They were grim years, those three during which Mary Turner servedher sentence in Burnsing. There was no time off for goodbehavior. The girl learned soon that the favor of those set inauthority over her could only be won at a cost against which herevery maidenly instinct revolted. So, she went through theinferno of days and nights in a dreariness of suffering that wasdeadly. Naturally, the life there was altogether an evil thing.
There was the material ill ever present in the round of wearisomephysical toil, the coarse, distasteful food, the hard, narrowcouch, the constant, gnawing irksomeness of imprisonment, awayfrom light and air, away from all that makes life worth while.
Yet, these afflictions were not the worst injuries to mar thegirl convict's life. That which bore upon her most weightily andincessantly was the degradation of this environment from whichthere was never any respite, the viciousness of this spot whereinshe had been cast through no fault of her own. Vileness waseverywhere, visibly in the faces of many, and it was brimmingfrom the souls of more, subtly hideous. The girl held herselfrigidly from any personal intimacy with her fellows. To someextent, at least, she could separate herself from theircorruption in the matter of personal association. But, everpresent, there was a secret energy of vice that could not beescaped so simply--nor, indeed, by any device; that breathed inthe spiritual atmosphere itself of the place. Always, thismysterious, invisible, yet horribly potent, power of sin was likea miasma throughout the prison. Always, it was striving to reachher soul, to make her of its own. She fought the insidious,fetid force as best she might. She was not evil by nature. Shehad been well grounded in principles of righteousness.
Nevertheless, though she maintained the integrity of hercharacter, that character suffered from the taint. Theredeveloped over the girl's original sensibility a shell ofhardness, which in time would surely come to make her lessscrupulous in her reckoning of right and wrong.
Yet, as a rule, character remains the same throughout life as toits prime essentials, and, in this case, Mary Turner at the endof her term was vitally almost as wholesome as on the day whenshe began the serving of the sentence. The change wrought in herwas chiefly of an external sort. The kindliness of her heart andher desire for the seemly joys of life were unweakened. But overthe better qualities of her nature was now spread a crust ofworldly hardness, a denial of appeal to her sensibilities. It wasthis that would eventually bring her perilously close tocontented companioning with crime.
The best evidence of the fact that Mary Turner's soul was notfatally soiled must be found in the fact that still, at theexpiration of her sentence, she was fully resolved to livestraight, as the saying is which she had quoted to Gilder. This,too, in the face of sure knowledge as to the difficulties thatwould beset the effort, and in the face of the temptationsoffered to follow an easier path.
There was, for example, Aggie Lynch, a fellow convict, with whomshe had a slight degree of acquaintance, nothing more. Thisyoung woman, a criminal by training, offered allurements ofillegitimate employment in the outer world when they should befree. Mary endured the companionship with this prisoner becausea sixth sense proclaimed the fact that here was one unmoral,rather than immoral--and the difference is mighty. For thatreason, Aggie Lynch was not actively offensive, as were most ofthe others. She was a dainty little blonde, with a baby face, inwhich were set two light-blue eyes, of a sort to widen often indemure wonder over most things in a surprising and naughty world.
She had been convicted of blackmail, and she made no pretenseeven of innocence. Instead, she was inclined to boast over herability to bamboozle men at her will. She was a natural actressof the ingenue role, and in that pose she could unfailinglybeguile the heart of the wisest of worldly men.
Perhaps, the very keen student of physiognomy might havediscovered grounds for suspecting her demureness by reason of thethick, level brows that cast a shadow on the bland innocence ofher face. For the rest, she possessed a knack of rather harmlessperversity, a fair smattering of grammar and spelling, and alively sense of humor within her own limitations, with aparticularly small intelligence in other directions. Her one artwas histrionics of the kind that made an individual appeal. Insuch, she was inimitable. She had been reared in a criminalfamily, which must excuse much. Long ago, she had lost track ofher father; her mother she had never known. Her one relation wasa brother of high standing as a pickpocket. One principal reasonof her success in leading on men to make fools of themselves overher, to their everlasting regret afterward, lay in the fact that,in spite of all the gross irregularities of her life, sheremained 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 ladylikepersonality that might mean much financial profit in the deviousways of which she was a mistress. With the franknesscharacteristic of her, she proceeded to paint glowing pictures ofa future shared to the undoing of ardent and fatuous swains.
