In Pawn

All the while, except when her romancing made trouble and led to hot flashes of resentment, every one liked Henrietta. She was kind to every one, and polite, and helpful in many small ways. Being found out in her prevarications did not seem to worry her long; it frightened her stunningly at times, making her gasp, but the fright did not last. In a few moments it was all over. The whippings her mother gave her, until she was too big to be whipped, hardly annoyed her. She was fearless physically; she never admitted that anything hurt her.

Her mother, a worried little woman, suffered most. The father was a traveling salesman and not often home, and Mrs. Bates kept from him as much of Henrietta’s misdoing as she could, killing herself eventually, crushing herself under the weight of the burden. She would have worried herself away earlier than she did had the Bates family not moved as often as it did. As Henrietta reached high-school age, and later, the Bates family was moving continually, Mr. Bates changing from one job to another and each time taking his family to his new headquarters. Each time Mrs. Bates tried to obscure herself and Henrietta, but never with much success because Henrietta did not wish to be obscured.

One particularly unfortunate lie got Henrietta expelled from a high school she was attending and she was sent to a private school. It was a strict school, and during her entire stay there she met no young men, but her letters to her friends and to her mother were filled with romantic incidents. It was then her famous Billy Vane first appeared in her lies.

Lying – whole-souled, brazen lying – has a strange, half-hypnotic effect on many hearers who are by nature truthful and kind-hearted, as quite a few human beings are. When a man looks me full in the eyes and lies to me, I have a feeling of shame. I want to lower my eyes and not look straight into his. I say to myself, “He is lying, and I know he is lying, and I am ashamed to look him in the eyes; he will see in my eyes that I know he is lying.” Then I say to myself, “But if I look down he will know I am looking down because I know he is lying.” So I continue to look him straight in the eyes, saying to myself, “I know you are lying, but I will not let you know I know it.” Then I say to myself, “It does not matter if you are lying as long as I know you are lying”; and presently I am sorry for him, as a mother is sorry for a cripple child, and I pity him, and pity is akin to love. Some whole-souled, brazen, cheerful liars are among the best-loved men in the world. We know we are being lied to, but we are also being charmed, as the innocent bird is charmed by the serpent.

Although Henrietta never understood it, the ease with which she made herself believed was one reason why she continued to be such a liar. Her eyes compelled belief. No one ever doubted her lies at the moment they were being told. When her eyes looked straight into the hearer’s eyes there could be no doubting; that sometimes came later when the self-hypnotism was dissipated. Had Henrietta – especially when she grew older and was a woman – met doubt or distrust when she told her fanciful tales, she might have faltered, thought, and stopped. She might have been cured.

After her mother’s death Henrietta taught school. That she taught in a town that had not known her was helpful, undoubtedly. What lies she told there about her romances in other places were readily enough believed. She was a satisfactory, commanding teacher, having little trouble with her students, and a fine, clean figure always, in her black shirt, white shirt-waist, and a peculiarly clean neatness. She had a gesture of smoothing her trim waist downward toward her belt with the edges of her hands that was in itself a certificate of clean spinsterhood.

Her misfortune came suddenly and with catastrophic unexpectedness. She had worked her way upward until she was teaching mathematics (higher algebra, to be exact) in the high school of a southern Illinois town. With the teachers of a near-by river town she had kept in close correspondence and for them she had built a romance of lies, telling of a lover who was impetuous, young, handsome, and brilliant – “too young for poor me,” Henrietta had written, and “his father objects, and if there is a match it will have to be a run-away one. His name” – she had hesitated, fearing to use “Billy Vane” lest she might have used it before – “is Freeman Todder,” she had written, jotting down that of the “A Class” boy who had remained in the classroom while she was writing the letter. Followed much more, romantically untruthful, but interesting and intended to be so. The next week two of her teacher friends to whom she had written, wrote her they meant to make her a visit; they were wild to meet Freeman Todder, they wrote.

Henrietta had one of her sudden panics. She was sitting at her desk in the schoolroom when she read the letter and she looked toward Freeman Todder. The unlucky youth was passing a note across the aisle.

“Freeman, come here!” Henrietta commanded, and he arose and walked to her desk. He was as tall then as he was ever to become. He was one of those boys who think they are already men, and who have begun to accumulate the vices of bad men, considering them evidences of maturity. He was already one of the town dandies.

“What’s the matter now?” he asked when he stood at her desk.

“You know what is the matter,” she said. “This cannot go on, Freeman. I want to talk to you. Remain after school.”

