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CONINGSBY

OR THE NEW GENERATION

By Benjamin Disraeli

Earl Of Beaconsfield

CONTENTS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PUBLISHERS’ NOTE

As a novelist, Benjamin Disraeli belongs to the early part of the nineteenth century. “Vivian Grey” (1826-27) and “Sybil” (1845) mark the beginning and the end of his truly creative period; for the two productions of his latest years, “Lothair” (1870) and “Endymion” (1880), add nothing to the characteristics of his earlier volumes except the changes of feeling and power which accompany old age. His period, thus, is that of Bulwer, Dickens, and Thackeray, and of the later years of Sir Walter Scott—a fact which his prominence as a statesman during the last decade of his life, as well as the vogue of “Lothair” and “Endymion,” has tended to obscure. His style, his material, and his views of English character and life all date from that earlier time. He was born in 1804 and died in 1881.

As a novelist, Benjamin Disraeli belongs to the early part of the nineteenth century. “Vivian Grey” (1826-27) and “Sybil” (1845) mark the beginning and end of his truly creative period; the two works he published later, “Lothair” (1870) and “Endymion” (1880), add nothing to the traits of his earlier books except the shifts in emotions and strength that come with aging. His era includes Bulwer, Dickens, and Thackeray, along with the later years of Sir Walter Scott—a fact that has been overshadowed by his prominence as a statesman in the last decade of his life, as well as the popularity of “Lothair” and “Endymion.” His style, material, and perspectives on English character and life all come from that earlier time. He was born in 1804 and died in 1881.

“Coningsby; or, The New Generation,” published in 1844, is the best of his novels, not as a story, but as a study of men, manners, and principles. The plot is slight—little better than a device for stringing together sketches of character and statements of political and economic opinions; but these are always interesting and often brilliant. The motive which underlies the book is political. It is, in brief, an attempt to show that the political salvation of England was to be sought in its aristocracy, but that this aristocracy was morally weak and socially ineffective, and that it must mend its ways before its duty to the state could be fulfilled. Interest in this aspect of the book has, of course, to a large extent passed away with the political conditions which it reflected. As a picture of aristocratic life in England in the first part of the nineteenth century it has, however, enduring significance and charm. Disraeli does not rank with the great writers of English realistic fiction, but in this special field none of them has surpassed him. From this point of view, accordingly, “Coningsby” is appropriately included in this series.

“Coningsby; or, The New Generation,” published in 1844, is his best novel—not for its story but for its exploration of people, society, and principles. The plot is minimal—barely more than a way to connect character sketches and express political and economic views; yet, these insights are always engaging and often brilliant. The central theme of the book is political. In short, it attempts to demonstrate that England's political salvation lies within its aristocracy, but this aristocracy is morally weak and socially ineffective, needing to improve before fulfilling its responsibility to the state. Interest in this political perspective has largely faded along with the conditions it depicted. However, as a portrayal of aristocratic life in England during the early 19th century, it retains lasting significance and appeal. Disraeli may not be among the great writers of English realistic fiction, but in this particular area, none have surpassed him. Therefore, “Coningsby” is rightly included in this series.

TO HENRY HOPE

It is not because this work was conceived and partly executed amid the glades and galleries of the DEEPDENE that I have inscribed it with your name. Nor merely because I was desirous to avail myself of the most graceful privilege of an author, and dedicate my work to the friend whose talents I have always appreciated, and whose virtues I have ever admired.

It’s not just because this work was created and partially completed in the glades and galleries of the DEEPDENE that I’ve written your name on it. Nor is it simply because I wanted to take advantage of the most elegant privilege of an author and dedicate my work to the friend whose talents I have always valued and whose qualities I have always admired.

But because in these pages I have endeavoured to picture something of that development of the new and, as I believe, better mind of England, that has often been the subject of our converse and speculation.

But because in these pages I have tried to illustrate some of the development of the new and, as I believe, improved mindset of England, which has often been the topic of our conversations and speculation.

In this volume you will find many a thought illustrated and many a principle attempted to be established that we have often together partially discussed and canvassed.

In this volume, you will find many ideas illustrated and many principles that we've often discussed and explored together.

Doubtless you may encounter some opinions with which you may not agree, and some conclusions the accuracy of which you may find cause to question. But if I have generally succeeded in my object, to scatter some suggestions that may tend to elevate the tone of public life, ascertain the true character of political parties, and induce us for the future more carefully to distinguish between facts and phrases, realities and phantoms, I believe that I shall gain your sympathy, for I shall find a reflex to their efforts in your own generous spirit and enlightened mind.

Sure, you'll probably come across some opinions you don't agree with and some conclusions that you might question. But if I've generally achieved my goal of offering suggestions that could raise the standard of public life, clarify the true nature of political parties, and encourage us to better distinguish between facts and empty words, realities and illusions, I believe I'll earn your support, as I’ll see a reflection of these efforts in your own generous spirit and thoughtful mind.

GROSVENOR GATE: May Day 1844.

GROSVENOR GATE: May 1, 1844.

PREFACE

‘CONINGSBY’ was published in the year 1844. The main purpose of its writer was to vindicate the just claims of the Tory party to be the popular political confederation of the country; a purpose which he had, more or less, pursued from a very early period of life. The occasion was favourable to the attempt. The youthful mind of England had just recovered from the inebriation of the great Conservative triumph of 1841, and was beginning to inquire what, after all, they had conquered to preserve. It was opportune, therefore, to show that Toryism was not a phrase, but a fact; and that our political institutions were the embodiment of our popular necessities. This the writer endeavoured to do without prejudice, and to treat of events and characters of which he had some personal experience, not altogether without the impartiality of the future.

‘CONINGSBY’ was published in 1844. The main goal of the writer was to defend the rightful claims of the Tory party as the popular political alliance in the country, a goal he had pursued, to some extent, from a very young age. The timing was right for this effort. The young people of England had just come out of the excitement from the significant Conservative victory of 1841 and were starting to ask what, in the end, they had won to protect. It was therefore a fitting moment to demonstrate that Toryism was not just a term, but a reality; and that our political institutions represented our collective needs. The writer aimed to do this without bias, discussing events and people he had personally experienced, while also trying to maintain the neutrality of the future.

It was not originally the intention of the writer to adopt the form of fiction as the instrument to scatter his suggestions, but, after reflection, he resolved to avail himself of a method which, in the temper of the times, offered the best chance of influencing opinion.

It wasn’t the writer’s original plan to use fiction as a way to share his ideas, but after thinking it over, he decided to take advantage of a method that, given the mood of the times, had the best chance of shaping public opinion.

In considering the Tory scheme, the author recognised in the CHURCH the most powerful agent in the previous development of England, and the most efficient means of that renovation of the national spirit at which he aimed. The Church is a sacred corporation for the promulgation and maintenance in Europe of certain Asian principles, which, although local in their birth, are of divine origin, and of universal and eternal application.

In looking at the Tory plan, the author saw the CHURCH as the strongest force in England's past development and the best way to revitalize the national spirit he wanted to achieve. The Church is a holy institution for spreading and upholding certain Asian principles in Europe that, despite their local beginnings, have a divine source and universal, everlasting relevance.

In asserting the paramount character of the ecclesiastical polity and the majesty of the theocratic principle, it became necessary to ascend to the origin of the Christian Church, and to meet in a spirit worthy of a critical and comparatively enlightened age, the position of the descendants of that race who were the founders of Christianity. The modern Jews had long laboured under the odium and stigma of mediaeval malevolence. In the dark ages, when history was unknown, the passions of societies, undisturbed by traditionary experience, were strong, and their convictions, unmitigated by criticism, were necessarily fanatical. The Jews were looked upon in the middle ages as an accursed race, the enemies of God and man, the especial foes of Christianity. No one in those days paused to reflect that Christianity was founded by the Jews; that its Divine Author, in his human capacity, was a descendant of King David; that his doctrines avowedly were the completion, not the change, of Judaism; that the Apostles and the Evangelists, whose names men daily invoked, and whose volumes they embraced with reverence, were all Jews; that the infallible throne of Rome itself was established by a Jew; and that a Jew was the founder of the Christian Churches of Asia.

In emphasizing the importance of church governance and the greatness of the theocratic principle, it was necessary to look back at the origins of the Christian Church and to address, in a manner befitting a thoughtful and relatively progressive age, the stance of the descendants of the people who founded Christianity. Modern Jews have long suffered from the hatred and stigma of medieval hostility. In the dark ages, when history was not understood, the emotions of societies, unaffected by traditional experiences, were intense, and their beliefs, unchecked by criticism, were often extreme. During the middle ages, Jews were viewed as a cursed people, enemies of both God and humanity, particularly opposed to Christianity. No one at that time stopped to consider that Christianity itself was founded by Jews; that its Divine Founder, in his human form, was a descendant of King David; that his teachings were intended to complete, not to replace, Judaism; that the Apostles and Evangelists, whose names were frequently invoked and whose writings were held with great respect, were all Jews; that the infallible authority of Rome was established by a Jew; and that a Jew founded the Christian Churches in Asia.

The European nations, relatively speaking, were then only recently converted to a belief in Moses and in Christ; and, as it were, still ashamed of the wild deities whom they had deserted, they thought they atoned for their past idolatry by wreaking their vengeance on a race to whom, and to whom alone, they were indebted for the Gospel they adored.

The European nations had only recently adopted the belief in Moses and Christ. Feeling somewhat embarrassed about the wild gods they had abandoned, they believed they could make up for their past idolatry by taking out their anger on a group that they owed the Gospel they cherished.

In vindicating the sovereign right of the Church of Christ to be the perpetual regenerator of man, the writer thought the time had arrived when some attempt should be made to do justice to the race which had founded Christianity.

In defending the Church of Christ's right to continually renew humanity, the author believed it was time to make an effort to give credit to the group that established Christianity.

The writer has developed in another work (‘Tancred’) the views respecting the great house of Israel which he first intimated in ‘Coningsby.’ No one has attempted to refute them, nor is refutation possible; since all he has done is to examine certain facts in the truth of which all agree, and to draw from them irresistible conclusions which prejudice for a moment may shrink from, but which reason cannot refuse to admit.

The author has expanded on his ideas about the great house of Israel in another work (‘Tancred’), which he first hinted at in ‘Coningsby.’ No one has tried to challenge these views, nor can they, since all he has done is look at some facts that everyone agrees on and draw conclusions from them that are hard to dismiss. While bias might momentarily shy away from them, reason cannot ignore them.

D.

GROSVENOR GATE: May 1894.

CONINGSBY

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

It was a bright May morning some twelve years ago, when a youth of still tender age, for he had certainly not entered his teens by more than two years, was ushered into the waiting-room of a house in the vicinity of St. James’s Square, which, though with the general appearance of a private residence, and that too of no very ambitious character, exhibited at this period symptoms of being occupied for some public purpose.

It was a bright May morning about twelve years ago when a young boy, still under the age of thirteen, was led into the waiting room of a house near St. James’s Square. While it looked like a private home, and not a very fancy one at that, it was showing signs of being used for some public purpose at that time.

The house-door was constantly open, and frequent guests even at this early hour crossed the threshold. The hall-table was covered with sealed letters; and the hall-porter inscribed in a book the name of every individual who entered.

The front door was always open, and a steady stream of guests came and went even at this early hour. The table in the hall was piled with sealed letters, and the doorman wrote down the name of every person who walked in.

The young gentleman we have mentioned found himself in a room which offered few resources for his amusement. A large table amply covered with writing materials, and a few chairs, were its sole furniture, except the grey drugget that covered the floor, and a muddy mezzotinto of the Duke of Wellington that adorned its cold walls. There was not even a newspaper; and the only books were the Court Guide and the London Directory. For some time he remained with patient endurance planted against the wall, with his feet resting on the rail of his chair; but at length in his shifting posture he gave evidence of his restlessness, rose from his seat, looked out of the window into a small side court of the house surrounded with dead walls, paced the room, took up the Court Guide, changed it for the London Directory, then wrote his name over several sheets of foolscap paper, drew various landscapes and faces of his friends; and then, splitting up a pen or two, delivered himself of a yawn which seemed the climax of his weariness.

The young man we mentioned found himself in a room that had few things to keep him entertained. A large table covered with writing supplies and a few chairs were the only furniture, apart from the grey rug on the floor and a faded print of the Duke of Wellington hanging on the cold walls. There wasn't even a newspaper; the only books available were the Court Guide and the London Directory. For a while, he stood patiently against the wall, with his feet resting on the chair rail. Eventually, his restlessness showed as he shifted positions, got up from his seat, looked out the window into a small side courtyard surrounded by solid walls, paced the room, picked up the Court Guide, swapped it for the London Directory, then wrote his name on several sheets of blank paper, sketched various landscapes and faces of his friends, and finally, after splitting a couple of pens, let out a yawn that seemed to express the peak of his boredom.

And yet the youth’s appearance did not betoken a character that, if the opportunity had offered, could not have found amusement and even instruction. His countenance, radiant with health and the lustre of innocence, was at the same time thoughtful and resolute. The expression of his deep blue eyes was serious. Without extreme regularity of features, the face was one that would never have passed unobserved. His short upper lip indicated a good breed; and his chestnut curls clustered over his open brow, while his shirt-collar thrown over his shoulders was unrestrained by handkerchief or ribbon. Add to this, a limber and graceful figure, which the jacket of his boyish dress exhibited to great advantage.

And yet the young man's appearance didn’t suggest a personality that, if the chance had come up, couldn’t have found both fun and even learning. His face, glowing with health and the brightness of innocence, was also thoughtful and determined. The look in his deep blue eyes was serious. Although his features weren’t perfectly regular, his face was one that would always stand out. His short upper lip showed he came from good stock, and his chestnut curls fell over his open forehead, while his shirt collar draped over his shoulders without being held in place by a handkerchief or ribbon. On top of that, he had a flexible and graceful figure, which his boyish jacket showcased nicely.

Just as the youth, mounted on a chair, was adjusting the portrait of the Duke, which he had observed to be awry, the gentleman for whom he had been all this time waiting entered the room.

Just as the young man, sitting in a chair, was straightening the portrait of the Duke, which he had noticed was crooked, the gentleman he had been waiting for entered the room.

‘Floreat Etona!’ hastily exclaimed the gentleman, in a sharp voice; ‘you are setting the Duke to rights. I have left you a long time a prisoner; but I found them so busy here, that I made my escape with some difficulty.’

‘Floreat Etona!’ the gentleman exclaimed quickly in a sharp voice. ‘You’re getting the Duke sorted out. I’ve left you in here for quite a while; but I found them so busy here that I managed to escape with some difficulty.’

He who uttered these words was a man of middle size and age, originally in all probability of a spare habit, but now a little inclined to corpulency. Baldness, perhaps, contributed to the spiritual expression of a brow, which was, however, essentially intellectual, and gave some character of openness to a countenance which, though not ill-favoured, was unhappily stamped by a sinister cast that was not to be mistaken. His manner was easy, but rather audacious than well-bred. Indeed, while a visage which might otherwise be described as handsome was spoilt by a dishonest glance, so a demeanour that was by no means deficient in self-possession and facility, was tainted by an innate vulgarity, which in the long run, though seldom, yet surely developed itself.

The man who said these words was of average height and age. He was probably slim at first but was now slightly on the heavier side. Baldness may have added to the thoughtful look of his forehead, which was primarily wise, giving a sense of openness to his face. Although not unattractive, his features unfortunately had a slightly sinister expression that was unmistakable. His behavior was relaxed but came off as more bold than classy. In fact, while his face, which could otherwise be called handsome, was ruined by a dishonest look, his demeanor, which was certainly not lacking in confidence and ease, was tainted by an inherent crudeness that, even though it rarely showed, did develop over time.

The youth had jumped off his chair on the entrance of the gentleman, and then taking up his hat, said:

The young man jumped out of his seat when the gentleman entered, and then picked up his hat and said:

‘Shall we go to grandpapa now, sir?’

‘Shall we go see Grandpa now, sir?’

‘By all means, my dear boy,’ said the gentleman, putting his arm within that of the youth; and they were just on the point of leaving the waiting-room, when the door was suddenly thrown open, and two individuals, in a state of great excitement, rushed into the apartment.

“Of course, my dear boy,” the gentleman said, linking his arm with the young man’s; they were about to leave the waiting room when the door swung open abruptly, and two people, clearly very excited, rushed into the room.

‘Rigby! Rigby!’ they both exclaimed at the same moment. ‘By G—— they’re out!’

‘Rigby! Rigby!’ they both shouted at the same time. ‘By G—— they’re out!’

‘Who told you?’

"Who told you?"

‘The best authority; one of themselves.’

‘The best authority; one of their own.’

‘Who? who?’

‘Who’s there?’

‘Paul Evelyn; I met him as I passed Brookes’, and he told me that Lord Grey had resigned, and the King had accepted his resignation.’

‘Paul Evelyn; I ran into him as I was walking by Brookes’, and he told me that Lord Grey had quit, and the King had accepted his resignation.’

But Mr. Rigby, who, though very fond of news, and much interested in the present, was extremely jealous of any one giving him information, was sceptical. He declared that Paul Evelyn was always wrong; that it was morally impossible that Paul Evelyn ever could be right; that he knew, from the highest authority, that Lord Grey had been twice yesterday with the King; that on the last visit nothing was settled; that if he had been at the palace again to-day, he could not have been there before twelve o’clock; that it was only now a quarter to one; that Lord Grey would have called his colleagues together on his return; that at least an hour must have elapsed before anything could possibly have transpired. Then he compared and criticised the dates of every rumoured incident of the last twenty-four hours, and nobody was stronger in dates than Mr. Rigby; counted even the number of stairs which the minister had to ascend and descend in his visit to the palace, and the time their mountings and dismountings must have consumed, detail was Mr. Rigby’s forte; and finally, what with his dates, his private information, his knowledge of palace localities, his contempt for Paul Evelyn, and his confidence in himself, he succeeded in persuading his downcast and disheartened friends that their comfortable intelligence had not the slightest foundation.

But Mr. Rigby, who was very fond of news and quite interested in the present, was extremely jealous of anyone giving him information and was skeptical. He insisted that Paul Evelyn was always wrong; that it was morally impossible for Paul Evelyn to ever be right; that he knew, from the highest authority, that Lord Grey had met with the King twice yesterday; that during the last visit, nothing was settled; that if he had returned to the palace today, he couldn't have gotten there before twelve o’clock; that it was now only a quarter to one; that Lord Grey would have gathered his colleagues together upon his return; that at least an hour must have passed before anything could have possibly happened. Then he compared and critiqued the dates of every rumored event from the last twenty-four hours, and no one was more thorough with dates than Mr. Rigby; he even counted the number of stairs the minister had to climb and descend during his visit to the palace and how long their ascents and descents must have taken, as detail was Mr. Rigby's strong suit; and ultimately, with his dates, his private information, his knowledge of palace locations, his disdain for Paul Evelyn, and his self-confidence, he managed to convince his downcast and disheartened friends that their reliable information had no basis at all.

They all left the room together; they were in the hall; the gentlemen who brought the news looked somewhat depressed, but Mr. Rigby gay, even amid the prostration of his party, from the consciousness that he had most critically demolished a piece of political gossip and conveyed a certain degree of mortification to a couple of his companions; when a travelling carriage and four with a ducal coronet drove up to the house. The door was thrown open, the steps dashed down, and a youthful noble sprang from his chariot into the hall.

They all left the room together and found themselves in the hallway. The gentlemen who delivered the news appeared somewhat downcast, but Mr. Rigby was cheerful, even amidst his party’s dismay, because he knew he had effectively dismantled a piece of political rumor and had embarrassed a couple of his associates. Just then, a traveling carriage with four horses and a ducal coronet pulled up to the house. The door swung open, the steps were hurriedly taken down, and a young nobleman jumped from his carriage into the hall.

‘Good morning, Rigby,’ said the Duke.

"Good morning, Rigby," said the Duke.

‘I see your Grace well, I am sure,’ said Mr. Rigby, with a softened manner.

‘I see you’re doing well, Your Grace,’ said Mr. Rigby, with a gentler tone.

‘You have heard the news, gentlemen?’ the Duke continued.

‘Have you heard the news, gentlemen?’ the Duke continued.

‘What news? Yes; no; that is to say, Mr. Rigby thinks—’

‘What’s the news? Yes; no; I mean, Mr. Rigby thinks—’

‘You know, of course, that Lord Lyndhurst is with the King?’

‘It is impossible,’ said Mr. Rigby.

"That's impossible," said Mr. Rigby.

‘I don’t think I can be mistaken,’ said the Duke, smiling.

“I don’t think I can be wrong,” said the Duke, smiling.

‘I will show your Grace that it is impossible,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘Lord Lyndhurst slept at Wimbledon. Lord Grey could not have seen the King until twelve o’clock; it is now five minutes to one. It is impossible, therefore, that any message from the King could have reached Lord Lyndhurst in time for his Lordship to be at the palace at this moment.’

‘I’ll show you, Your Grace, that it’s impossible,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Lord Lyndhurst stayed at Wimbledon. Lord Grey couldn’t have seen the King until twelve o’clock; it’s now five minutes to one. So, it’s impossible for any message from the King to have gotten to Lord Lyndhurst in time for him to be at the palace right now.’

‘But my authority is a high one,’ said the Duke.

‘But my authority is very significant,’ said the Duke.

‘Authority is a phrase,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘we must look to time and place, dates and localities, to discover the truth.’

‘Authority is just a word,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘we need to consider the time and place, dates and locations, to find the truth.’

‘Your Grace was saying that your authority—’ ventured to observe Mr. Tadpole, emboldened by the presence of a duke, his patron, to struggle against the despotism of a Rigby, his tyrant.

‘Your Grace was saying that your authority—’ Mr. Tadpole ventured to say, feeling braver with a duke, his supporter, beside him, as he tried to stand up against the tyranny of a Rigby, his oppressor.

‘Was the highest,’ rejoined the Duke, smiling, ‘for it was Lord Lyndhurst himself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, passed his Lordship’s house in Hyde Park Place as he was getting into his carriage in full dress, stopped my own, and learned in a breath that the Whigs were out, and that the King had sent for the Chief Baron. So I came on here at once.’

‘Was the highest,’ replied the Duke, smiling, ‘because it was Lord Lyndhurst himself. I came up from Nuneham this morning, passed his Lordship’s house in Hyde Park Place as he was getting into his carriage in full dress, stopped my own, and found out right away that the Whigs were out, and that the King had sent for the Chief Baron. So I came here immediately.’

‘I always thought the country was sound at bottom,’ exclaimed Mr. Taper, who, under the old system, had sneaked into the Treasury Board.

‘I always thought the country was solid at its core,’ exclaimed Mr. Taper, who, under the old system, had managed to sneak into the Treasury Board.

Tadpole and Taper were great friends. Neither of them ever despaired of the Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill were passed, Taper was convinced that the Whigs would never prove men of business; and when his friends confessed among themselves that a Tory Government was for the future impossible, Taper would remark, in a confidential whisper, that for his part he believed before the year was over the Whigs would be turned out by the clerks.

Tadpole and Taper were good friends. Neither of them ever lost hope in the Commonwealth. Even if the Reform Bill passed, Taper was sure the Whigs would never be competent in business. And when his friends admitted among themselves that a Tory government was impossible for the future, Taper would quietly say that he believed the Whigs would be kicked out by the clerks before the year was over.

‘There is no doubt that there is considerable reaction,’ said Mr. Tadpole. The infamous conduct of the Whigs in the Amersham case has opened the public mind more than anything.’

‘There’s no doubt there’s a strong reaction,’ said Mr. Tadpole. The notorious actions of the Whigs in the Amersham case have sparked public interest more than anything else.’

‘Aldborough was worse,’ said Mr. Taper.

'Aldborough was worse,' Mr. Taper said.

‘Terrible,’ said Tadpole. ‘They said there was no use discussing the Reform Bill in our House. I believe Rigby’s great speech on Aldborough has done more towards the reaction than all the violence of the Political Unions put together.’

‘That’s terrible,’ said Tadpole. ‘They said there was no point in discussing the Reform Bill in our House. I think Rigby’s big speech on Aldborough has done more for the backlash than all the chaos of the Political Unions combined.’

‘Let us hope for the best,’ said the Duke, mildly. ‘’Tis a bold step on the part of the Sovereign, and I am free to say I could have wished it postponed; but we must support the King like men. What say you, Rigby? You are silent.’

‘Let’s hope for the best,’ said the Duke, gently. ‘It’s a bold move by the Sovereign, and I have to admit I would have preferred it to be delayed; but we need to stand by the King like men. What do you think, Rigby? You’re quiet.’

‘I am thinking how very unfortunate it was that I did not breakfast with Lyndhurst this morning, as I was nearly doing, instead of going down to Eton.’

‘I’m thinking how unfortunate it was that I didn’t have breakfast with Lyndhurst this morning, as I almost did, instead of going down to Eton.’

‘To Eton! and why to Eton?’

‘To Eton! And why are we going to Eton?’

‘For the sake of my young friend here, Lord Monmouth’s grandson. By the bye, you are kinsmen. Let me present to your Grace, MR. CONINGSBY.’

‘For the sake of my young friend here, Lord Monmouth’s grandson. By the way, you’re related. Let me introduce you to your Grace, MR. CONINGSBY.’

CHAPTER II.

The political agitation which for a year and a half had shaken England to its centre, received, if possible, an increase to its intensity and virulence, when it was known, in the early part of the month of May, 1832, that the Prime Minister had tendered his resignation to the King, which resignation had been graciously accepted.

The political unrest that had rocked England for a year and a half grew even more intense and fierce when it was revealed, in early May 1832, that the Prime Minister had offered his resignation to the King, who had graciously accepted it.

The amendment carried by the Opposition in the House of Lords on the evening of the 7th of May, that the enfranchising clauses of the Reform Bill should be considered before entering into the question of disfranchisement, was the immediate cause of this startling event. The Lords had previously consented to the second reading of the Bill with the view of preventing that large increase of their numbers with which they had been long menaced; rather, indeed, by mysterious rumours than by any official declaration; but, nevertheless, in a manner which had carried conviction to no inconsiderable portion of the Opposition that the threat was not without foundation.

The amendment proposed by the Opposition in the House of Lords on the evening of May 7th, which stated that the enfranchising clauses of the Reform Bill should be discussed before addressing the issue of disfranchisement, was the direct cause of this surprising event. The Lords had earlier agreed to the second reading of the Bill to avoid the significant increase in their numbers that had long been a concern; this was more based on vague rumors than any official announcement. However, it still led many in the Opposition to believe that the threat was credible.

During the progress of the Bill through the Lower House, the journals which were looked upon as the organs of the ministry had announced with unhesitating confidence, that Lord Grey was armed with what was then called a ‘carte blanche’ to create any number of peers necessary to insure its success. But public journalists who were under the control of the ministry, and whose statements were never contradicted, were not the sole authorities for this prevailing belief. Members of the House of Commons, who were strong supporters of the cabinet, though not connected with it by any official tie, had unequivocally stated in their places that the Sovereign had not resisted the advice of his counsellors to create peers, if such creation were required to carry into effect what was then styled ‘the great national measure.’ In more than one instance, ministers had been warned, that if they did not exercise that power with prompt energy, they might deserve impeachment. And these intimations and announcements had been made in the presence of leading members of the Government, and had received from them, at least, the sanction of their silence.

During the discussion of the Bill in the House of Commons, the journals seen as the government's mouthpiece confidently announced that Lord Grey had what was referred to as a 'blank check' to create as many peers as needed to ensure its success. However, the public journalists under the government's control, whose statements were never challenged, were not the only sources of this widely held belief. Members of the House of Commons, who were strong supporters of the cabinet but not officially connected to it, clearly stated in their speeches that the Sovereign had not opposed the advice of his advisers to create peers if necessary to implement what was then called 'the great national measure.' In several cases, ministers were warned that if they did not exercise that power quickly and decisively, they could face impeachment. These warnings and announcements were made in front of prominent government members, who at the very least tacitly approved them by remaining silent.

It did not subsequently appear that the Reform ministers had been invested with any such power; but a conviction of the reverse, fostered by these circumstances, had successfully acted upon the nervous temperament, or the statesman-like prudence, of a certain section of the peers, who consequently hesitated in their course; were known as being no longer inclined to pursue their policy of the preceding session; had thus obtained a title at that moment in everybody’s mouth, the title of ‘THE WAVERERS.’

It later turned out that the Reform ministers hadn't been given any such power; however, the belief that they had, encouraged by these circumstances, had influenced the anxious nature or the cautious judgment of some of the peers, who then hesitated in their actions. They were known to no longer want to continue their agenda from the previous session, earning them a title that everyone was talking about at that time: ‘THE WAVERERS.’

Notwithstanding, therefore, the opposition of the Duke of Wellington and of Lord Lyndhurst, the Waverers carried the second reading of the Reform Bill; and then, scared at the consequences of their own headstrong timidity, they went in a fright to the Duke and his able adviser to extricate them from the inevitable result of their own conduct. The ultimate device of these distracted counsels, where daring and poltroonery, principle and expediency, public spirit and private intrigue, each threw an ingredient into the turbulent spell, was the celebrated and successful amendment to which we have referred.

Despite the opposition from the Duke of Wellington and Lord Lyndhurst, the Waverers managed to pass the second reading of the Reform Bill. Then, realizing the potential fallout from their own reckless fearfulness, they rushed to the Duke and his skilled advisor to rescue them from the unavoidable consequences of their actions. The final plan that emerged from these confused discussions, where bravery and cowardice, principles and practicality, public interest and personal schemes all mixed together in a chaotic blend, was the well-known and effective amendment we’ve mentioned.

But the Whig ministers, who, whatever may have been their faults, were at least men of intellect and courage, were not to be beaten by ‘the Waverers.’ They might have made terms with an audacious foe; they trampled on a hesitating opponent. Lord Grey hastened to the palace.

But the Whig ministers, who, no matter what their faults were, were definitely men of intellect and courage, weren't going to be defeated by 'the Waverers.' They might have struck a deal with a bold enemy; instead, they crushed a hesitant opponent. Lord Grey rushed to the palace.

Before the result of this appeal to the Sovereign was known, for its effects were not immediate, on the second morning after the vote in the House of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made that visit to Eton which had summoned very unexpectedly the youthful Coningsby to London. He was the orphan child of the youngest of the two sons of the Marquess of Monmouth. It was a family famous for its hatreds. The eldest son hated his father; and, it was said, in spite had married a lady to whom that father was attached, and with whom Lord Monmouth then meditated a second alliance. This eldest son lived at Naples, and had several children, but maintained no connection either with his parent or his native country. On the other hand, Lord Monmouth hated his younger son, who had married, against his consent, a woman to whom that son was devoted. A system of domestic persecution, sustained by the hand of a master, had eventually broken up the health of its victim, who died of a fever in a foreign country, where he had sought some refuge from his creditors.

Before the outcome of this appeal to the Sovereign was known, since the effects weren't immediate, on the second morning after the vote in the House of Lords, Mr. Rigby had made an unexpected visit to Eton that called the young Coningsby to London. He was the orphaned child of the youngest son of the Marquess of Monmouth. This was a family notorious for its feuds. The eldest son despised his father; and it was rumored that, out of spite, he married a woman his father was fond of and with whom Lord Monmouth was considering a second marriage. This eldest son lived in Naples and had several children, but he maintained no relationship with his father or his home country. Conversely, Lord Monmouth loathed his younger son, who had married, against his wishes, a woman to whom he was deeply committed. A pattern of domestic torment, enforced by a dominant figure, had ultimately shattered the health of the younger son, who died of a fever in a foreign land where he sought refuge from his creditors.

His widow returned to England with her child; and, not having a relation, and scarcely an acquaintance in the world, made an appeal to her husband’s father, the wealthiest noble in England and a man who was often prodigal, and occasionally generous. After some time, and more trouble, after urgent and repeated, and what would have seemed heart-rending, solicitations, the attorney of Lord Monmouth called upon the widow of his client’s son, and informed her of his Lordship’s decision. Provided she gave up her child, and permanently resided in one of the remotest counties, he was authorised to make her, in four quarterly payments, the yearly allowance of three hundred pounds, that being the income that Lord Monmouth, who was the shrewdest accountant in the country, had calculated a lone woman might very decently exist upon in a small market town in the county of Westmoreland.

His widow went back to England with her child. Without any close relatives or even a friend in the world, she reached out to her husband’s father, the richest noble in England, who was sometimes extravagant and occasionally generous. After a while, and quite a bit of hassle, along with urgent and repeated, seemingly heartfelt pleas, Lord Monmouth's attorney visited the widow of his client’s son and informed her of his Lordship’s decision. If she agreed to give up her child and live permanently in one of the most remote counties, he was authorized to provide her with a yearly allowance of three hundred pounds, paid in four quarterly installments. This was the amount that Lord Monmouth, known as the sharpest accountant in the country, had figured a single woman could reasonably get by on in a small market town in Westmoreland.

Desperate necessity, the sense of her own forlornness, the utter impossibility to struggle with an omnipotent foe, who, her husband had taught her, was above all scruples, prejudices, and fears, and who, though he respected law, despised opinion, made the victim yield. But her sufferings were not long; the separation from her child, the bleak clime, the strange faces around her, sharp memory, and the dull routine of an unimpassioned life, all combined to wear out a constitution originally frail, and since shattered by many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby died the same day that her father-in-law was made a Marquess. He deserved his honours. The four votes he had inherited in the House of Commons had been increased, by his intense volition and unsparing means, to ten; and the very day he was raised to his Marquisate, he commenced sapping fresh corporations, and was working for the strawberry leaf. His honours were proclaimed in the London Gazette, and her decease was not even noticed in the County Chronicle; but the altars of Nemesis are beneath every outraged roof, and the death of this unhappy lady, apparently without an earthly friend or an earthly hope, desolate and deserted, and dying in obscure poverty, was not forgotten.

Desperate necessity, the awareness of her own hopelessness, the complete inability to fight against an all-powerful enemy who, her husband had taught her, was beyond any morals, biases, or fears, and who, while he respected the law, looked down on public opinion, forced the victim to surrender. But her suffering didn’t last long; the separation from her child, the harsh climate, the unfamiliar faces surrounding her, painful memories, and the monotonous routine of a passionless life all contributed to wearing down a body that was already fragile and had been shattered by many sorrows. Mrs. Coningsby died on the same day her father-in-law was made a Marquess. He deserved his honors. The four votes he had inherited in the House of Commons had been increased, thanks to his strong determination and ruthless methods, to ten; and on the very day he was elevated to his Marquisate, he began undermining new corporations, working towards the strawberry leaf. His honors were announced in the London Gazette, and her death didn't even make it into the County Chronicle; but the altars of revenge are found beneath every outraged roof, and the death of this unfortunate woman, seemingly without any earthly friend or hope, isolated and abandoned, and passing away in obscured poverty, was not forgotten.

Coningsby was not more than nine years of age when he lost his last parent; and he had then been separated from her for nearly three years. But he remembered the sweetness of his nursery days. His mother, too, had written to him frequently since he quitted her, and her fond expressions had cherished the tenderness of his heart. He wept bitterly when his schoolmaster broke to him the news of his mother’s death. True it was they had been long parted, and their prospect of again meeting was vague and dim; but his mother seemed to him his only link to human society. It was something to have a mother, even if he never saw her. Other boys went to see their mothers! he, at least, could talk of his. Now he was alone. His grandfather was to him only a name. Lord Monmouth resided almost constantly abroad, and during his rare visits to England had found no time or inclination to see the orphan, with whom he felt no sympathy. Even the death of the boy’s mother, and the consequent arrangements, were notified to his master by a stranger. The letter which brought the sad intelligence was from Mr. Rigby. It was the first time that name had been known to Coningsby.

Coningsby was no more than nine years old when he lost his last parent, and he had already been separated from her for almost three years. But he remembered the sweetness of his early childhood. His mother had also written to him often since he left her, and her loving words had kept the tenderness in his heart alive. He cried hard when his schoolmaster told him about his mother’s death. It was true they had been apart for a long time, and the chances of seeing each other again were uncertain and dim, but his mother was his only connection to the world. It was something to have a mother, even if he never got to see her. Other boys went to visit their mothers! At least he could talk about his. Now he was all alone. His grandfather was just a name to him. Lord Monmouth spent almost all his time abroad, and during his rare visits to England, he had found neither the time nor the desire to see the orphan, with whom he felt no connection. Even the news of the boy’s mother’s death and the arrangements that followed were communicated to his schoolmaster by a stranger. The letter that brought the sad news was from Mr. Rigby. It was the first time Coningsby had ever heard that name.

Mr. Rigby was member for one of Lord Monmouth’s boroughs. He was the manager of Lord Monmouth’s parliamentary influence, and the auditor of his vast estates. He was more; he was Lord Monmouth’s companion when in England, his correspondent when abroad; hardly his counsellor, for Lord Monmouth never required advice; but Mr. Rigby could instruct him in matters of detail, which Mr. Rigby made amusing. Rigby was not a professional man; indeed, his origin, education, early pursuits, and studies, were equally obscure; but he had contrived in good time to squeeze himself into parliament, by means which no one could ever comprehend, and then set up to be a perfect man of business. The world took him at his word, for he was bold, acute, and voluble; with no thought, but a good deal of desultory information; and though destitute of all imagination and noble sentiment, was blessed with a vigorous, mendacious fancy, fruitful in small expedients, and never happier than when devising shifts for great men’s scrapes.

Mr. Rigby was a representative for one of Lord Monmouth’s boroughs. He managed Lord Monmouth’s influence in Parliament and handled his extensive estates. He was more than that; he was also Lord Monmouth’s companion when he was in England and his correspondent when he was abroad. He wasn't really his advisor since Lord Monmouth never needed advice, but Mr. Rigby could fill him in on details, which he made entertaining. Rigby wasn’t a professional; in fact, his background, education, early interests, and studies were all pretty murky. However, he managed to effectively push his way into Parliament through means that no one could truly figure out, and then pretended to be a savvy businessman. The world took him at his word because he was confident, sharp, and talkative; he had no deep thoughts but a decent amount of random knowledge. Although he lacked imagination and noble feelings, he had a sharp, deceptive mind that was great at coming up with small solutions and was never happier than when he was crafting ways to get influential people out of trouble.

They say that all of us have one chance in this life, and so it was with Rigby. After a struggle of many years, after a long series of the usual alternatives of small successes and small failures, after a few cleverish speeches and a good many cleverish pamphlets, with a considerable reputation, indeed, for pasquinades, most of which he never wrote, and articles in reviews to which it was whispered he had contributed, Rigby, who had already intrigued himself into a subordinate office, met with Lord Monmouth.

They say we all get one shot at life, and that’s exactly how it was for Rigby. After years of struggling, experiencing a mix of minor successes and failures, giving a few smart speeches, and publishing several clever pamphlets, he had built quite a reputation for sharp criticisms, most of which he didn’t actually write, as well as contributing to some reviews, though it was just a rumor. Rigby, who had already maneuvered his way into a lower office, crossed paths with Lord Monmouth.

He was just the animal that Lord Monmouth wanted, for Lord Monmouth always looked upon human nature with the callous eye of a jockey. He surveyed Rigby; and he determined to buy him. He bought him; with his clear head, his indefatigable industry, his audacious tongue, and his ready and unscrupulous pen; with all his dates, all his lampoons; all his private memoirs, and all his political intrigues. It was a good purchase. Rigby became a great personage, and Lord Monmouth’s man.

He was exactly the kind of person Lord Monmouth wanted because Lord Monmouth always viewed human nature with the cold perspective of a jockey. He looked at Rigby and decided to buy him. He purchased him for his sharp mind, relentless work ethic, bold speech, and his quick and ruthless writing skills; along with all his dates, all his satirical pieces, all his private notes, and all his political schemes. It was a smart buy. Rigby became a significant figure and Lord Monmouth's right-hand man.

Mr. Rigby, who liked to be doing a great many things at the same time, and to astonish the Tadpoles and Tapers with his energetic versatility, determined to superintend the education of Coningsby. It was a relation which identified him with the noble house of his pupil, or, properly speaking, his charge: for Mr. Rigby affected rather the graceful dignity of the governor than the duties of a tutor. The boy was recalled from his homely, rural school, where he had been well grounded by a hard-working curate, and affectionately tended by the curate’s unsophisticated wife. He was sent to a fashionable school preparatory to Eton, where he found about two hundred youths of noble families and connections, lodged in a magnificent villa, that had once been the retreat of a minister, superintended by a sycophantic Doctor of Divinity, already well beneficed, and not despairing of a bishopric by favouring the children of the great nobles. The doctor’s lady, clothed in cashmeres, sometimes inquired after their health, and occasionally received a report as to their linen.

Mr. Rigby, who liked to juggle multiple tasks at once and impress the Tadpoles and Tapers with his energetic adaptability, decided to oversee Coningsby's education. This relationship tied him to the noble family of his student, or, more accurately, his charge; for Mr. Rigby preferred the elegant role of a governor over the responsibilities of a tutor. The boy was pulled from his simple, rural school, where he had been well taught by a diligent curate and cared for by the curate’s naive wife. He was sent to a prestigious school in preparation for Eton, where he encountered about two hundred boys from noble families and connections, housed in a magnificent villa that had once been a minister's retreat, overseen by a sycophantic Doctor of Divinity, already well off and hoping for a bishopric by catering to the children of the great nobles. The doctor’s wife, dressed in cashmere, sometimes checked on their health and occasionally received updates about their laundry.

Mr. Rigby had a classical retreat, not distant from this establishment, which he esteemed a Tusculum. There, surrounded by his busts and books, he wrote his lampoons and articles; massacred a she liberal (it was thought that no one could lash a woman like Rigby), cut up a rising genius whose politics were different from his own, or scarified some unhappy wretch who had brought his claims before parliament, proving, by garbled extracts from official correspondence that no one could refer to, that the malcontent instead of being a victim, was, on the contrary, a defaulter. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a ‘slashing reply’ against the field. Here, too, at the end of a busy week, he found it occasionally convenient to entertain a clever friend or two of equivocal reputation, with whom he had become acquainted in former days of equal brotherhood. No one was more faithful to his early friends than Mr. Rigby, particularly if they could write a squib.

Mr. Rigby had a classic getaway not far from this place, which he considered a Tusculum. There, surrounded by his statues and books, he wrote his satirical pieces and articles; he would take down a female liberal (people said no one could criticize a woman like Rigby), target a rising talent whose politics clashed with his own, or tear apart some unfortunate soul who had brought their claims before Parliament, proving through selective quotes from official letters that no one could verify that the discontented person was, in fact, not a victim but a fraud. Tadpole and Taper would back Rigby for a ‘sharp response’ against the opposition. Here too, at the end of a busy week, he occasionally found it convenient to host a clever friend or two of uncertain reputation, with whom he had bonded in earlier days of camaraderie. No one was more loyal to his early friends than Mr. Rigby, especially if they could write a witty piece.

It was in this refined retirement that Mr. Rigby found time enough, snatched from the toils of official life and parliamentary struggles, to compose a letter on the study of History, addressed to Coningsby. The style was as much like that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been written by the authors of the ‘Rejected Addresses,’ and it began, ‘My dear young friend.’ This polished composition, so full of good feeling and comprehensive views, and all in the best taste, was not published. It was only privately printed, and a few thousand copies were distributed among select personages as an especial favour and mark of high consideration. Each copy given away seemed to Rigby like a certificate of character; a property which, like all men of dubious repute, he thoroughly appreciated. Rigby intrigued very much that the headmaster of Eton should adopt his discourse as a class-book. For this purpose he dined with the Doctor, told him several anecdotes of the King, which intimated personal influence at Windsor; but the headmaster was inflexible, and so Mr. Rigby was obliged to be content with having his Letter on History canonized as a classic in the Preparatory Seminary, where the individual to whom it was addressed was a scholar.

In his quiet retirement, Mr. Rigby finally found time, pulled away from the pressures of official duties and political battles, to write a letter on the study of History addressed to Coningsby. The style resembled that of Lord Bolingbroke as if it had been crafted by the authors of the ‘Rejected Addresses,’ and it started with, ‘My dear young friend.’ This polished piece, filled with warmth and broad perspectives, and done in the best taste, was never published. It was only printed privately, and a few thousand copies were given out to select individuals as a special favor and sign of high regard. Each copy given away felt to Rigby like a badge of honor; a quality that, like many men of questionable reputation, he greatly valued. Rigby was very eager for the headmaster of Eton to make his discourse a textbook. To achieve this, he dined with the Doctor and shared several anecdotes about the King that suggested he had personal connections at Windsor; however, the headmaster remained firm, and so Mr. Rigby had to settle for having his Letter on History recognized as a classic in the Preparatory Seminary, where the young man it was addressed to was a student.

This change in the life of Coningsby contributed to his happiness. The various characters which a large school exhibited interested a young mind whose active energies were beginning to stir. His previous acquirements made his studies light; and he was fond of sports, in which he was qualified to excel. He did not particularly like Mr. Rigby. There was something jarring and grating in that gentleman’s voice and modes, from which the chords of the young heart shrank. He was not tender, though perhaps he wished to be; scarcely kind: but he was good-natured, at least to children. However, this connection was, on the whole, an agreeable one for Coningsby. He seemed suddenly to have friends: he never passed his holydays again at school. Mr. Rigby was so clever that he contrived always to quarter Coningsby on the father of one of his school-fellows, for Mr. Rigby knew all his school-fellows and all their fathers. Mr. Rigby also called to see him, not unfrequently would give him a dinner at the Star and Garter, or even have him up to town for a week to Whitehall. Compared with his former forlorn existence, these were happy days, when he was placed under the gallery as a member’s son, or went to the play with the butler!

This change in Coningsby’s life added to his happiness. The different personalities at a large school captivated a young mind whose active energy was starting to awaken. His previous knowledge made his studies easy, and he enjoyed sports, where he excelled. He didn’t especially like Mr. Rigby. There was something annoying and abrasive about the man’s voice and demeanor that made the young heart cringe. He wasn’t gentle, though he might have wanted to be; hardly kind, but at least he was good-natured toward children. Still, this relationship was overall a pleasant one for Coningsby. He suddenly seemed to have friends: he never spent his holidays at school again. Mr. Rigby was so clever that he always managed to send Coningsby to stay with the father of one of his classmates, since Mr. Rigby knew all of his classmates and their fathers. Mr. Rigby also visited him often and would sometimes treat him to dinner at the Star and Garter or even take him to the city for a week in Whitehall. Compared to his previous lonely life, these were happy days when he was placed in the gallery as a member’s son or went to plays with the butler!

When Coningsby had attained his twelfth year, an order was received from Lord Monmouth, who was at Rome, that he should go at once to Eton. This was the first great epoch of his life. There never was a youth who entered into that wonderful little world with more eager zest than Coningsby. Nor was it marvellous.

When Coningsby turned twelve, he received an order from Lord Monmouth, who was in Rome, to head to Eton immediately. This marked a major turning point in his life. No other young person embraced that incredible little world with as much enthusiasm as Coningsby did. And it wasn't surprising.

That delicious plain, studded with every creation of graceful culture; hamlet and hall and grange; garden and grove and park; that castle-palace, grey with glorious ages; those antique spires, hoar with faith and wisdom, the chapel and the college; that river winding through the shady meads; the sunny glade and the solemn avenue; the room in the Dame’s house where we first order our own breakfast and first feel we are free; the stirring multitude, the energetic groups, the individual mind that leads, conquers, controls; the emulation and the affection; the noble strife and the tender sentiment; the daring exploit and the dashing scrape; the passion that pervades our life, and breathes in everything, from the aspiring study to the inspiring sport: oh! what hereafter can spur the brain and touch the heart like this; can give us a world so deeply and variously interesting; a life so full of quick and bright excitement, passed in a scene so fair?

That beautiful landscape, filled with all the wonders of refined culture; small towns and grand halls; gardens and groves and parks; that castle-palace, aged with history; those ancient spires, rich with faith and knowledge; the chapel and the college; that river winding through the shaded meadows; the sunny glade and the impressive avenue; the room in the Dame’s house where we first make our own breakfast and truly feel free; the lively crowd, the active groups, the individual mind that leads, conquers, and controls; the competition and the affection; the noble struggle and the gentle feelings; the bold adventures and the thrilling escapades; the passion that fills our lives and is present in everything, from ambitious studies to exciting sports: oh! what could ever inspire the mind and move the heart like this; offer us a world so deeply and richly fascinating; a life so full of vibrant and bright excitement, spent in such a beautiful setting?

CHAPTER III.

Lord Monmouth, who detested popular tumults as much as he despised public opinion, had remained during the agitating year of 1831 in his luxurious retirement in Italy, contenting himself with opposing the Reform Bill by proxy. But when his correspondent, Mr. Rigby, had informed him, in the early part of the spring of 1832, of the probability of a change in the tactics of the Tory party, and that an opinion was becoming prevalent among their friends, that the great scheme must be defeated in detail rather than again withstood on principle, his Lordship, who was never wanting in energy when his own interests were concerned, immediately crossed the Alps, and travelled rapidly to England. He indulged a hope that the weight of his presence and the influence of his strong character, which was at once shrewd and courageous, might induce his friends to relinquish their half measure, a course to which his nature was repugnant. At all events, if they persisted in their intention, and the Bill went into committee, his presence was indispensable, for in that stage of a parliamentary proceeding proxies become ineffective.

Lord Monmouth, who hated public unrest just as much as he looked down on public opinion, had spent the turbulent year of 1831 enjoying his lavish life in Italy, settling for opposing the Reform Bill from a distance. However, when his correspondent, Mr. Rigby, informed him in early spring 1832 about a possible shift in the Tory party's approach, and that there was growing belief among their supporters that the major plan needed to be defeated piece by piece rather than opposed on principle, his Lordship, who always showed energy when his own interests were at stake, quickly crossed the Alps and traveled swiftly to England. He held onto the hope that his presence and the influence of his sharp and brave character would persuade his friends to abandon their half-hearted strategy, which his nature found unacceptable. In any case, if they stuck to their plan and the Bill went into committee, his presence was crucial, as proxies become useless at that stage of parliamentary proceedings.

The counsels of Lord Monmouth, though they coincided with those of the Duke of Wellington, did not prevail with the Waverers. Several of these high-minded personages had had their windows broken, and they were of opinion that a man who lived at Naples was not a competent judge of the state of public feeling in England. Besides, the days are gone by for senates to have their beards plucked in the forum. We live in an age of prudence. The leaders of the people, now, generally follow. The truth is, the peers were in a fright. ‘Twas a pity; there is scarcely a less dignified entity than a patrician in a panic.

The advice of Lord Monmouth, while it aligned with that of the Duke of Wellington, didn’t win over the Waverers. Several of these high-minded individuals had their windows smashed, and they believed that a person living in Naples wasn't a qualified judge of public sentiment in England. Besides, those days are gone when senates get humiliated in the public square. We live in a time of caution. Nowadays, leaders generally follow the crowd. The reality is, the nobles were scared. It’s a shame; there’s hardly anything less dignified than an aristocrat in a panic.

Among the most intimate companions of Coningsby at Eton, was Lord Henry Sydney, his kinsman. Coningsby had frequently passed his holydays of late at Beaumanoir, the seat of the Duke, Lord Henry’s father. The Duke sat next to Lord Monmouth during the debate on the enfranchising question, and to while away the time, and from kindness of disposition, spoke, and spoke with warmth and favour, of his grandson. The polished Lord Monmouth bowed as if he were much gratified by this notice of one so dear to him. He had too much tact to admit that he had never yet seen his grandchild; but he asked some questions as to his progress and pursuits, his tastes and habits, which intimated the interest of an affectionate relative.

Among Coningsby's closest friends at Eton was Lord Henry Sydney, his relative. Recently, Coningsby had often spent his holidays at Beaumanoir, the home of the Duke, Lord Henry’s father. During the debate on the enfranchising issue, the Duke was seated next to Lord Monmouth. To pass the time and out of a kind nature, he spoke warmly and positively about his grandson. The refined Lord Monmouth acknowledged this with a bow, pretending to be pleased by the mention of someone so dear to him. He was too tactful to admit that he had yet to meet his grandchild, but he asked questions about his progress and interests, his tastes and habits, which suggested the concern of a loving relative.

Nothing, however, was ever lost upon Lord Monmouth. No one had a more retentive memory, or a more observant mind. And the next day, when he received Mr. Rigby at his morning levee, Lord Monmouth performed this ceremony in the high style of the old court, and welcomed his visitors in bed, he said with imperturbable calmness, and as if he had been talking of trying a new horse, ‘Rigby, I should like to see the boy at Eton.’

Nothing, however, ever slipped past Lord Monmouth. No one had a better memory or a more observant mind. The next day, when he received Mr. Rigby at his morning gathering, Lord Monmouth greeted his guests in the grand style of the old court, and welcomed them from bed, saying with unruffled calmness, as if he were discussing trying out a new horse, ‘Rigby, I’d like to see the boy at Eton.’

There might be some objection to grant leave to Coningsby at this moment; but it was a rule with Mr. Rigby never to make difficulties, or at least to persuade his patron that he, and he only, could remove them. He immediately undertook that the boy should be forthcoming, and notwithstanding the excitement of the moment, he went off next morning to fetch him.

There might be some objections to letting Coningsby go right now; but Mr. Rigby always had a rule of not causing problems, or at least convincing his boss that only he could solve them. He quickly took on the task of getting the boy, and despite the excitement of the moment, he left the next morning to bring him back.

They arrived in town rather early; and Rigby, wishing to know how affairs were going on, ordered the servant to drive immediately to the head-quarters of the party; where a permanent committee watched every phasis of the impending revolution; and where every member of the Opposition, of note and trust, was instantly admitted to receive or to impart intelligence.

They got to town pretty early, and Rigby, wanting to see how things were progressing, told the servant to drive straight to the headquarters of the party. There, a permanent committee kept an eye on every detail of the upcoming revolution, and any notable and trusted member of the Opposition was quickly allowed in to share or receive information.

It was certainly not without emotion that Coningsby contemplated his first interview with his grandfather. All his experience of the ties of relationship, however limited, was full of tenderness and rapture. His memory often dwelt on his mother’s sweet embrace; and ever and anon a fitful phantom of some past passage of domestic love haunted his gushing heart. The image of his father was less fresh in his mind; but still it was associated with a vague sentiment of kindness and joy; and the allusions to her husband in his mother’s letters had cherished these impressions. To notice lesser sources of influence in his estimate of the domestic tie, he had witnessed under the roof of Beaumanoir the existence of a family bound together by the most beautiful affections. He could not forget how Henry Sydney was embraced by his sisters when he returned home; what frank and fraternal love existed between his kinsman and his elder brother; how affectionately the kind Duke had welcomed his son once more to the house where they had both been born; and the dim eyes, and saddened brows, and tones of tenderness, which rather looked than said farewell, when they went back to Eton.

It was definitely an emotional moment for Coningsby as he thought about his first meeting with his grandfather. All his experiences with family ties, though limited, were filled with warmth and joy. He often remembered his mother’s gentle hug, and occasionally, a fleeting memory of some past moment of family love would touch his heart. The memory of his father wasn't as vivid, but it was still linked to a vague feeling of kindness and happiness; references to her husband in his mother’s letters had nurtured those feelings. To consider other influences on his view of family ties, he had seen at Beaumanoir a family united by the most beautiful affections. He couldn't forget how Henry Sydney was embraced by his sisters upon returning home; the genuine and brotherly love shared between his relative and his older brother; how warmly the kind Duke had welcomed his son back to the house where they were both born; and the tearful eyes, sorrowful faces, and tender tones that seemed more to say farewell than their actual words when they went back to Eton.

And these rapturous meetings and these mournful adieus were occasioned only by a separation at the most of a few months, softened by constant correspondence and the communication of mutual sympathy. But Coningsby was to meet a relation, his near, almost his only, relation, for the first time; the relation, too, to whom he owed maintenance, education; it might be said, existence. It was a great incident for a great drama; something tragical in the depth and stir of its emotions. Even the imagination of the boy could not be insensible to its materials; and Coningsby was picturing to himself a beneficent and venerable gentleman pressing to his breast an agitated youth, when his reverie was broken by the carriage stopping before the gates of Monmouth House.

And these joyful reunions and sad goodbyes were caused by a separation of just a few months, made easier by constant letters and shared feelings. But Coningsby was about to meet a relative, his closest, almost his only, relative, for the first time; the relative to whom he owed his care, education, and, you could say, his very existence. This was a significant moment in a significant story; something tragic in its deep and stirring emotions. Even the boy's imagination couldn’t ignore the significance; Coningsby was envisioning a kind and respected gentleman embracing a troubled young man when his daydream was interrupted by the carriage stopping in front of the gates of Monmouth House.

The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss, and the carriage rolled into a huge court-yard. At its end Coningsby beheld a Palladian palace, with wings and colonnades encircling the court.

The gates were opened by a gigantic Swiss man, and the carriage rolled into a huge courtyard. At the end of it, Coningsby saw a Palladian palace, with wings and colonnades surrounding the courtyard.

A double flight of steps led into a circular and marble hall, adorned with colossal busts of the Caesars; the staircase in fresco by Sir James Thornhill, breathed with the loves and wars of gods and heroes. It led into a vestibule, painted in arabesques, hung with Venetian girandoles, and looking into gardens. Opening a door in this chamber, and proceeding some little way down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion arrived at the base of a private staircase. Ascending a few steps, they reached a landing-place hung with tapestry. Drawing this aside, Mr. Rigby opened a door, and ushered Coningsby through an ante-chamber into a small saloon, of beautiful proportions, and furnished in a brilliant and delicate taste.

A double flight of stairs led into a circular marble hall, decorated with huge busts of the Caesars; the frescoed staircase by Sir James Thornhill depicted the loves and battles of gods and heroes. It led into a vestibule, painted in elaborate designs, adorned with Venetian chandeliers, and overlooking gardens. After opening a door in this room and walking a short distance down a corridor, Mr. Rigby and his companion reached the bottom of a private staircase. Going up a few steps, they arrived at a landing adorned with tapestries. Pulling these aside, Mr. Rigby opened a door and guided Coningsby through an anteroom into a small salon, beautifully proportioned and tastefully furnished with a vibrant and delicate style.

‘You will find more to amuse you here than where you were before,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and I shall not be nearly so long absent.’ So saying, he entered into an inner apartment.

‘You'll find more to entertain you here than you did before,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and I won't be nearly as long gone.’ With that, he went into an inner room.

The walls of the saloon, which were covered with light blue satin, held, in silver panels, portraits of beautiful women, painted by Boucher. Couches and easy chairs of every shape invited in every quarter to luxurious repose; while amusement was afforded by tables covered with caricatures, French novels, and endless miniatures of foreign dancers, princesses, and sovereigns.

The walls of the saloon, draped in light blue satin, showcased silver panels featuring portraits of stunning women, painted by Boucher. Couches and armchairs in various styles beckoned from every corner for a comfy rest, while tables adorned with caricatures, French novels, and countless miniatures of foreign dancers, princesses, and rulers provided entertainment.

But Coningsby was so impressed with the impending interview with his grandfather, that he neither sought nor required diversion. Now that the crisis was at hand, he felt agitated and nervous, and wished that he was again at Eton. The suspense was sickening, yet he dreaded still more the summons. He was not long alone; the door opened; he started, grew pale; he thought it was his grandfather; it was not even Mr. Rigby. It was Lord Monmouth’s valet.

But Coningsby was so focused on the upcoming meeting with his grandfather that he neither looked for nor needed any distraction. Now that the moment was here, he felt anxious and uneasy, wishing he was back at Eton. The waiting was unbearable, but he feared the call even more. He wasn’t alone for long; the door opened; he flinched, turned pale; he thought it was his grandfather, but it wasn’t even Mr. Rigby. It was Lord Monmouth’s valet.

‘Monsieur Konigby?’

'Mr. Konigby?'

‘My name is Coningsby,’ said the boy.

‘Milor is ready to receive you,’ said the valet.

‘Milor is ready to see you,’ said the valet.

Coningsby sprang forward with that desperation which the scaffold requires. His face was pale; his hand was moist; his heart beat with tumult. He had occasionally been summoned by Dr. Keate; that, too, was awful work, but compared with the present, a morning visit. Music, artillery, the roar of cannon, and the blare of trumpets, may urge a man on to a forlorn hope; ambition, one’s constituents, the hell of previous failure, may prevail on us to do a more desperate thing; speak in the House of Commons; but there are some situations in life, such, for instance, as entering the room of a dentist, in which the prostration of the nervous system is absolute.

Coningsby rushed forward with the kind of desperation that being on the scaffold brings. His face was pale, his hand was sweaty, and his heart was racing. He had sometimes been called in by Dr. Keate; that was terrifying too, but it felt like a morning visit compared to now. Music, cannons, the sound of artillery, and the blare of trumpets can push a person towards a lost cause; ambition, the pressure from constituents, the agony of past failures can drive us to do even more desperate things, like speaking in the House of Commons. But there are moments in life—like walking into a dentist’s office—when the nervous system is completely overwhelmed.

The moment had at length arrived when the desolate was to find a benefactor, the forlorn a friend, the orphan a parent; when the youth, after a childhood of adversity, was to be formally received into the bosom of the noble house from which he had been so long estranged, and at length to assume that social position to which his lineage entitled him. Manliness might support, affection might soothe, the happy anguish of such a meeting; but it was undoubtedly one of those situations which stir up the deep fountains of our nature, and before which the conventional proprieties of our ordinary manners instantaneously vanish.

The moment had finally come when the lonely would find a benefactor, the hopeless would find a friend, and the orphan would find a parent; when the young man, after a childhood full of hardship, would be officially welcomed into the embrace of the noble family from which he had been so long separated, and finally take on the social status to which his heritage entitled him. Strength might hold him up, and love might comfort him in the joyful pain of such a reunion; but it was definitely one of those moments that awaken the deep emotions within us, making our usual social niceties disappear instantly.

Coningsby with an uncertain step followed his guide through a bed-chamber, the sumptuousness of which he could not notice, into the dressing-room of Lord Monmouth. Mr. Rigby, facing Coningsby as he entered, was leaning over the back of a large chair, from which as Coningsby was announced by the valet, the Lord of the house slowly rose, for he was suffering slightly from the gout, his left hand resting on an ivory stick. Lord Monmouth was in height above the middle size, but somewhat portly and corpulent. His countenance was strongly marked; sagacity on the brow, sensuality in the mouth and jaw. His head was bald, but there were remains of the rich brown locks on which he once prided himself. His large deep blue eye, madid and yet piercing, showed that the secretions of his brain were apportioned, half to voluptuousness, half to common sense. But his general mien was truly grand; full of a natural nobility, of which no one was more sensible than himself. Lord Monmouth was not in dishabille; on the contrary, his costume was exact, and even careful. Rising as we have mentioned when his grandson entered, and leaning with his left hand on his ivory cane, he made Coningsby such a bow as Louis Quatorze might have bestowed on the ambassador of the United Provinces. Then extending his right hand, which the boy tremblingly touched, Lord Monmouth said:

Coningsby stepped in uncertainly, following his guide through a lavish bedroom that he couldn’t quite appreciate, into Lord Monmouth’s dressing room. Mr. Rigby was facing Coningsby as he walked in, leaning over the back of a large chair. As the valet announced Coningsby, Lord Monmouth slowly stood up, slightly affected by gout, his left hand resting on an ivory cane. Lord Monmouth was above average height but a bit portly. His face was strongly defined; wisdom on his brow, sensuality in his mouth and jaw. He had a bald head, with remnants of the rich brown hair he once took pride in. His large, deep blue eye was both soft and intense, reflecting a mind split between indulgence and common sense. But his overall presence was truly grand, radiating a natural nobility of which he was very aware. Lord Monmouth was dressed formally; on the contrary, his attire was precise and even meticulous. As mentioned, he rose when his grandson entered, leaning on his ivory cane, and he greeted Coningsby with a bow reminiscent of Louis XIV's to the ambassador of the United Provinces. Then, extending his right hand, which the boy touched nervously, Lord Monmouth said:

‘How do you like Eton?’

"How do you like Eton?"

This contrast to the reception which he had imagined, hoped, feared, paralysed the reviving energies of young Coningsby. He felt stupefied; he looked almost aghast. In the chaotic tumult of his mind, his memory suddenly seemed to receive some miraculous inspiration. Mysterious phrases heard in his earliest boyhood, unnoticed then, long since forgotten, rose to his ear. Who was this grandfather, seen not before, seen now for the first time? Where was the intervening link of blood between him and this superb and icy being? The boy sank into the chair which had been placed for him, and leaning on the table burst into tears.

This was so different from the welcome he had imagined, hoped for, and feared that it completely overwhelmed the young Coningsby. He felt dazed; he looked almost shocked. In the chaotic turmoil of his thoughts, his memory suddenly seemed to get some miraculous clarity. Mysterious phrases from his early childhood, unnoticed back then and long forgotten, came back to him. Who was this grandfather, whom he had never seen before and was now seeing for the first time? What was the blood connection between him and this extraordinary and distant figure? The boy sank into the chair that had been set for him, and leaning on the table, he burst into tears.

Here was a business! If there were one thing which would have made Lord Monmouth travel from London to Naples at four-and-twenty hours’ notice, it was to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. He hated feelings. He saw instantly the mistake he had made in sending for his grandchild. He was afraid that Coningsby was tender-hearted like his father. Another tender-hearted Coningsby! Unfortunate family! Degenerate race! He decided in his mind that Coningsby must be provided for in the Church, and looked at Mr. Rigby, whose principal business it always was to disembarrass his patron from the disagreeable.

Here was a business! If there was one thing that would have made Lord Monmouth travel from London to Naples at a moment's notice, it was to avoid a scene. He hated scenes. He hated emotions. He immediately recognized the mistake he had made by calling for his grandchild. He worried that Coningsby was soft-hearted like his father. Another soft-hearted Coningsby! Unlucky family! Degenerate lineage! He decided in his mind that Coningsby should be set up in the Church, and glanced at Mr. Rigby, whose main job was always to free his patron from anything unpleasant.

Mr. Rigby instantly came forward and adroitly led the boy into the adjoining apartment, Lord Monmouth’s bedchamber, closing the door of the dressing-room behind him.

Mr. Rigby quickly stepped forward and skillfully guided the boy into the next room, Lord Monmouth's bedroom, shutting the dressing-room door behind him.

‘My dear young friend,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘what is all this?’

‘My dear young friend,’ Mr. Rigby said, ‘what’s going on here?’

A sob the only answer.

A sob was the only answer.

‘What can be the matter?’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘What could be the problem?’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘I was thinking,’ said Coningsby, ‘of poor mamma!’

‘I was thinking,’ said Coningsby, ‘about poor mom!’

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘Lord Monmouth never likes to hear of people who are dead; so you must take care never to mention your mother or your father.’

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘Lord Monmouth doesn’t want to hear about people who are dead, so make sure you never mention your mother or your father.’

In the meantime Lord Monmouth had decided on the fate of Coningsby. The Marquis thought he could read characters by a glance, and in general he was successful, for his natural sagacity had been nurtured by great experience. His grandson was not to his taste; amiable no doubt, but spooney.

In the meantime, Lord Monmouth had made up his mind about Coningsby. The Marquis believed he could judge a person's character with a single look, and most of the time he was right, as his natural insight had been honed by extensive experience. His grandson didn't impress him; he was nice enough, but a bit foolish.

We are too apt to believe that the character of a boy is easily read. ‘Tis a mystery the most profound. Mark what blunders parents constantly make as to the nature of their own offspring, bred, too, under their eyes, and displaying every hour their characteristics. How often in the nursery does the genius count as a dunce because he is pensive; while a rattling urchin is invested with almost supernatural qualities because his animal spirits make him impudent and flippant! The school-boy, above all others, is not the simple being the world imagines. In that young bosom are often stirring passions as strong as our own, desires not less violent, a volition not less supreme. In that young bosom what burning love, what intense ambition, what avarice, what lust of power; envy that fiends might emulate, hate that man might fear!

We tend to think that we can easily understand a boy's character. It's actually a deep mystery. Look at the mistakes parents constantly make about their own children, raised right in front of them, showing their traits every hour. How often in the nursery does a thoughtful child get labeled a fool just because he's quiet, while a loud and cheeky one is seen as almost magical because his high energy makes him rude and playful! The schoolboy, more than anyone else, is not the simple person the world assumes he is. Within that young heart are often strong emotions just like ours, desires that are just as intense, and a will that is just as powerful. Inside that young heart, there’s burning love, fierce ambition, greed, a thirst for power; envy that could rival demons, and hatred that should be feared!

CHAPTER IV.

‘Come,’ said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby was somewhat composed, ‘come with me and we will see the house.’

‘Come,’ said Mr. Rigby, when Coningsby had calmed down a bit, ‘let's go and see the house.’

So they descended once more the private staircase, and again entered the vestibule.

So they went down the private staircase again and entered the vestibule once more.

‘If you had seen these gardens when they were illuminated for a fête to George IV.,’ said Rigby, as crossing the chamber he ushered his charge into the state apartments. The splendour and variety of the surrounding objects soon distracted the attention of the boy, for the first time in the palace of his fathers. He traversed saloon after saloon hung with rare tapestry and the gorgeous products of foreign looms; filled with choice pictures and creations of curious art; cabinets that sovereigns might envy, and colossal vases of malachite presented by emperors. Coningsby alternately gazed up to ceilings glowing with color and with gold, and down upon carpets bright with the fancies and vivid with the tints of Aubusson and of Axminster.

‘If you had seen these gardens when they were lit up for a celebration for George IV.,’ said Rigby, as he crossed the room and led his charge into the state apartments. The grandeur and variety of the surrounding objects quickly distracted the boy, for the first time in his ancestors' palace. He moved through hall after hall adorned with rare tapestries and beautiful items from foreign looms; filled with exquisite paintings and unique art pieces; cabinets that kings might envy, and huge malachite vases given by emperors. Coningsby alternately looked up at ceilings glowing with color and gold, and down at carpets bright with the designs and vivid colors of Aubusson and Axminster.

‘This grandfather of mine is a great prince,’ thought Coningsby, as musing he stood before a portrait in which he recognised the features of the being from whom he had so recently and so strangely parted. There he stood, Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, in his robes of state, with his new coronet on a table near him, a despatch lying at hand that indicated the special mission of high ceremony of which he had been the illustrious envoy, and the garter beneath his knee.

‘This grandfather of mine is a great prince,’ thought Coningsby, as he stood in front of a portrait, lost in thought, recognizing the features of the person he had so recently and oddly parted from. There he was, Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, in his royal robes, with his new coronet on a table beside him, a dispatch nearby that indicated the important ceremonial mission he had been the distinguished envoy for, and the garter beneath his knee.

‘You will have plenty of opportunities to look at the pictures,’ said Rigby, observing that the boy had now quite recovered himself. ‘Some luncheon will do you no harm after our drive;’ and he opened the door of another apartment.

‘You’ll have plenty of chances to see the pictures,’ said Rigby, noticing that the boy had fully composed himself. ‘A little lunch won’t hurt you after our drive;’ and he opened the door to another room.

It was a pretty room adorned with a fine picture of the chase; at a round table in the centre sat two ladies interested in the meal to which Rigby had alluded.

It was a lovely room decorated with a beautiful painting of the hunt; at a round table in the center sat two women intrigued by the meal that Rigby had mentioned.

‘Ah, Mr. Rigby!’ said the eldest, yet young and beautiful, and speaking, though with fluency, in a foreign accent, ‘come and tell me some news. Have you seen Milor?’ and then she threw a scrutinizing glance from a dark flashing eye at his companion.

‘Oh, Mr. Rigby!’ said the eldest, who was still young and beautiful, and spoke fluently with a foreign accent, ‘come and share some news. Have you seen Milor?’ Then she shot a probing look from her dark, sparkling eyes at his companion.

‘Let me present to your Highness,’ said Rigby, with an air of some ceremony, ‘Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Allow me to introduce to Your Highness,’ Rigby said with a formal touch, ‘Mr. Coningsby.’

‘My dear young friend,’ said the lady, extending her white hand with an air of joyous welcome, ‘this is Lucretia, my daughter. We love you already. Lord Monmouth will be so charmed to see you. What beautiful eyes he has, Mr. Rigby. Quite like Milor.’

‘My dear young friend,’ said the lady, extending her white hand with a joyful welcome, ‘this is Lucretia, my daughter. We already love you. Lord Monmouth will be so delighted to see you. What beautiful eyes he has, Mr. Rigby. Just like Milor.’

The young lady, who was really more youthful than Coningsby, but of a form and stature so developed that she appeared almost a woman, bowed to the guest with some ceremony, and a faint sullen smile, and then proceeded with her Perigord pie.

The young lady, who was actually younger than Coningsby, but had such developed form and stature that she seemed almost like a woman, greeted the guest with a bit of formality and a faint, subdued smile, and then went back to her Perigord pie.

‘You must be so hungry after your drive,’ said the elder lady, placing Coningsby at her side, and herself filling his plate.

‘You must be so hungry after your drive,’ said the older woman, sitting Coningsby next to her and filling his plate herself.

This was true enough; and while Mr. Rigby and the lady talked an infinite deal about things which he did not understand, and persons of whom he had never heard, our little hero made his first meal in his paternal house with no ordinary zest; and renovated by the pasty and a glass of sherry, felt altogether a different being from what he was, when he had undergone the terrible interview in which he began to reflect he had considerably exposed himself. His courage revived, his senses rallied, he replied to the interrogations of the lady with calmness, but with promptness and propriety. It was evident that he had made a favourable impression on her Highness, for ever and anon she put a truffle or some delicacy in his plate, and insisted upon his taking some particular confectionery, because it was a favourite of her own. When she rose, she said,—

This was certainly true. While Mr. Rigby and the lady chatted endlessly about topics he didn’t understand and people he had never heard of, our little hero enjoyed his first meal at his father’s house with genuine enthusiasm. Revitalized by the pie and a glass of sherry, he felt completely different from how he had felt during that awful meeting where he realized he had really made a fool of himself. His confidence returned, his senses sharpened, and he responded to the lady’s questions with calmness, but also with quickness and politeness. It was clear that he had made a good impression on her Highness, as she kept adding a truffle or some delicate treat to his plate and insisted he try a specific sweet because it was one of her favorites. When she stood up, she said,—

‘In ten minutes the carriage will be at the door; and if you like, my dear young friend, you shall be our beau.’

‘In ten minutes, the carriage will be at the door; and if you want, my dear young friend, you can be our guest.’

‘There is nothing I should like so much,’ said Coningsby.

‘There is nothing I would like more,’ said Coningsby.

‘Ah!’ said the lady, with the sweetest smile, ‘he is frank.’

‘Ah!’ said the lady, with the sweetest smile, ‘he is honest.’

The ladies bowed and retired; Mr. Rigby returned to the Marquess, and the groom of the chambers led Coningsby to his room.

The ladies curtsied and left; Mr. Rigby went back to the Marquess, and the manservant guided Coningsby to his room.

This lady, so courteous to Coningsby, was the Princess Colonna, a Roman dame, the second wife of Prince Paul Colonna. The prince had first married when a boy, and into a family not inferior to his own. Of this union, in every respect unhappy, the Princess Lucretia was the sole offspring. He was a man dissolute and devoted to play; and cared for nothing much but his pleasures and billiards, in which latter he was esteemed unrivalled. According to some, in a freak of passion, according to others, to cancel a gambling debt, he had united himself to his present wife, whose origin was obscure; but with whom he contrived to live on terms of apparent cordiality, for she was much admired, and made the society of her husband sought by those who contributed to his enjoyment. Among these especially figured the Marquess of Monmouth, between whom and Prince Colonna the world recognised as existing the most intimate and entire friendship, so that his Highness and his family were frequent guests under the roof of the English nobleman, and now accompanied him on a visit to England.

This lady, so polite to Coningsby, was Princess Colonna, a Roman woman, the second wife of Prince Paul Colonna. The prince had married for the first time when he was young, to a family that was as good as his own. From that unhappy marriage, the only child was Princess Lucretia. He was a hedonist and a dedicated gambler, mostly interested in his pleasures and billiards, where he was thought to be unmatched. According to some, he married his current wife out of a moment of passion; according to others, it was to settle a gambling debt. She came from an unclear background, yet they managed to live together in apparent harmony, as she was greatly admired and attracted people to her husband, who enjoyed his social life. Among those especially close was the Marquess of Monmouth, with whom Prince Colonna shared a very close friendship. As a result, his Highness and his family were often guests at the English nobleman's home, and they were now accompanying him on a visit to England.

CHAPTER V.

In the meantime, while ladies are luncheoning on Perigord pie, or coursing in whirling britskas, performing all the singular ceremonies of a London morning in the heart of the season; making visits where nobody is seen, and making purchases which are not wanted; the world is in agitation and uproar. At present the world and the confusion are limited to St. James’s Street and Pall Mall; but soon the boundaries and the tumult will be extended to the intended metropolitan boroughs; to-morrow they will spread over the manufacturing districts. It is perfectly evident, that before eight-and-forty hours have passed, the country will be in a state of fearful crisis. And how can it be otherwise? Is it not a truth that the subtle Chief Baron has been closeted one whole hour with the King; that shortly after, with thoughtful brow and compressed lip, he was marked in his daring chariot entering the courtyard of Apsley House? Great was the panic at Brookes’, wild the hopes of Carlton Terrace; all the gentlemen who expected to have been made peers perceived that the country was going to be given over to a rapacious oligarchy.

In the meantime, while ladies are enjoying lunch with Perigord pie or riding around in fancy carriages, going through all the usual rituals of a London morning in the busy season; making visits where no one is actually seen and making purchases they don't need; the world is in chaos and turmoil. Right now, the chaos is limited to St. James’s Street and Pall Mall; but soon the chaos will spread to the planned metropolitan boroughs; tomorrow it will reach the manufacturing areas. It's clear that in less than 48 hours, the country will be in a serious crisis. And how could it be any different? Isn’t it a fact that the clever Chief Baron spent a whole hour alone with the King; that shortly after, with a serious expression and tight lips, he was seen driving into the courtyard of Apsley House in his grand carriage? There was great panic at Brookes’, and wild hopes at Carlton Terrace; all the gentlemen who thought they were about to become peers realized that the country was going to fall into the hands of a greedy oligarchy.

In the meantime Tadpole and Taper, who had never quitted for an instant the mysterious head-quarters of the late Opposition, were full of hopes and fears, and asked many questions, which they chiefly answered themselves.

In the meantime, Tadpole and Taper, who had never left the mysterious headquarters of the former Opposition, were filled with hopes and fears, and asked many questions, which they mostly answered themselves.

‘I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to the king,’ said Taper.

‘I wonder what Lord Lyndhurst will say to the king,’ Taper said.

‘He has plenty of pluck,’ said Tadpole.

‘He has a lot of guts,’ said Tadpole.

‘I almost wish now that Rigby had breakfasted with him this morning,’ said Taper.

‘I almost wish now that Rigby had had breakfast with him this morning,’ said Taper.

‘If the King be firm, and the country sound,’ said Tadpole, ‘and Lord Monmouth keep his boroughs, I should not wonder to see Rigby made a privy councillor.’

‘If the King is steady, and the country is stable,’ said Tadpole, ‘and Lord Monmouth holds onto his boroughs, I wouldn't be surprised to see Rigby appointed as a privy councillor.’

‘There is no precedent for an under-secretary being a privy councillor,’ said Taper.

‘There’s no precedent for an under-secretary being a privy councillor,’ said Taper.

‘But we live in revolutionary times,’ said Tadpole.

‘But we’re living in revolutionary times,’ said Tadpole.

‘Gentlemen,’ said the groom of the chambers, in a loud voice, entering the room, ‘I am desired to state that the Duke of Wellington is with the King.’

‘Gentlemen,’ said the groom of the chambers, in a loud voice, entering the room, ‘I have been asked to inform you that the Duke of Wellington is with the King.’

‘There is a Providence!’ exclaimed an agitated gentleman, the patent of whose intended peerage had not been signed the day that the Duke had quited office in 1830.

‘There is a Providence!’ exclaimed an upset gentleman, whose peerage application hadn't been signed on the day the Duke left office in 1830.

‘I always thought the King would be firm,’ said Mr. Tadpole.

‘I always thought the King would be strong,’ said Mr. Tadpole.

‘I wonder who will have the India Board,’ said Taper.

‘I wonder who will have the India Board,’ Taper said.

At this moment three or four gentlemen entered the room in a state of great bustle and excitement; they were immediately surrounded.

At that moment, three or four gentlemen walked into the room, full of energy and excitement; they were quickly surrounded.

‘Is it true?’ ‘Quite true; not the slightest doubt. Saw him myself. Not at all hissed; certainly not hooted. Perhaps a little hissed. One fellow really cheered him. Saw him myself. Say what they like, there is reaction.’ ‘But Constitution Hill, they say?’ ‘Well, there was a sort of inclination to a row on Constitution Hill; but the Duke quite firm; pistols, and carriage doors bolted.’

‘Is it true?’ ‘Absolutely true; there's not a shadow of a doubt. I saw him myself. He wasn't booed at all; maybe just a tiny bit. One guy actually cheered for him. I saw it with my own eyes. No matter what people say, there's definitely a reaction.’ ‘But what about Constitution Hill, they say?’ ‘Well, there was some sort of tension on Constitution Hill; but the Duke was very determined; pistols ready, and carriage doors locked.’

Such may give a faint idea of the anxious inquiries and the satisfactory replies that were occasioned by the entrance of this group.

Such may give a vague sense of the worried questions and the reassuring answers that arose with the arrival of this group.

‘Up, guards, and at them!’ exclaimed Tadpole, rubbing his hands in a fit of patriotic enthusiasm.

‘Get up, guards, and go for it!’ shouted Tadpole, rubbing his hands in a burst of patriotic excitement.

Later in the afternoon, about five o’clock, the high change of political gossip, when the room was crowded, and every one had his rumour, Mr. Rigby looked in again to throw his eye over the evening papers, and catch in various chit-chat the tone of public or party feeling on the ‘crisis.’ Then it was known that the Duke had returned from the King, having accepted the charge of forming an administration. An administration to do what? Portentous question! Were concessions to be made? And if so, what? Was it altogether impossible, and too late, ‘stare super vias antiquas?’ Questions altogether above your Tadpoles and your Tapers, whose idea of the necessities of the age was that they themselves should be in office.

Later in the afternoon, around five o’clock, amidst the buzzing political gossip, when the room was packed and everyone had their own rumor, Mr. Rigby popped in again to glance at the evening papers and pick up the vibe of public or party sentiment regarding the ‘crisis.’ It was then revealed that the Duke had returned from the King, having agreed to take on the responsibility of forming a government. A government to do what? A loaded question! Would there be concessions? And if so, what kind? Was it completely impossible, and too late, to ‘stay on the old paths?’ Questions far beyond what your Tadpoles and Tapers could understand, whose grasp of the needs of the time was simply that they themselves should be in power.

Lord Eskdale came up to Mr. Rigby. This peer was a noble Croesus, acquainted with all the gradations of life; a voluptuary who could be a Spartan; clear-sighted, unprejudiced, sagacious; the best judge in the world of a horse or a man; he was the universal referee; a quarrel about a bet or a mistress was solved by him in a moment, and in a manner which satisfied both parties. He patronised and appreciated the fine arts, though a jockey; respected literary men, though he only read French novels; and without any affectation of tastes which he did not possess, was looked upon by every singer and dancer in Europe as their natural champion. The secret of his strong character and great influence was his self-composure, which an earthquake or a Reform Bill could not disturb, and which in him was the result of temperament and experience. He was an intimate acquaintance of Lord Monmouth, for they had many tastes in common; were both men of considerable, and in some degree similar abilities; and were the two greatest proprietors of close boroughs in the country.

Lord Eskdale approached Mr. Rigby. This nobleman was incredibly wealthy, familiar with all walks of life; a pleasure-seeker who could also be disciplined; perceptive, unbiased, and wise; the best judge of a horse or a person; he was an all-around referee. Any dispute over a bet or a romantic interest was settled by him swiftly and in a way that satisfied everyone involved. He supported and appreciated the fine arts, even as a jockey; respected writers, despite only reading French novels; and without pretending to have tastes he didn't, was seen by every singer and dancer in Europe as their natural advocate. The key to his strong character and great influence was his calmness, which could not be shaken by an earthquake or a Reform Bill, and this calmness stemmed from both his temperament and his experiences. He was a close friend of Lord Monmouth, as they shared many interests; both were men of considerable and somewhat similar talents; and they were the two largest owners of closely held boroughs in the country.

‘Do you dine at Monmouth House to-day?’ inquired Lord Eskdale of Mr. Rigby.

“Are you dining at Monmouth House today?” Lord Eskdale asked Mr. Rigby.

‘Where I hope to meet your lordship. The Whig papers are very subdued,’ continued Mr. Rigby.

‘Where I hope to meet you, my lord. The Whig papers are quite quiet,’ continued Mr. Rigby.

‘Ah! they have not the cue yet,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘Ah! they still don’t have the cue,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘And what do you think of affairs?’ inquired his companion.

‘So, what do you think about affairs?’ his companion asked.

‘I think the hounds are too hot to hark off now,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘I think the hounds are too eager to start now,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘There is one combination,’ said Rigby, who seemed meditating an attack on Lord Eskdale’s button.

"There’s one combination," said Rigby, who looked like he was planning to go after Lord Eskdale’s button.

‘Give it us at dinner,’ said Lord Eskdale, who knew his man, and made an adroit movement forwards, as if he were very anxious to see the Globe newspaper.

‘Give it to us at dinner,’ said Lord Eskdale, who knew his guy, and made a quick move forward, as if he were really eager to see the Globe newspaper.

In the course of two or three hours these gentlemen met again in the green drawing-room of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was sitting on a sofa by Lord Monmouth, detailing in whispers all his gossip of the morn: Lord Eskdale murmuring quaint inquiries into the ear of the Princess Lucretia.

In about two or three hours, these guys met again in the green drawing-room of Monmouth House. Mr. Rigby was sitting on a sofa next to Lord Monmouth, sharing all his morning gossip in whispers, while Lord Eskdale was softly asking quirky questions to Princess Lucretia.

Madame Colonna made remarks alternately to two gentlemen, who paid her assiduous court. One of these was Mr. Ormsby; the school, the college, and the club crony of Lord Monmouth, who had been his shadow through life; travelled with him in early days, won money with him at play, had been his colleague in the House of Commons; and was still one of his nominees. Mr. Ormsby was a millionaire, which Lord Monmouth liked. He liked his companions to be very rich or very poor; be his equals, able to play with him at high stakes, or join him in a great speculation; or to be his tools, and to amuse and serve him. There was nothing which he despised and disliked so much as a moderate fortune.

Madame Colonna chatted alternately with two gentlemen who were vying for her attention. One of them was Mr. Ormsby, Lord Monmouth's longtime friend from school, college, and the club, who had always been his companion; he traveled with him in their youth, made money playing cards together, was his colleague in the House of Commons, and remained one of his chosen associates. Mr. Ormsby was a millionaire, which pleased Lord Monmouth. He preferred his friends to be either extremely wealthy or very poor; he wanted equals who could gamble high stakes with him or join him in major ventures, or to be people he could control, entertain, and who served his interests. He had nothing but disdain for those with moderate wealth.

The other gentleman was of a different class and character. Nature had intended Lucian Gay for a scholar and a wit; necessity had made him a scribbler and a buffoon. He had distinguished himself at the University; but he had no patrimony, nor those powers of perseverance which success in any learned profession requires. He was good-looking, had great animal spirits, and a keen sense of enjoyment, and could not drudge. Moreover he had a fine voice, and sang his own songs with considerable taste; accomplishments which made his fortune in society and completed his ruin. In due time he extricated himself from the bench and merged into journalism, by means of which he chanced to become acquainted with Mr. Rigby. That worthy individual was not slow in detecting the treasure he had lighted on; a wit, a ready and happy writer, a joyous and tractable being, with the education, and still the feelings and manners, of a gentleman. Frequent were the Sunday dinners which found Gay a guest at Mr. Rigby’s villa; numerous the airy pasquinades which he left behind, and which made the fortune of his patron. Flattered by the familiar acquaintance of a man of station, and sanguine that he had found the link which would sooner or later restore him to the polished world that he had forfeited, Gay laboured in his vocation with enthusiasm and success. Willingly would Rigby have kept his treasure to himself; and truly he hoarded it for a long time, but it oozed out. Rigby loved the reputation of possessing the complete art of society. His dinners were celebrated at least for their guests. Great intellectual illustrations were found there blended with rank and high station. Rigby loved to patronise; to play the minister unbending and seeking relief from the cares of council in the society of authors, artists, and men of science. He liked dukes to dine with him and hear him scatter his audacious criticisms to Sir Thomas or Sir Humphry. They went away astounded by the powers of their host, who, had he not fortunately devoted those powers to their party, must apparently have rivalled Vandyke, or discovered the safety-lamp.

The other guy was from a different background and had a different vibe. Nature had meant Lucian Gay to be a scholar and a clever person; necessity turned him into a writer and a jester. He had stood out at the University, but he lacked family wealth and the perseverance needed for success in any academic career. He was good-looking, full of energy, loved to enjoy life, and wasn't one to grind away at tedious tasks. Plus, he had a great singing voice and put a lot of flair into his own songs; these talents helped him become popular socially but ultimately led to his downfall. Eventually, he left his previous job and moved into journalism, where he happened to meet Mr. Rigby. This astute man quickly recognized the gem he had found—a witty, quick, and cheerful writer, who still had the upbringing and manners of a gentleman. There were plenty of Sunday dinners where Gay was a guest at Mr. Rigby’s villa, and he left behind many lighthearted writings that contributed to his patron's success. Flattered by the friendship of someone of higher status and hopeful that this connection would eventually bring him back to the refined world he had lost, Gay worked passionately and successfully in his field. Rigby would have liked to keep his treasure to himself; he certainly cherished it for a long time, but it eventually became known. Rigby enjoyed having the reputation of hosting the best gathering in society. His dinners were famous at least for the notable guests. There you would find great intellectual discussions mixed with nobility and high status. Rigby loved to play the role of a patron, to unwind from his responsibilities while surrounded by writers, artists, and scientists. He liked having dukes over for dinner and sharing his bold critiques with Sir Thomas or Sir Humphry. They left amazed by their host’s talents, which, had he not dedicated them to their circle, could have made him famous like Vandyke or led to the invention of the safety lamp.

Now in these dinners, Lucian Gay, who had brilliant conversational powers, and who possessed all the resources of boon companionship, would be an invaluable ally. He was therefore admitted, and inspired both by the present enjoyment, and the future to which it might lead, his exertions were untiring, various, most successful. Rigby’s dinners became still, more celebrated. It, however, necessarily followed that the guests who were charmed by Gay, wished Gay also to be their guest. Rigby was very jealous of this, but it was inevitable; still by constant manoeuvre, by intimations of some exercise, some day or other, of substantial patronage in his behalf, by a thousand little arts by which he carved out work for Gay which often prevented him accepting invitations to great houses in the country, by judicious loans of small sums on Lucian’s notes of hand and other analogous devices, Rigby contrived to keep the wit in a fair state of bondage and dependence.

Now at these dinners, Lucian Gay, who had a talent for conversation and was great company, became an invaluable ally. He was therefore welcomed, and inspired by both the enjoyment of the moment and the possibilities it might lead to, he worked tirelessly, diversely, and successfully. Rigby's dinners became even more famous. However, it naturally followed that the guests who were captivated by Gay wanted him to join them as well. Rigby was very jealous of this, but it was unavoidable; still, through constant maneuvering, hints of potential support for him in the future, and a thousand little tricks to create work for Gay that often stopped him from accepting invitations to grand houses in the countryside, along with judicious loans of small amounts on Lucian’s promissory notes and other similar tactics, Rigby managed to keep the wit in a good state of bondage and dependence.

One thing Rigby was resolved on: Gay should never get into Monmouth House. That was an empyrean too high for his wing to soar in. Rigby kept that social monopoly distinctively to mark the relation that subsisted between them as patron and client. It was something to swagger about when they were together after their second bottle of claret. Rigby kept his resolution for some years, which the frequent and prolonged absence of the Marquess rendered not very difficult. But we are the creatures of circumstances; at least the Rigby race particularly. Lord Monmouth returned to England one year, and wanted to be amused. He wanted a jester: a man about him who would make him, not laugh, for that was impossible, but smile more frequently, tell good stories, say good things, and sing now and then, especially French songs. Early in life Rigby would have attempted all this, though he had neither fun, voice, nor ear. But his hold on Lord Monmouth no longer depended on the mere exercise of agreeable qualities, he had become indispensable to his lordship, by more serious if not higher considerations. And what with auditing his accounts, guarding his boroughs, writing him, when absent, gossip by every post and when in England deciding on every question and arranging every matter which might otherwise have ruffled the sublime repose of his patron’s existence, Rigby might be excused if he shrank a little from the minor part of table wit, particularly when we remember all his subterranean journalism, his acid squibs, and his malicious paragraphs, and, what Tadpole called, his ‘slashing articles.’

One thing Rigby was sure of: Gay should never be allowed into Monmouth House. That was a level far too high for him to reach. Rigby kept that social monopoly to highlight the patron-client relationship they had, something he could boast about after they'd had a few bottles of claret. He stuck to this resolution for several years, made easier by the Marquess's frequent long absences. But circumstances can change people, especially the Rigbys. Lord Monmouth returned to England one year and wanted to be entertained. He needed a jester: someone who would make him, if not laugh, at least smile more often, share good stories, say clever things, and occasionally sing, particularly in French. In his younger days, Rigby would have tried to do all that, even though he had no humor, singing ability, or musical talent. But his relationship with Lord Monmouth was no longer based just on being agreeable; he had become indispensable due to more serious, even if not higher, reasons. Between managing his finances, overseeing his political districts, keeping him updated with gossip via mail, and handling every issue when he was in England to prevent any disruption to his lordship's peaceful life, Rigby could be forgiven for stepping back from the lighter role of witty conversationalist, especially considering all his underground journalism, sharp critiques, and his so-called "slashing articles," as Tadpole put it.

These ‘slashing articles’ were, indeed, things which, had they appeared as anonymous pamphlets, would have obtained the contemptuous reception which in an intellectual view no compositions more surely deserved; but whispered as the productions of one behind the scenes, and appearing in the pages of a party review, they were passed off as genuine coin, and took in great numbers of the lieges, especially in the country. They were written in a style apparently modelled on the briefs of those sharp attorneys who weary advocates with their clever commonplace; teasing with obvious comment, and torturing with inevitable inference. The affectation of order in the statement of facts had all the lucid method of an adroit pettifogger. They dealt much in extracts from newspapers, quotations from the Annual Register, parallel passages in forgotten speeches, arranged with a formidable array of dates rarely accurate. When the writer was of opinion he had made a point, you may be sure the hit was in italics, that last resource of the Forcible Feebles. He handled a particular in chronology as if he were proving an alibi at the Criminal Court. The censure was coarse without being strong, and vindictive when it would have been sarcastic. Now and then there was a passage which aimed at a higher flight, and nothing can be conceived more unlike genuine feeling, or more offensive to pure taste. And yet, perhaps, the most ludicrous characteristic of these facetious gallimaufreys was an occasional assumption of the high moral and admonitory tone, which when we recurred to the general spirit of the discourse, and were apt to recall the character of its writer, irresistibly reminded one of Mrs. Cole and her prayer-book.

These "slashing articles" were really the kind of things that, if they had been released as anonymous pamphlets, would have been met with well-deserved contempt from an intellectual standpoint. But whispered to be the work of someone behind the scenes and published in a party review, they were accepted as genuine, fooling many people, especially in rural areas. They were written in a style seemingly inspired by the briefs of sharp lawyers who bore their clients with clever clichés; poking at obvious points and twisting with inevitable conclusions. The false sense of order in the presentation of facts had all the clear manipulation of a slick lawyer. They relied heavily on newspaper excerpts, quotes from the Annual Register, and parallels from forgotten speeches, organized with an intimidating list of dates that were rarely accurate. When the writer felt they had made a strong point, you can bet it was in italics, that last resort of the weaker arguments. They treated specifics in chronology as if they were proving an alibi in a criminal trial. The criticism was harsh without being strong, and spiteful when it could have been sarcastic. Occasionally, there was a section that aimed for a more elevated tone, and nothing could be more lacking in genuine feeling or more offensive to good taste. Yet, perhaps the most absurd aspect of these humorous compilations was the occasional pretense of a high moral and warning tone, which, when weighed against the overall spirit of the discourse and recalling the character of the writer, irresistibly reminded one of Mrs. Cole and her prayer book.

To return to Lucian Gay. It was a rule with Rigby that no one, if possible, should do anything for Lord Monmouth but himself; and as a jester must be found, he was determined that his Lordship should have the best in the market, and that he should have the credit of furnishing the article. As a reward, therefore, for many past services, and a fresh claim to his future exertions, Rigby one day broke to Gay that the hour had at length arrived when the highest object of reasonable ambition on his part, and the fulfilment of one of Rigby’s long-cherished and dearest hopes, were alike to be realised. Gay was to be presented to Lord Monmouth and dine at Monmouth House.

To get back to Lucian Gay. Rigby had a strict policy that no one, if he could help it, should do anything for Lord Monmouth except himself; and since a jester needed to be found, he was set on making sure his Lordship got the best available, while also getting the credit for providing it. So, as a reward for past services and to encourage future efforts, Rigby eventually told Gay that the time had finally come for him to achieve his greatest reasonable ambition, which also fulfilled one of Rigby’s long-held and most cherished hopes. Gay was going to be introduced to Lord Monmouth and have dinner at Monmouth House.

The acquaintance was a successful one; very agreeable to both parties. Gay became an habitual guest of Lord Monmouth when his patron was in England; and in his absence received frequent and substantial marks of his kind recollection, for Lord Monmouth was generous to those who amused him.

The meeting went well and was enjoyable for both sides. Gay became a regular guest at Lord Monmouth's house whenever his patron was in England; and when he wasn’t, he often received generous reminders of his kind thoughts, since Lord Monmouth was known to be generous to those who entertained him.

In the meantime the hour of dinner is at hand. Coningsby, who had lost the key of his carpet-bag, which he finally cut open with a penknife that he found on his writing-table, and the blade of which he broke in the operation, only reached the drawing-room as the figure of his grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane, and following his guests, was just visible in the distance. He was soon overtaken. Perceiving Coningsby, Lord Monmouth made him a bow, not so formal a one as in the morning, but still a bow, and said, ‘I hope you liked your drive.’

In the meantime, it's almost time for dinner. Coningsby, who had lost the key to his bag, finally decided to cut it open with a penknife he found on his desk, breaking the blade in the process. He arrived in the drawing-room just as his grandfather, leaning on his ivory cane and following his guests, was becoming visible in the distance. He quickly caught up. Noticing Coningsby, Lord Monmouth greeted him with a bow—not as stiff as in the morning, but still a bow—and said, "I hope you enjoyed your drive."

CHAPTER VI.

A little dinner, not more than the Muses, with all the guests clever, and some pretty, offers human life and human nature under very favourable circumstances. In the present instance, too, every one was anxious to please, for the host was entirely well-bred, never selfish in little things, and always contributed his quota to the general fund of polished sociability.

A small dinner, no more than the Muses, with all the guests being smart and some quite attractive, presents human life and nature in a very positive light. In this case, everyone was eager to impress because the host was completely graceful, never self-centered in small matters, and always added his share to the overall atmosphere of refined friendliness.

Although there was really only one thought in every male mind present, still, regard for the ladies, and some little apprehension of the servants, banished politics from discourse during the greater part of the dinner, with the occasional exception of some rapid and flying allusion which the initiated understood, but which remained a mystery to the rest. Nevertheless an old story now and then well told by Mr. Ormsby, a new joke now and then well introduced by Mr. Gay, some dashing assertion by Mr. Rigby, which, though wrong, was startling; this agreeable blending of anecdote, jest, and paradox, kept everything fluent, and produced that degree of mild excitation which is desirable. Lord Monmouth sometimes summed up with an epigrammatic sentence, and turned the conversation by a question, in case it dwelt too much on the same topic. Lord Eskdale addressed himself principally to the ladies; inquired after their morning drive and doings, spoke of new fashions, and quoted a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna was not witty, but she had that sweet Roman frankness which is so charming. The presence of a beautiful woman, natural and good-tempered, even if she be not a L’Espinasse or a De Stael, is animating.

Although there was really only one thought in every man's mind present, concern for the ladies, along with a bit of apprehension about the servants, kept politics out of the conversation for most of dinner, with the occasional quick reference that the initiated understood, but which remained a mystery to the others. However, an old story told well by Mr. Ormsby, a new joke introduced nicely by Mr. Gay, or a bold statement by Mr. Rigby, which was wrong but nonetheless surprising; this enjoyable mix of anecdotes, humor, and paradoxes kept the conversation flowing and created a pleasant level of mild excitement, which is desirable. Lord Monmouth occasionally wrapped things up with a clever remark and redirected the conversation if it lingered too long on one topic. Lord Eskdale mainly addressed the ladies, asking about their morning drive and activities, discussing new fashions, and quoting a letter from Paris. Madame Colonna wasn't witty, but she had that sweet Roman openness that is so charming. The presence of a beautiful woman, pleasant and down-to-earth, even if she isn't a L'Espinasse or a De Stael, is uplifting.

Nevertheless, owing probably to the absorbing powers of the forbidden subject, there were moments when it seemed that a pause was impending, and Mr. Ormsby, an old hand, seized one of these critical instants to address a good-natured question to Coningsby, whose acquaintance he had already cultivated by taking wine with him.

Nevertheless, probably because of the captivating nature of the forbidden topic, there were times when it felt like a pause was about to happen, and Mr. Ormsby, an experienced person, took advantage of one of these crucial moments to ask a friendly question to Coningsby, whose friendship he had already started building by sharing drinks with him.

‘And how do you like Eton?’ asked Mr. Ormsby.

‘So, what do you think of Eton?’ asked Mr. Ormsby.

It was the identical question which had been presented to Coningsby in the memorable interview of the morning, and which had received no reply; or rather had produced on his part a sentimental ebullition that had absolutely destined or doomed him to the Church.

It was the same question that Coningsby had faced in the unforgettable conversation that morning, and which had gone unanswered; or rather, it had sparked a sentimental outburst that had completely set him on a path toward the Church.

‘I should like to see the fellow who did not like Eton,’ said Coningsby, briskly, determined this time to be very brave.

‘I’d like to meet the person who doesn’t like Eton,’ said Coningsby, confidently, resolved this time to be very brave.

‘Gad I must go down and see the old place,’ said Mr. Ormsby, touched by a pensive reminiscence. ‘One can get a good bed and bottle of port at the Christopher, still?’

‘Gosh, I have to go check out the old place,’ said Mr. Ormsby, affected by a thoughtful memory. ‘You can still get a nice bed and a bottle of port at the Christopher, right?’

‘You had better come and try, sir,’ said Coningsby. ‘If you will come some day and dine with me at the Christopher, I will give you such a bottle of champagne as you never tasted yet.’

‘You should come and try, sir,’ said Coningsby. ‘If you come over one day and have dinner with me at the Christopher, I’ll get you a bottle of champagne like you’ve never tasted before.’

The Marquess looked at him, but said nothing.

The Marquess stared at him, but didn’t say anything.

‘Ah! I liked a dinner at the Christopher,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘after mutton, mutton, mutton, every day, it was not a bad thing.’

‘Ah! I enjoyed a dinner at the Christopher,’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘after eating mutton, mutton, mutton, every day, it was a nice change.’

‘We had venison for dinner every week last season,’ said Coningsby; ‘Buckhurst had it sent up from his park. But I don’t care for dinner. Breakfast is my lounge.’

‘We had deer meat for dinner every week last season,’ said Coningsby; ‘Buckhurst had it brought in from his estate. But I don’t really care for dinner. Breakfast is my time to relax.’

‘Ah! those little rolls and pats of butter!’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘Short commons, though. What do you think we did in my time? We used to send over the way to get a mutton-chop.’

‘Ah! those little rolls and pats of butter!’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘But they're just a small treat. What do you think we did in my day? We used to send across the street to get a mutton chop.’

‘I wish you could see Buckhurst and me at breakfast,’ said Coningsby, ‘with a pound of Castle’s sausages!’

‘I wish you could see Buckhurst and me having breakfast,’ said Coningsby, ‘with a pound of Castle’s sausages!’

‘What Buckhurst is that, Harry?’ inquired Lord Monmouth, in a tone of some interest, and for the first time calling him by his Christian name.

‘Which Buckhurst is that, Harry?’ Lord Monmouth asked, sounding somewhat interested, and for the first time using his first name.

‘Sir Charles Buckhurst, sir, a Berkshire man: Shirley Park is his place.’

‘Sir Charles Buckhurst, a man from Berkshire: Shirley Park is his estate.’

‘Why, that must be Charley’s son, Eskdale,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I had no idea he could be so young.’

‘Wow, that has to be Charley’s son, Eskdale,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I had no idea he could be so young.’

‘He married late, you know, and had nothing but daughters for a long time.’

‘He got married later in life, you know, and for a long time, he only had daughters.’

‘Well, I hope there will be no Reform Bill for Eton,’ said Lord Monmouth, musingly.

‘Well, I hope there won't be a Reform Bill for Eton,’ Lord Monmouth said thoughtfully.

The servants had now retired.

The staff has now left.

‘I think, Lord Monmouth,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘we must ask permission to drink one toast to-day.’

‘I think, Lord Monmouth,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘we should ask for permission to make a toast today.’

‘Nay, I will myself give it,’ he replied. ‘Madame Colonna, you will, I am sure, join us when we drink, THE DUKE!’

‘No, I will give it myself,’ he replied. ‘Madame Colonna, I'm sure you'll join us when we raise a toast to THE DUKE!’

‘Ah! what a man!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘What a pity it is you have a House of Commons here! England would be the greatest country in the world if it were not for that House of Commons. It makes so much confusion!’

‘Ah! what a man!’ exclaimed the Princess. ‘What a pity you have a House of Commons here! England would be the greatest country in the world if it weren't for that House of Commons. It creates so much confusion!’

‘Don’t abuse our property,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Lord Monmouth and I have still twenty votes of that same body between us.’

‘Don’t misuse our property,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Lord Monmouth and I still have twenty votes from that same group between us.’

‘And there is a combination,’ said Rigby, ‘by which you may still keep them.’

‘And there’s a way,’ said Rigby, ‘that you can still hold on to them.’

‘Ah! now for Rigby’s combination,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘Ah! now for Rigby’s combination,’ Lord Eskdale said.

‘The only thing that can save this country,’ said Rigby, ‘is a coalition on a sliding scale.’

‘The only thing that can save this country,’ said Rigby, ‘is a flexible coalition.’

‘You had better buy up the Birmingham Union and the other bodies,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I believe it might all be done for two or three hundred thousand pounds; and the newspapers too. Pitt would have settled this business long ago.’

‘You should probably buy the Birmingham Union and the other organizations,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I think you could get it all for two or three hundred thousand pounds; and the newspapers as well. Pitt would have taken care of this a long time ago.’

‘Well, at any rate, we are in,’ said Rigby, ‘and we must do something.’

‘Well, either way, we’re in,’ said Rigby, ‘and we have to do something.’

‘I should like to see Grey’s list of new peers,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘They say there are several members of our club in it.’

‘I’d like to see Grey’s list of new peers,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘They say there are a few members of our club on it.’

‘And the claims to the honour are so opposite,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one, on account of his large estate; another, because he has none; one, because he has a well-grown family to perpetuate the title; another, because he has no heir, and no power of ever obtaining one.’

‘And the reasons for the honor are so contradictory,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one, because of his large estate; another, because he has none; one, because he has a strong family to carry on the title; another, because he has no heir and no chance of ever getting one.’

‘I wonder how he will form his cabinet,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the old story won’t do.’

‘I wonder how he’s going to put his cabinet together,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the old approach won’t cut it.’

‘I hear that Baring is to be one of the new cards; they say it will please the city,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I suppose they will pick out of hedge and ditch everything that has ever had the semblance of liberalism.’

‘I hear that Baring is going to be one of the new cards; they say it will please the city,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I guess they’ll dig up anything from the hedges and ditches that ever looked like liberalism.’

‘Affairs in my time were never so complicated,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘Things in my time were never this complicated,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘Nay, it appears to me to lie in a nutshell,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one party wishes to keep their old boroughs, and the other to get their new peers.’

‘No, it seems clear to me,’ said Lucian Gay; ‘one side wants to keep their old boroughs, while the other wants to gain their new peers.’

CHAPTER VII.

The future historian of the country will be perplexed to ascertain what was the distinct object which the Duke of Wellington proposed to himself in the political manoeuvres of May, 1832. It was known that the passing of the Reform Bill was a condition absolute with the King; it was unquestionable, that the first general election under the new law must ignominiously expel the Anti-Reform Ministry from power; who would then resume their seats on the Opposition benches in both Houses with the loss not only of their boroughs, but of that reputation for political consistency, which might have been some compensation for the parliamentary influence of which they had been deprived. It is difficult to recognise in this premature effort of the Anti-Reform leader to thrust himself again into the conduct of public affairs, any indications of the prescient judgment which might have been expected from such a quarter. It savoured rather of restlessness than of energy; and, while it proved in its progress not only an ignorance on his part of the public mind, but of the feelings of his own party, it terminated under circumstances which were humiliating to the Crown, and painfully significant of the future position of the House of Lords in the new constitutional scheme.

The future historian of the country will find it puzzling to figure out what specific goal the Duke of Wellington had in mind during the political maneuvers of May 1832. It was clear that passing the Reform Bill was an absolute requirement from the King; it was undeniable that the first general election under the new law would disgracefully remove the Anti-Reform Ministry from power. They would then return to the Opposition benches in both Houses, not only losing their seats but also their reputation for political consistency, which might have somewhat compensated for the parliamentary influence they had lost. It's hard to see this premature attempt by the Anti-Reform leader to reinsert himself into public affairs as showing the foresight one might have expected from him. It seemed more like restlessness than anything else, and while it revealed his ignorance of public sentiment and the feelings of his own party, it ended in a way that was embarrassing for the Crown and pointedly significant for the future role of the House of Lords in the new constitutional framework.

The Duke of Wellington has ever been the votary of circumstances. He cares little for causes. He watches events rather than seeks to produce them. It is a characteristic of the military mind. Rapid combinations, the result of quick, vigilant, and comprehensive glance, are generally triumphant in the field: but in civil affairs, where results are not immediate; in diplomacy and in the management of deliberative assemblies, where there is much intervening time and many counteracting causes, this velocity of decision, this fitful and precipitate action, are often productive of considerable embarrassment, and sometimes of terrible discomfiture. It is remarkable that men celebrated for military prudence are often found to be headstrong statesmen. In civil life a great general is frequently and strangely the creature of impulse; influenced in his political movements by the last snatch of information; and often the creature of the last aide-de-camp who has his ear.

The Duke of Wellington has always been a follower of circumstances. He doesn't care much about causes. He pays attention to events rather than trying to create them. This is a common trait of military minds. Quick decisions, made through a fast, alert, and broad perspective, usually succeed in battle. However, in civil matters, where results take time; in diplomacy; and in managing discussion groups, where there are delays and many conflicting factors, this rapid decision-making and impulsive action can often lead to significant problems and sometimes to serious failures. It's interesting that people known for their military wisdom are often very stubborn in politics. In civilian life, a great general can often be surprisingly driven by impulse, swayed in his political actions by the latest piece of information, and frequently influenced by the most recent aide-de-camp who talks to him.

We shall endeavour to trace in another chapter the reasons which on this as on previous and subsequent occasions, induced Sir Robert Peel to stand aloof, if possible, from official life, and made him reluctant to re-enter the service of his Sovereign. In the present instance, even temporary success could only have been secured by the utmost decision, promptness, and energy. These were all wanting: some were afraid to follow the bold example of their leader; many were disinclined. In eight-and-forty hours it was known there was a ‘hitch.’

We will try to outline in another chapter the reasons why, on this and other occasions, Sir Robert Peel was inclined to stay away from official life and was hesitant to return to serving his Sovereign. In this situation, even a temporary victory could only have been achieved through absolute decisiveness, quick action, and energy. All of these were lacking: some were too scared to follow their leader's daring example; many just weren't interested. Within forty-eight hours, it became clear that there was a “hitch.”

The Reform party, who had been rather stupefied than appalled by the accepted mission of the Duke of Wellington, collected their scattered senses, and rallied their forces. The agitators harangued, the mobs hooted. The City of London, as if the King had again tried to seize the five members, appointed a permanent committee of the Common Council to watch the fortunes of the ‘great national measure,’ and to report daily. Brookes’, which was the only place that at first was really frightened and talked of compromise, grew valiant again; while young Whig heroes jumped upon club-room tables, and delivered fiery invectives. Emboldened by these demonstrations, the House of Commons met in great force, and passed a vote which struck, without disguise, at all rival powers in the State; virtually announced its supremacy; revealed the forlorn position of the House of Lords under the new arrangement; and seemed to lay for ever the fluttering phantom of regal prerogative.

The Reform party, who were more shocked than outraged by the accepted mission of the Duke of Wellington, gathered their thoughts and regrouped. The activists spoke passionately, and the crowds booed. The City of London, as if the King had attempted once again to arrest the five members, set up a permanent committee of the Common Council to keep an eye on the progress of the “great national measure” and to report back daily. Brookes’, which was the only place that initially felt truly scared and talked about compromise, became bold again; meanwhile, young Whig heroes leaped onto club-room tables and delivered fiery speeches. Encouraged by these actions, the House of Commons convened in strong numbers and passed a vote that openly targeted all rival powers in the State; it effectively declared its authority; showed the bleak situation of the House of Lords under the new arrangement; and appeared to finally put to rest the lingering specter of royal prerogative.

It was on the 9th of May that Lord Lyndhurst was with the King, and on the 15th all was over. Nothing in parliamentary history so humiliating as the funeral oration delivered that day by the Duke of Wellington over the old constitution, that, modelled on the Venetian, had governed England since the accession of the House of Hanover. He described his Sovereign, when his Grace first repaired to his Majesty, as in a state of the greatest ‘difficulty and distress,’ appealing to his never-failing loyalty to extricate him from his trouble and vexation. The Duke of Wellington, representing the House of Lords, sympathises with the King, and pledges his utmost efforts for his Majesty’s relief. But after five days’ exertion, this man of indomitable will and invincible fortunes, resigns the task in discomfiture and despair, and alleges as the only and sufficient reason for his utter and hopeless defeat, that the House of Commons had come to a vote which ran counter to the contemplated exercise of the prerogative.

It was on May 9th that Lord Lyndhurst was with the King, and by the 15th, everything was finished. Nothing in parliamentary history was as humiliating as the eulogy delivered that day by the Duke of Wellington for the old constitution, which had governed England since the House of Hanover took the throne and was modeled after the Venetian system. He described his Sovereign, when he first met with His Majesty, as being in a state of extreme ‘difficulty and distress,’ asking for his unwavering loyalty to help him out of his troubles and frustrations. The Duke of Wellington, representing the House of Lords, expressed his sympathy for the King and committed to doing everything he could for His Majesty’s relief. But after five days of effort, this man of relentless determination and unshakeable success, gave up the task in disappointment and despair, claiming as the only reason for his complete and hopeless failure that the House of Commons had voted in opposition to the anticipated use of the prerogative.

From that moment power passed from the House of Lords to another assembly. But if the peers have ceased to be magnificoes, may it not also happen that the Sovereign may cease to be a Doge? It is not impossible that the political movements of our time, which seem on the surface to have a tendency to democracy, may have in reality a monarchical bias.

From that moment, power shifted from the House of Lords to another assembly. But if the peers are no longer the elite, could it also be that the Sovereign may stop being a Doge? It's possible that the political movements of our time, which seem to lean towards democracy on the surface, might actually have a royal inclination.

In less than a fortnight’s time the House of Lords, like James II., having abdicated their functions by absence, the Reform Bill passed; the ardent monarch, who a few months before had expressed his readiness to go down to Parliament, in a hackney coach if necessary, to assist its progress, now declining personally to give his assent to its provisions.

In less than two weeks, the House of Lords, like James II, gave up their role by not showing up, and the Reform Bill was passed; the enthusiastic king, who just a few months earlier had said he was willing to travel to Parliament in a taxi if needed to help it move forward, now refused to personally approve its terms.

In the protracted discussions to which this celebrated measure gave rise, nothing is more remarkable than the perplexities into which the speakers of both sides are thrown, when they touch upon the nature of the representative principle. On one hand it was maintained, that, under the old system, the people were virtually represented; while on the other, it was triumphantly urged, that if the principle be conceded, the people should not be virtually, but actually, represented. But who are the people? And where are you to draw a line? And why should there be any? It was urged that a contribution to the taxes was the constitutional qualification for the suffrage. But we have established a system of taxation in this country of so remarkable a nature, that the beggar who chews his quid as he sweeps a crossing, is contributing to the imposts! Is he to have a vote? He is one of the people, and he yields his quota to the public burthens.

In the lengthy debates sparked by this famous measure, nothing stands out more than the confusion faced by speakers on both sides when discussing the representative principle. On one hand, some argued that, under the old system, the people were effectively represented; on the other hand, others confidently claimed that if the principle was accepted, the people should be actually represented, not just virtually. But who exactly are "the people"? Where should the line be drawn? And why should there even be one? It was suggested that contributing to taxes was the constitutional qualification for voting. However, we've created a tax system in this country that's so unique that even the beggar who chews his tobacco while sweeping the street is contributing to the taxes! Should he get a vote? He is one of the people, and he pays his share of the public burdens.

Amid these conflicting statements, and these confounding conclusions, it is singular that no member of either House should have recurred to the original character of these popular assemblies, which have always prevailed among the northern nations. We still retain in the antique phraseology of our statutes the term which might have beneficially guided a modern Reformer in his reconstructive labours.

Amid these conflicting statements and confusing conclusions, it's striking that no member of either House has brought up the original purpose of these popular assemblies, which have always existed among the northern nations. We still use the old language of our laws, including a term that could have effectively guided a modern Reformer in their efforts to rebuild.

When the crowned Northman consulted on the welfare of his kingdom, he assembled the ESTATES of his realm. Now an estate is a class of the nation invested with political rights. There appeared the estate of the clergy, of the barons, of other classes. In the Scandinavian kingdoms to this day, the estate of the peasants sends its representatives to the Diet. In England, under the Normans, the Church and the Baronage were convoked, together with the estate of the Community, a term which then probably described the inferior holders of land, whose tenure was not immediate of the Crown. This Third Estate was so numerous, that convenience suggested its appearance by representation; while the others, more limited, appeared, and still appear, personally. The Third Estate was reconstructed as circumstances developed themselves. It was a Reform of Parliament when the towns were summoned.

When the crowned Northman wanted to discuss the welfare of his kingdom, he gathered the ESTATES of his realm. An estate is a class within the nation that has political rights. The estate of the clergy, the barons, and other classes were present. In the Scandinavian kingdoms today, the estate of the peasants still sends representatives to the Diet. In England, under the Normans, the Church and the Barons were gathered along with the estate of the Community, a term that likely referred to those who held land but were not directly under the Crown. This Third Estate was so large that it made sense for them to be represented; meanwhile, the other estates, being smaller, appeared in person. The Third Estate took on new forms as circumstances changed. It was a Reform of Parliament when the towns were called to join.

In treating the House of the Third Estate as the House of the People, and not as the House of a privileged class, the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 virtually conceded the principle of Universal Suffrage. In this point of view the ten-pound franchise was an arbitrary, irrational, and impolitic qualification. It had, indeed, the merit of simplicity, and so had the constitutions of Abbé Siéyès. But its immediate and inevitable result was Chartism.

In viewing the House of the Third Estate as the House of the People instead of as a House for a privileged class, the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 essentially accepted the idea of Universal Suffrage. From this perspective, the ten-pound franchise was an arbitrary, unreasonable, and unwise requirement. While it was indeed simple, much like the constitutions proposed by Abbé Siéyès, its direct and unavoidable outcome was Chartism.

But if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 had announced that the time had arrived when the Third Estate should be enlarged and reconstructed, they would have occupied an intelligible position; and if, instead of simplicity of elements in its reconstruction, they had sought, on the contrary, various and varying materials which would have neutralised the painful predominance of any particular interest in the new scheme, and prevented those banded jealousies which have been its consequences, the nation would have found itself in a secure condition. Another class not less numerous than the existing one, and invested with privileges not less important, would have been added to the public estates of the realm; and the bewildering phrase ‘the People’ would have remained, what it really is, a term of natural philosophy, and not of political science.

But if the Ministry and Parliament of 1831 had declared that it was time to expand and rethink the Third Estate, they would have taken a clear stance; and if, rather than keeping it simple in its redesign, they had sought out different and diverse elements that would have countered the overwhelming influence of any single interest in the new plan, and avoided the rivalries that resulted from it, the nation would have been in a much better position. A new class, just as large as the current one and given equally important privileges, would have been added to the public estates of the country; and the confusing term ‘the People’ would have remained what it truly is—a concept of natural philosophy, not political science.

During this eventful week of May, 1832, when an important revolution was effected in the most considerable of modern kingdoms, in a manner so tranquil, that the victims themselves were scarcely conscious at the time of the catastrophe, Coningsby passed his hours in unaccustomed pleasures, and in novel excitement. Although he heard daily from the lips of Mr. Rigby and his friends that England was for ever lost, the assembled guests still contrived to do justice to his grandfather’s excellent dinners; nor did the impending ruin that awaited them prevent the Princess Colonna from going to the Opera, whither she very good-naturedly took Coningsby. Madame Colonna, indeed, gave such gratifying accounts of her dear young friend, that Coningsby became daily a greater favourite with Lord Monmouth, who cherished the idea that his grandson had inherited not merely the colour of his eyes, but something of his shrewd and fearless spirit.

During the eventful week of May 1832, when a significant revolution took place in one of the most important modern kingdoms, happening so peacefully that the victims were hardly aware of the disaster at the time, Coningsby spent his days enjoying unusual pleasures and new excitement. Even though he heard daily from Mr. Rigby and his friends that England was permanently lost, the gathered guests still managed to appreciate his grandfather’s incredible dinners; nor did the impending disaster keep Princess Colonna from attending the Opera, where she kindly took Coningsby along. Madame Colonna, in fact, shared such flattering stories about her dear young friend that Coningsby became increasingly favored by Lord Monmouth, who liked the idea that his grandson had inherited not just the color of his eyes, but also some of his sharp and fearless spirit.

With Lucretia, Coningsby did not much advance. She remained silent and sullen. She was not beautiful; pallid, with a lowering brow, and an eye that avoided meeting another’s. Madame Colonna, though good-natured, felt for her something of the affection for which step-mothers are celebrated. Lucretia, indeed, did not encourage her kindness, which irritated her step-mother, who seemed seldom to address her but to rate and chide; Lucretia never replied, but looked dogged. Her father, the Prince, did not compensate for this treatment. The memory of her mother, whom he had greatly disliked, did not soften his heart. He was a man still young; slender, not tall; very handsome, but worn; a haggard Antinous; his beautiful hair daily thinning; his dress rich and effeminate; many jewels, much lace. He seldom spoke, but was polished, though moody.

With Lucretia, Coningsby didn’t get very far. She stayed quiet and gloomy. She wasn’t beautiful; pale, with a furrowed brow, and eyes that avoided making contact with others. Madame Colonna, though kind-hearted, felt a bit of that classic step-motherly affection for her. But Lucretia didn’t really welcome her kindness, which frustrated her step-mother, who seemed to only speak to her to scold and criticize; Lucretia never responded, just looked stubborn. Her father, the Prince, didn’t make things any better. The memory of her mother, whom he had greatly disliked, didn’t soften his attitude at all. He was still a relatively young man; slender, not very tall; very handsome but haggard; like a worn-out Antinous; his beautiful hair was thinning each day; he dressed lavishly and somewhat femininely; covered in jewels and lace. He rarely spoke, but when he did, he was refined, although moody.

At the end of the week, Coningsby returned to Eton. On the eve of his departure, Lord Monmouth desired his grandson to meet him in his apartments on the morrow, before quitting his roof. This farewell visit was as kind and gracious as the first one had been repulsive. Lord Monmouth gave Coningsby his blessing and ten pounds; desired that he would order a dress, anything he liked, for the approaching Montem, which Lord Monmouth meant to attend; and informed his grandson that he should order that in future a proper supply of game and venison should be forwarded to Eton for the use of himself and his friends.

At the end of the week, Coningsby went back to Eton. The night before he left, Lord Monmouth asked his grandson to meet him in his rooms the next day before he left home. This farewell visit was as warm and kind as the first one had been unpleasant. Lord Monmouth gave Coningsby his blessing and ten pounds, told him to order a suit—whatever he wanted—for the upcoming Montem, which Lord Monmouth planned to attend, and let his grandson know that he would arrange for a regular supply of game and venison to be sent to Eton for him and his friends.

CHAPTER VIII.

After eight o’clock school, the day following the return of Coningsby, according to custom, he repaired to Buckhurst’s room, where Henry Sydney, Lord Vere, and our hero held with him their breakfast mess. They were all in the fifth form, and habitual companions, on the river or on the Fives’ Wall, at cricket or at foot-ball. The return of Coningsby, their leader alike in sport and study, inspired them to-day with unusual spirits, which, to say the truth, were never particularly depressed. Where he had been, what he had seen, what he had done, what sort of fellow his grandfather was, whether the visit had been a success; here were materials for almost endless inquiry. And, indeed, to do them justice, the last question was not the least exciting to them; for the deep and cordial interest which all felt in Coningsby’s welfare far outweighed the curiosity which, under ordinary circumstances, they would have experienced on the return of one of their companions from an unusual visit to London. The report of their friend imparted to them unbounded satisfaction, when they learned that his relative was a splendid fellow; that he had been loaded with kindness and favours; that Monmouth House, the wonders of which he rapidly sketched, was hereafter to be his home; that Lord Monmouth was coming down to Montem; that Coningsby was to order any dress he liked, build a new boat if he chose; and, finally, had been pouched in a manner worthy of a Marquess and a grandfather.

After the eight o’clock school the day after Coningsby returned, he went to Buckhurst’s room as usual, where he, Henry Sydney, Lord Vere, and our hero shared breakfast. They were all in the fifth form, and regular companions, whether on the river, playing Fives, cricket, or football. Coningsby’s return, being their leader in both sports and academics, lifted their spirits unusually high, which, to be honest, were never really low. Everyone was eager to know where he had been, what he had seen and done, what his grandfather was like, and whether the visit was successful. There was plenty to discuss. To be fair, the last question was particularly interesting to them, as their genuine concern for Coningsby’s well-being far outweighed any normal curiosity about a friend returning from an unusual visit to London. They were filled with immense satisfaction when they heard that his relative was an amazing guy, that he had been showered with kindness and favors, that Monmouth House, which he described in stunning detail, would now be his home, that Lord Monmouth was coming down to Montem, that Coningsby could choose any outfit he wanted, build a new boat if he wished, and finally, that he had been treated like a Marquess and a grandfather.

‘By the bye,’ said Buckhurst, when the hubbub had a little subsided, ‘I am afraid you will not half like it, Coningsby; but, old fellow, I had no idea you would be back this morning; I have asked Millbank to breakfast here.’

“By the way,” said Buckhurst, when the noise had calmed down a bit, “I’m afraid you won’t like it much, Coningsby; but, my friend, I had no idea you’d be back this morning; I’ve invited Millbank to breakfast here.”

A cloud stole over the clear brow of Coningsby.

A cloud passed over the clear forehead of Coningsby.

‘It was my fault,’ said the amiable Henry Sydney; ‘but I really wanted to be civil to Millbank, and as you were not here, I put Buckhurst up to ask him.’

"It was my fault," said the friendly Henry Sydney; "but I really wanted to be polite to Millbank, and since you weren't here, I encouraged Buckhurst to ask him."

‘Well,’ said Coningsby, as if sullenly resigned, ‘never mind; but why should you ask an infernal manufacturer?’

‘Well,’ said Coningsby, sounding reluctantly resigned, ‘never mind; but why would you ask a damn manufacturer?’

‘Why, the Duke always wished me to pay him some attention,’ said Lord Henry, mildly. ‘His family were so civil to us when we were at Manchester.’

‘Well, the Duke always wanted me to pay him some attention,’ said Lord Henry, calmly. ‘His family was really nice to us when we were in Manchester.’

‘Manchester, indeed!’ said Coningsby; ‘if you knew what I do about Manchester! A pretty state we have been in in London this week past with your Manchesters and Birminghams!’

‘Manchester, really!’ said Coningsby; ‘if you knew what I know about Manchester! We've been in quite a mess in London this past week with your Manchesters and Birminghams!’

‘Come, come, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, the son of a Whig minister; ‘I am all for Manchester and Birmingham.’

‘Come on, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, the son of a Whig minister; ‘I’m all for Manchester and Birmingham.’

‘It is all up with the country, I can tell you,’ said Coningsby, with the air of one who was in the secret.

‘It’s all over for the country, I can tell you,’ said Coningsby, sounding like someone who was in the know.

‘My father says it will all go right now,’ rejoined Lord Vere. ‘I had a letter from my sister yesterday.’

‘My dad says everything will be fine now,’ replied Lord Vere. ‘I got a letter from my sister yesterday.’

‘They say we shall all lose our estates, though,’ said Buckhurst; ‘I know I shall not give up mine without a fight. Shirley was besieged, you know, in the civil wars; and the rebels got infernally licked.’

‘They say we’re all going to lose our estates, though,’ Buckhurst said. ‘I know I won’t give up mine without a fight. Shirley was surrounded, you know, during the civil wars; and the rebels got totally crushed.’

‘I think that all the people about Beaumanoir would stand by the Duke,’ said Lord Henry, pensively.

‘I think that everyone around Beaumanoir would support the Duke,’ said Lord Henry, thoughtfully.

‘Well, you may depend upon it you will have it very soon,’ said Coningsby. ‘I know it from the best authority.’

‘Well, you can count on getting it very soon,’ said Coningsby. ‘I know this from a reliable source.’

‘It depends on whether my father remains in,’ said Lord Vere. ‘He is the only man who can govern the country now. All say that.’

‘It depends on whether my dad stays in,’ said Lord Vere. ‘He’s the only one who can run the country right now. Everyone says that.’

At this moment Millbank entered. He was a good looking boy, somewhat shy, and yet with a sincere expression in his countenance. He was evidently not extremely intimate with those who were now his companions. Buckhurst, and Henry Sydney, and Vere, welcomed him cordially. He looked at Coningsby with some constraint, and then said:

At that moment, Millbank walked in. He was a good-looking guy, a bit shy, but he had a genuine expression on his face. It was clear that he wasn't very close with the people who were now his companions. Buckhurst, Henry Sydney, and Vere greeted him warmly. He glanced at Coningsby with some awkwardness, and then said:

‘You have been in London, Coningsby?’

‘Have you been to London, Coningsby?’

‘Yes, I have been there during all the row.’

‘Yes, I have been there during all the commotion.’

‘You must have had a rare lark.’

‘You must have had a rare adventure.’

‘Yes, if having your windows broken by a mob be a rare lark. They could not break my grandfather’s, though. Monmouth House is in a court-yard. All noblemen’s houses should be in court-yards.’

‘Yes, if having your windows smashed by a crowd is considered a fun adventure. They couldn’t break my grandfather’s, though. Monmouth House is in a courtyard. All noblemen’s houses should be in courtyards.’

‘I was glad to see it all ended very well,’ said Millbank.

"I was happy to see that everything turned out great," said Millbank.

‘It has not begun yet,’ said Coningsby.

‘It hasn’t started yet,’ said Coningsby.

‘What?’ said Millbank.

“Wait, what?” said Millbank.

‘Why, the revolution.’

“Why, the revolution.”

‘The Reform Bill will prevent a revolution, my father says,’ said Millbank.

‘The Reform Bill will stop a revolution, my dad says,’ said Millbank.

‘By Jove! here’s the goose,’ said Buckhurst.

‘Wow! here’s the goose,’ said Buckhurst.

At this moment there entered the room a little boy, the scion of a noble house, bearing a roasted goose, which he had carried from the kitchen of the opposite inn, the Christopher. The lower boy or fag, depositing his burthen, asked his master whether he had further need of him; and Buckhurst, after looking round the table, and ascertaining that he had not, gave him permission to retire; but he had scarcely disappeared, when his master singing out, ‘Lower boy, St. John!’ he immediately re-entered, and demanded his master’s pleasure, which was, that he should pour some water in the teapot. This being accomplished, St. John really made his escape, and retired to a pupil-room, where the bullying of a tutor, because he had no derivations, exceeded in all probability the bullying of his master, had he contrived in his passage from the Christopher to have upset the goose or dropped the sausages.

At that moment, a little boy entered the room, the child of a noble family, carrying a roasted goose that he had brought from the kitchen of the nearby inn, the Christopher. The boy, after setting down his load, asked his master if he needed anything else; Buckhurst looked around the table, saw that he didn’t, and gave him permission to leave. But just as he was disappearing, Buckhurst called out, "Lower boy, St. John!" The boy quickly came back in and asked what his master wanted, which was for him to pour some water into the teapot. Once that was done, St. John managed to slip away and went to a study room, where the harsh treatment from a tutor, because he didn't have any derivations, was probably worse than what he would have faced from his master if he had somehow spilled the goose or dropped the sausages on his way from the Christopher.

In their merry meal, the Reform Bill was forgotten. Their thoughts were soon concentrated in their little world, though it must be owned that visions of palaces and beautiful ladies did occasionally flit over the brain of one of the company. But for him especially there was much of interest and novelty. So much had happened in his absence! There was a week’s arrears for him of Eton annals. They were recounted in so fresh a spirit, and in such vivid colours, that Coningsby lost nothing by his London visit. All the bold feats that had been done, and all the bright things that had been said; all the triumphs, and all the failures, and all the scrapes; how popular one master had made himself, and how ridiculous another; all was detailed with a liveliness, a candour, and a picturesque ingenuousness, which would have made the fortune of a Herodotus or a Froissart.

During their cheerful meal, the Reform Bill was forgotten. Their thoughts quickly focused on their little world, though it must be said that images of palaces and beautiful ladies occasionally drifted through the mind of one of the guests. But for him, there was especially a lot of interest and novelty. So much had happened while he was away! He had a week's worth of Eton news to catch up on. It was recounted with such enthusiasm and in such vivid detail that Coningsby didn't miss out on anything from his London visit. All the daring feats that had been accomplished, and all the clever things that had been said; all the victories, failures, and mishaps; how one teacher had become so popular and how another had made a fool of himself; everything was shared with an energy, honesty, and colorful straightforwardness that could’ve made a name for a Herodotus or a Froissart.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Buckhurst, ‘I move that after twelve we five go up to Maidenhead.’

‘I’ll tell you what,’ said Buckhurst, ‘I propose that after twelve we five head up to Maidenhead.’

‘Agreed; agreed!’

"Agreed! Agreed!"

CHAPTER IX.

Millbank was the son of one of the wealthiest manufacturers in Lancashire. His father, whose opinions were of a very democratic bent, sent his son to Eton, though he disapproved of the system of education pursued there, to show that he had as much right to do so as any duke in the land. He had, however, brought up his only boy with a due prejudice against every sentiment or institution of an aristocratic character, and had especially impressed upon him in his school career, to avoid the slightest semblance of courting the affections or society of any member of the falsely-held superior class.

Millbank was the son of one of the richest manufacturers in Lancashire. His father, who had very democratic views, sent his son to Eton, even though he didn't approve of the education system there, to prove that he had just as much right to do so as any duke in the country. However, he had raised his only son with a strong bias against any sentiments or institutions that seemed aristocratic, and he had especially emphasized during his school years to avoid even the appearance of seeking the friendship or company of anyone from the so-called superior class.

The character of the son as much as the influence of the father, tended to the fulfilment of these injunctions. Oswald Millbank was of a proud and independent nature; reserved, a little stern. The early and constantly-reiterated dogma of his father, that he belonged to a class debarred from its just position in the social system, had aggravated the grave and somewhat discontented humour of his blood. His talents were considerable, though invested with no dazzling quality. He had not that quick and brilliant apprehension, which, combined with a memory of rare retentiveness, had already advanced Coningsby far beyond his age, and made him already looked to as the future hero of the school. But Millbank possessed one of those strong, industrious volitions whose perseverance amounts almost to genius, and nearly attains its results. Though Coningsby was by a year his junior, they were rivals. This circumstance had no tendency to remove the prejudice which Coningsby entertained against him, but its bias on the part of Millbank had a contrary effect.

The son's character, along with the father's influence, contributed to following these orders. Oswald Millbank was proud and independent; he was reserved and a bit stern. The long-standing belief from his father that he belonged to a class denied its rightful place in society deepened his serious and somewhat dissatisfied disposition. He had considerable talents, though they lacked any flashy quality. He didn't have that quick and brilliant understanding that, combined with an exceptional memory, had propelled Coningsby well ahead of his peers and made him the school’s anticipated hero. However, Millbank had one of those strong, hardworking wills whose persistence almost reaches genius and nearly achieves its goals. Despite being a year younger, Coningsby and Millbank were rivals. This situation didn’t help Coningsby’s prejudice against him, but it did have the opposite effect on Millbank.

The influence of the individual is nowhere so sensible as at school. There the personal qualities strike without any intervening and counteracting causes. A gracious presence, noble sentiments, or a happy talent, make their way there at once, without preliminary inquiries as to what set they are in, or what family they are of, how much they have a-year, or where they live. Now, on no spirit had the influence of Coningsby, already the favourite, and soon probably to become the idol, of the school, fallen more effectually than on that of Millbank, though it was an influence that no one could suspect except its votary or its victim.

The impact of an individual is most noticeable in school. There, personal qualities shine through without any outside influences getting in the way. A kind presence, noble feelings, or a natural talent can immediately make an impression, regardless of their social status, family background, income, or where they live. At that moment, no one was more affected by Coningsby’s influence—already the favorite and likely to become the school’s idol—than Millbank, although it was a type of influence that only its follower or its target could truly recognize.

At school, friendship is a passion. It entrances the being; it tears the soul. All loves of after-life can never bring its rapture, or its wretchedness; no bliss so absorbing, no pangs of jealousy or despair so crushing and so keen! What tenderness and what devotion; what illimitable confidence; infinite revelations of inmost thoughts; what ecstatic present and romantic future; what bitter estrangements and what melting reconciliations; what scenes of wild recrimination, agitating explanations, passionate correspondence; what insane sensitiveness, and what frantic sensibility; what earthquakes of the heart and whirlwinds of the soul are confined in that simple phrase, a schoolboy’s friendship! Tis some indefinite recollection of these mystic passages of their young emotion that makes grey-haired men mourn over the memory of their schoolboy days. It is a spell that can soften the acerbity of political warfare, and with its witchery can call forth a sigh even amid the callous bustle of fashionable saloons.

At school, friendship is a passion. It captivates the heart; it tears at the soul. No love in later life can match its joy or its misery; there’s no happiness so all-consuming, no jealousy or despair so overwhelming and intense! What tenderness and devotion; what boundless trust; infinite sharing of deep thoughts; what thrilling present and romantic future; what painful separations and what heartfelt reconciliations; what scenes of intense arguments, emotional discussions, passionate letters; what extreme sensitivity, and what frenzied feelings; what earthquakes of the heart and whirlwinds of the soul are packed into that simple phrase, a schoolboy’s friendship! It’s some vague memory of these mystical moments of their youthful emotions that causes older men to look back and feel nostalgic about their school days. It’s a magic that can soften the harshness of political battles, and with its charm, can evoke a sigh even amid the bustling atmosphere of elegant gatherings.

The secret of Millbank’s life was a passionate admiration and affection for Coningsby. Pride, his natural reserve, and his father’s injunctions, had, however, hitherto successfully combined to restrain the slightest demonstration of these sentiments. Indeed, Coningsby and himself were never companions, except in school, or in some public game. The demeanour of Coningsby gave no encouragement to intimacy to one, who, under any circumstances, would have required considerable invitation to open himself. So Millbank fed in silence on a cherished idea. It was his happiness to be in the same form, to join in the same sport, with Coningsby; occasionally to be thrown in unusual contact with him, to exchange slight and not unkind words. In their division they were rivals; Millbank sometimes triumphed, but to be vanquished by Coningsby was for him not without a degree of mild satisfaction. Not a gesture, not a phrase from Coningsby, that he did not watch and ponder over and treasure up. Coningsby was his model, alike in studies, in manners, or in pastimes; the aptest scholar, the gayest wit, the most graceful associate, the most accomplished playmate: his standard of excellent. Yet Millbank was the very last boy in the school who would have had credit given him by his companions for profound and ardent feeling. He was not indeed unpopular. The favourite of the school like Coningsby, he could, under no circumstances, ever have become; nor was he qualified to obtain that general graciousness among the multitude, which the sweet disposition of Henry Sydney, or the gay profusion of Buckhurst, acquired without any effort. Millbank was not blessed with the charm of manner. He seemed close and cold; but he was courageous, just, and inflexible; never bullied, and to his utmost would prevent tyranny. The little boys looked up to him as a stern protector; and his word, too, throughout the school was a proverb: and truth ranks a great quality among boys. In a word, Millbank was respected by those among whom he lived; and school-boys scan character more nicely than men suppose.

The secret of Millbank’s life was a deep admiration and affection for Coningsby. Pride, his natural reserve, and his father’s advice had so far kept him from showing even the slightest hint of these feelings. In fact, Millbank and Coningsby were never friends outside of school or during public games. Coningsby’s demeanor didn’t encourage closeness with someone who would always need a lot of coaxing to open up. So, Millbank quietly held onto this cherished idea. He was happy to be in the same class, to play the same games, and occasionally to have unusual moments with Coningsby, exchanging brief and kind words. In their class, they were rivals; Millbank sometimes won, but losing to Coningsby was not without a certain satisfaction for him. Every gesture and phrase from Coningsby was something he observed, thought about, and treasured. Coningsby was his role model in academics, manners, and leisure; the best student, the funniest guy, the most graceful companion, the most skilled playmate—his standard of excellence. Yet, Millbank was the last boy in school anyone would think had deep feelings. He wasn’t unpopular, but he could never have been the favorite like Coningsby. He wasn’t suited for the general warmth that boys like Henry Sydney and Buckhurst received effortlessly. Millbank lacked charm; he seemed reserved and distant, but he was brave, fair, and unyielding; he never backed down from a fight and did everything he could to prevent bullying. The younger boys saw him as a tough protector, and his word was respected throughout the school: truth is a great quality among boys. In short, Millbank was respected by his peers, and schoolboys understand character better than adults might think.

A brother of Henry Sydney, quartered in Lancashire, had been wounded recently in a riot, and had received great kindness from the Millbank family, in whose immediate neighbourhood the disturbance had occurred. The kind Duke had impressed on Henry Sydney to acknowledge with cordiality to the younger Millbank at Eton, the sense which his family entertained of these benefits; but though Henry lost neither time nor opportunity in obeying an injunction, which was grateful to his own heart, he failed in cherishing, or indeed creating, any intimacy with the object of his solicitude. A companionship with one who was Coningsby’s relative and most familiar friend, would at the first glance have appeared, independently of all other considerations, a most desirable result for Millbank to accomplish. But, perhaps, this very circumstance afforded additional reasons for the absence of all encouragement with which he received the overtures of Lord Henry. Millbank suspected that Coningsby was not affected in his favour, and his pride recoiled from gaining, by any indirect means, an intimacy which to have obtained in a plain and express manner would have deeply gratified him. However, the urgent invitation of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, and the fear that a persistence in refusal might be misinterpreted into churlishness, had at length brought Millbank to their breakfast-mess, though, when he accepted their invitation, he did not apprehend that Coningsby would have been present.

A brother of Henry Sydney, stationed in Lancashire, had recently been injured during a riot and had received a lot of kindness from the Millbank family, who lived nearby where the disturbance happened. The kind Duke had urged Henry Sydney to warmly thank the younger Millbank at Eton for these acts of kindness; however, even though Henry quickly took every opportunity to follow this advice, which he genuinely appreciated, he struggled to build or even maintain any close relationship with the person he was concerned about. A friendship with someone who was Coningsby's relative and closest friend would have seemed, at first glance, a really good outcome for Millbank to achieve. But maybe this very fact gave him even more reasons to hold back from engaging with the advances from Lord Henry. Millbank suspected that Coningsby didn't really have a positive regard for him, and his pride made him reluctant to form a connection through any indirect means when having it established directly would have thrilled him. Still, the persistent invites from Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, along with the worry that continuing to decline could be seen as rude, eventually led Millbank to join them for breakfast, although he hadn’t expected Coningsby to be there when he accepted their invitation.

It was about an hour before sunset, the day of this very breakfast, and a good number of boys, in lounging groups, were collected in the Long Walk. The sports and matches of the day were over. Criticism had succeeded to action in sculling and in cricket. They talked over the exploits of the morning; canvassed the merits of the competitors, marked the fellow whose play or whose stroke was improving; glanced at another, whose promise had not been fulfilled; discussed the pretensions, and adjudged the palm. Thus public opinion is formed. Some, too, might be seen with their books and exercises, intent on the inevitable and impending tasks. Among these, some unhappy wight in the remove, wandering about with his hat, after parochial fashion, seeking relief in the shape of a verse. A hard lot this, to know that you must be delivered of fourteen verses at least in the twenty-four hours, and to be conscious that you are pregnant of none. The lesser boys, urchins of tender years, clustered like flies round the baskets of certain vendors of sugary delicacies that rested on the Long Walk wall. The pallid countenance, the lacklustre eye, the hoarse voice clogged with accumulated phlegm, indicated too surely the irreclaimable and hopeless votary of lollypop, the opium-eater of schoolboys.

It was about an hour before sunset on the day of this breakfast, and a good number of boys were hanging out in groups on the Long Walk. The day's sports and matches were done. Criticism had taken the place of action in rowing and cricket. They talked about the morning's highlights, debated the skills of the competitors, noted the guy whose game was improving, and glanced at another whose potential hadn’t been realized; they discussed the claims of others and crowned a winner. That’s how public opinion is formed. Some were also seen with their books and assignments, focused on the tasks they had to complete. Among these was an unfortunate soul, wandering around with his hat like some local character, looking for inspiration in the form of a verse. It was a tough situation, knowing he had to come up with at least fourteen verses within twenty-four hours, while being painfully aware that he had none. The younger boys, little kids, clustered like flies around the baskets of some vendors selling sugary treats that were resting on the Long Walk wall. The pale face, dull eyes, and hoarse voice choked with accumulated phlegm clearly indicated the hopeless candy addict, the schoolboy version of an opium addict.

‘It is settled, the match to-morrow shall be between Aquatics and Drybobs,’ said a senior boy; who was arranging a future match at cricket.

‘It’s official, tomorrow’s match will be between Aquatics and Drybobs,’ said a senior boy, who was organizing a future cricket game.

‘But what is to be done about Fielding major?’ inquired another. ‘He has not paid his boating money, and I say he has no right to play among the Aquatics before he has paid his money.’

‘But what should we do about Fielding major?’ asked another. ‘He hasn’t paid his boating fee, and I say he has no right to play with the Aquatics until he settles his bill.’

‘Oh! but we must have Fielding major, he is such a devil of a swipe.’

‘Oh! but we really need Fielding major, he's such a great guy.’

‘I declare he shall not play among the Aquatics if he does not pay his boating money. It is an infernal shame.’

‘I say he can’t hang out with the Aquatics if he doesn’t pay his boating fees. It’s just ridiculous.’

‘Let us ask Buckhurst. Where is Buckhurst?’

‘Let’s ask Buckhurst. Where is Buckhurst?’

‘Have you got any toffy?’ inquired a dull looking little boy, in a hoarse voice, of one of the vendors of scholastic confectionery.

"Do you have any toffee?" asked a bland-looking little boy in a raspy voice, addressing one of the vendors selling school snacks.

‘Tom Trot, sir.’

"Tom Trot, sir."

‘No; I want toffy.’

‘No; I want toffee.’

‘Very nice Tom Trot, sir.’

"Great job, Tom Trot!"

‘No, I want toffy; I have been eating Tom Trot all day.’

‘No, I want toffee; I’ve been eating Tom Trot all day.’

‘Where is Buckhurst? We must settle about the Aquatics.’

‘Where is Buckhurst? We need to sort out the Aquatics.’

‘Well, I for one will not play if Fielding major plays amongst the Aquatics. That is settled.’

‘Well, I for one will not play if Major Fielding plays among the Aquatics. That’s settled.’

‘Oh! nonsense; he will pay his money if you ask him.’

‘Oh! no way; he will pay you if you ask him.’

‘I shall not ask him again. The captain duns us every day. It is an infernal shame.’

‘I won't ask him again. The captain bothers us every day. It’s an awful shame.’

‘I say, Burnham, where can one get some toffy? This fellow never has any.’

‘I say, Burnham, where can you get some toffee? This guy never has any.’

‘I will tell you; at Barnes’ on the bridge. The best toffy in the world.’

‘I will tell you; at Barnes’ on the bridge. The best toffee in the world.’

‘I will go at once. I must have some toffy.’

‘I’ll go right now. I need some candy.’

‘Just help me with this verse, Collins,’ said one boy to another, in an imploring tone, ‘that’s a good fellow.’

‘Just help me with this verse, Collins,’ said one boy to another, in a pleading tone, ‘that’s a good guy.’

‘Well, give it us: first syllable in fabri is short; three false quantities in the two first lines! You’re a pretty one. There, I have done it for you.’

‘Well, give it to us: the first syllable in fabri is short; there are three incorrect quantities in the first two lines! You’re something else. There, I’ve done it for you.’

‘That’s a good fellow.’

"That’s a good guy."

‘Any fellow seen Buckhurst?’

"Has anyone seen Buckhurst?"

‘Gone up the river with Coningsby and Henry Sydney.’

‘But he must be back by this time. I want him to make the list for the match to-morrow. Where the deuce can Buckhurst be?’

‘But he should be back by now. I need him to make the list for the match tomorrow. Where in the world can Buckhurst be?’

And now, as rumours rise in society we know not how, so there was suddenly a flying report in this multitude, the origin of which no one in his alarm stopped to ascertain, that a boy was drowned.

And now, as rumors spread in society for reasons we can’t understand, a sudden report circulated among the crowd, the source of which no one bothered to check in their panic, that a boy had drowned.

Every heart was agitated.

Every heart was stirred.

What boy? When, where, how? Who was absent? Who had been on the river to-day? Buckhurst. The report ran that Buckhurst was drowned. Great were the trouble and consternation. Buckhurst was ever much liked; and now no one remembered anything but his good qualities.

What boy? When, where, how? Who was missing? Who had been on the river today? Buckhurst. The rumor spread that Buckhurst had drowned. There was a lot of trouble and panic. Buckhurst was always well-liked, and now everyone could only remember his good traits.

‘Who heard it was Buckhurst?’ said Sedgwick, captain of the school, coming forward.

‘Who heard it was Buckhurst?’ said Sedgwick, the school captain, stepping forward.

‘I heard Bradford tell Palmer it was Buckhurst,’ said a little boy.

“I heard Bradford say to Palmer that it was Buckhurst,” said a little boy.

‘Where is Bradford?’

"Where's Bradford?"

‘Here.’

"Here."

‘What do you know about Buckhurst?’

‘Wentworth told me that he was afraid Buckhurst was drowned. He heard it at the Brocas; a bargeman told him about a quarter of an hour ago.’

‘Wentworth told me that he was worried Buckhurst had drowned. He heard it at the Brocas; a bargeman mentioned it to him about fifteen minutes ago.’

‘Here is Wentworth! Here is Wentworth!’ a hundred voices exclaimed, and they formed a circle round him.

‘Here comes Wentworth! Here comes Wentworth!’ a hundred voices shouted, and they gathered around him in a circle.

‘Well, what did you hear, Wentworth?’ asked Sedgwick.

‘So, what did you hear, Wentworth?’ asked Sedgwick.

‘I was at the Brocas, and a bargee told me that an Eton fellow had been drowned above Surley, and the only Eton boat above Surley to-day, as I can learn, is Buckhurst’s four-oar. That is all.’

‘I was at the Brocas, and a bargee told me that an Eton student had drowned above Surley, and the only Eton boat above Surley today, as far as I know, is Buckhurst’s four-oar. That’s all.’

There was a murmur of hope.

There was a whisper of hope.

‘Oh! come, come,’ said Sedgwick, ‘there is come chance. Who is with Buckhurst; who knows?’

‘Oh! come on,’ said Sedgwick, ‘there's a chance. Who is with Buckhurst; who knows?’

‘I saw him walk down to the Brocas with Vere,’ said a boy.

‘I hope it is not Vere,’ said a little boy, with a tearful eye; ‘he never lets any fellow bully me.’

‘I hope it’s not Vere,’ said a little boy, with a tearful eye; ‘he never lets anyone bully me.’

‘Here is Maltravers,’ halloed out a boy; ‘he knows something.’

‘Look, it’s Maltravers,’ shouted a boy; ‘he knows something.’

‘Well, what do you know, Maltravers?’

‘I heard Boots at the Christopher say that an Eton fellow was drowned, and that he had seen a person who was there.’

‘I heard Boots at the Christopher say that a guy from Eton drowned, and that he had seen someone who was there.’

‘Bring Boots here,’ said Sedgwick.

“Bring Boots here,” said Sedgwick.

Instantly a band of boys rushed over the way, and in a moment the witness was produced.

Instantly, a group of boys rushed over, and in no time, the witness was brought forward.

‘What have you heard, Sam, about this accident?’ said Sedgwick.

‘Well, sir, I heard a young gentleman was drowned above Monkey Island,’ said Boots.

‘Well, sir, I heard a young guy drowned above Monkey Island,’ said Boots.

‘And no name mentioned?’

"Didn't name anyone?"

‘Well, sir, I believe it was Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Well, sir, I think it was Mr. Coningsby.’

A general groan of horror.

A collective groan of horror.

‘Coningsby, Coningsby! By Heavens I hope not,’ said Sedgwick.

‘Coningsby, Coningsby! I really hope not,’ said Sedgwick.

‘I very much fear so,’ said Boots; ‘as how the bargeman who told me saw Mr. Coningsby in the Lock House laid out in flannels.’

‘I really fear so,’ said Boots; ‘the bargeman who told me saw Mr. Coningsby in the Lock House laid out in flannels.’

‘I had sooner any fellow had been drowned than Coningsby,’ whispered one boy to another.

‘I would rather see any guy drowned than Coningsby,’ whispered one boy to another.

‘I liked him, the best fellow at Eton,’ responded his companion, in a smothered tone.

‘I liked him, the best guy at Eton,’ replied his friend, in a muted tone.

‘What a clever fellow he was!’

‘What a smart guy he was!’

‘And so deuced generous!’

'And so incredibly generous!'

‘He would have got the medal if he had lived.’

‘He would have received the medal if he had lived.’

‘And how came he to be drowned? for he was such a fine swimmer!’

‘How did he end up drowning? He was such a great swimmer!’

‘I heerd Mr. Coningsby was saving another’s life,’ continued Boots in his evidence, ‘which makes it in a manner more sorrowful.’

‘I heard Mr. Coningsby was saving someone else's life,’ continued Boots in his testimony, ‘which makes it in a way more tragic.’

‘Poor Coningsby!’ exclaimed a boy, bursting into tears: ‘I move the whole school goes into mourning.’

‘Poor Coningsby!’ a boy exclaimed, bursting into tears. ‘I propose the whole school goes into mourning.’

‘I wish we could get hold of this bargeman,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now stop, stop, don’t all run away in that mad manner; you frighten the people. Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go down to the Brocas and inquire.’

‘I wish we could find this bargeman,’ said Sedgwick. ‘Now stop, stop, don’t all run off like that; it scares the people. Charles Herbert and Palmer, you two go down to the Brocas and ask around.’

But just at this moment, an increased stir and excitement were evident in the Long Walk; the circle round Sedgwick opened, and there appeared Henry Sydney and Buckhurst.

But just then, there was a noticeable increase in activity and excitement in the Long Walk; the circle around Sedgwick parted, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst appeared.

There was a dead silence. It was impossible that suspense could be strained to a higher pitch. The air and countenance of Sydney and Buckhurst were rather excited than mournful or alarmed. They needed no inquiries, for before they had penetrated the circle they had become aware of its cause.

There was complete silence. It was impossible for the tension to be any higher. The expressions and demeanor of Sydney and Buckhurst were more excited than sad or scared. They didn’t need to ask any questions because they already understood the reason for it before they stepped into the group.

Buckhurst, the most energetic of beings, was of course the first to speak. Henry Sydney indeed looked pale and nervous; but his companion, flushed and resolute, knew exactly how to hit a popular assembly, and at once came to the point.

Buckhurst, the most energetic person there, was of course the first to speak. Henry Sydney looked pale and anxious; but his companion, flushed and determined, knew exactly how to engage a crowd and immediately got to the point.

‘It is all a false report, an infernal lie; Coningsby is quite safe, and nobody is drowned.’

‘It’s all a false report, a complete lie; Coningsby is totally safe, and no one is drowned.’

There was a cheer that might have been heard at Windsor Castle. Then, turning to Sedgwick, in an undertone Buckhurst added,

There was a cheer that could have been heard at Windsor Castle. Then, turning to Sedgwick, in a low voice Buckhurst added,

‘It is all right, but, by Jove! we have had a shaver. I will tell you all in a moment, but we want to keep the thing quiet, and so let the fellows disperse, and we will talk afterwards.’

‘It is fine, but, wow! we’ve had quite the adventure. I’ll fill you in shortly, but we need to keep this under wraps, so let the guys scatter, and we’ll chat later.’

In a few moments the Long Walk had resumed its usual character; but Sedgwick, Herbert, and one or two others turned into the playing fields, where, undisturbed and unnoticed by the multitude, they listened to the promised communication of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney.

In just a few moments, the Long Walk had gone back to its normal vibe; however, Sedgwick, Herbert, and a couple of others headed into the playing fields, where, unnoticed by the crowd, they listened to what Buckhurst and Henry Sydney had to share.

‘You know we went up the river together,’ said Buckhurst. ‘Myself, Henry Sydney, Coningsby, Vere, and Millbank. We had breakfasted together, and after twelve agreed to go up to Maidenhead. Well, we went up much higher than we had intended. About a quarter of a mile before we had got to the Lock we pulled up; Coningsby was then steering. Well, we fastened the boat to, and were all of us stretched out on the meadow, when Millbank and Vere said they should go and bathe in the Lock Pool. The rest of us were opposed; but after Millbank and Vere had gone about ten minutes, Coningsby, who was very fresh, said he had changed his mind and should go and bathe too. So he left us. He had scarcely got to the pool when he heard a cry. There was a fellow drowning. He threw off his clothes and was in in a moment. The fact is this, Millbank had plunged in the pool and found himself in some eddies, caused by the meeting of two currents. He called out to Vere not to come, and tried to swim off. But he was beat, and seeing he was in danger, Vere jumped in. But the stream was so strong, from the great fall of water from the lasher above, that Vere was exhausted before he could reach Millbank, and nearly sank himself. Well, he just saved himself; but Millbank sank as Coningsby jumped in. What do you think of that?’

‘You know we went up the river together,’ said Buckhurst. ‘Me, Henry Sydney, Coningsby, Vere, and Millbank. We had breakfast together and after noon decided to head up to Maidenhead. Well, we ended up going much further than we planned. About a quarter mile from the Lock, we stopped; Coningsby was steering at the time. We tied the boat up and all laid out on the meadow when Millbank and Vere said they wanted to go for a swim in the Lock Pool. The rest of us were against it, but after about ten minutes, Coningsby, who was feeling energetic, said he had changed his mind and would go swim too. So he left us. He had barely reached the pool when he heard a shout. Someone was drowning. He quickly took off his clothes and jumped in. The thing is, Millbank had jumped into the pool and found himself caught in some eddies from two currents meeting. He yelled at Vere not to come in and tried to swim away. But he was struggling, and realizing he was in trouble, Vere jumped in. However, the current was so strong from the large amount of water coming over the dam above that Vere got worn out before he could reach Millbank, and nearly went under himself. He just managed to save himself, but Millbank went down right as Coningsby jumped in. What do you think about that?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, and all. The favourite oath of schoolboys perpetuates the divinity of Olympus.

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Sedgwick, Herbert, and everyone. The favorite oath of schoolboys carries on the legacy of the gods of Olympus.

‘And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank when he rose, but he found himself in the midst of the same strong current that had before nearly swamped Vere. What a lucky thing that he had taken into his head not to pull to-day! Fresher than Vere, he just managed to land Millbank and himself. The shouts of Vere called us, and we arrived to find the bodies of Millbank and Coningsby apparently lifeless, for Millbank was quite gone, and Coningsby had swooned on landing.’

‘And now comes the worst. Coningsby caught Millbank when he stood up, but he found himself in the same strong current that had almost swept Vere away before. What a lucky thing it was that he decided not to pull today! Fresher than Vere, he just managed to get Millbank and himself to safety. Vere’s shouts brought us over, and we arrived to find Millbank and Coningsby seemingly lifeless, as Millbank was completely out of it, and Coningsby had fainted upon landing.’

‘If Coningsby had been lost,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘I never would have shown my face at Eton again.’

‘If Coningsby had been lost,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘I would never have shown my face at Eton again.’

‘Can you conceive a position more terrible?’ said Buckhurst. ‘I declare I shall never forget it as long as I live. However, there was the Lock House at hand; and we got blankets and brandy. Coningsby was soon all right; but Millbank, I can tell you, gave us some trouble. I thought it was all up. Didn’t you, Henry Sydney?’

‘Can you imagine a worse situation?’ Buckhurst said. ‘I swear I’ll never forget it for as long as I live. Anyway, we had the Lock House nearby; we managed to grab some blankets and brandy. Coningsby was fine pretty quickly, but I have to say, Millbank really caused us some issues. I thought we were done for. Didn’t you, Henry Sydney?’

‘The most fishy thing I ever saw,’ said Henry Sydney.

‘The fishiest thing I’ve ever seen,’ said Henry Sydney.

‘Well, we were fairly frightened here,’ said Sedgwick. ‘The first report was, that you had gone, but that seemed without foundation; but Coningsby was quite given up. Where are they now?’

‘Well, we were pretty scared here,’ said Sedgwick. ‘The first report was that you had left, but that seemed unfounded; however, Coningsby was completely given up on. Where are they now?’

‘They are both at their tutors’. I thought they had better keep quiet. Vere is with Millbank, and we are going back to Coningsby directly; but we thought it best to show, finding on our arrival that there were all sorts of rumours about. I think it will be best to report at once to my tutor, for he will be sure to hear something.’

‘They’re both with their tutors.’ I figured it would be better for them to stay quiet. Vere is with Millbank, and we’re going back to Coningsby right away; but we thought it was best to show up since we heard all kinds of rumors. I think it would be best to report to my tutor immediately, as he’s bound to hear something.’

‘I would if I were you.’

'I would if I were in your shoes.'

CHAPTER X.

What wonderful things are events! The least are of greater importance than the most sublime and comprehensive speculations! In what fanciful schemes to obtain the friendship of Coningsby had Millbank in his reveries often indulged! What combinations that were to extend over years and influence their lives! But the moment that he entered the world of action, his pride recoiled from the plans and hopes which his sympathy had inspired. His sensibility and his inordinate self-respect were always at variance. And he seldom exchanged a word with the being whose idea engrossed his affection.

What amazing things events are! Even the smallest ones matter more than the grandest and most comprehensive theories! Millbank often dreamed up elaborate plans to win Coningsby’s friendship in his daydreams. He imagined combinations that would unfold over years and shape their lives! But as soon as he stepped into the real world, his pride pulled back from the dreams and expectations that his emotions had sparked. His sensitivity and his excessive self-respect were always in conflict. And he rarely spoke to the person whose idea consumed his affection.

And now, suddenly, an event had occurred, like all events, unforeseen, which in a few, brief, agitating, tumultuous moments had singularly and utterly changed the relations that previously subsisted between him and the former object of his concealed tenderness. Millbank now stood with respect to Coningsby in the position of one who owes to another the greatest conceivable obligation; a favour which time could permit him neither to forget nor to repay. Pride was a sentiment that could no longer subsist before the preserver of his life. Devotion to that being, open, almost ostentatious, was now a duty, a paramount and absorbing tie. The sense of past peril, the rapture of escape, a renewed relish for the life so nearly forfeited, a deep sentiment of devout gratitude to the providence that had guarded over him, for Millbank was an eminently religious boy, a thought of home, and the anguish that might have overwhelmed his hearth; all these were powerful and exciting emotions for a young and fervent mind, in addition to the peculiar source of sensibility on which we have already touched. Lord Vere, who lodged in the same house as Millbank, and was sitting by his bedside, observed, as night fell, that his mind wandered.

And now, suddenly, something had happened, like all unexpected events, which in just a few brief, intense, chaotic moments had completely and utterly changed the relationship between him and the person he had secretly cared for. Millbank now felt towards Coningsby as someone who owed another the biggest debt imaginable; a favor that time could never let him forget or repay. Pride was no longer something he could maintain in front of the one who had saved his life. His devotion to that person, open and almost showy, had become an obligation, a vital and all-consuming bond. The memory of danger, the thrill of escape, a renewed appreciation for the life he had almost lost, and a profound sense of gratitude to the higher power that had watched over him—since Millbank was a deeply religious boy—all these feelings, along with thoughts of home and the torment that could have consumed his family, were strong and stirring emotions for a young and passionate mind, in addition to the unique source of sensitivity we’ve already mentioned. Lord Vere, who lived in the same house as Millbank and was sitting by his bedside, noticed as night fell that his thoughts were drifting.

The illness of Millbank, the character of which soon transpired, and was soon exaggerated, attracted the public attention with increased interest to the circumstances out of which it had arisen, and from which the parties principally concerned had wished to have diverted notice. The sufferer, indeed, had transgressed the rules of the school by bathing at an unlicensed spot, where there were no expert swimmers in attendance, as is customary, to instruct the practice and to guard over the lives of the young adventurers. But the circumstances with which this violation of rules had been accompanied, and the assurance of several of the party that they had not themselves infringed the regulations, combined with the high character of Millbank, made the authorities not over anxious to visit with penalties a breach of observance which, in the case of the only proved offender, had been attended with such impressive consequences. The feat of Coningsby was extolled by all as an act of high gallantry and skill. It confirmed and increased the great reputation which he already enjoyed.

The illness of Millbank, the nature of which quickly became clear and was soon exaggerated, drew the public's attention even more to the circumstances surrounding it, which the main parties involved wanted to keep out of the spotlight. The affected individual had indeed broken the school's rules by swimming at an unapproved location, where there were no trained lifeguards present, as is normally required to teach safe practices and protect the young swimmers. However, the situation surrounding this rule-breaking and the claims from several members of the group that they hadn't violated any rules, along with Millbank's good reputation, made the authorities less eager to impose penalties for a breach that had such serious consequences for the one confirmed offender. Coningsby's actions were praised by everyone as a display of bravery and skill, further enhancing his already outstanding reputation.

‘Millbank is getting quite well,’ said Buckhurst to Coningsby a few days after the accident. ‘Henry Sydney and I are going to see him. Will you come?’

‘Millbank is doing pretty well,’ said Buckhurst to Coningsby a few days after the accident. ‘Henry Sydney and I are planning to see him. Do you want to join us?’

‘I think we shall be too many. I will go another day,’ replied Coningsby.

‘I think we’ll be too many. I’ll go another day,’ replied Coningsby.

So they went without him. They found Millbank up and reading.

So they went without him. They found Millbank awake and reading.

‘Well, old fellow,’ said Buckhurst, ‘how are you? We should have come up before, but they would not let us. And you are quite right now, eh?’

‘Well, my friend,’ Buckhurst said, ‘how are you? We should have come by earlier, but they wouldn’t allow us. And you’re feeling better now, right?’

‘Quite. Has there been any row about it?’

‘Exactly. Has there been any fuss about it?’

‘All blown over,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘C*******y behaved like a trump.’

‘All blown over,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘C*******y acted like a real champ.’

‘I have seen nobody yet,’ said Millbank; ‘they would not let me till to-day. Vere looked in this morning and left me this book, but I was asleep. I hope they will let me out in a day or two. I want to thank Coningsby; I never shall rest till I have thanked Coningsby.’

‘I haven’t seen anyone yet,’ said Millbank; ‘they wouldn’t let me until today. Vere came by this morning and left me this book, but I was asleep. I hope they’ll let me out in a day or two. I want to thank Coningsby; I won’t be able to relax until I’ve thanked Coningsby.’

‘Oh, he will come to see you,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘I asked him just now to come with us.’

‘Oh, he’s definitely going to see you,’ said Henry Sydney; ‘I just asked him to join us.’

‘Yes!’ said Millbank, eagerly; ‘and what did he say?’

‘Yes!’ said Millbank, excitedly; ‘and what did he say?’

‘He thought we should be too many.’

‘He thought we would be too many.’

‘I hope I shall see him soon,’ said Millbank, ‘somehow or other.’

‘I hope I’ll see him soon,’ said Millbank, ‘one way or another.’

‘I will tell him to come,’ said Buckhurst.

‘I’ll tell him to come,’ said Buckhurst.

‘Oh! no, no, don’t tell him to come,’ said Millbank. ‘Don’t bore him.’

‘Oh! No, no, don’t invite him to come,’ said Millbank. ‘Don’t bother him.’

‘I know he is going to play a match at fives this afternoon,’ said Buckhurst, ‘for I am one.’

‘I know he’s playing a fives match this afternoon,’ said Buckhurst, ‘because I’m one of the players.’

‘And who are the others?’ inquired Millbank.

'And who are the others?' asked Millbank.

‘Herbert and Campbell.’

'Herbert & Campbell.'

‘Herbert is no match for Coningsby,’ said Millbank.

‘Herbert can't compete with Coningsby,’ said Millbank.

And then they talked over all that had happened since his absence; and Buckhurst gave him a graphic report of the excitement on the afternoon of the accident; at last they were obliged to leave him.

And then they talked about everything that had happened since he had been gone; Buckhurst gave him a detailed update on the chaos from the afternoon of the accident; finally, they had to leave him.

