Milford High School - Oak Lily and Ivy Yearbook (Milford, MA)

Page 26 text:

22 THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. Even now I seem to see her face in every corner, through every window, behind every portiere. Every minute of the past three days I have lived again that horrible hour. I met her at the foot of the staircase—led her into the library—seated her by the fireplace, all the while conscious of her unusual charm and beauty. It was then I made my accusation. I cursed both her and her nation and charged her with betraying my trust in her after she had begged my protection and hospitality. She rose, trembling, but before she could speak, I dealt her a blow with a heavy poker that I snatched up from beside the fireplace. What a horrible picture! Blood gushing forth from the deep wound which I had inflicted in her temple. However, not satisfied with this first cruel act, I allowed an insatiable thirst for human blood to overpower my finer feelings, and continued to rain blow after blow upon her unfeeling body. Soon fatigue compelled me to stop, but after a short rest I searched carefully through her clothing for any documents that might be hidden therein. Finding none, I came to the conclusion that they were secreted in her room. I then hurled the gore-clotted mass of human flesh down the long stairway leading to the wine vaults, securely locked the massive door at the head of the same stairway, and hurried in spite of my sixty odd years to the floor above. I went immediately to the room of the dead woman and began a feverish search through her meagre belongings. Suddenly I came upon a small gold locket, and out of idle curiosity I pried it open. Mon dieu! I had murdered some one who was dear to my brother, Jean de Rivoral. Suddenly I spied a letter in the same drawer where I had found the locket. Hastily I snatched it up. It was from the Secret Service Bureau of France and it announced the death of the girl’s father, Jean de Rivoral on July 14, 1917. I had killed my own niece, my brother’s daughter, a girl who had given her life to her country’s cause. That disfigured face seems to be reflected upon the page even as I write. I fear every minute lest the door of the wine vault should swing open and she should stand before me, she whom I murdered because I was too blind to see the truth. Sooner or later I know that I shall be called upon to pay for this deed. I fear lest I go insane as did my father before me, insane, insane, INSANE. June 7 : In due respect to my last master, Monsieur Henri de Rivoral, I, his last remaining servant, close his diary. The poor old gentleman flung himself into the river from the top¬ most parapet of his castle the night of June 5, 1917. I fear for my life, so I am leaving Rivoral before the Germans come. The Cure has promised to watch for Monsieur de Rivoral’s body, and also for the body of Mademoi¬ selle Valny, who we believe met with the same fate as my good master. I submit this diary, unread, to Monsieur Charles Manteau, the lawyer of Monsieur de Rivoral. Warren Reid, ’27.

Page 25 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 21 “Nought’s had all’s spent. Where our desire is got without content.” Finally she brings an end to her brooding melancholy herself, realizing as keenly as her husband that her ambition was not worth the price she paid. Peace of mind is too dear a blessing to be sold, especially since it cannot be rebought. Macbeth and Lady Macbeth have both realized before their death their folly, and Shakespeare, in showing us their mistake, makes us acutely conscious of a better standard of behavior. He emphasizes the insignificance of prestige and wealth in stressing the value of a clear conscience. It does not seem likely that universal interest will ever be centered on the study of some class or form of organization rather than on the study of the individual. So it does not seem probable that Shakespeare will ever lose his pre¬ eminence, for as long as our chief occupation is the study of human nature, and as long as we believe that the great purpose of literature is to uplift and ennoble, Shakespeare and his dramas will maintain their place in the world’s literature. Esther Broudy, ’27. FROM THE DIARY OF MONSIEUR HENRI DE RIVORAL. June 1: This first day of June, 1917, marks the ninth day since the woman who calls herself Jacqueline Valny came to dwell under my roof. She thinks she is deceiving me, but I have proved satisfactorily to myself that she is a spy, a spy of those people who killed my three sons,—the Germans. I sigh no longer over the destruction of the village inn, for its demolition has given me my chance for revenge. But to-night I completed my plans. To-night I swore before the Almighty that this woman should pay for the death of my loved ones. To-morrow I hope to see my plans bear fruit. June 2: At breakfast this morning the reason of her presence here suddenly dawned upon me. The cure tells me that the German forces are rapidly advancing, and they wish, undoubtedly, to use my ancestral home to house their filthy soldiery. The thought of it increases my hatred a hundredfold. The Chateau de Rivoral a shelter for the foes of France? Never! It makes me twice as determined that I shall obtain the plans of the German advance, which I am certain she possesses. Then I will communicate them to Paris, thus saving my estates and the estates of my neighbors! If only my brother Jean were here to help me! But I have neither seen nor heard from him since my father disowned him, thirty long years ago. Even now I could pick him from among a thousand, but this is no time for idle musings, for to-night 1 must strike. In a few minutes Mademoiselle Valny will appear, so I must prepare myself. I sincerely hope that Madame Corteau, my only remaining servant, who is almost totally deaf, will remain in the sanctuary of her kitchen. June 5: I have committed a grievous sin. Who am I to wrest the power of revenge from the hands of our Creator? I shudder as I think of the mangled, torn, blood-stained corpse that lies at the foot of the stairs lead¬ ing to the wine vaults. If I had but given her a chance to deny my accusa¬ tions. I have often read of the tortured mind of a murderer, but to have murdered an innocent woman!

