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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Wonderful Visit
+
+Author: Herbert George Wells
+
+Release Date: October 19, 2010 [EBook #33913]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WONDERFUL VISIT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Martin Pettit and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The Wonderful Visit
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+By the Same Author
+
+
+The Time Machine
+
+
+DAILY CHRONICLE.--"Grips the imagination as it is only
+  gripped by genuinely imaginative work.... A strikingly
+  original performance."
+
+SATURDAY REVIEW.--"A book of remarkable power and
+  imagination, and a work of distinct and individual merit."
+
+SPECTATOR.--"Mr Wells' fanciful and lively dream is well
+  worth reading."
+
+NATIONAL OBSERVER.--"A _tour de force_.... A fine piece
+  of literature, strongly imagined, almost perfectly expressed."
+
+GLASGOW HERALD.--"One of the best pieces of work I have
+  read for many a day."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Macmillan's Colonial Library
+
+The Wonderful Visit
+
+by H. G. Wells
+
+Author of the "Time Machine"
+
+London
+Macmillan and Co.
+and New York
+1895
+
+No. 241
+
+_All rights reserved_
+
+
+This Edition is intended for circulation only in India and the British
+Colonies
+
+
+TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, WALTER LOW.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+                                                   PAGE
+
+THE NIGHT OF THE STRANGE BIRD                         1
+
+THE COMING OF THE STRANGE BIRD                        4
+
+THE HUNTING OF THE STRANGE BIRD                       8
+
+THE VICAR AND THE ANGEL                              17
+
+PARENTHESIS ON ANGELS                                35
+
+AT THE VICARAGE                                      38
+
+THE MAN OF SCIENCE                                   50
+
+THE CURATE                                           61
+
+AFTER DINNER                                         76
+
+MORNING                                              97
+
+THE VIOLIN                                          101
+
+THE ANGEL EXPLORES THE VILLAGE                      106
+
+LADY HAMMERGALLOW'S VIEW                            127
+
+FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ANGEL IN THE VILLAGE      135
+
+MRS JEHORAM'S BREADTH OF VIEW                       148
+
+A TRIVIAL INCIDENT                                  154
+
+THE WARP AND THE WOOF OF THINGS                     156
+
+THE ANGEL'S DEBUT                                   160
+
+THE TROUBLE OF THE BARBED WIRE                      186
+
+DELIA                                               195
+
+DOCTOR CRUMP ACTS                                   199
+
+SIR JOHN GOTCH ACTS                                 208
+
+THE SEA CLIFF                                       213
+
+MRS HINIJER ACTS                                    217
+
+THE ANGEL IN TROUBLE                                221
+
+THE LAST DAY OF THE VISIT                           229
+
+THE EPILOGUE                                        248
+
+
+
+
+THE WONDERFUL VISIT.
+
+
+
+
+THE NIGHT OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+I.
+
+
+On the Night of the Strange Bird, many people at Sidderton (and some
+nearer) saw a Glare on the Sidderford moor. But no one in Sidderford saw
+it, for most of Sidderford was abed.
+
+All day the wind had been rising, so that the larks on the moor
+chirruped fitfully near the ground, or rose only to be driven like
+leaves before the wind. The sun set in a bloody welter of clouds, and
+the moon was hidden. The glare, they say, was golden like a beam shining
+out of the sky, not a uniform blaze, but broken all over by curving
+flashes like the waving of swords. It lasted but a moment and left the
+night dark and obscure. There were letters about it in _Nature_, and a
+rough drawing that no one thought very like. (You may see it for
+yourself--the drawing that was unlike the glare--on page 42 of Vol.
+cclx. of that publication.)
+
+None in Sidderford saw the light, but Annie, Hooker Durgan's wife, was
+lying awake, and she saw the reflection of it--a flickering tongue of
+gold--dancing on the wall.
+
+She, too, was one of those who heard the sound. The others who heard the
+sound were Lumpy Durgan, the half-wit, and Amory's mother. They said it
+was a sound like children singing and a throbbing of harp strings,
+carried on a rush of notes like that which sometimes comes from an
+organ. It began and ended like the opening and shutting of a door, and
+before and after they heard nothing but the night wind howling over the
+moor and the noise of the caves under Sidderford cliff. Amory's mother
+said she wanted to cry when she heard it, but Lumpy was only sorry he
+could hear no more.
+
+That is as much as anyone can tell you of the glare upon Sidderford
+Moor and the alleged music therewith. And whether these had any real
+connexion with the Strange Bird whose history follows, is more than I
+can say. But I set it down here for reasons that will be more apparent
+as the story proceeds.
+
+
+
+
+THE COMING OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+II.
+
+
+Sandy Bright was coming down the road from Spinner's carrying a side of
+bacon he had taken in exchange for a clock. He saw nothing of the light
+but he heard and saw the Strange Bird. He suddenly heard a flapping and
+a voice like a woman wailing, and being a nervous man and all alone, he
+was alarmed forthwith, and turning (all a-tremble) saw something large
+and black against the dim darkness of the cedars up the hill. It seemed
+to be coming right down upon him, and incontinently he dropped his bacon
+and set off running, only to fall headlong.
+
+He tried in vain--such was his state of mind--to remember the beginning
+of the Lord's Prayer. The strange bird flapped over him, something
+larger than himself, with a vast spread of wings, and, as he thought,
+black. He screamed and gave himself up for lost. Then it went past him,
+sailing down the hill, and, soaring over the vicarage, vanished into the
+hazy valley towards Sidderford.
+
+And Sandy Bright lay upon his stomach there, for ever so long, staring
+into the darkness after the strange bird. At last he got upon his knees
+and began to thank Heaven for his merciful deliverance, with his eyes
+downhill. He went on down into the village, talking aloud and confessing
+his sins as he went, lest the strange bird should come back. All who
+heard him thought him drunk. But from that night he was a changed man,
+and had done with drunkenness and defrauding the revenue by selling
+silver ornaments without a licence. And the side of bacon lay upon the
+hillside until the tallyman from Portburdock found it in the morning.
+
+The next who saw the Strange Bird was a solicitor's clerk at Iping
+Hanger, who was climbing the hill before breakfast, to see the sunrise.
+Save for a few dissolving wisps of cloud the sky had been blown clear
+in the night. At first he thought it was an eagle he saw. It was near
+the zenith, and incredibly remote, a mere bright speck above the pink
+cirri, and it seemed as if it fluttered and beat itself against the sky,
+as an imprisoned swallow might do against a window pane. Then down it
+came into the shadow of the earth, sweeping in a great curve towards
+Portburdock and round over the Hanger, and so vanishing behind the woods
+of Siddermorton Park. It seemed larger than a man. Just before it was
+hidden, the light of the rising sun smote over the edge of the downs and
+touched its wings, and they flashed with the brightness of flames and
+the colour of precious stones, and so passed, leaving the witness agape.
+
+A ploughman going to his work, along under the stone wall of
+Siddermorton Park, saw the Strange Bird flash over him for a moment and
+vanish among the hazy interstices of the beech trees. But he saw little
+of the colour of the wings, witnessing only that its legs, which were
+long, seemed pink and bare like naked flesh, and its body mottled white.
+It smote like an arrow through the air and was gone.
+
+These were the first three eye-witnesses of the Strange Bird.
+
+Now in these days one does not cower before the devil and one's own
+sinfulness, or see strange iridiscent wings in the light of dawn, and
+say nothing of it afterwards. The young solicitor's clerk told his
+mother and sisters at breakfast, and, afterwards, on his way to the
+office at Portburdock, spoke of it to the blacksmith of Hammerpond, and
+spent the morning with his fellow clerks marvelling instead of copying
+deeds. And Sandy Bright went to talk the matter over with Mr Jekyll, the
+"Primitive" minister, and the ploughman told old Hugh and afterwards the
+vicar of Siddermorton.
+
+"They are not an imaginative race about here," said the Vicar of
+Siddermorton, "I wonder how much of that was true. Barring that he
+thinks the wings were brown it sounds uncommonly like a Flamingo."
+
+
+
+
+THE HUNTING OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+III.
+
+
+The Vicar of Siddermorton (which is nine miles inland from Siddermouth
+as the crow flies) was an ornithologist. Some such pursuit, botany,
+antiquity, folk-lore, is almost inevitable for a single man in his
+position. He was given to geometry also, propounding occasionally
+impossible problems in the _Educational Times_, but ornithology was his
+_forte_. He had already added two visitors to the list of occasional
+British birds. His name was well-known in the columns of the _Zoologist_
+(I am afraid it may be forgotten by now, for the world moves apace). And
+on the day after the coming of the Strange Bird, came first one and then
+another to confirm the ploughman's story and tell him, not that it had
+any connection, of the Glare upon Sidderford moor.
+
+Now, the Vicar of Siddermorton had two rivals in his scientific
+pursuits; Gully of Sidderton, who had actually seen the glare, and who
+it was sent the drawing to _Nature_, and Borland the natural history
+dealer, who kept the marine laboratory at Portburdock. Borland, the
+Vicar thought, should have stuck to his copepods, but instead he kept a
+taxidermist, and took advantage of his littoral position to pick up rare
+sea birds. It was evident to anyone who knew anything of collecting that
+both these men would be scouring the country after the strange visitant,
+before twenty-four hours were out.
+
+The Vicar's eye rested on the back of Saunders' British Birds, for he
+was in his study at the time. Already in two places there was entered:
+"the only known British specimen was secured by the Rev. K. Hilyer,
+Vicar of Siddermorton." A third such entry. He doubted if any other
+collector had that.
+
+He looked at his watch--_two_. He had just lunched, and usually he
+"rested" in the afternoon. He knew it would make him feel very
+disagreeable if he went out into the hot sunshine--both on the top of
+his head and generally. Yet Gully perhaps was out, prowling observant.
+Suppose it was something very good and Gully got it!
+
+His gun stood in the corner. (The thing had iridiscent wings and pink
+legs! The chromatic conflict was certainly exceedingly stimulating). He
+took his gun.
+
+He would have gone out by the glass doors and verandah, and down the
+garden into the hill road, in order to avoid his housekeeper's eye. He
+knew his gun expeditions were not approved of. But advancing towards him
+up the garden, he saw the curate's wife and her two daughters, carrying
+tennis rackets. His curate's wife was a young woman of immense will, who
+used to play tennis on his lawn, and cut his roses, differ from him on
+doctrinal points, and criticise his personal behaviour all over the
+parish. He went in abject fear of her, was always trying to propitiate
+her. But so far he had clung to his ornithology....
+
+However, he went out by the front door.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+If it were not for collectors England would be full, so to speak, of
+rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand
+interesting things. But happily the collector prevents all that, either
+killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people
+of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. It makes
+work for people, even though Acts of Parliament interfere. In this way,
+for instance, he is killing off the chough in Cornwall, the Bath white
+butterfly, the Queen of Spain Fritillary; and can plume himself upon the
+extermination of the Great Auk, and a hundred other rare birds and
+plants and insects. All that is the work of the collector and his glory
+alone. In the name of Science. And this is right and as it should be;
+eccentricity, in fact, is immorality--think over it again if you do not
+think so now--just as eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness
+(I defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of
+either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not Fitted to
+Survive. The collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the
+days of heavy armour--he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the
+throats of those who are overthrown. So one may go through England from
+end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild
+flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds,
+and never be offended by any breach of the monotony, any splash of
+strange blossom or flutter of unknown wing. All the rest have been
+"collected" years ago. For which cause we should all love Collectors,
+and bear in mind what we owe them when their little collections are
+displayed. These camphorated little drawers of theirs, their glass cases
+and blotting-paper books, are the graves of the Rare and the Beautiful,
+the symbols of the Triumph of Leisure (morally spent) over the Delights
+of Life. (All of which, as you very properly remark, has nothing
+whatever to do with the Strange Bird.)
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+There is a place on the moor where the black water shines among the
+succulent moss, and the hairy sundew, eater of careless insects, spreads
+its red-stained hungry hands to the God who gives his creatures--one to
+feed another. On a ridge thereby grow birches with a silvery bark, and
+the soft green of the larch mingles with the dark green fir. Thither
+through the honey humming heather came the Vicar, in the heat of the
+day, carrying a gun under his arm, a gun loaded with swanshot for the
+Strange Bird. And over his disengaged hand he carried a pocket
+handkerchief wherewith, ever and again, he wiped his beady face.
+
+He went by and on past the big pond and the pool full of brown leaves
+where the Sidder arises, and so by the road (which is at first sandy and
+then chalky) to the little gate that goes into the park. There are seven
+steps up to the gate and on the further side six down again--lest the
+deer escape--so that when the Vicar stood in the gateway his head was
+ten feet or more above the ground. And looking where a tumult of bracken
+fronds filled the hollow between two groups of beech, his eye caught
+something parti-coloured that wavered and went. Suddenly his face
+gleamed and his muscles grew tense; he ducked his head, clutched his gun
+with both hands, and stood still. Then watching keenly, he came on down
+the steps into the park, and still holding his gun in both hands, crept
+rather than walked towards the jungle of bracken.
+
+Nothing stirred, and he almost feared that his eyes had played him
+false, until he reached the ferns and had gone rustling breast high into
+them. Then suddenly rose something full of wavering colours, twenty
+yards or less in front of his face, and beating the air. In another
+moment it had fluttered above the bracken and spread its pinions wide.
+He saw what it was, his heart was in his mouth, and he fired out of pure
+surprise and habit.
+
+There was a scream of superhuman agony, the wings beat the air twice,
+and the victim came slanting swiftly downward and struck the ground--a
+struggling heap of writhing body, broken wing and flying bloodstained
+plumes--upon the turfy slope behind.
+
+The Vicar stood aghast, with his smoking gun in his hand. It was no bird
+at all, but a youth with an extremely beautiful face, clad in a robe of
+saffron and with iridescent wings, across whose pinions great waves of
+colour, flushes of purple and crimson, golden green and intense blue,
+pursued one another as he writhed in his agony. Never had the Vicar seen
+such gorgeous floods of colour, not stained glass windows, not the wings
+of butterflies, not even the glories of crystals seen between prisms, no
+colours on earth could compare with them. Twice the Angel raised
+himself, only to fall over sideways again. Then the beating of the wings
+diminished, the terrified face grew pale, the floods of colour abated,
+and suddenly with a sob he lay prone, and the changing hues of the
+broken wings faded swiftly into one uniform dull grey hue.
+
+"Oh! _what_ has happened to me?" cried the Angel (for such it was),
+shuddering violently, hands outstretched and clutching the ground, and
+then lying still.
+
+"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "I had no idea." He came forward cautiously.
+"Excuse me," he said, "I am afraid I have shot you."
+
+It was the obvious remark.
+
+The Angel seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time. He
+raised himself by one hand, his brown eyes stared into the Vicar's.
+Then, with a gasp, and biting his nether lip, he struggled into a
+sitting position and surveyed the Vicar from top to toe.
+
+"A man!" said the Angel, clasping his forehead; "a man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!"
+
+
+
+
+THE VICAR AND THE ANGEL.
+
+VI.
+
+
+Now there are some things frankly impossible. The weakest intellect will
+admit this situation is impossible. The _Athenĉum_ will probably say as
+much should it venture to review this. Sunbespattered ferns, spreading
+beech trees, the Vicar and the gun are acceptable enough. But this Angel
+is a different matter. Plain sensible people will scarcely go on with
+such an extravagant book. And the Vicar fully appreciated this
+impossibility. But he lacked decision. Consequently he went on with it,
+as you shall immediately hear. He was hot, it was after dinner, he was
+in no mood for mental subtleties. The Angel had him at a disadvantage,
+and further distracted him from the main issue by irrelevant iridescence
+and a violent fluttering. For the moment it never occurred to the Vicar
+to ask whether the Angel was possible or not. He accepted him in the
+confusion of the moment, and the mischief was done. Put yourself in his
+place, my dear _Athenĉum_. You go out shooting. You hit something. That
+alone would disconcert you. You find you have hit an Angel, and he
+writhes about for a minute and then sits up and addresses you. He makes
+no apology for his own impossibility. Indeed, he carries the charge
+clean into your camp. "A man!" he says, pointing. "A man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!" You _must_ answer him. Unless you take
+to your heels. Or blow his brains out with your second barrel as an
+escape from the controversy.
+
+"The Land of Dreams! Pardon me if I suggest you have just come out of
+it," was the Vicar's remark.
+
+"How can that be?" said the Angel.
+
+"Your wing," said the Vicar, "is bleeding. Before we talk, may I have
+the pleasure--the melancholy pleasure--of tying it up? I am really most
+sincerely sorry...." The Angel put his hand behind his back and winced.
+
+The Vicar assisted his victim to stand up. The Angel turned gravely and
+the Vicar, with numberless insignificant panting parentheses, carefully
+examined the injured wings. (They articulated, he observed with
+interest, to a kind of second glenoid on the outer and upper edge of the
+shoulder blade. The left wing had suffered little except the loss of
+some of the primary wing-quills, and a shot or so in the _ala spuria_,
+but the humerus bone of the right was evidently smashed.) The Vicar
+stanched the bleeding as well as he could and tied up the bone with his
+pocket handkerchief and the neck wrap his housekeeper made him carry in
+all weathers.
+
+"I'm afraid you will not be able to fly for some time," said he, feeling
+the bone.
+
+"I don't like this new sensation," said the Angel.
+
+"The Pain when I feel your bone?"
+
+"The _what_?" said the Angel.
+
+"The Pain."
+
+"'Pain'--you call it. No, I certainly don't like the Pain. Do you have
+much of this Pain in the Land of Dreams?"
+
+"A very fair share," said the Vicar. "Is it new to you?"
+
+"Quite," said the Angel. "I don't like it."
+
+"How curious!" said the Vicar, and bit at the end of a strip of linen to
+tie a knot. "I think this bandaging must serve for the present," he
+said. "I've studied ambulance work before, but never the bandaging up of
+wing wounds. Is your Pain any better?"
+
+"It glows now instead of flashing," said the Angel.
+
+"I am afraid you will find it glow for some time," said the Vicar, still
+intent on the wound.
+
+The Angel gave a shrug of the wing and turned round to look at the Vicar
+again. He had been trying to keep an eye on the Vicar over his shoulder
+during all their interview. He looked at him from top to toe with raised
+eyebrows and a growing smile on his beautiful soft-featured face. "It
+seems so odd," he said with a sweet little laugh, "to be talking to a
+Man!"
+
+"Do you know," said the Vicar, "now that I come to think of it, it is
+equally odd to me that I should be talking to an Angel. I am a somewhat
+matter-of-fact person. A Vicar has to be. Angels I have always regarded
+as--artistic conceptions----"
+
+"Exactly what we think of men."
+
+"But surely you have seen so many men----"
+
+"Never before to-day. In pictures and books, times enough of course. But
+I have seen several since the sunrise, solid real men, besides a horse
+or so--those Unicorn things you know, without horns--and quite a number
+of those grotesque knobby things called 'cows.' I was naturally a little
+frightened at so many mythical monsters, and came to hide here until it
+was dark. I suppose it will be dark again presently like it was at
+first. _Phew!_ This Pain of yours is poor fun. I hope I shall wake up
+directly."
+
+"I don't understand quite," said the Vicar, knitting his brows and
+tapping his forehead with his flat hand. "Mythical monster!" The worst
+thing he had been called for years hitherto was a 'mediaeval
+anachronism' (by an advocate of Disestablishment). "Do I understand
+that you consider me as--as something in a dream?"
+
+"Of course," said the Angel smiling.
+
+"And this world about me, these rugged trees and spreading fronds----"
+
+"Is all so _very_ dream like," said the Angel. "Just exactly what one
+dreams of--or artists imagine."
+
+"You have artists then among the Angels?"
+
+"All kinds of artists, Angels with wonderful imaginations, who invent
+men and cows and eagles and a thousand impossible creatures."
+
+"Impossible creatures!" said the Vicar.
+
+"Impossible creatures," said the Angel. "Myths."
+
+"But I'm real!" said the Vicar. "I assure you I'm real."
+
+The Angel shrugged his wings and winced and smiled. "I can always tell
+when I am dreaming," he said.
+
+"_You_--dreaming," said the Vicar. He looked round him.
+
+"_You_ dreaming!" he repeated. His mind worked diffusely.
+
+He held out his hand with all his fingers moving. "I have it!" he said.
+"I begin to see." A really brilliant idea was dawning upon his mind. He
+had not studied mathematics at Cambridge for nothing, after all. "Tell
+me please. Some animals of _your_ world ... of the Real World, real
+animals you know."
+
+"Real animals!" said the Angel smiling. "Why--there's Griffins and
+Dragons--and Jabberwocks--and Cherubim--and Sphinxes--and the
+Hippogriff--and Mermaids--and Satyrs--and...."
+
+"Thank you," said the Vicar as the Angel appeared to be warming to his
+work; "thank you. That is _quite_ enough. I begin to understand."
+
+He paused for a moment, his face pursed up. "Yes ... I begin to see it."
+
+"See what?" asked the Angel.
+
+"The Griffins and Satyrs and so forth. It's as clear...."
+
+"I don't see them," said the Angel.
+
+"No, the whole point is they are not to be seen in this world. But our
+men with imaginations have told us all about them, you know. And even I
+at times ... there are places in this village where you must simply take
+what they set before you, or give offence--I, I say, have seen in my
+dreams Jabberwocks, Bogle brutes, Mandrakes.... From our point of view,
+you know, they are Dream Creatures...."
+
+"Dream Creatures!" said the Angel. "How singular! This is a very curious
+dream. A kind of topsy-turvey one. You call men real and angels a myth.
+It almost makes one think that in some odd way there must be two worlds
+as it were...."
+
+"At least Two," said the Vicar.
+
+"Lying somewhere close together, and yet scarcely suspecting...."
+
+"As near as page to page of a book."
+
+"Penetrating each other, living each its own life. This is really a
+delicious dream!"
+
+"And never dreaming of each other."
+
+"Except when people go a dreaming!"
+
+"Yes," said the Angel thoughtfully. "It must be something of the sort.
+And that reminds me. Sometimes when I have been dropping asleep, or
+drowsing under the noon-tide sun, I have seen strange corrugated faces
+just like yours, going by me, and trees with green leaves upon them, and
+such queer uneven ground as this.... It must be so. I have fallen into
+another world."
+
+"Sometimes," began the Vicar, "at bedtime, when I have been just on the
+edge of consciousness, I have seen faces as beautiful as yours, and the
+strange dazzling vistas of a wonderful scene, that flowed past me,
+winged shapes soaring over it, and wonderful--sometimes terrible--forms
+going to and fro. I have even heard sweet music too in my ears.... It
+may be that as we withdraw our attention from the world of sense, the
+pressing world about us, as we pass into the twilight of repose, other
+worlds.... Just as we see the stars, those other worlds in space, when
+the glare of day recedes.... And the artistic dreamers who see such
+things most clearly...."
+
+They looked at one another.
+
+"And in some incomprehensible manner I have fallen into this world of
+yours out of my own!" said the Angel, "into the world of my dreams,
+grown real."
+
+He looked about him. "Into the world of my dreams."
+
+"It is confusing," said the Vicar. "It almost makes one think there may
+be (ahem) Four Dimensions after all. In which case, of course," he went
+on hurriedly--for he loved geometrical speculations and took a certain
+pride in his knowledge of them--"there may be any number of three
+dimensional universes packed side by side, and all dimly dreaming of one
+another. There may be world upon world, universe upon universe. It's
+perfectly possible. There's nothing so incredible as the absolutely
+possible. But I wonder how you came to fall out of your world into
+mine...."
+
+"Dear me!" said the Angel; "There's deer and a stag! Just as they draw
+them on the coats of arms. How grotesque it all seems! Can I really be
+awake?"
+
+He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.
+
+The half-dozen of dappled deer came in Indian file obliquely through the
+trees and halted, watching. "It's no dream--I am really a solid concrete
+Angel, in Dream Land," said the Angel. He laughed. The Vicar stood
+surveying him. The Reverend gentleman was pulling his mouth askew after
+a habit he had, and slowly stroking his chin. He was asking himself
+whether he too was not in the Land of Dreams.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+
+Now in the land of the Angels, so the Vicar learnt in the course of many
+conversations, there is neither pain nor trouble nor death, marrying nor
+giving in marriage, birth nor forgetting. Only at times new things
+begin. It is a land without hill or dale, a wonderfully level land,
+glittering with strange buildings, with incessant sunlight or full moon,
+and with incessant breezes blowing through the Ĉolian traceries of the
+trees. It is Wonderland, with glittering seas hanging in the sky, across
+which strange fleets go sailing, none know whither. There the flowers
+glow in Heaven and the stars shine about one's feet and the breath of
+life is a delight. The land goes on for ever--there is no solar system
+nor interstellar space such as there is in our universe--and the air
+goes upward past the sun into the uttermost abyss of their sky. And
+there is nothing but Beauty there--all the beauty in our art is but
+feeble rendering of faint glimpses of that wonderful world, and our
+composers, our original composers, are those who hear, however faintly,
+the dust of melody that drives before its winds. And the Angels, and
+wonderful monsters of bronze and marble and living fire, go to and fro
+therein.
+
+It is a land of Law--for whatever is, is under the law--but its laws
+all, in some strange way, differ from ours. Their geometry is different
+because their space has a curve in it so that all their planes are
+cylinders; and their law of Gravitation is not according to the law of
+inverse squares, and there are four-and-twenty primary colours instead
+of only three. Most of the fantastic things of our science are
+commonplaces there, and all our earthly science would seem to them the
+maddest dreaming. There are no flowers upon their plants, for instance,
+but jets of coloured fire. That, of course, will seem mere nonsense to
+you because you do not understand Most of what the Angel told the Vicar,
+indeed the Vicar could not realise, because his own experiences, being
+only of this world of matter, warred against his understanding. It was
+too strange to imagine.
+
+What had jolted these twin universes together so that the Angel had
+fallen suddenly into Sidderford, neither the Angel nor the Vicar could
+tell. Nor for the matter of that could the author of this story. The
+author is concerned with the facts of the case, and has neither the
+desire nor the confidence to explain them. Explanations are the fallacy
+of a scientific age. And the cardinal fact of the case is this, that out
+in Siddermorton Park, with the glory of some wonderful world where there
+is neither sorrow nor sighing, still clinging to him, on the 4th of
+August 1895, stood an Angel, bright and beautiful, talking to the Vicar
+of Siddermorton about the plurality of worlds. The author will swear to
+the Angel, if need be; and there he draws the line.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+
+"I have," said the Angel, "a most unusual feeling--_here_. Have had
+since sunrise. I don't remember ever having any feeling--_here_ before."
+
+"Not pain, I hope," said the Vicar.
+
+"Oh no! It is quite different from that--a kind of vacuous feeling."
+
+"The atmospheric pressure, perhaps, is a little different," the Vicar
+began, feeling his chin.
+
+"And do you know, I have also the most curious sensations in my
+mouth--almost as if--it's so absurd!--as if I wanted to stuff things
+into it."
+
+"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "Of course! You're hungry!"
+
+"Hungry!" said the Angel. "What's that?"
+
+"Don't you eat?"
+
+"Eat! The word's quite new to me."
+
+"Put food into your mouth, you know. One has to here. You will soon
+learn. If you don't, you get thin and miserable, and suffer a great
+deal--_pain_, you know--and finally you die."
+
+"Die!" said the Angel. "That's another strange word!"
+
+"It's not strange here. It means leaving off, you know," said the Vicar.
+
+"We never leave off," said the Angel.
+
+"You don't know what may happen to you in this world," said the Vicar,
+thinking him over. "Possibly if you are feeling hungry, and can feel
+pain and have your wings broken, you may even have to die before you get
+out of it again. At anyrate you had better try eating. For my own
+part--ahem!--there are many more disagreeable things."
+
+"I suppose I _had_ better Eat," said the Angel. "If it's not too
+difficult. I don't like this 'Pain' of yours, and I don't like this
+'Hungry.' If your 'Die' is anything like it, I would prefer to Eat. What
+a very odd world this is!"
+
+"To Die," said the Vicar, "is generally considered worse than either
+pain or hunger.... It depends."
+
+"You must explain all that to me later," said the Angel. "Unless I wake
+up. At present, please show me how to eat. If you will. I feel a kind of
+urgency...."
+
+"Pardon me," said the Vicar, and offered an elbow. "If I may have the
+pleasure of entertaining you. My house lies yonder--not a couple of
+miles from here."
+
+"_Your_ House!" said the Angel a little puzzled; but he took the Vicar's
+arm affectionately, and the two, conversing as they went, waded slowly
+through the luxuriant bracken, sun mottled under the trees, and on over
+the stile in the park palings, and so across the bee-swarming heather
+for a mile or more, down the hillside, home.
+
+You would have been charmed at the couple could you have seen them. The
+Angel, slight of figure, scarcely five feet high, and with a beautiful,
+almost effeminate face, such as an Italian old Master might have
+painted. (Indeed, there is one in the National Gallery [_Tobias and the
+Angel_, by some artist unknown] not at all unlike him so far as face and
+spirit go.) He was robed simply in a purple-wrought saffron blouse, bare
+kneed and bare-footed, with his wings (broken now, and a leaden grey)
+folded behind him. The Vicar was a short, rather stout figure, rubicund,
+red-haired, clean-shaven, and with bright ruddy brown eyes. He wore a
+piebald straw hat with a black ribbon, a very neat white tie, and a fine
+gold watch-chain. He was so greatly interested in his companion that it
+only occurred to him when he was in sight of the Vicarage that he had
+left his gun lying just where he had dropped it amongst the bracken.
+
+He was rejoiced to hear that the pain of the bandaged wing fell rapidly
+in intensity.
+
+
+
+
+PARENTHESIS ON ANGELS.
+
+IX.
+
+
+Let us be plain. The Angel of this story is the Angel of Art, not the
+Angel that one must be irreverent to touch--neither the Angel of
+religious feeling nor the Angel of popular belief. The last we all know.
+She is alone among the angelic hosts in being distinctly feminine: she
+wears a robe of immaculate, unmitigated white with sleeves, is fair,
+with long golden tresses, and has eyes of the blue of Heaven. Just a
+pure woman she is, pure maiden or pure matron, in her _robe de nuit_,
+and with wings attached to her shoulder blades. Her callings are
+domestic and sympathetic, she watches over a cradle or assists a sister
+soul heavenward. Often she bears a palm leaf, but one would not be
+surprised if one met her carrying a warming-pan softly to some poor
+chilly sinner. She it was who came down in a bevy to Marguerite in
+prison, in the amended last scene in _Faust_ at the Lyceum, and the
+interesting and improving little children that are to die young, have
+visions of such angels in the novels of Mrs Henry Wood. This white
+womanliness with her indescribable charm of lavender-like holiness, her
+aroma of clean, methodical lives, is, it would seem after all, a purely
+Teutonic invention. Latin thought knows her not; the old masters have
+none of her. She is of a piece with that gentle innocent ladylike school
+of art whereof the greatest triumph is "a lump in one's throat," and
+where wit and passion, scorn and pomp, have no place. The white angel
+was made in Germany, in the land of blonde women and the domestic
+sentiments. She comes to us cool and worshipful, pure and tranquil, as
+silently soothing as the breadth and calmness of the starlit sky, which
+also is so unspeakably dear to the Teutonic soul.... We do her
+reverence. And to the angels of the Hebrews, those spirits of power and
+mystery, to Raphael, Zadkiel, and Michael, of whom only Watts has caught
+the shadow, of whom only Blake has seen the splendour, to them too, do
+we do reverence.
+
+But this Angel the Vicar shot is, we say, no such angel at all, but the
+Angel of Italian art, polychromatic and gay. He comes from the land of
+beautiful dreams and not from any holier place. At best he is a popish
+creature. Bear patiently, therefore, with his scattered remiges, and be
+not hasty with your charge of irreverence before the story is read.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE VICARAGE.
+
+X.
+
+
+The Curate's wife and her two daughters and Mrs Jehoram were still
+playing at tennis on the lawn behind the Vicar's study, playing keenly
+and talking in gasps about paper patterns for blouses. But the Vicar
+forgot and came in that way.
+
+They saw the Vicar's hat above the rhododendrons, and a bare curly head
+beside him. "I must ask him about Susan Wiggin," said the Curate's wife.
+She was about to serve, and stood with a racket in one hand and a ball
+between the fingers of the other. "_He_ really ought to have gone to see
+her--being the Vicar. Not George. I----_Ah!_"
+
+For the two figures suddenly turned the corner and were visible. The
+Vicar, arm in arm with----
+
+You see, it came on the Curate's wife suddenly. The Angel's face being
+towards her she saw nothing of the wings. Only a face of unearthly
+beauty in a halo of chestnut hair, and a graceful figure clothed in a
+saffron garment that barely reached the knees. The thought of those
+knees flashed upon the Vicar at once. He too was horrorstruck. So were
+the two girls and Mrs Jehoram. All horrorstruck. The Angel stared in
+astonishment at the horrorstruck group. You see, he had never seen
+anyone horrorstruck before.
+
+"MIS--ter Hilyer!" said the Curate's wife. "This is _too_ much!" She
+stood speechless for a moment. "_Oh!_"
+
+She swept round upon the rigid girls. "Come!" The Vicar opened and shut
+his voiceless mouth. The world hummed and spun about him. There was a
+whirling of zephyr skirts, four impassioned faces sweeping towards the
+open door of the passage that ran through the vicarage. He felt his
+position went with them.
+
+"Mrs Mendham," said the Vicar, stepping forward. "Mrs Mendham. You don't
+understand----"
+
+"_Oh!_" they all said again.
+
+One, two, three, four skirts vanished in the doorway. The Vicar
+staggered half way across the lawn and stopped, aghast. "This comes," he
+heard the Curate's wife say, out of the depth of the passage, "of having
+an unmarried vicar----." The umbrella stand wobbled. The front door of
+the vicarage slammed like a minute gun. There was silence for a space.
+
+"I might have thought," he said. "She is always so hasty."
+
+He put his hand to his chin--a habit with him. Then turned his face to
+his companion. The Angel was evidently well bred. He was holding up Mrs
+Jehoram's sunshade--she had left it on one of the cane chairs--and
+examining it with extraordinary interest. He opened it. "What a curious
+little mechanism!" he said. "What can it be for?"
+
+The Vicar did not answer. The angelic costume certainly was--the Vicar
+knew it was a case for a French phrase--but he could scarcely remember
+it. He so rarely used French. It was not _de trop_, he knew. Anything
+but _de trop_. The Angel was _de trop_, but certainly not his costume.
+Ah! _Sans culotte!_
+
+The Vicar examined his visitor critically--for the first time. "He
+_will_ be difficult to explain," he said to himself softly.
+
+The Angel stuck the sunshade into the turf and went to smell the sweet
+briar. The sunshine fell upon his brown hair and gave it almost the
+appearance of a halo. He pricked his finger. "Odd!" he said. "Pain
+again."
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar, thinking aloud. "He's very beautiful and curious
+as he is. I should like him best so. But I am afraid I must."
+
+He approached the Angel with a nervous cough.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+
+"Those," said the Vicar, "were ladies."
+
+"How grotesque," said the Angel, smiling and smelling the sweet briar.
+"And such quaint shapes!"
+
+"Possibly," said the Vicar. "Did you, _ahem_, notice how they behaved?"
+
+"They went away. Seemed, indeed, to run away. Frightened? I, of course,
+was frightened at things without wings. I hope---- they were not
+frightened at my wings?"
+
+"At your appearance generally," said the Vicar, glancing involuntarily
+at the pink feet.
+
+"Dear me! It never occurred to me. I suppose I seemed as odd to them as
+you did to me." He glanced down. "And my feet. _You_ have hoofs like a
+hippogriff."
+
+"Boots," corrected the Vicar.
+
+"Boots, you call them! But anyhow, I am sorry I alarmed----"
+
+"You see," said the Vicar, stroking his chin, "our ladies, _ahem_, have
+peculiar views--rather inartistic views--about, _ahem_, clothing.
+Dressed as you are, I am afraid, I am really afraid that--beautiful as
+your costume certainly is--you will find yourself somewhat, _ahem_,
+somewhat isolated in society. We have a little proverb, 'When in Rome,
+_ahem_, one must do as the Romans do.' I can assure you that, assuming
+you are desirous to, _ahem_, associate with us--during your involuntary
+stay----"
+
+The Angel retreated a step or so as the Vicar came nearer and nearer in
+his attempt to be diplomatic and confidential. The beautiful face grew
+perplexed. "I don't quite understand. Why do you keep making these
+noises in your throat? Is it Die or Eat, or any of those...."
+
+"As your host," interrupted the Vicar, and stopped.
+
+"As my host," said the Angel.
+
+"_Would_ you object, pending more permanent arrangements, to invest
+yourself, _ahem_, in a suit, an entirely new suit I may say, like this I
+have on?"
+
+"Oh!" said the Angel. He retreated so as to take in the Vicar from top
+to toe. "Wear clothes like yours!" he said. He was puzzled but amused.
+His eyes grew round and bright, his mouth puckered at the corners.
+
+"Delightful!" he said, clapping his hands together. "What a mad, quaint
+dream this is! Where are they?" He caught at the neck of the saffron
+robe.
+
+"Indoors!" said the Vicar. "This way. We will change--indoors!"
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+
+So the Angel was invested in a pair of nether garments of the Vicar's, a
+shirt, ripped down the back (to accommodate the wings), socks,
+shoes--the Vicar's dress shoes--collar, tie, and light overcoat. But
+putting on the latter was painful, and reminded the Vicar that the
+bandaging was temporary. "I will ring for tea at once, and send Grummet
+down for Crump," said the Vicar. "And dinner shall be earlier." While
+the Vicar shouted his orders on the landing rails, the Angel surveyed
+himself in the cheval glass with immense delight. If he was a stranger
+to pain, he was evidently no stranger--thanks perhaps to dreaming--to
+the pleasure of incongruity.
+
+They had tea in the drawing-room. The Angel sat on the music stool
+(music stool because of his wings). At first he wanted to lie on the
+hearthrug. He looked much less radiant in the Vicar's clothes, than he
+had done upon the moor when dressed in saffron. His face shone still,
+the colour of his hair and cheeks was strangely bright, and there was a
+superhuman light in his eyes, but his wings under the overcoat gave him
+the appearance of a hunchback. The garments, indeed, made quite a
+terrestrial thing of him, the trousers were puckered transversely, and
+the shoes a size or so too large.
+
+He was charmingly affable and quite ignorant of the most elementary
+facts of civilization. Eating came without much difficulty, and the
+Vicar had an entertaining time teaching him how to take tea. "What a
+mess it is! What a dear grotesque ugly world you live in!" said the
+Angel. "Fancy stuffing things into your mouth! We use our mouths just to
+talk and sing with. Our world, you know, is almost incurably beautiful.
+We get so very little ugliness, that I find all this ... delightful."
+
+Mrs Hinijer, the Vicar's housekeeper, looked at the Angel suspiciously
+when she brought in the tea. She thought him rather a "queer customer."
+What she would have thought had she seen him in saffron no one can tell.
+
+The Angel shuffled about the room with his cup of tea in one hand, and
+the bread and butter in the other, and examined the Vicar's furniture.
+Outside the French windows, the lawn with its array of dahlias and
+sunflowers glowed in the warm sunlight, and Mrs Jehoram's sunshade stood
+thereon like a triangle of fire. He thought the Vicar's portrait over
+the mantel very curious indeed, could not understand what it was there
+for. "You have yourself round," he said, _apropos_ of the portrait, "Why
+want yourself flat?" and he was vastly amused at the glass fire screen.
+He found the oak chairs odd--"You're not square, are you?" he said, when
+the Vicar explained their use. "_We_ never double ourselves up. We lie
+about on the asphodel when we want to rest."
+
+"The chair," said the Vicar, "to tell you the truth, has always puzzled
+_me_. It dates, I think, from the days when the floors were cold and
+very dirty. I suppose we have kept up the habit. It's become a kind of
+instinct with us to sit on chairs. Anyhow, if I went to see one of my
+parishioners, and suddenly spread myself out on the floor--the natural
+way of it--I don't know what she would do. It would be all over the
+parish in no time. Yet it seems the natural method of reposing, to
+recline. The Greeks and Romans----"
+
+"What is this?" said the Angel abruptly.
+
+"That's a stuffed kingfisher. I killed it."
+
+"Killed it!"
+
+"Shot it," said the Vicar, "with a gun."
+
+"Shot! As you did me?"
+
+"I didn't kill you, you see. Fortunately."
+
+"Is killing making like that?"
+
+"In a way."
+
+"Dear me! And you wanted to make me like that--wanted to put glass eyes
+in me and string me up in a glass case full of ugly green and brown
+stuff?"
+
+"You see," began the Vicar, "I scarcely understood----"
+
+"Is that 'die'?" asked the Angel suddenly.
+
+"That is dead; it died."
+
+"Poor little thing. I must eat a lot. But you say you killed it. _Why?_"
+
+"You see," said the Vicar, "I take an interest in birds, and I (_ahem_)
+collect them. I wanted the specimen----"
+
+The Angel stared at him for a moment with puzzled eyes. "A beautiful
+bird like that!" he said with a shiver. "Because the fancy took you. You
+wanted the specimen!"
+
+He thought for a minute. "Do you often kill?" he asked the Vicar.
+
+
+
+
+THE MAN OF SCIENCE.
+
+XIII.
+
+
+Then Doctor Crump arrived. Grummet had met him not a hundred yards from
+the vicarage gate. He was a large, rather heavy-looking man, with a
+clean-shaven face and a double chin. He was dressed in a grey morning
+coat (he always affected grey), with a chequered black and white tie.
+"What's the trouble?" he said, entering and staring without a shadow of
+surprise at the Angel's radiant face.
+
+"This--_ahem_--gentleman," said the Vicar, "or--_ah_--Angel"--the Angel
+bowed--"is suffering from a gunshot wound."
+
+"Gunshot wound!" said Doctor Crump. "In July! May I look at it,
+Mr--Angel, I think you said?"
+
+"He will probably be able to assuage your pain," said the Vicar. "Let
+me assist you to remove your coat?"
+
+The Angel turned obediently.
+
+"Spinal curvature?" muttered Doctor Crump quite audibly, walking round
+behind the Angel. "No! abnormal growth. Hullo! This is odd!" He clutched
+the left wing. "Curious," he said. "Reduplication of the anterior
+limb--bifid coracoid. Possible, of course, but I've never seen it
+before." The angel winced under his hands. "Humerus. Radius and Ulna.
+All there. Congenital, of course. Humerus broken. Curious integumentary
+simulation of feathers. Dear me. Almost avian. Probably of considerable
+interest in comparative anatomy. I never did!----How did this gunshot
+happen, Mr Angel?"
+
+The Vicar was amazed at the Doctor's matter-of-fact manner.
+
+"Our friend," said the Angel, moving his head at the Vicar.
+
+"Unhappily it is my doing," said the Vicar, stepping forward,
+explanatory. "I mistook the gentleman--the Angel (_ahem_)--for a large
+bird----"
+
+"Mistook him for a large bird! What next? Your eyes want seeing to,"
+said Doctor Crump. "I've told you so before." He went on patting and
+feeling, keeping time with a series of grunts and inarticulate
+mutterings.... "But this is really a very good bit of amateur
+bandaging," said he. "I think I shall leave it. Curious malformation
+this is! Don't you find it inconvenient, Mr Angel?"
