Part 18

But Elenor at Nice Walked with the major as Bernard has told. And this is wrinkled water, dark and far From Merival, unknown to him. He hears, And this alone, she went from Nice to Florence, Was ill there in a convent, we shall see. This is the tale that Irma Leese related To Coroner Merival in a leisure hour:

THE MAJOR AND ELENOR MURRAY AT NICE

Elenor Murray and Petain, the major, The Promenade des Anglais walked at Nice. A cloud was over him, and in her heart A growing grief.

He knew her at the hospital, First saw her face among a little group Of faces at a grave when rain was falling, The burial of a nurse, when Elenor's face Was bathed in tears and strained with agony. And after that he saw her in the wards; Heard soldiers, whom she nursed, say as she passed, Dear little soul, sweet soul, or take her hand In gratitude and kiss it.

But as a stream Flows with clear water even with the filth Of scum, debris that drifts beside the current Of crystal water, nor corrupts it, keeps Its poisoned, heavier medium apart, So at the hospital where the nurses' hands Poured sacrifice, heroic love, the filth Of envy, anger, malice, plots, intrigue Kept pace with pure devotion, noble work For suffering and the cause.

The major helped To free the rules for Elenor Murray so She might recuperate at Nice, and said: "Go and await me, I shall join you there. For in my trouble I must have a friend, A woman to assuage me, give me light, And ever since I saw you by that grave, And saw you cross yourself, and bow your head And watched your services along the wards Among the sick and dying, I have felt The soul of you, its human tenderness, Its prodigal power of giving, pouring forth Itself for others. And you seem a soul Where nothing of our human frailty Has come to dim the flame that burns in you, You are all light, I think."

And Elenor Murray Looked down and said: "There is no soul like that. This hospital, the war itself, reflects The good and bad together of our souls. You are a boy--oh such a boy to see All good in me."

And Major Petain said: "At least you have not found dishonor here As I have found it, for a lust of flesh A weakness and a trespass."

This was after The hospital was noisy with the talk Of Major Petain and his shame, the hand Of discipline lay on him.

Elenor Murray Looked steadily in his eyes, but only said: "We mortals know each other but a little, Nor guess each other's secrets." And she glanced A moment at the tragedy that had come To her at Paris on her furlough there, And of its train of sorrows, even now Her broken health and failure in the work As consequence to that, and how it brought The breaking of her passionate will and dream To serve and not to fail--she glanced at this A moment as she faced him, looked at him. Then as she turned away: "There is one thing That I must tell you, it is fitting now, I love and am beloved. But if you come To Nice and I can help you, come, if talk And any poor advice of mine can help."

So Major Petain, Elenor Murray walked The Promenade at Nice, arm fast in arm. And Major Petain to relieve his heart Told all the tragedy that had come to him:

"Duty to France was first with me where love Was paramount with you, if I divine Your heart, America's, at least a love Unmixed of other feelings as may be. What could you find here, if you seek no husband, Even in seeing France so partially? What in adventure, lures to bring you here, Where peril, labor are? You either came To expiate your soul, or as you say, To make more worthy of this man beloved Back in America your love for him. Dear idealist, I give my faith to you, And all your words. But as I said 'twas duty, Then dreams of freedom, Europe's chains struck off, The menace of the German crushed to earth That fired me as a soldier, trained to go When France should need me. So it is you saw France go about this business calm and stern, And patient for the prize, or if 'twere lost Then brave to meet the future as France met The arduous years that followed Metz, Sedan."

"But had I been American to the core, Would I have put the sweet temptation by? However flamed with zeal had I said no When lips like hers were offered? Oh, you see Whatever sun-light gilds the mountain tops Rich grass grows in the valleys, herds will feed, Though rising suns put glories on the heights. And herds will run and stumble over rocks, Break fences and encounter beasts of prey To get the grass that's sweetest."

"To begin I met her there in Paris. In a trice We loved each other, wrote, made vows, she pledged The consummation. There was danger here, Great danger, as you know, for her and me. And yet it never stopped us, gave us fear. And then I schemed and got her through the lines, Took all the chances."

"Danger was not all: There was my knowledge of her husband's love, His life immaculate, his daily letters. He put by woman chances that arose With saying, I am married, am beloved, I love my wife, all said so earnestly We could not joke him, though behind his back Some said: He trusts her, but he'd better watch; At least no sense of passing good things by. I sat with him at mess, I saw him read The letters that she wrote him, face of light Devouring eyes. The others rallied him; But I was like a man who knows a plot To take another's life, but keeps the secret, Eats with the victim, does not warn him, makes Himself thereby a party to the plot. Or like a man who knows a fellow man Has some insidious disease beginning, And hears him speak with unconcern of it, And does not tell him what to do, you know, And let him go to death. And just for her, The rapture of a secret love I choked All risings of an honest manhood, mercy, Honor with self and him. Oh, well you know The isolation, hunger of us soldiers, I only need to hint of these. But now I see these well endured for sake of peace And quiet memory."

"For here we stood Just 'round the corner in that long arcade That runs between our building, next to yours. And this is what I hear--the husband's voice, Which well I knew, the officer's in command: 'Why have you brought your wife here?' asked the officer. 'Pardon, I have not done so,' said the husband. 'You're adding falsehood to the offense; you know The rules forbid your wife to pass the lines.' 'Pardon, I have not brought her,' he exclaimed In passionate earnestness.

