THE DAY AFTER
There was a single day of incredulity and suspense, and then the fact
of Adam Lawton’s financial downfall was made public through the papers,
together with the names of those who had been swept from their feet in
his company. As to his physical collapse, it was merely stated that
he was ill at his department in the St. Hilaire, denied himself to
all visitors, and would hold no communication even with his lawyer or
business associates.
Few people sink alone in a financial maelstrom, and Lawton was not one
of these; so that the cries and muttered imprecations of those who,
unlike her father, were conscious and battling for life in trying to find
and cling to bits of the wreckage reached Brooke and rang in her ears,
partially deafening her to her own thoughts.
It was not until noon of the second day that she had succeeded in getting
her mother to leave her post and see Mr. Dean in the library. At first
Brooke had hoped to keep the knowledge of the real cause of her father’s
illness from her mother, for a few days at least, but it was of no use;
every one in the great hotel was aware of the facts, even though it made
no difference in the attitude of the employees, for with a certain class
of people, and a fairly intelligent one at that, failures are often
interpreted merely as an odd trick in the game of finance now played. One
of the important morning papers even went so far as to print a thinly
veiled hint that Adam Lawton’s seclusion and supposed illness was a very
subtle excuse for gaining time or allowing him to forget much that it
would be extremely inconvenient to be called upon to remember at this
juncture.
Mrs. Lawton had gone through her ordeal with Mr. Dean very quietly; she
heard his explanation—that is, as far as anything that might be said
could be called such, but its full meaning had not yet dawned upon her;
and being utterly worn out she allowed herself to be tucked up on the
lounge in Brooke’s room, where she fell into an exhausted sleep, under
the soothing touch of her daughter’s fingers.
Lucy Dean, coming in during the late afternoon, for she had remained with
her friend since the first and had only gone out for a walk, found Brooke
sitting bolt upright in her father’s chair in the den, a newspaper that
rested on the desk crumpled in one hand, and a dangerous light in her
eyes.
“Have you seen this?” she asked Lucy, in a voice that was fairly hoarse
from suppression, as she pointed to the insinuating article which bore
the double significance of being semi-editorial in form,—“and appearing
in the _Daily Forum_, too, the paper that father always thought the most
sound and moderate. Oh, how I wish that I could get hold of some one and
make them believe at least that father is truly ill and knows absolutely
no one, not even mother and me!”
“Brooke Lawton, if you are going to read all the papers say or hint about
your affairs during the next few weeks, you will give me a chance to look
up a sanatorium, with nice cool bars for you to snub your nose against,
which won’t improve its shape. Don’t read the papers; if the things
aren’t true, why bother, and if some of them are, what are you going to
do about it?”
Lucy had been astonishingly quiet and sympathetic for nearly twenty-four
hours, but a long walk in the fresh air had raised her indomitable animal
spirits to the top again, and though they sometimes made Brooke catch
her breath and gasp, like too crude a stimulant, they were under the
circumstances probably the best counterbalance and tonic she could have
had.
“Of course,” Lucy continued, “if it was a purely social affair, I
could get Charlie Ashton to stuff the papers to the limit. If he is
my cousin, I must say that he managed to syndicate the account of the
Parkses’ musicale most adroitly (of course, though, you didn’t read
that yesterday). The main description—gowns and all that—was the same in
each, but Charlie contrived to let each reporter have some extra item
that fitted his paper specially. A little more about the music for one,
details of the picture gallery for another, the brand of champagne used
for a third, upholstery for a fourth, and so on. Come to think of it, I
remember something about his saying that a reporter on the _Daily Forum_
was a chum of his at Harvard. I might try and see what Charlie can do,
but I’m afraid, as far as serious news goes, even his chum wouldn’t
swallow him.”
“Oh, Lucy, Lucy! can’t you see it is not _stuffing_ and _swallowing_
that I want, but for people to know that father is really ill and not
shamming—that we are not all combining in a dreadful game of deceit?”
“Do be content, child, to let the talk wear itself out. From what the
doctor told my father this morning, your father may be a long time like
this—weeks and months perhaps—even if by and by he comes to himself. It
isn’t like a toothache that will be over to-morrow. You can’t rush out on
the avenue and pull the people up here in flocks to see for themselves,
though by to-morrow, just as soon as society has made up its mind what it
ought to do, you’ll have plenty of callers. You told me yourself that the
result of the consultation was that everything hinges on quiet.
“By the way, there were two reporters clamouring at the lift when I went
out, one actually trying to bribe the boy to tell whether your father
was really here in the apartment. I sent them scurrying in a hurry, I
can tell you. Listen! I believe that there is another at the door now;
anyway, some one is asking for you. I think I heard the words _Daily
Forum_,” and Lucy pulled aside the curtain, and going to the angle in the
hallway peered down its length to where the maid was talking in whispers
to a tall somebody in pantaloons.