+
+He suddenly walked round so as to look in the Angel's face.
+
+The Angel thought he referred to the wound. "It is rather," he said.
+
+"If it wasn't for the bones I should say paint with iodine night and
+morning. Nothing like iodine. You could paint your face flat with it.
+But the osseous outgrowth, the bones, you know, complicate things. I
+could saw them off, of course. It's not a thing one should have done in
+a hurry----"
+
+"Do you mean my wings?" said the Angel in alarm.
+
+"Wings!" said the Doctor. "Eigh? Call 'em wings! Yes--what else should I
+mean?"
+
+"Saw them off!" said the Angel.
+
+"Don't you think so? It's of course your affair. I am only advising----"
+
+"Saw them off! What a funny creature you are!" said the Angel, beginning
+to laugh.
+
+"As you will," said the Doctor. He detested people who laughed. "The
+things are curious," he said, turning to the Vicar. "If
+inconvenient"--to the Angel. "I never heard of such complete
+reduplication before--at least among animals. In plants it's common
+enough. Were you the only one in your family?" He did not wait for a
+reply. "Partial cases of the fission of limbs are not at all uncommon,
+of course, Vicar--six-fingered children, calves with six feet, and cats
+with double toes, you know. May I assist you?" he said, turning to the
+Angel who was struggling with the coat. "But such a complete
+reduplication, and so avian, too! It would be much less remarkable if it
+was simply another pair of arms."
+
+The coat was got on and he and the Angel stared at one another.
+
+"Really," said the Doctor, "one begins to understand how that beautiful
+myth of the angels arose. You look a little hectic, Mr Angel--feverish.
+Excessive brilliance is almost worse as a symptom than excessive pallor.
+Curious your name should be Angel. I must send you a cooling draught, if
+you should feel thirsty in the night...."
+
+He made a memorandum on his shirt cuff. The Angel watched him
+thoughtfully, with the dawn of a smile in his eyes.
+
+"One minute, Crump," said the Vicar, taking the Doctor's arm and leading
+him towards the door.
+
+The Angel's smile grew brighter. He looked down at his black-clad legs.
+"He positively thinks I am a man!" said the Angel. "What he makes of the
+wings beats me altogether. What a queer creature he must be! This is
+really a most extraordinary Dream!"
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+
+"That _is_ an Angel," whispered the Vicar. "You don't understand."
+
+"_What?_" said the Doctor in a quick, sharp voice. His eyebrows went up
+and he smiled.
+
+"But the wings?"
+
+"Quite natural, quite ... if a little abnormal."
+
+"Are you sure they are natural?"
+
+"My dear fellow, everything that is, is natural. There is nothing
+unnatural in the world. If I thought there was I should give up practice
+and go into _Le Grand Chartreuse_. There are abnormal phenomena, of
+course. And----"
+
+"But the way I came upon him," said the Vicar.
+
+"Yes, tell me where you picked him up," said the Doctor. He sat down on
+the hall table.
+
+The Vicar began rather hesitatingly--he was not very good at story
+telling--with the rumours of a strange great bird. He told the story in
+clumsy sentences--for, knowing the Bishop as he did, with that awful
+example always before him he dreaded getting his pulpit style into his
+daily conversation--and at every third sentence or so, the Doctor made a
+downward movement of his head--the corners of his mouth tucked away, so
+to speak--as though he ticked off the phases of the story and so far
+found it just as it ought to be. "Self-hypnotism," he murmured once.
+
+"I beg your pardon?" said the Vicar.
+
+"Nothing," said the Doctor. "Nothing, I assure you. Go on. This is
+extremely interesting."
+
+The Vicar told him he went out with his gun.
+
+"_After_ lunch, I think you said?" interrupted the Doctor.
+
+"Immediately after," said the Vicar.
+
+"You should not do such things, you know. But go on, please."
+
+He came to the glimpse of the Angel from the gate.
+
+"In the full glare," said the Doctor, in parenthesis. "It was
+seventy-nine in the shade."
+
+When the Vicar had finished, the Doctor pressed his lips together
+tighter than ever, smiled faintly, and looked significantly into the
+Vicar's eyes.
+
+"You don't ..." began the Vicar, falteringly.
+
+The Doctor shook his head. "Forgive me," he said, putting his hand on
+the Vicar's arm.
+
+"You go out," he said, "on a hot lunch and on a hot afternoon. Probably
+over eighty. Your mind, what there is of it, is whirling with avian
+expectations. I say, 'what there is of it,' because most of your nervous
+energy is down there, digesting your dinner. A man who has been lying in
+the bracken stands up before you and you blaze away. Over he goes--and
+as it happens--as it happens--he has reduplicate fore-limbs, one pair
+being not unlike wings. It's a coincidence certainly. And as for his
+iridescent colours and so forth----. Have you never had patches of
+colour swim before your eyes before, on a brilliant sunlight day?... Are
+you sure they were confined to the wings? Think."
+
+"But he says he _is_ an Angel!" said the Vicar, staring out of his
+little round eyes, his plump hands in his pockets.
+
+"_Ah!_" said the Doctor with his eye on the Vicar. "I expected as
+much." He paused.
+
+"But don't you think ..." began the Vicar.
+
+"That man," said the Doctor in a low, earnest voice, "is a mattoid."
+
+"A what?" said the Vicar.
+
+"A mattoid. An abnormal man. Did you notice the effeminate delicacy of
+his face? His tendency to quite unmeaning laughter? His neglected hair?
+Then consider his singular dress...."
+
+The Vicar's hand went up to his chin.
+
+"Marks of mental weakness," said the Doctor. "Many of this type of
+degenerate show this same disposition to assume some vast mysterious
+credentials. One will call himself the Prince of Wales, another the
+Archangel Gabriel, another the Deity even. Ibsen thinks he is a Great
+Teacher, and Maeterlink a new Shakespeare. I've just been reading all
+about it--in Nordau. No doubt his odd deformity gave him an idea...."
+
+"But really," began the Vicar.
+
+"No doubt he's slipped away from confinement."
+
+"I do not altogether accept...."
+
+"You will. If not, there's the police, and failing that, advertisement;
+but, of course, his people may want to hush it up. It's a sad thing in a
+family...."
+
+"He seems so altogether...."
+
+"Probably you'll hear from his friends in a day or so," said the Doctor,
+feeling for his watch. "He can't live far from here, I should think. He
+seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again
+to-morrow." He slid off the hall table and stood up.
+
+"Those old wives' tales still have their hold on you," he said, patting
+the Vicar on the shoulder. "But an angel, you know--Ha, ha!"
+
+"I certainly _did_ think...." said the Vicar dubiously.
+
+"Weigh the evidence," said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch.
+"Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it
+leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy--_muscae volantes_."
+
+"And yet," said the Vicar, "I could almost swear to the glory on his
+wings...."
+
+"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon--brilliant
+sunshine--boiling down on your head.... But really I _must_ be going. It
+is a quarter to five. I'll see your--angel (ha, ha!) to-morrow again, if
+no one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was really
+very 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 saw
+Mendham, his curate, coming up the pathway by the hedge of purple vetch
+and meadowsweet. At that his hand went up to his chin and his eyes grew
+perplexed. Suppose he _was_ deceived. The Doctor passed the Curate with
+a sweep of his hand from his hat brim. Crump was an extraordinarily
+clever fellow, the Vicar thought, and knew far more of anyone's brain
+than one did oneself. The Vicar felt that so acutely. It made the coming
+explanation 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. Please
+come in. Come into the study. I'm really dreadfully sorry. But when I
+explain...."
+
+"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 as
+the latter closed the study door.
+
+"What woman?"
+
+"Pah!"
+
+"But really!"
+
+"The painted creature in light attire--disgustingly light attire, to
+speak 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 a
+man 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 legs
+apart, his arms folded, scowling at his Vicar over his big beard.
+
+(Explanations, I repeat, I have always considered the peculiar fallacy
+of this scientific age.)
+
+The Vicar looked about him helplessly. The world had all gone dull and
+dead. Had he been dreaming all the afternoon? Was there really an angel
+in 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-about
+story," 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 you
+believe in angels, Mendham, real angels?"
+
+"I'm not here to discuss theology. I am the husband of an insulted
+woman."
+
+"But I tell you it's not a figure of speech; this _is_ an angel, a real
+angel 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 voice
+grew impassioned. "What sin I have done that I should entertain and
+clothe angelic visitants, I don't know. I only know that--inconvenient
+as 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't
+turn him out, you know, because Mrs Mendham----I may be a weakling, but
+I am still a gentleman."
+
+"Really, Hilyer--"
+
+"I can assure you it is true." There was a note of hysterical
+desperation in the Vicar's voice. "I fired at him, taking him for a
+flamingo, and hit him in the wing."
+
+"I thought this was a case for the Bishop. I find it is a case for the
+Lunacy 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 lend
+myself 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 of
+the window. He thought the old church down the valley lit by the light
+of the setting sun was very beautiful, but he could not understand the
+serried ranks of tombstones that lay up the hillside beyond. He turned
+as Mendham and the Vicar came in.
+
+Now Mendham could bully his Vicar cheerfully enough, just as he could
+bully his congregation; but he was not the sort of man to bully a
+stranger. He looked at the Angel, and the "strange woman" theory was
+disposed of. The Angel's beauty was too clearly the beauty of the youth.
+
+"Mr Hilyer tells me," Mendham began, in an almost apologetic tone, "that
+you--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, of
+course, curious to know something of how you came into the village in
+such 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 flit
+across your faces!" he said.
+
+"You see, Mr--Mr--I don't know your name," said Mendham, with a certain
+diminution of suavity. "The case stands thus: My wife--four ladies, I
+might 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 defective
+costume. You and Mr Hilyer."
+
+"But I--" said the Vicar.
+
+"I know. It was this gentleman's costume was defective. Naturally--it is
+my place in fact--to demand an explanation." His voice was growing in
+volume. "And I _must_ demand an explanation."
+
+The Angel smiled faintly at his note of anger and his sudden attitude of
+determination--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 a
+poor 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 at
+his 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 to
+say."
+
+"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 of
+Siddermorton Vicarage--in the state in which you were. And in the
+Vicar's company. Cannot you abandon this ridiculous story of yours?..."
+
+The Angel shrugged his wings. "What is the matter with this man?" he
+said 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 telling
+you any other."
+
+"_Pshaw!_" said the Curate again. And then turning suddenly on the
+Vicar, "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 to
+him?"
+
+"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." Mendham
+went towards the door. "I am convinced there is something discreditable
+at the bottom of this business. Or why not tell a simple straightforward
+story? I will confess you puzzle me. Why, in this enlightened age, you
+should 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 he
+has 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 his
+shoulder. The accumulating judgment of months found vent. "I cannot
+understand, Hilyer, why you are in the Church. For the life of me I
+cannot. The air is full of Social Movements, of Economic change, the
+Woman 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 your
+levity.... But this is only a preliminary enquiry," he said, with a
+threatening note in his sonorous voice, and so vanished abruptly (with a
+violent 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 the
+breath of his life, so far. "You see," he said, "it would look so much
+more 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--except
+in church. If you had made your _debut_ in the chancel--on Sunday--it
+might 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 be
+inconvenient if you tell a too incredible story. If I might suggest
+(_ahem_)----."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"You see, people in the world, being men themselves, will almost
+certainly regard you as a man. If you say you are not, they will simply
+say you do not tell the truth. Only exceptional people appreciate the
+exceptional. When in Rome one must--well, respect Roman prejudices a
+little--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 may
+have been too hasty in saying I was not. You say there are no angels in
+this world. Who am I to set myself up against your experience? A mere
+thing of a day--so far as this world goes. If you say there are no
+angels--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 at
+least of the supernatural element. There is such a feeling against the
+supernatural element nowadays--even in the pulpit. You would hardly
+believe----"
+
+"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 angelic
+nature. You will oblige everyone, in fact. There is a settled opinion
+that angels do not do this kind of thing. And nothing is more
+painful--as I can testify--than a decaying settled opinion.... Settled
+opinions are mental teeth in more ways than one. For my own part,"--the
+Vicar's hand passed over his eyes for a moment--"I cannot but believe
+you 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 simultaneously
+Mrs Hinijer announced dinner.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER DINNER.
+
+XVIII.
+
+
+The Angel and the Vicar sat at dinner. The Vicar, with his napkin tucked
+in at his neck, watched the Angel struggling with his soup. "You will
+soon get into the way of it," said the Vicar. The knife and fork
+business was done awkwardly but with effect. The Angel looked furtively
+at Delia, the little waiting maid. When presently they sat cracking
+nuts--which the Angel found congenial enough--and the girl had gone, the
+Angel asked: "Was that a lady, too?"
+
+"Well," said the Vicar (_crack_). "No--she is not a lady. She is a
+servant."
+
+"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 was
+more of her in between. And the colour of her robes was not
+discordant--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 I
+entirely believe you are an angel."
+
+"Yes!" said the Angel.
+
+"I shot you--I saw you flutter. It's beyond dispute. In my own mind. I
+admit it's curious and against my preconceptions, but--practically--I'm
+assured, perfectly assured in fact, that I saw what I certainly did see.
+But after the behaviour of these people. (_Crack_). I really don't see
+how we are to persuade people. Nowadays people are so very particular
+about evidence. So that I think there is a great deal to be said for the
+attitude you assume. Temporarily at least I think it would be best of
+you 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 what
+has happened (_Gluck_, _gluck_, _gluck_--as the Vicar refills his
+glass)--after what has happened I should not be surprised to see the
+side of the room fall away, and the hosts of heaven appear to take you
+away again--take us both away even. You have so far enlarged my
+imagination. All these years I have been forgetting Wonderland. But
+still----. It will certainly be wiser to break the thing gently to
+them."
+
+"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 begin
+existence here, you know, as babies, silly pink helpless things wrapped
+in white, with goggling eyes, that yelp dismally at the Font. Then these
+babies grow larger and become even beautiful--when their faces are
+washed. And they continue to grow to a certain size. They become
+children, boys and girls, youths and maidens (_Crack_), young men and
+young women. That is the finest time in life, according to
+many--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 which
+Delia 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 me
+shy and bashful, in smart ugly dresses, and I marry them. And then
+little pink babies come to them, and some of the youths and maidens that
+were, grow fat and vulgar, and some grow thin and shrewish, and their
+pretty complexions go, and they get a queer delusion of superiority over
+the younger people, and all the delight and glory goes out of their
+lives. So they call the delight and glory of the younger ones, Illusion.
+And then they begin to drop to pieces."
+
+"Drop to pieces!" said the Angel. "How grotesque!"
+
+"Their hair comes off and gets dull coloured or ashen grey," said the
+Vicar. "_I_, for instance." He bowed his head forward to show a circular
+shining patch the size of a florin. "And their teeth come out. Their
+faces collapse and become as wrinkled and dry as a shrivelled apple.
+'Corrugated' you called mine. They care more and more for what they have
+to eat and to drink, and less and less for any of the other delights of
+life. Their limbs get loose in the joints, and their hearts slack, or
+little pieces from their lungs come coughing up. Pain...."
+
+"Ah!" said the Angel.
+
+"Pain comes into their lives more and more. And then they go. They do
+not like to go, but they have to--out of this world, very reluctantly,
+clutching its pain at last in their eagerness to stop...."
+
+"Where do they go?"
+
+"Once I thought I knew. But now I am older I know I do not know. We have
+a Legend--perhaps it is not a legend. One may be a churchman and
+disbelieve. Stokes says there is nothing in it...." The Vicar shook his
+head at the bananas.
+
+"And you?" said the Angel. "Were you a little pink baby?"
+
+"A little while ago I was a little pink baby."
+
+"Were you robed then as you are now?"
+
+"Oh no! Dear me! What a queer idea! Had long white clothes, I suppose,
+like the rest of them."
+
+"And then you were a little boy?"
+
+"A little boy."
+
+"And then a glorious youth?"
+
+"I was not a very glorious youth, I am afraid. I was sickly, and too
+poor to be radiant, and with a timid heart. I studied hard and pored
+over the dying thoughts of men long dead. So I lost the glory, and no
+maiden came to me, and the dulness of life began too soon."
+
+"And you have your little pink babies?"
+
+"None," said the Vicar with a scarce perceptible pause. "Yet all the
+same, as you see, I am beginning to drop to pieces. Presently my back
+will droop like a wilting flowerstalk. And then, in a few thousand days
+more I shall be done with, and I shall go out of this world of mine....
+Whither I do not know."
+
+"And you have to eat like this every day?"
+
+"Eat, and get clothes and keep this roof above me. There are some very
+disagreeable things in this world called Cold and Rain. And the other
+people here--how and why is too long a story--have made me a kind of
+chorus to their lives. They bring their little pink babies to me and I
+have to say a name and some other things over each new pink baby. And
+when the children have grown to be youths and maidens, they come again
+and are confirmed. You will understand that better later. Then before
+they may join in couples and have pink babies of their own, they must
+come again and hear me read out of a book. They would be outcast, and no
+other maiden would speak to the maiden who had a little pink baby
+without I had read over her for twenty minutes out of my book. It's a
+necessary thing, as you will see. Odd as it may seem to you. And
+afterwards when they are falling to pieces, I try and persuade them of a
+strange world in which I scarcely believe myself, where life is
+altogether different from what they have had--or desire. And in the
+end, I bury them, and read out of my book to those who will presently
+follow into the unknown land. I stand at the beginning, and at the
+zenith, and at the setting of their lives. And on every seventh day, I
+who am a man myself, I who see no further than they do, talk to them of
+the Life to Come--the life of which we know nothing. If such a life
+there be. And slowly I drop to pieces amidst my prophesying."
+
+"What a strange life!" said the Angel.
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar. "What a strange life! But the thing that makes it
+strange to me is new. I had taken it as a matter of course until you
+came into my life."
+
+"This life of ours is so insistent," said the Vicar. "It, and its petty
+needs, its temporary pleasures (_Crack_) swathe our souls about. While I
+am preaching to these people of mine of another life, some are
+ministering to one appetite and eating sweets, others--the old men--are
+slumbering, the youths glance at the maidens, the grown men protrude
+white waistcoats and gold chains, pomp and vanity on a substratum of
+carnal substance, their wives flaunt garish bonnets at one another. And
+I go on droning away of the things unseen and unrealised--'Eye hath not
+seen,' I read, 'nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the imagination
+of man to conceive,' and I look up to catch an adult male immortal
+admiring the fit of a pair of three and sixpenny gloves. It is damping
+year after year. When I was ailing in my youth I felt almost the
+assurance of vision that beneath this temporary phantasm world was the
+real world--the enduring world of the Life Everlasting. But now----"
+
+He glanced at his chubby white hand, fingering the stem of his glass. "I
+have put on flesh since then," he said. [_Pause_].
+
+"I have changed and developed very much. The battle of the Flesh and
+Spirit does not trouble me as it did. Every day I feel less confidence
+in my beliefs, and more in God. I live, I am afraid, a quiescent life,
+duties fairly done, a little ornithology and a little chess, a trifle of
+mathematical trifling. My times are in His hands----"
+
+The Vicar sighed and became pensive. The Angel watched him, and the
+Angel's eyes were troubled with the puzzle of him. "Gluck, gluck,
+gluck," went the decanter as the Vicar refilled his glass.
+
+
+
+
+XIX.
+
+
+So the Angel dined and talked to the Vicar, and presently the night came
+and he was overtaken by yawning.
+
+"Yah----oh!" said the Angel suddenly. "Dear me! A higher power seemed
+suddenly to stretch my mouth open and a great breath of air went rushing
+down my throat."
+
+"You yawned," said the Vicar. "Do you never yawn in the angelic
+country?"
+
+"Never," said the Angel.
+
+"And yet you are immortal!----I suppose you want to go to bed."
+
+"Bed!" said the Angel. "Where's that?"
+
+So the Vicar explained darkness to him and the art of going to bed. (The
+Angels, it seems sleep only in order to dream, and dream, like primitive
+man, with their foreheads on their knees. And they sleep among the white
+poppy meadows in the heat of the day.) The Angel found the bedroom
+arrangements quaint enough.
+
+"Why is everything raised up on big wooden legs?" he said. "You have the
+floor, and then you put everything you have upon a wooden quadruped. Why
+do you do it?" The Vicar explained with philosophical vagueness. The
+Angel burnt his finger in the candle-flame--and displayed an absolute
+ignorance of the elementary principles of combustion. He was merely
+charmed when a line of fire ran up the curtains. The Vicar had to
+deliver a lecture on fire so soon as the flame was extinguished. He had
+all kinds of explanations to make--even the soap needed explaining. It
+was an hour or more before the Angel was safely tucked in for the night.
+
+"He's very beautiful," said the Vicar, descending the staircase, quite
+tired out; "and he's a real angel no doubt. But I am afraid he will be a
+dreadful anxiety, all the same, before he gets into our earthly way with
+things."
+
+He seemed quite worried. He helped himself to an extra glass of sherry
+before he put away the wine in the cellaret.
+
+
+
+
+XX.
+
+
+The Curate stood in front of the looking-glass and solemnly divested
+himself of his collar.
+
+"I never heard a more fantastic story," said Mrs Mendham from the basket
+chair. "The man must be mad. Are you sure----."
+
+"Perfectly, my dear. I've told you every word, every incident----."
+
+"_Well!_" said Mrs Mendham, and spread her hands. "There's no sense in
+it."
+
+"Precisely, my dear."
+
+"The Vicar," said Mrs Mendham, "must be mad."
+
+"This hunchback is certainly one of the strangest creatures I've seen
+for a long time. Foreign looking, with a big bright coloured face and
+long brown hair.... It can't have been cut for months!" The Curate put
+his studs carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. "And a kind of
+staring look about his eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly
+looking person. Effeminate."
+
+"But who _can_ he be?" said Mrs Mendham.
+
+"I can't imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a
+chorister or something of that sort."
+
+"But _why_ should he be about the shrubbery ... in that dreadful
+costume?"
+
+"I don't know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said,
+'Mendham, this is an Angel.'"
+
+"I wonder if he drinks.... They may have been bathing near the spring,
+of course," reflected Mrs Mendham. "But I noticed no other clothes on
+his arm."
+
+The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.
+
+"It's a perfect mystery to me, my dear." (Flick, flick of laces.)
+"Hallucination is the only charitable----"
+
+"You are sure, George, that it was _not_ a woman."
+
+"Perfectly," said the Curate.
+
+"I know what men are, of course."
+
+"It was a young man of nineteen or twenty," said the Curate.
+
+"I can't understand it," said Mrs Mendham. "You say the creature is
+staying at the Vicarage?"
+
+"Hilyer is simply mad," said the Curate. He got up and went padding
+round the room to the door to put out his boots. "To judge by his manner
+you would really think he believed this cripple was an Angel." ("Are
+your shoes out, dear?")
+
+("They're just by the wardrobe"), said Mrs Mendham. "He always was a
+little queer, you know. There was always something childish about
+him.... An Angel!"
+
+The Curate came and stood by the fire, fumbling with his braces. Mrs
+Mendham liked a fire even in the summer. "He shirks all the serious
+problems in life and is always trifling with some new foolishness," said
+the Curate. "Angel indeed!" He laughed suddenly. "Hilyer _must_ be mad,"
+he said.
+
+Mrs Mendham laughed too. "Even that doesn't explain the hunchback," she
+said.
+
+"The hunchback must be mad too," said the Curate.
+
+"It's the only way of explaining it in a sensible way," said Mrs
+Mendham. [_Pause._]
+
+"Angel or no angel," said Mrs Mendham, "I know what is due to me. Even
+supposing the man thought he _was_ in the company of an angel, that is
+no reason why he should not behave like a gentleman."
+
+"That is perfectly true."
+
+"You will write to the Bishop, of course?"
+
+Mendham coughed. "No, I shan't write to the Bishop," said Mendham. "I
+think it seems a little disloyal.... And he took no notice of the last,
+you know."
+
+"But surely----"
+
+"I shall write to Austin. In confidence. He will be sure to tell the
+Bishop, you know. And you must remember, my dear----"
+
+"That Hilyer can dismiss you, you were going to say. My dear, the man's
+much too weak! _I_ should have a word to say about that. And besides,
+you do all his work for him. Practically, we manage the parish from end
+to end. I do not know what would become of the poor if it was not for
+me. They'd have free quarters in the Vicarage to-morrow. There is that
+Goody Ansell----"
+
+"I know, my dear," said the Curate, turning away and proceeding with his
+undressing. "You were telling me about her only this afternoon."
+
+
+
+
+XXI.
+
+
+And thus in the little bedroom over the gable we reach a first resting
+place in this story. And as we have been hard at it, getting our story
+spread out before you, it may be perhaps well to recapitulate a little.
+
+Looking back you will see that much has been done; we began with a blaze
+of light "not uniform but broken all over by curving flashes like the
+waving of swords," and the sound of a mighty harping, and the advent of
+an Angel with polychromatic wings.
+
+Swiftly, dexterously, as the reader must admit, wings have been clipped,
+halo handled off, the glory clapped into coat and trousers, and the
+Angel made for all practical purposes a man, under a suspicion of being
+either a lunatic or an impostor. You have heard too, or at least been
+able to judge, what the Vicar and the Doctor and the Curate's wife
+thought of the strange arrival. And further remarkable opinions are to
+follow.
+
+The afterglow of the summer sunset in the north-west darkens into night
+and the Angel sleeps, dreaming himself back in the wonderful world where
+it is always light, and everyone is happy, where fire does not burn and
+ice does not chill; where rivulets of starlight go streaming through the
+amaranthine meadows, out to the seas of Peace. He dreams, and it seems
+to him that once more his wings glow with a thousand colours and flash
+through the crystal air of the world from which he has come.
+
+So he dreams. But the Vicar lies awake, too perplexed for dreaming.
+Chiefly he is troubled by the possibilities of Mrs Mendham; but the
+evening's talk has opened strange vistas in his mind, and he is
+stimulated by a sense as of something seen darkly by the indistinct
+vision of a hitherto unsuspected wonderland lying about his world. For
+twenty years now he has held his village living and lived his daily
+life, protected by his familiar creed, by the clamour of the details of
+life, from any mystical dreaming. But now interweaving with the
+familiar bother of his persecuting neighbour, is an altogether
+unfamiliar sense of strange new things.
+
+There was something ominous in the feeling. Once, indeed, it rose above
+all other considerations, and in a kind of terror he blundered out of
+bed, bruised his shins very convincingly, found the matches at last, and
+lit a candle to assure himself of the reality of his own customary world
+again. But on the whole the more tangible trouble was the Mendham
+avalanche. Her tongue seemed to be hanging above him like the sword of
+Damocles. What might she not say of this business, before her indignant
+imagination came to rest?
+
+And while the successful captor of the Strange Bird was sleeping thus
+uneasily, Gully of Sidderton was carefully unloading his gun after a
+wearisome blank day, and Sandy Bright was on his knees in prayer, with
+the window carefully fastened. Annie Durgan was sleeping hard with her
+mouth open, and Amory's mother was dreaming of washing, and both of them
+had long since exhausted the topics of the Sound and the Glare. Lumpy
+Durgan was sitting up in his bed, now crooning the fragment of a tune
+and now listening intently for a sound he had heard once and longed to
+hear again. As for the solicitor's clerk at Iping Hanger, he was trying
+to write poetry about a confectioner's girl at Portburdock, and the
+Strange Bird was quite out of his head. But the ploughman who had seen
+it on the confines of Siddermorton Park had a black eye. That had been
+one of the more tangible consequences of a little argument about birds'
+legs in the "Ship." It is worthy of this passing mention, since it is
+probably the only known instance of an Angel causing anything of the
+kind.
+
+
+
+
+MORNING.
+
+XXII.
+
+
+The Vicar going to call the Angel, found him dressed and leaning out of
+his window. It was a glorious morning, still dewy, and the rising
+sunlight slanting round the corner of the house, struck warm and yellow
+upon the hillside. The birds were astir in the hedges and shrubbery. Up
+the hillside--for it was late in August--a plough drove slowly. The
+Angel's chin rested upon his hands and he did not turn as the Vicar came
+up to him.
+
+"How's the wing?" said the Vicar.
+
+"I'd forgotten it," said the Angel. "Is that yonder a man?"
+
+The Vicar looked. "That's a ploughman."
+
+"Why does he go to and fro like that? Does it amuse him?"
+
+"He's ploughing. That's his work."
+
+"Work! Why does he do it? It seems a monotonous thing to do."
+
+"It is," admitted the Vicar. "But he has to do it to get a living, you
+know. To get food to eat and all that kind of thing."
+
+"How curious!" said the Angel. "Do all men have to do that? Do you?"
+
+"Oh, no. He does it for me; does my share."
+
+"Why?" asked the Angel.
+
+"Oh! in return for things I do for him, you know. We go in for division
+of labour in this world. Exchange is no robbery."
+
+"I see," said the Angel, with his eyes still on the ploughman's heavy
+movements.
+
+"What do you do for him?"
+
+"That seems an easy question to you," said the Vicar, "but really!--it's
+difficult. Our social arrangements are rather complicated. It's
+impossible to explain these things all at once, before breakfast. Don't
+you feel hungry?"
+
+"I think I do," said the Angel slowly, still at the window; and then
+abruptly, "Somehow I can't help thinking that ploughing must be far from
+enjoyable."
+
+"Possibly," said the Vicar, "very possibly. But breakfast is ready.
+Won't you come down?"
+
+The Angel left the window reluctantly.
+
+"Our society," explained the Vicar on the staircase, "is a complicated
+organisation."
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"And it is so arranged that some do one thing and some another."
+
+"And that lean, bent old man trudges after that heavy blade of iron
+pulled by a couple of horses while we go down to eat?"
+
+"Yes. You will find it is perfectly just. Ah! mushrooms and poached
+eggs! It's the Social System. Pray be seated. Possibly it strikes you as
+unfair?"
+
+"I'm puzzled," said the Angel.
+
+"The drink I'm sending you is called coffee," said the Vicar. "I daresay
+you are. When I was a young man I was puzzled in the same way. But
+afterwards comes a Broader View of Things. (These black things are
+called mushrooms; they look beautiful.) Other Considerations. All men
+are brothers, of course, but some are younger brothers, so to speak.
+There is work that requires culture and refinement, and work in which
+culture and refinement would be an impediment. And the rights of
+property must not be forgotten. One must render unto Cĉsar.... Do you
+know, instead of explaining this matter now (this is yours), I think I
+will lend you a little book to read (_chum_, _chum_, _chum_--these
+mushrooms are well up to their appearance), which sets the whole thing
+out very clearly."
+
+
+
+
+THE VIOLIN.
+
+XXIII.
+
+
+After breakfast the Vicar went into the little room next his study to
+find a book on Political Economy for the Angel to read. For the Angel's
+social ignorances were clearly beyond any verbal explanations. The door
+stood ajar.
+
+"What is that?" said the Angel, following him. "A violin!" He took it
+down.
+
+"You play?" said the Vicar.
+
+The Angel had the bow in his hand, and by way of answer drove it across
+the strings. The quality of the note made the Vicar turn suddenly.
+
+The Angel's hand tightened on the instrument. The bow flew back and
+flickered, and an air the Vicar had never heard before danced in his
+ears. The Angel shifted the fiddle under his dainty chin and went on
+playing, and as he played his eyes grew bright and his lips smiled. At
+first he looked at the Vicar, then his expression became abstracted. He
+seemed no longer to look at the Vicar, but through him, at something
+beyond, something in his memory or his imagination, something infinitely
+remote, undreamt of hitherto....
+
+The Vicar tried to follow the music. The air reminded him of a flame, it
+rushed up, shone, flickered and danced, passed and reappeared. No!--it
+did not reappear! Another air--like it and unlike it, shot up after it,
+wavered, vanished. Then another, the same and not the same. It reminded
+him of the flaring tongues that palpitate and change above a newly lit
+fire. There are two airs--or _motifs_, which is it?--thought the Vicar.
+He knew remarkably little of musical technique. They go dancing up, one
+pursuing the other, out of the fire of the incantation, pursuing,
+fluctuating, turning, up into the sky. There below was the fire burning,
+a flame without fuel upon a level space, and there two flirting
+butterflies of sound, dancing away from it, up, one over another, swift,
+abrupt, uncertain.
+
+"Flirting butterflies were they!" What was the Vicar thinking of? Where
+was he? In the little room next to his study, of course! And the Angel
+standing in front of him smiling into his face, playing the violin, and
+looking through him as though he was only a window----. That _motif_
+again, a yellow flare, spread fanlike by a gust, and now one, then with
+a swift eddying upward flight the other, the two things of fire and
+light pursuing one another again up into that clear immensity.
+
+The study and the realities of life suddenly faded out of the Vicar's
+eyes, grew thinner and thinner like a mist that dissolves into air, and
+he and the Angel stood together on a pinnacle of wrought music, about
+which glittering melodies circled, and vanished, and reappeared. He was
+in the land of Beauty, and once more the glory of heaven was upon the
+Angel's face, and the glowing delights of colour pulsated in his wings.
+Himself the Vicar could not see. But I cannot tell you of the vision of
+that great and spacious land, of its incredible openness, and height,
+and nobility. For there is no space there like ours, no time as we know
+it; one must needs speak by bungling metaphors and own in bitterness
+after all that one has failed. And it was only a vision. The wonderful
+creatures flying through the ĉther saw them not as they stood there,
+flew through them as one might pass through a whisp of mist. The Vicar
+lost all sense of duration, all sense of necessity----
+
+"Ah!" said the Angel, suddenly putting down the fiddle.
+
+The Vicar had forgotten the book on Political Economy, had forgotten
+everything until the Angel had done. For a minute he sat quite still.
+Then he woke up with a start. He was sitting on the old iron-bound
+chest.
+
+"Really," he said slowly, "you are very clever."
+
+He looked about him in a puzzled way. "I had a kind of vision while you
+were playing. I seemed to see----. What did I see? It has gone."
+
+He stood up with a dazzled expression upon his face. "I shall never play
+the violin again," he said. "I wish you would take it to your room--and
+keep it----. And play to me again. I did not know anything of music
+until I heard you play. I do not feel as though I had ever heard any
+music before."
+
+He stared at the Angel, then about him at the room. "I have never felt
+anything of this kind with music before," he said. He shook his head. "I
+shall never play again."
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL EXPLORES THE VILLAGE.
+
+XXIV.
+
+
+Very unwisely, as I think, the Vicar allowed the Angel to go down into
+the village by himself, to enlarge his ideas of humanity. Unwisely,
+because how was he to imagine the reception the Angel would receive? Not
+thoughtlessly, I am afraid. He had always carried himself with decorum
+in the village, and the idea of a slow procession through the little
+street with all the inevitable curious remarks, explanations, pointings,
+was too much for him. The Angel might do the strangest things, the
+village was certain to think them. Peering faces. "Who's _he_ got now?"
+Besides, was it not his duty to prepare his sermon in good time? The
+Angel, duly directed, went down cheerfully by himself--still innocent of
+most of the peculiarities of the human as distinguished from the angelic
+turn of mind.
+
+The Angel walked slowly, his white hands folded behind his hunched
+back, his sweet face looking this way and that. He peered curiously into
+the eyes of the people he met. A little child picking a bunch of vetch
+and honeysuckle looked in his face, and forthwith came and put them in
+his hand. It was about the only kindness he had from a human being
+(saving only the Vicar and one other). He heard Mother Gustick scolding
+that granddaughter of hers as he passed the door. "You _Brazen_
+Faggit--you!" said Mother Gustick. "You Trumpery Baggage!"
+
+The Angel stopped, startled at the strange sounds of Mother Gustick's
+voice. "Put yer best clo'es on, and yer feather in yer 'at, and off you
+goes to meet en, fal lal, and me at 'ome slaving for ye. 'Tis a Fancy
+Lady you'll be wantin' to be, my gal, a walkin' Touch and Go, with yer
+idleness and finery----"
+
+The voice ceased abruptly, and a great peace came upon the battered air.
+"Most grotesque and strange!" said the Angel, still surveying this
+wonderful box of discords. "Walking Touch and Go!" He did not know that
+Mrs Gustick had suddenly become aware of his existence, and was
+scrutinizing his appearance through the window-blind. Abruptly the door
+flew open, and she stared out into the Angel's face. A strange
+apparition, grey and dusty hair, and the dirty pink dress unhooked to
+show the stringy throat, a discoloured gargoyle, presently to begin
+spouting incomprehensible abuse.
+
+"Now, then, Mister," began Mrs Gustick. "Have ye nothin' better to do
+than listen at people's doors for what you can pick up?"
+
+The Angel stared at her in astonishment.
+
+"D'year!" said Mrs Gustick, evidently very angry indeed. "Listenin'."
+
+"Have you any objection to my hearing...."
+
+"Object to my hearing! Course I have! Whad yer think? You aint such a
+Ninny...."
+
+"But if ye didn't want me to hear, why did you cry out so loud? I
+thought...."
+
+"_You thought!_ Softie--that's what _you_ are! You silly girt staring
+Gaby, what don't know any better than to come holding yer girt mouth
+wide open for all that you can catch holt on? And then off up there to
+tell! You great Fat-Faced, Tale-Bearin' Silly-Billy! I'd be ashamed to
+come poking and peering round quiet people's houses...."
+
+The Angel was surprised to find that some inexplicable quality in her
+voice excited the most disagreeable sensations in him and a strong
+desire to withdraw. But, resisting this, he stood listening politely (as
+the custom is in the Angelic Land, so long as anyone is speaking). The
+entire eruption was beyond his comprehension. He could not perceive any
+reason for the sudden projection of this vituperative head, out of
+infinity, so to speak. And questions without a break for an answer were
+outside his experience altogether.
+
+Mrs Gustick proceeded with her characteristic fluency, assured him he
+was no gentleman, enquired if he called himself one, remarked that every
+tramp did as much nowadays, compared him to a Stuck Pig, marvelled at
+his impudence, asked him if he wasn't ashamed of himself standing there,
+enquired if he was rooted to the ground, was curious to be told what he
+meant by it, wanted to know whether he robbed a scarecrow for his
+clothes, suggested that an abnormal vanity prompted his behaviour,
+enquired if his mother knew he was out, and finally remarking, "I got
+somethin'll move you, my gentleman," disappeared with a ferocious
+slamming of the door.
+
+The interval struck the Angel as singularly peaceful. His whirling mind
+had time to analyse his sensations. He ceased bowing and smiling, and
+stood merely astonished.
+
+"This is a curious painful feeling," said the Angel. "Almost worse than
+Hungry, and quite different. When one is hungry one wants to eat. I
+suppose she was a woman. Here one wants to get away. I suppose I might
+just as well go."
+
+He turned slowly and went down the road meditating. He heard the cottage
+door re-open, and turning his head, saw through intervening scarlet
+runners Mrs Gustick with a steaming saucepan full of boiling cabbage
+water in her hand.
+
+"'Tis well you went, Mister Stolen Breeches," came the voice of Mrs
+Gustick floating down through the vermilion blossoms. "Don't you come
+peeping and prying round this yer cottage again or I'll learn ye
+manners, I will!"
+
+The Angel stood in 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.
+
+
+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.
+
+[Illustration: Music]
+
+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.
+"Däamned 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.
+"Dää-ä-ämned 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 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 hiccough.
+
+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 attempts to extricate himself, breathing
+threatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotely
+enough, that these demonstrations were hostile. "Mur wun know yer when I
+done wi' yer," said the drunken man, coat almost over his head.
+
+At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequent
+interstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinker
+displayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel's observant eyes.
+He squared up in masterly fashion.
+
+"Take the paint off yer," he remarked, advancing and receding, fists up
+and elbows out.
+
+"Carm on," floated down the road.
+
+The Angel's attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists,
+that swayed and advanced and retreated. "Come on d'yer say? I'll show
+yer," said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity;
+"My crikey! I'll show yer."
+
+Suddenly he lurched forward, and with a newborn instinct and raising a
+defensive arm as he did so, the Angel stepped aside to avoid him. The
+fist missed the Angelic shoulder by a hairsbreadth, and the tinker
+collapsed in a heap with his face against the parapet of the bridge. The
+Angel hesitated over the writhing dusty heap of blasphemy for a moment,
+and then turned towards the man's companion up the road. "Lemmeget up,"
+said the man on the bridge: "Lemmeget up, you swine. I'll show yer."
+
+A strange disgust, a quivering repulsion came upon the Angel. He walked
+slowly away from the drunkard towards the man with the grindstone.
+
+"What does it all mean?" said the Angel. "I don't understand it."
+
+"Dam fool!... say's it's 'is silver weddin'," answered the man with the
+grindstone, evidently much annoyed; and then, in a tone of growing
+impatience, he called down the road once more; "Carm on!"
+
+"Silver wedding!" said the Angel. "What is a silver wedding?"
+
+"Jest is rot," said the man on the barrow. "But 'E's always avin' some
+'scuse like that. Fair sickenin it is. Lars week it wus 'is bloomin'
+birthday, and _then_ 'e ad'nt ardly got sober orf a comlimentary drunk
+to my noo barrer. (_Carm_ on, you fool.)"
+
+"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "Why does he sway about so?
+Why does he keep on trying to pick up his hat like that--and missing
+it?"
+
+"_Why!_" said the tinker. "Well this _is_ a blasted innocent country!
+_Why!_ Because 'E's blind! Wot else? (Carm on--_Dam_ yer). Because 'E's
+just as full as 'E can 'old. That's _why_!"
+
+The Angel noticing the tone of the second tinker's voice, judged it
+wiser not to question him further. But he stood by the grindstone and
+continued to watch the mysterious evolutions on the bridge.
+
+"Carm on! I shall 'ave to go and pick up that 'at I suppose.... 'E's
+always at it. I ne'er 'ad such a blooming pard before. _Always_ at it,
+'e is."
+
+The man with the barrow meditated. "Taint as if 'e was a gentleman and
+'adnt no livin' to get. An' 'e's such a reckless fool when 'e gets a bit
+on. Goes offerin out everyone 'e meets. (_There_ you go!) I'm blessed if
+'e didn't offer out a 'ole bloomin' Salvation Army. No judgment in it.
+(Oh! _Carm_ on! _Carm_ on!). 'Ave to go and pick this bloomin' 'at up
+now I s'pose. 'E don't care, _wot_ trouble 'e gives."
+
+The Angel watched the second tinker walk back, and, with affectionate
+blasphemy, assist the first to his hat and his coat. Then he turned,
+absolutely mystified, towards the village again.
+
+
+
+
+XXVII.
+
+
+After that incident the Angel walked along past the mill and round
+behind the church, to examine the tombstones.
+
+"This seems to be the place where they put the broken pieces," said the
+Angel--reading the inscriptions. "Curious word--relict! Resurgam! Then
+they are not done with quite. What a huge pile it requires to keep her
+down.... It is spirited of her."
+
+"Hawkins?" said the Angel softly,.... "_Hawkins?_ The name is strange to
+me.... He did not die then.... It is plain enough,--Joined the Angelic
+Hosts, May 17, 1863. He must have felt as much out of place as I do down
+here. But I wonder why they put that little pot thing on the top of this
+monument. Curious! There are several others about--little stone pots
+with a rag of stiff stone drapery over them."
+
+Just then the boys came pouring out of the National School, and first
+one and then several stopped agape at the Angel's crooked black figure
+among the white tombs. "Ent 'e gart a bääk on en!" remarked one critic.
