Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
"JANET!" There was a rising inflection on the call.
"Yes." The answer came faintly from the top of the house.
"What are you doing?"
"Settling down."
"Possessions, or feelings?" Ronald queried composedly, from his seat on the stairs below.
"Hush!" Janet came to the door of her room and looked down over the stairway rail. "Both, of course; but don't mention it indiscreetly at the top of your voice."
"I am safe; the coast is clear. But what a beastly shame for you to go aloft!"
"No shame at all," Janet protested stoutly. "I love the room; it is only such a tiresome thing, the putting my clothes away."
"Shall I help?" he offered, though without troubling himself to stir.
She laughed down into his merry dark eyes.
"You!" she said scornfully.
"Well, why not? At least, I'd be quicker than you."
"But there's no hurry," she answered. "I've all the week to move. The new youth won't come till Saturday."
"For which be thanked!" Ronald observed devoutly. "Look here, Janet, do you think he will be any addition to the family party?"
Swiftly she held up a warning finger.
"No; they've gone out," Ronald repeated. "Still, the walls have ears, and I suppose it isn't wise to imperil the family butcher bill. What did you say you were doing?"
"Moving, to make room for the nabob," Janet answered, and, for the life of her, she could not keep an edge of bitterness from her voice.
Ronald rose and stretched himself.
"Let it go, and come out for a turn on the terrace," he suggested.
"I'd rather—" Janet demurred; then, as she looked down at the tired lines about her brother's lips, she relented. "1'll be ready, in a few minutes," she said.
"Good child! Put on something warm, though. I'll go and tell the mater we are starting." And Ronald vanished by way of the drawing-room door.
He found his mother seated by the table in the library, darning his socks; and the pitiless glare of the electric lamp by her side showed him the two deep wrinkles which the past month had cut into her face. With a sudden protecting gesture, he flung his arm across her shoulder, as he seated himself on the arm of her chair; but he only said,—
"Janet doesn't appear to fancy the idea of the new Argyle."
"Not really. I suppose it is because she and Day can't seem to hit it off," Mrs. Leslie said slowly. "How does the idea strike you, Ronald?"
"As if it were in the bargain, and we couldn't get out of it," he answered whimsically. "Having let in three Argyles, we can't well stand out on a fourth."
"And, after all, he may be—"
"He probably is," Ronald interrupted placidly. "My only fear is he is too much so."
The eyes of mother and son met, and they both laughed.
"I'm sorry, dear boy," Mrs. Leslie said then. "I don't mind it; but it is a bit hard on you and Janet, now that you have to count your pennies and your postage stamps, to be thrown in this close connection with a girl like Day who never counts the cost of anything."
Ronald shook his head.
"There are a few others," he suggested. "None of our friends are exactly frugal. It is only that they haven't the same trick of throwing their money at one."
"I know," his mother assented. "I am sorry. I wish it weren't necessary."
But Ronald rose and squared his shoulders.
"It is necessary, though, and a mighty good thing for us that they like the place and can afford to pay for it," he replied, as he crossed to the fire-place. "It comes high, this boarding with Quebec's elect. I only hope they appreciate the advantages they are getting for their money."
Mrs. Leslie laughed.
"I suspect they don't."
Ronald faced her sharply.
"Why?"
"Because Mrs. Argyle has asked me to serve her tea in her own room."
"Oh!" Ronald's cadence was a falling one. "So she needn't meet the friends of her landlady?"
"I suppose so."
And then Ronald laughed, laughed with a boyish, big-bodied appreciation of the joke. Mrs. Leslie, in her recent mourning, was not receiving just then. Nevertheless, her drawing-room was a meeting-ground for the many old friends who could not afford to miss her out of their busy lives. And, moreover, these friends were not of a class to hold out eager hands to stranger Americans. The quaint little old city has a trick of refusing to open her social doors to foreign gold.
"Let her," he said tersely at length. "And yet, do you know, I am sorry for Day."
Mrs. Leslie threaded her needle. Then she looked up.
"I am glad to hear you say it, Ronald. Day is a good girl."
"And a bright one," Ronald added. "I wish she and Janet would take to each other."
"Give them time," his mother suggested. "Girls are slow to get acquainted, and they have only known each other for three weeks."
"But in the same house. And, besides—" Ronald hesitated.
From over her work, his mother looked up at him keenly.
"Well, son?"
He frowned intently at the cuff on the arm which rested against the mantel.
"I'm not sure that I blame Janet, either," he said slowly. "I like Day, myself; I like to have her about. She is good fun, and she knows how to take chaff without losing her temper. But with Janet—" He abandoned his cuff and faced his mother directly. "Has it ever seemed to you that Day was a little top-loftical with Janet?"
His mother nodded.
"Yes. And you have noticed it, too?"
"Noticed it, and hated it," Ronald answered briefly. "I can't understand it, either."
"I can," Mrs. Leslie said.
"What?" The question came sharply.
"That Day regards Janet as merely the child of her landlady." Mrs. Leslie's tone, instead of bitterness, held only quiet amusement.
Ronald spun about on his heel.
