# Janet: Her Winter in Quebec/Chapter 15

pp. 245–259.

### CHAPTER FIFTEEN

LATE the next afternoon, Rob found himself sliding away to the southward through the snow-heaped Townships. His departure had savoured of a diminutive ovation. Sir George had come sauntering up from the Château in time to see the sleigh drive away from the door, Ronald had left his office stool long enough to dash around to the ferry-house for a farewell handclasp, and, as a matter of course, Day had gone across with him and seen him settled in his car. Most of all, though, Rob had cared for Janet's tempestuous farewell. Invisible at lunch, she had remained invisible until the sleigh was at the door. Then, just as Rob had picked up his suitcase for the third time, she had come rushing down the stairs.
"Good-by, you nice old thing!" she said unsteadily. "And be sure you come back soon, able to take me snow-shoeing." And, as she spoke, she had crowded a little note into Rob's hand, outstretched in farewell.
The note was in his hand now. A vague respect for Janet's dumb mood had kept him from showing it to Day, and it was not until he had come in from the rear platform and the little gray-coated figure had vanished from sight, that he had opened it and read the penitent, girlish words within. For a moment, he had sat with his eyes fixed unseeingly upon the ice-filled river and the frozen cone of Montmorency beyond. Then, turning about, he had hailed the conductor.
"Oh, it's you; is it?" he said cheerily. "I'm in luck to find you again. But tell me, can I send a telegram back from one of these metropolises?"
And Janet went to bed, that night, with peace in her conscience and Rob's telegram beneath her pillow.
Rob, meanwhile, had sat long, staring down at the little note in his hand, reading between its few short lines the things that Janet would not say. It had not been easy for her to write that note. Of so much he was certain. Under her demure exterior, she was high-spirited, imperious, a bit unyielding. Rob shook his head to himself. The note had been inspired by conscience; that was evident. Would her conscience, however, have been so active, had she not liked him in the first place? Rob adored Day. He also liked Janet, and he was surprised to find how anxious he was to hold her liking in return. Her very quickness won his admiration, and matched something which at times came uppermost in his own mood. With Day first and foremost in his heart and life and interests, he yet had room in his affection for Janet, and he rejoiced unfeignedly, now that the long feud was ended. Two weeks in New York, and then they would slip back into their old good times!
Viewed in the light of the previous evening and of his hearty good-by, even Ronald seemed more attractive, more interesting and infinitely more alive. It had been Ronald, the night before, who had rushed into the breach at Rob's heels. Sir George, blandly unconscious that anything had ever been amiss, was fussing about the table where his Christmas pie was baking, and the two girls had been as if stricken dumb. It was upon Rob and Ronald, then, that the stress of the next ten minutes had fallen, and Ronald had played his part like a man, played it so valiantly that, by the time the waiter came to announce the dinner, the last of the ice had melted, and an hilarious, wholly friendly quartette had followed Sir George down the great dining-room to the table spread before the fire-place at the farther end. Later, too, much later, it had been Ronald, quiet and dignified no longer, who had assisted Sir George in the carving of the Christmas pie.
Even now, Rob could scarcely trust his own memory, as he recalled the droll and freakish comments with which the tall Canadian had drawn forth the odd assortment of budgets from within. For the hour, Rob had been quite willing to watch the course of events from a back seat. Up to then, he had had no notion that Ronald Leslie's mind held any trace of skittish humour. Now he began to doubt. And, in the intervals, he watched Janet whose plain black frock and demure manner were powerless to conceal her overflowing spirits. Later still, Rob had gone to the piano and pounded out a rag-time melody, linked to strange, sad chords that moaned away among the bass, and the little red room had echoed with laughter at Day's efforts to teach Sir George to dance with the American ease and swing. The laughter was still in the air, when the Argyles' sleigh had been announced; and it had been at Ronald's suggestion, not Rob's, that they had packed themselves into it, Sir George and all, and gone for a moonlight turn out the Grande Allée and home again by Saint John Street. It was late for the girls; but what matter? Such things happen only once a year; perhaps, in all their details, only once a lifetime. And Janet had sat on her brother's knee, and Sir George had been huddled down on the floor of the sleigh among all their feet; and the very moon had laughed, gazing down upon the merry load of youngsters, as they went driving away out of the Château court.
And now, as the early twilight cast its long blue shadows across the snow, Rob was sliding southward, and the old gray city on the cliff was growing vague as the shadow of a happy dream.
"You've had enough of winter?"
Rob glanced up. The Pullman conductor, his duties done, was sitting down in the section across the aisle.
"No; worse luck! I hate to leave it."
"And you have to?"
"I must. I'm in for two weeks of the doctor."
"Not worse?" Both voice and eyes were wholly kind.
"No; better, a good deal. I've gained, ever since I went up there. My man told me to come back to him for some more treatment, and I'm bound to go. I hate it, though."
"You like the place?"
"New York?" Rob queried.
"No; of course, one likes that. I mean Quebec."
Rob recalled his glance from the row of coon-coated habitants on the platform of a wayside station, and gave terse answer.
"I adore it."
