It seemed as though Mr. Montgomery’s prophecy as to Joan’s
non-appearance would be fulfilled. In the month or so that followed,
Miss Bransom showed an almost inhuman superiority to the ills of the
flesh and the rigours of the wintry climate. A snowy week in Syracuse,
was followed by a week of sleet and hail in Rochester, a week of wild
North winds and frozen, slippery streets in Buffalo, a week of hard,
black frost in Erie, a week of cold, miserable, teeth-chattering thaw
in Pittsburg--but through it all Rosamond Bransom emerged unscathed.
Indeed, the worse the weather grew, the more she seemed to thrive--or,
perhaps, it was only in Joan’s jaundiced eyes that she appeared
increasingly blooming and vigorous. “It isn’t ladylike to have such
health,” the girl grumbled to her grandmother. “I shall make a waxen
effigy of her and stick pins in it! Or try a little poison. Oh, we
won’t kill the fair Rosamond like her namesake,” she rattled on, as
Mrs. Lennox gave a half-amused, half-shocked exclamation. “She shall
just have a tiny drop, enough to incapacitate her for the evening. What
a prohibitive rate insurance agencies must charge for stars! Their
lives can’t be worth much with all of us hungry understudies around.
I always did hate being dependent,” the girl went on, “and here I am
dependent on Miss Bransom! The clinging ivy round an oak that simply
refuses to fall.”
Although Joan’s words were jocular, she was far from feeling so.
At first she had found pleasure in the mere fact of travelling;
each new stopping place formed an excitement. But this soon palled.
There was so much resemblance between the successive cities they
visited--especially in the matter of climate! How glad she was of her
fur coat in every one of them. After Pittsburg there came a week of
one night towns, and these were even more alike, with their streets of
painted houses, and their makeshift theatre smelling of peanuts and
varnished pine. Joan often wondered how the inhabitants of each of
these little townlets knew their own from all the others.
A large part of the girl’s discontent was caused by lack of occupation.
Apart from the actual travelling, she had nothing whatever to do.
After the full and ordered activity of school life, the change was the
more complete. At first she bought cheap reprints of plays, chiefly
modern ones, of which she was surprisingly ignorant. These she read
with avidity, and even studied one or two parts that particularly took
her fancy. But books, she found, were rather a nuisance in a life of
continuous packing; moreover, Granny said their purchase was too great
an extravagance, and must cease.
There was another recreation that Joan soon discovered, and that
was seeing plays. In the one night towns, ‘Vivi’ would be the only
attraction, but all the larger cities boasted of at least a second
theatre, dating from the days of the struggle between the Syndicate
and the Independents. With regard to play-going, expense did not come
into the question, for the girl learnt to her surprise, that actresses
were admitted free of charge, unless, indeed, the house were unusually
crowded. It seemed to Joan as though a heavenly feast were now spread
before her after a life of enforced abstinence. Night after night
Mrs. Lennox was dragged from the hotel through the wintry streets to
see some indifferent touring company in an indifferent piece. The
poor lady would not allow her granddaughter to go alone, but she was
really beginning to feel that she could bear it no longer, when Joan
also struck. “This isn’t acting at all,” she announced one evening
irritably. “We won’t go again. I learn nothing--except how not to do
it.”
They did make one exception to this resolution, and that was at
Pittsburg, where they happened to coincide with a road company of
the famous ‘Under Dog.’ The play was a sympathetic study of convict
life, and several breathless scenes, one of them showing an escape
from Sing Sing, accounted for its enormous popularity. Fundamentally
it constituted a scathing indictment of modern social conditions,
but this the public seemed to overlook. As a work of art, the piece
was not great, but it was certainly exceedingly vivid, and, indeed,
moving. Whatever else the author might lack, one felt that he was in
earnest. Joan listened, excited and stimulated. What a pity the acting
was not more worthy of the play, she felt, although, indeed, it was
better than a good deal that she had seen of late. If only Mr. Hobson’s
vague suggestion of sending out another company with her in it had
materialized! She was too unsophisticated for the fact of the piece
being for a male star to affect her desire.
