Green Doors

by Ethel Cook Eliot

Now as his groping heel found the rim of the dark, and his left hand reached for the door knob, Neil was grateful that after all he had not seen Doctor Pryne yesterday. Now, as it was, he would be taking no debt to this man over the ultimate doorsill; for, in this moment of confusion, the hours the doctor had spent on him, for which he could never now send a bill, did not loom as debt in the young man’s aching brain.

His fingers had the door knob. It was cold and they were hot. Neil exulted in the knowledge that one movement of his arm, and this door would go shut forever and ever between himself and Doctor Lewis Pryne—Doctor Lewis Pryne who had let him down to a girl with a fairy-tale face in a violet dress with a yellow belt....

If it had been Lewis who had moved and spoken, the door would have slammed then and the revolver roared. But it was Petra. To Neil’s shaking vision the fairy-tale face was flaming—unbelievably—to a white flame of angelicness—was becoming an angel’s face, against which no door could shut. The blue eyes were swords. The violet, the yellow were gone, and all her clothing was winged white fire. Fear that was awe and awe that was fear paralyzed him. She—white fire—was coming upon him—

Lewis had put out a hand to drag her back. But to that hand Petra was not spirit nor flame. She was solid young muscular strength, breaking loose from his clutch. Before he had got around the desk, she had reached the boy, her arms were around his neck, her face lifted to his, which did not bend to it—only the eyelids were dropped so that he still saw her angelic fire.

“Neil McCloud, you’ve got it all wrong. Doctor Pryne forgot to lock his files and I came snooping in here and read your cards. That’s why you’ve found us talking about you. Doctor Pryne is ready to kill me for it. And I ought to be killed. But the friend I told—she will keep your secrets. Truly she will. Or she will tell them only in her prayers! It is the Little Flower she is especially telling. She is offering a novena to her for you—a novena to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux. Do you know the Little Flower? Teresa, she has the Little Flower’s name herself, you see—wants you to say ‘I love.’ She said last night, ‘Love is the Word. He must say that.’ She asked the Little Flower to help you say it. Say it now—Neil McCloud. Try to say, I love.”

Lewis was close to them. Petra was wild, mad. But no madder than McCloud. If the boy lifted a hand, Lewis was ready. He had guessed about the revolver. He would snatch Petra back, get between them, if the man moved a finger. Then a strange thing happened. Up in McCloud’s face, Petra’s face seemed to be reflected—or rather a flame, a flame burning to whiteness that couldn’t be Petra, after all. It was an unearthly wing of light. McCloud put his hands up to Petra’s hands that were clasped on the back of his neck—but Lewis did not stir—and took them down; but he kept them, as if he did not know he had them still. He was not even looking at Petra now—but beyond her.

Neil said, “The Little Flower? Yes, of course, I know her. The kid had a special devotion to her. Mother had too. The kid thought he saw her—his First Communion morning. In his room. By the washstand. Mother believed him. She had an idea he might be a priest some day. But he won’t grow up now. He’s dead. The little fellow is dead.... How does the Little Flower feel about that—my killing him?”

“You didn’t kill him. It was a fault, not a sin, when you took him flying. Teresa says so. But see! The Little Flower has cured you, no matter how she feels. She has answered Teresa’s prayers.... Even without your saying ‘I love’! Your speech is perfect—you have spoken.”

Until Petra called his attention to it, Neil had not known that he had spoken. But it was true. His voice still hung in the room—he heard it now in echo—the warm, unstrained voice of young manhood. It was his own voice!...

He let Petra’s hands go then. He backed up against the door jamb to his full exultant young height. His face was rolling with tears, but it could not be called crying. There was no grimace of the features and his eyes were wide open. His hands were at his side. He spoke again: “I love. My God, I do love. I love You, my Lord and my God. Have mercy on me, a sinner.”