Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 17

ND, meanwhile, Rob was biding his time in New York as best he might. He had left Quebec, expecting to stay for two weeks, he had remained for five. However, he had made hassle to assure his mother and Day that the unexpected delay portended good things rather than bad. In spite of falls and exposures and strains, his gain had been faster than the doctor had led him to anticipate, so fast, in fact, that certain daily treatment which he had expected to take in June, could be given now. A little patience, a little pain and a good deal of boredom, to say nothing of the loss of a winter he had been learning to enjoy, and then a return to them all in something approaching his normal condition! His letters were long and full of enthusiasm over his improvement. By the end of the second week, they even contained veiled hints of a possible return, next season, to his school eleven, at least as substitute.

However, the fact remained and would not down that at heart Rob was undeniably homesick for Quebec and for Day. Up till then, it had never occurred to him that he could grow so fond of any girl; anyway, not until his joints were too stiff to permit of football. Now that his hopes of future football were brightening, he felt an imperative need to talk them over with Day, to invoke her influence to wheedle his father into allowing him to venture into the old-time sport. Besides, he wanted to hear Day tell about her own doings. Three times in every week, the postman brought him a fat, violet-sealed letter; and Rob, during his daily hours of massage, learned to know those letters by heart. So characteristic were they that he could almost hear certain of their phrases falling from Day's tongue. They were full of news of the Leslies, of her own experiences, of the words and ways of Sir George Porteous for whose increasing prominence upon the Leslie-Argyle horizon Rob was entirely at a loss to account. And, intermingled with all these things, there were bits of phrases full of girlish affection, and it was upon these that Rob lingered longest. With a strange, iron-handed woman rubbing and pounding and bending at his weary knee, putting it through its daily woes in a chilly, impersonal fashion that took no notice of the human being to whom it was attached, it was a comfort to lie back and clasp his hands behind the nape of his neck and think how much better Day would have done it all, how her fingers would have lightened their attacks, now and then, when the needful rubbing brought the scarlet to his checks and forced a muffled "Ow!" from his plucky lips. Rob Argyle dreaded but one thing more than his daily massage. That was his daily masseuse.

In the intervals of her more strenuous operations, Rob pondered upon the Leslies. Too bad he had been forced to leave the field, just as the long war was ended! It would have been interesting to have watched the reconciliation work itself out, until peace was established upon the old terms. At least, it had been bound to come. Sir George's party had settled that. Day's letters, too, confirmed the fact. They were full of her out-door life with Ronald and Janet; and one scarcely went sliding, three nights a week, with people with whom one was not on perfect terms. It was plain enough to Rob, lying on his back and thinking the matter over, that the Leslies were doing all in their power to make amends for the past. After all her tantrums, Janet was a good little soul; and even Ronald had more backbone than Rob at first had been inclined to acknowledge. And how handsome he was! And how increasingly shabby! There had been a patch on the side of his shoe, the day he had come to see Rob off. Quite inconsequently, Rob fell to wondering how it would seem to be buying neckties at a midwinter clearance sale.

"Come in."

"Is Mr. Argyle here?" a courteous and wholly unknown voice inquired.

Rob struggled to a sitting posture, regardless of the grip of the masseuse who hung on his knee as if resolved to hold it firm, even though it parted company with the rest of his anatomy.

"Confound you, do let go for a minute!" he bade her, wholly forgetting, so impersonal had been her ministrations, that he was addressing a woman. "Can't you see I want to speak to somebody? Come in. I thought it was the bell-boy with the letters. I'm Rob Argyle."

The stranger pushed open the door, disclosing to view a slender, dark-eyed man a little on the younger side of thirty. His voice was attractive; still more attractive was his smile, which gave a sudden lighting to an otherwise grave face.

"I hope I'm not intruding," he said genially, as he came forward into the room.

Rob laughed, though with a sudden desire to wring the neck of his masseuse, who had once more shut her hands upon the knee before her.

"Not if you don't mind watching the after effects of football," he answered as cordially as he was able. "As a rule, I don't receive calls at this stage of the game. How did they happen to let you up here?"

"They sent a boy to show me the way. Don't mind me, though." The stranger laughed a little, as Rob indulged in dumb but expressive comments behind his persecutor's unconscious back. "Ronald Leslie wrote me you were lying up for repairs, and asked me to look you up. I am Wade Winthrop. We were with the Leslies, all last summer."

