Coningsby
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Benjamin Disraeli >> Coningsby
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'It is a holy thing to see a state saved by its youth,' said Coningsby;
and then he added, in a tone of humility, if not of depression, 'But what
a task! What a variety of qualities, what a combination of circumstances
is requisite! What bright abilities and what noble patience! What
confidence from the people, what favour from the Most High!'
'But He will favour us,' said Millbank. 'And I say to you as Nathan said
unto David, "Thou art the man!" You were our leader at Eton; the friends
of your heart and boyhood still cling and cluster round you! they are all
men whose position forces them into public life. It is a nucleus of
honour, faith, and power. You have only to dare. And will you not dare? It
is our privilege to live in an age when the career of the highest ambition
is identified with the performance of the greatest good. Of the present
epoch it may be truly said, "Who dares to be good, dares to be great."'
'Heaven is above all,' said Coningsby. 'The curtain of our fate is still
undrawn. We are happy in our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever lights,
we will stand together. For myself, I prefer fame to life; and yet, the
consciousness of heroic deeds to the most wide-spread celebrity.'
CHAPTER III.
The beautiful light of summer had never shone on a scene and surrounding
landscape which recalled happier images of English nature, and better
recollections of English manners, than that to which we would now
introduce our readers. One of those true old English Halls, now unhappily
so rare, built in the time of the Tudors, and in its elaborate timber-
framing and decorative woodwork indicating, perhaps, the scarcity of brick
and stone at the period of its structure, as much as the grotesque genius
of its fabricator, rose on a terrace surrounded by ancient and very formal
gardens. The hall itself, during many generations, had been vigilantly and
tastefully preserved by its proprietors. There was not a point which was
not as fresh as if it had been renovated but yesterday. It stood a huge
and strange blending of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with a
wild dash of the fantastic in addition. The lantern watch-towers of a
baronial castle were placed in juxtaposition with Doric columns employed
for chimneys, while under oriel windows might be observed Italian doorways
with Grecian pediments. Beyond the extensive gardens an avenue of Spanish
chestnuts at each point of the compass approached the mansion, or led into
a small park which was table-land, its limits opening on all sides to
beautiful and extensive valleys, sparkling with cultivation, except at one
point, where the river Darl formed the boundary of the domain, and then
spread in many a winding through the rich country beyond.
Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was about to visit
for the first time. Coningsby and himself had travelled together as far as
Darlford, where their roads diverged, and they had separated with an
engagement on the part of Coningsby to visit Hellingsley on the morrow. As
they had travelled along, Coningsby had frequently led the conversation to
domestic topics; gradually he had talked, and talked much of Edith.
Without an obtrusive curiosity, he extracted, unconsciously to his
companion, traits of her character and early days, which filled him with a
wild and secret interest. The thought that in a few hours he was to meet
her again, infused into his being a degree of transport, which the very
necessity of repressing before his companion rendered more magical and
thrilling. How often it happens in life that we have with a grave face to
discourse of ordinary topics, while all the time our heart and memory are
engrossed with some enchanting secret!
The castle of his grandfather presented a far different scene on the
arrival of Coningsby from that which it had offered on his first visit.
The Marquess had given him a formal permission to repair to it at his
pleasure, and had instructed the steward accordingly. But he came without
notice, at a season of the year when the absence of all sports made his
arrival unexpected. The scattered and sauntering household roused
themselves into action, and contemplated the conviction that it might be
necessary to do some service for their wages. There was a stir in that
vast, sleepy castle. At last the steward was found, and came forward to
welcome their young master, whose simple wants were limited to the rooms
he had formerly occupied.
Coningsby reached the castle a little before sunset, almost the same hour
that he had arrived there more than three years ago. How much had happened
in the interval! Coningsby had already lived long enough to find interest
in pondering over the past. That past too must inevitably exercise a great
influence over his present. He recalled his morning drive with his
grandfather, to the brink of that river which was the boundary between his
own domain and Hellingsley. Who dwelt at Hellingsley now?
Restless, excited, not insensible to the difficulties, perhaps the dangers
of his position, yet full of an entrancing emotion in which all thoughts
and feelings seemed to merge, Coningsby went forth into the fair gardens
to muse over his love amid objects as beautiful. A rosy light hung over
the rare shrubs and tall fantastic trees; while a rich yet darker tint
suffused the distant woods. This euthanasia of the day exercises a strange
influence on the hearts of those who love. Who has not felt it? Magical
emotions that touch the immortal part!
