Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
"SHALL you wish breakfast at Dudswell Junction?"
"I don't know."
"But I must telegraph for it, over night."
"But really I can't tell till I see it."
The Pullman conductor, whose broad shoulders and level eyes betrayed the fact that he had worn the Queen's uniform, looked down at his passenger with some amusement. Was it for the defence of the rights of such an one as this that he had offered himself to Mauser bullets? Then steadfastly he forced the amusement out of his eyes.
"I must ask you to decide, before you go to bed."
"But I'm not going to bed," was the surprising answer.
"Not going to bed?"
"Oh, no. I may lie down for a bit; but I really sha'n't undress at all."
From his place across the aisle, a boy looked up from his magazine. He too was big and blond and straight of shoulder and of eye. Unlike the conductor, however, he saw no need to repress the mirth which assailed him at the detailed utterances of his British neighbour.
All the way from New York, Rob Argyle had been gloating over the unconscious humour of that neighbour, over his accent, his clothing, over his wonderful amount of hand luggage. Rob, carrying a suitcase and leaning rather heavily on the stick in his hand, had sought the Pullman ticket office in the Grand Central Station at New York. To his obvious impatience, his pathway had been blocked by a heap of luggage, a porter and a diminutive Englishman with an utterance which seemed to be chiefly composed of the letter A, and that at the widest possible span.
"Oh; but really I can't," he was remonstrating.
"Change at Springfield," the clerk reiterated mechanically.
"Get out of one car and get into another?"
"Yes."
"But I can't."
The clerk tapped on the desk before him.
"There is no through train."
"Oh; but there should be."
"Possibly."
The Englishman's face lighted with sudden hope.
"You mean there possibly will be?"
"No."
"And I must change out of one car into another just like it?"
Patiently the clerk set himself to explain.
"You can have a drawing-room car to Springfield. There you will get the Quebec sleeper."
"Oh. And what will I do with it, when I do get it?"
Not even ten years of answering wholly inane questions could blunt the clerk's appreciation of this one. Nevertheless, his tone was dry, as he said tersely,—
"Move in."
"Yes. But who will carry my luggage?"
And the clerk made unfeeling answer,—
"Lug it, yourself." Then he turned to meet Rob's eye. "To Springfield? Yes. And a berth reserved to Quebec? Yes. Very well."
But once more the Englishman spoke.
"Oh, I say, will you please be so good as to reserve me a berth, too?"
"What name?"
The Englishman dived into his pockets for a card; but the card eluded his gloved fingers.
"What name?" the clerk iterated unfeelingly. "You'd better hurry. It is time for your train."
His hat wildly askew and his glass screwed into his right eye, the Englishman faced back to the window.
"Porteous," he said. "Sir George Porteous." Then, at the heels of the porter, he followed Rob out to the train.
It was with feelings of unmixed satisfaction that Rob saw the conductor leading Sir George Porteous to the chair next his own. Rob's humour was always ready for new sources of mirth; his two-minute study of the Englishman convinced him that here would be an unfailing source. Then, of a sudden, his satisfaction gave place to gloomy foreboding. The conductor carried a suitcase; Sir George Porteous was followed by the porter from his hotel, bearing two bags and a steamer-rug; and the hotel porter was followed in his turn by the porter of the car, and the porter of the car carried an overcoat, a raincoat, a rifle-case and a vast, unwieldy budget cased in tartan drilling and bound up with a shawlstrap. And Rob had a suitcase of his own, and, moreover, his lame leg demanded plenty of room on this, its first journey. The doctor had warned him to be careful, and Rob's own recent experience of plaster bandages had added force to the warning. With his uninjured leg, he gave a surreptitious kick at the tartan-covered budget which threatened to topple over on his knees. Then he barricaded himself with his suitcase and his stick, and prepared to enjoy himself as best he might.
Had the truth been told, Rob Argyle was in a position where his salvation lay in his sense of humour, in its happy trick of extracting fun from the most commonplace of situations. Otherwise, Rob's existence would have been rather a bore, just then. For two entirely happy years, his school life had centered in making a good enough record in his classes to balance his increasing prowess in athletics. Already he was captain of his crew and quarterback on his football team; already, though college was still two years off, his dreams were pointing towards a 'varsity football team of the future, when, with a sudden snap, his dream was shattered and he awoke. His cap on the back of his head, and the brown pigskin cuddled into the curve of his arm, he had marched away to the field, on the day of the Andover game, determined to make a record, or die in the attempt. He came near achieving both ends in the same hour. As he went down in the heart of a scrimmage, even before things grew black about him, his ears were humming with the sound of many voices shrieking his name in frantic chorus.
As a matter of course, he did not die. He was pulled out from the bottom layer of a heap of kicking, squirming boys, carried off the field and given the rough and ready care that goes with such events. That night, he went to the football supper, hilarious as ever, although he confessed to a dozen bruises and a queer feeling in his leg. It was not until a week later that the authorities of the school succeeded in convincing him that it was time he started for home and a specialist.
