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 pa.s.sed, Dear little soul, sweet soul, or take her hand In grat.i.tude and kiss it.

But as a stream Flows with clear water even with the filth Of sc.u.m, 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, n.o.ble 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 a.s.suage 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 l.u.s.t of flesh A weakness and a trespa.s.s."

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 pa.s.sionate 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 gra.s.s 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 gra.s.s 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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.s the lines.'

'Pardon, I have not brought her,' he exclaimed In pa.s.sionate 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 grat.i.tude 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 ma.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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.