‘Well, good-bye, old fellow; we will come and see you every day. What can we do for you? Any books, or anything?’

‘Well, goodbye, old friend; we’ll come visit you every day. What can we get for you? Any books or anything else?’

‘If any fellow asks after me,’ said Millbank, ‘tell him I shall be glad to see him. It is very dull being alone. But do not tell any fellow to come if he does not ask after me.’

‘If anyone asks about me,’ said Millbank, ‘let them know I’d be happy to see them. It’s really boring being by myself. But don’t tell anyone to come if they aren’t asking about me.’

Notwithstanding the kind suggestions of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby could not easily bring himself to call on Millbank. He felt a constraint. It seemed as if he went to receive thanks. He would rather have met Millbank again in school, or in the playing fields. Without being able then to analyse his feelings, he shrank unconsciously from that ebullition of sentiment, which in more artificial circles is described as a scene. Not that any dislike of Millbank prompted him to this reserve. On the contrary, since he had conferred a great obligation on Millbank, his prejudice against him had sensibly decreased. How it would have been had Millbank saved Coningsby’s life, is quite another affair. Probably, as Coningsby was by nature generous, his sense of justice might have struggled successfully with his painful sense of the overwhelming obligation. But in the present case there was no element to disturb his fair self-satisfaction. He had greatly distinguished himself; he had conferred on his rival an essential service; and the whole world rang with his applause. He began rather to like Millbank; we will not say because Millbank was the unintentional cause of his pleasurable sensations. Really it was that the unusual circumstances had prompted him to a more impartial judgment of his rival’s character. In this mood, the day after the visit of Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby called on Millbank, but finding his medical attendant with him, Coningsby availed himself of that excuse for going away without seeing him.

Despite the kind suggestions from Buckhurst and Henry Sydney, Coningsby found it hard to visit Millbank. He felt a sense of hesitation. It was as if he was going to collect thanks. He would have preferred to meet Millbank again at school or on the playing fields. Without being able to fully understand his feelings, he instinctively pulled back from what he saw as an emotional outburst, which in more formal settings would be called a scene. This reluctance wasn’t due to any dislike for Millbank. On the contrary, since he had done a great service for Millbank, his previous prejudice had noticeably lessened. How things would have been if Millbank had saved Coningsby’s life is another story. Probably, since Coningsby was naturally generous, his sense of fairness might have battled successfully against the discomfort of feeling overly indebted. But in this situation, there was nothing to disrupt his sense of satisfaction. He had achieved a significant accomplishment; he had done his rival a vital service; and everyone was singing his praises. He started to like Millbank a bit; we won’t say it was because Millbank unintentionally caused his good feelings. Rather, it was that the unusual circumstances had led him to a more unbiased view of his rival's character. In this frame of mind, the day after Buckhurst and Henry Sydney visited, Coningsby went to see Millbank, but when he found his doctor there, he used that as an excuse to leave without seeing him.

The next day he left Millbank a newspaper on his way to school, time not permitting a visit. Two days after, going into his room, he found on his table a letter addressed to ‘Harry Coningsby, Esq.’

The next day, he left a newspaper at Millbank on his way to school, as he didn't have time to visit. Two days later, when he entered his room, he found a letter on his table addressed to ‘Harry Coningsby, Esq.’

ETON, May—, 1832.

‘DEAR CONINGSBY, I very much fear that you must think me a very ungrateful fellow, because you have not heard from me before; but I was in hopes that I might get out and say to you what I feel; but whether I speak or write, it is quite impossible for me to make you understand the feelings of my heart to you. Now, I will say at once, that I have always liked you better than any fellow in the school, and always thought you the cleverest; indeed, I always thought that there was no one like you; but I never would say this or show this, because you never seemed to care for me, and because I was afraid you would think I merely wanted to con with you, as they used to say of some other fellows, whose names I will not mention, because they always tried to do so with Henry Sydney and you. I do not want this at all; but I want, though we may not speak to each other more than before, that we may be friends; and that you will always know that there is nothing I will not do for you, and that I like you better than any fellow at Eton. And I do not mean that this shall be only at Eton, but afterwards, wherever we may be, that you will always remember that there is nothing I will not do for you. Not because you saved my life, though that is a great thing, but because before that I would have done anything for you; only, for the cause above mentioned, I would not show it. I do not expect that we shall be more together than before; nor can I ever suppose that you could like me as you like Henry Sydney and Buckhurst, or even as you like Vere; but still I hope you will always think of me with kindness now, and let me sign myself, if ever I do write to you, ‘Your most attached, affectionate, and devoted friend,

‘DEAR CONINGSBY, I’m really worried that you think I’m a very ungrateful person since you haven’t heard from me before; I was hoping I could get out and tell you how I feel in person. But whether I talk to you or write, I find it impossible to express the feelings I have for you. So, I’ll just say it outright: I’ve always liked you more than anyone else at school, and I've always thought you were the smartest; I honestly believed there was no one like you. However, I never said this or showed it because you never seemed to care about me, and I was afraid you would think I just wanted to get close to you like some other guys did, whose names I won’t mention because they always tried to do that with Henry Sydney and you. I really don’t want that at all; I just want, even if we don’t talk any more than before, for us to be friends. I want you to always know that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you, and that I like you more than any other guy at Eton. And I don’t just mean while we’re at Eton, but later on, wherever we might be, I want you to remember that there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. Not just because you saved my life, although that’s a huge deal, but because even before that, I would have done anything for you; I just didn’t show it for the reasons I mentioned. I don’t expect we’ll spend more time together than we did before, nor do I ever think you’ll like me as much as you like Henry Sydney or Buckhurst, or even Vere; but still, I hope you’ll always think of me kindly now. Let me sign off, if I ever write to you, as ‘Your most attached, affectionate, and devoted friend,

‘OSWALD MILLBANK.’

CHAPTER XI.

About a fortnight after this nearly fatal adventure on the river, it was Montem. One need hardly remind the reader that this celebrated ceremony, of which the origin is lost in obscurity, and which now occurs triennially, is the tenure by which Eton College holds some of its domains. It consists in the waving of a flag by one of the scholars, on a mount near the village of Salt Hill, which, without doubt, derives its name from the circumstance that on this day every visitor to Eton, and every traveller in its vicinity, from the monarch to the peasant, are stopped on the road by youthful brigands in picturesque costume, and summoned to contribute ‘salt,’ in the shape of coin of the realm, to the purse collecting for the Captain of Eton, the senior scholar on the Foundation, who is about to repair to King’s College, Cambridge.

About two weeks after this nearly deadly adventure on the river, it was Montem. One hardly needs to remind the reader that this famous ceremony, whose origins are lost to history and which now happens every three years, is how Eton College maintains some of its properties. It involves one of the students waving a flag from a hill near the village of Salt Hill, which undoubtedly got its name because, on this day, every visitor to Eton and every traveler nearby, from the king to the commoner, is stopped on the road by young robbers in colorful costumes and asked to give ‘salt’ in the form of money to the fund for the Captain of Eton, the top student at the Foundation, who is about to go to King’s College, Cambridge.

On this day the Captain of Eton appears in a dress as martial as his title: indeed, each sixth-form boy represents in his uniform, though not perhaps according to the exact rules of the Horse Guards, an officer of the army. One is a marshal, another an ensign. There is a lieutenant, too; and the remainder are sergeants. Each of those who are intrusted with these ephemeral commissions has one or more attendants, the number of these varying according to his rank. These servitors are selected according to the wishes of the several members of the sixth form, out of the ranks of the lower boys, that is, those boys who are below the fifth form; and all these attendants are arrayed in a variety of fancy dresses. The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to the Captain of the school, figure also in fancy costume, and are called ‘Saltbearers.’ It is their business, together with the twelve senior Collegers of the fifth form, who are called ‘Runners,’ and whose costume is also determined by the taste of the wearers, to levy the contributions. And all the Oppidans of the fifth form, among whom ranked Coningsby, class as ‘Corporals;’ and are severally followed by one or more lower boys, who are denominated ‘Polemen,’ but who appear in their ordinary dress.

On this day, the Captain of Eton shows up in a uniform as official as his title: each sixth-form boy, while not exactly following the rules of the Horse Guards, looks like an army officer in his uniform. One is a marshal, another is an ensign, and there's a lieutenant as well; the rest are sergeants. Each of those given these short-lived roles has one or more attendants, with the number depending on their rank. These attendants are chosen based on the preferences of the sixth form members from the lower boys, meaning those below the fifth form, and they're dressed in a variety of fancy outfits. The Captain of the Oppidans and the senior Colleger next to the school Captain also wear fancy costumes and are known as 'Saltbearers.' Their job, along with the twelve senior Collegers from the fifth form, known as 'Runners,' who also wear costumes based on their style, is to collect contributions. All the Oppidans in the fifth form, including Coningsby, are considered 'Corporals,' and each is followed by one or more lower boys called 'Polemen,' who are dressed in their regular clothes.

It was a fine, bright morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang merrily; everybody was astir, and every moment some gay equipage drove into the town. Gaily clustering in the thronged precincts of the College, might be observed many a glistening form: airy Greek or sumptuous Ottoman, heroes of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, Highland Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, gay in the tartan of Prince Charlie. The Long Walk was full of busy groups in scarlet coats or fanciful uniforms; some in earnest conversation, some criticising the arriving guests; others encircling some magnificent hero, who astounded them with his slashed doublet or flowing plume.

It was a beautiful, sunny morning; the bells of Eton and Windsor rang happily; everyone was up and about, and every moment some stylish carriage rolled into town. Brightly gathered in the busy areas of the College were many eye-catching figures: light-footed Greeks or lavish Ottomans, heroes of the Holy Sepulchre, Spanish Hidalgos who had fought at Pavia, and Highland Chiefs who had charged at Culloden, proudly dressed in Prince Charlie's tartan. The Long Walk was filled with lively groups in red coats or decorative uniforms; some were deep in conversation, some were critiquing the arriving guests, and others were surrounding a magnificent hero who amazed them with his stylish doublet or flowing plume.

A knot of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall, with their feet swinging in the air, watched the arriving guests of the Provost.

A group of boys, sitting on the Long Walk wall with their feet swinging in the air, watched the guests of the Provost as they arrived.

‘I say, Townshend,’ said one, ‘there’s Grobbleton; he was a bully. I wonder if that’s his wife? Who’s this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn’t an Eton fellow? Yes, he was. He was called Poictiers then. Oh! ah! his name is in the upper school, very large, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend, did you see Saville’s turban? What was it made of? He says his mother brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn’t he just look like the Saracen’s Head? Here are some Dons. That’s Hallam! We’ll give him a cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this fellow. He doesn’t think small beer of himself. I wonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington’s valet come to say his master is engaged. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won’t we give him a cheer!’

‘I say, Townshend,’ said one, ‘there’s Grobbleton; he was a bully. I wonder if that’s his wife? Who’s this? The Duke of Agincourt. He wasn’t an Eton student? Yeah, he was. They called him Poictiers back then. Oh! wow! his name is up in the upper school, very big, under Charles Fox. I say, Townshend, did you see Saville’s turban? What was it made of? He says his mom brought it from Grand Cairo. Didn’t he just look like the Saracen’s Head? Here are some professors. That’s Hallam! We’ll give him a cheer. I say, Townshend, look at this guy. He’s got a high opinion of himself. I wonder who he is? The Duke of Wellington’s valet came to say his boss is busy. Oh! by Jove, he heard you! I wonder if the Duke will come? Won’t we give him a cheer!’

‘By Jove! who is this?’ exclaimed Townshend, and he jumped from the wall, and, followed by his companions, rushed towards the road.

“Wow! Who is that?” shouted Townshend, and he jumped off the wall, racing towards the road with his friends close behind.

Two britskas, each drawn by four grey horses of mettle, and each accompanied by outriders as well mounted, were advancing at a rapid pace along the road that leads from Slough to the College. But they were destined to an irresistible check. About fifty yards before they had reached the gate that leads into Weston’s Yard, a ruthless but splendid Albanian, in crimson and gold embroidered jacket, and snowy camise, started forward, and holding out his silver-sheathed yataghan commanded the postilions to stop. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road gave a simultaneous command, and would infallibly have transfixed the outriders with an arrow from his unerring bow, had they for an instant hesitated. The Albanian Chief then advanced to the door of the carriage, which he opened, and in a tone of great courtesy, announced that he was under the necessity of troubling its inmates for ‘salt.’ There was no delay. The Lord of the equipage, with the amiable condescension of a ‘grand monarque,’ expressed his hope that the collection would be an ample one, and as an old Etonian, placed in the hands of the Albanian his contribution, a magnificent purse, furnished for the occasion, and heavy with gold.

Two carriages, each pulled by four strong grey horses and accompanied by well-mounted outriders, were moving quickly down the road from Slough to the College. But they were about to be stopped in their tracks. About fifty yards before they reached the gate into Weston’s Yard, a fierce yet impressive Albanian in a red and gold embroidered jacket and a white shirt stepped forward, brandishing his silver-sheathed sword and ordering the drivers to halt. A Peruvian Inca on the other side of the road issued a simultaneous command and would surely have pierced the outriders with an arrow from his perfect aim if they had hesitated for even a moment. The Albanian leader then approached the door of the carriage, opened it, and politely announced that he needed to trouble its occupants for ‘salt.’ There was no hesitation. The owner of the carriage, with the gracious demeanor of a ‘great monarch,’ expressed his hope that the contribution would be substantial, and as an old Etonian, handed the Albanian a magnificent purse he had prepared for the occasion, heavy with gold.

‘Don’t be alarmed, ladies,’ said a very handsome young officer, laughing, and taking off his cocked hat.

‘Don’t worry, ladies,’ said a very attractive young officer, laughing and taking off his hat.

‘Ah!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the voice, and starting a little. ‘Ah! it is Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Oh!’ exclaimed one of the ladies, turning at the sound of the voice and slightly startled. ‘Oh! It’s Mr. Coningsby.’

Lord Eskdale paid the salt for the next carriage. ‘Do they come down pretty stiff?’ he inquired, and then, pulling forth a roll of bank-notes from the pocket of his pea-jacket, he wished them good morning.

Lord Eskdale covered the fare for the next carriage. “Do they charge quite a bit?” he asked, and then, taking out a stack of banknotes from the pocket of his pea coat, he wished them a good morning.

The courtly Provost, then the benignant Goodall, a man who, though his experience of life was confined to the colleges in which he had passed his days, was naturally gifted with the rarest of all endowments, the talent of reception; and whose happy bearing and gracious manner, a smile ever in his eye and a lively word ever on his lip, must be recalled by all with pleasant recollections, welcomed Lord Monmouth and his friends to an assemblage of the noble, the beautiful, and the celebrated gathered together in rooms not unworthy of them, as you looked upon their interesting walls, breathing with the portraits of the heroes whom Eton boasts, from Wotton to Wellesley. Music sounded in the quadrangle of the College, in which the boys were already quickly assembling. The Duke of Wellington had arrived, and the boys were cheering a hero, who was an Eton field-marshal. From an oriel window in one of the Provost’s rooms, Lord Monmouth, surrounded by every circumstance that could make life delightful, watched with some intentness the scene in the quadrangle beneath.

The polite Provost, then the kind Goodall, a man whose life experience was limited to the colleges where he had spent his days, was naturally blessed with the rarest gift of all: the ability to make people feel welcome. With his cheerful demeanor and gracious attitude, always with a smile in his eye and a lively word on his lips, everyone had pleasant memories of him. He welcomed Lord Monmouth and his friends to a gathering of the noble, the beautiful, and the celebrated, all assembled in rooms fitting of their status, as you admired the impressive walls adorned with portraits of Eton's revered figures, from Wotton to Wellesley. Music played in the college courtyard, where the boys were quickly gathering. The Duke of Wellington had arrived, and the boys cheered for their hero, an Eton field marshal. From a window in one of the Provost’s rooms, Lord Monmouth, surrounded by everything that could make life enjoyable, watched the scene in the courtyard below with keen interest.

‘I would give his fame,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘if I had it, and my wealth, to be sixteen.’

‘I would give up his fame,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘if I had it, and my wealth, to be sixteen.’

Five hundred of the youth of England, sparkling with health, high spirits, and fancy dresses, were now assembled in the quadrangle. They formed into rank, and headed by a band of the Guards, thrice they marched round the court. Then quitting the College, they commenced their progress ‘ad Montem.’ It was a brilliant spectacle to see them defiling through the playing fields, those bowery meads; the river sparkling in the sun, the castled heights of Windsor, their glorious landscape; behind them, the pinnacles of their College.

Five hundred young people from England, full of health, excitement, and fancy outfits, were gathered in the courtyard. They lined up and, led by a band of the Guards, marched around the courtyard three times. Then, leaving the College, they began their journey to ‘ad Montem.’ It was a stunning sight to watch them parade through the playing fields and leafy meadows, with the river shining in the sun and the castle-topped hills of Windsor in the background, alongside the impressive towers of their College.

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was clogged with carriages; the broad fields as far as eye could range were covered with human beings. Amid the burst of martial music and the shouts of the multitude, the band of heroes, as if they were marching from Athens, or Thebes, or Sparta, to some heroic deed, encircled the mount; the ensign reaches its summit, and then, amid a deafening cry of ‘Floreat Etona!’ he unfurls, and thrice waves the consecrated standard.

The road from Eton to Salt Hill was packed with carriages; the wide fields as far as the eye could see were filled with people. Amid the booming military music and the cheers of the crowd, the group of heroes, as if they were marching from Athens, Thebes, or Sparta to perform some heroic act, surrounded the hill; the flag bearer reached the top, and then, amid a thunderous cry of ‘Floreat Etona!’ he unfurled and waved the sacred banner three times.

‘Lord Monmouth,’ said Mr. Rigby to Coningsby, ‘wishes that you should beg your friends to dine with him. Of course you will ask Lord Henry and your friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; and is there any one else that you would like to invite?’

‘Lord Monmouth,’ Mr. Rigby said to Coningsby, ‘wants you to invite your friends to dinner with him. Naturally, you’ll ask Lord Henry and your friend Sir Charles Buckhurst; is there anyone else you’d like to invite?’

‘Why, there is Vere,’ said Coningsby, hesitating, ‘and—’

‘Vere! What Lord Vere?’ said Rigby. ‘Hum! He is one of your friends, is he? His father has done a great deal of mischief, but still he is Lord Vere. Well, of course, you can invite Vere.’

‘Vere! Which Lord Vere?’ Rigby said. ‘Hmm! He’s one of your friends, right? His dad has caused a lot of trouble, but he’s still Lord Vere. Well, sure, you can invite Vere.’

‘There is another fellow I should like to ask very much,’ said Coningsby, ‘if Lord Monmouth would not think I was asking too many.’

‘There’s another person I really want to ask,’ said Coningsby, ‘if Lord Monmouth wouldn’t think I was asking too much.’

‘Never fear that; he sent me particularly to tell you to invite as many as you liked.’

‘Don’t worry about that; he specifically sent me to tell you to invite as many people as you want.’

‘Well, then, I should like to ask Millbank.’

‘Well, then, I would like to ask Millbank.’

‘Millbank!’ said Mr. Rigby, a little excited, and then he added, ‘Is that a son of Lady Albinia Millbank?’

‘Millbank!’ said Mr. Rigby, a bit excited, and then he added, ‘Is that a son of Lady Albinia Millbank?’

‘No; his mother is not a Lady Albinia, but he is a great friend of mine. His father is a Lancashire manufacturer.’

‘No; his mother isn’t a Lady Albinia, but he’s a good friend of mine. His father is a manufacturer from Lancashire.’

‘By no means,’ exclaimed Mr. Rigby, quite agitated. ‘There is nothing in the world that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as Manchester manufacturers, and particularly if they bear the name of Millbank. It must not be thought of, my dear Harry. I hope you have not spoken to the young man on the subject. I assure you it is out of the question. It would make Lord Monmouth quite ill. It would spoil everything, quite upset him.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Mr. Rigby exclaimed, clearly agitated. ‘There’s nothing Lord Monmouth hates more than Manchester manufacturers, especially if they’re named Millbank. We can’t even consider it, my dear Harry. I hope you haven’t talked to the young man about it. I assure you, it’s out of the question. It would make Lord Monmouth seriously ill. It would ruin everything, completely throw him off.’

It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby to urge his wishes against such representations. He was disappointed, rather amazed; but Madame Colonna having sent for him to introduce her to some of the scenes and details of Eton life, his vexation was soon absorbed in the pride of acting in the face of his companions as the cavalier of a beautiful lady, and becoming the cicerone of the most brilliant party that had attended Montem. He presented his friends, too, to Lord Monmouth, who gave them a cordial invitation to dine with him at his hotel at Windsor, which they warmly accepted. Buckhurst delighted the Marquess by his reckless genius. Even Lucretia deigned to appear amused; especially when, on visiting the upper school, the name of CARDIFF, the title Lord Monmouth bore in his youthful days, was pointed out to her by Coningsby, cut with his grandfather’s own knife on the classic panels of that memorable wall in which scarcely a name that has flourished in our history, since the commencement of the eighteenth century, may not be observed with curious admiration.

It was, of course, impossible for Coningsby to push his preferences against such arguments. He felt disappointed and a bit stunned; however, after Madame Colonna asked him to show her some aspects of Eton life, his frustration quickly faded as he took pride in appearing in front of his friends as the escort of a beautiful lady, becoming the guide for the most impressive group that had attended Montem. He also introduced his friends to Lord Monmouth, who warmly invited them to dinner at his hotel in Windsor, which they eagerly accepted. Buckhurst impressed the Marquess with his wild talent. Even Lucretia seemed entertained; particularly when, during their visit to the upper school, Coningsby pointed out the name CARDIFF—the title Lord Monmouth held in his younger days—carved by his grandfather’s own knife into the classic panels of that memorable wall, where almost every name that has made a mark in our history since the beginning of the eighteenth century can be admired with curiosity.

It was the humour of Lord Monmouth that the boys should be entertained with the most various and delicious banquet that luxury could devise or money could command. For some days beforehand orders had been given for the preparation of this festival. Our friends did full justice to their Lucullus; Buckhurst especially, who gave his opinion on the most refined dishes with all the intrepidity of saucy ignorance, and occasionally shook his head over a glass of Hermitage or Côte Rôtie with a dissatisfaction which a satiated Sybarite could not have exceeded. Considering all things, Coningsby and his friends exhibited a great deal of self-command; but they were gay, even to the verge of frolic. But then the occasion justified it, as much as their youth. All were in high spirits. Madame Colonna declared that she had met nothing in England equal to Montem; that it was a Protestant Carnival; and that its only fault was that it did not last forty days. The Prince himself was all animation, and took wine with every one of the Etonians several times. All went on flowingly until Mr. Rigby contradicted Buckhurst on some point of Eton discipline, which Buckhurst would not stand. He rallied Mr. Rigby roundly, and Coningsby, full of champagne, and owing Rigby several years of contradiction, followed up the assault. Lord Monmouth, who liked a butt, and had a weakness for boisterous gaiety, slily encouraged the boys, till Rigby began to lose his temper and get noisy.

It was Lord Monmouth’s idea that the boys should be treated to the most extravagant and delicious feast that luxury could create or money could buy. For several days leading up to the event, preparations had been underway for this celebration. Our friends embraced their roles as hosts; Buckhurst, in particular, offered his thoughts on the most sophisticated dishes with the boldness of playful ignorance, occasionally shaking his head over a glass of Hermitage or Côte Rôtie in a way that even the most spoiled gourmet couldn't surpass. All things considered, Coningsby and his friends showed a lot of self-control, but they were lively, almost to the point of being playful. Still, the occasion called for it, just as much as their youth did. Everyone was in high spirits. Madame Colonna proclaimed that she hadn’t experienced anything in England that compared to Montem; she called it a Protestant Carnival and remarked that its only flaw was that it didn’t last for forty days. The Prince himself was full of energy and drank with each of the Etonians several times. Everything was going smoothly until Mr. Rigby disagreed with Buckhurst on some aspect of Eton discipline, which Buckhurst refused to accept. He gave Mr. Rigby a good-natured ribbing, and Coningsby, feeling bold after a few glasses of champagne and having several years of disagreements with Rigby to settle, joined in. Lord Monmouth, who enjoyed a good laugh and had a penchant for rowdy fun, slyly encouraged the boys until Rigby started to lose his cool and get loud.

The lads had the best of it; they said a great many funny things, and delivered themselves of several sharp retorts; whereas there was something ridiculous in Rigby putting forth his ‘slashing’ talents against such younkers. However, he brought the infliction on himself by his strange habit of deciding on subjects of which he knew nothing, and of always contradicting persons on the very subjects of which they were necessarily masters.

The guys were having a great time; they made a lot of jokes and fired off some quick comebacks. Meanwhile, it seemed kind of absurd for Rigby to show off his ‘cutting’ skills against such young guys. However, he kind of asked for it with his odd habit of choosing topics he knew nothing about and always arguing with people about things they were experts in.

To see Rigby baited was more amusement to Lord Monmouth even than Montem. Lucian Gay, however, when the affair was getting troublesome, came forward as a diversion. He sang an extemporaneous song on the ceremony of the day, and introduced the names of all the guests at the dinner, and of a great many other persons besides. This was capital! The boys were in raptures, but when the singer threw forth a verse about Dr. Keate, the applause became uproarious.

To see Rigby humiliated was even more entertaining to Lord Monmouth than Montem. Lucian Gay, however, when the situation started to get awkward, stepped in to lighten the mood. He sang an impromptu song about the day's events and included the names of all the dinner guests as well as many others. This was fantastic! The boys were thrilled, but when the singer tossed in a verse about Dr. Keate, the applause became deafening.

‘Good-bye, my dear Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, when he bade his grandson farewell. ‘I am going abroad again; I cannot remain in this Radical-ridden country. Remember, though I am away, Monmouth House is your home, at least so long as it belongs to me. I understand my tailor has turned Liberal, and is going to stand for one of the metropolitan districts, a friend of Lord Durham; perhaps I shall find him in it when I return. I fear there are evil days for the NEW GENERATION!’

‘Goodbye, my dear Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth as he said goodbye to his grandson. ‘I’m going abroad again; I can’t stay in this country full of radicals. Remember, even though I’m away, Monmouth House is your home, at least as long as it’s mine. I’ve heard my tailor has become a Liberal and is planning to run for one of the city districts, a friend of Lord Durham; maybe I’ll find him in it when I come back. I’m afraid there are tough times ahead for the NEW GENERATION!’

END OF BOOK I.

BOOK II.

CHAPTER I.

It was early in November, 1834, and a large shooting party was assembled at Beaumanoir, the seat of that great nobleman, who was the father of Henry Sydney. England is unrivalled for two things, sporting and politics. They were combined at Beaumanoir; for the guests came not merely to slaughter the Duke’s pheasants, but to hold council on the prospects of the party, which it was supposed by the initiated, began at this time to indicate some symptoms of brightening.

It was early November 1834, and a large hunting party gathered at Beaumanoir, the estate of that prominent nobleman, who was Henry Sydney's father. England is unmatched in two things: sports and politics. Both were present at Beaumanoir; the guests were there not only to shoot the Duke's pheasants but also to discuss the party's future, which those in the know believed was starting to show signs of improvement.

The success of the Reform Ministry on their first appeal to the new constituency which they had created, had been fatally complete. But the triumph was as destructive to the victors as to the vanquished.

The success of the Reform Ministry in their first appeal to the new constituency they had created had been completely devastating. But the victory was just as destructive for the winners as it was for the losers.

‘We are too strong,’ prophetically exclaimed one of the fortunate cabinet, which found itself supported by an inconceivable majority of three hundred. It is to be hoped that some future publisher of private memoirs may have preserved some of the traits of that crude and short-lived parliament, when old Cobbett insolently thrust Sir Robert from the prescriptive seat of the chief of opposition, and treasury understrappers sneered at the ‘queer lot’ that had arrived from Ireland, little foreseeing what a high bidding that ‘queer lot’ would eventually command. Gratitude to Lord Grey was the hustings-cry at the end of 1832, the pretext that was to return to the new-modelled House of Commons none but men devoted to the Whig cause. The successful simulation, like everything that is false, carried within it the seeds of its own dissolution. Ingratitude to Lord Grey was more the fashion at the commencement of 1834, and before the close of that eventful year, the once popular Reform Ministry was upset, and the eagerly-sought Reformed Parliament dissolved!

‘We are too strong,’ one of the lucky members of the cabinet exclaimed, supported by an unbelievable majority of three hundred. Hopefully, some future publisher of private memoirs will have captured some characteristics of that rough and short-lived parliament, when old Cobbett shamelessly pushed Sir Robert from his established position as the chief of opposition, and treasury underlings mocked the ‘strange group’ that had come from Ireland, not realizing the high value that ‘strange group’ would eventually hold. Gratitude to Lord Grey became the rallying cry at the end of 1832, serving as the reason to ensure that only those dedicated to the Whig cause returned to the newly restructured House of Commons. This successful pretense, like everything false, contained the seeds of its own downfall. By early 1834, ingratitude toward Lord Grey had become more popular, and by the end of that significant year, the once-favored Reform Ministry was toppled, and the eagerly sought Reformed Parliament was dissolved!

It can scarcely be alleged that the public was altogether unprepared for this catastrophe. Many deemed it inevitable; few thought it imminent. The career of the Ministry, and the existence of the Parliament, had indeed from the first been turbulent and fitful. It was known, from authority, that there were dissensions in the cabinet, while a House of Commons which passed votes on subjects not less important than the repeal of a tax, or the impeachment of a judge, on one night, and rescinded its resolutions on the following, certainly established no increased claims to the confidence of its constituents in its discretion. Nevertheless, there existed at this period a prevalent conviction that the Whig party, by a great stroke of state, similar in magnitude and effect to that which in the preceding century had changed the dynasty, had secured to themselves the government of this country for, at least, the lives of the present generation. And even the well-informed in such matters were inclined to look upon the perplexing circumstances to which we have alluded rather as symptoms of a want of discipline in a new system of tactics, than as evidences of any essential and deeply-rooted disorder.

It's hard to say that the public was completely unprepared for this disaster. Many thought it was unavoidable; few believed it was coming soon. The Ministry's track record and the Parliament's existence had certainly been rocky and inconsistent from the beginning. There were known divisions within the cabinet, and a House of Commons that passed significant votes, like repealing a tax or impeaching a judge, one night and then reversed those decisions the next, definitely didn't inspire much confidence from its constituents. Still, there was a widespread belief at this time that the Whig party had secured control of the government for, at least, the lifetimes of the current generation with a major political maneuver similar in impact to the one that had changed the monarchy a century earlier. Even those who were well-informed tended to see the confusing situation we mentioned more as signs of a lack of discipline in a new tactical approach rather than as evidence of any fundamental chaos.

The startling rapidity, however, of the strange incidents of 1834; the indignant, soon to become vituperative, secession of a considerable section of the cabinet, some of them esteemed too at that time among its most efficient members; the piteous deprecation of ‘pressure from without,’ from lips hitherto deemed too stately for entreaty, followed by the Trades’ Union, thirty thousand strong, parading in procession to Downing-street; the Irish negotiations of Lord Hatherton, strange blending of complex intrigue and almost infantile ingenuousness; the still inexplicable resignation of Lord Althorp, hurriedly followed by his still more mysterious resumption of power, the only result of his precipitate movements being the fall of Lord Grey himself, attended by circumstances which even a friendly historian could scarcely describe as honourable to his party or dignified to himself; latterly, the extemporaneous address of King William to the Bishops; the vagrant and grotesque apocalypse of the Lord Chancellor; and the fierce recrimination and memorable defiance of the Edinburgh banquet, all these impressive instances of public affairs and public conduct had combined to create a predominant opinion that, whatever might be the consequences, the prolonged continuance of the present party in power was a clear impossibility.

The shocking speed of the strange events of 1834; the angry, soon to become abusive, departure of a significant part of the cabinet, some of whom were then considered some of its most effective members; the pitiful plea against 'external pressure' from those previously thought too dignified to beg, followed by the Trades’ Union, thirty thousand strong, marching to Downing Street; the Irish negotiations of Lord Hatherton, a bizarre mix of complex plotting and almost childlike sincerity; the still puzzling resignation of Lord Althorp, quickly followed by his even more mysterious return to power, the only outcome of his hasty actions being the downfall of Lord Grey himself, surrounded by circumstances that even a sympathetic historian could hardly describe as honorable for his party or dignified for himself; more recently, the impromptu address of King William to the Bishops; the erratic and bizarre outburst of the Lord Chancellor; and the fierce accusations and memorable defiance at the Edinburgh banquet, all these striking examples of public affairs and behavior had come together to create a widespread belief that, regardless of the repercussions, the extended stay of the current party in power was clearly impossible.

It is evident that the suicidal career of what was then styled the Liberal party had been occasioned and stimulated by its unnatural excess of strength. The apoplectic plethora of 1834 was not less fatal than the paralytic tenuity of 1841. It was not feasible to gratify so many ambitions, or to satisfy so many expectations. Every man had his double; the heels of every placeman were dogged by friendly rivals ready to trip them up. There were even two cabinets; the one that met in council, and the one that met in cabal. The consequence of destroying the legitimate Opposition of the country was, that a moiety of the supporters of Government had to discharge the duties of Opposition.

It's clear that the self-destructive path of what was then called the Liberal party was caused and fueled by its unnatural excess of power. The overwhelming abundance of 1834 was just as deadly as the weak state of 1841. It wasn't possible to satisfy so many ambitions or meet so many expectations. Every individual had a rival; every government appointee was shadowed by friends ready to sabotage them. There were even two cabinets: one that convened for official meetings and another that met in secret. The result of eliminating the legitimate Opposition in the country was that a portion of the Government's supporters had to take on the role of the Opposition.

Herein, then, we detect the real cause of all that irregular and unsettled carriage of public men which so perplexed the nation after the passing of the Reform Act. No government can be long secure without a formidable Opposition. It reduces their supporters to that tractable number which can be managed by the joint influences of fruition and of hope. It offers vengeance to the discontented, and distinction to the ambitious; and employs the energies of aspiring spirits, who otherwise may prove traitors in a division or assassins in a debate.

Here, we identify the real reason for the chaotic and unstable behavior of public figures that confused the country after the Reform Act was enacted. No government can remain stable for long without a strong Opposition. It limits their supporters to a manageable number influenced by both reward and aspiration. It provides a way for the dissatisfied to take revenge and for the ambitious to gain recognition; it channels the energy of driven individuals who might otherwise become dissenters during a vote or disruptors in a debate.

The general election of 1832 abrogated the Parliamentary Opposition of England, which had practically existed for more than a century and a half. And what a series of equivocal transactions and mortifying adventures did the withdrawal of this salutary restraint entail on the party which then so loudly congratulated themselves and the country that they were at length relieved from its odious repression! In the hurry of existence one is apt too generally to pass over the political history of the times in which we ourselves live. The two years that followed the Reform of the House of Commons are full of instruction, on which a young man would do well to ponder. It is hardly possible that he could rise from the study of these annals without a confirmed disgust for political intrigue; a dazzling practice, apt at first to fascinate youth, for it appeals at once to our invention and our courage, but one which really should only be the resource of the second-rate. Great minds must trust to great truths and great talents for their rise, and nothing else.

The general election of 1832 marked the end of the Parliamentary Opposition in England, which had been around for over a century and a half. What a mix of questionable actions and embarrassing experiences followed the removal of this important check on the party that celebrated their newfound freedom from its unpleasant restrictions! In the rush of life, we often overlook the political events of our own time. The two years after the Reform of the House of Commons are full of lessons that a young person would benefit from reflecting on. It's hard to believe that anyone studying this history wouldn’t develop a strong aversion to political machinations; it's an enticing game that can initially attract young people because it appeals to our creativity and bravery, but it really should be the domain of those who are average. Great minds should rely on great truths and exceptional talents for their success, and nothing less.

While, however, as the autumn of 1834 advanced, the people of this country became gradually sensible of the necessity of some change in the councils of their Sovereign, no man felt capable of predicting by what means it was to be accomplished, or from what quarry the new materials were to be extracted. The Tory party, according to those perverted views of Toryism unhappily too long prevalent in this country, was held to be literally defunct, except by a few old battered crones of office, crouched round the embers of faction which they were fanning, and muttering ‘reaction’ in mystic whispers. It cannot be supposed indeed for a moment, that the distinguished personage who had led that party in the House of Commons previously to the passing of the act of 1832, ever despaired in consequence of his own career. His then time of life, the perfection, almost the prime, of manhood; his parliamentary practice, doubly estimable in an inexperienced assembly; his political knowledge; his fair character and reputable position; his talents and tone as a public speaker, which he had always aimed to adapt to the habits and culture of that middle class from which it was concluded the benches of the new Parliament were mainly to be recruited, all these were qualities the possession of which must have assured a mind not apt to be disturbed in its calculations by any intemperate heats, that with time and patience the game was yet for him.

As autumn of 1834 approached, the people of this country started to realize that some change was needed in the decisions made by their Sovereign. However, no one could predict how this change would happen or where new ideas would come from. The Tory party, according to the misguided beliefs about Toryism that had unfortunately been common here for too long, seemed to be nearly extinct, except for a few old political figures huddled around the remnants of their faction, whispering “reaction” in secretive tones. It’s hard to believe for a second that the prominent leader of that party in the House of Commons before the passing of the 1832 act ever lost hope due to his own situation. At that stage in his life, in the prime of manhood, with valuable experience in Parliament—especially important in a new assembly—along with his political knowledge, good reputation, and notable position, as well as his skills and style as a public speaker that he had always adjusted to fit the habits and culture of the middle class that was expected to dominate the new Parliament, all these qualities would surely have given him confidence that, with time and patience, he still had a chance to succeed.

Unquestionably, whatever may have been insinuated, this distinguished person had no inkling that his services in 1834 might be claimed by his Sovereign. At the close of the session of that year he had quitted England with his family, and had arrived at Rome, where it was his intention to pass the winter. The party charges that have imputed to him a previous and sinister knowledge of the intentions of the Court, appear to have been made not only in ignorance of the personal character, but of the real position, of the future minister.

Unquestionably, no matter what has been suggested, this respected individual had no idea that his services in 1834 might be requested by his Sovereign. At the end of that year’s session, he left England with his family and arrived in Rome, where he planned to spend the winter. The accusations claiming he had prior and deceitful knowledge of the Court's intentions seem to stem from a misunderstanding of both his personal character and the actual position of the future minister.

It had been the misfortune of this eminent gentleman when he first entered public life, to become identified with a political connection which, having arrogated to itself the name of an illustrious historical party, pursued a policy which was either founded on no principle whatever, or on principles exactly contrary to those which had always guided the conduct of the great Tory leaders. The chief members of this official confederacy were men distinguished by none of the conspicuous qualities of statesmen. They had none of the divine gifts that govern senates and guide councils. They were not orators; they were not men of deep thought or happy resource, or of penetrative and sagacious minds. Their political ken was essentially dull and contracted. They expended some energy in obtaining a defective, blundering acquaintance with foreign affairs; they knew as little of the real state of their own country as savages of an approaching eclipse. This factious league had shuffled themselves into power by clinging to the skirts of a great minister, the last of Tory statesmen, but who, in the unparalleled and confounding emergencies of his latter years, had been forced, unfortunately for England, to relinquish Toryism. His successors inherited all his errors without the latent genius, which in him might have still rallied and extricated him from the consequences of his disasters. His successors did not merely inherit his errors; they exaggerated, they caricatured them. They rode into power on a springtide of all the rampant prejudices and rancorous passions of their time. From the King to the boor their policy was a mere pandering to public ignorance. Impudently usurping the name of that party of which nationality, and therefore universality, is the essence, these pseudo-Tories made Exclusion the principle of their political constitution, and Restriction the genius of their commercial code.

It had been the misfortune of this prominent gentleman when he first entered public life to become linked to a political group that, claiming the name of a famous historical party, pursued a policy based on either no principles at all or principles completely opposite to those that had always guided the great Tory leaders. The main members of this official alliance were individuals distinguished by none of the notable qualities of statesmen. They had none of the innate abilities that lead senates and direct councils. They were neither orators nor deep thinkers, nor did they possess sharp and insightful minds. Their political understanding was essentially dull and limited. They spent some energy trying to gain a flawed and clumsy understanding of foreign affairs, knowing as little about the actual state of their own country as savages know about an impending eclipse. This faction had maneuvered into power by clinging to the coattails of a great minister, the last of the Tory statesmen, who, during the unprecedented and confusing challenges of his later years, had been forced, unfortunately for England, to abandon Toryism. His successors inherited all his mistakes without the inherent genius he had, which might have allowed him to recover from the consequences of his failures. Not only did his successors inherit his mistakes; they exaggerated and distorted them. They came to power on a wave of all the extreme prejudices and heated emotions of their time. From the King to the common farmer, their policy was simply catering to public ignorance. Boldly taking the name of that party whose essence is nationality—and thus universality—these fake Tories made Exclusion the basis of their political constitution and Restriction the principle of their commercial code.

The blind goddess that plays with human fortunes has mixed up the memory of these men with traditions of national glory. They conducted to a prosperous conclusion the most renowned war in which England has ever been engaged. Yet every military conception that emanated from their cabinet was branded by their characteristic want of grandeur. Chance, however, sent them a great military genius, whom they treated for a long time with indifference, and whom they never heartily supported until his career had made him their master. His transcendent exploits, and European events even greater than his achievements, placed in the manikin grasp of the English ministry, the settlement of Europe.

The blind goddess that plays with human fortunes has mixed up the memory of these men with the traditions of national glory. They successfully wrapped up the most famous war in which England has ever been involved. Yet every military idea that came from their cabinet lacked the scale needed to inspire. However, fate brought them a great military genius, who they ignored for a long time and never truly supported until he had already become their leader. His incredible achievements, along with European events even bigger than his own, put the responsibility for Europe's future in the small hands of the English government.

The act of the Congress of Vienna remains the eternal monument of their diplomatic knowledge and political sagacity. Their capital feats were the creation of two kingdoms, both of which are already erased from the map of Europe. They made no single preparation for the inevitable, almost impending, conjunctures of the East. All that remains of the pragmatic arrangements of the mighty Congress of Vienna is the mediatisation of the petty German princes.

The Congress of Vienna stands as a lasting testament to their diplomatic expertise and political wisdom. Their major achievements were the establishment of two kingdoms, which have since vanished from the map of Europe. They made no preparations for the inevitable situations arising in the East. All that’s left of the practical agreements from the powerful Congress of Vienna is the accommodation of the minor German princes.

But the settlement of Europe by the pseudo-Tories was the dictate of inspiration compared with their settlement of England. The peace of Paris found the government of this country in the hands of a body of men of whom it is no exaggeration to say that they were ignorant of every principle of every branch of political science. So long as our domestic administration was confined merely to the raising of a revenue, they levied taxes with gross facility from the industry of a country too busy to criticise or complain. But when the excitement and distraction of war had ceased, and they were forced to survey the social elements that surrounded them, they seemed, for the first time, to have become conscious of their own incapacity. These men, indeed, were the mere children of routine. They prided themselves on being practical men. In the language of this defunct school of statesmen, a practical man is a man who practises the blunders of his predecessors.

But the settlement of Europe by the so-called Tories was inspired compared to how they managed England. The peace of Paris left the government of this country in the hands of a group of people who, frankly, knew nothing about any principle of any area of political science. As long as our domestic administration focused simply on raising revenue, they easily collected taxes from a country too busy to criticize or complain. But when the excitement and chaos of war ended, and they had to look at the social factors around them, they seemed to realize, for the first time, their own incompetence. These people were really just creatures of habit. They took pride in being practical. According to this outdated group of politicians, a practical person is someone who repeats the mistakes of those before him.

Now commenced that Condition-of-England Question of which our generation hears so much. During five-and-twenty years every influence that can develop the energies and resources of a nation had been acting with concentrated stimulation on the British Isles. National peril and national glory; the perpetual menace of invasion, the continual triumph of conquest; the most extensive foreign commerce that was ever conducted by a single nation; an illimitable currency; an internal trade supported by swarming millions whom manufacturers and inclosure-bills summoned into existence; above all, the supreme control obtained by man over mechanic power, these are some of the causes of that rapid advance of material civilisation in England, to which the annals of the world can afford no parallel. But there was no proportionate advance in our moral civilisation. In the hurry-skurry of money-making, men-making, and machine-making, we had altogether outgrown, not the spirit, but the organisation, of our institutions.

Now began the Condition-of-England Question that our generation hears so much about. For twenty-five years, every factor that can enhance a nation's abilities and resources has been intensely active in the British Isles. National danger and national pride; the constant threat of invasion and the ongoing success of conquest; the largest foreign trade ever conducted by a single nation; an unlimited currency; a domestic trade sustained by countless millions summoned into existence by manufacturers and enclosure acts; most importantly, the ultimate control humans gained over mechanical power—these are just some of the reasons for the rapid development of material civilization in England, unmatched in the history of the world. However, there was no equivalent progress in our moral civilization. Amid the frenzy of making money, creating people, and producing machines, we had completely surpassed not the spirit, but the structure of our institutions.

The peace came; the stimulating influences suddenly ceased; the people, in a novel and painful position, found themselves without guides. They went to the ministry; they asked to be guided; they asked to be governed. Commerce requested a code; trade required a currency; the unfranchised subject solicited his equal privilege; suffering labour clamoured for its rights; a new race demanded education. What did the ministry do?

The peace arrived; the exciting influences abruptly stopped; the people, in a new and difficult situation, found themselves without direction. They approached the government; they asked for guidance; they asked to be led. Business wanted regulations; trade needed currency; the disenfranchised citizen sought equal rights; struggling workers demanded their entitlements; a new generation called for education. What did the government do?

They fell into a panic. Having fulfilled during their lives the duties of administration, they were frightened because they were called upon, for the first time, to perform the functions of government. Like all weak men, they had recourse to what they called strong measures. They determined to put down the multitude. They thought they were imitating Mr. Pitt, because they mistook disorganisation for sedition.

They panicked. After spending their lives managing things, they were scared because they were finally being asked to take on the roles of government. Like all insecure people, they resorted to what they called tough measures. They decided to suppress the masses. They believed they were following Mr. Pitt's example, but they confused disorder with rebellion.

Their projects of relief were as ridiculous as their system of coercion was ruthless; both were alike founded in intense ignorance. When we recall Mr. Vansittart with his currency resolutions; Lord Castlereagh with his plans for the employment of labour; and Lord Sidmouth with his plots for ensnaring the laborious; we are tempted to imagine that the present epoch has been one of peculiar advances in political ability, and marvel how England could have attained her present pitch under a series of such governors.

Their relief efforts were just as absurd as their ruthless methods of control; both were rooted in ignorance. When we think of Mr. Vansittart with his currency plans, Lord Castlereagh with his ideas for job creation, and Lord Sidmouth with his schemes for trapping workers, it's easy to believe that this era has seen significant progress in political skills and wonder how England could have reached its current level under such a succession of leaders.

We should, however, be labouring under a very erroneous impression. Run over the statesmen that have figured in England since the accession of the present family, and we may doubt whether there be one, with the exception perhaps of the Duke of Newcastle, who would have been a worthy colleague of the council of Mr. Perceval, or the early cabinet of Lord Liverpool. Assuredly the genius of Bolingbroke and the sagacity of Walpole would have alike recoiled from such men and such measures. And if we take the individuals who were governing England immediately before the French Revolution, one need only refer to the speeches of Mr. Pitt, and especially to those of that profound statesman and most instructed man, Lord Shelburne, to find that we can boast no remarkable superiority either in political justice or in political economy. One must attribute this degeneracy, therefore, to the long war and our insular position, acting upon men naturally of inferior abilities, and unfortunately, in addition, of illiterate habits.

We should, however, be under a very mistaken impression. Look at the politicians who have been prominent in England since the current royal family came to power, and we may question whether there is anyone, possibly except for the Duke of Newcastle, who would have been a worthy member of Mr. Perceval's council or the early cabinet of Lord Liverpool. Clearly, the brilliance of Bolingbroke and the wisdom of Walpole would have turned away from such individuals and such policies. And if we consider the leaders of England right before the French Revolution, one only needs to refer to the speeches of Mr. Pitt, and especially those of the insightful statesman and well-informed man, Lord Shelburne, to realize that we can't claim any significant superiority in either political justice or political economy. Therefore, we must attribute this decline to the long war and our isolated position, which affected people who were naturally of lesser abilities and, unfortunately, also of uneducated backgrounds.

In the meantime, notwithstanding all the efforts of the political Panglosses who, in evening Journals and Quarterly Reviews were continually proving that this was the best of all possible governments, it was evident to the ministry itself that the machine must stop. The class of Rigbys indeed at this period, one eminently favourable to that fungous tribe, greatly distinguished themselves. They demonstrated in a manner absolutely convincing, that it was impossible for any person to possess any ability, knowledge, or virtue, any capacity of reasoning, any ray of fancy or faculty of imagination, who was not a supporter of the existing administration. If any one impeached the management of a department, the public was assured that the accuser had embezzled; if any one complained of the conduct of a colonial governor, the complainant was announced as a returned convict. An amelioration of the criminal code was discountenanced because a search in the parish register of an obscure village proved that the proposer had not been born in wedlock. A relaxation of the commercial system was denounced because one of its principal advocates was a Socinian. The inutility of Parliamentary Reform was ever obvious since Mr. Rigby was a member of the House of Commons.

In the meantime, despite all the efforts of the political optimists who, in evening newspapers and quarterly reviews, were constantly arguing that this was the best of all possible governments, it was clear to the government itself that the system needed to change. The group of Rigbys, particularly well-suited to support that ineffective crowd, really stood out during this time. They convincingly showed that no one could have any skills, knowledge, or virtue, nor any ability to think critically, creativity, or imagination, unless they backed the current administration. If anyone criticized how a department was run, the public was told that the critic had committed fraud; if someone complained about the actions of a colonial governor, they were labeled as a former convict. A push for improving the criminal code was rejected because a search of the parish records in a small village indicated that the person proposing it was born out of wedlock. Any easing of the commercial regulations was condemned because one of its main supporters was a Socinian. The need for Parliamentary Reform was always clear, especially since Mr. Rigby was a member of the House of Commons.

To us, with our Times newspaper every morning on our breakfast-table, bringing, on every subject which can interest the public mind, a degree of information and intelligence which must form a security against any prolonged public misconception, it seems incredible that only five-and-twenty years ago the English mind could have been so ridden and hoodwinked, and that, too, by men of mean attainments and moderate abilities. But the war had directed the energies of the English people into channels by no means favourable to political education. Conquerors of the world, with their ports filled with the shipping of every clime, and their manufactories supplying the European continent, in the art of self-government, that art in which their fathers excelled, they had become literally children; and Rigby and his brother hirelings were the nurses that frightened them with hideous fables and ugly words.

To us, with our Times newspaper every morning on our breakfast table, providing a level of information and insight on topics that interest the public which should protect against any long-lasting public misunderstanding, it seems hard to believe that only twenty-five years ago the English public could have been so misled and deceived, and that by individuals of little skill and average ability. But the war had diverted the focus of the English people into areas that were not at all conducive to political education. As conquerors of the world, with their ports filled with ships from every corner of the globe and their factories supplying the European continent, in the art of self-governance, something their ancestors excelled at, they had become almost like children; and Rigby and his fellow opportunists were the caregivers who terrified them with horrifying tales and harsh language.

Notwithstanding, however, all this successful mystification, the Arch-Mediocrity who presided, rather than ruled, over this Cabinet of Mediocrities, became hourly more conscious that the inevitable transition from fulfilling the duties of an administration to performing the functions of a government could not be conducted without talents and knowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had himself some glimmering traditions of political science. He was sprung from a laborious stock, had received some training, and though not a statesman, might be classed among those whom the Lord Keeper Williams used to call ‘statemongers.’ In a subordinate position his meagre diligence and his frigid method might not have been without value; but the qualities that he possessed were misplaced; nor can any character be conceived less invested with the happy properties of a leader. In the conduct of public affairs his disposition was exactly the reverse of that which is the characteristic of great men. He was peremptory in little questions, and great ones he left open.

Despite all this successful confusion, the Arch-Mediocrity who presided, rather than ruled, over this Cabinet of Mediocrities became increasingly aware that the inevitable shift from managing an administration to governing couldn't happen without talent and knowledge. The Arch-Mediocrity had some vague ideas about political science. He came from a hardworking background, had some training, and although not a statesman, could be considered one of those whom Lord Keeper Williams used to call ‘statemongers.’ In a lower position, his minimal effort and cold approach might have had some value; however, the qualities he had were misplaced, and it’s hard to imagine anyone less suited to be a leader. When it came to public affairs, his attitude was the complete opposite of what characterizes great individuals. He was definitive on trivial matters but left important issues unresolved.

In the natural course of events, in 1819 there ought to have been a change of government, and another party in the state should have entered into office; but the Whigs, though they counted in their ranks at that period an unusual number of men of great ability, and formed, indeed, a compact and spirited opposition, were unable to contend against the new adjustment of borough influence which had occurred during the war, and under the protracted administration by which that war had been conducted. New families had arisen on the Tory side that almost rivalled old Newcastle himself in their electioneering management; and it was evident that, unless some reconstruction of the House of Commons could be effected, the Whig party could never obtain a permanent hold of official power. Hence, from that period, the Whigs became Parliamentary Reformers.

In 1819, there should have been a change in government, and a different party should have taken office. However, the Whigs, despite having a surprising number of talented individuals in their ranks and forming a strong and energetic opposition, struggled to compete against the new borough influence that emerged during the war and the lengthy administration that managed it. New families had emerged on the Tory side that nearly rivaled old Newcastle in their campaign strategies. It was clear that unless some changes were made to the House of Commons, the Whig party would never secure a lasting hold on official power. As a result, from that time forward, the Whigs became advocates for Parliamentary Reform.

It was inevitable, therefore, that the country should be governed by the same party; indispensable that the ministry should be renovated by new brains and blood. Accordingly, a Mediocrity, not without repugnance, was induced to withdraw, and the great name of Wellington supplied his place in council. The talents of the Duke, as they were then understood, were not exactly of the kind most required by the cabinet, and his colleagues were careful that he should not occupy too prominent a post; but still it was an impressive acquisition, and imparted to the ministry a semblance of renown.

It was inevitable that the country would continue to be run by the same party; it was crucial for the government to be refreshed with new ideas and energy. As a result, a mediocre individual, albeit reluctantly, was persuaded to step aside, and the esteemed name of Wellington filled his position in the cabinet. The skills of the Duke, as they were understood at the time, weren't exactly what the cabinet needed most, and his colleagues made sure he didn’t have too prominent a role; however, it was still a significant addition and gave the government a sense of prestige.

There was an individual who had not long entered public life, but who had already filled considerable, though still subordinate offices. Having acquired a certain experience of the duties of administration, and distinction for his mode of fulfilling them, he had withdrawn from his public charge; perhaps because he found it a barrier to the attainment of that parliamentary reputation for which he had already shown both a desire and a capacity; perhaps because, being young and independent, he was not over-anxious irremediably to identify his career with a school of politics of the infallibility of which his experience might have already made him a little sceptical. But he possessed the talents that were absolutely wanted, and the terms were at his own dictation. Another, and a very distinguished Mediocrity, who would not resign, was thrust out, and Mr. Peel became Secretary of State.

There was a person who had recently started his career in public service, but had already taken on significant, albeit junior roles. Having gained some experience in administration and recognition for how he handled his duties, he stepped back from his public position; perhaps because he saw it as an obstacle to achieving the parliamentary reputation he truly wanted and was capable of; or maybe because, being young and independent, he wasn’t too eager to permanently align his career with a political faction whose reliability he was beginning to doubt. However, he had the skills that were desperately needed, and he was able to set his own terms. Another, very notable individual, who refused to resign, was ousted, and Mr. Peel became the Secretary of State.

From this moment dates that intimate connection between the Duke of Wellington and the present First Minister, which has exercised a considerable influence over the career of individuals and the course of affairs. It was the sympathetic result of superior minds placed among inferior intelligences, and was, doubtless, assisted by a then mutual conviction, that the difference of age, the circumstance of sitting in different houses, and the general contrast of their previous pursuits and accomplishments, rendered personal rivalry out of the question. From this moment, too, the domestic government of the country assumed a new character, and one universally admitted to have been distinguished by a spirit of enlightened progress and comprehensive amelioration.

From this moment, a close connection formed between the Duke of Wellington and the current Prime Minister, which significantly impacted both individuals' careers and the direction of events. It was a natural outcome of more capable minds interacting with less capable ones, likely boosted by their shared belief that their age difference, the fact that they sat in different houses, and the stark contrast in their past pursuits and achievements made personal rivalry impossible. From this point on, the governance of the country took on a new character, widely recognized for its spirit of progressive thinking and overall improvement.

A short time after this, a third and most distinguished Mediocrity died; and Canning, whom they had twice worried out of the cabinet, where they had tolerated him some time in an obscure and ambiguous position, was recalled just in time from his impending banishment, installed in the first post in the Lower House, and intrusted with the seals of the Foreign Office. The Duke of Wellington had coveted them, nor could Lord Liverpool have been insensible to his Grace’s peculiar fitness for such duties; but strength was required in the House of Commons, where they had only one Secretary of State, a young man already distinguished, yet untried as a leader, and surrounded by colleagues notoriously incapable to assist him in debate.

A short time later, a third and most notable Mediocrity passed away; and Canning, whom they had previously pushed out of the cabinet twice, where they had kept him for a while in a vague and unclear role, was brought back just in time from his looming exile, placed in the top position in the Lower House, and given the responsibilities of the Foreign Office. The Duke of Wellington had wanted that position, and Lord Liverpool couldn’t have ignored his Grace’s special qualifications for such tasks; but they needed strength in the House of Commons, where they only had one Secretary of State, a young man already recognized, yet untested as a leader, and surrounded by colleagues who were well-known for being incapable of helping him in debates.

The accession of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, in a position, too, of surpassing influence, soon led to a further weeding of the Mediocrities, and, among other introductions, to the memorable entrance of Mr. Huskisson. In this wise did that cabinet, once notable only for the absence of all those qualities which authorise the possession of power, come to be generally esteemed as a body of men, who, for parliamentary eloquence, official practice, political information, sagacity in council, and a due understanding of their epoch, were inferior to none that had directed the policy of the empire since the Revolution.

The appointment of Mr. Canning to the cabinet, especially in such a powerful role, quickly led to the removal of the Mediocrities and, among other changes, the memorable arrival of Mr. Huskisson. In this way, that cabinet, which was once known only for lacking the qualities that justify holding power, came to be widely regarded as a group of individuals who, in terms of parliamentary eloquence, official experience, political knowledge, wisdom in decision-making, and an appropriate understanding of their time, were unmatched by any who had guided the empire’s policy since the Revolution.

If we survey the tenor of the policy of the Liverpool Cabinet during the latter moiety of its continuance, we shall find its characteristic to be a partial recurrence to those frank principles of government which Mr. Pitt had revived during the latter part of the last century from precedents that had been set us, either in practice or in dogma, during its earlier period, by statesmen who then not only bore the title, but professed the opinions, of Tories. Exclusive principles in the constitution, and restrictive principles in commerce, have grown up together; and have really nothing in common with the ancient character of our political settlement, or the manners and customs of the English people. Confidence in the loyalty of the nation, testified by munificent grants of rights and franchises, and favour to an expansive system of traffic, were distinctive qualities of the English sovereignty, until the House of Commons usurped the better portion of its prerogatives. A widening of our electoral scheme, great facilities to commerce, and the rescue of our Roman Catholic fellow-subjects from the Puritanic yoke, from fetters which have been fastened on them by English Parliaments in spite of the protests and exertions of English Sovereigns; these were the three great elements and fundamental truths of the real Pitt system, a system founded on the traditions of our monarchy, and caught from the writings, the speeches, the councils of those who, for the sake of these and analogous benefits, had ever been anxious that the Sovereign of England should never be degraded into the position of a Venetian Doge.

If we look at the approach of the Liverpool Cabinet during the latter part of its time in power, we’ll see that it reflects a return to the straightforward principles of governance that Mr. Pitt had brought back in the late 18th century. He drew from examples set by earlier statesmen who not only claimed to be Tories but also held their beliefs. Exclusive principles in our constitution and restrictive principles in trade have developed together but really have nothing in common with the original spirit of our political framework or the customs of the English people. Trust in the loyalty of the nation, shown through generous grants of rights and freedoms, along with support for an expansive trading system, were defining traits of English sovereignty until the House of Commons took over many of its powers. Expanding our electoral system, enhancing trade opportunities, and freeing our Roman Catholic fellow citizens from the burdens imposed by the Puritanical laws established by English Parliaments despite backlash from English Sovereigns—these were the three key components and fundamental truths of the genuine Pitt system. This system was based on the traditions of our monarchy and inspired by the writings, speeches, and advice of those who wanted to ensure that the Sovereign of England would never be reduced to the role of a Venetian Doge.

It is in the plunder of the Church that we must seek for the primary cause of our political exclusion, and our commercial restraint. That unhallowed booty created a factitious aristocracy, ever fearful that they might be called upon to regorge their sacrilegious spoil. To prevent this they took refuge in political religionism, and paltering with the disturbed consciences, or the pious fantasies, of a portion of the people, they organised them into religious sects. These became the unconscious Praetorians of their ill-gotten domains. At the head of these religionists, they have continued ever since to govern, or powerfully to influence this country. They have in that time pulled down thrones and churches, changed dynasties, abrogated and remodelled parliaments; they have disfranchised Scotland and confiscated Ireland. One may admire the vigour and consistency of the Whig party, and recognise in their career that unity of purpose that can only spring from a great principle; but the Whigs introduced sectarian religion, sectarian religion led to political exclusion, and political exclusion was soon accompanied by commercial restraint.

We should look at the looting of the Church as the main reason for our political exclusion and restrictions on trade. That stolen wealth created a fake aristocracy, constantly worried about being forced to give back their ill-gotten gains. To avoid this, they turned to political religion, manipulating the troubled consciences or the religious fantasies of some people, organizing them into religious sects. These groups became the unintentional enforcers of their stolen lands. Since then, they have continued to govern or heavily influence this country. In that time, they have toppled thrones and churches, changed dynasties, and restructured parliaments; they have stripped Scotland of its rights and seized Ireland. One might admire the energy and consistency of the Whig party and see a unified purpose stemming from a significant principle; however, the Whigs brought in sectarian religion, and that sectarian religion led to political exclusion, which quickly resulted in commercial restrictions.

It would be fanciful to assume that the Liverpool Cabinet, in their ameliorating career, was directed by any desire to recur to the primordial tenets of the Tory party. That was not an epoch when statesmen cared to prosecute the investigation of principles. It was a period of happy and enlightened practice. A profounder policy is the offspring of a time like the present, when the original postulates of institutions are called in question. The Liverpool Cabinet unconsciously approximated to these opinions, because from careful experiment they were convinced of their beneficial tendency, and they thus bore an unintentional and impartial testimony to their truth. Like many men, who think they are inventors, they were only reproducing ancient wisdom.

It would be unrealistic to think that the Liverpool Cabinet, in their efforts to improve things, was driven by a desire to return to the foundational beliefs of the Tory party. This was not a time when politicians focused on examining principles. It was a period marked by practical and enlightened approaches. A deeper strategy emerges in a time like today, when the basic assumptions of institutions are questioned. The Liverpool Cabinet unknowingly aligned with these views because, through careful experimentation, they were convinced of their positive effects, thus providing unintentional and unbiased evidence of their validity. Like many people who believe they are innovators, they were merely rediscovering old wisdom.

But one must ever deplore that this ministry, with all their talents and generous ardour, did not advance to principles. It is always perilous to adopt expediency as a guide; but the choice may be sometimes imperative. These statesmen, however, took expediency for their director, when principle would have given them all that expediency ensured, and much more.

But it's always unfortunate that this ministry, despite all their skills and enthusiasm, didn’t move toward principles. Relying solely on expediency as a guide is always risky; however, sometimes the choice may be unavoidable. These leaders, though, let expediency lead them when sticking to principles would have provided them everything that expediency promised, and much more.

This ministry, strong in the confidence of the sovereign, the parliament, and the people, might, by the courageous promulgation of great historical truths, have gradually formed a public opinion, that would have permitted them to organise the Tory party on a broad, a permanent, and national basis. They might have nobly effected a complete settlement of Ireland, which a shattered section of this very cabinet was forced a few years after to do partially, and in an equivocating and equivocal manner. They might have concluded a satisfactory reconstruction of the third estate, without producing that convulsion with which, from its violent fabrication, our social system still vibrates. Lastly, they might have adjusted the rights and properties of our national industries in a manner which would have prevented that fierce and fatal rivalry that is now disturbing every hearth of the United Kingdom.

This government, backed by the trust of the king, parliament, and the people, could have gradually shaped public opinion through the brave promotion of significant historical truths. This would have allowed them to organize the Tory party on a broad, lasting, and national level. They could have successfully achieved a complete resolution for Ireland, which a fractured part of this very cabinet was later forced to address only partially, and in a vague and unclear way. They could have completed a satisfactory reform of the third estate without causing the upheaval that still shakes our social system due to its rough creation. Finally, they could have resolved the rights and interests of our national industries in a way that would have prevented the fierce and destructive competition currently troubling every home in the United Kingdom.

We may, therefore, visit on the laches of this ministry the introduction of that new principle and power into our constitution which ultimately may absorb all, AGITATION. This cabinet, then, with so much brilliancy on its surface, is the real parent of the Roman Catholic Association, the Political Unions, the Anti-Corn-Law League.

We can, therefore, look at the laches of this government regarding the incorporation of that new principle and force into our constitution that could eventually take over everything, AGITATION. This cabinet, despite its shiny exterior, is actually the true creator of the Roman Catholic Association, the Political Unions, and the Anti-Corn-Law League.

There is no influence at the same time so powerful and so singular as that of individual character. It arises as often from the weakness of the character as from its strength. The dispersion of this clever and showy ministry is a fine illustration of this truth. One morning the Arch-Mediocrity himself died. At the first blush, it would seem that little difficulties could be experienced in finding his substitute. His long occupation of the post proved, at any rate, that the qualification was not excessive. But this cabinet, with its serene and blooming visage, had been all this time charged with fierce and emulous ambitions. They waited the signal, but they waited in grim repose. The death of the nominal leader, whose formal superiority, wounding no vanity, and offending no pride, secured in their councils equality among the able, was the tocsin of their anarchy. There existed in this cabinet two men, who were resolved immediately to be prime ministers; a third who was resolved eventually to be prime minister, but would at any rate occupy no ministerial post without the lead of a House of Parliament; and a fourth, who felt himself capable of being prime minister, but despaired of the revolution which could alone make him one; and who found an untimely end when that revolution had arrived.

There’s no influence as powerful and unique as individual character. It often comes from both the strengths and weaknesses of that character. The breakup of this clever and flashy administration is a perfect example of this truth. One morning, the Arch-Mediocrity himself passed away. At first glance, it might seem that finding his replacement would be easy. His long tenure in the position showed that the requirements weren’t too demanding. However, this cabinet, with its calm and polished appearance, had all along been filled with fierce and competitive ambitions. They waited for the signal, but they waited in tense silence. The death of the nominal leader, whose formal superiority didn’t threaten anyone's vanity or pride and maintained equality among the capable members, was the signal for their chaos. In this cabinet, there were two men eager to be prime ministers right away; a third who aimed to eventually be prime minister, but would refuse any ministerial role that didn’t come with leading a House of Parliament; and a fourth who believed he could be prime minister but lost hope in the revolution that would make it possible, only to meet an untimely end when that revolution finally happened.

Had Mr. Secretary Canning remained leader of the House of Commons under the Duke of Wellington, all that he would have gained by the death of Lord Liverpool was a master. Had the Duke of Wellington become Secretary of State under Mr. Canning he would have materially advanced his political position, not only by holding the seals of a high department in which he was calculated to excel, but by becoming leader of the House of Lords. But his Grace was induced by certain court intriguers to believe that the King would send for him, and he was also aware that Mr. Peel would no longer serve under any ministry in the House of Commons. Under any circumstances it would have been impossible to keep the Liverpool Cabinet together. The struggle, therefore, between the Duke of Wellington and ‘my dear Mr. Canning’ was internecine, and ended somewhat unexpectedly.

Had Mr. Secretary Canning stayed as leader of the House of Commons under the Duke of Wellington, all he would have gained from Lord Liverpool's death would have been a boss. If the Duke of Wellington had become Secretary of State under Mr. Canning, he would have significantly improved his political standing, not just by leading a major department where he was likely to shine, but also by becoming the leader of the House of Lords. However, he was persuaded by some court schemers to think that the King would call for him, and he also knew that Mr. Peel would no longer work under any ministry in the House of Commons. In any case, it would have been impossible to keep the Liverpool Cabinet intact. Thus, the conflict between the Duke of Wellington and ‘my dear Mr. Canning’ was a self-destructive one and ended rather unexpectedly.

And here we must stop to do justice to our friend Mr. Rigby, whose conduct on this occasion was distinguished by a bustling dexterity which was quite charming. He had, as we have before intimated, on the credit of some clever lampoons written during the Queen’s trial, which were, in fact, the effusions of Lucian Gay, wriggled himself into a sort of occasional unworthy favour at the palace, where he was half butt and half buffoon. Here, during the interregnum occasioned by the death, or rather inevitable retirement, of Lord Liverpool, Mr. Rigby contrived to scrape up a conviction that the Duke was the winning horse, and in consequence there appeared a series of leading articles in a notorious evening newspaper, in which it was, as Tadpole and Taper declared, most ‘slashingly’ shown, that the son of an actress could never be tolerated as a Prime Minister of England. Not content with this, and never doubting for a moment the authentic basis of his persuasion, Mr. Rigby poured forth his coarse volubility on the subject at several of the new clubs which he was getting up in order to revenge himself for having been black-balled at White’s.

And here we need to take a moment to acknowledge our friend Mr. Rigby, whose actions during this time were marked by a charmingly frantic skill. As we've mentioned before, he had managed to gain some temporary favor at the palace due to clever satirical pieces he wrote during the Queen’s trial, which were actually penned by Lucian Gay. He was somewhat of a mix between a target and a jester there. During the gap left by Lord Liverpool's death, or rather his unavoidable withdrawal, Mr. Rigby convinced himself that the Duke was the candidate to back. As a result, a series of articles appeared in a well-known evening newspaper which, as Tadpole and Taper asserted, emphatically argued that the son of an actress could never be accepted as Prime Minister of England. Not satisfied with this, and fully convinced of the validity of his beliefs, Mr. Rigby expressed his blunt opinions on the topic at several of the new clubs he was starting up to get back at being blackballed at White’s.

What with arrangements about Lord Monmouth’s boroughs, and the lucky bottling of some claret which the Duke had imported on Mr. Rigby’s recommendation, this distinguished gentleman contrived to pay almost hourly visits at Apsley House, and so bullied Tadpole and Taper that they scarcely dared address him. About four-and-twenty hours before the result, and when it was generally supposed that the Duke was in, Mr. Rigby, who had gone down to Windsor to ask his Majesty the date of some obscure historical incident, which Rigby, of course, very well knew, found that audiences were impossible, that Majesty was agitated, and learned, from an humble but secure authority, that in spite of all his slashing articles, and Lucian Gay’s parodies of the Irish melodies, Canning was to be Prime Minister.

With the discussions about Lord Monmouth’s boroughs and the fortunate arrival of some claret that the Duke had imported on Mr. Rigby’s suggestion, this prominent gentleman managed to make nearly constant visits to Apsley House, effectively intimidating Tadpole and Taper to the point where they barely dared to approach him. About twenty-four hours before the outcome, when everyone assumed the Duke was in, Mr. Rigby, who had gone to Windsor to ask the King about the date of some obscure historical event that Rigby, of course, already knew, discovered that audiences were off the table, the King was flustered, and learned from a low-ranking but reliable source that despite all his aggressive articles and Lucian Gay’s parodies of the Irish melodies, Canning was set to become Prime Minister.

This would seem something of a predicament! To common minds; there are no such things as scrapes for gentlemen with Mr. Rigby’s talents for action. He had indeed, in the world, the credit of being an adept in machinations, and was supposed ever to be involved in profound and complicated contrivances. This was quite a mistake. There was nothing profound about Mr. Rigby; and his intellect was totally incapable of devising or sustaining an intricate or continuous scheme. He was, in short, a man who neither felt nor thought; but who possessed, in a very remarkable degree, a restless instinct for adroit baseness. On the present occasion he got into his carriage, and drove at the utmost speed from Windsor to the Foreign Office. The Secretary of State was engaged when he arrived; but Mr. Rigby would listen to no difficulties. He rushed upstairs, flung open the door, and with agitated countenance, and eyes suffused with tears, threw himself into the arms of the astonished Mr. Canning.

This definitely seems like a tricky situation! To ordinary people, there are no issues for gentlemen like Mr. Rigby, who is skilled in taking action. He was known in society as someone who was great at plotting and was believed to always be involved in deep and complicated schemes. This was a total misunderstanding. There was nothing deep about Mr. Rigby; his mind was completely incapable of creating or maintaining a complex or ongoing plan. In short, he was a man who neither felt nor thought deeply; instead, he had a remarkable knack for cunning dishonesty. On this occasion, he got into his carriage and drove at full speed from Windsor to the Foreign Office. The Secretary of State was busy when he arrived, but Mr. Rigby wouldn’t accept any excuses. He rushed upstairs, burst into the room, and with a distressed look and tear-filled eyes, threw himself into the arms of the shocked Mr. Canning.

‘All is right,’ exclaimed the devoted Rigby, in broken tones; ‘I have convinced the King that the First Minister must be in the House of Commons. No one knows it but myself; but it is certain.’

‘Everything is okay,’ exclaimed the devoted Rigby, in a shaky voice; ‘I have convinced the King that the First Minister needs to be in the House of Commons. No one knows this but me; but it’s true.’

We have seen that at an early period of his career, Mr. Peel withdrew from official life. His course had been one of unbroken prosperity; the hero of the University had become the favourite of the House of Commons. His retreat, therefore, was not prompted by chagrin. Nor need it have been suggested by a calculating ambition, for the ordinary course of events was fast bearing to him all to which man could aspire. One might rather suppose, that he had already gained sufficient experience, perhaps in his Irish Secretaryship, to make him pause in that career of superficial success which education and custom had hitherto chalked out for him, rather than the creative energies of his own mind. A thoughtful intellect may have already detected elements in our social system which required a finer observation, and a more unbroken study, than the gyves and trammels of office would permit. He may have discovered that the representation of the University, looked upon in those days as the blue ribbon of the House of Commons, was a sufficient fetter without unnecessarily adding to its restraint. He may have wished to reserve himself for a happier occasion, and a more progressive period. He may have felt the strong necessity of arresting himself in his rapid career of felicitous routine, to survey his position in calmness, and to comprehend the stirring age that was approaching.

We have seen that early in his career, Mr. Peel stepped back from public life. His journey had been one of constant success; the hero of the University had become a favorite in the House of Commons. Therefore, his withdrawal wasn’t due to disappointment. Nor was it a move driven by ambition, as the usual course of events was quickly bringing him everything one could hope for. One might rather think that he had already gained enough experience, perhaps during his time as Irish Secretary, to make him pause in that seemingly successful path that education and tradition had laid out for him, rather than from the original creativity of his own thinking. A thoughtful mind may have already noticed aspects of our social system that required more careful observation and ongoing study than the constraints of office would allow. He may have realized that representing the University, seen at that time as the top position in the House of Commons, was a significant enough limitation without adding extra burdens. He may have wanted to hold back for a more fortunate moment and a more progressive era. He may have felt the strong need to stop his fast-paced routine of success to calmly assess his position and understand the dynamic age that was on the horizon.

For that, he could not but be conscious that the education which he had consummated, however ornate and refined, was not sufficient. That age of economical statesmanship which Lord Shelburne had predicted in 1787, when he demolished, in the House of Lords, Bishop Watson and the Balance of Trade, which Mr. Pitt had comprehended; and for which he was preparing the nation when the French Revolution diverted the public mind into a stronger and more turbulent current, was again impending, while the intervening history of the country had been prolific in events which had aggravated the necessity of investigating the sources of the wealth of nations. The time had arrived when parliamentary preeminence could no longer be achieved or maintained by gorgeous abstractions borrowed from Burke, or shallow systems purloined from De Lolme, adorned with Horatian points, or varied with Virgilian passages. It was to be an age of abstruse disquisition, that required a compact and sinewy intellect, nurtured in a class of learning not yet honoured in colleges, and which might arrive at conclusions conflicting with predominant prejudices.

He couldn’t ignore the fact that the education he had completed, no matter how fancy and polished, was not enough. The era of smart economic leadership that Lord Shelburne had predicted in 1787, when he took down Bishop Watson and the Balance of Trade in the House of Lords—a concept Mr. Pitt understood and was preparing the country for—was once again on the horizon. Meanwhile, the country's history had been full of events that highlighted the need to examine the sources of national wealth. The time had come when political prominence could no longer be achieved or sustained through grand ideas borrowed from Burke or superficial systems taken from De Lolme, embellished with points from Horace or mixed with lines from Virgil. It was going to be a time of complex discussions that required a sharp and robust intellect, developed in a field of study not yet respected in universities, and which might lead to conclusions that clashed with popular opinions.

Adopting this view of the position of Mr. Peel, strengthened as it is by his early withdrawal for a while from the direction of public affairs, it may not only be a charitable but a true estimate of the motives which influenced him in his conduct towards Mr. Canning, to conclude that he was not guided in that transaction by the disingenuous rivalry usually imputed to him. His statement in Parliament of the determining circumstances of his conduct, coupled with his subsequent and almost immediate policy, may perhaps always leave this a painful and ambiguous passage in his career; but in passing judgment on public men, it behoves us ever to take large and extended views of their conduct; and previous incidents will often satisfactorily explain subsequent events, which, without their illustrating aid, are involved in misapprehension or mystery.

Seeing Mr. Peel's situation this way, especially since he briefly stepped back from public affairs, might not only be a kind interpretation but also a true assessment of the motivations that shaped his actions toward Mr. Canning. It's reasonable to conclude that he wasn't driven by the insincere rivalry typically attributed to him. His remarks in Parliament about the key reasons for his actions, along with his quick shift in policy afterward, might always leave this period of his career feeling uneasy and unclear. However, when judging public figures, we should always consider their actions from a broader perspective. Past events often provide clarity for later developments that, without this context, can seem misunderstood or mysterious.

It would seem, therefore, that Sir Robert Peel, from an early period, meditated his emancipation from the political confederacy in which he was implicated, and that he has been continually baffled in this project. He broke loose from Lord Liverpool; he retired from Mr. Canning. Forced again into becoming the subordinate leader of the weakest government in parliamentary annals, he believed he had at length achieved his emancipation, when he declared to his late colleagues, after the overthrow of 1830, that he would never again accept a secondary position in office. But the Duke of Wellington was too old a tactician to lose so valuable an ally. So his Grace declared after the Reform Bill was passed, as its inevitable result, that thenceforth the Prime Minister must be a member of the House of Commons; and this aphorism, cited as usual by the Duke’s parasites as demonstration of his supreme sagacity, was a graceful mode of resigning the preeminence which had been productive of such great party disasters. It is remarkable that the party who devised and passed the Reform Bill, and who, in consequence, governed the nation for ten years, never once had their Prime Minister in the House of Commons: but that does not signify; the Duke’s maxim is still quoted as an oracle almost equal in prescience to his famous query, ‘How is the King’s government to be carried on?’ a question to which his Grace by this time has contrived to give a tolerably practical answer.

It seems that Sir Robert Peel, from an early stage, considered freeing himself from the political alliance he was involved in, and he has consistently struggled with this plan. He broke away from Lord Liverpool and stepped back from Mr. Canning. Once again forced into being the lesser leader of the weakest government in parliamentary history, he thought he had finally achieved his freedom when he told his former colleagues, after the downfall in 1830, that he would never accept a secondary role in office again. However, the Duke of Wellington was too savvy to let go of such a valuable ally. After the Reform Bill was passed, the Duke declared that as a direct result, the Prime Minister had to be a member of the House of Commons from then on. This saying, often cited by the Duke’s followers as proof of his great wisdom, was a polite way of stepping down from a position that had led to major party failures. It's interesting that the party that created and passed the Reform Bill, and subsequently governed the country for ten years, never had their Prime Minister in the House of Commons; but that doesn’t matter; the Duke's saying is still referenced almost as an oracle, comparable to his well-known question, ‘How is the King’s government to be carried on?’ a question to which the Duke has managed to give a fairly practical answer by now.

Sir Robert Peel, who had escaped from Lord Liverpool, escaped from Mr. Canning, escaped even from the Duke of Wellington in 1832, was at length caught in 1834; the victim of ceaseless intriguers, who neither comprehended his position, nor that of their country.

Sir Robert Peel, who had evaded Lord Liverpool, dodged Mr. Canning, and even got away from the Duke of Wellington in 1832, was finally caught in 1834; the target of relentless schemers who understood neither his situation nor that of their country.

CHAPTER II.

Beaumanoir was one of those Palladian palaces, vast and ornate, such as the genius of Kent and Campbell delighted in at the beginning of the eighteenth century. Placed on a noble elevation, yet screened from the northern blast, its sumptuous front, connected with its far-spreading wings by Corinthian colonnades, was the boast and pride of the midland counties. The surrounding gardens, equalling in extent the size of ordinary parks, were crowded with temples dedicated to abstract virtues and to departed friends. Occasionally a triumphal arch celebrated a general whom the family still esteemed a hero; and sometimes a votive column commemorated the great statesman who had advanced the family a step in the peerage. Beyond the limits of this pleasance the hart and hind wandered in a wilderness abounding in ferny coverts and green and stately trees.

Beaumanoir was one of those grand Palladian mansions, large and elaborate, that the talents of Kent and Campbell thrived on at the start of the eighteenth century. Sitting on a prominent hill and shielded from the chilly northern winds, its lavish façade, linked to its expansive wings by Corinthian colonnades, was the pride and joy of the midland counties. The gardens surrounding it, matching the size of typical parks, were filled with temples honoring abstract virtues and late friends. Occasionally, a triumphal arch celebrated a general whom the family still regarded as a hero; and sometimes, a memorial column honored the great politician who had helped the family rise in the peerage. Outside the confines of this estate, deer roamed freely in a wild area rich with ferns and majestic trees.

The noble proprietor of this demesne had many of the virtues of his class; a few of their failings. He had that public spirit which became his station. He was not one of those who avoided the exertions and the sacrifices which should be inseparable from high position, by the hollow pretext of a taste for privacy, and a devotion to domestic joys. He was munificent, tender, and bounteous to the poor, and loved a flowing hospitality. A keen sportsman, he was not untinctured by letters, and had indeed a cultivated taste for the fine arts. Though an ardent politician, he was tolerant to adverse opinions, and full of amenity to his opponents. A firm supporter of the corn-laws, he never refused a lease. Notwithstanding there ran through his whole demeanour and the habit of his mind, a vein of native simplicity that was full of charm, his manner was finished. He never offended any one’s self-love. His good breeding, indeed, sprang from the only sure source of gentle manners, a kind heart. To have pained others would have pained himself. Perhaps, too, this noble sympathy may have been in some degree prompted by the ancient blood in his veins, an accident of lineage rather rare with the English nobility. One could hardly praise him for the strong affections that bound him to his hearth, for fortune had given him the most pleasing family in the world; but, above all, a peerless wife.

The noble owner of this estate had many of the qualities typical of his class, along with a few of their shortcomings. He had the public spirit that matched his position. He was not one of those who shied away from the hard work and sacrifices that come with high status, hiding behind a false love for privacy and a commitment to family life. He was generous, caring, and giving to the poor, and he embraced a warm hospitality. A passionate sportsman, he also had a love for literature and a refined taste in the arts. Though he was a dedicated politician, he was open-minded about opposing viewpoints and treated his rivals with kindness. A staunch supporter of the corn laws, he never turned down a lease. Despite this, there was a natural simplicity in his demeanor and mindset that was truly charming, and his manner was polished. He never hurt anyone's pride. His good manners came from the only reliable source of grace, a kind heart. Causing pain to others would have hurt him as well. Perhaps this noble compassion was partly influenced by his aristocratic lineage, something quite rare among the English nobility. One couldn’t help but admire the strong attachments he had to his home, as fate had blessed him with the most wonderful family in the world; above all, a one-of-a-kind wife.

The Duchess was one of those women who are the delight of existence. She was sprung from a house not inferior to that with which she had blended, and was gifted with that rare beauty which time ever spares, so that she seemed now only the elder sister of her own beautiful daughters. She, too, was distinguished by that perfect good breeding which is the result of nature and not of education: for it may be found in a cottage, and may be missed in a palace. ‘Tis a genial regard for the feelings of others that springs from an absence of selfishness. The Duchess, indeed, was in every sense a fine lady; her manners were refined and full of dignity; but nothing in the world could have induced her to appear bored when another was addressing or attempting to amuse her. She was not one of those vulgar fine ladies who meet you one day with a vacant stare, as if unconscious of your existence, and address you on another in a tone of impertinent familiarity. Her temper, perhaps, was somewhat quick, which made this consideration for the feelings of others still more admirable, for it was the result of a strict moral discipline acting on a good heart. Although the best of wives and mothers, she had some charity for her neighbours. Needing herself no indulgence, she could be indulgent; and would by no means favour that strait-laced morality that would constrain the innocent play of the social body. She was accomplished, well read, and had a lively fancy. Add to this that sunbeam of a happy home, a gay and cheerful spirit in its mistress, and one might form some faint idea of this gracious personage.

The Duchess was one of those women who brightens up life. She came from a family that was just as good as the one she married into and had that rare beauty that seems untouched by time, making her look like the older sister of her lovely daughters. She was also marked by that perfect elegance that comes from within, not from training; it can be found in a humble home and can be missing in a grand palace. It’s a genuine consideration for others' feelings that comes from a lack of selfishness. The Duchess, in every way, was a distinguished woman; her manners were polished and dignified, but nothing could make her seem uninterested when someone was speaking to her or trying to entertain her. She wasn’t one of those shallow ladies who look at you blankly one day as if you don’t exist, then greet you another day with a condescending familiarity. Her temper could be a little sharp, which made her consideration for others even more impressive because it stemmed from a strong moral upbringing combined with a good heart. Although she was the best of wives and mothers, she also showed kindness to her neighbors. Not needing leniency herself, she was generous to others and never supported that rigid morality that would stifle innocent social interaction. She was talented, well-read, and had a vibrant imagination. Add to that the joy of a happy home, with a lively and cheerful spirit in its mistress, and you can start to imagine this lovely person.

The eldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his two younger brothers, one was with his regiment and the other was Coningsby’s friend at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two eldest daughters had just married, on the same day, and at the same altar; and the remaining one, Theresa, was still a child.

The oldest son of this house was now on the continent; of his two younger brothers, one was with his regiment and the other was Coningsby’s friend at Eton, our Henry Sydney. The two oldest daughters had just gotten married on the same day and at the same altar; and the last one, Theresa, was still a child.

The Duke had occupied a chief post in the Household under the late administration, and his present guests chiefly consisted of his former colleagues in office. There were several members of the late cabinet, several members for his Grace’s late boroughs, looking very much like martyrs, full of suffering and of hope. Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper were also there; they too had lost their seats since 1832; but being men of business, and accustomed from early life to look about them, they had already commenced the combinations which on a future occasion were to bear them back to the assembly where they were so missed.

The Duke had held a top position in the Household during the previous administration, and his current guests mainly included his former colleagues. There were several members of the last cabinet and a few representatives from his recent boroughs, looking like martyrs, full of suffering and hope. Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper were also present; they too had lost their seats since 1832, but being business-oriented and used to staying alert since their early days, they had already started forming alliances that would eventually help them return to the assembly where they were greatly missed.

Taper had his eye on a small constituency which had escaped the fatal schedules, and where he had what they called a ‘connection;’ that is to say, a section of the suffrages who had a lively remembrance of Treasury favours once bestowed by Mr. Taper, and who had not been so liberally dealt with by the existing powers. This connection of Taper was in time to leaven the whole mass of the constituent body, and make it rise in full rebellion against its present liberal representative, who being one of a majority of three hundred, could get nothing when he called at Whitehall or Downing Street.

Taper focused on a small group of voters that had avoided the strict schedules, where he had what they called a ‘connection.’ This meant a portion of the electorate who remembered the financial support he had once offered, and who had not received as much generosity from the current authorities. Taper's connection was eventually going to influence the entire voting body and spark a full uprising against their current liberal representative, who was part of a majority of three hundred and couldn't get anything when he went to Whitehall or Downing Street.

Tadpole, on the contrary, who was of a larger grasp of mind than Taper, with more of imagination and device but not so safe a man, was coquetting with a manufacturing town and a large constituency, where he was to succeed by the aid of the Wesleyans, of which pious body he had suddenly become a fervent admirer. The great Mr. Rigby, too, was a guest out of Parliament, nor caring to be in; but hearing that his friends had some hopes, he thought he would just come down to dash them.

Tadpole, on the other hand, who had a broader mindset than Taper, with more imagination and creativity but not as much reliability, was flirting with a manufacturing town and a large voter base, where he was expected to succeed with the help of the Wesleyans, a group he had recently started to admire passionately. The notable Mr. Rigby was also a guest outside of Parliament and wasn't interested in being part of it; however, upon hearing that his friends had some hopes, he figured he would drop by to put a damper on them.

The political grapes were sour for Mr. Rigby; a prophet of evil, he preached only mortification and repentance and despair to his late colleagues. It was the only satisfaction left Mr. Rigby, except assuring the Duke that the finest pictures in his gallery were copies, and recommending him to pull down Beaumanoir, and rebuild it on a design with which Mr. Rigby would furnish him.

The political situation was tough for Mr. Rigby; a messenger of doom, he only preached about suffering, regret, and hopelessness to his former colleagues. That was the only satisfaction left for Mr. Rigby, aside from telling the Duke that the best paintings in his gallery were replicas, and suggesting he tear down Beaumanoir and rebuild it based on a plan that Mr. Rigby would provide.

The battue and the banquet were over; the ladies had withdrawn; and the butler placed fresh claret on the table.

The hunting party and the banquet were done; the ladies had left; and the butler set fresh claret on the table.

‘And you really think you could give us a majority, Tadpole?’ said the Duke.

‘And you really think you can give us a majority, Tadpole?’ said the Duke.

Mr. Tadpole, with some ceremony, took a memorandum-book out of his pocket, amid the smiles and the faint well-bred merriment of his friends.

Mr. Tadpole, looking quite formal, took a notebook out of his pocket, surrounded by the smiles and the light, polite laughter of his friends.

‘Tadpole is nothing without his book,’ whispered Lord Fitz-Booby.

‘It is here,’ said Mr. Tadpole, emphatically patting his volume, ‘a clear working majority of twenty-two.’

‘It’s right here,’ Mr. Tadpole said, firmly patting his book, ‘a solid working majority of twenty-two.’

‘Near sailing that!’ cried the Duke.

“Almost sailing that!” shouted the Duke.

‘A far better majority than the present Government have,’ said Mr. Tadpole.

‘A much better majority than the current government has,’ said Mr. Tadpole.

‘There is nothing like a good small majority,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘and a good registration.’

‘There’s nothing quite like a solid small majority,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘and a good registration.’

‘Ay! register, register, register!’ said the Duke. ‘Those were immortal words.’

‘Hey! Register, register, register!’ said the Duke. ‘Those were timeless words.’

‘I can tell your Grace three far better ones,’ said Mr. Tadpole, with a self-complacent air. ‘Object, object, object!’

‘I can tell you three much better ones,’ said Mr. Tadpole, with a smug attitude. ‘Object, object, object!’

‘You may register, and you may object,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘but you will never get rid of Schedule A and Schedule B.’

‘You can register, and you can object,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘but you will never get rid of Schedule A and Schedule B.’

‘But who could have supposed two years ago that affairs would be in their present position?’ said Mr. Taper, deferentially.

‘But who could have guessed two years ago that things would be in their current state?’ said Mr. Taper, respectfully.

‘I foretold it,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Every one knows that no government now can last twelve months.’

‘I predicted it,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Everyone knows that no government today can last a year.’

‘We may make fresh boroughs,’ said Taper. ‘We have reduced Shabbyton at the last registration under three hundred.’

‘We can create new boroughs,’ said Taper. ‘We reduced Shabbyton to under three hundred during the last registration.’

‘And the Wesleyans!’ said Tadpole. ‘We never counted on the Wesleyans!’

‘And the Wesleyans!’ said Tadpole. ‘We never expected the Wesleyans!’

‘I am told these Wesleyans are really a respectable body,’ said Lord Fitz-Booby. ‘I believe there is no material difference between their tenets and those of the Establishment. I never heard of them much till lately. We have too long confounded them with the mass of Dissenters, but their conduct at several of the later elections proves that they are far from being unreasonable and disloyal individuals. When we come in, something should be done for the Wesleyans, eh, Rigby?’

‘I’ve heard that the Wesleyans are actually a respectable group,’ said Lord Fitz-Booby. ‘I don’t think there’s much of a difference between their beliefs and those of the Church of England. I hadn’t heard much about them until recently. We’ve long mixed them up with all the other dissenters, but their behavior at several recent elections shows that they’re not unreasonable or disloyal at all. When we take charge, we should do something for the Wesleyans, right, Rigby?’

‘All that your Lordship can do for the Wesleyans is what they will very shortly do for themselves, appropriate a portion of the Church Revenues to their own use.’

‘All that your Lordship can do for the Wesleyans is what they will soon do for themselves, take a share of the Church Revenues for their own use.’

‘Nay, nay,’ said Mr. Tadpole with a chuckle, ‘I don’t think we shall find the Church attacked again in a hurry. I only wish they would try! A good Church cry before a registration,’ he continued, rubbing his hands; ‘eh, my Lord, I think that would do.’

‘No, no,’ said Mr. Tadpole with a laugh, ‘I don’t think we’ll see the Church getting attacked again anytime soon. I just wish they would! A good Church rally before the registration,’ he went on, rubbing his hands; ‘what do you think, my Lord? I believe that would be great.’

‘But how are we to turn them out?’ said the Duke.

‘But how are we supposed to get them out?’ said the Duke.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Taper, ‘that is a great question.’

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Taper, ‘that’s a great question.’

‘What do you think of a repeal of the Malt Tax?’ said Lord Fitz-Booby. ‘They have been trying it on in ——shire, and I am told it goes down very well.’

‘What do you think about getting rid of the Malt Tax?’ asked Lord Fitz-Booby. ‘They’ve been testing it in ——shire, and I hear it’s going over really well.’

‘No repeal of any tax,’ said Taper, sincerely shocked, and shaking his head; ‘and the Malt Tax of all others. I am all against that.’

‘No repeal of any tax,’ Taper said, genuinely shocked and shaking his head; ‘and the Malt Tax of all things. I’m totally against that.’

‘It is a very good cry though, if there be no other,’ said Tadpole.

‘It’s a really good cry, though, if there’s nothing else,’ said Tadpole.

‘I am all for a religious cry,’ said Taper. ‘It means nothing, and, if successful, does not interfere with business when we are in.’

‘I completely support a religious outcry,’ said Taper. ‘It doesn’t mean anything, and if it works, it doesn’t get in the way of business when we’re involved.’

‘You will have religious cries enough in a short time,’ said Mr. Rigby, rather wearied of any one speaking but himself, and thereat he commenced a discourse, which was, in fact, one of his ‘slashing’ articles in petto on Church Reform, and which abounded in parallels between the present affairs and those of the reign of Charles I. Tadpole, who did not pretend to know anything but the state of the registration, and Taper, whose political reading was confined to an intimate acquaintance with the Red Book and Beatson’s Political Index, which he could repeat backwards, were silenced. The Duke, who was well instructed and liked to be talked to, sipped his claret, and was rather amused by Rigby’s lecture, particularly by one or two statements characterised by Rigby’s happy audacity, but which the Duke was too indolent to question. Lord Fitz-Booby listened with his mouth open, but rather bored. At length, when there was a momentary pause, he said:

‘You’ll have plenty of religious debates soon enough,’ Mr. Rigby said, feeling a bit tired of anyone else speaking. He then launched into a talk, which was really one of his intense articles on Church Reform, packed with comparisons between current issues and those from the reign of Charles I. Tadpole, who only knew about the registration process, and Taper, whose political knowledge was limited to being very familiar with the Red Book and Beatson’s Political Index—which he could recite backwards—fell quiet. The Duke, who was well-informed and enjoyed being engaged in conversation, sipped his claret and found Rigby’s rant somewhat amusing, especially a few statements marked by Rigby’s boldness, though the Duke was too lazy to challenge him. Lord Fitz-Booby listened with his mouth hanging open, but looked rather bored. Finally, when there was a brief pause, he said:

‘In my time, the regular thing was to move an amendment on the address.’

‘In my day, the usual thing was to propose an amendment to the address.’

‘Quite out of the question,’ exclaimed Tadpole, with a scoff.

“Not happening,” Tadpole scoffed.

‘Entirely given up,’ said Taper, with a sneer.

"Completely given up," Taper said, sneering.

‘If you will drink no more claret, we will go and hear some music,’ said the Duke.

‘If you’re done with the claret, let’s go listen to some music,’ said the Duke.

CHAPTER III.

A breakfast at Beaumanoir was a meal of some ceremony. Every guest was expected to attend, and at a somewhat early hour. Their host and hostess set them the example of punctuality. ‘Tis an old form rigidly adhered to in some great houses, but, it must be confessed, does not contrast very agreeably with the easier arrangements of establishments of less pretension and of more modern order.

A breakfast at Beaumanoir was a somewhat formal meal. Every guest was expected to show up, and at a fairly early time. The host and hostess led by example in being on time. It’s an old tradition strictly followed in some grand houses, but honestly, it doesn’t compare very well with the more relaxed setups of less fancy and more modern places.

The morning after the dinner to which we have been recently introduced, there was one individual absent from the breakfast-table whose non-appearance could scarcely be passed over without notice; and several inquired with some anxiety, whether their host were indisposed.

The morning after the dinner we just attended, there was one person missing from the breakfast table whose absence couldn't go unnoticed; many expressed concern and asked if their host was feeling unwell.

‘The Duke has received some letters from London which detain him,’ replied the Duchess. ‘He will join us.’

‘The Duke got some letters from London that are keeping him busy,’ replied the Duchess. ‘He’ll be joining us soon.’

‘Your Grace will be glad to hear that your son Henry is very well,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘I heard of him this morning. Harry Coningsby enclosed me a letter for his grandfather, and tells me that he and Henry Sydney had just had a capital run with the King’s hounds.’

‘Your Grace will be happy to know that your son Henry is doing very well,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘I heard about him this morning. Harry Coningsby sent me a letter for his grandfather and mentioned that he and Henry Sydney just had an amazing run with the King’s hounds.’

‘It is three years since we have seen Mr. Coningsby,’ said the Duchess. ‘Once he was often here. He was a great favourite of mine. I hardly ever knew a more interesting boy.’

‘It’s been three years since we last saw Mr. Coningsby,’ said the Duchess. ‘He used to visit often. He was one of my favorites. I hardly ever met a more interesting young man.’

‘Yes, I have done a great deal for him,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Lord Monmouth is fond of him, and wishes that he should make a figure; but how any one is to distinguish himself now, I am really at a loss to comprehend.’

‘Yes, I’ve done a lot for him,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘Lord Monmouth likes him and wants him to stand out; but I honestly can’t figure out how anyone is supposed to make a name for themselves these days.’

‘But are affairs so very bad?’ said the Duchess, smiling. ‘I thought that we were all regaining our good sense and good temper.’

‘But are affairs really that bad?’ said the Duchess, smiling. ‘I thought we were all getting our good sense and good temper back.’

‘I believe all the good sense and all the good temper in England are concentrated in your Grace,’ said Mr. Rigby, gallantly.

"I believe all the common sense and all the good vibes in England are concentrated in you, Your Grace," Mr. Rigby said charmingly.

‘I should be sorry to be such a monopolist. But Lord Fitz-Booby was giving me last night quite a glowing report of Mr. Tadpole’s prospects for the nation. We were all to have our own again; and Percy to carry the county.’

‘I’d hate to be such a monopolist. But Lord Fitz-Booby was giving me a really positive update on Mr. Tadpole’s prospects for the nation last night. We were all supposed to get our own back; and Percy to lead the county.’

‘My dear Madam, before twelve months are past, there will not be a county in England. Why should there be? If boroughs are to be disfranchised, why should not counties be destroyed?’

‘My dear Madam, before twelve months are up, there won’t be a county in England. Why should there be? If boroughs are being taken away, why shouldn’t counties be eliminated?’

At this moment the Duke entered, apparently agitated. He bowed to his guests, and apologised for his unusual absence. ‘The truth is,’ he continued, ‘I have just received a very important despatch. An event has occurred which may materially affect affairs. Lord Spencer is dead.’

At that moment, the Duke walked in, looking visibly shaken. He greeted his guests and apologized for being unusually absent. “The truth is,” he said, “I just received a very important message. An event has happened that could significantly impact our situation. Lord Spencer has died.”

A thunderbolt in a summer sky, as Sir William Temple says, could not have produced a greater sensation. The business of the repast ceased in a moment. The knives and forks were suddenly silent. All was still.

A lightning strike in a summer sky, as Sir William Temple puts it, couldn't have created a bigger sensation. The meal came to an abrupt halt. The knives and forks were instantly quiet. Everything was silent.

‘It is an immense event,’ said Tadpole.

‘It’s a huge deal,’ said Tadpole.

‘I don’t see my way,’ said Taper.

‘I can’t see my way,’ said Taper.

‘When did he die?’ said Lord Fitz-Booby.

‘When did he die?’ asked Lord Fitz-Booby.

‘I don’t believe it,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘I can’t believe it,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘They have got their man ready,’ said Tadpole.

‘They’ve got their guy ready,’ said Tadpole.

‘It is impossible to say what will happen,’ said Taper.

‘It’s impossible to say what will happen,’ said Taper.

‘Now is the time for an amendment on the address,’ said Fitz-Booby.

‘Now is the time for a change in the address,’ said Fitz-Booby.

‘There are two reasons which convince me that Lord Spencer is not dead,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘There are two reasons that make me believe Lord Spencer isn’t dead,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘I fear there is no doubt of it,’ said the Duke, shaking his head.

‘I’m afraid there’s no doubt about it,’ said the Duke, shaking his head.

‘Lord Althorp was the only man who could keep them together,’ said Lord Fitz-Booby.

‘Lord Althorp was the only guy who could keep them united,’ said Lord Fitz-Booby.

‘On the contrary,’ said Tadpole. ‘If I be right in my man, and I have no doubt of it, you will have a radical programme, and they will be stronger than ever.’

‘On the contrary,’ said Tadpole. ‘If I’m right about my guy, and I’m pretty sure I am, you’ll have a radical agenda, and they’ll be stronger than ever.’

‘Do you think they can get the steam up again?’ said Taper, musingly.

"Do you think they can build the steam back up?" Taper said thoughtfully.

‘They will bid high,’ replied Tadpole. ‘Nothing could be more unfortunate than this death. Things were going on so well and so quietly! The Wesleyans almost with us!’

‘They will bid high,’ replied Tadpole. ‘Nothing could be more unfortunate than this death. Things were going so well and so smoothly! The Wesleyans were almost with us!’

‘And Shabbyton too!’ mournfully exclaimed Taper. ‘Another registration and quiet times, and I could have reduced the constituency to two hundred and fifty.’

‘And Shabbyton too!’ Taper exclaimed sadly. ‘With another registration and some quiet times, I could have cut the constituency down to two hundred and fifty.’

‘If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th,’ said Rigby, ‘it must have been known to Henry Rivers. And I have a letter from Henry Rivers by this post. Now, Althorp is in Northamptonshire, mark that, and Northampton is a county—’

‘If Lord Spencer had died on the 10th,’ said Rigby, ‘Henry Rivers would have had to know about it. And I just got a letter from Henry Rivers in today’s mail. Now, Althorp is in Northamptonshire, just so you know, and Northampton is a county—’

‘My dear Rigby,’ said the Duke, ‘pardon me for interrupting you. Unhappily, there is no doubt Lord Spencer is dead, for I am one of his executors.’

‘My dear Rigby,’ said the Duke, ‘excuse me for interrupting you. Unfortunately, there’s no doubt Lord Spencer has died, as I am one of his executors.’

This announcement silenced even Mr. Rigby, and the conversation now entirely merged in speculations on what would occur. Numerous were the conjectures hazarded, but the prevailing impression was, that this unforeseen event might embarrass those secret expectations of Court succour in which a certain section of the party had for some time reason to indulge.

This announcement even quieted Mr. Rigby, and the discussion shifted entirely to what might happen next. There were many guesses put forward, but the general feeling was that this unexpected event could complicate the secret hopes for help from the Court that a particular group of the party had been holding onto for a while.

From the moment, however, of the announcement of Lord Spencer’s death, a change might be visibly observed in the tone of the party at Beaumanoir. They became silent, moody, and restless. There seemed a general, though not avowed, conviction that a crisis of some kind or other was at hand. The post, too, brought letters every day from town teeming with fanciful speculations, and occasionally mysterious hopes.

From the moment Lord Spencer’s death was announced, a noticeable change occurred in the atmosphere at Beaumanoir. The group grew quiet, withdrawn, and uneasy. There was an unspoken belief that a crisis of some sort was approaching. The mail also arrived daily with letters from the city filled with imaginative speculations and, at times, ambiguous hopes.

‘I kept this cover for Peel,’ said the Duke pensively, as he loaded his gun on the morning of the 14th. ‘Do you know, I was always against his going to Rome.’

‘I kept this cover for Peel,’ said the Duke thoughtfully, as he loaded his gun on the morning of the 14th. ‘You know, I was always opposed to his going to Rome.’

‘It is very odd,’ said Tadpole, ‘but I was thinking of the very same thing.’

‘It’s really strange,’ said Tadpole, ‘but I was thinking about the exact same thing.’

‘It will be fifteen years before England will see a Tory Government,’ said Mr. Rigby, drawing his ramrod, ‘and then it will only last five months.’

‘It will be fifteen years before England will have a Tory Government,’ said Mr. Rigby, pulling out his ramrod, ‘and even then it will only last five months.’

‘Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham, all in the Lords,’ said Taper. ‘Three leaders! They must quarrel.’

‘Melbourne, Althorp, and Durham, all in the House of Lords,’ said Taper. ‘Three leaders! They’re bound to argue.’

‘If Durham come in, mark me, he will dissolve on Household Suffrage and the Ballot,’ said Tadpole.

‘If Durham gets involved, trust me, he will break down on Household Suffrage and the Ballot,’ said Tadpole.

‘Not nearly so good a cry as Church,’ replied Taper.

‘Not nearly as good a cry as Church,’ Taper replied.

‘With the Malt Tax,’ said Tadpole. ‘Church, without the Malt Tax, will not do against Household Suffrage and Ballot.’

‘With the Malt Tax,’ said Tadpole. ‘Church, without the Malt Tax, won’t be able to stand against Household Suffrage and Ballot.’

‘Malt Tax is madness,’ said Taper. ‘A good farmer’s friend cry without Malt Tax would work just as well.’

‘Malt Tax is crazy,’ said Taper. ‘A good farmer’s friend cry without Malt Tax would work just as well.’

‘They will never dissolve,’ said the Duke. ‘They are so strong.’

‘They will never break apart,’ said the Duke. ‘They are really strong.’

‘They cannot go on with three hundred majority,’ said Taper. ‘Forty is as much as can be managed with open constituencies.’

‘They can’t continue with a three hundred majority,’ said Taper. ‘Forty is the most that can be handled with open constituencies.’

‘If he had only gone to Paris instead of Rome!’ said the Duke.

‘If he had just gone to Paris instead of Rome!’ said the Duke.

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘I could have written to him then by every post, and undeceived him as to his position.’

‘Yes,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘I could have written to him every time the mail went out and cleared up any misunderstandings about his situation.’

‘After all he is the only man,’ said the Duke; ‘and I really believe the country thinks so.’

‘After all, he’s the only man,’ said the Duke; ‘and I really think the country believes that.’

‘Pray, what is the country?’ inquired Mr. Rigby. ‘The country is nothing; it is the constituency you have to deal with.’

‘What’s the country?’ asked Mr. Rigby. ‘The country is irrelevant; it’s the constituency you need to focus on.’

‘And to manage them you must have a good cry,’ said Taper. ‘All now depends upon a good cry.’

‘And to manage them you need to have a good cry,’ said Taper. ‘Everything now depends on a good cry.’

‘So much for the science of politics,’ said the Duke, bringing down a pheasant. ‘How Peel would have enjoyed this cover!’

‘So much for the politics of today,’ said the Duke, shooting a pheasant. ‘How Peel would have loved this area!’

‘He will have plenty of time for sport during his life,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘He'll have plenty of time for sports in his life,’ said Mr. Rigby.

On the evening of the 15th of November, a despatch arrived at Beaumanoir, informing his Grace that the King had dismissed the Whig Ministry, and sent for the Duke of Wellington. Thus the first agitating suspense was over; to be succeeded, however, by expectation still more anxious. It was remarkable that every individual suddenly found that he had particular business in London which could not be neglected. The Duke very properly pleaded his executorial duties; but begged his guests on no account to be disturbed by his inevitable absence. Lord Fitz-Booby had just received a letter from his daughter, who was indisposed at Brighton, and he was most anxious to reach her. Tadpole had to receive deputations from Wesleyans, and well-registered boroughs anxious to receive well-principled candidates. Taper was off to get the first job at the contingent Treasury, in favour of the Borough of Shabbyton. Mr. Rigby alone was silent; but he quietly ordered a post-chaise at daybreak, and long before his fellow guests were roused from their slumbers, he was halfway to London, ready to give advice, either at the pavilion or at Apsley House.

On the evening of November 15th, a message arrived at Beaumanoir, telling his Grace that the King had dismissed the Whig Ministry and called for the Duke of Wellington. Thus, the initial anxiety was over, but it was quickly replaced by even greater anticipation. It was notable that everyone suddenly found they had urgent business in London that couldn’t wait. The Duke rightly mentioned his duties but asked his guests not to worry about his unavoidable absence. Lord Fitz-Booby had just received a letter from his daughter, who was unwell in Brighton, and he was very eager to reach her. Tadpole had to meet with delegations from Wesleyans and established boroughs looking to select ethical candidates. Taper was off to secure the first position at the upcoming Treasury for the Borough of Shabbyton. Mr. Rigby alone remained silent; however, he quietly arranged for a post-chaise at dawn, and long before his fellow guests woke up, he was already halfway to London, ready to offer advice, either at the pavilion or at Apsley House.

CHAPTER IV.

Although it is far from improbable that, had Sir Robert Peel been in England in the autumn of 1834, the Whig government would not have been dismissed; nevertheless, whatever may now be the opinion of the policy of that measure; whether it be looked on as a premature movement which necessarily led to the compact reorganisation of the Liberal party, or as a great stroke of State, which, by securing at all events a dissolution of the Parliament of 1832, restored the healthy balance of parties in the Legislature, questions into which we do not now wish to enter, it must be generally admitted, that the conduct of every individual eminently concerned in that great historical transaction was characterised by the rarest and most admirable quality of public life, moral courage. The Sovereign who dismissed a Ministry apparently supported by an overwhelming majority in the Parliament and the nation, and called to his councils the absent chief of a parliamentary section, scarcely numbering at that moment one hundred and forty individuals, and of a party in the country supposed to be utterly discomfited by a recent revolution; the two ministers who in this absence provisionally administered the affairs of the kingdom in the teeth of an enraged and unscrupulous Opposition, and perhaps themselves not sustained by a profound conviction, that the arrival of their expected leader would convert their provisional into a permanent position; above all the statesman who accepted the great charge at a time and under circumstances which marred probably the deep projects of his own prescient sagacity and maturing ambition; were all men gifted with a high spirit of enterprise, and animated by that active fortitude which is the soul of free governments.

Although it's quite likely that if Sir Robert Peel had been in England in the fall of 1834, the Whig government wouldn’t have been dismissed; still, regardless of what people think now about that decision—whether it’s seen as a hasty move that led to a major realignment of the Liberal party, or as a clever political maneuver that ensured the dissolution of the Parliament of 1832 and restored a healthy balance of parties in the Legislature—it should be acknowledged that every individual directly involved in that significant historical event displayed the rare and admirable trait of moral courage in public life. The Sovereign who dismissed a Ministry that seemed to have overwhelming support in both Parliament and the nation, and who summoned the absent leader of a parliamentary faction that had barely one hundred and forty members at that time, as well as a party in the country believed to be completely defeated by a recent upheaval; the two ministers who temporarily managed the affairs of the kingdom despite facing an angry and ruthless Opposition, and perhaps themselves not entirely sure that their expected leader would turn their temporary roles into permanent ones; and above all, the statesman who took on this significant responsibility during a time and under conditions that likely disrupted his own ambitious plans and insightful strategies—were all individuals driven by a strong spirit of enterprise, fueled by the active courage that is essential for free governments.

It was a lively season, that winter of 1834! What hopes, what fears, and what bets! From the day on which Mr. Hudson was to arrive at Rome to the election of the Speaker, not a contingency that was not the subject of a wager! People sprang up like mushrooms; town suddenly became full. Everybody who had been in office, and everybody who wished to be in office; everybody who had ever had anything, and everybody who ever expected to have anything, were alike visible. All of course by mere accident; one might meet the same men regularly every day for a month, who were only ‘passing through town.’

It was an exciting winter in 1834! So many hopes, fears, and bets! From the day Mr. Hudson was scheduled to arrive in Rome to the election of the Speaker, there wasn't a possibility that didn't have a wager attached to it! People popped up everywhere; the town suddenly became crowded. Everyone who had held a position, and everyone who wanted one; everyone who had ever owned anything, and everyone who expected to one day, was just as visible. All, of course, by pure coincidence; you could run into the same people every day for a month, and they would just be ‘passing through town.’

Now was the time for men to come forward who had never despaired of their country. True they had voted for the Reform Bill, but that was to prevent a revolution. And now they were quite ready to vote against the Reform Bill, but this was to prevent a dissolution. These are the true patriots, whose confidence in the good sense of their countrymen and in their own selfishness is about equal. In the meantime, the hundred and forty threw a grim glance on the numerous waiters on Providence, and amiable trimmers, who affectionately enquired every day when news might be expected of Sir Robert. Though too weak to form a government, and having contributed in no wise by their exertions to the fall of the late, the cohort of Parliamentary Tories felt all the alarm of men who have accidentally stumbled on some treasure-trove, at the suspicious sympathy of new allies. But, after all, who were to form the government, and what was the government to be? Was it to be a Tory government, or an Enlightened-Spirit-of-the-Age Liberal-Moderate-Reform government; was it to be a government of high philosophy or of low practice; of principle or of expediency; of great measures or of little men? A government of statesmen or of clerks? Of Humbug or of Humdrum? Great questions these, but unfortunately there was nobody to answer them. They tried the Duke; but nothing could be pumped out of him. All that he knew, which he told in his curt, husky manner, was, that he had to carry on the King’s government. As for his solitary colleague, he listened and smiled, and then in his musical voice asked them questions in return, which is the best possible mode of avoiding awkward inquiries. It was very unfair this; for no one knew what tone to take; whether they should go down to their public dinners and denounce the Reform Act or praise it; whether the Church was to be re-modelled or only admonished; whether Ireland was to be conquered or conciliated.

Now was the time for men to step up who had never lost hope for their country. Sure, they had voted for the Reform Bill, but that was to avoid a revolution. And now they were ready to vote against the Reform Bill, but this was to prevent a dissolution. These are the true patriots, whose faith in the good sense of their fellow countrymen and in their own self-interest is about the same. In the meantime, the hundred and forty cast a grim look at the many waiters on Providence and accommodating flip-floppers, who affectionately asked every day when news might come from Sir Robert. Though too weak to form a government, and having done nothing through their efforts to bring down the previous one, the group of Parliamentary Tories felt all the anxiety of people who have accidentally stumbled upon some hidden treasure, regarding the suspicious friendliness of new allies. But really, who was going to form the government, and what would it look like? Would it be a Tory government, or an Enlightened-Spirit-of-the-Age Liberal-Moderate-Reform government; would it be a government of high ideals or practical realities; of principles or convenience; of major initiatives or minor figures? A government run by statesmen or clerks? Of fluff or monotony? These were big questions, but unfortunately, no one had answers. They turned to the Duke; but nothing could be gotten out of him. All he knew, which he stated in his brief, raspy way, was that he had to carry on the King’s government. As for his lone colleague, he listened and smiled, then in his melodic voice asked them questions in return, which is the best way to dodge uncomfortable inquiries. This was very unfair; for no one knew what stance to take; whether they should go to their public dinners and attack the Reform Act or support it; whether the Church was to be restructured or just given a warning; whether Ireland was to be conquered or won over.

‘This can’t go on much longer,’ said Taper to Tadpole, as they reviewed together their electioneering correspondence on the 1st of December; ‘we have no cry.’

‘This can’t continue much longer,’ said Taper to Tadpole, as they went through their campaign correspondence together on December 1st; ‘we have no rallying point.’

‘He is half way by this time,’ said Tadpole; ‘send an extract from a private letter to the Standard, dated Augsburg, and say he will be here in four days.’

‘He’s halfway by now,’ said Tadpole; ‘send an excerpt from a private letter to the Standard, dated Augsburg, and say he’ll be here in four days.’

At last he came; the great man in a great position, summoned from Rome to govern England. The very day that he arrived he had his audience with the King.

At last he arrived; the important man in a powerful position, called from Rome to govern England. The very day he got there, he had his meeting with the King.

It was two days after this audience; the town, though November, in a state of excitement; clubs crowded, not only morning rooms, but halls and staircases swarming with members eager to give and to receive rumours equally vain; streets lined with cabs and chariots, grooms and horses; it was two days after this audience that Mr. Ormsby, celebrated for his political dinners, gave one to a numerous party. Indeed his saloons to-day, during the half-hour of gathering which precedes dinner, offered in the various groups, the anxious countenances, the inquiring voices, and the mysterious whispers, rather the character of an Exchange or Bourse than the tone of a festive society.

It was two days after this meeting; the town, despite being November, was buzzing with excitement; clubs were packed, not just the morning rooms, but also the halls and staircases filled with members eager to share and hear rumors, all equally empty; streets were lined with cabs and carriages, grooms and horses; it was two days after this meeting that Mr. Ormsby, known for his political dinners, hosted one for a large group. In fact, his rooms today, during the half-hour of mingling that came before dinner, had the anxious faces, questioning voices, and hushed whispers of various groups, resembling more of a Stock Exchange than a festive gathering.

Here might be marked a murmuring knot of greyheaded privy-councillors, who had held fat offices under Perceval and Liverpool, and who looked back to the Reform Act as to a hideous dream; there some middle-aged aspirants might be observed who had lost their seats in the convulsion, but who flattered themselves they had done something for the party in the interval, by spending nothing except their breath in fighting hopeless boroughs, and occasionally publishing a pamphlet, which really produced less effect than chalking the walls. Light as air, and proud as a young peacock, tripped on his toes a young Tory, who had contrived to keep his seat in a Parliament where he had done nothing, but who thought an Under-Secretaryship was now secure, particularly as he was the son of a noble Lord who had also in a public capacity plundered and blundered in the good old time. The true political adventurer, who with dull desperation had stuck at nothing, had never neglected a treasury note, had been present at every division, never spoke when he was asked to be silent, and was always ready on any subject when they wanted him to open his mouth; who had treated his leaders with servility even behind their backs, and was happy for the day if a future Secretary of the Treasury bowed to him; who had not only discountenanced discontent in the party, but had regularly reported in strict confidence every instance of insubordination which came to his knowledge; might there too be detected under all the agonies of the crisis; just beginning to feel the dread misgiving, whether being a slave and a sneak were sufficient qualifications for office, without family or connection. Poor fellow! half the industry he had wasted on his cheerless craft might have made his fortune in some decent trade!

Here you could spot a murmuring group of older advisors who had held cushy positions under Perceval and Liverpool, and who viewed the Reform Act like a terrible nightmare. Over there, you might see some middle-aged hopefuls who had lost their positions in the upheaval but believed they had contributed to the party by wasting their breath fighting hopeless districts and occasionally putting out a pamphlet that had even less impact than writing on a wall. Light and proud, like a young peacock, a young Tory danced on his toes. He had managed to keep his seat in a Parliament where he had done nothing but thought an Under-Secretary position was now guaranteed, especially since he was the son of a noble Lord who had also mismanaged things in the good old days. The true political climber, who with dull determination had done whatever it took, had never ignored a Treasury note, had been present for every vote, never spoke when asked to be quiet, and was always ready to share his thoughts on any topic when they wanted him to. He had treated his leaders with excessive flattery, even behind their backs, and felt lucky if a future Secretary of the Treasury acknowledged him. He had not only discouraged discontent within the party but had also faithfully reported every instance of rebellion that he knew about; you could find him there, feeling the pressure of the crisis, starting to worry if being a toady was enough to qualify for a job, especially without family or connections. Poor guy! Half the effort he wasted on his thankless job could have made him successful in a respectable line of work!

In dazzling contrast with these throes of low ambition, were some brilliant personages who had just scampered up from Melton, thinking it probable that Sir Robert might want some moral lords of the bed-chamber. Whatever may have been their private fears or feelings, all however seemed smiling and significant, as if they knew something if they chose to tell it, and that something very much to their own satisfaction. The only grave countenance that was occasionally ushered into the room belonged to some individual whose destiny was not in doubt, and who was already practising the official air that was in future to repress the familiarity of his former fellow-stragglers.

In sharp contrast to the struggles of those with low ambitions were some impressive individuals who had just hurried over from Melton, thinking it was likely that Sir Robert might need some high-status moral supporters. Whatever their personal worries or emotions were, everyone seemed to be smiling and significant, as if they knew something they could share, and that something was definitely to their own advantage. The only serious face that occasionally entered the room belonged to someone whose future was secure, and who was already adopting the official demeanor that would soon keep his former acquaintances at a distance.

‘Do you hear anything?’ said a great noble who wanted something in the general scramble, but what he knew not; only he had a vague feeling he ought to have something, having made such great sacrifices.

‘Do you hear anything?’ said a powerful noble who was hoping to gain something in the chaotic situation, but he wasn’t sure what; he just had a nagging sense that he should be getting something, having made such significant sacrifices.

‘There is a report that Clifford is to be Secretary to the Board of Control,’ said Mr. Earwig, whose whole soul was in this subaltern arrangement, of which the Minister of course had not even thought; ‘but I cannot trace it to any authority.’

‘There are rumors that Clifford is going to be Secretary to the Board of Control,’ said Mr. Earwig, who was completely invested in this secondary arrangement, which the Minister hadn’t even considered; ‘but I can’t confirm it from any credible source.’

‘I wonder who will be their Master of the Horse,’ said the great noble, loving gossip though he despised the gossiper.

‘I wonder who will be their Master of the Horse,’ said the important noble, enjoying the gossip even though he looked down on the person spreading it.

‘Clifford has done nothing for the party,’ said Mr. Earwig.

'Clifford hasn't done anything for the party,' said Mr. Earwig.

‘I dare say Rambrooke will have the Buckhounds,’ said the great noble, musingly.

‘I bet Rambrooke will get the Buckhounds,’ said the great noble, thoughtfully.

‘Your Lordship has not heard Clifford’s name mentioned?’ continued Mr. Earwig.

‘Your Lordship hasn’t heard Clifford’s name mentioned?’ continued Mr. Earwig.

‘I should think they had not come to that sort of thing,’ said the great noble, with ill-disguised contempt.’ The first thing after the Cabinet is formed is the Household: the things you talk of are done last;’ and he turned upon his heel, and met the imperturbable countenance and clear sarcastic eye of Lord Eskdale.

“I can’t believe they would stoop to that,” said the great noble, barely hiding his disdain. “The first thing after forming the Cabinet is the Household; the things you’re talking about come last.” He turned on his heel and faced the unflappable expression and sharp, sarcastic gaze of Lord Eskdale.

‘You have not heard anything?’ asked the great noble of his brother patrician.

‘Haven't you heard anything?’ asked the high-ranking noble to his fellow patrician.

‘Yes, a great deal since I have been in this room; but unfortunately it is all untrue.’

‘Yes, a lot since I've been in this room; but unfortunately, it's all untrue.’

‘There is a report that Rambrooke is to have the Buck-hounds; but I cannot trace it to any authority.’

‘There’s a report that Rambrooke is getting the Buck-hounds, but I can’t find any reliable source for it.’

‘Pooh!’ said Lord Eskdale.

"Pooh!" said Lord Eskdale.

‘I don’t see that Rambrooke should have the Buckhounds any more than anybody else. What sacrifices has he made?’

‘I don’t think Rambrooke should have the Buckhounds any more than anyone else. What sacrifices has he made?’

‘Past sacrifices are nothing,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘Present sacrifices are the thing we want: men who will sacrifice their principles and join us.’

‘Past sacrifices mean nothing,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘What we need now are people willing to sacrifice their principles and join us.’

‘You have not heard Rambrooke’s name mentioned?’

‘You haven't heard Rambrooke's name mentioned?’

‘When a Minister has no Cabinet, and only one hundred and forty supporters in the House of Commons, he has something else to think of than places at Court,’ said Lord Eskdale, as he slowly turned away to ask Lucian Gay whether it were true that Jenny Colon was coming over.

‘When a Minister has no Cabinet and just one hundred and forty supporters in the House of Commons, he has more to worry about than positions at Court,’ said Lord Eskdale, as he slowly turned away to ask Lucian Gay if it was true that Jenny Colon was coming over.

Shortly after this, Henry Sydney’s father, who dined with Mr. Ornisby, drew Lord Eskdale into a window, and said in an undertone:

Shortly after this, Henry Sydney's father, who had dinner with Mr. Ornisby, pulled Lord Eskdale aside to a window and said quietly:

‘So there is to be a kind of programme: something is to be written.’

‘So there’s going to be a kind of program: something is going to be written.’

‘Well, we want a cue,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I heard of this last night: Rigby has written something.’

‘Well, we need a hint,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘I heard about this last night: Rigby has written something.’

The Duke shook his head.

‘No; Peel means to do it himself.’

‘No; Peel intends to do it himself.’

But at this moment Mr. Ornisby begged his Grace to lead them to dinner.

But at that moment, Mr. Ornisby asked his Grace to take them to dinner.

‘Something is to be written.’ It is curious to recall the vague terms in which the first projection of documents, that are to exercise a vast influence on the course of affairs or the minds of nations, is often mentioned. This ‘something to be written’ was written; and speedily; and has ever since been talked of.

‘Something needs to be written.’ It's interesting to think about the unclear ways in which the initial plans for documents—those that would greatly impact events or the thoughts of nations—are often described. This ‘something to be written’ was indeed written; quickly so; and since then, it's been a topic of conversation.

We believe we may venture to assume that at no period during the movements of 1834-5 did Sir Robert Peel ever believe in the success of his administration. Its mere failure could occasion him little dissatisfaction; he was compensated for it by the noble opportunity afforded to him for the display of those great qualities, both moral and intellectual, which the swaddling-clothes of a routine prosperity had long repressed, but of which his opposition to the Reform Bill had given to the nation a significant intimation. The brief administration elevated him in public opinion, and even in the eye of Europe; and it is probable that a much longer term of power would not have contributed more to his fame.

We believe we can reasonably assume that at no time during the events of 1834-5 did Sir Robert Peel ever expect his administration to succeed. Its simple failure probably didn’t bother him much; he found value in the opportunity it gave him to showcase his outstanding moral and intellectual qualities, which had long been stifled by the comfort of routine success, but which his opposition to the Reform Bill had already hinted at to the nation. His short time in office raised his status in public opinion and even in the eyes of Europe; it’s likely that a much longer time in power wouldn’t have added much more to his reputation.

The probable effect of the premature effort of his party on his future position as a Minister was, however, far from being so satisfactory. At the lowest ebb of his political fortunes, it cannot be doubted that Sir Robert Peel looked forward, perhaps through the vista of many years, to a period when the national mind, arrived by reflection and experience at certain conclusions, would seek in him a powerful expositor of its convictions. His time of life permitted him to be tranquil in adversity, and to profit by its salutary uses. He would then have acceded to power as the representative of a Creed, instead of being the leader of a Confederacy, and he would have been supported by earnest and enduring enthusiasm, instead of by that churlish sufferance which is the result of a supposed balance of advantages in his favour. This is the consequence of the tactics of those short-sighted intriguers, who persisted in looking upon a revolution as a mere party struggle, and would not permit the mind of the nation to work through the inevitable phases that awaited it. In 1834, England, though frightened at the reality of Reform, still adhered to its phrases; it was inclined, as practical England, to maintain existing institutions; but, as theoretical England, it was suspicious that they were indefensible.

The likely impact of his party's hasty actions on his future role as a Minister was, however, far from positive. At the lowest point of his political career, there’s no doubt that Sir Robert Peel envisioned, perhaps over many years, a time when the national perspective, shaped by thought and experience, would look to him as a strong advocate for its beliefs. His age allowed him to remain calm in tough times and to benefit from their valuable lessons. He would then have ascended to power as the representative of a belief system rather than as the leader of a coalition, and he would have had the backing of genuine and lasting enthusiasm, instead of the grudging tolerance stemming from a perceived balance of advantages in his favor. This outcome reflects the strategies of those short-sighted schemers who continued to see a revolution as merely a party conflict and wouldn’t allow the nation’s mindset to progress through the inevitable stages ahead. In 1834, England, though fearful of actual Reform, still clung to its rhetoric; it was inclined, in the practical sense, to uphold current institutions, but in a theoretical sense, it was wary that such institutions were indefensible.

No one had arisen either in Parliament, the Universities, or the Press, to lead the public mind to the investigation of principles; and not to mistake, in their reformations, the corruption of practice for fundamental ideas. It was this perplexed, ill-informed, jaded, shallow generation, repeating cries which they did not comprehend, and wearied with the endless ebullitions of their own barren conceit, that Sir Robert Peel was summoned to govern. It was from such materials, ample in quantity, but in all spiritual qualities most deficient; with great numbers, largely acred, consoled up to their chins, but without knowledge, genius, thought, truth, or faith, that Sir Robert Peel was to form a ‘great Conservative party on a comprehensive basis.’ That he did this like a dexterous politician, who can deny? Whether he realised those prescient views of a great statesman in which he had doubtless indulged, and in which, though still clogged by the leadership of 1834, he may yet find fame for himself and salvation for his country, is altogether another question. His difficult attempt was expressed in an address to his constituents, which now ranks among state papers. We shall attempt briefly to consider it with the impartiality of the future.

No one had stepped up in Parliament, the Universities, or the Press to guide the public toward investigating principles, making sure they didn’t confuse the corruption of practice with fundamental ideas during their reforms. It was this confused, uninformed, tired, and superficial generation, repeating slogans they didn’t understand and exhausted by the constant outpouring of their own empty arrogance, that Sir Robert Peel was called to lead. He had to form a 'great Conservative party on a comprehensive basis' from such a pool of people—numerous but lacking in all spiritual qualities; many were wealthy but ignorant, without knowledge, creativity, thought, truth, or faith. That he managed to do this like a skilled politician is undeniable. Whether he fulfilled those visionary aspirations of a great statesman that he surely harbored, and whether, despite the burdens of leading in 1834, he could achieve fame for himself and save his country is a different matter entirely. His challenging effort was articulated in a speech to his constituents, which is now considered a significant state document. We will try to review it briefly and objectively, with the perspective of the future.

CHAPTER V.

The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an attempt to construct a party without principles; its basis therefore was necessarily Latitudinarianism; and its inevitable consequence has been Political Infidelity.

The Tamworth Manifesto of 1834 was an effort to create a party without any core principles; this meant it was fundamentally based on a flexible approach. The unavoidable result has been a lack of political loyalty.

At an epoch of political perplexity and social alarm, the confederation was convenient, and was calculated by aggregation to encourage the timid and confused. But when the perturbation was a little subsided, and men began to inquire why they were banded together, the difficulty of defining their purpose proved that the league, however respectable, was not a party. The leaders indeed might profit by their eminent position to obtain power for their individual gratification, but it was impossible to secure their followers that which, after all, must be the great recompense of a political party, the putting in practice of their opinions; for they had none.

At a time of political confusion and social anxiety, the confederation was useful and helped to support those who were hesitant and unsure. But as the unrest calmed down a bit and people started to question why they were united, the challenge of defining their purpose revealed that the alliance, no matter how respectable, wasn’t really a political party. The leaders might take advantage of their prominent position to gain power for their own benefit, but it was impossible to provide their followers with what should be the main reward of a political party: the ability to put their beliefs into action, because they didn’t have any.

There was indeed a considerable shouting about what they called Conservative principles; but the awkward question naturally arose, what will you conserve? The prerogatives of the Crown, provided they are not exercised; the independence of the House of Lords, provided it is not asserted; the Ecclesiastical estate, provided it is regulated by a commission of laymen. Everything, in short, that is established, as long as it is a phrase and not a fact.

There was definitely a lot of noise about what they referred to as Conservative principles, but the tricky question came up: what exactly will you conserve? The rights of the Crown, as long as they aren’t used; the independence of the House of Lords, as long as it isn’t claimed; the Church’s property, as long as it’s overseen by a group of laypeople. Essentially, everything that exists, as long as it’s just a saying and not a reality.

In the meantime, while forms and phrases are religiously cherished in order to make the semblance of a creed, the rule of practice is to bend to the passion or combination of the hour. Conservatism assumes in theory that everything established should be maintained; but adopts in practice that everything that is established is indefensible. To reconcile this theory and this practice, they produce what they call ‘the best bargain;’ some arrangement which has no principle and no purpose, except to obtain a temporary lull of agitation, until the mind of the Conservatives, without a guide and without an aim, distracted, tempted, and bewildered, is prepared for another arrangement, equally statesmanlike with the preceding one.

In the meantime, while traditional phrases and customs are carefully upheld to create the illusion of a belief system, the actual practice is to yield to whatever is trending at the moment. Conservatism theoretically argues that everything established should be preserved; however, in reality, it treats established things as indefensible. To bridge this gap between theory and practice, they come up with what they call 'the best deal;' a setup that lacks any real principle or purpose, except to achieve a temporary pause in unrest, until the Conservative mindset, unfocused and without direction, is ready for yet another equally opportunistic arrangement.

Conservatism was an attempt to carry on affairs by substituting the fulfilment of the duties of office for the performance of the functions of government; and to maintain this negative system by the mere influence of property, reputable private conduct, and what are called good connections. Conservatism discards Prescription, shrinks from Principle, disavows Progress; having rejected all respect for Antiquity, it offers no redress for the Present, and makes no preparation for the Future. It is obvious that for a time, under favourable circumstances, such a confederation might succeed; but it is equally clear, that on the arrival of one of those critical conjunctures that will periodically occur in all states, and which such an unimpassioned system is even calculated ultimately to create, all power of resistance will be wanting: the barren curse of political infidelity will paralyse all action; and the Conservative Constitution will be discovered to be a Caput Mortuum.

Conservatism tried to manage things by focusing on fulfilling the duties of office instead of actually engaging in the functions of government. It aimed to maintain this negative approach solely through the influence of wealth, respectable private behavior, and what are known as good connections. Conservatism rejects established norms, avoids principles, and denies progress; having turned its back on the respect for the past, it offers no solutions for the present and makes no plans for the future. It's clear that, for a while, under the right conditions, such a coalition could work; but it's also obvious that when one of those critical moments arises, which will inevitably happen in every state, this cold and unfeeling system—ironically, one that could ultimately bring about such moments—will lack any power to resist. The empty curse of political unfaithfulness will paralyze all action, and the Conservative structure will be revealed to be a lifeless shell.

CHAPTER VI.

In the meantime, after dinner, Tadpole and Taper, who were among the guests of Mr. Ormsby, withdrew to a distant sofa, out of earshot, and indulged in confidential talk.

In the meantime, after dinner, Tadpole and Taper, who were among Mr. Ormsby's guests, moved to a faraway sofa, out of earshot, and engaged in a private conversation.

‘Such a strength in debate was never before found on a Treasury bench,’ said Mr. Tadpole; ‘the other side will be dumbfounded.’

‘Such strength in debate has never been seen on a Treasury bench,’ said Mr. Tadpole; ‘the other side will be shocked.’

‘And what do you put our numbers at now?’ inquired Mr. Taper.

‘And what do you think our numbers are now?’ asked Mr. Taper.

‘Would you take fifty-five for our majority?’ rejoined Mr. Tadpole.

‘Would you accept fifty-five for our majority?’ Mr. Tadpole replied.

‘It is not so much the tail they have, as the excuse their junction will be for the moderate, sensible men to come over,’ said Taper. ‘Our friend Sir Everard for example, it would settle him.’

‘It's not just the tail they have, but the excuse their connection will provide for reasonable, sensible people to join them,’ said Taper. ‘Take our friend Sir Everard, for instance; it would definitely sway him.’

‘He is a solemn impostor,’ rejoined Mr. Tadpole; ‘but he is a baronet and a county member, and very much looked up to by the Wesleyans. The other men, I know, have refused him a peerage.’

‘He’s a serious fraud,’ replied Mr. Tadpole; ‘but he’s a baronet and a county member, and the Wesleyans really admire him. The other guys, I know, have turned down giving him a peerage.’

‘And we might hold out judicious hopes,’ said Taper.

‘And we might hold out reasonable hopes,’ said Taper.

‘No one can do that better than you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I am apt to say too much about those things.’

‘No one can do that better than you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I tend to talk too much about those things.’

‘I make it a rule never to open my mouth on such subjects,’ said Taper. ‘A nod or a wink will speak volumes. An affectionate pressure of the hand will sometimes do a great deal; and I have promised many a peerage without committing myself, by an ingenious habit of deference which cannot be mistaken by the future noble.’

“I always stick to the rule of not discussing those topics,” said Taper. “A nod or a wink can say a lot. A gentle squeeze of the hand can say even more; and I've guaranteed many titles without any commitment, thanks to a clever way of showing respect that the future noble won't misunderstand.”

‘I wonder what they will do with Rigby,’ said Tadpole.

'I wonder what they'll do with Rigby,' said Tadpole.

‘He wants a good deal,’ said Taper.

'He wants a good deal,' Taper said.

‘I tell you what, Mr. Taper, the time is gone by when a Marquess of Monmouth was Letter A, No. 1.’

‘I’ll tell you, Mr. Taper, those days are over when a Marquess of Monmouth was Letter A, No. 1.’

‘Very true, Mr. Tadpole. A wise man would do well now to look to the great middle class, as I said the other day to the electors of Shabbyton.’

‘Very true, Mr. Tadpole. A wise person should take note of the great middle class now, as I mentioned the other day to the voters of Shabbyton.’

‘I had sooner be supported by the Wesleyans,’ said Mr. Tadpole, ‘than by all the marquesses in the peerage.’

‘I would rather be supported by the Wesleyans,’ said Mr. Tadpole, ‘than by all the marquesses in the peerage.’

‘At the same time,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘Rigby is a considerable man. If we want a slashing article—’

‘At the same time,’ said Mr. Taper, ‘Rigby is an important person. If we want a cutting-edge article—’

‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘He is quite gone by. He takes three months for his slashing articles. Give me the man who can write a leader. Rigby can’t write a leader.’

‘Pooh!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘He’s totally out of touch. He spends three months on his opinion pieces. Give me someone who can write a proper editorial. Rigby can’t write an editorial.’

‘Very few can,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘However, I don’t think much of the press. Its power is gone by. They overdid it.’

‘Very few can,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘However, I don’t think much of the press. Its power is gone. They overdid it.’

‘There is Tom Chudleigh,’ said Tadpole. ‘What is he to have?’

‘There’s Tom Chudleigh,’ said Tadpole. ‘What should he get?’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Taper. ‘I hate him. A coxcomb! Cracking his jokes and laughing at us.’

‘Nothing, I hope,’ said Taper. ‘I can’t stand him. What a fool! Cracking jokes and laughing at us.’

‘He has done a good deal for the party, though,’ said Tadpole. ‘That, to be sure, is only an additional reason for throwing him over, as he is too far committed to venture to oppose us. But I am afraid from something that dropped to-day, that Sir Robert thinks he has claims.’

‘He’s done a lot for the party, though,’ said Tadpole. ‘That, of course, is just another reason to get rid of him, since he's too invested to stand against us. But I’m worried from something that was said today that Sir Robert believes he has a right to something.’

‘We must stop them,’ said Taper, growing pale. ‘Fellows like Chudleigh, when they once get in, are always in one’s way. I have no objection to young noblemen being put forward, for they are preferred so rapidly, and then their fathers die, that in the long run they do not practically interfere with us.’

‘We have to stop them,’ said Taper, turning pale. ‘Guys like Chudleigh, once they’re in, always get in the way. I don’t mind young nobles being promoted; they move up so quickly, and then their fathers pass away, which means they don’t actually block us in the long run.’

‘Well, his name was mentioned,’ said Tadpole. ‘There is no concealing that.’

‘Well, his name came up,’ said Tadpole. ‘You can’t hide that.’

‘I will speak to Earwig,’ said Taper. ‘He shall just drop into Sir Robert’s ear by chance, that Chudleigh used to quiz him in the smoking-room. Those little bits of information do a great deal of good.’

‘I’ll talk to Earwig,’ said Taper. ‘He’ll just happen to mention to Sir Robert that Chudleigh used to tease him in the smoking room. Those little bits of information really help.’

‘Well, I leave him to you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I am heartily with you in keeping out all fellows like Chudleigh. They are very well for opposition; but in office we don’t want wits.’

‘Well, I'm leaving him to you,’ said Tadpole. ‘I totally agree with you about keeping out guys like Chudleigh. They’re great for opposing views; but when it comes to running things, we don’t need smart alecks.’

‘And when shall we have the answer from Knowsley?’ inquired Taper. ‘You anticipate no possible difficulty?’

‘When will we get the answer from Knowsley?’ Taper asked. ‘Do you foresee any issues?’

‘I tell you it is “carte blanche,”’ replied Tadpole. ‘Four places in the cabinet. Two secretaryships at the least. Do you happen to know any gentleman of your acquaintance, Mr. Taper, who refuses Secretaryships of State so easily, that you can for an instant doubt of the present arrangement?’

‘I’m telling you it’s “carte blanche,”’ replied Tadpole. ‘Four spots in the cabinet. At least two secretary positions. Do you know any gentleman you’re acquainted with, Mr. Taper, who would turn down Secretaryships of State so easily that you could possibly doubt the current arrangement?’

‘I know none indeed,’ said Mr. Taper, with a grim smile.

‘I don’t really know anyone,’ Mr. Taper said with a sly smile.

‘The thing is done,’ said Mr. Tadpole.

"All done," said Mr. Tadpole.

‘And now for our cry,’ said Mr. Taper.

‘And now for our shout,’ said Mr. Taper.

‘It is not a Cabinet for a good cry,’ said Tadpole; ‘but then, on the other hand, it is a Cabinet that will sow dissension in the opposite ranks, and prevent them having a good cry.’

‘It’s not a Cabinet for a good cry,’ said Tadpole; ‘but on the flip side, it’s a Cabinet that will create division in the opposing ranks and stop them from having a good cry.’

‘Ancient institutions and modern improvements, I suppose, Mr. Tadpole?’

‘Old institutions and new improvements, I guess, Mr. Tadpole?’

‘Ameliorations is the better word, ameliorations. Nobody knows exactly what it means.’

‘Improvements is the better word, improvements. Nobody knows exactly what it means.’

‘We go strong on the Church?’ said Mr. Taper.

‘Are we fully supporting the Church?’ said Mr. Taper.

‘And no repeal of the Malt Tax; you were right, Taper. It can’t be listened to for a moment.’

‘And there’s no way we’re getting rid of the Malt Tax; you were right, Taper. We can't entertain that idea for even a second.’

‘Something might be done with prerogative,’ said Mr. Taper; ‘the King’s constitutional choice.’

‘Something could be done with prerogative,’ said Mr. Taper; ‘the King’s constitutional choice.’

‘Not too much,’ replied Mr. Tadpole. ‘It is a raw time yet for prerogative.’

‘Not too much,’ replied Mr. Tadpole. ‘It’s still an early time for privilege.’

‘Ah! Tadpole,’ said Mr. Taper, getting a little maudlin; ‘I often think, if the time should ever come, when you and I should be joint Secretaries of the Treasury!’

‘Ah! Tadpole,’ said Mr. Taper, getting a bit sentimental; ‘I often think, if the time ever comes when you and I are co-Secretaries of the Treasury!’

‘We shall see, we shall see. All we have to do is to get into Parliament, work well together, and keep other men down.’

‘We’ll see, we’ll see. All we need to do is get into Parliament, collaborate effectively, and keep others in check.’

‘We will do our best,’ said Taper. ‘A dissolution you hold inevitable?’

‘We’ll do our best,’ said Taper. ‘You think a breakup is unavoidable?’

‘How are you and I to get into Parliament if there be not one? We must make it inevitable. I tell you what, Taper, the lists must prove a dissolution inevitable. You understand me? If the present Parliament goes on, where shall we be? We shall have new men cropping up every session.’

‘How are you and I going to get into Parliament if there isn't one? We have to make it happen. Listen, Taper, the lists need to show that a dissolution is unavoidable. Do you get what I'm saying? If the current Parliament continues, where will we stand? We'll have new people popping up every session.’

‘True, terribly true,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘That we should ever live to see a Tory government again! We have reason to be very thankful.’

‘It’s true, really true,’ said Mr. Taper. ‘That we should ever live to see a Tory government again! We have a lot to be grateful for.’

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘The time has gone by for Tory governments; what the country requires is a sound Conservative government.’

‘Hush!’ said Mr. Tadpole. ‘The time for Tory governments has passed; what the country needs is a solid Conservative government.’

‘A sound Conservative government,’ said Taper, musingly. ‘I understand: Tory men and Whig measures.’

‘A solid Conservative government,’ Taper said thoughtfully. ‘I get it: Tory people and Whig policies.’

CHAPTER VII.

Amid the contentions of party, the fierce struggles of ambition, and the intricacies of political intrigue, let us not forget our Eton friends. During the period which elapsed from the failure of the Duke of Wellington to form a government in 1832, to the failure of Sir Robert Peel to carry on a government in 1835, the boys had entered, and advanced in youth. The ties of friendship which then united several of them had only been confirmed by continued companionship. Coningsby and Henry Sydney, and Buckhurst and Vere, were still bound together by entire sympathy, and by the affection of which sympathy is the only sure spring. But their intimacies had been increased by another familiar friend. There had risen up between Coningsby and Millbank mutual sentiments of deep, and even ardent, regard. Acquaintance had developed the superior qualities of Millbank. His thoughtful and inquiring mind, his inflexible integrity, his stern independence, and yet the engaging union of extreme tenderness of heart with all this strength of character, had won the goodwill, and often excited the admiration, of Coningsby. Our hero, too, was gratified by the affectionate deference that was often shown to him by one who condescended to no other individual; he was proud of having saved the life of a member of their community whom masters and boys alike considered; and he ended by loving the being on whom he had conferred a great obligation.

Amid the rivalry of political parties, the intense struggles for power, and the complexities of political maneuvering, let’s not forget our friends from Eton. During the time between the Duke of Wellington's failed attempt to form a government in 1832 and Sir Robert Peel's unsuccessful attempt to govern in 1835, the boys had grown and progressed through their youth. The friendships that initially brought several of them together had only strengthened with time. Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Buckhurst, and Vere remained closely connected through their complete understanding of each other and the bond created by genuine affection. Additionally, their friendships were deepened by another close companion. Between Coningsby and Millbank, a strong and even passionate mutual regard had developed. Their acquaintance highlighted Millbank’s exceptional qualities. His thoughtful and curious nature, unwavering integrity, strong independence, and the rare combination of deep compassion alongside his formidable character captured Coningsby’s goodwill and admiration. Our hero also felt honored by the warm respect shown to him by someone who didn’t extend that to anyone else; he took pride in having saved the life of a fellow community member, someone regarded highly by both students and teachers. In the end, he found himself loving the person whom he had helped so significantly.

The friends of Coningsby, the sweet-tempered and intelligent Henry Sydney, the fiery and generous Buckhurst, and the calm and sagacious Vere, had ever been favourably inclined to Millbank, and had they not been, the example of Coningsby would soon have influenced them. He had obtained over his intimates the ascendant power, which is the destiny of genius. Nor was this submission of such spirits to be held cheap. Although they were willing to take the colour of their minds from him, they were in intellect and attainments, in personal accomplishments and general character, the leaders of the school; an authority not to be won from five hundred high-spirited boys without the possession of great virtues and great talents.

The friends of Coningsby—kind and smart Henry Sydney, passionate and generous Buckhurst, and calm and wise Vere—had always been supportive of Millbank, and even if they hadn’t been, Coningsby’s example would have quickly swayed them. He had gained a dominant influence over his close friends, which is the fate of true genius. This acceptance from such strong personalities was not something to take lightly. Although they were willing to adopt his perspective, they were intellectually and skill-wise, as well as in personal achievements and overall character, the leaders of the group; earning that respect from five hundred spirited boys requires significant virtues and talents.

As for the dominion of Coningsby himself, it was not limited to the immediate circle of his friends. He had become the hero of Eton; the being of whose existence everybody was proud, and in whose career every boy took an interest. They talked of him, they quoted him, they imitated him. Fame and power are the objects of all men. Even their partial fruition is gained by very few; and that too at the expense of social pleasure, health, conscience, life. Yet what power of manhood in passionate intenseness, appealing at the same time to the subject and the votary, can rival that which is exercised by the idolised chieftain of a great public school? What fame of after days equals the rapture of celebrity that thrills the youthful poet, as in tones of rare emotion he recites his triumphant verses amid the devoted plaudits of the flower of England? That’s fame, that’s power; real, unquestioned, undoubted, catholic. Alas! the schoolboy, when he becomes a man, finds that power, even fame, like everything else, is an affair of party.

As for Coningsby's influence, it extended beyond just his immediate friends. He had become the hero of Eton; everyone felt proud of him and every boy was invested in his journey. They talked about him, quoted him, and tried to copy him. Fame and power are what everyone seeks. Yet, even partial success in these areas is achieved by very few, and often at the cost of social enjoyment, health, morality, and even life itself. But what kind of manly power, with its passionate intensity, can rival the control exercised by the admired leader of a prestigious public school? What fame in later life can compare to the thrill of celebrity that electrifies the young poet as he passionately recites his triumphant verses amid the enthusiastic applause of the best and brightest of England? That’s true fame, that’s true power; real, undeniable, universal. Sadly, the schoolboy, when he grows up, discovers that power and fame, like everything else, often come down to politics.

Coningsby liked very much to talk politics with Millbank. He heard things from Millbank which were new to him. Himself, as he supposed, a high Tory, which he was according to the revelation of the Rigbys, he was also sufficiently familiar with the hereditary tenets of his Whig friend, Lord Vere. Politics had as yet appeared to him a struggle whether the country was to be governed by Whig nobles or Tory nobles; and he thought it very unfortunate that he should probably have to enter life with his friends out of power, and his family boroughs destroyed. But in conversing with Millbank, he heard for the first time of influential classes in the country who were not noble, and were yet determined to acquire power. And although Millbank’s views, which were of course merely caught up from his father, without the intervention of his own intelligence, were doubtless crude enough, and were often very acutely canvassed and satisfactorily demolished by the clever prejudices of another school, which Coningsby had at command, still they were, unconsciously to the recipient, materials for thought, and insensibly provoked in his mind a spirit of inquiry into political questions, for which he had a predisposition.

Coningsby really enjoyed discussing politics with Millbank. He heard new ideas from Millbank that he hadn’t considered before. He thought of himself as a high Tory, based on what the Rigbys had told him, but he was also familiar with the traditional beliefs of his Whig friend, Lord Vere. To him, politics had mostly seemed like a fight between Whig nobles and Tory nobles for control of the country, and he felt it was unfortunate that he would likely start his adult life with his friends out of power and his family’s boroughs gone. However, during his conversations with Millbank, he learned for the first time about influential classes in the country that weren’t noble but were still intent on gaining power. While Millbank’s ideas were mostly just inherited from his father without any real understanding of them, and although they were often criticized and effectively countered by the clever biases from another viewpoint, which Coningsby knew well, they still provided food for thought and unintentionally sparked a sense of inquiry into political issues that Coningsby was naturally inclined toward.

It may be said, indeed, that generally among the upper boys there might be observed at this time, at Eton, a reigning inclination for political discussion. The school truly had at all times been proud of its statesmen and its parliamentary heroes, but this was merely a superficial feeling in comparison with the sentiment which now first became prevalent. The great public questions that were the consequence of the Reform of the House of Commons, had also agitated their young hearts. And especially the controversies that were now rife respecting the nature and character of ecclesiastical establishments, wonderfully addressed themselves to their excited intelligence. They read their newspapers with a keen relish, canvassed debates, and criticised speeches; and although in their debating society, which had been instituted more than a quarter of a century, discussion on topics of the day was prohibited, still by fixing on periods of our history when affairs were analogous to the present, many a youthful orator contrived very effectively to reply to Lord John, or to refute the fallacies of his rival.

It can be said that during this time at Eton, there was a noticeable trend among the older boys towards political discussion. The school had always taken pride in its prominent politicians and parliamentary figures, but this pride was just a shallow feeling compared to the genuine interest that emerged now. The major public issues arising from the Reform of the House of Commons also stirred their young hearts. Particularly, the heated debates about the nature and role of church institutions really captured their attention. They read newspapers with great enthusiasm, discussed debates, and critiqued speeches; although their debating society, established over twenty-five years ago, prohibited discussions on current events, many young speakers cleverly found ways to reference historical periods that paralleled the present, allowing them to effectively challenge Lord John or counter the arguments of his opponents.

As the political opinions predominant in the school were what in ordinary parlance are styled Tory, and indeed were far better entitled to that glorious epithet than the flimsy shifts which their fathers were professing in Parliament and the country; the formation and the fall of Sir Robert Peel’s government had been watched by Etonians with great interest, and even excitement. The memorable efforts which the Minister himself made, supported only by the silent votes of his numerous adherents, and contending alone against the multiplied assaults of his able and determined foes, with a spirit equal to the great occasion, and with resources of parliamentary contest which seemed to increase with every exigency; these great and unsupported struggles alone were calculated to gain the sympathy of youthful and generous spirits. The assault on the revenues of the Church; the subsequent crusade against the House of Lords; the display of intellect and courage exhibited by Lord Lyndhurst in that assembly, when all seemed cowed and faint-hearted; all these were incidents or personal traits apt to stir the passions, and create in breasts not yet schooled to repress emotion, a sentiment even of enthusiasm. It is the personal that interests mankind, that fires their imagination, and wins their hearts. A cause is a great abstraction, and fit only for students; embodied in a party, it stirs men to action; but place at the head of that party a leader who can inspire enthusiasm, he commands the world. Divine faculty! Rare and incomparable privilege! A parliamentary leader who possesses it, doubles his majority; and he who has it not, may shroud himself in artificial reserve, and study with undignified arrogance an awkward haughtiness, but he will nevertheless be as far from controlling the spirit as from captivating the hearts of his sullen followers.

As the political opinions prevalent at the school were what people today would call Tory, and they were definitely more deserving of that proud label than the weak positions their fathers were taking in Parliament and across the country, the rise and fall of Sir Robert Peel’s government was closely followed by Etonians with great interest and even excitement. The significant efforts made by the Minister himself, backed only by the silent support of his many followers and standing alone against the numerous attacks from his skilled and determined opponents, showed a spirit worthy of the moment, with parliamentary strategies that seemed to grow stronger with each challenge; these intense and unsupported battles were bound to earn the sympathy of young and passionate souls. The attack on the Church's finances, the subsequent fight against the House of Lords, and the display of intellect and bravery showcased by Lord Lyndhurst in that assembly when everyone else appeared defeated and timid; all of these events and personal qualities were likely to ignite emotions and evoke feelings of enthusiasm in hearts not yet trained to hide their feelings. It’s the personal stories that captivate people, spark their imagination, and win their hearts. A cause is an abstract idea, good only for students; when embodied by a party, it motivates people to action; but put a leader who can inspire passion at the head of that party, and he can move the world. Such a divine gift! A rare and unmatched privilege! A parliamentary leader who possesses this ability can double his support; and one who does not, may hide behind a facade of artificial aloofness and study an awkward arrogance, yet will still be as far from controlling the spirit of his followers as he is from winning their hearts.

However, notwithstanding this general feeling at Eton, in 1835, in favour of ‘Conservative principles,’ which was, in fact, nothing more than a confused and mingled sympathy with some great political truths, which were at the bottom of every boy’s heart, but nowhere else; and with the personal achievements and distinction of the chieftains of the party; when all this hubbub had subsided, and retrospection, in the course of a year, had exercised its moralising influence over the more thoughtful part of the nation, inquiries, at first faint and unpretending, and confined indeed for a long period to limited, though inquisitive, circles, began gently to circulate, what Conservative principles were.

However, despite the general sentiment at Eton in 1835 favoring ‘Conservative principles,’ which was really just a mixed sympathy with some significant political truths that every boy felt deep down but nowhere else; and with the personal achievements and status of the party leaders; once all the noise settled down, and reflection, over the course of a year, had brought its moralizing influence on the more thoughtful segments of society, questions—initially subtle and unassuming, and for a long time limited to curious circles—began to quietly circulate about what Conservative principles actually were.

These inquiries, urged indeed with a sort of hesitating scepticism, early reached Eton. They came, no doubt, from the Universities. They were of a character, however, far too subtile and refined to exercise any immediate influence over the minds of youth. To pursue them required previous knowledge and habitual thought. They were not yet publicly prosecuted by any school of politicians, or any section of the public press. They had not a local habitation or a name. They were whispered in conversation by a few. A tutor would speak of them in an esoteric vein to a favourite pupil, in whose abilities he had confidence, and whose future position in life would afford him the opportunity of influencing opinion. Among others, they fell upon the ear of Coningsby. They were addressed to a mind which was prepared for such researches.

These questions, approached with a kind of hesitant skepticism, soon reached Eton. They likely originated from the Universities. However, they were far too subtle and refined to have any immediate effect on young minds. To explore them required prior knowledge and consistent thought. They weren’t yet openly discussed by any political group or any part of the public press. They had no distinct presence or identity. A few people murmured about them in conversation. A tutor might mention them in a special way to a favorite student, someone in whom he had confidence, and whose future in life would allow him to sway public opinion. Among others, these ideas reached Coningsby. They were aimed at a mind ready for such inquiries.

There is a Library at Eton formed by the boys and governed by the boys; one of those free institutions which are the just pride of that noble school, which shows the capacity of the boys for self-government, and which has sprung from the large freedom that has been wisely conceded them, the prudence of which confidence has been proved by their rarely abusing it. This Library has been formed by subscriptions of the present and still more by the gifts of old Etonians. Among the honoured names of these donors may be remarked those of the Grenvilles and Lord Wellesley; nor should we forget George IV., who enriched the collection with a magnificent copy of the Delphin Classics. The Institution is governed by six directors, the three first Collegers and the three first Oppidans for the time being; and the subscribers are limited to the one hundred senior members of the school.

There is a Library at Eton created and run by the students themselves; it's one of those independent institutions that the school takes great pride in, showcasing the students' ability to govern themselves. This Library has come about through contributions from current students and even more through donations from alumni. Notable donors include the Grenvilles and Lord Wellesley, and we also remember George IV., who enhanced the collection with a stunning edition of the Delphin Classics. The Library is overseen by six directors: the top three Collegers and the top three Oppidans at any given time, and membership is restricted to the one

It is only to be regretted that the collection is not so extensive at it is interesting and choice. Perhaps its existence is not so generally known as it deserves to be. One would think that every Eton man would be as proud of his name being registered as a donor in the Catalogue of this Library, as a Venetian of his name being inscribed in the Golden Book. Indeed an old Etonian, who still remembers with tenderness the sacred scene of youth, could scarcely do better than build a Gothic apartment for the reception of the collection. It cannot be doubted that the Provost and fellows would be gratified in granting a piece of ground for the purpose.

It's unfortunate that the collection isn't as extensive as it is interesting and well-chosen. Maybe not everyone knows about it as much as they should. One would think that every Eton graduate would take pride in having their name listed as a donor in the Catalogue of this Library, just like a Venetian takes pride in their name being recorded in the Golden Book. Indeed, an old Etonian who fondly remembers the cherished moments of youth could hardly do better than create a Gothic space for the collection. There's no doubt that the Provost and fellows would be pleased to provide some land for this purpose.

Great were the obligations of Coningsby to this Eton Library. It introduced him to that historic lore, that accumulation of facts and incidents illustrative of political conduct, for which he had imbibed an early relish. His study was especially directed to the annals of his own country, in which youth, and not youth alone, is frequently so deficient. This collection could afford him Clarendon and Burnet, and the authentic volumes of Coxe: these were rich materials for one anxious to be versed in the great parliamentary story of his country. During the last year of his stay at Eton, when he had completed his eighteenth year, Coningsby led a more retired life than previously; he read much, and pondered with all the pride of acquisition over his increasing knowledge.

Coningsby felt a deep appreciation for the Eton Library. It opened the door to historic knowledge and a wealth of facts and events that illustrated political behavior, something he had enjoyed from a young age. He focused particularly on the history of his own country, which many young people often overlook. This library provided him access to works by Clarendon, Burnet, and the reliable volumes by Coxe; these were valuable resources for anyone eager to understand the significant parliamentary history of his nation. In the final year of his time at Eton, after turning eighteen, Coningsby lived a more secluded life than before; he read extensively and took pride in his growing understanding of various subjects.

And now the hour has come when this youth is to be launched into a world more vast than that in which he has hitherto sojourned, yet for which this microcosm has been no ill preparation. He will become more wise; will he remain as generous? His ambition may be as great; will it be as noble? What, indeed, is to be the future of this existence that is now to be sent forth into the great aggregate of entities? Is it an ordinary organisation that will jostle among the crowd, and be jostled? Is it a finer temperament, susceptible of receiving the impressions and imbibing the inspirations of superior yet sympathising spirits? Or is it a primordial and creative mind; one that will say to his fellows, ‘Behold, God has given me thought; I have discovered truth, and you shall believe?’

And now the time has come for this young person to step out into a world much bigger than the one he has known so far, but this smaller world has prepared him well for it. He will gain more wisdom; will he stay just as generous? His ambitions might be as high; will they be as noble? What will become of this life that is now about to enter the larger world of existence? Will it be just a regular person who blends into the crowd and is pushed around? Will it be a more refined character, open to the influences and inspirations from greater but kindred spirits? Or is it a unique and creative mind; one that will tell others, 'Look, God has given me the ability to think; I have found the truth, and you will believe it?'

The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone in his room, before he retired to rest, he opened the lattice and looked for the last time upon the landscape before him; the stately keep of Windsor, the bowery meads of Eton, soft in the summer moon and still in the summer night. He gazed upon them; his countenance had none of the exultation, that under such circumstances might have distinguished a more careless glance, eager for fancied emancipation and passionate for a novel existence. Its expression was serious, even sad; and he covered his brow with his hand.

The night before Coningsby left Eton, alone in his room, before he went to bed, he opened the window and looked one last time at the view before him: the grand castle of Windsor, the green fields of Eton, soft in the summer moonlight and quiet in the summer night. He stared at them; his face showed none of the excitement that might have marked a more carefree look, hungry for imagined freedom and yearning for a new life. Instead, his expression was serious, even somber; he covered his forehead with his hand.

END OF BOOK II.

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

There are few things more full of delight and splendour, than to travel during the heat of a refulgent summer in the green district of some ancient forest.

There are few things more delightful and wonderful than traveling in the middle of a bright summer through the lush area of an ancient forest.

In one of our midland counties there is a region of this character, to which, during a season of peculiar lustre, we would introduce the reader.

In one of our midland counties, there's an area with this quality that we’d like to introduce to the reader during a time of special beauty.

It was a fragment of one of those vast sylvan tracts wherein Norman kings once hunted, and Saxon outlaws plundered; and although the plough had for centuries successfully invaded brake and bower, the relics retained all their original character of wildness and seclusion. Sometimes the green earth was thickly studded with groves of huge and vigorous oaks, intersected with those smooth and sunny glades, that seem as if they must be cut for dames and knights to saunter on. Then again the undulating ground spread on all sides, far as the eye could range, covered with copse and fern of immense growth. Anon you found yourself in a turfy wilderness, girt in apparently by dark woods. And when you had wound your way a little through this gloomy belt, the landscape still strictly sylvan, would beautifully expand with every combination and variety of woodland; while in its centre, the wildfowl covered the waters of a lake, and the deer basked on the knolls that abounded on its banks.

It was a piece of one of those vast forest areas where Norman kings once hunted and Saxon outlaws stole; and even though farming had taken over the underbrush and thickets for centuries, the remnants still held onto their original wild and secluded character. Sometimes the green ground was dotted with groves of huge, strong oaks, interspersed with those smooth, sunny clearings that seemed like they were made for ladies and knights to stroll through. Other times, the rolling land stretched out in all directions, as far as the eye could see, covered in dense bushes and towering ferns. Occasionally, you would find yourself in a grassy wilderness, seemingly surrounded by dark woods. And as you wound your way a bit through this shadowy area, the landscape, still very much forested, would wonderfully open up, showcasing every combination and variety of woodland; while in the center, wildfowl filled the waters of a lake, and deer lounged on the hills that dotted its banks.

It was in the month of August, some six or seven years ago, that a traveller on foot, touched, as he emerged from the dark wood, by the beauty of this scene, threw himself under the shade of a spreading tree, and stretched his limbs on the turf for enjoyment rather than repose. The sky was deep-coloured and without a cloud, save here and there a minute, sultry, burnished vapour, almost as glossy as the heavens. Everything was still as it was bright; all seemed brooding and basking; the bee upon its wing was the only stirring sight, and its song the only sound.

It was in August, about six or seven years ago, when a traveler on foot, enchanted as he stepped out of the dark woods, found himself captivated by the beauty of the scene. He sat down under the shade of a large tree and stretched out on the grass for enjoyment rather than rest. The sky was richly colored and completely clear, except for an occasional tiny, sultry, shiny vapor that almost reflected the brightness of the heavens. Everything was as still as it was bright; all seemed to be in a state of contemplation and warmth. The only movement was a bee in flight, and its buzzing was the only sound in the air.

The traveller fell into a reverie. He was young, and therefore his musings were of the future. He had felt the pride of learning, so ennobling to youth; he was not a stranger to the stirring impulses of a high ambition, though the world to him was as yet only a world of books, and all that he knew of the schemes of statesmen and the passions of the people, were to be found in their annals. Often had his fitful fancy dwelt with fascination on visions of personal distinction, of future celebrity, perhaps even of enduring fame. But his dreams were of another colour now. The surrounding scene, so fair, so still, and sweet; so abstracted from all the tumult of the world, its strife, its passions, and its cares: had fallen on his heart with its soft and subduing spirit; had fallen on a heart still pure and innocent, the heart of one who, notwithstanding all his high resolves and daring thoughts, was blessed with that tenderness of soul which is sometimes linked with an ardent imagination and a strong will. The traveller was an orphan, more than that, a solitary orphan. The sweet sedulousness of a mother’s love, a sister’s mystical affection, had not cultivated his early susceptibility. No soft pathos of expression had appealed to his childish ear. He was alone, among strangers calmly and coldly kind. It must indeed have been a truly gentle disposition that could have withstood such hard neglect. All that he knew of the power of the softer passions might be found in the fanciful and romantic annals of schoolboy friendship.

The traveler fell into a daydream. He was young, and so his thoughts were focused on the future. He had experienced the pride of learning, which is so uplifting for youth; he wasn’t unfamiliar with the stirring feelings of high ambition, even though the world for him was still just a world of books. Everything he understood about the plans of politicians and the emotions of the people came from their histories. His fleeting imagination often lingered on visions of personal success, future fame, and maybe even lasting recognition. But his dreams had changed now. The beautiful, calm, and sweet surroundings, so distant from all the chaos of the world—its struggles, passions, and worries—had touched his heart with its gentle and soothing presence. It reached the heart of someone still pure and innocent, one who, despite all his lofty goals and daring thoughts, was blessed with a sensitivity that can sometimes come with a passionate imagination and a strong will. The traveler was an orphan, and more than that, a lonely orphan. The devoted love of a mother and a sister's affectionate bond hadn’t nurtured his early sensitivity. No heartfelt expressions had reached his young ears. He was alone among coldly polite strangers. It must have taken a truly kind spirit to endure such harsh neglect. All he knew about the power of gentle emotions could be found in the fanciful and romantic tales of childhood friendships.

And those friends too, so fond, so sympathising, so devoted, where were they now? Already they were dispersed; the first great separation of life had been experienced; the former schoolboy had planted his foot on the threshold of manhood. True, many of them might meet again; many of them the University must again unite, but never with the same feelings. The space of time, passed in the world before they again met, would be an age of sensation, passion, experience to all of them. They would meet again with altered mien, with different manners, different voices. Their eyes would not shine with the same light; they would not speak the same words. The favourite phrases of their intimacy, the mystic sounds that spoke only to their initiated ear, they would be ashamed to use them. Yes, they might meet again, but the gushing and secret tenderness was gone for ever.

And those friends, so close, so understanding, so loyal, where are they now? They've already scattered; the first big separation of life has happened; the former schoolboy has stepped onto the threshold of adulthood. Sure, many of them might reunite; the University will bring many back together, but it will never feel the same. The time spent in the world before they meet again will be full of feelings, passions, and experiences for each of them. They'll reunite with changed appearances, different behaviors, different voices. Their eyes won’t shine with the same light; they won’t use the same words. The favorite phrases of their friendship, the special terms that only they understood, they would be embarrassed to say. Yes, they might meet again, but that deep and private affection is gone forever.