"What rot!" he said sharply.
"No; not altogether," his mother demurred. "The fact is, she is right. The Argyles came here, strangers, to board with us. There is no need for them to consider themselves as our friends."
"Mercifully not," Ronald assented.
"But you said you liked Day," his mother reminded him.
"So I do. She is bright and pretty and good fun to have in the house. Still, if she is going to be hateful to Janet, I won't have anything to do with her."
"Janet can take care of herself," that young person observed from the doorway. "You needn't worry about me, brother. There are other girls besides Day Argyle."
"I know that," Ronald said a little moodily. "Still, there aren't many who might be better fun to know. I hate, though, this liking people with mental reservations. Day is a good, all-round sort of girl, if only she would treat you a little better."
Janet's chin rose in the air.
"I didn't know it was a question of how she treated me," she said conclusively.
Ronald laughed, as he never failed to do, when Janet took that tone.
"Come down off your high horse, before it balks and spills you," he admonished his sister. "We all of us know that Day isn't too polite to you. Moreover, we none of us know why I haven't come in for a share of the same manners."
But Janet smiled mockingly.
"Look in your glass," she advised him, from the arm of her mother's chair where she had perched herself.
It was still early, so early that the Basilica bells were clashing across the evening air, when the two young Leslies stepped out into the street. The stars glittered frostily above them, and low over the Saint Louis Gate hung the thread-like crescent of a baby moon. Nine times, Janet made grave obeisance to the moon; then she turned and caught her hand through her brother's arm.
"Money in your pocket, Ronald?" she queried
By way of answer, he drew out a copper penny, waved it before her eyes and then returned it to his pocket, clanking it ostentatiously against its fellows.
"Safe for this month, Janet," he reassured her then. "That's where we fellows score. You girls haven't any pockets."
"At least, then, we don't have to worry about our pockets being empty," she retorted. "Oh, what a night! Let's run!"
With a laugh, Ronald brought his sister to a standstill beneath one of the electric lights.
"What a romp you are, Janet!" he said, in mock rebuke.
"Why not?" she returned undauntedly. "I'll race you up the terrace and back, and beat you, too."
"Don't be too sure," he cautioned her.
"You'll do it?" she queried eagerly for, of late, Ronald had been slow about sharing in her childish pranks.
"Sure. That is, unless there are people about."
"Come, then," she urged. "If we hurry, we can get there before anybody else is out. It's cold, and I feel funny, and I want to run fast, fast."
"You'd better save your breath," he advised her. Nevertheless, he yielded to her repeated tuggings at his elbow and, side by side, they faced about and directed their steps towards the terrace. Only once on the way Janet spoke.
"If Sidney were only here!" she said.
And Ronald made regretful answer,—
"But she isn't."
At the corner of the Ring, they met the Argyles. Day, walking slightly ahead of her parents, was the first to see them. She hailed Ronald eagerly.
"Where are you going?"
"Just up to the terrace."
"Lovely! I'll go with you."
Notwithstanding Janet's furtive pinches on his arm, Ronald made prompt answer, as he was in duty bound to do.
"That's good. We were longing for exercise, and missed you when we came out." Then, hat in hand, he faced Mrs. Argyle. "You'll trust Day to our care, I hope," he added.
Mrs. Argyle's face, at rest, was a bit cold. It lighted now, however, as it never failed to do when her eyes rested upon Ronald Leslie's face.
"I always know that Day is safe, when she is in your hands," she said cordially. "Don't stay too late, Day, and don't take cold."
"I like that boy," she added to her husband, as they went on their way. "He is manly and well-bred, and abnormally handsome. Mrs. Leslie, too, isn't like the usual type of boarding-house keepers."
"But it's not a boarding-house," her husband objected. "And, you know, John said—"
"John!" Mrs. Argyle's tone was expressive. "He always has a pensioner or two on his hands, and I stopped listening to his pitiful tales, years and years ago. Still, I must confess that we were fortunate to get into such a charming old house."
"What about Rob?" Mr. Argyle asked, for he had but just returned from a week in Montreal. "Did she object to taking him?"
"At first, she said she couldn't; but I finally argued her into it. He is to have Janet's room."
"What becomes of Janet?" her husband asked practically.
"She goes upstairs, somewhere or other. These old houses seem to have endless room in them. Still, you must admit that it was a good thing that I never had happened to speak of Rob's coming." Mrs. Argyle laughed lightly. "It was the merest chance that I hadn't; but his plans were so uncertain that I thought I'd best wait. If she had heard of him in the first of it, I am sure she would never have taken any of us in; and I am too comfortable there, to be willing to move."
"And Rob comes?" Mr. Argyle said interrogatively.
"Saturday noon."
"I am glad. If only he is better!"
And, meanwhile, up on the deserted terrace, Day had been voicing the same wish.
"Not heard of Rob?" she said. "How strange!"
Ronald laughed.
"That is what we have been thinking," he said frankly.
"But I supposed my mother had told you he was coming."
"Why didn't you?" Janet asked, with crisp pertinence, from her place at Ronald's other side.
