Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 5

OB opened the door of his room and applied his eye to the crack.

"What in thunder is the row?" he asked.

Ronald Leslie, rushing down the stairs from the third story, stayed his steps at the question.

"Row enough. Girl gone, and my mother ill in bed."

"Seriously?" Rob's accent changed. His one week in the house had taught him to have a hearty liking for Mrs. Leslie.

"No; only a nervous headache. She has them now and then. Usually they only last a day; but they knock her out completely, while they do last."

"Then you're not worried about her?"

"Not half so much as I am about the breakfast. That brute of a girl took French leave, last night."

"Hang the breakfast!" Rob advised him.

"That's all right for you; but your mother and Day would sing a different song."

"Go cook it, then."

"That's what I called Janet for," Ronald explained. "I have made up the fire, and she will be down in a minute. Breakfast won't be very late."

"No matter if it is. Can Janet cook?"

"I suppose so, after a fashion. Most girls can. You won't starve. There she comes now," Ronald added, with a sigh of relief, as Janet, whose unvarying neatness had not failed her in the crisis of a five-minute toliet [sic], appeared at the top of the stairs.

With a suddenness which reminded himself of Sir George Porteous, Rob withdrew his head from the crack until her light steps had passed his door. Then, hearing no sound of Ronald's departure, he opened the door again. True enough, he found Ronald still outside.

"Well?" Rob said questioningly.

"Well." Ronald's tone showed that his relief was permanent.

"What are you doing?"

"Getting my breath after my exertions."

"And your sister?"

"Getting breakfast."

"Why don't you go down and help her?"

"Me? I can't cook."

Through the crack, Rob eyed the tall Canadian with sudden scorn.

"What a futile sort of fellow you are!" he commented. "No matter. I'll go, myself." And, before Ronald could make reply, the closing of the door was followed by sounds of splashing and spluttering, and, later, by hurried, uneven steps and by the soft beat of brushes. When the door opened again, the hall was empty. Ronald, in something dangerously akin to injured dignity, had betaken himself to his own room to add the last touches to his uncompleted toilet.

Janet, meanwhile, had set the table and deluged the stove in her hurried filling of the coffee-pot. Then, frowning intently, she gave her whole mind to the task of fitting a large steak to a small gridiron, without leaving a two-inch frill of meat to dangle about over the coals. She made an attractive picture, as she bent above the table, her sleeves turned back from her round, brown wrists and her hair, ruffled with the heat and with her haste, standing out in a brown aureole around her intent young face. She started up into abrupt self-consciousness, however, as Rob came hurrying and hobbling into the room.

"Good morning, Biddy!" he hailed her from the threshold. "Your brother said you were in hot water, this morning, and I came down to help cook."

Janet stared at him in amazement. Not even Ronald's whole-hearted devotion would have brought him to the rescue in such a crisis as this. Like most of his fellow countrymen, Ronald Leslie had in his own mind a well-established line between masculine and feminine duties, and, no matter how good might have been his intentions, it would never have occurred to him that it was possible for him to cross that line. Still less, however, would it have occurred to Janet.

"You help cook?" she echoed blankly.

"Yes. Why not? Here, you give me that, while you do the toast." And Rob, laying hold of the gridiron, with a few deft touches packed the surrounding frill into its proper place.

"But do you know how?" Janet's tone was still a little dubious.

"Sure. I camped out, all summer before last, and none of the other fellows could cook so much as a plate of porridge and have it fit to eat," Rob explained, with obvious pride. Then he seized a stove-handle and laid bare a bed of glowing coals. "Oh, I say, this is fine! You can make toast at that end. I want this."

And, before Janet could quite grasp the situation, she and Rob Argyle, the stranger whose coming she had so dreaded and feared, were cozily bending down, side by side, over the blazing fire in the kitchen range.

