Coningsby

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The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord Eskdale wrote that after the
forthcoming registration a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth had the
satisfaction of drawing the Whig Minister at Naples into a cool thousand
on the event. Soon after this he returned to England, and determined to
pay a visit to Coningsby Castle, feast the county, patronise the borough,
diffuse that confidence in the party which his presence never failed to
do; so great and so just was the reliance in his unerring powers of
calculation and his intrepid pluck. Notwithstanding Schedule A, the
prestige of his power had not sensibly diminished, for his essential
resources were vast, and his intellect always made the most of his
influence.

True, however, to his organisation, Lord Monmouth, even to save his party
and gain his dukedom, must not be bored. He, therefore, filled his castle
with the most agreeable people from London, and even secured for their
diversion a little troop of French comedians. Thus supported, he received
his neighbours with all the splendour befitting his immense wealth and
great position, and with one charm which even immense wealth and great
position cannot command, the most perfect manner in the world. Indeed,
Lord Monmouth was one of the most finished gentlemen that ever lived; and
as he was good-natured, and for a selfish man even good-humoured, there
was rarely a cloud of caprice or ill-temper to prevent his fine manners
having their fair play. The country neighbours were all fascinated; they
were received with so much dignity and dismissed with so much grace.
Nobody would believe a word of the stories against him. Had he lived all
his life at Coningsby, fulfilled every duty of a great English nobleman,
benefited the county, loaded the inhabitants with favours, he would not
have been half so popular as he found himself within a fortnight of his
arrival with the worst county reputation conceivable, and every little
squire vowing that he would not even leave his name at the Castle to show
his respect.

Lord Monmouth, whose contempt for mankind was absolute; not a fluctuating
sentiment, not a mournful conviction, ebbing and flowing with
circumstances, but a fixed, profound, unalterable instinct; who never
loved any one, and never hated any one except his own children; was
diverted by his popularity, but he was also gratified by it. At this
moment it was a great element of power; he was proud that, with a vicious
character, after having treated these people with unprecedented neglect
and contumely, he should have won back their golden opinions in a moment
by the magic of manner and the splendour of wealth. His experience proved
the soundness of his philosophy.

Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, though, if necessary, he could squander it
like a caliph. He had even a respect for very rich men; it was his only
weakness, the only exception to his general scorn for his species. Wit,
power, particular friendships, general popularity, public opinion, beauty,
genius, virtue, all these are to be purchased; but it does not follow that
you can buy a rich man: you may not be able or willing to spare enough. A
person or a thing that you perhaps could not buy, became invested, in the
eyes of Lord Monmouth, with a kind of halo amounting almost to sanctity.

As the prey rose to the bait, Lord Monmouth resolved they should be
gorged. His banquets were doubled; a ball was announced; a public day
fixed; not only the county, but the principal inhabitants of the
neighbouring borough, were encouraged to attend; Lord Monmouth wished it,
if possible, to be without distinction of party. He had come to reside
among his old friends, to live and die where he was born. The Chairman of
the Conservative Association and the Vice President exchanged glances,
which would have become Tadpole and Taper; the four attorneys nibbed their
pens with increased energy, and vowed that nothing could withstand the
influence of the aristocracy 'in the long run.' All went and dined at the
Castle; all returned home overpowered by the condescension of the host,
the beauty of the ladies, several real Princesses, the splendour of his
liveries, the variety of his viands, and the flavour of his wines. It was
agreed that at future meetings of the Conservative Association, they
should always give 'Lord Monmouth and the House of Lords!' superseding the
Duke of Wellington, who was to figure in an after-toast with the Battle of
Waterloo.

