Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 2

T seemed to Day that, for the space of hours, she stood as if frozen to the earth, awaiting in terror some sound from beneath which should tell her the extent of the tragedy which had befallen her companion. In reality, it was something less than forty-five seconds before she heard Ronald speak.

"Hullo!" he said, and his voice had the measured accent of one who speaks into a telephone. From force of habit, she adopted his tone, and her accent also was the one generally directed into a receiver.

"Hullo!" "Is it Day?" he queried, for the telephone impression was still upon him, and he was too much astonished and shaken up by his fall to be able to reason that, in all human probability, Day had not been removed in the space of the last half-minute and her place filled by a stranger.

"Yes, it's Day," she responded. "Are you—are you killed?"

"No; only sloppy," he replied gravely.

Then, of a sudden, the ludicrousness of their conversation flashed upon them, and Ronald's chuckle was answered by a half-hysterical gasp from Day.

"Where are you?" she asked, at length.

"Somewhere in the bowels of the earth."

Vainly she strove to peer into the blackness at her feet.

"How far?"

"About ten feet."

"Ten feet!" Her fears came back to her and, this time, they were quite concrete. "Are you badly hurt?"

"Only my clothes, and a bump on my brow, " he replied composedly. "I landed on my nose in six inches of clay."

Day gasped again.

"Oh, Ronald, don't be so funny! I was so frightened; I thought you were dead, and it's awful to laugh," she besought him.

"Soft clay, too," he added. "I'm picking it out of my eyebrows now."

"Come up and let me see," she begged him. "I know you must be hurt."

His laugh reassured her; but not his words.

"You are asking impossible things," he objected. "I can't come up, and you couldn't see me, if I did."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Chiefly because this hole hasn't any edges to climb, and because it is pitch dark where you are." His tone was imperturbable.

She caught at the first phrase.

"Not any edges! Then how can you get out?"

"I can't."

She ransacked the corners of her mind for an idea.

"Can't I let down something?" she suggested at length, with a passing recollection of certain books in which her brother's soul, years before, had been wont to delight.

"For instance?" he queried, as casually as if he had been strolling at her side on the terrace.

"Something to climb out on. Something to eat." Her voice was fainter again.

The next instant, the vault echoed with Ronald's laugh.

"By Jove, Day," he said, as soon as he could speak; "do you think I am going to spend my days in this clay-pit?"

"But if you can't get out?"

"Then it's for you to go after somebody to get me out," he retorted practically.

"Where?"

"Anywhere, so long as it's handy. What about your voices?"

But Day was deaf to his reply. Smothering the shame that already had assailed her at the thought of the way she had lost her head, she had turned and scrambled away along the dark, arched tunnel, in search of light and air and help.

Quite unexpectedly, she found the three awaiting her together. Her step steadied and grew swifter, as she came in sight of the gray circle of light at the far end of the passage, and she dashed through it and out into the dazzling sunshine at a pace which narrowly escaped demolishing a solitary figure who stood facing the opening in the earth. The figure dodged perceptibly, and his hanging under jaw drooped even lower, as his eyes rested on this unexpected vision, bursting out upon him from the deep places of the earth. He faltered. Then he put up his eyeglass.

"Oh, by George!" he ejaculated.

Day pulled herself up abruptly and looked at him. During the scant two weeks she had lived on British soil, she had not yet come in contact with the newly-imported Englishman. Now that at last she beheld him, in place of reverence, he inspired her mirth. The stiff hat pushed back to show the straight and spiky hair, the wide eyes, the broad black string of the eyeglass, the deeply wrinkled face and the expression of vacant astonishment: all these details went to make up a whole which taxed to the utmost the girl's powers of self-control. Even in the instant of her first glance, she sent a mental apology to the actors whom she had accused of exaggerating the type of stage Englishman. Then abruptly she recalled her manners, recalled, too, the suddenness of her exit from the hole. Small wonder that the stranger had dodged at sight of the unexpected apparition!

"I beg your pardon," she said decorously.

"I— Oh—ah—don't mention it," the stranger responded, with bland haste. Then, turning, he made off across the open stretch of turf leading to the gate.

Day looked after him in sudden desperation. It seemed to her that, with his turning away, her only help of succour was departing from her. Oddly enough, she took no heed of the fact that this taciturn stranger was scarcely the person to be soliloquizing to himself in the bowels of the earth and at the extreme top of his lungs.

"Wait!" she called after him, and her voice was half-pleading, half-imperious.

At her call, he stayed his step and looked over his shoulder.

"I can't," he made accentless, yet emphatic answer, in the widest of London vowels.

"Why not?"

"Because I must catch my train."

"Your—train!" Day's jaw dropped, as she turned from his inexpressive face to the equally inexpressive landscape, as if to discover a locomotive waiting in some inconspicuous corner of the enclosure.

"Yes, my train. I am going to New York."

"To—New York?" Again a dash punctuated her phrase. "Yes. That's what I came out for." The announcement, still abnormally broad as to its vowels, was totally lacking in accent.