His companion laughed.
"We don't often hear you Americans speak so warmly of us. We like it, too. By the way, do you remember the Englishman I carried down, the day you came?"
"Down?" Rob echoed blankly.
"Down to Quebec. I mean the fellow with the accent and the luggage. I met him in the street, the other night."
Rob nodded.
"He's still there; I've seen him often. He is a living joke; but he's done me one or two good turns." And, as the conductor rose to go his busy way, Rob lost himself in wondering what was happening, just then, inside the Leslie home.
Supper was happening just then; and, quite naturally, the conversation was following the traveller to the southward. Mrs. Argyle was full of talk and of maternal worries; but Day was uncommonly still. It seemed so strange, when she raised her eyes from her plate, not to find Rob's yellow head opposite her, not to meet the laugh in his honest, keen blue eyes. She wondered if he would find the good-night letter she had tucked into a corner of his suitcase, folded in the tissue-paper nightcap which she had brought away from Sir George's party.
As she left the table, and started up the stairs to her own room, uncertain whether to read one of her Christmas books, or to indulge in a good, comfortable cry, Ronald hailed her from below.
"Whither?" he asked.
"Upstairs."
"But why? Come and frolic on the terrace with Janet and me. There's a splendid moon."
His accent was inviting; his smile was more so. Day's step stayed itself.
"Are you sure you want me?" she asked irresolutely.
"Sure. Else we'd not be asking you."
Day took swift note of the friendly tact which had included Janet in the invitation. Then she sent a thought hurrying after Rob, a hasty wonder whether he could count it disloyal to him that, the moment he was away from her, she should so naturally turn to Ronald for companionship. Then scornfully she dismissed the wonder. By this time, Rob knew her too well to doubt her loyalty. Had the past two months existed solely for the purpose of welding the brother and sister together, they would yet have been worth the while. Rob gone, there was no especial sense in her shutting herself up to pindle and pine over his absence.
"Thank you," she said. "I'll go."
Half the Quebec world was out upon the terrace, that night. From far up on the glacis beneath the King's Bastion, the long toboggan slide stretched steeply down, then cut its level way across the terrace to the very feet of the Sieur de Champlain at the northern end. Between the gleaming chains of electric lights, the double lines of toboggans were charging down the slope and out upon the level course below, while, from the gay groups mounting the steps or gathered waiting at the top of the slides, light talk and laughter came floating down to mingle with the strident buzz of the toboggans and the shriller cries of their excited freight. Along the surface of the wide, ice-dotted river beneath, long banners of white trailed down from the lights of Levis. Far down the northern channel, the clustered dots of light marked the foot of Montmorency Falls, while, faint in the purple distance, yet another huddle of lights showed the spot where the faithful, even in the heart of winter, keep watch and ward over the sacred shrine of the Good Sainte Anne. And above it all, more dazzling than all, the round white winter moon rode proudly upward across a cloud-flecked sky.
Six times, Ronald brought his toboggan to the top of the slide and settled the two girls comfortably in their places. Six times, they made the breathless, swooping flight downward, the long, ecstatic course out across the level. Six times, their ears drummed with the grinding hum of the toboggan, their pulses beat with the thrill of excitement, their cheeks glowed with the impact of the cold, still air. Then, as the toboggan slowly lost its impetus and came to a halt, Janet, springing to her feet, was surrounded with an eager group of her schoolmates.
"Come down with us," they begged.
Janet shook her head.
"Just this once," they pleaded.
Janet spoke to Ronald; hut she looked at Day.
"Would you mind so very much?" she asked dubiously.
Ronald laughed.
"Glad to have you. It will give us just so much more room. Come, Day, we'll race them to the top of the slide." And presently they were once more skimming the surface of the terrace, past the bandstand, past the guns, past the entrance to the Château court, and on and on until Ronald steered the toboggan sharply to one side, to avoid hitting the rail at the extreme northern end of the terrace.
Day laughed, as she scrambled to her feet.
"The farthest yet!" she commented. "It is such glorious fun. Why haven't I tried it before?"
"The slide is only just ready. This is the second night it has been lighted. Do you know, I should think Rob could go in for this."
"Except for the climb back up the slide; he never could do that, not this winter, at least." As she spoke, she stepped forward and stood leaning on the rail.
"How long do you think—" Ronald said, as he joined her there.
Swiftly she interrupted him.
"Ronald, I don't know. Sometimes, I think it won't be long, think it doesn't amount to much; sometimes, I get desperate. It's a cruel game, that football; it has done harm enough, even if Rob does take it all as a grand joke. Down underneath, I know he has hated it, all this last year, the being out of things. And it is so slow. We hoped that six months more would see him out of it."
Ronald spoke slowly, his eyes on the far-off cluster of tiny lights.
"What a plucky chap he is! I wish I had half of his grit."
"Perhaps there are two sorts," Day answered gently.
"You mean?"
She looked up at him and, as her brown eyes rested upon his, something in their expression reminded him of that far-away day when they had gone to the fort at Levis.
"I mean that there are other hurts besides those one gets in football."
