Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
"DAY!"
"Oh, Day!"
The two voices, Canadian and American, one from above, one from below, smote the air simultaneously. Day, ruining her eyes and her temper over an intricate bit of lace work, looked up at the double call.
"Yes," she answered, without troubling herself to rise and open the door.
Again came the two voices, impatiently, this time, and one following close upon the echo of the other.
"Day!"
"Oh-h-h, Day!"
This time, she threw aside her work and went to open the door.
"Did somebody want me?" she asked.
Ronald, festooning himself over the rail of the third-story stairs, was the first to get in his word.
"I want you."
"What for?"
"It is Saturday afternoon," he said suggestively.
"Of course. Yesterday was Friday. To-morrow will be Sunday. What of it?"
Janet's brown head appeared beside the shoulder of her brother.
"It sounds exactly like 'April, June and November,'" she commented derisively.
But Ronald, albeit his arm went around her shoulders with a sureness of gesture which betokened long custom, yet ignored her comment.
"What of it?" he echoed Day. "Merely this: no office, and you said, last week, you'd go out with me."
Down in the hall below, Rob spoke again.
"Oh, Day!"
"Yes, Rob."
"Were you coming for a drive?"
"Sorry, Rob; I can't. Take mother."
"She's going out to tea. Why can't you go?"
"Because Ronald said I promised him, last week."
"Hang Ronald!" Rob observed to himself, a little too audibly for complete courtesy.
Day's head lifted itself proudly. Then she turned to face the rail above.
"Where do you want to go, Ronald?" she asked, and the distinctness of the tone held its own challenge to the boy in the hall below.
"Anywhere you say. What about the Island?"
"I'll be ready in five minutes," she returned promptly.
"Then you honestly won't go with me?" Rob asked from below.
But Day, who had no notion how unused he was to begging for society, nor how it galled him now to do so, shook her head.
"Not to-day, Rob. I promised Ronald. Besides, it is his only day. We can go, any time."
"But you won't," Rob objected a little sharply. "You always have some excuse. Why won't you both come with me, instead?"
Day, who hated driving, vainly cast about in her mind for some graceful way of begging off. Ronald, however, went straight to the point.
"I'm sorry," he said. "It's good of you to count me in, Rob. I'd like to go; only, you see, I'm not getting any exercise at all, these days. I'm not used to being cooped up at a desk, and it leaves me feeling anything but fit. I'd best take my Saturday afternoons in the hardest exercise I can. Else, I would go with you. I know what a bore it is to drive out alone. I wish you could go with us."
"Thanks," Rob said, for the last words had come heartily.
With her hat in her hand, Day reappeared in the doorway of her room.
"Rob!" she called. "Rob!"
"Well?"
"Dou't be cross; there's a dear boy. And I was just going to ask why you don't take Janet with you."
Rob's eyes, passing Day's, moved upward to Janet, still leaning on the rail of the upper hall.
"Will you come, please?" There was a sudden eagerness in his tone, a sudden wistfulness in his eyes.
Janet, as she looked down at him, felt an odd little tugging at her throat. Then she hardened her heart. In reality, the invitation had come but indirectly and by way of Day.
"Thank you," she said, with a slight accent of finality. "I have some other plans."
Rob's eyes drooped. Then he said quietly,—
"I am sorry. I wish you could have come." And, turning, he went into the drawing-room where he stood by the window until Day's brown frock had gone out of sight and the crisp ring of Ronald's step no longer fell upon his ears. Then he dropped into the nearest chair and fell to pondering upon the value of active legs.
Janet found him there, when she came down the stairs, half an hour later, in search of events to amuse her. She herself was frankly bored, that afternoon. Ronald had urged her to go out with him and Day; but she had shaken her head resolutely.
"I'll go to the terrace with you, to-night, Ronald, and we'll walk miles. This afternoon, you're better off alone with Day. If I were there, you'd think about things and, maybe, talk about them. Anyway, you would worry."
And not all of Ronald's urging had been able to shake her resolve.
