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

slipping quietly downstairs and out into the moonlight. The Angel still lay upon the lawn, and sobbed for utter wretchedness.

“Oh! what is the matter?” said Delia, stooping over him and touching his head timidly.

The Angel ceased sobbing, sat up abruptly, and stared at her. He saw her face, moonlit, and soft with pity. “What is the matter?” she whispered. “Are you hurt?”

The Angel stared about him, and his eyes came to rest on her face. “Delia!” he whispered.

“Are you hurt?” said Delia.

“My wings,” said the Angel. “I cannot use my wings.”

Delia did not understand, but she realised that it was something very dreadful. “It is dark, it is cold,” whispered the Angel; “I cannot use my wings.”

It hurt her unaccountably to see the tears on his face. She did not know what to do.

“Pity me, Delia,” said the Angel, suddenly extending his arms towards her; “pity me.”

Impulsively she knelt down and took his face between her hands. “I do not know,” she said; “but I am sorry. I am sorry for you, with all my heart.”

The Angel said not a word. He was looking at her little face in the bright moonlight, with an expression of uncomprehending wonder in his eyes. “This strange world!” he said.

She suddenly withdrew her hands. A cloud drove over the moon. “What can I do to help you?” she whispered. “I would do anything to help you.”

He still held her at arm’s length, perplexity replacing misery in his face. “This strange world!” he repeated.

Both whispered, she kneeling, he sitting, in the fluctuating moonlight and darkness of the lawn.

“Delia!” said Mrs. Hinijer, suddenly projecting from her window; “Delia, is that you?”

They both looked up at her in consternation.

“Come in at once, Delia,” said Mrs. Hinijer. “If that Mr. Angel was a gentleman (which he isn’t), he’d feel ashamed of hisself. And you an orphan too!”

XLVII The Last Day of the Visit

On the morning of the next day the Angel, after he had breakfasted, went out towards the moor, and Mrs. Hinijer had an interview with the Vicar. What happened need not concern us now. The Vicar was visibly disconcerted. “He must go,” he said; “certainly he must go,” and straightway he forgot the particular accusation in the general trouble. He spent the morning in hazy meditation, interspersed by a spasmodic study of Skiff and Waterlow’s price list, and the catalogue of the Medical, Scholastic, and Clerical Stores. A schedule grew slowly on a sheet of paper that lay on the desk before him. He cut out a self-measurement form from the tailoring department of the Stores and pinned it to the study curtains. This was the kind of document he was making:

“1 Black Melton Frock Coat, patts? £3, 10s.

“? Trousers. 2 pairs or one.

“1 Cheviot Tweed Suit (write for patterns. Self-meas.?)”

The Vicar spent some time studying a pleasing array of model gentlemen. They were all very nice-looking, but he found it hard to imagine the Angel so transfigured. For, although six days had passed, the Angel remained without any suit of his own. The Vicar had vacillated between a project of driving the Angel into Portbroddock and getting him measured for a suit, and his absolute horror of the insinuating manners of the tailor he employed. He knew that tailor would demand an exhaustive explanation. Besides which, one never knew when the Angel might leave. So the six days had passed, and the Angel had grown steadily in the wisdom of this world and shrouded his brightness still in the ample retirement of the Vicar’s newest clothes.

“1 Soft Felt Hat, No. G. 7 (say), 8s. 6d.

“1 Silk Hat, 14s. 6d. Hatbox?”

(“I suppose he ought to have a silk hat,” said the Vicar; “it’s the correct thing up there. Shape No. 3 seems best suited to his style. But it’s dreadful to think of him all alone in that great city. Everyone will misunderstand him, and he will misunderstand everybody. However, I suppose it must be. Where was I?)”

“1 Toothbrush. 1 Brush and Comb. Razor?

“½ doz. Shirts (? measure his neck), 6s ea.

“Socks? Pants?

“2 suits Pyjamas. Price? Say 15s.

“1 doz. Collars (‘The Life Guardsman’), 8s.

“Braces. Oxon Patent Versatile, 1s 11½d.”

(“But how will he get them on?” said the Vicar.)

“1 Rubber Stamp, T. Angel, and Marking Ink in box complete, 9d.

(“Those washerwomen are certain to steal all his things.”)

“1 Single-bladed Penknife with Corkscrew, say 1s. 6d.

“N.B.⁠—Don’t forget Cuff Links, Collar Stud, etc.”

(The Vicar loved “etc.,” it gave things such a precise and businesslike air.)

“1 Leather Portmanteau (had better see these).”

And so forth⁠—meanderingly. It kept the Vicar busy until lunch time, though his heart ached.

The Angel did not return to lunch. This was not so very remarkable⁠—once before he had missed the midday meal. Yet, considering how short was the time they would have together now, he might perhaps have come back. Doubtless he had excellent reasons, though, for his absence. The Vicar made an indifferent lunch. In the afternoon he rested in his usual manner, and did a little more to the list of requirements. He did not begin to feel nervous about the Angel till teatime. He waited, perhaps, half an hour before he took tea. “Odd,” said the Vicar, feeling still more lonely as he drank his tea.

As the time for dinner crept on and no Angel appeared the Vicar’s imagination began to trouble him. “He will come in to dinner, surely,” said the Vicar, caressing his chin, and beginning to fret about the house upon inconsiderable errands, as his habit was when anything occurred to break his routine. The sun set, a gorgeous spectacle, amidst tumbled masses of purple cloud. The gold and red faded into twilight; the evening star gathered her robe of light together from out the brightness of the sky in the West. Breaking the silence of evening that crept over the outer world, a corncrake began his whirring chant. The Vicar’s face grew troubled; twice he went and stared at the darkening hillside,