+
+"'E's got 'air like a girl!" said another.
+
+The Angel turned towards them. He was struck by the queer little heads
+sticking up over the lichenous wall. He smiled faintly at their staring
+faces, and then turned to marvel at the iron railings that enclosed the
+Fitz-Jarvis tomb. "A queer air of uncertainty," he said. "Slabs, piles
+of stone, these railings.... Are they afraid?... Do these Dead ever try
+and get up again? There's an air of repression--fortification----"
+
+"Gét yer _'air_ cut, Gét yer _'air_ cut," sang three little boys
+together.
+
+"Curious these Human Beings are!" said the Angel. "That man yesterday
+wanted to cut off my wings, now these little creatures want me to cut
+off my hair! And the man on the bridge offered to take the 'paint' off
+me. They will leave nothing of me soon."
+
+"Where did you get that _'at_?" sang another little boy. "Where did you
+get them clo'es?"
+
+"They ask questions that they evidently do not want answered," said the
+Angel. "I can tell from the tone." He looked thoughtfully at the little
+boys. "I don't understand the methods of Human intercourse. These are
+probably friendly advances, a kind of ritual. But I don't know the
+responses. I think I will go back to the little fat man in black, with
+the gold chain across his stomach, and ask him to explain. It is
+difficult."
+
+He turned towards the lych gate. "_Oh!_" said one of the little boys, in
+a shrill falsetto, and threw a beech-nut husk. It came bounding across
+the churchyard path. The Angel stopped in surprise.
+
+This made all the little boys laugh. A second imitating the first, said
+"_Oh!_" and hit the Angel. His astonishment was really delicious. They
+all began crying "_Oh!_" and throwing beechnut husks. One hit the
+Angel's hand, another stung him smartly by the ear. The Angel made
+ungainly movements towards them. He spluttered some expostulation and
+made for the roadway. The little boys were amazed and shocked at his
+discomfiture and cowardice. Such sawney behaviour could not be
+encouraged. The pelting grew vigorously. You may perhaps be able to
+imagine those vivid moments, daring small boys running in close and
+delivering shots, milder small boys rushing round behind with flying
+discharges. Milton Screever's mongrel dog was roused to yelping ecstacy
+at the sight, and danced (full of wild imaginings) nearer and nearer to
+the angelic legs.
+
+"Hi, hi!" said a vigorous voice. "I never did! Where's Mr Jarvis?
+Manners, manners! you young rascals."
+
+The youngsters scattered right and left, some over the wall into the
+playground, some down the street.
+
+"Frightful pest these boys are getting!" said Crump, coming up. "I'm
+sorry they have been annoying you."
+
+The Angel seemed quite upset. "I don't understand," he said. "These
+Human ways...."
+
+"Yes, of course. Unusual to you. How's your excrescence?"
+
+"My what?" said the Angel.
+
+"Bifid limb, you know. How is it? Now you're down this way, come in.
+Come in and let me have a look at it again. You young roughs! And
+meanwhile these little louts of ours will be getting off home. They're
+all alike in these villages. _Can't_ understand anything abnormal. See
+an odd-looking stranger. Chuck a stone. No imagination beyond the
+parish.... (I'll give you physic if I catch you annoying strangers
+again.) ... I suppose it's what one might expect.... Come along this
+way."
+
+So the Angel, horribly perplexed still, was hurried into the surgery to
+have his wound re-dressed.
+
+
+
+
+LADY HAMMERGALLOW'S VIEW.
+
+XXVIII.
+
+
+In Siddermorton Park is Siddermorton House, where old Lady Hammergallow
+lives, chiefly upon Burgundy and the little scandals of the village, a
+dear old lady with a ropy neck, a ruddled countenance and spasmodic
+gusts of odd temper, whose three remedies for all human trouble among
+her dependents are, a bottle of gin, a pair of charity blankets, or a
+new crown piece. The House is a mile-and-a-half out of Siddermorton.
+Almost all the village is hers, saving a fringe to the south which
+belongs to Sir John Gotch, and she rules it with an autocratic rule,
+refreshing in these days of divided government. She orders and forbids
+marriages, drives objectionable people out of the village by the simple
+expedient of raising their rent, dismisses labourers, obliges heretics
+to go to church, and made Susan Dangett, who wanted to call her little
+girl 'Euphemia,' have the infant christened 'Mary-Anne.' She is a sturdy
+Broad Protestant and disapproves of the Vicar's going bald like a
+tonsure. She is on the Village Council, which obsequiously trudges up
+the hill and over the moor to her, and (as she is a trifle deaf) speaks
+all its speeches into her speaking trumpet instead of a rostrum. She
+takes no interest now in politics, but until last year she was an active
+enemy of "that Gladstone." She has parlour maids instead of footmen to
+do her waiting, because of Hockley, the American stockbroker, and his
+four Titans in plush.
+
+She exercises what is almost a fascination upon the village. If in the
+bar-parlour of the Cat and Cornucopia you swear by God no one would be
+shocked, but if you swore by Lady Hammergallow they would probably be
+shocked enough to turn you out of the room. When she drives through
+Siddermorton she always calls upon Bessy Flump, the post-mistress, to
+hear all that has happened, and then upon Miss Finch, the dressmaker, to
+check back Bessy Flump. Sometimes she calls upon the Vicar, sometimes
+upon Mrs Mendham whom she snubs, and even sometimes on Crump. Her
+sparkling pair of greys almost ran over the Angel as he was walking down
+to the village.
+
+"So _that's_ the genius!" said Lady Hammergallow, and turned and looked
+at him through the gilt glasses on a stick that she always carried in
+her shrivelled and shaky hand. "Lunatic indeed! The poor creature has
+rather a pretty face. I'm sorry I've missed him."
+
+But she went on to the vicarage nevertheless, and demanded news of it
+all. The conflicting accounts of Miss Flump, Miss Finch, Mrs Mendham,
+Crump, and Mrs Jehoram had puzzled her immensely. The Vicar, hard
+pressed, did all he could to say into her speaking trumpet what had
+really happened. He toned down the wings and the saffron robe. But he
+felt the case was hopeless. He spoke of his protégé as "Mr" Angel. He
+addressed pathetic asides to the kingfisher. The old lady noticed his
+confusion. Her queer old head went jerking backwards and forwards, now
+the speaking trumpet in his face when he had nothing to say, then the
+shrunken eyes peering at him, oblivious of the explanation that was
+coming from his lips. A great many Ohs! and Ahs! She caught some
+fragments certainly.
+
+"You have asked him to stop with you--indefinitely?" said Lady
+Hammergallow with a Great Idea taking shape rapidly in her mind.
+
+"I did--perhaps inadvertently--make such--"
+
+"And you don't know where he comes from?"
+
+"Not at all."
+
+"Nor who his father is, I suppose?" said Lady Hammergallow mysteriously.
+
+"No," said the Vicar.
+
+"_Now!_" said Lady Hammergallow archly, and keeping her glasses to her
+eye, she suddenly dug at his ribs with her trumpet.
+
+"My _dear_ Lady Hammergallow!"
+
+"I thought so. Don't think _I_ would blame you, Mr Hilyer." She gave a
+corrupt laugh that she delighted in. "The world is the world, and men
+are men. And the poor boy's a cripple, eh? A kind of judgment. In
+mourning, I noticed. It reminds me of the _Scarlet Letter_. The mother's
+dead, I suppose. It's just as well. Really--I'm not a _narrow_ woman--I
+_respect_ you for having him. Really I do."
+
+"But, _Lady_ Hammergallow!"
+
+"Don't spoil everything by denying it. It is so very, very plain, to a
+woman of the world. That Mrs Mendham! She amuses me with her suspicions.
+Such odd ideas! In a Curate's wife. But I hope it didn't happen when you
+were in orders."
+
+"Lady Hammergallow, I protest. Upon my word."
+
+"Mr Hilyer, I protest. I _know_. Not anything you can say will alter my
+opinion one jot. Don't try. I never suspected you were nearly such an
+interesting man."
+
+"But this suspicion is unendurable!"
+
+"We will help him together, Mr Hilyer. You may rely upon me. It is most
+romantic." She beamed benevolence.
+
+"But, Lady Hammergallow, I _must_ speak!"
+
+She gripped her ear-trumpet resolutely, and held it before her and shook
+her head.
+
+"He has quite a genius for music, Vicar, so I hear?"
+
+"I can assure you most solemnly--"
+
+"I thought so. And being a cripple--"
+
+"You are under a most cruel--"
+
+"I thought that if his gift is really what that Jehoram woman says."
+
+"An unjustifiable suspicion that ever a man--"
+
+("I don't think much of her judgment, of course.")
+
+"Consider my position. Have I gained _no_ character?"
+
+"It might be possible to do something for him as a performer."
+
+"Have I--(_Bother! It's no good!_)"
+
+"And so, dear Vicar, I propose to give him an opportunity of showing us
+what he can do. I have been thinking it all over as I drove here. On
+Tuesday next, I will invite just a few people of taste, and he shall
+bring his violin. Eigh? And if that goes well, I will see if I can get
+some introductions and really _push_ him."
+
+"But _Lady_, Lady Hammergallow."
+
+"Not another word!" said Lady Hammergallow, still resolutely holding her
+speaking trumpet before her and clutching her eyeglasses. "I really
+must not leave those horses. Cutler is so annoyed if I keep them too
+long. He finds waiting tedious, poor man, unless there is a public-house
+near." She made for the door.
+
+"_Damn!_" said the Vicar, under his breath. He had never used the word
+since he had taken orders. It shows you how an Angel's visit may
+disorganize a man.
+
+He stood under the verandah watching the carriage drive away. The world
+seemed coming to pieces about him. Had he lived a virtuous celibate life
+for thirty odd years in vain? The things of which these people thought
+him capable! He stood and stared at the green cornfield opposite, and
+down at the straggling village. It seemed real enough. And yet for the
+first time in his life there was a queer doubt of its reality. He rubbed
+his chin, then turned and went slowly upstairs to his dressing-room, and
+sat for a long time staring at a garment of some yellow texture. "Know
+his father!" he said. "And he is immortal, and was fluttering about his
+heaven when my ancestors were marsupials.... I wish he was there now."
+
+He got up and began to feel the robe.
+
+"I wonder how they get such things," said the Vicar. Then he went and
+stared out of the window. "I suppose everything is wonderful, even the
+rising and setting of the sun. I suppose there is no adamantine ground
+for any belief. But one gets into a regular way of taking things. This
+disturbs it. I seem to be waking up to the Invisible. It is the
+strangest of uncertainties. I have not felt so stirred and unsettled
+since my adolescence."
+
+
+
+
+FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ANGEL IN THE VILLAGE.
+
+XXIX.
+
+
+"That's all right," said Crump when the bandaging was replaced. "It's a
+trick of memory, no doubt, but these excrescences of yours don't seem
+nearly so large as they did yesterday. I suppose they struck me rather
+forcibly. Stop and have lunch with me now you're down here. Midday meal,
+you know. The youngsters will be swallowed up by school again in the
+afternoon."
+
+"I never saw anything heal so well in my life," he said, as they walked
+into the dining-room. "Your blood and flesh must be as clean and free
+from bacteria as they make 'em. Whatever stuff there is in your head,"
+he added _sotto voce_.
+
+At lunch he watched the Angel narrowly, and talked to draw him out.
+
+"Journey tire you yesterday?" he said suddenly.
+
+"Journey!" said the Angel. "Oh! my wings felt a little stiff."
+
+("Not to be had,") said Crump to himself. ("Suppose I must enter into
+it.")
+
+"So you flew all the way, eigh? No conveyance?"
+
+"There wasn't any way," explained the Angel, taking mustard. "I was
+flying up a symphony with some Griffins and Fiery Cherubim, and suddenly
+everything went dark and I was in this world of yours."
+
+"Dear me!" said Crump. "And that's why you haven't any luggage." He drew
+his serviette across his mouth, and a smile flickered in his eyes.
+
+"I suppose you know this world of ours pretty well? Watching us over the
+adamantine walls and all that kind of thing. Eigh?"
+
+"Not very well. We dream of it sometimes. In the moonlight, when the
+Nightmares have fanned us to sleep with their wings."
+
+"Ah, yes--of course," said Crump. "Very poetical way of putting it.
+Won't you take some Burgundy? It's just beside you."
+
+"There's a persuasion in this world, you know, that Angels' Visits are
+by no means infrequent. Perhaps some of your--friends have travelled?
+They are supposed to come down to deserving persons in prisons, and do
+refined Nautches and that kind of thing. Faust business, you know."
+
+"I've never heard of anything of the kind," said the Angel.
+
+"Only the other day a lady whose baby was my patient for the time
+being--indigestion--assured me that certain facial contortions the
+little creature made indicated that it was Dreaming of Angels. In the
+novels of Mrs Henry Wood that is spoken of as an infallible symptom of
+an early departure. I suppose you can't throw any light on that obscure
+pathological manifestation?"
+
+"I don't understand it at all," said the Angel, puzzled, and not clearly
+apprehending the Doctor's drift.
+
+("Getting huffy,") said Crump to himself. ("Sees I'm poking fun at
+him.") "There's one thing I'm curious about. Do the new arrivals
+complain much about their medical attendants? I've always fancied there
+must be a good deal of hydropathic talk just at first. I was looking at
+that picture in the Academy only this June...."
+
+"New Arrivals!" said the Angel. "I really don't follow you."
+
+The Doctor stared. "Don't they come?"
+
+"Come!" said the Angel. "Who?"
+
+"The people who die here."
+
+"After they've gone to pieces here?"
+
+"That's the general belief, you know."
+
+"People, like the woman who screamed out of the door, and the blackfaced
+man and his volutations and the horrible little things that threw
+husks!--certainly not. _I_ never saw such creatures before I fell into
+this world."
+
+"Oh! but come!" said the Doctor. "You'll tell me next your official
+robes are not white and that you can't play the harp."
+
+"There's no such thing as white in the Angelic Land," said the Angel.
+"It's that queer blank colour you get by mixing up all the others."
+
+"Why, my dear Sir!" said the doctor, suddenly altering his tone, "you
+positively know nothing about the Land you come from. White's the very
+essence of it."
+
+The Angel stared at him. Was the man jesting? He looked perfectly
+serious.
+
+"Look here," said Crump, and getting up, he went to the sideboard on
+which a copy of the Parish Magazine was lying. He brought it round to
+the Angel and opened it at the coloured supplement. "Here's some _real_
+angels," he said. "You see it's not simply the wings make the Angel.
+White you see, with a curly whisp of robe, sailing up into the sky with
+their wings furled. Those are angels on the best authority. Hydroxyl
+kind of hair. One has a bit of a harp, you see, and the other is helping
+this wingless lady--kind of larval Angel, you know--upward."
+
+"Oh! but really!" said the Angel, "those are not angels at all."
+
+"But they _are_," said Crump, putting the magazine back on the sideboard
+and resuming his seat with an air of intense satisfaction. "I can assure
+you I have the _best_ authority...."
+
+"I can assure you...."
+
+Crump tucked in the corners of his mouth and shook his head from side to
+side even as he had done to the Vicar. "No good," he said, "can't alter
+our ideas just because an irresponsible visitor...."
+
+"If these are angels," said the Angel, "then I have never been in the
+Angelic Land."
+
+"Precisely," said Crump, ineffably self-satisfied; "that was just what I
+was getting at."
+
+The Angel stared at him for a minute round-eyed, and then was seized for
+the second time by the human disorder of laughter.
+
+"Ha, ha, ha!" said Crump, joining in. "I _thought_ you were not quite so
+mad as you seemed. Ha, ha, ha!"
+
+And for the rest of the lunch they were both very merry, for entirely
+different reasons, and Crump insisted upon treating the Angel as a
+"dorg" of the highest degree.
+
+
+
+
+XXX.
+
+
+After the Angel had left Crump's house he went up the hill again towards
+the Vicarage. But--possibly moved by the desire to avoid Mrs Gustick--he
+turned aside at the stile and made a detour by the Lark's Field and
+Bradley's Farm.
+
+He came upon the Respectable Tramp slumbering peacefully among the
+wild-flowers. He stopped to look, struck by the celestial tranquillity
+of that individual's face. And even as he did so the Respectable Tramp
+awoke with a start and sat up. He was a pallid creature, dressed in
+rusty black, with a broken-spirited crush hat cocked over one eye. "Good
+afternoon," he said affably. "How are you?"
+
+"Very well, thank you," said the Angel, who had mastered the phrase.
+
+The Respectable Tramp eyed the Angel critically. "Padding the Hoof,
+matey?" he said. "Like me."
+
+The Angel was puzzled by him. "Why," asked the Angel, "do you sleep
+like this instead of sleeping up in the air on a Bed?"
+
+"Well I'm blowed!" said the Respectable Tramp. "Why don't I sleep in a
+bed? Well, it's like this. Sandringham's got the painters in, there's
+the drains up in Windsor Castle, and I 'aven't no other 'ouse to go to.
+You 'aven't the price of a arf pint in your pocket, 'ave yer?"
+
+"I have nothing in my pocket," said the Angel.
+
+"Is this here village called Siddermorton?" said the Tramp, rising
+creakily to his feet and pointing to the clustering roofs down the hill.
+
+"Yes," said the Angel, "they call it Siddermorton."
+
+"I know it, I know it," said the Tramp. "And a very pretty little
+village it is too." He stretched and yawned, and stood regarding the
+place. "'Ouses," he said reflectively; "Projuce"--waving his hand at the
+cornfields and orchards. "Looks cosy, don't it?"
+
+"It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel.
+
+"It _'as_ a quaint beauty of its own--yes.... Lord! I'd like to sack
+the blooming place.... I was born there."
+
+"Dear me," said the Angel.
+
+"Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?"
+
+"Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!"
+
+"It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and they
+cuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em.
+That's a pithed frog. Well--that there village is full of pithed human
+beings."
+
+The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said.
+
+"That's so--you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad their
+brains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it.
+And you see that little red place there?"
+
+"That's called the national school," said the Angel.
+
+"Yes--that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love with
+his conceit.
+
+"Really! That's very interesting."
+
+"It stands to reason," said the Tramp. "If they 'ad brains they'd 'ave
+ideas, and if they 'ad ideas they'd think for themselves. And you can
+go through that village from end to end and never meet anybody doing as
+much. Pithed human beings they are. I know that village. I was born
+there, and I might be there now, a toilin' for my betters, if I 'adnt
+struck against the pithin'."
+
+"Is it a painful operation?" asked the Angel.
+
+"In parts. Though it aint the heads gets hurt. And it lasts a long time.
+They take 'em young into that school, and they says to them, 'come in
+'ere and we'll improve your minds,' they says, and in the little kiddies
+go as good as gold. And they begins shovin' it into them. Bit by bit and
+'ard and dry, shovin' out the nice juicy brains. Dates and lists and
+things. Out they comes, no brains in their 'eads, and wound up nice and
+tight, ready to touch their 'ats to anyone who looks at them. Why! One
+touched 'is 'at to me yesterday. And they runs about spry and does all
+the dirty work, and feels thankful they're allowed to live. They take a
+positive pride in 'ard work for its own sake. Arter they bin pithed. See
+that chap ploughin'?"
+
+"Yes," said the Angel; "is _he_ pithed?"
+
+"Rather. Else he'd be paddin' the hoof this pleasant weather--like me
+and the blessed Apostles."
+
+"I begin to understand," said the Angel, rather dubiously.
+
+"I knew you would," said the Philosophical Tramp. "I thought you was the
+right sort. But speaking serious, aint it ridiculous?--centuries and
+centuries of civilization, and look at that poor swine there, sweatin'
+'isself empty and trudging up that 'ill-side. 'E's English, 'e is. 'E
+belongs to the top race in creation, 'e does. 'E's one of the rulers of
+Indjer. It's enough to make a nigger laugh. The flag that's braved a
+thousand years the battle an' the breeze--that's _'is_ flag. There never
+was a country was as great and glorious as this. Never. And that's wot
+it makes of us. I'll tell you a little story about them parts as you
+seems to be a bit of a stranger. There's a chap called Gotch, Sir John
+Gotch they calls 'im, and when _'e_ was a young gent from Oxford, I was
+a little chap of eight and my sister was a girl of seventeen. Their
+servant she was. But Lord! everybody's 'eard that story--it's common
+enough, of 'im or the likes of 'im."
+
+"I haven't," said the Angel.
+
+"All that's pretty and lively of the gals they chucks into the gutters,
+and all the men with a pennorth of spunk or adventure, all who won't
+drink what the Curate's wife sends 'em instead of beer, and touch their
+hats promiscous, and leave the rabbits and birds alone for their
+betters, gets drove out of the villages as rough characters. Patriotism!
+Talk about improvin' the race! Wot's left aint fit to look a nigger in
+the face, a Chinaman 'ud be ashamed of 'em...."
+
+"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "I don't follow you."
+
+At that the Philosophic Tramp became more explicit, and told the Angel
+the simple story of Sir John Gotch and the kitchen-maid. It's scarcely
+necessary to repeat it. You may understand that it left the Angel
+puzzled. It was full of words he did not understand, for the only
+vehicle of emotion the Tramp possessed was blasphemy. Yet, though their
+tongues differed so, he could still convey to the Angel some of his own
+(probably unfounded) persuasion of the injustice and cruelty of life,
+and of the utter detestableness of Sir John Gotch.
+
+The last the Angel saw of him was his dusty black back receding down the
+lane towards Iping Hanger. A pheasant appeared by the roadside, and the
+Philosophical Tramp immediately caught up a stone and sent the bird
+clucking with a viciously accurate shot. Then he disappeared round the
+corner.
+
+
+
+
+MRS JEHORAM'S BREADTH OF VIEW.
+
+XXXI
+
+
+"I heard some one playing the fiddle in the Vicarage, as I came by,"
+said Mrs Jehoram, taking her cup of tea from Mrs Mendham.
+
+"The Vicar plays," said Mrs Mendham. "I have spoken to George about it,
+but it's no good. I do not think a Vicar should be allowed to do such
+things. It's so foreign. But there, _he_ ...."
+
+"I know, dear," said Mrs Jehoram. "But I heard the Vicar once at the
+schoolroom. I don't think this _was_ the Vicar. It was quite clever,
+some of it, quite smart, you know. And new. I was telling dear Lady
+Hammergallow this morning. I fancy--"
+
+"The lunatic! Very likely. These half-witted people.... My dear, I don't
+think I shall ever forget that dreadful encounter. Yesterday."
+
+"Nor I."
+
+"My poor girls! They are too shocked to say a word about it. I was
+telling dear Lady Ham----"
+
+"Quite proper of them. It was _dreadful_, dear. For them."
+
+"And now, dear, I want you to tell me frankly--Do you really believe
+that creature was a man?"
+
+"You should have heard the violin."
+
+"I still more than half suspect, Jessie ----" Mrs Mendham leant forward
+as if to whisper.
+
+Mrs Jehoram helped herself to cake. "I'm sure no woman could play the
+violin quite like I heard it played this morning."
+
+"Of course, if you say so that settles the matter," said Mrs Mendham.
+Mrs Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon all
+questions of art, music and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been a
+minor poet. Then Mrs Mendham added a judicial "Still--"
+
+"Do you know," said Mrs Jehoram, "I'm half inclined to believe the dear
+Vicar's story."
+
+"How _good_ of you, Jessie," said Mrs Mendham.
+
+"But really, I don't think he _could_ have had any one in the Vicarage
+before that afternoon. I feel sure we should have heard of it. I don't
+see how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermorton
+without the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so...."
+
+"I always distrust the Vicar," said Mrs Mendham. "I know him."
+
+"Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr Angel were someone very
+clever and eccentric--"
+
+"He would have to be _very_ eccentric to dress as he did. There are
+degrees and limits, dear."
+
+"But kilts," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"Are all very well in the Highlands...."
+
+Mrs Jehoram's eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly across
+a patch of yellowish-green up the hill.
+
+"There he goes," said Mrs Jehoram, rising, "across the cornfield. I'm
+sure that's him. I can see the hump. Unless it's a man with a sack.
+Bless me, Minnie! here's an opera glass. How convenient for peeping at
+the Vicarage!... Yes, it's the man. He is a man. With _such_ a sweet
+face."
+
+Very unselfishly she allowed her hostess to share the opera glass. For
+a minute there was a rustling silence.
+
+"His dress," said Mrs Mendham, "is _quite_ respectable now."
+
+"Quite," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+Pause.
+
+"He looks cross!"
+
+"And his coat is dusty."
+
+"He walks steadily enough," said Mrs Mendham, "or one might think....
+This hot weather...."
+
+Another pause.
+
+"You see, dear," said Mrs Jehoram, putting down the lorgnette. "What I
+was going to say was, that possibly he might be a genius in disguise."
+
+"If you can call next door to nothing a disguise."
+
+"No doubt it was eccentric. But I've seen children in little blouses,
+not at all unlike him. So many clever people _are_ peculiar in their
+dress and manners. A genius may steal a horse where a bank-clerk may not
+look over the hedge. Very possibly he's quite well known and laughing
+at our Arcadian simplicity. And really it wasn't so improper as some of
+these New Women bicycling costumes. I saw one in one of the Illustrated
+Papers only a few days ago--the _New Budget_ I think--quite tights, you
+know, dear. No--I cling to the genius theory. Especially after the
+playing. I'm sure the creature is original. Perhaps very amusing. In
+fact, I intend to ask the Vicar to introduce me."
+
+"My dear!" cried Mrs Mendham.
+
+"I'm resolute," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"I'm afraid you're rash," said Mrs Mendham. "Geniuses and people of that
+kind are all very well in London. But here--at the Vicarage."
+
+"We are going to educate the folks. I love originality. At any rate I
+mean to see him."
+
+"Take care you don't see too much of him," said Mrs Mendham. "I've heard
+the fashion is quite changing. I understand that some of the very best
+people have decided that genius is not to be encouraged any more. These
+recent scandals...."
+
+"Only in literature, I can assure you, dear. In music...."
+
+"Nothing you can say, my dear," said Mrs Mendham, going off at a
+tangent, "will convince me that that person's costume was not extremely
+suggestive and improper."
+
+
+
+
+A TRIVIAL INCIDENT.
+
+XXXII.
+
+
+The Angel came thoughtfully by the hedge across the field towards the
+Vicarage. The rays of the setting sun shone on his shoulders, and
+touched the Vicarage with gold, and blazed like fire in all the windows.
+By the gate, bathed in the sunlight, stood little Delia, the waiting
+maid. She stood watching him under her hand. It suddenly came into the
+Angel's mind that she, at least, was beautiful, and not only beautiful
+but alive and warm.
+
+She opened the gate for him and stood aside. She was sorry for him, for
+her elder sister was a cripple. He bowed to her, as he would have done
+to any woman, and for just one moment looked into her face. She looked
+back at him and something leapt within her.
+
+The Angel made an irresolute movement. "Your eyes are very beautiful,"
+he said quietly, with a remote wonder in his voice.
+
+"Oh, sir!" she said, starting back. The Angel's expression changed to
+perplexity. He went on up the pathway between the Vicar's flower-beds,
+and she stood with the gate held open in her hand, staring after him.
+Just under the rose-twined verandah he turned and looked at her.
+
+She still stared at him for a moment, and then with a queer gesture
+turned round with her back to him, shutting the gate as she did so, and
+seemed to be looking down the valley towards the church tower.
+
+
+
+
+THE WARP AND THE WOOF OF THINGS.
+
+XXXIII.
+
+
+At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of his
+day's adventures.
+
+"The strange thing," said the Angel, "is the readiness of you Human
+Beings--the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting me
+this morning----"
+
+"Seemed to enjoy it," said the Vicar. "I know."
+
+"Yet they don't like pain," said the Angel.
+
+"No," said the Vicar; "_they_ don't like it."
+
+"Then," said the Angel, "I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spike
+of leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it caused
+the most uncomfortable----"
+
+"Stinging nettle!" said the Vicar.
+
+"At any rate a new sort of pain. And another plant with a head like a
+coronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged----"
+
+"A thistle, possibly."
+
+"And in your garden, the beautiful, sweet-smelling plant----"
+
+"The sweet briar," said the Vicar. "I remember."
+
+"And that pink flower that sprang out of the box----"
+
+"Out of the box?" said the Vicar.
+
+"Last night," said the Angel, "that went climbing up the
+curtains---- Flame!"
+
+"Oh!--the matches and the candles! Yes," said the Vicar.
+
+"Then the animals. A dog to-day behaved most disagreeably----. And these
+boys, and the way in which people speak----. Everyone seems
+anxious--willing at any rate--to give this Pain. Every one seems busy
+giving pain----"
+
+"Or avoiding it," said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him.
+"Yes--of course. It's fighting everywhere. The whole living world is a
+battle-field--the whole world. We are driven by Pain. Here. How it lies
+on the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!"
+
+"But why does everyone--everything--want to give pain?" asked the Angel.
+
+"It is not so in the Angelic Land?" said the Vicar.
+
+"No," said the Angel. "Why is it so here?"
+
+The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. "It _is_ so," he said.
+"Pain," said he still more slowly, "is the warp and the woof of this
+life. Do you know," he said, after a pause, "it is almost impossible for
+me to imagine ... a world without pain.... And yet, as you played this
+morning----
+
+"But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelic
+world. Indeed, a number of people--excellent religious people--have been
+so impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death,
+things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me an
+excessive view. But it's a deep question. Almost beyond one's power of
+discussion----"
+
+And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon
+"Necessity," how things were so because they were so, how one _had_ to
+do this and that. "Even our food," said the Vicar. "What?" said the
+Angel. "Is not obtained without inflicting Pain," said the Vicar.
+
+The Angel's face went so white that the Vicar checked himself suddenly.
+Or he was just on the very verge of a concise explanation of the
+antecedents of a leg of lamb. There was a pause.
+
+"By-the-bye," said the Angel, suddenly. "Have you been pithed? Like the
+common people."
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL'S DEBUT.
+
+XXXIV.
+
+
+When Lady Hammergallow made up her mind, things happened as she
+resolved. And though the Vicar made a spasmodic protest, she carried out
+her purpose and got audience, Angel, and violin together, at
+Siddermorton House before the week was out. "A genius the Vicar has
+discovered," she said; so with eminent foresight putting any possibility
+of blame for a failure on the Vicar's shoulders. "The dear Vicar tells
+me," she would say, and proceed to marvellous anecdotes of the Angel's
+cleverness with his instrument. But she was quite in love with her
+idea--she had always had a secret desire to play the patroness to
+obscure talent. Hitherto it had not turned out to be talent when it came
+to the test.
+
+"It would be such a good thing for him," she said. "His hair is long
+already, and with that high colour he would be beautiful, simply
+beautiful on a platform. The Vicar's clothes fitting him so badly makes
+him look quite like a fashionable pianist already. And the scandal of
+his birth--not told, of course, but whispered--would be--quite an
+Inducement----when he gets to London, that is."
+
+The Vicar had the most horrible sensations as the day approached. He
+spent hours trying to explain the situation to the Angel, other hours
+trying to imagine what people would think, still worse hours trying to
+anticipate the Angel's behaviour. Hitherto the Angel had always played
+for his own satisfaction. The Vicar would startle him every now and then
+by rushing upon him with some new point of etiquette that had just
+occurred to him. As for instance: "It's very important where you put
+your hat, you know. Don't put it on a chair, whatever you do. Hold it
+until you get your tea, you know, and then--let me see--then put it down
+somewhere, you know." The journey to Siddermorton House was
+accomplished without misadventure, but at the moment of introduction
+the Vicar had a spasm of horrible misgivings. He had forgotten to
+explain introductions. The Angel's naïve amusement was evident, but
+nothing very terrible happened.
+
+"Rummy looking greaser," said Mr Rathbone Slater, who devoted
+considerable attention to costume. "Wants grooming. No manners. Grinned
+when he saw me shaking hands. Did it _chic_ enough, I thought."
+
+One trivial misadventure occurred. When Lady Hammergallow welcomed the
+Angel she looked at him through her glasses. The apparent size of her
+eyes startled him. His surprise and his quick attempt to peer over the
+brims was only too evident. But the Vicar had warned him of the ear
+trumpet.
+
+The Angel's incapacity to sit on anything but a music stool appeared to
+excite some interest among the ladies, but led to no remarks. They
+regarded it perhaps as the affectation of a budding professional. He was
+remiss with the teacups and scattered the crumbs of his cake abroad.
+(You must remember he was quite an amateur at eating.) He crossed his
+legs. He fumbled over the hat business after vainly trying to catch the
+Vicar's eye. The eldest Miss Papaver tried to talk to him about
+continental watering places and cigarettes, and formed a low opinion of
+his intelligence.
+
+The Angel was surprised by the production of an easel and several books
+of music, and a little unnerved at first by the sight of Lady
+Hammergallow sitting with her head on one side, watching him with those
+magnified eyes through her gilt glasses.
+
+Mrs Jehoram came up to him before he began to play and asked him the
+Name of the Charming Piece he was playing the other afternoon. The Angel
+said it had no name, and Mrs Jehoram thought music ought never to have
+any names and wanted to know who it was by, and when the Angel told her
+he played it out of his head, she said he must be Quite a Genius and
+looked open (and indisputably fascinating) admiration at him. The Curate
+from Iping Hanger (who was professionally a Kelt and who played the
+piano and talked colour and music with an air of racial superiority)
+watched him jealously.
+
+The Vicar, who was presently captured and set down next to Lady
+Hammergallow, kept an anxious eye ever Angelward while she told him
+particulars of the incomes made by violinists--particulars which, for
+the most part, she invented as she went along. She had been a little
+ruffled by the incident of the glasses, but had decided that it came
+within the limits of permissible originality.
+
+So figure to yourself the Green Saloon at Siddermorton Park; an Angel
+thinly disguised in clerical vestments and with a violin in his hands,
+standing by the grand piano, and a respectable gathering of quiet nice
+people, nicely dressed, grouped about the room. Anticipatory gabble--one
+hears scattered fragments of conversation.
+
+"He is _incog._"; said the very eldest Miss Papaver to Mrs Pirbright.
+"Isn't it quaint and delicious. Jessica Jehoram says she saw him at
+Vienna, but she can't remember the name. The Vicar knows all about him,
+but he is so close----"
+
+"How hot and uncomfortable the dear Vicar is looking," said Mrs
+Pirbright. "I've noticed it before when he sits next to Lady
+Hammergallow. She simply will _not_ respect his cloth. She goes on----"
+
+"His tie is all askew," said the very eldest Miss Papaver, "and his
+hair! It really hardly looks as though he had brushed it all day."
+
+"Seems a foreign sort of chap. Affected. All very well in a
+drawing-room," said George Harringay, sitting apart with the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "But for my part give me a masculine man and a feminine
+woman. What do you think?"
+
+"Oh!--I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"Guineas and guineas," said Lady Hammergallow. "I've heard that some of
+them keep quite stylish establishments. You would scarcely credit
+it----"
+
+"I love music, Mr Angel, I adore it. It stirs something in me. I can
+scarcely describe it," said Mrs Jehoram. "Who is it says that delicious
+antithesis: Life without music is brutality; music without life
+is---- Dear me! perhaps you remember? Music without life----it's Ruskin
+I think?"
+
+"I'm sorry that I do not," said the Angel. "I have read very few books."
+
+"How charming of you!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I wish I didn't. I sympathise
+with you profoundly. I would do the same, only we poor women----I
+suppose it's originality we lack---- And down here one is driven to the
+most desperate proceedings----"
+
+"He's certainly very _pretty_. But the ultimate test of a man is his
+strength," said George Harringay. "What do you think?"
+
+"Oh!--I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"It's the effeminate man who makes the masculine woman. When the glory
+of a man is his hair, what's a woman to do? And when men go running
+about with beautiful hectic dabs----"
+
+"Oh George! You are so dreadfully satirical to-day," said the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "I'm _sure_ it isn't paint."
+
+"I'm really not his guardian, my dear Lady Hammergallow. Of course it's
+very kind indeed of you to take such an interest----"
+
+"Are you really going to improvise?" said Mrs Jehoram in a state of
+cooing delight.
+
+"_SSsh!_" said the curate from Iping Hanger.
+
+Then the Angel began to play, looking straight before him as he did so,
+thinking of the wonderful things of the Angelic Land, and yet insensibly
+letting the sadness he was beginning to feel, steal over the fantasia he
+was playing. When he forgot his company the music was strange and sweet;
+when the sense of his surroundings floated into his mind the music grew
+capricious and grotesque. But so great was the hold of the Angelic music
+upon the Vicar that his anxieties fell from him at once, so soon as the
+Angel began to play. Mrs Jehoram sat and looked rapt and sympathetic as
+hard as she could (though the music was puzzling at times) and tried to
+catch the Angel's eye. He really had a wonderfully mobile face, and the
+tenderest shades of expression! And Mrs Jehoram was a judge. George
+Harringay looked bored, until the younger Miss Pirbright, who adored
+him, put out her mousy little shoe to touch his manly boot, and then he
+turned his face to catch the feminine delicacy of her coquettish eye,
+and was comforted. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs Pirbright sat
+quite still and looked churchy for nearly four minutes.
+
+Then said the eldest Miss Papaver in a whisper, "I always Enjoy violin
+music so much." And Mrs Pirbright answered, "We get so little Nice music
+down here." And Miss Papaver said, "He plays Very nicely." And Mrs
+Pirbright, "Such a Delicate Touch!" And Miss Papaver, "Does Willie keep
+up his lessons?" and so to a whispered conversation.
+
+The Curate from Iping Hanger sat (he felt) in full view of the company.
+He had one hand curled round his ear, and his eyes hard and staring
+fixedly at the pedestal of the Hammergallow Sèvres vase. He supplied, by
+the movements of his mouth, a kind of critical guide to any of the
+company who were disposed to avail themselves of it. It was a generous
+way he had. His aspect was severely judicial, tempered by starts of
+evident disapproval and guarded appreciation. The Vicar leaned back in
+his chair and stared at the Angel's face, and was presently rapt away in
+a wonderful dream. Lady Hammergallow, with quick jerky movements of the
+head and a low but insistent rustling, surveyed and tried to judge of
+the effect of the Angelic playing. Mr Rathbone-Slater stared very
+solemnly into his hat and looked very miserable, and Mrs Rathbone-Slater
+made mental memoranda of Mrs Jehoram's sleeves. And the air about them
+all was heavy with exquisite music--for all that had ears to hear.
+
+"Scarcely affected enough," whispered Lady Hammergallow hoarsely,
+suddenly poking the Vicar in the ribs. The Vicar came out of Dreamland
+suddenly. "Eigh?" shouted the Vicar, startled, coming up with a jump.
+"Sssh!" said the Curate from Iping Hanger, and everyone looked shocked
+at the brutal insensibility of Hilyer. "So unusual of the Vicar," said
+the very eldest Miss Papaver, "to do things like that!" The Angel went
+on playing.
+
+The Curate from Iping Hanger began making mesmeric movements with his
+index finger, and as the thing proceeded Mr Rathbone-Slater got
+amazingly limp. He solemnly turned his hat round and altered his view.
+The Vicar lapsed from an uneasy discomfort into dreamland again. Lady
+Hammergallow rustled a great deal, and presently found a way of making
+her chair creak. And at last the thing came to an end. Lady Hammergallow
+exclaimed "De--licious!" though she had never heard a note, and began
+clapping her hands. At that everyone clapped except Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+who rapped his hat brim instead. The Curate from Iping Hanger clapped
+with a judicial air.
+
+"So I said (_clap, clap, clap_), if you cannot cook the food my way
+(_clap, clap, clap_) you must _go_," said Mrs Pirbright, clapping
+vigorously. "(This music is a delightful treat.)"
+
+"(It is. I always _revel_ in music,)" said the very eldest Miss Papaver.
+"And did she improve after that?"
+
+"Not a bit of it," said Mrs Pirbright.
+
+The Vicar woke up again and stared round the saloon. Did other people
+see these visions, or were they confined to him alone? Surely they must
+all see ... and have a wonderful command of their feelings. It was
+incredible that such music should not affect them. "He's a trifle
+_gauche_," said Lady Hammergallow, jumping upon the Vicar's attention.
+"He neither bows nor smiles. He must cultivate oddities like that. Every
+successful executant is more or less _gauche_."
+
+"Did you really make that up yourself?" said Mrs Jehoram, sparkling her
+eyes at him, "as you went along. Really, it is _wonderful_! Nothing less
+than wonderful."
+
+"A little amateurish," said the Curate from Iping Hanger to Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "A great gift, undoubtedly, but a certain lack of
+sustained training. There were one or two little things ... I would like
+to talk to him."
+
+"His trousers look like concertinas," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "He ought
+to be told _that_. It's scarcely decent."
+
+"Can you do Imitations, Mr Angel?" said Lady Hammergallow.
+
+"Oh _do_, do some Imitations!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I adore Imitations."
+
+"It was a fantastic thing," said the Curate of Iping Hanger to the
+Vicar of Siddermorton, waving his long indisputably musical hands as he
+spoke; "a little involved, to my mind. I have heard it before
+somewhere--I forget where. He has genius undoubtedly, but occasionally
+he is--loose. There is a certain deadly precision wanting. There are
+years of discipline yet."
+
+"I _don't_ admire these complicated pieces of music," said George
+Harringay. "I have simple tastes, I'm afraid. There seems to me no
+_tune_ in it. There's nothing I like so much as simple music. Tune,
+simplicity is the need of the age, in my opinion. We are so over subtle.
+Everything is far-fetched. Home grown thoughts and 'Home, Sweet Home'
+for me. What do you think?"
+
+"Oh! I think so--_quite_," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"Well, Amy, chattering to George as usual?" said Mrs Pirbright, across
+the room.
+
+"As usual, Ma!" said the younger Miss Pirbright, glancing round with a
+bright smile at Miss Papaver, and turning again so as not to lose the
+next utterance from George.
+
+"I wonder if you and Mr Angel could manage a duet?" said Lady
+Hammergallow to the Curate from Iping Hanger, who was looking
+preternaturally gloomy.
+
+"I'm sure I should be delighted," said the Curate from Iping Hanger,
+brightening up.
+
+"Duets!" said the Angel; "the two of us. Then he can play. I
+understood--the Vicar told me--"
+
+"Mr Wilmerdings is an accomplished pianist," interrupted the Vicar.
+
+"But the Imitations?" said Mrs Jehoram, who detested Wilmerdings.
+
+"Imitations!" said the Angel.
+
+"A pig squeaking, a cock crowing, you know," said Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+and added lower, "Best fun you can get out of a fiddle--_my_ opinion."
+
+"I really don't understand," said the Angel. "A pig crowing!"
+
+"You don't like Imitations," said Mrs Jehoram. "Nor do I--really. I
+accept the snub. I think they degrade...."
+
+"Perhaps afterwards Mr Angel will Relent," said Lady Hammergallow, when
+Mrs Pirbright had explained the matter to her. She could scarcely credit
+her ear-trumpet. When she asked for Imitations she was accustomed to get
+Imitations.
+
+Mr Wilmerdings had seated himself at the piano, and had turned to a
+familiar pile of music in the recess. "What do you think of that
+Barcarole thing of Spohr's?" he said over his shoulder. "I suppose you
+know it?" The Angel looked bewildered.
+
+He opened the folio before the Angel.
