper imperturbable, and gifted with aceaseless energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patternsfor new fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and whatwith some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues andsalt for their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all. 

CHAPTER IX. 

Nothing could present a greater contrast than the respective interiors ofConingsby and Beaumanoir. That air of habitual habitation, which sopleasingly distinguished the Duke's family seat, was entirely wanting atConingsby. Everything, indeed, was vast and splendid; but it seemed rathera gala-house than a dwelling; as if the grand furniture and the grandservants had all come down express from town with the grand company, andwere to disappear and to be dispersed at the same time. And truly therewere manifold traces of hasty and temporary arrangement; new carpets andold hangings; old paint, new gilding; battalions of odd French chairs, squadrons of queer English tables; and large tasteless lamps and tawdrychandeliers, evidently true cockneys, and only taking the air by way ofchange. There was, too, throughout the drawing-rooms an absence of allthose minor articles of ornamental furniture that are the offering oftaste to the home we love. There were no books neither; few flowers; nopet animals; no portfolios of fine drawings by our English artists likethe album of the Duchess, full of sketches by Landseer and Stanfield, andtheir gifted brethren; not a print even, except portfolios of H. B. 'scaricatures. The modes and manners of the house were not rural; there wasnothing of the sweet order of a country life. Nobody came down tobreakfast; the ladies were scarcely seen until dinner-time; they rolledabout in carriages together late in the afternoon as if they were inLondon, or led a sort of factitious boudoir life in their provincialdressing-rooms. 

The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morning after his arrival and askedhim to breakfast with him in his private rooms. Nothing could be more kindor more agreeable than his grandfather. He appeared to be interested inhis grandson's progress, was glad to find Coningsby had distinguishedhimself at Eton, solemnly adjured him not to neglect his French. Aclassical education, he said, was a very admirable thing, and one whichall gentlemen should enjoy; but Coningsby would find some day that therewere two educations, one which his position required, and another whichwas demanded by the world. 'French, my dear Harry, ' he continued, 'is thekey to this second education. In a couple of years or so you will enterthe world; it is a different thing to what you read about. It is amasquerade; a motley, sparkling multitude, in which you may mark all formsand colours, and listen to all sentiments and opinions; but where all yousee and hear has only one object, plunder. When you get into this crowdyou will find that Greek and Latin are not so much diffused as youimagine. I was glad to hear you speaking French yesterday. Study youraccent. There are a good many foreigners here with whom you may try yourwing a little; don't talk to any of them too much. Be very careful ofintimacies. All the people here are good acquaintance; at least prettywell. Now, here, ' said the Marquess, taking up a letter and then throwingit on the table again, 'now here is a man whom I should like you to know, Sidonia. He will be here in a few days. Lay yourself out for him if youhave the opportunity. He is a man of rare capacity, and enormously rich. No one knows the world like Sidonia. I never met his equal; and 'tis sopleasant to talk with one that can want nothing of you. '

Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to take a drive with him in theafternoon. The Marquess wished to show a part of his domain to theAmbassadress. Only Lucretia, he said, would be with them, and there was aplace for him. This invitation was readily accepted by Coningsby, who wasnot yet sufficiently established in the habits of the house exactly toknow how to pass his morning. His friend and patron, Mr. Rigby, wasentirely taken up with the Grand-duke, whom he was accompanying all overthe neighbourhood, in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby himselfsaw for the first time, but all of which he fluently explained to hisImperial Highness. In return for this, he extracted much information fromthe Grand-duke on Russian plans and projects, materials for a 'slashing'article against the Russophobia that he was preparing, and in which he wasto prove that Muscovite aggression was an English interest, and entirelyto be explained by the want of sea-coast, which drove the Czar, for thepure purposes of commerce, to the Baltic and the Euxine. 

When the hour for the drive arrived, Coningsby found Lucretia, a younggirl when he had first seen her only four years back, and still hisjunior, in that majestic dame who had conceded a superb recognition to himthe preceding eve. She really looked older than Madame Colonna; who, verybeautiful, very young-looking, and mistress of the real arts of thetoilet, those that cannot be detected, was not in the least altered sinceshe first so cordially saluted Coningsby as her dear young friend atMonmouth House. 

The day was delightful, the park extensive and picturesque, theAmbassadress sparkling with anecdote, and occasionally, in a low voice, breathing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who bowed his gracefulconsciousness of her distinguished confidence. Coningsby occasionally tookadvantage of one of those moments, when the conversation ceased to begeneral, to address Lucretia, who replied in calm, fine smiles, and inaffable monosyllables. She indeed generally succeeded in conveying animpression to those she addressed, that she had never seen them before, did not care to see them now, and never wished to see them again. And allthis, too, with an air of great courtesy. 

They arrived at the brink of a wooded bank; at their feet flowed a fineriver, deep and rushing, though not broad; its opposite bank the boundaryof a richly-timbered park. 

'Ah! this is beautiful!' exclaimed the Ambassadress. 'And is that yours, Lord Monmouth?'

'Not yet, ' said the Marquess. 'That is Hellingsley; it is one of thefinest places in the county, with a splendid estate; not so considerableas Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to an old, a very old man, without a relative in the world. It is known that the estate will be soldat his death, which may be almost daily expected. Then it is mine. No onecan offer for it what I can afford. For it gives me this division of thecounty, Princess. To possess Hellingsley is one of my objects. ' TheMarquess spoke with an animation unusual with him, almost with a degree ofexcitement. 

The wind met them as they returned, the breeze blew rather freshly. Lucretia all of a sudden seemed touched with unusual emotion. She wasalarmed lest Lord Monmouth should catch cold; she took a kerchief from herown well-turned throat to tie round his neck. He feebly resisted, evidently much pleased. 

The Princess Lucretia was highly accomplished. In the evening, havingrefused several distinguished guests, but instantly yielding to therequest of Lord Monmouth, she sang. It was impossible to conceive acontralto of more thrilling power, or an execution more worthy of thevoice. Coningsby, who was not experienced in fine singing, listened as ifto a supernatural lay, but all agreed it was of the highest class ofnature and of art; and the Grand-duke was in raptures. Lucretia receivedeven his Highness' compliments with a graceful indifference. Indeed, tothose who watched her demeanour, it might be remarked that she seemed toyield to none, although all bowed before her. 

Madame Colonna, who was always kind to Coningsby, expressed to him hergratification from the party of the morning. It must have been delightful, she assured Coningsby, for Lord Monmouth to have had both Lucretia and hisgrandson with him; and Lucretia too, she added, must have been so pleased. 

Coningsby could not make out why Madame Colonna was always intimating tohim that the Princess Lucretia took such great interest in his existence, looked forward with such gratification to his society, remembered with somuch pleasure the past, anticipated so much happiness from the future. Itappeared to him that he was to Lucretia, if not an object of repugnance, as he sometimes fancied, certainly one only of absolute indifference; buthe said nothing. He had already lived long enough to know that it isunwise to wish everything explained. 

In the meantime his life was agreeable. Every day, he found, added to hisacquaintance. He was never without a companion to ride or to shoot with;and of riding Coningsby was very fond. His grandfather, too, wascontinually giving him goodnatured turns, and making him of consequence inthe Castle: so that all the guests were fully impressed with theimportance of Lord Monmouth's grandson. Lady St. Julians pronounced himdistinguished; the Ambassadress thought diplomacy should be his part, ashe had a fine person and a clear brain; Madame Colonna spoke of him alwaysas if she took intense interest in his career, and declared she liked himalmost as much as Lucretia did; the Russians persisted in always stylinghim 'the young Marquess, ' notwithstanding the Ambassador's explanations;Mrs. Guy Flouncey made a dashing attack on him; but Coningsby remembered alesson which Lady Everingham had graciously bestowed on him. He was not tobe caught again easily. Besides, Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a little toomuch, and talked a little too loud. 

As time flew on, there were changes of visitors, chiefly among the singlemen. At the end of the first week after Coningsby's arrival, Lord Eskdaleappeared, bringing with him Lucian Gay; and soon after followed theMarquess of Beaumanoir and Mr. Melton. These were all heroes who, in theirway, interested the ladies, and whose advent was hailed with generalsatisfaction. Even Lucretia would relax a little to Lord Eskdale. He wasone of her oldest friends, and with a simplicity of manner which amountedalmost to plainness, and with rather a cynical nonchalance in his carriagetowards men, Lord Eskdale was invariably a favourite with women. To besure his station was eminent; he was noble, and very rich, and verypowerful, and these are qualities which tell as much with the softer asthe harsher sex; but there are individuals with all these qualities whoare nevertheless unpopular with women. Lord Eskdale was easy, knew theworld thoroughly, had no prejudices, and, above all, had a reputation forsuccess. A reputation for success has as much influence with women as areputation for wealth has with men. Both reputations may be, and oftenare, unjust; but we see persons daily make good fortunes by them all thesame. Lord Eskdale was not an impostor; and though he might not have beenso successful a man had he not been Lord Eskdale, still, thrown over by arevolution, he would have lighted on his legs. 

The arrival of this nobleman was the occasion of giving a good turn topoor Flora. He went immediately to see his friend Villebecque and histroop. Indeed it was a sort of society which pleased Lord Eskdale morethan that which is deemed more refined. He was very sorry about 'LaPetite;' but thought that everything would come right in the long run; andtold Villebecque that he was glad to hear him well spoken of here, especially by the Marquess, who seemed to take to him. As for Flora, hewas entirely against her attempting the stage again, at least for thepresent, but as she was a good musician, he suggested to the PrincessLucretia one night, that the subordinate aid of Flora might be of serviceto her, and permit her to favour her friends with some pieces whichotherwise she must deny to them. This suggestion was successful; Flora wasintroduced occasionally, soon often, to their parties in the evening, andher performances were in every respect satisfactory. There was nothing toexcite the jealousy of Lucretia either in her style or her person. And yetshe sang well enough, and was a quiet, refined, retiring, by no meansdisagreeable person. She was the companion of Lucretia very often in themorning as well as in the illumined saloon; for the Princess was devotedto the art in which she excelled. This connexion on the whole contributedto the happiness of poor Flora. True it was, in the evening she oftenfound herself sitting or standing alone and no one noticing her; she hadno dazzling quality to attract men of fashion, who themselves love toworship ever the fashionable. Even their goddesses must be _à la mode_. But Coningsby never omitted an opportunity to show Flora some kindnessunder these circumstances. He always came and talked to her, and praisedher singing, and would sometimes hand her refreshments and give her hisarm if necessary. These slight attentions coming from the grandson of LordMonmouth were for the world redoubled in their value, though Flora thoughtonly of their essential kindness; all in character with that first visitwhich dwelt on the poor girl's memory, though it had long ago escaped thatof her visitor. For in truth Coningsby had no other impulse for hisconduct but kind-heartedness. 

Thus we have attempted to give some faint idea how life glided away at theCastle the first fortnight that Coningsby passed there. Perhaps we oughtnot to omit that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, to the infinite disgust of Lady St. Julians, who had a daughter with her, successfully entrapped the devotedattentions of the young Marquess of Beaumanoir, who was never verybackward if a lady would take trouble enough; while his friend, Mr. Melton, whose barren homage Lady St. Julians wished her daughter everparticularly to shun, employed all his gaiety, good-humour, frivolity, andfashion in amusing that young lady, and with irresistible effect. For therest, they continued, though they had only partridges to shoot, to passthe morning without weariness. The weather was fine; the stud numerous;all might be mounted. The Grand-duke and his suite, guided by Mr. Rigby, had always some objects to visit, and railroads returned them just in timefor the banquet with an appetite which they had earned, and during whichRigby recounted their achievements, and his own opinions. 

The dinner was always firstrate; the evening never failed; music, dancing, and the theatre offered great resources independently of the soul-subduingsentiment harshly called flirtation, and which is the spell of a countryhouse. Lord Monmouth was satisfied, for he had scarcely ever felt wearied. All that he required in life was to be amused; perhaps that was not all herequired, but it was indispensable. Nor was it wonderful that on thepresent occasion he obtained his purpose, for there were half a hundred ofthe brightest eyes and quickest brains ever on the watch or the whirl tosecure him distraction. The only circumstance that annoyed him was thenon-arrival of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth could not bear to be disappointed. He could not refrain from saying, notwithstanding all the resources andall the exertions of his guests, 'I cannot understand why Sidonia does not come. I wish Sidonia were here. '

'So do I, ' said Lord Eskdale; 'Sidonia is the only man who tells oneanything new. '

'We saw Sidonia at Lord Studcaster's, ' said Lord Beaumanoir. 'He toldMelton he was coming here. '

'You know he has bought all Studcaster's horses, ' said Mr. Melton. 

'I wonder he does not buy Studcaster himself, ' said Lord Monmouth; 'Iwould if I were he; Sidonia can buy anything, ' he turned to Mrs. GuyFlouncey. 

'I wonder who Sidonia is, ' thought Mrs. Guy Flouncey, but she wasdetermined no one should suppose she did not know. 

At length one day Coningsby met Madame Colonna in the vestibule beforedinner. 

'Milor is in such good temper, Mr. Coningsby, ' she said; 'Monsieur deSidonia has arrived. '

About ten minutes before dinner there was a stir in the chamber. Coningsbylooked round. He saw the Grand-duke advancing, and holding out his hand ina manner the most gracious. A gentleman, of distinguished air, but withhis back turned to Coningsby, was bowing as he received his Highness'greeting. There was a general pause in the room. Several came forward:even the Marquess seemed a little moved. Coningsby could not resist theimpulse of curiosity to see this individual of whom he had heard so much. He glided round the room, and caught the countenance of his companion inthe forest inn; he who announced to him, that 'the Age of Ruins was past. '

CHAPTER X. 

Sidonia was descended from a very ancient and noble family of Arragon, that, in the course of ages, had given to the state many distinguishedcitizens. In the priesthood its members had been peculiarly eminent. Besides several prelates, they counted among their number an Archbishop ofToledo; and a Sidonia, in a season of great danger and difficulty, hadexercised for a series of years the paramount office of Grand Inquisitor. 

Yet, strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless a fact, of which there isno lack of evidence, that this illustrious family during all this period, in common with two-thirds of the Arragonese nobility, secretly adhered tothe ancient faith and ceremonies of their fathers; a belief in the unityof the God of Sinai, and the rights and observances of the laws of Moses. 

Whence came those Mosaic Arabs whose passages across the strait fromAfrica to Europe long preceded the invasion of the Mohammedan Arabs, it isnow impossible to ascertain. Their traditions tell us that from timeimmemorial they had sojourned in Africa; and it is not improbable thatthey may have been the descendants of some of the earlier dispersions;like those Hebrew colonies that we find in China, and who probablyemigrated from Persia in the days of the great monarchies. Whatever mayhave been their origin in Africa, their fortunes in Southern Europe arenot difficult to trace, though the annals of no race in any age can detaila history of such strange vicissitudes, or one rife with more touching andromantic incident. Their unexampled prosperity in the Spanish Peninsula, and especially in the south, where they had become the principalcultivators of the soil, excited the jealousy of the Goths; and theCouncils of Toledo during the sixth and seventh centuries attempted, by aseries of decrees worthy of the barbarians who promulgated them, to rootthe Jewish Arabs out of the land. There is no doubt the Council of Toledoled, as directly as the lust of Roderick, to the invasion of Spain by theMoslemin Arabs. The Jewish population, suffering under the most sanguinaryand atrocious persecution, looked to their sympathising brethren of theCrescent, whose camps already gleamed on the opposite shore. The overthrowof the Gothic kingdoms was as much achieved by the superior informationwhich the Saracens received from their suffering kinsmen, as by theresistless valour of the Desert. The Saracen kingdoms were established. That fair and unrivalled civilisation arose which preserved for Europearts and letters when Christendom was plunged in darkness. The children ofIshmael rewarded the children of Israel with equal rights and privilegeswith themselves. During these halcyon centuries, it is difficult todistinguish the follower of Moses from the votary of Mahomet. Both alikebuilt palaces, gardens, and fountains; filled equally the highest officesof the state, competed in an extensive and enlightened commerce, andrivalled each other in renowned universities. 

Even after the fall of the principal Moorish kingdoms, the Jews of Spainwere still treated by the conquering Goths with tenderness andconsideration. Their numbers, their wealth, the fact that, in Arragonespecially, they were the proprietors of the soil, and surrounded bywarlike and devoted followers, secured for them an usage which, for aconsiderable period, made them little sensible of the change of dynastiesand religions. But the tempest gradually gathered. As the Goths grewstronger, persecution became more bold. Where the Jewish population wasscanty they were deprived of their privileges, or obliged to conform underthe title of 'Nuevos Christianos. ' At length the union of the two crownsunder Ferdinand and Isabella, and the fall of the last Moorish kingdom, brought the crisis of their fate both to the New Christian and thenonconforming Hebrew. The Inquisition appeared, the Institution that hadexterminated the Albigenses and had desolated Languedoc, and which, itshould ever be remembered, was established in the Spanish kingdoms againstthe protests of the Cortes and amid the terror of the populace. TheDominicans opened their first tribunal at Seville, and it is curious thatthe first individuals they summoned before them were the Duke of MedinaSidonia, the Marquess of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos; three of the mostconsiderable personages in Spain. How many were burned alive at Sevilleduring the first year, how many imprisoned for life, what countlessthousands were visited with severe though lighter punishments, need not berecorded here. In nothing was the Holy Office more happy than in multiformand subtle means by which they tested the sincerity of the New Christians. 

At length the Inquisition was to be extended to Arragon. The high-spiritednobles of that kingdom knew that its institution was for them a matter oflife or death. The Cortes of Arragon appealed to the King and to the Pope;they organised an extensive conspiracy; the chief Inquisitor wasassassinated in the cathedral of Saragossa. Alas! it was fated that inthis, one of the many, and continual, and continuing struggles between therival organisations of the North and the South, the children of the sunshould fall. The fagot and the San Benito were the doom of the nobles ofArragon. Those who were convicted of secret Judaism, and this scarcelythree centuries ago, were dragged to the stake; the sons of the noblesthouses, in whose veins the Hebrew taint could be traced, had to walk insolemn procession, singing psalms, and confessing their faith in thereligion of the fell Torquemada. 

This triumph in Arragon, the almost simultaneous fall of the last Moorishkingdom, raised the hopes of the pure Christians to the highest pitch. Having purged the new Christians, they next turned their attention to theold Hebrews. Ferdinand was resolved that the delicious air of Spain shouldbe breathed no longer by any one who did not profess the Catholic faith. Baptism or exile was the alternative. More than six hundred thousandindividuals, some authorities greatly increase the amount, the mostindustrious, the most intelligent, and the most enlightened of Spanishsubjects, would not desert the religion of their fathers. For this theygave up the delightful land wherein they had lived for centuries, thebeautiful cities they had raised, the universities from which Christendomdrew for ages its most precious lore, the tombs of their ancestors, thetemples where they had worshipped the God for whom they had made thissacrifice. They had but four months to prepare for eternal exile, after aresidence of as many centuries; during which brief period forced sales andglutted markets virtually confiscated their property. It is a calamitythat the scattered nation still ranks with the desolations ofNebuchadnezzar and of Titus. Who after this should say the Jews are bynature a sordid people? But the Spanish Goth, then so cruel and sohaughty, where is he? A despised suppliant to the very race which hebanished, for some miserable portion of the treasure which their habits ofindustry have again accumulated. Where is that tribunal that summonedMedina Sidonia and Cadiz to its dark inquisition? Where is Spain? Itsfall, its unparalleled and its irremediable fall, is mainly to beattributed to the expulsion of that large portion of its subjects, themost industrious and intelligent, who traced their origin to the Mosaicand Mohammedan Arabs. 

The Sidonias of Arragon were Nuevos Christianos. Some of them, no doubt, were burned alive at the end of the fifteenth century, under the system ofTorquemada; many of them, doubtless, wore the San Benito; but they kepttheir titles and estates, and in time reached those great offices to whichwe have referred. 

During the long disorders of the Peninsular war, when so many openingswere offered to talent, and so many opportunities seized by theadventurous, a cadet of a younger branch of this family made a largefortune by military contracts, and supplying the commissariat of thedifferent armies. At the peace, prescient of the great financial future ofEurope, confident in the fertility of his own genius, in his originalviews of fiscal subjects, and his knowledge of national resources, thisSidonia, feeling that Madrid, or even Cadiz, could never be a base onwhich the monetary transactions of the world could be regulated, resolvedto emigrate to England, with which he had, in the course of years, formedconsiderable commercial connections. He arrived here after the peace ofParis, with his large capital. He staked all he was worth on the Waterlooloan; and the event made him one of the greatest capitalists in Europe. 

No sooner was Sidonia established in England than he professed Judaism;which Torquemada flattered himself, with the fagot and the San Benito, hehad drained out of the veins of his family more than three centuries ago. He sent over, also, for several of his brothers, who were as goodCatholics in Spain as Ferdinand and Isabella could have possibly desired, but who made an offering in the synagogue, in gratitude for their safevoyage, on their arrival in England. 

Sidonia had foreseen in Spain that, after the exhaustion of a war oftwenty-five years, Europe must require capital to carry on peace. Hereaped the due reward of his sagacity. Europe did require money, andSidonia was ready to lend it to Europe. France wanted some; Austria more;Prussia a little; Russia a few millions. Sidonia could furnish them all. The only country which he avoided was Spain; he was too well acquaintedwith its resources. Nothing, too, would ever tempt him to lend anything tothe revolted colonies of Spain. Prudence saved him from being a creditorof the mother-country; his Spanish pride recoiled from the rebellion ofher children. 

It is not difficult to conceive that, after having pursued the career wehave intimated for about ten years, Sidonia had become one of the mostconsiderable personages in Europe. He had established a brother, or a nearrelative, in whom he could confide, in most of the principal capitals. Hewas lord and master of the money-market of the world, and of coursevirtually lord and master of everything else. He literally held therevenues of Southern Italy in pawn; and monarchs and ministers of allcountries courted his advice and were guided by his suggestions. He wasstill in the vigour of life, and was not a mere money-making machine. Hehad a general intelligence equal to his position, and looked forward tothe period when some relaxation from his vast enterprises and exertionsmight enable him to direct his energies to great objects of publicbenefit. But in the height of his vast prosperity he suddenly died, leaving only one child, a youth still of tender years, and heir to thegreatest fortune in Europe, so great, indeed, that it could only becalculated by millions. 

Shut out from universities and schools, those universities and schoolswhich were indebted for their first knowledge of ancient philosophy to thelearning and enterprise of his ancestors, the young Sidonia was fortunatein the tutor whom his father had procured for him, and who devoted to hischarge all the resources of his trained intellect and vast and variederudition. A Jesuit before the revolution; since then an exiled Liberalleader; now a member of the Spanish Cortes; Rebello was always a Jew. Hefound in his pupil that precocity of intellectual development which ischaracteristic of the Arabian organisation. The young Sidonia penetratedthe highest mysteries of mathematics with a facility almost instinctive;while a memory, which never had any twilight hours, but always reflected anoontide clearness, seemed to magnify his acquisitions of ancient learningby the promptness with which they could be reproduced and applied. 

The circumstances of his position, too, had early contributed to give himan unusual command over the modern languages. An Englishman, and taughtfrom his cradle to be proud of being an Englishman, he first evinced inspeaking his native language those remarkable powers of expression, andthat clear and happy elocution, which ever afterwards distinguished him. But the son of a Spaniard, the sonorous syllables of that noble tongueconstantly resounded in his ear; while the foreign guests who thronged hisfather's mansion habituated him from an early period of life to the tonesof languages that were not long strange to him. When he was nineteen, Sidonia, who had then resided some time with his uncle at Naples, and hadmade a long visit to another of his father's relatives at Frankfort, possessed a complete mastery over the principal European languages. 

At seventeen he had parted with Rebello, who returned to Spain, andSidonia, under the control of his guardians, commenced his travels. Heresided, as we have mentioned, some time in Germany, and then, havingvisited Italy, settled at Naples, at which city it may be said he made hisentrance into life. With an interesting person, and highly accomplished, he availed himself of the gracious attentions of a court of which he wasprincipal creditor; and which, treating him as a distinguished Englishtraveller, were enabled perhaps to show him some favours that the mannersof the country might not have permitted them to accord to his Neapolitanrelatives. Sidonia thus obtained at an early age that experience ofrefined and luxurious society, which is a necessary part of a finishededucation. It gives the last polish to the manners; it teaches ussomething of the power of the passions, early developed in the hot-bed ofself-indulgence; it instils into us that indefinable tact seldom obtainedin later life, which prevents us from saying the wrong thing, and oftenimpels us to do the right. 

Between Paris and Naples Sidonia passed two years, spent apparently in thedissipation which was perhaps inseparable from his time of life. He wasadmired by women, to whom he was magnificent, idolised by artists whom hepatronised, received in all circles with great distinction, andappreciated for his intellect by the very few to whom he at all openedhimself. For, though affable and gracious, it was impossible to penetratehim. Though unreserved in his manner, his frankness was strictly limitedto the surface. He observed everything, thought ever, but avoided seriousdiscussion. If you pressed him for an opinion, he took refuge in raillery, or threw out some grave paradox with which it was not easy to cope. 

The moment he came of age, Sidonia having previously, at a great familycongress held at Naples, made arrangements with the heads of the housesthat bore his name respecting the disposition and management of his vastfortune, quitted Europe. 

Sidonia was absent from his connections for five years, during whichperiod he never communicated with them. They were aware of his existenceonly by the orders which he drew on them for payment, and which arrivedfrom all quarters of the globe. It would appear from these documents thathe had dwelt a considerable time in the Mediterranean regions; penetratedNilotic Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia; traversed the Asiatic continentto Tartary, whence he had visited Hindostan, and the isles of that IndianSea which are so little known. Afterwards he was heard of at Valparaiso, the Brazils, and Lima. He evidently remained some time at Mexico, which hequitted for the United States. One morning, without notice, he arrived inLondon. 

Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of human knowledge; he was master ofthe learning of every nation, of all tongues dead or living, of everyliterature, Western and Oriental. He had pursued the speculations ofscience to their last term, and had himself illustrated them byobservation and experiment. He had lived in all orders of society, hadviewed every combination of Nature and of Art, and had observed man underevery phasis of civilisation. He had even studied him in the wilderness. The influence of creeds and laws, manners, customs, traditions, in alltheir diversities, had been subjected to his personal scrutiny. 

He brought to the study of this vast aggregate of knowledge a penetrativeintellect that, matured by long meditation, and assisted by that absolutefreedom from prejudice, which, was the compensatory possession of a manwithout a country, permitted Sidonia to fathom, as it were by intuition, the depth of questions apparently the most difficult and profound. Hepossessed the rare faculty of communicating with precision ideas the mostabstruse, and in general a power of expression which arrests and satisfiesattention. 

With all this knowledge, which no one knew more to prize, with boundlesswealth, and with an athletic frame, which sickness had never tried, andwhich had avoided excess, Sidonia nevertheless looked upon life with aglance rather of curiosity than content. His religion walled him out fromthe pursuits of a citizen; his riches deprived him of the stimulatinganxieties of a man. He perceived himself a lone being, alike without caresand without duties. 

To a man in his position there might yet seem one unfailing source offelicity and joy; independent of creed, independent of country, independent even of character. He might have discovered that perpetualspring of happiness in the sensibility of the heart. But this was a sealedfountain to Sidonia. In his organisation there was a peculiarity, perhapsa great deficiency. He was a man without affections. It would be harsh tosay he had no heart, for he was susceptible of deep emotions, but not forindividuals. He was capable of rebuilding a town that was burned down; ofrestoring a colony that had been destroyed by some awful visitation ofNature; of redeeming to liberty a horde of captives; and of doing thesegreat acts in secret; for, void of all self-love, public approbation wasworthless to him; but the individual never touched him. Woman was to him atoy, man a machine. 

The lot the most precious to man, and which a beneficent Providence hasmade not the least common; to find in another heart a perfect and profoundsympathy; to unite his existence with one who could share all his joys, soften all his sorrows, aid him in all his projects, respond to all hisfancies, counsel him in his cares, and support him in his perils; makelife charming by her charms, interesting by her intelligence, and sweet bythe vigilant variety of her tenderness; to find your life blessed by suchan influence, and to feel that your influence can bless such a life: thislot, the most divine of divine gifts, that power and even fame can neverrival in its delights, all this Nature had denied to Sidonia. 

With an imagination as fiery as his native Desert, and an intellect asluminous as his native sky, he wanted, like that land, those softeningdews without which the soil is barren, and the sunbeam as often amessenger of pestilence as an angel of regenerative grace. 

Such a temperament, though rare, is peculiar to the East. It inspired thefounders of the great monarchies of antiquity, the prophets that theDesert has sent forth, the Tartar chiefs who have overrun the world; itmight be observed in the great Corsican, who, like most of the inhabitantsof the Mediterranean isles, had probably Arab blood in his veins. It is atemperament that befits conquerors and legislators, but, in ordinary timesand ordinary situations, entails on its possessor only eccentricaberrations or profound melancholy. 

The only human quality that interested Sidonia was Intellect. He cared notwhence it came; where it was to be found: creed, country, class, character, in this respect, were alike indifferent to him. The author, theartist, the man of science, never appealed to him in vain. Often heanticipated their wants and wishes. He encouraged their society; was asfrank in his conversation as he was generous in his contributions; but theinstant they ceased to be authors, artists, or philosophers, and theircommunications arose from anything but the intellectual quality which hadoriginally interested him, the moment they were rash enough to approachintimacy and appealed to the sympathising man instead of the congenialintelligence, he saw them no more. It was not however intellect merely inthese unquestionable shapes that commanded his notice. There was not anadventurer in Europe with whom he was not familiar. No Minister of Statehad such communication with secret agents and political spies as Sidonia. He held relations with all the clever outcasts of the world. The catalogueof his acquaintance in the shape of Greeks, Armenians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gipsies, wandering Poles and Carbonari, would throw a curiouslight on those subterranean agencies of which the world in general knowsso little, but which exercise so great an influence on public events. Hisextensive travels, his knowledge of languages, his daring and adventurousdisposition, and his unlimited means, had given him opportunities ofbecoming acquainted with these characters, in general so difficult totrace, and of gaining their devotion. To these sources he owed thatknowledge of strange and hidden things which often startled those wholistened to him. Nor was it easy, scarcely possible, to deceive him. Information reached him from so many, and such contrary quarters, thatwith his discrimination and experience, he could almost instantlydistinguish the truth. The secret history of the world was his pastime. His great pleasure was to contrast the hidden motive, with the publicpretext, of transactions. 

One source of interest Sidonia found in his descent and in the fortunes ofhis race. As firm in his adherence to the code of the great Legislator asif the trumpet still sounded on Sinai, he might have received in theconviction of divine favour an adequate compensation for humanpersecution. But there were other and more terrestrial considerations thatmade Sidonia proud of his origin, and confident in the future of his kind. Sidonia was a great philosopher, who took comprehensive views of humanaffairs, and surveyed every fact in its relative position to other facts, the only mode of obtaining truth. 

Sidonia was well aware that in the five great varieties into whichPhysiology has divided the human species; to wit, the Caucasian, theMongolian, the Malayan, the American, the Ethiopian; the Arabian tribesrank in the first and superior class, together, among others, with theSaxon and the Greek. This fact alone is a source of great pride andsatisfaction to the animal Man. But Sidonia and his brethren could claim adistinction which the Saxon and the Greek, and the rest of the Caucasiannations, have forfeited. The Hebrew is an unmixed race. Doubtless, amongthe tribes who inhabit the bosom of the Desert, progenitors alike of theMosaic and the Mohammedan Arabs, blood may be found as pure as that of thedescendants of the Scheik Abraham. But the Mosaic Arabs are the mostancient, if not the only, unmixed blood that dwells in cities. 

An unmixed race of a firstrate organisation are the aristocracy of Nature. Such excellence is a positive fact; not an imagination, a ceremony, coinedby poets, blazoned by cozening heralds, but perceptible in its physicaladvantages, and in the vigour of its unsullied idiosyncrasy. 

In his comprehensive travels, Sidonia had visited and examined the Hebrewcommunities of the world. He had found, in general, the lower ordersdebased; the superior immersed in sordid pursuits; but he perceived thatthe intellectual development was not impaired. This gave him hope. He waspersuaded that organisation would outlive persecution. When he reflectedon what they had endured, it was only marvellous that the race had notdisappeared. They had defied exile, massacre, spoliation, the degradinginfluence of the constant pursuit of gain; they had defied Time. Fornearly three thousand years, according to Archbishop Usher, they have beendispersed over the globe. To the unpolluted current of their Caucasianstructure, and to the segregating genius of their great Law-giver, Sidoniaascribed the fact that they had not been long ago absorbed among thosemixed races, who presume to persecute them, but who periodically wear awayand disappear, while their victims still flourish in all the primevalvigour of the pure Asian breed. 

Shortly after his arrival in England, Sidonia repaired to the principalCourts of Europe, that he might become personally acquainted with themonarchs and ministers of whom he had heard so much. His position insuredhim a distinguished reception; his personal qualities immediately made himcherished. He could please; he could do more, he could astonish. He couldthrow out a careless observation which would make the oldest diplomatiststart; a winged word that gained him the consideration, sometimes theconfidence, of Sovereigns. When he had fathomed the intelligence whichgoverns Europe, and which can only be done by personal acquaintance, hereturned to this country. 

The somewhat hard and literal character of English life suited one whoshrank from sensibility, and often took refuge in sarcasm. Its masculinevigour and active intelligence occupied and interested his mind. Sidonia, indeed, was exactly the character who would be welcomed in our circles. His immense wealth, his unrivalled social knowledge, his clear vigorousintellect, the severe simplicity of his manners, frank, but neitherclaiming nor brooking familiarity, and his devotion to field sports, whichwas the safety-valve of his energy, were all circumstances and qualitieswhich the English appreciate and admire; and it may be fairly said ofSidonia that few men were more popular, and none less understood. 

CHAPTER XI. 

At dinner, Coningsby was seated on the same side as Sidonia, and distantfrom him. There had been, therefore, no mutual recognition. Another guesthad also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He came straight from London, full ofrumours, had seen Tadpole, who, hearing he was on the wing for ConingsbyCastle, had taken him into a dark corner of a club, and shown him hisbook, a safe piece of confidence, as Mr. Ormsby was very near-sighted. Itwas, however, to be received as an undoubted fact, that all was right, andsomehow or other, before very long, there would be national demonstrationof the same. This arrival of Mr. Ormsby, and the news that he bore, gave apolitical turn to the conversation after the ladies had left the room. 

'Tadpole wants me to stand for Birmingham, ' said Mr. Ormsby, gravely. 

'You!' exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and throwing himself back in his chair, hebroke into a real, hearty laugh. 

'Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two candidates; a manufacturer theyhave got, and they have written up to Tadpole for a "West-end man. "'

'A what?'

'A West-end man, who will make the ladies patronise their fancy articles. '

'The result of the Reform Bill, then, ' said Lucian Gay, 'will be to giveManchester a bishop, and Birmingham a dandy. '

'I begin to believe the result will be very different from what weexpected, ' said Lord Monmouth. 

Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to prophesy, when Lord Eskdale, wholiked talk to be short, and was of opinion that Rigby should keep hisamplifications for his slashing articles, put in a brief carelessobservation, which balked his inspiration. 

'Certainly, ' said Mr. Ormsby, 'when the guns were firing over Vyvyan'slast speech and confession, I never expected to be asked to stand forBirmingham. '

'Perhaps you may be called up to the other house by the title, ' saidLucian Gay. 'Who knows?'

'I agree with Tadpole, ' said Mr. Ormsby, 'that if we only stick to theRegistration the country is saved. '

'Fortunate country!' said Sidonia, 'that can be saved by a goodregistration!'

'I believe, after all, that with property and pluck, ' said Lord Monmouth, 'Parliamentary Reform is not such a very bad thing. '

Here several gentlemen began talking at the same time, all agreeing withtheir host, and proving in their different ways, the irresistibleinfluence of property and pluck; property in Lord Monmouth's mind meaningvassals, and pluck a total disregard for public opinion. Mr. Guy Flouncey, who wanted to get into parliament, but why nobody knew, who had neitherpolitical abilities nor political opinions, but had some floating ideathat it would get himself and his wife to some more balls and dinners, andwho was duly ticketed for 'a good thing' in the candidate list of theTadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion that an immense deal might be doneby properly patronising borough races. That was his specific how toprevent revolution. 

Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth said, 'I should like to knowwhat you think of this question, Sidonia?'

'I am scarcely a competent judge, ' he said, as if wishing to disclaim anyinterference in the conversation, and then added, 'but I have been ever ofopinion that revolutions are not to be evaded. '

'Exactly my views, ' said Mr. Rigby, eagerly; 'I say it now, I have said ita thousand times, you may doctor the registration as you like, but you cannever get rid of Schedule A. '

'Is there a person in this room who can now tell us the names of theboroughs in Schedule A?' said Sidonia. 

'I am sure I cannot, 'said Lord Monmouth, 'though six of them belong tomyself. '

'But the principle, ' said Mr. Rigby; 'they represented a principle. '

'Nothing else, certainly, ' said Lucian Gay. 

'And what principle?' inquired Sidonia. 

'The principle of nomination. '

'That is a practice, not a principle, ' said Sidonia. 'Is it a practicethat no longer exists?'

'You think then, ' said Lord Eskdale, cutting in before Rigby, 'that theReform Bill has done us no harm?'

'It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken the aristocracy of thiscountry, but the means by which that Bill was carried, ' replied Sidonia. 

'Physical force?' said Lord Eskdale. 

'Or social power?' said Sidonia. 

Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient at any one giving the tone in a politicaldiscussion but himself, and chafing under the vigilance of Lord Eskdale, which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, violently assaulted theargument, and astonished several country gentlemen present by itsvolubility. They at length listened to real eloquence. At the end of along appeal to Sidonia, that gentleman only bowed his head and said, 'Perhaps;' and then, turning to his neighbour, inquired whether birds wereplentiful in Lancashire this season; so that Mr. Rigby was reduced to thenecessity of forming the political opinions of Mr. Guy Flouncey. 

As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Coningsby, though at some distance, was observed by Sidonia, who stopped instantly, then advanced toConingsby, and extending his hand said, 'I said we should meet again, though I hardly expected so quickly. '

'And I hope we shall not separate so soon, ' said Coningsby; 'I was muchstruck with what you said just now about the Reform Bill. Do you know thatthe more I think the more I am perplexed by what is meant byRepresentation?'

'It is a principle of which a limited definition is only current in thiscountry, ' said Sidonia, quitting the room with him. 'People may berepresented without periodical elections of neighbours who are incapableto maintain their interests, and strangers who are unwilling. '

The entrance of the gentlemen produced the same effect on the saloon assunrise on the world; universal animation, a general though gentle stir. The Grand-duke, bowing to every one, devoted himself to the daughter ofLady St. Julians, who herself pinned Lord Beaumanoir before he could reachMrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby instead talked nonsense to that lady. Brilliant cavaliers, including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beautifuldamsels grouped on a large ottoman. Everywhere sounded a delicious murmur, broken occasionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too loud. Sidonia andLord Eskdale did not join the ladies. They stood for a few moments inconversation, and then threw themselves on a sofa. 

'Who is that?' asked Sidonia of his companion rather earnestly, asConingsby quitted them. 

''Tis the grandson of Monmouth; young Coningsby. '

'Ah! The new generation then promises. I met him once before, by chance;he interests me. '

'They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a prodigious favourite here, and Ishould not be surprised if Monmouth made him his heir. '

'I hope he does not dream of inheritance, ' said Sidonia. ''Tis the mostenervating of visions. '

'Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?' said Mrs. Guy Flouncey toConingsby. 

'I admire no one except yourself. '

'Oh! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby!'

'When should men be gallant, if not to the brilliant and the beautiful!'said Coningsby. 

'Ah! you are laughing at me. '

'No, I am not. I am quite grave. '

'Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, Lord Henry Sydney is a verygreat friend of yours?'

'Very. '

'He is very amiable. '

'Very. '

'He does a great deal for the poor at Beaumanoir. A very fine place, is itnot?'

'Very. '

'As fine as Coningsby?'

'At present, with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beaumanoir would have nochance. '

'Ah! you laugh at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, what do you thinkwe shall do to-night? I look upon you, you know, as the real arbiter ofour destinies. '

'You shall decide, ' said Coningsby. 

'Mon cher Harry, ' said Madame Colonna, coming up, 'they wish Lucretia tosing and she will not. You must ask her, she cannot refuse you. '

'I assure you she can, ' said Coningsby. 

'Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire me to beg you to ask her tosing. '

So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucretia, who was talking with theRussian Ambassador. 

'I am sent upon a fruitless mission, ' said Coningsby, looking at her, andcatching her glance. 

'What and why?' she replied. 

'The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; and the causeof its failure will be that I am the envoy. '

'If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be the envoy, you need never fear failure with me. '

'I must presume then to lead you away, ' said Coningsby, bending to theAmbassador. 

'Remember, ' said Lucretia, as they approached the instrument, 'that I amsinging to you. '

'It is impossible ever to forget it, ' said Coningsby, leading her to thepiano with great politeness, but only with great politeness. 

'Where is Mademoiselle Flora?' she inquired. 

Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it were behind some furniture, andapparently looking over some music. She looked up as he approached, and asmile stole over her countenance. 'I am come to ask a favour, ' he said, and he named his request. 

'I will sing, ' she replied; 'but only tell me what you like. '

Coningsby felt the difference between the courtesy of the head and of theheart, as he contrasted the manner of Lucretia and Flora. Nothing could bemore exquisitely gracious than the daughter of Colonna was to-night;Flora, on the contrary, was rather agitated and embarrassed; and did notexpress her readiness with half the facility and the grace of Lucretia;but Flora's arm trembled as Coningsby led her to the piano. 

Meantime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are in deep converse. 

'Hah! that is a fine note!' said Sidonia, and he looked round. 'Who isthat singing? Some new _protégée_ of Lord Monmouth?'

''Tis the daughter of the Colonnas, ' said Lord Eskdale, 'the PrincessLucretia. '

'Why, she was not at dinner to-day. '

'No, she was not there. '

'My favourite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When I was a boy, it made me almost in love even with Pisaroni. '

'Well, the Princess is scarcely more lovely. 'Tis a pity the plumage isnot as beautiful as the note. She is plain. '

'No; not plain with that brow. '

'Well, I rather admire her myself, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'She has finepoints. '

'Let us approach, ' said Sidonia. 

The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, made his compliments, and thensaid, 'You were not at dinner to-day. '

'Why should I be?' said the Princess. 

'For our sakes, for mine, if not for your own, ' said Lord Eskdale, smiling. 'Your absence has been remarked, and felt, I assure you, byothers as well as myself. There is my friend Sidonia so enraptured withyour thrilling tones, that he has abruptly closed a conversation which Ihave been long counting on. Do you know him? May I present him to you?'

And having obtained a consent, not often conceded, Lord Eskdale lookedround, and calling Sidonia, he presented his friend to the Princess. 

'You are fond of music, Lord Eskdale tells me?' said Lucretia. 

'When it is excellent, ' said Sidonia. 

'But that is so rare, ' said the Princess. 

'And precious as Paradise, ' said Sidonia. 'As for indifferent music, 'tisPurgatory; but when it is bad, for my part I feel myself--'

'Where?' said Lord Eskdale. 

'In the last circle of the Inferno, ' said Sidonia. 

Lord Eskdale turned to Flora. 

'And in what circle do you place us who are here?' the Princess inquiredof Sidonia. 

'One too polished for his verse, ' replied her companion. 

'You mean too insipid, ' said the Princess. 'I wish that life were a littlemore Dantesque. '

'There is not less treasure in the world, ' said Sidonia, 'because we usepaper currency; and there is not less passion than of old, though it is_bon ton_ to be tranquil. '

'Do you think so?' said the Princess, inquiringly, and then looking roundthe apartment. 'Have these automata, indeed, souls?'

'Some of them, ' said Sidonia. 'As many as would have had souls in thefourteenth century. '

'I thought they were wound up every day, ' said the Princess. 

'Some are self-impelling, ' said Sidonia. 

'And you can tell at a glance?' inquired the Princess. 'You are one ofthose who can read human nature?'

''Tis a book open to all. '

'But if they cannot read?'

'Those must be your automata. '

'Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller?'

'I have not discovered a new world. '

'But you have visited it?'

'It is getting old. '

'I would sooner recall the old than discover the new, ' said the Princess. 

'We have both of us cause, ' said Sidonia. 'Our names are the names of thePast. '

'I do not love a world of Utility, ' said the Princess. 

'You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable, ' said Sidonia. 

'It seems to me that the world is withering under routine. '

''Tis the inevitable lot of humanity, ' said Sidonia. 'Man must ever be theslave of routine: but in old days it was a routine of great thoughts, andnow it is a routine of little ones. '

The evening glided on; the dance succeeded the song; the ladies were fastvanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a movement, when LordBeaumanoir, as he passed him, said, 'Come to Lucian Gay's room; we aregoing to smoke a cigar. '

This was a favourite haunt, towards midnight, of several of the youngermembers of the party at the Castle, who loved to find relaxation from thedecorous gravities of polished life in the fumes of tobacco, theinspiration of whiskey toddy, and the infinite amusement of Lucian Gay'sconversation and company. This was the genial hour when the good storygladdened, the pun flashed, and the song sparkled with jolly mirth orsaucy mimicry. To-night, being Coningsby's initiation, there was a specialgeneral meeting of the Grumpy Club, in which everybody was to say thegayest things with the gravest face, and every laugh carried a forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable president. He told a tale for which he wasfamous, of 'the very respectable county family who had been established inthe shire for several generations, but who, it was a fact, had been everdistinguished by the strange and humiliating peculiarity of being bornwith sheep's tails. ' The remarkable circumstances under which Lucian Gayhad become acquainted with this fact; the traditionary mysteries by whichthe family in question had succeeded for generations in keeping it secret;the decided measures to which the chief of the family had recourse to stopfor ever the rumour when it first became prevalent; and finally the originand result of the legend; were details which Lucian Gay, with the mostrueful countenance, loved to expend upon the attentive and expandingintelligence of a new member of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as all presentwere with the story whose stimulus of agonising risibility they had all inturn experienced, it was with extreme difficulty that any of them couldresist the fatal explosion which was to be attended with the dreadedpenalty. Lord Beaumanoir looked on the table with desperate seriousness, an ominous pucker quivering round his lip; Mr. Melton crammed hishandkerchief into his mouth with one hand, while he lighted the wrong endof a cigar with the other; one youth hung over the back of his chairpinching himself like a faquir, while another hid his countenance on thetable. 

'It was at the Hunt dinner, ' continued Lucian Gay, in an almost solemntone, 'that an idea for a moment was prevalent, that Sir MowbrayCholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head of the family, had resolved toterminate for ever these mysterious aspersions on his race, that hadcirculated in the county for more than two centuries; I mean that thehighly respectable family of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs had themisfortune to be graced with that appendage to which I have referred. Hishealth being drunk, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh rose. He wasa little unpopular at the moment, from an ugly story about killing foxes, and the guests were not as quiet as orators generally desire, so theHonourable Baronet prayed particular attention to a matter personal tohimself. Instantly there was a dead silence--' but here Coningsby, who hadmoved for some time very restlessly on his chair, suddenly started up, andstruggling for a moment against the inward convulsion, but in vain, stamped against the floor, and gave a shout. 

'A song from Mr. Coningsby, ' said the president of the Grumpy Club, amidan universal, and now permissible roar of laughter. 

Coningsby could not sing; so he was to favour them as a substitute with aspeech or a sentiment. But Lucian Gay always let one off these penaltieseasily, and, indeed, was ever ready to fulfil them for all. Song, speech, or sentiment, he poured them all forth; nor were pastimes more activewanting. He could dance a Tarantella like a Lazzarone, and execute aCracovienne with all the mincing graces of a ballet heroine. 

