Coningsby

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'My friend!' he exclaimed, and then added, in a broken voice, 'I need a
friend.'

Then in a hurried, impassioned, and somewhat incoherent strain, leaning on
Oswald's arm, as they walked on together, he poured forth all that had
occurred, all of which he had dreamed; his baffled bliss, his actual
despair. Alas! there was little room for solace, and yet all that earnest
affection could inspire, and a sagacious brain and a brave spirit, were
offered for his support, if not his consolation, by the friend who was
devoted to him.

In the midst of this deep communion, teeming with every thought and
sentiment that could enchain and absorb the spirit of man, they came to
one of the park-gates of Coningsby. Millbank stopped. The command of his
father was peremptory, that no member of his family, under any
circumstances, or for any consideration, should set his foot on that
domain. Lady Wallinger had once wished to have seen the Castle, and
Coningsby was only too happy in the prospect of escorting her and Edith
over the place; but Oswald had then at once put his veto on the project,
as a thing forbidden; and which, if put in practice, his father would
never pardon. So it passed off, and now Oswald himself was at the gates of
that very domain with his friend who was about to enter them, his friend
whom he might never see again; that Coningsby who, from their boyish days,
had been the idol of his life; whom he had lived to see appeal to his
affections and his sympathy, and whom Oswald was now going to desert in
the midst of his lonely and unsolaced woe.

'I ought not to enter here,' said Oswald, holding the hand of Coningsby as
he hesitated to advance; 'and yet there are duties more sacred even than
obedience to a father. I cannot leave you thus, friend of my best heart!'

The morning passed away in unceasing yet fruitless speculation on the
future. One moment something was to happen, the next nothing could occur.
Sometimes a beam of hope flashed over the fancy of Coningsby, and jumping
up from the turf, on which they were reclining, he seemed to exult in his
renovated energies; and then this sanguine paroxysm was succeeded by a fit
of depression so dark and dejected that nothing but the presence of Oswald
seemed to prevent Coningsby from flinging himself into the waters of the
Darl.

The day was fast declining, and the inevitable moment of separation was at
hand. Oswald wished to appear at the dinner-table of Hellingsley, that no
suspicion might arise in the mind of his father of his having accompanied
Coningsby home. But just as he was beginning to mention the necessity of
his departure, a flash of lightning seemed to transfix the heavens. The
sky was very dark; though studded here and there with dingy spots. The
young men sprang up at the same time.

'We had better get out of these trees,' said Oswald.

'We had better get to the Castle,' said Coningsby.

A clap of thunder that seemed to make the park quake broke over their
heads, followed by some thick drops. The Castle was close at hand; Oswald
had avoided entering it; but the impending storm was so menacing that,
hurried on by Coningsby, he could make no resistance; and, in a few
minutes, the companions were watching the tempest from the windows of a
room in Coningsby Castle.

The fork-lightning flashed and scintillated from every quarter of the
horizon: the thunder broke over the Castle, as if the keep were rocking
with artillery: amid the momentary pauses of the explosion, the rain was
heard descending like dissolving water-spouts.

Nor was this one of those transient tempests that often agitate the
summer. Time advanced, and its fierceness was little mitigated. Sometimes
there was a lull, though the violence of the rain never appeared to
diminish; but then, as in some pitched fight between contending hosts,
when the fervour of the field seems for a moment to allay, fresh squadrons
arrive and renew the hottest strife, so a low moaning wind that was now at
intervals faintly heard bore up a great reserve of electric vapour, that
formed, as it were, into field in the space between the Castle and
Hellingsley, and then discharged its violence on that fated district.

Coningsby and Oswald exchanged looks. 'You must not think of going home at
present, my dear fellow,' said the first. 'I am sure your father would not
be displeased. There is not a being here who even knows you, and if they
did, what then?'

The servant entered the room, and inquired whether the gentlemen were
ready for dinner.

'By all means; come, my dear Millbank, I feel reckless as the tempest; let
us drown our cares in wine!'

Coningsby, in fact, was exhausted by all the agitation of the day, and all
the harassing spectres of the future. He found wine a momentary solace. He
ordered the servants away, and for a moment felt a degree of wild
satisfaction in the company of the brother of Edith.

Thus they sat for a long time, talking only of one subject, and repeating
almost the same things, yet both felt happier in being together. Oswald
had risen, and opening the window, examined the approaching night. The
storm had lulled, though the rain still fell; in the west was a streak of
light. In a quarter of an hour, he calculated on departing. As he was
watching the wind he thought he heard the sound of wheels, which reminded
him of Coningsby's promise to lend him a light carriage for his return.

