Butler Ellis Parker
In Pawn

CHAPTER IX

Johnnie Alberson looked at Henrietta without the least questioning of her statement that she was Freeman Todder’s mother.

“That’s different, Mrs – ” he hesitated; “Mrs. Todder,” he said finally. “Or is it Mrs. Bates?”

“No, not Todder,” said Henrietta. “Nor Bates either. I am Mrs. William Vane. My husband is in the West. He is a worthless, drunken wreck. You can understand why I took the name of Bates, with a son like Freeman, always an expense, and a husband like Mr. Vane, and the position of teacher here open only to spinsters. It was necessity, not choice.”

There was no weak appeal in Henrietta’s voice, nor in her manner, nor were there tears or tremulousness. She looked directly into Alberson’s eyes and spoke with what seemed to be absolute frankness.

“That’s different,” Alberson repeated. “I can see why you want to save Freeman, that being so. And I’m sorry for you; I ‘ll say that, Mrs. Vane. A son like yours – well, he’s not much good. Now, about this payment you want to make?” Henrietta told him what she would like to do. She would, of course, bring him the money as often as she could.

“I may be able to get a little out of Freeman’s father,” she prevaricated. “When he has work and is not spending all for drink, he sends me a little now and then. I ‘ll write to him. He may try to do something now – when my need is so great.”

When she arose she gave Alberson her hand, and held his a moment, warmly pressing it, in thanks.

“I am so grateful,” she said. “It is such a load off my mind. You cannot know how I have worried. I know you’ll say nothing about what I have told you.”

“I’m a wise old owl,” said Johnnie, and only then dropped her hand. “I know secrets and still more secrets.”

When Henrietta went out to the front of the store Alberson took a small, round mirror from his pocket and viewed his face in it. He was always a little vain.

“One damn fine woman,” he said, aloud, “and she must have married mighty young. Fine, that’s what she is!”

Henrietta stopped to speak to Freeman.

“I fixed it,” she said hastily. “He will wait and let me pay him as I can. I told him you were my son, Freeman. Please don’t say much if he quizzes you.”

“I won’t,” Freeman said, “but you might just let me know who my father was and where the dear old chap died. A son ought to know that.”

“Don’t be funny; I can’t bear it,” Henrietta begged. “I told him your father was Billy Vane. He is a drunken brute and he is not dead. He is in Colorado.”

Freeman gave her the first admiring glance he had bestowed on her for many days.

“Et, you’ll do,” he said. “I’m almost proud to be a son of such a mother. You sure are a fixer.”

“Please, don’t be funny,” she begged again. “It is not ended yet. I still have the money to pay. I don’t suppose I can expect you to help? Even a little, Freeman?”

“Not a bit, mother dear,” he said and turned to wait on two girls who had just entered.

At the boarding-house Henrietta learned that Lem was still sleeping and that Judge Bruce had postponed the trial of Saint Harvey of Riverbank and had sent him to the lock-up to await Lem’s recovery. Henrietta ran up to see how Lem was faring, stopped in her own room to freshen herself, and then hurried down. Lorna had not reached the house yet, but Gay had come over. Henrietta embraced her gayly.

“You dear!” she said. “I just want you. I’m going over to see Judge Bruce about Lem and I want you to go with me. It will be like taking him a rose moist with dew. I can’t imagine how you ever manage to come from a day of teaching so bright and beaming.”

Gay did not tell her that she had stopped at Alberson’s for a soda and that Freeman had been, for him, unusually nice and politely lover-like.

“And how is Miss Susan?” Gay asked. “About Lem, I mean. How does she feel toward him?”

“Still sour,” Henrietta said. “That’s one trouble with such good good women. They are hard on mortals. Come.”

They went across the street and down past Gay’s home to the Bruce house. The old justice of the peace had not reached home yet, but he was expected, his wife said, and Carter Bruce came out on the porch.

“‘Lo, Gay; ‘lo, Miss Henrietta,” he greeted them. “How’s things?”

“Fine,” Henrietta answered for them both. “And, oh, Bruce! You’re a lawyer, you can tell us what to do. About Lem, Miss Redding’s nephew – you know about him?”

“Mostly. I was in dad’s court when he held old Harve.”

“Well, then – ” said Henrietta and hesitated momentarily. “Listen, Bruce, I know something about it. May I tell you? I can tell a lawyer, in confidence, can’t I?”

“You can tell this lawyer in confidence,” said Bruce. “I ‘ll take Lem’s case if you want me to – free of charge – if that is it.”

