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

For a minute Crump rebuked the Angel silently out of the corner of his eye.

“You have such an ingenuous face. You almost force me to believe you. You are certainly not an ordinary lunatic. Your mind⁠—except for your isolation from the past⁠—seems balanced enough. I wish Nordau or Lombroso or some of these Saltpetriere men could have a look at you. Down here one gets no practice worth speaking about in mental cases. There’s one idiot⁠—and he’s just a damned idiot of an idiot⁠—; all the rest are thoroughly sane people.”

“Possibly that accounts for their behaviour,” said the Angel thoughtfully.

“But to consider your general position here,” said Crump, ignoring his comment, “I really regard you as a bad influence here. These fancies are contagious. It is not simply the Vicar. There is a man named Shine has caught the fad, and he has been in the drink for a week, off and on, and offering to fight anyone who says you are not an Angel. Then a man over at Sidderford is, I hear, affected with a kind of religious mania on the same tack. These things spread. There ought to be a quarantine in mischievous ideas. And I have heard another story.⁠ ⁠…”

“But what can I do?” said the Angel. “Suppose I am (quite unintentionally) doing mischief.⁠ ⁠…”

“You can leave the village,” said Crump.

“Then I shall only go into another village.”

“That’s not my affair,” said Crump. “Go where you like. Only go. Leave these three people, the Vicar, Shine, the little servant girl, whose heads are all spinning with galaxies of Angels.⁠ ⁠…”

“But,” said the Angel. “Face your world! I tell you I can’t. And leave Delia! I don’t understand.⁠ ⁠… I do not know how to set about getting Work and Food and Shelter. And I am growing afraid of human beings.⁠ ⁠…”

“Fancies, fancies,” said Crump, watching him, “mania.”

“It’s no good my persisting in worrying you,” he said suddenly, “but certainly the situation is impossible as it stands.” He stood up with a jerk.

“Good morning, Mr.⁠—Angel,” he said, “the long and the short of it is⁠—I say it as the medical adviser of this parish⁠—you are an unhealthy influence. We can’t have you. You must go.”

He turned, and went striding through the grass towards the roadway, leaving the Angel sitting disconsolately on the tree trunk. “An unhealthy influence,” said the Angel slowly, staring blankly in front of him, and trying to realise what it meant.

Sir John Gotch was a little man with scrubby hair, a small, thin nose sticking out of a face crackled with wrinkles, tight brown gaiters, and a riding whip. “I’ve come, you see,” he said, as Mrs. Hinijer closed the door.

“Thank you,” said the Vicar, “I’m obliged to you. I’m really obliged to you.”

“Glad to be of any service to you,” said Sir John Gotch. (Angular attitude.)

“This business,” said the Vicar, “this unfortunate business of the barbed wire⁠—is really, you know, a most unfortunate business.”

Sir John Gotch became decidedly more angular in his attitude. “It is,” he said.

“This Mr. Angel being my guest⁠—”

“No reason why he should cut my wire,” said Sir John Gotch, briefly.

“None whatever.”

“May I ask who this Mr. Angel is?” asked Sir John Gotch with the abruptness of long premeditation.

The Vicar’s fingers jumped to his chin. What was the good of talking to a man like Sir John Gotch about Angels?

“To tell you the exact truth,” said the Vicar, “there is a little secret⁠—”

“Lady Hammergallow told me as much.”

The Vicar’s face suddenly became bright red.

“Do you know,” said Sir John, with scarcely a pause, “he’s been going about this village preaching Socialism?”

“Good heavens!” said the Vicar, “No!”

“He has. He has been buttonholing every yokel he came across, and asking them why they had to work, while we⁠—I and you, you know⁠—did nothing. He has been saying we ought to educate every man up to your level and mine⁠—out of the rates, I suppose, as usual. He has been suggesting that we⁠—I and you, you know⁠—keep these people down⁠—pith ’em.”

“Dear me!” said the Vicar, “I had no idea.”

“He has done this wire-cutting as a demonstration, I tell you, as a Socialistic demonstration. If we don’t come down on him pretty sharply, I tell you, we shall have the palings down in Flinders Lane next, and the next thing will be ricks afire, and every damned (I beg your pardon, Vicar. I know I’m too fond of that word), every blessed pheasant’s egg in the parish smashed. I know these⁠—”

“A Socialist,” said the Vicar, quite put out, “I had no idea.”

“You see why I am inclined to push matters against our gentleman though he is your guest. It seems to me he has been taking advantage of your paternal⁠—”

“Oh, not paternal!” said the Vicar. “Really⁠—”

“(I beg your pardon, Vicar⁠—it was a slip.) Of your kindness, to go mischief-making everywhere, setting class against class, and the poor man against his bread and butter.”

The Vicar’s fingers were at his chin again.

“So there’s one of two things,” said Sir John Gotch. “Either that guest of yours leaves the parish, or⁠—I take proceedings. That’s final.”

The Vicar’s mouth was all askew.

“That’s the position,” said Sir John, jumping to his feet, “if it were not for you, I should take proceedings at once. As it is⁠—am I to take proceedings or no?”

“You see,” said the Vicar in horrible perplexity.

“Well?”

“Arrangements have to be made.”

“He’s a mischief-making idler.⁠ ⁠… I know the breed. But I’ll give you a week⁠—”

“Thank you,” said the Vicar. “I understand your position. I perceive the situation is getting intolerable.⁠ ⁠…”

“Sorry to give you this bother, of course,” said Sir John.

“A week,” said the Vicar.

“A week,” said Sir John, leaving.

The Vicar returned, after accompanying Gotch out, and for a long time he remained sitting before the desk in his study, plunged in thought. “A week!” he said, after an immense silence. “Here is an Angel, a glorious Angel, who has quickened my soul to beauty and delight, who has opened my eyes to Wonderland,