I never got anything better from Tod. “You will have the honour of meeting them both here to-night,” I said to him, “for it is Janet’s turn to give the soirée, and I know they are expected.”
Evening came. At six o’clock the first instalment of guests knocked at the door; by half-past six the soirée was in full glory: a regular crowd. Every one seemed to have come, with the exception of the ladies from Jenkins House. Sam Jenkins brought in their excuses.
Sam had run up to Jenkins House with some physic for the butler, who said he had a surfeit (from drinking too much old ale, Tamlyn thought), and Sam had made use of the opportunity to see his aunt. Madame St. Vincent objected. It would try the dear old lady too much, madame said. She was lying in a sweet sleep on the sofa in her own room; had been quite blithe and lively all day, but was drowsy now; and she had better not be disturbed until bedtime. Perhaps Mr. Sam would kindly make their excuses to Mrs. Arnold Knox.
“Can’t you come yourself, madame?” asked Sam, politely. “If Aunt Jenkins is asleep, and means to keep asleep till bed-time, she can’t want you.”
“I could not think of leaving her,” objected madame. “She looks for me the moment she wakes.”
So Sam, I say, brought back the message. Putting himself into his evening-coat, he came into the room while tea was going on, and delivered madame’s excuses to Janet as distinctly as the rattle of cups and saucers allowed. You should have seen Cattledon that evening:—in a grey silk gown that stood on end, a gold necklace, and dancing shoes.
“This is the second soirée this week that Lady Jenkins has failed to appear at,” spoke Mrs. Knox—not Janet—in a resentful tone. “My firm opinion is that Madame St. Vincent keeps her away.”
“Keeps her away,” cried Arnold. “Why should she do that?”
“Well, yes; gives way to her fads and fancies about being ill, instead of rousing her out of them. As to why she does it,” continued Mrs. Knox, “I suppose she is beginning to grow nervous about her. As if an innocent, quiet soirée could hurt Lady Jenkins!”
“Johnny,” whispered Sam, subsiding into the background after delivering his message, “may I never stir again if I didn’t see Collinson hiding in aunt’s garden!”