Coningsby
by
Benjamin Disraeli
Part 9 out of 9
with respect to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled more
than the large fortune which was to accompany the barony. Had not a
separation between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken place simultaneously
with Coningsby's difference with his grandfather, he was conscious that
the consequences might have been even altogether fatal to his prospects;
but the absence of her evil influence at such a conjuncture, its permanent
removal, indeed, from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not
formal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from his
memory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it impossible at the
time to shut his eyes. Before he left town for Scotland he had made a
farewell visit to his grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in old
days, had been gracious; and Coningsby, during his excursion to the moors,
and his various visits to the country, had continued at intervals to write
to 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, did
nevertheless haunt his mind, that this great and sudden event might
exercise a vast and beneficial influence on his worldly position,
Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the affliction which he
sincerely experienced, in the hope that he might at all events now offer
to Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, and her love.
Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet reconciliation
in the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never long without
indirect intelligence of the incidents of her life; and the correspondence
between Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they were at the moors,
had apprised him that Lord Beaumanoir's suit had terminated unsuccessfully
almost immediately after his brother had quitted London.
It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town: he called at
once on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth's executors; and he
persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, to dine with him alone.
'You should not be seen at a club,' said the good-natured peer; 'and I
remember myself in old days what was the wealth of an Albanian larder.'
Lord Eskdale, at dinner, talked frankly of the disposition of Lord
Monmouth's property. He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby was his
grandfather's principal heir.
'I don't know whether you will be happier with a large fortune?' said Lord
Eskdale. 'It is a troublesome thing: nobody is satisfied with what you do
with it; very often not yourself. To maintain an equable expenditure; not
to spend too much on one thing, too little on another, is an art. There
must 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, and
the world to think you have only five. There is some enjoyment then; one
is 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 it
again, they go about town saying you are a screw.'
Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, which latterly he
never quitted, at a little supper, with no persons near him but those who
were 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. The
ladies 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 everybody
became orderly and broken-hearted.
The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it had been embalmed
and laid in state. The funeral was not numerously attended. There was
nobody in town; some distinguished connections, however, came up from the
country, though it was a period inconvenient for such movements. After the
funeral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of Monmouth
House, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited the boyish wonder
of Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal roof, and now hung in
black, adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer.
The testamentary dispositions of the late lord were still unknown, though
the names of his executors had been announced by his family solicitor, in
whose custody the will and codicils had always remained. The executors
under the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By a
subsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. All these individuals were
now present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, stood on the right
hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long table, round which, in
groups, were ranged all who had attended the funeral, including several of
the superior members of the household, among them M. Villebecque.
The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth had been in the
habit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, the original will,
however changed or modified, had never been revoked; it was therefore
necessary to commence by reading that instrument. So saying, he sat down,
and breaking the seals of a large packet, he produced the will of Philip
Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been retained in his custody
since its execution.
By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 10,000_l._ was left to
Coningsby, then unknown to his grandfather; the same sum to Mr. Rigby.
There was a great number of legacies, none of superior amount, most of
them of less: these were chiefly left to old male companions, and women in
various countries. There was an almost inconceivable number of small
annuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners.
The residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three of
whom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests, therefore,
had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom, according to the terms
of the will, all would have consequently centred, was Mr. Rigby.
There followed several codicils which did not materially affect the
previous disposition; one of them leaving a legacy of 20,000_l._ to the
Princess 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 Coningsby
to 50,000_l._.
After Coningsby's visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important change
occurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth's estate. The legacy of
50,000_l._ in his favour was revoked, and the same sum left to the
Princess Lucretia. A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Rigby; and
Coningsby was left sole residuary legatee.
The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of about nine
thousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, and was
therefore 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 his
issue by Lady Monmouth. In case he died without issue, the estate
bequeathed to Coningsby to be taken into account, and the residue then to
be divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was under
this instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor and to whom
Lord Monmouth left, among others, the celebrated picture of the Holy
Family by Murillo, as his friend had often admired it. To Lord Eskdale he
left all his female miniatures, and to Mr. Ormsby his rare and splendid
collection of French novels, and all his wines, except his Tokay, which he
left, with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; though this legacy was
afterwards revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert's conduct about the Irish
corporations.
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 the
lawyer. Coningsby was silent, his brow a little knit. Mr. Rigby was pale
and restless, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff, and
offered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to him. They exchanged
glances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia stood apart,
with his arms folded. He had not, of course attended the funeral, nor had
he 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. This
appeared to be a critical period in the fortunes of Lady Monmouth; while
Coningsby's reached to the culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to his
original legacy under the will of 10,000_l._; a sum of equal amount was
bequeathed to Armand Villebecque, in acknowledgment of faithful services;
all the dispositions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, and she was
limited to her moderate jointure of 3,000_l._ per annum, under the
marriage settlement; while everything, without reserve, was left
absolutely to Coningsby.
