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.

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!’

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,

‘so beau, they say, is booked at last; the new beauty, have you heard?’

‘i saw him very sweet on her last night,’ rejoined his companion. ‘has she any tin?’

‘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.’

‘he is in parliament, is not he?’

‘’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.’

‘i hear ‘tis an old affair of beau,’ said another gentleman. ‘it was all done a year ago at rome or paris.’

‘they say she refused him then,’ said mr. cassilis.

‘well, that is tolerably cool for a manufacturer’s daughter,’ said his friend. ‘what next?’

‘i wonder how the duke likes it?’ said mr. cassilis.

‘or the duchess?’ added one of his friends.

‘or the everinghams?’ added the other.

‘the duke will be deuced glad to see beau settled, i take it,’ said mr. cassilis.

‘a good deal 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.

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!

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.

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.

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.