Knox, as we were leaving.
"I think not," he answered. "Janet wrote to decline."
"You wished her to decline, I dare say!" retorted Mrs. Knox. "You always did despise the soirees, Arnold."
Dr. Knox laughed pleasantly. "I have never had much time for soirees,"
he said; "and Janet does not care for them. Besides, we think it unkind to leave Mr. Tamlyn alone." At which latter remark Mrs. Knox tossed her head.
"I must call on Lady Jenkins, as I am up here," observed Dr. Knox to me, when we were leaving. "You don"t mind, do you, Johnny?"
"I shall like it. They were talking about her last night."
It was only a few yards higher up. A handsome dwelling, double the size of Rose Villa, with two large iron gates flanked by imposing pillars, on which was written in gold letters, as large as life, "Jenkins House."
Dr. Knox laughed. "Sir Daniel Jenkins re-christened it that," he said, dropping his voice, lest any ears should be behind the open windows: "it used to be called "Rose Bank." They moved up here four years ago; he was taken ill soon afterwards and died, leaving nearly all his money to his wife unconditionally: it is over four thousand a-year. He was in business as a drysalter, and was knighted during the time he was mayor."
"Who will come in for the money?"
"That is as Lady Jenkins pleases. There are lots of relations, Jenkinses. Sir Daniel partly brought up two orphan nephews--at least, he paid for their schooling and left each a little money to place them out in life. You have seen the younger of them, Sam, who is with us; the other, Dan, is articled to a solicitor in the town, old Belford. Two other cousins are in the drysalting business; and the ironmonger, Sir Daniel"s youngest brother, left several sons and daughters. The old drysalter had no end of nephews and nieces, and might have provided for them all. Perhaps his widow will do so."
Not possessing the faintest idea of what "drysalting" might be, unless it had to do with curing hams, I was about to inquire, when the house-door was thrown open by a pompous-looking gentleman in black--the butler--who showed us into the dining-room, where Lady Jenkins was sitting. I liked her at first sight. She was short and stout, and had pink cheeks and a pink turned-up nose, and wore a "front" of flaxen curls, surmounted by a big smart cap with red roses and blue ribbons in it; but there was not an atom of pretence about her, and her blue eyes were kindly. She took the hands of Dr. Knox in hers, and she shook mine warmly, saying she had heard of Johnny Ludlow.
Turning from her, I caught the eyes of a younger lady fixed upon me. She looked about seven-and-twenty, and wore a fashionable black-and-white muslin gown. Her hair was dark, her eyes were a reddish brown, her cheeks had a fixed bloom upon them. The face was plain, and it struck me that I had seen it somewhere before. Dr. Knox greeted her as Madame St.
Vincent.
When we first went in, Lady Jenkins seemed to wake up from a doze. In two minutes she had fallen into a doze again, or as good as one. Her eyelids drooped, she sat perfectly quiet, never speaking unless spoken to, and her face wore a sort of dazed, or stupid look. Madame St.
Vincent talked enough for both of them; she appealed frequently to Lady Jenkins--"Was it not so, dear Lady Jenkins?"--or "Don"t you remember that, dear Lady Jenkins?" and Lady Jenkins docilely answered "Yes, dear," or "Yes, Patty."
That Madame St. Vincent was a pleasant woman, as Mr. Tamlyn had said, and that she spoke English as we did, as he had also said, there could not be a doubt. Her tongue could not be taken for any but a native tongue; moreover, unless my ears deceived me, it was native Worcestershire. Ever and anon, too, a homely word would be dropped by her in the heat of conversation that belonged to Worcestershire proper, and to no other county.
"You will come to my soiree this evening, Mr. Ludlow," Lady Jenkins woke up to say to me as we were leaving.
"Johnny can come; I dare say he would like to," put in Dr. Knox; "although I and Janet cannot----"
"Which is very churlish of you," interposed Madame St. Vincent.
"Well, you know what impediments lie in our way," he said, smiling. "Sam can come up with Johnny, if you like, Lady Jenkins."
"To be sure; let Sam come," she answered, readily. "How is Sam? and how does he get on?"
"He is very well, and gets on well."