His powers of mimicry, indeed, were great and versatile. But in nothingwas he so happy as in a Parliamentary debate. And it was remarkable that, though himself a man who on ordinary occasions was quite incapable withoutinfinite perplexity of publicly expressing his sense of the merestcourtesy of society, he was not only a master of the style of everyspeaker of distinction in either house, but he seemed in his imitativeplay to appropriate their intellectual as well as their physicalpeculiarities, and presented you with their mind as well as their manner. There were several attempts to-night to induce Lucian to indulge hisguests with a debate, but he seemed to avoid the exertion, which wasgreat. As the night grew old, however, and every hour he grew more lively, he suddenly broke without further pressure into the promised diversion;and Coningsby listened really with admiration to a discussion, of whichthe only fault was that it was more parliamentary than the original, 'plusArabe que l'Arabie. '

The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Robert more specious; he was asfiery as Stanley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he do their opponentsless justice. Lord Palmerston himself never treated a profound subjectwith a more pleasant volatility; and when Lucian rose at an early hour ofmorn, in a full house alike exhausted and excited, and after havingendured for hours, in sarcastic silence, the menacing finger of SirRobert, shaking over the green table and appealing to his misdeeds in theirrevocable records of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have affordeda more perfect representative of pluck. 

But loud as was the laughter, and vehement the cheering, with whichLucian's performances were received, all these ebullitions sank intoinsignificance compared with the reception which greeted what he himselfannounced was to be the speech of the night. Having quaffed full many aquaigh of toddy, he insisted on delivering, it on the table, a propositionwith which his auditors immediately closed. 

The orator appeared, the great man of the night, who was to answereverybody on both sides. Ah! that harsh voice, that arrogant style, thatsaucy superficiality which decided on everything, that insolent ignorancethat contradicted everybody; it was impossible to mistake them! AndConingsby had the pleasure of seeing reproduced before him the guardian ofhis youth and the patron of the mimic, the Right Honourable NicholasRigby!

CHAPTER XII. 

Madame Colonna, with that vivacious energy which characterises the south, had no sooner seen Coningsby, and heard his praises celebrated by hisgrandfather, than she resolved that an alliance should sooner or latertake place between him and her step-daughter. She imparted her projectswithout delay to Lucretia, who received them in a different spirit fromthat in which they were communicated. Lucretia bore as little resemblanceto her step-mother in character, as in person. If she did not possess herbeauty, she was born with an intellect of far greater capacity and reach. She had a deep judgment. A hasty alliance with a youth, arranged by theirmutual relatives, might suit very well the clime and manners of Italy, butLucretia was well aware that it was altogether opposed to the habits andfeelings of this country. She had no conviction that either Coningsbywould wish to marry her, or, if willing, that his grandfather wouldsanction such a step in one as yet only on the threshold of the world. Lucretia therefore received the suggestions and proposals of MadarneColonna with coldness and indifference; one might even say contempt, forshe neither felt respect for this lady, nor was she sedulous to evince it. Although really younger than Coningsby, Lucretia felt that a woman ofeighteen is, in all worldly considerations, ten years older than a youthof the same age. She anticipated that a considerable time might elapsebefore Coningsby would feel it necessary to seal his destiny by marriage, while, on the other hand, she was not only anxious, but resolved, not todelay on her part her emancipation from the galling position in which shevery frequently found herself. 

Lucretia felt rather than expressed these ideas and impressions. She wasnot naturally communicative, and conversed with no one with less franknessand facility than with her step-mother. Madame Colonna therefore found noreasons in her conversation with Lucretia to change her determination. Asher mind was not ingenious she did not see questions in those variouslights which make us at the same time infirm of purpose and tolerant. Whatshe fancied ought to be done, she fancied must be done; for she perceivedno middle course or alternative. For the rest, Lucretia's carriage towardsher gave her little discomfort. Besides, she herself, though good-natured, was obstinate. Her feelings were not very acute; nothing much vexed her. As long as she had fine dresses, good dinners, and opera-boxes, she couldbear her plans to be crossed like a philosopher; and her consolation underher unaccomplished devices was her admirable consistency, which alwaysassured her that her projects were wise, though unfulfilled. 

She broke her purpose to Mr. Rigby, that she might gain not only hisadhesion to her views, but his assistance in achieving them. As MadameColonna, in Mr. Rigby's estimation, exercised more influence over LordMonmouth than any other individual, faithful to his policy or practice, heagreed with all Madame Colonna's plans and wishes, and volunteeredinstantly to further them. As for the Prince, his wife never consulted himon any subject, nor did he wish to be consulted. On the contrary, he hadno opinion about anything. All that he required was that he should besurrounded by what contributed to his personal enjoyment, that he shouldnever be troubled, and that he should have billiards. He was not inexpertin field-sports, rode indeed very well for an Italian, but he never caredto be out-of-doors; and there was only one room in the interior whichpassionately interested him. It was where the echoing balls denoted thesweeping hazard or the effective cannonade. That was the chamber where thePrince Colonna literally existed. Half-an-hour after breakfast he was inthe billiard-room; he never quitted it until he dressed for dinner; and hegenerally contrived, while the world were amused or amusing themselves atthe comedy or in the dance, to steal down with some congenial sprites tothe magical and illumined chamber, and use his cue until bedtime. 

Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia had made no difference in herdemeanour to Coningsby to that which she offered to the other guests. Polite, but uncommunicative; ready to answer, but never originatingconversation; she charmed him as little by her manner as by her person;and after some attempts, not very painstaking, to interest her, Coningsbyhad ceased to address her. The day passed by with only a faint recognitionbetween them; even that sometimes omitted. 

When, however, Lucretia observed that Coningsby had become one of the mostnotable persons in the Castle; when she heard everywhere of his talentsand accomplishments, his beauty and grace and great acquirements, andperceived that he was courted by all; that Lord Monmouth omitted nooccasion publicly to evince towards him his regard and consideration; thathe seemed generally looked upon in the light of his grandfather's heir;and that Lady St. Julians, more learned in that respect than any lady inthe kingdom, was heard more than once to regret that she had not broughtanother daughter with her, Clara Isabella, as well as Augustina; thePrincess Lucretia began to imagine that Madame Colonna, after all, mightnot be so extravagant in her purpose as she had first supposed. She, therefore, surprised Coningsby with the almost affectionate morosenesswith which, while she hated to sing, she yet found pleasure in singing forhim alone. And it is impossible to say what might not have been the nextmove in her tactics in this respect, had not the very night on which shehad resolved to commence the enchantment of Coningsby introduced to herSidonia. 

The Princess Lucretia encountered the dark still glance of the friend ofLord Eskdale. He, too, beheld a woman unlike other women, and with hisfine experience, both as a man and as a physiologist, felt that he was inthe presence of no ordinary organisation. From the evening of hisintroduction Sidonia sought the society of the Princess Lucretia. He couldnot complain of her reserve. She threw out her mind in various and highly-cultivated intelligence. He recognised in her a deep and subtile spirit, considerable reading for a woman, habits of thought, and a soul passionateand daring. She resolved to subdue one whose appreciation she had gained, and who had subdued her. The profound meaning and the calm manner ofSidonia combined to quell her spirit. She struggled against the spell. Shetried to rival his power; to cope with him, and with the same weapons. Butprompt as was her thought and bright as was its expression, her heart beatin tumult; and, with all her apparent serenity, her agitated soul was aprey of absorbing passion. She could not contend with that intelligent, yet inscrutable, eye; with that manner so full of interest and respect, and yet so tranquil. Besides, they were not on equal terms. Here was agirl contending with a man learned in the world's way. 

Between Sidonia and Coningsby there at once occurred companionship. Themorning after his arrival they went out shooting together. After a longramble they would stretch themselves on the turf under a shady tree, oftenby the side of some brook where the cresses grow, that added a luxury totheir sporting-meal; and then Coningsby would lead their conversation tosome subject on which Sidonia would pour out his mind with all that depthof reflection, variety of knowledge, and richness of illustrative memory, which distinguished him; and which offered so striking a contrast to thesharp talent, the shallow information, and the worldly cunning, that makea Rigby. 

This fellowship between Sidonia and Coningsby elevated the latter stillmore in the estimation of Lucretia, and rendered her still more desirousof gaining his good will and opinion. A great friendship seemed to havearisen between them, and the world began to believe that there must besome foundation for Madame Colonna's innuendos. That lady herself was notin the least alarmed by the attention which Sidonia paid her step-daughter. It was, of course, well known that Sidonia was not a marryingman. He was, however, a great friend of Mr. Coningsby, his presence andsociety brought Coningsby and Lucretia more together; and howeverflattered her daughter might be for the moment by Sidonia's homage, still, as she would ultimately find out, if indeed she ever cared so to do, thatSidonia could only be her admirer, Madame Colonna had no kind of doubtthat ultimately Coningsby would be Lucretia's husband, as she had arrangedfrom the first. 

The Princess Lucretia was a fine horse-woman, though she rarely joined thevarious riding-parties that were daily formed at the Castle. Often, indeed, attended only by her groom, she met the equestrians. Now she wouldride with Sidonia and Coningsby, and as a female companion wasindispensable, she insisted upon La Petite accompanying her. This was afearful trial for Flora, but she encountered it, encouraged by the kindsolicitude of Coningsby, who always seemed her friend. 

Very shortly after the arrival of Sidonia, the Grand-duke and his suitequitted the Castle, which had been his Highness' head-quarters during hisvisit to the manufacturing districts; but no other great change in theassembled company occurred for some little time. 

CHAPTER XIII. 

'You will observe one curious trait, ' said Sidonia to Coningsby, 'in thehistory of this country: the depository of power is always unpopular; allcombine against it; it always falls. Power was deposited in the greatBarons; the Church, using the King for its instrument, crushed the greatBarons. Power was deposited in the Church; the King, bribing theParliament, plundered the Church. Power was deposited in the King; theParliament, using the People, beheaded the King, expelled the King, changed the King, and, finally, for a King substituted an administrativeofficer. For one hundred and fifty years Power has been deposited in theParliament, and for the last sixty or seventy years it has been becomingmore and more unpopular. In 1830 it was endeavoured by a reconstruction toregain the popular affection; but, in truth, as the Parliament then onlymade itself more powerful, it has only become more odious. As we see thatthe Barons, the Church, the King, have in turn devoured each other, andthat the Parliament, the last devourer, remains, it is impossible toresist the impression that this body also is doomed to be destroyed; andhe is a sagacious statesman who may detect in what form and in whatquarter the great consumer will arise. '

'You take, then, a dark view of our position?'

'Troubled, not dark. I do not ascribe to political institutions thatparamount influence which it is the feeling of this age to attribute tothem. The Senate that confronted Brennus in the Forum was the same bodythat registered in an after-age the ribald decrees of a Nero. Trial byjury, for example, is looked upon by all as the Palladium of ourliberties; yet a jury, at a very recent period of our own history, thereign of Charles II. , was a tribunal as iniquitous as the Inquisition. 'And a graver expression stole over the countenance of Sidonia as heremembered what that Inquisition had operated on his own race and his owndestiny. 'There are families in this country, ' he continued, 'of both thegreat historical parties, that in the persecution of their houses, themurder and proscription of some of their most illustrious members, foundjudges as unjust and relentless in an open jury of their countrymen as wedid in the conclaves of Madrid and Seville. '

'Where, then, would you look for hope?'

'In what is more powerful than laws and institutions, and without whichthe best laws and the most skilful institutions may be a dead letter, orthe very means of tyranny in the national character. It is not in theincreased feebleness of its institutions that I see the peril of England;it is in the decline of its character as a community. '

'And yet you could scarcely describe this as an age of corruption?'

'Not of political corruption. But it is an age of social disorganisation, far more dangerous in its consequences, because far more extensive. Youmay have a corrupt government and a pure community; you may have a corruptcommunity and a pure administration. Which would you elect?'

Neither, ' said Coningsby; 'I wish to see a people full of faith, and agovernment full of duty. '

'Rely upon it, ' said Sidonia, 'that England should think more of thecommunity and less of the government. '

'But tell me, what do you understand by the term national character?'

'A character is an assemblage of qualities; the character of Englandshould be an assemblage of great qualities. '

'But we cannot deny that the English have great virtues. '

'The civilisation of a thousand years must produce great virtues; but weare speaking of the decline of public virtue, not its existence. '

'In what, then, do you trace that decline?'

'In the fact that the various classes of this country are arrayed againsteach other. '

'But to what do you attribute those reciprocal hostilities?'

'Not entirely, not even principally, to those economical causes of whichwe hear so much. I look upon all such as secondary causes, which, in acertain degree, must always exist, which obtrude themselves in troubledtimes, and which at all times it is the business of wise statesmen towatch, to regulate, to ameliorate, to modify. '

'I am speaking to elicit truth, not to maintain opinions, ' said Coningsby;'for I have none, ' he added, mournfully. 

'I think, ' said Sidonia, 'that there is no error so vulgar as to believethat revolutions are occasioned by economical causes. They come in, doubtless, very often to precipitate a catastrophe; very rarely do theyoccasion one. I know no period, for example, when physical comfort wasmore diffused in England than in 1640. England had a moderate population, a very improved agriculture, a rich commerce; yet she was on the eve ofthe greatest and most violent changes that she has as yet experienced. '

'That was a religious movement. '

'Admit it; the cause, then, was not physical. The imagination of Englandrose against the government. It proves, then, that when that faculty isastir in a nation, it will sacrifice even physical comfort to follow itsimpulses. '

'Do you think, then, there is a wild desire for extensive political changein the country?'

'Hardly that: England is perplexed at the present moment, not inventive. That will be the next phasis in her moral state, and to that I wish todraw your thoughts. For myself, while I ascribe little influence tophysical causes for the production of this perplexity, I am still less ofopinion that it can be removed by any new disposition of political power. It would only aggravate the evil. That would be recurring to the old errorof supposing you can necessarily find national content in politicalinstitutions. A political institution is a machine; the motive power isthe national character. With that it rests whether the machine willbenefit society, or destroy it. Society in this country is perplexed, almost paralysed; in time it will move, and it will devise. How are theelements of the nation to be again blended together? In what spirit isthat reorganisation to take place?'

'To know that would be to know everything. '

'At least let us free ourselves from the double ignorance of thePlatonists. Let us not be ignorant that we are ignorant. '

'I have emancipated myself from that darkness for a long time, 'saidConingsby. 'Long has my mind been musing over these thoughts, but to meall is still obscurity. '

'In this country, ' said Sidonia, 'since the peace, there has been anattempt to advocate a reconstruction of society on a purely rationalbasis. The principle of Utility has been powerfully developed. I speak notwith lightness of the labours of the disciples of that school. I bow tointellect in every form: and we should be grateful to any school ofphilosophers, even if we disagree with them; doubly grateful in thiscountry, where for so long a period our statesmen were in so pitiable anarrear of public intelligence. There has been an attempt to reconstructsociety on a basis of material motives and calculations. It has failed. Itmust ultimately have failed under any circumstances; its failure in anancient and densely-peopled kingdom was inevitable. How limited is humanreason, the profoundest inquirers are most conscious. We are not indebtedto the Reason of man for any of the great achievements which are thelandmarks of human action and human progress. It was not Reason thatbesieged Troy; it was not Reason that sent forth the Saracen from theDesert to conquer the world; that inspired the Crusades; that institutedthe Monastic orders; it was not Reason that produced the Jesuits; aboveall, it was not Reason that created the French Revolution. Man is onlytruly great when he acts from the passions; never irresistible but when heappeals to the imagination. Even Mormon counts more votaries thanBentham. '

'And you think, then, that as Imagination once subdued the State, Imagination may now save it?'

'Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not command him, if yougive him nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divinities, and finda chieftain in his own passions. '

'But where can we find faith in a nation of sectaries? Who can feelloyalty to a sovereign of Downing Street?'

'I speak of the eternal principles of human nature, you answer me with thepassing accidents of the hour. Sects rise and sects disappear. Where arethe Fifth-Monarchy men? England is governed by Downing Street; once it wasgoverned by Alfred and Elizabeth. '

CHAPTER XIV. 

About this time a steeple-chase in the West of England had attractedconsiderable attention. This sport was then of recent introduction inEngland, and is, in fact, an importation of Irish growth, although it hasflourished in our soil. A young guardsman, who was then a guest at theCastle, and who had been in garrison in Ireland, had some experience ofthis pastime in the Kildare country, and he proposed that they should havea steeple-chase at Coningsby. This was a suggestion very agreeable to theMarquess of Beaumanoir, celebrated for his feats of horsemanship, and, indeed, to most of the guests. It was agreed that the race should come offat once, before any of the present company, many of whom gave symptoms ofbeing on the wing, had quitted the Castle. The young guardsman and Mr. GuyFlouncey had surveyed the country and had selected a line which theyesteemed very appropriate for the scene of action. From a hill of commonland you looked down upon the valley of Coningsby, richly cultivated, deeply ditched, and stiffly fenced; the valley was bounded by anotherrising ground, and the scene was admirably calculated to give an extensiveview to a multitude. 

The distance along the valley was to be two miles out, and home again; thestarting-post being also the winning-post, and the flags, which wereplaced on every fence which the horses were to pass, were to be passed onthe left hand of the rider both going and coming; so that although thehorses had to leap the same fences forward and backward, they could notcome over the same place twice. In the last field before they turned, wasa brook seventeen feet clear from side to side, with good taking off bothbanks. Here real business commenced. 

Lord Monmouth highly approved the scheme, but mentioned that the stakesmust be moderate, and open to the whole county. The neighbourhood had aweek of preparation, and the entries for the Coningsby steeple-chase werenumerous. Lord Monmouth, after a reserve for his own account, placed hisstable at the service of his guests. For himself, he offered to back hishorse, Sir Robert, which was to be ridden by his grandson. 

Now, nothing was spoken or thought of at Coningsby Castle except thecoming sport. The ladies shared the general excitement. They embroideredhandkerchiefs, and scarfs, and gloves, with the respective colours of therivals, and tried to make jockey-caps. Lady St. Julians postponed herintended departure in consequence. Madame Colonna wished that some meanscould be contrived by which they might all win. 

Sidonia, with the other competitors, had ridden over the ground andglanced at the brook with the eye of a workman. On his return to theCastle he sent a despatch for some of his stud. 

Coningsby was all anxiety to win. He was proud of the confidence of hisgrandfather in backing him. He had a powerful horse and a firstratefencer, and he was resolved himself not to flinch. On the night before therace, retiring somewhat earlier than usual to his chamber, he observed onhis dressing-table a small packet addressed to his name, and in an unknownhandwriting. Opening it, he found a pretty racing-jacket embroidered withhis colours of pink and white. This was a perplexing circumstance, but hefancied it on the whole a happy omen. And who was the donor? Certainly notthe Princess Lucretia, for he had observed her fashioning some maroonribbons, which were the colours of Sidonia. It could scarcely be from Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Perhaps Madame Colonna to please the Marquess? Thinking overthis incident he fell asleep. 

The morning before the race Sidonia's horses arrived. All went to examinethem at the stables. Among them was an Arab mare. Coningsby recognisedthe Daughter of the Star. She was greatly admired for her points; but GuyFlouncey whispered to Mr. Melton that she never could do the work. 

'But Lord Beaumanoir says he is all for speed against strength in theseaffairs, ' said Mr. Melton. 

Guy Flouncey smiled incredulously. 

The night before the race it rained rather heavily. 

'I take it the country will not be very like the Deserts of Arabia, ' saidMr. Guy Flouncey, with a knowing look to Mr. Melton, who was noting a betin his memorandum-book. 

The morning was fine, clear, and sunny, with a soft western breeze. Thestarting-post was about three miles from the Castle; but, long before thehour, the surrounding hills were covered with people; squire and farmer;with no lack of their wives and daughters; many a hind in his smock-frock, and many an 'operative' from the neighbouring factories. The 'gentlemenriders' gradually arrived. The entries were very numerous, though it wasunderstood that not more than a dozen would come to the post, and half ofthese were the guests of Lord Monmouth. At half-past one the _cortège_from the Castle arrived, and took up the post which had been prepared forthem on the summit of the hill. Lord Monmouth was much cheered on hisarrival. In the carriage with him were Madame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. The Princess Lucretia, Lady Gaythorp, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other cavaliers, formed a brilliantcompany. There was scarcely a domestic in the Castle who was not there. The comedians, indeed, did not care to come, but Villebecque prevailedupon Flora to drive with him to the race in a buggy he borrowed of thesteward. 

The start was to be at two o'clock. The 'gentlemen jockeys' are mustered. Never were riders mounted and appointed in better style. The stewards andthe clerk of the course attend them to the starting-post. There they arenow assembled. Guy Flouncey takes up his stirrup-leathers a hole; Mr. Melton looks at his girths. In a few moments, the irrevocable monosyllablewill be uttered. 

The bugle sounds for them to face about; the clerk of the course singsout, 'Gentlemen, are you all ready?' No objection made, the word given togo, and fifteen riders start in excellent style. 

Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, took the lead, followed closeby a stout yeoman on an old white horse of great provincial celebrity, whomade steady running, and, from his appearance and action, an awkwardcustomer. The rest, with two exceptions, followed in a cluster at no greatdistance, and in this order they continued, with very slight variation, for the first two miles, though there were several ox-fences, and one ortwo of them remarkably stiff. Indeed, they appeared more like horsesrunning over a course than over a country. The two exceptions were LordBeaumanoir on his horse Sunbeam, and Sidonia on the Arab. These keptsomewhat slightly in the rear. 

Almost in this wise they approached the dreaded brook. Indeed, with theexception of the last two riders, who were about thirty yards behind, itseemed that you might have covered the rest of the field with a sheet. They arrived at the brook at the same moment: seventeen feet of waterbetween strong sound banks is no holiday work; but they charged withunfaltering intrepidity. But what a revolution in their spirited order didthat instant produce! A masked battery of canister and grape could nothave achieved more terrible execution. Coningsby alone clearly lighted onthe opposing bank; but, for the rest of them, it seemed for a moment thatthey were all in the middle of the brook, one over another, splashing, kicking, swearing; every one trying to get out and keep others in. Mr. Melton and the stout yeoman regained their saddles and were soon again inchase. The Prince lost his horse, and was not alone in his misfortune. Mr. Guy Flouncey lay on his back with a horse across his diaphragm; only hishead above the water, and his mouth full of chickweed and dockleaves. Andif help had not been at hand, he and several others might have remainedstruggling in their watery bed for a considerable period. In the midst ofthis turmoil, the Marquess and Sidonia at the same moment cleared thebrook. 

Affairs now became interesting. Here Coningsby took up the running, Sidonia and the Marquess lying close at his quarters. Mr. Melton had gonethe wrong side of a flag, and the stout yeoman, though close at hand, wasalready trusting much to his spurs. In the extreme distance might bedetected three or four stragglers. Thus they continued until within threefields of home. A ploughed field finished the old white horse; the yeomanstruck his spurs to the rowels, but the only effect of the experiment was, that the horse stood stock-still. Coningsby, Sidonia, and the Marquesswere now all together. The winning-post is in sight, and a high and stronggate leads to the last field. Coningsby, looking like a winner, gallantlydashed forward and sent Sir Robert at the gate, but he had over-estimatedhis horse's powers at this point of the game, and a rattling fall was theconsequence: however, horse and rider were both on the right side, andConingsby was in his saddle and at work again in a moment. It seemed thatthe Marquess was winning. There was only one more fence; and that the footpeople had made a breach in by the side of a gate-post, and wide enough, as was said, for a broad-wheeled waggon to travel by. Instead of passingstraight over this gap, Sunbeam swerved against the gate and threw hisrider. This was decisive. The Daughter of the Star, who was still goingbeautifully, pulling double, and her jockey sitting still, sprang over thegap and went in first; Coningsby, on Sir Robert, being placed second. Thedistance measured was about four miles; there were thirty-nine leaps; andit was done under fifteen minutes. 

Lord Monmouth was well content with the prowess of his grandson, and hisextreme cordiality consoled Coningsby under a defeat which was veryvexatious. It was some alleviation that he was beaten by Sidonia. MadameColonna even shed tears at her young friend's disappointment, and mournedit especially for Lucretia, who had said nothing, though a flush might beobserved on her usually pale countenance. Villebecque, who had betted, wasso extremely excited by the whole affair, especially during the last threeminutes, that he quite forgot his quiet companion, and when he lookedround he found Flora fainting. 

'You rode well, ' said Sidonia to Coningsby; 'but your horse was morestrong than swift. After all, this thing is a race; and, notwithstandingSolomon, in a race speed must win. '

CHAPTER XV. 

Notwithstanding the fatigues of the morning, the evening was passed withgreat gaiety at the Castle. The gentlemen all vowed that, far from beinginconvenienced by their mishaps, they felt, on the whole, rather betterfor them. Mr. Guy Flouncey, indeed, did not seem quite so limber andflexible as usual; and the young guardsman, who had previously discoursedin an almost alarming style of the perils and feats of the Kildarecountry, had subsided into a remarkable reserve. The Provincials weredelighted with Sidonia's riding, and even the Leicestershire gentlemenadmitted that he was a 'customer. '

Lord Monmouth beckoned to Coningsby to sit by him on the sofa, and spokeof his approaching University life. He gave his grandson a great deal ofgood advice: told him to avoid drinking, especially if he ever chanced toplay cards, which he hoped he never would; urged the expediency of neverborrowing money, and of confining his loans to small sums, and then onlyto friends of whom he wished to get rid; most particularly impressed onhim never to permit his feelings to be engaged by any woman; nobody, heassured Coningsby, despised that weakness more than women themselves. Indeed, feeling of any kind did not suit the present age: it was not _bonton_; and in some degree always made a man ridiculous. Coningsby wasalways to have before him the possible catastrophe of becoming ridiculous. It was the test of conduct, Lord Monmouth said; a fear of becomingridiculous is the best guide in life, and will save a man from all sortsof scrapes. For the rest, Coningsby was to appear at Cambridge as becameLord Monmouth's favourite grandson. His grandfather had opened an accountfor him with Drummonds', on whom he was to draw for his considerableallowance; and if by any chance he found himself in a scrape, no matter ofwhat kind, he was to be sure to write to his grandfather, who wouldcertainly get him out of it. 

'Your departure is sudden, ' said the Princess Lucretia, in a low deep toneto Sidonia, who was sitting by her side and screened from generalobservation by the waltzers who whirled by. 

'Departures should be sudden. '

'I do not like departures, ' said the Princess. 

'Nor did the Queen of Sheba when she quitted Solomon. You know what shedid?'

'Tell me. '

'She wept very much, and let one of the King's birds fly into the garden. "You are freed from your cage, " she said; "but I am going back to mine. "'

'But you never weep?' said the Princess. 

'Never. '

'And are always free?'

'So are men in the Desert. '

'But your life is not a Desert?'

'It at least resembles the Desert in one respect: it is useless. '

'The only useless life is woman's. '

'Yet there have been heroines, ' said Sidonia. 

'The Queen of Sheba, ' said the Princess, smiling. 

'A favourite of mine, ' said Sidonia. 

'And why was she a favourite of yours?' rather eagerly inquired Lucretia. 

'Because she thought deeply, talked finely, and moved gracefully. '

'And yet might be a very unfeeling dame at the same time, ' said thePrincess. 

'I never thought of that, ' said Sidonia. 

'The heart, apparently, does not reckon in your philosophy. '

'What we call the heart, ' said Sidonia, 'is a nervous sensation, likeshyness, which gradually disappears in society. It is fervent in thenursery, strong in the domestic circle, tumultuous at school. Theaffections are the children of ignorance; when the horizon of ourexperience expands, and models multiply, love and admiration imperceptiblyvanish. '

'I fear the horizon of your experience has very greatly expanded. Withyour opinions, what charm can there be in life?'

'The sense of existence. '

'So Sidonia is off to-morrow, Monmouth, ' said Lord Eskdale. 

'Hah!' said the Marquess. 'I must get him to breakfast with me before hegoes. '

The party broke up. Coningsby, who had heard Lord Eskdale announceSidonia's departure, lingered to express his regret, and say farewell. 

'I cannot sleep, ' said Sidonia, 'and I never smoke in Europe. If you arenot stiff with your wounds, come to my rooms. '

This invitation was willingly accepted. 

'I am going to Cambridge in a week, ' said Coningsby. I was almost in hopesyou might have remained as long. '

'I also; but my letters of this morning demand me. If it had not been forour chase, I should have quitted immediately. The minister cannot pay theinterest on the national debt; not an unprecedented circumstance, and hasapplied to us. I never permit any business of State to be transactedwithout my personal interposition; and so I must go up to townimmediately. '

'Suppose you don't pay it, ' said Coningsby, smiling. 

'If I followed my own impulse, I would remain here, ' said Sidonia. 'Cananything be more absurd than that a nation should apply to an individualto maintain its credit, and, with its credit, its existence as an empire, and its comfort as a people; and that individual one to whom its laws denythe proudest rights of citizenship, the privilege of sitting in its senateand of holding land? for though I have been rash enough to buy severalestates, my own opinion is, that, by the existing law of England, anEnglishman of Hebrew faith cannot possess the soil. '

'But surely it would be easy to repeal a law so illiberal--'

'Oh! as for illiberality, I have no objection to it if it be an element ofpower. Eschew political sentimentalism. What I contend is, that if youpermit men to accumulate property, and they use that permission to a greatextent, power is inseparable from that property, and it is in the lastdegree impolitic to make it the interest of any powerful class to opposethe institutions under which they live. The Jews, for example, independently of the capital qualities for citizenship which they possessin their industry, temperance, and energy and vivacity of mind, are a raceessentially monarchical, deeply religious, and shrinking themselves fromconverts as from a calamity, are ever anxious to see the religious systemsof the countries in which they live flourish; yet, since your society hasbecome agitated in England, and powerful combinations menace yourinstitutions, you find the once loyal Hebrew invariably arrayed in thesame ranks as the leveller, and the latitudinarian, and prepared tosupport the policy which may even endanger his life and property, ratherthan tamely continue under a system which seeks to degrade him. The Torieslose an important election at a critical moment; 'tis the Jews comeforward to vote against them. The Church is alarmed at the scheme of alatitudinarian university, and learns with relief that funds are notforthcoming for its establishment; a Jew immediately advances and endowsit. Yet the Jews, Coningsby, are essentially Tories. Toryism, indeed, isbut copied from the mighty prototype which has fashioned Europe. And everygeneration they must become more powerful and more dangerous to thesociety which is hostile to them. Do you think that the quiet humdrumpersecution of a decorous representative of an English university cancrush those who have successively baffled the Pharaohs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and the Feudal ages? The fact is, you cannot destroy a pure race ofthe Caucasian organisation. It is a physiological fact; a simple law ofnature, which has baffled Egyptian and Assyrian Kings, Roman Emperors, andChristian Inquisitors. No penal laws, no physical tortures, can effectthat a superior race should be absorbed in an inferior, or be destroyed byit. The mixed persecuting races disappear; the pure persecuted raceremains. And at this moment, in spite of centuries, of tens of centuries, of degradation, the Jewish mind exercises a vast influence on the affairsof Europe. I speak not of their laws, which you still obey; of theirliterature, with which your minds are saturated; but of the living Hebrewintellect. 

'You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe in which theJews do not greatly participate. The first Jesuits were Jews; thatmysterious Russian Diplomacy which so alarms Western Europe is organisedand principally carried on by Jews; that mighty revolution which is atthis moment preparing in Germany, and which will be, in fact, a second andgreater Reformation, and of which so little is as yet known in England, isentirely developing under the auspices of Jews, who almost monopolise theprofessorial chairs of Germany. Neander, the founder of SpiritualChristianity, and who is Regius Professor of Divinity in the University ofBerlin, is a Jew. Benary, equally famous, and in the same University, is aJew. Wehl, the Arabic Professor of Heidelberg, is a Jew. Years ago, when Iwas In Palestine, I met a German student who was accumulating materialsfor the History of Christianity, and studying the genius of the place; amodest and learned man. It was Wehl; then unknown, since become the firstArabic scholar of the day, and the author of the life of Mahomet. But forthe German professors of this race, their name is Legion. I think thereare more than ten at Berlin alone. 

'I told you just now that I was going up to town tomorrow, because Ialways made it a rule to interpose when affairs of State were on thecarpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of peace and war innewspapers, but I am never alarmed, except when I am informed that theSovereigns want treasure; then I know that monarchs are serious. 

'A few years back we were applied, to by Russia. Now, there has been nofriendship between the Court of St. Petersburg and my family. It has Dutchconnections, which have generally supplied it; and our representations infavour of the Polish Hebrews, a numerous race, but the most suffering anddegraded of all the tribes, have not been very agreeable to the Czar. However, circumstances drew to an approximation between the Romanoffs andthe Sidonias. I resolved to go myself to St. Petersburg. I had, on myarrival, an interview with the Russian Minister of Finance, Count Cancrin;I beheld the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The loan was connected with theaffairs of Spain; I resolved on repairing to Spain from Russia. Itravelled without intermission. I had an audience immediately on myarrival with the Spanish Minister, Senor Mendizabel; I beheld one likemyself, the son of a Nuevo Christiano, a Jew of Arragon. In consequence ofwhat transpired at Madrid, I went straight to Paris to consult thePresident of the French Council; I beheld the son of a French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, and very properly so, for who should be militaryheroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts?'

'And is Soult a Hebrew?'

'Yes, and others of the French marshals, and the most famous; Massena, forexample; his real name was Manasseh: but to my anecdote. The consequenceof our consultations was, that some Northern power should be applied to ina friendly and mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia; and the Presidentof the Council made an application to the Prussian Minister, who attendeda few days after our conference. Count Arnim entered the cabinet, and Ibeheld a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear Coningsby, that the world isgoverned by very different personages from what is imagined by those whoare not behind the scenes. '

'You startle, and deeply interest me. '

'You must study physiology, my dear child. Pure races of Caucasus may bepersecuted, but they cannot be despised, except by the brutal ignorance ofsome mongrel breed, that brandishes fagots and howls extermination, but isitself exterminated without persecution, by that irresistible law ofNature which is fatal to curs. '

'But I come also from Caucasus, ' said Coningsby. 

'Verily; and thank your Creator for such a destiny: and your race issufficiently pure. You come from the shores of the Northern Sea, land ofthe blue eye, and the golden hair, and the frank brow: 'tis a famousbreed, with whom we Arabs have contended long; from whom we have sufferedmuch: but these Goths, and Saxons, and Normans were doubtless great men. '

'But so favoured by Nature, why has not your race produced great poets, great orators, great writers?'

'Favoured by Nature and by Nature's God, we produced the lyre of David; wegave you Isaiah and Ezekiel; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. Favoured by Nature we still remain: but in exact proportion as we havebeen favoured by Nature we have been persecuted by Man. After a thousandstruggles; after acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equalled;deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage havenever excelled; we have endured fifteen hundred years of supernaturalslavery, during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man hasbeen the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child hasentered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of thatungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fineportion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a public;we have been content with the immortal melodies that we sung more than twothousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record ourtriumphs; they solace our affliction. Great orators are the creatures ofpopular assemblies; we were permitted only by stealth to meet even in ourtemples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not blank. What areall the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? And as for modernphilosophy, all springs from Spinoza. 

'But the passionate and creative genius, that is the nearest link toDivinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert it;that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence; has found a medium for itsexpression, to which, in spite of your prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming withcombinations, the imagination fervent with picture and emotion, that camefrom Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpolluted, have endowed uswith almost the exclusive privilege of Music; that science of harmonioussounds, which the ancients recognised as most divine, and deified in theperson of their most beautiful creation. I speak not of the past; though, were I to enter into the history of the lords of melody, you would find itthe annals of Hebrew genius. But at this moment even, musical Europe isours. There is not a company of singers, not an orchestra in a singlecapital, that is not crowded with our children under the feigned nameswhich they adopt to conciliate the dark aversion which your posterity willsome day disclaim with shame and disgust. Almost every great composer, skilled musician, almost every voice that ravishes you with itstransporting strains, springs from our tribes. The catalogue is too vastto enumerate; too illustrious to dwell for a moment on secondary names, however eminent. Enough for us that the three great creative minds towhose exquisite inventions all nations at this moment yield, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, are of Hebrew race; and little do your men offashion, your muscadins of Paris, and your dandies of London, as theythrill into raptures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi, little do theysuspect that they are offering their homage to "the sweet singers ofIsrael!"'

CHAPTER XVI. 

It was the noon of the day on which Sidonia was to leave the Castle. Thewind was high; the vast white clouds scudded over the blue heaven; theleaves yet green, and tender branches snapped like glass, were whirled ineddies from the trees; the grassy sward undulated like the ocean with athousand tints and shadows. From the window of the music-room LucretiaColonna gazed on the turbulent sky. 

The heaven of her heart, too, was disturbed. 

She turned from the agitated external world to ponder over her inwardemotion. She uttered a deep sigh. 

Slowly she moved towards her harp; wildly, almost unconsciously, shetouched with one hand its strings, while her eyes were fixed on theground. An imperfect melody resounded; yet plaintive and passionate. Itseemed to attract her soul. She raised her head, and then, touching thestrings with both her hands, she poured forth tones of deep, yet thrillingpower. 

 'I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee? To the castle of my fathers in the green mountains; to the palace of my fathers in the ancient city? There is no flag on the castle of my fathers in the green mountains, silent is the palace of my fathers in the ancient city. Is there no home for the homeless? Can the unloved never find love? Ah! thou fliest away, fleet cloud: he will leave us swifter than thee! Alas! cutting wind, thy breath is not so cold as his heart! I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee?'

The door of the music-room slowly opened. It was Sidonia. His hat was inhis hand; he was evidently on the point of departure. 

'Those sounds assured me, ' he said calmly but kindly, as he advanced, 'that I might find you here, on which I scarcely counted at so early anhour. '

'You are going then?' said the Princess. 

'My carriage is at the door; the Marquess has delayed me; I must be inLondon to-night. I conclude more abruptly than I could have wished one ofthe most agreeable visits I ever made; and I hope you will permit me toexpress to you how much I am indebted to you for a society which thoseshould deem themselves fortunate who can more frequently enjoy. '

He held forth his hand; she extended hers, cold as marble, which he bentover, but did not press to his lips. 

'Lord Monmouth talks of remaining here some time, ' he observed; 'but Isuppose next year, if not this, we shall all meet in some city of theearth?'

Lucretia bowed; and Sidonia, with a graceful reverence, withdrew. 

The Princess Lucretia stood for some moments motionless; a sound attractedher to the window; she perceived the equipage of Sidonia whirling alongthe winding roads of the park. She watched it till it disappeared; thenquitting the window, she threw herself into a chair, and buried her facein her shawl. 

END OF BOOK IV. 

BOOK V. 

CHAPTER I. 

An University life did not bring to Coningsby that feeling of emancipationusually experienced by freshmen. The contrast between school and collegelife is perhaps, under any circumstances, less striking to the Etonianthan to others: he has been prepared for becoming his own master by theliberty wisely entrusted to him in his boyhood, and which is, in general, discreetly exercised. But there were also other reasons why Coningsbyshould have been less impressed with the novelty of his life, and haveencountered less temptations than commonly are met with in the newexistence which an University opens to youth. In the interval which hadelapsed between quitting Eton and going to Cambridge, brief as the periodmay comparatively appear, Coningsby had seen much of the world. Three orfour months, indeed, may not seem, at the first blush, a course of timewhich can very materially influence the formation of character; but timemust not be counted by calendars, but by sensations, by thought. Coningsbyhad felt a good deal, reflected more. He had encountered a great number ofhuman beings, offering a vast variety of character for his observation. Itwas not merely manners, but even the intellectual and moral development ofthe human mind, which in a great degree, unconsciously to himself, hadbeen submitted to his study and his scrutiny. New trains of ideas had beenopened to him; his mind was teeming with suggestions. The horizon of hisintelligence had insensibly expanded. He perceived that there were otheropinions in the world, besides those to which he had been habituated. Thedepths of his intellect had been stirred. He was a wiser man. 

He distinguished three individuals whose acquaintance had greatlyinfluenced his mind; Eustace Lyle, the elder Millbank, above all, Sidonia. He curiously meditated over the fact, that three English subjects, one ofthem a principal landed proprietor, another one of the most eminentmanufacturers, and the third the greatest capitalist in the kingdom, allof them men of great intelligence, and doubtless of a high probity andconscience, were in their hearts disaffected with the politicalconstitution of the country. Yet, unquestionably, these were the men amongwhom we ought to seek for some of our first citizens. What, then, was thisrepulsive quality in those institutions which we persisted in callingnational, and which once were so? Here was a great question. 

There was another reason, also, why Coningsby should feel a littlefastidious among his new habits, and, without being aware of it, a littledepressed. For three or four months, and for the first time in his life, he had passed his time in the continual society of refined and charmingwomen. It is an acquaintance which, when habitual, exercises a greatinfluence over the tone of the mind, even if it does not produce any moreviolent effects. It refines the taste, quickens the perception, and gives, as it were, a grace and flexibility to the intellect. Coningsby in hissolitary rooms arranging his books, sighed when he recalled the LadyEveringhams and the Lady Theresas; the gracious Duchess; the frank, good-natured Madame Colonna; that deeply interesting enigma the PrincessLucretia; and the gentle Flora. He thought with disgust of the impendingdissipation of an University, which could only be an exaggeration of theircoarse frolics at school. It seemed rather vapid this mighty Cambridge, over which they had so often talked in the playing fields of Eton, withsuch anticipations of its vast and absorbing interest. And thoseUniversity honours that once were the great object of his aspirations, they did not figure in that grandeur with which they once haunted hisimagination. 

What Coningsby determined to conquer was knowledge. He had watched theinfluence of Sidonia in society with an eye of unceasing vigilance. Coningsby perceived that all yielded to him; that Lord Monmouth even, whoseemed to respect none, gave place to his intelligence; appealed to him, listened to him, was guided by him. What was the secret of this influence?Knowledge. On all subjects, his views were prompt and clear, and this notmore from his native sagacity and reach of view, than from the aggregateof facts which rose to guide his judgment and illustrate his meaning, fromall countries and all ages, instantly at his command. 

The friends of Coningsby were now hourly arriving. It seemed when he metthem again, that they had all suddenly become men since they hadseparated; Buckhurst especially. He had been at Paris, and returned withhis mind very much opened, and trousers made quite in a new style. All histhoughts were, how soon he could contrive to get back again; and he toldthem endless stories of actresses, and dinners at fashionable _cafés_. Vere enjoyed Cambridge most, because he had been staying with his familysince he quitted Eton. Henry Sydney was full of church architecture, national sports, restoration of the order of the Peasantry, and was tomaintain a constant correspondence on these and similar subjects withEustace Lyle. Finally, however, they all fell into a very fair, regular, routine life. They all read a little, but not with the enthusiasm whichthey had once projected. Buckhurst drove four-in-hand, and they all ofthem sometimes assisted him; but not immoderately. Their suppers weresometimes gay, but never outrageous; and, among all of them, the schoolfriendship was maintained unbroken, and even undisturbed. 

The fame of Coningsby preceded him at Cambridge. No man ever went up fromwhom more was expected in every way. The dons awaited a sucking member forthe University, the undergraduates were prepared to welcome a newAlcibiades. He was neither: neither a prig nor a profligate; but a quiet, gentlemanlike, yet spirited young man, gracious to all, but intimate onlywith his old friends, and giving always an impression in his general tonethat his soul was not absorbed in his University. 

And yet, perhaps, he might have been coddled into a prig, or flatteredinto a profligate, had it not been for the intervening experience which hehad gained between his school and college life. That had visibly impressedupon him, what before he had only faintly acquired from books, that therewas a greater and more real world awaiting him, than to be found in thosebowers of Academus to which youth is apt at first to attribute anexaggerated importance. A world of action and passion, of power and peril;a world for which a great preparation was indeed necessary, severe andprofound, but not altogether such an one as was now offered to him. Yetthis want must be supplied, and by himself. Coningsby had alreadyacquirements sufficiently considerable, with some formal application, toensure him at all times his degree. He was no longer engrossed by theintention he once proudly entertained of trying for honours, and hechalked out for himself that range of reading, which, digested by histhought, should furnish him in some degree with that various knowledge ofthe history of man to which he aspired. No, we must not for a momentbelieve that accident could have long diverted the course of a characterso strong. The same desire that prevented the Castle of his grandfatherfrom proving a Castle of Indolence to him, that saved him from a too earlyinitiation into the seductive distractions of a refined and luxurioussociety, would have preserved Coningsby from the puerile profligacy of acollege life, or from being that idol of private tutors, a young pedant. It was that noble ambition, the highest and the best, that must be born inthe heart and organised in the brain, which will not let a man be content, unless his intellectual power is recognised by his race, and desires thatit should contribute to their welfare. It is the heroic feeling; thefeeling that in old days produced demigods; without which no State issafe; without which political institutions are meat without salt; theCrown a bauble, the Church an establishment, Parliaments debating-clubs, and Civilisation itself but a fitful and transient dream. 

CHAPTER II. 

Less than a year after the arrival of Coningsby at Cambridge, and which hehad only once quitted in the interval, and that to pass a short time inBerkshire with his friend Buckhurst, occurred the death of King WilliamIV. This event necessarily induced a dissolution of the Parliament, elected under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel in 1834, and after thepublication of the Tamworth Manifesto. 

The death of the King was a great blow to what had now come to begenerally styled the 'Conservative Cause. ' It was quite unexpected; withina fortnight of his death, eminent persons still believed that 'it was onlythe hay-fever. ' Had his Majesty lived until after the then impendingregistration, the Whigs would have been again dismissed. Nor is there anydoubt that, under these circumstances, the Conservative Cause would havesecured for the new ministers a parliamentary majority. What would havebeen the consequences to the country, if the four years of Whig rule, from1837 to 1841, had not occurred? It is easier to decide what would havebeen the consequences to the Whigs. Some of their great friends might havelacked blue ribbons and lord-lieutenancies, and some of their littlefriends comfortable places in the Customs and Excise. They would havelost, undoubtedly, the distribution of four years' patronage; we canhardly say the exercise of four years' power; but they would have existedat this moment as the most powerful and popular Opposition that everflourished in this country, if, indeed, the course of events had not longere this carried them back to their old posts in a proud and intelligibleposition. The Reform Bill did not do more injury to the Tories, than theattempt to govern this country without a decided Parliamentary majoritydid the Whigs. The greatest of all evils is a weak government. They cannotcarry good measures, they are forced to carry bad ones. 

The death of the King was a great blow to the Conservative Cause; that isto say, it darkened the brow of Tadpole, quailed the heart of Taper, crushed all the rising hopes of those numerous statesmen who believe thecountry must be saved if they receive twelve hundred a-year. It is apeculiar class, that; 1, 200_l. _ per annum, paid quarterly, is their ideaof political science and human nature. To receive 1, 200_l. _ per annum isgovernment; to try to receive 1, 200_l. _ per annum is opposition; to wishto receive 1, 200_l. _ per annum is ambition. If a man wants to get intoParliament, and does not want to get 1, 200_l. _ per annum, they look uponhim as daft; as a benighted being. They stare in each other's face, andask, 'What can ***** want to get into Parliament for?' They have noconception that public reputation is a motive power, and with many men thegreatest. They have as much idea of fame or celebrity, even of themasculine impulse of an honourable pride, as eunuchs of manly joys. 

