Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 21

HABBY! Shabby! Shabby!" Janet said, in an abrupt wave of disgust.

An elderly glove in one hand, a threaded needle in the other, Janet was settled in Mrs. Argyle's sitting-room. Mrs. Argyle glanced up, at the sudden desperation in the girl's tone.

"What is it, Janet?" she asked kindly.

Janet forced herself to laugh; but the laugh was not quite steady.

"Nothing; only my gloves are so tender that they won't hold the stitches," she answered.

Mrs. Argyle laid down her own work.

"Let me see. Did you ever try to mend gloves with a buttonhole stitch?" she asked, with the practicality which years of riches had been powerless to blunt. "They hold better so. Let me try."

Janet shook her head.

"Really, they are so awful that I hate to have you see them," she protested.

Mrs. Argyle laughed.

"When I was your age, Janet, I wore shabbier gloves than you ever dreamed of having," she answered.

"You couldn't. They wouldn't have held together," Janet said flatly. Nevertheless, she put an aged ruin into Mrs. Argyle's outstretched hand. "Mrs. Argyle," she added desperately; "I do hate to be shabby. I am willing to wear plain things; but I do want them whole."

From the other side of the room, Day laughed a little unfeelingly.

"When the worst really comes, Janet, I advise you to economize on your stockings," she suggested.

Janet thrust out one slim ankle and surveyed it with swift disdain.

"But I can't," she said. "These are the cheapest that are made, the cheapest that are worth the darning."

"Cheap!" Day's voice was expressive. "I never wear such stockings."

"No," Janet said composedly; "I suppose you don't."

"Then I don't see why you should plead poverty," Day said again. "We aren't poor, and I adore pretty stockings; but I can't afford any such embroidery as that."

Once more Janet thrust out her slim, violet-sprinkled ankle. Then she laughed.

"Oh, is that what you are driving at?" she asked. "I couldn't think what you meant. These are just common stockings. I embroidered them, myself."

"Janet Leslie!" Day was down on the floor, pulling aside Janet's skirt.

Janet laughed again in girlish pleasure. After all her shabbiness, it was good to find that, in some one item, her dress could arouse the admiration of a girl like Day.

"You think they are pretty?" she questioned.

"Pretty! They are adorable. Who taught you to do such work?"

"The nuns."

Day clasped her hands.

"Janet! Do you suppose they ever could teach me?"

"If you worked long enough."

"How long?"

"This is my first year out of the convent. I went in when I was seven."

Day counted swiftly.

"You are fourteen. Seven years." Then her tone lost its alertness. "And we are going home in about three weeks. Oh, dear!"

"I'll do some for you," Janet volunteered. "I love to do them."

"Come here, Janet," Mrs. Argyle bade her. "Put up your foot, child, and let me see them. Where do you get your patterns?"

"Why, I make them up," Janet answered, in obvious surprise at such a question.

Mrs. Argyle lifted the black skirt, drew her fingers slowly across the firm, smooth stitches, let the skirt fall again, and looked up at Janet.

"Janet," she said quietly; "I shall be glad to furnish the stockings and pay you a dollar a pair for doing a dozen pairs for me."

"But, Mrs. Argyle!" Janet, scarlet now, had dropped on the floor at Mrs. Argyle's feet and was facing her with blazing eyes. "After all you have done for me, do you suppose I wouldn't love to do you all you want?"

Reaching out her hand, Mrs. Argyle took hold of the resolute little chin and turned the face upward.

"Janet, dear, you'd sew your fingers off for me, if it were necessary; but fortunately it isn't. No; listen, dear. Your stockings are beautiful, much prettier than those I have seen in the shops. It will be doing me a great favour, if you will embroider some for Day and me."

"And give them to you," Janet begged.

"No, dear. You'll give the design, the originality of them; but I shall pay for the work."

"But not four times what it is worth," Janet persisted.

Mrs. Argyle laughed.

"I'm not, Janet. In fact, I have paid more, ever so much more for work not half so good. If you only had the time, child, I could get orders for you in New York for all the stockings you could do."

Janet caught her breath.

"Really, Mrs. Argyle? Truthfully?"

"True as anything can be."

"But I can do them so fast. I could do ever so many in a week," she said, with breathless haste for, all at once, there had flashed up within her a sudden hope which, she had confessed to Rob, she had supposed forever dead.

