The Wonderful Visit by H. G. Wells (ebook reader with android os TXT) 📕

a state of considerable perplexity. He had no desire to come within earshot of the cottage again⁠—ever. He did not understand the precise import of the black pot, but his general impression was entirely disagreeable. There was no explaining it.

“I mean it!” said Mrs. Gustick, crescendo. “Drat it!⁠—I mean it.”

The Angel turned and went on, a dazzled look in his eyes.

“She was very grotesque!” said the Angel. “Very. Much more than the little man in black. And she means it.⁠—But what she means I don’t know!⁠ ⁠…” He became silent. “I suppose they all mean something,” he said, presently, still perplexed.

XXV The Angel Explores the Village (Continued)

Then the Angel came in sight of the forge, where Sandy Bright’s brother was shoeing a horse for the carter from Upmorton. Two hobbledehoys were standing by the forge staring in a bovine way at the proceedings. As the Angel approached these two and then the carter turned slowly through an angle of thirty degrees and watched his approach, staring quietly and steadily at him. The expression on their faces was one of abstract interest.

The Angel became self-conscious for the first time in his life. He drew nearer, trying to maintain an amiable expression on his face, an expression that beat in vain against their granitic stare. His hands were behind him. He smiled pleasantly, looking curiously at the (to him) incomprehensible employment of the smith. But the battery of eyes seemed to angle for his regard. Trying to meet the three pairs at once, the Angel lost his alertness and stumbled over a stone. One of the yokels gave a sarcastic cough, and was immediately covered with confusion at the Angel’s enquiring gaze, nudging his companion with his elbow to cover his disorder. None spoke, and the Angel did not speak.

So soon as the Angel had passed, one of the three hummed this tune in an aggressive tone.

Then all three of them laughed. One tried to sing something and found his throat contained phlegm. The Angel proceeded on his way.

“Who’s e then?” said the second hobbledehoy.

“Ping, ping, ping,” went the blacksmith’s hammer.

“Spose he’s one of these here foweners,” said the carter from Upmorton. “Daamned silly fool he do look to be sure.”

“Tas the way with them foweners,” said the first hobbledehoy sagely.

“Got something very like the ’ump,” said the carter from Upmorton. “Daa-a-amned if ’e ent.”

Then the silence healed again, and they resumed their quiet expressionless consideration of the Angel’s retreating figure.

“Very like the ’ump et is,” said the carter after an enormous pause.

XXVI The Angel Explores the Village (Continued)

The Angel went on through the village, finding it all wonderful enough. “They begin, and just a little while and then they end,” he said to himself in a puzzled voice. “But what are they doing meanwhile?” Once he heard some invisible mouth chant inaudible words to the tune the man at the forge had hummed.

“That’s the poor creature the Vicar shot with that great gun of his,” said Sarah Glue (of 1, Church Cottages) peering over the blind.

“He looks Frenchified,” said Susan Hopper, peering through the interstices of that convenient veil on curiosity.

“He has sweet eyes,” said Sarah Glue, who had met them for a moment.

The Angel sauntered on. The postman passed him and touched his hat to him; further down was a dog asleep in the sun. He went on and saw Mendham, who nodded distantly and hurried past. (The Curate did not care to be seen talking to an angel in the village, until more was known about him). There came from one of the houses the sound of a child screaming in a passion, that brought a puzzled look to the angelic face. Then the Angel reached the bridge below the last of the houses, and stood leaning over the parapet watching the glittering little cascade from the mill.

“They begin, and just a little while, and then they end,” said the weir from the mill. The water raced under the bridge, green and dark, and streaked with foam.

Beyond the mill rose the square tower of the church, with the churchyard behind it, a spray of tombstones and wooden headboards splashed up the hillside. A half dozen of beech trees framed the picture.

Then the Angel heard a shuffling of feet and the gride of wheels behind him, and turning his head saw a man dressed in dirty brown rags and a felt hat grey with dust, who was standing with a slight swaying motion and fixedly regarding the Angelic back. Beyond him was another almost equally dirty, pushing a knife grinder’s barrow over the bridge.

“Mornin’,” said the first person smiling weakly. “Goomorn’.” He arrested an escaping hiccup.

The Angel stared at him. He had never seen a really fatuous smile before. “Who are you?” said the Angel.

The fatuous smile faded. “No your business whoaaam. Wishergoomorn.”

“Carm on,” said the man with the grindstone, passing on his way.

“Wishergoomorn,” said the dirty man, in a tone of extreme aggravation. “Carncher Answerme?”

“Carm on you fool!” said the man with the grindstone⁠—receding.

“I don’t understand,” said the Angel.

“Donunderstan’. Sim’l enough. Wishergoomorn’. Willyanswerme? Wontchr? gemwishergem goomorn. Cusom answer goomorn. No gem. Haverteachyer.”

The Angel was puzzled. The drunken man stood swaying for a moment, then he made an unsteady snatch at his hat and threw it down at the Angel’s feet. “Ver well,” he said, as one who decides great issues.

“Carm on!” said the voice of the man with the grindstone⁠—stopping perhaps twenty yards off.

“You wan fight, you⁠—” the Angel failed to catch the word. “I’ll show yer, not answer gem’s goomorn.”

He began to struggle with his jacket. “Think I’m drun,” he said, “I show yer.” The man with the grindstone sat down on the shaft to watch. “Carm on,” he said. The jacket was intricate, and the drunken man began to struggle about the road, in his