The twelve-hundred-a-yearers were in despair about the King's death. Theirloyal souls were sorely grieved that his gracious Majesty had not outlivedthe Registration. All their happy inventions about 'hay-fever, ' circulatedin confidence, and sent by post to chairmen of Conservative Associations, followed by a royal funeral! General election about to take place with theold registration; government boroughs against them, and the young Queenfor a cry. What a cry! Youth, beauty, and a Queen! Taper grew pale at thethought. What could they possibly get up to countervail it? Even Churchand Corn-laws together would not do; and then Church was sulky, for theConservative Cause had just made it a present of a commission, and allthat the country gentlemen knew of Conservatism was, that it would notrepeal the Malt Tax, and had made them repeal their pledges. Yet a crymust be found. A dissolution without a cry, in the Taper philosophy, wouldbe a world without a sun. A rise might be got by 'Independence of theHouse of Lords;' and Lord Lyndhurst's summaries might be well circulatedat one penny per hundred, large discount allowed to ConservativeAssociations, and endless credit. Tadpole, however, was never very fond ofthe House of Lords; besides, it was too limited. Tadpole wanted the youngQueen brought in; the rogue! At length, one morning, Taper came up to himwith a slip of paper, and a smile of complacent austerity on his dullvisage, 'I think, Mr. Tadpole, that will do!'

Tadpole took the paper and read, 'OUR YOUNG QUEEN, AND OUR OLDINSTITUTIONS. '

The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had met a gnomic sentence ofPeriander or Thales; then turning to Taper, he said, 'What do you think of "ancient, " instead of "old"?'

'You cannot have "Our modern Queen and our ancient Institutions, "' saidMr. Taper. 

The dissolution was soon followed by an election for the borough ofCambridge. The Conservative Cause candidate was an old Etonian. That was abond of sympathy which imparted zeal even to those who were a littlesceptical of the essential virtues of Conservatism. Every undergraduateespecially who remembered 'the distant spires, ' became enthusiastic. Buckhurst took a very decided part. He cheered, he canvassed, he broughtmen to the poll whom none could move; he influenced his friends and hiscompanions. Even Coningsby caught the contagion, and Vere, who had imbibedmuch of Coningsby's political sentiment, prevailed on himself to beneutral. The Conservative Cause triumphed in the person of its Etonchampion. The day the member was chaired, several men in Coningsby's roomswere talking over their triumph. 

'By Jove!' said the panting Buckhurst, throwing himself on the sofa, 'itwas well done; never was any thing better done. An immense triumph! Thegreatest triumph the Conservative Cause has had. And yet, ' he added, laughing, 'if any fellow were to ask me what the Conservative Cause is, Iam sure I should not know what to say. '

'Why, it is the cause of our glorious institutions, ' said Coningsby. 'ACrown robbed of its prerogatives; a Church controlled by a commission; andan Aristocracy that does not lead. '

'Under whose genial influence the order of the Peasantry, "a country'spride, " has vanished from the face of the land, ' said Henry Sydney, 'andis succeeded by a race of serfs, who are called labourers, and who burnricks. '

'Under which, ' continued Coningsby, 'the Crown has become a cipher; theChurch a sect; the Nobility drones; and the People drudges. '

'It is the great constitutional cause, ' said Lord Vere, 'that refuseseverything to opposition; yields everything to agitation; conservative inParliament, destructive out-of-doors; that has no objection to any changeprovided only it be effected by unauthorised means. '

'The first public association of men, ' said Coningsby, 'who have workedfor an avowed end without enunciating a single principle. '

'And who have established political infidelity throughout the land, ' saidLord Henry. 

'By Jove!' said Buckhurst, 'what infernal fools we have made ourselvesthis last week!'

'Nay, ' said Coningsby, smiling, 'it was our last schoolboy weakness. Floreat Etona, under all circumstances. '

'I certainly, Coningsby, ' said Lord Vere, 'shall not assume theConservative Cause, instead of the cause for which Hampden died in thefield, and Sydney on the scaffold. '

'The cause for which Hampden died in the field and Sydney on thescaffold, ' said Coningsby, 'was the cause of the Venetian Republic. '

'How, how?' cried Buckhurst. 

'I repeat it, ' said Coningsby. 'The great object of the Whig leaders inEngland from the first movement under Hampden to the last most successfulone in 1688, was to establish in England a high aristocratic republic onthe model of the Venetian, then the study and admiration of allspeculative politicians. Read Harrington; turn over Algernon Sydney; thenyou will see how the minds of the English leaders in the seventeenthcentury were saturated with the Venetian type. And they at lengthsucceeded. William III. Found them out. He told the Whig leaders, "I willnot be a Doge. " He balanced parties; he baffled them as the Puritansbaffled them fifty years before. The reign of Anne was a struggle betweenthe Venetian and the English systems. Two great Whig nobles, Argyle andSomerset, worthy of seats in the Council of Ten, forced their Sovereign onher deathbed to change the ministry. They accomplished their object. Theybrought in a new family on their own terms. George I. Was a Doge; GeorgeII. Was a Doge; they were what William III. , a great man, would not be. George III. Tried not to be a Doge, but it was impossible materially toresist the deeply-laid combination. He might get rid of the Whigmagnificoes, but he could not rid himself of the Venetian constitution. And a Venetian constitution did govern England from the accession of theHouse of Hanover until 1832. Now I do not ask you, Vere, to relinquish thepolitical tenets which in ordinary times would have been your inheritance. All I say is, the constitution introduced by your ancestors having beensubverted by their descendants your contemporaries, beware of stillholding Venetian principles of government when you have not a Venetianconstitution to govern with. Do what I am doing, what Henry Sydney andBuckhurst are doing, what other men that I could mention are doing, holdyourself aloof from political parties which, from the necessity of things, have ceased to have distinctive principles, and are therefore practicallyonly factions; and wait and see, whether with patience, energy, honour, and Christian faith, and a desire to look to the national welfare and notto sectional and limited interests; whether, I say, we may not discoversome great principles to guide us, to which we may adhere, and which then, if true, will ultimately guide and control others. '

'The Whigs are worn out, ' said Vere, 'Conservatism is a sham, andRadicalism is pollution. '

'I certainly, ' said Buckhurst, 'when I get into the House of Commons, shall speak my mind without reference to any party whatever; and all Ihope is, we may all come in at the same time, and then we may make a partyof our own. '

'I have always heard my father say, ' said Vere, 'that there was nothing sodifficult as to organise an independent party in the House of Commons. '

'Ay! but that was in the Venetian period, Vere, ' said Henry Sydney, smiling. 

'I dare say, ' said Buckhurst, 'the only way to make a party in the Houseof Commons is just the one that succeeds anywhere else. Men must associatetogether. When you are living in the same set, dining together every day, and quizzing the Dons, it is astonishing how well men agree. As for me, Inever would enter into a conspiracy, unless the conspirators were fellowswho had been at Eton with me; and then there would be no treachery. '

'Let us think of principles, and not of parties, ' said Coningsby. 

'For my part, ' said Buckhurst, 'whenever a political system is breakingup, as in this country at present, I think the very best thing is to brushall the old Dons off the stage. They never take to the new road kindly. They are always hampered by their exploded prejudices and obsoletetraditions. I don't think a single man, Vere, that sat in the VenetianSenate ought to be allowed to sit in the present English House ofCommons. '

'Well, no one does in our family except my uncle Philip, ' said Lord Henry;'and the moment I want it, he will resign; for he detests Parliament. Itinterferes so with his hunting. '

'Well, we all have fair parliamentary prospects, ' said Buckhurst. 'That issomething. I wish we were in now. '

'Heaven forbid!' said Coningsby. 'I tremble at the responsibility of aseat at any time. With my present unsettled and perplexed views, there isnothing from which I should recoil so much as the House of Commons. '

'I quite agree with you, ' said Henry Sydney. 'The best thing we can do isto keep as clear of political party as we possibly can. How many men wastethe best part of their lives in painfully apologising for conscientiousdeviation from a parliamentary course which they adopted when they wereboys, without thought, or prompted by some local connection, or interest, to secure a seat. '

It was the midnight following the morning when this conversation tookplace, that Coningsby, alone, and having just quitted a rather boisterousparty of wassailers who had been celebrating at Buckhurst's rooms thetriumph of 'Eton Statesmen, ' if not of Conservative principles, stopped inthe precincts of that Royal College that reminded him of his schooldays, to cool his brow in the summer air, that even at that hour was soft, andto calm his mind in the contemplation of the still, the sacred, and thebeauteous scene that surrounded him. 

There rose that fane, the pride and boast of Cambridge, not unworthy torank among the chief temples of Christendom. Its vast form was exaggeratedin the uncertain hour; part shrouded in the deepest darkness, while aflood of silver light suffused its southern side, distinguished withrevealing beam the huge ribs of its buttresses, and bathed with mildlustre its airy pinnacles. 

'Where is the spirit that raised these walls?' thought Coningsby. 'Is itindeed extinct? Is then this civilisation, so much vaunted, inseparablefrom moderate feelings and little thoughts? If so, give me back barbarism!But I cannot believe it. Man that is made in the image of the Creator, ismade for God-like deeds. Come what come may, I will cling to the heroicprinciple. It can alone satisfy my soul. '

CHAPTER III. 

We must now revert to the family, or rather the household, of LordMonmouth, in which considerable changes and events had occurred since thevisit of Coningsby to the Castle in the preceding autumn. 

In the first place, the earliest frost of the winter had carried off theaged proprietor of Hellingsley, that contiguous estate which Lord Monmouthso much coveted, the possession of which was indeed one of the few objectsof his life, and to secure which he was prepared to pay far beyond itsintrinsic value, great as that undoubtedly was. Yet Lord Monmouth did notbecome its possessor. Long as his mind had been intent upon the subject, skilful as had been his combinations to secure his prey, and unlimited themeans which were to achieve his purpose, another stepped in, and withouthis privity, without even the consolation of a struggle, stole away theprize; and this too a man whom he hated, almost the only individual out ofhis own family that he did hate; a man who had crossed him before insimilar enterprises; who was his avowed foe; had lavished treasure tooppose him in elections; raised associations against his interest;established journals to assail him; denounced him in public; agitatedagainst him in private; had declared more than once that he would make'the county too hot for him;' his personal, inveterate, indomitable foe, Mr. Millbank of Millbank. 

The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disappointment to Lord Monmouth; butthe loss of it to such an adversary touched him to the quick. He did notseek to control his anger; he could not succeed even in concealing hisagitation. He threw upon Rigby that glance so rare with him, but underwhich men always quailed; that play of the eye which Lord Monmouth sharedin common with Henry VIII. , that struck awe into the trembling Commonswhen they had given an obnoxious vote, as the King entered the gallery ofhis palace, and looked around him. 

It was a look which implied that dreadful question, 'Why have I bought youthat such things should happen? Why have I unlimited means andunscrupulous agents?' It made Rigby even feel; even his brazen tones werehushed. 

To fly from everything disagreeable was the practical philosophy of LordMonmouth; but he was as brave as he was sensual. He would not shrinkbefore the new proprietor of Hellingsley. He therefore remained at theCastle with an aching heart, and redoubled his hospitalities. An ordinarymind might have been soothed by the unceasing consideration and theskilful and delicate flattery that ever surrounded Lord Monmouth; but hissagacious intelligence was never for a moment the dupe of his vanity. Hehad no self-love, and as he valued no one, there were really no feelingsto play upon. He saw through everybody and everything; and when he haddetected their purpose, discovered their weakness or their vileness, hecalculated whether they could contribute to his pleasure or hisconvenience in a degree that counterbalanced the objections which might beurged against their intentions, or their less pleasing and profitablequalities. To be pleased was always a principal object with Lord Monmouth;but when a man wants vengeance, gay amusement is not exactly asatisfactory substitute. 

A month elapsed. Lord Monmouth with a serene or smiling visage to hisguests, but in private taciturn and morose, scarcely ever gave a word toMr. Rigby, but continually bestowed on him glances which painfullyaffected the appetite of that gentleman. In a hundred ways it wasintimated to Mr. Rigby that he was not a welcome guest, and yet somethingwas continually given him to do which rendered it impossible for him totake his departure. In this state of affairs, another event occurred whichchanged the current of feeling, and by its possible consequencesdistracted the Marquess from his brooding meditations over hisdiscomfiture in the matter of Hellingsley. The Prince Colonna, who, sincethe steeple-chase, had imbibed a morbid predilection for such amusements, and indeed for every species of rough-riding, was thrown from his horseand killed on the spot. 

This calamity broke up the party at Coningsby, which was not at the momentvery numerous. Mr. Rigby, by command, instantly seized the opportunity ofpreventing the arrival of other guests who were expected. This catastrophewas the cause of Mr. Rigby resuming in a great measure his old position inthe Castle. There were a great many things to be done, and alldisagreeable; he achieved them all, and studied everybody's convenience. Coroners' inquests, funerals especially, weeping women, these were allspectacles which Lord Monmouth could not endure, but he was so high-bred, that he would not for the world that there should be in manner or degreethe slightest deficiency in propriety or even sympathy. But he wantedsomebody to do everything that was proper; to be considerate and consolingand sympathetic. Mr. Rigby did it all; gave evidence at the inquest, waschief mourner at the funeral, and arranged everything so well that not asingle emblem of death crossed the sight of Lord Monmouth; while MadameColonna found submission in his exhortations, and the Princess Lucretia, alittle more pale and pensive than usual, listened with tranquillity to hisdiscourse on the vanity of all sublunary things. 

When the tumult had subsided, and habits and feelings had fallen intotheir old routine and relapsed into their ancient channels, the Marquessproposed that they should all return to London, and with great formality, though with warmth, begged that Madame Colonna would ever consider hisroof as her own. All were glad to quit the Castle, which now presented ascene so different from its former animation, and Madame Colonna, weeping, accepted the hospitality of her friend, until the impending expansion ofthe spring would permit her to return to Italy. This notice of her returnto her own country seemed to occasion the Marquess great disquietude. 

After they had remained about a month in London, Madame Colonna sent forMr. Rigby one morning to tell him how very painful it was to her feelingsto remain under the roof of Monmouth House without the sanction of ahusband; that the circumstance of being a foreigner, under such unusualaffliction, might have excused, though not authorised, the step at first, and for a moment; but that the continuance of such a course was quite outof the question; that she owed it to herself, to her step-child, no longerto trespass on this friendly hospitality, which, if persisted in, might beliable to misconstruction. Mr. Rigby listened with great attention to thisstatement, and never in the least interrupted Madame Colonna; and thenoffered to do that which he was convinced the lady desired, namely, tomake the Marquess acquainted with the painful state of her feelings. Thishe did according to his fashion, and with sufficient dexterity. Mr. Rigbyhimself was anxious to know which way the wind blew, and the mission withwhich he had been entrusted, fell in precisely with his inclinations andnecessities. The Marquess listened to the communication and sighed, thenturned gently round and surveyed himself in the mirror and sighed again, then said to Rigby, 'You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby. It is quite ridiculous theirgoing, and infinitely distressing to me. They must stay. '

Rigby repaired to the Princess full of mysterious bustle, and with a facebeaming with importance and satisfaction. He made much of the two sighs;fully justified the confidence of the Marquess in his comprehension ofunexplained intentions; prevailed on Madame Colonna to have some regardfor the feelings of one so devoted; expatiated on the insignificance ofworldly misconstructions, when replied to by such honourable intentions;and fully succeeded in his mission. They did stay. Month after monthrolled on, and still they stayed; every month all the family becoming moreresigned or more content, and more cheerful. As for the Marquess himself, Mr. Rigby never remembered him more serene and even joyous. His Lordshipscarcely ever entered general society. The Colonna family remained instrict seclusion; and he preferred the company of these accomplished andcongenial friends to the mob of the great world. 

Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby there had always subsistedconsiderable confidence. Now, that gentleman seemed to have achieved freshand greater claims to her regard. In the pleasure with which he lookedforward to her approaching alliance with his patron, he reminded her ofthe readiness with which he had embraced her suggestions for the marriageof her daughter with Coningsby. Always obliging, she was never wearied ofchanting his praises to her noble admirer, who was apparently muchgratified she should have bestowed her esteem on one of whom she wouldnecessarily in after-life see so much. It is seldom the lot of husbandsthat their confidential friends gain the regards of their brides. 

'I am glad you all like Rigby, ' said Lord Monmouth, 'as you will see somuch of him. '

The remembrance of the Hellingsley failure seemed to be erased from thememory of the Marquess. Rigby never recollected him more cordial andconfidential, and more equable in his manner. He told Rigby one day, thathe wished that Monmouth House should possess the most sumptuous and themost fanciful boudoir in London or Paris. What a hint for Rigby! Thatgentleman consulted the first artists, and gave them some hints in return;his researches on domestic decoration ranged through all ages; he evenmeditated a rapid tour to mature his inventions; but his confidence in hisnative taste and genius ultimately convinced him that this movement wasunnecessary. 

The summer advanced; the death of the King occurred; the dissolutionsummoned Rigby to Coningsby and the borough of Darlford. His success wasmarked certain in the secret books of Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturingtown, enfranchised under the Reform Act, already gained by theConservative cause! Here was reaction; here influence of property!Influence of character, too; for no one was so popular as Lord Monmouth; amost distinguished nobleman of strict Conservative principles, who, if hecarried the county and the manufacturing borough also, merited thestrawberry-leaf. 

'There will be no holding Rigby, ' said Taper; 'I'm afraid he will belooking for something very high. '

'The higher the better, ' rejoined Tadpole, 'and then he will not interferewith us. I like your high-flyers; it is your plodders I detest, wearingold hats and high-lows, speaking in committee, and thinking they are menof business: d----n them!'

Rigby went down, and made some impressive speeches; at least they readvery well in some of his second-rate journals, where all the uproarfigured as loud cheering, and the interruption of a cabbage-stalk wasrepresented as a question from some intelligent individual in the crowd. The fact is, Rigby bored his audience too much with history, especiallywith the French Revolution, which he fancied was his 'forte, ' so that thepeople at last, whenever he made any allusion to the subject, were almostas much terrified as if they had seen the guillotine. 

Rigby had as yet one great advantage; he had no opponent; and withoutpersonal opposition, no contest can be very bitter. It was for some daysRigby _versus_ Liberal principles; and Rigby had much the best of it; forhe abused Liberal principles roundly in his harangues, who, not beingrepresented on the occasion, made no reply; while plenty of ale, and somecapital songs by Lucian Gay, who went down express, gave the right cue tothe mob, who declared in chorus, beneath the windows of Rigby's hotel, that he was 'a fine old English gentleman!'

But there was to be a contest; no question about that, and a sharp one, although Rigby was to win, and well. The Liberal party had been sofastidious about their new candidate, that they had none ready thoughseveral biting. Jawster Sharp thought at one time that sheer necessitywould give him another chance still; but even Rigby was preferable toJawster Sharp, who, finding it would not do, published his long-preparedvaledictory address, in which he told his constituents, that having longsacrificed his health to their interests, he was now obliged to retireinto the bosom of his family. And a very well-provided-for family, too. 

All this time the Liberal deputation from Darlford, two aldermen, threetown-councillors, and the Secretary of the Reform Association, werewalking about London like mad things, eating luncheons and looking for acandidate. They called at the Reform Club twenty times in the morning, badgered whips and red-tapers; were introduced to candidates, badgeredcandidates; examined would-be members as if they were at a cattle-show, listened to political pedigrees, dictated political pledges, referred toHansard to see how men had voted, inquired whether men had spoken, finallydiscussed terms. But they never could hit the right man. If the principleswere right, there was no money; and if money were ready, money would nottake pledges. In fact, they wanted a Phoenix: a very rich man, who woulddo exactly as they liked, with extremely low opinions and with very highconnections. 

'If he would go for the ballot and had a handle to his name, it would havethe best effect, ' said the secretary of the Reform Association, 'becauseyou see we are fighting against a Right Honourable, and you have no ideahow that takes with the mob. '

The deputation had been three days in town, and urged by despatches byevery train to bring affairs to a conclusion; jaded, perplexed, confused, they were ready to fall into the hands of the first jobber or boldadventurer. They discussed over their dinner at a Strand coffee-house theclaims of the various candidates who had presented themselves. Mr. DonaldMacpherson Macfarlane, who would only pay the legal expenses; he was soondespatched. Mr. Gingerly Browne, of Jermyn Street, the younger son of abaronet, who would go as far as 1000_l. _ provided the seat was secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, 2000_l. _ man; but would not agree to any annualsubscriptions. Sir Baptist Placid, vague about expenditure, but repeatedlydeclaring that 'there could be no difficulty on that head. ' He however hada moral objection to subscribing to the races, and that was a great pointat Darlford. Sir Baptist would subscribe a guinea per annum to theinfirmary, and the same to all religious societies without any distinctionof sects; but races, it was not the sum, 100_l. _ per annum, but theprinciple. He had a moral objection. 

In short, the deputation began to suspect, what was the truth, that theywere a day after the fair, and that all the electioneering rips that swarmin the purlieus of political clubs during an impending dissolution ofParliament, men who become political characters in their small circlebecause they have been talked of as once having an intention to stand forplaces for which they never offered themselves, or for having stood forplaces where they never could by any circumstance have succeeded, were infact nibbling at their dainty morsel. 

At this moment of despair, a ray of hope was imparted to them by aconfidential note from a secretary of the Treasury, who wished to see themat the Reform Club on the morrow. You may be sure they were punctual totheir appointment. The secretary received them with great consideration. He had got them a candidate, and one of high mark, the son of a Peer, andconnected with the highest Whig houses. Their eyes sparkled. A realhonourable. If they liked he would introduce them immediately to theHonourable Alberic de Crecy. He had only to introduce them, as there wasno difficulty either as to means or opinions, expenses or pledges. 

The secretary returned with a young gentleman, whose diminutive staturewould seem, from his smooth and singularly puerile countenance, to bemerely the consequence of his very tender years; but Mr. De Crecy wasreally of age, or at least would be by nomination-day. He did not say aword, but looked like the rosebud which dangled in the button-hole of hisfrock-coat. The aldermen and town-councillors were what is sometimesemphatically styled flabbergasted; they were speechless from bewilderment. 'Mr. De Crecy will go for the ballot, ' said the secretary of the Treasury, with an audacious eye and a demure look, 'and for Total and Immediate, ifyou press him hard; but don't, if you can help it, because he has anuncle, an old county member, who has prejudices, and might disinherit him. However, we answer for him. And I am very happy that I have been the meansof bringing about an arrangement which, I feel, will be mutuallyadvantageous. ' And so saying, the secretary effected his escape. 

Circumstances, however, retarded for a season the political career of theHonourable Alberic de Crecy. While the Liberal party at Darlford weresuffering under the daily inflictions of Mr. Rigby's slashing style, andthe post brought them very unsatisfactory prospects of a champion, oneoffered himself, and in an address which intimated that he was no man ofstraw, likely to recede from any contest in which he chose to embark. Thetown was suddenly placarded with a letter to the Independent Electors fromMr. Millbank, the new proprietor of Hellingsley. 

He expressed himself as one not anxious to obtrude himself on theirattention, and founding no claim to their confidence on his recentacquisition; but at the same time as one resolved that the free andenlightened community, with which he must necessarily hereafter be muchconnected, should not become the nomination borough of any Peer of therealm without a struggle, if they chose to make one. And so he offeredhimself if they could not find a better candidate, without waiting for theceremony of a requisition. He was exactly the man they wanted; and thoughhe had 'no handle to his name, ' and was somewhat impracticable aboutpledges, his fortune was so great, and his character so high, that itmight be hoped that the people would be almost as content as if they wereappealed to by some obscure scion of factitious nobility, subscribing topolitical engagements which he could not comprehend, and which, ingeneral, are vomited with as much facility as they are swallowed. 

CHAPTER IV. 

The people of Darlford, who, as long as the contest for theirrepresentation remained between Mr. Rigby and the abstraction calledLiberal Principles, appeared to be very indifferent about the result, themoment they learned that for the phrase had been substituted a substance, and that, too, in the form of a gentleman who was soon to figure as theirresident neighbour, became excited, speedily enthusiastic. All the bellsof all the churches rang when Mr. Millbank commenced his canvass; theConservatives, on the alert, if not alarmed, insisted on their championalso showing himself in all directions; and in the course of four-and-twenty hours, such is the contagion of popular feeling, the town wasdivided into two parties, the vast majority of which were firmly convincedthat the country could only be saved by the return of Mr. Rigby, orpreserved from inevitable destruction by the election of Mr. Millbank. 

The results of the two canvasses were such as had been anticipated fromthe previous reports of the respective agents and supporters. In thesedays the personal canvass of a candidate is a mere form. The whole countrythat is to be invaded has been surveyed and mapped out before entry; everyposition reconnoitred; the chain of communications complete. In thepresent case, as was not unusual, both candidates were really supported bynumerous and reputable adherents; and both had good grounds for believingthat they would be ultimately successful. But there was a body of theelectors sufficiently numerous to turn the election, who would not promisetheir votes: conscientious men who felt the responsibility of the dutythat the constitution had entrusted to their discharge, and who would notmake up their minds without duly weighing the respective merits of the tworivals. This class of deeply meditative individuals are distinguished notonly by their pensive turn of mind, but by a charitable vein that seems topervade their being. Not only will they think of your request, but fortheir parts they wish both sides equally well. Decision, indeed, as itmust dash the hopes of one of their solicitors, seems infinitely painfulto them; they have always a good reason for postponing it. If you seektheir suffrage during the canvass, they reply, that the writ not havingcome down, the day of election is not yet fixed. If you call again toinform them that the writ has arrived, they rejoin, that perhaps after allthere may not be a contest. If you call a third time, half dead withfatigue, to give them friendly notice that both you and your rival havepledged yourselves to go to the poll, they twitch their trousers, rubtheir hands, and with a dull grin observe, 'Well, sir, we shall see. '

'Come, Mr. Jobson, ' says one of the committee, with an insinuating smile, 'give Mr. Millbank one. '

'Jobson, I think you and I know each other, ' says a most influentialsupporter, with a knowing nod. 

'Yes, Mr. Smith, I should think we did. '

'Come, come, give us one. '

'Well, I have not made up my mind yet, gentlemen. '

'Jobson!' says a solemn voice, 'didn't you tell me the other night youwished well to this gentleman?'

'So I do; I wish well to everybody, ' replies the imperturbable Jobson. 

'Well, Jobson, ' exclaims another member of the committee, with a sigh, 'who could have supposed that you would have been an enemy?'

'I don't wish to be no enemy to no man, Mr. Trip. '

'Come, Jobson, ' says a jolly tanner, 'if I wanted to be a Parliament man, I don't think you could refuse me one!'

'I don't think I could, Mr. Oakfield. '

'Well, then, give it to my friend. '

'Well, sir, I'll think about it. '

'Leave him to me, ' says another member of the committee, with asignificant look. 'I know how to get round him. It's all right. '

'Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank; he knows how to manage him. '

But all the same, Jobson continues to look as little tractable and lamb-like as can be well fancied. 

And here, in a work which, in an unpretending shape, aspires to takeneither an uninformed nor a partial view of the political history of theten eventful years of the Reform struggle, we should pause for a moment toobserve the strangeness, that only five years after the reconstruction ofthe electoral body by the Whig party, in a borough called into politicalexistence by their policy, a manufacturing town, too, the candidatecomprising in his person every quality and circumstance which couldrecommend him to the constituency, and his opponent the worst specimen ofthe Old Generation, a political adventurer, who owed the leastdisreputable part of his notoriety to his opposition to the Reform Bill;that in such a borough, under such circumstances, there should be acontest, and that, too, one of a very doubtful issue. 

What was the cause of this? Are we to seek it in the 'Reaction' of theTadpoles and the Tapers? That would not be a satisfactory solution. Reaction, to a certain extent, is the law of human existence. In theparticular state of affairs before us, England after the Reform Act, itnever could be doubtful that Time would gradually, and in some instancesrapidly, counteract the national impulse of 1832. There never could havebeen a question, for example, that the English counties would havereverted to their natural allegiance to their proprietors; but the resultsof the appeals to the third Estate in 1835 and 1837 are not to beaccounted for by a mere readjustment of legitimate influences. 

The truth is, that, considerable as are the abilities of the Whig leaders, highly accomplished as many of them unquestionably must be acknowledged inparliamentary debate, experienced in council, sedulous in office, eminentas scholars, powerful from their position, the absence of individualinfluence, and of the pervading authority of a commanding mind, have beenthe cause of the fall of the Whig party. 

Such a supremacy was generally acknowledged in Lord Grey on the accessionof this party to power: but it was the supremacy of a tradition ratherthan of a fact. Almost at the outset of his authority his successor wasindicated. When the crisis arrived, the intended successor was not in theWhig ranks. It is in this virtual absence of a real and recognised leader, almost from the moment that they passed their great measure, that we mustseek a chief cause of all that insubordination, all those distemperedambitions, and all those dark intrigues, that finally broke up, not onlythe Whig government, but the Whig party; demoralised their ranks, and sentthem to the country, both in 1835 and 1837, with every illusion, which hadoperated so happily in their favour in 1832, scattered to the winds. Inall things we trace the irresistible influence of the individual. 

And yet the interval that elapsed between 1835 and 1837 proved, that therewas all this time in the Whig array one entirely competent to the officeof leading a great party, though his capacity for that fulfilment was tootardily recognised. 

LORD JOHN RUSSELL has that degree of imagination, which, though evincedrather in sentiment than expression, still enables him to generalise fromthe details of his reading and experience; and to take those comprehensiveviews, which, however easily depreciated by ordinary men in an age ofroutine, are indispensable to a statesman in the conjunctures in which welive. He understands, therefore, his position; and he has the moralintrepidity which prompts him ever to dare that which his intellectassures him is politic. He is consequently, at the same time, sagaciousand bold in council. As an administrator he is prompt and indefatigable. He is not a natural orator, and labours under physical deficiencies whicheven a Demosthenic impulse could scarcely overcome. But he is experiencedin debate, quick in reply, fertile in resource, takes large views, andfrequently compensates for a dry and hesitating manner by the expressionof those noble truths that flash across the fancy, and rise spontaneouslyto the lip, of men of poetic temperament when addressing popularassemblies. If we add to this, a private life of dignified repute, theaccidents of his birth and rank, which never can be severed from the man, the scion of a great historic family, and born, as it were, to thehereditary service of the State, it is difficult to ascertain at whatperiod, or under what circumstances, the Whig party have ever possessed, or could obtain, a more efficient leader. 

But we must return to the Darlford election. The class of thoughtfulvoters was sufficiently numerous in that borough to render the result ofthe contest doubtful to the last; and on the eve of the day of nominationboth parties were equally sanguine. 

Nomination-day altogether is an unsatisfactory affair. There is little tobe done, and that little mere form. The tedious hours remain, and no onecan settle his mind to anything. It is not a holiday, for every one isserious; it is not business, for no one can attend to it; it is not acontest, for there is no canvassing; nor an election, for there is nopoll. It is a day of lounging without an object, and luncheons without anappetite; of hopes and fears; confidence and dejection; bravado bets andsecret hedging; and, about midnight, of furious suppers of grilled bones, brandy-and-water, and recklessness. 

The president and vice-president of the Conservative Association, thesecretary and the four solicitors who were agents, had impressed upon Mr. Rigby that it was of the utmost importance, and must produce a great moraleffect, if he obtain the show of hands. With his powers of eloquence andtheir secret organisation, they flattered themselves it might be done. With this view, Rigby inflicted a speech of more than two hours' durationon the electors, who bore it very kindly, as the mob likes, above allthings, that the ceremonies of nomination-day should not be cut short:moreover, there is nothing that the mob likes so much as a speech. Rigbytherefore had, on the whole, a far from unfavourable audience, and heavailed himself of their forbearance. He brought in his crack theme, theguillotine, and dilated so elaborately upon its qualities, that one of thegentlemen below could not refrain from exclaiming, 'I wish you may getit. ' This exclamation gave Mr. Rigby what is called a great opening, which, like a practised speaker, he immediately seized. He denounced thesentiment as 'un-English, ' and got much cheered. Excited by this success, Rigby began to call everything else 'un-English' with which he did notagree, until menacing murmurs began to rise, when he shifted the subject, and rose into a grand peroration, in which he assured them that the eyesof the whole empire were on this particular election; cries of 'That'strue, ' from all sides; and that England expected every man to do his duty. 

'And who do you expect to do yours?' inquired a gentleman below, ' aboutthat 'ere pension?'

'Rigby, ' screeched a hoarse voice, 'don't you mind; you guv it them well. '

'Rigby, keep up your spirits, old chap: we will have you. '

'Now!' said a stentorian voice; and a man as tall as Saul looked roundhim. This was the engaged leader of the Conservative mob; the eye of everyone of his minions was instantly on him. 'Now! Our young Queen and our OldInstitutions! Rigby for ever!'

This was a signal for the instant appearance of the leader of the Liberalmob. Magog Wrath, not so tall as Bully Bluck, his rival, had a voicealmost as powerful, a back much broader, and a countenance far moreforbidding. 'Now, my boys, the Queen and Millbank for ever!'

These rival cries were the signals for a fight between the two bands ofgladiators in the face of the hustings, the body of the people littleinterfering. Bully Bluck seized Magog Wrath's colours; they wrestled, theyseized each other; their supporters were engaged in mutual contest; itappeared to be a most alarming and perilous fray; several ladies from thewindows screamed, one fainted; a band of special constables pushed theirway through the mob; you heard their staves resounded on the skulls of allwho opposed them, especially the little boys: order was at lengthrestored; and, to tell the truth, the only hurts inflicted were thosewhich came from the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog Wrath, withall their fierce looks, flaunting colours, loud cheers, and desperateassaults, were, after all, only a couple of Condottieri, who were cautiousnever to wound each other. They were, in fact, a peaceful police, who keptthe town in awe, and prevented others from being mischievous who were moreinclined to do harm. Their hired gangs were the safety-valves for all thescamps of the borough, who, receiving a few shillings per head for theirnominal service, and as much drink as they liked after the contest, werebribed and organised into peace and sobriety on the days in which theirexcesses were most to be apprehended. 

Now Mr. Millbank came forward: he was brief compared with Mr. Rigby; butclear and terse. No one could misunderstand him. He did not favour hishearers with any history, but gave them his views about taxes, free trade, placemen, and pensioners, whoever and wherever they might be. 

'Hilloa, Rigby, about that 'ere pension?'

'Millbank for ever! We will have him. '

'Never mind, Rigby, you'll come in next time. '

Mr. Millbank was energetic about resident representatives, but did notunderstand that a resident representative meant the nominee of a greatLord, who lived in a great castle; great cheering. There was a Lord oncewho declared that, if he liked, he would return his negro valet toParliament; but Mr. Millbank thought those days were over. It remained forthe people of Darlford to determine whether he was mistaken. 

'Never!' exclaimed the mob. 'Millbank for ever! Rigby in the river! Noniggers, no walets!'

'Three groans for Rigby. '

'His language ain't as purty as the Lunnun chap's, ' said a critic below;'but he speaks from his 'art: and give me the man who 'as got a 'art. '

'That's your time of day, Mr. Robinson. '

'Now!' said Magog Wrath, looking around. 'Now, the Queen and Millbank forever! Hurrah!'

The show of hands was entirely in favour of Mr. Millbank. Scarcely a handwas held up for Mr. Rigby below, except by Bully Bluck and hispraetorians. The Chairman and the Deputy Chairman of the ConservativeAssociation, the Secretary, and the four agents, severally andrespectively went up to Mr. Rigby and congratulated him on the result, asit was a known fact, 'that the show of hands never won. '

The eve of polling-day was now at hand. This is the most critical periodof an election. All night parties in disguise were perambulating thedifferent wards, watching each other's tactics; masks, wigs, false noses, gentles in livery coats, men in female attire, a silent carnival ofmanoeuvre, vigilance, anxiety, and trepidation. The thoughtful votersabout this time make up their minds; the enthusiasts who have told youtwenty times a-day for the last fortnight, that they would get up in themiddle of the night to serve you, require the most watchful cooping; allthe individuals who have assured you that 'their word is their bond, 'change sides. 

Two of the Rigbyites met in the market-place about an hour after midnight. 

'Well, how goes it?' said one. 

'I have been the rounds. The blunt's going like the ward-pump. I saw a mancome out of Moffatt's house, muffled up with a mask on. I dodged him. Itwas Biggs. '

'You don't mean that, do you? D----e, I'll answer for Moffatt. '

'I never thought he was a true man. '

'Told Robins?'

'I could not see him; but I met young Gunning and told him. '

'Young Gunning! That won't do. '

'I thought he was as right as the town clock. '

'So did I, once. Hush! who comes here? The enemy, Franklin and SampsonPotts. Keep close. '

'I'll speak to them. Good night, Potts. Up rather late to-night?'

'All fair election time. You ain't snoring, are you?'

'Well, I hope the best man will win. '

'I am sure he will. '

'You must go for Moffatt early, to breakfast at the White Lion; that'syour sort. Don't leave him, and poll him your-self. I am going off toSolomon Lacey's. He has got four Millbankites cooped up very drunk, and Iwant to get them quietly into the country before daybreak. '

'Tis polling-day! The candidates are roused from their slumbers at anearly hour by the music of their own bands perambulating the town, andeach playing the 'conquering hero' to sustain the courage of their jadedemployers, by depriving them of that rest which can alone tranquillise thenervous system. There is something in that matin burst of music, followedby a shrill cheer from the boys of the borough, the only inhabitants yetup, that is very depressing. 

The committee-rooms of each candidate are soon rife with black reports;each side has received fearful bulletins of the preceding night campaign;and its consequences as exemplified in the morning, unprecedentedtergiversations, mysterious absences; men who breakfast with one side andvote with the other; men who won't come to breakfast; men who won't leavebreakfast. 

At ten o'clock Mr. Rigby was in a majority of twenty-eight. 

The polling was brisk and equal until the middle of the day, when itbecame slack. Mr. Rigby kept a majority, but an inconsiderable one. Mr. Millbank's friends were not disheartened, as it was known that the leadingmembers of Mr. Rigby's committee had polled; whereas his opponent's wereprincipally reserved. At a quarter-past two there was great cheering anduproar. The four voters in favour of Millbank, whom Solomon Lacey hadcooped up, made drunk, and carried into the country, had recovered iheirsenses, made their escape, and voted as they originally intended. Soonafter this, Mr. Millbank was declared by his committee to be in a majorityof one, but the committee of Mr. Rigby instantly posted a placard, inlarge letters, to announce that, on the contrary, their man was in amajority of nine. 

'If we could only have got another registration, ' whispered the principalagent to Mr. Rigby, at a quarter-past four. 

'You think it's all over, then?'

'Why, I do not see now how we can win. We have polled all our dead men, and Millbank is seven ahead. '

'I have no doubt we shall be able to have a good petition, ' said theconsoling chairman of the Conservative Association. 

CHAPTER V. 

It was not with feelings of extreme satisfaction that Mr. Rigby returnedto London. The loss of Hellingsley, followed by the loss of the borough toHellingsley's successful master, were not precisely the incidents whichwould be adduced as evidence of Mr. Rigby's good management or goodfortune. Hitherto that gentleman had persuaded the world that he was notonly very clever, but that he was also always in luck; a quality whichmany appreciate more even than capacity. His reputation was unquestionablydamaged, both with his patron and his party. But what the Tapers and theTadpoles thought or said, what even might be the injurious effect on hisown career of the loss of this election, assumed an insignificantcharacter when compared with its influence on the temper and dispositionof the Marquess of Monmouth. 

And yet his carriage is now entering the courtyard of Monmouth House, and, in all probability, a few minutes would introduce him to that presencebefore which he had, ere this, trembled. The Marquess was at home, andanxious to see Mr. Rigby. In a few minutes that gentleman was ascendingthe private staircase, entering the antechamber, and waiting to bereceived in the little saloon, exactly as our Coningsby did more than fiveyears ago, scarcely less agitated, but by feelings of a very differentcharacter. 

'Well, you made a good fight of it, ' exclaimed the Marquess, in a cheerfuland cordial tone, as Mr. Rigby entered his dressing-room. 'Patience! Weshall win next time. '

This reception instantly reassured the defeated candidate, though itscontrast to that which he expected rather perplexed him. He entered intothe details of the election, talked rapidly of the next registration, thepropriety of petitioning; accustomed himself to hearing his voice with itshabitual volubility in a chamber where he had feared it might not soundfor some time. 

'D----n politics!' said the Marquess. 'These fellows are in for thisParliament, and I am really weary of the whole affair. I begin to thinkthe Duke was right, and it would have been best to have left them tothemselves. I am glad you have come up at once, for I want you. The factis, I am going to be married. '

This was not a startling announcement to Mr. Rigby; he was prepared forit, though scarcely could have hoped that he would have been favoured withit on the present occasion, instead of a morose comment on hismisfortunes. Marriage, then, was the predominant idea of Lord Monmouth atthe present moment, in whose absorbing interest all vexations wereforgotten. Fortunate Rigby! Disgusted by the failure of his politicalcombinations, his disappointments in not dictating to the county and notcarrying the borough, and the slight prospect at present of obtaining thegreat object of his ambition, Lord Monmouth had resolved to precipitatehis fate, was about to marry immediately, and quit England. 

'You will be wanted, Rigby, ' continued the Marquess. 'We must have acouple of trustees, and I have thought of you as one. You know you are myexecutor; and it is better not to bring in unnecessarily new names intothe management of my affairs. Lord Eskdale will act with you. '

Rigby then, after all, was a lucky man. After such a succession offailures, he had returned only to receive fresh and the most delicatemarks of his patron's good feeling and consideration. Lord Monmouth'strustee and executor! 'You know you are my executor. ' Sublime truth! Itought to be blazoned in letters of gold in the most conspicuous part ofRigby's library, to remind him perpetually of his great and impendingdestiny. Lord Monmouth's executor, and very probably one of his residuarylegatees! A legatee of some sort he knew he was. What a splendid _mementomori_! What cared Rigby for the borough of Darlford? And as for hispolitical friends, he wished them joy of their barren benches. Nothing waslost by not being in this Parliament. 

It was then with sincerity that Rigby offered his congratulations to hispatron. He praised the judicious alliance, accompanied by everycircumstance conducive to worldly happiness; distinguished beauty, perfecttemper, princely rank. Rigby, who had hardly got out of his hustings'vein, was most eloquent in his praises of Madame Colonna. 

'An amiable woman, ' said Lord Monmouth, 'and very handsome. I alwaysadmired her; and an agreeable person too; I dare say a very good temper, but I am not going to marry her. '

'Might I then ask who is--'

'Her step-daughter, the Princess Lucretia, ' replied the Marquess, quietly, and looking at his ring. 

Here was a thunderbolt! Rigby had made another mistake. He had beenworking all this time for the wrong woman! The consciousness of being atrustee alone sustained him. There was an inevitable pause. The Marquesswould not speak however, and Rigby must. He babbled rather incoherentlyabout the Princess Lucretia being admired by everybody; also that she wasthe most fortunate of women, as well as the most accomplished; he was justbeginning to say he had known her from a child, when discretion stoppedhis tongue, which had a habit of running on somewhat rashly; but Rigby, though he often blundered in his talk, had the talent of extricatinghimself from the consequence of his mistakes. 

'And Madame must be highly gratified by all this?' observed Mr. Rigby, with an enquiring accent. He was dying to learn how she had first receivedthe intelligence, and congratulated himself that his absence at hiscontest had preserved him from the storm. 

'Madame Colonna knows nothing of our intentions, ' said Lord Monmouth. 'Andby the bye, that is the very business on which I wish to see you, Rigby. Iwish you to communicate them to her. We are to be married, andimmediately. It would gratify me that the wife of Lucretia's father shouldattend our wedding. You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby; I must haveno scenes. Always happy to see the Princess Colonna under my roof; butthen I like to live quietly, particularly at present; harassed as I havebeen by the loss of these elections, by all this bad management, and byall these disappointments on subjects in which I was led to believesuccess was certain. Madame Colonna is at home;' and the Marquess bowedMr. Rigby out of the room. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby Castle, in the autumn, determinedthe Princess Lucretia on a step which had for some time before his arrivaloccupied her brooding imagination. Nature had bestowed on this lady anambitious soul and a subtle spirit; she could dare much and could executefinely. Above all things she coveted power; and though not free from thecharacteristic susceptibility of her sex, the qualities that could engageher passions or fascinate her fancy must partake of that intellectualeminence which distinguished her. Though the Princess Lucretia in a shortspace of time had seen much of the world, she had as yet encountered nohero. In the admirers whom her rank, and sometimes her intelligence, assembled around her, her master had not yet appeared. Her heart had nottrembled before any of those brilliant forms whom she was told her sexadmired; nor did she envy any one the homage which she did not appreciate. There was, therefore, no disturbing element in the worldly calculationswhich she applied to that question which is, to woman, what a career is toman, the question of marriage. She would marry to gain power, andtherefore she wished to marry the powerful. Lord Eskdale hovered aroundher, and she liked him. She admired his incomparable shrewdness; hisfreedom from ordinary prejudices; his selfishness which was always good-natured, and the imperturbability that was not callous. But Lord Eskdalehad hovered round many; it was his easy habit. He liked clever women, young, but who had seen something of the world. The Princess Lucretiapleased him much; with the form and mind of a woman even in the nursery. He had watched her development with interest; and had witnessed her launchin that world where she floated at once with as much dignity andconsciousness of superior power, as if she had braved for seasons itswaves and its tempests. 

Musing over Lord Eskdale, the mind of Lucretia was drawn to the image ofhis friend; her friend; the friend of her parents. And why not marry LordMonmouth? The idea pleased her. There was something great in theconception; difficult and strange. The result, if achieved, would give herall that she desired. She devoted her mind to this secret thought. She hadno confidants. She concentrated her intellect on one point, and that wasto fascinate the grandfather of Coningsby, while her step-mother wasplotting that she should marry his grandson. The volition of LucretiaColonna was, if not supreme, of a power most difficult to resist. Therewas something charm-like and alluring in the conversation of one who wassilent to all others; something in the tones of her low rich voice whichacted singularly on the nervous system. It was the voice of the serpent;indeed, there was an undulating movement in Lucretia, when she approachedyou, which irresistibly reminded you of that mysterious animal. 

Lord Monmouth was not insensible to the spell, though totally unconsciousof its purpose. He found the society of Lucretia very agreeable to him;she was animated, intelligent, original; her inquiries were stimulating;her comments on what she saw, and heard, and read, racy and oftenindicating a fine humour. But all this was reserved for his ear. Beforeher parents, as before all others, Lucretia was silent, a little scornful, never communicating, neither giving nor seeking amusement, shut up inherself. 

Lord Monmouth fell therefore into the habit of riding and driving withLucretia alone. It was an arrangement which he found made his life morepleasant. Nor was it displeasing to Madame Colonna. She looked upon LordMonmouth's fancy for Lucretia as a fresh tie for them all. Even thePrince, when his wife called his attention to the circumstance, observedit with satisfaction. It was a circumstance which represented in his minda continuance of good eating and good drinking, fine horses, luxuriousbaths, unceasing billiards. 

In this state of affairs appeared Sidonia, known before to her step-mother, but seen by Lucretia for the first time. Truly, he came, saw, andconquered. Those eyes that rarely met another's were fixed upon hissearching yet unimpassioned glance. She listened to that voice, full ofmusic yet void of tenderness; and the spirit of Lucretia Colonna bowedbefore an intelligence that commanded sympathy, yet offered none. 

Lucretia naturally possessed great qualities as well as great talents. Under a genial influence, her education might have formed a being capableof imparting and receiving happiness. But she found herself without aguide. Her father offered her no love; her step-mother gained from her norespect. Her literary education was the result of her own strong mind andinquisitive spirit. She valued knowledge, and she therefore acquired it. But not a single moral principle or a single religious truth had ever beeninstilled into her being. Frequent absence from her own country had bydegrees broken off even an habitual observance of the forms of her creed;while a life of undisturbed indulgence, void of all anxiety and care, while it preserved her from many of the temptations to vice, deprived herof that wisdom 'more precious than rubies, ' which adversity andaffliction, the struggles and the sorrows of existence, can alone impart. 

