They were grim years, those three during which Mary Turner served her
sentence in Burnsing. There was no time off for good behavior. The girl
learned soon that the favor of those set in authority over her could
only be won at a cost against which her every maidenly instinct
revolted. So, she went through the inferno of days and nights in a
dreariness of suffering that was deadly. Naturally, the life there was
altogether an evil thing. There was the material ill ever present in
the round of wearisome physical toil, the coarse, distasteful food, the
hard, narrow couch, the constant, gnawing irksomeness of imprisonment,
away from light and air, away from all that makes life worth while.
Yet, these afflictions were not the worst injuries to mar the girl
convict's life. That which bore upon her most weightily and incessantly
was the degradation of this environment from which there was never any
respite, the viciousness of this spot wherein she had been cast through
no fault of her own. Vileness was everywhere, visibly in the faces of
many, and it was brimming from the souls of more, subtly hideous. The
girl held herself rigidly from any personal intimacy with her fellows.
To some extent, at least, she could separate herself from their
corruption in the matter of personal association. But, ever present,
there was a secret energy of vice that could not be escaped so
simply--nor, indeed, by any device; that breathed in the spiritual
atmosphere itself of the place. Always, this mysterious, invisible, yet
horribly potent, power of sin was like a miasma throughout the prison.
Always, it was striving to reach her soul, to make her of its own. She
fought the insidious, fetid force as best she might. She was not evil
by nature. She had been well grounded in principles of righteousness.
Nevertheless, though she maintained the integrity of her character,
that character suffered from the taint. There developed over the girl's
original sensibility a shell of hardness, which in time would surely
come to make her less scrupulous in her reckoning of right and wrong.
Yet, as a rule, character remains the same throughout life as to its
prime essentials, and, in this case, Mary Turner at the end of her term
was vitally almost as wholesome as on the day when she began the serving
of the sentence. The change wrought in her was chiefly of an external
sort. The kindliness of her heart and her desire for the seemly joys of
life were unweakened. But over the better qualities of her nature
was now spread a crust of worldly hardness, a denial of appeal to her
sensibilities. It was this that would eventually bring her perilously
close to contented companioning with crime.
The best evidence of the fact that Mary Turner's soul was not fatally
soiled must be found in the fact that still, at the expiration of her
sentence, she was fully resolved to live straight, as the saying is
which she had quoted to Gilder. This, too, in the face of sure knowledge
as to the difficulties that would beset the effort, and in the face of
the temptations offered to follow an easier path.
There was, for example, Aggie Lynch, a fellow convict, with whom she
had a slight degree of acquaintance, nothing more. This young woman, a
criminal by training, offered allurements of illegitimate employment in
the outer world when they should be free. Mary endured the companionship
with this prisoner because a sixth sense proclaimed the fact that here
was one unmoral, rather than immoral--and the difference is mighty. For
that reason, Aggie Lynch was not actively offensive, as were most of the
others. She was a dainty little blonde, with a baby face, in which were
set two light-blue eyes, of a sort to widen often in demure wonder over
most things in a surprising and naughty world. She had been convicted of
blackmail, and she made no pretense even of innocence. Instead, she was
inclined to boast over her ability to bamboozle men at her will. She
was a natural actress of the ingenue role, and in that pose she could
unfailingly beguile the heart of the wisest of worldly men.
Perhaps, the very keen student of physiognomy might have discovered
grounds for suspecting her demureness by reason of the thick, level
brows that cast a shadow on the bland innocence of her face. For the
rest, she possessed a knack of rather harmless perversity, a fair
smattering of grammar and spelling, and a lively sense of humor within
her own limitations, with a particularly small intelligence in other
directions. Her one art was histrionics of the kind that made an
individual appeal. In such, she was inimitable. She had been reared in a
criminal family, which must excuse much. Long ago, she had lost track
of her father; her mother she had never known. Her one relation was a
brother of high standing as a pickpocket. One principal reason of her
success in leading on men to make fools of themselves over her, to their
everlasting regret afterward, lay in the fact that, in spite of all the
gross irregularities of her life, she remained chaste. She deserved no
credit for such restraint, since it was a matter purely of temperament,
not of resolve.
