Changeling, and Other Stories
dress, the sweet face, the dark head! She frowned. His heart sank.
"I don't see how I could," she said. "I 've got to get back here. I
usually take the dinners and theaters in a quarterly debauch of one
week. No, I don't see how ..."
His heart sank a little farther. Was this definitely good-by?
"No, but I 'll tell you what you could do, if you 'd care to. Come out
on Saturday and take me to the Leopardstown races. I 'm sick of going
alone."
His heart rose.
"And come back and have dinner with me instead."
His heart sang.
Came now a day of wonder. Day of Leopardstown, frosty morning and road
glistening like pewter, and the grass crackling underfoot, stiff with
hoar. The little race-course at the foot of the mountains. Crowds
stamping in the friendly cold. The horses jibbing, curving under their
jockeys at the starting-wire. Flash of jockeys' colors, gold and
green, red and white, all sorts of blue--sky, sea, St. Patrick's. The
drop of the flag. The flying wedge of stretching mounts and huddled
riders. Thunder of hoofs coming to jumps, hurdling, lightning spring
and over, larruping canter toward the next, smack of crop, over, by
Heaven! The hedge now and the five-barred gate, and the stretch toward
the judges' stand. A mad cheering and the clanging of a great bell.
The favorite 's won!
A little hush, a rush to the ring to see the horses for the next race.
She wore a great frieze coat, like a man's, and a riding-hat, like a
man's too. At a little distance she seemed like a boy in clothes too
big for him, and as one came nearer, one noticed, between the collar
and the brim of the hat, the sweet narrow neck and the hair gathered up
like some very little girl's. There was something heart-pulling in it,
like a child's curled fingers. And then she turned, and her face
showed, pointed like a cub fox's. The cheeks flushed with the cold,
the lips with a merry smile, her eyes with a deeper smile--there were
so many there who knew her, and to whom O'Conor was presented,
including an Irish duchess, with a voice like a saw, who rasped; "H' a'
yo?" and then wailed, "My God! D' yo' ever see such a God-forsaken
bunch o' mokes in all your life?" And a tall, thin baronet who asked
him was he one of the O'Conors of Baltimore, to which he replied, no,
that he was one of the O'Conors of Forty-seventh Street and Seventh
Avenue. "Ah, yes! Ah, yes!" There was a French cavalry officer
buying horses in Ireland, a dark, thin man with a heavy mustache, who
looked more like a New York plain-clothes policeman than a hero of
Algiers. Also, there was Mr. Kelly.
Margery had noticed a great rangy gelding in the ring. He looked to
have the power of a steam-engine.
"See?"
O'Conor nodded.
"Flying Fish."
A large red-faced man with a stout ash plant was passing.
"Oh, Mr. Kelly!"
"Ah, sure, Lady Margery!"
"Do you know anything of Flying Fish?" She lowered her voice. "Is he
a good horse?"
"He is. And he is n't."
"Might he win this race?"
"He might. And he might n't."
"You 're not telling me much."
"I am," he looked wise, "and I am n't," he looked wiser.
"Good enough," she said. "Come," she told O'Conor.
Bookies crying raucously in the little ring. Signaling of touts.
Milling of people.
"I 'll lay two to one the field," a booky was shouting. His eyes were
all but out of his cheeks. His shoulders hunched with effort. His
voice exploded as though thrown against a wall, and he atomized a fine
spray before him. "I 'll lay three to one bar one; I'll lay four to
one bar two. I'll lay even money Munster Pride. Even money Irish
Dragoon. Four to one Little Dorrit. Seven to two Carnation. Here,
four to one Carnation. Eight to one Murderer's Pet. Twelve to one
Irish Gentility. I 'll lay twenty to one--twenty to one Thunderbolt.
Twenty-five to one Flying Fish--"
"How much, Joe Jack?"
"Is it you, Lady Margery? God love you. I'll lay you thirty to one
Flying Fish. How much will you take?"
"Ten pounds' worth."
"Three hundred and ten pounds Flying Fish, Lady Margery Kyteler. I
hope you win, m'lady. I do so there I 'll lay two to one the field. I
'll lay three to one bar one. I 'll lay four to one bar two--"
Dropping of flag and clatter of bell. There they were in the distance,
flying down the regulation. They rise to the ditch, three abreast.
Canter again--the water jump. The lump becomes a line. And who's
ahead? Can you see? Carnation! Ah, my jewel Carnation! And now the
bank. There's a horse down. Thunderbolt! Ah, be damned to the same
Thunderbolt! Is that the gray ahead? It is so! Is it Flying Fish is
in it? Flying Fish it is, and he running like a hare! 'T is win in a
canter he will. They 're coming to the hedge. Ah! what is it, Mister?
Flying Fish it is, and he stopping dead. A dead stop he 's made, and
the jockey pasting the ribs out of him. Ah, he 's on now, but in the
heel of the hunt he is! Carnation wins. Carnation--ah, my sweet wee
lady!
They passed the post, Flying Fish bringing up the rear with a
supercilious arrogance.
"Fish!" Margery wrinkled her nose in disgust. "Fish was good."
And "There goes my new hat!" she wailed. And who should pass by but
Mr. Kelly. Out of his red face peered an inquisitive gray eye.
"You didn't?" he said.
"I did."
"How much?"
"Ten pounds."
"Ah, well," he decided cruelly; "It'll teach you." And he passed on.