But as for Coningsby, the mitigating hour that softens the heart made his
spirit brave. Amid the ennobling sympathies of nature, the pursuits and
purposes of worldly prudence and conventional advantage subsided into
their essential nothingness. He willed to blend his life and fate with a
being beautiful as that nature that subdued him, and he felt in his own
breast the intrinsic energies that in spite of all obstacles should mould
such an imagination into reality.
He descended the slopes, now growing dimmer in the fleeting light, into
the park. The stillness was almost supernatural; the jocund sounds of day
had died, and the voices of the night had not commenced. His heart too was
still. A sacred calm had succeeded to that distraction of emotion which
had agitated him the whole day, while he had mused over his love and the
infinite and insurmountable barriers that seemed to oppose his will. Now
he felt one of those strong groundless convictions that are the
inspirations of passion, that all would yield to him as to one holding an
enchanted wand.
Onward he strolled; it seemed without purpose, yet always proceeding. A
pale and then gleaming tint stole over the masses of mighty timber; and
soon a glittering light flooded the lawns and glades. The moon was high in
her summer heaven, and still Coningsby strolled on. He crossed the broad
lawns, he traversed the bright glades: amid the gleaming and shadowy
woods, he traced his prescient way.
He came to the bank of a rushing river, foaming in the moonlight, and
wafting on its blue breast the shadow of a thousand stars.
'O river!' he said, 'that rollest to my mistress, bear her, bear her my
heart!'
CHAPTER IV.
Lady Wallinger and Edith were together in the morning room of Hellingsley,
the morrow after the arrival of Oswald. Edith was arranging flowers in a
vase, while her aunt was embroidering a Spanish peasant in correct
costume. The daughter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant as the
fair creations that surrounded her. Beautiful to watch her as she arranged
their forms and composed their groups; to mark her eye glance with
gratification at some happy combination of colour, or to listen to her
delight as they wafted to her in gratitude their perfume. Oswald and Sir
Joseph were surveying the stables; Mr. Millbank, who had been daily
expected for the last week from the factories, had not yet arrived.
'I must say he gained my heart from the first,' said Lady Wallinger.
'I wish the gardener would send us more roses,' said Edith.
'He is so very superior to any young man I ever met,' continued Lady
Wallinger.
'I think we must have this vase entirely of roses; don't you think so,
aunt?' inquired her niece.
'I am fond of roses,' said Lady Wallinger. 'What beautiful bouquets Mr.
Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith!'
'Beautiful!'
'I must say, I was very happy when I met Mr. Coningsby again at
Cambridge,' said Lady Wallinger. 'It gave me much greater pleasure than
seeing any of the colleges.'
'How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a companion
again!' said Edith.
'And very naturally,' said Lady Wallinger. 'Oswald ought to deem himself
fortunate in having such a friend. I am sure the kindness of Mr. Coningsby
when we met him at Cambridge is what I never shall forget. But he always
was my favourite from the first time I saw him at Paris. Do you know,
Edith, I liked him best of all your admirers.'
'Oh! no, aunt,' said Edith, smiling, 'not more than Lord Beaumanoir; you
forget your great favourite, Lord Beaumanoir.'
'But I did not know Mr. Coningsby at Rome,' said Lady Wallinger; 'I cannot
agree that anybody is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I cannot tell you how
pleased I am that he is our neighbour!'
As Lady Wallinger gave a finishing stroke to the jacket of her Andalusian,
Edith, vividly blushing, yet speaking in a voice of affected calmness,
said,
'Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt.'
And, truly, at this moment our hero might be discerned, approaching the
hall by one of the avenues; and in a few minutes there was a ringing at
the hall bell, and then, after a short pause, the servants announced Mr.
Coningsby, and ushered him into the morning room.
Edith was embarrassed; the frankness and the gaiety of her manner had
deserted her; Coningsby was rather earnest than self-possessed. Each felt
at first that the presence of Lady Wallinger was a relief. The ordinary
topics of conversation were in sufficient plenty; reminiscences of Paris,
impressions of Hellingsley, his visit to Oxford, Lady Wallinger's visit to
Cambridge. In ten minutes their voices seemed to sound to each other as
they did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their mutual perplexity had in a great
degree subsided.
