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 sh.e.l.l, 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.

Pa.s.sed 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 n.o.ble, dear, be always what G.o.d 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 G.o.d 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 pa.s.s 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 G.o.d for you each day--oh may His light s.h.i.+ne 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 don'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, G.o.d is just," she murmured, "G.o.d 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, pa.s.sed 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:--

DR. TRACE TO THE CORONER

I cannot tell you, Coroner, the cause Of death of Elenor Murray, not until My chemical a.n.a.lysis is finished.

Here is the woman's heart sealed in this jar, I weighed it, weight nine ounces, if she had A hemolysis, cannot tell you now What caused the hemolysis. Since you say She took no castor oil, that you can learn From Irma Leese, or any witness, still A chemical a.n.a.lysis may show The presence of ricin,--and that she took A dose of oil not pure. Her throat betrayed Slight inflammation; but in brief, I wait My chemical a.n.a.lysis.

Let's exclude The things we know and narrow down the facts.

She lay there by the river, death had come Some twenty hours before. No stick or stone, No weapon near her, bottle, poison box, No bruise upon her, in her mouth no dust, No foreign bodies in her nostrils, neck Without a mark, no punctures, cuts or scars Upon her anywhere, no water in lungs, No mud, sand, straws or weeds in hands, the nails Clean, as if freshly manicured.

Again No evidence of rape. I first examined The genitals _in situ_, found them sound.

The girl had lived, was not a virgin, still Had temperately indulged, and not at all In recent months, no evidence at all Of conjugation willingly or not, The day of death. But still I lifted out The ovaries, fallopian tubes and uterus, The v.a.g.i.n.a and v.u.l.v.ae. Opened up The mammals, found no milk. No pregnancy Existed, sealed these organs up to test For poison later, as we doctors know Sometimes a poison's introduced _per v.a.g.i.n.am_.

I sealed the brain up too, shall make a test Of blood and serum for urea; death Comes suddenly from that, you find no lesion, Must take a piece of brain and cut it up, Pour boiling water on it, break the brain To finer pieces, pour the water off, Digest the piece of brain in other water, Repeat four times, the solutions mix together, Dry in an oven, treat with ether, at last The residue put on a slide of gla.s.s With nitric acid, let it stand awhile, Then take your microscope--if there's urea You'll see the crystals--very beautiful!

A cobra's beautiful, but scarce can kill As quick as these.

Likewise I have sealed up The stomach, liver, kidneys, spleen, intestines, So many poisons have no microscopic Appearance that convinces, opium, Hyoscyamus, belladonna fool us; But as the stomach had no inflammation, It was not chloral, ether took her off, Which we can smell, to boot. But I can find Strychnia, if it killed her; though you know That case in England sixty years ago, Where the a.n.a.lysis did not disclose Strychnia, though they hung a man for giving That poison to a fellow.

To recur I'm down to this: Perhaps a hemolysis-- But what produced it? If I find no ricin I turn to streptococcus, deadly snake, Or shall I call him tiger? For I think The microscopic world of living things Is just a little jungle, filled with tigers, Snakes, lions, what you will, with teeth and claws, The perfect miniatures of these monstrous foes.

Sweet words come from the lips and tender hands Like Elenor Murray's, minister, nor know The jungle has been roused in throat or lungs; And shapes venene begin to crawl and eat The ruddy apples of the blood, eject Their triple venomous excreta in The channels of the body.

There's the heart, Which may be weakened by a streptococcus.

But if she had a syncope and fell She must have bruised her body or her head.

And if she had a syncope, was held up, Who held her up? That might have cost her life: To be held up in syncope. You know You lay a person down in syncope, And oftentimes the heart resumes its beat.

Perhaps she was held up until she died, Then laid there by the river, so no bruise.

So many theories come to me. But again, I say to you, look for a man. Run down All clues of Gregory Wenner. He is dead-- Loss of a building drives to suicide-- The papers say, but still it may be true He was with Elenor Murray when she died, Pushed her, we'll say, or struck her in a way To leave no mark, a tap upon the heart That shocked the muscles more or less obscure That bind the auricles and ventricles, And killed her. Then he flies away in fear, Aghast at what he does, and kills himself.

Look for a man, I say. It must be true, She went so secretly to walk that morning To meet a man--why would she walk alone?

So while you hunt the man, I'll look for ricin, And with my chemicals end up the search.

I never saw a heart more beautiful, Just look at it. We doctors all agreed This Elenor Murray might have lived to ninety Except for jungles, poison, sudden shock.

I take my bottle with the heart of Elenor And go about my way. It beat in France, It beat for France and for America, But what is truer, somewhere was a man For whom it beat!