A subsequent codicil determined that the 10,000_l._ left to Mr. Rigby
should be equally divided between him and Lucian Gay; but as some
compensation Lord Monmouth left to the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby the
bust of that gentleman, which he had himself presented to his Lordship,
and which, at his desire, had been placed in the vestibule at Coningsby
Castle, 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 extraordinary
situation in which he was placed, a firm demeanour; but serene and
regulated as he appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really strung
to a high pitch.
There was yet another codicil. It bore the date of June 1840, and was made
at Brighton, immediately after the separation with Lady Monmouth. It was
the 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 felt
assured that, as Lady Monmouth had already been disposed of, it must
principally refer to the disinheritance of Coningsby, secured by Rigby's
well-timed and malignant misrepresentations of what had occurred in
Lancashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom could Lord
Monmouth 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 in
for a considerable slice.
His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour of 'my
grandson Harry Coningsby' were revoked; and he inherited from his
grandfather only the interest of the sum of 10,000_l._ which had been
originally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. The executors had the
power of investing the principal in any way they thought proper for his
advancement in life, provided always it was not placed in 'the capital
stock of any manufactory.'
Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look; he caught the eye of
Rigby; he read the latent malice of that nevertheless anxious countenance.
What passed through the mind and being of Coningsby was thought and
sensation enough for a year; but it was as the flash that reveals a whole
country, yet ceases to be ere one can say it lightens. There was a
revelation to him of an inward power that should baffle these conventional
calamities, a natural and sacred confidence in his youth and health, and
knowledge and convictions. Even the recollection of Edith was not
unaccompanied with some sustaining associations. At least the mightiest
foe to their union was departed.
All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with the reading
of the words of form with which the last testamentary disposition of the
Marquess of Monmouth left the sum of 30,000_l._ to Armand Villebecque; and
all the rest, residue, and remainder of his unentailed property,
wheresoever and whatsoever it might be, amounting in value to nearly a
million sterling, was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, commonly
called Flora Villebecque, the step-child of the said Armand Villebecque,
'but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at
the Theatre Francais in the years 1811-15, by the name of Stella.'
CHAPTER III.
'This is a crash!' said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitated
countenance, 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, 'is
the condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am going
home to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we will not
speak of it.' So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of the
room.
They walked together to Sidonia's house in Carlton Gardens, neither of
them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiring
where he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, and
himself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling in
his manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidonia
ordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between the
command and its appearance, he called Coningsby's attention to an old
German painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint
costumes.
'Eat, and an appetite will come,' said Sidonia, when he observed Coningsby
somewhat reluctant. 'Take some of that Chablis: it will put you right; you
will find it delicious.'
In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they were
alone 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 this
morning a disappointment, but not a calamity. If you had lost your eye it
would have been a calamity: no combination of circumstances could have
given you another. There are really no miseries except natural miseries;
conventional misfortunes are mere illusions. What seems conventionally, in
a 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 the
moment when you should clearly comprehend the circumstances which surround
you. Holiday philosophy is mere idleness. You think, for example, that you
have just experienced a great calamity, because you have lost the fortune
on which you counted?'
'I must say I do.'
'I ask you again, which would you have rather lost, your grandfather's
inheritance 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 front
teeth 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 so
easy to convince a man, that he should be content who has lost
everything.'
'You have a great many things at this moment that you separately prefer to
the fortune that you have forfeited. How then can you be said to have lost
everything?'
'What have I?' said Coningsby, despondingly.
'You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable
knowledge, a fine courage, a lofty spirit, and no contemptible experience.
With each of these qualities one might make a fortune; the combination
ought 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 most
fortunate young man; I should not have thought you more fortunate if you
had been your grandfather's heir; perhaps less so. But I wish you to
comprehend 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 offers
of fortune, because I know you would not accept them, and indeed I have no
wish to see you a lounger in life. If you had inherited a great patrimony,
it is possible your natural character and previous culture might have
saved you from its paralysing influence; but it is a question, even with
you. Now you are free; that is to say, you are free, if you are not in
debt. A man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is harassed with
glittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, cannot live on
300_l._ per annum; but you can. You have nothing to haunt your thoughts,
or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You have seen the most
beautiful women; you have banqueted in palaces; you know what heroes, and
wits, and statesmen are made of: and you can draw on your memory instead
of your imagination for all those dazzling and interesting objects that
make the inexperienced restless, and are the cause of what are called
scrapes. 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. If
you have any absolute or contingent incumbrances, tell me of them without
reserve, and permit me to clear them at once to any amount. You will
sensibly oblige me in so doing: because I am interested in watching your
career, and if the racer start with a clog my psychological observations
will be imperfect.'
'You are, indeed, a friend; and had I debts I would ask you to pay them. I
have nothing of the kind. My grandfather was so lavish in his allowance to
me that I never got into difficulties. Besides, there are horses and
things without end which I must sell, and money at Drummonds'.'