"Well, the devil scald you!" she called after him, "and your thick
ignorance!"
Last race and the end of the day. He swung her lightly to the
side-car. Firm elbows, rounded arms, and how light she was, elastic!
A woman in a shawl and a battered sailor-hat stood with folded arms and
began a street ballad:
"Bold Robert Emmet, the darling of Ireland!
Bold Robert Emmet, he died with a smile!
Farewell, my company-ions both loyal and loving!
A hero I 'll die for the Emerald Isle."
Margery was grinning above the press of the people, O'Conor turned and
dug his hand in his pocket. Threw the woman a large silver coin.
"Well, may God keep and preserve you, my fine noble red-headed man!
And the sweet lady beside you--may God bless her! And may you live
comfortable and die happy, the both of you, and leave behind you a
dozen of the finest children."
"Drive on! Drive on!" O'Conor implored.
"Is it over the heads of the decent people you 'd have me drive, then?"
asked the jarvey, in abrupt horror.
"And of the twelve may six of them be like yourself, fine and
red-headed, and six like herself, sweet and dark. Ah, 't is the fine
man you have, my sweet mistress!"
O'Conor saw the scarlet of her face against the black hair. Eh, Lord,
how beautiful she was!
VI
The click of the wicket-gate and he was gone, and down the frosty road
his firm step was echoing. She stood at the long drawing-room window
and listened. Eh, what a moon! And to-night the hare would be out on
Three Rock Mountain, and the red fox pad toward the chicken-coops--the
rogue of the world! And on the mountain lakes southward there would be
a lid of mist hovering, blue mist and dark mountains and the white moon!
And under the moon her own garden, her own house lay so quietly
sleeping. Crisp lawn and the graveled paths and the high wall and the
greenhouses glistening, and the yew-trees against the wall. And the
bigger trees of the garden, the oak and ash, and the rowan-trees--the
mountain-ash, they called it in England--all the trees that were silent
now, even the wind being still. The low dining-room that spread out at
right angles, and was thatched like an old-time cottage--how sweet it
seemed from here! And the stables, where the horses were in their
stalls, and the coachman and groom slept. The little lodge where the
gardeners were, a huddle of ivy. Oh, the sweet domain!
It seemed to her, when the old place and the servants slept, and the
dogs were curled up sleeping, and the horses in their stalls, that she
somehow was the guardian and protector of all this. The old servants
were not afraid because a Kyteler still lived, and they knew they would
be cared for, their whimsies understood. There being no strong man to
stand against the encroachments of the world, what was better than her
own sweet virginity? She could conceive of nothing harming the place
or people when she was there. Even the spirits of the hills would pass
it by gently; the dark Irish things that frighten folk in their sleep,
the rumble of the death-coach, the wailing banshee, the thud of the
Pooka's terrible hooves--none of them had power while she was there.
Would she always protect it--or would there be some one else? she
mused. A big man. She turned from the window and went toward the
fire. The face she had seen all day in reality was with her now in
vision of the fire--the face with the strong jaw, the gray eyes,
bronzed head, and red curls. How every one had looked at him, she
remembered proudly, at the race-course to-day! How fine he was! How
strong, too! She had been a feather to him when he swung her up on the
car. And when his hands had caught her elbows and her feet left the
ground, her heart jumped, fluttered....
And how nice he was! When the old rip of a battered singer had wished
them a multitude of children, he had blushed like a girl.
And when he had lifted her from the car, he had held her for the
fraction of a second in the air. He had thought she did n't notice
it--and she had been afraid he would hear her heart beating, so loudly
did it hammer in her breast. When she had turned him over to Rose Ann,
to take to her father's old room and turned and gone into her own, she
had closed her door and leaned against it, and said to herself,
"Margery, this man 's in love with you!" and then, in a lower, hushed
tone, "And, Margery, you 're in love with him!"
And all by herself she had blushed terribly and felt in a wild panic.
"He will see it," she said; "he will know." But then she said, "No, he
will not; I won't let him." And a song had come into her heart. A
great pride and wonder filled her. She felt she should be dressed in
soft scarlet robes, in some symbolic vestment of wonder and joy. But
she came down to dinner in a demure white frock, her hair done very
demurely, her eyes demure. And all the time her heart was bubbling
with sweet, low laughter, and saying, "Do you know, Margery, this man
's in love with you, and he does n't know you know it. And you 're in
love with him, and he does n't know that either. And we won't tell
him, Margery, will we? We 'll let him find out for himself."
All through dinner and after, she got him to talk of where he had
been--Brazil and China--and of New York, where he was born and which he
loved. She watched him over the sullen saffron candlelight, and she
thought, "He 's got a noble head," and again irrelevently, "You could
n't muss that hair of his, no matter how much you tried. Those short
red curls would spring back. I 'd like to try." And again she
wondered, "Will he try to kiss me when he says good night? And what
shall I do? Shall I kiss him back, or give him a piece of my mind?
And if I give him a piece of my mind he may never come again. And if I
kiss him he 'll think very little of me. It's awfully hard." And
again, "Ah, he won't try," she said. "He would n't in my own house.
And, besides, he 's really in love. I know it."
And he had only shaken hands with her, and said he was going soon, and
might he come to see her before he went? And her heart sank, and she
said, yes, she 'd be very sorry if he did n't. And he said, When? And
she pondered over a possible engagement that did n't matter at all, and
said, Tuesday, then, and her heart murmured disconsolately. Two long