when she was a little embarrassed and disconcerted,
worked oddly—not only the lips but the jaw itself.
“Well, well,” she added, after a pause. “That is strange.
Perhaps it was just some one who looked like her.”
But Clyde, watching her out of the corner of his eye, could
not believe that she was as astonished as she pretended.
And, thereafter, Asa coming in, and Clyde not having as yet
departed for the hotel, he heard them discussing the matter
in some strangely inattentive and unillumined way, as if it
was not quite as startling as it had seemed to him. And for
some time he was not called in to explain what he had seen.
And then, as if purposely to solve this mystery for him, he
encountered his mother one day passing along Spruce
Street, this time carrying a small basket on her arm. She
had, as he had noticed of late, taken to going out regularly
mornings and afternoons or evenings. On this occasion,
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and long before she had had an opportunity to see him, he
had discerned her peculiarly heavy figure draped in the old
brown coat which she always wore, and had turned into
Myrkel Street and waited for her to pass, a convenient news
stand offering him shelter. Once she had passed, he
dropped behind her, allowing her to precede him by half a
block. And at Dalrymple, she crossed to Beaudry, which
was really a continuation of Spruce, but not so ugly. The
houses were quite old—quondam residences of an earlier
day, but now turned into boarding and rooming houses. Into
one of these he saw her enter and disappear, but before
doing so she looked inquiringly about her.
After she had entered, Clyde approached the house and
studied it with great interest. What was his mother doing in
there? Who was it she was going to see? He could scarcely
have explained his intense curiosity to himself, and yet,
since having thought that he had seen Esta on the street,
he had an unconvinced feeling that it might have something
to do with her. There were the letters, the one hundred
dollars, the furnished room in Montrose Street.
Diagonally across the way from the house in Beaudry Street
there was a large-trunked tree, leafless now in the winter
wind, and near it a telegraph pole, close enough to make a
joint shadow with it. And behind these he was able to stand
unseen, and from this vantage point to observe the several
windows, side and front and ground and second floor.
Through one of the front windows above, he saw his
mother moving about as though she were quite at home
there. And a moment later, to his astonishment he saw
Esta come to one of their two windows and put a package
down on the sill. She appeared to have on only a light
dressing gown or a wrap drawn about her shoulders. He
was not mistaken this time. He actually started as he
realized that it was she, also that his mother was in there
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with her. And yet what had she done that she must come
back and hide away in this manner? Had her husband, the
man she had run away with, deserted her?
He was so intensely curious that he decided to wait a while
outside here to see if his mother might not come out, and
then he himself would call on Esta. He wanted so much to
see her again—to know what this mystery was all about. He
waited, thinking how he had always liked Esta and how
strange it was that she should be here, hiding away in this
mysterious way.
After an hour, his mother came out, her basket apparently
empty, for she held it lightly in her hand. And just as before,
she looked cautiously about her, her face wearing that
same stolid and yet care-stamped expression which it
always wore these days—a cross between an uplifting faith
and a troublesome doubt.
Clyde watched her as she proceeded to walk south on
Beaudry Street toward the Mission. After she was well out
of sight, he turned and entered the house. Inside, as he had
surmised, he found a collection of furnished rooms, name
plates some of which bore the names of the roomers
pasted upon them. Since he knew that the southeast front
room upstairs contained Esta, he proceeded there and
knocked. And true enough, a light footstep responded
within, and presently, after some little delay which seemed
to suggest some quick preparation within, the door opened
slightly and Esta peeped out—quizzically at first, then with a
little cry of astonishment and some confusion. For, as
inquiry and caution disappeared, she realized that she was
looking at Clyde. At once she opened the door wide.
“Why, Clyde,” she called. “How did you come to find me? I
was just thinking of you.”
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Clyde at once put his arms around her and kissed her. At
the same time he realized, and with a slight sense of shock
and dissatisfaction, that she was considerably changed.
She was thinner—paler—her eyes almost sunken, and not
any better dressed than when he had seen her last. She
appeared nervous and depressed. One of the first thoughts
that came to him now was where her husband was. Why
wasn’t he here? What had become of him? As he looked
about and at her, he noticed that Esta’s look was one of
confusion and uncertainty, not unmixed with a little
satisfaction at seeing him. Her mouth was partly open
because of a desire to smile and to welcome him, but her
eyes showed that she was contending with a problem.
“I didn’t expect you here,” she added, quickly, the moment
he released her. “You didn’t see—” Then she paused,
catching herself at the brink of some information which
evidently she didn’t wish to impart.
“Yes, I did, too—I saw Ma,” he replied. “That’s how I came
to know you were here. I saw her coming out just now and I
saw you up here through the window.” (He did not care to
confess that he had been following and watching his
mother for an hour.) “But when did you get back?” he went
on. “It’s a wonder you wouldn’t let the rest of us know
something about you. Gee, you’re a dandy, you are—going
away and staying months and never letting any one of us
know anything. You might have written me a little
something, anyhow. We always got along pretty well, didn’t
we?”
His glance was quizzical, curious, imperative. She, for her
part, felt recessive and thence evasive—uncertain, quite,
what to think or say or tell.
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She uttered: “I couldn’t think who it might be. No one comes
here. But, my, how nice you look, Clyde. You’ve got such
nice clothes, now. And you’re getting taller. Mamma was
telling me you are working at the Green-Davidson.”
She looked at him admiringly and he was properly
impressed by her notice of him. At the same time he could
not get his mind off her condition. He could not cease
looking at her face, her eyes, her thin-fat body. And as he
looked at her waist and her gaunt face, he came to a very
keen realization that all was not well with her. She was
going to have a child. And hence the thought recurred to
him—where was her husband—or at any rate, the man she
had eloped with. Her original note, according to her mother,
had said that she was going to get married. Yet now he
sensed quite clearly that she was not married. She was
deserted, left in this miserable room here alone. He saw it,
felt it, understood it.
And he thought at once that this was typical of all that
seemed to occur in his family. Here he was just getting a
start, trying to be somebody and get along in the world and
have a good time. And here was Esta, after her first venture
in the direction of doing something for herself, coming to
such a finish as this. It made him a little sick and resentful.
“How long have you been back, Esta?” he repeated
dubiously, scarcely knowing just what to say now, for now
that he was here and she was as she was he began to
scent expense, trouble, distress and to wish almost that he
had not been so curious. Why need he have been? It could
only mean that he must help.
“Oh, not so very long, Clyde. About a month, now, I guess.
Not more than that.”
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“I thought so. I saw you up on Eleventh near Baltimore
about a month ago, didn’t I? Sure I did,” he added a little
less joyously—a change that Esta noted. At the same time
she nodded her head affirmatively. “I knew I did. I told Ma