«A letter from Arnold.» I began to look at the letter.
There was a ring at the front doorbell.
I threw the letter onto the table and ran out to the door in heart-agony.
A postman stood outside with a very large cardboard box, which he'Wha? sathatrPшn the flшшr'
«Parcel for Mr. Bradley Pearson.»
«What is it?»
«I don't know, sir. Is that you, then? I'll just push it in, shall I? It weighs a ton.» The postman nudged the big square box in through the doorway with his knee and made off. As I returned to the sitting-room I saw Francis sitting on the stairs. He had obviously been listening. He looked like an apparition, one of those ghosts that writers describe which look just like ordinary people and yet not. He smiled obsequiously. I ignored him.
Rachel was standing by the table reading the letter. I sat down. I felt very tired.
«You ought not to have shown me this letter.»
«You don't know what you've done. I shall never never never forgive you.»
«But, Rachel, you said you and Arnold told each other everything, so surely you-«God, you are vile, vindictive-«It's not my fault! It can't make any difference, can it?»
«Truly, I didn't mean you to read it, it was just a crazy accident, I didn't mean to upset you. Anyway Arnold has probably changed his mind by now-«
«Of course you meant me to read it. It's your vile revenge. I hate you for this forever. You can't understand anything here, you can't understand anything at all-And to think of your having that letter and gloating over it and imagining-«I didn't gloat-«Yes, you did. Why else did you keep it except as a weapon against me, except to show it to me and hurt me because you think I deserted you-«Honestly, Rachel, I haven't given you a single thought!»
«Aaaaah-«
Rachel's scream flamed out in the darkening room, more visible suddenly than the pale round of her face. I saw the disturbed violent agony of her eyes and her mouth. She ran at me, or perhaps she was simply running to the door. I stumbled aside and crashed my elbow against the wall. She passed me like a stampeding animal and I heard the after-sigh of her scream. The front door flew open and through the open street door I saw lamplight reflected in the wet paving stones of the court.
I went out slowly and closed both doors and began turning lights on. The apparition of Francis was still sitting on the stairs. He smiled an isolated irrelevant smile, as if he were a stray minor spirit belonging to some other epoch and some other story, a sort of lost and masterless Puck, smiling a meditative cringing unprompted affectionate smile.
«You were listening.»
«Brad, I'm sorry-«It doesn't matter. What the hell's this?» I kicked the cardboard box.
«I'll open it for you, Brad.»
I watched while Francis tore the cardboard and dragged the top off the box.
It was full of books. The Precious Labyrinth. The Gauntlets of Power. Tobias and the Fallen Angel. A Banner with a Strange Device. Essays of a Seeker. A Skull on Fire. A Clash of Symbols. Hollows in the Sky. The Glass Sword. Mysticism and Literature. The Maid and the Magus. The Pierced Chalice. Inside a Snow Crystal.
Arnold's books. Dozens of them.
