A THUNDERBOLT
Then, out of what was seemingly a clear sky, came a thunderbolt.
Jeanne's self-satisfied Aunt Agatha, at least, had noticed no gathering
clouds; and for that reason, perhaps, was the harder hit. Something
happened. Something that no one had ever dreamed _could_ happen in so
well-ordered a house as Mrs. Huntington's.
There is no doubt that the impaired faculties of old Mr. Huntington had
a great deal to do with it. Possibly the "impaired faculties" combined
with his ever-increasing dislike for his daughter-in-law had even more
to do with it. Anyway, the astounding thing, for which Mrs. Huntington
was never afterwards able to forgive "that wretched child from
Bancroft," happened; but, as you shall see, it wasn't exactly Jeanne's
fault. She merely obeyed her grandfather. It was not until the deed was
done that she began to realize its unfairness to Mrs. Huntington, to
whom Jeanne was not ungrateful.
This is how it happened. Jeanne, who had never really _complained_ in
her letters to her father, in her conversations with her grandfather, or
in fact to anybody; Jeanne, who had borne every trial bravely and even
cheerfully, had, for three days, burst into tears every afternoon at
precisely four o'clock. You see, this was the time when the postman made
his final visit for the day. As the lonely little girl usually spent her
afternoons in the dismal garden with her grandfather, he had witnessed
all three of these surprising outbursts. She hadn't said a word. She had
merely turned from the letters that James had laid on the table, and
sobbed and sobbed and sobbed. For two days her grandfather had not
seemed to notice. Nowadays, he _didn't_ notice a great deal. On the
first occasion of her weeping, he had even fallen into a doze, while
Jeanne, her head on the littered table, had cried all the tears that had
_almost_ come during the preceding weeks.
The third afternoon, her grandfather appeared brighter than he had for
days. He noticed, while she watched for the postman, that the child's
face seemed white and strained, that there were dark rings about her
eyes. Again there was no letter from her father. Again she broke down
and sobbed.
"Tell me about it," said he, with a trembling hand on Jeanne's heaving
shoulder.
As soon as Jeanne was able to speak at all, she poured it all out, in
breathless sentences mixed with sobs. She was lonely, she wanted a
letter from her father, she wanted her father himself, she wanted the
children, she wanted the lake, she wanted to go home--she had wanted to
go home every minute since--well, _almost_ every minute since the moment
of her arrival. She hated Miss Turner, she hated to practice scales, she
hated the hot weather, she was homesick, she wanted Mollie to _smile_
at her--Mollie was always good to her. And oh, she wanted to cuddle
Patsy.
"He--he'll _grow up_," wailed Jeanne. "He won't be a baby if I wait
three--three years, or wu--one muh--month less than three years. I--I
wu--wu--want to go home."
"Why, bless my soul!" said her surprised grandfather; with a sudden
brightening of his faded eyes. "There's no good reason, my dear, why you
shouldn't go home for a visit. I didn't realize, I didn't guess--"
"Aunt Agatha never would let me," said Jeanne, hopelessly. "I've asked
her twice since school was out. It's so hot and I'm so worried about
daddy. I thought if I could go for just a little while--but she says it
costs too much money--that I mustn't even _think_ of such a thing."
"Oh, she did, did she?"
Jeanne was startled then by the look that came into her grandfather's
sunken eyes. It was a strange look; a malevolent look; a look full of
malice. Except for the first few weeks of her residence with her
grandfather his eyes had always seemed _kind_. Now they glittered and
his entire face settled into strange, new lines. It had become cruel.
"Call James!" he said.
Jeanne jumped with surprise at the sharpness of his voice. Faithful
James, who was snoring on the hat-rack--Mrs. Huntington being out for
the afternoon and the hat-rack seat being wide and comfortable--hurried
to his master.
"James," said Mr. Huntington, leaning forward in his chair, "not a word
of this to anybody--do you promise!"
"Yes, sir," agreed James, accustomed to blind obedience.
"You are to find out what time the through train leaves for Chicago.
Tonight's train, I mean. Be ready to go to the station at that time. You
are to buy a ticket from here to Bancroft, Michigan--_Upper_
Michigan--for my granddaughter. Reserve the necessary berths--she will
have two nights on the sleeper. You will find money in the left-hand
drawer of my dresser. If it isn't enough, you will lend me some--she
will need something extra for meals and so forth. And remember, not a
word to anybody. If necessary, go outside to telephone about the train."
"Very well, sir," said James. "I understand, sir--and by Jinks! I'm
_with_ you!"
"Good. Now, Jeannette, as soon as we know what time that train goes--"
"I _do_ know," said Jeanne. "Nine-thirty, P.M. I have that
time-card--the one that Allen Rossiter gave me--with the trains marked
right through to Bancroft. But James had better make sure that the time
hasn't been changed. And please, couldn't he send a telegram to Allen,
in Chicago, to meet me! I have his address."
"Of course," returned Mr. Huntington. "I had forgotten that. Allen will
be of great assistance. Now, go very quietly to your room. You are not
to say good-by to anybody. No one but James is to know that you are
going. Put on something fit to travel in and pack as many useful
clothes as your suitcase will hold--things that you can wear in
Bancroft. Have your hat and gloves where you can find them quickly and
take your money with you. James will take care of everything else. Now
_go_."
When Mr. Huntington said "Now _go_," people usually went. Jeanne
_wanted_ to throw her arms about her grandfather's neck, and say a
thousand thank-yous, but plainly this was not the time.
