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These conditions made Vibart cultivate an assiduous exchange of books between himself and Mr. Carstyle. The young man went down almost daily to the little house in the town, where Mrs. Carstyle, who had now an air of receiving him in curl-papers, and of not always immediately distinguishing him from the piano-tuner, made no effort to detain him on his way to her husband’s study.

III

Now and then, at the close of one of Vibart’s visits, Mr. Carstyle put on a mildewed Panama hat and accompanied the young man for a mile or two on his way home. The road to Mrs. Vance’s lay through one of the most amiable suburbs of Millbrook, and Mr. Carstyle, walking with his slow uneager step, his hat pushed back, and his stick dragging behind him, seemed to take a philosophic pleasure in the aspect of the trim lawns and opulent gardens.

Vibart could never induce his companion to prolong his walk as far as Mrs. Vance’s drawing-room; but one afternoon, when the distant hills lay blue beyond the twilight of overarching elms, the two men strolled on into the country past that lady’s hospitable gateposts.

It was a still day, the road was deserted, and every sound came sharply through the air. Mr. Carstyle was in the midst of a disquisition on Diderot, when he raised his head and stood still.

“What’s that?” he said. “Listen!”

Vibart listened and heard a distant storm of hoof-beats. A moment later, a buggy drawn by a pair of trotters swung round the turn of the road. It was about thirty yards off, coming toward them at full speed. The man who drove was leaning forward with outstretched arms; beside him sat a girl.

Suddenly Vibart saw Mr. Carstyle jump into the middle of the road, in front of the buggy. He stood there immovable, his arms extended, his legs apart, in an attitude of indomitable resistance. Almost at the same moment Vibart realized that the man in the buggy had his horses in hand.

“They’re not running!” Vibart shouted, springing into the road and catching Mr. Carstyle’s alpaca sleeve. The older man looked around vaguely: he seemed dazed.

“Come away, sir, come away!” cried Vibart, gripping his arm. The buggy swept past them, and Mr. Carstyle stood in the dust gazing after it.

At length he drew out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. He was very pale and Vibart noticed that his hand shook.

“That was a close call, sir, wasn’t it? I suppose you thought they were running.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Carstyle slowly, “I thought they were running.”

“It certainly looked like it for a minute. Let’s sit down, shall we? I feel rather breathless myself.”

Vibart saw that his friend could hardly stand. They seated themselves on a tree-trunk by the roadside, and Mr. Carstyle continued to wipe his forehead in silence.

At length he turned to Vibart and said abruptly:

“I made straight for the middle of the road, didn’t I? If there had been a runaway I should have stopped it?”

Vibart looked at him in surprise.

“You would have tried to, undoubtedly, unless I’d had time to drag you away.”

Mr. Carstyle straightened his narrow shoulders.

“There was no hesitation, at all events? I–I showed no signs of–avoiding it?”

“I should say not, sir; it was I who funked it for you.”

Mr. Carstyle was silent: his head had dropped forward and he looked like an old man.

“It was just my cursed luck again!” he exclaimed suddenly in a loud voice.

For a moment Vibart thought that he was wandering; but he raised his head and went on speaking in more natural tones.

“I daresay I appeared ridiculous enough to you just now, eh? Perhaps you saw all along that the horses weren’t running? Your eyes are younger than mine; and then you’re not always looking out for runaways, as I am. Do you know that in thirty years I’ve never seen a runaway?”

“You’re fortunate,” said Vibart, still bewildered.

“Fortunate? Good God, man, I’ve prayed to see one: not a runaway especially, but any bad accident; anything that endangered people’s lives. There are accidents happening all the time all over the world; why shouldn’t I ever come across one? It’s not for want of trying! At one time I used to haunt the theatres in the hope of a fire: fires in theatres are so apt to be fatal. Well, will you believe it? I was in the Brooklyn theatre the night before it burned down; I left the old Madison Square Garden half an hour before the walls fell in. And it’s the same way with street accidents–I always miss them; I’m always just too late. Last year there was a boy knocked down by a cable-car at our corner; I got to my gate just as they were carrying him off on a stretcher. And so it goes. If anybody else had been walking along this road, those horses would have been running away. And there was a girl in the buggy, too–a mere child!”