"Oh, Sidney Stayre's cousin!" Rob made involuntary comment. Then abruptly he caught himself up. "I've heard Ronald speak of you so often," he added more conventionally.

This time, the guest permitted himself to laugh aloud.

"Don't worry," he said. "When you've seen Sidney, you'll know that I don't mind being called her cousin. May I sit down? Ronald's letter was here, a week ago; but I've been out of town. I came back, last night, and Sidney sent me down this morning. Do they let you out at all; or how is she going to see you?"

Rob's answer came promptly. Already he liked the stranger, already felt that kinship which comes from tastes and training rather than from blood. It had taken Rob Argyle exactly five minutes to discover that Wade Winthrop was of his world. It took him five minutes more to discover that he wished to see more, very much more, of this grave-eyed man with the sunny smile.

"I belong to the day-shift," he answered whimsically. "I have my evenings off. Now and then, too, I get half-holiday."

"That's good. When will you come and dine?"

"Where?"

"Up town, with my aunt, Mrs. Stayre. There are hordes of young Stayres, who are sub-angelic; but there is also Sidney."

"And you?" Rob queried, a bit too directly for complete courtesy.

The guest coloured.

"I am always at Sidney's apron-string," he made laughing answer. "May we count on you for day after to-morrow?"

"I'd be delighted. Now just sit still. This performance is nearly over, and then we can talk, unless you'd like a turn." And, as the masseuse straightened her back and marched out of the room, Rob shook himself into a dressing-gown, pulled up a chair and settled himself at his ease. "I feel a bit more self-respecting, don't you know," he explained then.

His guest nodded.

"What did it?"

"Exeter-Andover game," Rob made terse answer.

The older man looked at him keenly.

"I was at Exeter, myself. Are you the Argyle who saved the game, a year ago?"

Rob sought to keep his voice in check.

"That's what they say," he answered nonchalantly.

The other's face lighted. He held out his hand with a gesture full of boyish enthusiasm.

"I'm not of the athletic crowd, myself," he said heartily. "I know my share of lying up; but you— By Jove, I don't know but it was almost worth your while!"

Rob's laugh but half concealed his satisfaction.

"You don't agree with Leslie, then?" he asked.

"How is that?"

"He thinks that football is a rough, naughty game, and that it served me right that I was hurt in playing it." Rob's voice, however, was free from all malice.

Wade Winthrop smiled.

"You never can get an Englishman into the spirit of our American sports," he said. "But, as for Ronald Leslie, even if he doesn't go in for football, he is all a man."

"Yes," Rob admitted rather grudgingly. "Of a sort."

"Of a mighty good sort," the other returned. "He's not like our men; but he's no Miss Nancy. In fact, he did fully his own share in pulling me up and setting me on my feet, last summer." "Apparently he did it well," Rob said approvingly. "No; don't get on them now. I want to ask you things. Were you at the old place, last June?"

"Not for two years. But we can talk it up later. I'll tell Sidney, then, that you will be at dinner, Thursday night." And, with a cheery nod, the guest was gone.

One of the vexatious delays which lurk on all sides in the New York streets caused Rob to be late in reaching the Stayre home, on that next Thursday night. He had barely time to discover that the whole atmosphere of the house was bookish, and shabby, and altogether delightful, to cast a hasty glance down a long line of Stayres from sixteen-year-old Sidney to an infant terrible of four, who trudged about the room with a pudgy flannel elephant clasped in his brief embrace, and to assure himself that Wade Winthrop was in the room. Then he was hurried directly to the dining-room and placed at the table between Mrs. Stayre and Sidney. Accordingly, it was not until the gay, informal meal was ended and he, with Sidney and Wade, was settled before the parlour fire, that he was able to take a good, long look at his young hostess and discover how he liked her. All in all, he did like her, like her extremely. His first impression, won from the strong, steady grasp of her hand, was strengthened by his furtive, though deliberate study of her face. Sidney Stayre was not absolutely pretty. Her hair was brown, her eyes were gray, and her features lacked regularity. None the less, she was alert, genial and full of a subtle suggestion of being a good and loyal comrade. For the rest, she had pretty feet, she was graceful, and her simple brown frock, relieved here and there with dashes of vivid gold, seemed as characteristic of her whole personality as did her strong and quiet hands.

"Tell me about Ronald," she said at once. "He writes to me, of course; but his letters tell so little."

The question was comprehensive. It set Rob to pondering how to reply.

