London Pride

London Pride

The Project Gutenberg EBook of London Pride, by M. E. Braddon #3 in our series by M. E. Braddon
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Title: London Pride Or When the World Was Younger
Author: M. E. Braddon
Release Date: November, 2005 [EBook #9377] [Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] [This file was first posted on September 26, 2003]
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LONDON PRIDE ***

Produced by Jonathan Ingram and PG Distributed Proofreaders

LONDON PRIDE
OR
WHEN THE WORLD WAS YOUNGER
BY
M.E. BRADDON
_Author of "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," "VIXEN," "ISHMAEL," ETC._
1896
CONTENTS
_CHAPTER I._ A HARBOUR FROM THE STORM
_CHAPTER II._ WITHIN CONVENT WALLS
_CHAPTER III._ LETTERS FROM HOME
_CHAPTER IV._ THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW
_CHAPTER V._ A MINISTERING ANGEL
_CHAPTER VI._ BETWEEN LONDON AND OXFORD
_CHAPTER VII._ AT THE TOP OF THE FASHION
_CHAPTER VIII._ SUPERIOR TO FASHION
_CHAPTER IX._ IN A PURITAN HOUSE
_CHAPTER X._ THE PRIEST'S HOLE
_CHAPTER XL._ LIGHTER THAN VANITY
_CHAPTER XII._ LADY FAREHAM'S DAY
_CHAPTER XIII._ THE SAGE OF SAYES COURT
_CHAPTER XIV._ THE MILLBANK GHOST
_CHAPTER XV._ FALCON AND DOVE
_CHAPTER XVI._ WHICH WAS THE FIERCER FIRE?
_CHAPTER XVII._ THE MOTIVE--MURDER
_CHAPTER XVIII._ REVELATIONS
_CHAPTER XIX._ DIDO
_CHAPTER XX._ PHILASTER
_CHAPTER XXI._ GOOD-BYE, LONDON
_CHAPTER XXII._ AT THE MANOR MOAT
_CHAPTER XXIII._ PATIENT, NOT PASSIONATE
_CHAPTER XXIV._ "QUITE OUT OF FASHION"
_CHAPTER XXV._ HIGH STAKES
_CHAPTER XXVI._ IN THE COURT OF KING'S BENCH
_CHAPTER XXVII._ BRINGERS OF SUNSHINE
_CHAPTER XXVIII._ IN A DEAD CALM
CHAPTER I.
A HARBOUR FROM THE STORM.
The wind howled across the level fields, and flying showers of sleet rattled against the old leathern coach as it drove through the thickening dusk. A bitter winter, this year of the Royal tragedy.
A rainy summer, and a mild rainy autumn had been followed by the hardest frost this generation had ever known. The Thames was frozen over, and tempestuous winds had shaken the ships in the Pool, and the steep gable ends and tall chimney-stacks on London Bridge. A never-to-be-forgotten winter, which had witnessed the martyrdom of England's King, and the exile of her chief nobility, while a rabble Parliament rode roughshod over a cowed people. Gloom and sour visages prevailed, the maypoles were down, the play-houses were closed, the bear-gardens were empty, the cock-pits were desolate; and a saddened population, impoverished and depressed by the sacrifices that had been exacted and the tyranny that had been exercised in the name of Liberty, were ground under the iron heel of Cromwell's red-coats.
The pitiless journey from London to Louvain, a journey of many days and nights, prolonged by accident and difficulty, had been spun out to uttermost tedium for those two in the heavily moving old leathern coach. Who and what were they, these wearied travellers, journeying together silently towards a destination which promised but little of pleasure or luxury by way of welcome--a destination which meant severance for those two?
One was Sir John Kirkland, of the Manor Moat, Bucks, a notorious Malignant, a grey-bearded cavalier, aged by trouble and hard fighting; a soldier and servant who had sacrificed himself and his fortune for the King, and must needs begin the world anew now that his master was murdered, his own goods confiscated, the old family mansion, the house in which his parents died and his children were born, emptied of all its valuables, and left to the care of servants, and his master's son a wanderer in a foreign land, with little hope of ever winning back crown and sceptre.
Sadness was the dominant expression of Sir John's stern, strongly marked countenance, as he sat staring out at the level landscape through the unglazed coach window, staring blankly across those wind-swept Flemish fields where the cattle were clustering in sheltered corners, a monotonous expanse, crossed by ice-bound dykes that looked black as ink, save where the last rays of the setting sun touched their iron hue with blood-red splashes. Pollard willows indicated the edge of one field, gaunt poplars marked the boundary of another, alike leafless and unbeautiful, standing darkly out against the dim grey sky. Night was hastening towards the travellers, narrowing and blotting out that level landscape, field, dyke, and leafless wood.
Sir John put his head