CHAPTER XLIII
Snow wondered if Ruben would be more inclined to talk about China when they were alone than he had seemed inclined or even willing that afternoon in the hall. Always until now Ruben had seized every opportunity to induce Sir Charles—who had lived in China years ago and who, Ruben knew, was intensely interested still in everything that concerned her—to speak about China; especially about Ho-nan. Would he do so now—when they were alone?
Ruben did not—even avoided the subject, Snow thought.
Why?
Was it because the wonderful place and people had so gripped Ruben that he had determined for his mother’s sake to forget China as far as he could? It might be that, Snow knew. Well—he wished Ruben joy of that task. The man smiled grimly. Forget China!
It was a very British young Englishman that made half the life and mirth of that family Christmas house-party; putting up holly and mistletoe, romping with Ivy—whenever he could detach her long enough from Gaylor, joking with Emma Snow, dancing with Blanche, rollicking with her kiddies, deep in tobacco and politics with Snow and Tom in the smoking-room, hanging about his mother as if “increase of appetite” grew “by what it fed on”; making love to her merrily from breakfast to bedtime.
But Snow knew, quite by accident, something that spoke to him of a strong undercurrent.
The night before Ruben went to London, Sir Charles had risen at midnight to put another log on the fire very quietly. Emma was a salamander—she liked the fire “kept in” in her bedroom in warmer months than December. The husband himself did not dislike a temperature rather more of the East than of England. But you wanted plenty of fresh air in a sleeping-room with a fire going half the night. He’d open the window a bit wider. He drew back a heavy curtain to do so and saw Ruben unlock the small door in a garden wall. The door led directly into the old churchyard. Mrs. Sên had been allowed to have it made for her own convenience. She never failed the rector of church-fund, Sunday school treat, new bell, new carpet or special offering. Why should he fail her of the only request she ever had made of him? The good man had seen no reason whatever, nor had any one else; so, the wall had been cut, and the door put in it.
Ruben was going to his father’s grave.
How long would he stay there? But Sir Charles would not gratify his own curiosity as to that. He opened the window another inch and looked for a moment at the moon-lit picture of the old gray church, and its yard of graves. There was snow upon the ground. Berries, that looked like bundles of tiny silver balls in the brilliant moonlight, were thick on the frosted hollies; there was snow upon the graves. It was quiet in the churchyard. Snow drew the long curtain over the window scrupulously.
But Sir Charles Snow lay awake a long time thinking.
Twice after that he knew or suspected that Ruben had gone at night, to Sên King-lo’s grave.
Naturally he did not watch Ruben, or pry into it in any way. It was pressed upon him.
“Whatever were you doing, creeping into the house like a mouse at half-past two this morning, Rue?” Ivy Gaylor demanded one day at breakfast. “And how did you get in? Don’t the servants lock up properly, Mother?”
The old butler bridled angrily and almost openly.
“Got in the same way I went,” Ruben said lazily. “Let myself out, Ive—and let myself in again. Oh—yes, the place was barricaded like a Moscow prison all right. I had to undo about six bolts and chains. Came in quietly out of consideration for your beauty sleep, Mrs. Gaylor. What were you doing, prowling about at two-thirty?”
Ivy flushed prettily. “Tom and I got talking in front of the fire—talking over your sins, and it took some time. I just went to the window—I like to look at the trees, all covered with snow in the moonlight—and I saw you. Where had you been?”
“Out!” Ruben said with a laugh, and flecked her with a pellet of bread.
Ivy flecked him with another; it had been a favorite nursery pastime of theirs.
Then they both laughed and Lady Snow came in; and the next remark made was about Christmas trees.
The other occasion was as trivial, and as unprompted by Sir Charles.
He had no doubt that Ruben had been to Sên King-lo’s grave each time.
It did not seem to Snow at all an English expressing of filial loyalty. And he knew that the graveyards of China teemed with such acts—that scarcely a graveside in China could not have told of much such an incident.