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."