Coningsby

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'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, especially
among women, that I ever knew, but he is very popular in the county. He
does an amazing deal of good, and is one of the best riders we have. My
father 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 won
Ravenna, 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 a
lofty and artificial terrace at the base of a range of wooded heights, was
a pile of modern building in the finest style of Christian architecture.
It was of great extent and richly decorated. Built of a white and
glittering stone, it sparkled with its pinnacles in the sunshine as it
rose 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 of
the Upper Park, that was the peculiar and most picturesque feature of this
splendid residence. The wooded heights that formed the valley were not, as
they appeared, a range of hills. Their crest was only the abrupt
termination of a vast and enclosed tableland, abounding in all the
qualities of the ancient chase: turf and trees, a wilderness of underwood,
and a vast spread of gorse and fern. The deer, that abounded, lived here
in a world as savage as themselves: trooping down in the evening to the
river. Some of them, indeed, were ever in sight of those who were in the
valley, and you might often observe various groups clustered on the green
heights above the mansion, the effect of which was most inspiriting and
graceful. Sometimes in the twilight, a solitary form, magnified by the
illusive hour, might be seen standing on the brink of the steep, large and
black against the clear sky.

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

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

Mr. Lyle had recognised them. He cantered forward with greetings on a fat
little 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 the
turrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them.

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

They entered by a short corridor into a large hall. They would have
stopped to admire its rich roof, its gallery and screen; but their host
suggested that they should refresh themselves after their ride, and they
followed him through several apartments into a spacious chamber, its oaken
panels covered with a series of interesting pictures, representing the
siege of St. Genevieve by the Parliament forces in 1643: the various
assaults and sallies, and the final discomfiture of the rebels. In all
these figured a brave and graceful Sir Eustace Lyle, in cuirass and buff
jerkin, with gleaming sword and flowing plume. The sight of these pictures
was ever a source of great excitement to Henry Sydney, who always lamented
his ill-luck in not living in such days; nay, would insist that all others
must equally deplore their evil destiny.

'See, Coningsby, this battery on the Upper Park,' said Lord Henry. 'This
did the business: how it rakes up the valley; Sir Eustace works it
himself. 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. 'It
must be so exciting.'

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

'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,' said
Lord Everingham, 'as they made such a noise about their venison. For my
part 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 fierce
struggle.'

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

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

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

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

There were indeed many other things to see: a long gallery, rich in
ancestral portraits, specimens of art and costume from Holbein to
Lawrence; courtiers of the Tudors, and cavaliers of the Stuarts,
terminating in red-coated squires fresh from the field, and gentlemen
buttoned up in black coats, and sitting in library chairs, with their
backs to a crimson curtain. Woman, however, is always charming; and the
present generation may view their mothers painted by Lawrence, as if they
were patronesses of Almack's; or their grandmothers by Reynolds, as
Robinettas 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, or
even the baronial hall, was the chapel, in which art had exhausted all its
invention, and wealth offered all its resources. The walls and vaulted
roofs entirely painted in encaustic by the first artists of Germany, and
representing the principal events of the second Testament, the splendour
of the mosaic pavement, the richness of the painted windows, the
sumptuousness of the altar, crowned by a masterpiece of Carlo Dolce and
surrounded by a silver rail, the tone of rich and solemn light that
pervaded all, and blended all the various sources of beauty into one
absorbing and harmonious whole: all combined to produce an effect which
stilled them into a silence that lasted for some minutes, until the ladies
breathed their feelings in an almost inarticulate murmur of reverence and
admiration; while a tear stole to the eye of the enthusiastic Henry
Sydney.

Leaving the chapel, they sauntered through the gardens, until, arriving at
their limit, they were met by the prettiest sight in the world; a group of
little pony chairs, each drawn by a little fat fawn-coloured pony, like
the one that Mr. Lyle had been riding. Lord Henry drove his mother; Lord
Everingham, Lady Theresa; Lady Everingham was attended by Coningsby. Their
host cantered by the Duchess's side, and along winding roads of easy
ascent, 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 Lady
Everingham. 'He is scarcely the same person. I have not observed him once
blush. He speaks and moves with ease. It is a pity that he is not more
graceful. 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 a
picture. What is your favourite colour for eyes?'

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

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

'Expression; I think I like expression. Expression must be always
delightful.'

'Do you dance?'

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

'I don't fence,' said Lady Everingham, with a smile. 'But I think you are
right 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 me
a great deal; long before we met,--met again, I should say, for we are old
friends, remember. Do you know your career much interests me? I like
ambitious men.'

