The Convent

    Elenor Murray stole away from Nice
    Before her furlough ended, tense to see
    Something of Italy, and planned to go
    To Genoa, explore the ancient town
    Of Christopher Columbus, if she might
    Elude the regulation, as she did,
    In leaving Nice for Italy. But for her
    Always the dream, and always the defeat
    Of what she dreamed.

    She found herself in Florence
    And saw the city. But the weariness
    Of labor and her illness came again
    At intervals, and on such days she lay
    And heard the hours toll, wished for death and wept,
    Being alone and sorrowful.

    On a morning
    She rose and looked for galleries, came at last
    Into the Via Gino Capponi
    And saw a little church and entered in,
    And saw amid the darkness of the church
    A woman kneeling, knelt beside the woman,
    And put her hand upon the woman's forehead
    To find that it was wrinkled, strange to say
    A scar upon the forehead, like a cross....
    Elenor Murray rose and walked away,
    Sobs gathering in her throat, her body weak,
    And reeled against the wall, for so it seemed,
    Against which hung thick curtains, velvet, red,
    A little grimed and worn. And as she leaned
    Against the curtains, clung to them, she felt
    A giving, parted them, and found a door,
    Pushed on the door which yielded, opened it
    And saw a yard before her.

    It was walled.
    A garden of old urns and ancient growths,
    Some flowering plants around the wall.

    Before her
    And in the garden's center stood a statue,
    With outstretched arms, the Virgin without the child.
    And suddenly on Elenor Murray came
    Great sorrow like a madness, seeing there
    The pitying Virgin, stretching arms to her.
    And so she ran along the pebbly walk,
    Fell fainting at the Virgin's feet and lay
    Unconscious in the garden.

    When she woke
    Two nuns were standing by, and one was dressed
    In purest white, and held within her hands
    A tray of gold, and on the tray of gold
    There was a glass of wine, and in a cup
    Some broth of beef, and on a plate of gold
    A wafer.

    And the other nun was dressed
    In purest white, but over her shoulders lay
    A cape of blue, blue as the sky of Florence
    Above the garden wall.

    Then as she saw
    The nuns before her, in the interval
    Of gathering thought, re-limning life again
    From wonder if she had not died, and these
    Were guides or ministrants of another world,
    The nun with cape of blue to Elenor
    Said: "Drink this wine, this broth;" and Elenor
    Drank and arose, being lifted up by them,
    And taken through the convent door and given
    A little room as white and clean as light,
    And a bed of snowy linen.

        Then they said:
    "This is the Convent where we send up prayers,
    Prayers for the souls who do not pray for self -
    Rest, child, and be at peace; and if there be
    Friends you would tell that you are here, then we
    Will send the word for you, sleep now and rest."
    And listening to their voices Elenor slept.
    And when she woke a nurse was at her side,
    And food was served her, broths and fruit. Each day
    A doctor came to tell her all was well,
    And health would soon return.

    So for a month
    Elenor Murray lay and heard the bells,
    And breathed the fragrance of the flowering city
    That floated through her window, in the stillness
    Of the convent dreamed, and said to self: This place
    Is good to die in, who is there to tell
    That I am here? There was no one. To them
    She gave her name, but said: "Till I am well
    Let me remain, and if I die, some place
    Must be for me for burial, put me there.
    And if I live to go again to France
    And join my unit, let me have a writing
    That I did not desert, was stricken here
    And could not leave. For while I stole away
    From Nice to get a glimpse of Italy,
    I might have done so in my furlough time,
    And not stayed over it." And to Elenor
    The nuns said: "We will help you, but for now
    Rest and put by anxieties."

    On a day
    Elenor Murray made confessional.
    And to the nuns told bit by bit her life,
    Her childhood, schooling, travels, work in the war,
    What fate had followed her, what sufferings.
    And Sister Mary, she who saw her first,
    And held the tray of gold with wine and broth,
    Sat often with her, read to her, and said:
    "Letters will go ahead of you to clear
    Your absence over time - be not afraid,
    All will be well."

        And so when Elenor Murray
    Arose to leave she found all things prepared:
    A cab to take her to the train, compartments
    Reserved for her from place to place, her fare
    And tickets paid for, till at last she came
    To Brest and joined her unit, in three days
    Looked at the rolling waters as the ship
    Drove to America - such a coming home!
    To what and whom?

    *        *        *        *        *

    Loveridge Chase returned and brought the letters
    To Coroner Merival from New York. That day
    The chemical analysis was finished, showed
    No ricin and no poison. Elenor Murray
    Died how? What were the circumstances? Then
    When Coroner Merival broke the seals of wax,
    And cut the twine that bound the package, found
    The man was Barrett Bays who wrote the letters -
    There were a hundred - then he cast about
    To lay his hands on Barrett Bays, and found
    That Barrett Bays lived in Chicago, taught,
    Was a professor, aged some forty years.
    Why did this Barrett Bays emerge not, speak,
    Come forward? Was it simply to conceal
    A passion written in these letters here
    For his sake or his wife's? Or was it guilt
    For some complicity in Elenor's death?
    And on this day the coroner had a letter
    From Margery Camp which said: "Where's Barrett Bays?
    Why have you not arrested him? He knows
    Something, perhaps about the death of Elenor."
    So Coroner Merival sent process forth
    To bring in Barrett Bays, non est inventus.
    He had not visited his place of teaching,
    Been seen in haunts accustomed for some days -
    Not since the death of Elenor Murray, none
    Knew where to find him, and none seemed to know
    What lay between this man and Elenor Murray.
    This was the more suspicious. Then the Times
    Made headlines of the letters, published some
    Wherein this Barrett Bays had written Elenor:
    "You are my hope in life, my morning star,
    My love at last, my all." From coast to coast
    The word was flashed about this Barrett Bays;
    And Mrs. Bays at Martha's Vineyard read,
    Turned up her nose, continued on the round
    Of gaieties, but to a chum relieved
    Her loathing with these words: "Another woman,
    He's soiled himself at last."

    And Barrett Bays,
    Who roughed it in the Adirondacks, hoped
    The inquest's end would leave him undisclosed
    In Elenor Murray's life, though wracked with fear
    About the letters in the vault, some day
    To be unearthed, or taken, it might be,
    By Margery Camp for uses sinister -
    He reading that the letters had been given
    To Coroner Merival, and seeing his name
    Printed in every sheet, saw no escape
    In any nook of earth, returned and walked
    In Merival's office: trembling, white as snow.

    So Barrett Bays was sworn, before the jury
    Sat and replied to questions, said he knew
    Elenor Murray in the fall before
    She went to France, saw much of her for weeks;
    Had written her these letters before she left.
    Had followed her in the war, and gone to France,
    Had seen her for some days in Paris when
    She had a furlough. Had come back and parted
    With Elenor Murray, broken with her, found
    A cause for crushing out his love for her.
    Came back to win forgetfulness, had written
    No word to her since leaving Paris - let
    Her letters lie unanswered; brought her letters,
    And gave them to the coroner. Then he told
    Of the day before her death, and how she came
    By motor to Chicago with her aunt,
    Named Irma Leese, and telephoned him, begged
    An hour for talk. "Come meet me by the river,"
    She had said. And so went to meet her. Then he told
    Why he relented, after he had left her
    In Paris with no word beside this one:
    "This is the end." Now he was curious
    To know what she would say, what could be said
    Beyond what she had written - so he went
    Out of a curious but hardened heart.