Janet had been spending the day at Cap Rouge, when Rob reached Quebec. Ronald had fetched her home so late in the evening that she had had only a momentary glimpse of the new member of the household. That glimpse, however, had been enough to send Janet to bed in a mood where admiration and awe struggled vainly together for mastery. The day which had followed, and the week which had followed that, had done little to decide that mastery. Janet had been busy with her school and with her light household duties; Rob had been wholly engrossed with settling himself into his new quarters. As consequence, the two had scarcely met, save at mealtimes and when, now arid then of an evening, they were brought together by way of Ronald and Day. Nevertheless, as the time went on, Janet's admiration kept pace with her awe.

In all truth, few girls could have kept from admiring Rob Argyle. He was so honest and alert and off-hand, so strong and hearty in spite of his lame leg, so good to look at and so jovial to talk and to be talked to that Janet, now and then, had found herself dangerously near to putting him on a pedestal in the secret places of her girlish mind. She liked him in all sorts of ways; but she was unfeignedly afraid of him and for no obvious cause. And no one in the world would have been more filled with mirth at the thought of arousing Janet's fears than would Rob Argyle himself.

The reasons of Janet's fears were complex and mingled. Chief among them lay Rob's stick which so rarely left his side. The spirit of motherhood, born in all girls, was strongly intrenched in Janet Leslie's character. Her independent manner, her firm little chin and the resolute poise of her head: all these were the mask of a hidden gentleness which made her swift to take in the contrast between Rob Argyle's buoyant pluckiness and the heavy drag of his foot as he moved about the house. His stout brown stick held a curious fascination for her; it seemed to stand for so much that she longed to say to him, yet dared not put into words. In a sense, it set him apart from the other boys she had known. He bore the difference lightly; yet she felt sure they both were conscious of it, when they were together. It rendered her shy and monosyllabic. She watched him from under her lashes, and talked to him almost as little as did Ronald who had frankly declared to her his inability to get on with this easy-going youth to whom reservations were not and who appeared to think that friends would be his for the asking.

As a general rule, friends had been Rob's for the asking. In the happy-go-lucky life of a large preparatory school, he had owed his popularity far more to his personality than to his paternal fortune. Grown up among other jovial, outspoken fellows, he had learned the trick of meeting all strangers with a smile and an outstretched hand. For the first time in his life, since he had come to Quebec, he had learned what it was to have his smile ignored, his open hand disregarded. On Janet's side, this was due to shyness; on Ronald's part, to the chilly English inability to make friends at sight. And Rob was shrewd to read the causes. In consequence, he put on his sunniest smile to coax Janet from her shell; but, after the second day, he treated Janet's tall brother with a breezy sort of contempt which was as new to Ronald as it was wholly undeserved.

That morning had been their nearest approach to cordial relations. Ronald, up betimes to look at the furnace which had come under his care, had made early discovery of the empty kitchen. With his heart near his heels, he had gone to acquaint his mother with the fact of the servant's departure. Her faint voice, muffled and forlorn, answering to his knock, had sent his heart still lower. He knew the voice, knew the day of solitary suffering which it portended. Mumbling an excuse which he fondly hoped would reassure his mother, he turned away and tramped up the next flight of stairs in search of Janet. Janet's ill-concealed consternation had completed his discomfiture. It had been a relief when Rob, aroused by the unwonted stir in the house, had opened his door to inquire its cause. Ronald pitied Janet acutely. Nevertheless, he had left her to cope with the breakfast, while he retired to his room to smooth his hair and his feelings which had been ruffled by Rob's attitude of criticism. Ronald Leslie was not critical of others. He preferred to receive as little criticism as he gave. Rob's words had gone on his temper and turned it slightly on edge.

Day's lips had parted in surprise, when she entered the dining-room, that morning, to find Janet seated behind the coffee-pot, while Rob, crocky and hilarious, limped into the room with the platter in his hands.

"What has happened?" she demanded.

Rob set down the platter with a flourish. Then, before Janet could speak,—

"Merely a new butler," he replied coolly.

Day raised her brows, as she looked at the cuffs of her brother, usually so immaculate in all of his belongings.

"Do you generally go into the coal cellar, when you buttle?" she queried saucily; but there was a slight flavour of criticism in her tone.