For Joan’s growing dissatisfaction with life was due not so much to
the want of work in general, but to the want of her own particular
work--the work that the actor characteristically calls ‘play.’ Had she
had any part in ‘Vivi,’ however small, she would probably have been
content. But to go down to the theatre every evening at six o’clock
with high expectation and beating pulses--only to be told that she
would not be needed! Yes indeed, hope deferred did make the heart
sick. At first, she had not minded. Indeed, for quite a fortnight
after Syracuse, she had been glad not to be called upon. Every day of
work, she felt, was bringing her ‘Vivi’ to further development. But
then there came a time when she had done all in her power without the
vivifying breath of actual performance. More study would only stale
her. The dual parentage of audience and actor were now needed for
Vivi’s true birth. And how Joan longed for it! At times the longing
was so strong, that it almost hurt. Perhaps she would never play the
part, she sometimes told herself with sick dejection. Here they were
already in the middle of March. Another six weeks and the tour would be
over! Any day now, she felt ruefully, the weather might turn warmer,
and the blessed possibility of Miss Bransom catching cold become
proportionately less. Besides after Huntingdon they were going straight
down South to Virginia, where it would certainly be milder. If the star
had kept well in wet weather, what would she do in the dry? Meanwhile,
every day of tempest or snow brought the girl a ghoulish satisfaction.
She had been frankly delighted at the prospect of the one night stands
with a whole night journey in the middle. Surely at Miss Bransom’s
age such a programme, in this terrible weather, might prove a little
trying. However, the week wore on, and the star continued to shine
with undimmed brilliance. Joan had to pin all her hopes on the fatigue
of the long Sunday journey lasting from nine a.m. to ten p.m. from
Huntingdon down to Norfolk, Virginia.
Although Mrs. Lennox’s discontent with their present life was less
outspoken than Joan’s, it was quite as strong--or rather a great deal
stronger. For one thing she found the physical discomforts far harder
to bear. Continuous travelling under arctic conditions, uncomfortable
and sometimes inadequately warmed hotels, atrocious cooking, scrambled
meals, seemed to make no impression upon Joan. Although one would
not have expected it after her infantile delicacy, the girl was
exceptionally strong. She had probably inherited the iron constitution
that made John Vandeleur a hale man at seventy, despite his strenuous
Wall Street career. Mrs. Lennox, also, had always enjoyed singularly
good health; still fifty-eight is not seventeen, and she found the
present régime both exhausting and detestable. The comforts of
her ‘Dorset’ apartment grew ever more delicious in retrospect--the
pleasant, warm rooms, the luxurious armchairs, the soft bed, the
ministry of the faithful Bridget, the dainty, delectable meals--oh, how
she yearned for them!
There was another cause that contributed in making their present
existence easier for Joan than for her grandmother. Although, as the
girl truly felt, going to the theatre every evening to find herself
unwanted was not exhilarating work, at least, it was work. She had the
dignity of a definite engagement--if an insignificant one--as well
as the dazzling prospect that any night her great chance might come.
But for herself Mrs. Lennox felt ruefully, she was doing no more than
in New York. She had merely exchanged a life of comfortable idleness
for a life of extremely uncomfortable idleness. Even the flame of
enthusiasm for her granddaughter’s genius began to burn low for lack of
fuel. Perhaps at those two rehearsals, she had exaggerated the child’s
talent, she now told herself with her besetting timidity. Suppose Joan
got her chance and proved herself only a mediocrity. Then, even from
her granddaughter’s point of view, what a mistake they would have made!
As John Vandeleur’s daughter, Joan would have had the world at her
feet. Her father would not let her act, but apart from that, everything
in life had been hers for the asking. What lay before a little touring
actress to make up such a loss? They had exchanged substance for
shadow, the grandmother felt bitterly. In place of solid gold, they
were clutching at the mere elusive glitter of fame.
It was not surprising that the pecuniary sacrifice should figure
largely in Mrs. Lennox’s thoughts. For despite the most strenuous
economy the little hoard at the bank was steadily growing less. What
were they to do when it was gone? And in May even Joan’s little salary
would cease. It was true that Mrs. Lennox had some jewellery to fall
back on, but only a little, and none of it of any great value. Imogen
was not fond of giving expensive presents, or indeed latterly of
giving presents at all, and there had been no one else to do so. John
Vandeleur’s allowance, although liberal, had hardly run to jewels, nor
had Mrs. Lennox cared particularly to purchase them. Perhaps the sale
of everything she had would carry them on until the autumn--but then?