Lucretia had passed her life in a refined, but rather dissolute society. Not indeed that a word that could call forth a maiden blush, conduct thatcould pain the purest feelings, could be heard or witnessed in thosepolished and luxurious circles. The most exquisite taste pervaded theiratmosphere; and the uninitiated who found themselves in those perfumedchambers and those golden saloons, might believe, from all that passedbefore them, that their inhabitants were as pure, as orderly, and asirreproachable as their furniture. But among the habitual dwellers inthese delicate halls there was a tacit understanding, a prevalent doctrinethat required no formal exposition, no proofs and illustrations, nocomment and no gloss; which was indeed rather a traditional convictionthan an imparted dogma; that the exoteric public were, on many subjects, the victims of very vulgar prejudices, which these enlightened personageswished neither to disturb nor to adopt. 

A being of such a temper, bred in such a manner; a woman full of intellectand ambition, daring and lawless, and satiated with prosperity, is notmade for equable fortunes and an uniform existence. She would havesacrificed the world for Sidonia, for he had touched the ferventimagination that none before could approach; but that inscrutable manwould not read the secret of her heart; and prompted alike by pique, thelove of power, and a weariness of her present life, Lucretia resolved onthat great result which Mr. Rigby is now about to communicate to thePrincess Colonna. 

About half-an-hour after Mr. Rigby had entered that lady's apartments itseemed that all the bells of Monmouth House were ringing at the same time. The sound even reached the Marquess in his luxurious recess; whoimmediately took a pinch of snuff, and ordered his valet to lock the doorof the ante-chamber. The Princess Lucretia, too, heard the sounds; she waslying on a sofa, in her boudoir, reading the _Inferno_, and immediatelymustered her garrison in the form of a French maid, and gave directionsthat no one should be admitted. Both the Marquess and his intended bridefelt that a crisis was at hand, and resolved to participate in no scenes. 

The ringing ceased; there was again silence. Then there was another ring;a short, hasty, and violent pull; followed by some slamming of doors. Theservants, who were all on the alert, and had advantages of hearing andobservation denied to their secluded master, caught a glimpse of Mr. Rigbyendeavouring gently to draw back into her apartment Madame Colonna, furious amid his deprecatory exclamations. 

'For heaven's sake, my dear Madame; for your own sake; now really; now Iassure you; you are quite wrong; you are indeed; it is a completemisapprehension; I will explain everything. I entreat, I implore, whateveryou like, just what you please; only listen. '

Then the lady, with a mantling visage and flashing eye, violently closingthe door, was again lost to their sight. A few minutes after there was amoderate ring, and Mr. Rigby, coming out of the apartments, with hiscravat a little out of order, as if he had had a violent shaking, met theservant who would have entered. 

'Order Madame Colonna's travelling carriage, ' he exclaimed in a loudvoice, 'and send Mademoiselle Conrad here directly. I don't think thefellow hears me, ' added Mr. Rigby, and following the servant, he added ina low tone and with a significant glance, 'no travelling carriage; noMademoiselle Conrad; order the britska round as usual. '

Nearly another hour passed; there was another ring; very moderate indeed. The servant was informed that Madame Colonna was coming down, and sheappeared as usual. In a beautiful morning dress, and leaning on the arm ofMr. Rigby, she descended the stairs, and was handed into her carriage bythat gentleman, who, seating himself by her side, ordered them to drive toRichmond. 

Lord Monmouth having been informed that all was calm, and that MadameColonna, attended by Mr. Rigby, had gone to Richmond, ordered hiscarriage, and accompanied by Lucretia and Lucian Gay, departed immediatelyfor Blackwall, where, in whitebait, a quiet bottle of claret, the societyof his agreeable friends, and the contemplation of the passing steamers, he found a mild distraction and an amusing repose. 

Mr. Rigby reported that evening to the Marquess on his return, that allwas arranged and tranquil. Perhaps he exaggerated the difficulties, toincrease the service; but according to his account they were considerable. It required some time to make Madame Colonna comprehend the nature of hiscommunication. All Rigby's diplomatic skill was expended in the gradualdevelopment. When it was once fairly put before her, the effect wasappalling. That was the first great ringing of bells. Rigby softened alittle what he had personally endured; but he confessed she sprang at himlike a tigress balked of her prey, and poured forth on him a volume ofepithets, many of which Rigby really deserved. But after all, in thepresent instance, he was not treacherous, only base, which he always was. Then she fell into a passion of tears, and vowed frequently that she wasnot weeping for herself, but only for that dear Mr. Coningsby, who hadbeen treated so infamously and robbed of Lucretia, and whose heart sheknew must break. It seemed that Rigby stemmed the first violence of heremotion by mysterious intimations of an important communication that hehad to make; and piquing her curiosity, he calmed her passion. But reallyhaving nothing to say, he was nearly involved in fresh dangers. He tookrefuge in the affectation of great agitation which prevented exposition. The lady then insisted on her travelling carriage being ordered andpacked, as she was determined to set out for Rome that afternoon. Thislittle occurrence gave Rigby some few minutes to collect himself, at theend of which he made the Princess several announcements of intendedarrangements, all of which pleased her mightily, though they were soinconsistent with each other, that if she had not been a woman in apassion, she must have detected that Rigby was lying. He assured heralmost in the same breath, that she was never to be separated from them, and that she was to have any establishment in any country she liked. Hetalked wildly of equipages, diamonds, shawls, opera-boxes; and while hermind was bewildered with these dazzling objects, he, with intrepidgravity, consulted her as to the exact amount she would like to haveapportioned, independent of her general revenue, for the purposes ofcharity. 

At the end of two hours, exhausted by her rage and soothed by thesevisions, Madame Colonna having grown calm and reasonable, sighed andmurmured a complaint, that Lord Monmouth ought to have communicated thisimportant intelligence in person. Upon this Rigby instantly assured her, that Lord Monmouth had been for some time waiting to do so, but inconsequence of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his Lordship haddeparted for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped that Madame Colonnaand Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a morning drive andsuburban dinner; Rigby, after what he had gone through, finding nodifficulty in accounting for the other guests not being present, andbringing home Madame Colonna in the evening, at times almost as gay andgood-tempered as usual, and almost oblivious of her disappointment. 

When the Marquess met Madame Colonna he embraced her with greatcourtliness, and from that time consulted her on every arrangement. Hetook a very early occasion of presenting her with a diamond necklace ofgreat value. The Marquess was fond of making presents to persons to whomhe thought he had not behaved very well, and who yet spared him scenes. 

The marriage speedily followed, by special license, at the villa of theRight Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who gave away the bride. The wedding was veryselect, but brilliant as the diamond necklace: a royal Duke and Duchess, Lady St. Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby presented the bride with abouquet of precious stones, and Lord Eskdale with a French fan in adiamond frame. It was a fine day; Lord Monmouth, calm as if he werewinning the St. Leger; Lucretia, universally recognised as a beauty; allthe guests gay, the Princess Colonna especially. 

The travelling carriage is at the door which is to bear away the happypair. Madame Colonna embraces Lucretia; the Marquess gives a grand bow:they are gone. The guests remain awhile. A Prince of the blood willpropose a toast; there is another glass of champagne quaffed, anotherortolan devoured; and then they rise and disperse. Madame Colonna leaveswith Lady St. Julians, whose guest for a while she is to become. And in afew minutes their host is alone. 

Mr. Rigby retired into his library: the repose of the chamber must havebeen grateful to his feelings after all this distraction. It was spacious, well-stored, classically adorned, and opened on a beautiful lawn. Rigbythrew himself into an ample chair, crossed his legs, and resting his headon his arm, apparently fell into deep contemplation. 

He had some cause for reflection, and though we did once venture to affirmthat Rigby never either thought or felt, this perhaps may be the exceptionthat proves the rule. 

He could scarcely refrain from pondering over the strange event which hehad witnessed, and at which he had assisted. 

It was an incident that might exercise considerable influence over hisfortunes. His patron married, and married to one who certainly did notoffer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy management as her step-mother!Here were new influences arising; new characters, new situations, newcontingencies. Was he thinking of all this? He suddenly jumps up, hurriesto a shelf and takes down a volume. It is his interleaved peerage, ofwhich for twenty years he had been threatening an edition. Turning to theMarquisate of Monmouth, he took up his pen and thus made the necessaryentry:

'_Married, second time, August 3rd, 1837, The Princess Lucretia Colonna, daughter of Prince Paul Colonna, born at Rome, February 16th, 1819. _'

That was what Mr. Rigby called 'a great fact. ' There was not a peerage-compiler in England who had that date save himself. 

Before we close this slight narrative of the domestic incidents thatoccurred in the family of his grandfather since Coningsby quitted theCastle, we must not forget to mention what happened to Villebecque andFlora. Lord Monmouth took a great liking to the manager. He found him veryclever in many things independently of his profession; he was useful toLord Monmouth, and did his work in an agreeable manner. And the futureLady Monmouth was accustomed to Flora, and found her useful too, and didnot like to lose her. And so the Marquess, turning all the circumstancesin his mind, and being convinced that Villebecque could never succeed toany extent in England in his profession, and probably nowhere else, appointed him, to Villebecque's infinite satisfaction, intendant of hishousehold, with a considerable salary, while Flora still lived with herkind step-father. 

CHAPTER VII. 

Another year elapsed; not so fruitful in incidents to Coningsby as thepreceding ones, and yet not unprofitably passed. It had been spent in thealmost unremitting cultivation of his intelligence. He had read deeply andextensively, digested his acquisitions, and had practised himself insurveying them, free from those conventional conclusions and thosetraditionary inferences that surrounded him. Although he had renounced hisonce cherished purpose of trying for University honours, an aim which hefound discordant with the investigations on which his mind was bent, hehad rarely quitted Cambridge. The society of his friends, the greatconvenience of public libraries, and the general tone of studious lifearound, rendered an University for him a genial residence. There is amoment in life, when the pride and thirst of knowledge seem to absorb ourbeing, and so it happened now to Coningsby, who felt each day stronger inhis intellectual resources, and each day more anxious and avid to increasethem. The habits of public discussion fostered by the Debating Societywere also for Coningsby no Inconsiderable tie to the University. This wasthe arena in which he felt himself at home. The promise of his Eton dayswas here fulfilled. And while his friends listened to his sustainedargument or his impassioned declamation, the prompt reply or the aptretort, they looked forward with pride through the vista of years to thetime when the hero of the youthful Club should convince or dazzle in thesenate. It is probable then that he would have remained at Cambridge withslight intervals until he had taken his degree, had not circumstancesoccurred which gave altogether a new turn to his thoughts. 

When Lord Monmouth had fixed his wedding-day he had written himself toConingsby to announce his intended marriage, and to request his grandson'spresence at the ceremony. The letter was more than kind; it was warm andgenerous. He assured his grandson that this alliance should make nodifference in the very ample provision which he had long intended for him;that he should ever esteem Coningsby his nearest relative; and that, whilehis death would bring to Coningsby as considerable an independence as anEnglish gentleman need desire, so in his lifetime Coningsby should ever besupported as became his birth, breeding, and future prospects. LordMonmouth had mentioned to Lucretia, that he was about to invite hisgrandson to their wedding, and the lady had received the intimation withsatisfaction. It so happened that a few hours after, Lucretia, who nowentered the private rooms of Lord Monmouth without previously announcingher arrival, met Villebecque with the letter to Coningsby in his hand. Lucretia took it away from him, and said it should be posted with her ownletters. It never reached its destination. Our friend learnt the marriagefrom the newspapers, which somewhat astounded him; but Coningsby was fondof his grandfather, and he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of congratulation, full of feeling and ingenuousness, and which, while it much pleased theperson to whom it was addressed, unintentionally convinced him thatConingsby had never received his original communication. Lord Monmouthspoke to Villebecque, who could throw sufficient light upon the subject, but it was never mentioned to Lady Monmouth. The Marquess was a man whoalways found out everything, and enjoyed the secret. 

Rather more than a year after the marriage, when Coningsby had completedhis twenty-first year, the year which he had passed so quietly atCambridge, he received a letter from his grandfather, informing him thatafter a variety of movements Lady Monmouth and himself were established inParis for the season, and desiring that he would not fail to come over assoon as practicable, and pay them as long a visit as the regulations ofthe University would permit. So, at the close of the December term, Coningsby quitted Cambridge for Paris. 

Passing through London, he made his first visit to his banker at CharingCross, on whom he had periodically drawn since he commenced his collegelife. He was in the outer counting-house, making some inquiries about aletter of credit, when one of the partners came out from an inner room, and invited him to enter. This firm had been for generations the bankersof the Coningsby family; and it appeared that there was a sealed box intheir possession, which had belonged to the father of Coningsby, and theywished to take this opportunity of delivering it to his son. Thiscommunication deeply interested him; and as he was alone in London, at anhotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, he requested permission atonce to examine it, in order that he might again deposit it with them: sohe was shown into a private room for that purpose. The seal was broken;the box was full of papers, chiefly correspondence: among them was apacket described as letters from 'my dear Helen, ' the mother of Coningsby. In the interior of this packet there was a miniature of that mother. Helooked at it; put it down; looked at it again and again. He could not bemistaken. There was the same blue fillet in the bright hair. It was anexact copy of that portrait which had so greatly excited his attentionwhen at Millbank! This was a mysterious and singularly perplexingincident. It greatly agitated him. He was alone in the room when he madethe discovery. When he had recovered himself, he sealed up the contents ofthe box, with the exception of his mother's letters and the miniature, which he took away with him, and then re-delivered it to his banker forcustody until his return. 

Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a splendid hotel in the FaubourgSt. Honoré, near the English Embassy. His grandfather looked at him withmarked attention, and received him with evident satisfaction. Indeed, LordMonmouth was greatly pleased that Harry had come to Paris; it was theUniversity of the World, where everybody should graduate. Paris and Londonought to be the great objects of all travellers; the rest was merelandscape. 

It cannot be denied that between Lucretia and Coningsby there existed fromthe first a certain antipathy; and though circumstances for a short timehad apparently removed or modified the aversion, the manner of the ladywhen Coningsby was ushered into her boudoir, resplendent with all thatParisian taste and luxury could devise, was characterised by that frigidpoliteness which had preceded the days of their more genial acquaintance. If the manner of Lucretia were the same as before her marriage, aconsiderable change might however be observed in her appearance. Her fineform had become more developed; while her dress, that she once neglected, was elaborate and gorgeous, and of the last mode. Lucretia was the fashionof Paris; a great lady, greatly admired. A guest under such a roof, however, Coningsby was at once launched into the most brilliant circles ofParisian society, which he found fascinating. 

The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly comprehended andcompletely practised in the bright metropolis of France. An Englishmancannot enter a saloon without instantly feeling he is among a race moresocial than his compatriots. What, for example, is more consummate thanthe manner in which a French lady receives her guests! She unites gracefulrepose and unaffected dignity, with the most amiable regard for others. She sees every one; she speaks to every one; she sees them at the rightmoment; she says the right thing; it is utterly impossible to detect anydifference in the position of her guests by the spirit in which shewelcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle of Parisiansociety, from the chateau to the cabaret, a sincere homage to intellect;and this without any maudlin sentiment. None sooner than the Parisians candraw the line between factitious notoriety and honest fame; or soonerdistinguished between the counterfeit celebrity and the standardreputation. In England, we too often alternate between a superciliousneglect of genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In England when anew character appears in our circles, the first question always is, 'Whois he?' In France it is, 'What is he?' In England, 'How much a-year?' InFrance, 'What has he done?'

CHAPTER VIII. 

About a week after Coningsby's arrival in Paris, as he was sauntering onthe soft and sunny Boulevards, soft and sunny though Christmas, he metSidonia. 

'So you are here?' said Sidonia. 'Turn now with me, for I see you are onlylounging, and tell me when you came, where you are, and what you have donesince we parted. I have been here myself but a few days. '

There was much to tell. And when Coningsby had rapidly related all thathad passed, they talked of Paris. Sidonia had offered him hospitality, until he learned that Lord Monmouth was in Paris, and that Coningsby washis guest. 

'I am sorry you cannot come to me, ' he remarked; 'I would have shown youeverybody and everything. But we shall meet often. '

'I have already seen many remarkable things, ' said Coningsby; 'and metmany celebrated persons. Nothing strikes me more in this brilliant citythan the tone of its society, so much higher than our own. What an absenceof petty personalities! How much conversation, and how little gossip! Yetnowhere is there less pedantry. Here all women are as agreeable as is theremarkable privilege in London of some half-dozen. Men too, and great men, develop their minds. A great man in England, on the contrary, is generallythe dullest dog in company. And yet, how piteous to think that so fair acivilisation should be in such imminent peril!'

'Yes! that is a common opinion: and yet I am somewhat sceptical of itstruth, ' replied Sidonia. 'I am inclined to believe that the social systemof England is in infinitely greater danger than that of France. We mustnot be misled by the agitated surface of this country. The foundations ofits order are deep and sure. Learn to understand France. France is akingdom with a Republic for its capital. It has been always so, forcenturies. From the days of the League to the days of the Sections, to thedays of 1830. It is still France, little changed; and only more national, for it is less Frank and more Gallic; as England has become less Normanand more Saxon. '

'And it is your opinion, then, that the present King may maintainhimself?'

'Every movement in this country, however apparently discordant, seems totend to that inevitable end. He would not be on the throne if the natureof things had not demanded his presence. The Kingdom of France required aMonarch; the Republic of Paris required a Dictator. He comprised in hisperson both qualifications; lineage and intellect; blood for theprovinces, brains for the city. '

'What a position! what an individual!' exclaimed Coningsby. 'Tell me, ' headded, eagerly, 'what is he? This Prince of whom one hears in allcountries at all hours; on whose existence we are told the tranquillity, almost the civilisation, of Europe depends, yet of whom we receiveaccounts so conflicting, so contradictory; tell me, you who can tell me, tell me what he is. '

Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. 'I have a creed of mine own, ' heremarked, 'that the great characters of antiquity are at rare epochsreproduced for our wonder, or our guidance. Nature, wearied withmediocrity, pours the warm metal into an heroic mould. When circumstancesat length placed me in the presence of the King of France, I recognised, ULYSSES!'

'But is there no danger, ' resumed Coningsby, after the pause of a fewmoments, 'that the Republic of Paris may absorb the Kingdom of France?'

'I suspect the reverse, ' replied Sidonia. 'The tendency of advancedcivilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy. Monarchy is indeed a governmentwhich requires a high degree of civilisation for its full development. Itneeds the support of free laws and manners, and of a widely-diffusedintelligence. Political compromises are not to be tolerated except atperiods of rude transition. An educated nation recoils from the imperfectvicariate of what is called a representative government. Your House ofCommons, that has absorbed all other powers in the State, will in allprobability fall more rapidly than it rose. Public opinion has a moredirect, a more comprehensive, a more efficient organ for its utterance, than a body of men sectionally chosen. The Printing-press is a politicalelement unknown to classic or feudal times. It absorbs in a great degreethe duties of the Sovereign, the Priest, the Parliament; it controls, iteducates, it discusses. That public opinion, when it acts, would appear inthe form of one who has no class interests. In an enlightened age theMonarch on the throne, free from the vulgar prejudices and the corruptinterests of the subject, becomes again divine!'

At this moment they reached that part of the Boulevards which leads intothe Place of the Madeleine, whither Sidonia was bound; and Coningsby wasabout to quit his companion, when Sidonia said:

'I am only going a step over to the Rue Tronchet to say a few words to afriend of mine, M. P----s. I shall not detain you five minutes; and youshould know him, for he has some capital pictures, and a collection ofLimoges ware that is the despair of the dilettanti. '

So saying they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine, and soon enteredthe court of the hotel of M. P----s. That gentleman received them in hisgallery. After some general conversation, Coningsby turned towards thepictures, and left Sidonia with their host. The collection was rare, andinterested Coningsby, though unacquainted with art. He sauntered on frompicture to picture until he reached the end of the gallery, where an opendoor invited him into a suite of rooms also full of pictures and objectsof curiosity and art. As he was entering a second chamber, he observed alady leaning back in a cushioned chair, and looking earnestly on apicture. His entrance was unheard and unnoticed, for the lady's back wasto the door; yet Coningsby, advancing in an angular direction, obtainednearly a complete view of her countenance. It was upraised, gazing on thepicture with an expression of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while thelarge sable cloak of the gazer had fallen partly off. The countenance wasmore beautiful than the beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of thegallery to which love, and genius, and devotion had lent theirinspiration, seemed without life and lustre by the radiant expression andexpressive presence which Coningsby now beheld. 

The finely-arched brow was a little elevated, the soft dark eyes werefully opened, the nostril of the delicate nose slightly dilated, thesmall, yet rich, full lips just parted; and over the clear, transparentvisage, there played a vivid glance of gratified intelligence. 

The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, looked at it earnestly for afew moments, and then, turning in a direction opposite to Coningsby, walked away. She was somewhat above the middle stature, and yet couldscarcely be called tall; a quality so rare, that even skilful dancers donot often possess it, was hers; that elastic gait that is so winning, andso often denotes the gaiety and quickness of the spirit. 

The fair object of his observation had advanced into other chambers, andas soon as it was becoming, Coningsby followed her. She had joined a ladyand gentleman, who were examining an ancient carving in ivory. Thegentleman was middle-aged and portly; the elder lady tall and elegant, andwith traces of interesting beauty. Coningsby heard her speak; the wordswere English, but the accent not of a native. 

In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby, apparently engaged inexamining some of that famous Limoges ware of which Sidonia had spoken, watched with interest and intentness the beautiful being whom he hadfollowed, and whom he concluded to be the child of her companions. Aftersome little time, they quitted the apartment on their return to thegallery; Coningsby remained behind, caring for none of the rare andfanciful objects that surrounded him, yet compelled, from the fear ofseeming obtrusive, for some minutes to remain. Then he too returned to thegallery, and just as he had gained its end, he saw the portly gentleman inthe distance shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies apparently expressingtheir thanks and gratification to M. P----s, and then all vanishing by thedoor through which Coningsby had originally entered. 

'What a beautiful countrywoman of yours!' said M. P----s, as Coningsbyapproached him. 

'Is she my countrywoman? I am glad to hear it; I have been admiring her, 'he replied. 

'Yes, ' said M. P----s, 'it is Sir Wallinger: one of your deputies; don'tyou know him?'

'Sir Wallinger!' said Coningsby, 'no, I have not that honour. ' He lookedat Sidonia. 

'Sir Joseph Wallinger, ' said Sidonia, 'one of the new Whig baronets, andmember for ----. I know him. He married a Spaniard. That is not hisdaughter, but his niece; the child of his wife's sister. It is not easy tofind any one more beautiful. '

END OF BOOK V. 

BOOK VI. 

CHAPTER I. 

The knowledge that Sidonia was in Paris greatly agitated Lady Monmouth. She received the intimation indeed from Coningsby at dinner withsufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord Monmouth himself was quitepleased at the announcement. Sidonia was his especial favourite; he knewso much, had such an excellent judgment, and was so rich. He had alwayssomething to tell you, was the best man in the world to bet on, and neverwanted anything. A perfect character according to the Monmouth ethics. 

In the evening of the day that Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady Monmouth made alittle visit to the charming Duchess de G----t who was 'at home' everyother night in her pretty hotel, with its embroidered white satindraperies, its fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of famous name, brave marshals and bright princesses of the olden time, on its walls. These receptions without form, yet full of elegance, are what English 'athomes' were before the Continental war, though now, by a curiousperversion of terms, the easy domestic title distinguishes in England aformally-prepared and elaborately-collected assembly, in which everythingand every person are careful to be as little 'homely' as possible. InFrance, on the contrary, 'tis on these occasions, and in this manner, thatsociety carries on that degree and kind of intercourse which in England weattempt awkwardly to maintain by the medium of that unpopular species ofvisitation styled a morning call; which all complain that they have eitherto make or to endure. 

Nowhere was this species of reception more happily conducted than at theDuchess de G----t's. The rooms, though small, decorated with taste, brightly illumined; a handsome and gracious hostess, the Duke the verypearl of gentlemen, and sons and daughters worthy of such parents. Everymoment some one came in, and some one went away. In your way from adinner to a ball, you stopped to exchange agreeable _on dits_. It seemedthat every woman was pretty, every man a wit. Sure you were to findyourself surrounded by celebrities, and men were welcomed there, if theywere clever, before they were famous, which showed it was a house thatregarded intellect, and did not seek merely to gratify its vanity by beingsurrounded by the distinguished. 

Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl, and leaning back on a sofa, LadyMonmouth was engaged in conversation with the courtly and classic CountM----é, when, on casually turning her head, she observed entering thesaloon, Sidonia. She just caught his form bowing to the Duchess, andinstantly turned her head and replunged into her conversation withincreased interest. Lady Monmouth was a person who had the power of seeingall about her, everything and everybody, without appearing to look. Shewas conscious that Sidonia was approaching her neighbourhood. Her heartbeat in tumult; she dreaded to catch the eye of that very individual whomshe was so anxious to meet. He was advancing towards the sofa. Instinctively, Lady Monmouth turned from the Count, and began speakingearnestly to her other neighbour, a young daughter of the house, innocentand beautiful, not yet quite fledged, trying her wings in society underthe maternal eye. She was surprised by the extreme interest which hergrand neighbour suddenly took in all her pursuits, her studies, her dailywalks in the Bois de Boulogne. Sidonia, as the Marchioness hadanticipated, had now reached the sofa. But no, it was to the Count, andnot to Lady Monmouth that he was advancing; and they were immediatelyengaged in conversation. After some little time, when she had becomeaccustomed to his voice, and found her own heart throbbing with lessviolence, Lucretia turned again, as if by accident, to the Count, and metthe glance of Sidonia. She meant to have received him with haughtiness, but her self-command deserted her; and slightly rising from the sofa, shewelcomed him with a countenance of extreme pallor and with someawkwardness. 

His manner was such as might have assisted her, even had she been moretroubled. It was marked by a degree of respectful friendliness. Heexpressed without reserve his pleasure at meeting her again; inquired muchhow she had passed her time since they last parted; asked more than onceafter the Marquess. The Count moved away; Sidonia took his seat. His easeand homage combined greatly relieved her. She expressed to him how kindher Lord would consider his society, for the Marquess had suffered inhealth since Sidonia last saw him. His periodical gout had left him, whichmade him ill and nervous. The Marquess received his friends at dinnerevery day. Sidonia, particularly amiable, offered himself as a guest forthe following one. 

'And do you go to the great ball to-morrow?' inquired Lucretia, delightedwith all that had occurred. 

'I always go to their balls, ' said Sidonia, 'I have promised. '

There was a momentary pause; Lucretia happier than she had been for a longtime, her face a little flushed, and truly in a secret tumult of sweetthoughts, remembered she had been long there, and offering her hand toSidonia, bade him adieu until to-morrow, while he, as was his custom, soonrepaired to the refined circle of the Countess de C-s-l-ne, a lady whosemanners he always mentioned as his fair ideal, and whose house was hisfavourite haunt. 

Before to-morrow comes, a word or two respecting two other characters ofthis history connected with the family of Lord Monmouth. And first ofFlora. La Petite was neither very well nor very happy. Her hereditarydisease developed itself; gradually, but in a manner alarming to those wholoved her. She was very delicate, and suffered so much from the weaknessof her chest, that she was obliged to relinquish singing. This was reallythe only tie between her and the Marchioness, who, without being a pettytyrant, treated her often with unfeeling haughtiness. She was, therefore, now rarely seen in the chambers of the great. In her own apartments shefound, indeed, some distraction in music, for which she had a naturalpredisposition, but this was a pursuit that only fed the morbid passion ofher tender soul. Alone, listening only to sweet sounds, or indulging insoft dreams that never could be realised, her existence glided away like avision, and she seemed to become every day more fair and fragile. Alas!hers was the sad and mystic destiny to love one whom she never met, and bywhom, if she met him, she would scarcely, perhaps, be recognised. Yet inthat passion, fanciful, almost ideal, her life was absorbed; nor for herdid the world contain an existence, a thought, a sensation, beyond thosethat sprang from the image of the noble youth who had sympathised with herin her sorrows, and had softened the hard fortunes of dependence by hisgenerous sensibility. Happy that, with many mortifications, it was stillher lot to live under the roof of one who bore his name, and in whoseveins flowed the same blood! She felt indeed for the Marquess, whom she sorarely saw, and from whom she had never received much notice, prompted, itwould seem, by her fantastic passion, a degree of reverence, almost ofaffection, which seemed occasionally, even to herself, as somethinginexplicable and without reason. 

As for her fond step-father, M. Villebecque, the world fared verydifferently with him. His lively and enterprising genius, his ready andmultiform talents, and his temper which defied disturbance, had made theirway. He had become the very right hand of Lord Monmouth; his onlycounsellor, his only confidant; his secret agent; the minister of hiswill. And well did Villebecque deserve this trust, and ably did hemaintain himself in the difficult position which he achieved. There wasnothing which Villebecque did not know, nothing which he could not do, especially at Paris. He was master of his subject; in all things thesecret of success, and without which, however they may from accidentdazzle the world, the statesman, the orator, the author, all alike feelthe damning consciousness of being charlatans. 

Coningsby had made a visit to M. Villebecque and Flora the day after hisarrival. It was a recollection and a courtesy that evidently greatlygratified them. Villebecque talked very much and amusingly; and Flora, whom Coningsby frequently addressed, very little, though she listened withgreat earnestness. Coningsby told her that he thought, from all he heard, she was too much alone, and counselled her to gaiety. But nature, that hadmade her mild, had denied her that constitutional liveliness of beingwhich is the graceful property of French women. She was a lily of thevalley, that loved seclusion and the tranquillity of virgin glades. Almostevery day, as he passed their _entresol_, Coningsby would look intoVillebecque's apartments for a moment, to ask after Flora. 

CHAPTER II. 

Sidonia was to dine at Lord Monmouth's the day after he met Lucretia, andafterwards they were all to meet at a ball much talked of, and to whichinvitations were much sought; and which was to be given that evening bythe Baroness S. De R----d. 

Lord Monmouth's dinners at Paris were celebrated. It was generally agreedthat they had no rivals; yet there were others who had as skilful cooks, others who, for such a purpose, were equally profuse in their expenditure. What, then, was the secret spell of his success? The simplest in theworld, though no one seemed aware of it. His Lordship's plates were alwayshot: whereas at Paris, in the best appointed houses, and at dinners which, for costly materials and admirable art in their preparation, cannot besurpassed, the effect is always considerably lessened, and by a mode themost mortifying: by the mere circumstance that every one at a Frenchdinner is served on a cold plate. The reason of a custom, or rather anecessity, which one would think a nation so celebrated for theirgastronomical taste would recoil from, is really, it is believed, that theordinary French porcelain is so very inferior that it cannot endure thepreparatory heat for dinner. The common white pottery, for example, whichis in general use, and always found at the cafés, will not bear vicinageto a brisk kitchen fire for half-an-hour. Now, if we only had that treatyof commerce with France which has been so often on the point ofcompletion, the fabrics of our unrivalled potteries, in exchange for theircapital wines, would be found throughout France. The dinners of bothnations would be improved: the English would gain a delightful beverage, and the French, for the first time in their lives, would dine off hotplates. An unanswerable instance of the advantages of commercialreciprocity. 

The guests at Lord Monmouth's to-day were chiefly Carlists, individualsbearing illustrious names, that animate the page of history, and areindissolubly bound up with the glorious annals of their great country. They are the phantoms of a past, but real Aristocracy; an Aristocracy thatwas founded on an intelligible principle; which claimed great privilegesfor great purposes; whose hereditary duties were such, that theirpossessors were perpetually in the eye of the nation, and who maintained, and, in a certain point of view justified, their pre-eminence by constantillustration. 

It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen race withwhom he sympathised; whose fathers had been his friends in the days of hishot youth; whose mothers he had made love to; whose palaces had been hishome; whose brilliant fêtes he remembered; whose fanciful splendourexcited his early imagination; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury haddeveloped his own predisposition for boundless enjoyment. Soubise and hissuppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and embarrassed DeLauragais, who sighed for 'entire ruin, ' as for a strange luxury, whichperpetually eluded his grasp; these were the heroes of the olden time thatLord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of our ancestors which heappreciated; and he turned to their recollection for relief from thevulgar prudence of the degenerate days on which he had fallen: days whennobles must be richer than other men, or they cease to have anydistinction. 

It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance of LadyMonmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet preparatory to theball; white satin and minever, a brilliant tiara. Her fine form, hercostume of a fashion as perfect as its materials were sumptuous, and herpresence always commanding and distinguished, produced a general effect towhich few could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien over mere beautyof countenance. 

The hotel of Madame S. De R----d is not more distinguished by its profusedecoration, than by the fine taste which has guided the vast expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost without a rival; there is not theslightest embellishment in which the hand and feeling of art are notrecognised. The rooms were very crowded; everybody distinguished in Pariswas there: the lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the wife ofthe financier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy, the modernBourse, were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers of theCrown, Dukes and Marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the Oeil de Boeuf;diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreigners of all nations, deputieswho led sections, members of learned and scientific academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras, brilliant bouquets, glittering stars, and glowing ribbons, many beautiful faces, many famousones: unquestionably the general air of a firstrate Parisian saloon, on agreat occasion, is not easily equalled. In London there is not the varietyof guests; nor the same size and splendour of saloons. Our houses are toosmall for reception. 

Coningsby, who had stolen away from his grandfather's before the rest ofthe guests, was delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. He hadbeen in Paris long enough to make some acquaintances, and mostly withcelebrated personages. In his long fruitless endeavour to enter the saloonin which they danced, he found himself hustled against the illustriousBaron von H----t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few days before atCount M----é's. 

'It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus of Panama, Baron, 'said Coningsby, alluding to a past conversation. 

'Infinitely, ' replied M. De H. , smiling; 'for I would undertake to cutthrough the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that I shall enter this ball-room. '

Time, however, brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber. What a blazeof light and loveliness! How coquettish are the costumes! How vivid theflowers! To sounds of stirring melody, beautiful beings move with grace. Grace, indeed, is beauty in action. 

Here, where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is suddenlyarrested by one object, a form of surpassing grace among the graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of unrivalled beauty. 

She was young among the youthful; a face of sunshine amid all thatartificial light; her head placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with aqueen-like grace; a coronet of white roses on her dark brown hair; heronly ornament. It was the beauty of the picture-gallery. 

The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance ceased, he had anopportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with her cavalier, and he was conscious that she observed him. Finally he remarked that sheresumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mistaken for her mother, buthad afterwards understood to be Lady Wallinger. 

Coningsby returned to the other saloons: he witnessed the entrance andreception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. Soon afterthis, Sidonia arrived; he came in with the still handsome and evercourteous Duke D----s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to present him tothe Duke. While thus conversing, the Duke, who is fond of the English, observed, 'See, here is your beautiful countrywoman that all the world aretalking of. That is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one of yourlords, whose name I cannot recollect. '

And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. The Dukeaddressed them: asked them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on thenext Thursday; and, after a thousand compliments, moved on. Sidoniastopped; Coningsby could not refrain from lingering, but stood a littleapart, and was about to move away, when there was a whisper, of which, without hearing a word, he could not resist the impression that he was thesubject. He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he heardSidonia reply to an inquiry of the lady, 'The same, ' and then, turning toConingsby, said aloud, 'Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that you haveforgotten her. '

Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal hissurprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not without confusion, and for an instant looked down. Coningsby recalled at that moment the longdark eyelashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance that had so charmedhim at Millbank; but two years had otherwise effected a wonderful changein the sister of his school-day friend, and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing beauty and of the mostgraceful and impressive mien. 

'It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect my niece, 'said Sir Joseph, addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their mutualembarrassment; 'but it is impossible for her, or for anyone connected withher, not to be anxious at all times to express to him our sense of what weall owe him. '

Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine conversation, consisting of questions; how long she had been at Paris; when she hadheard last from Millbank; how her father was; also, how was her brother. Sidonia made an observation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then himselfmoved on; Coningsby accompanying his new friends, in a contrary direction, to the refreshment-room, to which they were proceeding. 

'And you have passed a winter at Rome, ' said Coningsby. 'How I envy you! Ifeel that I shall never be able to travel. '

'And why not?'

'Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great cause thatkeeps one at home. '

'Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of which theyonce could only read. '

'The golden and silver sides of the shield, ' said Coningsby, with a smile. 

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

'No, I would follow yours. '

'You have not heard lately from Oswald?'

'Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents as we are; Ionly wish we could meet. '

'You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford; quite a monk; and you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are much occupied. '

'Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes, when I once paidyou a visit, I might have found your brother. '

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

'I always remember it with delight, ' said Coningsby. 

'You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwithstanding Rome, commands my affections, and in spite of this surrounding splendour, Icould have wished to have passed my Christmas in Lancashire. '

'Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very beautiful place in the county. Ibecame acquainted with Hellingsley when staying at my grandfather's. '

'Ah! I have never seen it; indeed, I was much surprised that papa becameits purchaser, because he never will live there; and Oswald, I am sure, could never be tempted to quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic ideashe has of his order?'

'Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and pure. I always duly appreciatedyour brother's great abilities, and, what is far more important, his loftymind. When I recollect our Eton days, I cannot understand how more thantwo years have passed away without our being together. I am sure the faultis mine. I might now have been at Oxford instead of Paris. And yet, ' addedConingsby, 'that would have been a sad mistake, since I should not havehad the happiness of being here. 

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

'Edith, ' said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom he had beenmomentarily separated, 'Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers. '

In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting near theentrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He was, asusual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and yet not without a delicatedeference which is flattering to women, especially if not altogetherunworthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, and preferred her societyto that of most persons. But the Lady was in error in supposing that shehad conquered or could vanquish his heart. Sidonia was one of those men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink, above all things, from anadventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. He had neither time nortemper for sentimental circumvolutions. He detested the diplomacy ofpassion: protocols, protracted negotiations, conferences, correspondence, treaties projected, ratified, violated. He had no genius for the tacticsof intrigue; your reconnoiterings, and marchings, and countermarchings, sappings, and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders, and sometimesrepulses. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies were to him infinitelywearisome; and if the movements were not merely formal, they irritatedhim, distracted his feelings, disturbed the tenor of his mind, derangedhis nervous system. Something of the old Oriental vein influenced him inhis carriage towards women. He was oftener behind the scenes of the Opera-house than in his box; he delighted, too, in the society of _etairai_;Aspasia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in what is esteemed puresociety, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever women, because theyinterested him; but in such saloons his feminine acquaintances were merelypsychological. No lady could accuse him of trifling with her feelings, however decided might be his predilection for her conversation. He yieldedat once to an admirer; never trespassed by any chance into the domain ofsentiment; never broke, by any accident or blunder, into the irregularpaces of flirtation; was a man who notoriously would never diminish bymarriage the purity of his race; and one who always maintained thatpassion and polished life were quite incompatible. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the Desert, but he would not consent that either shouldtrench on their mutual privileges. 

The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sidonia'ssociety at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriage was impossible. But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. Now they met again, and shewas the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much admired, andfollowed, and courted, and very powerful. It is our great moralist whotells us, in the immortal page, that an affair of gallantry with a greatlady is more delightful than with ladies of a lower degree. In this hecontradicts the good old ballad; but certain it is that Dr. Johnsonannounced to Boswell, 'Sir, in the case of a Countess the imagination ismore excited. '

But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities of lifeproduced as little effect as a flake falling on the glaciers of the highAlps. His comprehension of the world and human nature was too vast andcomplete; he understood too well the relative value of things toappreciate anything but essential excellence; and that not too much. Acharming woman was not more charming to him because she chanced to be anempress in a particular district of one of the smallest planets; acharming woman under any circumstances was not an unique animal. WhenSidonia felt a disposition to be spellbound, he used to review in hismemory all the charming women of whom he had read in the books of allliteratures, and whom he had known himself in every court and clime, andthe result of his reflections ever was, that the charming woman inquestion was by no means the paragon, which some who had read, seen, andthought less, might be inclined to esteem her. There was, indeed, nosubject on which Sidonia discoursed so felicitously as on woman, and noneon which Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him. He wouldtell you Talmudical stories about our mother Eve and the Queen of Sheba, which would have astonished you. There was not a free lady of Greece, Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl Thonis, respecting whom he could not tell you as many diverting tales as if theywere ladies of Loretto; not a nook of Athenseus, not an obscure scholiast, not a passage in a Greek orator, that could throw light on thesepersonages, which was not at his command. What stories he would tell youabout Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot drawn bytigers! What a character would he paint of that Flora who gave her gardensto the Roman people! It would draw tears to your eyes. No man was ever solearned in the female manners of the last centuries of polytheism asSidonia. You would have supposed that he had devoted his studiespeculiarly to that period if you had not chanced to draw him to theItalian middle ages. And even these startling revelations were almosteclipsed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III. Of France, with everycharacter of which he was as familiar as with the brilliant groups that atthis moment filled the saloons of Madame de R----d. 

CHAPTER III. 

The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought of Coningsby, as he sankinto an agitated slumber. To him had hitherto in general been accorded theprecious boon of dreamless sleep. Homer tells us these phantasms come fromJove; they are rather the children of a distracted soul. Coningsby thisnight lived much in past years, varied by painful perplexities of thepresent, which he could neither subdue nor comprehend. The scene flittedfrom Eton to the castle of his grandfather; and then he found himselfamong the pictures of the Rue de Tronchet, but their owner bore thefeatures of the senior Millbank. A beautiful countenance that wasalternately the face in the mysterious picture, and then that of Edith, haunted him under all circumstances. He woke little refreshed; restless, and yet sensible of some secret joy. 

He woke to think of her of whom he had dreamed. The light had dawned onhis soul. Coningsby loved. 

Ah! what is that ambition that haunts our youth, that thirst for power orthat lust of fame that forces us from obscurity into the sunblaze of theworld, what are these sentiments so high, so vehement, so ennobling? Theyvanish, and in an instant, before the glance of a woman!

Coningsby had scarcely quitted her side the preceding eve. He hung uponthe accents of that clear sweet voice, and sought, with tremulousfascination, the gleaming splendour of those soft dark eyes. And now hesat in his chamber, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. All thoughts andfeelings, pursuits, desires, life, merge in one absorbing sentiment. 

It is impossible to exist without seeing her again, and instantly. He hadrequested and gained permission to call on Lady Wallinger; he would notlose a moment in availing himself of it. As early as was tolerablydecorous, and before, in all probability, they could quit their hotel, Coningsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his respects to his newfriends. 

As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful speculations which connectedEdith and the mysterious portrait of his mother. He felt himself, as itwere, near the fulfilment of some fate, and on the threshold of somecritical discovery. He recalled the impatient, even alarmed, expressionsof Rigby at Montem six years ago, when he proposed to invite youngMillbank to his grandfather's dinner; the vindictive feud that existedbetween the two families, and for which political opinion, or even partypassion, could not satisfactorily account; and he reasoned himself into aconviction, that the solution of many perplexities was at hand, and thatall would be consummated to the satisfaction of every one, by hisunexpected but inevitable agency. 

Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The worthy Baronet was at any rate noparticipator in Mr. Millbank's vindictive feelings against Lord Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high respect for a Marquess, whatever mightbe his opinions, and no mean consideration for a Marquess' grandson. 

Sir Joseph had inherited a large fortune made by commerce, and hadincreased it by the same means. He was a middle-class Whig, had faithfullysupported that party in his native town during the days they wandered inthe wilderness, and had well earned his share of the milk and honey whenthey had vanquished the promised land. In the springtide of Liberalism, when the world was not analytical of free opinions, and odiousdistinctions were not drawn between Finality men and progressiveReformers, Mr. Wallinger had been the popular leader of a powerful body ofhis fellow-citizens, who had returned him to the first ReformedParliament, and where, in spite of many a menacing registration, he hadcontrived to remain. He had never given a Radical vote without thepermission of the Secretary of the Treasury, and was not afraid of givingan unpopular one to serve his friends. He was not like that distinguishedLiberal, who, after dining with the late Whig Premier, expressed hisgratification and his gratitude, by assuring his Lordship that he mightcount on his support on all popular questions. 

'I want men who will support the government on all unpopular questions, 'replied the witty statesman. 

Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and strong pursewere always in the front rank in the hour of danger. His support in theHouse was limited to his votes; but in other places equally important, ata meeting at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could find histongue, take what is called a 'practical' view of a question, adopt whatis called an 'independent tone, ' reanimate confidence in ministers, checkmutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A man of hisproperty, and high character, and sound views, so practical and soindependent, this was evidently the block from which a Baronet should becut, and in due time he figured Sir Joseph. 

A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and of a good Catalan family, flyingduring a political convulsion to England, arrived with his two daughtersat Liverpool, and bore letters of introduction to the house of Wallinger. Some little time after this, by one of those stormy vicissitudes ofpolitical fortune, of late years not unusual in the Peninsula, he returnedto his native country, and left his children, and the management of thatportion of his fortune that he had succeeded in bringing with him, underthe guardianship of the father of the present Sir Joseph. This gentlemanwas about again to become an exile, when he met with an untimely end inone of those terrible tumults of which Barcelona is the frequent scene. 

The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of his father'swards. Her beauty of a character to which he was unaccustomed, heraccomplishments of society, and the refinement of her manners, conspicuousin the circle in which he lived, captivated him; and though they had noheir, the union had been one of great felicity. Sir Joseph was proud ofhis wife; he secretly considered himself, though his 'tone' was as liberaland independent as in old days, to be on the threshold of aristocracy, andwas conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not unworthily in theelevated circles in which they now frequently found themselves. Sir Josephwas fond of great people, and not averse to travel; because, bearing atitle, and being a member of the British Parliament, and always movingwith the appendages of wealth, servants, carriages, and couriers, andfortified with no lack of letters from the Foreign Office, he waseverywhere acknowledged, and received, and treated as a personage; wasinvited to court-balls, dined with ambassadors, and found himself and hislady at every festival of distinction. 

The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger's youthful friend. Differentas were their dispositions and the rate of their abilities, theirpolitical opinions were the same; and commerce habitually connected theirinterests. During a visit to Liverpool, Millbank had made the acquaintanceof the sister of Lady Wallinger, and had been a successful suitor for herhand. This lady was the mother of Edith and of the schoolfellow ofConingsby. It was only within a very few years that she had died; she hadscarcely lived long enough to complete the education of her daughter, towhom she was devoted, and on whom she lavished the many accomplishmentsthat she possessed. Lady Wallinger having no children, and being very fondof her niece, had watched over Edith with infinite solicitude, and finallyhad persuaded Mr. Millbank, that it would be well that his daughter shouldaccompany them in their somewhat extensive travels. It was not, therefore, only that nature had developed a beautiful woman out of a bashful girlsince Coningsby's visit to Millbank; but really, every means and everyopportunity that could contribute to render an individual capable ofadorning the most accomplished circles of life, had naturally, and withouteffort, fallen to the fortunate lot of the manufacturer's daughter. Edithpossessed an intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing thenative simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and whichthe strong and original bent of her father's mind had fostered, she hadimbibed all the refinement and facility of the polished circles in whichshe moved. She had a clear head, a fine taste, and a generous spirit; hadreceived so much admiration, that, though by no means insensible tohomage, her heart was free; was strongly attached to her family; and, notwithstanding all the splendour of Rome, and the brilliancy of Paris, her thoughts were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and busyfactories of Millbank. 

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord Monmouth, wasnot very anxious that the ladies should immediately appear. He thoughtthis a good opportunity of getting at what are called 'the real feelingsof the Tory party;' and he began to pump with a seductive semblance offrankness. For his part, he had never doubted that a Conservativegovernment was ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John so two years ago, and, between themselves, Lord John was of the same opinion. The presentposition of the Whigs was the necessary fate of all progressive parties;could not see exactly how it would end; thought sometimes it must end in afusion of parties; but could not well see how that could be brought about, at least at present. For his part, should be happy to witness an union ofthe best men of all parties, for the preservation of peace and order, without any reference to any particular opinions. And, in that sense ofthe word, it was not at all impossible he might find it his duty some dayto support a Conservative government. 

