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 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, 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: -