“Then – you don’t mind if I whisper to him, Gay?”

“Don’t mind me,” said Gay, laughing. Henrietta drew Carter Bruce to the far end of the porch.

“I don’t know anything about Lem,” she said hurriedly. “Nothing special. I just wanted to speak to you about Gay. Freeman Todder is making love to her; you know that. And I know it is not right. He is not to be trusted, Carter. You like Gay, don’t you? You’ll do something to save her, won’t you?”

“What can I do?” he asked. “She likes him best. She don’t care a hang for me.”

“She does! Make love to her, Carter,” urged Henrietta. “Make her love you; be – be strenuous about it; make strong love to her. She’s the age when she craves it, and I know she will listen to you. You must; I know Freeman so well! I know he is bad for her, utterly bad.” Carter was red with embarrassment.

“I ‘m asking you because I think she’s getting to like him,” Henrietta added.

“Then I’m out of it – absolutely,” Carter said. “I won’t butt in. No, thanks. I know when I’m not wanted.”

Henrietta put her hand on the young man’s shoulder and for a moment he thought she meant to shake him, as a naughty child is shaken, but she relaxed her grip somewhat.

“No,” she said, “you do not know when you are not wanted. You only know that you feel resentful. And why? Because the fruit on the bough did not fall into the mouth you had opened to receive it. Because, when another’s hand stretches out to pluck it, the fruit did not leap eagerly between your teeth. You are angry. That’s pure conceitedness. And all I ask you to do is to put out your hand. Is n’t your hand as brave as Freeman’s hand?”

She waited a moment to hear what he might say. What he might say made a vast difference to Henrietta. On all sides of her, catastrophes were towering, ready to crush her. You must remember she was a woman of forty now and her life had been hard – cruelly hard – because of her own acts and doings, and that here in Riverbank she had found friends and hoped to find long, peaceful, happy years. Instead she was in the midst of a tumult of troubles and dangers, with lies that threatened to return and destroy her and with Freeman’s reckless wickedness an even more imminent menace. But still she meant to fight, and Freeman’s attempt to win Gay, which if successful meant ruin for all, was a thing she must battle against first of all. Carter Bruce was her only weapon.

“Don’t look at me like that,” was what he said finally.

Henrietta drew a deep breath.

“Once more; just let me speak once more, Carter,” she pleaded. “You don’t know Gay as well as I do. I know her so well that I know why she is yielding – in danger of yielding to Freeman – when you are in every way to be preferred. He makes love to her. He hurries her and drives her from defense to defense. She loves Love’s attacks, as all women do, but she more than most. You must not expect to win by a siege when she is being won by another’s bold charge. You can win if you charge, too, Carter.”

“She likes him best. I’m out of it,” he said.

Henrietta let her hand drop from his shoulder. She looked around. Gay was still at the far end of the porch, keeping studiously aloof. When Henrietta looked at Carter Bruce again, the light of frank truthfulness that always shone in her eyes when she was lying was in her eyes.

“I hoped I would not have to tell you,” she said, “but now I must. Even if you do not love Gay you must help her. You must protect her from Freeman. Carter, will you keep what I say sacredly confidential?”

“Of course.”

“Freeman has a wife. He is married and his wife is living.”

“The devil you say!” Bruce exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

Gay, from her end of the porch, spoke.

“I can hear!” she warned. “I heard what Carter said.”

Henrietta lowered her voice.

“I know his wife. She is an old friend of mine,” she said. “Her name is Mary Vane. That is her name now, since she married Freeman.” Bruce was sufficiently interested now.

“Then his name is not Todder?” he asked.

“No,” said Henrietta. “It is Vane – William Vane. There are reasons why he cannot use it.”

“That’s rotten,” Carter Bruce declared. “I knew there was something wrong about him, hanging around Riverbank when he don’t earn enough at Alberson’s to pay his laundry. Where is this wife of his? Why does he stay here? He must know you know about him.”

“He does, Carter,” Henrietta said. “He is getting money out of me. That’s how he lives. His wife is in Colorado.”

“Money? From you?” said Carter with momentary suspicion. “What hold has he on you?” Henrietta was looking straight into his eyes. “His wife is my daughter,” she prevaricated glibly. “Tubercular. And – don’t you see? – with my husband there in Colorado, too, and my poor wage from the school all we have to live upon, that if I say anything we must all starve. They would send me away, Carter. ‘No married women need apply.’”

“Ah!” said Carter sympathetically.

“So you will do what you can for Gay – for my sake, even if not for your own?’”