"But—" Day felt as if her brain were reeling. The stranger's composure, coupled with his obvious haste, his strange speech and more strange assertion, all this, following hard upon the fright of a few moments before, made the girl half doubt her own identity. For the identity of the stranger she made no effort to account.

"Certainly," he iterated. "That is what I came out for."

Then, for one moment, Day bethought herself of certain scenes from Alice in Wonderland. The stranger's repartee appeared to be of the same sort.

"But the New York train doesn't start from here."

"Oh, no; I know it." "Then what in the world did you come out here for?" she demanded, forgetting Ronald entirely in the new problem which faced her.

"I came out to go to New York," the stranger reiterated. "Later, I may spend the winter in Quebec; that is, if I can keep from being cold." He paused and peered at the girl near-sightedly, while he fell to fumbling about in his pockets. "Here is my card," he added.

Day glanced at the card which he held out to her. Sir George Porteous, London, it read.

"Thank you," she said hurriedly. "It's all right; I am glad to meet you. It's your help I want now, not your card, though."

He looked up at her rather distrustfully. This decided young child with the pretty clothes was a new species to him, new, too, the sort of girl who would disdain the bit of pasteboard he was offering her. He shook his head slightly, and sought his eyeglass.

But Day spoke again, this time with some impatience.

"We're wasting time. Do hurry!"

"Where?" he asked languidly.

With a swift, free gesture, she pointed to the passage behind her.

"Into that hole?"

"Yes."

"Oh, I couldn't." The last word was spread broadly over two separate syllables.

"You must."

"I should lose my train," he protested. "Besides, I should lose my way."

Day felt her temper going fast. It rendered her next words rather incomprehensible.

"No matter. You must help get Ronald out."

A faint spark of interest began to manifest itself in Sir George's dull eyes.

"Out?" he echoed.

Day stamped her foot on the ground. It was rude; but at least it served to help her to keep her tongue in check.

"Yes, out. He's in there, and you must help him."

Sir George Porteous bent upon her a searching glance.

"Why doesn't he walk out on his feet?" he queried suddenly.

"He can't."

"Oh."

"He's fallen into a hole," Day explained. "We were exploring, and the floor ended, and he didn't know it and fell in. And now he can't get out without a man to help him."

With the spasmodic deliberation which characterized his movements, Sir George Porteous felt for his glass and screwed the glass into his eye. Then he gave a long look into Day's flushed face.

"Oh. A chap inside that hole?"

"Yes."

"And in another hole inside?"

"Yes."

For a long moment, Sir George contemplated both the girl and the situation. Then he spoke.

"How rummy!" he observed impartially, and then once more he turned away.

"Wait!" Day said again.

"Oh, but I must go." His fingers shut upon his fob. "It is time for my train."

"But you wouldn't leave Ronald in there!" she exclaimed, now thoroughly alarmed by his evident intention of abandoning her companion to his fate.

"I must." Then, of a sudden, he made a vague gesture towards the far end of the barracks. "There's a care-taker in there. I tipped him, and he took me about. I fancy he's got some sort of a rope, you know. I—I hope you'll get the poor chap out." And, the gate reached, Sir George Porteous opened the panel and clambered through, catching his toe slightly, as he made his undignified exit. Then he disappeared from view, and Day, looking after him, gave tongue to her thoughts.

"What a dunce!" she said aloud. "But how do you suppose he ever strayed up here?" Then with all haste, she went in search of the care-taker and his rope; and it was not until half an hour later, as she was going down the hill with Ronald that she yielded to the absolute humour of the situation.

And Janet, meanwhile, seated on a stool beside the kitchen range, was busy beating eggs.

The Leslies lived on Saint Louis Street, and their large old house, by rights, should have had three maids to keep it in order. As a matter of fact, it had had four, until the change had come. Then Mrs. Leslie, faced by the alternatives of moving into a smaller house or of taking a larger share of the housework into her own hands, had chosen the latter course. Father and grandfather and great-grandfather had lived within those gray stone walls where, too, all her married life had been spent Another house would be barren of all association with the past. Better than that, a share in the work, no matter how hard. Accordingly, she had dismissed three of the maids, and had enlarged her household by three new members. And, quite as a matter of course, a part of the work overflowed upon Janet.

And Janet took it bravely. It was not without reason that her brown eyes were resolute, her chin steady. For the rest, she was past fourteen, a dark, thin little maiden whose eager face was only just beginning to show signs of the beauty which the next few years would bring. In temper, she was outwardly placid; but only up to a certain point. That point passed, the fires beneath blazed up into flame. The two clauses of her girlish creed were loving loyalty to her mother, and utter adoration for her older brother. For the sake of those two people and their happiness, Janet would accept all things and make no complaint.

Most girls, however, would have been less stoical than Janet, more ready to feel that their lives held just cause for complaint. From a care-free, servant-filled childhood, a childhood where pretty frocks abounded and where every Thursday afternoon held its especial treat, Janet suddenly found herself promoted to a girlhood where the talk concerned itself with needless expenses, where her new black frock must do duty for two winters, where Thursday treats gave place to Thursday toil, since the day which aforetime had been half-holiday in the convent, was now the day when their one servant took her afternoon out and relegated to the mistress the task of getting tea and dinner. It was much nicer to come in, starved, for tea and bread and butter beside the parlour fire than it was to spread the bread and butter and carry in the heavy tray. And, besides, there was Day.