The things to which Janet referred were worrisome indeed, worrisome and imminent. At a family council, the night before, it had been decided that the Leslies must take in even more sail; and it was not easy to see how they could accomplish it. The new servant was a marvel of cheapness; the four Argyles were paying well for their pleasant home, and Mrs. Leslie had just been congratulating herself upon the prospect of a comfortable winter, when a couple of old debts turned up and demanded instant payment. To Mrs. Leslie's mind, loyalty to her husband's memory made it imperative that she should fulfil the demand. Long after Janet was in bed, she could hear the low murmur of voices from Ronald's room below. Small wonder that, this afternoon, she had felt that Day, care-free and energetic, was a better comrade for Ronald than she herself could have been!
Nevertheless, she was lonely and a good deal bored by being left to herself. Had the suggestion of the drive come from Rob himself, she would have hailed it with delight. It was quite another matter, however, to have Day arrange her plans and dispose of her for the afternoon, especially when Day was so obviously using her as a species of stop-gap. Janet regretted the need for her refusal, but not the refusal itself.
To her absolute surprise, she found Rob enthroned in the drawing-room, alone and apparently unoccupied. She had come downstairs quietly; and, for a long moment, she stood on the threshold watching him, without his noticing her presence. For fully half that time, she studied him with envious eyes, took in all the luxurious details of his dress, all the unconscious grace of his figure which so plainly betokened life in a family where debts were not, where one's bank account and one's ancestry were equally long and equally clean of origin. If only Ronald could have had those clothes, could have owned such ties and stockings, such wonderful, sheer linen as the corner which strayed from Rob's left pocket! But then her eyes fell to the floor, to the stiff line of the lame leg, to the stout brown stick, forgotten on the carpet at his side. After all and all in all, perhaps there was not so much to envy. And Rob's eyes, fixed on the fire, were heavy and dull. Janet stirred a little. Then, as he did not heed her slight motion, she stepped briskly forward into the room.
"You here? I thought you had gone," she said.
At her voice, the light came back into his face, the alertness to his manner. He started to rise; but she checked him.
"No; please don't stir. I'm not going to stay."
"Why not?"
Saucily she laughed down at him, as she halted beside his chair.
"I am afraid I might disturb your meditations. But I supposed you had gone to drive."
"No use. I'm sick of driving alone, and you wouldn't go with me."
She flushed a little. Then she met his eyes steadily.
"You know why; don't you?"
"I imagine I do. Still, if I hadn't been an idiot, I should have spoken first."
"You really did want me to go?" she queried rather wishfully.
Stooping, he picked up his stick.
"It's not too late now. Let's go."
"I—said I wouldn't," Janet objected lamely.
But already Rob was half-way to the telephone.
"No matter," he reassured her from over his shoulder. "That was another time, you know. Can you be ready in ten minutes?"
Janet laughed.
"I'll scrabble. I am ashamed to give in," she explained. "Still, it is a gorgeous day, and it is a shame for you to spend it in-doors."
Ten minutes later, she joined him, hatted and furred to the chin, for the afternoon air was sharp with the snow which already powdered the blue Laurentides to the north of the city. For a moment before he opened the door, Rob stood smiling down into her face.
"Janet, you're a good little fellow," he said then. "Come along."
Ronald and Day, meanwhile, were sitting on the top of the Cove Field steps. They had left the house, with the avowed intention of taking the Island boat. Once in the street, however, Day deliberately faced westward.
"Where are you going?" Ronald demanded, in surprise.
"For a walk."
"Sure. But the Island boat doesn't start from the Citadel."
She flashed up at him a glance of scornful rebuke.
"I have been in the city for almost four weeks now," she reminded him.
"And even now you don't know your way to the boat?" he asked disrespectfully.
"I know it perfectly. I also know the way to Sillery."
"But I thought we were going to the Island."
"Not to-day."
"Why not?"
She hesitated. Then she gave frank answer,—
"Because you always insist on paying all the fares."
Her accompanying laugh took much of the sting from her words; nevertheless, Ronald, with the memory of last night's discussion uppermost in his mind, flushed hotly.
"Naturally," he said, and his accent was a little crisp.
"No; it's not natural, either," she replied lightly. "It is all right, once in a while. I'm a girl, and I like to be taken care of. Still, if we are going out together, every few days, I'd much rather pay my own way."
