--- title: Improvement Era description: Monthly periodical of the Mormon church, 1897 onward. This library holds the issues of November 1897 to December 1930. authors: - Thorpe, Harold collections: - periodicals tags: - magazine - improvement-era periodical: Improvement Era volume: 32 number: 10 published: 1929-08 publisher: Young Men’s Mutual Improvement Associations publisher_place: Salt Lake City language: en type: magazine reference: "Harold Thorpe, “A Lack of Something,” *Improvement Era* 32, no. 10 (August 1929): 850–857." source: url: https://archive.org/details/improvementera32010unse transcription: Transcribed from the Internet Archive scan of each issue (the item for each issue is named in the issue's own source); unnumbered advertising leaves are omitted, printed page numbers are kept as page markers. identifier: improvementera32010unse start_page: 850 end_page: 857 rights: status: public-domain basis: US publication 1930 or earlier (published 1929-08) source: https://archive.org/details/improvementera32010unse publication_year: 1929 note: The Internet Archive item metadata carries a blanket "© Copyright by Intellectual Reserve, Inc." notice. The library owner judged it inapplicable because this issue was published in 1929, before 1931; a scan-level notice does not restore copyright. --- # A Lack of Something A Lack of Something By Harold Thorpe Marion Wellington was whiling away the morning hours of a bright November Saturday after the manner of attractive young school teachers who are very popular socially. Rising leisurely at nine, she had breakfasted at nine-thirty and then retired to a comfortable sofa in front of the blaz- ing hearth in the parlor. The daughter of a prosperous mer- chant, she had enjoyed all the privi- leges of high school and college educa- tion without any thought of money. She had always been extremely popu- lar because of her beauty and charming personality. Now. twenty-three years of age and a high school teacher, she was still as popular as ever. On this bright November morning she was relating to Mrs. Anderson, the good-natured Danish lady with whom she boarded, all the colorful little episodes which had thrilled her in the high school football dance of the night before. Only one incident of the dance had she refrained from pouring into Mrs. Anderson's willing ears, a little affair too unimportant to deserve a second thought had it concerned anyone but John Westland. But he was the one young man different, in her mind, from any other she had ever known. He alone had been able to keep her tender heart in a flutter of uncertainty. For over two months, ever since she had first met him, he had carefully refrained from showing her those little attentions so dear to feminine hearts. His indifference had begun the first time they had seen each other. It had happened in Sunday School the first Sunday she had been in the town. With Mrs. Anderson she had come in late, and he was sitting on the stand, first assistant in the superin- tendency, taking charge of the Sunday School that day. She had looked up at him. At the same instant he had looked down at her. His handsome face had caused her to flush with surprised emotion. He, too, had started visibly at her momentary gaze. Then rising sud- denly, he had disappeared quickly down a back stairway leading from the stand into the basement of the chapel. It seemed a deliberate effort to avoid looking at her, or even to be seen by her, and the color rushed to her face in an angry flood. "A booby with big feet and a square jaw," she had thought resentfully. I'll bet he is married anyway, so I don't care one single thing about him." Yet, no sooner had he disappeared than she whispered eagerly to Mrs. Ander- son and asked if he was married. "No," was the whispered reply, "There's a good chance for you. He's an abstractor in lawyer Cheeves' office, a wonderful young man. Makes a hundred fifty a month." And im- mediately Marion had experienced the most profound relief of her whole life. When John had returned a moment later, carrying some record books, a genial look overspread his face, and her wrath melted away completely. How hard she had tried during the ensuing two months to become better acquainted with him — to become friendly with him! And how deliber- ately he had avoided her! But why? Marion never knew. At times she really thought she hated him — hated him for his utter unconcern about her — hated him because he kept her guessing all the time — hated him because he had thrown her self-satis- fied mind into complete confusion Aug.. 1929 A LACK OF SOMETHING 851 about such things as love and mar- riage. For two or three years before she came to board with Mrs. Anderson, she had been fully convinced that there was no such thing as real love; there was only puppy love, which flames and flares and flickers and dies in one wild delirium during impetuous and