+
+"What an odd kind of book!" said the Angel. "What do all those crazy
+dots mean?" (At that the Vicar's blood ran cold.)
+
+"What dots?" said the Curate.
+
+"There!" said the Angel with incriminating finger.
+
+"Oh _come_!" said the Curate.
+
+There was one of those swift, short silences that mean so much in a
+social gathering.
+
+Then the eldest Miss Papaver turned upon the Vicar. "Does not Mr Angel
+play from ordinary.... Music--from the ordinary notation?"
+
+"I have never heard," said the Vicar, getting red now after the first
+shock of horror. "I have really never seen...."
+
+The Angel felt the situation was strained, though what was straining it
+he could not understand. He became aware of a doubtful, an unfriendly
+look upon the faces that regarded him. "Impossible!" he heard Mrs
+Pirbright say; "after that _beautiful_ music." The eldest Miss Papaver
+went to Lady Hammergallow at once, and began to explain into her
+ear-trumpet that Mr Angel did not wish to play with Mr Wilmerdings, and
+alleged an ignorance of written music.
+
+"He cannot play from Notes!" said Lady Hammergallow in a voice of
+measured horror. "Non--sense!"
+
+"Notes!" said the Angel perplexed. "Are these notes?"
+
+"It's carrying the joke too far--simply because he doesn't want to play
+with Wilmerdings," said Mr Rathbone-Slater to George Harringay.
+
+There was an expectant pause. The Angel perceived he had to be ashamed
+of himself. He was ashamed of himself.
+
+"Then," said Lady Hammergallow, throwing her head back and speaking with
+deliberate indignation, as she rustled forward, "if you cannot play with
+Mr Wilmerdings I am afraid I cannot ask you to play again." She made it
+sound like an ultimatum. Her glasses in her hand quivered violently with
+indignation. The Angel was now human enough to appreciate the fact that
+he was crushed.
+
+"What is it?" said little Lucy Rustchuck in the further bay.
+
+"He's refused to play with old Wilmerdings," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.
+"What a lark! The old girl's purple. She thinks heaps of that ass,
+Wilmerdings."
+
+"Perhaps, Mr Wilmerdings, you will favour us with that delicious
+Polonaise of Chopin's," said Lady Hammergallow. Everybody else was
+hushed. The indignation of Lady Hammergallow inspired much the same
+silence as a coming earthquake or an eclipse. Mr Wilmerdings perceived
+he would be doing a real social service to begin at once, and (be it
+entered to his credit now that his account draws near its settlement) he
+did.
+
+"If a man pretend to practise an Art," said George Harringay, "he ought
+at least to have the conscience to study the elements of it. What do
+you...."
+
+"Oh! I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+The Vicar felt that the heavens had fallen. He sat crumpled up in his
+chair, a shattered man. Lady Hammergallow sat down next to him without
+appearing to see him. She was breathing heavily, but her face was
+terribly calm. Everyone sat down. Was the Angel grossly ignorant or only
+grossly impertinent? The Angel was vaguely aware of some frightful
+offence, aware that in some mysterious way he had ceased to be the
+centre of the gathering. He saw reproachful despair in the Vicar's eye.
+He drifted slowly towards the window in the recess and sat down on the
+little octagonal Moorish stool by the side of Mrs Jehoram. And under the
+circumstances he appreciated at more than its proper value Mrs Jehoram's
+kindly smile. He put down the violin in the window seat.
+
+
+
+
+XXXV.
+
+
+Mrs Jehoram and the Angel (apart)--Mr Wilmerdings playing.
+
+"I have so longed for a quiet word with you," said Mrs Jehoram in a low
+tone. "To tell you how delightful I found your playing."
+
+"I am glad it pleased you," said the Angel.
+
+"Pleased is scarcely the word," said Mrs Jehoram. "I was
+moved--profoundly. These others did not understand.... I was glad you
+did not play with him."
+
+The Angel looked at the mechanism called Wilmerdings, and felt glad too.
+(The Angelic conception of duets is a kind of conversation upon
+violins.) But he said nothing.
+
+"I worship music," said Mrs Jehoram. "I know nothing about it
+technically, but there is something in it--a longing, a wish...."
+
+The Angel stared at her face. She met his eyes.
+
+"You understand," she said. "I see you understand." He was certainly a
+very nice boy, sentimentally precocious perhaps, and with deliciously
+liquid eyes.
+
+There was an interval of Chopin (Op. 40) played with immense precision.
+
+Mrs Jehoram had a sweet face still, in shadow, with the light falling
+round her golden hair, and a curious theory flashed across the Angel's
+mind. The perceptible powder only supported his view of something
+infinitely bright and lovable caught, tarnished, coarsened, coated over.
+
+"Do you," said the Angel in a low tone. "Are you ... separated from ...
+_your_ world?"
+
+"As you are?" whispered Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"This is so--cold," said the Angel. "So harsh!" He meant the whole
+world.
+
+"I feel it too," said Mrs Jehoram, referring to Siddermorton Home.
+
+"There are those who cannot live without sympathy," she said after a
+sympathetic pause. "And times when one feels alone in the world.
+Fighting a battle against it all. Laughing, flirting, hiding the pain of
+it...."
+
+"And hoping," said the Angel with a wonderful glance.--"Yes."
+
+Mrs Jehoram (who was an epicure of flirtations) felt the Angel was more
+than redeeming the promise of his appearance. (Indisputably he
+worshipped her.) "Do _you_ look for sympathy?" she said. "Or have you
+found it?"
+
+"I think," said the Angel, very softly, leaning forward, "I think I have
+found it."
+
+Interval of Chopin Op. 40. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs
+Pirbright whispering. Lady Hammergallow (glasses up) looking down the
+saloon with an unfriendly expression at the Angel. Mrs Jehoram and the
+Angel exchanging deep and significant glances.
+
+"Her name," said the Angel (Mrs Jehoram made a movement) "is Delia. She
+is...."
+
+"Delia!" said Mrs Jehoram sharply, slowly realising a terrible
+misunderstanding. "A fanciful name.... Why!... No! Not that little
+housemaid at the Vicarage--?..."
+
+The Polonaise terminated with a flourish. The Angel was quite surprised
+at the change in Mrs Jehoram's expression.
+
+"_I never_ did!" said Mrs Jehoram recovering. "To make me your
+confidant in an intrigue with a servant. Really Mr Angel it's possible
+to be too original...."
+
+Then suddenly their colloquy was interrupted.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVI.
+
+
+This section is (so far as my memory goes) the shortest in the book.
+
+But the enormity of the offence necessitates the separation of this
+section from all other sections.
+
+The Vicar, you must understand, had done his best to inculcate the
+recognised differentiae of a gentleman. "Never allow a lady to carry
+anything," said the Vicar. "Say, 'permit me' and relieve her." "Always
+stand until every lady is seated." "Always rise and open a door for a
+lady...." and so forth. (All men who have elder sisters know that code.)
+
+And the Angel (who had failed to relieve Lady Hammergallow of her
+teacup) danced forward with astonishing dexterity (leaving Mrs Jehoram
+in the window seat) and with an elegant "permit me" rescued the tea-tray
+from Lady Hammergallow's pretty parlour-maid and vanished officiously in
+front of her. The Vicar rose to his feet with an inarticulate cry.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVII.
+
+
+"He's drunk!" said Mr Rathbone-Slater, breaking a terrific silence.
+"That's the matter with _him_."
+
+Mrs Jehoram laughed hysterically.
+
+The Vicar stood up, motionless, staring. "Oh! I _forgot_ to explain
+servants to him!" said the Vicar to himself in a swift outbreak of
+remorse. "I thought he _did_ understand servants."
+
+"Really, Mr Hilyer!" said Lady Hammergallow, evidently exercising
+enormous self-control and speaking in panting spasms. "Really, Mr
+Hilyer!--Your genius is _too_ terrible. I must, I really _must_, ask you
+to take him home."
+
+So to the dialogue in the corridor of alarmed maid-servant and
+well-meaning (but shockingly _gauche_) Angel--appears the Vicar, his
+botryoidal little face crimson, gaunt despair in his eyes, and his
+necktie under his left ear.
+
+"Come," he said--struggling with emotion. "Come away.... I.... I am
+disgraced for ever."
+
+And the Angel stared for a second at him and obeyed--meekly, perceiving
+himself in the presence of unknown but evidently terrible forces.
+
+And so began and ended the Angel's social career.
+
+In the informal indignation meeting that followed, Lady Hammergallow
+took the (informal) chair. "I feel humiliated," she said. "The Vicar
+assured me he was an exquisite player. I never imagined...."
+
+"He was drunk," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "You could tell it from the way
+he fumbled with his tea."
+
+"Such a _fiasco_!" said Mrs Mergle.
+
+"The Vicar assured me," said Lady Hammergallow. "'The man I have staying
+with me is a musical genius,' he said. His very words."
+
+"His ears must be burning anyhow," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.
+
+"I was trying to keep him Quiet," said Mrs Jehoram. "By humouring him.
+And do you know the things he said to me--there!"
+
+"The thing he played," said Mr Wilmerdings,"--I must confess I did not
+like to charge him to his face. But really! It was merely _drifting_."
+
+"Just fooling with a fiddle, eigh?" said George Harringay. "Well I
+thought it was beyond me. So much of your fine music is--"
+
+"Oh, _George_!" said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"The Vicar was a bit on too--to judge by his tie," said Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "It's a dashed rummy go. Did you notice how he fussed
+after the genius?"
+
+"One has to be so very careful," said the very eldest Miss Papaver.
+
+"He told me he is in love with the Vicar's housemaid!" said Mrs Jehoram.
+"I almost laughed in his face."
+
+"The Vicar ought _never_ to have brought him here," said Mrs
+Rathbone-Slater with decision.
+
+
+
+
+THE TROUBLE OF THE BARBED WIRE.
+
+XXXVIII.
+
+
+So, ingloriously, ended the Angel's first and last appearance in
+Society. Vicar and Angel returned to the Vicarage; crestfallen black
+figures in the bright sunlight, going dejectedly. The Angel, deeply
+pained that the Vicar was pained. The Vicar, dishevelled and desperate,
+intercalating spasmodic remorse and apprehension with broken
+explanations of the Theory of Etiquette. "They do _not_ understand,"
+said the Vicar over and over again. "They will all be so very much
+aggrieved. I do not know what to say to them. It is all so confused, so
+perplexing." And at the gate of the Vicarage, at the very spot where
+Delia had first seemed beautiful, stood Horrocks the village constable,
+awaiting them. He held coiled up about his hand certain short lengths of
+barbed wire.
+
+"Good evening, Horrocks," said the Vicar as the constable held the gate
+open.
+
+"Evenin', Sir," said Horrocks, and added in a kind of mysterious
+undertone, "_Could_ I speak to you a minute, Sir?"
+
+"Certainly," said the Vicar. The Angel walked on thoughtfully to the
+house, and meeting Delia in the hall stopped her and cross-examined her
+at length over differences between Servants and Ladies.
+
+"You'll excuse my taking the liberty, Sir," said Horrocks, "but there's
+trouble brewin' for that crippled gent you got stayin' here."
+
+"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "You don't say so!"
+
+"Sir John Gotch, Sir. He's very angry indeed, Sir. His language,
+Sir----. But I felt bound to tell you, Sir. He's certain set on taking
+out a summons on account of that there barbed wire. Certain set, Sir, he
+is."
+
+"Sir John Gotch!" said the Vicar. "Wire! I don't understand."
+
+"He asked me to find out who did it. Course I've had to do my duty, Sir.
+Naturally a disagreeable one."
+
+"Barbed wire! Duty! I don't understand you, Horrocks."
+
+"I'm afraid, Sir, there's no denying the evidence. I've made careful
+enquiries, Sir." And forthwith the constable began telling the Vicar of
+a new and terrible outrage committed by the Angelic visitor.
+
+But we need not follow that explanation in detail--or the subsequent
+confession. (For my own part I think there is nothing more tedious than
+dialogue). It gave the Vicar a new view of the Angelic character, a
+vignette of the Angelic indignation. A shady lane, sun-mottled, sweet
+hedges full of honeysuckle and vetch on either side, and a little girl
+gathering flowers, forgetful of the barbed wire which, all along the
+Sidderford Road, fenced in the dignity of Sir John Gotch from "bounders"
+and the detested "million." Then suddenly a gashed hand, a bitter
+outcry, and the Angel sympathetic, comforting, inquisitive. Explanations
+sob-set, and then--altogether novel phenomenon in the Angelic
+career--_passion_. A furious onslaught upon the barbed wire of Sir John
+Gotch, barbed wire recklessly handled, slashed, bent and broken. Yet
+the Angel acted without personal malice--saw in the thing only an ugly
+and vicious plant that trailed insidiously among its fellows. Finally
+the Angel's explanations gave the Vicar a picture of the Angel alone
+amidst his destruction, trembling and amazed at the sudden force, not
+himself, that had sprung up within him, and set him striking and
+cutting. Amazed, too, at the crimson blood that trickled down his
+fingers.
+
+"It is still more horrible," said the Angel when the Vicar explained the
+artificial nature of the thing. "If I had seen the man who put this
+silly-cruel stuff there to hurt little children, I know I should have
+tried to inflict pain upon him. I have never felt like this before. I am
+indeed becoming tainted and coloured altogether by the wickedness of
+this world."
+
+"To think, too, that you men should be so foolish as to uphold the laws
+that let a man do such spiteful things. Yes--I know; you will say it has
+to be so. For some remoter reason. That is a thing that only makes me
+angrier. Why cannot an act rest on its own merits?... As it does in the
+Angelic Land."
+
+That was the incident the history of which the Vicar now gradually
+learnt, getting the bare outline from Horrocks, the colour and emotion
+subsequently from the Angel. The thing had happened the day before the
+musical festival at Siddermorton House.
+
+"Have you told Sir John who did it?" asked the Vicar. "And are you
+sure?"
+
+"Quite sure, Sir. There can be no doubting it was your gentleman, Sir.
+I've not told Sir John yet, Sir. But I shall have to tell Sir John this
+evening. Meaning no offence to you, Sir, as I hopes you'll see. It's my
+duty, Sir. Besides which--"
+
+"Of course," said the Vicar, hastily. "Certainly it's your duty. And
+what will Sir John do?"
+
+"He's dreadful set against the person who did it--destroying property
+like that--and sort of slapping his arrangements in the face."
+
+Pause. Horrocks made a movement. The Vicar, tie almost at the back of
+his neck now, a most unusual thing for him, stared blankly at his toes.
+
+"I thought I'd tell you, Sir," said Horrocks.
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar. "Thanks, Horrocks, thanks!" He scratched the
+back of his head. "You might perhaps ... I think it's the best way ...
+Quite sure Mr Angel did it?"
+
+"Sherlock 'Omes, Sir, couldn't be cocksurer."
+
+"Then I'd better give you a little note to the Squire."
+
+
+
+
+XXXIX.
+
+
+The Vicar's table-talk at dinner that night, after the Angel had stated
+his case, was full of grim explanations, prisons, madness.
+
+"It's too late to tell the truth about you now," said the Vicar.
+"Besides, that's impossible. I really do not know what to say. We must
+face our circumstances, I suppose. I am so undecided--so torn. It's the
+two worlds. If your Angelic world were only a dream, or if _this_ world
+were only a dream--or if I could believe either or both dreams, it would
+be all right with me. But here is a real Angel and a real summons--how
+to reconcile them I do not know. I must talk to Gotch.... But he won't
+understand. Nobody will understand...."
+
+"I am putting you to terrible inconvenience, I am afraid. My appalling
+unworldliness--"
+
+"It's not you," said the Vicar. "It's not you. I perceive you have
+brought something strange and beautiful into my life. It's not you.
+It's myself. If I had more faith either way. If I could believe entirely
+in this world, and call you an Abnormal Phenomenon, as Crump does. But
+no. Terrestrial Angelic, Angelic Terrestrial.... See-Saw."
+
+"Still, Gotch is certain to be disagreeable, _most_ disagreeable. He
+always is. It puts me into his hands. He is a bad moral influence, I
+know. Drinking. Gambling. Worse. Still, one must render unto Cĉsar the
+things that are Cĉsar's. And he is against Disestablishment...."
+
+Then the Vicar would revert to the social collapse of the afternoon.
+"You are so very fundamental, you know," he said--several times.
+
+The Angel went to his own room puzzled but very depressed. Every day the
+world had frowned darker upon him and his angelic ways. He could see how
+the trouble affected the Vicar, yet he could not imagine how he could
+avert it. It was all so strange and unreasonable. Twice again, too, he
+had been pelted out of the village.
+
+He found the violin lying on his bed where he had laid it before
+dinner. And taking it up he began to play to comfort himself. But now he
+played no delicious vision of the Angelic Land. The iron of the world
+was entering into his soul. For a week now he had known pain and
+rejection, suspicion and hatred; a strange new spirit of revolt was
+growing up in his heart. He played a melody, still sweet and tender as
+those of the Angelic Land, but charged with a new note, the note of
+human sorrow and effort, now swelling into something like defiance,
+dying now into a plaintive sadness. He played softly, playing to himself
+to comfort himself, but the Vicar heard, and all his finite bothers were
+swallowed up in a hazy melancholy, a melancholy that was quite remote
+from sorrow. And besides the Vicar, the Angel had another hearer of whom
+neither Angel nor Vicar was thinking.
+
+
+
+
+DELIA.
+
+XL.
+
+
+She was only four or five yards away from the Angel in the westward
+gable. The diamond-paned window of her little white room was open. She
+knelt on her box of japanned tin, and rested her chin on her hands, her
+elbows on the window-sill. The young moon hung over the pine trees, and
+its light, cool and colourless, lay softly upon the silent-sleeping
+world. Its light fell upon her white face, and discovered new depths in
+her dreaming eyes. Her soft lips fell apart and showed the little white
+teeth.
+
+Delia was thinking, vaguely, wonderfully, as girls will think. It was
+feeling rather than thinking; clouds of beautiful translucent emotion
+drove across the clear sky of her mind, taking shape that changed and
+vanished. She had all that wonderful emotional tenderness, that subtle
+exquisite desire for self-sacrifice, which exists so inexplicably in a
+girl's heart, exists it seems only to be presently trampled under foot
+by the grim and gross humours of daily life, to be ploughed in again
+roughly and remorselessly, as the farmer ploughs in the clover that has
+sprung up in the soil. She had been looking out at the tranquillity of
+the moonlight long before the Angel began to play,--waiting; then
+suddenly the quiet, motionless beauty of silver and shadow was suffused
+with tender music.
+
+She did not move, but her lips closed and her eyes grew even softer. She
+had been thinking before of the strange glory that had suddenly flashed
+out about the stooping hunchback when he spoke to her in the sunset; of
+that and of a dozen other glances, chance turns, even once the touching
+of her hand. That afternoon he had spoken to her, asking strange
+questions. Now the music seemed to bring his very face before her, his
+look of half curious solicitude, peering into her face, into her eyes,
+into her and through her, deep down into her soul. He seemed now to be
+speaking directly to her, telling her of his solitude and trouble. Oh!
+that regret, that longing! For he was in trouble. And how could a
+servant-girl help him, this soft-spoken gentleman who carried himself so
+kindly, who played so sweetly. The music was so sweet and keen, it came
+so near to the thought of her heart, that presently one hand tightened
+on the other, and the tears came streaming down her face.
+
+As Crump would tell you, people do not do that kind of thing unless
+there is something wrong with the nervous system. But then, from the
+scientific point of view, being in love is a pathological condition.
+
+
+I am painfully aware of the objectionable nature of my story here. I
+have even thought of wilfully perverting the truth to propitiate the
+Lady Reader. But I could not. The story has been too much for me. I do
+the thing with my eyes open. Delia must remain what she really was--a
+servant girl. I know that to give a mere servant girl, or at least an
+English servant girl, the refined feelings of a human being, to present
+her as speaking with anything but an intolerable confusion of aspirates,
+places me outside the pale of respectable writers. Association with
+servants, even in thought, is dangerous in these days. I can only plead
+(pleading vainly, I know), that Delia was a very exceptional servant
+girl. Possibly, if one enquired, it might be found that her parentage
+was upper middle-class--that she was made of the finer upper
+middle-class clay. And (this perhaps may avail me better) I will promise
+that in some future work I will redress the balance, and the patient
+reader shall have the recognised article, enormous feet and hands,
+systematic aspiration of vowels and elimination of aspirates, no figure
+(only middle-class girls have figures--the thing is beyond a
+servant-girl's means), a fringe (by agreement), and a cheerful readiness
+to dispose of her self-respect for half-a-crown. That is the accepted
+English servant, the typical English woman (when stripped of money and
+accomplishments) as she appears in the works of contemporary writers.
+But Delia somehow was different. I can only regret the circumstance--it
+was altogether beyond my control.
+
+
+
+
+DOCTOR CRUMP ACTS.
+
+XLI.
+
+
+Early the next morning the Angel went down through the village, and
+climbing the fence, waded through the waist-high reeds that fringe the
+Sidder. He was going to Bandram Bay to take a nearer view of the sea,
+which one could just see on a clear day from the higher parts of
+Siddermorton Park. And suddenly he came upon Crump sitting on a log and
+smoking. (Crump always smoked exactly two ounces per week--and he always
+smoked it in the open air.)
+
+"Hullo!" said Crump, in his healthiest tone. "How's the wing?"
+
+"Very well," said the Angel. "The pain's gone."
+
+"I suppose you know you are trespassing?"
+
+"Trespassing!" said the Angel.
+
+"I suppose you don't know what that means," said Crump.
+
+"I don't," said the Angel.
+
+"I must congratulate you. I don't know how long you will last, but you
+are keeping it up remarkably well. I thought at first you were a
+mattoid, but you're so amazingly consistent. Your attitude of entire
+ignorance of the elementary facts of Life is really a very amusing pose.
+You make slips of course, but very few. But surely we two understand one
+another."
+
+He smiled at the Angel. "You would beat Sherlock Holmes. I wonder who
+you really are."
+
+The Angel smiled back, with eyebrows raised and hands extended. "It's
+impossible for you to know who I am. Your eyes are blind, your ears
+deaf, your soul dark, to all that is wonderful about me. It's no good my
+telling that I fell into your world."
+
+The Doctor waved his pipe. "Not that, please. I don't want to pry if you
+have your reasons for keeping quiet. Only I would like you to think of
+Hilyer's mental health. He really believes this story."
+
+The Angel shrugged his dwindling wings.
+
+"You did not know him before this affair. He's changed tremendously. He
+used to be neat and comfortable. For the last fortnight he's been hazy,
+with a far-away look in his eyes. He preached last Sunday without his
+cuff links, and something wrong with his tie, and he took for his text,
+'Eye hath not seen nor ear heard.' He really believes all this nonsense
+about the Angel-land. The man is verging on monomania!"
+
+"You _will_ see things from your own standpoint," said the Angel.
+
+"Everyone must. At any rate, I think it jolly regrettable to see this
+poor old fellow hypnotized, as you certainly have hypnotized him. I
+don't know where you come from nor who you are, but I warn you I'm not
+going to see the old boy made a fool of much longer."
+
+"But he's not being made a fool of. He's simply beginning to dream of a
+world outside his knowledge----"
+
+"It won't do," said Crump. "I'm not one of the dupe class. You are
+either of two things--a lunatic at large (which I don't believe), or a
+knave. Nothing else is possible. I think I know a little of this world,
+whatever I do of yours. Very well. If you don't leave Hilyer alone I
+shall communicate with the police, and either clap you into a prison, if
+you go back on your story, or into a madhouse if you don't. It's
+stretching a point, but I swear I'd certify you insane to-morrow to get
+you out of the village. It's not only the Vicar. As you know. I hope
+that's plain. Now what have you to say?"
+
+With an affectation of great calm, the Doctor took out his penknife and
+began to dig the blade into his pipe bowl. His pipe had gone out during
+this last speech.
+
+For a moment neither spoke. The Angel looked about him with a face that
+grew pale. The Doctor extracted a plug of tobacco from his pipe and
+flung it away, shut his penknife and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He
+had not meant to speak quite so emphatically, but speech always warmed
+him.
+
+"Prison," said the Angel. "Madhouse! Let me see." Then he remembered
+the Vicar's explanation. "Not that!" he said. He approached Crump with
+eyes dilated and hands outstretched.
+
+"I knew _you_ would know what those things meant--at any rate. Sit
+down," said Crump, indicating the tree trunk beside him by a movement of
+the head.
+
+The Angel, shivering, sat down on the tree trunk and stared at the
+Doctor.
+
+Crump was getting out his pouch. "You are a strange man," said the
+Angel. "Your beliefs are like--a steel trap."
+
+"They are," said Crump--flattered.
+
+"But I tell you--I assure you the thing is so--I know nothing, or at
+least remember nothing of anything I knew of this world before I found
+myself in the darkness of night on the moorland above Sidderford."
+
+"Where did you learn the language then?"
+
+"I don't know. Only I tell you--But I haven't an atom of the sort of
+proof that would convince you."
+
+"And you really," said Crump, suddenly coming round upon him and
+looking into his eyes; "You really believe you were eternally in a kind
+of glorious heaven before then?"
+
+"I do," said the Angel.
+
+"Pshaw!" said Crump, and lit his pipe. He sat smoking, elbow on knee,
+for some time, and the Angel sat and watched him. Then his face grew
+less troubled.
+
+"It is just possible," he said to himself rather than to the Angel, and
+began another piece of silence.
+
+"You see;" he said, when that was finished. "There is such a thing as
+double personality.... A man sometimes forgets who he is and thinks he
+is someone else. Leaves home, friends, and everything, and leads a
+double life. There was a case in _Nature_ only a month or so ago. The
+man was sometimes English and right-handed, and sometimes Welsh and
+left-handed. When he was English he knew no Welsh, when he was Welsh he
+knew no English.... H'm."
+
+He turned suddenly on the Angel and said "Home!" He fancied he might
+revive in the Angel some latent memory of his lost youth. He went on
+"Dadda, Pappa, Daddy, Mammy, Pappy, Father, Dad, Governor, Old Boy,
+Mother, dear Mother, Ma, Mumsy.... No good? What are you laughing at?"
+
+"Nothing," said the Angel. "You surprised me a little,--that is all. A
+week ago I should have been puzzled by that vocabulary."
+
+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 ACTS.
+
+XLII.
+
+
+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, and something more than Wonderland, ... and I
+have promised to get rid of him in a week! What are we men made of?...
+How _can_ I tell him?"
+
+He began to walk up and down the room, then he went into the
+dining-room, and stood staring blankly out at the cornfield. The table
+was already laid for lunch. Presently he turned, still dreaming, and
+almost mechanically helped himself to a glass of sherry.
+
+
+
+
+THE SEA CLIFF.
+
+XLIII.
+
+
+The Angel lay upon the summit of the cliff above Bandram Bay, and stared
+out at the glittering sea. Sheer from under his elbows fell the cliff,
+five hundred and seven feet of it down to the datum line, and the
+sea-birds eddied and soared below him. The upper part of the cliff was a
+greenish chalky rock, the lower two-thirds a warm red, marbled with
+gypsum bands, and from half-a-dozen places spurted jets of water, to
+fall in long cascades down its face. The swell frothed white on the
+flinty beach, and the water beyond where the shadows of an outstanding
+rock lay, was green and purple in a thousand tints and marked with
+streaks and flakes of foam. The air was full of sunlight and the
+tinkling of the little waterfalls and the slow soughing of the seas
+below. Now and then a butterfly flickered over the face of the cliff,
+and a multitude of sea birds perched and flew hither and thither.
+
+The Angel lay with his crippled, shrivelled wings humped upon his back,
+watching the gulls and jackdaws and rooks, circling in the sunlight,
+soaring, eddying, sweeping down to the water or upward into the dazzling
+blue of the sky. Long the Angel lay there and watched them going to and
+fro on outspread wings. He watched, and as he watched them he remembered
+with infinite longing the rivers of starlight and the sweetness of the
+land from which he came. And a gull came gliding overhead, swiftly and
+easily, with its broad wings spreading white and fair against the blue.
+And suddenly a shadow came into the Angel's eyes, the sunlight left
+them, he thought of his own crippled pinions, and put his face upon his
+arm and wept.
+
+A woman who was walking along the footpath across the Cliff Field saw
+only a twisted hunchback dressed in the Vicar of Siddermorton's cast-off
+clothes, sprawling foolishly at the edge of the cliff and with his
+forehead on his arm. She looked at him and looked again. "The silly
+creature has gone to sleep," she said, and though she had a heavy basket
+to carry, came towards him with an idea of waking him up. But as she
+drew near she saw his shoulders heave and heard the sound of his
+sobbing.
+
+She stood still a minute, and her features twitched into a kind of grin.
+Then treading softly she turned and went back towards the pathway. "'Tis
+so hard to think of anything to say," she said. "Poor afflicted soul!"
+
+Presently the Angel ceased sobbing, and stared with a tear-stained face
+at the beach below him.
+
+"This world," he said, "wraps me round and swallows me up. My wings grow
+shrivelled and useless. Soon I shall be nothing more than a crippled
+man, and I shall age, and bow myself to pain, and die.... I am
+miserable. And I am alone."
+
+Then he rested his chin on his hands upon the edge of the cliff, and
+began to think of Delia's face with the light in her eyes. The Angel
+felt a curious desire to go to her and tell her of his withered wings.
+To place his arms about her and weep for the land he had lost. "Delia!"
+he said to himself very softly. And presently a cloud drove in front of
+the sun.
+
+
+
+
+MRS HINIJER ACTS.
+
+XLIV.
+
+
+Mrs Hinijer surprised the Vicar by tapping at his study door after tea.
+"Begging your pardon, Sir," said Mrs Hinijer. "But might I make so bold
+as to speak to you for a moment?"
+
+"Certainly, Mrs Hinijer," said the Vicar, little dreaming of the blow
+that was coming. He held a letter in his hand, a very strange and
+disagreeable letter from his bishop, a letter that irritated and
+distressed him, criticising in the strongest language the guests he
+chose to entertain in his own house. Only a popular bishop living in a
+democratic age, a bishop who was still half a pedagogue, could have
+written such a letter.
+
+Mrs Hinijer coughed behind her hand and struggled with some respiratory
+disorganisation. The Vicar felt apprehensive. Usually in their
+interviews he was the most disconcerted. Invariably so when the
+interview ended.
+
+"Well?" he said.
+
+"May I make so bold, sir, as to arst when Mr Angel is a-going?" (Cough.)
+
+The Vicar started. "To ask when Mr Angel is going?" he repeated slowly
+to gain time. "_Another!_"
+
+"I'm sorry, sir. But I've been used to waitin' on gentlefolks, sir; and
+you'd hardly imagine how it feels quite to wait on such as 'im."
+
+"Such as ... _'im_! Do I understand you, Mrs Hinijer, that you don't
+like Mr Angel?"
+
+"You see, sir, before I came to you, sir, I was at Lord Dundoller's
+seventeen years, and you, sir--if you will excuse me--are a perfect
+gentleman yourself, sir--though in the Church. And then...."
+
+"Dear, dear!" said the Vicar. "And don't you regard Mr Angel as a
+gentleman?"
+
+"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir."
+
+"But what...? Dear me! Surely!"
+
+"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir. But when a party goes turning
+vegetarian suddenly and putting out all the cooking, and hasn't no
+proper luggage of his own, and borry's shirts and socks from his 'ost,
+and don't know no better than to try his knife at peas (as I seed my
+very self), and goes talking in odd corners to the housemaids, and folds
+up his napkin after meals, and eats with his fingers at minced veal, and
+plays the fiddle in the middle of the night keeping everybody awake, and
+stares and grins at his elders a-getting upstairs, and generally
+misconducts himself with things that I can scarcely tell you all, one
+can't help thinking, sir. Thought is free, sir, and one can't help
+coming to one's own conclusions. Besides which, there is talk all over
+the village about him--what with one thing and another. I know a
+gentleman when I sees a gentleman, and I know a gentleman when I don't
+see a gentleman, and me, and Susan, and George, we've talked it over,
+being the upper servants, so to speak, and experienced, and leaving out
+that girl Delia, who I only hope won't come to any harm through him, and
+depend upon it, sir, that Mr Angel ain't what you think he is, sir, and
+the sooner he leaves this house the better."
+
+Mrs Hinijer ceased abruptly and stood panting but stern, and with her
+eyes grimly fixed on the Vicar's face.
+
+"_Really_, Mrs Hinijer!" said the Vicar, and then, "Oh _Lord_!"
+
+"What _have_ I done?" said the Vicar, suddenly starting up and appealing
+to the inexorable fates. "What HAVE I done?"
+
+"There's no knowing," said Mrs Hinijer. "Though a deal of talk in the
+village."
+
+"_Bother!_" said the Vicar, going and staring out of the window. Then he
+turned. "Look here, Mrs Hinijer! Mr Angel will be leaving this house in
+the course of a week. Is that enough?"
+
+"Quite," said Mrs Hinijer. "And I feel sure, sir...."
+
+The Vicar's eyes fell with unwonted eloquence upon the door.
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL IN TROUBLE.
+
+XLV.
+
+
+"The fact is," said the Vicar, "this is no world for Angels."
+
+The blinds had not been drawn, and the twilight outer world under an
+overcast sky seemed unspeakably grey and cold. The Angel sat at table in
+dejected silence. His inevitable departure had been proclaimed. Since
+his presence hurt people and made the Vicar wretched he acquiesced in
+the justice of the decision, but what would happen to him after his
+plunge he could not imagine. Something very disagreeable certainly.
+
+"There is the violin," said the Vicar. "Only after our experience----"
+
+"I must get you clothes--a general outfit.---- Dear me! you don't
+understand railway travelling! And coinage! Taking lodgings!
+Eating-houses!---- I must come up at least and see you settled. Get work
+for you. But an Angel in London! Working for his living! That grey cold
+wilderness of people! What _will_ become of you?---- If I had one friend
+in the world I could trust to believe me!"
+
+"I ought not to be sending you away----"
+
+"Do not trouble overmuch for me, my friend," said the Angel. "At least
+this life of yours ends. And there are things in it. There is something
+in this life of yours---- Your care for me! I thought there was nothing
+beautiful at all in life----"
+
+"And I have betrayed you!" said the Vicar, with a sudden wave of
+remorse. "Why did I not face them all--say, 'This is the best of life'?
+What do these everyday things matter?"
+
+He stopped suddenly. "What _do_ they matter?" he said.
+
+"I have only come into your life to trouble it," said the Angel.
+
+"Don't say that," said the Vicar. "You have come into my life to awaken
+me. I have been dreaming--dreaming. Dreaming this was necessary and
+that. Dreaming that this narrow prison was the world. And the dream
+still hangs about me and troubles me. That is all. Even your
+departure----. Am I not dreaming that you must go?"
+
+When he was in bed that night the mystical aspect of the case came still
+more forcibly before the Vicar. He lay awake and had the most horrible
+visions of his sweet and delicate visitor drifting through this
+unsympathetic world and happening upon the cruellest misadventures. His
+guest _was_ an Angel assuredly. He tried to go over the whole story of
+the past eight days again. He thought of the hot afternoon, the shot
+fired out of sheer surprise, the fluttering iridescent wings, the
+beautiful saffron-robed figure upon the ground. How wonderful that had
+seemed to him! Then his mind turned to the things he had heard of the
+other world, to the dreams the violin had conjured up, to the vague,
+fluctuating, wonderful cities of the Angelic Land. He tried to recall
+the forms of the buildings, the shapes of the fruits upon the trees, the
+aspect of the winged shapes that traversed its ways. They grew from a
+memory into a present reality, grew every moment just a little more
+vivid and his troubles a little less immediate; and so, softly and
+quietly, the Vicar slipped out of his troubles and perplexities into the
+Land of Dreams.
+
+
+
+
+XLVI.
+
+
+Delia sat with her window open, hoping to hear the Angel play. But that
+night there was to be no playing. The sky was overcast, yet not so
+thickly but that the moon was visible. High up a broken cloud-lace drove
+across the sky, and now the moon was a hazy patch of light, and now it
+was darkened, and now rode clear and bright and sharply outlined against
+the blue gulf of night. And presently she heard the door into the garden
+opening, and a figure came out under the drifting pallor of the
+moonlight.
+
+It was the Angel. But he wore once more the saffron robe in the place of
+his formless overcoat. In the uncertain light this garment had only a
+colourless shimmer, and his wings behind him seemed a leaden grey. He
+began taking short runs, flapping his wings and leaping, going to and
+fro amidst the drifting patches of light and the shadows of the trees.
+Delia watched him in amazement. He gave a despondent cry, leaping
+higher. His shrivelled wings flashed and fell. A thicker patch in the
+cloud-film made everything obscure. He seemed to spring five or six feet
+from the ground and fall clumsily. She saw him in the dimness crouching
+on the ground and then she heard him sobbing.
+
+"He's hurt!" said Delia, pressing her lips together hard and staring. "I
+ought to help him."
+
+She hesitated, then stood up and flitted swiftly towards the door, went
+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!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LAST DAY OF THE VISIT.
+
+XLVII.
+
+
+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, &c._" (The Vicar loved
+"&c.", it gave things such a precise and business-like 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 tea-time. 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, 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.
+
+
+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 awe-stricken whisper.
+
+He started back from the motionless figure. "_Dead!_" he said suddenly,
+and turning, panic stricken, fled headlong through the wood.
+
+
+
+
+XLIX.
+
+
+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 face and felt the two weals running across it,
+hot and fat. "I'll think twice before I lift my hand against a lunatic
+again," said Sir John Gotch.
+
+"He may be a person of weak intellect, but I'm damned if he hasn't a
+pretty strong arm. _Phew!_ He's cut a bit clean off the top of my ear
+with that infernal lash."
+
+"That infernal horse will go galloping to the house in the approved
+dramatic style. Little Madam'll be scared out of her wits. And I ... I
+shall have to explain how it all happened. While she vivisects me with
+questions.
+
+"I'm a jolly good mind to have spring guns and man-traps put in this
+preserve. Confound the Law!"
+
+
+
+
+L.
+
+
+But the Angel, thinking that Gotch was dead, went wandering off in a
+passion of remorse and fear through the brakes and copses along the
+Sidder. You can scarcely imagine how appalled he was at this last and
+overwhelming proof of his encroaching humanity. All the darkness,
+passion and pain of life seemed closing in upon him, inexorably,
+becoming part of him, chaining him to all that a week ago he had found
+strange and pitiful in men.
+
+"Truly, this is no world for an Angel!" said the Angel. "It is a World
+of War, a World of Pain, a World of Death. Anger comes upon one ... I
+who knew not pain and anger, stand here with blood stains on my hands. I
+have fallen. To come into this world is to fall. One must hunger and
+thirst and be tormented with a thousand desires. One must fight for
+foothold, be angry and strike----"
+
+He lifted up his hands to Heaven, the ultimate bitterness of helpless
+remorse in his face, and then flung them down with a gesture of despair.
+The prison walls of this narrow passionate life seemed creeping in upon
+him, certainly and steadily, to crush him presently altogether. He felt
+what all we poor mortals have to feel sooner or later--the pitiless
+force of the Things that Must Be, not only without us but (where the
+real trouble lies) within, all the inevitable tormenting of one's high
+resolves, those inevitable seasons when the better self is forgotten.
+But with us it is a gentle descent, made by imperceptible degrees over a
+long space of years; with him it was the horrible discovery of one short
+week. He felt he was being crippled, caked over, blinded, stupefied in
+the wrappings of this life, he felt as a man might feel who has taken
+some horrible poison, and feels destruction spreading within him.
+
+He took no account of hunger or fatigue or the flight of time. On and on
+he went, avoiding houses and roads, turning away from the sight and
+sound of a human being in a wordless desperate argument with Fate. His
+thoughts did not flow but stood banked back in inarticulate
+remonstrance against his degradation. Chance directed his footsteps
+homeward and, at last, after nightfall, he found himself faint and weary
+and wretched, stumbling along over the moor at the back of Siddermorton.
+He heard the rats run and squeal in the heather, and once a noiseless
+big bird came out of the darkness, passed, and vanished again. And he
+saw without noticing it a dull red glow in the sky before him.
+
+
+
+
+LI.
+
+
+But when he came over the brow of the moor, a vivid light sprang up
+before him and refused to be ignored. He came on down the hill and
+speedily saw more distinctly what the glare was. It came from darting
+and trembling tongues of fire, golden and red, that shot from the
+windows and a hole in the roof of the Vicarage. A cluster of black
+heads, all the village in fact, except the fire-brigade--who were down
+at Aylmer's Cottage trying to find the key of the machine-house--came
+out in silhouette against the blaze. There was a roaring sound, and a
+humming of voices, and presently a furious outcry. There was a shouting
+of "No! No!"--"Come back!" and an inarticulate roar.
+
+He began to run towards the burning house. He stumbled and almost fell,
+but he ran on. He found black figures running about him. The flaring
+fire blew gustily this way and that, and he smelt the smell of burning.
+
+"She went in," said one voice, "she went in."
+
+"The mad girl!" said another.
+
+"Stand back! Stand back!" cried others.
+
+He found himself thrusting through an excited, swaying crowd, all
+staring at the flames, and with the red reflection in their eyes.
+
+"Stand back!" said a labourer, clutching him.
+
+"What is it?" said the Angel. "What does this mean?"
+
+"There's a girl in the house, and she can't get out!"
+
+"Went in after a fiddle," said another.
+
+"'Tas hopeless," he heard someone else say.
+
+"I was standing near her. I heerd her. Says she: 'I _can_ get his
+fiddle.' I heerd her--Just like that! 'I _can_ get his fiddle.'"
+
+For a moment the Angel stood staring. Then in a flash he saw it all, saw
+this grim little world of battle and cruelty, transfigured in a
+splendour that outshone the Angelic Land, suffused suddenly and
+insupportably glorious with the wonderful light of Love and
+Self-Sacrifice. He gave a strange cry, and before anyone could stop
+him, was running towards the burning building. There were cries of "The
+Hunchback! The Fowener!"
+
+The Vicar, whose scalded hand was being tied up, turned his head, and he
+and Crump saw the Angel, a black outline against the intense, red glare
+of the doorway. It was the sensation of the tenth of a second, yet both
+men could not have remembered that transitory attitude more vividly had
+it been a picture they had studied for hours together. Then the Angel
+was hidden by something massive (no one knew what) that fell,
+incandescent, across the doorway.
+
+
+
+
+LII.
+
+
+There was a cry of "Delia" and no more. But suddenly the flames spurted
+out in a blinding glare that shot upward to an immense height, a
+blinding brilliance broken by a thousand flickering gleams like the
+waving of swords. And a gust of sparks, flashing in a thousand colours,
+whirled up and vanished. Just then, and for a moment by some strange
+accident, a rush of music, like the swell of an organ, wove into the
+roaring of the flames.
+
+The whole village standing in black knots heard the sound, except Gaffer
+Siddons who is deaf--strange and beautiful it was, and then gone again.
+Lumpy Durgan, the idiot boy from Sidderford, said it began and ended
+like the opening and shutting of a door.
+
+But little Hetty Penzance had a pretty fancy of two figures with wings,
+that flashed up and vanished among the flames.
