A Lost Day - Short Story By Edgar Fawcett

Please join me while I read "A Lost Day" by Edgar Fawcett. This is a 22-minute story, accompanied by an additional 5 minutes of ambient music. This story is read to help you relax and is read in a calm tone.

The story: The tale revolves around John Dalrymple's poignant reflections on moments missed and the deep yearning for connection in the whirlwind of life's demands. The story resonates with themes of time, regret, and the beauty of simply being present. As listeners close their eyes, they are invited to ponder their own lives, the days that felt lost amidst distractions, and the simple joys that often go unnoticed.

Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys.

In this track I will read the short story,

A Lost Day by Edgar Fawcett.

Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax.

Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words and help you become calm.

Let's begin with A Lost Day.

My family,

John Dalrymple would say,

Have the strange feeling,

That is,

Nearly all of them except myself on the paternal side,

Of,

And then somebody would always try to interrupt him.

At the Gramercy,

The small but charming club of which he had been for years an honoured member,

They made a point of interrupting him when he began on his family failing.

Not a few of them held to the belief that it was a myth of Dalrymple's imagination.

Still,

Others argued,

All of the clan except John himself had been a queer lot.

There was no real certainty that they had not done extraordinary acts.

Meanwhile,

Apart from his desire to delve among ancestral records and repeat tales which had been told many times before,

He was a genuine favourite with his friends.

But that series of family anecdotes remained a standing joke.

They all pitied him when it became known that his engagement to the pretty winsome widow,

Mrs.

Carrington,

Was definitely broken.

He was past forty now and had not been known to pay serious court to any woman before in at least ten years.

Of course,

Mrs.

Carrington was rich,

But then her money could not have attracted Dalrymple,

For he was rich himself in spite of his plain way of living there in that small 22nd Street basement house.

But the widow's money had doubtless lured to help her side the gentleman who had cut poor Dalrymple out.

A number of years ago,

When this little occurrence which he was chronicling took place,

It was not so easy as it is now to make sure of a foreigner's credentials and antecedents.

The Count de Pomerul,

A reputed French nobleman of high position,

Had managed to get into the Gramercy as a six-month member,

And had managed also to cross the thresholds of numerous select New York drawing rooms.

At the very period of his introduction to Mrs.

Carrington,

Her engagement with Dalrymple had already become publicly announced.

Then,

In a few weeks,

Society received a shock.

Dalrymple was thrown over,

And it transpired that the brilliant young widow was betrothed to the Count.

Dalrymple,

Calm and self-contained,

Had nothing to say on the subject of why he had received such shabby treatment,

And nobody ventured to interrogate him.

Some people believed in the Count,

Others thought that there was a ring of falsity about him,

For all his fame was so elegantly slender and supple,

For all his moustache was so glossily dark and his eyes so richly lustrous.

Dalrymple,

Meanwhile,

Hid his wound,

Met the Count constantly at the club,

Though no longer even exchanging bows with him,

And worked at his revenge in secret as a beaver works at the building of his winter ranch.

He succeeded,

Too,

In getting superb materials for that revenge.

They surprised even himself when a few relatives and friends in Paris mailed him appalling documentary evidence as to what sort of character this Count really was.

There is no doubt that he now held in his hand a thunderbolt,

And had only to hurl it when he pleased.

He did not tell a single soul what he had learned.

The thought of just how he would act haunted him for several days.

One evening,

He went home from the club a little earlier than usual,

And tossed restlessly for a good while after going to bed.

When sleep came,

It found himself still irresolute as to what course he should take.

It seemed to him that he now had a succession of dreams,

But he could recall none of them awakening,

And he awoke in a peculiar way.

There was yet no hint of dawn in the room,

And only the light from his gas turned down to a very dim star.

He was sitting bolt upright in bed,

And feverish,

Fatigued sensations oppressed him.

What have I been dreaming?

He asked himself again and again,

But as only a confused jumble of memories answered him,

He sank back upon his pillows and was soon buried in slumber.

It was past nine o'clock in the morning when he next awoke.

He felt decidedly better.

Both the feverishness and the fatigue had left him.

He went to the club and breakfast there.

It was almost empty of members,

As small clubs are apt to be at that hour of the morning,

But in the hall he met his old friend Lengworth and bowed to him.

Lengworth,

Who was rather nearsighted,

Gave a sudden start and stare.

How odd,

Thought Dow Rimple as he passed on into the reading room.

I hope there's nothing unexpected about my personal appearance.

