A Modern Chronicle — Volume 03

Winston Churchill

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Project Gutenberg's A Modern Chronicle, Volume 3, by Winston ChurchillThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it,give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: A Modern Chronicle, Volume 3Author: Winston ChurchillRelease Date: October 19, 2004 [EBook #5376]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN CHRONICLE, VOLUME 3 ***Produced by David WidgerA MODERN CHRONICLEBy Winston ChurchillBOOK IIVolume 3.CHAPTER ISO LONG AS YE BOTH SHALL LIVE!It was late November. And as Honora sat at the window of the drawing-room of the sleeping car, life seemed as fantasticand unreal as the moss-hung Southern forest into which she stared. She was happy, as a child is happy who is taken onan excursion into the unknown. The monotony of existence was at last broken, and riven the circumscribing walls.Limitless possibilities lay ahead.The emancipation had not been without its pangs of sorrow, and there were moments of retrospection—as now. Shesaw herself on Uncle Tom's arm, walking up the aisle of the old church. How many Sundays of her life had she satwatching a shaft of sunlight strike across the stone pillars of its gothic arches! She saw, in the chancel, tall and grave andpale, Peter Erwin standing beside the man with the flushed face who was to be her husband. She heard again ...

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• Publié par: thyog
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 30
• Langue: English

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Volume 3.

BOOK II

Produced by David Widger

Title: A Modern Chronicle, Volume 3 Author: Winston Churchill Release Date: October 19, 2004 [EBook #5376] Language: English

A MODERN CHRONICLE By Winston Churchill

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN CHRONICLE, VOLUME 3 ***  

aldnool ehs  tuo dek aonupe tyliea rmetpa r tteszit  o angee chn hed. I am yoisnni nyaW inssthg Hae urnbeh yewerj su tapof the window. T

Square, and her eyes fell upon the playroom windows under the wide cornice; and she wondered whether the doll's house were still in its place, its mute inhabitants waiting to be called by the names she had given them, and quickened into life once more. Next she recalled the arrival at the little house that had been her home, summer and winter, for so many years of her life. A red and white awning, stretching up the length of the walk which once had run beside the tall pear trees, gave it an unrecognizable, gala air. Long had it stood there, patient, unpretentious, content that the great things should pass it by! And now, modest still, it had been singled out from amongst its neighbours and honoured. Was it honoured? It seemed to Honora, so fanciful this day, that its unwonted air of festival was unnatural. Why should the hour of departure from such a harbour of peace be celebrated? She was standing beside her husband in the little parlour, while carriage doors slammed in the dusk outside; while one by one—a pageant of the past which she was leaving forever the friends of her childhood came and went. Laughter and tears and kisses! And then, in no time at all, she found herself changing for the journey in the "little house under the hill." There, locked up in the little desk Cousin Eleanor had given her long ago, was the unfinished manuscript of that novel written at fever heat during those summer days in which she had sought to escape from a humdrum existence. And now —she had escaped. Aunt Mary, helpful under the most trying circumstances, was putting her articles in a bag, the initials on which she did not recognize—H. L. S.—Honora Leffingwell Spence; while old Catherine, tearful and inefficient, knelt before her, fumbling at her shoes. Honora, bending over, took the face of the faithful old servant and kissed it. "Don't feel badly, Catherine," she said; "I'll be coming back often to see you, and you will be coming to see me." "Will ye, darlint? The blessing of God be on you for those words—and you to be such a fine lady! It always was a fine lady ye were, with such a family and such a bringin' up. And now ye've married a rich man, as is right and proper. If it's rich as Croesus he was, he'd be none too good for you." "Catherine," said Aunt Mary, reprovingly, "what ideas you put into the child's head!" "Sure, Miss Mary," cried Catherine, "it's always the great lady she was, and she a wee bit of a thing. And wasn't it yerself, Miss Mary, that dressed her like a princess?" Then came the good-bys—the real ones. Uncle Tom, always the friend of young people, was surrounded by a group of bridesmaids in the hall. She clung to him. And Peter, who had the carriage ready. What would her wedding have been without Peter? As they drove towards the station, his was the image that remained persistently in her mind, bareheaded on the sidewalk in the light of the carriage lamps. The image of struggle. She had married Prosperity. A whimsical question, that shocked her, irresistibly presented itself: was it not Prosperity that she had promised to love, honour, and obey? It must not be thought that Honora was by any means discontented with her Prosperity. He was new—that was all. Howard looked new. But she remembered that he had always looked new; such was one of his greatest charms. In the long summer days since she had bade him good-by on her way through New York from Silverdale, Honora had constructed him: he was perpetual yet sophisticated Youth; he was Finance and Fashion; he was Power in correctly cut clothes. And when he had arrived in St. Louis to play his part in the wedding festivities, she had found her swan a swan indeed—he was all that she had dreamed of him. And she had tingled with pride as she introduced him to her friends, or gazed at him across the flower-laden table as he sat beside Edith Hanbury at the bridesmaids' dinner in Wayland Square. The wedding ceremony had somehow upset her opinion of him, but Honora regarded this change as temporary. Julius Caesar or George Washington himself must have been somewhat ridiculous as bridegrooms: and she had the sense to perceive that her own agitations as a bride were partly responsible. No matter how much a young girl may have trifled with that electric force in the male sex known as the grand passion, she shrinks from surrendering herself to its dominion. Honora shrank. He made love to her on the way to the station, and she was terrified. He actually forgot to smoke cigarettes. What he said was to the effect that he possessed at last the most wonderful and beautiful woman in the world, and she resented the implication of possession. Nevertheless, in the glaring lights of the station, her courage and her pride in him revived, and he became again a normal and a marked man. Although the sex may resent it, few women are really indifferent to clothes, and Howard's well-fitting check suit had the magic touch of the metropolis. His manner matched his garments. Obsequious porters grasped his pig-skin bag, and seized Honora's; the man at the gate inclined his head as he examined their tickets, and the Pullman conductor himself showed them their stateroom, and plainly regarded them as important people far from home. Howard had the cosmopolitan air. He gave the man a dollar, and remarked that the New Orleans train was not exactly the Chicago and New York Limited. "Not by a long shot," agreed the conductor, as he went out, softly closing the door behind him. Whereupon the cosmopolitan air dropped from Mr. Howard Spence, not gracefully, and he became once more that superfluous and awkward and utterly banal individual, the husband. "Let's go out and walk on the platform until the train starts," suggested Honora, desperately. "Oh, Howard, the shades are up! I'm sure I saw some one looking in!"

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