Mary Turner spent less than an hour in that mysteriously important
engagement with Dick Gilder, of which she had spoken to Aggie. After
separating from the young man, she went alone down Broadway, walking the
few blocks of distance to Sigismund Harris's office. On a corner, her
attention was caught by the forlorn face of a girl crossing into the
side street. A closer glance showed that the privation of the gaunt
features was emphasized by the scant garments, almost in tatters.
Instantly, Mary's quick sympathies were aroused, the more particularly
since the wretched child seemed of about the age she herself had been
when her great suffering had befallen. So, turning aside, she soon
caught up with the girl and spoke an inquiry.
It was the familiar story, a father out of work, a sick mother, a brood
of hungry children. Some confused words of distress revealed the fact
that the wobegone girl was even then fighting the final battle of purity
against starvation. That she still fought on in such case proved enough
as to her decency of nature, wholesome despite squalid surroundings.
Mary's heart was deeply moved, and her words of comfort came with a
simple sincerity that was like new life to the sorely beset waif. She
promised to interest herself in securing employment for the father,
such care as the mother and children might need, along with a proper
situation for the girl herself. In evidence of her purpose, she took her
engagement-book from her bag, and set down the street and number of the
East Side tenement where the family possessed the one room that
mocked the word home, and she gave a banknote to the girl to serve the
immediate needs.
When she went back to resume her progress down Broadway, Mary felt
herself vastly cheered by the warm glow within, which is the reward of
a kindly act, gratefully received. And, on this particular morning, she
craved such assuagement of her spirit, for the conscience that, in
spite of all her misdeeds, still lived was struggling within her. In
her revolt against a world that had wantonly inflicted on her the worst
torments, Mary Turner had thought that she might safely disregard those
principles in which she had been so carefully reared. She had believed
that by the deliberate adoption of a life of guile within limits allowed
by the law, she would find solace for her wants, while feeling that thus
she avenged herself in some slight measure for the indignities she had
undergone unjustly. Yet, as the days passed, days of success as far as
her scheming was concerned, this brilliant woman, who had tried to deem
herself unscrupulous, found that lawlessness within the law failed to
satisfy something deep within her soul. The righteousness that was
her instinct was offended by the triumphs achieved through so devious
devices, though she resolutely set her will to suppress any spiritual
rebellion.
There was, as well, another grievance of her nature, yet more subtle,
infinitely more painful. This lay in her craving for tenderness. She
was wholly woman, notwithstanding the virility of her intelligence,
its audacity, its aggressiveness. She had a heart yearning for the
multitudinous affections that are the prerogative of the feminine; she
had a heart longing for love, to receive and to give in full measure....
And her life was barren. Since the death of her father, there had been
none on whom she could lavish the great gifts of her tenderness. Through
the days of her working in the store, circumstances had shut her out
from all association with others congenial. No need to rehearse the
impossibilities of companionship in the prison life. Since then, the
situation had not vitally improved, in spite of her better worldly
condition. For Garson, who had saved her from death, she felt a strong
and lasting gratitude--nothing that relieved the longing for nobler
affections. There was none other with whom she had any intimacy except
that, of a sort, with Aggie Lynch, and by no possibility could the
adventuress serve as an object of deep regard. The girl was amusing
enough, and, indeed, a most likable person at her best. But she was,
after all, a shallow-pated individual, without a shred of principle of
any sort whatsoever, save the single merit of unswerving loyalty to her
“pals.” Mary cherished a certain warm kindliness for the first woman
who had befriended her in any way, but beyond this there was no finer
feeling.
Nevertheless, it is not quite accurate to say that Mary Turner had had
no intimacy in which her heart might have been seriously engaged. In one
instance, of recent happening, she had been much in association with a
young man who was of excellent standing in the world, who was of good
birth, good education, of delightful manners, and, too, wholesome and
agreeable beyond the most of his class. This was Dick Gilder, and, since
her companionship with him, Mary had undergone a revulsion greater than
ever before against the fate thrust on her, which now at last she had
chosen to welcome and nourish by acquiescence as best she might.
