Coningsby; Or, The New GenerationDisraeli, Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield
General
Coningsby; Or, The New Generation
Disraeli, Benjamin, Earl of Beaconsfield
Great Britain -- Fiction; Political fiction; Politicians -- Fiction
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.
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.
‘How do you do, sir,’ said Mr. Millbank, extending his hand to
Coningsby. ‘You seem to have taken a long 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.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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