The Wonderful Visit, H. G. Wells [me reader txt] 📗

out,” he said, “on a hot lunch and on a hot afternoon. Probably over eighty. Your mind, what there is of it, is whirling with avian expectations. I say, ‘what there is of it,’ because most of your nervous energy is down there, digesting your dinner. A man who has been lying in the bracken stands up before you and you blaze away. Over he goes⁠—and as it happens⁠—as it happens⁠—he has reduplicate forelimbs, one pair being not unlike wings. It’s a coincidence certainly. And as for his iridescent colours and so forth⁠—. Have you never had patches of colour swim before your eyes before, on a brilliant sunlight day?⁠ ⁠… Are you sure they were confined to the wings? Think.”

“But he says he is an Angel!” said the Vicar, staring out of his little round eyes, his plump hands in his pockets.

“Ah!” said the Doctor with his eye on the Vicar. “I expected as much.” He paused.

“But don’t you think⁠ ⁠…” began the Vicar.

“That man,” said the Doctor in a low, earnest voice, “is a mattoid.”

“A what?” said the Vicar.

“A mattoid. An abnormal man. Did you notice the effeminate delicacy of his face? His tendency to quite unmeaning laughter? His neglected hair? Then consider his singular dress.⁠ ⁠…”

The Vicar’s hand went up to his chin.

“Marks of mental weakness,” said the Doctor. “Many of this type of degenerate show this same disposition to assume some vast mysterious credentials. One will call himself the Prince of Wales, another the Archangel Gabriel, another the Deity even. Ibsen thinks he is a Great Teacher, and Maeterlink a new Shakespeare. I’ve just been reading all about it⁠—in Nordau. No doubt his odd deformity gave him an idea.⁠ ⁠…”

“But really,” began the Vicar.

“No doubt he’s slipped away from confinement.”

“I do not altogether accept.⁠ ⁠…”

“You will. If not, there’s the police, and failing that, advertisement; but, of course, his people may want to hush it up. It’s a sad thing in a family.⁠ ⁠…”

“He seems so altogether.⁠ ⁠…”

“Probably you’ll hear from his friends in a day or so,” said the Doctor, feeling for his watch. “He can’t live far from here, I should think. He seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again tomorrow.” He slid off the hall table and stood up.

“Those old wives’ tales still have their hold on you,” he said, patting the Vicar on the shoulder. “But an angel, you know⁠—Ha, ha!”

“I certainly did think.⁠ ⁠…” said the Vicar dubiously.

“Weigh the evidence,” said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch. “Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy⁠—muscae volantes.”

“And yet,” said the Vicar, “I could almost swear to the glory on his wings.⁠ ⁠…”

“Think it over,” said the Doctor (watch out); “hot afternoon⁠—brilliant sunshine⁠—boiling down on your head.⁠ ⁠… But really I must be going. It is a quarter to five. I’ll see your⁠—angel (ha, ha!) tomorrow again, if no one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was really very good. I flatter myself on that score. Our ambulance classes were a success you see.⁠ ⁠… Good afternoon.”

XV The Curate

The Vicar opened the door half mechanically to let out Crump, and saw Mendham, his curate, coming up the pathway by the hedge of purple vetch and meadowsweet. At that his hand went up to his chin and his eyes grew perplexed. Suppose he was deceived. The Doctor passed the Curate with a sweep of his hand from his hat brim. Crump was an extraordinarily clever fellow, the Vicar thought, and knew far more of anyone’s brain than one did oneself. The Vicar felt that so acutely. It made the coming explanation difficult. Suppose he were to go back into the drawing-room, and find just a tramp asleep on the hearthrug.

Mendham was a cadaverous man with a magnificent beard. He looked, indeed, as though he had run to beard as a mustard plant does to seed. But when he spoke you found he had a voice as well.

“My wife came home in a dreadful state,” he brayed out at long range.

“Come in,” said the Vicar; “come in. Most remarkable occurrence. Please come in. Come into the study. I’m really dreadfully sorry. But when I explain.⁠ ⁠…”

“And apologise, I hope,” brayed the Curate.

“And apologise. No, not that way. This way. The study.”

“Now what was that woman?” said the Curate, turning on the Vicar as the latter closed the study door.

“What woman?”

“Pah!”

“But really!”

“The painted creature in light attire⁠—disgustingly light attire, to speak freely⁠—with whom you were promenading the garden.”

“My dear Mendham⁠—that was an Angel!”

“A very pretty Angel?”

“The world is getting so matter-of-fact,” said the Vicar.

“The world,” roared the Curate, “grows blacker every day. But to find a man in your position, shamelessly, openly.⁠ ⁠…”

“Bother!” said the Vicar aside. He rarely swore. “Look here, Mendham, you really misunderstand. I can assure you.⁠ ⁠…”

“Very well,” said the Curate. “Explain!” He stood with his lank legs apart, his arms folded, scowling at his Vicar over his big beard.

(Explanations, I repeat, I have always considered the peculiar fallacy of this scientific age.)

The Vicar looked about him helplessly. The world had all gone dull and dead. Had he been dreaming all the afternoon? Was there really an angel in the drawing-room? Or was he the sport of a complicated hallucination?

“Well?” said Mendham, at the end of a minute.

The Vicar’s hand fluttered about his chin. “It’s such a roundabout story,” he said.

“No doubt it will be,” said Mendham harshly.

The Vicar restrained a movement of impatience.

“I went out to look for a strange bird this afternoon.⁠ ⁠… Do you believe in angels, Mendham, real angels?”

“I’m not here to discuss theology. I am the husband of an insulted woman.”

“But I tell you it’s not a figure of speech; this is an angel, a real angel with wings. He’s in the next room now. You do misunderstand me, so.⁠ ⁠…”

“Really, Hilyer⁠—”

“It is true I tell you, Mendham. I swear it is true.” The Vicar’s voice grew impassioned. “What sin I have done that