'That will produce your outfit, whatever the course you adopt. I conceive
there are two careers which deserve your consideration. In the first place
there is Diplomacy. If you decide upon that, I can assist you. There exist
between me and the Minister such relations that I can at once secure you
that first step which is so difficult to obtain. After that, much, if not
all, depends on yourself. But I could advance you, provided you were
capable. You should, at least, not languish for want of preferment. In an
important post, I could throw in your way advantages which would soon
permit you to control cabinets. Information commands the world. I doubt
not your success, and for such a career, speedy. Let us assume it as a
fact. Is it a result satisfactory? Suppose yourself in a dozen years a
Plenipotentiary at a chief court, or at a critical post, with a red ribbon
and the Privy Council in immediate perspective; and, after a lengthened
career, a pension and a peerage. Would that satisfy you? You don't look
excited. I am hardly surprised. In your position it would not satisfy me.
A Diplomatist is, after all, a phantom. There is a want of nationality
about his being. I always look upon Diplomatists as the Hebrews of
politics; without country, political creeds, popular convictions, that
strong reality of existence which pervades the career of an eminent
citizen in a free and great country.'
'You read my thoughts,' said Coningsby. 'I should be sorry to sever myself
from England.'
'There remains then the other, the greater, the nobler career,' said
Sidonia, 'which in England may give you all, the Bar. I am absolutely
persuaded that with the requisite qualifications, and with perseverance,
success at the Bar is certain. It may be retarded or precipitated by
circumstances, but cannot be ultimately affected. You have a right to
count with your friends on no lack of opportunities when you are ripe for
them. You appear to me to have all the qualities necessary for the Bar;
and you may count on that perseverance which is indispensable, for the
reason I have before mentioned, because it will be sustained by your
experience.'
'I have resolved,' said Coningsby; 'I will try for the Great Seal.'
CHAPTER IV.
Alone in his chambers, no longer under the sustaining influence of
Sidonia's converse and counsel, the shades of night descending and bearing
gloom to the gloomy, all the excitement of his spirit evaporated, the
heart of Coningsby sank. All now depended on himself, and in that self he
had no trust. Why should he succeed? Success was the most rare of results.
Thousands fail; units triumph. And even success could only be conducted to
him by the course of many years. His career, even if prosperous, was now
to commence by the greatest sacrifice which the heart of man could be
called upon to sustain. Upon the stern altar of his fortunes he must
immolate his first and enduring love. Before, he had a perilous position
to offer Edith; now he had none. The future might then have aided them;
there was no combination which could improve his present. Under any
circumstances he must, after all his thoughts and studies, commence a new
novitiate, and before he could enter the arena must pass years of silent
and obscure preparation. 'Twas very bitter. He looked up, his eye caught
that drawing of the towers of Hellingsley which she had given him in the
days of their happy hearts. That was all that was to remain of their
loves. He was to bear it to the future scene of his labours, to remind him
through revolving years of toil and routine, that he too had had his
romance, had roamed in fair gardens, and whispered in willing ears the
secrets of his passion. That drawing was to become the altar-piece of his
life.
Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken sleep, waking often with a
consciousness of having experienced some great misfortune, yet with an
indefinite conception of its nature. He woke exhausted and dispirited. It
was a gloomy day, a raw north-easter blowing up the cloisters of the
Albany, in which the fog was lingering, the newspaper on his breakfast-
table, full of rumoured particulars of his grandfather's will, which had
of course been duly digested by all who knew him. What a contrast to St.
Genevieve! To the bright, bracing morn of that merry Christmas! That
radiant and cheerful scene, and those gracious and beaming personages,
seemed another world and order of beings to the one he now inhabited, and
the people with whom he must now commune. The Great Seal indeed! It was
the wild excitement of despair, the frenzied hope that blends inevitably
with absolute ruin, that could alone have inspired such a hallucination!
His unstrung heart deserted him. His energies could rally no more. He gave
orders that he was at home to no one; and in his morning gown and
slippers, with his feet resting on the fireplace, the once high-souled and
noble-hearted Coningsby delivered himself up to despair.
The day passed in a dark trance rather than a reverie. Nothing rose to his
consciousness. He was like a particle of chaos; at the best, a glimmering
entity of some shadowy Hades. Towards evening the wind changed, the fog
dispersed, there came a clear starry night, brisk and bright. Coningsby
roused himself, dressed, and wrapping his cloak around him, sallied forth.