As she spoke, she started slowly towards the gray arch of the Louis Gate. Ronald, perforce, kept step at her side. His own step was irregular, however, and lacked its usual rhythmic swing.
"What nonsense!" he said impatiently. "This isn't like you, Day."
"Then it would better be," she returned, and her tone was undaunted. "At least, it is good common sense."
"I fail to see it," he answered shortly.
From under the brim of her wide hat, Day peered up at him furtively. His tone was ominous. Her glimpse of his flushed face and tight-shut lips was not reassuring. Convinced that a fray was imminent, she swiftly decided that the best she could do, was to guide his steps to a spot where they could fight it out, unseen. The Grande Allée would be a bit too conspicuous a place for quarrelling.
"Let's come out across the Cove Fields," she suggested. "I've not been that way, since the first day I came."
Obediently he turned at her side, crossed the Grande Allée, crossed the bit of lawn in front of the skating rink and came out across the rifle ranges above the ragged earthworks to the west of the Citadel. Inside the city wall, the wind had blown sharply; but up on the deserted Cove Fields, the sun lay warm, and the river beneath matched the sapphire tint of the sky above.
For a time, they trudged away over the crisp, dry turf in a silence broken only by Ronald's occasional nervous clearing of his throat. Then, as they neared the top of the endless flight of steps leading down to the river, he broke the silence, abruptly and with an obvious effort.
"Now look here," he said briefly. "Your mother put you up to this."
Most girls would have pretended to ransack their minds for an antecedent to his words. Not so Day, who preferred directness.
"No," she asserted. "She did not."
"Well, I wish she had," Ronald said, with some impatience.
"I don't see why."
His scarlet flush deepened.
"Because one hates a girl to be thinking of such things."
For her first half the answer, Day plumped herself down on the top step and drew her skirts aside to make room for her companion.
"A girl does think of such things, if she has any brains at all," she said calmly. "Do sit down, and we'll talk it out, once for all. We may just as well settle this thing, first as last."
"I don't see any use in discussing it at all."
Her eyes twinkled, as she looked up into his lowering face.
"I do, then; that is, if we're to go on having any good times together." Then she adopted a new tone, half-cajoling, half-maternal. "Now, Ronald, do sit down in the sun, like a dear boy. I can't talk up to the top of a telephone pole. Arguments should always be on the same level."
"People shouldn't argue," he grumbled, as he obeyed her and seated himself at her side.
"They shouldn't; but they do," she retorted whimsically. Then she faced him, with steady deliberation. "Ronald, you know I like going about with you. You've taught me all I know of the city; you've made it wonderfully nice for me. Rob is very cross at me, because I like better to go with you than with him. No, listen!" She lifted her hand to ward off his interruption. "It's not that I am not fair to Rob; but we both like the same things, you and I, exploring and taking good stiff walks, things he can't do at all. I've loved the going out with you; it has been good fun. Still, after this, I shall do it only on the one condition."
He saw no need to ask what was the condition. For an instant, he sat with his eyes bent on the long line of shabby roofs at his feet.
"Suppose I won't agree?" he asked at length.
Her eyes met his eyes steadily.
"Then I shall stay at home, or else go driving with Rob."
The silence which followed was long, and broken only by the ceaseless trickle of falling shale which slid, slid from the face of Cape Diamond down into the gutters beneath.
"Aren't you a little hard on a fellow, Day?" he said then.
"Not a bit."
Sharply he faced her.
"Would you have said it, a year ago?"
"Of course. Why not?"
Again the scarlet tide covered his face.
"Money didn't count for so much then."
"What do you mean?" she asked, in some surprise. Coming to Quebec as strangers, the Argyles had gained no notion how sudden and complete had been the overthrow of the Leslie fortunes.
"Didn't you know that it is only lately that we have been—poor?" He flung the last words at her sharply.
"I didn't know you were poor now," she answered him.
"What do you suppose we take boarders for?" he demanded curtly.
"You don't; only us."
"Well, you, then?"
"Why, because—I don't know. Because Cousin John told us about you, I suppose."
Ronald snapped the head off from a weed growing up beside the steps. Then he laughed.
"I'm afraid that wouldn't have been enough, Day. Didn't you know that—" The words stuck in his throat.
