Domesday Book Part 7

When Irma Leese, the Aunt of Elenor Murray, Appeared before the coroner she told Of Elenor Murray's visit, of the morning She left to walk, was never seen again.

And brought the coroner some letters sent By Elenor from France. What follows now Is what the coroner, or the jury heard From Irma Leese, from letters drawn--beside The riffle that the death of Elenor Murray Sent round the life of Irma Leese, which spread To Tokio and touched a man, the son Of Irma Leese's sister, dead Corinne, The mother of this man in Tokio.

IRMA LEESE

Elenor Murray landing in New York, After a weary voyage, none too well, Staid in the city for a week and then Upon a telegram from Irma Leese, Born Irma Fouche, her aunt who lived alone This summer in the Fouche house near LeRoy, Came west to visit Irma Leese and rest.

For Elenor Murray had not been herself Since that hard spring when in the hospital, Caring for soldiers stricken with the flu, She took bronchitis, after weeks in bed Rose weak and shaky, crept to health again Through egg-nogs, easy strolls about Bordeaux.

And later went to Nice upon a furlough To get her strength again.

But while she saw Her vital flame burn brightly, as of old On favored days, yet for the rest the flame Sputtered or sank a little. So she thought How good it might be to go west and stroll About the lovely country of LeRoy, And hear the whispering cedars by a window In the Fouche mansion where this Irma Leese, Her aunt, was summering. So she telegraphed, And being welcomed, went.

This stately house, Built sixty years before by Arthur Fouche, A brick home with a mansard roof, an oriel That looked between the cedars, and a porch With great Ionic columns, from the street Stood distantly amid ten acres of lawn, Trees, flower plots--belonged to Irma Leese, Who had reclaimed it from a chiropractor, To cleanse the name of Fouche from that indignity, And bring it in the family again, Since she had spent her girlhood, womanhood To twenty years amid its twenty rooms.

For Irma Leese at twenty years had married And found herself at twenty-five a widow, With money left her, then had tried again, And after years dissolved the second pact, And made a settlement, was rich in fact, Now forty-two. Five years before had come And found the house she loved a sanitarium, A chiropractor's home. And as she stood Beside the fence and saw the oriel, Remembered all her happiness on this lawn With brothers and with sisters, one of whom Was Elenor Murray's mother, then she willed To buy the place and spend some summers here.

And here she was the summer Elenor Murray Returned from France.

And Irma Leese had said: "Here is your room, it has the oriel, And there's the river and the hills for you.

Have breakfast in your room what hour you will, Rise when you will. We'll drive and walk and rest, Run to Chicago when we have a mind.

I have a splendid chauffeur now and maids.

You must grow strong and well."

And Elenor Murray Gasped out her happiness for the pretty room, And stood and viewed the river and the hills, And wept a little on the gentle shoulder Of Irma Leese.

And so the days had pa.s.sed Of walking, driving, resting, many talks; For Elenor Murray spoke to Irma Leese Of tragic and of rapturous days in France, And Irma Leese, though she had lived full years, Had scarcely lived as much as Elenor Murray, And could not hear enough from Elenor Murray Of the war and France, but mostly she would urge Her niece to tell of what affairs of love Had come to her. And Elenor Murray told Of Gregory Wenner, save she did not tell The final secret, with a gesture touched The story off by saying: It was hopeless, I went into religion to forget.

But on a day she said to Irma Leese: "I almost met my fate at Nice," then sketched A hurried picture of a brief romance.

But Elenor Murray told her nothing else Of loves or men. But all the while the aunt Weighed Elenor Murray, on a day exclaimed: "I see myself in you, and you are like Your Aunt Corinne who died in ninety-two.

I'll tell you all about your Aunt Corinne Some day when we are talking, but I see You have the Fouche blood--we are lovers all.

Your mother is a lover, Elenor, If you would know it."

"O, your Aunt Corinne She was most beautiful, but unfortunate.

Her husband was past sixty when she married, And she was thirty-two. He was distinguished, Had money and all that, but youth is all, Is everything for love, and she was young, And he was old."