They sat down once more; they had filled their glasses for the last time;
to pledge to their faithful friendship, and the happiness of Coningsby and
Edith; when the door of the room opened, and there appeared, MR. RIGBY!

END OF BOOK VII.

BOOK VIII.

CHAPTER I.

It was the heart of the London season, nearly four years ago, twelve
months having almost elapsed since the occurrence of those painful
passages at Hellingsley which closed the last book of this history, and
long lines of carriages an hour before midnight, up the classic mount of
St. James and along Piccadilly, intimated that the world were received at
some grand entertainment in Arlington Street.

It was the town mansion of the noble family beneath whose roof at
Beaumanoir we have more than once introduced the reader, to gain whose
courtyard was at this moment the object of emulous coachmen, and to enter
whose saloons was to reward the martyr-like patience of their lords and
ladies.

Among the fortunate who had already succeeded in bowing to their hostess
were two gentlemen, who, ensconced in a good position, surveyed the scene,
and made their observations on the passing guests. They were gentlemen
who, to judge from their general air and the great consideration with
which they were treated by those who were occasionally in their vicinity,
were personages whose criticism bore authority.

'I say, Jemmy,' said the eldest, a dandy who had dined with the Regent,
but who was still a dandy, and who enjoyed life almost as much as in the
days when Carlton House occupied the terrace which still bears its name.
'I say, Jemmy, what a load of young fellows there are! Don't know their
names at all. Begin to think fellows are younger than they used to be.
Amazing load of young fellows, indeed!'

At this moment an individual who came under the fortunate designation of a
young fellow, but whose assured carriage hardly intimated that this was
his first season in London, came up to the junior of the two critics, and
said, 'A pretty turn you played us yesterday at White's, Melton. We waited
dinner nearly an hour.'

'My dear fellow, I am infinitely sorry; but I was obliged to go down to
Windsor, and I missed the return train. A good dinner? Who had you?'

'A capital party, only you were wanted. We had Beaumanoir and Vere, and
Jack Tufton and Spraggs.'

'Was Spraggs rich?'

'Wasn't he! I have not done laughing yet. He told us a story about the
little Biron who was over here last year; I knew her at Paris; and an
Indian screen. Killing! Get him to tell it you. The richest thing you ever
heard!'

'Who's your friend?' inquired Mr. Melton's companion, as the young man
moved away.

'Sir Charles Buckhurst.'

'A--h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen him. They say he
is going it.'

'He knows what he is about.'

'Egad! so they all do. A young fellow now of two or three and twenty knows
the world as men used to do after as many years of scrapes. I wonder where
there is such a thing as a greenhorn. Effie Crabbs says the reason he
gives up his house is, that he has cleaned out the old generation, and
that the new generation would clean him.'

'Buckhurst is not in that sort of way: he swears by Henry Sydney, a
younger son of the Duke, whom you don't know; and young Coningsby; a sort
of new set; new ideas and all that sort of thing. Beau tells me a good
deal about it; and when I was staying with the Everinghams, at Easter,
they were full of it. Coningsby had just returned from his travels, and
they were quite on the _qui vive_. Lady Everingham is one of their set. I
don't know what it is exactly; but I think we shall hear more of it.'

'A sort of animal magnetism, or unknown tongues, I take it from your
description,' said his companion.

'Well, I don't know what it is,' said Mr. Melton; 'but it has got hold of
all the young fellows who have just come out. Beau is a little bit
himself. I had some idea of giving my mind to it, they made such a fuss
about it at Everingham; but it requires a devilish deal of history, I
believe, and all that sort of thing.'

'Ah! that's a bore,' said his companion. 'It is difficult to turn to with
a new thing when you are not in the habit of it. I never could manage
charades.'

Mr. Ormsby, passing by, stopped. 'They told me you had the gout,
Cassilis?' he said to Mr. Melton's companion.

'So I had; but I have found out a fellow who cures the gout instanter. Tom
Needham sent him to me. A German fellow. Pumicestone pills; sort of a
charm, I believe, and all that kind of thing: they say it rubs the gout
out of you. I sent him to Luxborough, who was very bad; cured him
directly. Luxborough swears by him.'

'Luxborough believes in the Millennium,' said Mr. Ormsby.

'But here's a new thing that Melton has been telling me of, that all the
world is going to believe in,' said Mr. Cassilis, 'something patronised by
Lady Everingham.'

