On a garden bench in Surrey, the seat on which her father had died in
her mother’s arms--but the girl did not know that--Ivy Sên sat leaning
against her lover. His arms were about her, his face on her hair.
Gaylor was very fond of the girl he was going to marry in less than a
week, in the gray village church back of Mrs. Sên’s rose garden.
Ivy Sên loved fiercely--so intensely that everything else was wiped
from her consciousness.
The girl’s burning happiness frightened her mother, who knew how
terrible the disillusion would be, if disillusion ever came. And Ruby
Sên knew how few marriages ever escaped disillusion for all time--knew
that every human relationship must walk on the ground now and then.
She feared what it would do to Ivy, if but once the ecstasy that so
intoxicated the girl now were to sicken or dull.
But Ruby Sên was pathetically thankful that Ivy was going to marry a
man whom she loved, simply and sweetly as happy girls did.
Against any adventurer or one he had suspected of that, Charles Snow
would have set a face of flint; would have tightened relentlessly
the strings of the Sên purse over which, by King-lo’s will, he had
considerable control. But his one semi-official interview with Gaylor
had given Sir Charles no loop-hole for that.
He was convinced that Gaylor would go on with the marriage even if
Ivy were to receive not a penny of income from her father’s estate,
not so much trousseau as a small tradesman’s daughter. All ground for
financial objection was cut from under his feet.
To Gaylor he could find no objection.
To be sure, he told the other plainly, he should prefer Ivy not to
marry, and told him why. But he did it altogether in loyalty to a
promise he had made to dying Sên King-lo and not because he believed
that it might affect Gaylor.
Gaylor took it more gravely than Sir Charles had expected. But he gave
no sign that he would retract because of what Snow had said, and Snow
left it at that. He had put up no such fight as he had with young Sên
King-lo years ago in Washington. He had loved the Chinese boy who was
far from home and kindred; he did not love this Englishman who was in
his own country, and presumably able to look after himself. The Gaylors
had greeted Ivy cordially. Lady Gaylor was “a hard-pated mondaine” whom
Snow much disliked, but he believed that Ivy would more than hold her
own against any mother-in-law. She had expressed herself delighted at
her son’s engagement, and seemed to mean it.
Lady Snow pounced upon her husband as soon as Gaylor had gone. The
interview had not been long.
“Well?” she demanded.
“Right enough, I think,” Sir Charles said a trifle drearily, “at least
he is, I mean.”
The wife nodded contentedly. Whatever dear old Charlie wished, Emma
Snow wanted Ivy to have her chance, and had no doubt at all that Ivy’s
only chance of happiness lay in a successful marriage. Certainly Tom
Gaylor was right enough, and a bit more than that, she considered. Ivy
would marry some one; that was written; and surely the poor little
thing had a right to her one chance if ever a girl had. Life had been
hard luck on Ivy. But in Gaylor the queer child had chosen rather
wisely. And all might be well with her now. London did not mind Ivy’s
Chinese face; evidently Tom Gaylor didn’t either. And that was that.
Lady Snow wished them both luck.
“So--” she purred, “you didn’t turn him down!”
“Gave me no chance to. He is a nice fellow. I’ve no doubt of that. Not
too much mind, but breeding, of course, and more than the average share
of character. A bit thick-skinned, but good-hearted--very. Well, his
thick skin, if I am right there, may come in very useful to him; and
his goodness of heart useful to her! He is only moderately in love with
Ivy, Emma.”
“Charlie!”
“It’s true, dear. I am sure that he does not know it; but I do.”
“Why did he propose to her then? You say he has character; every one
who knows him well says that.”
“I said that I believed he had more than the average share. In my
opinion the average share is very little.”
“Why do you think he will find a thick skin useful?”
“Often is.” And Lady Snow knew that, try as she might, she could drag
no clearer answer than that from her husband.
“Why does he want to marry Ivy, if he is not in love with her?”
“I did not say that he was not in love with her. He is--moderately.”
“Moderate love!”
“Wears best sometimes; very often stands most strain, comes through
disillusion best. Oh, Gaylor is fond of her. And I have no doubt that
he always will play the gentleman. That is the best security their
future has.”
“Ivy loves him very much. She is a changed creature.”
“Yes,” Snow agreed. “And I suspect that is what has done it. Ivy,
impetuous in love, as in everything else under her sun, fell madly in
love with Gaylor from the word go. I was with Ruby the day they met,
Ivy and Gaylor. She broke into her mother’s room--a new girl--and as
good as told us. She was out on the river with Blanche and Blake; they
ran into him--Gaylor; Ivy clapped her eyes on him, and made him a
present of her heart then and there, gave it to him with both hands.
Blanche saw it.”
“You don’t mean--” Emma Snow began miserably.
“That little Ivy ‘ran after’ Gaylor? Certainly not. But what Blanche
saw--not a very observing woman, dear--probably Gaylor felt and it drew
him. That is how I read it then, Emma, and how I read it to-day. It
drew him, and he warmed to it; caught fire more or less from her, and
from her appealing loveliness of a type he never had seen. There is
only one Ivy Sên in London Society. That accounts for a lot. Besides,
his chivalry was stirred. He felt it was up to him to make the running.
He’s that sort. She fascinated him and allured him. But--probably
without knowing it--Gaylor pitied Ivy and played up. And that is the
great danger I see for their future--and I see several. Love is not
akin to pity. That is a flabby, putrid theory, Em. Pity creates a
pseudo-love--a poor weak sort--fragrant and pretty while it lasts; but
it never lasts--can’t last, for it has no root.”
“I hope you are wrong!”
“I hope I am. Time will show.”
Blanche Blake had seen how it was with Ivy that first day on the river;
Gaylor had not. He had thought Miss Sên a great good sport, and very
sweet, to meet him as she did after their sorry encounter at Burlington
House. And he instantly had thought that what he unfortunately had said
there would have remained unsaid and unthought if the Chinese lady on
the R.A.’s canvas had been one-tenth as pretty as Miss Sên was.
The rest had followed as most such conflagrations do. And theirs had
had fuel and to spare. It still burned brightly six months later,
warming them both, heart and body, as they sat together in the
moonlight in the garden at Ashacres on almost their wedding eve.
It had surprised Mrs. Sên almost as much as it had pleased her that Ivy
had chosen to be married quietly in Brent-on-Wold parish church instead
of elaborately in London. Lady Gaylor had protested almost violently. A
number of people, with much less right to dictate or meddle, had also
protested; several had coaxed. Ivy had smiled, and taken her way. Ivy
Sên’s heart was too full for her to tolerate a “function.” She felt
that she must be alone, as nearly as she could--alone with her joy and
her lover on her wedding-day.
Ruben’s face when he read his mother’s letter telling him of Ivy’s
unexpected decision quivered tenderly, and his blue eyes misted. “How
she must love him!” he whispered to the roses in the old Ho-nan garden.
A fear for his sister that had cut chill at his heart for years melted
and went as he read his mother’s letter. He wished he had known Gaylor.
His heart was warm to the man who, the mother wrote, had made life a
new and sweetened thing to Ivy.
The moon flooded the fragrant garden and did its best to make the old
and rather ugly church beautiful--a squat, ordinary building with a
square disproportioned battlemented clock tower. The Brent-on-Wold
church had but two beauties: the ancient yew that almost dwarfed
it--a yew from which the loyal parishioners had paid their tribute
of bow-and-arrow wood to their King centuries ago--and the great
stained-glass East window that would have jeweled any cathedral in
England. It was the window that Ruby Sên had given as a memorial of her
Chinese husband.
The man drew the girl still closer, and she buried her face on his coat
with a little fluted sob.