It was not without emotion that Coningsby beheld for the first time the
castle that bore his name. It was visible for several miles before he even
entered the park, so proud and prominent was its position, on the richly-
wooded steep of a considerable eminence. It was a castellated building,
immense and magnificent, in a faulty and incongruous style of
architecture, indeed, but compensating in some degree for these
deficiencies of external taste and beauty by the splendour and
accommodation of its exterior, and which a Gothic castle, raised according
to the strict rules of art, could scarcely have afforded. The declining
sun threw over the pile a rich colour as Coningsby approached it, and lit
up with fleeting and fanciful tints the delicate foliage of the rare
shrubs and tall thin trees that clothed the acclivity on which it stood.
Our young friend felt a little embarrassed when, without a servant and in
a hack chaise, he drew up to the grand portal, and a crowd of retainers
came forth to receive him. A superior servant inquired his name with a
stately composure that disdained to be supercilious. It was not without
some degree of pride and satisfaction that the guest replied, 'Mr.
Coningsby.' The instantaneous effect was magical. It seemed to Coningsby
that he was borne on the shoulders of the people to his apartment; each
tried to carry some part of his luggage; and he only hoped his welcome
from their superiors might be as hearty.

CHAPTER VI.

It appeared to Coningsby in his way to his room, that the Castle was in a
state of great excitement; everywhere bustle, preparation, moving to and
fro, ascending and descending of stairs, servants in every corner; orders
boundlessly given, rapidly obeyed; many desires, equal gratification. All
this made him rather nervous. It was quite unlike Beaumanoir. That also
was a palace, but it was a home. This, though it should be one to him,
seemed to have nothing of that character. Of all mysteries the social
mysteries are the most appalling. Going to an assembly for the first time
is more alarming than the first battle. Coningsby had never before been in
a great house full of company. It seemed an overwhelming affair. The sight
of the servants bewildered him; how then was he to encounter their
masters?

That, however, he must do in a moment. A groom of the chambers indicates
the way to him, as he proceeds with a hesitating yet hurried step through
several ante-chambers and drawing-rooms; then doors are suddenly thrown
open, and he is ushered into the largest and most sumptuous saloon that he
had ever entered. It was full of ladies and gentlemen. Coningsby for the
first time in his life was at a great party. His immediate emotion was to
sink into the earth; but perceiving that no one even noticed him, and that
not an eye had been attracted to his entrance, he regained his breath and
in some degree his composure, and standing aside, endeavoured to make
himself, as well as he could, master of the land.

Not a human being that he had ever seen before! The circumstance of not
being noticed, which a few minutes since he had felt as a relief, became
now a cause of annoyance. It seemed that he was the only person standing
alone whom no one was addressing. He felt renewed and aggravated
embarrassment, and fancied, perhaps was conscious, that he was blushing.
At length his ear caught the voice of Mr. Rigby. The speaker was not
visible; he was at a distance surrounded by a wondering group, whom he was
severally and collectively contradicting, but Coningsby could not mistake
those harsh, arrogant tones. He was not sorry indeed that Mr. Rigby did
not observe him. Coningsby never loved him particularly, which was rather
ungrateful, for he was a person who had been kind, and, on the whole,
serviceable to him; but Coningsby writhed, especially as he grew older,
under Mr. Rigby's patronising air and paternal tone. Even in old days,
though attentive, Coningsby had never found him affectionate. Mr. Rigby
would tell him what to do and see, but never asked him what he wished to
do and see. It seemed to Coningsby that it was always contrived that he
should appear the _protege_, or poor relation, of a dependent of his
family. These feelings, which the thought of Mr. Rigby had revived, caused
our young friend, by an inevitable association of ideas, to remember that,
unknown and unnoticed as he might be, he was the only Coningsby in that
proud Castle, except the Lord of the Castle himself; and he began to be
rather ashamed of permitting a sense of his inexperience in the mere forms
and fashions of society so to oppress him, and deprive him, as it were, of
the spirit and carriage which became alike his character and his position.
Emboldened and greatly restored to himself, Coningsby advanced into the
body of the saloon.

On his legs, wearing his blue ribbon and bending his head frequently to a
lady who was seated on a sofa, and continually addressed him, Coningsby
recognised his grandfather. Lord Monmouth was somewhat balder than four
years ago, when he had come down to Montem, and a little more portly
perhaps; but otherwise unchanged. Lord Monmouth never condescended to the
artifices of the toilet, and, indeed, notwithstanding his life of excess,
had little need of them. Nature had done much for him, and the slow
progress of decay was carried off by his consummate bearing. He looked,
indeed, the chieftain of a house of whom a cadet might be proud.

