by H. G. Wells
"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon--brilliantsunshine--boiling down on your head.... But really I _must_ be going. Itis a quarter to five. I'll see your--angel (ha, ha!) to-morrow again, ifno one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was reallyvery good. I flatter _myself_ on that score. Our ambulance classes_were_ a success you see.... Good afternoon."
THE CURATE.
XV.
The Vicar opened the door half mechanically to let out Crump, and sawMendham, his curate, coming up the pathway by the hedge of purple vetchand meadowsweet. At that his hand went up to his chin and his eyes grewperplexed. Suppose he _was_ deceived. The Doctor passed the Curate witha sweep of his hand from his hat brim. Crump was an extraordinarilyclever fellow, the Vicar thought, and knew far more of anyone's brainthan one did oneself. The Vicar felt that so acutely. It made the comingexplanation difficult. Suppose he were to go back into the drawing-room,and find just a tramp asleep on the hearthrug.
Mendham was a cadaverous man with a magnificent beard. He looked,indeed, as though he had run to beard as a mustard plant does to seed.But when he spoke you found he had a voice as well.
"My wife came home in a dreadful state," he brayed out at long range.
"Come in," said the Vicar; "come in. Most remarkable occurrence. Pleasecome in. Come into the study. I'm really dreadfully sorry. But when Iexplain...."
"And apologise, I hope," brayed the Curate.
"And apologise. No, not that way. This way. The study."
"Now what _was_ that woman?" said the Curate, turning on the Vicar asthe latter closed the study door.
"What woman?"
"Pah!"
"But really!"
"The painted creature in light attire--disgustingly light attire, tospeak freely--with whom you were promenading the garden."
"My dear Mendham--that was an Angel!"
"A very pretty Angel?"
"The world is getting so matter-of-fact," said the Vicar.
"The world," roared the Curate, "grows blacker every day. But to find aman in your position, shamelessly, openly...."
"_Bother!_" said the Vicar aside. He rarely swore. "Look here, Mendham,you really misunderstand. I can assure you...."
"Very well," said the Curate. "Explain!" He stood with his lank legsapart, his arms folded, scowling at his Vicar over his big beard.
(Explanations, I repeat, I have always considered the peculiar fallacyof this scientific age.)
The Vicar looked about him helplessly. The world had all gone dull anddead. Had he been dreaming all the afternoon? Was there really an angelin the drawing-room? Or was he the sport of a complicated hallucination?
"Well?" said Mendham, at the end of a minute.
The Vicar's hand fluttered about his chin. "It's such a round-aboutstory," he said.
"No doubt it will be," said Mendham harshly.
The Vicar restrained a movement of impatience.
"I went out to look for a strange bird this afternoon.... Do youbelieve in angels, Mendham, real angels?"
"I'm not here to discuss theology. I am the husband of an insultedwoman."
"But I tell you it's not a figure of speech; this _is_ an angel, a realangel with wings. He's in the next room now. You do misunderstand me,so...."
"Really, Hilyer--"
"It is true I tell you, Mendham. I swear it is true." The Vicar's voicegrew impassioned. "What sin I have done that I should entertain andclothe angelic visitants, I don't know. I only know that--inconvenientas it undoubtedly will be--I have an angel now in the drawing-room,wearing my new suit and finishing his tea. And he's stopping with me,indefinitely, at my invitation. No doubt it was rash of me. But I can'tturn him out, you know, because Mrs Mendham----I may be a weakling, butI am still a gentleman."
"Really, Hilyer--"
"I can assure you it is true." There was a note of hystericaldesperation in the Vicar's voice. "I fired at him, taking him for aflamingo, and hit him in the wing."
"I thought this was a case for the Bishop. I find it is a case for theLunacy Commissioners."
"Come and see him, Mendham!"
"But there _are_ no angels."
"We teach the people differently," said the Vicar.
"Not as material bodies," said the Curate.
"Anyhow, come and see him."