Since the night, eleven months before, when the cab had deposited him at his own front steps, Rob Argyle had been gritting his teeth and training himself to live upon the memory of his past prowess. He had been plucky and, for the most part, good-tempered. Nevertheless, in looking backward, he was forced to admit to himself that the time had dragged heavily. There had been five months of hospital and of a daily treatment which had been a pain to the flesh and a bore to the soul; there had been three months in his room, with the doctor dropping in at odd hours and performing strange tricks with a knee which declined to bend; there had been three more months in a boarding-house, after the last of his family had migrated to the country. Rob had urged their going away. He hated domestic coddling with a furious and holy hatred.
To his present point of view, it mattered little to Rob that the doctor, after long months of indecision, had hinted that, with proper care, he might have a well leg in time. Time was finite, when it was a question of college athletics; and the deliberations of a specialist, as Rob had learned to his cost, were infinite. He sought to beguile the hours by reading treatises on football or rowing, and the many stories in which sports play an important part. He usually ended by throwing the books on the floor, with an unworded regret that, in place of the floor, he could not substitute the writer's head. What was the use of books to a fellow who knew all about it, far more than did the writers, and was, all at once and for no obvious reason, cut out of the game? Moreover, Rob had always been prone to regard books as a means to an end. Plainly and without wasted words, his father had told him, at the end of his first month in Exeter, that he could keep on with athletics only just so long as his standing in his classes gave satisfaction to the school and family powers. Like most healthy boys, Rob took his Greek as a pill, and sugar-coated it with sports.
And now? Forgetting his British neighbour, he crossed his hands at the back of his head and stared out at the acres of brown salt marshland. Football was not, nor yet rowing. Possibly they never again would be. His lip curled scornfully at a momentary picture of himself, dawdling over interminable golf links and pottering about after a two-inch ball. And, as yet, even that was beyond him. What could he do? Whistling softly, he considered the situation.
Slowly and with care, he could walk about the house, and even for short distances outside. He could not dance, so what was the use of going to parties, even suppose he was lucky enough to be invited to any, in this strange city where his winter was to be spent. Then he checked himself abruptly. After all, he was getting back to the things he could not do; and it was much more in keeping with his ideas to count the things he could. At least, he was out of hospital, and able to get about again. And, as his mind went back to that cheering crowd which had witnessed his downfall, he confessed to himself that it all had been worth the while—almost.
Besides, there was Day. Strangely enough, this would be the first winter for years that the brother and sister had spent in the same house. Europe and school and finally the hospital had come in between. As a child, Rob had adored his little sister. In fact, it was he who had given her her name, substituting it for the prim Aurora which, in company with a mammoth silver urn, she had inherited from an ancient aunt. In their youngest days, they had squabbled and made up without cease, finding their worst punishment in the separation which followed on the heels of their more vigorous quarrels. Together they had devised and executed many a prank, had invented games without number and, best of all, cuddled together on the old sofa in the upstairs hall, they had exchanged confidences and dreamed dreams of a future when Rob should be a famous poet, or else a locomotive engineer, and Day should cook griddlecakes for his supper, when he came home, tired, at night. And then Europe had swallowed Day, and brought the end of it all.
Since then, they had gone their different ways. Really, it was surprising how little they had seen of each other, least of all during that last winter when Rob's hospital and Day's young gayeties had raised a double barrier against their united interests. It was surprising, too, how little Rob regretted the fact, how little he missed Day out of his life. In reality, when he thought of his sister at all, it was as the curly-headed child who used to snuggle against his shoulder, not as the dainty, unruffled maiden in the gray fur coat and the fluffy feathers, the maiden who came, now and then, to sit down by his narrow bed and say polite things about being sorry. And yet, underneath all the oppression of the fluffy finery and all the politeness, Rob Argyle held firmly to the notion that Day would be a good comrade, if one only knew how to get acquainted with her. Perhaps his chance was coming now.
Only the dropping sun, carving a golden trail across the brown sea marshes, saw the sudden gentling of Rob's keen blue eyes. For himself, Rob hated coddling. Nevertheless, on one of his holidays spent in the home of his chum, he had seen a younger sister perch herself on the chum's knee and twist his hair, while she talked nonsense into his ears. It had looked good fun, and Rob had felt strangely out of it. He remembered it now with a slight pang. Day, in her gray fur coat, would have been such a good little bundle to hold, if only she had perched herself on the edge of the bed, in reach of his strong young arms. But quite likely she had never thought of it. Impatiently he moved his chair to get the dazzle out of his eyes, and the sun, striking across his forehead, turned his hair from yellow to a tawny red.
He had had one letter from Day, since she had reached Quebec. It had smelled of violets, and its wax was violet, too. It had been full of her young enthusiasm over her new surroundings, full of her walks and drives, full, also, of one Ronald Leslie who appeared to be holding a place far in the foreground of her daily life. There was a sister, somewhere in the background. She called herself Janet, and his mother had mentioned her once or twice. She and Ronald were unknown quantities, two of them. As the dusk fell into darkness, Rob found himself wondering how the equation would work itself out.
