Philip Van Doren Stern (ed) (252 page)

"Í
was
in
this mood when I passed
Brayton
and
yourself
one
evening
in
Pail
Mali.
Í
wrote
to him that night, and I swear to
you
upon my
conscience
that
Í
had
no
thought in writing but to put an end
to an
old
disagreement,
and
re-establish,
if
possible,
an
old
friendship.
Í
wrote in a sudden
revulsion
of
feeling.
The
waste
of
my
days
was brought
home
to
me.
Í
recognised
that
the
great
gift
was
no
more than
a
perpetual
injury. I
proposed
to
gather
my
acquaintances
about me,
discard
my
ambition
for
some striking
illustration
of
my
power, and
take
up
once
more
the
threads
of
customary
life.
Yet
my
determination
lasted
no
longer
than
the
time it took
me
to
write the letter and run out with it to the post. I regretted its
despatch even as I heard it fall to the bottom
of
the
pillar
box.

"Of
my
quarrel
with Brayton I need not write at length. It
sprang from
a
rancorous
jealousy.
We
had been friends and classmates in the beginning. But as step by step he rose
just
a
little
above
me,
the
friendship
I had
turned
to
gall
and
anger.
J
was
never
more
than
the
second, he
always
the
first.
Had I been fourth or
ñfth,
I
think I should not have minded; but there was so little to
separate
us
in
merit
or
advancement.
Yet
there
was
always
that
little,
and I dreaded the
moment when
he
should
take
a
bound
and
leave
me
far
behind.
The
jealousy grew
to
a
real
hatred,
made
still
more bitter to me by the
knowledge that
Brayton himself was
unaware
of
it,
and
need
not
have
been troubled
had
he
been
aware.

"After
I
left
the Army and lost sight
of
him, the
ñame
burnt low. I believed it was
extinguished
when
Í
invited
him
to
stay
with me; but
he
had not been an
hour
in
the
house
when
it
blazed
up
within me. His success, the
confidence
which it had given him, his easy friendliness with strangers, the talk
with him as a coming
man,
bit into
my
soul.
The
very
sound
of
his footstep sickened me. I was in this mood when the clock began to
boom louder and louder in the billiard room. Chalmers and
Linñeld
were
talking.
Í
did
not
listen to them. My heart beat louder and
louder
within
my
breast,
keeping pace
with
the clock. I knew that in a moment or two the
sound
would cease,
and
the
doors
of
my private kingdom
would
be
open
for
me
to pass
through.
Í
sat
back
in my chair
waiting
while the devilish
inspira
tion had birth and grew
strong.
Here
was
the
great
chance
to
use
the power
I had—the only
chance
which had ever come to me.
Brayton was
writing
letters in his room.
The
room was in
a wing
of
the
house. The
sound
of
a
shot
would
not
be
heard.
There
would
be
an
end
of
his success; there
would
be
for
me
such
a
triumphant
use
of
my
great privilege
as
I
had never
dreamed
of.
The
clock
suddenly
ceased.
I
slipped
horn the room and went upstairs. I was quite leisurely. I had time. I was back
in my chair
again
before
seven
minutes
had
passed.

A
rchie
C
ranfield"

From
The Cozy Room,
by Arthur Machen, reprinted by permission of
John Farquharson, London.

Opening
trie Door

By ARTHUR MACHEN

T
he
newspaper reporter, from the nature of the case, has gener-
ally
to
deal
with
the
commonplaces
of
life.
He
does
his
best
to
find something
singular
and
arresting
in
the
spectacle
of
the
day's
doings; but,
in
spite
of
himself,
he
is
generally
forced
to
confess
that
whatever there
may
be
beneath
the
surface,
the
surface
itself
is
dull
enough.

I
must
allow,
however,
that
during
my
ten
years
or
so
in
Fleet Street,
I
came
across
some
tracks
that
were
not
devoid
of
oddity. There
was
that
business
of
Campo
Tosto,
for
example.
That
never
got into
the
papers.
Campo
Tosto,
I
must
explain,
was
a
Belgian,
settled for
many
years
in
England,
who
had
left
all
his
property
to
the
man who
looked
after
him.