As if in answer to his boast, the gale made another defiant howl. It was answered by a dull crash, followed by a continuous roar of falling materials—followed again by a dead silence that was audible above the rush of wind and rain. It took us only a few minutes to satisfy ourselves that the fabric of the house was safe. It was a chimney stablewards that had gone, crashing through a hay loft and lumber room right down on the top of our ghostly carriage, and clearing Broadwater of spiders for the period of our lives. Even the uncle himself could find no plea for extending his protection to a mass of shivered fragments. If the powers of darkness had destroyed their own handiwork, or failed in ability to protect it, there was no reason to suppose that the hand of man would be more successful. So the fiat went forth—not, I believe, without great searching of heart on the part of our uncle—and carriage and cobwebs, and even the stable itself were swept away, and, as Bunyan says, I saw them no more.
“Well, I’m glad that it’s gone,” said a quiet, sweet voice at my elbow, as Ronald and I were watching the departure of the last load of materials. And, turning, I saw before me the woman who was to be the guiding star of Ronald’s life, yes, and my own life too. She was little more than a girl then—only a few years older than Ronald himself—with a great calm truthfulness in her eyes, and the air of one who had already known sorrow, and been refined, not hardened, by the experience.
“Yes,” she repeated, “I am glad it’s gone. And now we can be friends. It has been so lonely for me at Thorpe ever since my father died, and I have so wanted to make friends with you; only that old carriage stood in the way. It was silly, no doubt, to be so much afraid, but then I am Scotch—and the Scotch you know are very superstitious,” she added with a smile. “Besides, ever since I can remember anything, I’ve been told that the old carriage meant mischief and trouble between Thorpe and Broadwater. It is true, no doubt, that an ancestor of mine did die in it, and that all sorts of ghastly rumours were current as to how he met his death. But nothing ever came of them, and it was commonly assumed that he died of heart disease; he had certainly been ailing for years before. Thank heaven! the very scene of the crime—if such it were—has been swept away at last. And it is pleasant, isn’t it? to recommence our life’s friendship here where it was wrecked. Though I fear we shan’t meet often as yet, for my husband that is to be lives abroad, till I can persuade him to give up his post and settle down with me for good in the dear old home. But you will be my friends, won’t you, for always?”
She held out her hand in pledge of her friendship. And we shall be friends, I think, “for always.” I like the old-fashioned phrase.
Besides, it was her own.
On the Racecourse at Bayview
It was Ronald’s birthday, and the day fixed for the Races at Bayview—an unlucky coincidence, for he always showed a keen spirit of enterprise on that particular morning. He was now fourteen, and looked a trifle older owing to his splendid physique. Even in the nursery visitors had christened him the “Infant Hercules.” A Viking he was in miniature, with clear blue eyes and short, crisp hair, carrying with him an atmosphere of suppressed fun that, dangerous as it might prove, was a certain guarantee against dulness or want of spirit. He had behaved himself beautifully for an entire month. But I distrusted him to-day. He had never seen the races, and had constantly signified his intention of doing so. So when his uncle said to him at breakfast, “You are not to go to the races; they are destructive of morality, especially to a boy of your age,” and Ronald winked at me across the table, I felt sure he intended to go.
“No sir,” he said respectfully—“and I suppose you won’t go either. Of course they can’t do you any harm at your age; but they can’t do you any good.”
“As it happens, Ronald, I shall go—just to make sure that you don’t. Besides, I think it a good principle that elderly people should be seen doing things which they forbid to their youngsters. Unquestioning obedience is a fine thing. It doesn’t follow that because I allow myself a cigar to quiet my nerves, therefore you should smoke who don’t know what a nerve means.”
“No sir: of course it doesn’t”—and he winked again.