DAPHNE'S ADVICE
Tom left for the West the next day, and Janet and Phyllis returned from
the station with Auntie Mogs. They were very quiet for the rest of the
evening, for they were busy with their own thoughts.
Janet faced another week of school and she dreaded it. If she could
only stay at home with Phyllis and Auntie Mogs and Boru, instead of
having to face all those girls again. She had tried at first to find
her place among them, but the old dread of being "different" made her
shy and self-conscious; even with Daphne before her as an example of
the charms of originality she had failed, failed utterly.
It was partly the girls' fault. They had made a tremendous fuss about
her the first few days and then, as the novelty had worn off, they had
settled back into their own ways, and Janet had not understood the
change. Her shyness made her morbid, and by the end of the first week
she had made up her mind that she had failed in some way, and she
construed the girls' thoughtless indifference to mean dislike.
It is no wonder that she dreaded the thought of returning; it meant
hard work to keep a stiff upper lip and to smile in spite of her
heartache. Only one thought was clear, and that was that Phyllis must
not know.
But Phyllis did know. There was something wrong, she felt sure, but
she could not understand what it was. She had been delighted with the
way her friends had welcomed her twin, but when Janet had seemed to
refuse their offers of friendship she could only conclude that she did
not like them. But Phyllis would not accept any such explanation
meekly. Janet was not happy, therefore something must be done, and she
decided to talk the matter over with Sally.
She chose the noon recess, when Janet remained in the study hall to
finish a composition she was writing.
Sally listened gravely.
"What _shall_ I do about it?" Phyllis finished dolefully.
"Well, something," Sally replied decidedly. "I don't know just what,
but something's wrong, and we will have to ferret it out. She's
strange, of course, and she doesn't understand us very well. I've seen
her look at me as if she thought I were crazy sometimes. She acts as
though she didn't like us, but I think she does really. Time's the
thing, of course, but it won't do to wait until the girls begin to
resent her standoffishness."
"Oh, Sally, don't," pleaded Phyllis. "Hello, Taffy," she added, as
Daphne passed slowly behind her chair.
"'Lo," Daphne drawled.
In another part of the room another group of girls were discussing
Janet.
"She's really not a bit like Phyllis," Eleanor said with a frown. "I
can't make her out."
"Neither can any one else," replied Rosamond. "She's queer."
"I've never been able to get anything but yes or no out of her,"
another girl complained. "I call her just plain slow."
"She's always fearfully polite," some one else objected. "I never
heard her use a single slang word."
"Oh, well, Sally will cure her of that,"--Rosamond laughed.
Eleanor sighed. It was so easy to be goodnatured that she couldn't
understand anybody taking the trouble to sulk.
"We must be nice to her anyway," she said decidedly. "She's Phyllis's
twin, and she's in our class."
"Suppose so," the others agreed, as the bell rang.
When Sally and Phyllis returned to the study hall, Janet was still at
her desk. She looked up and smiled as Phyllis spoke to her, but she
went on with her work.
Sally watched her critically and sighed. She was awfully sorry for her
but she was angry too. She wanted to shake her, to make her laugh or
cry or do something besides just sitting there with that forced smile
and her brown eyes ready to flood with tears any minute.
"I wish she would bawl and have it over with," she thought to herself.
Janet lifted the lid of her desk to put away her papers, and Sally
lifted hers at the same time and bent her head so that she could speak
without being seen from the desk.
"Phyllis is coming over to my house this afternoon," she whispered;
"will you come too?"
"Oh, thanks, I'd like to," Janet replied eagerly.
Sally sighed with relief. So far so good. Once in her own home, with
a box of candy between them, they could surely straighten everything
out.
As for Janet, she had hardly accepted the invitation before she
regretted it. Sally only wanted her because she knew Phyllis would not
come without her, or so she argued.
"I won't be a bother to them," she declared vehemently. "_I won't._"
So when Sally and Phyllis hurried to the study hall after being
detained by Miss Baxter at the close of school, Janet was nowhere to be
found.
"But she said she'd come," Sally exclaimed angrily. "Oh, she's left a
note on my desk, listen--
"Dear Sally--" (she read)
"I am sorry that I won't be able to come to your house with Phyllis
this afternoon, but I have just remembered something that I must hurry
home to do.
