MRS. GREGORY WENNER

Gregory Wenner's wife was by the sea

When Gregory Wenner killed himself, half sick

And half malingering, and otiose.

She wept, sent for a doctor to be braced,

Induced a friend to travel with her west

To bury Gregory Wenner; did not know

That Gregory Wenner was in money straits

Until she read the paper, or had lost

His building in the loop. The man had kept

His worries from her ailing ears, was glad

To keep her traveling, or taking cures.

She came and buried Gregory Wenner; found

His fortune just a shell, the building lost,

A little money in the bank, a store

Far out on Lake Street, forty worthless acres

In northern Indiana, twenty lots

In some Montana village. Here she was,

A widow, penniless, an invalid.

The crude reality of things awoke

A strength she did not dream was hers. And then

She went to Gregory Wenner's barren office

To collect the things he had, get in his safe

For papers and effects.

She had to pay

An expert to reveal the combination,

And throw the bolts. And there she sat a day,

And emptied pigeon holes and searched and read.

And in one pigeon hole she found a box,

And in the box a lock of hair wrapped up

In tissue paper, fragrant powder lying

Around the paper — in the box a card

With woman's writing on it, just the words

“For my beloved”; but no name or date.

Who was this woman mused the widow there?

She did not know the name. She did not know

Her eyes had seen this Elenor Murray once

When Elenor Murray came with Gregory Wenner

To dinner at his home to face the wife.

For Elenor Murray in a mood of strength,

After her confirmation and communion,

Had said to Gregory Wenner: “Now the end

Has come to this, our love, I think it best

If she should ever learn I am the woman

Who in New York spent summer days with you,

And later in Chicago, in that summer,

She will remember what my eyes will show

When we stand face to face, and I give proof

That I am changed, repentant.”

For the wife

Had listened to a friend who came to tell

She saw this Gregory Wenner in New York

From day to day in gardens and cafes,

And by the sea romancing with a girl.

And later Mrs. Wenner found a book,

Which Gregory Wenner cherished — with the words

Beloved, and the date. And now she knew

The hand that wrote the card here in this box,

The hand that wrote the inscription in the book

Were one — but still she did not know the woman.

No doubt the woman of that summer's flame,

Whom Gregory Wenner promised not to see

When she brought out the book and told him all

She learned of his philandering in New York.

And Elenor Murray's body was decaying

In darkness, under earth there at LeRoy

While Mrs. Wenner read, and did not know

The hand that wrote the card lay blue and green,

Half hidden in the foldings of the shroud,

And all that country stirred for Elenor Murray,

Of which the widow absent in the east

Had never heard.

And Mrs. Wenner found

Beside the box and lock of hair three letters,

And sat and read them. Through her eyes and brain

This meaning and this sound of blood and soul,

Like an old record with a diamond needle.

Passed music like:—

“The days go swiftly by

With study and with work. I am too tired

At night to think. I read anatomy,

Materia medica and other things,

And do the work an undergraduate

Is called upon to do. And every week

I spend three afternoons with the nuns and sew,

And care for children of the poor whose mothers

Are earning bread away. I go to church

And talk with Mother Janet. And I pray

At morning and at night for you, and ask

For strength to live without you and for light

To understand why love of you is mine,

And why you are not mine, and whether God

Will give you to me some day if I prove

My womanhood is worthy of you, dear.

And sometimes when our days of bliss come back

And flood me with their warmth and blinding light

I take my little crucifix and kiss it,

And plunge in work to take me out of self,

Some service to another. So it is,

This sewing and this caring for the children

Stills memory and gives me strength to live,

And pass the days, go on. I shall not draw

Upon your thought with letters, still I ask

Your thought of me sometimes. Would it be much

If once a year you sent me a bouquet

To prove to me that you remember, sweet,

Still cherish me a little, give me faith

That in this riddle world there is a hand,

Which spite of separation, thinks and touches

Blossoms that I touch afterward? Dear heart,

I have starved out and killed that reckless mood

Which would have taken you and run away.

Oh, if you knew that this means killing, too,

The child I want — our child. You have a cross

No less than I, beloved, even if love

Of me has passed and eased the agony

I thought you knew — your cross is heavy, dear,

Bound, but not wedded to her, never to know

The life of marriage with her. Yet be brave,

Be noble, dear, be always what God made you,

A great heart, patient, gentle, sacrificing,

Bring comfort to her tedious days, forbear

When she is petulant, for if you do,

I know God will reward you, give you peace.