"He is well, and working hard."

"Poor old boy! It was such a shame he had to give up college."

"Do you think he cared so very much?"

"Cared!" Sidney cast one swift glance at her guest. "You don't know Ronald," she added quietly.

Rob shook his head.

"No," he assented. "I'm afraid I don't."

"Whose fault is it?" she asked directly, though with a smile which took the edge from her words.

Rob laughed.

"Both, I suspect," he confessed. "I like Ronald; he's a good fellow. No doubt he would say the same of me."

"He does," Sidney interpolated quietly.

"But, nevertheless, I can't say that we either of us have manifested any wild desire for the other's society. My sister likes him. In fact, I fancy he's that sort."

"What sort?" Sidney demanded, with a brevity which suggested that she had forgotten she was the hostess of a stranger guest.

However, for some reason, Rob liked her intrepidity. He was even conscious of a sneaking wish that the day might come when Sidney Stayre would take up the cudgels for himself in that same valiant fashion.

"The sort that gets on with girls better than—"

But she interrupted him in the midst of his phrase.

"He isn't. Ask my cousin. Ronald isn't ladylike; it is only that he is so different from our boys that we have to get used to him. Once you know him, you'll see the good stuff in him. But let's talk about Janet. Maybe we'll agree better, there."

Her straightforward, off-hand fashion of going to the core of things was wholly new to Rob, wholly pleasing. Absolutely girlish and simple, nevertheless Sidney Stayre had certain of the attributes of a healthy boy. Unconsciously he likened her to some of the comrades he had known at school.

"No," he persisted jovially; "if you don't mind I'd rather talk about Ronald. Maybe we should agree there, if we only talked it out. You know him better than I do. Tell me about him, please."

And Sidney told. Unconsciously, however, in the telling, she told more of herself than of the subject of the talk, told of her healthy liking for the young Canadian, of her swift grasp of the stronger side of his nature; hinted, too, at the hearty support and comfort she had been to him, during all those autumn months of sorrow, of worry, and of self-denial. And Rob, sitting back and watching her brightening face, wondered to himself how he could ever have doubted her claim to prettiness. Moreover, in acknowledging the justice of her plea for Ronald, he admitted to himself that Sidney Stayre would be a friend worth having. Few girls were so directly loyal, fewer still could argue for that loyalty and leave their temper and their sense of humour still intact

It was late, that evening, and the talk had wandered far from Ronald Leslie, when Rob stood up to go. He had stooped for his stick; but Sidney had been before him.

"You are gaining, Wade says," she added, with a smile. "How long will you be in town?"

Rob shook his head.

"It may be hours, or ages. I am all in the hands of a cast-iron masseuse, and I am not sure how soon she'll get sick of mauling me."

Sidney laughed.

"Not too soon, I hope. It has been so good to see you and to hear about the Leslies, and we want you to come again." Then, of a sudden, her face broke into a laugh of pure mischief. "Do come," she urged; "and often. Truly, I don't always fight as I've been doing now. It's only that I like Ronald so well that I want you to know him for what he really is worth."

Rob's hand shut over her fingers, extended in farewell.

"And, from all you say, I begin to think he's worth the fighting for," he answered. "And thank you; I'll come again." And he kept his word.

Three weeks later, Rob Argyle was quite at home in the Stayre household. Urged by Mrs. Stayre, he formed the habit of dropping in upon them, whenever the absolute boredom of the masseuse came upon his nerves. Promoted from the parlour to the library, shabby and book-crammed, he spent long evenings there, talking with Sidney, playing with the children, or gossiping with Wade of school and football, and of the Harvard days to come. Now and then Wade walked in upon him at the hospital, and sat talking for an hour; but the daylight hours of a man on the staff of an evening paper are too precious for much idling; and, for the most part, their friendship grew by artificial light and by way of the Stayre front door. And, as the weeks went by, Rob Argyle was conscious of an increasing liking for Sidney, an increasing wish to get her wholesome point of view in regard to whatever questions might arise, an increasing desire that she and Day might meet.

