Just now the reader of the letter
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e are in the park next afternoon by the water.I look at her white throat full as it were of song.And her rounded virginal bosom, beautiful!And I study her eyes, I search to the depths her eyesIn the light of the sun. They are full of little raysLike the edge of a fleur de lys, and she smilesAt first when I fling my soul at her feet. But when I repeat I love her, love her only,A cloud of wonder passes over her face,She veils her eyes. The color comes to her cheeks.And when she picks some clover blossoms and tears themHer hand is trembling. And when I tell her againI love her, love her only, she blots her eyesWith a handkerchief to hide a tear that starts. And she says to me: "You do not know me at all,How can you love me? You never saw me beforeLast night." "Well, tell me about yourself."And after a time she tells me the story:About her father who ran away from her mother;And how she hated her father, and how she grievedWhen her mother died; and how a good grandmotherHelped her and helps her now. And how her sisterDivorced her husband. And then she paused a moment:"I am not strong, you'd have to guard me gently,And that takes money, dear, as well as love.Two years ago I was very ill, and since thenI am not strong." "Well I can work," I said."And what would you think of a little cottageNot too far out with a yard and hosts of roses,And a vine on the porch, and a little garden,And a dining room where the sun comes in,When a morning breeze blows over your brow,And you sit across the table and serve meAnd neither of us can speak for happinessWithout our voices breaking, or lips trembling." She is looking down with little frowns on her brow."But if ever I had to work, I could not do it,I am not really well." "But I can work," I said.I rise and lift her up, holding her hand.She slips her arm through mine and presses it."What a good man you are," she said. "Just like a brother--I almost love you, I believe I love you." The reader of the letter, being a doctor,Is talking learnedly of the writer's caseWhich has the classical marks of paresis. Next day I look up Jim and rhapsodizeAbout a cottage with roses and a garden,And a dining room where the sun comes in,And Arabel across the table. Jim is smokingAnd flicking the ashes, but never says a wordTill I have finished. Then in a quiet voice:"Arabel's sister says that Arabel's straight,But she isn't, my boy--she's just like Arabel's sister.She knew you had the madness for Arabel.That's why we laughed and stood apart as we talked.And I'll tell you now I didn't go home that night,I shook you at the corner and went back,And staid that night. Now be a man, my boy,Go have your fling with Arabel, but dropThe cottage and the roses."
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