Sir Joseph was much astonished when Coningsby, who being somewhatimpatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt than hiswont, told the worthy Baronet that he looked, upon a government withoutdistinct principles of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread anddemoralising anarchy; that he for one could not comprehend how a freegovernment could endure without national opinions to uphold it; and thatgovernments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else, hadbetter be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of Europe. As for Conservative government, the natural question was, What do you meanto conserve? Do you mean to conserve things or only names, realities ormerely appearances? Or, do you mean to continue the system commenced in1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the principles, and asuperstitious adhesion to the forms, of the old exclusive constitution, carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice?

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that any inkling of the views ofthe New Generation had caught his ear. They were strange and unaccustomedaccents. He was extremely perplexed; could by no means make out what hiscompanion was driving at; at length, with a rather knowing smile, expressive as much of compassion as comprehension, he remarked, 'Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman. '

'I look upon an Orangeman, ' said Coningsby, 'as a pure Whig; the onlyprofessor and practiser of unadulterated Whiggism. '

This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge did not reachmuch further back than the ministry of the Mediocrities; hardly touchedthe times of the Corresponding Society. But he was a cautious man, andnever replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, when he experiencedthe golden advantage of gaining time, for the ladies entered. 

The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She extended to him herhand; her face radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger seemedgratified also by his visit. She had much elegance in her manner; a calm, soft address; and she spoke English with a sweet Doric irregularity. Theyall sat down, talked of the last night's ball, of a thousand things. Therewas something animating in the frank, cheerful spirit of Edith. She had aquick eye both for the beautiful and the ridiculous, and threw out herobservations in terse and vivid phrases. An hour, and more than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby still found some excuse not to depart. Itseemed that on this morning they were about to make an expedition into theantique city of Paris, to visit some old hotels which retained theircharacter; especially they had heard much of the hotel of the Archbishopof Sens, with its fortified courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interestin the subject, and showed some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to jointhe party, which of all things in the world was what he most desired. 

CHAPTER IV. 

Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of Edith. Timewas precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge alreadybegan to loom in the distance, and he resolved to make the most determinedefforts not to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call every morning inthe Rue de Rivoli was an exploit which surpassed even the audacity oflove! More than once, making the attempt, his courage failed him, and heturned into the gardens of the Tuileries, and only watched the windows ofthe house. Circumstances, however, favoured him: he received a letter fromOswald Millbank; he was bound to communicate in person this evidence ofhis friend's existence; and when he had to reply to the letter, he mustnecessarily inquire whether his friend's relatives had any message totransmit to him. These, however, were only slight advantages. Whatassisted Coningsby in his plans and wishes was the great pleasure whichSidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of his time, took in the societyof the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia presented Lady Wallinger withhis opera-box during her stay at Paris; invited them frequently to hisagreeable dinner-parties; and announced his determination to give a ball, which Lady Wallinger esteemed a delicate attention to Edith; while LadyMonmouth flattered herself that the festival sprang from the desire shehad expressed of seeing the celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage. 

Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemedalways welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he did not findhimself in the society of Edith. She seemed not to wish to conceal thathis presence gave her pleasure, and though she had many admirers, and hadan airy graciousness for all of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged theexquisite suspicion that there was a flattering distinction in hercarriage to himself. Under the influence of these feelings, he began dailyto be more conscious that separation would be an intolerable calamity; hebegan to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half term, and ofpostponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer the time whenEdith would probably return to England. 

In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete whichwas about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day whendining at his grandfather's. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on theoccasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his part, he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their houses. That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked to find itunder his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they would not insistupon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his good dinnersinstead of insisting on his eating their bad ones. 

'But Monsieur Sidonia's cook is a gem, they say, ' observed an Attaché ofan embassy. 

'I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man ofsense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot deceivehim, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a rubbermore. Then he would be perfect. '

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

'Poh!' said Lord Monmouth. 

'Married!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 'To whom?'

'To your beautiful countrywoman, "la belle Anglaise, " that all the worldtalks of, ' said the Attaché. 

'And who may she be, pray?' said the Marquess. 'I have so many beautifulcountrywomen. '

'Mademoiselle Millbank, ' said the Attaché. 

'Millbank!' said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. 'There are so manyMillbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?' he inquired of hisgrandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassedand even agitated spirit. 

'What, sir; yes, Millbank?' said Coningsby. 

'I say, do you know who this Millbank is?'

'Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is, I know a daughter of thegentleman who purchased some property near you. '

'Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?'

'The most beautiful girl in Paris, ' said the Attaché. 

'Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty, that Sidonia is going tomarry?' he added, with a fiendish laugh. 

'I have seen the young lady, ' said Lady Monmouth; 'but I had not heardthat Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her. '

'Is she so very beautiful?' inquired another gentleman. 

'Yes, ' said Lady Monmouth, calm, but pale. 

'Poh!' said the Marquess again. 

'I assure you that it is a fact, ' said the Attaché, 'not at least an _on-dit_. I have it from a quarter that could not well be mistaken. '

Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very painfulimpression on the minds of three individuals who were present. 

The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth's mind a sense of defeat, discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby;three subjects which Lord Monmouth had succeeded for a time in expellingfrom his sensations. His lordship thought that, in all probability, thisbeauty of whom they spoke so highly was not really the daughter of hisfoe; that it was some confusion which had arisen from the similarity ofnames: nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever shemight be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and a number ofimages had been raised in his mind that touched his spleen. He took hiswine freely, and, the usual consequence of that proceeding with LordMonmouth, became silent and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she had learntthat Sidonia, whatever might be the result, was paying very markedattention to another woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving that veryball which she had flattered herself was a homage to her wishes, and forwhich she had projected a new dress of eclipsing splendour. 

Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia's marriage with Edithwas the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the imagination ofman; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But the idlest and wildestreport that the woman you love is about to marry another is notcomfortable. Besides, he could not conceal from himself that, between theWallingers and Sidonia there existed a remarkable intimacy, fully extendedto their niece. He had seen her certainly on more than one occasion inlengthened and apparently earnest conversation with Sidonia, who, by-the-bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and never concealed his admirationof her charms or the interest he found in her society. And Edith; what, after all, had passed between Edith and himself which should at allgainsay this report, which he had been particularly assured was not a merereport, but came from a quarter that could not well be mistaken? She hadreceived him with kindness. And how should she receive one who was thefriend and preserver of her only brother, and apparently the intimate andcherished acquaintance of her future husband? Coningsby felt that sicknessof the heart that accompanies one's first misfortune. The illusions oflife seemed to dissipate and disappear. He was miserable; he had noconfidence in himself, in his future. After all, what was he? A dependenton a man of very resolute will and passions. Could he forget the glancewith which Lord Monmouth caught the name of Millbank, and received theintimation of Hellingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto or aCaravaggio to catch and immortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to marrySidonia, how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? Oh! whata future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery awaited him! Wasthere ever yet born a being with a destiny so dark and dismal? He was themost forlorn of men, utterly wretched! He had entirely mistaken his owncharacter. He had no energy, no abilities, not a single eminent quality. All was over!

CHAPTER V. 

It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that ball, theanticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure and some pangs. 

On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed thesouls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, theMarquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton. Aboutthe centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off at a wildpace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with exertion stillvery powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses, had not one of thereins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the Marquess kept his seat;Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was dashed against the trunk ofa tree, and she was thrown out of it, at the very instant that one of theoutriders had succeeded in heading the equipage and checking the horses. 

The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from thephaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous housewas opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble oftongues, great confusion. 

'Get surgeons and send for her maid, ' said Lord Monmouth to one of hisservants. 

In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followedby a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysées. The empty phaeton, reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of amisadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantlydismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senselessand prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining theinjudicious efforts of the bystanders. 

'Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth, ' said Sidonia, exchanging arecognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into thedwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assistedhim. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present. 

'I would hope there is no fracture, ' said Sidonia, placing her on a sofa, 'nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, thoughconsiderable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse. Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself. '

The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, whichSidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silentand very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow ofLucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon enteredthe chamber. 

'The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse, ' said the surgeon; 'thereis no fracture. '

'How pale she is!' said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a picture. 

'The colour seems to me to return, ' said Sidonia. 

The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. Theface of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred. 

'She revives, ' said the surgeon. 

The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened hereyes, and then instantly closed them. 

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

'Stop! moisten her lips first, ' said Sidonia. 

They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her handas if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed. 

'She is herself, ' said the surgeon. 

'Lucretia!' said the Marquess. 

'Sidonia!' said the Marchioness. 

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

'Lady Monmouth!' said Sidonia, in a gentle voice. 

She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. 'Where am I?'she exclaimed. 

'With me, ' said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took herhand. 

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

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

'Accident! Why is he going to marry?'

The Marquess took a pinch of snuff. 

There was an awkward pause in the chamber. 

'I think now, ' said Sidonia to the surgeon, 'that Lady Monmouth would takethe draught. '

She refused it. 

'Try you, Sidonia, ' said the Marquess, rather dryly. 

'You feel yourself again?' said Sidonia, advancing. 

'Would I did not!' said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. 'What hashappened? Why am I here? Are you married?'

'She wanders a little, ' said Sidonia. 

The Marquess took another pinch of snuff. 

'I could have borne even repulsion, ' said Lady Monmouth, in a voice ofdesolation, 'but not for another!'

'M. Villebecque!' said the Marquess. 

'My Lord?'

Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which woulddaunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, 'The carriageshould have arrived by this time. Let us get home. '

CHAPTER VI. 

After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless anddisquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in thedistraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind. His first resolution was immediately to depart for England; but when, onreflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had soagitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of manycircumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his firmresolution began to waver. 

These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had everexperienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which hewas hazarding on a most uncertain die. 

The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, and was informed that thefamily were not at home. He was returning under the arcades, towards theRue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, onhorseback, and at a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed by him, could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his progress. He saw him enter the court of the hotel where the Wallinger family werestaying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby stood still andpale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered himself that Sidonia wasonly speaking to the porter. Then he would fain believe Sidonia waswriting a note. Then, crossing the street, he mounted by some steps theterrace of the Tuileries, nearly opposite the Hotel of the Minister ofFinance, and watched the house. A quarter of an hour elapsed; Sidonia didnot come forth. They were at home to him; only to him. Sick at heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his steps, dreading even tomeet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that his tongue would refuse theoffice of conversation, he contrived to reach his grandfather's hotel, andwas about to bury himself in his chamber, when on the staircase he metFlora. 

Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her now, hisheart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one elseat this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but thegentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so kind aheart as Coningsby's. 

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

'What is the matter?' inquired Coningsby. 

'My Lord, the Marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage. 'Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that had occurred; that M. Villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only thismoment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to thecentre. Coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely emergedfrom the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought Lord and LadyMonmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were immediately atits door. 

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

Coningsby pressed his grandfather's hand. Then he assisted Lucretia toalight. 

'I am quite well, ' she said, 'now. '

'But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth, ' Coningsby said in a toneof tenderness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from him. And hesupported her into the hall of the hotel. 

Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, and withunwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with aglance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an almostwinning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to hiscountenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly presented, he said, 'Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor child!'

He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm fromFlora, and thanked her with all his courtesy. 

'You are not hurt, then, sir?' she ventured to ask with a look thatexpressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture toconvey. 

'By no means, my good little girl;' and he extended his hand to her, whichshe reverently bent over and embraced. 

CHAPTER VII. 

When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather's hotel that morning, itwas with a determination to leave Paris the next day for England; but theaccident to Lady Monmouth, though, as it ultimately appeared, accompaniedby no very serious consequences, quite dissipated this intention. It wasimpossible to quit them so crudely at such a moment. So he remainedanother day, and that was the day preceding Sidonia's fête, which heparticularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite impossible that hecould again endure the sight of either Sidonia or Edith. He looked uponthem as persons who had deeply injured him; though they really wereindividuals who had treated him with invariable kindness. But he felttheir existence was a source of mortification and misery to him. Withthese feelings, sauntering away the last hours at Paris, disquieted, uneasy; no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope; really, positively, undeniably unhappy; unhappy too for the first time in his life; the firstunhappiness; what a companion piece for the first love! Coningsby, of allplaces in the world, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, encountered SirJoseph Wallinger and Edith. 

To avoid them was impossible; they met face to face; and Sir Josephstopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three days since theyhad seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprecedented a neglect. And itseemed that Edith, though she said not as much, felt the same. AndConingsby turned round and walked with them. He told them he was going toleave Paris on the morrow. 

'And miss Monsieur de Sidonia's fête, of which we have all talked somuch!' said Edith, with unaffected surprise, and an expression ofdisappointment which she in vain attempted to conceal. 

'The festival will not be less gay for my absence, ' said Coningsby, withthat plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing lovers. 

'If we were all to argue from the same premises, and act accordingly, 'said Edith, 'the saloons would be empty. But if any person's absence wouldbe remarked, I should really have thought it would be yours. I thought youwere one of Monsieur de Sidonia's great friends?'

'He has no friends, ' said Coningsby. 'No wise man has. What are friends?Traitors. '

Edith looked much astonished. And then she said, 'I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, for we havejust parted with him. '

'I have no doubt you have, ' thought Coningsby. 

'And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than he spoke ofyou. ' Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Sidonia toexpress himself so warmly. 

'Sidonia is a great man, and carries everything before him, ' saidConingsby. 'I am nothing; I cannot cope with him; I retire from thefield. '

'What field?' inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch the drift ofthese observations. 'It appears to me that a field for action is exactlywhat Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his abilities and intelligence. He wastes his energy in travelling from capital to capital like a King'smessenger. The morning after his fête he is going to Madrid. '

This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith spoke of herreturn to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon seeOswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that though he was going to leaveParis, he had no intention of returning to England; that he had not yetquite made up his mind whither he should go; but thought that he shouldtravel direct to St. Petersburg. He wished to travel overland toAstrachan. That was the place he was particularly anxious to visit. 

After this incomprehensible announcement, they walked on for some minutesin silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables, with which Coningsbyresponded at hazard to the sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As they approachedthe Palace a party of English who were visiting the Chamber of Peers, andwho were acquainted with the companions of Coningsby, encountered them. Amid the mutual recognitions, Coningsby, was about to take his leavesomewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth her hand, and said, 'Is this indeed farewell?'

His heart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained her hand amidthe chattering tourists, too full of their criticisms and theiregotistical commonplaces to notice what was passing. A sentimentalebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. Their eyes met. Thelook of Edith was mournful and inquiring. 

'We will say farewell at the ball, ' said Coningsby, and she rewarded himwith a radiant smile. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in olddays, had belonged to the Crillons; but it had received at his hands suchextensive alterations, that nothing of the original decoration, and littleof its arrangement, remained. 

A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into a hall ofgreat dimensions, which was at the same time an orangery and a gallery ofsculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, yet soft and subdued light, which harmonised with the beautiful repose of the surrounding forms, andwith the exotic perfume that was wafted about. A gallery led from thishall to an inner hall of quite a different character; fantastic, glittering, variegated; full of strange shapes and dazzling objects. 

The roof was carved and gilt in that honeycomb style prevalent in theSaracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich andvivid patterns; the floor was a flood of mosaic; about were statues ofnegroes of human size with faces of wild expression, and holding in theiroutstretched hands silver torches that blazed with an almost painfulbrilliancy. 

From this inner hall a double staircase of white marble led to the grandsuite of apartments. 

These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, had been decoratedprincipally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of Munich. Thethree principal rooms were only separated from each other by columns, covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn aside. The decoration ofeach chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the walls of the ball-roomnymphs and heroes moved in measure in Sicilian landscapes, or on the azureshores of Aegean waters. From the ceiling beautiful divinities threwgarlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that the roses, unwilling toquit Olympus, would not descend on earth. The general effect of this fairchamber was heightened, too, by that regulation of the house which did notpermit any benches in the ball-room. That dignified assemblage who arealways found ranged in precise discipline against the wall, did not heremar the flowing grace of the festivity. The chaperons had no cause tocomplain. A large saloon abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at theirservice, where their delicate charges might rest when weary, or finddistraction when not engaged. 

All the world were at this fête of Sidonia. It exceeded in splendour andluxury every entertainment that had yet been given. The highest rank, evenPrinces of the blood, beauty, fashion, fame, all assembled in amagnificent and illuminated palace, resounding with exquisite melody. 

Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was not insensible to the magic ofthe scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that tone, that glance, he had certainly felt much relieved, happier. And yet if allwere, with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly desire, where was he then? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that fell look, thatvoice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him? Where, what wasthe mystery? for of some he could not doubt. The Spanish parentage ofEdith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It offered no solution. Therecould be no connection between a Catalan family and his mother, thedaughter of a clergyman in a midland county. That there was anyrelationship between the Millbank family and his mother was contradictedby the conviction in which he had been brought up, that his mother had norelations; that she returned to England utterly friendless; without arelative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom she could appeal. Hercomplete forlornness was stamped upon his brain. Tender as were his yearswhen he was separated from her, he could yet recall the very phrases inwhich she deplored her isolation; and there were numerous passages in herletters which alluded to it. Coningsby had taken occasion to sound theWallingers on this subject; but he felt assured, from the manner in whichhis advances were met, that they knew nothing of his mother, andattributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank to his grandfather, solely topolitical emulation and local rivalries. Still there were the portrait andthe miniature. That was a fact; a clue which ultimately, he was persuaded, must lead to some solution. 

Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was at once afavourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. He was a specimen ofthe highest style of English beauty, which is popular in France. His airwas acknowledged as distinguished. The men also liked him; he had notquite arrived at that age when you make enemies. The moment, therefore, that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was accosted by manywhose notice was flattering; but his eye wandered, while he tried to becourteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where was she? He had nearlyreached the ball-room when he met her. She was on the arm of LordBeaumanoir, who had made her acquaintance at Rome, and originally claimedit as the member of a family who, as the reader may perhaps not forget, had experienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks. 

There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young men; greatexplanations where they had been, what they were doing, where they weregoing. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases atRome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal. Coningsbysecuring Edith's hand for the next dance, they all moved on together toher aunt. 

Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences with theMarquess. 

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

'Not to-morrow, ' said Coningsby. 

'You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these days topermit travel to a man?'

'I wish nothing was stirring, ' said Coningsby. 'I wish nothing to change. All that I wish is, that this fête should never end. '

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

'Am I capricious because I dislike change?'

'But Astrachan?'

'It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert, ' saidConingsby. 

Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a ball that hehad first met her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences; all mostinteresting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. All mysteries, alldifficulties, were driven from his recollection; he lived only in theexciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in love!

Some time after this, Coningsby, who was inevitably separated from Edith, met his host. 

'Where have you been, child, ' said Sidonia, 'that I have not seen you forsome days? I am going to Madrid tomorrow. '

'And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge. '

'Well, you have seen something; you will find it more profitable when youhave digested it: and you will have opportunity. That's the true spring ofwisdom: meditate over the past. Adventure and Contemplation share ourbeing like day and night. '

The resolute departure for England on the morrow had already changed intoa supposed necessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. In fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith was an impossibility. Hesilenced the remonstrance of his conscience by the expedient of keeping ahalf-term, and had no difficulty in persuading himself that a short delayin taking his degree could not really be of the slightest consequence. 

It was the hour for supper. The guests at a French ball are not seen toadvantage at this period. The custom of separating the sexes for thisrefreshment, and arranging that the ladies should partake of it bythemselves, though originally founded in a feeling of consideration andgallantry, and with the determination to secure, under all circumstances, the convenience and comfort of the fair sex, is really, in its appearanceand its consequences, anything but European, and produces a scene whichrather reminds one of the harem of a sultan than a hall of chivalry. Tojudge from the countenances of the favoured fair, they are not themselvesparticularly pleased; and when their repast is over they necessarilyreturn to empty halls, and are deprived of the dance at the very momentwhen they may feel most inclined to participate in its gracefulexcitement. 

These somewhat ungracious circumstances, however, were not attendant onthe festival of this night. There was opened in the Hotel of Sidonia forthe first time a banqueting-room which could contain with convenience allthe guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, the golden panels ofthe walls containing festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved byencaustic tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantesencircling Dionysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged thevarious tables from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and flower. 

The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated from Edith. TheDuchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir of one of theImperial illustrations, had determined to appropriate Coningsby as hercavalier for the moment. Distracted, he made his escape; but his wanderingeye could not find the object of its search; and he fell prisoner to thecharming Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist chieftain, whose witty wordsavenged the cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered nobility. 

Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! All thecircumstances of his life at this moment were such as acted forcibly onthe imagination of Coningsby. Separated from Edith, he had still thedelight of seeing her the paragon of that bright company, the consummatebeing whom he adored! and who had spoken to him in a voice sweeter than aserenade, and had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight! The lordof the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his boundlesstreasure, was his chosen friend; gained under circumstances of romanticinterest, when the reciprocal influence of their personal qualities wasaffected by no accessory knowledge of their worldly positions. He himselfwas in the very bloom of youth and health; the child of a noble house, rich for his present wants, and with a future of considerable fortunes. Entrancing love and dazzling friendship, a high ambition and the pride ofknowledge, the consciousness of a great prosperity, the vague, daringenergies of the high pulse of twenty-one, all combined to stimulate hissense of existence, which, as he looked around him at the beautifulobjects and listened to the delicious sounds, seemed to him a dispensationof almost supernatural ecstasy. 

About an hour after this, the ball-room still full, but the other saloonsgradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which seemed deserted. Yethe heard sounds, as it were, of earnest conversation. It was the voicethat invited his progress; he advanced another step, then suddenlystopped. There were two individuals in the room, by whom he was unnoticed. They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a sofa, Sidoniaholding her hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe her. Her toneswere tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond and confiding. Itwas all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly withdrew, yet could notescape hearing an earnest request from Edith to her companion that hewould write to her. 

In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, and the nextday found him on his road to England. 

END OF BOOK VI. 

BOOK VII. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seemed to linger asif they wished to celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps thebeautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises a more effectiveinfluence on the soul than when it descends on the aspect of some distantand splendid city. What a contrast between the serenity and repose of ourown bosoms and the fierce passions and destructive cares girt in the wallsof that multitude whose domes and towers rise in purple lustre against theresplendent horizon!

And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance ofhumanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a lightburden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of ourhistory leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, and offaith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome of the Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying thespires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary's. 

A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in thesunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, inmeditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful ofsome engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached the HighStreet as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star Hotel, withthat brilliant precision which even the New Generation can remember, andyet which already ranks among the traditions of English manners. Apeculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival of afirstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine, crowded withso many passengers, the foaming and curvetting leaders, the wheelers moresteady and glossy, as if they had not done their ten miles in the hour, the triumphant bugle of the guard, and the haughty routine with which thedriver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the obedient ostlers inattendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a little awestruck, andlooking for the moment at the lowest official of the stable withconsiderable respect, altogether made a picture which one recollects withcheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary market-town. 

Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of athoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. The general character ofhis countenance was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almostbewitching smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang forward andwelcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off theBlenheim. 

'Well, Coningsby!' he exclaimed, extending both his hands. 

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

And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred to Coningsbysince he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The woundhe had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all, none hadoutraged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had loved one whohad loved another. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And yet 'tis a bitterpang under any circumstances to find another preferred to yourself. It isabout the same blow as one would probably feel if falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling existence, scarcely superiorto that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed only from utter insensibilityby your frank detestation of your rival. It is quite impossible to concealthat Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia a certain degree of aversion, which, in these days of exaggerated phrase, might even be described ashatred. And Edith was so beautiful! And there had seemed between them asympathy so native and spontaneous, creating at once the charm of intimacywithout any of the disenchanting attributes that are occasionally itsconsequence. He would recall the tones of her voice, the expression of hersoft dark eye, the airy spirit and frank graciousness, sometimes even theflattering blush, with which she had ever welcomed one of whom she hadheard so long and so kindly. It seemed, to use a sweet and homely phrase, that they were made for each other; the circumstances of their mutualdestinies might have combined into one enchanting fate. 

And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon, her heart, with whataspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to hisgrandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing, and the gracious favourof an establishment for the daughter of his foe, of a man whose name wasnever mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery thatconnected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood of theLancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath theroof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject bothwith Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries onlyinvolved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternalrelatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, onother occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawnthe conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness oftheir first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet; thenhe remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he recollectedsome specimens of Mr. Millbank's collection, and after touching on severalwhich could not excite suspicion, he came to 'a portrait, a portrait of alady; was it a portrait or an ideal countenance?'

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no meanscertain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of theoriginal, if there were an original. 

Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired ofthe uncle explicitly whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Josephwas of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere 'pickedup. ' Millbank used often to 'pick up' pictures. 

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement ofstudy, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The softnessof his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred to hishabitual reveries of political greatness and public distinction. And as itever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete for the careerwhich he planned for himself, he devoted himself with increased ardour tothat digestion of knowledge which converts it into wisdom. His life atCambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the exception of a few Etonfriends, he avoided all society. And, indeed, his acquisitions during thisterm were such as few have equalled, and could only have been mastered bya mental discipline of a severe and exalted character. At the end of theterm Coningsby took his degree, and in a few days was about to quit thatuniversity where, on the whole, he had passed three serene and happy yearsin the society of fond and faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. Hehad many plans for his impending movements, yet none of them very matureones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby to visit his family in the north, andafterwards to go to Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined totravel for a year. Amid this hesitation a circumstance occurred whichdecided him to adopt neither of these courses. 

It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John's, Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who werevisiting the marvels and rarities of the university. They were alone. Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abruptmanner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with so muchcordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning, became theircompanion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at length, in adepressed tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether they hadlately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the extreme light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she was in England, atMillbank, with her family. He always very much liked Lady Wallinger, butthis morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished on her unceasing andthe most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only in the idea of makingthe Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; and no one else was to betheir guide at any place or under any circumstances. He told them exactlywhat they were to see; how they were to see it; when they were to see it. He told them of things which nobody did see, but which they should. Heinsisted that Sir Joseph should dine with him in hall; Sir Joseph couldnot think of leaving Lady Wallinger; Lady Wallinger could not think of SirJoseph missing an opportunity that might never offer again. Besides, theymight both join her after dinner. Except to give her husband a dinner, Coningsby evidently intended never to leave her side. 

And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone with the lady, Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, with acountenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, 'I was pleased, I meansurprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank; I thought by thistime she might have borne another name?'

Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, andthen said, 'Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitatein marrying. Marriage is for a woman _the_ event. Edith is too precious tobe carelessly bestowed. '

'But I understood, ' said Coningsby, 'when I left Paris, ' and here, hebecame very confused, 'that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point ofmarriage. '

'With whom?'

'Our friend Sidonia. '

'I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor Monsieurde Sidonia, Edith. 'Tis a preposterous idea!' said Lady Wallinger. 

'But he very much admired her?' said Coningsby with a searching eye. 

'Possibly, ' said Lady Wallinger; 'but he never even intimated hisadmiration. '

'But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank?'

'Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect. '

'You have known Sidonia a long time?'

'It was Monsieur de Sidonia's father who introduced us to the care of Mr. Wallinger, ' said Lady Wallinger, 'and therefore I have ever entertainedfor his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as a compatriot. Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us, especially toEdith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great number ofjewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain; and, what sheprized infinitely more, the whole of her mother's correspondence which shemaintained with this relative since her marriage. Nothing but theinfluence of Sidonia could have effected this. Therefore, of course, Edithis attached to him almost as much as I am. In short, he is our dearestfriend; our counsellor in all our cares. But as for marrying him, the ideais ridiculous to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly considerationwould ever induce him to impair that purity of race on which he prideshimself. Besides, there are other obvious objections which would render analliance between him and my niece utterly impossible: Edith is quite asdevoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race. '

A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger saidthese words. The agitated interview, which never could be explained away, already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became pensive, remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he hadhitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of the daythat the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit toHellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that Mr. Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like the change oflife, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished place, with finegardens, of which his niece was particularly fond. 

When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon aboutto quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his removal, hiseye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsbyhad often projected a visit to Oxford, which he much desired to make, buthitherto it had been impossible for him to effect it, except in theabsence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed it that he mightcombine his first visit to that famous seat of learning with one to hisold schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable. And immediatelyConingsby wrote to apprise Millbank that he had taken his degree, wasfree, and prepared to pay him immediately the long-projected visit. Threeyears and more had elapsed since they had quitted Eton. How much hadhappened in the interval! What new ideas, new feelings, vast and novelknowledge! Though they had not met, they were nevertheless familiar withthe progress and improvement of each other's minds. Their suggestivecorrespondence was too valuable to both of them to have been otherwisethan cherished. And now they were to meet on the eve of entering thatworld for which they had made so sedulous a preparation. 

CHAPTER II. 

There are few things in life more interesting than an unrestrainedinterchange of ideas with a congenial spirit, and there are few thingsmore rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the world a man of greatabilities, acquirements, experience, who will unmask his mind, unbuttonhis brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque phrase all theresults of his studies and observation; his knowledge of men, books, andnature. On the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives anoriginal idea, he hoards it as if it were old gold; and rather avoids thesubject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you mayappropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of our renowneddulness in conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy. It must beadmitted that in this respect authors, but especially poets, bear thepalm. They never think they are sufficiently appreciated, and live intremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. Artists have the reputeof being nearly as bad. And as for a small rising politician, a cleverspeech by a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office destroys hisappetite and disturbs his slumbers. 

One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is, that one isperpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and rareacquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these discourses theintellect makes daring leaps and marvellous advances. The tone thatcolours our afterlife is often caught in these chance colloquies, and thebent given that shapes a career. 

And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more open, thebrain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue moreprompt and eloquent, than when two school-day friends, knit by everysympathy of intelligence and affection, meet at the close of their collegecareers, after a long separation, hesitating, as it were, on the verge ofactive life, and compare together their conclusions of the interval;impart to each other all their thoughts and secret plans and projects;high fancies and noble aspirations; glorious visions of personal fame andnational regeneration. 

Ah! why should such enthusiasm ever die! Life is too short to be little. Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and expresseshimself with frankness and with fervour. 

Most assuredly there never was a congress of friendship wherein more wassaid and felt than in this meeting, so long projected, and yet perhaps onthe whole so happily procrastinated, between Coningsby and Millbank. In amoment they seemed as if they had never parted. Their faithfulcorrespondence indeed had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken. Butdetails are only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind withoutstint. Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment but wascanvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a principle theyhad adopted that was not confessed. Often, with boyish glee stilllingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as they discovered thatthey had formed the same opinion or adopted the same conclusion. Theytalked all day and late into the night. They condensed into a week thepoignant conclusions of three years of almost unbroken study. And onenight, as they sat together in Millbank's rooms at Oriel, theirconversation having for some time taken a political colour, Millbank said, 'Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be the state ofparties in this country; for it seems to me that if we penetrate thesurface, the classification must be more simple than their many nameswould intimate. '

'The principle of the exclusive constitution of England having beenconceded by the Acts of 1827-8-32, ' said Coningsby, 'a party has arisen inthe State who demand that the principle of political liberalism shallconsequently be carried to its extent; which it appears to them isimpossible without getting rid of the fragments of the old constitutionthat remain. This is the destructive party; a party with distinct andintelligible principles. They seek a specific for the evils of our socialsystem in the general suffrage of the population. 

'They are resisted by another party, who, having given up exclusion, wouldonly embrace as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment; who, without any embarrassing promulgation of principles, wish to keep thingsas they find them as long as they can, and then will manage them as theyfind them as well as they can; but as a party must have the semblance ofprinciples, they take the names of the things that they have destroyed. Thus they are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown, although in truththe Crown has been stripped of every one of its prerogatives; they affecta great veneration for the constitution in Church and State, though everyone knows that the constitution in Church and State no longer exists; theyare ready to stand or fall with the "independence of the Upper House ofParliament", though, in practice, they are perfectly aware that, withtheir sanction, "the Upper House" has abdicated its initiatory functions, and now serves only as a court of review of the legislation of the Houseof Commons. Whenever public opinion, which this party never attempts toform, to educate, or to lead, falls into some violent perplexity, passion, or caprice, this party yields without a struggle to the impulse, and, whenthe storm has passed, attempts to obstruct and obviate the logical and, ultimately, the inevitable results of the very measures they havethemselves originated, or to which they have consented. This is theConservative party. 

'I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories, Radicals or Chartists, or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race may designatethemselves; but these two divisions comprehend at present the Englishnation. 

'With regard to the first school, I for one have no faith in the remedialqualities of a government carried on by a neglected democracy, who, forthree centuries, have received no education. What prospect does it offerus of those high principles of conduct with which we have fed ourimaginations and strengthened our will? I perceive none of the elements ofgovernment that should secure the happiness of a people and the greatnessof a realm. 

'But in my opinion, if Democracy be combated only by Conservatism, Democracy must triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is ourposition. The man who enters public life at this epoch has to choosebetween Political Infidelity and a Destructive Creed. '

'This, then, ' said Millbank, 'is the dilemma to which we are brought bynearly two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary Church. '

''Tis true, ' said Coningsby. 'We cannot conceal it from ourselves, thatthe first has made Government detested, and the second Religiondisbelieved. '

'Many men in this country, ' said Millbank, 'and especially in the class towhich I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy; becausethey have accustomed themselves to believe, that it is the only power bywhich we can sweep away those sectional privileges and interests thatimpede the intelligence and industry of the community. '

'And yet, ' said Coningsby, 'the only way to terminate what, in thelanguage of the present day, is called Class Legislation, is not toentrust power to classes. You would find a Locofoco majority as muchaddicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. The only powerthat has no class sympathy is the Sovereign. '

'But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign, what would be your checkagainst him?'

'The same as against an arbitrary Parliament. '

'But a Parliament is responsible. '

'To whom?'

'To their constituent body. '

'Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?'

'But public opinion would prevent that. '

'And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than on a body?'

'But public opinion may be indifferent. A nation may be misled, may becorrupt. '

'If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the elected bodywill resemble it. The nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But thisonly shows that there is something to be considered beyond forms ofgovernment, national character. And herein mainly should we repose ourhopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and the great, depend uponit, whatever be its form, the government will respond to its convictionsand its sentiments. '

'Do you then declare against Parliamentary government. '

'Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of evils, forit comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the permanence of theexisting settlement, if the very individuals who established it are, yearafter year, proposing their modifications or their reconstructions; soalso, while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare ourselves for thechange we deem impending?

'Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow-citizens, should betaken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who opposed the Reform Billoffered contrary objections to it which destroyed each other, so ignorantwere they of its real character, its historical causes, its politicalconsequences. We should now so act that, when the occasions arrives, weshould clearly comprehend what we want, and have formed an opinion as tothe best means by which that want can be supplied. 

'For this purpose I would accustom the public mind to the contemplation ofan existing though torpid power in the constitution, capable of removingour social grievances, were we to transfer to it those prerogatives whichthe Parliament has gradually usurped, and used in a manner which hasproduced the present material and moral disorganisation. The House ofCommons is the house of a few; the Sovereign is the sovereign of all. Theproper leader of the people is the individual who sits upon the throne. '

'Then you abjure the Representative principle?'

'Why so? Representation is not necessarily, or even in a principal sense, Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet thenation is represented in its highest as well as in its most minuteinterests. Not a grievance escapes notice and redress. I see in thenewspaper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally chastised his pupil. It is a fact known over all England. We must not forget that a principleof government is reserved for our days that we shall not find in ourAristotles, or even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our SaxonWittenagemotes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is nowsupreme, and Opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press isfar more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentaryrepresentation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it wasadmirably adapted: an age of semi-civilisation, when there was a leadingclass in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude. It iscontrolled by a system of representation more vigorous and comprehensive;which absorbs its duties and fulfils them more efficiently, and in whichdiscussion is pursued on fairer terms, and often with more depth andinformation. '

'And to what power would you entrust the function of Taxation?'

'To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in creating ourpresent amount of debt, and in establishing our present system of imposts. 

'In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect its ends bythe influence of opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms. Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to ourconsideration the idea of a free monarchy, established on fundamentallaws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government, ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual press. Before such a royal authority, supported by such a national opinion, thesectional anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system, where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, evenstatesmen would be educated; we should have no more diplomatists who couldnot speak French, no more bishops ignorant of theology, no more generals-in-chief who never saw a field. 

'Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions, ourfeelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of great ends andappealing to high sentiments; a polity which, in my opinion, would rendergovernment an object of national affection, which would terminatesectional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and extinguish Chartism. '

'You said to me yesterday, ' said Millbank after a pause, 'quoting thewords of another, which you adopted, that Man was made to adore and toobey. Now you have shown to me the means by which you deem it possiblethat government might become no longer odious to the subject; you haveshown how man may be induced to obey. But there are duties and interestsfor man beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and nationalgreatness, higher interests and greater duties. How would you deal withtheir spiritual necessities? You think you can combat political infidelityin a nation by the principle of enlightened loyalty; how would youencounter religious infidelity in a state? By what means is the principleof profound reverence to be revived? How, in short, is man to be led toadore?'

'Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten, ' replied Coningsby. 'Iknow from your letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts. I confessto you that it has often filled mine with perplexity and depression. Whenwe were at Eton, and both of us impregnated with the contrary prejudicesin which we had been brought up, there was still between us one commonground of sympathy and trust; we reposed with confidence and affection inthe bosom of our Church. Time and thought, with both of us, have onlymatured the spontaneous veneration of our boyhood. But time and thoughthave also shown me that the Church of our heart is not in a position, asregards the community, consonant with its original and essentialcharacter, or with the welfare of the nation. '

'The character of a Church is universality, ' replied Millbank. 'Once theChurch in this country was universal in principle and practice; whenwedded to the State, it continued at least universal in principle, if notin practice. What is it now? All ties between the State and the Church areabolished, except those which tend to its danger and degradation. 

'What can be more anomalous than the present connection between State andChurch? Every condition on which it was originally consented to has beencancelled. That original alliance was, in my view, an equal calamity forthe nation and the Church; but, at least, it was an intelligible compact. Parliament, then consisting only of members of the Established Church, was, on ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and might, in some points ofview, be esteemed a necessary portion of Church government. But you haveeffaced this exclusive character of Parliament; you have determined that acommunion with the Established Church shall no longer be part of thequalification for sitting in the House of Commons. There is no reason, sofar as the constitution avails, why every member of the House of Commonsshould not be a dissenter. But the whole power of the country isconcentrated in the House of Commons. The House of Lords, even the Monarchhimself, has openly announced and confessed, within these ten years, thatthe will of the House of Commons is supreme. A single vote of the House ofCommons, in 1832, made the Duke of Wellington declare, in the House ofLords, that he was obliged to abandon his sovereign in "the most difficultand distressing circumstances. " The House of Commons is absolute. It isthe State. "L'Etat c'est moi. " The House of Commons virtually appoints thebishops. A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the EstablishedChurch. They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was expelled the thronebecause he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliamentmight do this to-morrow with impunity. And this is the constitution inChurch and State which Conservative dinners toast! The only consequencesof the present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of theState, there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, andon the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those principles onwhich alone Church government can be established, and by the influence ofwhich alone can the Church of England again become universal. '

'But it is urged that the State protects its revenues?'

'No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe that require protection. Modernhistory is a history of Church spoliation. And by whom? Not by the people;not by the democracy. No; it is the emperor, the king, the feudal baron, the court minion. The estate of the Church is the estate of the people, solong as the Church is governed on its real principles. The Church is themedium by which the despised and degraded classes assert the nativeequality of man, and vindicate the rights and power of intellect. It made, in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of a Saxon pedlar Primate ofEngland, and placed Nicholas Breakspear, a Hertfordshire peasant, on thethrone of the Caesars. It would do as great things now, if it weredivorced from the degrading and tyrannical connection that enchains it. You would have other sons of peasants Bishops of England, instead of menappointed to that sacred office solely because they were the needy scionsof a factitious aristocracy; men of gross ignorance, profligate habits, and grinding extortion, who have disgraced the episcopal throne, andprofaned the altar. '

'But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the presentbench?'

'Surely not: I speak of the past, of the past that has produced so muchpresent evil. We live in decent times; frigid, latitudinarian, alarmed, decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our days a fit successor to theauthors of the gospels, if he be not the editor of a Greek play; and hewho follows St. Paul must now at least have been private tutor of someyoung nobleman who has taken a good degree! And then you are allastonished that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but theindestructibleness of its principles, however feebly pursued, could havemaintained even the disorganised body that still survives. 

'And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and all its presentdeficiencies, it is by the Church; I would have said until I listened toyou to-night; by the Church alone that I see any chance of regeneratingthe national character. The parochial system, though shaken by the fatalpoor-law, is still the most ancient, the most comprehensive, and the mostpopular institution of the country; the younger priests are, in general, men whose souls are awake to the high mission which they have to fulfil, and which their predecessors so neglected; there is, I think, a risingfeeling in the community, that parliamentary intercourse in mattersecclesiastical has not tended either to the spiritual or the materialelevation of the humbler orders. Divorce the Church from the State, andthe spiritual power that struggled against the brute force of the darkages, against tyrannical monarchs and barbarous barons, will struggleagain in opposition to influences of a different form, but of a similartendency; equally selfish, equally insensible, equally barbarising. Thepriests of God are the tribunes of the people. O, ignorant! that with sucha mission they should ever have cringed in the antechambers of ministers, or bowed before parliamentary committees!'

'The Utilitarian system is dead, ' said Coningsby. 'It has passed throughthe heaven of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, andpeppering, and it has melted away. And yet can we wonder that it foundsome success, when we consider the political ignorance and social torporwhich it assailed? Anointed kings turned into chief magistrates, andtherefore much overpaid; estates of the realm changed into parliaments ofvirtual representation, and therefore requiring real reform; holy Churchtransformed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled at by allthe nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable harvest ofsedition, radicalism, infidelity! I really think there is no society, however great its resources, that could long resist the united influencesof chief magistrate, virtual representation, and Church establishment!'

'I have immense faith in the new generation, ' said Millbank, eagerly. 

'It is a holy thing to see a state saved by its youth, ' said Coningsby;and then he added, in a tone of humility, if not of depression, 'But whata task! What a variety of qualities, what a combination of circumstancesis requisite! What bright abilities and what noble patience! Whatconfidence from the people, what favour from the Most High!'

'But He will favour us, ' said Millbank. 'And I say to you as Nathan saidunto David, "Thou art the man!" You were our leader at Eton; the friendsof your heart and boyhood still cling and cluster round you! they are allmen whose position forces them into public life. It is a nucleus ofhonour, faith, and power. You have only to dare. And will you not dare? Itis our privilege to live in an age when the career of the highest ambitionis identified with the performance of the greatest good. Of the presentepoch it may be truly said, "Who dares to be good, dares to be great. "'

'Heaven is above all, ' said Coningsby. 'The curtain of our fate is stillundrawn. We are happy in our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever lights, we will stand together. For myself, I prefer fame to life; and yet, theconsciousness of heroic deeds to the most wide-spread celebrity. '

CHAPTER III. 

The beautiful light of summer had never shone on a scene and surroundinglandscape which recalled happier images of English nature, and betterrecollections of English manners, than that to which we would nowintroduce our readers. One of those true old English Halls, now unhappilyso rare, built in the time of the Tudors, and in its elaborate timber-framing and decorative woodwork indicating, perhaps, the scarcity of brickand stone at the period of its structure, as much as the grotesque geniusof its fabricator, rose on a terrace surrounded by ancient and very formalgardens. The hall itself, during many generations, had been vigilantly andtastefully preserved by its proprietors. There was not a point which wasnot as fresh as if it had been renovated but yesterday. It stood a hugeand strange blending of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with awild dash of the fantastic in addition. The lantern watch-towers of abaronial castle were placed in juxtaposition with Doric columns employedfor chimneys, while under oriel windows might be observed Italian doorwayswith Grecian pediments. Beyond the extensive gardens an avenue of Spanishchestnuts at each point of the compass approached the mansion, or led intoa small park which was table-land, its limits opening on all sides tobeautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling with cultivation, except at onepoint, where the river Darl formed the boundary of the domain, and thenspread in many a winding through the rich country beyond. 

Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was about to visitfor the first time. Coningsby and himself had travelled together as far asDarlford, where their roads diverged, and they had separated with anengagement on the part of Coningsby to visit Hellingsley on the morrow. Asthey had travelled along, Coningsby had frequently led the conversation todomestic topics; gradually he had talked, and talked much of Edith. Without an obtrusive curiosity, he extracted, unconsciously to hiscompanion, traits of her character and early days, which filled him with awild and secret interest. The thought that in a few hours he was to meether again, infused into his being a degree of transport, which the verynecessity of repressing before his companion rendered more magical andthrilling. How often it happens in life that we have with a grave face todiscourse of ordinary topics, while all the time our heart and memory areengrossed with some enchanting secret!

The castle of his grandfather presented a far different scene on thearrival of Coningsby from that which it had offered on his first visit. The Marquess had given him a formal permission to repair to it at hispleasure, and had instructed the steward accordingly. But he came withoutnotice, at a season of the year when the absence of all sports made hisarrival unexpected. The scattered and sauntering household rousedthemselves into action, and contemplated the conviction that it might benecessary to do some service for their wages. There was a stir in thatvast, sleepy castle. At last the steward was found, and came forward towelcome their young master, whose simple wants were limited to the roomshe had formerly occupied. 

Coningsby reached the castle a little before sunset, almost the same hourthat he had arrived there more than three years ago. How much had happenedin the interval! Coningsby had already lived long enough to find interestin pondering over the past. That past too must inevitably exercise a greatinfluence over his present. He recalled his morning drive with hisgrandfather, to the brink of that river which was the boundary between hisown domain and Hellingsley. Who dwelt at Hellingsley now?

Restless, excited, not insensible to the difficulties, perhaps the dangersof his position, yet full of an entrancing emotion in which all thoughtsand feelings seemed to merge, Coningsby went forth into the fair gardensto muse over his love amid objects as beautiful. A rosy light hung overthe rare shrubs and tall fantastic trees; while a rich yet darker tintsuffused the distant woods. This euthanasia of the day exercises a strangeinfluence on the hearts of those who love. Who has not felt it? Magicalemotions that touch the immortal part!

But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that softens the heart made hisspirit brave. Amid the ennobling sympathies of nature, the pursuits andpurposes of worldly prudence and conventional advantage subsided intotheir essential nothingness. He willed to blend his life and fate with abeing beautiful as that nature that subdued him, and he felt in his ownbreast the intrinsic energies that in spite of all obstacles should mouldsuch an imagination into reality. 

He descended the slopes, now growing dimmer in the fleeting light, intothe park. The stillness was almost supernatural; the jocund sounds of dayhad died, and the voices of the night had not commenced. His heart too wasstill. A sacred calm had succeeded to that distraction of emotion whichhad agitated him the whole day, while he had mused over his love and theinfinite and insurmountable barriers that seemed to oppose his will. Nowhe felt one of those strong groundless convictions that are theinspirations of passion, that all would yield to him as to one holding anenchanted wand. 

Onward he strolled; it seemed without purpose, yet always proceeding. Apale and then gleaming tint stole over the masses of mighty timber; andsoon a glittering light flooded the lawns and glades. The moon was high inher summer heaven, and still Coningsby strolled on. He crossed the broadlawns, he traversed the bright glades: amid the gleaming and shadowywoods, he traced his prescient way. 

He came to the bank of a rushing river, foaming in the moonlight, andwafting on its blue breast the shadow of a thousand stars. 

'O river!' he said, 'that rollest to my mistress, bear her, bear her myheart!'

CHAPTER IV. 

Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in the morning room of Hellingsley, the morrow after the arrival of Oswald. Edith was arranging flowers in avase, while her aunt was embroidering a Spanish peasant in correctcostume. The daughter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant as thefair creations that surrounded her. Beautiful to watch her as she arrangedtheir forms and composed their groups; to mark her eye glance withgratification at some happy combination of colour, or to listen to herdelight as they wafted to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald and SirJoseph were surveying the stables; Mr. Millbank, who had been dailyexpected for the last week from the factories, had not yet arrived. 