Mary Turner listened with curiosity, but she was in no wise movedto follow such a life, even though it did not necessitateanything worse than a fraudulent playing at love, withoutphysical degradation. So, she steadfastly continued herrefusals, to the great astonishment of Aggie, who actually couldnot understand in the least, even while she believed the other'sdeclaration of innocence of the crime for which she was serving asentence. But, for her own part, such innocence had nothing todo with the matter. Where, indeed, could be the harm in makingsome old sinner pay a round price for his folly? And always, inresponse to every argument, Mary shook her head in negation. Shewould live straight.
Then, the heavy brows of Aggie would draw down a little, and thebaby face would harden.
"You will find that you are up against a hell of a frost," shewould declare, brutally.
Mary found the profane prophecy true. Back in New York, sheexperienced a poverty more ravaging than any she had known inthose five lean years of her working in the store. She had beenabsolutely penniless for two days, and without food through thegnawing hours, when she at last found employment of the humblestin a milliner's shop. Followed a blessed interval in which sheworked contentedly, happy over the meager stipend, since itserved to give her shelter and food honestly earned.
But the ways of the police are not always those of ordinarydecency. In due time, an officer informed Mary's employerconcerning the fact of her record as a convict, and thereupon shewas at once discharged. The unfortunate victim of the law cameperilously close to despair then. Yet, her spirit triumphed, andagain she persevered in that resolve to live straight. Finally,for the second time, she secured a cheap position in a cheapshop--only to be again persecuted by the police, so that shespeedily lost the place.
Nevertheless, indomitable in her purpose, she maintained thestruggle. A third time she obtained work, and there, after alittle, she told her employer, a candy manufacturer in a smallway, the truth as to her having been in prison. The man had akindly heart, and, in addition, he ran little risk in the matter,so he allowed her to remain. When, presently, the police calledhis attention to the girl's criminal record, he paid no heed totheir advice against retaining her services. But such action onhis part offended the greatness of the law's dignity. The policebrought pressure to bear on the man. They even called in theassistance of Edward Gilder himself, who obligingly wrote a verysevere letter to the girl's employer. In the end, such tacticsalarmed the man. For the sake of his own interests, thoughunwillingly enough, he dismissed Mary from his service.
It was then that despair did come upon the girl. She had triedwith all the strength of her to live straight. Yet, despite herinnocence, the world would not let her live according to her ownconscience. It demanded that she be the criminal it had brandedher--if she were to live at all. So, it was despair! For shewould not turn to evil, and without such turning she could notlive. She still walked the streets falteringly, seeking someplace; but her heart was gone from the quest. Now, she wassunken in an apathy that saved her from the worst pangs ofmisery. She had suffered so much, so poignantly, that at lasther emotions had grown sluggish. She did not mind much even whenher tiny hoard of money was quite gone, and she roamed the city,starving.... Came an hour when she thought of the river, and wasglad!
Mary remembered, with a wan smile, how, long ago, she had thoughtwith amazed horror of suicide, unable to imagine any troublesufficient to drive one to death as the only relief. Now,however, the thing was simple to her. Since there was nothingelse, she must turn to that--to death. Indeed, it was so verysimple, so final, and so easy, after the agonies she had endured,that she marveled over her own folly in not having sought suchescape before.... Even with the first wild fancy, she hadunconsciously bent her steps westward toward the North River.
Now, she quickened her pace, anxious for the plunge that shouldset the term to sorrow. In her numbed brain was no flicker ofthought as to whatever might come to her afterward. Her soleguide was that compelling passion of desire to be done with thisunbearable 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 tothe far end, where it projected out to the fiercer currents ofthe Hudson. There, without giving herself a moment's pause forreflection or hesitation, she leaped out as far as her strengthpermitted into the coil of waters.... But, in that final second,natural terror in the face of death overcame the lethargy ofdespair--a shriek burst from her lips.
But for that scream of fear, the story of Mary Turner had endedthere and then. Only one person was anywhere near to catch thesound. And that single person heard. On the south side of thepier a man had just tied up a motor-boat. He stood up in alarmat the cry, and was just in time to gain a glimpse of a whiteface under the dim moonlight as it swept down with the tide, tworods beyond him. On the instant, he threw off his coat andsprang far out after the drifting body. He came to it in a fewfurious strokes, caught it. Then began the savage struggle tosave her and himself. The currents tore at him wrathfully, but hefought against them with all the fierceness of his nature. Hehad strength a-plenty, but it needed all of it, and more, to winout of the river's hungry clutch. What saved the two of them wasthe violent temper of the man. Always, it had been the demon toset him aflame. To-night, there in the faint light, within thegrip of the waters, he was moved to insensate fury against theelement that menaced. His rage mounted, and gave him new powerin the battle. Maniacal strength grew out of supreme wrath.