Joan always pushed the money problem aside with a gay declaration that
when once she had had an appearance in ‘Vivi’ everything would be all
right. “You’ll see, Granny, after that all the managers in New York
will be asking me to come and name my own salary!”
“But, in any case, I should like a salary too,” Mrs. Lennox retorted
one day with a not unjustifiable irritation.
Joan looked surprised for a moment, and then slipped down on her knees
beside her grandmother’s chair. “What a wretch I am,” she exclaimed
penitently. “I was forgetting that you must be aching to act just as
much as me, and you haven’t even got Miss Bransom’s falling ill to
look forward to--not that there’s much hope of that with her miserable
constitution! See here, Granny,” she went on, after a moment’s thought,
“if, after this tour, Mr. Hobson won’t give us both parts in the same
production, we shall have to separate, that’s all.” The hurt look on
Mrs. Lennox’s face penetrated even Joan’s youthful egoism. “Of course,
I only mean for a time, Granny darling. Directly I am a star I shall
insist on there being a good part for you in all my pieces.”
“Won’t you find it rather limits your choice?” Mrs. Lennox suggested
with a faint smile at her granddaughter’s confidence. Was it the
assurance of stupidity or of genius? she wondered uneasily.
Although Joan’s eyes had been opened to the hardship for her
grandmother in a theatrical tour without a theatre, she was still quite
oblivious of any hardship inherent in the tour itself. As a matter of
fact, the latter quite obliterated the former. As the weeks passed poor
Mrs. Lennox grew so utterly worn out, that not having a part, instead
of being a grievance, became her one relief. The hotel bedroom might
be comfortless, but, at least, she could seek it when she desired. It
is possible that had she been acting, the strange exhilaration of the
stage might have dominated the fatigue of the present life, although
it was hard to believe it. Certainly her present physical condition
was partly due to mental anxiety, which, in its turn, was increased by
bodily weakness, thus completing a vicious circle.
It was curious that as Joan was constantly watching for any fluctuation
in Miss Bransom’s health, she did not become more observant of her
grandmother’s. The girl’s inadvertence was not entirely due to artistic
self-absorption. Ever since her lonely childhood, ‘Granny’ had been
her playfellow, her best friend--the secret community of interest
serving to level the barrier of the forty intervening years. Thus,
unconsciously, Joan had felt that her grandmother was her contemporary
and had endowed her with her own youth and strength. Indeed, she had
been quite indignant at the theatrical coup that had transformed Mrs.
Lennox into her mother. Instead of feeling that it had knocked twenty
years off her grandmother’s age, as Mrs. Lennox urged with playful
jubilance, it seemed to Joan to add twenty years on to it. “As though
a mother could be a ‘chum’ like you, Granny,” she had protested. Only
the thought of wiping out the intervening generation had made her
acquiesce in the new relationship. “Father thinks he has cut me off,”
she exulted, “but if you are my mother now, Granny, it is I who have
abolished him!”
But, despite her rejuvenating conception of the grandmaternal relation,
even Joan began to notice that Mrs. Lennox was looking tired as
the week of one night stands came to an end. On Sunday morning at
Huntingdon it was colder than ever, while the nine o’clock start
necessitated an early breakfast, which poor Mrs. Lennox always found
an almost impossible ordeal. It was snowing as they set out for the
station, and, after a few steps, it became evident that the grandmother
could hardly drag herself along. “Take my arm,” Joan said, with a shade
of anxiety. “We ought to have had a cab, but it is only a very little
way.”
“A cab could not get along,” Mrs. Lennox replied faintly, clutching at
her granddaughter’s proffered arm. She was probably right. The snow
had been coming down thickly all night, and, in this small town, the
sweeping was not very efficient, although walls of snow six or seven
feet high on either side of the road testified to past energy and gave
a sense of arctic mystery.
They got on better after this, for Joan was almost supporting her
grandmother. Presently Mrs. Lennox stumbled. “Oh, Granny, you don’t
feel ill, do you?” the girl exclaimed in incredulous dismay, as she
caught sight of her grandmother’s face. “Would you sooner go back to
the hotel and come on after us to-morrow?”