'I must say he gained my heart from the first, ' said Lady Wallinger. 

'I wish the gardener would send us more roses, ' said Edith. 

'He is so very superior to any young man I ever met, ' continued LadyWallinger. 

'I think we must have this vase entirely of roses; don't you think so, aunt?' inquired her niece. 

'I am fond of roses, ' said Lady Wallinger. 'What beautiful bouquets Mr. Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith!'

'Beautiful!'

'I must say, I was very happy when I met Mr. Coningsby again atCambridge, ' said Lady Wallinger. 'It gave me much greater pleasure thanseeing any of the colleges. '

'How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a companionagain!' said Edith. 

'And very naturally, ' said Lady Wallinger. 'Oswald ought to deem himselffortunate in having such a friend. I am sure the kindness of Mr. Coningsbywhen we met him at Cambridge is what I never shall forget. But he alwayswas my favourite from the first time I saw him at Paris. Do you know, Edith, I liked him best of all your admirers. '

'Oh! no, aunt, ' said Edith, smiling, 'not more than Lord Beaumanoir; youforget your great favourite, Lord Beaumanoir. '

'But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome, ' said Lady Wallinger; 'I cannotagree that anybody is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I cannot tell you howpleased I am that he is our neighbour!'

As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to the jacket of her Andalusian, Edith, vividly blushing, yet speaking in a voice of affected calmness, said, 'Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt. '

And, truly, at this moment our hero might be discerned, approaching thehall by one of the avenues; and in a few minutes there was a ringing atthe hall bell, and then, after a short pause, the servants announced Mr. Coningsby, and ushered him into the morning room. 

Edith was embarrassed; the frankness and the gaiety of her manner haddeserted her; Coningsby was rather earnest than self-possessed. Each feltat first that the presence of Lady Wallinger was a relief. The ordinarytopics of conversation were in sufficient plenty; reminiscences of Paris, impressions of Hellingsley, his visit to Oxford, Lady Wallinger's visit toCambridge. In ten minutes their voices seemed to sound to each other asthey did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their mutual perplexity had in a greatdegree subsided. 

Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room, and the conversation becamegeneral. Hellingsley was the subject on which Coningsby dwelt; he wascharmed with all that he had seen! wished to see more. Sir Joseph wasquite prepared to accompany him; but Lady Wallinger, who seemed to readConingsby's wishes in his eyes, proposed that the inspection should begeneral; and in the course of half an hour Coningsby was walking by theside of Edith, and sympathising with all the natural charms to which herquick taste and lively expression called his notice and appreciation. Fewthings more delightful than a country ramble with a sweet companion!Exploring woods, wandering over green commons, loitering in shady lanes, resting on rural stiles; the air full of perfume, the heart full of bliss!

It seemed to Coningsby that he had never been happy before. A thrillingjoy pervaded his being. He could have sung like a bird. His heart was assunny as the summer scene. Past and Future were absorbed in the flowinghour; not an allusion to Paris, not a speculation on what might arrive;but infinite expressions of agreement, sympathy; a multitude of slightphrases, that, however couched, had but one meaning, congeniality. He felteach moment his voice becoming more tender; his heart gushing in softexpressions; each moment he was more fascinated; her step was grace, herglance was beauty. Now she touched him by some phrase of sweet simplicity;or carried him spell-bound by her airy merriment. 

Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to dine with them. There was noteven the ceremony of invitation. Coningsby could not but remember hisdinner at Millbank, and the timid hostess whom he then addressed so oftenin vain, as he gazed upon the bewitching and accomplished woman whom henow passionately loved. It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald, happy inhis friend being his guest, under his own roof, indulged in unwontedgaiety. 

The ladies withdrew; Sir Joseph began to talk politics, although the youngmen had threatened their fair companions immediately to follow them. Thiswas the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, when Sir Robert Peel accepted andresigned power in the course of three days. Sir Joseph, who had originallymade up his mind to support a Conservative government when he deemed itinevitable, had for the last month endeavoured to compensate for thistrifling error by vindicating the conduct of his friends, and reprobatingthe behaviour of those who would deprive her Majesty of the 'friends-of-her-youth. ' Sir Joseph was a most chivalrous champion of the 'friends-of-her-youth' principle. Sir Joseph, who was always moderate and conciliatoryin his talk, though he would go, at any time, any lengths for his party, expressed himself to-day with extreme sobriety, as he was determined notto hurt the feelings of Mr. Coningsby, and he principally confined himselfto urging temperate questions, somewhat in the following fashion:--

'I admit that, on the whole, under ordinary circumstances, it wouldperhaps have been more convenient that these appointments should haveremained with Sir Robert; but don't you think that, under the peculiarcircumstances, being friends of her Majesty's youth?' &c. &c. 

Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when Coningsby replied that hethought, under no circumstances, should any appointment in the RoyalHousehold be dependent on the voice of the House of Commons, though he wasfar from admiring the 'friends-of-her-youth' principle, which he lookedupon as impertinent. 

'But surely, ' said Sir Joseph, 'the Minister being responsible toParliament, it must follow that all great offices of State should befilled at his discretion. '

'But where do you find this principle of Ministerial responsibility?'inquired Coningsby. 

'And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?' inquired Millbank. 

Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. He had always heard that Ministerswere responsible to Parliament; and he had a vague conviction, notwithstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed-Chamber Plot, that theSovereign of England was a nonentity. He took refuge in indefiniteexpressions, and observed, 'The Responsibility of Ministers is surely aconstitutional doctrine. '

'The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; they are notthe 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 gotrid of that with the Venetian Constitution. '

'The Venetian Constitution!' said Sir Joseph. 

'To be sure, ' said Millbank. 'We were governed in this country by theVenetian Constitution from the accession of the House of Hanover. But thatyoke is past. And now I hope we are in a state of transition from theItalian Dogeship to the English Monarchy. '

'King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!' exclaimed SirJoseph. 

'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 andCommons, was nothing more than the Great Council of Nobles. '

'The resemblance was complete, ' said Millbank, 'and no wonder, for it wasnot accidental; the Venetian Constitution was intentionally copied. '

'We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640, ' said Coningsby, 'hadit 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, ' saidConingsby, 'and it has been their interest to conceal them. '

'I will venture to say that there are very few men on our side in theHouse of Commons, ' said Sir Joseph, 'who are aware that they were bornunder 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 greatanimation. 'We may expect him every day; and yet, alas! he cannot fixone. '

They now all spoke of Millbank, and Coningsby was happy that he wasfamiliar with the scene. At length he ventured to say to Edith, 'You oncemade 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 Coningsbyappealing to Lady Wallinger for her influence, Edith rose and took up herguitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the air she sang gay, evenfantastically frolic, such as the girls of Granada chaunt trooping homefrom some country festival; her soft, dark eye brightened with joyoussympathy; and ever and anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, inchorus, with her pretty hand. 

The moon wanes; and Coningsby must leave these enchanted halls. Oswaldwalked homeward with him until he reached the domain of his grandfather. Then mounting his horse, Coningsby bade his friend farewell till themorrow, and made his best way to the Castle. 

CHAPTER V. 

There is a romance in every life. The emblazoned page of Coningsby'sexistence was now open. It had been prosperous before, with some momentsof excitement, some of delight; but they had all found, as it were, theirorigin in worldly considerations, or been inevitably mixed up with them. At Paris, for example, he loved, or thought he loved. But there not anhour could elapse without his meeting some person, or hearing something, which disturbed the beauty of his emotions, or broke his spell-boundthoughts. There was his grandfather hating the Millbanks, or Sidonialoving them; and common people, in the common world, making commonobservations on them; asking who they were, or telling who they were; andbrushing the bloom off all life's fresh delicious fancies with theircoarse handling. 

But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved passionately, and he loved ina scene and in a society as sweet, as pure, and as refined as hisimagination and his heart. There was no malicious gossip, no callouschatter to profane his ear and desecrate his sentiment. All that he heardor saw was worthy of the summer sky, the still green woods, the gushingriver, 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, howeverabundant, had never been cultivated, were developed by the life he was nowleading. It was not merely that he lived in the constant presence, andunder the constant influence of one whom he adored, that made him sohappy. He was surrounded by beings who found felicity in the interchangeof kind feelings and kind words, in the cultivation of happy talents andrefined tastes, and the enjoyment of a life which their own good sense andtheir own good hearts made them both comprehend and appreciate. Ambitionlost much of its splendour, even his lofty aspirations something of theirhallowing impulse of paramount duty, when Coningsby felt how muchennobling delight was consistent with the seclusion of a private station;and mused over an existence to be passed amid woods and waterfalls with afair hand locked in his, or surrounded by his friends in some ancestralhall. 

The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley Coningsby rejoined hisfriends, as he had promised Oswald at their breakfast-table; and day afterday he came with the early sun, and left them only when the late moonsilvered the keep of Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote daily, andwas daily to be expected, did not arrive. A week, a week of unbrokenbliss, had vanished away, passed in long rides and longer walks, sunsetsaunterings, and sometimes moonlit strolls; talking of flowers, andthinking of things even sweeter; listening to delicious songs, andsometimes reading aloud some bright romance or some inspiring lay. 

One day Coningsby, who arrived at the hall unexpectedly late; indeed itwas some hours past noon, for he had been detained by despatches whicharrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby, and which required hisinterposition; found the ladies alone, and was told that Sir Joseph andOswald were at the fishing-cottage where they wished him to join them. Hewas in no haste to do this; and Lady Wallinger proposed that when theyfelt inclined to ramble they should all walk down to the fishing-cottagetogether. So, seating himself by the side of Edith, who was tinting asketch which she had made of a rich oriel of Hellingsley, the morningpassed 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 firstglance sufficiently trifling, he is indeed often conveying a meaning thatis not expressed, or attempting to discover a feeling that is hidden. Andthese are occasions when glances meet and glances are withdrawn: thetongue may speak idly, the eye is more eloquent, and often more true. 

Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who had more than once announced thatshe was going to put on her bonnet, was gone. Yet still he continued totalk trifles; and still Edith listened. 

'Of all that you have told me, ' said Edith, 'nothing pleases me so much asyour description of St. Geneviève. How much I should like to catch thedeer 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 soardent. '

'You have such a band of friends! Oswald was saying this morning there wasno one who had so many devoted friends. '

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

'Edith, ' said Lady Wallinger, looking into the room from the garden, withher 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 givento the tinted sketch; Coningsby would cut the pencils. 

'Would you give me, ' he said, 'some slight memorial of Hellingsley andyour art? I would not venture to hope for anything half so beautiful asthis; but the slightest sketch. It would make me so happy when away tohave 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 somewhathushed and hesitating voice, 'I am sure I will do so; and with pleasure. A view of the Hall itself; Ithink that would be the best memorial. Where shall we take it from? Wewill decide in our walk?' and she rose, and promised immediately toreturn, left the room. 

Coningsby leant over the mantel-piece in deep abstraction, gazing vacantlyon a miniature of the father of Edith. A light step roused him; she hadreturned. Unconsciously he greeted her with a glance of ineffabletenderness. 

They went forth; it was a grey, sultry day. Indeed it was the covered skywhich had led to the fishing scheme of the morning. Sir Joseph was anexpert and accomplished angler, and the Darl was renowned for its sport. They lingered before they reached the terrace where they were to find LadyWallinger, observing the different points of view which the Hallpresented, and debating which was to form the subject of Coningsby'sdrawing; for already it was to be not merely a sketch, but a drawing, themost 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 ofHellingsley, her artistic reputation demanded a masterpiece. 

They reached the terrace: Lady Wallinger was not there, nor could theyobserve her in the vicinity. Coningsby was quite certain that she had goneonward to the fishing-cottage, and expected them to follow her; and heconvinced Edith of the justness of his opinion. To the fishing-cottage, therefore, they bent their steps. They emerged from the gardens into thepark, sauntering over the table-land, and seeking as much as possible theshade, 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 andwooded declivity. While they were yet in this craggy and romanticwoodland, the big fervent drops began to fall. Coningsby urged Edith toseek at once a natural shelter; but she, who knew the country, assured himthat the fishing-cottage was close by, and that they might reach it beforethe rain could do them any harm. 

And truly, at this moment emerging from the wood, they found themselves inthe valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow and winding, but full oflife; rushing, and clear but for the dark sky it reflected; with highbanks of turf and tall trees; the silver birch, above all others, inclustering groups; infinitely picturesque. At the turn of the river, abouttwo hundred yards distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof of thefishing-cottage on its banks. They descended from the woods to the marginof the stream by a flight of turfen steps, Coningsby holding Edith's handas he guided her progress. 

The drops became thicker. They reached, at a rapid pace, the cottage. Theabsent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the river. Thecottage was an old building of rustic logs, with a shelving roof, so thatyou might obtain sufficient shelter without entering its walls. Coningsbyfound a rough garden seat for Edith. The shower was now violent. 

Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the joy andtenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are summer showers. Inthis instance the vehemence of her emotion was transient, though the tearskept stealing down her cheek for a long time, and gentle sighs and sobsmight for some period be distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere hadevaporated; the grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze camedancing up the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and waters; theperfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There was acarolling 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 heartof all creation opened. 

Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, andspeculating on its progress, which did not much annoy them, had seatedhimself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a maiden and a youthmore beautiful and engaging had seldom met before in a scene more freshand 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 spokefrom the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby gazed onthat countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek wasflushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her head; shemet 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! Ilove you!'

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as theimpending twilight. 

CHAPTER VI. 

It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached the Hall; anembarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction that they hadnot to encounter a very critical inspection. What, then, were theirfeelings when the first servant that they met informed them that Mr. Millbank had arrived! Edith never could have believed that the return ofher beloved father to his home could ever have been to her other than acause of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard theannouncement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her existence. Butthis was not the season of meditation. Her heart was still agitated by thetremulous admission that she responded to that fervent and adoring lovewhose eloquent music still sounded in her ear, and the pictures of whosefanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision. Unconsciously shepressed the arm of Coningsby as the servant spoke, and then, withoutlooking into his face, whispering him to be quick, she sprang away. 

As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, and theethereal joy which flowed in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbanksounded, something like a knell. However, this was not the time toreflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most rapid toilet that everwas consummated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes entered thedrawing-room of Hellingsley, to encounter the gentleman whom he hoped bysome means or other, quite inconceivable, might some day be transformedinto his father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent dutiestowards 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 hismurmured 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 aboutthree hours back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than a mile fromthe Hall, very satisfactorily accounted for their not being in time fordinner. 

Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds havingfrightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a littleof their sport, and of their having seen an otter; but there was, or atleast there seemed to Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment whichdistressed him. The fact is, keeping people from dinner under anycircumstances is distressing. They are obliged to talk at the very momentwhen they wish to use their powers of expression for a very differentpurpose. They are faint, and conversation makes them more exhausted. Agentleman, too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted to him, makinga great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner time, to pleaseand surprise them; and finding them all dispersed, dinner so late that hemight have reached home in good time without any great inconvenienteffort; his daughter, whom he had wished a thousand times to embrace, taking a singularly long ramble with no other companion than a younggentleman, whom he did not exactly expect to see; all these arecircumstances, individually perhaps slight, and yet, encounteredcollectively, it may be doubted they would not a little ruffle even thesweetest temper. 

Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest temper, though not a bad one; alittle quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when Edith, whohad providentially sent down a message to order dinner, entered andembraced him at the very moment that dinner was announced, her fatherforgot everything in his joy in seeing her, and his pleasure in beingsurrounded by his friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger, and SirJoseph led away his niece. Coningsby put his arm around the astonishedneck 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 yourfather from dinner. '

As Edith headed her father's table, according to his rigid rule, Coningsbywas on one side of her. They never spoke so little; Coningsby would havenever unclosed his lips, had he followed his humour. He was in a stupor ofhappiness; the dining room took the appearance of the fishing-cottage; andhe saw nothing but the flowing river. Lady Wallinger was however next tohim, and that was a relief; for he felt always she was his friend. SirJoseph, a good-hearted man, and on subjects with which he was acquaintedfull of sound sense, was invaluable to-day, for he entirely kept up theconversation, speaking of things which greatly interested Mr. Millbank. And so their host soon recovered his good temper; he addressed severaltimes his observations to Coningsby, and was careful to take wine withhim. On the whole, affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen, indeed, stayed much longer over their wine than on the preceding days, andConingsby did not venture on the liberty of quitting the room before hishost. It was as well. Edith required repose. She tried to seek it on thebosom of her aunt, as she breathed to her the delicious secret of herlife. When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room the ladies were notthere. 

This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again; he had not seen enough of hisdaughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reappear; andeven to sing. Then Coningsby went up to her and asked her to sing the songof the Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and with a fond yetserious 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, thatto a fine observer would have singularly contrasted with the almost solemnand even troubled expression of her countenance a moment afterwards. 

The day was about to die; the day the most important, the most precious inthe lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been spoken, vows breathed, which were to influence their careers for ever. For themhereafter there was to be but one life, one destiny, one world. Each ofthem was still in such a state of tremulous excitement, that neither hadfound time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result. They bothrequired 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, veryloud, knowing that the presence of his father would make Coningsbyhesitate about coming. Edith's heart fluttered; but she said nothing. Itwas 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 permitme, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you to-morrow, sir, thatyour 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 fromEdith. 

The deed was done; he had breathed his long-brooding passion, he hadreceived the sweet expression of her sympathy, he had gained the long-coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of unsophisticatedbreasts, and the inspiration of an exquisite nature, combined to fashionthe spell that now entranced his life. He turned to gaze upon the moonlittowers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, thepicturesque pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with the silver lightand surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic gardens tipped withthe glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half sparkling in themidnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had been the subjectof the morning's sketch. Almost he wished there should be some sound toassure 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 portalsof Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates that were to greet her? Howlong would they greet him after the achievement of the last four-and-twenty hours was known to their lord? Was this the return for theconfiding kindness of his grandsire? That he should pledge his troth tothe daughter of that grandsire's foe?

Away with such dark and scaring visions! Is it not the noon of a summernight fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with the beam thatlovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian breezes? Within thatsweet and stately residence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough torevive chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she leans on herpensive hand, or, if perchance she dream, recalls him in her visions? Andhimself, is he one who would cry craven with such a lot? What avail hisgolden youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and all hisstores of wisdom, if they help not now? Does not he feel the energy divinethat can confront Fate and carve out fortunes? Besides it is nighMidsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign for but to aid such a brightpair as this?

He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which but a fewhours past he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls a thousand timesthe still, small voice, that murmured her agitated felicity: more than athousand times, for his heart clenched the idea as a diver grasps a gem, he recalls the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had sealed upon herblushing cheek his mystical and delicious sovereignty. 

CHAPTER VIII

The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small white clouds, dull andimmovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl seemedto have become black and almost stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsleylooked like the hard lines of a model; and the mansion itself had a harshand metallic character. Before the chief portal of his Hall, the elderMillbank, with an air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and theheavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny of the day. 

Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy and restlessstep he paced the raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley churchhad given the chimes of noon. His son and Coningsby appeared at the end ofone of the avenues. His eye lightened; his lip became compressed; headvanced 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 towardsthe 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 camehere; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place; noneof 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 firstsaw it, ' said Coningsby. 

'Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald, ' said Mr. Millbank, 'andMr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the meantime. '

The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantlycarried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should beso anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely usedit. 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 wishto say a word to you. ' And thus speaking, he advanced before theastonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a doorand long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished as alibrary, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting thedoor with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his guest tobe seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his throat, saidwithout preface, 'I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, that you areattached to my daughter?'

'I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently, ' repliedConingsby, 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 whitecheek becoming scarlet. 

'It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce mutualunhappiness, ' 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, thatcan bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return, Ihave 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 betweenyou and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a manof 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, thoughnot with harshness; 'that is to say, there is no conceivable marriagewhich could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasiongreater 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 thisis a subject which cannot permit misconception, but with no feelingstowards you, sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of myLord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on hisbounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you maybe the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and myselfare foes; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle to mincephrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may regret that theyhave ever arisen; I may regret it especially at this exigency. They arenot the feelings of good Christians; they may be altogether to be deploredand unjustifiable; but they exist, mutually exist; and have not beenconfined to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, had he the power, like aworm; and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not for thisfeeling 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 andmortification. In our long encounter I have done him infinitely moreinjury 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 inforeign 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 himless than he hates me; I have injured him more. Here are feelings to existbetween human beings! But they do exist; and now you are to go to thisman, and ask his sanction to marry my daughter!'

'But I would appease these hatreds; I would allay these dark passions, theorigin of which I know not, but which never could justify the end, andwhich lead to so much misery. I would appeal to my grandfather; I wouldshow him Edith. '

'He has looked upon as fair even as Edith, ' said Mr. Millbank, risingsuddenly 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 perilsthat you have so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery which youhave been preparing for others besides yourself. Is my daughter to betreated like your mother? And by the same hand? Your mother's family werenot Lord Monmouth's foes. They were simple and innocent people, free fromall the bad passions of our nature, and ignorant of the world's ways. Butbecause they were not noble, because they could trace no mystified descentfrom a foreign invader, or the sacrilegious minion of some spoliatingdespot, their daughter was hunted from the family which should haveexulted 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 inthe same position as your father; you meditate the same act. The onlydifference being aggravating circumstances in your case, which, even if Iwere a member of the same order as my Lord Monmouth, would prevent thepossibility of a prosperous union. Marry Edith, and you blast all theprospects of your life, and entail on her a sense of unceasinghumiliation. Would you do this? Should I permit you to do this?'

Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, his face a little shaded, hiseyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There was a pause; brokenby Coningsby, as in a low voice, without changing his posture or raisinghis glance, he said, 'It seems, sir, that you were acquainted with mymother!'

'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 ofher condition. I have bred my children in a respect for their class. Ibelieve they have imbibed my feeling; though it is strange how in thecommerce of the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparentlybaffled my designs. '

'Oh! do not say it is chance, sir, ' said Coningsby, looking up, andspeaking with much fervour. 'The feelings that animate me towards yourfamily 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 tospeak of the enmities that are fostered between you and my grandfather;the love that exists between your daughter and myself is stronger than allyour 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 thereality of life. And you have arrived at that reality, ' he continued, speaking with emphasis, leaning over the back of his chair, and lookingsteadily at Coningsby with his grey, sagacious eye; 'my daughter andyourself 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 toher. 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 apresentiment, great as was the blessing, that it might lead tounhappiness. '

'I can answer for the misery of one, ' said Coningsby, in a tone of greatdespondency. 'I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! why should there be suchwretchedness? Why are there family hatreds and party feuds? Why am I themost 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 thesecontingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure what you are nowsuffering, and they can look back to such conjunctures through the vistaof years with calmness. '

'I may see Edith now?'

'Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is in her room; I have had someconversation with her. Of course she suffers not less than yourself. Tosee 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 serveyou, 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 Icontrol 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 ableto command my feelings. '

'You never could have felt what I feel now, ' said Coningsby, in a tone ofanguish. 

'You touch on delicate ground, ' said Millbank; 'yet from me you may learnto suffer. There was a being once, not less fair than the peerless girlthat 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 onanything, but the energies which had already made me flourishing. Whathappiness was mine! It was the first dream of my life, and it was thelast; my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my heart. Ah! youdreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through life, you thinkthere is no romance in the loves of a man who lives in the toil andturmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid my career of travail, there was ever a bright form which animated exertion, inspired myinvention, nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and life I first mademany 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 eventalked of when I should bear her to the home that I had proudly preparedfor her. 

'There came a young noble, a warrior who had never seen war, glitteringwith 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 toobitter not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that he lovedher; she gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she found she hadnever given to me; and instead of bearing the name I had once hoped tohave called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to one who, likeyou, 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 ammost wretched; and yet I wish to part from you even with affection. Youhave 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 ponderon 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 hernothing. God will guard over us!'

Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered step, hiscountenance lost, as it were, in a wild abstraction, Coningsby encounteredOswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his turbulent thoughts, andthrowing on Oswald one look that seemed at the same time to communicatewoe and to demand sympathy, flung himself into his arms. 

'My friend!' he exclaimed, and then added, in a broken voice, 'I need afriend. '

Then in a hurried, impassioned, and somewhat incoherent strain, leaning onOswald's arm, as they walked on together, he poured forth all that hadoccurred, all of which he had dreamed; his baffled bliss, his actualdespair. Alas! there was little room for solace, and yet all that earnestaffection could inspire, and a sagacious brain and a brave spirit, wereoffered for his support, if not his consolation, by the friend who wasdevoted to him. 

In the midst of this deep communion, teeming with every thought andsentiment that could enchain and absorb the spirit of man, they came toone of the park-gates of Coningsby. Millbank stopped. The command of hisfather was peremptory, that no member of his family, under anycircumstances, or for any consideration, should set his foot on thatdomain. Lady Wallinger had once wished to have seen the Castle, andConingsby was only too happy in the prospect of escorting her and Edithover 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 wouldnever pardon. So it passed off, and now Oswald himself was at the gates ofthat very domain with his friend who was about to enter them, his friendwhom 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 hisaffections and his sympathy, and whom Oswald was now going to desert inthe midst of his lonely and unsolaced woe. 

'I ought not to enter here, ' said Oswald, holding the hand of Coningsby ashe hesitated to advance; 'and yet there are duties more sacred even thanobedience to a father. I cannot leave you thus, friend of my best heart!'

The morning passed away in unceasing yet fruitless speculation on thefuture. One moment something was to happen, the next nothing could occur. Sometimes a beam of hope flashed over the fancy of Coningsby, and jumpingup from the turf, on which they were reclining, he seemed to exult in hisrenovated energies; and then this sanguine paroxysm was succeeded by a fitof depression so dark and dejected that nothing but the presence of Oswaldseemed to prevent Coningsby from flinging himself into the waters of theDarl. 

The day was fast declining, and the inevitable moment of separation was athand. Oswald wished to appear at the dinner-table of Hellingsley, that nosuspicion might arise in the mind of his father of his having accompaniedConingsby home. But just as he was beginning to mention the necessity ofhis departure, a flash of lightning seemed to transfix the heavens. Thesky was very dark; though studded here and there with dingy spots. Theyoung 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 theirheads, followed by some thick drops. The Castle was close at hand; Oswaldhad avoided entering it; but the impending storm was so menacing that, hurried on by Coningsby, he could make no resistance; and, in a fewminutes, the companions were watching the tempest from the windows of aroom in Coningsby Castle. 

The fork-lightning flashed and scintillated from every quarter of thehorizon: the thunder broke over the Castle, as if the keep were rockingwith artillery: amid the momentary pauses of the explosion, the rain washeard descending like dissolving water-spouts. 

Nor was this one of those transient tempests that often agitate thesummer. Time advanced, and its fierceness was little mitigated. Sometimesthere was a lull, though the violence of the rain never appeared todiminish; but then, as in some pitched fight between contending hosts, when the fervour of the field seems for a moment to allay, fresh squadronsarrive and renew the hottest strife, so a low moaning wind that was now atintervals faintly heard bore up a great reserve of electric vapour, thatformed, as it were, into field in the space between the Castle andHellingsley, and then discharged its violence on that fated district. 

Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. 'You must not think of going home atpresent, my dear fellow, ' said the first. 'I am sure your father would notbe displeased. There is not a being here who even knows you, and if theydid, what then?'

The servant entered the room, and inquired whether the gentlemen wereready for dinner. 

'By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I feel reckless as the tempest; letus drown our cares in wine!'

Coningsby, in fact, was exhausted by all the agitation of the day, and allthe harassing spectres of the future. He found wine a momentary solace. Heordered the servants away, and for a moment felt a degree of wildsatisfaction in the company of the brother of Edith. 

Thus they sat for a long time, talking only of one subject, and repeatingalmost the same things, yet both felt happier in being together. Oswaldhad risen, and opening the window, examined the approaching night. Thestorm had lulled, though the rain still fell; in the west was a streak oflight. In a quarter of an hour, he calculated on departing. As he waswatching the wind he thought he heard the sound of wheels, which remindedhim 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 andEdith; 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, twelvemonths having almost elapsed since the occurrence of those painfulpassages at Hellingsley which closed the last book of this history, andlong lines of carriages an hour before midnight, up the classic mount ofSt. James and along Piccadilly, intimated that the world were received atsome grand entertainment in Arlington Street. 

It was the town mansion of the noble family beneath whose roof atBeaumanoir we have more than once introduced the reader, to gain whosecourtyard was at this moment the object of emulous coachmen, and to enterwhose saloons was to reward the martyr-like patience of their lords andladies. 

Among the fortunate who had already succeeded in bowing to their hostesswere two gentlemen, who, ensconced in a good position, surveyed the scene, and made their observations on the passing guests. They were gentlemenwho, to judge from their general air and the great consideration withwhich 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 thedays 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 theirnames 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 ayoung fellow, but whose assured carriage hardly intimated that this washis first season in London, came up to the junior of the two critics, andsaid, 'A pretty turn you played us yesterday at White's, Melton. We waiteddinner nearly an hour. '

'My dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry; but I was obliged to go down toWindsor, and I missed the return train. A good dinner? Who had you?'

'A capital party, only you were wanted. We had Beaumanoir and Vere, andJack Tufton and Spraggs. '

'Was Spraggs rich?'

'Wasn't he! I have not done laughing yet. He told us a story about thelittle Biron who was over here last year; I knew her at Paris; and anIndian screen. Killing! Get him to tell it you. The richest thing you everheard!'

'Who's your friend?' inquired Mr. Melton's companion, as the young manmoved away. 

'Sir Charles Buckhurst. '

'A--h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen him. They say heis going it. '

'He knows what he is about. '

'Egad! so they all do. A young fellow now of two or three and twenty knowsthe world as men used to do after as many years of scrapes. I wonder wherethere is such a thing as a greenhorn. Effie Crabbs says the reason hegives up his house is, that he has cleaned out the old generation, andthat the new generation would clean him. '

'Buckhurst is not in that sort of way: he swears by Henry Sydney, ayounger son of the Duke, whom you don't know; and young Coningsby; a sortof new set; new ideas and all that sort of thing. Beau tells me a gooddeal about it; and when I was staying with the Everinghams, at Easter, they were full of it. Coningsby had just returned from his travels, andthey were quite on the _qui vive_. Lady Everingham is one of their set. Idon'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 yourdescription, ' said his companion. 

'Well, I don't know what it is, ' said Mr. Melton; 'but it has got hold ofall the young fellows who have just come out. Beau is a little bithimself. I had some idea of giving my mind to it, they made such a fussabout it at Everingham; but it requires a devilish deal of history, Ibelieve, and all that sort of thing. '

'Ah! that's a bore, ' said his companion. 'It is difficult to turn to witha new thing when you are not in the habit of it. I never could managecharades. '

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. TomNeedham sent him to me. A German fellow. Pumicestone pills; sort of acharm, I believe, and all that kind of thing: they say it rubs the goutout of you. I sent him to Luxborough, who was very bad; cured himdirectly. 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 theworld is going to believe in, ' said Mr. Cassilis, 'something patronised byLady Everingham. '

'A very good patroness, ' said Mr. Ormsby. 

'Have you heard anything about it?' continued Mr. Cassilis. 'YoungConingsby 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 thefellow for history at White's. He was always boring one with William theConqueror, Julius Caesar, and all that sort of thing. '

'I tell you what, ' said Mr. Ormsby, looking both sly and solemn, 'I shouldnot be surprised if, some day or another, we have a history about LadyEveringham and young Coningsby. '

'Poh!' said Mr. Melton; 'he is engaged to be married to her sister, LadyTheresa. '

'The deuce!' said Mr. Ormsby; 'well, you are a friend of the family, and Isuppose 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 EleanorDucie 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 fromher, ' said Mr. Cassilis. 

'No foundation, ' said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head. 

'They are not going to separate, I believe, ' said Mr. Melton; 'but Irather 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 lastwinter 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 wasabout. '

All this time Mr. Ormsby, as the friend of Lord and Lady Monmouth, remained shaking his head; but as a member of society, and thereforedelighting in small scandal, appropriating the gossip with the greatestavidity. 

'I should think old Monmouth was not the sort of fellow to blow up awoman, ' 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 anobjection to his marriage. '

We must now briefly revert to what befell our hero after those unhappyoccurrences in the midst of whose first woe we left him. 

The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the Castle, Coningsby quitted itfor London, and before a week had elapsed had embarked for Cadiz. He felta 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 andthe AEgean, which he much desired. In the pensive beauties of thatdelicate land, where perpetual autumn seems to reign, Coningsby foundsolace. There is something in the character of Grecian scenery whichblends with the humour of the melancholy and the feelings of thesorrowful. Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The wish of hisgrandfather had rendered it necessary for him to return to Englandsomewhat abruptly. Lord Monmouth had not visited his native country sincehis marriage; but the period that had elapsed since that event hadconsiderably improved the prospects of his party. The majority of the WhigCabinet in the House of Commons by 1840 had become little more thannominal; and though it was circulated among their friends, as if from thehighest authority, that 'one was enough, ' there seemed daily a betterchance of their being deprived even of that magical unit. For the firsttime in the history of this country since the introduction of the systemof parliamentary sovereignty, the Government of England depended on thefate of single elections; and indeed, by a single vote, it is remarkableto observe, the fate of the Whig Government was ultimately decided. 

This critical state of affairs, duly reported to Lord Monmouth, revivedhis political passions, and offered him that excitement which he was everseeking, and yet for which he had often sighed. The Marquess, too, wasweary 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, hermind was wandering elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was quite superior to allpetty jealousy and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals, but hissublime selfishness required devotion. He had calculated that a wife or amistress who might be in love with another man, however powerfully theirinterests might prompt them, could not be so agreeable or amusing to theirfriends and husbands as if they had no such distracting hold upon theirhearts or their fancy. Latterly at Paris, while Lucretia became each daymore involved in the vortex of society, where all admired and some adoredher, Lord Monmouth fell into the easy habit of dining in his privaterooms, sometimes tête-à-tête with Villebecque, whose inexhaustible talesand adventures about a kind of society which Lord Monmouth had alwayspreferred infinitely to the polished and somewhat insipid circles in whichhe was born, had rendered him the prime favourite of his great patron. Sometimes Villebecque, too, brought a friend, male or otherwise, whom hethought invested with the rare faculty of distraction: Lord Monmouth carednot 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 letterwas couched with all the respect and good feeling which Villebecque reallyentertained for him whom he addressed; still a letter on such a subjectfrom such a person was not agreeable to Coningsby, and his reply to it wasdirect to his grandfather; Lord Monmouth, however, had entirely given overwriting letters. 

Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to England, Lord and LadyEveringham, and he had returned with them. This revival of an oldacquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate for our hero. The vivacityof a clever and charming woman pleasantly disturbed the brooding memory ofConingsby. There is no mortification however keen, no misery howeverdesperate, which the spirit of woman cannot in some degree lighten oralleviate. 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 ontheir entrance into the world even by the most highly connected, unlessthey have this benign assistance; planted him immediately in the positionwhich was expedient; took care that he was invited at once to the righthouses; and, with the aid of her husband, that he should become a memberof the right clubs. 

'And who is to have the blue ribbon, Lord Eskdale?' said the Duchess tothat nobleman, as he entered and approached to pay his respects. 

'If I were Melbourne, I would keep it open, ' replied his Lordship. 'It isa 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 inanother year. The cliff will not be sapped before then. We made a mistakelast year about the ladies. '

'I know you always thought so. '

'Quarrels about women are always a mistake. One should make it a rule togive 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 somethingbetter, worth all qualities; they have tact. '

'A compliment to the sex from so finished a critic as Lord Eskdale isappreciated. '

But at this moment the arrival of some guests terminated the conversation, and Lord Eskdale moved away, and approached a group which Lady Everinghamwas enlightening. 

'My dear Lord Fitz-booby, ' her Ladyship observed, 'in politics we requirefaith as well as in all other things. '

Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed; but, possessed of considerableofficial experience, having held high posts, some in the cabinet, fornearly a quarter of a century, he was too versed to acknowledge that hehad not understood a single word that had been addressed to him for thelast ten minutes. He looked on with the same grave, attentive stolidity, occasionally nodding his head, as he was wont of yore when he received adeputation on sugar duties or joint-stock banks, and when he made, as washis custom when particularly perplexed, an occasional note on a sheet offoolscap paper. 

'An Opposition in an age of revolution, ' continued Lady Everingham, 'mustbe founded on principles. It cannot depend on mere personal ability andparty address taking advantage of circumstances. You have not enunciated aprinciple for the last ten years; and when you seemed on the point ofacceding to power, it was not on a great question of national interest, but a technical dispute respecting the constitution of an exhausted sugarcolony. '

'If you are a Conservative party, we wish to know what you want toconserve, ' 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 exhaustedsugar 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 howwill you move?' said Lady Everingham. 

'I think we have had quite enough of advancing, ' said his Lordship. 'I hadno idea your Ladyship was a member of the Movement party, ' he added, witha sarcastic grin. 

'But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby, to move where we are, as you andyour friends have always maintained, how can you reconcile it to principleto remain there?' said Lord Vere. 

'I would make the best of a bad bargain, ' said Lord Fitz-booby. 'With aConservative government, a reformed Constitution would be less dangerous. '

'Why?' said Lady Everingham. 'What are your distinctive principles thatrender the peril less?'

'I appeal to Lord Eskdale, ' said Lord Fitz-booby; 'there is LadyEveringham turned quite a Radical, I declare. Is not your Lordship ofopinion that the country must be safer with a Conservative government thanwith 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, andunconsciously 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 Coningsbyand Henry Sydney dined at Grillion's, at an university club, where, amongmany friends whom Coningsby had not met for a long time, and amongdelightful reminiscences, the unconscious hours stole on. It was late whenthey quitted Grillion's, and Coningsby's brougham was detained for aconsiderable time before its driver could insinuate himself into the line, which indeed he would never have succeeded in doing had not he fortunatelycome across the coachman of the Duke of Agincourt, who being of the samepolitics as himself, belonging to the same club, and always black-ballingthe same men, let him in from a legitimate party feeling; so they arrivedin Arlington Street at a very late hour. 

Coningsby was springing up the staircase, now not so crowded as it hadbeen, and met a retiring party; he was about to say a passing word to agentleman as he went by, when, suddenly, Coningsby turned deadly pale. Thegentleman could hardly be the cause, for it was the gracious and handsomepresence of Lord Beaumanoir: the lady resting on his arm was Edith. Theymoved on while he was motionless; yet Edith and himself had exchangedglances. His was one of astonishment; but what was the expression of hers?She must have recognised him before he had observed her. She wascollected, and she expressed the purpose of her mind in a distant andhaughty recognition. Coningsby remained for a moment stupefied; thensuddenly turning back, he bounded downstairs and hurried into the cloak-room. He met Lady Wallinger; he spoke rapidly, he held her hand, did notlisten to her answers, his eyes wandered about. There were many personspresent, at length he recognised Edith enveloped in her mantle. He wentforward, he looked at her, as if he would have read her soul; he saidsomething. She changed colour as he addressed her, but seemed instantly byan effort to rally and regain her equanimity; replied to his inquirieswith extreme brevity, and Lady Wallinger's carriage being announced, movedaway with the same slight haughty salute as before, on the arm of LordBeaumanoir. 

CHAPTER II. 

Sadness fell over the once happy family of Millbank after the departure ofConingsby from Hellingsley. When the first pang was over, Edith had foundsome solace in the sympathy of her aunt, who had always appreciated andadmired Coningsby; but it was a sympathy which aspired only to softensorrow, and not to create hope. But Lady Wallinger, though she lengthenedher visit for the sake of her niece, in time quitted them; and then thename of Coningsby was never heard by Edith. Her brother, shortly after thesorrowful and abrupt departure of his friend, had gone to the factories, where he remained, and of which, in future, it was intended that he shouldassume the principal direction. Mr. Millbank himself, sustained at firstby the society of his friend Sir Joseph, to whom he was attached, andoccupied with daily reports from his establishment and the transaction ofthe affairs with his numerous and busy constituents, was for a whilescarcely conscious of the alteration which had taken place in thedemeanour of his daughter. But when they were once more alone together, itwas impossible any longer to be blind to the great change. That happy andequable gaiety of spirit, which seemed to spring from an innocentenjoyment of existence, and which had ever distinguished Edith, waswanting. Her sunny glance was gone. She was not indeed always moody anddispirited, but she was fitful, unequal in her tone. That temper whosesweetness had been a domestic proverb had become a little uncertain. Notthat her affection for her father was diminished, but there were snatchesof unusual irritability which momentarily escaped her, followed by burstsof tenderness that were the creatures of compunction. And often, aftersome hasty word, she would throw her arms round her father's neck with thefondness of remorse. She pursued her usual avocations, for she had reallytoo well-regulated a mind, she was in truth a person of too strong anintellect, to neglect any source of occupation and distraction. Herflowers, her pencil, and her books supplied her with these; and musicsoothed, and at times beguiled, her agitated thoughts. But there was nojoy in the house, and in time Mr. Millbank felt it. 

Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. Edith, his Edith, the prideand delight of his existence, who had been to him only a source ofexultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was perhaps pining away; andthere was the appearance, the unjust appearance that he, her fond father, was the cause and occasion of all this wretchedness. It would appear thatthe name of Coningsby, to which he now owed a great debt of gratitude, wasstill doomed to bear him mortification and misery. Truly had the young mansaid that there was a curse upon their two families. And yet, onreflection, it still seemed to Mr. Millbank that he had acted with as muchwisdom 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 fromHellingsley; unquestionably his presence might have prevented thecatastrophe. Oswald should have hindered all this. And yet Mr. Millbankcould not shut his eyes to the devotion of his son to Coningsby. He felthe could count on no assistance in this respect from that quarter. Yet howhard upon him that he should seem to figure as a despot or a tyrant to hisown children, whom he loved, when he had absolutely acted in an inevitablemanner! Edith seemed sad, Oswald sullen; all was changed. All the objectsfor which this clear-headed, strong-minded, kind-hearted man had beenworking all his life, seemed to be frustrated. And why? Because a youngman had made love to his daughter, who was really in no manner entitled todo so. 

As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley, under existingcircumstances, extremely wearisome; and he proposed to his daughter thatthey should pay a visit to their earlier home. Edith assented withoutdifficulty, but without interest. And yet, as Mr. Millbank immediatelyperceived, the change was a judicious one; for certainly the spirits ofEdith seemed to improve after her return to their valley. There were moreobjects of interest: change, too, is always beneficial. If Mr. Millbankhad been aware that Oswald had received a letter from Coningsby, writtenbefore he quitted Spain, perhaps he might have recognised a moresatisfactory reason for the transient liveliness of his daughter which hadso 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. ButLondon in February to Edith, without friends or connections, her fatheralways occupied and absent from her day and night, seemed to them all, onreflection, to be a life not very conducive to health or cheerfulness, andtherefore she remained with her brother. Oswald had heard from Coningsbyagain from Rome; but at the period he wrote he did not anticipate hisreturn 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 ahouse and carried Edith back with him to London. Lady Wallinger, who hadgreat wealth and great tact, had obtained by degrees a not inconsiderableposition in society. She had a fine house in a fashionable situation, andgave profuse entertainments. The Whigs were under obligations to herhusband, and the great Whig ladies were gratified to find in his wife apolished and pleasing person, to whom they could be courteous without anyannoyance. So that Edith, under the auspices of her aunt, found herself atonce in circles which otherwise she might not easily have entered, butwhich her beauty, grace, and experience of the most refined society of theContinent, qualified her to shine in. One evening they met the Marquis ofBeaumanoir, their friend of Rome and Paris, and admirer of Edith, who fromthat time was seldom from their side. His mother, the Duchess, immediatelycalled both on the Millbanks and the Wallingers; glad, not only to pleaseher son, but to express that consideration for Mr. Millbank which the Dukealways wished to show. It was, however, of no use; nothing would induceMr. Millbank ever to enter what he called aristocratic society. He likedthe House of Commons; never paired off; never missed a moment of it;worked at committees all the morning, listened attentively to debates allthe night; always dined at Bellamy's when there was a house; and whenthere was not, liked dining at the Fishmongers' Company, the RussiaCompany, great Emigration banquets, and other joint-stock festivities. That was his idea of rational society; business and pleasure combined; agood dinner, and good speeches afterwards. 

Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned to England, for her brotherhad heard from him on his arrival; but Oswald had not heard since. Aseason in London only represented in the mind of Edith the chance, perhapsthe certainty, of meeting Coningsby again; of communing together over thecatastrophe of last summer; of soothing and solacing each other'sunhappiness, and perhaps, with the sanguine imagination of youth, foreseeing a more felicitous future. She had been nearly a fortnight intown, and though moving frequently in the same circles as Coningsby, theyhad not yet met. It was one of those results which could rarely occur; buteven chance enters too frequently in the league against lovers. Theinvitation to the assembly at ---- House was therefore peculiarlygratifying to Edith, since she could scarcely doubt that if Coningsby werein town, which her casual inquiries of Lord Beaumanoir induced her tobelieve was the case, he would be present. Never, therefore, had sherepaired to an assembly with such a flattering spirit; and yet there was afascinating anxiety about it that bewilders the young heart. 

In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch the form of that being, whom fora 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 requiredsolace, she learned from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney, whom shechanced to admire, was going to be married, and to Mr. Coningsby!

What a revelation! His silence, perhaps his shunning of her were no longerinexplicable. What a return for all her romantic devotion in her sadsolitude at Hellingsley. Was this the end of their twilight rambles, andthe sweet pathos of their mutual loves? There seemed to be no truth inman, 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 tearsand buried herself in a cloister. 

Instead of that, civilisation made her listen with a serene thoughtortured countenance; but as soon as it was in her power, pleading aheadache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought she had effected, herescape from a scene which harrowed her heart. 

As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night, agitated by the unexpectedpresence of Edith and distracted by the manner in which she had receivedhim. To say that her appearance had revived all his passionate affectionfor 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 startlingand more vivid colours, the relations that subsisted between them. Therewas the being whom he loved and who loved him; and whatever were thebarriers which the circumstances of life placed against their union, theywere partakers of the solemn sacrament of an unpolluted heart. 

Coningsby, as we have mentioned, had signified to Oswald his return toEngland: he had hitherto omitted to write again; not because his spiritfaltered, but he was wearied of whispering hope without foundation, andmourning over his chagrined fortunes. Once more in England, once moreplaced in communication with his grandfather, he felt with increasedconviction the difficulties which surrounded him. The society of LadyEveringham and her sister, who had been at the same time her visitor, hadbeen a relaxation, and a beneficial one, to a mind suffering too much fromthe tension of one idea. But Coningsby had treated the matrimonial projectof his gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity in which he believedit had first half originated. He admired and liked Lady Theresa; but therewas a reason why he should not marry her, even had his own heart not beenabsorbed by one of those passions from which men of deep and earnestcharacter never emancipate themselves. 

After musing and meditating again and again over everything that hadoccurred, 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 atbreakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Monmouth House, apprisinghim that his grandfather wished to see him as soon as possible on urgentbusiness. 

CHAPTER III. 

Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing-room in which he was firstintroduced to the reader; on the table were several packets of papers thatwere open and in course of reference; and he dictated his observations toMonsieur 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, yetthe business on which I wish to communicate with you is so pressing thatit could not be postponed. ' He made a sign to Villebecque, and hissecretary instantly retired. 