For Coningsby, not only the chief of his house, but his host too. In
either capacity he ought to address Lord Monmouth. To sit down to dinner
without having previously paid his respects to his grandfather, to whom he
was so much indebted, and whom he had not seen for so many years, struck
him not only as uncourtly, but as unkind and ungrateful, and, indeed, in
the highest degree absurd. But how was he to do it? Lord Monmouth seemed
deeply engaged, and apparently with some very great lady. And if Coningsby
advanced and bowed, in all probability he would only get a bow in return.
He remembered the bow of his first interview. It had made a lasting
impression on his mind. For it was more than likely Lord Monmouth would
not recognise him. Four years had not sensibly altered Lord Monmouth, but
four years had changed Harry Coningsby from a schoolboy into a man. Then
how was he to make himself known to his grandfather? To announce himself
as Coningsby, as his Lordship's grandson, seemed somewhat ridiculous: to
address his grandfather as Lord Monmouth would serve no purpose: to style
Lord Monmouth 'grandfather' would make every one laugh, and seem stiff and
unnatural. What was he to do? To fall into an attitude and exclaim,
'Behold your grandchild!' or, 'Have you forgotten your Harry?'

Even to catch Lord Monmouth's glance was not an easy affair; he was much
occupied on one side by the great lady, on the other were several
gentlemen who occasionally joined in the conversation. But something must
be done.

There ran through Coningsby's character, as we have before mentioned, a
vein of simplicity which was not its least charm. It resulted, no doubt,
in a great degree from the earnestness of his nature. There never was a
boy so totally devoid of affectation, which was remarkable, for he had a
brilliant imagination, a quality that, from its fantasies, and the vague
and indefinite desires it engenders, generally makes those whose
characters are not formed, affected. The Duchess, who was a fine judge of
character, and who greatly regarded Coningsby, often mentioned this trait
as one which, combined with his great abilities and acquirements so
unusual at his age, rendered him very interesting. In the present instance
it happened that, while Coningsby was watching his grandfather, he
observed a gentleman advance, make his bow, say and receive a few words
and retire. This little incident, however, made a momentary diversion in
the immediate circle of Lord Monmouth, and before they could all resume
their former talk and fall into their previous positions, an impulse sent
forth Coningsby, who walked up to Lord Monmouth, and standing before him,
said,

'How do you do, grandpapa?'

Lord Monmouth beheld his grandson. His comprehensive and penetrating
glance took in every point with a flash. There stood before him one of the
handsomest youths he had ever seen, with a mien as graceful as his
countenance was captivating; and his whole air breathing that freshness
and ingenuousness which none so much appreciates as the used man of the
world. And this was his child; the only one of his blood to whom he had
been kind. It would be exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth's heart was
touched; but his goodnature effervesced, and his fine taste was deeply
gratified. He perceived in an instant such a relation might be a valuable
adherent; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a brilliant tool
to work out the Dukedom. All these impressions and ideas, and many more,
passed through the quick brain of Lord Monmouth ere the sound of
Coningsby's words had seemed to cease, and long before the surrounding
guests had recovered from the surprise which they had occasioned them, and
which did not diminish, when Lord Monmouth, advancing, placed his arms
round Coningsby with a dignity of affection that would have become Louis
XIV., and then, in the high manner of the old Court, kissed him on each
cheek.

'Welcome to your home,' said Lord Monmouth. 'You have grown a great deal.'

Then Lord Monmouth led the agitated Coningsby to the great lady, who was a
Princess and an Ambassadress, and then, placing his arm gracefully in that
of his grandson, he led him across the room, and presented him in due form
to some royal blood that was his guest, in the shape of a Russian Grand-
duke. His Imperial Highness received our hero as graciously as the
grandson of Lord Monmouth might expect; but no greeting can be imagined
warmer than the one he received from the lady with whom the Grand-duke was
conversing. She was a dame whose beauty was mature, but still radiant. Her
figure was superb; her dark hair crowned with a tiara of curious
workmanship. Her rounded arm was covered with costly bracelets, but not a
jewel on her finely formed bust, and the least possible rouge on her still
oval cheek. Madame Colonna retained her charms.