Just at the doorway of the room he met another old friend,

Summerson,

A man extremely strict about all matters of propriety.

Summerson saw him and then plainly made believe that he had not been seen.

As they moved by one another,

Dow Rimple said lightly,

Good morning,

Old chap.

How's your gout?

Summerson,

Who was very tall and excessively dignified,

Gave a comic squirm.

Then his eyelids fluttered and with the tips of his lips he murmured,

Better,

As he glided along.

Poo,

Said Dow Rimple to himself,

Getting touchy,

I suppose,

In his old age.

How longevity disagrees with some of us mortals.

He nearly always took a bottle of seltzer before breakfast,

And this morning old Andrew,

A servant who had been in the club many years,

Poured it out for him.

I hope you are right again this morning,

Sir,

Said Andrew with his Celtic accent and in an affable half whisper.

All right,

Andrew,

Was the reply.

Why,

You must be thinking of someone else.

I haven't been ill.

My health has been excellent for a long time past.

Yes,

Sir,

Said Andrew,

Lowering his eyes and respectfully retiring.

That last yes,

Sir,

Had a dubious note about its delivery that almost made Dow Rimple call the faithful old fellow back and further question him.

All right again?

As if he had ever been all wrong.

Oh well,

Poor Andrew was aging.

Others had remarked that fact months ago.

A different servant came to announce breakfast.

There were only about five men in the dining room as Dow Rimple entered it.

All of them gazed at him in an unusual way,

Or had Lady Vince led him to think that they did also.

At the table nearest him sat Everdell,

One of the jolliest men in the club,

A person whose face was nearly always wreathed in smiles.

Good morning,

Said Dow Rimple as he caught Everdell's eye.

Good morning,

The tones were replete with mild consternation,

And the look that went with them was smileless to the degree of actual gloom.

Then Everdell,

Who had just finished his breakfast,

Rose and drew near to Dow Rimple.

Upon my word,

He said,

I'm delighted to see that you are all right again so soon.

All right again so soon?

Was the reply.

What in mercy's name do you mean?

Oh,

My dear fellow,

Began Everdell,

Fumbling with his watch chain.

It was pretty bad,

You know,

Yesterday.

Pretty bad yesterday?

I saw you in the morning,

And for an hour or so in the afternoon.

Perhaps no one would have noticed it if you hadn't stayed here all day and poured those confidences into people's ears about Dave Pomerle.

You didn't appear to have drank a drop in the club.

There's the funny part of it.

You went out several times,

Though,

And came back again.

All that you had to drink,

Except some wine here at dinner,

You remember,

You must have got outside.

I wasn't here at ten o'clock when Dave Pomerle came in.

I'm glad I wasn't.

You must have been dreadful.

If Summerson and Joyce hadn't rushed in between you and the Count,

Heaven knows what would have happened.

As it is,

At this point,

Dalrymple broke in with cold harshness.

Look here,

Everdell,

I always disliked practical jokes,

And I've known for a number of years that you're given to them.

You've never attempted to make me your butt before,

However,

And you'll have the kindness to discontinue any such proceeding now.

Everdell drew back for a moment,

Frowned,

Shrugged his shoulders,

And then muttered,

Oh?

If you're going to put it in that way.

Strode quickly out of the dining room.

Dalrymple scarcely ate a morsel of breakfast.

After he had gulped down some hot coffee,

He repaired to the reading room.

As he re-entered it,

A waiter handed him several letters.

One which he opened first was marked Immediate,

And had been sent him from his own house by an intelligent and devoted woman servant there who had been for a long period in his employ.

This letter made poor Dalrymple's head swim as he read it,

Written and signed by Mr.

Somerson himself as chairman of the house committee of the club.

It ordered him to appear that same evening before a meeting of the governors and answer to a charge of disorderly conduct on the previous night.

Then it went on to state that he,

Dalrymple,

Had been seen throughout the previous day at the club in a state of evident intoxication,

And had,

Finally,

Between the hours of ten and eleven p.

M.

,

Accosted and grossly insulted the Count of Pomerol in the main drawing room of the Gramercy.

Disorderly conduct,

Evident intoxication,

Grossly insulted the Count of Pomerol.

These words were trembling on Dalrymple's lips as he presently approached Somerson himself,

The very gentleman who had signed the letter,

And who stood in the hall,

Arrayed for the street.

What?

What?

What does it all mean?

Gasped Dalrymple.

I never was intoxicated in my life,

Lawrence Somerson.

You ought to know that.

