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

it was), shuddering violently, hands outstretched and clutching the ground, and then lying still.

“Dear me!” said the Vicar. “I had no idea.” He came forward cautiously. “Excuse me,” he said, “I am afraid I have shot you.”

It was the obvious remark.

The Angel seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time. He raised himself by one hand, his brown eyes stared into the Vicar’s. Then, with a gasp, and biting his nether lip, he struggled into a sitting position and surveyed the Vicar from top to toe.

“A man!” said the Angel, clasping his forehead; “a man in the maddest black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I am indeed in the Land of Dreams!”

VI The Vicar and the Angel

Now there are some things frankly impossible. The weakest intellect will admit this situation is impossible. The Athenaeum will probably say as much should it venture to review this. Sunbespattered ferns, spreading beech trees, the Vicar and the gun are acceptable enough. But this Angel is a different matter. Plain sensible people will scarcely go on with such an extravagant book. And the Vicar fully appreciated this impossibility. But he lacked decision. Consequently he went on with it, as you shall immediately hear. He was hot, it was after dinner, he was in no mood for mental subtleties. The Angel had him at a disadvantage, and further distracted him from the main issue by irrelevant iridescence and a violent fluttering. For the moment it never occurred to the Vicar to ask whether the Angel was possible or not. He accepted him in the confusion of the moment, and the mischief was done. Put yourself in his place, my dear Athenaeum. You go out shooting. You hit something. That alone would disconcert you. You find you have hit an Angel, and he writhes about for a minute and then sits up and addresses you. He makes no apology for his own impossibility. Indeed, he carries the charge clean into your camp. “A man!” he says, pointing. “A man in the maddest black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I am indeed in the Land of Dreams!” You must answer him. Unless you take to your heels. Or blow his brains out with your second barrel as an escape from the controversy.

“The Land of Dreams! Pardon me if I suggest you have just come out of it,” was the Vicar’s remark.

“How can that be?” said the Angel.

“Your wing,” said the Vicar, “is bleeding. Before we talk, may I have the pleasure⁠—the melancholy pleasure⁠—of tying it up? I am really most sincerely sorry.⁠ ⁠…” The Angel put his hand behind his back and winced.

The Vicar assisted his victim to stand up. The Angel turned gravely and the Vicar, with numberless insignificant panting parentheses, carefully examined the injured wings. (They articulated, he observed with interest, to a kind of second glenoid on the outer and upper edge of the shoulder blade. The left wing had suffered little except the loss of some of the primary wing-quills, and a shot or so in the ala spuria, but the humerus bone of the right was evidently smashed.) The Vicar stanched the bleeding as well as he could and tied up the bone with his pocket handkerchief and the neck wrap his housekeeper made him carry in all weathers.

“I’m afraid you will not be able to fly for some time,” said he, feeling the bone.

“I don’t like this new sensation,” said the Angel.

“The pain when I feel your bone?”

“The what?” said the Angel.

“The pain.”

“ ‘Pain’⁠—you call it. No, I certainly don’t like the Pain. Do you have much of this Pain in the Land of Dreams?”

“A very fair share,” said the Vicar. “Is it new to you?”

“Quite,” said the Angel. “I don’t like it.”

“How curious!” said the Vicar, and bit at the end of a strip of linen to tie a knot. “I think this bandaging must serve for the present,” he said. “I’ve studied ambulance work before, but never the bandaging up of wing wounds. Is your pain any better?”

“It glows now instead of flashing,” said the Angel.

“I am afraid you will find it glow for some time,” said the Vicar, still intent on the wound.

The Angel gave a shrug of the wing and turned round to look at the Vicar again. He had been trying to keep an eye on the Vicar over his shoulder during all their interview. He looked at him from top to toe with raised eyebrows and a growing smile on his beautiful soft-featured face. “It seems so odd,” he said with a sweet little laugh, “to be talking to a Man!”

“Do you know,” said the Vicar, “now that I come to think of it, it is equally odd to me that I should be talking to an Angel. I am a somewhat matter-of-fact person. A Vicar has to be. Angels I have always regarded as⁠—artistic conceptions⁠—”

“Exactly what we think of men.”

“But surely you have seen so many men⁠—”

“Never before today. In pictures and books, times enough of course. But I have seen several since the sunrise, solid real men, besides a horse or so⁠—those Unicorn things you know, without horns⁠—and quite a number of those grotesque knobby things called ‘cows.’ I was naturally a little frightened at so many mythical monsters, and came to hide here until it was dark. I suppose it will be dark again presently like it was at first. Phew! This Pain of yours is poor fun. I hope I shall wake up directly.”

“I don’t understand quite,” said the Vicar, knitting his brows and tapping his forehead with his flat hand. “Mythical monster!” The worst thing he had been called for years hitherto was a ‘medieval anachronism’ (by an advocate of Disestablishment). “Do I understand that you consider me as⁠—as something in a dream?”

“Of course,” said the Angel smiling.

“And this world about me, these rugged trees