Short Fiction, H. G. Wells [i am malala young readers edition .TXT] 📗

of heart’s desire. And there were many things and many people, some that still seem to stand out clearly and some that are a little vague; but all these people were beautiful and kind. In some way⁠—I don’t know how⁠—it was conveyed to me that they all were kind to me, glad to have me there, and filling me with gladness by their gestures, by the touch of their hands, by the welcome and love in their eyes. Yes⁠—”

He mused for a while. “Playmates I found there. That was very much to me, because I was a lonely little boy. They played delightful games in a grass-covered court where there was a sundial set about with flowers. And as one played one loved⁠ ⁠…

“But⁠—it’s odd⁠—there’s a gap in my memory. I don’t remember the games we played. I never remembered. Afterwards, as a child, I spent long hours trying, even with tears, to recall the form of that happiness. I wanted to play it all over again⁠—in my nursery⁠—by myself. No! All I remember is the happiness and two dear playfellows who were most with me⁠ ⁠… Then presently came a sombre dark woman, with a grave, pale face and dreamy eyes, a sombre woman, wearing a soft long robe of pale purple, who carried a book, and beckoned and took me aside with her into a gallery above a hall⁠—though my playmates were loth to have me go, and ceased their game and stood watching as I was carried away. Come back to us!’ they cried. ‘Come back to us soon!’ I looked up at her face, but she heeded them not at all. Her face was very gentle and grave. She took me to a seat in the gallery, and I stood beside her, ready to look at her book as she opened it upon her knee. The pages fell open. She pointed, and I looked, marvelling, for in the living pages of that book I saw myself; it was a story about myself, and in it were all the things that had happened to me since ever I was born⁠ ⁠…

“It was wonderful to me, because the pages of that book were not pictures, you understand, but realities.”

Wallace paused gravely⁠—looked at me doubtfully.

“Go on,” I said. “I understand.”

“They were realities⁠—yes, they must have been; people moved and things came and went in them; my dear mother, whom I had near forgotten; then my father, stern and upright, the servants, the nursery, all the familiar things of home. Then the front door and the busy streets, with traffic to and fro. I looked and marvelled, and looked half doubtfully again into the woman’s face and turned the pages over, skipping this and that, to see more of this book and more, and so at last I came to myself hovering and hesitating outside the green door in the long white wall, and felt again the conflict and the fear.

“ ‘And next?’ I cried, and would have turned on, but the cool hand of the grave woman delayed me.

“ ‘Next?’ I insisted, and struggled gently with her hand, pulling up her fingers with all my childish strength, and as she yielded and the page came over she bent down upon me like a shadow and kissed my brow.

“But the page did not show the enchanted garden, nor the panthers, nor the girl who had led me by the hand, nor the playfellows who had been so loth to let me go. It showed a long grey street in West Kensington, in that chill hour of afternoon before the lamps are lit, and I was there, a wretched little figure, weeping aloud, for all that I could do to restrain myself, and I was weeping because I could not return to my dear playfellows who had called after me, ‘Come back to us! Come back to us soon!’ I was there. This was no page in a book, but harsh reality; that enchanted place and the restraining hand of the grave mother at whose knee I stood had gone⁠—whither had they gone?”

He halted again, and remained for a time staring into the fire.

“Oh! the woefulness of that return!” he murmured.

“Well?” I said, after a minute or so.

“Poor little wretch I was!⁠—brought back to this grey world again! As I realised the fullness of what had happened to me, I gave way to quite ungovernable grief. And the shame and humiliation of that public weeping and my disgraceful homecoming remain with me still. I see again the benevolent-looking old gentleman in gold spectacles who stopped and spoke to me⁠—prodding me first with his umbrella. ‘Poor little chap,’ said he; ‘and are you lost then?’⁠—and me a London boy of five and more! And he must needs bring in a kindly young policeman and make a crowd of me, and so march me home. Sobbing, conspicuous, and frightened, I came back from the enchanted garden to the steps of my father’s house.

“That is as well as I can remember my vision of that garden⁠—the garden that haunts me still. Of course, I can convey nothing of that indescribable quality of translucent unreality, that difference from the common things of experience that hung about it all; but that⁠—that is what happened. If it was a dream, I am sure it was a daytime and altogether extraordinary dream⁠ ⁠… H’m!⁠—naturally there followed a terrible questioning, by my aunt, my father, the nurse, the governess⁠—everyone⁠ ⁠…

“I tried to tell them, and my father gave me my first thrashing for telling lies. When afterwards I tried to tell my aunt, she punished me again for my wicked persistence. Then, as I said, everyone was forbidden to listen to me, to hear a word about it. Even my fairytale books were taken away from me for a time⁠—because I was too ‘imaginative.’ Eh? Yes, they did that! My father belonged to the old school⁠ ⁠… And my story was driven back upon myself. I whispered it to my pillow⁠—my pillow that was often damp