Nor could our pensive youth conceal it from himself that it was affection, and mainly affection, that had bound him to these dear companions. They could not be to him what he had been to them. His had been the inspiring mind that had guided their opinions, formed their tastes, directed the bent and tenor of their lives and thoughts. Often, indeed, had he needed, sometimes he had even sighed for, the companionship of an equal or superior mind; one who, by the comprehension of his thought, and the richness of his knowledge, and the advantage of his experience, might strengthen and illuminate and guide his obscure or hesitating or unpractised intelligence. He had scarcely been fortunate in this respect, and he deeply regretted it; for he was one of those who was not content with excelling in his own circle, if he thought there was one superior to it. Absolute, not relative distinction, was his noble aim.

Nor could our thoughtful young man hide from himself that it was love, primarily love, that had connected him to these dear friends. They could not be to him what he had been to them. He had been the inspiring thinker who shaped their views, developed their tastes, and influenced the direction of their lives and thoughts. Often, in fact, he had needed—sometimes he had even yearned for—the company of a peer or mentor; someone whose understanding of his ideas, depth of knowledge, and life experience could enhance and illuminate his uncertain or inexperienced mind. He had hardly been lucky in this regard, and he deeply regretted it; for he was the type who wasn't satisfied with excelling in his own group if he believed there was one that was better. His noble goal was absolute, not just relative, distinction.

Alone, in a lonely scene, he doubly felt the solitude of his life and mind. His heart and his intellect seemed both to need a companion. Books, and action, and deep thought, might in time supply the want of that intellectual guide; but for the heart, where was he to find solace?

Alone, in a desolate setting, he felt the isolation of his life and mind more than ever. Both his heart and his intellect seemed to crave companionship. Books, action, and deep thinking might eventually fill the void of that intellectual mentor; but for his heart, where was he to find comfort?

Ah! if she would but come forth from that shining lake like a beautiful Ondine! Ah, if she would but step out from the green shade of that secret grove like a Dryad of sylvan Greece! O mystery of mysteries, when youth dreams his first dream over some imaginary heroine!

Ah! if only she would emerge from that sparkling lake like a stunning Ondine! Ah, if only she would step out from the green shadows of that hidden grove like a Dryad from the forests of Greece! O mystery of mysteries, when a young person dreams their first dream about some imaginary heroine!

Suddenly the brooding wildfowl rose from the bosom of the lake, soared in the air, and, uttering mournful shrieks, whirled in agitated tumult. The deer started from their knolls, no longer sunny, stared around, and rushed into the woods. Coningsby raised his eyes from the turf on which they had been long fixed in abstraction, and he observed that the azure sky had vanished, a thin white film had suddenly spread itself over the heavens, and the wind moaned with a sad and fitful gust.

Suddenly, the dark waterfowl rose from the lake, flew into the air, and, letting out mournful cries, whirled around in a frenzied chaos. The deer jumped from their once sunny spots, looked around in confusion, and dashed into the woods. Coningsby lifted his gaze from the ground, which he had been staring at for a while, and noticed that the blue sky had disappeared; a thin white mist had suddenly spread across the sky, and the wind howled with a sad, unpredictable breeze.

He had some reason to believe that on the other side of the opposite wood the forest was intersected by a public road, and that there were some habitations. Immediately rising, he descended at a rapid pace into the valley, passed the lake, and then struck into the ascending wood on the bank opposite to that on which he had mused away some precious time.

He had some reason to think that beyond the other side of the woods, there was a public road cutting through the forest, along with some houses nearby. Without wasting any time, he quickly made his way down into the valley, passed the lake, and then headed into the rising woods on the opposite bank from where he had spent some valuable time reflecting.

The wind howled, the branches of the forest stirred, and sent forth sounds like an incantation. Soon might be distinguished the various voices of the mighty trees, as they expressed their terror or their agony. The oak roared, the beech shrieked, the elm sent forth its deep and long-drawn groan; while ever and anon, amid a momentary pause, the passion of the ash was heard in moans of thrilling anguish.

The wind howled, the forest branches stirred, and sent sounds like a chant. Soon, you could hear the different voices of the mighty trees, expressing their fear or pain. The oak roared, the beech screamed, the elm let out its deep, drawn-out groan; while now and then, during a brief pause, the ash's intense feelings were heard in heartbreaking moans.

Coningsby hurried on, the forest became less close. All that he aspired to was to gain more open country. Now he was in a rough flat land, covered only here and there with dwarf underwood; the horizon bounded at no great distance by a barren hill of moderate elevation. He gained its height with ease. He looked over a vast open country like a wild common; in the extreme distance hills covered with woods; the plain intersected by two good roads: the sky entirely clouded, but in the distance black as ebony.

Coningsby rushed ahead as the forest thinned out. All he wanted was to reach more open land. Now he was in a rough, flat area, scattered here and there with small shrubs; the horizon limited by a modestly elevated barren hill not far away. He climbed to the top without difficulty. He looked out over a vast open landscape that resembled a wild common; in the far distance, there were hills covered in trees; the plain was crossed by two decent roads: the sky was completely overcast, but in the distance, it was as dark as ebony.

A place of refuge was at hand: screened from his first glance by some elm-trees, the ascending smoke now betrayed a roof, which Coningsby reached before the tempest broke. The forest-inn was also a farmhouse. There was a comfortable-enough looking kitchen; but the ingle nook was full of smokers, and Coningsby was glad to avail himself of the only private room for the simple meal which they offered him, only eggs and bacon; but very welcome to a pedestrian, and a hungry one.

A place of refuge was nearby: hidden from his initial view by some elm trees, the rising smoke now revealed a roof, which Coningsby reached just before the storm hit. The forest inn was also a farmhouse. The kitchen looked comfortable enough, but the fireplace nook was crowded with smokers, and Coningsby was happy to take advantage of the only private room for the simple meal they offered him—just eggs and bacon—but very welcome to someone who had been walking and was hungry.

As he stood at the window of his little apartment, watching the large drops that were the heralds of a coming hurricane, and waiting for his repast, a flash of lightning illumined the whole country, and a horseman at full speed, followed by his groom, galloped up to the door.

As he stood at the window of his small apartment, watching the big drops that signaled an approaching hurricane and waiting for his meal, a flash of lightning lit up the entire landscape, and a horseman, riding at full speed and followed by his groom, raced up to the door.

The remarkable beauty of the animal so attracted Coningsby’s attention that it prevented him catching even a glimpse of the rider, who rapidly dismounted and entered the inn. The host shortly after came in and asked Coningsby whether he had any objection to a gentleman, who was driven there by the storm, sharing his room until it subsided. The consequence of the immediate assent of Coningsby was, that the landlord retired and soon returned, ushering in an individual, who, though perhaps ten years older than Coningsby, was still, according to Hippocrates, in the period of lusty youth. He was above the middle height, and of a distinguished air and figure; pale, with an impressive brow, and dark eyes of great intelligence.

The incredible beauty of the animal caught Coningsby’s attention so completely that he didn’t even catch a glimpse of the rider, who quickly got off and went into the inn. The innkeeper came in shortly after and asked Coningsby if he minded sharing his room with a gentleman who had been caught there by the storm until it passed. Coningsby immediately agreed, which led the landlord to leave and soon return, bringing in a man who, although possibly ten years older than Coningsby, was still considered, according to Hippocrates, in the prime of youth. He was taller than average, with a distinguished presence; he had a pale complexion, an impressive brow, and dark eyes that conveyed great intelligence.

‘I am glad that we have both escaped the storm,’ said the stranger; ‘and I am greatly indebted to you for your courtesy.’ He slightly and graciously bowed, as he spoke in a voice of remarkable clearness; and his manner, though easy, was touched with a degree of dignity that was engaging.

‘I’m glad we both made it through the storm,’ said the stranger, ‘and I really appreciate your kindness.’ He offered a slight, polite bow as he spoke in a voice that was surprisingly clear; his demeanor, though relaxed, had a hint of engaging dignity.

‘The inn is a common home,’ replied Coningsby, returning his salute.

‘The inn is a shared home,’ replied Coningsby, returning his greeting.

‘And free from cares,’ added the stranger. Then, looking through the window, he said, ‘A strange storm this. I was sauntering in the sunshine, when suddenly I found I had to gallop for my life. ‘Tis more like a white squall in the Mediterranean than anything else.’

‘And free from worries,’ added the stranger. Then, looking through the window, he said, ‘This storm is unusual. I was strolling in the sunshine when suddenly I had to run for my life. It’s more like a white squall in the Mediterranean than anything else.’

‘I never was in the Mediterranean,’ said Coningsby. ‘There is nothing I should like so much as to travel.’

‘I’ve never been to the Mediterranean,’ said Coningsby. ‘There’s nothing I would love more than to travel.’

‘You are travelling,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Every moment is travel, if understood.’

‘You are traveling,’ replied his companion. ‘Every moment is a journey, if you think about it.’

‘Ah! but the Mediterranean!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘What would I not give to see Athens!’

‘Ah! but the Mediterranean!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘What wouldn’t I do to see Athens!’

‘I have seen it,’ said the stranger, slightly shrugging his shoulders, ‘and more wonderful things. Phantoms and spectres!’

‘I’ve seen it,’ said the stranger, giving a slight shrug of his shoulders, ‘and even more amazing things. Ghosts and spirits!’

‘The Age of Ruins is past. Have you seen Manchester?’

‘The Age of Ruins is over. Have you seen Manchester?’

‘I have seen nothing,’ said Coningsby; ‘this is my first wandering. I am about to visit a friend who lives in this county, and I have sent on my baggage as I could. For myself, I determined to trust to a less common-place conveyance.’

‘I haven’t seen anything,’ said Coningsby; ‘this is my first time exploring. I’m on my way to see a friend who lives in this county, and I’ve already sent my luggage ahead. As for me, I decided to rely on a more unconventional way of getting around.’

‘And seek adventures,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘Well, according to Cervantes, they should begin in an inn.’

‘And look for adventures,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘Well, according to Cervantes, they should start in an inn.’

‘I fear that the age of adventures is past, as well as that of ruins,’ replied Coningsby.

"I worry that the time for adventures is over, just like the era of ruins," replied Coningsby.

‘Adventures are to the adventurous,’ said the stranger.

'Adventures are for those who seek them,' said the stranger.

At this moment a pretty serving-maid entered the room. She laid the dapper cloth and arranged the table with a self-possession quite admirable. She seemed unconscious that any being was in the chamber except herself, or that there were any other duties to perform in life beyond filling a saltcellar or folding a napkin.

At that moment, a charming waitress walked into the room. She set the neat tablecloth and arranged the table with impressive confidence. She seemed completely unaware that anyone else was in the room or that there was anything else to do in life besides filling a salt shaker or folding a napkin.

‘She does not even look at us,’ said Coningsby, when she had quitted the room; ‘and I dare say is only a prude.’

‘She doesn’t even look at us,’ said Coningsby, after she had left the room; ‘and I bet she’s just a prude.’

‘She is calm,’ said the stranger, ‘because she is mistress of her subject; ‘tis the secret of self-possession. She is here as a duchess at court.’

‘She’s calm,’ said the stranger, ‘because she knows her stuff; that’s the key to staying composed. She’s here like a duchess at court.’

They brought in Coningsby’s meal, and he invited the stranger to join him. The invitation was accepted with cheerfulness.

They brought in Coningsby’s meal, and he invited the stranger to join him. The stranger happily accepted the invitation.

‘’Tis but simple fare,’ said Coningsby, as the maiden uncovered the still hissing bacon and the eggs, that looked like tufts of primroses.

“It’s just simple food,” said Coningsby, as the young woman uncovered the still hissing bacon and the eggs, which looked like clusters of primroses.

‘Nay, a national dish,’ said the stranger, glancing quickly at the table, ‘whose fame is a proverb. And what more should we expect under a simple roof! How much better than an omelette or a greasy olla, that they would give us in a posada! ‘Tis a wonderful country this England! What a napkin! How spotless! And so sweet; I declare ‘tis a perfume. There is not a princess throughout the South of Europe served with the cleanliness that meets us in this cottage.’

‘No, a national dish,’ said the stranger, glancing quickly at the table, ‘whose fame is a saying. And what more should we expect under a simple roof! How much better than an omelette or a greasy stew that they would give us in an inn! This is a wonderful country, England! What a napkin! How spotless! And so sweet; I swear it’s like a perfume. There is not a princess in all of Southern Europe served with the cleanliness that we find in this cottage.’

‘An inheritance from our Saxon fathers?’ said Coningsby. ‘I apprehend the northern nations have a greater sense of cleanliness, of propriety, of what we call comfort?’

‘An inheritance from our Saxon ancestors?’ said Coningsby. ‘I think the northern nations have a better appreciation for cleanliness, what’s appropriate, and what we refer to as comfort?’

‘By no means,’ said the stranger; ‘the East is the land of the Bath. Moses and Mahomet made cleanliness religion.’

‘Not at all,’ said the stranger; ‘the East is the land of the Bath. Moses and Muhammad made cleanliness a part of faith.’

‘You will let me help you?’ said Coningsby, offering him a plate which he had filled.

'Will you let me help you?' Coningsby said, offering him a plate that he had filled.

‘I thank you,’ said the stranger, ‘but it is one of my bread days. With your permission this shall be my dish;’ and he cut from the large loaf a supply of crusts.

"I appreciate it," said the stranger, "but it's one of my bread days. With your permission, this will be my meal;" and he cut some crusts from the large loaf.

‘’Tis but unsavoury fare after a gallop,’ said Coningsby.

"It’s just unpleasant food after a ride," said Coningsby.

‘Ah! you are proud of your bacon and your eggs,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘but I love corn and wine. They are our chief and our oldest luxuries. Time has brought us substitutes, but how inferior! Man has deified corn and wine! but not even the Chinese or the Irish have raised temples to tea and potatoes.’

‘Ah! you take pride in your bacon and eggs,’ said the stranger, smiling, ‘but I love corn and wine. They are our main and oldest luxuries. Over time, we've found substitutes, but they’re nowhere near as good! People have glorified corn and wine! Yet not even the Chinese or the Irish have built temples for tea and potatoes.’

‘But Ceres without Bacchus,’ said Coningsby, ‘how does that do? Think you, under this roof, we could Invoke the god?’

‘But Ceres without Bacchus,’ said Coningsby, ‘how does that work? Do you think, under this roof, we could call on the god?’

‘Let us swear by his body that we will try,’ said the stranger.

‘Let’s swear on his body that we’ll give it a shot,’ said the stranger.

Alas! the landlord was not a priest to Bacchus. But then these inquiries led to the finest perry in the world. The young men agreed they had seldom tasted anything more delicious; they sent for another bottle. Coningsby, who was much interested by his new companion, enjoyed himself amazingly.

Alas! the landlord wasn't a priest to Bacchus. But these questions led to the best perry in the world. The young men all agreed they'd rarely tasted something so delicious; they ordered another bottle. Coningsby, who was really intrigued by his new friend, was having a fantastic time.

A cheese, such as Derby alone can produce, could not induce the stranger to be even partially inconstant to his crusts. But his talk was as vivacious as if the talker had been stimulated by the juices of the finest banquet. Coningsby had never met or read of any one like this chance companion. His sentences were so short, his language so racy, his voice rang so clear, his elocution was so complete. On all subjects his mind seemed to be instructed, and his opinions formed. He flung out a result in a few words; he solved with a phrase some deep problem that men muse over for years. He said many things that were strange, yet they immediately appeared to be true. Then, without the slightest air of pretension or parade, he seemed to know everybody as well as everything. Monarchs, statesmen, authors, adventurers, of all descriptions and of all climes, if their names occurred in the conversation, he described them in an epigrammatic sentence, or revealed their precise position, character, calibre, by a curt dramatic trait. All this, too, without any excitement of manner; on the contrary, with repose amounting almost to nonchalance. If his address had any fault in it, it was rather a deficiency of earnestness. A slight spirit of mockery played over his speech even when you deemed him most serious; you were startled by his sudden transitions from profound thought to poignant sarcasm. A very singular freedom from passion and prejudice on every topic on which they treated, might be some compensation for this want of earnestness, perhaps was its consequence. Certainly it was difficult to ascertain his precise opinions on many subjects, though his manner was frank even to abandonment. And yet throughout his whole conversation, not a stroke of egotism, not a word, not a circumstance escaped him, by which you could judge of his position or purposes in life. As little did he seem to care to discover those of his companion. He did not by any means monopolise the conversation. Far from it; he continually asked questions, and while he received answers, or had engaged his fellow-traveller in any exposition of his opinion or feelings, he listened with a serious and fixed attention, looking Coningsby in the face with a steadfast glance.

A cheese like Derby could never convince the stranger to be even slightly disloyal to his favorite snacks. But his conversation was lively, as if he had been energized by the finest feast. Coningsby had never encountered or read about anyone like this unexpected companion. His sentences were brief, his language vivid, his voice clear, and his way of speaking was polished. He seemed knowledgeable about everything and had well-formed opinions. He expressed complex ideas in just a few words, effortlessly resolving deep questions that others ponder for years. He said many unusual things, yet they instantly felt true. Without any hint of pretentiousness, he appeared to know everyone and everything. Monarchs, politicians, writers, adventurers of all kinds—if their names came up, he would summarize them in a clever sentence or reveal their exact role and personality with a quick, dramatic detail. He did all this without any visible excitement; in fact, he spoke with a calmness that bordered on indifference. If there was any flaw in his demeanor, it was a lack of seriousness. A subtle sense of mockery threaded through his speech, even when he seemed most sincere; you were surprised by his abrupt shifts from deep thoughts to sharp wit. His unusual ability to remain unbiased and detached on various topics might partially compensate for this lack of seriousness, and it could even be a result of it. It was certainly hard to pinpoint his true beliefs on many issues, though his manner was open to the point of recklessness. Yet, throughout the entire conversation, he shared not a hint of self-importance, not a single detail that could reveal his own situation or intentions. Likewise, he didn’t seem interested in uncovering those of his companion. He didn’t dominate the conversation at all; quite the opposite—he continually asked questions, and as he received answers or got his fellow traveler to share his views or feelings, he listened with serious, focused attention, maintaining a steady gaze on Coningsby.

‘I perceive,’ said Coningsby, pursuing a strain of thought which the other had indicated, ‘that you have great confidence in the influence of individual character. I also have some confused persuasions of that kind. But it is not the Spirit of the Age.’

‘I see,’ said Coningsby, continuing a line of thought that the other had suggested, ‘that you have a lot of faith in the impact of personal character. I also have some mixed feelings about that. But that’s not really the Spirit of the Age.’

‘The age does not believe in great men, because it does not possess any,’ replied the stranger. ‘The Spirit of the Age is the very thing that a great man changes.’

‘The era doesn’t believe in great individuals because it doesn’t have any,’ replied the stranger. ‘The Spirit of the Age is precisely what a great person transforms.’

‘But does he not rather avail himself of it?’ inquired Coningsby.

"But doesn’t he take advantage of it?" Coningsby asked.

‘Parvenus do,’ rejoined his companion; ‘but not prophets, great legislators, great conquerors. They destroy and they create.’

"Parvenus do," his companion replied, "but not prophets, great lawmakers, or great conquerors. They tear down and build up."

‘But are these times for great legislators and great conquerors?’ urged Coningsby.

‘But are these the times for great lawmakers and great conquerors?’ urged Coningsby.

‘When were they wanted more?’ asked the stranger. ‘From the throne to the hovel all call for a guide. You give monarchs constitutions to teach them sovereignty, and nations Sunday-schools to inspire them with faith.’

‘When were they needed more?’ asked the stranger. ‘From the throne to the shack, everyone is asking for guidance. You give kings constitutions to educate them on sovereignty, and you give nations Sunday schools to inspire their faith.’

‘But what is an individual,’ exclaimed Coningsby, ‘against a vast public opinion?’

‘But what is an individual,’ shouted Coningsby, ‘against a huge public opinion?’

‘Divine,’ said the stranger. ‘God made man in His own image; but the Public is made by Newspapers, Members of Parliament, Excise Officers, Poor Law Guardians. Would Philip have succeeded if Epaminondas had not been slain? And if Philip had not succeeded? Would Prussia have existed had Frederick not been born? And if Frederick had not been born? What would have been the fate of the Stuarts if Prince Henry had not died, and Charles I., as was intended, had been Archbishop of Canterbury?’

‘Divine,’ said the stranger. ‘God created man in His own image; but the Public is shaped by newspapers, MPs, tax officers, and poor law guardians. Would Philip have succeeded if Epaminondas hadn't been killed? And if Philip hadn't succeeded? Would Prussia have existed if Frederick hadn't been born? And if Frederick hadn't been born? What would have happened to the Stuarts if Prince Henry hadn't died, and Charles I., as planned, had become Archbishop of Canterbury?’

‘But when men are young they want experience,’ said Coningsby; ‘and when they have gained experience, they want energy.’

‘But when guys are young, they seek experience,’ said Coningsby; ‘and when they’ve gained experience, they crave energy.’

‘Great men never want experience,’ said the stranger.

‘Great people never seek experience,’ said the stranger.

‘But everybody says that experience—’

"But everyone says that experience—"

‘Is the best thing in the world, a treasure for you, for me, for millions. But for a creative mind, less than nothing. Almost everything that is great has been done by youth.’

‘Is the best thing in the world, a treasure for you, for me, for millions. But for a creative mind, it's worth less than nothing. Almost everything great has been accomplished by young people.’

‘It is at least a creed flattering to our years,’ said Coningsby, with a smile.

‘At least it’s a belief that flatters our age,’ Coningsby said, smiling.

‘Nay,’ said the stranger; ‘for life in general there is but one decree. Youth is a blunder; Manhood a struggle; Old Age a regret. Do not suppose,’ he added, smiling, ‘that I hold that youth is genius; all that I say is, that genius, when young, is divine. Why, the greatest captains of ancient and modern times both conquered Italy at five-and-twenty! Youth, extreme youth, overthrew the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern time; had it not been for the jealousy of Philip, the next year he would have been Emperor of Mauritania. Gaston de Foix was only twenty-two when he stood a victor on the plain of Ravenna. Every one remembers Condé and Rocroy at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus died at thirty-eight. Look at his captains: that wonderful Duke of Weimar, only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all his miracles, died at forty-five. Cortes was little more than thirty when he gazed upon the golden cupolas of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all Europe acknowledged the loss of the greatest captain and the profoundest statesman of the age. Then there is Nelson, Clive; but these are warriors, and perhaps you may think there are greater things than war. I do not: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But take the most illustrious achievements of civil prudence. Innocent III., the greatest of the Popes, was the despot of Christendom at thirty-seven. John de Medici was a Cardinal at fifteen, and according to Guicciardini, baffled with his statecraft Ferdinand of Arragon himself. He was Pope as Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther robbed even him of his richest province at thirty-five. Take Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley, they worked with young brains. Ignatius was only thirty when he made his pilgrimage and wrote the “Spiritual Exercises.” Pascal wrote a great work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven, the greatest of Frenchmen.

‘No,’ said the stranger; ‘there's only one rule for life. Youth is a mistake; Adulthood is a battle; Old Age is a regret. Don’t think,’ he added with a smile, ‘that I believe youth is brilliance; all I’m saying is, that brilliance, when young, is extraordinary. Look, the greatest leaders from ancient and modern times both conquered Italy at twenty-five! Extreme youth brought down the Persian Empire. Don John of Austria won Lepanto at twenty-five, the greatest battle of modern times; if it weren't for Philip’s jealousy, he would have become Emperor of Mauritania the following year. Gaston de Foix was just twenty-two when he triumphed on the battlefield of Ravenna. Everyone remembers Condé and Rocroy at the same age. Gustavus Adolphus passed away at thirty-eight. Just look at his commanders: that incredible Duke of Weimar was only thirty-six when he died. Banier himself, after all his feats, died at forty-five. Cortes was just over thirty when he first saw the golden domes of Mexico. When Maurice of Saxony died at thirty-two, all of Europe recognized the loss of the greatest commander and the most insightful statesman of the time. Then there's Nelson, Clive; but these are soldiers, and maybe you think there are greater things than war. I don't: I worship the Lord of Hosts. But consider the most remarkable accomplishments of civic wisdom. Innocent III., the greatest of the Popes, ruled Christendom at thirty-seven. John de Medici became a Cardinal at fifteen, and according to Guicciardini, even Ferdinand of Aragon was outsmarted by his political skills. He became Pope as Leo X. at thirty-seven. Luther stripped him of his richest territory at thirty-five. Look at Ignatius Loyola and John Wesley, they achieved great things with youthful minds. Ignatius was just thirty when he made his pilgrimage and wrote the “Spiritual Exercises.” Pascal created a significant work at sixteen, and died at thirty-seven, the greatest of the Frenchmen.

‘Ah! that fatal thirty-seven, which reminds me of Byron, greater even as a man than a writer. Was it experience that guided the pencil of Raphael when he painted the palaces of Rome? He, too, died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Well then, there were Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other men left off cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen, and Attorney-General at twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, ruled every cabinet in Europe, and colonised America before he was thirty-seven. What a career!’ exclaimed the stranger; rising from his chair and walking up and down the room; ‘the secret sway of Europe! That was indeed a position! But it is needless to multiply instances! The history of Heroes is the history of Youth.’

‘Ah! that fateful thirty-seven, which makes me think of Byron, greater as a man than as a writer. Was it experience that guided Raphael's hand when he painted the palaces of Rome? He also died at thirty-seven. Richelieu was Secretary of State at thirty-one. Then there were Bolingbroke and Pitt, both ministers before other guys even stopped playing cricket. Grotius was in great practice at seventeen and became Attorney General at twenty-four. And Acquaviva; Acquaviva was General of the Jesuits, controlled every cabinet in Europe, and colonized America before he turned thirty-seven. What a career!’ exclaimed the stranger, rising from his chair and pacing the room; ‘the hidden power of Europe! That was truly a position! But there's no need to list more examples! The history of heroes is the history of youth.’

‘Ah!’ said Coningsby, ‘I should like to be a great man.’

‘Ah!’ said Coningsby, ‘I’d love to be a big deal.’

The stranger threw at him a scrutinising glance. His countenance was serious. He said in a voice of almost solemn melody:

The stranger shot him a probing glance. His expression was serious. He spoke in a voice of nearly solemn melody:

‘Nurture your mind with great thoughts. To believe in the heroic makes heroes.’

‘Feed your mind with great ideas. Believing in the heroic creates heroes.’

‘You seem to me a hero,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of real feeling, which, half ashamed of his emotion, he tried to turn into playfulness.

‘You look like a hero to me,’ said Coningsby, genuinely touched, and feeling a bit embarrassed about his emotion, he attempted to make it sound lighthearted.

‘I am and must ever be,’ said the stranger, ‘but a dreamer of dreams.’ Then going towards the window, and changing into a familiar tone as if to divert the conversation, he added, ‘What a delicious afternoon! I look forward to my ride with delight. You rest here?’

“I am and will always be,” said the stranger, “just a dreamer of dreams.” Then he walked over to the window and shifted to a more casual tone as if to change the subject, adding, “What a beautiful afternoon! I can’t wait for my ride. You’ll stay here?”

‘No; I go on to Nottingham, where I shall sleep.’

‘No; I’m heading to Nottingham, where I’ll spend the night.’

‘And I in the opposite direction.’ And he rang the bell, and ordered his horse.

‘And I’m going the other way.’ Then he rang the bell and got his horse ready.

‘I long to see your mare again,’ said Coningsby. ‘She seemed to me so beautiful.’

‘I can't wait to see your mare again,’ said Coningsby. ‘She looked so beautiful to me.’

‘She is not only of pure race,’ said the stranger, ‘but of the highest and rarest breed in Arabia. Her name is “the Daughter of the Star.” She is a foal of that famous mare, which belonged to the Prince of the Wahabees; and to possess which, I believe, was one of the principal causes of war between that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pacha of Egypt gave her to me, and I would not change her for her statue in pure gold, even carved by Lysippus. Come round to the stable and see her.’

‘She’s not just of a pure breed,’ said the stranger, ‘but from the highest and rarest lineage in Arabia. Her name is “the Daughter of the Star.” She’s a foal of that famous mare that belonged to the Prince of the Wahabees; and I believe owning her was one of the main reasons for the war between that tribe and the Egyptians. The Pasha of Egypt gave her to me, and I wouldn’t trade her for a statue of her in pure gold, even if it was carved by Lysippus. Come over to the stable and check her out.’

They went out together. It was a soft sunny afternoon; the air fresh from the rain, but mild and exhilarating.

They went out together. It was a warm, sunny afternoon; the air was fresh from the rain, but mild and refreshing.

The groom brought forth the mare. ‘The Daughter of the Star’ stood before Coningsby with her sinewy shape of matchless symmetry; her burnished skin, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her little ears, dark speaking eye, and tail worthy of a Pacha. And who was her master, and whither was she about to take him?

The groom brought out the mare. ‘The Daughter of the Star’ stood before Coningsby with her muscular, perfectly symmetrical shape; her glossy coat, black mane, legs like those of an antelope, her small ears, expressive dark eyes, and a tail fit for a Pacha. And who was her owner, and where was she about to take him?

Coningsby was so naturally well-bred, that we may be sure it was not curiosity; no, it was a finer feeling that made him hesitate and think a little, and then say:

Coningsby was so naturally well-mannered that we can be sure it wasn’t curiosity; no, it was a deeper sentiment that caused him to pause and reflect a bit, and then say:

‘I am sorry to part.’

"I'm sorry to say goodbye."

‘I also,’ said the stranger. ‘But life is constant separation.’

‘I also,’ said the stranger. ‘But life is always about separation.’

‘I hope we may meet again,’ said Coningsby.

‘I hope we can meet again,’ said Coningsby.

‘If our acquaintance be worth preserving,’ said the stranger, ‘you may be sure it will not be lost.’

‘If our friendship is worth keeping,’ said the stranger, ‘you can be sure it won’t be lost.’

‘But mine is not worth preserving,’ said Coningsby, earnestly. ‘It is yours that is the treasure. You teach me things of which I have long mused.’

‘But mine isn't worth keeping,’ Coningsby said earnestly. ‘It's yours that is the treasure. You teach me things I've pondered for a long time.’

The stranger took the bridle of ‘the Daughter of the Star,’ and turning round with a faint smile, extended his hand to his companion.

The stranger took the bridle of 'the Daughter of the Star' and, turning around with a slight smile, reached out his hand to his companion.

‘Your mind at least is nurtured with great thoughts,’ said Coningsby; ‘your actions should be heroic.’

‘At least your mind is filled with great ideas,’ said Coningsby; ‘your actions should be heroic.’

‘Action is not for me,’ said the stranger; ‘I am of that faith that the Apostles professed before they followed their master.’

‘Action isn’t for me,’ said the stranger; ‘I believe in what the Apostles professed before they followed their master.’

He vaulted into his saddle, ‘the Daughter of the Star’ bounded away as if she scented the air of the Desert from which she and her rider had alike sprung, and Coningsby remained in profound meditation.

He jumped into his saddle, and 'the Daughter of the Star' took off like she could sense the scent of the Desert that both she and her rider had come from. Coningsby stayed lost in deep thought.

CHAPTER II.

The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir. It was several years since he had visited the family of his friend, who were indeed also his kin; and in his boyish days had often proved that they were not unmindful of the affinity. This was a visit that had been long counted on, long promised, and which a variety of circumstances had hitherto prevented. It was to have been made by the schoolboy; it was to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a character could Coningsby under any circumstances now consent to claim, since he was closely verging to the completion of his nineteenth year; and it appeared manifest that if it were his destiny to do anything great, he had but few years to wait before the full development of his power. Visions of Gastons de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen giving up cricket to govern nations, beardless Jesuits plunged in profound abstraction in omnipotent cabinets, haunted his fancy from the moment he had separated from his mysterious and deeply interesting companion. To nurture his mind with great thoughts had ever been Coningsby’s inspiring habit. Was it also destined that he should achieve the heroic?

The day after his adventure at the Forest Inn, Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir. It had been several years since he last visited the family of his friend, who were also his relatives; and during his younger days, they had often shown that they appreciated their connection. This visit had been long anticipated, long promised, and a variety of circumstances had previously kept it from happening. It was meant to be made by the schoolboy; it was now to be fulfilled by the man. For no less a person could Coningsby, under any circumstances, now allow himself to be, since he was just about to turn nineteen; and it was clear that if he was destined to do something great, he didn’t have many years to wait before fully realizing his potential. Images of Gastons de Foix and Maurices of Saxony, statesmen who put aside games to lead nations, young Jesuits deeply absorbed in powerful decisions, filled his mind from the moment he parted ways with his mysterious and fascinating companion. Nourishing his mind with grand thoughts had always been Coningsby’s motivating habit. Was it also meant for him to achieve something heroic?

There are some books, when we close them; one or two in the course of our life, difficult as it may be to analyse or ascertain the cause; our minds seem to have made a great leap. A thousand obscure things receive light; a multitude of indefinite feelings are determined. Our intellect grasps and grapples with all subjects with a capacity, a flexibility, and a vigour, before unknown to us. It masters questions hitherto perplexing, which are not even touched or referred to in the volume just closed. What is this magic? It is the spirit of the supreme author, by a magentic influence blending with our sympathising intelligence, that directs and inspires it. By that mysterious sensibility we extend to questions which he has not treated, the same intellectual force which he has exercised over those which he has expounded. His genius for a time remains in us. ‘Tis the same with human beings as with books. All of us encounter, at least once in our life, some individual who utters words that make us think for ever.

There are some books that, when we finish them, whether it's just one or two throughout our lives, somehow manage to trigger a significant shift in our minds. Countless unclear ideas suddenly become clear; a range of vague feelings find definition. Our intellect engages with all kinds of topics with a new level of ability, adaptability, and energy that we didn’t know we had. We tackle issues that used to confuse us, even those not mentioned in the book we just finished. What is this magic? It’s the essence of the author, through a magnetic connection with our sympathetic understanding, that guides and inspires us. Through this mysterious sensitivity, we apply the same intellectual force he used on the topics he covered to questions he didn’t address. For a time, his brilliance stays with us. It’s the same with people as it is with books. At least once in our lives, we all meet someone whose words make us think forever.

There are men whose phrases are oracles; who condense in a sentence the secrets of life; who blurt out an aphorism that forms a character or illustrates an existence. A great thing is a great book; but greater than all is the talk of a great man.

There are men whose words are like prophecies; who capture the mysteries of life in a single sentence; who say something profound that shapes a personality or reflects a life. A great book is an impressive thing; but even more remarkable is the conversation of a great man.

And what is a great man? Is it a Minister of State? Is it a victorious General? A gentleman in the Windsor uniform? A Field Marshal covered with stars? Is it a Prelate, or a Prince? A King, even an Emperor? It may be all these; yet these, as we must all daily feel, are not necessarily great men. A great man is one who affects the mind of his generation: whether he be a monk in his cloister agitating Christendom, or a monarch crossing the Granicus, and giving a new character to the Pagan World.

And what makes a person great? Is it a government minister? A victorious general? A guy in a Windsor uniform? A field marshal decked out in medals? Is it a bishop, or a prince? A king, or even an emperor? It could be any of these; yet, as we all know, they don't automatically make someone a great person. A great person is someone who influences the thoughts of their generation, whether they are a monk in a monastery stirring up Christendom, or a monarch crossing the Granicus and changing the face of the Pagan World.

Our young Coningsby reached Beaumanoir in a state of meditation. He also desired to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes impels youth to momentary exertion, by which they sometimes obtain a distinction as evanescent as their energy. The ambition of our hero was altogether of a different character. It was, indeed, at present not a little vague, indefinite, hesitating, inquiring, sometimes desponding. What were his powers? what should be his aim? were often to him, as to all young aspirants, questions infinitely perplexing and full of pain. But, on the whole, there ran through his character, notwithstanding his many dazzling qualities and accomplishments, and his juvenile celebrity, which has spoiled so much promise, a vein of grave simplicity that was the consequence of an earnest temper, and of an intellect that would be content with nothing short of the profound.

Our young Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir deep in thought. He also wanted to be great. Not from the restless vanity that sometimes drives young people to temporary efforts, leading to a fame as fleeting as their energy. The ambition of our hero was of a different nature altogether. It was, at this moment, quite vague, indefinite, hesitant, questioning, and at times, discouraging. What were his abilities? What should his goal be? These questions, as for all young dreamers, were extremely confusing and painful. Yet, despite his many impressive qualities and achievements, and his youthful fame that has squashed so much potential, there was a thread of serious simplicity in his character that stemmed from a sincere nature and an intellect that demanded nothing less than depth.

His was a mind that loved to pursue every question to the centre. But it was not a spirit of scepticism that impelled this habit; on the contrary, it was the spirit of faith. Coningsby found that he was born in an age of infidelity in all things, and his heart assured him that a want of faith was a want of nature. But his vigorous intellect could not take refuge in that maudlin substitute for belief which consists in a patronage of fantastic theories. He needed that deep and enduring conviction that the heart and the intellect, feeling and reason united, can alone supply. He asked himself why governments were hated, and religions despised? Why loyalty was dead, and reverence only a galvanised corpse?

His mind craved to dig deep into every question. But this wasn't driven by skepticism; it was fueled by faith. Coningsby realized he lived in a time of disbelief in everything, and his heart told him that a lack of faith was a lack of humanity. However, his strong intellect couldn't settle for the shallow alternative to belief that comes from endorsing outrageous theories. He needed a profound and lasting conviction that only a combination of heart and intellect, along with feeling and reason, could provide. He wondered why governments were disliked and religions looked down upon. Why was loyalty gone, and reverence just a hollow remnant?

These were indeed questions that had as yet presented themselves to his thought in a crude and imperfect form; but their very occurrence showed the strong predisposition of his mind. It was because he had not found guides among his elders, that his thoughts had been turned to the generation that he himself represented. The sentiment of veneration was so developed in his nature, that he was exactly the youth that would have hung with enthusiastic humility on the accents of some sage of old in the groves of Academus, or the porch of Zeno. But as yet he had found age only perplexed and desponding; manhood only callous and desperate. Some thought that systems would last their time; others, that something would turn up. His deep and pious spirit recoiled with disgust and horror from such lax, chance-medley maxims, that would, in their consequences, reduce man to the level of the brutes. Notwithstanding a prejudice which had haunted him from his childhood, he had, when the occasion offered, applied to Mr. Rigby for instruction, as one distinguished in the republic of letters, as well as the realm of politics; who assumed the guidance of the public mind, and, as the phrase runs, was looked up to. Mr. Rigby listened at first to the inquiries of Coningsby, urged, as they ever were, with a modesty and deference which do not always characterise juvenile investigations, as if Coningsby were speaking to him of the unknown tongues. But Mr. Rigby was not a man who ever confessed himself at fault. He caught up something of the subject as our young friend proceeded, and was perfectly prepared, long before he had finished, to take the whole conversation into his own hands.

These were definitely questions that had come to his mind in a rough and unclear way; but their very presence showed the strong inclination of his thoughts. It was because he hadn’t found guidance from his elders that he turned his thoughts to his own generation. His sense of reverence was so strong that he was exactly the kind of young man who would have listened with eager humility to the words of a wise figure in the groves of Academus or the porch of Zeno. But so far, he had only found older people confused and discouraged; adulthood only indifferent and hopeless. Some believed that systems would last while others thought something would eventually happen. His deep and sincere spirit recoiled in disgust and horror from such loose and random sayings that, in their outcomes, would reduce humanity to the level of animals. Despite a bias that had bothered him since childhood, he had, when the opportunity arose, sought counsel from Mr. Rigby, who was prominent in both literature and politics, and who took on the responsibility of influencing public opinion and was, as they say, respected. Mr. Rigby initially listened to Coningsby’s inquiries, which were always asked with a modesty and respect that aren't common in young people's questions, as if Coningsby were discussing foreign languages with him. But Mr. Rigby wasn’t the type to admit he was wrong. He picked up on part of the topic as the young man spoke and was ready, well before Coningsby finished, to take control of the entire conversation.

Mr. Rigby began by ascribing everything to the Reform Bill, and then referred to several of his own speeches on Schedule A. Then he told Coningsby that want of religious Faith was solely occasioned by want of churches; and want of Loyalty, by George IV. having shut himself up too much at the cottage in Windsor Park, entirely against the advice of Mr. Rigby. He assured Coningsby that the Church Commission was operating wonders, and that with private benevolence, he had himself subscribed 1,000l., for Lord Monmouth, we should soon have churches enough. The great question now was their architecture. Had George IV. lived all would have been right. They would have been built on the model of the Budhist pagoda. As for Loyalty, if the present King went regularly to Ascot races, he had no doubt all would go right. Finally, Mr. Rigby impressed on Coningsby to read the Quarterly Review with great attention; and to make himself master of Mr. Wordy’s History of the late War, in twenty volumes, a capital work, which proves that Providence was on the side of the Tories.

Mr. Rigby started by blaming everything on the Reform Bill and then mentioned several of his own speeches about Schedule A. He told Coningsby that the lack of religious faith was entirely due to the shortage of churches, and the lack of loyalty was because George IV had isolated himself too much at the cottage in Windsor Park, which was completely against Mr. Rigby’s advice. He assured Coningsby that the Church Commission was doing amazing things, and with his own personal generosity, he had donated 1,000l. for Lord Monmouth, so we would soon have enough churches. The big question now was their design. If George IV had lived, everything would have been fine. They would have been built based on the model of the Buddhist pagoda. As for loyalty, if the current King regularly attended the Ascot races, he had no doubt everything would be just fine. Finally, Mr. Rigby urged Coningsby to read the Quarterly Review very carefully and to familiarize himself with Mr. Wordy’s History of the Late War, a great twenty-volume work that proves Providence was on the side of the Tories.

Coningsby did not reply to Mr. Rigby again; but worked on with his own mind, coming often enough to sufficiently crude conclusions, and often much perplexed and harassed. He tried occasionally his inferences on his companions, who were intelligent and full of fervour. Millbank was more than this. He was of a thoughtful mood; had also caught up from a new school some principles, which were materials for discussion. One way or other, however, before he quitted Eton there prevailed among this circle of friends, the initial idea doubtless emanating from Coningsby, an earnest, though a rather vague, conviction that the present state of feeling in matters both civil and religious was not healthy; that there must be substituted for this latitudinarianism something sound and deep, fervent and well defined, and that the priests of this new faith must be found among the New Generation; so that when the bright-minded rider of ‘the Daughter of the Star’ descanted on the influence of individual character, of great thoughts and heroic actions, and the divine power of youth and genius, he touched a string that was the very heart-chord of his companion, who listened with fascinated enthusiasm as he introduced him to his gallery of inspiring models.

Coningsby didn’t respond to Mr. Rigby again but kept working through his own thoughts, often arriving at somewhat rough conclusions and frequently feeling confused and overwhelmed. He occasionally tested his ideas on his friends, who were intelligent and passionate. Millbank was more than just that; he had a thoughtful nature and had picked up some principles from a new school that sparked discussion. However, before he left Eton, there was a prevailing sense among this group of friends—an idea that likely started with Coningsby—that the current attitudes towards civic and religious matters were unhealthy. They believed that this loose approach needed to be replaced with something solid, profound, passionate, and clearly defined, and that the leaders of this new belief system had to come from the New Generation. So when the bright-minded rider of 'the Daughter of the Star' spoke about the impact of individual character, great ideas, heroic actions, and the divine power of youth and talent, he struck a chord that resonated deeply with his friend, who listened with captivated enthusiasm as he introduced him to his collection of inspiring figures.

Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir at a season when men can neither hunt nor shoot. Great internal resources should be found in a country family under such circumstances. The Duke and Duchess had returned from London only a few days with their daughter, who had been presented this year. They were all glad to find themselves again in the country, which they loved and which loved them. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, and Henry Sydney, completed the party.

Coningsby arrived at Beaumanoir during a time when people can’t hunt or shoot. There should be plenty of inner strength in a country family under such conditions. The Duke and Duchess had just returned from London a few days ago with their daughter, who had been introduced to society this year. They were all happy to be back in the countryside, which they loved and which loved them in return. One of their sons-in-law and his wife, along with Henry Sydney, rounded out the group.

There are few conjunctures in life of a more startling interest, than to meet the pretty little girl that we have gambolled with in our boyhood, and to find her changed in the lapse of a very few years, which in some instances may not have brought a corresponding alteration in our own appearance, into a beautiful woman. Something of this flitted over Coningsby’s mind, as he bowed, a little agitated from his surprise, to Lady Theresa Sydney. All that he remembered had prepared him for beauty; but not for the degree or character of beauty that he met. It was a rich, sweet face, with blue eyes and dark lashes, and a nose that we have no epithet in English to describe, but which charmed in Roxalana. Her brown hair fell over her white and well turned shoulders in long and luxuriant tresses. One has met something as brilliant and dainty in a medallion of old Sèvres, or amid the terraces and gardens of Watteau.

There are few moments in life more surprising than running into the lovely little girl we used to play with as kids, only to see her transformed into a beautiful woman in just a few years, while we might not have changed much at all. This thought crossed Coningsby’s mind as he bowed slightly, feeling a bit flustered by his surprise, to Lady Theresa Sydney. Everything he remembered had prepared him for beauty; however, he wasn’t ready for the level or kind of beauty he encountered. It was a rich, sweet face with blue eyes and dark lashes, and a nose that we don’t have a specific word for in English, but that was enchanting in Roxalana. Her brown hair cascaded over her fair, well-shaped shoulders in long, luxurious waves. It reminded one of something just as brilliant and delicate in an old Sèvres medallion or in the terraces and gardens of Watteau.

Perhaps Lady Theresa, too, might have welcomed him with more freedom had his appearance also more accorded with the image which he had left behind. Coningsby was a boy then, as we described him in our first chapter. Though only nineteen now, he had attained his full stature, which was above the middle height, and time had fulfilled that promise of symmetry in his figure, and grace in his mien, then so largely intimated. Time, too, which had not yet robbed his countenance of any of its physical beauty, had strongly developed the intellectual charm by which it had ever been distinguished. As he bowed lowly before the Duchess and her daughter, it would have been difficult to imagine a youth of a mien more prepossessing and a manner more finished.

Perhaps Lady Theresa would have greeted him more warmly if his appearance matched the image she remembered. Coningsby had been a boy back then, as we described in our first chapter. Though he's only nineteen now, he had reached his full height, which was above average, and time had fulfilled the promise of a well-proportioned figure and a graceful demeanor that was suggested before. Time had also not yet taken away any of his physical beauty, but it had significantly enhanced the intellectual charm that he had always possessed. As he bowed respectfully before the Duchess and her daughter, it would have been hard to imagine a young man with a more attractive presence and a more polished manner.

A manner that was spontaneous; nature’s pure gift, the reflex of his feeling. No artifice prompted that profound and polished homage. Not one of those influences, the aggregate of whose sway produces, as they tell us, the finished gentleman, had ever exercised its beneficent power on our orphan, and not rarely forlorn, Coningsby. No clever and refined woman, with her quick perception, and nice criticism that never offends our self-love, had ever given him that education that is more precious than Universities. The mild suggestions of a sister, the gentle raillery of some laughing cousin, are also advantages not always appreciated at the time, but which boys, when they have become men, often think over with gratitude, and a little remorse at the ungracious spirit in which they were received. Not even the dancing-master had afforded his mechanical aid to Coningsby, who, like all Eton boys of his generation, viewed that professor of accomplishments with frank repugnance. But even in the boisterous life of school, Coningsby, though his style was free and flowing, was always well-bred. His spirit recoiled from that gross familiarity that is the characteristic of modern manners, and which would destroy all forms and ceremonies merely because they curb and control their own coarse convenience and ill-disguised selfishness. To women, however, Coningsby instinctively bowed, as to beings set apart for reverence and delicate treatment. Little as his experience was of them, his spirit had been fed with chivalrous fancies, and he entertained for them all the ideal devotion of a Surrey or a Sydney. Instructed, if not learned, as books and thought had already made him in men, he could not conceive that there were any other women in the world than fair Geraldines and Countesses of Pembroke.

He had a natural way about him; it was an unfiltered gift from nature, a reflection of his feelings. There was no clever trick behind his deep and polished respect. None of those influences, which supposedly shape a refined gentleman, had ever impacted our orphaned and often lonely Coningsby. No smart and sophisticated woman, with her keen insights and gentle criticism that never bruises our ego, had ever provided him with that kind of education that is more valuable than any university. The subtle advice of a sister or the playful teasing of a cousin are benefits that often go unrecognized at the time, but as men, boys tend to look back on them with gratitude and a touch of guilt for the ungracious way they responded. Not even a dance teacher had offered any mechanical help to Coningsby, who, like most boys at Eton in his time, looked at that skills instructor with frank distaste. Yet, even amidst the rowdy life at school, Coningsby was always well-mannered, even though his style was relaxed and expressive. He instinctively pulled back from the crude familiarity characteristic of modern behavior, which would dismantle all traditions and decorum simply because they restrict their own coarse convenience and blatant selfishness. To women, however, Coningsby naturally showed respect, treating them as beings worthy of admiration and gentle care. Despite having little experience with them, his spirit was nourished by chivalrous ideals, and he held a deep devotion for them, reminiscent of a Surrey or a Sydney. Educated, if not formally, by books and thought about men, he couldn't imagine that there were any women in the world other than fair Geraldines and Countesses of Pembroke.

There was not a country-house in England that had so completely the air of habitual residence as Beaumanoir. It is a charming trait, and very rare. In many great mansions everything is as stiff, formal, and tedious, as if your host were a Spanish grandee in the days of the Inquisition. No ease, no resources; the passing life seems a solemn spectacle in which you play a part. How delightful was the morning room at Beaumanoir; from which gentlemen were not excluded with that assumed suspicion that they can never enter it but for felonious purposes. Such a profusion of flowers! Such a multitude of books! Such a various prodigality of writing materials! So many easy chairs too, of so many shapes; each in itself a comfortable home; yet nothing crowded. Woman alone can organise a drawing-room; man succeeds sometimes in a library. And the ladies’ work! How graceful they look bending over their embroidery frames, consulting over the arrangement of a group, or the colour of a flower. The panniers and fanciful baskets, overflowing with variegated worsted, are gay and full of pleasure to the eye, and give an air of elegant business that is vivifying. Even the sight of employment interests.

There wasn't a country house in England that felt more like a true home than Beaumanoir. It's a charming quality and quite rare. In many grand mansions, everything is so stiff, formal, and dull, it feels like your host is a Spanish nobleman during the Inquisition. There’s no comfort, no freedom; life appears as a serious performance where you merely have a role. The morning room at Beaumanoir was so delightful; gentlemen weren't treated with that suspicious attitude, as if they could only enter for shady reasons. There was such an abundance of flowers! So many books! Such a variety of writing supplies! And tons of comfortable chairs in all different styles, each one a cozy retreat without making the space feel cluttered. Only women can truly organize a drawing room; men sometimes manage in a library. And the ladies’ handiwork! They looked so graceful bending over their embroidery frames, discussing the layout of a group or the shade of a flower. The baskets and whimsical containers overflowing with colorful yarn were cheerful and pleasing to the eye, adding an elegant touch of productivity that was invigorating. Even just watching them work was engaging.

Then the morning costume of English women is itself a beautiful work of art. At this period of the day they can find no rivals in other climes. The brilliant complexions of the daughters of the north dazzle in daylight; the illumined saloon levels all distinctions. One should see them in their well-fashioned muslin dresses. What matrons, and what maidens! Full of graceful dignity, fresher than the morn! And the married beauty in her little lace cap. Ah, she is a coquette! A charming character at all times; in a country-house an invaluable one.

Then the morning outfits of English women are a stunning display of artistry. At this time of day, they have no competition from anywhere else. The bright complexions of northern women shine in the daylight; the lit-up room erases all differences. You have to see them in their beautifully tailored muslin dresses. What remarkable mothers and daughters! Full of graceful dignity, fresher than the morning! And the married beauty in her delicate lace cap. Ah, she’s a flirt! A delightful presence at all times; in a country house, she's irreplaceable.

A coquette is a being who wishes to please. Amiable being! If you do not like her, you will have no difficulty in finding a female companion of a different mood. Alas! coquettes are but too rare. ‘Tis a career that requires great abilities, infinite pains, a gay and airy spirit. ‘Tis the coquette that provides all amusement; suggests the riding party, plans the picnic, gives and guesses charades, acts them. She is the stirring element amid the heavy congeries of social atoms; the soul of the house, the salt of the banquet. Let any one pass a very agreeable week, or it may be ten days, under any roof, and analyse the cause of his satisfaction, and one might safely make a gentle wager that his solution would present him with the frolic phantom of a coquette.

A coquette is someone who wants to please. What a charming person! If you don't like her, you'll have no trouble finding a female companion with a different personality. Unfortunately, coquettes are quite rare. It's a role that demands great talent, endless effort, and a lively, carefree spirit. The coquette is the one who brings all the fun; she suggests the riding trip, organizes the picnic, creates and acts out charades. She is the lively spark in the dull mix of social interactions; the heart of the home, the zest of the gathering. If someone spends a very enjoyable week, or even ten days, under any roof and reflects on the reason for their happiness, they could confidently place a small bet that their answer would reveal the playful essence of a coquette.

‘It is impossible that Mr. Coningsby can remember me!’ said a clear voice; and he looked round, and was greeted by a pair of sparkling eyes and the gayest smile in the world.

‘There’s no way Mr. Coningsby remembers me!’ said a cheerful voice; and he turned around, greeted by a pair of sparkling eyes and the brightest smile in the world.

It was Lady Everingham, the Duke’s married daughter.

It was Lady Everingham, the Duke’s daughter who was married.

CHAPTER III.

‘And you walked here!’ said Lady Everingham to Coningsby, when the stir of arranging themselves at dinner had subsided. ‘Only think, papa, Mr. Coningsby walked here! I also am a great walker.’

‘And you walked here!’ said Lady Everingham to Coningsby, when the buzz of settling in for dinner had calmed down. ‘Just imagine, dad, Mr. Coningsby walked here! I’m also a big fan of walking.’

‘I had heard much of the forest,’ said Coningsby.

‘I had heard a lot about the forest,’ said Coningsby.

‘Which I am sure did not disappoint you,’ said the Duke.

“Which I’m sure didn’t let you down,” said the Duke.

‘But forests without adventures!’ said Lady Everingham, a little shrugging her pretty shoulders.

‘But forests without adventures!’ said Lady Everingham, slightly shrugging her pretty shoulders.

‘But I had an adventure,’ said Coningsby.

‘But I had an adventure,’ Coningsby said.

‘Oh! tell it us by all means!’ said the Lady, with great animation. ‘Adventures are my weakness. I have had more adventures than any one. Have I not had, Augustus?’ she added, addressing her husband.

‘Oh! Please tell us!’ said the Lady, excitedly. ‘Adventures are my weakness. I've had more adventures than anyone. Haven't I, Augustus?’ she added, looking at her husband.

‘But you make everything out to be an adventure, Isabel,’ said Lord Everingham. I dare say that Mr. Coningsby’s was more substantial.’ And looking at our young friend, he invited him to inform them.

‘But you make everything seem like an adventure, Isabel,’ said Lord Everingham. ‘I bet that Mr. Coningsby’s was more significant.’ And glancing at our young friend, he encouraged him to share.

‘I met a most extraordinary man,’ said Coningsby.

‘I met an incredible man,’ said Coningsby.

‘It should have been a heroine,’ exclaimed Lady Everingham.

‘It should have been a heroine,’ said Lady Everingham.

‘Do you know anybody in this neighbourhood who rides the finest Arab in the world?’ asked Coningsby. ‘She is called “the Daughter of the Star,” and was given to her rider by the Pacha of Egypt.’

‘Do you know anyone in this neighborhood who rides the best Arab horse in the world?’ asked Coningsby. ‘She's called “the Daughter of the Star,” and she was given to her rider by the Pacha of Egypt.’

‘This is really an adventure,’ said Lady Everingham, interested.

'This is really an adventure,' said Lady Everingham, intrigued.

‘The Daughter of the Star!’ said Lady Theresa. ‘What a pretty name! Percy has a horse called “Sunbeam.”’

‘The Daughter of the Star!’ said Lady Theresa. ‘What a lovely name! Percy has a horse called “Sunbeam.”’

‘A fine Arab, the finest in the world!’ said the Duke, who was fond of horse. ‘Who can it be?’

‘A great Arab, the best in the world!’ said the Duke, who loved horses. ‘Who could it be?’

‘Can you throw any light on this, Mr. Lyle?’ asked the Duchess of a young man who sat next her.

‘Can you shed some light on this, Mr. Lyle?’ asked the Duchess of the young man sitting next to her.

He was a neighbour who had joined their dinner-party, Eustace Lyle, a Roman Catholic, and the richest commoner in the county; for he had succeeded to a great estate early in his minority, which had only this year terminated.

He was a neighbor who had joined their dinner party, Eustace Lyle, a Roman Catholic, and the wealthiest commoner in the county; he had inherited a large estate early in his youth, which had just this year come to an end.

‘I certainly do not know the horse,’ said Mr. Lyle; ‘but if Mr. Coningsby would describe the rider, perhaps—’

‘I definitely don't know the horse,’ said Mr. Lyle; ‘but if Mr. Coningsby could describe the rider, maybe—’

‘He is a man something under thirty,’ said Coningsby, ‘pale, with dark hair. We met in a sort of forest-inn during a storm. A most singular man! Indeed, I never met any one who seemed to me so clever, or to say such remarkable things.’

‘He’s a guy just under thirty,’ said Coningsby, ‘pale, with dark hair. We met at this kind of forest inn during a storm. A really unique guy! Honestly, I’ve never met anyone who seemed so smart or said such incredible things.’

‘He must have been the spirit of the storm,’ said Lady Everingham.

‘Charles Verney has a great deal of dark hair,’ said Lady Theresa. ‘But then he is anything but pale, and his eyes are blue.’

‘Charles Verney has a lot of dark hair,’ said Lady Theresa. ‘But he’s definitely not pale, and his eyes are blue.’

‘And certainly he keeps his wonderful things for your ear, Theresa,’ said her sister.

‘And he definitely saves his amazing stories for you, Theresa,’ her sister said.

‘I wish that Mr. Coningsby would tell us some of the wonderful things he said,’ said the Duchess, smiling.

"I wish Mr. Coningsby would share some of the amazing things he said," the Duchess said, smiling.

‘Take a glass of wine first with my mother, Coningsby,’ said Henry Sydney, who had just finished helping them all to fish.

“First, take a glass of wine with my mom, Coningsby,” said Henry Sydney, who had just finished helping everyone with the fish.

Coningsby had too much tact to be entrapped into a long story. He already regretted that he had been betrayed into any allusion to the stranger. He had a wild, fanciful notion, that their meeting ought to have been preserved as a sacred secret. But he had been impelled to refer to it in the first instance by the chance observation of Lady Everingham; and he had pursued his remark from the hope that the conversation might have led to the discovery of the unknown. When he found that his inquiry in this respect was unsuccessful, he was willing to turn the conversation. In reply to the Duchess, then, he generally described the talk of the stranger as full of lively anecdote and epigrammatic views of life; and gave them, for example, a saying of an illustrious foreign Prince, which was quite new and pointed, and which Coningsby told well. This led to a new train of discourse. The Duke also knew this illustrious foreign Prince, and told another story of him; and Lord Everingham had played whist with this illustrious foreign Prince often at the Travellers’, and this led to a third story; none of them too long. Then Lady Everingham came in again, and sparkled agreeably. She, indeed, sustained throughout dinner the principal weight of the conversation; but, as she asked questions of everybody, all seemed to contribute. Even the voice of Mr. Lyle, who was rather bashful, was occasionally heard in reply. Coningsby, who had at first unintentionally taken a more leading part than he aspired to, would have retired into the background for the rest of the dinner, but Lady Everingham continually signalled him out for her questions, and as she sat opposite to him, he seemed the person to whom they were principally addressed.

Coningsby was too tactful to get trapped into a long story. He already regretted mentioning the stranger at all. He had a wild, fanciful idea that their meeting should have been kept as a secret. But he was prompted to bring it up initially by Lady Everingham's casual comment, and he continued his remark hoping it might lead to discovering the mystery of the unknown person. When he realized that his question wasn’t going anywhere, he was ready to change the subject. In response to the Duchess, he generally described the stranger's conversation as full of lively anecdotes and insightful takes on life; he shared, for example, a saying from an illustrious foreign prince that was fresh and sharp, and he delivered it well. This sparked a new conversation. The Duke also knew this foreign prince and shared another story about him, while Lord Everingham mentioned how he had played whist with this illustrious prince many times at the Travellers’, leading to a third brief story. Then Lady Everingham returned and added her sparkle to the discussion. She carried most of the conversation weight during dinner, but since she asked questions of everyone, it felt like all were involved. Even Mr. Lyle, who was somewhat shy, could be heard responding from time to time. Coningsby, who had unintentionally taken a more prominent role than he intended at first, would have preferred to fade into the background for the rest of dinner, but Lady Everingham kept directing her questions at him, and since she sat across from him, he seemed to be the main focus of her inquiries.

At length the ladies rose to retire. A very great personage in a foreign, but not remote country, once mentioned to the writer of these pages, that he ascribed the superiority of the English in political life, in their conduct of public business and practical views of affairs, in a great measure to ‘that little half-hour’ that separates, after dinner, the dark from the fair sex. The writer humbly submitted, that if the period of disjunction were strictly limited to a ‘little half-hour,’ its salutary consequences for both sexes need not be disputed, but that in England the ‘little half-hour’ was too apt to swell into a term of far more awful character and duration. Lady Everingham was a disciple of the ‘very little half-hour’ school; for, as she gaily followed her mother, she said to Coningsby, whose gracious lot it was to usher them from the apartment:

At last, the ladies stood up to leave. A highly important person from a foreign, but not distant, country once told the writer of these pages that he believed the English excel in political life, in their handling of public affairs, and in their practical approach to various matters primarily due to ‘that little half-hour’ that separates men from women after dinner. The writer humbly suggested that if the time of separation were strictly limited to a ‘little half-hour,’ its positive effects for both genders wouldn't be questioned. However, in England, that ‘little half-hour’ often tends to extend into a period that is much longer and more intense. Lady Everingham was a proponent of the ‘very little half-hour’ philosophy; as she cheerfully followed her mother, she said to Coningsby, who had the privilege of escorting them from the room:

‘Pray do not be too long at the Board of Guardians to-day.’

‘Please don’t take too long at the Board of Guardians today.’

These were prophetic words; for no sooner were they all again seated, than the Duke, filling his glass and pushing the claret to Coningsby, observed,

These were prophetic words; for no sooner were they all seated again than the Duke, filling his glass and passing the claret to Coningsby, said,

‘I suppose Lord Monmouth does not trouble himself much about the New Poor Law?’

‘I guess Lord Monmouth doesn’t really worry about the New Poor Law, does he?’

‘Hardly,’ said Coningsby. ‘My grandfather’s frequent absence from England, which his health, I believe, renders quite necessary, deprives him of the advantage of personal observation on a subject, than which I can myself conceive none more deeply interesting.’

‘Barely,’ said Coningsby. ‘My grandfather’s regular absence from England, which I believe is necessary for his health, prevents him from having the benefit of personal observation on a topic that I can’t imagine being more fascinating.’

‘I am glad to hear you say so,’ said the Duke, ‘and it does you great credit, and Henry too, whose attention, I observe, is directed very much to these subjects. In my time, the young men did not think so much of such things, and we suffer consequently. By the bye, Everingham, you, who are a Chairman of a Board of Guardians, can give me some information. Supposing a case of out-door relief—’

‘I’m glad to hear you say that,’ said the Duke, ‘and it reflects well on you, as well as on Henry, whose focus, I’ve noticed, is very much on these topics. In my day, young men didn’t think about such things as much, and we’re dealing with the consequences. By the way, Everingham, since you’re a Chairman of a Board of Guardians, could you give me some information? Let’s say there’s a case of outdoor relief—’

‘I could not suppose anything so absurd,’ said the son-in-law.

"I couldn't imagine anything so ridiculous," said the son-in-law.

‘Well,’ rejoined the Duke, ‘I know your views on that subject, and it certainly is a question on which there is a good deal to be said. But would you under any circumstances give relief out of the Union, even if the parish were to save a considerable sum?’

‘Well,’ replied the Duke, ‘I understand your opinions on that topic, and there’s definitely a lot to discuss. But would you ever consider providing assistance outside the Union, even if the parish could save a significant amount?’

‘I wish I knew the Union where such a system was followed,’ said Lord Everingham; and his Grace seemed to tremble under his son-in-law’s glance.

‘I wish I knew the Union where such a system was used,’ said Lord Everingham; and his Grace appeared to flinch under his son-in-law’s gaze.

The Duke had a good heart, and not a bad head. If he had not made in his youth so many Latin and English verses, he might have acquired considerable information, for he had a natural love of letters, though his pack were the pride of England, his barrel seldom missed, and his fortune on the turf, where he never betted, was a proverb. He was good, and he wished to do good; but his views were confused from want of knowledge, and his conduct often inconsistent because a sense of duty made him immediately active; and he often acquired in the consequent experience a conviction exactly contrary to that which had prompted his activity.

The Duke was a kind man with a decent level of intelligence. If he hadn’t spent so much time in his youth writing Latin and English poems, he could have gained a lot of knowledge, since he genuinely loved learning. While his hunting dogs were the pride of England and he rarely missed his targets, his luck in horse racing, which he never gambled on, was legendary. He was a good person who wanted to help others, but his ideas were often confused due to his lack of knowledge, and his actions were sometimes inconsistent because he felt a strong sense of duty that pushed him to act quickly. As a result, he often ended up with beliefs that were the exact opposite of what had motivated him to take action.

His Grace had been a great patron and a zealous administrator of the New Poor Law. He had been persuaded that it would elevate the condition of the labouring class. His son-in-law, Lord Everingham, who was a Whig, and a clearheaded, cold-blooded man, looked upon the New Poor Law as another Magna Charta. Lord Everingham was completely master of the subject. He was himself the Chairman of one of the most considerable Unions of the kingdom. The Duke, if he ever had a misgiving, had no chance in argument with his son-in-law. Lord Everingham overwhelmed him with quotations from Commissioners’ rules and Sub-commissioners’ reports, statistical tables, and references to dietaries. Sometimes with a strong case, the Duke struggled to make a fight; but Lord Everingham, when he was at fault for a reply, which was very rare, upbraided his father-in-law with the abuses of the old system, and frightened him with visions of rates exceeding rentals.

His Grace had been a strong supporter and an enthusiastic administrator of the New Poor Law. He believed it would improve the living conditions of the working class. His son-in-law, Lord Everingham, who was a Whig and a logical, unemotional man, viewed the New Poor Law as another Magna Carta. Lord Everingham was completely knowledgeable about the topic. He was the Chairman of one of the largest Unions in the country. If the Duke ever had doubts, he stood no chance in an argument with his son-in-law. Lord Everingham overwhelmed him with quotes from Commissioners’ rules and Sub-commissioners’ reports, statistical tables, and references to dietary guidelines. Occasionally, when the case was strong enough, the Duke tried to make a point, but Lord Everingham rarely needed to defend himself; when he did, he would criticize his father-in-law for the failings of the old system and scare him with visions of rates surpassing rentals.

Of late, however, a considerable change had taken place in the Duke’s feelings on this great question. His son Henry entertained strong opinions upon it, and had combated his father with all the fervour of a young votary. A victory over his Grace, indeed, was not very difficult. His natural impulse would have enlisted him on the side, if not of opposition to the new system, at least of critical suspicion of its spirit and provisions. It was only the statistics and sharp acuteness of his son-in-law that had, indeed, ever kept him to his colours. Lord Henry would not listen to statistics, dietary tables, Commissioners’ rides, Sub-commissioners’ reports. He went far higher than his father; far deeper than his brother-in-law. He represented to the Duke that the order of the peasantry was as ancient, legal, and recognised an order as the order of the nobility; that it had distinct rights and privileges, though for centuries they had been invaded and violated, and permitted to fall into desuetude. He impressed upon the Duke that the parochial constitution of this country was more important than its political constitution; that it was more ancient, more universal in its influence; and that this parochial constitution had already been shaken to its centre by the New Poor Law. He assured his father that it would never be well for England until this order of the peasantry was restored to its pristine condition; not merely in physical comfort, for that must vary according to the economical circumstances of the time, like that of every class; but to its condition in all those moral attributes which make a recognised rank in a nation; and which, in a great degree, are independent of economics, manners, customs, ceremonies, rights, and privileges.

However, recently, the Duke had experienced a significant shift in his feelings regarding this major issue. His son Henry had strong beliefs about it and passionately argued against his father. It wasn't particularly hard to win a debate against his Grace. His natural inclination would have driven him to at least be skeptical of the new system, if not outright opposed to it. It was only the statistics and sharp insights of his son-in-law that had actually kept him loyal to his position. Lord Henry refused to engage with statistics, dietary reports, or the findings from various commissions. He took a much broader and deeper perspective than his father and brother-in-law. He pointed out to the Duke that the peasantry was as ancient, legal, and recognized as the nobility; that they had distinct rights and privileges, even though these had been infringed upon and neglected for centuries. He conveyed to the Duke that the local constitution of the country was more significant than its political one; that it was older and had a wider impact; and that this local constitution had already been severely disrupted by the New Poor Law. He assured his father that England would not prosper until the peasantry was restored to its original state—not just in physical well-being, which would fluctuate based on economic conditions like every other class, but in all the moral qualities that establish a recognized rank within a nation; qualities that, to a large extent, are independent of economics, social practices, customs, ceremonies, rights, and privileges.

‘Henry thinks,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘that the people are to be fed by dancing round a May-pole.’

‘Henry thinks,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘that people can be fed by dancing around a Maypole.’

‘But will the people be more fed because they do not dance round a May-pole?’ urged Lord Henry.

‘But will people be better off just because they don’t dance around a May-pole?’ insisted Lord Henry.

‘Obsolete customs!’ said Lord Everingham.

"Outdated customs!" said Lord Everingham.

‘And why should dancing round a May-pole be more obsolete than holding a Chapter of the Garter?’ asked Lord Henry.

‘And why should dancing around a May-pole be more outdated than having a Chapter of the Garter?’ asked Lord Henry.

The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this a home thrust. ‘I must say,’ said his Grace, ‘that I for one deeply regret that our popular customs have been permitted to fall so into desuetude.’

The Duke, who was a blue ribbon, felt this was a personal attack. ‘I have to say,’ said his Grace, ‘that I, for one, really regret that our popular customs have been allowed to fade away like this.’

‘The Spirit of the Age is against such things,’ said Lord Everingham.

‘And what is the Spirit of the Age?’ asked Coningsby.

‘The Spirit of Utility,’ said Lord Everingham.

‘And you think then that ceremony is not useful?’ urged Coningsby, mildly.

‘So you really think ceremony isn’t useful?’ Coningsby pressed gently.

‘It depends upon circumstances,’ said Lord Everingham. ‘There are some ceremonies, no doubt, that are very proper, and of course very useful. But the best thing we can do for the labouring classes is to provide them with work.’

‘It depends on the circumstances,’ Lord Everingham said. ‘There are definitely some ceremonies that are appropriate and, of course, very useful. But the best thing we can do for the working class is to give them jobs.’

‘But what do you mean by the labouring classes, Everingham?’ asked Lord Henry. ‘Lawyers are a labouring class, for instance, and by the bye sufficiently provided with work. But would you approve of Westminster Hall being denuded of all its ceremonies?’

‘But what do you mean by the working class, Everingham?’ asked Lord Henry. ‘Lawyers are part of the working class, for example, and, by the way, they have plenty of work. But would you support Westminster Hall being stripped of all its ceremonies?’

‘And the long vacation being abolished?’ added Coningsby.

‘And the long vacation being canceled?’ added Coningsby.

‘Theresa brings me terrible accounts of the sufferings of the poor about us,’ said the Duke, shaking his head.

‘Theresa tells me awful stories about the suffering of the poor around us,’ said the Duke, shaking his head.

‘Women think everything to be suffering!’ said Lord Everingham.

“Women think everything is suffering!” said Lord Everingham.

‘How do you find them about you, Mr. Lyle?’ continued the Duke.

‘What do you think of them around you, Mr. Lyle?’ the Duke continued.

‘I have revived the monastic customs at St. Genevieve,’ said the young man, blushing. ‘There is an almsgiving twice a-week.’

‘I have brought back the monastic traditions at St. Genevieve,’ said the young man, flushing. ‘We have almsgiving twice a week.’

‘I am sure I wish I could see the labouring classes happy,’ said the Duke.

‘I really wish I could see the working class happy,’ said the Duke.

‘Oh! pray do not use, my dear father, that phrase, the labouring classes!’ said Lord Henry. ‘What do you think, Coningsby, the other day we had a meeting in this neighbourhood to vote an agricultural petition that was to comprise all classes. I went with my father, and I was made chairman of the committee to draw up the petition. Of course, I described it as the petition of the nobility, clergy, gentry, yeomanry, and peasantry of the county of ——; and, could you believe it, they struck out peasantry as a word no longer used, and inserted labourers.’

‘Oh! please don’t use that term, my dear father, “the laboring classes!”’ said Lord Henry. ‘What do you think, Coningsby? The other day we had a meeting in this area to vote on an agricultural petition that was meant to include all classes. I went with my father, and I was made the chairperson of the committee to draft the petition. Naturally, I described it as the petition of the nobility, clergy, gentry, yeomanry, and peasantry of the county of ——; and, can you believe it, they removed peasantry as a term that’s no longer used and replaced it with laborers.’

‘What can it signify,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘whether a man be called a labourer or a peasant?’

‘What does it matter,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘whether a man is called a laborer or a peasant?’

‘And what can it signify,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘whether a man be called Mr. Howard or Lord Everingham?’

‘And what does it matter,’ said his brother-in-law, ‘whether someone is called Mr. Howard or Lord Everingham?’

They were the most affectionate family under this roof of Beaumanoir, and of all members of it, Lord Henry the sweetest tempered, and yet it was astonishing what sharp skirmishes every day arose between him and his brother-in-law, during that ‘little half-hour’ that forms so happily the political character of the nation. The Duke, who from experience felt that a guerilla movement was impending, asked his guests whether they would take any more claret; and on their signifying their dissent, moved an adjournment to the ladies.

They were the most affectionate family under this roof at Beaumanoir, and of all its members, Lord Henry had the sweetest temperament. Yet, it was surprising how many heated arguments arose daily between him and his brother-in-law during that 'little half-hour' that so happily shapes the political character of the nation. The Duke, sensing from experience that a guerrilla movement was about to happen, asked his guests if they would like more claret; and when they declined, he suggested moving to join the ladies.

They joined the ladies in the music-room. Coningsby, not experienced in feminine society, and who found a little difficulty from want of practice in maintaining conversation, though he was desirous of succeeding, was delighted with Lady Everingham, who, instead of requiring to be amused, amused him; and suggested so many subjects, and glanced at so many topics, that there never was that cold, awkward pause, so common with sullen spirits and barren brains. Lady Everingham thoroughly understood the art of conversation, which, indeed, consists of the exercise of two fine qualities. You must originate, and you must sympathise; you must possess at the same time the habit of communicating and the habit of listening. The union is rather rare, but irresistible.

They joined the women in the music room. Coningsby, not very experienced in socializing with women and feeling a bit awkward due to lack of practice, was eager to do well but found it challenging to keep the conversation going. He was, however, thrilled with Lady Everingham, who, rather than needing entertainment, entertained him. She brought up so many subjects and hinted at various topics that there was never that cold, awkward silence, which is often found with gloomy people and uninspired minds. Lady Everingham truly mastered the art of conversation, which really comes down to two key qualities. You have to initiate topics, and you have to empathize; you need to have both the ability to share and the ability to listen. This combination is quite rare but absolutely captivating.

Lady Everingham was not a celebrated beauty, but she was something infinitely more delightful, a captivating woman. There were combined, in her, qualities not commonly met together, great vivacity of mind with great grace of manner. Her words sparkled and her movements charmed. There was, indeed, in all she said and did, that congruity that indicates a complete and harmonious organisation. It was the same just proportion which characterised her form: a shape slight and undulating with grace; the most beautifully shaped ear; a small, soft hand; a foot that would have fitted the glass slipper; and which, by the bye, she lost no opportunity of displaying; and she was right, for it was a model.

Lady Everingham wasn't a celebrated beauty, but she was something infinitely more delightful: a captivating woman. She had a mix of qualities that are rarely found together—an energetic mind and graceful manners. Her words sparkled, and her movements were enchanting. In everything she said and did, there was a harmony that showed she was a well-rounded and balanced person. It was the same perfect proportion that defined her figure: a slender and gracefully curving shape; the most beautifully shaped ears; a small, soft hand; and a foot that would have fit the glass slipper perfectly, which she took every chance to show off; and she was right to do so, because it was a model of beauty.

Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang like a seraph: a rich voice, a grand style. And her sister could support her with grace and sweetness. And they did not sing too much. The Duke took up a review, and looked at Rigby’s last slashing article. The country seemed ruined, but it appeared that the Whigs were still worse off than the Tories. The assassins had committed suicide. This poetical justice is pleasing. Lord Everingham, lounging in an easy chair, perused with great satisfaction his Morning Chronicle, which contained a cutting reply to Mr. Rigby’s article, not quite so ‘slashing’ as the Right Honourable scribe’s manifesto, but with some searching mockery, that became the subject and the subject-monger.

Then there was music. Lady Theresa sang like an angel: a powerful voice, a grand style. And her sister supported her with grace and sweetness. They didn't sing too much. The Duke picked up a review and looked at Rigby's latest biting article. The country seemed ruined, but it looked like the Whigs were in worse shape than the Tories. The attackers had taken their own lives. This poetic justice is satisfying. Lord Everingham, lounging in a comfortable chair, happily read his Morning Chronicle, which featured a sharp reply to Mr. Rigby's article. It wasn't quite as 'biting' as the Right Honourable scribe's piece, but it had enough pointed mockery to become the talk of the town.

Mr. Lyle seated himself by the Duchess, and encouraged by her amenity, and speaking in whispers, became animated and agreeable, occasionally patting the lap-dog. Coningsby stood by the singers, or talked with them when the music had ceased: and Henry Sydney looked over a volume of Strutt’s Sports and Pastimes, occasionally, without taking his eyes off the volume, calling the attention of his friends to his discoveries.

Mr. Lyle sat next to the Duchess, and encouraged by her friendliness, he leaned in closer and became lively and pleasant, occasionally petting the lap-dog. Coningsby stood by the singers or chatted with them when the music stopped: and Henry Sydney browsed through a book of Strutt’s Sports and Pastimes, occasionally, without looking away from the book, pointing out interesting finds to his friends.

Mr. Lyle rose to depart, for he had some miles to return; he came forward with some hesitation, to hope that Coningsby would visit his bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had told him Coningsby had expressed a wish to do. Lady Everingham remarked that she had not been at St. Genevieve since she was a girl, and it appeared Lady Theresa had never visited it. Lady Everingham proposed that they should all ride over on the morrow, and she appealed to her husband for his approbation, instantly given, for though she loved admiration, and he apparently was an iceberg, they were really devoted to each other. Then there was a consultation as to their arrangements. The Duchess would drive over in her pony chair with Theresa. The Duke, as usual, had affairs that would occupy him. The rest were to ride. It was a happy suggestion, all anticipated pleasure; and the evening terminated with the prospect of what Lady Everingham called an adventure.

Mr. Lyle stood up to leave, as he had some miles to travel back. He approached with a bit of hesitation, hoping that Coningsby would come to visit his bloodhounds, which Lord Henry had mentioned Coningsby wanted to do. Lady Everingham noted that she hadn't been to St. Genevieve since she was a girl, and it seemed that Lady Theresa had never been there. Lady Everingham suggested that they should all ride over there the next day and looked to her husband for his approval, which he readily gave. Although she enjoyed attention and he seemed quite distant, they were truly devoted to one another. They then discussed their plans. The Duchess would drive over in her pony cart with Theresa, while the Duke had his usual commitments. The rest would ride. It was a delightful idea, with everyone looking forward to the fun, and the evening ended with the anticipation of what Lady Everingham called an adventure.

The ladies themselves soon withdrew; the gentlemen lingered for a while; the Duke took up his candle, and bid his guests good night; Lord Everingham drank a glass of Seltzer water, nodded, and vanished. Lord Henry and his friend sat up talking over the past. They were too young to call them old times; and yet what a life seemed to have elapsed since they had quitted Eton, dear old Eton! Their boyish feelings, and still latent boyish character, developed with their reminiscences.

The women soon left; the men stayed for a bit longer. The Duke picked up his candle and said goodnight to his guests. Lord Everingham had a glass of Seltzer water, nodded, and disappeared. Lord Henry and his friend stayed up chatting about the past. They were too young to call it the old days, but it felt like so much had happened since they left Eton, good old Eton! Their youthful emotions and still present boyish nature emerged as they reminisced.

‘Do you remember Bucknall? Which Bucknall? The eldest: I saw him the other day at Nottingham; he is in the Rifles. Do you remember that day at Sirly Hall, that Paulet had that row with Dickinson? Did you like Dickinson? Hum! Paulet was a good fellow. I tell you who was a good fellow, Paulet’s little cousin. What! Augustus Le Grange? Oh! I liked Augustus Le Grange. I wonder where Buckhurst is? I had a letter from him the other day. He has gone with his uncle to Paris. We shall find him at Cambridge in October. I suppose you know Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has he, though! I wonder who will have our room at Cookesley’s? Cookesley was a good fellow! Oh, capital! How well he behaved when there was that row about our going out with the hounds? Do you remember Vere’s face? It makes me laugh now when I think of it. I tell you who was a good fellow, Kangaroo Gray; I liked him. I don’t know any fellow who sang a better song!’

‘Do you remember Bucknall? Which Bucknall? The oldest one: I saw him the other day in Nottingham; he’s in the Rifles. Do you remember that day at Sirly Hall when Paulet had that argument with Dickinson? Did you like Dickinson? Hmm! Paulet was a decent guy. I’ll tell you who was a decent guy, Paulet’s little cousin. What! Augustus Le Grange? Oh! I liked Augustus Le Grange. I wonder where Buckhurst is? I got a letter from him the other day. He’s gone to Paris with his uncle. We’ll see him at Cambridge in October. I assume you know Millbank has gone to Oriel. Has he, really! I wonder who will take our room at Cookesley’s? Cookesley was a good guy! Oh, amazing! He really stepped up when there was that incident about our going out with the hounds? Do you remember Vere’s face? It makes me laugh now just thinking about it. I’ll tell you who was a good guy, Kangaroo Gray; I liked him. I don’t know anyone who sang a better song!’

‘By the bye,’ said Coningsby, ‘what sort of fellow is Eustace Lyle? I rather liked his look.’

‘By the way,’ said Coningsby, ‘what kind of guy is Eustace Lyle? I kind of liked his vibe.’

‘Oh! I will tell you all about him,’ said Lord Henry. ‘He is a great ally of mine, and I think you will like him very much. It is a Roman Catholic family, about the oldest we have in the county, and the wealthiest. You see, Lyle’s father was the most violent ultra Whig, and so were all Eustace’s guardians; but the moment he came of age, he announced that he should not mix himself up with either of the parties in the county, and that his tenantry might act exactly as they thought fit. My father thinks, of course, that Lyle is a Conservative, and that he only waits the occasion to come forward; but he is quite wrong. I know Lyle well, and he speaks to me without disguise. You see ‘tis an old Cavalier family, and Lyle has all the opinions and feelings of his race. He will not ally himself with anti-monarchists, and democrats, and infidels, and sectarians; at the same time, why should he support a party who pretend to oppose these, but who never lose an opportunity of insulting his religion, and would deprive him, if possible, of the advantages of the very institutions which his family assisted in establishing?’

‘Oh! I’ll tell you all about him,’ said Lord Henry. ‘He’s a great friend of mine, and I think you’ll really like him. It’s a Roman Catholic family, one of the oldest in the county, and the wealthiest. You see, Lyle’s father was a hardcore ultra Whig, and so were all of Eustace’s guardians; but the moment he turned 18, he declared that he wouldn’t get involved with either party in the county, and that his tenants could act however they saw fit. My dad thinks, of course, that Lyle is a Conservative and just waiting for the right moment to step in; but he’s completely wrong. I know Lyle well, and he speaks to me honestly. You see, it’s an old Cavalier family, and Lyle has all the views and feelings of his lineage. He refuses to join forces with anti-monarchists, democrats, infidels, and sectarians; at the same time, why would he support a party that claims to oppose these groups but never misses a chance to insult his religion, and would take away the benefits of the very institutions that his family helped establish?’

‘Why, indeed? I am glad to have made his acquaintance,’ said Coningsby. ‘Is he clever?’

‘Why, really? I’m happy to have met him,’ said Coningsby. ‘Is he smart?’

‘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.’

‘I think so,’ said Lord Henry. ‘He’s the shyest guy I’ve ever met, especially around women, but he’s really popular in the county. He does a ton of good and is one of the best riders we have. My dad says he’s the best; bold, but really steady.’

‘He is older than we are?’

"Is he older than us?"

‘My senior by a year: he is just of age.’

‘He is a year older than me: he just turned eighteen.’

‘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!’

‘Oh, wow! 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,’ noted Coningsby, thoughtfully. ‘I say we hit the hay, buddy!’

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.

In a valley, not far from the edge of a beautiful river, there was a modern building on a high, man-made terrace at the base of a forested ridge. It featured a stunning style of Christian architecture. The structure was vast and richly adorned, made from shiny white stone that sparkled in the sunlight, standing out against the lush greenery behind it. The winding valley was dotted with clusters of old trees but not overcrowded, creating a grassy area on both sides of the mansion known as the Lower Park. However, it was the Upper Park, with its unique and picturesque charm, that truly highlighted this magnificent residence. The wooded ridges surrounding the valley were not merely hills; their crest marked the edge of a vast enclosed plateau filled with all the characteristics of an ancient hunting ground: grass, trees, dense underbrush, and expansive patches of gorse and fern. The deer thrived here, living in a wild environment of their own, often coming down to the river in the evenings. Some of them could frequently be seen by those in the valley, and various groups were often spotted grazing on the green slopes above the mansion, creating a beautiful and inspiring scene. Occasionally, in the twilight, a solitary figure might be visible standing at the edge of the steep drop, large and dark against the clear sky.

We have endeavoured slightly to sketch St. Geneviève 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.

We’ve tried to give a brief overview of St. Geneviève as it appeared to our friends from Beaumanoir, who arrived in the valley the day after Mr. Lyle had dinner with them. The valley opened up for about half a mile in front of the mansion, providing the residents with a view of a vast and beautifully cultivated landscape. It was through this area that the group from Beaumanoir had made their way. The first look at the building, with its striking location, lovely design, vibrant colors, and impressive size—seemingly a collection of galleries, halls, chapels, mullioned windows, doorways with clustered columns, and clusters of graceful pinnacles and intricate spires—elicited a collective gasp of wonder and admiration.

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.

The ride from Beaumanoir had been wonderful; the warmth of summer in every breeze, the summer light on every tree. Lady Everingham's cheerful laughter echoed frequently in the air; she often looked at Coningsby, pointing out a beautiful view or a lovely scene. She acted like the hostess of Nature, introducing him to all its wonders.

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.

Mr. Lyle had recognized them. He rode forward on a chubby little light brown pony, with a long white mane and a flowing white tail, and the most mischievous eye ever. He rode next to the Duchess and pointed out their gently sloping path.

They arrived, and the peacocks, who were sunning themselves on the turrets, expanded their plumage to welcome them.

They arrived, and the peacocks, who were lounging on the turrets, spread their feathers to greet 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.’

‘I can remember the old house,’ said the Duchess, as she took Mr. Lyle’s arm; ‘and I’m happy to see the new one. The Duke had gotten me ready for a lot of beauty, but the reality is even better than he described.’

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. Geneviève 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.

They walked through a short corridor into a big hall. They might have stopped to admire its beautiful ceiling, gallery, and screen, but their host suggested they refresh themselves after their ride, so they followed him through several rooms into a spacious chamber with oak paneling decorated with a series of fascinating paintings that depicted the siege of St. Geneviève by the Parliament forces in 1643: the various attacks and counterattacks, and the final defeat of the rebels. In all these paintings was the brave and elegant Sir Eustace Lyle, wearing armor and a buff jerkin, with a shiny sword and a flowing plume. Looking at these paintings was always very exciting for Henry Sydney, who constantly bemoaned his bad luck for not living in such times; in fact, he insisted that everyone else should also regret their unfortunate fate.

‘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!’

‘Look, Coningsby, this battery in the Upper Park,’ said Lord Henry. ‘This is what did the job: just how it dominates the valley; Sir Eustace operates it himself. Mother, what a shame Beaumanoir wasn’t under siege!’

‘It may be,’ said Coningsby.

"Maybe," said Coningsby.

‘I always fancy a siege must be so interesting,’ said Lady Everingham. ‘It must be so exciting.’

"I always think a siege would be really interesting," said Lady Everingham. "It must be so exciting."

‘I hope the next siege may be at Beaumanoir, instead of St. Geneviève,’ 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.

‘I hope the next siege is at Beaumanoir instead of St. Geneviève,’ said Lyle, laughing; ‘since Henry Sydney has such a knack for military stuff. Duchess, you mentioned the other day that you liked Malvoisie, and here’s some.’

  ‘Now broach me a cask of Malvoisie,
  Bring pasty from the doe;’

‘Now bring me a barrel of Malvoisie,  
And get me some pâté from the deer;’

said the Duchess. ‘That has been my luncheon.’

said the Duchess. "That was my lunch."

‘A poetic repast,’ said Lady Theresa.

‘A poetic meal,’ 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.’

‘Their breeds of sheep must have been pretty inferior back in the day,’ said Lord Everingham, ‘since they made such a fuss about their venison. For my part, I see it as something that's as outdated as jousts and tournaments.’

‘I am sorry that they have gone by,’ said Lady Theresa.

‘I’m sorry that they have gone by,’ Lady Theresa said.

‘Everything has gone by that is beautiful,’ said Lord Henry.

“Everything beautiful has come and gone,” said Lord Henry.

‘Life is much easier,’ said Lord Everingham.

'Life is a lot easier,' said Lord Everingham.

‘Life easy!’ said Lord Henry. ‘Life appears to me to be a fierce struggle.’

‘Life is easy!’ said Lord Henry. ‘To me, life seems like a fierce struggle.’

‘Manners are easy,’ said Coningsby, ‘and life is hard.’

“Manners are simple,” Coningsby said, “but life is tough.”

‘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.’

‘And I want to see things just the opposite,’ said Lord Henry. ‘The ways of making a living easier; the way we live our lives more formal.’

‘Civilisation has no time for ceremony,’ said Lord Everingham.

‘Civilization 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.

‘How very serious you all are!’ said his wife. ‘I want to see the hall and many other things.’ And they all got up.

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.

There were definitely many other things to see: a long gallery filled with ancestral portraits, art and costume examples from Holbein to Lawrence; courtiers of the Tudors and cavaliers of the Stuarts, ending with red-coated squires just back from the field, and gentlemen dressed in black coats, sitting in library chairs, with their backs to a crimson curtain. Women, however, are always charming; and the current generation may look at their mothers painted by Lawrence, as if they were sponsors of Almack’s; or their grandmothers by Reynolds, as Robinettas caressing birds, with just as much delight as they gaze upon the dewy-eyed matrons of Lely and the proud poses of the heroines of Vandyke. But what intrigued them more than the gallery, or the lavish parlors, or even the grand hall, was the chapel, where art had exhausted all its creativity, and wealth had provided all its resources. The walls and vaulted ceilings were completely painted in encaustic by the top artists of Germany, depicting the main events of the New Testament, the splendor of the mosaic floor, the richness of the stained-glass windows, the lavishness of the altar, topped by a masterpiece of Carlo Dolce and surrounded by a silver railing, the tone of rich and solemn light that filled everything and fused all the different sources of beauty into one captivating and harmonious whole: all of this created an effect that silenced them for several minutes, until the ladies expressed their feelings in an almost inarticulate murmur of reverence and admiration; while a tear rolled down the cheek 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.

Leaving the chapel, they strolled through the gardens until they reached their destination, where they encountered the most beautiful sight in the world: a group of small pony carts, each pulled by a little chubby fawn-colored pony, like the one Mr. Lyle had been riding. Lord Henry was driving his mother; Lord Everingham had Lady Theresa with him; Lady Everingham was accompanied by Coningsby. Their host rode alongside the Duchess, and along winding paths that gently elevated through lovely woods and provided picturesque views, they eventually arrived at 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.’

‘You really see our host at his best in his own home,’ said Lady Everingham. ‘He hardly seems like the same person. I haven’t seen him blush once. He talks and moves with confidence. It’s a shame he isn’t more graceful. Above all, I appreciate a graceful man.’

‘That chapel,’ said Coningsby, ‘was a fine thing.’

‘That chapel,’ Coningsby said, ‘was really something special.’

‘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?’

‘Very!’ said Lady Everingham. ‘Did you notice the painting above the altar, the Virgin with blue eyes? I’ve never seen blue eyes in a painting like that before. What’s your favorite eye color?’

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

Coningsby felt awkward; he said something kind of pointless about appreciating everything 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?’

‘But everyone has a favorite style; I want to know yours. Do you like regular features? Or is it the expression that appeals to you?’

‘Expression; I think I like expression. Expression must be always delightful.’

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

‘Do you dance?’

"Do you want to dance?"

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

‘No; I’m not a great dancer. I’m afraid I don’t have many skills. I do enjoy 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 don’t fence,’ said Lady Everingham, smiling. ‘But I think you're right not to dance. It’s not your style. You’re ambitious, I believe?’ she added.

‘I was not aware of it; everybody is ambitious.’

‘I didn’t realize that; everyone 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.’

‘You see, I know a bit about your character. Henry has talked about you a lot; long before we met—met again, I should say, because we’re old friends, remember? You know, your career really interests me. I like ambitious people.’

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.

There’s something intriguing about the fact that a charming woman is interested in your career. Coningsby felt like he was possibly impressing a Madame de Longueville. A woman who likes ambitious men must be extraordinary; obviously a kind of heroine. At that moment, they arrived at the Upper Park, and the fresh scenery shifted the subject of their conversation.

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 far as the eye could see, a wild forest scene stretched out before them. It might have lacked some variation in its landscape, but that shortcoming was more than made up for by the sheer number and enormous size of the trees; they were truly the largest you could find in England, and there’s no part of Europe where the timber is this massive. The wide, endless clearings, the vast pathways, the many deer grazing or leaping in every direction, the clusters of yellow gorse and green ferns, and the breeze that always swept across this elevated land, even on still summer days, created a lively and refreshing scene. It felt like suddenly visiting another country, living in a different culture, and breathing a new kind of air. They paused for a few minutes at a pavilion designed for hunting, then returned, all pleased with their visit to what seemed like the upper reaches of the earth.

As they approached the brow of the hill that hung over St. Geneviève, they heard the great bell sound.

As they got closer to the top of the hill that overlooked St. Geneviève, they heard the big bell ring.

‘What is that?’ asked the Duchess.

“What's 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. Geneviève twice a-week at this hour.’

‘It’s almsgiving day,’ Mr. Lyle said, looking a bit embarrassed and blushing for the first time. ‘The people from the parishes I’m connected with come to St. Geneviève twice a week at this time.’

‘And what is your system?’ inquired Lord Everingham, who had stopped, interested by the scene. ‘What check have you?’

‘And what’s your system?’ asked Lord Everingham, who had stopped, intrigued by the scene. ‘What check do you have?’

‘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.

‘The rectors of the different parishes issue certificates to those they believe deserve assistance based on the guidelines I've set. These certificates are then checked by my almoner, who signs off on them, after which they are presented at the postern-gate. The certificate details their needs, and my steward uses his discretion to act on it.

‘Mamma, I see them!’ exclaimed Lady Theresa.

‘Mom, 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.’

‘Maybe you think they could be helped without all this ceremony,’ said Mr. Lyle, feeling very confused. ‘But I agree with Henry and Mr. Coningsby that ceremony isn't just an empty form, as many people believe. I want the public to consistently and clearly understand that property is their protector and friend.’

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

‘I'm with you on this, Mr. Lyle,’ said the Duchess, ‘as much as I am with 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. Geneviève!

They made their way through the valley, a procession of nature that an artist would have found inspiring. The old man, who cherished the journey too much to take advantage of the exemption he was given due to his age, joined his grandchild and carried his staff. The widow with her nursing baby came along, along with others clinging to her; some faces were sad, some were pale; many were serious, while every now and then a playful sparkle appeared; several women wore red cloaks, and many young women had light baskets; curly-haired kids had serious expressions, and occasionally a strong man struggled with the work he wished to do. But there wasn’t a single heart in the group that didn’t appreciate the bell ringing from the tower of St. Geneviève!

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.’

‘My ancestors risked their lives and fortunes for the cause of the Sovereignty and the Church of England,’ Lyle told Coningsby as they lay stretched out on the sunny grass in the park of Beaumanoir. ‘I inherit their deep convictions. They were Catholics, just like me. No doubt they would have been pleased to see their ancient faith thriving in their homeland; but they accepted, just as I do, an unfavorable and seemingly unchangeable decree. But if we couldn’t have the Church of our fathers, we honored and respected the Church of their children. It was at least a Church; a ‘Catholic and Apostolic Church,’ as it declares every day. Besides, it was our ally. When we faced persecution from Puritan Parliaments, it was the Sovereign and the Church of England that stepped in, fully aware that they would invite hatred and mistrust against themselves, to protect us from the dark and unyielding 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.’

‘I believe,’ said Coningsby, ‘that if Charles I had executed all the Catholic priests that Parliament asked him to, he would have never 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.

‘You were talking about my dad,’ Lyle continued. ‘He definitely was a Whig. Frustrated by being left out of politics, he joined that party in the State that started to hint at emancipation. But in the end, they didn't set us free. It was the fall of the Papacy in England that established the Whig aristocracy; that’s something that will always be deep down in their hearts, as I can assure you it is in 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.’

"I realized at a young age," Lyle continued, "that I was expected to inherit my father's political connections along with the family estates. Under normal circumstances, this would probably have happened. In times that didn't force someone to think deeply, I likely wouldn’t have hesitated to join a party made up of the best families in England, known for accomplished men and charming women. But I enter this life in the midst of a upheaval in which the very principles of our political and social systems are being questioned. I cannot align myself with the party of destruction. It’s something that goes against my nature. So, what is left for me? The Duke speaks to me about Conservative principles, but he doesn’t explain what they are. I do see a party in the State that insists on making no changes until a loud demand arises, only to quickly comply after that; but those are Concessionary, not Conservative principles. This party treats institutions like we treat our pheasants, preserving them only to destroy them. But is there a statesman among these Conservatives who offers us a guiding doctrine, or defines any significant political truth we should strive to establish? To me, this Conservatism seems barren, an unhappy hybrid; the mule of politics that produces nothing. What do you think about all this, Coningsby? I assure you I'm feeling confused, perplexed, and overwhelmed. I know I have public duties to fulfill; in fact, every day I’m urged by all parties to lend my influence in one direction or another; but I feel paralyzed. I often wish I had no position in this country. The weight of its responsibility weighs me down; it makes me miserable. I speak to you openly; with a frankness that our brief acquaintance barely warrants; but Henry Sydney has spoken of you so often, and I’ve wanted to know you for so long, that I’m sharing my thoughts without any reservations."

‘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.’

‘My dear friend,’ said Coningsby, ‘you’ve just captured my feelings perfectly by expressing your own. My thoughts on these matters have been a mess for a long time. I’m adrift in a sea of troubles and would have been lost long ago if I hadn’t been supported by a deep, even if unclear, belief that there are still important truths to discover; for example, that Government should be cherished, not despised, and that Religion should be a genuine belief, not just a ritual.’

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.

The moral influence of living in a community showcases some of the most fascinating aspects of our national character. This influence was clearly visible in the area around Beaumanoir. The women of that house were very aware of their responsibilities; understanding their roles thoroughly, they carried them out sincerely and effectively, given their knowledge of the situation. The results were evident in the peasantry's attitude, which was much better than what we often see. The old feudal spirit that still exists in these remote places is a tool that, when handled skillfully, can lead to significant social benefits. The Duke was well aware of this, and his family fully embraced his views and supported them. Lady Everingham, back in the place she once called home, resumed her gentle duties as if she had never stopped being part of the family and as if she didn’t have other obligations elsewhere. Coningsby often accompanied her and her sister on their charitable missions. He admired the graceful energy and thorough attention to detail with which Lady Everingham managed schools, organized relief societies, and approached individual cases of hardship or misfortune. He was deeply fascinated as he observed the charm of her presence as she softened the unyielding, inspired the lazy, comforted the distressed, and lifted the spirits of the diligent with her smile and ready words. Lady Theresa also shone during these moments, albeit in a different way. While she didn’t have her sister’s vivacity, there was a sweet seriousness to her demeanor that was very appealing, along with occasional bursts of energy and decisiveness that stood in stark contrast to her otherwise controlled behavior in social gatherings.

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.

In the company of these captivating friends, time drifted by for Coningsby in a way he sometimes wished would never change. When he was apart from them, he often felt thoughtful and uneasily restless. Even being with Henry Sydney or Eustace Lyle, who would usually match his mood perfectly, couldn't make up for the lack of that undefined, new, strange, yet pleasant thrill that he felt, though he couldn't quite place how or why, washing over him. At times, the image of Theresa Sydney would flash through his thoughts; at other times, the cheerful voice of Lady Everingham echoed in his mind. But every day, Coningsby's main goal was to be their companion on a ride or walk, avoiding any plans that would keep him away from them for too long.

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.

One day, he had been out hunting rabbits with Lyle and Henry Sydney, and returned to Beaumanoir for dinner late. He hadn’t enjoyed his outing and hadn’t shot very well. He felt a bit dreamy and quiet, and he really missed Lady Everingham’s conversation, which was always so sharp and interestingly personal to him; it was one of the reasons she had such an influence over him, even though Coningsby wasn’t fully aware of it at the time. Talk to a man about himself, and he’s usually hooked. That’s the best way to win him over. The only difference between men and women in this regard is that most women are vain, while some men aren’t. There are men who lack self-love, but if they have it, female vanity is just a light and trivial desire compared to the overwhelming appetite in men, which can consume anything and always wants 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,

When Coningsby walked into the drawing-room, there was a bit of a buzz in the air, but with twilight setting in, it was initially tough to see who was there. He quickly realized there were unfamiliar faces. A well-dressed man was near a sofa where the Duchess and Lady Everingham were sitting, chatting animatedly. His words seemed to draw everyone's attention; his audience was lively, their eyes shining with interest and intelligence; no word went unnoticed. Coningsby didn't approach like he usually would; he had a feeling that the stranger was discussing things he didn't know about. He turned to a table and picked up a book, starting to read it upside down. A hand gently rested on his shoulder. He turned to see another stranger, who spoke to him in a tone that felt friendly and familiar,

‘How do you do, Coningsby?’

"How's it going, 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.

It was a young man around twenty-four years old, tall and handsome. Old memories, his familiar greeting, and a strong family resemblance helped Coningsby figure out who was speaking to him. It was, in fact, the eldest son of the Duke, the Marquis of Beaumanoir, who had unexpectedly arrived at his father's place with his friend, Mr. Melton, on their way 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.

Mr. Melton was a stylish gentleman and a favorite in social circles. He was around thirty, attractive, with a presence that drew attention, and his manners, while easygoing, were polished enough. He was open but composed, and though not exactly witty, he had a knack for clever phrases developed through practice and experience that always seemed impactful. The ladies particularly enjoyed his presence. He knew all about the people they were interested in, and Coningsby listened quietly to names he was hearing for the first time, which seemed to generate a lot of buzz. Mr. Melton often directed his most lively comments and sparkling stories to Lady Everingham, who clearly appreciated everything he said and responded 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.

Throughout dinner, Lady Everingham and Mr. Melton kept up a conversation that seemed quite entertaining, mostly about topics and people that didn't interest our hero at all; however, he was satisfied to hear Lady Everingham casually say to the Duchess in the drawing room.

‘I am so glad, mamma, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted some amusement.’

‘I’m so glad, Mom, that Mr. Melton has come; we wanted some fun.’

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.

What a confession! What a revelation to Coningsby about his absolute insignificance! Coningsby really disliked Mr. Melton but felt he couldn't compete socially. The talent of the unpolished, inexperienced young man shrank in comparison to that of the seasoned, skilled man of the world. What was this man's charm? What was the secret behind his effortless composure, which was never thrown off balance, yet was respectful and tasteful? And then there was his outfit; it seemed designed by some otherworldly artist, yet it was impossible to pinpoint the subtle elements that contributed to the overall effect that was so compelling. Coningsby’s coat was made by Stultz; nearly every guy in the sixth form had his coats made by Stultz too; yet Coningsby thought his own coat looked like it came from some country shop. He started to wonder where Mr. Melton got his boots, glancing down at his own, which, despite being made in St. James’s Street, seemed to him to look pretty clumsy.

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.

Lady Everingham was set on making sure Mr. Melton saw Beaumanoir in the best light. Mr. Melton had only been there once before, during Christmas when the house was crowded with visitors and forced cheerfulness. Now, he was about to experience the countryside. Consequently, there were long rides every day, which Lady Everingham called expeditions, and usually something minor happened that she labeled an adventure. She was nice to Coningsby but didn’t have time for the long conversations that he had once found so enchanting. Mr. Melton was always around, seemingly the center of every thought, phrase, and plan. Coningsby started to feel that Beaumanoir wasn’t as wonderful as he had thought. He began to feel like he had overstayed his welcome. He had received a letter from Mr. Rigby, informing him that he was expected at Coningsby Castle at the beginning of September, to meet Lord Monmouth, who had returned to England and for serious reasons was going to stay at his main residence, which he hadn’t visited in years. Coningsby had planned to stay at Beaumanoir until then, but suddenly he realized that the Age of Ruins was over, and he should take the chance to visit Manchester, which was in the same county as his grandfather’s castle. It's so hard to predict what will happen! No matter how much we ponder, we are shaped by our circumstances; and the unexpected arrival of a London dandy at the country home of an English nobleman sent this representative of the New Generation, fresh from Eton, steeped in biases, yet with a mind open to questioning and given to reflection, to a setting likely to spark both mental activity; one that called for investigation and encouraged thought, the great METROPOLIS OF LABOUR.

END OF BOOK III.

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I.

A great city, whose image dwells in the memory of man, is the type of some great idea. Rome represents conquest; Faith hovers over the towers of Jerusalem; and Athens embodies the pre-eminent quality of the antique world, Art.

A great city that lives in people's memories symbolizes some powerful idea. Rome stands for conquest; Faith looms over the towers of Jerusalem; and Athens represents the foremost trait of the ancient world, Art.

In modern ages, Commerce has created London; while Manners, in the most comprehensive sense of the word, have long found a supreme capital in the airy and bright-minded city of the Seine.

In today's world, commerce built London, while culture, in its broadest sense, has long established a vibrant capital in the lively and enlightened city by the Seine.

Art was to the ancient world, Science is to the modern: the distinctive faculty. In the minds of men the useful has succeeded to the beautiful. Instead of the city of the Violet Crown, a Lancashire village has expanded into a mighty region of factories and warehouses. Yet, rightly understood, Manchester is as great a human exploit as Athens.

Art was to the ancient world what science is to the modern world: the defining skill. In people's minds, practicality has replaced beauty. Instead of the city of the Violet Crown, a village in Lancashire has grown into a vast area of factories and warehouses. However, when viewed correctly, Manchester is as significant a human achievement as Athens.

The inhabitants, indeed, are not so impressed with their idiosyncrasy as the countrymen of Pericles and Phidias. They do not fully comprehend the position which they occupy. It is the philosopher alone who can conceive the grandeur of Manchester, and the immensity of its future. There are yet great truths to tell, if we had either the courage to announce or the temper to receive them.

The locals aren't nearly as impressed by their uniqueness as the people in the time of Pericles and Phidias. They don't completely understand their own status. Only a philosopher can grasp the greatness of Manchester and the vastness of its future. There are still important truths to share, if we had the courage to say them or the patience to hear them.

CHAPTER II.

A feeling of melancholy, even of uneasiness, attends our first entrance into a great town, especially at night. Is it that the sense of all this vast existence with which we have no connexion, where we are utterly unknown, oppresses us with our insignificance? Is it that it is terrible to feel friendless where all have friends?

A sense of sadness, even a feeling of unease, accompanies our first arrival in a big city, especially at night. Is it the awareness of this immense existence that we have no connection to, where we are completely unknown, that weighs on us with our unimportance? Is it frightening to feel alone when everyone else has friends?

Yet reverse the picture. Behold a community where you are unknown, but where you will be known, perhaps honoured. A place where you have no friends, but where, also, you have no enemies. A spot that has hitherto been a blank in your thoughts, as you have been a cipher in its sensations, and yet a spot, perhaps, pregnant with your destiny!

Yet turn the situation around. Imagine a community where you're not recognized, but where you could become known, maybe even respected. A place where you have no friends, but also no enemies. A location that has been an empty space in your mind, just as you’ve been a nonentity in its experiences, and yet a place that could hold your future!

There is, perhaps, no act of memory so profoundly interesting as to recall the careless mood and moment in which we have entered a town, a house, a chamber, on the eve of an acquaintance or an event that has given colour and an impulse to our future life.

There might not be a more fascinating memory than recalling the carefree vibe and moment we stepped into a town, a house, or a room just before meeting someone new or experiencing an event that shaped our future.

What is this Fatality that men worship? Is it a Goddess?

What is this Fatality that people worship? Is it a Goddess?

Unquestionably it is a power that acts mainly by female agents. Women are the Priestesses of Predestination.

Clearly, it is a force that primarily operates through female agents. Women are the Priestesses of Destiny.

Man conceives Fortune, but Woman conducts it.

Man thinks of Fortune, but Woman guides it.

It is the Spirit of Man that says, ‘I will be great;’ but it is the Sympathy of Woman that usually makes him so.

It is the Spirit of Man that says, ‘I will be great;’ but it is the Sympathy of Woman that usually helps him achieve that.

It was not the comely and courteous hostess of the Adelphi Hotel, Manchester, that gave occasion to these remarks, though she may deserve them, and though she was most kind to our Coningsby as he came in late at night very tired, and not in very good humour.

It wasn't the attractive and polite hostess of the Adelphi Hotel, Manchester, that prompted these comments, although she might deserve them, and she was very kind to our Coningsby when he arrived late at night, very tired and not in the best mood.

He had travelled the whole day through the great district of labour, his mind excited by strange sights, and at length wearied by their multiplication. He had passed over the plains where iron and coal supersede turf and corn, dingy as the entrance of Hades, and flaming with furnaces; and now he was among illumined factories with more windows than Italian palaces, and smoking chimneys taller than Egyptian obelisks. Alone in the great metropolis of machinery itself, sitting down in a solitary coffee-room glaring with gas, with no appetite, a whirling head, and not a plan or purpose for the morrow, why was he there? Because a being, whose name even was unknown to him, had met him in a hedge alehouse during a thunderstorm, and told him that the Age of Ruins was past.

He had spent the whole day wandering through the vast industrial area, his mind racing with strange sights, and eventually exhausted by the sheer volume of them. He had crossed the fields where iron and coal replaced grass and crops, grim like the gates of Hades and blazing with the glow of furnaces; and now he was surrounded by illuminated factories with more windows than Italian palaces, and smoking chimneys taller than Egyptian obelisks. Alone in the bustling heart of machinery, sitting in a solitary coffee shop lit by gas, with no appetite, a spinning head, and no plans or goals for the next day, why was he there? Because someone, whose name he didn’t even know, had met him in a pub during a thunderstorm and told him that the Age of Ruins was over.

Remarkable instance of the influence of an individual; some evidence of the extreme susceptibility of our hero.

Remarkable example of how one person can have an impact; some evidence of how easily influenced our hero is.

Even his bedroom was lit by gas. Wonderful city! That, however, could be got rid of. He opened the window. The summer air was sweet, even in this land of smoke and toil. He feels a sensation such as in Lisbon or Lima precedes an earthquake. The house appears to quiver. It is a sympathetic affection occasioned by a steam-engine in a neighbouring factory.

Even his bedroom was lit by gas. What a wonderful city! But that could be changed. He opened the window. The summer air was sweet, even in this place filled with smoke and hard work. He feels a sensation like the one in Lisbon or Lima that comes before an earthquake. The house seems to shake. It’s a sympathetic reaction caused by a steam engine in a neighboring factory.

Notwithstanding, however, all these novel incidents, Coningsby slept the deep sleep of youth and health, of a brain which, however occasionally perplexed by thought, had never been harassed by anxiety. He rose early, freshened, and in fine spirits. And by the time the deviled chicken and the buttered toast, that mysterious and incomparable luxury, which can only be obtained at an inn, had disappeared, he felt all the delightful excitement of travel.

Despite all these new experiences, Coningsby slept the sound sleep of youth and good health, with a mind that, although occasionally troubled by thoughts, had never been weighed down by worry. He woke up early, feeling refreshed and in great spirits. By the time the deviled chicken and the buttered toast—the mysterious and unmatched luxury that can only be found at an inn—had vanished, he was filled with the delightful excitement of traveling.

And now for action! Not a letter had Coningsby; not an individual in that vast city was known to him. He went to consult his kind hostess, who smiled confidence. He was to mention her name at one place, his own at another. All would be right; she seemed to have reliance in the destiny of such a nice young man.

And now it's time to take action! Coningsby didn't have a single letter; he didn't know anyone in that huge city. He went to talk to his kind hostess, who smiled confidently. He was supposed to mention her name in one place and his own in another. Everything would be fine; she seemed to trust that fate had something good in store for such a nice young man.

He saw all; they were kind and hospitable to the young stranger, whose thought, and earnestness, and gentle manners attracted them. One recommended him to another; all tried to aid and assist him. He entered chambers vaster than are told of in Arabian fable, and peopled with habitants more wondrous than Afrite or Peri. For there he beheld, in long-continued ranks, those mysterious forms full of existence without life, that perform with facility, and in an instant, what man can fulfil only with difficulty and in days. A machine is a slave that neither brings nor bears degradation; it is a being endowed with the greatest degree of energy, and acting under the greatest degree of excitement, yet free at the same time from all passion and emotion. It is, therefore, not only a slave, but a supernatural slave. And why should one say that the machine does not live? It breathes, for its breath forms the atmosphere of some towns. It moves with more regularity than man. And has it not a voice? Does not the spindle sing like a merry girl at her work, and the steam-engine roar in jolly chorus, like a strong artisan handling his lusty tools, and gaining a fair day’s wages for a fair day’s toil?

He saw everything; they were friendly and welcoming to the young stranger, whose thoughts, sincerity, and gentle demeanor drew them in. One person recommended him to another; everyone tried to help and support him. He walked into rooms larger than those described in Arabian tales, filled with beings more amazing than any mythical spirit. There, he witnessed, in long lines, those mysterious forms full of existence without being alive, that accomplish effortlessly, in an instant, what a person can only achieve with great difficulty over days. A machine is a slave that neither experiences nor endures humiliation; it is a being with incredible energy, working under intense stimulation, yet completely free from all passion and emotion. It is, therefore, not only a slave but a supernatural one. And why should we claim that the machine does not live? It breathes, as its breath permeates the atmosphere of certain cities. It moves more consistently than a human. And doesn’t it have a voice? Doesn’t the spindle sing like a cheerful girl working, and does the steam engine not roar in a joyful chorus, like a strong worker handling his sturdy tools and earning a fair day’s pay for a fair day's work?

Nor should the weaving-room be forgotten, where a thousand or fifteen hundred girls may be observed in their coral necklaces, working like Penelope in the daytime; some pretty, some pert, some graceful and jocund, some absorbed in their occupation; a little serious some, few sad. And the cotton you have observed in its rude state, that you have seen the silent spinner change into thread, and the bustling weaver convert into cloth, you may now watch as in a moment it is tinted with beautiful colours, or printed with fanciful patterns. And yet the mystery of mysteries is to view machines making machines; a spectacle that fills the mind with curious, and even awful, speculation.

Nor should we overlook the weaving room, where a thousand or fifteen hundred girls can be seen wearing their coral necklaces, working like Penelope during the day; some are pretty, some are cheeky, some are graceful and cheerful, while others are focused on their tasks; a few are serious, and very few are sad. The cotton you’ve seen in its raw form, that you’ve watched the quiet spinner turn into thread and the busy weaver transform into cloth, you can now see as it is quickly dyed in beautiful colors or printed with creative designs. And yet the greatest mystery of all is watching machines create machines; it’s a sight that inspires curious—and even unsettling—thoughts.

From early morn to the late twilight, our Coningsby for several days devoted himself to the comprehension of Manchester. It was to him a new world, pregnant with new ideas, and suggestive of new trains of thought and feeling. In this unprecedented partnership between capital and science, working on a spot which Nature had indicated as the fitting theatre of their exploits, he beheld a great source of the wealth of nations which had been reserved for these times, and he perceived that this wealth was rapidly developing classes whose power was imperfectly recognised in the constitutional scheme, and whose duties in the social system seemed altogether omitted. Young as he was, the bent of his mind, and the inquisitive spirit of the times, had sufficiently prepared him, not indeed to grapple with these questions, but to be sensible of their existence, and to ponder.

From early morning to late evening, our Coningsby spent several days trying to understand Manchester. It was a completely new world for him, filled with fresh ideas and sparking new thoughts and feelings. In this unique collaboration between capital and science, taking place in a location that Nature had chosen as the ideal stage for their efforts, he saw a major source of national wealth that was meant for this era. He realized that this wealth was quickly giving rise to social classes whose power wasn’t fully recognized in the political system, and whose responsibilities in society seemed completely ignored. Although he was young, his mindset and the curious spirit of the time had prepared him, not necessarily to tackle these issues directly, but to be aware of their existence and to reflect on them.

One evening, in the coffee-room of the hotel, having just finished his well-earned dinner, and relaxing his mind for the moment in a fresh research into the Manchester Guide, an individual, who had also been dining in the same apartment, rose from his table, and, after lolling over the empty fireplace, reading the framed announcements, looking at the directions of several letters waiting there for their owners, picking his teeth, turned round to Coningsby, and, with an air of uneasy familiarity, said,—

One evening, in the hotel’s coffee room, just after finishing his well-deserved dinner and taking a moment to unwind while going over the Manchester Guide, a man who had also been dining in the same space got up from his table. After lounging by the empty fireplace, scanning the framed announcements, checking out the letters waiting there for their owners, and picking his teeth, he turned to Coningsby and said, with an air of awkward familiarity,—

‘First visit to Manchester, sir?’

"First time in Manchester, sir?"

‘My first.’

‘My first time.’

‘Gentleman traveller, I presume?’

"Are you a gentleman traveler?"

‘I am a traveller.’ said Coningsby.

'I am a traveler,' said Coningsby.

‘Hem! From south?’

“Hey! From the south?”

‘From the south.’

"From the south."

‘And pray, sir, how did you find business as you came along? Brisk, I dare say. And yet there is a something, a sort of a something; didn’t it strike you, sir, there was a something? A deal of queer paper about, sir!’

‘So, how was business for you as you came along? Busy, I’m sure. But there’s something odd, don’t you think? Didn’t you notice it, sir? There’s a lot of strange paper around!’

‘I fear you are speaking on a subject of which I know nothing,’ said Coningsby, smiling; ‘I do not understand business at all; though I am not surprised that, being at Manchester, you should suppose so.’

‘I fear you’re talking about something I know nothing about,’ said Coningsby with a smile. ‘I don’t understand business at all; though I can see why, being in Manchester, you might think that.’

‘Ah! not in business. Hem! Professional?’

‘Ah! not in business. Um! Professional?’

‘No,’ said Coningsby, ‘I am nothing.’

‘No,’ said Coningsby, ‘I am nobody.’

‘Ah! an independent gent; hem! and a very pleasant thing, too. Pleased with Manchester, I dare say?’ continued the stranger.

‘Ah! an independent guy; hem! and that's quite nice, too. Happy with Manchester, I suppose?’ continued the stranger.

‘And astonished,’ said Coningsby; ‘I think, in the whole course of my life, I never saw so much to admire.’

‘And I’m amazed,’ said Coningsby; ‘I think, throughout my entire life, I’ve never seen so much to admire.’

‘Seen all the lions, have no doubt?’

‘Have you seen all the lions? No doubt about it?’

‘I think I have seen everything,’ said Coningsby, rather eager and with some pride.

"I think I've seen it all," said Coningsby, feeling quite eager and a bit proud.

‘Very well, very well,’ exclaimed the stranger, in a patronising tone. ‘Seen Mr. Birley’s weaving-room, I dare say?’

‘Alright, alright,’ the stranger said in a condescending tone. ‘I suppose you’ve seen Mr. Birley’s weaving room, right?’

‘Oh! isn’t it wonderful?’ said Coningsby.

‘Oh! isn’t it amazing?’ said Coningsby.

‘A great many people.’ said the stranger, with a rather supercilious smile.

‘A lot of people,’ said the stranger, with a somewhat arrogant smile.

‘But after all,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘it is the machinery without any interposition of manual power that overwhelms me. It haunts me in my dreams,’ continued Coningsby; ‘I see cities peopled with machines. Certainly Manchester is the most wonderful city of modern times!’

‘But after all,’ said Coningsby, with enthusiasm, ‘it's the machinery that works without any human input that amazes me. It even follows me into my dreams,’ Coningsby went on; ‘I see cities filled with machines. Manchester is definitely the most incredible city of our time!’

The stranger stared a little at the enthusiasm of his companion, and then picked his teeth.

The stranger glanced at his companion's enthusiasm for a moment, then started picking his teeth.

‘Of all the remarkable things here,’ said Coningsby, ‘what on the whole, sir, do you look upon as the most so?’

‘Of all the amazing things here,’ said Coningsby, ‘what do you think is the most remarkable overall, sir?’

‘In the way of machinery?’ asked the stranger.

‘In the way of machinery?’ the stranger asked.

‘In the way of machinery.’

'In the realm of machinery.'

‘Why, in the way of machinery, you know,’ said the stranger, very quietly, ‘Manchester is a dead letter.’

‘Well, in terms of machinery, you know,’ said the stranger, very calmly, ‘Manchester is irrelevant.’

‘A dead letter!’ said Coningsby.

“A dead letter!” said Coningsby.

‘Dead and buried,’ said the stranger, accompanying his words with that peculiar application of his thumb to his nose that signifies so eloquently that all is up.

‘Dead and buried,’ said the stranger, putting his thumb to his nose in that unique way that clearly indicates everything is over.

‘You astonish me!’ said Coningsby.

"You amaze me!" said Coningsby.

‘It’s a booked place though,’ said the stranger, ‘and no mistake. We have all of us a very great respect for Manchester, of course; look upon her as a sort of mother, and all that sort of thing. But she is behind the times, sir, and that won’t do in this age. The long and short of it is, Manchester is gone by.’

‘It’s a reserved spot, for sure,’ said the stranger, ‘and there’s no doubt about it. We all have a lot of respect for Manchester, of course; we see her as a kind of mother and all that. But she’s fallen behind the times, sir, and that just doesn’t work in this day and age. The bottom line is, Manchester is a thing of the past.’

‘I thought her only fault might be she was too much in advance of the rest of the country,’ said Coningsby, innocently.

"I thought her only flaw might be that she was way ahead of the rest of the country," said Coningsby, naively.

‘If you want to see life,’ said the stranger, ‘go to Staleybridge or Bolton. There’s high pressure.’

‘If you want to experience life,’ said the stranger, ‘check out Staleybridge or Bolton. It’s intense there.’

‘But the population of Manchester is increasing,’ said Coningsby.

‘But the population of Manchester is growing,’ said Coningsby.

‘Why, yes; not a doubt. You see we have all of us a great respect for the town. It is a sort of metropolis of this district, and there is a good deal of capital in the place. And it has some firstrate institutions. There’s the Manchester Bank. That’s a noble institution, full of commercial enterprise; understands the age, sir; high-pressure to the backbone. I came up to town to see the manager to-day. I am building a new mill now myself at Staleybridge, and mean to open it by January, and when I do, I’ll give you leave to pay another visit to Mr. Birley’s weaving-room, with my compliments.’

'Absolutely, no doubt about it. We all have a lot of respect for the town. It's kind of the main hub of this area, and there's a good amount of investment here. Plus, it has some top-notch institutions. There's the Manchester Bank. That's a great establishment, full of business spirit; it really gets the times, sir; high-energy all the way. I went to see the manager today. I'm currently building a new mill at Staleybridge, and I plan to open it by January. When that happens, I’ll gladly allow you to visit Mr. Birley’s weaving-room again, with my compliments.'

‘I am very sorry,’ said Coningsby, ‘that I have only another day left; but pray tell me, what would you recommend me most to see within a reasonable distance of Manchester?’

“I’m really sorry,” said Coningsby, “that I only have one more day left; but please tell me, what would you recommend I see that's within a reasonable distance from Manchester?”

‘My mill is not finished,’ said the stranger musingly, ‘and though there is still a great deal worth seeing at Staleybridge, still you had better wait to see my new mill. And Bolton, let me see; Bolton, there is nothing at Bolton that can hold up its head for a moment against my new mill; but then it is not finished. Well, well, let us see. What a pity this is not the 1st of January, and then my new mill would be at work! I should like to see Mr. Birley’s face, or even Mr. Ashworth’s, that day. And the Oxford Road Works, where they are always making a little change, bit by bit reform, eh! not a very particular fine appetite, I suspect, for dinner, at the Oxford Road Works, the day they hear of my new mill being at work. But you want to see something tip-top. Well, there’s Millbank; that’s regular slap-up, quite a sight, regular lion; if I were you I would see Millbank.’

‘My mill isn't finished yet,’ the stranger said thoughtfully, ‘and while there's still a lot to check out in Staleybridge, you should probably wait to see my new mill. As for Bolton, let me think; Bolton has nothing that can compare to my new mill, but then again, it’s not complete. Well, well, let’s see. What a shame today isn’t January 1st, because then my new mill would be up and running! I’d love to see Mr. Birley’s reaction, or even Mr. Ashworth’s, on that day. And the Oxford Road Works, where they’re always making small changes, bit by bit, reforming, huh! I doubt they’ll have much of an appetite for dinner at the Oxford Road Works when they hear about my new mill being operational. But if you want to see something amazing, check out Millbank; that’s really something else, quite a sight, a real showstopper. If I were you, I’d go see Millbank.’

‘Millbank!’ said Coningsby; ‘what Millbank?’

"Millbank!" Coningsby said. "Which Millbank?"

‘Millbank of Millbank, made the place, made it himself. About three miles from Bolton; train to-morrow morning at 7.25, get a fly at the station, and you will be at Millbank by 8.40.’

‘Millbank of Millbank created the place, he built it himself. It’s about three miles from Bolton; the train leaves tomorrow morning at 7:25, grab a cab at the station, and you’ll be at Millbank by 8:40.’

‘Unfortunately I am engaged to-morrow morning,’ said Coningsby, ‘and yet I am most anxious, particularly anxious, to see Millbank.’

‘Unfortunately, I’m busy tomorrow morning,’ said Coningsby, ‘and yet I’m very eager, especially eager, to see Millbank.’

‘Well, there’s a late train,’ said the stranger, ‘3.15; you will be there by 4.30.’

‘Well, there’s a late train,’ said the stranger, ‘3:15; you’ll get there by 4:30.’

‘I think I could manage that,’ said Coningsby.

‘I think I can handle that,’ said Coningsby.

‘Do,’ said the stranger; ‘and if you ever find yourself at Staleybridge, I shall be very happy to be of service. I must be off now. My train goes at 9.15.’ And he presented Coningsby with his card as he wished him good night.

‘Sure,’ said the stranger; ‘and if you ever find yourself in Staleybridge, I’d be more than happy to help. I need to go now. My train leaves at 9:15.’ And he handed Coningsby his card as he said goodnight.

MR. G. O. A. HEAD, STALEYBRIDGE.

CHAPTER III.

In a green valley of Lancaster, contiguous to that district of factories on which we have already touched, a clear and powerful stream flows through a broad meadow land. Upon its margin, adorned, rather than shadowed, by some old elm-trees, for they are too distant to serve except for ornament, rises a vast deep red brick pile, which though formal and monotonous in its general character, is not without a certain beauty of proportion and an artist-like finish in its occasional masonry. The front, which is of great extent, and covered with many tiers of small windows, is flanked by two projecting wings in the same style, which form a large court, completed by a dwarf wall crowned with a light, and rather elegant railing; in the centre, the principal entrance, a lofty portal of bold and beautiful design, surmounted by a statue of Commerce.

In a green valley in Lancaster, next to the area with factories we've already mentioned, a clear and powerful stream flows through a wide meadow. Along its edge, decorated more than shaded by some old elm trees that are too far away to provide real shade, stands a large, deep red brick building. Though it's formal and a bit dull overall, it does have a certain beauty in its proportions and an artistic finish in the occasional masonry details. The front is extensive and features many rows of small windows, flanked by two projecting wings that match in style, creating a large courtyard that's enclosed by a low wall topped with a light and somewhat elegant railing. In the center is the main entrance, a tall doorway with a striking and beautiful design, topped by a statue representing Commerce.

This building, not without a degree of dignity, is what is technically, and not very felicitously, called a mill; always translated by the French in their accounts of our manufacturing riots, ‘moulin;’ and which really was the principal factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that youth whom, we trust, our readers have not quite forgotten.

This building, somewhat dignified, is what is technically—and not very happily—called a mill; always translated by the French in their reports of our manufacturing riots as ‘moulin;’ and which was actually the main factory of Oswald Millbank, the father of that young man whom, we hope, our readers haven’t completely forgotten.

At some little distance, and rather withdrawn from the principal stream, were two other smaller structures of the same style. About a quarter of a mile further on, appeared a village of not inconsiderable size, and remarkable from the neatness and even picturesque character of its architecture, and the gay gardens that surrounded it. On a sunny knoll in the background rose a church, in the best style of Christian architecture, and near it was a clerical residence and a school-house of similar design. The village, too, could boast of another public building; an Institute where there were a library and a lecture-room; and a reading-hall, which any one might frequent at certain hours, and under reasonable regulations.

At some distance, and a bit away from the main stream, were two smaller buildings of the same style. About a quarter mile further on, there was a village of considerable size, notable for the neatness and even charming appearance of its architecture, along with the colorful gardens that surrounded it. On a sunny hill in the background stood a church, in the finest style of Christian architecture, and nearby were a rectory and a schoolhouse with a similar design. The village also had another public building: an Institute that housed a library and a lecture room, as well as a reading hall that anyone could use during certain hours and under reasonable rules.

On the other side of the principal factory, but more remote, about half-a-mile up the valley, surrounded by beautiful meadows, and built on an agreeable and well-wooded elevation, was the mansion of the mill-owner; apparently a commodious and not inconsiderable dwelling-house, built in what is called a villa style, with a variety of gardens and conservatories. The atmosphere of this somewhat striking settlement was not disturbed and polluted by the dark vapour, which, to the shame of Manchester, still infests that great town, for Mr. Millbank, who liked nothing so much as an invention, unless it were an experiment, took care to consume his own smoke.

On the other side of the main factory, but farther away, about half a mile up the valley, surrounded by beautiful meadows and built on a pleasant, tree-covered hill, was the mill owner's mansion. It appeared to be a spacious and significant house, constructed in a villa style, with various gardens and greenhouses. The atmosphere of this striking location was not affected by the dark smoke that, shamefully, still plagues Manchester, because Mr. Millbank, who preferred inventing and experimenting, made sure to manage his own emissions.

The sun was declining when Coningsby arrived at Millbank, and the gratification which he experienced on first beholding it, was not a little diminished, when, on enquiring at the village, he was informed that the hour was past for seeing the works. Determined not to relinquish his purpose without a struggle, he repaired to the principal mill, and entered the counting-house, which was situated in one of the wings of the building.

The sun was setting when Coningsby arrived at Millbank, and the thrill he felt upon first seeing it was somewhat lessened when, upon asking at the village, he was told that the time for viewing the works had passed. Determined not to give up his goal without a fight, he headed to the main mill and entered the counting-house, which was located in one of the wings of the building.

‘Your pleasure, sir?’ said one of three individuals sitting on high stools behind a high desk.

‘What can I get for you, sir?’ said one of the three people sitting on high stools behind a tall desk.

‘I wish, if possible, to see the works.’

‘I wish to see the works, if possible.’

‘Quite impossible, sir;’ and the clerk, withdrawing his glance, continued his writing. ‘No admission without an order, and no admission with an order after two o’clock.’

‘That's not possible, sir,’ the clerk said, turning his gaze away and continuing to write. ‘No entry without an order, and no entry with an order after two o’clock.’

‘I am very unfortunate,’ said Coningsby.

"I'm really unlucky," said Coningsby.

‘Sorry for it, sir. Give me ledger K. X., will you, Mr. Benson?’

‘Sorry about that, sir. Can you hand me ledger K. X., please, Mr. Benson?’

‘I think Mr. Millbank would grant me permission,’ said Coningsby.

'I think Mr. Millbank would give me permission,' said Coningsby.

‘Very likely, sir; to-morrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very much engaged.’ He pointed to an inner counting-house, and the glass doors permitted Coningsby to observe several individuals in close converse.

‘Very likely, sir; tomorrow. Mr. Millbank is there, sir, but very busy.’ He pointed to an inner office, and the glass doors allowed Coningsby to see several people in deep conversation.

‘Perhaps his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?’ inquired Coningsby.

“Maybe his son, Mr. Oswald Millbank, is here?” asked Coningsby.

‘Mr. Oswald is in Belgium,’ said the clerk.

‘Would you give a message to Mr. Millbank, and say a friend of his son’s at Eton is here, and here only for a day, and wishes very much to see his works?’

‘Could you please pass a message to Mr. Millbank and let him know that a friend of his son’s from Eton is here, just for a day, and really wants to see his works?’

‘Can’t possibly disturb Mr. Millbank now, sir; but, if you like to sit down, you can wait and see him yourself.’

‘Can’t disturb Mr. Millbank right now, sir; but if you’d like to sit down, you can wait and see him yourself.’

Coningsby was content to sit down, though he grew very impatient at the end of a quarter of an hour. The ticking of the clock, the scratching of the pens of the three silent clerks, irritated him. At length, voices were heard, doors opened, and the clerk said, ‘Mr. Millbank is coming, sir,’ but nobody came; voices became hushed, doors were shut; again nothing was heard, save the ticking of the clock and the scratching of the pen.

Coningsby was okay with waiting, but he got really impatient after fifteen minutes. The ticking of the clock and the scratching of the pens from the three quiet clerks annoyed him. Finally, voices were heard, doors opened, and the clerk announced, “Mr. Millbank is coming, sir,” but no one appeared; the voices faded, the doors closed; once again, there was nothing to hear except the ticking clock and the scratching pen.

At length there was a general stir, and they all did come forth, Mr. Millbank among them, a well-proportioned, comely man, with a fair face inclining to ruddiness, a quick, glancing, hazel eye, the whitest teeth, and short, curly, chestnut hair, here and there slightly tinged with grey. It was a visage of energy and decision.

At last, there was a general commotion, and they all came out, including Mr. Millbank, a well-built, handsome man with a fair face that had a bit of a rosy glow, quick, darting hazel eyes, the whitest teeth, and short, curly chestnut hair with a few grey strands here and there. It was a face full of energy and determination.

He was about to pass through the counting-house with his companions, with whom his affairs were not concluded, when he observed Coningsby, who had risen.

He was about to walk through the counting-house with his friends, with whom his business was still unfinished, when he noticed Coningsby, who had gotten to his feet.

‘This gentleman wishes to see me?’ he inquired of his clerk, who bowed assent.

‘Does this gentleman want to see me?’ he asked his clerk, who nodded in agreement.

‘I shall be at your service, sir, the moment I have finished with these gentlemen.’

'I will be at your service, sir, as soon as I finish with these gentlemen.'

‘The gentleman wishes to see the works, sir,’ said the clerk.

‘The gentleman wants to see the works, sir,’ said the clerk.

‘He can see the works at proper times,’ said Mr. Millbank, somewhat pettishly; ‘tell him the regulations;’ and he was about to go.

‘He can see the works at the right times,’ Mr. Millbank said somewhat irritably; ‘let him know the rules;’ and he was about to leave.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said Coningsby, coming forward, and with an air of earnestness and grace that arrested the step of the manufacturer. ‘I am aware of the regulations, but would beg to be permitted to infringe them.’

‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir,’ said Coningsby, stepping forward with a sense of urgency and charm that caught the manufacturer’s attention. ‘I know the rules, but I would like to ask for permission to break them.’

‘It cannot be, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, moving.

‘It can't be, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, shifting.

‘I thought, sir, being here only for a day, and as a friend of your son—’

‘I thought, sir, since I’m only here for a day and I’m a friend of your son—’

Mr. Millbank stopped and said,

Mr. Millbank paused and said,

‘Oh! a friend of Oswald’s, eh? What, at Eton?’

‘Oh! a friend of Oswald’s, right? What, at Eton?’

‘Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped perhaps to have found him here.’

‘Yes, sir, at Eton; and I had hoped maybe to find him here.’

‘I am very much engaged, sir, at this moment,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘I am sorry I cannot pay you any personal attention, but my clerk will show you everything. Mr. Benson, let this gentleman see everything;’ and he withdrew.

‘I’m really busy right now, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘I apologize for not being able to attend to you personally, but my clerk will show you everything. Mr. Benson, please let this gentleman see everything;’ and he stepped away.

‘Be pleased to write your name here, sir,’ said Mr. Benson, opening a book, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his visit to Millbank:

‘Please write your name here, sir,’ said Mr. Benson, opening a book, and our friend wrote his name and the date of his visit to Millbank:

  ‘HARRY CONINGSBY, Sept. 2, 1836.’

‘HARRY CONINGSBY, Sept. 2, 1836.’

Coningsby beheld in this great factory the last and the most refined inventions of mechanical genius. The building had been fitted up by a capitalist as anxious to raise a monument of the skill and power of his order, as to obtain a return for the great investment.

Coningsby saw in this huge factory the final and most advanced inventions of mechanical genius. The building had been set up by a businessman eager to create a tribute to the skill and influence of his class, as much as to earn a profit from the significant investment.

‘It is the glory of Lancashire!’ exclaimed the enthusiastic Mr. Benson.

‘It’s the pride of Lancashire!’ shouted the excited Mr. Benson.

The clerk spoke freely of his master, whom he evidently idolised, and his great achievements, and Coningsby encouraged him. He detailed to Coningsby the plans which Mr. Millbank had pursued, both for the moral and physical well-being of his people; how he had built churches, and schools, and institutes; houses and cottages on a new system of ventilation; how he had allotted gardens; established singing classes.

The clerk openly talked about his boss, whom he clearly admired, and his impressive accomplishments, and Coningsby prompted him to continue. He shared with Coningsby the strategies Mr. Millbank had taken for the moral and physical well-being of his people; how he had built churches, schools, and community centers; homes and cottages with a new ventilation system; how he had assigned gardens; and set up singing classes.

‘Here is Mr. Millbank,’ continued the clerk, as he and Coningsby, quitting the factory, re-entered the court.

‘Here is Mr. Millbank,’ the clerk said as he and Coningsby, leaving the factory, walked back into the courtyard.

Mr. Millbank was approaching the factory, and the moment that he observed them, he quickened his pace.

Mr. Millbank was walking toward the factory, and as soon as he saw them, he picked up his pace.

‘Mr. Coningsby?’ he said, when he reached them. His countenance was rather disturbed, and his voice a little trembled, and he looked on our friend with a glance scrutinising and serious. Coningsby bowed.

‘Mr. Coningsby?’ he said when he got to them. His face was somewhat troubled, and his voice quivered a bit as he looked at our friend with a serious and scrutinizing gaze. Coningsby nodded.

‘I am sorry that you should have been received at this place with so little ceremony, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but had your name been mentioned, you would have found it cherished here.’ He nodded to the clerk, who disappeared.

‘I apologize that you were welcomed here with so little formalities, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but if your name had been brought up, you would have found it valued here.’ He nodded to the clerk, who then left.

Coningsby began to talk about the wonders of the factory, but Mr. Millbank recurred to other thoughts that were passing in his mind. He spoke of his son: he expressed a kind reproach that Coningsby should have thought of visiting this part of the world without giving them some notice of his intention, that he might have been their guest, that Oswald might have been there to receive him, that they might have made arrangements that he should see everything, and in the best manner; in short, that they might all have shown, however slightly, the deep sense of their obligations to him.

Coningsby started discussing the amazing factory, but Mr. Millbank had other things on his mind. He talked about his son and gently reproached Coningsby for visiting this part of the world without letting them know in advance. He wished Coningsby could have been their guest, that Oswald could have been there to welcome him, and that they could have arranged for him to see everything in the best way possible. In short, they all would have liked to show, even in a small way, how grateful they were for him.

‘My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental,’ said Coningsby. ‘I am bound for the other division of the county, to pay a visit to my grandfather, Lord Monmouth; but an irresistible desire came over me during my journey to view this famous district of industry. It is some days since I ought to have found myself at Coningsby, and this is the reason why I am so pressed.’

‘My visit to Manchester, which led to this, was totally random,’ said Coningsby. ‘I’m actually headed to the other part of the county to visit my grandfather, Lord Monmouth; but I couldn’t resist the urge to check out this famous industrial area during my trip. It’s been a few days since I should have been at Coningsby, and that’s why I’m in such a rush.’

A cloud passed over the countenance of Millbank as the name of Lord Monmouth was mentioned, but he said nothing. Turning towards Coningsby, with an air of kindness:

A cloud passed over Millbank's face when Lord Monmouth's name was mentioned, but he didn’t say anything. He turned to Coningsby with a friendly expression:

‘At least,’ said he, ‘let not Oswald hear that you did not taste our salt. Pray dine with me to-day; there is yet an hour to dinner; and as you have seen the factory, suppose we stroll together through the village.’

‘At least,’ he said, ‘let’s not let Oswald know that you didn’t try our salt. Please have dinner with me today; there’s still an hour until dinner, and since you’ve visited the factory, how about we take a walk through the village together?’

CHAPTER IV.

The village clock struck five as Mr. Millbank and his guest entered the gardens of his mansion. Coningsby lingered a moment to admire the beauty and gay profusion of the flowers.

The village clock chimed five as Mr. Millbank and his guest walked into the gardens of his mansion. Coningsby paused for a moment to appreciate the vibrant beauty and abundance of the flowers.

‘Your situation,’ said Coningsby, looking up the green and silent valley, ‘is absolutely poetic.’

‘Your situation,’ said Coningsby, looking up at the green and quiet valley, ‘is truly poetic.’

‘I try sometimes to fancy,’ said Mr. Millbank, with a rather fierce smile, ‘that I am in the New World.’

‘I sometimes try to imagine,’ said Mr. Millbank, with a somewhat fierce smile, ‘that I’m in the New World.’

They entered the house; a capacious and classic hall, at the end a staircase in the Italian fashion. As they approached it, the sweetest and the clearest voice exclaimed from above, ‘Papa! papa!’ and instantly a young girl came bounding down the stairs, but suddenly seeing a stranger with her father she stopped upon the landing-place, and was evidently on the point of as rapidly retreating as she had advanced, when Mr. Millbank waved his hand to her and begged her to descend. She came down slowly; as she approached them her father said, ‘A friend you have often heard of, Edith: this is Mr. Coningsby.’

They walked into the house; a spacious and traditional hall, with a staircase in the Italian style at the end. As they got closer, a sweet and clear voice called out from above, “Dad! Dad!” and a young girl came bouncing down the stairs. But when she noticed a stranger with her father, she stopped on the landing, clearly about to retreat as quickly as she had come. Mr. Millbank waved his hand to her and asked her to come down. She descended slowly; as she got closer to them, her father said, “A friend you’ve often heard about, Edith: this is Mr. Coningsby.”

She started; blushed very much; and then, with a trembling and uncertain gait, advanced, put forth her hand with a wild unstudied grace, and said in a tone of sensibility, ‘How often have we all wished to see and to thank you!’

She jumped, blushed deeply, and then, with a shaky and hesitant step, moved forward, extended her hand with a spontaneous elegance, and said in a heartfelt tone, ‘How often have we all wanted to see you and thank you!’

This daughter of his host was of tender years; apparently she could scarcely have counted sixteen summers. She was delicate and fragile, but as she raised her still blushing visage to her father’s guest, Coningsby felt that he had never beheld a countenance of such striking and such peculiar beauty.

This daughter of his host was young; she could hardly have turned sixteen. She was delicate and fragile, but when she lifted her still rosy face to her father's guest, Coningsby felt he had never seen a face with such striking and unique beauty.

‘My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, Edith; a Saxon name, for she is the daughter of a Saxon.’

‘My only daughter, Mr. Coningsby, is Edith; a Saxon name, since she is the daughter of a Saxon.’

But the beauty of the countenance was not the beauty of the Saxons. It was a radiant face, one of those that seem to have been touched in their cradle by a sunbeam, and to have retained all their brilliancy and suffused and mantling lustre. One marks sometimes such faces, diaphanous with delicate splendour, in the southern regions of France. Her eye, too, was the rare eye of Aquitaine; soft and long, with lashes drooping over the cheek, dark as her clustering ringlets.

But the beauty of her face wasn't the typical beauty of the Saxons. It was a radiant face, one of those that seems to have been kissed by a sunbeam at birth, keeping all its brightness and glowing charm. You sometimes see such faces, translucent and delicately beautiful, in the southern parts of France. Her eye, too, was the unique eye of Aquitaine; soft and long, with lashes that gently rested on her cheek, dark like her cascading curls.

They entered the drawing-room.

They entered the living room.

‘Mr. Coningsby,’ said Millbank to his daughter, ‘is in this part of the world only for a few hours, or I am sure he would become our guest. He has, however, promised to stay with us now and dine.’

‘Mr. Coningsby,’ Millbank said to his daughter, ‘is only in this part of the world for a few hours, or I'm sure he would have stayed with us. However, he has promised to join us for dinner.’

‘If Miss Millbank will pardon this dress,’ said Coningsby, bowing an apology for his inevitable frock and boots; the maiden raised her eyes and bent her head.

‘If Miss Millbank will excuse this outfit,’ said Coningsby, bowing to apologize for his unavoidable frock and boots; the young woman lifted her eyes and nodded her head.

The hour of dinner was at hand. Millbank offered to show Coningsby to his dressing-room. He was absent but a few minutes. When he returned he found Miss Millbank alone. He came somewhat suddenly into the room. She was playing with her dog, but ceased the moment she observed Coningsby.

The time for dinner was approaching. Millbank offered to take Coningsby to his dressing room. He was gone for only a few minutes. When he came back, he found Miss Millbank by herself. He entered the room a bit unexpectedly. She was playing with her dog but stopped as soon as she saw Coningsby.

Coningsby, who since his practice with Lady Everingham, flattered himself that he had advanced in small talk, and was not sorry that he had now an opportunity of proving his prowess, made some lively observations about pets and the breeds of lapdogs, but he was not fortunate in extracting a response or exciting a repartee. He began then on the beauty of Millbank, which he would on no account have avoided seeing, and inquired when she had last heard of her brother. The young lady, apparently much distressed, was murmuring something about Antwerp, when the entrance of her father relieved her from her embarrassment.

Coningsby, who since hanging out with Lady Everingham believed he had improved his small talk skills, was eager to show off his abilities. He made some lively comments about pets and different breeds of lapdogs, but he wasn’t successful in getting a response or sparking a witty comeback. He then started discussing the beauty of Millbank, which he definitely wanted to see, and asked when she last heard from her brother. The young lady, looking quite upset, was mumbling something about Antwerp when her father walked in and saved her from her awkward situation.

Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his fair companion, who took it with her eyes fixed on the ground.

Dinner being announced, Coningsby offered his arm to his lovely companion, who accepted it with her eyes cast down.

‘You are very fond, I see, of flowers,’ said Coningsby, as they moved along; and the young lady said ‘Yes.’

‘You really like flowers, don’t you?’ Coningsby said as they walked along; and the young lady replied, ‘Yes.’

The dinner was plain, but perfect of its kind. The young hostess seemed to perform her office with a certain degree of desperate determination. She looked at a chicken and then at Coningsby, and murmured something which he understood. Sometimes she informed herself of his tastes or necessities in more detail, by the medium of her father, whom she treated as a sort of dragoman; in this way: ‘Would not Mr. Coningsby, papa, take this or that, or do so and so?’ Coningsby was always careful to reply in a direct manner, without the agency of the interpreter; but he did not advance. Even a petition for the great honour of taking a glass of sherry with her only induced the beautiful face to bow. And yet when she had first seen him, she had addressed him even with emotion. What could it be? He felt less confidence in his increased power of conversation. Why, Theresa Sydney was scarcely a year older than Miss Millbank, and though she did not certainly originate like Lady Everingham, he got on with her perfectly well.

The dinner was simple, but exactly what it needed to be. The young hostess seemed to carry out her role with a bit of desperate determination. She looked at a chicken and then at Coningsby, murmuring something he understood. Sometimes, she'd check on his preferences or needs through her father, treating him like a sort of translator; asking things like, “Would Mr. Coningsby, dad, like this or that, or want to do so and so?” Coningsby always made sure to respond directly, without involving the interpreter, but he didn’t make any progress. Even asking for the great honor of sharing a glass of sherry with her only made her beautiful face bow. Yet, when she first saw him, she had greeted him with real emotion. What could it mean? He felt less confident in his improved conversation skills. After all, Theresa Sydney was barely a year older than Miss Millbank, and even though she didn’t have the same allure as Lady Everingham, he got along with her just fine.

Mr. Millbank did not seem to be conscious of his daughter’s silence: at any rate, he attempted to compensate for it. He talked fluently and well; on all subjects his opinions seemed to be decided, and his language was precise. He was really interested in what Coningsby had seen, and what he had felt; and this sympathy divested his manner of the disagreeable effect that accompanies a tone inclined to be dictatorial. More than once Coningsby observed the silent daughter listening with extreme attention to the conversation of himself and her father.

Mr. Millbank didn’t seem to notice his daughter’s silence; in any case, he tried to make up for it. He spoke smoothly and confidently; he had strong opinions on every topic, and his words were clear. He was genuinely interested in what Coningsby had experienced and how he felt; this understanding softened his demeanor, removing the uncomfortable vibe that often comes with a bossy tone. More than once, Coningsby noticed the quiet daughter listening intently to the conversation between him and her father.

The dessert was remarkable. Millbank was proud of his fruit. A bland expression of self-complacency spread over his features as he surveyed his grapes, his peaches, his figs.

The dessert was impressive. Millbank took pride in his fruit. A dull look of self-satisfaction covered his face as he looked over his grapes, his peaches, his figs.

‘These grapes have gained a medal,’ he told Coningsby. ‘Those too are prize peaches. I have not yet been so successful with my figs. These however promise, and perhaps this year I may be more fortunate.’

‘These grapes have won a medal,’ he told Coningsby. ‘Those are prize peaches too. I haven't had as much luck with my figs yet. These, however, show promise, and maybe this year I'll be more fortunate.’

‘What would your brother and myself have given for such a dessert at Eton!’ said Coningsby to Miss Millbank, wishing to say something, and something too that might interest her.

‘What would your brother and I have given for such a dessert at Eton!’ said Coningsby to Miss Millbank, trying to say something that might pique her interest.

She seemed infinitely distressed, and yet this time would speak.

She looked extremely upset, and yet this time she would talk.

‘Let me give you some,’ He caught by chance her glance immediately withdrawn; yet it was a glance not only of beauty, but of feeling and thought. She added, in a hushed and hurried tone, dividing very nervously some grapes, ‘I hardly know whether Oswald will be most pleased or grieved when he hears that you have been here.’

‘Let me give you some,’ he caught her glance by chance, which was quickly withdrawn; yet it was a look that conveyed not just beauty but also emotion and thought. She added, in a soft and hurried tone, nervously dividing some grapes, ‘I’m not sure if Oswald will be more happy or upset when he finds out you’ve been here.’

‘And why grieved?’ said Coningsby.

"And why are you sad?" said Coningsby.

‘That he should not have been here to welcome you, and that your stay is for so brief a time. It seems so strange that after having talked of you for years, we should see you only for hours.’

‘It’s surprising that he wasn’t here to welcome you, and that your visit is so short. It feels so odd that after talking about you for years, we get to see you for just a few hours.’

‘I hope I may return,’ said Coningsby, ‘and that Millbank may be here to welcome me; but I hope I may be permitted to return even if he be not.’

‘I hope I can come back,’ said Coningsby, ‘and that Millbank will be here to welcome me; but I hope I’m allowed to return even if he’s not.’

But there was no reply; and soon after, Mr. Millbank talking of the American market, and Coningsby helping himself to a glass of claret, the daughter of the Saxon, looking at her father, rose and left the room, so suddenly and so quickly that Coningsby could scarcely gain the door.

But there was no response; and shortly after, Mr. Millbank was discussing the American market while Coningsby poured himself a glass of claret. The Saxon’s daughter glanced at her father, stood up, and left the room so abruptly and quickly that Coningsby could hardly reach the door.

‘Yes,’ said Millbank, filling his glass, and pursuing some previous observations, ‘all that we want in this country is to be masters of our own industry; but Saxon industry and Norman manners never will agree; and some day, Mr. Coningsby, you will find that out.’

‘Yes,’ said Millbank, filling his glass and continuing his earlier thoughts, ‘all we need in this country is to control our own industry; but Saxon industry and Norman manners will never sync up; and one day, Mr. Coningsby, you'll realize that.’

‘But what do you mean by Norman manners?’ inquired Coningsby.

‘But what do you mean by Norman manners?’ asked Coningsby.

‘Did you ever hear of the Forest of Rossendale?’ said Millbank. ‘If you were staying here, you should visit the district. It is an area of twenty-four square miles. It was disforested in the early part of the sixteenth century, possessing at that time eighty inhabitants. Its rental in James the First’s time was 120l. When the woollen manufacture was introduced into the north, the shuttle competed with the plough in Rossendale, and about forty years ago we sent them the Jenny. The eighty souls are now increased to upwards of eighty thousand, and the rental of the forest, by the last county assessment, amounts to more than 50,000l., 41,000 per cent, on the value in the reign of James I. Now I call that an instance of Saxon industry competing successfully with Norman manners.’

‘Have you ever heard of the Forest of Rossendale?’ said Millbank. ‘If you were staying here, you should check out the area. It's about twenty-four square miles. It was cleared of trees in the early 1500s and had around eighty people living there at that time. Its rental back in James the First's day was 120l. When the wool industry came to the north, weaving started to compete with farming in Rossendale, and about forty years ago, we introduced the Jenny. Those eighty people have now grown to over eighty thousand, and according to the latest county assessment, the rental of the forest is more than 50,000l., which is a 41,000 percent increase from its value during James I's reign. I think that's a great example of Saxon hard work successfully beating out Norman traditions.’

‘Exactly,’ said Coningsby, ‘but those manners are gone.’

‘Exactly,’ said Coningsby, ‘but those manners are a thing of the past.’

‘From Rossendale,’ said Millbank, with a grim smile; ‘but not from England.’

‘Where do you meet them?’

‘Meet them! In every place, at every hour; and feel them, too, in every transaction of life.’

‘Meet them! Everywhere, at any time; and feel their presence in every interaction of life.’

‘I know, sir, from your son,’ said Coningsby, inquiringly, ‘that you are opposed to an aristocracy.’

‘I know, sir, from your son,’ said Coningsby, asking, ‘that you are against an aristocracy.’

‘No, I am not. I am for an aristocracy; but a real one, a natural one.’

'No, I'm not. I support an aristocracy, but a true one, a natural one.'

‘But, sir, is not the aristocracy of England,’ said Coningsby, ‘a real one? You do not confound our peerage, for example, with the degraded patricians of the Continent.’

‘But, sir, isn’t the aristocracy of England,’ said Coningsby, ‘a real one? You’re not confusing our peerage, for example, with the degraded patricians of the Continent.’

‘Hum!’ said Millbank. ‘I do not understand how an aristocracy can exist, unless it be distinguished by some quality which no other class of the community possesses. Distinction is the basis of aristocracy. If you permit only one class of the population, for example, to bear arms, they are an aristocracy; not one much to my taste; but still a great fact. That, however, is not the characteristic of the English peerage. I have yet to learn they are richer than we are, better informed, wiser, or more distinguished for public or private virtue. Is it not monstrous, then, that a small number of men, several of whom take the titles of Duke and Earl from towns in this very neighbourhood, towns which they never saw, which never heard of them, which they did not form, or build, or establish, I say, is it not monstrous, that individuals so circumstanced, should be invested with the highest of conceivable privileges, the privilege of making laws? Dukes and Earls indeed! I say there is nothing in a masquerade more ridiculous.’

‘Hum!’ said Millbank. ‘I don’t get how an aristocracy can exist unless it has some unique quality that no other group in society has. Distinction is the foundation of aristocracy. If you let only one part of the population, for example, carry weapons, then they are an aristocracy; not one I prefer, but still a significant fact. However, that’s not what characterizes the English peerage. I still haven’t seen that they are richer than we are, more knowledgeable, wiser, or more distinguished in terms of public or private virtue. Isn't it outrageous, then, that a small number of men, some of whom have titles like Duke and Earl from towns in this very area—towns they’ve never visited, which have never heard of them, which they didn’t create, build, or establish—should be granted the highest possible privileges, the privilege of making laws? Dukes and Earls, really! I say there’s nothing more ridiculous than a masquerade.’

‘But do you not argue from an exception, sir?’ said Coningsby. ‘The question is, whether a preponderance of the aristocratic principle in a political constitution be, as I believe, conducive to the stability and permanent power of a State; and whether the peerage, as established in England, generally tends to that end? We must not forget in such an estimate the influence which, in this country, is exercised over opinion by ancient lineage.’

‘But aren’t you making an argument based on a rare case, sir?’ said Coningsby. ‘The real question is whether having a stronger aristocratic element in a political system, as I believe, helps ensure the stability and lasting power of a State; and whether the peerage, as it exists in England, generally supports that goal? We shouldn’t overlook the impact that ancient lineage has on public opinion in this country.’

‘Ancient lineage!’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘I never heard of a peer with an ancient lineage. The real old families of this country are to be found among the peasantry; the gentry, too, may lay some claim to old blood. I can point you out Saxon families in this county who can trace their pedigrees beyond the Conquest; I know of some Norman gentlemen whose fathers undoubtedly came over with the Conqueror. But a peer with an ancient lineage is to me quite a novelty. No, no; the thirty years of the wars of the Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I take it, after the battle of Tewkesbury, a Norman baron was almost as rare a being in England as a wolf is now.’

“Ancient lineage!” Mr. Millbank exclaimed. “I’ve never heard of a peer with an ancient lineage. The truly old families in this country are found among the peasantry; the gentry might also have some claim to old blood. I can point out Saxon families in this county that can trace their ancestry back before the Conquest; I know some Norman gentlemen whose fathers definitely came over with the Conqueror. But a peer with an ancient lineage is a real rarity to me. No, no; the thirty years of the Wars of the Roses freed us from those gentlemen. I figure that after the battle of Tewkesbury, a Norman baron was almost as rare in England as a wolf is today.”

‘I have always understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘that our peerage was the finest in Europe.’

‘I’ve always understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘that our peerage is the finest in Europe.’

‘From themselves,’ said Millbank, ‘and the heralds they pay to paint their carriages. But I go to facts. When Henry VII. called his first Parliament, there were only twenty-nine temporal peers to be found, and even some of them took their seats illegally, for they had been attainted. Of those twenty-nine not five remain, and they, as the Howards for instance, are not Norman nobility. We owe the English peerage to three sources: the spoliation of the Church; the open and flagrant sale of its honours by the elder Stuarts; and the boroughmongering of our own times. Those are the three main sources of the existing peerage of England, and in my opinion disgraceful ones. But I must apologise for my frankness in thus speaking to an aristocrat.’

“'From themselves,' Millbank said, 'and the heralds they hire to decorate their carriages. But I prefer to stick to the facts. When Henry VII called his first Parliament, there were only twenty-nine temporal peers available, and even some of them took their seats illegally because they had been attainted. Out of those twenty-nine, not even five remain, and those that do, like the Howards, are not Norman nobility. The English peerage comes from three main sources: the plundering of the Church, the blatant selling of honors by the earlier Stuarts, and the boroughmongering of our own time. Those are the three main sources of the current peerage in England, and I find them disgraceful. However, I must apologize for my honesty in speaking this way to an aristocrat.'”

‘Oh, by no means, sir, I like discussion. Your son and myself at Eton have had some encounters of this kind before. But if your view of the case be correct,’ added Coningsby, smiling, ‘you cannot at any rate accuse our present peers of Norman manners.’

‘Oh, definitely not, sir, I enjoy a good discussion. Your son and I have had similar debates at Eton before. But if your perspective on the situation is right,’ Coningsby added with a smile, ‘you can't really blame our current peers for having Norman manners.’

‘Yes, I do: they adopted Norman manners while they usurped Norman titles. They have neither the right of the Normans, nor do they fulfil the duty of the Normans: they did not conquer the land, and they do not defend it.’

‘Yes, I do: they took on Norman ways while claiming Norman titles. They have neither the rights of the Normans, nor do they meet the responsibilities of the Normans: they did not conquer the land, and they do not protect it.’

‘And where will you find your natural aristocracy?’ asked Coningsby.

‘Among those men whom a nation recognises as the most eminent for virtue, talents, and property, and, if you please, birth and standing in the land. They guide opinion; and, therefore, they govern. I am no leveller; I look upon an artificial equality as equally pernicious with a factitious aristocracy; both depressing the energies, and checking the enterprise of a nation. I like man to be free, really free: free in his industry as well as his body. What is the use of Habeas Corpus, if a man may not use his hands when he is out of prison?’

‘Among those individuals whom a nation acknowledges as the most distinguished for their character, skills, and wealth, and, if you like, their lineage and status in society. They shape public opinion; and, as a result, they hold power. I am not in favor of equality that strips away individuality; I see a forced equality as harmful as a fake aristocracy; both stifle the energy and hinder the progress of a nation. I want people to be truly free: free in their work as well as in their physical freedom. What’s the point of Habeas Corpus if someone can’t use their hands when they’re out of jail?’

‘But it appears to me you have, in a great measure, this natural aristocracy in England.’

‘But it seems to me that you have, to a large extent, this natural aristocracy in England.’

‘Ah, to be sure! If we had not, where should we be? It is the counteracting power that saves us, the disturbing cause in the calculations of short-sighted selfishness. I say it now, and I have said it a hundred times, the House of Commons is a more aristocratic body than the House of Lords. The fact is, a great peer would be a greater man now in the House of Commons than in the House of Lords. Nobody wants a second chamber, except a few disreputable individuals. It is a valuable institution for any member of it who has no distinction, neither character, talents, nor estate. But a peer who possesses all or any of these great qualifications, would find himself an immeasurably more important personage in what, by way of jest, they call the Lower House.’

‘Oh, for sure! If we didn't have one, where would we be? It's the opposing force that saves us, the disruptive element in the calculations of shortsighted selfishness. I say this now, and I've said it a hundred times: the House of Commons is a more aristocratic body than the House of Lords. The truth is, a high-ranking peer would be a more significant figure in the House of Commons than in the House of Lords. Nobody wants a second chamber, except for a few shady individuals. It’s a useful institution for anyone in it who lacks distinction, character, talent, or wealth. But a peer who has any of these great qualities would find himself a far more important person in what they jokingly call the Lower House.’

‘Is not the revising wisdom of a senate a salutary check on the precipitation of a popular assembly?’

‘Isn’t the careful judgment of a senate a helpful restraint on the rashness of a popular assembly?’

‘Why should a popular assembly, elected by the flower of a nation, be precipitate? If precipitate, what senate could stay an assembly so chosen? No, no, no! the thing has been tried over and over again; the idea of restraining the powerful by the weak is an absurdity; the question is settled. If we wanted a fresh illustration, we need only look to the present state of our own House of Lords. It originates nothing; it has, in fact, announced itself as a mere Court of Registration of the decrees of your House of Commons; and if by any chance it ventures to alter some miserable detail in a clause of a bill that excites public interest, what a clatter through the country, at Conservative banquets got up by the rural attorneys, about the power, authority, and independence of the House of Lords; nine times nine, and one cheer more! No, sir, you may make aristocracies by laws; you can only maintain them by manners. The manners of England preserve it from its laws. And they have substituted for our formal aristocracy an essential aristocracy; the government of those who are distinguished by their fellow-citizens.’

‘Why should a popular assembly, elected by the best of a nation, act hastily? If they do act hastily, what senate could hold back an assembly like that? No, no, no! This has been tried time and time again; the idea of keeping the powerful in check by the weak is ridiculous; the question is settled. If we wanted another example, we just need to look at the current state of our House of Lords. It creates nothing; in fact, it's basically just a Court that registers the decisions of your House of Commons. And if it ever dares to change some trivial detail in a bill that grabs public attention, just listen to the uproar across the country, at Conservative banquets hosted by local lawyers, about the power, authority, and independence of the House of Lords; nine times nine, and one more cheer! No, sir, you can establish aristocracies through laws, but you can only uphold them through culture. The culture of England shields it from its laws. And they have replaced our formal aristocracy with a real aristocracy; the governance of those who are recognized by their fellow citizens.’

‘But then it would appear,’ said Coningsby, ‘that the remedial action of our manners has removed all the political and social evils of which you complain?’

‘But then it seems,’ said Coningsby, ‘that the way we conduct ourselves has fixed all the political and social problems you’re talking about?’

‘They have created a power that may remove them; a power that has the capacity to remove them. But in a great measure they still exist, and must exist yet, I fear, for a long time. The growth of our civilisation has ever been as slow as our oaks; but this tardy development is preferable to the temporary expansion of the gourd.’

‘They have created a power that could eliminate them; a power that has the ability to take them out. But for the most part, they still exist and, I worry, will probably continue to exist for a long time. The growth of our civilization has always been as slow as our oaks; but this slow progress is better than the quick rise of the gourd.’

‘The future seems to me sometimes a dark cloud.’

‘The future sometimes feels like a dark cloud to me.’

‘Not to me,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘I am sanguine; I am the Disciple of Progress. But I have cause for my faith. I have witnessed advance. My father has often told me that in his early days the displeasure of a peer of England was like a sentence of death to a man. Why it was esteemed a great concession to public opinion, so late as the reign of George II., that Lord Ferrars should be executed for murder. The king of a new dynasty, who wished to be popular with the people, insisted on it, and even then he was hanged with a silken cord. At any rate we may defend ourselves now,’ continued Mr. Millbank, ‘and, perhaps, do something more. I defy any peer to crush me, though there is one who would be very glad to do it. No more of that; I am very happy to see you at Millbank, very happy to make your acquaintance,’ he continued, with some emotion, ‘and not merely because you are my son’s friend and more than friend.’

“Not for me,” said Mr. Millbank. “I'm optimistic; I’m a believer in Progress. And I have my reasons for this belief. I’ve seen progress firsthand. My father used to tell me that in his day, the displeasure of an English lord was like a death sentence for a man. It was considered a significant concession to public opinion, as recent as the reign of George II., that Lord Ferrars was executed for murder. The new king, eager to win the people’s favor, insisted on it, and even then, he was hanged with a silk cord. At least now we can defend ourselves,” Mr. Millbank continued, “and maybe even do something more. I challenge any lord to crush me, although there is one who would be very pleased to do just that. Let’s drop that; I’m really glad to see you at Millbank, truly glad to meet you,” he added, with some emotion, “and not just because you are my son’s friend and more than a friend.”

The walls of the dining-room were covered with pictures of great merit, all of the modern English school. Mr. Millbank understood no other, he was wont to say! and he found that many of his friends who did, bought a great many pleasing pictures that were copies, and many originals that were very displeasing. He loved a fine free landscape by Lee, that gave him the broad plains, the green lanes, and running streams of his own land; a group of animals by Landseer, as full of speech and sentiment as if they were designed by Aesop; above all, he delighted in the household humour and homely pathos of Wilkie. And if a higher tone of imagination pleased him, he could gratify it without difficulty among his favourite masters. He possessed some specimens of Etty worthy of Venice when it was alive; he could muse amid the twilight ruins of ancient cities raised by the magic pencil of Danby, or accompany a group of fair Neapolitans to a festival by the genial aid of Uwins.

The walls of the dining room were adorned with impressive artworks from the modern English school. Mr. Millbank claimed he knew no others! He noticed that many of his friends who did explore different styles ended up buying a lot of attractive copies and quite a few originals that were very disappointing. He appreciated a stunning open landscape by Lee, which reminded him of the vast fields, lush lanes, and flowing streams of his own land; a group of animals by Landseer that seemed full of expression and emotion as if crafted by Aesop; and he especially enjoyed the everyday humor and relatable sadness captured by Wilkie. If he wanted something with a more elevated imagination, he could easily find that among his favorite masters. He had some pieces by Etty that would be worthy of a vibrant Venice; he could get lost in the twilight ruins of ancient cities brought to life by Danby's magical brush, or join a group of beautiful Neapolitans at a festival thanks to the charming depictions by Uwins.

Opposite Coningsby was a portrait, which had greatly attracted his attention during the whole dinner. It represented a woman, young and of a rare beauty. The costume was of that classical character prevalent in this country before the general peace; a blue ribbon bound together as a fillet her clustering chestnut curls. The face was looking out of the canvas, and Coningsby never raised his eyes without catching its glance of blended vivacity and tenderness.

Opposite Coningsby was a portrait that had caught his attention throughout dinner. It depicted a young woman with stunning beauty. She wore a classical-style dress that was popular in this country before the peace settled. A blue ribbon held back her wavy chestnut curls. Her face seemed to gaze out from the canvas, and Coningsby couldn’t look up without meeting her mix of lively and gentle expression.

There are moments when our sensibility is affected by circumstances of a trivial character. It seems a fantastic emotion, but the gaze of this picture disturbed the serenity of Coningsby. He endeavoured sometimes to avoid looking at it, but it irresistibly attracted him. More than once during dinner he longed to inquire whom it represented; but it is a delicate subject to ask questions about portraits, and he refrained. Still, when he was rising to leave the room, the impulse was irresistible. He said to Mr. Millbank, ‘By whom is that portrait, sir?’