Oswald and Sir Joseph now entered the room, and the conversation became
general. Hellingsley was the subject on which Coningsby dwelt; he was
charmed with all that he had seen! wished to see more. Sir Joseph was
quite prepared to accompany him; but Lady Wallinger, who seemed to read
Coningsby's wishes in his eyes, proposed that the inspection should be
general; and in the course of half an hour Coningsby was walking by the
side of Edith, and sympathising with all the natural charms to which her
quick taste and lively expression called his notice and appreciation. Few
things more delightful than a country ramble with a sweet companion!
Exploring woods, wandering over green commons, loitering in shady lanes,
resting on rural stiles; the air full of perfume, the heart full of bliss!
It seemed to Coningsby that he had never been happy before. A thrilling
joy pervaded his being. He could have sung like a bird. His heart was as
sunny as the summer scene. Past and Future were absorbed in the flowing
hour; not an allusion to Paris, not a speculation on what might arrive;
but infinite expressions of agreement, sympathy; a multitude of slight
phrases, that, however couched, had but one meaning, congeniality. He felt
each moment his voice becoming more tender; his heart gushing in soft
expressions; each moment he was more fascinated; her step was grace, her
glance was beauty. Now she touched him by some phrase of sweet simplicity;
or carried him spell-bound by her airy merriment.
Oswald assumed that Coningsby remained to dine with them. There was not
even the ceremony of invitation. Coningsby could not but remember his
dinner at Millbank, and the timid hostess whom he then addressed so often
in vain, as he gazed upon the bewitching and accomplished woman whom he
now passionately loved. It was a most agreeable dinner. Oswald, happy in
his friend being his guest, under his own roof, indulged in unwonted
gaiety.
The ladies withdrew; Sir Joseph began to talk politics, although the young
men had threatened their fair companions immediately to follow them. This
was the period of the Bed-Chamber Plot, when Sir Robert Peel accepted and
resigned power in the course of three days. Sir Joseph, who had originally
made up his mind to support a Conservative government when he deemed it
inevitable, had for the last month endeavoured to compensate for this
trifling error by vindicating the conduct of his friends, and reprobating
the behaviour of those who would deprive her Majesty of the 'friends-of-
her-youth.' Sir Joseph was a most chivalrous champion of the 'friends-of-
her-youth' principle. Sir Joseph, who was always moderate and conciliatory
in his talk, though he would go, at any time, any lengths for his party,
expressed himself to-day with extreme sobriety, as he was determined not
to hurt the feelings of Mr. Coningsby, and he principally confined himself
to urging temperate questions, somewhat in the following fashion:--
'I admit that, on the whole, under ordinary circumstances, it would
perhaps have been more convenient that these appointments should have
remained with Sir Robert; but don't you think that, under the peculiar
circumstances, being friends of her Majesty's youth?' &c. &c.
Sir Joseph was extremely astonished when Coningsby replied that he
thought, under no circumstances, should any appointment in the Royal
Household be dependent on the voice of the House of Commons, though he was
far from admiring the 'friends-of-her-youth' principle, which he looked
upon as impertinent.
'But surely,' said Sir Joseph, 'the Minister being responsible to
Parliament, it must follow that all great offices of State should be
filled at his discretion.'
'But where do you find this principle of Ministerial responsibility?'
inquired Coningsby.
'And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?' inquired Millbank.
Sir Joseph seemed a little confused. He had always heard that Ministers
were responsible to Parliament; and he had a vague conviction,
notwithstanding the reanimating loyalty of the Bed-Chamber Plot, that the
Sovereign of England was a nonentity. He took refuge in indefinite
expressions, and observed, 'The Responsibility of Ministers is surely a
constitutional doctrine.'
'The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; they are not
the Ministers of Parliament.'
'But then you know virtually,' said Sir Joseph, 'the Parliament, that is,
the House of Commons, governs the country.'
'It did before 1832,' said Coningsby; 'but that is all past now. We got
rid of that with the Venetian Constitution.'
'The Venetian Constitution!' said Sir Joseph.
'To be sure,' said Millbank. 'We were governed in this country by the
Venetian Constitution from the accession of the House of Hanover. But that
yoke is past. And now I hope we are in a state of transition from the
Italian Dogeship to the English Monarchy.'
'King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!' exclaimed Sir
Joseph.