“Oh, no, no.” Mrs. Lennox hastened her dragging footsteps. The hotel
had been far from attractive, so it was not surprising that she
rejected her granddaughter’s suggestion. Indeed, Mrs. Lennox hardly
knew, herself, whether she felt ill or not; she was only overwhelmingly
tired. “I shall be all right when we get on the cars,” she murmured.
This seemed to be the case, for once Mrs. Lennox was comfortably
installed in the train, her spirits came back. Quite a colour crept
into her checks, to Joan’s immense relief. “You are sure you don’t feel
ill a bit, Granny?”
“No, only tired.” Mrs. Lennox smiled wanly. “One night stands are
tiring at my age.”
“Now, I can’t have you talking like that. It’s _our_ age, Granny.”
Joan shook a reproving forefinger at her grandmother, and then settled
down on the seat beside her prepared to have a chat. “Anyway, Mr. Clark
told me there are to be no more one night stands this tour, and after
Norfolk we play Portsmouth, which is quite close, you know, so you will
have a fortnight without another journey. I do think, though, Granny
dear, if one night stands have tired you out, Miss Bransom might have
had the decency to succumb. That woman’s health is a perfect scandal!
And when you think of the awful weather we have had--I am sure she has
been given every opportunity!--Why, just look how it’s snowing now,”
the girl broke off, pointing to the white, whirling world outside
the train window. “It is a regular blizzard! No wonder we’re going
so slow--Oh, Mr. Montgomery told me that we are playing Washington
on the way up again, and that is why we are going straight through
now. But this visit South takes away my last hope of Miss Bransom
falling sick.--Our fair Rosamond is very popular in Virginia, Mr.
Montgomery says, so they expect to have good houses. Besides, there
is the Jamestown Exposition--that is quite close to Norfolk. It won’t
open till May, but there are already a good many strangers there in
connection with it, I heard.--But, I believe, you want to have a nap,
darling.” Joan paused in her chatter, noticing that Mrs. Lennox had
closed her eyes.
The morning wore on. Mrs. Lennox did not exactly sleep, but she seemed
drowsy, so Joan read a book. It was snowing harder than ever, and the
train kept stopping with a jerk. Presently Mr. Montgomery came along
the car. “They say the line is badly blocked just ahead. They’ve gotten
the snow-ploughs at work, but goodness knows what time we’ll make
Washington.”
“Whenever shall we get to Norfolk then?” Joan questioned excitedly.
“Oh, I don’t suppose it will be so bad in Virginia. They don’t mostly
have deep snow down there.” Seeing that Mrs. Lennox seemed tired, he
moved on.
The long car was nearly empty. Presumably no one who could avoid it
would choose this terrible Sunday for travelling. Some of the other
members of the company were in the next car, and Joan now went along
and spoke to them. But, they too, seemed sleepy; indeed, the one night
stands tried everyone’s nerves. They did, however, kindly suggest
that ‘Miss North’ and ‘Miss West’ should join their party, but Joan
declined, and wandered back. For even when her grandmother was in
her normal state, she preferred to keep apart. Curiously enough,
just as Mrs. Lennox had found it difficult to accommodate herself
to a new circle when her daughter had dragged her into it, so now
she found it difficult to accommodate herself to the old circle when
her granddaughter dragged her back. They were all so vulgar, she
complained; while, with respect to Mr. Terence, she had conceived a
positive aversion. Here the anxious grandmother had more grounds for
her dislike. The man had repeatedly tried to carry the lovemaking in
‘Vivi’ over the footlights into real life. Joan herself had been rather
amused until the existence transpired of a Mrs. Terence; then she
turned a decided cold shoulder. The only one of their new acquaintances
who had won Mrs. Lennox’s approval was Mr. Montgomery, _alias_ Jimmy
Squabs. The true grandmaternal relationship had even been divulged to
him under a solemn pledge of secrecy.
Lunch time had by now come round. This Mrs. Lennox had brought from
motives of economy, and Joan now unwrapped the meagre little packets.
To her dismay, her grandmother refused to eat anything. “But you can’t
go all day without food, Granny,” she urged. Finally Mrs. Lennox
consented to drink a cup of tea that Joan had somehow procured. “I am
just tired,” the poor lady repeated.
“Well, put up your feet then; I’ll cover them with a cloak.” As Joan
adjusted the wrap with unusual solicitude, she patted her grandmother’s
hand. “You do feel nice and warm, Granny; that’s a good thing. Have a
nice sleep, darling.” She moved to another seat at a little distance so
as not to disturb her grandmother.