“Yes.”

They walked to Gay’s end of the porch.

“He’s going to help us, Gay,” Henrietta cried. “He will do all he can for Lem.”

“Carter! You’re so good!” Gay cried and clasped his hand for a moment in thanks.’

“That’s all right,” he said. “I ‘ll do all I can. It is not much of a case – not a very serious case – but if I were you and Henrietta I would try my smiles on father first. He likes you both. You have a pull with dad.”

They did not have long to wait, for old Judge Bruce came slowly up the shaded street, his coat over his arm. Henrietta was upon him before he had fairly entered his yard, her arm through his, coaxing him to be a dear, sweet man and be easy with Lem.

“Well, I had a mind that way myself,” said the justice teasingly, “until this here female lobby come a huggin’ and kissin’ me and tryin’ to corrupt the bench. Now I guess I ‘ll have to give the young reprobates a hundred years in jail, all three of ‘em, and old Harvey about two hundred on bread and water at hard labor. I guess so.”

“Now, Father Bruce!” exclaimed Gay. “You could n’t be so mean?”

The old man looked up at her slyly and pulled at his white beard.

“I bet you been doin’ some more crooked business, engagin’ the judiciary’s son to corrupt the judge in hopes it will sway justice from the straight path, ain’t you?” he cackled. “Dead wrong, I call it. Improper to beat the band. Reg’lar confession of guilt.”

He dropped into a porch chair and wiped his face.

“Never knew it so hot this time of the year. Big storm brewing, I shouldn’t wonder,” he said seriously. “About your Lem, now. There ain’t goin’ to be no trial. Nor for that big, fat fool father of his, neither. Charges has been withdrawn and case wiped from the docket. They’ve got strong friends.”

“That’s not just regular, is it, father?” Carter asked, laughing.

“What in tunket do I care if it is regular or not?” said Bruce. “I run my justice court to suit Judge Bruce. Told ‘em I would when they come pesterin’ me to take another term. I run on the platform, ‘Old Judge Bruce will lay down the law the way he dumb pleases,’ and that’s how I was elected.”

He filled his pipe and lighted it.

“About your Lem boy,” he said, “there ain’t goin’ to be no trouble. To my notion we ain’t got a better citizen in town than Sam Cantor, if he is a Jew. He sells good clothes and if they ain’t satisfactory he hands you your money back, and no fussin’. Now, this here old pair of pants I got on – well, no matter. He comes up to my justice shop this momin’ and he handed me one of the best seegars I ever stuck in my face. ‘Judge,’ he says, ‘how are them pants wearin’?’ ‘All right, Sam,’ I says. ‘Don’t look so to me,’ he says; ‘looks to me like you ain’t gettin’ good wear out of ‘em. You better come around tomorrow and let me fit you to a new pair, or I won’t lay easy in my grave.’ ‘Let me see!’ I says, ‘a new pair of pants is worth about six dollars, Sam. Who’s hopin’ to get let off from about a twenty-dollar fine?’ That’s how I talk to Sam Cantor!”

He cackled again gleefully.

“But I thought it was Moses Shuder brought the charges against Harve Redding and the boys,” said Carter Bruce. “Is n’t Shuder a protégé of Cantor’s?”

“That’s it,” said Bruce. “That’s the nub of it, right there. ‘Judge,’ Sam says, ‘I’ll lay my cards right on the table. You know my friend Shuder and the rest of the long beards ain’t any too popular around here yet, and you know it was me that started the move to raise money to fetch them from Russia or Poland or wherever it was they was. If old Dod-Baste and them three boys gets jailed or anything, them long beards is going to be more unpopular than ever. I’ve got to look out for Our People,’ he says. ‘I can’t have ‘em hated. I’ve had a talk with Mose Shuder and he’s ready to lay down on his back and stick his legs in the air and yell, “Excuse me,” if you’ll just wipe the slate clean.’ So I give it a wipe, and that’s ended. And to-morrow momin’ I git a new pair of pants.”

“What would you have done to them if Mr. Cantor had not interceded, Judge Bruce?” asked Gay.

The old man cackled until he began to cough.

“That’s the joke of it, young woman,” he said gleefully. “I was goin’ to turn ‘em all loose anyhow. Maybe I might have fined Mose Shuder two dollars for disturbin’ a justice of the peace; it makes me so dumb mad to have all these fool fusses fetched up before me. Why, land’s goodness! If I had been sentenced six months every time I stole junk when I was a boy I’d be in jail yet!”