“Yes, it is a reporter,” said Lucy, stepping back noiselessly. “Sellers
is trying to shoo him out, but he’s all inside the door and asking, not
a bit humbly, to see ‘a member of the family.’ Watch and see how long
it will take me to get rid of him,” and Lucy pulled on and buttoned her
gloves, which, on coming in, she had begun to take off, with a gesture as
though fists were to take part in the encounter, if necessary.
Brooke, who had been listening to Lucy, yet not looking at her, with eyes
fixed on the crumpled paper before her, suddenly sprang to her feet, the
warning flash returning to her eyes, saying: “Don’t go; I will see this
man myself, and please remember, Lucy, whatever I may say or do, you are
not to speak. No, don’t leave the room. I want you to stay by me, but
this matter of father’s feigning illness is an affair of honour that only
one of the family can conduct.”
Going quickly down the hall, she relieved the harassed maid by indicating
to the visitor that he was to follow her, at the same time making a
gesture to caution silence, as she guided him back to the den.
What he first saw on entering the room was the tall, straight figure of a
young woman, back turned, half a hat and one cheek outlined against the
lace drapery, through which she was looking into the street with a frozen
fixedness, as if her very life depended upon not moving or turning the
fraction of an inch. His second glance rested on the other woman, who,
having preceded him, was standing by the desk corner, half supporting
herself by it. She raised her head with its wreath of ash-brown hair
proudly, and looked him in the face with eyes in which anger struggled
with a pleading expression, in keeping with the heavy shadows that
underlay them.
After moistening her lips once or twice nervously, Brooke spoke: “You
asked to see one of the family, and said it was important that you
should. If you are a gentleman, as you appear to be, of course you would
not have come at such a time on trivial business. I am Brooke Lawton;
what do you wish to ask?”
For an instant the young fellow hesitated, thoroughly abashed; he had
met with a variety of experiences in following his vocation of news
collecting, but never before had he felt so much like beating a retreat,
or his errand seemed so intrusive. Without any special claim to good
looks or great stature, he had a certain clear-cut distinctiveness of
feature, a mouth that stood the harsh test of the shaved upper lip, and
eyes that, though they opened lengthwise rather than wide, looked as if
they would take in the surroundings and atmosphere as well as the main
object on which they were focussed.
While he hesitated the newspaper which Brooke still clutched attracted
him, and as he read its title he divined that Brooke had overheard the
name he had just given the maid at the door and already associated him
with the sneering article. Laying the card, which the maid had refused,
upon the table, he said quietly, but with an earnestness that carried
conviction: “I am Tom Brownell of the _Daily Forum_, the sheet you have
in your hand. I know that there was a nasty leader in this morning’s
issue that was slipped in, no one seems to know how, by some one who had
animus or was hard hit in this T. Y. D. Q. deal. We pride ourselves upon
getting at the truth of things that concern the public, so I have come
here to settle for once and all the question of Mr. Lawton’s reported
serious illness, by direct communication with some one of his family.”
“You mean that you wish to know if my father is really ill? Then people
do doubt it and think he may be merely hiding to avoid inquiry?” said
Brooke, who now had full control of the voice that her friends called
silvery, but which now had more of steel in its ring.
“Moreover, you expect to learn the truth by _asking_ one of his
family—what will that amount to if they choose to aid and abet the
illness that your paper hints is part of a well-arranged covering of a
retreat? If I should tell you that night before last, while my mother
and I were waiting for him to return to dinner, my father had come home,
unknown to us or the maids, letting himself in with a latch-key, which
he used so seldom that we had forgotten its existence; when finally,
attracted by a light under the door of this room, we opened it, he was in
this chair, unconscious, stricken with apoplexy, his hand by the receiver
of the overturned telephone; since then, though as far as physical life
goes he is living, he has neither moved nor spoken nor recognized any
one, nor can he swallow, and such liquid food as he has taken is given
artificially,—if I tell you all this, still how can you be sure it is the
truth?”
“Please, please, Miss Lawton, I am shocked and awfully grieved and
ashamed. Don’t be so hard on yourself and on me as to think that I
dreamed of any such condition existing. We reporters do not rejoice in
the misfortunes of others. But that it is not the time for such things,
I could tell you that one of the reasons I had in beginning life in this
way was to get to the bottom of things, and see if some people at least
didn’t really want to tell and hear the truth in the newspapers. Of
course I will believe what you tell me, and all that remains is for me to
apologize for pushing in upon you and—go as quickly as possible. I only
wish I could help or do something to ease you.”
“You forget that I have told you nothing,” said Brooke, hesitating and
catching at the throat of her blouse as if she wished to pull it away
and give herself more room to breathe—“I only said _if_, and if you are
looking for truth, to be certain you must see it, not ask about it.”