The afternoon passed much as the morning had done. Two or three times
the train came to a standstill for an hour or more; even when it moved
it seemed to drag itself along painfully. Joan finished her book,
and began to day-dream. Oh, if only this long journey could have the
effect of reducing Miss Bransom’s overwhelming energy, of making her
take the next evening off! There was nothing in the world, Joan felt
despairingly, that she would not give just to get her one chance.
The porter came in; he turned on the lights and lowered the shades,
blotting out the wintry aspect. Outside the wind howled, but the cars
were well heated and comfortable. How soundly Granny was sleeping--why,
she was almost snoring. She would feel quite herself after this rest.
Presently Mr. Montgomery again came along. As he saw Joan alone, he
stopped and sat down opposite her. “Miss West having a nap?” he asked
cheerily. The question seemed unnecessary in view of the loud breathing.
“Yes, and she will be vexed if I tell her that she has been snoring
in such an indiscreet way.” Joan laughed softly. “Truly, I have never
known Granny do it before. She will say I ought to have waked her, but
I don’t like to, when she’s so tired out.”
“The longer she can sleep the better, considering we ain’t at
Washington yet! We’ll be lucky if we reach Norfolk for breakfast.”
“For breakfast! Why, it’s quite an adventure.” Joan clasped her hands
joyously. “But suppose it wasn’t Sunday and we were playing to-night.”
“That did happen to me once.” The little man began to relate various
theatrical experiences, but in a low tone so as not to disturb Miss
West. “But about provisions?” he asked presently. “They tell me the
restaurant car’s hung up somehow, so one can’t dine on board.”
Joan’s face fell. “We’ve not got much, and Granny does not seem to like
it. She hasn’t had any lunch. Oh, what shall I do?”
“Don’t you worry,” Mr. Montgomery reassured her. “I’ll make a raid on
the buffet at Washington whenever we do get there. I daresay I’ll find
something Miss West will fancy.”
When at last they got to Washington it was after the hour they should
have reached Portsmouth. However, for the last part of the way the
train had certainly been going faster. Joan rightly guessed that the
blizzard had been left behind, and it was now a mere question of
distance. As they steamed out of the station Mr. Montgomery reappeared.
“Guess you folks must be about famished,” he observed, and triumphantly
displayed hard boiled eggs and ham sandwiches. “I grabbed ’em right
under Miss Bransom’s nose.--Why, Miss West’s never still asleep!”
“Yes, she is. Isn’t it funny? She must have been dreadfully tired.”
Mr. Montgomery was listening to the heavy breathing with a slightly
startled look. It was quicker than when he had been in three or four
hours earlier, and much more strange. He tiptoed along to the enveloped
figure. Joan followed him. She was suddenly feeling rather frightened,
she did not know why.
Perhaps it was the sound of the steps, or perhaps it was mere
coincidence, that made Mrs. Lennox raise her head with a jerk as
they came up. Her cheeks and lips were red, almost like a girl’s,
and her eyes bright. She stared at Mr. Montgomery without any sign
of recognition. Joan grew still more frightened, but she resolutely
forced down her fears. “Why, Granny dear,” she said in a voice that
was almost gay, “Here is Mr. Montgomery. He has been so kind, and has
got us some supper, for we shan’t be in until very late--or rather very
early! You have had such a lovely, long sleep, darling. Why, I believe
you are half asleep still!”
“I want to go to bed.” Mrs. Lennox spoke thickly and with a difficulty.
“Where is my bed?”
“But, Granny, you are on the cars; don’t you remember? I don’t see
how you can go to bed--unless there is a sleeper--Oh, thank you, Mr.
Montgomery.” The kind little man had rushed off to enquire. “Won’t you
have something to eat, Granny?” Joan proffered the eggs and sandwiches.
A quiver crossed Mrs. Lennox’s face. “Water,” she muttered.
Joan got it for her. “There, lean against me, Granny, dearest,” she
murmured tenderly, and sat down on the same seat. As she did so, she
felt that her grandmother was shivering. “Are you cold, Granny?” she
asked, puzzled. “It isn’t cold in the car and you feel so hot.”
