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

is new. I had taken it as a matter of course until you came into my life.”

“This life of ours is so insistent,” said the Vicar. “It, and its petty needs, its temporary pleasures (Crack) swathe our souls about. While I am preaching to these people of mine of another life, some are ministering to one appetite and eating sweets, others⁠—the old men⁠—are slumbering, the youths glance at the maidens, the grown men protrude white waistcoats and gold chains, pomp and vanity on a substratum of carnal substance, their wives flaunt garish bonnets at one another. And I go on droning away of the things unseen and unrealised⁠—‘Eye hath not seen,’ I read, ‘nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the imagination of man to conceive,’ and I look up to catch an adult male immortal admiring the fit of a pair of three and sixpenny gloves. It is damping year after year. When I was ailing in my youth I felt almost the assurance of vision that beneath this temporary phantasm world was the real world⁠—the enduring world of the Life Everlasting. But now⁠—”

He glanced at his chubby white hand, fingering the stem of his glass. “I have put on flesh since then,” he said. (Pause).

“I have changed and developed very much. The battle of the Flesh and Spirit does not trouble me as it did. Every day I feel less confidence in my beliefs, and more in God. I live, I am afraid, a quiescent life, duties fairly done, a little ornithology and a little chess, a trifle of mathematical trifling. My times are in His hands⁠—”

The Vicar sighed and became pensive. The Angel watched him, and the Angel’s eyes were troubled with the puzzle of him. “Gluck, gluck, gluck,” went the decanter as the Vicar refilled his glass.

XIX After Dinner (Continued)

So the Angel dined and talked to the Vicar, and presently the night came and he was overtaken by yawning.

“Yah⁠—oh!” said the Angel suddenly. “Dear me! A higher power seemed suddenly to stretch my mouth open and a great breath of air went rushing down my throat.”

“You yawned,” said the Vicar. “Do you never yawn in the angelic country?”

“Never,” said the Angel.

“And yet you are immortal!⁠—I suppose you want to go to bed.”

“Bed!” said the Angel. “Where’s that?”

So the Vicar explained darkness to him and the art of going to bed. (The Angels, it seems sleep only in order to dream, and dream, like primitive man, with their foreheads on their knees. And they sleep among the white poppy meadows in the heat of the day.) The Angel found the bedroom arrangements quaint enough.

“Why is everything raised up on big wooden legs?” he said. “You have the floor, and then you put everything you have upon a wooden quadruped. Why do you do it?” The Vicar explained with philosophical vagueness. The Angel burnt his finger in the candle-flame⁠—and displayed an absolute ignorance of the elementary principles of combustion. He was merely charmed when a line of fire ran up the curtains. The Vicar had to deliver a lecture on fire so soon as the flame was extinguished. He had all kinds of explanations to make⁠—even the soap needed explaining. It was an hour or more before the Angel was safely tucked in for the night.

“He’s very beautiful,” said the Vicar, descending the staircase, quite tired out; “and he’s a real angel no doubt. But I am afraid he will be a dreadful anxiety, all the same, before he gets into our earthly way with things.”

He seemed quite worried. He helped himself to an extra glass of sherry before he put away the wine in the cellaret.

XX After Dinner (Continued)

The Curate stood in front of the looking-glass and solemnly divested himself of his collar.

“I never heard a more fantastic story,” said Mrs. Mendham from the basket chair. “The man must be mad. Are you sure⁠—.”

“Perfectly, my dear. I’ve told you every word, every incident⁠—.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Mendham, and spread her hands. “There’s no sense in it.”

“Precisely, my dear.”

“The Vicar,” said Mrs. Mendham, “must be mad.”

“This hunchback is certainly one of the strangest creatures I’ve seen for a long time. Foreign looking, with a big bright coloured face and long brown hair.⁠ ⁠… It can’t have been cut for months!” The Curate put his studs carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. “And a kind of staring look about his eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly looking person. Effeminate.”

“But who can he be?” said Mrs. Mendham.

“I can’t imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a chorister or something of that sort.”

“But why should he be about the shrubbery⁠ ⁠… in that dreadful costume?”

“I don’t know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said, ‘Mendham, this is an Angel.’ ”

“I wonder if he drinks.⁠ ⁠… They may have been bathing near the spring, of course,” reflected Mrs. Mendham. “But I noticed no other clothes on his arm.”

The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.

“It’s a perfect mystery to me, my dear.” (Flick, flick of laces.) “Hallucination is the only charitable⁠—”

“You are sure, George, that it was not a woman.”

“Perfectly,” said the Curate.

“I know what men are, of course.”

“It was a young man of nineteen or twenty,” said the Curate.

“I can’t understand it,” said Mrs. Mendham. “You say the creature is staying at the Vicarage?”

“Hilyer is simply mad,” said the Curate. He got up and went padding round the room to the door to put out his boots. “To judge by his manner you would really think he believed this cripple was an Angel.” (“Are your shoes out, dear?”)

(“They’re just by the wardrobe”), said Mrs. Mendham. “He always was a little queer, you know. There was always something childish about him.⁠ ⁠… An Angel!”

The Curate came and stood by the fire, fumbling with his braces. Mrs. Mendham liked a fire even in the summer. “He shirks all the serious problems in life and is always trifling with some new foolishness,” said