'But they were phrases,' said Coningsby, 'not facts. The King was a Doge;
the Cabinet the Council of Ten. Your Parliament, that you call Lords and
Commons, was nothing more than the Great Council of Nobles.'
'The resemblance was complete,' said Millbank, 'and no wonder, for it was
not accidental; the Venetian Constitution was intentionally copied.'
'We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640,' said Coningsby, 'had
it not been for the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.'
'I am sure these ideas are not very generally known,' said Sir Joseph,
bewildered.
'Because you have had your history written by the Venetian party,' said
Coningsby, 'and it has been their interest to conceal them.'
'I will venture to say that there are very few men on our side in the
House of Commons,' said Sir Joseph, 'who are aware that they were born
under a Venetian Constitution.'
'Let us go to the ladies,' said Millbank, smiling.
Edith was reading a letter as they entered.
'A letter from papa,' she exclaimed, looking up at her brother with great
animation. 'We may expect him every day; and yet, alas! he cannot fix
one.'
They now all spoke of Millbank, and Coningsby was happy that he was
familiar with the scene. At length he ventured to say to Edith, 'You once
made me a promise which you never fulfilled. I shall claim it to-night.'
'And what can that be?'
'The song that you promised me at Millbank more than three years ago.'
'Your memory is good.'
'It has dwelt upon the subject.'
Then they spoke for a while of other recollections, and then Coningsby
appealing to Lady Wallinger for her influence, Edith rose and took up her
guitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the air she sang gay, even
fantastically frolic, such as the girls of Granada chaunt trooping home
from some country festival; her soft, dark eye brightened with joyous
sympathy; and ever and anon, with an arch grace, she beat the guitar, in
chorus, with her pretty hand.
The moon wanes; and Coningsby must leave these enchanted halls. Oswald
walked homeward with him until he reached the domain of his grandfather.
Then mounting his horse, Coningsby bade his friend farewell till the
morrow, and made his best way to the Castle.
CHAPTER V.
There is a romance in every life. The emblazoned page of Coningsby's
existence was now open. It had been prosperous before, with some moments
of excitement, some of delight; but they had all found, as it were, their
origin in worldly considerations, or been inevitably mixed up with them.
At Paris, for example, he loved, or thought he loved. But there not an
hour could elapse without his meeting some person, or hearing something,
which disturbed the beauty of his emotions, or broke his spell-bound
thoughts. There was his grandfather hating the Millbanks, or Sidonia
loving them; and common people, in the common world, making common
observations on them; asking who they were, or telling who they were; and
brushing the bloom off all life's fresh delicious fancies with their
coarse handling.
But now his feelings were ethereal. He loved passionately, and he loved in
a scene and in a society as sweet, as pure, and as refined as his
imagination and his heart. There was no malicious gossip, no callous
chatter to profane his ear and desecrate his sentiment. All that he heard
or saw was worthy of the summer sky, the still green woods, the gushing
river, the gardens and terraces, the stately and fantastic dwellings,
among which his life now glided as in some dainty and gorgeous masque.
All the soft, social, domestic sympathies of his nature, which, however
abundant, had never been cultivated, were developed by the life he was now
leading. It was not merely that he lived in the constant presence, and
under the constant influence of one whom he adored, that made him so
happy. He was surrounded by beings who found felicity in the interchange
of kind feelings and kind words, in the cultivation of happy talents and
refined tastes, and the enjoyment of a life which their own good sense and
their own good hearts made them both comprehend and appreciate. Ambition
lost much of its splendour, even his lofty aspirations something of their
hallowing impulse of paramount duty, when Coningsby felt how much
ennobling delight was consistent with the seclusion of a private station;
and mused over an existence to be passed amid woods and waterfalls with a
fair hand locked in his, or surrounded by his friends in some ancestral
hall.
The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley Coningsby rejoined his
friends, as he had promised Oswald at their breakfast-table; and day after
day he came with the early sun, and left them only when the late moon
silvered the keep of Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote daily, and
was daily to be expected, did not arrive. A week, a week of unbroken
bliss, had vanished away, passed in long rides and longer walks, sunset
saunterings, and sometimes moonlit strolls; talking of flowers, and
thinking of things even sweeter; listening to delicious songs, and
sometimes reading aloud some bright romance or some inspiring lay.