There is something fascinating in the first idea that your career
interests a charming woman. Coningsby felt that he was perhaps driving a
Madame de Longueville. A woman who likes ambitious men must be no ordinary
character; clearly a sort of heroine. At this moment they reached the
Upper 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 greatly
compensated for by the multitude and prodigious size of the trees; they
were the largest, indeed, that could well be met with in England; and
there is no part of Europe where the timber is so huge. The broad
interminable glades, the vast avenues, the quantity of deer browsing or
bounding in all directions, the thickets of yellow gorse and green fern,
and the breeze that even in the stillness of summer was ever playing over
this table-land, all produced an animated and renovating scene. It was
like suddenly visiting another country, living among other manners, and
breathing another air. They stopped for a few minutes at a pavilion built
for the purposes of the chase, and then returned, all gratified by this
visit to what appeared to be the higher regions of the earth.

As they approached the brow of the hill that hung over St. Genevieve, they
heard 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 I
am connected come to St. Genevieve 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 in
their 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 the
nature 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 this
ceremony,' said Mr. Lyle, extremely confused. 'But I agree with Henry and
Mr. Coningsby, that Ceremony is not, as too commonly supposed, an idle
form. I wish the people constantly and visibly to comprehend that Property
is their protector and their friend.'

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

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

CHAPTER V.

'My fathers perilled their blood and fortunes for the cause of the
Sovereignty and Church of England,' said Lyle to Coningsby, as they were
lying stretched out on the sunny turf in the park of Beaumanoir,' and I
inherit their passionate convictions. They were Catholics, as their
descendant. No doubt they would have been glad to see their ancient faith
predominant in their ancient land; but they bowed, as I bow, to an adverse
and apparently irrevocable decree. But if we could not have the Church of
our fathers, we honoured and respected the Church of their children. It
was at least a Church; a 'Catholic and Apostolic Church,' as it daily
declares itself. Besides, it was our friend. When we were persecuted by
Puritanic Parliaments, it was the Sovereign and the Church of England that
interposed, with the certainty of creating against themselves odium and
mistrust, to shield us from the dark and relentless bigotry of Calvinism.'

'I believe,' said Coningsby, 'that if Charles I. had hanged all the
Catholic priests that Parliament petitioned him to execute, he would never
have 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 the
State which began to intimate emancipation. After all, they did not
emancipate us. It was the fall of the Papacy in England that founded the
Whig aristocracy; a fact that must always lie at the bottom of their
hearts, as, I assure you, it does of mine.

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

'My dear fellow,' said Coningsby, 'you have but described my feelings when
you depicted your own. My mind on these subjects has long been a chaos. I
float in a sea of troubles, and should long ago have been wrecked had I
not been sustained by a profound, however vague, conviction, that there
are 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 a
faith and not a form.'

The moral influence of residence furnishes some of the most interesting
traits of our national manners. The presence of this power was very
apparent throughout the district that surrounded Beaumanoir. The ladies of
that house were deeply sensible of the responsibility of their position;
thoroughly comprehending their duties, they fulfilled them without
affectation, with earnestness, and with that effect which springs from a
knowledge of the subject. The consequences were visible in the tone of the
peasantry being superior to that which we too often witness. The ancient
feudal feeling that lingers in these sequestered haunts is an instrument
which, 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 past
life, resumed the exercise of gentle offices, as if she had never ceased
to be a daughter of the house, and as if another domain had not its claims
upon her solicitude. Coningsby was often the companion of herself and her
sister in their pilgrimages of charity and kindness. He admired the
graceful energy, and thorough acquaintance with details, with which Lady
Everingham superintended schools, organised societies of relief, and the
discrimination which she brought to bear upon individual cases of
suffering or misfortune. He was deeply interested as he watched the magic
of her manner, as she melted the obdurate, inspired the slothful, consoled
the afflicted, and animated with her smiles and ready phrase the energetic
and the dutiful. Nor on these occasions was Lady Theresa seen under less
favourable auspices. Without the vivacity of her sister, there was in her
demeanour a sweet seriousness of purpose that was most winning; and
sometimes a burst of energy, a trait of decision, which strikingly
contrasted with the somewhat over-controlled character of her life in
drawing-rooms.

In the society of these engaging companions, time for Coningsby glided
away in a course which he sometimes wished nothing might disturb. Apart
from them, he frequently felt himself pensive and vaguely disquieted. Even
the society of Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, much as under ordinary
circumstances they would have been adapted to his mood, did not compensate
for the absence of that indefinite, that novel, that strange, yet sweet
excitement, which he felt, he knew not exactly how or why, stealing over
his senses. Sometimes the countenance of Theresa Sydney flitted over his
musing vision; sometimes the merry voice of Lady Everingham haunted his
ear. But to be their companion in ride or ramble; to avoid any arrangement
which for many hours should deprive him of their presence; was every day
with Coningsby a principal object.