The girl saw in Mary Turner the possibilities of a ladylike personality
that might mean much financial profit in the devious ways of which she
was a mistress. With the frankness characteristic of her, she proceeded
to paint glowing pictures of a future shared to the undoing of ardent
and fatuous swains. Mary Turner listened with curiosity, but she was in
no wise moved to follow such a life, even though it did not necessitate
anything worse than a fraudulent playing at love, without physical
degradation. So, she steadfastly continued her refusals, to the great
astonishment of Aggie, who actually could not understand in the least,
even while she believed the other's declaration of innocence of the
crime for which she was serving a sentence. But, for her own part, such
innocence had nothing to do with the matter. Where, indeed, could be
the harm in making some old sinner pay a round price for his folly? And
always, in response to every argument, Mary shook her head in negation.
She would live straight.
Then, the heavy brows of Aggie would draw down a little, and the baby
face would harden.
“You will find that you are up against a hell of a frost,” she would
declare, brutally.
Mary found the profane prophecy true. Back in New York, she experienced
a poverty more ravaging than any she had known in those five lean years
of her working in the store. She had been absolutely penniless for two
days, and without food through the gnawing hours, when she at last found
employment of the humblest in a milliner's shop. Followed a blessed
interval in which she worked contentedly, happy over the meager stipend,
since it served to give her shelter and food honestly earned.
But the ways of the police are not always those of ordinary decency. In
due time, an officer informed Mary's employer concerning the fact of
her record as a convict, and thereupon she was at once discharged. The
unfortunate victim of the law came perilously close to despair then.
Yet, her spirit triumphed, and again she persevered in that resolve
to live straight. Finally, for the second time, she secured a cheap
position in a cheap shop--only to be again persecuted by the police, so
that she speedily lost the place.
Nevertheless, indomitable in her purpose, she maintained the struggle.
A third time she obtained work, and there, after a little, she told
her employer, a candy manufacturer in a small way, the truth as to her
having been in prison. The man had a kindly heart, and, in addition,
he ran little risk in the matter, so he allowed her to remain. When,
presently, the police called his attention to the girl's criminal
record, he paid no heed to their advice against retaining her services.
But such action on his part offended the greatness of the law's dignity.
The police brought pressure to bear on the man. They even called in the
assistance of Edward Gilder himself, who obligingly wrote a very severe
letter to the girl's employer. In the end, such tactics alarmed the
man. For the sake of his own interests, though unwillingly enough, he
dismissed Mary from his service.
It was then that despair did come upon the girl. She had tried with all
the strength of her to live straight. Yet, despite her innocence,
the world would not let her live according to her own conscience. It
demanded that she be the criminal it had branded her--if she were to
live at all. So, it was despair! For she would not turn to evil, and
without such turning she could not live. She still walked the streets
falteringly, seeking some place; but her heart was gone from the quest.
Now, she was sunken in an apathy that saved her from the worst pangs
of misery. She had suffered so much, so poignantly, that at last her
emotions had grown sluggish. She did not mind much even when her tiny
hoard of money was quite gone, and she roamed the city, starving....
Came an hour when she thought of the river, and was glad!
Mary remembered, with a wan smile, how, long ago, she had thought with
amazed horror of suicide, unable to imagine any trouble sufficient
to drive one to death as the only relief. Now, however, the thing was
simple to her. Since there was nothing else, she must turn to that--to
death. Indeed, it was so very simple, so final, and so easy, after the
agonies she had endured, that she marveled over her own folly in not
having sought such escape before.... Even with the first wild fancy, she
had unconsciously bent her steps westward toward the North River. Now,
she quickened her pace, anxious for the plunge that should set the term
to sorrow. In her numbed brain was no flicker of thought as to whatever
might come to her afterward. Her sole guide was that compelling
passion of desire to be done with this unbearable present. Nothing else
mattered--not in the least!
So, she came through the long stretch of ill-lighted streets, crossed
some railroad tracks to a pier, over which she hurried to the far end,
where it projected out to the fiercer currents of the Hudson. There,
without giving herself a moment's pause for reflection or hesitation,
she leaped out as far as her strength permitted into the coil of
waters.... But, in that final second, natural terror in the face of
death overcame the lethargy of despair--a shriek burst from her lips.
But for that scream of fear, the story of Mary Turner had ended there
and then. Only one person was anywhere near to catch the sound. And that
single person heard. On the south side of the pier a man had just tied
up a motor-boat. He stood up in alarm at the cry, and was just in time
to gain a glimpse of a white face under the dim moonlight as it swept
down with the tide, two rods beyond him. On the instant, he threw off
his coat and sprang far out after the drifting body. He came to it in a
few furious strokes, caught it. Then began the savage struggle to save
her and himself. The currents tore at him wrathfully, but he fought
against them with all the fierceness of his nature. He had strength
a-plenty, but it needed all of it, and more, to win out of the river's
hungry clutch. What saved the two of them was the violent temper of the
man. Always, it had been the demon to set him aflame. To-night, there
in the faint light, within the grip of the waters, he was moved to
insensate fury against the element that menaced. His rage mounted, and
gave him new power in the battle. Maniacal strength grew out of supreme
wrath. Under the urge of it, he conquered--at last brought himself and
his charge to the shore.