Dr. Knox walked down the road in silence, looking grave. "Every time I see her she seems to me more altered," he observed presently, and I found he was speaking of Lady Jenkins. "_Something_ is amiss with her, and I cannot tell what. I wish Tamlyn would let me take the case in hand!"
Two peculiarities obtained at Lefford. The one was that the universal dinner hour, no-matter how much you might go in for fashion, was in the middle of the day; the other was that every evening gathering, no matter how unpretentious, was invariably called a "soiree." They were the customs of the town.
The soiree was in full swing when I reached Jenkins House that night--at six o"clock. Madame St. Vincent and Charlotte Knox sat behind the tea-table in a cloud of steam, filling the cups as fast as the company emptied them; a footman, displaying large white calves, carried round a tray of bread-and-b.u.t.ter and cake. Lady Jenkins sat near the fire in an easy-chair, wearing a red velvet gown and lofty turban. She nodded to the people as they came in, and smiled at them with quite a silly expression. Mina and Charlotte Knox were in white muslin and pink roses.
Mina looked very pretty indeed, and as mild as milk; Charlotte was downright and strong-minded. Every five minutes or so, Madame St.
Vincent--the white streamers on her rich black silk dress floating behind her--would leave the tea-table to run up to Lady Jenkins and ask if she wanted anything. Sam had not come with me: he had to go out unexpectedly with Dr. Knox.
"Mr. Jenkins," announced the pompous butler, showing in a tall young fellow of twenty. He had just the same sort of honest, good-natured face that had taken my fancy in Sam, and I guessed that this was his brother, the solicitor. He came up to Lady Jenkins.
"How do you do, aunt?" he said, bending to kiss her. "Hearing of your soiree to-night, I thought I might come."
"Why, my dear, you know you may come; you are always welcome. Which is it?" she added, looking up at him stupidly, "Dan, or Sam?"
"It is Dan," he answered; and if ever I heard pain in a tone, I heard it in his.
"You are Johnny Ludlow, I know!" he said, holding out his hand to me in the warmest manner, as he turned from his aunt. "Sam told me about you this morning." And we were friends from that moment.
Dan brought himself to an anchor by Mina Knox. He was no beauty certainly, but he had a good face. Leaning over Mina"s chair, he began whispering to her--and she whispered back again. Was there anything between them? It looked like it--at any rate, on his side--judging by his earnest expression and the loving looks that shot from his honest grey eyes.
"Are you really French?" I asked of Madame St. Vincent, while standing by her side to drink some tea.
"Really," she answered, smiling. "Why?"
"Because you speak English exactly like ourselves."
"I speak it better than I do French," she candidly said. "My mother was English, and her old maid-servant was English, and they educated me between them. It was my father who was French--and he died early."
"Was your mother a native of Worcestershire?"
"Oh dear, no: she came from Wales. What made you think of such a thing?"
"Your accent is just like our Worcestershire accent. I am Worcestershire myself: and I could have thought you were."
She shook her head. "Never was there in my life, Mr. Ludlow. Is that why you looked at me so much when you were here with Dr. Knox this morning?"
"No: I looked at you because your face struck me as being familiar," I frankly said: "I thought I must have seen you somewhere before. Have I, I wonder?"
"Very likely--if you have been much in the South of France," she answered: "at a place called Bretage."
"But I have never been at Bretage."
"Then I don"t see how we can have met. I have lived there all my life.
My father and mother died there: my poor husband died there. I only came away from it last year."
"It must be my fancy, I suppose. One does see likenesses----"
"Captain Collinson," shouted the butler again.
A military-looking man, got up in the pink of fashion, loomed in with a lordly air; you"d have said the room belonged to him. At first he seemed all hair: bushy curls, bushy whiskers, a moustache, and a fine flowing beard, all purple black. Quite a flutter stirred the room: Captain Collinson was evidently somebody.
After making his bow to Lady Jenkins, he distributed his favours generally, shaking hands with this person, talking with that. At last he turned our way.
"Ah, how do you do, madame?" he said to Madame St. Vincent, his tone ceremonious. "I fear I am late."
It was not a minute that he stood before her, only while he said this: but, strange to say, something in his face or voice struck upon my memory. The face, as much as could be seen of it for hair, seemed familiar to me--just as madame"s had seemed.