"Thank you very much for bothering to ask me.
"JANET."
"My Aunt Jane's poll parrot!" was all poor Sally could say.
"But she didn't have anything to do at home," Phyllis protested. "Oh,
Sally, what is the matter with her, and what shall I do?"
"You'll come home with me first of all," Sally replied with
determination; "then later in the afternoon we will go over to your
house, as though nothing had happened, and perhaps we can persuade her
to come out for a walk."
"All right, if you think that's best,"--Phyllis agreed to the plan,
dismally. "But I warn you I won't be very good fun."
"If she would only come to her senses," Sally exclaimed.
In the meantime, Janet had hurried away from school. She did not want
Phyllis to see her for, with that lump in her throat, she knew an
explanation would mean tears, and Janet hated tears.
Her steps lagged before she had gone very far, and she walked on
slowly, deep in an unhappy revery, too miserable to notice the quick
footsteps that were rapidly gaining on her.
"Hello, Phyllis's twin!" The soft, half-laughing drawl was
unmistakable, and Janet turned quickly, to see Daphne beside her.
"Hello," she answered slowly. No need to force a smile for her; she
wouldn't be deceived by it.
Daphne did not appear to notice anything amiss. She looked lazily down
at the wet and muddy sidewalks and shrugged her shoulders.
"Park's better than this," she suggested. "Let's cut over to it."
They walked in silence until they gained the path that ran around the
reservoir.
"Looks wintry, doesn't it?" she asked idly. They stopped and looked
over the iron railing into the dull green water.
It was a somber autumn day. The sky was banked with dark gray clouds,
and a high wind swept through the trees, tearing away the last leaves
and whirling them to the ground.
"I suppose so," Janet replied indifferently. "I like it," she added
listlessly.
"Of course, but it's silly of you," Daphne agreed with her odd little
laugh. "Awfully silly."
"What do you mean?" Janet looked up at her suddenly.
"It's silly to like dreary things, even days, and it's most awfully
silly to be dreary yourself. Not fair, you know, when every body's
doing their best to be nice."
"But they're not," Janet said quickly. "They were the first day and
then--"
Daphne turned slowly and looked at her. For once her drooping lids
fully uncovered the sea green eyes that they were usually at such pains
to hide. A strand of her taffy-colored hair blew across her face, and
she tucked it carefully under her hat before she answered.
"So that's it, is it?" There was a hint of something besides laughter
in her velvety voice. "I didn't understand; what happened?"
"I don't know," Janet answered dully; "perhaps I did something they
didn't like or perhaps they just stopped bothering with me; I don't
know."
"But I know,"--Daphne laughed. "You expected too much. When the girls
stopped making a fuss about you, you thought they stopped liking you,
so here you are going off in corners and looking sadder than a wet
chicken, and you think you are doing the best you can, eh?"
"Go on," Janet said quietly.
"Ever have a pet rabbit?" Daphne inquired with mild interest.
"Yes, but what--" Janet stammered.
"Remember the first day you had him, the fuss you made about him and
then how you got sort of tired of him?"
"Why, yes, I suppose--"
Daphne laughed and yawned, showing all her pretty white teeth.
"Little simpleton, you're the rabbit," she said. "The girls still like
you, but they're used to you and they rather expect you to do something
now. It's your turn to do tricks, like the bunny."
"And I--" Janet began.
"Oh, you sit in the corner and sulk and say, 'Yes, thank you,' and 'no,
thank you,' and the girls are discouraged. Can't blame them, you know.
You're Phyllis's sister, and they have a right to expect more from
you." She said it all in her soft furry voice, and it was impossible
to resent it. Janet watched her fasten her coat collar up closer about
her neck, but she could not speak.
Daphne apparently did not expect her to.
"It's your turn now," she repeated and without another word turned and
walked away.
Janet did not follow her except with her eyes. She seemed rivetted to
the spot on which she stood. When Daphne was out of sight she turned
once more to the reservoir, but this time she saw more than the clouds
reflected in the dull water. She saw her own mistake.