When, finally, the rescuer was able to do something more than gasp
chokingly, he gave anxious attention to the woman whom he had brought
out from the river. Yet, at the outset, he could not be sure that she
still lived. She had shown no sign of life at any time since he had
first seized her. That fact had been of incalculable advantage to him
in his efforts to reach the shore with her. Now, however, it alarmed him
mightily, though it hardly seemed possible that she could have drowned.
So far as he could determine, she: had not even sunk once beneath the
surface. Nevertheless, she displayed no evidence of vitality, though
he chafed her hands for a long time. The shore here was very lonely; it
would take precious time to summon aid. It seemed, notwithstanding, that
this must be the only course. Then just as the man was about to leave
her, the girl sighed, very faintly, with an infinite weariness, and
opened her eyes. The man echoed the sigh, but his was of joy, since now
he knew that his strife in the girl's behalf had not been in vain.
Afterward, the rescuer experienced no great difficulty in carrying
out his work to a satisfactory conclusion. Mary revived to clear
consciousness, which was at first inclined toward hysteria, but this
phase yielded soon under the sympathetic ministrations of the man. His
rather low voice was soothing to her tired soul, and his whole air
was at once masterful and gently tender. Moreover, there was an
inexpressible balm to her spirit in the very fact that some one was thus
ministering to her. It was the first time for many dreadful years that
any one had taken thought for her welfare. The effect of it was like a
draught of rarest wine to warm her heart. So, she rested obediently as
he busied himself with her complete restoration, and, when finally she
was able to stand, and to walk with the support of his arm, she went
forward slowly at his side without so much even as a question of
whither.
And, curiously, the man himself shared the gladness that touched
the mood of the girl, for he experienced a sudden pride in his
accomplishment of the night, a pride that delighted a starved part of
his nature. Somewhere in him were the seeds of self-sacrifice, the
seeds of a generous devotion to others. But those seeds had been left
undeveloped in a life that had been lived since early boyhood outside
the pale of respectability. To-night, Joe Garson had performed, perhaps,
his first action with no thought of self at the back of it. He had
risked his life to save that of a stranger. The fact astonished him,
while it pleased him hugely. The sensation was at once novel and
thrilling. Since it was so agreeable, he meant to prolong the glow of
self-satisfaction by continuing to care for this waif of the river. He
must make his rescue complete. It did not occur to him to question his
fitness for the work. His introspection did not reach to a point of
suspecting that he, an habitual criminal, was necessarily of a sort to
be most objectionable as the protector of a young girl. Indeed, had any
one suggested the thought to him, he would have met it with a sneer, to
the effect that a wretch thus tired of life could hardly object to any
one who constituted himself her savior.
In this manner, Joe Garson, the notorious forger, led the dripping girl
eastward through the squalid streets, until at last they came to an
adequately lighted avenue, and there a taxicab was found. It carried
them farther north, and to the east still, until at last it came to a
halt before an apartment house that was rather imposing, set in a street
of humbler dwellings. Here, Garson paid the fare, and then helped
the girl to alight, and on into the hallway. Mary went with him quite
unafraid, though now with a growing curiosity. Strange as it all was,
she felt that she could trust this man who had plucked her from death,
who had worked over her with so much of tender kindliness. So, she
waited patiently; only, watched with intentness as he pressed the button
of a flat number. She observed with interest the thick, wavy gray of
his hair, which contradicted pleasantly the youthfulness of his
clean-shaven, resolute face, and the spare, yet well-muscled form.
The clicking of the door-latch sounded soon, and the two entered, and
went slowly up three flights of stairs. On the landing beyond the third
flight, the door of a rear flat stood open, and in the doorway appeared
the figure of a woman.
“Well, Joe, who's the skirt?” this person demanded, as the man and his
charge halted before her. Then, abruptly, the round, baby-like face of
the woman puckered in amazement. Her voice rose shrill. “My Gawd, if it
ain't Mary Turner!”
At that, the newcomer's eyes opened swiftly to their widest, and she
stared astounded in her turn.
“Aggie!” she cried.