"Why don't you go into business, Janet? "Day suggested practically. "There's one woman in New York who supports herself just by tying pretty bows, and another who has a great reputation, making scalloped cakes for children's parties. The first thing we always used to ask was whether there would be Severs cakes. Why don't you go in for stockings, and make yourself a name and fortune?"

And Janet answered slowly,—

"Do you know, Day, I really believe I will. That is," she looked up at Mrs. Argyle with eyes where courage and hope and appealing wishfulness were mingled; "that is, if your mother will help me start."

"Start what?" Rob demanded, as he appeared upon the threshold, with his father at his side.

It was Day who answered, for Janet coloured and fell silent. Her new-born plan as yet seemed to her too feeble to be displayed to other eyes than those of Day and Mrs. Argyle. Moreover, she was never quite at ease with Mr. Argyle whose brisk alertness and decision always made Janet think of one of the locomotives on the railway of which he was president. She admired him unreservedly; but she wondered without cease how Rob could be such chums with a man whom she so dreaded.

"Janet has unfolded her napkin and found her talent," Day said, as she made room for her father by her side. "She is going to win renown on her embroidered stockings."

Rob strode across the floor and sat himself down on the arm of his mother's chair.

"To quote the language of Sir George, how rummy!" he observed. "Janet, I bespeak your services for me and Dad. I'll have a football on mine, one leg, that is, and a pair of goal posts on the other. Then they can chase each other when I walk. As for Dad, he'll have a traim of choo-cars around each ankle, just above his ties."

And, in the protesting groans that followed, Janet gathered up her work and prepared to make her escape. She met Ronald, however, upon the threshold, and Ronald faced her about into the room once more.

"Come with me, while I break my news," he bade her, for it had been agreed, three days before, that nothing should be said to the Argyles regarding Sir George's offer, until some decision had been reached. Day heard him, and she pricked up her ears.

"What news, Ronald?" she demanded promptly.

Laughing, he faced her, with a swift aside,—

"I have my mount. Are you glad?"

If he had expected that she would need explanation of his words, he was mistaken. She nodded back at him eagerly.

"I told you it would come, before I went away."

"And you also told me—"

She caught the words from his lips.

"Told you truly that none of your friends would be gladder than I."

His colour came. Day's friendship had grown very dear to him, during those winter weeks.

"It is true, then?" he asked, while he looked steadily down into her eyes.

Rising, she took his hand.

"Yes, Ronald, it is," she said simply. "You ought to know it by now."

From the other side of the room, Rob struck in resignedly. "When you two have finished your minuet over there, I should like to remind Ronald that we are panting to hear his news."

Ronald laughed, as he faced about.

"I beg your pardon, everybody," he replied. "My news is a bit startling, too. I am to sail for England, two weeks from Saturday."

"Ronald!" Then Day checked herself abruptly, while Janet wondered at her changing colour.

"Wish I were!" Rob commented promptly. "There's a hint for you, Dad. What takes you, Ronald?" "Sir George. I'm to go as his secretary."

"Ronald, you lucky man! Barring the slight lack of brains, Sir George will be one of the coming men. His uncle was endlessly rich and all that. When did this thing materialize?"

"Last night at eight o'clock," Janet answered for her brother. "I really settled it, the night before; but we only announced it to Sir George, last night." "We!" Rob made a gesture of scorn at Janet.

"Yes, we," she answered firmly. "Ronald was bound he wouldn't leave us and go; and I didn't dare trust him to see Sir George alone, so I went, too, and helped him to break the news."

Rob turned from Janet back to Janet's brother.

"I'm no good at words, old man," he said, as his hand shut hard on Ronald's fingers. "You know how glad I am. That office was wearing the life out of you. You took it like a trump; but you never could have held out long. You aren't built for things like that. You're going in for a much better time, and I'm mighty glad you are."

And Day added softly,—

"Yes. It was Kismet, after all."

"And yet," Rob said to his father, half an hour later; "I can't say I envy the fellow. He is in for easy work and a large salary; but there are other things to be considered. With a hand-organ to grind, his outfit would be complete; but mercifully Ronald Leslie's sense of humour isn't too acute."

The chorus of question and congratulation was ended, and Janet had swept Mrs. Argyle and Day off in search of her mother. Rob and his father were sitting alone before the fire.

