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: -