There are times when our feelings are influenced by seemingly trivial things. It might seem like a strange emotion, but the gaze of this painting unsettled Coningsby. He sometimes tried to look away from it, but it drew him in. More than once at dinner, he wanted to ask who it depicted; however, asking about portraits is a sensitive topic, so he held back. Still, as he was getting ready to leave the room, the urge became too strong. He said to Mr. Millbank, "Who painted that portrait, sir?"

The countenance of Millbank became disturbed; it was not an expression of tender reminiscence that fell upon his features. On the contrary, the expression was agitated, almost angry.

The look on Millbank's face shifted; it wasn't a sign of fond memories that crossed his features. Instead, his expression was anxious, nearly furious.

‘Oh! that is by a country artist,’ he said,’ of whom you never heard,’ and moved away.

‘Oh! that's by a country artist,’ he said, ‘who you've never heard of,’ and walked away.

They found Miss Millbank in the drawing-room; she was sitting at a round table covered with working materials, apparently dressing a doll.

They found Miss Millbank in the living room; she was sitting at a round table filled with craft supplies, apparently dressing a doll.

‘Nay,’ thought Coningsby, ‘she must be too old for that.’

‘No,’ thought Coningsby, ‘she must be too old for that.’

He addressed her, and seated himself by her side. There were several dolls on the table, but he discovered, on examination, that they were pincushions; and elicited, with some difficulty, that they were making for a fancy fair about to be held in aid of that excellent institution, the Manchester Athenaeum. Then the father came up and said,

He spoke to her and sat down next to her. There were several dolls on the table, but upon closer inspection, he realized they were actually pincushions. After some effort, he found out that they were being prepared for a fancy fair soon to be held to support the wonderful organization, the Manchester Athenaeum. Then the father approached and said,

‘My child, let us have some tea;’ and she rose and seated herself at the tea-table. Coningsby also quitted his seat, and surveyed the apartment.

‘My child, let’s have some tea,’ she said as she got up and sat down at the tea table. Coningsby also left his seat and looked around the room.

There were several musical instruments; among others, he observed a guitar; not such an instrument as one buys in a music shop, but such an one as tinkles at Seville, a genuine Spanish guitar. Coningsby repaired to the tea-table.

There were several musical instruments; among others, he noticed a guitar; not the kind you buy in a music store, but the kind that plays in Seville, a genuine Spanish guitar. Coningsby went over to the tea table.

‘I am glad that you are fond of music, Miss Millbank.’

‘I’m glad you like music, Miss Millbank.’

A blush and a bow.

‘I hope after tea you will be so kind as to touch the guitar.’

'I hope after tea you'll be kind enough to play the guitar.'

Signals of great distress.

Signals of extreme distress.

‘Were you ever at Birmingham?’

“Have you ever been to Birmingham?”

‘Yes:’ a sigh.

"Yeah." *sigh*

‘What a splendid music-hall! They should build one at Manchester.’

‘What an amazing music hall! They should build one in Manchester.’

‘They ought,’ in a whisper.

"They should," in a whisper.

The tea-tray was removed; Coningsby was conversing with Mr. Millbank, who was asking him questions about his son; what he thought of Oxford; what he thought of Oriel; should himself have preferred Cambridge; but had consulted a friend, an Oriel man, who had a great opinion of Oriel; and Oswald’s name had been entered some years back. He rather regretted it now; but the thing was done. Coningsby, remembering the promise of the guitar, turned round to claim its fulfilment, but the singer had made her escape. Time elapsed, and no Miss Millbank reappeared. Coningsby looked at his watch; he had to go three miles to the train, which started, as his friend of the previous night would phrase it, at 9.45.

The tea tray was cleared away; Coningsby was chatting with Mr. Millbank, who was asking him questions about his son—what he thought of Oxford, what he thought of Oriel; he would have preferred Cambridge himself, but had consulted a friend, an Oriel alum, who held Oriel in high regard; and Oswald's name had been submitted a few years ago. He kind of regretted it now, but it was already done. Coningsby, recalling the promise of the guitar, turned to shout out for it, but the singer had slipped away. Time passed, and Miss Millbank didn't come back. Coningsby checked his watch; he had to travel three miles to the train, which, as his friend from the night before would say, left at 9:45.

‘I should be happy if you remained with us,’ said Mr. Millbank; ‘but as you say it is out of your power, in this age of punctual travelling a host is bound to speed the parting guest. The carriage is ready for you.’

“I’d be glad if you stayed with us,” Mr. Millbank said, “but since you say you can’t, in this age of timely travel, a host has to send off their departing guest. The carriage is ready for you.”

‘Farewell, then, sir. You must make my adieux to Miss Millbank, and accept my thanks for your great kindness.’

‘Goodbye, then, sir. Please send my regards to Miss Millbank, and thank you for your kindness.’

‘Farewell, Mr. Coningsby,’ said his host, taking his hand, which he retained for a moment, as if he would say more. Then leaving it, he repeated with a somewhat wandering air, and in a voice of emotion, ‘Farewell, farewell, Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Goodbye, Mr. Coningsby,’ said his host, shaking his hand, which he held for a moment, as if wanting to say more. Then releasing it, he repeated with a somewhat distracted look, and in an emotional voice, ‘Goodbye, goodbye, Mr. Coningsby.’

CHAPTER V.

Towards the end of the session of 1836, the hopes of the Conservative party were again in the ascendant. The Tadpoles and the Tapers had infused such enthusiasm into all the country attorneys, who, in their turn, had so bedeviled the registration, that it was whispered in the utmost confidence, but as a flagrant truth, that Reaction was at length ‘a great fact.’ All that was required was the opportunity; but as the existing parliament was not two years old, and the government had an excellent working majority, it seemed that the occasion could scarcely be furnished. Under these circumstances, the backstairs politicians, not content with having by their premature movements already seriously damaged the career of their leader, to whom in public they pretended to be devoted, began weaving again their old intrigues about the court, and not without effect.

Towards the end of the 1836 session, the Conservative party’s hopes were rising again. The Tadpoles and the Tapers had inspired such enthusiasm among all the local attorneys that they had seriously messed with the registration process. It was quietly suggested, yet boldly true, that Reaction was finally a "great fact." All that was needed was the right opportunity; however, since the current parliament was less than two years old and the government had a solid working majority, it seemed unlikely that such an occasion would arise. Given these circumstances, the behind-the-scenes politicians, not satisfied with how their earlier actions had already harmed their leader's career—whom they publicly claimed to support—started up their old schemes around the court again, and with some success.

It was said that the royal ear lent itself with no marked repugnance to suggestions which might rid the sovereign of ministers, who, after all, were the ministers not of his choice, but of his necessity. But William IV., after two failures in a similar attempt, after his respective embarrassing interviews with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne, on their return to office in 1832 and 1835, was resolved never to make another move unless it were a checkmate. The king, therefore, listened and smiled, and loved to talk to his favourites of his private feelings and secret hopes; the first outraged, the second cherished; and a little of these revelations of royalty was distilled to great personages, who in their turn spoke hypothetically to their hangers-on of royal dispositions, and possible contingencies, while the hangers-on and go-betweens, in their turn, looked more than they expressed; took county members by the button into a corner, and advised, as friends, the representatives of boroughs to look sharply after the next registration.

It was said that the king was open to suggestions that might help him get rid of ministers who weren’t really his choice but rather a necessity. However, after two failed attempts and awkward conversations with Lord Grey and Lord Melbourne when they returned to office in 1832 and 1835, William IV decided he would never make another move unless it was a guaranteed win. So, the king listened, smiled, and enjoyed sharing his private feelings and secret hopes with his favorites; some of these feelings upset him, while others he cherished. A little of this royal insight trickled down to important figures, who then speculated to their associates about the king's mindset and possible developments. Meanwhile, the associates and intermediaries hinted more than they said, pulling local representatives aside to suggest, as friends, that they keep a close eye on the next registration.

Lord Monmouth, who was never greater than in adversity, and whose favourite excitement was to aim at the impossible, had never been more resolved on a Dukedom than when the Reform Act deprived him of the twelve votes which he had accumulated to attain that object. While all his companions in discomfiture were bewailing their irretrievable overthrow, Lord Monmouth became almost a convert to the measure, which had furnished his devising and daring mind, palled with prosperity, and satiated with a life of success, with an object, and the stimulating enjoyment of a difficulty.

Lord Monmouth, who always thrived in tough times and loved to pursue the impossible, was never more determined to become a Duke than when the Reform Act took away the twelve votes he had gathered to reach that goal. While all his fellow losers were lamenting their irreversible defeat, Lord Monmouth almost started to support the reform, which gave his crafty and adventurous mind, tired of good fortune and satisfied with a life of achievement, a new purpose and the exciting challenge of overcoming an obstacle.

He had early resolved to appropriate to himself a division of the county in which his chief seat was situate; but what most interested him, because it was most difficult, was the acquisition of one of the new boroughs that was in his vicinity, and in which he possessed considerable property. The borough, however, was a manufacturing town, and returning only one member, it had hitherto sent up to Westminster a radical shopkeeper, one Mr. Jawster Sharp, who had taken what is called ‘a leading part’ in the town on every ‘crisis’ that had occurred since 1830; one of those zealous patriots who had got up penny subscriptions for gold cups to Lord Grey; cries for the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill; and public dinners where the victual was devoured before grace was said; a worthy who makes speeches, passes resolutions, votes addresses, goes up with deputations, has at all times the necessary quantity of confidence in the necessary individual; confidence in Lord Grey; confidence in Lord Durham; confidence in Lord Melbourne: and can also, if necessary, give three cheers for the King, or three groans for the Queen.

He had early decided to claim a part of the county where his main residence was located; however, what intrigued him the most, because it was the biggest challenge, was securing one of the new boroughs nearby, where he owned a significant amount of property. The borough, though, was a manufacturing town, electing only one representative, and had previously sent a radical shopkeeper, Mr. Jawster Sharp, to Westminster. Since 1830, he had been quite active in the town during every ‘crisis’ that arose; one of those passionate patriots who organized penny donations for gold cups to give to Lord Grey, rallied for the bill, the whole bill, and nothing but the bill, and attended public dinners where the food was consumed before grace was said. He was a notable figure who gave speeches, passed resolutions, voted on addresses, went along with delegations, always showed the necessary amount of confidence in whoever was needed; confidence in Lord Grey, confidence in Lord Durham, confidence in Lord Melbourne, and could also, if needed, cheer for the King or boo for the Queen.

But the days of the genus Jawster Sharp were over in this borough as well as in many others. He had contrived in his lustre of agitation to feather his nest pretty successfully; by which he had lost public confidence and gained his private end. Three hungry Jawster Sharps, his hopeful sons, had all become commissioners of one thing or another; temporary appointments with interminable duties; a low-church son-in-law found himself comfortably seated in a chancellor’s living; and several cousins and nephews were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp himself was as pure as Cato. He had always said he would never touch the public money, and he had kept his word. It was an understood thing that Jawster Sharp was never to show his face again on the hustings of Darlford; the Liberal party was determined to be represented in future by a man of station, substance, character, a true Reformer, but one who wanted nothing for himself, and therefore might, if needful, get something for them. They were looking out for such a man, but were in no hurry. The seat was looked upon as a good thing; a contest certainly, every place is contested now, but as certainly a large majority. Notwithstanding all this confidence, however, Reaction or Registration, or some other mystification, had produced effects even in this creature of the Reform Bill, the good Borough of Darlford. The borough that out of gratitude to Lord Grey returned a jobbing shopkeeper twice to Parliament as its representative without a contest, had now a Conservative Association, with a banker for its chairman, and a brewer for its vice-president, and four sharp lawyers nibbing their pens, noting their memorandum-books, and assuring their neighbours, with a consoling and complacent air, that ‘Property must tell in the long run.’ Whispers also were about, that when the proper time arrived, a Conservative candidate would certainly have the honour of addressing the electors. No name mentioned, but it was not concealed that he was to be of no ordinary calibre; a tried man, a distinguished individual, who had already fought the battle of the constitution, and served his country in eminent posts; honoured by the nation, favoured by his sovereign. These important and encouraging intimations were ably diffused in the columns of the Conservative journal, and in a style which, from its high tone, evidently indicated no ordinary source and no common pen. Indeed, there appeared occasionally in this paper, articles written with such unusual vigour, that the proprietors of the Liberal journal almost felt the necessity of getting some eminent hand down from town to compete with them. It was impossible that they could emanate from the rival Editor. They knew well the length of their brother’s tether. Had they been more versant in the periodical literature of the day, they might in this ‘slashing’ style have caught perhaps a glimpse of the future candidate for their borough, the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby.

But the days of Jawster Sharp in this town were over, just like in many others. He had managed to set himself up nicely amid all the chaos; as a result, he lost public trust but achieved his personal goals. Three ambitious Jawster Sharp sons were now commissioners of various things; they held temporary positions with endless responsibilities. A low-church son-in-law found himself comfortably placed in a chancellor’s position, and several cousins and nephews were busy in the Excise. But Jawster Sharp himself was as honest as Cato. He had always claimed he wouldn't touch public funds, and he kept that promise. It was understood that Jawster Sharp would never show his face again during elections in Darlford; the Liberal party was determined to be represented by someone of status, substance, character—a true Reformer—who wouldn’t take anything for himself, so he could potentially do something for them. They were on the lookout for such a person but weren’t rushing. The seat was seen as a valuable opportunity; certainly a contest, every seat is contested now, but definitely a large majority. Despite this belief, however, Reaction or Registration, or some other confusion, had created changes even in this product of the Reform Bill—the decent Borough of Darlford. The borough that, in gratitude to Lord Grey, had sent a jobbing shopkeeper to Parliament twice without a contest, now had a Conservative Association, with a banker as its chairman, a brewer as its vice-president, and four sharp lawyers jotting notes and assuring their neighbors, with a reassuring and smug attitude, that "Property must prevail in the long run." There were also rumors that when the time was right, a Conservative candidate would certainly have the chance to address the voters. No names were mentioned, but it was clear he wouldn't be just any ordinary person; a proven man, a distinguished individual who had already defended the constitution and served his country in important roles; respected by the nation and favored by the crown. These significant and encouraging hints were skillfully spread in the Conservative paper, and the style was such that it obviously came from a prestigious source and a talented writer. In fact, there occasionally appeared in this paper articles with such unusual energy that the Liberal paper's owners felt the need to bring in someone notable from the city to compete with them. It was impossible that these pieces came from their rival editor. They understood well the limits of their colleague's abilities. Had they been more familiar with the periodical literature of the time, they might have caught a glimpse of the future candidate for their borough, the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby.

Lord Monmouth, though he had been absent from England since 1832, had obtained from his vigilant correspondent a current knowledge of all that had occurred in the interval: all the hopes, fears, plans, prospects, manoeuvres, and machinations; their rise and fall; how some had bloomed, others were blighted; not a shade of reaction that was not represented to him; not the possibility of an adhesion that was not duly reported; he could calculate at Naples at any time, within ten, the result of a dissolution. The season of the year had prevented him crossing the Alps in 1834, and after the general election he was too shrewd a practiser in the political world to be deceived as to the ultimate result. Lord Eskdale, in whose judgment he had more confidence than in that of any individual, had told him from the first that the pear was not ripe; Rigby, who always hedged against his interest by the fulfilment of his prophecy of irremediable discomfiture, was never very sanguine. Indeed, the whole affair was always considered premature by the good judges; and a long time elapsed before Tadpole and Taper recovered their secret influence, or resumed their ostentatious loquacity, or their silent insolence.

Lord Monmouth, even though he had been away from England since 1832, had kept himself updated on everything that had happened during that time through his attentive correspondent: all the hopes, fears, plans, prospects, maneuvers, and schemes; their rise and fall; how some had thrived while others had failed; every reaction was reported to him; every potential alliance was noted; he could predict, from Naples, the outcome of a dissolution within ten votes at any time. The season had prevented him from crossing the Alps in 1834, and after the general election, he was too savvy in the political scene to be tricked about the final outcome. Lord Eskdale, whose judgment he trusted more than anyone else's, had initially told him that the situation wasn’t ready; Rigby, who always protected his interests by predicting inevitable failure, was never very optimistic. In fact, the whole situation was seen as premature by the knowledgeable observers; and it took a long time before Tadpole and Taper regained their secret influence, or returned to their showy chatter, or their quiet arrogance.

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.

The pear, however, was now ripe. Even Lord Eskdale mentioned that after the upcoming registration, a bet was safe, and Lord Monmouth took pleasure in getting the Whig Minister in Naples to bet a cool thousand on the outcome. Shortly after this, he returned to England and decided to visit Coningsby Castle, host a county feast, support the borough, and spread that confidence in the party that his presence consistently inspired; his reputation for accuracy and fearless courage was so significant and well-founded. Despite Schedule A, the weight of his power had not noticeably decreased, as his essential resources were vast, and his intellect always maximized 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.

True, though, to his organization, Lord Monmouth, even to save his party and secure his dukedom, must not be bored. So, he filled his castle with the most enjoyable people from London and even arranged for a small group of French comedians for their entertainment. With this setup, he welcomed his neighbors with all the grandeur fitting his immense wealth and high status, along with one charm that even vast wealth and high position can't buy: the most perfect manners. In fact, Lord Monmouth was one of the most refined gentlemen to ever live; and because he was good-natured, and for a selfish man, even good-humored, there was rarely a hint of caprice or bad temper to spoil his fine manners. The local neighbors were all captivated; they were welcomed with such dignity and sent off with such grace. No one would believe the negative stories about him. Had he spent his entire life at Coningsby, carried out every duty of a great English nobleman, benefitted the county, and showered the residents with favors, he still wouldn't have been as popular as he became within two weeks of his arrival, despite having the worst reputation in the county imaginable, with every small landowner swearing they wouldn't even leave their 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, who had an absolute contempt for humanity; not a fluctuating emotion, not a sad belief that shifted with circumstances, but a fixed, deep, unchangeable instinct; who never loved anyone and never hated anyone except for his own children; was amused by his popularity, but he was also pleased by it. At that moment, it was a significant source of power; he was proud that, with a flawed character, after treating these people with unprecedented neglect and disdain, he could win back their admiration in an instant through the charm of his demeanor and the brilliance of his wealth. His experience confirmed the validity 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.

Lord Monmouth worshipped gold, but when necessary, he could waste it like a caliph. He even had a certain respect for very wealthy men; that was his only weakness, the sole exception to his general disdain for humanity. Wit, power, specific friendships, overall popularity, public opinion, beauty, talent, virtue—all of these can be bought; however, it doesn't mean you can buy a rich man: you might not have or be willing to give enough. A person or thing that you might not be able to buy took on a sort of halo, nearly sacred in Lord Monmouth's eyes.

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.

As the prey took the bait, Lord Monmouth decided they should be indulged. He doubled the size of his banquets; a ball was announced; a public day was set; not just the county, but also the key residents of the nearby borough were encouraged to join; Lord Monmouth wanted it to be, if possible, without political divisions. He had come back to be with his old friends, to live and die where he was born. The Chairman of the Conservative Association and the Vice President exchanged looks that would have suited Tadpole and Taper; the four lawyers sharpened their pens with renewed energy and insisted that nothing could resist the power of the aristocracy ‘in the long run.’ Everyone dined at the Castle; everyone went home overwhelmed by the generosity of the host, the beauty of the ladies, several actual Princesses, the magnificence of his outfits, the variety of his dishes, and the quality of his wines. They all agreed that at future meetings of the Conservative Association, they should always raise a toast to ‘Lord Monmouth and the House of Lords!’ replacing the Duke of Wellington, who would feature in a later 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.

It wasn't without feeling that Coningsby saw for the first time the castle that carried his name. It was visible for miles before he entered the park, so proud and prominent was its position on the beautifully wooded slope of a significant hill. It was a castle-like building, huge and impressive, in an awkward and mismatched style of architecture, indeed, but it made up for some of these flaws in external design and appeal with the splendor and comfort of its exterior, which a Gothic castle built according to strict artistic rules could hardly have matched. The setting sun cast a warm glow over the structure as Coningsby approached it, lighting up with shifting and whimsical hues the delicate leaves of the rare shrubs and tall slender trees surrounding the hillside. Our young friend felt a bit awkward when, without a servant and in a hired carriage, he arrived at the grand entrance, and a group of attendants came out to greet him. A senior servant asked his name with a dignified calm that didn’t come off as snobbish. It was with a sense of pride and satisfaction that the guest replied, “Mr. Coningsby.” The immediate reaction was magical. It felt to Coningsby as if he were being carried on the shoulders of the crowd to his room; everyone tried to take some part of his luggage, and he could only hope his welcome from those in charge would be just as warm.

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?

It struck Coningsby on his way to his room that the Castle was buzzing with excitement; there was constant movement everywhere—people bustling around, going up and down stairs, servants in every corner; orders were given left and right and quickly followed; many wants, equal satisfaction. All of this made him feel quite anxious. It was nothing like Beaumanoir. That was a palace too, but it felt like a home. This place, even though it should feel like one to him, lacked that warmth. Of all the mysteries, social mysteries are the most daunting. Attending an event for the first time is scarier than going into battle. Coningsby had never been in a large house filled with guests before. It felt like a huge deal. The sight of the servants confused him; how was he supposed to face 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.

That, however, he needed to do in a moment. A chamber attendant pointed the way as he moved through several waiting rooms and drawing rooms with a hesitant yet hurried step; then doors suddenly swung open, and he was introduced into the largest and most lavish salon he had ever entered. It was filled with ladies and gentlemen. For the first time in his life, Coningsby found himself at a big party. His immediate reaction was to wish he could just disappear into the ground; but seeing that no one even acknowledged him and that not a single eye was drawn to his entrance, he got his breath back and somewhat regained his composure. Stepping aside, he tried to familiarize himself with the surroundings as best as he could.

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 protégé, 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.

Not a single person he had ever seen before! The fact that he had gone unnoticed just a few minutes ago, which he had found relieving, now started to annoy him. It felt like he was the only one standing alone without anyone talking to him. He felt a renewed and worsening embarrassment and thought, maybe even realized, that he was blushing. Finally, he heard Mr. Rigby's voice. The speaker wasn't in sight; he was at a distance surrounded by a curious group, whom he was contradicting both individually and as a whole, but Coningsby couldn’t mistake those harsh, arrogant tones. He wasn’t sorry that Mr. Rigby didn’t see him. Coningsby never really liked him, which felt unfair since he had been kind and generally helpful; but as Coningsby grew older, he couldn't stand Mr. Rigby's condescending attitude and fatherly tone. Even in the past, although he was attentive, Coningsby had never found him warm. Mr. Rigby would tell him what to do and see, but he never asked what Coningsby wanted to do and see. It always seemed arranged for him to appear as the protégé, or poor relative, of one of his family's dependents. These feelings, triggered by the thought of Mr. Rigby, led Coningsby to remember that, despite being unknown and unnoticed, he was the only Coningsby in that proud Castle, aside from the Lord of the Castle himself; and he began to feel quite embarrassed about allowing his lack of experience in social norms to weigh him down and rob him of the poise that suited both his character and his position. Feeling bolder and much more like himself, Coningsby stepped into the main part 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.

On his legs, wearing his blue ribbon and frequently bending his head to a lady sitting on a sofa who kept talking to him, Coningsby recognized his grandfather. Lord Monmouth was a bit balder than four years ago when he had come to Montem, and perhaps a little rounder; but otherwise, he was the same. Lord Monmouth never bothered with the tricks of grooming and, despite his excessive lifestyle, didn’t really need to. Nature had done a lot for him, and the slow signs of aging were masked by his impressive demeanor. He truly looked like the head of a family that any younger member would be proud of.

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?’

For Coningsby, not only the head of his family but also his host. In either role, he should greet Lord Monmouth. Sitting down for dinner without first paying his respects to his grandfather, to whom he owed so much and whom he hadn’t seen in years, felt not just impolite but also unkind and ungrateful, and frankly, quite absurd. But how was he supposed to approach him? Lord Monmouth seemed deeply engaged, likely with some very important lady. If Coningsby approached and bowed, he would probably just receive a nod in return. He remembered the bow from their first meeting; it had made a lasting impression. It was very likely Lord Monmouth wouldn’t recognize him. Four years hadn’t noticeably changed Lord Monmouth, but those four years had transformed Harry Coningsby from a schoolboy into a man. So how was he supposed to introduce himself to his grandfather? Announcing himself as Coningsby, his Lordship’s grandson, felt pretty silly; calling his grandfather Lord Monmouth wouldn’t serve any purpose; referring to Lord Monmouth as ‘grandfather’ would make everyone laugh and seem awkward and forced. What was he supposed to do? Strike a pose and declare, ‘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.

Even catching Lord Monmouth's eye wasn't easy; he was heavily engaged with a prominent lady on one side, while several gentlemen on the other occasionally chimed in. But something had to 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,

There was a streak of simplicity in Coningsby’s character, as we’ve mentioned before, which was one of its most charming traits. This was largely due to the earnestness of his nature. He was an utterly unpretentious boy, which was particularly notable given his brilliant imagination—a quality that usually makes those who aren’t fully developed in character a bit affected, thanks to the fantasies and vague, indefinite desires it stirs up. The Duchess, who had a keen sense of character and held Coningsby in high regard, often highlighted this trait, noting that combined with his impressive abilities and unusual knowledge for his age, it made him very interesting. In this moment, while Coningsby was watching his grandfather, he noticed a gentleman approach, bow, exchange a few words, and leave. This small event momentarily diverted the immediate company of Lord Monmouth, and before they could return to their previous conversation and settle back into their spots, Coningsby felt a sudden urge to approach Lord Monmouth. Standing before him, he said,

‘How do you do, grandpapa?’

‘How's it going, grandpa?’

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.

Lord Monmouth looked at his grandson. His keen and insightful gaze took in every detail in an instant. Standing before him was one of the most handsome young men he had ever seen, with a graceful demeanor and a captivating face; he exuded a freshness and innocence that is particularly appreciated by a seasoned man of the world. And this was his child; the only one of his lineage to whom he had shown kindness. It would be an exaggeration to say that Lord Monmouth’s heart was moved; but his good nature bubbled over, and his refined taste was greatly satisfied. He instantly realized that this relationship could prove to be a valuable ally; an irresistible candidate for future elections: a brilliant asset to advance the Dukedom. All these thoughts and more raced through Lord Monmouth’s quick mind before Coningsby’s words had even faded away, and long before the other guests had recovered from the surprise he'd caused, which only intensified when Lord Monmouth stepped forward, wrapped his arms around Coningsby with a dignified affection befitting Louis XIV., and then, in the grand style of the old Court, kissed him on both cheeks.

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

‘Welcome to your home,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘You’ve grown a lot.’

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.

Then Lord Monmouth led the anxious Coningsby to the prominent lady, who was a Princess and an Ambassadress. He gracefully linked his arm with his grandson's and crossed the room, formally presenting him to a royal guest, a Russian Grand-duke. His Imperial Highness welcomed our hero as warmly as any grandson of Lord Monmouth could hope for, but no greeting could match the one he got from the lady who was talking with the Grand-duke. She was a woman of mature beauty, still stunning. Her figure was magnificent; her dark hair topped with a beautifully crafted tiara. Her elegantly rounded arm was adorned with expensive bracelets, yet she wore no jewels on her finely shaped bust, and just the slightest hint of rouge on her still youthful cheek. Madame Colonna still held onto her allure.

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.

The party, while quite large, mainly included the guests at the Castle. The Grand Duke's entourage had several counts and generals; then there were the Russian Ambassador and his wife, along with a Russian Prince and Princess who were relatives. The Prince and Princess Colonna and Princess Lucretia were also visiting the Marquess; the frequency of these visits led some uptight aristocrats to claim it was impossible to go to Coningsby, but since they weren't invited, it didn’t really matter. The Marquess knew many pleasant people of high social standing who had a more open-minded view of human behavior and always assumed the best intentions instead of the worst. For example, there was Lady St. Julians, whose status was at the very top; she was highly sought after. She made it a point to go everywhere and visit everyone, as long as they had power, wealth, and style. She recognized no sin except a woman living apart from her husband; that was unforgivable. As long as his presence endorsed her behavior, no matter how shameless, it didn’t matter; but if the husband were a jerk, first neglecting his wife and then abandoning her, then if even a rumor tarnished her name, she had to be destroyed; unless, of course, her own family was very powerful, which changes things and sometimes turns immorality into mere 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.

Lord and Lady Gaverstock were there too, and they never had a bad word to say about anyone. Lady Gaverstock was as pure as snow, but since her mother had been divorced, she felt like she was honoring her parent by associating with people who might someday find themselves in a similar situation. There were other lords and ladies of high status, as well as some charming individuals who, while not nobility, were what Lord Monmouth appreciated the most. There was a steady flow of fine gentlemen coming and going, and even some who weren't particularly refined or gentlemanly, but were very entertaining or accommodating when needed, making life enjoyable for themselves and others.

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.

A new scene for Coningsby, who watched with interest everything that happened in front of him. Dinner was announced as being served; a caring arm led him at a moment of confusion.

‘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.

‘When did you get here, Harry? We should sit together. How’s the Duchess?’ asked Mr. Rigby, who spoke as if he were seeing Coningsby for the first time; but he had, with that keen gaze that missed nothing, watched his reception by his grandfather, noted it carefully, and processed it in his mind.

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.

There was going to be a first performance at Lord Monmouth’s theater tonight, which created a lot of excitement among the group and was one of the main topics of conversation at dinner. Villebecque, the manager of the troupe, had married the actress Stella, who was once famous for her talent and beauty; she didn’t have any of the vices typically associated with her profession. Although she was a fallen angel, her countrymen would say there were extenuating circumstances for her decline. With the world at her feet, she remained untarnished. Wealth and its pleasures couldn’t tempt her, even though she couldn’t resist giving her heart to someone she thought was worthy of it. She found her destiny in an Englishman, who was the father of her only child, a daughter. She believed she had found a hero in him, a demigod filled with deep emotion and creativity; but he turned out to be just a pleasure-seeker, full of passion but lacking true feeling, and eccentric because he had the means to indulge his extravagant whims. Stella realized she had made a serious and irreversible mistake. She had traded genuine devotion for a passionate but fleeting infatuation, driven initially by vanity, which faded daily under the weight of routine and new distractions. While her actions weren't without fault, Stella remained pure in spirit. She wanted the devotion she had offered, so she distanced herself from the person to whom she had made the most significant sacrifice. He offered her emotional support through a financial arrangement, which she declined; and she returned, heartbroken, to the profession where she was still a shining star and a source of 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.

The driving force behind her career was her daughter, whom she raised with a dedication that even the best mothers would envy. Her main goals were to keep her child away from the stage and to ensure she had financial independence. However, nature hinted that her own days were numbered. The demands of her job had alarmingly triggered a natural predisposition to lung disease. Worried that her daughter would be left without someone to look after her, Stella gave in to the ongoing pleas of a man who had silently admired her from the start, and she married Villebecque, a talented actor and ambitious man who aspired to achieve more. Their marriage didn’t last long, although Villebecque was happy and Stella remained calm. Stella passed away from this world, where she experienced great triumph and even more suffering; a place where she practiced many virtues that, while not excusing, might provide some mitigation for one significant mistake.

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.

Villebecque handled the young charge that Stella left him with grace. As we've mentioned, he was a man of ambition, a restless spirit who wasn't satisfied to stay in the same circle he was born into. Challenges are part of the journey for such aspiring individuals. Villebecque became the manager of a small theater and made a profit. If Villebecque had been a schemer without a penny, now that he had a little capital, he was like the Chevalier Law of theater managers. He took on a larger theater, and that was successful too. Before long, he was recognized as the leaseholder of multiple venues, and he continued to thrive. Villebecque started getting involved in opera houses. He established himself in Paris, with his agents being heard of in Milan, Naples, Berlin, and St. Petersburg. His disputes with the Conservatoire in Paris were notable enough to be treated as state matters. Villebecque traveled in luxury and drove fancy cabs; he hosted elegant dinners for high-ranking nobles who were honored to receive his invitations. Villebecque wore a red ribbon in the buttonhole of his coat and flaunted more than one medal on his formal attire.

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.

All this time, Stella's daughter grew older and taller, and we should also mention that she grew kinder: a gentle, soft-hearted girl, still without a strong character, but someone who loved tranquility and seemed out of place in the environment she was in. However, in that environment, she was always met with kindness and consideration. No risky venture, no complicated management, no grand plans ever made Villebecque forget about ‘La Petite.’ Not for a single breathless moment did a day go by without him seeing her; she was his partner in all his fast-paced activities, and he made it his mission to find every comfort and convenience that could ease her delicate body from the discomfort and fatigue of travel. He took pride in surrounding her with luxury and elegance, providing her with the most renowned teachers, and fulfilling every wish 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.

But all this time, Villebecque was dancing on a volcano. The disaster that always happens in the careers of great speculators, especially those in theater, finally caught up to him. Overwhelmed by his success and confident in his winning streak, nothing would satisfy him but total domination. He had established his reign in Paris and built his influence in Naples and Milan; however, the North was still out of reach, and he was determined to claim it. Berlin fell to him after a successful, albeit expensive, campaign; but St. Petersburg and London still stood. Undeterred and reckless, Villebecque pressed on. One season, all the opera houses in Europe followed his lead, and by the end of it, he was bankrupt. The downfall was complete, universal, and devastating; under normal circumstances, only a French bed and a charcoal brazier would be left for Villebecque, but he was prepared for that. Yet the thought of La Petite and the memory of his promise to Stella stopped him from going through with it. He evaluated his situation with the mindset of a practical philosopher. Was he worse off than before he started his career? Yes, because he was older; though he did have some fond memories. But was he too old to do anything? At forty-five, the game wasn't completely over; and in a large theater, not overly bright, and with the right dramatic makeup, he might still be able to successfully take on the roles of dapper young men, in which he once thrived. Luxury had perhaps added a bit too much to his waistline, but with diet and rehearsals, he could fix that.

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, in their tough situation, broke it to La Petite that the time had unfortunately come when it would be wise for her to think about the best way to make use of her talents and skills. He himself suggested acting, to which there were certainly objections, as any other job would mean they’d have to be apart. However, he fairly laid out the pros and cons of each option they had available and left the final choice up to her. La Petite, who had cried a lot over Villebecque’s troubles and often told him she cared about them only for his sake, decided on acting, mainly because it meant they wouldn’t have to be separated; yet, she frequently told him she worried that she had no natural talent for that path.

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.

Villebecque not only had to perform his own roles at the theater where he was employed, but he also needed to teach his ward. It was a laborious life—an added load of work and effort that didn’t really need to be added to the thrilling challenge of performing and the tedious routine of rehearsals. Yet, he handled it all without complaint, with a level of self-control and gentle perseverance that even the best temperament in the world could hardly explain—especially considering that the person enduring all this hard work and exhausting effort had just gone through the most drastic ups and downs of life, losing the ability to wield absolute power and limitless personal pleasure.

Lord Eskdale, who was always doing kind things to actors and actresses, had a great regard for Villebecque, with whom he had often supped. He had often been kind, too, to La Petite. Lord Eskdale had a plan for putting Villebecque, as he termed it, ‘on his legs again.’ It was to establish him with a French Company in London at some pretty theatre; Lord Eskdale to take a private box and to make all his friends do the same. Villebecque, who was as sanguine as he was good-tempered, was ravished by this friendly scheme. He immediately believed that he should recover his great fortunes as rapidly as he had lost them. He foresaw in La Petite a genius as distinguished as that of her mother, although as yet not developed, and he was boundless in his expressions of gratitude to his patron. And indeed of all friends, a friend in need is the most delightful. Lord Eskdale had the talent of being a friend in need. Perhaps it was because he knew so many worthless persons. But it often happens that worthless persons are merely people who are worth nothing.

Lord Eskdale, who always did nice things for actors and actresses, had a great fondness for Villebecque, with whom he had shared many dinners. He had also been generous to La Petite. Lord Eskdale had a plan to get Villebecque, as he put it, "back on his feet." He intended to set him up with a French company in London at a nice theater; Lord Eskdale would take a private box and encourage all his friends to do the same. Villebecque, who was as optimistic as he was good-natured, was thrilled by this kind plan. He immediately believed he would recover his lost fortunes just as quickly as he had lost them. He saw in La Petite a talent as remarkable as her mother’s, even though it hadn't been developed yet, and he was endlessly grateful to his patron. And indeed, among all friends, a friend in need is the most wonderful. Lord Eskdale had a knack for being that friend in need. Perhaps it was because he knew so many unworthy people. But often, those unworthy folks are just people who are undervalued.

Lord Monmouth having written to Mr. Rigby of his intention to reside for some months at Coningsby, and having mentioned that he wished a troop of French comedians to be engaged for the summer, Mr. Rigby had immediately consulted Lord Eskdale on the subject, as the best current authority. Thinking this a good opportunity of giving a turn to poor Villebecque, and that it might serve as a capital introduction to their scheme of the London company, Lord Eskdale obtained for him the engagement.

Lord Monmouth wrote to Mr. Rigby about his plan to stay at Coningsby for a few months and mentioned that he wanted to hire a troop of French comedians for the summer. Mr. Rigby immediately consulted Lord Eskdale on the matter, as he was the best source of information at the time. Seeing this as a good chance to help poor Villebecque and thinking it could work as a great introduction to their plan for the London company, Lord Eskdale secured the engagement for him.

Villebecque and his little troop had now been a month at Coningsby, and had hitherto performed three times a-week. Lord Monmouth was content; his guests much gratified; the company, on the whole, much approved of. It was, indeed, considering its limited numbers, a capital company. There was a young lady who played the old woman’s parts, nothing could be more garrulous and venerable; and a lady of maturer years who performed the heroines, gay and graceful as May. Villebecque himself was a celebrity in characters of airy insolence and careless frolic. Their old man, indeed, was rather hard, but handy; could take anything either in the high serious, or the low droll. Their sentimental lover was rather too much bewigged, and spoke too much to the audience, a fault rare with the French; but this hero had a vague idea that he was ultimately destined to run off with a princess.

Villebecque and his small group had been at Coningsby for a month now and had performed three times a week so far. Lord Monmouth was satisfied; his guests were quite pleased; and the audience generally approved. Considering its limited size, it was actually a great cast. There was a young woman who played the old woman’s roles, perfectly chatty and wise; and a more mature lady who took on the heroines, lively and graceful like May. Villebecque himself was well-known for his roles filled with lighthearted arrogance and carefree fun. Their older male actor was somewhat tough but skilled; he could handle both serious and comedic parts. Their sentimental lover was a bit overly wigged and spoke too much to the audience, a rarity for the French; yet this hero had a vague notion that he was destined to run off with a princess.

In this wise, affairs had gone on for a month; very well, but not too well. The enterprising genius of Villebecque, once more a manager, prompted him to action. He felt an itching desire to announce a novelty. He fancied Lord Monmouth had yawned once or twice when the heroine came on. Villebecque wanted to make a coup. It was clear that La Petite must sooner or later begin. Could she find a more favourable audience, or a more fitting occasion, than were now offered? True it was she had a great repugnance to come out; but it certainly seemed more to her advantage that she should make her first appearance at a private theatre than at a public one; supported by all the encouraging patronage of Coningsby Castle, than subjected to all the cynical criticism of the stalls of St. James’.

In this way, things had been going on for a month; pretty well, but not perfectly. The ambitious Villebecque, back in the manager’s seat, was spurred to take action. He felt a strong urge to introduce something new. He thought that Lord Monmouth had yawned a couple of times when the heroine came on stage. Villebecque wanted to make a coup. It was obvious that La Petite had to start eventually. Could she find a better audience or a more suitable occasion than what was currently available? It was true she was quite reluctant to go on stage; however, it did seem more beneficial for her to debut at a private theater rather than a public one, backed by the supportive patronage of Coningsby Castle instead of facing the critical gaze of the audience at St. James’.

These views and various considerations were urged and represented by Villebecque to La Petite, with all the practised powers of plausibility of which so much experience as a manager had made him master. La Petite looked infinitely distressed, but yielded, as she ever did. And the night of Coningsby’s arrival at the Castle was to witness in its private theatre the first appearance of MADEMOISELLE FLORA.

These ideas and different thoughts were presented by Villebecque to La Petite, using all the convincing skills he had acquired through years of experience as a manager. La Petite looked extremely upset, but she gave in, as she always did. And the night Coningsby arrived at the Castle was marked by the debut of MADEMOISELLE FLORA in its private theater.

CHAPTER VIII.

The guests re-assembled in the great saloon before they repaired to the theatre. A lady on the arm of the Russian Prince bestowed on Coningsby a haughty, but not ungracious bow; which he returned, unconscious of the person to whom he bent. She was, however, a striking person; not beautiful, her face, indeed, at the first glance was almost repulsive, yet it ever attracted a second gaze. A remarkable pallor distinguished her; her features had neither regularity nor expression; neither were her eyes fine; but her brow impressed you with an idea of power of no ordinary character or capacity. Her figure was as fine and commanding as her face was void of charm. Juno, in the full bloom of her immortality, could have presented nothing more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she swept along like a resistless Fate.

The guests gathered again in the grand salon before heading to the theater. A woman on the arm of the Russian Prince gave Coningsby a proud, but not unkind, nod; he responded without realizing who he was acknowledging. She was, however, quite striking; not beautiful—her face, at first glance, was almost off-putting—but it always drew a second look. A remarkable paleness set her apart; her features had neither symmetry nor expression; her eyes weren’t particularly beautiful, but her forehead conveyed an impression of exceptional strength and capability. Her figure was as impressive and commanding as her face was lacking in charm. Juno, in all her immortal glory, couldn't have looked more majestic. Coningsby watched her as she moved forward like an unstoppable Fate.

Servants now went round and presented to each of the guests a billet of the performance. It announced in striking characters the début of Mademoiselle Flora. A principal servant, bearing branch lights, came forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth went immediately to the Grand-duke, and notified to his Imperial Highness that the comedy was ready. The Grand-duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress; the rest were following; Coningsby was called; Madame Colonna wished him to be her beau.

Servants walked around and handed each guest a program for the show. It prominently announced the debut of Mademoiselle Flora. A head servant, carrying a pair of candles, stepped forward and bowed to the Marquess. Lord Monmouth immediately approached the Grand-Duke and informed His Imperial Highness that the comedy was ready. The Grand-Duke offered his arm to the Ambassadress, and the others followed; Coningsby was called over; Madame Colonna wanted him to be her date.

It was a pretty theatre; had been rapidly rubbed up and renovated here and there; the painting just touched; a little gilding on a cornice. There were no boxes, but the ground-floor, which gradually ascended, was carpeted and covered with arm-chairs, and the back of the theatre with a new and rich curtain of green velvet.

It was a nice theater; it had been quickly cleaned up and updated in some places; the walls were freshly painted; there was a bit of gold trim on a cornice. There weren’t any boxes, but the ground floor, which sloped upward, was carpeted and filled with armchairs, and the rear of the theater had a new, luxurious green velvet curtain.

They are all seated; a great artist performs on the violin, accompanied by another great artist on the piano. The lights rise; somebody evidently crosses the stage behind the curtain. They are disposing the scene. In a moment the curtain will rise also.

They are all seated; a great artist plays the violin, accompanied by another great artist on the piano. The lights come up; someone is clearly moving behind the curtain on stage. They are setting up the scene. In a moment, the curtain will rise as well.

‘Have you seen Lucretia?’ said the Princess to Coningsby. ‘She is so anxious to resume her acquaintance with you.’

‘Have you seen Lucretia?’ the Princess asked Coningsby. ‘She’s really eager to reconnect with you.’

But before he could answer the bell rang, and the curtain rose.

But before he could respond, the bell rang, and the curtain went up.

The old man, who had a droll part to-night, came forward and maintained a conversation with his housekeeper; not bad. The young woman who played the grave matron performed with great finish. She was a favourite, and was ever applauded. The second scene came; a saloon tastefully furnished; a table with flowers, arranged with grace; birds in cages, a lap-dog on a cushion; some books. The audience were pleased; especially the ladies; they like to recognise signs of bon ton in the details of the scene. A rather awful pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was greeted with even vehement approbation. Her agitation is extreme; she curtseys and bows her head, as if to hide her face. The face was pleasing, and pretty enough, soft and engaging. Her figure slight and rather graceful. Nothing could be more perfect than her costume; purely white, but the fashion consummate; a single rose her only ornament. All admitted that her hair was arranged to admiration.

The old man, who had a funny role tonight, stepped forward and chatted with his housekeeper; it was pretty good. The young woman who played the serious matron performed excellently. She was a favorite and always received applause. The second scene began; a tastefully decorated salon with a table featuring flowers arranged beautifully, birds in cages, a lapdog on a cushion, and some books. The audience enjoyed it, especially the ladies; they love to spot signs of good taste in the details of the scene. A rather awkward pause, and Mademoiselle Flora enters. She was greeted with enthusiastic approval. She seemed extremely nervous; she curtseyed and bowed her head, as if to hide her face. Her face was nice and pretty enough, soft and charming. Her figure was slim and quite graceful. Nothing could be more perfect than her costume; pure white, but the style was flawless; a single rose was her only accessory. Everyone agreed that her hair was styled beautifully.

At length she spoke; her voice trembled, but she had a good elocution, though her organ wanted force. The gentlemen looked at each other, and nodded approbation. There was something so unobtrusive in her mien, that she instantly became a favourite with the ladies. The scene was not long, but it was successful.

At last, she spoke; her voice shook, but she expressed herself well, even though she lacked volume. The gentlemen exchanged glances and nodded in approval. There was something so unassuming about her demeanor that she quickly won over the ladies. The moment was brief but effective.

Flora did not appear in the next scene. In the fourth and final one of the act, she had to make a grand display. It was a love-scene, and rather of an impassioned character; Villebecque was her suitor. He entered first on the stage. Never had he looked so well, or performed with more spirit. You would not have given him five-and-twenty years; he seemed redolent of youth. His dress, too, was admirable. He had studied the most distinguished of his audience for the occasion, and had outdone them all. The fact is, he had been assisted a little by a great connoisseur, a celebrated French nobleman, Count D’O——y, who had been one of the guests. The thing was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch of snuff, and tapped approbation on the top of his box.

Flora didn’t show up in the next scene. In the fourth and final one of the act, she was supposed to make a grand entrance. It was a love scene, and quite passionate; Villebecque was her admirer. He entered the stage first. He had never looked so good or performed with more enthusiasm. You wouldn't have guessed he was over twenty-five; he seemed full of youth. His outfit was also impressive. He had studied the most distinguished members of the audience for the occasion and managed to outshine them all. The truth is, he had some help from a great expert, a famous French nobleman, Count D’O——y, who had been one of the guests. Everything was perfect; and Lord Monmouth took a pinch of snuff and nodded in approval from his box.

Flora now re-appeared, received with renewed approbation. It did not seem, however, that in the interval she had gained courage; she looked agitated. She spoke, she proceeded with her part; it became impassioned. She had to speak of her feelings; to tell the secrets of her heart; to confess that she loved another; her emotion was exquisitely performed, the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilling. There was, throughout the audience, a dead silence; all were absorbed in their admiration of the unrivalled artist; all felt a new genius had visited the stage; but while they were fascinated by the actress, the woman was in torture. The emotion was the disturbance of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of her tones thrilled from the heart: suddenly she clasped her hands with all the exhaustion of woe; an expression of agony flitted over her countenance; and she burst into tears. Villebecque rushed forward, and carried, rather than led, her from the stage; the audience looking at each other, some of them suspecting that this movement was a part of the scene.

Flora reappeared to warm applause. Still, it seemed that in the meantime she hadn't gained any confidence; she looked nervous. She spoke and continued with her performance; it became passionate. She had to express her feelings, reveal the secrets of her heart, and admit that she loved someone else; her emotion was beautifully conveyed, the sad tenderness in her voice was captivating. The audience was completely silent, all absorbed in their admiration for the exceptional artist; they felt a new talent had graced the stage. But while they were mesmerized by the actress, the woman was in agony. Her emotion was the turmoil of her own soul; the mournful tenderness of her voice came from deep within her. Suddenly, she clasped her hands in utter despair, a look of pain crossed her face, and she burst into tears. Villebecque rushed forward and practically carried her off the stage, while the audience exchanged glances, some suspecting that this was part of the performance.

‘She has talent,’ said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, ‘but wants practice. Villebecque should send her for a time to the provinces.’

‘She has talent,’ said Lord Monmouth to the Russian Ambassadress, ‘but she needs practice. Villebecque should send her to the provinces for a while.’

At length M. Villebecque came forward to express his deep regret that the sudden and severe indisposition of Mlle. Flora rendered it impossible for the company to proceed with the piece; but that the curtain would descend to rise again for the second and last piece announced.

At last, M. Villebecque stepped up to share his sincere regret that Mlle. Flora's sudden and serious illness made it impossible for the performance to continue as planned; however, the curtain would close only to rise again for the second and final show scheduled.

All this accordingly took place. The experienced performer who acted the heroines now came forward and disported most jocundly. The failure of Flora had given fresh animation to her perpetual liveliness. She seemed the very soul of elegant frolic. In the last scene she figured in male attire; and in air, fashion, and youth, beat Villebecque out of the field. She looked younger than Coningsby when he went up to his grandpapa.

All of this happened as expected. The seasoned actress who played the heroines stepped forward and entertained everyone cheerfully. Flora's failure had injected new energy into her constant liveliness. She embodied the essence of graceful fun. In the final scene, she dressed in men's clothing; in style, fashion, and youth, she outshone Villebecque. She appeared younger than Coningsby when he approached his grandfather.

The comedy was over, the curtain fell; the audience, much amused, chattered brilliant criticism, and quitted the theatre to repair to the saloon, where they were to be diverted tonight with Russian dances. Nobody thought of the unhappy Flora; not a single message to console her in her grief, to compliment her on what she had done, to encourage her future. And yet it was a season for a word of kindness; so, at least, thought one of the audience, as he lingered behind the hurrying crowd, absorbed in their coming amusements.

The show had ended, the curtain came down; the audience, entertained, chatted excitedly about the performance and headed out of the theater to the lounge, where they would enjoy Russian dances that night. No one thought about the unfortunate Flora; not a single message to comfort her in her sadness, to praise her for her efforts, or to encourage her future. And yet, it felt like the right time for a kind word; at least, that’s what one member of the audience thought as he lingered behind the rushing crowd, focused on their upcoming entertainment.

Coningsby had sat very near the stage; he had observed, with great advantage and attention, the countenance and movements of Flora from the beginning. He was fully persuaded that her woe was genuine and profound. He had felt his eyes moist when she wept. He recoiled from the cruelty and the callousness that, without the slightest symptom of sympathy, could leave a young girl who had been labouring for their amusement, and who was suffering for her trial.

Coningsby had sat very close to the stage; he had watched, with great focus and interest, Flora’s expressions and actions from the start. He was completely convinced that her sorrow was real and deep. He felt his eyes well up when she cried. He was repulsed by the cruelty and indifference that, without any hint of compassion, could abandon a young girl who had been working hard to entertain them and who was in pain from her ordeal.

He got on the stage, ran behind the scenes, and asked for Mlle. Flora. They pointed to a door; he requested permission to enter. Flora was sitting at a table, with her face resting on her hands. Villebecque was there, resting on the edge of the tall fender, and still in the dress in which he had performed in the last piece.

He stepped onto the stage, hurried backstage, and asked for Mlle. Flora. They pointed him to a door, and he asked to go in. Flora was sitting at a table, her face in her hands. Villebecque was there, lounging on the edge of the tall fender, still in the costume he wore for the last performance.

‘I took the liberty,’ said Coningsby, ‘of inquiring after Mlle. Flora;’ and then advancing to her, who had raised her head, he added, ‘I am sure my grandfather must feel much indebted to you, Mademoiselle, for making such exertions when you were suffering under so much indisposition.’

‘I went ahead,’ said Coningsby, ‘and asked about Mlle. Flora;’ and then moving closer to her, as she lifted her head, he added, ‘I’m sure my grandfather must be very grateful to you, Mademoiselle, for putting in so much effort while you were feeling so unwell.’

‘This is very amiable of you, sir,’ said the young lady, looking at him with earnestness.

"This is really kind of you, sir," said the young lady, looking at him with sincerity.

‘Mademoiselle has too much sensibility,’ said Villebecque, making an observation by way of diversion.

‘Mademoiselle is too sensitive,’ said Villebecque, making an observation to lighten the mood.

‘And yet that must be the soul of fine acting,’ said Coningsby; ‘I look forward, all look forward, with great interest to the next occasion on which you will favour us.’

‘And yet that must be the essence of great acting,’ said Coningsby; ‘I look forward, and everyone else does too, with great anticipation to the next time you’ll bless us with your performance.’

‘Never!’ said La Petite, in a plaintive tone; ‘oh, I hope, never!’

‘Never!’ said La Petite, in a sad tone; ‘oh, I hope, never!’

‘Mademoiselle is not aware at this moment,’ said Coningsby, ‘how much her talent is appreciated. I assure you, sir,’ he added, turning to Villebecque, ‘I heard but one opinion, but one expression of gratification at her feeling and her fine taste.’

‘Mademoiselle doesn’t realize right now,’ said Coningsby, ‘how much people value her talent. I assure you, sir,’ he added, turning to Villebecque, ‘I only heard one opinion, just one expression of appreciation for her sensitivity and her great taste.’

‘The talent is hereditary,’ said Villebecque.

‘The talent runs in the family,’ said Villebecque.

‘Indeed you have reason to say so,’ said Coningsby.

"You're right to say that," Coningsby replied.

‘Pardon; I was not thinking of myself. My child reminded me so much of another this evening. But that is nothing. I am glad you are here, sir, to reassure Mademoiselle.’

‘Sorry; I wasn't thinking about myself. My child reminded me a lot of another one this evening. But that's not important. I'm glad you're here, sir, to reassure Mademoiselle.’

‘I came only to congratulate her, and to lament, for our sakes as well as her own, her indisposition.’

‘I came just to congratulate her and to express my sorrow, for both our sake and hers, about her illness.’

‘It is not indisposition,’ said La Petite, in a low tone, with her eyes cast down.

‘It’s not that I’m feeling unwell,’ said La Petite, in a soft voice, with her eyes looking down.

‘Mademoiselle cannot overcome the nervousness incidental to a first appearance,’ said Villebecque.

‘Mademoiselle can’t shake off the nerves that come with a first appearance,’ said Villebecque.

‘A last appearance,’ said La Petite: ‘yes, it must be the last.’ She rose gently, she approached Villebecque, she laid her head on his breast, and placed her arms round his neck, ‘My father, my best father, yes, say it is the last.’

‘One last time,’ said La Petite: ‘yes, it has to be the last.’ She stood up softly, walked over to Villebecque, rested her head on his chest, and wrapped her arms around his neck, ‘My dad, my best dad, yes, tell me it’s the last time.’

‘You are the mistress of your lot, Flora,’ said Villebecque; ‘but with such a distinguished talent—’

‘You are the master of your fate, Flora,’ said Villebecque; ‘but with such a remarkable talent—’

‘No, no, no; no talent. You are wrong, my father. I know myself. I am not of those to whom nature gives talents. I am born only for still life. I have no taste except for privacy. The convent is more suited to me than the stage.’

‘No, no, no; no talent. You’re mistaken, Dad. I know myself. I’m not one of those people who are naturally gifted. I was made only for still life. I have no interest except for privacy. The convent is better for me than the stage.’

‘But you hear what this gentleman says,’ said Villebecque, returning her embrace. ‘He tells you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I believe, sir, that every one, that—’

‘But you hear what this guy is saying,’ Villebecque said, returning her hug. ‘He’s telling you that his grandfather, my Lord Marquess, I think, sir, that everyone, that—’

‘Oh, no, no, no!’ said Flora, shaking her head. ‘He comes here because he is generous, because he is a gentleman; and he wished to soothe the soul that he knew was suffering. Thank him, my father, thank him for me and before me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your daughter have parted for ever.’

‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Flora said, shaking her head. ‘He comes here because he’s generous, because he’s a gentleman; and he wanted to comfort the soul he knew was hurting. Thank him, Father, thank him for me and in front of me, and promise in his presence that the stage and your daughter have separated for good.’

‘Nay, Mademoiselle,’ said Coningsby, advancing and venturing to take her hand, a soft hand, ‘make no such resolutions to-night. M. Villebecque can have no other thought or object but your happiness; and, believe me, ‘tis not I only, but all, who appreciate, and, if they were here, must respect you.’

‘No, Mademoiselle,’ said Coningsby, moving closer and daring to take her hand, which was soft, ‘don’t make any such resolutions tonight. M. Villebecque has no other thought or goal but your happiness; and believe me, it’s not just me, but everyone who appreciates you, and if they were here, they would respect you.’

‘I prefer respect to admiration,’ said Flora; ‘but I fear that respect is not the appanage of such as I am.’

‘I prefer respect to admiration,’ said Flora; ‘but I worry that respect isn’t something that people like me receive.’

‘All must respect those who respect themselves,’ said Coningsby. ‘Adieu, Mademoiselle; I trust to-morrow to hear that you are yourself.’ He bowed to Villebecque and retired.

‘Everyone must respect those who respect themselves,’ said Coningsby. ‘Goodbye, Mademoiselle; I hope to hear tomorrow that you are feeling better.’ He bowed to Villebecque and left.

In the meantime affairs in the drawing-room assumed a very different character from those behind the scenes. Coningsby returned to brilliancy, groups apparently gushing with light-heartedness, universal content, and Russian dances!

In the meantime, things in the drawing room were completely different from what was happening behind the scenes. Coningsby was back to being charming, with groups that seemed to radiate joy, overall happiness, and Russian dances!

‘And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?’ said Madame Colonna.

‘And you too, do you dance the Russian dances, Mr. Coningsby?’ asked Madame Colonna.

‘I cannot dance at all,’ said Coningsby, beginning a little to lose his pride in the want of an accomplishment which at Eton he had thought it spirited to despise.

‘I can’t dance at all,’ said Coningsby, starting to lose some of his pride in not having a skill that he had once found it cool to mock at Eton.

‘Ah! you cannot dance the Russian dances! Lucretia shall teach you,’ said the Princess; ‘nothing will please her so much.’

‘Oh! you can’t dance the Russian dances! Lucretia will teach you,’ said the Princess; ‘nothing would make her happier.’

On the present occasion the ladies were not so experienced in the entertainment as the gentlemen; but there was amusement in being instructed. To be disciplined by a Grand-duke or a Russian Princess was all very well; but what even good-tempered Lady Gaythorp could not pardon was, that a certain Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all of them trying to put down and to keep down, on this, as almost on every other occasion, proved herself a more finished performer than even the Russians themselves.

On this occasion, the ladies weren't as experienced in the entertainment as the gentlemen; however, they found it amusing to be taught. It was fine to be guided by a Grand Duke or a Russian Princess, but what even the good-natured Lady Gaythorp couldn't tolerate was that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, whom they were all trying to put in her place and keep there, once again showed herself to be a more skilled performer than even the Russians.

Lord Monmouth had picked up the Guy Flounceys during a Roman winter. They were people of some position in society. Mr. Guy Flouncey was a man of good estate, a sportsman, proud of his pretty wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was even very pretty, dressed in a style of ultra fashion. However, she could sing, dance, act, ride, and talk, and all well; and was mistress of the art of flirtation. She had amused the Marquess abroad, and had taken care to call at Monmouth House the instant the Morning Post apprised her he had arrived in England; the consequence was an invitation to Coningsby. She came with a wardrobe which, in point of variety, fancy, and fashion, never was surpassed. Morning and evening, every day a new dress equally striking; and a riding habit that was the talk and wonder of the whole neighbourhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey created far more sensation in the borough when she rode down the High Street, than what the good people called the real Princesses.

Lord Monmouth had met the Guy Flounceys during a winter in Rome. They were fairly well-off socially. Mr. Guy Flouncey was wealthy, an avid sportsman, and proud of his attractive wife. Mrs. Guy Flouncey was indeed very beautiful and dressed in the latest fashion. However, she could sing, dance, act, ride, and engage in conversations—all exceptionally well—and was a master of flirtation. She had entertained the Marquess while abroad and made sure to visit Monmouth House the moment the Morning Post informed her of his return to England; as a result, she received an invitation to Coningsby. She arrived with a wardrobe that was unmatched in diversity, style, and trendiness. Each morning and evening, she sported a new, eye-catching outfit, along with a riding habit that captivated and amazed everyone in the neighborhood. Mrs. Guy Flouncey caused much more of a stir in town when she rode down the High Street than what the locals considered the real Princesses.

At first the fine ladies never noticed her, or only stared at her over their shoulders; everywhere sounded, in suppressed whispers, the fatal question, ‘Who is she?’ After dinner they formed always into polite groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was invariably excluded; and if ever the Princess Colonna, impelled partly by goodnature, and partly from having known her on the Continent, did kindly sit by her, Lady St. Julians, or some dame equally benevolent, was sure, by an adroit appeal to Her Highness on some point which could not be decided without moving, to withdraw her from her pretty and persecuted companion.

At first, the fashionable ladies barely noticed her, or only glanced at her over their shoulders; everywhere, in hushed whispers, the same deadly question floated around: "Who is she?" After dinner, they always gathered into polite groups, from which Mrs. Guy Flouncey was consistently left out; and whenever Princess Colonna, partly out of kindness and partly because she had known her in Europe, decided to sit next to her, Lady St. Julians or some equally well-meaning woman would surely find a way to engage Her Highness in a discussion that required her to move, effectively separating her from her charming but neglected companion.

It was, indeed, rather difficult work the first few days for Mrs. Guy Flouncey, especially immediately after dinner. It is not soothing to one’s self-love to find oneself sitting alone, pretending to look at prints, in a fine drawing-room, full of fine people who don’t speak to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after having taken Coningsby Castle by storm, was not to be driven out of its drawing-room by the tactics even of a Lady St. Julians. Experience convinced her that all that was required was a little patience. Mrs. Guy had confidence in herself, her quickness, her ever ready accomplishments, and her practised powers of attraction. And she was right. She was always sure of an ally the moment the gentlemen appeared. The cavalier who had sat next to her at dinner was only too happy to meet her again. More than once, too, she had caught her noble host, though a whole garrison was ever on the watch to prevent her, and he was greatly amused, and showed that he was greatly amused by her society. Then she suggested plans to him to divert his guests. In a country-house the suggestive mind is inestimable. Somehow or other, before a week passed, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed the soul of everything, was always surrounded by a cluster of admirers, and with what are called ‘the best men’ ever ready to ride with her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The fine ladies found it absolutely necessary to thaw: they began to ask her questions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey only wanted an opening. She was an adroit flatterer, with a temper imperturbable, and gifted with a ceaseless energy of conferring slight obligations. She lent them patterns for new fashions, in all which mysteries she was very versant; and what with some gentle glozing and some gay gossip, sugar for their tongues and salt for their tails, she contrived pretty well to catch them all.

It was definitely pretty tough for Mrs. Guy Flouncey during the first few days, especially right after dinner. It doesn’t feel great for your self-esteem to find yourself sitting alone, pretending to look at prints, in a fancy drawing room filled with high-society people who don’t talk to you. But Mrs. Guy Flouncey, after taking Coningsby Castle by storm, wasn’t going to be chased out of the drawing room by even a Lady St. Julians. Experience taught her that all she needed was a bit of patience. Mrs. Guy was confident in herself, her quick wit, her always-ready skills, and her practiced charm. And she was right. She could always count on an ally as soon as the gentlemen showed up. The guy who had sat next to her at dinner was more than eager to meet her again. More than once, she caught her noble host, despite a whole crew trying to keep her at bay, and he was clearly entertained and showed he enjoyed her company. Then she suggested ideas to him to entertain his guests. In a country house, having a creative mind is invaluable. Before a week went by, Mrs. Guy Flouncey seemed to bring everything to life, always surrounded by a group of admirers, with what people called “the best men” eager to ride with her, dance with her, act with her, or fall at her feet. The refined ladies felt they had to warm up to her: they started asking her questions after dinner. Mrs. Guy Flouncey just needed a starting point. She was a skilled flatterer, with a calm demeanor and a boundless energy for doing small favors. She lent them patterns for new fashions, in which she was quite knowledgeable; and with some gentle flattery and cheerful gossip, sweet talk for their ears and sharp remarks for their sides, she managed to win them all over.

CHAPTER IX.

Nothing could present a greater contrast than the respective interiors of Coningsby and Beaumanoir. That air of habitual habitation, which so pleasingly distinguished the Duke’s family seat, was entirely wanting at Coningsby. Everything, indeed, was vast and splendid; but it seemed rather a gala-house than a dwelling; as if the grand furniture and the grand servants had all come down express from town with the grand company, and were to disappear and to be dispersed at the same time. And truly there were manifold traces of hasty and temporary arrangement; new carpets and old hangings; old paint, new gilding; battalions of odd French chairs, squadrons of queer English tables; and large tasteless lamps and tawdry chandeliers, evidently true cockneys, and only taking the air by way of change. There was, too, throughout the drawing-rooms an absence of all those minor articles of ornamental furniture that are the offering of taste to the home we love. There were no books neither; few flowers; no pet animals; no portfolios of fine drawings by our English artists like the album of the Duchess, full of sketches by Landseer and Stanfield, and their gifted brethren; not a print even, except portfolios of H. B.‘s caricatures. The modes and manners of the house were not rural; there was nothing of the sweet order of a country life. Nobody came down to breakfast; the ladies were scarcely seen until dinner-time; they rolled about in carriages together late in the afternoon as if they were in London, or led a sort of factitious boudoir life in their provincial dressing-rooms.

Nothing could illustrate a bigger contrast than the interiors of Coningsby and Beaumanoir. The cozy, lived-in vibe that made the Duke’s family estate so charming was completely absent at Coningsby. Sure, it was grand and impressive, but it felt more like a showplace than a home, as if all the fancy furniture and high-class staff had been brought in just for the occasion and would vanish as soon as the guests left. You could see signs of a rushed setup everywhere—new carpets with old drapes, old paint paired with new gold accents, mismatched French chairs and peculiar English tables, along with large gaudy lamps and flashy chandeliers that clearly belonged in the city and were just on a brief outing. Additionally, the drawing rooms lacked all those little decorative items that reflect personal taste and make a house feel like home. There were no books, hardly any flowers, no pets, and no collections of beautiful drawings by our English artists like the Duchess’s album filled with sketches by Landseer, Stanfield, and their talented peers; not even a single print, except for some portfolios of H.B.'s caricatures. The atmosphere and lifestyle of the house weren’t rural at all; there was nothing sweet or orderly about country life. Nobody was around for breakfast; the ladies were rarely seen until it was time for dinner; they spent their afternoons rolling around in carriages as if they were in London or living a fake boudoir life in their provincial dressing rooms.

The Marquess sent for Coningsby the morning after his arrival and asked him to breakfast with him in his private rooms. Nothing could be more kind or more agreeable than his grandfather. He appeared to be interested in his grandson’s progress, was glad to find Coningsby had distinguished himself at Eton, solemnly adjured him not to neglect his French. A classical education, he said, was a very admirable thing, and one which all gentlemen should enjoy; but Coningsby would find some day that there were two educations, one which his position required, and another which was demanded by the world. ‘French, my dear Harry,’ he continued, ‘is the key to this second education. In a couple of years or so you will enter the world; it is a different thing to what you read about. It is a masquerade; a motley, sparkling multitude, in which you may mark all forms and colours, and listen to all sentiments and opinions; but where all you see and hear has only one object, plunder. When you get into this crowd you will find that Greek and Latin are not so much diffused as you imagine. I was glad to hear you speaking French yesterday. Study your accent. There are a good many foreigners here with whom you may try your wing a little; don’t talk to any of them too much. Be very careful of intimacies. All the people here are good acquaintance; at least pretty well. Now, here,’ said the Marquess, taking up a letter and then throwing it on the table again, ‘now here is a man whom I should like you to know, Sidonia. He will be here in a few days. Lay yourself out for him if you have the opportunity. He is a man of rare capacity, and enormously rich. No one knows the world like Sidonia. I never met his equal; and ‘tis so pleasant to talk with one that can want nothing of you.’

The Marquess called for Coningsby the morning after he arrived and invited him to breakfast in his private rooms. Nothing could have been kinder or more pleasant than his grandfather's demeanor. He seemed genuinely interested in his grandson's achievements and was pleased to learn that Coningsby had excelled at Eton, earnestly advising him not to neglect his French. A classical education, he said, was a wonderful thing that every gentleman should have; however, Coningsby would eventually find that there are two types of education—one that his position required and another that the world demanded. “French, my dear Harry,” he continued, “is the key to this second type of education. In a couple of years, you'll enter the world; it's different from what you read about. It’s a masquerade, a colorful, vibrant crowd where you can see all sorts of forms and colors and hear various sentiments and opinions, but everything you see and hear has just one goal: to take advantage of you. When you get into this crowd, you’ll realize that Greek and Latin aren’t as widespread as you think. I was pleased to hear you speaking French yesterday. Work on your accent. There are quite a few foreigners around with whom you can practice a bit; just don’t talk to any of them too much. Be very careful with friendships. Everyone here is a decent acquaintance; at least mostly. Now, here,” said the Marquess, picking up a letter and then tossing it back on the table, “here is a man I would like you to meet, Sidonia. He'll be here in a few days. Make an effort to connect with him if you have the chance. He is an exceptionally capable man and very wealthy. No one knows the world like Sidonia. I’ve never met anyone like him, and it’s so refreshing to talk to someone who doesn’t want anything from you.”

Lord Monmouth had invited Coningsby to take a drive with him in the afternoon. The Marquess wished to show a part of his domain to the Ambassadress. Only Lucretia, he said, would be with them, and there was a place for him. This invitation was readily accepted by Coningsby, who was not yet sufficiently established in the habits of the house exactly to know how to pass his morning. His friend and patron, Mr. Rigby, was entirely taken up with the Grand-duke, whom he was accompanying all over the neighbourhood, in visits to manufactures, many of which Rigby himself saw for the first time, but all of which he fluently explained to his Imperial Highness. In return for this, he extracted much information from the Grand-duke on Russian plans and projects, materials for a ‘slashing’ article against the Russophobia that he was preparing, and in which he was to prove that Muscovite aggression was an English interest, and entirely to be explained by the want of sea-coast, which drove the Czar, for the pure purposes of commerce, to the Baltic and the Euxine.

Lord Monmouth invited Coningsby to join him for a drive in the afternoon. The Marquess wanted to show part of his estate to the Ambassadress. He mentioned that only Lucretia would be with them, and there was a spot for Coningsby. He gladly accepted the invitation since he was still trying to find his groove in the household routine. His friend and mentor, Mr. Rigby, was completely occupied with the Grand-duke, whom he was showing around the area, visiting factories that Rigby was seeing for the first time but confidently explaining to his Imperial Highness. In exchange, he got a lot of insights from the Grand-duke regarding Russian plans and projects, which he intended to use for a compelling article against Russophobia that he was writing. In it, he planned to argue that Muscovite aggression was in England's interest and could be fully understood by the lack of access to the sea, which pushed the Czar, purely for trade reasons, towards the Baltic and the Black Sea.

When the hour for the drive arrived, Coningsby found Lucretia, a young girl when he had first seen her only four years back, and still his junior, in that majestic dame who had conceded a superb recognition to him the preceding eve. She really looked older than Madame Colonna; who, very beautiful, very young-looking, and mistress of the real arts of the toilet, those that cannot be detected, was not in the least altered since she first so cordially saluted Coningsby as her dear young friend at Monmouth House.

When it was time for the drive, Coningsby found Lucretia, a young girl he had first met just four years earlier, and still younger than the impressive woman who had given him a grand acknowledgment the night before. She actually seemed older than Madame Colonna, who, although very beautiful and youthful, and skilled in the subtle arts of grooming that can't be easily seen, hadn’t changed at all since she warmly greeted Coningsby as her dear young friend at Monmouth House.

The day was delightful, the park extensive and picturesque, the Ambassadress sparkling with anecdote, and occasionally, in a low voice, breathing a diplomatic hint to Lord Monmouth, who bowed his graceful consciousness of her distinguished confidence. Coningsby occasionally took advantage of one of those moments, when the conversation ceased to be general, to address Lucretia, who replied in calm, fine smiles, and in affable monosyllables. She indeed generally succeeded in conveying an impression to those she addressed, that she had never seen them before, did not care to see them now, and never wished to see them again. And all this, too, with an air of great courtesy.

The day was lovely, the park spacious and beautiful, the Ambassadress lively with stories, and now and then, in a soft voice, sharing a diplomatic hint with Lord Monmouth, who acknowledged her special trust with a courteous nod. Coningsby took the chance during those moments when the conversation turned more private to speak to Lucretia, who responded with calm, pleasant smiles and friendly one-word answers. She often managed to give those she spoke to the impression that she had never met them before, didn’t care to meet them now, and never wanted to see them again. All of this was conveyed with an air of great politeness.

They arrived at the brink of a wooded bank; at their feet flowed a fine river, deep and rushing, though not broad; its opposite bank the boundary of a richly-timbered park.

They reached the edge of a wooded bank; at their feet, a beautiful river flowed, deep and fast, though not wide; its opposite bank marked the edge of a lush park.

‘Ah! this is beautiful!’ exclaimed the Ambassadress. ‘And is that yours, Lord Monmouth?’

‘Not yet,’ said the Marquess. ‘That is Hellingsley; it is one of the finest places in the county, with a splendid estate; not so considerable as Coningsby, but very great. It belongs to an old, a very old man, without a relative in the world. It is known that the estate will be sold at his death, which may be almost daily expected. Then it is mine. No one can offer for it what I can afford. For it gives me this division of the county, Princess. To possess Hellingsley is one of my objects.’ The Marquess spoke with an animation unusual with him, almost with a degree of excitement.

‘Not yet,’ said the Marquess. ‘That’s Hellingsley; it’s one of the best places in the county, with a fantastic estate. It’s not as big as Coningsby, but it’s still quite impressive. It belongs to an old man, a very old man, who has no relatives. It’s known that the estate will be sold when he dies, which could happen any day now. Then it’s mine. No one can bid what I can. Because it gives me this part of the county, Princess. Owning Hellingsley is one of my goals.’ The Marquess spoke with an energy that was unusual for him, almost with a hint of excitement.

The wind met them as they returned, the breeze blew rather freshly. Lucretia all of a sudden seemed touched with unusual emotion. She was alarmed lest Lord Monmouth should catch cold; she took a kerchief from her own well-turned throat to tie round his neck. He feebly resisted, evidently much pleased.

The wind greeted them as they returned, the breeze blowing quite briskly. Lucretia suddenly appeared filled with unusual emotion. She was worried that Lord Monmouth might catch cold; she took a handkerchief from her elegantly styled neck to tie around his. He weakly resisted, clearly quite pleased.

The Princess Lucretia was highly accomplished. In the evening, having refused several distinguished guests, but instantly yielding to the request of Lord Monmouth, she sang. It was impossible to conceive a contralto of more thrilling power, or an execution more worthy of the voice. Coningsby, who was not experienced in fine singing, listened as if to a supernatural lay, but all agreed it was of the highest class of nature and of art; and the Grand-duke was in raptures. Lucretia received even his Highness’ compliments with a graceful indifference. Indeed, to those who watched her demeanour, it might be remarked that she seemed to yield to none, although all bowed before her.

The Princess Lucretia was incredibly talented. In the evening, after turning down several distinguished guests, she easily agreed to sing for Lord Monmouth. It was hard to imagine a contralto with such incredible power or a performance more suited to her voice. Coningsby, who wasn’t familiar with great singing, listened as if it were from another world, but everyone agreed it was of the highest quality and artistry; even the Grand-duke was captivated. Lucretia accepted his Highness’ compliments with a graceful indifference. In fact, to those observing her, it was clear she seemed to outshine everyone, even though they all admired her.

Madame Colonna, who was always kind to Coningsby, expressed to him her gratification from the party of the morning. It must have been delightful, she assured Coningsby, for Lord Monmouth to have had both Lucretia and his grandson with him; and Lucretia too, she added, must have been so pleased.

Madame Colonna, who was always nice to Coningsby, told him how happy she was about the morning's gathering. It must have been wonderful, she said, for Lord Monmouth to have both Lucretia and his grandson with him; and Lucretia, she added, must have been really pleased too.

Coningsby could not make out why Madame Colonna was always intimating to him that the Princess Lucretia took such great interest in his existence, looked forward with such gratification to his society, remembered with so much pleasure the past, anticipated so much happiness from the future. It appeared to him that he was to Lucretia, if not an object of repugnance, as he sometimes fancied, certainly one only of absolute indifference; but he said nothing. He had already lived long enough to know that it is unwise to wish everything explained.

Coningsby couldn't figure out why Madame Colonna kept hinting to him that Princess Lucretia was so interested in him, looked forward to spending time with him, remembered their past with pleasure, and expected to find happiness in the future. It seemed to him that he was, to Lucretia, if not someone she found repulsive, as he sometimes thought, definitely someone she felt completely indifferent about; but he said nothing. He had lived long enough to understand that it's usually a bad idea to want every little thing explained.

In the meantime his life was agreeable. Every day, he found, added to his acquaintance. He was never without a companion to ride or to shoot with; and of riding Coningsby was very fond. His grandfather, too, was continually giving him goodnatured turns, and making him of consequence in the Castle: so that all the guests were fully impressed with the importance of Lord Monmouth’s grandson. Lady St. Julians pronounced him distinguished; the Ambassadress thought diplomacy should be his part, as he had a fine person and a clear brain; Madame Colonna spoke of him always as if she took intense interest in his career, and declared she liked him almost as much as Lucretia did; the Russians persisted in always styling him ‘the young Marquess,’ notwithstanding the Ambassador’s explanations; Mrs. Guy Flouncey made a dashing attack on him; but Coningsby remembered a lesson which Lady Everingham had graciously bestowed on him. He was not to be caught again easily. Besides, Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a little too much, and talked a little too loud.

In the meantime, his life was enjoyable. Every day, he found, he was making more friends. He always had someone to ride or shoot with, and Coningsby loved riding. His grandfather was also constantly teasing him good-naturedly and making him feel important at the Castle, so all the guests were well aware of the significance of Lord Monmouth’s grandson. Lady St. Julians called him distinguished; the Ambassadress felt he should go into diplomacy since he had a great appearance and a sharp mind; Madame Colonna always spoke about him as if she was genuinely interested in his future and claimed she liked him almost as much as Lucretia did; the Russians insisted on always referring to him as ‘the young Marquess,’ despite the Ambassador’s attempts to clarify; Mrs. Guy Flouncey made a bold advance towards him; but Coningsby remembered a lesson that Lady Everingham had kindly taught him. He wasn’t going to fall for it easily again. Besides, Mrs. Guy Flouncey laughed a bit too much and talked a bit too loudly.

As time flew on, there were changes of visitors, chiefly among the single men. At the end of the first week after Coningsby’s arrival, Lord Eskdale appeared, bringing with him Lucian Gay; and soon after followed the Marquess of Beaumanoir and Mr. Melton. These were all heroes who, in their way, interested the ladies, and whose advent was hailed with general satisfaction. Even Lucretia would relax a little to Lord Eskdale. He was one of her oldest friends, and with a simplicity of manner which amounted almost to plainness, and with rather a cynical nonchalance in his carriage towards men, Lord Eskdale was invariably a favourite with women. To be sure his station was eminent; he was noble, and very rich, and very powerful, and these are qualities which tell as much with the softer as the harsher sex; but there are individuals with all these qualities who are nevertheless unpopular with women. Lord Eskdale was easy, knew the world thoroughly, had no prejudices, and, above all, had a reputation for success. A reputation for success has as much influence with women as a reputation for wealth has with men. Both reputations may be, and often are, unjust; but we see persons daily make good fortunes by them all the same. Lord Eskdale was not an impostor; and though he might not have been so successful a man had he not been Lord Eskdale, still, thrown over by a revolution, he would have lighted on his legs.

As time went on, there were changes in the visitors, especially among the single men. By the end of the first week after Coningsby arrived, Lord Eskdale showed up, bringing Lucian Gay with him; shortly after, the Marquess of Beaumanoir and Mr. Melton arrived too. All of these men were charming in their own way and caught the interest of the ladies, who greeted their arrival with excitement. Even Lucretia softened a bit around Lord Eskdale. He was one of her oldest friends, and with a straightforward manner that nearly came off as plain, paired with a somewhat cynical coolness around men, Lord Eskdale was always popular with women. Of course, his status was impressive; he was noble, very wealthy, and powerful, and these attributes appeal to both women and men. However, there are people with these qualities who still aren't liked by women. Lord Eskdale was relaxed, knew the world well, had no biases, and, most importantly, had a reputation for being successful. A reputation for success can be as impactful on women as a reputation for wealth is on men. Both types of reputations can be, and often are, unfair, yet we see people capitalize on them every day. Lord Eskdale wasn’t a fraud; even if he might not have been as successful if he weren't Lord Eskdale, he would still have landed on his feet after a revolution.

The arrival of this nobleman was the occasion of giving a good turn to poor Flora. He went immediately to see his friend Villebecque and his troop. Indeed it was a sort of society which pleased Lord Eskdale more than that which is deemed more refined. He was very sorry about ‘La Petite;’ but thought that everything would come right in the long run; and told Villebecque that he was glad to hear him well spoken of here, especially by the Marquess, who seemed to take to him. As for Flora, he was entirely against her attempting the stage again, at least for the present, but as she was a good musician, he suggested to the Princess Lucretia one night, that the subordinate aid of Flora might be of service to her, and permit her to favour her friends with some pieces which otherwise she must deny to them. This suggestion was successful; Flora was introduced occasionally, soon often, to their parties in the evening, and her performances were in every respect satisfactory. There was nothing to excite the jealousy of Lucretia either in her style or her person. And yet she sang well enough, and was a quiet, refined, retiring, by no means disagreeable person. She was the companion of Lucretia very often in the morning as well as in the illumined saloon; for the Princess was devoted to the art in which she excelled. This connexion on the whole contributed to the happiness of poor Flora. True it was, in the evening she often found herself sitting or standing alone and no one noticing her; she had no dazzling quality to attract men of fashion, who themselves love to worship ever the fashionable. Even their goddesses must be à la mode. But Coningsby never omitted an opportunity to show Flora some kindness under these circumstances. He always came and talked to her, and praised her singing, and would sometimes hand her refreshments and give her his arm if necessary. These slight attentions coming from the grandson of Lord Monmouth were for the world redoubled in their value, though Flora thought only of their essential kindness; all in character with that first visit which dwelt on the poor girl’s memory, though it had long ago escaped that of her visitor. For in truth Coningsby had no other impulse for his conduct but kind-heartedness.

The arrival of this nobleman was a great opportunity for poor Flora. He went straight to see his friend Villebecque and his group. In fact, he preferred this kind of company to what was considered more upscale. He felt bad about ‘La Petite,’ but believed everything would work out in the end, and he told Villebecque he was pleased to hear good things about him here, especially from the Marquess, who seemed to like him. Regarding Flora, he strongly advised her against trying the stage again, at least for now, but since she was a talented musician, he suggested to Princess Lucretia one night that Flora could help her out and play some pieces for her friends that otherwise she would have to refuse. This idea worked well; Flora started to make occasional appearances, which soon became frequent, at their evening gatherings, and her performances were very well received. There was nothing in her style or appearance to provoke jealousy in Lucretia. Yet, she sang beautifully and was a quiet, graceful, modest, and entirely pleasant person. She spent a lot of time with Lucretia both in the mornings and in the illuminated salon, as the Princess was passionate about the art in which Flora excelled. Overall, this arrangement added to the happiness of poor Flora. It was true that in the evening she often found herself sitting or standing alone without anyone noticing her; she lacked the dazzling qualities that attracted fashionable men, who always gravitate toward the trendy. Even their goddesses must be à la mode. But Coningsby never missed a chance to show Flora some kindness in those moments. He always came over to talk to her, complimented her singing, and would sometimes bring her refreshments and offer her his arm when needed. These small gestures, coming from the grandson of Lord Monmouth, felt incredibly significant to the world, even though Flora focused solely on their genuine kindness; they were consistent with that first visit she cherished in her memory, although it had faded from her visitor's mind long ago. In truth, Coningsby acted purely out of kindness.

Thus we have attempted to give some faint idea how life glided away at the Castle the first fortnight that Coningsby passed there. Perhaps we ought not to omit that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, to the infinite disgust of Lady St. Julians, who had a daughter with her, successfully entrapped the devoted attentions of the young Marquess of Beaumanoir, who was never very backward if a lady would take trouble enough; while his friend, Mr. Melton, whose barren homage Lady St. Julians wished her daughter ever particularly to shun, employed all his gaiety, good-humour, frivolity, and fashion in amusing that young lady, and with irresistible effect. For the rest, they continued, though they had only partridges to shoot, to pass the morning without weariness. The weather was fine; the stud numerous; all might be mounted. The Grand-duke and his suite, guided by Mr. Rigby, had always some objects to visit, and railroads returned them just in time for the banquet with an appetite which they had earned, and during which Rigby recounted their achievements, and his own opinions.

So we've tried to give a hint of how life unfolded at the Castle during the first two weeks that Coningsby was there. It’s worth mentioning that Mrs. Guy Flouncey, much to the irritation of Lady St. Julians—who had her own daughter with her—successfully caught the devoted attention of the young Marquess of Beaumanoir, who was never shy if a lady made an effort; while his friend, Mr. Melton, whose lackluster affection Lady St. Julians hoped her daughter would avoid, did his best to entertain that young lady with his humor, charm, and sense of style, and he was quite successful at it. Aside from that, even though they only had partridges to shoot, they spent their mornings without getting bored. The weather was nice, there were plenty of horses to ride, and everyone could mount up. The Grand-duke and his entourage, led by Mr. Rigby, always had places to visit, and the railroads brought them back just in time for dinner, with appetites they had earned, during which Rigby shared their adventures and his own thoughts.

The dinner was always firstrate; the evening never failed; music, dancing, and the theatre offered great resources independently of the soul-subduing sentiment harshly called flirtation, and which is the spell of a country house. Lord Monmouth was satisfied, for he had scarcely ever felt wearied. All that he required in life was to be amused; perhaps that was not all he required, but it was indispensable. Nor was it wonderful that on the present occasion he obtained his purpose, for there were half a hundred of the brightest eyes and quickest brains ever on the watch or the whirl to secure him distraction. The only circumstance that annoyed him was the non-arrival of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth could not bear to be disappointed. He could not refrain from saying, notwithstanding all the resources and all the exertions of his guests,

The dinner was always top-notch; the evening never let him down; music, dancing, and the theater provided plenty of entertainment beyond the soul-draining sentiment harshly labeled as flirtation, which is the charm of a country house. Lord Monmouth was content, as he rarely felt bored. All he wanted in life was to be entertained; maybe that wasn't everything he needed, but it was essential. It was no surprise that on this occasion he got what he wanted, with dozens of the brightest eyes and sharpest minds always ready to keep him engaged. The only thing that bothered him was the absence of Sidonia. Lord Monmouth couldn't stand being let down. He couldn't help but say, despite all the efforts and resources of his guests,

‘I cannot understand why Sidonia does not come. I wish Sidonia were here.’

‘I can’t understand why Sidonia isn’t coming. I wish Sidonia were here.’

‘So do I,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Sidonia is the only man who tells one anything new.’

‘So do I,’ said Lord Eskdale; ‘Sidonia is the only person who tells you anything new.’

‘We saw Sidonia at Lord Studcaster’s,’ said Lord Beaumanoir. ‘He told Melton he was coming here.’

‘You know he has bought all Studcaster’s horses,’ said Mr. Melton.

‘You know he’s bought all of Studcaster’s horses,’ said Mr. Melton.

‘I wonder he does not buy Studcaster himself,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘I would if I were he; Sidonia can buy anything,’ he turned to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.

'I wonder why he doesn't buy Studcaster for himself,' said Lord Monmouth; 'I would if I were him; Sidonia can buy anything,' he turned to Mrs. Guy Flouncey.

‘I wonder who Sidonia is,’ thought Mrs. Guy Flouncey, but she was determined no one should suppose she did not know.

‘I wonder who Sidonia is,’ thought Mrs. Guy Flouncey, but she was determined that no one should think she didn’t know.

At length one day Coningsby met Madame Colonna in the vestibule before dinner.

At last one day, Coningsby ran into Madame Colonna in the hallway before dinner.

‘Milor is in such good temper, Mr. Coningsby,’ she said; ‘Monsieur de Sidonia has arrived.’

‘Milor is in such a good mood, Mr. Coningsby,’ she said; ‘Monsieur de Sidonia has arrived.’

About ten minutes before dinner there was a stir in the chamber. Coningsby looked round. He saw the Grand-duke advancing, and holding out his hand in a manner the most gracious. A gentleman, of distinguished air, but with his back turned to Coningsby, was bowing as he received his Highness’ greeting. There was a general pause in the room. Several came forward: even the Marquess seemed a little moved. Coningsby could not resist the impulse of curiosity to see this individual of whom he had heard so much. He glided round the room, and caught the countenance of his companion in the forest inn; he who announced to him, that ‘the Age of Ruins was past.’

About ten minutes before dinner, there was a commotion in the room. Coningsby looked around and saw the Grand Duke approaching, extending his hand in the most gracious way. A distinguished gentleman, with his back to Coningsby, was bowing as he received the Grand Duke’s greeting. There was a silent pause in the room. Several people stepped forward; even the Marquess seemed slightly affected. Coningsby couldn't resist the urge to see this person he had heard so much about. He moved around the room and recognized the face of his companion from the forest inn; the one who told him that "the Age of Ruins was over."

CHAPTER X.

Sidonia was descended from a very ancient and noble family of Arragon, that, in the course of ages, had given to the state many distinguished citizens. In the priesthood its members had been peculiarly eminent. Besides several prelates, they counted among their number an Archbishop of Toledo; and a Sidonia, in a season of great danger and difficulty, had exercised for a series of years the paramount office of Grand Inquisitor.

Sidonia came from a very old and prestigious family from Arragon, which, over the years, had produced many notable citizens. Its members had been especially prominent in the priesthood. In addition to several bishops, they included an Archbishop of Toledo; and a Sidonia, during a time of significant danger and challenge, held the important position of Grand Inquisitor for several years.

Yet, strange as it may sound, it is nevertheless a fact, of which there is no lack of evidence, that this illustrious family during all this period, in common with two-thirds of the Arragonese nobility, secretly adhered to the ancient faith and ceremonies of their fathers; a belief in the unity of the God of Sinai, and the rights and observances of the laws of Moses.

Yet, as odd as it may seem, it is still a fact, supported by plenty of evidence, that this famous family, like two-thirds of the Aragonese nobility during this time, secretly held on to the ancient faith and practices of their ancestors; a belief in the one God of Sinai, and the rights and observances of the laws of Moses.

Whence came those Mosaic Arabs whose passages across the strait from Africa to Europe long preceded the invasion of the Mohammedan Arabs, it is now impossible to ascertain. Their traditions tell us that from time immemorial they had sojourned in Africa; and it is not improbable that they may have been the descendants of some of the earlier dispersions; like those Hebrew colonies that we find in China, and who probably emigrated from Persia in the days of the great monarchies. Whatever may have been their origin in Africa, their fortunes in Southern Europe are not difficult to trace, though the annals of no race in any age can detail a history of such strange vicissitudes, or one rife with more touching and romantic incident. Their unexampled prosperity in the Spanish Peninsula, and especially in the south, where they had become the principal cultivators of the soil, excited the jealousy of the Goths; and the Councils of Toledo during the sixth and seventh centuries attempted, by a series of decrees worthy of the barbarians who promulgated them, to root the Jewish Arabs out of the land. There is no doubt the Council of Toledo led, as directly as the lust of Roderick, to the invasion of Spain by the Moslemin Arabs. The Jewish population, suffering under the most sanguinary and atrocious persecution, looked to their sympathising brethren of the Crescent, whose camps already gleamed on the opposite shore. The overthrow of the Gothic kingdoms was as much achieved by the superior information which the Saracens received from their suffering kinsmen, as by the resistless valour of the Desert. The Saracen kingdoms were established. That fair and unrivalled civilisation arose which preserved for Europe arts and letters when Christendom was plunged in darkness. The children of Ishmael rewarded the children of Israel with equal rights and privileges with themselves. During these halcyon centuries, it is difficult to distinguish the follower of Moses from the votary of Mahomet. Both alike built palaces, gardens, and fountains; filled equally the highest offices of the state, competed in an extensive and enlightened commerce, and rivalled each other in renowned universities.

Where the Mosaic Arabs came from, who crossed the strait from Africa to Europe long before the invasion of the Muslim Arabs, is impossible to determine now. Their traditions state that they have lived in Africa for ages, and it’s likely they were descendants of some of the earlier dispersions, like those Hebrew communities that we find in China, who probably migrated from Persia during the days of the great empires. Regardless of their origin in Africa, their history in Southern Europe is clear, although no race in any era has seen a history filled with such unusual twists, or one filled with more poignant and romantic events. Their unprecedented success in the Iberian Peninsula, especially in the south, where they became the main farmers, stirred jealousy among the Goths; and the Councils of Toledo in the sixth and seventh centuries tried, through a series of barbaric decrees, to expel the Jewish Arabs from the land. There is no doubt that the Council of Toledo contributed, just as much as Roderick’s greed, to the invasion of Spain by the Muslim Arabs. The Jewish community, enduring horrific persecution, looked towards their sympathetic brothers of the Crescent, whose camps already shone on the opposite shore. The downfall of the Gothic kingdoms was as much due to the better information provided to the Saracens by their suffering kin as it was to the irresistible courage of the Desert. The Saracen kingdoms were established. A beautiful and unparalleled civilization emerged that preserved arts and letters for Europe when Christendom was shrouded in darkness. The children of Ishmael granted the children of Israel equal rights and privileges. During these prosperous centuries, it’s hard to distinguish between the followers of Moses and the adherents of Muhammad. Both built palaces, gardens, and fountains; held high offices of state; competed in extensive and enlightened trade; and rivaled each other in prestigious universities.

Even after the fall of the principal Moorish kingdoms, the Jews of Spain were still treated by the conquering Goths with tenderness and consideration. Their numbers, their wealth, the fact that, in Arragon especially, they were the proprietors of the soil, and surrounded by warlike and devoted followers, secured for them an usage which, for a considerable period, made them little sensible of the change of dynasties and religions. But the tempest gradually gathered. As the Goths grew stronger, persecution became more bold. Where the Jewish population was scanty they were deprived of their privileges, or obliged to conform under the title of ‘Nuevos Christianos.’ At length the union of the two crowns under Ferdinand and Isabella, and the fall of the last Moorish kingdom, brought the crisis of their fate both to the New Christian and the nonconforming Hebrew. The Inquisition appeared, the Institution that had exterminated the Albigenses and had desolated Languedoc, and which, it should ever be remembered, was established in the Spanish kingdoms against the protests of the Cortes and amid the terror of the populace. The Dominicans opened their first tribunal at Seville, and it is curious that the first individuals they summoned before them were the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquess of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos; three of the most considerable personages in Spain. How many were burned alive at Seville during the first year, how many imprisoned for life, what countless thousands were visited with severe though lighter punishments, need not be recorded here. In nothing was the Holy Office more happy than in multiform and subtle means by which they tested the sincerity of the New Christians.

Even after the major Moorish kingdoms fell, the Jews in Spain were still treated with kindness and respect by the conquering Goths. Their large numbers, wealth, and the fact that, especially in Aragon, they owned the land and were surrounded by loyal supporters allowed them to enjoy a status that, for a long time, made them largely unaware of the changes in dynasties and religions. However, the storm began to brew. As the Goths gained power, persecution became more aggressive. In areas where the Jewish population was small, they lost their privileges or were forced to convert under the label of ‘New Christians.’ Eventually, the unification of the crowns under Ferdinand and Isabella, along with the fall of the last Moorish kingdom, marked a turning point for both the New Christians and the nonconforming Jews. The Inquisition emerged, the body that had wiped out the Albigenses and devastated Languedoc, and which, it should always be remembered, was created in the Spanish kingdoms against the objections of the Cortes and amidst widespread fear. The Dominicans established their first tribunal in Seville, and interestingly, the first people they summoned were the Duke of Medina Sidonia, the Marquess of Cadiz, and the Count of Arcos; three of the most prominent figures in Spain. The number of people burned alive in Seville during the first year, how many were sentenced to life in prison, and how countless others faced severe but lesser punishments don’t need to be detailed here. The Holy Office was particularly skilled at using various complex methods to test the sincerity of the New Christians.

At length the Inquisition was to be extended to Arragon. The high-spirited nobles of that kingdom knew that its institution was for them a matter of life or death. The Cortes of Arragon appealed to the King and to the Pope; they organised an extensive conspiracy; the chief Inquisitor was assassinated in the cathedral of Saragossa. Alas! it was fated that in this, one of the many, and continual, and continuing struggles between the rival organisations of the North and the South, the children of the sun should fall. The fagot and the San Benito were the doom of the nobles of Arragon. Those who were convicted of secret Judaism, and this scarcely three centuries ago, were dragged to the stake; the sons of the noblest houses, in whose veins the Hebrew taint could be traced, had to walk in solemn procession, singing psalms, and confessing their faith in the religion of the fell Torquemada.

At last, the Inquisition was set to expand into Aragon. The spirited nobles of that kingdom realized that this was a matter of life or death for them. The Cortes of Aragon reached out to the King and the Pope; they organized a widespread conspiracy; the chief Inquisitor was assassinated in the cathedral of Zaragoza. Unfortunately, it was destined that in this, one of the many ongoing struggles between the rival factions of the North and the South, the children of the sun would fall. The stake and the San Benito were the fate of the nobles of Aragon. Those convicted of secret Judaism, and this not even three centuries ago, were dragged to the pyre; the sons of the most noble houses, with Hebrew ancestry in their blood, had to walk in solemn procession, singing psalms, and confessing their faith in the religion of the ruthless Torquemada.

This triumph in Arragon, the almost simultaneous fall of the last Moorish kingdom, raised the hopes of the pure Christians to the highest pitch. Having purged the new Christians, they next turned their attention to the old Hebrews. Ferdinand was resolved that the delicious air of Spain should be breathed no longer by any one who did not profess the Catholic faith. Baptism or exile was the alternative. More than six hundred thousand individuals, some authorities greatly increase the amount, the most industrious, the most intelligent, and the most enlightened of Spanish subjects, would not desert the religion of their fathers. For this they gave up the delightful land wherein they had lived for centuries, the beautiful cities they had raised, the universities from which Christendom drew for ages its most precious lore, the tombs of their ancestors, the temples where they had worshipped the God for whom they had made this sacrifice. They had but four months to prepare for eternal exile, after a residence of as many centuries; during which brief period forced sales and glutted markets virtually confiscated their property. It is a calamity that the scattered nation still ranks with the desolations of Nebuchadnezzar and of Titus. Who after this should say the Jews are by nature a sordid people? But the Spanish Goth, then so cruel and so haughty, where is he? A despised suppliant to the very race which he banished, for some miserable portion of the treasure which their habits of industry have again accumulated. Where is that tribunal that summoned Medina Sidonia and Cadiz to its dark inquisition? Where is Spain? Its fall, its unparalleled and its irremediable fall, is mainly to be attributed to the expulsion of that large portion of its subjects, the most industrious and intelligent, who traced their origin to the Mosaic and Mohammedan Arabs.

This victory in Aragon, along with the near-simultaneous collapse of the last Moorish kingdom, lifted the spirits of true Christians to new heights. After targeting the new Christians, they shifted their focus to the old Hebrews. Ferdinand was determined that no one in Spain should breathe its beautiful air unless they practiced the Catholic faith. The choice was either baptism or exile. More than six hundred thousand people—some estimates say even more—who were the most industrious, intelligent, and enlightened of the Spanish populace, refused to abandon their ancestral faith. For this, they sacrificed the lovely land where they had lived for centuries, the beautiful cities they had built, the universities that had provided Christendom with its most valuable knowledge for ages, the graves of their ancestors, and the temples where they worshiped the God they sacrificed for. They had only four months to prepare for eternal exile after living there for so many centuries; in that brief time, forced sales and oversaturated markets effectively seized their property. This tragedy is still matched with the devastations of Nebuchadnezzar and Titus. Who can still claim that Jews are by nature a sordid people? But where is the Spanish Goth, who was once so cruel and haughty? Now he is a despised supplicant to the very race he expelled, seeking a small share of the wealth their industriousness has once again generated. Where is the tribunal that called Medina Sidonia and Cadiz to its grim inquisition? Where is Spain? Its downfall, its unparalleled and unavoidable collapse, can largely be attributed to the expulsion of a significant part of its populace, the most industrious and intelligent, who trace their roots back to the Mosaic and Mohammedan Arabs.

The Sidonias of Arragon were Nuevos Christianos. Some of them, no doubt, were burned alive at the end of the fifteenth century, under the system of Torquemada; many of them, doubtless, wore the San Benito; but they kept their titles and estates, and in time reached those great offices to which we have referred.

The Sidonias of Aragon were New Christians. Some of them were certainly burned alive at the end of the fifteenth century under Torquemada's regime; many of them likely wore the San Benito; but they retained their titles and estates, and eventually achieved those high positions we mentioned.

During the long disorders of the Peninsular war, when so many openings were offered to talent, and so many opportunities seized by the adventurous, a cadet of a younger branch of this family made a large fortune by military contracts, and supplying the commissariat of the different armies. At the peace, prescient of the great financial future of Europe, confident in the fertility of his own genius, in his original views of fiscal subjects, and his knowledge of national resources, this Sidonia, feeling that Madrid, or even Cadiz, could never be a base on which the monetary transactions of the world could be regulated, resolved to emigrate to England, with which he had, in the course of years, formed considerable commercial connections. He arrived here after the peace of Paris, with his large capital. He staked all he was worth on the Waterloo loan; and the event made him one of the greatest capitalists in Europe.

During the long chaos of the Peninsular War, when numerous chances were available for talented individuals and many adventurous people took advantage of them, a cadet from a younger branch of this family made a significant fortune through military contracts and supplying various armies with their necessities. After the peace was established, aware of Europe's promising financial future and confident in his own talent, unique ideas about finance, and understanding of national resources, this Sidonia believed that neither Madrid nor even Cadiz could serve as a proper base for global monetary transactions. He decided to emigrate to England, where he had developed substantial commercial connections over the years. He arrived here after the peace of Paris, bringing his large capital with him. He invested everything he had in the Waterloo loan, and that decision turned him into one of the biggest capitalists in Europe.

No sooner was Sidonia established in England than he professed Judaism; which Torquemada flattered himself, with the fagot and the San Benito, he had drained out of the veins of his family more than three centuries ago. He sent over, also, for several of his brothers, who were as good Catholics in Spain as Ferdinand and Isabella could have possibly desired, but who made an offering in the synagogue, in gratitude for their safe voyage, on their arrival in England.

No sooner had Sidonia settled in England than he declared himself a Jew; something Torquemada had convinced himself he had purged from his family’s bloodline more than three centuries earlier with the stake and the San Benito. He also called for several of his brothers, who were good Catholics in Spain, just as Ferdinand and Isabella would have wanted, but who offered prayers in the synagogue to give thanks for their safe journey upon arriving in England.

Sidonia had foreseen in Spain that, after the exhaustion of a war of twenty-five years, Europe must require capital to carry on peace. He reaped the due reward of his sagacity. Europe did require money, and Sidonia was ready to lend it to Europe. France wanted some; Austria more; Prussia a little; Russia a few millions. Sidonia could furnish them all. The only country which he avoided was Spain; he was too well acquainted with its resources. Nothing, too, would ever tempt him to lend anything to the revolted colonies of Spain. Prudence saved him from being a creditor of the mother-country; his Spanish pride recoiled from the rebellion of her children.

Sidonia had predicted in Spain that, after a lengthy twenty-five-year war, Europe would need funds to support peace. He reaped the benefits of his foresight. Europe did need money, and Sidonia was ready to lend it. France wanted some; Austria needed more; Prussia a bit; Russia a few million. Sidonia could provide for all of them. The only country he avoided was Spain; he was too familiar with its resources. Nothing would ever convince him to lend to the rebellious colonies of Spain. His caution kept him from becoming a creditor of the mother country; his Spanish pride turned away from the rebellion of its children.

It is not difficult to conceive that, after having pursued the career we have intimated for about ten years, Sidonia had become one of the most considerable personages in Europe. He had established a brother, or a near relative, in whom he could confide, in most of the principal capitals. He was lord and master of the money-market of the world, and of course virtually lord and master of everything else. He literally held the revenues of Southern Italy in pawn; and monarchs and ministers of all countries courted his advice and were guided by his suggestions. He was still in the vigour of life, and was not a mere money-making machine. He had a general intelligence equal to his position, and looked forward to the period when some relaxation from his vast enterprises and exertions might enable him to direct his energies to great objects of public benefit. But in the height of his vast prosperity he suddenly died, leaving only one child, a youth still of tender years, and heir to the greatest fortune in Europe, so great, indeed, that it could only be calculated by millions.

It's easy to imagine that after pursuing the career we mentioned for about ten years, Sidonia had become one of the most significant figures in Europe. He had established a brother or a close relative he could trust in most major capitals. He was in control of the global money market, and naturally, he was essentially in control of everything else. He literally held the revenues of Southern Italy as collateral; monarchs and ministers from all over sought his advice and followed his suggestions. He was still in the prime of his life and wasn’t just a money-making machine. He possessed a level of intelligence that matched his position and looked forward to a time when he could take a break from his extensive enterprises and focus his energy on meaningful public projects. But at the peak of his immense success, he suddenly died, leaving behind only one child, a young boy still in his adolescence and heir to the greatest fortune in Europe—so vast, in fact, that it could only be measured in millions.

Shut out from universities and schools, those universities and schools which were indebted for their first knowledge of ancient philosophy to the learning and enterprise of his ancestors, the young Sidonia was fortunate in the tutor whom his father had procured for him, and who devoted to his charge all the resources of his trained intellect and vast and varied erudition. A Jesuit before the revolution; since then an exiled Liberal leader; now a member of the Spanish Cortes; Rebello was always a Jew. He found in his pupil that precocity of intellectual development which is characteristic of the Arabian organisation. The young Sidonia penetrated the highest mysteries of mathematics with a facility almost instinctive; while a memory, which never had any twilight hours, but always reflected a noontide clearness, seemed to magnify his acquisitions of ancient learning by the promptness with which they could be reproduced and applied.

Shut out from universities and schools, those institutions that owed their initial understanding of ancient philosophy to the knowledge and efforts of his ancestors, the young Sidonia was lucky to have a tutor his father had secured for him, who dedicated all the resources of his trained intellect and extensive knowledge to his education. A Jesuit before the revolution; later an exiled Liberal leader; now a member of the Spanish Cortes; Rebello was always a Jew. He recognized in his student the early development of intellectual abilities typical of Arabian culture. The young Sidonia grasped the deepest concepts of mathematics with almost instinctive ease; while a memory, which never experienced dim moments but consistently reflected a clear light, seemed to enhance his grasp of ancient learning through his ability to quickly reproduce and apply it.

The circumstances of his position, too, had early contributed to give him an unusual command over the modern languages. An Englishman, and taught from his cradle to be proud of being an Englishman, he first evinced in speaking his native language those remarkable powers of expression, and that clear and happy elocution, which ever afterwards distinguished him. But the son of a Spaniard, the sonorous syllables of that noble tongue constantly resounded in his ear; while the foreign guests who thronged his father’s mansion habituated him from an early period of life to the tones of languages that were not long strange to him. When he was nineteen, Sidonia, who had then resided some time with his uncle at Naples, and had made a long visit to another of his father’s relatives at Frankfort, possessed a complete mastery over the principal European languages.

The circumstances of his position also helped him gain an unusual command of modern languages early on. As an Englishman, raised from birth to take pride in being English, he first showed impressive expression and clear, engaging speech when speaking his native language, traits that would define him later on. However, being the son of a Spaniard, the rich sounds of that beautiful language were always present in his ears; while the foreign guests who frequented his father's home exposed him from a young age to languages that felt familiar to him. By the time he was nineteen, Sidonia, who had spent some time living with his uncle in Naples and had taken a long trip to visit another relative in Frankfurt, had completely mastered the major European languages.

At seventeen he had parted with Rebello, who returned to Spain, and Sidonia, under the control of his guardians, commenced his travels. He resided, as we have mentioned, some time in Germany, and then, having visited Italy, settled at Naples, at which city it may be said he made his entrance into life. With an interesting person, and highly accomplished, he availed himself of the gracious attentions of a court of which he was principal creditor; and which, treating him as a distinguished English traveller, were enabled perhaps to show him some favours that the manners of the country might not have permitted them to accord to his Neapolitan relatives. Sidonia thus obtained at an early age that experience of refined and luxurious society, which is a necessary part of a finished education. It gives the last polish to the manners; it teaches us something of the power of the passions, early developed in the hot-bed of self-indulgence; it instils into us that indefinable tact seldom obtained in later life, which prevents us from saying the wrong thing, and often impels us to do the right.

At seventeen, he had parted ways with Rebello, who went back to Spain, and Sidonia, under his guardians' control, began his travels. As we mentioned, he spent some time in Germany and then, after visiting Italy, settled in Naples, where he really began his journey into life. With an interesting and highly accomplished individual, he took advantage of the gracious attention of a court where he was a main creditor. Treating him as a distinguished English traveler, they probably showed him some privileges that local customs might not have allowed for his Neapolitan relatives. This way, Sidonia gained early experience in refined and luxurious society, which is essential for a complete education. It gives that final touch to manners; it teaches us about the power of emotions, early formed in a place of self-indulgence; it instills in us that elusive instinct rarely found later in life, which stops us from saying the wrong thing and often pushes us to do the right one.

Between Paris and Naples Sidonia passed two years, spent apparently in the dissipation which was perhaps inseparable from his time of life. He was admired by women, to whom he was magnificent, idolised by artists whom he patronised, received in all circles with great distinction, and appreciated for his intellect by the very few to whom he at all opened himself. For, though affable and gracious, it was impossible to penetrate him. Though unreserved in his manner, his frankness was strictly limited to the surface. He observed everything, thought ever, but avoided serious discussion. If you pressed him for an opinion, he took refuge in raillery, or threw out some grave paradox with which it was not easy to cope.

Between Paris and Naples, Sidonia spent two years seemingly engaged in the indulgence that was likely typical for his age. He was admired by women, who found him captivating; artists idolized him for his support; he was welcomed in all social circles with great respect, and a select few appreciated his intellect, as he rarely revealed himself. Although he was friendly and charming, it was impossible to truly get to know him. His openness was only superficial. He observed everything and contemplated constantly, but avoided deep conversations. If you pressed him for his thoughts, he would deflect with humor or offer a serious paradox that was difficult to navigate.

The moment he came of age, Sidonia having previously, at a great family congress held at Naples, made arrangements with the heads of the houses that bore his name respecting the disposition and management of his vast fortune, quitted Europe.

The moment he turned 18, Sidonia had already made arrangements with the heads of his family during a big family meeting in Naples regarding the management of his huge fortune, and he left Europe.

Sidonia was absent from his connections for five years, during which period he never communicated with them. They were aware of his existence only by the orders which he drew on them for payment, and which arrived from all quarters of the globe. It would appear from these documents that he had dwelt a considerable time in the Mediterranean regions; penetrated Nilotic Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia; traversed the Asiatic continent to Tartary, whence he had visited Hindostan, and the isles of that Indian Sea which are so little known. Afterwards he was heard of at Valparaiso, the Brazils, and Lima. He evidently remained some time at Mexico, which he quitted for the United States. One morning, without notice, he arrived in London.

Sidonia disappeared from his contacts for five years, during which he didn’t communicate with them at all. They only knew he was alive because of the payment orders he sent them, which came from all over the world. These documents suggested that he spent a significant amount of time in the Mediterranean regions, traveled through Nilotic Africa to Sennaar and Abyssinia, crossed the Asian continent to Tartary, from where he visited Hindostan and the lesser-known islands of the Indian Ocean. He was later reported to be in Valparaiso, Brazil, and Lima. It seemed he spent some time in Mexico before leaving for the United States. One morning, without any notice, he showed up in London.

Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of human knowledge; he was master of the learning of every nation, of all tongues dead or living, of every literature, Western and Oriental. He had pursued the speculations of science to their last term, and had himself illustrated them by observation and experiment. He had lived in all orders of society, had viewed every combination of Nature and of Art, and had observed man under every phasis of civilisation. He had even studied him in the wilderness. The influence of creeds and laws, manners, customs, traditions, in all their diversities, had been subjected to his personal scrutiny.

Sidonia had exhausted all the sources of human knowledge; he was well-versed in the learning of every nation, in all languages, both dead and alive, in every literature from the West and the East. He had explored scientific theories to their fullest extent and had illustrated them through his own observations and experiments. He had experienced all levels of society, witnessed every mix of Nature and Art, and had observed humanity in every aspect of civilization. He had even studied people in the wild. The impact of beliefs and laws, customs, traditions, in all their variety, had been personally examined by him.

He brought to the study of this vast aggregate of knowledge a penetrative intellect that, matured by long meditation, and assisted by that absolute freedom from prejudice, which, was the compensatory possession of a man without a country, permitted Sidonia to fathom, as it were by intuition, the depth of questions apparently the most difficult and profound. He possessed the rare faculty of communicating with precision ideas the most abstruse, and in general a power of expression which arrests and satisfies attention.

He approached the study of this vast body of knowledge with a sharp intellect that, shaped by deep reflection, and aided by his complete lack of bias as a man without a country, allowed Sidonia to intuitively grasp some of the most complex and profound questions. He had the unique ability to convey even the most complicated ideas clearly, and overall, he had a way of expressing himself that captured and held attention.

With all this knowledge, which no one knew more to prize, with boundless wealth, and with an athletic frame, which sickness had never tried, and which had avoided excess, Sidonia nevertheless looked upon life with a glance rather of curiosity than content. His religion walled him out from the pursuits of a citizen; his riches deprived him of the stimulating anxieties of a man. He perceived himself a lone being, alike without cares and without duties.

With all this knowledge, which no one valued more, with endless wealth, and with a healthy body that had never been challenged by illness and had avoided excess, Sidonia still viewed life with curiosity rather than satisfaction. His religion isolated him from the activities of everyday life; his wealth took away the engaging worries of a person. He saw himself as a solitary individual, free of both cares and responsibilities.

To a man in his position there might yet seem one unfailing source of felicity and joy; independent of creed, independent of country, independent even of character. He might have discovered that perpetual spring of happiness in the sensibility of the heart. But this was a sealed fountain to Sidonia. In his organisation there was a peculiarity, perhaps a great deficiency. He was a man without affections. It would be harsh to say he had no heart, for he was susceptible of deep emotions, but not for individuals. He was capable of rebuilding a town that was burned down; of restoring a colony that had been destroyed by some awful visitation of Nature; of redeeming to liberty a horde of captives; and of doing these great acts in secret; for, void of all self-love, public approbation was worthless to him; but the individual never touched him. Woman was to him a toy, man a machine.

To a man in his position, there might still seem to be one reliable source of happiness and joy; independent of belief, independent of country, and even independent of character. He might have found that endless spring of happiness in the sensitivity of the heart. But for Sidonia, this was a closed-off well. There was something unusual about him, perhaps a significant shortcoming. He was a man without attachments. It would be harsh to say he had no heart, as he was capable of deep emotions, just not for individuals. He could rebuild a town that had burned down; restore a colony destroyed by a terrible natural disaster; free a group of captives; and do these great deeds in secret, as he had no sense of self-importance, making public approval meaningless to him; but individual connections never affected him. To him, a woman was a toy and a man was a machine.

The lot the most precious to man, and which a beneficent Providence has made not the least common; to find in another heart a perfect and profound sympathy; to unite his existence with one who could share all his joys, soften all his sorrows, aid him in all his projects, respond to all his fancies, counsel him in his cares, and support him in his perils; make life charming by her charms, interesting by her intelligence, and sweet by the vigilant variety of her tenderness; to find your life blessed by such an influence, and to feel that your influence can bless such a life: this lot, the most divine of divine gifts, that power and even fame can never rival in its delights, all this Nature had denied to Sidonia.

The most treasured thing for a person, which a generous fate has made surprisingly common, is to find in another person a perfect and deep understanding; to connect one’s life with someone who can share all their joys, ease all their sorrows, help with all their plans, respond to all their whims, guide them through their worries, and support them in their struggles; to have life made beautiful by her charm, engaging through her intelligence, and sweetened by the attentive variety of her affection; to have your life enriched by such a presence, and to know that your presence can enrich hers: this gift, the most divine of all gifts, which power and even fame can never match in happiness, was something Nature had denied to Sidonia.

With an imagination as fiery as his native Desert, and an intellect as luminous as his native sky, he wanted, like that land, those softening dews without which the soil is barren, and the sunbeam as often a messenger of pestilence as an angel of regenerative grace.

With an imagination as intense as his home desert and a mind as bright as his sky, he desired, like that land, those gentle dews that the soil needs to thrive, knowing that sunlight could be both a source of sickness and a sign of renewal.

Such a temperament, though rare, is peculiar to the East. It inspired the founders of the great monarchies of antiquity, the prophets that the Desert has sent forth, the Tartar chiefs who have overrun the world; it might be observed in the great Corsican, who, like most of the inhabitants of the Mediterranean isles, had probably Arab blood in his veins. It is a temperament that befits conquerors and legislators, but, in ordinary times and ordinary situations, entails on its possessor only eccentric aberrations or profound melancholy.

Such a temperament, while rare, is unique to the East. It inspired the founders of ancient great monarchies, the prophets from the Desert, and the Tartar leaders who conquered the world; it could also be seen in the great Corsican, who, like many people from the Mediterranean islands, likely had Arab ancestry. This temperament suits conquerors and lawmakers, but in everyday life and regular situations, it often leads its holder to experience only eccentric behavior or deep sadness.

The only human quality that interested Sidonia was Intellect. He cared not whence it came; where it was to be found: creed, country, class, character, in this respect, were alike indifferent to him. The author, the artist, the man of science, never appealed to him in vain. Often he anticipated their wants and wishes. He encouraged their society; was as frank in his conversation as he was generous in his contributions; but the instant they ceased to be authors, artists, or philosophers, and their communications arose from anything but the intellectual quality which had originally interested him, the moment they were rash enough to approach intimacy and appealed to the sympathising man instead of the congenial intelligence, he saw them no more. It was not however intellect merely in these unquestionable shapes that commanded his notice. There was not an adventurer in Europe with whom he was not familiar. No Minister of State had such communication with secret agents and political spies as Sidonia. He held relations with all the clever outcasts of the world. The catalogue of his acquaintance in the shape of Greeks, Armenians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gipsies, wandering Poles and Carbonari, would throw a curious light on those subterranean agencies of which the world in general knows so little, but which exercise so great an influence on public events. His extensive travels, his knowledge of languages, his daring and adventurous disposition, and his unlimited means, had given him opportunities of becoming acquainted with these characters, in general so difficult to trace, and of gaining their devotion. To these sources he owed that knowledge of strange and hidden things which often startled those who listened to him. Nor was it easy, scarcely possible, to deceive him. Information reached him from so many, and such contrary quarters, that with his discrimination and experience, he could almost instantly distinguish the truth. The secret history of the world was his pastime. His great pleasure was to contrast the hidden motive, with the public pretext, of transactions.

The only human quality that mattered to Sidonia was intelligence. He didn't care where it came from or where to find it; beliefs, nationality, social class, and character were all irrelevant to him in this regard. Authors, artists, and scientists never failed to engage him. Often, he anticipated their needs and desires. He welcomed their company, was open in his conversations, and generous in his support; but the moment they stopped being creators or thinkers and their conversations turned to anything other than the intellectual qualities that initially attracted him, the instant they dared to get too close and reached out to him as a sympathetic person instead of as a fellow thinker, he dismissed them completely. However, it wasn’t just traditional forms of intellect that caught his attention. He was familiar with every adventurer in Europe. No government official had as much contact with secret agents and political informants as Sidonia. He maintained connections with all the clever outcasts of society. The list of his acquaintances, including Greeks, Armenians, Moors, secret Jews, Tartars, Gypsies, wandering Poles, and Carbonari, would shed light on the covert networks that the general public knows very little about, yet which have a huge impact on world events. His extensive travels, mastery of languages, bold spirit, and ample resources provided him the chance to meet these elusive figures and earn their loyalty. It was from these sources that he acquired his knowledge of strange and hidden matters, often leaving those who listened to him feeling startled. He was also hard to deceive; information came to him from so many conflicting sources that, with his discernment and experience, he could almost immediately identify the truth. The secret history of the world was his hobby. He took great pleasure in contrasting hidden motives with the public justifications behind various events.

One source of interest Sidonia found in his descent and in the fortunes of his race. As firm in his adherence to the code of the great Legislator as if the trumpet still sounded on Sinai, he might have received in the conviction of divine favour an adequate compensation for human persecution. But there were other and more terrestrial considerations that made Sidonia proud of his origin, and confident in the future of his kind. Sidonia was a great philosopher, who took comprehensive views of human affairs, and surveyed every fact in its relative position to other facts, the only mode of obtaining truth.

One thing that Sidonia found interesting was his heritage and the history of his people. He was as committed to the code of the great Legislator as if the trumpet were still sounding at Sinai, and he might have felt that the belief in divine favor was enough to balance human persecution. However, there were other, more practical reasons that made Sidonia proud of his roots and confident in the future of his people. Sidonia was a great philosopher who had a broad perspective on human affairs and examined every fact in relation to other facts, which is the only way to discover the truth.

Sidonia was well aware that in the five great varieties into which Physiology has divided the human species; to wit, the Caucasian, the Mongolian, the Malayan, the American, the Ethiopian; the Arabian tribes rank in the first and superior class, together, among others, with the Saxon and the Greek. This fact alone is a source of great pride and satisfaction to the animal Man. But Sidonia and his brethren could claim a distinction which the Saxon and the Greek, and the rest of the Caucasian nations, have forfeited. The Hebrew is an unmixed race. Doubtless, among the tribes who inhabit the bosom of the Desert, progenitors alike of the Mosaic and the Mohammedan Arabs, blood may be found as pure as that of the descendants of the Scheik Abraham. But the Mosaic Arabs are the most ancient, if not the only, unmixed blood that dwells in cities.

Sidonia knew that in the five major groups into which Physiology has classified the human species—namely, Caucasian, Mongolian, Malayan, American, and Ethiopian—the Arabian tribes are regarded as part of the top tier, alongside the Saxon and the Greek. This alone fills people with pride and satisfaction. However, Sidonia and his people could claim a uniqueness that the Saxon, Greek, and other Caucasian nations have lost. The Hebrew is a pure race. Certainly, among the tribes living in the heart of the Desert, ancestors of both the Mosaic and Mohammad Arab populations, there may be bloodlines as pure as those of the descendants of Sheik Abraham. But the Mosaic Arabs represent the oldest, if not the only, unmixed blood that resides in urban areas.

An unmixed race of a firstrate organisation are the aristocracy of Nature. Such excellence is a positive fact; not an imagination, a ceremony, coined by poets, blazoned by cozening heralds, but perceptible in its physical advantages, and in the vigour of its unsullied idiosyncrasy.

An untainted group of top-tier organization is the elite of Nature. This kind of excellence is a real thing; it’s not just a fantasy, a ritual, created by poets or touted by deceptive heralds, but is noticeable in its physical benefits and in the strength of its pure individuality.

In his comprehensive travels, Sidonia had visited and examined the Hebrew communities of the world. He had found, in general, the lower orders debased; the superior immersed in sordid pursuits; but he perceived that the intellectual development was not impaired. This gave him hope. He was persuaded that organisation would outlive persecution. When he reflected on what they had endured, it was only marvellous that the race had not disappeared. They had defied exile, massacre, spoliation, the degrading influence of the constant pursuit of gain; they had defied Time. For nearly three thousand years, according to Archbishop Usher, they have been dispersed over the globe. To the unpolluted current of their Caucasian structure, and to the segregating genius of their great Law-giver, Sidonia ascribed the fact that they had not been long ago absorbed among those mixed races, who presume to persecute them, but who periodically wear away and disappear, while their victims still flourish in all the primeval vigour of the pure Asian breed.

During his extensive travels, Sidonia had visited and examined Jewish communities around the world. He found that, generally speaking, the lower classes were downtrodden and the upper classes caught up in grim pursuits; however, he noticed that their intellectual development hadn’t been compromised. This gave him hope. He believed that organization would survive persecution. When he thought about what they had endured, it was nothing short of amazing that the race hadn’t vanished. They had resisted exile, massacre, plunder, and the degrading influence of always chasing after wealth; they had stood against Time itself. For nearly three thousand years, according to Archbishop Usher, they had been scattered across the globe. Sidonia attributed their survival to the untainted lineage of their Caucasian ancestry and the isolating genius of their great Lawgiver, noting that they hadn’t been absorbed long ago by the mixed races that seek to persecute them, but who periodically fade away and disappear, while their victims continue to thrive with all the original strength of the pure Asian lineage.

Shortly after his arrival in England, Sidonia repaired to the principal Courts of Europe, that he might become personally acquainted with the monarchs and ministers of whom he had heard so much. His position insured him a distinguished reception; his personal qualities immediately made him cherished. He could please; he could do more, he could astonish. He could throw out a careless observation which would make the oldest diplomatist start; a winged word that gained him the consideration, sometimes the confidence, of Sovereigns. When he had fathomed the intelligence which governs Europe, and which can only be done by personal acquaintance, he returned to this country.

Shortly after arriving in England, Sidonia went to the main Courts of Europe so he could personally meet the monarchs and ministers he had heard so much about. His status ensured he received a warm welcome; his personality quickly made him well-liked. He had a knack for charming people; he could do even more—he could amaze. Sometimes, he’d throw out a casual comment that would leave even the most experienced diplomat surprised; a clever remark that earned him respect, and occasionally the trust, of rulers. Once he had investigated the intelligence that shapes Europe, which can only be done through personal connections, he returned to this country.

The somewhat hard and literal character of English life suited one who shrank from sensibility, and often took refuge in sarcasm. Its masculine vigour and active intelligence occupied and interested his mind. Sidonia, indeed, was exactly the character who would be welcomed in our circles. His immense wealth, his unrivalled social knowledge, his clear vigorous intellect, the severe simplicity of his manners, frank, but neither claiming nor brooking familiarity, and his devotion to field sports, which was the safety-valve of his energy, were all circumstances and qualities which the English appreciate and admire; and it may be fairly said of Sidonia that few men were more popular, and none less understood.

The somewhat tough and straightforward nature of English life suited someone who avoided deep feelings and often relied on sarcasm. Its strong energy and active intelligence kept his mind engaged and interested. Sidonia was exactly the kind of person who would be welcomed in our circles. His immense wealth, unmatched social knowledge, sharp intellect, and the straightforward simplicity of his manner—open but not overly familiar—along with his passion for field sports, which served as an outlet for his energy, were all traits that the English value and admire. It can be fairly said of Sidonia that few men were more popular, yet none were less understood.

CHAPTER XI.

At dinner, Coningsby was seated on the same side as Sidonia, and distant from him. There had been, therefore, no mutual recognition. Another guest had also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He came straight from London, full of rumours, had seen Tadpole, who, hearing he was on the wing for Coningsby Castle, had taken him into a dark corner of a club, and shown him his book, a safe piece of confidence, as Mr. Ormsby was very near-sighted. It was, however, to be received as an undoubted fact, that all was right, and somehow or other, before very long, there would be national demonstration of the same. This arrival of Mr. Ormsby, and the news that he bore, gave a political turn to the conversation after the ladies had left the room.

At dinner, Coningsby was sitting on the same side as Sidonia, but at a distance from him. Therefore, they had not recognized each other. Another guest had also arrived, Mr. Ormsby. He had just come from London, buzzing with rumors. He had seen Tadpole, who, knowing that Ormsby was heading to Coningsby Castle, took him into a dark corner of a club and showed him his book, which was a discreet act since Mr. Ormsby was very near-sighted. However, it was accepted as a fact that everything was fine, and somehow, soon enough, there would be a national show of this. Mr. Ormsby’s arrival and the news he brought shifted the conversation to political topics after the ladies had left the room.

‘Tadpole wants me to stand for Birmingham,’ said Mr. Ormsby, gravely.

‘Tadpole wants me to run for Birmingham,’ said Mr. Ormsby, seriously.

‘You!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, and throwing himself back in his chair, he broke into a real, hearty laugh.

‘You!’ shouted Lord Monmouth, and collapsing back in his chair, he burst into a genuine, hearty laugh.

‘Yes; the Conservatives mean to start two candidates; a manufacturer they have got, and they have written up to Tadpole for a “West-end man.”’

‘Yes; the Conservatives plan to put forward two candidates; they have a manufacturer lined up, and they’ve reached out to Tadpole for a “West-end guy.”’

‘A what?’

‘A West-end man, who will make the ladies patronise their fancy articles.’

‘A West-end guy who will get the ladies to buy their trendy items.’

‘The result of the Reform Bill, then,’ said Lucian Gay, ‘will be to give Manchester a bishop, and Birmingham a dandy.’

‘The outcome of the Reform Bill, then,’ said Lucian Gay, ‘will be to give Manchester a bishop, and Birmingham a dandy.’

‘I begin to believe the result will be very different from what we expected,’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘I’m starting to think the outcome will be completely different from what we expected,’ said Lord Monmouth.

Mr. Rigby shook his head and was going to prophesy, when Lord Eskdale, who liked talk to be short, and was of opinion that Rigby should keep his amplifications for his slashing articles, put in a brief careless observation, which balked his inspiration.

Mr. Rigby shook his head and was about to make a prediction when Lord Eskdale, who preferred brief conversations and thought Rigby should save his elaborate explanations for his impactful articles, interrupted with a casual remark that disrupted his train of thought.

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘when the guns were firing over Vyvyan’s last speech and confession, I never expected to be asked to stand for Birmingham.’

‘Sure,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘when the guns were firing over Vyvyan’s last speech and confession, I never thought I’d be asked to run for Birmingham.’

‘Perhaps you may be called up to the other house by the title,’ said Lucian Gay. ‘Who knows?’

‘Maybe you'll get summoned to the other house by the title,’ said Lucian Gay. ‘Who knows?’

‘I agree with Tadpole,’ said Mr. Ormsby, ‘that if we only stick to the Registration the country is saved.’

‘I agree with Tadpole,’ Mr. Ormsby said, ‘that if we just stick to the Registration, the country will be saved.’

‘Fortunate country!’ said Sidonia, ‘that can be saved by a good registration!’

‘Lucky country!’ said Sidonia, ‘that can be saved by a good registration!’

‘I believe, after all, that with property and pluck,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘Parliamentary Reform is not such a very bad thing.’

‘I believe, after all, that with land and determination,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘Parliamentary Reform isn't such a terrible idea.’

Here several gentlemen began talking at the same time, all agreeing with their host, and proving in their different ways, the irresistible influence of property and pluck; property in Lord Monmouth’s mind meaning vassals, and pluck a total disregard for public opinion. Mr. Guy Flouncey, who wanted to get into parliament, but why nobody knew, who had neither political abilities nor political opinions, but had some floating idea that it would get himself and his wife to some more balls and dinners, and who was duly ticketed for ‘a good thing’ in the candidate list of the Tadpoles and the Tapers, was of opinion that an immense deal might be done by properly patronising borough races. That was his specific how to prevent revolution.

Here several men started talking at once, all agreeing with their host and showing in their own ways the undeniable power of wealth and courage; with wealth to Lord Monmouth meaning followers, and courage a complete disregard for what others think. Mr. Guy Flouncey, who wanted to get into parliament for reasons unknown to anyone, had no political skills or opinions, but held onto a vague idea that it might lead to more parties and dinners for him and his wife. He was officially listed as a promising candidate by the Tadpoles and the Tapers, and believed that a lot could be achieved by properly supporting local races. That was his specific solution to avoid revolution.

Taking advantage of a pause, Lord Monmouth said, ‘I should like to know what you think of this question, Sidonia?’

Taking advantage of a break, Lord Monmouth said, ‘I’d like to know what you think about this question, Sidonia?’

‘I am scarcely a competent judge,’ he said, as if wishing to disclaim any interference in the conversation, and then added, ‘but I have been ever of opinion that revolutions are not to be evaded.’

‘I’m hardly a qualified judge,’ he said, as if trying to distance himself from the conversation, and then added, ‘but I’ve always believed that revolutions can’t be avoided.’

‘Exactly my views,’ said Mr. Rigby, eagerly; ‘I say it now, I have said it a thousand times, you may doctor the registration as you like, but you can never get rid of Schedule A.’

‘Exactly my views,’ said Mr. Rigby, eagerly; ‘I’ll say it again, I’ve said it a thousand times, you can mess with the registration however you want, but you can never eliminate Schedule A.’

‘Is there a person in this room who can now tell us the names of the boroughs in Schedule A?’ said Sidonia.

‘Is there anyone in this room who can now share the names of the boroughs in Schedule A?’ said Sidonia.

‘I am sure I cannot, ‘said Lord Monmouth, ‘though six of them belong to myself.’

‘I’m sure I can’t,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘even though six of them belong to me.’

‘But the principle,’ said Mr. Rigby; ‘they represented a principle.’

‘But the principle,’ Mr. Rigby said; ‘they represented a principle.’

‘Nothing else, certainly,’ said Lucian Gay.

‘Nothing else, for sure,’ said Lucian Gay.

‘And what principle?’ inquired Sidonia.

"And which principle?" asked Sidonia.

‘The principle of nomination.’

"The nomination principle."

‘That is a practice, not a principle,’ said Sidonia. ‘Is it a practice that no longer exists?’

‘That’s a practice, not a principle,’ said Sidonia. ‘Is it a practice that doesn’t exist anymore?’

‘You think then,’ said Lord Eskdale, cutting in before Rigby, ‘that the Reform Bill has done us no harm?’

‘So you think,’ Lord Eskdale interrupted before Rigby could respond, ‘that the Reform Bill hasn’t harmed us at all?’

‘It is not the Reform Bill that has shaken the aristocracy of this country, but the means by which that Bill was carried,’ replied Sidonia.

‘It’s not the Reform Bill that has unsettled the aristocracy of this country, but the methods used to pass that Bill,’ replied Sidonia.

‘Physical force?’ said Lord Eskdale.

"Physical force?" said Lord Eskdale.

‘Or social power?’ said Sidonia.

"Or social power?" Sidonia asked.

Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient at any one giving the tone in a political discussion but himself, and chafing under the vigilance of Lord Eskdale, which to him ever appeared only fortuitous, violently assaulted the argument, and astonished several country gentlemen present by its volubility. They at length listened to real eloquence. At the end of a long appeal to Sidonia, that gentleman only bowed his head and said, ‘Perhaps;’ and then, turning to his neighbour, inquired whether birds were plentiful in Lancashire this season; so that Mr. Rigby was reduced to the necessity of forming the political opinions of Mr. Guy Flouncey.

Upon this, Mr. Rigby, impatient with anyone trying to steer a political discussion except himself, and irritated by Lord Eskdale's watchfulness, which always seemed random to him, aggressively launched into his argument, astonishing several local gentlemen present with his speed of speech. They finally heard genuine eloquence. At the end of a lengthy appeal to Sidonia, that gentleman merely nodded and said, ‘Perhaps;’ and then, turning to his neighbor, asked if there were many birds in Lancashire this season, leaving Mr. Rigby forced to form the political opinions of Mr. Guy Flouncey.

As the gentlemen left the dining-room, Coningsby, though at some distance, was observed by Sidonia, who stopped instantly, then advanced to Coningsby, and extending his hand said, ‘I said we should meet again, though I hardly expected so quickly.’

As the men exited the dining room, Coningsby, even from a distance, caught Sidonia's eye, who immediately paused, then approached Coningsby and, extending his hand, said, "I said we would meet again, though I didn't expect it to be so soon."

‘And I hope we shall not separate so soon,’ said Coningsby; ‘I was much struck with what you said just now about the Reform Bill. Do you know that the more I think the more I am perplexed by what is meant by Representation?’

‘And I hope we won’t part ways so soon,’ said Coningsby; ‘I was really struck by what you just said about the Reform Bill. Do you know that the more I think about it, the more confused I become about what Representation actually means?’

‘It is a principle of which a limited definition is only current in this country,’ said Sidonia, quitting the room with him. ‘People may be represented without periodical elections of neighbours who are incapable to maintain their interests, and strangers who are unwilling.’

‘It’s a principle that only has a narrow definition here,’ said Sidonia, leaving the room with him. ‘People can be represented without regular elections from neighbors who can’t look after their own interests, and outsiders who don’t want to.’

The entrance of the gentlemen produced the same effect on the saloon as sunrise on the world; universal animation, a general though gentle stir. The Grand-duke, bowing to every one, devoted himself to the daughter of Lady St. Julians, who herself pinned Lord Beaumanoir before he could reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby instead talked nonsense to that lady. Brilliant cavaliers, including Mr. Melton, addressed a band of beautiful damsels grouped on a large ottoman. Everywhere sounded a delicious murmur, broken occasionally by a silver-sounding laugh not too loud. Sidonia and Lord Eskdale did not join the ladies. They stood for a few moments in conversation, and then threw themselves on a sofa.

The entrance of the gentlemen had the same effect on the saloon as sunrise does on the world; it brought a lively energy, a gentle buzz all around. The Grand Duke bowed to everyone and focused his attention on the daughter of Lady St. Julians, who herself managed to pin down Lord Beaumanoir before he could reach Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Coningsby, on the other hand, shared some playful nonsense with that lady. Charming guys, including Mr. Melton, engaged a group of beautiful women sitting on a large ottoman. A delightful murmur filled the air, occasionally interrupted by a light, pleasant laugh. Sidonia and Lord Eskdale didn't join the ladies. They chatted for a moment and then sank into a nearby sofa.

‘Who is that?’ asked Sidonia of his companion rather earnestly, as Coningsby quitted them.

‘Who is that?’ Sidonia asked his companion seriously as Coningsby left them.

‘’Tis the grandson of Monmouth; young Coningsby.’

'It’s the grandson of Monmouth; young Coningsby.'

‘Ah! The new generation then promises. I met him once before, by chance; he interests me.’

‘Ah! The new generation seems promising. I met him once before, by chance; he captures my interest.’

‘They tell me he is a lively lad. He is a prodigious favourite here, and I should not be surprised if Monmouth made him his heir.’

‘They tell me he’s a lively kid. He’s a huge favorite here, and I wouldn’t be surprised if Monmouth made him his heir.’

‘I hope he does not dream of inheritance,’ said Sidonia. ‘’Tis the most enervating of visions.’

‘I hope he doesn’t dream of inheritance,’ said Sidonia. ‘It’s the most draining of dreams.’

‘Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?’ said Mrs. Guy Flouncey to Coningsby.

‘Do you admire Lady Augustina St. Julians?’ Mrs. Guy Flouncey asked Coningsby.

‘I admire no one except yourself.’

'I don't admire anyone but you.'

‘Oh! how very gallant, Mr. Coningsby!’

‘Oh! how very brave, Mr. Coningsby!’

‘When should men be gallant, if not to the brilliant and the beautiful!’ said Coningsby.

‘When should men be chivalrous, if not to the smart and the attractive!’ said Coningsby.

‘Ah! you are laughing at me.’

"Ah! You're making fun of me."

‘No, I am not. I am quite grave.’

‘No, I’m not. I’m very serious.’

‘Your eyes laugh. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, Lord Henry Sydney is a very great friend of yours?’

‘Your eyes are sparkling with laughter. Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, is Lord Henry Sydney a close friend of yours?’

‘Very.’

‘He is very amiable.’

‘He is very friendly.’

‘Very.’

‘Totally.’

‘He does a great deal for the poor at Beaumanoir. A very fine place, is it not?’

‘He does a lot for the poor at Beaumanoir. It’s a really nice place, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

‘Super.’

‘As fine as Coningsby?’

'As great as Coningsby?'

‘At present, with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beaumanoir would have no chance.’

‘Right now, with Mrs. Guy Flouncey at Coningsby, Beaumanoir wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘Ah! you laugh at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, what do you think we shall do to-night? I look upon you, you know, as the real arbiter of our destinies.’

‘Ah! You're laughing at me again! Now tell me, Mr. Coningsby, what do you think we should do tonight? I see you, you know, as the true decision-maker of our fates.’

‘You shall decide,’ said Coningsby.

"You decide," said Coningsby.

‘Mon cher Harry,’ said Madame Colonna, coming up, ‘they wish Lucretia to sing and she will not. You must ask her, she cannot refuse you.’

‘My dear Harry,’ said Madame Colonna, approaching him, ‘they want Lucretia to sing, but she refuses. You have to ask her; she can't say no to you.’

‘I assure you she can,’ said Coningsby.

‘I assure you she can,’ Coningsby said.

‘Mon cher Harry, your grandpapa did desire me to beg you to ask her to sing.’

‘My dear Harry, your grandfather asked me to request that you ask her to sing.’

So Coningsby unwillingly approached Lucretia, who was talking with the Russian Ambassador.

So Coningsby reluctantly went over to Lucretia, who was chatting with the Russian Ambassador.

‘I am sent upon a fruitless mission,’ said Coningsby, looking at her, and catching her glance.

‘I’ve been sent on a pointless mission,’ said Coningsby, looking at her and meeting her gaze.

‘What and why?’ she replied.

“Why?” she replied.

‘The mission is to entreat you to do us all a great favour; and the cause of its failure will be that I am the envoy.’

‘The mission is to request that you do us all a great favor; and the reason for its failure will be that I am the messenger.’

‘If the favour be one to yourself, it is granted; and if you be the envoy, you need never fear failure with me.’

‘If the favor is for yourself, it’s granted; and if you’re the messenger, you never have to worry about failing with me.’

‘I must presume then to lead you away,’ said Coningsby, bending to the Ambassador.

"I guess I'll have to take you away," said Coningsby, leaning towards the Ambassador.

‘Remember,’ said Lucretia, as they approached the instrument, ‘that I am singing to you.’

‘Remember,’ Lucretia said as they got closer to the instrument, ‘I’m singing for you.’

‘It is impossible ever to forget it,’ said Coningsby, leading her to the piano with great politeness, but only with great politeness.

‘It's impossible to ever forget it,’ said Coningsby, guiding her to the piano with a lot of politeness, but only politeness.

‘Where is Mademoiselle Flora?’ she inquired.

‘Where is Mademoiselle Flora?’ she asked.

Coningsby found La Petite crouching as it were behind some furniture, and apparently looking over some music. She looked up as he approached, and a smile stole over her countenance. ‘I am come to ask a favour,’ he said, and he named his request.

Coningsby found La Petite crouched behind some furniture, seemingly going through some music. She looked up as he got closer, and a smile spread across her face. ‘I’ve come to ask a favor,’ he said, and he stated his request.

‘I will sing,’ she replied; ‘but only tell me what you like.’

‘I will sing,’ she replied; ‘but just let me know what you like.’

Coningsby felt the difference between the courtesy of the head and of the heart, as he contrasted the manner of Lucretia and Flora. Nothing could be more exquisitely gracious than the daughter of Colonna was to-night; Flora, on the contrary, was rather agitated and embarrassed; and did not express her readiness with half the facility and the grace of Lucretia; but Flora’s arm trembled as Coningsby led her to the piano.

Coningsby noticed the difference between polite behavior and genuine kindness as he compared Lucretia and Flora. Lucretia, the daughter of Colonna, was exceptionally gracious tonight. In contrast, Flora seemed a bit nervous and awkward; she didn't show her willingness with the same ease and charm as Lucretia did. However, Flora’s arm shook as Coningsby guided her to the piano.

Meantime Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are in deep converse.

Meanwhile, Lord Eskdale and Sidonia are engaged in a deep conversation.

‘Hah! that is a fine note!’ said Sidonia, and he looked round. ‘Who is that singing? Some new protégée of Lord Monmouth?’

‘Hah! that’s a nice tune!’ said Sidonia, and he glanced around. ‘Who’s singing? Some new protégée of Lord Monmouth?’

‘’Tis the daughter of the Colonnas,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘the Princess Lucretia.’

‘It’s the daughter of the Colonnas,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘the Princess Lucretia.’

‘Why, she was not at dinner to-day.’

‘Why, she wasn't at dinner today.’

‘No, she was not there.’

‘No, she wasn't there.’

‘My favourite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When I was a boy, it made me almost in love even with Pisaroni.’

‘My favorite voice; and of all, the rarest to be found. When I was a kid, it made me feel almost in love even with Pisaroni.’

‘Well, the Princess is scarcely more lovely. ‘Tis a pity the plumage is not as beautiful as the note. She is plain.’

‘Well, the Princess is hardly any more beautiful. It’s a shame the feathers aren’t as lovely as the song. She looks ordinary.’

‘No; not plain with that brow.’

‘No; not plain with that forehead.’

‘Well, I rather admire her myself,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘She has fine points.’

‘Well, I actually admire her too,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘She has great qualities.’

‘Let us approach,’ said Sidonia.

“Let’s move closer,” said Sidonia.

The song ceased, Lord Eskdale advanced, made his compliments, and then said, ‘You were not at dinner to-day.’

The music stopped, Lord Eskdale approached, offered his greetings, and then said, ‘You weren’t at dinner today.’

‘Why should I be?’ said the Princess.

‘For our sakes, for mine, if not for your own,’ said Lord Eskdale, smiling. ‘Your absence has been remarked, and felt, I assure you, by others as well as myself. There is my friend Sidonia so enraptured with your thrilling tones, that he has abruptly closed a conversation which I have been long counting on. Do you know him? May I present him to you?’

‘For our sake, for mine, if not for yours,’ said Lord Eskdale, smiling. ‘Your absence has been noticed and felt, I promise you, by both me and others. My friend Sidonia is so captivated by your exciting voice that he has suddenly cut short a conversation I was really looking forward to. Do you know him? Can I introduce you to him?’

And having obtained a consent, not often conceded, Lord Eskdale looked round, and calling Sidonia, he presented his friend to the Princess.

And after getting a rare consent, Lord Eskdale looked around and called Sidonia, introducing his friend to the Princess.

‘You are fond of music, Lord Eskdale tells me?’ said Lucretia.

‘Do you like music, Lord Eskdale told me?’ Lucretia asked.

‘When it is excellent,’ said Sidonia.

“When it’s great,” said Sidonia.

‘But that is so rare,’ said the Princess.

‘And precious as Paradise,’ said Sidonia. ‘As for indifferent music, ‘tis Purgatory; but when it is bad, for my part I feel myself—’

‘And valuable as Paradise,’ said Sidonia. ‘As for music that doesn’t really engage me, it’s like Purgatory; but when it’s bad, I feel—’

‘Where?’ said Lord Eskdale.

“Where?” said Lord Eskdale.

‘In the last circle of the Inferno,’ said Sidonia.

‘In the last circle of Hell,’ said Sidonia.

Lord Eskdale turned to Flora.

‘And in what circle do you place us who are here?’ the Princess inquired of Sidonia.

‘And where do you put us who are here?’ the Princess asked Sidonia.

‘One too polished for his verse,’ replied her companion.

"One who's too polished for his poetry," her companion replied.

‘You mean too insipid,’ said the Princess. ‘I wish that life were a little more Dantesque.’

'You mean too bland,' said the Princess. 'I wish life were a bit more Dantesque.'

‘There is not less treasure in the world,’ said Sidonia, ‘because we use paper currency; and there is not less passion than of old, though it is bon ton to be tranquil.’

‘There’s no less treasure in the world,’ said Sidonia, ‘just because we use paper money; and there’s no less passion than before, even though it’s bon ton to stay calm.’

‘Do you think so?’ said the Princess, inquiringly, and then looking round the apartment. ‘Have these automata, indeed, souls?’

‘Do you really think so?’ asked the Princess, looking around the room. ‘Do these automata actually have souls?’

‘Some of them,’ said Sidonia. ‘As many as would have had souls in the fourteenth century.’

‘I thought they were wound up every day,’ said the Princess.

‘Some are self-impelling,’ said Sidonia.

"Some are self-motivated," said Sidonia.

‘And you can tell at a glance?’ inquired the Princess. ‘You are one of those who can read human nature?’

‘And you can tell right away?’ asked the Princess. ‘You’re one of those people who can read human nature?’

‘’Tis a book open to all.’

"It’s a book available to everyone."

‘But if they cannot read?’

‘But what if they can't read?’

‘Those must be your automata.’

"Those must be your robots."

‘Lord Monmouth tells me you are a great traveller?’

‘Lord Monmouth told me you’re quite the traveler?’

‘I have not discovered a new world.’

‘But you have visited it?’

"But you've been there?"

‘It is getting old.’

"It's getting old."

‘I would sooner recall the old than discover the new,’ said the Princess.

‘I would rather remember the old than find out the new,’ said the Princess.

‘We have both of us cause,’ said Sidonia. ‘Our names are the names of the Past.’

‘We both have our reasons,’ said Sidonia. ‘Our names belong to the Past.’

‘I do not love a world of Utility,’ said the Princess.

‘I don't love a world of practicality,’ said the Princess.

‘You prefer to be celebrated to being comfortable,’ said Sidonia.

"You'd rather be celebrated than comfortable," Sidonia said.

‘It seems to me that the world is withering under routine.’

‘It seems to me that the world is fading away from boredom.’

‘’Tis the inevitable lot of humanity,’ said Sidonia. ‘Man must ever be the slave of routine: but in old days it was a routine of great thoughts, and now it is a routine of little ones.’

“It's the inevitable fate of humanity,” said Sidonia. “People will always be slaves to routine: but back in the day, it was a routine filled with great ideas, and now it's just a routine of small ones.”

The evening glided on; the dance succeeded the song; the ladies were fast vanishing; Coningsby himself was meditating a movement, when Lord Beaumanoir, as he passed him, said, ‘Come to Lucian Gay’s room; we are going to smoke a cigar.’

The evening went on smoothly; the dance followed the song; the ladies were quickly leaving; Coningsby was planning his next move when Lord Beaumanoir, walking by, said, ‘Come to Lucian Gay’s room; we’re going to smoke a cigar.’

This was a favourite haunt, towards midnight, of several of the younger members of the party at the Castle, who loved to find relaxation from the decorous gravities of polished life in the fumes of tobacco, the inspiration of whiskey toddy, and the infinite amusement of Lucian Gay’s conversation and company. This was the genial hour when the good story gladdened, the pun flashed, and the song sparkled with jolly mirth or saucy mimicry. To-night, being Coningsby’s initiation, there was a special general meeting of the Grumpy Club, in which everybody was to say the gayest things with the gravest face, and every laugh carried a forfeit. Lucian was the inimitable president. He told a tale for which he was famous, of ‘the very respectable county family who had been established in the shire for several generations, but who, it was a fact, had been ever distinguished by the strange and humiliating peculiarity of being born with sheep’s tails.’ The remarkable circumstances under which Lucian Gay had become acquainted with this fact; the traditionary mysteries by which the family in question had succeeded for generations in keeping it secret; the decided measures to which the chief of the family had recourse to stop for ever the rumour when it first became prevalent; and finally the origin and result of the legend; were details which Lucian Gay, with the most rueful countenance, loved to expend upon the attentive and expanding intelligence of a new member of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as all present were with the story whose stimulus of agonising risibility they had all in turn experienced, it was with extreme difficulty that any of them could resist the fatal explosion which was to be attended with the dreaded penalty. Lord Beaumanoir looked on the table with desperate seriousness, an ominous pucker quivering round his lip; Mr. Melton crammed his handkerchief into his mouth with one hand, while he lighted the wrong end of a cigar with the other; one youth hung over the back of his chair pinching himself like a faquir, while another hid his countenance on the table.

This was a favorite spot, late at night, for several of the younger members of the group at the Castle, who enjoyed finding relief from the serious routine of polished life in the smoke of cigars, the warmth of whiskey drinks, and the endless entertainment of Lucian Gay’s conversation and company. This was the lively hour when a good story brought joy, puns flashed, and songs sparkled with cheerful laughter or playful imitation. Tonight, marking Coningsby’s initiation, there was a special general meeting of the Grumpy Club, where everyone was to say the funniest things with the most serious faces, and every laugh came with a penalty. Lucian was the irreplaceable president. He told a story for which he was well-known, about "the very respectable county family who had been established in the region for multiple generations, but who, it was true, had always been marked by the strange and embarrassing trait of being born with sheep tails." The remarkable circumstances through which Lucian Gay came to know this fact; the longstanding secrets by which the family had managed for generations to keep it hidden; the drastic actions taken by the head of the family to put an end to the rumors when they first surfaced; and finally, the origin and outcome of the legend, were details that Lucian Gay, with the most sorrowful expression, loved to share with the keen and growing interest of a new member of the Grumpy Club. Familiar as everyone present was with the story that had caused such agonizing laughter for them all, it was extremely hard for any of them to resist the unavoidable outburst that would be met with the dreaded penalty. Lord Beaumanoir gazed at the table with intense seriousness, an ominous twitch around his lips; Mr. Melton stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth with one hand while lighting the wrong end of a cigar with the other; one young man leaned over the back of his chair pinching himself like a fakir, while another buried his face in the table.

‘It was at the Hunt dinner,’ continued Lucian Gay, in an almost solemn tone, ‘that an idea for a moment was prevalent, that Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head of the family, had resolved to terminate for ever these mysterious aspersions on his race, that had circulated in the county for more than two centuries; I mean that the highly respectable family of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs had the misfortune to be graced with that appendage to which I have referred. His health being drunk, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh rose. He was a little unpopular at the moment, from an ugly story about killing foxes, and the guests were not as quiet as orators generally desire, so the Honourable Baronet prayed particular attention to a matter personal to himself. Instantly there was a dead silence—’ but here Coningsby, who had moved for some time very restlessly on his chair, suddenly started up, and struggling for a moment against the inward convulsion, but in vain, stamped against the floor, and gave a shout.

‘It was at the Hunt dinner,’ continued Lucian Gay, in a nearly serious tone, ‘that for a moment, people thought that Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh, as the head of the family, had decided to put an end to the mysterious rumors about his lineage that had been circulating in the county for more than two centuries; I mean that the highly respected family of the Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaughs unfortunately had to deal with that issue I mentioned. After his health was toasted, Sir Mowbray Cholmondeley Fetherstonehaugh stood up. He was a bit unpopular at that moment due to an unpleasant story about killing foxes, and the guests were not as quiet as speakers usually want, so the Honourable Baronet asked for particular attention to a matter that was personal to him. Immediately, there was complete silence—’ but here Coningsby, who had been shifting uncomfortably in his chair for some time, suddenly jumped up, and struggling for a moment against the internal urge, but in vain, stomped his foot on the floor and shouted.

‘A song from Mr. Coningsby,’ said the president of the Grumpy Club, amid an universal, and now permissible roar of laughter.

‘A song from Mr. Coningsby,’ said the president of the Grumpy Club, amidst a collective, and now acceptable, roar of laughter.

Coningsby could not sing; so he was to favour them as a substitute with a speech or a sentiment. But Lucian Gay always let one off these penalties easily, and, indeed, was ever ready to fulfil them for all. Song, speech, or sentiment, he poured them all forth; nor were pastimes more active wanting. He could dance a Tarantella like a Lazzarone, and execute a Cracovienne with all the mincing graces of a ballet heroine.

Coningsby couldn't sing, so he was supposed to make up for it with a speech or some heartfelt sentiment. But Lucian Gay always found a way to let him off the hook, and was actually more than happy to take on the task for everyone. Whether it was a song, a speech, or a sentiment, he delivered them all with ease; he also had plenty of lively activities up his sleeve. He could dance a Tarantella like a pro and perform a Cracovienne with all the delicate charm of a ballet star.

His powers of mimicry, indeed, were great and versatile. But in nothing was he so happy as in a Parliamentary debate. And it was remarkable that, though himself a man who on ordinary occasions was quite incapable without infinite perplexity of publicly expressing his sense of the merest courtesy of society, he was not only a master of the style of every speaker of distinction in either house, but he seemed in his imitative play to appropriate their intellectual as well as their physical peculiarities, and presented you with their mind as well as their manner. There were several attempts to-night to induce Lucian to indulge his guests with a debate, but he seemed to avoid the exertion, which was great. As the night grew old, however, and every hour he grew more lively, he suddenly broke without further pressure into the promised diversion; and Coningsby listened really with admiration to a discussion, of which the only fault was that it was more parliamentary than the original, ‘plus Arabe que l’Arabie.’

His mimicry skills were impressive and varied. However, he was happiest when engaged in a Parliamentary debate. It was striking that, although he typically struggled to express even the simplest social niceties in public, he was not only skilled at mimicking the style of every notable speaker in either house, but he also managed to capture their intellectual and physical quirks, showcasing their thoughts as well as their mannerisms. Tonight, there were several attempts to get Lucian to entertain his guests with a debate, but he seemed reluctant to put in the effort, which was considerable. As the evening wore on and he became more animated, he finally gave in to the encouragement and delivered the promised diversion; Coningsby listened with genuine admiration to a discussion that was, if anything, more parliamentary than the original, 'plus Arabe que l’Arabie.'

The Duke was never more curt, nor Sir Robert more specious; he was as fiery as Stanley, and as bitter as Graham. Nor did he do their opponents less justice. Lord Palmerston himself never treated a profound subject with a more pleasant volatility; and when Lucian rose at an early hour of morn, in a full house alike exhausted and excited, and after having endured for hours, in sarcastic silence, the menacing finger of Sir Robert, shaking over the green table and appealing to his misdeeds in the irrevocable records of Hansard, Lord John himself could not have afforded a more perfect representative of pluck.

The Duke was never more abrupt, nor was Sir Robert more deceitful; he was as passionate as Stanley and as resentful as Graham. He did not give any less credit to their opponents. Lord Palmerston himself never approached a serious topic with a more enjoyable unpredictability; and when Lucian stood up early in the morning, in a fully packed room that was both weary and thrilled, having silently endured for hours the threatening gesture of Sir Robert, pointing over the green table and referencing his wrongdoings in the permanent records of Hansard, Lord John himself couldn't have presented a better example of bravery.

But loud as was the laughter, and vehement the cheering, with which Lucian’s performances were received, all these ebullitions sank into insignificance compared with the reception which greeted what he himself announced was to be the speech of the night. Having quaffed full many a quaigh of toddy, he insisted on delivering, it on the table, a proposition with which his auditors immediately closed.

But as loud as the laughter was and as enthusiastic as the cheering was for Lucian's performances, all of that paled in comparison to the reception he received for what he proclaimed would be the highlight of the night. After downing several glasses of whiskey, he insisted on presenting a proposal on the table, which his audience immediately shut down.

The orator appeared, the great man of the night, who was to answer everybody on both sides. Ah! that harsh voice, that arrogant style, that saucy superficiality which decided on everything, that insolent ignorance that contradicted everybody; it was impossible to mistake them! And Coningsby had the pleasure of seeing reproduced before him the guardian of his youth and the patron of the mimic, the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby!

The speaker arrived, the standout figure of the evening, ready to respond to everyone on both sides. Ah! That grating voice, that condescending style, that cheeky superficiality that judged everything, that rude ignorance that challenged everyone; it was impossible to misidentify them! And Coningsby took pleasure in seeing before him the guardian of his youth and the supporter of the impersonator, the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby!

CHAPTER XII.

Madame Colonna, with that vivacious energy which characterises the south, had no sooner seen Coningsby, and heard his praises celebrated by his grandfather, than she resolved that an alliance should sooner or later take place between him and her step-daughter. She imparted her projects without delay to Lucretia, who received them in a different spirit from that in which they were communicated. Lucretia bore as little resemblance to her step-mother in character, as in person. If she did not possess her beauty, she was born with an intellect of far greater capacity and reach. She had a deep judgment. A hasty alliance with a youth, arranged by their mutual relatives, might suit very well the clime and manners of Italy, but Lucretia was well aware that it was altogether opposed to the habits and feelings of this country. She had no conviction that either Coningsby would wish to marry her, or, if willing, that his grandfather would sanction such a step in one as yet only on the threshold of the world. Lucretia therefore received the suggestions and proposals of Madarne Colonna with coldness and indifference; one might even say contempt, for she neither felt respect for this lady, nor was she sedulous to evince it. Although really younger than Coningsby, Lucretia felt that a woman of eighteen is, in all worldly considerations, ten years older than a youth of the same age. She anticipated that a considerable time might elapse before Coningsby would feel it necessary to seal his destiny by marriage, while, on the other hand, she was not only anxious, but resolved, not to delay on her part her emancipation from the galling position in which she very frequently found herself.

Madame Colonna, with that lively energy typical of the south, had barely seen Coningsby and heard his grandfather singing his praises when she decided that an alliance would happen sooner or later between him and her step-daughter. She immediately shared her plans with Lucretia, who didn’t take them the way they were presented. Lucretia was as different from her step-mother in personality as she was in appearance. While she might not have had her beauty, she was born with a much sharper and more expansive intellect. She had deep insight. A quick marriage to a young man, arranged by their families, might work well in Italy's climate and customs, but Lucretia knew it clashed entirely with the norms and feelings of this country. She had no belief that Coningsby would want to marry her or that, even if he did, his grandfather would approve of such a move for someone still just starting out in life. So, Lucretia received Madame Colonna's suggestions and proposals with coldness and indifference; one could even say with contempt, as she felt no respect for this lady, nor was she eager to show any. Although actually younger than Coningsby, Lucretia understood that an eighteen-year-old woman is, in all practical matters, ten years older than a guy of the same age. She expected that quite some time might pass before Coningsby felt the need to commit to marriage, while, on the other hand, she was not only eager but determined not to delay her own escape from the restrictive situation she often found herself in.

Lucretia felt rather than expressed these ideas and impressions. She was not naturally communicative, and conversed with no one with less frankness and facility than with her step-mother. Madame Colonna therefore found no reasons in her conversation with Lucretia to change her determination. As her mind was not ingenious she did not see questions in those various lights which make us at the same time infirm of purpose and tolerant. What she fancied ought to be done, she fancied must be done; for she perceived no middle course or alternative. For the rest, Lucretia’s carriage towards her gave her little discomfort. Besides, she herself, though good-natured, was obstinate. Her feelings were not very acute; nothing much vexed her. As long as she had fine dresses, good dinners, and opera-boxes, she could bear her plans to be crossed like a philosopher; and her consolation under her unaccomplished devices was her admirable consistency, which always assured her that her projects were wise, though unfulfilled.

Lucretia felt more than she expressed her thoughts and feelings. She wasn't naturally open and spoke with no one, including her stepmother, with less honesty or ease. As a result, Madame Colonna found no reason in her conversations with Lucretia to change her mind. Since her thinking wasn't very flexible, she didn't see questions from the different perspectives that make us both indecisive and accepting. What she thought should be done, she believed must be done; she saw no middle ground or other options. Overall, Lucretia's behavior towards her caused her little discomfort. Plus, even though she was kind-hearted, she was stubborn. Her emotions weren't very strong; not much upset her. As long as she had nice clothes, good meals, and box seats at the opera, she could handle her plans being disrupted like a philosopher; and her comfort in her unachieved goals was her remarkable consistency, which always reassured her that her ideas were smart, even if they were not realized.

She broke her purpose to Mr. Rigby, that she might gain not only his adhesion to her views, but his assistance in achieving them. As Madame Colonna, in Mr. Rigby’s estimation, exercised more influence over Lord Monmouth than any other individual, faithful to his policy or practice, he agreed with all Madame Colonna’s plans and wishes, and volunteered instantly to further them. As for the Prince, his wife never consulted him on any subject, nor did he wish to be consulted. On the contrary, he had no opinion about anything. All that he required was that he should be surrounded by what contributed to his personal enjoyment, that he should never be troubled, and that he should have billiards. He was not inexpert in field-sports, rode indeed very well for an Italian, but he never cared to be out-of-doors; and there was only one room in the interior which passionately interested him. It was where the echoing balls denoted the sweeping hazard or the effective cannonade. That was the chamber where the Prince Colonna literally existed. Half-an-hour after breakfast he was in the billiard-room; he never quitted it until he dressed for dinner; and he generally contrived, while the world were amused or amusing themselves at the comedy or in the dance, to steal down with some congenial sprites to the magical and illumined chamber, and use his cue until bedtime.

She shared her intention with Mr. Rigby, hoping to not only get his support for her ideas but also his help in making them happen. Since Madame Colonna, in Mr. Rigby’s view, had more influence over Lord Monmouth than anyone else loyal to his agenda, he fully agreed with all of Madame Colonna’s plans and wishes and immediately offered to assist her. As for the Prince, his wife never asked for his opinion on anything, nor did he want her to. In fact, he didn’t have any thoughts on anything at all. All he wanted was to be surrounded by things that made him enjoy life, not to be bothered, and to have access to billiards. He was decent at sports, rode quite well for an Italian, but he never wanted to be outside; there was only one room indoors that truly captured his interest. It was the one where the echo of balls signaled the sweeping hazard or a successful shot. That was the room where Prince Colonna literally lived. Half an hour after breakfast, he was in the billiard room and never left until it was time to get ready for dinner; he usually found a way, while everyone else entertained themselves at the show or dance, to sneak away with some like-minded friends to the magical, lit-up room and keep playing until bedtime.

Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia had made no difference in her demeanour to Coningsby to that which she offered to the other guests. Polite, but uncommunicative; ready to answer, but never originating conversation; she charmed him as little by her manner as by her person; and after some attempts, not very painstaking, to interest her, Coningsby had ceased to address her. The day passed by with only a faint recognition between them; even that sometimes omitted.

Faithful to her first impressions, Lucretia treated Coningsby the same way she treated the other guests. She was polite but closed off; she would respond when spoken to but never started a conversation. She attracted him no more with her attitude than with her looks, and after a few half-hearted attempts to engage her, Coningsby stopped approaching her. The day went by with only a slight acknowledgment between them; sometimes even that was skipped.

When, however, Lucretia observed that Coningsby had become one of the most notable persons in the Castle; when she heard everywhere of his talents and accomplishments, his beauty and grace and great acquirements, and perceived that he was courted by all; that Lord Monmouth omitted no occasion publicly to evince towards him his regard and consideration; that he seemed generally looked upon in the light of his grandfather’s heir; and that Lady St. Julians, more learned in that respect than any lady in the kingdom, was heard more than once to regret that she had not brought another daughter with her, Clara Isabella, as well as Augustina; the Princess Lucretia began to imagine that Madame Colonna, after all, might not be so extravagant in her purpose as she had first supposed. She, therefore, surprised Coningsby with the almost affectionate moroseness with which, while she hated to sing, she yet found pleasure in singing for him alone. And it is impossible to say what might not have been the next move in her tactics in this respect, had not the very night on which she had resolved to commence the enchantment of Coningsby introduced to her Sidonia.

When Lucretia noticed that Coningsby had become one of the most important people in the Castle; when she heard about his talents and achievements, his looks and charm, and saw that everyone was vying for his attention; that Lord Monmouth did not miss any chance to show his respect and admiration for him; that he was generally viewed as his grandfather’s heir; and that Lady St. Julians, more knowledgeable in this area than any other lady in the kingdom, was heard expressing regret more than once that she hadn't brought another daughter, Clara Isabella, alongside Augustina, Lucretia began to think that maybe Madame Colonna wasn’t being as unrealistic in her intentions as she first believed. Therefore, she surprised Coningsby with a kind of affectionate grumpiness, in which, while she disliked singing, she still found joy in singing just for him. It's impossible to say what her next move would have been in her plans if the very night she decided to start enchanting Coningsby hadn’t introduced her to Sidonia.

The Princess Lucretia encountered the dark still glance of the friend of Lord Eskdale. He, too, beheld a woman unlike other women, and with his fine experience, both as a man and as a physiologist, felt that he was in the presence of no ordinary organisation. From the evening of his introduction Sidonia sought the society of the Princess Lucretia. He could not complain of her reserve. She threw out her mind in various and highly-cultivated intelligence. He recognised in her a deep and subtile spirit, considerable reading for a woman, habits of thought, and a soul passionate and daring. She resolved to subdue one whose appreciation she had gained, and who had subdued her. The profound meaning and the calm manner of Sidonia combined to quell her spirit. She struggled against the spell. She tried to rival his power; to cope with him, and with the same weapons. But prompt as was her thought and bright as was its expression, her heart beat in tumult; and, with all her apparent serenity, her agitated soul was a prey of absorbing passion. She could not contend with that intelligent, yet inscrutable, eye; with that manner so full of interest and respect, and yet so tranquil. Besides, they were not on equal terms. Here was a girl contending with a man learned in the world’s way.

The Princess Lucretia met the intense, still gaze of Lord Eskdale's friend. He, too, saw a woman unlike any other and, with his refined experience as both a man and a physiologist, sensed he was with someone extraordinary. From the night they were introduced, Sidonia sought out the company of Princess Lucretia. He couldn't complain about her distance. She shared her thoughts with a range of highly developed intelligence. He recognized in her a deep and subtle spirit, an impressive amount of reading for a woman, thoughtful habits, and a passionate, daring soul. She was determined to win over someone whose admiration she had earned, and who had captivated her. The profound meaning and calm demeanor of Sidonia served to suppress her spirit. She fought against the charm. She attempted to match his power, to engage with him using the same tactics. But despite her quick thinking and bright expressions, her heart raced with turmoil; and beneath her calm exterior, her agitated soul was consumed by overwhelming passion. She could not compete with his intelligent yet mysterious gaze, with his demeanor that was both engaging and respectful, yet so calm. Furthermore, they weren't on equal footing. Here was a girl struggling against a man experienced in the ways of the world.

Between Sidonia and Coningsby there at once occurred companionship. The morning after his arrival they went out shooting together. After a long ramble they would stretch themselves on the turf under a shady tree, often by the side of some brook where the cresses grow, that added a luxury to their sporting-meal; and then Coningsby would lead their conversation to some subject on which Sidonia would pour out his mind with all that depth of reflection, variety of knowledge, and richness of illustrative memory, which distinguished him; and which offered so striking a contrast to the sharp talent, the shallow information, and the worldly cunning, that make a Rigby.