I pray for strength for you, that never again

May you distress her as you did, I did

When she found there was someone. Lest she know

Destroy this letter, all I ever write,

So that her mind may never fix itself

Upon a definite person, on myself.

But still remaining vague may better pass

To lighter shadows, nothingness at last.

I try to think I sinned, have so confessed

To get forgiveness at my first communion.

And yet a vestige of a thought in me

Will not submit, confess the sin. Well, dear,

You can awake at midnight, at the pause

Of duty in the day, merry or sad,

Light hearted or discouraged, if you chance,

To think of me, remember I send prayers

To God for you each day — oh may His light

Shine on your face!”

So Widow Wenner read,

And wondered of the writer, since no name

Was signed; and wept a little, dried her eyes

And flushed with anger, said, “adulteress,

Adulteress who played the game of pity,

And wove about my husband's heart the spell

Of masculine sympathy for a sorrowing woman,

A trick as old as Eden. And who knows

But all the money went here in the end?

For if a woman plunges from her aim

To piety, devotion such as this,

She will plunge back to sin, unstable heart,

That swings from self-denial to indulgence

And spends itself in both.”

Then Widow Wenner

Took up the second letter:

“I have signed

To go to France to-day. I wrote you once

I planned to take the veil, become a nun.

But now the war has changed my thought. I see

In service for my country fuller life,

More useful sacrifice and greater work

Than ever I could have, being a nun.

The cause is so momentous. Think, my dear,

This woman who still thinks of you will be

A factor in this war for liberty,

A soldier serving soldiers, giving strength,

Health, hope and spirit to the soldier boys

Who fall, must be restored to fight again.

I've thrown my soul in this, am all aflame.

You should have seen me when I took the oath,

And raised my hand and pledged my word to serve,

Support the law. I want to think of you

As proud of me for doing this — be proud,

Be grateful, too, that I have strength and will

To give myself to this. And if it chance,

As almost I am hoping, that the work

Should break me, sweep me under, think of me

As one who died for country, as I shall

As truly as the soldiers slain in battle.

I leave to-morrow, will be at a camp

Some weeks before I sail. I telephoned you

This morning twice, they said you would return

By two-o'clock at least. I write instead.

But I shall come to see you, if I can

Sometime this afternoon, and if I do n't,

This letter then must answer. Peace be with you.

To-day I'm very happy. Write to me,

Or if you do not think it best, all right,

I'll understand. Before I sail I'll send

A message to you — for the time farewell.”

Then Widow Wenner read the telegram

The third and last communication: “Sail

To-day, to-morrow, very soon, I know.

My memories of you are happy ones.

A fond adieu.” This telegram was signed

By Elenor Murray. Widow Wenner knew

The name at last, sat petrified to think

This was the girl who brazened through the dinner

Some years ago when Gregory Wenner brought

This woman to his home — “the shameless trull,”

Said Mrs. Wenner, “harlot, impudent jade,

To think my husband is dead, would she were dead —

I could be happy if I knew a bomb

Or vile disease had got her.” Then she looked

In other pigeon holes, and found in one

A photograph of Elenor Murray, knew

The face that looked across the dinner table.

And in the pigeon hole she found some verses

Clipped from a magazine, and tucked away

The letters, verses, telegram in her bag,

Closed up the safe and left.

Next day at breakfast

She scanned the morning Times, her eyes were wide

For reading of the Elenor Murray inquest.

“Well, God is just,” she murmured, “God is just.”

All this was learned of Gregory Wenner. Even

If Gregory Wenner killed the girl, the man

Was dead now. Could he kill her and return

And kill himself? The coroner had gone,

The jury too, to view the spot where lay

Elenor Murray's body. It was clear

A man had walked here. Was it Gregory Wenner?

The hunter who came up and found the body?

This hunter was a harmless, honest soul

Could not have killed her, passed the grill of questions

From David Borrow, skilled examiner,

The coroner, the jurors. But meantime

If Gregory Wenner killed this Elenor Murray

How did he do it? Dr. Trace has made

His autopsy and comes and makes report

To the coroner and the jury in these words:—