He went back to his seat with swaggering bravado, and made especial efforts to break more of the few slight rules Henrietta had imposed on the scholars. He hoped she would notice and expel him. He hated school and wanted to be free to lead a man’s life.

“It will be all the better for him,” Henrietta told herself, excusing herself, during the short hours of courtship to which she subjected him before they “eloped.”

“I can make something out of him and if I do not he will go to ruin. He is headed that way and there is no one to stop him if I do not.”

She convinced herself that this was so. As for Freeman, in his egotism he imagined he was doing the courting. He imagined it was he proposed the elopement. He felt he was a clever, sophisticated man of the world to be able to annex the love of this rather magnificent woman, to make her throw her arms around him and weep wildly on his shoulder.

He strutted considerably among the other cheap dandies of the town for a few days, and then they eloped, if abducting a silly youth can be called eloping, and were married. It made a great row in the town, of course, and Freeman and Henrietta did not dare to return.

The triumph of feeling that her friends would find all she had said in her letters was the truth did not last long. She tried to coax Freeman to go to work, so that they might live the life of a respectable married couple, but Todder was of little account and was made less so by a growing feeling that somehow Henrietta had played a trick on him, and by his early discovery that she was a liar. What the trick was he did not bother to make sure, but he felt that it was her fault that they were married and that it was her business now to take care of him.

Henrietta was contrite of heart beyond all question. She felt that she had done Freeman a vast and irreparable wrong, and, as he became more and more worthless, she blamed herself and not him. Whatever he was and however he acted it was her duty to bear with him and protect him.

The years had been miserable ones. The pair had reached some low depths – penniless days – but at last Henrietta had won her way into the Riverbank schools under her assumed name of Henrietta Bates, posing as an unmarried woman.

This was the Henrietta who left Miss Susan pacified and went up to see Lem. She carried a bag of the largest, yellowest oranges she had been able to buy. She was in most respects the kindest and most thoughtful of women. She was liked and respected by all. She had seemed, a few days earlier, the safest and happiest of women. Now her whole world seemed about to topple upon her from all sides, crushing her in a chaos of disgrace and infamy.

CHAPTER XI

When Henrietta entered Lem’s room the boy lay as she had left him, and he was in a deep, healthy sleep, beads of perspiration on his forehead, for his room was under a slanting roof that received the full strength of the afternoon sun. Henrietta stood looking at him a moment and then spoke to him. He opened his eyes, saw her, and sat up.

“Gee!” he said, “I guess I had a long sleep, didn’t I?”

“A fine one. Look what I’ve brought you. You like oranges, don’t you?”

“You bet I do. How long was I asleep?”

“Hours and hours.”

She seated herself on the bedside and began peeling an orange. Lem stretched. His eye caught the great vaseful of syringas.

“Those are the flowers Lorna brought,” Henrietta said. “She thought you would like them.”

“They’re nice,” Lem said.

Henrietta divided the orange into sections.

“Open your mouth,” she said, and popped a juicy section into Lem’s mouth. He made no effort to get up. He was contented where he was, and opened his mouth from time to time, as a baby does when being fed.

“I bet Aunt Sue is sore on me,” he said presently. “I don’t care. She did n’t have to take me if she did n’t want to. She made pop leave me. I’d rather stay with pop an’ help him be a saint, anyway. I guess I ‘ll go back, anyway, when we get out of jail. How long are pop an’ me goin’ to be in jail?”

“You’re not going to be in jail, either of you,” said Henrietta. “Judge Bruce fixed it all up.”

“I bet Aunt Sue’s sorry, ain’t she?” asked Lem.

“Lem,” Henrietta said, “you must not think badly of your Aunt Sue. She is a good woman and she means to be kind. She likes you – ”

“Rats!” said Lem. “She likes me like snakes. She hates me, that’s what she does. I’ll get even with her, all right.”

Lorna stood in the doorway.

“How’s Lem?” she asked.

“Fine,” said Henrietta, and Lorna came and sat on the other edge of the bed.

“And who is this you’re going to get even with, Lem?” Lorna asked.

“That old Aunt Sue,” Lem said. “I ‘ll do it, too. She told that old Schulig to take me to jail, an’ I had n’t done nothin’ but hook a chunk o’ lead. From old Shuder. He’s only a Jew, anyway. He’s a Russian Jew. He ought n’t to holler when – ”

“When what, Lem?”