Once more in the mighty streets, surrounded by millions, his petty griefs
and personal fortunes assumed their proper position. Well had Sidonia
taught him, view everything in its relation to the rest. 'Tis the secret
of all wisdom. Here was the mightiest of modern cities; the rival even of
the most celebrated of the ancient. Whether he inherited or forfeited
fortunes, what was it to the passing throng? They would not share his
splendour, or his luxury, or his comfort. But a word from his lip, a
thought from his brain, expressed at the right time, at the right place,
might turn their hearts, might influence their passions, might change
their opinions, might affect their destiny. Nothing is great but the
personal. As civilisation advances, the accidents of life become each day
less important. The power of man, his greatness and his glory, depend on
essential qualities. Brains every day become more precious than blood. You
must give men new ideas, you must teach them new words, you must modify
their manners, you must change their laws, you must root out prejudices,
subvert convictions, if you wish to be great. Greatness no longer depends
on rentals, the world is too rich; nor on pedigrees, the world is too
knowing.
'The greatness of this city destroys my misery,' said Coningsby, 'and my
genius shall conquer its greatness.'
This conviction of power in the midst of despair was a revelation of
intrinsic strength. It is indeed the test of a creative spirit. From that
moment all petty fears for an ordinary future quitted him. He felt that he
must be prepared for great sacrifices, for infinite suffering; that there
must devolve on him a bitter inheritance of obscurity, struggle, envy, and
hatred, vulgar prejudice, base criticism, petty hostilities, but the dawn
would break, and the hour arrive, when the welcome morning hymn of his
success and his fame would sound and be re-echoed.
He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. He slept the deep sleep of a man
void of anxiety, that has neither hope nor fear to haunt his visions, but
is prepared to rise on the morrow collected for the great human struggle.
And the morning came. Fresh, vigorous, not rash or precipitate, yet
determined to lose no time in idle meditation, Coningsby already resolved
at once to quit his present residence, was projecting a visit to some
legal quarter, where he intended in future to reside, when his servant
brought 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 earliest
convenience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she now resided.
It was an interview which Coningsby would rather have avoided; yet it
seemed to him, after a moment's reflection, neither just, nor kind, nor
manly, to refuse her request. Flora had not injured him. She was, after
all, his kin. Was it for a moment to be supposed that he was envious of
her 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 first
meeting was held under circumstances most strangely different. Then
Coningsby was the patron, a generous and spontaneous one, of a being
obscure, almost friendless, and sinking under bitter mortification. His
favour could not be the less appreciated because he was the chosen
relative of a powerful noble. That noble was no more; his vast inheritance
had devolved on the disregarded, even despised actress, whose suffering
emotions Coningsby had then soothed, and whose fortune had risen on the
destruction of all his prospects, and the balk of all his aspirations.
Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered into the room. The extreme
delicacy of her appearance was increased by her deep mourning; and seated
in a cushioned chair, from which she seemed to rise with an effort, she
certainly presented little of the character of a fortunate and prosperous
heiress.
'You are very good to come to me,' she said, faintly smiling.
Coningsby extended his hand to her affectionately, in which she placed her
own, looking down much embarrassed.
'You have an agreeable situation here,' said Coningsby, trying to break
the 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 I
must speak. You think I have injured you?'
'I am sure,' said Coningsby, in a tone of great kindness, 'that you could
injure no one.'
'I have robbed you of your inheritance.'
'It was not mine by any right, legal or moral. There were others who might
have urged an equal claim to it; and there are many who will now think
that you might have preferred a superior one.'
'You had enemies; I was not one. They sought to benefit themselves by
injuring you. They have not benefited themselves; let them not say that
they 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 downcast
glance. Then looking up embarrassed and blushing deeply, she added, 'I
wish to restore to you that fortune of which I have unconsciously and
unwillingly deprived you.'
'The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right,' said Coningsby, much
moved; 'and there is no one who wishes more fervently that it may
contribute to your happiness than I do.'
'It is killing me,' said Flora, mournfully; then speaking with unusual
animation, with a degree of excitement, she continued, 'I must tell what I
feel. This fortune is yours. I am happy in the inheritance, if you
generously receive it from me, because Providence has made me the means of
baffling your enemies. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be if you
will generously accept this fortune, always intended for you. I have lived
then for a purpose; I have not lived in vain; I have returned to you some
service, however humble, for all your goodness to me in my unhappiness.'
'You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and most tender-hearted
of beings. But you misconceive our mutual positions, my gentle Flora. The
custom of the world does not permit such acts to either of us as you
contemplate. The fortune is yours. It is left you by one on whose
affections you had the highest claim. I will not say that so large an
inheritance does not bring with it an alarming responsibility; but you are
not unequal to it. Have confidence in yourself. You have a good heart; you
have good sense; you have a well-principled being. Your spirit will mount
with your fortunes, and blend with them. You will be happy.'
'And you?'
'I shall soon learn to find content, if not happiness, from other
sources,' said Coningsby; 'and mere riches, however vast, could at no time
have secured my felicity.'
'But they may secure that which brings felicity,' said Flora, speaking in
a choking voice, and not meeting the glance of Coningsby. 'You had some
views 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 cannot
speak, dear Mr. Coningsby; do not let me believe that I, who would
sacrifice my life for your happiness, am the cause of such calamities!'
'Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain it,' said Coningsby, with a
cheek of scarlet.
'Ah! he is angry with me,' exclaimed Flora; 'he is angry with me!' and the
tears stole down her pale cheek.
'No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no other feelings to you than those of
affection and respect,' and Coningsby, much agitated, drew his chair
nearer to her, and took her hand. 'I am gratified by these kind wishes,
though they are utterly impracticable; but they are the witnesses of your
sweet disposition and your noble spirit. There never shall exist between
us, under any circumstances, other feelings than those of kin and
kindness.'
He rose as if to depart. When she saw that, she started, and seemed to
summon all her energies.
'You are going,' she exclaimed, 'and I have said nothing, I have said
nothing; 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. Do
not think I am speaking from a momentary impulse. I know myself. I have
lived so much alone, I have had so little to deceive or to delude me, that
I know myself. If you will not let me do justice you declare my doom. I
cannot live if my existence is the cause of all your prospects being
blasted, and the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. When I die,
these riches will be yours; that you cannot prevent. Refuse my present
offer, and you seal the fate of that unhappy Flora whose fragile life has
hung for years on the memory of your kindness.'
'You must not say these words, dear Flora; you must not indulge in these
gloomy feelings. You must live, and you must live happily. You have every
charm and virtue which should secure happiness. The duties and the
affections of existence will fall to your lot. It is one that will always
interest me, for I shall ever be your friend. You have conferred on me one
of the most delightful of feelings, gratitude, and for that I bless you. I
will soon see you again.' Mournfully he bade her farewell.
CHAPTER V.
About a week after this interview with Flora, as Coningsby one morning was
about 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 in
the hall, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst were ushered in.
There never was such a cordial meeting; and yet the faces of his friends
were serious. The truth is, the paragraphs in the newspapers had
circulated in the country, they had written to Coningsby, and after a
brief delay he had confirmed their worst apprehensions. Immediately they
came up to town. Henry Sydney, a younger son, could offer little but
sympathy, but he declared it was his intention also to study for the bar,
so that they should not be divided. Buckhurst, after many embraces and
some ordinary talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, 'My dear fellow, I
have no objection to Henry Sydney hearing everything I say, but still
these are subjects which men like to be discussed in private. Of course I
expect you to share my fortune. There is enough for both. We will have an
exact division.'
There was something in Buckhurst's fervent resolution very lovable and a
little humorous, just enough to put one in good temper with human nature
and life. If there were any fellow's fortune in the world that Coningsby
would share, Buckhurst's would have had the preference; but while he
pressed his hand, and with a glance in which a tear and a smile seemed to
contend for mastery, he gently indicated why such arrangements were, with
our present manners, impossible.
'I see,' said Buckhurst, after a moment's thought, 'I quite agree with
you. The thing cannot be done; and, to tell you the truth, a fortune is a
bore. 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 to
do.'
'There is something in that,' said Coningsby. 'In the meantime, suppose
you two fellows walk with me to the Temple, for I have an appointment to
look at some chambers.'
It was a fine day, and it was by no means a gloomy walk. Though the two
friends had arrived full of indignation against Lord Monmouth, and
miserable about their companion, once more in his society, and finding
little difference in his carriage, they assumed unconsciously their
habitual tone. As for Buckhurst, he was delighted with the Temple, which
he visited for the first time. The name enchanted him. The tombs in the
church convinced him that the Crusades were the only career. He would have
himself become a law student if he might have prosecuted his studies in
chain armour. The calmer Henry Sydney was consoled for the misfortunes of
Coningsby by a fanciful project himself to pass a portion of his life amid
these halls and courts, gardens and terraces, that maintain in the heart
of a great city in the nineteenth century, so much of the grave romance
and picturesque decorum of our past manners. Henry Sydney was sanguine; he
was reconciled to the disinheritance of Coningsby by the conviction that
it was a providential dispensation to make him a Lord Chancellor.
These faithful friends remained in town with Coningsby until he was
established in Paper Buildings, and had become a pupil of a celebrated
special pleader. They would have remained longer had not he himself
suggested that it was better that they should part. It seemed a terrible
catastrophe after all the visions of their boyish days, their college
dreams, and their dazzling adventures in the world.
'And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, that we all
loved, that was to be our leader!' said Buckhurst to Lord Henry as they
quitted 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 our
friendship. We must write to him very often, and contrive to be frequently
together. It is dreadful to think that in the ways of life our hearts may
become estranged. I never felt more wretched than I do at this moment, and
yet I have faith that we shall not lose him.'
'Amen!' said Buckhurst; 'but I feel my plan about the Austrian service
was, after all, the only thing. The Continent offers a career. He might
have 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 better
chance of being a field-marshal than he has of being a Lord Chancellor.'
'I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will be Lord Chancellor,' said
Henry Sydney, gravely.
