And stayed that night. Now be a man, my boy;
Go have your fling with Arabel, but drop
The cottage and the roses."
They are still discussing the madman's letter.
And memory permeates me like a subtle drug:
The memory of my love for Arabel—
The torture, the doubt, the fear, the restless longing,
The sleepless nights, the pity for all her sorrows,
The speculation about her and her sister,
And what her illness was;
And whether the man I saw one time was leaving
Her door or the next door to it, and if her door
Whether he saw my Arabel or her sister. . . .
The reader of the letter is telling how the writer
Left his wife chasing the lure of women.
And it all comes back to me as clear as a vision
The night I sat with Arabel strong but conquered.
Whatever I did, I loved her, whatever she was.
Madness or love, the terrible struggle must end.
She took my hand and said, "You must see my room."
We stood in the door-way together, and on her dresser
Was a silver frame with the photograph of a man.
I had seen him in life: hair slicked down and parted
In the middle, and cheeks stuck out with fatness,
[65]