Mr. Montgomery was only away a few minutes. But by the time he came
back Mrs. Lennox was again dozing, with her granddaughter’s supporting
arm around her. The curious breathing had recommenced. “There is no
sleeper, Miss North,” he whispered. “Would you like me to fetch Miss
Bransom, or one of the other ladies?”
“Oh, no, no. Granny would hate it.” Joan’s whisper was energetic and
conclusive. “Besides, what could any of them do?”
Mr. Montgomery did not persist, although he felt sure that Miss West
was very ill. But, as her granddaughter said, what could anyone do?
The train did not stop before Richmond. Of course, Miss West might get
out there, but she could not get out alone, and the company must go
straight on to Norfolk. However, that was only some two or three hours
further. The delay would probably make little difference, especially
as it seemed inevitable. Mr. Montgomery had already enquired whether
there was any physician on the train. Now he went off to make a
thorough search, but without success.
Mrs. Lennox continued to sleep noisily, and her granddaughter continued
to support her. An occasional tremor still shook the sleeping form. As
Joan sat there her realization of the position grew clearer. She felt
sick with terror. If only she had had more experience with illness.
Of course, her mother was an invalid, but invalidism seemed to have
no connection with ill-health. Certainly her mother had never looked
like this. Indeed, Joan could hardly remember ever having seen anyone
who was ill. At home, if any of the servants ailed, she had naturally
been kept away from them, while her superior boarding school had made
a feature of unvarying health. This was achieved by taking the pupils’
temperature night and morning, and promptly dealing with any deviation
from the normal in a separate sanatorium. Thus this one subject had
been entirely omitted in her education.
It was not only incompetence that was unnerving the girl, but also
remorse. Indeed, the pain that the strained position now began to cause
her arm, came as a positive relief. Her grandmother was very ill, she
told herself with dramatic intensity, and it was her fault. She had
dragged Granny away from her comfortable home, her easy life. With
agonized recollection Joan went through the conversation at the Dorset
that had preceded the visit to Mr. Hobson. Granny had not wanted to go
back to the stage; she had said she was too old, and had practically
refused. No doubt she had felt that she was not strong enough for
such a life. But she, Joan, had insisted. Not once had she considered
the question from Granny’s point of view. What a beast she had been!
No wonder she could play ‘Vivi,’ she told herself with exaggerated
disgust. She was only another ‘Vivi’ herself, egoistic and selfish!
Mrs. Lennox woke with a start. She asked for more water. This time kind
Mr. Montgomery, who had established himself near by, had brandy ready
to add to it. For a time the stimulant seemed to do Mrs. Lennox good.
She looked more normal, and her breathing grew quieter. Mr. Montgomery
and Joan made up a sort of bed, filling up the space between the seats
with travelling bags. They got the sick woman into a more comfortable,
recumbent position. Soon after she again went to sleep.
It was six o’clock, and the cold dawn was breaking when at last they
reached Norfolk. All night Mrs. Lennox had dozed uneasily, muttering
sometimes and waking with a start. The odd, raucous breathing had, if
anything, grown more pronounced. At the station there were no vehicles,
but frantic telephoning on Mr. Montgomery’s part secured a taxi. He had
left the ladies in the train; now he went to fetch them, and found that
Mrs. Lennox had roused. She clearly understood that they had arrived,
and made an unaided effort to stand. But, to her granddaughter’s
dismay, she fell back. Joan and Mr. Montgomery almost carried her to
the vehicle.
The kind little man had already instructed the driver where to go. He
knew of a nice hotel, he told Joan, reasonable in price and not far
from the station; he had stayed there before. As they drove along,
the girl dully noticed that snow had fallen even here, though it
was rapidly turning to slush, while a fine drizzle made the empty,
early-morning streets seem even more cheerless. As soon as they reached
the hotel, Mr. Montgomery jumped out to make arrangements. There was
some little delay in the office, but at last a sleepy young lady
appeared. Yes, they had rooms, she said, running her finger down the
hotel book--one single and one with two beds for two ladies. Yes, they
were all ready.
Mr. Montgomery’s solicitude was now his undoing. He proceeded to make
further enquiries. Was the double room warm and thoroughly aired? One
of the ladies was sick. She had been taken ill quite suddenly on the
cars.
The hotel girl’s face changed. She again consulted the book. She was
sorry. She had made a mistake, she said. The double room was engaged.