Of course, she could not waste tenderness on this man, for she had
deliberately set out to make him the instrument of her vengeance against
his father. For that very reason, she suffered much from a conscience
newly clamorous. Never for an instant did she hesitate in her
long-cherished plan of revenge against the one who had brought ruin on
her life, yet, through all her satisfaction before the prospect of final
victory after continued delay, there ran the secret, inescapable sorrow
over the fact that she must employ this means to attain her end. She had
no thought of weakening, but the better spirit within her warred against
the lust to repay an eye for an eye. It was the new Gospel against the
old Law, and the fierceness of the struggle rent her. Just now, the
doing of the kindly act seemed somehow to gratify not only her maternal
instinct toward service of love, but, too, to muffle for a little the
rebuking voice of her inmost soul.
So she went her way more at ease, more nearly content again with herself
and with her system of living. Indeed, as she was shown into the private
office of the ingenious interpreter of the law, there was not a hint of
any trouble beneath the bright mask of her beauty, radiantly smiling.
Harris regarded his client with an appreciative eye, as he bowed in
greeting, and invited her to a seat. The lawyer was a man of fine
physique, with a splendid face of the best Semitic type, in which were
large, dark, sparkling eyes--eyes a Lombroso perhaps might have judged
rather too closely set. As a matter of fact, Harris had suffered a
flagrant injustice in his own life from a suspicion of wrong-doing which
he had not merited by any act. This had caused him a loss of prestige in
his profession. He presently adopted the wily suggestion of the adage,
that it is well to have the game if you have the name, and he resolutely
set himself to the task of making as much money as possible by any means
convenient. Mary Turner as a client delighted his heart, both because of
the novelty of her ideas and for the munificence of the fees which she
ungrudgingly paid with never a protest. So, as he beamed on her now, and
spoke a compliment, it was rather the lawyer than the man that was moved
to admiration.
“Why, Miss Turner, how charming!” he declared, smiling. “Really, my dear
young lady, you look positively bridal.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Mary rejoined, with a whimsical pout, as she
seated herself. For the moment her air became distrait, but she quickly
regained her poise, as the lawyer, who had dropped back into his
chair behind the desk, went on speaking. His tone now was crisply
business-like.
“I sent your cousin, Miss Agnes Lynch, the release which she is to
sign,” he explained, “when she gets that money from General Hastings.
I wish you'd look it over, when you have time to spare. It's all right,
I'm sure, but I confess that I appreciate your opinion of things,
Miss Turner, even of legal documents--yes, indeed, I do!--perhaps
particularly of legal documents.”
“Thank you,” Mary said, evidently a little gratified by the frank praise
of the learned gentleman for her abilities. “And have you heard from
them yet?” she inquired.
“No,” the lawyer replied. “I gave them until to-morrow. If I don't
hear then, I shall start suit at once.” Then the lawyer's manner became
unusually bland and self-satisfied as he opened a drawer of the desk
and brought forth a rather formidable-appearing document, bearing a
most impressive seal. “You will be glad to know,” he went on unctuously,
“that I was entirely successful in carrying out that idea of yours as to
the injunction. My dear Miss Turner,” he went on with florid compliment,
“Portia was a squawking baby, compared with you.”
“Thank you again,” Mary answered, as she took the legal paper which he
held outstretched toward her. Her scarlet lips were curved happily, and
the clear oval of her cheeks blossomed to a deeper rose. For a moment,
her glance ran over the words of the page. Then she looked up at the
lawyer, and there were new lusters in the violet eyes.
“It's splendid,” she declared. “Did you have much trouble in getting
it?”
Harris permitted himself the indulgence of an unprofessional chuckle of
keenest amusement before he answered.
“Why, no!” he declared, with reminiscent enjoyment in his manner. “That
is, not really!” There was an enormous complacency in his air over the
event. “But, at the outset, when I made the request, the judge just
naturally nearly fell off the bench. Then, I showed him that Detroit
case, to which you had drawn my attention, and the upshot of it all
was that he gave me what I wanted without a whimper. He couldn't help
himself, you know. That's the long and the short of it.”
That mysterious document with the imposing seal, the request for which
had nearly caused a judge to fall off the bench, reposed safely in
Mary's bag when she, returned to the apartment after the visit to the
lawyer's office.