“But Mr. Redding received the stolen junk, did n’t he?” Gay asked teasingly.

“‘T wa’n’t my junk, was it?” asked Judge Bruce. “And he hit Moses Shuder,” said Henrietta.

“Well, a man has got to hit somebody once in a while, ain’t he?” asked the justice.

“You’re a dear, anyway,” said Henrietta, “and I’m going right over and tell Lem. You need n’t hurry, Gay. Stay and keep the judge corrupted.”

Henrietta hastened to the kitchen, where Miss Susan was sure to be found at this time of day.

“Lem is not guilty,” she cried. “He’s not even to be tried. Nor your brother either.”

But Miss Susan did not show the delight Henrietta had hoped to see. She wiped her hands on the roller towel and turned to Henrietta a somber face.

“I want to talk to you, Miss Bates,” she said. “I’ve been waitin’ all day to. I don’t, mind you, think no evil, but I guess you’ll have to find a boardin’-place elsewhere. A boarding-house-keeper that tries to run a nice home, like I do, has to be careful, even if it does mean she has to be harsh sometimes.”

“But what have I done?” asked Henrietta, aghast.

“Nothing you’d blame yourself for, I dare say,” said Miss Susan, “nor do I think evil, but there’s things that can’t be allowed to happen in a boarding-house if talk ain’t to be started. Last night when I had to come downstairs late to tend to my set bread, Mr. Todder was in your room. I heard you two talkin’. Such things can’t happen in my house. You’ll have to go, and he’ll have to go.”

Henrietta looked at Susan’s mouth, which was firm with resolution. For a moment her heart sank, but she drew a deep breath.

“I knew it! I knew this was sure to happen some day,” she said. “I ought to have told you long ago, Miss Susan, but I did not dare. I was afraid. But now I must tell you – Freeman Todder is my husband.”

“For mercy’s sake!” cried Miss Susan, surprised out of her attitude of unfriendliness. “Then what was all this howdy-do about your being engaged to that William Vane man?” Henrietta put her arm coaxingly around Miss Susan’s waist.

“I’m a bad girl,” she said. “You’ll say I am, and I am. I’ve been deceitful; can’t you see why, Miss Sue? Could I have come to Riverbank as a school teacher if it had been known Freeman was my husband?”

“Humph!” said Miss Redding dryly. “Seems to me you’ve been mighty free with your deceit while you was about it. And seems to me your William Vane sends you plenty of letters.”

“I made them up,” said Henrietta contritely. “You got some,” said Susan. “I took them from the postman myself. What right had he to be writing to you if you was married?”

“What right?” asked Henrietta. She did not mean to lie to Miss Susan any more than was necessary, but the further lie came out unbidden. “What right? Every right because – you see – William Vane is my father!”

Miss Susan looked into Henrietta’s frank eyes and was satisfied.

“Well,” she said grudgingly, “I’m glad you told me the truth finally. Lyin’ never gets anybody anywhere.”

In her heart of hearts Henrietta hoped Miss Susan was right, but she was beginning to doubt it. Lying seemed to be getting her into a most difficult web of contradictions.

CHAPTER X

When Henrietta Bates told Miss Susan that Freeman Todder was her husband, she told the truth, with the sole exception that her name was not Henrietta Bates nor his Freeman Todder, but all her other stories regarding Freeman and the mythical Billy Vane were lies. Henrietta was not a wicked woman; she was the kindest-hearted woman that ever lived; always ready and eager to do a kindness and full of pity for those who, like Lem, seemed to be in trouble.

The trouble with Henrietta, to use that name as the most convenient, was that she was romantic. She was one of those women – and there are men like her – who live a few inches above the tops of their own heads so that their words have to jump above solid facts in order to give satisfaction to their imaginations.

In Riverbank there is a phrase, used when small boys like Lem take a huge helping of food and fail to consume it, to the effect that their eyes are bigger than their stomachs. Henrietta’s desire for romance was bigger than her facts. She was a romantic liar, filling in the gap between what was true and what she wished was true with details that were not true. In other words, Henrietta was a born romancer.

There are many such, and it is remarkable how many escape discovery and humiliation. It is always a little regrettable when one of the pleasanter of the kind is discovered and humiliated. There are women – and men – who live their entire lives in a golden haze of untruths, who do no one any great harm and who get immense momentary pleasure (and whole ecstasies of pleasant pain of conscience) out of their romantic prevarications.

Most often it is no one’s particular business to grasp one of these lies and by unpleasant cross-questioning and investigating prove the romancer a liar. The one who does such cross-questioning is usually a most disagreeable person – the sort of nosey, rudely inquisitive person none of us likes.