Laughing, he dropped into his place on the opposite side of the table.

"No; only in seasons of famine. Janet and I have been getting breakfast."

"You? And Janet?" The words made two distinct questions. "Yes. We have gone into partnership." Rob nodded across at Janet who was blushing above the cups. "We are predicting a great success for ourselves, too," he added, as Ronald drew Mrs. Argyle's chair back from the table.

"Mamma," Day turned to her mother almost petulantly; "do ask these people what has happened."

"Ronald told me. Mrs. Leslie is ill, and the maid has gone. What are you going to do about it, Janet?" she asked kindly, for she could not fail to admire the girlish energy with which Janet had thrown herself into the breach.

And Janet made plucky answer,—

"Eat breakfast, and then wash the dishes."

"With my help," Rob interpolated.

"In which?" she asked gayly, for the memory of their frolic over the fire, still uppermost in her mind, had destroyed her fear, for the time being.

"Both, of course. We eat. You wash. I wipe," he replied tersely, as he attacked his steak and buttered toast.

But Janet shook her head.

"You'd break them," she made enigmatic answer; but she laughed up into his blue eyes, as she gave him his cup of coffee.

Nevertheless and in spite of Janet's strictures, Rob did wipe the dishes. Day came into the china closet and found him at Janet's elbow, girt in a gingham pinafore and with a long brown towel in his hands.

"The cab is here, Rob," she said, from the threshold.

"What cab?"

"Yours. You were going out for a drive."

"Hang the cab!" Rob made cheery answer, as he polished a cup with a zeal which threatened to wreck its handle.

"But it is here," Day reiterated. "Mother is going, too." "Let her go three, if she wants," Rob said blandly. "I'm busy."

"I know. Only—"

For a moment, Rob looked benignly down at his sister, as if the difference in their ages had been measured by years, not moons.

"Go with her, Day, and let me out of it, there's a dear little soul," he urged, and, as he spoke, some sudden impulse made him rest his hand on her shoulder.



Hastily she drew out of his reach.

"Oh, Rob, that greasy dishwater!" was all she said; but her brother's teeth shut hard together and, as she turned away, he looked after her with pained blue eyes which, all at once, had lost their sparkle.

A pause followed her going. Then Janet said shyly,—

"It is too bad for you to lose your drive."

"I don't care about driving," Rob said curtly. "I can go, any day. Oh, confound it! Now see what I've done!" And he held up the two fragments of the saucer which had given way under his impatient touch.

With rare tact, Janet suppressed her inclination to laugh at his crestfallen face. She was shrewd enough to know that the broken saucer was by no means Rob's only cause of trouble just then. Her experience of brothers had been limited to Ronald; but she was quite aware that, as a rule, brothers did not take kindly to rebuffs when their sole idea had been to caress their sisters. Day's gown was certainly dainty, Rob's hand wet. However— Janet's mind lingered long upon the word. Then she held out her hand for the saucer.

"Don't mind it a bit," she said carelessly. "My mother broke one like it, only yesterday. They are ugly things, and I shall be glad when they are gone. But, truthfully, don't you hate doing this?"

He shook his head.

"Not unless I'm in the way."

"You aren't, not one bit. It isn't half so horrid, when there's somebody to talk to." She smiled, as their fingers met on a slippery plate. "Perhaps, if you beg very much," she added; "I'll let you peel the potatoes for dinner."

Rob glanced at the floor.

"I'd kneel, if I could and if there were room," he assured her. "It's not such bad fun, Janet, and I get bored to death sometimes."

"Bored in Quebec?" she said, in mock rebuke, for the gingham pinafore hid somewhat of his elegance, the stick had been left, forgotten, on the kitchen table, and Janet was fast forgetting both awe and admiration in a hearty liking for her jovial assistant.

"Yes, even here," he assented, and something, possibly the lurking memory of Day's rebuff, brought an unwonted minor key into his gay young voice. "Your hills are too steep for my lame legs, and a fellow can't sit and look out of the window, all day long."

