Washington was delighted; so were the papers—and proclaimed it. Things
were a little dull in newspaperdom just now, and the Anglo-Chinese
engagement was a savory tit-bit capable of being served up in a number
of ways, and was. Dick and Blanche were in an ecstasy, and girls Ivy
scarcely knew touted shamelessly to be her bridesmaids. Every one was
surprised, which made it all the more exciting. Every one, with only
three exceptions: Lady Snow, Dr. Ray and Kow Li. Even Emma Snow was a
little surprised, but not so the Chicago physician and Sên’s Chinese
manservant.
It had been expected long ago; but it had hung fire so long that
Washington society had quite made up its mind that there was nothing in
it beyond a friendship too long-drawn-out and too serene to have even
the zest of flirtation, and Lady Snow herself had come to lean to that
opinion now and then. Until a June day and an old apple-tree had rent
the veil, Sên and Ivy had kept their mutual secret so well from each
other that it was scarcely surprising that they had balked others of it.
Not many in Washington approved, but most were pleased—a very different
thing—and the papers were honestly grateful.
It came with all the toothsome surprise of an unforeseen sensation. And
the wedding would be great fun. Would they be married at the Church of
the Ascension? Was Sên King-lo a Christian? Nobody seemed to know. Or
would they take Convention Hall or the Lafayette Square Opera House and
be married on the stage with Chinese rites by Chinese priests, with
posture girls at the back and tom-toms in the orchestra, and
fire-crackers for confetti? What fun!
Truck-loads of Chinese junk, real and imitation, poured in on Ivy from
mere acquaintances, and from a number whom she had not met, but was
going to meet now—if _they_ could contrive it. Lucille Smith sat on the
doorstep, and for days Ivy had to stay indoors to avoid reporters and
camera men—even the back-door and the tradesmen’s gate were
“watched”—and Sên King-lo was photographed every time he came to see
his fiancée, which was often.
But if the four hundred and the outer thousand were pleased and
palate-tickled, a handful of others, and they more nearly interested,
were not.
Julia Calhoun Townsend was ill with rage and disgust. Charles Snow was
anxious and bitterly anxious too. The Chinese Minister didn’t like it,
but told no one so. Kow Li didn’t like it at all, but only told an opium
pipe—a very harmless opium-pipe. Uncle Lysander was enormously shocked
and disgusted, and he lost no time and spared no pains in noising it
abroad that he was. Elenore Ray and Emma Snow stood by Ivy, and the
little they said to outsiders was in approval; but at heart neither
approved, and each was sorry, Lady Snow the more so and the more
acutely. With Elenore Ray an eager scientific and psychological interest
somewhat dulled her personal and friendly anxiety.
Julia Townsend writhed. She closed her doors to Sên King-lo and to Miss
Gilbert and told them so in frigidly phrased notes written in the third
person. A week later she sent for them both—separately—and pleaded and
argued. She stormed and wept at Sên King-lo. Ivy came in for most of the
pleading, though Sên had his share, and it was to Ivy that she said the
hardest and the more questionable things, for she could not quite break
the reticence of generations in speaking of intimate things to any man.
Miss Julia quarreled with Dr. Ray because Elenore Ray would not
altogether condemn or at all ostracize, and Sir Charles Snow very nearly
quarreled with his wife—and that he did not quite do so was Emma’s
fault, not his. He was wretchedly unhappy about it.
Miss Julia hurt Ivy a little and angered her bitterly—but accomplished
nothing, lost a friendship and didn’t score a point. Sên King-lo she did
not anger at all; venomous speech is a Chinese privilege of old age and
of women—and Sên King-lo valued her words, not for what they said, but
for the kindness that he knew had forced her to speak them; he
remembered all her gracious motherliness of years to him, the exquisite,
pathetic motherliness of child-deprived and aging spinsterhood. He was
neither hurt nor angered, and his gratitude and his affection held. But
some of her words and the truth they spoke troubled him. He could not
brush them aside, and he could not forget them. Sên King-lo knew the
risk he was taking—far better than Miss Julia could. She guessed it a
little, spurred by prejudice to state it sourly. He knew it; both his
intelligence and his honesty acknowledged it; his courage accepted it.
He accepted it, gladly even, now for himself. But—for Ivy? Was the risk
he was going to let her take too cruel, too close a risk? Such a
marriage would have its pricks, and sometimes its scourge. He had no
doubt of that. Could he keep every prick and scourge for him alone, keep
them _all_ from her? He said “Goodbye” to Miss Julia as affectionately
as she would permit, more sadly than he would show. And his heart had a
heavy ache as the door of Rosehill closed behind him forever, and he
went through Rosehill’s gate for the last time.
_Every_ goodbye has its tinge of sadness. We know the ills we have; not
the ills to come. The released prisoner throws a long last look at his
gaol as the warder locks him _out_. To say goodbye to old friendship,
old kindness, old welcome is hard and sad indeed. It cuts.
Sir Charles took it harder than Julia Townsend did but attacked it more
gravely and kindly, more gently. But he did his utmost.
To Emma his wife he showed his rancor and a little his tingling spleen.
He went among his colleagues grimly. But to Sên King-lo he showed only
his sorrow and anxiety and his friendship, and even more considerately
to Ivy.
But he spoke.
He spoke to her with his hand on hers; but for all his cousinly kindness
and all his diplomatic care, he angered her even more than he hurt—and
he hurt. And he failed. He had expected to fail.
But he hoped not to fail with Sên King-lo.