One time I saw her at the convent, sitting Upon a foot-stool at the gracious feet Of the Mother Superior, sewing for the poor; Hair parted in the middle, curls combed out.

Then was it that I missed her jewelry.

She looked just like a poor maid, humble, patient, Head bent above her sewing, eyes averted.

The room was silent with religious thought.

I loved her then and pitied her. But now I think she had that in her which at times Made her a flagellant, at other times A rioter. She used the church to drag Her life from something, took it for a bladder To float her soul when it was perilled. First, She did not sell her jewelry; this ring, Too brilliant for forgetting, or to pa.s.s Unnoticed when she wore it, showed again Upon her finger after she had come Out of her training, was a graduate.

She had a faculty for getting in Where elegance and riches were. She went Among the great ones, when she found a way, And traveled with them where she learned the life Of notables, aristocrats. It was there, Or when from duty free and feasting, gadding The ring showed on her finger.

In two years She dropped the church. New friends made in the school, New interests, work that took her energies And this religious flare had cured her up Of what was killing her when first I knew her.

There was another thing that drew her back To flesh, away from spirit: She saw bodies, And handled bodies as a nurse, forgot The body is the spirit's temple, fell To some materialism of thought. And now Avoided me, was much away, of course, On duty here and there. I tried to hold her, Protect and guide her, wrote to her at times To make confession, take communion. She Ignored these letters. But I heard her say The body was as natural as the soul, And just as natural its desires. She kept Out of the wreck of faith one thing alone, If she kept that: She could endure to hear G.o.d's name profaned, but would not stand to hear The Savior's spoken in irreverence.

She was afraid, no doubt. Or to be just, The tender love of Christ, his sacrifice, Perhaps had won her wholly--let it go, I'll say that much for her.

Why am I harsh?

Because I saw the good in her all streaked With so much evil, evil known and lived In knowledge of it, clung to none the less, Unstable as water, how could she succeed?

Untruthful, how could confidence be hers?

I sometimes think she joined the church to mask A secret life, renewed forgiven sins.

After she cloaked herself with piety.

Perhaps, at least, when she saw what to do, And how to do it, using these detours Of piety to throw us off, who else Had seen what doors she entered, whence she came.

She wronged the church, I think, made it a screen To stand behind for kisses, to look from Inviting kisses. Then, as I have said, She took materialism from her work, And so renewed her sins. She drank, I think, And smoked and feasted; but as for the rest, The smoke obscured the flame, but there is flame Or fire at least where there is smoke.

You ask What took her to the war? Why only this: Adventure, chance of marriage, amorous conquests-- The girl was mad for men, although I saw Her smoke obscured the flame, I never saw her Except with robins far too tame or lame To interest her, and robins prove to me The hawk is somewhere, waits for night to join His playmate when the robins are at rest.

You see the girl has madness in her, flies From exaltation up to ecstasy.

Feeds on emotion, never has enough.

Tries all things, states of spirit, even beliefs.

Pa.s.ses from l.u.s.t (I think) to celibacy, Feasts, fasts, eats, starves, has raptures then inflicts The whip upon her back, is penitent, Then proud, is humble, then is arrogant, Looks down demurely, stares you out of face, But runs the world around. For in point of fact, She traveled much, knew cities and their ways; And when I used to see her at the convent So meek, clothed like a sewing maid, at once The pictures that she showed me of herself At seaside places or on boulevards, Her beauty clothed in linen or in silk, Came back to mind, and I would resurrect The fragments of our talks in which I saw How she knew foods and drinks and restaurants, And fas.h.i.+onable shops. This girl could fool the elect-- She fooled me for a time. I found her out.

Did she aspire? Perhaps, if you believe It's aspiration to seek out the rich, And ape them. Not for me. Of course she went To get adventure in the war, perhaps She got too much. But as to waste of life, She might have been a quiet, n.o.ble woman Keeping her place in life, not trying to rise Out of her cla.s.s--too useless--in her cla.s.s Making herself all worthy, serviceable.

You'll find 'twas pride that slew her. Very like She found a rich man, tried to hold him, lost Her honor and her life in consequence.

When Merival showed this letter to the jury, Marion the juryman spoke up: "You know that type of woman--saintly hag!

I wouldn't take her word about a thing By way of inference, or a.n.a.lysis.