"I? Why, really, I don't know. Because girls don't talk much about their brothers, I suppose."
"But I do," Janet returned a little shortly.
Day laughed good-naturedly. Her contentment, pacing the vast sweep of boards in time to Ronald's rhythmic tread, was too complete to be easily ruffled.
"So I have observed," she assented. "In America, we usually leave our boys to speak for themselves."
She was quite without intention of bitterness. Nevertheless, Ronald interposed, for he was quick to feel the undernote of antagonism between the two girls, and liking Day and adoring Janet, he was anxious to have them friends.
"And so you have brought your American manners into Canada?" he queried.
"Why not? Besides, I have an idea that Rob would prefer not to have me discuss him."
"Because?" Ronald inquired.
However, Janet broke in with a question.
"Then you've known, all the time, that he was coming?"
"We weren't sure he'd be able."
"How do you mean?" Janet obviously was resolved to push her investigations to a satisfactory finale.
"Whether the doctor would let him come."
"Why not? Is he—delicate?" Janet demanded, with the sudden appetite of girlhood for a languid hero.
Day's laugh cut the air with a mirth which infected Ronald, although he had not the least idea what was the cause of her merriment.
"Rob delicate!" she echoed, when she could speak. "You should see him."
"Then what does he have a doctor for?"
Day sobered suddenly.
"His leg. He was half through Exeter and making a splendid record, just in the thick of everything. He was so big they put him on the football team, and he was awfully hurt in one of the scrimmages. They say he saved the game, though," she added, with obvious pride.
"Poor chap! That's lean satisfaction," Ronald made grave comment.
Day smiled, partly in her content with her brother's prowess, partly in amusement at Ronald's colonial viewpoint.
"You'd better not say that to Rob," she advised him.
But Janet still pursued her investigations.
"What did it do to him?" she asked.
"Nobody seems quite sure. It did something to the tendons, they think. It happened just a year ago; and, ever since, he has been under the care of the best man in New York. He has had to stay right in the city, all summer long, and take all manner of treatments and things. We supposed he would have to be there, all winter; but, last week, he wrote that the doctor said he might come up here for a while. Mother is worried to death. She doesn't know whether it means he is better, or whether the doctor has given up the case."
"Why doesn't she ask him?"
"Rob, or the doctor?"
"Your brother."
And Day made unhesitating answer,—
"Because it wouldn't do any good. Rob never would tell, if he weren't better."
And Ronald again made comment,—
"Poor chap!"
Day laughed.
"You'd best not say that to him," she advised again. "Rob hates being pitied."
"A fellow can't help being sorry, though," Ronald said bluntly. "How much does it knock him out?"
"He's out of school, of course; and he can't play football, nor dance, nor walk much—at least, he couldn't, when I saw him. He may have gained since then, though."
"How long since you have seen him?"
"Not since the first week in June. We came here straight from the country, you know."
"Day Argyle!"
Ronald felt the explosion coming; but not even his warning pressure on Janet's arm could suppress it.
"Well, what of it?" Day queried unconcernedly, while she changed the position of one of the pins in her hat.
"Nothing," Janet said shortly. "Only, if he were my brother, I wouldn't go off to the country for six months, without seeing him."
"But it wasn't so long," Day corrected her. "It isn't five months yet. Besides, what good would I do? Of course, my father saw him, every few days, and my mother went down to the city for a week, before we came up here. She had to get clothes and things, and then she wanted to see Rob for herself."
"Naturally." Then Janet's mouth shut with a snap.
To her own surprise, Day felt a sudden need to justify herself.
"I'd have gone, if Rob had wanted me, or if I could have done him any good," she said, with the slow gravity which, to Ronald's mind, marked her sweetest moods. "I love Rob; he's a darling and I think he is fond of me, but we generally go our own ways. He is all boy, doesn't care for girls nor girl things, only to criticise my clothes, when they don't suit him."
"Oh," Janet said shrewdly. "I begin to see. You fight."
Day hesitated. Then, instead of being irritated by Janet's persistence, she spoke frankly and with a little tone of sadness.
"No," she said thoughtfully. "Sometimes, I wish we did; it would bring us closer together. When we were children, I've heard mother tell, we used to squabble, one minute, and love each other to distraction, the next. Then mother went abroad, and took me, and Rob went away to school. That lasted for two years, and, since I came home, we have never been together much, nor seemed to be able to get at each other. I am fond of him; but I'm afraid of him. He doesn't seem to me like my own brother really, but more like a visitor, when he comes home. We aren't nearly as much related as you two are. And then, most of this last year, he's been in hospital or his room, and I've been in school, all day long. And so—" Abruptly she stopped her earnest speaking, stopped it to hide the little break which so rarely came into her gay young voice.
In utter silence, they walked the length of the terrace. When Day spoke again, it was with a laugh; but the laugh was plainly forced.
"I really don't see why I have told you all this stuff," she said apologetically.
Swiftly Janet stepped to her side, linked her arm in the arm of Day and gave it a little squeeze.
"Because you knew we'd be sorry and like to help," she said rather incoherently, but with a tone she had never used to Day until that hour.