CHAPTER LIII
The Gaylors had come back to London and Ivy had left her child in their little place in the country.
Easter was late this year. The Park was gay with crocuses and snowdrops, and Kensington Gardens were gayer with snowdrops, crocuses and sturdy English babies. The Houses were sitting; society was in full swing and exuberant fettle; Mrs. Gaylor scintillating like some joyous, brilliant star in the social orbit. And her husband went with her everywhere. A great many women envied Ivy Gaylor, and not a few owned it.
Only Emma Snow knew the cold, poisoned under-current of Ivy Gaylor’s real life—though Mrs. Sên suspected what she did not dare to probe.
Ivy had met her mother, as it seemed, quite naturally, and without either inviting or evading the few questions that had seemed to Mrs. Sên unavoidable—less awkward, though awkward enough, to ask than to omit to ask.
Oh—yes—the baby was quite well. Yes, thanks, the nurse was excellent, the under-nurse was right enough. Vaccinated—yes, Ivy thought so. No—they hadn’t named her yet, but some one would have to soon; there’d be a scandal in the county and a riot in the Gaylor family if it wasn’t christened soon.
Ivy made no apology for having ignored her mother during the months when a young mother usually clings to her own mother very closely. But she thanked Ruby quite prettily for the silver Mrs. Sên had sent. No—she didn’t know when they’d be going back to Dorset—she and Tom. She was enjoying herself hugely in town—more than she ever had before. No doubt Tom would rather be in the country, sneaking after rabbits and gloating over his cabbages and curly kale; but Tom was a good boy and did as he was told. She had no idea when they’d be back in Dorset—but if Mrs. Sên cared to run down any time, Griggs and Mrs. Clegg would make her very comfortable.
Ruby Sên took it quietly; that she did as part of her penance.
She knew that she had lost her daughter and she hid her hurt. Nor did she blame Ivy for it. Life had taught Ruby Sên human justice, and she knew that Sên King-lo might have lost his wife if he had not been so wonderful to her that time they’d been in Ho-nan.
Mrs. Sên motored alone to Dorset and gathered Ivy’s unwelcomed baby into her own arms and heart, and held it very tenderly.
Mrs. Sên stayed with her tiny grandchild several weeks until she felt that her being there so long, while Ivy was in London, might be causing caustic comment, and she owed it to Ivy to stay no longer.
One thing comforted Ruby Sên. She did not believe that Ivy did not love her little baby. It was not so that Mrs. Sên read her child’s conduct. She believed that if there had been no mother-love in Ivy’s heart, Ivy would not so stress and flaunt callous indifference. She knew that Ivy was suffering intensely; and she believed that it was the suffering of love—suffering more for child than for self. And Ruby Sên had the courage to hope that the little baby, in its own way and God’s time, would heal Ivy’s torn heart, as Sên King-lo’s manliness had healed her of her cruel folly years ago when she had caviled at his country and revolted from his kindred in Ho-nan, who had welcomed her, and whom he had loved. It was not for Sên King-lo’s wife to censure their daughter for a fault that had been her own; and King-lo’s widow—who was still his wife—was loyal to his manliness, not in payment, not chiefly in gratitude, but in growth, and in the womanliness that had been his marriage gift to her; a marriage gift increased and enriched in all their days together.
Her estimate of Ivy was less shrewd than Emma Snow’s—but she was Ivy’s mother.
Mrs. Sên was sorrowful as her car swept back to London, and she was anxious; but she did not despond.
She counted on Ruben, and, though she knew that it would gall her a little just at first, she was looking forward to the time when he would give her a daughter who would love her—when his unfortunate penchant for Miss C’hi had passed.
It was after tea-time when Mrs. Sên reached home. She was a little tired and she wanted tea rather badly.
Ruben was not there to meet her. That chilled her a little, and quite unreasonably for she had not warned him or the servants of her coming, partly because she had not determined until actually on her way whether she would go to Ashacres for a few hours, or directly to London, partly because she had wished to leave him quite unfettered. She thought that Ruben had sacrificed his time to her too much of late. But she longed for him as she went into the house, and because she did not find him, the familiar rooms looked almost unhomelike. In spite of her usual sturdy common sense, his absence suddenly seemed an ill omen.
Mr. Sên had been out all day, Jenkins said; had come in to change soon after lunch and had gone again in less than half an hour. No, his master had left no message, and had not said that he would be dining at home.
There was no reason why Ruben should have left any message, since he had not been expecting her, but it hurt her that he had not.
The woman’s nerves were jangled. Ivy, the coming of the baby, and its problem had jangled them, old complications belching up after long years of comparative immunity, without King-lo to disentangle or destroy them, without Ruben to brace her, make her forget for an hour, without Ruben to pour her tea for her. Ruben always poured when they were alone.
The silver teapot dragged heavy in her hand, the cup and saucer looked solitary; she felt solitary—and neglected.
Probably Ruben would be dining out too! He’d come home to change though and would offer to break his dinner engagement. But she’d not allow him to do that.
Tea alone—dinner alone, if she dined. Oh, well—it was her own fault.
Perhaps Emma or Charlie would look in presently, if only to learn if she were back. She hoped neither of them did.
Perhaps they’d phone.
It didn’t matter either way.