VII
WHERE IS THY STING?
Loamford - Samuel Charles Loamford, beloved husband of Martha Reitz Loamford, at his home, 137 West 88th Street, after a brief illness. Funeral private. Kindly omit flowers.
The passing of Mr. Loamford left Dorothy with no tangible sensations. She knew that her father had been ill for a week and that Dr. Knight had described that illness as a mild case of influenza. Then, late one afternoon, Dr. Knight looked serious and spoke in a low voice. In the early evening, he took Dorothy into the sickroom, where an unobtrusive nurse hovered about the background. Her father was sleeping. He looked much as he had always looked, although fever had given him a color which he rarely had had. Dr. Knight motioned Dorothy to say nothing. She tiptoed out again. Her mother was pale and wept constantly. Dr. Knight advised Dorothy to eat dinner alone. It was best for Mrs. Loamford to lie down and rest. Ten minutes after a desultory meal, Dr. Knight came to Dorothy in the library, his head bowed. He said nothing. She understood.
He took her back to the sickroom. The nurse was arranging the chamber neatly. She followed Dr. Knight to the bed. Her father looked peaceful. There was a quiet smile on his features.
"Thank God, he passed away without pain," murmured Dr. Knight. "He was a good man."
Dorothy sat beside the bed and cried softly for a few minutes. Then she went to her mother's room. Mrs. Loamford seemed to be in a state of exhaustion. Dorothy kissed her and left. Uncle Elliott arrived shortly. He kissed Dorothy gently and entered the room where his brother-in-law had died. He came out again after a few minutes and went to the telephone in the hall, where he made arrangements for the funeral. He spoke briefly with Dr. Knight, and announced that he would stay at the Loamford house that evening.
There was nothing for Dorothy to do. Death had come into her life suddenly and quietly. She had seen some of her friends under like conditions. Always, it had seemed to her, there was a tenseness, a hysteria. The loss of a parent, she had learned, was one of the great tragedies of life. And yet, her father was lying dead in the house and there was nothing more than an unwonted silence. She had little to say to her mother. Her mother had little to say to her. They spoke of everyday things, such as ordering the meat and sending the servant girl to the grocer. Animation had passed from the routine existence of their daily lives. Otherwise, things had not changed.
The funeral was attended by almost two hundred persons. Loamford had never had many friends, so far as his family knew. There were a few elderly gentlemen who came up now and then to play cards. Beyond these, he seemed to have no intimates, nor had he ever sought companions. Yet it seemed as though all the employees of the Cosmopolitan Bonding Company were trying to crowd into the parlor. They gathered in little groups in the hall and spoke in subdued voices. Dorothy and her mother sat upstairs in the library, dressed in mourning, and saying nothing. Now and then Mrs. Loamford sobbed gently.
Finally Uncle Elliott came in with Dr. Welch, who was to conduct the services. Dorothy remembered Dr. Welch dimly from the few times that she had attended Sunday-school. He was tall and thin, with a patriarchal white beard. He bowed sombrely to the women, and sat in a corner with Uncle Elliott. He glanced at his watch and beckoned Dorothy and her mother to go down to the parlor, where Loamford’s body lay. The coffin was strewn with wreaths from the Cosmopolitan Bonding Company. There was a silence when Dr. Welch and the family entered. Dr. Welch delivered a short invocation in a deep, dry voice. Then he looked up.
“My good friends,” he said, “we come together under the shadow of the angel of death which has touched our good friend whose spirit is with us, although all that was mortal of him-"
It was an endless speech, Dorothy thought. Dr. Welch spoke eloquently of the meaning of life and the meaning of death and of love and friendship and the lesson to be learned from a life of faith and devotion. What had all this to do with her father? This flowery address, with its interminable metaphors, might apply to anyone. Dr. Welch spoke beautifully, like an actor who had learned well the lines of a gifted author. But what did it mean, applied to her father, a distant little man whom she had known chiefly as some one who left the house early every morning and who came home late every afternoon? It was affecting, to be sure. She heard women sobbing and she saw tired-looking men rub their eyes with the backs of their hands. Her mother seemed to be weeping. She could not be certain. Uncle Elliott sat near the minister, looking exhausted and grave.
