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    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07
    Ebook104 pages1 hour

    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07

    By Winston Churchill

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    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherArchive Classics
    Release dateNov 26, 2013
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07
    Author

    Winston Churchill

    Sir Winston Churchill was a British military man, statesman, and Nobel-prize winning author, and, by virtue of his service during both the First and Second World Wars, is considered to be one of the greatest wartime leaders of the twentieth century. Born to the aristocracy, Churchill pursued a career in the British Army, seeing action in British India and in the Second Boer War, and later drew upon his experiences in these historic conflicts in his work as a war correspondent and writer. After retiring from active duty, Churchill moved into politics and went on to hold a number of important positions in the British government. He rose to the role of First Lord of the Admiralty during the First World War and later to the role of prime minister, a position that he held twice, from 1940-1945 and from 1951-1955. A visionary statesman, Churchill was remarkable for his ability to perceive emerging threats to international peace, and predicted the rise of Nazi Germany, the Second World War, and the Iron Curtain. In his later years Churchill returned to writing, penning the six-volume Second World War series, A History of the English-Speaking Peoples, and many other historical and biographical works. Winston Churchill died in 1965 and, after one of the largest state funerals to that point in time, was interred in his family’s burial plot.

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      A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07 - Winston Churchill

      Project Gutenberg's A Modern Chronicle, Volume 7, by Winston Churchill

      This 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 at www.gutenberg.net

      Title: A Modern Chronicle, Volume 7

      Author: Winston Churchill

      Release Date: October 19, 2004 [EBook #5380]

      Language: English

      *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN CHRONICLE, VOLUME 7 ***

      Produced by David Widger

      A MODERN CHRONICLE

      By Winston Churchill

      Volume 7.

      CHAPTER XI

      IN WHICH IT IS ALL DONE OVER AGAIN

      All morning she had gazed on the shining reaches of the Hudson, their colour deepening to blue as she neared the sea. A gold-bound volume of Shelley, with his name on the fly-leaf, lay in her lap. And two lines she repeated softly to herself—two lines that held a vision:

             "He was as the sun in his fierce youth,

              As terrible and lovely as a tempest;"

      She summoned him out of the chaos of the past, and the past became the present, and he stood before her as though in the flesh. Nay, she heard his voice, his laugh, she even recognized again the smouldering flames in his eyes as he glanced into hers, and his characteristic manners and gestures. Honora wondered. In vain, during those long months of exile had she tried to reconstruct him thus the vision in its entirety would not come: rare, fleeting, partial, and tantalizing glimpses she had been vouchsafed, it is true. The whole of him had been withheld until this breathless hour before the dawn of her happiness.

      Yet, though his own impatient spirit had fared forth to meet her with this premature gift of his attributes, she had to fight the growing fear within her. Now that the days of suffering were as they had not been, insistent questions dinned in her ears: was she entitled to the joys to come? What had she done to earn them? Had hers not been an attempt, on a gigantic scale, to cheat the fates? Nor could she say whether this feeling were a wholly natural failure to grasp a future too big, or the old sense of the unreality of events that had followed her so persistently.

      The Hudson disappeared. Factories, bridges, beflagged week-end resorts, ramshackle houses, and blocks of new buildings were scattered here and there. The train was running on a causeway between miles of tenements where women and children, overtaken by lassitude, hung out of the windows: then the blackness of the tunnel, and Honora closed her eyes. Four minutes, three minutes, two minutes . . . . The motion ceased. At the steps of the car a uniformed station porter seized her bag; and she started to walk down the long, narrow platform. Suddenly she halted.

      Drop anything, Miss? inquired the porter.

      No, answered Honora, faintly. He looked at her in concern, and she began to walk on again, more slowly.

      It had suddenly come over her that the man she was going to meet she scarcely knew! Shyness seized her, a shyness that bordered on panic. And what was he really like, that she should put her whole trust in him? She glanced behind her: that way was closed: she had a mad desire to get away, to hide, to think. It must have been an obsession that had possessed her all these months. The porter was looking again, and he voiced her predicament.

      There's only one way out, Miss.

      And then, amongst the figures massed behind the exit in the grill, she saw him, his face red-bronze with the sea tan, his crisp, curly head bared, his eyes alight with a terrifying welcome; and a tremor of a fear akin to ecstasy ran through her: the fear of the women of days gone by whose courage carried them to the postern or the strand, and fainted there. She could have taken no step farther—and there was no need. New strength flowed from the hand she held that was to carry her on and on.

      He spoke her name. He led her passive, obedient, through the press to the side street, and then he paused and looked into her burning face.

      I have you at last, he said. Are you happy?

      I don't know, she faltered. Oh, Hugh, it all seems so strange! I don't know what I have done.

      I know, he said exultantly; but to save my soul I can't believe it.

      She watched him, bewildered, while he put her maid into a cab, and by an effort roused herself.

      Where are you going, Hugh?

      To get married, he replied promptly.

      She pulled down her veil.

      Please be sensible, she implored. I've arranged to go to a hotel.

      What hotel?

      The—the Barnstable, she said. The place had come to her memory on the train. It's very nice and—and quiet—so I've been told. And I've telegraphed for my rooms.

      I'll humour you this once, he answered, and gave the order.

      She got into the carriage. It had blue cushions with the familiar smell of carriage upholstery, and the people in the street still hurried about their business as though nothing in particular were happening. The horses started, and some forgotten key in her brain was touched as Chiltern raised her veil again.

      You'll tear it, Hugh, she said, and perforce lifted it herself. Her eyes met his—and she awoke. Not to memories or regrets, but to the future, for the recording angel had mercifully destroyed his book.

      Did you miss me? she said.

      Miss you! My God, Honora, how can you ask? When I look back upon these last months, I don't see how I ever passed through them. And you are changed, he said. I could not have believed it possible, but you are. You are—you are finer.

      He had chosen his word exquisitely. And then, as they trotted sedately through Madison Avenue, he strained her in his arms and kissed her.

      Oh, Hugh! she cried, scarlet, as she disengaged, herself, you mustn't —here!

      You're free! he exclaimed. "You're mine at last! I can't believe it!

      Look at me, and tell me so."

      She tried.

      Yes, she faltered.

      Yes—what?

      Yes. I—I am yours.

      She looked out of the window to avoid those eyes. Was this New York, or Jerusalem? Were these the streets through which she had driven and trod in her former life? Her whole soul cried out denial. No episode, no accusing reminiscences stood out—not one: the very corners were changed. Would it all change back again if he were to lessen the insistent pressure on the hand in her lap.

      Honora?

      Yes? she answered, with a start.

      "You missed me? Look

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