This desire lay strongly upon him, one dreary day in early February. It had been the morning for Day's letter, and Day's letter had not come. The mails had been irregular of late; the heavy snows had accounted for that. Nevertheless, Rob was always restless, when they failed to appear. His masseuse had been unusually energetic, that morning, too. It had seemed to Rob of late that, knowing her chances were drawing to an end, she was sturdily resolved to cause him as much anguish as possible, during the short time which still remained to her. Twice, that morning, she had taken him in hand, the second time with such ungentle fingers that she had forced a cry and then another from her brave young charge. The degradation of his giving in to the pain was weighing hard on Rob, that noon. It was contrary to his whole creed of things, whereby a fellow should shut his teeth and take the consequences without a moan. Coupled with the exhaustion of the pain and with the final woe of missing Day's letter, it left him in a mood of deep depression. Dinner over, he resolved to call a cab and go in search of Sidney. Long before this, he had learned that Sidney's consolation held no taint of coddling.

He found her alone by the library fire, a book in her hand, but her eyes fixed on an invisible something far beyond the limits of the book-walled room. His step still dragged a little and gave warning of his approach; and Sidney sprang up alertly, the dreaminess all gone from her eyes, as she held out her hands in greeting.

Before Rob was quite aware of how it all happened, he was sitting by the fire, stretched out at his ease in a time-worn morris chair, talking about Day. As a matter of course, Sidney had heard of Day. Ronald had written of her; he himself had mentioned her repeatedly and often. Now, however, it was different. Sidney was interested, sympathetic. Rob, his eyes now on the glowing fire, now on her bright face, gave himself up wholly to his theme, dwelling at long length on Day's daintiness, her charm, her loyal love, on their good times together, all those past ten weeks, even upon their childish tiffs and scrapes. Then he fell to ransacking his pockets for her letters. Scraps of them he read aloud, laughing, explaining, commenting upon them and upon Sidney's comments in her turn. And at last his mood changed; the depression left him, and in his blue eyes the wonted merriment replaced the hunted, worried look which Sidney had never seen in them till then.

It had been early when he reached the Stayres' home. It was still early, only half-past three, when a sudden buzz and jangle called Sidney to the telephone in the hall. She was absent for moments. When she did return, her face was white and there was an indefinable gentleness in her manner. For an instant, she bent above the fire and poked it to a blaze. Then slowly and as if with a certain reluctance, she straightened up and faced about to Rob.

"Rob," she said then; "how plucky are you?"

"Immensely," he responded promptly.

Her answering smile was wan and forced.

"I am glad. I have something—" She caught her breath, "something horrid to tell you. They've just telephoned a message to you from the hospital."

Immediately the smile left his lips, died out from his blue eyes.

"A message!" he echoed sharply. "What?"

At sight of the change in him, Sidney shrank from the blow which she was about to deal.

"It is a telegram," she said slowly.

"A telegram? From Quebec? Who is ill? Quick!" he said imperiously.

Sidney rested her hand on his arm, pressing him back into the chair.

"It is Day," she said steadily. "She is ill."

"Very?"

She nodded sadly.

"This was the message: 'Day has pneumonia. Very ill. Come if you can.'"

For an instant there was silence, a silence broken only by the purring of the blaze among the coals. Then Rob lifted his head and drew one long, sobbing breath.

"If only it hadn't been Day!" he said, and his tone was the tone of one speaking of the dead.

Sidney's voice roused him.

"Shall you go?"

"Of course."

"When?"

"Now." He glanced at the clock. "No. It's too late."

For a moment, Sidney thought swiftly, deeply.

"You can do it. Telephone for a cab. I'll go to Wade's room and get a few things for you to use on the way. The train goes at four. You've just time. Wade will go down to the hospital, to-night, to get your own things together. Don't worry, Rob. We'll see to everything here, and, after all, it may not be as bad as you think." And, with one quick, reassuring clasp of his fingers, she left him and went hurrying up the stairs.

The cab was at the door, when she came rushing back, hatted and coated, a little bag in one hand, a heavy rug across the other arm.

"Come," she said briskly. "It is time we started. I'll drive across with you and see you off. Ready? I think there's everything here you need." And she sprang into the cab and drew Rob after her. "The Grand Central, quick!" she said imperiously. Then the imperiousness left her voice and the gentler note came back again. "I am so sorry," she said simply. "Keep up your courage, if you can. I only wish I could be of any use."

And Rob, as he boarded the train with those parting words still sounding in his ears, felt better, more courageous for her final handclasp, felt that, in the last half-hour, he had gained his first glimpse of the real Sidney Stayre. For a little while, the glimpse stayed with him and brightened him. Then, with the falling twilight, the darkness of anxiety shut down around him, and his pluck failed him, and his heart cried out for Day, and for Day alone.