The Wonderful Visit - H. G. Wells (snow like ashes series TXT) 📗

gets hurt. And it lasts a long time. They take ’em young into that school, and they says to them, ‘come in ’ere and we’ll improve your minds,’ they says, and in the little kiddies go as good as gold. And they begins shovin’ it into them. Bit by bit and ’ard and dry, shovin’ out the nice juicy brains. Dates and lists and things. Out they comes, no brains in their ’eads, and wound up nice and tight, ready to touch their ’ats to anyone who looks at them. Why! One touched ’is ’at to me yesterday. And they runs about spry and does all the dirty work, and feels thankful they’re allowed to live. They take a positive pride in ’ard work for its own sake. Arter they bin pithed. See that chap ploughin’?”

“Yes,” said the Angel; “is he pithed?”

“Rather. Else he’d be paddin’ the hoof this pleasant weather⁠—like me and the blessed Apostles.”

“I begin to understand,” said the Angel, rather dubiously.

“I knew you would,” said the Philosophical Tramp. “I thought you was the right sort. But speaking serious, aint it ridiculous?⁠—centuries and centuries of civilization, and look at that poor swine there, sweatin’ ’isself empty and trudging up that ’ill-side. ’E’s English, ’e is. ’E belongs to the top race in creation, ’e does. ’E’s one of the rulers of Indjer. It’s enough to make a nigger laugh. The flag that’s braved a thousand years the battle an’ the breeze⁠—that’s ’is flag. There never was a country was as great and glorious as this. Never. And that’s wot it makes of us. I’ll tell you a little story about them parts as you seems to be a bit of a stranger. There’s a chap called Gotch, Sir John Gotch they calls ’im, and when ’e was a young gent from Oxford, I was a little chap of eight and my sister was a girl of seventeen. Their servant she was. But Lord! everybody’s ’eard that story⁠—it’s common enough, of ’im or the likes of ’im.”

“I haven’t,” said the Angel.

“All that’s pretty and lively of the gals they chucks into the gutters, and all the men with a pennorth of spunk or adventure, all who won’t drink what the Curate’s wife sends ’em instead of beer, and touch their hats promiscous, and leave the rabbits and birds alone for their betters, gets drove out of the villages as rough characters. Patriotism! Talk about improvin’ the race! Wot’s left aint fit to look a nigger in the face, a Chinaman ’ud be ashamed of ’em.⁠ ⁠…”

“But I don’t understand,” said the Angel. “I don’t follow you.”

At that the Philosophic Tramp became more explicit, and told the Angel the simple story of Sir John Gotch and the kitchen-maid. It’s scarcely necessary to repeat it. You may understand that it left the Angel puzzled. It was full of words he did not understand, for the only vehicle of emotion the Tramp possessed was blasphemy. Yet, though their tongues differed so, he could still convey to the Angel some of his own (probably unfounded) persuasion of the injustice and cruelty of life, and of the utter detestableness of Sir John Gotch.

The last the Angel saw of him was his dusty black back receding down the lane towards Iping Hanger. A pheasant appeared by the roadside, and the Philosophical Tramp immediately caught up a stone and sent the bird clucking with a viciously accurate shot. Then he disappeared round the corner.

XXXI Mrs. Jehoram’s Breadth of View

“I heard someone playing the fiddle in the Vicarage, as I came by,” said Mrs. Jehoram, taking her cup of tea from Mrs. Mendham.

“The Vicar plays,” said Mrs. Mendham. “I have spoken to George about it, but it’s no good. I do not think a Vicar should be allowed to do such things. It’s so foreign. But there, he.⁠ ⁠…”

“I know, dear,” said Mrs. Jehoram. “But I heard the Vicar once at the schoolroom. I don’t think this was the Vicar. It was quite clever, some of it, quite smart, you know. And new. I was telling dear Lady Hammergallow this morning. I fancy⁠—”

“The lunatic! Very likely. These half-witted people.⁠ ⁠… My dear, I don’t think I shall ever forget that dreadful encounter. Yesterday.”

“Nor I.”

“My poor girls! They are too shocked to say a word about it. I was telling dear Lady Ham⁠—”

“Quite proper of them. It was dreadful, dear. For them.”

“And now, dear, I want you to tell me frankly⁠—Do you really believe that creature was a man?”

“You should have heard the violin.”

“I still more than half suspect, Jessie⁠—” Mrs. Mendham leant forward as if to whisper.

Mrs. Jehoram helped herself to cake. “I’m sure no woman could play the violin quite like I heard it played this morning.”

“Of course, if you say so that settles the matter,” said Mrs. Mendham. Mrs. Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon all questions of art, music and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been a minor poet. Then Mrs. Mendham added a judicial “Still⁠—”

“Do you know,” said Mrs. Jehoram, “I’m half inclined to believe the dear Vicar’s story.”

“How good of you, Jessie,” said Mrs. Mendham.

“But really, I don’t think he could have had anyone in the Vicarage before that afternoon. I feel sure we should have heard of it. I don’t see how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermorton without the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so.⁠ ⁠…”

“I always distrust the Vicar,” said Mrs. Mendham. “I know him.”

“Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr. Angel were someone very clever and eccentric⁠—”

“He would have to be very eccentric to dress as he did. There are degrees and limits, dear.”

“But kilts,” said Mrs. Jehoram.

“Are all very well in the Highlands.⁠ ⁠…”

Mrs. Jehoram’s eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly across a patch of yellowish-green up the hill.

“There he goes,” said Mrs. Jehoram, rising, “across the cornfield. I’m sure that’s him. I can see the hump. Unless it’s a man with a sack. Bless me, Minnie! here’s an opera glass. How convenient for peeping at the Vicarage!⁠ ⁠…