Between Sidonia and Coningsby, a bond quickly formed. The morning after Coningsby arrived, they went out shooting together. After a long walk, they would lay on the grass under a shady tree, often beside a stream where watercress grew, adding a treat to their outdoor meal. During these moments, Coningsby would steer their conversation to topics that prompted Sidonia to share his thoughts with all the depth of reflection, broad knowledge, and rich memories that set him apart; this was a striking contrast to the sharp wit, superficial knowledge, and worldly cleverness that characterized a Rigby.

This fellowship between Sidonia and Coningsby elevated the latter still more in the estimation of Lucretia, and rendered her still more desirous of gaining his good will and opinion. A great friendship seemed to have arisen between them, and the world began to believe that there must be some foundation for Madame Colonna’s innuendos. That lady herself was not in the least alarmed by the attention which Sidonia paid her step-daughter. It was, of course, well known that Sidonia was not a marrying man. He was, however, a great friend of Mr. Coningsby, his presence and society brought Coningsby and Lucretia more together; and however flattered her daughter might be for the moment by Sidonia’s homage, still, as she would ultimately find out, if indeed she ever cared so to do, that Sidonia could only be her admirer, Madame Colonna had no kind of doubt that ultimately Coningsby would be Lucretia’s husband, as she had arranged from the first.

This friendship between Sidonia and Coningsby raised Coningsby’s status even higher in Lucretia’s eyes and made her even more eager to win his approval. It appeared that a strong bond had formed between them, leading the world to think there must be some truth to Madame Colonna’s hints. Madame Colonna herself wasn’t at all bothered by the attention Sidonia showed her stepdaughter. It was well-known that Sidonia wasn’t the marrying type. However, he was a close friend of Mr. Coningsby, and his presence drew Coningsby and Lucretia closer together. While her daughter might feel flattered by Sidonia’s admiration for the moment, Madame Colonna had no doubt that, in the end, Coningsby would be Lucretia’s husband, as she had planned from the beginning.

The Princess Lucretia was a fine horse-woman, though she rarely joined the various riding-parties that were daily formed at the Castle. Often, indeed, attended only by her groom, she met the equestrians. Now she would ride with Sidonia and Coningsby, and as a female companion was indispensable, she insisted upon La Petite accompanying her. This was a fearful trial for Flora, but she encountered it, encouraged by the kind solicitude of Coningsby, who always seemed her friend.

The Princess Lucretia was a great horse rider, although she seldom took part in the riding groups that were formed daily at the Castle. Often, just accompanied by her groom, she would join the riders. Sometimes she would ride with Sidonia and Coningsby, and since a female companion was necessary, she insisted that La Petite come along with her. This was a tough experience for Flora, but she faced it, encouraged by the supportive concern of Coningsby, who always seemed to be her friend.

Very shortly after the arrival of Sidonia, the Grand-duke and his suite quitted the Castle, which had been his Highness’ head-quarters during his visit to the manufacturing districts; but no other great change in the assembled company occurred for some little time.

Very soon after Sidonia arrived, the Grand Duke and his entourage left the Castle, which had been his headquarters during his visit to the manufacturing areas; however, there were no other significant changes in the assembled group for a while.

CHAPTER XIII.

‘You will observe one curious trait,’ said Sidonia to Coningsby, ‘in the history of this country: the depository of power is always unpopular; all combine against it; it always falls. Power was deposited in the great Barons; the Church, using the King for its instrument, crushed the great Barons. Power was deposited in the Church; the King, bribing the Parliament, plundered the Church. Power was deposited in the King; the Parliament, using the People, beheaded the King, expelled the King, changed the King, and, finally, for a King substituted an administrative officer. For one hundred and fifty years Power has been deposited in the Parliament, and for the last sixty or seventy years it has been becoming more and more unpopular. In 1830 it was endeavoured by a reconstruction to regain the popular affection; but, in truth, as the Parliament then only made itself more powerful, it has only become more odious. As we see that the Barons, the Church, the King, have in turn devoured each other, and that the Parliament, the last devourer, remains, it is impossible to resist the impression that this body also is doomed to be destroyed; and he is a sagacious statesman who may detect in what form and in what quarter the great consumer will arise.’

‘You’ll notice one interesting thing,’ Sidonia said to Coningsby, ‘in the history of this country: whoever holds power is usually unpopular; everyone unites against it; it always falls. Power was held by the great Barons; the Church, using the King as a tool, crushed them. Then power shifted to the Church; the King, bribing Parliament, took from the Church. Power ended up with the King; Parliament, with the support of the People, beheaded the King, expelled him, replaced him, and eventually swapped him for a bureaucrat. For one hundred and fifty years, power has rested with Parliament, and for the past sixty or seventy years, it has grown increasingly unpopular. In 1830, they tried to regain public favor with a restructuring; but in reality, as Parliament just made itself stronger, it has only become more despised. Just as the Barons, the Church, and the King have each consumed one another, now that Parliament, the latest entity to do so, remains, it’s hard not to think that they too are destined for destruction; and a wise statesman can see in what form and from where the next great consumer will emerge.’

‘You take, then, a dark view of our position?’

‘So, you see our situation in a negative light?’

‘Troubled, not dark. I do not ascribe to political institutions that paramount influence which it is the feeling of this age to attribute to them. The Senate that confronted Brennus in the Forum was the same body that registered in an after-age the ribald decrees of a Nero. Trial by jury, for example, is looked upon by all as the Palladium of our liberties; yet a jury, at a very recent period of our own history, the reign of Charles II., was a tribunal as iniquitous as the Inquisition.’ And a graver expression stole over the countenance of Sidonia as he remembered what that Inquisition had operated on his own race and his own destiny. ‘There are families in this country,’ he continued, ‘of both the great historical parties, that in the persecution of their houses, the murder and proscription of some of their most illustrious members, found judges as unjust and relentless in an open jury of their countrymen as we did in the conclaves of Madrid and Seville.’

‘Troubled, not dark. I don’t believe that political institutions have the dominating influence that people today often attribute to them. The Senate that faced Brennus in the Forum was the same group that later endorsed the outrageous decrees of Nero. Trial by jury is considered by everyone to be the cornerstone of our freedoms; yet, not long ago in our own history, during the reign of Charles II, a jury was as corrupt as the Inquisition.’ A more serious look appeared on Sidonia’s face as he recalled what that Inquisition had done to his own people and his own fate. ‘There are families in this country,’ he continued, ‘from both major historical parties, who, in the persecution of their families, the murder and exile of some of their most distinguished members, found judges just as unfair and merciless within a jury of their peers as we did in the councils of Madrid and Seville.’

‘Where, then, would you look for hope?’

‘So, where would you find hope?’

‘In what is more powerful than laws and institutions, and without which the best laws and the most skilful institutions may be a dead letter, or the very means of tyranny in the national character. It is not in the increased feebleness of its institutions that I see the peril of England; it is in the decline of its character as a community.’

‘What is more powerful than laws and institutions, and without which the best laws and the most skillful institutions can become meaningless or even a tool for tyranny in the national character? I don’t see the danger for England in the weakened institutions; I see it in the decline of its character as a community.’

‘And yet you could scarcely describe this as an age of corruption?’

‘And yet you could hardly call this a time of corruption?’

‘Not of political corruption. But it is an age of social disorganisation, far more dangerous in its consequences, because far more extensive. You may have a corrupt government and a pure community; you may have a corrupt community and a pure administration. Which would you elect?’

‘Not of political corruption. But it is an age of social disorganization, far more dangerous in its consequences, because far more widespread. You can have a corrupt government and an honest community; you can have a corrupt community and an honest administration. Which would you choose?’

Neither,’ said Coningsby; ‘I wish to see a people full of faith, and a government full of duty.’

‘Neither,’ said Coningsby; ‘I want to see a people full of faith and a government full of responsibility.’

‘Rely upon it,’ said Sidonia, ‘that England should think more of the community and less of the government.’

‘Trust me,’ said Sidonia, ‘that England needs to care more about the community and less about the government.’

‘But tell me, what do you understand by the term national character?’

‘But tell me, what do you mean by the term national character?’

‘A character is an assemblage of qualities; the character of England should be an assemblage of great qualities.’

‘A character is a collection of qualities; the character of England should be a collection of great qualities.’

‘But we cannot deny that the English have great virtues.’

‘But we can’t deny that the English have great virtues.’

‘The civilisation of a thousand years must produce great virtues; but we are speaking of the decline of public virtue, not its existence.’

‘A thousand years of civilization should produce great virtues; but we are talking about the decline of public virtue, not its presence.’

‘In what, then, do you trace that decline?’

‘So, where do you see that decline coming from?’

‘In the fact that the various classes of this country are arrayed against each other.’

‘In the fact that the different classes in this country are set against each other.’

‘But to what do you attribute those reciprocal hostilities?’

‘But what do you think caused those mutual conflicts?’

‘Not entirely, not even principally, to those economical causes of which we hear so much. I look upon all such as secondary causes, which, in a certain degree, must always exist, which obtrude themselves in troubled times, and which at all times it is the business of wise statesmen to watch, to regulate, to ameliorate, to modify.’

‘Not completely, and not even mainly, due to those economic factors that we hear so much about. I see all of those as secondary causes which, to some extent, will always be present, which become more apparent in difficult times, and which wise leaders should always monitor, manage, improve, and adjust.’

‘I am speaking to elicit truth, not to maintain opinions,’ said Coningsby; ‘for I have none,’ he added, mournfully.

‘I’m speaking to uncover the truth, not to defend opinions,’ said Coningsby; ‘because I don’t have any,’ he added, sadly.

‘I think,’ said Sidonia, ‘that there is no error so vulgar as to believe that revolutions are occasioned by economical causes. They come in, doubtless, very often to precipitate a catastrophe; very rarely do they occasion one. I know no period, for example, when physical comfort was more diffused in England than in 1640. England had a moderate population, a very improved agriculture, a rich commerce; yet she was on the eve of the greatest and most violent changes that she has as yet experienced.’

‘I think,’ said Sidonia, ‘that there’s no mistake as common as believing that revolutions are caused by economic factors. They often play a role in triggering a crisis, but they rarely cause one on their own. For instance, I can’t think of a time when people in England were more comfortable than in 1640. England had a decent population, advanced agriculture, and thriving trade; yet she was just about to face the greatest and most violent upheavals she has ever gone through.’

‘That was a religious movement.’

‘That was a faith movement.’

‘Admit it; the cause, then, was not physical. The imagination of England rose against the government. It proves, then, that when that faculty is astir in a nation, it will sacrifice even physical comfort to follow its impulses.’

‘Admit it; the cause, then, was not physical. The imagination of England rose against the government. This shows that when that faculty is stirred in a nation, it will sacrifice even physical comfort to follow its impulses.’

‘Do you think, then, there is a wild desire for extensive political change in the country?’

‘Do you think there’s a strong desire for major political change in the country?’

‘Hardly that: England is perplexed at the present moment, not inventive. That will be the next phasis in her moral state, and to that I wish to draw your thoughts. For myself, while I ascribe little influence to physical causes for the production of this perplexity, I am still less of opinion that it can be removed by any new disposition of political power. It would only aggravate the evil. That would be recurring to the old error of supposing you can necessarily find national content in political institutions. A political institution is a machine; the motive power is the national character. With that it rests whether the machine will benefit society, or destroy it. Society in this country is perplexed, almost paralysed; in time it will move, and it will devise. How are the elements of the nation to be again blended together? In what spirit is that reorganisation to take place?’

‘Not really: England is confused right now, not creative. That will be the next phase in her moral state, and I want to bring your attention to that. As for myself, while I think physical causes have little effect on this confusion, I'm even less convinced that it can be solved by any new political arrangements. That would only make things worse. It would mean going back to the old mistake of thinking you can find national satisfaction in political systems. A political system is like a machine; the energy behind it is the national character. It depends on that whether the machine helps society or destroys it. Society in this country is confused, nearly frozen; eventually, it will move and innovate. How will the elements of the nation come together again? In what spirit will that reorganization happen?’

‘To know that would be to know everything.’

'Knowing that would mean knowing everything.'

‘At least let us free ourselves from the double ignorance of the Platonists. Let us not be ignorant that we are ignorant.’

‘At least let’s free ourselves from the double ignorance of the Platonists. Let’s not be unaware that we are unaware.’

‘I have emancipated myself from that darkness for a long time,’ said Coningsby. ‘Long has my mind been musing over these thoughts, but to me all is still obscurity.’

‘I have freed myself from that darkness for a long time,’ said Coningsby. ‘For a long time, my mind has been contemplating these thoughts, but to me, everything is still unclear.’

‘In this country,’ said Sidonia, ‘since the peace, there has been an attempt to advocate a reconstruction of society on a purely rational basis. The principle of Utility has been powerfully developed. I speak not with lightness of the labours of the disciples of that school. I bow to intellect in every form: and we should be grateful to any school of philosophers, even if we disagree with them; doubly grateful in this country, where for so long a period our statesmen were in so pitiable an arrear of public intelligence. There has been an attempt to reconstruct society on a basis of material motives and calculations. It has failed. It must ultimately have failed under any circumstances; its failure in an ancient and densely-peopled kingdom was inevitable. How limited is human reason, the profoundest inquirers are most conscious. We are not indebted to the Reason of man for any of the great achievements which are the landmarks of human action and human progress. It was not Reason that besieged Troy; it was not Reason that sent forth the Saracen from the Desert to conquer the world; that inspired the Crusades; that instituted the Monastic orders; it was not Reason that produced the Jesuits; above all, it was not Reason that created the French Revolution. Man is only truly great when he acts from the passions; never irresistible but when he appeals to the imagination. Even Mormon counts more votaries than Bentham.’

‘In this country,’ Sidonia said, ‘since the peace, there has been an effort to advocate for a complete overhaul of society based purely on logic. The principle of Utility has been significantly developed. I don’t speak lightly of the work done by the followers of that school. I respect intellect in all its forms; we should be thankful to any group of philosophers, even if we disagree with them—especially in this country, where for too long our leaders have lagged behind in public understanding. There has been an attempt to reshape society based on material motives and calculations. It has failed. It was bound to fail, no matter the circumstances; its failure in an ancient and densely populated kingdom was inevitable. The limits of human reason are most apparent to the deepest thinkers. We don’t owe the great milestones of human action and progress to human Reason. It wasn’t Reason that besieged Troy; it wasn’t Reason that sent the Saracen out of the Desert to conquer the world; it didn’t inspire the Crusades or create the Monastic orders; it wasn’t Reason that produced the Jesuits; and above all, it wasn’t Reason that ignited the French Revolution. Humanity is only truly great when driven by passion; it is never truly unstoppable unless it appeals to the imagination. Even the Mormons have more followers than Bentham.’

‘And you think, then, that as Imagination once subdued the State, Imagination may now save it?’

‘So you believe that just as Imagination once took control of the State, Imagination can now rescue it?’

‘Man is made to adore and to obey: but if you will not command him, if you give him nothing to worship, he will fashion his own divinities, and find a chieftain in his own passions.’

‘People are designed to worship and to follow: but if you don’t lead them, if you provide them with nothing to admire, they will create their own gods and find a leader in their own desires.’

‘But where can we find faith in a nation of sectaries? Who can feel loyalty to a sovereign of Downing Street?’

‘But where can we find faith in a nation of factions? Who can feel loyalty to a leader from Downing Street?’

‘I speak of the eternal principles of human nature, you answer me with the passing accidents of the hour. Sects rise and sects disappear. Where are the Fifth-Monarchy men? England is governed by Downing Street; once it was governed by Alfred and Elizabeth.’

‘I talk about the eternal principles of human nature, and you respond with the temporary issues of the moment. Groups come and go. Where are the Fifth-Monarchy people? England is now run by Downing Street; once it was led by Alfred and Elizabeth.’

CHAPTER XIV.

About this time a steeple-chase in the West of England had attracted considerable attention. This sport was then of recent introduction in England, and is, in fact, an importation of Irish growth, although it has flourished in our soil. A young guardsman, who was then a guest at the Castle, and who had been in garrison in Ireland, had some experience of this pastime in the Kildare country, and he proposed that they should have a steeple-chase at Coningsby. This was a suggestion very agreeable to the Marquess of Beaumanoir, celebrated for his feats of horsemanship, and, indeed, to most of the guests. It was agreed that the race should come off at once, before any of the present company, many of whom gave symptoms of being on the wing, had quitted the Castle. The young guardsman and Mr. Guy Flouncey had surveyed the country and had selected a line which they esteemed very appropriate for the scene of action. From a hill of common land you looked down upon the valley of Coningsby, richly cultivated, deeply ditched, and stiffly fenced; the valley was bounded by another rising ground, and the scene was admirably calculated to give an extensive view to a multitude.

About this time, a steeplechase in the West of England had gained a lot of attention. This sport was relatively new in England and is actually borrowed from Ireland, although it has thrived here. A young guardsman, who was staying at the Castle and had been stationed in Ireland, had some experience with this pastime in the Kildare area. He suggested that they hold a steeplechase at Coningsby. This idea was very welcomed by the Marquess of Beaumanoir, known for his impressive riding skills, and indeed, by most of the guests. They agreed that the race should take place immediately, before many of the attendees, who were showing signs of wanting to leave, had departed the Castle. The young guardsman and Mr. Guy Flouncey had surveyed the land and chosen a course they deemed very suitable for the event. From a hill on common land, you could look down at the valley of Coningsby, which was beautifully cultivated, well-ditched, and strongly fenced; the valley was bordered by another rising hill, making it an ideal spot for a large audience to enjoy the view.

The distance along the valley was to be two miles out, and home again; the starting-post being also the winning-post, and the flags, which were placed on every fence which the horses were to pass, were to be passed on the left hand of the rider both going and coming; so that although the horses had to leap the same fences forward and backward, they could not come over the same place twice. In the last field before they turned, was a brook seventeen feet clear from side to side, with good taking off both banks. Here real business commenced.

The distance along the valley was set to be two miles out and back, with the starting line also serving as the finish line. The flags, which were placed on every fence the horses had to jump, had to be passed on the rider's left side both going and returning. So, even though the horses had to jump the same fences in both directions, they couldn't land in the same spot twice. In the last field before they turned, there was a brook seventeen feet wide, with solid take-off on both banks. This was where the real action began.

Lord Monmouth highly approved the scheme, but mentioned that the stakes must be moderate, and open to the whole county. The neighbourhood had a week of preparation, and the entries for the Coningsby steeple-chase were numerous. Lord Monmouth, after a reserve for his own account, placed his stable at the service of his guests. For himself, he offered to back his horse, Sir Robert, which was to be ridden by his grandson.

Lord Monmouth was really on board with the idea, but he pointed out that the bets needed to be reasonable and available to everyone in the county. The area had a week to get ready, and there were a lot of entries for the Coningsby steeple-chase. After setting aside some for himself, Lord Monmouth made his stable available to his guests. He also offered to bet on his horse, Sir Robert, which was going to be ridden by his grandson.

Now, nothing was spoken or thought of at Coningsby Castle except the coming sport. The ladies shared the general excitement. They embroidered handkerchiefs, and scarfs, and gloves, with the respective colours of the rivals, and tried to make jockey-caps. Lady St. Julians postponed her intended departure in consequence. Madame Colonna wished that some means could be contrived by which they might all win.

Now, nothing was discussed or thought about at Coningsby Castle except the upcoming sport. The ladies joined in the excitement. They embroidered handkerchiefs, scarves, and gloves with the colors of the competing teams and attempted to create jockey caps. Lady St. Julians delayed her planned departure because of this. Madame Colonna hoped that a way could be found for everyone to win.

Sidonia, with the other competitors, had ridden over the ground and glanced at the brook with the eye of a workman. On his return to the Castle he sent a despatch for some of his stud.

Sidonia, along with the other competitors, had ridden over the area and looked at the brook like a skilled worker. Upon returning to the Castle, he sent a message for some of his horses.

Coningsby was all anxiety to win. He was proud of the confidence of his grandfather in backing him. He had a powerful horse and a firstrate fencer, and he was resolved himself not to flinch. On the night before the race, retiring somewhat earlier than usual to his chamber, he observed on his dressing-table a small packet addressed to his name, and in an unknown handwriting. Opening it, he found a pretty racing-jacket embroidered with his colours of pink and white. This was a perplexing circumstance, but he fancied it on the whole a happy omen. And who was the donor? Certainly not the Princess Lucretia, for he had observed her fashioning some maroon ribbons, which were the colours of Sidonia. It could scarcely be from Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Perhaps Madame Colonna to please the Marquess? Thinking over this incident he fell asleep.

Coningsby was eager to win. He felt proud of his grandfather’s trust in him. He had a strong horse and was a skilled jumper, and he was determined not to back down. The night before the race, going to his room a bit earlier than usual, he noticed a small package addressed to him on his dressing table, written in unfamiliar handwriting. When he opened it, he found a nice racing jacket embroidered with his colors of pink and white. This was an odd situation, but he thought it was overall a good sign. But who sent it? Definitely not Princess Lucretia, since he had seen her making maroon ribbons, which were Sidonia’s colors. It couldn’t have been Mrs. Guy Flouncey. Maybe it was Madame Colonna trying to please the Marquess? As he pondered this, he fell asleep.

The morning before the race Sidonia’s horses arrived. All went to examine them at the stables. Among them was an Arab mare. Coningsby recognised the Daughter of the Star. She was greatly admired for her points; but Guy Flouncey whispered to Mr. Melton that she never could do the work.

The morning before the race, Sidonia’s horses arrived. Everyone went to check them out at the stables. Among them was an Arab mare. Coningsby recognized the Daughter of the Star. She was highly praised for her features, but Guy Flouncey whispered to Mr. Melton that she would never be able to handle the work.

‘But Lord Beaumanoir says he is all for speed against strength in these affairs,’ said Mr. Melton.

‘But Lord Beaumanoir says he’s all about speed over strength in these matters,’ said Mr. Melton.

Guy Flouncey smiled incredulously.

Guy Flouncey smiled in disbelief.

The night before the race it rained rather heavily.

The night before the race, it rained quite a bit.

‘I take it the country will not be very like the Deserts of Arabia,’ said Mr. Guy Flouncey, with a knowing look to Mr. Melton, who was noting a bet in his memorandum-book.

‘I assume the countryside won’t resemble the Deserts of Arabia too much,’ said Mr. Guy Flouncey, glancing knowingly at Mr. Melton, who was recording a bet in his notebook.

The morning was fine, clear, and sunny, with a soft western breeze. The starting-post was about three miles from the Castle; but, long before the hour, the surrounding hills were covered with people; squire and farmer; with no lack of their wives and daughters; many a hind in his smock-frock, and many an ‘operative’ from the neighbouring factories. The ‘gentlemen riders’ gradually arrived. The entries were very numerous, though it was understood that not more than a dozen would come to the post, and half of these were the guests of Lord Monmouth. At half-past one the cortège from the Castle arrived, and took up the post which had been prepared for them on the summit of the hill. Lord Monmouth was much cheered on his arrival. In the carriage with him were Madame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. The Princess Lucretia, Lady Gaythorp, Mrs. Guy Flouncey, accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other cavaliers, formed a brilliant company. There was scarcely a domestic in the Castle who was not there. The comedians, indeed, did not care to come, but Villebecque prevailed upon Flora to drive with him to the race in a buggy he borrowed of the steward.

The morning was nice, clear, and sunny, with a gentle breeze from the west. The starting point was about three miles from the Castle; but long before the scheduled time, the surrounding hills were packed with people—squires and farmers, along with their wives and daughters; many laborers in their work clothes, and numerous workers from the nearby factories. The “gentleman riders” gradually made their way in. There were a lot of entries, although it was expected that no more than a dozen would make it to the starting line, and half of those were guests of Lord Monmouth. At one-thirty, the cortège from the Castle arrived and took their places on the summit of the hill. Lord Monmouth was greeted with cheers upon his arrival. In the carriage with him were Madame Colonna and Lady St. Julians. Princess Lucretia, Lady Gaythorp, and Mrs. Guy Flouncey, accompanied by Lord Eskdale and other gentlemen, made for a stunning group. Almost every servant from the Castle was there. The entertainers, however, chose not to come, but Villebecque convinced Flora to ride with him to the race in a buggy he borrowed from the steward.

The start was to be at two o’clock. The ‘gentlemen jockeys’ are mustered. Never were riders mounted and appointed in better style. The stewards and the clerk of the course attend them to the starting-post. There they are now assembled. Guy Flouncey takes up his stirrup-leathers a hole; Mr. Melton looks at his girths. In a few moments, the irrevocable monosyllable will be uttered.

The start is set for two o'clock. The 'gentlemen jockeys' are gathered. Never have riders been equipped and organized in such a stylish way. The stewards and the clerk of the course are with them at the starting post. They are all gathered there now. Guy Flouncey adjusts his stirrup leathers by one hole; Mr. Melton checks his girths. In just a moment, the decisive word will be spoken.

The bugle sounds for them to face about; the clerk of the course sings out, ‘Gentlemen, are you all ready?’ No objection made, the word given to go, and fifteen riders start in excellent style.

The bugle sounds for them to turn around; the course clerk calls out, ‘Gentlemen, are you all ready?’ With no objections, the signal is given to go, and fifteen riders take off in great style.

Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, took the lead, followed close by a stout yeoman on an old white horse of great provincial celebrity, who made steady running, and, from his appearance and action, an awkward customer. The rest, with two exceptions, followed in a cluster at no great distance, and in this order they continued, with very slight variation, for the first two miles, though there were several ox-fences, and one or two of them remarkably stiff. Indeed, they appeared more like horses running over a course than over a country. The two exceptions were Lord Beaumanoir on his horse Sunbeam, and Sidonia on the Arab. These kept somewhat slightly in the rear.

Prince Colonna, who rode like Prince Rupert, took the lead, closely followed by a sturdy farmer on an old white horse known for its local fame, who ran steadily and, from his looks and movements, seemed a bit clumsy. The rest, with two exceptions, followed in a tight group not far behind, and they maintained this order, with only slight changes, for the first two miles, despite encountering several ox-fences, some of which were particularly difficult. In fact, they looked more like horses racing on a track than crossing countryside. The two exceptions were Lord Beaumanoir on his horse Sunbeam and Sidonia on the Arab, who stayed a little behind.

Almost in this wise they approached the dreaded brook. Indeed, with the exception of the last two riders, who were about thirty yards behind, it seemed that you might have covered the rest of the field with a sheet. They arrived at the brook at the same moment: seventeen feet of water between strong sound banks is no holiday work; but they charged with unfaltering intrepidity. But what a revolution in their spirited order did that instant produce! A masked battery of canister and grape could not have achieved more terrible execution. Coningsby alone clearly lighted on the opposing bank; but, for the rest of them, it seemed for a moment that they were all in the middle of the brook, one over another, splashing, kicking, swearing; every one trying to get out and keep others in. Mr. Melton and the stout yeoman regained their saddles and were soon again in chase. The Prince lost his horse, and was not alone in his misfortune. Mr. Guy Flouncey lay on his back with a horse across his diaphragm; only his head above the water, and his mouth full of chickweed and dockleaves. And if help had not been at hand, he and several others might have remained struggling in their watery bed for a considerable period. In the midst of this turmoil, the Marquess and Sidonia at the same moment cleared the brook.

Almost like this, they approached the dreaded brook. In fact, except for the last two riders, who were about thirty yards behind, it looked like you could cover the rest of the field with a sheet. They reached the brook at the same time: seventeen feet of water between strong, solid banks is no easy task; but they charged in with unwavering bravery. But what a change in their spirited formation did that moment cause! A hidden battery of canister and grape couldn't have caused more devastating chaos. Only Coningsby made it clearly to the opposite bank; for the others, it looked for a moment like they were all in the middle of the brook, one over another, splashing, kicking, cursing; everyone trying to get out while keeping others in. Mr. Melton and the stout farmer got back into their saddles and soon resumed the chase. The Prince lost his horse and was not the only one facing that misfortune. Mr. Guy Flouncey was lying on his back with a horse on top of him; only his head was above water, and his mouth was full of chickweed and dock leaves. If help hadn't been nearby, he and several others might have found themselves struggling in that watery mess for quite some time. Amid all this chaos, the Marquess and Sidonia simultaneously cleared the brook.

Affairs now became interesting. Here Coningsby took up the running, Sidonia and the Marquess lying close at his quarters. Mr. Melton had gone the wrong side of a flag, and the stout yeoman, though close at hand, was already trusting much to his spurs. In the extreme distance might be detected three or four stragglers. Thus they continued until within three fields of home. A ploughed field finished the old white horse; the yeoman struck his spurs to the rowels, but the only effect of the experiment was, that the horse stood stock-still. Coningsby, Sidonia, and the Marquess were now all together. The winning-post is in sight, and a high and strong gate leads to the last field. Coningsby, looking like a winner, gallantly dashed forward and sent Sir Robert at the gate, but he had over-estimated his horse’s powers at this point of the game, and a rattling fall was the consequence: however, horse and rider were both on the right side, and Coningsby was in his saddle and at work again in a moment. It seemed that the Marquess was winning. There was only one more fence; and that the foot people had made a breach in by the side of a gate-post, and wide enough, as was said, for a broad-wheeled waggon to travel by. Instead of passing straight over this gap, Sunbeam swerved against the gate and threw his rider. This was decisive. The Daughter of the Star, who was still going beautifully, pulling double, and her jockey sitting still, sprang over the gap and went in first; Coningsby, on Sir Robert, being placed second. The distance measured was about four miles; there were thirty-nine leaps; and it was done under fifteen minutes.

Things were getting exciting. Coningsby took the lead, with Sidonia and the Marquess right behind him. Mr. Melton had veered off course, and even though the sturdy farmer was close by, he was already relying heavily on his spurs. In the far distance, a few stragglers could be seen. They continued like this until they were three fields away from home. A plowed field brought an end to the old white horse; the farmer spurred his mount, but all that happened was that the horse stood still. Coningsby, Sidonia, and the Marquess were now together. The finish line was in sight, and a strong, tall gate led to the last field. Coningsby, looking like a winner, sprinted ahead and aimed Sir Robert at the gate, but he misjudged his horse's abilities at this point in the race, resulting in a hard fall. However, both horse and rider were alright, and Coningsby was back in the saddle and riding again in no time. It seemed like the Marquess was winning. There was just one more jump left, which the crowd had made a gap beside a gatepost that was wide enough for a broad-wheeled wagon. Instead of going straight over this gap, Sunbeam veered into the gate and threw his rider. This was the turning point. The Daughter of the Star, still moving beautifully, pulling strongly with her jockey staying steady, jumped over the gap and crossed the finish line first; Coningsby, on Sir Robert, came in second. The total distance was about four miles, with thirty-nine jumps, and it was completed in under fifteen minutes.

Lord Monmouth was well content with the prowess of his grandson, and his extreme cordiality consoled Coningsby under a defeat which was very vexatious. It was some alleviation that he was beaten by Sidonia. Madame Colonna even shed tears at her young friend’s disappointment, and mourned it especially for Lucretia, who had said nothing, though a flush might be observed on her usually pale countenance. Villebecque, who had betted, was so extremely excited by the whole affair, especially during the last three minutes, that he quite forgot his quiet companion, and when he looked round he found Flora fainting.

Lord Monmouth was quite pleased with his grandson's skills, and his warm attitude helped Coningsby feel better after a frustrating defeat. It was somewhat comforting that he lost to Sidonia. Madame Colonna even cried for her young friend's disappointment, especially feeling sorry for Lucretia, who hadn’t said anything, although you could see a flush on her usually pale face. Villebecque, who had placed bets, was so caught up in the excitement of the whole situation, particularly during the last three minutes, that he totally forgot about his quiet companion. When he finally looked around, he found Flora fainting.

‘You rode well,’ said Sidonia to Coningsby; ‘but your horse was more strong than swift. After all, this thing is a race; and, notwithstanding Solomon, in a race speed must win.’

‘You rode well,’ Sidonia said to Coningsby; ‘but your horse was stronger than faster. After all, this is a race; and, despite what Solomon said, in a race speed has to win.’

CHAPTER XV.

Notwithstanding the fatigues of the morning, the evening was passed with great gaiety at the Castle. The gentlemen all vowed that, far from being inconvenienced by their mishaps, they felt, on the whole, rather better for them. Mr. Guy Flouncey, indeed, did not seem quite so limber and flexible as usual; and the young guardsman, who had previously discoursed in an almost alarming style of the perils and feats of the Kildare country, had subsided into a remarkable reserve. The Provincials were delighted with Sidonia’s riding, and even the Leicestershire gentlemen admitted that he was a ‘customer.’

Despite the morning's exhaustion, the evening was filled with great fun at the Castle. The gentlemen all insisted that, instead of being bothered by their mishaps, they actually felt, overall, a bit better because of them. Mr. Guy Flouncey, however, did not seem as lively and energetic as usual; and the young guardsman, who had previously talked about the dangers and adventures of Kildare country in an almost alarming way, fell into a surprising silence. The Provincials were thrilled with Sidonia’s riding skills, and even the Leicestershire gentlemen acknowledged that he was quite impressive.

Lord Monmouth beckoned to Coningsby to sit by him on the sofa, and spoke of his approaching University life. He gave his grandson a great deal of good advice: told him to avoid drinking, especially if he ever chanced to play cards, which he hoped he never would; urged the expediency of never borrowing money, and of confining his loans to small sums, and then only to friends of whom he wished to get rid; most particularly impressed on him never to permit his feelings to be engaged by any woman; nobody, he assured Coningsby, despised that weakness more than women themselves. Indeed, feeling of any kind did not suit the present age: it was not bon ton; and in some degree always made a man ridiculous. Coningsby was always to have before him the possible catastrophe of becoming ridiculous. It was the test of conduct, Lord Monmouth said; a fear of becoming ridiculous is the best guide in life, and will save a man from all sorts of scrapes. For the rest, Coningsby was to appear at Cambridge as became Lord Monmouth’s favourite grandson. His grandfather had opened an account for him with Drummonds’, on whom he was to draw for his considerable allowance; and if by any chance he found himself in a scrape, no matter of what kind, he was to be sure to write to his grandfather, who would certainly get him out of it.

Lord Monmouth gestured for Coningsby to sit next to him on the sofa and talked about his upcoming university life. He gave his grandson a lot of good advice: he told him to stay away from drinking, especially if he ever played cards, which he hoped he wouldn’t; he stressed that it was important never to borrow money and to limit any loans to small amounts, and only to friends he wouldn’t mind losing; most importantly, he emphasized never to let his feelings get involved with any woman; nobody, he assured Coningsby, looked down on that weakness more than women themselves. In fact, feelings of any kind weren't suited for the current era: they were not considered bon ton; and in a way, they always made a man look foolish. Coningsby should always keep in mind the potential embarrassment of being ridiculous. According to Lord Monmouth, this was the measure of behavior; a fear of being ridiculous is the best guide in life and can save a man from all kinds of troubles. As for everything else, Coningsby was to present himself at Cambridge as befits Lord Monmouth’s favorite grandson. His grandfather had opened an account for him with Drummonds’, from which he was to draw his substantial allowance; and if he ever found himself in a tough spot, regardless of the situation, he was to be sure to write to his grandfather, who would definitely help him out.

‘Your departure is sudden,’ said the Princess Lucretia, in a low deep tone to Sidonia, who was sitting by her side and screened from general observation by the waltzers who whirled by.

‘Your departure is so sudden,’ said Princess Lucretia in a low, deep voice to Sidonia, who was sitting next to her and was hidden from general view by the dancers who whirled past.

‘Departures should be sudden.’

"Departures should be abrupt."

‘I do not like departures,’ said the Princess.

‘I don’t like goodbyes,’ said the Princess.

‘Nor did the Queen of Sheba when she quitted Solomon. You know what she did?’

‘Nor did the Queen of Sheba when she left Solomon. Do you know what she did?’

‘Tell me.’

"Talk to me."

‘She wept very much, and let one of the King’s birds fly into the garden. “You are freed from your cage,” she said; “but I am going back to mine.”’

‘She cried a lot and let one of the King’s birds fly into the garden. “You’re free from your cage,” she said; “but I’m going back to mine.”’

‘But you never weep?’ said the Princess.

‘But you never cry?’ said the Princess.

‘Never.’

'Not a chance.'

‘And are always free?’

"Are they always free?"

‘So are men in the Desert.’

'So are men in the desert.'

‘But your life is not a Desert?’

‘But your life isn't a desert?’

‘It at least resembles the Desert in one respect: it is useless.’

‘It at least resembles the Desert in one way: it is pointless.’

‘The only useless life is woman’s.’

‘The only useless life is that of a woman.’

‘Yet there have been heroines,’ said Sidonia.

‘The Queen of Sheba,’ said the Princess, smiling.

‘A favourite of mine,’ said Sidonia.

‘One of my favorites,’ said Sidonia.

‘And why was she a favourite of yours?’ rather eagerly inquired Lucretia.

"Why was she one of your favorites?" Lucretia asked eagerly.

‘Because she thought deeply, talked finely, and moved gracefully.’

'Because she thought carefully, spoke eloquently, and moved elegantly.'

‘And yet might be a very unfeeling dame at the same time,’ said the Princess.

‘And yet she could be a very cold woman at the same time,’ said the Princess.

‘I never thought of that,’ said Sidonia.

‘I never thought of that,’ Sidonia said.

‘The heart, apparently, does not reckon in your philosophy.’

‘Apparently, your philosophy doesn’t take the heart into account.’

‘What we call the heart,’ said Sidonia, ‘is a nervous sensation, like shyness, which gradually disappears in society. It is fervent in the nursery, strong in the domestic circle, tumultuous at school. The affections are the children of ignorance; when the horizon of our experience expands, and models multiply, love and admiration imperceptibly vanish.’

‘What we call the heart,’ Sidonia said, ‘is just a nervous feeling, like shyness, that gradually fades away in social situations. It’s intense in childhood, strong in family settings, and chaotic at school. Emotions are born from ignorance; as our experiences broaden and examples increase, love and admiration slowly disappear.’

‘I fear the horizon of your experience has very greatly expanded. With your opinions, what charm can there be in life?’

‘I’m worried that your experiences have broadened too much. With your views, what joy can there be in life?’

‘The sense of existence.’

‘The feeling of being.’

‘So Sidonia is off to-morrow, Monmouth,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘So Sidonia is leaving tomorrow, Monmouth,’ said Lord Eskdale.

‘Hah!’ said the Marquess. ‘I must get him to breakfast with me before he goes.’

‘Ha!’ said the Marquess. ‘I need to get him to have breakfast with me before he leaves.’

The party broke up. Coningsby, who had heard Lord Eskdale announce Sidonia’s departure, lingered to express his regret, and say farewell.

The party ended. Coningsby, who had heard Lord Eskdale mention Sidonia leaving, stayed behind to share his regrets and say goodbye.

‘I cannot sleep,’ said Sidonia, ‘and I never smoke in Europe. If you are not stiff with your wounds, come to my rooms.’

‘I can’t sleep,’ said Sidonia, ‘and I never smoke in Europe. If you’re not too sore from your wounds, come to my room.’

This invitation was willingly accepted.

This invitation was gladly accepted.

‘I am going to Cambridge in a week,’ said Coningsby. I was almost in hopes you might have remained as long.’

‘I’m going to Cambridge in a week,’ said Coningsby. I was almost hoping you might have stayed longer.’

‘I also; but my letters of this morning demand me. If it had not been for our chase, I should have quitted immediately. The minister cannot pay the interest on the national debt; not an unprecedented circumstance, and has applied to us. I never permit any business of State to be transacted without my personal interposition; and so I must go up to town immediately.’

‘I also; but my letters from this morning require my attention. If it hadn’t been for our chase, I would have left right away. The minister can't cover the interest on the national debt; that’s not a new situation, and he has come to us for help. I never allow any government business to be handled without my direct involvement; so I have to head to the city immediately.’

‘Suppose you don’t pay it,’ said Coningsby, smiling.

‘What if you don’t pay it?’ Coningsby said with a smile.

‘If I followed my own impulse, I would remain here,’ said Sidonia. ‘Can anything be more absurd than that a nation should apply to an individual to maintain its credit, and, with its credit, its existence as an empire, and its comfort as a people; and that individual one to whom its laws deny the proudest rights of citizenship, the privilege of sitting in its senate and of holding land? for though I have been rash enough to buy several estates, my own opinion is, that, by the existing law of England, an Englishman of Hebrew faith cannot possess the soil.’

‘If I acted on my own desires, I would stay here,’ Sidonia said. ‘What could be more ridiculous than a nation asking an individual to uphold its credit, and with that credit, its very existence as an empire and the well-being of its people? And that individual is someone whom its laws deny the most basic rights of citizenship, like the ability to sit in its senate and own land? Even though I’ve been bold enough to buy several estates, I honestly believe that, according to current English law, a person of Hebrew faith cannot own land.’

‘But surely it would be easy to repeal a law so illiberal—’

‘But surely it would be easy to get rid of a law so unfair—’

‘Oh! as for illiberality, I have no objection to it if it be an element of power. Eschew political sentimentalism. What I contend is, that if you permit men to accumulate property, and they use that permission to a great extent, power is inseparable from that property, and it is in the last degree impolitic to make it the interest of any powerful class to oppose the institutions under which they live. The Jews, for example, independently of the capital qualities for citizenship which they possess in their industry, temperance, and energy and vivacity of mind, are a race essentially monarchical, deeply religious, and shrinking themselves from converts as from a calamity, are ever anxious to see the religious systems of the countries in which they live flourish; yet, since your society has become agitated in England, and powerful combinations menace your institutions, you find the once loyal Hebrew invariably arrayed in the same ranks as the leveller, and the latitudinarian, and prepared to support the policy which may even endanger his life and property, rather than tamely continue under a system which seeks to degrade him. The Tories lose an important election at a critical moment; ‘tis the Jews come forward to vote against them. The Church is alarmed at the scheme of a latitudinarian university, and learns with relief that funds are not forthcoming for its establishment; a Jew immediately advances and endows it. Yet the Jews, Coningsby, are essentially Tories. Toryism, indeed, is but copied from the mighty prototype which has fashioned Europe. And every generation they must become more powerful and more dangerous to the society which is hostile to them. Do you think that the quiet humdrum persecution of a decorous representative of an English university can crush those who have successively baffled the Pharaohs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and the Feudal ages? The fact is, you cannot destroy a pure race of the Caucasian organisation. It is a physiological fact; a simple law of nature, which has baffled Egyptian and Assyrian Kings, Roman Emperors, and Christian Inquisitors. No penal laws, no physical tortures, can effect that a superior race should be absorbed in an inferior, or be destroyed by it. The mixed persecuting races disappear; the pure persecuted race remains. And at this moment, in spite of centuries, of tens of centuries, of degradation, the Jewish mind exercises a vast influence on the affairs of Europe. I speak not of their laws, which you still obey; of their literature, with which your minds are saturated; but of the living Hebrew intellect.

‘Oh! When it comes to stinginess, I don’t mind it if it’s a source of power. Avoid political sentimentality. What I argue is that if you allow people to accumulate wealth, and they take full advantage of that, power becomes inseparable from that wealth. It’s incredibly unwise to make it in the interest of any powerful group to oppose the systems they live under. The Jews, for instance, aside from their valuable qualities for citizenship like hard work, moderation, and mental energy, are a fundamentally monarchical race, deeply religious, and hesitant to accept converts as if it were a disaster. They are always eager to support the religious systems of the countries they inhabit. However, since your society has started to stir in England, and powerful factions threaten your institutions, you see previously loyal Jews lining up with the radicals and the liberals, ready to back policies that might even risk their lives and property, rather than passively enduring a system that seeks to diminish them. The Tories lose a key election at a crucial time; it’s the Jews who come out to vote against them. The Church is worried about the plan for a liberal university and feels relieved to find out that funds aren’t available for its creation; then a Jew steps forward and finances it. Yet the Jews, Coningsby, are fundamentally Tories. Toryism is essentially derived from the grand template that has shaped Europe. Every generation, they become more powerful and more dangerous to a society that is hostile towards them. Do you think that the quiet, routine persecution of a respectable representative from an English university can crush those who have successfully resisted Pharaohs, Nebuchadnezzar, Rome, and the feudal ages? The truth is, you can’t destroy a pure race of Caucasian lineage. It’s a physiological fact, a simple law of nature that has confounded Egyptian and Assyrian kings, Roman emperors, and Christian inquisitors. No laws, no physical tortures can make a superior race vanish into an inferior one, or be wiped out by it. The mixed persecuting races fade away; the pure persecuted race endures. And at this moment, despite centuries—tens of centuries—of degradation, the Jewish mind has a vast influence on European affairs. I’m not just talking about their laws, which you still follow; or their literature, with which you are saturated; but about the living Hebrew intellect.

‘You never observe a great intellectual movement in Europe in which the Jews do not greatly participate. The first Jesuits were Jews; that mysterious Russian Diplomacy which so alarms Western Europe is organised and principally carried on by Jews; that mighty revolution which is at this moment preparing in Germany, and which will be, in fact, a second and greater Reformation, and of which so little is as yet known in England, is entirely developing under the auspices of Jews, who almost monopolise the professorial chairs of Germany. Neander, the founder of Spiritual Christianity, and who is Regius Professor of Divinity in the University of Berlin, is a Jew. Benary, equally famous, and in the same University, is a Jew. Wehl, the Arabic Professor of Heidelberg, is a Jew. Years ago, when I was In Palestine, I met a German student who was accumulating materials for the History of Christianity, and studying the genius of the place; a modest and learned man. It was Wehl; then unknown, since become the first Arabic scholar of the day, and the author of the life of Mahomet. But for the German professors of this race, their name is Legion. I think there are more than ten at Berlin alone.

‘You never notice a major intellectual movement in Europe where Jews don’t play a significant role. The first Jesuits were Jews; that mysterious Russian diplomacy that worries Western Europe is managed and mainly conducted by Jews; that powerful revolution currently unfolding in Germany, which will essentially be a second and greater Reformation, and of which so little is known in England, is entirely developing under the guidance of Jews, who nearly dominate the academic positions in Germany. Neander, the founder of Spiritual Christianity and Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Berlin, is a Jew. Benary, also well-known and at the same university, is a Jew. Wehl, the Arabic Professor at Heidelberg, is a Jew. Years ago, when I was in Palestine, I met a German student gathering materials for the History of Christianity and studying the local culture; a humble and knowledgeable man. It was Wehl; then unknown, who has since become the leading Arabic scholar of the time and the author of the life of Mahomet. But as for German professors of this background, their numbers are vast. I think there are more than ten at Berlin alone.

‘I told you just now that I was going up to town tomorrow, because I always made it a rule to interpose when affairs of State were on the carpet. Otherwise, I never interfere. I hear of peace and war in newspapers, but I am never alarmed, except when I am informed that the Sovereigns want treasure; then I know that monarchs are serious.

‘I just told you that I’m going to the city tomorrow because I always made it a point to step in when government matters are being discussed. Other than that, I don’t get involved. I read about peace and war in the news, but I’m not worried, except when I hear that the monarchs want money; then I understand that they’re serious.’

‘A few years back we were applied, to by Russia. Now, there has been no friendship between the Court of St. Petersburg and my family. It has Dutch connections, which have generally supplied it; and our representations in favour of the Polish Hebrews, a numerous race, but the most suffering and degraded of all the tribes, have not been very agreeable to the Czar. However, circumstances drew to an approximation between the Romanoffs and the Sidonias. I resolved to go myself to St. Petersburg. I had, on my arrival, an interview with the Russian Minister of Finance, Count Cancrin; I beheld the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The loan was connected with the affairs of Spain; I resolved on repairing to Spain from Russia. I travelled without intermission. I had an audience immediately on my arrival with the Spanish Minister, Senor Mendizabel; I beheld one like myself, the son of a Nuevo Christiano, a Jew of Arragon. In consequence of what transpired at Madrid, I went straight to Paris to consult the President of the French Council; I beheld the son of a French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, and very properly so, for who should be military heroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts?’

‘A few years ago, Russia reached out to us. There hasn't been any friendship between the Court of St. Petersburg and my family. Our family has Dutch connections, which have generally supported us; and our efforts to help the Polish Jews, a large but suffering and marginalized group, haven't been very pleasing to the Czar. However, circumstances led to a closer relationship between the Romanoffs and the Sidonias. I decided to go to St. Petersburg myself. Upon my arrival, I had a meeting with the Russian Minister of Finance, Count Cancrin; I saw the son of a Lithuanian Jew. The loan was tied to matters regarding Spain; I decided to head to Spain from Russia. I traveled non-stop. I had an audience right after I arrived with the Spanish Minister, Señor Mendizabel; I saw someone like me, the son of a Nuevo Christiano, a Jew from Aragon. As a result of what happened in Madrid, I went straight to Paris to consult with the President of the French Council; I saw the son of a French Jew, a hero, an imperial marshal, and rightly so, because who else should be military heroes if not those who worship the Lord of Hosts?’

‘And is Soult a Hebrew?’

‘Is Soult a Hebrew?’

‘Yes, and others of the French marshals, and the most famous; Massena, for example; his real name was Manasseh: but to my anecdote. The consequence of our consultations was, that some Northern power should be applied to in a friendly and mediative capacity. We fixed on Prussia; and the President of the Council made an application to the Prussian Minister, who attended a few days after our conference. Count Arnim entered the cabinet, and I beheld a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear Coningsby, that the world is governed by very different personages from what is imagined by those who are not behind the scenes.’

‘Yes, and among the French marshals, especially the most famous ones; Massena, for instance; his real name was Manasseh. But back to my story. The outcome of our discussions was that we should seek the help of a Northern power in a friendly and mediating role. We decided on Prussia; and the President of the Council reached out to the Prussian Minister, who came a few days after our meeting. Count Arnim came into the room, and I saw a Prussian Jew. So you see, my dear Coningsby, that the world is run by very different people than what those who aren’t privy to the inner workings imagine.’

‘You startle, and deeply interest me.’

‘You surprise me, and really intrigue me.’

‘You must study physiology, my dear child. Pure races of Caucasus may be persecuted, but they cannot be despised, except by the brutal ignorance of some mongrel breed, that brandishes fagots and howls extermination, but is itself exterminated without persecution, by that irresistible law of Nature which is fatal to curs.’

‘You need to study physiology, my dear child. Pure races from the Caucasus may face persecution, but they can't be looked down upon, except by the brutal ignorance of some mixed breed, who waves torches and cries for extermination, but is itself wiped out without persecution, by that unstoppable law of Nature which is deadly to mutts.’

‘But I come also from Caucasus,’ said Coningsby.

‘But I also come from the Caucasus,’ said Coningsby.

‘Verily; and thank your Creator for such a destiny: and your race is sufficiently pure. You come from the shores of the Northern Sea, land of the blue eye, and the golden hair, and the frank brow: ‘tis a famous breed, with whom we Arabs have contended long; from whom we have suffered much: but these Goths, and Saxons, and Normans were doubtless great men.’

‘Truly; thank your Creator for such a destiny: your lineage is sufficiently pure. You come from the shores of the Northern Sea, land of the blue eyes, and golden hair, and the open brow: it's a famous lineage, with whom we Arabs have long contended; from whom we have suffered much: but these Goths, Saxons, and Normans were undoubtedly great people.’

‘But so favoured by Nature, why has not your race produced great poets, great orators, great writers?’

‘But with such advantages from Nature, why hasn’t your race produced great poets, great orators, great writers?’

‘Favoured by Nature and by Nature’s God, we produced the lyre of David; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. Favoured by Nature we still remain: but in exact proportion as we have been favoured by Nature we have been persecuted by Man. After a thousand struggles; after acts of heroic courage that Rome has never equalled; deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, and Sparta, and Carthage have never excelled; we have endured fifteen hundred years of supernatural slavery, during which, every device that can degrade or destroy man has been the destiny that we have sustained and baffled. The Hebrew child has entered adolescence only to learn that he was the Pariah of that ungrateful Europe that owes to him the best part of its laws, a fine portion of its literature, all its religion. Great poets require a public; we have been content with the immortal melodies that we sung more than two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They record our triumphs; they solace our affliction. Great orators are the creatures of popular assemblies; we were permitted only by stealth to meet even in our temples. And as for great writers, the catalogue is not blank. What are all the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, to Maimonides? And as for modern philosophy, all springs from Spinoza.

‘Blessed by Nature and by Nature’s God, we brought forth the lyre of David; we gave you Isaiah and Ezekiel; they are our Olynthians, our Philippics. Still favored by Nature, but as much as we have been favored, we have also been persecuted by Man. After a thousand struggles; after acts of heroism that Rome has never matched; deeds of divine patriotism that Athens, Sparta, and Carthage have never surpassed; we have endured fifteen hundred years of unimaginable slavery, during which every cruel tactic intended to degrade or destroy humanity has been our fate, one that we have endured and resisted. The Hebrew child reaches adolescence only to discover that he is the outcast of ungrateful Europe, which owes him the best parts of its laws, a significant share of its literature, and all its religion. Great poets need an audience; we have found joy in the timeless melodies we sang over two thousand years ago by the waters of Babylon and wept. They tell of our victories; they comfort our sorrows. Great orators arise from public gatherings; we were only allowed to gather, even in our temples, in secret. And as for great writers, the list is not empty. What are all the schoolmen, Aquinas himself, compared to Maimonides? And when it comes to modern philosophy, all of it originates from Spinoza.

‘But the passionate and creative genius, that is the nearest link to Divinity, and which no human tyranny can destroy, though it can divert it; that should have stirred the hearts of nations by its inspired sympathy, or governed senates by its burning eloquence; has found a medium for its expression, to which, in spite of your prejudices and your evil passions, you have been obliged to bow. The ear, the voice, the fancy teeming with combinations, the imagination fervent with picture and emotion, that came from Caucasus, and which we have preserved unpolluted, have endowed us with almost the exclusive privilege of Music; that science of harmonious sounds, which the ancients recognised as most divine, and deified in the person of their most beautiful creation. I speak not of the past; though, were I to enter into the history of the lords of melody, you would find it the annals of Hebrew genius. But at this moment even, musical Europe is ours. There is not a company of singers, not an orchestra in a single capital, that is not crowded with our children under the feigned names which they adopt to conciliate the dark aversion which your posterity will some day disclaim with shame and disgust. Almost every great composer, skilled musician, almost every voice that ravishes you with its transporting strains, springs from our tribes. The catalogue is too vast to enumerate; too illustrious to dwell for a moment on secondary names, however eminent. Enough for us that the three great creative minds to whose exquisite inventions all nations at this moment yield, Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn, are of Hebrew race; and little do your men of fashion, your muscadins of Paris, and your dandies of London, as they thrill into raptures at the notes of a Pasta or a Grisi, little do they suspect that they are offering their homage to “the sweet singers of Israel!”’

‘But the passionate and creative genius, which is the closest link to Divinity, cannot be destroyed by human tyranny, though it can be redirected; it should have inspired nations with its heartfelt empathy or led governments with its powerful eloquence. Yet, it has found a way to express itself that you have had to accept, despite your biases and negative emotions. The talents, the vocals, the imagination brimming with creativity, and the fervent emotion that originated from the Caucasus, which we have kept pure, have given us almost exclusive rights to Music; that art of harmonious sounds, recognized by the ancients as the most divine, who deified it in their most beautiful creations. I am not talking about the past; although if I were to delve into the history of musical masters, you would find the stories of Hebrew genius. Even now, musical Europe belongs to us. There’s not a choir or an orchestra in any capital that isn’t filled with our children under the fake names they use to avoid the deep-seated aversion your descendants will one day reject with shame and disgust. Almost every great composer, skilled musician, and every voice that captivates you with its enchanting melodies comes from our tribes. The list is too extensive to detail; too distinguished to spend time on lesser-known names, no matter how notable. It's enough for us that the three great creative minds whose brilliant inventions all nations currently admire—Rossini, Meyerbeer, Mendelssohn—are of Hebrew descent; and little do your fashionable men, your dandy Parisian types, and your London swells realize, as they rave about the performances of a Pasta or a Grisi, that they are paying tribute to “the sweet singers of Israel!”’

CHAPTER XVI.

It was the noon of the day on which Sidonia was to leave the Castle. The wind was high; the vast white clouds scudded over the blue heaven; the leaves yet green, and tender branches snapped like glass, were whirled in eddies from the trees; the grassy sward undulated like the ocean with a thousand tints and shadows. From the window of the music-room Lucretia Colonna gazed on the turbulent sky.

It was noon on the day Sidonia was set to leave the Castle. The wind was strong; massive white clouds raced across the blue sky; the still-green leaves and delicate branches snapped like glass, swirling in gusts from the trees; the grassy ground undulated like the ocean with a thousand shades and shadows. From the music room window, Lucretia Colonna looked out at the stormy sky.

The heaven of her heart, too, was disturbed.

The paradise of her heart was also unsettled.

She turned from the agitated external world to ponder over her inward emotion. She uttered a deep sigh.

She turned away from the chaotic outside world to reflect on her inner feelings. She let out a deep sigh.

Slowly she moved towards her harp; wildly, almost unconsciously, she touched with one hand its strings, while her eyes were fixed on the ground. An imperfect melody resounded; yet plaintive and passionate. It seemed to attract her soul. She raised her head, and then, touching the strings with both her hands, she poured forth tones of deep, yet thrilling power.

Slowly, she approached her harp; almost instinctively, she ran one hand over its strings while her gaze was directed at the ground. An incomplete melody played, yet it was both sorrowful and intense. It seemed to resonate with her spirit. She lifted her head and, using both hands to touch the strings, unleashed notes that were both deep and electrifying.

  ‘I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee?
  To the castle of my fathers in the green mountains; to the palace of my
    fathers in the ancient city?
  There is no flag on the castle of my fathers in the green mountains,
    silent is the palace of my fathers in the ancient city.
  Is there no home for the homeless? Can the unloved never find love?
  Ah! thou fliest away, fleet cloud: he will leave us swifter than thee!
    Alas! cutting wind, thy breath is not so cold as his heart!
  I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! whither shall I flee?’

'I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! where shall I go? To the castle of my ancestors in the green mountains; to the palace of my forefathers in the ancient city? There is no flag waving at the castle of my ancestors in the green mountains, and the palace of my forefathers in the ancient city is silent. Is there no place for the homeless? Can those who are unloved ever find love? Ah! you drift away, quick cloud: he will leave us faster than you! Alas! cutting wind, your breath is not as cold as his heart! I am a stranger in the halls of a stranger! Ah! where shall I go?'

The door of the music-room slowly opened. It was Sidonia. His hat was in his hand; he was evidently on the point of departure.

The door to the music room slowly opened. It was Sidonia. He was holding his hat in his hand; he clearly looked like he was about to leave.

‘Those sounds assured me,’ he said calmly but kindly, as he advanced, ‘that I might find you here, on which I scarcely counted at so early an hour.’

"Those sounds reassured me," he said calmly but kindly as he approached, "that I would find you here, which I hardly expected at this early hour."

‘You are going then?’ said the Princess.

‘So, you’re leaving now?’ said the Princess.

‘My carriage is at the door; the Marquess has delayed me; I must be in London to-night. I conclude more abruptly than I could have wished one of the most agreeable visits I ever made; and I hope you will permit me to express to you how much I am indebted to you for a society which those should deem themselves fortunate who can more frequently enjoy.’

‘My carriage is at the door; the Marquess has held me up; I need to be in London tonight. I’m ending one of the most enjoyable visits I’ve ever had more abruptly than I would have liked, and I hope you’ll let me express how grateful I am for your company, which those fortunate enough should be able to enjoy more often.’

He held forth his hand; she extended hers, cold as marble, which he bent over, but did not press to his lips.

He extended his hand; she reached out hers, cold as marble, which he leaned over, but did not bring to his lips.

‘Lord Monmouth talks of remaining here some time,’ he observed; ‘but I suppose next year, if not this, we shall all meet in some city of the earth?’

‘Lord Monmouth says he plans to stay here for a while,’ he noted; ‘but I figure next year, if not this one, we’ll all catch up in some city on the planet?’

Lucretia bowed; and Sidonia, with a graceful reverence, withdrew.

Lucretia bowed, and Sidonia, with a graceful nod, stepped back.

The Princess Lucretia stood for some moments motionless; a sound attracted her to the window; she perceived the equipage of Sidonia whirling along the winding roads of the park. She watched it till it disappeared; then quitting the window, she threw herself into a chair, and buried her face in her shawl.

The Princess Lucretia stood still for a moment; a noise drew her to the window; she saw Sidonia's carriage speeding along the winding paths of the park. She watched it until it vanished; then she left the window, sank into a chair, and buried her face in her shawl.

END OF BOOK IV.

BOOK V.

CHAPTER I.

An University life did not bring to Coningsby that feeling of emancipation usually experienced by freshmen. The contrast between school and college life is perhaps, under any circumstances, less striking to the Etonian than to others: he has been prepared for becoming his own master by the liberty wisely entrusted to him in his boyhood, and which is, in general, discreetly exercised. But there were also other reasons why Coningsby should have been less impressed with the novelty of his life, and have encountered less temptations than commonly are met with in the new existence which an University opens to youth. In the interval which had elapsed between quitting Eton and going to Cambridge, brief as the period may comparatively appear, Coningsby had seen much of the world. Three or four months, indeed, may not seem, at the first blush, a course of time which can very materially influence the formation of character; but time must not be counted by calendars, but by sensations, by thought. Coningsby had felt a good deal, reflected more. He had encountered a great number of human beings, offering a vast variety of character for his observation. It was not merely manners, but even the intellectual and moral development of the human mind, which in a great degree, unconsciously to himself, had been submitted to his study and his scrutiny. New trains of ideas had been opened to him; his mind was teeming with suggestions. The horizon of his intelligence had insensibly expanded. He perceived that there were other opinions in the world, besides those to which he had been habituated. The depths of his intellect had been stirred. He was a wiser man.

University life didn't give Coningsby that sense of freedom most freshmen experience. The difference between school and college life is likely less striking for someone from Eton than for others; he had been prepared to be his own boss by the independence wisely given to him during his childhood, which he generally handled responsibly. However, there were also other reasons why Coningsby was less affected by the novelty of his life and faced fewer temptations than most young people do when starting university. In the short time between leaving Eton and arriving at Cambridge, though it may seem brief, Coningsby had experienced a lot of the world. Three or four months might not seem like a significant period to shape one's character, but time should be measured by experiences and thoughts, not just clocks. Coningsby had felt a lot and thought even more. He had met a wide range of people, each with unique personalities for him to observe. It wasn't just their manners; he had also unconsciously studied the intellectual and moral growth of the human mind. New ideas had been introduced to him; his mind was full of thoughts. The scope of his understanding had gradually broadened. He realized there were other opinions in the world beyond what he was used to. His intellect had been deeply stirred. He had become a wiser man.

He distinguished three individuals whose acquaintance had greatly influenced his mind; Eustace Lyle, the elder Millbank, above all, Sidonia. He curiously meditated over the fact, that three English subjects, one of them a principal landed proprietor, another one of the most eminent manufacturers, and the third the greatest capitalist in the kingdom, all of them men of great intelligence, and doubtless of a high probity and conscience, were in their hearts disaffected with the political constitution of the country. Yet, unquestionably, these were the men among whom we ought to seek for some of our first citizens. What, then, was this repulsive quality in those institutions which we persisted in calling national, and which once were so? Here was a great question.

He identified three people whose friendship had a significant impact on his thinking: Eustace Lyle, the senior Millbank, and especially Sidonia. He thought deeply about the fact that three English subjects—one a major landowner, another a leading manufacturer, and the third the biggest capitalist in the country—all intelligent men with strong integrity and morals, were secretly unhappy with the political system of the nation. Yet, without a doubt, these were the individuals we should look to as some of our best citizens. So what was this off-putting aspect of the institutions that we stubbornly referred to as national, which once truly were? This was a big question.

There was another reason, also, why Coningsby should feel a little fastidious among his new habits, and, without being aware of it, a little depressed. For three or four months, and for the first time in his life, he had passed his time in the continual society of refined and charming women. It is an acquaintance which, when habitual, exercises a great influence over the tone of the mind, even if it does not produce any more violent effects. It refines the taste, quickens the perception, and gives, as it were, a grace and flexibility to the intellect. Coningsby in his solitary rooms arranging his books, sighed when he recalled the Lady Everinghams and the Lady Theresas; the gracious Duchess; the frank, good-natured Madame Colonna; that deeply interesting enigma the Princess Lucretia; and the gentle Flora. He thought with disgust of the impending dissipation of an University, which could only be an exaggeration of their coarse frolics at school. It seemed rather vapid this mighty Cambridge, over which they had so often talked in the playing fields of Eton, with such anticipations of its vast and absorbing interest. And those University honours that once were the great object of his aspirations, they did not figure in that grandeur with which they once haunted his imagination.

There was another reason why Coningsby might feel a bit picky about his new habits and, without realizing it, a little down. For three or four months, and for the first time in his life, he had spent his time in the constant company of refined and charming women. This kind of familiarity, when it becomes regular, has a strong impact on one’s mindset, even if it doesn't lead to more drastic changes. It sharpens taste, enhances perception, and adds a certain elegance and flexibility to one's intellect. Coningsby, in his lonely room organizing his books, sighed as he thought of Lady Everinghams and Lady Theresas; the graceful Duchess; the straightforward, kind-hearted Madame Colonna; the deeply intriguing Princess Lucretia; and the gentle Flora. He felt a sense of disgust at the idea of the upcoming distractions at University, which could only be a more exaggerated version of their roughhousing at school. This grand Cambridge seemed quite bland compared to how they had often talked about it on the playing fields of Eton, with such hopes of its vast and captivating appeal. And those University honors that had once been the pinnacle of his ambitions no longer seemed to hold the same allure that they had once had in his imagination.

What Coningsby determined to conquer was knowledge. He had watched the influence of Sidonia in society with an eye of unceasing vigilance. Coningsby perceived that all yielded to him; that Lord Monmouth even, who seemed to respect none, gave place to his intelligence; appealed to him, listened to him, was guided by him. What was the secret of this influence? Knowledge. On all subjects, his views were prompt and clear, and this not more from his native sagacity and reach of view, than from the aggregate of facts which rose to guide his judgment and illustrate his meaning, from all countries and all ages, instantly at his command.

What Coningsby was determined to master was knowledge. He had been closely observing Sidonia's influence in society with constant vigilance. Coningsby noticed that everyone submitted to him; even Lord Monmouth, who seemed to respect no one, yielded to Sidonia's intellect, turned to him for advice, listened to him, and let him guide him. What was the secret behind this influence? Knowledge. On every topic, Sidonia's opinions were quick and clear, not just because of his natural insight and broad perspective, but also due to the wealth of facts that were readily available to support his judgment and clarify his ideas from all countries and all eras.

The friends of Coningsby were now hourly arriving. It seemed when he met them again, that they had all suddenly become men since they had separated; Buckhurst especially. He had been at Paris, and returned with his mind very much opened, and trousers made quite in a new style. All his thoughts were, how soon he could contrive to get back again; and he told them endless stories of actresses, and dinners at fashionable cafés. Vere enjoyed Cambridge most, because he had been staying with his family since he quitted Eton. Henry Sydney was full of church architecture, national sports, restoration of the order of the Peasantry, and was to maintain a constant correspondence on these and similar subjects with Eustace Lyle. Finally, however, they all fell into a very fair, regular, routine life. They all read a little, but not with the enthusiasm which they had once projected. Buckhurst drove four-in-hand, and they all of them sometimes assisted him; but not immoderately. Their suppers were sometimes gay, but never outrageous; and, among all of them, the school friendship was maintained unbroken, and even undisturbed.

The friends of Coningsby were arriving one after another. It felt like when he saw them again, they had all suddenly grown up since they last met, especially Buckhurst. He had been in Paris and came back with a much broader perspective and trousers in a completely new style. All he could think about was how soon he could figure out a way to go back, and he spent hours telling them endless stories about actresses and dinners at trendy cafés. Vere enjoyed his time at Cambridge the most because he had been with his family since leaving Eton. Henry Sydney was full of thoughts about church architecture, national sports, restoring the order of the Peasantry, and he was set to keep up a constant correspondence with Eustace Lyle on these and similar topics. Eventually, though, they all settled into a pretty regular routine. They read a bit, but not with the enthusiasm they once had. Buckhurst drove a four-in-hand, and they sometimes helped him out, but not excessively. Their suppers were often lively but never out of control; and throughout it all, the friendship from school remained strong and even untroubled.

The fame of Coningsby preceded him at Cambridge. No man ever went up from whom more was expected in every way. The dons awaited a sucking member for the University, the undergraduates were prepared to welcome a new Alcibiades. He was neither: neither a prig nor a profligate; but a quiet, gentlemanlike, yet spirited young man, gracious to all, but intimate only with his old friends, and giving always an impression in his general tone that his soul was not absorbed in his University.

The reputation of Coningsby preceded him at Cambridge. No one arrived with higher expectations in every respect. The professors looked forward to a promising new addition to the University, while the students were ready to welcome a new Alcibiades. He was neither: not a goody-two-shoes nor a reckless person; instead, he was a calm, gentlemanly, yet spirited young man, polite to everyone but close only to his old friends, always giving off an impression that his mind wasn’t solely focused on his University.

And yet, perhaps, he might have been coddled into a prig, or flattered into a profligate, had it not been for the intervening experience which he had gained between his school and college life. That had visibly impressed upon him, what before he had only faintly acquired from books, that there was a greater and more real world awaiting him, than to be found in those bowers of Academus to which youth is apt at first to attribute an exaggerated importance. A world of action and passion, of power and peril; a world for which a great preparation was indeed necessary, severe and profound, but not altogether such an one as was now offered to him. Yet this want must be supplied, and by himself. Coningsby had already acquirements sufficiently considerable, with some formal application, to ensure him at all times his degree. He was no longer engrossed by the intention he once proudly entertained of trying for honours, and he chalked out for himself that range of reading, which, digested by his thought, should furnish him in some degree with that various knowledge of the history of man to which he aspired. No, we must not for a moment believe that accident could have long diverted the course of a character so strong. The same desire that prevented the Castle of his grandfather from proving a Castle of Indolence to him, that saved him from a too early initiation into the seductive distractions of a refined and luxurious society, would have preserved Coningsby from the puerile profligacy of a college life, or from being that idol of private tutors, a young pedant. It was that noble ambition, the highest and the best, that must be born in the heart and organised in the brain, which will not let a man be content, unless his intellectual power is recognised by his race, and desires that it should contribute to their welfare. It is the heroic feeling; the feeling that in old days produced demigods; without which no State is safe; without which political institutions are meat without salt; the Crown a bauble, the Church an establishment, Parliaments debating-clubs, and Civilisation itself but a fitful and transient dream.

And yet, maybe he could have been pampered into a goody-goody, or flattered into a reckless person, if it weren’t for the experiences he gained between his school and college life. Those experiences clearly showed him, more than what he had only vaguely picked up from books, that there was a larger and more real world waiting for him than what’s found in those sheltered academic settings that young people often overly value at first. A world full of action and passion, power and danger; a world for which serious, deep preparation was truly necessary, but not exactly what was currently being offered to him. Still, this gap needed to be filled, and he had to do it himself. Coningsby already had enough skills, with some dedicated effort, to secure his degree anytime. He was no longer consumed by the ambition he once proudly held of striving for honors, and he mapped out a reading plan for himself that, when processed through his thoughts, would supply him with the diverse knowledge of human history that he sought. No, we shouldn’t think for a second that chance could have significantly altered the path of a character so strong. The same desire that kept his grandfather's Castle from becoming a place of laziness for him, which saved him from an early exposure to the tempting distractions of a refined and luxurious society, would have also kept Coningsby safe from the childish recklessness of college life or from becoming a young know-it-all adored by private tutors. It was that noble ambition, the highest and best, that must be born in the heart and organized in the mind, which doesn’t allow a person to be content unless their intellectual power is acknowledged by their peers and aims for the welfare of others. It's the heroic feeling; the feeling that in ancient times created demigods; without which no society is secure; without which political institutions are bland, the Crown merely a trinket, the Church just an organization, Parliaments nothing more than debate clubs, and Civilization itself merely a fleeting and ephemeral dream.

CHAPTER II.

Less than a year after the arrival of Coningsby at Cambridge, and which he had only once quitted in the interval, and that to pass a short time in Berkshire with his friend Buckhurst, occurred the death of King William IV. This event necessarily induced a dissolution of the Parliament, elected under the auspices of Sir Robert Peel in 1834, and after the publication of the Tamworth Manifesto.

Less than a year after Coningsby arrived at Cambridge, and after leaving just once to spend a little time in Berkshire with his friend Buckhurst, King William IV passed away. This event led to the dissolution of the Parliament that had been elected under Sir Robert Peel in 1834, following the release of the Tamworth Manifesto.

The death of the King was a great blow to what had now come to be generally styled the ‘Conservative Cause.’ It was quite unexpected; within a fortnight of his death, eminent persons still believed that ‘it was only the hay-fever.’ Had his Majesty lived until after the then impending registration, the Whigs would have been again dismissed. Nor is there any doubt that, under these circumstances, the Conservative Cause would have secured for the new ministers a parliamentary majority. What would have been the consequences to the country, if the four years of Whig rule, from 1837 to 1841, had not occurred? It is easier to decide what would have been the consequences to the Whigs. Some of their great friends might have lacked blue ribbons and lord-lieutenancies, and some of their little friends comfortable places in the Customs and Excise. They would have lost, undoubtedly, the distribution of four years’ patronage; we can hardly say the exercise of four years’ power; but they would have existed at this moment as the most powerful and popular Opposition that ever flourished in this country, if, indeed, the course of events had not long ere this carried them back to their old posts in a proud and intelligible position. The Reform Bill did not do more injury to the Tories, than the attempt to govern this country without a decided Parliamentary majority did the Whigs. The greatest of all evils is a weak government. They cannot carry good measures, they are forced to carry bad ones.

The King’s death hit the 'Conservative Cause' hard. It was really unexpected; even two weeks after his death, prominent figures still thought it was just 'hay-fever.' If he had lived long enough to see the upcoming registration, the Whigs would have been dismissed again. There's no doubt that, in this scenario, the Conservative Cause would have given the new ministers a parliamentary majority. What would the impact on the country have been if the Whig rule from 1837 to 1841 had never happened? It's easier to figure out what the consequences would have been for the Whigs. Some of their influential supporters might have missed out on blue ribbons and lord-lieutenancies, and some lesser supporters would have lost comfortable jobs in Customs and Excise. They would have undoubtedly lost four years of patronage distribution; we can hardly say they would have lost four years of power; however, they would still be the strongest and most popular Opposition this country has ever seen, if, indeed, the events hadn’t already brought them back to their previous roles in a strong and clear position. The Reform Bill didn’t harm the Tories as much as the Whigs suffered from trying to govern this country without a clear Parliamentary majority. The biggest problem is a weak government. They can’t implement good policies and are forced to pursue bad ones.

The death of the King was a great blow to the Conservative Cause; that is to say, it darkened the brow of Tadpole, quailed the heart of Taper, crushed all the rising hopes of those numerous statesmen who believe the country must be saved if they receive twelve hundred a-year. It is a peculiar class, that; 1,200l. per annum, paid quarterly, is their idea of political science and human nature. To receive 1,200l. per annum is government; to try to receive 1,200l. per annum is opposition; to wish to receive 1,200l. per annum is ambition. If a man wants to get into Parliament, and does not want to get 1,200l. per annum, they look upon him as daft; as a benighted being. They stare in each other’s face, and ask, ‘What can ***** want to get into Parliament for?’ They have no conception that public reputation is a motive power, and with many men the greatest. They have as much idea of fame or celebrity, even of the masculine impulse of an honourable pride, as eunuchs of manly joys.

The King’s death was a huge setback for the Conservative Cause; it brought a frown to Tadpole’s face, made Taper feel afraid, and crushed the hopes of many politicians who believe the country can only be saved if they make twelve hundred a year. It’s a strange group; for them, £1,200 a year, paid quarterly, represents political knowledge and human nature. Getting £1,200 a year means being in government; trying to get £1,200 a year means being in opposition; wanting to get £1,200 a year is ambition. If a man wants to enter Parliament but doesn’t care about making £1,200 a year, they think he’s crazy, as if he’s in the dark. They look at each other and ask, ‘What does ***** want to go into Parliament for?’ They can’t comprehend that public reputation is a strong motivator and, for many, the strongest. They understand as little about fame or celebrity, or even the masculine drive of honorable pride, as eunuchs understand about manly pleasures.

The twelve-hundred-a-yearers were in despair about the King’s death. Their loyal souls were sorely grieved that his gracious Majesty had not outlived the Registration. All their happy inventions about ‘hay-fever,’ circulated in confidence, and sent by post to chairmen of Conservative Associations, followed by a royal funeral! General election about to take place with the old registration; government boroughs against them, and the young Queen for a cry. What a cry! Youth, beauty, and a Queen! Taper grew pale at the thought. What could they possibly get up to countervail it? Even Church and Corn-laws together would not do; and then Church was sulky, for the Conservative Cause had just made it a present of a commission, and all that the country gentlemen knew of Conservatism was, that it would not repeal the Malt Tax, and had made them repeal their pledges. Yet a cry must be found. A dissolution without a cry, in the Taper philosophy, would be a world without a sun. A rise might be got by ‘Independence of the House of Lords;’ and Lord Lyndhurst’s summaries might be well circulated at one penny per hundred, large discount allowed to Conservative Associations, and endless credit. Tadpole, however, was never very fond of the House of Lords; besides, it was too limited. Tadpole wanted the young Queen brought in; the rogue! At length, one morning, Taper came up to him with a slip of paper, and a smile of complacent austerity on his dull visage, ‘I think, Mr. Tadpole, that will do!’

The people earning twelve hundred a year were really upset about the King’s death. They were genuinely saddened that their gracious Majesty didn’t live long enough to see the Registration. All their joyful ideas about ‘hay-fever,’ shared in confidence and sent by mail to chairmen of Conservative Associations, were now followed by a royal funeral! A general election was about to happen with the old registration; government boroughs were against them, and the young Queen was drawing attention. What a spectacle! Youth, beauty, and a Queen! Taper felt uneasy just thinking about it. What could they possibly do to counter it? Even combining Church and Corn-laws wouldn’t be enough; and Church was resentful because the Conservative Cause had just given it a commission, and all the country gentlemen knew about Conservatism was that it wouldn’t repeal the Malt Tax and had forced them to go back on their promises. Still, they needed to come up with something. In Taper's view, a dissolution without a rallying cry would be like a world without sunlight. They could possibly gain momentum with ‘Independence of the House of Lords;’ and Lord Lyndhurst’s summaries could be well distributed at one penny per hundred, with big discounts for Conservative Associations and endless credit. However, Tadpole was never a big fan of the House of Lords; besides, it was too limited. Tadpole wanted to bring in the young Queen; that sly guy! Finally, one morning, Taper approached him with a piece of paper and a smug look on his dull face, saying, ‘I think, Mr. Tadpole, that will do!’

Tadpole took the paper and read, ‘OUR YOUNG QUEEN, AND OUR OLD INSTITUTIONS.’

The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had met a gnomic sentence of Periander or Thales; then turning to Taper, he said,

The eyes of Tadpole sparkled as if they had encountered a wise saying from Periander or Thales; then turning to Taper, he said,

‘What do you think of “ancient,” instead of “old”?’

‘What do you think of “ancient” instead of “old”?’

‘You cannot have “Our modern Queen and our ancient Institutions,”’ said Mr. Taper.

‘You can’t have “Our modern Queen and our ancient Institutions,”’ said Mr. Taper.

The dissolution was soon followed by an election for the borough of Cambridge. The Conservative Cause candidate was an old Etonian. That was a bond of sympathy which imparted zeal even to those who were a little sceptical of the essential virtues of Conservatism. Every undergraduate especially who remembered ‘the distant spires,’ became enthusiastic. Buckhurst took a very decided part. He cheered, he canvassed, he brought men to the poll whom none could move; he influenced his friends and his companions. Even Coningsby caught the contagion, and Vere, who had imbibed much of Coningsby’s political sentiment, prevailed on himself to be neutral. The Conservative Cause triumphed in the person of its Eton champion. The day the member was chaired, several men in Coningsby’s rooms were talking over their triumph.

The breakup was soon followed by an election for the borough of Cambridge. The Conservative candidate was an old Etonian. This created a bond of sympathy that energized even those who were a bit skeptical about the true virtues of Conservatism. Every undergraduate, especially those who remembered 'the distant spires,' became enthusiastic. Buckhurst took a very active role. He cheered, he campaigned, he brought voters to the polls whom no one else could persuade; he influenced his friends and peers. Even Coningsby caught the enthusiasm, and Vere, who had adopted much of Coningsby’s political views, managed to stay neutral. The Conservative Cause succeeded with its Eton champion. On the day the member was celebrated, several guys in Coningsby’s rooms were discussing their victory.

‘By Jove!’ said the panting Buckhurst, throwing himself on the sofa, ‘it was well done; never was any thing better done. An immense triumph! The greatest triumph the Conservative Cause has had. And yet,’ he added, laughing, ‘if any fellow were to ask me what the Conservative Cause is, I am sure I should not know what to say.’

‘By Jove!’ said the out-of-breath Buckhurst, collapsing onto the sofa, ‘that was brilliantly done; nothing has ever been better. An incredible victory! The greatest win the Conservative Cause has ever had. And yet,’ he added with a laugh, ‘if someone were to ask me what the Conservative Cause is, I honestly wouldn’t know how to answer.’

‘Why, it is the cause of our glorious institutions,’ said Coningsby. ‘A Crown robbed of its prerogatives; a Church controlled by a commission; and an Aristocracy that does not lead.’

‘It’s the reason behind our great institutions,’ said Coningsby. ‘A Crown stripped of its powers; a Church overseen by a commission; and an Aristocracy that doesn’t take the lead.’

‘Under whose genial influence the order of the Peasantry, “a country’s pride,” has vanished from the face of the land,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘and is succeeded by a race of serfs, who are called labourers, and who burn ricks.’

‘Under whose kind influence the order of the Peasantry, “a country’s pride,” has disappeared from the land,’ said Henry Sydney, ‘and is replaced by a group of serfs, who are called laborers, and who burn barns.’

‘Under which,’ continued Coningsby, ‘the Crown has become a cipher; the Church a sect; the Nobility drones; and the People drudges.’

‘Under which,’ continued Coningsby, ‘the Crown has become meaningless; the Church a minor group; the Nobility idle; and the People laborers.’

‘It is the great constitutional cause,’ said Lord Vere, ‘that refuses everything to opposition; yields everything to agitation; conservative in Parliament, destructive out-of-doors; that has no objection to any change provided only it be effected by unauthorised means.’

‘It's the major constitutional issue,’ said Lord Vere, ‘that rejects everything to opposition; gives in to agitation; conservative in Parliament, destructive outside; that has no problem with any change as long as it's done through unofficial means.’

‘The first public association of men,’ said Coningsby, ‘who have worked for an avowed end without enunciating a single principle.’

'The first public group of men,' Coningsby said, 'who have worked towards a clear goal without stating a single principle.'

‘And who have established political infidelity throughout the land,’ said Lord Henry.

‘And who have created political betrayal all over the country,’ said Lord Henry.

‘By Jove!’ said Buckhurst, ‘what infernal fools we have made ourselves this last week!’

‘By Jove!’ said Buckhurst, ‘what foolish things we’ve done this past week!’

‘Nay,’ said Coningsby, smiling, ‘it was our last schoolboy weakness. Floreat Etona, under all circumstances.’

‘No,’ said Coningsby, smiling, ‘it was our last schoolboy weakness. Long live Eton, no matter what.’

‘I certainly, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, ‘shall not assume the Conservative Cause, instead of the cause for which Hampden died in the field, and Sydney on the scaffold.’

‘I certainly, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, ‘will not take up the Conservative Cause instead of the one for which Hampden fought in battle and Sydney faced the gallows.’

‘The cause for which Hampden died in the field and Sydney on the scaffold,’ said Coningsby, ‘was the cause of the Venetian Republic.’

‘The reason Hampden died in battle and Sydney on the scaffold,’ said Coningsby, ‘was for the cause of the Venetian Republic.’

‘How, how?’ cried Buckhurst.

"How, how?" cried Buckhurst.

‘I repeat it,’ said Coningsby. ‘The great object of the Whig leaders in England from the first movement under Hampden to the last most successful one in 1688, was to establish in England a high aristocratic republic on the model of the Venetian, then the study and admiration of all speculative politicians. Read Harrington; turn over Algernon Sydney; then you will see how the minds of the English leaders in the seventeenth century were saturated with the Venetian type. And they at length succeeded. William III. found them out. He told the Whig leaders, “I will not be a Doge.” He balanced parties; he baffled them as the Puritans baffled them fifty years before. The reign of Anne was a struggle between the Venetian and the English systems. Two great Whig nobles, Argyle and Somerset, worthy of seats in the Council of Ten, forced their Sovereign on her deathbed to change the ministry. They accomplished their object. They brought in a new family on their own terms. George I. was a Doge; George II. was a Doge; they were what William III., a great man, would not be. George III. tried not to be a Doge, but it was impossible materially to resist the deeply-laid combination. He might get rid of the Whig magnificoes, but he could not rid himself of the Venetian constitution. And a Venetian constitution did govern England from the accession of the House of Hanover until 1832. Now I do not ask you, Vere, to relinquish the political tenets which in ordinary times would have been your inheritance. All I say is, the constitution introduced by your ancestors having been subverted by their descendants your contemporaries, beware of still holding Venetian principles of government when you have not a Venetian constitution to govern with. Do what I am doing, what Henry Sydney and Buckhurst are doing, what other men that I could mention are doing, hold yourself aloof from political parties which, from the necessity of things, have ceased to have distinctive principles, and are therefore practically only factions; and wait and see, whether with patience, energy, honour, and Christian faith, and a desire to look to the national welfare and not to sectional and limited interests; whether, I say, we may not discover some great principles to guide us, to which we may adhere, and which then, if true, will ultimately guide and control others.’

“I’ll say it again,” Coningsby said. “The main goal of the Whig leaders in England, from the early efforts under Hampden to the last successful movement in 1688, was to create a high aristocratic republic modeled after Venice, which was the focus of admiration for all political thinkers at the time. Read Harrington; look through Algernon Sydney; then you’ll understand how deeply the minds of the English leaders in the seventeenth century were influenced by the Venetian system. Eventually, they succeeded. William III figured them out. He told the Whig leaders, ‘I won’t be a Doge.’ He balanced the parties and outmaneuvered them as the Puritans had done fifty years earlier. The reign of Anne was a battle between the Venetian and the English systems. Two powerful Whig nobles, Argyle and Somerset, worthy of a seat in the Council of Ten, pressured their Sovereign on her deathbed to change the ministry. They achieved their goal. They brought in a new royal family on their own terms. George I was a Doge; George II was a Doge; they were what William III, a great man, refused to be. George III tried to avoid being a Doge, but it was impossible to completely resist the well-established setup. He could dismiss the Whig elites, but he couldn’t escape the Venetian constitution. And a Venetian constitution did govern England from the accession of the House of Hanover until 1832. Now, I’m not asking you, Vere, to give up the political beliefs that would typically be your legacy. All I’m saying is, since the constitution set up by your ancestors has been undermined by their descendants, be careful about still holding onto Venetian principles of governance when you don’t have a Venetian constitution to rely on. Do what I’m doing, what Henry Sydney and Buckhurst are doing, what other men I could mention are doing: keep yourself apart from political parties that, due to the nature of things, have lost their distinct principles and are just factions now; and wait and see, with patience, energy, honor, and faith, and a desire to prioritize the national good over narrow interests; whether we might uncover some great principles to guide us, which, if true, will ultimately lead and influence others.”

‘The Whigs are worn out,’ said Vere, ‘Conservatism is a sham, and Radicalism is pollution.’

‘The Whigs are exhausted,’ said Vere, ‘Conservatism is a façade, and Radicalism is toxic.’

‘I certainly,’ said Buckhurst, ‘when I get into the House of Commons, shall speak my mind without reference to any party whatever; and all I hope is, we may all come in at the same time, and then we may make a party of our own.’

‘I definitely,’ said Buckhurst, ‘when I get into the House of Commons, will speak my mind without considering any party at all; and all I hope is that we can all join at the same time, and then we can create our own party.’

‘I have always heard my father say,’ said Vere, ‘that there was nothing so difficult as to organise an independent party in the House of Commons.’

‘I have always heard my dad say,’ said Vere, ‘that there’s nothing as tough as organizing an independent party in the House of Commons.’

‘Ay! but that was in the Venetian period, Vere,’ said Henry Sydney, smiling.

‘Oh! but that was during the Venetian period, Vere,’ said Henry Sydney, smiling.

‘I dare say,’ said Buckhurst, ‘the only way to make a party in the House of Commons is just the one that succeeds anywhere else. Men must associate together. When you are living in the same set, dining together every day, and quizzing the Dons, it is astonishing how well men agree. As for me, I never would enter into a conspiracy, unless the conspirators were fellows who had been at Eton with me; and then there would be no treachery.’

“I must say,” Buckhurst said, “the only way to form a group in the House of Commons is just like it works anywhere else. People need to come together. When you’re in the same circle, eating together every day, and teasing the professors, it’s amazing how well people get along. As for me, I would never join a conspiracy unless the conspirators were guys I went to Eton with; then there would be no betrayal.”

‘Let us think of principles, and not of parties,’ said Coningsby.

‘Let’s focus on principles, not parties,’ said Coningsby.

‘For my part,’ said Buckhurst, ‘whenever a political system is breaking up, as in this country at present, I think the very best thing is to brush all the old Dons off the stage. They never take to the new road kindly. They are always hampered by their exploded prejudices and obsolete traditions. I don’t think a single man, Vere, that sat in the Venetian Senate ought to be allowed to sit in the present English House of Commons.’

‘For my part,’ said Buckhurst, ‘whenever a political system is falling apart, like what's happening in this country right now, I believe the best thing to do is to clear all the old leaders off the stage. They never adapt to the new ways easily. They're always held back by their outdated beliefs and old traditions. I don’t think a single person, Vere, who was in the Venetian Senate should be allowed to be in the current English House of Commons.’

‘Well, no one does in our family except my uncle Philip,’ said Lord Henry; ‘and the moment I want it, he will resign; for he detests Parliament. It interferes so with his hunting.’

‘Well, no one in our family does except my uncle Philip,’ said Lord Henry; ‘and as soon as I want it, he’ll step down; he hates Parliament. It really gets in the way of his hunting.’

‘Well, we all have fair parliamentary prospects,’ said Buckhurst. ‘That is something. I wish we were in now.’

‘Well, we all have good chances in Parliament,’ Buckhurst said. ‘That’s something. I wish we were in already.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Coningsby. ‘I tremble at the responsibility of a seat at any time. With my present unsettled and perplexed views, there is nothing from which I should recoil so much as the House of Commons.’

‘Heaven forbid!’ said Coningsby. ‘I dread the responsibility of being in office at any time. With my current confused and troubled thoughts, there’s nothing I would avoid more than the House of Commons.’

‘I quite agree with you,’ said Henry Sydney. ‘The best thing we can do is to keep as clear of political party as we possibly can. How many men waste the best part of their lives in painfully apologising for conscientious deviation from a parliamentary course which they adopted when they were boys, without thought, or prompted by some local connection, or interest, to secure a seat.’

“I totally agree with you,” said Henry Sydney. “The best thing we can do is avoid political parties as much as possible. How many men waste the best years of their lives apologizing for straying from a political path they chose when they were young, without thinking, or pushed by some local connection or interest, just to get a seat.”

It was the midnight following the morning when this conversation took place, that Coningsby, alone, and having just quitted a rather boisterous party of wassailers who had been celebrating at Buckhurst’s rooms the triumph of ‘Eton Statesmen,’ if not of Conservative principles, stopped in the precincts of that Royal College that reminded him of his schooldays, to cool his brow in the summer air, that even at that hour was soft, and to calm his mind in the contemplation of the still, the sacred, and the beauteous scene that surrounded him.

It was midnight after the morning when this conversation happened that Coningsby, alone and just leaving a lively group of partygoers celebrating at Buckhurst’s place the success of the 'Eton Statesmen,' if not of Conservative values, paused near that Royal College that brought back memories of his school days. He wanted to cool his head in the summer air, which was still soft even at that hour, and to calm his thoughts while taking in the serene, sacred, and beautiful scene around him.

There rose that fane, the pride and boast of Cambridge, not unworthy to rank among the chief temples of Christendom. Its vast form was exaggerated in the uncertain hour; part shrouded in the deepest darkness, while a flood of silver light suffused its southern side, distinguished with revealing beam the huge ribs of its buttresses, and bathed with mild lustre its airy pinnacles.

There stood that building, the pride and glory of Cambridge, worthy of being counted among the major churches of Christendom. Its massive shape appeared more dramatic in the dim light; part of it was hidden in complete darkness, while a wash of silver light lit up its southern side, highlighting the large supports and gently illuminating its lofty spires.

‘Where is the spirit that raised these walls?’ thought Coningsby. ‘Is it indeed extinct? Is then this civilisation, so much vaunted, inseparable from moderate feelings and little thoughts? If so, give me back barbarism! But I cannot believe it. Man that is made in the image of the Creator, is made for God-like deeds. Come what come may, I will cling to the heroic principle. It can alone satisfy my soul.’

‘Where is the spirit that built these walls?’ thought Coningsby. ‘Is it really gone? Is this civilization, so praised, tied to moderate feelings and small thoughts? If that’s the case, bring back barbarism! But I can’t believe it. Man, created in the image of the Creator, is meant for God-like actions. No matter what happens, I will hold on to the heroic principle. It’s the only thing that can satisfy my soul.’

CHAPTER III.

We must now revert to the family, or rather the household, of Lord Monmouth, in which considerable changes and events had occurred since the visit of Coningsby to the Castle in the preceding autumn.

We must now return to the family, or rather the household, of Lord Monmouth, where significant changes and events had taken place since Coningsby's visit to the Castle last autumn.

In the first place, the earliest frost of the winter had carried off the aged proprietor of Hellingsley, that contiguous estate which Lord Monmouth so much coveted, the possession of which was indeed one of the few objects of his life, and to secure which he was prepared to pay far beyond its intrinsic value, great as that undoubtedly was. Yet Lord Monmouth did not become its possessor. Long as his mind had been intent upon the subject, skilful as had been his combinations to secure his prey, and unlimited the means which were to achieve his purpose, another stepped in, and without his privity, without even the consolation of a struggle, stole away the prize; and this too a man whom he hated, almost the only individual out of his own family that he did hate; a man who had crossed him before in similar enterprises; who was his avowed foe; had lavished treasure to oppose him in elections; raised associations against his interest; established journals to assail him; denounced him in public; agitated against him in private; had declared more than once that he would make ‘the county too hot for him;’ his personal, inveterate, indomitable foe, Mr. Millbank of Millbank.

At first, the first frost of winter took away the elderly owner of Hellingsley, the neighboring estate that Lord Monmouth deeply desired. Owning it was one of his few life goals, and he was willing to pay far more than its actual worth, which was undoubtedly high. However, Lord Monmouth did not end up acquiring it. Despite his long focus on the matter, clever plans to secure it, and unlimited resources to achieve his goal, someone else intervened. This happened without his knowledge, and without even the satisfaction of a fight, the prize was taken from him—by a man he disliked, nearly the only person in his own family whom he actually hated. This was a man who had thwarted him in similar pursuits before, who was openly his enemy; he had spent money to work against him in elections, formed associations to challenge his interests, started publications to attack him, publicly denounced him, campaigned against him privately, and had declared multiple times that he would make “the county too hot for him.” His personal, relentless, unyielding foe was Mr. Millbank of Millbank.

The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disappointment to Lord Monmouth; but the loss of it to such an adversary touched him to the quick. He did not seek to control his anger; he could not succeed even in concealing his agitation. He threw upon Rigby that glance so rare with him, but under which men always quailed; that play of the eye which Lord Monmouth shared in common with Henry VIII., that struck awe into the trembling Commons when they had given an obnoxious vote, as the King entered the gallery of his palace, and looked around him.

The loss of Hellingsley was a bitter disappointment for Lord Monmouth; however, losing it to such an opponent hit him deeply. He didn't try to hide his anger; he couldn't even manage to conceal his agitation. He gave Rigby a look so rare for him that it always made men uneasy; that piercing gaze which Lord Monmouth had in common with Henry VIII., that instilled fear in the trembling Commons when they had cast an unpopular vote, as the King entered the gallery of his palace and surveyed the room.

It was a look which implied that dreadful question, ‘Why have I bought you that such things should happen? Why have I unlimited means and unscrupulous agents?’ It made Rigby even feel; even his brazen tones were hushed.

It was a look that suggested that awful question, ‘Why did I buy you for things like this to happen? Why do I have limitless resources and ruthless assistants?’ It even made Rigby feel something; even his bold voice was quieted.

To fly from everything disagreeable was the practical philosophy of Lord Monmouth; but he was as brave as he was sensual. He would not shrink before the new proprietor of Hellingsley. He therefore remained at the Castle with an aching heart, and redoubled his hospitalities. An ordinary mind might have been soothed by the unceasing consideration and the skilful and delicate flattery that ever surrounded Lord Monmouth; but his sagacious intelligence was never for a moment the dupe of his vanity. He had no self-love, and as he valued no one, there were really no feelings to play upon. He saw through everybody and everything; and when he had detected their purpose, discovered their weakness or their vileness, he calculated whether they could contribute to his pleasure or his convenience in a degree that counterbalanced the objections which might be urged against their intentions, or their less pleasing and profitable qualities. To be pleased was always a principal object with Lord Monmouth; but when a man wants vengeance, gay amusement is not exactly a satisfactory substitute.

To escape from everything unpleasant was the practical philosophy of Lord Monmouth; but he was as courageous as he was indulgent. He wouldn’t back down in front of the new owner of Hellingsley. So, he stayed at the Castle with a heavy heart and increased his hospitality. An average person might have been calmed by the constant attention and the clever and subtle flattery that always surrounded Lord Monmouth; however, his sharp mind was never fooled by his own vanity. He had no self-love, and since he valued no one, there were really no feelings to manipulate. He saw through everyone and everything; and when he identified their motives and weaknesses or flaws, he calculated whether they could provide him with pleasure or convenience enough to outweigh any objections to their intentions or their less appealing and beneficial traits. Seeking pleasure was always a main goal for Lord Monmouth; but when a man desires revenge, mere entertainment is not quite a satisfying substitute.

A month elapsed. Lord Monmouth with a serene or smiling visage to his guests, but in private taciturn and morose, scarcely ever gave a word to Mr. Rigby, but continually bestowed on him glances which painfully affected the appetite of that gentleman. In a hundred ways it was intimated to Mr. Rigby that he was not a welcome guest, and yet something was continually given him to do which rendered it impossible for him to take his departure. In this state of affairs, another event occurred which changed the current of feeling, and by its possible consequences distracted the Marquess from his brooding meditations over his discomfiture in the matter of Hellingsley. The Prince Colonna, who, since the steeple-chase, had imbibed a morbid predilection for such amusements, and indeed for every species of rough-riding, was thrown from his horse and killed on the spot.

A month passed. Lord Monmouth had a calm or smiling face for his guests, but privately he was reserved and gloomy, rarely speaking to Mr. Rigby, yet constantly giving him looks that unsettlingly affected that gentleman's appetite. In many ways, it was made clear to Mr. Rigby that he wasn't a welcome guest, but at the same time, he was always given tasks that made it impossible for him to leave. During this situation, another event happened that shifted the mood and distracted the Marquess from his gloomy thoughts about his troubles with Hellingsley. Prince Colonna, who had developed a strange fascination for rough riding since the steeplechase, was thrown from his horse and killed instantly.

This calamity broke up the party at Coningsby, which was not at the moment very numerous. Mr. Rigby, by command, instantly seized the opportunity of preventing the arrival of other guests who were expected. This catastrophe was the cause of Mr. Rigby resuming in a great measure his old position in the Castle. There were a great many things to be done, and all disagreeable; he achieved them all, and studied everybody’s convenience. Coroners’ inquests, funerals especially, weeping women, these were all spectacles which Lord Monmouth could not endure, but he was so high-bred, that he would not for the world that there should be in manner or degree the slightest deficiency in propriety or even sympathy. But he wanted somebody to do everything that was proper; to be considerate and consoling and sympathetic. Mr. Rigby did it all; gave evidence at the inquest, was chief mourner at the funeral, and arranged everything so well that not a single emblem of death crossed the sight of Lord Monmouth; while Madame Colonna found submission in his exhortations, and the Princess Lucretia, a little more pale and pensive than usual, listened with tranquillity to his discourse on the vanity of all sublunary things.

This disaster ended the gathering at Coningsby, which wasn't very large at the time. Mr. Rigby, at the request, quickly took the chance to prevent the arrival of other expected guests. This situation led to Mr. Rigby mostly regaining his former position in the Castle. There were a lot of tasks to take care of, and they were all unpleasant; he managed to complete them all while considering everyone's needs. Coroners’ inquests, funerals especially, crying women—these were all sights that Lord Monmouth could not stand, but he was so refined that he would never allow there to be even the slightest lack of propriety or sympathy. However, he needed someone to handle everything that was appropriate; to be thoughtful, comforting, and sympathetic. Mr. Rigby took care of it all; he gave testimony at the inquest, served as the chief mourner at the funeral, and organized everything so expertly that not a single sign of death crossed Lord Monmouth's view; while Madame Colonna found peace in his encouragement, and Princess Lucretia, a bit paler and more thoughtful than usual, listened calmly to his talk about the futility of all worldly things.

When the tumult had subsided, and habits and feelings had fallen into their old routine and relapsed into their ancient channels, the Marquess proposed that they should all return to London, and with great formality, though with warmth, begged that Madame Colonna would ever consider his roof as her own. All were glad to quit the Castle, which now presented a scene so different from its former animation, and Madame Colonna, weeping, accepted the hospitality of her friend, until the impending expansion of the spring would permit her to return to Italy. This notice of her return to her own country seemed to occasion the Marquess great disquietude.

When things calmed down and everyone settled back into their usual habits and feelings, the Marquess suggested that they all head back to London. With a formal yet warm tone, he urged Madame Colonna to always think of his home as her own. Everyone was relieved to leave the Castle, which now felt so different from its previous lively atmosphere. Madame Colonna, in tears, accepted her friend's offer of hospitality until the coming spring allowed her to return to Italy. The thought of her going back to her home country seemed to cause the Marquess a lot of unease.

After they had remained about a month in London, Madame Colonna sent for Mr. Rigby one morning to tell him how very painful it was to her feelings to remain under the roof of Monmouth House without the sanction of a husband; that the circumstance of being a foreigner, under such unusual affliction, might have excused, though not authorised, the step at first, and for a moment; but that the continuance of such a course was quite out of the question; that she owed it to herself, to her step-child, no longer to trespass on this friendly hospitality, which, if persisted in, might be liable to misconstruction. Mr. Rigby listened with great attention to this statement, and never in the least interrupted Madame Colonna; and then offered to do that which he was convinced the lady desired, namely, to make the Marquess acquainted with the painful state of her feelings. This he did according to his fashion, and with sufficient dexterity. Mr. Rigby himself was anxious to know which way the wind blew, and the mission with which he had been entrusted, fell in precisely with his inclinations and necessities. The Marquess listened to the communication and sighed, then turned gently round and surveyed himself in the mirror and sighed again, then said to Rigby,

After about a month in London, Madame Colonna called Mr. Rigby one morning to express how distressing it was for her to stay at Monmouth House without the approval of a husband. She explained that being a foreigner, in such an unusual situation, might have initially excused her actions, but continuing this way was out of the question. She felt it was her responsibility, both to herself and her step-child, to no longer take advantage of this generous hospitality, which could be misunderstood if it went on. Mr. Rigby listened very attentively and did not interrupt her at all. He then offered to do what he believed the lady wanted, which was to inform the Marquess about her troubling feelings. He approached this task in his usual manner, with enough skill. Mr. Rigby was also eager to find out what the Marquess's thoughts were, and this task aligned perfectly with his own interests and needs. The Marquess listened to the message and sighed; then he turned gently to look at himself in the mirror and sighed again before saying to Rigby,

‘You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby. It is quite ridiculous their going, and infinitely distressing to me. They must stay.’

‘You completely understand what I'm saying, Rigby. It's totally absurd that they're leaving, and it's incredibly upsetting for me. They need to stay.’

Rigby repaired to the Princess full of mysterious bustle, and with a face beaming with importance and satisfaction. He made much of the two sighs; fully justified the confidence of the Marquess in his comprehension of unexplained intentions; prevailed on Madame Colonna to have some regard for the feelings of one so devoted; expatiated on the insignificance of worldly misconstructions, when replied to by such honourable intentions; and fully succeeded in his mission. They did stay. Month after month rolled on, and still they stayed; every month all the family becoming more resigned or more content, and more cheerful. As for the Marquess himself, Mr. Rigby never remembered him more serene and even joyous. His Lordship scarcely ever entered general society. The Colonna family remained in strict seclusion; and he preferred the company of these accomplished and congenial friends to the mob of the great world.

Rigby headed to the Princess, full of mysterious energy, with a face shining with importance and satisfaction. He made a big deal out of the two sighs; fully justified the Marquess’s trust in his understanding of unclear intentions; convinced Madame Colonna to consider the feelings of someone so devoted; talked at length about how trivial worldly misunderstandings are when faced with such honorable intentions; and completely succeeded in his mission. They did stay. Month after month went by, and still they stayed; each month the whole family became either more accepting or more content, and increasingly cheerful. As for the Marquess himself, Mr. Rigby never remembered him being more calm and even happy. His Lordship hardly ever joined general society. The Colonna family kept to themselves; and he preferred the company of these skilled and like-minded friends to the crowds of the high society.

Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby there had always subsisted considerable confidence. Now, that gentleman seemed to have achieved fresh and greater claims to her regard. In the pleasure with which he looked forward to her approaching alliance with his patron, he reminded her of the readiness with which he had embraced her suggestions for the marriage of her daughter with Coningsby. Always obliging, she was never wearied of chanting his praises to her noble admirer, who was apparently much gratified she should have bestowed her esteem on one of whom she would necessarily in after-life see so much. It is seldom the lot of husbands that their confidential friends gain the regards of their brides.

Between Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby, there had always been a strong sense of trust. Now, Mr. Rigby seemed to have earned even more of her appreciation. In his enthusiasm for her upcoming connection with his patron, he reminded her of how quickly he had supported her idea for her daughter to marry Coningsby. Always accommodating, she never grew tired of praising him to her noble admirer, who seemed pleased that she had chosen to value someone with whom she would inevitably spend a lot of time in the future. It's rare for husbands to have their close friends win the affection of their wives.

‘I am glad you all like Rigby,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘as you will see so much of him.’

‘I’m glad you all like Rigby,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘since you’ll be seeing so much of him.’

The remembrance of the Hellingsley failure seemed to be erased from the memory of the Marquess. Rigby never recollected him more cordial and confidential, and more equable in his manner. He told Rigby one day, that he wished that Monmouth House should possess the most sumptuous and the most fanciful boudoir in London or Paris. What a hint for Rigby! That gentleman consulted the first artists, and gave them some hints in return; his researches on domestic decoration ranged through all ages; he even meditated a rapid tour to mature his inventions; but his confidence in his native taste and genius ultimately convinced him that this movement was unnecessary.

The memory of the Hellingsley failure seemed to fade from the Marquess's mind. Rigby had never seen him more friendly, open, and calm in his demeanor. One day, he told Rigby that he wanted Monmouth House to have the most luxurious and imaginative boudoir in London or Paris. What a lead for Rigby! He consulted top artists and shared some ideas in return; his research on home decoration spanned all eras; he even considered a quick trip to inspire his designs, but his belief in his own taste and creativity ultimately led him to decide that this trip wasn't needed.

The summer advanced; the death of the King occurred; the dissolution summoned Rigby to Coningsby and the borough of Darlford. His success was marked certain in the secret books of Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturing town, enfranchised under the Reform Act, already gained by the Conservative cause! Here was reaction; here influence of property! Influence of character, too; for no one was so popular as Lord Monmouth; a most distinguished nobleman of strict Conservative principles, who, if he carried the county and the manufacturing borough also, merited the strawberry-leaf.

Summer progressed; the King passed away; the dissolution called Rigby to Coningsby and the borough of Darlford. His success was already assured in the confidential records of Tadpole and Taper. A manufacturing town, given voting rights under the Reform Act, was already won over to the Conservative cause! Here was a return to traditional values; here was the power of property! There was also the influence of character, as no one was more popular than Lord Monmouth; a very distinguished nobleman with strong Conservative beliefs, who, if he won both the county and the manufacturing borough, deserved the strawberry leaf.

‘There will be no holding Rigby,’ said Taper; ‘I’m afraid he will be looking for something very high.’

‘There’s no controlling Rigby,’ said Taper; ‘I’m afraid he’ll be looking for something really big.’

‘The higher the better,’ rejoined Tadpole, ‘and then he will not interfere with us. I like your high-flyers; it is your plodders I detest, wearing old hats and high-lows, speaking in committee, and thinking they are men of business: d——n them!’

‘The higher, the better,’ replied Tadpole, ‘and then he won’t get in our way. I like your high-flyers; it’s the plodders I can’t stand, wearing old hats and clunky shoes, talking in meetings, and thinking they’re businesspeople: damn them!’

Rigby went down, and made some impressive speeches; at least they read very well in some of his second-rate journals, where all the uproar figured as loud cheering, and the interruption of a cabbage-stalk was represented as a question from some intelligent individual in the crowd. The fact is, Rigby bored his audience too much with history, especially with the French Revolution, which he fancied was his ‘forte,’ so that the people at last, whenever he made any allusion to the subject, were almost as much terrified as if they had seen the guillotine.

Rigby went down and delivered some impressive speeches; at least they sounded great in a few of his second-rate journals, where all the chaos was portrayed as enthusiastic applause, and the interruption by a cabbage stalk was depicted as a question from a smart person in the crowd. The truth is, Rigby bored his audience too much with history, especially the French Revolution, which he thought was his “strength,” so that people, whenever he mentioned it, were almost as frightened as if they had seen the guillotine.

Rigby had as yet one great advantage; he had no opponent; and without personal opposition, no contest can be very bitter. It was for some days Rigby versus Liberal principles; and Rigby had much the best of it; for he abused Liberal principles roundly in his harangues, who, not being represented on the occasion, made no reply; while plenty of ale, and some capital songs by Lucian Gay, who went down express, gave the right cue to the mob, who declared in chorus, beneath the windows of Rigby’s hotel, that he was ‘a fine old English gentleman!’

Rigby had one significant advantage: he had no rival. And without personal opposition, no contest can be very intense. For several days, it was Rigby versus Liberal principles, and Rigby clearly came out ahead. He criticized Liberal principles harshly in his speeches, which, since they weren't represented at the event, couldn’t respond. Meanwhile, there was plenty of ale and some excellent songs by Lucian Gay, who came down specifically for this, which set the mood for the crowd. They cheered in unison beneath the windows of Rigby’s hotel, proclaiming that he was “a fine old English gentleman!”

But there was to be a contest; no question about that, and a sharp one, although Rigby was to win, and well. The Liberal party had been so fastidious about their new candidate, that they had none ready though several biting. Jawster Sharp thought at one time that sheer necessity would give him another chance still; but even Rigby was preferable to Jawster Sharp, who, finding it would not do, published his long-prepared valedictory address, in which he told his constituents, that having long sacrificed his health to their interests, he was now obliged to retire into the bosom of his family. And a very well-provided-for family, too.

But there was definitely going to be a contest, no doubt about it, and it was going to be intense, even though Rigby was going to win, and by a good margin. The Liberal party had been so picky about their new candidate that they had no one ready, even though several were eager. Jawster Sharp thought for a moment that sheer necessity would give him another chance; however, even Rigby was a better option than Jawster Sharp, who, realizing it wouldn’t work out, published his long-prepared farewell address. In it, he told his constituents that after sacrificing his health for their interests, he now had to step back and focus on his family. And a very well-off family at that.

All this time the Liberal deputation from Darlford, two aldermen, three town-councillors, and the Secretary of the Reform Association, were walking about London like mad things, eating luncheons and looking for a candidate. They called at the Reform Club twenty times in the morning, badgered whips and red-tapers; were introduced to candidates, badgered candidates; examined would-be members as if they were at a cattle-show, listened to political pedigrees, dictated political pledges, referred to Hansard to see how men had voted, inquired whether men had spoken, finally discussed terms. But they never could hit the right man. If the principles were right, there was no money; and if money were ready, money would not take pledges. In fact, they wanted a Phoenix: a very rich man, who would do exactly as they liked, with extremely low opinions and with very high connections.

All this time, the Liberal group from Darlford, made up of two aldermen, three town councilors, and the Secretary of the Reform Association, were running around London like crazy, having lunches and looking for a candidate. They visited the Reform Club twenty times in the morning, bugging whips and red-tapers; they met candidates and pressured them; they grilled potential members as if they were at a cattle show, listened to political backgrounds, dictated political promises, checked Hansard to see how people had voted, asked if others had spoken, and finally discussed terms. But they never found the right person. If the principles were good, there was no money; if money was available, it wouldn’t agree to the pledges. Essentially, they were looking for a Phoenix: a very wealthy guy who would do exactly what they wanted, have very low opinions, and very high connections.

‘If he would go for the ballot and had a handle to his name, it would have the best effect,’ said the secretary of the Reform Association, ‘because you see we are fighting against a Right Honourable, and you have no idea how that takes with the mob.’

‘If he would go for the vote and had a recognizable name, it would have the best impact,’ said the secretary of the Reform Association, ‘because you see we’re up against a Right Honourable, and you have no idea how much that matters to the crowd.’

The deputation had been three days in town, and urged by despatches by every train to bring affairs to a conclusion; jaded, perplexed, confused, they were ready to fall into the hands of the first jobber or bold adventurer. They discussed over their dinner at a Strand coffee-house the claims of the various candidates who had presented themselves. Mr. Donald Macpherson Macfarlane, who would only pay the legal expenses; he was soon despatched. Mr. Gingerly Browne, of Jermyn Street, the younger son of a baronet, who would go as far as 1000l. provided the seat was secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, 2000l. man; but would not agree to any annual subscriptions. Sir Baptist Placid, vague about expenditure, but repeatedly declaring that ‘there could be no difficulty on that head.’ He however had a moral objection to subscribing to the races, and that was a great point at Darlford. Sir Baptist would subscribe a guinea per annum to the infirmary, and the same to all religious societies without any distinction of sects; but races, it was not the sum, 100l. per annum, but the principle. He had a moral objection.

The delegation had been in town for three days, and pressed by messages every train to wrap things up; exhausted, confused, and overwhelmed, they were ready to hand over control to the first opportunist or daring adventurer. They discussed over dinner at a coffee shop on the Strand the claims of the different candidates who had come forward. Mr. Donald Macpherson Macfarlane, who would only cover the legal fees; he was quickly dismissed. Mr. Gingerly Browne, from Jermyn Street, the younger son of a baronet, who was willing to go up to £1000 if the seat could be secured. Mr. Juggins, a distiller, was a £2000 backer, but he wouldn’t agree to any annual contributions. Sir Baptist Placid was vague about spending but kept insisting that "there wouldn't be any issue on that front." However, he had a moral objection to contributing to the races, which was a significant concern in Darlford. Sir Baptist would donate a guinea per year to the infirmary and the same to all religious organizations without regard to denomination; but when it came to races, it wasn't about the amount, £100 per year, but the principle. He had a moral objection.

In short, the deputation began to suspect, what was the truth, that they were a day after the fair, and that all the electioneering rips that swarm in the purlieus of political clubs during an impending dissolution of Parliament, men who become political characters in their small circle because they have been talked of as once having an intention to stand for places for which they never offered themselves, or for having stood for places where they never could by any circumstance have succeeded, were in fact nibbling at their dainty morsel.

In short, the delegation started to realize, which was true, that they were a day late and that all the campaign hustlers who hang around political clubs during an upcoming Parliament dissolution—guys who become local political figures just because people have mentioned them as if they planned to run for positions they never actually aimed for, or for having run for positions where they had no chance of winning—were actually taking their sweet opportunity.

At this moment of despair, a ray of hope was imparted to them by a confidential note from a secretary of the Treasury, who wished to see them at the Reform Club on the morrow. You may be sure they were punctual to their appointment. The secretary received them with great consideration. He had got them a candidate, and one of high mark, the son of a Peer, and connected with the highest Whig houses. Their eyes sparkled. A real honourable. If they liked he would introduce them immediately to the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. He had only to introduce them, as there was no difficulty either as to means or opinions, expenses or pledges.

At this moment of despair, a glimmer of hope came to them through a private note from a Treasury secretary, who wanted to meet them at the Reform Club the next day. You can bet they showed up on time for their appointment. The secretary welcomed them with great respect. He had found them a candidate, and a prominent one at that, the son of a peer and connected to the highest ranks of the Whig party. Their eyes lit up. A real honorable. If they wanted, he could introduce them right away to the Honorable Alberic de Crecy. He only needed to make the introduction since there were no issues with resources or opinions, costs, or commitments.

The secretary returned with a young gentleman, whose diminutive stature would seem, from his smooth and singularly puerile countenance, to be merely the consequence of his very tender years; but Mr. De Crecy was really of age, or at least would be by nomination-day. He did not say a word, but looked like the rosebud which dangled in the button-hole of his frock-coat. The aldermen and town-councillors were what is sometimes emphatically styled flabbergasted; they were speechless from bewilderment. ‘Mr. De Crecy will go for the ballot,’ said the secretary of the Treasury, with an audacious eye and a demure look, ‘and for Total and Immediate, if you press him hard; but don’t, if you can help it, because he has an uncle, an old county member, who has prejudices, and might disinherit him. However, we answer for him. And I am very happy that I have been the means of bringing about an arrangement which, I feel, will be mutually advantageous.’ And so saying, the secretary effected his escape.

The secretary came back with a young man whose small size and smooth, boyish face made him seem much younger than he actually was; however, Mr. De Crecy was of legal age, or would be by nomination day. He didn’t say anything, just looked like the rosebud pinned to his frock coat. The aldermen and town council members were utterly stunned; they were at a loss for words from the shock. “Mr. De Crecy is going for the ballot,” said the Treasury secretary with a bold gaze and a modest demeanor, “and he might go for Total and Immediate if you push him, but try to avoid it if you can because he has an uncle, an old county member, who has his own biases and could disinherit him. But we vouch for him. I’m very pleased to have facilitated an arrangement that I believe will work out well for both sides.” With that, the secretary made his exit.

Circumstances, however, retarded for a season the political career of the Honourable Alberic de Crecy. While the Liberal party at Darlford were suffering under the daily inflictions of Mr. Rigby’s slashing style, and the post brought them very unsatisfactory prospects of a champion, one offered himself, and in an address which intimated that he was no man of straw, likely to recede from any contest in which he chose to embark. The town was suddenly placarded with a letter to the Independent Electors from Mr. Millbank, the new proprietor of Hellingsley.

Circumstances, however, delayed the political career of the Honourable Alberic de Crecy for a while. While the Liberal party in Darlford struggled daily with Mr. Rigby’s harsh approach, and the situation left them with very disappointing chances of finding a champion, one man stepped forward. In a speech, he made it clear that he was serious and not someone who would back down from any contest he decided to enter. Suddenly, the town was filled with posters featuring a letter to the Independent Electors from Mr. Millbank, the new owner of Hellingsley.

He expressed himself as one not anxious to obtrude himself on their attention, and founding no claim to their confidence on his recent acquisition; but at the same time as one resolved that the free and enlightened community, with which he must necessarily hereafter be much connected, should not become the nomination borough of any Peer of the realm without a struggle, if they chose to make one. And so he offered himself if they could not find a better candidate, without waiting for the ceremony of a requisition. He was exactly the man they wanted; and though he had ‘no handle to his name,’ and was somewhat impracticable about pledges, his fortune was so great, and his character so high, that it might be hoped that the people would be almost as content as if they were appealed to by some obscure scion of factitious nobility, subscribing to political engagements which he could not comprehend, and which, in general, are vomited with as much facility as they are swallowed.

He made it clear that he wasn’t looking to force himself into the spotlight or demand their trust based on his recent success. However, he was determined that the free and informed community he would be connected with in the future should not become a puppet town for any nobleman without a fight, if they were willing to put up one. So, he put himself forward as a candidate if they couldn't find someone better, without waiting for the formalities of a request. He was exactly what they needed; and even though he had no title and was a bit difficult when it came to making promises, his wealth was substantial, and his reputation was solid enough that it was hoped the people would be just as satisfied as if they were being approached by some obscure member of artificial nobility making political promises he didn’t really understand, and which are generally made and broken with equal ease.

CHAPTER IV.

The people of Darlford, who, as long as the contest for their representation remained between Mr. Rigby and the abstraction called Liberal Principles, appeared to be very indifferent about the result, the moment they learned that for the phrase had been substituted a substance, and that, too, in the form of a gentleman who was soon to figure as their resident neighbour, became excited, speedily enthusiastic. All the bells of all the churches rang when Mr. Millbank commenced his canvass; the Conservatives, on the alert, if not alarmed, insisted on their champion also showing himself in all directions; and in the course of four-and-twenty hours, such is the contagion of popular feeling, the town was divided into two parties, the vast majority of which were firmly convinced that the country could only be saved by the return of Mr. Rigby, or preserved from inevitable destruction by the election of Mr. Millbank.

The people of Darlford, who seemed pretty indifferent about who would represent them as long as it was just Mr. Rigby versus the vague concept of Liberal Principles, became excited and quickly enthusiastic once they learned that a real person was in the running, and that he would soon be their new neighbor. All the church bells rang when Mr. Millbank started his campaign; the Conservatives, either on high alert or just worried, insisted that their candidate show up everywhere too. Within just twenty-four hours, fueled by the wave of public sentiment, the town split into two groups, with a huge majority firmly believing that the country could only be saved by electing Mr. Rigby, or by avoiding certain disaster with the election of Mr. Millbank.

The results of the two canvasses were such as had been anticipated from the previous reports of the respective agents and supporters. In these days the personal canvass of a candidate is a mere form. The whole country that is to be invaded has been surveyed and mapped out before entry; every position reconnoitred; the chain of communications complete. In the present case, as was not unusual, both candidates were really supported by numerous and reputable adherents; and both had good grounds for believing that they would be ultimately successful. But there was a body of the electors sufficiently numerous to turn the election, who would not promise their votes: conscientious men who felt the responsibility of the duty that the constitution had entrusted to their discharge, and who would not make up their minds without duly weighing the respective merits of the two rivals. This class of deeply meditative individuals are distinguished not only by their pensive turn of mind, but by a charitable vein that seems to pervade their being. Not only will they think of your request, but for their parts they wish both sides equally well. Decision, indeed, as it must dash the hopes of one of their solicitors, seems infinitely painful to them; they have always a good reason for postponing it. If you seek their suffrage during the canvass, they reply, that the writ not having come down, the day of election is not yet fixed. If you call again to inform them that the writ has arrived, they rejoin, that perhaps after all there may not be a contest. If you call a third time, half dead with fatigue, to give them friendly notice that both you and your rival have pledged yourselves to go to the poll, they twitch their trousers, rub their hands, and with a dull grin observe,

The outcomes of the two canvasses were what had been expected based on earlier reports from the respective agents and supporters. Nowadays, the personal canvass of a candidate is just a formality. The entire area to be contested has been analyzed and mapped out in advance; every position scouted; the communication lines established. In this case, as is often the case, both candidates were backed by many credible supporters, and both had solid reasons to believe they would eventually win. However, there was a group of voters large enough to sway the election who wouldn't commit their votes: conscientious individuals who took the responsibility that the constitution had given them seriously, and who would not make a decision without carefully considering the strengths of both contenders. This group of deeply thoughtful people is characterized not only by their reflective nature but also by an underlying goodwill towards both sides. They not only contemplate your request, but they genuinely wish well for both candidates. Making a decision, as it inevitably means disappointing one of their advocates, seems excruciatingly difficult for them; they always have a valid reason to defer it. If you ask for their support during the canvass, they respond that since the writ hasn't been issued, the election date isn't set yet. If you return to tell them that the writ has arrived, they counter that perhaps there might not even be a contest after all. If you return a third time, exhausted and out of breath, to let them know that both you and your opponent have committed to voting, they fidget with their trousers, rub their hands, and with a dull grin, say,

‘Well, sir, we shall see.’

"Well, sir, we shall see."

‘Come, Mr. Jobson,’ says one of the committee, with an insinuating smile, ‘give Mr. Millbank one.’

‘Come on, Mr. Jobson,’ says one of the committee members with a suggestive smile, ‘give Mr. Millbank one.’

‘Jobson, I think you and I know each other,’ says a most influential supporter, with a knowing nod.

‘Jobson, I think you and I are familiar with each other,’ says a very influential supporter, with a knowing nod.

‘Yes, Mr. Smith, I should think we did.’

‘Yes, Mr. Smith, I think we did.’

‘Come, come, give us one.’

"Come on, give us one."

‘Well, I have not made up my mind yet, gentlemen.’

‘Well, I haven't decided yet, gentlemen.’

‘Jobson!’ says a solemn voice, ‘didn’t you tell me the other night you wished well to this gentleman?’

‘Jobson!’ says a serious voice, ‘didn’t you tell me the other night you wished this guy well?’

‘So I do; I wish well to everybody,’ replies the imperturbable Jobson.

‘Yeah, I do; I wish everyone well,’ replies the unflappable Jobson.

‘Well, Jobson,’ exclaims another member of the committee, with a sigh, ‘who could have supposed that you would have been an enemy?’

‘Well, Jobson,’ another committee member exclaims with a sigh, ‘who would have thought you’d turn out to be an enemy?’

‘I don’t wish to be no enemy to no man, Mr. Trip.’

‘I don’t want to be an enemy to anyone, Mr. Trip.’

‘Come, Jobson,’ says a jolly tanner, ‘if I wanted to be a Parliament man, I don’t think you could refuse me one!’

‘Come on, Jobson,’ says a cheerful tanner, ‘if I wanted to be a Member of Parliament, I don’t think you could turn me down!’

‘I don’t think I could, Mr. Oakfield.’

‘Well, then, give it to my friend.’

‘Well, sir, I’ll think about it.’

‘Leave him to me,’ says another member of the committee, with a significant look. ‘I know how to get round him. It’s all right.’

‘Leave him to me,’ says another member of the committee, with a knowing look. ‘I know how to handle him. It’s all good.’

‘Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank; he knows how to manage him.’

‘Yes, leave him to Hayfield, Mr. Millbank; he knows how to handle him.’

But all the same, Jobson continues to look as little tractable and lamb-like as can be well fancied.

But still, Jobson looks as unyielding and innocent as you can imagine.

And here, in a work which, in an unpretending shape, aspires to take neither an uninformed nor a partial view of the political history of the ten eventful years of the Reform struggle, we should pause for a moment to observe the strangeness, that only five years after the reconstruction of the electoral body by the Whig party, in a borough called into political existence by their policy, a manufacturing town, too, the candidate comprising in his person every quality and circumstance which could recommend him to the constituency, and his opponent the worst specimen of the Old Generation, a political adventurer, who owed the least disreputable part of his notoriety to his opposition to the Reform Bill; that in such a borough, under such circumstances, there should be a contest, and that, too, one of a very doubtful issue.

And here, in a piece that, in a simple form, aims to offer neither an uninformed nor a biased perspective on the political history of the ten significant years of the Reform struggle, we should take a moment to notice the oddity that only five years after the Whig party restructured the voting body, in a borough created politically by their actions, a manufacturing town as well, the candidate represented every quality and circumstance that could endear him to the voters, while his opponent was the worst example of the Old Generation, a political opportunist who earned the least disreputable part of his fame from opposing the Reform Bill; that in such a borough, under such conditions, there could be a contest, and a very uncertain one at that.

What was the cause of this? Are we to seek it in the ‘Reaction’ of the Tadpoles and the Tapers? That would not be a satisfactory solution. Reaction, to a certain extent, is the law of human existence. In the particular state of affairs before us, England after the Reform Act, it never could be doubtful that Time would gradually, and in some instances rapidly, counteract the national impulse of 1832. There never could have been a question, for example, that the English counties would have reverted to their natural allegiance to their proprietors; but the results of the appeals to the third Estate in 1835 and 1837 are not to be accounted for by a mere readjustment of legitimate influences.

What caused this? Should we look for it in the reactions of the Tadpoles and the Tapers? That isn't a satisfactory answer. Reaction, to some extent, is a fundamental part of human existence. Given the situation before us, England after the Reform Act, it was never really in doubt that over time, and sometimes quickly, the national tendency of 1832 would be offset. It was clear, for instance, that the English counties would return to their natural loyalty to their landowners; however, the outcomes of the appeals to the third Estate in 1835 and 1837 cannot be explained just by a simple adjustment of legitimate influences.

The truth is, that, considerable as are the abilities of the Whig leaders, highly accomplished as many of them unquestionably must be acknowledged in parliamentary debate, experienced in council, sedulous in office, eminent as scholars, powerful from their position, the absence of individual influence, and of the pervading authority of a commanding mind, have been the cause of the fall of the Whig party.

The truth is, that while the Whig leaders have considerable abilities, many of them are undeniably skilled in parliamentary debate, experienced in advisory roles, diligent in their work, respected as scholars, and strong due to their positions, the lack of individual influence and the absence of a unifying, commanding presence have led to the decline of the Whig party.

Such a supremacy was generally acknowledged in Lord Grey on the accession of this party to power: but it was the supremacy of a tradition rather than of a fact. Almost at the outset of his authority his successor was indicated. When the crisis arrived, the intended successor was not in the Whig ranks. It is in this virtual absence of a real and recognised leader, almost from the moment that they passed their great measure, that we must seek a chief cause of all that insubordination, all those distempered ambitions, and all those dark intrigues, that finally broke up, not only the Whig government, but the Whig party; demoralised their ranks, and sent them to the country, both in 1835 and 1837, with every illusion, which had operated so happily in their favour in 1832, scattered to the winds. In all things we trace the irresistible influence of the individual.

Such a dominance was widely recognized in Lord Grey when this party came to power, but it was more about tradition than actual fact. Right at the beginning of his leadership, his successor was already being pointed out. When the time came, the planned successor wasn’t part of the Whig ranks. It's in this lack of a true and recognized leader, almost from the moment they passed their significant measure, that we find a major reason for all the insubordination, those tumultuous ambitions, and all the shady intrigues that ultimately dismantled not just the Whig government, but the Whig party as a whole; it demoralized their ranks and sent them to the public in both 1835 and 1837, with every hope that had worked so well for them in 1832 scattered to the winds. In all things, we see the powerful influence of the individual.

And yet the interval that elapsed between 1835 and 1837 proved, that there was all this time in the Whig array one entirely competent to the office of leading a great party, though his capacity for that fulfilment was too tardily recognised.

And yet the time that passed between 1835 and 1837 showed that there was someone in the Whig party who was fully capable of leading a major party, even though his ability to do so was recognized too late.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL has that degree of imagination, which, though evinced rather in sentiment than expression, still enables him to generalise from the details of his reading and experience; and to take those comprehensive views, which, however easily depreciated by ordinary men in an age of routine, are indispensable to a statesman in the conjunctures in which we live. He understands, therefore, his position; and he has the moral intrepidity which prompts him ever to dare that which his intellect assures him is politic. He is consequently, at the same time, sagacious and bold in council. As an administrator he is prompt and indefatigable. He is not a natural orator, and labours under physical deficiencies which even a Demosthenic impulse could scarcely overcome. But he is experienced in debate, quick in reply, fertile in resource, takes large views, and frequently compensates for a dry and hesitating manner by the expression of those noble truths that flash across the fancy, and rise spontaneously to the lip, of men of poetic temperament when addressing popular assemblies. If we add to this, a private life of dignified repute, the accidents of his birth and rank, which never can be severed from the man, the scion of a great historic family, and born, as it were, to the hereditary service of the State, it is difficult to ascertain at what period, or under what circumstances, the Whig party have ever possessed, or could obtain, a more efficient leader.

LORD JOHN RUSSELL has a level of imagination that, while more evident in his feelings than in how he expresses them, still allows him to draw broader conclusions from his readings and experiences. He can see the bigger picture, which, although easily dismissed by ordinary people in a routine era, is crucial for a statesman in our current times. He understands his role and has the moral courage to pursue what he believes is politically wise. As a result, he is both insightful and daring in his decision-making. As an administrator, he is quick and tireless. He isn’t a natural speaker and has physical challenges that would make even a great orator struggle. However, he is skilled in debate, quick to respond, resourceful, sees the big picture, and often makes up for his dry and hesitant style with powerful truths that come to mind and flow naturally from people with a poetic spirit when they speak to large crowds. Adding to this is his dignified personal life, his noble background that is inseparable from him as the descendant of a prominent historic family, and born, so to speak, into public service. It's hard to determine when or how the Whig party ever had or could find a more effective leader.

But we must return to the Darlford election. The class of thoughtful voters was sufficiently numerous in that borough to render the result of the contest doubtful to the last; and on the eve of the day of nomination both parties were equally sanguine.

But we need to go back to the Darlford election. There were enough thoughtful voters in that borough to keep the outcome of the contest uncertain until the very end; and on the night before the nomination day, both parties were equally optimistic.

Nomination-day altogether is an unsatisfactory affair. There is little to be done, and that little mere form. The tedious hours remain, and no one can settle his mind to anything. It is not a holiday, for every one is serious; it is not business, for no one can attend to it; it is not a contest, for there is no canvassing; nor an election, for there is no poll. It is a day of lounging without an object, and luncheons without an appetite; of hopes and fears; confidence and dejection; bravado bets and secret hedging; and, about midnight, of furious suppers of grilled bones, brandy-and-water, and recklessness.

Nomination day is just a frustrating experience. There’s not much to do, and what little there is feels pointless. The hours drag on, and no one can focus on anything. It’s not a holiday because everyone is too serious; it’s not business since no one can really get down to it; it’s not a contest because there isn’t any campaigning, and it’s not an election since there’s no voting. It’s a day of lounging around with no purpose, having lunches without any appetite; filled with hopes and fears; confidence and disappointment; bold bets and secret backtracking; and, around midnight, it turns into a wild feast of grilled bones, brandy-and-water, and recklessness.

The president and vice-president of the Conservative Association, the secretary and the four solicitors who were agents, had impressed upon Mr. Rigby that it was of the utmost importance, and must produce a great moral effect, if he obtain the show of hands. With his powers of eloquence and their secret organisation, they flattered themselves it might be done. With this view, Rigby inflicted a speech of more than two hours’ duration on the electors, who bore it very kindly, as the mob likes, above all things, that the ceremonies of nomination-day should not be cut short: moreover, there is nothing that the mob likes so much as a speech. Rigby therefore had, on the whole, a far from unfavourable audience, and he availed himself of their forbearance. He brought in his crack theme, the guillotine, and dilated so elaborately upon its qualities, that one of the gentlemen below could not refrain from exclaiming, ‘I wish you may get it.’ This exclamation gave Mr. Rigby what is called a great opening, which, like a practised speaker, he immediately seized. He denounced the sentiment as ‘un-English,’ and got much cheered. Excited by this success, Rigby began to call everything else ‘un-English’ with which he did not agree, until menacing murmurs began to rise, when he shifted the subject, and rose into a grand peroration, in which he assured them that the eyes of the whole empire were on this particular election; cries of ‘That’s true,’ from all sides; and that England expected every man to do his duty.

The president and vice-president of the Conservative Association, the secretary, and the four solicitors who were agents had made it clear to Mr. Rigby that it was extremely important, and would have a significant moral impact, if he could secure the show of hands. With his persuasive abilities and their covert organization, they felt confident it could be achieved. With this goal in mind, Rigby delivered a speech that lasted over two hours, which the voters tolerated graciously because, above all, crowds love for the ceremonies of nomination day to go uninterrupted; additionally, nothing excites a crowd more than a speech. Overall, Rigby had a decidedly favorable audience, and he took advantage of their patience. He introduced his favorite topic, the guillotine, and talked so extensively about its merits that one of the gentlemen in the audience couldn't help but shout, “I hope you get it.” This outburst gave Mr. Rigby what’s known as a great opportunity, which he expertly seized like a seasoned orator. He condemned the remark as “un-English,” earning loud applause. Energized by this success, Rigby began labeling anything he disagreed with as “un-English” until threatening murmurs began to emerge, prompting him to change the subject and rise into a grand conclusion, assuring them that the whole empire was watching this particular election; cheers of "That's true" echoed from all sides, and he claimed that England expected every man to do his duty.

‘And who do you expect to do yours?’ inquired a gentleman below, ‘about that ’ere pension?’

‘And who do you expect to handle yours?’ asked a gentleman below, ‘about that pension?’

‘Rigby,’ screeched a hoarse voice, ‘don’t you mind; you guv it them well.’

‘Rigby,’ shouted a raspy voice, ‘don’t worry; you gave it to them good.’

‘Rigby, keep up your spirits, old chap: we will have you.’

‘Rigby, stay positive, buddy: we’re going to get you.’

‘Now!’ said a stentorian voice; and a man as tall as Saul looked round him. This was the engaged leader of the Conservative mob; the eye of every one of his minions was instantly on him. ‘Now! Our young Queen and our Old Institutions! Rigby for ever!’

‘Now!’ said a loud voice; and a man as tall as Saul looked around him. This was the leader of the Conservative crowd; every one of his followers immediately focused on him. ‘Now! Our young Queen and our Old Institutions! Rigby forever!’

This was a signal for the instant appearance of the leader of the Liberal mob. Magog Wrath, not so tall as Bully Bluck, his rival, had a voice almost as powerful, a back much broader, and a countenance far more forbidding. ‘Now, my boys, the Queen and Millbank for ever!’

This was a signal for the immediate appearance of the leader of the Liberal mob. Magog Wrath, not as tall as Bully Bluck, his rival, had a voice that was almost just as strong, a broader back, and a much more intimidating face. ‘Now, my guys, the Queen and Millbank forever!’

These rival cries were the signals for a fight between the two bands of gladiators in the face of the hustings, the body of the people little interfering. Bully Bluck seized Magog Wrath’s colours; they wrestled, they seized each other; their supporters were engaged in mutual contest; it appeared to be a most alarming and perilous fray; several ladies from the windows screamed, one fainted; a band of special constables pushed their way through the mob; you heard their staves resounded on the skulls of all who opposed them, especially the little boys: order was at length restored; and, to tell the truth, the only hurts inflicted were those which came from the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog Wrath, with all their fierce looks, flaunting colours, loud cheers, and desperate assaults, were, after all, only a couple of Condottieri, who were cautious never to wound each other. They were, in fact, a peaceful police, who kept the town in awe, and prevented others from being mischievous who were more inclined to do harm. Their hired gangs were the safety-valves for all the scamps of the borough, who, receiving a few shillings per head for their nominal service, and as much drink as they liked after the contest, were bribed and organised into peace and sobriety on the days in which their excesses were most to be apprehended.

These rival shouts were the signals for a fight between the two groups of gladiators in front of the rally, with the crowd mostly staying out of it. Bully Bluck grabbed Magog Wrath’s colors; they wrestled and fought each other while their followers engaged in a heated contest. It looked like a frightening and dangerous brawl; several ladies screamed from the windows, and one fainted. A group of special constables pushed their way through the crowd; you could hear their clubs hitting everyone who got in their way, especially the little boys. Order was finally restored, and honestly, the only injuries that happened were from the special constables. Bully Bluck and Magog Wrath, with all their fierce expressions, flashy colors, loud cheers, and intense attacks, turned out to be just a couple of hired fighters who were careful not to hurt each other. They were basically a peacekeeping force, keeping the town in check and preventing others who were more likely to cause trouble. Their hired gangs acted as a pressure release for all the troublemakers in the area, who, for a few shillings each for their nominal role and as much drink as they wanted after the fight, were bribed and organized into peace and sobriety on the days when their misbehavior was most expected.

Now Mr. Millbank came forward: he was brief compared with Mr. Rigby; but clear and terse. No one could misunderstand him. He did not favour his hearers with any history, but gave them his views about taxes, free trade, placemen, and pensioners, whoever and wherever they might be.

Now Mr. Millbank stepped up: he was short and to the point compared to Mr. Rigby, but clear and concise. No one could misinterpret him. He didn’t waste time on any background stories, but shared his thoughts on taxes, free trade, government appointees, and pensioners, whoever and wherever they might be.

‘Hilloa, Rigby, about that ‘ere pension?’

“Hey, Rigby, what’s up with that pension?”

‘Millbank for ever! We will have him.’

‘Millbank forever! We will get him.’

‘Never mind, Rigby, you’ll come in next time.’

‘Don’t worry, Rigby, you’ll join in next time.’

Mr. Millbank was energetic about resident representatives, but did not understand that a resident representative meant the nominee of a great Lord, who lived in a great castle; great cheering. There was a Lord once who declared that, if he liked, he would return his negro valet to Parliament; but Mr. Millbank thought those days were over. It remained for the people of Darlford to determine whether he was mistaken.

Mr. Millbank was passionate about having local representatives, but he didn't realize that a local representative meant the chosen person of a powerful Lord, who lived in a big castle; big cheers. There was once a Lord who said that if he wanted to, he could send his black servant to Parliament; but Mr. Millbank believed those times were behind us. It was up to the people of Darlford to decide if he was wrong.

‘Never!’ exclaimed the mob. ‘Millbank for ever! Rigby in the river! No niggers, no walets!’

‘Never!’ shouted the crowd. ‘Millbank forever! Rigby in the river! No black people, no wallets!’

‘Three groans for Rigby.’

"Three cheers for Rigby."

‘His language ain’t as purty as the Lunnun chap’s,’ said a critic below; ‘but he speaks from his ‘art: and give me the man who ‘as got a ‘art.’

‘His language isn't as pretty as the London guy’s,’ said a critic below; ‘but he speaks from his heart: and give me the man who has got a heart.’

‘That’s your time of day, Mr. Robinson.’

‘Now!’ said Magog Wrath, looking around. ‘Now, the Queen and Millbank for ever! Hurrah!’

‘Now!’ said Magog Wrath, looking around. ‘Now, the Queen and Millbank forever! Hurrah!’

The show of hands was entirely in favour of Mr. Millbank. Scarcely a hand was held up for Mr. Rigby below, except by Bully Bluck and his praetorians. The Chairman and the Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Association, the Secretary, and the four agents, severally and respectively went up to Mr. Rigby and congratulated him on the result, as it was a known fact, ‘that the show of hands never won.’

The show of hands was completely in favor of Mr. Millbank. Hardly anyone raised a hand for Mr. Rigby, except for Bully Bluck and his followers. The Chairman and Deputy Chairman of the Conservative Association, the Secretary, and the four agents all approached Mr. Rigby to congratulate him on the outcome, as it was common knowledge that "the show of hands never won."

The eve of polling-day was now at hand. This is the most critical period of an election. All night parties in disguise were perambulating the different wards, watching each other’s tactics; masks, wigs, false noses, gentles in livery coats, men in female attire, a silent carnival of manoeuvre, vigilance, anxiety, and trepidation. The thoughtful voters about this time make up their minds; the enthusiasts who have told you twenty times a-day for the last fortnight, that they would get up in the middle of the night to serve you, require the most watchful cooping; all the individuals who have assured you that ‘their word is their bond,’ change sides.

The night before polling day had arrived. This is the most crucial time of an election. All night, disguised groups were moving through the different wards, keeping an eye on each other's strategies; masks, wigs, fake noses, gentlemen in fancy coats, men in women's outfits—a silent festival of maneuvering, vigilance, anxiety, and fear. At this point, the thoughtful voters are making their decisions; the enthusiastic ones who have told you twenty times a day for the past two weeks that they would rise in the middle of the night to help you need careful watching; all the people who assured you that "their word is their bond" switch sides.

Two of the Rigbyites met in the market-place about an hour after midnight.

Two of the Rigbyites ran into each other in the marketplace around an hour after midnight.

‘Well, how goes it?’ said one.

‘So, how's it going?’ said one.

‘I have been the rounds. The blunt’s going like the ward-pump. I saw a man come out of Moffatt’s house, muffled up with a mask on. I dodged him. It was Biggs.’

‘I have been around. The blunt is going like the ward-pump. I saw a guy come out of Moffatt’s house, all bundled up with a mask on. I avoided him. It was Biggs.’

‘You don’t mean that, do you? D——e, I’ll answer for Moffatt.’

‘You don't really mean that, do you? Damn it, I’ll speak for Moffatt.’

‘I never thought he was a true man.’

‘I never thought he was a real man.’

‘Told Robins?’

‘I could not see him; but I met young Gunning and told him.’

‘I couldn't see him; but I ran into young Gunning and told him.’

‘Young Gunning! That won’t do.’

"Young Gunning! That won't work."

‘I thought he was as right as the town clock.’

'I thought he was as reliable as the town clock.'

‘So did I, once. Hush! who comes here? The enemy, Franklin and Sampson Potts. Keep close.’

‘So did I, once. Hush! Who’s coming here? The enemy, Franklin and Sampson Potts. Stay close.’

‘I’ll speak to them. Good night, Potts. Up rather late to-night?’

‘I’ll talk to them. Good night, Potts. Staying up pretty late tonight?’

‘All fair election time. You ain’t snoring, are you?’

‘It's all fair election season. You’re not snoozing, are you?’

‘Well, I hope the best man will win.’

‘Well, I hope the best man wins.’

‘I am sure he will.’

"I'm sure he will."

‘You must go for Moffatt early, to breakfast at the White Lion; that’s your sort. Don’t leave him, and poll him your-self. I am going off to Solomon Lacey’s. He has got four Millbankites cooped up very drunk, and I want to get them quietly into the country before daybreak.’

‘You need to meet Moffatt early for breakfast at the White Lion; that’s your scene. Don’t ditch him, and ask him yourself. I'm heading to Solomon Lacey’s. He's got four Millbankites completely drunk, and I want to get them out to the countryside before dawn.’

‘Tis polling-day! The candidates are roused from their slumbers at an early hour by the music of their own bands perambulating the town, and each playing the ‘conquering hero’ to sustain the courage of their jaded employers, by depriving them of that rest which can alone tranquillise the nervous system. There is something in that matin burst of music, followed by a shrill cheer from the boys of the borough, the only inhabitants yet up, that is very depressing.

It’s polling day! The candidates are woken up early by their own bands marching through the town, each playing the “conquering hero” to boost the spirits of their tired supporters, robbing them of the rest that can calm their nerves. There’s something about that morning burst of music, followed by a loud cheer from the boys of the borough, the only ones awake so far, that is really disheartening.

The committee-rooms of each candidate are soon rife with black reports; each side has received fearful bulletins of the preceding night campaign; and its consequences as exemplified in the morning, unprecedented tergiversations, mysterious absences; men who breakfast with one side and vote with the other; men who won’t come to breakfast; men who won’t leave breakfast.

The candidate's committee rooms quickly fill with negative reports; each side has gotten alarming updates about last night's campaign and the fallout seen in the morning—unusual changes of heart, mysterious disappearances; people who eat breakfast with one side yet vote with the other; people who refuse to show up for breakfast; people who refuse to leave breakfast.

At ten o’clock Mr. Rigby was in a majority of twenty-eight.

At ten o’clock, Mr. Rigby had a lead of twenty-eight.

The polling was brisk and equal until the middle of the day, when it became slack. Mr. Rigby kept a majority, but an inconsiderable one. Mr. Millbank’s friends were not disheartened, as it was known that the leading members of Mr. Rigby’s committee had polled; whereas his opponent’s were principally reserved. At a quarter-past two there was great cheering and uproar. The four voters in favour of Millbank, whom Solomon Lacey had cooped up, made drunk, and carried into the country, had recovered iheir senses, made their escape, and voted as they originally intended. Soon after this, Mr. Millbank was declared by his committee to be in a majority of one, but the committee of Mr. Rigby instantly posted a placard, in large letters, to announce that, on the contrary, their man was in a majority of nine.

The polling was steady and balanced until midday, when it slowed down. Mr. Rigby maintained a majority, but it was a small one. Mr. Millbank’s supporters were still hopeful, as it was known that the leading members of Mr. Rigby’s team had cast their votes; meanwhile, many of his opponent’s supporters had held back. At a quarter past two, there was a lot of cheering and commotion. The four voters who were supporting Millbank and had been locked up, drunk, and taken out of town by Solomon Lacey, had regained their senses, escaped, and voted as they had originally planned. Shortly after this, Mr. Millbank was announced by his team to have a majority of one, but Mr. Rigby’s committee quickly put up a large placard stating that, on the contrary, their candidate had a majority of nine.

‘If we could only have got another registration,’ whispered the principal agent to Mr. Rigby, at a quarter-past four.

‘If we could just have gotten another registration,’ whispered the principal agent to Mr. Rigby, at 4:15.

‘You think it’s all over, then?’

‘So you think it’s all over now?’

‘Why, I do not see now how we can win. We have polled all our dead men, and Millbank is seven ahead.’

‘Honestly, I can’t see how we can win now. We’ve counted all our losses, and Millbank is seven votes ahead.’

‘I have no doubt we shall be able to have a good petition,’ said the consoling chairman of the Conservative Association.

‘I have no doubt we’ll be able to put together a solid petition,’ said the reassuring chairman of the Conservative Association.

CHAPTER V.

It was not with feelings of extreme satisfaction that Mr. Rigby returned to London. The loss of Hellingsley, followed by the loss of the borough to Hellingsley’s successful master, were not precisely the incidents which would be adduced as evidence of Mr. Rigby’s good management or good fortune. Hitherto that gentleman had persuaded the world that he was not only very clever, but that he was also always in luck; a quality which many appreciate more even than capacity. His reputation was unquestionably damaged, both with his patron and his party. But what the Tapers and the Tadpoles thought or said, what even might be the injurious effect on his own career of the loss of this election, assumed an insignificant character when compared with its influence on the temper and disposition of the Marquess of Monmouth.

Mr. Rigby didn't return to London feeling very satisfied. Losing Hellingsley, and then the borough to Hellingsley’s successful opponent, weren't exactly the situations that would showcase Mr. Rigby’s good management or luck. Up until now, he had convinced everyone that he was not only smart but also always fortunate, a trait that many value even more than ability. His reputation was clearly hurt, both with his patron and his party. However, what the Tapers and the Tadpoles thought or said, or even how the loss of this election might negatively affect his own career, seemed unimportant compared to its impact on the mood and attitude of the Marquess of Monmouth.

And yet his carriage is now entering the courtyard of Monmouth House, and, in all probability, a few minutes would introduce him to that presence before which he had, ere this, trembled. The Marquess was at home, and anxious to see Mr. Rigby. In a few minutes that gentleman was ascending the private staircase, entering the antechamber, and waiting to be received in the little saloon, exactly as our Coningsby did more than five years ago, scarcely less agitated, but by feelings of a very different character.

And yet his carriage is now pulling up to the courtyard of Monmouth House, and in all likelihood, in just a few minutes he would be introduced to that presence before which he had, up until now, felt nervous. The Marquess was home and eager to see Mr. Rigby. In a few minutes, that gentleman was making his way up the private staircase, entering the waiting room, and preparing to be received in the small sitting room, just like our Coningsby did more than five years ago, feeling just as anxious, but for very different reasons.

‘Well, you made a good fight of it,’ exclaimed the Marquess, in a cheerful and cordial tone, as Mr. Rigby entered his dressing-room. ‘Patience! We shall win next time.’

‘Well, you really gave it your all,’ the Marquess said cheerfully as Mr. Rigby walked into his dressing room. ‘Stay positive! We’ll win next time.’

This reception instantly reassured the defeated candidate, though its contrast to that which he expected rather perplexed him. He entered into the details of the election, talked rapidly of the next registration, the propriety of petitioning; accustomed himself to hearing his voice with its habitual volubility in a chamber where he had feared it might not sound for some time.

This welcome immediately comforted the defeated candidate, though its difference from what he had anticipated confused him. He went into details about the election, spoke quickly about the upcoming registration, and the appropriateness of filing a petition; he got used to hearing his own voice, with its typical fluency, in a room where he had worried it might be silent for a while.

‘D——n politics!’ said the Marquess. ‘These fellows are in for this Parliament, and I am really weary of the whole affair. I begin to think the Duke was right, and it would have been best to have left them to themselves. I am glad you have come up at once, for I want you. The fact is, I am going to be married.’

‘Damn politics!’ said the Marquess. ‘These guys are here for this Parliament, and I’m really tired of the whole thing. I’m starting to think the Duke was right; it would have been better to leave them alone. I'm glad you came up right away because I need you. The truth is, I’m going to get married.’

This was not a startling announcement to Mr. Rigby; he was prepared for it, though scarcely could have hoped that he would have been favoured with it on the present occasion, instead of a morose comment on his misfortunes. Marriage, then, was the predominant idea of Lord Monmouth at the present moment, in whose absorbing interest all vexations were forgotten. Fortunate Rigby! Disgusted by the failure of his political combinations, his disappointments in not dictating to the county and not carrying the borough, and the slight prospect at present of obtaining the great object of his ambition, Lord Monmouth had resolved to precipitate his fate, was about to marry immediately, and quit England.

This wasn’t a surprising announcement for Mr. Rigby; he was ready for it, even if he could hardly have hoped to receive it right now instead of a gloomy comment on his bad luck. So, marriage was the main focus for Lord Monmouth at the moment, in which all frustrations were forgotten. Lucky Rigby! Frustrated by the failure of his political plans, his disappointments in not controlling the county and not winning the borough, and the slim chance at the moment of achieving his major goal, Lord Monmouth had decided to speed things along, planning to marry soon and leave England.

‘You will be wanted, Rigby,’ continued the Marquess. ‘We must have a couple of trustees, and I have thought of you as one. You know you are my executor; and it is better not to bring in unnecessarily new names into the management of my affairs. Lord Eskdale will act with you.’

‘You will be needed, Rigby,’ the Marquess continued. ‘We need a couple of trustees, and I’ve considered you for one. You know you’re my executor; and it’s best not to introduce any unnecessary new faces into the management of my affairs. Lord Eskdale will be working with you.’

Rigby then, after all, was a lucky man. After such a succession of failures, he had returned only to receive fresh and the most delicate marks of his patron’s good feeling and consideration. Lord Monmouth’s trustee and executor! ‘You know you are my executor.’ Sublime truth! It ought to be blazoned in letters of gold in the most conspicuous part of Rigby’s library, to remind him perpetually of his great and impending destiny. Lord Monmouth’s executor, and very probably one of his residuary legatees! A legatee of some sort he knew he was. What a splendid memento mori! What cared Rigby for the borough of Darlford? And as for his political friends, he wished them joy of their barren benches. Nothing was lost by not being in this Parliament.

Rigby was, after all, a fortunate man. After such a streak of failures, he came back only to receive new and the most subtle signs of his patron’s kindness and regard. Lord Monmouth’s trustee and executor! “You know you are my executor.” What a profound truth! It should be displayed in gold letters in the most prominent spot in Rigby’s library, to constantly remind him of his great and impending destiny. Lord Monmouth’s executor, and likely one of his remaining beneficiaries! He knew he was some kind of beneficiary. What a magnificent memento mori! What did Rigby care about the borough of Darlford? And as for his political friends, he wished them luck with their empty seats. Nothing was lost by not being in this Parliament.

It was then with sincerity that Rigby offered his congratulations to his patron. He praised the judicious alliance, accompanied by every circumstance conducive to worldly happiness; distinguished beauty, perfect temper, princely rank. Rigby, who had hardly got out of his hustings’ vein, was most eloquent in his praises of Madame Colonna.

It was then with genuine feeling that Rigby congratulated his patron. He praised the smart match, noting everything that contributes to a happy life: remarkable beauty, a great temperament, and noble rank. Rigby, who had barely stepped away from his campaign mode, was very eloquent in his compliments of Madame Colonna.

‘An amiable woman,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘and very handsome. I always admired her; and an agreeable person too; I dare say a very good temper, but I am not going to marry her.’

‘She’s a nice woman,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘and really attractive. I’ve always admired her; she’s pleasant to be around too; I bet she has a great temper, but I’m not going to marry her.’

‘Might I then ask who is—’

‘Can I then ask who is—’

‘Her step-daughter, the Princess Lucretia,’ replied the Marquess, quietly, and looking at his ring.

‘Her step-daughter, Princess Lucretia,’ the Marquess replied quietly, looking at his ring.

Here was a thunderbolt! Rigby had made another mistake. He had been working all this time for the wrong woman! The consciousness of being a trustee alone sustained him. There was an inevitable pause. The Marquess would not speak however, and Rigby must. He babbled rather incoherently about the Princess Lucretia being admired by everybody; also that she was the most fortunate of women, as well as the most accomplished; he was just beginning to say he had known her from a child, when discretion stopped his tongue, which had a habit of running on somewhat rashly; but Rigby, though he often blundered in his talk, had the talent of extricating himself from the consequence of his mistakes.

Here was a shocker! Rigby had messed up again. He had been working all this time for the wrong woman! The realization that he was a trustee was the only thing keeping him going. There was an awkward pause. The Marquess wouldn’t say anything, so Rigby had to. He babbled somewhat incoherently about how everyone admired Princess Lucretia; he mentioned that she was the luckiest and most talented of women. He was just starting to say he had known her since she was a child when he thought better of it, as he had a tendency to speak a bit too freely; but Rigby, even though he often stumbled in conversation, had a knack for getting himself out of the messes he created.

‘And Madame must be highly gratified by all this?’ observed Mr. Rigby, with an enquiring accent. He was dying to learn how she had first received the intelligence, and congratulated himself that his absence at his contest had preserved him from the storm.

‘And Madame must be really pleased by all this?’ remarked Mr. Rigby, with a curious tone. He was eager to find out how she had initially reacted to the news and felt relieved that being away during his competition had kept him out of the chaos.

‘Madame Colonna knows nothing of our intentions,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘And by the bye, that is the very business on which I wish to see you, Rigby. I wish you to communicate them to her. We are to be married, and immediately. It would gratify me that the wife of Lucretia’s father should attend our wedding. You understand exactly what I mean, Rigby; I must have no scenes. Always happy to see the Princess Colonna under my roof; but then I like to live quietly, particularly at present; harassed as I have been by the loss of these elections, by all this bad management, and by all these disappointments on subjects in which I was led to believe success was certain. Madame Colonna is at home;’ and the Marquess bowed Mr. Rigby out of the room.

“Madame Colonna doesn’t know anything about our plans,” said Lord Monmouth. “By the way, that’s the very reason I wanted to see you, Rigby. I need you to let her know. We’re getting married, and it’s happening soon. It would please me to have the wife of Lucretia's father at our wedding. You know exactly what I mean, Rigby; I can’t deal with any drama. I’m always happy to have Princess Colonna as a guest in my home, but I prefer to keep things calm, especially right now; I’ve been stressed out by the loss of these elections, all this mismanagement, and the disappointments in areas where I thought success was guaranteed. Madame Colonna is at home;” and the Marquess nodded Mr. Rigby out of the room.

CHAPTER VI.

The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby Castle, in the autumn, determined the Princess Lucretia on a step which had for some time before his arrival occupied her brooding imagination. Nature had bestowed on this lady an ambitious soul and a subtle spirit; she could dare much and could execute finely. Above all things she coveted power; and though not free from the characteristic susceptibility of her sex, the qualities that could engage her passions or fascinate her fancy must partake of that intellectual eminence which distinguished her. Though the Princess Lucretia in a short space of time had seen much of the world, she had as yet encountered no hero. In the admirers whom her rank, and sometimes her intelligence, assembled around her, her master had not yet appeared. Her heart had not trembled before any of those brilliant forms whom she was told her sex admired; nor did she envy any one the homage which she did not appreciate. There was, therefore, no disturbing element in the worldly calculations which she applied to that question which is, to woman, what a career is to man, the question of marriage. She would marry to gain power, and therefore she wished to marry the powerful. Lord Eskdale hovered around her, and she liked him. She admired his incomparable shrewdness; his freedom from ordinary prejudices; his selfishness which was always good-natured, and the imperturbability that was not callous. But Lord Eskdale had hovered round many; it was his easy habit. He liked clever women, young, but who had seen something of the world. The Princess Lucretia pleased him much; with the form and mind of a woman even in the nursery. He had watched her development with interest; and had witnessed her launch in that world where she floated at once with as much dignity and consciousness of superior power, as if she had braved for seasons its waves and its tempests.

The departure of Sidonia from Coningsby Castle in the autumn pushed Princess Lucretia to take a step she had been considering for some time before Sidonia arrived. Nature gave her an ambitious spirit and a sharp mind; she could take risks and carry them out brilliantly. Above all, she craved power; and although she wasn't free from the innate sensitivity of her gender, the qualities that could ignite her passions or capture her interest had to reflect the intellectual excellence that set her apart. Despite having seen a lot of the world in a short time, Princess Lucretia had yet to meet a true hero. Among the admirers who gathered around her due to her status, and occasionally her intelligence, her equal had not yet emerged. Her heart hadn’t skipped a beat for any of those dazzling figures she was told women admired; nor did she envy anyone for the adoration she did not value. Therefore, her worldly calculations regarding marriage, a question for women analogous to a career for men, were without any conflicting emotions. She intended to marry to gain power, which is why she sought out someone powerful. Lord Eskdale was often near her, and she had an attraction to him. She appreciated his unmatched cleverness, his lack of common biases, his good-natured selfishness, and his calm demeanor that wasn't insensitive. However, Lord Eskdale had drawn close to many women; it was just his nature. He favored intelligent, young women who had experienced a bit of the world. Princess Lucretia captivated him greatly; he saw in her both the grace and intellect of a woman, even as a child. He watched her growth with interest and observed her launch into a world where she navigated with both dignity and an awareness of her superior strength, as if she had weathered its waves and storms for seasons.

Musing over Lord Eskdale, the mind of Lucretia was drawn to the image of his friend; her friend; the friend of her parents. And why not marry Lord Monmouth? The idea pleased her. There was something great in the conception; difficult and strange. The result, if achieved, would give her all that she desired. She devoted her mind to this secret thought. She had no confidants. She concentrated her intellect on one point, and that was to fascinate the grandfather of Coningsby, while her step-mother was plotting that she should marry his grandson. The volition of Lucretia Colonna was, if not supreme, of a power most difficult to resist. There was something charm-like and alluring in the conversation of one who was silent to all others; something in the tones of her low rich voice which acted singularly on the nervous system. It was the voice of the serpent; indeed, there was an undulating movement in Lucretia, when she approached you, which irresistibly reminded you of that mysterious animal.

As Lucretia thought about Lord Eskdale, her mind turned to the image of his friend; her friend; the friend of her parents. And why not marry Lord Monmouth? The idea delighted her. There was something grand in the concept; difficult and unusual. If she succeeded, it would give her everything she wanted. She focused her thoughts on this secret plan. She had no one to confide in. She centered her intellect on one goal, which was to captivate Coningsby's grandfather, while her stepmother was scheming for her to marry his grandson. Lucretia Colonna's will, while not absolute, was incredibly hard to resist. There was something enchanting and inviting in the way she spoke to someone who was silent to everyone else; something in the tone of her low, rich voice that had a unique effect on the nervous system. It was the voice of a serpent; indeed, there was a graceful movement in Lucretia when she approached you that irresistibly reminded you of that mysterious creature.

Lord Monmouth was not insensible to the spell, though totally unconscious of its purpose. He found the society of Lucretia very agreeable to him; she was animated, intelligent, original; her inquiries were stimulating; her comments on what she saw, and heard, and read, racy and often indicating a fine humour. But all this was reserved for his ear. Before her parents, as before all others, Lucretia was silent, a little scornful, never communicating, neither giving nor seeking amusement, shut up in herself.

Lord Monmouth was aware of the charm, even if he didn't understand its purpose. He really enjoyed spending time with Lucretia; she was lively, smart, and unique. Her questions were thought-provoking, and her comments on what she saw, heard, and read were sharp and often showed a great sense of humor. But all of this was just for him. In front of her parents and everyone else, Lucretia was quiet, a bit aloof, never engaging, neither seeking nor providing entertainment, keeping to herself.

Lord Monmouth fell therefore into the habit of riding and driving with Lucretia alone. It was an arrangement which he found made his life more pleasant. Nor was it displeasing to Madame Colonna. She looked upon Lord Monmouth’s fancy for Lucretia as a fresh tie for them all. Even the Prince, when his wife called his attention to the circumstance, observed it with satisfaction. It was a circumstance which represented in his mind a continuance of good eating and good drinking, fine horses, luxurious baths, unceasing billiards.

Lord Monmouth started to get into the routine of riding and driving with Lucretia alone. He found that this arrangement made his life more enjoyable. Madame Colonna was also pleased. She viewed Lord Monmouth’s interest in Lucretia as a new bond for everyone. Even the Prince, when his wife pointed it out to him, noticed it with satisfaction. To him, this situation symbolized a continuation of good food and drink, fine horses, luxurious baths, and endless billiards.

In this state of affairs appeared Sidonia, known before to her step-mother, but seen by Lucretia for the first time. Truly, he came, saw, and conquered. Those eyes that rarely met another’s were fixed upon his searching yet unimpassioned glance. She listened to that voice, full of music yet void of tenderness; and the spirit of Lucretia Colonna bowed before an intelligence that commanded sympathy, yet offered none.

In this situation, Sidonia showed up, familiar to her stepmother but seen by Lucretia for the first time. Truly, he came, saw, and conquered. Those eyes that seldom met anyone else's were locked onto his searching yet emotionless gaze. She listened to that voice, rich in melody yet lacking in warmth; and the spirit of Lucretia Colonna yielded to a mind that demanded sympathy but provided none.

Lucretia naturally possessed great qualities as well as great talents. Under a genial influence, her education might have formed a being capable of imparting and receiving happiness. But she found herself without a guide. Her father offered her no love; her step-mother gained from her no respect. Her literary education was the result of her own strong mind and inquisitive spirit. She valued knowledge, and she therefore acquired it. But not a single moral principle or a single religious truth had ever been instilled into her being. Frequent absence from her own country had by degrees broken off even an habitual observance of the forms of her creed; while a life of undisturbed indulgence, void of all anxiety and care, while it preserved her from many of the temptations to vice, deprived her of that wisdom ‘more precious than rubies,’ which adversity and affliction, the struggles and the sorrows of existence, can alone impart.

Lucretia naturally had great qualities as well as exceptional talents. With the right guidance, her education could have shaped her into someone capable of both giving and receiving happiness. But she was left without direction. Her father showed her no love, and her step-mother earned no respect from her. Her literary education came solely from her own strong mind and curious nature. She valued knowledge, and that's why she sought it out. However, not a single moral principle or religious truth had ever been instilled in her. Frequent absences from her home country gradually led her to stop even the habitual practices of her faith. Meanwhile, a life of uninterrupted indulgence, free from any worry or concern, kept her away from many temptations of vice, but it also deprived her of that wisdom ‘more precious than rubies,’ which can only be gained through adversity, struggle, and the sorrows of life.

Lucretia had passed her life in a refined, but rather dissolute society. Not indeed that a word that could call forth a maiden blush, conduct that could pain the purest feelings, could be heard or witnessed in those polished and luxurious circles. The most exquisite taste pervaded their atmosphere; and the uninitiated who found themselves in those perfumed chambers and those golden saloons, might believe, from all that passed before them, that their inhabitants were as pure, as orderly, and as irreproachable as their furniture. But among the habitual dwellers in these delicate halls there was a tacit understanding, a prevalent doctrine that required no formal exposition, no proofs and illustrations, no comment and no gloss; which was indeed rather a traditional conviction than an imparted dogma; that the exoteric public were, on many subjects, the victims of very vulgar prejudices, which these enlightened personages wished neither to disturb nor to adopt.

Lucretia had lived her life in a refined but somewhat reckless society. It wasn't that anything that might cause a girl to blush or behavior that could hurt the purest feelings was ever heard or seen in those classy and luxurious circles. The atmosphere was filled with the finest tastes; unacquainted guests who found themselves in those fragrant rooms and golden lounges might think, based on everything they saw, that the people living there were as pure, orderly, and flawless as their furniture. But among the regulars in these elegant halls, there was an unspoken agreement, a common belief that didn’t need formal explanation, proof, or commentary; it was more of a traditional conviction than a taught doctrine, suggesting that the outside public were, on many topics, victims of common prejudices that these enlightened individuals preferred neither to disrupt nor to embrace.

A being of such a temper, bred in such a manner; a woman full of intellect and ambition, daring and lawless, and satiated with prosperity, is not made for equable fortunes and an uniform existence. She would have sacrificed the world for Sidonia, for he had touched the fervent imagination that none before could approach; but that inscrutable man would not read the secret of her heart; and prompted alike by pique, the love of power, and a weariness of her present life, Lucretia resolved on that great result which Mr. Rigby is now about to communicate to the Princess Colonna.

A person with such a temperament, raised in such a way; a woman filled with intelligence and ambition, bold and rebellious, and used to success, isn’t suited for stable fortunes and a monotonous life. She would have given up everything for Sidonia because he had sparked a fervent imagination that no one else could reach; but that mysterious man wouldn’t uncover the secret of her heart. Driven by jealousy, a desire for power, and boredom with her current life, Lucretia decided on the significant outcome that Mr. Rigby is now going to share with Princess Colonna.

About half-an-hour after Mr. Rigby had entered that lady’s apartments it seemed that all the bells of Monmouth House were ringing at the same time. The sound even reached the Marquess in his luxurious recess; who immediately took a pinch of snuff, and ordered his valet to lock the door of the ante-chamber. The Princess Lucretia, too, heard the sounds; she was lying on a sofa, in her boudoir, reading the Inferno, and immediately mustered her garrison in the form of a French maid, and gave directions that no one should be admitted. Both the Marquess and his intended bride felt that a crisis was at hand, and resolved to participate in no scenes.

About half an hour after Mr. Rigby entered the lady’s rooms, it seemed like all the bells of Monmouth House were ringing at once. The noise even reached the Marquess in his luxurious retreat; he immediately took a pinch of snuff and told his valet to lock the door to the ante-chamber. Princess Lucretia also heard the sounds; she was lying on a sofa in her boudoir, reading the Inferno, and quickly gathered her defenses in the form of a French maid, giving orders that no one should be let in. Both the Marquess and his future bride sensed that a crisis was approaching and decided not to get involved in any drama.

