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.