This change of life for Coningsby was a great social revolution. It was
sudden and complete. Within a month after the death of his grandfather his
name had been erased from all his fashionable clubs, and his horses and
carriages sold, and he had become a student of the Temple. He entirely
devoted himself to his new pursuit. His being was completely absorbed in
it. There was nothing to haunt his mind; no unexperienced scene or
sensation of life to distract his intelligence. One sacred thought alone
indeed there remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary of his heart and
consciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a hope. The moment that
he had fairly recovered from the first shock of his grandfather's will;
had clearly ascertained the consequences to himself, and had resolved on
the course to pursue; he had communicated unreservedly with Oswald
Millbank, and had renounced those pretensions to the hand of his sister
which it ill became the destitute to prefer.
His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Sydney and Buckhurst
at the chambers of Coningsby. Once more they were all four together; but
under what different circumstances, and with what different prospects from
those which attended their separation at Eton! Alone with Coningsby,
Millbank spoke to him things which letters could not convey. He bore to
him all the sympathy and devotion of Edith; but they would not conceal
from themselves that, at this moment, and in the present state of affairs,
all was hopeless. In no way did Coningsby ever permit himself to intimate
to Oswald the cause of his disinheritance. He was, of course, silent on it
to his other friends; as any communication of the kind must have touched
on a subject that was consecrated in his inmost soul.
CHAPTER VI.
The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 offered a
most remarkable contrast to their condition at the period commemorated in
the first chapter of this work. The banners of the Conservative camp at
this moment lowered on the Whig forces, as the gathering host of the
Norman invader frowned on the coast of Sussex. The Whigs were not yet
conquered, but they were doomed; and they themselves knew it. The mistake
which was made by the Conservative leaders in not retaining office in
1839; and, whether we consider their conduct in a national and
constitutional light, or as a mere question of political tactics and party
prudence, it was unquestionably a great mistake; had infused into the
corps of Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which only the
superficial could mistake for vitality. Even to form a basis for their
future operations, after the conjuncture of '39, the Whigs were obliged to
make a fresh inroad on the revenue, the daily increasing debility of which
was now arresting attention and exciting public alarm. It was clear that
the 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 in
boldness or prudence. The policy which they recommended was in itself a
sagacious and spirited policy; but they erred in supposing that, at the
period it was brought forward, any measure promoted by the Whigs could
have obtained general favour in the country. The Whigs were known to be
feeble; they were looked upon as tricksters. The country knew they were
opposed by a powerful party; and though there certainly never was any
authority for the belief, the country did believe that that powerful party
were influenced by great principles; had in their view a definite and
national policy; and would secure to England, instead of a feeble
administration and fluctuating opinions, energy and a creed.
The future effect of the Whig propositions of '41 will not be detrimental
to that party, even if in the interval they be appropriated piecemeal, as
will probably be the case, by their Conservative successors. But for the
moment, and in the plight in which the Whig party found themselves, it was
impossible to have devised measures more conducive to their precipitate
fall. Great interests were menaced by a weak government. The consequence
was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper saw it in a moment. They snuffed the
factious air, and felt the coming storm. Notwithstanding the extreme
congeniality of these worthies, there was a little latent jealousy between
them. Tadpole worshipped Registration: Taper, adored a Cry. Tadpole always
maintained that it was the winnowing of the electoral lists that could
alone gain the day; Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancient
traditions, was ever of opinion that the game must ultimately be won by
popular clamour. It always seemed so impossible that the Conservative
party could ever be popular; the extreme graciousness and personal
popularity of the leaders not being sufficiently apparent to be esteemed
an adequate set-off against the inveterate odium that attached to their
opinions; that the Tadpole philosophy was the favoured tenet in high
places; and Taper had had his knuckles well rapped more than once for
manoeuvring too actively against the New Poor-law, and for hiring several
link-boys to bawl a much-wronged lady's name in the Park when the Court
prorogued Parliament.
And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was a
great clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was against the Whigs and
in favour of Conservative principles. What Canadian timber-merchants meant
by Conservative principles, it is not difficult to conjecture; or West
Indian planters. It was tolerably clear on the hustings what squires and
farmers, and their followers, meant by Conservative principles. What they
mean by Conservative principles now is another question: and whether
Conservative principles mean something higher than a perpetuation of
fiscal arrangements, some of them impolitic, none of them important. But
no matter what different bodies of men understood by the cry in which they
all joined, the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole; and the great
Conservative party beat the shattered and exhausted Whigs.
Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could not
be altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political world
of course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were deeply
interested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which he would permit
them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional fellowship, a visit now
and then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes on Flora, who lived at Richmond,
comprised his social relations. His general acquaintance did not desert
him, 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 the
bow window of White's; while Lord Eskdale even went to see him in the
Temple, was interested in his progress, and said, with an encouraging
look, that, when he was called to the bar, all his friends must join and
get up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking with
the Duke of Agincourt, which was probably the reason he could not notice a
lawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby.
Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to the
cause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen
fortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdale
his sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but Lord
Eskdale, without dwelling on the subject, had assured him that he had
reason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have been
different. He had altered the disposition of his property at a moment of
great 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 been
more frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about the refusal to become
a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the communication of Rigby
to Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, and
the love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished by
Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly transferred by that nobleman
to 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 which
had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody believed
to the last moment, at length took place. All the world was dispersed in
the heart of the season, and our solitary student of the Temple, in his
lonely chambers, notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye rather
wander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the great
event to which he had so looked forward was now occurring, and he, after
all, was no actor in the mighty drama. It was to have been the epoch of
his life; when he was to have found himself in that proud position for
which all the studies, and meditations, and higher impulses of his nature
had been preparing him. It was a keen trial of a man. Every one of his
friends and old companions were candidates, and with sanguine prospects.
Lord Henry was certain for a division of his county; Buckhurst harangued a
large agricultural borough in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood in
coalition for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited the
suffrages of an important manufacturing constituency. They sent their
addresses to Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them the
influence of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to which
he had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no
unimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an address to an
isolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements of
political parties might have detected in these public declarations some
intimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that has
unfortunately 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 down
Pall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of the
Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express arrived
with the agitating bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsby
was walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge
Club, the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he might
occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge friend
without the annoyance of encountering any of his former fashionable
acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both
of whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. Tadpole, more
good-natured, bestowed on him a rough nod, not unmarked by a slight
expression of coarse pity.
Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, where
he learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurst
denouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement of several thousand
persons, apparently not a little terrified by this unknown danger, now
first introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, they were all
against Buckhurst's opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who ended
by calling out Buckhurst for his personalities.
Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter brought
up a third edition of the _Sun_, with electioneering bulletins from the
manufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large letters which
expressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed great
excitement in that borough; strange proceedings had happened. The column
was 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 countenance
changed, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned the
representation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations demanded
his presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his place, but
his son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a deep interest
in the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the link between the
borough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud cheering; he wished
in 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 an
able and worthy representative. For these reasons he begged to propose to
them a gentleman who bore a name which many of them greatly honoured; for
himself, he knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion that whether
they considered his talents, his character, or the ancient connection of
his family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthy
of their confidence than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ.
This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which occasionally
bursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest between Millbank
and Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was over-confident. The
Conservatives 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. The
Liberals did not like the prospect of a defeat, and dreaded the
mortification of Rigby's triumph. The Moderate men, who thought more of
local than political circumstances, liked the name of Coningsby. Mr.
Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading supporters for the
substitution. Some traits of the character and conduct of Coningsby had
been cleverly circulated. Thus there was a combination of many favourable
causes in his favour. In half an hour's time his image was stamped on the
brain of every inhabitant of the borough as an interesting and
accomplished youth, who had been wronged, and who deserved to be rewarded.
It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and his mob offered
Mr. Millbank's committee to throw Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn
down his hotel, in case he was prudent enough not to show. Mr. Rigby
determined to fight to the last. All his hopes were now staked on the
successful result of this contest. It were impossible if he were returned
that his friends could refuse him high office. The whole of Lord
Monmouth's reduced legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition of
the _Sun_ left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriated
populace.
Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When his
grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was not
verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his seat, and was surprised
that all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark his
agitation. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour to
midnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the
poll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his
chambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had been
twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, and had
reached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off instantly
to London, and left at his friend's chambers a rapid narrative of what had
happened, with information that he should call on him again on the morrow
at nine o'clock, when they were to repair together immediately to Darlford
in time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of his
triumph.
Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he rose early felt
fresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He felt as
an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation had been
despaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event had
occurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate the
ultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that when
all seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by the father
of Edith, and his vanquished rival who was to bite the dust before him was
the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, Justice, the glorious
pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant sense of complete and
absolute success, here were chaotic materials from which order was at
length evolved; and all subsided in an overwhelming feeling of gratitude
to that Providence that had so signally protected him.
There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemed
that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner was
energetic.
'We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute to
spare.'
During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairs
which gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his favour.
We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of the
circumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance of
Coningsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter,
afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had
conferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness of
Coningsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities. He had ever been
the favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted in
blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a
judicious man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, but
good, just, and honourable, with some impulses, only a little afraid of
them; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the right
direction. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby's admirable
conduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should express
to 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, to
Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, making
no admissions, listened with interest, inveighed against Lord Monmouth,
and condemned his will.
After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Coningsby, took an
interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he was
called to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince their
sincerity. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought that
circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on the subject.