+
+(And after that it was she began to pine for the things she saw in her
+dreams, and was abstracted and strange. It grieved her mother sorely at
+the time. She grew fragile, as though she was fading out of the world,
+and her eyes had a strange, far-away look. She talked of angels and
+rainbow colours and golden wings, and was for ever singing an unmeaning
+fragment of an air that nobody knew. Until Crump took her in hand and
+cured her with fattening dietary, syrup of hypophosphites and cod liver
+oil.)
+
+
+
+
+THE EPILOGUE.
+
+
+And there the story of the Wonderful Visit ends. The Epilogue is in the
+mouth of Mrs Mendham. There stand two little white crosses in the
+Siddermorton churchyard, near together, where the brambles come
+clambering over the stone wall. One is inscribed Thomas Angel and the
+other Delia Hardy, and the dates of the deaths are the same. Really
+there is nothing beneath them but the ashes of the Vicar's stuffed
+ostrich. (You will remember the Vicar had his ornithological side.) I
+noticed them when Mrs Mendham was showing me the new De la Beche
+monument. (Mendham has been Vicar since Hilyer died.) "The granite came
+from somewhere in Scotland," said Mrs Mendham, "and cost ever so much--I
+forget how much--but a wonderful lot! It's quite the talk of the
+village."
+
+"Mother," said Cissie Mendham, "you are stepping on a grave."
+
+"Dear me!" said Mrs Mendham, "How heedless of me! And the cripple's
+grave too. But really you've no idea how much this monument cost them."
+
+"These two people, by the bye," said Mrs Mendham, "were killed when the
+old Vicarage was burnt. It's rather a strange story. He was a curious
+person, a hunchbacked fiddler, who came from nobody knows where, and
+imposed upon the late Vicar to a frightful extent. He played in a
+pretentious way by ear, and we found out afterwards that he did not know
+a note of music--not a note. He was exposed before quite a lot of
+people. Among other things, he seems to have been 'carrying on,' as
+people say, with one of the servants, a sly little drab.... But Mendham
+had better tell you all about it. The man was half-witted and curiously
+deformed. It's strange the fancies girls have."
+
+She looked sharply at Cissie, and Cissie blushed to the eyes.
+
+"She was left in the house and he rushed into the flames in an attempt
+to save her. Quite romantic--isn't it? He was rather clever with the
+fiddle in his uneducated way.
+
+"All the poor Vicar's stuffed skins were burned at the same time. It was
+almost all he cared for. He never really got over the blow. He came to
+stop with us--for there wasn't another house available in the village.
+But he never seemed happy. He seemed all shaken. I never saw a man so
+changed. I tried to stir him up, but it was no good--no good at all. He
+had the queerest delusions about angels and that kind of thing. It made
+him odd company at times. He would say he heard music, and stare quite
+stupidly at nothing for hours together. He got quite careless about his
+dress.... He died within a twelvemonth of the fire."
+
+THE END.
+
+TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
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+    "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd">
+
+<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml">
+  <head>
+    <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" />
+    <title>
+      The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Wonderful Visit, by H. G. Wells.
+    </title>
+    <style type="text/css">
+
+    p {  margin-top: .75em;
+         text-align: justify;
+         margin-bottom: .75em;
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+    p.bold {text-align: center; font-weight: bold;}
+    p.bold2 {text-align: center; font-weight: bold; font-size: 150%;}
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+
+    .mynote { background-color: #DDE; color: black; padding: .5em; margin-left: 20%;
+              margin-right: 20%; } /* colored box for notes at beginning of file */
+    hr.smler { width: 10%; }
+
+    .s1        {display: inline; margin-left: 1em;}
+
+    .block    {margin: auto; text-align: center; width: 30em;}
+
+    .pagenum  { /* uncomment the next line for invisible page numbers */
+            /*  visibility: hidden;  */
+                position: absolute;
+                left: 92%;
+                font-size: smaller;
+                text-align: right;
+                text-indent: 0px;
+              } /* page numbers */
+
+    .center   {text-align: center;}
+    .smaller  {font-size: smaller;}
+    .smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
+
+    .right            {text-align: right;}
+    .left             {text-align: left;}
+    .tbrk	  {margin-bottom: 2em;}
+
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+  </head>
+<body>
+
+
+<pre>
+
+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Wonderful Visit
+
+Author: Herbert George Wells
+
+Release Date: October 19, 2010 [EBook #33913]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WONDERFUL VISIT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Martin Pettit and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+</pre>
+
+
+<div class = "mynote"><p class="center">Transcriber's Note:<br /><br />
+The Table of Contents includes links to all Chapters.<br />(In the original, only those
+Chapters with Titles were included.)</p></div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_i" id="Page_i">[Pg i]</a></span></p>
+
+<h1>The Wonderful Visit</h1>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_ii" id="Page_ii">[Pg ii]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="bold2">By the Same Author</p>
+
+<hr class="smler" />
+
+<p class="bold2">The Time Machine</p>
+
+<div class="block"><p><span class="smcap">Daily Chronicle</span>.&mdash;"Grips the imagination as it is only<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>gripped by genuinely imaginative work.... A strikingly<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>original performance."</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Saturday Review</span>.&mdash;"A book of remarkable power and<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>imagination, and a work of distinct and individual merit."</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Spectator</span>.&mdash;"Mr Wells' fanciful and lively dream is well<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>worth reading."</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">National Observer</span>.&mdash;"A <i>tour de force</i>.... A fine piece<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>of literature, strongly imagined, almost perfectly expressed."</p>
+
+<p><span class="smcap">Glasgow Herald</span>.&mdash;"One of the best pieces of work I have<br />
+<span class="s1">&nbsp;</span>read for many a day."</p></div>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iii" id="Page_iii">[Pg iii]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="bold2">Macmillan's Colonial Library</p>
+
+<h1><span>The<br />Wonderful Visit</span><br /><br /><span id="id1">by</span> <span>H. G. Wells</span></h1>
+
+<p class="center">Author of the "Time Machine"</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="center">London<br />Macmillan and Co.<br />and New York<br />
+1895<br /><br />No. 241<br /><br /><i>All rights reserved</i></p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_iv" id="Page_iv">[Pg iv]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="center">This Edition is intended for circulation only in India<br />and the British
+Colonies</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_v" id="Page_v">[Pg v]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="center"><span class="smcap">to the<br /><br />
+Memory of my dear Friend,</span><br /><br />WALTER LOW.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_vii" id="Page_vii">[Pg vii]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="bold2">CONTENTS</p>
+
+<table summary="CONTENTS">
+  <tr>
+    <td colspan="2">&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><span class="smcap">page</span></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>I.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Night of the Strange Bird</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>II.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Coming of the Strange Bird</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_4">4</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>III.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Hunting of the Strange Bird</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_8">8</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>IV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_11">11</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>V.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_13">13</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>VI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Vicar and the Angel</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_17">17</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>VII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_28">28</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>VIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_31">31</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>IX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Parenthesis on Angels</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_35">35</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>X.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">At the Vicarage</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_38">38</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_42">42</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_45">45</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Man of Science</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_50">50</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XIV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_55">55</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Curate</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_61">61</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XVI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_66">66</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XVII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_72">72</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XVIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">After Dinner</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_76">76</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XIX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_86">86</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_88">88</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_93">93</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Morning</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_97">97</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Violin</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_101">101</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXIV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Angel Explores the Village</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_106">106</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_112">112</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXVI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_115">115</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXVII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_122">122</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXVIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Lady Hammergallow's View</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_127">127</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXIX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Further Adventures of the Angel in the Village</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_135">135</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_141">141</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Mrs Jehoram's Breadth of View</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_148">148</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">A Trivial Incident</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_154">154</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Warp and the Woof of Things</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_156">156</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXIV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Angel's Debut</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_160">160</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_178">178</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXVI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_182">182</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXVII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_183">183</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_viii" id="Page_viii">[Pg viii]</a></span>XXXVIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Trouble of the Barbed Wire</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_186">186</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XXXIX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XL.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Delia</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_195">195</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Doctor Crump acts</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_199">199</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Sir John Gotch acts</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_208">208</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLIII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Sea Cliff</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_213">213</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLIV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">Mrs Hinijer acts</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_217">217</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLV.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Angel in Trouble</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_221">221</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLVI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_225">225</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLVII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Last Day of the Visit</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_229">229</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLVII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_234">234</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>XLIX.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_239">239</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>L.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_241">241</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>LI.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_244">244</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>LII.</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;</td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_247">247</a></td>
+  </tr>
+  <tr>
+    <td>&nbsp;</td>
+    <td class="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;<span class="smcap">The Epilogue</span></td>
+    <td><a href="#Page_248">248</a></td>
+  </tr>
+</table>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</a></span></p>
+
+<p class="bold2">THE WONDERFUL VISIT.</p>
+
+<hr class="smler" />
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Night of the Strange Bird.</span></span> <span>I.</span></h2>
+
+<p>On the Night of the Strange Bird, many people at Sidderton (and some
+nearer) saw a Glare on the Sidderford moor. But no one in Sidderford saw
+it, for most of Sidderford was abed.</p>
+
+<p>All day the wind had been rising, so that the larks on the moor
+chirruped fitfully near the ground, or rose only to be driven like
+leaves before the wind. The sun set in a bloody welter of clouds, and
+the moon was hidden. The glare, they say, was golden like a beam shining
+out of the sky, not a uniform blaze, but broken all over by curving
+flashes like the waving of swords. It lasted but a moment and left the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</a></span>
+night dark and obscure. There were letters about it in <i>Nature</i>, and a
+rough drawing that no one thought very like. (You may see it for
+yourself&mdash;the drawing that was unlike the glare&mdash;on page 42 of Vol.
+cclx. of that publication.)</p>
+
+<p>None in Sidderford saw the light, but Annie, Hooker Durgan's wife, was
+lying awake, and she saw the reflection of it&mdash;a flickering tongue of
+gold&mdash;dancing on the wall.</p>
+
+<p>She, too, was one of those who heard the sound. The others who heard the
+sound were Lumpy Durgan, the half-wit, and Amory's mother. They said it
+was a sound like children singing and a throbbing of harp strings,
+carried on a rush of notes like that which sometimes comes from an
+organ. It began and ended like the opening and shutting of a door, and
+before and after they heard nothing but the night wind howling over the
+moor and the noise of the caves under Sidderford cliff. Amory's mother
+said she wanted to cry when she heard it, but Lumpy was only sorry he
+could hear no more.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</a></span></p><p>That is as much as anyone can tell you of the glare upon Sidderford
+Moor and the alleged music therewith. And whether these had any real
+connexion with the Strange Bird whose history follows, is more than I
+can say. But I set it down here for reasons that will be more apparent
+as the story proceeds.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Coming of the Strange Bird.</span></span> <span>II.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Sandy Bright was coming down the road from Spinner's carrying a side of
+bacon he had taken in exchange for a clock. He saw nothing of the light
+but he heard and saw the Strange Bird. He suddenly heard a flapping and
+a voice like a woman wailing, and being a nervous man and all alone, he
+was alarmed forthwith, and turning (all a-tremble) saw something large
+and black against the dim darkness of the cedars up the hill. It seemed
+to be coming right down upon him, and incontinently he dropped his bacon
+and set off running, only to fall headlong.</p>
+
+<p>He tried in vain&mdash;such was his state of mind&mdash;to remember the beginning
+of the Lord's Prayer. The strange bird flapped over him, something
+larger than himself, with a vast<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</a></span> spread of wings, and, as he thought,
+black. He screamed and gave himself up for lost. Then it went past him,
+sailing down the hill, and, soaring over the vicarage, vanished into the
+hazy valley towards Sidderford.</p>
+
+<p>And Sandy Bright lay upon his stomach there, for ever so long, staring
+into the darkness after the strange bird. At last he got upon his knees
+and began to thank Heaven for his merciful deliverance, with his eyes
+downhill. He went on down into the village, talking aloud and confessing
+his sins as he went, lest the strange bird should come back. All who
+heard him thought him drunk. But from that night he was a changed man,
+and had done with drunkenness and defrauding the revenue by selling
+silver ornaments without a licence. And the side of bacon lay upon the
+hillside until the tallyman from Portburdock found it in the morning.</p>
+
+<p>The next who saw the Strange Bird was a solicitor's clerk at Iping
+Hanger, who was climbing the hill before breakfast, to see the sunrise.
+Save for a few dissolving wisps of cloud the sky had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</a></span> been blown clear
+in the night. At first he thought it was an eagle he saw. It was near
+the zenith, and incredibly remote, a mere bright speck above the pink
+cirri, and it seemed as if it fluttered and beat itself against the sky,
+as an imprisoned swallow might do against a window pane. Then down it
+came into the shadow of the earth, sweeping in a great curve towards
+Portburdock and round over the Hanger, and so vanishing behind the woods
+of Siddermorton Park. It seemed larger than a man. Just before it was
+hidden, the light of the rising sun smote over the edge of the downs and
+touched its wings, and they flashed with the brightness of flames and
+the colour of precious stones, and so passed, leaving the witness agape.</p>
+
+<p>A ploughman going to his work, along under the stone wall of
+Siddermorton Park, saw the Strange Bird flash over him for a moment and
+vanish among the hazy interstices of the beech trees. But he saw little
+of the colour of the wings, witnessing only that its legs, which were
+long, seemed pink and bare like naked flesh, and its body mottled white.
+It<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</a></span> smote like an arrow through the air and was gone.</p>
+
+<p>These were the first three eye-witnesses of the Strange Bird.</p>
+
+<p>Now in these days one does not cower before the devil and one's own
+sinfulness, or see strange iridiscent wings in the light of dawn, and
+say nothing of it afterwards. The young solicitor's clerk told his
+mother and sisters at breakfast, and, afterwards, on his way to the
+office at Portburdock, spoke of it to the blacksmith of Hammerpond, and
+spent the morning with his fellow clerks marvelling instead of copying
+deeds. And Sandy Bright went to talk the matter over with Mr Jekyll, the
+"Primitive" minister, and the ploughman told old Hugh and afterwards the
+vicar of Siddermorton.</p>
+
+<p>"They are not an imaginative race about here," said the Vicar of
+Siddermorton, "I wonder how much of that was true. Barring that he
+thinks the wings were brown it sounds uncommonly like a Flamingo."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Hunting of the Strange Bird.</span></span> <span>III.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Vicar of Siddermorton (which is nine miles inland from Siddermouth
+as the crow flies) was an ornithologist. Some such pursuit, botany,
+antiquity, folk-lore, is almost inevitable for a single man in his
+position. He was given to geometry also, propounding occasionally
+impossible problems in the <i>Educational Times</i>, but ornithology was his
+<i>forte</i>. He had already added two visitors to the list of occasional
+British birds. His name was well-known in the columns of the <i>Zoologist</i>
+(I am afraid it may be forgotten by now, for the world moves apace). And
+on the day after the coming of the Strange Bird, came first one and then
+another to confirm the ploughman's story and tell him, not that it had
+any connection, of the Glare upon Sidderford moor.</p>
+
+<p>Now, the Vicar of Siddermorton had two rivals<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</a></span> in his scientific
+pursuits; Gully of Sidderton, who had actually seen the glare, and who
+it was sent the drawing to <i>Nature</i>, and Borland the natural history
+dealer, who kept the marine laboratory at Portburdock. Borland, the
+Vicar thought, should have stuck to his copepods, but instead he kept a
+taxidermist, and took advantage of his littoral position to pick up rare
+sea birds. It was evident to anyone who knew anything of collecting that
+both these men would be scouring the country after the strange visitant,
+before twenty-four hours were out.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's eye rested on the back of Saunders' British Birds, for he
+was in his study at the time. Already in two places there was entered:
+"the only known British specimen was secured by the Rev. K. Hilyer,
+Vicar of Siddermorton." A third such entry. He doubted if any other
+collector had that.</p>
+
+<p>He looked at his watch&mdash;<i>two</i>. He had just lunched, and usually he
+"rested" in the afternoon. He knew it would make him feel very
+disagreeable if he went out into the hot sunshine&mdash;both on the top of
+his head and generally.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</a></span> Yet Gully perhaps was out, prowling observant.
+Suppose it was something very good and Gully got it!</p>
+
+<p>His gun stood in the corner. (The thing had iridiscent wings and pink
+legs! The chromatic conflict was certainly exceedingly stimulating). He took his gun.</p>
+
+<p>He would have gone out by the glass doors and verandah, and down the
+garden into the hill road, in order to avoid his housekeeper's eye. He
+knew his gun expeditions were not approved of. But advancing towards him
+up the garden, he saw the curate's wife and her two daughters, carrying
+tennis rackets. His curate's wife was a young woman of immense will, who
+used to play tennis on his lawn, and cut his roses, differ from him on
+doctrinal points, and criticise his personal behaviour all over the
+parish. He went in abject fear of her, was always trying to propitiate
+her. But so far he had clung to his ornithology....</p>
+
+<p>However, he went out by the front door.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span>&nbsp;</span></span> <span>IV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>If it were not for collectors England would be full, so to speak, of
+rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand
+interesting things. But happily the collector prevents all that, either
+killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people
+of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. It makes
+work for people, even though Acts of Parliament interfere. In this way,
+for instance, he is killing off the chough in Cornwall, the Bath white
+butterfly, the Queen of Spain Fritillary; and can plume himself upon the
+extermination of the Great Auk, and a hundred other rare birds and
+plants and insects. All that is the work of the collector and his glory
+alone. In the name of Science. And this is right and as it should be;
+eccentricity, in fact, is immorality&mdash;think over it again if you do not
+think so now&mdash;just as<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</a></span> eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness
+(I defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of
+either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not Fitted to
+Survive. The collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the
+days of heavy armour&mdash;he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the
+throats of those who are overthrown. So one may go through England from
+end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild
+flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds,
+and never be offended by any breach of the monotony, any splash of
+strange blossom or flutter of unknown wing. All the rest have been
+"collected" years ago. For which cause we should all love Collectors,
+and bear in mind what we owe them when their little collections are
+displayed. These camphorated little drawers of theirs, their glass cases
+and blotting-paper books, are the graves of the Rare and the Beautiful,
+the symbols of the Triumph of Leisure (morally spent) over the Delights
+of Life. (All of which, as you very properly remark, has nothing
+whatever to do with the Strange Bird.)</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span>&nbsp;</span></span> <span>V.</span></h2>
+
+<p>There is a place on the moor where the black water shines among the
+succulent moss, and the hairy sundew, eater of careless insects, spreads
+its red-stained hungry hands to the God who gives his creatures&mdash;one to
+feed another. On a ridge thereby grow birches with a silvery bark, and
+the soft green of the larch mingles with the dark green fir. Thither
+through the honey humming heather came the Vicar, in the heat of the
+day, carrying a gun under his arm, a gun loaded with swanshot for the
+Strange Bird. And over his disengaged hand he carried a pocket
+handkerchief wherewith, ever and again, he wiped his beady face.</p>
+
+<p>He went by and on past the big pond and the pool full of brown leaves
+where the Sidder arises, and so by the road (which is at first sandy and
+then chalky) to the little gate that goes into the park. There are seven
+steps up<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</a></span> to the gate and on the further side six down again&mdash;lest the
+deer escape&mdash;so that when the Vicar stood in the gateway his head was
+ten feet or more above the ground. And looking where a tumult of bracken
+fronds filled the hollow between two groups of beech, his eye caught
+something parti-coloured that wavered and went. Suddenly his face
+gleamed and his muscles grew tense; he ducked his head, clutched his gun
+with both hands, and stood still. Then watching keenly, he came on down
+the steps into the park, and still holding his gun in both hands, crept
+rather than walked towards the jungle of bracken.</p>
+
+<p>Nothing stirred, and he almost feared that his eyes had played him
+false, until he reached the ferns and had gone rustling breast high into
+them. Then suddenly rose something full of wavering colours, twenty
+yards or less in front of his face, and beating the air. In another
+moment it had fluttered above the bracken and spread its pinions wide.
+He saw what it was, his heart was in his mouth, and he fired out of pure
+surprise and habit.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</a></span></p><p>There was a scream of superhuman agony, the wings beat the air twice,
+and the victim came slanting swiftly downward and struck the ground&mdash;a
+struggling heap of writhing body, broken wing and flying bloodstained
+plumes&mdash;upon the turfy slope behind.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar stood aghast, with his smoking gun in his hand. It was no bird
+at all, but a youth with an extremely beautiful face, clad in a robe of
+saffron and with iridescent wings, across whose pinions great waves of
+colour, flushes of purple and crimson, golden green and intense blue,
+pursued one another as he writhed in his agony. Never had the Vicar seen
+such gorgeous floods of colour, not stained glass windows, not the wings
+of butterflies, not even the glories of crystals seen between prisms, no
+colours on earth could compare with them. Twice the Angel raised
+himself, only to fall over sideways again. Then the beating of the wings
+diminished, the terrified face grew pale, the floods of colour abated,
+and suddenly with a sob he lay prone, and the changing hues of the
+broken wings faded swiftly into one uniform dull grey hue.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</a></span></p><p>"Oh! <i>what</i> has happened to me?" cried the Angel (for such it was),
+shuddering violently, hands outstretched and clutching the ground, and then lying still.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "I had no idea." He came forward cautiously.
+"Excuse me," he said, "I am afraid I have shot you."</p>
+
+<p>It was the obvious remark.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time. He
+raised himself by one hand, his brown eyes stared into the Vicar's.
+Then, with a gasp, and biting his nether lip, he struggled into a
+sitting position and surveyed the Vicar from top to toe.</p>
+
+<p>"A man!" said the Angel, clasping his forehead; "a man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Vicar and the Angel.</span></span> <span>VI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Now there are some things frankly impossible. The weakest intellect will
+admit this situation is impossible. The <i>Athen&aelig;um</i> will probably say as
+much should it venture to review this. Sunbespattered ferns, spreading
+beech trees, the Vicar and the gun are acceptable enough. But this Angel
+is a different matter. Plain sensible people will scarcely go on with
+such an extravagant book. And the Vicar fully appreciated this
+impossibility. But he lacked decision. Consequently he went on with it,
+as you shall immediately hear. He was hot, it was after dinner, he was
+in no mood for mental subtleties. The Angel had him at a disadvantage,
+and further distracted him from the main issue by irrelevant iridescence
+and a violent fluttering. For the moment it never occurred to the Vicar<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</a></span>
+to ask whether the Angel was possible or not. He accepted him in the
+confusion of the moment, and the mischief was done. Put yourself in his
+place, my dear <i>Athen&aelig;um</i>. You go out shooting. You hit something. That
+alone would disconcert you. You find you have hit an Angel, and he
+writhes about for a minute and then sits up and addresses you. He makes
+no apology for his own impossibility. Indeed, he carries the charge
+clean into your camp. "A man!" he says, pointing. "A man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!" You <i>must</i> answer him. Unless you take
+to your heels. Or blow his brains out with your second barrel as an
+escape from the controversy.</p>
+
+<p>"The Land of Dreams! Pardon me if I suggest you have just come out of
+it," was the Vicar's remark.</p>
+
+<p>"How can that be?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Your wing," said the Vicar, "is bleeding. Before we talk, may I have
+the pleasure&mdash;the melancholy pleasure&mdash;of tying it up? I am<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</a></span> really most
+sincerely sorry...." The Angel put his hand behind his back and winced.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar assisted his victim to stand up. The Angel turned gravely and
+the Vicar, with numberless insignificant panting parentheses, carefully
+examined the injured wings. (They articulated, he observed with
+interest, to a kind of second glenoid on the outer and upper edge of the
+shoulder blade. The left wing had suffered little except the loss of
+some of the primary wing-quills, and a shot or so in the <i>ala spuria</i>,
+but the humerus bone of the right was evidently smashed.) The Vicar
+stanched the bleeding as well as he could and tied up the bone with his
+pocket handkerchief and the neck wrap his housekeeper made him carry in all weathers.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm afraid you will not be able to fly for some time," said he, feeling the bone.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't like this new sensation," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"The Pain when I feel your bone?"</p>
+
+<p>"The <i>what</i>?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"The Pain."</p>
+
+<p>"'Pain'&mdash;you call it. No, I certainly don't<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</a></span> like the Pain. Do you have
+much of this Pain in the Land of Dreams?"</p>
+
+<p>"A very fair share," said the Vicar. "Is it new to you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite," said the Angel. "I don't like it."</p>
+
+<p>"How curious!" said the Vicar, and bit at the end of a strip of linen to
+tie a knot. "I think this bandaging must serve for the present," he
+said. "I've studied ambulance work before, but never the bandaging up of
+wing wounds. Is your Pain any better?"</p>
+
+<p>"It glows now instead of flashing," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"I am afraid you will find it glow for some time," said the Vicar, still
+intent on the wound.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel gave a shrug of the wing and turned round to look at the Vicar
+again. He had been trying to keep an eye on the Vicar over his shoulder
+during all their interview. He looked at him from top to toe with raised
+eyebrows and a growing smile on his beautiful soft-featured face. "It
+seems so odd," he said with a sweet little laugh, "to be talking to a Man!"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you know," said the Vicar, "now that I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</a></span> come to think of it, it is
+equally odd to me that I should be talking to an Angel. I am a somewhat
+matter-of-fact person. A Vicar has to be. Angels I have always regarded
+as&mdash;artistic conceptions&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Exactly what we think of men."</p>
+
+<p>"But surely you have seen so many men&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Never before to-day. In pictures and books, times enough of course. But
+I have seen several since the sunrise, solid real men, besides a horse
+or so&mdash;those Unicorn things you know, without horns&mdash;and quite a number
+of those grotesque knobby things called 'cows.' I was naturally a little
+frightened at so many mythical monsters, and came to hide here until it
+was dark. I suppose it will be dark again presently like it was at
+first. <i>Phew!</i> This Pain of yours is poor fun. I hope I shall wake up directly."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand quite," said the Vicar, knitting his brows and
+tapping his forehead with his flat hand. "Mythical monster!" The worst
+thing he had been called for years hitherto was a 'mediaeval
+anachronism' (by an advocate of Disestablishment). "Do I understand<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</a></span>
+that you consider me as&mdash;as something in a dream?"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," said the Angel smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"And this world about me, these rugged trees and spreading fronds&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Is all so <i>very</i> dream like," said the Angel. "Just exactly what one
+dreams of&mdash;or artists imagine."</p>
+
+<p>"You have artists then among the Angels?"</p>
+
+<p>"All kinds of artists, Angels with wonderful imaginations, who invent
+men and cows and eagles and a thousand impossible creatures."</p>
+
+<p>"Impossible creatures!" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Impossible creatures," said the Angel. "Myths."</p>
+
+<p>"But I'm real!" said the Vicar. "I assure you I'm real."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel shrugged his wings and winced and smiled. "I can always tell
+when I am dreaming," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>You</i>&mdash;dreaming," said the Vicar. He looked round him.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>You</i> dreaming!" he repeated. His mind worked diffusely.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</a></span></p><p>He held out his hand with all his fingers moving. "I have it!" he said.
+"I begin to see." A really brilliant idea was dawning upon his mind. He
+had not studied mathematics at Cambridge for nothing, after all. "Tell
+me please. Some animals of <i>your</i> world ... of the Real World, real
+animals you know."</p>
+
+<p>"Real animals!" said the Angel smiling. "Why&mdash;there's Griffins and
+Dragons&mdash;and Jabberwocks&mdash;and Cherubim&mdash;and Sphinxes&mdash;and the
+Hippogriff&mdash;and Mermaids&mdash;and Satyrs&mdash;and...."</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," said the Vicar as the Angel appeared to be warming to his
+work; "thank you. That is <i>quite</i> enough. I begin to understand."</p>
+
+<p>He paused for a moment, his face pursed up. "Yes ... I begin to see it."</p>
+
+<p>"See what?" asked the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"The Griffins and Satyrs and so forth. It's as clear...."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't see them," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"No, the whole point is they are not to be seen in this world. But our
+men with imaginations<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</a></span> have told us all about them, you know. And even I
+at times ... there are places in this village where you must simply take
+what they set before you, or give offence&mdash;I, I say, have seen in my
+dreams Jabberwocks, Bogle brutes, Mandrakes.... From our point of view,
+you know, they are Dream Creatures...."</p>
+
+<p>"Dream Creatures!" said the Angel. "How singular! This is a very curious
+dream. A kind of topsy-turvey one. You call men real and angels a myth.
+It almost makes one think that in some odd way there must be two worlds
+as it were...."</p>
+
+<p>"At least Two," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Lying somewhere close together, and yet scarcely suspecting...."</p>
+
+<p>"As near as page to page of a book."</p>
+
+<p>"Penetrating each other, living each its own life. This is really a
+delicious dream!"</p>
+
+<p>"And never dreaming of each other."</p>
+
+<p>"Except when people go a dreaming!"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Angel thoughtfully. "It must be something of the sort.
+And that reminds me. Sometimes when I have been dropping asleep, or<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</a></span>
+drowsing under the noon-tide sun, I have seen strange corrugated faces
+just like yours, going by me, and trees with green leaves upon them, and
+such queer uneven ground as this.... It must be so. I have fallen into another world."</p>
+
+<p>"Sometimes," began the Vicar, "at bedtime, when I have been just on the
+edge of consciousness, I have seen faces as beautiful as yours, and the
+strange dazzling vistas of a wonderful scene, that flowed past me,
+winged shapes soaring over it, and wonderful&mdash;sometimes terrible&mdash;forms
+going to and fro. I have even heard sweet music too in my ears.... It
+may be that as we withdraw our attention from the world of sense, the
+pressing world about us, as we pass into the twilight of repose, other
+worlds.... Just as we see the stars, those other worlds in space, when
+the glare of day recedes.... And the artistic dreamers who see such
+things most clearly...."</p>
+
+<p>They looked at one another.</p>
+
+<p>"And in some incomprehensible manner I have fallen into this world of
+yours out of my own!" said the Angel, "into the world of my dreams, grown real."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</a></span></p><p>He looked about him. "Into the world of my dreams."</p>
+
+<p>"It is confusing," said the Vicar. "It almost makes one think there may
+be (ahem) Four Dimensions after all. In which case, of course," he went
+on hurriedly&mdash;for he loved geometrical speculations and took a certain
+pride in his knowledge of them&mdash;"there may be any number of three
+dimensional universes packed side by side, and all dimly dreaming of one
+another. There may be world upon world, universe upon universe. It's
+perfectly possible. There's nothing so incredible as the absolutely
+possible. But I wonder how you came to fall out of your world into mine...."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me!" said the Angel; "There's deer and a stag! Just as they draw
+them on the coats of arms. How grotesque it all seems! Can I really be awake?"</p>
+
+<p>He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>The half-dozen of dappled deer came in Indian file obliquely through the
+trees and halted, watching. "It's no dream&mdash;I am really a solid concrete
+Angel, in Dream Land," said the Angel.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</a></span> He laughed. The Vicar stood
+surveying him. The Reverend gentleman was pulling his mouth askew after
+a habit he had, and slowly stroking his chin. He was asking himself
+whether he too was not in the Land of Dreams.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>VII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Now in the land of the Angels, so the Vicar learnt in the course of many
+conversations, there is neither pain nor trouble nor death, marrying nor
+giving in marriage, birth nor forgetting. Only at times new things
+begin. It is a land without hill or dale, a wonderfully level land,
+glittering with strange buildings, with incessant sunlight or full moon,
+and with incessant breezes blowing through the &AElig;olian traceries of the
+trees. It is Wonderland, with glittering seas hanging in the sky, across
+which strange fleets go sailing, none know whither. There the flowers
+glow in Heaven and the stars shine about one's feet and the breath of
+life is a delight. The land goes on for ever&mdash;there is no solar system
+nor interstellar space such as there is in our universe&mdash;and the air
+goes upward past the sun into the uttermost abyss of their sky. And
+there is nothing but Beauty there&mdash;all the beauty in our art is but<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</a></span>
+feeble rendering of faint glimpses of that wonderful world, and our
+composers, our original composers, are those who hear, however faintly,
+the dust of melody that drives before its winds. And the Angels, and
+wonderful monsters of bronze and marble and living fire, go to and fro therein.</p>
+
+<p>It is a land of Law&mdash;for whatever is, is under the law&mdash;but its laws
+all, in some strange way, differ from ours. Their geometry is different
+because their space has a curve in it so that all their planes are
+cylinders; and their law of Gravitation is not according to the law of
+inverse squares, and there are four-and-twenty primary colours instead
+of only three. Most of the fantastic things of our science are
+commonplaces there, and all our earthly science would seem to them the
+maddest dreaming. There are no flowers upon their plants, for instance,
+but jets of coloured fire. That, of course, will seem mere nonsense to
+you because you do not understand Most of what the Angel told the Vicar,
+indeed the Vicar could not realise, because his own experiences, being
+only of this world of matter,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</a></span> warred against his understanding. It was
+too strange to imagine.</p>
+
+<p>What had jolted these twin universes together so that the Angel had
+fallen suddenly into Sidderford, neither the Angel nor the Vicar could
+tell. Nor for the matter of that could the author of this story. The
+author is concerned with the facts of the case, and has neither the
+desire nor the confidence to explain them. Explanations are the fallacy
+of a scientific age. And the cardinal fact of the case is this, that out
+in Siddermorton Park, with the glory of some wonderful world where there
+is neither sorrow nor sighing, still clinging to him, on the 4th of
+August 1895, stood an Angel, bright and beautiful, talking to the Vicar
+of Siddermorton about the plurality of worlds. The author will swear to
+the Angel, if need be; and there he draws the line.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>VIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"I have," said the Angel, "a most unusual feeling&mdash;<i>here</i>. Have had
+since sunrise. I don't remember ever having any feeling&mdash;<i>here</i> before."</p>
+
+<p>"Not pain, I hope," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no! It is quite different from that&mdash;a kind of vacuous feeling."</p>
+
+<p>"The atmospheric pressure, perhaps, is a little different," the Vicar
+began, feeling his chin.</p>
+
+<p>"And do you know, I have also the most curious sensations in my
+mouth&mdash;almost as if&mdash;it's so absurd!&mdash;as if I wanted to stuff things
+into it."</p>
+
+<p>"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "Of course! You're hungry!"</p>
+
+<p>"Hungry!" said the Angel. "What's that?"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you eat?"</p>
+
+<p>"Eat! The word's quite new to me."</p>
+
+<p>"Put food into your mouth, you know. One has to here. You will soon
+learn. If you don't, you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</a></span> get thin and miserable, and suffer a great
+deal&mdash;<i>pain</i>, you know&mdash;and finally you die."</p>
+
+<p>"Die!" said the Angel. "That's another strange word!"</p>
+
+<p>"It's not strange here. It means leaving off, you know," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"We never leave off," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't know what may happen to you in this world," said the Vicar,
+thinking him over. "Possibly if you are feeling hungry, and can feel
+pain and have your wings broken, you may even have to die before you get
+out of it again. At anyrate you had better try eating. For my own
+part&mdash;ahem!&mdash;there are many more disagreeable things."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose I <i>had</i> better Eat," said the Angel. "If it's not too
+difficult. I don't like this 'Pain' of yours, and I don't like this
+'Hungry.' If your 'Die' is anything like it, I would prefer to Eat. What
+a very odd world this is!"</p>
+
+<p>"To Die," said the Vicar, "is generally considered worse than either
+pain or hunger.... It depends."</p>
+
+<p>"You must explain all that to me later," said<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</a></span> the Angel. "Unless I wake
+up. At present, please show me how to eat. If you will. I feel a kind of urgency...."</p>
+
+<p>"Pardon me," said the Vicar, and offered an elbow. "If I may have the
+pleasure of entertaining you. My house lies yonder&mdash;not a couple of
+miles from here."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Your</i> House!" said the Angel a little puzzled; but he took the Vicar's
+arm affectionately, and the two, conversing as they went, waded slowly
+through the luxuriant bracken, sun mottled under the trees, and on over
+the stile in the park palings, and so across the bee-swarming heather
+for a mile or more, down the hillside, home.</p>
+
+<p>You would have been charmed at the couple could you have seen them. The
+Angel, slight of figure, scarcely five feet high, and with a beautiful,
+almost effeminate face, such as an Italian old Master might have
+painted. (Indeed, there is one in the National Gallery [<i>Tobias and the
+Angel</i>, by some artist unknown] not at all unlike him so far as face and
+spirit go.) He was robed simply in a purple-wrought saffron blouse, bare
+kneed and bare-footed, with his wings (broken<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</a></span> now, and a leaden grey)
+folded behind him. The Vicar was a short, rather stout figure, rubicund,
+red-haired, clean-shaven, and with bright ruddy brown eyes. He wore a
+piebald straw hat with a black ribbon, a very neat white tie, and a fine
+gold watch-chain. He was so greatly interested in his companion that it
+only occurred to him when he was in sight of the Vicarage that he had
+left his gun lying just where he had dropped it amongst the bracken.</p>
+
+<p>He was rejoiced to hear that the pain of the bandaged wing fell rapidly in intensity.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Parenthesis on Angels.</span></span> <span>IX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Let us be plain. The Angel of this story is the Angel of Art, not the
+Angel that one must be irreverent to touch&mdash;neither the Angel of
+religious feeling nor the Angel of popular belief. The last we all know.
+She is alone among the angelic hosts in being distinctly feminine: she
+wears a robe of immaculate, unmitigated white with sleeves, is fair,
+with long golden tresses, and has eyes of the blue of Heaven. Just a
+pure woman she is, pure maiden or pure matron, in her <i>robe de nuit</i>,
+and with wings attached to her shoulder blades. Her callings are
+domestic and sympathetic, she watches over a cradle or assists a sister
+soul heavenward. Often she bears a palm leaf, but one would not be
+surprised if one met her carrying a warming-pan softly to some poor
+chilly sinner. She it was who came down in a bevy to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</a></span> Marguerite in
+prison, in the amended last scene in <i>Faust</i> at the Lyceum, and the
+interesting and improving little children that are to die young, have
+visions of such angels in the novels of Mrs Henry Wood. This white
+womanliness with her indescribable charm of lavender-like holiness, her
+aroma of clean, methodical lives, is, it would seem after all, a purely
+Teutonic invention. Latin thought knows her not; the old masters have
+none of her. She is of a piece with that gentle innocent ladylike school
+of art whereof the greatest triumph is "a lump in one's throat," and
+where wit and passion, scorn and pomp, have no place. The white angel
+was made in Germany, in the land of blonde women and the domestic
+sentiments. She comes to us cool and worshipful, pure and tranquil, as
+silently soothing as the breadth and calmness of the starlit sky, which
+also is so unspeakably dear to the Teutonic soul.... We do her
+reverence. And to the angels of the Hebrews, those spirits of power and
+mystery, to Raphael, Zadkiel, and Michael, of whom only Watts has caught
+the shadow, of whom only Blake has seen the splendour, to them too, do
+we do reverence.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</a></span></p><p>But this Angel the Vicar shot is, we say, no such angel at all, but the
+Angel of Italian art, polychromatic and gay. He comes from the land of
+beautiful dreams and not from any holier place. At best he is a popish
+creature. Bear patiently, therefore, with his scattered remiges, and be
+not hasty with your charge of irreverence before the story is read.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">At the Vicarage.</span></span> <span>X.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Curate's wife and her two daughters and Mrs Jehoram were still
+playing at tennis on the lawn behind the Vicar's study, playing keenly
+and talking in gasps about paper patterns for blouses. But the Vicar
+forgot and came in that way.</p>
+
+<p>They saw the Vicar's hat above the rhododendrons, and a bare curly head
+beside him. "I must ask him about Susan Wiggin," said the Curate's wife.
+She was about to serve, and stood with a racket in one hand and a ball
+between the fingers of the other. "<i>He</i> really ought to have gone to see
+her&mdash;being the Vicar. Not George. I&mdash;&mdash;<i>Ah!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>For the two figures suddenly turned the corner and were visible. The
+Vicar, arm in arm with&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</a></span></p><p>You see, it came on the Curate's wife suddenly. The Angel's face being
+towards her she saw nothing of the wings. Only a face of unearthly
+beauty in a halo of chestnut hair, and a graceful figure clothed in a
+saffron garment that barely reached the knees. The thought of those
+knees flashed upon the Vicar at once. He too was horrorstruck. So were
+the two girls and Mrs Jehoram. All horrorstruck. The Angel stared in
+astonishment at the horrorstruck group. You see, he had never seen
+anyone horrorstruck before.</p>
+
+<p>"<span class="smcap">Mis</span>&mdash;ter Hilyer!" said the Curate's wife. "This is <i>too</i> much!" She
+stood speechless for a moment. "<i>Oh!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>She swept round upon the rigid girls. "Come!" The Vicar opened and shut
+his voiceless mouth. The world hummed and spun about him. There was a
+whirling of zephyr skirts, four impassioned faces sweeping towards the
+open door of the passage that ran through the vicarage. He felt his
+position went with them.</p>
+
+<p>"Mrs Mendham," said the Vicar, stepping forward. "Mrs Mendham. You don't
+understand&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</a></span></p><p>"<i>Oh!</i>" they all said again.</p>
+
+<p>One, two, three, four skirts vanished in the doorway. The Vicar
+staggered half way across the lawn and stopped, aghast. "This comes," he
+heard the Curate's wife say, out of the depth of the passage, "of having
+an unmarried vicar&mdash;&mdash;." The umbrella stand wobbled. The front door of
+the vicarage slammed like a minute gun. There was silence for a space.</p>
+
+<p>"I might have thought," he said. "She is always so hasty."</p>
+
+<p>He put his hand to his chin&mdash;a habit with him. Then turned his face to
+his companion. The Angel was evidently well bred. He was holding up Mrs
+Jehoram's sunshade&mdash;she had left it on one of the cane chairs&mdash;and
+examining it with extraordinary interest. He opened it. "What a curious
+little mechanism!" he said. "What can it be for?"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar did not answer. The angelic costume certainly was&mdash;the Vicar
+knew it was a case for a French phrase&mdash;but he could scarcely remember
+it. He so rarely used French. It was not <i>de trop</i>, he knew. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</a></span>Anything
+but <i>de trop</i>. The Angel was <i>de trop</i>, but certainly not his costume.
+Ah! <i>Sans culotte!</i></p>
+
+<p>The Vicar examined his visitor critically&mdash;for the first time. "He
+<i>will</i> be difficult to explain," he said to himself softly.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stuck the sunshade into the turf and went to smell the sweet
+briar. The sunshine fell upon his brown hair and gave it almost the
+appearance of a halo. He pricked his finger. "Odd!" he said. "Pain again."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Vicar, thinking aloud. "He's very beautiful and curious
+as he is. I should like him best so. But I am afraid I must."</p>
+
+<p>He approached the Angel with a nervous cough.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"Those," said the Vicar, "were ladies."</p>
+
+<p>"How grotesque," said the Angel, smiling and smelling the sweet briar.
+"And such quaint shapes!"</p>
+
+<p>"Possibly," said the Vicar. "Did you, <i>ahem</i>, notice how they behaved?"</p>
+
+<p>"They went away. Seemed, indeed, to run away. Frightened? I, of course,
+was frightened at things without wings. I hope&mdash;&mdash; they were not
+frightened at my wings?"</p>
+
+<p>"At your appearance generally," said the Vicar, glancing involuntarily
+at the pink feet.</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me! It never occurred to me. I suppose I seemed as odd to them as
+you did to me." He glanced down. "And my feet. <i>You</i> have hoofs like a hippogriff."</p>
+
+<p>"Boots," corrected the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Boots, you call them! But anyhow, I am sorry I alarmed&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</a></span></p><p>"You see," said the Vicar, stroking his chin, "our ladies, <i>ahem</i>, have
+peculiar views&mdash;rather inartistic views&mdash;about, <i>ahem</i>, clothing.