Then, as the new thought grew upon her, and she realized that her mother
was asleep, the tragedy fled from her eyes, that she had fixed upon the
face of the reporter,—who, fast losing his self-possession, stood looking
uncomfortable and foolish, turning his hat about by its rim like an
applicant for a situation,—her entire poise had altered, and she seemed
several inches taller.
“Oh, Mr. Brownell, don’t you see that the only way that you can help
us in telling the truth about father is by seeing for yourself? Put
down your hat and come with me—” and before he had recovered from his
astonishment, Brooke grasped Tom Brownell by the wrist and literally led
him from the room, up the hallway, not toward the entrance but along the
side passage, where the electricity had not yet been turned on and which
was in a dim and uncertain light.
Pausing before the door of Adam Lawton’s room, and without releasing her
hold of Brownell’s wrist, she turned the handle carefully, entered, and
was standing with her companion in the shadow of the bed before the nurse
at the opposite side realized that any one had come in, or could even
raise her hand in caution. No one spoke, and the footsteps on the thick
rug that covered the floor made no sound—the breathing of the pale figure
prone upon the bed was the only vibration even of the air.
For two, perhaps three, minutes, that held an eternity of torture to
Brownell, who stood with bent head, they remained, so that no detail
could escape his notice. Then Brooke led him back to the den, leaving
the nurse in grave doubt as to what manner of man this might be who had
seemingly been forcibly led into the room where, by the doctor’s orders,
no one but mother and daughter were to be admitted.
The moment that the curtains had closed behind the two, Lucy Dean turned
from the window with a suddenness that might be described as a bang,
except that no noise went with the motion. Drawing two or three long
breaths, as a relief to her suppressed speech, she crossed the room and
picked up the reporter’s card, turned it over and over and, reading the
name with deliberation, put it in her pocket. “Thomas Brownell, Jr., the
_Daily Forum_,” she repeated, at the same time making a mental note
that the card itself was of good quality and engraved, not printed, an
unusual occurrence with the average reporter. Spying his hat, she next
seized upon that, discovering at a single glance the name of a maker
of good repute and Brownell’s own address, at a comfortable though
inexpensive bachelor inn, stamped in gilt letters on the band. Hearing a
slight rustling in the hall, she returned to her post by the window, but,
instead of standing, she had thrown herself into a chair, half facing the
room, by the time that the two returned.
Nothing further was said as to what had been seen. Brownell picked up
his hat, preparing to leave as quickly as possible, yet he could not
but notice that Lucy Dean, who by this time had turned wholly toward
the room, was looking at him with an expression half quizzical, half
challenging.
Brooke dropped wearily into the chair by the desk; the strain of the last
hour had been greater than what she actually felt; she had been hurried
swiftly to face stern realities, which all her life, though through no
choice of her own, had been to her a side issue in which she took no part
or responsibility, and which she was never allowed to question. Then,
seeing that the reporter was standing and evidently at a loss how to go,
she went forward with extended hand, saying, very gently, “Good-by. I
think I may trust you not to misunderstand my father’s illness now.”
Turning to the figure by the window, now all on the alert, she said,
“Lucy, dear, will you please show Mr. Brownell the way out, there are
so many turns in this inner hall?” Then, as Lucy raised her eyebrows in
disgusted question marks, Brooke continued, “Ah, forgive me! this is my
dear friend, Miss Dean, Mr. Brownell, and”—a little smile hovered around
the comers of her mouth in spite of herself—“you may be very sure that
she will never tell you anything but the whole truth!”
Then, as the two girls changed places and Lucy led the way down the main
hall, Brooke reseated herself before the desk, that might tell so much if
it only could, folded her arms upon it, hiding her weary eyes in them.
Had she done right or wrong in letting a stranger see her father’s real
condition? Would it make outside conditions better or worse? Why had the
doctor given out such evasive bulletins? Well, the die was cast, and
something within told her that from that hour, when she had taken the
family responsibility upon herself, she would have to bear it.
* * * * *
As Tom Brownell crossed the rug that lay before the outer door of the
Lawton apartment, something between it and the tiled flooring slid under
the pressure of his foot. Checking his first impulse to pass on and get
out as quickly as possible, he turned back, even though the door itself
was open, and, lifting the corner of the rug, picked up two thin keys,
one smaller than the other, that were joined by a steel ring. Accustomed
to fit two and two together rapidly, he involuntarily glanced at the
spring lock on the door to see if they belonged to it, but found it of
a different pattern. Stepping outside, the better to see by the hanging
electric light, he found that the keys bore no name or mark other than
figures, probably the factory number of keys of a fine make. Turning
to Lucy, who had already come into the main hall and, half closing the
door behind her, was watching him, he muttered a hasty apology for his
curiosity concerning the keys, saying: “To me unfamiliar keys have always
had a strange fascination, for all my life I have expected to find one
that would unlock a mystery. These probably belong to some of Mrs. or
Miss Lawton’s possessions—a travelling bag or jewel case. Will you please
take charge of them? And thank you for showing me the way out,” turning
up the corridor as he spoke.