"Well, there we stood. My sweetheart, but his wife, was turned to snow, As white and cold. I got in readiness To kill the husband. How could we escape? I thought the husband had been sent away; Her coming had been timed with his departure, Arriving afterward, and we had failed. But as for that, before our feet could stir, The officer said, 'Come now, I'll prove your lie,' And in a twinkling, taking a dozen steps They turned into the arcade, there they were, The officer was shaking him and saying, 'You lie! You lie!'

"All happened in a moment, The humbled, ruined fellow saw the truth, And blew his brains out on the very spot! And made a wonder, gossip for you girls-- And here I am."

So Major Petain finished. Then Elenor Murray said: "Let's watch the sea." And as they sat in silence, as he turned To look upon her face, he saw the tears, Hanging like dew drops on her lashes, drip And course her cheeks. "My friend, you weep for me," The major said at last, "my gratitude For tears like these." "I weep," said Elenor Murray, "For you, but for myself. What can I say? Nothing, my friend, your soul must find its way. Only this word: I'll go to mass with you, I'll sit beside you, pray with you, for you, And do you pray for me."

And then she paused. The long wash of the sea filled in the silence. And then she said again, "I'll go with you, Where we may pray, each for the other pray. I have a sorrow, too, as deep as yours."

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.

BARRETT BAYS

"I was walking by the river," Barrett said, "When she arrived. I took her hand, no kiss, A silence for some minutes as we walked. Then we began to take up point by point, For she was concentrated on the hope Of clearing up all doubtful things that we Might start anew, clear visioned, perfect friends, More perfect for mistakes and clouds. Her will Was passionate beyond all other wills, And when she set her mind upon a course She could not be diverted, or if so, Her failure kept her brooding. What with me She wanted after what had stunned my faith I knew not, save she loved me. For in truth I have no money, and no prospects either To tempt cupidity."

"Well; first we talked-- You must be patient with me, gentlemen, You see my nerves--they're weakened--but I'll try To tell you all--well then--a glass of water-- At first we talked but trifles. Silences Came on us like great calms between the stir Of ineffectual breezes, like this day In August growing sultry as the sun Rose upward. She was striving to break down The hard corrosion of my thought, and I Could not surrender. Till at last, I said: 'That day in Paris when you stood revealed Can never be forgotten. Once I killed A love with hatred for a woman who Betrayed me, as you did. And you can kill A love with hatred but you kill your soul While killing love. And so with you I kept All hatred from my heart, but cannot keep A poisonous doubt of you from blood and brain.'... I learned in Paris, (to be clear on this), That after she had given herself to me She fell back in the arms of Gregory Wenner. And here as we were walking I revealed My agony, my anger, emptied out My heart of all its bitterness. At last When she protested it was natural For her to do what she had done, the act As natural as breathing, taking food, Not signifying faithlessness nor love-- Though she admitted had she loved me then She had not done so--I grew tense with rage, A serpent which grows stiff and rears its head To strike its enemy was what I seemed To myself then, and so I said to her In voice controlled and low, but deadly clear, 'What are you but a whore--you are a whore!' Murderous words no doubt, but do you hear She justified herself with Gregory Wenner; Yes, justified herself when she had written And asked forgiveness--yes, brought me out To meet her by the river. And for what? I said you whore, she shook from head to heels, And toppled, but I caught her in my arms, And held her up, she paled, head rolled around, Her eyes set, mouth fell open, all at once I saw that she was dead, or syncope Profound had come upon her. Elenor, What is the matter? Love came back to me, Love there with Death. I laid her on the ground. I found her dead.

"If I had any thought There in that awful moment, it was this: To run away, escape, could I maintain An innocent presence there, be clear of fault? And if I had that thought, as I believe, I had no other; all my mind's a blank Until I find myself at one o'clock Disrobing in my room, too full of drink, And trying to remember.

"With the morning I lay in bed and thought: Did Irma Leese Know anything of me, or did she know That Elenor went out to meet a man? And if she did not know, who could disclose That I was with her? No one saw us there. Could I not wait from day to day and see What turn the news would take? For at the last I did not kill her. If the inquest showed Her death was natural, as it was, for all Of me, why then my secret might be hidden In Elenor Murray's grave. And if they found That I was with her, brought me in the court, I could make clear my innocence. And thus I watched the papers, gambled with the chance Of never being known in this affair. Does this sound like a coward? Put yourself In my place in that horror. Think of me With all these psychic shell shocks--first the war, Its great emotions, then this Elenor."

And thus he spoke and twisted hands, and twitched, And ended suddenly. Then David Borrow, And Winthrop Marion with the coroner Shot questions at him till he woke, regained A memory, concentration: Who are you? What was your youth? Your love life? What your wife? Where did you meet this Elenor at the first? Why did you go to France? In Paris what Happened to break your balance? Tell us all. For as they eyed him, he looked down, away, Stirred restless in the chair. And was it truth He told of meeting Elenor, her death? Guilt like a guise was on his face. And one-- This Isaac Newfeldt, juryman, whispered, "Look, That man is guilty, let us fly the questions Like arrows at him till we bring him down." And as they flew the arrows he came to And spoke as follows:--