"I don't want to see your hallucinations," began the Curate.
"I can't explain anything unless you come and see him," said the Vicar."A man who's more like an angel than anything else in heaven or earth.You simply must see if you wish to understand."
"I don't wish to understand," said the Curate. "I don't wish to lendmyself to any imposture. Surely, Hilyer, if this is not an imposition,you can tell me yourself.... Flamingo, indeed!"
XVI.
The Angel had finished his tea and was standing looking pensively out ofthe window. He thought the old church down the valley lit by the lightof the setting sun was very beautiful, but he could not understand theserried ranks of tombstones that lay up the hillside beyond. He turnedas Mendham and the Vicar came in.
Now Mendham could bully his Vicar cheerfully enough, just as he couldbully his congregation; but he was not the sort of man to bully astranger. He looked at the Angel, and the "strange woman" theory wasdisposed of. The Angel's beauty was too clearly the beauty of the youth.
"Mr Hilyer tells me," Mendham began, in an almost apologetic tone, "thatyou--ah--it's so curious--claim to be an Angel."
"_Are_ an Angel," said the Vicar.
The Angel bowed.
"Naturally," said Mendham, "we are curious."
"Very," said the Angel. "The blackness and the shape."
"I beg your pardon?" said Mendham.
"The blackness and the flaps," repeated the Angel; "and no wings."
"Precisely," said Mendham, who was altogether at a loss. "We are, ofcourse, curious to know something of how you came into the village insuch a peculiar costume."
The Angel looked at the Vicar. The Vicar touched his chin.
"You see," began the Vicar.
"Let _him_ explain," said Mendham; "I beg."
"I wanted to suggest," began the Vicar.
"And I don't want you to suggest."
"_Bother!_" said the Vicar.
The Angel looked from one to the other. "Such rugose expressions flitacross your faces!" he said.
"You see, Mr--Mr--I don't know your name," said Mendham, with a certaindiminution of suavity. "The case stands thus: My wife--four ladies, Imight say--are playing lawn tennis, when you suddenly rush out on them,sir; you rush out on them from among the rhododendra in a very defectivecostume. You and Mr Hilyer."
"But I--" said the Vicar.
"I know. It was this gentleman's costume was defective. Naturally--it ismy place in fact--to demand an explanation." His voice was growing involume. "And I _must_ demand an explanation."
The Angel smiled faintly at his note of anger and his sudden attitude ofdetermination--arms tightly folded.
"I am rather new to the world," the Angel began.
"Nineteen at least," said Mendham. "Old enough to know better. That's apoor excuse."
"May I ask one question first?" said the Angel.
"Well?"
"Do you think I am a Man--like yourself? As the chequered man did."
"If you are not a man--"
"One other question. Have you _never_ heard of an Angel?"
"I warn you not to try that story upon me," said Mendham, now back athis familiar crescendo.
The Vicar interrupted: "But Mendham--he has wings!"
"_Please_ let me talk to him," said Mendham.
"You are so quaint," said the Angel; "you interrupt everything I have tosay."
"But what _have_ you to say?" said Mendham.
"That I really _am_ an Angel...."
"Pshaw!"
"There you go!"
"But tell me, honestly, how you came to be in the shrubbery ofSiddermorton Vicarage--in the state in
which you were. And in theVicar's company. Cannot you abandon this ridiculous story of yours?..."
The Angel shrugged his wings. "What is the matter with this man?" hesaid to the Vicar.
"My dear Mendham," said the Vicar, "a few words from me...."
"Surely my question is straightforward enough!"
"But you won't tell me the answer you want, and it's no good my tellingyou any other."
"_Pshaw!_" said the Curate again. And then turning suddenly on theVicar, "Where does he come from?"
The Vicar was in a dreadful state of doubt by this time.
"He _says_ he is an Angel!" said the Vicar. "Why don't you listen tohim?"
"No angel would alarm four ladies...."
"Is _that_ what it is all about?" said the Angel.