She flew to her room. Fortunately the house was practically deserted,
for Jeanne was too excited to remember to be quiet. Mr. and Mrs. Charles
Huntington, however, had left at two o'clock for a long motoring trip to
the country, and would not be home until midnight. It was Bridget's
afternoon out and Maggie was busy in the kitchen.
"All the things I _don't_ want," said she, opening her closet door,
"I'll hang on _this_ side. I shan't need any party clothes for the
Cinder Pond. Nor any white shoes."
Of course the suitcase wouldn't hold everything; no suitcase ever does.
Jeanne's selection was really quite wonderful. She would have liked to
buy presents for all the children, but there was no time for that.
Besides, to the Cinder Pond child, the city streets had always been
terrifying. She had never visited the shopping district alone. But there
was a cake of "smelly" white soap to take to Sammy and an outgrown linen
dress to cut down for Annie, and perhaps Allen would find her something
in Chicago for the others. She hoped Sammy wouldn't eat the soap.
The suitcase packed, Jeanne, who was naturally orderly, folded her
discarded garments neatly away in the dresser drawers. No one would have
guessed that an excited traveler had just packed a good portion of her
wardrobe in that perfectly neat room. Certainly not Maggie, who looked
in to tell her that her dinner was ready in the breakfast-room.
"And not a soul here to eat it but you," added Maggie.
"Couldn't I have it with my grandfather?"
"He said not," returned Maggie. "I was setting it in there, but he said
he wanted to eat by himself tonight. He seems different--better, maybe.
Sick folks, they say, _do_ get a bit short like when they're on the
mend."
At eight o 'clock, Jeanne tapped at her grandfather's door. There was no
response. She opened the door very quietly and went inside. Although he
usually sat up until nine, Mr. Huntington was in bed and apparently
asleep.
When you don't wish to say good-by to a person that you love very much
and possibly never expect to see again, perhaps it is wiser to pretend
that you are asleep. Jeanne left the softest and lightest of kisses on
the wrinkled hand outside the cover, and then tiptoed to the hall to
find James. Her only other farewell had been given to the mirror-child
in her closet door.
"Ready, Miss Jeanne? Very well, Miss. I'll get your suitcase. We'd
better be starting. It's a good way to the station and there's quite a
bit to be done there. You can sit in a snug corner behind a newspaper,
while I buy your tickets and all."
"I'll carry this," said Jeanne, who had a large square package under her
arm. "It's my work-box. I shall need that. I expect to sew a lot in
Bancroft, but it wouldn't go into my suitcase. And, James. I left two of
my newest handkerchiefs on my dresser. Tomorrow, will you please give
one of them to Maggie, the other to Bridget? I tried to find something
for you; but there wasn't a thing that would do."
"Well," returned James, "it isn't likely I'll forget you, and the madam
will be giving me cause to remember you by tomorrow."
When Jeanne was aboard the train and James, with a great big lump in his
throat, had gulped out: "Good-by, Miss, and a pleasant journey to you,"
she yielded to the conductor as much as he wanted of her long yellow
ticket.
Unconsciously she imitated what she called "Aunt Agatha's carriage
manner." When Mrs. Huntington rode in any sort of a vehicle, she always
sat stiffly upright, presenting a most imposing exterior. Jeanne was a
good many sizes smaller than Aunt Agatha, but she, too, sat so very
primly that no stranger would have _thought_ of chucking her under the
chin and saying: "Hello, little girl, where are _you_ going all by
yourself?" Certainly no one had ever ventured to "chuck" Aunt Agatha.
And then, remembering her other experience in a sleeper, Jeannette set
about her preparations for bed, as sedately as any seasoned traveler.
She did one unusual thing, however. Something that Aunt Agatha had
_never_ done. As soon as the curtains had fallen about her, she drew
from the top of her stocking a very small pasteboard box. The cover was
dotted with small pin pricks.
"I'm afraid," said Jeanne, eying this object, doubtfully, "this car is
pretty warm. Maybe I'd better raise the cover just a little."
She slept from eleven to four. Having no watch, she felt obliged, after
that, to keep one drowsy eye on the scenery. She hoped she should be
able to recognize Chicago when she saw it. Anyway, there was plenty of
time, since she was to have breakfast on the train. Nobody seemed to be
stirring. But _something_ had stirred. When Jeanne looked into the
little box on the window sill it was empty.
Making as little noise as possible, Jeanne searched every inch of her
bed, her curtains, her clothes. She even looked inside her shoes.
"Oh, Bayard Taylor!" she breathed, "I _trusted_ you."
And then, Jeanne was seized by a horrible thought. "Goodness!" she
gasped. "Suppose he's in somebody else's bed--they'd die of fright!"
As soon as the other passengers began to stir, Jeanne hurriedly dressed
herself. Then she pressed the bell-button in her berth.
"Mr. Porter," said she, "I wish you would please be _very_ careful when
you make this bed. I have lost something--you _mustn't_ step on it."
"Yore watch, Miss? Yore pocketbook?" asked the solicitous porter.
"No," returned Jeanne, a bit sheepishly, "just my pet snail."
Happily, not very much later, the wandering snail was safely rescued
from under the opposite berth.
"Is this yere _bug_ what you-all done lost?" asked the porter, grinning
from ear to ear as he restored Jeanne's property. "Well, I declare to
goodness, I nevah did see no such pet as that befoh, in all mah born
days."
"I hope," said Jeanne, anxiously, "that I can buy a tiny scrap of
lettuce leaf for his breakfast. I didn't have a chance to bring
anything."