Under the urge of it, he conquered--at last brought himself andhis charge to the shore.
When, finally, the rescuer was able to do something more thangasp chokingly, he gave anxious attention to the woman whom hehad brought out from the river. Yet, at the outset, he could notbe sure that she still lived. She had shown no sign of life atany time since he had first seized her. That fact had been ofincalculable advantage to him in his efforts to reach the shorewith her. Now, however, it alarmed him mightily, though ithardly seemed possible that she could have drowned. So far as hecould determine, she: had not even sunk once beneath the surface.
Nevertheless, she displayed no evidence of vitality, though hechafed her hands for a long time. The shore here was verylonely; it would take precious time to summon aid. It seemed,notwithstanding, that this must be the only course. Then just asthe man was about to leave her, the girl sighed, very faintly,with an infinite weariness, and opened her eyes. The man echoedthe sigh, but his was of joy, since now he knew that his strifein the girl's behalf had not been in vain.
Afterward, the rescuer experienced no great difficulty incarrying out his work to a satisfactory conclusion. Mary revivedto clear consciousness, which was at first inclined towardhysteria, but this phase yielded soon under the sympatheticministrations of the man. His rather low voice was soothing toher tired soul, and his whole air was at once masterful andgently tender. Moreover, there was an inexpressible balm to herspirit in the very fact that some one was thus ministering toher. It was the first time for many dreadful years that any onehad taken thought for her welfare. The effect of it was like adraught of rarest wine to warm her heart. So, she restedobediently as he busied himself with her complete restoration,and, when finally she was able to stand, and to walk with thesupport of his arm, she went forward slowly at his side withoutso much even as a question of whither.
And, curiously, the man himself shared the gladness that touchedthe mood of the girl, for he experienced a sudden pride in hisaccomplishment of the night, a pride that delighted a starvedpart of his nature. Somewhere in him were the seeds ofself-sacrifice, the seeds of a generous devotion to others. Butthose seeds had been left undeveloped in a life that had beenlived since early boyhood outside the pale of respectability.
To-night, Joe Garson had performed, perhaps, his first actionwith no thought of self at the back of it. He had risked hislife to save that of a stranger. The fact astonished him, whileit pleased him hugely. The sensation was at once novel andthrilling. Since it was so agreeable, he meant to prolong theglow of self-satisfaction by continuing to care for this waif ofthe river. He must make his rescue complete. It did not occur tohim to question his fitness for the work. His introspection didnot reach to a point of suspecting that he, an habitual criminal,was necessarily of a sort to be most objectionable as theprotector of a young girl. Indeed, had any one suggested thethought to him, he would have met it with a sneer, to the effectthat a wretch thus tired of life could hardly object to any onewho constituted himself her savior.
In this manner, Joe Garson, the notorious forger, led thedripping girl eastward through the squalid streets, until at lastthey came to an adequately lighted avenue, and there a taxicabwas found. It carried them farther north, and to the east still,until at last it came to a halt before an apartment house thatwas rather imposing, set in a street of humbler dwellings. Here,Garson paid the fare, and then helped the girl to alight, and oninto the hallway. Mary went with him quite unafraid, though nowwith a growing curiosity. Strange as it all was, she felt thatshe could trust this man who had plucked her from death, who hadworked over her with so much of tender kindliness. So, shewaited patiently; only, watched with intentness as he pressed thebutton of a flat number. She observed with interest the thick,wavy gray of his hair, which contradicted pleasantly theyouthfulness 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 beyondthe third flight, the door of a rear flat stood open, and in thedoorway appeared the figure of a woman.
"Well, Joe, who's the skirt?" this person demanded, as the manand his charge halted before her. Then, abruptly, the round,baby-like face of the woman puckered in amazement. Her voicerose shrill. "My Gawd, if it ain't Mary Turner!"At that, the newcomer's eyes opened swiftly to their widest, andshe stared astounded in her turn.
"Aggie!" she cried.