"But listen: I called on her the night you sent the roses, And there she had them on the center table, And twinkled with her eyes, and spoke of them, And said, I can remember it, you sent Such lovely roses to her, you and she Had been good friends for years--and now it seems You were not friends--I didn't know it then. But think about it, John! What was this woman? It's clear her fate, found dead there by the river, Is just the outward mirror of herself, And had to be. There's not a thing in life That is not first enacted in the heart. Our fate is the reflection of the life Which goes on in the heart. That girl was doomed, Lived in her heart a life that found a birth, Grew up, committed matricide at last, Not that my love had saved her. But explain Why would she over-stress the roses, give Me understandings foreign to the truth? For truth to tell, we were affianced then, There were your roses! But above it all Something she said pricked like a rose's thorn, Something that grew to thought she cherished you, Kept memories sweet of you. If that were true, What was the past? What was I after all? A second choice, as if I bought a car, But thought about a car I wanted more. So I retired that night in serious thought." "Yet if you'll credit me, I had not heard About this Alma Bell affair, or heard About her riding through the public streets With this Roy Green. I think I was away, I never heard it anyway, I know Until my mother told me, and she told me Next morning after I had found your roses. I hadn't told my mother, nor a soul Before, that time that we two were engaged-- I didn't tell her then--I merely asked Would Elenor Murray please you as a daughter? You should have seen my mother--how she gasped, And gestured losing breath, to say at last: 'Why, Carl, my boy, what are you thinking of? You have not promised marriage to that girl? Now tell me, have you?' Then I lied to her; And laughed a little, answered no, and asked, 'What do you know about her?'" "Here's a joke, With terror in it, John, if you have told The truth to me--my mother tells me there That on a time John Campbell--that is you, And Elenor Murray rode into the country, And that at two o'clock, or so, the girl Is seen beside the gate post holding on, And reeling up the side-walk to her door. The girl was tired, if you have told the truth. My mother warms up to this scoundrel Green, And tops the matter off with Alma Bell. And all the love I had for Elenor Murray Sours in my heart. And then I tell my mother The truth--of our engagement--promise her To break it off. I did so on that day. Got back the solitaire--but Elenor Hung to me, asked my reasons, kept the ring Until I wrote so sternly she gave up Her hope and me."