'A very good patroness,' said Mr. Ormsby.

'Have you heard anything about it?' continued Mr. Cassilis. 'Young
Coningsby brought it from abroad; didn't you you say so, Jemmy?'

'No, no, my dear fellow; it is not at all that sort of thing.'

'But they say it requires a deuced deal of history,' continued Mr.
Cassilis. 'One must brush up one's Goldsmith. Canterton used to be the
fellow for history at White's. He was always boring one with William the
Conqueror, Julius Caesar, and all that sort of thing.'

'I tell you what,' said Mr. Ormsby, looking both sly and solemn, 'I should
not be surprised if, some day or another, we have a history about Lady
Everingham and young Coningsby.'

'Poh!' said Mr. Melton; 'he is engaged to be married to her sister, Lady
Theresa.'

'The deuce!' said Mr. Ormsby; 'well, you are a friend of the family, and I
suppose you know.'

'He is a devilish good-looking fellow, that young Coningsby,' said Mr.
Cassilis. 'All the women are in love with him, they say. Lady Eleanor
Ducie quite raves about him.'

'By-the-bye, his grandfather has been very unwell,' said Mr. Ormsby,
looking mysteriously.

'I saw Lady Monmouth here just now,' said Mr. Melton.

'Oh! he is quite well again,' said Mr. Ormsby.

'Got an odd story at White's that Lord Monmouth was going to separate from
her,' said Mr. Cassilis.

'No foundation,' said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head.

'They are not going to separate, I believe,' said Mr. Melton; 'but I
rather think there was a foundation for the rumour.'

Mr. Ormsby still shook his head.

'Well,' continued Mr. Melton, 'all I know is, that it was looked upon last
winter at Paris as a settled thing.'

'There was some story about some Hungarian,' said Mr. Cassilis.

'No, that blew over,' said Mr. Melton; 'it was Trautsmansdorff the row was
about.'

All this time Mr. Ormsby, as the friend of Lord and Lady Monmouth,
remained shaking his head; but as a member of society, and therefore
delighting in small scandal, appropriating the gossip with the greatest
avidity.

'I should think old Monmouth was not the sort of fellow to blow up a
woman,' said Mr. Cassilis.

'Provided she would leave him quietly,' said Mr. Melton.

'Yes, Lord Monmouth never could live with a woman more than two years,'
said Mr. Ormsby, pensively. 'And that I thought at the time rather an
objection to his marriage.'

We must now briefly revert to what befell our hero after those unhappy
occurrences in the midst of whose first woe we left him.

The day after the arrival of Mr. Rigby at the Castle, Coningsby quitted it
for London, and before a week had elapsed had embarked for Cadiz. He felt
a romantic interest in visiting the land to which Edith owed some blood,
and in acquiring the language which he had often admired as she spoke it.
A favourable opportunity permitted him in the autumn to visit Athens and
the AEgean, which he much desired. In the pensive beauties of that
delicate land, where perpetual autumn seems to reign, Coningsby found
solace. There is something in the character of Grecian scenery which
blends with the humour of the melancholy and the feelings of the
sorrowful. Coningsby passed his winter at Rome. The wish of his
grandfather had rendered it necessary for him to return to England
somewhat abruptly. Lord Monmouth had not visited his native country since
his marriage; but the period that had elapsed since that event had
considerably improved the prospects of his party. The majority of the Whig
Cabinet in the House of Commons by 1840 had become little more than
nominal; and though it was circulated among their friends, as if from the
highest authority, that 'one was enough,' there seemed daily a better
chance of their being deprived even of that magical unit. For the first
time in the history of this country since the introduction of the system
of parliamentary sovereignty, the Government of England depended on the
fate of single elections; and indeed, by a single vote, it is remarkable
to observe, the fate of the Whig Government was ultimately decided.

This critical state of affairs, duly reported to Lord Monmouth, revived
his political passions, and offered him that excitement which he was ever
seeking, and yet for which he had often sighed. The Marquess, too, was
weary of Paris. Every day he found it more difficult to be amused.
Lucretia had lost her charm. He, from whom nothing could be concealed,
perceived that often, while she elaborately attempted to divert him, her
mind was wandering elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was quite superior to all
petty jealousy and the vulgar feelings of inferior mortals, but his
sublime selfishness required devotion. He had calculated that a wife or a
mistress who might be in love with another man, however powerfully their
interests might prompt them, could not be so agreeable or amusing to their
friends and husbands as if they had no such distracting hold upon their
hearts or their fancy. Latterly at Paris, while Lucretia became each day
more involved in the vortex of society, where all admired and some adored
her, Lord Monmouth fell into the easy habit of dining in his private
rooms, sometimes tete-a-tete with Villebecque, whose inexhaustible tales
and adventures about a kind of society which Lord Monmouth had always
preferred infinitely to the polished and somewhat insipid circles in which
he was born, had rendered him the prime favourite of his great patron.
Sometimes Villebecque, too, brought a friend, male or otherwise, whom he
thought invested with the rare faculty of distraction: Lord Monmouth cared
not who or what they were, provided they were diverting.