Mr. Argyle looked up at his son's words, laughed a little, then grew grave once more.

"No," he said; "it isn't what I should have chosen; but I'm not sure it's not the best thing for Ronald. It may in time lead to something more important. Still—"

"Still?" Rob jogged his father, after it seemed to him the pause had lasted altogether too long.

"Still, I confess I am rather sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I have been keeping an eye on the fellow, myself."

"And somebody else came in ahead on the deal?" Rob inquired irreverently. "Too bad, Dad! Next time you'd better go about it a little earlier. What were you after?"

Mr. Argyle thoughtfully clasped his hands, then opened out the two forefingers and looked at them intently.

"I had been watching Leslie for weeks," he said again, and it was plain from his voice that he was disappointed. "I want just such a man as he is, young, steady, willing to work at whatever comes. Leslie was just the one. In time, he would have made his way to the front."

Rob faced his father steadily.

"I see," he said. "You wanted a man you could train for some especial thing."

"Yes."

"For what?"

"For manager up here. We have put through our deal; it won't be long before we need a manager for these Canadian lines, and that manager by rights ought to be—"

"A Canadian." Rob capped his sentence for him.

"Yes. I think he would get on better with the people up here."

Rob laughed, as there suddenly flashed into his mind the memory of one snowy day in the library.

"Yes," he echoed. "I think he would." Then once more he faced his father gravely. "Well," he demanded; "now you've lost your chance at Ronald, what are you going to do next?"

For an instant, his father's eyes rested upon him with manifest pride.

"Wait for you," he said then.

Rob shook his head.

"I'm no good, Dad; I'm not steady enough. Besides, you've always said I must go through college. That makes six years to wait."

"And I want the man, next month," Mr. Argyle made thoughtful answer. "I want him in my office, Rob; I want him to be trained from the first, trained under my own eye."

Rob nodded.

"I know. Just as grandfather trained you; just as you'll train me, Dad, once I am out of college." For a moment, he was silent, while he bent forward and prodded the fire. Then of a sudden he sat up and looked at his father, his lips unsteady with his eagerness, his blue eyes blazing. "Dad," he said, and, as he spoke, he gripped his courage fast; "I think— You want a fellow, as I understand it, a Canadian fellow who is steady and loyal and willing to work at whatever comes, a fellow that's all-round a man?"

His father nodded, too intent upon his son's face to feel the need for words.

"Then," Rob spoke more slowly, and, while he spoke, he rose and faced his father steadily; "then, Dad, I think I know the man you want."

It was nearly half an hour later that Day's voice was heard in the hall outside. Rising, Mr. Argyle put an end to the long talk.

"I like what you tell me, Rob," he said then. "I will make a few inquiries about the fellow, and see what I can find out."

Four days later, Rob crossed to Levis. The noon sun lay warm upon the river which glittered back again in every shade of blue and gray. Here and there a bit of ice, broken from the bridge which still held firm at Cap Rouge, came sliding down the tide; but, for the most part, the river was wholly clear. The wind swept sharply down the stream; yet Rob, his collar turned high about his ears, lingered in the bow, looking out upon the river, while his mind went back to his last crossing. Even now he could hear the hoarse cries from the pilot-house, could hear the angry grinding of the ice, could feel the steady, steely grip of Blanchard's hand upon his arm. Rob shut his teeth and stared out across the gleaming river which all at once seemed dancing in a mist before his eyes. Two steady eyes seemed meeting his; and, above the noise of the ice, the echo of his own voice was in his ears,—

"We'll fight it out together till the end."

From close at hand behind the corner of the foundry wall, there came a resounding whistle, just as Rob stepped upon the pier. The next instant, the long brown train swept in and halted, puffing, beside the crowded platform. Regardless of past strains and aches, Rob made after it, caught it up and came to a halt beside the steps of the Springfield sleeper. The porter saw him first and grinned a welcome; but Rob, for once, ignored a greeting. His eyes were all for a pair of wide, blue-coated shoulders, for a pair of keen brown eyes that could be gentle as well as piercing.

"Argyle! Where did you come from?"

Rob whirled about, held out his hand.

"Jack," he said simply; "I've come for you. My father is waiting to see you in Quebec."

And, a little later, they went away together.