+Dressed as you are, I am afraid, I am really afraid that&mdash;beautiful as
+your costume certainly is&mdash;you will find yourself somewhat, <i>ahem</i>,
+somewhat isolated in society. We have a little proverb, 'When in Rome,
+<i>ahem</i>, one must do as the Romans do.' I can assure you that, assuming
+you are desirous to, <i>ahem</i>, associate with us&mdash;during your involuntary
+stay&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel retreated a step or so as the Vicar came nearer and nearer in
+his attempt to be diplomatic and confidential. The beautiful face grew
+perplexed. "I don't quite understand. Why do you keep making these
+noises in your throat? Is it Die or Eat, or any of those...."</p>
+
+<p>"As your host," interrupted the Vicar, and stopped.</p>
+
+<p>"As my host," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Would</i> you object, pending more permanent arrangements, to invest
+yourself, <i>ahem</i>, in a suit, an entirely new suit I may say, like this I have on?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</a></span></p><p>"Oh!" said the Angel. He retreated so as to take in the Vicar from top
+to toe. "Wear clothes like yours!" he said. He was puzzled but amused.
+His eyes grew round and bright, his mouth puckered at the corners.</p>
+
+<p>"Delightful!" he said, clapping his hands together. "What a mad, quaint
+dream this is! Where are they?" He caught at the neck of the saffron robe.</p>
+
+<p>"Indoors!" said the Vicar. "This way. We will change&mdash;indoors!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>So the Angel was invested in a pair of nether garments of the Vicar's, a
+shirt, ripped down the back (to accommodate the wings), socks,
+shoes&mdash;the Vicar's dress shoes&mdash;collar, tie, and light overcoat. But
+putting on the latter was painful, and reminded the Vicar that the
+bandaging was temporary. "I will ring for tea at once, and send Grummet
+down for Crump," said the Vicar. "And dinner shall be earlier." While
+the Vicar shouted his orders on the landing rails, the Angel surveyed
+himself in the cheval glass with immense delight. If he was a stranger
+to pain, he was evidently no stranger&mdash;thanks perhaps to dreaming&mdash;to
+the pleasure of incongruity.</p>
+
+<p>They had tea in the drawing-room. The Angel sat on the music stool
+(music stool because of his wings). At first he wanted to lie on the
+hearthrug. He looked much less radiant in the Vicar's clothes, than he
+had done upon the moor when<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</a></span> dressed in saffron. His face shone still,
+the colour of his hair and cheeks was strangely bright, and there was a
+superhuman light in his eyes, but his wings under the overcoat gave him
+the appearance of a hunchback. The garments, indeed, made quite a
+terrestrial thing of him, the trousers were puckered transversely, and
+the shoes a size or so too large.</p>
+
+<p>He was charmingly affable and quite ignorant of the most elementary
+facts of civilization. Eating came without much difficulty, and the
+Vicar had an entertaining time teaching him how to take tea. "What a
+mess it is! What a dear grotesque ugly world you live in!" said the
+Angel. "Fancy stuffing things into your mouth! We use our mouths just to
+talk and sing with. Our world, you know, is almost incurably beautiful.
+We get so very little ugliness, that I find all this ... delightful."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Hinijer, the Vicar's housekeeper, looked at the Angel suspiciously
+when she brought in the tea. She thought him rather a "queer customer."
+What she would have thought had she seen him in saffron no one can tell.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</a></span></p><p>The Angel shuffled about the room with his cup of tea in one hand, and
+the bread and butter in the other, and examined the Vicar's furniture.
+Outside the French windows, the lawn with its array of dahlias and
+sunflowers glowed in the warm sunlight, and Mrs Jehoram's sunshade stood
+thereon like a triangle of fire. He thought the Vicar's portrait over
+the mantel very curious indeed, could not understand what it was there
+for. "You have yourself round," he said, <i>apropos</i> of the portrait, "Why
+want yourself flat?" and he was vastly amused at the glass fire screen.
+He found the oak chairs odd&mdash;"You're not square, are you?" he said, when
+the Vicar explained their use. "<i>We</i> never double ourselves up. We lie
+about on the asphodel when we want to rest."</p>
+
+<p>"The chair," said the Vicar, "to tell you the truth, has always puzzled
+<i>me</i>. It dates, I think, from the days when the floors were cold and
+very dirty. I suppose we have kept up the habit. It's become a kind of
+instinct with us to sit on chairs. Anyhow, if I went to see one of my
+parishioners, and suddenly spread myself<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</a></span> out on the floor&mdash;the natural
+way of it&mdash;I don't know what she would do. It would be all over the
+parish in no time. Yet it seems the natural method of reposing, to
+recline. The Greeks and Romans&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"What is this?" said the Angel abruptly.</p>
+
+<p>"That's a stuffed kingfisher. I killed it."</p>
+
+<p>"Killed it!"</p>
+
+<p>"Shot it," said the Vicar, "with a gun."</p>
+
+<p>"Shot! As you did me?"</p>
+
+<p>"I didn't kill you, you see. Fortunately."</p>
+
+<p>"Is killing making like that?"</p>
+
+<p>"In a way."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me! And you wanted to make me like that&mdash;wanted to put glass eyes
+in me and string me up in a glass case full of ugly green and brown stuff?"</p>
+
+<p>"You see," began the Vicar, "I scarcely understood&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Is that 'die'?" asked the Angel suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"That is dead; it died."</p>
+
+<p>"Poor little thing. I must eat a lot. But you say you killed it. <i>Why?</i>"</p>
+
+<p>"You see," said the Vicar, "I take an interest<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</a></span> in birds, and I (<i>ahem</i>)
+collect them. I wanted the specimen&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at him for a moment with puzzled eyes. "A beautiful
+bird like that!" he said with a shiver. "Because the fancy took you. You
+wanted the specimen!"</p>
+
+<p>He thought for a minute. "Do you often kill?" he asked the Vicar.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Man of Science.</span></span> <span>XIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Then Doctor Crump arrived. Grummet had met him not a hundred yards from
+the vicarage gate. He was a large, rather heavy-looking man, with a
+clean-shaven face and a double chin. He was dressed in a grey morning
+coat (he always affected grey), with a chequered black and white tie.
+"What's the trouble?" he said, entering and staring without a shadow of
+surprise at the Angel's radiant face.</p>
+
+<p>"This&mdash;<i>ahem</i>&mdash;gentleman," said the Vicar, "or&mdash;<i>ah</i>&mdash;Angel"&mdash;the Angel
+bowed&mdash;"is suffering from a gunshot wound."</p>
+
+<p>"Gunshot wound!" said Doctor Crump. "In July! May I look at it,
+Mr&mdash;Angel, I think you said?"</p>
+
+<p>"He will probably be able to assuage your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</a></span> pain," said the Vicar. "Let
+me assist you to remove your coat?"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel turned obediently.</p>
+
+<p>"Spinal curvature?" muttered Doctor Crump quite audibly, walking round
+behind the Angel. "No! abnormal growth. Hullo! This is odd!" He clutched
+the left wing. "Curious," he said. "Reduplication of the anterior
+limb&mdash;bifid coracoid. Possible, of course, but I've never seen it
+before." The angel winced under his hands. "Humerus. Radius and Ulna.
+All there. Congenital, of course. Humerus broken. Curious integumentary
+simulation of feathers. Dear me. Almost avian. Probably of considerable
+interest in comparative anatomy. I never did!&mdash;&mdash;How did this gunshot
+happen, Mr Angel?"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar was amazed at the Doctor's matter-of-fact manner.</p>
+
+<p>"Our friend," said the Angel, moving his head at the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Unhappily it is my doing," said the Vicar, stepping forward,
+explanatory. "I mistook the gentleman&mdash;the Angel (<i>ahem</i>)&mdash;for a large
+bird&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</a></span></p><p>"Mistook him for a large bird! What next? Your eyes want seeing to,"
+said Doctor Crump. "I've told you so before." He went on patting and
+feeling, keeping time with a series of grunts and inarticulate
+mutterings.... "But this is really a very good bit of amateur
+bandaging," said he. "I think I shall leave it. Curious malformation
+this is! Don't you find it inconvenient, Mr Angel?"</p>
+
+<p>He suddenly walked round so as to look in the Angel's face.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel thought he referred to the wound. "It is rather," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"If it wasn't for the bones I should say paint with iodine night and
+morning. Nothing like iodine. You could paint your face flat with it.
+But the osseous outgrowth, the bones, you know, complicate things. I
+could saw them off, of course. It's not a thing one should have done in
+a hurry&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you mean my wings?" said the Angel in alarm.</p>
+
+<p>"Wings!" said the Doctor. "Eigh? Call 'em wings! Yes&mdash;what else should I
+mean?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</a></span></p><p>"Saw them off!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't you think so? It's of course your affair. I am only advising&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Saw them off! What a funny creature you are!" said the Angel, beginning
+to laugh.</p>
+
+<p>"As you will," said the Doctor. He detested people who laughed. "The
+things are curious," he said, turning to the Vicar. "If
+inconvenient"&mdash;to the Angel. "I never heard of such complete
+reduplication before&mdash;at least among animals. In plants it's common
+enough. Were you the only one in your family?" He did not wait for a
+reply. "Partial cases of the fission of limbs are not at all uncommon,
+of course, Vicar&mdash;six-fingered children, calves with six feet, and cats
+with double toes, you know. May I assist you?" he said, turning to the
+Angel who was struggling with the coat. "But such a complete
+reduplication, and so avian, too! It would be much less remarkable if it
+was simply another pair of arms."</p>
+
+<p>The coat was got on and he and the Angel stared at one another.</p>
+
+<p>"Really," said the Doctor, "one begins to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</a></span> understand how that beautiful
+myth of the angels arose. You look a little hectic, Mr Angel&mdash;feverish.
+Excessive brilliance is almost worse as a symptom than excessive pallor.
+Curious your name should be Angel. I must send you a cooling draught, if
+you should feel thirsty in the night...."</p>
+
+<p>He made a memorandum on his shirt cuff. The Angel watched him
+thoughtfully, with the dawn of a smile in his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"One minute, Crump," said the Vicar, taking the Doctor's arm and leading
+him towards the door.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's smile grew brighter. He looked down at his black-clad legs.
+"He positively thinks I am a man!" said the Angel. "What he makes of the
+wings beats me altogether. What a queer creature he must be! This is
+really a most extraordinary Dream!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XIV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"That <i>is</i> an Angel," whispered the Vicar. "You don't understand."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>What?</i>" said the Doctor in a quick, sharp voice. His eyebrows went up
+and he smiled.</p>
+
+<p>"But the wings?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite natural, quite ... if a little abnormal."</p>
+
+<p>"Are you sure they are natural?"</p>
+
+<p>"My dear fellow, everything that is, is natural. There is nothing
+unnatural in the world. If I thought there was I should give up practice
+and go into <i>Le Grand Chartreuse</i>. There are abnormal phenomena, of
+course. And&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"But the way I came upon him," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, tell me where you picked him up," said the Doctor. He sat down on
+the hall table.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar began rather hesitatingly&mdash;he was not very good at story
+telling&mdash;with the rumours of a strange great bird. He told the story in<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</a></span>
+clumsy sentences&mdash;for, knowing the Bishop as he did, with that awful
+example always before him he dreaded getting his pulpit style into his
+daily conversation&mdash;and at every third sentence or so, the Doctor made a
+downward movement of his head&mdash;the corners of his mouth tucked away, so
+to speak&mdash;as though he ticked off the phases of the story and so far
+found it just as it ought to be. "Self-hypnotism," he murmured once.</p>
+
+<p>"I beg your pardon?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing," said the Doctor. "Nothing, I assure you. Go on. This is
+extremely interesting."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar told him he went out with his gun.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>After</i> lunch, I think you said?" interrupted the Doctor.</p>
+
+<p>"Immediately after," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"You should not do such things, you know. But go on, please."</p>
+
+<p>He came to the glimpse of the Angel from the gate.</p>
+
+<p>"In the full glare," said the Doctor, in parenthesis. "It was
+seventy-nine in the shade."</p>
+
+<p>When the Vicar had finished, the Doctor<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</a></span> pressed his lips together
+tighter than ever, smiled faintly, and looked significantly into the Vicar's eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"You don't ..." began the Vicar, falteringly.</p>
+
+<p>The Doctor shook his head. "Forgive me," he said, putting his hand on
+the Vicar's arm.</p>
+
+<p>"You go out," he said, "on a hot lunch and on a hot afternoon. Probably
+over eighty. Your mind, what there is of it, is whirling with avian
+expectations. I say, 'what there is of it,' because most of your nervous
+energy is down there, digesting your dinner. A man who has been lying in
+the bracken stands up before you and you blaze away. Over he goes&mdash;and
+as it happens&mdash;as it happens&mdash;he has reduplicate fore-limbs, one pair
+being not unlike wings. It's a coincidence certainly. And as for his
+iridescent colours and so forth&mdash;&mdash;. Have you never had patches of
+colour swim before your eyes before, on a brilliant sunlight day?... Are
+you sure they were confined to the wings? Think."</p>
+
+<p>"But he says he <i>is</i> an Angel!" said the Vicar, staring out of his
+little round eyes, his plump hands in his pockets.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</a></span></p><p>"<i>Ah!</i>" said the Doctor with his eye on the Vicar. "I expected as
+much." He paused.</p>
+
+<p>"But don't you think ..." began the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"That man," said the Doctor in a low, earnest voice, "is a mattoid."</p>
+
+<p>"A what?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"A mattoid. An abnormal man. Did you notice the effeminate delicacy of
+his face? His tendency to quite unmeaning laughter? His neglected hair?
+Then consider his singular dress...."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's hand went up to his chin.</p>
+
+<p>"Marks of mental weakness," said the Doctor. "Many of this type of
+degenerate show this same disposition to assume some vast mysterious
+credentials. One will call himself the Prince of Wales, another the
+Archangel Gabriel, another the Deity even. Ibsen thinks he is a Great
+Teacher, and Maeterlink a new Shakespeare. I've just been reading all
+about it&mdash;in Nordau. No doubt his odd deformity gave him an idea...."</p>
+
+<p>"But really," began the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</a></span></p><p>"No doubt he's slipped away from confinement."</p>
+
+<p>"I do not altogether accept...."</p>
+
+<p>"You will. If not, there's the police, and failing that, advertisement;
+but, of course, his people may want to hush it up. It's a sad thing in a family...."</p>
+
+<p>"He seems so altogether...."</p>
+
+<p>"Probably you'll hear from his friends in a day or so," said the Doctor,
+feeling for his watch. "He can't live far from here, I should think. He
+seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again
+to-morrow." He slid off the hall table and stood up.</p>
+
+<p>"Those old wives' tales still have their hold on you," he said, patting
+the Vicar on the shoulder. "But an angel, you know&mdash;Ha, ha!"</p>
+
+<p>"I certainly <i>did</i> think...." said the Vicar dubiously.</p>
+
+<p>"Weigh the evidence," said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch.
+"Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it
+leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy&mdash;<i>muscae volantes</i>."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</a></span></p><p>"And yet," said the Vicar, "I could almost swear to the glory on his
+wings...."</p>
+
+<p>"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon&mdash;brilliant
+sunshine&mdash;boiling down on your head.... But really I <i>must</i> be going. It
+is a quarter to five. I'll see your&mdash;angel (ha, ha!) to-morrow again, if
+no one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was really
+very good. I flatter <i>myself</i> on that score. Our ambulance classes
+<i>were</i> a success you see.... Good afternoon."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Curate.</span></span> <span>XV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Vicar opened the door half mechanically to let out Crump, and saw
+Mendham, his curate, coming up the pathway by the hedge of purple vetch
+and meadowsweet. At that his hand went up to his chin and his eyes grew
+perplexed. Suppose he <i>was</i> deceived. The Doctor passed the Curate with
+a sweep of his hand from his hat brim. Crump was an extraordinarily
+clever fellow, the Vicar thought, and knew far more of anyone's brain
+than one did oneself. The Vicar felt that so acutely. It made the coming
+explanation difficult. Suppose he were to go back into the drawing-room,
+and find just a tramp asleep on the hearthrug.</p>
+
+<p>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.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</a></span>
+But when he spoke you found he had a voice as well.</p>
+
+<p>"My wife came home in a dreadful state," he brayed out at long range.</p>
+
+<p>"Come in," said the Vicar; "come in. Most remarkable occurrence. Please
+come in. Come into the study. I'm really dreadfully sorry. But when I explain...."</p>
+
+<p>"And apologise, I hope," brayed the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"And apologise. No, not that way. This way. The study."</p>
+
+<p>"Now what <i>was</i> that woman?" said the Curate, turning on the Vicar as
+the latter closed the study door.</p>
+
+<p>"What woman?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pah!"</p>
+
+<p>"But really!"</p>
+
+<p>"The painted creature in light attire&mdash;disgustingly light attire, to
+speak freely&mdash;with whom you were promenading the garden."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear Mendham&mdash;that was an Angel!"</p>
+
+<p>"A&nbsp;&nbsp;v&nbsp;e&nbsp;r&nbsp;y&nbsp;&nbsp;p&nbsp;r&nbsp;e&nbsp;t&nbsp;t&nbsp;y&nbsp;&nbsp;Angel?"</p>
+
+<p>"The world is getting so matter-of-fact," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</a></span></p><p>"The world," roared the Curate, "grows blacker every day. But to find a
+man in your position, shamelessly, openly...."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Bother!</i>" said the Vicar aside. He rarely swore. "Look here, Mendham,
+you really misunderstand. I can assure you...."</p>
+
+<p>"Very well," said the Curate. "Explain!" He stood with his lank legs
+apart, his arms folded, scowling at his Vicar over his big beard.</p>
+
+<p>(Explanations, I repeat, I have always considered the peculiar fallacy
+of this scientific age.)</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar looked about him helplessly. The world had all gone dull and
+dead. Had he been dreaming all the afternoon? Was there really an angel
+in the drawing-room? Or was he the sport of a complicated hallucination?</p>
+
+<p>"Well?" said Mendham, at the end of a minute.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's hand fluttered about his chin. "It's such a round-about
+story," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"No doubt it will be," said Mendham harshly.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar restrained a movement of impatience.</p>
+
+<p>"I went out to look for a strange bird this<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</a></span> afternoon.... Do you
+believe in angels, Mendham, real angels?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm not here to discuss theology. I am the husband of an insulted woman."</p>
+
+<p>"But I tell you it's not a figure of speech; this <i>is</i> an angel, a real
+angel with wings. He's in the next room now. You do misunderstand me, so...."</p>
+
+<p>"Really, Hilyer&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"It is true I tell you, Mendham. I swear it is true." The Vicar's voice
+grew impassioned. "What sin I have done that I should entertain and
+clothe angelic visitants, I don't know. I only know that&mdash;inconvenient
+as it undoubtedly will be&mdash;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't
+turn him out, you know, because Mrs Mendham&mdash;&mdash;I may be a weakling, but
+I am still a gentleman."</p>
+
+<p>"Really, Hilyer&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I can assure you it is true." There was a note of hysterical
+desperation in the Vicar's voice.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</a></span> "I fired at him, taking him for a
+flamingo, and hit him in the wing."</p>
+
+<p>"I thought this was a case for the Bishop. I find it is a case for the
+Lunacy Commissioners."</p>
+
+<p>"Come and see him, Mendham!"</p>
+
+<p>"But there <i>are</i> no angels."</p>
+
+<p>"We teach the people differently," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Not as material bodies," said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"Anyhow, come and see him."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't want to see your hallucinations," began the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"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."</p>
+
+<p>"I don't wish to understand," said the Curate. "I don't wish to lend
+myself to any imposture. Surely, Hilyer, if this is not an imposition,
+you can tell me yourself.... Flamingo, indeed!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XVI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Angel had finished his tea and was standing looking pensively out of
+the window. He thought the old church down the valley lit by the light
+of the setting sun was very beautiful, but he could not understand the
+serried ranks of tombstones that lay up the hillside beyond. He turned
+as Mendham and the Vicar came in.</p>
+
+<p>Now Mendham could bully his Vicar cheerfully enough, just as he could
+bully his congregation; but he was not the sort of man to bully a
+stranger. He looked at the Angel, and the "strange woman" theory was
+disposed of. The Angel's beauty was too clearly the beauty of the youth.</p>
+
+<p>"Mr Hilyer tells me," Mendham began, in an almost apologetic tone, "that
+you&mdash;ah&mdash;it's so curious&mdash;claim to be an Angel."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Are</i> an Angel," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel bowed.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</a></span></p><p>"Naturally," said Mendham, "we are curious."</p>
+
+<p>"Very," said the Angel. "The blackness and the shape."</p>
+
+<p>"I beg your pardon?" said Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"The blackness and the flaps," repeated the Angel; "and no wings."</p>
+
+<p>"Precisely," said Mendham, who was altogether at a loss. "We are, of
+course, curious to know something of how you came into the village in
+such a peculiar costume."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel looked at the Vicar. The Vicar touched his chin.</p>
+
+<p>"You see," began the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Let <i>him</i> explain," said Mendham; "I beg."</p>
+
+<p>"I wanted to suggest," began the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"And I don't want you to suggest."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Bother!</i>" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel looked from one to the other. "Such rugose expressions flit
+across your faces!" he said.</p>
+
+<p>"You see, Mr&mdash;Mr&mdash;I don't know your name," said Mendham, with a certain
+diminution of suavity. "The case stands thus: My wife&mdash;four ladies, I
+might say&mdash;are playing lawn tennis,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</a></span> when you suddenly rush out on them,
+sir; you rush out on them from among the rhododendra in a very defective
+costume. You and Mr Hilyer."</p>
+
+<p>"But I&mdash;" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"I know. It was this gentleman's costume was defective. Naturally&mdash;it is
+my place in fact&mdash;to demand an explanation." His voice was growing in
+volume. "And I <i>must</i> demand an explanation."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel smiled faintly at his note of anger and his sudden attitude of
+determination&mdash;arms tightly folded.</p>
+
+<p>"I am rather new to the world," the Angel began.</p>
+
+<p>"Nineteen at least," said Mendham. "Old enough to know better. That's a
+poor excuse."</p>
+
+<p>"May I ask one question first?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Well?"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you think I am a Man&mdash;like yourself? As the chequered man did."</p>
+
+<p>"If you are not a man&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"One other question. Have you <i>never</i> heard of an Angel?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</a></span></p><p>"I warn you not to try that story upon me," said Mendham, now back at
+his familiar crescendo.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar interrupted: "But Mendham&mdash;he has wings!"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Please</i> let me talk to him," said Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"You are so quaint," said the Angel; "you interrupt everything I have to say."</p>
+
+<p>"But what <i>have</i> you to say?" said Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"That I really <i>am</i> an Angel...."</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw!"</p>
+
+<p>"There you go!"</p>
+
+<p>"But tell me, honestly, how you came to be in the shrubbery of
+Siddermorton Vicarage&mdash;in the state in which you were. And in the
+Vicar's company. Cannot you abandon this ridiculous story of yours?..."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel shrugged his wings. "What is the matter with this man?" he
+said to the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"My dear Mendham," said the Vicar, "a few words from me...."</p>
+
+<p>"Surely my question is straightforward enough!"</p>
+
+<p>"But you won't tell me the answer you want, and it's no good my telling
+you any other."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</a></span></p><p>"<i>Pshaw!</i>" said the Curate again. And then turning suddenly on the
+Vicar, "Where does he come from?"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar was in a dreadful state of doubt by this time.</p>
+
+<p>"He <i>says</i> he is an Angel!" said the Vicar. "Why don't you listen to him?"</p>
+
+<p>"No angel would alarm four ladies...."</p>
+
+<p>"Is <i>that</i> what it is all about?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Enough cause too, I should think!" said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"But I really did not know," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"This is altogether too much!"</p>
+
+<p>"I am sincerely sorry I alarmed these ladies."</p>
+
+<p>"You ought to be. But I see I shall get nothing out of you two." Mendham
+went towards the door. "I am convinced there is something discreditable
+at the bottom of this business. Or why not tell a simple straightforward
+story? I will confess you puzzle me. Why, in this enlightened age, you
+should tell this fantastic, this far-fetched story of an Angel,
+altogether beats me. What good <i>can</i> it do?..."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</a></span></p><p>"But stop and look at his wings!" said the Vicar. "I can assure you he
+has wings!"</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"But Mendham!" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Curate halted in the doorway and looked at the Vicar over his
+shoulder. The accumulating judgment of months found vent. "I cannot
+understand, Hilyer, why you are in the Church. For the life of me I
+cannot. The air is full of Social Movements, of Economic change, the
+Woman Movement, Rational Dress, The Reunion of Christendom, Socialism,
+Individualism&mdash;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...."</p>
+
+<p>"But Mendham," began the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Curate would not hear him. "You shame the Apostles with your
+levity.... But this is only a preliminary enquiry," he said, with a
+threatening note in his sonorous voice, and so vanished abruptly (with a
+violent slam) from the room.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XVII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"Are <i>all</i> men so odd as this?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm in such a difficult position," said the Vicar. "You see," he said,
+and stopped, searching his chin for an idea.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm beginning to see," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"They won't believe it."</p>
+
+<p>"I see that."</p>
+
+<p>"They will think I tell lies."</p>
+
+<p>"And?"</p>
+
+<p>"That will be extremely painful to me."</p>
+
+<p>"Painful!... Pain," said the Angel. "I hope not."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar shook his head. The good report of the village had been the
+breath of his life, so far. "You see," he said, "it would look so much
+more plausible if you said you were just a man."</p>
+
+<p>"But I'm not," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"No, you're not," said the Vicar. "So that's no good."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</a></span></p><p>"Nobody here, you know, has ever seen an Angel, or heard of one&mdash;except
+in church. If you had made your <i>debut</i> in the chancel&mdash;on Sunday&mdash;it
+might have been different. But that's too late now.... (<i>Bother!</i>)
+Nobody, absolutely nobody, will believe in you."</p>
+
+<p>"I hope I am not inconveniencing you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all," said the Vicar; "not at all. Only&mdash;&mdash;. Naturally it may be
+inconvenient if you tell a too incredible story. If I might suggest
+(<i>ahem</i>)&mdash;&mdash;."</p>
+
+<p>"Well?"</p>
+
+<p>"You see, people in the world, being men themselves, will almost
+certainly regard you as a man. If you say you are not, they will simply
+say you do not tell the truth. Only exceptional people appreciate the
+exceptional. When in Rome one must&mdash;well, respect Roman prejudices a
+little&mdash;talk Latin. You will find it better&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You propose I should feign to become a man?"</p>
+
+<p>"You have my meaning at once."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at the Vicar's hollyhocks and thought.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</a></span></p><p>"Possibly, after all," he said slowly, "I <i>shall</i> become a man. I may
+have been too hasty in saying I was not. You say there are no angels in
+this world. Who am I to set myself up against your experience? A mere
+thing of a day&mdash;so far as this world goes. If you say there are no
+angels&mdash;clearly I must be something else. I eat&mdash;angels do not eat. I
+<i>may</i> be a man already."</p>
+
+<p>"A convenient view, at any rate," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"If it is convenient to you&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"It is. And then to account for your presence here."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>If</i>," 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&mdash;&mdash;would be shorn at
+least of the supernatural element. There is such a feeling against the
+supernatural element nowadays<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</a></span>&mdash;even in the pulpit. You would hardly
+believe&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"It's a pity that was not the case," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"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 angelic
+nature. You will oblige everyone, in fact. There is a settled opinion
+that angels do not do this kind of thing. And nothing is more
+painful&mdash;as I can testify&mdash;than a decaying settled opinion.... Settled
+opinions are mental teeth in more ways than one. For my own part,"&mdash;the
+Vicar's hand passed over his eyes for a moment&mdash;"I cannot but believe
+you are an angel.... Surely I can believe my own eyes."</p>
+
+<p>"We always do ours," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"And so do we, within limits."</p>
+
+<p>Then the clock upon the mantel chimed seven, and almost simultaneously
+Mrs Hinijer announced dinner.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">After Dinner.</span></span> <span>XVIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Angel and the Vicar sat at dinner. The Vicar, with his napkin tucked
+in at his neck, watched the Angel struggling with his soup. "You will
+soon get into the way of it," said the Vicar. The knife and fork
+business was done awkwardly but with effect. The Angel looked furtively
+at Delia, the little waiting maid. When presently they sat cracking
+nuts&mdash;which the Angel found congenial enough&mdash;and the girl had gone, the
+Angel asked: "Was that a lady, too?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well," said the Vicar (<i>crack</i>). "No&mdash;she is not a lady. She is a servant."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Angel; "she <i>had</i> rather a nicer shape."</p>
+
+<p>"You mustn't tell Mrs Mendham that," said the Vicar, covertly satisfied.</p>
+
+<p>"She didn't stick out so much at the shoulders<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</a></span> and hips, and there was
+more of her in between. And the colour of her robes was not
+discordant&mdash;simply neutral. And her face&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;these nuts?"</p>
+
+<p>"Very much," said the Angel. <i>Crack.</i></p>
+
+<p>"You see," said the Vicar (<i>Chum, chum, chum</i>). "For my own part I
+entirely believe you are an angel."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"I shot you&mdash;I saw you flutter. It's beyond dispute. In my own mind. I
+admit it's curious and against my preconceptions, but&mdash;practically&mdash;I'm
+assured, perfectly assured in fact, that I saw what I certainly did see.
+But after the behaviour of these people. (<i>Crack</i>). I really don't see
+how we are to persuade people. Nowadays people are so very particular
+about evidence. So that I think there is a great deal to be said for the
+attitude you assume. Temporarily at least I think it would be best of
+you<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</a></span> 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 what
+has happened (<i>Gluck</i>, <i>gluck</i>, <i>gluck</i>&mdash;as the Vicar refills his
+glass)&mdash;after what has happened I should not be surprised to see the
+side of the room fall away, and the hosts of heaven appear to take you
+away again&mdash;take us both away even. You have so far enlarged my
+imagination. All these years I have been forgetting Wonderland. But
+still&mdash;&mdash;. It will certainly be wiser to break the thing gently to them."</p>
+
+<p>"This life of yours," said the Angel. "I'm still in the dark about it.
+How do you begin?"</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "Fancy having to explain that! We begin
+existence here, you know, as babies, silly pink helpless things wrapped
+in white, with goggling eyes, that yelp dismally at the Font. Then these
+babies grow larger and become even beautiful&mdash;when their faces are
+washed. And they continue to grow to a certain size. They become
+children, boys and girls, youths and maidens (<i>Crack</i>), young men and
+young women. That is the finest time in life,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</a></span> according to
+many&mdash;certainly the most beautiful. Full of great hopes and dreams,
+vague emotions and unexpected dangers."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>That</i> was a maiden?" said the Angel, indicating the door through which
+Delia had disappeared.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Vicar, "that was a maiden." And paused thoughtfully.</p>
+
+<p>"And then?"</p>
+
+<p>"Then," said the Vicar, "the glamour fades and life begins in earnest.
+The young men and young women pair off&mdash;most of them. They come to me
+shy and bashful, in smart ugly dresses, and I marry them. And then
+little pink babies come to them, and some of the youths and maidens that
+were, grow fat and vulgar, and some grow thin and shrewish, and their
+pretty complexions go, and they get a queer delusion of superiority over
+the younger people, and all the delight and glory goes out of their
+lives. So they call the delight and glory of the younger ones, Illusion.
+And then they begin to drop to pieces."</p>
+
+<p>"Drop to pieces!" said the Angel. "How grotesque!"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</a></span></p><p>"Their hair comes off and gets dull coloured or ashen grey," said the
+Vicar. "<i>I</i>, for instance." He bowed his head forward to show a circular
+shining patch the size of a florin. "And their teeth come out. Their
+faces collapse and become as wrinkled and dry as a shrivelled apple.
+'Corrugated' you called mine. They care more and more for what they have
+to eat and to drink, and less and less for any of the other delights of
+life. Their limbs get loose in the joints, and their hearts slack, or
+little pieces from their lungs come coughing up. Pain...."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Pain comes into their lives more and more. And then they go. They do
+not like to go, but they have to&mdash;out of this world, very reluctantly,
+clutching its pain at last in their eagerness to stop...."</p>
+
+<p>"Where do they go?"</p>
+
+<p>"Once I thought I knew. But now I am older I know I do not know. We have
+a Legend&mdash;perhaps it is not a legend. One may be a churchman and
+disbelieve. Stokes says there is nothing in it...." The Vicar shook his
+head at the bananas.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</a></span></p><p>"And you?" said the Angel. "Were you a little pink baby?"</p>
+
+<p>"A little while ago I was a little pink baby."</p>
+
+<p>"Were you robed then as you are now?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh no! Dear me! What a queer idea! Had long white clothes, I suppose,
+like the rest of them."</p>
+
+<p>"And then you were a little boy?"</p>
+
+<p>"A little boy."</p>
+
+<p>"And then a glorious youth?"</p>
+
+<p>"I was not a very glorious youth, I am afraid. I was sickly, and too
+poor to be radiant, and with a timid heart. I studied hard and pored
+over the dying thoughts of men long dead. So I lost the glory, and no
+maiden came to me, and the dulness of life began too soon."</p>
+
+<p>"And you have your little pink babies?"</p>
+
+<p>"None," said the Vicar with a scarce perceptible pause. "Yet all the
+same, as you see, I am beginning to drop to pieces. Presently my back
+will droop like a wilting flowerstalk. And then, in a few thousand days
+more I shall be done with, and I shall go out of this world of mine....
+Whither I do not know."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</a></span></p><p>"And you have to eat like this every day?"</p>
+
+<p>"Eat, and get clothes and keep this roof above me. There are some very
+disagreeable things in this world called Cold and Rain. And the other
+people here&mdash;how and why is too long a story&mdash;have made me a kind of
+chorus to their lives. They bring their little pink babies to me and I
+have to say a name and some other things over each new pink baby. And
+when the children have grown to be youths and maidens, they come again
+and are confirmed. You will understand that better later. Then before
+they may join in couples and have pink babies of their own, they must
+come again and hear me read out of a book. They would be outcast, and no
+other maiden would speak to the maiden who had a little pink baby
+without I had read over her for twenty minutes out of my book. It's a
+necessary thing, as you will see. Odd as it may seem to you. And
+afterwards when they are falling to pieces, I try and persuade them of a
+strange world in which I scarcely believe myself, where life is
+altogether different from what they have<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</a></span> had&mdash;or desire. And in the
+end, I bury them, and read out of my book to those who will presently
+follow into the unknown land. I stand at the beginning, and at the
+zenith, and at the setting of their lives. And on every seventh day, I
+who am a man myself, I who see no further than they do, talk to them of
+the Life to Come&mdash;the life of which we know nothing. If such a life
+there be. And slowly I drop to pieces amidst my prophesying."</p>
+
+<p>"What a strange life!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Vicar. "What a strange life! But the thing that makes it
+strange to me is new. I had taken it as a matter of course until you
+came into my life."</p>
+
+<p>"This life of ours is so insistent," said the Vicar. "It, and its petty
+needs, its temporary pleasures (<i>Crack</i>) swathe our souls about. While I
+am preaching to these people of mine of another life, some are
+ministering to one appetite and eating sweets, others&mdash;the old men&mdash;are
+slumbering, the youths glance at the maidens, the grown men protrude
+white waistcoats and gold chains, pomp and vanity on a substratum of
+carnal<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</a></span> substance, their wives flaunt garish bonnets at one another. And
+I go on droning away of the things unseen and unrealised&mdash;'Eye hath not
+seen,' I read, 'nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the imagination
+of man to conceive,' and I look up to catch an adult male immortal
+admiring the fit of a pair of three and sixpenny gloves. It is damping
+year after year. When I was ailing in my youth I felt almost the
+assurance of vision that beneath this temporary phantasm world was the
+real world&mdash;the enduring world of the Life Everlasting. But now&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>He glanced at his chubby white hand, fingering the stem of his glass. "I
+have put on flesh since then," he said. [<i>Pause</i>].</p>
+
+<p>"I have changed and developed very much. The battle of the Flesh and
+Spirit does not trouble me as it did. Every day I feel less confidence
+in my beliefs, and more in God. I live, I am afraid, a quiescent life,
+duties fairly done, a little ornithology and a little chess, a trifle of
+mathematical trifling. My times are in His hands&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar sighed and became pensive. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</a></span> Angel watched him, and the
+Angel's eyes were troubled with the puzzle of him. "Gluck, gluck,
+gluck," went the decanter as the Vicar refilled his glass.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XIX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>So the Angel dined and talked to the Vicar, and presently the night came
+and he was overtaken by yawning.</p>
+
+<p>"Yah&mdash;&mdash;oh!" said the Angel suddenly. "Dear me! A higher power seemed
+suddenly to stretch my mouth open and a great breath of air went rushing
+down my throat."</p>
+
+<p>"You yawned," said the Vicar. "Do you never yawn in the angelic country?"</p>
+
+<p>"Never," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"And yet you are immortal!&mdash;&mdash;I suppose you want to go to bed."</p>
+
+<p>"Bed!" said the Angel. "Where's that?"</p>
+
+<p>So the Vicar explained darkness to him and the art of going to bed. (The
+Angels, it seems sleep only in order to dream, and dream, like primitive
+man, with their foreheads on their knees. And they sleep among the white
+poppy meadows in the heat of the day.) The Angel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</a></span> found the bedroom
+arrangements quaint enough.</p>
+
+<p>"Why is everything raised up on big wooden legs?" he said. "You have the
+floor, and then you put everything you have upon a wooden quadruped. Why
+do you do it?" The Vicar explained with philosophical vagueness. The
+Angel burnt his finger in the candle-flame&mdash;and displayed an absolute
+ignorance of the elementary principles of combustion. He was merely
+charmed when a line of fire ran up the curtains. The Vicar had to
+deliver a lecture on fire so soon as the flame was extinguished. He had
+all kinds of explanations to make&mdash;even the soap needed explaining. It
+was an hour or more before the Angel was safely tucked in for the night.</p>
+
+<p>"He's very beautiful," said the Vicar, descending the staircase, quite
+tired out; "and he's a real angel no doubt. But I am afraid he will be a
+dreadful anxiety, all the same, before he gets into our earthly way with things."</p>
+
+<p>He seemed quite worried. He helped himself to an extra glass of sherry
+before he put away the wine in the cellaret.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Curate stood in front of the looking-glass and solemnly divested
+himself of his collar.</p>
+
+<p>"I never heard a more fantastic story," said Mrs Mendham from the basket
+chair. "The man must be mad. Are you sure&mdash;&mdash;."</p>
+
+<p>"Perfectly, my dear. I've told you every word, every incident&mdash;&mdash;."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Well!</i>" said Mrs Mendham, and spread her hands. "There's no sense in it."</p>
+
+<p>"Precisely, my dear."</p>
+
+<p>"The Vicar," said Mrs Mendham, "must be mad."</p>
+
+<p>"This hunchback is certainly one of the strangest creatures I've seen
+for a long time. Foreign looking, with a big bright coloured face and
+long brown hair.... It can't have been cut for months!" The Curate put
+his studs carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. "And a kind of
+staring look about his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</a></span> eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly
+looking person. Effeminate."</p>
+
+<p>"But who <i>can</i> he be?" said Mrs Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a
+chorister or something of that sort."</p>
+
+<p>"But <i>why</i> should he be about the shrubbery ... in that dreadful costume?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said,
+'Mendham, this is an Angel.'"</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder if he drinks.... They may have been bathing near the spring,
+of course," reflected Mrs Mendham. "But I noticed no other clothes on his arm."</p>
+
+<p>The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.</p>
+
+<p>"It's a perfect mystery to me, my dear." (Flick, flick of laces.)
+"Hallucination is the only charitable&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You are sure, George, that it was <i>not</i> a woman."</p>
+
+<p>"Perfectly," said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"I know what men are, of course."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</a></span></p><p>"It was a young man of nineteen or twenty," said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"I can't understand it," said Mrs Mendham. "You say the creature is
+staying at the Vicarage?"</p>
+
+<p>"Hilyer is simply mad," said the Curate. He got up and went padding
+round the room to the door to put out his boots. "To judge by his manner
+you would really think he believed this cripple was an Angel." ("Are
+your shoes out, dear?")</p>
+
+<p>("They're just by the wardrobe"), said Mrs Mendham. "He always was a
+little queer, you know. There was always something childish about him.... An Angel!"</p>
+
+<p>The Curate came and stood by the fire, fumbling with his braces. Mrs
+Mendham liked a fire even in the summer. "He shirks all the serious
+problems in life and is always trifling with some new foolishness," said
+the Curate. "Angel indeed!" He laughed suddenly. "Hilyer <i>must</i> be mad," he said.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Mendham laughed too. "Even that doesn't explain the hunchback," she said.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</a></span></p><p>"The hunchback must be mad too," said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"It's the only way of explaining it in a sensible way," said Mrs
+Mendham. [<i>Pause.</i>]</p>
+
+<p>"Angel or no angel," said Mrs Mendham, "I know what is due to me. Even
+supposing the man thought he <i>was</i> in the company of an angel, that is
+no reason why he should not behave like a gentleman."</p>
+
+<p>"That is perfectly true."</p>
+
+<p>"You will write to the Bishop, of course?"</p>
+
+<p>Mendham coughed. "No, I shan't write to the Bishop," said Mendham. "I
+think it seems a little disloyal.... And he took no notice of the last, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"But surely&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I shall write to Austin. In confidence. He will be sure to tell the
+Bishop, you know. And you must remember, my dear&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"That Hilyer can dismiss you, you were going to say. My dear, the man's
+much too weak! <i>I</i> should have a word to say about that. And besides,
+you do all his work for him. Practically, we manage the parish from end
+to end.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</a></span> I do not know what would become of the poor if it was not for
+me. They'd have free quarters in the Vicarage to-morrow. There is that
+Goody Ansell&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I know, my dear," said the Curate, turning away and proceeding with his
+undressing. "You were telling me about her only this afternoon."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>And thus in the little bedroom over the gable we reach a first resting
+place in this story. And as we have been hard at it, getting our story
+spread out before you, it may be perhaps well to recapitulate a little.</p>
+
+<p>Looking back you will see that much has been done; we began with a blaze
+of light "not uniform but broken all over by curving flashes like the
+waving of swords," and the sound of a mighty harping, and the advent of
+an Angel with polychromatic wings.</p>
+
+<p>Swiftly, dexterously, as the reader must admit, wings have been clipped,
+halo handled off, the glory clapped into coat and trousers, and the
+Angel made for all practical purposes a man, under a suspicion of being
+either a lunatic or an impostor. You have heard too, or at least been
+able to judge, what the Vicar and the Doctor and the Curate's wife
+thought of the strange<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</a></span> arrival. And further remarkable opinions are to
+follow.</p>
+
+<p>The afterglow of the summer sunset in the north-west darkens into night
+and the Angel sleeps, dreaming himself back in the wonderful world where
+it is always light, and everyone is happy, where fire does not burn and
+ice does not chill; where rivulets of starlight go streaming through the
+amaranthine meadows, out to the seas of Peace. He dreams, and it seems
+to him that once more his wings glow with a thousand colours and flash
+through the crystal air of the world from which he has come.</p>
+
+<p>So he dreams. But the Vicar lies awake, too perplexed for dreaming.