The ringing ceased; there was again silence. Then there was another ring; a short, hasty, and violent pull; followed by some slamming of doors. The servants, who were all on the alert, and had advantages of hearing and observation denied to their secluded master, caught a glimpse of Mr. Rigby endeavouring gently to draw back into her apartment Madame Colonna, furious amid his deprecatory exclamations.

The ringing stopped; silence returned. Then there was another ring; a quick, frantic pull; followed by some door slamming. The servants, who were all on high alert and had better hearing and visibility than their reclusive master, caught a glimpse of Mr. Rigby trying to gently pull Madame Colonna back into her room, who was furious despite his apologetic remarks.

‘For heaven’s sake, my dear Madame; for your own sake; now really; now I assure you; you are quite wrong; you are indeed; it is a complete misapprehension; I will explain everything. I entreat, I implore, whatever you like, just what you please; only listen.’

‘For goodness' sake, my dear Madame; for your own sake; really now; I assure you; you’re completely wrong; you really are; it’s all a total misunderstanding; I’ll explain everything. I beg you, I urge you, however you want to put it; just listen.’

Then the lady, with a mantling visage and flashing eye, violently closing the door, was again lost to their sight. A few minutes after there was a moderate ring, and Mr. Rigby, coming out of the apartments, with his cravat a little out of order, as if he had had a violent shaking, met the servant who would have entered.

Then the lady, with a covered face and shining eyes, slammed the door shut and disappeared from their view. A few minutes later, there was a gentle ring, and Mr. Rigby emerged from the room with his tie slightly askew, as if he had just experienced a rough encounter, and met the servant who was about to enter.

‘Order Madame Colonna’s travelling carriage,’ he exclaimed in a loud voice, ‘and send Mademoiselle Conrad here directly. I don’t think the fellow hears me,’ added Mr. Rigby, and following the servant, he added in a low tone and with a significant glance, ‘no travelling carriage; no Mademoiselle Conrad; order the britska round as usual.’

‘Order Madame Colonna’s traveling carriage,’ he shouted, ‘and send Mademoiselle Conrad here right away. I don’t think the guy hears me,’ Mr. Rigby added, and following the servant, he said in a low voice with a meaningful look, ‘no traveling carriage; no Mademoiselle Conrad; have the britska brought around as usual.’

Nearly another hour passed; there was another ring; very moderate indeed. The servant was informed that Madame Colonna was coming down, and she appeared as usual. In a beautiful morning dress, and leaning on the arm of Mr. Rigby, she descended the stairs, and was handed into her carriage by that gentleman, who, seating himself by her side, ordered them to drive to Richmond.

Nearly another hour went by; there was another ring, quite subtle. The servant was told that Madame Colonna was coming downstairs, and she appeared as usual. In a lovely morning dress, leaning on Mr. Rigby’s arm, she went down the stairs and was assisted into her carriage by him, who, sitting beside her, directed them to drive to Richmond.

Lord Monmouth having been informed that all was calm, and that Madame Colonna, attended by Mr. Rigby, had gone to Richmond, ordered his carriage, and accompanied by Lucretia and Lucian Gay, departed immediately for Blackwall, where, in whitebait, a quiet bottle of claret, the society of his agreeable friends, and the contemplation of the passing steamers, he found a mild distraction and an amusing repose.

Lord Monmouth, having heard that everything was peaceful and that Madame Colonna, along with Mr. Rigby, had gone to Richmond, ordered his carriage and, accompanied by Lucretia and Lucian Gay, left right away for Blackwall. There, with whitebait, a quiet bottle of claret, the company of his pleasant friends, and watching the passing steamers, he found a mild distraction and a nice break.

Mr. Rigby reported that evening to the Marquess on his return, that all was arranged and tranquil. Perhaps he exaggerated the difficulties, to increase the service; but according to his account they were considerable. It required some time to make Madame Colonna comprehend the nature of his communication. All Rigby’s diplomatic skill was expended in the gradual development. When it was once fairly put before her, the effect was appalling. That was the first great ringing of bells. Rigby softened a little what he had personally endured; but he confessed she sprang at him like a tigress balked of her prey, and poured forth on him a volume of epithets, many of which Rigby really deserved. But after all, in the present instance, he was not treacherous, only base, which he always was. Then she fell into a passion of tears, and vowed frequently that she was not weeping for herself, but only for that dear Mr. Coningsby, who had been treated so infamously and robbed of Lucretia, and whose heart she knew must break. It seemed that Rigby stemmed the first violence of her emotion by mysterious intimations of an important communication that he had to make; and piquing her curiosity, he calmed her passion. But really having nothing to say, he was nearly involved in fresh dangers. He took refuge in the affectation of great agitation which prevented exposition. The lady then insisted on her travelling carriage being ordered and packed, as she was determined to set out for Rome that afternoon. This little occurrence gave Rigby some few minutes to collect himself, at the end of which he made the Princess several announcements of intended arrangements, all of which pleased her mightily, though they were so inconsistent with each other, that if she had not been a woman in a passion, she must have detected that Rigby was lying. He assured her almost in the same breath, that she was never to be separated from them, and that she was to have any establishment in any country she liked. He talked wildly of equipages, diamonds, shawls, opera-boxes; and while her mind was bewildered with these dazzling objects, he, with intrepid gravity, consulted her as to the exact amount she would like to have apportioned, independent of her general revenue, for the purposes of charity.

Mr. Rigby reported to the Marquess that evening upon his return that everything was organized and calm. He might have exaggerated the difficulties to make his role seem more significant, but according to his account, they were substantial. It took some time for Madame Colonna to understand the nature of his message. Rigby used all his diplomatic skill to break it down gradually. Once he finally laid it out for her, the reaction was shocking. That was the first big wave of panic. Rigby downplayed what he had personally gone through, but he admitted she lunged at him like a tigress denied her prey, unleashing a torrent of insults, many of which he genuinely deserved. Yet in this instance, he wasn’t being treacherous; he was just being cruel, which was typical of him. Then she burst into tears, insisting repeatedly that she wasn’t crying for herself but only for that dear Mr. Coningsby, who had been treated so badly and robbed of Lucretia, and whose heart she believed must be breaking. It seemed Rigby managed to quell the initial intensity of her emotions by hinting at an important announcement he had to share, and by piquing her curiosity, he calmed her down. But since he really had nothing to say, he nearly found himself in even more trouble. He resorted to pretending to be very agitated, which prevented him from explaining anything. The lady then insisted that her traveling carriage be ordered and packed, as she was determined to leave for Rome that afternoon. This little episode gave Rigby a few minutes to gather himself, during which he made several announcements about intended arrangements for the Princess, all of which she found delightful, even though they were so contradictory that if she hadn’t been in a frenzy, she would have realized that Rigby was lying. He assured her almost in the same breath that she would never be separated from them, and that she could set up her home in any country she wanted. He spoke wildly about carriages, diamonds, shawls, and opera-boxes; and while her mind was dazzled by these sparkling things, he, with fearless seriousness, asked her how much she would like allocated, separate from her overall income, for charity purposes.

At the end of two hours, exhausted by her rage and soothed by these visions, Madame Colonna having grown calm and reasonable, sighed and murmured a complaint, that Lord Monmouth ought to have communicated this important intelligence in person. Upon this Rigby instantly assured her, that Lord Monmouth had been for some time waiting to do so, but in consequence of her lengthened interview with Rigby, his Lordship had departed for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped that Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby would join him. So it ended, with a morning drive and suburban dinner; Rigby, after what he had gone through, finding no difficulty in accounting for the other guests not being present, and bringing home Madame Colonna in the evening, at times almost as gay and good-tempered as usual, and almost oblivious of her disappointment.

At the end of two hours, worn out by her anger and calmed by these visions, Madame Colonna became composed and reasonable. She sighed and remarked that Lord Monmouth should have delivered this important news in person. In response, Rigby quickly reassured her that Lord Monmouth had been waiting to do just that for a while, but due to her lengthy conversation with Rigby, his Lordship had left for Richmond with Lucretia, where he hoped Madame Colonna and Mr. Rigby would join him. So it wrapped up with a morning drive and dinner in the suburbs; Rigby, after what he had been through, had no trouble explaining why the other guests were absent, and brought Madame Colonna home in the evening, at times almost as cheerful and good-natured as usual, nearly forgetting her disappointment.

When the Marquess met Madame Colonna he embraced her with great courtliness, and from that time consulted her on every arrangement. He took a very early occasion of presenting her with a diamond necklace of great value. The Marquess was fond of making presents to persons to whom he thought he had not behaved very well, and who yet spared him scenes.

When the Marquess met Madame Colonna, he greeted her with great politeness, and from then on, he consulted her on every decision. He quickly took the opportunity to give her a valuable diamond necklace. The Marquess liked to give gifts to people he felt he hadn’t treated well, especially those who didn’t confront him about it.

The marriage speedily followed, by special license, at the villa of the Right Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who gave away the bride. The wedding was very select, but brilliant as the diamond necklace: a royal Duke and Duchess, Lady St. Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby presented the bride with a bouquet of precious stones, and Lord Eskdale with a French fan in a diamond frame. It was a fine day; Lord Monmouth, calm as if he were winning the St. Leger; Lucretia, universally recognised as a beauty; all the guests gay, the Princess Colonna especially.

The wedding quickly took place, with a special license, at the villa of the Right Hon. Nicholas Rigby, who walked the bride down the aisle. It was a very exclusive wedding, but as dazzling as the diamond necklace: a royal Duke and Duchess, Lady St. Julians, and a few others. Mr. Ormsby gifted the bride a bouquet made of precious stones, and Lord Eskdale gave her a French fan in a diamond frame. The weather was gorgeous; Lord Monmouth was as composed as if he were winning the St. Leger; Lucretia was widely acknowledged as a beauty; and all the guests were in high spirits, especially Princess Colonna.

The travelling carriage is at the door which is to bear away the happy pair. Madame Colonna embraces Lucretia; the Marquess gives a grand bow: they are gone. The guests remain awhile. A Prince of the blood will propose a toast; there is another glass of champagne quaffed, another ortolan devoured; and then they rise and disperse. Madame Colonna leaves with Lady St. Julians, whose guest for a while she is to become. And in a few minutes their host is alone.

The carriage is at the door, ready to take the happy couple away. Madame Colonna hugs Lucretia, and the Marquess bows deeply: they’re off. The guests stay for a bit. A prince will propose a toast; another glass of champagne is downed, another ortolan is eaten; and then they get up and leave. Madame Colonna departs with Lady St. Julians, who she will be visiting for a while. A few minutes later, their host is by himself.

Mr. Rigby retired into his library: the repose of the chamber must have been grateful to his feelings after all this distraction. It was spacious, well-stored, classically adorned, and opened on a beautiful lawn. Rigby threw himself into an ample chair, crossed his legs, and resting his head on his arm, apparently fell into deep contemplation.

Mr. Rigby stepped into his library: the calm of the room must have been a relief to him after all the chaos. It was large, well-stocked, elegantly decorated, and opened up to a lovely lawn. Rigby sank into a comfortable chair, crossed his legs, and rested his head on his arm, seemingly lost in thought.

He had some cause for reflection, and though we did once venture to affirm that Rigby never either thought or felt, this perhaps may be the exception that proves the rule.

He had some reason to think, and although we once dared to claim that Rigby never really thought or felt anything, this might be the exception that proves the rule.

He could scarcely refrain from pondering over the strange event which he had witnessed, and at which he had assisted.

He could hardly stop thinking about the weird event he had seen and been a part of.

It was an incident that might exercise considerable influence over his fortunes. His patron married, and married to one who certainly did not offer to Mr. Rigby such a prospect of easy management as her step-mother! Here were new influences arising; new characters, new situations, new contingencies. Was he thinking of all this? He suddenly jumps up, hurries to a shelf and takes down a volume. It is his interleaved peerage, of which for twenty years he had been threatening an edition. Turning to the Marquisate of Monmouth, he took up his pen and thus made the necessary entry:

It was an incident that could significantly impact his future. His patron got married, and definitely not to someone who offered Mr. Rigby the same easy manageability as her step-mother! There were new influences coming into play; new personalities, new situations, new possibilities. Was he contemplating all this? He suddenly jumped up, rushed to a shelf, and grabbed a book. It was his interleaved peerage, which he had been threatening to edit for twenty years. Turning to the Marquisate of Monmouth, he picked up his pen and made the necessary entry:

‘Married, second time, August 3rd, 1837, The Princess Lucretia Colonna, daughter of Prince Paul Colonna, born at Rome, February 16th, 1819.’

Married for the second time on August 3rd, 1837, The Princess Lucretia Colonna, daughter of Prince Paul Colonna, born in Rome on February 16th, 1819.

That was what Mr. Rigby called ‘a great fact.’ There was not a peerage-compiler in England who had that date save himself.

That was what Mr. Rigby referred to as 'a major fact.' There wasn't a peerage compiler in England who had that date except for him.

Before we close this slight narrative of the domestic incidents that occurred in the family of his grandfather since Coningsby quitted the Castle, we must not forget to mention what happened to Villebecque and Flora. Lord Monmouth took a great liking to the manager. He found him very clever in many things independently of his profession; he was useful to Lord Monmouth, and did his work in an agreeable manner. And the future Lady Monmouth was accustomed to Flora, and found her useful too, and did not like to lose her. And so the Marquess, turning all the circumstances in his mind, and being convinced that Villebecque could never succeed to any extent in England in his profession, and probably nowhere else, appointed him, to Villebecque’s infinite satisfaction, intendant of his household, with a considerable salary, while Flora still lived with her kind step-father.

Before we wrap up this brief account of the family events that unfolded after Coningsby left the Castle, we should mention what happened to Villebecque and Flora. Lord Monmouth developed a strong fondness for the manager. He found Villebecque very talented in many areas beyond just his job; he was helpful to Lord Monmouth and carried out his duties in a pleasant way. The future Lady Monmouth was already familiar with Flora and found her valuable as well, so she didn’t want to lose her. Thus, the Marquess, considering all the circumstances and believing that Villebecque would likely never make much progress in his career in England or probably anywhere else, appointed him, much to Villebecque’s delight, as the manager of his household, with a substantial salary, while Flora continued to live with her supportive stepfather.

CHAPTER VII.

Another year elapsed; not so fruitful in incidents to Coningsby as the preceding ones, and yet not unprofitably passed. It had been spent in the almost unremitting cultivation of his intelligence. He had read deeply and extensively, digested his acquisitions, and had practised himself in surveying them, free from those conventional conclusions and those traditionary inferences that surrounded him. Although he had renounced his once cherished purpose of trying for University honours, an aim which he found discordant with the investigations on which his mind was bent, he had rarely quitted Cambridge. The society of his friends, the great convenience of public libraries, and the general tone of studious life around, rendered an University for him a genial residence. There is a moment in life, when the pride and thirst of knowledge seem to absorb our being, and so it happened now to Coningsby, who felt each day stronger in his intellectual resources, and each day more anxious and avid to increase them. The habits of public discussion fostered by the Debating Society were also for Coningsby no Inconsiderable tie to the University. This was the arena in which he felt himself at home. The promise of his Eton days was here fulfilled. And while his friends listened to his sustained argument or his impassioned declamation, the prompt reply or the apt retort, they looked forward with pride through the vista of years to the time when the hero of the youthful Club should convince or dazzle in the senate. It is probable then that he would have remained at Cambridge with slight intervals until he had taken his degree, had not circumstances occurred which gave altogether a new turn to his thoughts.

Another year went by; it wasn't as eventful for Coningsby as the previous ones, but it wasn't wasted either. He spent the time almost constantly sharpening his mind. He read deeply and widely, absorbed what he learned, and trained himself to review his knowledge without the usual conclusions and traditional ideas that surrounded him. Although he had given up on his once-beloved goal of trying for University honors, which he found conflicting with the inquiries his mind was focused on, he rarely left Cambridge. The company of his friends, the convenience of public libraries, and the overall atmosphere of academic life made the University a welcoming place for him. There comes a moment in life when the desire for knowledge completely consumes us, and that’s exactly how Coningsby felt, growing stronger each day in his intellectual pursuits and increasingly eager to expand them. The habits of public debate encouraged by the Debating Society also kept him closely connected to the University. This was the space where he felt comfortable. The promise he made during his Eton days was being fulfilled here. While his friends listened to his well-structured arguments or passionate speeches, quick comebacks or clever retorts, they looked forward with pride to the years ahead, imagining the time when the star of their youthful Club would shine in the senate. It's likely that he would have stayed at Cambridge, with only brief breaks, until he graduated if it weren't for circumstances that completely shifted his thoughts.

When Lord Monmouth had fixed his wedding-day he had written himself to Coningsby to announce his intended marriage, and to request his grandson’s presence at the ceremony. The letter was more than kind; it was warm and generous. He assured his grandson that this alliance should make no difference in the very ample provision which he had long intended for him; that he should ever esteem Coningsby his nearest relative; and that, while his death would bring to Coningsby as considerable an independence as an English gentleman need desire, so in his lifetime Coningsby should ever be supported as became his birth, breeding, and future prospects. Lord Monmouth had mentioned to Lucretia, that he was about to invite his grandson to their wedding, and the lady had received the intimation with satisfaction. It so happened that a few hours after, Lucretia, who now entered the private rooms of Lord Monmouth without previously announcing her arrival, met Villebecque with the letter to Coningsby in his hand. Lucretia took it away from him, and said it should be posted with her own letters. It never reached its destination. Our friend learnt the marriage from the newspapers, which somewhat astounded him; but Coningsby was fond of his grandfather, and he wrote Lord Monmouth a letter of congratulation, full of feeling and ingenuousness, and which, while it much pleased the person to whom it was addressed, unintentionally convinced him that Coningsby had never received his original communication. Lord Monmouth spoke to Villebecque, who could throw sufficient light upon the subject, but it was never mentioned to Lady Monmouth. The Marquess was a man who always found out everything, and enjoyed the secret.

When Lord Monmouth set his wedding date, he personally wrote to Coningsby to inform him about his upcoming marriage and to invite his grandson to the ceremony. The letter was not just kind; it was heartfelt and generous. He reassured his grandson that this new alliance wouldn’t affect the substantial support he had always intended to provide; he would always consider Coningsby his closest relative, and while his passing would give Coningsby a level of independence any English gentleman would desire, during his lifetime, Coningsby would always be supported in a way that matched his background, upbringing, and future opportunities. Lord Monmouth had mentioned to Lucretia that he was going to invite his grandson to the wedding, and she had reacted positively to the idea. A few hours later, Lucretia entered Lord Monmouth’s private rooms without announcing herself and found Villebecque holding the letter meant for Coningsby. She took it from him, stating that she would send it with her own letters. It never made it to its intended recipient. Our friend found out about the marriage from the newspapers, which surprised him; however, Coningsby cared for his grandfather and wrote Lord Monmouth a heartfelt letter of congratulations, which pleased the recipient but unintentionally led him to believe that Coningsby had never received his original message. Lord Monmouth spoke to Villebecque, who could provide insight on the matter, but it was never brought up with Lady Monmouth. The Marquess was someone who always uncovered everything and enjoyed keeping it a secret.

Rather more than a year after the marriage, when Coningsby had completed his twenty-first year, the year which he had passed so quietly at Cambridge, he received a letter from his grandfather, informing him that after a variety of movements Lady Monmouth and himself were established in Paris for the season, and desiring that he would not fail to come over as soon as practicable, and pay them as long a visit as the regulations of the University would permit. So, at the close of the December term, Coningsby quitted Cambridge for Paris.

More than a year after the wedding, when Coningsby had turned twenty-one, the year he spent so quietly at Cambridge, he got a letter from his grandfather. The letter let him know that after some travels, Lady Monmouth and he were settled in Paris for the season, and he was encouraged to come over as soon as he could and stay with them for as long as university rules allowed. So, at the end of the December term, Coningsby left Cambridge for Paris.

Passing through London, he made his first visit to his banker at Charing Cross, on whom he had periodically drawn since he commenced his college life. He was in the outer counting-house, making some inquiries about a letter of credit, when one of the partners came out from an inner room, and invited him to enter. This firm had been for generations the bankers of the Coningsby family; and it appeared that there was a sealed box in their possession, which had belonged to the father of Coningsby, and they wished to take this opportunity of delivering it to his son. This communication deeply interested him; and as he was alone in London, at an hotel, and on the wing for a foreign country, he requested permission at once to examine it, in order that he might again deposit it with them: so he was shown into a private room for that purpose. The seal was broken; the box was full of papers, chiefly correspondence: among them was a packet described as letters from ‘my dear Helen,’ the mother of Coningsby. In the interior of this packet there was a miniature of that mother. He looked at it; put it down; looked at it again and again. He could not be mistaken. There was the same blue fillet in the bright hair. It was an exact copy of that portrait which had so greatly excited his attention when at Millbank! This was a mysterious and singularly perplexing incident. It greatly agitated him. He was alone in the room when he made the discovery. When he had recovered himself, he sealed up the contents of the box, with the exception of his mother’s letters and the miniature, which he took away with him, and then re-delivered it to his banker for custody until his return.

Passing through London, he made his first visit to his banker at Charing Cross, from whom he had been drawing funds since he started college. He was in the main office, asking about a letter of credit, when one of the partners came out from a back room and invited him inside. This bank had been the Coningsby family's bank for generations, and it turned out they had a sealed box that belonged to Coningsby's father, which they wanted to give to him. This news intrigued him deeply; since he was in London alone, staying at a hotel, and preparing to leave for another country, he asked to see it right away so he could deposit it again later. He was shown into a private room for this purpose. The seal was broken; the box was filled with papers, mostly letters. Among them was a packet labeled as letters from 'my dear Helen,' Coningsby's mother. Inside this packet was a miniature portrait of her. He looked at it, set it down, and kept looking back at it. He couldn’t be mistaken. The same blue ribbon was in the bright hair. It was an exact copy of that portrait that had caught his attention so much when he was at Millbank! This was a mysterious and extremely confusing moment. It shook him. He was alone in the room when he made this discovery. Once he had composed himself, he sealed the box back up, except for his mother’s letters and the miniature, which he took with him, then returned the box to his banker for safekeeping until he came back.

Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a splendid hotel in the Faubourg St. Honoré, near the English Embassy. His grandfather looked at him with marked attention, and received him with evident satisfaction. Indeed, Lord Monmouth was greatly pleased that Harry had come to Paris; it was the University of the World, where everybody should graduate. Paris and London ought to be the great objects of all travellers; the rest was mere landscape.

Coningsby found Lord and Lady Monmouth in a fancy hotel in the Faubourg St. Honoré, close to the English Embassy. His grandfather looked at him with noticeable interest and greeted him with clear pleasure. In fact, Lord Monmouth was really happy that Harry had come to Paris; it was the University of the World, where everyone should get an education. Paris and London should be the main destinations for all travelers; everything else was just scenery.

It cannot be denied that between Lucretia and Coningsby there existed from the first a certain antipathy; and though circumstances for a short time had apparently removed or modified the aversion, the manner of the lady when Coningsby was ushered into her boudoir, resplendent with all that Parisian taste and luxury could devise, was characterised by that frigid politeness which had preceded the days of their more genial acquaintance. If the manner of Lucretia were the same as before her marriage, a considerable change might however be observed in her appearance. Her fine form had become more developed; while her dress, that she once neglected, was elaborate and gorgeous, and of the last mode. Lucretia was the fashion of Paris; a great lady, greatly admired. A guest under such a roof, however, Coningsby was at once launched into the most brilliant circles of Parisian society, which he found fascinating.

It’s clear that from the beginning, there was some dislike between Lucretia and Coningsby. Although situations had seemingly eased that tension for a while, Lucretia’s demeanor when Coningsby entered her beautiful boudoir, filled with all the luxury and style Paris could offer, was marked by the cold politeness that had defined their earlier interactions. While Lucretia’s attitude was the same as it was before she got married, her appearance had changed significantly. Her figure had become more shapely, and her once neglected attire was now elaborate, stunning, and fashionable. Lucretia was the epitome of Parisian style, a prominent lady, and highly admired. As a guest in her home, Coningsby was quickly introduced to the most dazzling circles of Parisian society, which he found captivating.

The art of society is, without doubt, perfectly comprehended and completely practised in the bright metropolis of France. An Englishman cannot enter a saloon without instantly feeling he is among a race more social than his compatriots. What, for example, is more consummate than the manner in which a French lady receives her guests! She unites graceful repose and unaffected dignity, with the most amiable regard for others. She sees every one; she speaks to every one; she sees them at the right moment; she says the right thing; it is utterly impossible to detect any difference in the position of her guests by the spirit in which she welcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle of Parisian society, from the chateau to the cabaret, a sincere homage to intellect; and this without any maudlin sentiment. None sooner than the Parisians can draw the line between factitious notoriety and honest fame; or sooner distinguished between the counterfeit celebrity and the standard reputation. In England, we too often alternate between a supercilious neglect of genius and a rhapsodical pursuit of quacks. In England when a new character appears in our circles, the first question always is, ‘Who is he?’ In France it is, ‘What is he?’ In England, ‘How much a-year?’ In France, ‘What has he done?’

The art of society is, without a doubt, clearly understood and fully practiced in the vibrant capital of France. An Englishman can't enter a lounge without immediately feeling he's among a more social group than his fellow countrymen. What, for example, is more refined than how a French woman welcomes her guests! She combines graceful poise and genuine elegance with the friendliest consideration for others. She acknowledges everyone; she converses with everyone; she engages them at the right moment; she says the right thing; it's completely impossible to tell any difference in her guests' status by the way she welcomes them. There is, indeed, throughout every circle of Parisian society, from the mansion to the bar, a sincere respect for intellect; and this without any overly sentimental attitude. No one distinguishes between fake fame and genuine recognition quicker than the Parisians; nor do they separate superficial celebrity from true reputation. In England, we too often swing between dismissing genius with arrogance and chasing after charlatans with enthusiasm. In England, when a new person enters our social scenes, the first question is always, 'Who is he?' In France, it's, 'What is he?' In England, 'How much does he earn?' In France, 'What has he accomplished?'

CHAPTER VIII.

About a week after Coningsby’s arrival in Paris, as he was sauntering on the soft and sunny Boulevards, soft and sunny though Christmas, he met Sidonia.

About a week after Coningsby's arrival in Paris, while he was strolling along the warm and sunny Boulevards, warm and sunny even though it was Christmas, he ran into Sidonia.

‘So you are here?’ said Sidonia. ‘Turn now with me, for I see you are only lounging, and tell me when you came, where you are, and what you have done since we parted. I have been here myself but a few days.’

‘So you’re here?’ said Sidonia. ‘Come on, turn to me, because I see you’re just hanging around, and tell me when you arrived, where you are, and what you’ve been up to since we separated. I’ve only been here for a few days myself.’

There was much to tell. And when Coningsby had rapidly related all that had passed, they talked of Paris. Sidonia had offered him hospitality, until he learned that Lord Monmouth was in Paris, and that Coningsby was his guest.

There was a lot to share. And when Coningsby quickly shared everything that had happened, they talked about Paris. Sidonia had offered him a place to stay until he found out that Lord Monmouth was in Paris, and that Coningsby was his guest.

‘I am sorry you cannot come to me,’ he remarked; ‘I would have shown you everybody and everything. But we shall meet often.’

‘I’m sorry you can’t come to me,’ he said; ‘I would have shown you everyone and everything. But we’ll meet often.’

‘I have already seen many remarkable things,’ said Coningsby; ‘and met many celebrated persons. Nothing strikes me more in this brilliant city than the tone of its society, so much higher than our own. What an absence of petty personalities! How much conversation, and how little gossip! Yet nowhere is there less pedantry. Here all women are as agreeable as is the remarkable privilege in London of some half-dozen. Men too, and great men, develop their minds. A great man in England, on the contrary, is generally the dullest dog in company. And yet, how piteous to think that so fair a civilisation should be in such imminent peril!’

‘I have already seen many remarkable things,’ said Coningsby; ‘and met many famous people. Nothing impresses me more in this amazing city than the quality of its society, which is so much higher than our own. What a lack of trivial arguments! So much conversation, and so little gossip! Yet, there's nowhere less pretentious. Here, all women are as charming as the exceptional privilege of a few in London. Men too, and great men, exercise their intellects. A great man in England, on the other hand, is usually the most boring person in the room. And yet, how tragic it is to think that such a beautiful civilization could be in such serious danger!’

‘Yes! that is a common opinion: and yet I am somewhat sceptical of its truth,’ replied Sidonia. ‘I am inclined to believe that the social system of England is in infinitely greater danger than that of France. We must not be misled by the agitated surface of this country. The foundations of its order are deep and sure. Learn to understand France. France is a kingdom with a Republic for its capital. It has been always so, for centuries. From the days of the League to the days of the Sections, to the days of 1830. It is still France, little changed; and only more national, for it is less Frank and more Gallic; as England has become less Norman and more Saxon.’

‘Yes! That’s a common belief; however, I’m a bit skeptical about its accuracy,’ replied Sidonia. ‘I tend to think that England's social system is in far more danger than France's. We shouldn’t be fooled by the chaotic surface of this country. The foundations of its order are deep and stable. You need to understand France. France is a kingdom with a Republic as its capital. It's always been that way for centuries. From the days of the League to the days of the Sections, to the days of 1830. It’s still France, only slightly changed; and it's more national now, being less Frank and more Gallic; just as England has become less Norman and more Saxon.’

‘And it is your opinion, then, that the present King may maintain himself?’

‘So you think the current King can hold on to his position?’

‘Every movement in this country, however apparently discordant, seems to tend to that inevitable end. He would not be on the throne if the nature of things had not demanded his presence. The Kingdom of France required a Monarch; the Republic of Paris required a Dictator. He comprised in his person both qualifications; lineage and intellect; blood for the provinces, brains for the city.’

‘Every movement in this country, no matter how seemingly disjointed, appears to lead to that unavoidable outcome. He wouldn’t be on the throne if the nature of things didn’t call for his presence. The Kingdom of France needed a Monarch; the Republic of Paris needed a Dictator. He embodied both qualities; heritage and wisdom; royal blood for the provinces, intelligence for the city.’

‘What a position! what an individual!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘Tell me,’ he added, eagerly, ‘what is he? This Prince of whom one hears in all countries at all hours; on whose existence we are told the tranquillity, almost the civilisation, of Europe depends, yet of whom we receive accounts so conflicting, so contradictory; tell me, you who can tell me, tell me what he is.’

‘What a situation! What a person!’ exclaimed Coningsby. ‘Tell me,’ he added eagerly, ‘who is he? This Prince we hear about in every country at all times; whose existence, we’re told, the peace, almost the civilization, of Europe depends on, yet we get such conflicting, contradictory reports about him; tell me, you who have the answers, tell me what he is.’

Sidonia smiled at his earnestness. ‘I have a creed of mine own,’ he remarked, ‘that the great characters of antiquity are at rare epochs reproduced for our wonder, or our guidance. Nature, wearied with mediocrity, pours the warm metal into an heroic mould. When circumstances at length placed me in the presence of the King of France, I recognised, ULYSSES!’

Sidonia smiled at his sincerity. ‘I have my own belief,’ he said, ‘that the great figures of the past occasionally reappear for our amazement or our guidance. Nature, tired of average, pours the vibrant metal into a heroic shape. When the moment finally brought me before the King of France, I recognized, ULYSSES!’

‘But is there no danger,’ resumed Coningsby, after the pause of a few moments, ‘that the Republic of Paris may absorb the Kingdom of France?’

‘But is there no danger,’ Coningsby continued after a brief pause, ‘that the Republic of Paris might take over the Kingdom of France?’

‘I suspect the reverse,’ replied Sidonia. ‘The tendency of advanced civilisation is in truth to pure Monarchy. Monarchy is indeed a government which requires a high degree of civilisation for its full development. It needs the support of free laws and manners, and of a widely-diffused intelligence. Political compromises are not to be tolerated except at periods of rude transition. An educated nation recoils from the imperfect vicariate of what is called a representative government. Your House of Commons, that has absorbed all other powers in the State, will in all probability fall more rapidly than it rose. Public opinion has a more direct, a more comprehensive, a more efficient organ for its utterance, than a body of men sectionally chosen. The Printing-press is a political element unknown to classic or feudal times. It absorbs in a great degree the duties of the Sovereign, the Priest, the Parliament; it controls, it educates, it discusses. That public opinion, when it acts, would appear in the form of one who has no class interests. In an enlightened age the Monarch on the throne, free from the vulgar prejudices and the corrupt interests of the subject, becomes again divine!’

‘I suspect the opposite,’ replied Sidonia. ‘The direction of advanced civilization really leads toward pure monarchy. Monarchy is actually a form of government that requires a high level of civilization for it to fully develop. It relies on supportive laws, social norms, and widespread knowledge. Political compromises are only acceptable during times of rough transition. An educated nation recoils from the flawed substitute of what is called representative government. Your House of Commons, which has absorbed all other powers of the state, will likely decline faster than it rose. Public opinion has a more direct, comprehensive, and effective way to express itself than a group of men chosen by specific sections. The printing press is a political force unknown to classical or feudal times. It takes on much of the roles of the Sovereign, the Priest, and Parliament; it controls, educates, and discusses. That public opinion, when it acts, would appear as though it has no class interests. In a progressive age, the Monarch on the throne, free from the common prejudices and corrupt interests of the subjects, becomes divine again!’

At this moment they reached that part of the Boulevards which leads into the Place of the Madeleine, whither Sidonia was bound; and Coningsby was about to quit his companion, when Sidonia said:

At this moment, they arrived at the section of the Boulevards that leads into the Place de la Madeleine, where Sidonia was headed; just as Coningsby was about to part ways with his companion, Sidonia said:

‘I am only going a step over to the Rue Tronchet to say a few words to a friend of mine, M. P——s. I shall not detain you five minutes; and you should know him, for he has some capital pictures, and a collection of Limoges ware that is the despair of the dilettanti.’

‘I am just stepping over to Rue Tronchet to chat with a friend of mine, M. P——s. I won’t keep you longer than five minutes; you should know him since he has some amazing artworks and a collection of Limoges pottery that frustrates collectors.’

So saying they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine, and soon entered the court of the hotel of M. P——s. That gentleman received them in his gallery. After some general conversation, Coningsby turned towards the pictures, and left Sidonia with their host. The collection was rare, and interested Coningsby, though unacquainted with art. He sauntered on from picture to picture until he reached the end of the gallery, where an open door invited him into a suite of rooms also full of pictures and objects of curiosity and art. As he was entering a second chamber, he observed a lady leaning back in a cushioned chair, and looking earnestly on a picture. His entrance was unheard and unnoticed, for the lady’s back was to the door; yet Coningsby, advancing in an angular direction, obtained nearly a complete view of her countenance. It was upraised, gazing on the picture with an expression of delight; the bonnet thrown back, while the large sable cloak of the gazer had fallen partly off. The countenance was more beautiful than the beautiful picture. Those glowing shades of the gallery to which love, and genius, and devotion had lent their inspiration, seemed without life and lustre by the radiant expression and expressive presence which Coningsby now beheld.

As they spoke, they turned down by the Place of the Madeleine and soon entered the courtyard of Mr. P——'s hotel. He welcomed them in his gallery. After some casual conversation, Coningsby looked at the paintings and left Sidonia with their host. The collection was unique and caught Coningsby’s interest, even though he wasn’t familiar with art. He wandered from painting to painting until he reached the end of the gallery, where an open door beckoned him into a series of rooms filled with more paintings and curiosities. As he entered a second room, he noticed a woman lounging in a cushioned chair, intently focused on a painting. She didn’t hear or notice him enter since her back was to the door; however, as Coningsby moved in her direction, he caught almost a full view of her face. It was turned upward, admiring the painting with an expression of joy; her bonnet was pushed back, and her large black cloak had slipped partially off. Her face was more beautiful than the stunning painting. The vibrant colors of the gallery, inspired by love, genius, and devotion, appeared lifeless and dull compared to the radiant expression and presence that Coningsby now saw.

The finely-arched brow was a little elevated, the soft dark eyes were fully opened, the nostril of the delicate nose slightly dilated, the small, yet rich, full lips just parted; and over the clear, transparent visage, there played a vivid glance of gratified intelligence.

The elegantly arched eyebrow was slightly raised, the soft dark eyes were wide open, the nostrils of the delicate nose were slightly flared, the small yet full lips were slightly parted; and across the clear, transparent face, there was a lively spark of satisfied understanding.

The lady rose, advanced towards the picture, looked at it earnestly for a few moments, and then, turning in a direction opposite to Coningsby, walked away. She was somewhat above the middle stature, and yet could scarcely be called tall; a quality so rare, that even skilful dancers do not often possess it, was hers; that elastic gait that is so winning, and so often denotes the gaiety and quickness of the spirit.

The woman stood up, walked over to the painting, looked at it intently for a few moments, and then, turning away from Coningsby, walked off. She was slightly above average height, but couldn’t really be considered tall; she had a rare quality that even skilled dancers often lack—a light, graceful walk that is so charming and often shows a joyful and lively spirit.

The fair object of his observation had advanced into other chambers, and as soon as it was becoming, Coningsby followed her. She had joined a lady and gentleman, who were examining an ancient carving in ivory. The gentleman was middle-aged and portly; the elder lady tall and elegant, and with traces of interesting beauty. Coningsby heard her speak; the words were English, but the accent not of a native.

The attractive person he was watching had moved into another room, and as soon as it felt appropriate, Coningsby followed her. She had joined a man and a woman who were looking at an old ivory carving. The man was middle-aged and heavyset; the older woman was tall and graceful, with hints of captivating beauty. Coningsby heard her speak; the words were in English, but her accent was not that of a native speaker.

In the remotest part of the room, Coningsby, apparently engaged in examining some of that famous Limoges ware of which Sidonia had spoken, watched with interest and intentness the beautiful being whom he had followed, and whom he concluded to be the child of her companions. After some little time, they quitted the apartment on their return to the gallery; Coningsby remained behind, caring for none of the rare and fanciful objects that surrounded him, yet compelled, from the fear of seeming obtrusive, for some minutes to remain. Then he too returned to the gallery, and just as he had gained its end, he saw the portly gentleman in the distance shaking hands with Sidonia, the ladies apparently expressing their thanks and gratification to M. P——s, and then all vanishing by the door through which Coningsby had originally entered.

In the far corner of the room, Coningsby, seemingly busy admiring some of that famous Limoges china that Sidonia had mentioned, watched with keen interest the beautiful woman he had followed, whom he guessed was one of her companions’ children. After a little while, they left the room to head back to the gallery; Coningsby stayed behind, uninterested in the rare and whimsical items around him, yet feeling the need to linger for a few minutes to avoid seeming intrusive. Then he too made his way back to the gallery, and just as he reached the end, he noticed the chubby man in the distance shaking hands with Sidonia, while the ladies seemed to be expressing their thanks and pleasure to M. P——s, before all disappearing through the door Coningsby had originally walked in.

‘What a beautiful countrywoman of yours!’ said M. P——s, as Coningsby approached him.

‘What a beautiful woman from your country!’ said M. P——s, as Coningsby approached him.

‘Is she my countrywoman? I am glad to hear it; I have been admiring her,’ he replied.

‘Is she from my country? I’m glad to hear that; I’ve been admiring her,’ he replied.

‘Yes,’ said M. P——s, ‘it is Sir Wallinger: one of your deputies; don’t you know him?’

‘Yes,’ said M. P——s, ‘it’s Sir Wallinger: one of your deputies; don’t you recognize him?’

‘Sir Wallinger!’ said Coningsby, ‘no, I have not that honour.’ He looked at Sidonia.

‘Sir Wallinger!’ said Coningsby, ‘no, I don’t have that honor.’ He looked at Sidonia.

‘Sir Joseph Wallinger,’ said Sidonia, ‘one of the new Whig baronets, and member for ——. I know him. He married a Spaniard. That is not his daughter, but his niece; the child of his wife’s sister. It is not easy to find any one more beautiful.’

‘Sir Joseph Wallinger,’ said Sidonia, ‘one of the new Whig baronets and member for ——. I know him. He married a Spaniard. That’s not his daughter, but his niece; the child of his wife’s sister. It’s not easy to find anyone more beautiful.’

END OF BOOK V.

BOOK VI.

CHAPTER I.

The knowledge that Sidonia was in Paris greatly agitated Lady Monmouth. She received the intimation indeed from Coningsby at dinner with sufficient art to conceal her emotion. Lord Monmouth himself was quite pleased at the announcement. Sidonia was his especial favourite; he knew so much, had such an excellent judgment, and was so rich. He had always something to tell you, was the best man in the world to bet on, and never wanted anything. A perfect character according to the Monmouth ethics.

The news that Sidonia was in Paris really disturbed Lady Monmouth. She got the hint from Coningsby during dinner and managed to hide her feelings pretty well. Lord Monmouth, on the other hand, was quite happy about it. Sidonia was his favorite; he was so knowledgeable, had great judgment, and was wealthy. He always had something interesting to share, was the best person to place bets on, and never needed anything. A perfect character according to Monmouth’s standards.

In the evening of the day that Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady Monmouth made a little visit to the charming Duchess de G——t who was ‘at home’ every other night in her pretty hotel, with its embroidered white satin draperies, its fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of famous name, brave marshals and bright princesses of the olden time, on its walls. These receptions without form, yet full of elegance, are what English ‘at homes’ were before the Continental war, though now, by a curious perversion of terms, the easy domestic title distinguishes in England a formally-prepared and elaborately-collected assembly, in which everything and every person are careful to be as little ‘homely’ as possible. In France, on the contrary, ‘tis on these occasions, and in this manner, that society carries on that degree and kind of intercourse which in England we attempt awkwardly to maintain by the medium of that unpopular species of visitation styled a morning call; which all complain that they have either to make or to endure.

In the evening of the day when Coningsby met Sidonia, Lady Monmouth paid a quick visit to the lovely Duchess de G——t, who was "at home" every other night at her beautiful hotel, decorated with embroidered white satin drapes, fine old cabinets, and ancestral portraits of famous names, brave marshals, and radiant princesses from the past, displayed on the walls. These informal yet elegant gatherings resemble what English "at homes" used to be like before the Continental war, although now, amusingly, the term denotes a formally organized and carefully curated gathering in England, where everything and everyone tries to be as unwelcoming as possible. In France, on the other hand, these occasions are how society engages in the kind of interaction that in England we clumsily try to achieve through the unpopular practice known as a morning call, which everyone complains about having to either make or endure.

Nowhere was this species of reception more happily conducted than at the Duchess de G——t’s. The rooms, though small, decorated with taste, brightly illumined; a handsome and gracious hostess, the Duke the very pearl of gentlemen, and sons and daughters worthy of such parents. Every moment some one came in, and some one went away. In your way from a dinner to a ball, you stopped to exchange agreeable on dits. It seemed that every woman was pretty, every man a wit. Sure you were to find yourself surrounded by celebrities, and men were welcomed there, if they were clever, before they were famous, which showed it was a house that regarded intellect, and did not seek merely to gratify its vanity by being surrounded by the distinguished.

Nowhere was this kind of gathering more delightful than at the Duchess de G——t’s. The rooms, though small, were tastefully decorated and brightly lit; a lovely and gracious hostess, the Duke the epitome of a gentleman, and sons and daughters who truly reflected their parents. Guests constantly arrived and departed. On your way from dinner to a ball, you would pause to share pleasant gossip. It felt like every woman was beautiful, every man witty. You were sure to find yourself among notable people, and men were welcomed there based on their intellect before they gained fame, which showed it was a place that valued intelligence and didn’t just want to display the distinguished.

Enveloped in a rich Indian shawl, and leaning back on a sofa, Lady Monmouth was engaged in conversation with the courtly and classic Count M——é, when, on casually turning her head, she observed entering the saloon, Sidonia. She just caught his form bowing to the Duchess, and instantly turned her head and replunged into her conversation with increased interest. Lady Monmouth was a person who had the power of seeing all about her, everything and everybody, without appearing to look. She was conscious that Sidonia was approaching her neighbourhood. Her heart beat in tumult; she dreaded to catch the eye of that very individual whom she was so anxious to meet. He was advancing towards the sofa. Instinctively, Lady Monmouth turned from the Count, and began speaking earnestly to her other neighbour, a young daughter of the house, innocent and beautiful, not yet quite fledged, trying her wings in society under the maternal eye. She was surprised by the extreme interest which her grand neighbour suddenly took in all her pursuits, her studies, her daily walks in the Bois de Boulogne. Sidonia, as the Marchioness had anticipated, had now reached the sofa. But no, it was to the Count, and not to Lady Monmouth that he was advancing; and they were immediately engaged in conversation. After some little time, when she had become accustomed to his voice, and found her own heart throbbing with less violence, Lucretia turned again, as if by accident, to the Count, and met the glance of Sidonia. She meant to have received him with haughtiness, but her self-command deserted her; and slightly rising from the sofa, she welcomed him with a countenance of extreme pallor and with some awkwardness.

Wrapped in a luxurious Indian shawl and reclining on a sofa, Lady Monmouth was chatting with the elegant and traditional Count M——é when she casually turned her head and noticed Sidonia entering the room. She quickly caught a glimpse of him bowing to the Duchess and immediately turned back to her conversation with renewed interest. Lady Monmouth had a knack for observing everything around her without seeming to look. She realized that Sidonia was getting closer to her. Her heart raced; she was anxious about making eye contact with the very person she wanted to see. He was moving toward the sofa. Instinctively, Lady Monmouth shifted away from the Count and began talking earnestly to her other neighbor, a young daughter of the house, who was innocent and lovely, still finding her way in society under her mother's watchful eye. She was taken aback by the sudden interest her esteemed neighbor showed in all her activities, studies, and daily walks in the Bois de Boulogne. As the Marchioness had expected, Sidonia now reached the sofa. But no, he was approaching the Count, not Lady Monmouth, and they quickly fell into conversation. After a little while, as she grew accustomed to his voice and her own heartbeat calmed down, Lucretia turned, seemingly by accident, to the Count and locked eyes with Sidonia. She intended to greet him with disdain, but her composure failed her; slightly rising from the sofa, she welcomed him with a face that was extremely pale and a bit awkward.

His manner was such as might have assisted her, even had she been more troubled. It was marked by a degree of respectful friendliness. He expressed without reserve his pleasure at meeting her again; inquired much how she had passed her time since they last parted; asked more than once after the Marquess. The Count moved away; Sidonia took his seat. His ease and homage combined greatly relieved her. She expressed to him how kind her Lord would consider his society, for the Marquess had suffered in health since Sidonia last saw him. His periodical gout had left him, which made him ill and nervous. The Marquess received his friends at dinner every day. Sidonia, particularly amiable, offered himself as a guest for the following one.

His demeanor was such that it could have helped her, even if she had been more troubled. It was characterized by a respectful friendliness. He openly expressed how pleased he was to see her again, asked a lot about how she had been since they last parted, and inquired multiple times about the Marquess. The Count moved away; Sidonia took his seat. His relaxed manner and respect really put her at ease. She told him how much her Lord would appreciate his company, as the Marquess had been unwell since Sidonia last saw him. His recurring gout had left him, which made him sick and anxious. The Marquess hosted his friends for dinner every day. Sidonia, being particularly charming, offered to be a guest for the next one.

‘And do you go to the great ball to-morrow?’ inquired Lucretia, delighted with all that had occurred.

‘Are you going to the big ball tomorrow?’ Lucretia asked, thrilled with everything that had happened.

‘I always go to their balls,’ said Sidonia, ‘I have promised.’

‘I always go to their parties,’ said Sidonia, ‘I have promised.’

There was a momentary pause; Lucretia happier than she had been for a long time, her face a little flushed, and truly in a secret tumult of sweet thoughts, remembered she had been long there, and offering her hand to Sidonia, bade him adieu until to-morrow, while he, as was his custom, soon repaired to the refined circle of the Countess de C-s-l-ne, a lady whose manners he always mentioned as his fair ideal, and whose house was his favourite haunt.

There was a brief pause; Lucretia was happier than she had been in a long time, her face slightly flushed, and genuinely lost in a whirlwind of sweet thoughts. She realized she had been there for a while and, offering her hand to Sidonia, said goodbye until tomorrow. He, as usual, soon headed to the elegant circle of the Countess de C-s-l-ne, a woman whose manners he always referred to as his ideal and whose home was his favorite place to be.

Before to-morrow comes, a word or two respecting two other characters of this history connected with the family of Lord Monmouth. And first of Flora. La Petite was neither very well nor very happy. Her hereditary disease developed itself; gradually, but in a manner alarming to those who loved her. She was very delicate, and suffered so much from the weakness of her chest, that she was obliged to relinquish singing. This was really the only tie between her and the Marchioness, who, without being a petty tyrant, treated her often with unfeeling haughtiness. She was, therefore, now rarely seen in the chambers of the great. In her own apartments she found, indeed, some distraction in music, for which she had a natural predisposition, but this was a pursuit that only fed the morbid passion of her tender soul. Alone, listening only to sweet sounds, or indulging in soft dreams that never could be realised, her existence glided away like a vision, and she seemed to become every day more fair and fragile. Alas! hers was the sad and mystic destiny to love one whom she never met, and by whom, if she met him, she would scarcely, perhaps, be recognised. Yet in that passion, fanciful, almost ideal, her life was absorbed; nor for her did the world contain an existence, a thought, a sensation, beyond those that sprang from the image of the noble youth who had sympathised with her in her sorrows, and had softened the hard fortunes of dependence by his generous sensibility. Happy that, with many mortifications, it was still her lot to live under the roof of one who bore his name, and in whose veins flowed the same blood! She felt indeed for the Marquess, whom she so rarely saw, and from whom she had never received much notice, prompted, it would seem, by her fantastic passion, a degree of reverence, almost of affection, which seemed occasionally, even to herself, as something inexplicable and without reason.

Before tomorrow comes, I want to say a few words about two other characters in this story connected to Lord Monmouth's family. First, let’s talk about Flora. La Petite wasn’t doing very well and wasn’t very happy. Her hereditary illness was slowly developing, and it was concerning to those who cared about her. She was very fragile and suffered so much from chest weakness that she had to give up singing. This was really the only link between her and the Marchioness, who, while not overtly tyrannical, often treated her with a cold detachment. As a result, she was seldom seen in the presence of the elite. In her own rooms, she found some distraction in music, for which she had a natural talent, but this only fueled the morbid passion of her sensitive soul. Alone, listening to sweet melodies or indulging in soft dreams that could never come true, her existence drifted away like a vision, and she appeared to become more beautiful and delicate each day. Sadly, her fate was to love someone she’d never met, and if they did meet, he might hardly recognize her. Yet in that fanciful, almost ideal passion, her life was consumed; for her, the world held no existence, thought, or feeling beyond what sprang from the image of the noble youth who had empathized with her sorrows and softened the harsh realities of her dependence with his generous sensitivity. Despite many disappointments, she was fortunate to live under the roof of someone who shared his name and bore the same blood! She indeed felt for the Marquess, whom she hardly ever saw and from whom she had never received much attention. It seemed that her whimsical passion prompted a kind of reverence, almost affection, that sometimes felt inexplicable to her.

As for her fond step-father, M. Villebecque, the world fared very differently with him. His lively and enterprising genius, his ready and multiform talents, and his temper which defied disturbance, had made their way. He had become the very right hand of Lord Monmouth; his only counsellor, his only confidant; his secret agent; the minister of his will. And well did Villebecque deserve this trust, and ably did he maintain himself in the difficult position which he achieved. There was nothing which Villebecque did not know, nothing which he could not do, especially at Paris. He was master of his subject; in all things the secret of success, and without which, however they may from accident dazzle the world, the statesman, the orator, the author, all alike feel the damning consciousness of being charlatans.

As for her beloved stepfather, M. Villebecque, his experience in the world was quite different. His vibrant, enterprising spirit, his diverse and impressive skills, and his unshakeable calm had helped him thrive. He had become the key advisor to Lord Monmouth; his only counselor, his only confidant; his secret agent; the executor of his wishes. Villebecque truly earned this trust and effectively navigated the challenging role he had taken on. There was nothing Villebecque didn’t know and nothing he couldn’t do, especially in Paris. He mastered his field; in every aspect, the key to success, and without which, no matter how much they might impress the world by chance, politicians, speakers, and writers all feel the crushing awareness of being frauds.

Coningsby had made a visit to M. Villebecque and Flora the day after his arrival. It was a recollection and a courtesy that evidently greatly gratified them. Villebecque talked very much and amusingly; and Flora, whom Coningsby frequently addressed, very little, though she listened with great earnestness. Coningsby told her that he thought, from all he heard, she was too much alone, and counselled her to gaiety. But nature, that had made her mild, had denied her that constitutional liveliness of being which is the graceful property of French women. She was a lily of the valley, that loved seclusion and the tranquillity of virgin glades. Almost every day, as he passed their entresol, Coningsby would look into Villebecque’s apartments for a moment, to ask after Flora.

Coningsby visited M. Villebecque and Flora the day after he arrived. This gesture clearly made them very happy. Villebecque talked a lot and was quite entertaining, while Flora, whom Coningsby often addressed, said very little but listened intently. Coningsby told her he thought, based on what he heard, that she was too isolated and encouraged her to embrace a more joyful life. However, nature, which had made her gentle, had not given her the natural liveliness that is a charming trait of French women. She was like a lily of the valley, preferring solitude and the peace of untouched glades. Almost every day, as he walked by their entresol, Coningsby would peek into Villebecque’s rooms for a moment to ask about Flora.

CHAPTER II.

Sidonia was to dine at Lord Monmouth’s the day after he met Lucretia, and afterwards they were all to meet at a ball much talked of, and to which invitations were much sought; and which was to be given that evening by the Baroness S. de R——d.

Sidonia was set to have dinner at Lord Monmouth’s the day after meeting Lucretia, and afterward, they were all scheduled to gather at a highly anticipated ball, for which invitations were in high demand; it was to be hosted that evening by Baroness S. de R——d.

Lord Monmouth’s dinners at Paris were celebrated. It was generally agreed that they had no rivals; yet there were others who had as skilful cooks, others who, for such a purpose, were equally profuse in their expenditure. What, then, was the secret spell of his success? The simplest in the world, though no one seemed aware of it. His Lordship’s plates were always hot: whereas at Paris, in the best appointed houses, and at dinners which, for costly materials and admirable art in their preparation, cannot be surpassed, the effect is always considerably lessened, and by a mode the most mortifying: by the mere circumstance that every one at a French dinner is served on a cold plate. The reason of a custom, or rather a necessity, which one would think a nation so celebrated for their gastronomical taste would recoil from, is really, it is believed, that the ordinary French porcelain is so very inferior that it cannot endure the preparatory heat for dinner. The common white pottery, for example, which is in general use, and always found at the cafés, will not bear vicinage to a brisk kitchen fire for half-an-hour. Now, if we only had that treaty of commerce with France which has been so often on the point of completion, the fabrics of our unrivalled potteries, in exchange for their capital wines, would be found throughout France. The dinners of both nations would be improved: the English would gain a delightful beverage, and the French, for the first time in their lives, would dine off hot plates. An unanswerable instance of the advantages of commercial reciprocity.

Lord Monmouth’s dinners in Paris were legendary. Everyone agreed they had no competition; yet, there were others with equally skilled cooks and those who spent just as much. So, what was the secret to his success? It was incredibly simple, though no one seemed to notice. His plates were always hot. In contrast, at the finest restaurants in Paris, even at dinners that excel in quality ingredients and artistic preparation, the experience is significantly diminished by a rather disappointing fact: every guest is served on a cold plate. One would think a country renowned for its culinary expertise would avoid such a custom or necessity, but it's believed that the common French porcelain is of such low quality that it can't withstand the heat needed for dinner. For instance, the typical white pottery found everywhere, including cafés, can't be near a kitchen fire for even half an hour. Now, if only we had that trade agreement with France that has been nearly finalized several times, our exceptional pottery could replace their inferior dishes in exchange for their fine wines. Both nations would benefit: the English would enjoy a fantastic beverage, and the French would, for the first time, dine with hot plates. This is a clear example of the benefits of commercial exchange.

The guests at Lord Monmouth’s to-day were chiefly Carlists, individuals bearing illustrious names, that animate the page of history, and are indissolubly bound up with the glorious annals of their great country. They are the phantoms of a past, but real Aristocracy; an Aristocracy that was founded on an intelligible principle; which claimed great privileges for great purposes; whose hereditary duties were such, that their possessors were perpetually in the eye of the nation, and who maintained, and, in a certain point of view justified, their pre-eminence by constant illustration.

The guests at Lord Monmouth's today were mostly Carlists, people with prestigious names that bring history to life and are inextricably tied to the proud history of their great country. They are the echoes of a past, but a real Aristocracy; an Aristocracy built on a clear principle; one that demanded major privileges for significant reasons; whose inherited responsibilities were such that their holders were always under the nation's watch, and who upheld, and in a certain way justified, their superiority through continuous demonstration.

It pleased Lord Monmouth to show great courtesies to a fallen race with whom he sympathised; whose fathers had been his friends in the days of his hot youth; whose mothers he had made love to; whose palaces had been his home; whose brilliant fêtes he remembered; whose fanciful splendour excited his early imagination; and whose magnificent and wanton luxury had developed his own predisposition for boundless enjoyment. Soubise and his suppers; his cutlets and his mistresses; the profuse and embarrassed De Lauragais, who sighed for ‘entire ruin,’ as for a strange luxury, which perpetually eluded his grasp; these were the heroes of the olden time that Lord Monmouth worshipped; the wisdom of our ancestors which he appreciated; and he turned to their recollection for relief from the vulgar prudence of the degenerate days on which he had fallen: days when nobles must be richer than other men, or they cease to have any distinction.

It pleased Lord Monmouth to extend great kindness to a fallen race with whom he empathized; whose fathers had been his friends in his fiery youth; whose mothers he had courted; whose palaces had been his home; whose lively parties he fondly remembered; whose imaginative splendor had captured his young mind; and whose extravagant and indulgent lifestyle had fostered his own love for limitless enjoyment. Soubise and his dinners; his cutlets and his lovers; the lavish yet awkward De Lauragais, who longed for “total ruin” as if it were an elusive luxury that always slipped from his grasp; these were the icons of the past that Lord Monmouth admired; the wisdom of our ancestors he valued; and he turned to their memories for respite from the mundane prudence of the degraded times he found himself in: times when nobles had to be wealthier than everyone else, or they lost their distinction.

It was impossible not to be struck by the effective appearance of Lady Monmouth as she received her guests in grand toilet preparatory to the ball; white satin and minever, a brilliant tiara. Her fine form, her costume of a fashion as perfect as its materials were sumptuous, and her presence always commanding and distinguished, produced a general effect to which few could be insensible. It was the triumph of mien over mere beauty of countenance.

It was impossible not to be impressed by the stunning sight of Lady Monmouth as she welcomed her guests, dressed to the nines for the ball; white satin and mink, a dazzling tiara. Her elegant figure, her outfit that was as stylish as it was luxurious, and her always commanding and distinguished presence created an overall impact that few could ignore. It was the victory of demeanor over just physical beauty.

The hotel of Madame S. de R——d is not more distinguished by its profuse decoration, than by the fine taste which has guided the vast expenditure. Its halls of arabesque are almost without a rival; there is not the slightest embellishment in which the hand and feeling of art are not recognised. The rooms were very crowded; everybody distinguished in Paris was there: the lady of the Court, the duchess of the Faubourg, the wife of the financier, the constitutional Throne, the old Monarchy, the modern Bourse, were alike represented. Marshals of the Empire, Ministers of the Crown, Dukes and Marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the Oeil de Boeuf; diplomatists of all countries, eminent foreigners of all nations, deputies who led sections, members of learned and scientific academies, occasionally a stray poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras, brilliant bouquets, glittering stars, and glowing ribbons, many beautiful faces, many famous ones: unquestionably the general air of a firstrate Parisian saloon, on a great occasion, is not easily equalled. In London there is not the variety of guests; nor the same size and splendour of saloons. Our houses are too small for reception.

The hotel of Madame S. de R——d is as notable for its lavish decor as for the excellent taste that has shaped the extensive spending. Its arabesque halls are nearly unmatched; there isn’t a single embellishment where the touch and artistry of skilled craftsmanship isn't evident. The rooms were packed; everyone prominent in Paris was present: the court lady, the duchess from the Faubourg, the financier’s wife, representatives from the constitutional monarchy, the old monarchy, and the modern stock exchange were all there. Marshals of the Empire, ministers of the crown, dukes and marquesses, whose ancestors lounged in the Oeil de Boeuf; diplomats from various countries, notable foreign figures, deputies leading sections, members of learned and scientific academies, and sometimes a wandering poet; a sea of sparkling tiaras, stunning bouquets, glittering stars, and vibrant ribbons, many beautiful faces, many famous ones: undeniably, the overall atmosphere of a first-rate Parisian salon during a grand event is hard to match. In London, you won’t find the same diversity of guests or the same size and grandeur of salons. Our venues are too small for such gatherings.

Coningsby, who had stolen away from his grandfather’s before the rest of the guests, was delighted with the novelty of the splendid scene. He had been in Paris long enough to make some acquaintances, and mostly with celebrated personages. In his long fruitless endeavour to enter the saloon in which they danced, he found himself hustled against the illustrious Baron von H——t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few days before at Count M——é’s.

Coningsby, who had slipped away from his grandfather’s place before the other guests, was thrilled by the excitement of the stunning scene. He had been in Paris long enough to meet some people, mostly well-known figures. In his lengthy, unsuccessful attempt to get into the ballroom where they were dancing, he bumped into the famous Baron von H——t, whom he had sat next to at dinner a few days earlier at Count M——é’s.

‘It is more difficult than cutting through the Isthmus of Panama, Baron,’ said Coningsby, alluding to a past conversation.

‘It's harder than cutting through the Isthmus of Panama, Baron,’ said Coningsby, referring to a previous conversation.

‘Infinitely,’ replied M. de H., smiling; ‘for I would undertake to cut through the Isthmus, and I cannot engage that I shall enter this ball-room.’

‘Infinitely,’ replied M. de H., smiling; ‘because I would take on the task of cutting through the Isthmus, and I can’t guarantee that I’ll make it into this ballroom.’

Time, however, brought Coningsby into that brilliant chamber. What a blaze of light and loveliness! How coquettish are the costumes! How vivid the flowers! To sounds of stirring melody, beautiful beings move with grace. Grace, indeed, is beauty in action.

Time, however, led Coningsby into that stunning room. What a burst of light and beauty! How flirtatious are the outfits! How vibrant the flowers! To the sounds of lively music, lovely people move with elegance. Elegance, indeed, is beauty in motion.

Here, where all are fair and everything is attractive, his eye is suddenly arrested by one object, a form of surpassing grace among the graceful, among the beauteous a countenance of unrivalled beauty.

Here, where everyone is beautiful and everything is appealing, his eye is suddenly drawn to one object, a figure of exceptional grace among the graceful, a face of unmatched beauty among the beautiful.

She was young among the youthful; a face of sunshine amid all that artificial light; her head placed upon her finely-moulded shoulders with a queen-like grace; a coronet of white roses on her dark brown hair; her only ornament. It was the beauty of the picture-gallery.

She was young among the youth; a sunny face in all that artificial light; her head resting on her beautifully shaped shoulders with a queen-like elegance; a crown of white roses in her dark brown hair; her only accessory. It was the beauty of an art gallery.

The eye of Coningsby never quitted her. When the dance ceased, he had an opportunity of seeing her nearer. He met her walking with her cavalier, and he was conscious that she observed him. Finally he remarked that she resumed a seat next to the lady whom he had mistaken for her mother, but had afterwards understood to be Lady Wallinger.

The eye of Coningsby never left her. When the dance stopped, he had a chance to see her up close. He spotted her walking with her partner, and he realized she was watching him. Eventually, he noticed that she sat down next to the woman he had thought was her mother, but later learned was Lady Wallinger.

Coningsby returned to the other saloons: he witnessed the entrance and reception of Lady Monmouth, who moved on towards the ball-room. Soon after this, Sidonia arrived; he came in with the still handsome and ever courteous Duke D——s. Observing Coningsby, he stopped to present him to the Duke. While thus conversing, the Duke, who is fond of the English, observed, ‘See, here is your beautiful countrywoman that all the world are talking of. That is her uncle. He brings to me letters from one of your lords, whose name I cannot recollect.’

Coningsby went back to the other lounges and saw Lady Monmouth arrive and get welcomed as she made her way to the ballroom. Shortly after that, Sidonia showed up, entering with the still handsome and always polite Duke D——s. Noticing Coningsby, he paused to introduce him to the Duke. While they were chatting, the Duke, who has a fondness for the English, remarked, “Look, here’s your beautiful countrywoman that everyone is talking about. That's her uncle. He’s handing me letters from one of your lords, whose name I can’t remember.”

And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece veritably approached. The Duke addressed them: asked them in the name of his Duchess to a concert on the next Thursday; and, after a thousand compliments, moved on. Sidonia stopped; Coningsby could not refrain from lingering, but stood a little apart, and was about to move away, when there was a whisper, of which, without hearing a word, he could not resist the impression that he was the subject. He felt a little embarrassed, and was retiring, when he heard Sidonia reply to an inquiry of the lady, ‘The same,’ and then, turning to Coningsby, said aloud, ‘Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that you have forgotten her.’

And Sir Joseph and his lovely niece genuinely approached. The Duke addressed them and invited them on behalf of his Duchess to a concert next Thursday; after exchanging many compliments, he moved on. Sidonia paused; Coningsby couldn’t help but linger, standing a bit apart, and was about to walk away when he sensed a whisper that made him feel like he was the topic of discussion, even though he didn’t catch any actual words. He felt a little awkward and was starting to leave when he heard Sidonia respond to the lady’s question with, ‘The same,’ and then, turning to Coningsby, said out loud, ‘Coningsby, Miss Millbank says that you’ve forgotten her.’

Coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal his surprise. The lady, too, though more prepared, was not without confusion, and for an instant looked down. Coningsby recalled at that moment the long dark eyelashes, and the beautiful, bashful countenance that had so charmed him at Millbank; but two years had otherwise effected a wonderful change in the sister of his school-day friend, and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing beauty and of the most graceful and impressive mien.

Coningsby was taken aback, moved forward, blushed a bit, and struggled to hide his surprise. The lady, although somewhat prepared, was also a bit flustered and looked down for a moment. Coningsby remembered the long dark eyelashes and the lovely, shy face that had captivated him at Millbank; however, two years had brought an incredible transformation in his school friend's sister, turning the quiet, awkward girl into a stunning woman with a remarkably elegant and striking presence.

‘It is not surprising that Mr. Coningsby should not recollect my niece,’ said Sir Joseph, addressing Sidonia, and wishing to cover their mutual embarrassment; ‘but it is impossible for her, or for anyone connected with her, not to be anxious at all times to express to him our sense of what we all owe him.’

‘It’s not surprising that Mr. Coningsby doesn’t remember my niece,’ said Sir Joseph, speaking to Sidonia and trying to ease their shared awkwardness. ‘But it’s unavoidable for her, or anyone linked to her, to always want to express to him our appreciation for everything we owe him.’

Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now in full routine conversation, consisting of questions; how long she had been at Paris; when she had heard last from Millbank; how her father was; also, how was her brother. Sidonia made an observation to Sir Joseph on a passer-by, and then himself moved on; Coningsby accompanying his new friends, in a contrary direction, to the refreshment-room, to which they were proceeding.

Coningsby and Miss Millbank were now having a regular conversation full of questions: how long she’d been in Paris, when she last heard from Millbank, how her father was doing, and how her brother was. Sidonia commented to Sir Joseph about someone passing by, and then he moved on. Coningsby accompanied his new friends in the opposite direction to the refreshment room, where they were headed.

‘And you have passed a winter at Rome,’ said Coningsby. ‘How I envy you! I feel that I shall never be able to travel.’

‘And you’ve spent a winter in Rome,’ said Coningsby. ‘How I envy you! I feel like I’ll never get the chance to travel.’

‘And why not?’

"Why not?"

‘Life has become so stirring, that there is ever some great cause that keeps one at home.’

‘Life has become so exciting that there’s always some big cause keeping people at home.’

‘Life, on the contrary, so swift, that all may see now that of which they once could only read.’

‘Life, on the other hand, moves so fast that everyone can now see what they once could only read about.’

‘The golden and silver sides of the shield,’ said Coningsby, with a smile.

‘And you, like a good knight, will maintain your own.’

‘And you, like a true knight, will uphold your own.’

‘No, I would follow yours.’

“Not a chance, I’ll follow yours.”

‘You have not heard lately from Oswald?’

‘You haven't heard from Oswald lately?’

‘Oh, yes; I think there are no such faithful correspondents as we are; I only wish we could meet.’

‘Oh, yes; I don’t think there are any correspondents as loyal as we are; I just wish we could meet.’

‘You will soon; but he is such a devotee of Oxford; quite a monk; and you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are much occupied.’

‘You will soon; but he is such a fan of Oxford; really a monk; and you, too, Mr. Coningsby, are very busy.’

‘Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was in hopes, when I once paid you a visit, I might have found your brother.’

‘Yes, and at the same time as Millbank. I was hoping that when I came to see you, I might have found your brother.’

‘But that was such a rapid visit,’ said Miss Millbank.

‘But that was such a quick visit,’ said Miss Millbank.

‘I always remember it with delight,’ said Coningsby.

"I always remember it fondly," said Coningsby.

‘You were willing to be pleased; but Millbank, notwithstanding Rome, commands my affections, and in spite of this surrounding splendour, I could have wished to have passed my Christmas in Lancashire.’

‘You were eager to be happy; but Millbank, despite Rome, still holds my heart, and even with all this surrounding beauty, I would have preferred to spend my Christmas in Lancashire.’

‘Mr. Millbank has lately purchased a very beautiful place in the county. I became acquainted with Hellingsley when staying at my grandfather’s.’

‘Mr. Millbank has recently bought a stunning property in the county. I got to know Hellingsley when I was visiting my grandfather’s.’

‘Ah! I have never seen it; indeed, I was much surprised that papa became its purchaser, because he never will live there; and Oswald, I am sure, could never be tempted to quit Millbank. You know what enthusiastic ideas he has of his order?’

‘Ah! I’ve never seen it; honestly, I was really surprised that Dad bought it since he’ll never live there, and I’m sure Oswald would never want to leave Millbank. You know how passionate he is about his position?’

‘Like all his ideas, sound, and high, and pure. I always duly appreciated your brother’s great abilities, and, what is far more important, his lofty mind. When I recollect our Eton days, I cannot understand how more than two years have passed away without our being together. I am sure the fault is mine. I might now have been at Oxford instead of Paris. And yet,’ added Coningsby, ‘that would have been a sad mistake, since I should not have had the happiness of being here.

‘Like all his ideas, sound, high, and pure. I’ve always truly appreciated your brother’s great talents and, even more importantly, his elevated thoughts. When I think back to our Eton days, I can’t grasp how more than two years have gone by without us being together. I’m sure it’s my fault. I could have been at Oxford right now instead of Paris. And yet,’ Coningsby added, ‘that would have been a real mistake, since I wouldn’t have had the joy of being here.’

‘Oh, yes, that would have been a sad mistake,’ said Miss Millbank.

‘Edith,’ said Sir Joseph, rejoining his niece, from whom he had been momentarily separated, ‘Edith, that is Monsieur Thiers.’

‘Edith,’ said Sir Joseph, catching up with his niece, who he had been briefly separated from, ‘Edith, this is Monsieur Thiers.’

In the meantime Sidonia reached the ball-room, and sitting near the entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately addressed him. He was, as usual, intelligent and unimpassioned, and yet not without a delicate deference which is flattering to women, especially if not altogether unworthy of it. Sidonia always admired Lucretia, and preferred her society to that of most persons. But the Lady was in error in supposing that she had conquered or could vanquish his heart. Sidonia was one of those men, not so rare as may be supposed, who shrink, above all things, from an adventure of gallantry with a woman in a position. He had neither time nor temper for sentimental circumvolutions. He detested the diplomacy of passion: protocols, protracted negotiations, conferences, correspondence, treaties projected, ratified, violated. He had no genius for the tactics of intrigue; your reconnoiterings, and marchings, and countermarchings, sappings, and minings, assaults, sometimes surrenders, and sometimes repulses. All the solemn and studied hypocrisies were to him infinitely wearisome; and if the movements were not merely formal, they irritated him, distracted his feelings, disturbed the tenor of his mind, deranged his nervous system. Something of the old Oriental vein influenced him in his carriage towards women. He was oftener behind the scenes of the Opera-house than in his box; he delighted, too, in the society of etairai; Aspasia was his heroine. Obliged to appear much in what is esteemed pure society, he cultivated the acquaintance of clever women, because they interested him; but in such saloons his feminine acquaintances were merely psychological. No lady could accuse him of trifling with her feelings, however decided might be his predilection for her conversation. He yielded at once to an admirer; never trespassed by any chance into the domain of sentiment; never broke, by any accident or blunder, into the irregular paces of flirtation; was a man who notoriously would never diminish by marriage the purity of his race; and one who always maintained that passion and polished life were quite incompatible. He liked the drawing-room, and he liked the Desert, but he would not consent that either should trench on their mutual privileges.

In the meantime, Sidonia arrived at the ballroom, and sitting near the entrance was Lady Monmouth, who immediately spoke to him. He was, as usual, intelligent and composed, but he also had a delicate politeness that was flattering to women, especially when it wasn’t entirely undeserved. Sidonia always admired Lucretia and preferred her company to that of most others. However, the Lady was mistaken in thinking she had won or could win his heart. Sidonia was one of those men, not as rare as one might think, who, above all things, shies away from romantic adventures with women of status. He had neither the time nor the patience for sentimental fluff. He despised the politics of passion: protocols, prolonged negotiations, discussions, correspondence, treaties planned, approved, and broken. He had no talent for the tactics of intrigue—reconnaissances, marches, counter-marches, digging and mining, assaults, sometimes surrenders, and sometimes repulses. All the serious and calculated hypocrisies bored him endlessly; and if the movements weren’t merely formal, they annoyed him, distracted his emotions, disturbed his state of mind, and upset his nerves. There was something of the old Eastern influence in his demeanor towards women. He spent more time behind the scenes at the opera house than in his box; he also enjoyed the company of etairai; Aspasia was his muse. Although he was often required to appear in what is considered high society, he formed relationships with intelligent women because they intrigued him; but in such settings, his interactions with women were purely psychological. No woman could accuse him of playing with her feelings, regardless of how much he might enjoy her conversation. He surrendered easily to admiration; he never accidentally slipped into sentiment; he never, by chance or mistake, entered the irregular realm of flirtation; he was a man who undeniably would never diminish the purity of his lineage through marriage; and one who always asserted that passion and refined living were completely incompatible. He enjoyed the drawing room, and he liked the Desert, but he wouldn’t allow either to intrude on the other's rights.

The Princess Lucretia had yielded herself to the spell of Sidonia’s society at Coningsby Castle, when she knew that marriage was impossible. But she loved him; and with an Italian spirit. Now they met again, and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very great lady, very much admired, and followed, and courted, and very powerful. It is our great moralist who tells us, in the immortal page, that an affair of gallantry with a great lady is more delightful than with ladies of a lower degree. In this he contradicts the good old ballad; but certain it is that Dr. Johnson announced to Boswell, ‘Sir, in the case of a Countess the imagination is more excited.’

The Princess Lucretia had given in to the charm of Sidonia’s company at Coningsby Castle, even though she knew that marriage was out of the question. But she loved him, passionately, like an Italian. Now they met again, and she was the Marchioness of Monmouth, a very important lady, widely admired, sought after, and quite powerful. Our esteemed moralist tells us, in his timeless writing, that having a romantic affair with a great lady is more enjoyable than with women of lesser status. In this, he goes against the traditional ballad; however, it’s clear that Dr. Johnson told Boswell, ‘Sir, in the case of a Countess, the imagination is more stirred.’

But Sidonia was a man on whom the conventional superiorities of life produced as little effect as a flake falling on the glaciers of the high Alps. His comprehension of the world and human nature was too vast and complete; he understood too well the relative value of things to appreciate anything but essential excellence; and that not too much. A charming woman was not more charming to him because she chanced to be an empress in a particular district of one of the smallest planets; a charming woman under any circumstances was not an unique animal. When Sidonia felt a disposition to be spellbound, he used to review in his memory all the charming women of whom he had read in the books of all literatures, and whom he had known himself in every court and clime, and the result of his reflections ever was, that the charming woman in question was by no means the paragon, which some who had read, seen, and thought less, might be inclined to esteem her. There was, indeed, no subject on which Sidonia discoursed so felicitously as on woman, and none on which Lord Eskdale more frequently endeavoured to attract him. He would tell you Talmudical stories about our mother Eve and the Queen of Sheba, which would have astonished you. There was not a free lady of Greece, Leontium and Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, the Egyptian girl Thonis, respecting whom he could not tell you as many diverting tales as if they were ladies of Loretto; not a nook of Athenseus, not an obscure scholiast, not a passage in a Greek orator, that could throw light on these personages, which was not at his command. What stories he would tell you about Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot drawn by tigers! What a character would he paint of that Flora who gave her gardens to the Roman people! It would draw tears to your eyes. No man was ever so learned in the female manners of the last centuries of polytheism as Sidonia. You would have supposed that he had devoted his studies peculiarly to that period if you had not chanced to draw him to the Italian middle ages. And even these startling revelations were almost eclipsed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III. of France, with every character of which he was as familiar as with the brilliant groups that at this moment filled the saloons of Madame de R——d.

But Sidonia was a man who was unaffected by the conventional advantages of life, like a snowflake landing on the glaciers of the high Alps. His understanding of the world and human nature was too broad and complete; he recognized the relative value of things too well to appreciate anything beyond essential excellence, and even that not too much. A charming woman didn’t seem more charming to him just because she happened to be an empress in a small corner of one of the tiniest planets; a charming woman, under any circumstances, wasn’t a rare find. When Sidonia felt the urge to be captivated, he would recall all the charming women he had read about in literature and those he had known across various courts and regions, and the conclusion he always reached was that the charming woman in question was by no means the ideal that some who had read, seen, and contemplated less might think she was. There was truly no topic on which Sidonia spoke as eloquently as on women, and none that Lord Eskdale tried more often to engage him on. He would share Talmudic stories about our mother Eve and the Queen of Sheba that would astonish you. He could tell you as many entertaining tales about any free woman of Greece, like Leontium, Phryne, Lais, Danae, and Lamia, as if they were ladies of Loretto; there wasn't a nook in Athenseus, an obscure scholar, or a passage from a Greek orator that couldn't shed light on these figures that he didn't have at his fingertips. What stories he would share about Marc Antony and the actress Cytheris in their chariot pulled by tigers! What a character he would paint of Flora, who gave her gardens to the Roman people! It would bring tears to your eyes. No man was ever as knowledgeable about the female customs of the last centuries of polytheism as Sidonia. You would have thought that he had focused his studies exclusively on that era if you hadn’t redirected him to the Italian Middle Ages. And even those astonishing revelations were almost overshadowed by his anecdotes of the Court of Henry III of France, with whom he was as familiar as the vibrant groups currently filling the parlors of Madame de R——d.

CHAPTER III.

The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought of Coningsby, as he sank into an agitated slumber. To him had hitherto in general been accorded the precious boon of dreamless sleep. Homer tells us these phantasms come from Jove; they are rather the children of a distracted soul. Coningsby this night lived much in past years, varied by painful perplexities of the present, which he could neither subdue nor comprehend. The scene flitted from Eton to the castle of his grandfather; and then he found himself among the pictures of the Rue de Tronchet, but their owner bore the features of the senior Millbank. A beautiful countenance that was alternately the face in the mysterious picture, and then that of Edith, haunted him under all circumstances. He woke little refreshed; restless, and yet sensible of some secret joy.

The image of Edith Millbank was the last thought on Coningsby’s mind as he drifted into an agitated sleep. He had generally been lucky enough to experience dreamless sleep. Homer tells us these dreams come from the gods; they are actually more like the products of a troubled soul. That night, Coningsby found himself caught up in memories of the past, mixed with the painful uncertainties of the present, which he couldn’t manage or understand. The scenes shifted from Eton to his grandfather’s castle, and then he found himself among the artworks on Rue de Tronchet, though their owner looked like the older Millbank. A beautiful face that alternated between the mysterious picture and that of Edith haunted him in every situation. He woke up feeling little refreshed; restless, yet aware of some hidden joy.

He woke to think of her of whom he had dreamed. The light had dawned on his soul. Coningsby loved.

He woke up thinking about her, the one he had dreamed of. The light had come to his soul. Coningsby was in love.

Ah! what is that ambition that haunts our youth, that thirst for power or that lust of fame that forces us from obscurity into the sunblaze of the world, what are these sentiments so high, so vehement, so ennobling? They vanish, and in an instant, before the glance of a woman!

Ah! What is this ambition that haunts our youth, this desire for power or craving for fame that pushes us out of obscurity into the spotlight of the world? What are these feelings that are so intense, so passionate, so uplifting? They disappear, just like that, at the glance of a woman!

Coningsby had scarcely quitted her side the preceding eve. He hung upon the accents of that clear sweet voice, and sought, with tremulous fascination, the gleaming splendour of those soft dark eyes. And now he sat in his chamber, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. All thoughts and feelings, pursuits, desires, life, merge in one absorbing sentiment.

Coningsby had barely left her side the night before. He was captivated by the sound of that clear, sweet voice and was drawn, with a trembling fascination, to the shining beauty of those soft dark eyes. And now he sat in his room, staring blankly into space. All thoughts and feelings, goals, desires, and life itself merged into one overwhelming emotion.

It is impossible to exist without seeing her again, and instantly. He had requested and gained permission to call on Lady Wallinger; he would not lose a moment in availing himself of it. As early as was tolerably decorous, and before, in all probability, they could quit their hotel, Coningsby repaired to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his respects to his new friends.

It’s impossible to go on without seeing her again, and right away. He had asked for and received permission to visit Lady Wallinger; he wouldn’t waste a second in taking advantage of it. As early as was reasonably proper, and likely before they could check out of their hotel, Coningsby headed to the Rue de Rivoli to pay his respects to his new friends.

As he walked along, he indulged in fanciful speculations which connected Edith and the mysterious portrait of his mother. He felt himself, as it were, near the fulfilment of some fate, and on the threshold of some critical discovery. He recalled the impatient, even alarmed, expressions of Rigby at Montem six years ago, when he proposed to invite young Millbank to his grandfather’s dinner; the vindictive feud that existed between the two families, and for which political opinion, or even party passion, could not satisfactorily account; and he reasoned himself into a conviction, that the solution of many perplexities was at hand, and that all would be consummated to the satisfaction of every one, by his unexpected but inevitable agency.

As he walked along, he got lost in imaginative thoughts that connected Edith and the mysterious portrait of his mother. He felt that he was on the brink of fulfilling some destiny and was close to a major discovery. He remembered Rigby’s impatient and even worried reactions at Montem six years ago when he suggested inviting young Millbank to his grandfather’s dinner; the bitter feud between the two families that didn’t seem to be explained by political views or party loyalties; and he convinced himself that the answers to many of his questions were about to unfold, and that everything would come together for everyone, thanks to his unexpected but unavoidable role in it.

Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The worthy Baronet was at any rate no participator in Mr. Millbank’s vindictive feelings against Lord Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a very high respect for a Marquess, whatever might be his opinions, and no mean consideration for a Marquess’ grandson.

Coningsby found Sir Joseph alone. The good Baronet was definitely not involved in Mr. Millbank’s bitter feelings toward Lord Monmouth. On the contrary, he had a great deal of respect for a Marquess, regardless of his views, and he held a significant regard for a Marquess’ grandson.

Sir Joseph had inherited a large fortune made by commerce, and had increased it by the same means. He was a middle-class Whig, had faithfully supported that party in his native town during the days they wandered in the wilderness, and had well earned his share of the milk and honey when they had vanquished the promised land. In the springtide of Liberalism, when the world was not analytical of free opinions, and odious distinctions were not drawn between Finality men and progressive Reformers, Mr. Wallinger had been the popular leader of a powerful body of his fellow-citizens, who had returned him to the first Reformed Parliament, and where, in spite of many a menacing registration, he had contrived to remain. He had never given a Radical vote without the permission of the Secretary of the Treasury, and was not afraid of giving an unpopular one to serve his friends. He was not like that distinguished Liberal, who, after dining with the late Whig Premier, expressed his gratification and his gratitude, by assuring his Lordship that he might count on his support on all popular questions.

Sir Joseph inherited a huge fortune from his business dealings and grew it even more through the same means. He was a middle-class Whig and had staunchly supported that party in his hometown during their toughest times, earning his share of the rewards when they finally succeeded. During the heyday of Liberalism, when society was more open to free opinions and there weren't harsh divisions between Finality supporters and progressive Reformers, Mr. Wallinger was the popular leader of a strong group of locals who elected him to the first Reformed Parliament, where, despite many threats to his position, he managed to hold on. He had never cast a Radical vote without the consent of the Secretary of the Treasury and wasn’t afraid to make unpopular votes to help his friends. He wasn’t like that well-known Liberal who, after having dinner with the former Whig Prime Minister, showed his appreciation by promising his Lordship that he would support all popular issues.

‘I want men who will support the government on all unpopular questions,’ replied the witty statesman.

‘I want men who will back the government on every unpopular issue,’ replied the clever politician.

Mr. Wallinger was one of these men. His high character and strong purse were always in the front rank in the hour of danger. His support in the House was limited to his votes; but in other places equally important, at a meeting at a political club, or in Downing Street, he could find his tongue, take what is called a ‘practical’ view of a question, adopt what is called an ‘independent tone,’ reanimate confidence in ministers, check mutiny, and set a bright and bold example to the wavering. A man of his property, and high character, and sound views, so practical and so independent, this was evidently the block from which a Baronet should be cut, and in due time he figured Sir Joseph.

Mr. Wallinger was one of those men. His strong character and deep pockets were always at the forefront in times of danger. In the House, he mainly contributed by voting; however, in other equally important settings like a political club meeting or at Downing Street, he could express his opinions, take a ‘practical’ approach to issues, adopt an ‘independent tone,’ restore confidence in ministers, quell dissent, and set a clear and confident example for those who were uncertain. A man of his wealth, character, and solid opinions, who was both practical and independent, clearly displayed the qualities from which a Baronet should be shaped, and eventually, he became Sir Joseph.

A Spanish gentleman of ample means, and of a good Catalan family, flying during a political convulsion to England, arrived with his two daughters at Liverpool, and bore letters of introduction to the house of Wallinger. Some little time after this, by one of those stormy vicissitudes of political fortune, of late years not unusual in the Peninsula, he returned to his native country, and left his children, and the management of that portion of his fortune that he had succeeded in bringing with him, under the guardianship of the father of the present Sir Joseph. This gentleman was about again to become an exile, when he met with an untimely end in one of those terrible tumults of which Barcelona is the frequent scene.

A wealthy Spanish gentleman from a good Catalan family fled to England during a political upheaval. He arrived in Liverpool with his two daughters and had letters of introduction to the Wallinger family. Some time later, due to one of the tumultuous shifts in political fortune that have become common in the Peninsula in recent years, he returned to his homeland. He left his children and the part of his fortune he managed to bring with him in the care of the father of the current Sir Joseph. This man was about to become an exile again when he met an untimely end in one of the violent riots that frequently occur in Barcelona.

The younger Wallinger was touched by the charms of one of his father’s wards. Her beauty of a character to which he was unaccustomed, her accomplishments of society, and the refinement of her manners, conspicuous in the circle in which he lived, captivated him; and though they had no heir, the union had been one of great felicity. Sir Joseph was proud of his wife; he secretly considered himself, though his ‘tone’ was as liberal and independent as in old days, to be on the threshold of aristocracy, and was conscious that Lady Wallinger played her part not unworthily in the elevated circles in which they now frequently found themselves. Sir Joseph was fond of great people, and not averse to travel; because, bearing a title, and being a member of the British Parliament, and always moving with the appendages of wealth, servants, carriages, and couriers, and fortified with no lack of letters from the Foreign Office, he was everywhere acknowledged, and received, and treated as a personage; was invited to court-balls, dined with ambassadors, and found himself and his lady at every festival of distinction.

The younger Wallinger was charmed by one of his father's wards. Her beauty, which he wasn't used to, her social skills, and the refinement of her manners stood out in the circle he was part of and captivated him; and even though they had no children, their marriage was very happy. Sir Joseph was proud of his wife; he secretly thought of himself, even though his attitude was still as free and independent as before, as being on the brink of aristocracy, and he recognized that Lady Wallinger held her own in the high society they often found themselves in. Sir Joseph enjoyed being around important people and didn’t mind traveling; because, with a title, being a member of Parliament, and always moving with the trappings of wealth—servants, carriages, and couriers—and having plenty of letters from the Foreign Office, he was acknowledged, welcomed, and treated as a significant figure everywhere; he was invited to court balls, dined with ambassadors, and he and his wife attended every notable celebration.

The elder Millbank had been Joseph Wallinger’s youthful friend. Different as were their dispositions and the rate of their abilities, their political opinions were the same; and commerce habitually connected their interests. During a visit to Liverpool, Millbank had made the acquaintance of the sister of Lady Wallinger, and had been a successful suitor for her hand. This lady was the mother of Edith and of the schoolfellow of Coningsby. It was only within a very few years that she had died; she had scarcely lived long enough to complete the education of her daughter, to whom she was devoted, and on whom she lavished the many accomplishments that she possessed. Lady Wallinger having no children, and being very fond of her niece, had watched over Edith with infinite solicitude, and finally had persuaded Mr. Millbank, that it would be well that his daughter should accompany them in their somewhat extensive travels. It was not, therefore, only that nature had developed a beautiful woman out of a bashful girl since Coningsby’s visit to Millbank; but really, every means and every opportunity that could contribute to render an individual capable of adorning the most accomplished circles of life, had naturally, and without effort, fallen to the fortunate lot of the manufacturer’s daughter. Edith possessed an intelligence equal to those occasions. Without losing the native simplicity of her character, which sprang from the heart, and which the strong and original bent of her father’s mind had fostered, she had imbibed all the refinement and facility of the polished circles in which she moved. She had a clear head, a fine taste, and a generous spirit; had received so much admiration, that, though by no means insensible to homage, her heart was free; was strongly attached to her family; and, notwithstanding all the splendour of Rome, and the brilliancy of Paris, her thoughts were often in her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and busy factories of Millbank.

The older Millbank had been a close friend of Joseph Wallinger when they were younger. Although their personalities and abilities were quite different, they shared the same political views, and their business interests were regularly intertwined. During a trip to Liverpool, Millbank met Lady Wallinger’s sister and successfully sought her hand in marriage. This woman was the mother of Edith and Coningsby's school friend. She had only passed away a few years back, having lived just long enough to see her daughter educated, to whom she was deeply devoted, showering her with the many skills she had. With no children of her own, Lady Wallinger was very fond of her niece, taking great care of Edith and eventually convincing Mr. Millbank that it would be a good idea for his daughter to join them on their extensive travels. Thus, it wasn’t just that nature had transformed a shy girl into a beautiful woman since Coningsby’s visit to Millbank; indeed, every opportunity and resource that could help someone shine in the most accomplished circles had effortlessly come the way of the manufacturer’s daughter. Edith had the intelligence to handle any situation. While she maintained the genuine simplicity born from her heart and nurtured by her father’s unique mindset, she also embraced the refinement and ease of the sophisticated environments she frequented. She had a sharp mind, good taste, and a generous spirit; although she received plenty of admiration and was certainly not indifferent to praise, her heart remained free. She was very devoted to her family, and despite the allure of Rome and the splendor of Paris, her thoughts often wandered back to her Saxon valley, amid the green hills and bustling factories of Millbank.

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with the grandson of Lord Monmouth, was not very anxious that the ladies should immediately appear. He thought this a good opportunity of getting at what are called ‘the real feelings of the Tory party;’ and he began to pump with a seductive semblance of frankness. For his part, he had never doubted that a Conservative government was ultimately inevitable; had told Lord John so two years ago, and, between themselves, Lord John was of the same opinion. The present position of the Whigs was the necessary fate of all progressive parties; could not see exactly how it would end; thought sometimes it must end in a fusion of parties; but could not well see how that could be brought about, at least at present. For his part, should be happy to witness an union of the best men of all parties, for the preservation of peace and order, without any reference to any particular opinions. And, in that sense of the word, it was not at all impossible he might find it his duty some day to support a Conservative government.

Sir Joseph, finding himself alone with Lord Monmouth's grandson, wasn’t too eager for the ladies to show up right away. He thought it was a good chance to get to the core of what they call ‘the real feelings of the Tory party,’ so he started to dig a little with a feigned honesty. He had never doubted that a Conservative government was bound to happen eventually; he had told Lord John that two years ago, and, just between them, Lord John agreed. The current state of the Whigs was the usual fate of all progressive parties; he couldn’t see exactly how it would end; sometimes he thought it might lead to a merging of parties, but he couldn’t quite figure out how that would happen, at least not right now. For his part, he would be happy to see a union of the best people from all parties to maintain peace and order, without focusing on any specific viewpoints. In that sense, it was entirely possible that he might find himself supporting a Conservative government someday.

Sir Joseph was much astonished when Coningsby, who being somewhat impatient for the entrance of the ladies was rather more abrupt than his wont, told the worthy Baronet that he looked, upon a government without distinct principles of policy as only a stop-gap to a wide-spread and demoralising anarchy; that he for one could not comprehend how a free government could endure without national opinions to uphold it; and that governments for the preservation of peace and order, and nothing else, had better be sought in China, or among the Austrians, the Chinese of Europe. As for Conservative government, the natural question was, What do you mean to conserve? Do you mean to conserve things or only names, realities or merely appearances? Or, do you mean to continue the system commenced in 1834, and, with a hypocritical reverence for the principles, and a superstitious adhesion to the forms, of the old exclusive constitution, carry on your policy by latitudinarian practice?

Sir Joseph was quite surprised when Coningsby, who was a bit impatient for the ladies to arrive and thus more blunt than usual, told the respectable Baronet that he viewed a government without clear principles as just a temporary fix to a widespread and corrupting chaos. He couldn’t understand how a free government could survive without national opinions to support it. He suggested that a government aimed only at maintaining peace and order would be better sought in China or among the Austrians, who are like Europe's Chinese. As for a Conservative government, the obvious question is, What do you intend to conserve? Are you looking to preserve actual things or just names, realities or merely appearances? Or, do you plan to continue the system started in 1834, while pretending to respect the principles and clinging to the forms of the old exclusive constitution, but actually advancing your agenda through flexible practices?

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time that any inkling of the views of the New Generation had caught his ear. They were strange and unaccustomed accents. He was extremely perplexed; could by no means make out what his companion was driving at; at length, with a rather knowing smile, expressive as much of compassion as comprehension, he remarked,

Sir Joseph stared; it was the first time any hint of the New Generation's views had caught his attention. They were unusual and unfamiliar tones. He was very confused; he couldn't quite understand what his companion was getting at; finally, with a somewhat knowing smile, which showed both compassion and understanding, he said,

‘Ah! I see; you are a regular Orangeman.’

‘Ah! I get it; you’re a typical Orangeman.’

‘I look upon an Orangeman,’ said Coningsby, ‘as a pure Whig; the only professor and practiser of unadulterated Whiggism.’

‘I view an Orangeman,’ said Coningsby, ‘as a true Whig; the only true expert and practitioner of pure Whiggism.’

This was too much for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge did not reach much further back than the ministry of the Mediocrities; hardly touched the times of the Corresponding Society. But he was a cautious man, and never replied in haste. He was about feeling his way, when he experienced the golden advantage of gaining time, for the ladies entered.

This was overwhelming for Sir Joseph, whose political knowledge didn't go back much further than the Mediocrities’ term; he barely remembered the era of the Corresponding Society. But he was a careful man and never responded impulsively. He was trying to figure things out when he found the golden opportunity to buy himself some time, as the ladies walked in.

The heart of Coningsby throbbed as Edith appeared. She extended to him her hand; her face radiant with kind expression. Lady Wallinger seemed gratified also by his visit. She had much elegance in her manner; a calm, soft address; and she spoke English with a sweet Doric irregularity. They all sat down, talked of the last night’s ball, of a thousand things. There was something animating in the frank, cheerful spirit of Edith. She had a quick eye both for the beautiful and the ridiculous, and threw out her observations in terse and vivid phrases. An hour, and more than an hour, passed away, and Coningsby still found some excuse not to depart. It seemed that on this morning they were about to make an expedition into the antique city of Paris, to visit some old hotels which retained their character; especially they had heard much of the hotel of the Archbishop of Sens, with its fortified courtyard. Coningsby expressed great interest in the subject, and showed some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to join the party, which of all things in the world was what he most desired.

The heart of Coningsby raced as Edith walked in. She reached out her hand to him, her face glowing with a warm expression. Lady Wallinger also seemed pleased by his visit. She moved with great elegance; her manner was calm and gentle, and she spoke English with a charming, occasional accent. They all sat down and chatted about the previous night's ball and a million other things. There was something invigorating about Edith's open, cheerful spirit. She had a keen eye for both beauty and absurdity, sharing her thoughts in sharp, vivid phrases. An hour, then more than an hour, went by, and Coningsby kept finding reasons not to leave. It turned out that they were planning an outing that morning to the historic city of Paris to visit some old hotels that still had character; they had especially heard a lot about the Archbishop of Sens's hotel, with its fortified courtyard. Coningsby showed great interest in this topic and demonstrated some knowledge. Sir Joseph invited him to join the group, which was exactly what he wanted more than anything.

CHAPTER IV.

Not a day elapsed without Coningsby being in the company of Edith. Time was precious for him, for the spires and pinnacles of Cambridge already began to loom in the distance, and he resolved to make the most determined efforts not to lose a day of his liberty. And yet to call every morning in the Rue de Rivoli was an exploit which surpassed even the audacity of love! More than once, making the attempt, his courage failed him, and he turned into the gardens of the Tuileries, and only watched the windows of the house. Circumstances, however, favoured him: he received a letter from Oswald Millbank; he was bound to communicate in person this evidence of his friend’s existence; and when he had to reply to the letter, he must necessarily inquire whether his friend’s relatives had any message to transmit to him. These, however, were only slight advantages. What assisted Coningsby in his plans and wishes was the great pleasure which Sidonia, with whom he passed a great deal of his time, took in the society of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia presented Lady Wallinger with his opera-box during her stay at Paris; invited them frequently to his agreeable dinner-parties; and announced his determination to give a ball, which Lady Wallinger esteemed a delicate attention to Edith; while Lady Monmouth flattered herself that the festival sprang from the desire she had expressed of seeing the celebrated hotel of Sidonia to advantage.

Not a day went by without Coningsby being with Edith. Time was important to him since the spires and towers of Cambridge were already on the horizon, and he was determined to make every effort not to waste a day of his freedom. Yet, showing up every morning on Rue de Rivoli was a challenge that even love's bravery couldn't overcome! More than once, when he tried, his courage failed him, and he ended up wandering into the Tuileries gardens, simply watching the windows of her house. However, luck was on his side: he received a letter from Oswald Millbank, which meant he had to share this proof of his friend’s existence in person; and in his response, he would have to ask if his friend’s family had any messages for him. These were just small advantages, though. What really helped Coningsby with his plans and desires was the joy Sidonia, who he spent a lot of time with, found in the company of the Wallingers and their niece. Sidonia offered Lady Wallinger his opera box while she was in Paris, frequently invited them to his delightful dinner parties, and announced his intention to throw a ball, which Lady Wallinger saw as a thoughtful gesture towards Edith; meanwhile, Lady Monmouth was pleased, believing the event was inspired by her wish to enjoy Sidonia's famous hotel at its best.

Coningsby was very happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli seemed always welcome, and seldom an evening elapsed in which he did not find himself in the society of Edith. She seemed not to wish to conceal that his presence gave her pleasure, and though she had many admirers, and had an airy graciousness for all of them, Coningsby sometimes indulged the exquisite suspicion that there was a flattering distinction in her carriage to himself. Under the influence of these feelings, he began daily to be more conscious that separation would be an intolerable calamity; he began to meditate upon the feasibility of keeping a half term, and of postponing his departure to Cambridge to a period nearer the time when Edith would probably return to England.

Coningsby was really happy. His morning visits to the Rue de Rivoli always seemed welcome, and hardly a night went by without him being in Edith's company. She didn't try to hide the fact that his presence made her happy, and although she had many admirers and was charming with all of them, Coningsby sometimes allowed himself to think that there was a special way she treated him. With these feelings in mind, he became increasingly aware that being apart from her would be unbearable; he started to consider whether he could take a short break and delay his return to Cambridge until closer to when Edith would likely come back to England.

In the meanwhile, the Parisian world talked much of the grand fete which was about to be given by Sidonia. Coningsby heard much of it one day when dining at his grandfather’s. Lady Monmouth seemed very intent on the occasion. Even Lord Monmouth half talked of going, though, for his part, he wished people would come to him, and never ask him to their houses. That was his idea of society. He liked the world, but he liked to find it under his own roof. He grudged them nothing, so that they would not insist upon the reciprocity of cold-catching, and would eat his good dinners instead of insisting on his eating their bad ones.

In the meantime, the Parisian crowd was buzzing about the grand party that Sidonia was about to throw. Coningsby heard a lot about it one day while having dinner at his grandfather’s. Lady Monmouth seemed really focused on the event. Even Lord Monmouth casually mentioned the possibility of going, although he preferred that people come to him and never invite him to their homes. That was his idea of social life. He enjoyed the company, but he liked having them under his own roof. He didn’t mind hosting them, as long as they didn’t insist on the awkwardness of visiting each other and would enjoy his delicious dinners instead of making him eat their terrible ones.

‘But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is a gem, they say,’ observed an Attaché of an embassy.

‘But Monsieur Sidonia’s cook is amazing, they say,’ noted an embassy Attaché.

‘I have no doubt of it; Sidonia is a man of sense, almost the only man of sense I know. I never caught him tripping. He never makes a false move. Sidonia is exactly the sort of man I like; you know you cannot deceive him, and that he does not want to deceive you. I wish he liked a rubber more. Then he would be perfect.’

‘I have no doubt about it; Sidonia is a sensible guy, almost the only sensible guy I know. I’ve never seen him mess up. He never makes a wrong move. Sidonia is exactly the kind of guy I like; you know you can’t fool him, and he doesn’t want to fool you. I wish he liked playing cards more. Then he would be perfect.’

‘They say he is going to be married,’ said the Attaché.

‘They say he’s getting married,’ said the Attaché.

‘Poh!’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Married!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘To whom?’

‘Married!’ Lady Monmouth exclaimed. ‘To who?’

‘To your beautiful countrywoman, “la belle Anglaise,” that all the world talks of,’ said the Attaché.

‘To your stunning countrywoman, “the beautiful Englishwoman,” whom everyone is talking about,’ said the Attaché.

‘And who may she be, pray?’ said the Marquess. ‘I have so many beautiful countrywomen.’

‘And who is she, if I may ask?’ said the Marquess. ‘I have so many beautiful women from the countryside.’

‘Mademoiselle Millbank,’ said the Attaché.

'Ms. Millbank,' said the Attaché.

‘Millbank!’ said the Marquess, with a lowering brow. ‘There are so many Millbanks. Do you know what Millbank this is, Harry?’ he inquired of his grandson, who had listened to the conversation with a rather embarrassed and even agitated spirit.

‘Millbank!’ said the Marquess, frowning. ‘There are so many Millbanks. Do you know which Millbank this is, Harry?’ he asked his grandson, who had been listening to the conversation with a somewhat embarrassed and even anxious demeanor.

‘What, sir; yes, Millbank?’ said Coningsby.

‘I say, do you know who this Millbank is?’

‘I say, do you know who Millbank is?’

‘Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, that is, I know a daughter of the gentleman who purchased some property near you.’

‘Oh! Miss Millbank: yes, I believe, I mean, I know the daughter of the guy who bought some land near you.’

‘Oh! that fellow! Has he got a daughter here?’

‘Oh! That guy! Does he have a daughter here?’

‘The most beautiful girl in Paris,’ said the Attaché.

‘Lady Monmouth, have you seen this beauty, that Sidonia is going to marry?’ he added, with a fiendish laugh.

‘Lady Monmouth, have you seen this gorgeous girl that Sidonia is going to marry?’ he added, with a wicked laugh.

‘I have seen the young lady,’ said Lady Monmouth; ‘but I had not heard that Monsieur Sidonia was about to marry her.’

‘I have seen the young lady,’ said Lady Monmouth; ‘but I hadn’t heard that Monsieur Sidonia was going to marry her.’

‘Is she so very beautiful?’ inquired another gentleman.

"Is she really that beautiful?" asked another man.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Monmouth, calm, but pale.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Monmouth, composed, but pale.

‘Poh!’ said the Marquess again.

“Poh!” said the Marquess again.

‘I assure you that it is a fact,’ said the Attaché, ‘not at least an on-dit. I have it from a quarter that could not well be mistaken.’

"I guarantee you that it's true," said the Attaché, "definitely not just a rumor. I heard it from a source that can't be wrong."

Behold a little snatch of ordinary dinner gossip that left a very painful impression on the minds of three individuals who were present.

Here’s a brief piece of everyday dinner conversation that made a lasting impact on the thoughts of three people who were there.

The name of Millbank revived in Lord Monmouth’s mind a sense of defeat, discomfiture, and disgust; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby; three subjects which Lord Monmouth had succeeded for a time in expelling from his sensations. His lordship thought that, in all probability, this beauty of whom they spoke so highly was not really the daughter of his foe; that it was some confusion which had arisen from the similarity of names: nor did he believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever she might be; but a variety of things had been said at dinner, and a number of images had been raised in his mind that touched his spleen. He took his wine freely, and, the usual consequence of that proceeding with Lord Monmouth, became silent and sullen. As for Lady Monmouth, she had learnt that Sidonia, whatever might be the result, was paying very marked attention to another woman, for whom undoubtedly he was giving that very ball which she had flattered herself was a homage to her wishes, and for which she had projected a new dress of eclipsing splendour.

The name Millbank brought back a feeling of defeat, embarrassment, and disgust for Lord Monmouth; Hellingsley, lost elections, and Mr. Rigby—all topics that he had managed to push out of his mind for a while. He thought that it was unlikely the beauty they praised so highly was really the daughter of his enemy; he figured that it was just a mix-up due to the similar names. He also didn’t believe that Sidonia was going to marry her, whoever she was. However, a lot had been said during dinner, and various images had come to mind that frustrated him. He drank his wine freely, and, as usual for Lord Monmouth, ended up becoming quiet and moody. As for Lady Monmouth, she realized that Sidonia, no matter the outcome, was paying a lot of attention to another woman, for whom he was clearly hosting the very ball she had hoped would be a tribute to her wishes, and for which she had planned a stunning new dress.

Coningsby felt quite sure that the story of Sidonia’s marriage with Edith was the most ridiculous idea that ever entered into the imagination of man; at least he thought he felt quite sure. But the idlest and wildest report that the woman you love is about to marry another is not comfortable. Besides, he could not conceal from himself that, between the Wallingers and Sidonia there existed a remarkable intimacy, fully extended to their niece. He had seen her certainly on more than one occasion in lengthened and apparently earnest conversation with Sidonia, who, by-the-bye, spoke with her often in Spanish, and never concealed his admiration of her charms or the interest he found in her society. And Edith; what, after all, had passed between Edith and himself which should at all gainsay this report, which he had been particularly assured was not a mere report, but came from a quarter that could not well be mistaken? She had received him with kindness. And how should she receive one who was the friend and preserver of her only brother, and apparently the intimate and cherished acquaintance of her future husband? Coningsby felt that sickness of the heart that accompanies one’s first misfortune. The illusions of life seemed to dissipate and disappear. He was miserable; he had no confidence in himself, in his future. After all, what was he? A dependent on a man of very resolute will and passions. Could he forget the glance with which Lord Monmouth caught the name of Millbank, and received the intimation of Hellingsley? It was a glance for a Spagnoletto or a Caravaggio to catch and immortalise. Why, if Edith were not going to marry Sidonia, how was he ever to marry her, even if she cared for him? Oh! what a future of unbroken, continuous, interminable misery awaited him! Was there ever yet born a being with a destiny so dark and dismal? He was the most forlorn of men, utterly wretched! He had entirely mistaken his own character. He had no energy, no abilities, not a single eminent quality. All was over!

Coningsby was sure that the idea of Sidonia marrying Edith was the most absurd thing anyone could imagine; at least he thought he was sure. However, hearing the wildest rumors that the woman you love is about to marry someone else is never easy. Plus, he couldn't deny that there was a close relationship between the Wallingers and Sidonia, which included their niece. He had definitely seen her more than once engaged in lengthy and seemingly serious conversations with Sidonia, who, by the way, often spoke to her in Spanish and never hid his admiration for her beauty or his interest in being around her. And what about Edith? What had passed between her and him that would refute this rumor, which he had been specifically told was not just gossip but came from a source that was quite credible? She had welcomed him warmly. And how would she treat someone who was the friend and savior of her only brother, and clearly a close companion of her future husband? Coningsby felt that sickening heartache that comes with one’s first setback. The illusions of life seemed to fade away. He was miserable; he had lost faith in himself and his future. After all, who was he? A dependent on a man with strong will and passions. Could he forget the look with which Lord Monmouth acknowledged the name of Millbank and received the news about Hellingsley? It was a look that a Spagnoletto or a Caravaggio would capture and immortalize. If Edith wasn’t going to marry Sidonia, how could he possibly marry her, even if she had feelings for him? What a future of relentless, endless, and unbearable misery awaited him! Had there ever been a being born with such a dark and dreary destiny? He felt like the most hopeless man, utterly miserable! He had completely misjudged his own character. He had no energy, no skills, not a single outstanding quality. It was all over!

CHAPTER V.

It was fated that Lady Monmouth should not be present at that ball, the anticipation of which had occasioned her so much pleasure and some pangs.

It was meant to be that Lady Monmouth wouldn’t be at that ball, the thought of which had brought her so much joy and some heartache.

On the morning after that slight conversation, which had so disturbed the souls, though unconsciously to each other, of herself and Coningsby, the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the avenue Marigny in his phaeton. About the centre of the avenue the horses took fright, and started off at a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced whip, calm, and with exertion still very powerful. He would have soon mastered the horses, had not one of the reins unhappily broken. The horses swerved; the Marquess kept his seat; Lucretia, alarmed, sprang up, the carriage was dashed against the trunk of a tree, and she was thrown out of it, at the very instant that one of the outriders had succeeded in heading the equipage and checking the horses.

On the morning after that brief conversation, which had unknowingly unsettled both her and Coningsby, the Marquess was driving Lucretia up the Avenue Marigny in his phaeton. About halfway down the avenue, the horses got spooked and bolted at a wild pace. The Marquess was an experienced driver, calm, and still very strong. He would have quickly controlled the horses if one of the reins hadn’t unfortunately broken. The horses veered off; the Marquess held his position; Lucretia, in a panic, jumped up, the carriage crashed into a tree, and she was thrown from it just as one of the outriders managed to steer the carriage and stop the horses.

The Marchioness was senseless. Lord Monmouth had descended from the phaeton; several passengers had assembled; the door of a contiguous house was opened; there were offers of service, sympathy, inquiries, a babble of tongues, great confusion.

The Marchioness was unconscious. Lord Monmouth had gotten down from the phaeton; a crowd of onlookers had gathered; the door of a nearby house was opened; there were offers of help, expressions of sympathy, questions, a chatter of voices, and a lot of chaos.

‘Get surgeons and send for her maid,’ said Lord Monmouth to one of his servants.

“Get some surgeons and call her maid,” Lord Monmouth said to one of his servants.

In the midst of this distressing tumult, Sidonia, on horseback, followed by a groom, came up the avenue from the Champs Elysées. The empty phaeton, reins broken, horses held by strangers, all the appearances of a misadventure, attracted him. He recognised the livery. He instantly dismounted. Moving aside the crowd, he perceived Lady Monmouth senseless and prostrate, and her husband, without assistance, restraining the injudicious efforts of the bystanders.

In the middle of this chaotic scene, Sidonia rode up the avenue from the Champs Elysées, followed by a groom. The abandoned carriage, with broken reins and horses being held by strangers, suggested something had gone wrong, catching his attention. He recognized the uniform. He quickly got off his horse. As he pushed through the crowd, he saw Lady Monmouth unconscious and lying on the ground, while her husband struggled on his own to manage the reckless attempts of the onlookers.

‘Let us carry her in, Lord Monmouth,’ said Sidonia, exchanging a recognition as he took Lucretia in his arms, and bore her into the dwelling that was at hand. Those who were standing at the door assisted him. The woman of the house and Lord Monmouth only were present.

‘Let’s bring her in, Lord Monmouth,’ said Sidonia, sharing a glance as he picked up Lucretia and carried her into the nearby house. The people standing at the door helped him. Only the woman of the house and Lord Monmouth were present.

‘I would hope there is no fracture,’ said Sidonia, placing her on a sofa, ‘nor does it appear to me that the percussion of the head, though considerable, could have been fatally violent. I have caught her pulse. Keep her in a horizontal position, and she will soon come to herself.’

‘I hope there’s no fracture,’ Sidonia said, setting her down on a sofa. ‘And it doesn’t seem to me that the impact on her head, though significant, could have been dangerously serious. I’ve checked her pulse. Keep her lying down, and she’ll recover soon.’

The Marquess seated himself in a chair by the side of the sofa, which Sidonia had advanced to the middle of the room. Lord Monmouth was silent and very serious. Sidonia opened the window, and touched the brow of Lucretia with water. At this moment M. Villebecque and a surgeon entered the chamber.

The Marquess sat down in a chair next to the sofa, which Sidonia had moved to the center of the room. Lord Monmouth was quiet and quite serious. Sidonia opened the window and gently splashed water on Lucretia's forehead. At that moment, M. Villebecque and a surgeon walked into the room.

‘The brain cannot be affected, with that pulse,’ said the surgeon; ‘there is no fracture.’

‘The brain can't be impacted by that pulse,’ said the surgeon; ‘there's no fracture.’

‘How pale she is!’ said Lord Monmouth, as if he were examining a picture.

‘How pale she is!’ said Lord Monmouth, as if he were looking at a painting.

‘The colour seems to me to return,’ said Sidonia.

‘The color seems to be coming back to me,’ said Sidonia.

The surgeon applied some restoratives which he had brought with him. The face of the Marchioness showed signs of life; she stirred.

The surgeon applied some restorative treatments he had brought with him. The Marchioness's face showed signs of life; she moved.

‘She revives,’ said the surgeon.

"She's coming back," said the surgeon.

The Marchioness breathed with some force; again; then half-opened her eyes, and then instantly closed them.

The Marchioness took a deep breath; again; then she half-opened her eyes, and then quickly closed them.

‘If I could but get her to take this draught,’ said the surgeon.

‘If I could just get her to take this drink,’ said the surgeon.

‘Stop! moisten her lips first,’ said Sidonia.

‘Stop! Wet her lips first,’ said Sidonia.

They placed the draught to her mouth; in a moment she put forth her hand as if to repress them, then opened her eyes again, and sighed.

They held the drink to her lips; in a moment, she raised her hand as if to stop them, then opened her eyes again and sighed.

‘She is herself,’ said the surgeon.

‘Lucretia!’ said the Marquess.

"Lucretia!" said the Marquess.

‘Sidonia!’ said the Marchioness.

"Sidonia!" said the Marchioness.

Lord Monmouth looked round to invite his friend to come forward.

Lord Monmouth looked around to encourage his friend to step forward.

‘Lady Monmouth!’ said Sidonia, in a gentle voice.

"Lady Monmouth!" Sidonia said softly.

She started, rose a little on the sofa, stared around her. ‘Where am I?’ she exclaimed.

She jumped up a bit on the couch and looked around her. “Where am I?” she shouted.

‘With me,’ said the Marquess; and he bent forward to her, and took her hand.

‘With me,’ said the Marquess; and he leaned closer to her, taking her hand.

‘Sidonia!’ she again exclaimed, in a voice of inquiry.

‘Sidonia!’ she exclaimed again, her voice curious.

‘Is here,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘He carried you in after our accident.’

‘He's here,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘He brought you in after our accident.’

‘Accident! Why is he going to marry?’

‘Accident! Why is he getting married?’

The Marquess took a pinch of snuff.

There was an awkward pause in the chamber.

There was an uncomfortable silence in the room.

‘I think now,’ said Sidonia to the surgeon, ‘that Lady Monmouth would take the draught.’

‘I think now,’ said Sidonia to the surgeon, ‘that Lady Monmouth would take the drink.’

She refused it.

She declined it.

‘Try you, Sidonia,’ said the Marquess, rather dryly.

‘You try, Sidonia,’ said the Marquess, somewhat dryly.

‘You feel yourself again?’ said Sidonia, advancing.

‘Are you feeling like yourself again?’ Sidonia asked as she stepped forward.

‘Would I did not!’ said the Marchioness, with an air of stupor. ‘What has happened? Why am I here? Are you married?’

‘I wish I didn’t!’ said the Marchioness, looking stunned. ‘What happened? Why am I here? Are you married?’

‘She wanders a little,’ said Sidonia.

‘She wanders a bit,’ said Sidonia.

The Marquess took another pinch of snuff.

‘I could have borne even repulsion,’ said Lady Monmouth, in a voice of desolation, ‘but not for another!’

"I could have tolerated even disgust," said Lady Monmouth, her voice filled with despair, "but not for someone else!"

‘M. Villebecque!’ said the Marquess.

‘M. Villebecque!’ said the Marquis.

‘My Lord?’

Lord Monmouth looked at him with that irresistible scrutiny which would daunt a galley-slave; and then, after a short pause, said, ‘The carriage should have arrived by this time. Let us get home.’

Lord Monmouth looked at him with that intense stare that could intimidate anyone; then, after a brief pause, said, ‘The car should have arrived by now. Let’s head home.’

CHAPTER VI.

After the conversation at dinner which we have noticed, the restless and disquieted Coningsby wandered about Paris, vainly seeking in the distraction of a great city some relief from the excitement of his mind. His first resolution was immediately to depart for England; but when, on reflection, he was mindful that, after all, the assertion which had so agitated him might really be without foundation, in spite of many circumstances that to his regardful fancy seemed to accredit it, his firm resolution began to waver.

After the dinner conversation we noticed, the tense and unsettled Coningsby roamed around Paris, unsuccessfully looking for some distraction from his restless thoughts in the bustle of the city. Initially, he decided to leave for England right away; however, upon reflection, he realized that the claim that had upset him so much might actually be unfounded, despite many details that seemed to support it in his worried mind. His strong resolve started to falter.

These were the first pangs of jealousy that Coningsby had ever experienced, and they revealed to him the immensity of the stake which he was hazarding on a most uncertain die.

These were the first feelings of jealousy that Coningsby had ever felt, and they showed him just how much he was risking on a very uncertain chance.

The next morning he called in the Rue Rivoli, and was informed that the family were not at home. He was returning under the arcades, towards the Rue St. Florentin, when Sidonia passed him in an opposite direction, on horseback, and at a rapid rate. Coningsby, who was not observed by him, could not resist a strange temptation to watch for a moment his progress. He saw him enter the court of the hotel where the Wallinger family were staying. Would he come forth immediately? No. Coningsby stood still and pale. Minute followed minute. Coningsby flattered himself that Sidonia was only speaking to the porter. Then he would fain believe Sidonia was writing a note. Then, crossing the street, he mounted by some steps the terrace of the Tuileries, nearly opposite the Hotel of the Minister of Finance, and watched the house. A quarter of an hour elapsed; Sidonia did not come forth. They were at home to him; only to him. Sick at heart, infinitely wretched, scarcely able to guide his steps, dreading even to meet an acquaintance, and almost feeling that his tongue would refuse the office of conversation, he contrived to reach his grandfather’s hotel, and was about to bury himself in his chamber, when on the staircase he met Flora.

The next morning, he stopped by Rue Rivoli and was told that the family wasn’t home. As he walked back under the arcades towards Rue St. Florentin, he saw Sidonia ride past him in the opposite direction, moving quickly on horseback. Coningsby, unnoticed by Sidonia, felt an odd urge to follow him for a moment. He watched as Sidonia entered the hotel where the Wallinger family was staying. Would he come out right away? No. Coningsby stood there, pale and still. Minutes ticked by. Coningsby convinced himself that Sidonia was simply talking to the porter. Then he allowed himself to think Sidonia was writing a note. Next, he crossed the street and climbed some steps to the terrace at the Tuileries, almost directly across from the Finance Minister's hotel, and kept an eye on the house. A quarter of an hour passed; Sidonia still hadn’t emerged. They were home for him, but only for him. Feeling sick at heart and incredibly miserable, barely able to move, terrified of running into someone he knew, and almost convinced his tongue wouldn’t cooperate for conversation, he managed to reach his grandpa’s hotel. Just as he was about to retreat to his room, he ran into Flora on the staircase.

Coningsby had not seen her for the last fortnight. Seeing her now, his heart smote him for his neglect, excusable as it really was. Any one else at this time he would have hurried by without a recognition, but the gentle and suffering Flora was too meek to be rudely treated by so kind a heart as Coningsby’s.

Coningsby hadn't seen her for the last two weeks. Now that he did, he felt guilty for neglecting her, even if it was justified. With anyone else, he would have brushed past without a word, but the kind and fragile Flora was too gentle to be treated harshly by someone as compassionate as Coningsby.

He looked at her; she was pale and agitated. Her step trembled, while she still hastened on.

He looked at her; she was pale and anxious. Her steps shook, but she kept moving quickly.

‘What is the matter?’ inquired Coningsby.

"What's wrong?" Coningsby asked.

‘My Lord, the Marchioness, are in danger, thrown from their carriage.’ Briefly she detailed to Coningsby all that had occurred; that M. Villebecque had already repaired to them; that she herself only this moment had learned the intelligence that seemed to agitate her to the centre. Coningsby instantly turned with her; but they had scarcely emerged from the courtyard when the carriage approached that brought Lord and Lady Monmouth home. They followed it into the court. They were immediately at its door.

‘My Lord, the Marchioness is in danger; they were thrown from their carriage.’ She quickly explained to Coningsby everything that had happened: that M. Villebecque had already gone to them; that she had just found out the news that seemed to shake her to her core. Coningsby immediately turned with her, but they had barely left the courtyard when the carriage bringing Lord and Lady Monmouth home arrived. They followed it into the courtyard and were right at its door.

‘All is right, Harry,’ said the Marquess, calm and grave.

'Everything is fine, Harry,' said the Marquess, calmly and seriously.

Coningsby pressed his grandfather’s hand. Then he assisted Lucretia to alight.

Coningsby shook his grandfather's hand. Then he helped Lucretia get down.

‘I am quite well,’ she said, ‘now.’

‘I’m doing pretty well,’ she said, ‘now.’

‘But you must lean on me, dearest Lady Monmouth,’ Coningsby said in a tone of tenderness, as he felt Lucretia almost sinking from him. And he supported her into the hall of the hotel.

‘But you have to lean on me, dear Lady Monmouth,’ Coningsby said softly, as he felt Lucretia nearly collapsing. He supported her into the hotel’s hall.

Lord Monmouth had lingered behind. Flora crept up to him, and with unwonted boldness offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with a glance of surprise, and then a softer expression, one indeed of an almost winning sweetness, which, though rare, was not a stranger to his countenance, melted his features, and taking the arm so humbly presented, he said,

Lord Monmouth had stayed back. Flora approached him and, with unexpected confidence, offered her arm to the Marquess. He looked at her with surprise at first, and then a softer expression, one that was almost charmingly sweet, which, although rare, wasn't unfamiliar to his face, softened his features. Taking the arm she had offered so humbly, he said,

‘Ma Petite, you look more frightened than any of us. Poor child!’

‘Ma Petite, you look more scared than any of us. Poor thing!’

He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he withdrew his arm from Flora, and thanked her with all his courtesy.

He had reached the top of the flight of steps; he pulled his arm away from Flora and thanked her politely.

‘You are not hurt, then, sir?’ she ventured to ask with a look that expressed the infinite solicitude which her tongue did not venture to convey.

‘So you’re not hurt, then, sir?’ she dared to ask, with a look that showed the deep concern her words didn’t express.

‘By no means, my good little girl;’ and he extended his hand to her, which she reverently bent over and embraced.

‘Not at all, my dear little girl;’ and he reached out his hand to her, which she respectfully bowed over and embraced.

CHAPTER VII.

When Coningsby had returned to his grandfather’s hotel that morning, it was with a determination to leave Paris the next day for England; but the accident to Lady Monmouth, though, as it ultimately appeared, accompanied by no very serious consequences, quite dissipated this intention. It was impossible to quit them so crudely at such a moment. So he remained another day, and that was the day preceding Sidonia’s fête, which he particularly resolved not to attend. He felt it quite impossible that he could again endure the sight of either Sidonia or Edith. He looked upon them as persons who had deeply injured him; though they really were individuals who had treated him with invariable kindness. But he felt their existence was a source of mortification and misery to him. With these feelings, sauntering away the last hours at Paris, disquieted, uneasy; no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope; really, positively, undeniably unhappy; unhappy too for the first time in his life; the first unhappiness; what a companion piece for the first love! Coningsby, of all places in the world, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, encountered Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith.

When Coningsby returned to his grandfather’s hotel that morning, he was determined to leave Paris the next day for England. However, the incident involving Lady Monmouth, although it turned out to be not very serious, completely changed his mind. It felt wrong to abandon them so abruptly at such a time. So he stayed another day, which happened to be the day before Sidonia’s party, a gathering he was firmly resolved not to attend. He believed he couldn't bear to see either Sidonia or Edith again. He viewed them as people who had hurt him deeply, even though they had actually treated him with constant kindness. Still, he felt their presence was a source of embarrassment and pain. With these feelings, he wandered through his last hours in Paris, feeling restless and uneasy; with no present, no future; no enjoyment, no hope; genuinely, undeniably unhappy; unhappy for the first time in his life; the first unhappiness—what a contrast to first love! Of all places, in the gardens of the Luxembourg, Coningsby came across Sir Joseph Wallinger and Edith.

To avoid them was impossible; they met face to face; and Sir Joseph stopped, and immediately reminded him that it was three days since they had seen him, as if to reproach him for so unprecedented a neglect. And it seemed that Edith, though she said not as much, felt the same. And Coningsby turned round and walked with them. He told them he was going to leave Paris on the morrow.

To avoid them was impossible; they came face to face; and Sir Joseph stopped and immediately pointed out that it had been three days since they last saw him, almost as if to blame him for such unusual neglect. It seemed that Edith, though she didn't say as much, felt the same way. Coningsby turned around and walked with them. He mentioned he was leaving Paris the next day.

‘And miss Monsieur de Sidonia’s fête, of which we have all talked so much!’ said Edith, with unaffected surprise, and an expression of disappointment which she in vain attempted to conceal.

‘And miss Monsieur de Sidonia’s party, which we’ve all talked about so much!’ said Edith, with genuine surprise and a look of disappointment that she unsuccessfully tried to hide.

‘The festival will not be less gay for my absence,’ said Coningsby, with that plaintive moroseness not unusual to despairing lovers.

‘The festival won’t be any less cheerful without me,’ said Coningsby, with that sad attitude common among hopeless romantics.

‘If we were all to argue from the same premises, and act accordingly,’ said Edith, ‘the saloons would be empty. But if any person’s absence would be remarked, I should really have thought it would be yours. I thought you were one of Monsieur de Sidonia’s great friends?’

‘If we all argued based on the same points and acted accordingly,’ said Edith, ‘the bars would be empty. But if anyone’s absence would be noticed, I would have thought it would be yours. I thought you were one of Monsieur de Sidonia’s close friends?’

‘He has no friends,’ said Coningsby. ‘No wise man has. What are friends? Traitors.’

‘He has no friends,’ said Coningsby. ‘No wise person does. What are friends? Traitors.’

Edith looked much astonished. And then she said,

Edith looked really surprised. Then she said,

‘I am sure you have not quarrelled with Monsieur de Sidonia, for we have just parted with him.’

‘I’m sure you haven’t had a falling out with Monsieur de Sidonia, since we just said goodbye to him.’

‘I have no doubt you have,’ thought Coningsby.

‘And it is impossible to speak of another in higher terms than he spoke of you.’ Sir Joseph observed how unusual it was for Monsieur de Sidonia to express himself so warmly.

‘And it’s impossible to talk about someone in better terms than he talked about you.’ Sir Joseph noted how remarkable it was for Monsieur de Sidonia to express himself so warmly.

‘Sidonia is a great man, and carries everything before him,’ said Coningsby. ‘I am nothing; I cannot cope with him; I retire from the field.’

‘Sidonia is a great man and has everything going for him,’ said Coningsby. ‘I’m nothing; I can’t compete with him; I’m stepping back.’

‘What field?’ inquired Sir Joseph, who did not clearly catch the drift of these observations. ‘It appears to me that a field for action is exactly what Sidonia wants. There is no vent for his abilities and intelligence. He wastes his energy in travelling from capital to capital like a King’s messenger. The morning after his fête he is going to Madrid.’

‘What field?’ asked Sir Joseph, who didn’t quite understand the point of these comments. ‘It seems to me that a field for action is exactly what Sidonia needs. He has no outlet for his talents and intelligence. He’s wasting his energy traveling from city to city like a royal messenger. The morning after his party, he’s heading to Madrid.’

This brought some reference to their mutual movements. Edith spoke of her return to Lancashire, of her hope that Mr. Coningsby would soon see Oswald; but Mr. Coningsby informed her that though he was going to leave Paris, he had no intention of returning to England; that he had not yet quite made up his mind whither he should go; but thought that he should travel direct to St. Petersburg. He wished to travel overland to Astrachan. That was the place he was particularly anxious to visit.

This sparked some discussion about their plans. Edith talked about going back to Lancashire and her hope that Mr. Coningsby would see Oswald soon; however, Mr. Coningsby told her that even though he was leaving Paris, he didn't plan to return to England. He hadn't fully decided where he was going next but thought he would head straight to St. Petersburg. He was eager to travel overland to Astrachan, as that was the destination he was particularly interested in.

After this incomprehensible announcement, they walked on for some minutes in silence, broken only by occasional monosyllables, with which Coningsby responded at hazard to the sound remarks of Sir Joseph. As they approached the Palace a party of English who were visiting the Chamber of Peers, and who were acquainted with the companions of Coningsby, encountered them. Amid the mutual recognitions, Coningsby, was about to take his leave somewhat ceremoniously, but Edith held forth her hand, and said,

After this confusing announcement, they walked on in silence for a few minutes, occasionally breaking it with short responses from Coningsby to Sir Joseph's comments. As they got closer to the Palace, a group of English visitors who were touring the Chamber of Peers and recognized Coningsby's friends came across them. During the greetings, Coningsby was about to say goodbye in a somewhat formal way, but Edith reached out her hand and said,

‘Is this indeed farewell?’

"Is this really goodbye?"

His heart was agitated, his countenance changed; he retained her hand amid the chattering tourists, too full of their criticisms and their egotistical commonplaces to notice what was passing. A sentimental ebullition seemed to be on the point of taking place. Their eyes met. The look of Edith was mournful and inquiring.

His heart raced, and his expression shifted; he held her hand amidst the bustling tourists, too caught up in their criticisms and selfish small talk to notice what was happening. A wave of emotion seemed ready to burst forth. Their eyes locked. Edith’s gaze was sad and searching.

‘We will say farewell at the ball,’ said Coningsby, and she rewarded him with a radiant smile.

‘We’ll say goodbye at the ball,’ said Coningsby, and she responded with a bright smile.

CHAPTER VIII.

Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in old days, had belonged to the Crillons; but it had received at his hands such extensive alterations, that nothing of the original decoration, and little of its arrangement, remained.

Sidonia lived in the Faubourg St. Germain, in a large hotel that, in the past, had belonged to the Crillons; but he made such extensive changes that nothing of the original decor and very little of its layout remained.

A flight of marble steps, ascending from a vast court, led into a hall of great dimensions, which was at the same time an orangery and a gallery of sculpture. It was illumined by a distinct, yet soft and subdued light, which harmonised with the beautiful repose of the surrounding forms, and with the exotic perfume that was wafted about. A gallery led from this hall to an inner hall of quite a different character; fantastic, glittering, variegated; full of strange shapes and dazzling objects.

A set of marble steps, rising from a large courtyard, led into a spacious hall that served as both an orangery and a sculpture gallery. It was illuminated by a clear, yet gentle and muted light, which complemented the peaceful beauty of the surrounding shapes and the exotic scents that filled the air. A gallery connected this hall to another inner hall with a completely different vibe; it was fantastical, sparkling, and colorful, filled with unusual forms and eye-catching objects.

The roof was carved and gilt in that honeycomb style prevalent in the Saracenic buildings; the walls were hung with leather stamped in rich and vivid patterns; the floor was a flood of mosaic; about were statues of negroes of human size with faces of wild expression, and holding in their outstretched hands silver torches that blazed with an almost painful brilliancy.

The ceiling was intricately carved and gold-leafed in that honeycomb style typical of Saracenic architecture; the walls were draped with leather embossed in rich and vibrant designs; the floor was awash with mosaic; there were life-sized statues of Black figures with wild expressions, each holding out silver torches that shone with an almost blinding brightness.

From this inner hall a double staircase of white marble led to the grand suite of apartments.

From this inner hall, a double staircase made of white marble led to the grand suite of rooms.

These saloons, lofty, spacious, and numerous, had been decorated principally in encaustic by the most celebrated artists of Munich. The three principal rooms were only separated from each other by columns, covered with rich hangings, on this night drawn aside. The decoration of each chamber was appropriate to its purpose. On the walls of the ball-room nymphs and heroes moved in measure in Sicilian landscapes, or on the azure shores of Aegean waters. From the ceiling beautiful divinities threw garlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that the roses, unwilling to quit Olympus, would not descend on earth. The general effect of this fair chamber was heightened, too, by that regulation of the house which did not permit any benches in the ball-room. That dignified assemblage who are always found ranged in precise discipline against the wall, did not here mar the flowing grace of the festivity. The chaperons had no cause to complain. A large saloon abounded in ottomans and easy chairs at their service, where their delicate charges might rest when weary, or find distraction when not engaged.

These spacious, high-ceilinged saloons were mainly decorated in encaustic by the most famous artists from Munich. The three main rooms were separated only by columns draped with rich hangings, which were pulled aside tonight. Each room's decor matched its purpose. In the ballroom, nymphs and heroes gracefully moved through Sicilian landscapes or along the blue shores of the Aegean Sea. From the ceiling, beautiful deities showered garlands on the guests, who seemed surprised that the roses, reluctant to leave Olympus, wouldn’t come down to earth. The overall effect of this lovely room was enhanced by the house rule that prohibited benches in the ballroom. The dignified groups that usually line the walls in strict order did not disrupt the lively flow of the celebration here. The chaperones had nothing to complain about. A large saloon was filled with ottomans and comfortable chairs for their use, where their delicate charges could rest when tired or find something to do when not dancing.

All the world were at this fête of Sidonia. It exceeded in splendour and luxury every entertainment that had yet been given. The highest rank, even Princes of the blood, beauty, fashion, fame, all assembled in a magnificent and illuminated palace, resounding with exquisite melody.

All the world was at this Sidonia celebration. It surpassed in splendor and luxury every event that had been held before. The highest ranks, including royal family members, along with beauty, fashion, and fame, all gathered in a magnificent, brightly lit palace that echoed with exquisite music.

Coningsby, though somewhat depressed, was not insensible to the magic of the scene. Since the passage in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that tone, that glance, he had certainly felt much relieved, happier. And yet if all were, with regard to Sidonia, as unfounded as he could possibly desire, where was he then? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that fell look, that voice of intense detestation? What was Millbank to him? Where, what was the mystery? for of some he could not doubt. The Spanish parentage of Edith had only more perplexed Coningsby. It offered no solution. There could be no connection between a Catalan family and his mother, the daughter of a clergyman in a midland county. That there was any relationship between the Millbank family and his mother was contradicted by the conviction in which he had been brought up, that his mother had no relations; that she returned to England utterly friendless; without a relative, a connection, an acquaintance to whom she could appeal. Her complete forlornness was stamped upon his brain. Tender as were his years when he was separated from her, he could yet recall the very phrases in which she deplored her isolation; and there were numerous passages in her letters which alluded to it. Coningsby had taken occasion to sound the Wallingers on this subject; but he felt assured, from the manner in which his advances were met, that they knew nothing of his mother, and attributed the hostility of Mr. Millbank to his grandfather, solely to political emulation and local rivalries. Still there were the portrait and the miniature. That was a fact; a clue which ultimately, he was persuaded, must lead to some solution.

Coningsby, although a bit down, couldn't deny the charm of the scene. Since his time in the gardens of the Luxembourg, that feeling, that look, he had definitely felt a lot lighter, happier. And yet, if everything concerning Sidonia was as baseless as he could hope, then where did that leave him? Had he forgotten his grandfather, that menacing look, that voice filled with loathing? What did Millbank mean to him? What was the mystery? Because some things he couldn’t ignore. The Spanish lineage of Edith only confused Coningsby more. It provided no answers. There couldn't possibly be a link between a Catalan family and his mother, the daughter of a clergyman from a midland county. The belief that there was any relationship between the Millbank family and his mother went against everything he'd been taught, which insisted his mother had no relatives; that she came back to England completely alone, without a single family member, connection, or friend to turn to. Her total isolation was etched in his mind. Even as young as he was when they were separated, he could still remember the exact words she used to express her loneliness; there were many passages in her letters that referenced it. Coningsby had taken the chance to inquire about this with the Wallingers, but from the way they responded, he was convinced they knew nothing about his mother and thought Mr. Millbank's animosity towards his grandfather was just about political rivalry and local competition. Still, there were the portrait and the miniature. That was a fact; a clue that he was sure would eventually lead to some answers.

Coningsby had met with great social success at Paris. He was at once a favourite. The Parisian dames decided in his favour. He was a specimen of the highest style of English beauty, which is popular in France. His air was acknowledged as distinguished. The men also liked him; he had not quite arrived at that age when you make enemies. The moment, therefore, that he found himself in the saloons of Sidonia, he was accosted by many whose notice was flattering; but his eye wandered, while he tried to be courteous and attempted to be sprightly. Where was she? He had nearly reached the ball-room when he met her. She was on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir, who had made her acquaintance at Rome, and originally claimed it as the member of a family who, as the reader may perhaps not forget, had experienced some kindnesses from the Millbanks.

Coningsby had achieved significant social success in Paris. He quickly became a favorite. The Parisian ladies were won over by him. He represented the pinnacle of English beauty, which is well-liked in France. His demeanor was acknowledged as distinguished. The men liked him too; he hadn’t yet reached that age when you start making enemies. So, the moment he found himself in Sidonia's salons, he was approached by many whose attention was flattering; but his gaze wandered while he tried to be polite and engaging. Where was she? He was almost in the ballroom when he spotted her. She was on the arm of Lord Beaumanoir, who had met her in Rome and claimed familiarity through a family that, as you might remember, had received some kindness from the Millbanks.

There were mutual and hearty recognitions between the young men; great explanations where they had been, what they were doing, where they were going. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby he had introduced steeple-chases at Rome, and had parted with Sunbeam to the nephew of a Cardinal. Coningsby securing Edith’s hand for the next dance, they all moved on together to her aunt.

There were warm and friendly greetings among the young men; they shared enthusiastic stories about where they had been, what they were up to, and where they were headed. Lord Beaumanoir told Coningsby that he had brought steeplechases to Rome and had sold Sunbeam to a Cardinal's nephew. Coningsby managed to secure Edith's hand for the next dance, and they all moved together to join her aunt.

Lady Wallinger was indulging in some Roman reminiscences with the Marquess.

Lady Wallinger was reminiscing about Rome with the Marquess.

‘And you are not going to Astrachan to-morrow?’ said Edith.

‘So you’re not heading to Astrachan tomorrow?’ said Edith.

‘Not to-morrow,’ said Coningsby.

"Not tomorrow," said Coningsby.

‘You know that you said once that life was too stirring in these days to permit travel to a man?’

‘You know you once said that life is too hectic these days to allow a man to travel?’

‘I wish nothing was stirring,’ said Coningsby. ‘I wish nothing to change. All that I wish is, that this fête should never end.’

‘I wish nothing was happening,’ said Coningsby. ‘I don’t want anything to change. All I want is for this celebration to never end.’

‘Is it possible that you can be capricious? You perplex me very much.’

'Could it be that you're unpredictable? You really confuse me.'

‘Am I capricious because I dislike change?’

‘Am I being fickle because I don’t like change?’

‘But Astrachan?’

‘It was the air of the Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert,’ said Coningsby.

‘It was the atmosphere of Luxembourg that reminded me of the Desert,’ said Coningsby.

Soon after this Coningsby led Edith to the dance. It was at a ball that he had first met her at Paris, and this led to other reminiscences; all most interesting. Coningsby was perfectly happy. All mysteries, all difficulties, were driven from his recollection; he lived only in the exciting and enjoyable present. Twenty-one and in love!

Soon after this, Coningsby took Edith to the dance. It was at a ball in Paris where he had first met her, which triggered other memories—each one more interesting than the last. Coningsby felt completely happy. All mysteries and difficulties vanished from his mind; he focused solely on the thrilling and enjoyable moment. Twenty-one and in love!

Some time after this, Coningsby, who was inevitably separated from Edith, met his host.

Some time later, Coningsby, who was unavoidably kept apart from Edith, ran into his host.

‘Where have you been, child,’ said Sidonia, ‘that I have not seen you for some days? I am going to Madrid tomorrow.’

‘Where have you been, kid,’ said Sidonia, ‘that I haven’t seen you for a few days? I’m heading to Madrid tomorrow.’

‘And I must think, I suppose, of Cambridge.’

‘And I guess I have to think about Cambridge.’

‘Well, you have seen something; you will find it more profitable when you have digested it: and you will have opportunity. That’s the true spring of wisdom: meditate over the past. Adventure and Contemplation share our being like day and night.’

‘Well, you have seen something; you'll find it more valuable once you reflect on it: and you'll have the chance. That’s the true source of wisdom: think about the past. Adventure and Reflection are like day and night in our lives.’

The resolute departure for England on the morrow had already changed into a supposed necessity of thinking of returning to Cambridge. In fact, Coningsby felt that to quit Paris and Edith was an impossibility. He silenced the remonstrance of his conscience by the expedient of keeping a half-term, and had no difficulty in persuading himself that a short delay in taking his degree could not really be of the slightest consequence.

The determined plan to leave for England tomorrow had already shifted into what he thought was a need to consider going back to Cambridge. In reality, Coningsby felt that leaving Paris and Edith was out of the question. He quieted his conscience by deciding to take a half-term and had no trouble convincing himself that a brief postponement of his degree wouldn’t matter at all.

It was the hour for supper. The guests at a French ball are not seen to advantage at this period. The custom of separating the sexes for this refreshment, and arranging that the ladies should partake of it by themselves, though originally founded in a feeling of consideration and gallantry, and with the determination to secure, under all circumstances, the convenience and comfort of the fair sex, is really, in its appearance and its consequences, anything but European, and produces a scene which rather reminds one of the harem of a sultan than a hall of chivalry. To judge from the countenances of the favoured fair, they are not themselves particularly pleased; and when their repast is over they necessarily return to empty halls, and are deprived of the dance at the very moment when they may feel most inclined to participate in its graceful excitement.

It was time for dinner. The guests at a French ball don't look their best at this time. The tradition of separating men and women for this meal, and having the women eat alone, although once based on a sense of courtesy and gallantry meant to ensure the convenience and comfort of women, actually appears quite un-European. It creates a scene that feels more like a sultan's harem than a hall of knights. Judging by the expressions of the favored ladies, they don't seem particularly happy either; and once they finish their meal, they have to return to empty halls and miss out on dancing just when they might be most eager to join in the graceful excitement.

These somewhat ungracious circumstances, however, were not attendant on the festival of this night. There was opened in the Hotel of Sidonia for the first time a banqueting-room which could contain with convenience all the guests. It was a vast chamber of white marble, the golden panels of the walls containing festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, relieved by encaustic tinting. In its centre was a fountain, a group of Bacchantes encircling Dionysos; and from this fountain, as from a star, diverged the various tables from which sprang orange-trees in fruit and flower.

These slightly awkward circumstances, however, didn't overshadow the festivities of the night. For the first time, a banquet hall at the Hotel of Sidonia was opened that could comfortably accommodate all the guests. It was a huge room made of white marble, with golden panels on the walls featuring festive sculptures by Schwanthaler, enhanced by colorful encaustic paint. In the center was a fountain, with a group of Bacchantes surrounding Dionysos; from this fountain, like rays from a star, various tables spread out, adorned with orange trees in both fruit and bloom.

The banquet had but one fault; Coningsby was separated from Edith. The Duchess of Grand Cairo, the beautiful wife of the heir of one of the Imperial illustrations, had determined to appropriate Coningsby as her cavalier for the moment. Distracted, he made his escape; but his wandering eye could not find the object of its search; and he fell prisoner to the charming Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist chieftain, whose witty words avenged the cause of fallen dynasties and a cashiered nobility.

The banquet had just one flaw; Coningsby was separated from Edith. The Duchess of Grand Cairo, the stunning wife of the heir of one of the Imperial families, had decided to claim Coningsby as her partner for the evening. Distracted, he tried to make his escape; but his wandering gaze couldn't locate what he was looking for, and he became captive to the enchanting Princess de Petitpoix, a Carlist leader, whose clever remarks avenged the cause of fallen dynasties and ousted nobles.

Behold a scene brilliant in fancy, magnificent in splendour! All the circumstances of his life at this moment were such as acted forcibly on the imagination of Coningsby. Separated from Edith, he had still the delight of seeing her the paragon of that bright company, the consummate being whom he adored! and who had spoken to him in a voice sweeter than a serenade, and had bestowed on him a glance softer than moonlight! The lord of the palace, more distinguished even for his capacity than his boundless treasure, was his chosen friend; gained under circumstances of romantic interest, when the reciprocal influence of their personal qualities was affected by no accessory knowledge of their worldly positions. He himself was in the very bloom of youth and health; the child of a noble house, rich for his present wants, and with a future of considerable fortunes. Entrancing love and dazzling friendship, a high ambition and the pride of knowledge, the consciousness of a great prosperity, the vague, daring energies of the high pulse of twenty-one, all combined to stimulate his sense of existence, which, as he looked around him at the beautiful objects and listened to the delicious sounds, seemed to him a dispensation of almost supernatural ecstasy.

Check out a scene full of imagination and stunning beauty! Everything happening in Coningsby’s life at this moment was intensely impactful on his mind. Even though he was apart from Edith, he still found joy in seeing her as the shining star of that lively group—the perfect person he adored! She had spoken to him with a voice sweeter than a serenade and had given him a look gentler than moonlight! The master of the estate, known more for his talent than his immense wealth, was his close friend; their bond formed in a situation filled with romantic intrigue, where their personal qualities shone without the baggage of their social status. He was in the prime of youth and health, the heir of a noble family, financially secure for the moment and with a promising future ahead. Enchanting love and captivating friendship, lofty ambitions and the pride of knowledge, the awareness of great prosperity, and the bold, daring enthusiasm that comes with being twenty-one all combined to heighten his sense of existence, which, as he took in the stunning sights and listened to the delightful sounds, felt like a nearly supernatural joy.

About an hour after this, the ball-room still full, but the other saloons gradually emptying, Coningsby entered a chamber which seemed deserted. Yet he heard sounds, as it were, of earnest conversation. It was the voice that invited his progress; he advanced another step, then suddenly stopped. There were two individuals in the room, by whom he was unnoticed. They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a sofa, Sidonia holding her hand and endeavouring, as it seemed, to soothe her. Her tones were tremulous; but the expression of her face was fond and confiding. It was all the work of a moment. Coningsby instantly withdrew, yet could not escape hearing an earnest request from Edith to her companion that he would write to her.

About an hour later, the ballroom was still crowded, but the other lounges were gradually emptying out. Coningsby walked into a chamber that seemed deserted. Yet he heard sounds of what seemed like serious conversation. It was a voice that drew him closer; he took another step but suddenly stopped. There were two people in the room who didn’t notice him. They were Sidonia and Miss Millbank. They were sitting on a sofa, with Sidonia holding her hand and trying, as it appeared, to comfort her. Her voice was shaky; still, her expression was loving and trusting. It all happened in an instant. Coningsby quickly left but couldn’t help overhearing Edith earnestly asking her companion to write to her.

In a few seconds Coningsby had quitted the hotel of Sidonia, and the next day found him on his road to England.

In just a few seconds, Coningsby left Sidonia's hotel, and the next day, he was on his way to England.

END OF BOOK VI.

BOOK VII.

CHAPTER I.

It was one of those gorgeous and enduring sunsets that seemed to linger as if they wished to celebrate the mid-period of the year. Perhaps the beautiful hour of impending twilight never exercises a more effective influence on the soul than when it descends on the aspect of some distant and splendid city. What a contrast between the serenity and repose of our own bosoms and the fierce passions and destructive cares girt in the walls of that multitude whose domes and towers rise in purple lustre against the resplendent horizon!

It was one of those beautiful and lasting sunsets that seemed to hang around as if they wanted to celebrate the middle of the year. Maybe the lovely time of approaching twilight never has a stronger impact on the soul than when it falls on the view of some distant and magnificent city. What a contrast between the calmness and peace within us and the intense passions and destructive worries contained within the walls of that crowd whose domes and towers stand out in purple light against the glowing horizon!

And yet the disturbing emotions of existence and the bitter inheritance of humanity should exercise but a modified sway, and entail but a light burden, within the circle of the city into which the next scene of our history leads us. For it is the sacred city of study, of learning, and of faith; and the declining beam is resting on the dome of the Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, sanctifying the spires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary’s.

And yet the unsettling feelings of life and the harsh legacy of humanity should have only a limited influence and impose only a slight burden in the heart of the city where our story takes us next. For it is the revered city of study, knowledge, and faith; and the setting sun is shining on the dome of Radcliffe, lingering on the towers of Christchurch and Magdalen, blessing the spires and pinnacles of holy St. Mary’s.

A young Oxonian, who had for some time been watching the city in the sunset, from a rising ground in its vicinity, lost, as it would seem, in meditation, suddenly rose, and looking at his watch, as if remindful of some engagement, hastened his return at a rapid pace. He reached the High Street as the Blenheim light post coach dashed up to the Star Hotel, with that brilliant precision which even the New Generation can remember, and yet which already ranks among the traditions of English manners. A peculiar and most animating spectacle used to be the arrival of a firstrate light coach in a country town! The small machine, crowded with so many passengers, the foaming and curvetting leaders, the wheelers more steady and glossy, as if they had not done their ten miles in the hour, the triumphant bugle of the guard, and the haughty routine with which the driver, as he reached his goal, threw his whip to the obedient ostlers in attendance; and, not least, the staring crowd, a little awestruck, and looking for the moment at the lowest official of the stable with considerable respect, altogether made a picture which one recollects with cheerfulness, and misses now in many a dreary market-town.

A young student from Oxford, who had been watching the city at sunset from a nearby hill for a while, seemed lost in thought. Suddenly, he stood up and checked his watch, as if remembering an appointment, and hurried back at a quick pace. He arrived on High Street just as the Blenheim coach pulled up to the Star Hotel, arriving with a precision even the younger generation can recall, and yet it has already become part of English tradition. It used to be quite a lively sight to see a first-rate light coach arrive in a country town! The small vehicle, packed with passengers, the spirited horses prancing, the rear horses looking more steady and shiny as if they hadn't just traveled ten miles in an hour, the guard's triumphant bugle, and the proud way the driver, upon arrival, tossed his whip to the waiting stable hands; not to mention the crowd, a little awestruck and giving significant respect to the lowest-ranking stable employee. All these elements created a scene that one remembers fondly and now misses in many dreary market towns.

Our Oxonian was a young man about the middle height, and naturally of a thoughtful expression and rather reserved mien. The general character of his countenance was, indeed, a little stern, but it broke into an almost bewitching smile, and a blush suffused his face, as he sprang forward and welcomed an individual about the same age, who had jumped off the Blenheim.

Our Oxonian was a young man of average height, with a naturally thoughtful look and a somewhat reserved demeanor. His facial expression could be a bit stern, but it transformed into a nearly enchanting smile, and a blush spread across his face as he hurried forward to greet someone around the same age who had just gotten off the Blenheim.

‘Well, Coningsby!’ he exclaimed, extending both his hands.

‘Well, Coningsby!’ he said, reaching out with both hands.

‘By Jove! my dear Millbank, we have met at last,’ said his friend.

“Wow! My dear Millbank, we’ve finally met,” said his friend.

And here we must for a moment revert to what had occurred to Coningsby since he so suddenly quitted Paris at the beginning of the year. The wound he had received was deep to one unused to wounds. Yet, after all, none had outraged his feelings, no one had betrayed his hopes. He had loved one who had loved another. Misery, but scarcely humiliation. And yet ‘tis a bitter pang under any circumstances to find another preferred to yourself. It is about the same blow as one would probably feel if falling from a balloon. Your Icarian flight melts into a grovelling existence, scarcely superior to that of a sponge or a coral, or redeemed only from utter insensibility by your frank detestation of your rival. It is quite impossible to conceal that Coningsby had imbibed for Sidonia a certain degree of aversion, which, in these days of exaggerated phrase, might even be described as hatred. And Edith was so beautiful! And there had seemed between them a sympathy so native and spontaneous, creating at once the charm of intimacy without any of the disenchanting attributes that are occasionally its consequence. He would recall the tones of her voice, the expression of her soft dark eye, the airy spirit and frank graciousness, sometimes even the flattering blush, with which she had ever welcomed one of whom she had heard so long and so kindly. It seemed, to use a sweet and homely phrase, that they were made for each other; the circumstances of their mutual destinies might have combined into one enchanting fate.

And now we have to briefly go back to what happened to Coningsby after he suddenly left Paris at the start of the year. The wound he suffered was profound for someone unaccustomed to pain. Yet, in the end, no one had truly hurt his feelings, and no one had betrayed his hopes. He loved someone who loved another. It was painful, but not entirely humiliating. Still, it’s always a tough blow to discover that someone else is preferred over you. It feels similar to the shock of falling from a balloon. Your lofty dreams come crashing down to a life that's barely better than that of a sponge or coral, saved only from total numbness by your open disdain for your rival. It’s clear that Coningsby had developed a certain aversion towards Sidonia, which in today’s exaggerated language might even be called hatred. And Edith was so beautiful! There had seemed to be such a natural and spontaneous connection between them, creating an intimate charm without the disenchantments that sometimes come with it. He would remember the sound of her voice, the look in her soft dark eyes, her lively spirit, and her genuine warmth, sometimes even the flattering blush that greeted him as someone she had heard about with such fondness for so long. It felt, to use a sweet and familiar expression, like they were made for each other; the circumstances of their lives could have woven together into one enchanting destiny.

And yet, had she accorded him that peerless boon, her heart, with what aspect was he to communicate this consummation of all his hopes to his grandfather, ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing, and the gracious favour of an establishment for the daughter of his foe, of a man whose name was never mentioned except to cloud his visage? Ah! what was that mystery that connected the haughty house of Coningsby with the humble blood of the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was the portrait of his mother beneath the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had delicately touched upon the subject both with Edith and the Wallingers, but the result of his inquiries only involved the question in deeper gloom. Edith had none but maternal relatives: more than once she had mentioned this, and the Wallingers, on other occasions, had confirmed the remark. Coningsby had sometimes drawn the conversation to pictures, and he would remind her with playfulness of their first unconscious meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet; then he remembered that Mr. Millbank was fond of pictures; then he recollected some specimens of Mr. Millbank’s collection, and after touching on several which could not excite suspicion, he came to ‘a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a portrait or an ideal countenance?’

And yet, if she had given him that unmatched gift, her heart, how was he supposed to tell his grandfather about this culmination of all his dreams? How could he ask Lord Monmouth for his blessing and the favor of a home for the daughter of his enemy, a man whose name was rarely spoken without a scowl? Ah! What was that mystery connecting the proud house of Coningsby with the modest background of the Lancashire manufacturer? Why was his mother's portrait under the roof of Millbank? Coningsby had subtly brought up the topic with both Edith and the Wallingers, but his inquiries only deepened the mystery. Edith had only maternal relatives; she mentioned this more than once, and the Wallingers had confirmed it on other occasions. Coningsby sometimes steered the conversation toward art and playfully reminded her of their first unintentional meeting in the gallery of the Rue Tronchet; then he recalled that Mr. Millbank enjoyed art; then he thought about some pieces from Mr. Millbank’s collection, and after discussing several that wouldn’t raise any suspicions, he arrived at ‘a portrait, a portrait of a lady; was it a portrait or an idealized face?’

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she was by no means certain, and most assuredly was quite unacquainted with the name of the original, if there were an original.

Edith thought she had heard it was a portrait, but she wasn’t sure at all, and she definitely didn't know the name of the person it was based on, if there even was one.

Coningsby addressed himself to the point with Sir Joseph. He inquired of the uncle explicitly whether he knew anything on the subject. Sir Joseph was of opinion that it was something that Millbank had somewhere ‘picked up.’ Millbank used often to ‘pick up’ pictures.

Coningsby focused on the issue with Sir Joseph. He asked his uncle directly if he knew anything about it. Sir Joseph thought it was something that Millbank had, at some point, ‘picked up.’ Millbank often used to ‘pick up’ artwork.

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby sought refuge in the excitement of study, and in the brooding imagination of an aspiring spirit. The softness of his heart seemed to have quitted him for ever. He recurred to his habitual reveries of political greatness and public distinction. And as it ever seemed to him that no preparation could be complete for the career which he planned for himself, he devoted himself with increased ardour to that digestion of knowledge which converts it into wisdom. His life at Cambridge was now a life of seclusion. With the exception of a few Eton friends, he avoided all society. And, indeed, his acquisitions during this term were such as few have equalled, and could only have been mastered by a mental discipline of a severe and exalted character. At the end of the term Coningsby took his degree, and in a few days was about to quit that university where, on the whole, he had passed three serene and happy years in the society of fond and faithful friends, and in ennobling pursuits. He had many plans for his impending movements, yet none of them very mature ones. Lord Vere wished Coningsby to visit his family in the north, and afterwards to go to Scotland together: Coningsby was more inclined to travel for a year. Amid this hesitation a circumstance occurred which decided him to adopt neither of these courses.

Disappointed in his love, Coningsby turned to the excitement of study and the deep thoughts of an ambitious spirit. His once-soft heart felt like it had abandoned him forever. He returned to his usual daydreams of political greatness and public recognition. Since he always felt that no preparation was ever enough for the career he envisioned for himself, he devoted himself even more passionately to acquiring knowledge that would lead to wisdom. His life at Cambridge had become quite isolated. Aside from a few friends from Eton, he stayed away from all social gatherings. In fact, the skills he gained during this term were quite remarkable, achievable only through a rigorous and elevated mental discipline. At the end of the term, Coningsby graduated and was about to leave the university where, overall, he had spent three peaceful and happy years surrounded by loving and loyal friends, and engaging in uplifting activities. He had many ideas for his upcoming plans, yet none were very well-formed. Lord Vere wanted Coningsby to visit his family in the north and then travel to Scotland together, but Coningsby was leaning more toward traveling for a year. Amid this uncertainty, an event occurred that made him decide against both of these options.

It was Commencement, and coming out of the quadrangle of St. John’s, Coningsby came suddenly upon Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were visiting the marvels and rarities of the university. They were alone. Coningsby was a little embarrassed, for he could not forget the abrupt manner in which he had parted from them; but they greeted him with so much cordiality that he instantly recovered himself, and, turning, became their companion. He hardly ventured to ask after Edith: at length, in a depressed tone and a hesitating manner, he inquired whether they had lately seen Miss Millbank. He was himself surprised at the extreme light-heartedness which came over him the moment he heard she was in England, at Millbank, with her family. He always very much liked Lady Wallinger, but this morning he hung over her like a lover, lavished on her unceasing and the most delicate attentions, seemed to exist only in the idea of making the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; and no one else was to be their guide at any place or under any circumstances. He told them exactly what they were to see; how they were to see it; when they were to see it. He told them of things which nobody did see, but which they should. He insisted that Sir Joseph should dine with him in hall; Sir Joseph could not think of leaving Lady Wallinger; Lady Wallinger could not think of Sir Joseph missing an opportunity that might never offer again. Besides, they might both join her after dinner. Except to give her husband a dinner, Coningsby evidently intended never to leave her side.

It was Commencement, and as Coningsby stepped out of the quadrangle of St. John’s, he unexpectedly ran into Sir Joseph and Lady Wallinger, who were exploring the wonders of the university. They were alone. Coningsby felt a bit awkward, remembering how abruptly they had parted ways, but they welcomed him so warmly that he quickly shook off his discomfort and joined them. He barely dared to ask about Edith, but eventually, in a downcast tone and with hesitation, he asked if they had seen Miss Millbank recently. He was surprised by the rush of happiness that hit him when he learned she was in England, at Millbank, with her family. He had always liked Lady Wallinger a lot, but that morning, he was attentive to her like a lover, giving her endless delicate attention and focused only on helping the Wallingers enjoy and understand Cambridge; no one else would be their guide at any time or place. He told them exactly what they should see, how they should see it, and when they should see it. He mentioned things that no one usually saw, but that they ought to. He insisted that Sir Joseph join him for dinner in the hall; Sir Joseph didn't want to leave Lady Wallinger, and she was adamant that he shouldn't miss this chance that might never come again. Besides, they could both catch up with her after dinner. Apart from giving her husband dinner, Coningsby clearly had no intention of leaving her side.

And the next morning, the occasion favourable, being alone with the lady, Sir Joseph bustling about a carriage, Coningsby said suddenly, with a countenance a little disturbed, and in a low voice, ‘I was pleased, I mean surprised, to hear that there was still a Miss Millbank; I thought by this time she might have borne another name?’

And the next morning, with the situation being right and alone with the lady, Sir Joseph busying himself with a carriage, Coningsby suddenly said, looking a bit uneasy and in a quiet voice, ‘I was glad, I mean surprised, to hear that there's still a Miss Millbank; I thought by now she might have a different name?’

Lady Wallinger looked at him with an expression of some perplexity, and then said, ‘Yes, Edith was much admired; but she need not be precipitate in marrying. Marriage is for a woman the event. Edith is too precious to be carelessly bestowed.’

Lady Wallinger looked at him with a slightly confused expression, and then said, ‘Yes, Edith was very much admired; but she doesn’t need to rush into marriage. For a woman, marriage is the big event. Edith is too precious to be given away carelessly.’

‘But I understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘when I left Paris,’ and here, he became very confused, ‘that Miss Millbank was engaged, on the point of marriage.’

‘But I understood,’ said Coningsby, ‘when I left Paris,’ and here, he became very confused, ‘that Miss Millbank was engaged, about to get married.’

‘With whom?’

"Who with?"

‘Our friend Sidonia.’

"Meet our friend Sidonia."

‘I am sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor Monsieur de Sidonia, Edith. ‘Tis a preposterous idea!’ said Lady Wallinger.

‘I’m sure that Edith would never marry Monsieur de Sidonia, nor would Monsieur de Sidonia marry Edith. That’s a ridiculous idea!’ said Lady Wallinger.

‘But he very much admired her?’ said Coningsby with a searching eye.

‘But he really admired her a lot?’ said Coningsby with a probing look.

‘Possibly,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘but he never even intimated his admiration.’

"Maybe," Lady Wallinger said, "but he never even hinted at his admiration."

‘But he was very attentive to Miss Millbank?’

'But he was really attentive to Miss Millbank?'

‘Not more than our intimate friendship authorised, and might expect.’

‘Not more than our close friendship allowed, and could expect.’

‘You have known Sidonia a long time?’

‘Have you known Sidonia for a long time?’

‘It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who introduced us to the care of Mr. Wallinger,’ said Lady Wallinger, ‘and therefore I have ever entertained for his son a sincere regard. Besides, I look upon him as a compatriot. Recently he has been even more than usually kind to us, especially to Edith. While we were at Paris he recovered for her a great number of jewels which had been left to her by her uncle in Spain; and, what she prized infinitely more, the whole of her mother’s correspondence which she maintained with this relative since her marriage. Nothing but the influence of Sidonia could have effected this. Therefore, of course, Edith is attached to him almost as much as I am. In short, he is our dearest friend; our counsellor in all our cares. But as for marrying him, the idea is ridiculous to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever induce him to impair that purity of race on which he prides himself. Besides, there are other obvious objections which would render an alliance between him and my niece utterly impossible: Edith is quite as devoted to her religion as Monsieur Sidonia can be to his race.’

‘It was Monsieur de Sidonia’s father who introduced us to Mr. Wallinger’s care,’ said Lady Wallinger, ‘and because of that, I’ve always held a genuine fondness for his son. Plus, I see him as a fellow countryman. Recently, he’s been exceptionally kind to us, especially to Edith. While we were in Paris, he helped her recover many jewels that her uncle left her in Spain; and what she values even more, all of her mother’s correspondence with this relative since her marriage. Nothing but Sidonia’s influence could have made this happen. So, of course, Edith is attached to him nearly as much as I am. In short, he is our dearest friend and our advisor in all our worries. But the idea of marrying him is laughable to those who know Monsieur Sidonia. No earthly consideration would ever make him compromise the purity of his lineage, which he takes great pride in. There are also other clear reasons that would make a union between him and my niece completely impossible: Edith is just as devoted to her faith as Monsieur Sidonia is to his heritage.’

A ray of light flashed on the brain of Coningsby as Lady Wallinger said these words. The agitated interview, which never could be explained away, already appeared in quite a different point of view. He became pensive, remained silent, was relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he had hitherto deprecated, reappeared. Coningsby learnt in the course of the day that the Wallingers were about to make, and immediately, a visit to Hellingsley; their first visit; indeed, this was the first year that Mr. Millbank had taken up his abode there. He did not much like the change of life, Sir Joseph told Coningsby, but Edith was delighted with Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph understood was a very distinguished place, with fine gardens, of which his niece was particularly fond.

A lightbulb went off in Coningsby’s mind as Lady Wallinger said those words. The tense meeting, which could never be explained away, suddenly felt like it was seen in a whole new light. He grew thoughtful, stayed quiet, and felt relieved when Sir Joseph, whose return he had previously dreaded, came back. Throughout the day, Coningsby found out that the Wallingers were planning to visit Hellingsley soon; this was their first visit, actually, since it was the first year Mr. Millbank had moved there. Sir Joseph told Coningsby that he wasn’t too fond of the change in lifestyle, but Edith was thrilled with Hellingsley, which Sir Joseph knew was a very prestigious place with beautiful gardens that his niece particularly loved.

When Coningsby returned to his rooms, those rooms which he was soon about to quit for ever, in arranging some papers preparatory to his removal, his eye lighted on a too-long unanswered letter of Oswald Millbank. Coningsby had often projected a visit to Oxford, which he much desired to make, but hitherto it had been impossible for him to effect it, except in the absence of Millbank; and he had frequently postponed it that he might combine his first visit to that famous seat of learning with one to his old schoolfellow and friend. Now that was practicable. And immediately Coningsby wrote to apprise Millbank that he had taken his degree, was free, and prepared to pay him immediately the long-projected visit. Three years and more had elapsed since they had quitted Eton. How much had happened in the interval! What new ideas, new feelings, vast and novel knowledge! Though they had not met, they were nevertheless familiar with the progress and improvement of each other’s minds. Their suggestive correspondence was too valuable to both of them to have been otherwise than cherished. And now they were to meet on the eve of entering that world for which they had made so sedulous a preparation.

When Coningsby returned to his place, the same place he was about to leave for good, he was sorting through some papers in preparation for his move when he noticed a letter from Oswald Millbank that he had left unanswered for too long. Coningsby had often thought about visiting Oxford, something he really wanted to do, but so far he hadn’t been able to make it happen unless Millbank wasn’t around. He had frequently put it off so he could combine his first visit to that famous university with a catch-up with his old school friend. Now, that was finally possible. So, Coningsby wrote to let Millbank know that he had graduated, was free, and ready to finally pay him the long-planned visit. It had been over three years since they left Eton. So much had happened in that time! New ideas, new feelings, a wealth of new knowledge! Even though they hadn’t seen each other, they were still aware of how much they had both grown and developed. Their engaging letters meant a lot to both of them, so they had kept them close. And now, they were about to meet just as they were stepping into the world they had prepared so diligently for.

CHAPTER II.

There are few things in life more interesting than an unrestrained interchange of ideas with a congenial spirit, and there are few things more rare. How very seldom do you encounter in the world a man of great abilities, acquirements, experience, who will unmask his mind, unbutton his brains, and pour forth in careless and picturesque phrase all the results of his studies and observation; his knowledge of men, books, and nature. On the contrary, if a man has by any chance what he conceives an original idea, he hoards it as if it were old gold; and rather avoids the subject with which he is most conversant, from fear that you may appropriate his best thoughts. One of the principal causes of our renowned dulness in conversation is our extreme intellectual jealousy. It must be admitted that in this respect authors, but especially poets, bear the palm. They never think they are sufficiently appreciated, and live in tremor lest a brother should distinguish himself. Artists have the repute of being nearly as bad. And as for a small rising politician, a clever speech by a supposed rival or suspected candidate for office destroys his appetite and disturbs his slumbers.

There are few things in life more fascinating than an open exchange of ideas with a likeminded person, and it's even rarer. It's so uncommon to meet someone with great skills, knowledge, and experience who will freely share their thoughts and express everything they've learned in a casual and vivid way—sharing their insights about people, books, and nature. On the flip side, if someone happens to have what they think is an original idea, they hold onto it like it's valuable treasure; they often steer clear of discussing what they know best for fear that you might take their best thoughts. One of the main reasons our conversations are known for being dull is our overwhelming jealousy regarding intellect. It's true that in this area, writers—especially poets—take the lead. They never feel appreciated enough and constantly worry that a fellow artist might outshine them. Artists are known to be almost as bad. And for up-and-coming politicians, a well-crafted speech from a perceived rival or potential candidate can ruin their appetite and disturb their sleep.