“When it wasn’t his lead, anyhow. It was pop’s lead. Swatty an’ Bony sold it to pop first. I know, because I bought it from them, an’ then they hooked it out of pop’s junk-pile an’ sold it to Shuder. So it was n’t Shuder’s; it was pop’s, anyway. I was just gettin’ it back again.”

“But you sold it to your father again after you got it back,” expostulated Henrietta, although she smiled.

“Well, it was good lead, wasn’t it? It was worth the money, was n’t it? We sold it to him cheap enough, did n’t we?”

“Yes, but it was his lead already – ”

“No, it wasn’t. Because Swatty an’ Bony stole it an’ sold it to old Shuder. He would n’t have bought it if it wasn’t theirs, would he? He’s too slick to do that, you bet! He knew it was theirs. An’, anyway, it ought to be theirs, because they had it first.”

“Had it first?” Henrietta asked.

“Out of Harburger’s back yard,” said Lem. “It was just lyin’ there an’ nobody was doin’ anything with it. So they had a right to take it, did n’t they? That’s what junk’s for, ain’t it? What use was an old chunk of lead stickin’ in the mud, I’d like to know! So it was Swatty’s an’ Bony’s, because they found it.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Lorna. “Do you mean they stole it from Harburger’s back yard and sold it to your father, and then stole it from him and sold it to Shuder, and then stole it from Shuder and sold it to your father again?”

“Why, of course – ”

“And I suppose,” said Lorna, “they would have gone on forever, stealing it from your father and selling it to Shuder, and stealing it from Shuder to sell to your father.”

“No,” Lem said.

“Why not? How many times does a junkman have to buy a piece of lead before it becomes sinful to steal from him?”

“I don’t know. But, anyway,” said Lem, “they’d have had to stop pretty soon, because old Shuder would get to know that chunk o’ lead by heart, an’ he’d know he had bought it before, so he would n’t buy it again.”

“I’m afraid you don’t understand the Riverbank youth’s theory of property rights in old metal, Lorna,” said Henrietta. “It seems to be based on the idea that anything that can be picked up belongs to the picker-up.”

“But not railroad iron,” said Lem. “You got to leave that alone because nobody’ll buy it off you. They’ll get pinched if they do.”

“But after a junkman has bought it, Lem, it belongs to him,” said Lorna. “I might see how useless old metal, even if not just lying on the street, might seem to be nobody’s property, but when it is in a junkman’s yard – ”

“Well, they could take care of it if they wanted to,” said Lem. “They could put barb-wire on the fence, or somethin’, if they did n’t want it stole. How does anybody know they don’t want it stole when they just leave it out in the yard? How would anybody know it was n’t just some old junk they left out there on purpose to have it stole?”

Lorna looked at Henrietta and shook her head. This sort of logic was too much for her.

“But I bet you one thing,” said Lem. “I would n’t ever buy any junk they had just stole out of pop’s yard. If they went around back an’ stole some, an’ brought it around front an’ wanted to sell it, you bet I would n’t buy it. That ain’t honest. That’s cheatin’.”

“So you see, Lorna,” said Henrietta; “what is needed here is an education in property rights and not summary punishment. But I have a feeling that Lem’s theory of rights will be hard to make clear to Miss Susan.”

“Well, I’ll get even with her, all right,” said Lem, nodding his head. “You wait an’ you’ll see! She can’t make my father leave me here an’ then go an’ tell old Schulig to put me in jail. I’ll get even, you bet!”

“Listen, Lem,” Henrietta said, taking his hand. “You must not feel that way.”

“Well, I do, just the same,” he said.

“But you must not. Your Aunt Sue likes you – ”

“In a pig’s eye, she does!”

“Yes, she does. She loves you, Lem. We all love you. Your Aunt Sue does n’t understand boys yet, and she was upset when she heard you say you had stolen – ”

“I’ll upset her, all right!”

The supper bell tinkled and Henrietta arose. “Shall I bring you your supper?” she asked. “A nice tray, with everything on it I can think of? So you won’t have to go down this evening?”

“Yes, mam. If you want to,” Lem said. They were no sooner out of the room than Lem was out of the bed and putting on his few ragged garments. It required only a moment. Then he pushed up the screen of his only window, climbed out upon the roof, and, hanging from the gutter, dropped to the ground. He paused to see that he was not pursued and then made a dash for the back gate.

CHAPTER XII

Lem found his father preparing his evening meal in the junkyard shack and not at all glad to see Lem.

