A Modern Chronicle — Complete. Winston Churchill

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СКАЧАТЬ they came to the avenue of elms that led up to the long, low buildings of the school.

      Little more will be necessary, in the brief account of Honora's life at boarding-school, than to add an humble word of praise on the excellence of Miss Turner's establishment. That lady, needless to say, did not advertise in the magazines, or issue a prospectus. Parents were more or less in the situation of the candidates who desired the honour and privilege of whitewashing Tom Sawyer's fence. If you were a parent, and were allowed to confide your daughter to Miss Turner, instead of demanding a prospectus, you gave thanks to heaven, and spoke about it to your friends.

      The life of the young ladies, of course, was regulated on the strictest principles. Early rising, prayers, breakfast, studies; the daily walk, rain or shine, under the watchful convoy of Miss Hood, the girls in columns of twos; tennis on the school court, or skating on the school pond. Cotton Mather himself could not have disapproved of the Sundays, nor of the discourse of the elderly Doctor Moale (which you heard if you were not a Presbyterian), although the reverend gentleman was distinctly Anglican in appearance and manners. Sometimes Honora felt devout, and would follow the service with the utmost attention. Her religion came in waves. On the Sundays when the heathen prevailed she studied the congregation, grew to distinguish the local country families; and, if the truth must be told, watched for several Sundays for that ugly yet handsome young man whom she had seen on horseback. But he never appeared, and presently she forgot him.

      Had there been a prospectus (which is ridiculous!), the great secret of Miss Turner's school could not very well have been mentioned in it. The English language, it is to be feared, is not quite flexible enough to mention this secret with delicacy. Did Honora know it? Who can say? Self-respecting young ladies do not talk about such things, and Honora was nothing if not self-respecting.

      “SUTCLIFFE MANORS, October 15th.

       “DEAREST AUNT MARY: As I wrote you, I continue to miss you and Uncle

       Tom dreadfully—and dear old Peter, too; and Cathy and Bridget and

       Mary Ann. And I hate to get up at seven o'clock. And Miss Hood,

       who takes us out walking and teaches us composition, is such a

       ridiculously strict old maid—you would laugh at her. And the

       Sundays are terrible. Miss Turner makes us read the Bible for a

       whole hour in the afternoon, and reads to us in the evening. And

       Uncle Tom was right when he said we should have nothing but jam and

       bread and butter for supper: oh, yes, and cold meat. I am always

       ravenously hungry. I count the days until Christmas, when I shall

       have some really good things to eat again. And of course I cannot

       wait to see you all.

       “I do not mean to give you the impression that I am not happy here,

       and I never can be thankful enough to dear Cousin Eleanor for

       sending me. Some of the girls are most attractive. Among others,

       I have become great friends with Ethel Wing, who is tall and blond

       and good-looking; and her clothes, though simple, are beautiful.

       To hear her imitate Miss Turner or Miss Hood or Dr. Moale is almost

       as much fun as going to the theatre. You must have heard of her

       father—he is the Mr. Wing who owns all the railroads and other

       things, and they have a house in Newport and another in New York,

       and a country place and a yacht.

       “I like Sarah Wycliffe very much. She was brought up abroad, and we

       lead the French class together. Her father has a house in Paris,

       which they only use for a month or so in the year: an hotel, as the

       French call it. And then there is Maude Capron, from Philadelphia,

       whose father is Secretary of War. I have now to go to my class in

       English composition, but I will write to you again on Saturday.

       “Your loving niece,

       “HONORA.”

      The Christmas holidays came, and went by like mileposts from the window of an express train. There was a Glee Club: there were dances, and private theatricals in Mrs. Dwyer's new house, in which it was imperative that Honora should take part. There was no such thing as getting up for breakfast, and once she did not see Uncle Tom for two whole days. He asked her where she was staying. It was the first Christmas she remembered spending without Peter. His present appeared, but perhaps it was fortunate, on the whole, that he was in Texas, trying a case. It seemed almost no time at all before she was at the station again, clinging to Aunt Mary: but now the separation was not so hard, and she had Edith and Mary for company, and George, a dignified and responsible sophomore at Harvard.

      Owing to the sudden withdrawal from school of little Louise Simpson, the Cincinnati girl who had shared her room during the first term, Honora had a new room-mate after the holidays, Susan Holt. Susan was not beautiful, but she was good. Her nose turned up, her hair Honora described as a negative colour, and she wore it in defiance of all prevailing modes. If you looked very hard at Susan (which few people ever did), you saw that she had remarkable blue eyes: they were the eyes of a saint. She was neither tall nor short, and her complexion was not all that it might have been. In brief, Susan was one of those girls who go through a whole term at boarding—school without any particular notice from the more brilliant Honoras and Ethel Wings.

      In some respects, Susan was an ideal room-mate. She read the Bible every night and morning, and she wrote many letters home. Her ruling passion, next to religion, was order, and she took it upon herself to arrange Honora's bureau drawers. It is needless to say that Honora accepted these ministrations and that she found Susan's admiration an entirely natural sentiment. Susan was self-effacing, and she enjoyed listening to Honora's views on all topics.

      Susan, like Peter, was taken for granted. She came from somewhere, and after school was over, she would go somewhere. She lived in New York, Honora knew, and beyond that was not curious. We never know when we are entertaining an angel unawares. One evening, early in May, when she went up to prepare for supper she found Susan sitting in the window reading a letter, and on the floor beside her was a photograph. Honora picked it up. It was the picture of a large country house with many chimneys, taken across a wide green lawn.

      “Susan, what's this?”

      Susan looked up.

      “Oh, it's Silverdale. My brother Joshua took it.”

      “Silverdale?” repeated Honora.

      “It's our place in the country,” Susan replied. “The family moved up last week. You see, the trees are just beginning to bud.”

      Honora was silent a moment, gazing at the picture.

      “It's very beautiful, isn't it? You never told me about СКАЧАТЬ