The party, though so considerable, principally consisted of the guests at
the Castle. The suite of the Grand-duke included several counts and
generals; then there were the Russian Ambassador and his lady; and a
Russian Prince and Princess, their relations. The Prince and Princess
Colonna and the Princess Lucretia were also paying a visit to the
Marquess; and the frequency of these visits made some straight-laced
magnificoes mysteriously declare it was impossible to go to Coningsby; but
as they were not asked, it did not much signify. The Marquess knew a great
many very agreeable people of the highest _ton_, who took a more liberal
view of human conduct, and always made it a rule to presume the best
motives instead of imputing the worst. There was Lady St. Julians, for
example, whose position was of the highest; no one more sought; she made
it a rule to go everywhere and visit everybody, provided they had power,
wealth, and fashion. She knew no crime except a woman not living with her
husband; that was past pardon. So long as his presence sanctioned her
conduct, however shameless, it did not signify; but if the husband were a
brute, neglected his wife first, and then deserted her; then, if a breath
but sullies her name she must be crushed; unless, indeed, her own family
were very powerful, which makes a difference, and sometimes softens
immorality into indiscretion.

Lord and Lady Gaverstock were also there, who never said an unkind thing
of anybody; her ladyship was pure as snow; but her mother having been
divorced, she ever fancied she was paying a kind of homage to her parent,
by visiting those who might some day be in the same predicament. There
were other lords and ladies of high degree; and some who, though neither
lords nor ladies, were charming people, which Lord Monmouth chiefly cared
about; troops of fine gentlemen who came and went; and some who were
neither fine nor gentlemen, but who were very amusing or very obliging, as
circumstances required, and made life easy and pleasant to others and
themselves.

A new scene this for Coningsby, who watched with interest all that passed
before him. The dinner was announced as served; an affectionate arm guides
him at a moment of some perplexity.

'When did you arrive, Harry? We shall sit together. How is the Duchess?'
inquired Mr. Rigby, who spoke as if he had seen Coningsby for the first
time; but who indeed had, with that eye which nothing could escape,
observed his reception by his grandfather, marked it well, and inwardly
digested it.

CHAPTER VII.

There was to be a first appearance on the stage of Lord Monmouth's theatre
to-night, the expectation of which created considerable interest in the
party, and was one of the principal subjects of conversation at dinner.
Villebecque, the manager of the troop, had married the actress Stella,
once celebrated for her genius and her beauty; a woman who had none of the
vices of her craft, for, though she was a fallen angel, there were what
her countrymen style extenuating circumstances in her declension. With the
whole world at her feet, she had remained unsullied. Wealth and its
enjoyments could not tempt her, although she was unable to refuse her
heart to one whom she deemed worthy of possessing it. She found her fate
in an Englishman, who was the father of her only child, a daughter. She
thought she had met in him a hero, a demi-god, a being of deep passion and
original and creative mind; but he was only a voluptuary, full of violence
instead of feeling, and eccentric, because he had great means with which
he could gratify extravagant whims. Stella found she had made the great
and irretrievable mistake. She had exchanged devotion for a passionate and
evanescent fancy, prompted at first by vanity, and daily dissipating under
the influence of custom and new objects. Though not stainless in conduct,
Stella was pure in spirit. She required that devotion which she had
yielded; and she separated herself from the being to whom she had made the
most precious sacrifice. He offered her the consoling compensation of a
settlement, which she refused; and she returned with a broken spirit to
that profession of which she was still the ornament and the pride.

The animating principle of her career was her daughter, whom she educated
with a solicitude which the most virtuous mother could not surpass. To
preserve her from the stage, and to secure for her an independence, were
the objects of her mother's life; but nature whispered to her, that the
days of that life were already numbered. The exertions of her profession
had alarmingly developed an inherent tendency to pulmonary disease.
Anxious that her child should not be left without some protector, Stella
yielded to the repeated solicitations of one who from the first had been
her silent admirer, and she married Villebecque, a clever actor, and an
enterprising man who meant to be something more. Their union was not of
long duration, though it was happy on the side of Villebecque, and serene
on that of his wife. Stella was recalled from this world, where she had
known much triumph and more suffering; and where she had exercised many
virtues, which elsewhere, though not here, may perhaps be accepted as some
palliation of one great error.

