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    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04
    Ebook88 pages1 hour

    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04

    By Winston Churchill

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    About this ebook

    Not to be confused with the famous British prime minister, Winston Churchill was a 20th century American author known for best-selling historical fiction and adventure novels. One of his novels, The Crisis, is set in the American Civil War and was the most popular book of 1901.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherKrill Press
    Release dateJan 17, 2016
    ISBN9781518373954
    A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04
    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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      Book preview

      A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04 - Winston Churchill

      A MODERN CHRONICLE — VOLUME 04

      ..................

      Winston Churchill

      TENDER HOUSE PUBLISHING

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by Winston Churchill

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      Volume 4.: CHAPTER VII

      CHAPTER VIII

      CHAPTER IX

      CHAPTER X

      CHAPTER XI

      A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04

      By

      Winston Churchill

      A Modern Chronicle — Volume 04

      Published by Tender House Publishing

      New York City, NY

      First published circa 1947

      Copyright © Tender House Publishing, 2015

      All rights reserved

      Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

      About TENDER HOUSE PUBLISHERS

      People have been reading Romances since the invention of the written word, and Tender House Publishers has collected one of the Internet’s largest collections of classic Romantic novels and stories for the genre’s most devoted readers.

      VOLUME 4.: CHAPTER VII

      ..................

      IN THE RELIGIOUS CULT OF Gad and Meni, practised with such enthusiasm at Quicksands, the Saints’ days were polo days, and the chief of all festivals the occasion of the match with the Banbury Hunt Club —Quicksands’s greatest rival. Rival for more reasons than one, reasons too delicate to tell. Long, long ago there appeared in Punch a cartoon of Lord Beaconsfield executing that most difficult of performances, an egg dance. We shall be fortunate indeed if we get to the end of this chapter without breaking an egg!

      Our pen fails us in a description of that festival of festivals, the Banbury one, which took place early in September. We should have to go back to Babylon and the days of King Nebuchadnezzar. (Who turns out to have been only a regent, by the way, and his name is now said to be spelled rezzar). How give an idea of the libations poured out to Gad and the shekels laid aside for Meni in the Quicksands Temple?

      Honora privately thought that building ugly, and it reminded her of a collection of huge yellow fungi sprawling over the ground. A few of the inevitable tortured cedars were around it. Between two of the larger buildings was wedged a room dedicated to the worship of Bacchus, to-day like a narrow river-gorge at flood time jammed with tree-trunks—some of them, let us say, water-logged—and all grinding together with an intolerable noise like a battle. If you happened to be passing the windows, certain more or less intelligible sounds might separate themselves from the bedlam.

      Four to five on Quicksands!

      That stock isn’t worth a d—n!

      She’s gone to South Dakota.

      Honora, however, is an heretic, as we know. Without going definitely into her reasons, these festivals had gradually become distasteful to her. Perhaps it would be fairer to look at them through the eyes of Lily Dallam, who was in her element on such days, and regarded them as the most innocent and enjoyable of occasions, and perhaps they were.

      The view from the veranda, at least, appealed to our heroine’s artistic sense. The marshes in the middle distance, the shimmering sea beyond, and the polo field laid down like a vast green carpet in the foreground; while the players, in white breeches and bright shirts, on the agile little horses that darted hither and thither across the turf lent an added touch of colour and movement to the scene. Amongst them, Trixton Brent most frequently caught the eye and held it. Once Honora perceived him flying the length of the field, madly pursued, his mallet poised lightly, his shirt bulging in the wind, his close-cropped head bereft of a cap, regardless of the havoc and confusion behind him. He played, indeed, with the cocksureness and individuality one might have expected; and Honora, forgetting at moments the disturbing elements by which she was surrounded, followed him with fascination. Occasionally his name rippled from one end of the crowded veranda to the other, and she experienced a curious and uncomfortable sensation when she heard it in the mouths of these strangers.

      From time to time she found herself watching them furtively, comparing them unconsciously with her Quicksands friends. Some of them she had remarked before, at contests of a minor importance, and they seemed to her to possess a certain distinction that was indefinable. They had come to-day from many mysterious (and therefore delightful) places which Honora knew only by name, and some had driven the twenty-five odd miles from the bunting community of Banbury in coaches and even those new and marvellous importations—French automobiles. When the game had ended, and Lily Dallam was cajoling the club steward to set her tea-table at once, a group of these visitors halted on the lawn, talking and laughing gayly. Two of the younger men Honora recognized with a start, but for a moment she could not place them—until suddenly she remembered that she had seen them on her wedding trip at Hot Springs. The one who lisped was Mr. Cuthbert, familiarly known as Toots: the other, taller and slimmer and paler, was Jimmy Wing. A third, the regularity of whose features made one wonder at the perfection which nature could attain when she chose, who had a certain Gallic appearance (and who, if the truth be told, might have reminded an impartial eye of a slightly animated wax clothing model), turned, stared, hesitated, and bowed to Lily Dallam.

      That’s Reggie Farwel, who did my house in town, she whispered to Honora. "He’s never been near me since it was

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