passionate youth. After puppy love, according to her point of view, there would eventually come the agreeable and sensible mating of agreeable and sensible people who seem to see in each other those desirable qualities which make for happy marriages. But there wasn't any such thing as real love, of the deep, devoted, or undying kind. That was only a beautiful tradition, an enchanting myth. Frequently she had argued the mat- ter with those of her friends who didn't agree with her. "It's just com- mon sense," she would declare positively, "if you want to be happily married, choose a husband who won't be scratching a poor man's bald spot all his life; one with a good income, and enough brains to keep earning one. When I marry, I want a modern bungalow, well furnished, right from the start. And a car, and a piano, and plenty of clothes. The man who can't provide these things for me — well, I'll enjoy his pleadings, laugh at him, and forget him." None of her friends had ever been able to change her mind in the matter. But John Westland had changed her mind completely, had upset her calcu- lations so thoroughly that she had never been sure of anything relating to love or matrimony since she had met him. Part of the time she felt about half sure of two things: first, that John Westland was the most al- luring, and the most interesting, and the most maddening, and the most contrary and unmanageable masculine experience she had ever had, (or tried to have and failed) ; second, she would gladly have exchanged her equity, in half a dozen "sheiks" for the privilege of going to just one theatre or dance with John Westland. But John, the big, the handsome, the attractive and refined gentleman with the waving black hair and pleasing baritone voice, was the most elusive person she had ever met. As far back as she could remember, he was the only young man she had failed to captivate at first sight. Of course she had met John — had danced with him — had even conversed with him during the few thrilling mo- ments she had glided around the dance floor in his arms. Never once had he suggested that a closer friendship should develop between them. How she had hoped and schemed for just one sign from him that he was aware of her existence on earth — that he appreciated and approved her trim figure and dreamy brown eyes! But for over two months, ever since her first ecstatic view of him — she had hoped in vain. Never an encouraging sign or word from him — not until last night in the football dance, when to her exquisite joy, his frigidity seemed to have begun to thaw out. As a delightful day in spring, which comes unexpectedly after weeks of chill winds and dreary fog and mud and drizzle, the change had come over him. Without any warning he had appar- ently awakened to a sudden realiza- tion of her exquisite beauty. She had been standing alone near an open window, enjoying a moment of relaxation and fresh air between dances. Suddenly, without knowing why, she had turned her head sharply to the left ancf discovered John West- land, gazing wistfully at her. For one brief moment they had looked intently into each other's eyes. What a soul-satisfying picture of an ideal lover and future husband he had seemed then! And what a friendly handsome face he really did have, now that he chose to show an awakening interest in her! The very ecstacy of the moment had brought the color to her cheeks, enhancing the loveliness of 852 IMPROVEMENT ERA Aug., 1929 her charms. She had been the first to turn away. He had already danced with her, but did not approach her during the rest of the evening. Rather, it seemed, he avoided her completely, and his aloofness upset her again. Was he in love with her? Wasn't he? How exasperating to have an ideal young man in love with you without being able to understand him at all! As Marion lounged on Mrs. Ander- son's sofa, on this bright Saturday morning, she kept telling herself that she really hated him now for causing her such a sleepless night. At times the horrifying fear that he might marry some other girl before she knew about it nearly drove her frantic. On the other hand, what a triumph it would be to have him competing with half a dozen others for the privi- lege of taking her to dances and parties and buying her chocolates! Marion never lacked "beaus." If a really attractive and desirable young man wasn't pressing her for an en- gagement, there was always a con- venient second-hand beau waiting around to take her to a dance or a theater. Every time a hopeful young gallant walked by her side or sat with her in a car, she secretly wished him off the earth, or out of town, or in the bottom of the ocean, anywhere but with her, and that John Westland was there instead, entertaining her with that pleasing voice. "How could I manage him?" Marion kept asking herself, as she looked dreamily into the fire. She became so absorbed in John Westland