They had some trouble, she and Elenor You may be sure." And Merival replied: "Take it for what it's worth. I leave you now To see the man who owns the _Daily Times_.

He's turned upon our inquest, did you see The jab he gives me? I can jab as well."

So Merival went out and took with him A riffle in the waters of circ.u.mstance Set up by Elenor Murray's death to one Remote, secure in greatness--to the man Who ran the _Times_.

ARCHIBALD LOWELL

Archibald Lowell, owner of the _Times_ Lived six months of the year at Sunnyside, His Gothic castle near LeRoy, so named Because no sun was in him, it may be.

His wife was much away when on this earth At cures, in travel, fighting psychic ills, Approaching madness, dying nerves. They said Her heart was starved for living with a man So cold and silent. Thirty years she lived Bound to this man, in restless agony, And as she could not free her life from his, Nor keep it living with him, on a day She stuck a gas hose in her mouth and drank Her lungs full of the lethal stuff and died.

That was the very day the hunter found Elenor Murray's body near the river.

A servant saw this Mrs. Lowell lying A copy of the _Times_ clutched in her hand, Which published that a slip of paper found In Elenor Murray's pocket had these words "To be brave and not to flinch." And was she brave, And nerved to end it by these words of Elenor?

But Archibald, the husband, could not bear To have the death by suicide made known.

He laid the body out, as if his wife Had gone to bed as usual, turned a jet And left it, just as if his wife had failed To fully turn it, then went in the room; Then called the servants, did not know that one Had seen her with the _Times_ clutched in her hand.

He thought the matter hidden. Merival, All occupied with Elenor Murray's death Gave to a deputy the Lowell inquest.

But later what this servant saw was told To Merival.

And now no more alone Than when his wife lived, Lowell pa.s.sed the days At Sunnyside, as he had done for years.

He sat alone, and paced the rooms alone, With hands behind him clasped, in fear and wonder Of life and what life is. He rode about, And viewed his blooded cattle on the hills.

But what were all these rooms and acres to him With no face near him but the servants, gardeners?

Sometimes he wished he had a child to draw Upon his fabulous income, growing more Since all his life was centered in the _Times_ To swell its revenues, and in the process His spirit was more fully in the _Times_ Than in his body. There were eyes who saw How deftly was his spirit woven in it Until it was a scarf to bind and choke The public throat, or stifle honest thought Like a soft pillow offered for the head, But used to smother. There were eyes who saw The working of its ways emasculate, Its tones of gray, where flame had been the thing, Its timorous steps, while spying on the public, To learn the public's thought. Its cautious pauses, With foot uplifted, ears p.r.i.c.ked up to hear A step fall, twig break. Plat.i.tudes in progress-- With sugar coat of righteousness and order, Respectability.

Did the public make it?

Or did it make the public, that it fitted With such exactness in the communal life?

Some thousands thought it fair--what should they think When it played neutral in the matter of news To both sides of the question, though at last It turned the judge, and chose the better side, Determined from the first, a secret plan, And cunning way to turn the public scale?

Some thousands liked the kind of news it printed Where no sensation flourished--smallest type That fixed attention for the staring eyes Needed for type so small. But others knew It led the people by its fair pretensions, And used them in the end. In any case This editor played hand-ball in this way: The advertisers tossed the ball, the readers Caught it and tossed it to the advertisers: And as the readers multiplied, the columns Of advertising grew, and Lowell's thought Was how to play the one against the other, And fill his purse.

It was an ingrown mind, And growing more ingrown with time. Afraid Of crowds and streets, uncomfortable in clubs, No warmth in hands to touch his fellows' hands, Keeping aloof from politicians, loathing The human alderman who bails the thief; The little scamp who pares a little profit, And grafts upon a branch that takes no harm.

He loved the active spirit, if it worked, And feared the active spirit, if it played.

This Lowell hid himself from favor seekers, Such letters filtered to him through a sieve Of secretaries. If he had a friend, Who was a mind to him as well, perhaps It was a certain lawyer, but who knew?

And cursed with monophobia, none the less This Lowell lived alone there near LeRoy, Surrounded by his servants, at his desk A secretary named McGill, who took Such letters, editorials as he spoke.