"Yes," he assented slowly. "Yes, there are."
"And that it takes fully as much pluck to meet them."
"Yes," he assented again. "Yes, it does."
Then there came a little pause between them, and the pause lengthened. Under its spell, the voices on the slide behind them grew faint and indistinct, and the strident hum of many toboggans lost itself in the throbbing beat of the little ferry-boat just swinging out into the stream. Suddenly Day spoke.
"Ronald," she asked; "do you remember that day at Levis?"
"I was just thinking about it," he replied.
"So was I, and I've been ashamed of myself, while I thought."
"Ashamed, Day?"
"Yes, ashamed," she answered vehemently. "No, wait. Let's talk it out. We did talk it out, that day; at least, a little bit. You told me then how you had had to give up college and all that, how you had had to start fresh and make your own way. I told you then that I knew you'd do it, that no one of your friends would be gladder about it than I."
"And would they?" he questioned, as she came to a dead halt.
She made a little gesture of despair.
"I'm afraid they would; at least, if you can tell anything from the way I've treated you. I've been horrid, Ronald, when I might have helped."
"But—"
Impetuously she interrupted him.
"There isn't any but. When you told me, that day, I didn't think much about it, what it all must mean. Since then, you've told me more; I've seen the rest. I know now, how you've scrimped and saved and worked and gone without things, so that—"
"But I haven't," he broke in sturdily.
"Yes; I've watched you. I know when you are worried and tired; I knew what it meant, when you gave up the Snowshoe Club."
Under the electric light above their heads, she could see the colour rushing to his cheeks.
"You're talking nonsense, Day."
"It may be nonsense; but it is the truth," she retorted fearlessly. "I haven't lived in the house with you for three whole months, without learning to know you a little bit. And I know one thing more."
"And that?" he queried, supplying the question for which her pause was plainly asking.
"And that is, that, when you were carrying all this care and work and worry, I'd much better have stuck to you and been friends and helped you to frivol and forget things, when you could. Instead of that, I lost my temper and sulked and let you alone. I'm sorry, Ronald, sorry and ashamed. I won't do it any more. Let's shake hands on it, and then, if you want to scold me afterwards, I'll give you leave." And she held out her hand to him, with a glance which was half-whimsical and wholly appealing.
Ronald pulled off his mittens and took the outstretched hand.
"We'll let_the scolding go, Day," he answered. "I did hate the row, though. Still, it is over now; and I fancy the old days are going to come again."
But Day shook her head.
"Like last fall?" she questioned. "Never."
Ronald's face fell.
"Why not?" he asked slowly.
Gently she took away her hand, and stood for a moment with her eyes resting on the southern hills.
"Because," she answered, and her voice was full of her content; "because then there wasn't any Rob."
"Oh, dear!" Janet's voice sounded in their ears. "I wish you'd stop mooning there beside the rail, and talk to me. I'm lonesome."
"You shouldn't have deserted us, then," Ronald said, as he linked his arm in hers.
She made a little grimace of disgust.
"I wish I hadn't. Those children don't know how to steer; they landed me on my nose in front of the statue. I bit the dust and scraped the skin off my elbow. Why aren't you sliding?"
"We stopped to talk."
"Evidently." Janet sniffed disdainfully. "I should think you might talk enough in the house, and not waste this gorgeous moonlight. What were you talking about?"
"Rob."
Janet spun about to face Day.
"Oh, were you? And I was thinking about him. Just before I went off the toboggan, I hit upon the loveliest idea."
"Most likely that was what upset the toboggan, Janet," Ronald suggested unkindly. "What was the idea."
"Let's write to Sidney."
"She owes me a letter now."
"Well, I owe her one, so we're even. But I mean about Rob."
What about him?"
"That he's there."
"Sidney will be thrilled," Ronald said dryly, for, all the last weeks of the previous summer, he had been accustomed to regard Sidney Stayre as his own particular comrade, and he had no especial desire to admit others to the comradeship.
Janet gave a little stamp of sheer impatience.
"Don't tease, Ronald. Else, I'll be cross," she warned him. Then she turned to Day. "Don't you think it would be good?" she asked. "Sidney lives there and she is a darling. She would love to know Rob, because he's been with us, all winter, and could tell her all the news, all the things there isn't time to write. She would ask him to see her, and make it ever so nice for him."
"Steady, Janet!" Ronald laid a brotherly hand upon her shoulder, as there came a pause in her eager speech. "Remember that Rob has been in New York always, and has his own friends there. He most likely doesn't need to have you find him any new ones."
However, to Ronald's surprise, Day ranged herself on Janet's side.
"It's a good idea, Janet. Write to Sidney, as soon as you can. Rob is bound to be lonely. He is going to be in the hospital, where he can have treatment, every day, and that will take him miles and miles from where we live. Most of his friends are away at school, anyway, and he hasn't told a soul he is to be in town. You write to Sidney, in the morning; and I'll send a note to Rob, to look out for a message from her." Then she turned back to Ronald. "Come," she said; "shall we have one more last slide, before it gets too late?" And, with a Leslie upon either hand, she went back into the heart of the throng.