A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07

A Modern Chronicle — Volume 07

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Project Gutenberg's A Modern Chronicle, Volume 7, 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 7Author: Winston ChurchillRelease Date: October 19, 2004 [EBook #5380]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MODERN CHRONICLE, VOLUME 7 ***Produced by David WidgerA MODERN CHRONICLEBy Winston ChurchillVolume 7.CHAPTER XIIN WHICH IT IS ALL DONE OVER AGAINAll 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 inthe flesh. Nay, she heard his voice, his laugh, she even recognized again the smouldering flames in his eyes as heglanced into hers, and his characteristic manners and gestures. Honora wondered. In vain, during those long months ofexile had she tried to reconstruct him thus the vision in its entirety would not come: rare, fleeting, partial, and tantalizingglimpses ...

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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 ***  
A MODERN CHRONICLE By Winston Churchill Volume 7.
Produced by David Widger
ht eoptrqniuer dfinu a ratsdemro opste scae thf sade nect eh .tA . T . .otiohe m klanwodeht nol e sharstd te wtodeh reb ga ;na dtion porter seiz
"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.
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