Day glanced down at the restless, strong hands, up at the clouded face.
"I don't know anything," she said slowly. "Remember, we are strangers here, and my mother is no gossip. Tell me about it, if you like; but not unless you do like."
Her voice and manner were full of a quiet dignity. In such a mood, Ronald had always found the girl at her best. Now he resolved to make a clean breast of the situation. Unconsciously to himself, his eyes cleared slightly, as he looked at her intent young face.
"Didn't you know," he asked steadily; "that we really and truly are poor now? That we have to count and scrimp and save? That, before my father died, we used to be rich, not rich for New York, but rich for Quebec?"
Day started to speak. Then she checked herself, fearing lest she should say the wrong words. Instead, she bent forward and, for an instant, rested the tips of her fingers against Ronald's hand.
He interpreted the touch as she had meant it; his eyes showed his gratitude. Then, after a moment, he went on,—
"I supposed you knew it, that day at Levis, when we talked about things. That's why it hurt so, to-day, when you seemed to think I couldn't scrape up money to take you to the Island."
"Ronald! What an idea!" she broke in impatiently.
"I suppose. People get queer ideas now and then," he answered. "I suppose I have worried till I am losing my grip."
"But what makes you worry?" she asked, her eyes fixed thoughtfully on her clasped hands.
His laugh plainly showed the effort which it had cost him.
"Dollars and cents," he said tersely. "We've never thought about them, before. Now, with all our scrimping, it is going to be a tug to make both ends meet. I wouldn't mind, for myself. I hate it, though, for the mater and Janet. Sometimes I think it is hardest of all for Janet."
"More than for you?"
Proudly he raised his head.
"I don't mind. It is worse for a girl."
Day's thoughts moved rapidly from her dainty self to her no less luxurious brother.
"I don't see why."
"How would you like to wear cut-over clothes and a dyed coat, when you hadn't been used to it; and to have the girls at school, not your friends, but the girls you never used to talk to, twit you because your mother kept a boarding-house?" he demanded hotly.
"Does Janet?"
"Yes."
Day pondered swiftly.
"I'd thump them, and then I'd cut them dead," she said at last. Then she faced Ronald once more, while the fire left her voice which grew very gentle. "I'm sorry," she said; "I hadn't any idea how bad it was, nor really that it was bad at all. Still, I think I am glad you told me, for it may keep me from making blunders in the future. But do you want to know what I think about things, money and all that?"
In spite of himself, Ronald smiled at the intentness of her tone. And she looked so dainty and prosperous, so absolutely unable, from her own girlish experience, to form any idea of what the lack of money really might mean.
"You think, the way I used to do, that it's a mighty good thing to have?" he queried.
"Yes," she said frankly. "I do. We've always had it, Rob and I, all we wanted and a good deal more than we either of us have needed. I love it, love pretty clothes and journeys and having the best kind of servants and all the rest of it. But I don't think it's the only thing, nor the best. I'd rather eat boiled rice and wear cut-over stockings than not know my grandfather was a nice sort of man. And I honestly hope that, if my father were to lose his money to-morrow, Rob and I could grit our teeth and take it as coolly as you and Janet have done. I hope he won't. I don't want to have to be heroic. It would only be a comfort to know I could be, if it were necessary."
But Ronald shook his head.
"I'm afraid I don't come in that class," he said.
As on one previous occasion, she held out her hand to his.
"Don't be too sure," she said. Then swiftly she brought the talk back to its point of departure. "Now about our coming out together," she went on, with a frank, off-hand directness which Ronald was powerless to resent; "let's come straight to the point. I have my allowance; it is probably ten times yours. Anyway, it is more than I can spend, up here where there's not so much to do. Let's agree that, when we go off for a frolic, we each pay our own way. It doesn't sound nice; but it's much more fun. We girls hate to be head over heels in debt. It's a good deal that you're willing to dawdle about with me and show me the sights. That you can do better than anybody else. But, for the rest—" She paused suggestively. Then she added, "Is it a bargain?"
Ronald hesitated. Just as he was opening his mouth to reply, a shadow fell across them, and a languid, accentless voice inquired,—
"How do you do? Oh, I say, did you ever get the poor chap out?"