+Chiefly he is troubled by the possibilities of Mrs Mendham; but the
+evening's talk has opened strange vistas in his mind, and he is
+stimulated by a sense as of something seen darkly by the indistinct
+vision of a hitherto unsuspected wonderland lying about his world. For
+twenty years now he has held his village living and lived his daily
+life, protected by his familiar creed, by the clamour of the details of
+life, from any<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</a></span> mystical dreaming. But now interweaving with the
+familiar bother of his persecuting neighbour, is an altogether
+unfamiliar sense of strange new things.</p>
+
+<p>There was something ominous in the feeling. Once, indeed, it rose above
+all other considerations, and in a kind of terror he blundered out of
+bed, bruised his shins very convincingly, found the matches at last, and
+lit a candle to assure himself of the reality of his own customary world
+again. But on the whole the more tangible trouble was the Mendham
+avalanche. Her tongue seemed to be hanging above him like the sword of
+Damocles. What might she not say of this business, before her indignant
+imagination came to rest?</p>
+
+<p>And while the successful captor of the Strange Bird was sleeping thus
+uneasily, Gully of Sidderton was carefully unloading his gun after a
+wearisome blank day, and Sandy Bright was on his knees in prayer, with
+the window carefully fastened. Annie Durgan was sleeping hard with her
+mouth open, and Amory's mother was dreaming of washing, and both of them
+had long since<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</a></span> exhausted the topics of the Sound and the Glare. Lumpy
+Durgan was sitting up in his bed, now crooning the fragment of a tune
+and now listening intently for a sound he had heard once and longed to
+hear again. As for the solicitor's clerk at Iping Hanger, he was trying
+to write poetry about a confectioner's girl at Portburdock, and the
+Strange Bird was quite out of his head. But the ploughman who had seen
+it on the confines of Siddermorton Park had a black eye. That had been
+one of the more tangible consequences of a little argument about birds'
+legs in the "Ship." It is worthy of this passing mention, since it is
+probably the only known instance of an Angel causing anything of the kind.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Morning.</span></span> <span>XXII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Vicar going to call the Angel, found him dressed and leaning out of
+his window. It was a glorious morning, still dewy, and the rising
+sunlight slanting round the corner of the house, struck warm and yellow
+upon the hillside. The birds were astir in the hedges and shrubbery. Up
+the hillside&mdash;for it was late in August&mdash;a plough drove slowly. The
+Angel's chin rested upon his hands and he did not turn as the Vicar came up to him.</p>
+
+<p>"How's the wing?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"I'd forgotten it," said the Angel. "Is that yonder a man?"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar looked. "That's a ploughman."</p>
+
+<p>"Why does he go to and fro like that? Does it amuse him?"</p>
+
+<p>"He's ploughing. That's his work."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</a></span></p><p>"Work! Why does he do it? It seems a monotonous thing to do."</p>
+
+<p>"It is," admitted the Vicar. "But he has to do it to get a living, you
+know. To get food to eat and all that kind of thing."</p>
+
+<p>"How curious!" said the Angel. "Do all men have to do that? Do you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, no. He does it for me; does my share."</p>
+
+<p>"Why?" asked the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! in return for things I do for him, you know. We go in for division
+of labour in this world. Exchange is no robbery."</p>
+
+<p>"I see," said the Angel, with his eyes still on the ploughman's heavy movements.</p>
+
+<p>"What do you do for him?"</p>
+
+<p>"That seems an easy question to you," said the Vicar, "but really!&mdash;it's
+difficult. Our social arrangements are rather complicated. It's
+impossible to explain these things all at once, before breakfast. Don't you feel hungry?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think I do," said the Angel slowly, still at the window; and then
+abruptly, "Somehow I can't help thinking that ploughing must be far from enjoyable."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</a></span></p><p>"Possibly," said the Vicar, "very possibly. But breakfast is ready.
+Won't you come down?"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel left the window reluctantly.</p>
+
+<p>"Our society," explained the Vicar on the staircase, "is a complicated organisation."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes?"</p>
+
+<p>"And it is so arranged that some do one thing and some another."</p>
+
+<p>"And that lean, bent old man trudges after that heavy blade of iron
+pulled by a couple of horses while we go down to eat?"</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. You will find it is perfectly just. Ah! mushrooms and poached
+eggs! It's the Social System. Pray be seated. Possibly it strikes you as unfair?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm puzzled," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"The drink I'm sending you is called coffee," said the Vicar. "I daresay
+you are. When I was a young man I was puzzled in the same way. But
+afterwards comes a Broader View of Things. (These black things are
+called mushrooms; they look beautiful.) Other Considerations. All men
+are brothers, of course, but some are younger<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</a></span> brothers, so to speak.
+There is work that requires culture and refinement, and work in which
+culture and refinement would be an impediment. And the rights of
+property must not be forgotten. One must render unto C&aelig;sar.... Do you
+know, instead of explaining this matter now (this is yours), I think I
+will lend you a little book to read (<i>chum</i>, <i>chum</i>, <i>chum</i>&mdash;these
+mushrooms are well up to their appearance), which sets the whole thing out very clearly."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Violin.</span></span> <span>XXIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>After breakfast the Vicar went into the little room next his study to
+find a book on Political Economy for the Angel to read. For the Angel's
+social ignorances were clearly beyond any verbal explanations. The door stood ajar.</p>
+
+<p>"What is that?" said the Angel, following him. "A violin!" He took it down.</p>
+
+<p>"You play?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel had the bow in his hand, and by way of answer drove it across
+the strings. The quality of the note made the Vicar turn suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's hand tightened on the instrument. The bow flew back and
+flickered, and an air the Vicar had never heard before danced in his
+ears. The Angel shifted the fiddle under his dainty chin and went on
+playing, and as he played his eyes grew bright and his lips smiled.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</a></span> At
+first he looked at the Vicar, then his expression became abstracted. He
+seemed no longer to look at the Vicar, but through him, at something
+beyond, something in his memory or his imagination, something infinitely
+remote, undreamt of hitherto....</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar tried to follow the music. The air reminded him of a flame, it
+rushed up, shone, flickered and danced, passed and reappeared. No!&mdash;it
+did not reappear! Another air&mdash;like it and unlike it, shot up after it,
+wavered, vanished. Then another, the same and not the same. It reminded
+him of the flaring tongues that palpitate and change above a newly lit
+fire. There are two airs&mdash;or <i>motifs</i>, which is it?&mdash;thought the Vicar.
+He knew remarkably little of musical technique. They go dancing up, one
+pursuing the other, out of the fire of the incantation, pursuing,
+fluctuating, turning, up into the sky. There below was the fire burning,
+a flame without fuel upon a level space, and there two flirting
+butterflies of sound, dancing away from it, up, one over another, swift, abrupt, uncertain.</p>
+
+<p>"Flirting butterflies were they!" What was<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</a></span> the Vicar thinking of? Where
+was he? In the little room next to his study, of course! And the Angel
+standing in front of him smiling into his face, playing the violin, and
+looking through him as though he was only a window&mdash;&mdash;. That <i>motif</i>
+again, a yellow flare, spread fanlike by a gust, and now one, then with
+a swift eddying upward flight the other, the two things of fire and
+light pursuing one another again up into that clear immensity.</p>
+
+<p>The study and the realities of life suddenly faded out of the Vicar's
+eyes, grew thinner and thinner like a mist that dissolves into air, and
+he and the Angel stood together on a pinnacle of wrought music, about
+which glittering melodies circled, and vanished, and reappeared. He was
+in the land of Beauty, and once more the glory of heaven was upon the
+Angel's face, and the glowing delights of colour pulsated in his wings.
+Himself the Vicar could not see. But I cannot tell you of the vision of
+that great and spacious land, of its incredible openness, and height,
+and nobility. For there is no space there like ours, no time as we know<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</a></span>
+it; one must needs speak by bungling metaphors and own in bitterness
+after all that one has failed. And it was only a vision. The wonderful
+creatures flying through the &aelig;ther saw them not as they stood there,
+flew through them as one might pass through a whisp of mist. The Vicar
+lost all sense of duration, all sense of necessity&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"Ah!" said the Angel, suddenly putting down the fiddle.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar had forgotten the book on Political Economy, had forgotten
+everything until the Angel had done. For a minute he sat quite still.
+Then he woke up with a start. He was sitting on the old iron-bound chest.</p>
+
+<p>"Really," he said slowly, "you are very clever."</p>
+
+<p>He looked about him in a puzzled way. "I had a kind of vision while you
+were playing. I seemed to see&mdash;&mdash;. What did I see? It has gone."</p>
+
+<p>He stood up with a dazzled expression upon his face. "I shall never play
+the violin again," he said. "I wish you would take it to your<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</a></span> room&mdash;and
+keep it&mdash;&mdash;. And play to me again. I did not know anything of music
+until I heard you play. I do not feel as though I had ever heard any
+music before."</p>
+
+<p>He stared at the Angel, then about him at the room. "I have never felt
+anything of this kind with music before," he said. He shook his head. "I
+shall never play again."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Angel Explores the Village.</span></span> <span>XXIV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Very unwisely, as I think, the Vicar allowed the Angel to go down into
+the village by himself, to enlarge his ideas of humanity. Unwisely,
+because how was he to imagine the reception the Angel would receive? Not
+thoughtlessly, I am afraid. He had always carried himself with decorum
+in the village, and the idea of a slow procession through the little
+street with all the inevitable curious remarks, explanations, pointings,
+was too much for him. The Angel might do the strangest things, the
+village was certain to think them. Peering faces. "Who's <i>he</i> got now?"
+Besides, was it not his duty to prepare his sermon in good time? The
+Angel, duly directed, went down cheerfully by himself&mdash;still innocent of
+most of the peculiarities of the human as distinguished from the angelic turn of mind.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</a></span></p><p>The Angel walked slowly, his white hands folded behind his hunched
+back, his sweet face looking this way and that. He peered curiously into
+the eyes of the people he met. A little child picking a bunch of vetch
+and honeysuckle looked in his face, and forthwith came and put them in
+his hand. It was about the only kindness he had from a human being
+(saving only the Vicar and one other). He heard Mother Gustick scolding
+that granddaughter of hers as he passed the door. "You <i>Brazen</i>
+Faggit&mdash;you!" said Mother Gustick. "You Trumpery Baggage!"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stopped, startled at the strange sounds of Mother Gustick's
+voice. "Put yer best clo'es on, and yer feather in yer 'at, and off you
+goes to meet en, fal lal, and me at 'ome slaving for ye. 'Tis a Fancy
+Lady you'll be wantin' to be, my gal, a walkin' Touch and Go, with yer
+idleness and finery&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>The voice ceased abruptly, and a great peace came upon the battered air.
+"Most grotesque and strange!" said the Angel, still surveying this
+wonderful box of discords. "Walking<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</a></span> Touch and Go!" He did not know that
+Mrs Gustick had suddenly become aware of his existence, and was
+scrutinizing his appearance through the window-blind. Abruptly the door
+flew open, and she stared out into the Angel's face. A strange
+apparition, grey and dusty hair, and the dirty pink dress unhooked to
+show the stringy throat, a discoloured gargoyle, presently to begin
+spouting incomprehensible abuse.</p>
+
+<p>"Now, then, Mister," began Mrs Gustick. "Have ye nothin' better to do
+than listen at people's doors for what you can pick up?"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at her in astonishment.</p>
+
+<p>"D'year!" said Mrs Gustick, evidently very angry indeed. "Listenin'."</p>
+
+<p>"Have you any objection to my hearing...."</p>
+
+<p>"Object to my hearing! Course I have! Whad yer think? You aint such a Ninny...."</p>
+
+<p>"But if ye didn't want me to hear, why did you cry out so loud? I thought...."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>You thought!</i> Softie&mdash;that's what <i>you</i> are! You silly girt staring
+Gaby, what don't know any better than to come holding yer girt mouth
+wide open for all that you can catch holt on? And<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</a></span> then off up there to
+tell! You great Fat-Faced, Tale-Bearin' Silly-Billy! I'd be ashamed to
+come poking and peering round quiet people's houses...."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel was surprised to find that some inexplicable quality in her
+voice excited the most disagreeable sensations in him and a strong
+desire to withdraw. But, resisting this, he stood listening politely (as
+the custom is in the Angelic Land, so long as anyone is speaking). The
+entire eruption was beyond his comprehension. He could not perceive any
+reason for the sudden projection of this vituperative head, out of
+infinity, so to speak. And questions without a break for an answer were
+outside his experience altogether.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Gustick proceeded with her characteristic fluency, assured him he
+was no gentleman, enquired if he called himself one, remarked that every
+tramp did as much nowadays, compared him to a Stuck Pig, marvelled at
+his impudence, asked him if he wasn't ashamed of himself standing there,
+enquired if he was rooted to the ground, was curious to be told what he
+meant by it,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</a></span> wanted to know whether he robbed a scarecrow for his
+clothes, suggested that an abnormal vanity prompted his behaviour,
+enquired if his mother knew he was out, and finally remarking, "I got
+somethin'll move you, my gentleman," disappeared with a ferocious
+slamming of the door.</p>
+
+<p>The interval struck the Angel as singularly peaceful. His whirling mind
+had time to analyse his sensations. He ceased bowing and smiling, and
+stood merely astonished.</p>
+
+<p>"This is a curious painful feeling," said the Angel. "Almost worse than
+Hungry, and quite different. When one is hungry one wants to eat. I
+suppose she was a woman. Here one wants to get away. I suppose I might
+just as well go."</p>
+
+<p>He turned slowly and went down the road meditating. He heard the cottage
+door re-open, and turning his head, saw through intervening scarlet
+runners Mrs Gustick with a steaming saucepan full of boiling cabbage
+water in her hand.</p>
+
+<p>"'Tis well you went, Mister Stolen Breeches," came the voice of Mrs
+Gustick floating down<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</a></span> through the vermilion blossoms. "Don't you come
+peeping and prying round this yer cottage again or I'll learn ye
+manners, I will!"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stood in a state of considerable perplexity. He had no desire
+to come within earshot of the cottage again&mdash;ever. He did not understand
+the precise import of the black pot, but his general impression was
+entirely disagreeable. There was no explaining it.</p>
+
+<p>"I <i>mean</i> it!" said Mrs Gustick, crescendo. "Drat it!&mdash;I <i>mean</i> it."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel turned and went on, a dazzled look in his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"She was very grotesque!" said the Angel. "<i>Very.</i> Much more than the
+little man in black. And she means it.&mdash;&mdash; But what she means I don't
+know!..." He became silent. "I suppose they all mean something,", he
+said, presently, still perplexed.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</a></span> 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.</p>
+
+<p>So soon as the Angel had passed, one of the three hummed this tune in an
+aggressive tone.</p>
+
+<div class="center"><img src="images/music.jpg" width='600' height='96' alt="Music" /></div>
+
+<p>Then all three of them laughed. One tried to sing something and found
+his throat contained phlegm. The Angel proceeded on his way.</p>
+
+<p>"Who's <i>e</i> then?" said the second hobbledehoy.</p>
+
+<p>"Ping, ping, ping," went the blacksmith's hammer.</p>
+
+<p>"Spose he's one of these here foweners," said the carter from Upmorton.
+"D&auml;amned silly fool he do look to be sure."</p>
+
+<p>"Tas the way with them foweners," said the first hobbledehoy sagely.</p>
+
+<p>"Got something very like the 'ump," said the carter from Upmorton.
+"D&auml;&auml;-&auml;-&auml;mned if 'E ent."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</a></span></p><p>Then the silence healed again, and they resumed their quiet
+expressionless consideration of the Angel's retreating figure.</p>
+
+<p>"Very like the 'ump et is," said the carter after an enormous pause.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXVI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"He looks Frenchified," said Susan Hopper, peering through the
+interstices of that convenient veil on curiosity.</p>
+
+<p>"He has sweet eyes," said Sarah Glue, who had met them for a moment.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</a></span> 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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</a></span> almost
+equally dirty, pushing a knife grinder's barrow over the bridge.</p>
+
+<p>"Mornin'," said the first person smiling weakly. "Goomorn'." He arrested
+an escaping hiccough.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at him. He had never seen a really fatuous smile
+before. "Who are you?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>The fatuous smile faded. "No your business whoaaam. Wishergoomorn."</p>
+
+<p>"Carm on:" said the man with the grindstone, passing on his way.</p>
+
+<p>"Wishergoomorn," said the dirty man, in a tone of extreme aggravation.
+"Carncher Answerme?"</p>
+
+<p>"Carm <i>on</i> you fool!" said the man with the grindstone&mdash;receding.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Donunderstan'. Sim'l enough. Wishergoomorn'. Willyanswerme? Wontchr?
+gemwishergem goomorn. Cusom answer goomorn. No gem. Haverteachyer."</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</a></span> the Angel's
+feet. "Ver well," he said, as one who decides great issues.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Carm</i> on!" said the voice of the man with the grindstone&mdash;stopping
+perhaps twenty yards off.</p>
+
+<p>"You <i>wan</i> fight, you &mdash;&mdash;" the Angel failed to catch the word. "I'll
+show yer, not answer gem's goomorn."</p>
+
+<p>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 attempts to extricate himself, breathing
+threatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotely
+enough, that these demonstrations were hostile. "Mur wun know yer when I
+done wi' yer," said the drunken man, coat almost over his head.</p>
+
+<p>At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequent
+interstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinker
+displayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel's observant eyes.
+He squared up in masterly fashion.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</a></span></p><p>"Take the paint off yer," he remarked, advancing and receding, fists up
+and elbows out.</p>
+
+<p>"Carm on," floated down the road.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists,
+that swayed and advanced and retreated. "Come on d'yer say? I'll show
+yer," said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity;
+"My crikey! I'll show yer."</p>
+
+<p>Suddenly he lurched forward, and with a newborn instinct and raising a
+defensive arm as he did so, the Angel stepped aside to avoid him. The
+fist missed the Angelic shoulder by a hairsbreadth, and the tinker
+collapsed in a heap with his face against the parapet of the bridge. The
+Angel hesitated over the writhing dusty heap of blasphemy for a moment,
+and then turned towards the man's companion up the road. "Lemmeget up,"
+said the man on the bridge: "Lemmeget up, you swine. I'll show yer."</p>
+
+<p>A strange disgust, a quivering repulsion came upon the Angel. He walked
+slowly away from the drunkard towards the man with the grindstone.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</a></span></p><p>"What does it all mean?" said the Angel. "I don't understand it."</p>
+
+<p>"Dam fool!... say's it's 'is silver weddin'," answered the man with the
+grindstone, evidently much annoyed; and then, in a tone of growing
+impatience, he called down the road once more; "Carm on!"</p>
+
+<p>"Silver wedding!" said the Angel. "What is a silver wedding?"</p>
+
+<p>"Jest is rot," said the man on the barrow. "But 'E's always avin' some
+'scuse like that. Fair sickenin it is. Lars week it wus 'is bloomin'
+birthday, and <i>then</i> 'e ad'nt ardly got sober orf a comlimentary drunk
+to my noo barrer. (<i>Carm</i> on, you fool.)"</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "Why does he sway about so?
+Why does he keep on trying to pick up his hat like that&mdash;and missing it?"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Why!</i>" said the tinker. "Well this <i>is</i> a blasted innocent country!
+<i>Why!</i> Because 'E's blind! Wot else? (Carm on&mdash;<i>Dam</i> yer). Because 'E's
+just as full as 'E can 'old. That's <i>why</i>!"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</a></span></p><p>The Angel noticing the tone of the second tinker's voice, judged it
+wiser not to question him further. But he stood by the grindstone and
+continued to watch the mysterious evolutions on the bridge.</p>
+
+<p>"Carm on! I shall 'ave to go and pick up that 'at I suppose.... 'E's
+always at it. I ne'er 'ad such a blooming pard before. <i>Always</i> at it, 'e is."</p>
+
+<p>The man with the barrow meditated. "Taint as if 'e was a gentleman and
+'adnt no livin' to get. An' 'e's such a reckless fool when 'e gets a bit
+on. Goes offerin out everyone 'e meets. (<i>There</i> you go!) I'm blessed if
+'e didn't offer out a 'ole bloomin' Salvation Army. No judgment in it.
+(Oh! <i>Carm</i> on! <i>Carm</i> on!). 'Ave to go and pick this bloomin' 'at up
+now I s'pose. 'E don't care, <i>wot</i> trouble 'e gives."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel watched the second tinker walk back, and, with affectionate
+blasphemy, assist the first to his hat and his coat. Then he turned,
+absolutely mystified, towards the village again.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXVII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>After that incident the Angel walked along past the mill and round
+behind the church, to examine the tombstones.</p>
+
+<p>"This seems to be the place where they put the broken pieces," said the
+Angel&mdash;reading the inscriptions. "Curious word&mdash;relict! Resurgam! Then
+they are not done with quite. What a huge pile it requires to keep her
+down.... It is spirited of her."</p>
+
+<p>"Hawkins?" said the Angel softly,.... "<i>Hawkins?</i> The name is strange to
+me.... He did not die then.... It is plain enough,&mdash;Joined the Angelic
+Hosts, May 17, 1863. He must have felt as much out of place as I do down
+here. But I wonder why they put that little pot thing on the top of this
+monument. Curious! There are several others about&mdash;little stone pots
+with a rag of stiff stone drapery over them."</p>
+
+<p>Just then the boys came pouring out of the National School, and first
+one and then several<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</a></span> stopped agape at the Angel's crooked black figure
+among the white tombs. "Ent 'e gart a b&auml;&auml;k on en!" remarked one critic.</p>
+
+<p>"'E's got 'air like a girl!" said another.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel turned towards them. He was struck by the queer little heads
+sticking up over the lichenous wall. He smiled faintly at their staring
+faces, and then turned to marvel at the iron railings that enclosed the
+Fitz-Jarvis tomb. "A queer air of uncertainty," he said. "Slabs, piles
+of stone, these railings.... Are they afraid?... Do these Dead ever try
+and get up again? There's an air of repression&mdash;fortification&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"G&eacute;t yer <i>'air</i> cut, G&eacute;t yer <i>'air</i> cut," sang three little boys
+together.</p>
+
+<p>"Curious these Human Beings are!" said the Angel. "That man yesterday
+wanted to cut off my wings, now these little creatures want me to cut
+off my hair! And the man on the bridge offered to take the 'paint' off
+me. They will leave nothing of me soon."</p>
+
+<p>"Where did you get that <i>'at</i>?" sang another little boy. "Where did you
+get them clo'es?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</a></span></p><p>"They ask questions that they evidently do not want answered," said the
+Angel. "I can tell from the tone." He looked thoughtfully at the little
+boys. "I don't understand the methods of Human intercourse. These are
+probably friendly advances, a kind of ritual. But I don't know the
+responses. I think I will go back to the little fat man in black, with
+the gold chain across his stomach, and ask him to explain. It is difficult."</p>
+
+<p>He turned towards the lych gate. "<i>Oh!</i>" said one of the little boys, in
+a shrill falsetto, and threw a beech-nut husk. It came bounding across
+the churchyard path. The Angel stopped in surprise.</p>
+
+<p>This made all the little boys laugh. A second imitating the first, said
+"<i>Oh!</i>" and hit the Angel. His astonishment was really delicious. They
+all began crying "<i>Oh!</i>" and throwing beechnut husks. One hit the
+Angel's hand, another stung him smartly by the ear. The Angel made
+ungainly movements towards them. He spluttered some expostulation and
+made for the roadway. The little boys were amazed and shocked at his
+discomfiture and cowardice. Such sawney<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</a></span> behaviour could not be
+encouraged. The pelting grew vigorously. You may perhaps be able to
+imagine those vivid moments, daring small boys running in close and
+delivering shots, milder small boys rushing round behind with flying
+discharges. Milton Screever's mongrel dog was roused to yelping ecstacy
+at the sight, and danced (full of wild imaginings) nearer and nearer to the angelic legs.</p>
+
+<p>"Hi, hi!" said a vigorous voice. "I never did! Where's Mr Jarvis?
+Manners, manners! you young rascals."</p>
+
+<p>The youngsters scattered right and left, some over the wall into the
+playground, some down the street.</p>
+
+<p>"Frightful pest these boys are getting!" said Crump, coming up. "I'm
+sorry they have been annoying you."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel seemed quite upset. "I don't understand," he said. "These Human ways...."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, of course. Unusual to you. How's your excrescence?"</p>
+
+<p>"My what?" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Bifid limb, you know. How is it? Now<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</a></span> you're down this way, come in.
+Come in and let me have a look at it again. You young roughs! And
+meanwhile these little louts of ours will be getting off home. They're
+all alike in these villages. <i>Can't</i> understand anything abnormal. See
+an odd-looking stranger. Chuck a stone. No imagination beyond the
+parish.... (I'll give you physic if I catch you annoying strangers
+again.) ... I suppose it's what one might expect.... Come along this way."</p>
+
+<p>So the Angel, horribly perplexed still, was hurried into the surgery to
+have his wound re-dressed.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Lady Hammergallow's View.</span></span> <span>XXVIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>In Siddermorton Park is Siddermorton House, where old Lady Hammergallow
+lives, chiefly upon Burgundy and the little scandals of the village, a
+dear old lady with a ropy neck, a ruddled countenance and spasmodic
+gusts of odd temper, whose three remedies for all human trouble among
+her dependents are, a bottle of gin, a pair of charity blankets, or a
+new crown piece. The House is a mile-and-a-half out of Siddermorton.
+Almost all the village is hers, saving a fringe to the south which
+belongs to Sir John Gotch, and she rules it with an autocratic rule,
+refreshing in these days of divided government. She orders and forbids
+marriages, drives objectionable people out of the village by the simple
+expedient of raising their rent, dismisses labourers, obliges heretics
+to go to church, and made Susan<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</a></span> Dangett, who wanted to call her little
+girl 'Euphemia,' have the infant christened 'Mary-Anne.' She is a sturdy
+Broad Protestant and disapproves of the Vicar's going bald like a
+tonsure. She is on the Village Council, which obsequiously trudges up
+the hill and over the moor to her, and (as she is a trifle deaf) speaks
+all its speeches into her speaking trumpet instead of a rostrum. She
+takes no interest now in politics, but until last year she was an active
+enemy of "that Gladstone." She has parlour maids instead of footmen to
+do her waiting, because of Hockley, the American stockbroker, and his
+four Titans in plush.</p>
+
+<p>She exercises what is almost a fascination upon the village. If in the
+bar-parlour of the Cat and Cornucopia you swear by God no one would be
+shocked, but if you swore by Lady Hammergallow they would probably be
+shocked enough to turn you out of the room. When she drives through
+Siddermorton she always calls upon Bessy Flump, the post-mistress, to
+hear all that has happened, and then upon Miss Finch, the dressmaker, to
+check back Bessy Flump. <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</a></span>Sometimes she calls upon the Vicar, sometimes
+upon Mrs Mendham whom she snubs, and even sometimes on Crump. Her
+sparkling pair of greys almost ran over the Angel as he was walking down
+to the village.</p>
+
+<p>"So <i>that's</i> the genius!" said Lady Hammergallow, and turned and looked
+at him through the gilt glasses on a stick that she always carried in
+her shrivelled and shaky hand. "Lunatic indeed! The poor creature has
+rather a pretty face. I'm sorry I've missed him."</p>
+
+<p>But she went on to the vicarage nevertheless, and demanded news of it
+all. The conflicting accounts of Miss Flump, Miss Finch, Mrs Mendham,
+Crump, and Mrs Jehoram had puzzled her immensely. The Vicar, hard
+pressed, did all he could to say into her speaking trumpet what had
+really happened. He toned down the wings and the saffron robe. But he
+felt the case was hopeless. He spoke of his prot&eacute;g&eacute; as "Mr" Angel. He
+addressed pathetic asides to the kingfisher. The old lady noticed his
+confusion. Her queer old head went jerking backwards and forwards, now
+the speaking trumpet in his face when he had<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</a></span> nothing to say, then the
+shrunken eyes peering at him, oblivious of the explanation that was
+coming from his lips. A great many Ohs! and Ahs! She caught some
+fragments certainly.</p>
+
+<p>"You have asked him to stop with you&mdash;indefinitely?" said Lady
+Hammergallow with a Great Idea taking shape rapidly in her mind.</p>
+
+<p>"I did&mdash;perhaps inadvertently&mdash;make such&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"And you don't know where he comes from?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not at all."</p>
+
+<p>"Nor who his father is, I suppose?" said Lady Hammergallow mysteriously.</p>
+
+<p>"No," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Now!</i>" said Lady Hammergallow archly, and keeping her glasses to her
+eye, she suddenly dug at his ribs with her trumpet.</p>
+
+<p>"My <i>dear</i> Lady Hammergallow!"</p>
+
+<p>"I thought so. Don't think <i>I</i> would blame you, Mr Hilyer." She gave a
+corrupt laugh that she delighted in. "The world is the world, and men
+are men. And the poor boy's a cripple, eh? A kind of judgment. In
+mourning, I noticed. It reminds me of the <i>Scarlet Letter</i>. The mother's
+dead, I suppose. It's just as well<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</a></span>. Really&mdash;I'm not a <i>narrow</i> woman&mdash;I
+<i>respect</i> you for having him. Really I do."</p>
+
+<p>"But, <i>Lady</i> Hammergallow!"</p>
+
+<p>"Don't spoil everything by denying it. It is so very, very plain, to a
+woman of the world. That Mrs Mendham! She amuses me with her suspicions.
+Such odd ideas! In a Curate's wife. But I hope it didn't happen when you
+were in orders."</p>
+
+<p>"Lady Hammergallow, I protest. Upon my word."</p>
+
+<p>"Mr Hilyer, I protest. I <i>know</i>. Not anything you can say will alter my
+opinion one jot. Don't try. I never suspected you were nearly such an
+interesting man."</p>
+
+<p>"But this suspicion is unendurable!"</p>
+
+<p>"We will help him together, Mr Hilyer. You may rely upon me. It is most
+romantic." She beamed benevolence.</p>
+
+<p>"But, Lady Hammergallow, I <i>must</i> speak!"</p>
+
+<p>She gripped her ear-trumpet resolutely, and held it before her and shook her head.</p>
+
+<p>"He has quite a genius for music, Vicar, so I hear?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</a></span></p><p>"I can assure you most solemnly&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I thought so. And being a cripple&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"You are under a most cruel&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I thought that if his gift is really what that Jehoram woman says."</p>
+
+<p>"An unjustifiable suspicion that ever a man&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>("I don't think much of her judgment, of course.")</p>
+
+<p>"Consider my position. Have I gained <i>no</i> character?"</p>
+
+<p>"It might be possible to do something for him as a performer."</p>
+
+<p>"Have I&mdash;(<i>Bother! It's no good!</i>)"</p>
+
+<p>"And so, dear Vicar, I propose to give him an opportunity of showing us
+what he can do. I have been thinking it all over as I drove here. On
+Tuesday next, I will invite just a few people of taste, and he shall
+bring his violin. Eigh? And if that goes well, I will see if I can get
+some introductions and really <i>push</i> him."</p>
+
+<p>"But <i>Lady</i>, Lady Hammergallow."</p>
+
+<p>"Not another word!" said Lady Hammergallow, still resolutely holding her
+speaking trumpet before her and clutching her eyeglasses.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</a></span> "I really
+must not leave those horses. Cutler is so annoyed if I keep them too
+long. He finds waiting tedious, poor man, unless there is a public-house
+near." She made for the door.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Damn!</i>" said the Vicar, under his breath. He had never used the word
+since he had taken orders. It shows you how an Angel's visit may
+disorganize a man.</p>
+
+<p>He stood under the verandah watching the carriage drive away. The world
+seemed coming to pieces about him. Had he lived a virtuous celibate life
+for thirty odd years in vain? The things of which these people thought
+him capable! He stood and stared at the green cornfield opposite, and
+down at the straggling village. It seemed real enough. And yet for the
+first time in his life there was a queer doubt of its reality. He rubbed
+his chin, then turned and went slowly upstairs to his dressing-room, and
+sat for a long time staring at a garment of some yellow texture. "Know
+his father!" he said. "And he is immortal, and was fluttering about his
+heaven when my ancestors were marsupials.... I wish he was there now."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</a></span></p><p>He got up and began to feel the robe.</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder how they get such things," said the Vicar. Then he went and
+stared out of the window. "I suppose everything is wonderful, even the
+rising and setting of the sun. I suppose there is no adamantine ground
+for any belief. But one gets into a regular way of taking things. This
+disturbs it. I seem to be waking up to the Invisible. It is the
+strangest of uncertainties. I have not felt so stirred and unsettled
+since my adolescence."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Further Adventures of the Angel in the Village.</span></span> <span>XXIX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"That's all right," said Crump when the bandaging was replaced. "It's a
+trick of memory, no doubt, but these excrescences of yours don't seem
+nearly so large as they did yesterday. I suppose they struck me rather
+forcibly. Stop and have lunch with me now you're down here. Midday meal,
+you know. The youngsters will be swallowed up by school again in the afternoon."</p>
+
+<p>"I never saw anything heal so well in my life," he said, as they walked
+into the dining-room. "Your blood and flesh must be as clean and free
+from bacteria as they make 'em. Whatever stuff there is in your head,"
+he added <i>sotto voce</i>.</p>
+
+<p>At lunch he watched the Angel narrowly, and talked to draw him out.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</a></span></p><p>"Journey tire you yesterday?" he said suddenly.</p>
+
+<p>"Journey!" said the Angel. "Oh! my wings felt a little stiff."</p>
+
+<p>("Not to be had,") said Crump to himself. ("Suppose I must enter into it.")</p>
+
+<p>"So you flew all the way, eigh? No conveyance?"</p>
+
+<p>"There wasn't any way," explained the Angel, taking mustard. "I was
+flying up a symphony with some Griffins and Fiery Cherubim, and suddenly
+everything went dark and I was in this world of yours."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me!" said Crump. "And that's why you haven't any luggage." He drew
+his serviette across his mouth, and a smile flickered in his eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose you know this world of ours pretty well? Watching us over the
+adamantine walls and all that kind of thing. Eigh?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not very well. We dream of it sometimes. In the moonlight, when the
+Nightmares have fanned us to sleep with their wings."</p>
+
+<p>"Ah, yes&mdash;of course," said Crump. "Very<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</a></span> poetical way of putting it.
+Won't you take some Burgundy? It's just beside you."</p>
+
+<p>"There's a persuasion in this world, you know, that Angels' Visits are
+by no means infrequent. Perhaps some of your&mdash;friends have travelled?
+They are supposed to come down to deserving persons in prisons, and do
+refined Nautches and that kind of thing. Faust business, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"I've never heard of anything of the kind," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Only the other day a lady whose baby was my patient for the time
+being&mdash;indigestion&mdash;assured me that certain facial contortions the
+little creature made indicated that it was Dreaming of Angels. In the
+novels of Mrs Henry Wood that is spoken of as an infallible symptom of
+an early departure. I suppose you can't throw any light on that obscure
+pathological manifestation?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't understand it at all," said the Angel, puzzled, and not clearly
+apprehending the Doctor's drift.</p>
+
+<p>("Getting huffy,") said Crump to himself. ("Sees I'm poking fun at
+him.") "There's<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</a></span> one thing I'm curious about. Do the new arrivals
+complain much about their medical attendants? I've always fancied there
+must be a good deal of hydropathic talk just at first. I was looking at
+that picture in the Academy only this June...."</p>
+
+<p>"New Arrivals!" said the Angel. "I really don't follow you."</p>
+
+<p>The Doctor stared. "Don't they come?"</p>
+
+<p>"Come!" said the Angel. "Who?"</p>
+
+<p>"The people who die here."</p>
+
+<p>"After they've gone to pieces here?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's the general belief, you know."</p>
+
+<p>"People, like the woman who screamed out of the door, and the blackfaced
+man and his volutations and the horrible little things that threw
+husks!&mdash;certainly not. <i>I</i> never saw such creatures before I fell into
+this world."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! but come!" said the Doctor. "You'll tell me next your official
+robes are not white and that you can't play the harp."</p>
+
+<p>"There's no such thing as white in the Angelic Land," said the Angel.
+"It's that queer blank colour you get by mixing up all the others."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</a></span></p><p>"Why, my dear Sir!" said the doctor, suddenly altering his tone, "you
+positively know nothing about the Land you come from. White's the very
+essence of it."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at him. Was the man jesting? He looked perfectly serious.</p>
+
+<p>"Look here," said Crump, and getting up, he went to the sideboard on
+which a copy of the Parish Magazine was lying. He brought it round to
+the Angel and opened it at the coloured supplement. "Here's some <i>real</i>
+angels," he said. "You see it's not simply the wings make the Angel.
+White you see, with a curly whisp of robe, sailing up into the sky with
+their wings furled. Those are angels on the best authority. Hydroxyl
+kind of hair. One has a bit of a harp, you see, and the other is helping
+this wingless lady&mdash;kind of larval Angel, you know&mdash;upward."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! but really!" said the Angel, "those are not angels at all."</p>
+
+<p>"But they <i>are</i>," said Crump, putting the magazine back on the sideboard
+and resuming his seat with an air of intense satisfaction. "I can assure
+you I have the <i>best</i> authority...."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</a></span></p><p>"I can assure you...."</p>
+
+<p>Crump tucked in the corners of his mouth and shook his head from side to
+side even as he had done to the Vicar. "No good," he said, "can't alter
+our ideas just because an irresponsible visitor...."</p>
+
+<p>"If these are angels," said the Angel, "then I have never been in the
+Angelic Land."</p>
+
+<p>"Precisely," said Crump, ineffably self-satisfied; "that was just what I
+was getting at."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at him for a minute round-eyed, and then was seized for
+the second time by the human disorder of laughter.</p>
+
+<p>"Ha, ha, ha!" said Crump, joining in. "I <i>thought</i> you were not quite so
+mad as you seemed. Ha, ha, ha!"</p>
+
+<p>And for the rest of the lunch they were both very merry, for entirely
+different reasons, and Crump insisted upon treating the Angel as a
+"dorg" of the highest degree.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>After the Angel had left Crump's house he went up the hill again towards
+the Vicarage. But&mdash;possibly moved by the desire to avoid Mrs Gustick&mdash;he
+turned aside at the stile and made a detour by the Lark's Field and
+Bradley's Farm.</p>
+
+<p>He came upon the Respectable Tramp slumbering peacefully among the
+wild-flowers. He stopped to look, struck by the celestial tranquillity
+of that individual's face. And even as he did so the Respectable Tramp
+awoke with a start and sat up. He was a pallid creature, dressed in
+rusty black, with a broken-spirited crush hat cocked over one eye. "Good
+afternoon," he said affably. "How are you?"</p>
+
+<p>"Very well, thank you," said the Angel, who had mastered the phrase.</p>
+
+<p>The Respectable Tramp eyed the Angel critically. "Padding the Hoof,
+matey?" he said. "Like me."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</a></span></p><p>The Angel was puzzled by him. "Why," asked the Angel, "do you sleep
+like this instead of sleeping up in the air on a Bed?"</p>
+
+<p>"Well I'm blowed!" said the Respectable Tramp. "Why don't I sleep in a
+bed? Well, it's like this. Sandringham's got the painters in, there's
+the drains up in Windsor Castle, and I 'aven't no other 'ouse to go to.
+You 'aven't the price of a arf pint in your pocket, 'ave yer?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have nothing in my pocket," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Is this here village called Siddermorton?" said the Tramp, rising
+creakily to his feet and pointing to the clustering roofs down the hill.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes," said the Angel, "they call it Siddermorton."</p>
+
+<p>"I know it, I know it," said the Tramp. "And a very pretty little
+village it is too." He stretched and yawned, and stood regarding the
+place. "'Ouses," he said reflectively; "Projuce"&mdash;waving his hand at the
+cornfields and orchards. "Looks cosy, don't it?"</p>
+
+<p>"It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"It <i>'as</i> a quaint beauty of its own&mdash;yes....<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</a></span> Lord! I'd like to sack
+the blooming place.... I was born there."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?"</p>
+
+<p>"Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!"</p>
+
+<p>"It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and they
+cuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em.
+That's a pithed frog. Well&mdash;that there village is full of pithed human beings."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said.</p>
+
+<p>"That's so&mdash;you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad their
+brains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it.
+And you see that little red place there?"</p>
+
+<p>"That's called the national school," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Yes&mdash;that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love with
+his conceit.</p>
+
+<p>"Really! That's very interesting."</p>
+
+<p>"It stands to reason," said the Tramp. "If they 'ad brains they'd 'ave
+ideas, and if they 'ad<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</a></span> ideas they'd think for themselves. And you can
+go through that village from end to end and never meet anybody doing as
+much. Pithed human beings they are. I know that village. I was born
+there, and I might be there now, a toilin' for my betters, if I 'adnt
+struck against the pithin'."</p>
+
+<p>"Is it a painful operation?" asked the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"In parts. Though it aint the heads gets hurt. And it lasts a long time.
+They take 'em young into that school, and they says to them, 'come in
+'ere and we'll improve your minds,' they says, and in the little kiddies
+go as good as gold. And they begins shovin' it into them. Bit by bit and
+'ard and dry, shovin' out the nice juicy brains. Dates and lists and
+things. Out they comes, no brains in their 'eads, and wound up nice and
+tight, ready to touch their 'ats to anyone who looks at them. Why! One
+touched 'is 'at to me yesterday. And they runs about spry and does all
+the dirty work, and feels thankful they're allowed to live. They take a
+positive pride in 'ard work for its own sake. Arter they bin pithed. See
+that chap ploughin'?"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</a></span></p><p>"Yes," said the Angel; "is <i>he</i> pithed?"</p>
+
+<p>"Rather. Else he'd be paddin' the hoof this pleasant weather&mdash;like me
+and the blessed Apostles."</p>
+
+<p>"I begin to understand," said the Angel, rather dubiously.</p>
+
+<p>"I knew you would," said the Philosophical Tramp. "I thought you was the
+right sort. But speaking serious, aint it ridiculous?&mdash;centuries and
+centuries of civilization, and look at that poor swine there, sweatin'
+'isself empty and trudging up that 'ill-side. 'E's English, 'e is. 'E
+belongs to the top race in creation, 'e does. 'E's one of the rulers of
+Indjer. It's enough to make a nigger laugh. The flag that's braved a
+thousand years the battle an' the breeze&mdash;that's <i>'is</i> flag. There never
+was a country was as great and glorious as this. Never. And that's wot
+it makes of us. I'll tell you a little story about them parts as you
+seems to be a bit of a stranger. There's a chap called Gotch, Sir John
+Gotch they calls 'im, and when <i>'e</i> was a young gent from Oxford, I was
+a little chap of eight and my sister was a girl of seventeen. Their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</a></span>
+servant she was. But Lord! everybody's 'eard that story&mdash;it's common
+enough, of 'im or the likes of 'im."</p>
+
+<p>"I haven't," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"All that's pretty and lively of the gals they chucks into the gutters,
+and all the men with a pennorth of spunk or adventure, all who won't
+drink what the Curate's wife sends 'em instead of beer, and touch their
+hats promiscous, and leave the rabbits and birds alone for their
+betters, gets drove out of the villages as rough characters. Patriotism!