"Enough cause too, I should think!" said the Curate.
"But I really did not know," said the Angel.
"This is altogether too much!"
"I am sincerely sorry I alarmed these ladies."
"You ought to be. But I see I shall get nothing out of you two." Mendhamwent towards the door. "I am convinced there is something discreditableat the bottom of this business. Or why not tell a simple straightforwardstory? I will confess you puzzle me. Why, in this enlightened age, youshould tell this fantastic, this far-fetched story of an Angel,altogether beats me. What good _can_ it do?..."
"But stop and look at his wings!" said the Vicar. "I can assure you hehas wings!"
Mendham had his fingers on the door-handle. "I have seen quite enough,"he said. "It may be this is simply a foolish attempt at a hoax, Hilyer."
"But Mendham!" said the Vicar.
The Curate halted in the doorway and looked at the Vicar over hisshoulder. The accumulating judgment of months found vent. "I cannotunderstand, Hilyer, why you are in the Church. For the life of me Icannot. The air is full of Social Movements, of Economic change, theWoman Movement, Rational Dress, The Reunion of Christendom, Socialism,Individualism--all the great and moving Questions of the Hour! Surely,we who follow the Great Reformer.... And here you are stuffing birds,and startling ladies with your callous disregard...."
"But Mendham," began the Vicar.
The Curate would not hear him. "You shame the Apostles with yourlevity.... But this is only a preliminary enquiry," he said, with athreatening note in his sonorous voice, and so vanished abruptly (with aviolent slam) from the room.
XVII.
"Are _all_ men so odd as this?" said the Angel.
"I'm in such a difficult position," said the Vicar. "You see," he said,and stopped, searching his chin for an idea.
"I'm beginning to see," said the Angel.
"They won't believe it."
"I see that."
"They will think I tell lies."
"And?"
"That will be extremely painful to me."
"Painful!... Pain," said the Angel. "I hope not."
The Vicar shook his head. The good report of the village had been thebreath of his life, so far. "You see," he said, "it would look so muchmore plausible if you said you were just a man."
"But I'm not," said the Angel.
"No, you're not," said the Vicar. "So that's no good."
"Nobody here, you know, has ever seen an Angel, or heard of one--exceptin church. If you had made your _debut_ in the chancel--on Sunday--itmight have been different. But that's too late now.... (_Bother!_)Nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe in you."
"I hope I am not inconveniencing you?"
"Not at all," said the Vicar; "not at all. Only----. Naturally it may beinconvenient if you tell a too incredible story. If I might suggest(_ahem_)----."
"Well?"
"You see, people in the world, being men themselves, will almostcertainly regard you as a man. If you say you are not, they will simplysay you do not tell the truth. Only exceptional people appreciate theexceptional. When in Rome one must--well, respect Roman prejudices alittle--talk Latin. You will find it better----"
"You propose I should feign to become a man?"
"You have my meaning at once."
The Angel stared at the Vicar's hollyhocks and thought.
"Possibly, after all," he said slowly, "I _shall_ become a man. I mayhave been too hasty in saying I was not. You say there are no angels inthis world. Who am I to set myself up against your experience? A merething of a day--so far as this world goes. If you say there are noangels--clearly I must be something else. I eat--angels do not eat. I_may_ be a man already."
"A convenient view, at any rate," said the Vicar.
"If it is convenient to you----"
"It is. And then to account for your presence here."
"_If_," said the Vicar, after a hesitating moment of reflection, "if,for instance, you had been an ordinary man with a weakness for wading,and you had gone wading in the Sidder, and your clothes had been stolen,for instance, and I had come upon you in that position of inconvenience;the explanation I shall have to make to Mrs Mendham----would be shorn atleast of the supernatural element. There is such a feeling against thesupernatural element nowadays--even in the pulpit. You would hardlybelieve----"
"It's a pity that was not the case," said the Angel.