that she didn't notice Mrs. Anderson's return. "You're in love!" cried the latter triumphantly, when Marion did not look up at her approach. "Who is it now, young Harris, or Dave Moore- house. They're both rich, and you've always said money was a necessity to a happy marriage. It's Dave Moore- house!" she continued. "Dave Moorehouse! in a new neck- tie!" cried Marion, irritated at the sud- den breakup of a most satisfying rev- erie. "Think of his money!" Marion sat bolt upright. "Money!" she exclaimed contemptuously, "Marry David Moorehouse for his money? All he does is brag about the dough he will inherit from his two spinster aunts when they die. I'll bet he prays every night for them to pass away. He paraded around last night as if it were more important that everyone see him in a new necktie than that our boys had won the splendid football victory. The great big gawk!" "But he's rich!" "Do money and new breeches make a man?" retorted Marion. "If it weren't for new breeches, half the young men in this town wouldn't know what they're living for." "What about young Harris? He's rich too." "He's too short. Who would want to marry a stumpy little molehill like him?" "You'll be falling in love with John Westland — " "How do you know? I've never even mentioned his name — that way." "Why are you always so curious about him? You've asked me some- thing atout him every day you've been here. Poor fellow, I'd hate to be his wife. But he is a wonderful man, and will make a good husband for some girl. But he surely is handicapped for money now." "On account of having to take care of his two sisters?" Marion asked. "Yes." "How long will it take him to pay off that fool mortgage his father left on their new home when he and Mrs. Westland were killed in an auto accident last spring?" "It isn't so much," said Mrs. Ander- son, settling down on the sofa beside her, preparatory to telling the story over again for the thirty-ninth time. "You see John only makes one hun- dred fifty a month. After he pays Mrs. Wade thirty dollars for keeping Aug., 1929 A LACK OF SOMETHING 853 house, and that much more on the mortgage, and takes care of groceries and fuel and clothes for himself and Nellie and Gwen, he hasn't much left at the end of the month. Of course he'll get that lovely new bungalow by- paying off the mortgage and taking care of his sisters." "It must be hard to be pressed for money like that," said Marion, thoughtfully. "Why don't you marry some rich young fellow and be done with it?" returned Mrs. Anderson. "Doesn't John walk down in the fields every Saturday afternoon — to see their farm?" asked Marion, ignoring the other's suggestion. "Yes. He works till twelve noon on Saturdays, and then walks through the fields about two o'clock. You had better go out this afternoon and take a few pictures. Maybe you'll meet him. Every girl in this town respects him, no one knows what he thinks about any of them. Maybe he's in love with you. You can't tell. He keeps his love affairs — if he ever has any — to himself." "Perhaps I will go out a little while and take a few pictures," said Marion. Mrs. Anderson laughed. "I'll bet you're in love with him. Now, aren't you?" But Marion only turned and curled up on the sofa again and looked dreamily into the fire. Her landlady, accustomed to these sudden Saturday morning silences, went bustling away to her duties. That afternoon, half a mile west of town, Marion was preparing to take some kodak pictures when John ap- proached. "Good afternoon, Miss Welling- ton," he said pleasantly. Apparently taken by surprise, she turned quickly, the color rushing to her cheeks. How that musical voice thrilled her! "Why, how do you do, Mr. West- land," she replied graciously. "I was just trying to take a few snapshots. I should like one of the tall cotton- wood by that picturesque old shed over there, only I don't know how to get over to it." "I'll help you, if I may," he vol- unteered. "Thank you ever so much — if you can spare the time." Neither spoke during the hike across the stubble field and over the ditches. "You never said a word during all that walk," she flashed at him, as they reached the tree. "Neither did you," he replied, and both laughed. But she seemed to have forgotten all about the kodak pictures, and seated herself on a log. "Surely he will notice me now," thought she, "I've put on the most becoming clothes I had for the occasion, and I couldn't possibly look more attractive." He looked down at her as she settled her- self. "Mr. Westland," she began sud- denly, "I am greatly interested in studying people's characters. You see, I dabble in story writing in odd mo- ments. I like to have people tell me of their whims and their moods, their likes and dislikes, and, well, their plans for a successful life. I have learned a great deal about human na- ture through people telling me such things. And sometimes I discover