Villebecque had written to Coningsby at Rome, by his grandfather's desire,
to beg him to return to England and meet Lord Monmouth there. The letter
was couched with all the respect and good feeling which Villebecque really
entertained for him whom he addressed; still a letter on such a subject
from such a person was not agreeable to Coningsby, and his reply to it was
direct to his grandfather; Lord Monmouth, however, had entirely given over
writing letters.

Coningsby had met at Paris, on his way to England, Lord and Lady
Everingham, and he had returned with them. This revival of an old
acquaintance was both agreeable and fortunate for our hero. The vivacity
of a clever and charming woman pleasantly disturbed the brooding memory of
Coningsby. There is no mortification however keen, no misery however
desperate, which the spirit of woman cannot in some degree lighten or
alleviate. About, too, to make his formal entrance into the great world,
he could not have secured a more valuable and accomplished female friend.
She gave him every instruction, every intimation that was necessary;
cleared the social difficulties which in some degree are experienced on
their entrance into the world even by the most highly connected, unless
they have this benign assistance; planted him immediately in the position
which was expedient; took care that he was invited at once to the right
houses; and, with the aid of her husband, that he should become a member
of the right clubs.

'And who is to have the blue ribbon, Lord Eskdale?' said the Duchess to
that nobleman, as he entered and approached to pay his respects.

'If I were Melbourne, I would keep it open,' replied his Lordship. 'It is
a mistake to give away too quickly.'

'But suppose they go out,' said her Grace.

'Oh! there is always a last day to clear the House. But they will be in
another year. The cliff will not be sapped before then. We made a mistake
last year about the ladies.'

'I know you always thought so.'

'Quarrels about women are always a mistake. One should make it a rule to
give up to them, and then they are sure to give up to us.'

'You have no great faith in our firmness?'

'Male firmness is very often obstinacy: women have always something
better, worth all qualities; they have tact.'

'A compliment to the sex from so finished a critic as Lord Eskdale is
appreciated.'

But at this moment the arrival of some guests terminated the conversation,
and Lord Eskdale moved away, and approached a group which Lady Everingham
was enlightening.

'My dear Lord Fitz-booby,' her Ladyship observed, 'in politics we require
faith as well as in all other things.'

Lord Fitz-booby looked rather perplexed; but, possessed of considerable
official experience, having held high posts, some in the cabinet, for
nearly a quarter of a century, he was too versed to acknowledge that he
had not understood a single word that had been addressed to him for the
last ten minutes. He looked on with the same grave, attentive stolidity,
occasionally nodding his head, as he was wont of yore when he received a
deputation on sugar duties or joint-stock banks, and when he made, as was
his custom when particularly perplexed, an occasional note on a sheet of
foolscap paper.

'An Opposition in an age of revolution,' continued Lady Everingham, 'must
be founded on principles. It cannot depend on mere personal ability and
party address taking advantage of circumstances. You have not enunciated a
principle for the last ten years; and when you seemed on the point of
acceding to power, it was not on a great question of national interest,
but a technical dispute respecting the constitution of an exhausted sugar
colony.'

'If you are a Conservative party, we wish to know what you want to
conserve,' said Lord Vere.

'If it had not been for the Whig abolition of slavery,' said Lord Fitz-
booby, goaded into repartee, 'Jamaica would not have been an exhausted
sugar colony.'

'Then what you do want to conserve is slavery?' said Lord Vere.

'No,' said Lord Fitz-booby, 'I am never for retracing our steps.'

'But will you advance, will you move? And where will you advance, and how
will you move?' said Lady Everingham.

'I think we have had quite enough of advancing,' said his Lordship. 'I had
no idea your Ladyship was a member of the Movement party,' he added, with
a sarcastic grin.

'But if it were bad, Lord Fitz-booby, to move where we are, as you and
your friends have always maintained, how can you reconcile it to principle
to remain there?' said Lord Vere.