Janet hesitated, caught her breath a little, then, looking up at him, held out a welcoming and soapy hand.

"I know," she said gently. "I had forgotten. But, when you do get bored with looking out of the window, come down into the kitchen and play with me."

And their hands and eyes, above the cooling dishwater, met and pledged their friendship.

Day, meanwhile, up in her own room, was settling her hat and pulling and patting her hair into shape beneath the broad, soft brim. Her face, reflected in the mirror, looked anxious and a little overcast. Already she was regretting, to the depths of her soul, the swift gesture of withdrawal which had sent the colour rushing into her brother's cheeks.

During the past week, she had seen but little of Rob. That little, however, had been good and wholly to her liking. With a curious feeling of detachment, born of the years when they had gone their separate ways, she watched him, studied him and gave him her absolute approval. To Day's girlish mind, it counted for much that Rob was good to look at, tall of his age and robust, and without much outward mark of his year of suffering. It had taken Janet's keener eye to note the fine lines that came, now and then, between the straight yellow brows. Day's glance stopped at the brows themselves and at the blue eyes beneath them. Then it dropped to the clothes below, and she made swift contrast between Ronald's well-brushed coat of last year's cut, and Rob's new winter outfit which showed that neither money nor taste had lacked in the ordering. In dress and manner, Rob Argyle was plainly of the class, and that at its best. His buoyancy and hearty goodwill were all his own. Day watched him with unmeasured pride; but she talked to Ronald Leslie.

Once only, she had gone into Rob's room. The postman had brought a letter from one of his boy chums, and, receiving no answer to her repeated calls from the hall below, Day had mounted the stairs and knocked at her brother's door. She had found him, book in hand, but his eyes were absently fixed on the pair of little dove-coloured nuns passing in the street beneath. At her step, he roused himself, and turned to greet her with a brightening face.

"Oh, Day! It's you? Come in," he said, as he tossed his book aside.

"I brought up your letter. No; don't get up," she said hastily. "You look too comfortable to stir."

"My looks belie me, then," he returned. "I'm lonesome."

"Come down and stay with us," she advised him, for Mrs. Argyle had her own sitting-room on the floor beneath.

"Too much trouble to move," he said, as he stretched himself, then folded his arms at the back of his yellow head. "Stay and talk to a fellow, Day."

"But your letter?" she reminded him.

"It will keep. I am learning that I must take you when I can. You're not going out now; are you?"

Day hesitated. During the past week, she had struck up a sudden friendship with an American girl whose people were spending a month at the Chateau. There had been some vague plans for that morning, and the morning was fine, all gray and gold and bracing. However, Day owned a conscience, and Rob's voice was wishful.

"Not unless you'll go, too," she said, with sudden decision.

He shook his head.

"I walked twice the length of the terrace, yesterday, and I'm lying up, to-day, to pay for it. Come and lie up, too." And, rising, he drew forward the most comfortable chair which the room afforded.

With mocking eyes, Day watched his hospitable preparations for her ease. When the chair was ready,—

"That's beautiful," she said approvingly. "Now sit down in it and fill it up. It is entirely too large for me. Besides, I prefer the window-seat; I like to see what is moving, you know."

"But it's not comfortable," he protested.

"Oh, but it is. Truly, I like it, Rob. And then, this chair just fits you; you're so nice and big."

"Is that the best you can say for me, Day?"

She laughed, while, with a flutter of skirts, she settled herself in the wide window-seat.

"Don't fish," she admonished him.

With an odd little air of irresolution, he still stood beside the chair she had scorned.

"I'm not," he said bluntly at length. "It's only that I have wondered once in a while just what you really do think of me, little sister."

For a moment, she sat looking gravely up at him, and older eyes than Rob's would have read the real pride and the dawning love in her face. Then, of a sudden, her gravity scattered itself, and a laugh chased the dreaminess from her brown eyes.

"You'd better ask Ronald," she advised him merrily.

At dinner, that night, the coffee was unduly strong. When the clock in the hall struck two, Rob was still pondering the meaning of Day's words and of the look which had gone before them.