THE TRAGEDY OF THE TURNERS
The trip north from Fort Magruder was a most trying experience for
Philip Dru, for although he had as traveling companions Gloria and Jack
Strawn, who was taking a leave of absence, the young Kentuckian felt his
departure from Texas and the Army as a portentous turning point in his
career. In spite of Gloria's philosophy, and in spite of Jack's
reassurances, Philip was assailed by doubts as to the ultimate
improvement of his eyesight, and at the same time with the feeling that
perhaps after all, he was playing the part of a deserter.
"It's all nonsense to feel cut up over it, you know, Philip," insisted
Jack. "You can take my word for it that you have the wrong idea in
wanting to quit when you can be taken care of by the Government. You
have every right to it."
"No, Jack, I have no right to it," answered Dru, "but certain as I am
that I am doing the only thing I could do, under the circumstances, it's
a hard wrench to leave the Army, even though I had come to think that I
can find my place in the world out of the service."
The depression was not shaken off until after they had reached New York,
and Philip had been told by the great specialist that his eyesight
probably never again would pass the Army tests. Once convinced that an
Army career was impossible, he resigned, and began to reconstruct his
life with new hope and with a new enthusiasm. While he was ordered to
give his eyes complete rest for at least six months and remain a part
of every day in a darkened room, he was promised that after several
months, he probably would be able to read and write a little.
As he had no relatives in New York, Philip, after some hesitation,
accepted Jack Strawn's insistent invitation to visit him for a time, at
least. Through the long days and weeks that followed, the former young
officer and Gloria were thrown much together.
One afternoon as they were sitting in a park, a pallid child of ten
asked to "shine" their shoes. In sympathy they allowed him to do it. The
little fellow had a gaunt and hungry look and his movements were very
sluggish. He said his name was Peter Turner and he gave some squalid
east side tenement district as his home. He said that his father was
dead, his mother was bedridden, and he, the oldest of three children,
was the only support of the family. He got up at five and prepared their
simple meal, and did what he could towards making his mother comfortable
for the day. By six he left the one room that sheltered them, and
walked more than two miles to where he now was. Midday meal he had none,
and in the late afternoon he walked home and arranged their supper of
bread, potatoes, or whatever else he considered he could afford to buy.
Philip questioned him as to his earnings and was told that they varied
with the weather and other conditions, the maximum had been a dollar and
fifteen cents for one day, the minimum twenty cents. The average seemed
around fifty cents, and this was to shelter, clothe and feed a family of
four.
Already Gloria's eyes were dimmed with tears. Philip asked if they might
go home with him then. The child consented and led the way.
They had not gone far, when Philip, noticing how frail Peter was, hailed
a car, and they rode to Grand Street, changed there and went east.
Midway between the Bowery and the river, they got out and walked south
for a few blocks, turned into a side street that was hardly more than an
alley, and came to the tenement where Peter lived.
It had been a hot day even in the wide, clean portions of the city.
Here the heat was almost unbearable, and the stench, incident to a
congested population, made matters worse.
Ragged and dirty children were playing in the street. Lack of food and
pure air, together with unsanitary surroundings, had set its mark upon
them. The deathly pallor that was in Peter's face was characteristic of
most of the faces around them.
The visitors climbed four flights of stairs, and went down a long, dark,
narrow hall reeking with disagreeable odors, and finally entered
ten-year-old Peter Turner's "home."
"What a travesty on the word 'home,'" murmured Dru, as he saw for the
first time the interior of an East Side tenement. Mrs. Turner lay
propped in bed, a ghost of what was once a comely woman. She was barely
thirty, yet poverty, disease and the city had drawn their cruel lines
across her face. Gloria went to her bedside and gently pressed the
fragile hand. She dared not trust herself to speak. And this, she
thought, is within the shadow of my home, and I never knew. "Oh, God,"
she silently prayed, "forgive us for our neglect of such as these."
Gloria and Philip did all that was possible for the Turners, but their
helping hands came too late to do more than to give the mother a measure
of peace during the last days of her life. The promise of help for the
children lifted a heavy load from her heart. Poor stricken soul, Zelda
Turner deserved a better fate. When she married Len Turner, life seemed
full of joy. He was employed in the office of a large manufacturing
concern, at what seemed to them a munificent salary, seventy-five
dollars a month.
Those were happy days. How they saved and planned for the future! The
castle that they built in Spain was a little home on a small farm near a
city large enough to be a profitable market for their produce. Some
place where the children could get fresh air, wholesome food and a place
in which to grow up. Two thousand dollars saved, would, they thought, be
enough to make the start. With this, a farm costing four thousand
dollars could be bought by mortgaging it for half. Twenty-five dollars a
month saved for six years, would, with interest, bring them to their
goal.
