Читать книгу Coningsby; Or, The New Generation - Benjamin Disraeli - Страница 11

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.

‘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.’

A cloud stole over the clear brow 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.’

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

‘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!’

‘Come, come, Coningsby,’ said Lord Vere, the son of a Whig minister; ‘I am 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.

‘My father says it will all go right now,’ rejoined Lord Vere. ‘I had 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.’

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

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

‘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.’

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:

‘You have been in London, Coningsby?’

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

‘You must have had a rare lark.’

‘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.’

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

‘It has not begun yet,’ said Coningsby.

‘What?’ said Millbank.

‘Why, the revolution.’

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

‘By Jove! 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.

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.

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

‘Agreed; agreed!’