CHAPTER XXII
Ivy Gilbert heard of the paragraph of course; every one did. She heard of it that evening, but she gave it even less thought than Sir Charles did; for he wondered idly who had inspired it and why, but Ivy did not even do that. She heard of it, but she did not trouble to read it, and Emma, watching, wondered if she’d been mistaken in believing that Ivy had come to take more than a friendly interest in Mr. Sên. If she did, she gave no sign now.
Of the ugly stories that were clouding Sên’s name more persistently every day, no word ever had been spoken by Lady Snow as yet. Emma Snow had no wish to mention them to her cousin, and had she wished, which she did not, to speak of them to Sir Charles, would not have dared do it.
A few days after the morning journal had eaten its yesterday’s words, Lady Snow’s drawing-room was very full even for her “at home” day.
Emmeline Hamilton came very early, and finding a moment and a corner alone with Ivy, said suddenly, “Do you care for King-lo?”
Ivy stiffened. “Do I what, Miss Hamilton?”
“You know that my brother cares for you.”
“We will not discuss that,” Ivy cut her short.
“And Sên King-lo is all the world to me.”
“Oh—hush,” Ivy cried, ashamed to her core that any girl could be so brazen—for such she considered the other’s avowal of feeling for a man with whom, as Ivy knew, her acquaintance was very slight. It did not shock her at all that Miss Hamilton had come to care for a Chinese—for she, Ivy herself, had ceased to think of Sên King-lo as of a race apart and debarred and even unconsciously thought of him as of one far less alien to her than most of the men she met here.
“He is,” Emmeline went desperately on, “and I don’t care who knows it——”
“That is evident,” Ivy Gilbert thought. But she said nothing.
“—and he’d have been engaged to me now, if it wasn’t for you.”
“That is preposterous,” Ivy interrupted indignantly.
“It is preposterous,” Emmeline agreed quickly; “for he does not care for you really, and I don’t believe that you care for him. If you do care for him, say so—” Ivy’s lip curled—“and then it will be a fair fight between you and me. But, if you don’t, won’t you give him back to me? I want him. Do you?”
“I think you must be mad, and I know you are disgusting,” Ivy rather panted, looking at Emmeline with horror-widened eyes, and moving to go.
But Emmeline caught at her wrist with vise-like thin fingers; and short of making a scene in Emma’s drawing-room, where already a few other guests were trickling in, there was no escape. So she sat down again. You must humor lunatics; she had always heard that. Well—she hoped she’d not meet another lunatic soon.
“Answer me! You shall! Do you care for King-lo?”
“I like Mr. Sên—as I think every one does,” Ivy said coldly.
“Only that?”
Ivy bent her head, with a look of contempt straight into Emmeline’s eyes.
“Oh—he is perfect!” Emmeline bleated. “Will you give him back to me?”
“I cannot give what is not mine. And I will not listen to any more insult—not if I have to appeal to my cousin.”
“Is he coming here today?” Emmeline pleaded abjectly, a sudden change in tone and manner. Dr. Ray would have read it apprehensively; but Ivy was merely blankly amazed.
“I do not know,” she answered truthfully.
“Did he give you those flowers you are wearing?”
But that was too much—scene or no scene. Miss Gilbert rose again, and this time the other made no attempt to stay her but called after her, “I know he did,” in an overstrained voice that made heads turn and eyebrows raise.
Guests came and went, but Emmeline Hamilton stayed. Lady Snow looked at her curiously more than once. Ivy kept out of her way.
It was growing late, but half a dozen tardy comers lingered over the blazing logs and tinkling tea-cups, and Emmeline pushed into the group, shivering a little, and drawing about her thin, lightly clad shoulders the long-drooping fur that she had not left in the hall. Her mood had changed again.
“You were speaking of Sên King-lo,” she said—but no one had mentioned him there. “Every one is. It is odious that he should be tolerated among us. He ought to be horsewhipped out of the place.” And in spite of Lady Snow’s imperative gesture, she plunged into all the recent scandal—even into noisome details. And Sên King-lo came into the room as she shrilly told one nauseous item. “Had you heard all this?” she demanded pointedly of Ivy.
“Yes—all, though worded less uncomfortably, I’m glad to say, than you have,” Miss Gilbert said clearly, rising and crossing the room to Sên King-lo, who stood in the doorway with Sir Charles Snow beside him. “Good afternoon Mr. Sên,”—it was then that the other women turned and saw him,—“I was wishing you’d come. I want you to ride with me tomorrow. Will you take me?”
“You know how glad I always am,” he replied, as she gave him her hand. His face had not changed as he had unavoidably heard Emmeline’s last sentences. But his eyes flashed into Ivy’s as he held her fingers, and then he turned and went to his hostess, cool and quiet as he always was.
But Ivy spoke to him again as soon as Emma had greeted him.
“Thank you for my lilies,” she said with a glance down at them, and a smile into his eyes: “they are lovelier than ever today, I think.”
Before Sên could reply—and he never was slow—Miss Hamilton rose from her chair dramatically; but before she could speak, Sir Charles Snow gave her his arm and led her courteously from the room. Sên King-lo went to the door and opened and held it.
The others went almost at once, and Lady Snow went into the hall with the last to go and did not come back. But she said to Sên as she passed him, “Do stay and dine—we’ll none of us dress.”
“Shall I stay?” Sên asked Ivy, as the closed door left them alone.
“I want you to,” she answered. “And thank you again for my lilies. Won’t you have a few sprays—they’ll dress you for dinner—as they do me,” and she held out the sprays she’d pulled from her dress as she spoke.
“So they will,” Sên said, as he bowed over the tiny white bells of perfume and the fingers that gave them. “Thank you.”