“What you want?” he asked. “If your aunt sent you down here to get money out of me, it ain’t no sort of use. I ain’t got a dollar to spare.”

“She did n’t send me; I come,” Lem told him. “Well, what did you come for? I ain’t goin’ to have you comin’ here. To-morrow mornin’ I’m goin’ to start in bein’ a saint for fair and I can’t be bothered with no kids hangin’ around. This here saint business is difficult enough to do without kids to take a feller’s mind off it. What did you come for?”

“I’ve quit livin’ with Aunt Sue,” Lem said. “I hate her, and I ain’t goin’ to stay with her.”

“You mean you’ve run away from her house?”

“Yes, I do!” said Lem. “You heard her tell old Schulig to jail me. I ain’t goin’ to live with no aunt that tells old Schulig to jail me.” Harvey turned the egg he had in the small frying-pan. He liked his eggs done on both sides.

“You had your supper?” he asked Lem.

“No.”

“Well, you won’t get none when you go back, I ‘ll bet on that, if Sue is havin’ one of her rantankerous spells. Eat this egg. I got a couple more. I want em all et up to-night, anyway; I ain’t goin’t’ eat ‘em after to-night. To my way of thinkin’ eggs is too fancy for a hermit saint to eat. When you go back you tell your aunt you heard me say so. Dod-baste her! She thinks I’m foolin’ when I say I’m goin’ to be a saint. You tell her how earnest I am goin’ at it, Lem, eatin’ every dod-basted egg I got in the shack. Yes, and all the bacon, too. You tell her you seen me gettin’ ready to eat all the unsaintly food I got before midnight, so’s I could start clean an’ parsimonious, or whatever you call it, to-morrow mornin’.”

He looked at the square of bacon on his shelf. “I guess I’d better fry you up some bacon, too, Lem,” he said. “I got to keep out o’ temptation from now on an’ there’s most more bacon in that hunk than I can swaller to-night. You tell your Aunt Sue I used up’ all my bacon an’ eggs, will you?”

“No. I ain’t goin’ back.”

“Yes, you are, too!” said Harvey. “Why, dod-baste it all, Lem, I put you in pawn, did n’t I? I’d be a nice-lookin’ saint, would n’t I, if I went an’ pawned you to your aunt an’ then let you come back? Why, look here! she could jail me for it, if I let you come back. You ain’t got no right to come out of pawn. I’d be a nice sort o’ saint if I let you. I’d be a dod-basted old liar, that’s what I’d be.”

“I ain’t goin’ back,” said Lem.

“Now, Lem, you looky here,” Harvey said. “You don’t understand this business. I don’t say I ought to expect you to, you bein’ young yet, but I owe your aunt a heap of money – a heap! – an’ if she went an’ pushed me all over the place for it I’d have a dod-basted hades of a time tryin’ to be a saint. That aunt of yours gets on my nerves so gosh all awful – ”

“She gets on mine worse ‘n that,” said Lem.

“Now, that ain’t got nothin’ to do with it,” said Harvey irritably. “Don’t you interrupt. If your aunt gets to chasin’ me all round town an’ back, pesterin’ me for that money, I might as well give up bein’ a saint right now an’ go back in the junk business.”

“You don’t have to be no saint, do you?” asked Lem resentfully.

“Yes, I do,” said Harvey. “You don’t understand it, but I’ve been called. I’ve heard the call; callin’ me to be a saint in this land where there ain’t no saints. I’ve heard the call, Lem.”

“Where from?” Lem asked.

“From heaven; where do you think I’d get it from?” asked Harvey irritably. “The post-office? Do you s’pose it come in a registered letter, with a special delivery stamp on it? That ain’t no way a saint gets called. I heard it in my heart, dod-baste it! like any other saint would hear it.”

“How long you goin’ to be one?” Lem asked dismally.

“Why – why, forever. From now on. It ain’t no job, Lem. It ain’t no business. It’s – it’s a way of bein’, like an angel is or a – a somethin’ or other. When you’re a saint you keep on bein’ one. Once a saint, always a saint. Saints keep right on bein’ saints forever, gettin’ holier an’ holier, an’ workin’ for mankind.”

“What kind of work do they do?” Lem asked. He had eaten the egg and was eating the crisped bacon – Harvey always had the best bacon.

“They don’t do no work; not the kind of work you mean,” Harvey said. “They just work to be a saint. They work to be good. Some of ‘em has a sort of sideline like I’m goin’ to have. I’m goin’ to work to be kind to stray dogs.”