Villebecque acted becomingly to the young charge which Stella had
bequeathed to him. He was himself, as we have intimated, a man of
enterprise, a restless spirit, not content to move for ever in the sphere
in which he was born. Vicissitudes are the lot of such aspirants.
Villebecque became manager of a small theatre, and made money. If
Villebecque without a sou had been a schemer, Villebecque with a small
capital was the very Chevalier Law of theatrical managers. He took a
larger theatre, and even that succeeded. Soon he was recognised as the
lessee of more than one, and still he prospered. Villebecque began to
dabble in opera-houses. He enthroned himself at Paris; his envoys were
heard of at Milan and Naples, at Berlin and St. Petersburg. His
controversies with the Conservatoire at Paris ranked among state papers.
Villebecque rolled in chariots and drove cabriolets; Villebecque gave
refined suppers to great nobles, who were honoured by the invitation;
Villebecque wore a red ribbon in the button-hole of his frock, and more
than one cross in his gala dress.

All this time the daughter of Stella increased in years and stature, and
we must add in goodness: a mild, soft-hearted girl, as yet with no decided
character, but one who loved calmness and seemed little fitted for the
circle in which she found herself. In that circle, however, she ever
experienced kindness and consideration. No enterprise however hazardous,
no management however complicated, no schemes however vast, ever for a
moment induced Villebecque to forget 'La Petite.' If only for one
breathless instant, hardly a day elapsed but he saw her; she was his
companion in all his rapid movements, and he studied every comfort and
convenience that could relieve her delicate frame in some degree from the
inconvenience and exhaustion of travel. He was proud to surround her with
luxury and refinement; to supply her with the most celebrated masters; to
gratify every wish that she could express.

But all this time Villebecque was dancing on a volcano. The catastrophe
which inevitably occurs in the career of all great speculators, and
especially theatrical ones, arrived to him. Flushed with his prosperity,
and confident in his constant success, nothing would satisfy him but
universal empire. He had established his despotism at Paris, his dynasties
at Naples and at Milan; but the North was not to him, and he was
determined to appropriate it. Berlin fell before a successful campaign,
though a costly one; but St. Petersburg and London still remained.
Resolute and reckless, nothing deterred Villebecque. One season all the
opera-houses in Europe obeyed his nod, and at the end of it he was ruined.
The crash was utter, universal, overwhelming; and under ordinary
circumstances a French bed and a brasier of charcoal alone remained for
Villebecque, who was equal to the occasion. But the thought of La Petite
and the remembrance of his promise to Stella deterred him from the deed.
He reviewed his position in a spirit becoming a practical philosopher. Was
he worse off than before he commenced his career? Yes, because he was
older; though to be sure he had his compensating reminiscences. But was he
too old to do anything? At forty-five the game was not altogether up; and
in a large theatre, not too much lighted, and with the artifices of a
dramatic toilet, he might still be able successfully to reassume those
characters of coxcombs and muscadins, in which he was once so celebrated.
Luxury had perhaps a little too much enlarged his waist, but diet and
rehearsals would set all right.

Villebecque in their adversity broke to La Petite, that the time had
unfortunately arrived when it would be wise for her to consider the most
effectual means for turning her talents and accomplishments to account. He
himself suggested the stage, to which otherwise there were doubtless
objections, because her occupation in any other pursuit would necessarily
separate them; but he impartially placed before her the relative
advantages and disadvantages of every course which seemed to lie open to
them, and left the preferable one to her own decision. La Petite, who had
wept very much over Villebecque's misfortunes, and often assured him that
she cared for them only for his sake, decided for the stage, solely
because it would secure their not being parted; and yet, as she often
assured him, she feared she had no predisposition for the career.

Villebecque had now not only to fill his own parts at the theatre at which
he had obtained an engagement, but he had also to be the instructor of his
ward. It was a life of toil; an addition of labour and effort that need
scarcely have been made to the exciting exertion of performance, and the
dull exercise of rehearsal; but he bore it all without a murmur; with a
self-command and a gentle perseverance which the finest temper in the
world could hardly account for; certainly not when we remember that its
possessor, who had to make all these exertions and endure all this
wearisome toil, had just experienced the most shattering vicissitudes of
fortune, and been hurled from the possession of absolute power and
illimitable self-gratification.

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