Janet Leslie was a girl, and entirely human. Being that, she could not fail to be irritated by Day Argyle. It was not alone the pretty clothes which, even in the Leslies' best days, would have been unthinkable to Janet; it was not alone Day's freedom from all care, her bright, blithe irresponsibility; it was not alone the little air of unconscious patronage which crept into Day's manner now and then. It was no one of these; but it was made up from all three, and it was completed by the fashion in which Day apparently sought to monopolize the thoughts of Ronald. All that past summer, Janet had sat by and watched Ronald's growing friendship with another American girl, watched it without a spark of jealousy. But Day was different.

"Save the bowl, Janet!"

The girl's face cleared at the laughing admonition.

"It wasn't just the eggs," she answered. "I was beating—"

"Well?"

"Things. Oh, mummy, I do wish you didn't have to work so hard," she burst out suddenly.

Crossing the room, Mrs. Leslie rested her hands on the slim shoulders.

"Work doesn't hurt people, dearie. It is only worry that hurts; and that, thanks to my good children, is growing less, every day."

For her reply, Janet nestled her head backward against her mother's body. A long minute, they rested there together. Then, with a little, cuddling gesture, Mrs. Leslie caressed the brown head and, letting go, crossed the room to a chair. Janet eyed her dubiously.

"But there is a worry, mummy. I can see it in the edge of your eyes," she urged.

Mrs. Leslie laughed.

"Only in the very edge, then. It's not a real worry, Janet; only a question."

Janet pounded her eggs with renewed vigour.

"Well, what does Day want now?" she demanded at length.

"Day? Nothing."

"She generally does. Last time, it was pink soap to match her toilet things. Time before, it was half my closet, because her own wasn't large enough to hold her best clothes."

"You don't like Day?"

"No." The answer came flatly.

"I am sorry. I do."

"You're welcome to her," Janet observed, above the clatter of the egg-beater. "I don't like Americans." Her mother smiled.

"What about Sidney?" she asked.

"Sidney wasn't like any other American girl I ever knew," Janet responded with perfect truthfulness, inasmuch as Sidney Stayre, the past summer, was only the second American girl with whom she had ever come in contact. Then she relented. "Day is well enough, mummy, only we don't get on together. That is all, truthfully. We don't fight at all. But what is the question?"

For the space of a moment, Mrs. Leslie paused to ponder on the innate antagonism between the two young girls. Then she roused herself to answer Janet's query.

"Let me take the eggs, Janet. They are done, I know. The question is how to stretch the house to hold one more person."

Janet, half-way across the kitchen floor, halted to stare at her mother in consternation.

"Mummy! Who now?"

"Another Argyle. Robert, I think his name is."

"Who is he?"

"Day's brother."

"I didn't know she had one," Janet said blankly, as she put the bowl into her mother's hands.

Mrs. Leslie, lifting the frothy eggs and watching them drip back into the bowl, was silent. Janet urged her words upon her mother's lagging attention.

"Did you know Day had a brother?"

"No."

"How queer!"

And Janet, having summed up the matter to her own satisfaction, perched herself on the table at her mother's side. Then she renewed her catechism.

"Where is he coming from?"

"New York."

"When?"

"Week after next."

"To stay?"

"Yes, if it suits him."

"I hope it won't," Janet made swift comment. "But where will he stay?"

"Here."

"Where?"

"I don't know yet Possibly in Ronald's room."

"Where could Ronald go?"

"Up to the top flat."

Janet shook her head. "He can't, mummy. It would be the finish of him, after all his hard day in the office, if he had to give up his room. Let the new one go."

"He wouldn't like it, dear."

"Let him lump it, then!" Janet said gracelessly. "Ronald mustn't be turned out." Then, as she saw the shadow come into her mother's eyes, "No matter," she added; "I'll go, myself, mummy. I'd just as soon, and my room is next to Day's, so they can be together."

"But, Janet—"

"Truly, I don't mind. I've always liked to be high up, and that room gets all the sun. I'll move, to-morrow. But, really, don't you think it's funny we never heard of him? How old is he?"

"A little older than Day."

"Oh, dear!" Janet dropped her chin on her fists. "I do hope he isn't quite so cranky."

But Mrs. Leslie looked up from the bowl in her hands.

"Day isn't cranky, dear. She is only—"

"An American," Janet said, with sudden viciousness, as she slid down from the edge of the table. But she stopped beside her mother's chair and threw her arms around Mrs. Leslie's neck. "Never mind, mummy," she said philosophically. "At least, he will keep Day busy, so we sha'n't be troubled with either of them." And, bending down to kiss her mother, she went away out of the room, humming to herself in determined disregard of the American invasion of her home. As a rule, Janet Leslie was resolved to make the best of things, even of the present prospect of another Argyle. For the once, however, the gift of prophecy was denied to her; and it was with grim forebodings that she looked forward to the weeks to come.