Short Fiction by H. G. Wells (ebook smartphone .txt) 📕

big fellows. I remember particularly a moment of pleasure caused by the praise of Crawshaw⁠—you remember Crawshaw major, the son of Crawshaw the composer?⁠—who said it was the best lie he had ever heard. But at the same time there was a really painful undertow of shame at telling what I felt was indeed a sacred secret. That beast Fawcett made a joke about the girl in green⁠—”

Wallace’s voice sank with the keen memory of that shame. “I pretended not to hear,” he said. “Well, then Carnaby suddenly called me a young liar, and disputed with me when I said the thing was true. I said I knew where to find the green door, could lead them all there in ten minutes. Carnaby became outrageously virtuous, and said I’d have to⁠—and bear out my words or suffer. Did you ever have Carnaby twist your arm? Then perhaps you’ll understand how it went with me. I swore my story was true. There was nobody in the school then to save a chap from Carnaby, though Crawshaw put in a word or so. Carnaby had got his game. I grew excited and red-eared, and a little frightened. I behaved altogether like a silly little chap, and the outcome of it all was that instead of starting alone for my enchanted garden, I led the way presently⁠—cheeks flushed, ears hot, eyes smarting, and my soul one burning misery and shame⁠—for a party of six mocking, curious, and threatening schoolfellows.

“We never found the white wall and the green door⁠—”

“You mean⁠—?”

“I mean I couldn’t find it. I would have found it if I could.

“And afterwards when I could go alone I couldn’t find it. I never found it. I seem now to have been always looking for it through my schoolboy days, but I never came upon it⁠—never.”

“Did the fellows⁠—make it disagreeable?”

“Beastly⁠ ⁠… Carnaby held a council over me for wanton lying. I remember how I sneaked home and upstairs to hide the marks of my blubbering. But when I cried myself to sleep at last it wasn’t for Carnaby, but for the garden, for the beautiful afternoon I had hoped for, for the sweet friendly women and the waiting playfellows, and the game I had hoped to learn again, that beautiful forgotten game⁠ ⁠…

“I believed firmly that if I had not told⁠—I had bad times after that⁠—crying at night and woolgathering by day. For two terms I slackened and had bad reports. Do you remember? Of course you would! It was you⁠—your beating me in mathematics that brought me back to the grind again.”

III

For a time my friend stared silently into the red heart of the fire. Then he said: “I never saw it again until I was seventeen.

“It leapt upon me for the third time⁠—as I was driving to Paddington on my way to Oxford and a scholarship. I had just one momentary glimpse. I was leaning over the apron of my hansom smoking a cigarette, and no doubt thinking myself no end of a man of the world, and suddenly there was the door, the wall, the dear sense of unforgettable and still attainable things.

“We clattered by⁠—I too taken by surprise to stop my cab until we were well past and round a corner. Then I had a queer moment, a double and divergent movement of my will: I tapped the little door in the roof of the cab, and brought my arm down to pull out my watch. ‘Yes, sir!’ said the cabman, smartly. ‘Er⁠—well⁠—it’s nothing,’ I cried. ‘My mistake! We haven’t much time! Go on!’ And he went on⁠ ⁠…

“I got my scholarship. And the night after I was told of that I sat over my fire in my little upper room, my study, in my father’s house, with his praise⁠—his rare praise⁠—and his sound counsels ringing in my ears, and I smoked my favourite pipe⁠—the formidable bulldog of adolescence⁠—and thought of that door in the long white wall. ‘If I had stopped,’ I thought, ‘I should have missed my scholarship, I should have missed Oxford⁠—muddled all the fine career before me! I begin to see things better!’ I fell musing deeply, but I did not doubt then this career of mine was a thing that merited sacrifice.

“Those dear friends and that clear atmosphere seemed very sweet to me, very fine but remote. My grip was fixing now upon the world. I saw another door opening⁠—the door of my career.”

He stared again into the fire. Its red light picked out a stubborn strength in his face for just one flickering moment, and then it vanished again.

“Well,” he said and sighed, “I have served that career. I have done⁠—much work, much hard work. But I have dreamt of the enchanted garden a thousand dreams, and seen its door, or at least glimpsed its door, four times since then. Yes⁠—four times. For a while this world was so bright and interesting, seemed so full of meaning and opportunity, that the half-effaced charm of the garden was by comparison gentle and remote. Who wants to pat panthers on the way to dinner with pretty women and distinguished men? I came down to London from Oxford, a man of bold promise that I have done something to redeem. Something⁠—and yet there have been disappointments⁠ ⁠…

“Twice I have been in love⁠—I will not dwell on that⁠—but once, as I went to someone who, I knew, doubted whether I dared to come, I took a shortcut at a venture through an unfrequented road near Earl’s Court, and so happened on a white wall and a familiar green door. ‘Odd!’ said I to myself, ‘but I thought this place was on Campden Hill. It’s the place I never could find somehow⁠—like counting Stonehenge⁠—the place of that queer daydream of mine.’ And I went by it intent upon my purpose. It had no appeal to me that afternoon.

“I had just a moment’s impulse to try the door, three steps aside were needed at the