A week or two had pa.s.sed Since Elenor Murray came to Irma Leese, When on a morning fire broke from the eaves And menaced all the house; but maids and gardeners With buckets saved the house, while Elenor Murray And Irma Leese dipped water from the barrels That stood along the ell.

A week from that A carpenter was working at the eaves Along the ell, and in the garret knelt To pry up boards and patch. When as he pried A board up, he beheld between the rafters A package of old letters stained and frayed, Tied with a little ribbon almost dust.

And when he went down-stairs, delivered it To Irma Leese and said: Here are some letters I found up in the garret under the floor, I pried up in my work.

Then Irma Leese Looked at the letters, saw her sister's hand, Corinne's upon the letters, opened, read, And saw the story which she knew before Brought back in this uncanny way, the hand Which wrote the letters six and twenty years Turned back to dust. And when her niece came in She showed the letters, said, "I'll let you read, I'll tell you all about them":

"When Corinne Was nineteen, very beautiful and vital, Red-cheeked, a dancer, bubbling like new wine, A catch, as you may know, you see this house Was full of laughter then, so many children.

We had our parties, too, and young men thought, Each one of us would have a dowry splendid-- A young man from Chicago came along, A lawyer there, but lately come from Pittsburgh To practice, win his way. I knew this man.

He was a handsome dog with curly hair, Blue eyes and st.u.r.dy figure. Well, Corinne Quite lost her heart. He came here to a dance, And so the game commenced. And father thought The fellow was not right, but all of us, Your mother and myself said, yes he is, And we conspired to help Corinne and smooth The path of confidence. But later on Corinne was not so buoyant, would not talk With me, your mother freely. Then at last Her eyes were sometimes red; we knew she wept.

And, then Corinne was sent away. Well, here You'll guess the rest. Her health was breaking down, That's true enough; the world could think its thoughts, And say his love grew cold, or she found out The black-leg that he was, and he was that.

But Elenor, the truth was more than that, Corinne had been betrayed, she went away To right herself--these letters prove the case, Which all the gossips, busy as they were, Could not make out. The paper at LeRoy Had printed that she went to pay a visit To relatives in the east. Three months or so She came back well and rosy. But meanwhile Your grandfather had paid this shabby scoundrel A sum of money, I forget the sum, To get these letters of your Aunt Corinne-- These letters here. This matter leaked, of course.

And then we let the story take this form And moulded it a little to this form: The fellow was a scoundrel--this was proved When he took money to return her letters.

They were love letters, they had been engaged, She thought him worthy, found herself deceived Proved, too, by taking money, when at first He looked with honorable eyes to young Corinne, And won her trust. And so Corinne lived here Ten years or more, at thirty married the judge, Her senior thirty years, and went away.

She bore a child and died--look Elenor Here are the letters which she took and nailed Beneath the garret floor. We'll read them through, And then I'll burn them."

Irma Leese rose up And put the letters in her desk and said: "Let's ride along the river." So they rode, But as they rode, the day being clear and mild The fancy took them to Chicago, where They lunched and spent the afternoon, returning At ten o'clock that night.

And the next morning When Irma Leese expected Elenor To rise and join her, asked for her, a maid Told Irma Leese that Elenor had gone To walk somewhere. And all that day she waited.

But as night came, she fancied Elenor Had gone to see her mother, once rose up To telephone, then stopped because she felt Elenor might have plans she would not wish Her mother to get wind of--let it go.

But when night came, she wondered, fell asleep With wondering and worry.

But next morning As she was waiting for the car to come To motor to LeRoy, and see her sister, Elenor's mother, in a casual way, Learn if her niece was there, and waiting read The letters of Corinne, the telephone Rang in an ominous way, and Irma Leese Sprang up to answer, got the tragic word Of Elenor Murray found beside the river.

Left all the letters spilled upon her desk And motored to the river, to LeRoy Where Coroner Merival took the body.

Just As Irma Leese departed, in the room A sullen maid revengeful for the fact She was discharged, was leaving in a day, Entered and saw the letters, read a little, And gathered them, went to her room and packed Her telescope and left, went to LeRoy, And gave a letter to this one and that, Until the servant maids and carpenters And some lubricous fellows at LeRoy Who made companions of these serving maids, Had each a letter of the dead Corinne, Which showed at last, after some twenty years, Of silence and oblivion, to LeRoy With memory to refresh, that poor Corinne Had given her love, herself, had been betrayed, Abandoned by a scoundrel.