His life was nearly waste. A peanut stand Should be as much remembered as the _Times_, When fifty years are pa.s.sed.

And every month The circulation manager came down To tell the great man of the gain or loss The paper made that month in circulation, In advertising, chiefly. Lowell took The audit sheets and studied them, and gave Steel bullet words of order this or that.

He took the dividends, and put them--where?

G.o.d knew alone.

He went to church sometimes, On certain Sundays, for a pious mother Had reared him so, and sat there like a corpse, A desiccated soul, so dry the moss Upon his teeth was dry.

And on a day, His wife now in the earth a week or so, Himself not well, the doctor there to quiet His fears of sudden death, pains in the chest, His manager had come--was made to wait Until the doctor finished--brought the sheets Which showed the advertising, circulation.

And Lowell studied them and said at last: "That new reporter makes the Murray inquest A thing of interest, does the public like it?"

To which the manager: "It sells the paper."

And then the great man: "It has served its use.

Now being nearly over, print these words: The Murray inquest shows to what a length Fantastic wit can go, it should be stopped."

An editorial later might be well: Comment upon a father and a mother Invaded in their privacy, and life In intimate relations dragged to view To sate the curious eye.

Next day the _Times_ Rebuked the coroner in these words. And then Merival sent word: "I come to see you, Or else you come to see me, or by process If you refuse." And so the editor Invited Merival to Sunnyside To talk the matter out. This was the talk: First Merival went over all the ground In mild locution, what he sought to do.

How as departments in the war had studied Disease and what not, tabulated facts, He wished to make a start for knowing lives, And finding remedies for lives. It's true Not much might be accomplished, also true The poet and the novelist gave thought, a.n.a.lysis to lives, yet who could tell What system might grow up to find the fault In marriage as it is, in rearing children In motherhood, in homes; for Merival By way of wit said to this dullest man: "I know of mother and of home, of heaven I've yet to learn." Whereat the great man winced, To hear the home and motherhood so slurred, And briefly said the _Times_ would go its way To serve the public interests, and to foster American ideals as he conceived them.

Then Merival who knew the great man's nature, How small it was and barren, cold and dull, And wedded to small things, to gold, and fear Of change, and knew the life the woman lived,-- These seven days in the earth--with such a man, Just by a zephyr of intangible thought Veered round the talk to her, to voice a wonder About the jet left turned, his deputy Had overlooked a hose which she could drink Gas from a jet. "You needn't touch the jet.

Just leave it as she left it--hide the hose, And leave the gas on, put the woman in bed."

"This deputy," said Merival, "was slack And let a verdict pa.s.s of accident."

"Oh yes" said Merival, "your servant told About the hose, the _Times_ clutched in her hand.

And may I test this jet, while I am here?

Go up to see and test it?"

Whereupon The great man with wide eyes stared in the eyes Of Merival, was speechless for a moment, Not knowing what to say, while Merival Read something in his eyes, saw in his eyes The secret beat to cover, saw the man Turn head away which shook a little, saw His chest expand for breath, and heard at last The editor in four steel bullet words, "It is not necessary."

Merival Had trapped the solitary fox--arose And going said: "If it was suicide The inquest must be changed."

The editor Looked through the window at the coroner Walking the gravel walk, and saw his hand Unlatch the iron gate, and saw him pa.s.s From view behind the trees.

Then horror rose Within his brain, a nameless horror took The heart of him, for fear this coroner Would dig this secret up, and show the world The dead face of the woman self-destroyed, And of the talk, which would not come to him, To poison air he breathed no less, of why This woman took her life; if for ill health Then why ill health? O, well he knew at heart What he had done to break her, starve her life.

And now accused himself too much for words, Ways, temperament of him that murdered her, For lovelessness, and for deliberate hands That pushed her off and down.

He rode that day To see his cattle, overlook the work, But when night came with silence and the cry Of night-hawks, and the elegy of leaves Beneath the stars that looked so cold at him As he turned seeking sleep, the dreaded pain Grew stronger in his breast. Dawn came at last And then the stir and voices of the maids.

And after breakfast in the carven room Archibald Lowell standing by the mantel In his great library, felt sudden pain; Saw sudden darkness, nothing saw at once, Lying upon the marble of the hearth; His great head cut which struck the post of bra.s.s In the hearth's railing--only a little blood!