One day Coningsby, who arrived at the hall unexpectedly late; indeed it
was some hours past noon, for he had been detained by despatches which
arrived at the Castle from Mr. Rigby, and which required his
interposition; found the ladies alone, and was told that Sir Joseph and
Oswald were at the fishing-cottage where they wished him to join them. He
was in no haste to do this; and Lady Wallinger proposed that when they
felt inclined to ramble they should all walk down to the fishing-cottage
together. So, seating himself by the side of Edith, who was tinting a
sketch which she had made of a rich oriel of Hellingsley, the morning
passed away in that slight and yet subtle talk in which a lover delights,
and in which, while asking a thousand questions, that seem at the first
glance sufficiently trifling, he is indeed often conveying a meaning that
is not expressed, or attempting to discover a feeling that is hidden. And
these are occasions when glances meet and glances are withdrawn: the
tongue may speak idly, the eye is more eloquent, and often more true.
Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who had more than once announced that
she was going to put on her bonnet, was gone. Yet still he continued to
talk trifles; and still Edith listened.
'Of all that you have told me,' said Edith, 'nothing pleases me so much as
your description of St. Genevieve. How much I should like to catch the
deer at sunset on the heights! What a pretty drawing it would make!'
'You would like Eustace Lyle,' said Coningsby. 'He is so shy and yet so
ardent.'
'You have such a band of friends! Oswald was saying this morning there was
no one who had so many devoted friends.'
'We are all united by sympathy. It is the only bond of friendship; and yet
friendship--'
'Edith,' said Lady Wallinger, looking into the room from the garden, with
her bonnet on, 'you will find me roaming on the terrace.'
'We come, dear aunt.'
And yet they did not move. There were yet a few pencil touches to be given
to the tinted sketch; Coningsby would cut the pencils.
'Would you give me,' he said, 'some slight memorial of Hellingsley and
your art? I would not venture to hope for anything half so beautiful as
this; but the slightest sketch. It would make me so happy when away to
have it hanging in my room.'
A blush suffused the cheek of Edith; she turned her head a little aside,
as if she were arranging some drawings. And then she said, in a somewhat
hushed and hesitating voice,
'I am sure I will do so; and with pleasure. A view of the Hall itself; I
think that would be the best memorial. Where shall we take it from? We
will decide in our walk?' and she rose, and promised immediately to
return, left the room.
Coningsby leant over the mantel-piece in deep abstraction, gazing vacantly
on a miniature of the father of Edith. A light step roused him; she had
returned. Unconsciously he greeted her with a glance of ineffable
tenderness.
They went forth; it was a grey, sultry day. Indeed it was the covered sky
which had led to the fishing scheme of the morning. Sir Joseph was an
expert and accomplished angler, and the Darl was renowned for its sport.
They lingered before they reached the terrace where they were to find Lady
Wallinger, observing the different points of view which the Hall
presented, and debating which was to form the subject of Coningsby's
drawing; for already it was to be not merely a sketch, but a drawing, the
most finished that the bright and effective pencil of Edith could achieve.
If it really were to be placed in his room, and were to be a memorial of
Hellingsley, her artistic reputation demanded a masterpiece.
They reached the terrace: Lady Wallinger was not there, nor could they
observe her in the vicinity. Coningsby was quite certain that she had gone
onward to the fishing-cottage, and expected them to follow her; and he
convinced Edith of the justness of his opinion. To the fishing-cottage,
therefore, they bent their steps. They emerged from the gardens into the
park, sauntering over the table-land, and seeking as much as possible the
shade, in the soft but oppressive atmosphere. At the limit of the table-
land their course lay by a wild but winding path through a gradual and
wooded declivity. While they were yet in this craggy and romantic
woodland, the big fervent drops began to fall. Coningsby urged Edith to
seek at once a natural shelter; but she, who knew the country, assured him
that the fishing-cottage was close by, and that they might reach it before
the rain could do them any harm.
And truly, at this moment emerging from the wood, they found themselves in
the valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow and winding, but full of
life; rushing, and clear but for the dark sky it reflected; with high
banks of turf and tall trees; the silver birch, above all others, in
clustering groups; infinitely picturesque. At the turn of the river, about
two hundred yards distant, Coningsby observed the low, dark roof of the
fishing-cottage on its banks. They descended from the woods to the margin
of the stream by a flight of turfen steps, Coningsby holding Edith's hand
as he guided her progress.
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