animality the force and meaning of that chemistry and urge
toward mating which lies back of all youthful thought and
action. And in herself, as from time to time she observed
lovers or flirtation-seekers who lingered at street corners or
about doorways, and who looked at her in a longing and
seeking way, there was a stirring, a nerve plasm palpitation
that spoke loudly for all the seemingly material things of life,
not for the thin pleasantries of heaven.
And the glances drilled her like an invisible ray, for she was
pleasing to look at and was growing more attractive hourly.
And the moods in others awakened responsive moods in
her, those rearranging chemisms upon which all the
morality or immorality of the world is based.
And then one day, as she was coming home from school, a
youth of that plausible variety known as “masher” engaged
her in conversation, largely because of a look and a mood
which seemed to invite it. And there was little to stay her,
for she was essentially yielding, if not amorous. Yet so great
had been her home drilling as to the need of modesty,
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circumspection, purity and the like, that on this occasion at
least there was no danger of any immediate lapse. Only this
attack once made, others followed, were accepted, or not
so quickly fled from, and by degrees, these served to break
down that wall of reserve which her home training had
served to erect. She became secretive and hid her ways
from her parents.
Youths occasionally walked and talked with her in spite of
herself. They demolished that excessive shyness which had
been hers, and which had served to put others aside for a
time at least. She wished for other contacts—dreamed of
some bright, gay, wonderful love of some kind, with some
one.
Finally, after a slow but vigorous internal growth of mood
and desire, there came this actor, one of those vain,
handsome, animal personalities, all clothes and airs, but no
morals (no taste, no courtesy or real tenderness even), but
of compelling magnetism, who was able within the space of
one brief week and a few meetings to completely befuddle
and enmesh her so that she was really his to do with as he
wished. And the truth was that he scarcely cared for her at
all. To him, dull as he was, she was just another girl—fairly
pretty, obviously sensuous and inexperienced, a silly who
could be taken by a few soft words—a show of seemingly
sincere affection, talk of the opportunity of a broader, freer
life on the road, in other great cities, as his wife.
And yet his words were those of a lover who would be true
forever. All she had to do, as he explained to her, was to
come away with him and be his bride, at once—now. Delay
was so vain when two such as they had met. There was
difficulty about marriage here, which he could not explain—
it related to friends—but in St. Louis he had a preacher
friend who would wed them. She was to have new and
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33
better clothes than she had ever known, delicious
adventures, love. She would travel with him and see the
great world. She would never need to trouble more about
anything save him; and while it was truth to her—the verbal
surety of a genuine passion—to him it was the most ancient
and serviceable type of blarney, often used before and
often successful.
In a single week then, at odd hours, morning, afternoon and
night, this chemic witchery was accomplished.
Coming home rather late one Saturday night in April from a
walk which he had taken about the business heart, in order
to escape the regular Saturday night mission services,
Clyde found his mother and father worried about the
whereabouts of Esta. She had played and sung as usual at
this meeting. And all had seemed all right with her. After the
meeting she had gone to her room, saying that she was not
feeling very well and was going to bed early. But by eleven
o’clock, when Clyde returned, her mother had chanced to
look into her room and discovered that she was not there
nor anywhere about the place. A certain bareness in
connection with the room—some trinkets and dresses
removed, an old and familiar suitcase gone—had first
attracted her mother’s attention. Then the house search
proving that she was not there, Asa had gone outside to
look up and down the street. She sometimes walked out
alone, or sat or stood in front of the mission during its idle or
closed hours.
This search revealing nothing, Clyde and he had walked to
a corner, then along Missouri Avenue. No Esta. At twelve
they returned and after that, naturally, the curiosity in regard
to her grew momentarily sharper.
At first they assumed that she might have taken an
unexplained walk somewhere, but as twelve-thirty, and
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34
finally one, and one-thirty, passed, and no Esta, they were
about to notify the police, when Clyde, going into her room,
saw a note pinned to the pillow of her small wooden bed—a
missive that had escaped the eye of his mother. At once he
went to it, curious and comprehending, for he had often
wondered in what way, assuming that he ever wished to
depart surreptitiously, he would notify his parents, for he
knew they would never countenance his departure unless
they were permitted to supervise it in every detail. And now
here was Esta missing, and here was undoubtedly some
such communication as he might have left. He picked it up,
eager to read it, but at that moment his mother came into
the room and, seeing it in his hand, exclaimed: “What’s
that? A note? Is it from her?” He surrendered it and she
unfolded it, reading it quickly. He noted that her strong
broad face, always tanned a reddish brown, blanched as
she turned away toward the outer room. Her biggish mouth
was now set in a firm, straight line. Her large, strong hand
shook the least bit as it held the small note aloft.
“Asa!” she called, and then tramping into the next room
where he was, his frizzled grayish hair curling distractedly
above his round head, she said: “Read this.”
Clyde, who had followed, saw him take it a little nervously in
his pudgy hands, his lips, always weak and beginning to
crinkle at the center with age, now working curiously. Any
one who had known his life’s history would have said it was
the expression, slightly emphasized, with which he had
received most of the untoward blows of his life in the past.
“Tst! Tst! Tst!” was the only sound he made at first, a
sucking sound of the tongue and palate—most weak and
inadequate, it seemed to Clyde. Next there was another
“Tst! Tst! Tst!”, his head beginning to shake from side to
side. Then, “Now, what do you suppose could have caused
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35
her to do that?” Then he turned and gazed at his wife, who
gazed blankly in return. Then, walking to and fro, his hands
behind him, his short legs taking unconscious and queerly
long steps, his head moving again, he gave vent to another
ineffectual “Tst! Tst! Tst!”
Always the more impressive, Mrs. Griffiths now showed
herself markedly different and more vital in this trying
situation, a kind of irritation or dissatisfaction with life itself,
along with an obvious physical distress, seeming to pass
through her like a visible shadow. Once her husband had
gotten up, she reached out and took the note, then merely
glared at it again, her face set in hard yet stricken and
disturbing lines. Her manner was that of one who is
intensely disquieted and dissatisfied, one who fingers
savagely at a material knot and yet cannot undo it, one who
seeks restraint and freedom from complaint and yet who
would complain bitterly, angrily. For behind her were all
those years of religious work and faith, which somehow, in
her poorly integrated conscience, seemed dimly to indicate
that she should justly have been spared this. Where was
her God, her Christ, at this hour when this obvious evil was
being done? Why had He not acted for her? How was He to
explain this? His Biblical promises! His perpetual guidance!
His declared mercies!
In the face of so great a calamity, it was very hard for her,
as Clyde could see, to get this straightened out, instantly at
least. Although, as Clyde had come to know, it could be
done eventually, of course. For in some blind, dualistic way
both she and Asa insisted, as do all religionists, in
disassociating God from harm and error and misery, while
granting Him nevertheless supreme control. They would
seek for something else—some malign, treacherous,
deceiving power which, in the face of God’s omniscience
and omnipotence, still beguiles and betrays—and find it