She heard Dr. Welch’s voice drop. He was muttering a prayer. There was a scraping of chairs, and the mourners passed to the street, where a long black motorcar was waiting. Dorothy took Uncle Elliott’s proffered arm and followed him out of the house after Dr. Welch and her mother. They entered an automobile behind the long car. No one spoke. The automobile started slowly to Central Park West and down across Fifty-ninth Street to the cemetery on Long Island.
Dorothy could not describe the emotions which she felt on the ride or at the grave or on the trip home. Everything was blankly solemn. She looked in a mirror and discovered that she was pale and that her eyes were red. She had been weeping, she supposed, although she was hardly aware of it.
There were letters and a heavily engrossed resolution from the Cosmopolitan Bonding Company. Dorothy was surprised to find notes addressed to her. There were three of them. First she opened one in a writing that was strange. It was a long, tactful missive from Bennie Wallace. Odd, that he should write! He was a pleasant young man whom she had known casually for two years. Yet there was something very personal about this letter. She passed it to her mother, who pronounced it very lovely. It was Bennie Wallace’s specialty.
Arnold Deering had written. It was a stilted attempt, ending with an invitation to go driving in his new car.
At times like these, a quiet ride in the country was most beneficial. It was nice of Arnold. Mrs. Loamford thought so too. He was a fine, thoughtful young man. Tommy’s note was short and awkward. He did not know what to say. He had always liked her father. He would come soon. If there was anything at all he could do-
Uncle Elliott came, bringing a recent book of travel for Dorothy. It would divert her mind. He hoped that his sister and Dorothy were sufficiently composed to hear the details of the estate. They were.
Loamford, it developed, had left far more money than anyone would have thought. His salary was not large, but his investments had been admirable. His evenings with the sharply pointed pencils and the little looks apparently had not been devoted entirely to grocery accounts. He had been a shrewd trader. He had left his estate in valuable bonds and a few tried and dividend paying stocks. There would be ample income for almost anything the family cared to do. If they cared to, they could dispose of this large house and move into an apartment. They could afford the best.
Here Mrs. Loamford began to weep and to murmur that her husband had been such a good man.
Dorothy’s musical career could be continued easily, Uncle Elliott added. Loamford had left several thousands a year especially for this purpose. His will was a model of its kind. His estate was in perfect shape. There were no debts.
They gazed out of the window. Then the telephone rang. It was Arnold. Would they care to take a little drive? Uncle Elliott thought that it would be an excellent idea for them to be out in the air for an hour or so. They hated to trouble Arnold, but it was so kind of him. Was he sure that they weren’t imposing on him?
Arnold arrived in an amazingly short time. He took them up into Pelham, where he suggested tea at an almost deserted road-house. It was a good idea. Arnold gossiped pleasantly of his friends. He ventured a few jests and was rewarded with subdued smiles. All felt better on the way back. Turning from Broadway on 88th Street, they saw Tommy walking up the avenue. He bowed. Arnold waved to him. Dorothy and Mrs. Loamford nodded.
“Funny goof,” commented Arnold. “One of the most conceited men I know. A good fellow in his way, but he does hate himself!”
They smiled.
They thanked Arnold for his kindness. It was nothing. He was glad to be of service. They could call on him at any time. Perhaps they would care to go out again tomorrow. They would see. Possibly, if it wasn’t too much trouble. None at all. He could always get away from the office.
Uncle Elliott suggested that the best thing now was a little trip. Atlantic City. It would do them good. Then they could make plans when they returned. No hurry about anything.
When they arrived at Atlantic City, they found their rooms full of flowers. Dorothy inspected the cards.
“So thoughtful of Arnold!” exclaimed Mrs. Loamford. “He’s been a real friend tous. Hasn’t he?”
“A very good friend,” agreed Dorothy.
There was a letter from Tommy.
“Incidentally,” it concluded, “I’m the slave now of Mr. Maxwell of the Underwood Concert Corporation. I write the elegant blurbs that you see in the musical papers—if you see the musical papers. If you come under his management when you resume your career, you may be sure of one thing: The press department will be yours to command.”
“That’s very nice of him," commented Mrs. Loamford.
Dorothy nodded. Tommy was at his best professionally.