The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily made him
acquainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he computed
the vast wealth which he knew was at his parent's command, and recalled
Coningsby in his humble chambers, toiling after all his noble efforts
without any results, and his sister pining in a provincial solitude,
Oswald began to curse wealth, and to ask himself what was the use of all
their marvellous industry and supernatural skill? He addressed his father
with that irresistible frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire.
What are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those who possess our
hearts? The only daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted
for his life, here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, and
both are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was
already convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct of
Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for him.
He wished to be assured of its authenticity. He was resolved to convince
himself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet for a little
time, and watched the progress of the experiment, already interested and
delighted by what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairs
to a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the silent
sadness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured him that he could do
nothing wiser or better than take this young man to his heart, so ordained
it that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature of impulse, decided
suddenly, and decided rightly. Never making a single admission to all the
representations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his son
could have dared to desire.
This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred at
Millbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the enchanting
intelligence 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 of
the poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. He
was, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish him
to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so he was to arrive there in the
morning. At Birmingham, therefore, they remained.
There was Oswald's election to talk of as well as Coningsby's. They had
hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. Men
must have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus,
and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked of these
things, and assumed these results; but those were words and dreams, these
were positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of
their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were members of the
British Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career.
This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually falls
to the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under that
degree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had enough to
talk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. There
was rapture in their again meeting under such circumstances. Then there
were their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out for
styling his opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days.
What a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies! Life was a
pantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the schoolfellows had of
a sudden become elements of power, springs of the great machine.
A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, to seek diversion in the
dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, a
little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with which
one greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance, were
lounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors were
thrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who had
dined, was greatly tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, but he
refrained. 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 met
his fate.
'My dear fellow,' said Coningsby, 'I remember I wanted you to dine with my
grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is life!'
About eleven o'clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlford
station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who received
Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him into a car covered with
satin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six beautiful grey horses,
caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips were
blue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the multitude
were marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, fell into the
procession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded and
followed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, and endless
huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every window, and every
balcony filled with dames and maidens bedecked with his colours, Coningsby
was borne through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from
Macedon. Uncovered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, and graceful
bearing, and his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart.
The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody cheered
him, every house was adorned with his colours. His triumphal return was no
party question. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked together like lambs at
the 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 one
declared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. Every window
was full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, and the populace
gave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded by his
friends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up with Coningsby's
colours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed of
dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby caught the form of
Edith, who was leaning on her father's arm.
The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsby
was carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, for
the first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were to hear him,
it was long before their enthusiasm could subside into silence. At length
that silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tones
reached every ear. In five minutes' time every one looked at his
neighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there never was anything
like 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 he
had become their representative, and for the spirit in which they had
greeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition of the views
and opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly chosen, without
even a formal declaration of his sentiments.
He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed and
popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. His
lively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when,
towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be the
character of his future and lasting connection with the town, the vast
throng was singularly affected. There were a great many present at that
moment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willingly
have then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he had
spoken from his own. His spirit had entirely magnetised them. Darlford
believed in Coningsby: and a very good creed.
And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked through
the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands with
him. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang up the
stairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest
warmth, 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, great
talents, and good heart.'
After he had been presented by the late member to the principal personages
in the borough, Mr. Millbank said,
'I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me,' he
added, '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 in
Coningsby's with great affection opened the door of an apartment. There
was Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitated
hearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined their
hands, and blessed them with words of tenderness.
CHAPTER VII.
The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. It was
solemnised 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-married
couple to reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its occupants. All these
settlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were effected not only
with 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 longer
necessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot its exercise. The gentle
and unhappy daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with which her
spirit had never greatly sympathised. Perhaps she might have lingered in
life for yet a little while, had it not been for that fatal inheritance
which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart with
the recollection that she had been the unconscious instrument of injuring
the only being whom she loved, and embarrassing and encumbering her with
duties foreign to her experience and her nature. The marriage of Coningsby
had greatly affected her, and from that day she seemed gradually to
decline. She died towards the end of the autumn, and, subject to an ample
annuity to Villebecque, she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the
husband of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him to present such an
inheritance to his wife, it was not without a pang that he received the
intelligence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathised in his affectionate
feelings, and they raised a monument to her memory in the gardens of
Hellingsley.
Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his beautiful and
gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart and
his youth.
They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in the leash, but
in a moment they will be slipped. What will be their fate? Will they
maintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths which, in
study and in solitude, they have embraced? Or will their courage exhaust
itself in the struggle, their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-hearted
ridicule, their generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to the
tawdry temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligence
subside into being the adroit tool of a corrupt party? Will Vanity
confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? Or will they
remain brave, single, and true; refuse to bow before shadows and worship
phrases; sensible of the greatness of their position, recognise the
greatness of their duties; denounce to a perplexed and disheartened world
the frigid theories of a generalising age that have destroyed the
individuality of man, and restore the happiness of their country by
believing in their own energies, and daring to be great?
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