a clever plot in someone's unusual ex- perience. Would you mind telling me a little about yourself — your moods "Just what do you wish to know about me?" he asked, as she hesitated. "Well," she reddening in some em- barrassment, "you're so profound a mystery that you ought to furnish ex- cellent material for a story. All the young girls I know are puzzled about you. You never take anyone any- where." "A mystery easily explained," he smiled at her. "I haven't enough cash properly to entertain a modern lady, and no cash — no sweetheart." "But they all say you never seem interested in anyone." "I'm thankful if I seem so. It would only add to the misery and the 854 IMPROVEMENT ERA Aug., 1929 sting of it all if they — if she — well, if anyone knew," he finished awk- wardly. "Knew what?" she asked eagerly. "Now just what was it you wished to know?" he countered. "Well, aren't you even human? Don't you care for any girls? Are you a woman hater? Everyone says you must be. Of course," she added hastily, "I'm thinking all this only so I can write a capital short story." "Of course you are," he laughed, and she colored guiltily. For a mo- ment he said nothing, but stood gazing down intently into her upturned brown eyes, as if he would read some precious secret hidden there. Slowly, almost unconsciously, that wistful yearning look came into his face that had thrilled her the night before in the dance. In a moment she was trembling with excitement. "Please, John, tell me." "Is your word good?" he asked, "and will you keep my secret if I tell you my romance, or half romance, whatever it is?" Marion readily agreed. "In the first place," he began, and the wistfulness in his voice made her heart beat faster, "I am quite human — just human enough to have fallen in love with the most wonderful girl in the whole world." "And — and you're engaged to her?" "No — she doesn't even know it yet. It's this way," he continued, "right now I have scarcely the right to think of love. It will take me a year to pay off the mortgage on the home, and that, with our living expenses, keeps me pretty close run financially. I'm willing to go without things myself rather than see little Gwen or Nellie suffer, but I couldn't ask a girl to make such sacrifices." "Doesn't she understand — anything about it — at all?" "I hope not. My distress over the affair will be less if she knows nothing of it. Only one who has been in my circumstances knows how hard it is for me at times. To love a beautiful young lady, your very ideal of all that is lovable in a woman, and yet never be able to do more than worship her from afar, in silence and without her knowledge — that is bitter. The whole affair hurts deeper than anyone knows. The haunting fear that she may suddenly become the bride of an- other, almost maddens me at times." "Why don't you tell her? She would understand, and if she loved you — it might save both of you from unhappy marriages with someone else." In her eagerness Marion half rose — almost reached out her hands to him. "I've been tempted to several times, for the sake of my two little orphan sisters. They miss a mother's love so much, and they miss it every day. There is no substitute for love. There is something lacking in their lives as well as in mine. It is the friendship, the companionship and the love and sympathetic counsel of a good woman. I've tried to be a mother to Nellie and Gwen, but I can't. I need someone now to help me with those two moth- erless girls." "You should tell her — by all means!" "I am afraid to, while my finances are so low. She has never known the necessity of economizing. Her parents are wealthy, and she is accustomed to having everything she wants. She might resent the idea all together." "If she loves you, she will be will- ing to help;" insisted Marion eagerly. "You are sure I'd be doing the right thing if I should tell her?" "I'm sure you would." He took one ecstatic step toward her. "It's you I'm in love with, Marion. I've loved you since that morning I first saw you in Sunday School. Hardly an hour passes that I do not think of you. Can you — do you love me, Marion?" She had risen while he was speaking, surprise and joy on her face. The whole world had changed completely Aug.. 1929 A LACK OF SOMETHING 855 for Marion while John had been de- claring his love for her. For a moment she was too excited to say anything, but stood looking into questioning eyes that gazed into hers. Then for one unfortunate second the coquette in her took control. "Now that I am sure of him, shall I rush into his arms, or keep him in suspense a few weeks?" she thought, the color deepening on her cheeks. "I hardly know what to tell you, Mr. Westland," she said slowly, after a moment. "Why not?" he asked quickly, and with unusual firmness. "Can't you give me a few days to think it over?" "If you must have a few days to decide, then you are not in love with