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.

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.

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.

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

A sob the only answer.

'What can be the matter?' said Mr. Rigby.

'I was thinking,' said Coningsby, 'of poor mamma!'