'I was right in pressing your return to England, ' continued Lord Monmouthto his grandson, who was a little anxious as to the impendingcommunication, which he could not in any way anticipate. 'These are nottimes when young men should be out of sight. Your public career willcommence immediately. The Government have resolved on a dissolution. Myinformation is from the highest quarter. You may be astonished, but it isa fact. They are going to dissolve their own House of Commons. Notwithstanding this and the Queen's name, we can beat them; but the racerequires the finest jockeying. We can't give a point. Tadpole has beenhere to me about Darlford; he came specially with a message, I may say anappeal, from one to whom I can refuse nothing; the Government count on theseat, though with the new Registration 'tis nearly a tie. If we had a goodcandidate we could win. But Rigby won't do. He is too much of the oldclique; used up; a hack; besides, a beaten horse. We are assured the nameof Coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable section who supportthe present fellow who will not vote against a Coningsby. They havethought of you as a fit person, and I have approved of the suggestion. Youwill, therefore, be the candidate for Darlford with my entire sanction andsupport, and I have no doubt you will be successful. You may be sure Ishall spare nothing: and it will be very gratifying to me, after beingrobbed of all our boroughs, that the only Coningsby who cares to enterParliament, should nevertheless be able to do so as early as I couldfairly desire. '

Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the hustings of Darlford!Vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe! The fierce passions, thegross insults, the hot blood and the cool lies, the ruffianism and theribaldry, perhaps the domestic discomfiture and mortification, which hewas about to be the means of bringing on the roof he loved best in theworld, occurred to him with anguish. The countenance of Edith, haughty andmournful last night, rose to him again. He saw her canvassing for herfather, and against him. Madness! And for what was he to make thisterrible and costly sacrifice For his ambition? Not even for that Divinityor Daemon for which we all immolate so much! Mighty ambition, forsooth, tosucceed 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 ofpetty spirits, without even the consolation of being a dupe. What sympathycould there exist between Coningsby and the 'great Conservative party, 'that for ten years in an age of revolution had never promulgated aprinciple; whose only intelligible and consistent policy seemed to be anattempt, very grateful of course to the feelings of an English Royalist, to revive Irish Puritanism; who when in power in 1835 had used that poweronly to evince their utter ignorance of Church principles; and who were atthis moment, when Coningsby was formally solicited to join their ranks, inopen insurrection against the prerogatives of the English Monarchy?

'Do you anticipate then an immediate dissolution, sir?' inquired Coningsbyafter 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 Eskdalethinks, and his opinion always weighs with me. He is very safe. Tadpolebelieves they will dissolve at once. But whether they dissolve now, or ina month's time, or in the autumn, or next year, our course is clear. Wemust declare our intentions immediately. We must hoist our flag. Mondaynext, there is a great Conservative dinner at Darlford. You must attendit; that will be the finest opportunity in the world for you to announceyourself. '

'Don't you think, sir, ' said Coningsby, 'that such an announcement wouldbe rather premature? It is, in fact, embarking in a contest which may lasta year; perhaps more. '

'What you say is very true, ' said Lord Monmouth; 'no doubt it is verytroublesome; very disgusting; any canvassing is. But we must take thingsas we find them. You cannot get into Parliament now in the good oldgentlemanlike way; and we ought to be thankful that this interest has beenfostered 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 LordMonmouth. 'I have sent instructions to the steward to do all he can in soshort a time, for I wish you to entertain the principal people. '

'You are most kind, you are always most kind to me, dear sir, ' saidConingsby, 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 responsibilityas a seat in the House of Commons, ' said Coningsby. 

'Responsibility!' said Lord Monmouth, smiling. 'What responsibility isthere? How can any one have a more agreeable seat? The only person to whomyou are responsible is your own relation, who brings you in. And I don'tsuppose there can be any difference on any point between us. You arecertainly still young; but I was younger by nearly two years when I firstwent in; and I found no difficulty. There can be no difficulty. All youhave got to do is to vote with your party. As for speaking, if you have atalent that way, take my advice; don't be in a hurry. Learn to know theHouse; learn the House to know you. If a man be discreet, he cannot enterParliament 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 asyour business is pressing, I would not postpone seeing you an hour. Ithought 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 understoodby the Conservative party. '

'Of course; our friends. '

'I am sorry, ' said Coningsby, rather pale, but speaking with firmness, 'Iam sorry that I could not support the Conservative party. '

'By ----!' exclaimed Lord Monmouth, starting in his seat, 'some woman hasgot hold of him, and made him a Whig!'

'No, my dear grandfather, ' said Coningsby, scarcely able to repress asmile, serious as the interview was becoming, 'nothing of the kind, Iassure you. No person can be more anti-Whig. '

'I don't know what you are driving at, sir, ' said Lord Monmouth, in ahard, dry tone. 

'I wish to be frank, sir, ' said Coningsby, 'and am very sensible of yourgoodness in permitting me to speak to you on the subject. What I mean tosay is, that I have for a long time looked upon the Conservative party asa body who have betrayed their trust; more from ignorance, I admit, thanfrom design; yet clearly a body of individuals totally unequal to theexigencies 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 mounthigher; we must go to '28 for the real mischief. But what is the use oflamenting the past? Peel is the only man; suited to the times and allthat; 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 handsof 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 thenominal Premier to do the detail, there was always a secret committee ofgreat 1688 nobles to give him his instructions. '

'I should be very sorry to see secret committees of great 1688 noblesagain, ' 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 merelywish to be informed what those principles aim to conserve. It would notappear to be the prerogative of the Crown, since the principal portion ofa Conservative oration now is an invective against a late royal act whichthey describe as a Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church which they wish toconserve? What is a threatened Appropriation Clause against an actualChurch Commission in the hands of Parliamentary Laymen? Could the LongParliament have done worse? Well, then, if it is neither the Crown nor theChurch, whose rights and privileges this Conservative party propose tovindicate, is it your House, the House of Lords, whose powers they areprepared to uphold? Is it not notorious that the very man whom you haveelected as your leader in that House, declares among his Conservativeadherents, that henceforth the assembly that used to furnish those veryCommittees of great revolution nobles that you mention, is to initiatenothing; and, without a struggle, is to subside into that undisturbedrepose which resembles the Imperial tranquillity that secured thefrontiers by paying tribute?'

'All this is vastly fine, ' said Lord Monmouth; 'but I see no means bywhich I can attain my object but by supporting Peel. After all, what isthe end of all parties and all politics? To gain your object. I want toturn our coronet into a ducal one, and to get your grandmother's baronycalled out of abeyance in your favour. It is impossible that Peel canrefuse me. I have already purchased an ample estate with the view ofentailing 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 withpleasure. Count on my at once entering into any arrangement conducive toyour happiness. '

'My dear grandfather, you have ever been to me only too kind andgenerous. '

'To whom should I be kind but to you, my own blood, that has never crossedme, and of whom I have reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, it gratifies me tohear you admired and to learn your success. All I want now is to see youin Parliament. A man should be in Parliament early. There is a sort ofstiffness about every man, no matter what may be his talents, who entersParliament late in life; and now, fortunately, the occasion offers. Youwill go down on Friday; feed the notabilities well; speak out; praisePeel; abuse O'Connell and the ladies of the Bed-chamber; anathematise allwaverers; say a good deal about Ireland; stick to the Irish RegistrationBill, that's a good card; and, above all, my dear Harry, don't spare thatfellow Millbank. Remember, in turning him out you not only gain a vote forthe Conservative cause and our coronet, but you crush my foe. Sparenothing for that object; I count on you, boy. '

'I should grieve to be backward in anything that concerned your interestor 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 toneof some kindness. 

'And I feel at this moment, ' continued Coningsby, 'that there is nopersonal sacrifice which I am not prepared to make for them, except one. My interests, my affections, they should not be placed in the balance, ifyours, sir, were at stake, though there are circumstances which mightinvolve me in a position of as much mental distress as a man could wellendure; but I claim for my convictions, my dear grandfather, a generoustolerance. '

'I can't follow you, sir, ' said Lord Monmouth, again in his hard tone. 'Our interests are inseparable, and therefore there can never be anysacrifice of conduct on your part. What you mean by sacrifice ofaffections, I don't comprehend; but as for your opinions, you have nobusiness to have any other than those I uphold. You are too young to formopinions. '

'I am sure I wish to express them with no unbecoming confidence, ' repliedConingsby; 'I have never intruded them on your ear before; but this beingan occasion when you yourself said, sir, I was about to commence my publiccareer, I confess I thought it was my duty to be frank; I would not entailon myself long years of mortification by one of those ill-consideredentrances into political life which so many public men have cause todeplore. '

'You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman; you are not to consideryour opinions, like a philosopher or a political adventurer. '

'Yes, sir, ' said Coningsby, with animation, 'but men going with theirfamilies like gentlemen, and losing sight of every principle on which thesociety of this country ought to be established, produced the ReformBill. '

'D---- the Reform Bill!' said Lord Monmouth; 'if the Duke had notquarrelled with Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we should never have hadthe 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; theywill not catch us napping again: these Conservative Associations have donethe business. '

'But what are they organised for?' said Coningsby. 'At the best to turnout the Whigs. And when you have turned out the Whigs, what then? You mayget your ducal coronet, sir. But a duke now is not so great a man as abaron was but a century back. We cannot struggle against the irresistiblestream of circumstances. Power has left our order; this is not an age forfactitious aristocracy. As for my grandmother's barony, I should look uponthe termination of its abeyance in my favour as the act of my politicalextinction. What we want, sir, is not to fashion new dukes and furbish upold baronies, but to establish great principles which may maintain therealm and secure the happiness of the people. Let me see authority oncemore honoured; a solemn reverence again the habit of our lives; let me seeproperty acknowledging, as in the old days of faith, that labour is histwin brother, and that the essence of all tenure is the performance ofduty; let results such as these be brought about, and let me participate, however feebly, in the great fulfilment, and public life then indeedbecomes a noble career, and a seat in Parliament an enviable distinction. '

'I tell you what it is, Harry, ' said Lord Monmouth, very drily, 'membersof this family may think as they like, but they must act as I please. Youmust go down on Friday to Darlford and declare yourself a candidate forthe town, or I shall reconsider our mutual positions. I would say, youmust go to-morrow; but it is only courteous to Rigby to give him aprevious intimation of your movement. And that cannot be done to-day. Isent for Rigby this morning on other business which now occupies me, andfind he is out of town. He will return to-morrow; and will be here atthree o'clock, when you can meet him. You will meet him, I doubt not, likea man of sense, ' added Lord Monmouth, looking at Coningsby with a glancesuch as he had never before encountered, 'who is not prepared to sacrificeall the objects of life for the pursuit of some fantastical puerilities. '

His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque; and to prevent anyfurther conversation, resumed his papers. 

CHAPTER IV. 

It would have been difficult for any person, unconscious of crime, to havefelt more dejected than Coningsby when he rode out of the court-yard ofMonmouth House. The love of Edith would have consoled him for thedestruction of his prosperity; the proud fulfilment of his ambition mightin time have proved some compensation for his crushed affections; but hispresent position seemed to offer no single source of solace. There cameover him that irresistible conviction that is at times the dark doom ofall of us, that the bright period of our life is past; that a futureawaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification, despair; that none ofour resplendent visions can ever be realised: and that we add but one morevictim to the long and dreary catalogue of baffled aspirations. 

Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to extricate himselffrom the perils that were encompassing him. There was something about hisgrandfather that defied persuasion. Prone as eloquent youth generally isto believe in the resistless power of its appeals, Coningsby despaired atonce of ever moving Lord Monmouth. There had been a callous dryness in hismanner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit, that at once baffled allattempts at influence. Nor could Coningsby forget the look he receivedwhen he quitted the room. There was no possibility of mistaking it; itsaid at once, without periphrasis, 'Cross my purpose, and I will crushyou!'

This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the counsels, of friendshipmight have been grateful. A clever woman might have afforded even morethan sympathy; some happy device that might have even released him fromthe mesh in which he was involved. And once Coningsby had turned hishorse's head to Park Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But surely if therewere a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which subsisted betweenhimself and Edith. No, that must never be violated. Then there was LadyWallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to her. He resolved totell her all. He looked in for a moment at a club to take up the 'CourtGuide' and find her direction. A few men were standing in a bow window. Heheard 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 sheany tin?'

'Deuced deal, they say, ' replied Mr. Cassilis. ' The father is a cottonlord, 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 inParliament in these days. I remember when there were only ten men in theHouse 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 alldone 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 hisfriend. '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 ofevery insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all hisaspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost unconsciously tohimself, was Edith. It was over. The strange manner of last night wasfatally explained. The heart that once had been his was now another's. Tothe man who still loves there is in that conviction the most profound anddesolate sorrow of which our nature is capable. All the recollection ofthe past, all the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend into onebewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the club, and mounting his horse, rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his direction. He foundhimself at length in a green lane near Willesden, silent and undisturbed;he pulled up his horse, and summoned all his mind to the contemplation ofhis prospects. 

Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, accept hismission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour and fortune, power, prosperity, rank, distinction would be the consequence of this step; mightnot he add even vengeance? Was there to be no term to his endurance? Mightnot he teach this proud, prejudiced manufacturer, with all his virulenceand despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his daughter, too, thisbetrothed, after all, of a young noble, with her flush futurity ofsplendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, if indeed she heardof him at all, as of one toiling or trifling in the humbler positions ofexistence; and wonder, with a blush, that he ever could have been the heroof her romantic girlhood? What degradation in the idea? His cheek burnt atthe possibility of such ignominy!

It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He thought of hiscompanions who looked up to him with such ardent anticipations of hisfame, of delight in his career, and confidence in his leading; were allthese high and fond fancies to be balked? On the very threshold of lifewas he to blunder? 'Tis the first step that leads to all, and his was tobe a wilful error. He remembered his first visit to his grandfather, andthe delight of his friends at Eton at his report on his return. Aftereight years of initiation was he to lose that favour then so highlyprized, when the results which they had so long counted on were on thevery eve of accomplishment? Parliament and riches, and rank and power;these were facts, realities, substances, that none could mistake. Was heto sacrifice them for speculations, theories, shadows, perhaps the vapoursof a green and conceited brain? No, by heaven, no! He was like Caesar bythe starry river's side, watching the image of the planets on its fatalwaters. The die was cast. 

The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exaltation of hisspirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and tranquillityand consolation, came clustering round his heart like seraphs. He thoughtof Edith in her hours of fondness; he thought of the pure and solemnmoments when to mingle his name with the heroes of humanity was hisaspiration, and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring purpose of hislife. What were the tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition to him? Nodomestic despot could deprive him of his intellect, his knowledge, thesustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. If he possessed theintelligence in which he had confidence, the world would recognise hisvoice even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the principles of hisphilosophy were true, the great heart of the nation would respond to theirexpression. Coningsby felt at this moment a profound conviction whichnever again deserted him, that the conduct which would violate theaffections of the heart, or the dictates of the conscience, however it maylead to immediate success, is a fatal error. Conscious that he was perhapsverging on some painful vicissitude of his life, he devoted himself to alove that seemed hopeless, and to a fame that was perhaps a dream. 

It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions that he wrote, onhis return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed all thataffection which he really felt for his grandfather, and all the pangswhich it cost him to adhere to the conclusions he had already announced. In terms of tenderness, and even humility, he declined to become acandidate for Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as the masterof his own conduct. 

CHAPTER V. 

Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir which hadbeen fitted up under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as he thenbelieved for the Princess Colonna. The walls were hung with amber satin, painted by Delaroche with such subjects as might be expected from hisbrilliant and picturesque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines indazzling costume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what is commonlystyled civilisation, moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid palacesand gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fashion of theSaracens, was richly gilt and picked out in violet. Upon a violet carpetof velvet was represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche. 

It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth House, andFlora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth as was her custom, to read to heras 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 accomplishmentwhich distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice faltered, her expressionwas uncertain; she seemed but imperfectly to comprehend her page. Morethan 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, andmore 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; butmy 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 Lordtold M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter the houseagain. '

'Was it to-day?' asked Lucretia. 

'This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will notdo what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not knowexactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: myfather 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 morningbefore 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 theroom. 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 quarrelbefore 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 ofthe first peers of England, and one of the finest ladies in London, bothwaiting with equal anxiety his return to town; and unable to transact twoaffairs of vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without hisinterposition! What was the secret of the influence of this man, confidedin by everybody, trusted by none? His counsels were not deep, hisexpedients were not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could create nosympathy. It is that, in most of the transactions of life, there is someportion which no one cares to accomplish, and which everybody wishes to beachieved. This was always the portion of Mr. Rigby. In the eye of theworld he had constantly the appearance of being mixed up with highdealings, and negotiations and arrangements of fine management, whereas intruth, notwithstanding his splendid livery and the airs he gave himself inthe servants' hall, his real business in life had ever been, to do thedirty 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 thearistocracy. It was a grand subject, treated in his highest style. Hisparallel portraits of Rowland Hill the conqueror of Almarez and RowlandHill the deviser of the cheap postage were enormously fine. It was full ofpassages in italics, little words in great capitals, and almost drewtears. The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel. Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and general, who had been inoffice with himself, and who were inspired with an equal zeal against thatspirit of reform of which they had alike been victims, supplied him withinformation which nothing but a breach of ministerial duty could havefurnished. The prophetic peroration as to the irresistible progress ofdemocracy was almost as powerful as one of Rigby's speeches on Aldboroughor Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good hearty kick to thepeople like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of the populace, this wasdisinterested. What could be more patriotic and magnanimous than hisJeremiads over the fall of the Montmorencis and the Crillons, or thepossible catastrophe of the Percys and the Manners! The truth of all thishullabaloo was that Rigby had a sly pension which, by an inevitableassociation of ideas, he always connected with the maintenance of anaristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the French revolution wereimpelled by this secret influence; and when he wailed over 'la guerre auxchâteaux, ' 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 urgentnote from Lucretia begging that he would permit nothing to prevent himseeing her for a few minutes before he called on the Marquess. 

Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had in the courseof four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and accurate details of thecause of contention between Coningsby and her husband. She could informMr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was highly incensed against hisgrandson, but that the cause of their misunderstanding arose about a seatin the House of Commons, and that seat too the one which Mr. Rigby hadlong appropriated to himself, and over whose registration he had watchedwith such affectionate solicitude. 

Lady Monmouth arranged this information like a firstrate artist, and gaveit a grouping and a colour which produced the liveliest effect upon herconfederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as he receivedthe intelligence; a grin, half of malice, half of terror, played over hisfeatures. 

'I told you to beware of him long ago, ' said Lady Monmouth. 'He is, he hasever 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 boughtHellingsley. '

'Hah!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a prolonged tone. 

'He was at Coningsby all last summer, hanging about her. I found theyounger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a fact which, ofitself, 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. Igive 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 inthe same position which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy. MyLord, though you would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this boy;and though I by my marriage, and you by your zealous ability, haveapparently secured a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never doubtedthat when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit is pluckedby one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is no reason whywe two should clash together: we can both of us find what we want, andmore 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 meof 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 getswind that one of the Castle family may perchance stand for Darlford, allthe present combinations will be disorganised. It must be done at once. Iknow 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 notthe occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be introduced. Ifgood, you will guide him more easily; if dark, the love for theHellingsley girl, the fact of the brother being in his castle, drinkinghis wine, riding his horses, ordering about his servants; you will omit nodetails: 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 hearthat you have arrived. I shall be at home all the morning. It will be butgallant that you should pay me a little visit when you have transactedyour business. You understand. _Au revoir!_'

Lady Monmouth took up again her French novel; but her eyes soon glancedover the page, unattached by its contents. Her own existence was toointeresting to find any excitement in fiction. It was nearly three yearssince her marriage; that great step which she ever had a conviction was tolead to results still greater. Of late she had often been filled with apresentiment that they were near at hand; never more so than on this day. Irresistible was the current of associations that led her to meditate onfreedom, wealth, power; on a career which should at the same time dazzlethe imagination and gratify her heart. Notwithstanding the gossip ofParis, founded on no authentic knowledge of her husband's character orinformation, based on the haphazard observations of the floatingmultitude, Lucretia herself had no reason to fear that her influence overLord Monmouth, if exerted, was materially diminished. But satisfied thathe had formed no other tie, with her ever the test of her position, shehad not thought it expedient, and certainly would have found it irksome, to maintain that influence by any ostentatious means. She knew that LordMonmouth was capricious, easily wearied, soon palled; and that on men whohave no affections, affection has no hold. Their passions or theirfancies, on the contrary, as it seemed to her, are rather stimulated byneglect or indifference, provided that they are not systematic; and thecircumstance of a wife being admired by one who is not her husbandsometimes wonderfully revives the passion or renovates the respect of himwho should be devoted to her. 

The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject which never was long absentfrom the vigilance or meditation of Lucretia. She was well assured thathis life was no longer secure. She knew that after their marriage he hadmade a will, which secured to her a large portion of his great wealth incase of their having no issue, and after the accident at Paris all hope inthat respect was over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord Monmouthhad evinced about terminating the abeyance of the barony to which hisfirst wife was a co-heiress in favour of his grandson, had alarmedLucretia. To establish in the land another branch of the house ofConingsby was evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, and perhapsa permanent one. If the idea were once accepted, notwithstanding the limitto its endowment which Lord Monmouth might at the first start contemplate, Lucretia had sufficiently studied his temperament to be convinced that allhis energies and all his resources would ultimately be devoted to itspractical fulfilment. Her original prejudice against Coningsby andjealousy of his influence had therefore of late been considerablyaggravated; and the intelligence that for the first time there was amisunderstanding between Coningsby and her husband filled her withexcitement and hope. She knew her Lord well enough to feel assured thatthe cause for displeasure in the present instance could not be a lightone; she resolved instantly to labour that it should not be transient; andit so happened that she had applied for aid in this endeavour to the veryindividual in whose power it rested to accomplish all her desire, while indoing so he felt at the same time he was defending his own position andadvancing his own interests. 

Lady Monmouth was now waiting with some excitement the return of Mr. Rigby. His interview with his patron was of unusual length. An hour, andmore than an hour, had elapsed. Lady Monmouth again threw aside the bookwhich more than once she had discarded. She paced the room, restlessrather than disquieted. She had complete confidence in Rigby's ability forthe occasion; and with her knowledge of Lord Monmouth's character, shecould not contemplate the possibility of failure, if the circumstanceswere adroitly introduced to his consideration. Still time stole on: theharassing and exhausting process of suspense was acting on her nervoussystem. She began to think that Rigby had not found the occasionfavourable for the catastrophe; that Lord Monmouth, from apprehension ofdisturbing Rigby and entailing explanations on himself, had avoided thenecessary communication; that her skilful combination for the moment hadmissed. Two hours had now elapsed, and Lucretia, in a state ofconsiderable irritation, was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby were withhis Lordship when the door of her boudoir opened, and that gentlemanappeared. 

'How long you have been!' exclaimed Lady Monmouth. 'Now sit down and tellme what has passed. '

Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which Flora had occupied. 

'I thank your Ladyship, ' said Mr. Rigby, with a somewhat grave and yetperplexed expression of countenance, and seating himself at some littledistance from his companion, 'but I am very well here. '

There was a pause. Instead of responding to the invitation of LadyMonmouth to communicate with his usual readiness and volubility, Mr. Rigbywas silent, and, if it were possible to use such an expression with regardto such a gentleman, apparently embarrassed. 

'Well, ' said Lady Monmouth, 'does he know about the Millbanks?'

'Everything, ' said Mr. Rigby. 

'And what did he say?'

'His Lordship was greatly shocked, ' replied Mr. Rigby, with a piousexpression of features. 'Such monstrous ingratitude! As his Lordship veryjustly observed, "It is impossible to say what is going on under my ownroof, or to what I can trust. "'

'But he made an exception in your favour, I dare say, my dear Mr. Rigby, 'said Lady Monmouth. 

'Lord Monmouth was pleased to say that I possessed his entire confidence, 'said Mr. Rigby, 'and that he looked to me in his difficulties. '

'Very sensible of him. And what is to become of Mr. Coningsby?'

'The steps which his Lordship is about to take with reference to theestablishment generally, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'will allow the connection thatat present subsists between that gentleman and his noble relative, nowthat Lord Monmouth's eyes are open to his real character, to terminatenaturally, without the necessity of any formal explanation. '

'But what do you mean by the steps he is going to take in hisestablishment generally?'

'Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change of scene. '

'Oh! is he going to drag me abroad again?' exclaimed Lady Monmouth, withgreat impatience. 

'Why, not exactly, ' said Mr. Rigby, rather demurely. 

'I hope he is not going again to that dreadful castle in Lancashire. '

'Lord Monmouth was thinking that, as you were tired of Paris, you mightfind some of the German Baths agreeable. '

 'Why, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as a Germanbathing-place!'

'Exactly, ' said Mr. Rigby. 

'Then how capricious in him wanting to go to them?'

'He does not want to go to them!'

'What do you mean, Mr. Rigby?' said Lady Monmouth, in a lower voice, andlooking him full in the face with a glance seldom bestowed. 

There was a churlish and unusual look about Rigby. It was as if malignant, and yet at the same time a little frightened, he had screwed himself intodoggedness. 

'I mean what Lord Monmouth means. He suggests that if your Ladyship wereto pass the summer at Kissengen, for example, and a paragraph in the_Morning Post_ were to announce that his Lordship was about to join youthere, all awkwardness would be removed; and no one could for a momenttake the liberty of supposing, even if his Lordship did not ultimatelyreach you, that anything like a separation had occurred. '

'A separation!' said Lady Monmouth. 

'Quite amicable, ' said Mr. Rigby. 'I would never have consented tointerfere in the affair, but to secure that most desirable point. '

'I will see Lord Monmouth at once, ' said Lucretia, rising, her naturalpallor aggravated into a ghoul-like tint. 

'His Lordship has gone out, ' said Mr. Rigby, rather stubbornly. 

'Our conversation, sir, then finishes; I wait his return. ' She bowedhaughtily. 

'His Lordship will never return to Monmouth House again. '

Lucretia sprang from the sofa. 

'Miserable craven!' she exclaimed. 'Has the cowardly tyrant fled? And hereally thinks that I am to be crushed by such an instrument as this! Pah!He may leave Monmouth House, but I shall not. Begone, sir!'

'Still anxious to secure an amicable separation, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'yourLadyship must allow me to place the circumstances of the case fairlybefore your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth has decided upon a course:you know as well as I that he never swerves from his resolutions. He hasleft peremptory instructions, and he will listen to no appeal. He hasempowered me to represent to your Ladyship that he wishes in every way toconsider your convenience. He suggests that everything, in short, shouldbe arranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily no more; that yourLadyship should at once enter into your jointure, which shall be madepayable quarterly to your order, provided you can find it convenient tolive upon the Continent, ' added Mr. Rigby, with some hesitation. 

'And suppose I cannot?'

'Why, then, we will leave your Ladyship to the assertion of your rights. '

'We!'

'I beg your Ladyship's pardon. I speak as the friend of the family, thetrustee of your marriage settlement, well known also as Lord Monmouth'sexecutor, ' said Mr. Rigby, his countenance gradually regaining its usualcallous confidence, and some degree of self-complacency, as he rememberedthe good things which he enumerated. 

'I have decided, ' said Lady Monmouth. 'I will assert my rights. Yourmaster has mistaken my character and his own position. He shall rue theday that he assailed me. '

'I should be sorry if there were any violence, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'especially as everything is left to my management and control. An office, indeed, which I only accepted for your mutual advantage. I think, uponreflection, I might put before your Ladyship some considerations whichmight induce you, on the whole, to be of opinion that it will be betterfor us to draw together in this business, as we have hitherto, indeed, throughout an acquaintance now of some years. ' Rigby was assuming all hisusual tone of brazen familiarity. 

'Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord Monmouth's estimate of it, ' saidLucretia. 

'Now, now, you are unkind. Your Ladyship mistakes my position. I aminterfering in this business for your sake. I might have refused theoffice. It would have fallen to another, who would have fulfilled itwithout any delicacy and consideration for your feelings. View myinterposition in that light, my dear Lady Monmouth, and circumstances willassume altogether a new colour. '

'I beg that you will quit the house, sir. '

Mr. Rigby shook his head. 'I would with pleasure, to oblige you, were itin my power; but Lord Monmouth has particularly desired that I should takeup my residence here permanently. The servants are now my servants. It isuseless to ring the bell. For your Ladyship's sake, I wish everything tobe accomplished with tranquillity, and, if possible, friendliness and goodfeeling. You can have even a week for the preparations for your departure, if necessary. I will take that upon myself. Any carriages, too, that youdesire; your jewels, at least all those that are not at the bankers'. Thearrangement about your jointure, your letters of credit, even yourpassport, I will attend to myself; only too happy if, by this painfulinterference, I have in any way contributed to soften the annoyance which, at the first blush, you may naturally experience, but which, likeeverything else, take my word, will wear off. '

'I shall send for Lord Eskdale, ' said Lady Monmouth. 'He is a gentleman. '

'I am quite sure, ' said Mr. Rigby, 'that Lord Eskdale will give you thesame advice as myself, if he only reads your Ladyship's letters, ' he addedslowly, 'to Prince Trautsmansdorff. '

'My letters?' said Lady Monmouth. 

'Pardon me, ' said Rigby, putting his hand in his pocket, as if to guardsome treasure, 'I have no wish to revive painful associations; but I havethem, and I must act upon them, if you persist in treating me as a foe, who am in reality your best friend; which indeed I ought to be, having thehonour of acting as trustee under your marriage settlement, and havingknown you so many years. '

'Leave me for the present alone, ' said Lady Monmouth. 'Send me my servant, if I have one. I shall not remain here the week which you mention, butquit at once this house, which I wish I had never entered. Adieu! Mr. Rigby, you are now lord of Monmouth House, and yet I cannot help feelingyou too will be discharged before he dies. '

Mr. Rigby made Lady Monmouth a bow such as became the master of the house, and then withdrew. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A paragraph in the _Morning Post_, a few days after his interview with hisgrandfather, announcing that Lord and Lady Monmouth had quitted town forthe baths of Kissengen, startled Coningsby, who called the same day atMonmouth House in consequence. There he learnt more authentic details oftheir unexpected movements. It appeared that Lady Monmouth had certainlydeparted; and the porter, with a rather sceptical visage, informedConingsby that Lord Monmouth was to follow; but when, he could not tell. At present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few days was about totake possession of a villa at Richmond, which had for some time beenfitting up for him under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, who, asConingsby also learnt, now permanently resided at Monmouth House. All thisintelligence made Coningsby ponder. He was sufficiently acquainted withthe parties concerned to feel assured that he had not learnt the wholetruth. What had really taken place, and what was the real cause of theoccurrences, were equally mystical to him: all he was convinced of was, that some great domestic revolution had been suddenly effected. 

Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. With theexception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experienced fromLord Monmouth nothing but kindness both in phrase and deed. There was alsosomething in Lord Monmouth, when he pleased it, rather fascinating toyoung men; and as Coningsby had never occasioned him any feelings butpleasurable ones, he was always disposed to make himself delightful to hisgrandson. The experience of a consummate man of the world, advanced inlife, detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness and facility, isbewitching. Lord Monmouth was never garrulous: he was always pithy, andcould be picturesque. He revealed a character in a sentence, and detectedthe ruling passion with the hand of a master. Besides, he had seeneverybody and had done everything; and though, on the whole, too indolentfor conversation, and loving to be talked to, these were circumstanceswhich made his too rare communications the more precious. 

With these feelings, Coningsby resolved, the moment that he learned thathis grandfather was established at Richmond, to pay him a visit. He wasinformed that Lord Monmouth was at home, and he was shown into a drawing-room, where he found two French ladies in their bonnets, whom he soondiscovered to be actresses. They also had come down to pay a visit to hisgrandfather, and were by no means displeased to pass the interval thatmust elapse before they had that pleasure in chatting with his grandson. Coningsby found them extremely amusing; with the finest spirits in theworld, imperturbable good temper, and an unconscious practical philosophythat defied the devil Care and all his works. And well it was that hefound such agreeable companions, for time flowed on, and no summonsarrived to call him to his grandfather's presence, and no herald toannounce his grandfather's advent. The ladies and Coningsby had exhaustedbadinage; they had examined and criticised all the furniture, had rifledthe vases of their prettiest flowers; and Clotilde, who had already sungseveral times, was proposing a duet to Ermengarde, when a servant entered, and told the ladies that a carriage was in attendance to give them anairing, and after that Lord Monmouth hoped they would return and dine withhim; then turning to Coningsby, he informed him, with his lord'scompliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry he was too much engaged to seehim. 

Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerably good face upon it. 'EmbraceLord Monmouth for me, ' said Coningsby to his fair friends, 'and tell him Ithink it very unkind that he did not ask me to dinner with you. '

Coningsby said this with a gay air, but really with a depressed spirit. Hefelt convinced that his grandfather was deeply displeased with him; and ashe rode away from the villa, he could not resist the strong impressionthat he was destined never to re-enter it. Yet it was decreed otherwise. It so happened that the idle message which Coningsby had left for hisgrandfather, and which he never seriously supposed for a moment that hislate companions would have given their host, operated entirely in hisfavour. Whatever were the feelings with respect to Coningsby at the bottomof Lord Monmouth's heart, he was actuated in his refusal to see him notmore from displeasure than from an anticipatory horror of something like ascene. Even a surrender from Coningsby without terms, and an offer todeclare himself a candidate for Darlford, or to do anything else that hisgrandfather wished, would have been disagreeable to Lord Monmouth in hispresent mood. As in politics a revolution is often followed by a season oftorpor, so in the case of Lord Monmouth the separation from his wife, which had for a long period occupied his meditation, was succeeded by avein of mental dissipation. He did not wish to be reminded by anything orany person that he had still in some degree the misfortune of being aresponsible member of society. He wanted to be surrounded by individualswho were above or below the conventional interests of what is called 'theWorld. ' He wanted to hear nothing of those painful and embarrassinginfluences which from our contracted experience and want of enlightenmentwe magnify into such undue importance. For this purpose he wished to haveabout him persons whose knowledge of the cares of life concerned only themeans of existence, and whose sense of its objects referred only to thesources of enjoyment; persons who had not been educated in the idolatry ofRespectability; that is to say, of realising such an amount of what istermed character by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices of thecommunity as may enable them, at suitable times, and under convenientcircumstances and disguises, to plunder the public. This was the MonmouthPhilosophy. 

With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled at this moment from grandsonsand relations and ties of all kinds. He did not wish to be reminded of hisidentity, but to swim unmolested and undisturbed in his Epicurean dream. When, therefore, his fair visitors; Clotilde, who opened her mouth only tobreathe roses and diamonds, and Ermengarde, who was so good-natured thatshe sacrificed even her lovers to her friends; saw him merely to exclaimat the same moment, and with the same voices of thrilling joyousness, --

'Why did not you ask him to dinner?'

And then, without waiting for his reply, entered with that rapidity ofelocution which Frenchwomen can alone command into the catalogue of hischarms and accomplishments, Lord Monmouth began to regret that he reallyhad not seen Coningsby, who, it appeared, might have greatly contributedto the pleasure of the day. The message, which was duly given, however, settled the business. Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of explanations, or even allusions to the past, was out of the question; and to defendhimself from the accusations of his animated guests, he said, 'Well, he shall come to dine with you next time. '

There is no end to the influence of woman on our life. It is at the bottomof everything that happens to us. And so it was, that, in spite of all thecombinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, and the mortification andresentment of Lord Monmouth, the favourable impression he casually made ona couple of French actresses occasioned Coningsby, before a month hadelapsed since his memorable interview at Monmouth House, to receive aninvitation again to dine with his grandfather. 

The party was agreeable. Clotilde and Ermengarde had wits as sparkling astheir eyes. There was a manager of the Opera, a great friend ofVillebecque, and his wife, a splendid lady, who had been a prima donna ofcelebrity, and still had a commanding voice for a chamber; a Carlistnobleman who lived upon his traditions, and who, though without a sou, could tell of a festival given by his family, before the revolution, whichhad cost a million of francs; and a Neapolitan physician, in whom LordMonmouth had great confidence, and who himself believed in the elixirvitae, made up the party, with Lucian Gay, Coningsby, and Mr. Rigby. Ourhero remarked that Villebecque on this occasion sat at the bottom of thetable, but Flora did not appear. 

In the meantime, the month which brought about this satisfactory and atone time unexpected result was fruitful also in other circumstances stillmore interesting. Coningsby and Edith met frequently, if to breathe thesame atmosphere in the same crowded saloons can be described as meeting;ever watching each other's movements, and yet studious never to encountereach other's glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had become an universaltopic, they were celebrated in ball-rooms, they were discussed at clubs:Edith was the beauty of the season. All admired her, many sighed even toexpress their admiration; but the devotion of Lord Beaumanoir, who alwayshovered about her, deterred them from a rivalry which might have made theboldest despair. As for Coningsby, he passed his life principally with thevarious members of the Sydney family, and was almost daily riding withLady Everingham and her sister, generally accompanied by Lord Henry andhis friend Eustace Lyle, between whom, indeed, and Coningsby there wererelations of intimacy scarcely less inseparable. Coningsby had spoken toLady Everingham of the rumoured marriage of her elder brother, and found, although the family had not yet been formally apprised of it, sheentertained little doubt of its ultimate occurrence. She admired MissMillbank, with whom her acquaintance continued slight; and she wished, ofcourse, that her brother should marry and be happy. 'But Percy is often inlove, ' she would add, 'and never likes us to be very intimate with hisinamoratas. He thinks it destroys the romance; and that domesticfamiliarity may compromise his heroic character. However, ' she added, 'Ireally believe that will be a match. '

On the whole, though he bore a serene aspect to the world, Coningsbypassed this month in a state of restless misery. His soul was brooding onone subject, and he had no confidant: he could not resist the spell thatimpelled him to the society where Edith might at least be seen, and thecircle in which he lived was one in which her name was frequentlymentioned. Alone, in his solitary rooms in the Albany, he felt all hisdesolation; and often a few minutes before he figured in the world, apparently followed and courted by all, he had been plunged in the darkestfits of irremediable wretchedness. 

He had, of course, frequently met Lady Wallinger, but their salutations, though never omitted, and on each side cordial, were brief. There seemedto be a tacit understanding between them not to refer to a subjectfruitful in painful reminiscences. 

The season waned. In the fulfilment of a project originally formed in theplaying-fields of Eton, often recurred to at Cambridge, and cherished withthe fondness with which men cling to a scheme of early youth, Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Vere, and Buckhurst had engaged some moors together thisyear; and in a few days they were about to quit town for Scotland. Theyhad pressed Eustace Lyle to accompany them, but he, who in general seemedto have no pleasure greater than their society, had surprised them bydeclining their invitation, with some vague mention that he rather thoughthe should go abroad. 

It was the last day of July, and all the world were at a breakfast given, at a fanciful cottage situate in beautiful gardens on the banks of theThames, by Lady Everingham. The weather was as bright as the romances ofBoccaccio; there were pyramids of strawberries, in bowls colossal enoughto hold orange-trees; and the choicest band filled the air with enchantingstrains, while a brilliant multitude sauntered on turf like velvet, orroamed in desultory existence amid the quivering shades of winding walks. 

'My fête was prophetic, ' said Lady Everingham, when she saw Coningsby. 'Iam glad it is connected with an incident. It gives it a point. '

'You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell me what we are to celebrate. '

'Theresa is going to be married. '

'Then I, too, will prophesy, and name the hero of the romance, EustaceLyle. '

'You have been more prescient than I, ' said Lady Everingham, 'perhapsbecause I was thinking too much of some one else. '

'It seems to me an union which all must acknowledge perfect. I hardly knowwhich I love best. I have had my suspicions a long time; and when Eustacerefused to go to the moors with us, though I said nothing, I wasconvinced. '

'At any rate, ' said Lady Everingham, sighing, with a rather smiling face, 'we are kinsfolk, Mr. Coningsby; though I would gladly have wished to havebeen more. '

'Were those your thoughts, dear lady? Ever kind to me! Happiness, ' headded, in a mournful tone, 'I fear can never be mine. '

'And why?'

'Ah! 'tis a tale too strange and sorrowful for a day when, like Seged, wemust all determine to be happy. '

'You have already made me miserable. '

'Here comes a group that will make you gay, ' said Coningsby as he movedon. Edith and the Wallingers, accompanied by Lord Beaumanoir, Mr. Melton, and Sir Charles Buckhurst, formed the party. They seemed profuse in theircongratulations to Lady Everingham, having already learnt the intelligencefrom her brother. 

Coningsby stopped to speak to Lady St. Julians, who had still a daughterto marry. Both Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and Clara Isabella, who ought to have been there, had each secured the right man. But AdelaideVictoria had now appeared, and Lady St. Julians had a great regard for thefavourite grandson of Lord Monmouth, and also for the influential friendof Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. In case Coningsby did notdetermine to become her son-in-law himself, he might counsel either of hisfriends to a judicious decision on an inevitable act. 

'Strawberries and cream?' said Lord Eskdale to Mr. Ormsby, who seemedoccupied with some delicacies. 

'Egad! no, no, no; those days are passed. I think there is a littleeasterly wind with all this fine appearance. '

'I am for in-door nature myself, ' said Lord Eskdale. 'Do you know, I donot half like the way Monmouth is going on? He never gets out of thatvilla of his. He should change his air more. Tell him. '

'It is no use telling him anything. Have you heard anything of Miladi?'

'I had a letter from her to-day: she writes in good spirits. I am sorry itbroke up, and yet I never thought it would last so long. '

'I gave them two years, ' said Mr. Ormsby. 'Lord Monmouth lived with hisfirst wife two years. And afterwards with the Mirandola at Milan, at leastnearly two years; it was a year and ten months. I must know, for he calledme in to settle affairs. I took the lady to the baths at Lucca, on thepretence that Monmouth would meet us there. He went to Paris. All hisgreat affairs have been two years. I remember I wanted to bet Cassilis, atWhite's, on it when he married; but I thought, being his intimate friend;the oldest friend he has, indeed, and one of his trustees; it was perhapsas well not to do it. '

'You should have made the bet with himself, ' said Lord Eskdale, 'and thenthere never would have been a separation. '

'Hah, hah, hah! Do you know, I feel the wind?'

About an hour after this, Coningsby, who had just quitted the Duchess, met, on a terrace by the river, Lady Wallinger, walking with Mrs. GuyFlouncey and a Russian Prince, whom that lady was enchanting. Coningsbywas about to pass with some slight courtesy, but Lady Wallinger stoppedand would speak to him, on slight subjects, the weather and the fête, butyet adroitly enough managed to make him turn and join her. Mrs. GuyFlouncey walked on a little before with her Russian admirer. LadyWallinger followed with Coningsby. 

'The match that has been proclaimed to-day has greatly surprised me, ' saidLady Wallinger. 

'Indeed!' said Coningsby: 'I confess I was long prepared for it. And itseems to me the most natural alliance conceivable, and one that every onemust approve. '

'Lady Everingham seems much surprised at it. '

'Ah! Lady Everingham is a brilliant personage, and cannot deign to observeobvious circumstances. '

'Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you were engaged toLady Theresa?'

'I!'

'Indeed, we were informed more than a month ago that you were positivelygoing to be married to her. '

'I am not one of those who can shift their affections with such rapidity, Lady Wallinger. '

Lady Wallinger looked distressed. 'You remember our meeting you on thestairs at ---- House, Mr. Coningsby?'

'Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain. '

'Edith had just been informed that you were going to be married to LadyTheresa. '

'Not surely by him to whom she is herself going to be married?' saidConingsby, reddening. 

'I am not aware that she is going to be married to any one. LordBeaumanoir admires her, has always admired her. But Edith has given him noencouragement, at least gave him no encouragement as long as she believed;but why dwell on such an unhappy subject, Mr. Coningsby? I am to blame; Ihave been to blame perhaps before, but indeed I think it cruel, verycruel, that Edith and you are kept asunder. '

'You have always been my best, my dearest friend, and are the most amiableand admirable of women. But tell me, is it indeed true that Edith is notgoing to be married?'

At this moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned round, and assuring Lady Wallingerthat the Prince and herself had agreed to refer some point to her aboutthe most transcendental ethics of flirtation, this deeply interestingconversation was arrested, and Lady Wallinger, with becoming suavity, wasobliged to listen to the lady's lively appeal of exaggerated nonsense andthe Prince's affected protests, while Coningsby walked by her side, paleand agitated, and then offered his arm to Lady Wallinger, which sheaccepted with an affectionate pressure. At the end of the terrace they metsome other guests, and soon were immersed in the multitude that throngedthe lawn. 

'There is Sir Joseph, ' said Lady Wallinger, and Coningsby looked up, andsaw Edith on his arm. They were unconsciously approaching them. LordBeaumanoir was there, but he seemed to shrink into nothing to-day beforeBuckhurst, who was captivated for the moment by Edith, and hearing that noknight was resolute enough to try a fall with the Marquess, was impelledby his talent for action to enter the lists. He had talked down everybody, unhorsed every cavalier. Nobody had a chance against him: he answered allyour questions before you asked them; contradicted everybody with theintrepidity of a Rigby; annihilated your anecdotes by historiettesinfinitely more piquant; and if anybody chanced to make a joke which hecould not excel, declared immediately that it was a Joe Miller. He wasabsurd, extravagant, grotesque, noisy; but he was young, rattling, andinteresting, from his health and spirits. Edith was extremely amused byhim, and was encouraging by her smile his spiritual excesses, when theyall suddenly met Lady Wallinger and Coningsby. 

The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since they socruelly encountered on the staircase of ---- House. A deep, quick blushsuffused her face, her eyes gleamed with a sudden coruscation; suddenlyand quickly she put forth her hand. 

Yes! he presses once more that hand which permanently to retain is thepassion of his life, yet which may never be his! It seemed that for theravishing delight of that moment he could have borne with cheerfulness allthe dark and harrowing misery of the year that had passed away since heembraced her in the woods of Hellingsley, and pledged his faith by thewaters of the rushing Darl. 

He seized the occasion which offered itself, a moment to walk by her side, and to snatch some brief instants of unreserved communion. 

'Forgive me!' she said. 

'Ah! how could you ever doubt me?' said Coningsby. 

'I was unhappy. '

'And now we are to each other as before?'

'And will be, come what come may. '

END OF BOOK VIII. 

BOOK IX. 

CHAPTER I. 

It was merry Christmas at St. Geneviève. There was a yule log blazing onevery hearth in that wide domain, from the hall of the squire to thepeasant's roof. The Buttery Hatch was open for the whole week from noon tosunset; all comers might take their fill, and each carry away as much boldbeef, white bread, and jolly ale as a strong man could bear in a basketwith one hand. For every woman a red cloak, and a coat of broadcloth forevery man. All day long, carts laden with fuel and warm raiment weretraversing the various districts, distributing comfort and dispensingcheer. For a Christian gentleman of high degree was Eustace Lyle. 

Within his hall, too, he holds his revel, and his beauteous bride welcomestheir guests, from her noble parents to the faithful tenants of the house. All classes are mingled in the joyous equality that becomes the season, atonce sacred and merry. There are carols for the eventful eve, and mummersfor the festive day. 

The Duke and Duchess, and every member of the family, had consented thisyear to keep their Christmas with the newly-married couple. Coningsby, too, was there, and all his friends. The party was numerous, gay, hearty, and happy; for they were all united by sympathy. 

They were planning that Henry Sydney should be appointed Lord of Misrule, or ordained Abbot of Unreason at the least, so successful had been hisrevival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse not forgotten. Their host hadentrusted to Lord Henry the restoration of many old observances; and thejoyous feeling which this celebration of Christmas had diffused throughoutan extensive district was a fresh argument in favour of Lord Henry'sprinciple, that a mere mechanical mitigation of the material necessitiesof the humbler classes, a mitigation which must inevitably be limited, cannever alone avail sufficiently to ameliorate their condition; that theircondition is not merely 'a knife and fork question, ' to use the coarse andshallow phrase of the Utilitarian school; that a simple satisfaction ofthe grosser necessities of our nature will not make a happy people; thatyou must cultivate the heart as well as seek to content the belly; andthat the surest means to elevate the character of the people is to appealto their affections. 

