FullReads

It was a relief to Vibart when, at this point, Mrs. Carstyle’s discharge of her duty was cut short by her daughter’s reappearance. Irene had been unable to find a cigarette for Mr. Vibart, and her mother, with beaming irrelevance, suggested that in that case she had better show him the garden.

The Carstyle house stood but a few yards back from the brick-paved Millbrook street, and the garden was a very small place, unless measured, as Mrs. Carstyle probably intended that it should be, by the extent of her daughter’s charms. These were so considerable that Vibart walked back and forward half a dozen times between the porch and the gate, before he discovered the limitations of the Carstyle domain. It was not till Irene had accused him of being sarcastic and had confided in him that “the girls” were furious with her for letting him talk to her so long at his aunt’s garden-party, that he awoke to the exiguity of his surroundings; and then it was with a touch of irritation that he noticed Mr. Carstyle’s inconspicuous profile bent above a newspaper in one of the lower windows. Vibart had an idea that Mr. Carstyle, while ostensibly reading the paper, had kept count of the number of times that his daughter had led her companion up and down between the syringa-bushes; and for some undefinable reason he resented Mr. Carstyle’s unperturbed observation more than his wife’s zealous self-effacement. To a man who is trying to please a pretty girl there are moments when the proximity of an impartial spectator is more disconcerting than the most obvious connivance; and something about Mr. Carstyle’s expression conveyed his good-humored indifference to Irene’s processes.

When the garden-gate closed behind Vibart he had become aware that his preoccupation with the Carstyles had shifted its centre from the daughter to the father; but he was accustomed to such emotional surprises, and skilled in seizing any compensations they might offer.

II

The Carstyles belonged to the all-the-year-round Millbrook of paper-mills, cable-cars, brick pavements and church sociables, while Mrs. Vance, the aunt with whom Vibart lived, was an ornament of the summer colony whose big country-houses dotted the surrounding hills. Mrs. Vance had, however, no difficulty in appeasing the curiosity which Mrs. Carstyle’s enigmatic utterances had aroused in the young man. Mrs. Carstyle’s relentless veracity vented itself mainly on the “summer people,” as they were called: she did not propose that any one within ten miles of Millbrook should keep a carriage without knowing that she was entitled to keep one too. Mrs. Vance remarked with a sigh that Mrs. Carstyle’s annual demand to have her position understood came in as punctually as the taxes and the water- rates.

“My dear, it’s simply this: when Andrew Carstyle married her years ago– Heaven knows why he did; he’s one of the Albany Carstyles, you know, and she was a daughter of old Deacon Ash of South Millbrook–well, when he married her he had a tidy little income, and I suppose the bride expected to set up an establishment in New York and be hand-in-glove with the whole Carstyle clan. But whether he was ashamed of her from the first, or for some other unexplained reason, he bought a country-place and settled down here for life. For a few years they lived comfortably enough, and she had plenty of smart clothes, and drove about in a victoria calling on the summer people. Then, when the beautiful Irene was about ten years old, Mr. Carstyle’s only brother died, and it turned out that he had made away with a lot of trust-property. It was a horrid business: over three hundred thousand dollars were gone, and of course most of it had belonged to widows and orphans. As soon as the facts were made known, Andrew Carstyle announced that he would pay back what his brother had stolen. He sold his country-place and his wife’s carriage, and they moved to the little house they live in now. Mr. Carstyle’s income is probably not as large as his wife would like to have it thought, and though I’m told he puts aside, a good part of it every year to pay off his brother’s obligations, I fancy the debt won’t be discharged for some time to come. To help things along he opened a law office–he had studied law in his youth–but though he is said to be clever I hear that he has very little to do. People are afraid of him: he’s too dry and quiet. Nobody believes in a man who doesn’t believe in himself, and Mr. Carstyle always seems to be winking at you through a slit in his professional manner. People don’t like it–his wife doesn’t like it. I believe she would have accepted the sacrifice of the country-place and the carriage if he had struck an attitude and talked about doing his duty. It was his regarding the whole thing as a matter of course that exasperated her. What is the use of doing something difficult in a way that makes it look perfectly easy? I feel sorry for Mrs. Carstyle. She’s lost her house and her carriage, and she hasn’t been allowed to be heroic.”