One day he had been out shooting rabbits with Lyle and Henry Sydney, and
returned with them late to Beaumanoir to dinner. He had not enjoyed his
sport, and he had not shot at all well. He had been dreamy, silent, had
deeply felt the want of Lady Everingham's conversation, that was ever so
poignant and so interestingly personal to himself; one of the secrets of
her sway, though Coningsby was not then quite conscious of it. Talk to a
man about himself, and he is generally captivated. That is the real way to
win 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 who
have no self-love; but if they have, female vanity is but a trifling and
airy passion compared with the vast voracity of appetite which in the
sterner sex can swallow anything, and always crave for more.

When Coningsby entered the drawing-room, there seemed a somewhat unusual
bustle in the room, but as the twilight had descended, it was at first
rather difficult to distinguish who was present. He soon perceived that
there were strangers. A gentleman of pleasing appearance was near a sofa
on which the Duchess and Lady Everingham were seated, and discoursing with
some volubility. His phrases seemed to command attention; his audience had
an animated glance, eyes sparkling with intelligence and interest; not a
word was disregarded. Coningsby did not advance as was his custom; he had
a sort of instinct, that the stranger was discoursing of matters of which
he knew nothing. He turned to a table, he took up a book, which he began
to read upside downwards. A hand was lightly placed on his shoulder. He
looked round, it was another stranger; who said, however, in a tone of
familiar 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, helped
Coningsby to conjecture correctly who was the person who addressed him. It
was, indeed, the eldest son of the Duke, the Marquis of Beaumanoir, who
had arrived at his father's unexpectedly with his friend, Mr. Melton, on
their way to the north.

Mr. Melton was a gentleman of the highest fashion, and a great favourite
in society. He was about thirty, good-looking, with an air that commanded
attention, and manners, though facile, sufficiently finished. He was
communicative, though calm, and without being witty, had at his service a
turn of phrase, acquired by practice and success, which was, or which
always seemed to be, poignant. The ladies seemed especially to be
delighted at his arrival. He knew everything of everybody they cared
about; and Coningsby listened in silence to names which for the first time
reached his ears, but which seemed to excite great interest. Mr. Melton
frequently addressed his most lively observations and his most sparkling
anecdotes to Lady Everingham, who evidently relished all that he said, and
returned him in kind.

Throughout the dinner Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton maintained what
appeared a most entertaining conversation, principally about things and
persons which did not in any way interest our hero; who, however, had the
satisfaction of hearing Lady Everingham, in the drawing-room, say in a
careless 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 infinite
insignificance! Coningsby entertained a great aversion for Mr. Melton, but
felt his spirit unequal to the social contest. The genius of the
untutored, inexperienced youth quailed before that of the long-practised,
skilful man of the world. What was the magic of this man? What was the
secret of this ease, that nothing could disturb, and yet was not deficient
in deference and good taste? And then his dress, it seemed fashioned by
some unearthly artist; yet it was impossible to detect the unobtrusive
causes of the general effect that was irresistible. Coningsby's coat was
made by Stultz; almost every fellow in the sixth form had his coats made
by Stultz; yet Coningsby fancied that his own garment looked as if it had
been furnished by some rustic slopseller. He began to wonder where Mr.
Melton got his boots from, and glanced at his own, which, though made in
St. James's Street, seemed to him to have a cloddish air.

Lady Everingham was determined that Mr. Melton should see Beaumanoir to
the greatest advantage. Mr. Melton had never been there before, except at
Christmas, with the house full of visitors and factitious gaiety. Now he
was to see the country. Accordingly, there were long rides every day,
which Lady Everingham called expeditions, and which generally produced
some slight incident which she styled an adventure. She was kind to
Coningsby, but had no time to indulge in the lengthened conversations
which he had previously found so magical. Mr. Melton was always on the
scene, the monopolising hero, it would seem, of every thought, and phrase,
and plan. Coningsby began to think that Beaumanoir was not so delightful a
place as he had imagined. He began to think that he had stayed there
perhaps too long. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby, to inform him
that he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of September, to
meet Lord Monmouth, who had returned to England, and for grave and special
reasons was about to reside at his chief seat, which he had not visited
for many years. Coningsby had intended to have remained at Beaumanoir
until that time; but suddenly it occurred to him, that the Age of Ruins
was past, and that he ought to seize the opportunity of visiting
Manchester, 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 the
creatures of circumstances; and the unexpected arrival of a London dandy
at the country-seat of an English nobleman sent this representative of the
New Generation, fresh from Eton, nursed in prejudices, yet with a mind
predisposed to inquiry and prone to meditation, to a scene apt to
stimulate both intellectual processes; which demanded investigation and
induced thought, the great METROPOLIS OF LABOUR.

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