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.