"Of course," said the Vicar. "It is a great pity that was not the case.But at anyrate you will oblige me if you do not obtrude your angelicnature. You will oblige everyone, in fact. There is a settled opinionthat angels do not do this kind of thing. And nothing is morepainful--as I can testify--than a decaying settled opinion.... Settledopinions are mental teeth in more ways than one. For my own part,"--theVicar's hand passed over his eyes for a moment--"I cannot but believeyou are an angel.... Surely I can believe my own eyes."
"We always do ours," said the Angel.
"And so do we, within limits."
Then the clock upon the mantel chimed seven, and almost simultaneouslyMrs Hinijer announced dinner.
AFTER DINNER.
XVIII.
The Angel and the Vicar sat at dinner. The Vicar, with his napkin tuckedin at his neck, watched the Angel struggling with his soup. "You willsoon get into the way of it," said the Vicar. The knife and forkbusiness was done awkwardly but with effect. The Angel looked furtivelyat Delia, the little waiting maid. When presently they sat crackingnuts--which the Angel found congenial enough--and the girl had gone, theAngel asked: "Was that a lady, too?"
"Well," said the Vicar (_crack_). "No--she is not a lady. She is aservant."
"Yes," said the Angel; "she _had_ rather a nicer shape."
"You mustn't tell Mrs Mendham that," said the Vicar, covertly satisfied.
"She didn't stick out so much at the shoulders and hips, and there wasmore of her in between. And the colour of her robes was notdiscordant--simply neutral. And her face----"
"Mrs Mendham and her daughters had been playing tennis," said the Vicar,feeling he ought not to listen to detraction even of his mortal enemy."Do you like these things--these nuts?"
"Very much," said the Angel. _Crack._
"You see," said the Vicar (_Chum, chum, chum_). "For my own part Ientirely believe you are an angel."
"Yes!" said the Angel.
"I shot you--I saw you flutter. It's beyond dispute. In my own mind. Iadmit it's curious and against my preconceptions, but--practically--I'massured, perfectly assured in fact, that I saw what I certainly did see.But after the behaviour of these people. (_Crack_). I really don't seehow we are to persuade people. Nowadays people are so very particularabout evidence. So that I think there is a great deal to be said for theattitude you assume. Temporarily at least I think it would be best ofyou to do as you propose to do, and behave as a man as far as possible.Of course there is no knowing how or when you may go back. After whathas happened (_Gluck_, _gluck_, _gluck_--as the Vicar refills hisglass)--after what has happened I should not be surprised to see theside of the room fall away, and the hosts of heaven appear to take youaway again--take us both away even. You have so far enlarged myimagination. All these years I have been forgetting W
onderland. Butstill----. It will certainly be wiser to break the thing gently tothem."
"This life of yours," said the Angel. "I'm still in the dark about it.How do you begin?"
"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "Fancy having to explain that! We beginexistence here, you know, as babies, silly pink helpless things wrappedin white, with goggling eyes, that yelp dismally at the Font. Then thesebabies grow larger and become even beautiful--when their faces arewashed. And they continue to grow to a certain size. They becomechildren, boys and girls, youths and maidens (_Crack_), young men andyoung women. That is the finest time in life, according tomany--certainly the most beautiful. Full of great hopes and dreams,vague emotions and unexpected dangers."
"_That_ was a maiden?" said the Angel, indicating the door through whichDelia had disappeared.
"Yes," said the Vicar, "that was a maiden." And paused thoughtfully.
"And then?"
"Then," said the Vicar, "the glamour fades and life begins in earnest.The young men and young women pair off--most of them. They come to meshy and bashful, in smart ugly dresses, and I marry them. And thenlittle pink babies come to them, and some of the youths and maidens thatwere, grow fat and vulgar, and some grow thin and shrewish, and theirpretty complexions go, and they get a queer delusion of superiority overthe younger people, and all the delight and glory goes out of theirlives. So they call the delight and glory of the younger ones, Illusion.And then they begin to drop to pieces."