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

and then fretted back to the house again. Mrs. Hinijer served dinner. “Your dinner’s ready,” she announced for the second time, with a reproachful intonation. “Yes, yes,” said the Vicar, fussing off upstairs.

He came down and went into his study and lit his reading lamp, a patent affair with an incandescent wick, dropping the match into his waste-paper basket without stopping to see if it was extinguished. Then he fretted into the dining-room and began a desultory attack on the cooling dinner.⁠ ⁠…

(Dear Reader, the time is almost ripe to say farewell to this little Vicar of ours.)

XLVIII The Last Day of the Visit (Continued)

Sir John Gotch (still smarting over the business of the barbed wire) was riding along one of the grassy ways through the preserves by the Sidder, when he saw, strolling slowly through the trees beyond the undergrowth, the one particular human being he did not want to see.

“I’m damned,” said Sir John Gotch, with immense emphasis; “if this isn’t altogether too much.”

He raised himself in the stirrups. “Hi!” he shouted. “You there!”

The Angel turned smiling.

“Get out of this wood!” said Sir John Gotch.

“Why?” said the Angel.

“I’m⁠—,” said Sir John Gotch, meditating some cataclysmal expletive. But he could think of nothing more than “damned.” “Get out of this wood,” he said.

The Angel’s smile vanished. “Why should I get out of this wood?” he said, and stood still.

Neither spoke for a full half minute perhaps, and then Sir John Gotch dropped out of his saddle and stood by the horse.

(Now you must remember⁠—lest the Angelic Hosts be discredited hereby⁠—that this Angel had been breathing the poisonous air of this struggle for existence of ours for more than a week. It was not only his wings and the brightness of his face that suffered. He had eaten and slept and learnt the lesson of pain⁠—had travelled so far on the road to humanity. All the length of his visit he had been meeting more and more of the harshness and conflict of this world, and losing touch with the glorious altitudes of his own.)

“You won’t go, eigh!” said Gotch, and began to lead his horse through the bushes towards the Angel. The Angel stood, all his muscles tight and his nerves quivering, watching his antagonist approach.

“Get out of this wood,” said Gotch, stopping three yards away, his face white with rage, his bridle in one hand and his riding whip in the other.

Strange floods of emotion were running through the Angel. “Who are you,” he said, in a low quivering voice; “who am I⁠—that you should order me out of this place? What has the world done that men like you.⁠ ⁠…”

“You’re the fool who cut my barbed wire,” said Gotch, threatening, “If you want to know!”

“Your barbed wire,” said the Angel. “Was that your barbed wire? Are you the man who put down that barbed wire? What right have you.⁠ ⁠…”

“Don’t you go talking Socialist rot,” said Gotch in short gasps. “This wood’s mine, and I’ve a right to protect it how I can. I know your kind of muck. Talking rot and stirring up discontent. And if you don’t get out of it jolly sharp.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well!” said the Angel, a brimming reservoir of unaccountable energy.

“Get out of this damned wood!” said Gotch, flashing into the bully out of sheer alarm at the light in the Angel’s face.

He made one step towards him, with the whip raised, and then something happened that neither he nor the Angel properly understood. The Angel seemed to leap into the air, a pair of grey wings flashed out at the Squire, he saw a face bearing down upon him, full of the wild beauty of passionate anger. His riding whip was torn out of his hand. His horse reared behind him, pulled him over, gained his bridle and fled.

The whip cut across his face as he fell back, stung across his face again as he sat on the ground. He saw the Angel, radiant with anger, in the act to strike again. Gotch flung up his hands, pitched himself forward to save his eyes, and rolled on the ground under the pitiless fury of the blows that rained down upon him.

“You brute,” cried the Angel, striking wherever he saw flesh to feel. “You bestial thing of pride and lies! You who have overshadowed the souls of other men. You shallow fool with your horses and dogs! To lift your face against any living thing! Learn! Learn! Learn!”

Gotch began screaming for help. Twice he tried to clamber to his feet, got to his knees, and went headlong again under the ferocious anger of the Angel. Presently he made a strange noise in his throat, and ceased even to writhe under his punishment.

Then suddenly the Angel awakened from his wrath, and found himself standing, panting and trembling, one foot on a motionless figure, under the green stillness of the sunlit woods.

He stared about him, then down at his feet where, among the tangled dead leaves, the hair was matted with blood. The whip dropped from his hands, the hot colour fled from his face. “Pain!” he said. “Why does he lie so still?”

He took his foot off Gotch’s shoulder, bent down towards the prostrate figure, stood listening, knelt⁠—shook him. “Awake!” said the Angel. Then still more softly, “Awake!”

He remained listening some minutes or more, stood up sharply, and looked round him at the silent trees. A feeling of profound horror descended upon him, wrapped him round about. With an abrupt gesture he turned. “What has happened to me?” he said, in an awestricken whisper.

He started back from the motionless figure. “Dead!” he said suddenly, and turning, panic stricken, fled headlong through the wood.

XLIX The Last Day of the Visit (Continued)

It was some minutes after the footsteps of the Angel had died away in the distance that Gotch raised himself on his hand. “By Jove!” he said. “Crump’s right.”

“Cut at the head, too!”

He put his hand to his