“Then the ladies will have the single room. The sick lady must be got
to bed at once. If you have no other room, I’ll go elsewhere.” Mr.
Montgomery turned decisively.
The girl hurried after him. She was still nervously holding her big
book. She was terribly sorry, she stammered, but neither room was
vacant. They had not any rooms at all.
Mr. Montgomery swore under his breath at her stupidity. However, it
was no good wasting still more time in recrimination. He rushed out to
consult the taxi driver as to other hotels.
The man not unnaturally took them to the best in the place. Again Mr.
Montgomery hurried in, leaving the two ladies in the taxi. He was met
by the shattering announcement that here also there were no rooms. A
lady and two gentlemen had just that moment arrived, the man in the
office said, and had engaged the last. The two gentlemen had even to
share a room between them.
Mr. Montgomery eagerly asked the names. As he expected, it was Miss
Bransom, Clark and Terence. He explained that he knew them. “What is
the number of the gentlemen’s room?” he demanded impetuously. “One of
the ladies of my party has been taken very ill suddenly. I am sure
these gentlemen will give up their room to her.”
“Impossible.” The man’s tone was curt. “The gentlemen gave an order
that they were not to be disturbed until they rang. It would be as much
as my place was worth to send up to them.”
Mr. Montgomery stormed with as much violence as his gentle nature would
admit, but the man was obdurate. If the lady was so ill she ought to go
to the hospital, he said sulkily. He mentioned its name.
Armed with the suggestion, Mr. Montgomery went out and again opened
the taxi door. Miss West seemed mercifully asleep; or was she
unconscious, he wondered uneasily. With that queer breathing, driving
around in the damp like this must be about the worst possible thing.
The granddaughter’s young face looked grey in the cold, early light.
Indeed, Joan was feeling as though she were in a hideous nightmare
without an end. Every now and then, sheer terror, like some wild beast,
would spring upon her and clutch her throat; but for the most part she
was sunk in a stupor of misery. Nevertheless she was shocked when Mr.
Montgomery suggested a hospital. “I thought hospitals were only for
poor people,” she said. With an effort she pulled herself together. “I
should like to go to a good doctor. He would know of a nursing home and
be able to give Granny something at once to make her better.”
The taxi driver was again consulted. Dr. Strachey was considered the
best physician in Norfolk, and lived only a few blocks away. Again the
taxi sped through the quiet, sloppy streets. When they reached the
doctor’s door, Mr. Montgomery got out to announce their arrival, but
he resolved this time to leave the interview itself to Joan. He was
nervous of making another failure. “I have told them it is your mother
who is sick,” he warned her.
Dr. Strachey was fortunately an early riser, and the girl was only
kept waiting a couple of minutes. Mrs. Lennox was, of course, still in
the taxi, for until the doctor decided what had better be done, they
did not want to rouse her. The very sight of the dark, capable-looking
little man inspired Joan with confidence. He listened in silence to
her brief account of the train journey. “But my dear young lady,” he
observed, as she finished, “if your mother is so ill, she ought to be
in bed. Why didn’t you take her to an hotel first and then send for me!”
Joan explained the position. Dr. Strachey thought he understood. There
had been an outbreak of scarlet fever in Norfolk. The hotel people did
not want to run any risk, especially in view of the golden harvest
they expected the Exhibition to bring. But clearly, from the girl’s
description, this was not scarlet fever. “I thought you could tell me
of a nursing home,” Joan suggested.
Apparently there was one with which Dr. Strachey was actually
connected. He knew they had a room vacant. He was looking at the girl
sharply as he spoke, trying to appraise her social position. The fur
coat was certainly costly. Still he had better warn her. “Of course
this nursing home isn’t by any means cheap. I suppose that won’t matter
to you.”
“Oh, no!” For the moment Joan had quite forgotten that it did. The
mental attitude of a lifetime is hard to reverse. In any case money
seemed trivial and intangible compared with a reality like her
grandmother’s illness.
The doctor was scribbling something on his visiting card. “There, give
this to Miss Bland, the lady superintendent,” he said kindly. “That
will make it all right. I’ll be round in a quarter of an hour. No, it
is no use my seeing your mother here; it would do more harm than good.
We want to get her out of this damp air and into bed as quick as we
can. She’ll be in good hands.”