'I would make the best of a bad bargain,' said Lord Fitz-booby. 'With a
Conservative government, a reformed Constitution would be less dangerous.'

'Why?' said Lady Everingham. 'What are your distinctive principles that
render the peril less?'

'I appeal to Lord Eskdale,' said Lord Fitz-booby; 'there is Lady
Everingham turned quite a Radical, I declare. Is not your Lordship of
opinion that the country must be safer with a Conservative government than
with a Liberal?'

'I think the country is always tolerably secure,' said Lord Eskdale.

Lady Theresa, leaning on the arm of Mr. Lyle, came up at this moment, and
unconsciously made a diversion in favour of Lord Fitz-booby.

'Pray, Theresa,' said Lady Everingham, 'where is Mr. Coningsby?'

Let us endeavour to ascertain. It so happened that on this day Coningsby
and Henry Sydney dined at Grillion's, at an university club, where, among
many friends whom Coningsby had not met for a long time, and among
delightful reminiscences, the unconscious hours stole on. It was late when
they quitted Grillion's, and Coningsby's brougham was detained for a
considerable time before its driver could insinuate himself into the line,
which indeed he would never have succeeded in doing had not he fortunately
come across the coachman of the Duke of Agincourt, who being of the same
politics as himself, belonging to the same club, and always black-balling
the same men, let him in from a legitimate party feeling; so they arrived
in Arlington Street at a very late hour.

Coningsby was springing up the staircase, now not so crowded as it had
been, and met a retiring party; he was about to say a passing word to a
gentleman as he went by, when, suddenly, Coningsby turned deadly pale. The
gentleman could hardly be the cause, for it was the gracious and handsome
presence of Lord Beaumanoir: the lady resting on his arm was Edith. They
moved on while he was motionless; yet Edith and himself had exchanged
glances. His was one of astonishment; but what was the expression of hers?
She must have recognised him before he had observed her. She was
collected, and she expressed the purpose of her mind in a distant and
haughty recognition. Coningsby remained for a moment stupefied; then
suddenly turning back, he bounded downstairs and hurried into the cloak-
room. He met Lady Wallinger; he spoke rapidly, he held her hand, did not
listen to her answers, his eyes wandered about. There were many persons
present, at length he recognised Edith enveloped in her mantle. He went
forward, he looked at her, as if he would have read her soul; he said
something. She changed colour as he addressed her, but seemed instantly by
an effort to rally and regain her equanimity; replied to his inquiries
with extreme brevity, and Lady Wallinger's carriage being announced, moved
away with the same slight haughty salute as before, on the arm of Lord
Beaumanoir.

CHAPTER II.

Sadness fell over the once happy family of Millbank after the departure of
Coningsby from Hellingsley. When the first pang was over, Edith had found
some solace in the sympathy of her aunt, who had always appreciated and
admired Coningsby; but it was a sympathy which aspired only to soften
sorrow, and not to create hope. But Lady Wallinger, though she lengthened
her visit for the sake of her niece, in time quitted them; and then the
name of Coningsby was never heard by Edith. Her brother, shortly after the
sorrowful and abrupt departure of his friend, had gone to the factories,
where he remained, and of which, in future, it was intended that he should
assume the principal direction. Mr. Millbank himself, sustained at first
by the society of his friend Sir Joseph, to whom he was attached, and
occupied with daily reports from his establishment and the transaction of
the affairs with his numerous and busy constituents, was for a while
scarcely conscious of the alteration which had taken place in the
demeanour of his daughter. But when they were once more alone together, it
was impossible any longer to be blind to the great change. That happy and
equable gaiety of spirit, which seemed to spring from an innocent
enjoyment of existence, and which had ever distinguished Edith, was
wanting. Her sunny glance was gone. She was not indeed always moody and
dispirited, but she was fitful, unequal in her tone. That temper whose
sweetness had been a domestic proverb had become a little uncertain. Not
that her affection for her father was diminished, but there were snatches
of unusual irritability which momentarily escaped her, followed by bursts
of tenderness that were the creatures of compunction. And often, after
some hasty word, she would throw her arms round her father's neck with the
fondness of remorse. She pursued her usual avocations, for she had really
too well-regulated a mind, she was in truth a person of too strong an
intellect, to neglect any source of occupation and distraction. Her
flowers, her pencil, and her books supplied her with these; and music
soothed, and at times beguiled, her agitated thoughts. But there was no
joy in the house, and in time Mr. Millbank felt it.

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