Two hours later, as the Quebec sleeper slid northward, Rob was forgetting all such self-seeking, while, over the top of his magazine, he watched his British neighbour. They had the car quite to themselves, and Rob's satisfaction had come back upon him in full measure, when he had seen the Englishman squirm his way into a luggage-heaped section diagonally across the aisle. Ten minutes later, there had been a tussle of wills between the Englishman and the conductor. The porter, passing through the car, had fallen headlong over some unseen obstacle, and the conductor had been forced to explain at great length that passengers were not expected to spread out their dressing-cases, open, in the aisle.
"But I must have a drink," Sir George explained in his turn, with seeming irrelevance.
"Well, why not?"
Sir George leaned back in his seat
"I can't get a drink, you know, without a cup," he reminded his adversary.
"There's a glass at the end of the car."
Sir George shook his head.
"Really, I couldn't drink out of that," he said fixedly.
"As you will." The answering tone was crisp. "Still, you must keep your things in your own section."
"I can't."
"You must."
With an air of infinite leisure, Sir George took a small silver mug from his open case, rose and vanished in the direction of the water tank. As he rounded the corner, the conductor deftly picked up the case, perched it on top of the tartan budget, and went in search of the porter. Two minutes later, Sir George came back, walking with the unsteady pace of one whose sea-legs are not yet adapted to land journeyings, and bearing in his hand the filled cup. Deliberately he seated himself, deliberately quaffed his cup, deliberately turned to face Rob, screwing, the while, his glass in his off eye for the sake of getting a better view of his solitary travelling companion.
"Fellow seems a bit arbitrary, you know," he observed sententiously.
Then, turning back again, he rose and departed to empty the dregs from his mug.
Still later, and while the white-coated porter was busy with the berths, Rob cast aside his magazine and annexed the conductor.
"What's the exhibit, across the aisle?" he demanded.
"Plain freak."
"And going?" Rob queried.
"To Quebec."
Rob stretched out his lame leg on the opposite seat and made a gesture of invitation.
"Sit down; that is, unless you are busy. Are there many like him up there?"
"Not so many. It's a city where one gets all sorts; but this is a rare one."
"You know the place well?" Rob inquired.
"Rather."
"Is it—" Rob cast about in his mind for a comprehensive question. "Is it bad in winter?"
"Not if you don't mind cold. The sports are good."
"What, for instance?"
"Hockey, skiing, sliding, snowshoes."
But Rob shook his head.
"All up for me. I'm just out of hospital."
"Beg pardon. I remember noticing—"
"That I walked like a sawhorse?" Rob inquired composedly. "There's no need to beg my pardon, though. It's not pretty; but there's no especial disgrace about it."
"What happened?"
"Football. I went down in a scrimmage, last year."
"A whole year? What a beastly bore!"
Rob looked up to meet the honest eyes which somehow matched the voice.
"Wasn't it? But you sound as if you knew something about it, yourself."
"I was in South Africa, and had a bullet in my leg. It wasn't fun."
Rob gave him a sidelong glance, half-whimsical, half-sympathetic.
"Not much. However, it has its compensations—when one thinks of the cause. Anyway, you came out of it well."
"And you?"
Rob shook his head. Then he laughed.
"Perhaps," he said. "Give me time."
And then the porter came to make his berth. Sir George Porteous did take breakfast at Dudswell, the next morning; and, over the table, he and Rob kept up a random and desultory fire of talk. When Rob, fresh and starchy as if from his own tub at home, had made his morning appearing, he had been met by a wild flapping of the opposite curtains. The flapping, aimless and furious, had been followed by the thrusting forth of one shirt-sleeved arm which waved in air for an instant, as if to preserve the balance of some unstable body hidden behind the dark green draperies, then withdrew itself again into the unseen regions behind the curtains. A moment later, there protruded the head of Sir George Porteous, tousled, wild-eyed, the hair erect, the mouth ajar. With the utter absence of expression which sometimes accompanies violent physical exertion, the gaze of Sir George Porteous travelled slowly down the car, while the lower portions of the curtains agitated themselves crazily. Then, of a sudden, in the course of its travels the glance rested upon Rob, sleek, smiling and peacefully immaculate from the topmost lock of his yellow hair to the shoe-lace of his lame foot. The head withdrew itself hastily. Then,—
"Oh, by George!" came, muffled, but distinct, from the folds of the curtains.
Nevertheless, Sir George was promptly on the platform, as the train drew up at the door of the breakfast-room. To be sure, his cuffs were not, nor yet his eyeglass, and a huge safety pin, produced from the depths of his inexhaustible dressing-case, held the edges of his collar from rolling back to display his lack of certain of the more essential forms of haberdashery. With an unwonted haste which owed its origin to repeated warnings from the porter, he stepped down from the car and started for the breakfast-room door. Then deliberately he turned back to Rob who, by means of the conductor and his stick, was making a toilsome progress down the steps.
"Oh, I say, can't I give you a hand somehow?" he asked. "It's so tiresome, you know, not to get about." And, suiting his step to Rob's, he crossed the platform at his side.