The nursing home was mercifully quite close. Once there all external
difficulties melted away. The transit from the taxi, which Joan had
so much dreaded, was made quite easy by means of a carrying chair and
skilled nurses. The sick woman was taken upstairs into a pleasant,
warm room and laid on the bed. She hardly even seemed to feel being
undressed, it was done so deftly. Joan was sitting watching from a
corner. It had been suggested that she should wait in another room, but
she had resolutely negatived the idea. Her ‘mother’ might awake, she
said, and want her. As she saw how dexterously Mrs. Lennox was being
handled, she felt more reassured. Indeed, she would have been almost
happy had she not caught a significant glance that passed between
the nurses as they removed the patient’s wraps. The girl herself was
startled. Granny’s face looked quite thin; she would hardly have known
her. But it could not really have changed in so short a time, she told
herself. Besides her cheeks had a nice colour. The girl’s inexperience
took this as a hopeful sign. If only Granny would not breathe so
curiously.
Dr. Strachey now appeared. He either did not see Joan or ignored her.
His whole attention was for the patient. But as he took Mrs. Lennox’s
temperature, Joan came forward. It was the only medical process of
which she had any knowledge. “What is it?” she asked.
“Eh, what? Oh, rather high.” It was no good frightening the girl
by telling her it was over 104°. Joan retreated, and Dr. Strachey
continued his examination, occasionally issuing sharp directions to the
nurses. “I’ll get the serum right away,” he announced presently. “No,
I’ll have to go myself. There’s no one at the hospital at this hour
that I’d trust to find it. But my car’s waiting. I won’t be more than
ten minutes.”
He was as good as his word. A tiny stoppered glass tube was in his
hand when he came back. This time he turned to Joan. “Your mother has
pneumonia,” he said. “I’ve known this serum work wonders, although
sometimes it has no effect. I suppose you’d like it tried.”
“Ye-es. If it doesn’t hurt her giving it.” Joan felt as though she were
a captive in a magician’s cave. She winced in sympathetic anticipation
as the nurse bared her grandmother’s arm and Dr. Strachey produced
a little instrument with a sharp, needle-like point. However, to her
relief, the operation seemed trifling. Her grandmother hardly stirred.
Finally, as Dr. Strachey was leaving, he beckoned Joan out of the room.
“I don’t know if there’s anyone you would like to send for. You have
brothers or sisters perhaps?”
“No; there’s no one.” The doctor’s words had turned her numb with
dread. “You don’t mean you think she’s going to die,” she whispered
piteously.
“Oh, no; I hope the serum will pull her through. Of course, it is a
critical case. It isn’t as though your mother were a young girl. Where
are you staying, by the way? Oh, I remember, you told me.--Nurse!” he
called one of the print-clad women from the sick room. “This young lady
has been travelling all night. Is there any room here where she could
rest and have breakfast?--We can’t have you ill too,” he continued in
a kindly tone to Joan as the nurse went off to enquire. “Have you no
friends at all in Norfolk?”
“No, only Mr. Montgomery. He is in the same company--the ‘Vivi’
theatrical company, you know,” Joan explained as the doctor looked
puzzled.
“Yes, I’ve seen the announcements. You are ‘Vivi’ perhaps--or is it
your mother?”
“Oh no; I’m only an understudy. And my--Miss West--that’s her
theatrical name--isn’t playing in this piece at all.”
The doctor looked perturbed. He could not understand how understudies
in a touring company could afford to patronize expensive nursing homes.
It would be only fair to give the superintendent a hint, although, of
course, the patient couldn’t be turned out in her present condition.
And the case had been taken on his recommendation, confound it.
However, the poor woman probably wouldn’t be there long. At her age,
Miss West--or whatever her name was--was not very likely to recover.
“Well, you had better have a sleep yourself, young lady,” he said with
a perceptible increase of stiffness. “I shall be looking in again later
in the morning.”
The nurse now returned with the information that there was a small
room vacant downstairs, which Miss Bland had said could be used, and
some breakfast was being prepared. Joan protested, but feebly. Her
grandmother still lay apparently asleep. The nurse assured her with
rather brutal candour that her presence was of no earthly use in the
sick room, and, indeed, Joan herself realized it. She extracted a
promise that she should be called if ‘Miss West’ awoke--or grew worse.
“I shall only lie down for a few minutes,” she went off murmuring.