“You needn’t thank me for showing you the way, as you evidently don’t
know it,” said Lucy; “that is, unless you have professional reasons for
going down in the luggage lift with trunks, baby wagons, clothes-baskets,
and scrubbing pails. No, you needn’t raise your eyebrows, I’m not English
or infected with Anglomania either, simply I’m to the point, and _luggage
lift_ is a much more smooth and pronounceable expression than baggage
elevator, don’t you think?
“To the right—there you are! Not running? Why, the thing was all right
when I came in not an hour ago, but I’ve noticed that the power has a
way of giving out, or the machinery needs oiling, about the time the
man might be supposed to want an afternoon nap. You’ll have to walk
downstairs. Good afternoon. Oh, by the way, do you happen to know Charlie
Ashton? I beg his pardon, _Carolus_, though I only promised to call
him that at his studio teas. He had a chum at college, he said, with a
literary and reformatory streak, who a year ago had cut away from his
father’s business, and incidentally his own fortune, and was climbing
into journalism, not in at the top story, but up the cellar stairs. I’ve
rather forgotten his name. He doesn’t chance to be you, does he?”
“I’m afraid he does, and that Ashton has guyed me unmercifully to you, in
spite of all the good turns that he has done me. But as I am myself, you
must be his cousin, Miss Dean, of whom he talks so much at the club. I
did not quite catch what name Miss Lawton said.”
“I am Lucy Dean, and I dare say that he has talked about me even at so
reprehensible a place as the club. Talking about me, I fear, is a bad
habit that a great many of my friends have. I also know that he didn’t
call me Miss Dean. What club was it? What did he call me? Lucyfer is his
pet title—and what did he say?”
“Oh, Miss Dean, it wasn’t the way you mean at all. I was lunching,
at his invitation, with him at the Players,—quite by ourselves on my
word, and—he—well, he did call you Lucyfer, and said it expressed your
stand-off way and all that; but he declared you were the best chum a
fellow ever had, and if he wanted a studio entertainment to be a corking
success, he always had you pour tea. If I hadn’t been spending all my
time the last year climbing up the cellar stairs, as you express it, I
should have begged him to ask me to one of the teas; but I’m out of that
sort of thing, for good and all, you see.”
Lucy flushed slightly, an odd thing for her, and then said suddenly,
holding out her right hand, both having been held behind her, after a
habit she had, until this moment: “You are keen to avoid teas, they
are horribly stupid; the cigarette smoke makes one’s eyes weak, and
the Saké punch does for the rest of one’s head, and unless we act
like mountebanks and shock people so that they forget to be bored, no
one would come twice. Ask Charlie to bring you up to the house some
afternoon, as you live so near to him, about five for a cup of real tea.
No, don’t thank me, it is not an invitation. It’s years since I’ve taken
the responsibility of giving one to a man,—certainly not since I was
eighteen; you must take the responsibility of coming upon yourself!”
“As you have never seen me until this afternoon, and I only moved over
from—well, let’s call it the Borough of Queens—last month, how could
you know where I live?” queried Brownell, looking up with a quizzical
expression, and passing over the first part of her speech, not because he
did not heed it, but for the reason of a certain Indian instinct he had
of picking up trails as he went along, that helped him not a little in
his work.
Lucy flushed furiously, this time to the roots of her hair, sought refuge
for a single instant in subterfuge, but finding herself fairly caught,
throwing her head up, stood with hands again clasped behind her, and lips
parted, smiling at the man who had already gone two steps downward on the
stairs when she had called the halt.
“You say that you are seeking for truth with a fountain pen and a
stenographer’s note-book, also Brooke says that I always speak the
truth—attention! I saw your address in your hat this afternoon!”
Brownell, who was at that moment holding his hat against his chest,
looked anxiously at the top of the crown, wondering if it had become
transparent.
“No, I didn’t see _through_ the hat, it’s not my way; I looked _in it_
when you were out of the room, because I wanted to know where it was
bought! A woman can tell a great deal by that! The biped _I_ call a _man_
never buys a department-store hat, for instance, he’d rather wear a
second-hand one first. Well, yours did not come from a department store,
neither was it second-hand; in fact, it was painfully new, address and
all!”
Then Lucy Dean turned on her heel with right-about-face rapidity and
vanished around the corner of the corridor; while Tom Brownell, half
angry, half fascinated, and wholly amazed, went down the marble stairs
two steps at a time, a difficult feat, and one that would have made the
very correct man at the door suspect that the visitor had been summarily
ejected, if it had not been for the expression of Brownell’s face, which,
by the time he reached the bottom stair, wore a decidedly satisfied
smile.