I played euchre last night,

Up in the card room,

From nine o'clock till twelve,

With Ogden and Folsom,

And yourself.

If there's any practical joke being got up against me,

For God's sake.

Wait a minute,

Please,

Said Somerson.

He went back into the coat room,

Disarrayed himself of his street wraps,

And finally joined Dalrymple.

His first words,

Low and grave,

Ran thus,

Can it be possible you don't recollect that our game of euchre was played the night before last,

And not last night?

Then he went with Dalrymple into a corner of the reading room,

And they talked together for a good while.

Dalrymple went back to his home that day,

In a mental whirl.

It still wanted a number of hours before the governing committee would meet.

He had lost a day out of his life,

There could be no doubt of that.

If he had moved about the club at all yesterday with a drunken manner,

Reviling de Pomerol to everybody who lent him an ear,

If he had afterward met de Pomerol in the club and directed toward him in loud and furious tones,

A perfect torrent of accusation,

He himself was completely,

Blankly ignorant.

For a good while he sat quite still and thought.

Then he summoned Anne,

The elderly and very trustworthy Anne,

Who had been his dear mother's aide and was now his housekeeper.

He questioned Anne,

And after dismissing her,

He pondered her answers.

Three times yesterday she had seen him,

And regarding his appearance,

Anne had her distinct opinions.

Suddenly,

A light flashed upon Dalrymple while he sat alone and brooded.

He sprang up and a cry,

Half of all,

Half of gladness,

Left his lips.

The baffling problem had been solved.

That evening he presented himself before the governing committee.

All assembled were sorry for him.

Of course,

Punishment must be dealt,

But for an old and popular member like Dalrymple,

It must not be expulsion.

The general feeling of the club had indeed already been gauged,

And it was in favor of suspension for six months or a year at the farthest.

Dalrymple,

However,

Was determined that he should be visited with no punishment at all,

And he meant to state why.

The judges,

As he faced them,

All looked politely grim.

The president,

After a few suave preliminaries,

Asked Dalrymple if he had anything to say concerning the charges preferred against him.

Dalrymple then proceeded to speak with a clear voice and composed demeanor.

His first sentence electrified his hearers.

I have no possible recollection of yesterday,

He began,

And it is precisely as much of a lost day to me as though I had lain chloroformed for twenty-four hours.

On Wednesday night I returned home from this club and went to rest.

I never really woke until Friday,

Possibly a little while after midnight,

And then within my own bed.

On Thursday morning I must have risen in a state of synambulism,

Hypnotism,

Mental aberration,

Whatever you please,

And not come to myself until Thursday had passed and I had once more retired.

Of what yesterday occurrence I therefore claim to have been the irresponsible agent,

And to have become so through no fault of my own,

I am completely innocent of the misdemeanors charged against me,

And I now solemnly swear this on my word of honor as a gentleman.

Here Dalrymple paused.

The members of the committee interchanged glances amid profound silence.

On some faces doubt could be read,

But on others its various opposite.

The intense stillness had become painful when Dalrymple spoke again.

I had hoped that I should escape throughout my own lifetime all visitations of this distressing kind.

My grandfather and two of my uncles not only walked in their sleep to an alarming degree,

But were each subject to strange conditions of mind,

In which acts were performed by them that they could not possibly remember afterward.

Here the speaker paused,

Soon continuing,

However,

In a lower and more reflective tone.

Yes,

My family have had the strange failing,

That is,

Nearly all of them except myself on the paternal side,

Of .

.

.

But he said no more.

The tension was loosened,

And a great roar of laughter rose from the whole committee.

How often every man there had joked him about that marvelous budget of stories which he infallibly began one way,

And only one way,

And when the familiar formula sounded forth it was all the funnier to those who heard it because of the solemn judicial circumstances in which it again met their hearing.

The plaintiff was honorably acquitted.

As for the depomeral,

As every word that Dalrymple had said concerning his past life in France happened to be perfectly true,

The Count never reappeared at the Gramercy.

His engagement with Mrs.

Carrington was soon awkward broken off by the lady herself,

And for a good while it was rumored that this lady had repentantly made it optional with Dalrymple whether he should once more become her accepted sweetheart.

But Dalrymple remained a bachelor.

He is quite an old man now,

Yet he may be found in the card room of the Gramercy nearly every evening.

He is very willing to tell you the story of his lost day if you ask him courteously for it and not in any strain of fun poking,

But he attempts no more voluntary recitals on the subject of his family's maladies or mishaps.