I have given a great deal of thought to lies, having been a well-known liar myself before I reformed, and being an admirer of the late Mark Twain, who was a connoisseur in this field, I have classified human beings in four rough groups:

1. Those, like Miss Susan Redding, who sin not and tell no lies.

2. Those, like Lem, who sin and tell the truth about it, because they cannot tell a lie.

3. Those, like Henrietta, who lie romantically and without evil intent, but who are so weakened by it that, although they would not lie to do intentional harm, do come in time, as Henrietta had come, to lie in self-protection or to protect another.

4. Those who, like Freeman Todder, will lie to do another harm or to win the liar personal advantage, or for any other reason whatever.

Lem, being a boy, was, in my opinion, more or less of a “freak” as the botanists would say. The young are, and should be up to a certain age, unethical. This has the advantage that we can take them when they are innocent of ethics and drill into them the variety of ethics we want them to have. The undrilled youngster, faced with trouble, will tell a fib or the truth quite indifferently, as seems desirable at the moment.

Of course, we begin the drilling at an extremely early age, in these days, and a boy of five has often learned that it is nobler to be spanked for stealing the pie than for lying about it. But he has to be taught, and Lem had not been taught. There had been nothing in his early lack of training to teach him that lying was wrong. He had never been spanked for lying, or shut in a closet for lying, or even scolded or wept over for lying. He had been born with the ability to lie left out of him, or so weak that it shriveled up and blew away before he learned to talk. In the matter of being unable to tell a lie Lem was not to blame; he was born that way.

Neither should we be inclined to blame Henrietta too severely if she romanced frequently, with eyes that looked frankly into other eyes while she was telling whoppers. Henrietta was a mature woman, healthy and attractive, but her ethical development had been arrested when she was about five years old, while her romantic imagination had continued to grow. Henrietta was, in this one respect, abnormal.

We all know, or have known, girls or boys of seven to sixteen years who tell awful lies. There are others who pick up things that don’t belong to them; who slip upstairs in a neighbor’s house when unwatched and open dresser drawers; otherwise nice girls and boys who just can’t help doing such things. Nearly all have frank, honest eyes. They look you in the eyes with saintly innocence and say they did not do it. They are cases of arrested ethical development and cannot help doing what they do. They are abnormal.

Friends and neighbors often say, “Etta Bates is such a liar! Dear, dear! Mrs. Bates ought to take a strap to her. I’d wale that child within an inch of her life, but I’d cure her!” Beating such a child does no good, nor would locking it in prison cure it. The trouble is deeper.

Henrietta had been a handsome girl. At twelve her physical development was that of a young woman of eighteen. She was enthusiastic, noisy, healthy, and untruthful. She liked to romp, especially with boys. She never knew her lessons, because she did not waste time on them, but she was at the head of all when it came to games. When her little friends were still dressing dolls Henrietta had developed the “he said” habit. Judged by Henrietta’s tales all the boys were mad over her and thought of nothing else.

A year or so later Henrietta began to be caught in lies. She told her child companions she had gone to dances, gallantly escorted, when she had been safe in bed all the while. Mothers began to say, “I would n’t play with Henrietta any more than necessary.”

Henrietta told lies about any subject that at the moment promised to glitter more brilliantly as a lie than as a truth. She said her mother was making her a blue silk dress with red bead embroidery in a sort of Greek design, and the skirt only shoe-top length, when her mother was making her no dress at all. She said her mother was going to take her to New York in the fall, so she could go to a private school where Mr. Vanderbilt’s daughters went, and that she was going to room with Mr. Vanderbilt’s daughter, when her mother in her wildest dreams had never thought of any such thing. Things like these Henrietta told not only to children, but to grown-ups. She told the minister that her mother had told her to ask him what college she ought to attend if she was going to be a missionary. All this was unpremeditated. She had happened to be passing the minister’s house, so she just dropped in and began lying in her frank-eyed, innocent way. The minister believed her until he spoke to her mother. Then there were tears and he agreed to do what he could to reform Henrietta. The result was that she joined the church and went on lying. She was then fourteen.

More frequently her lies had to do with love affairs. She had no love affairs, but she invented them. If, returning from school, a boy walked a block or two with her, she filled every one’s ears with tales of his attentions. It was about that time she began buying herself presents – cheap beads, plated pins and bracelets – which she said the boys had given her, and began, also, writing herself “notes” and letters, which she read to the girls, saying the boys had written them.

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.