It was on this same day that Sarah, on one of her numerous trips through the store in behalf of Gilder, was accosted by a salesgirl, whose name, Helen Morris, she chanced to know.It was in a spot somewhere out of the crowd, so that for the moment the two were practically alone.The salesgirl showed signs of embarrassment as she ventured to lay a detaining hand on Sarah's arm, but she maintained her position, despite the secretary's manner of disapproval.
"What on earth do you want?" Sarah inquired, snappishly.
The salesgirl put her question at once.
"What did they do to Mary Turner?"
"Oh, that!" the secretary exclaimed, with increased impatience over the delay, for she was very busy, as always."You will all know soon enough.""Tell me now." The voice of the girl was singularly compelling;there was something vividly impressive about her just now, though her pallid, prematurely mature face and the thin figure in the regulation black dress and white apron showed ordinarily only insignificant."Tell me now," she repeated, with a monotonous emphasis that somehow moved Sarah to obedience against her will, greatly to her own surprise.
"They sent her to prison for three years," she answered, sharply.
"Three years?" The salesgirl had repeated the words in a tone that was indefinable, yet a tone vehement in its incredulous questioning."Three years?" she said again, as one refusing to believe.
"Yes," Sarah said, impressed by the girl's earnestness; "three years.""Good God!" There was no irreverence in the exclamation that broke from the girl's lips.Instead, only a tense horror that touched to the roots of emotion.
Sarah regarded this display of feeling on the part of the young woman before her with an increasing astonishment.It was not in her own nature to be demonstrative, and such strong expression of emotion as this she deemed rather suspicious.She recalled, in addition, the fact that his was not the first time that Helen Morris had shown a particular interest in the fate of Mary Turner.Sarah wondered why.
"Say," she demanded, with the directness habitual to her, "why are you so anxious about it? This is the third time you have asked me about Mary Turner.What's it to you, I'd like to know?"The salesgirl started violently, and a deep flush drove the accustomed pallor from her cheeks.She was obviously much disturbed by the question.
"What is it to me?" she repeated in an effort to gain time.
"Why, nothing--nothing at all!" Her expression of distress lightened a little as she hit on an excuse that might serve to justify her interest."Nothing at all, only--she's a friend of mine, a great friend of mine.Oh, yes!" Then, in an instant, the look of relief vanished, as once again the terrible reality hammered on her consciousness, and an overwhelming dejection showed in the dull eyes and in the drooping curves of the white lips.There was a monotone of desolation as she went on speaking in a whisper meant for the ears of no other."It's awful--three years! Oh, I didn't understand! It's awful!--awful!" With the final word, she hurried off, her head bowed.She was still murmuring brokenly, incoherently.Her whole attitude was of wondering grief.
Sarah stared after the girl in complete mystification.She could not at first guess any possible cause for an emotion so poignant.
Presently, however, her shrewd, though very prosaic, commonsense suggested a simple explanation of the girl's extraordinary distress.
"I'll bet that girl has been tempted to steal.But she didn't, because she was afraid." With this satisfactory conclusion of her wonderment, the secretary hurried on her way, quite content.
It never occurred to her that the girl might have been tempted to steal--and had not resisted the temptation.
It was on account of this brief conversation with the salesgirl that Sarah was thinking intently of Mary Turner, after her return to the office, from which Gilder himself happened to be absent for the moment.As the secretary glanced up at the opening of the door, she did not at first recognize the figure outlined there.She remembered Mary Turner as a tall, slender girl, who showed an underlying vitality in every movement, a girl with a face of regular features, in which was a complexion of blended milk and roses, with a radiant joy of life shining through all her arduous and vulgar conditions.Instead of this, now, she saw a frail form that stood swaying in the opening of the doorway, that bent in a sinister fashion which told of bodily impotence, while the face was quite bloodless.And, too, there was over all else a pall of helplessness--helplessness that had endured much, and must still endure infinitely more.
As a reinforcement of the dread import of that figure of wo, a man stood beside it, and one of his hands was clasped around the girl's wrist, a man who wore his derby hat somewhat far back on his bullet-shaped head, whose feet were conspicuous in shoes with very heavy soles and very square toes.
It was the man who now took charge of the situation.Cassidy, from Headquarters, spoke in a rough, indifferent voice, well suited to his appearance of stolid strength.
"The District Attorney told me to bring this girl here on my way to the Grand Central Station with her."Sarah got to her feet mechanically.Somehow, from the raucous notes of the policeman's voice, she understood in a flash of illumination that the pitiful figure there in the doorway was that of Mary Turner, whom she had remembered so different, so frightfully different.She spoke with a miserable effort toward her usual liveliness.
"Mr.Gilder will be right back.Come in and wait." She wished to say something more, something of welcome or of mourning, to the girl there, but she found herself incapable of a single word for the moment, and could only stand dumb while the man stepped forward, with his charge following helplessly in his clutch.