me at all," he said unreasonably. "Love is not a thing we become con- scious of through debate or pondering. When we are in love, we are more aware of it than of anything else in life. I love you with such tremendous power, Marion, it has been the grand- est experience I've ever known — an experience that has come to me only once this way. But if you don't love me — that must end the whole affair, for me. I should be afraid to marry anyone who was in doubt — there would always be such a lack of some- thing in my married life." "Afraid of marrying me?" she asked, quivering with emotion, while a tear glistened in each luminous brown eye. "Unless our love for each other was on the same high plane — " "Can't you give me a few days — " His own feelings were so clear and positive that he failed to understand hers. "You don't love me," he inter- rupted firmly. "If you did, Marion, you wouldn't have to study the mat- ter at all. Love is the supreme ex- perience in life — and when it comes to us — pure — exalted and ennobling, it enshrines the image of our beloved in our hearts more strongly than any other thing. If you must ponder the matter, Marion, then you don't love me, and only love will ever satisfy me. Don't you think we had better take some pictures?" But Marion was on the verge of tears. She wanted to avoid a scene at any cost, well knowing from past experiences that if she gave way to tears she would tell him everything. She was piqued and hurt and wanted time to plan her campaign all over again. "I think I'll go home, if you'll help me to the road," she said tremulously. "Certainly." They made their way through ditches and fences and across the fields together. "Goodbye, and thank you," she said more composedly when they reached the road. "Goodbye, Miss Wellington." Each one hoped the other would say some- thing to prolong the conversation on the subject nearest both their hearts. But neither did so. If John Westland had held himself aloof from Marion during the first two or three months of their acquaint- ance, he was more than aloof follow- ing his declaration of love by the cottonwood tree. He avoided her so deliberately that she soon became con- fused whenever they did meet. She favored the rich and lanky Dave Moorehouse above all her other suitors. He noticed it. Everyone noticed it. Soon he was chuckling audibly to him- self all day and slapping all his friends on the back whenever he met them. He kissed his mother and sisters every time he passed them. One early morning Dave kissed his father, who was shaving, such a re- sounding smack on a shaved cheek that that worthy and sentimental sire hastened to the bank and arranged to take care of another wedding. The climax came three weeks after the incident at the cottonwood tree. Dave had brought her home from the dance, and sat triumphantly by her in the parlor. 856 IMPROVEMENT ERA Aug., 1929 "Well," he began confidently, "you said you would give me your answer tonight. Will you marry me?" She did not reply, but trembled like a leaf, and then burst into tears. His arms closed around her, and he drew her forcibly to him, crushing her head against his cheek. "You'll marry me, won't you?" he whispered. "No," she sobbed, trying helplessly to draw away from him. "What are you crying for?" he de- manded in surprise. "Because I'm in love with someone else." When Marion was calm and self-possessed, she could manage any man living but John Westland; when she was weeping and upset, she could only cry and confess the truth. And she was completely out of control now. Without another word, Dave seized his hat and bolted out of the house, slamming the door behind him. Marion sank back on the sofa a trembling heap of hysterical young womanhood. Mrs. Anderson must have been snoring with one ear open, for she leaped out of bed and into her slippers and bathrobe in one bound, rushed to the sofa and clasped Marion in her arms. "What's the matter, darling?" "I can't marry Dave — I'd never be satisfied with him, with all his money," sobbed Marion. "There would always be such a lack of some- thing in my married life — " "You love John?" interrupted the other. ' 'Please — don't — don't — "I understand, my dear girl," said Mrs. Anderson, soothingly. With the help of her devoted landlady, Marion was soon tucked safely in her own bed, and Mrs. Anderson returned to her apartment. Before dropping off to slumber again, however, that worthy matron built a few air castles of her own, in which she hoped John and Marion would live happily ever after. The very next afternoon Mrs. An- derson called at Lawyer Cheeves' office and asked John to come to her home that evening and look over some deeds she wished to have examined. When John called, he was greatly surprised to find only Marion there, and still more surprised to learn that Mrs. An- derson had gone out for the evening and left her boarder home alone to