There is nothing more interesting than to trace predisposition. Anindefinite, yet strong sympathy with the peasantry of the realm had beenone of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord Henry at Eton. Yet aschoolboy, he had busied himself with their pastimes and the details oftheir cottage economy. As he advanced in life the horizon of his viewsexpanded with his intelligence and his experience; and the son of one ofthe noblest of our houses, to whom the delights of life are offered withfatal facility, on the very threshold of his career he devoted his timeand thought, labour and life, to one vast and noble purpose, the elevationof the condition of the great body of the people. 

'I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Misrule, ' said Lord Henry: 'I will becontent with being his gentleman usher. '

'It shall be put to the vote, ' said Lord Vere. 

'No one has a chance against Buckhurst, ' said Coningsby. 

'Now, Sir Charles, ' said Lady Everingham, 'your absolute sway is about tocommence. And what is your will?'

'The first thing must be my formal installation, ' said Buckhurst. 'I votethe Boar's head be carried in procession thrice round the hall, and Beaushall be the champion to challenge all who may question my right. Duke, you shall be my chief butler, the Duchess my herb-woman. She is to walkbefore me, and scatter rosemary. Coningsby shall carry the Boar's head;Lady Theresa and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle; Lord Everinghamshall be marshal of the lists, and put all in the stocks who are foundsober and decorous; Lyle shall be the palmer from the Holy Land, and Vereshall ride the Hobby-horse. Some must carry cups of Hippocras, somelighted tapers; all must join in chorus. '

He ceased his instructions, and all hurried away to carry them intoeffect. Some hastily arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, the ladies inrobes of white, with garlands of flowers; some drew pieces of armour fromthe wall, and decked themselves with helm and hauberk; others wavedancient banners. They brought in the Boar's head on a large silver dish, and Coningsby raised it aloft. They formed into procession, the Duchessdistributing rosemary; Buckhurst swaggering with all the majesty ofTamerlane, his mock court irresistibly humorous with their servility; andthe sweet voice of Lady Everingham chanting the first verse of thecanticle, followed in the second by the rich tones of Lady Theresa:

 I. Caput Apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The Boar's heade in hande bring I, With garlandes gay and rosemary: I pray you all singe merrily, Qui estis in convivio. 

 II. Caput Apri defero Reddens laudes Domino. The Boar's heade I understande Is the chief servyce in this lande Loke whereever it be fande, Servite cum cantico. 

The procession thrice paraded the hall. Then they stopped; and the Lord ofMisrule ascended his throne, and his courtiers formed round him in circle. Behind him they held the ancient banners and waved their glittering arms, and placed on a lofty and illuminated pedestal the Boar's head coveredwith garlands. It was a good picture, and the Lord of Misrule sustainedhis part with untiring energy. He was addressing his court in a pompousrhapsody of merry nonsense, when a servant approached Coningsby, and toldhim that he was wanted without. 

Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch had arrived for him from London. Without any prescience of its purpose, he nevertheless broke the seal witha trembling hand. His presence was immediately desired in town: LordMonmouth was dead. 

CHAPTER II. 

This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby; yet, like many criticalepochs, the person most interested in it was not sufficiently aware of itscharacter. The first feeling which he experienced at the intelligence wassincere affliction. He was fond of his grandfather; had received greatkindness from him, and at a period of life when it was most welcome. Theneglect and hardships of his early years, instead of leaving a prejudiceagainst one who, by some, might be esteemed their author, had by theircontrast only rendered Coningsby more keenly sensible of the solicitudeand enjoyment which had been lavished on his happy youth. 

The next impression on his mind was undoubtedly a natural and reasonablespeculation on the effect of this bereavement on his fortunes. LordMonmouth had more than once assured Coningsby that he had provided for himas became a near relative to whom he was attached, and in a manner whichought to satisfy the wants and wishes of an English gentleman. Theallowance which Lord Monmouth had made him, as considerable as usuallyaccorded to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, might justify him inestimating his future patrimony as extremely ample. He was aware, indeed, that at a subsequent period his grandfather had projected for him fortunesof a still more elevated character. He looked to Coningsby as the futurerepresentative of an ancient barony, and had been purchasing territorywith the view of supporting the title. But Coningsby did not by any meansfirmly reckon on these views being realised. He had a suspicion that inthwarting the wishes of his grandfather in not becoming a candidate forDarlford, he had at the moment arrested arrangements which, from the toneof Lord Monmouth's communication, he believed were then in progress forthat purpose; and he thought it improbable, with his knowledge of hisgrandfather's habits, that Lord Monmouth had found either time orinclination to resume before his decease the completion of these plans. Indeed there was a period when, in adopting the course which he pursuedwith respect to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled morethan the large fortune which was to accompany the barony. Had not aseparation between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken place simultaneouslywith Coningsby's difference with his grandfather, he was conscious thatthe consequences might have been even altogether fatal to his prospects;but the absence of her evil influence at such a conjuncture, its permanentremoval, indeed, from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though notformal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from hismemory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it impossible at thetime to shut his eyes. Before he left town for Scotland he had made afarewell visit to his grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in olddays, had been gracious; and Coningsby, during his excursion to the moors, and his various visits to the country, had continued at intervals to writeto his grandfather, as had been for some years his custom. On the whole, with an indefinite feeling which, in spite of many a rational effort, didnevertheless haunt his mind, that this great and sudden event mightexercise a vast and beneficial influence on his worldly position, Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the affliction which hesincerely experienced, in the hope that he might at all events now offerto Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, and her love. 

Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet reconciliationin the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never long withoutindirect intelligence of the incidents of her life; and the correspondencebetween Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they were at the moors, had apprised him that Lord Beaumanoir's suit had terminated unsuccessfullyalmost immediately after his brother had quitted London. 

It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town: he called atonce on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth's executors; and hepersuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, to dine with him alone. 

'You should not be seen at a club, ' said the good-natured peer; 'and Iremember myself in old days what was the wealth of an Albanian larder. '

Lord Eskdale, at dinner, talked frankly of the disposition of LordMonmouth's property. He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby was hisgrandfather's principal heir. 

'I don't know whether you will be happier with a large fortune?' said LordEskdale. 'It is a troublesome thing: nobody is satisfied with what you dowith it; very often not yourself. To maintain an equable expenditure; notto spend too much on one thing, too little on another, is an art. Theremust be a harmony, a keeping, in disbursement, which very few men have. Great wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten thousand a year, andthe world to think you have only five. There is some enjoyment then; oneis let alone. But the instant you have a large fortune, duties commence. And then impudent fellows borrow your money; and if you ask them for itagain, they go about town saying you are a screw. '

Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, which latterly henever quitted, at a little supper, with no persons near him but those whowere amusing. He suddenly found he could not lift his glass to his lips, and being extremely polite, waited a few minutes before he asked Clotilde, who was singing a sparkling drinking-song, to do him that service. When, in accordance with his request, she reached him, it was too late. Theladies shrieked, being frightened: at first they were in despair, but, after reflection, they evinced some intention of plundering the house. Villebecque, who was absent at the moment, arrived in time; and everybodybecame orderly and broken-hearted. 

The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it had been embalmedand laid in state. The funeral was not numerously attended. There wasnobody in town; some distinguished connections, however, came up from thecountry, though it was a period inconvenient for such movements. After thefuneral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of MonmouthHouse, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited the boyish wonderof Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal roof, and now hung inblack, adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer. 

The testamentary dispositions of the late lord were still unknown, thoughthe names of his executors had been announced by his family solicitor, inwhose custody the will and codicils had always remained. The executorsunder the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By asubsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. All these individuals werenow present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, stood on the righthand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long table, round which, ingroups, were ranged all who had attended the funeral, including several ofthe superior members of the household, among them M. Villebecque. 

The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth had been in thehabit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, the original will, however changed or modified, had never been revoked; it was thereforenecessary to commence by reading that instrument. So saying, he sat down, and breaking the seals of a large packet, he produced the will of PhilipAugustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been retained in his custodysince its execution. 

By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 10, 000_l. _ was left toConingsby, then unknown to his grandfather; the same sum to Mr. Rigby. There was a great number of legacies, none of superior amount, most ofthem of less: these were chiefly left to old male companions, and women invarious countries. There was an almost inconceivable number of smallannuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners. The residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three ofwhom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests, therefore, had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom, according to the termsof the will, all would have consequently centred, was Mr. Rigby. 

There followed several codicils which did not materially affect theprevious disposition; one of them leaving a legacy of 20, 000_l. _ to thePrincess Colonna; until they arrived at the latter part of the year 1832, when a codicil increased the 10, 000_l. _ left under the will to Coningsbyto 50, 000_l. _. 

After Coningsby's visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important changeoccurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth's estate. The legacy of50, 000_l. _ in his favour was revoked, and the same sum left to thePrincess Lucretia. A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Rigby; andConingsby was left sole residuary legatee. 

The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of about ninethousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, and wastherefore in his own disposition, was left to Coningsby. The legacy to Mr. Rigby was reduced to 20, 000_l. _, and the whole of his residue left to hisissue by Lady Monmouth. In case he died without issue, the estatebequeathed to Coningsby to be taken into account, and the residue then tobe divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was underthis instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor and to whomLord Monmouth left, among others, the celebrated picture of the HolyFamily by Murillo, as his friend had often admired it. To Lord Eskdale heleft all his female miniatures, and to Mr. Ormsby his rare and splendidcollection of French novels, and all his wines, except his Tokay, which heleft, with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; though this legacy wasafterwards revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert's conduct about the Irishcorporations. 

The solicitor paused and begged permission to send for a glass of water. While this was arranging there was a murmur at the lower part of the room, but little disposition to conversation among those in the vicinity of thelawyer. Coningsby was silent, his brow a little knit. Mr. Rigby was paleand restless, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff, andoffered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to him. They exchangedglances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia stood apart, with his arms folded. He had not, of course attended the funeral, nor hadhe as yet exchanged any recognition with Coningsby. 

'Now, gentlemen, ' said the solicitor, 'if you please, I will proceed. '

They came to the year 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hellingsley. Thisappeared to be a critical period in the fortunes of Lady Monmouth; whileConingsby's reached to the culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to hisoriginal legacy under the will of 10, 000_l. _; a sum of equal amount wasbequeathed to Armand Villebecque, in acknowledgment of faithful services;all the dispositions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, and she waslimited to her moderate jointure of 3, 000_l. _ per annum, under themarriage settlement; while everything, without reserve, was leftabsolutely to Coningsby. 

A subsequent codicil determined that the 10, 000_l. _ left to Mr. Rigbyshould be equally divided between him and Lucian Gay; but as somecompensation Lord Monmouth left to the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby thebust of that gentleman, which he had himself presented to his Lordship, and which, at his desire, had been placed in the vestibule at ConingsbyCastle, from the amiable motive that after Lord Monmouth's decease Mr. Rigby might wish, perhaps, to present it to some other friend. 

Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care not to catch the eye of Mr. Rigby. As for Coningsby, he saw nobody. He maintained, during the extraordinarysituation in which he was placed, a firm demeanour; but serene andregulated as he appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really strungto a high pitch. 

There was yet another codicil. It bore the date of June 1840, and was madeat Brighton, immediately after the separation with Lady Monmouth. It wasthe sight of this instrument that sustained Rigby at this great emergency. He had a wild conviction that, after all, it must set all right. He feltassured that, as Lady Monmouth had already been disposed of, it mustprincipally refer to the disinheritance of Coningsby, secured by Rigby'swell-timed and malignant misrepresentations of what had occurred inLancashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom could LordMonmouth leave his money? However he might cut and carve up his fortunes, Rigby, and especially at a moment when he had so served him, must come infor a considerable slice. 

His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour of 'mygrandson Harry Coningsby' were revoked; and he inherited from hisgrandfather only the interest of the sum of 10, 000_l. _ which had beenoriginally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. The executors had thepower of investing the principal in any way they thought proper for hisadvancement in life, provided always it was not placed in 'the capitalstock of any manufactory. '

Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look; he caught the eye ofRigby; he read the latent malice of that nevertheless anxious countenance. What passed through the mind and being of Coningsby was thought andsensation enough for a year; but it was as the flash that reveals a wholecountry, yet ceases to be ere one can say it lightens. There was arevelation to him of an inward power that should baffle these conventionalcalamities, a natural and sacred confidence in his youth and health, andknowledge and convictions. Even the recollection of Edith was notunaccompanied with some sustaining associations. At least the mightiestfoe to their union was departed. 

All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with the readingof the words of form with which the last testamentary disposition of theMarquess of Monmouth left the sum of 30, 000_l. _ to Armand Villebecque; andall the rest, residue, and remainder of his unentailed property, wheresoever and whatsoever it might be, amounting in value to nearly amillion sterling, was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, commonlycalled Flora Villebecque, the step-child of the said Armand Villebecque, 'but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress atthe Théâtre Français in the years 1811-15, by the name of Stella. '

CHAPTER III. 

'This is a crash!' said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitatedcountenance, to Sidonia, as his friend came up to greet him, without, however, any expression of condolence. 

'This time next year you will not think so, ' said Sidonia. 

Coningsby shrugged his shoulders. 

'The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage, ' said Sidonia, 'isthe condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am goinghome to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we will notspeak of it. ' So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of theroom. 

They walked together to Sidonia's house in Carlton Gardens, neither ofthem making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiringwhere he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, andhimself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling inhis manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidoniaordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between thecommand and its appearance, he called Coningsby's attention to an oldGerman painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaintcostumes. 

'Eat, and an appetite will come, ' said Sidonia, when he observed Coningsbysomewhat reluctant. 'Take some of that Chablis: it will put you right; youwill find it delicious. '

In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they werealone together. 

'I have been thinking all this time of your position, ' said Sidonia. 

'A sorry one, I fear, ' said Coningsby. 

'I really cannot see that, ' said his friend. 'You have experienced thismorning a disappointment, but not a calamity. If you had lost your eye itwould have been a calamity: no combination of circumstances could havegiven you another. There are really no miseries except natural miseries;conventional misfortunes are mere illusions. What seems conventionally, ina limited view, a great misfortune, if subsequently viewed in its results, is often the happiest incident in one's life. '

'I hope the day may come when I may feel this. '

'Now is the moment when philosophy is of use; that is to say, now is themoment when you should clearly comprehend the circumstances which surroundyou. Holiday philosophy is mere idleness. You think, for example, that youhave just experienced a great calamity, because you have lost the fortuneon which you counted?'

'I must say I do. '

'I ask you again, which would you have rather lost, your grandfather'sinheritance or your right leg?'

'Most certainly my inheritance, '

'Or your left arm?'

'Still the inheritance. '

'Would you have received the inheritance on condition that your frontteeth should be knocked out?'

'No. '

'Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?'

'Even at twenty-three I would have refused the terms. '

'Come, come, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great. '

'Why, you have put it in an ingenious point of view; and yet it is not soeasy to convince a man, that he should be content who has losteverything. '

'You have a great many things at this moment that you separately prefer tothe fortune that you have forfeited. How then can you be said to have losteverything?'

'What have I?' said Coningsby, despondingly. 

'You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerableknowledge, a fine courage, a lofty spirit, and no contemptible experience. With each of these qualities one might make a fortune; the combinationought to command the highest. '

'You console me, ' said Coningsby, with a faint blush and a fainter smile. 

'I teach you the truth. That is always solacing. I think you are a mostfortunate young man; I should not have thought you more fortunate if youhad been your grandfather's heir; perhaps less so. But I wish you tocomprehend your position: if you understand it you will cease to lament. '

'But what should I do?'

'Bring your intelligence to bear on the right object. I make you no offersof fortune, because I know you would not accept them, and indeed I have nowish to see you a lounger in life. If you had inherited a great patrimony, it is possible your natural character and previous culture might havesaved you from its paralysing influence; but it is a question, even withyou. Now you are free; that is to say, you are free, if you are not indebt. A man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is harassed withglittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, cannot live on300_l. _ per annum; but you can. You have nothing to haunt your thoughts, or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You have seen the mostbeautiful women; you have banqueted in palaces; you know what heroes, andwits, and statesmen are made of: and you can draw on your memory insteadof your imagination for all those dazzling and interesting objects thatmake the inexperienced restless, and are the cause of what are calledscrapes. But you can do nothing if you be in debt. You must be free. Before, therefore, we proceed, I must beg you to be frank on this head. Ifyou have any absolute or contingent incumbrances, tell me of them withoutreserve, and permit me to clear them at once to any amount. You willsensibly oblige me in so doing: because I am interested in watching yourcareer, and if the racer start with a clog my psychological observationswill be imperfect. '

'You are, indeed, a friend; and had I debts I would ask you to pay them. Ihave nothing of the kind. My grandfather was so lavish in his allowance tome that I never got into difficulties. Besides, there are horses andthings without end which I must sell, and money at Drummonds'. '

'That will produce your outfit, whatever the course you adopt. I conceivethere are two careers which deserve your consideration. In the first placethere is Diplomacy. If you decide upon that, I can assist you. There existbetween me and the Minister such relations that I can at once secure youthat first step which is so difficult to obtain. After that, much, if notall, depends on yourself. But I could advance you, provided you werecapable. You should, at least, not languish for want of preferment. In animportant post, I could throw in your way advantages which would soonpermit you to control cabinets. Information commands the world. I doubtnot your success, and for such a career, speedy. Let us assume it as afact. Is it a result satisfactory? Suppose yourself in a dozen years aPlenipotentiary at a chief court, or at a critical post, with a red ribbonand the Privy Council in immediate perspective; and, after a lengthenedcareer, a pension and a peerage. Would that satisfy you? You don't lookexcited. I am hardly surprised. In your position it would not satisfy me. A Diplomatist is, after all, a phantom. There is a want of nationalityabout his being. I always look upon Diplomatists as the Hebrews ofpolitics; without country, political creeds, popular convictions, thatstrong reality of existence which pervades the career of an eminentcitizen in a free and great country. '

'You read my thoughts, ' said Coningsby. 'I should be sorry to sever myselffrom England. '

'There remains then the other, the greater, the nobler career, ' saidSidonia, 'which in England may give you all, the Bar. I am absolutelypersuaded that with the requisite qualifications, and with perseverance, success at the Bar is certain. It may be retarded or precipitated bycircumstances, but cannot be ultimately affected. You have a right tocount with your friends on no lack of opportunities when you are ripe forthem. You appear to me to have all the qualities necessary for the Bar;and you may count on that perseverance which is indispensable, for thereason I have before mentioned, because it will be sustained by yourexperience. '

'I have resolved, ' said Coningsby; 'I will try for the Great Seal. '

CHAPTER IV. 

Alone in his chambers, no longer under the sustaining influence ofSidonia's converse and counsel, the shades of night descending and bearinggloom to the gloomy, all the excitement of his spirit evaporated, theheart of Coningsby sank. All now depended on himself, and in that self hehad no trust. Why should he succeed? Success was the most rare of results. Thousands fail; units triumph. And even success could only be conducted tohim by the course of many years. His career, even if prosperous, was nowto commence by the greatest sacrifice which the heart of man could becalled upon to sustain. Upon the stern altar of his fortunes he mustimmolate his first and enduring love. Before, he had a perilous positionto offer Edith; now he had none. The future might then have aided them;there was no combination which could improve his present. Under anycircumstances he must, after all his thoughts and studies, commence a newnovitiate, and before he could enter the arena must pass years of silentand obscure preparation. 'Twas very bitter. He looked up, his eye caughtthat drawing of the towers of Hellingsley which she had given him in thedays of their happy hearts. That was all that was to remain of theirloves. He was to bear it to the future scene of his labours, to remind himthrough revolving years of toil and routine, that he too had had hisromance, had roamed in fair gardens, and whispered in willing ears thesecrets of his passion. That drawing was to become the altar-piece of hislife. 

Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken sleep, waking often with aconsciousness of having experienced some great misfortune, yet with anindefinite conception of its nature. He woke exhausted and dispirited. Itwas a gloomy day, a raw north-easter blowing up the cloisters of theAlbany, in which the fog was lingering, the newspaper on his breakfast-table, full of rumoured particulars of his grandfather's will, which hadof course been duly digested by all who knew him. What a contrast to St. Geneviève! To the bright, bracing morn of that merry Christmas! Thatradiant and cheerful scene, and those gracious and beaming personages, seemed another world and order of beings to the one he now inhabited, andthe people with whom he must now commune. The Great Seal indeed! It wasthe wild excitement of despair, the frenzied hope that blends inevitablywith absolute ruin, that could alone have inspired such a hallucination!His unstrung heart deserted him. His energies could rally no more. He gaveorders that he was at home to no one; and in his morning gown andslippers, with his feet resting on the fireplace, the once high-souled andnoble-hearted Coningsby delivered himself up to despair. 

The day passed in a dark trance rather than a reverie. Nothing rose to hisconsciousness. He was like a particle of chaos; at the best, a glimmeringentity of some shadowy Hades. Towards evening the wind changed, the fogdispersed, there came a clear starry night, brisk and bright. Coningsbyroused himself, dressed, and wrapping his cloak around him, sallied forth. Once more in the mighty streets, surrounded by millions, his petty griefsand personal fortunes assumed their proper position. Well had Sidoniataught him, view everything in its relation to the rest. 'Tis the secretof all wisdom. Here was the mightiest of modern cities; the rival even ofthe most celebrated of the ancient. Whether he inherited or forfeitedfortunes, what was it to the passing throng? They would not share hissplendour, or his luxury, or his comfort. But a word from his lip, athought from his brain, expressed at the right time, at the right place, might turn their hearts, might influence their passions, might changetheir opinions, might affect their destiny. Nothing is great but thepersonal. As civilisation advances, the accidents of life become each dayless important. The power of man, his greatness and his glory, depend onessential qualities. Brains every day become more precious than blood. Youmust give men new ideas, you must teach them new words, you must modifytheir manners, you must change their laws, you must root out prejudices, subvert convictions, if you wish to be great. Greatness no longer dependson rentals, the world is too rich; nor on pedigrees, the world is tooknowing. 

'The greatness of this city destroys my misery, ' said Coningsby, 'and mygenius shall conquer its greatness. '

This conviction of power in the midst of despair was a revelation ofintrinsic strength. It is indeed the test of a creative spirit. From thatmoment all petty fears for an ordinary future quitted him. He felt that hemust be prepared for great sacrifices, for infinite suffering; that theremust devolve on him a bitter inheritance of obscurity, struggle, envy, andhatred, vulgar prejudice, base criticism, petty hostilities, but the dawnwould break, and the hour arrive, when the welcome morning hymn of hissuccess and his fame would sound and be re-echoed. 

He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. He slept the deep sleep of a manvoid of anxiety, that has neither hope nor fear to haunt his visions, butis prepared to rise on the morrow collected for the great human struggle. 

And the morning came. Fresh, vigorous, not rash or precipitate, yetdetermined to lose no time in idle meditation, Coningsby already resolvedat once to quit his present residence, was projecting a visit to somelegal quarter, where he intended in future to reside, when his servantbrought him a note. The handwriting was feminine. The note was from Flora. The contents were brief. She begged Mr. Coningsby, with great earnestness, to do her the honour and the kindness of calling on her at his earliestconvenience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she now resided. 

It was an interview which Coningsby would rather have avoided; yet itseemed to him, after a moment's reflection, neither just, nor kind, normanly, to refuse her request. Flora had not injured him. She was, afterall, his kin. Was it for a moment to be supposed that he was envious ofher lot? He replied, therefore, that in an hour he would wait upon her. 

In an hour, then, two individuals are to be brought together whose firstmeeting was held under circumstances most strangely different. ThenConingsby was the patron, a generous and spontaneous one, of a beingobscure, almost friendless, and sinking under bitter mortification. Hisfavour could not be the less appreciated because he was the chosenrelative of a powerful noble. That noble was no more; his vast inheritancehad devolved on the disregarded, even despised actress, whose sufferingemotions Coningsby had then soothed, and whose fortune had risen on thedestruction of all his prospects, and the balk of all his aspirations. 

Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered into the room. The extremedelicacy of her appearance was increased by her deep mourning; and seatedin a cushioned chair, from which she seemed to rise with an effort, shecertainly presented little of the character of a fortunate and prosperousheiress. 

'You are very good to come to me, ' she said, faintly smiling. 

Coningsby extended his hand to her affectionately, in which she placed herown, looking down much embarrassed. 

'You have an agreeable situation here, ' said Coningsby, trying to breakthe first awkwardness of their meeting. 

'Yes; but I hope not to stop here long?'

'You are going abroad?'

'No; I hope never to leave England!'

There was a slight pause; and then Flora sighed and said, 'I wish to speak to you on a subject that gives me pain; yet of which Imust speak. You think I have injured you?'

'I am sure, ' said Coningsby, in a tone of great kindness, 'that you couldinjure no one. '

'I have robbed you of your inheritance. '

'It was not mine by any right, legal or moral. There were others who mighthave urged an equal claim to it; and there are many who will now thinkthat you might have preferred a superior one. '

'You had enemies; I was not one. They sought to benefit themselves byinjuring you. They have not benefited themselves; let them not say thatthey have at least injured you. '

'We will not care what they say, ' said Coningsby; 'I can sustain my lot. '

'Would that I could mine!' said Flora. She sighed again with a downcastglance. Then looking up embarrassed and blushing deeply, she added, 'Iwish to restore to you that fortune of which I have unconsciously andunwillingly deprived you. '

'The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right, ' said Coningsby, muchmoved; 'and there is no one who wishes more fervently that it maycontribute to your happiness than I do. '

'It is killing me, ' said Flora, mournfully; then speaking with unusualanimation, with a degree of excitement, she continued, 'I must tell what Ifeel. This fortune is yours. I am happy in the inheritance, if yougenerously receive it from me, because Providence has made me the means ofbaffling your enemies. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be if youwill generously accept this fortune, always intended for you. I have livedthen for a purpose; I have not lived in vain; I have returned to you someservice, however humble, for all your goodness to me in my unhappiness. '

'You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and most tender-heartedof beings. But you misconceive our mutual positions, my gentle Flora. Thecustom of the world does not permit such acts to either of us as youcontemplate. The fortune is yours. It is left you by one on whoseaffections you had the highest claim. I will not say that so large aninheritance does not bring with it an alarming responsibility; but you arenot unequal to it. Have confidence in yourself. You have a good heart; youhave good sense; you have a well-principled being. Your spirit will mountwith your fortunes, and blend with them. You will be happy. '

'And you?'

'I shall soon learn to find content, if not happiness, from othersources, ' said Coningsby; 'and mere riches, however vast, could at no timehave secured my felicity. '

'But they may secure that which brings felicity, ' said Flora, speaking ina choking voice, and not meeting the glance of Coningsby. 'You had someviews in life which displeased him who has done all this; they may be, they must be, affected by this fatal caprice. Speak to me, for I cannotspeak, dear Mr. Coningsby; do not let me believe that I, who wouldsacrifice my life for your happiness, am the cause of such calamities!'

'Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain it, ' said Coningsby, with acheek of scarlet. 

'Ah! he is angry with me, ' exclaimed Flora; 'he is angry with me!' and thetears stole down her pale cheek. 

'No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no other feelings to you than those ofaffection and respect, ' and Coningsby, much agitated, drew his chairnearer to her, and took her hand. 'I am gratified by these kind wishes, though they are utterly impracticable; but they are the witnesses of yoursweet disposition and your noble spirit. There never shall exist betweenus, under any circumstances, other feelings than those of kin andkindness. '

He rose as if to depart. When she saw that, she started, and seemed tosummon all her energies. 

'You are going, ' she exclaimed, 'and I have said nothing, I have saidnothing; and I shall never see you again. Let me tell you what I mean. This fortune is yours; it must be yours. It is an arrow in my heart. Donot think I am speaking from a momentary impulse. I know myself. I havelived so much alone, I have had so little to deceive or to delude me, thatI know myself. If you will not let me do justice you declare my doom. Icannot live if my existence is the cause of all your prospects beingblasted, and the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. When I die, these riches will be yours; that you cannot prevent. Refuse my presentoffer, and you seal the fate of that unhappy Flora whose fragile life hashung for years on the memory of your kindness. '

'You must not say these words, dear Flora; you must not indulge in thesegloomy feelings. You must live, and you must live happily. You have everycharm and virtue which should secure happiness. The duties and theaffections of existence will fall to your lot. It is one that will alwaysinterest me, for I shall ever be your friend. You have conferred on me oneof the most delightful of feelings, gratitude, and for that I bless you. Iwill soon see you again. ' Mournfully he bade her farewell. 

CHAPTER V. 

About a week after this interview with Flora, as Coningsby one morning wasabout to sally forth from the Albany to visit some chambers in the Temple, to which his notice had been attracted, there was a loud ring, a bustle inthe hall, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst were ushered in. 

There never was such a cordial meeting; and yet the faces of his friendswere serious. The truth is, the paragraphs in the newspapers hadcirculated in the country, they had written to Coningsby, and after abrief delay he had confirmed their worst apprehensions. Immediately theycame up to town. Henry Sydney, a younger son, could offer little butsympathy, but he declared it was his intention also to study for the bar, so that they should not be divided. Buckhurst, after many embraces andsome ordinary talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, 'My dear fellow, Ihave no objection to Henry Sydney hearing everything I say, but stillthese are subjects which men like to be discussed in private. Of course Iexpect you to share my fortune. There is enough for both. We will have anexact division. '

There was something in Buckhurst's fervent resolution very lovable and alittle humorous, just enough to put one in good temper with human natureand life. If there were any fellow's fortune in the world that Coningsbywould share, Buckhurst's would have had the preference; but while hepressed his hand, and with a glance in which a tear and a smile seemed tocontend for mastery, he gently indicated why such arrangements were, withour present manners, impossible. 

'I see, ' said Buckhurst, after a moment's thought, 'I quite agree withyou. The thing cannot be done; and, to tell you the truth, a fortune is abore. What I vote that we three do at once is, to take plenty of ready-money, and enter the Austrian service. By Jove! it is the only thing todo. '

'There is something in that, ' said Coningsby. 'In the meantime, supposeyou two fellows walk with me to the Temple, for I have an appointment tolook at some chambers. '

It was a fine day, and it was by no means a gloomy walk. Though the twofriends had arrived full of indignation against Lord Monmouth, andmiserable about their companion, once more in his society, and findinglittle difference in his carriage, they assumed unconsciously theirhabitual tone. As for Buckhurst, he was delighted with the Temple, whichhe visited for the first time. The name enchanted him. The tombs in thechurch convinced him that the Crusades were the only career. He would havehimself become a law student if he might have prosecuted his studies inchain armour. The calmer Henry Sydney was consoled for the misfortunes ofConingsby by a fanciful project himself to pass a portion of his life amidthese halls and courts, gardens and terraces, that maintain in the heartof a great city in the nineteenth century, so much of the grave romanceand picturesque decorum of our past manners. Henry Sydney was sanguine; hewas reconciled to the disinheritance of Coningsby by the conviction thatit was a providential dispensation to make him a Lord Chancellor. 

These faithful friends remained in town with Coningsby until he wasestablished in Paper Buildings, and had become a pupil of a celebratedspecial pleader. They would have remained longer had not he himselfsuggested that it was better that they should part. It seemed a terriblecatastrophe after all the visions of their boyish days, their collegedreams, and their dazzling adventures in the world. 

'And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, that we allloved, that was to be our leader!' said Buckhurst to Lord Henry as theyquitted him. 'Well, come what may, life has lost something of its bloom. '

'The great thing now, ' said Lord Henry, 'is to keep up the chain of ourfriendship. We must write to him very often, and contrive to be frequentlytogether. It is dreadful to think that in the ways of life our hearts maybecome estranged. I never felt more wretched than I do at this moment, andyet I have faith that we shall not lose him. '

'Amen!' said Buckhurst; 'but I feel my plan about the Austrian servicewas, after all, the only thing. The Continent offers a career. He mighthave been prime minister; several strangers have been; and as for war, look at Brown and Laudohn, and half a hundred others. I had a much betterchance of being a field-marshal than he has of being a Lord Chancellor. '

'I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will be Lord Chancellor, ' saidHenry Sydney, gravely. 

This change of life for Coningsby was a great social revolution. It wassudden and complete. Within a month after the death of his grandfather hisname had been erased from all his fashionable clubs, and his horses andcarriages sold, and he had become a student of the Temple. He entirelydevoted himself to his new pursuit. His being was completely absorbed init. There was nothing to haunt his mind; no unexperienced scene orsensation of life to distract his intelligence. One sacred thought aloneindeed there remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary of his heart andconsciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a hope. The moment thathe had fairly recovered from the first shock of his grandfather's will;had clearly ascertained the consequences to himself, and had resolved onthe course to pursue; he had communicated unreservedly with OswaldMillbank, and had renounced those pretensions to the hand of his sisterwhich it ill became the destitute to prefer. 

His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Sydney and Buckhurstat the chambers of Coningsby. Once more they were all four together; butunder what different circumstances, and with what different prospects fromthose which attended their separation at Eton! Alone with Coningsby, Millbank spoke to him things which letters could not convey. He bore tohim all the sympathy and devotion of Edith; but they would not concealfrom themselves that, at this moment, and in the present state of affairs, all was hopeless. In no way did Coningsby ever permit himself to intimateto Oswald the cause of his disinheritance. He was, of course, silent on itto his other friends; as any communication of the kind must have touchedon a subject that was consecrated in his inmost soul. 

CHAPTER VI. 

The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 offered amost remarkable contrast to their condition at the period commemorated inthe first chapter of this work. The banners of the Conservative camp atthis moment lowered on the Whig forces, as the gathering host of theNorman invader frowned on the coast of Sussex. The Whigs were not yetconquered, but they were doomed; and they themselves knew it. The mistakewhich was made by the Conservative leaders in not retaining office in1839; and, whether we consider their conduct in a national andconstitutional light, or as a mere question of political tactics and partyprudence, it was unquestionably a great mistake; had infused into thecorps of Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which only thesuperficial could mistake for vitality. Even to form a basis for theirfuture operations, after the conjuncture of '39, the Whigs were obliged tomake a fresh inroad on the revenue, the daily increasing debility of whichwas now arresting attention and exciting public alarm. It was clear thatthe catastrophe of the government would be financial. 

Under all the circumstances of the case, the conduct of the Whig Cabinet, in their final propositions, cannot be described as deficient either inboldness or prudence. The policy which they recommended was in itself asagacious and spirited policy; but they erred in supposing that, at theperiod it was brought forward, any measure promoted by the Whigs couldhave obtained general favour in the country. The Whigs were known to befeeble; they were looked upon as tricksters. The country knew they wereopposed by a powerful party; and though there certainly never was anyauthority for the belief, the country did believe that that powerful partywere influenced by great principles; had in their view a definite andnational policy; and would secure to England, instead of a feebleadministration and fluctuating opinions, energy and a creed. 

The future effect of the Whig propositions of '41 will not be detrimentalto that party, even if in the interval they be appropriated piecemeal, aswill probably be the case, by their Conservative successors. But for themoment, and in the plight in which the Whig party found themselves, it wasimpossible to have devised measures more conducive to their precipitatefall. Great interests were menaced by a weak government. The consequencewas inevitable. Tadpole and Taper saw it in a moment. They snuffed thefactious air, and felt the coming storm. Notwithstanding the extremecongeniality of these worthies, there was a little latent jealousy betweenthem. Tadpole worshipped Registration: Taper, adored a Cry. Tadpole alwaysmaintained that it was the winnowing of the electoral lists that couldalone gain the day; Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancienttraditions, was ever of opinion that the game must ultimately be won bypopular clamour. It always seemed so impossible that the Conservativeparty could ever be popular; the extreme graciousness and personalpopularity of the leaders not being sufficiently apparent to be esteemedan adequate set-off against the inveterate odium that attached to theiropinions; that the Tadpole philosophy was the favoured tenet in highplaces; and Taper had had his knuckles well rapped more than once formanoeuvring too actively against the New Poor-law, and for hiring severallink-boys to bawl a much-wronged lady's name in the Park when the Courtprorogued Parliament. 

And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was agreat clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was against the Whigs andin favour of Conservative principles. What Canadian timber-merchants meantby Conservative principles, it is not difficult to conjecture; or WestIndian planters. It was tolerably clear on the hustings what squires andfarmers, and their followers, meant by Conservative principles. What theymean by Conservative principles now is another question: and whetherConservative principles mean something higher than a perpetuation offiscal arrangements, some of them impolitic, none of them important. Butno matter what different bodies of men understood by the cry in which theyall joined, the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole; and the greatConservative party beat the shattered and exhausted Whigs. 

Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could notbe altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political worldof course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were deeplyinterested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which he would permitthem, of cultivating his society. Their occasional fellowship, a visit nowand then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes on Flora, who lived at Richmond, comprised his social relations. His general acquaintance did not deserthim, but he was out of sight, and did not wish to be remembered. Mr. Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally mourned over his fate in thebow window of White's; while Lord Eskdale even went to see him in theTemple, was interested in his progress, and said, with an encouraginglook, that, when he was called to the bar, all his friends must join andget up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking withthe Duke of Agincourt, which was probably the reason he could not notice alawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby. 

Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to thecause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallenfortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdalehis sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but LordEskdale, without dwelling on the subject, had assured him that he hadreason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have beendifferent. He had altered the disposition of his property at a moment ofgreat and general irritation and excitement; and had been too indolent, perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling ever to acknowledge, to recur to a calmer and more equitable settlement. Lord Eskdale had beenmore frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about the refusal to becomea candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the communication of Rigbyto Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, andthe love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished byVillebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly transferred by that noblemanto his co-executor; and Sidonia, when he had sufficiently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger acquainted with the whole history. 

The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the project of whichhad reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody believedto the last moment, at length took place. All the world was dispersed inthe heart of the season, and our solitary student of the Temple, in hislonely chambers, notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye ratherwander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the greatevent to which he had so looked forward was now occurring, and he, afterall, was no actor in the mighty drama. It was to have been the epoch ofhis life; when he was to have found himself in that proud position forwhich all the studies, and meditations, and higher impulses of his naturehad been preparing him. It was a keen trial of a man. Every one of hisfriends and old companions were candidates, and with sanguine prospects. Lord Henry was certain for a division of his county; Buckhurst harangued alarge agricultural borough in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood incoalition for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited thesuffrages of an important manufacturing constituency. They sent theiraddresses to Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them theinfluence of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to whichhe had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, nounimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an address to anisolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements ofpolitical parties might have detected in these public declarations someintimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that hasunfortunately been too long absent from the public life of this country. 

It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun shooting downPall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of theCarlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express arrivedwith the agitating bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsbywas walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford and CambridgeClub, the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he mightoccasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge friendwithout the annoyance of encountering any of his former fashionableacquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, bothof whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. Tadpole, moregood-natured, bestowed on him a rough nod, not unmarked by a slightexpression of coarse pity. 

Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, wherehe learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurstdenouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement of several thousandpersons, apparently not a little terrified by this unknown danger, nowfirst introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, they were allagainst Buckhurst's opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who endedby calling out Buckhurst for his personalities. 

Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter broughtup a third edition of the _Sun_, with electioneering bulletins from themanufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large letters whichexpressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed greatexcitement in that borough; strange proceedings had happened. The columnwas headed, 'Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of the Liberal Candidate!Two Tory Candidates in the field!!!'

His eye glanced over an animated speech of Mr. Millbank, his countenancechanged, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned therepresentation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations demandedhis presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his place, buthis son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a deep interestin the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the link between theborough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud cheering; he wishedin parting from them to take a step which should conciliate all parties, put an end to local heats and factious contentions, and secure the town anable and worthy representative. For these reasons he begged to propose tothem a gentleman who bore a name which many of them greatly honoured; forhimself, he knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion that whetherthey considered his talents, his character, or the ancient connection ofhis family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthyof their confidence than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ. 

This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which occasionallybursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest between Millbankand Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was over-confident. TheConservatives were not particularly zealous in behalf of their champion;there was no Marquess of Monmouth and no Coningsby Castle now to back him;he was fighting on his own resources, and he was a beaten horse. TheLiberals did not like the prospect of a defeat, and dreaded themortification of Rigby's triumph. The Moderate men, who thought more oflocal than political circumstances, liked the name of Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading supporters for thesubstitution. Some traits of the character and conduct of Coningsby hadbeen cleverly circulated. Thus there was a combination of many favourablecauses in his favour. In half an hour's time his image was stamped on thebrain of every inhabitant of the borough as an interesting andaccomplished youth, who had been wronged, and who deserved to be rewarded. It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and his mob offeredMr. Millbank's committee to throw Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burndown his hotel, in case he was prudent enough not to show. Mr. Rigbydetermined to fight to the last. All his hopes were now staked on thesuccessful result of this contest. It were impossible if he were returnedthat his friends could refuse him high office. The whole of LordMonmouth's reduced legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition ofthe _Sun_ left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriatedpopulace. 

Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When hisgrandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was notverging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his seat, and was surprisedthat all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark hisagitation. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour tomidnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to thepoll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to hischambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had beentwice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, and hadreached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off instantlyto London, and left at his friend's chambers a rapid narrative of what hadhappened, with information that he should call on him again on the morrowat nine o'clock, when they were to repair together immediately to Darlfordin time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of histriumph. 

Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he rose early feltfresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He felt asan Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation had beendespaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event hadoccurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate theultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that whenall seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by the fatherof Edith, and his vanquished rival who was to bite the dust before him wasthe author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, Justice, the gloriouspride of having acted rightly, the triumphant sense of complete andabsolute success, here were chaotic materials from which order was atlength evolved; and all subsided in an overwhelming feeling of gratitudeto that Providence that had so signally protected him. 

There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemedthat Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner wasenergetic. 

'We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute tospare. '

During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairswhich gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his favour. We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of thecircumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance ofConingsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter, afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger hadconferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness ofConingsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities. He had ever beenthe favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted inblending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was ajudicious man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, butgood, just, and honourable, with some impulses, only a little afraid ofthem; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the rightdirection. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby's admirableconduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should expressto others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison with herself. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, who stared; but Sir Joseph spoke feebly. Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence, and all her impressions, toOswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, makingno admissions, listened with interest, inveighed against Lord Monmouth, and condemned his will. 

After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Coningsby, took aninterest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he wascalled to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince theirsincerity. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought thatcircumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on the subject. The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily made himacquainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he computedthe vast wealth which he knew was at his parent's command, and recalledConingsby in his humble chambers, toiling after all his noble effortswithout any results, and his sister pining in a provincial solitude, Oswald began to curse wealth, and to ask himself what was the use of alltheir marvellous industry and supernatural skill? He addressed his fatherwith that irresistible frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire. What are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those who possess ourhearts? The only daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebtedfor his life, here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, andboth are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he wasalready convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct ofConingsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for him. He wished to be assured of its authenticity. He was resolved to convincehimself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet for a littletime, and watched the progress of the experiment, already interested anddelighted by what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairsto a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the silentsadness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured him that he could donothing wiser or better than take this young man to his heart, so ordainedit that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature of impulse, decidedsuddenly, and decided rightly. Never making a single admission to all therepresentations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his soncould have dared to desire. 

This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred atMillbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the enchantingintelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby during their rapid travel. When they arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger and a despatch, informing Coningsby, that at mid-day, at Darlford, he was at the head ofthe poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. Hewas, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish himto enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so he was to arrive there in themorning. At Birmingham, therefore, they remained. 

There was Oswald's election to talk of as well as Coningsby's. They hadhardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. Menmust have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus, and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked of thesethings, and assumed these results; but those were words and dreams, thesewere positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in the freshness oftheir youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were members of theBritish Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career. 

This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually fallsto the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under thatdegree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had enough totalk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. Therewas rapture in their again meeting under such circumstances. Then therewere their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out forstyling his opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days. What a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies! Life was apantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the schoolfellows had ofa sudden become elements of power, springs of the great machine. 

A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, to seek diversion in thedispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, alittle inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with whichone greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance, werelounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors werethrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who haddined, was greatly tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, but herefrained. Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently used up;a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last blow; he had methis fate. 

'My dear fellow, ' said Coningsby, 'I remember I wanted you to dine with mygrandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is life!'

About eleven o'clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlfordstation. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who receivedConingsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him into a car covered withsatin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six beautiful grey horses, caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips wereblue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the multitudewere marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, fell into theprocession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded andfollowed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, and endlesshuzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every window, and everybalcony filled with dames and maidens bedecked with his colours, Coningsbywas borne through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning fromMacedon. Uncovered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, and gracefulbearing, and his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart. 

The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody cheeredhim, every house was adorned with his colours. His triumphal return was noparty question. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked together like lambs atthe head of his procession. 

The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street. It was Mr. Millbank's committee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as every onedeclared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. Every windowwas full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, and the populacegave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded by hisfriends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up with Coningsby'scolours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed ofdahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby caught the form ofEdith, who was leaning on her father's arm. 

The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsbywas carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, forthe first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were to hear him, it was long before their enthusiasm could subside into silence. At lengththat silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tonesreached every ear. In five minutes' time every one looked at hisneighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there never was anythinglike this heard in Darlford before. 

He addressed them for a considerable time, for he had a great deal to say;not only to express his gratitude for the unprecedented manner in which hehad become their representative, and for the spirit in which they hadgreeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition of the viewsand opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly chosen, withouteven a formal declaration of his sentiments. 

He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed andpopular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. Hislively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when, towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be thecharacter of his future and lasting connection with the town, the vastthrong was singularly affected. There were a great many present at thatmoment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willinglyhave then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he hadspoken from his own. His spirit had entirely magnetised them. Darlfordbelieved in Coningsby: and a very good creed. 

And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked throughthe crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands withhim. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang up thestairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatestwarmth, and offered his hearty congratulations. 

'It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for all this, ' said Coningsby. 

'No, ' said Mr. Millbank, 'it is to your own high principles, greattalents, and good heart. '

After he had been presented by the late member to the principal personagesin the borough, Mr. Millbank said, 'I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me, ' headded, 'here is some one who will be very glad to see you. '

Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, and placing his arm inConingsby's with great affection opened the door of an apartment. Therewas Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitatedhearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined theirhands, and blessed them with words of tenderness. 

CHAPTER VII. 

The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. It wassolemnised at Millbank, and they passed their first moon at Hellingsley, which place was in future to be the residence of the member for Darlford. The estate was to devolve to Coningsby after the death of Mr. Millbank, who in the meantime made arrangements which permitted the newly-marriedcouple to reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its occupants. All thesesettlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were effected not onlywith the sanction, but at the express instance, of his son. 

An event, however, occurred not very long after the marriage of Coningsby, which rendered this generous conduct of his father-in-law no longernecessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot its exercise. The gentleand unhappy daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with which herspirit had never greatly sympathised. Perhaps she might have lingered inlife for yet a little while, had it not been for that fatal inheritancewhich disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart withthe recollection that she had been the unconscious instrument of injuringthe only being whom she loved, and embarrassing and encumbering her withduties foreign to her experience and her nature. The marriage of Coningsbyhad greatly affected her, and from that day she seemed gradually todecline. She died towards the end of the autumn, and, subject to an ampleannuity to Villebecque, she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to thehusband of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him to present such aninheritance to his wife, it was not without a pang that he received theintelligence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathised in his affectionatefeelings, and they raised a monument to her memory in the gardens ofHellingsley. 

Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his beautiful andgifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart andhis youth. 

They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in the leash, butin a moment they will be slipped. What will be their fate? Will theymaintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths which, instudy and in solitude, they have embraced? Or will their courage exhaustitself in the struggle, their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-heartedridicule, their generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to thetawdry temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligencesubside into being the adroit tool of a corrupt party? Will Vanityconfound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? Or will theyremain brave, single, and true; refuse to bow before shadows and worshipphrases; sensible of the greatness of their position, recognise thegreatness of their duties; denounce to a perplexed and disheartened worldthe frigid theories of a generalising age that have destroyed theindividuality of man, and restore the happiness of their country bybelieving in their own energies, and daring to be great?