Lem finished his bacon. His freckled face set in firm resolution.

“I’m goin’ to stay here an’ help you be a saint, pop,” he said. “I’m goin’ to be a saint, too. I can be a young one, can’t I?”

“I’ll be eternally dod-basted if – ” Harvey began angrily, but he remembered himself. “No, Lem,” he said with forced gentleness, “that ain’t in my plans. I can’t let you do it. Not now. You ‘re too young yet. You go back to your aunt an’ be a good boy, an’ when I get her all paid off an’ get you out of pawn, maybe I ‘ll see about it. After-while. In a year or two, maybe. Just yet awhile I got to suffer alone an’ in silence, as you may say. You go back to your aunt like a good boy an’ I ‘ll give you a dollar.”

“I want to stay here.”

“You can’t stay here.”

“Lemme see the dollar, then.”

Harvey produced a dollar, a big, silver one, and Lem took it. He had not taken off his hat, so he did not have to put it on. “I ‘ll go back,” he said as he paused at the door, “but I won’t stay. She’s mean.”

Harvey had turned his own egg and bacon on to the plate Lem had just emptied.

“She’s mean,” Lem repeated. “I don’t care what you are; I’d rather be with you, anyway. I’d rather be with you, even if you are a saint.”

Harvey had been about to begin on his bacon and eggs, but he paused with his knife and fork suspended.

“Lem,” he said.

“What?”

“You go back to your Aunt Sue, Lem,” Harvey said with sudden tenderness, “an’ git along the best you can with her. For a while, anyway. But you don’t have to let her be too dod-basted mean to you, Lem. You come an’ tell me if she is, because maybe I might get a notion to git out of this saint business sooner than I think I will. I guess I don’t have to let you be put upon too dod-basted much, saint or no saint. You come an’ see me once in a while, anyway. Now git along with you.”

Lem went, but his heart was far lighter. His father had not cast him off totally. He stood outside the junkyard gate a few moments in the deepening dusk. Then he had a happy thought. He looked over his shoulder and started down the street at an easy, unhurried run. He did not pause until he reached the high fence at the rear of Moses Shuder’s junkyard. He raised himself by grasping the top of the fence and looked inside. The opportunity seemed perfect. He slid over the fence and moved cautiously among the shadows until he reached the shed where Shuder stored the more valuable of his properties. His toe stubbed itself on the very chunk of lead he was seeking. Keeping a lookout over his shoulder he dragged the heavy lump of metal to the fence, boosted it over, and shinnied after it. Close at hand was the wide opening into the rainwater sewer and into this Lem pushed the chunk of lead, hearing it splash far below. Then, feeling more at peace with the world, he went slowly back to his Aunt Susan’s. He climbed to the kitchen roof, into his room, into his bed, and slept peacefully and without a dream.

CHAPTER XIII

That Miss Susan never knew that Lem had stolen from his room that evening was due to the fact that Henrietta had carried the tray to the room. The half-open screen told her how Lem had gone, and when she took the tray down again it was as empty as if a boy with a healthy appetite had dined off its contents. Henrietta ate a rather light supper in consequence.

“I don’t feel hungry,” she said in answer to Susan’s question, and Susan imagined it was because Henrietta was worrying over the revelation she had been forced to make that Freeman Todder was her husband.

“Don’t you worry about what you told me,” Susan said when she found her alone for a moment after supper. “It’s all right as long as you’re a married couple. The only thing I want is to be able to keep the good name of this boarding-house clear, and speak right up to anybody that questions it, Mrs. Todder.”

“Oh, please don’t call me that,” begged Henrietta, in fright.

“I’ve got to,” said Miss Susan. “I’ve got to do it once in a while. I’ve got to be able to say, to anybody that finds out, ‘My sakes, I knew it all along. I always called her Mrs. Todder when we was private alone together.’ So don’t you worry. All I ask is to see your marriage certificate, so I can say I saw it.”

“Of course, I ‘ll show you that,” agreed Henrietta; but she had a drowning sensation. She could not remember what had become of her marriage certificate; if it was still in existence it might be anywhere.

“Not that I’m in a hurry,” said Susan. “Tomorrow will do. I’ve got to go up now and see how that boy is getting along, I suppose. If ever there was a fool I was one when I took him.”

“I know you don’t mean that,” said Henrietta, putting her hand on Susan’s arm. “It has been an annoyance – having that ridiculous policeman come for him – but you really like the boy, Miss Susan. Don’t you? In your heart of hearts?”