One of the chief delights and benefits of travel is, that one is perpetually meeting men of great abilities, of original mind, and rare acquirements, who will converse without reserve. In these discourses the intellect makes daring leaps and marvellous advances. The tone that colours our afterlife is often caught in these chance colloquies, and the bent given that shapes a career.

One of the main joys and advantages of traveling is that you’re constantly meeting highly skilled people, original thinkers, and those with unique talents, who freely engage in conversation. In these discussions, minds take bold leaps and make incredible progress. The vibe that influences our later life is often found in these unexpected chats, and the direction they provide can shape a career.

And yet perhaps there is no occasion when the heart is more open, the brain more quick, the memory more rich and happy, or the tongue more prompt and eloquent, than when two school-day friends, knit by every sympathy of intelligence and affection, meet at the close of their college careers, after a long separation, hesitating, as it were, on the verge of active life, and compare together their conclusions of the interval; impart to each other all their thoughts and secret plans and projects; high fancies and noble aspirations; glorious visions of personal fame and national regeneration.

And yet maybe there’s no time when the heart is more open, the mind sharper, the memory more vibrant and joyful, or the words flow more freely and eloquently than when two school friends, bonded by mutual understanding and affection, reunite at the end of their college years after being apart for a long time. They stand at the threshold of adult life, sharing their reflections from the past, exchanging all their thoughts, secret plans, and projects; their lofty dreams and noble goals; exciting visions of personal success and national renewal.

Ah! why should such enthusiasm ever die! Life is too short to be little. Man is never so manly as when he feels deeply, acts boldly, and expresses himself with frankness and with fervour.

Ah! Why should such enthusiasm ever fade away! Life is too short to be small. A person is never as courageous as when they feel deeply, act boldly, and express themselves honestly and passionately.

Most assuredly there never was a congress of friendship wherein more was said and felt than in this meeting, so long projected, and yet perhaps on the whole so happily procrastinated, between Coningsby and Millbank. In a moment they seemed as if they had never parted. Their faithful correspondence indeed had maintained the chain of sentiment unbroken. But details are only for conversation. Each poured forth his mind without stint. Not an author that had influenced their taste or judgment but was canvassed and criticised; not a theory they had framed or a principle they had adopted that was not confessed. Often, with boyish glee still lingering with their earnest purpose, they shouted as they discovered that they had formed the same opinion or adopted the same conclusion. They talked all day and late into the night. They condensed into a week the poignant conclusions of three years of almost unbroken study. And one night, as they sat together in Millbank’s rooms at Oriel, their conversation having for some time taken a political colour, Millbank said,

Most definitely, there’s never been a gathering of friendship where so much was expressed and felt as during this long-anticipated meeting between Coningsby and Millbank. In an instant, it was as if they had never been apart. Their consistent correspondence had indeed kept their connection strong. But those details were just for casual chat. Each shared his thoughts openly. They discussed and critiqued every author who had influenced their taste or judgment, and acknowledged every theory they had developed or principle they had embraced. Often, with a youthful excitement still accompanying their serious intentions, they cheered when they realized they held the same views or had reached the same conclusions. They talked all day and well into the night, condensing the deep insights of three years of almost constant study into just one week. And one evening, as they sat together in Millbank’s rooms at Oriel, with their conversation having taken on a political tone, Millbank said,

‘Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you conceive to be the state of parties in this country; for it seems to me that if we penetrate the surface, the classification must be more simple than their many names would intimate.’

‘Now tell me, Coningsby, exactly what you think the state of political parties is in this country; because it seems to me that if we look deeper, the categories must be simpler than their many names suggest.’

‘The principle of the exclusive constitution of England having been conceded by the Acts of 1827-8-32,’ said Coningsby, ‘a party has arisen in the State who demand that the principle of political liberalism shall consequently be carried to its extent; which it appears to them is impossible without getting rid of the fragments of the old constitution that remain. This is the destructive party; a party with distinct and intelligible principles. They seek a specific for the evils of our social system in the general suffrage of the population.

‘Since the exclusive constitution of England was established by the Acts of 1827-8-32,’ said Coningsby, ‘a faction has emerged in the State that insists political liberalism needs to be fully realized; they believe this is unachievable without eliminating the remnants of the old constitution. This is the radical faction; a group with clear and understandable principles. They look for a solution to the issues in our social system through universal suffrage for the population.

‘They are resisted by another party, who, having given up exclusion, would only embrace as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment; who, without any embarrassing promulgation of principles, wish to keep things as they find them as long as they can, and then will manage them as they find them as well as they can; but as a party must have the semblance of principles, they take the names of the things that they have destroyed. Thus they are devoted to the prerogatives of the Crown, although in truth the Crown has been stripped of every one of its prerogatives; they affect a great veneration for the constitution in Church and State, though every one knows that the constitution in Church and State no longer exists; they are ready to stand or fall with the “independence of the Upper House of Parliament”, though, in practice, they are perfectly aware that, with their sanction, “the Upper House” has abdicated its initiatory functions, and now serves only as a court of review of the legislation of the House of Commons. Whenever public opinion, which this party never attempts to form, to educate, or to lead, falls into some violent perplexity, passion, or caprice, this party yields without a struggle to the impulse, and, when the storm has passed, attempts to obstruct and obviate the logical and, ultimately, the inevitable results of the very measures they have themselves originated, or to which they have consented. This is the Conservative party.

They are opposed by another group who, having abandoned exclusion, will only accept as much liberalism as is necessary for the moment; who, without any awkward declaration of principles, want to maintain the status quo for as long as they can, and then handle things as best as they can; but since a group needs to seem principled, they adopt the names of the things they’ve eliminated. Thus, they are loyal to the privileges of the Crown, even though the Crown has been stripped of all its privileges; they pretend to have great respect for the constitution in Church and State, even though everyone knows that such a constitution no longer exists; they are ready to stand by the “independence of the Upper House of Parliament,” even though, in reality, they know that, with their approval, “the Upper House” has given up its initiating functions and now only serves as a reviewing body for the legislation of the House of Commons. Whenever public opinion, which this group never tries to shape, educate, or lead, becomes chaotic, emotional, or unpredictable, this group yields without resistance to the prevailing mood, and when the storm passes, they try to obstruct and avoid the logical and ultimately inevitable results of the very measures they themselves initiated or agreed to. This is the Conservative party.

‘I care not whether men are called Whigs or Tories, Radicals or Chartists, or by what nickname a bustling and thoughtless race may designate themselves; but these two divisions comprehend at present the English nation.

‘I don’t care whether people call themselves Whigs or Tories, Radicals or Chartists, or by whatever nickname a busy and thoughtless group might choose for themselves; these two divisions currently make up the English nation.

‘With regard to the first school, I for one have no faith in the remedial qualities of a government carried on by a neglected democracy, who, for three centuries, have received no education. What prospect does it offer us of those high principles of conduct with which we have fed our imaginations and strengthened our will? I perceive none of the elements of government that should secure the happiness of a people and the greatness of a realm.

‘Regarding the first school, I personally have no confidence in the healing abilities of a government run by a neglected democracy that has gone without education for three centuries. What hope does it give us for those high principles of behavior that we have nurtured in our minds and bolstered our determination with? I see none of the components of government that should ensure the happiness of a people and the greatness of a nation.

‘But in my opinion, if Democracy be combated only by Conservatism, Democracy must triumph, and at no distant date. This, then, is our position. The man who enters public life at this epoch has to choose between Political Infidelity and a Destructive Creed.’

‘But in my view, if Democracy is only challenged by Conservatism, Democracy will definitely win, and not far off into the future. So, this is where we stand. A person who gets involved in public life at this time has to decide between Political Disloyalty and a Destructive Belief.’

‘This, then,’ said Millbank, ‘is the dilemma to which we are brought by nearly two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary Church.’

‘This, then,’ said Millbank, ‘is the dilemma we face due to almost two centuries of Parliamentary Monarchy and Parliamentary Church.’

‘’Tis true,’ said Coningsby. ‘We cannot conceal it from ourselves, that the first has made Government detested, and the second Religion disbelieved.’

‘It’s true,’ said Coningsby. ‘We can’t deny that the first has made the government hated, and the second has led to disbelief in religion.’

‘Many men in this country,’ said Millbank, ‘and especially in the class to which I belong, are reconciled to the contemplation of democracy; because they have accustomed themselves to believe, that it is the only power by which we can sweep away those sectional privileges and interests that impede the intelligence and industry of the community.’

‘Many men in this country,’ said Millbank, ‘especially in my social class, have come to terms with the idea of democracy; because they’ve trained themselves to think that it’s the only way to eliminate those specific privileges and interests that hold back the intelligence and productivity of the community.’

‘And yet,’ said Coningsby, ‘the only way to terminate what, in the language of the present day, is called Class Legislation, is not to entrust power to classes. You would find a Locofoco majority as much addicted to Class Legislation as a factitious aristocracy. The only power that has no class sympathy is the Sovereign.’

‘And yet,’ said Coningsby, ‘the only way to end what we now call Class Legislation is not to give power to specific classes. You’d see a Locofoco majority just as committed to Class Legislation as a fake aristocracy. The only power that doesn’t have class biases is the Sovereign.’

‘But suppose the case of an arbitrary Sovereign, what would be your check against him?’

‘But what if we were dealing with an arbitrary ruler, what would you do to keep him in check?’

‘The same as against an arbitrary Parliament.’

‘Just like against an arbitrary Parliament.’

‘But a Parliament is responsible.’

‘But Parliament is accountable.’

‘To whom?’

'To whom it may concern?'

‘To their constituent body.’

‘To their members.’

‘Suppose it was to vote itself perpetual?’

‘What if it decided to make itself permanent?’

‘But public opinion would prevent that.’

'But public opinion would stop that.'

‘And is public opinion of less influence on an individual than on a body?’

‘Is public opinion less influential on an individual than on a group?’

‘But public opinion may be indifferent. A nation may be misled, may be corrupt.’

‘But public opinion might not care. A nation can be misled, can be corrupt.’

‘If the nation that elects the Parliament be corrupt, the elected body will resemble it. The nation that is corrupt deserves to fall. But this only shows that there is something to be considered beyond forms of government, national character. And herein mainly should we repose our hopes. If a nation be led to aim at the good and the great, depend upon it, whatever be its form, the government will respond to its convictions and its sentiments.’

‘If a nation that elects Parliament is corrupt, the elected representatives will reflect that. A corrupt nation deserves to fail. But this highlights that we need to think beyond just government structures; we need to consider national character. This is where we should place our hopes. If a nation strives for goodness and greatness, rest assured, no matter what its form, the government will align with its beliefs and feelings.’

‘Do you then declare against Parliamentary government.’

‘Are you saying that you’re against Parliamentary government?’

‘Far from it: I look upon political change as the greatest of evils, for it comprehends all. But if we have no faith in the permanence of the existing settlement, if the very individuals who established it are, year after year, proposing their modifications or their reconstructions; so also, while we uphold what exists, ought we to prepare ourselves for the change we deem impending?

‘Not at all: I see political change as the worst of evils because it includes everything. But if we have no belief in the lasting nature of what we have now, and if the very people who created it are, year after year, suggesting changes or new structures; then, while we support what exists, should we also get ready for the change we think is coming?

‘Now I would not that either ourselves, or our fellow-citizens, should be taken unawares as in 1832, when the very men who opposed the Reform Bill offered contrary objections to it which destroyed each other, so ignorant were they of its real character, its historical causes, its political consequences. We should now so act that, when the occasions arrives, we should clearly comprehend what we want, and have formed an opinion as to the best means by which that want can be supplied.

‘Now I wouldn’t want either us or our fellow citizens to be caught off guard like in 1832, when the very people who opposed the Reform Bill had conflicting objections that canceled each other out, so unaware were they of its true nature, its historical background, and its political effects. We should act in a way that, when the time comes, we clearly understand what we want and have developed an opinion on the best ways to meet that need.’

‘For this purpose I would accustom the public mind to the contemplation of an existing though torpid power in the constitution, capable of removing our social grievances, were we to transfer to it those prerogatives which the Parliament has gradually usurped, and used in a manner which has produced the present material and moral disorganisation. The House of Commons is the house of a few; the Sovereign is the sovereign of all. The proper leader of the people is the individual who sits upon the throne.’

‘For this purpose, I would get the public thinking about an existing but inactive power in the constitution that could address our social issues if we were to give it back the rights that Parliament has slowly taken over and used in a way that has led to the current material and moral chaos. The House of Commons represents a few; the Sovereign represents everyone. The rightful leader of the people is the person who sits on the throne.’

‘Then you abjure the Representative principle?’

‘So, you reject the Representative principle?’

‘Why so? Representation is not necessarily, or even in a principal sense, Parliamentary. Parliament is not sitting at this moment, and yet the nation is represented in its highest as well as in its most minute interests. Not a grievance escapes notice and redress. I see in the newspaper this morning that a pedagogue has brutally chastised his pupil. It is a fact known over all England. We must not forget that a principle of government is reserved for our days that we shall not find in our Aristotles, or even in the forests of Tacitus, nor in our Saxon Wittenagemotes, nor in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is now supreme, and Opinion speaks in print. The representation of the Press is far more complete than the representation of Parliament. Parliamentary representation was the happy device of a ruder age, to which it was admirably adapted: an age of semi-civilisation, when there was a leading class in the community; but it exhibits many symptoms of desuetude. It is controlled by a system of representation more vigorous and comprehensive; which absorbs its duties and fulfils them more efficiently, and in which discussion is pursued on fairer terms, and often with more depth and information.’

‘Why's that? Representation isn't necessarily, or even primarily, Parliamentary. Parliament isn't in session right now, yet the nation is represented in both its big issues and its smallest concerns. No grievance goes unnoticed or unaddressed. I saw in the newspaper this morning that a teacher harshly punished a student. It's something everyone in England knows about. We shouldn't forget that a principle of government has emerged in our time that we won’t find in our Aristotles, or even in Tacitus’s forests, or in our Saxon Wittenagemotes, or in our Plantagenet parliaments. Opinion is now the highest authority, and it expresses itself through print. The representation of the Press is much more complete than that of Parliament. Parliamentary representation was a great idea for a rougher time, which it was perfectly suited for: a time of semi-civilization, when there was a leading class in society; but it shows many signs of becoming outdated. It's dominated by a system of representation that's more dynamic and comprehensive; which takes over its responsibilities and carries them out more effectively, where discussions happen on fairer terms, often with greater depth and information.’

‘And to what power would you entrust the function of Taxation?’

‘And to what authority would you assign the role of Taxation?’

‘To some power that would employ it more discreetly than in creating our present amount of debt, and in establishing our present system of imposts.

‘To some power that would use it more wisely than in creating our current level of debt, and in setting up our current system of taxes.

‘In a word, true wisdom lies in the policy that would effect its ends by the influence of opinion, and yet by the means of existing forms. Nevertheless, if we are forced to revolutions, let us propose to our consideration the idea of a free monarchy, established on fundamental laws, itself the apex of a vast pile of municipal and local government, ruling an educated people, represented by a free and intellectual press. Before such a royal authority, supported by such a national opinion, the sectional anomalies of our country would disappear. Under such a system, where qualification would not be parliamentary, but personal, even statesmen would be educated; we should have no more diplomatists who could not speak French, no more bishops ignorant of theology, no more generals-in-chief who never saw a field.

In short, real wisdom is found in a strategy that achieves its goals through public opinion while utilizing current structures. However, if we find ourselves needing to make major changes, let's consider the idea of a free monarchy based on fundamental laws, which would serve as the capstone of a comprehensive system of local and municipal governance, ruling over an educated populace and represented by a free and thoughtful press. With such royal authority backed by strong national support, the regional inconsistencies in our country would fade away. In this system, where qualifications are personal rather than parliamentary, even politicians would be educated; we wouldn't have diplomats who can't speak French, bishops who know nothing of theology, or generals-in-chief who have never seen a battlefield.

‘Now there is a polity adapted to our laws, our institutions, our feelings, our manners, our traditions; a polity capable of great ends and appealing to high sentiments; a polity which, in my opinion, would render government an object of national affection, which would terminate sectional anomalies, assuage religious heats, and extinguish Chartism.’

‘Now there’s a political system that fits our laws, our institutions, our values, our customs, and our traditions; a system that can achieve great goals and resonate with noble emotions; a system that, in my view, would make government something the nation loves, would resolve regional issues, calm religious tensions, and put an end to Chartism.’

‘You said to me yesterday,’ said Millbank after a pause, ‘quoting the words of another, which you adopted, that Man was made to adore and to obey. Now you have shown to me the means by which you deem it possible that government might become no longer odious to the subject; you have shown how man may be induced to obey. But there are duties and interests for man beyond political obedience, and social comfort, and national greatness, higher interests and greater duties. How would you deal with their spiritual necessities? You think you can combat political infidelity in a nation by the principle of enlightened loyalty; how would you encounter religious infidelity in a state? By what means is the principle of profound reverence to be revived? How, in short, is man to be led to adore?’

‘You told me yesterday,’ Millbank said after a pause, ‘quoting someone else’s words that you agreed with, that Man was made to worship and to obey. Now you’ve shown me how you believe government can become less detestable to the citizens; you’ve demonstrated how people can be encouraged to follow. But there are responsibilities and interests for people that go beyond just political obedience, social comfort, and national pride; there are higher interests and greater responsibilities. How would you address their spiritual needs? You believe you can tackle political disloyalty in a nation with the principle of enlightened loyalty; how would you deal with religious disloyalty in a state? By what means can we revive the principle of deep respect? Ultimately, how can we guide people to worship?’

‘Ah! that is a subject which I have not forgotten,’ replied Coningsby. ‘I know from your letters how deeply it has engaged your thoughts. I confess to you that it has often filled mine with perplexity and depression. When we were at Eton, and both of us impregnated with the contrary prejudices in which we had been brought up, there was still between us one common ground of sympathy and trust; we reposed with confidence and affection in the bosom of our Church. Time and thought, with both of us, have only matured the spontaneous veneration of our boyhood. But time and thought have also shown me that the Church of our heart is not in a position, as regards the community, consonant with its original and essential character, or with the welfare of the nation.’

‘Ah! that's a topic I haven’t forgotten,’ Coningsby replied. ‘I can see from your letters just how much it has occupied your mind. I have to admit that it has often left me feeling confused and downcast. When we were at Eton, despite the different prejudices we grew up with, we still found common ground of sympathy and trust; we rested in confidence and affection in our Church. Over time, both of us have only deepened the natural respect we had in our youth. But time and reflection have also made it clear to me that the Church we hold dear isn’t in a position that aligns with its original and true nature, nor is it in the best interest of the nation.’

‘The character of a Church is universality,’ replied Millbank. ‘Once the Church in this country was universal in principle and practice; when wedded to the State, it continued at least universal in principle, if not in practice. What is it now? All ties between the State and the Church are abolished, except those which tend to its danger and degradation.

‘The essence of a Church is its universality,’ replied Millbank. ‘Once, the Church in this country was universal in both principle and practice; when it was connected to the State, it remained at least universal in principle, if not in practice. What is it now? All connections between the State and the Church have been removed, except those that lead to its danger and decline.

‘What can be more anomalous than the present connection between State and Church? Every condition on which it was originally consented to has been cancelled. That original alliance was, in my view, an equal calamity for the nation and the Church; but, at least, it was an intelligible compact. Parliament, then consisting only of members of the Established Church, was, on ecclesiastical matters, a lay synod, and might, in some points of view, be esteemed a necessary portion of Church government. But you have effaced this exclusive character of Parliament; you have determined that a communion with the Established Church shall no longer be part of the qualification for sitting in the House of Commons. There is no reason, so far as the constitution avails, why every member of the House of Commons should not be a dissenter. But the whole power of the country is concentrated in the House of Commons. The House of Lords, even the Monarch himself, has openly announced and confessed, within these ten years, that the will of the House of Commons is supreme. A single vote of the House of Commons, in 1832, made the Duke of Wellington declare, in the House of Lords, that he was obliged to abandon his sovereign in “the most difficult and distressing circumstances.” The House of Commons is absolute. It is the State. “L’Etat c’est moi.” The House of Commons virtually appoints the bishops. A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the Established Church. They may appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was expelled the throne because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliament might do this to-morrow with impunity. And this is the constitution in Church and State which Conservative dinners toast! The only consequences of the present union of Church and State are, that, on the side of the State, there is perpetual interference in ecclesiastical government, and on the side of the Church a sedulous avoidance of all those principles on which alone Church government can be established, and by the influence of which alone can the Church of England again become universal.’

‘What could be more unusual than the current relationship between the State and the Church? Every condition that was originally agreed upon has been canceled. In my opinion, that original alliance was a disaster for both the nation and the Church; however, at least it was a clear agreement. At that time, Parliament, made up only of members of the Established Church, acted like a lay synod on ecclesiastical matters, and could, from certain perspectives, be seen as a necessary part of Church governance. But you have removed this exclusive aspect of Parliament; you have decided that being in communion with the Established Church is no longer a requirement for sitting in the House of Commons. There is no reason, as far as the constitution is concerned, why every member of the House of Commons couldn’t be a dissenter. Yet all the power in the country is focused in the House of Commons. The House of Lords and even the Monarch have clearly stated in the last ten years that the will of the House of Commons is supreme. A single vote in the House of Commons in 1832 led the Duke of Wellington to declare in the House of Lords that he had to abandon his sovereign in “the most difficult and distressing circumstances.” The House of Commons is absolute. It is the State. “L’Etat c’est moi.” The House of Commons effectively appoints the bishops. A sectarian assembly appoints the bishops of the Established Church. They could appoint twenty Hoadleys. James II was removed from the throne because he appointed a Roman Catholic to an Anglican see. A Parliament could do this tomorrow without consequence. And this is the constitution of Church and State that Conservative dinners celebrate! The only results of the current union of Church and State are that, on the State side, there is constant interference in church governance, and on the Church side, there is a diligent avoidance of all those principles on which Church governance can truly be established, and through which the Church of England can become universal again.’

‘But it is urged that the State protects its revenues?’

‘But isn't it argued that the State protects its revenue?’

‘No ecclesiastical revenues should be safe that require protection. Modern history is a history of Church spoliation. And by whom? Not by the people; not by the democracy. No; it is the emperor, the king, the feudal baron, the court minion. The estate of the Church is the estate of the people, so long as the Church is governed on its real principles. The Church is the medium by which the despised and degraded classes assert the native equality of man, and vindicate the rights and power of intellect. It made, in the darkest hour of Norman rule, the son of a Saxon pedlar Primate of England, and placed Nicholas Breakspear, a Hertfordshire peasant, on the throne of the Caesars. It would do as great things now, if it were divorced from the degrading and tyrannical connection that enchains it. You would have other sons of peasants Bishops of England, instead of men appointed to that sacred office solely because they were the needy scions of a factitious aristocracy; men of gross ignorance, profligate habits, and grinding extortion, who have disgraced the episcopal throne, and profaned the altar.’

'No church funds should be considered secure if they need protection. Modern history is filled with instances of the Church being robbed. And by whom? Not by the people; not by democracy. No; it’s the emperor, the king, the feudal lord, the court sycophant. The Church's estate is the people's estate, as long as the Church is run according to its true principles. The Church is the way in which the marginalized and oppressed classes assert the inherent equality of all people and defend the rights and powers of intellect. It elevated the son of a Saxon peddler to the position of Primate of England during the darkest days of Norman rule, and it placed Nicholas Breakspear, a peasant from Hertfordshire, on the throne of the Caesars. It could achieve just as great things today if it were free from the degrading and tyrannical ties that bind it. You would see other sons of peasants as Bishops of England, instead of men appointed to that sacred role solely because they are the needy offspring of a fabricated aristocracy; individuals of gross ignorance, reckless behavior, and oppressive exploitation, who have brought shame to the episcopal throne and desecrated the altar.'

‘But surely you cannot justly extend such a description to the present bench?’

‘But surely you can't fairly apply that description to the current bench?’

‘Surely not: I speak of the past, of the past that has produced so much present evil. We live in decent times; frigid, latitudinarian, alarmed, decorous. A priest is scarcely deemed in our days a fit successor to the authors of the gospels, if he be not the editor of a Greek play; and he who follows St. Paul must now at least have been private tutor of some young nobleman who has taken a good degree! And then you are all astonished that the Church is not universal! Why! nothing but the indestructibleness of its principles, however feebly pursued, could have maintained even the disorganised body that still survives.

‘Surely not: I’m talking about the past, the past that has caused so much present evil. We live in decent times; cold, broad-minded, anxious, and proper. A priest is hardly seen these days as a worthy successor to the authors of the gospels unless he’s also the editor of a Greek play; and anyone who follows St. Paul must at least have been a private tutor to some young nobleman who graduated well! And then you're all surprised that the Church isn’t universal! Really! Only the unbreakable nature of its principles, even if they are followed weakly, could have kept the disorganized body that still exists.

‘And yet, my dear Coningsby, with all its past errors and all its present deficiencies, it is by the Church; I would have said until I listened to you to-night; by the Church alone that I see any chance of regenerating the national character. The parochial system, though shaken by the fatal poor-law, is still the most ancient, the most comprehensive, and the most popular institution of the country; the younger priests are, in general, men whose souls are awake to the high mission which they have to fulfil, and which their predecessors so neglected; there is, I think, a rising feeling in the community, that parliamentary intercourse in matters ecclesiastical has not tended either to the spiritual or the material elevation of the humbler orders. Divorce the Church from the State, and the spiritual power that struggled against the brute force of the dark ages, against tyrannical monarchs and barbarous barons, will struggle again in opposition to influences of a different form, but of a similar tendency; equally selfish, equally insensible, equally barbarising. The priests of God are the tribunes of the people. O, ignorant! that with such a mission they should ever have cringed in the antechambers of ministers, or bowed before parliamentary committees!’

‘And yet, my dear Coningsby, despite all its past mistakes and current flaws, I can only see a chance for regenerating the national character through the Church; I would have said this until I listened to you tonight. The parochial system, although shaken by the disastrous poor law, remains the oldest, most comprehensive, and most popular institution in the country; the younger priests are generally individuals whose souls are awake to the important mission they have to fulfill, which their predecessors neglected so much. I believe there is a growing feeling in the community that parliamentary involvement in ecclesiastical matters has not helped elevate the spiritual or material status of the lower classes. If we separate the Church from the State, the spiritual power that once fought against the brute force of the dark ages, against tyrannical kings and savage barons, will once again oppose influences of a different kind but with a similar purpose; equally selfish, equally indifferent, equally barbaric. The priests of God are the representatives of the people. Oh, how misguided it is that with such a mission they would ever have grovelled in the waiting rooms of ministers or bowed before parliamentary committees!’

‘The Utilitarian system is dead,’ said Coningsby. ‘It has passed through the heaven of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, and peppering, and it has melted away. And yet can we wonder that it found some success, when we consider the political ignorance and social torpor which it assailed? Anointed kings turned into chief magistrates, and therefore much overpaid; estates of the realm changed into parliaments of virtual representation, and therefore requiring real reform; holy Church transformed into national establishment, and therefore grumbled at by all the nation for whom it was not supported. What an inevitable harvest of sedition, radicalism, infidelity! I really think there is no society, however great its resources, that could long resist the united influences of chief magistrate, virtual representation, and Church establishment!’

‘The Utilitarian system is dead,’ said Coningsby. ‘It has passed through the realm of philosophy like a hailstorm, cold, noisy, sharp, and intense, and it has melted away. And yet, can we really be surprised that it had some success when we consider the political ignorance and social stagnation it confronted? Anointed kings became chief magistrates, and thus overpaid; the estates of the realm turned into parliaments of virtual representation, and that needed real reform; the holy Church became a national establishment, and was therefore criticized by everyone it didn’t support. What an inevitable result of sedition, radicalism, and disbelief! I honestly believe there’s no society, no matter how strong its resources, that could endure the combined effects of a chief magistrate, virtual representation, and an established Church for long!’

‘I have immense faith in the new generation,’ said Millbank, eagerly.

‘I have a lot of faith in the new generation,’ said Millbank, eagerly.

‘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!’

‘It’s an amazing thing to see a nation saved by its youth,’ said Coningsby; and then he added, in a humble tone, if not one of sadness, ‘But what a challenge! What a mix of qualities, what a combination of circumstances are needed! What talent and what incredible patience! What trust from the people, what favor from above!’

‘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.”’

‘But He will support us,’ said Millbank. ‘And I say to you as Nathan said to David, “You are the one!” You were our leader at Eton; the friends of your heart and youth still gather around you! They are all men whose positions lead them into public life. It’s a core group of honor, faith, and power. You just have to be bold. And will you not be bold? We’re lucky to live in a time when the highest ambitions are connected to doing the greatest good. About this era, it can truly be 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.’

‘Heaven is above all,’ said Coningsby. ‘The curtain of our fate is still drawn back. We are happy with our friends, dear Millbank, and whatever challenges we face, we will stand together. Personally, I choose fame over life; and yet, I value the awareness of heroic deeds more than widespread recognition.’

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.

The beautiful summer light had never illuminated a scene and surrounding landscape that brought to mind happier images of English nature and better memories of English manners than the one we’re about to share with our readers. One of those true old English Halls, now unfortunately so rare, built during the Tudor period, with its intricate timber framing and decorative woodwork reflecting both the scarcity of brick and stone at the time and the unique creativity of its builder, rose on a terrace surrounded by ancient, very formal gardens. The hall itself had been carefully and tastefully maintained by its owners for many generations. Every detail was as fresh as if it had just been renovated yesterday. It stood as a massive and unusual mix of Grecian, Gothic, and Italian architecture, with a wild touch of the fantastic added in. Lantern watchtowers like those of a baronial castle were juxtaposed with Doric columns used as chimneys, while below oriel windows, Italian doorways with Grecian pediments could be seen. Beyond the vast gardens, an avenue of Spanish chestnuts approached the mansion from every direction or led into a small elevated park, whose boundaries opened up to beautiful, expansive valleys, sparkling with cultivation, except for one spot where the river Darl formed the edge of the estate and wound its way through the lush countryside 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!

Such was Hellingsley, the new home that Oswald Millbank was about to visit for the first time. Coningsby and he had traveled together as far as Darlford, where their paths separated, and they parted with Coningsby promising to visit Hellingsley the next day. During their journey, Coningsby often steered the conversation toward personal topics and gradually talked a lot about Edith. Without being overly curious, he drew out, almost unconsciously to his companion, details about her character and early life, which filled him with a secret, intense interest. The thought that in just a few hours he would see her again filled him with a level of excitement that was even more exhilarating because he had to hold it back around his companion. How often in life do we have to talk about ordinary things with a straight face while our hearts and memories are consumed by some captivating 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.

The castle of his grandfather looked completely different when Coningsby arrived compared to his first visit. The Marquess had formally allowed him to come whenever he wanted and had informed the steward about it. However, he showed up unexpectedly, at a time of year when there were no activities happening, catching everyone off guard. The scattered and leisurely household sprang into action, realizing they might have to do some work for their pay. There was a buzz in that huge, quiet castle. Eventually, the steward was located and came forward to greet their young master, whose simple needs were just for the rooms he had previously 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?

Coningsby arrived at the castle just before sunset, nearly the same time he had come three years earlier. So much had happened in that time! Coningsby had already lived long enough to find meaning in reflecting on the past. That past would also have a significant impact on his present. He remembered his morning drive with his grandfather to the edge of the river that marked the border between his estate and Hellingsley. Who lived 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!

Restless and excited, aware of the challenges and possibly the dangers of his situation, yet overwhelmed by a captivating emotion that blended all his thoughts and feelings, Coningsby stepped out into the beautiful gardens to reflect on his love surrounded by such lovely sights. A warm glow hung over the unique shrubs and tall, whimsical trees, while a richer, darker hue enveloped the distant woods. This calming end of the day has a peculiar effect on those who love. Who hasn’t experienced it? Enchanting feelings that reach the eternal part of us!

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.

But for Coningsby, the calming moments that touch the heart made him feel brave. Surrounded by nature's uplifting qualities, the goals and concerns of worldly practicality and social advantage faded into nothing. He wanted to connect his life and destiny with someone as beautiful as the nature that overwhelmed him, and he felt within himself the inner strength that, despite any challenges, would turn such a dream 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.

He walked down the slopes, now fading in the dimming light, into the park. The stillness felt almost surreal; the cheerful sounds of the day had faded, and the voices of the night hadn't yet begun. His heart was still too. A deep calm had taken the place of the emotional turmoil that had troubled him all day as he thought about his love and the countless barriers that seemed to stand against his desires. Now he felt one of those intense, unfounded beliefs that passion can inspire, that everything would bend to him as if he were wielding 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.

Onward he walked; it seemed aimless, yet he kept moving. A pale and then bright glow spread over the massive trees, and soon a sparkling light filled the lawns and clearings. The moon hung high in the summer sky, and still, Coningsby continued on. He crossed the wide lawns and walked through the bright clearings: among the bright and shadowy woods, he made his way with an instinctive sense of direction.

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.

He arrived at the edge of a fast-moving river, bubbling in the moonlight, and carrying on its blue surface the reflection of a thousand stars.

‘O river!’ he said, ‘that rollest to my mistress, bear her, bear her my heart!’

‘O river!’ he said, ‘that flows to my lady, carry her, carry 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.

Lady Wallinger and Edith were in the morning room at Hellingsley the day after Oswald's arrival. Edith was arranging flowers in a vase, while her aunt was embroidering a Spanish peasant in traditional attire. The daughter of Millbank looked as bright and fragrant as the lovely flowers around her. It was beautiful to watch her as she arranged their shapes and grouped them; to see her eyes light up with satisfaction at a pleasing combination of colors, or to hear her joy as the flowers sent their fragrance to her in appreciation. Oswald and Sir Joseph were checking out the stables; Mr. Millbank, who had been expected from the factories for the past week, still hadn't arrived.

‘I must say he gained my heart from the first,’ said Lady Wallinger.

"I have to say he won my heart right from the start," said Lady Wallinger.

‘I wish the gardener would send us more roses,’ said Edith.

"I wish the gardener would send us more roses," Edith said.

‘He is so very superior to any young man I ever met,’ continued Lady Wallinger.

‘He is so much better than any young man I’ve 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 think we should have this vase completely full of roses; what do you think, aunt?’ asked her niece.

‘I am fond of roses,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘What beautiful bouquets Mr. Coningsby gave us at Paris, Edith!’

‘I really like roses,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘What gorgeous bouquets Mr. Coningsby gave us in Paris, Edith!’

‘Beautiful!’

'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.’

‘I have to say, I was really happy when I ran into Mr. Coningsby again at Cambridge,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘It brought me a lot more joy than visiting any of the colleges.’

‘How delighted Oswald seems at having Mr. Coningsby for a companion again!’ said Edith.

‘How happy Oswald looks to have Mr. Coningsby as 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.’

‘And very naturally,’ said Lady Wallinger. ‘Oswald should consider himself lucky to have such a friend. I’ll never forget how kind Mr. Coningsby was when we met him at Cambridge. He was always my favorite from the first time I saw him in Paris. You know, Edith, I liked him the most out of all your admirers.’

‘Oh! no, aunt,’ said Edith, smiling, ‘not more than Lord Beaumanoir; you forget your great favourite, Lord Beaumanoir.’

‘Oh! no, Aunt,’ said Edith, smiling, ‘not any more than Lord Beaumanoir; you’re forgetting your favorite, 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!’

‘But I didn't know Mr. Coningsby in Rome,’ said Lady Wallinger; ‘I can’t agree that anyone is equal to Mr. Coningsby. I can’t tell you how happy I am that he’s our neighbor!’

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,

As Lady Wallinger made the final touches to her Andalusian's jacket, Edith, blushing brightly but trying to sound calm, said,

‘Here is Mr. Coningsby, aunt.’

"Here’s 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.

And, indeed, at that moment, our hero could be seen walking toward the hall along one of the paths; a few minutes later, the doorbell rang, and after a brief pause, the servants announced Mr. Coningsby and led 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.

Edith felt awkward; her usual openness and cheerfulness had left her. Coningsby was more serious than calm. At first, both of them found Lady Wallinger's presence comforting. They had plenty of everyday conversation topics to discuss: memories of Paris, thoughts about Hellingsley, his trip to Oxford, and Lady Wallinger’s time in Cambridge. Within ten minutes, their voices began to echo as they did in the Rue de Rivoli, and their shared confusion had mostly faded away.

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!

Oswald and Sir Joseph entered the room, and the conversation became lively. Coningsby was excited to talk about Hellingsley; he loved everything he had seen and wanted to see more. Sir Joseph was ready to join him, but Lady Wallinger, who seemed to understand Coningsby's desires just by looking at him, suggested that the tour should include everyone. In about half an hour, Coningsby found himself walking alongside Edith, appreciating all the natural beauty her keen taste and lively expression highlighted. There are few things more enjoyable than a country walk with a lovely companion! Exploring forests, strolling through green fields, lingering in shaded lanes, resting on quaint fences; the air filled with fragrance, the heart overflowing with joy!

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.

It felt to Coningsby like he had never truly been happy before. A thrilling joy filled him completely. He could have sung like a bird. His heart was as bright as a summer day. The past and future faded away in the moment; there were no thoughts of Paris, no worries about what might come next; just endless feelings of connection and understanding; a bunch of little phrases that, no matter how they were said, all meant the same thing: they clicked. He felt his voice becoming softer with each moment; his heart overflowing with gentle words; with every second he was more captivated; her presence was graceful, her gaze was beautiful. Now she would catch his attention with a simple, sweet phrase; or enchant him with her playful laughter.

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.

Oswald thought that Coningsby was staying to have dinner with them. There wasn’t even a formal invitation. Coningsby couldn't help but remember his dinner at Millbank and the shy hostess he had often spoken to in vain as he looked at the enchanting and talented woman he now loved deeply. It was a very pleasant dinner. Oswald, pleased to have his friend as his guest in his own home, let himself enjoy an unusual level of cheerfulness.

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:—

The women left; Sir Joseph started discussing politics, even though the young men had threatened to follow their lovely companions right away. This was during the Bed-Chamber Plot, when Sir Robert Peel came into and then resigned from power in just three days. Sir Joseph, who had initially decided to back a Conservative government when he thought it was unavoidable, had spent the last month trying to make up for this minor mistake by defending his friends' actions and criticizing those who wanted to take away the Queen's 'friends from her youth.' Sir Joseph was a very noble supporter of the 'friends from her youth' idea. He was usually moderate and conciliatory in his words, although he would go to any lengths for his party. Today, he spoke very seriously, as he didn’t want to upset Mr. Coningsby, and mostly focused on asking calm questions, somewhat like this:—

‘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.

‘I admit that, overall, under normal circumstances, it might have been easier for these appointments to stay with Sir Robert; but don’t you think that, given the unusual situation, being friends from her Majesty’s younger days?’ & 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.

Sir Joseph was very surprised when Coningsby answered that he believed, under no circumstances, should any appointment in the Royal Household depend on the opinion of the House of Commons, even though he didn't admire the 'friends-of-her-youth' principle, which he viewed as rude.

‘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 surely,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘since the Minister is accountable to Parliament, it follows that all major government positions should be filled at his discretion.’

‘But where do you find this principle of Ministerial responsibility?’ inquired Coningsby.

‘But where do you find this idea of Ministerial responsibility?’ asked Coningsby.

‘And is not a Minister responsible to his Sovereign?’ inquired Millbank.

‘Isn't a Minister responsible to their Sovereign?’ asked 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.’

Sir Joseph appeared somewhat puzzled. He had always been taught that Ministers were accountable to Parliament; and he had a hazy belief, despite the reviving loyalty of the Bed-Chamber Plot, that the Sovereign of England was irrelevant. He leaned on vague phrases and remarked, “The Responsibility of Ministers is definitely a constitutional principle.”

‘The Ministers of the Crown are responsible to their master; they are not the Ministers of Parliament.’

‘The Ministers of the Crown are accountable to their leader; 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.’

‘But you know basically,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘that Parliament, specifically the House of Commons, runs the country.’

‘It did before 1832,’ said Coningsby; ‘but that is all past now. We got rid of that with the Venetian Constitution.’

‘It did before 1832,’ said Coningsby; ‘but that’s all in the past now. We got rid of that with the Venetian Constitution.’

‘The Venetian Constitution!’ said Sir Joseph.

‘The Venetian Constitution!’ exclaimed 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.’

‘Sure,’ said Millbank. ‘We’ve been ruled in this country by the Venetian Constitution since the House of Hanover came to power. But that restriction is behind us. Now I hope we’re moving from the Italian Dogeship to the English Monarchy.’

‘King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!’ exclaimed Sir Joseph.

‘King, Lords, and Commons, the Venetian Constitution!’ shouted 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.’

‘But they were phrases,’ said Coningsby, ‘not facts. The King was like a Doge; the Cabinet was the Council of Ten. Your Parliament, which 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.’

‘The resemblance was complete,’ said Millbank, ‘and it's no surprise, because it wasn't random; the Venetian Constitution was deliberately replicated.’

‘We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640,’ said Coningsby, ‘had it not been for the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.’

‘We should have had the Venetian Republic in 1640,’ said Coningsby, ‘if it hadn't been for the Puritans. Geneva beat Venice.’

‘I am sure these ideas are not very generally known,’ said Sir Joseph, bewildered.

‘I’m sure these ideas aren’t widely known,’ said Sir Joseph, confused.

‘Because you have had your history written by the Venetian party,’ said Coningsby, ‘and it has been their interest to conceal them.’

‘Because you’ve had your history written by the Venetian party,’ said Coningsby, ‘and it’s been in their interest to hide it.’

‘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.’

‘I’m going to say that there are very few men on our side in the House of Commons,’ said Sir Joseph, ‘who know that they were born under a Venetian Constitution.’

‘Let us go to the ladies,’ said Millbank, smiling.

‘Let’s go see the ladies,’ said Millbank, smiling.

Edith was reading a letter as they entered.

Edith was reading a letter when they walked in.

‘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.’

‘A letter from Dad,’ she exclaimed, looking up at her brother with great excitement. ‘We can expect him any day now; and yet, unfortunately, he can’t give us a specific date.’

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.’

They all started talking about Millbank, and Coningsby was glad that he knew the place well. Finally, he dared to say to Edith, “You once promised me something that you never followed through on. I’m going to hold you to it tonight.”

‘And what can that be?’

‘What could that be?’

‘The song that you promised me at Millbank more than three years ago.’

‘The song you promised me at Millbank over three years ago.’

‘Your memory is good.’

"Your memory is impressive."

‘It has dwelt upon the subject.’

‘It has focused on 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.

Then they talked for a while about other memories, and Coningsby, looking to Lady Wallinger for her support, encouraged Edith to pick up her guitar. Her voice was rich and sweet; the song she sang was cheerful, even playfully lively, like the girls of Granada singing as they returned from a country festival. Her soft, dark eyes sparkled with joyful connection, and now and then, with a charming flair, she tapped the guitar accompaniment with her lovely 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.

The moon is shrinking; and Coningsby has to leave these magical halls. Oswald walked with him until they got to his grandfather's estate. Then, getting on his horse, Coningsby said goodbye to his friend until tomorrow and headed 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.

There’s a romance in every life. The vibrant chapter of Coningsby’s existence was now unfolding. It had been successful before, with moments of excitement and joy, but all of those moments seemed to stem from worldly concerns or were inevitably mixed with them. In Paris, for instance, he fell in love, or thought he did. But not a single hour could go by without him encountering someone or hearing something that disrupted the beauty of his feelings or shattered his enchanted thoughts. There was his grandfather disliking the Millbanks, or Sidonia being fond of them; and ordinary people, in the everyday world, making typical comments about them; asking who they were, or sharing who they were; and wearing down the freshness of all life’s delightful fantasies with their rough 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.

But now his feelings felt light and airy. He loved deeply, and he loved in a setting and among people as sweet, pure, and refined as his imagination and his heart. There was no malicious gossip, no insensitive chatter to pollute his ears and tarnish his feelings. Everything he heard or saw was worthy of the summer sky, the tranquil green woods, the flowing river, the gardens and terraces, the elegant and fantastical homes, among which his life now moved like in a beautiful and extravagant mask.

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.

All the gentle, social, domestic feelings in him, which, although plentiful, had never been nurtured, were brought to life by the lifestyle he was now living. It wasn’t just the fact that he was constantly in the presence and influence of someone he adored that made him so happy. He was surrounded by people who found joy in exchanging kind feelings and words, developing their talents and refined tastes, and enjoying a life that their own good sense and kind hearts led them to understand and appreciate. Ambition lost much of its shine; even his lofty dreams seemed less pressing when Coningsby realized how much joy could be found in the quiet life of a private individual, as he daydreamed about a life spent among woods and waterfalls with a lovely hand in his, or surrounded by friends in an ancestral home.

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.

The morning after his first visit to Hellingsley, Coningsby rejoined his friends, as he had promised Oswald during breakfast. Day after day, he arrived with the early sun and only left them when the late moon lit up Coningsby Castle. Mr. Millbank, who wrote every day and was expected to arrive, didn’t show up. A week of uninterrupted bliss had slipped away, filled with long rides and even longer walks, sunset strolls, and occasionally moonlit walks; they talked about flowers and thought about even sweeter things, listened to lovely songs, and sometimes read aloud from some bright romance or inspiring poem.

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.

One day, Coningsby showed up at the hall unexpectedly late; it was well past noon since he had been held up by some dispatches from Mr. Rigby that needed his attention. He found the ladies alone and was informed that Sir Joseph and Oswald were at the fishing cottage and wanted him to join them. He wasn’t in a hurry to do so, and Lady Wallinger suggested that they all go to the fishing cottage together whenever they felt like taking a walk. So, he sat next to Edith, who was adding color to a sketch she had made of a beautiful oriel window at Hellingsley. The morning slipped away in that light but meaningful conversation that lovers enjoy, where he asked countless questions that seemed trivial at first but often revealed unspoken feelings or uncovered hidden emotions. These moments are where glances meet and then shyly look away: while the words may seem casual, the eyes often speak more eloquently and truthfully.

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.

Coningsby looked up; Lady Wallinger, who had said more than once that she was going to put on her hat, was gone. Yet he kept talking about trivial things; and Edith kept listening.

‘Of all that you have told me,’ said Edith, ‘nothing pleases me so much as your description of St. Geneviève. How much I should like to catch the deer at sunset on the heights! What a pretty drawing it would make!’

‘Of everything you’ve told me,’ said Edith, ‘nothing makes me as happy as your description of St. Geneviève. I’d really love to catch the deer at sunset on the hills! What a beautiful drawing that would be!’

‘You would like Eustace Lyle,’ said Coningsby. ‘He is so shy and yet so ardent.’

‘You would like Eustace Lyle,’ said Coningsby. ‘He’s really shy but also very passionate.’

‘You have such a band of friends! Oswald was saying this morning there was no one who had so many devoted friends.’

‘You have such a group of friends! Oswald was saying this morning that there’s no one who has so many loyal friends.’

‘We are all united by sympathy. It is the only bond of friendship; and yet friendship—’

‘We are all brought together by empathy. It's the only connection 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.’

‘Edith,’ said Lady Wallinger, peeking into the room from the garden, wearing her bonnet, ‘you’ll find me wandering on the terrace.’

‘We come, dear aunt.’

"We're coming, 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.

And yet they didn’t move. There were still a few pencil touches needed for the colored sketch; Coningsby would get 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.’

‘Would you give me,’ he said, ‘a little keepsake of Hellingsley and your art? I wouldn’t dare to hope for anything as beautiful as this; just the tiniest sketch. It would mean so much to me to have it hanging in my room when I’m away.’

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,

A blush spread across Edith's cheek; she tilted her head slightly to the side, as if she were organizing some drawings. Then she spoke in a somewhat soft and uncertain 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.

‘I’m sure I will; and gladly. A view of the Hall itself; I think that would be the best tribute. Where should we take it from? We can decide on our walk?’ She stood up, promised to come back right away, and 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.

Coningsby leaned over the mantelpiece, lost in thought, staring blankly at a miniature of Edith's father. He was brought back to reality by the sound of light footsteps; she had come back. Without realizing it, he looked at her with a gaze full of deep 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 set out; it was a gray, muggy day. In fact, it was the overcast sky that had inspired their fishing plans for the morning. Sir Joseph was a skilled and experienced fisherman, and the Darl was famous for its excellent fishing. They took their time before reaching the terrace where they would meet Lady Wallinger, taking in the various views that the Hall had to offer and discussing which one should be the subject of Coningsby’s drawing; it was to be more than just a sketch, but a finished piece, the best that Edith’s talented pencil could produce. If it was truly going to hang in his room and serve as a keepsake of Hellingsley, her artistic reputation required nothing less than 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.

They arrived at the terrace: Lady Wallinger wasn't there, nor could they see her nearby. Coningsby was pretty sure she had already headed to the fishing cottage and expected them to follow her; he convinced Edith of his reasoning. So, they made their way to the fishing cottage. They stepped out of the gardens into the park, strolling over the plateau and trying to stay in the shade, in the warm but heavy atmosphere. At the edge of the plateau, their path took them along a wild but winding trail through a gently sloping wooded area. While they were still in this rugged and scenic forest, the large, warm raindrops began to fall. Coningsby urged Edith to find a natural shelter right away, but she, familiar with the area, assured him that the fishing cottage was nearby and that they could reach it before the rain affected them.

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.

And really, at that moment coming out of the woods, they found themselves in the valley of the Darl. The river here was narrow and winding, but full of life; rushing and clear except for the dark sky it mirrored; with high banks of grass and tall trees, especially the silver birch, in clusters; incredibly picturesque. At a bend in the river, about two hundred yards away, Coningsby saw the low, dark roof of the fishing cottage by the water. They walked down from the woods to the edge of the stream using a set of grassy steps, with Coningsby holding Edith’s hand to help her along.

The drops became thicker. They reached, at a rapid pace, the cottage. The absent boat indicated that Sir Joseph and Oswald were on the river. The cottage was an old building of rustic logs, with a shelving roof, so that you might obtain sufficient shelter without entering its walls. Coningsby found a rough garden seat for Edith. The shower was now violent.

The raindrops grew heavier. They quickly reached the cottage. The missing boat showed that Sir Joseph and Oswald were out on the river. The cottage was an old structure made of rustic logs, with a sloping roof that provided enough shelter without having to go inside. Coningsby found a simple garden bench for Edith. The downpour was now intense.

Nature, like man, sometimes weeps from gladness. It is the joy and tenderness of her heart that seek relief; and these are summer showers. In this instance the vehemence of her emotion was transient, though the tears kept stealing down her cheek for a long time, and gentle sighs and sobs might for some period be distinguished. The oppressive atmosphere had evaporated; the grey, sullen tint had disappeared; a soft breeze came dancing up the stream; a glowing light fell upon the woods and waters; the perfume of trees and flowers and herbs floated around. There was a carolling of birds; a hum of happy insects in the air; freshness and stir, and a sense of joyous life, pervaded all things; it seemed that the heart of all creation opened.

Nature, like people, sometimes cries tears of joy. It’s the happiness and tenderness of her soul that seek release, and these are the summer showers. In this case, her strong feelings were brief, though the tears continued to trickle down her cheek for a while, and soft sighs and sobs could be heard for some time. The heavy atmosphere had lifted; the dull grey hue had vanished; a gentle breeze danced up the stream; a warm light shone down on the woods and waters; the scents of trees, flowers, and herbs surrounded everything. There were birds singing; a buzz of joyful insects filled the air; freshness and movement, along with a feeling of vibrant life, enveloped everything; it felt like the heart of all creation was wide open.

Coningsby, after repeatedly watching the shower with Edith, and speculating on its progress, which did not much annoy them, had seated himself on a log almost at her feet. And assuredly a maiden and a youth more beautiful and engaging had seldom met before in a scene more fresh and fair. Edith on her rustic seat watched the now blue and foaming river, and the birch-trees with a livelier tint, and quivering in the sunset air; an expression of tranquil bliss suffused her beautiful brow, and spoke from the thrilling tenderness of her soft dark eye. Coningsby gazed on that countenance with a glance of entranced rapture. His cheek was flushed, his eye gleamed with dazzling lustre. She turned her head; she met that glance, and, troubled, she withdrew her own.

Coningsby, after watching the shower with Edith multiple times and wondering about its progress, which didn’t bother them much, sat down on a log almost at her feet. And truly, it was rare for a young woman and a young man so beautiful and charming to meet in such a fresh and lovely setting. Edith, perched on her makeshift seat, admired the now blue and frothy river, and the birch trees that appeared more vibrant, shimmering in the sunset air; a look of peaceful joy filled her lovely face, reflected in the tender warmth of her soft dark eyes. Coningsby stared at her with a gaze of pure awe. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes sparkled with bright intensity. She turned her head, caught his gaze, and, feeling uneasy, quickly looked away.

‘Edith!’ he said in a tone of tremulous passion, ‘Let me call you Edith! Yes,’ he continued, gently taking her hand, let me call you my Edith! I love you!’

‘Edith!’ he said in a shaky voice, ‘Let me call you Edith! Yes,’ he continued, softly taking her hand, ‘let me call you my Edith! I love you!’

She did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as the impending twilight.

She didn't pull her hand back; instead, she turned away with a face flushed like the coming twilight.

CHAPTER VI.

It was past the dinner hour when Edith and Coningsby reached the Hall; an embarrassing circumstance, but mitigated by the conviction that they had not to encounter a very critical inspection. What, then, were their feelings when the first servant that they met informed them that Mr. Millbank had arrived! Edith never could have believed that the return of her beloved father to his home could ever have been to her other than a cause of delight. And yet now she trembled when she heard the announcement. The mysteries of love were fast involving her existence. But this was not the season of meditation. Her heart was still agitated by the tremulous admission that she responded to that fervent and adoring love whose eloquent music still sounded in her ear, and the pictures of whose fanciful devotion flitted over her agitated vision. Unconsciously she pressed the arm of Coningsby as the servant spoke, and then, without looking into his face, whispering him to be quick, she sprang away.

It was after dinner when Edith and Coningsby got to the Hall; it was an awkward situation, but it was softened by the fact that they didn’t have to face a very critical inspection. What, then, were they feeling when the first servant they encountered told them that Mr. Millbank had arrived? Edith never would have thought that her beloved father's return home could be anything but a source of joy for her. Yet now she felt anxious when she heard the news. The complexities of love were quickly complicating her life. But this wasn’t a time for reflection. Her heart was still stirred by the trembling realization that she felt the same fervent and adoring love whose beautiful words still echoed in her ears, and the images of that fanciful devotion danced across her troubled mind. Unconsciously, she tightened her grip on Coningsby’s arm as the servant spoke, and then, without looking at him, she whispered for him to hurry and dashed away.

As for Coningsby, notwithstanding the elation of his heart, and the ethereal joy which flowed in all his veins, the name of Mr. Millbank sounded, something like a knell. However, this was not the time to reflect. He obeyed the hint of Edith; made the most rapid toilet that ever was consummated by a happy lover, and in a few minutes entered the drawing-room of Hellingsley, to encounter the gentleman whom he hoped by some means or other, quite inconceivable, might some day be transformed into his father-in-law, and the fulfilment of his consequent duties towards whom he had commenced by keeping him waiting for dinner.

As for Coningsby, despite the happiness in his heart and the pure joy coursing through his veins, the name Mr. Millbank felt like a death knell. However, this wasn't the moment to dwell on that. He took Edith's hint, got ready as quickly as any ecstatic lover could, and in just a few minutes walked into the drawing-room at Hellingsley to face the man he hoped, in some unimaginable way, might someday become his father-in-law, even though he had already started by making him wait for dinner.

‘How do you do, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, extending his hand to Coningsby. ‘You seem to have taken a long walk.’

‘How’s it going, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, reaching out his hand to Coningsby. ‘You look like you’ve been on quite a walk.’

Coningsby looked round to the kind Lady Wallinger, and half addressed his murmured answer to her, explaining how they had lost her, and their way, and were caught in a storm or a shower, which, as it terminated about three hours back, and the fishing-cottage was little more than a mile from the Hall, very satisfactorily accounted for their not being in time for dinner.

Coningsby glanced at the kind Lady Wallinger and partially directed his quiet response to her, explaining how they had lost her, lost their way, and got caught in a storm or downpour, which had ended around three hours ago. Since the fishing cottage was just over a mile from the Hall, that clearly explained why they hadn't made it in time for dinner.

Lady Wallinger then said something about the lowering clouds having frightened her from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald talked a little of their sport, and of their having seen an otter; but there was, or at least there seemed to Coningsby, a tone of general embarrassment which distressed him. The fact is, keeping people from dinner under any circumstances is distressing. They are obliged to talk at the very moment when they wish to use their powers of expression for a very different purpose. They are faint, and conversation makes them more exhausted. A gentleman, too, fond of his family, who in turn are devoted to him, making a great and inconvenient effort to reach them by dinner time, to please and surprise them; and finding them all dispersed, dinner so late that he might have reached home in good time without any great inconvenient effort; his daughter, whom he had wished a thousand times to embrace, taking a singularly long ramble with no other companion than a young gentleman, whom he did not exactly expect to see; all these are circumstances, individually perhaps slight, and yet, encountered collectively, it may be doubted they would not a little ruffle even the sweetest temper.

Lady Wallinger then mentioned that the darkening clouds had scared her away from the terrace, and Sir Joseph and Oswald chatted a bit about their outing and their sighting of an otter; however, there was, at least from Coningsby's perspective, a general awkwardness that troubled him. The truth is, keeping people waiting for dinner is unsettling in any situation. They have to engage in conversation just when they want to express themselves about something completely different. They feel weak, and talking only makes them more tired. A gentleman, who cares for his family and is loved by them in return, makes a significant and inconvenient effort to get home by dinner time to please and surprise them, only to find them all scattered, with dinner so late that he could have arrived home on time without much trouble; his daughter, whom he had longed to hug, taking an unusually long walk with no other companion than a young man he didn’t exactly expect to see—these are all factors that, while perhaps minor on their own, might collectively upset even the sweetest disposition.

Mr. Millbank, too, had not the sweetest temper, though not a bad one; a little quick and fiery. But then he had a kind heart. And when Edith, who had providentially sent down a message to order dinner, entered and embraced him at the very moment that dinner was announced, her father forgot everything in his joy in seeing her, and his pleasure in being surrounded by his friends. He gave his hand to Lady Wallinger, and Sir Joseph led away his niece. Coningsby put his arm around the astonished neck of Oswald, as if they were once more in the playing fields of Eton.

Mr. Millbank didn’t have the sweetest temperament, though it wasn’t bad; he could be a bit quick and fiery. But he had a kind heart. And when Edith, who had luckily sent down a message to order dinner, entered and hugged him right when dinner was announced, her father forgot everything in his joy at seeing her and his pleasure in being with his friends. He shook hands with Lady Wallinger, and Sir Joseph took his niece away. Coningsby put his arm around the surprised neck of Oswald, as if they were back in the playing fields of Eton.

‘By Jove! my dear fellow,’ he exclaimed, ‘I am so sorry we kept your father from dinner.’

"By God!"

As Edith headed her father’s table, according to his rigid rule, Coningsby was on one side of her. They never spoke so little; Coningsby would have never unclosed his lips, had he followed his humour. He was in a stupor of happiness; the dining room took the appearance of the fishing-cottage; and he saw nothing but the flowing river. Lady Wallinger was however next to him, and that was a relief; for he felt always she was his friend. Sir Joseph, a good-hearted man, and on subjects with which he was acquainted full of sound sense, was invaluable to-day, for he entirely kept up the conversation, speaking of things which greatly interested Mr. Millbank. And so their host soon recovered his good temper; he addressed several times his observations to Coningsby, and was careful to take wine with him. On the whole, affairs went on flowingly enough. The gentlemen, indeed, stayed much longer over their wine than on the preceding days, and Coningsby did not venture on the liberty of quitting the room before his host. It was as well. Edith required repose. She tried to seek it on the bosom of her aunt, as she breathed to her the delicious secret of her life. When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room the ladies were not there.

As Edith sat at her father's table, following his strict rules, Coningsby was on one side of her. They barely spoke; Coningsby would have kept quiet altogether if he had his way. He was in a daze of happiness; the dining room felt like the fishing cottage to him, and all he could see was the flowing river. Fortunately, Lady Wallinger was sitting next to him, which was comforting because he always felt she was his friend. Sir Joseph, a kind man who had solid sense on topics he knew, was invaluable today, as he completely kept the conversation going, talking about things that greatly interested Mr. Millbank. Soon, their host regained his good mood and addressed several comments to Coningsby, making sure to toast with him. Overall, things flowed pretty smoothly. The gentlemen lingered much longer over their wine than on previous days, and Coningsby didn't take the liberty of leaving the room before his host. It was for the best. Edith needed some peace. She tried to find it with her aunt as she shared the delightful secret of her life. When the gentlemen returned to the drawing-room, the ladies were gone.

This rather disturbed Mr. Millbank again; he had not seen enough of his daughter; he wished to hear her sing. But Edith managed to reappear; and even to sing. Then Coningsby went up to her and asked her to sing the song of the Girls of Granada. She said in a low voice, and with a fond yet serious look,

This really unsettled Mr. Millbank again; he hadn’t seen his daughter enough; he wanted to hear her sing. But Edith managed to come back and even sing. Then Coningsby approached her and asked her to sing the song of the Girls of Granada. She responded in a quiet voice, with a loving yet serious expression,

‘I am not in the mood for such a song, but if you wish me—’

‘I’m not really in the mood for that song, but if you want me to—’

She sang it, and with inexpressible grace, and with an arch vivacity, that to a fine observer would have singularly contrasted with the almost solemn and even troubled expression of her countenance a moment afterwards.

She sang it with incredible grace and a playful energy that would have strikingly contrasted for a keen observer with the almost serious and even troubled look on her face just a moment later.

The day was about to die; the day the most important, the most precious in the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been spoken, vows breathed, which were to influence their careers for ever. For them hereafter there was to be but one life, one destiny, one world. Each of them was still in such a state of tremulous excitement, that neither had found time or occasion to ponder over the mighty result. They both required solitude; they both longed to be alone. Coningsby rose to depart. He pressed the soft hand of Edith, and his glance spoke his soul.

The day was coming to a close; the day that was the most important, the most precious in the lives of Harry Coningsby and Edith Millbank. Words had been exchanged, vows made, which would shape their futures forever. From this moment on, they would share one life, one destiny, one world. Both of them were still in such a state of nervous excitement that neither had taken the time to think about the huge implications of what had just happened. They both needed some alone time; they both wanted solitude. Coningsby stood up to leave. He squeezed Edith’s soft hand, and his gaze revealed his feelings.

‘We shall see you at breakfast to-morrow, Coningsby!’ said Oswald, very loud, knowing that the presence of his father would make Coningsby hesitate about coming. Edith’s heart fluttered; but she said nothing. It was with delight she heard her father, after a moment’s pause, say,

‘We’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow, Coningsby!’ Oswald said loudly, aware that his father’s presence would make Coningsby think twice about coming. Edith's heart raced, but she stayed silent. She felt a thrill of joy when she heard her father, after a brief pause, say,

‘Oh! I beg we may have that pleasure.’

‘Oh! I hope we can enjoy that.’

‘Not quite at so early an hour,’ said Coningsby; ‘but if you will permit me, I hope to have the pleasure of hearing from you to-morrow, sir, that your journey has not fatigued you.’

‘Not quite at such an early hour,’ said Coningsby; ‘but if you don’t mind, I hope to hear from you tomorrow, sir, that your journey hasn’t worn you out.’

CHAPTER VII.

To be alone; to have no need of feigning a tranquillity he could not feel; of coining common-place courtesy when his heart was gushing with rapture; this was a great relief to Coningsby, though gained by a separation from Edith.

To be alone; to not have to pretend a calmness he didn’t feel; to avoid using polite small talk when his heart was overflowing with joy; this was a huge relief for Coningsby, even though it came from being apart from Edith.

The deed was done; he had breathed his long-brooding passion, he had received the sweet expression of her sympathy, he had gained the long-coveted heart. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of unsophisticated breasts, and the inspiration of an exquisite nature, combined to fashion the spell that now entranced his life. He turned to gaze upon the moonlit towers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, the picturesque pile rested on its broad terrace flooded with the silver light and surrounded by the quaint bowers of its fantastic gardens tipped with the glittering beam. Half hid in deep shadow, half sparkling in the midnight blaze, he recognised the oriel window that had been the subject of the morning’s sketch. Almost he wished there should be some sound to assure him of his reality. But nothing broke the all-pervading stillness. Was his life to be as bright and as tranquil? And what was to be his life?

The deed was done; he had finally expressed his long-held feelings, received her sweet recognition of his emotions, and won the heart he had desired for so long. Youth, beauty, love, the innocence of untouched hearts, and the inspiration of a rich spirit came together to create the enchantment that now captivated his existence. He turned to look at the moonlit towers and peaked roofs of Hellingsley. Silent and dreamlike, the picturesque structure sat on its wide terrace bathed in silver light, encircled by the charming nooks of its imaginative gardens glimmering in the beams. Half hidden in deep shadow, half sparkling in the midnight glow, he recognized the oriel window that had been the focus of this morning's sketch. He almost wished for some sound to confirm his reality. But nothing disturbed the all-encompassing stillness. Would his life be as bright and calm? And what would his life be like?

Whither was he to bear the beautiful bride he had gained? Were the portals of Coningsby the proud and hospitable gates that were to greet her? How long would they greet him after the achievement of the last four-and-twenty hours was known to their lord? Was this the return for the confiding kindness of his grandsire? That he should pledge his troth to the daughter of that grandsire’s foe?

Where was he supposed to take the beautiful bride he had won? Were the doors of Coningsby the proud and welcoming entrance that would greet her? How long would they welcome him once their lord learned about the events of the last twenty-four hours? Was this the reward for his grandfather's trusting generosity? That he would promise his commitment to the daughter of his grandfather’s enemy?

Away with such dark and scaring visions! Is it not the noon of a summer night fragrant with the breath of gardens, bright with the beam that lovers love, and soft with the breath of Ausonian breezes? Within that sweet and stately residence, dwells there not a maiden fair enough to revive chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she leans on her pensive hand, or, if perchance she dream, recalls him in her visions? And himself, is he one who would cry craven with such a lot? What avail his golden youth, his high blood, his daring and devising spirit, and all his stores of wisdom, if they help not now? Does not he feel the energy divine that can confront Fate and carve out fortunes? Besides it is nigh Midsummer Eve, and what should fairies reign for but to aid such a bright pair as this?

Away with those dark and scary visions! Isn’t it the middle of a summer night, fragrant with the scent of gardens, glowing with the light that lovers cherish, and gentle with the warm breezes? Inside that lovely and grand house, isn’t there a fair maiden capable of inspiring chivalry; who is even now thinking of him as she rests her chin on her thoughtful hand, or perhaps if she dreams, remembers him in her thoughts? And what about him? Is he really the type to back down in such a situation? What good are his golden youth, noble lineage, adventurous spirit, and all his wisdom if they don’t help him now? Doesn’t he feel that divine energy that can face destiny and create opportunities? Plus, it’s almost Midsummer Eve, and what are fairies here for if not to support such a wonderful pair as this?

He recalls a thousand times the scene, the moment, in which but a few hours past he dared to tell her that he loved; he recalls a thousand times the still, small voice, that murmured her agitated felicity: more than a thousand times, for his heart clenched the idea as a diver grasps a gem, he recalls the enraptured yet gentle embrace, that had sealed upon her blushing cheek his mystical and delicious sovereignty.

He remembers a thousand times the moment, just a few hours ago, when he dared to tell her that he loved her; he remembers a thousand times the quiet, soft voice that hinted at her excited happiness: more than a thousand times, as his heart clung to the thought like a diver holding onto a precious gem, he recalls the captivated yet tender embrace that had marked his mystical and sweet claim on her blushing cheek.

CHAPTER VIII

The morning broke lowering and thunderous; small white clouds, dull and immovable, studded the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl seemed to have become black and almost stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsley looked like the hard lines of a model; and the mansion itself had a harsh and metallic character. Before the chief portal of his Hall, the elder Millbank, with an air of some anxiety, surveyed the landscape and the heavens, as if he were speculating on the destiny of the day.

The morning started out dark and stormy; small white clouds, gray and still, dotted the leaden sky; the waters of the rushing Darl looked almost black and stagnant; the terraces of Hellingsley appeared sharply defined like a model; and the mansion itself had a cold and metallic feel. In front of the main entrance of his Hall, the elder Millbank, with a hint of worry, looked over the landscape and the sky, as if he were pondering what the day would bring.

Often his eye wandered over the park; often with an uneasy and restless step he paced the raised walk before him. The clock of Hellingsley church had given the chimes of noon. His son and Coningsby appeared at the end of one of the avenues. His eye lightened; his lip became compressed; he advanced to meet them.

Often his gaze drifted over the park; often with an uneasy and restless step he walked back and forth on the raised path ahead of him. The clock at Hellingsley church had just chimed noon. His son and Coningsby appeared at the end of one of the pathways. His eyes brightened; his lips pressed together; he moved forward to meet them.

‘Are you going to fish to-day, Oswald?’ he inquired of his son.

"Are you going fishing today, Oswald?" he asked his son.

‘We had some thoughts of it, sir.’

‘We were thinking about it, sir.’

‘A fine day for sport, I should think,’ he observed, as he turned towards the Hall with them.

‘It’s a great day for some sports, I’d say,’ he remarked, as he turned towards the Hall with them.

Coningsby remarked the fanciful beauty of the portal; its twisted columns, and Caryatides carved in dark oak.

Coningsby noted the imaginative beauty of the entrance; its twisted columns and Caryatids carved from dark oak.

‘Yes, it’s very well,’ said Millbank; ‘but I really do not know why I came here; my presence is an effort. Oswald does not care for the place; none of us do, I believe.’

‘Yeah, it’s fine,’ said Millbank; ‘but I honestly don’t know why I came here; being here is a struggle. Oswald doesn’t like the place; none of us do, I think.’

‘Oh! I like it now, father; and Edith doats on it.’

‘Oh! I really like it now, Dad; and Edith loves it.’

‘She was very happy at Millbank,’ said the father, rather sharply.

"She was really happy at Millbank," the father said, a bit sharply.

‘We are all of us happy at Millbank,’ said Oswald.

‘We’re all happy at Millbank,’ said Oswald.

‘I was much struck with the valley and the whole settlement when I first saw it,’ said Coningsby.

‘I was really impressed by the valley and the entire settlement when I first saw it,’ said Coningsby.

‘Suppose you go and see about the tackle, Oswald,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a stroll on the terrace in the meantime.’

‘Why don’t you check on the tackle, Oswald,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘and Mr. Coningsby and I will take a walk on the terrace in the meantime.’

The habit of obedience, which was supreme in this family, instantly carried Oswald away, though he was rather puzzled why his father should be so anxious about the preparation of the fishing-tackle, as he rarely used it. His son had no sooner departed than Mr. Millbank turned to Coningsby, and said very abruptly,

The habit of obedience, which was dominant in this family, quickly swept Oswald away, although he was a bit confused about why his father was so concerned about getting the fishing gear ready since he rarely used it. No sooner had his son left than Mr. Millbank turned to Coningsby and said very abruptly,

‘You have never seen my own room here, Mr. Coningsby; step in, for I wish to say a word to you.’ And thus speaking, he advanced before the astonished, and rather agitated Coningsby, and led the way through a door and long passage to a room of moderate dimensions, partly furnished as a library, and full of parliamentary papers and blue-books. Shutting the door with some earnestness and pointing to a chair, he begged his guest to be seated. Both in their chairs, Mr. Millbank, clearing his throat, said without preface, ‘I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, that you are attached to my daughter?’

‘You’ve never seen my room here, Mr. Coningsby; come in, I want to chat with you.’ Saying this, he moved ahead of the surprised and somewhat nervous Coningsby, guiding him through a door and down a long hallway to a medium-sized room, partially set up as a library and filled with parliamentary papers and bluebooks. He closed the door with some urgency and pointed to a chair, inviting his guest to sit down. Once seated, Mr. Millbank cleared his throat and said directly, ‘I have reason to believe, Mr. Coningsby, that you have feelings for my daughter?’

‘I have been attached to her for a long time most ardently,’ replied Coningsby, in a calm and rather measured tone, but looking very pale.

‘I have been deeply attached to her for a long time,’ replied Coningsby, in a calm and somewhat measured tone, but looking very pale.

‘And I have reason to believe that she returns your attachment?’ said Mr. Millbank.

‘And I have reason to believe that she feels the same way about you?’ Mr. Millbank said.

‘I believe she deigns not to disregard it,’ said Coningsby, his white cheek becoming scarlet.

"I think she doesn't consider it unworthy of her attention," said Coningsby, his pale cheek turning red.

‘It is then a mutual attachment, which, if cherished, must produce mutual unhappiness,’ said Mr. Millbank.

‘It’s a mutual attachment that, if held on to, will lead to mutual unhappiness,’ said Mr. Millbank.

‘I would fain believe the reverse,’ said Coningsby.

“I would gladly believe the opposite,” said Coningsby.

‘Why?’ inquired Mr. Millbank.

“Why?” asked Mr. Millbank.

‘Because I believe she possesses every charm, quality, and virtue, that can bless man; and because, though I can make her no equivalent return, I have a heart, if I know myself, that would struggle to deserve her.’

‘Because I believe she has every charm, quality, and virtue that can enrich a person's life; and because, even though I can't give her anything in return, I have a heart, if I understand myself, that would strive to be worthy of her.’

‘I know you to be a man of sense; I believe you to be a man of honour,’ replied Mr. Millbank. ‘As the first, you must feel that an union between you and my daughter is impossible; what then should be your duty as a man of correct principle is obvious.’

‘I know you’re a sensible man; I believe you to be an honorable man,’ replied Mr. Millbank. ‘As a sensible person, you must realize that a union between you and my daughter is impossible; therefore, what your duty should be as a man of integrity is clear.’

‘I could conceive that our union might be attended with difficulties,’ said Coningsby, in a somewhat deprecating tone.

‘I can imagine that our relationship might come with challenges,’ said Coningsby, in a somewhat modest tone.

‘Sir, it is impossible,’ repeated Mr. Millbank, interrupting him, though not with harshness; ‘that is to say, there is no conceivable marriage which could be effected at greater sacrifices, and which would occasion greater misery.’

‘Sir, that's impossible,’ Mr. Millbank interjected, though not harshly; ‘I mean, there’s no possible marriage that could happen with greater sacrifices and that would cause more misery.’

‘The sacrifices are more apparent to me than the misery,’ said Coningsby, ‘and even they may be imaginary.’

‘The sacrifices stand out to me more than the suffering,’ said Coningsby, ‘and those might even be make-believe.’

‘The sacrifices and the misery are certain and inseparable,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘Come now, see how we stand! I speak without reserve, for this is a subject which cannot permit misconception, but with no feelings towards you, sir, but fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of my Lord Monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his bounty. You may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow, and to-morrow you may be the object of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and myself are foes; bitter, irreclaimable, to the death. It is idle to mince phrases; I do not vindicate our mutual feelings, I may regret that they have ever arisen; I may regret it especially at this exigency. They are not the feelings of good Christians; they may be altogether to be deplored and unjustifiable; but they exist, mutually exist; and have not been confined to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, had he the power, like a worm; and I have curbed his proud fortunes often. Were it not for this feeling I should not be here; I purchased this estate merely to annoy him, as I have done a thousand other acts merely for his discomfiture and mortification. In our long encounter I have done him infinitely more injury than he could do me; I have been on the spot, I am active, vigilant, the maker of my fortunes. He is an epicurean, continually in foreign parts, obliged to leave the fulfilment of his will to others. But, for these very reasons, his hate is more intense. I can afford to hate him less than he hates me; I have injured him more. Here are feelings to exist between human beings! But they do exist; and now you are to go to this man, and ask his sanction to marry my daughter!’

"The sacrifices and the misery are definite and linked," Mr. Millbank said. "Now let's look at our situation! I’m speaking candidly because this is a topic that can’t be misunderstood, but I have no feelings toward you, sir, other than fair and friendly ones. You are the grandson of my Lord Monmouth; currently enjoying his favor, but reliant on his kindness. You could be the heir to his wealth tomorrow, or you could become the target of his hatred and persecution. Your grandfather and I are enemies; bitter and irreconcilable, to the death. It's pointless to sugarcoat things; I don’t justify our mutual feelings, and I might even regret that they ever developed; I especially regret it at this moment. They aren’t the feelings of good Christians; they might be entirely regrettable and unjustifiable; but they exist, they exist mutually; and they haven’t been limited to words. Lord Monmouth would crush me, if he could, like a bug; and I’ve often curtailed his proud ambitions. If it weren’t for this feeling, I wouldn’t be here; I bought this estate just to annoy him, as I’ve done countless other things simply to aggravate and humiliate him. In our long conflict, I’ve caused him far more harm than he could ever do to me; I’m on the ground, I’m active, alert, the architect of my own fortunes. He’s a hedonist, always abroad, forced to leave the execution of his desires to others. But because of this, his hatred is even stronger. I can afford to hate him less than he hates me; I’ve hurt him more. These are the feelings that exist between people! But they do exist; and now you have to go to this man and ask for his permission to marry my daughter!"

‘But I would appease these hatreds; I would allay these dark passions, the origin of which I know not, but which never could justify the end, and which lead to so much misery. I would appeal to my grandfather; I would show him Edith.’

‘But I would soothe these hatreds; I would calm these dark feelings, the source of which I do not know, but which can never justify the outcome, and which lead to so much suffering. I would turn to my grandfather; I would show him Edith.’

‘He has looked upon as fair even as Edith,’ said Mr. Millbank, rising suddenly from his seat, and pacing the room, ‘and did that melt his heart? The experience of your own lot should have guarded you from the perils that you have so rashly meditated encountering, and the misery which you have been preparing for others besides yourself. Is my daughter to be treated like your mother? And by the same hand? Your mother’s family were not Lord Monmouth’s foes. They were simple and innocent people, free from all the bad passions of our nature, and ignorant of the world’s ways. But because they were not noble, because they could trace no mystified descent from a foreign invader, or the sacrilegious minion of some spoliating despot, their daughter was hunted from the family which should have exulted to receive her, and the land of which she was the native ornament. Why should a happier lot await you than fell to your parents? You are in the same position as your father; you meditate the same act. The only difference being aggravating circumstances in your case, which, even if I were a member of the same order as my Lord Monmouth, would prevent the possibility of a prosperous union. Marry Edith, and you blast all the prospects of your life, and entail on her a sense of unceasing humiliation. Would you do this? Should I permit you to do this?’

‘He has looked upon as beautiful as Edith,’ said Mr. Millbank, suddenly standing up from his seat and pacing the room, ‘and did that soften his heart? Your own experiences should have protected you from the dangers you have so recklessly thought about facing, and the suffering you have been planning for others as well as yourself. Is my daughter to be treated like your mother? And by the same person? Your mother’s family were not enemies of Lord Monmouth. They were plain and innocent people, free from all the negative emotions of our nature, and unaware of the world’s ways. But because they were not noble, because they couldn’t trace any grand lineage from a foreign invader or a deceitful crony of some corrupt ruler, their daughter was rejected by the family that should have proudly welcomed her, and the land of which she was the pride. Why should you expect a better outcome than what your parents faced? You are in the same situation as your father; you are considering the same action. The only difference is that you have even worse circumstances, which, even if I were of the same rank as my Lord Monmouth, would make a successful union impossible. Marry Edith, and you ruin all your future prospects and force her into a life of constant humiliation. Would you really do this? Should I allow you to do this?’

Coningsby, with his head resting on his arm, his face a little shaded, his eyes fixed on the ground, listened in silence. There was a pause; broken by Coningsby, as in a low voice, without changing his posture or raising his glance, he said, ‘It seems, sir, that you were acquainted with my mother!’

Coningsby, resting his head on his arm, his face slightly shadowed, his eyes focused on the ground, listened quietly. There was a pause, which was interrupted by Coningsby, who in a soft voice, without changing his position or looking up, said, ‘It seems, sir, that you knew my mother!’

‘I knew sufficient of her,’ replied Mr. Millbank, with a kindling cheek, ‘to learn the misery that a woman may entail on herself by marrying out of her condition. I have bred my children in a respect for their class. I believe they have imbibed my feeling; though it is strange how in the commerce of the world, chance, in their friendships, has apparently baffled my designs.’

"I knew enough about her," Mr. Millbank replied, his cheeks flushing, "to understand the misery a woman can bring upon herself by marrying outside her class. I've raised my children to respect their status. I believe they've picked up my values; yet it's odd how, in the interactions of the world, fate seems to have thwarted my plans in their friendships."

‘Oh! do not say it is chance, sir,’ said Coningsby, looking up, and speaking with much fervour. ‘The feelings that animate me towards your family are not the feelings of chance: they are the creation of sympathy; tried by time, tested by thought. And must they perish? Can they perish? They were inevitable; they are indestructible. Yes, sir, it is in vain to speak of the enmities that are fostered between you and my grandfather; the love that exists between your daughter and myself is stronger than all your hatreds.’

“Oh! Please don’t say it’s just chance, sir,” Coningsby said, looking up and speaking with great passion. “The feelings I have for your family aren’t just random; they’re born out of sympathy, proven over time, and tested through thought. And must they fade away? Can they fade away? They were meant to be; they’re unbreakable. Yes, sir, it’s pointless to talk about the hostilities between you and my grandfather; the love between your daughter and me is stronger than all your animosities.”

‘You speak like a young man, and a young man that is in love,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘This is mere rhapsody; it will vanish in an instant before the reality of life. And you have arrived at that reality,’ he continued, speaking with emphasis, leaning over the back of his chair, and looking steadily at Coningsby with his grey, sagacious eye; ‘my daughter and yourself can meet no more.’

‘You speak like a young man, and a young man who is in love,’ said Mr. Millbank. ‘This is just daydreaming; it will disappear in a moment when faced with the reality of life. And you have come to that reality,’ he continued, speaking firmly, leaning over the back of his chair, and looking intently at Coningsby with his gray, wise eye; ‘my daughter and you can no longer meet.’

‘It is impossible you can be so cruel!’ exclaimed Coningsby.

“It’s impossible that you could be so cruel!” exclaimed Coningsby.

‘So kind; kind to you both; for I wish to be kind to you as well as to her. You are entitled to kindness from us all; though I will tell you now, that, years ago, when the news arrived that my son’s life had been saved, and had been saved by one who bore the name of Coningsby, I had a presentiment, great as was the blessing, that it might lead to unhappiness.’

‘So kind; kind to both of you; because I want to be kind to you as well as to her. You deserve kindness from all of us; although I’ll tell you now, that years ago, when I heard the news that my son’s life had been saved, and it was saved by someone named Coningsby, I had a feeling, as great as the blessing was, that it might lead to unhappiness.’

‘I can answer for the misery of one,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great despondency. ‘I feel as if my sun were set. Oh! why should there be such wretchedness? Why are there family hatreds and party feuds? Why am I the most wretched of men?’

‘I can account for the suffering of one person,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of deep despair. ‘I feel like my sun has set. Oh! why must there be so much misery? Why are there family grudges and political conflicts? Why am I the most miserable man?’

‘My good young friend, you will live, I doubt not, to be a happy one. Happiness is not, as we are apt to fancy, entirely dependent on these contingencies. It is the lot of most men to endure what you are now suffering, and they can look back to such conjunctures through the vista of years with calmness.’

‘My good young friend, I believe you will live to be happy. Happiness isn’t, as we often think, completely dependent on these situations. Most people have to go through what you’re experiencing now, and they can look back on those times after many years with a sense of peace.’

‘I may see Edith now?’

"Can I see Edith now?"

‘Frankly, I should say, no. My daughter is in her room; I have had some conversation with her. Of course she suffers not less than yourself. To see her again will only aggravate woe. You leave under this roof, sir, some sad memories, but no unkind ones. It is not likely that I can serve you, or that you may want my aid; but whatever may be in my power, remember you may command it; without reserve and without restraint. If I control myself now, it is not because I do not respect your affliction, but because, in the course of my life, I have felt too much not to be able to command my feelings.’

‘Honestly, I have to say no. My daughter is in her room; I’ve talked to her a bit. Of course she suffers just as much as you do. Seeing her again will only make things worse. You’re leaving behind some sad memories in this house, but none that are unkind. It’s unlikely that I can help you or that you’d want my assistance; but whatever I can do, just know you can count on me; without hesitation and without limits. If I’m holding myself back now, it's not because I don’t respect your pain, but because I’ve experienced too much in my life to not be able to control my emotions.’

‘You never could have felt what I feel now,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of anguish.

‘You could never understand what I feel right now,’ said Coningsby, with a tone of anguish.

‘You touch on delicate ground,’ said Millbank; ‘yet from me you may learn to suffer. There was a being once, not less fair than the peerless girl that you would fain call your own, and her heart was my proud possession. There were no family feuds to baffle our union, nor was I dependent on anything, but the energies which had already made me flourishing. What happiness was mine! It was the first dream of my life, and it was the last; my solitary passion, the memory of which softens my heart. Ah! you dreaming scholars, and fine gentlemen who saunter through life, you think there is no romance in the loves of a man who lives in the toil and turmoil of business. You are in deep error. Amid my career of travail, there was ever a bright form which animated exertion, inspired my invention, nerved my energy, and to gain whose heart and life I first made many of those discoveries, and entered into many of those speculations, that have since been the foundation of my wide prosperity.

‘You’re treading on sensitive ground,’ said Millbank; ‘but from me, you can learn how to endure. There was once a person as beautiful as the flawless girl you wish to claim as your own, and her heart was my prized possession. There were no family conflicts to prevent our union, and I didn’t rely on anything but the abilities that had already made me successful. What happiness I had! It was the first dream of my life, and it was the last; my sole passion, the memory of which warms my heart. Ah! you daydreaming scholars and refined gentlemen who meander through life, you think there’s no romance in the love of a man who struggles with the grind of business. You’re very mistaken. Throughout my career of hard work, there was always a bright figure that brought meaning to my efforts, inspired my creativity, and fueled my drive, and it was to win her heart and life that I first made many of those discoveries and embarked on many of those ventures that have since become the basis of my substantial success.

‘Her faith was pledged to me; I lived upon her image; the day was even talked of when I should bear her to the home that I had proudly prepared for her.

‘Her faith was promised to me; I lived for her image; people even talked about the day when I would take her to the home I had proudly prepared for her.

‘There came a young noble, a warrior who had never seen war, glittering with gewgaws. He was quartered in the town where the mistress of my heart, who was soon to share my life and my fortunes, resided. The tale is too bitter not to be brief. He saw her, he sighed; I will hope that he loved her; she gave him with rapture the heart which perhaps she found she had never given to me; and instead of bearing the name I had once hoped to have called her by, she pledged her faith at the altar to one who, like you, was called, CONINGSBY.’

‘A young noble arrived, a warrior who had never experienced battle, shining with trinkets. He stayed in the town where the woman I loved, who was soon to share my life and my future, lived. The story is too painful to recount in detail. He saw her and sighed; I’d like to believe he loved her. She eagerly gave him her heart, which she may have realized she had never given to me; and instead of the name I once hoped to call her, she pledged her faith at the altar to someone who, like you, was named CONINGSBY.’

‘My mother!’

‘Mom!’

‘You see, I too have had my griefs.’

‘You see, I’ve had my share of sorrows too.’

‘Dear sir,’ said Coningsby, rising and taking Mr. Millbank’s hand, ‘I am most wretched; and yet I wish to part from you even with affection. You have explained circumstances that have long perplexed me. A curse, I fear, is on our families. I have not mind enough at this moment even to ponder on my situation. My head is a chaos. I go; yes, I quit this Hellingsley, where I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy. Nay, let me go, dear sir! I must be alone, I must try to think. And tell her, no, tell her nothing. God will guard over us!’

“Dear sir,” Coningsby said, standing up and shaking Mr. Millbank’s hand, “I feel absolutely miserable; yet I want to part from you with some fondness. You’ve clarified things that have confused me for so long. I’m afraid there’s a curse on our families. I don’t even have the mental energy right now to think about my situation. My mind is a mess. I’m leaving; yes, I’m leaving this Hellingsley, where I came to be so happy, where I have been so happy. Please, let me go, dear sir! I need to be alone, I need to try to figure things out. And don’t tell her, no, don’t tell her anything. God will watch over us!”

Proceeding down the avenue with a rapid and distempered step, his countenance lost, as it were, in a wild abstraction, Coningsby encountered Oswald Millbank. He stopped, collected his turbulent thoughts, and throwing on Oswald one look that seemed at the same time to communicate woe and to demand sympathy, flung himself into his arms.

Proceeding down the street with a quick and unsteady stride, his expression lost in a wild daydream, Coningsby ran into Oswald Millbank. He paused, gathered his chaotic thoughts, and casting a glance at Oswald that seemed to convey both sorrow and a plea for understanding, threw himself into his arms.

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

‘My friend!’ he exclaimed, and then added, in a shaky 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.

Then, in a rushed, passionate, and somewhat jumbled way, leaning on Oswald’s arm as they walked together, he shared everything that had happened, everything he had dreamed; his confused happiness, his real despair. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much room for comfort, yet all the genuine affection he could inspire, along with a wise mind and a courageous spirit, were offered for his support, if not his solace, by the friend who was dedicated 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.

In the middle of this deep connection, filled with every thought and feeling that could capture and absorb the human spirit, they arrived at one of the park gates of Coningsby. Millbank stopped. His father's rule was clear: no family member, under any circumstances or for any reason, should set foot on that property. Lady Wallinger had once wanted to see the Castle, and Coningsby was eager to guide her and Edith around the place; but Oswald had immediately put a stop to the idea, declaring it off-limits, and that if it were carried out, his father would never forgive it. So that plan fell through, and now Oswald found himself at the gates of that same estate with his friend, who was about to enter, a friend whom he might never see again; that Coningsby who, since their boyhood, had been the idol of his life; whom he had seen appeal to his feelings and compassion, and whom Oswald was now about to abandon in the midst of his lonely and uncomforted sorrow.

‘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!’

‘I shouldn't go in here,’ said Oswald, holding Coningsby's hand as he hesitated to move forward; ‘and yet there are duties more important than obeying a father. I can't leave you like this, my dearest friend!’

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 morning went by in endless but useless speculation about the future. One moment it felt like something was going to happen, and the next, it seemed like nothing could occur. Sometimes a spark of hope would light up Coningsby's imagination, and jumping up from the grass where they were lying, he appeared to revel in his renewed energy; then this burst of optimism would be followed by a wave of gloom so heavy and depressing that only Oswald's presence kept Coningsby from throwing himself into the Darl’s waters.

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.

The day was quickly coming to an end, and the moment of separation was near. Oswald wanted to show up at the dinner table at Hellingsley so his father wouldn’t suspect he had gone home with Coningsby. But just as he was starting to bring up the need for his departure, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. It was very dark outside, though there were some dull patches. The young men stood up at the same time.

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

‘We should probably get out of these trees,’ said Oswald.

‘We had better get to the Castle,’ said Coningsby.

‘We should 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.

A loud clap of thunder that felt like it shook the park rang out above them, followed by some heavy raindrops. The Castle was nearby; Oswald had tried not to go inside, but the looming storm was so threatening that, pushed along by Coningsby, he couldn’t resist. Within a few minutes, they were watching the storm 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.

The lightning flashed and sparkled from every side of the horizon: the thunder rumbled over the Castle, as if the keep were shaking from cannon fire: in the brief moments between the booms, the rain could be heard pouring down like bursting 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.

Nor was this just one of those fleeting storms that often disturb the summer. Time moved on, and its intensity showed no signs of easing. There were moments of calm, but the heavy rain never seemed to lessen; then, like in a fierce battle between two opposing armies, when the energy of the battlefield briefly quiets, fresh waves arrive and reignite the fiercest conflict. A soft, moaning wind, now occasionally heard, carried a significant amount of electric vapor, which gathered like an army in the space between the Castle and Hellingsley, before unleashing its fury on that doomed area.

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?’

Coningsby and Oswald exchanged glances. ‘You really can’t think about going home right now, my friend,’ said the first. ‘I’m sure your dad wouldn’t mind. There’s no one here who even knows you, and if they did, so what?’

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

The servant walked into the room and asked if 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!’

‘Of course; come on, my dear Millbank, I feel wild like a storm; let’s drown our worries 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.

Coningsby was actually worn out from all the stress of the day and the nagging worries about the future. He found that wine provided a brief escape. He sent the servants away and, for a moment, felt a strange sense of satisfaction in the presence of Edith's brother.

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.

So they sat for a long time, talking about just one thing and repeating almost the same stuff, but both felt happier just being together. Oswald got up and opened the window to look at the coming night. The storm had quieted down, although it was still raining; there was a streak of light in the west. He figured he would leave in about fifteen minutes. While 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 trip back.

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!

They sat down again; they had filled their glasses for the last time; to toast their loyal friendship, and the happiness of Coningsby and Edith; when the door of the room opened, and in walked 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 height of the London season, almost four years ago, a year having nearly passed since those difficult events at Hellingsley that wrapped up the last chapter of this story. Long lines of carriages filled the classic streets of St. James and Piccadilly an hour before midnight, indicating that people were attending a grand event on 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.

It was the town mansion of the noble family whose roof we have more than once shown the reader at Beaumanoir, where the courtyard was currently the goal of competing coachmen, and entering the drawing rooms was a reward for the saintly 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.

Among the lucky guests who had already managed to greet their hostess were two men who, settled comfortably in a prime spot, looked over the scene and commented on the guests as they came and went. They were men who, judging by their overall demeanor and the high regard in which they were held by those occasionally near them, were figures whose opinions carried weight.

‘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!’

‘I say, Jemmy,’ said the oldest, 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 that still bears its name. ‘I say, Jemmy, what a bunch of young guys there are! I don’t know any of their names at all. I’m starting to think guys are getting younger than they used to be. An amazing bunch of young guys, for sure!’

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.’

At that moment, a guy who was lucky enough to be called a young man, but who carried himself like a pro, approached the younger of the two critics and said, “You really got us good yesterday at White’s, Melton. We waited for dinner for almost 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?’

‘My dear friend, I’m really sorry; but I had to go to Windsor, and I missed the last train back. Did you have a good dinner? Who were you with?’

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

‘A great party, we just wanted you. We had Beaumanoir and Vere, and Jack Tufton and Spraggs.’

‘Was Spraggs rich?’

"Was Spraggs wealthy?"

‘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!’

‘Wasn’t he! I’m still laughing. He told us a story about the little Biron who was here last year; I knew her in Paris; and an Indian screen. Hilarious! Get him to tell it to you. It’s the funniest thing you’ve ever heard!’

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

“Who’s your friend?” asked Mr. Melton’s companion as the young man walked away.

‘Sir Charles Buckhurst.’

‘A—h! That is Sir Charles Buckhurst. Glad to have seen him. They say he is going it.’

‘Ah! That’s Sir Charles Buckhurst. I’m glad I got to see him. They say he’s really making a name for himself.’

‘He knows what he is about.’

“He knows what he’s doing.”

‘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.’

‘Wow! So they all do. A young guy now in his early twenties knows the world the way men used to after spending a lot of years in trouble. I wonder where you can find a naïve person. Effie Crabbs says the reason he’s giving up his house is that he’s gotten rid of the old generation, and that the new generation would clean him out.’

‘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.’

‘Buckhurst isn’t like that; he’s all about Henry Sydney, a younger son of the Duke, whom you don’t know; and young Coningsby; a sort of new crowd; fresh ideas and all that. Beau tells me a lot about it; and when I stayed with the Everinghams at Easter, they couldn’t stop talking about it. Coningsby had just come back from his travels, and they were really excited. Lady Everingham is part of their group. I’m not exactly sure what it is, but I have a feeling we’ll hear more about it soon.’

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

"A kind of animal magnetism or something like unknown languages, I gather from what you said," his companion replied.

‘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.’

‘Well, I don’t know what it is,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but it has got hold of all the young guys who have just come out. Beau is a little bit into it himself. I thought about getting into it, they made such a big deal about it at Everingham; but it seems like it requires a ton 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.’

‘Ah! that’s so boring,’ said his companion. ‘It’s tough to get into something new when you’re not used to it. I could never get the hang of charades.’

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

Mr. Ormsby, walking by, stopped. “I heard you have 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.’

‘So I did; but I've found someone who can cure the gout immediately. Tom Needham recommended him to me. He’s a German guy. Pumicestone pills; I think they’re some kind of charm and all that stuff: they say it takes the gout away. I sent him to Luxborough, who was really suffering; he cured him right away. Luxborough swears by him.’

‘Luxborough believes in the Millennium,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘Luxborough believes in the Millennium,’ Mr. Ormsby said.

‘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.’

‘But here’s something new that Melton has been telling me about, and everyone is going to believe in it,’ said Mr. Cassilis, ‘something supported by Lady Everingham.’

‘A very good patroness,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

‘A really great patron,’ 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?’

‘Have you heard anything about it?’ Mr. Cassilis continued. ‘Young Coningsby brought it back from abroad; didn’t you say that, Jemmy?’

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

‘No, no, my dear friend; it's not like that at all.’

‘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.’

‘But they say it takes a heck of a lot of history,’ continued Mr. Cassilis. ‘One has to refresh their Goldsmith. Canterton used to be the guy for history at White’s. He was always droning on about William the Conqueror, Julius Caesar, and all that sort of stuff.’

‘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.’

‘I’ll tell you something,’ said Mr. Ormsby, appearing both cunning and serious, ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if, someday, we end up with a story about Lady Everingham and young Coningsby.’

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

‘Poh!’ said Mr. Melton; ‘he’s engaged to marry her sister, Lady Theresa.’

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

‘What the heck!’ said Mr. Ormsby; ‘well, you are a friend of the family, and I guess 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.’

‘He's a devilishly good-looking guy, that young Coningsby,’ said Mr. Cassilis. ‘All the women are in love with him, or so they say. Lady Eleanor Ducie is absolutely crazy about him.’

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

‘By the way, his grandfather has been pretty sick,’ said Mr. Ormsby, looking mysterious.

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

‘I just saw Lady Monmouth here,’ said Mr. Melton.

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

‘Oh! he's doing well again,’ said Mr. Ormsby.

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

‘Heard a strange story at White’s that Lord Monmouth was planning to break up with her,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘No foundation,’ said Mr. Ormsby, shaking his head.

‘No foundation,’ Mr. Ormsby said, 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.’

‘They're not going to split up, I believe,’ said Mr. Melton; ‘but I think there was some truth to the rumor.’

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.’

‘Well,’ Mr. Melton continued, ‘all I know is that it was considered a done deal last winter in Paris.’

‘There was some story about some Hungarian,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘There was a story about a Hungarian,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

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

‘No, that blew over,’ Mr. Melton said; ‘it was Trautsmansdorff that the argument 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.

All this time, Mr. Ormsby, being friends with Lord and Lady Monmouth, kept shaking his head, but as a member of society who enjoyed a bit of gossip, he eagerly absorbed every bit of scandal.

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

‘I think old Monmouth isn’t the type to blow up a woman,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Provided she would leave him quietly,’ said Mr. Melton.

“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.’

‘Yes, Lord Monmouth never could stay with a woman for more than two years,’ said Mr. Ormsby, thoughtfully. ‘I always thought that was a pretty good reason against 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.

We need to briefly go back to what happened to our hero after those unfortunate events that we last saw him in the middle of.

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.

The day after Mr. Rigby arrived at the Castle, Coningsby left for London, and before a week passed, he set out for Cadiz. He felt a romantic pull to visit the land that was home to some of Edith's heritage, and to learn the language he had often admired as she spoke it. A good opportunity allowed him to visit Athens and the Aegean that autumn, which he greatly wanted to do. In the thoughtful beauty of that delicate land, where it always seems like autumn, Coningsby found comfort. There’s something about Greek scenery that resonates with melancholy and sorrowful feelings. Coningsby spent his winter in Rome. His grandfather’s wishes meant he had to head back to England rather suddenly. Lord Monmouth hadn’t visited his home country since he got married; however, the time since then had significantly improved his party's prospects. By 1840, the majority of the Whig Cabinet in the House of Commons had become almost nominal; although rumors circulated among their supporters suggesting that "one was enough," it seemed more likely every day that they might lose even that single vote. For the first time in this country's history since the adoption of parliamentary sovereignty, the Government of England relied on the outcome of individual elections; indeed, it’s noteworthy that the fate of the Whig Government was ultimately determined by a single vote.

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 tête-à-tête 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.

This critical situation, reported to Lord Monmouth, reignited his political passions and provided the thrill he was always after, yet often longed for. The Marquess was also tired of Paris. Each day, he found it harder to be entertained. Lucretia had lost her appeal. He, who was aware of everything, noticed that while she made an effort to entertain him, her thoughts often drifted elsewhere. Lord Monmouth was above petty jealousy and the crude emotions of lesser people, but his grand self-centeredness demanded devotion. He had figured that a wife or mistress who loved another man, no matter how much their interests aligned, would not be as enjoyable or entertaining to their friends and husbands as someone without such distractions. Recently in Paris, as Lucretia became increasingly caught up in the social scene, where everyone admired and some adored her, Lord Monmouth developed the habit of dining in his private rooms, sometimes one-on-one with Villebecque. Villebecque's endless stories and adventures about a type of society Lord Monmouth had always infinitely preferred to the polished yet somewhat dull circles he was born into made him a favorite of his esteemed patron. Occasionally, Villebecque would bring along a friend, either male or female, whom he thought had the unique ability to entertain: Lord Monmouth didn’t care who they were, as long as they were amusing.

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.

Villebecque had written to Coningsby in Rome, at his grandfather’s request, asking him to return to England and meet Lord Monmouth there. The letter was filled with all the respect and goodwill that Villebecque actually felt for him; however, a letter about such a topic from someone like him wasn’t pleasant for Coningsby, and he replied directly to his grandfather. Lord Monmouth, though, had completely stopped 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.

Coningsby met Lord and Lady Everingham in Paris on his way to England, and he returned with them. This rekindling of an old friendship was both nice and fortunate for him. The energy of a clever and charming woman gave a welcome distraction to Coningsby’s heavy thoughts. There’s no pain so deep, no sadness so overwhelming, that a woman’s spirit can’t lighten or ease to some extent. Just as he was about to make his formal entrance into high society, he couldn’t have found a more valuable and skilled female friend. She provided him with all the guidance and advice he needed; she navigated the social challenges that even the best-connected individuals face when entering the world without her supportive help; she positioned him exactly where he needed to be; made sure he was invited to the right gatherings right away; and, with her husband’s assistance, ensured he joined 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.

‘And who gets the blue ribbon, Lord Eskdale?’ said the Duchess to him as he entered and came over to greet her.

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

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

‘But suppose they go out,’ said her Grace.

‘But what if 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.’

‘Oh! there’s always a final day to clean up the House. But they’ll be back in another year. The cliff won’t erode before then. We messed up last year about the ladies.’

‘I know you always thought so.’

‘I know you always believed that.’

‘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.’

‘Arguing about women is always a bad idea. It’s best to give in to them, and then they’ll likely give in to us.’

‘You have no great faith in our firmness?’

'You don't really have much faith in our strength?'

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

‘Men's firmness is often just stubbornness: women always have something better, something that outweighs all qualities; they have insight.’

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

‘A compliment to the sex from such a refined critic like 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.

But just then, the arrival of some guests ended the conversation, and Lord Eskdale moved away to join a group that Lady Everingham was informing.

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

‘My dear Lord Fitz-booby,’ her Ladyship remarked, ‘in politics, we need faith just like in everything else.’

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.

Lord Fitz-booby looked pretty confused; but, with a lot of official experience from holding high positions, some in the cabinet, for almost twenty-five years, he was too skilled to admit that he hadn’t understood a single word that had been said to him for the last ten minutes. He maintained a serious, attentive expression, occasionally nodding his head, just like he used to when he met with a group about sugar duties or joint-stock banks, and he made the occasional note on a sheet of paper whenever he was particularly baffled.

‘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.’

‘An Opposition during a time of revolution,’ Lady Everingham continued, ‘must be based on principles. It can't just rely on personal skills and party tactics that take advantage of situations. You haven’t stated a principle in the last ten years; and when you appeared ready to take power, it wasn’t over a major issue of national importance, but rather a technical argument about the constitution of a struggling sugar colony.’

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

‘If you're part of the Conservative Party, we want to know what you aim to preserve,’ 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.’

'If it hadn't been for the Whig ending of slavery,' said Lord Fitz-booby, provoked into a comeback, 'Jamaica wouldn't have become a drained sugar colony.'

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

“Then what you really want to preserve is slavery?” Lord Vere asked.

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

‘No,’ said Lord Fitz-booby, ‘I’m never one to go back on what we’ve done.’

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

‘But will you move forward, will you take action? And where will you go, and how will you do it?’ 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.

‘I think we’ve had more than enough of advancing,’ said his Lordship. ‘I had no idea you were part 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.

‘But if it’s wrong, Lord Fitz-booby, to stay where we are, as you and your friends have always claimed, how can you justify staying 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.’

‘I would make the best of a bad deal,’ said Lord Fitz-booby. ‘With a Conservative government, a revised Constitution would be less risky.’

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

‘Why?’ said Lady Everingham. ‘What are your unique principles that make the danger 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 appeal to Lord Eskdale,’ said Lord Fitz-booby; ‘Lady Everingham has become quite a Radical, I swear. Don’t you think, my Lord, that the country would be safer with a Conservative government than with a Liberal one?’

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

"I think the country is usually pretty safe," 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.

Lady Theresa, leaning on Mr. Lyle's arm, arrived at that moment and unintentionally created a distraction for Lord Fitz-booby.

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

‘Please, 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.

Let’s try to figure this out. On this day, Coningsby and Henry Sydney had dinner at Grillion’s, a university club, where, surrounded by many friends Coningsby hadn’t seen in a while and sharing enjoyable memories, time slipped away. It was late when they left Grillion’s, and Coningsby’s carriage was stuck for quite a while as the driver tried to merge into the line. He probably wouldn’t have made it at all if he hadn’t run into the Duke of Agincourt’s coachman, who shared the same political views, belonged to the same club, and consistently voted against the same people. Out of a sense of camaraderie, the coachman let him in, so they arrived on Arlington Street quite late.

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.

Coningsby was rushing up the staircase, now less crowded than before, and encountered a group leaving; he was about to say a quick word to a man as he walked past when, suddenly, Coningsby went pale. The man couldn’t be the reason, because it was the charming and handsome Lord Beaumanoir: the lady leaning on his arm was Edith. They walked on while he stood still; yet he and Edith exchanged glances. His expression was one of surprise, but what was hers? She must have recognized him before he noticed her. She seemed composed, and her acknowledgment was distant and proud. Coningsby remained stunned for a moment; then suddenly he turned and rushed back downstairs into the cloakroom. He ran into Lady Wallinger; he spoke quickly, holding her hand, not really listening to her replies, his eyes darting around. With many people present, he finally spotted Edith wrapped in her coat. He approached her, looking at her as if trying to read her mind; he said something. She flushed when he spoke to her but instantly seemed to gather herself and regain her composure; she answered his questions very briefly, and as Lady Wallinger’s carriage was announced, she walked away with the same slight, proud nod as before, on Lord Beaumanoir's arm.

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.

Sadness enveloped the once-happy Millbank family after Coningsby's departure from Hellingsley. Once the initial shock wore off, Edith found some comfort in her aunt's sympathy, who had always appreciated and admired Coningsby; however, this sympathy only aimed to ease sorrow, not to inspire hope. Lady Wallinger, though she extended her visit for Edith's sake, eventually left them; after that, Edith never mentioned Coningsby again. Shortly after his friend’s sudden and sorrowful departure, her brother went to the factories, where he would take on the main responsibilities in the future. Mr. Millbank, initially buoyed by the company of his friend Sir Joseph, to whom he was close, and busy with daily updates from his business and dealings with his many active constituents, was for a while hardly aware of the change in his daughter's behavior. But when they were alone again, it became impossible to ignore the significant shift. The happy and steady cheerfulness that used to shine from Edith, born from a genuine enjoyment of life, was absent. Her bright gaze had vanished. She wasn’t always gloomy and downcast, but her mood was unpredictable. That temperament, once known for its sweetness, had become somewhat unsteady. Not that her love for her father had lessened, but moments of unexpected irritability would slip out, followed by bursts of affection that felt driven by guilt. Often, after a hasty remark, she would throw her arms around her father's neck in an embrace of remorse. She continued with her usual activities, as she had a well-ordered mind and a strong intellect that wouldn’t allow her to neglect any source of occupation and distraction. Her flowers, her drawing, and her books provided these outlets; music comforted and sometimes distracted her troubled thoughts. But there was no joy in the house, and eventually, Mr. Millbank sensed it.

Mr. Millbank was vexed, irritated, grieved. Edith, his Edith, the pride and delight of his existence, who had been to him only a source of exultation and felicity, was no longer happy, was perhaps pining away; and there was the appearance, the unjust appearance that he, her fond father, was the cause and occasion of all this wretchedness. It would appear that the name of Coningsby, to which he now owed a great debt of gratitude, was still doomed to bear him mortification and misery. Truly had the young man said that there was a curse upon their two families. And yet, on reflection, it still seemed to Mr. Millbank that he had acted with as much wisdom and real kindness as decision. How otherwise was he to have acted? The union was impossible; the speedier their separation, therefore, clearly the better. Unfortunate, indeed, had been his absence from Hellingsley; unquestionably his presence might have prevented the catastrophe. Oswald should have hindered all this. And yet Mr. Millbank could not shut his eyes to the devotion of his son to Coningsby. He felt he could count on no assistance in this respect from that quarter. Yet how hard upon him that he should seem to figure as a despot or a tyrant to his own children, whom he loved, when he had absolutely acted in an inevitable manner! Edith seemed sad, Oswald sullen; all was changed. All the objects for which this clear-headed, strong-minded, kind-hearted man had been working all his life, seemed to be frustrated. And why? Because a young man had made love to his daughter, who was really in no manner entitled to do so.

Mr. Millbank was frustrated, annoyed, and heartbroken. Edith, his beloved daughter, the pride and joy of his life, who had always brought him happiness, was now unhappy and perhaps fading away; and it looked like he, her caring father, was the reason for all this misery. It seemed that the name Coningsby, which he now owed a huge debt of gratitude, was still destined to bring him shame and unhappiness. The young man had truly said there was a curse on their two families. Yet, upon reflection, Mr. Millbank still believed he had acted with as much wisdom and genuine kindness as he could. How else could he have acted? The union was impossible; the sooner they separated, the better. His absence from Hellingsley had indeed been unfortunate; his presence might have prevented this disaster. Oswald should have stopped all this. And yet Mr. Millbank couldn't ignore his son's devotion to Coningsby. He realized he couldn't expect any help in this matter from that side. It was so unfair that he seemed to appear as a despot or a tyrant to his own children, whom he loved, when he had acted in what he thought was the only possible way! Edith seemed sad, Oswald looked bitter; everything had changed. All the things this clear-headed, strong-minded, kind-hearted man had worked for his whole life seemed to be falling apart. And why? Because a young man had pursued his daughter, who really had no right to do so.

As the autumn drew on, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley, under existing circumstances, extremely wearisome; and he proposed to his daughter that they should pay a visit to their earlier home. Edith assented without difficulty, but without interest. And yet, as Mr. Millbank immediately perceived, the change was a judicious one; for certainly the spirits of Edith seemed to improve after her return to their valley. There were more objects of interest: change, too, is always beneficial. If Mr. Millbank had been aware that Oswald had received a letter from Coningsby, written before he quitted Spain, perhaps he might have recognised a more satisfactory reason for the transient liveliness of his daughter which had so greatly gratified him.

As autumn progressed, Mr. Millbank found Hellingsley to be quite dull under the current circumstances, so he suggested to his daughter that they visit their old home. Edith agreed easily, but without enthusiasm. However, Mr. Millbank quickly noticed that this change was a wise decision; Edith's spirits definitely seemed to lift once they returned to their valley. There were more things to engage her interest: change is always beneficial. If Mr. Millbank had known that Oswald had received a letter from Coningsby before leaving Spain, he might have seen a more satisfying reason for his daughter’s brief burst of energy that pleased him so much.

About a month after Christmas, the meeting of Parliament summoned Mr. Millbank up to London; and he had wished Edith to accompany him. But London in February to Edith, without friends or connections, her father always occupied and absent from her day and night, seemed to them all, on reflection, to be a life not very conducive to health or cheerfulness, and therefore she remained with her brother. Oswald had heard from Coningsby again from Rome; but at the period he wrote he did not anticipate his return to England. His tone was affectionate, but dispirited.

About a month after Christmas, Parliament called Mr. Millbank to London, and he had hoped Edith would join him. However, for Edith, London in February, without friends or family and with her father always busy and absent, seemed, upon reflection, like a life that wouldn't be good for her health or happiness. So, she decided to stay with her brother. Oswald had heard from Coningsby again from Rome; at the time he wrote, he didn’t expect to return to England soon. His tone was warm but downcast.

Lady Wallinger went up to London after Easter for the season, and Mr. Millbank, now that there was a constant companion for his daughter, took a house and carried Edith back with him to London. Lady Wallinger, who had great wealth and great tact, had obtained by degrees a not inconsiderable position in society. She had a fine house in a fashionable situation, and gave profuse entertainments. The Whigs were under obligations to her husband, and the great Whig ladies were gratified to find in his wife a polished and pleasing person, to whom they could be courteous without any annoyance. So that Edith, under the auspices of her aunt, found herself at once in circles which otherwise she might not easily have entered, but which her beauty, grace, and experience of the most refined society of the Continent, qualified her to shine in. One evening they met the Marquis of Beaumanoir, their friend of Rome and Paris, and admirer of Edith, who from that time was seldom from their side. His mother, the Duchess, immediately called both on the Millbanks and the Wallingers; glad, not only to please her son, but to express that consideration for Mr. Millbank which the Duke always wished to show. It was, however, of no use; nothing would induce Mr. Millbank ever to enter what he called aristocratic society. He liked the House of Commons; never paired off; never missed a moment of it; worked at committees all the morning, listened attentively to debates all the night; always dined at Bellamy’s when there was a house; and when there was not, liked dining at the Fishmongers’ Company, the Russia Company, great Emigration banquets, and other joint-stock festivities. That was his idea of rational society; business and pleasure combined; a good dinner, and good speeches afterwards.

Lady Wallinger went to London after Easter for the season, and Mr. Millbank, now that his daughter had a constant companion, rented a house and took Edith back with him. Lady Wallinger, who was very wealthy and skilled in social matters, had gradually secured a notable position in society. She had a beautiful home in a trendy area and hosted lavish parties. The Whigs felt indebted to her husband, and the prominent Whig ladies were pleased to find in his wife a refined and charming person, whom they could be gracious to without feeling any discomfort. As a result, Edith, under her aunt's guidance, found herself in social circles that she might not have easily entered otherwise, but where her beauty, grace, and experience in the most elegant society of Europe made her stand out. One evening, they ran into the Marquis of Beaumanoir, their friend from Rome and Paris, who admired Edith and from that moment on was seldom away from them. His mother, the Duchess, promptly visited both the Millbanks and the Wallingers, eager not only to please her son but also to express the respect for Mr. Millbank that the Duke always wanted to show. However, it was to no avail; nothing would convince Mr. Millbank to join what he called aristocratic society. He preferred the House of Commons; never partnered off; never missed a session; worked in committees all morning, listened intently to debates all night; always had dinner at Bellamy’s when there was a session, and when there wasn’t, enjoyed dining at the Fishmongers’ Company, the Russia Company, large Emigration banquets, and other joint-stock celebrations. That was his idea of a rational society: a mix of business and pleasure, a good meal, and quality speeches afterwards.

Edith was aware that Coningsby had returned to England, for her brother had heard from him on his arrival; but Oswald had not heard since. A season in London only represented in the mind of Edith the chance, perhaps the certainty, of meeting Coningsby again; of communing together over the catastrophe of last summer; of soothing and solacing each other’s unhappiness, and perhaps, with the sanguine imagination of youth, foreseeing a more felicitous future. She had been nearly a fortnight in town, and though moving frequently in the same circles as Coningsby, they had not yet met. It was one of those results which could rarely occur; but even chance enters too frequently in the league against lovers. The invitation to the assembly at —— House was therefore peculiarly gratifying to Edith, since she could scarcely doubt that if Coningsby were in town, which her casual inquiries of Lord Beaumanoir induced her to believe was the case, he would be present. Never, therefore, had she repaired to an assembly with such a flattering spirit; and yet there was a fascinating anxiety about it that bewilders the young heart.

Edith knew that Coningsby had returned to England because her brother had heard from him when he arrived; however, Oswald hadn’t heard anything since. To Edith, a season in London only represented the chance, maybe even the guarantee, of seeing Coningsby again; of sharing their thoughts about last summer’s disaster; of comforting and supporting each other through their sadness, and perhaps, with the hopeful imagination of youth, envisioning a happier future. She had been in town for almost two weeks, and although she frequently moved in the same circles as Coningsby, they hadn’t crossed paths yet. It was one of those rare outcomes; but even luck often seems to conspire against lovers. So, the invite to the gathering at —— House was particularly exciting for Edith, since she had little doubt that if Coningsby was in town, which her casual questions to Lord Beaumanoir led her to believe, he would attend. Never before had she gone to an event with such a hopeful feeling; yet there was a thrilling nervousness about it that confuses the young heart.

In vain Edith surveyed the rooms to catch the form of that being, whom for a moment she had never ceased to cherish and muse over. He was not there; and at the very moment when, disappointed and mortified, she most required solace, she learned from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney, whom she chanced to admire, was going to be married, and to Mr. Coningsby!

In vain, Edith looked around the rooms, trying to catch a glimpse of the person she had continuously cherished and thought about, even for just a moment. He wasn't there; and just when she felt most disappointed and upset, needing comfort, she found out from Mr. Melton that Lady Theresa Sydney, whom she happened to admire, was getting married—to Mr. Coningsby!

What a revelation! His silence, perhaps his shunning of her were no longer inexplicable. What a return for all her romantic devotion in her sad solitude at Hellingsley. Was this the end of their twilight rambles, and the sweet pathos of their mutual loves? There seemed to be no truth in man, no joy in life! All the feelings that she had so generously lavished, all returned upon herself. She could have burst into a passion of tears and buried herself in a cloister.

What a revelation! His silence, and maybe his avoidance of her, were no longer a mystery. What a payoff for all her romantic devotion during her lonely times at Hellingsley. Was this the end of their late-night walks and the bittersweet nature of their mutual affection? It felt like there was no truth in men, no joy in life! All the emotions she had so freely given were now coming back to her. She could have burst into tears and locked herself away in solitude.

Instead of that, civilisation made her listen with a serene though tortured countenance; but as soon as it was in her power, pleading a headache to Lady Wallinger, she effected, or thought she had effected, her escape from a scene which harrowed her heart.

Instead of that, society made her listen with a calm yet troubled expression; but as soon as she could, claiming to have a headache to Lady Wallinger, she managed, or thought she had managed, to get away from a situation that distressed her deeply.

As for Coningsby, he passed a sleepless night, agitated by the unexpected presence of Edith and distracted by the manner in which she had received him. To say that her appearance had revived all his passionate affection for her would convey an unjust impression of the nature of his feelings. His affection had never for a moment swerved; it was profound and firm. But unquestionably this sudden vision had brought before him, in startling and more vivid colours, the relations that subsisted between them. There was the being whom he loved and who loved him; and whatever were the barriers which the circumstances of life placed against their union, they were partakers of the solemn sacrament of an unpolluted heart.

As for Coningsby, he spent a sleepless night, shaken by Edith's unexpected presence and distracted by how she had greeted him. To say that seeing her had rekindled all his passionate feelings for her would give a misleading impression of what he actually felt. His affection for her had never wavered; it was deep and strong. But undeniably, this sudden encounter had brought to his mind, in a striking and more vivid way, the connection they shared. Here was the person he loved and who loved him; and no matter what obstacles life might place against their togetherness, they shared the profound bond of a pure heart.

Coningsby, as we have mentioned, had signified to Oswald his return to England: he had hitherto omitted to write again; not because his spirit faltered, but he was wearied of whispering hope without foundation, and mourning over his chagrined fortunes. Once more in England, once more placed in communication with his grandfather, he felt with increased conviction the difficulties which surrounded him. The society of Lady Everingham and her sister, who had been at the same time her visitor, had been a relaxation, and a beneficial one, to a mind suffering too much from the tension of one idea. But Coningsby had treated the matrimonial project of his gay-minded hostess with the courteous levity in which he believed it had first half originated. He admired and liked Lady Theresa; but there was a reason why he should not marry her, even had his own heart not been absorbed by one of those passions from which men of deep and earnest character never emancipate themselves.

Coningsby, as we mentioned, had told Oswald about his return to England: he had not written again until now, not because he had lost hope, but because he was tired of expressing unfounded optimism and lamenting his disappointed fortunes. Now back in England, and once again in touch with his grandfather, he felt even more acutely the challenges he faced. The company of Lady Everingham and her sister, who had been visiting, had provided a welcome break for a mind weighed down by a singular fixation. However, Coningsby had approached the marriage proposal from his lively hostess with the lightheartedness he believed it initially deserved. He admired and liked Lady Theresa, but there was a reason he could not marry her, even if his heart wasn’t already caught up in one of those overwhelming passions that people of deep and serious character can never escape.

After musing and meditating again and again over everything that had occurred, Coningsby fell asleep when the morning had far advanced, resolved to rise when a little refreshed and find out Lady Wallinger, who, he felt sure, would receive him with kindness.

After thinking about everything that had happened over and over, Coningsby fell asleep well into the morning, planning to get up feeling a bit refreshed and find Lady Wallinger, who he was sure would welcome him warmly.

Yet it was fated that this step should not be taken, for while he was at breakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Monmouth House, apprising him that his grandfather wished to see him as soon as possible on urgent business.

Yet it was destined that this step should not be taken, for while he was having breakfast, his servant brought him a letter from Monmouth House, letting him know that his grandfather wanted to see him as soon as possible about urgent business.

CHAPTER III.

Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing-room in which he was first introduced to the reader; on the table were several packets of papers that were open and in course of reference; and he dictated his observations to Monsieur Villebecque, who was writing at his left hand.

Lord Monmouth was sitting in the same dressing room where he was first introduced to the reader. On the table, there were several open packets of papers that he was referring to, and he was dictating his observations to Monsieur Villebecque, who was writing to his left.

Thus were they occupied when Coningsby was ushered into the room.

Thus, they were occupied when Coningsby was brought into the room.

‘You see, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘that I am much occupied to-day, yet the business on which I wish to communicate with you is so pressing that it could not be postponed.’ He made a sign to Villebecque, and his secretary instantly retired.

‘You see, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, ‘I'm really busy today, but the matter I need to discuss with you is so urgent that it can't wait.’ He signaled to Villebecque, and his secretary quickly left the room.

‘I was right in pressing your return to England,’ continued Lord Monmouth to his grandson, who was a little anxious as to the impending communication, which he could not in any way anticipate. ‘These are not times when young men should be out of sight. Your public career will commence immediately. The Government have resolved on a dissolution. My information is from the highest quarter. You may be astonished, but it is a fact. They are going to dissolve their own House of Commons. Notwithstanding this and the Queen’s name, we can beat them; but the race requires the finest jockeying. We can’t give a point. Tadpole has been here to me about Darlford; he came specially with a message, I may say an appeal, from one to whom I can refuse nothing; the Government count on the seat, though with the new Registration ‘tis nearly a tie. If we had a good candidate we could win. But Rigby won’t do. He is too much of the old clique; used up; a hack; besides, a beaten horse. We are assured the name of Coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable section who support the present fellow who will not vote against a Coningsby. They have thought of you as a fit person, and I have approved of the suggestion. You will, therefore, be the candidate for Darlford with my entire sanction and support, and I have no doubt you will be successful. You may be sure I shall spare nothing: and it will be very gratifying to me, after being robbed of all our boroughs, that the only Coningsby who cares to enter Parliament, should nevertheless be able to do so as early as I could fairly desire.’

"I was right to push for your return to England," Lord Monmouth continued to his grandson, who was a bit worried about the upcoming news that he couldn’t predict at all. "These aren’t the times for young men to be out of sight. Your public career will start right away. The government has decided to dissolve. My information comes from the highest sources. You might be surprised, but it’s true. They’re going to dissolve their own House of Commons. Despite this and the Queen’s name, we can beat them; but the race requires the best strategy. We can’t give them an advantage. Tadpole came to talk to me about Darlford; he came specifically with a message, I might add an appeal, from someone I can’t refuse. The government is counting on that seat, although with the new registration it’s almost a tie. If we had a strong candidate, we could win. But Rigby isn’t the one. He’s too much part of the old group; used up; a hack; plus, he’s a defeated contender. We’re assured that the name Coningsby would carry a lot of weight; there’s a significant number that supports the current candidate who won’t vote against a Coningsby. They’ve considered you a suitable person, and I’ve backed that suggestion. Therefore, you will be the candidate for Darlford with my full approval and support, and I have no doubt you’ll be successful. You can be sure I’ll do everything I can; and it will be really satisfying for me, after losing all our boroughs, that the only Coningsby who wants to enter Parliament can still do so as soon as I could reasonably wish."

Coningsby the rival of Mr. Millbank on the hustings of Darlford! Vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe! The fierce passions, the gross insults, the hot blood and the cool lies, the ruffianism and the ribaldry, perhaps the domestic discomfiture and mortification, which he was about to be the means of bringing on the roof he loved best in the world, occurred to him with anguish. The countenance of Edith, haughty and mournful last night, rose to him again. He saw her canvassing for her father, and against him. Madness! And for what was he to make this terrible and costly sacrifice For his ambition? Not even for that Divinity or Daemon for which we all immolate so much! Mighty ambition, forsooth, to succeed to the Rigbys! To enter the House of Commons a slave and a tool; to move according to instructions, and to labour for the low designs of petty spirits, without even the consolation of being a dupe. What sympathy could there exist between Coningsby and the ‘great Conservative party,’ that for ten years in an age of revolution had never promulgated a principle; whose only intelligible and consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, very grateful of course to the feelings of an English Royalist, to revive Irish Puritanism; who when in power in 1835 had used that power only to evince their utter ignorance of Church principles; and who were at this moment, when Coningsby was formally solicited to join their ranks, in open insurrection against the prerogatives of the English Monarchy?

Coningsby, the rival of Mr. Millbank on the election platform in Darlford! Whether defeated or victorious, it was a disaster either way! The intense emotions, the harsh insults, the heated tempers and cool lies, the thuggery and crude jokes, and perhaps the personal embarrassment and humiliation he was about to bring upon the home he cherished most in the world struck him with deep anguish. He recalled Edith's face, proud and sorrowful the night before. He saw her campaigning for her father, and against him. Madness! And for what was he meant to make this terrible and costly sacrifice? For his ambition? Not even for that Divine or Demonic force for which we all make so many sacrifices! Great ambition, indeed, to take the place of the Rigbys! To enter the House of Commons as a pawn and a tool; to act according to orders, and to work for the petty schemes of small-minded individuals, without even the consolation of being a fool. What connection could possibly exist between Coningsby and the ‘great Conservative party,’ which for a decade in an age of revolution had never asserted a single principle; whose only clear and consistent policy seemed to be an attempt, very comforting to an English Royalist, to revive Irish Puritanism; which, when in power in 1835, had used that power only to demonstrate their complete ignorance of Church principles; and which was at that moment, when Coningsby was officially invited to join them, in outright rebellion against the rights of the English Monarchy?

‘Do you anticipate then an immediate dissolution, sir?’ inquired Coningsby after a moment’s pause.

“Do you expect an immediate breakup, sir?” Coningsby asked after a moment’s pause.

‘We must anticipate it; though I think it doubtful. It may be next month; it may be in the autumn; they may tide over another year, as Lord Eskdale thinks, and his opinion always weighs with me. He is very safe. Tadpole believes they will dissolve at once. But whether they dissolve now, or in a month’s time, or in the autumn, or next year, our course is clear. We must declare our intentions immediately. We must hoist our flag. Monday next, there is a great Conservative dinner at Darlford. You must attend it; that will be the finest opportunity in the world for you to announce yourself.’

‘We need to anticipate it; although I think it’s unlikely. It could be next month; it might be in the fall; they might get through another year, as Lord Eskdale believes, and I always value his opinion. He’s very reliable. Tadpole thinks they’ll dissolve right away. But whether they dissolve now, in a month, in the fall, or next year, our path is clear. We have to declare our intentions right away. We must raise our flag. Next Monday, there’s a big Conservative dinner at Darlford. You need to go; that will be the perfect opportunity for you to announce yourself.’

‘Don’t you think, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘that such an announcement would be rather premature? It is, in fact, embarking in a contest which may last a year; perhaps more.’

‘Don’t you think, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘that such an announcement would be a bit premature? It’s really starting a competition that could last a year; maybe even longer.’

‘What you say is very true,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘no doubt it is very troublesome; very disgusting; any canvassing is. But we must take things as we find them. You cannot get into Parliament now in the good old gentlemanlike way; and we ought to be thankful that this interest has been fostered for our purpose.’

‘What you’re saying is absolutely correct,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘there’s no denying that it’s really bothersome; it’s pretty annoying; any campaigning is. But we have to accept things as they are. You can’t get into Parliament anymore in the classic gentlemanly manner; and we should be grateful that this interest has been nurtured for our benefit.’

Coningsby looked on the carpet, cleared his throat as if about to speak, and then gave something like a sigh.

Coningsby stared at the carpet, cleared his throat as if he was about to say something, and then let out what sounded like a sigh.

‘I think you had better be off the day after to-morrow,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘I have sent instructions to the steward to do all he can in so short a time, for I wish you to entertain the principal people.’

‘I think you should leave the day after tomorrow,’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘I’ve told the steward to do everything he can in such a short time, because I want you to host the important guests.’

‘You are most kind, you are always most kind to me, dear sir,’ said Coningsby, in a hesitating tone, and with an air of great embarrassment, ‘but, in truth, I have no wish to enter Parliament.’

‘You’re very kind, you’re always so kind to me, dear sir,’ said Coningsby, in a hesitant tone and with a look of great embarrassment, ‘but honestly, I really don’t want to enter Parliament.’

‘What?’ said Lord Monmouth.

“What?” Lord Monmouth said.

‘I feel that I am not sufficiently prepared for so great a responsibility as a seat in the House of Commons,’ said Coningsby.

“I feel that I’m not really prepared for such a big responsibility as a seat in the House of Commons,” said Coningsby.

‘Responsibility!’ said Lord Monmouth, smiling. ‘What responsibility is there? How can any one have a more agreeable seat? The only person to whom you are responsible is your own relation, who brings you in. And I don’t suppose there can be any difference on any point between us. You are certainly still young; but I was younger by nearly two years when I first went in; and I found no difficulty. There can be no difficulty. All you have got to do is to vote with your party. As for speaking, if you have a talent that way, take my advice; don’t be in a hurry. Learn to know the House; learn the House to know you. If a man be discreet, he cannot enter Parliament too soon.’

“Responsibility!” Lord Monmouth said with a smile. “What responsibility is there? How can anyone have a more enjoyable position? The only person you’re accountable to is your own relative, who got you in. And I doubt there’s any difference of opinion between us. You’re certainly still young, but I was nearly two years younger when I first joined, and I had no trouble at all. There’s no difficulty. All you need to do is vote with your party. As for speaking, if you have a knack for it, take my advice: don’t rush. Get to know the House; let the House get to know you. If a man is sensible, he can join Parliament at any time.”

‘It is not exactly that, sir,’ said Coningsby.

‘It’s not really like that, sir,’ said Coningsby.

‘Then what is it, my dear Harry? You see to-day I have much to do; yet as your business is pressing, I would not postpone seeing you an hour. I thought you would have been very much gratified.’

‘So what’s going on, my dear Harry? You see, today I have a lot to do; but since your matter is urgent, I wouldn’t want to wait even an hour to see you. I thought you would have been really pleased.’

‘You mentioned that I had nothing to do but to vote with my party, sir,’ replied Coningsby. ‘You mean, of course, by that term what is understood by the Conservative party.’

‘You said that I had no choice but to vote with my party, sir,’ replied Coningsby. ‘You mean, of course, by that term what is understood by the Conservative party.’

‘Of course; our friends.’

'Sure; our friends.'

‘I am sorry,’ said Coningsby, rather pale, but speaking with firmness, ‘I am sorry that I could not support the Conservative party.’

‘I’m sorry,’ said Coningsby, looking a bit pale but speaking firmly, ‘I’m sorry that I couldn’t support the Conservative party.’

‘By ——!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, starting in his seat, ‘some woman has got hold of him, and made him a Whig!’

‘By ——!’ exclaimed Lord Monmouth, jumping in his seat, ‘some woman has got to him and turned him into a Whig!’

‘No, my dear grandfather,’ said Coningsby, scarcely able to repress a smile, serious as the interview was becoming, ‘nothing of the kind, I assure you. No person can be more anti-Whig.’

‘No, my dear grandfather,’ said Coningsby, barely able to hold back a smile, even though the conversation was getting serious, ‘nothing like that, I promise you. No one can be more anti-Whig.’

‘I don’t know what you are driving at, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a hard, dry tone.

‘I don’t know what you’re getting at, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a hard, dry tone.

‘I wish to be frank, sir,’ said Coningsby, ‘and am very sensible of your goodness in permitting me to speak to you on the subject. What I mean to say is, that I have for a long time looked upon the Conservative party as a body who have betrayed their trust; more from ignorance, I admit, than from design; yet clearly a body of individuals totally unequal to the exigencies of the epoch, and indeed unconscious of its real character.’

“I want to be honest, sir,” Coningsby said, “and I truly appreciate your kindness in allowing me to discuss this with you. What I mean is that for a long time, I’ve viewed the Conservative party as a group that has let down its responsibilities; more out of ignorance, I acknowledge, than intention; still, they are clearly a group of people completely unprepared for the demands of this time, and really unaware of its true nature.”

‘You mean giving up those Irish corporations?’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘Well, between ourselves, I am quite of the same opinion. But we must mount higher; we must go to ‘28 for the real mischief. But what is the use of lamenting the past? Peel is the only man; suited to the times and all that; at least we must say so, and try to believe so; we can’t go back. And it is our own fault that we have let the chief power out of the hands of our own order. It was never thought of in the time of your great-grandfather, sir. And if a commoner were for a season permitted to be the nominal Premier to do the detail, there was always a secret committee of great 1688 nobles to give him his instructions.’

‘You mean giving up those Irish corporations?’ said Lord Monmouth. ‘Well, between us, I totally agree. But we need to look at the bigger picture; we have to go back to ‘28 for the real issues. But what’s the point of dwelling on the past? Peel is the only one; he fits the times and all that; at least we should say so and try to believe it; we can’t go back. And it’s our own fault that we’ve allowed the main power to slip out of the hands of our own class. They never even thought about this in the time of your great-grandfather, sir. And if a commoner were allowed to be the nominal Prime Minister for a while to handle the details, there was always a secret group of prominent nobles from 1688 to give him his orders.’

‘I should be very sorry to see secret committees of great 1688 nobles again,’ said Coningsby.

‘I would really hate to see secret committees of powerful nobles from 1688 again,’ said Coningsby.

‘Then what the devil do you want to see?’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Then what the hell do you want to see?’ said Lord Monmouth.

‘Political faith,’ said Coningsby, ‘instead of political infidelity.’

‘Political faith,’ said Coningsby, ‘instead of political betrayal.’

‘Hem!’ said Lord Monmouth.

"Um!" said Lord Monmouth.

‘Before I support Conservative principles,’ continued Coningsby, ‘I merely wish to be informed what those principles aim to conserve. It would not appear to be the prerogative of the Crown, since the principal portion of a Conservative oration now is an invective against a late royal act which they describe as a Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church which they wish to conserve? What is a threatened Appropriation Clause against an actual Church Commission in the hands of Parliamentary Laymen? Could the Long Parliament have done worse? Well, then, if it is neither the Crown nor the Church, whose rights and privileges this Conservative party propose to vindicate, is it your House, the House of Lords, whose powers they are prepared to uphold? Is it not notorious that the very man whom you have elected as your leader in that House, declares among his Conservative adherents, that henceforth the assembly that used to furnish those very Committees of great revolution nobles that you mention, is to initiate nothing; and, without a struggle, is to subside into that undisturbed repose which resembles the Imperial tranquillity that secured the frontiers by paying tribute?’

‘Before I back Conservative principles,’ continued Coningsby, ‘I just want to know what those principles are trying to protect. It doesn’t seem to be the Crown's role, since a big part of Conservative speeches these days is criticizing a recent royal act that they call a Bed-chamber plot. Is it the Church they want to protect? What does a threatened Appropriation Clause mean for an actual Church Commission controlled by Parliamentary Laymen? Could the Long Parliament have done any worse? So, if it's neither the Crown nor the Church whose rights and privileges this Conservative party wants to defend, is it your House, the House of Lords, whose powers they want to maintain? Isn’t it common knowledge that the very person you chose as your leader in that House claims among his Conservative followers that from now on, the assembly that used to produce those very Committees of prominent revolution nobles you mentioned is supposed to initiate nothing; and, without a fight, will simply fade into that undisturbed calm that resembles the Imperial peace achieved by paying tribute?’

‘All this is vastly fine,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘but I see no means by which I can attain my object but by supporting Peel. After all, what is the end of all parties and all politics? To gain your object. I want to turn our coronet into a ducal one, and to get your grandmother’s barony called out of abeyance in your favour. It is impossible that Peel can refuse me. I have already purchased an ample estate with the view of entailing it on you and your issue. You will make a considerable alliance; you may marry, if you please, Lady Theresa Sydney. I hear the report with pleasure. Count on my at once entering into any arrangement conducive to your happiness.’

“All of this is really great,” said Lord Monmouth; “but I don’t see any way to achieve my goal except by supporting Peel. After all, what’s the purpose of all parties and politics? It's to get what you want. I want to elevate our title to a dukedom and get your grandmother’s barony cleared from abeyance in your favor. There's no way Peel can say no to me. I've already bought a large estate with the intention of leaving it to you and your future children. You’ll make a significant alliance; you could marry, if you want, Lady Theresa Sydney. I’m happy to hear that rumor. Count on me to jump into any arrangement that will lead to your happiness.”

‘My dear grandfather, you have ever been to me only too kind and generous.’

‘My dear grandfather, you have always been incredibly kind and generous to me.’

‘To whom should I be kind but to you, my own blood, that has never crossed me, and of whom I have reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, it gratifies me to hear you admired and to learn your success. All I want now is to see you in Parliament. A man should be in Parliament early. There is a sort of stiffness about every man, no matter what may be his talents, who enters Parliament late in life; and now, fortunately, the occasion offers. You will go down on Friday; feed the notabilities well; speak out; praise Peel; abuse O’Connell and the ladies of the Bed-chamber; anathematise all waverers; say a good deal about Ireland; stick to the Irish Registration Bill, that’s a good card; and, above all, my dear Harry, don’t spare that fellow Millbank. Remember, in turning him out you not only gain a vote for the Conservative cause and our coronet, but you crush my foe. Spare nothing for that object; I count on you, boy.’

‘Who else should I be kind to but you, my own family, who has never let me down, and of whom I have every reason to be proud? Yes, Harry, it makes me happy to hear you’re admired and to learn about your success. All I want now is to see you in Parliament. A person should get into Parliament early. There’s a certain stiffness in anyone, regardless of their talents, who enters Parliament later in life; and luckily, the opportunity is right here. You will go down on Friday; treat the important people well; speak your mind; praise Peel; criticize O’Connell and the ladies of the Bed-chamber; denounce all those who waver; talk a lot about Ireland; stick to the Irish Registration Bill, that’s a strong point; and, above all, my dear Harry, don’t hold back against that guy Millbank. Remember, by getting him out, you not only secure a vote for the Conservative cause and our title, but you also take down my enemy. Hold nothing back for that goal; I’m counting on you, boy.’

‘I should grieve to be backward in anything that concerned your interest or your honour, sir,’ said Coningsby, with an air of great embarrassment.

‘I would feel terrible to be lacking in anything that related to your interests or your honor, sir,’ said Coningsby, looking very embarrassed.

‘I am sure you would, I am sure you would,’ said Lord Monmouth, in a tone of some kindness.

"I know you would, I know you would," said Lord Monmouth with a slightly kind tone.

‘And I feel at this moment,’ continued Coningsby, ‘that there is no personal sacrifice which I am not prepared to make for them, except one. My interests, my affections, they should not be placed in the balance, if yours, sir, were at stake, though there are circumstances which might involve me in a position of as much mental distress as a man could well endure; but I claim for my convictions, my dear grandfather, a generous tolerance.’

‘And I feel at this moment,’ continued Coningsby, ‘that there is no personal sacrifice I wouldn’t be willing to make for them, except for one. My interests, my feelings, shouldn’t be weighed against yours, sir, even though there are situations that could put me in a position of as much mental anguish as anyone could handle; but I ask for a generous tolerance for my beliefs, my dear grandfather.’

‘I can’t follow you, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth, again in his hard tone. ‘Our interests are inseparable, and therefore there can never be any sacrifice of conduct on your part. What you mean by sacrifice of affections, I don’t comprehend; but as for your opinions, you have no business to have any other than those I uphold. You are too young to form opinions.’

‘I can’t follow you, sir,’ said Lord Monmouth again in his tough tone. ‘Our interests are linked, so there can never be any compromise in your behavior. I don’t understand what you mean by a sacrifice of feelings, but regarding your views, you shouldn’t have any other than those I support. You’re too young to have your own opinions.’

‘I am sure I wish to express them with no unbecoming confidence,’ replied Coningsby; ‘I have never intruded them on your ear before; but this being an occasion when you yourself said, sir, I was about to commence my public career, I confess I thought it was my duty to be frank; I would not entail on myself long years of mortification by one of those ill-considered entrances into political life which so many public men have cause to deplore.’

"I want to share my thoughts with no arrogance," replied Coningsby. "I haven't brought them up with you before, but since this is a moment you mentioned when I was starting my public career, I felt it was my duty to be honest. I wouldn't want to face years of regret from rushing into politics like so many public figures do."

‘You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman; you are not to consider your opinions, like a philosopher or a political adventurer.’

‘You go with your family, sir, like a gentleman; you shouldn't focus on your opinions, like a philosopher or a political opportunist.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Coningsby, with animation, ‘but men going with their families like gentlemen, and losing sight of every principle on which the society of this country ought to be established, produced the Reform Bill.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Coningsby excitedly, ‘but when men go out with their families like gentlemen and forget every principle that our society should be based on, that’s what led to the Reform Bill.’

‘D—— the Reform Bill!’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘if the Duke had not quarrelled with Lord Grey on a Coal Committee, we should never have had the Reform Bill. And Grey would have gone to Ireland.’

‘Damn the Reform Bill!’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘if the Duke hadn't fought with Lord Grey over a Coal Committee, we would never have gotten the Reform Bill. And Grey would have gone to Ireland.’

‘You are in as great peril now as you were in 1830,’ said Coningsby.

‘You’re in as much danger now as you were in 1830,’ said Coningsby.

‘No, no, no,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the Tory party is organised now; they will not catch us napping again: these Conservative Associations have done the business.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Lord Monmouth; ‘the Tory party is organized now; they won’t catch us off guard again: these Conservative Associations have done the trick.’

‘But what are they organised for?’ said Coningsby. ‘At the best to turn out the Whigs. And when you have turned out the Whigs, what then? You may get your ducal coronet, sir. But a duke now is not so great a man as a baron was but a century back. We cannot struggle against the irresistible stream of circumstances. Power has left our order; this is not an age for factitious aristocracy. As for my grandmother’s barony, I should look upon the termination of its abeyance in my favour as the act of my political extinction. What we want, sir, is not to fashion new dukes and furbish up old baronies, but to establish great principles which may maintain the realm and secure the happiness of the people. Let me see authority once more honoured; a solemn reverence again the habit of our lives; let me see property acknowledging, as in the old days of faith, that labour is his twin brother, and that the essence of all tenure is the performance of duty; let results such as these be brought about, and let me participate, however feebly, in the great fulfilment, and public life then indeed becomes a noble career, and a seat in Parliament an enviable distinction.’

‘But what are they organized for?’ said Coningsby. ‘At best, to get the Whigs out. And once you've gotten rid of the Whigs, what then? You might earn your duke's crown, sir. But being a duke today isn't as impressive as being a baron was a century ago. We can't fight against the unstoppable flow of circumstances. Power has slipped away from our class; this isn’t a time for a fake aristocracy. As for my grandmother’s barony, I would see its return to me as a sign of my political demise. What we need, sir, is not to create new dukes or revive old baronies, but to establish great principles that can sustain the nation and ensure the happiness of the people. Let me see authority respected once more; let solemn respect become a part of our lives again; let me see property recognize, as in the old days of belief, that labor is its twin, and that the core of all ownership is fulfilling one's duty; let these results come about, and let me have a part in the great realization, and then public life truly becomes a noble path, and a seat in Parliament a sought-after honor.’

‘I tell you what it is, Harry,’ said Lord Monmouth, very drily, ‘members of this family may think as they like, but they must act as I please. You must go down on Friday to Darlford and declare yourself a candidate for the town, or I shall reconsider our mutual positions. I would say, you must go to-morrow; but it is only courteous to Rigby to give him a previous intimation of your movement. And that cannot be done to-day. I sent for Rigby this morning on other business which now occupies me, and find he is out of town. He will return to-morrow; and will be here at three o’clock, when you can meet him. You will meet him, I doubt not, like a man of sense,’ added Lord Monmouth, looking at Coningsby with a glance such as he had never before encountered, ‘who is not prepared to sacrifice all the objects of life for the pursuit of some fantastical puerilities.’

“I'll tell you how it is, Harry,” said Lord Monmouth dryly, “members of this family can think whatever they want, but they have to act according to my wishes. You need to go to Darlford on Friday and announce your candidacy for the town, or I will reconsider our relationship. I would say you must go tomorrow, but it’s only polite to give Rigby a heads-up about your plans. That can’t happen today. I called for Rigby this morning regarding other matters that are now taking my attention, and I found out he’s out of town. He'll be back tomorrow and will be here at three o'clock, so you can meet him then. I trust you will meet him like a sensible man,” added Lord Monmouth, looking at Coningsby with a gaze he had never experienced before, “who isn't willing to give up all the meaningful things in life for the sake of some ridiculous fantasies.”

His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque; and to prevent any further conversation, resumed his papers.

His Lordship rang a bell on his table for Villebecque and, to avoid any more conversation, went back to his papers.

CHAPTER IV.

It would have been difficult for any person, unconscious of crime, to have felt more dejected than Coningsby when he rode out of the court-yard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith would have consoled him for the destruction of his prosperity; the proud fulfilment of his ambition might in time have proved some compensation for his crushed affections; but his present position seemed to offer no single source of solace. There came over him that irresistible conviction that is at times the dark doom of all of us, that the bright period of our life is past; that a future awaits us only of anxiety, failure, mortification, despair; that none of our resplendent visions can ever be realised: and that we add but one more victim to the long and dreary catalogue of baffled aspirations.

It would have been hard for anyone, unaware of wrongdoing, to feel more downcast than Coningsby as he rode out of the courtyard of Monmouth House. The love of Edith could have comforted him for the loss of his success; the proud achievement of his dreams might have eventually provided some relief for his broken heart; but his current situation seemed to offer no source of comfort at all. He was overwhelmed by that undeniable feeling that sometimes casts a shadow over all of us: that the best days of our lives are behind us and that the future holds only anxiety, failure, embarrassment, and despair; that none of our bright dreams will ever come true, and that we only add another name to the long, dismal list of unfulfilled hopes.

Nor could he indeed by any combination see the means to extricate himself from the perils that were encompassing him. There was something about his grandfather that defied persuasion. Prone as eloquent youth generally is to believe in the resistless power of its appeals, Coningsby despaired at once of ever moving Lord Monmouth. There had been a callous dryness in his manner, an unswerving purpose in his spirit, that at once baffled all attempts at influence. Nor could Coningsby forget the look he received when he quitted the room. There was no possibility of mistaking it; it said at once, without periphrasis, ‘Cross my purpose, and I will crush you!’

Nor could he really figure out any way to get himself out of the dangers surrounding him. There was something about his grandfather that resisted any attempt to persuade him. While young people are usually confident in the power of their arguments, Coningsby immediately lost hope of ever affecting Lord Monmouth. There was a cold indifference in his demeanor, an unwavering determination in his spirit, that baffled all attempts to sway him. Coningsby also couldn't shake the look he received when he left the room. There was no mistaking it; it clearly conveyed, without any hesitation, ‘Get in my way, and I'll destroy you!’

This was the moment when the sympathy, if not the counsels, of friendship might have been grateful. A clever woman might have afforded even more than sympathy; some happy device that might have even released him from the mesh in which he was involved. And once Coningsby had turned his horse’s head to Park Lane to call on Lady Everingham. But surely if there were a sacred secret in the world, it was the one which subsisted between himself and Edith. No, that must never be violated. Then there was Lady Wallinger; he could at least speak with freedom to her. He resolved to tell her all. He looked in for a moment at a club to take up the ‘Court Guide’ and find her direction. A few men were standing in a bow window. He heard Mr. Cassilis say,

This was the moment when the support, if not the advice, of friendship could have been appreciated. A clever woman might have offered even more than just support; perhaps a clever solution that could have freed him from the situation he was in. Once, Coningsby had turned his horse towards Park Lane to pay a visit to Lady Everingham. But surely, if there was a sacred secret in the world, it was the one that existed between him and Edith. No, that must never be exposed. Then there was Lady Wallinger; he could at least speak openly with her. He decided to tell her everything. He stopped by a club for a moment to grab the ‘Court Guide’ and find her address. A few men were standing by a bay window. He heard Mr. Cassilis say,

‘So Beau, they say, is booked at last; the new beauty, have you heard?’

‘So Beau, they say, is finally booked; the new beauty, have you heard?’

‘I saw him very sweet on her last night,’ rejoined his companion. ‘Has she any tin?’

'I saw him really into her last night,' his friend replied. 'Does she have any money?'

‘Deuced deal, they say,’ replied Mr. Cassilis.’ The father is a cotton lord, and they all have loads of tin, you know. Nothing like them now.’

‘Damn deal, they say,’ replied Mr. Cassilis. ‘The father is a cotton mogul, and they all have tons of cash, you know. There’s nothing like them these days.’

‘He is in Parliament, is not he?’

'He's in Parliament, right?'

‘’Gad, I believe he is,’ said Mr. Cassilis; ‘I never know who is in Parliament in these days. I remember when there were only ten men in the House of Commons who were not either members of Brookes’ or this place. Everything is so deuced changed.’

‘’Gosh, I think he is,’ said Mr. Cassilis; ‘I never know who's in Parliament these days. I remember when there were only ten guys in the House of Commons who weren’t either members of Brookes’ or this place. Everything is so darn different.’

‘I hear ‘tis an old affair of Beau,’ said another gentleman. ‘It was all done a year ago at Rome or Paris.’

"I heard it's an old thing with Beau," said another guy. "It all happened a year ago in Rome or Paris."

‘They say she refused him then,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

'They say she turned him down then,' said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer’s daughter,’ said his friend. ‘What next?’

‘Well, that's pretty cool for a manufacturer's daughter,’ said his friend. ‘What’s next?’

‘I wonder how the Duke likes it?’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘I wonder how the Duke feels about it?’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘Or the Duchess?’ added one of his friends.

‘Or the Duchess?’ one of his friends added.

‘Or the Everinghams?’ added the other.

‘The Duke will be deuced glad to see Beau settled, I take it,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘The Duke will be really glad to see Beau settled, I think,’ said Mr. Cassilis.

‘A good deal depends on the tin,’ said his friend.

‘A lot depends on the tin,’ said his friend.

Coningsby threw down the ‘Court Guide’ with a sinking heart. In spite of every insuperable difficulty, hitherto the end and object of all his aspirations and all his exploits, sometimes even almost unconsciously to himself, was Edith. It was over. The strange manner of last night was fatally explained. The heart that once had been his was now another’s. To the man who still loves there is in that conviction the most profound and desolate sorrow of which our nature is capable. All the recollection of the past, all the once-cherished prospects of the future, blend into one bewildering anguish. Coningsby quitted the club, and mounting his horse, rode rapidly out of town, almost unconscious of his direction. He found himself at length in a green lane near Willesden, silent and undisturbed; he pulled up his horse, and summoned all his mind to the contemplation of his prospects.

Coningsby tossed aside the ‘Court Guide’ with a heavy heart. Despite all the overwhelming challenges, the focus of all his dreams and adventures, sometimes even without him realizing it, had always been Edith. It was over. The strange behavior from last night was painfully clarified. The heart that had once been his was now someone else’s. For the man who still loves, that realization brings the deepest, most isolating sorrow imaginable. All the memories of the past and all the once-dreamed possibilities for the future merged into one confusing pain. Coningsby left the club, got on his horse, and rode quickly out of the city, hardly aware of where he was going. Eventually, he found himself in a quiet, green lane near Willesden; he stopped his horse and focused all his thoughts on contemplating his future.

Edith was lost. Now, should he return to his grandfather, accept his mission, and go down to Darlford on Friday? Favour and fortune, power, prosperity, rank, distinction would be the consequence of this step; might not he add even vengeance? Was there to be no term to his endurance? Might not he teach this proud, prejudiced manufacturer, with all his virulence and despotic caprices, a memorable lesson? And his daughter, too, this betrothed, after all, of a young noble, with her flush futurity of splendour and enjoyment, was she to hear of him only, if indeed she heard of him at all, as of one toiling or trifling in the humbler positions of existence; and wonder, with a blush, that he ever could have been the hero of her romantic girlhood? What degradation in the idea? His cheek burnt at the possibility of such ignominy!

Edith was lost. Should he go back to his grandfather, accept his mission, and head to Darlford on Friday? Favor and opportunity, power, wealth, status, and recognition would come from this choice; could he even seek revenge? Would there be no end to his suffering? Could he teach this arrogant, biased manufacturer, with all his spite and tyrannical whims, a memorable lesson? And what about his fiancée, the young noblewoman, with her bright future filled with splendor and enjoyment? Was she only supposed to hear about him, if she heard of him at all, as someone laboring or wasting time in a lesser position in life, and wonder, blushing, how he could have ever been the hero of her romantic youth? What a disgrace to even consider! His face burned at the thought of such shame!

It was a conjuncture in his life that required decision. He thought of his companions who looked up to him with such ardent anticipations of his fame, of delight in his career, and confidence in his leading; were all these high and fond fancies to be balked? On the very threshold of life was he to blunder? ‘Tis the first step that leads to all, and his was to be a wilful error. He remembered his first visit to his grandfather, and the delight of his friends at Eton at his report on his return. After eight years of initiation was he to lose that favour then so highly prized, when the results which they had so long counted on were on the very eve of accomplishment? Parliament and riches, and rank and power; these were facts, realities, substances, that none could mistake. Was he to sacrifice them for speculations, theories, shadows, perhaps the vapours of a green and conceited brain? No, by heaven, no! He was like Caesar by the starry river’s side, watching the image of the planets on its fatal waters. The die was cast.

It was a pivotal moment in his life that required a choice. He thought of his friends who looked up to him with such eager hopes for his success, excitement about his journey, and trust in his leadership; were all these high hopes going to be dashed? Was he really going to mess up right at the start of his life? The first step leads to everything, and he was about to make a deliberate mistake. He recalled his first visit to his grandfather and how thrilled his friends at Eton were when he shared his news upon returning. After eight years of preparation, was he really going to lose that favor which was once so highly valued, just when the results they had all been counting on were about to come to fruition? Parliament, wealth, status, and power; these were concrete, undeniable realities. Was he really going to throw them away for ideas, theories, and maybe the illusions of an inexperienced and arrogant mind? No, absolutely not! He was like Caesar by the starry river, watching the reflections of the planets on its fateful waters. The decision was made.

The sun set; the twilight spell fell upon his soul; the exaltation of his spirit died away. Beautiful thoughts, full of sweetness and tranquillity and consolation, came clustering round his heart like seraphs. He thought of Edith in her hours of fondness; he thought of the pure and solemn moments when to mingle his name with the heroes of humanity was his aspiration, and to achieve immortal fame the inspiring purpose of his life. What were the tawdry accidents of vulgar ambition to him? No domestic despot could deprive him of his intellect, his knowledge, the sustaining power of an unpolluted conscience. If he possessed the intelligence in which he had confidence, the world would recognise his voice even if not placed upon a pedestal. If the principles of his philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation would respond to their expression. Coningsby felt at this moment a profound conviction which never again deserted him, that the conduct which would violate the affections of the heart, or the dictates of the conscience, however it may lead to immediate success, is a fatal error. Conscious that he was perhaps verging on some painful vicissitude of his life, he devoted himself to a love that seemed hopeless, and to a fame that was perhaps a dream.

The sun set; the twilight cast a spell over his soul; the excitement in his spirit faded away. Beautiful thoughts, filled with sweetness, calmness, and comfort, surrounded his heart like angels. He thought of Edith during her affectionate moments; he remembered the pure and serious times when it was his dream to be alongside the heroes of humanity and to achieve lasting fame as the inspiring goal of his life. What did the cheap distractions of common ambition mean to him? No domestic tyrant could take away his intellect, his knowledge, or the strength of a clean conscience. If he had the intelligence he believed in, the world would hear his voice even if he wasn’t on a pedestal. If the principles of his philosophy were true, the great heart of the nation would resonate with their expression. At that moment, Coningsby felt a deep conviction that never left him: that acting in ways that betray the affections of the heart or the calls of the conscience, no matter how it might lead to quick success, is a grave mistake. Aware that he might be approaching some painful turning point in his life, he committed himself to a love that felt hopeless and to a fame that might just be a dream.

It was under the influence of these solemn resolutions that he wrote, on his return home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, in which he expressed all that affection which he really felt for his grandfather, and all the pangs which it cost him to adhere to the conclusions he had already announced. In terms of tenderness, and even humility, he declined to become a candidate for Darlford, or even to enter Parliament, except as the master of his own conduct.

It was under the impact of these serious decisions that he wrote, upon returning home, a letter to Lord Monmouth, where he shared the deep affection he genuinely felt for his grandfather and the emotional struggle it took for him to stick to the conclusions he had already stated. With words of kindness and even humility, he turned down the opportunity to run for Darlford or to enter Parliament, except on his own terms.

CHAPTER V.

Lady Monmouth was reclining on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir which had been fitted up under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, but as he then believed for the Princess Colonna. The walls were hung with amber satin, painted by Delaroche with such subjects as might be expected from his brilliant and picturesque pencil. Fair forms, heroes and heroines in dazzling costume, the offspring of chivalry merging into what is commonly styled civilisation, moved in graceful or fantastic groups amid palaces and gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb fashion of the Saracens, was richly gilt and picked out in violet. Upon a violet carpet of velvet was represented the marriage of Cupid and Psyche.

Lady Monmouth was lounging on a sofa in that beautiful boudoir that had been designed under Mr. Rigby's supervision, which he believed was for Princess Colonna. The walls were covered in amber satin, painted by Delaroche with subjects that matched his brilliant and vivid style. Beautiful figures, heroes and heroines in stunning costumes, the children of chivalry transitioning into what we usually call civilization, moved in elegant or whimsical groups amid palaces and gardens. The ceiling, carved in the deep honeycomb style of the Saracens, was richly gilded and highlighted in violet. On a violet velvet carpet, the marriage of Cupid and Psyche was depicted.

It was about two hours after Coningsby had quitted Monmouth House, and Flora came in, sent for by Lady Monmouth as was her custom, to read to her as she was employed with some light work.

It was about two hours after Coningsby had left Monmouth House, and Flora came in, called by Lady Monmouth as usual, to read to her while she was busy with some light tasks.

‘’Tis a new book of Sue,’ said Lucretia. ‘They say it is good.’

“It’s a new book by Sue,” said Lucretia. “They say it’s good.”

Flora, seated by her side, began to read. Reading was an accomplishment which distinguished Flora; but to-day her voice faltered, her expression was uncertain; she seemed but imperfectly to comprehend her page. More than once Lady Monmouth looked round at her with an inquisitive glance. Suddenly Flora stopped and burst into tears.

Flora, sitting next to her, started to read. Reading was one of Flora's strengths; however, today her voice wavered, and her expression was unsure; she seemed to struggle to understand her text. More than once, Lady Monmouth glanced at her with a curious look. Suddenly, Flora stopped and broke down in tears.

‘O! madam,’ she at last exclaimed, ‘if you would but speak to Mr. Coningsby, all might be right!’

‘Oh! Madam,’ she finally exclaimed, ‘if you would just talk to Mr. Coningsby, everything could be fixed!’

‘What is this?’ said Lady Monmouth, turning quickly on the sofa; then, collecting herself in an instant, she continued with less abruptness, and more suavity than usual, ‘Tell me, Flora, what is it; what is the matter?’

‘What’s going on?’ Lady Monmouth said, turning quickly on the sofa; then, gathering herself in an instant, she continued with less abruptness and more smoothness than usual, ‘Tell me, Flora, what’s wrong; what’s the matter?’

‘My Lord,’ sobbed Flora, ‘has quarrelled with Mr. Coningsby.’

‘My Lord,’ cried Flora, ‘has had a fight with Mr. Coningsby.’

An expression of eager interest came over the countenance of Lucretia.

A look of eager interest came over Lucretia's face.

‘Why have they quarrelled?’

'Why are they fighting?'

‘I do not know they have quarrelled; it is not, perhaps, a right term; but my Lord is very angry with Mr. Coningsby.’

‘I don’t know if they’ve had a fight; it might not be the right word; but my Lord is really angry with Mr. Coningsby.’

‘Not very angry, I should think, Flora; and about what?’

'Probably not very angry, I would say, Flora; and about what?'

‘Oh! very angry, madam,’ said Flora, shaking her head mournfully. ‘My Lord told M. Villebecque that perhaps Mr. Coningsby would never enter the house again.’

‘Oh! very angry, ma’am,’ said Flora, shaking her head sadly. ‘My Lord told M. Villebecque that maybe Mr. Coningsby will never step foot in the house again.’

‘Was it to-day?’ asked Lucretia.

"Is it today?" asked Lucretia.

‘This morning. Mr. Coningsby has only left this hour or two. He will not do what my Lord wishes, about some seat in the Chamber. I do not know exactly what it is; but my Lord is in one of his moods of terror: my father is frightened even to go into his room when he is so.’

‘This morning. Mr. Coningsby just left an hour or two ago. He won't do what my Lord wants regarding some seat in the Chamber. I'm not sure what it is exactly; but my Lord is in one of his anxious moods: my father is even scared to go into his room when he's like this.’

‘Has Mr. Rigby been here to-day?’ asked Lucretia.

“Has Mr. Rigby been here today?” Lucretia asked.

‘Mr. Rigby is not in town. My father went for Mr. Rigby this morning before Mr. Coningsby came, and he found that Mr. Rigby was not in town. That is why I know it.’

‘Mr. Rigby isn't in town. My dad went to find Mr. Rigby this morning before Mr. Coningsby arrived, and he discovered that Mr. Rigby wasn't in town. That's how I know.’

Lady Monmouth rose from her sofa, and walked once or twice up and down the room. Then turning to Flora, she said, ‘Go away now: the book is stupid; it does not amuse me. Stop: find out all you can for me about the quarrel before I speak to Mr. Coningsby.’

Lady Monmouth got up from her sofa and walked up and down the room a couple of times. Then she turned to Flora and said, “Go away now: the book is boring; it doesn't entertain me. Wait: find out everything you can about the quarrel before I talk to Mr. Coningsby.”

Flora quitted the room. Lucretia remained for some time in meditation; then she wrote a few lines, which she despatched at once to Mr. Rigby.

Flora left the room. Lucretia stayed for a while, lost in thought; then she wrote a few lines and sent them right away to Mr. Rigby.

CHAPTER VI.

What a great man was the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby! Here was one of the first peers of England, and one of the finest ladies in London, both waiting with equal anxiety his return to town; and unable to transact two affairs of vast importance, yet wholly unconnected, without his interposition! What was the secret of the influence of this man, confided in by everybody, trusted by none? His counsels were not deep, his expedients were not felicitous; he had no feeling, and he could create no sympathy. It is that, in most of the transactions of life, there is some portion which no one cares to accomplish, and which everybody wishes to be achieved. This was always the portion of Mr. Rigby. In the eye of the world he had constantly the appearance of being mixed up with high dealings, and negotiations and arrangements of fine management, whereas in truth, notwithstanding his splendid livery and the airs he gave himself in the servants’ hall, his real business in life had ever been, to do the dirty work.

What a great man the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby was! Here was one of the top peers in England and one of the most impressive women in London, both eagerly waiting for his return to the city, unable to handle two very important but completely unrelated matters without his involvement! What was the secret to this man's influence, relied upon by everyone but trusted by none? His advice wasn’t profound, his solutions weren't clever; he lacked empathy and couldn't evoke any sympathy. In many situations in life, there’s always a part that no one wants to handle, but everyone hopes gets done. This was always Mr. Rigby’s role. To the outside world, he seemed constantly involved in major dealings and negotiations, but in reality, despite his flashy uniform and the pretentious attitude he showed in the servants' quarters, his true work in life had always been to do the dirty jobs.

Mr. Rigby had been shut up much at his villa of late. He was concocting, you could not term it composing, an article, a ‘very slashing article,’ which was to prove that the penny postage must be the destruction of the aristocracy. It was a grand subject, treated in his highest style. His parallel portraits of Rowland Hill the conqueror of Almarez and Rowland Hill the deviser of the cheap postage were enormously fine. It was full of passages in italics, little words in great capitals, and almost drew tears. The statistical details also were highly interesting and novel. Several of the old postmen, both twopenny and general, who had been in office with himself, and who were inspired with an equal zeal against that spirit of reform of which they had alike been victims, supplied him with information which nothing but a breach of ministerial duty could have furnished. The prophetic peroration as to the irresistible progress of democracy was almost as powerful as one of Rigby’s speeches on Aldborough or Amersham. There never was a fellow for giving a good hearty kick to the people like Rigby. Himself sprung from the dregs of the populace, this was disinterested. What could be more patriotic and magnanimous than his Jeremiads over the fall of the Montmorencis and the Crillons, or the possible catastrophe of the Percys and the Manners! The truth of all this hullabaloo was that Rigby had a sly pension which, by an inevitable association of ideas, he always connected with the maintenance of an aristocracy. All his rigmarole dissertations on the French revolution were impelled by this secret influence; and when he wailed over ‘la guerre aux châteaux,’ and moaned like a mandrake over Nottingham Castle in flames, the rogue had an eye all the while to quarter-day!

Mr. Rigby had been cooped up at his villa a lot lately. He was crafting, not composing, an article—a "very cutting article"—that aimed to prove that penny postage would be the downfall of the aristocracy. It was a grand topic, handled in his finest style. His contrasting portrayals of Rowland Hill, the conqueror of Almarez, and Rowland Hill, the creator of cheap postage, were incredibly impressive. The piece was full of italicized passages, little words in big capital letters, and was almost tear-jerking. The statistical details were also quite interesting and novel. Several of the older postmen, both those earning two pence and those in general service, who had worked with him and shared a similar enthusiasm against the reform spirit that had affected them both, provided him with insights that could only come from a breach of ministerial duty. The prophetic closing remarks about the unstoppable rise of democracy were nearly as potent as one of Rigby’s speeches on Aldborough or Amersham. No one could deliver a good, hearty kick to the people quite like Rigby. Having come from the lower classes, his motivations were altruistic. What could be more patriotic and generous than his lamentations over the fall of the Montmorencis and the Crillons, or the potential disaster for the Percys and the Manners? The reality behind all this noise was that Rigby had a secret pension which, by an unavoidable association, he always connected to the preservation of the aristocracy. All his rambling discussions about the French Revolution were driven by this hidden influence; and when he mourned over "the war against the châteaux," and lamented like a mandrake over Nottingham Castle in flames, the trickster was always keeping the quarter-day in mind!

Arriving in town the day after Coningsby’s interview with his grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a summons to Monmouth House waiting him, and an urgent note from Lucretia begging that he would permit nothing to prevent him seeing her for a few minutes before he called on the Marquess.

Arriving in town the day after Coningsby’s meeting with his grandfather, Mr. Rigby found a message waiting for him at Monmouth House, along with an urgent note from Lucretia asking him to make sure nothing kept him from seeing her for a few minutes before he visited the Marquess.

Lucretia, acting on the unconscious intimation of Flora, had in the course of four-and-twenty hours obtained pretty ample and accurate details of the cause of contention between Coningsby and her husband. She could inform Mr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was highly incensed against his grandson, but that the cause of their misunderstanding arose about a seat in the House of Commons, and that seat too the one which Mr. Rigby had long appropriated to himself, and over whose registration he had watched with such affectionate solicitude.

Lucretia, acting on Flora's subtle suggestion, had within twenty-four hours gathered fairly extensive and precise details about the conflict between Coningsby and her husband. She could tell Mr. Rigby not only that Lord Monmouth was very angry with his grandson, but that their disagreement was about a seat in the House of Commons, and that this was the same seat Mr. Rigby had long claimed for himself and had monitored the registration of with such caring attention.

Lady Monmouth arranged this information like a firstrate artist, and gave it a grouping and a colour which produced the liveliest effect upon her confederate. The countenance of Rigby was almost ghastly as he received the intelligence; a grin, half of malice, half of terror, played over his features.

Lady Monmouth presented this information like a top-notch artist, providing it with a composition and color that created the most vibrant effect on her partner. Rigby's face was nearly ghostly as he absorbed the news; a grin, part malicious and part terrified, spread across his features.

‘I told you to beware of him long ago,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is, he has ever been, in the way of both of us.’

‘I told you to watch out for him long ago,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is, and always has been, a problem for both of us.’

‘He is in my power,’ said Rigby. ‘We can crush him!’

‘He’s under my control,’ said Rigby. ‘We can take him down!’

‘How?’

‘He is in love with the daughter of Millbank, the man who bought Hellingsley.’

‘He is in love with Millbank's daughter, the man who bought Hellingsley.’

‘Hah!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a prolonged tone.

