THE MARQUIS CLANRICARDE, K.P.
IN REMEMBRANCE
OF
CONSTANT KINDNESS.
CONTENTS | |
| CHAP. | |
| [I.] | Mr. Churchill's Ideas are Monastic. |
| [II.] | Down at Bissett. |
| [III.] | Starting the Game. |
| [IV.] | The Commissioner's Views are Matrimonial. |
| [V.] | "There's Nothing half so sweet in Life." |
| [VI.] | The Commissioner's Shell Explodes. |
| [VII.] | Touching a Proposal. |
| [VIII.] | Touching another Proposal. |
| [IX.] | "A little proud, but full of Pity." |
| [X.] | At the Tin-Tax Office, No. 120. |
| [XI.] | With the Secretary. |
| [XII.] | Where Mr. Pringle went to. |
| [XIII.] | Mr. Prescott's Proceedings. |
| [XIV.] | Miss Lexden on Matrimony. |
| [XV.] | Mother and Son. |
| [XVI.] | "For better, for worse." |
| [XVII.] | Mining Operations. |
| [XVIII.] | The Schröders at Home. |
| [XIX.] | The Old or the New? |
| [XX.] | Churchill's at Home. |
| [XXI.] | The Flybynights. |
| [XXII.] | Mr. Simnel at the Den. |
| [XXIII.] | Mr. Beresford in Pursuit. |
| [XXIV.] | Barbara's first Lesson in the Manege. |
| [XXV.] | A Garden-party at Uplands. |
| [XXVI.] | Showing Who Were "Pigott and Wells." |
| [XXVII.] | Weaving the Web. |
| [XVIII.] | Tightening the Curb. |
| [XXIX.] | Mr. Scadgers pays a Visit. |
| [XXX.] | After the Storm. |
| [XXXI.] | The Paper Bullet. |
| [XXXII.] | Half-revealed. |
| [XXXIII.] | The House of Mourning. |
| [XXXIV.] | Et tu Brute! |
| [XXXV.] | Balthazar. |
| [XXXVI.] | "Be sure Your Sin will find you out." |
| [XXXVII.] | Ministering Angels. |
| [XXXVIII.] | Under Pressure. |
| [XXXIX.] | "We kissed again with Tears." |
| [XL.] | Going Home. |
| [XLI.] | The Day after. |
| [XLII.] | And last. |
BROKEN TO HARNESS.
[CHAPTER I.]
MR. CHURCHILL'S IDEAS ARE MONASTIC.
The office of the Statesman daily journal was not popular with the neighbours, although its existence unquestionably caused a diminution of rent in its immediate proximity. It was very difficult to find--which was an immense advantage to those connected with it, as no one had any right there but the affiliated; and strangers burning to express their views or to resent imaginary imputations cast upon them had plenty of time to cool down while they wandered about the adjacent lanes in vain quest of their object. If you had business there, and were not thoroughly acquainted with the way, your best plan was to take a sandwich in your pocket, to prepare for an afternoon's campaign, and then to turn to the right out of Fleet Street, down any street leading to the river, and to wander about until you quite unexpectedly came upon your destination. There you found it, a queer, dumpy, black-looking old building,--like a warehouse that had been sat upon and compressed,--nestling down in a quaint little dreary square, surrounded by the halls of Worshipful Companies which had never been heard of save by their own Liverymen, and large churches with an average congregation of nine, standing mildewed and blue-mouldy, with damp voters'-notices peeling off their doors, and green streaks down the stuccoed heads of the angels and cherubim supporting the dripping arch over the porch, in little dank reeking churchyards, where the rank grass overtopped the broken tombstones, and stuck nodding out through the dilapidated railing.
The windows were filthy with the stains of a thousand showers; the paint had blistered and peeled off the heavy old door, and round the gaping chasm of the letter-box; and in the daytime the place looked woebegone and deserted. Nobody came there till about two in the afternoon, when three or four quiet-looking gentlemen would drop in one by one, and after remaining an hour or two, depart as they had come. But at night the old house woke up with a roar; its windows blazed with light; its old sides echoed to the creaking throes of a huge steam-engine; its querulous bell was perpetually being tugged; boys in paper caps and smeary faces and shirt-sleeves were perpetually issuing from its portals, and returning, now with fluttering slips of paper, now with bibulous refreshment. Messengers from the Electric Telegraph Companies were there about every half-hour; and cabs that had dashed up with a stout gentleman in spectacles dashed away with a slim gentleman in a white hat, returning with a little man in a red beard, and flying off with the stout gentleman again. Blinds were down all round the neighbourhood; porters of the Worshipful Companies, sextons of the congregationless churches, agents for printing-ink and Cumberland black-lead, wood-engravers, box-block sellers, and the proprietors of the Never-say-die or Health-restoring Drops, who held the corner premises,--were all sleeping the sleep of the just, or at least doing the best they could towards it, in spite of the reverberation of the steam-engine at the office of the Statesman daily journal.
On a hot night in September Mr. Churchill sat in a large room on the first-floor of the Statesman office. On the desk before him stood a huge battered old despatch-box, overflowing with papers--some in manuscript, neatly folded and docketed; others long printed slips, scored and marked all over with ink-corrections. Immediately in front of him hung an almanac and a packet of half-sheets of note-paper, strung together on a large hook. A huge waste-paper basket by his side was filled, while the floor was littered with envelopes of all sizes and colours, fragments cut from newspapers, ink-splashes, and piles of books in paper parcels waiting for review. A solemn old clock, pointing to midnight, ticked gravely on the mantelpiece; a small library of grim old books of reference, in solemn brown bindings, with the flaming cover of the Post-Office Directory like a star in the midst of them, was ranged against the wall; three or four speaking tubes, with ivory mouthpieces, were curling round Mr. Churchill's feet; and Mr. Churchill himself was reading the last number of the Revue de Deux Mondes by the light of a shaded lamp, when a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a cheery voice said,
"Still at the mill, Churchill? still at the mill?"
"Ah, Harding, my dear fellow, I'm delighted to see you!"