Page 27 text:

THE OAK, LILY AND IVY. 23 THE POWER BEYOND CONTROL. Joyce Tramway felt the steady pressure of each stair as he trudged up to his room, denoting to his tired brain that his shoes were in need of repair, and he in¬ stinctively shoved his hand into his pocket, finding nothing but a small, round hole. Arriving in his room he dropped into a chair and as he relaxed his fatigued body, the events of the past six months flashed through his mind. Six months ago, he had been a contented department store clerk, until one night after hours, a late purchaser hearing him play the department piano, stopped to listen. Joyce had felt the man’s presence, and when he finished, he swung around on the stool. “Young man, you have great talent,” exclaimed the gentleman. “Why are you here?” “Well, sir, one cannot advance without opportunity.” Further conversation ensued, and the gentleman had finally given Joyce his card with the request to look him up some day. That night Joyce showed the card to his youthful companion, Peg. “Gee, Peg, but wouldn’t I like the chance to make good. Have you ever heard of this Mr. Jennings?” “Why, of course, Joyce. He is the instructor at the large Conservatory in Sennott.” For a few weeks things went along much the same as usual, but the seed had been sown and each day Joyce’s discontent had grown until he had finally left for the big city. Arriving there, he went to the Professor’s home, only to be told that the latter had left four days before for Europe. Unknown and inexperienced, Joyce had been able to receive only part time theatre jobs. These few bright spots plus his deep pride had prevented him from returning home. His dreaming was abruptly ended by a sharp knock at the door. He roused himself and on the threshold encountered his sour-faced landlady. “Well—when did you get back, Dreamy?” “Just about five minutes ago,” as he evaded the woman’s stare. “Well—?” she demanded. “I am very sorry, Mrs. Trent, but my efforts were fruitless, and if you would only-” “Say, you young whippersnapper—if I don’t have that three week’s room rent by tomorrow at five, you may as well book lodging with the park pigeons,” and with this ultimatum she withdrew. As he turned back, Joyce’s glance rested on an old vest thrown over a chair. With a purely impulsive action he searched the pockets and found at last silver amounting to thirty-five cents. Not much, but at least enough for supper. Pulling his thread-bare cap down over his curly and unruly brown hair, he slipped from the lodging house and continued on to the gleaming lights of the corner restaurant with a new light in his now sparkling steel gray eyes, that transformed his former melancholy expression to one of pleasant expectancy. Finding himself almost at the door, he felt for the change to reassure himself. Not finding it in the lefthand pocket, he explored the right, but was rewarded only with that forgotten hole as a mute reminder of the trail of his money. Overwhelmed by the irony of the situation he did not notice where his feet led him until he reached the bridge connecting the city with its famous island