Chapter XII

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.