Already more than half the sum was theirs. Then came disaster. One
Sunday they were out for their usual walk. It had been sleeting and the
pavements here and there were still icy. In front of them some children
were playing, and a little girl of eight darted into the street to avoid
being caught by a companion. She slipped and fell. A heavy motor was
almost upon her, when Len rushed to snatch her from the on-rushing car.
He caught the child, but slipped himself, succeeding however in pushing
her beyond danger before the cruel wheels crushed out his life. The
dreary days and nights that followed need not be recited here. The cost
of the funeral and other expenses incident thereto bit deep into their
savings, therefore as soon as she could pull herself together, Mrs.
Turner sought employment and got it in a large dressmaking establishment
at the inadequate wage of seven dollars a week. She was skillful with
her needle but had no aptitude for design, therefore she was ever to be
among the plodders. One night in the busy season of overwork before the
Christmas holidays, she started to walk the ten blocks to her little
home, for car-fare was a tax beyond her purse, and losing her weary
footing, she fell heavily to the ground. By the aid of a kindly
policeman she was able to reach home, in great suffering, only to faint
when she finally reached her room. Peter, who was then about seven years
old, was badly frightened. He ran for their next door neighbor, a kindly
German woman. She lifted Zelda into bed and sent for a physician, and
although he could find no other injury than a badly bruised spine, she
never left her bed until she was borne to her grave.
The pitiful little sum that was saved soon went, and Peter with his
blacking box became the sole support of the family.
When they had buried Zelda, and Gloria was kneeling by her grave softly
weeping, Philip touched her shoulder and said, "Let us go, she needs us
no longer, but there are those who do. This experience has been my
lesson, and from now it is my purpose to consecrate my life towards the
betterment of such as these. Our thoughts, our habits, our morals, our
civilization itself is wrong, else it would not be possible for just
this sort of suffering to exist."
"But you will let me help you, Philip?" said Gloria.
"It will mean much to me, Gloria, if you will. In this instance Len
Turner died a hero's death, and when Mrs. Turner became incapacitated,
society, the state, call it what you will, should have stepped in and
thrown its protecting arms around her. It was never intended that she
should lie there day after day month after month, suffering, starving,
and in an agony of soul for her children's future. She had the right to
expect succor from the rich and the strong."
"Yes," said Gloria, "I have heard successful men and women say that they
cannot help the poor, that if you gave them all you had, they would soon
be poor again, and that your giving would never cease." "I know," Philip
replied, "that is ever the cry of the selfish. They believe that they
merit all the blessings of health, distinction and wealth that may come
to them, and they condemn their less fortunate brother as one deserving
his fate. The poor, the weak and the impractical did not themselves
bring about their condition. Who knows how large a part the mystery of
birth and heredity play in one's life and what environment and
opportunity, or lack of it, means to us? Health, ability, energy,
favorable environment and opportunity are the ingredients of success.
Success is graduated by the lack of one or all of these. If the powerful
use their strength merely to further their own selfish desires, in what
way save in degree do they differ from the lower animals of creation?
And how can man under such a moral code justify his dominion over land
and sea?
"Until recently this question has never squarely faced the human race,
but it does face it now and to its glory and honor it is going to be
answered right. The strong will help the weak, the rich will share with
the poor, and it will not be called charity, but it will be known as
justice. And the man or woman who fails to do his duty, not as he sees
it, but as society at large sees it, will be held up to the contempt of
mankind. A generation or two ago, Gloria, this mad unreasoning scramble
for wealth began. Men have fought, struggled and died, lured by the
gleam of gold, and to what end? The so-called fortunate few that succeed
in obtaining it, use it in divers ways. To some, lavish expenditure and
display pleases their swollen vanity. Others, more serious minded,
gratify their selfishness by giving largess to schools of learning and
research, and to the advancement of the sciences and arts. But here and
there was found a man gifted beyond his fellows, one with vision clear
enough to distinguish things worth while. And these, scorning to acquire
either wealth or power, labored diligently in their separate fields of
endeavor. One such became a great educator, the greatest of his day and
generation, and by his long life of rectitude set an example to the
youth of America that has done more good than all the gold that all the
millionaires have given for educational purposes. Another brought to
success a prodigious physical undertaking. For no further reason than
that he might serve his country where best he could, he went into a
fever-laden land and dug a mighty ditch, bringing together two great
oceans and changing the commerce of the world."