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

Yes, it’s the man. He is a man. With such a sweet face.”

Very unselfishly she allowed her hostess to share the opera glass. For a minute there was a rustling silence.

“His dress,” said Mrs. Mendham, “is quite respectable now.”

“Quite,” said Mrs. Jehoram.

Pause.

“He looks cross!”

“And his coat is dusty.”

“He walks steadily enough,” said Mrs. Mendham, “or one might think.⁠ ⁠… This hot weather.⁠ ⁠…”

Another pause.

“You see, dear,” said Mrs. Jehoram, putting down the lorgnette. “What I was going to say was, that possibly he might be a genius in disguise.”

“If you can call next door to nothing a disguise.”

“No doubt it was eccentric. But I’ve seen children in little blouses, not at all unlike him. So many clever people are peculiar in their dress and manners. A genius may steal a horse where a bank-clerk may not look over the hedge. Very possibly he’s quite well known and laughing at our Arcadian simplicity. And really it wasn’t so improper as some of these New Women bicycling costumes. I saw one in one of the Illustrated Papers only a few days ago⁠—the New Budget I think⁠—quite tights, you know, dear. No⁠—I cling to the genius theory. Especially after the playing. I’m sure the creature is original. Perhaps very amusing. In fact, I intend to ask the Vicar to introduce me.”

“My dear!” cried Mrs. Mendham.

“I’m resolute,” said Mrs. Jehoram.

“I’m afraid you’re rash,” said Mrs. Mendham. “Geniuses and people of that kind are all very well in London. But here⁠—at the Vicarage.”

“We are going to educate the folks. I love originality. At any rate I mean to see him.”

“Take care you don’t see too much of him,” said Mrs. Mendham. “I’ve heard the fashion is quite changing. I understand that some of the very best people have decided that genius is not to be encouraged any more. These recent scandals.⁠ ⁠…”

“Only in literature, I can assure you, dear. In music.⁠ ⁠…”

“Nothing you can say, my dear,” said Mrs. Mendham, going off at a tangent, “will convince me that that person’s costume was not extremely suggestive and improper.”

XXXII A Trivial Incident

The Angel came thoughtfully by the hedge across the field towards the Vicarage. The rays of the setting sun shone on his shoulders, and touched the Vicarage with gold, and blazed like fire in all the windows. By the gate, bathed in the sunlight, stood little Delia, the waiting maid. She stood watching him under her hand. It suddenly came into the Angel’s mind that she, at least, was beautiful, and not only beautiful but alive and warm.

She opened the gate for him and stood aside. She was sorry for him, for her elder sister was a cripple. He bowed to her, as he would have done to any woman, and for just one moment looked into her face. She looked back at him and something leapt within her.

The Angel made an irresolute movement. “Your eyes are very beautiful,” he said quietly, with a remote wonder in his voice.

“Oh, sir!” she said, starting back. The Angel’s expression changed to perplexity. He went on up the pathway between the Vicar’s flowerbeds, and she stood with the gate held open in her hand, staring after him. Just under the rose-twined verandah he turned and looked at her.

She still stared at him for a moment, and then with a queer gesture turned round with her back to him, shutting the gate as she did so, and seemed to be looking down the valley towards the church tower.

XXXIII The Warp and the Woof of Things

At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of his day’s adventures.

“The strange thing,” said the Angel, “is the readiness of you Human Beings⁠—the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting me this morning⁠—”

“Seemed to enjoy it,” said the Vicar. “I know.”

“Yet they don’t like pain,” said the Angel.

“No,” said the Vicar; “they don’t like it.”

“Then,” said the Angel, “I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spike of leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it caused the most uncomfortable⁠—”

“Stinging nettle!” said the Vicar.

“At any rate a new sort of pain. And another plant with a head like a coronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged⁠—”

“A thistle, possibly.”

“And in your garden, the beautiful, sweet-smelling plant⁠—”

“The sweet briar,” said the Vicar. “I remember.”

“And that pink flower that sprang out of the box⁠—”

“Out of the box?” said the Vicar.

“Last night,” said the Angel, “that went climbing up the curtains⁠—Flame!”

“Oh!⁠—the matches and the candles! Yes,” said the Vicar.

“Then the animals. A dog today behaved most disagreeably⁠—. And these boys, and the way in which people speak⁠—. Everyone seems anxious⁠—willing at any rate⁠—to give this Pain. Everyone seems busy giving pain⁠—”

“Or avoiding it,” said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him. “Yes⁠—of course. It’s fighting everywhere. The whole living world is a battlefield⁠—the whole world. We are driven by pain. Here. How it lies on the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!”

“But why does everyone⁠—everything⁠—want to give pain?” asked the Angel.

“It is not so in the Angelic Land?” said the Vicar.

“No,” said the Angel. “Why is it so here?”

The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. “It is so,” he said. “Pain,” said he still more slowly, “is the warp and the woof of this life. Do you know,” he said, after a pause, “it is almost impossible for me to imagine⁠ ⁠… a world without pain.⁠ ⁠… And yet, as you played this morning⁠—

“But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelic world. Indeed, a number of people⁠—excellent religious people⁠—have been so impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death, things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me an excessive view. But it’s a deep question. Almost beyond one’s power of discussion⁠—”

And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon “Necessity,” how things were so because they were so, how one had to do this and that. “Even