bake some bread. Marion was equally surprised. She wouldn't have minded the unexpected visit at all if she had but known about it beforehand so she could have dressed for the occasion. John seemed in no hurry to depart, and for some moments he entertained her with the latest humorous stories. How Marion enjoyed that captivating laugh of his! Suddenly his face sobered, and that yearning, wistful look crept into his eyes again. "We had such an odd experience at the cottonwood tree, didn't we?" he asked. "I think you were most unfair, too," she replied, quietly. "No," he said, rising abruptly, "I want love, pure, deep and devoted, when I marry — " "How do you know I couldn't love you? You've never taken me out. Never once have you asked me to go to a dance or a theatre with you. I think you are the most unreasonable young man I've ever met. You expect everything at the outset — and — and — offer nothing — " "Well — you see — " he interrupted in confused embarrassment, "I — I — know. I've been too presumptuous — but I really didn't mean to be. Loving you has been such a wonderful expe- rience to me, and you'll never know how I've longed to take you out to theatres and dances and things, but I felt I couldn't afford even to think of love. But when the chance came — so unexpectedly — to tell you how I felt, I just couldn't resist. Of course it was stupid and selfish of me to ex- pect so much — but I have loved you so tremendously, Marion, and I'd give the world if I were able to — to woo as Aug., 1929 A LACK OF SOMETHING 857 I should like. But I can't. I just haven't the money." "Couldn't you let your tithing go — or something?" "No," he said firmly, yet kindly, "I need the blessings of the Lord now, if I ever did. And I'll make far more headway if I pay my tithes than if I don't. I've proved the Lord too many times not to know. If there must be a lack of something in my life, I don't ever want it to be a lack of that peace of mind which comes to us through living in tune with the good spirit which a Divine Providence sends us to help plan our lives along lines of peace and order. Love is the grandest thing in the world, Marion, and when we live according to the Gospel plan, the Lord fills our hearts, our very souls, with that divine love, that peace that passeth all understanding. If you un- derstood me, you would never ask me not to pay my tithes. My greatest desire is that the spirit of peace may always be with me in my married life, and that can never be unless we love each other equally, and both live as the Almighty would have us do. But I mustn't be narrow or exacting any more, and mustn't woo while I am too poor to do what is expected of a suitor. Please forgive me, Marion — and good- bye." Before she realized fully what had happened, he was gone, the same elusive, independent John Westland that he had always been. Gone again. For hours that night Marion plan- ned and planned what she might do. But how? During the next three months they saw little of each other. But Marion was doing things she had never done before. She attended to every Church duty faithfully. She limited her ex- penditures to what she might have had to spend on herself had she been John's wife. Of course she saved money, another thing she had never done before in her whole life. She was sitting alone on the sofa one bright sunny afternoon in early spring, checking up her savings deposit dates when there came a loud ringing of the door-bell and she admitted John. "I've got it, Marion," he cried eagerly, "I've got it at last, and I just couldn't stay away from you any longer. "Got what?" "My increase in salary. Mr. Cheeves loosened up in great shape today. My increase was a handsome one, too. Now I can take you out to things, if I may." Slowly, almost dumbly she held out her savings book to him. He took it in surprise, examined it quickly, then hastily returned it. "I don't want that, ever," he declared firmly. "I didn't offer to give it to you, Mr. Stubborn Independence, I just wanted to show it to you — to convince you — to prove to you that I could get along on what you are paying Mrs. Wade to keep house for you." "Marion!" he cried rapturously, "you do love me then, don't you?" "I always did — only you're so in- dependent and stubborn.' "You little goose, come here!" And she came quickly, for his arms reached out and drew her to him. More Tobacco Testimonials Junius F. Wells tells a significant story about a boyhood playmate. The two were exactly the same height for quite a long period in their youthful lives. In the course of time Brother Wells went on a mission. His friend had, un- fortunately, become an inveterate smoker. Bro. Wells met him later and, recurring to their boyish habit, said: "A , I'm taller than you are." "I know you are, June, and I'll tell you how much," was the answer. "You're just the length of a cigarette taller than I am, and that's why."