‘Ha!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, in a drawn-out tone.

‘He was at Coningsby all last summer, hanging about her. I found the younger Millbank quite domiciliated at the Castle; a fact which, of itself, if known to Lord Monmouth, would ensure the lad’s annihilation.’

‘He spent all last summer at Coningsby, always around her. I noticed that the younger Millbank was pretty much settled in at the Castle; and if Lord Monmouth found out, it would mean the kid’s destruction for sure.’

‘And you kept this fine news for a winter campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,’ said Lady Monmouth, with a subtle smile. ‘It was a weapon of service. I give you my compliments.’

‘And you saved this excellent news for a winter campaign, my good Mr. Rigby,’ said Lady Monmouth, with a sly smile. ‘It was a useful weapon. I give you my compliments.’

‘The time is not always ripe,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘The timing isn’t always right,’ said Mr. Rigby.

‘But it is now most mature. Let us not conceal it from ourselves that, since his first visit to Coningsby, we have neither of us really been in the same position which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy. My Lord, though you would scarcely believe it, has a weakness for this boy; and though I by my marriage, and you by your zealous ability, have apparently secured a permanent hold upon his habits, I have never doubted that when the crisis comes we shall find that the golden fruit is plucked by one who has not watched the garden. You take me? There is no reason why we two should clash together: we can both of us find what we want, and more securely if we work in company.’

‘But now it's quite clear. Let's not kid ourselves that, since his first visit to Coningsby, neither of us has really been in the same situation we were in, or thought we would be in. My Lord, although you might find it hard to believe, has a soft spot for this boy; and even though I have seemingly secured a lasting influence over his habits through my marriage, and you through your dedicated skills, I've always suspected that when the moment of truth arrives, it will be someone who hasn't tended to the garden who will reap the rewards. Do you see what I mean? There's no reason for us to be at odds: we can both get what we want, and even more safely if we cooperate.’

‘I trust my devotion to you has never been doubted, dear madam.’

‘I hope my loyalty to you has never been questioned, dear madam.’

‘Nor to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now: the game is before you. Rid me of this Coningsby, and I will secure you all that you want. Doubt not me. There is no reason. I want a firm ally. There must be two.’

‘Not to yourself, dear Mr. Rigby. Go now: the opportunity is before you. Get rid of this Coningsby for me, and I will ensure you get everything you want. Don’t doubt me. There’s no reason to. I need a loyal ally. There has to be two.’

‘It shall be done,’ said Rigby; ‘it must be done. If once the notion gets wind that one of the Castle family may perchance stand for Darlford, all the present combinations will be disorganised. It must be done at once. I know that the Government will dissolve.’

"It will be done," said Rigby; "it has to be done. If the idea gets out that someone from the Castle family might possibly run for Darlford, everything we have going will fall apart. It has to be done immediately. I know the Government will dissolve."

‘So I hear for certain,’ said Lucretia. ‘Be sure there is no time to lose. What does he want with you to-day?’

‘So I’ve heard for sure,’ said Lucretia. ‘Make sure there’s no time to waste. What does he want with you today?’

‘I know not: there are so many things.’

‘I don't know: there are so many things.’

‘To be sure; and yet I cannot doubt he will speak of this quarrel. Let not the occasion be lost. Whatever his mood, the subject may be introduced. If good, you will guide him more easily; if dark, the love for the Hellingsley girl, the fact of the brother being in his castle, drinking his wine, riding his horses, ordering about his servants; you will omit no details: a Millbank quite at home at Coningsby will lash him to madness! ‘Tis quite ripe. Not a word that you have seen me. Go, go, or he may hear that you have arrived. I shall be at home all the morning. It will be but gallant that you should pay me a little visit when you have transacted your business. You understand. Au revoir!’

‘Absolutely; and yet I can’t doubt he’ll talk about this argument. Don’t let the opportunity slip away. Whatever his mood, you can bring it up. If he’s in a good place, you’ll find it easier to guide him; if he’s in a bad mood, mentioning his feelings for the Hellingsley girl, the fact that his brother is in his castle, drinking his wine, riding his horses, and bossing around his staff; don’t leave out any details: a Millbank feeling right at home at Coningsby will drive him crazy! It’s perfect timing. Don’t say a word about seeing me. Go, go, or he might find out you’ve arrived. I’ll be home all morning. It would be quite nice of you to drop by after you finish your business. You get it. See you later!’

Lady Monmouth took up again her French novel; but her eyes soon glanced over the page, unattached by its contents. Her own existence was too interesting to find any excitement in fiction. It was nearly three years since her marriage; that great step which she ever had a conviction was to lead to results still greater. Of late she had often been filled with a presentiment that they were near at hand; never more so than on this day. Irresistible was the current of associations that led her to meditate on freedom, wealth, power; on a career which should at the same time dazzle the imagination and gratify her heart. Notwithstanding the gossip of Paris, founded on no authentic knowledge of her husband’s character or information, based on the haphazard observations of the floating multitude, Lucretia herself had no reason to fear that her influence over Lord Monmouth, if exerted, was materially diminished. But satisfied that he had formed no other tie, with her ever the test of her position, she had not thought it expedient, and certainly would have found it irksome, to maintain that influence by any ostentatious means. She knew that Lord Monmouth was capricious, easily wearied, soon palled; and that on men who have no affections, affection has no hold. Their passions or their fancies, on the contrary, as it seemed to her, are rather stimulated by neglect or indifference, provided that they are not systematic; and the circumstance of a wife being admired by one who is not her husband sometimes wonderfully revives the passion or renovates the respect of him who should be devoted to her.

Lady Monmouth picked up her French novel again, but her eyes quickly flicked over the pages, uninterested in what she was reading. Her own life was too captivating to find any thrill in fiction. It had been almost three years since her marriage, a big step that she always believed would lead to even greater things. Lately, she often felt a sense that those greater things were close at hand, especially on this day. She couldn't help but think about freedom, wealth, and power; about a career that would both amaze her and fulfill her heart. Despite the rumors in Paris, based on no real understanding of her husband's character or random observations from the crowd, Lucretia felt no reason to fear that her influence over Lord Monmouth was significantly diminished if she chose to use it. Confident that he had formed no other attachments, which was always her measure of her position, she found it unnecessary—and certainly tiring—to assert that influence in any flashy way. She knew that Lord Monmouth was fickle, easily bored, and quickly disinterested; and that for men who lack deep feelings, affection doesn’t really hold power. Instead, their passions or whims seem to be sparked by neglect or indifference, as long as it's not consistent; and the fact that a wife is admired by another man sometimes strangely reignites the passion or restores the respect of the husband who should be devoted to her.

The health of Lord Monmouth was the subject which never was long absent from the vigilance or meditation of Lucretia. She was well assured that his life was no longer secure. She knew that after their marriage he had made a will, which secured to her a large portion of his great wealth in case of their having no issue, and after the accident at Paris all hope in that respect was over. Recently the extreme anxiety which Lord Monmouth had evinced about terminating the abeyance of the barony to which his first wife was a co-heiress in favour of his grandson, had alarmed Lucretia. To establish in the land another branch of the house of Coningsby was evidently the last excitement of Lord Monmouth, and perhaps a permanent one. If the idea were once accepted, notwithstanding the limit to its endowment which Lord Monmouth might at the first start contemplate, Lucretia had sufficiently studied his temperament to be convinced that all his energies and all his resources would ultimately be devoted to its practical fulfilment. Her original prejudice against Coningsby and jealousy of his influence had therefore of late been considerably aggravated; and the intelligence that for the first time there was a misunderstanding between Coningsby and her husband filled her with excitement and hope. She knew her Lord well enough to feel assured that the cause for displeasure in the present instance could not be a light one; she resolved instantly to labour that it should not be transient; and it so happened that she had applied for aid in this endeavour to the very individual in whose power it rested to accomplish all her desire, while in doing so he felt at the same time he was defending his own position and advancing his own interests.

The health of Lord Monmouth was a topic that was always on Lucretia’s mind. She was aware that his life was no longer safe. She knew that after they got married, he had created a will that left her a significant part of his wealth if they didn’t have children, and after the accident in Paris, all hope for that was gone. Recently, Lord Monmouth’s intense worry about ending the suspension of the barony, which his first wife shared as an heiress for their grandson, had concerned Lucretia. It was clear that establishing another branch of the Coningsby family was Lord Monmouth's final obsession, and possibly a lasting one. If he accepted the idea, despite any initial limits he might consider, Lucretia had studied his character enough to be sure that all his efforts and resources would eventually be focused on making it happen. Her initial resentment towards Coningsby and jealousy of his influence had therefore become even stronger; and the news that, for the first time, there was a disagreement between Coningsby and her husband excited her and filled her with hope. She knew her husband well enough to feel confident that whatever was causing the current displeasure was serious; she quickly decided to ensure that it would not be a temporary issue; and she had turned to the very person who had the power to help her achieve all her goals, while also realizing that in doing so, he was also protecting his own position and furthering his own interests.

Lady Monmouth was now waiting with some excitement the return of Mr. Rigby. His interview with his patron was of unusual length. An hour, and more than an hour, had elapsed. Lady Monmouth again threw aside the book which more than once she had discarded. She paced the room, restless rather than disquieted. She had complete confidence in Rigby’s ability for the occasion; and with her knowledge of Lord Monmouth’s character, she could not contemplate the possibility of failure, if the circumstances were adroitly introduced to his consideration. Still time stole on: the harassing and exhausting process of suspense was acting on her nervous system. She began to think that Rigby had not found the occasion favourable for the catastrophe; that Lord Monmouth, from apprehension of disturbing Rigby and entailing explanations on himself, had avoided the necessary communication; that her skilful combination for the moment had missed. Two hours had now elapsed, and Lucretia, in a state of considerable irritation, was about to inquire whether Mr. Rigby were with his Lordship when the door of her boudoir opened, and that gentleman appeared.

Lady Monmouth was eagerly waiting for Mr. Rigby to return. His meeting with his patron was taking longer than usual. Over an hour had passed. Lady Monmouth tossed aside the book she had already put down several times. She walked around the room, feeling restless rather than anxious. She fully believed in Rigby’s skills for the task at hand, and knowing Lord Monmouth’s character, she couldn’t imagine it could go wrong if the situation was approached wisely. Yet, time kept dragging on: the tiring and stressful wait was affecting her nerves. She started to worry that Rigby hadn’t found the right moment to broach the topic; that Lord Monmouth, fearing he would disturb Rigby and have to explain himself, had sidestepped the important conversation; that her careful planning had gone awry. Two hours had now passed, and Lucretia, feeling quite frustrated, was about to ask if Mr. Rigby was with his Lordship when the door to her boudoir opened, and he walked in.

‘How long you have been!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘Now sit down and tell me what has passed.’

‘You’ve been gone for so long!’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth. ‘Now sit down and tell me what’s happened.’

Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat which Flora had occupied.

Lady Monmouth pointed to the seat where Flora had been sitting.

‘I thank your Ladyship,’ said Mr. Rigby, with a somewhat grave and yet perplexed expression of countenance, and seating himself at some little distance from his companion, ‘but I am very well here.’

"I appreciate it, my lady," said Mr. Rigby, with a somewhat serious yet confused look on his face, as he seated himself a little distance away from his companion, "but I'm perfectly fine here."

There was a pause. Instead of responding to the invitation of Lady Monmouth to communicate with his usual readiness and volubility, Mr. Rigby was silent, and, if it were possible to use such an expression with regard to such a gentleman, apparently embarrassed.

There was a pause. Instead of responding to Lady Monmouth's invitation to engage with his usual eagerness and chatter, Mr. Rigby was silent and, if it could be said of someone like him, seemed a bit uncomfortable.

‘Well,’ said Lady Monmouth, ‘does he know about the Millbanks?’

‘Everything,’ said Mr. Rigby.

"Everything," said Mr. Rigby.

‘And what did he say?’

'And what did he say?'

‘His Lordship was greatly shocked,’ replied Mr. Rigby, with a pious expression of features. ‘Such monstrous ingratitude! As his Lordship very justly observed, “It is impossible to say what is going on under my own roof, or to what I can trust.”’

‘His Lordship was really shocked,’ replied Mr. Rigby, with a sincere expression on his face. ‘Such incredible ingratitude! As his Lordship rightly pointed out, “It’s impossible to know what’s happening under my own roof, or whom I can trust.”’

‘But he made an exception in your favour, I dare say, my dear Mr. Rigby,’ said Lady Monmouth.

‘But he made an exception for you, I suppose, my dear Mr. Rigby,’ said Lady Monmouth.

‘Lord Monmouth was pleased to say that I possessed his entire confidence,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and that he looked to me in his difficulties.’

‘Lord Monmouth was happy to say that I had his complete trust,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘and that he relied on me during his tough times.’

‘Very sensible of him. And what is to become of Mr. Coningsby?’

'Very wise of him. And what will happen to Mr. Coningsby?'

‘The steps which his Lordship is about to take with reference to the establishment generally,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘will allow the connection that at present subsists between that gentleman and his noble relative, now that Lord Monmouth’s eyes are open to his real character, to terminate naturally, without the necessity of any formal explanation.’

‘The actions that his Lordship is about to take regarding the establishment in general,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘will allow the connection that currently exists between that gentleman and his noble relative to end naturally now that Lord Monmouth is aware of his true character, without needing any formal explanation.’

‘But what do you mean by the steps he is going to take in his establishment generally?’

‘But what do you mean by the actions he’s planning to take in his overall setup?’

‘Lord Monmouth thinks he requires change of scene.’

‘Lord Monmouth thinks he needs a change of scenery.’

‘Oh! is he going to drag me abroad again?’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, with great impatience.

‘Oh! Is he going to drag me out of the country again?’ exclaimed Lady Monmouth, with great impatience.

‘Why, not exactly,’ said Mr. Rigby, rather demurely.

“Not really,” said Mr. Rigby, somewhat shyly.

‘I hope he is not going again to that dreadful castle in Lancashire.’

‘I hope he's not going back to that awful castle in Lancashire.’

‘Lord Monmouth was thinking that, as you were tired of Paris, you might
find some of the German Baths agreeable.’

 ‘Why, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes so much as a German
bathing-place!’

‘Lord Monmouth was thinking that, since you were tired of Paris, you might find some of the German Baths nice.’

‘Well, there is nothing that Lord Monmouth dislikes more than a German bathing place!’

‘Exactly,’ said Mr. Rigby.

“Exactly,” said Mr. Rigby.

‘Then how capricious in him wanting to go to them?’

‘Then how fickle of him to want to go to them?’

‘He does not want to go to them!’

‘He doesn’t want to go to them!’

‘What do you mean, Mr. Rigby?’ said Lady Monmouth, in a lower voice, and looking him full in the face with a glance seldom bestowed.

“What do you mean, Mr. Rigby?” Lady Monmouth asked, her voice lowered as she looked him straight in the eye with a gaze she rarely gave.

There was a churlish and unusual look about Rigby. It was as if malignant, and yet at the same time a little frightened, he had screwed himself into doggedness.

There was a rude and strange look about Rigby. It was as if, while feeling somewhat malicious, he was also a bit scared, and had forced himself into stubbornness.

‘I mean what Lord Monmouth means. He suggests that if your Ladyship were to pass the summer at Kissengen, for example, and a paragraph in the Morning Post were to announce that his Lordship was about to join you there, all awkwardness would be removed; and no one could for a moment take the liberty of supposing, even if his Lordship did not ultimately reach you, that anything like a separation had occurred.’

‘I mean what Lord Monmouth is saying. He suggests that if you were to spend the summer at Kissingen, for instance, and a piece in the Morning Post announced that he was going to join you there, all awkwardness would disappear; and no one could possibly think, even if he didn’t ultimately arrive, that any kind of separation had taken place.’

‘A separation!’ said Lady Monmouth.

“A breakup!” said Lady Monmouth.

‘Quite amicable,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘I would never have consented to interfere in the affair, but to secure that most desirable point.’

‘Pretty friendly,’ said Mr. Rigby. ‘I would never have agreed to get involved in the situation, but to secure that very desirable outcome.’

‘I will see Lord Monmouth at once,’ said Lucretia, rising, her natural pallor aggravated into a ghoul-like tint.

"I'll see Lord Monmouth right away," Lucretia said, standing up, her usual pale complexion turning an eerie shade.

‘His Lordship has gone out,’ said Mr. Rigby, rather stubbornly.

‘His Lordship has stepped out,’ Mr. Rigby said, a bit stubbornly.

‘Our conversation, sir, then finishes; I wait his return.’ She bowed haughtily.

‘Our conversation, sir, is now over; I’ll wait for his return.’ She bowed arrogantly.

‘His Lordship will never return to Monmouth House again.’

‘His Lordship will never come back to Monmouth House again.’

Lucretia sprang from the sofa.

Lucretia jumped off the sofa.

‘Miserable craven!’ she exclaimed. ‘Has the cowardly tyrant fled? And he really thinks that I am to be crushed by such an instrument as this! Pah! He may leave Monmouth House, but I shall not. Begone, sir!’

‘Miserable coward!’ she exclaimed. ‘Has the spineless tyrant run away? And he really thinks I’m going to be defeated by something like this! Ugh! He can leave Monmouth House, but I won’t. Get out of here, sir!’

‘Still anxious to secure an amicable separation,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘your Ladyship must allow me to place the circumstances of the case fairly before your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth has decided upon a course: you know as well as I that he never swerves from his resolutions. He has left peremptory instructions, and he will listen to no appeal. He has empowered me to represent to your Ladyship that he wishes in every way to consider your convenience. He suggests that everything, in short, should be arranged as if his Lordship were himself unhappily no more; that your Ladyship should at once enter into your jointure, which shall be made payable quarterly to your order, provided you can find it convenient to live upon the Continent,’ added Mr. Rigby, with some hesitation.

"Still eager to ensure a friendly separation," Mr. Rigby said, "your Ladyship must allow me to present the situation clearly to your excellent judgment. Lord Monmouth has made up his mind: you know as well as I do that he never changes his mind. He has given strict instructions, and he will not accept any arguments. He has authorized me to convey to your Ladyship that he wishes to consider your convenience in every possible way. He suggests that everything should be arranged as if his Lordship were unfortunately no longer around; that your Ladyship should immediately start receiving your jointure, which will be paid quarterly to your order, provided you can manage to live on the Continent," Mr. Rigby added, with some hesitation.

‘And suppose I cannot?’

‘What if I can't?’

‘Why, then, we will leave your Ladyship to the assertion of your rights.’

‘Well then, we’ll let you assert your rights, Your Ladyship.’

‘We!’

‘I beg your Ladyship’s pardon. I speak as the friend of the family, the trustee of your marriage settlement, well known also as Lord Monmouth’s executor,’ said Mr. Rigby, his countenance gradually regaining its usual callous confidence, and some degree of self-complacency, as he remembered the good things which he enumerated.

“I apologize, Your Ladyship. I’m speaking as a family friend, the trustee of your marriage settlement, and also as Lord Monmouth’s executor,” Mr. Rigby said, his expression slowly returning to its typical unfeeling confidence, along with a bit of self-satisfaction as he recalled the favorable points he listed.

‘I have decided,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘I will assert my rights. Your master has mistaken my character and his own position. He shall rue the day that he assailed me.’

‘I have decided,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘I will stand up for my rights. Your master has misunderstood who I am and where he stands. He will regret the day he challenged me.’

‘I should be sorry if there were any violence,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘especially as everything is left to my management and control. An office, indeed, which I only accepted for your mutual advantage. I think, upon reflection, I might put before your Ladyship some considerations which might induce you, on the whole, to be of opinion that it will be better for us to draw together in this business, as we have hitherto, indeed, throughout an acquaintance now of some years.’ Rigby was assuming all his usual tone of brazen familiarity.

‘I would be sorry if there were any violence,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘especially since everything is left to my management and control. I took this position, after all, for our mutual benefit. I think, upon reflection, I might suggest some points that could make you, on balance, believe that it would be better for us to work together on this, just like we have throughout our acquaintance of several years.’ Rigby was adopting his typical tone of bold familiarity.

‘Your self-confidence exceeds even Lord Monmouth’s estimate of it,’ said Lucretia.

‘Your self-confidence is even greater than Lord Monmouth thinks it is,’ said Lucretia.

‘Now, now, you are unkind. Your Ladyship mistakes my position. I am interfering in this business for your sake. I might have refused the office. It would have fallen to another, who would have fulfilled it without any delicacy and consideration for your feelings. View my interposition in that light, my dear Lady Monmouth, and circumstances will assume altogether a new colour.’

‘Now, now, you're being unkind. Your Ladyship is misunderstanding my role. I'm getting involved in this matter for your benefit. I could have turned down the position. It would have gone to someone else, who would have handled it without any care for your feelings. See my involvement from that perspective, my dear Lady Monmouth, and the situation will take on a completely different tone.’

‘I beg that you will quit the house, sir.’

‘I ask that you leave the house, sir.’

Mr. Rigby shook his head. ‘I would with pleasure, to oblige you, were it in my power; but Lord Monmouth has particularly desired that I should take up my residence here permanently. The servants are now my servants. It is useless to ring the bell. For your Ladyship’s sake, I wish everything to be accomplished with tranquillity, and, if possible, friendliness and good feeling. You can have even a week for the preparations for your departure, if necessary. I will take that upon myself. Any carriages, too, that you desire; your jewels, at least all those that are not at the bankers’. The arrangement about your jointure, your letters of credit, even your passport, I will attend to myself; only too happy if, by this painful interference, I have in any way contributed to soften the annoyance which, at the first blush, you may naturally experience, but which, like everything else, take my word, will wear off.’

Mr. Rigby shook his head. “I would happily help you if I could, but Lord Monmouth specifically asked me to stay here permanently. The servants now work for me. It’s pointless to ring the bell. For your sake, I want everything to be settled calmly, and if possible, with friendliness and good vibes. You can take a whole week to get ready for your departure, if you need it. I’ll handle that. Any carriages you want, along with your jewelry—at least all the pieces that aren’t at the bank. I’ll take care of your jointure arrangement, your letters of credit, even your passport; I’m more than willing to help if my involvement eases the inconvenience you might initially feel, but trust me, like everything else, this will pass.”

‘I shall send for Lord Eskdale,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He is a gentleman.’

‘I’ll call for Lord Eskdale,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘He’s a gentleman.’

‘I am quite sure,’ said Mr. Rigby, ‘that Lord Eskdale will give you the same advice as myself, if he only reads your Ladyship’s letters,’ he added slowly, ‘to Prince Trautsmansdorff.’

'I am pretty sure,' said Mr. Rigby, 'that Lord Eskdale will give you the same advice as I am, if he just reads your letters to Prince Trautsmansdorff.'

‘My letters?’ said Lady Monmouth.

"My letters?" asked Lady Monmouth.

‘Pardon me,’ said Rigby, putting his hand in his pocket, as if to guard some treasure, ‘I have no wish to revive painful associations; but I have them, and I must act upon them, if you persist in treating me as a foe, who am in reality your best friend; which indeed I ought to be, having the honour of acting as trustee under your marriage settlement, and having known you so many years.’

‘Excuse me,’ said Rigby, putting his hand in his pocket, as if protecting some treasure, ‘I don’t want to bring up painful memories; but I have them, and I have to act on them if you keep treating me like an enemy, when I’m actually your best friend; which I should be, considering I have the honor of being the trustee for your marriage settlement and have known you for so many years.’

‘Leave me for the present alone,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘Send me my servant, if I have one. I shall not remain here the week which you mention, but quit at once this house, which I wish I had never entered. Adieu! Mr. Rigby, you are now lord of Monmouth House, and yet I cannot help feeling you too will be discharged before he dies.’

‘Leave me alone for now,’ said Lady Monmouth. ‘Send my servant to me, if I have one. I won’t stay here for the week you mentioned, but I’ll leave this house right away, which I wish I had never entered. Goodbye! Mr. Rigby, you are now in charge of Monmouth House, but I can’t shake the feeling that you’ll also be let go before he dies.’

Mr. Rigby made Lady Monmouth a bow such as became the master of the house, and then withdrew.

Mr. Rigby gave Lady Monmouth a bow that suited the master of the house, and then he left.

CHAPTER VII.

A paragraph in the Morning Post, a few days after his interview with his grandfather, announcing that Lord and Lady Monmouth had quitted town for the baths of Kissengen, startled Coningsby, who called the same day at Monmouth House in consequence. There he learnt more authentic details of their unexpected movements. It appeared that Lady Monmouth had certainly departed; and the porter, with a rather sceptical visage, informed Coningsby that Lord Monmouth was to follow; but when, he could not tell. At present his Lordship was at Brighton, and in a few days was about to take possession of a villa at Richmond, which had for some time been fitting up for him under the superintendence of Mr. Rigby, who, as Coningsby also learnt, now permanently resided at Monmouth House. All this intelligence made Coningsby ponder. He was sufficiently acquainted with the parties concerned to feel assured that he had not learnt the whole truth. What had really taken place, and what was the real cause of the occurrences, were equally mystical to him: all he was convinced of was, that some great domestic revolution had been suddenly effected.

A paragraph in the Morning Post, a few days after his interview with his grandfather, announced that Lord and Lady Monmouth had left town for the baths of Kissingen, surprising Coningsby, who visited Monmouth House later that day because of it. There, he found out more reliable details about their unexpected departure. It seemed that Lady Monmouth had indeed left; the porter, with a somewhat doubtful expression, told Coningsby that Lord Monmouth would follow, but he couldn’t say when. Right now, Lord Monmouth was in Brighton, and in a few days he was set to move into a villa in Richmond, which had been getting ready for him for a while under Mr. Rigby's supervision, who, as Coningsby also learned, now lived permanently at Monmouth House. All this news made Coningsby think. He was familiar enough with the people involved to be sure that he hadn’t heard the whole story. What had truly happened, and the real reasons behind it, were equally unclear to him: all he knew was that some significant domestic change had suddenly taken place.

Coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection. With the exception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experienced from Lord Monmouth nothing but kindness both in phrase and deed. There was also something in Lord Monmouth, when he pleased it, rather fascinating to young men; and as Coningsby had never occasioned him any feelings but pleasurable ones, he was always disposed to make himself delightful to his grandson. The experience of a consummate man of the world, advanced in life, detailed without rigidity to youth, with frankness and facility, is bewitching. Lord Monmouth was never garrulous: he was always pithy, and could be picturesque. He revealed a character in a sentence, and detected the ruling passion with the hand of a master. Besides, he had seen everybody and had done everything; and though, on the whole, too indolent for conversation, and loving to be talked to, these were circumstances which made his too rare communications the more precious.

Coningsby had genuine affection for his grandfather. Except for their last unfortunate meeting, Lord Monmouth had always treated him with kindness, both in words and actions. There was also something quite captivating about Lord Monmouth when he wanted to be, which appealed to young men; since Coningsby had only ever brought him joy, he was always inclined to be charming to his grandson. The insights of a seasoned man of the world, sharing his experiences with youth in an informal and open manner, were captivating. Lord Monmouth was never chatty; he was always direct and could be quite colorful. He could reveal his character in a single sentence and identify a person’s leading passion effortlessly. Plus, he had met everyone and done everything; although he was generally too laid-back for conversation and preferred to be the listener, these factors made his rare moments of communication even more valuable.

With these feelings, Coningsby resolved, the moment that he learned that his grandfather was established at Richmond, to pay him a visit. He was informed that Lord Monmouth was at home, and he was shown into a drawing-room, where he found two French ladies in their bonnets, whom he soon discovered to be actresses. They also had come down to pay a visit to his grandfather, and were by no means displeased to pass the interval that must elapse before they had that pleasure in chatting with his grandson. Coningsby found them extremely amusing; with the finest spirits in the world, imperturbable good temper, and an unconscious practical philosophy that defied the devil Care and all his works. And well it was that he found such agreeable companions, for time flowed on, and no summons arrived to call him to his grandfather’s presence, and no herald to announce his grandfather’s advent. The ladies and Coningsby had exhausted badinage; they had examined and criticised all the furniture, had rifled the vases of their prettiest flowers; and Clotilde, who had already sung several times, was proposing a duet to Ermengarde, when a servant entered, and told the ladies that a carriage was in attendance to give them an airing, and after that Lord Monmouth hoped they would return and dine with him; then turning to Coningsby, he informed him, with his lord’s compliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry he was too much engaged to see him.

With these feelings in mind, Coningsby decided that as soon as he learned his grandfather was settled in Richmond, he would pay him a visit. He was told that Lord Monmouth was at home and was shown into a drawing room, where he found two French ladies in their hats, who he quickly realized were actresses. They too had come to visit his grandfather and were quite pleased to spend the time until they could see him chatting with his grandson. Coningsby found them very entertaining; they had the best spirits, an unshakeable good nature, and an effortless practical philosophy that shrugged off any worries. And it was fortunate that he had such enjoyable company, because time went by, and there was no call for him to see his grandfather, nor any announcement of his grandfather’s arrival. The ladies and Coningsby had exhausted their playful banter; they had inspected and critiqued all the furniture, rummaged through the vases for the prettiest flowers, and Clotilde, having already sung several times, was suggesting a duet to Ermengarde when a servant came in and told the ladies that a carriage was ready to take them out for a ride, and afterward, Lord Monmouth hoped they would come back and have dinner with him; then turning to Coningsby, he conveyed, with his lordship’s compliments, that Lord Monmouth was sorry he was too busy to see him.

Nothing was to be done but to put a tolerably good face upon it. ‘Embrace Lord Monmouth for me,’ said Coningsby to his fair friends, ‘and tell him I think it very unkind that he did not ask me to dinner with you.’

Nothing could be done except to put on a good front. ‘Give my regards to Lord Monmouth,’ Coningsby said to his charming friends, ‘and tell him I find it really unkind that he didn’t invite me to dinner with you.’

Coningsby said this with a gay air, but really with a depressed spirit. He felt convinced that his grandfather was deeply displeased with him; and as he rode away from the villa, he could not resist the strong impression that he was destined never to re-enter it. Yet it was decreed otherwise. It so happened that the idle message which Coningsby had left for his grandfather, and which he never seriously supposed for a moment that his late companions would have given their host, operated entirely in his favour. Whatever were the feelings with respect to Coningsby at the bottom of Lord Monmouth’s heart, he was actuated in his refusal to see him not more from displeasure than from an anticipatory horror of something like a scene. Even a surrender from Coningsby without terms, and an offer to declare himself a candidate for Darlford, or to do anything else that his grandfather wished, would have been disagreeable to Lord Monmouth in his present mood. As in politics a revolution is often followed by a season of torpor, so in the case of Lord Monmouth the separation from his wife, which had for a long period occupied his meditation, was succeeded by a vein of mental dissipation. He did not wish to be reminded by anything or any person that he had still in some degree the misfortune of being a responsible member of society. He wanted to be surrounded by individuals who were above or below the conventional interests of what is called ‘the World.’ He wanted to hear nothing of those painful and embarrassing influences which from our contracted experience and want of enlightenment we magnify into such undue importance. For this purpose he wished to have about him persons whose knowledge of the cares of life concerned only the means of existence, and whose sense of its objects referred only to the sources of enjoyment; persons who had not been educated in the idolatry of Respectability; that is to say, of realising such an amount of what is termed character by a hypocritical deference to the prejudices of the community as may enable them, at suitable times, and under convenient circumstances and disguises, to plunder the public. This was the Monmouth Philosophy.

Coningsby said this with a cheerful attitude, but he was actually feeling down. He was sure his grandfather was really upset with him; and as he rode away from the villa, he couldn’t shake the strong feeling that he was meant to never go back. But fate had other plans. It turned out that the casual message Coningsby had left for his grandfather, which he never thought his former companions would pass on to their host, worked entirely in his favor. No matter what Lord Monmouth truly felt about Coningsby, his refusal to see him stemmed not just from displeasure but also from an anticipatory dread of a scene. Even if Coningsby gave in completely and offered to run for Darlford or do anything else his grandfather wanted, it would still annoy Lord Monmouth in his current mood. Just like a political revolution is often followed by a period of stagnation, Lord Monmouth’s separation from his wife, which he had been thinking about for a long time, was followed by a phase of mental distraction. He didn’t want to be reminded by anyone or anything that he still had the misfortune of being a responsible member of society. He wanted to be around people who were above or below the typical interests of what is known as ‘the World.’ He preferred not to hear anything about those painful and awkward pressures that, due to our limited experiences and ignorance, we tend to blow out of proportion. To achieve this, he wanted to have people around him whose understanding of life’s challenges only revolved around survival, and whose view of its goals was purely about enjoying life; people who hadn’t been raised to worship Respectability; in other words, those who had learned to cultivate a façade of respectability by hypocritically conforming to society’s biases, enabling them, when it was convenient and under the right circumstances and disguises, to exploit the public. This was the Monmouth Philosophy.

With these feelings, Lord Monmouth recoiled at this moment from grandsons and relations and ties of all kinds. He did not wish to be reminded of his identity, but to swim unmolested and undisturbed in his Epicurean dream. When, therefore, his fair visitors; Clotilde, who opened her mouth only to breathe roses and diamonds, and Ermengarde, who was so good-natured that she sacrificed even her lovers to her friends; saw him merely to exclaim at the same moment, and with the same voices of thrilling joyousness,—

With these feelings, Lord Monmouth pulled away from grandsons, relatives, and all kinds of connections. He didn’t want to be reminded of who he was; he just wanted to float peacefully in his hedonistic dream. So, when his lovely visitors Clotilde—who spoke only to breathe roses and diamonds—and Ermengarde—who was so sweet that she even sacrificed her lovers for her friends—saw him, they both exclaimed at the same time, with voices full of excitement and joy,—

‘Why did not you ask him to dinner?’

‘Why didn't you invite him to dinner?’

And then, without waiting for his reply, entered with that rapidity of elocution which Frenchwomen can alone command into the catalogue of his charms and accomplishments, Lord Monmouth began to regret that he really had not seen Coningsby, who, it appeared, might have greatly contributed to the pleasure of the day. The message, which was duly given, however, settled the business. Lord Monmouth felt that any chance of explanations, or even allusions to the past, was out of the question; and to defend himself from the accusations of his animated guests, he said,

And then, without waiting for his response, she quickly went through the list of his charms and achievements that only Frenchwomen can deliver so well. Lord Monmouth started to wish he had actually seen Coningsby, who, it seemed, could have really added to the enjoyment of the day. However, the message, which was properly delivered, put an end to that idea. Lord Monmouth realized that any chance for explanations or even references to the past was impossible; to defend himself against the claims of his lively guests, he said,

‘Well, he shall come to dine with you next time.’

‘Well, he will come to dinner with you next time.’

There is no end to the influence of woman on our life. It is at the bottom of everything that happens to us. And so it was, that, in spite of all the combinations of Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, and the mortification and resentment of Lord Monmouth, the favourable impression he casually made on a couple of French actresses occasioned Coningsby, before a month had elapsed since his memorable interview at Monmouth House, to receive an invitation again to dine with his grandfather.

There’s no limit to how much women influence our lives. They’re at the root of everything that happens to us. Despite all the schemes involving Lucretia and Mr. Rigby, along with Lord Monmouth’s frustration and anger, the positive impression he unintentionally made on a couple of French actresses led Coningsby, not long after his memorable meeting at Monmouth House, to receive another invitation to dinner with his grandfather.

The party was agreeable. Clotilde and Ermengarde had wits as sparkling as their eyes. There was a manager of the Opera, a great friend of Villebecque, and his wife, a splendid lady, who had been a prima donna of celebrity, and still had a commanding voice for a chamber; a Carlist nobleman who lived upon his traditions, and who, though without a sou, could tell of a festival given by his family, before the revolution, which had cost a million of francs; and a Neapolitan physician, in whom Lord Monmouth had great confidence, and who himself believed in the elixir vitae, made up the party, with Lucian Gay, Coningsby, and Mr. Rigby. Our hero remarked that Villebecque on this occasion sat at the bottom of the table, but Flora did not appear.

The party was enjoyable. Clotilde and Ermengarde had wit as bright as their eyes. There was a manager from the Opera, a close friend of Villebecque, and his wife, an impressive woman who had once been a famous prima donna and still had a powerful voice for a small audience; a Carlist nobleman who lived off his family's legacy and, despite being broke, could recount a lavish festival hosted by his family before the revolution that had cost a million francs; and a Neapolitan doctor, whom Lord Monmouth trusted, and who believed in the elixir vitae. They were joined by Lucian Gay, Coningsby, and Mr. Rigby. Our hero noticed that Villebecque was sitting at the end of the table this time, but Flora was not there.

In the meantime, the month which brought about this satisfactory and at one time unexpected result was fruitful also in other circumstances still more interesting. Coningsby and Edith met frequently, if to breathe the same atmosphere in the same crowded saloons can be described as meeting; ever watching each other’s movements, and yet studious never to encounter each other’s glance. The charms of Miss Millbank had become an universal topic, they were celebrated in ball-rooms, they were discussed at clubs: Edith was the beauty of the season. All admired her, many sighed even to express their admiration; but the devotion of Lord Beaumanoir, who always hovered about her, deterred them from a rivalry which might have made the boldest despair. As for Coningsby, he passed his life principally with the various members of the Sydney family, and was almost daily riding with Lady Everingham and her sister, generally accompanied by Lord Henry and his friend Eustace Lyle, between whom, indeed, and Coningsby there were relations of intimacy scarcely less inseparable. Coningsby had spoken to Lady Everingham of the rumoured marriage of her elder brother, and found, although the family had not yet been formally apprised of it, she entertained little doubt of its ultimate occurrence. She admired Miss Millbank, with whom her acquaintance continued slight; and she wished, of course, that her brother should marry and be happy. ‘But Percy is often in love,’ she would add, ‘and never likes us to be very intimate with his inamoratas. He thinks it destroys the romance; and that domestic familiarity may compromise his heroic character. However,’ she added, ‘I really believe that will be a match.’

In the meantime, the month that brought this satisfying and unexpectedly positive outcome was also busy with other even more interesting developments. Coningsby and Edith met often, if you can call sharing the same crowded spaces as really meeting; always watching each other’s movements but careful never to catch each other’s eyes. Miss Millbank's charms had become a widely talked-about topic; they were celebrated at balls and discussed in clubs: Edith was the beauty of the season. Everyone admired her, many even sighed in their admiration; but Lord Beaumanoir's devotion to her kept them from competing, which might have made even the boldest despair. As for Coningsby, he spent most of his time with the members of the Sydney family and usually rode daily with Lady Everingham and her sister, often joined by Lord Henry and his friend Eustace Lyle, with whom Coningsby had a close bond. Coningsby had mentioned the rumored marriage of Lady Everingham's older brother, and even though the family hadn’t been officially informed yet, she had little doubt it would happen. She admired Miss Millbank, with whom she had only a slight acquaintance, and naturally wished for her brother to marry and be happy. "But Percy often falls in love," she would add, "and never likes us to get too close to his girlfriends. He thinks it ruins the romance and that being too familiar could compromise his heroic image. Still," she added, "I truly believe that will be a match."

On the whole, though he bore a serene aspect to the world, Coningsby passed this month in a state of restless misery. His soul was brooding on one subject, and he had no confidant: he could not resist the spell that impelled him to the society where Edith might at least be seen, and the circle in which he lived was one in which her name was frequently mentioned. Alone, in his solitary rooms in the Albany, he felt all his desolation; and often a few minutes before he figured in the world, apparently followed and courted by all, he had been plunged in the darkest fits of irremediable wretchedness.

On the whole, even though he seemed calm on the outside, Coningsby spent this month in a state of constant misery. His mind was consumed with one thought, and he had no one to confide in: he couldn't resist the pull that drew him to the places where he might at least catch a glimpse of Edith, and the people around him often talked about her. Alone in his quiet rooms in the Albany, he felt his loneliness deeply; and often just minutes before he appeared in public, seemingly sought after by everyone, he had been overwhelmed by the darkest moments of hopeless despair.

He had, of course, frequently met Lady Wallinger, but their salutations, though never omitted, and on each side cordial, were brief. There seemed to be a tacit understanding between them not to refer to a subject fruitful in painful reminiscences.

He had, of course, often met Lady Wallinger, but their greetings, while always cordial and never missed, were short. It felt like there was an unspoken agreement between them not to bring up a topic that would lead to painful memories.

The season waned. In the fulfilment of a project originally formed in the playing-fields of Eton, often recurred to at Cambridge, and cherished with the fondness with which men cling to a scheme of early youth, Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Vere, and Buckhurst had engaged some moors together this year; and in a few days they were about to quit town for Scotland. They had pressed Eustace Lyle to accompany them, but he, who in general seemed to have no pleasure greater than their society, had surprised them by declining their invitation, with some vague mention that he rather thought he should go abroad.

The season was coming to an end. As part of a project that originally started in the playing fields of Eton, often revisited at Cambridge, and cherished like a dream from their youth, Coningsby, Henry Sydney, Vere, and Buckhurst had booked some moors together this year; and in a few days they were set to leave town for Scotland. They had invited Eustace Lyle to join them, but he, who usually seemed to enjoy their company more than anything else, surprised them by turning down their invitation, vaguely saying that he was thinking about going abroad instead.

It was the last day of July, and all the world were at a breakfast given, at a fanciful cottage situate in beautiful gardens on the banks of the Thames, by Lady Everingham. The weather was as bright as the romances of Boccaccio; there were pyramids of strawberries, in bowls colossal enough to hold orange-trees; and the choicest band filled the air with enchanting strains, while a brilliant multitude sauntered on turf like velvet, or roamed in desultory existence amid the quivering shades of winding walks.

It was the last day of July, and everyone was at a breakfast hosted by Lady Everingham at a charming cottage set in beautiful gardens along the Thames. The weather was as bright as the stories of Boccaccio; there were heaps of strawberries in bowls large enough to hold orange trees, and the best band filled the air with beautiful music while a lively crowd strolled on grass like velvet or wandered aimlessly in the shimmering shadows of winding paths.

‘My fête was prophetic,’ said Lady Everingham, when she saw Coningsby. ‘I am glad it is connected with an incident. It gives it a point.’

‘My party was prophetic,’ said Lady Everingham when she saw Coningsby. ‘I’m glad it’s linked to an incident. It gives it a point.’

‘You are mystical as well as prophetic. Tell me what we are to celebrate.’

‘You are both mystical and prophetic. Tell me what we should celebrate.’

‘Theresa is going to be married.’

‘Theresa is getting hitched.’

‘Then I, too, will prophesy, and name the hero of the romance, Eustace Lyle.’

‘Then I will also prophesy and name the hero of the story, Eustace Lyle.’

‘You have been more prescient than I,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘perhaps because I was thinking too much of some one else.’

‘You’ve been more perceptive than I have,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘maybe because I was focused too much on someone else.’

‘It seems to me an union which all must acknowledge perfect. I hardly know which I love best. I have had my suspicions a long time; and when Eustace refused to go to the moors with us, though I said nothing, I was convinced.’

‘It seems to me a union that everyone must agree is perfect. I can hardly tell which I love more. I've had my doubts for a while now, and when Eustace declined to join us on the moors, even though I said nothing, I was convinced.’

‘At any rate,’ said Lady Everingham, sighing, with a rather smiling face, ‘we are kinsfolk, Mr. Coningsby; though I would gladly have wished to have been more.’

“At any rate,” said Lady Everingham, sighing but with a somewhat smiling face, “we’re family, Mr. Coningsby; although I would have happily wished it were more.”

‘Were those your thoughts, dear lady? Ever kind to me! Happiness,’ he added, in a mournful tone, ‘I fear can never be mine.’

‘Were those your thoughts, dear lady? Always so kind to me! Happiness,’ he added, in a sad tone, ‘I’m afraid can never be mine.’

‘And why?’

'But why?'

‘Ah! ‘tis a tale too strange and sorrowful for a day when, like Seged, we must all determine to be happy.’

‘Ah! It’s a story too strange and sad for a day when, like Seged, we must all decide to be happy.’

‘You have already made me miserable.’

'You've already made me sad.'

‘Here comes a group that will make you gay,’ said Coningsby as he moved on. Edith and the Wallingers, accompanied by Lord Beaumanoir, Mr. Melton, and Sir Charles Buckhurst, formed the party. They seemed profuse in their congratulations to Lady Everingham, having already learnt the intelligence from her brother.

‘Here comes a group that will make you happy,’ said Coningsby as he walked on. Edith and the Wallingers, along with Lord Beaumanoir, Mr. Melton, and Sir Charles Buckhurst, made up the party. They appeared to be overflowing with their congratulations to Lady Everingham, having already heard the news from her brother.

Coningsby stopped to speak to Lady St. Julians, who had still a daughter to marry. Both Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and Clara Isabella, who ought to have been there, had each secured the right man. But Adelaide Victoria had now appeared, and Lady St. Julians had a great regard for the favourite grandson of Lord Monmouth, and also for the influential friend of Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. In case Coningsby did not determine to become her son-in-law himself, he might counsel either of his friends to a judicious decision on an inevitable act.

Coningsby paused to talk to Lady St. Julians, who still needed to marry off her daughter. Both Augustina, who was at Coningsby Castle, and Clara Isabella, who should have been there, had each found the right match. But now Adelaide Victoria had shown up, and Lady St. Julians held a high regard for the favorite grandson of Lord Monmouth, as well as for the influential allies of Lord Vere and Sir Charles Buckhurst. If Coningsby didn’t decide to become her son-in-law himself, he could advise either of his friends on making a smart choice about this unavoidable situation.

‘Strawberries and cream?’ said Lord Eskdale to Mr. Ormsby, who seemed occupied with some delicacies.

‘Strawberries and cream?’ Lord Eskdale asked Mr. Ormsby, who appeared to be focused on some treats.

‘Egad! no, no, no; those days are passed. I think there is a little easterly wind with all this fine appearance.’

‘Oh no, no, no; those days are over. I think there’s a slight easterly wind with all this nice weather.’

‘I am for in-door nature myself,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘Do you know, I do not half like the way Monmouth is going on? He never gets out of that villa of his. He should change his air more. Tell him.’

‘I prefer staying indoors in nature,’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘You know, I really don’t like how Monmouth is acting? He never leaves that villa of his. He should get some fresh air more often. Tell him.’

‘It is no use telling him anything. Have you heard anything of Miladi?’

‘It’s pointless to tell him anything. Have you heard anything about Milady?’

‘I had a letter from her to-day: she writes in good spirits. I am sorry it broke up, and yet I never thought it would last so long.’

‘I got a letter from her today: she sounds in good spirits. I’m sorry it fell apart, but I never thought it would last this long.’

‘I gave them two years,’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘Lord Monmouth lived with his first wife two years. And afterwards with the Mirandola at Milan, at least nearly two years; it was a year and ten months. I must know, for he called me in to settle affairs. I took the lady to the baths at Lucca, on the pretence that Monmouth would meet us there. He went to Paris. All his great affairs have been two years. I remember I wanted to bet Cassilis, at White’s, on it when he married; but I thought, being his intimate friend; the oldest friend he has, indeed, and one of his trustees; it was perhaps as well not to do it.’

‘I gave them two years,’ said Mr. Ormsby. ‘Lord Monmouth was with his first wife for two years. Then, he was with the Mirandola in Milan for nearly two years; it was a year and ten months. I know this because he brought me in to help settle things. I took the lady to the baths at Lucca, claiming that Monmouth would meet us there. Instead, he went to Paris. All his major relationships have lasted about two years. I remember I wanted to bet Cassilis at White’s on it when he got married; but I thought, since I’m his close friend—the oldest friend he has, actually, and one of his trustees—it was probably better not to do that.’

‘You should have made the bet with himself,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘and then there never would have been a separation.’

‘You should have made the bet with yourself,’ said Lord Eskdale, ‘and then there would never have been a separation.’

‘Hah, hah, hah! Do you know, I feel the wind?’

‘Haha, haha, haha! Do you know, I can feel the wind?’

About an hour after this, Coningsby, who had just quitted the Duchess, met, on a terrace by the river, Lady Wallinger, walking with Mrs. Guy Flouncey and a Russian Prince, whom that lady was enchanting. Coningsby was about to pass with some slight courtesy, but Lady Wallinger stopped and would speak to him, on slight subjects, the weather and the fête, but yet adroitly enough managed to make him turn and join her. Mrs. Guy Flouncey walked on a little before with her Russian admirer. Lady Wallinger followed with Coningsby.

About an hour later, Coningsby, who had just left the Duchess, ran into Lady Wallinger on a terrace by the river. She was walking with Mrs. Guy Flouncey and a Russian Prince, who was clearly charmed by her. Coningsby was about to pass by with a polite nod, but Lady Wallinger stopped him to chat about light topics like the weather and the fête. She skillfully made him turn and join her. Mrs. Guy Flouncey walked ahead a bit with her Russian admirer while Lady Wallinger continued with Coningsby.

‘The match that has been proclaimed to-day has greatly surprised me,’ said Lady Wallinger.

‘The match that’s been announced today has really surprised me,’ said Lady Wallinger.

‘Indeed!’ said Coningsby: ‘I confess I was long prepared for it. And it seems to me the most natural alliance conceivable, and one that every one must approve.’

‘Absolutely!’ Coningsby said: ‘I admit I was ready for it for a while. It seems to me like the most natural partnership imaginable, and one that everyone should support.’

‘Lady Everingham seems much surprised at it.’

‘Lady Everingham appears to be quite surprised by it.’

‘Ah! Lady Everingham is a brilliant personage, and cannot deign to observe obvious circumstances.’

‘Ah! Lady Everingham is a remarkable person and doesn’t bother to notice the obvious.’

‘Do you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you were engaged to Lady Theresa?’

"Did you know, Mr. Coningsby, that I always thought you were with Lady Theresa?"

‘I!’

‘Indeed, we were informed more than a month ago that you were positively going to be married to her.’

‘We were told over a month ago that you were definitely going to marry her.’

‘I am not one of those who can shift their affections with such rapidity, Lady Wallinger.’

‘I am not someone who can change my feelings so quickly, Lady Wallinger.’

Lady Wallinger looked distressed. ‘You remember our meeting you on the stairs at —— House, Mr. Coningsby?’

Lady Wallinger looked upset. ‘Do you remember running into us on the stairs at —— House, Mr. Coningsby?’

‘Painfully. It is deeply graven on my brain.’

‘It hurts. It’s etched in my mind.’

‘Edith had just been informed that you were going to be married to Lady Theresa.’

‘Edith just found out that you’re going to marry Lady Theresa.’

‘Not surely by him to whom she is herself going to be married?’ said Coningsby, reddening.

“Not to the guy she’s actually going to marry?” Coningsby said, blushing.

‘I am not aware that she is going to be married to any one. Lord Beaumanoir admires her, has always admired her. But Edith has given him no encouragement, at least gave him no encouragement as long as she believed; but why dwell on such an unhappy subject, Mr. Coningsby? I am to blame; I have been to blame perhaps before, but indeed I think it cruel, very cruel, that Edith and you are kept asunder.’

‘I’m not aware that she’s going to marry anyone. Lord Beaumanoir admires her; he always has. But Edith hasn’t encouraged him, at least she didn’t when she believed; but why focus on such an unhappy topic, Mr. Coningsby? I’m at fault; I’ve probably been at fault before, but I really think it’s cruel, very cruel, that Edith and you are kept apart.’

‘You have always been my best, my dearest friend, and are the most amiable and admirable of women. But tell me, is it indeed true that Edith is not going to be married?’

‘You have always been my closest, dearest friend, and you are the kindest and most admirable woman. But tell me, is it really true that Edith isn’t going to get married?’

At this moment Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned round, and assuring Lady Wallinger that the Prince and herself had agreed to refer some point to her about the most transcendental ethics of flirtation, this deeply interesting conversation was arrested, and Lady Wallinger, with becoming suavity, was obliged to listen to the lady’s lively appeal of exaggerated nonsense and the Prince’s affected protests, while Coningsby walked by her side, pale and agitated, and then offered his arm to Lady Wallinger, which she accepted with an affectionate pressure. At the end of the terrace they met some other guests, and soon were immersed in the multitude that thronged the lawn.

At that moment, Mrs. Guy Flouncey turned around and assured Lady Wallinger that she and the Prince had agreed to ask her about the most profound ethics of flirting. This fascinating conversation was interrupted, and Lady Wallinger, maintaining her composure, had to listen to the woman's lively appeal filled with exaggerated nonsense and the Prince's affected protests. Meanwhile, Coningsby walked beside her, looking pale and anxious, before he offered his arm to Lady Wallinger, who accepted it with a warm squeeze. At the end of the terrace, they ran into some other guests and soon became part of the crowd that filled the lawn.

‘There is Sir Joseph,’ said Lady Wallinger, and Coningsby looked up, and saw Edith on his arm. They were unconsciously approaching them. Lord Beaumanoir was there, but he seemed to shrink into nothing to-day before Buckhurst, who was captivated for the moment by Edith, and hearing that no knight was resolute enough to try a fall with the Marquess, was impelled by his talent for action to enter the lists. He had talked down everybody, unhorsed every cavalier. Nobody had a chance against him: he answered all your questions before you asked them; contradicted everybody with the intrepidity of a Rigby; annihilated your anecdotes by historiettes infinitely more piquant; and if anybody chanced to make a joke which he could not excel, declared immediately that it was a Joe Miller. He was absurd, extravagant, grotesque, noisy; but he was young, rattling, and interesting, from his health and spirits. Edith was extremely amused by him, and was encouraging by her smile his spiritual excesses, when they all suddenly met Lady Wallinger and Coningsby.

‘There's Sir Joseph,’ said Lady Wallinger, and Coningsby looked up and saw Edith on his arm. They were unintentionally getting closer to them. Lord Beaumanoir was there, but today he seemed to fade away next to Buckhurst, who was momentarily taken in by Edith. Hearing that no knight was brave enough to take on the Marquess, he was spurred by his knack for action to step into the fray. He had outshone everyone, unseating every knight. Nobody stood a chance against him: he answered your questions before you could even ask them; contradicted everyone with the boldness of a Rigby; crushed your stories with ones that were way more entertaining; and if anyone happened to make a joke he couldn’t top, he immediately declared it a Joe Miller. He was ridiculous, over-the-top, absurd, loud; but he was young, lively, and intriguing, thanks to his health and energy. Edith found him extremely amusing and was encouraging his outrageousness with her smile when they all suddenly bumped into Lady Wallinger and Coningsby.

The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since they so cruelly encountered on the staircase of —— House. A deep, quick blush suffused her face, her eyes gleamed with a sudden coruscation; suddenly and quickly she put forth her hand.

The eyes of Edith and Coningsby met for the first time since their harsh encounter on the staircase of —— House. A deep, quick blush spread across her face, and her eyes sparkled with a sudden brilliance; in an instant, she reached out her hand.

Yes! he presses once more that hand which permanently to retain is the passion of his life, yet which may never be his! It seemed that for the ravishing delight of that moment he could have borne with cheerfulness all the dark and harrowing misery of the year that had passed away since he embraced her in the woods of Hellingsley, and pledged his faith by the waters of the rushing Darl.

Yes! he holds that hand once more, which is the passion of his life but may never truly be his! In that moment of pure joy, it felt like he could cheerfully endure all the dark and painful misery of the past year since he embraced her in the woods of Hellingsley and pledged his faith by the rushing waters of the Darl.

He seized the occasion which offered itself, a moment to walk by her side, and to snatch some brief instants of unreserved communion.

He took the chance that arose, a moment to walk beside her, and to grab some quick moments of open connection.

‘Forgive me!’ she said.

"Sorry!" she said.

‘Ah! how could you ever doubt me?’ said Coningsby.

‘Oh! how could you ever doubt me?’ said Coningsby.

‘I was unhappy.’

“I was not happy.”

‘And now we are to each other as before?’

‘So, are we back to how we were before?’

‘And will be, come what come may.’

'And will be, no matter what happens.'

END OF BOOK VIII.

BOOK IX.

CHAPTER I.

It was merry Christmas at St. Geneviève. There was a yule log blazing on every hearth in that wide domain, from the hall of the squire to the peasant’s roof. The Buttery Hatch was open for the whole week from noon to sunset; all comers might take their fill, and each carry away as much bold beef, white bread, and jolly ale as a strong man could bear in a basket with one hand. For every woman a red cloak, and a coat of broadcloth for every man. All day long, carts laden with fuel and warm raiment were traversing the various districts, distributing comfort and dispensing cheer. For a Christian gentleman of high degree was Eustace Lyle.

It was a joyful Christmas at St. Geneviève. There was a yule log burning on every fireplace across the estate, from the squire's hall to the peasant's home. The Buttery Hatch was open all week from noon to sunset; anyone could come and take as much bold beef, white bread, and great ale as a strong person could carry in a basket with one hand. Every woman received a red cloak, and every man got a coat made of broadcloth. All day long, carts filled with fuel and warm clothing were traveling through the different areas, bringing comfort and spreading joy. Eustace Lyle was a Christian gentleman of high status.

Within his hall, too, he holds his revel, and his beauteous bride welcomes their guests, from her noble parents to the faithful tenants of the house. All classes are mingled in the joyous equality that becomes the season, at once sacred and merry. There are carols for the eventful eve, and mummers for the festive day.

Within his hall, he throws a party, and his beautiful bride welcomes their guests, from her esteemed parents to the loyal tenants of the estate. All classes mix in the joyful equality that fits the season, which is both holy and cheerful. There are carols for the memorable evening and performers for the festive day.

The Duke and Duchess, and every member of the family, had consented this year to keep their Christmas with the newly-married couple. Coningsby, too, was there, and all his friends. The party was numerous, gay, hearty, and happy; for they were all united by sympathy.

The Duke and Duchess, along with every family member, had agreed to spend Christmas this year with the newly married couple. Coningsby was also there, along with all his friends. The gathering was large, cheerful, lively, and joyful; they were all connected by a sense of togetherness.

They were planning that Henry Sydney should be appointed Lord of Misrule, or ordained Abbot of Unreason at the least, so successful had been his revival of the Mummers, the Hobby-horse not forgotten. Their host had entrusted to Lord Henry the restoration of many old observances; and the joyous feeling which this celebration of Christmas had diffused throughout an extensive district was a fresh argument in favour of Lord Henry’s principle, that a mere mechanical mitigation of the material necessities of the humbler classes, a mitigation which must inevitably be limited, can never alone avail sufficiently to ameliorate their condition; that their condition is not merely ‘a knife and fork question,’ to use the coarse and shallow phrase of the Utilitarian school; that a simple satisfaction of the grosser necessities of our nature will not make a happy people; that you must cultivate the heart as well as seek to content the belly; and that the surest means to elevate the character of the people is to appeal to their affections.

They were planning for Henry Sydney to be appointed Lord of Misrule, or at least become the Abbot of Unreason, given how successfully he had revived the Mummers, with the Hobby-horse not forgotten. Their host had given Lord Henry the task of restoring many old traditions; and the joyful atmosphere created by this Christmas celebration had spread throughout a large area, strengthening Lord Henry’s belief that simply addressing the material needs of lower classes—an effort that must always be limited—can never truly improve their situation. Their condition isn’t just a “knife and fork question,” as the blunt and superficial expression of the Utilitarian school puts it. Merely meeting our basic needs won’t create a happy society; we need to nurture the heart as well as satisfy the stomach, and the best way to uplift the character of the people is to connect with their emotions.

There is nothing more interesting than to trace predisposition. An indefinite, yet strong sympathy with the peasantry of the realm had been one of the characteristic sensibilities of Lord Henry at Eton. Yet a schoolboy, he had busied himself with their pastimes and the details of their cottage economy. As he advanced in life the horizon of his views expanded with his intelligence and his experience; and the son of one of the noblest of our houses, to whom the delights of life are offered with fatal facility, on the very threshold of his career he devoted his time and thought, labour and life, to one vast and noble purpose, the elevation of the condition of the great body of the people.

There’s nothing more intriguing than exploring someone’s predispositions. A vague but strong connection with the peasantry of the land had been one of Lord Henry's defining traits at Eton. Even as a schoolboy, he engaged with their activities and the details of their daily lives. As he grew older, his perspective broadened along with his intellect and experiences; and the son of one of the most distinguished families, where the pleasures of life come easily, chose at the very start of his journey to invest his time, thought, effort, and life into a single, noble goal: improving the living conditions of the general populace.

‘I vote for Buckhurst being Lord of Misrule,’ said Lord Henry: ‘I will be content with being his gentleman usher.’

‘I vote for Buckhurst to be Lord of Misrule,’ said Lord Henry. ‘I’ll be happy to be his gentleman usher.’

‘It shall be put to the vote,’ said Lord Vere.

‘It will be put to a vote,’ said Lord Vere.

‘No one has a chance against Buckhurst,’ said Coningsby.

‘No one stands a chance against Buckhurst,’ said Coningsby.

‘Now, Sir Charles,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘your absolute sway is about to commence. And what is your will?’

‘Now, Sir Charles,’ said Lady Everingham, ‘your complete control is about to begin. What do you want?’

‘The first thing must be my formal installation,’ said Buckhurst. ‘I vote the Boar’s head be carried in procession thrice round the hall, and Beau shall be the champion to challenge all who may question my right. Duke, you shall be my chief butler, the Duchess my herb-woman. She is to walk before me, and scatter rosemary. Coningsby shall carry the Boar’s head; Lady Theresa and Lady Everingham shall sing the canticle; Lord Everingham shall be marshal of the lists, and put all in the stocks who are found sober and decorous; Lyle shall be the palmer from the Holy Land, and Vere shall ride the Hobby-horse. Some must carry cups of Hippocras, some lighted tapers; all must join in chorus.’

‘The first thing has to be my official installation,’ said Buckhurst. ‘I propose we carry the Boar’s head in a procession three times around the hall, with Beau as the champion to challenge anyone who questions my right. Duke, you’ll be my chief butler, and the Duchess will be my herb-woman. She is to walk ahead of me and scatter rosemary. Coningsby will carry the Boar’s head; Lady Theresa and Lady Everingham will sing the canticle; Lord Everingham will be the marshal of the lists and put anyone who is found sober and proper in the stocks; Lyle will be the palmer from the Holy Land, and Vere will ride the Hobby-horse. Some people need to carry cups of Hippocras, some will hold lighted candles; everyone must join in the chorus.’

He ceased his instructions, and all hurried away to carry them into effect. Some hastily arrayed themselves in fanciful dresses, the ladies in robes of white, with garlands of flowers; some drew pieces of armour from the wall, and decked themselves with helm and hauberk; others waved ancient banners. They brought in the Boar’s head on a large silver dish, and Coningsby raised it aloft. They formed into procession, the Duchess distributing rosemary; Buckhurst swaggering with all the majesty of Tamerlane, his mock court irresistibly humorous with their servility; and the sweet voice of Lady Everingham chanting the first verse of the canticle, followed in the second by the rich tones of Lady Theresa:

He stopped giving instructions, and everyone rushed off to put them into action. Some quickly put on fancy costumes, the women wearing white gowns and flower crowns; others took armor from the wall and adorned themselves with helmets and chainmail; some waved old banners. They brought in the boar's head on a large silver platter, and Coningsby held it up high. They formed a procession, with the Duchess handing out rosemary; Buckhurst strutted around with all the grandeur of Tamerlane, his mock court humorously obedient; and Lady Everingham's sweet voice sang the first verse of the song, followed by the rich tones of Lady Theresa in the second:

  I.
        Caput Apri defero
        Reddens laudes Domino.
  The Boar’s heade in hande bring I,
  With garlandes gay and rosemary:
  I pray you all singe merrily,
        Qui estis in convivio.

  II.
        Caput Apri defero
        Reddens laudes Domino.
  The Boar’s heade I understande
  Is the chief servyce in this lande
  Loke whereever it be fande,
        Servite cum cantico.

  I.  
        Caput Apri defero  
        Reddens laudes Domino.  
  I'm bringing in the boar's head,  
  With colorful garlands and rosemary:  
  I ask you all to sing cheerfully,  
        You who are at the feast.  

  II.  
        Caput Apri defero  
        Reddens laudes Domino.  
  The boar's head I know  
  Is the main dish in this land  
  Wherever it’s found,  
        Served with song.

The procession thrice paraded the hall. Then they stopped; and the Lord of Misrule ascended his throne, and his courtiers formed round him in circle. Behind him they held the ancient banners and waved their glittering arms, and placed on a lofty and illuminated pedestal the Boar’s head covered with garlands. It was a good picture, and the Lord of Misrule sustained his part with untiring energy. He was addressing his court in a pompous rhapsody of merry nonsense, when a servant approached Coningsby, and told him that he was wanted without.

The procession marched around the hall three times. Then they stopped, and the Lord of Misrule took his throne, with his courtiers surrounding him in a circle. Behind him, they held up the old banners and waved their shiny arms, placing the Boar’s head, adorned with garlands, on a tall, lit pedestal. It was a striking scene, and the Lord of Misrule played his role with endless enthusiasm. He was addressing his court in an extravagant speech of cheerful nonsense when a servant came up to Coningsby and said he was needed outside.

Our hero retired unperceived. A despatch had arrived for him from London. Without any prescience of its purpose, he nevertheless broke the seal with a trembling hand. His presence was immediately desired in town: Lord Monmouth was dead.

Our hero retired unnoticed. A message had arrived for him from London. Without any sense of its purpose, he still broke the seal with a shaking hand. He was urgently needed in town: Lord Monmouth had died.

CHAPTER II.

This was a crisis in the life of Coningsby; yet, like many critical epochs, the person most interested in it was not sufficiently aware of its character. The first feeling which he experienced at the intelligence was sincere affliction. He was fond of his grandfather; had received great kindness from him, and at a period of life when it was most welcome. The neglect and hardships of his early years, instead of leaving a prejudice against one who, by some, might be esteemed their author, had by their contrast only rendered Coningsby more keenly sensible of the solicitude and enjoyment which had been lavished on his happy youth.

This was a turning point in Coningsby’s life; however, like many crucial moments, the person most affected by it didn’t fully realize its significance. His initial reaction to the news was genuine sorrow. He cared for his grandfather and had received a lot of kindness from him during a time in his life when it was most appreciated. The neglect and struggles of his early years, instead of creating resentment towards someone who some might consider responsible, only made Coningsby more aware of the care and joy that had been given to him in his fortunate youth.

The next impression on his mind was undoubtedly a natural and reasonable speculation on the effect of this bereavement on his fortunes. Lord Monmouth had more than once assured Coningsby that he had provided for him as became a near relative to whom he was attached, and in a manner which ought to satisfy the wants and wishes of an English gentleman. The allowance which Lord Monmouth had made him, as considerable as usually accorded to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, might justify him in estimating his future patrimony as extremely ample. He was aware, indeed, that at a subsequent period his grandfather had projected for him fortunes of a still more elevated character. He looked to Coningsby as the future representative of an ancient barony, and had been purchasing territory with the view of supporting the title. But Coningsby did not by any means firmly reckon on these views being realised. He had a suspicion that in thwarting the wishes of his grandfather in not becoming a candidate for Darlford, he had at the moment arrested arrangements which, from the tone of Lord Monmouth’s communication, he believed were then in progress for that purpose; and he thought it improbable, with his knowledge of his grandfather’s habits, that Lord Monmouth had found either time or inclination to resume before his decease the completion of these plans. Indeed there was a period when, in adopting the course which he pursued with respect to Darlford, Coningsby was well aware that he perilled more than the large fortune which was to accompany the barony. Had not a separation between Lord Monmouth and his wife taken place simultaneously with Coningsby’s difference with his grandfather, he was conscious that the consequences might have been even altogether fatal to his prospects; but the absence of her evil influence at such a conjuncture, its permanent removal, indeed, from the scene, coupled with his fortunate though not formal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long ago banished from his memory all those apprehensions to which he had felt it impossible at the time to shut his eyes. Before he left town for Scotland he had made a farewell visit to his grandfather, who, though not as cordial as in old days, had been gracious; and Coningsby, during his excursion to the moors, and his various visits to the country, had continued at intervals to write to his grandfather, as had been for some years his custom. On the whole, with an indefinite feeling which, in spite of many a rational effort, did nevertheless haunt his mind, that this great and sudden event might exercise a vast and beneficial influence on his worldly position, Coningsby could not but feel some consolation in the affliction which he sincerely experienced, in the hope that he might at all events now offer to Edith a home worthy of her charms, her virtues, and her love.

The next thought that crossed his mind was a completely natural and reasonable speculation about how this loss would affect his future. Lord Monmouth had reassured Coningsby multiple times that he had set things up for him as a close relative, in a way that should meet the needs and desires of an English gentleman. The allowance Lord Monmouth had arranged for him, which was substantial, like what is typically given to the eldest sons of wealthy peers, made him feel justified in considering his future inheritance to be quite large. He was also aware that later on, his grandfather had planned for him an even more significant fortune. His grandfather viewed Coningsby as the future heir to an old barony and had been buying land to support the title. However, Coningsby didn't completely rely on these expectations being fulfilled. He suspected that by going against his grandfather's wishes and not running for Darlford, he had interrupted arrangements that, based on the tone of Lord Monmouth’s earlier communication, were likely underway at that time; and he doubted that, knowing his grandfather's habits, Lord Monmouth had both the time and inclination to finalize these plans before his death. In fact, there was a time when, by taking the path he did regarding Darlford, Coningsby knew he was risking more than just the sizable fortune that would come with the barony. Had there not been a separation between Lord Monmouth and his wife coinciding with Coningsby’s disagreement with his grandfather, he realized the outcome could have been much worse for his future; but the absence of her negative influence during that critical time—and her permanent removal—along with his fortunate but informal reconciliation with Lord Monmouth, had long since erased from his mind all the worries he had felt impossible to ignore at the time. Before he left town for Scotland, he made a farewell visit to his grandfather, who, although not as warm as in the past, had been polite; and during his trip to the moors and various country visits, he continued to write to his grandfather as had been his custom for several years. Overall, even with an undefined feeling that, despite many logical attempts to dismiss it, lingered in his mind that this major and sudden event might have a significant and positive impact on his situation, Coningsby found some comfort in the grief he genuinely felt, with the hope that he might now be able to offer Edith a home that matched her beauty, her virtues, and her love.

Although he had not seen her since their hurried yet sweet reconciliation in the gardens of Lady Everingham, Coningsby was never long without indirect intelligence of the incidents of her life; and the correspondence between Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney, while they were at the moors, had apprised him that Lord Beaumanoir’s suit had terminated unsuccessfully almost immediately after his brother had quitted London.

Although he hadn't seen her since their quick but lovely reconciliation in Lady Everingham's gardens, Coningsby was never far from hearing about what was happening in her life. The letters exchanged between Lady Everingham and Henry Sydney while they were at the moors had informed him that Lord Beaumanoir's pursuit ended badly almost right after his brother left London.

It was late in the evening when Coningsby arrived in town: he called at once on Lord Eskdale, who was one of Lord Monmouth’s executors; and he persuaded Coningsby, whom he saw depressed, to dine with him alone.

It was late in the evening when Coningsby got to town; he immediately visited Lord Eskdale, one of Lord Monmouth’s executors, who convinced Coningsby, seeing that he was feeling down, to have dinner with him alone.

‘You should not be seen at a club,’ said the good-natured peer; ‘and I remember myself in old days what was the wealth of an Albanian larder.’

‘You shouldn't be spotted at a club,’ said the friendly noble; ‘and I remember back in the day what an Albanian pantry was like.’

Lord Eskdale, at dinner, talked frankly of the disposition of Lord Monmouth’s property. He spoke as a matter of course that Coningsby was his grandfather’s principal heir.

Lord Eskdale, at dinner, spoke openly about how Lord Monmouth’s property would be managed. He mentioned casually that Coningsby was his grandfather’s main heir.

‘I don’t know whether you will be happier with a large fortune?’ said Lord Eskdale. ‘It is a troublesome thing: nobody is satisfied with what you do with it; very often not yourself. To maintain an equable expenditure; not to spend too much on one thing, too little on another, is an art. There must be a harmony, a keeping, in disbursement, which very few men have. Great wealth wearies. The thing to have is about ten thousand a year, and the world to think you have only five. There is some enjoyment then; one is let alone. But the instant you have a large fortune, duties commence. And then impudent fellows borrow your money; and if you ask them for it again, they go about town saying you are a screw.’

"I’m not sure if having a lot of money will actually make you happier," said Lord Eskdale. "It's a tricky situation: nobody is ever satisfied with how you spend it; often not even yourself. It takes skill to keep your spending balanced; you can't go overboard on one thing and neglect another. There needs to be a rhythm and consistency in your spending, which very few people manage. Huge wealth can be exhausting. The ideal is to have around ten thousand a year while making the world think you only have five. That way, you can enjoy some peace and quiet. But as soon as you come into a large fortune, responsibilities kick in. Then obnoxious people start to ask to borrow your money, and if you ask for it back, they go around town saying you're stingy."

Lord Monmouth had died suddenly at his Richmond villa, which latterly he never quitted, at a little supper, with no persons near him but those who were amusing. He suddenly found he could not lift his glass to his lips, and being extremely polite, waited a few minutes before he asked Clotilde, who was singing a sparkling drinking-song, to do him that service. When, in accordance with his request, she reached him, it was too late. The ladies shrieked, being frightened: at first they were in despair, but, after reflection, they evinced some intention of plundering the house. Villebecque, who was absent at the moment, arrived in time; and everybody became orderly and broken-hearted.

Lord Monmouth had suddenly died at his villa in Richmond, where he had been staying recently without leaving. During a small evening get-together, with only entertaining company around, he realized he couldn’t lift his glass to his lips. Being very polite, he waited a few minutes before asking Clotilde, who was singing a lively drinking song, to help him with that. When she finally reached him as he requested, it was too late. The ladies screamed in fear; at first, they were devastated, but after some thought, they showed signs of wanting to loot the house. Villebecque, who had been away at that moment, returned just in time, and everyone settled down, feeling heartbroken.

The body had been removed to Monmouth House, where it had been embalmed and laid in state. The funeral was not numerously attended. There was nobody in town; some distinguished connections, however, came up from the country, though it was a period inconvenient for such movements. After the funeral, the will was to be read in the principal saloon of Monmouth House, one of those gorgeous apartments that had excited the boyish wonder of Coningsby on his first visit to that paternal roof, and now hung in black, adorned with the escutcheon of the deceased peer.

The body had been taken to Monmouth House, where it was embalmed and laid out for viewing. The funeral didn't have many attendees. There was hardly anyone in town; however, some distinguished relatives made the trip from the countryside, even though it was a tough time for such travel. After the funeral, the will was set to be read in the main salon of Monmouth House, one of those stunning rooms that had amazed Coningsby as a boy during his first visit to that family home, and it was now draped in black, decorated with the coat of arms of the deceased nobleman.

The testamentary dispositions of the late lord were still unknown, though the names of his executors had been announced by his family solicitor, in whose custody the will and codicils had always remained. The executors under the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. By a subsequent appointment Sidonia had been added. All these individuals were now present. Coningsby, who had been chief mourner, stood on the right hand of the solicitor, who sat at the end of a long table, round which, in groups, were ranged all who had attended the funeral, including several of the superior members of the household, among them M. Villebecque.

The will of the late lord was still a mystery, although his family lawyer had announced who the executors were. The will and its amendments had always been in the lawyer's possession. The executors named in the will were Lord Eskdale, Mr. Ormsby, and Mr. Rigby. Later, Sidonia was appointed as well. All of these individuals were present now. Coningsby, who had been the chief mourner, stood to the right of the lawyer, who was sitting at the end of a long table. Around the table were gathered those who had attended the funeral, including several senior members of the household, including M. Villebecque.

The solicitor rose and explained that though Lord Monmouth had been in the habit of very frequently adding codicils to his will, the original will, however changed or modified, had never been revoked; it was therefore necessary to commence by reading that instrument. So saying, he sat down, and breaking the seals of a large packet, he produced the will of Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been retained in his custody since its execution.

The lawyer stood up and explained that although Lord Monmouth often added codicils to his will, the original will, no matter how many changes were made, had never been cancelled; it was therefore necessary to start by reading that document. With that, he sat down and, breaking the seals of a large envelope, he took out the will of Philip Augustus, Marquess of Monmouth, which had been kept in his possession since it was signed.

By this will, of the date of 1829, the sum of 10,000l. was left to Coningsby, then unknown to his grandfather; the same sum to Mr. Rigby. There was a great number of legacies, none of superior amount, most of them of less: these were chiefly left to old male companions, and women in various countries. There was an almost inconceivable number of small annuities to faithful servants, decayed actors, and obscure foreigners. The residue of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three of whom had quitted this world before the legator; the bequests, therefore, had lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, in whom, according to the terms of the will, all would have consequently centred, was Mr. Rigby.

By this will, dated 1829, a sum of £10,000 was left to Coningsby, who was unknown to his grandfather at the time; the same amount was also left to Mr. Rigby. There were numerous legacies, none of them particularly large, and most of them smaller: these were primarily given to old male friends and women from various countries. There was an almost unbelievable number of small annuities to loyal servants, retired actors, and unknown foreigners. The remainder of his personal estate was left to four gentlemen, three of whom had passed away before the person who made the will; therefore, those bequests lapsed. The fourth residuary legatee, to whom, according to the will, everything would have ultimately gone, was Mr. Rigby.

There followed several codicils which did not materially affect the previous disposition; one of them leaving a legacy of 20,000l. to the Princess Colonna; until they arrived at the latter part of the year 1832, when a codicil increased the 10,000l. left under the will to Coningsby to 50,000l..

There were several codicils that didn’t significantly change the earlier arrangements; one of them granted a legacy of 20,000l. to Princess Colonna. This continued until later in 1832, when a codicil raised the 10,000l. bequeathed to Coningsby in the will to 50,000l..

After Coningsby’s visit to the Castle in 1836 a very important change occurred in the disposition of Lord Monmouth’s estate. The legacy of 50,000l. in his favour was revoked, and the same sum left to the Princess Lucretia. A similar amount was bequeathed to Mr. Rigby; and Coningsby was left sole residuary legatee.

After Coningsby’s visit to the Castle in 1836, a significant change took place in how Lord Monmouth’s estate was arranged. The legacy of £50,000 in his favor was canceled, and the same amount was given to Princess Lucretia. A similar sum was also left to Mr. Rigby; and Coningsby was named the sole residual legatee.

The marriage led to a considerable modification. An estate of about nine thousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had himself purchased, and was therefore in his own disposition, was left to Coningsby. The legacy to Mr. Rigby was reduced to 20,000l., and the whole of his residue left to his issue by Lady Monmouth. In case he died without issue, the estate bequeathed to Coningsby to be taken into account, and the residue then to be divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. It was under this instrument that Sidonia had been appointed an executor and to whom Lord Monmouth left, among others, the celebrated picture of the Holy Family by Murillo, as his friend had often admired it. To Lord Eskdale he left all his female miniatures, and to Mr. Ormsby his rare and splendid collection of French novels, and all his wines, except his Tokay, which he left, with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; though this legacy was afterwards revoked, in consequence of Sir Robert’s conduct about the Irish corporations.

The marriage led to some significant changes. An estate worth about nine thousand a year, which Lord Monmouth had personally bought and was therefore in his own control, was left to Coningsby. The amount left to Mr. Rigby was lowered to £20,000, with the rest going to his children by Lady Monmouth. If he died without children, the estate given to Coningsby would be considered, and the remaining assets would then be divided equally between Lady Monmouth and his grandson. Under this agreement, Sidonia was appointed as an executor and, among other things, Lord Monmouth left him the famous painting of the Holy Family by Murillo, which his friend had often admired. He left all his female miniatures to Lord Eskdale, and to Mr. Ormsby, his rare and impressive collection of French novels, along with all his wines, except for his Tokay, which he bequeathed, along with his library, to Sir Robert Peel; although this bequest was later revoked due to Sir Robert’s actions regarding the Irish corporations.

The solicitor paused and begged permission to send for a glass of water. While this was arranging there was a murmur at the lower part of the room, but little disposition to conversation among those in the vicinity of the lawyer. Coningsby was silent, his brow a little knit. Mr. Rigby was pale and restless, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff, and offered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was next to him. They exchanged glances, and made some observation about the weather. Sidonia stood apart, with his arms folded. He had not, of course attended the funeral, nor had he as yet exchanged any recognition with Coningsby.

The lawyer paused and asked if he could get a glass of water. While that was being arranged, there was a low murmur at the back of the room, but not much desire for conversation among those near the lawyer. Coningsby was quiet, his brow slightly furrowed. Mr. Rigby looked pale and fidgety, but said nothing. Mr. Ormsby took a pinch of snuff and offered his box to Lord Eskdale, who was sitting beside him. They exchanged glances and made a comment about the weather. Sidonia stood off to the side, arms crossed. He hadn’t attended the funeral, and he hadn’t yet acknowledged Coningsby.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said the solicitor, ‘if you please, I will proceed.’

‘Now, gentlemen,’ said the lawyer, ‘if you don’t mind, I’ll continue.’

They came to the year 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hellingsley. This appeared to be a critical period in the fortunes of Lady Monmouth; while Coningsby’s reached to the culminating point. Mr. Rigby was reduced to his original legacy under the will of 10,000l.; a sum of equal amount was bequeathed to Armand Villebecque, in acknowledgment of faithful services; all the dispositions in favour of Lady Monmouth were revoked, and she was limited to her moderate jointure of 3,000l. per annum, under the marriage settlement; while everything, without reserve, was left absolutely to Coningsby.

They arrived in 1839, the year Coningsby was at Hellingsley. This seemed to be a pivotal moment in Lady Monmouth's fortunes, while Coningsby’s were reaching their peak. Mr. Rigby was reduced to his original inheritance of £10,000; an equal amount was given to Armand Villebecque in recognition of his loyal services; all the arrangements in favor of Lady Monmouth were canceled, and she was limited to her modest jointure of £3,000 a year, as stated in the marriage settlement; whereas everything, without exception, was left entirely to Coningsby.

A subsequent codicil determined that the 10,000l. left to Mr. Rigby should be equally divided between him and Lucian Gay; but as some compensation Lord Monmouth left to the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby the bust of that gentleman, which he had himself presented to his Lordship, and which, at his desire, had been placed in the vestibule at Coningsby Castle, from the amiable motive that after Lord Monmouth’s decease Mr. Rigby might wish, perhaps, to present it to some other friend.

A later codicil stated that the £10,000 left to Mr. Rigby should be split evenly between him and Lucian Gay; however, as a sort of compensation, Lord Monmouth left the Right Honourable Nicholas Rigby the bust of that gentleman, which he had personally given to his Lordship, and which, at his request, had been placed in the entrance at Coningsby Castle, hoping that after Lord Monmouth's death, Mr. Rigby might want to give it to another friend.

Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby took care not to catch the eye of Mr. Rigby. As for Coningsby, he saw nobody. He maintained, during the extraordinary situation in which he was placed, a firm demeanour; but serene and regulated as he appeared to the spectators, his nerves were really strung to a high pitch.

Lord Eskdale and Mr. Ormsby made sure not to meet Mr. Rigby's gaze. As for Coningsby, he noticed no one. He kept a steady demeanor during the unusual situation he was in; however, despite appearing calm and composed to those watching, his nerves were actually on edge.

There was yet another codicil. It bore the date of June 1840, and was made at Brighton, immediately after the separation with Lady Monmouth. It was the sight of this instrument that sustained Rigby at this great emergency. He had a wild conviction that, after all, it must set all right. He felt assured that, as Lady Monmouth had already been disposed of, it must principally refer to the disinheritance of Coningsby, secured by Rigby’s well-timed and malignant misrepresentations of what had occurred in Lancashire during the preceding summer. And then to whom could Lord Monmouth leave his money? However he might cut and carve up his fortunes, Rigby, and especially at a moment when he had so served him, must come in for a considerable slice.

There was another codicil. Dated June 1840, it was created in Brighton, right after the separation from Lady Monmouth. It was the sight of this document that kept Rigby steady during this critical moment. He had a wild belief that, after all, it would fix everything. He felt sure that since Lady Monmouth had already been taken care of, it must mainly address Coningsby’s disinheritance, secured by Rigby’s well-timed and malicious misrepresentations of what had happened in Lancashire the previous summer. And then, to whom could Lord Monmouth leave his money? No matter how he might divide his wealth, Rigby, especially after having been of such service to him, had to receive a significant share.

His prescient mind was right. All the dispositions in favour of ‘my grandson Harry Coningsby’ were revoked; and he inherited from his grandfather only the interest of the sum of 10,000l. which had been originally bequeathed to him in his orphan boyhood. The executors had the power of investing the principal in any way they thought proper for his advancement in life, provided always it was not placed in ‘the capital stock of any manufactory.’

His insightful mind was correct. All the arrangements made for 'my grandson Harry Coningsby' were canceled; and he inherited from his grandfather only the interest from a sum of 10,000l. that had originally been left to him during his childhood as an orphan. The executors had the authority to invest the principal in any way they deemed suitable for his future, as long as it wasn’t put into 'the capital stock of any factory.'

Coningsby turned pale; he lost his abstracted look; he caught the eye of Rigby; he read the latent malice of that nevertheless anxious countenance. What passed through the mind and being of Coningsby was thought and sensation enough for a year; but it was as the flash that reveals a whole country, yet ceases to be ere one can say it lightens. There was a revelation to him of an inward power that should baffle these conventional calamities, a natural and sacred confidence in his youth and health, and knowledge and convictions. Even the recollection of Edith was not unaccompanied with some sustaining associations. At least the mightiest foe to their union was departed.

Coningsby turned pale; his distracted look vanished; he locked eyes with Rigby; he sensed the hidden malice behind that anxious expression. What raced through Coningsby's mind and soul was enough thought and feeling for a year; but it was like a flash of light that reveals an entire landscape, only to vanish before one can say it illuminated. He experienced an awakening to an inner strength that could overcome these ordinary troubles, a natural and sacred confidence in his youth, health, knowledge, and beliefs. Even the memory of Edith was not without some uplifting associations. At least the greatest obstacle to their union was no longer present.

All this was the impression of an instant, simultaneous with the reading of the words of form with which the last testamentary disposition of the Marquess of Monmouth left the sum of 30,000l. to Armand Villebecque; and all the rest, residue, and remainder of his unentailed property, wheresoever and whatsoever it might be, amounting in value to nearly a million sterling, was given, devised, and bequeathed to Flora, commonly called Flora Villebecque, the step-child of the said Armand Villebecque, ‘but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at the Théâtre Français in the years 1811-15, by the name of Stella.’

All of this was just a fleeting impression, happening at the same time as reading the words from the final will of the Marquess of Monmouth, which left a sum of £30,000 to Armand Villebecque. Everything else, the rest of his unentailed property, wherever and whatever it might be, valued at nearly a million pounds, was given to Flora, known as Flora Villebecque, the stepdaughter of Armand Villebecque, "but who is my natural daughter by Marie Estelle Matteau, an actress at the Théâtre Français from 1811-15, known as Stella."

CHAPTER III.

‘This is a crash!’ said Coningsby, with a grave rather than agitated countenance, to Sidonia, as his friend came up to greet him, without, however, any expression of condolence.

‘This is a crash!’ said Coningsby, with a serious rather than worried look, to Sidonia, as his friend approached to greet him, but without any sign of sympathy.

‘This time next year you will not think so,’ said Sidonia.

"This time next year, you won’t feel that way," Sidonia said.

Coningsby shrugged his shoulders.

Coningsby shrugged.

‘The principal annoyance of this sort of miscarriage,’ said Sidonia, ‘is the condolence of the gentle world. I think we may now depart. I am going home to dine. Come, and discuss your position. For the present we will not speak of it.’ So saying, Sidonia good-naturedly got Coningsby out of the room.

‘The main annoyance of this kind of situation,’ said Sidonia, ‘is the sympathy from polite society. I think we should go now. I'm heading home for dinner. Come along, and we can talk about your situation. For now, let’s not discuss it.’ With that, Sidonia kindly led Coningsby out of the room.

They walked together to Sidonia’s house in Carlton Gardens, neither of them making the slightest allusion to the catastrophe; Sidonia inquiring where he had been, what he had been doing, since they last met, and himself conversing in his usual vein, though with a little more feeling in his manner than was his custom. When they had arrived there, Sidonia ordered their dinner instantly, and during the interval between the command and its appearance, he called Coningsby’s attention to an old German painting he had just received, its brilliant colouring and quaint costumes.

They walked together to Sidonia’s house in Carlton Gardens, neither of them mentioning the disaster; Sidonia asked where he had been and what he had been up to since their last meeting, and he chatted in his usual way, though with a bit more emotion than usual. Once they arrived, Sidonia ordered dinner right away, and while they waited for it to be served, he pointed out an old German painting he had just received, showcasing its vibrant colors and unique costumes.

‘Eat, and an appetite will come,’ said Sidonia, when he observed Coningsby somewhat reluctant. ‘Take some of that Chablis: it will put you right; you will find it delicious.’

“Eat, and you’ll develop an appetite,” Sidonia said, noticing Coningsby’s hesitation. “Have some of that Chablis; it’ll make you feel better, you’ll find it delicious.”

In this way some twenty minutes passed; their meal was over, and they were alone together.

In this way, about twenty minutes went by; their meal was finished, and they were alone together.

‘I have been thinking all this time of your position,’ said Sidonia.

‘I have been thinking about your situation this whole time,’ Sidonia said.

‘A sorry one, I fear,’ said Coningsby.

‘I’m afraid it’s a sad one,’ said Coningsby.

‘I really cannot see that,’ said his friend. ‘You have experienced this morning a disappointment, but not a calamity. If you had lost your eye it would have been a calamity: no combination of circumstances could have given you another. There are really no miseries except natural miseries; conventional misfortunes are mere illusions. What seems conventionally, in a limited view, a great misfortune, if subsequently viewed in its results, is often the happiest incident in one’s life.’

‘I really can’t see that,’ said his friend. ‘You’ve faced a disappointment this morning, but it’s not a disaster. If you had lost your eye, that would have been a disaster: there’s no way you could get another one. The only real miseries are natural ones; the so-called misfortunes we think of are just illusions. What seems like a huge misfortune from a limited perspective often turns out to be the best thing that ever happened to you when you look at the outcomes later.’

‘I hope the day may come when I may feel this.’

‘I hope the day will come when I can feel this.’

‘Now is the moment when philosophy is of use; that is to say, now is the moment when you should clearly comprehend the circumstances which surround you. Holiday philosophy is mere idleness. You think, for example, that you have just experienced a great calamity, because you have lost the fortune on which you counted?’

‘Now is the time when philosophy matters; that is to say, now is the time when you should fully understand the situation around you. Casual or holiday philosophy is just a waste of time. You might think, for instance, that you've just gone through a huge disaster because you've lost the wealth you were counting on?’

‘I must say I do.’

"I have to say I do."

‘I ask you again, which would you have rather lost, your grandfather’s inheritance or your right leg?’

‘I ask you again, would you prefer to lose your grandfather’s inheritance or your right leg?’

‘Most certainly my inheritance,’

‘Definitely my inheritance,’

‘Or your left arm?’

'Or your left arm?'

‘Still the inheritance.’

‘Would you have received the inheritance on condition that your front teeth should be knocked out?’

‘Would you have accepted the inheritance if it meant losing your front teeth?’

‘No.’

‘Nope.’

‘Would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?’

‘Would you have sacrificed a year of your life for that fortune to be tripled?’

‘Even at twenty-three I would have refused the terms.’

‘Even at twenty-three, I would have turned down the offer.’

‘Come, come, Coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great.’

‘Come on, Coningsby, it can't be that bad.’

‘Why, you have put it in an ingenious point of view; and yet it is not so easy to convince a man, that he should be content who has lost everything.’

‘You've presented it in a clever way; but it's not easy to convince someone who has lost everything that they should be satisfied.’

‘You have a great many things at this moment that you separately prefer to the fortune that you have forfeited. How then can you be said to have lost everything?’

'Right now, you have a lot of things that you individually prefer over the fortune you've given up. So how can you truly say that you've lost everything?'

‘What have I?’ said Coningsby, despondingly.

‘What do I have?’ said Coningsby, feeling down.

‘You have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable knowledge, a fine courage, a lofty spirit, and no contemptible experience. With each of these qualities one might make a fortune; the combination ought to command the highest.’

‘You have health, youth, good looks, great skills, substantial knowledge, a strong sense of courage, a high spirit, and valuable experience. With each of these qualities, you could make a fortune; together, they should bring you the very best.’

‘You console me,’ said Coningsby, with a faint blush and a fainter smile.

'You comfort me,' said Coningsby, with a slight blush and an even slighter smile.

‘I teach you the truth. That is always solacing. I think you are a most fortunate young man; I should not have thought you more fortunate if you had been your grandfather’s heir; perhaps less so. But I wish you to comprehend your position: if you understand it you will cease to lament.’

‘I teach you the truth. That is always comforting. I think you are a very fortunate young man; I probably wouldn’t have thought you were more fortunate if you had been your grandfather’s heir; maybe even less so. But I want you to understand your situation: if you get it, you’ll stop complaining.’

‘But what should I do?’

'But what should I do?'

‘Bring your intelligence to bear on the right object. I make you no offers of fortune, because I know you would not accept them, and indeed I have no wish to see you a lounger in life. If you had inherited a great patrimony, it is possible your natural character and previous culture might have saved you from its paralysing influence; but it is a question, even with you. Now you are free; that is to say, you are free, if you are not in debt. A man who has not seen the world, whose fancy is harassed with glittering images of pleasures he has never experienced, cannot live on 300l. per annum; but you can. You have nothing to haunt your thoughts, or disturb the abstraction of your studies. You have seen the most beautiful women; you have banqueted in palaces; you know what heroes, and wits, and statesmen are made of: and you can draw on your memory instead of your imagination for all those dazzling and interesting objects that make the inexperienced restless, and are the cause of what are called scrapes. But you can do nothing if you be in debt. You must be free. Before, therefore, we proceed, I must beg you to be frank on this head. If you have any absolute or contingent incumbrances, tell me of them without reserve, and permit me to clear them at once to any amount. You will sensibly oblige me in so doing: because I am interested in watching your career, and if the racer start with a clog my psychological observations will be imperfect.’

‘Use your intelligence wisely. I'm not going to offer you any wealth, because I know you wouldn't take it, and honestly, I don't want to see you just coasting through life. If you had inherited a lot of money, your natural character and prior upbringing might have protected you from its paralyzing effects; but that's even questionable in your case. Right now, you're free, which means you're free if you don't have any debt. A man who hasn't experienced the world, whose mind is filled with enticing images of pleasures he's never had, can't live on 300l. a year; but you can. You have no burdens on your mind, and nothing to disrupt your studies. You've seen the most beautiful women; you've dined in grand houses; you understand what heroes, clever people, and politicians are really like: you can rely on your memories instead of your imagination for all those dazzling and tempting things that make the inexperienced restless and lead to what are commonly called troubles. But you can't do anything if you're in debt. You must be free. So, before we move forward, I need you to be honest about this. If you have any debts or financial burdens, please tell me about them openly, and let me help you settle them right away. You'll be doing me a favor because I'm invested in tracking your progress, and if the racer starts off with a handicap, my observations won't be as solid.’

‘You are, indeed, a friend; and had I debts I would ask you to pay them. I have nothing of the kind. My grandfather was so lavish in his allowance to me that I never got into difficulties. Besides, there are horses and things without end which I must sell, and money at Drummonds’.’

‘You are truly a friend; and if I had debts, I would ask you to cover them. I don’t have any of that. My grandfather was so generous with his allowance that I never faced any problems. Plus, there are endless horses and other things I need to sell, and money at Drummonds.’

‘That will produce your outfit, whatever the course you adopt. I conceive there are two careers which deserve your consideration. In the first place there is Diplomacy. If you decide upon that, I can assist you. There exist between me and the Minister such relations that I can at once secure you that first step which is so difficult to obtain. After that, much, if not all, depends on yourself. But I could advance you, provided you were capable. You should, at least, not languish for want of preferment. In an important post, I could throw in your way advantages which would soon permit you to control cabinets. Information commands the world. I doubt not your success, and for such a career, speedy. Let us assume it as a fact. Is it a result satisfactory? Suppose yourself in a dozen years a Plenipotentiary at a chief court, or at a critical post, with a red ribbon and the Privy Council in immediate perspective; and, after a lengthened career, a pension and a peerage. Would that satisfy you? You don’t look excited. I am hardly surprised. In your position it would not satisfy me. A Diplomatist is, after all, a phantom. There is a want of nationality about his being. I always look upon Diplomatists as the Hebrews of politics; without country, political creeds, popular convictions, that strong reality of existence which pervades the career of an eminent citizen in a free and great country.’

‘That will shape your future, no matter which path you choose. I believe there are two careers worth considering. First, there's Diplomacy. If you go that route, I can help you. I have connections with the Minister that would allow me to secure you that crucial first step that's so hard to get. After that, a lot depends on you. But I could advance your career, assuming you have the ability. You shouldn't miss out on opportunities. In a significant position, I could offer you benefits that would soon enable you to influence governments. Knowledge rules the world. I have no doubt you'll succeed quickly in such a career. Let's take that as a given. Does that outcome appeal to you? Picture yourself in ten years as a Plenipotentiary at a major court or in a key role, wearing a red ribbon with the Privy Council just within reach; and after a long career, a pension and a title. Would that fulfill you? You don’t seem thrilled. I’m not surprised. In your shoes, it wouldn’t satisfy me either. A Diplomat is, after all, somewhat of an illusion. There's a lack of nationality in their essence. I always see Diplomats as the nomads of politics; lacking a country, political beliefs, or popular convictions—the strong sense of existence that defines the life of a prominent citizen in a free and powerful nation.’

‘You read my thoughts,’ said Coningsby. ‘I should be sorry to sever myself from England.’

‘You read my mind,’ said Coningsby. ‘I would hate to distance myself from England.’

‘There remains then the other, the greater, the nobler career,’ said Sidonia, ‘which in England may give you all, the Bar. I am absolutely persuaded that with the requisite qualifications, and with perseverance, success at the Bar is certain. It may be retarded or precipitated by circumstances, but cannot be ultimately affected. You have a right to count with your friends on no lack of opportunities when you are ripe for them. You appear to me to have all the qualities necessary for the Bar; and you may count on that perseverance which is indispensable, for the reason I have before mentioned, because it will be sustained by your experience.’

“There’s also the other, more significant, and more admirable path,” Sidonia said, “which in England can offer you everything—the Bar. I am completely convinced that with the right qualifications and perseverance, success at the Bar is inevitable. It might be delayed or accelerated by circumstances, but it won't ultimately be influenced. You can rely on your friends to ensure that there will be plenty of opportunities when you're ready for them. You seem to have all the qualities necessary for the Bar; and I believe you have that perseverance which is essential, for the reason I mentioned earlier, because it will be supported by your experience.”

‘I have resolved,’ said Coningsby; ‘I will try for the Great Seal.’

‘I have decided,’ said Coningsby; ‘I will go for the Great Seal.’

CHAPTER IV.

Alone in his chambers, no longer under the sustaining influence of Sidonia’s converse and counsel, the shades of night descending and bearing gloom to the gloomy, all the excitement of his spirit evaporated, the heart of Coningsby sank. All now depended on himself, and in that self he had no trust. Why should he succeed? Success was the most rare of results. Thousands fail; units triumph. And even success could only be conducted to him by the course of many years. His career, even if prosperous, was now to commence by the greatest sacrifice which the heart of man could be called upon to sustain. Upon the stern altar of his fortunes he must immolate his first and enduring love. Before, he had a perilous position to offer Edith; now he had none. The future might then have aided them; there was no combination which could improve his present. Under any circumstances he must, after all his thoughts and studies, commence a new novitiate, and before he could enter the arena must pass years of silent and obscure preparation. ‘Twas very bitter. He looked up, his eye caught that drawing of the towers of Hellingsley which she had given him in the days of their happy hearts. That was all that was to remain of their loves. He was to bear it to the future scene of his labours, to remind him through revolving years of toil and routine, that he too had had his romance, had roamed in fair gardens, and whispered in willing ears the secrets of his passion. That drawing was to become the altar-piece of his life.

Alone in his room, no longer buoyed by Sidonia’s conversation and advice, with the darkness of night settling in and bringing misery to the already gloomy, all the excitement in Coningsby faded away, and his heart sank. Everything now relied on him, and he had no faith in himself. Why should he succeed? Success was incredibly rare. Thousands fail; only a few succeed. And even success would take many years to achieve. His career, even if it went well, was about to begin with the greatest sacrifice a person could make. On the harsh altar of his future, he would have to give up his first and enduring love. Previously, he had a risky offer to make to Edith; now he had nothing. The future might have helped them; there was no way to improve his current situation. In any case, he would have to start a new beginning after all his thoughts and studies, and before he could step into the arena, he must go through years of quiet and unnoticed preparation. It was very painful. He looked up, and his gaze fell on the drawing of the towers of Hellingsley that she had given him during their happier times. That would be all that remained of their love. He would carry it with him to the future scene of his work, a reminder of the years of toil and routine, that he too had his romance, that he had walked in beautiful gardens and shared his heartfelt secrets with willing ears. That drawing would become the centerpiece of his life.

Coningsby passed an agitated night of broken sleep, waking often with a consciousness of having experienced some great misfortune, yet with an indefinite conception of its nature. He woke exhausted and dispirited. It was a gloomy day, a raw north-easter blowing up the cloisters of the Albany, in which the fog was lingering, the newspaper on his breakfast-table, full of rumoured particulars of his grandfather’s will, which had of course been duly digested by all who knew him. What a contrast to St. Geneviève! To the bright, bracing morn of that merry Christmas! That radiant and cheerful scene, and those gracious and beaming personages, seemed another world and order of beings to the one he now inhabited, and the people with whom he must now commune. The Great Seal indeed! It was the wild excitement of despair, the frenzied hope that blends inevitably with absolute ruin, that could alone have inspired such a hallucination! His unstrung heart deserted him. His energies could rally no more. He gave orders that he was at home to no one; and in his morning gown and slippers, with his feet resting on the fireplace, the once high-souled and noble-hearted Coningsby delivered himself up to despair.

Coningsby had an uneasy night filled with restless sleep, waking up often with a sense that he had suffered some great loss, but not quite knowing what it was. He got up feeling drained and downcast. Outside, it was a dreary day, a chilly north-easter blowing through the Albany cloisters, where the fog lingered. The newspaper on his breakfast table was full of rumors about his grandfather’s will, which had of course been thoroughly discussed by everyone who knew him. What a stark contrast to St. Geneviève! To that bright, invigorating Christmas morning! That vibrant and joyful scene, with its kind and radiant people, felt like a completely different world from the one he now lived in, and the company he was forced to keep. The Great Seal, indeed! It was pure despair mixed with desperate hope that could only inspire such a delusion! His heart felt broken. He could no longer find the energy to rally. He instructed that he was not to see anyone; and in his morning gown and slippers, with his feet resting on the fireplace, the once noble and high-spirited Coningsby surrendered himself to despair.

The day passed in a dark trance rather than a reverie. Nothing rose to his consciousness. He was like a particle of chaos; at the best, a glimmering entity of some shadowy Hades. Towards evening the wind changed, the fog dispersed, there came a clear starry night, brisk and bright. Coningsby roused himself, dressed, and wrapping his cloak around him, sallied forth. Once more in the mighty streets, surrounded by millions, his petty griefs and personal fortunes assumed their proper position. Well had Sidonia taught him, view everything in its relation to the rest. ‘Tis the secret of all wisdom. Here was the mightiest of modern cities; the rival even of the most celebrated of the ancient. Whether he inherited or forfeited fortunes, what was it to the passing throng? They would not share his splendour, or his luxury, or his comfort. But a word from his lip, a thought from his brain, expressed at the right time, at the right place, might turn their hearts, might influence their passions, might change their opinions, might affect their destiny. Nothing is great but the personal. As civilisation advances, the accidents of life become each day less important. The power of man, his greatness and his glory, depend on essential qualities. Brains every day become more precious than blood. You must give men new ideas, you must teach them new words, you must modify their manners, you must change their laws, you must root out prejudices, subvert convictions, if you wish to be great. Greatness no longer depends on rentals, the world is too rich; nor on pedigrees, the world is too knowing.

The day went by in a dark daze rather than a daydream. Nothing really registered with him. He felt like a piece of chaos; at best, a shining being from some shadowy underworld. By evening, the wind shifted, the fog cleared, and a bright, starry night emerged. Coningsby pulled himself together, got dressed, and, wrapping his cloak around him, stepped outside. Once again in the grand streets, surrounded by millions, his small troubles and personal fortunes took their rightful place. Sidonia had taught him well to view everything in relation to the whole. That’s the secret to all wisdom. Here was the greatest of modern cities, rivaling even the most renowned of the ancient ones. Whether he gained or lost fortunes, what did it matter to the crowd passing by? They wouldn’t share in his wealth, luxury, or comfort. But a word from his lips, an idea from his mind, expressed at just the right moment and in the right place, could sway their hearts, influence their passions, change their opinions, and affect their destinies. Nothing is significant but the personal. As civilization progresses, the random events of life become less relevant each day. A person's power, greatness, and glory depend on fundamental traits. Ideas are becoming more valuable than lineage. You must introduce new thoughts, teach new words, change behaviors, modify laws, eliminate biases, and challenge beliefs if you want to achieve greatness. Greatness no longer hinges on wealth; the world is too affluent, nor on heritage; the world is too informed.

‘The greatness of this city destroys my misery,’ said Coningsby, ‘and my genius shall conquer its greatness.’

‘The greatness of this city lifts my spirits,’ said Coningsby, ‘and my talent will overcome its greatness.’

This conviction of power in the midst of despair was a revelation of intrinsic strength. It is indeed the test of a creative spirit. From that moment all petty fears for an ordinary future quitted him. He felt that he must be prepared for great sacrifices, for infinite suffering; that there must devolve on him a bitter inheritance of obscurity, struggle, envy, and hatred, vulgar prejudice, base criticism, petty hostilities, but the dawn would break, and the hour arrive, when the welcome morning hymn of his success and his fame would sound and be re-echoed.

This belief in strength amidst despair revealed a deep resilience. It's truly a measure of a creative spirit. From then on, all his insignificant worries about a normal future vanished. He understood that he had to be ready for immense sacrifices and endless suffering; that he would bear a harsh legacy of being overlooked, fighting against challenges, dealing with envy and hatred, facing shallow judgments, petty criticisms, and small hostilities, but the day would come when the beautiful morning song of his success and fame would ring out and be celebrated.

He returned to his rooms; calm, resolute. He slept the deep sleep of a man void of anxiety, that has neither hope nor fear to haunt his visions, but is prepared to rise on the morrow collected for the great human struggle.

He went back to his room; calm and determined. He slept soundly, free from anxiety, without hope or fear disrupting his dreams, ready to wake up the next day focused on the challenges of life.

And the morning came. Fresh, vigorous, not rash or precipitate, yet determined to lose no time in idle meditation, Coningsby already resolved at once to quit his present residence, was projecting a visit to some legal quarter, where he intended in future to reside, when his servant brought him a note. The handwriting was feminine. The note was from Flora. The contents were brief. She begged Mr. Coningsby, with great earnestness, to do her the honour and the kindness of calling on her at his earliest convenience, at the hotel in Brook Street where she now resided.

And morning arrived. It was fresh and energetic, not reckless or hasty, yet Coningsby was determined not to waste any time in pointless reflection. He had already decided to leave his current place and was planning a visit to a legal area where he intended to live in the future when his servant handed him a note. The handwriting was feminine. The note was from Flora. It was brief. She earnestly requested Mr. Coningsby to do her the honor and kindness of visiting her at his earliest convenience at the hotel on Brook Street where she was currently staying.

It was an interview which Coningsby would rather have avoided; yet it seemed to him, after a moment’s reflection, neither just, nor kind, nor manly, to refuse her request. Flora had not injured him. She was, after all, his kin. Was it for a moment to be supposed that he was envious of her lot? He replied, therefore, that in an hour he would wait upon her.

It was an interview that Coningsby would have preferred to skip; however, after thinking it over for a moment, he realized it wouldn't be fair, kind, or honorable to say no to her request. Flora hadn't done anything to hurt him. She was, after all, family. Was it even possible to think that he was jealous of her situation? So, he replied that he would visit her in an hour.

In an hour, then, two individuals are to be brought together whose first meeting was held under circumstances most strangely different. Then Coningsby was the patron, a generous and spontaneous one, of a being obscure, almost friendless, and sinking under bitter mortification. His favour could not be the less appreciated because he was the chosen relative of a powerful noble. That noble was no more; his vast inheritance had devolved on the disregarded, even despised actress, whose suffering emotions Coningsby had then soothed, and whose fortune had risen on the destruction of all his prospects, and the balk of all his aspirations.

In an hour, two people will meet again, their first encounter having taken place under very different circumstances. Back then, Coningsby was a generous and spontaneous supporter of someone who was obscure, nearly friendless, and struggling with deep humiliation. His support was all the more valued because he was related to a powerful noble. That noble is gone now; his extensive inheritance has passed to the overlooked, even scorned actress, whose painful emotions Coningsby had once comforted, and whose fortune grew at the expense of all his prospects and the defeat of all his dreams.

Flora was alone when Coningsby was ushered into the room. The extreme delicacy of her appearance was increased by her deep mourning; and seated in a cushioned chair, from which she seemed to rise with an effort, she certainly presented little of the character of a fortunate and prosperous heiress.

Flora was alone when Coningsby walked into the room. The fragility of her appearance was heightened by her black mourning clothes; and sitting in a cushioned chair, from which she appeared to struggle to stand, she definitely didn't seem like a lucky and successful heiress.

‘You are very good to come to me,’ she said, faintly smiling.

‘You’re really nice to come and see me,’ she said, giving a slight smile.

Coningsby extended his hand to her affectionately, in which she placed her own, looking down much embarrassed.

Coningsby reached out his hand to her warmly, and she placed hers in it, while looking down, feeling quite embarrassed.

‘You have an agreeable situation here,’ said Coningsby, trying to break the first awkwardness of their meeting.

‘You have a nice setup here,’ said Coningsby, trying to ease the initial awkwardness of their meeting.

‘Yes; but I hope not to stop here long?’

‘Yes; but I hope I won’t be here for long?’

‘You are going abroad?’

"Are you going overseas?"

‘No; I hope never to leave England!’

‘No; I hope I never have to leave England!’

There was a slight pause; and then Flora sighed and said,

There was a brief pause; and then Flora sighed and said,

‘I wish to speak to you on a subject that gives me pain; yet of which I must speak. You think I have injured you?’

'I want to talk to you about something that hurts me, but I have to bring it up. Do you think I've hurt you?'

‘I am sure,’ said Coningsby, in a tone of great kindness, ‘that you could injure no one.’

“I’m sure,” said Coningsby, in a very kind tone, “that you couldn’t hurt anyone.”

‘I have robbed you of your inheritance.’

‘I have taken away your inheritance.’

‘It was not mine by any right, legal or moral. There were others who might have urged an equal claim to it; and there are many who will now think that you might have preferred a superior one.’

‘It wasn’t mine by any legal or moral right. There were others who could have made an equal claim to it; and many will now think that you might have preferred a better one.’

‘You had enemies; I was not one. They sought to benefit themselves by injuring you. They have not benefited themselves; let them not say that they have at least injured you.’

‘You had enemies; I was not one. They tried to gain from hurting you. They haven't gained anything; let them not claim they at least hurt you.’

‘We will not care what they say,’ said Coningsby; ‘I can sustain my lot.’

‘We won’t care about what they say,’ Coningsby said; ‘I can handle my situation.’

‘Would that I could mine!’ said Flora. She sighed again with a downcast glance. Then looking up embarrassed and blushing deeply, she added, ‘I wish to restore to you that fortune of which I have unconsciously and unwillingly deprived you.’

‘If only I could!’ said Flora. She sighed again, looking down. Then, looking up, embarrassed and deeply blushing, she added, ‘I want to give back to you that fortune that I have unknowingly and unwillingly taken away.’

‘The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right,’ said Coningsby, much moved; ‘and there is no one who wishes more fervently that it may contribute to your happiness than I do.’

‘The fortune is yours, dear Flora, by every right,’ said Coningsby, deeply moved; ‘and no one wishes more passionately for it to bring you happiness than I do.’

‘It is killing me,’ said Flora, mournfully; then speaking with unusual animation, with a degree of excitement, she continued, ‘I must tell what I feel. This fortune is yours. I am happy in the inheritance, if you generously receive it from me, because Providence has made me the means of baffling your enemies. I never thought to be so happy as I shall be if you will generously accept this fortune, always intended for you. I have lived then for a purpose; I have not lived in vain; I have returned to you some service, however humble, for all your goodness to me in my unhappiness.’

"It’s killing me," Flora said sadly. Then, speaking with unexpected energy and excitement, she continued, "I have to share what I feel. This fortune is yours. I’ll be happy about the inheritance if you graciously accept it from me, because fate has made me the way to thwart your enemies. I never thought I’d be this happy, but I will be if you kindly accept this fortune, which was always meant for you. I’ve lived for a reason; I haven’t lived in vain; I’ve returned to you some service, no matter how small, for all your kindness to me during my struggles."

‘You are, as I have ever thought you, the kindest and most tender-hearted of beings. But you misconceive our mutual positions, my gentle Flora. The custom of the world does not permit such acts to either of us as you contemplate. The fortune is yours. It is left you by one on whose affections you had the highest claim. I will not say that so large an inheritance does not bring with it an alarming responsibility; but you are not unequal to it. Have confidence in yourself. You have a good heart; you have good sense; you have a well-principled being. Your spirit will mount with your fortunes, and blend with them. You will be happy.’

'You are, as I've always believed, the kindest and most compassionate person. But you misunderstand our positions, my dear Flora. The norms of society don't allow for the actions you’re considering. The fortune is yours, left to you by someone whose love you fully deserved. I won’t say that such a large inheritance doesn’t come with significant responsibilities, but you are more than capable of handling it. Trust in yourself. You have a good heart, good judgment, and solid principles. Your spirit will rise along with your wealth and become part of it. You will be happy.'

‘And you?’

"And you?"

‘I shall soon learn to find content, if not happiness, from other sources,’ said Coningsby; ‘and mere riches, however vast, could at no time have secured my felicity.’

‘I will soon learn to find satisfaction, if not happiness, from other sources,’ said Coningsby; ‘and just having wealth, no matter how great, could never guarantee my happiness.’

‘But they may secure that which brings felicity,’ said Flora, speaking in a choking voice, and not meeting the glance of Coningsby. ‘You had some views in life which displeased him who has done all this; they may be, they must be, affected by this fatal caprice. Speak to me, for I cannot speak, dear Mr. Coningsby; do not let me believe that I, who would sacrifice my life for your happiness, am the cause of such calamities!’

‘But they can achieve what brings happiness,’ Flora said, her voice breaking, avoiding Coningsby’s gaze. ‘You had certain aspirations that upset the one who has done all this; they may be, they must be, influenced by this tragic whim. Talk to me, because I can’t find the words, dear Mr. Coningsby; don’t let me think that I, who would give my life for your happiness, am the reason for such troubles!’

‘Whatever be my lot, I repeat I can sustain it,’ said Coningsby, with a cheek of scarlet.

‘No matter what happens to me, I can handle it,’ said Coningsby, with a face as red as a tomato.

‘Ah! he is angry with me,’ exclaimed Flora; ‘he is angry with me!’ and the tears stole down her pale cheek.

‘Oh! he's mad at me,’ exclaimed Flora; ‘he's mad at me!’ and the tears rolled down her pale cheek.

‘No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no other feelings to you than those of affection and respect,’ and Coningsby, much agitated, drew his chair nearer to her, and took her hand. ‘I am gratified by these kind wishes, though they are utterly impracticable; but they are the witnesses of your sweet disposition and your noble spirit. There never shall exist between us, under any circumstances, other feelings than those of kin and kindness.’

‘No, no, no! dear Flora; I have no feelings for you other than affection and respect,’ Coningsby said, clearly agitated, as he moved his chair closer to her and took her hand. ‘I appreciate your kind wishes, even though they are completely unrealistic; they reflect your sweet nature and noble spirit. There will never be anything between us, under any circumstances, other than family and kindness.’

He rose as if to depart. When she saw that, she started, and seemed to summon all her energies.

He stood up as if he was about to leave. When she noticed that, she jolted and appeared to gather all her strength.

‘You are going,’ she exclaimed, ‘and I have said nothing, I have said nothing; and I shall never see you again. Let me tell you what I mean. This fortune is yours; it must be yours. It is an arrow in my heart. Do not think I am speaking from a momentary impulse. I know myself. I have lived so much alone, I have had so little to deceive or to delude me, that I know myself. If you will not let me do justice you declare my doom. I cannot live if my existence is the cause of all your prospects being blasted, and the sweetest dreams of your life being defeated. When I die, these riches will be yours; that you cannot prevent. Refuse my present offer, and you seal the fate of that unhappy Flora whose fragile life has hung for years on the memory of your kindness.’

"You’re leaving," she said, "and I haven’t said a word, I haven’t said a word; and I’ll never see you again. Let me explain what I mean. This fortune is yours; it has to be yours. It hurts me deeply. Don’t think I’m speaking out of a fleeting feeling. I really know myself. I’ve spent so much time alone, I’ve had so little to mislead or deceive me, that I truly know who I am. If you won’t let me do what’s right, you’re deciding my fate. I can’t go on if my existence ruins all your chances and shatters your sweetest dreams. When I’m gone, this wealth will be yours; you can’t prevent that. Turn down my offer now, and you seal the fate of that poor Flora whose delicate life has depended on the memory of your kindness for years."

‘You must not say these words, dear Flora; you must not indulge in these gloomy feelings. You must live, and you must live happily. You have every charm and virtue which should secure happiness. The duties and the affections of existence will fall to your lot. It is one that will always interest me, for I shall ever be your friend. You have conferred on me one of the most delightful of feelings, gratitude, and for that I bless you. I will soon see you again.’ Mournfully he bade her farewell.

‘You shouldn’t say those things, dear Flora; you shouldn’t dwell on those sad feelings. You need to live, and you need to live happily. You possess every charm and quality that should bring you happiness. Life’s responsibilities and relationships will come your way. It’s something that will always matter to me, because I’ll always be your friend. You’ve given me one of the most wonderful feelings, gratitude, and for that, I thank you. I’ll see you again soon.’ Sadly, he said goodbye to her.

CHAPTER V.

About a week after this interview with Flora, as Coningsby one morning was about to sally forth from the Albany to visit some chambers in the Temple, to which his notice had been attracted, there was a loud ring, a bustle in the hall, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst were ushered in.

About a week after his conversation with Flora, one morning Coningsby was getting ready to head out from the Albany to check out some rooms in the Temple that had caught his attention, when there was a loud ring at the door, a commotion in the hall, and Henry Sydney and Buckhurst were brought in.

There never was such a cordial meeting; and yet the faces of his friends were serious. The truth is, the paragraphs in the newspapers had circulated in the country, they had written to Coningsby, and after a brief delay he had confirmed their worst apprehensions. Immediately they came up to town. Henry Sydney, a younger son, could offer little but sympathy, but he declared it was his intention also to study for the bar, so that they should not be divided. Buckhurst, after many embraces and some ordinary talk, took Coningsby aside, and said, ‘My dear fellow, I have no objection to Henry Sydney hearing everything I say, but still these are subjects which men like to be discussed in private. Of course I expect you to share my fortune. There is enough for both. We will have an exact division.’

There never was such a friendly meeting; yet the expressions on his friends' faces were serious. The truth is, the articles in the newspapers had spread throughout the country, they had written to Coningsby, and after a brief wait, he confirmed their worst fears. Immediately, they came up to the city. Henry Sydney, a younger son, could offer little but sympathy, but he said he also intended to study for the bar, so they wouldn’t be separated. Buckhurst, after many hugs and some light conversation, pulled Coningsby aside and said, ‘My dear friend, I don’t mind Henry Sydney hearing everything I say, but these are topics that men prefer to discuss in private. Of course, I expect you to share my fortune. There’s enough for both of us. We will divide it exactly.’

There was something in Buckhurst’s fervent resolution very lovable and a little humorous, just enough to put one in good temper with human nature and life. If there were any fellow’s fortune in the world that Coningsby would share, Buckhurst’s would have had the preference; but while he pressed his hand, and with a glance in which a tear and a smile seemed to contend for mastery, he gently indicated why such arrangements were, with our present manners, impossible.

There was something very lovable and slightly humorous about Buckhurst’s passionate determination, just enough to make someone feel good about human nature and life. If there was any guy's fortune in the world that Coningsby would want to share, it would have been Buckhurst’s. But as he shook his hand, and with a look that seemed to balance a tear and a smile, he subtly pointed out why such arrangements were impossible with our current way of life.

‘I see,’ said Buckhurst, after a moment’s thought, ‘I quite agree with you. The thing cannot be done; and, to tell you the truth, a fortune is a bore. What I vote that we three do at once is, to take plenty of ready-money, and enter the Austrian service. By Jove! it is the only thing to do.’

“I see,” Buckhurst said after a moment of thought, “I totally agree with you. That can’t be done; and to be honest, a fortune is a drag. What I suggest we do right now is grab some cash and join the Austrian army. By golly! It’s the only thing that makes sense.”

‘There is something in that,’ said Coningsby. ‘In the meantime, suppose you two fellows walk with me to the Temple, for I have an appointment to look at some chambers.’

‘There’s something to that,’ said Coningsby. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you two come with me to the Temple? I have an appointment to check out some chambers.’

It was a fine day, and it was by no means a gloomy walk. Though the two friends had arrived full of indignation against Lord Monmouth, and miserable about their companion, once more in his society, and finding little difference in his carriage, they assumed unconsciously their habitual tone. As for Buckhurst, he was delighted with the Temple, which he visited for the first time. The name enchanted him. The tombs in the church convinced him that the Crusades were the only career. He would have himself become a law student if he might have prosecuted his studies in chain armour. The calmer Henry Sydney was consoled for the misfortunes of Coningsby by a fanciful project himself to pass a portion of his life amid these halls and courts, gardens and terraces, that maintain in the heart of a great city in the nineteenth century, so much of the grave romance and picturesque decorum of our past manners. Henry Sydney was sanguine; he was reconciled to the disinheritance of Coningsby by the conviction that it was a providential dispensation to make him a Lord Chancellor.

It was a beautiful day, and it was definitely not a gloomy walk. Although the two friends had arrived feeling outraged at Lord Monmouth and worried about their companion, once back in his company and noticing little change in his behavior, they unconsciously fell into their usual dynamic. Buckhurst, on the other hand, was thrilled with the Temple, which he was visiting for the first time. The name captivated him. The tombs in the church made him believe that the Crusades were the only fitting career. He would have loved to be a law student if he could have studied in chain mail. The more composed Henry Sydney found comfort for Coningsby’s misfortunes in a fanciful idea of spending part of his life among these halls and courts, gardens, and terraces, which preserve so much of the serious romance and picturesque decorum of our past in the heart of a great city in the nineteenth century. Henry Sydney was optimistic; he accepted Coningsby’s disinheritance with the belief that it was part of a divine plan to make him a Lord Chancellor.

These faithful friends remained in town with Coningsby until he was established in Paper Buildings, and had become a pupil of a celebrated special pleader. They would have remained longer had not he himself suggested that it was better that they should part. It seemed a terrible catastrophe after all the visions of their boyish days, their college dreams, and their dazzling adventures in the world.

These loyal friends stayed in town with Coningsby until he settled in Paper Buildings and became a student of a well-known special pleader. They would have stayed longer if he hadn't suggested it was better for them to go their separate ways. It felt like a huge loss after all the dreams of their youth, their college aspirations, and their exciting adventures in the world.

‘And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, that we all loved, that was to be our leader!’ said Buckhurst to Lord Henry as they quitted him. ‘Well, come what may, life has lost something of its bloom.’

‘And this is the end of Coningsby, the brilliant Coningsby, that we all loved, that was supposed to be our leader!’ Buckhurst said to Lord Henry as they left him. ‘Well, whatever happens, life has lost some of its sparkle.’

‘The great thing now,’ said Lord Henry, ‘is to keep up the chain of our friendship. We must write to him very often, and contrive to be frequently together. It is dreadful to think that in the ways of life our hearts may become estranged. I never felt more wretched than I do at this moment, and yet I have faith that we shall not lose him.’

‘The awesome thing now,’ said Lord Henry, ‘is to maintain our friendship. We need to write to him often and make sure we’re together as much as possible. It’s terrible to think that as life goes on, we could drift apart. I’ve never felt more miserable than I do right now, but I believe we won’t lose him.’

‘Amen!’ said Buckhurst; ‘but I feel my plan about the Austrian service was, after all, the only thing. The Continent offers a career. He might have been prime minister; several strangers have been; and as for war, look at Brown and Laudohn, and half a hundred others. I had a much better chance of being a field-marshal than he has of being a Lord Chancellor.’

‘Amen!’ said Buckhurst; ‘but I think my idea about joining the Austrian army was, after all, the only way to go. There are opportunities on the Continent. He could have been prime minister; many outsiders have done it; and when it comes to war, just look at Brown and Laudohn, along with a bunch of others. I had a much better shot at becoming a field marshal than he has at becoming a Lord Chancellor.’

‘I feel quite convinced that Coningsby will be Lord Chancellor,’ said Henry Sydney, gravely.

‘I’m really convinced that Coningsby will become Lord Chancellor,’ said Henry Sydney, seriously.

This change of life for Coningsby was a great social revolution. It was sudden and complete. Within a month after the death of his grandfather his name had been erased from all his fashionable clubs, and his horses and carriages sold, and he had become a student of the Temple. He entirely devoted himself to his new pursuit. His being was completely absorbed in it. There was nothing to haunt his mind; no unexperienced scene or sensation of life to distract his intelligence. One sacred thought alone indeed there remained, shrined in the innermost sanctuary of his heart and consciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a hope. The moment that he had fairly recovered from the first shock of his grandfather’s will; had clearly ascertained the consequences to himself, and had resolved on the course to pursue; he had communicated unreservedly with Oswald Millbank, and had renounced those pretensions to the hand of his sister which it ill became the destitute to prefer.

This change in life for Coningsby was a major social shift. It was sudden and complete. Within a month of his grandfather's death, his name had been removed from all his upscale clubs, his horses and carriages sold, and he had become a student at the Temple. He fully dedicated himself to this new pursuit. His entire being was absorbed in it. There was nothing to occupy his mind; no unexperienced scenes or sensations of life to distract him. One sacred thought remained, tucked deep in the innermost part of his heart and consciousness. But it was a tradition, no longer a hope. Once he had recovered from the initial shock of his grandfather’s will; had clearly understood the consequences for himself, and had decided on a course of action; he communicated openly with Oswald Millbank, abandoning any claim to the hand of his sister that was inappropriate for someone in his situation.

His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Sydney and Buckhurst at the chambers of Coningsby. Once more they were all four together; but under what different circumstances, and with what different prospects from those which attended their separation at Eton! Alone with Coningsby, Millbank spoke to him things which letters could not convey. He bore to him all the sympathy and devotion of Edith; but they would not conceal from themselves that, at this moment, and in the present state of affairs, all was hopeless. In no way did Coningsby ever permit himself to intimate to Oswald the cause of his disinheritance. He was, of course, silent on it to his other friends; as any communication of the kind must have touched on a subject that was consecrated in his inmost soul.

His letter was answered in person. Millbank met Henry Sydney and Buckhurst at Coningsby's office. Once again, they were all four together, but under completely different circumstances and with different prospects than when they parted at Eton! Alone with Coningsby, Millbank shared feelings with him that letters could never express. He conveyed all of Edith's sympathy and devotion; however, they both knew that, at this moment, and given the current situation, everything felt hopeless. Coningsby never hinted to Oswald about the reason for his disinheritance. He kept quiet about it with his other friends as well, since discussing it would have touched on a matter deeply sacred to him.

CHAPTER VI.

The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 offered a most remarkable contrast to their condition at the period commemorated in the first chapter of this work. The banners of the Conservative camp at this moment lowered on the Whig forces, as the gathering host of the Norman invader frowned on the coast of Sussex. The Whigs were not yet conquered, but they were doomed; and they themselves knew it. The mistake which was made by the Conservative leaders in not retaining office in 1839; and, whether we consider their conduct in a national and constitutional light, or as a mere question of political tactics and party prudence, it was unquestionably a great mistake; had infused into the corps of Whig authority a kind of galvanic action, which only the superficial could mistake for vitality. Even to form a basis for their future operations, after the conjuncture of ‘39, the Whigs were obliged to make a fresh inroad on the revenue, the daily increasing debility of which was now arresting attention and exciting public alarm. It was clear that the catastrophe of the government would be financial.

The state of political parties in England in the spring of 1841 showed a striking contrast to their situation during the time described in the first chapter of this work. The flags of the Conservative camp were currently overshadowing the Whig forces, much like the looming presence of the Norman invader on the coast of Sussex. The Whigs had not been completely defeated yet, but they were definitely on the brink; and they were aware of it. The mistake made by the Conservative leaders in not keeping their hold on office in 1839—whether viewed from a national and constitutional perspective or simply as a matter of political strategy—was undoubtedly a significant blunder. This had infused a kind of superficial energy into the Whig authority that only those lacking insight could confuse for real vitality. Even to establish a foundation for their future actions after the situation of '39, the Whigs had to launch a new attack on the revenue, the increasingly weak state of which was now drawing attention and causing public concern. It was clear that the downfall of the government would be financially driven.

Under all the circumstances of the case, the conduct of the Whig Cabinet, in their final propositions, cannot be described as deficient either in boldness or prudence. The policy which they recommended was in itself a sagacious and spirited policy; but they erred in supposing that, at the period it was brought forward, any measure promoted by the Whigs could have obtained general favour in the country. The Whigs were known to be feeble; they were looked upon as tricksters. The country knew they were opposed by a powerful party; and though there certainly never was any authority for the belief, the country did believe that that powerful party were influenced by great principles; had in their view a definite and national policy; and would secure to England, instead of a feeble administration and fluctuating opinions, energy and a creed.

Given all the circumstances of the case, the actions of the Whig Cabinet in their final proposals can’t be seen as lacking in either boldness or caution. The policy they suggested was wise and spirited; however, they were mistaken in thinking that, at the time it was proposed, any measure backed by the Whigs could win widespread approval across the country. The Whigs were seen as weak and regarded as deceivers. The public knew they were up against a strong party, and although there was never any real evidence for it, the public did believe that this powerful party was driven by significant principles, had a clear national policy in mind, and would bring energy and a firm belief system to England instead of a weak administration and inconsistent opinions.

The future effect of the Whig propositions of ‘41 will not be detrimental to that party, even if in the interval they be appropriated piecemeal, as will probably be the case, by their Conservative successors. But for the moment, and in the plight in which the Whig party found themselves, it was impossible to have devised measures more conducive to their precipitate fall. Great interests were menaced by a weak government. The consequence was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper saw it in a moment. They snuffed the factious air, and felt the coming storm. Notwithstanding the extreme congeniality of these worthies, there was a little latent jealousy between them. Tadpole worshipped Registration: Taper, adored a Cry. Tadpole always maintained that it was the winnowing of the electoral lists that could alone gain the day; Taper, on the contrary, faithful to ancient traditions, was ever of opinion that the game must ultimately be won by popular clamour. It always seemed so impossible that the Conservative party could ever be popular; the extreme graciousness and personal popularity of the leaders not being sufficiently apparent to be esteemed an adequate set-off against the inveterate odium that attached to their opinions; that the Tadpole philosophy was the favoured tenet in high places; and Taper had had his knuckles well rapped more than once for manoeuvring too actively against the New Poor-law, and for hiring several link-boys to bawl a much-wronged lady’s name in the Park when the Court prorogued Parliament.

The future impact of the Whig proposals from '41 won’t harm that party, even if they are gradually taken over by their Conservative successors, which is likely to happen. But for now, considering the state the Whig party was in, it would have been impossible to create measures that could lead to their quicker downfall. Major interests were threatened by a weak government. The outcome was inevitable. Tadpole and Taper recognized it immediately. They sensed the divisive atmosphere and felt the approaching storm. Despite their close friendship, there was a bit of underlying jealousy between them. Tadpole revered Registration, while Taper was devoted to popular outcry. Tadpole always insisted that only the careful vetting of the voter lists could lead to success, while Taper, true to old traditions, believed that victory would ultimately come through public uproar. It seemed so unlikely that the Conservative party could ever be popular; the extreme charm and personal popularity of their leaders weren't enough to outweigh the deep-seated disdain associated with their views. Consequently, Tadpole's philosophy was favored in high circles, and Taper had faced criticism more than once for being too aggressive against the New Poor Law and for hiring several link boys to shout a much-maligned lady’s name in the Park when Parliament was prorogued.

And now, after all, in 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was a great clamour in every quarter, and the clamour was against the Whigs and in favour of Conservative principles. What Canadian timber-merchants meant by Conservative principles, it is not difficult to conjecture; or West Indian planters. It was tolerably clear on the hustings what squires and farmers, and their followers, meant by Conservative principles. What they mean by Conservative principles now is another question: and whether Conservative principles mean something higher than a perpetuation of fiscal arrangements, some of them impolitic, none of them important. But no matter what different bodies of men understood by the cry in which they all joined, the Cry existed. Taper beat Tadpole; and the great Conservative party beat the shattered and exhausted Whigs.

And now, by 1841, it seemed that Taper was right. There was a huge outcry everywhere, and the outcry was against the Whigs and in support of Conservative principles. It’s not hard to guess what Canadian timber merchants meant by Conservative principles, or West Indian planters. It was pretty clear on the campaign trail what landowners and farmers, and their supporters, meant by Conservative principles. What they mean by Conservative principles today is a different story; and whether Conservative principles represent something more meaningful than just maintaining financial arrangements, some of which are questionable and none of which are significant, is another issue. But regardless of what different groups understood by the shared outcry, the Cry was real. Taper defeated Tadpole; and the powerful Conservative party triumphed over the broken and weary Whigs.

Notwithstanding the abstraction of his legal studies, Coningsby could not be altogether insensible to the political crisis. In the political world of course he never mixed, but the friends of his boyhood were deeply interested in affairs, and they lost no opportunity which he would permit them, of cultivating his society. Their occasional fellowship, a visit now and then to Sidonia, and a call sometimes on Flora, who lived at Richmond, comprised his social relations. His general acquaintance did not desert him, but he was out of sight, and did not wish to be remembered. Mr. Ormsby asked him to dinner, and occasionally mourned over his fate in the bow window of White’s; while Lord Eskdale even went to see him in the Temple, was interested in his progress, and said, with an encouraging look, that, when he was called to the bar, all his friends must join and get up the steam. Coningsby had once met Mr. Rigby, who was walking with the Duke of Agincourt, which was probably the reason he could not notice a lawyer. Mr. Rigby cut Coningsby.

Despite the detachment of his legal studies, Coningsby couldn't completely ignore the political crisis. He never got involved in the political scene, but the friends from his childhood were very much engaged in these matters and took every chance he would allow them to spend time with him. Their occasional hangouts, a visit here and there to Sidonia, and a visit sometimes to Flora, who lived in Richmond, made up his social life. His general circle of acquaintances didn’t abandon him, but he kept a low profile and preferred not to be remembered. Mr. Ormsby invited him to dinner and sometimes lamented his situation in the bow window of White’s; meanwhile, Lord Eskdale even visited him at the Temple, showed interest in his progress, and with an encouraging expression, said that once he was called to the bar, all his friends should come together and rally for him. Coningsby had once encountered Mr. Rigby while he was walking with the Duke of Agincourt, which likely explained why he didn’t acknowledge a lawyer. Mr. Rigby snubbed Coningsby.

Lord Eskdale had obtained from Villebecque accurate details as to the cause of Coningsby being disinherited. Our hero, if one in such fallen fortunes may still be described as a hero, had mentioned to Lord Eskdale his sorrow that his grandfather had died in anger with him; but Lord Eskdale, without dwelling on the subject, had assured him that he had reason to believe that if Lord Monmouth had lived, affairs would have been different. He had altered the disposition of his property at a moment of great and general irritation and excitement; and had been too indolent, perhaps really too indisposed, which he was unwilling ever to acknowledge, to recur to a calmer and more equitable settlement. Lord Eskdale had been more frank with Sidonia, and had told him all about the refusal to become a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; the communication of Rigby to Lord Monmouth, as to the presence of Oswald Millbank at the castle, and the love of Coningsby for his sister; all these details, furnished by Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been truly transferred by that nobleman to his co-executor; and Sidonia, when he had sufficiently digested them, had made Lady Wallinger acquainted with the whole history.

Lord Eskdale had gotten accurate details from Villebecque about why Coningsby was disinherited. Our protagonist, if someone in such a fallen state can still be called a hero, had expressed to Lord Eskdale his sadness that his grandfather had died angry with him. But Lord Eskdale, without focusing too much on it, had assured him that he believed things would have been different if Lord Monmouth had lived. He had changed the distribution of his estate during a time of great irritation and excitement and had been too lazy, perhaps really too unwilling to admit it, to go back to a calmer and fairer arrangement. Lord Eskdale had been more open with Sidonia, sharing everything about the refusal to run as a candidate for Darlford against Mr. Millbank; Rigby's message to Lord Monmouth about Oswald Millbank being at the castle, and Coningsby’s love for his sister. All these details, provided by Villebecque to Lord Eskdale, had been passed on accurately by that nobleman to his co-executor; and Sidonia, after he had fully understood them, had informed Lady Wallinger about the whole situation.

The dissolution of the Whig Parliament by the Whigs, the project of which had reached Lord Monmouth a year before, and yet in which nobody believed to the last moment, at length took place. All the world was dispersed in the heart of the season, and our solitary student of the Temple, in his lonely chambers, notwithstanding all his efforts, found his eye rather wander over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he remembered that the great event to which he had so looked forward was now occurring, and he, after all, was no actor in the mighty drama. It was to have been the epoch of his life; when he was to have found himself in that proud position for which all the studies, and meditations, and higher impulses of his nature had been preparing him. It was a keen trial of a man. Every one of his friends and old companions were candidates, and with sanguine prospects. Lord Henry was certain for a division of his county; Buckhurst harangued a large agricultural borough in his vicinity; Eustace Lyle and Vere stood in coalition for a Yorkshire town; and Oswald Millbank solicited the suffrages of an important manufacturing constituency. They sent their addresses to Coningsby. He was deeply interested as he traced in them the influence of his own mind; often recognised the very expressions to which he had habituated them. Amid the confusion of a general election, no unimpassioned critic had time to canvass the language of an address to an isolated constituency; yet an intelligent speculator on the movements of political parties might have detected in these public declarations some intimation of new views, and of a tone of political feeling that has unfortunately been too long absent from the public life of this country.

The Whig Parliament was finally dissolved by the Whigs, a plan that had reached Lord Monmouth a year earlier, yet nobody truly believed it would happen until the last moment. Everyone was scattered in the middle of the season, and our solitary student at the Temple, in his empty chambers, found his gaze wandering over the pages of Tidd and Chitty as he realized the significant event he had been anticipating was now happening, and he wasn't part of it after all. This was supposed to be a pivotal moment in his life; a time when he would step into the esteemed position for which all his studies, reflections, and noble impulses had been preparing him. It was a tough test for a man. All his friends and old companions were running for office, with optimistic futures ahead of them. Lord Henry was sure to secure a seat in his county; Buckhurst was giving speeches in a large nearby agricultural borough; Eustace Lyle and Vere were teaming up for a town in Yorkshire; and Oswald Millbank was seeking the votes from an influential manufacturing area. They sent their campaign messages to Coningsby. He was genuinely interested as he noticed the impact of his own thoughts in their messages; he often recognized the very phrases he had trained them to use. During the chaos of a general election, no unbiased observer had the time to analyze the wording of a message aimed at a specific constituency; however, a perceptive analyst of political party movements might have picked up on these public statements hinting at new ideas and a political tone that has sadly been missing from the public life of this country for too long.

It was the end of a sultry July day, the last ray of the sun shooting down Pall Mall sweltering with dust; there was a crowd round the doors of the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and every now and then an express arrived with the agitating bulletin of a fresh defeat or a new triumph. Coningsby was walking up Pall Mall. He was going to dine at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, the only club on whose list he had retained his name, that he might occasionally have the pleasure of meeting an Eton or Cambridge friend without the annoyance of encountering any of his former fashionable acquaintances. He lighted in his walk on Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both of whom he knew. The latter did not notice him, but Mr. Tadpole, more good-natured, bestowed on him a rough nod, not unmarked by a slight expression of coarse pity.

It was the end of a hot July day, with the last sunbeam shining down on Pall Mall, which was filled with dust; a crowd gathered outside the Carlton and the Reform Clubs, and now and then an express train would arrive with the stressful news of another defeat or a new victory. Coningsby was walking up Pall Mall. He was heading to dinner at the Oxford and Cambridge Club, the only club where he had kept his membership, so he could occasionally enjoy seeing an Eton or Cambridge friend without the hassle of running into any of his former upscale acquaintances. As he walked, he bumped into Mr. Tadpole and Mr. Taper, both of whom he recognized. The latter didn't see him, but Mr. Tadpole, being more friendly, gave him a rough nod, marked by a hint of blunt sympathy.

Coningsby ordered his dinner, and then took up the evening papers, where he learnt the return of Vere and Lyle; and read a speech of Buckhurst denouncing the Venetian Constitution, to the amazement of several thousand persons, apparently not a little terrified by this unknown danger, now first introduced to their notice. Being true Englishmen, they were all against Buckhurst’s opponent, who was of the Venetian party, and who ended by calling out Buckhurst for his personalities.

Coningsby ordered his dinner and then picked up the evening newspapers, where he found out about the return of Vere and Lyle; he also read a speech by Buckhurst condemning the Venetian Constitution, which shocked several thousand people, who seemed quite scared by this unfamiliar threat that was just being brought to their attention. Being true Englishmen, they were all against Buckhurst’s opponent, who was part of the Venetian group and ended up shouting at Buckhurst for his personal attacks.

Coningsby had dined, and was reading in the library, when a waiter brought up a third edition of the Sun, with electioneering bulletins from the manufacturing districts to the very latest hour. Some large letters which expressed the name of Darlford caught his eye. There seemed great excitement in that borough; strange proceedings had happened. The column was headed, ‘Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of the Liberal Candidate! Two Tory Candidates in the field!!!’

Coningsby had finished dinner and was reading in the library when a waiter brought up a third edition of the Sun, complete with the latest election updates from the manufacturing areas. Some big letters that spelled out the name Darlford caught his attention. There seemed to be a lot of excitement in that borough; unusual events had taken place. The column was titled, ‘Extraordinary Affair! Withdrawal of the Liberal Candidate! Two Tory Candidates in the Field!!!’

His eye glanced over an animated speech of Mr. Millbank, his countenance changed, his heart palpitated. Mr. Millbank had resigned the representation of the town, but not from weakness; his avocations demanded his presence; he had been requested to let his son supply his place, but his son was otherwise provided for; he should always take a deep interest in the town and trade of Darlford; he hoped that the link between the borough and Hellingsley would be ever cherished; loud cheering; he wished in parting from them to take a step which should conciliate all parties, put an end to local heats and factious contentions, and secure the town an able and worthy representative. For these reasons he begged to propose to them a gentleman who bore a name which many of them greatly honoured; for himself, he knew the individual, and it was his firm opinion that whether they considered his talents, his character, or the ancient connection of his family with the district, he could not propose a candidate more worthy of their confidence than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ.

His eye moved over an engaging speech by Mr. Millbank; his expression changed and his heart raced. Mr. Millbank had stepped down from representing the town, but not out of weakness; his work required his attention. He had been asked to let his son take his place, but his son had other commitments. He would always care deeply about the town and business of Darlford; he hoped that the connection between the borough and Hellingsley would always be valued; loud cheering followed. He wished to leave them with a move that would bring everyone together, end local disputes and conflicts, and ensure the town had a capable and deserving representative. For these reasons, he wanted to propose a gentleman whose name many of them held in high regard; he personally knew the individual, and he firmly believed that considering his abilities, his character, and his family's long-standing connection to the area, he couldn't suggest a more deserving candidate for their trust than HARRY CONINGSBY, ESQ.

This proposition was received with that wild enthusiasm which occasionally bursts out in the most civilised communities. The contest between Millbank and Rigby was equally balanced, neither party was over-confident. The Conservatives were not particularly zealous in behalf of their champion; there was no Marquess of Monmouth and no Coningsby Castle now to back him; he was fighting on his own resources, and he was a beaten horse. The Liberals did not like the prospect of a defeat, and dreaded the mortification of Rigby’s triumph. The Moderate men, who thought more of local than political circumstances, liked the name of Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had dexterously prepared his leading supporters for the substitution. Some traits of the character and conduct of Coningsby had been cleverly circulated. Thus there was a combination of many favourable causes in his favour. In half an hour’s time his image was stamped on the brain of every inhabitant of the borough as an interesting and accomplished youth, who had been wronged, and who deserved to be rewarded. It was whispered that Rigby was his enemy. Magog Wrath and his mob offered Mr. Millbank’s committee to throw Mr. Rigby into the river, or to burn down his hotel, in case he was prudent enough not to show. Mr. Rigby determined to fight to the last. All his hopes were now staked on the successful result of this contest. It were impossible if he were returned that his friends could refuse him high office. The whole of Lord Monmouth’s reduced legacy was devoted to this end. The third edition of the Sun left Mr. Rigby in vain attempting to address an infuriated populace.

This proposal was met with that wild enthusiasm that sometimes erupts in even the most civilized societies. The competition between Millbank and Rigby was evenly matched; neither side was overly confident. The Conservatives weren’t particularly passionate about their candidate; there was no Marquess of Monmouth or Coningsby Castle to support him. He was relying solely on his own means, and he was a defeated contender. The Liberals didn’t like the idea of losing and feared the embarrassment of Rigby’s victory. The Moderates, who focused more on local issues than political ones, preferred the name Coningsby. Mr. Millbank had skillfully prepared his main supporters for this change. Some traits of Coningsby's character and actions had been cleverly spread around. So, a mix of many favorable factors was working in his favor. Within half an hour, every resident of the borough had the image of Coningsby in their minds as an interesting and talented young man who had been wronged and deserved recognition. It was rumored that Rigby was his rival. Magog Wrath and his group suggested to Mr. Millbank’s committee that they could throw Mr. Rigby into the river or burn down his hotel if he was smart enough to stay away. Mr. Rigby decided to fight to the very end. All his hopes were pinned on winning this battle. It was impossible for his friends to deny him a high position if he was elected. The entirety of Lord Monmouth’s reduced inheritance was dedicated to this goal. The third edition of the Sun reported Mr. Rigby unsuccessfully trying to address a furious crowd.

Here was a revolution in the fortunes of our forlorn Coningsby! When his grandfather first sent for him to Monmouth House, his destiny was not verging on greater vicissitudes. He rose from his seat, and was surprised that all the silent gentlemen who were about him did not mark his agitation. Not an individual there that he knew. It was now an hour to midnight, and to-morrow the almost unconscious candidate was to go to the poll. In a tumult of suppressed emotion, Coningsby returned to his chambers. He found a letter in his box from Oswald Millbank, who had been twice at the Temple. Oswald had been returned without a contest, and had reached Darlford in time to hear Coningsby nominated. He set off instantly to London, and left at his friend’s chambers a rapid narrative of what had happened, with information that he should call on him again on the morrow at nine o’clock, when they were to repair together immediately to Darlford in time for Coningsby to be chaired, for no one entertained a doubt of his triumph.

Here was a turning point in the fortunes of our unfortunate Coningsby! When his grandfather first summoned him to Monmouth House, his future was not heading towards greater challenges. He stood up, surprised that all the quiet men around him didn’t notice his agitation. There wasn’t anyone there he recognized. It was now an hour before midnight, and tomorrow the nearly oblivious candidate was supposed to go to the poll. In a whirlwind of restrained emotions, Coningsby returned to his rooms. He found a letter in his mailbox from Oswald Millbank, who had been to the Temple twice. Oswald had been elected without a contest and had made it to Darlford in time to hear Coningsby’s nomination. He immediately headed to London and left a quick account of what had happened in his friend’s chambers, along with the note that he would visit again tomorrow at nine o’clock so they could go together to Darlford in time for Coningsby to be celebrated, as everyone was confident of his victory.

Coningsby did not sleep a wink that night, and yet when he rose early felt fresh enough for any exploit, however difficult or hazardous. He felt as an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after its elevation had been despaired of. At the very lowest ebb of his fortunes, an event had occurred which seemed to restore all. He dared not contemplate the ultimate result of all these wonderful changes. Enough for him, that when all seemed dark, he was about to be returned to Parliament by the father of Edith, and his vanquished rival who was to bite the dust before him was the author of all his misfortunes. Love, Vengeance, Justice, the glorious pride of having acted rightly, the triumphant sense of complete and absolute success, here were chaotic materials from which order was at length evolved; and all subsided in an overwhelming feeling of gratitude to that Providence that had so signally protected him.

Coningsby didn't sleep at all that night, but when he got up early, he felt ready for any challenge, no matter how tough or risky. He felt like an Egyptian does when the Nile rises after everyone thought it wouldn’t. At the lowest point of his life, something had happened that seemed to bring everything back. He couldn’t bear to think about what all these amazing changes would ultimately lead to. It was enough for him that when everything seemed bleak, he was about to be elected to Parliament by Edith's father, and his defeated rival, who was going to fall before him, was the one responsible for all his troubles. Love, Revenge, Justice, and the wonderful pride of having done the right thing mixed together into a powerful sense of complete and total success, creating a sense of order from chaos; and he was overwhelmed with gratitude for the Providence that had so clearly protected him.

There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They embraced. It seemed that Oswald was as excited as Coningsby. His eye sparkled, his manner was energetic.

There was a knock at the door. It was Oswald. They hugged. It felt like Oswald was just as excited as Coningsby. His eyes sparkled, and he was full of energy.

‘We must talk it all over during our journey. We have not a minute to spare.’

'We need to discuss everything during our trip. We don't have a moment to waste.'

During that journey Coningsby learned something of the course of affairs which gradually had brought about so singular a revolution in his favour. We mentioned that Sidonia had acquired a thorough knowledge of the circumstances which had occasioned and attended the disinheritance of Coningsby. These he had told to Lady Wallinger, first by letter, afterwards in more detail on her arrival in London. Lady Wallinger had conferred with her husband. She was not surprised at the goodness of Coningsby, and she sympathised with all his calamities. He had ever been the favourite of her judgment, and her romance had always consisted in blending his destinies with those of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a judicious man, who never cared to commit himself; a little selfish, but good, just, and honourable, with some impulses, only a little afraid of them; but then his wife stepped in like an angel, and gave them the right direction. They were both absolutely impressed with Coningsby’s admirable conduct, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should express to others the convictions which he acknowledged in unison with herself. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, who stared; but Sir Joseph spoke feebly. Lady Wallinger conveyed all this intelligence, and all her impressions, to Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, making no admissions, listened with interest, inveighed against Lord Monmouth, and condemned his will.

During that journey, Coningsby learned about the events that had gradually led to such an unusual turn of fortune in his favor. We mentioned that Sidonia had gained a deep understanding of the circumstances surrounding Coningsby’s disinheritance. He shared this information with Lady Wallinger, first through a letter and later in more detail when she arrived in London. Lady Wallinger discussed it with her husband. She wasn’t surprised by Coningsby’s goodness and felt sympathy for all his troubles. He had always been her favorite in terms of judgment, and her romantic notions revolved around intertwining his fate with that of her beloved Edith. Sir Joseph was a sensible man who preferred not to commit himself too much; he was somewhat selfish, but fundamentally good, fair, and honorable, with a few impulses that he was just a little hesitant to act on. However, his wife intervened like an angel, guiding those impulses in the right direction. Both of them were truly impressed by Coningsby’s outstanding behavior, and Lady Wallinger was determined that her husband should share with others the beliefs he held in agreement with her. Sir Joseph spoke to Mr. Millbank, who looked surprised, but Sir Joseph spoke softly. Lady Wallinger communicated all of this information and her feelings to Oswald and Edith. The younger Millbank talked with his father, who, while making no acknowledgments, listened intently, criticized Lord Monmouth, and condemned his will.

After some time, Mr. Millbank made inquiries about Coningsby, took an interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, declared that when he was called to the bar, his friends would have an opportunity to evince their sincerity. Affairs remained in this state, until Oswald thought that circumstances were sufficiently ripe to urge his father on the subject. The position which Oswald had assumed at Millbank had necessarily made him acquainted with the affairs and fortune of his father. When he computed the vast wealth which he knew was at his parent’s command, and recalled Coningsby in his humble chambers, toiling after all his noble efforts without any results, and his sister pining in a provincial solitude, Oswald began to curse wealth, and to ask himself what was the use of all their marvellous industry and supernatural skill? He addressed his father with that irresistible frankness which a strong faith can alone inspire. What are the objects of wealth, if not to bless those who possess our hearts? The only daughter, the friend to whom the only son was indebted for his life, here are two beings surely whom one would care to bless, and both are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without prejudice, for he was already convinced. But he felt some interest in the present conduct of Coningsby. A Coningsby working for his bread was a novel incident for him. He wished to be assured of its authenticity. He was resolved to convince himself of the fact. And perhaps he would have gone on yet for a little time, and watched the progress of the experiment, already interested and delighted by what had reached him, had not the dissolution brought affairs to a crisis. The misery of Oswald at the position of Coningsby, the silent sadness of Edith, his own conviction, which assured him that he could do nothing wiser or better than take this young man to his heart, so ordained it that Mr. Millbank, who was after all the creature of impulse, decided suddenly, and decided rightly. Never making a single admission to all the representations of his son, Mr. Millbank in a moment did all that his son could have dared to desire.

After a while, Mr. Millbank started asking about Coningsby, took an interest in his career, and, like Lord Eskdale, said that when he was called to the bar, his friends would have a chance to show their true feelings. Things stayed this way until Oswald thought it was time to push his father on the topic. The role Oswald had taken at Millbank made him aware of his father’s wealth and situation. When he considered the immense fortune his father had at his disposal and remembered Coningsby, stuck in his modest chambers, struggling despite all his noble efforts with no results, and his sister feeling lonely in a provincial town, Oswald began to resent wealth and questioned the purpose of all their incredible effort and talent. He spoke to his father with a straightforwardness that only strong belief can inspire. What’s the point of wealth if it isn’t to help those we care about? The only daughter and the friend who saved the only son's life—here are two people who surely deserve some blessings, yet both are unhappy. Mr. Millbank listened without bias since he was already convinced. However, he was curious about how Coningsby was doing at that moment. A Coningsby working for a living was something new for him. He wanted to be sure it was true. He was determined to see for himself. Perhaps he would have taken more time to observe the situation, already intrigued and pleased by what he’d heard, if not for the fact that circumstances forced a decision. Oswald's unhappiness about Coningsby’s situation, Edith’s quiet sadness, and his own belief that he couldn't do anything wiser or better than to welcome this young man into his life led Mr. Millbank, who was ultimately an impulsive person, to make a quick and right decision. Without giving in to any of his son’s arguments, Mr. Millbank instantly did everything Oswald could have hoped for.

This is a very imperfect and crude intimation of what had occurred at Millbank and Hellingsley; yet it conveys a faint sketch of the enchanting intelligence that Oswald conveyed to Coningsby during their rapid travel. When they arrived at Birmingham, they found a messenger and a despatch, informing Coningsby, that at mid-day, at Darlford, he was at the head of the poll by an overwhelming majority, and that Mr. Rigby had resigned. He was, however, requested to remain at Birmingham, as they did not wish him to enter Darlford, except to be chaired, so he was to arrive there in the morning. At Birmingham, therefore, they remained.

This is a rough and incomplete summary of what happened at Millbank and Hellingsley; still, it gives a vague idea of the exciting news that Oswald shared with Coningsby during their quick journey. When they got to Birmingham, they found a messenger with a message that informed Coningsby that at noon in Darlford, he was leading the poll by a huge margin, and that Mr. Rigby had stepped down. However, he was asked to stay in Birmingham, as they didn’t want him to go to Darlford until he was officially celebrated, so he was set to arrive there in the morning. So, they stayed in Birmingham for now.

There was Oswald’s election to talk of as well as Coningsby’s. They had hardly had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. Men must have been at school together, to enjoy the real fun of meeting thus, and realising boyish dreams. Often, years ago, they had talked of these things, and assumed these results; but those were words and dreams, these were positive facts; after some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were members of the British Parliament; public characters, responsible agents, with a career.

There was Oswald's election to discuss along with Coningsby's. They barely had time for this. Now they were both Members of Parliament. You really have to have gone to school together to enjoy the real thrill of meeting like this and realizing those boyhood dreams. Many years ago, they had talked about these things and imagined these outcomes; but those were just words and dreams, while now they were actual realities. After some doubts and struggles, in the freshness of their youth, Oswald Millbank and Harry Coningsby were now members of the British Parliament; public figures, responsible agents, with a career ahead of them.

This afternoon, at Birmingham, was as happy an afternoon as usually falls to the lot of man. Both of these companions were labouring under that degree of excitement which is necessary to felicity. They had enough to talk about. Edith was no longer a forbidden or a sorrowful subject. There was rapture in their again meeting under such circumstances. Then there were their friends; that dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out for styling his opponent a Venetian, and all their companions of early days. What a sudden and marvellous change in all their destinies! Life was a pantomime; the wand was waved, and it seemed that the schoolfellows had of a sudden become elements of power, springs of the great machine.

This afternoon in Birmingham was one of the happiest that anyone could experience. Both friends were buzzing with the kind of excitement that brings happiness. They had plenty to discuss. Edith was no longer a touchy or sad topic. The joy of meeting again under such circumstances was overwhelming. Then there were their friends; dear Buckhurst, who had just been called out for calling his opponent a Venetian, along with all their buddies from their early days. What a sudden and amazing shift in all their lives! Life felt like a performance; the magic wand had been waved, and it seemed like the schoolmates had suddenly transformed into powerful players, crucial parts of a grand machine.

A train arrived; restless they sallied forth, to seek diversion in the dispersion of the passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that glance, a little inquisitive, even impertinent, if we must confess it, with which one greets a stranger when he emerges from a public conveyance, were lounging on the platform. The train arrived; stopped; the doors were thrown open, and from one of them emerged Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who had dined, was greatly tempted to take off his hat and make him a bow, but he refrained. Their eyes met. Rigby was dead beat. He was evidently used up; a man without a resource; the sight of Coningsby his last blow; he had met his fate.

A train arrived; restless, they stepped out to find entertainment in the crowd of passengers. Coningsby and Millbank, with that slightly curious, even bold, glance that people give a stranger getting off public transport, were lounging on the platform. The train pulled in, stopped, the doors opened, and out came Mr. Rigby! Coningsby, who had just eaten, felt a strong urge to take off his hat and bow to him, but he held back. Their eyes locked. Rigby looked completely exhausted. He was obviously worn out; a man without options; seeing Coningsby was his final blow; he had faced his fate.

‘My dear fellow,’ said Coningsby, ‘I remember I wanted you to dine with my grandfather at Montem, and that fellow would not ask you. Such is life!’

‘My dear friend,’ said Coningsby, ‘I remember I wanted you to have dinner with my grandfather at Montem, and that guy wouldn’t invite you. That’s how life is!’

About eleven o’clock the next morning they arrived at the Darlford station. Here they were met by an anxious deputation, who received Coningsby as if he were a prophet, and ushered him into a car covered with satin and blue ribbons, and drawn by six beautiful grey horses, caparisoned in his colours, and riden by postilions, whose very whips were blue and white. Triumphant music sounded; banners waved; the multitude were marshalled; the Freemasons, at the first opportunity, fell into the procession; the Odd Fellows joined it at the nearest corner. Preceded and followed by thousands, with colours flying, trumpets sounding, and endless huzzas, flags and handkerchiefs waving from every window, and every balcony filled with dames and maidens bedecked with his colours, Coningsby was borne through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Uncovered, still in deep mourning, his fine figure, and graceful bearing, and his intelligent brow, at once won every female heart.

About eleven o'clock the next morning, they arrived at the Darlford station. Here, they were greeted by a worried group, who welcomed Coningsby like he was a prophet, and led him to a car covered in satin and blue ribbons, pulled by six beautiful grey horses dressed in his colors, and ridden by postilions whose whips were blue and white. Triumphant music played; banners waved; the crowd was organized; the Freemasons joined the procession at the first chance; the Odd Fellows hopped in at the nearest corner. Preceded and followed by thousands, with colors flying, trumpets blaring, and endless cheers, flags and handkerchiefs waved from every window, and every balcony was filled with ladies and young women adorned in his colors. Coningsby was carried through enthusiastic Darlford like Paulus Emilius returning from Macedon. Bareheaded, still in deep mourning, his tall figure, graceful demeanor, and intelligent brow instantly captured every woman's heart.

The singularity was, that all were of the same opinion: everybody cheered him, every house was adorned with his colours. His triumphal return was no party question. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked together like lambs at the head of his procession.

The standout feature was that everyone shared the same opinion: everyone cheered for him, and every house was decorated with his colors. His triumphant return was not a matter of debate. Magog Wrath and Bully Bluck walked together like best friends at the front of his parade.

The car stopped before the principal hotel in the High Street. It was Mr. Millbank’s committee. The broad street was so crowded, that, as every one declared, you might have walked on the heads of the people. Every window was full; the very roofs were peopled. The car stopped, and the populace gave three cheers for Mr. Millbank. Their late member, surrounded by his friends, stood in the balcony, which was fitted up with Coningsby’s colours, and bore his name on the hangings in gigantic letters formed of dahlias. The flashing and inquiring eye of Coningsby caught the form of Edith, who was leaning on her father’s arm.

The car pulled up in front of the main hotel on High Street. It was Mr. Millbank’s committee. The wide street was so packed that, as everyone said, you could have walked on people’s heads. Every window was filled; even the rooftops had people. When the car stopped, the crowd cheered three times for Mr. Millbank. Their former representative, surrounded by his friends, stood on the balcony, decorated with Coningsby’s colors, with his name displayed in huge letters made of dahlias. Coningsby’s sharp gaze quickly found Edith, who was leaning on her father’s arm.

The hustings were opposite the hotel, and here, after a while, Coningsby was carried, and, stepping from his car, took up his post to address, for the first time, a public assembly. Anxious as the people were to hear him, it was long before their enthusiasm could subside into silence. At length that silence was deep and absolute. He spoke; his powerful and rich tones reached every ear. In five minutes’ time every one looked at his neighbour, and without speaking they agreed that there never was anything like this heard in Darlford before.

The campaign rally was across from the hotel, and after a while, Coningsby arrived and, stepping out of his car, took his place to speak for the first time to a public crowd. Although the people were eager to hear him, it took a while for their excitement to quiet down. Eventually, the silence was complete and profound. He began to speak; his strong, resonant voice reached everyone in the audience. Within five minutes, everyone glanced at their neighbor, and without saying a word, they all agreed that they had never heard anything like this in Darlford before.

He addressed them for a considerable time, for he had a great deal to say; not only to express his gratitude for the unprecedented manner in which he had become their representative, and for the spirit in which they had greeted him, but he had to offer them no niggard exposition of the views and opinions of the member whom they had so confidingly chosen, without even a formal declaration of his sentiments.

He spoke to them for a long time because he had a lot to say; not only to thank them for the extraordinary way he had become their representative and for the warm welcome they had given him, but he also needed to thoroughly explain the views and opinions of the member they had chosen so trustingly, without even a formal statement of his beliefs.

He did this with so much clearness, and in a manner so pointed and popular, that the deep attention of the multitude never wavered. His lively illustrations kept them often in continued merriment. But when, towards his close, he drew some picture of what he hoped might be the character of his future and lasting connection with the town, the vast throng was singularly affected. There were a great many present at that moment who, though they had never seen Coningsby before, would willingly have then died for him. Coningsby had touched their hearts, for he had spoken from his own. His spirit had entirely magnetised them. Darlford believed in Coningsby: and a very good creed.

He did this with such clarity and in a way that was both direct and relatable that the crowd's attention never wavered. His vibrant examples kept them laughing continuously. But when, towards the end, he painted a picture of what he hoped his lasting relationship with the town would be like, the huge audience was deeply moved. Many in attendance, even those who had never met Coningsby before, would have gladly sacrificed themselves for him at that moment. Coningsby had reached their hearts because he spoke from his own. His spirit had completely captivated them. Darlford believed in Coningsby, and that’s a pretty solid belief.

And now Coningsby was conducted to the opposite hotel. He walked through the crowd. The progress was slow, as every one wished to shake hands with him. His friends, however, at last safely landed him. He sprang up the stairs; he was met by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest warmth, and offered his hearty congratulations.

And now Coningsby was taken to the other hotel. He walked through the crowd. The progress was slow, as everyone wanted to shake hands with him. His friends, however, eventually got him through safely. He rushed up the stairs, where he was greeted by Mr. Millbank, who welcomed him with the greatest warmth and offered his sincere congratulations.

‘It is to you, dear sir, that I am indebted for all this,’ said Coningsby.

‘It’s you, dear sir, that I owe all of this to,’ said Coningsby.

‘No,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘it is to your own high principles, great talents, and good heart.’

‘No,’ said Mr. Millbank, ‘it's because of your strong principles, impressive talents, and kind heart.’

After he had been presented by the late member to the principal personages in the borough, Mr. Millbank said,

After the late member introduced him to the key figures in the borough, Mr. Millbank said,

‘I think we must now give Mr. Coningsby a little rest. Come with me,’ he added, ‘here is some one who will be very glad to see you.’

‘I think it’s time we gave Mr. Coningsby a little break. Come with me,’ he added, ‘there’s someone here who will be very happy to see you.’

Speaking thus, he led our hero a little away, and placing his arm in Coningsby’s with great affection opened the door of an apartment. There was Edith, radiant with loveliness and beaming with love. Their agitated hearts told at a glance the tumult of their joy. The father joined their hands, and blessed them with words of tenderness.

Speaking like this, he guided our hero a short distance away, and with great affection placed his arm in Coningsby’s as he opened the door to a room. There was Edith, glowing with beauty and filled with love. Their excited hearts revealed at once the storm of their joy. The father brought their hands together and blessed them with tender words.

CHAPTER VII.

The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. It was solemnised at Millbank, and they passed their first moon at Hellingsley, which place was in future to be the residence of the member for Darlford. The estate was to devolve to Coningsby after the death of Mr. Millbank, who in the meantime made arrangements which permitted the newly-married couple to reside at the Hall in a manner becoming its occupants. All these settlements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were effected not only with the sanction, but at the express instance, of his son.

The marriage of Coningsby and Edith took place early in the autumn. It was held at Millbank, and they spent their first month together at Hellingsley, which would be the future home of the member for Darlford. The estate would go to Coningsby after Mr. Millbank passed away, who in the meantime made arrangements that allowed the newly married couple to live at the Hall in a way befitting its residents. All these arrangements, as Mr. Millbank assured Coningsby, were made not only with approval but at the direct request of his son.

An event, however, occurred not very long after the marriage of Coningsby, which rendered this generous conduct of his father-in-law no longer necessary to his fortunes, though he never forgot its exercise. The gentle and unhappy daughter of Lord Monmouth quitted a scene with which her spirit had never greatly sympathised. Perhaps she might have lingered in life for yet a little while, had it not been for that fatal inheritance which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart with the recollection that she had been the unconscious instrument of injuring the only being whom she loved, and embarrassing and encumbering her with duties foreign to her experience and her nature. The marriage of Coningsby had greatly affected her, and from that day she seemed gradually to decline. She died towards the end of the autumn, and, subject to an ample annuity to Villebecque, she bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the husband of Edith. Gratifying as it was to him to present such an inheritance to his wife, it was not without a pang that he received the intelligence of the death of Flora. Edith sympathised in his affectionate feelings, and they raised a monument to her memory in the gardens of Hellingsley.

An event happened not long after Coningsby got married that made his father-in-law's generous support unnecessary for his future, although he never forgot it. The gentle and troubled daughter of Lord Monmouth left a situation that she never really connected with. Maybe she would have stuck around a bit longer if it weren't for that devastating inheritance that disrupted her peace and soured her days, reminding her that she had unintentionally harmed the only person she loved, and burdening her with responsibilities she wasn't prepared for. Coningsby's marriage deeply impacted her, and from that day on, she seemed to decline. She passed away towards the end of autumn, and after leaving a significant annuity to Villebecque, she left all her wealth to Edith's husband. While it was rewarding for him to give such an inheritance to his wife, he felt a pang of sadness upon hearing about Flora's death. Edith shared in his heartfelt emotions, and together they built a memorial for her in the gardens of Hellingsley.

Coningsby passed his next Christmas in his own hall with his beautiful and gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart and his youth.

Coningsby spent his next Christmas in his own home with his beautiful and talented wife by his side, surrounded by his closest friends from his youth.

They stand now on the threshold of public life. They are in the leash, but in a moment they will be slipped. What will be their fate? Will they maintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths which, in study and in solitude, they have embraced? Or will their courage exhaust itself in the struggle, their enthusiasm evaporate before hollow-hearted ridicule, their generous impulses yield with a vulgar catastrophe to the tawdry temptations of a low ambition? Will their skilled intelligence subside into being the adroit tool of a corrupt party? Will Vanity confound their fortunes, or Jealousy wither their sympathies? Or will they remain brave, single, and true; refuse to bow before shadows and worship phrases; sensible of the greatness of their position, recognise the greatness of their duties; denounce to a perplexed and disheartened world the frigid theories of a generalising age that have destroyed the individuality of man, and restore the happiness of their country by believing in their own energies, and daring to be great?

They now stand on the brink of public life. They're on a leash, but soon it will be loosened. What will happen to them? Will they uphold the important truths they've embraced through study and solitude in respected gatherings and high places? Or will their courage fade in the struggle, their enthusiasm dissipate in the face of heartless ridicule, their generous intentions fall prey to the cheap temptations of a low ambition? Will their sharp intellect become just a clever tool for a corrupt party? Will vanity ruin their fortunes, or will jealousy stifle their compassion? Or will they stay brave, individual, and true; refusing to bow to illusions and worship empty phrases; aware of the significance of their position, acknowledge the weight of their responsibilities; denounce to a confused and discouraged world the cold theories of a generalizing age that have stifled individual identity, and restore their country's happiness by believing in their own abilities and daring to be great?

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