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
days.
Through dinner and after she thought she had only been thinking of his
strong, eager face, but now he was gone, all he had said she
remembered. And she thought of hot China, and the sun-baked South, and
the yellow rivers. And of Brazil with all its forests, and the
speckled snakes, and the whistling monkeys, and the egrets standing by
the fountains, and the little armadillo lumbering across the roads.
And of New York, the vital city, with its houses challenging the
thunder of summer skies, its explosion of light when evening came, its
hurrying myriads, keen-eyed, alert. Against all these backgrounds she
could see his clean-cut, gray-eyed face, and she could see herself
small and slight, looking up at him in wonder and pride.
"I could go with him anywhere," she whispered.