Merival, The Coroner, when told about the letters, For soon the tongues were wagging in LeRoy, Went here and there to find them, till he learned What quality of love the dead Corinne Had given to this man. Then shook his head, Resolved to see if he could not unearth In Elenor Murray's life some faithless lover Who sought her death.

The letters' riffle crawled Through shadows of the waters of LeRoy Until it looked a snake, was seen as such In Tokio by Franklin Hollister, The son of dead Corinne; it seemed a snake: He heard the coroner through neglect or malice Had let the letters scatter--not the truth;-- The coroner had gathered up the letters, Befriending Irma Leese; she got them back Through Merival. The riffle's just the same.

And hence this man in Tokio is crazed For shame and fear--for fear the girl he loves Will hear his mother's story and break off Her marriage promise.

So in reckless rage He posts a letter off to Lawyer Hood, Chicago, Illinois--the coroner Gets all the story through this Lawyer Hood, Long after Elenor's inquest is at end.

Meantime he cools, is wiser, thinks it bad To stir the scandal with a suit at law.

And then when cooled he hears from Lawyer Hood Who tells him what the truth is. So it ends.

These letters and the greenish wave that coiled At Tokio is beyond the coroner's eye Fixed on the water where the pebble fell:-- This death of Elenor, circles close at hand Engage his interest. Now he seeks to learn About her training and religious life.

And hears of Miriam Fay, a friend he thinks, And confidant of her religious life, Head woman of the school where Elenor Learned chemistry, materia medica, Anatomy, to fit her for the work Of nursing. And he writes this Miriam Fay And Miriam Fay responds. The letter comes Before the jury. Here is what she wrote:--

MIRIAM FAY'S LETTER

Elenor Murray asked to go in training And came to see me, but the school was full, We could not take her. Then she asked to stand Upon a list and wait, I put her off.

She came back, and she came back, till at last I took her application; then she came And pushed herself and asked when she could come, And start to train. At last I laughed and said: "Well, come to-morrow." I had never seen Such eagerness, persistence. So she came.

She tried to make a friend of me, perhaps Since it was best, I being in command.

But anyway she wooed me, tried to please me.

And spite of everything I grew to love her, Though I distrusted her. But yet again I had belief in her best self, though doubting The girl somehow. But when I learned the girl Had never had religious discipline, Her father without faith, her mother too, Her want of moral sense, I understood.

She lacked stability of spirit, to-day She would be one thing, something else the next.

Shot up in fire, which failed and died away And I began to see her fraternize With girls who had her traits, too full of life To be what they should be, unstable too, Much like herself.

Not long before she came Into the training school, six months, perhaps, She had some tragedy, I don't know what, Had been quite ill in body and in mind.

When she went into training I could see Her purpose to wear down herself, forget In weariness of body, something lived.

She was alert and dutiful and sunny, Kept all the rules, was studious, led the cla.s.s, Excelled, I think, in studies of the nerves, The mind grown sick.

As we grew better friends, More intimate, she talked about religion, And sacred subjects, asked about the church.

I gave her books to read, encouraged her, Asked her to make her peace with G.o.d, and set Her feet in pious paths. At last she said She wished to be baptized, confirmed. I made The plans for her, she was baptized, confirmed, Went to confessional, and seemed renewed In spirit by conversion. For at once Her zeal was like a flame at Pentecost, She almost took the veil, but missing that, She followed out the discipline to the letter, Kept all the feast days, went to ma.s.s, communion, Did works of charity; indeed, I think She spent her spare hours all in all at sewing There with the sisters for the poor. She had, When she came to me, jewelry of value, A diamond solitaire, some other things.

I missed them, and she said she sold them, gave The money to a home for friendless children.

And I remember when she said her father Had wronged, misvalued her; but now her love, Made more abundant by the love of Christ, Had brought her to forgiveness. All her mood Was of humility and sacrifice.