+Talk about improvin' the race! Wot's left aint fit to look a nigger in
+the face, a Chinaman 'ud be ashamed of 'em...."</p>
+
+<p>"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "I don't follow you."</p>
+
+<p>At that the Philosophic Tramp became more explicit, and told the Angel
+the simple story of Sir John Gotch and the kitchen-maid. It's scarcely
+necessary to repeat it. You may understand that it left the Angel
+puzzled. It was full of words he did not understand, for the only
+vehicle of emotion the Tramp possessed was blasphemy. Yet, though their
+tongues differed<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</a></span> so, he could still convey to the Angel some of his own
+(probably unfounded) persuasion of the injustice and cruelty of life,
+and of the utter detestableness of Sir John Gotch.</p>
+
+<p>The last the Angel saw of him was his dusty black back receding down the
+lane towards Iping Hanger. A pheasant appeared by the roadside, and the
+Philosophical Tramp immediately caught up a stone and sent the bird
+clucking with a viciously accurate shot. Then he disappeared round the corner.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Mrs Jehoram's Breadth of View.</span></span> <span>XXXI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"I heard some one playing the fiddle in the Vicarage, as I came by,"
+said Mrs Jehoram, taking her cup of tea from Mrs Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"The Vicar plays," said Mrs Mendham. "I have spoken to George about it,
+but it's no good. I do not think a Vicar should be allowed to do such
+things. It's so foreign. But there, <i>he</i> ...."</p>
+
+<p>"I know, dear," said Mrs Jehoram. "But I heard the Vicar once at the
+schoolroom. I don't think this <i>was</i> the Vicar. It was quite clever,
+some of it, quite smart, you know. And new. I was telling dear Lady
+Hammergallow this morning. I fancy&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"The lunatic! Very likely. These half-witted people.... My dear, I don't
+think I shall ever forget that dreadful encounter. Yesterday."</p>
+
+<p>"Nor I."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</a></span></p><p>"My poor girls! They are too shocked to say a word about it. I was
+telling dear Lady Ham&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite proper of them. It was <i>dreadful</i>, dear. For them."</p>
+
+<p>"And now, dear, I want you to tell me frankly&mdash;Do you really believe
+that creature was a man?"</p>
+
+<p>"You should have heard the violin."</p>
+
+<p>"I still more than half suspect, Jessie &mdash;&mdash;" Mrs Mendham leant forward
+as if to whisper.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram helped herself to cake. "I'm sure no woman could play the
+violin quite like I heard it played this morning."</p>
+
+<p>"Of course, if you say so that settles the matter," said Mrs Mendham.
+Mrs Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon all
+questions of art, music and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been a
+minor poet. Then Mrs Mendham added a judicial "Still&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Do you know," said Mrs Jehoram, "I'm half inclined to believe the dear
+Vicar's story."</p>
+
+<p>"How <i>good</i> of you, Jessie," said Mrs Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"But really, I don't think he <i>could</i> have had any one in the Vicarage
+before that afternoon. I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</a></span> feel sure we should have heard of it. I don't
+see how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermorton
+without the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so...."</p>
+
+<p>"I always distrust the Vicar," said Mrs Mendham. "I know him."</p>
+
+<p>"Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr Angel were someone very
+clever and eccentric&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"He would have to be <i>very</i> eccentric to dress as he did. There are
+degrees and limits, dear."</p>
+
+<p>"But kilts," said Mrs Jehoram.</p>
+
+<p>"Are all very well in the Highlands...."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram's eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly across
+a patch of yellowish-green up the hill.</p>
+
+<p>"There he goes," said Mrs Jehoram, rising, "across the cornfield. I'm
+sure that's him. I can see the hump. Unless it's a man with a sack.
+Bless me, Minnie! here's an opera glass. How convenient for peeping at
+the Vicarage!... Yes, it's the man. He is a man. With <i>such</i> a sweet face."</p>
+
+<p>Very unselfishly she allowed her hostess to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</a></span> share the opera glass. For
+a minute there was a rustling silence.</p>
+
+<p>"His dress," said Mrs Mendham, "is <i>quite</i> respectable now."</p>
+
+<p>"Quite," said Mrs Jehoram.</p>
+
+<p>Pause.</p>
+
+<p>"He looks cross!"</p>
+
+<p>"And his coat is dusty."</p>
+
+<p>"He walks steadily enough," said Mrs Mendham, "or one might think....
+This hot weather...."</p>
+
+<p>Another pause.</p>
+
+<p>"You see, dear," said Mrs Jehoram, putting down the lorgnette. "What I
+was going to say was, that possibly he might be a genius in disguise."</p>
+
+<p>"If you can call next door to nothing a disguise."</p>
+
+<p>"No doubt it was eccentric. But I've seen children in little blouses,
+not at all unlike him. So many clever people <i>are</i> peculiar in their
+dress and manners. A genius may steal a horse where a bank-clerk may not
+look over the hedge. Very possibly he's quite well known and laughing<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</a></span>
+at our Arcadian simplicity. And really it wasn't so improper as some of
+these New Women bicycling costumes. I saw one in one of the Illustrated
+Papers only a few days ago&mdash;the <i>New Budget</i> I think&mdash;quite tights, you
+know, dear. No&mdash;I cling to the genius theory. Especially after the
+playing. I'm sure the creature is original. Perhaps very amusing. In
+fact, I intend to ask the Vicar to introduce me."</p>
+
+<p>"My dear!" cried Mrs Mendham.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm resolute," said Mrs Jehoram.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm afraid you're rash," said Mrs Mendham. "Geniuses and people of that
+kind are all very well in London. But here&mdash;at the Vicarage."</p>
+
+<p>"We are going to educate the folks. I love originality. At any rate I
+mean to see him."</p>
+
+<p>"Take care you don't see too much of him," said Mrs Mendham. "I've heard
+the fashion is quite changing. I understand that some of the very best
+people have decided that genius is not to be encouraged any more. These
+recent scandals...."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</a></span></p><p>"Only in literature, I can assure you, dear. In music...."</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing you can say, my dear," said Mrs Mendham, going off at a
+tangent, "will convince me that that person's costume was not extremely
+suggestive and improper."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">A Trivial Incident.</span></span> <span>XXXII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Angel came thoughtfully by the hedge across the field towards the
+Vicarage. The rays of the setting sun shone on his shoulders, and
+touched the Vicarage with gold, and blazed like fire in all the windows.
+By the gate, bathed in the sunlight, stood little Delia, the waiting
+maid. She stood watching him under her hand. It suddenly came into the
+Angel's mind that she, at least, was beautiful, and not only beautiful
+but alive and warm.</p>
+
+<p>She opened the gate for him and stood aside. She was sorry for him, for
+her elder sister was a cripple. He bowed to her, as he would have done
+to any woman, and for just one moment looked into her face. She looked
+back at him and something leapt within her.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel made an irresolute movement.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</a></span> "Your eyes are very beautiful,"
+he said quietly, with a remote wonder in his voice.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, sir!" she said, starting back. The Angel's expression changed to
+perplexity. He went on up the pathway between the Vicar's flower-beds,
+and she stood with the gate held open in her hand, staring after him.
+Just under the rose-twined verandah he turned and looked at her.</p>
+
+<p>She still stared at him for a moment, and then with a queer gesture
+turned round with her back to him, shutting the gate as she did so, and
+seemed to be looking down the valley towards the church tower.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Warp and the Woof of Things.</span></span> <span>XXXIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of his
+day's adventures.</p>
+
+<p>"The strange thing," said the Angel, "is the readiness of you Human
+Beings&mdash;the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting me
+this morning&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Seemed to enjoy it," said the Vicar. "I know."</p>
+
+<p>"Yet they don't like pain," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"No," said the Vicar; "<i>they</i> don't like it."</p>
+
+<p>"Then," said the Angel, "I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spike
+of leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it caused
+the most uncomfortable&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Stinging nettle!" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"At any rate a new sort of pain. And another<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</a></span> plant with a head like a
+coronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"A thistle, possibly."</p>
+
+<p>"And in your garden, the beautiful, sweet-smelling plant&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"The sweet briar," said the Vicar. "I remember."</p>
+
+<p>"And that pink flower that sprang out of the box&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Out of the box?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Last night," said the Angel, "that went climbing up the
+curtains&mdash;&mdash; Flame!"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!&mdash;the matches and the candles! Yes," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"Then the animals. A dog to-day behaved most disagreeably&mdash;&mdash;. And these
+boys, and the way in which people speak&mdash;&mdash;. Everyone seems
+anxious&mdash;willing at any rate&mdash;to give this Pain. Every one seems busy
+giving pain&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Or avoiding it," said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him.
+"Yes&mdash;of course. It's fighting everywhere. The whole living world is a
+battle-field&mdash;the whole world. We are driven<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</a></span> by Pain. Here. How it lies
+on the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!"</p>
+
+<p>"But why does everyone&mdash;everything&mdash;want to give pain?" asked the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"It is not so in the Angelic Land?" said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"No," said the Angel. "Why is it so here?"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. "It <i>is</i> so," he said.
+"Pain," said he still more slowly, "is the warp and the woof of this
+life. Do you know," he said, after a pause, "it is almost impossible for
+me to imagine ... a world without pain.... And yet, as you played this
+morning&mdash;&mdash;</p>
+
+<p>"But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelic
+world. Indeed, a number of people&mdash;excellent religious people&mdash;have been
+so impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death,
+things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me an
+excessive view. But it's a deep question. Almost beyond one's power of
+discussion&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon
+"Necessity," how<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</a></span> things were so because they were so, how one <i>had</i> to
+do this and that. "Even our food," said the Vicar. "What?" said the
+Angel. "Is not obtained without inflicting Pain," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's face went so white that the Vicar checked himself suddenly.
+Or he was just on the very verge of a concise explanation of the
+antecedents of a leg of lamb. There was a pause.</p>
+
+<p>"By-the-bye," said the Angel, suddenly. "Have you been pithed? Like the common people."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Angel's Debut.</span></span> <span>XXXIV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>When Lady Hammergallow made up her mind, things happened as she
+resolved. And though the Vicar made a spasmodic protest, she carried out
+her purpose and got audience, Angel, and violin together, at
+Siddermorton House before the week was out. "A genius the Vicar has
+discovered," she said; so with eminent foresight putting any possibility
+of blame for a failure on the Vicar's shoulders. "The dear Vicar tells
+me," she would say, and proceed to marvellous anecdotes of the Angel's
+cleverness with his instrument. But she was quite in love with her
+idea&mdash;she had always had a secret desire to play the patroness to
+obscure talent. Hitherto it had not turned out to be talent when it came to the test.</p>
+
+<p>"It would be such a good thing for him," she<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</a></span> said. "His hair is long
+already, and with that high colour he would be beautiful, simply
+beautiful on a platform. The Vicar's clothes fitting him so badly makes
+him look quite like a fashionable pianist already. And the scandal of
+his birth&mdash;not told, of course, but whispered&mdash;would be&mdash;quite an
+Inducement&mdash;&mdash;when he gets to London, that is."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar had the most horrible sensations as the day approached. He
+spent hours trying to explain the situation to the Angel, other hours
+trying to imagine what people would think, still worse hours trying to
+anticipate the Angel's behaviour. Hitherto the Angel had always played
+for his own satisfaction. The Vicar would startle him every now and then
+by rushing upon him with some new point of etiquette that had just
+occurred to him. As for instance: "It's very important where you put
+your hat, you know. Don't put it on a chair, whatever you do. Hold it
+until you get your tea, you know, and then&mdash;let me see&mdash;then put it down
+somewhere, you know." The journey to Siddermorton House was
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</a></span>accomplished without misadventure, but at the moment of introduction
+the Vicar had a spasm of horrible misgivings. He had forgotten to
+explain introductions. The Angel's na&iuml;ve amusement was evident, but
+nothing very terrible happened.</p>
+
+<p>"Rummy looking greaser," said Mr Rathbone Slater, who devoted
+considerable attention to costume. "Wants grooming. No manners. Grinned
+when he saw me shaking hands. Did it <i>chic</i> enough, I thought."</p>
+
+<p>One trivial misadventure occurred. When Lady Hammergallow welcomed the
+Angel she looked at him through her glasses. The apparent size of her
+eyes startled him. His surprise and his quick attempt to peer over the
+brims was only too evident. But the Vicar had warned him of the ear trumpet.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's incapacity to sit on anything but a music stool appeared to
+excite some interest among the ladies, but led to no remarks. They
+regarded it perhaps as the affectation of a budding professional. He was
+remiss with the teacups and scattered the crumbs of his cake<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</a></span> abroad.
+(You must remember he was quite an amateur at eating.) He crossed his
+legs. He fumbled over the hat business after vainly trying to catch the
+Vicar's eye. The eldest Miss Papaver tried to talk to him about
+continental watering places and cigarettes, and formed a low opinion of
+his intelligence.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel was surprised by the production of an easel and several books
+of music, and a little unnerved at first by the sight of Lady
+Hammergallow sitting with her head on one side, watching him with those
+magnified eyes through her gilt glasses.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram came up to him before he began to play and asked him the
+Name of the Charming Piece he was playing the other afternoon. The Angel
+said it had no name, and Mrs Jehoram thought music ought never to have
+any names and wanted to know who it was by, and when the Angel told her
+he played it out of his head, she said he must be Quite a Genius and
+looked open (and indisputably fascinating) admiration at him. The Curate
+from Iping Hanger (who was professionally a Kelt and who played the
+piano and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</a></span> talked colour and music with an air of racial superiority)
+watched him jealously.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar, who was presently captured and set down next to Lady
+Hammergallow, kept an anxious eye ever Angelward while she told him
+particulars of the incomes made by violinists&mdash;particulars which, for
+the most part, she invented as she went along. She had been a little
+ruffled by the incident of the glasses, but had decided that it came
+within the limits of permissible originality.</p>
+
+<p>So figure to yourself the Green Saloon at Siddermorton Park; an Angel
+thinly disguised in clerical vestments and with a violin in his hands,
+standing by the grand piano, and a respectable gathering of quiet nice
+people, nicely dressed, grouped about the room. Anticipatory gabble&mdash;one
+hears scattered fragments of conversation.</p>
+
+<p>"He is <i>incog.</i>"; said the very eldest Miss Papaver to Mrs Pirbright.
+"Isn't it quaint and delicious. Jessica Jehoram says she saw him at
+Vienna, but she can't remember the name. The Vicar knows all about him,
+but he is so close&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</a></span></p><p>"How hot and uncomfortable the dear Vicar is looking," said Mrs
+Pirbright. "I've noticed it before when he sits next to Lady
+Hammergallow. She simply will <i>not</i> respect his cloth. She goes on&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"His tie is all askew," said the very eldest Miss Papaver, "and his
+hair! It really hardly looks as though he had brushed it all day."</p>
+
+<p>"Seems a foreign sort of chap. Affected. All very well in a
+drawing-room," said George Harringay, sitting apart with the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "But for my part give me a masculine man and a feminine
+woman. What do you think?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!&mdash;I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>"Guineas and guineas," said Lady Hammergallow. "I've heard that some of
+them keep quite stylish establishments. You would scarcely credit it&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I love music, Mr Angel, I adore it. It stirs something in me. I can
+scarcely describe it," said Mrs Jehoram. "Who is it says that delicious
+antithesis: Life without music is brutality; music<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</a></span> without life
+is&mdash;&mdash; Dear me! perhaps you remember? Music without life&mdash;&mdash;it's Ruskin
+I think?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry that I do not," said the Angel. "I have read very few books."</p>
+
+<p>"How charming of you!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I wish I didn't. I sympathise
+with you profoundly. I would do the same, only we poor women&mdash;&mdash;I
+suppose it's originality we lack&mdash;&mdash; And down here one is driven to the
+most desperate proceedings&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"He's certainly very <i>pretty</i>. But the ultimate test of a man is his
+strength," said George Harringay. "What do you think?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh!&mdash;I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>"It's the effeminate man who makes the masculine woman. When the glory
+of a man is his hair, what's a woman to do? And when men go running
+about with beautiful hectic dabs&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh George! You are so dreadfully satirical to-day," said the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "I'm <i>sure</i> it isn't paint."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm really not his guardian, my dear Lady<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</a></span> Hammergallow. Of course it's
+very kind indeed of you to take such an interest&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Are you really going to improvise?" said Mrs Jehoram in a state of cooing delight.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>SSsh!</i>" said the curate from Iping Hanger.</p>
+
+<p>Then the Angel began to play, looking straight before him as he did so,
+thinking of the wonderful things of the Angelic Land, and yet insensibly
+letting the sadness he was beginning to feel, steal over the fantasia he
+was playing. When he forgot his company the music was strange and sweet;
+when the sense of his surroundings floated into his mind the music grew
+capricious and grotesque. But so great was the hold of the Angelic music
+upon the Vicar that his anxieties fell from him at once, so soon as the
+Angel began to play. Mrs Jehoram sat and looked rapt and sympathetic as
+hard as she could (though the music was puzzling at times) and tried to
+catch the Angel's eye. He really had a wonderfully mobile face, and the
+tenderest shades of expression! And Mrs Jehoram was a judge. George
+Harringay looked bored, until the younger Miss Pirbright, who adored
+him, put out her mousy<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</a></span> little shoe to touch his manly boot, and then he
+turned his face to catch the feminine delicacy of her coquettish eye,
+and was comforted. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs Pirbright sat
+quite still and looked churchy for nearly four minutes.</p>
+
+<p>Then said the eldest Miss Papaver in a whisper, "I always Enjoy violin
+music so much." And Mrs Pirbright answered, "We get so little Nice music
+down here." And Miss Papaver said, "He plays Very nicely." And Mrs
+Pirbright, "Such a Delicate Touch!" And Miss Papaver, "Does Willie keep
+up his lessons?" and so to a whispered conversation.</p>
+
+<p>The Curate from Iping Hanger sat (he felt) in full view of the company.
+He had one hand curled round his ear, and his eyes hard and staring
+fixedly at the pedestal of the Hammergallow S&egrave;vres vase. He supplied, by
+the movements of his mouth, a kind of critical guide to any of the
+company who were disposed to avail themselves of it. It was a generous
+way he had. His aspect was severely judicial, tempered by starts of
+evident disapproval and guarded <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</a></span>appreciation. The Vicar leaned back in
+his chair and stared at the Angel's face, and was presently rapt away in
+a wonderful dream. Lady Hammergallow, with quick jerky movements of the
+head and a low but insistent rustling, surveyed and tried to judge of
+the effect of the Angelic playing. Mr Rathbone-Slater stared very
+solemnly into his hat and looked very miserable, and Mrs Rathbone-Slater
+made mental memoranda of Mrs Jehoram's sleeves. And the air about them
+all was heavy with exquisite music&mdash;for all that had ears to hear.</p>
+
+<p>"Scarcely affected enough," whispered Lady Hammergallow hoarsely,
+suddenly poking the Vicar in the ribs. The Vicar came out of Dreamland
+suddenly. "Eigh?" shouted the Vicar, startled, coming up with a jump.
+"Sssh!" said the Curate from Iping Hanger, and everyone looked shocked
+at the brutal insensibility of Hilyer. "So unusual of the Vicar," said
+the very eldest Miss Papaver, "to do things like that!" The Angel went on playing.</p>
+
+<p>The Curate from Iping Hanger began making mesmeric movements with his
+index finger, and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</a></span> as the thing proceeded Mr Rathbone-Slater got
+amazingly limp. He solemnly turned his hat round and altered his view.
+The Vicar lapsed from an uneasy discomfort into dreamland again. Lady
+Hammergallow rustled a great deal, and presently found a way of making
+her chair creak. And at last the thing came to an end. Lady Hammergallow
+exclaimed "De&mdash;licious!" though she had never heard a note, and began
+clapping her hands. At that everyone clapped except Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+who rapped his hat brim instead. The Curate from Iping Hanger clapped
+with a judicial air.</p>
+
+<p>"So I said (<i>clap, clap, clap</i>), if you cannot cook the food my way
+(<i>clap, clap, clap</i>) you must <i>go</i>," said Mrs Pirbright, clapping
+vigorously. "(This music is a delightful treat.)"</p>
+
+<p>"(It is. I always <i>revel</i> in music,)" said the very eldest Miss Papaver.
+"And did she improve after that?"</p>
+
+<p>"Not a bit of it," said Mrs Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar woke up again and stared round the saloon. Did other people
+see these visions, or were they confined to him alone? Surely they<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</a></span> must
+all see ... and have a wonderful command of their feelings. It was
+incredible that such music should not affect them. "He's a trifle
+<i>gauche</i>," said Lady Hammergallow, jumping upon the Vicar's attention.
+"He neither bows nor smiles. He must cultivate oddities like that. Every
+successful executant is more or less <i>gauche</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"Did you really make that up yourself?" said Mrs Jehoram, sparkling her
+eyes at him, "as you went along. Really, it is <i>wonderful</i>! Nothing less
+than wonderful."</p>
+
+<p>"A little amateurish," said the Curate from Iping Hanger to Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "A great gift, undoubtedly, but a certain lack of
+sustained training. There were one or two little things ... I would like
+to talk to him."</p>
+
+<p>"His trousers look like concertinas," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "He ought
+to be told <i>that</i>. It's scarcely decent."</p>
+
+<p>"Can you do Imitations, Mr Angel?" said Lady Hammergallow.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh <i>do</i>, do some Imitations!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I adore Imitations."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</a></span></p><p>"It was a fantastic thing," said the Curate of Iping Hanger to the
+Vicar of Siddermorton, waving his long indisputably musical hands as he
+spoke; "a little involved, to my mind. I have heard it before
+somewhere&mdash;I forget where. He has genius undoubtedly, but occasionally
+he is&mdash;loose. There is a certain deadly precision wanting. There are
+years of discipline yet."</p>
+
+<p>"I <i>don't</i> admire these complicated pieces of music," said George
+Harringay. "I have simple tastes, I'm afraid. There seems to me no
+<i>tune</i> in it. There's nothing I like so much as simple music. Tune,
+simplicity is the need of the age, in my opinion. We are so over subtle.
+Everything is far-fetched. Home grown thoughts and 'Home, Sweet Home'
+for me. What do you think?"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! I think so&mdash;<i>quite</i>," said the younger Miss Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>"Well, Amy, chattering to George as usual?" said Mrs Pirbright, across the room.</p>
+
+<p>"As usual, Ma!" said the younger Miss Pirbright, glancing round with a
+bright smile at<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</a></span> Miss Papaver, and turning again so as not to lose the
+next utterance from George.</p>
+
+<p>"I wonder if you and Mr Angel could manage a duet?" said Lady
+Hammergallow to the Curate from Iping Hanger, who was looking
+preternaturally gloomy.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sure I should be delighted," said the Curate from Iping Hanger, brightening up.</p>
+
+<p>"Duets!" said the Angel; "the two of us. Then he can play. I
+understood&mdash;the Vicar told me&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Mr Wilmerdings is an accomplished pianist," interrupted the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"But the Imitations?" said Mrs Jehoram, who detested Wilmerdings.</p>
+
+<p>"Imitations!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"A pig squeaking, a cock crowing, you know," said Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+and added lower, "Best fun you can get out of a fiddle&mdash;<i>my</i> opinion."</p>
+
+<p>"I really don't understand," said the Angel. "A pig crowing!"</p>
+
+<p>"You don't like Imitations," said Mrs Jehoram.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</a></span> "Nor do I&mdash;really. I
+accept the snub. I think they degrade...."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps afterwards Mr Angel will Relent," said Lady Hammergallow, when
+Mrs Pirbright had explained the matter to her. She could scarcely credit
+her ear-trumpet. When she asked for Imitations she was accustomed to get Imitations.</p>
+
+<p>Mr Wilmerdings had seated himself at the piano, and had turned to a
+familiar pile of music in the recess. "What do you think of that
+Barcarole thing of Spohr's?" he said over his shoulder. "I suppose you
+know it?" The Angel looked bewildered.</p>
+
+<p>He opened the folio before the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"What an odd kind of book!" said the Angel. "What do all those crazy
+dots mean?" (At that the Vicar's blood ran cold.)</p>
+
+<p>"What dots?" said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>"There!" said the Angel with incriminating finger.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh <i>come</i>!" said the Curate.</p>
+
+<p>There was one of those swift, short silences that mean so much in a
+social gathering.</p>
+
+<p>Then the eldest Miss Papaver turned upon the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</a></span> Vicar. "Does not Mr Angel
+play from ordinary.... Music&mdash;from the ordinary notation?"</p>
+
+<p>"I have never heard," said the Vicar, getting red now after the first
+shock of horror. "I have really never seen...."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel felt the situation was strained, though what was straining it
+he could not understand. He became aware of a doubtful, an unfriendly
+look upon the faces that regarded him. "Impossible!" he heard Mrs
+Pirbright say; "after that <i>beautiful</i> music." The eldest Miss Papaver
+went to Lady Hammergallow at once, and began to explain into her
+ear-trumpet that Mr Angel did not wish to play with Mr Wilmerdings, and
+alleged an ignorance of written music.</p>
+
+<p>"He cannot play from Notes!" said Lady Hammergallow in a voice of
+measured horror. "Non&mdash;sense!"</p>
+
+<p>"Notes!" said the Angel perplexed. "Are these notes?"</p>
+
+<p>"It's carrying the joke too far&mdash;simply because he doesn't want to play
+with Wilmerdings," said Mr Rathbone-Slater to George Harringay.</p>
+
+<p>There was an expectant pause. The Angel<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</a></span> perceived he had to be ashamed
+of himself. He was ashamed of himself.</p>
+
+<p>"Then," said Lady Hammergallow, throwing her head back and speaking with
+deliberate indignation, as she rustled forward, "if you cannot play with
+Mr Wilmerdings I am afraid I cannot ask you to play again." She made it
+sound like an ultimatum. Her glasses in her hand quivered violently with
+indignation. The Angel was now human enough to appreciate the fact that
+he was crushed.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it?" said little Lucy Rustchuck in the further bay.</p>
+
+<p>"He's refused to play with old Wilmerdings," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.
+"What a lark! The old girl's purple. She thinks heaps of that ass, Wilmerdings."</p>
+
+<p>"Perhaps, Mr Wilmerdings, you will favour us with that delicious
+Polonaise of Chopin's," said Lady Hammergallow. Everybody else was
+hushed. The indignation of Lady Hammergallow inspired much the same
+silence as a coming earthquake or an eclipse. Mr Wilmerdings perceived
+he would be doing a real social service to begin<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</a></span> at once, and (be it
+entered to his credit now that his account draws near its settlement) he did.</p>
+
+<p>"If a man pretend to practise an Art," said George Harringay, "he ought
+at least to have the conscience to study the elements of it. What do you...."</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar felt that the heavens had fallen. He sat crumpled up in his
+chair, a shattered man. Lady Hammergallow sat down next to him without
+appearing to see him. She was breathing heavily, but her face was
+terribly calm. Everyone sat down. Was the Angel grossly ignorant or only
+grossly impertinent? The Angel was vaguely aware of some frightful
+offence, aware that in some mysterious way he had ceased to be the
+centre of the gathering. He saw reproachful despair in the Vicar's eye.
+He drifted slowly towards the window in the recess and sat down on the
+little octagonal Moorish stool by the side of Mrs Jehoram. And under the
+circumstances he appreciated at more than its proper value Mrs Jehoram's
+kindly smile. He put down the violin in the window seat.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXXV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram and the Angel (apart)&mdash;Mr Wilmerdings playing.</p>
+
+<p>"I have so longed for a quiet word with you," said Mrs Jehoram in a low
+tone. "To tell you how delightful I found your playing."</p>
+
+<p>"I am glad it pleased you," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Pleased is scarcely the word," said Mrs Jehoram. "I was
+moved&mdash;profoundly. These others did not understand.... I was glad you
+did not play with him."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel looked at the mechanism called Wilmerdings, and felt glad too.
+(The Angelic conception of duets is a kind of conversation upon
+violins.) But he said nothing.</p>
+
+<p>"I worship music," said Mrs Jehoram. "I know nothing about it
+technically, but there is something in it&mdash;a longing, a wish...."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared at her face. She met his eyes.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</a></span></p><p>"You understand," she said. "I see you understand." He was certainly a
+very nice boy, sentimentally precocious perhaps, and with deliciously liquid eyes.</p>
+
+<p>There was an interval of Chopin (Op. 40) played with immense precision.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram had a sweet face still, in shadow, with the light falling
+round her golden hair, and a curious theory flashed across the Angel's
+mind. The perceptible powder only supported his view of something
+infinitely bright and lovable caught, tarnished, coarsened, coated over.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you," said the Angel in a low tone. "Are you ... separated from ...
+<i>your</i> world?"</p>
+
+<p>"As you are?" whispered Mrs Jehoram.</p>
+
+<p>"This is so&mdash;cold," said the Angel. "So harsh!" He meant the whole world.</p>
+
+<p>"I feel it too," said Mrs Jehoram, referring to Siddermorton Home.</p>
+
+<p>"There are those who cannot live without sympathy," she said after a
+sympathetic pause. "And times when one feels alone in the world.
+Fighting a battle against it all. Laughing, flirting, hiding the pain of it...."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</a></span></p><p>"And hoping," said the Angel with a wonderful glance.&mdash;"Yes."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram (who was an epicure of flirtations) felt the Angel was more
+than redeeming the promise of his appearance. (Indisputably he
+worshipped her.) "Do <i>you</i> look for sympathy?" she said. "Or have you found it?"</p>
+
+<p>"I think," said the Angel, very softly, leaning forward, "I think I have found it."</p>
+
+<p>Interval of Chopin Op. 40. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs
+Pirbright whispering. Lady Hammergallow (glasses up) looking down the
+saloon with an unfriendly expression at the Angel. Mrs Jehoram and the
+Angel exchanging deep and significant glances.</p>
+
+<p>"Her name," said the Angel (Mrs Jehoram made a movement) "is Delia. She
+is...."</p>
+
+<p>"Delia!" said Mrs Jehoram sharply, slowly realising a terrible
+misunderstanding. "A fanciful name.... Why!... No! Not that little
+housemaid at the Vicarage&mdash;?..."</p>
+
+<p>The Polonaise terminated with a flourish. The Angel was quite surprised
+at the change in Mrs Jehoram's expression.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</a></span></p><p>"<i>I never</i> did!" said Mrs Jehoram recovering. "To make me your
+confidant in an intrigue with a servant. Really Mr Angel it's possible
+to be too original...."</p>
+
+<p>Then suddenly their colloquy was interrupted.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXXVI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>This section is (so far as my memory goes) the shortest in the book.</p>
+
+<p>But the enormity of the offence necessitates the separation of this
+section from all other sections.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar, you must understand, had done his best to inculcate the
+recognised differentiae of a gentleman. "Never allow a lady to carry
+anything," said the Vicar. "Say, 'permit me' and relieve her." "Always
+stand until every lady is seated." "Always rise and open a door for a
+lady...." and so forth. (All men who have elder sisters know that code.)</p>
+
+<p>And the Angel (who had failed to relieve Lady Hammergallow of her
+teacup) danced forward with astonishing dexterity (leaving Mrs Jehoram
+in the window seat) and with an elegant "permit me" rescued the tea-tray
+from Lady Hammergallow's pretty parlour-maid and vanished officiously in
+front of her. The Vicar rose to his feet with an inarticulate cry.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXXVII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"He's drunk!" said Mr Rathbone-Slater, breaking a terrific silence.
+"That's the matter with <i>him</i>."</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Jehoram laughed hysterically.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar stood up, motionless, staring. "Oh! I <i>forgot</i> to explain
+servants to him!" said the Vicar to himself in a swift outbreak of
+remorse. "I thought he <i>did</i> understand servants."</p>
+
+<p>"Really, Mr Hilyer!" said Lady Hammergallow, evidently exercising
+enormous self-control and speaking in panting spasms. "Really, Mr
+Hilyer!&mdash;Your genius is <i>too</i> terrible. I must, I really <i>must</i>, ask you
+to take him home."</p>
+
+<p>So to the dialogue in the corridor of alarmed maid-servant and
+well-meaning (but shockingly <i>gauche</i>) Angel&mdash;appears the Vicar, his
+botryoidal little face crimson, gaunt despair in his eyes, and his
+necktie under his left ear.</p>
+
+<p>"Come," he said&mdash;struggling with emotion.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</a></span> "Come away.... I.... I am
+disgraced for ever."</p>
+
+<p>And the Angel stared for a second at him and obeyed&mdash;meekly, perceiving
+himself in the presence of unknown but evidently terrible forces.</p>
+
+<p>And so began and ended the Angel's social career.</p>
+
+<p>In the informal indignation meeting that followed, Lady Hammergallow
+took the (informal) chair. "I feel humiliated," she said. "The Vicar
+assured me he was an exquisite player. I never imagined...."</p>
+
+<p>"He was drunk," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "You could tell it from the way
+he fumbled with his tea."</p>
+
+<p>"Such a <i>fiasco</i>!" said Mrs Mergle.</p>
+
+<p>"The Vicar assured me," said Lady Hammergallow. "'The man I have staying
+with me is a musical genius,' he said. His very words."</p>
+
+<p>"His ears must be burning anyhow," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.</p>
+
+<p>"I was trying to keep him Quiet," said Mrs Jehoram. "By humouring him.
+And do you know the things he said to me&mdash;there!"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</a></span></p><p>"The thing he played," said Mr Wilmerdings,"&mdash;I must confess I did not
+like to charge him to his face. But really! It was merely <i>drifting</i>."</p>
+
+<p>"Just fooling with a fiddle, eigh?" said George Harringay. "Well I
+thought it was beyond me. So much of your fine music is&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, <i>George</i>!" said the younger Miss Pirbright.</p>
+
+<p>"The Vicar was a bit on too&mdash;to judge by his tie," said Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "It's a dashed rummy go. Did you notice how he fussed
+after the genius?"</p>
+
+<p>"One has to be so very careful," said the very eldest Miss Papaver.</p>
+
+<p>"He told me he is in love with the Vicar's housemaid!" said Mrs Jehoram.
+"I almost laughed in his face."</p>
+
+<p>"The Vicar ought <i>never</i> to have brought him here," said Mrs
+Rathbone-Slater with decision.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Trouble of the Barbed Wire.</span></span> <span>XXXVIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>So, ingloriously, ended the Angel's first and last appearance in
+Society. Vicar and Angel returned to the Vicarage; crestfallen black
+figures in the bright sunlight, going dejectedly. The Angel, deeply
+pained that the Vicar was pained. The Vicar, dishevelled and desperate,
+intercalating spasmodic remorse and apprehension with broken
+explanations of the Theory of Etiquette. "They do <i>not</i> understand,"
+said the Vicar over and over again. "They will all be so very much
+aggrieved. I do not know what to say to them. It is all so confused, so
+perplexing." And at the gate of the Vicarage, at the very spot where
+Delia had first seemed beautiful, stood Horrocks the village constable,
+awaiting them. He held coiled up about his hand certain short lengths of barbed wire.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</a></span></p><p>"Good evening, Horrocks," said the Vicar as the constable held the gate
+open.</p>
+
+<p>"Evenin', Sir," said Horrocks, and added in a kind of mysterious
+undertone, "<i>Could</i> I speak to you a minute, Sir?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly," said the Vicar. The Angel walked on thoughtfully to the
+house, and meeting Delia in the hall stopped her and cross-examined her
+at length over differences between Servants and Ladies.</p>
+
+<p>"You'll excuse my taking the liberty, Sir," said Horrocks, "but there's
+trouble brewin' for that crippled gent you got stayin' here."</p>
+
+<p>"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "You don't say so!"</p>
+
+<p>"Sir John Gotch, Sir. He's very angry indeed, Sir. His language,
+Sir&mdash;&mdash;. But I felt bound to tell you, Sir. He's certain set on taking
+out a summons on account of that there barbed wire. Certain set, Sir, he is."</p>
+
+<p>"Sir John Gotch!" said the Vicar. "Wire! I don't understand."</p>
+
+<p>"He asked me to find out who did it. Course I've had to do my duty, Sir.
+Naturally a disagreeable one."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</a></span></p><p>"Barbed wire! Duty! I don't understand you, Horrocks."</p>
+
+<p>"I'm afraid, Sir, there's no denying the evidence. I've made careful
+enquiries, Sir." And forthwith the constable began telling the Vicar of
+a new and terrible outrage committed by the Angelic visitor.</p>
+
+<p>But we need not follow that explanation in detail&mdash;or the subsequent
+confession. (For my own part I think there is nothing more tedious than
+dialogue). It gave the Vicar a new view of the Angelic character, a
+vignette of the Angelic indignation. A shady lane, sun-mottled, sweet
+hedges full of honeysuckle and vetch on either side, and a little girl
+gathering flowers, forgetful of the barbed wire which, all along the
+Sidderford Road, fenced in the dignity of Sir John Gotch from "bounders"
+and the detested "million." Then suddenly a gashed hand, a bitter
+outcry, and the Angel sympathetic, comforting, inquisitive. Explanations
+sob-set, and then&mdash;altogether novel phenomenon in the Angelic
+career&mdash;<i>passion</i>. A furious onslaught upon the barbed wire of Sir John
+Gotch, barbed wire recklessly handled, slashed, bent and<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</a></span> broken. Yet
+the Angel acted without personal malice&mdash;saw in the thing only an ugly
+and vicious plant that trailed insidiously among its fellows. Finally
+the Angel's explanations gave the Vicar a picture of the Angel alone
+amidst his destruction, trembling and amazed at the sudden force, not
+himself, that had sprung up within him, and set him striking and
+cutting. Amazed, too, at the crimson blood that trickled down his fingers.</p>
+
+<p>"It is still more horrible," said the Angel when the Vicar explained the
+artificial nature of the thing. "If I had seen the man who put this
+silly-cruel stuff there to hurt little children, I know I should have
+tried to inflict pain upon him. I have never felt like this before. I am
+indeed becoming tainted and coloured altogether by the wickedness of this world."</p>
+
+<p>"To think, too, that you men should be so foolish as to uphold the laws
+that let a man do such spiteful things. Yes&mdash;I know; you will say it has
+to be so. For some remoter reason. That is a thing that only makes me
+angrier. Why cannot an act rest on its own merits?... As it does in the Angelic Land."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</a></span></p><p>That was the incident the history of which the Vicar now gradually
+learnt, getting the bare outline from Horrocks, the colour and emotion
+subsequently from the Angel. The thing had happened the day before the
+musical festival at Siddermorton House.</p>
+
+<p>"Have you told Sir John who did it?" asked the Vicar. "And are you sure?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite sure, Sir. There can be no doubting it was your gentleman, Sir.
+I've not told Sir John yet, Sir. But I shall have to tell Sir John this
+evening. Meaning no offence to you, Sir, as I hopes you'll see. It's my
+duty, Sir. Besides which&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Of course," said the Vicar, hastily. "Certainly it's your duty. And
+what will Sir John do?"</p>
+
+<p>"He's dreadful set against the person who did it&mdash;destroying property
+like that&mdash;and sort of slapping his arrangements in the face."</p>
+
+<p>Pause. Horrocks made a movement. The Vicar, tie almost at the back of
+his neck now, a most unusual thing for him, stared blankly at his toes.</p>
+
+<p>"I thought I'd tell you, Sir," said Horrocks.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</a></span></p><p>"Yes," said the Vicar. "Thanks, Horrocks, thanks!" He scratched the
+back of his head. "You might perhaps ... I think it's the best way ...
+Quite sure Mr Angel did it?"</p>
+
+<p>"Sherlock 'Omes, Sir, couldn't be cocksurer."</p>
+
+<p>"Then I'd better give you a little note to the Squire."</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XXXIX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Vicar's table-talk at dinner that night, after the Angel had stated
+his case, was full of grim explanations, prisons, madness.</p>
+
+<p>"It's too late to tell the truth about you now," said the Vicar.
+"Besides, that's impossible. I really do not know what to say. We must
+face our circumstances, I suppose. I am so undecided&mdash;so torn. It's the
+two worlds. If your Angelic world were only a dream, or if <i>this</i> world
+were only a dream&mdash;or if I could believe either or both dreams, it would
+be all right with me. But here is a real Angel and a real summons&mdash;how
+to reconcile them I do not know. I must talk to Gotch.... But he won't
+understand. Nobody will understand...."</p>
+
+<p>"I am putting you to terrible inconvenience, I am afraid. My appalling
+unworldliness&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"It's not you," said the Vicar. "It's not you. I perceive you have
+brought something strange<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</a></span> and beautiful into my life. It's not you.
+It's myself. If I had more faith either way. If I could believe entirely
+in this world, and call you an Abnormal Phenomenon, as Crump does. But
+no. Terrestrial Angelic, Angelic Terrestrial.... See-Saw."</p>
+
+<p>"Still, Gotch is certain to be disagreeable, <i>most</i> disagreeable. He
+always is. It puts me into his hands. He is a bad moral influence, I
+know. Drinking. Gambling. Worse. Still, one must render unto C&aelig;sar the
+things that are C&aelig;sar's. And he is against Disestablishment...."</p>
+
+<p>Then the Vicar would revert to the social collapse of the afternoon.
+"You are so very fundamental, you know," he said&mdash;several times.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel went to his own room puzzled but very depressed. Every day the
+world had frowned darker upon him and his angelic ways. He could see how
+the trouble affected the Vicar, yet he could not imagine how he could
+avert it. It was all so strange and unreasonable. Twice again, too, he
+had been pelted out of the village.</p>
+
+<p>He found the violin lying on his bed where he<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</a></span> had laid it before
+dinner. And taking it up he began to play to comfort himself. But now he
+played no delicious vision of the Angelic Land. The iron of the world
+was entering into his soul. For a week now he had known pain and
+rejection, suspicion and hatred; a strange new spirit of revolt was
+growing up in his heart. He played a melody, still sweet and tender as
+those of the Angelic Land, but charged with a new note, the note of
+human sorrow and effort, now swelling into something like defiance,
+dying now into a plaintive sadness. He played softly, playing to himself
+to comfort himself, but the Vicar heard, and all his finite bothers were
+swallowed up in a hazy melancholy, a melancholy that was quite remote
+from sorrow. And besides the Vicar, the Angel had another hearer of whom
+neither Angel nor Vicar was thinking.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Delia.</span></span> <span>XL.</span></h2>
+
+<p>She was only four or five yards away from the Angel in the westward
+gable. The diamond-paned window of her little white room was open. She
+knelt on her box of japanned tin, and rested her chin on her hands, her
+elbows on the window-sill. The young moon hung over the pine trees, and
+its light, cool and colourless, lay softly upon the silent-sleeping
+world. Its light fell upon her white face, and discovered new depths in
+her dreaming eyes. Her soft lips fell apart and showed the little white teeth.</p>
+
+<p>Delia was thinking, vaguely, wonderfully, as girls will think. It was
+feeling rather than thinking; clouds of beautiful translucent emotion
+drove across the clear sky of her mind, taking shape that changed and
+vanished. She had all that wonderful emotional tenderness, that subtle
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</a></span>exquisite desire for self-sacrifice, which exists so inexplicably in a
+girl's heart, exists it seems only to be presently trampled under foot
+by the grim and gross humours of daily life, to be ploughed in again
+roughly and remorselessly, as the farmer ploughs in the clover that has
+sprung up in the soil. She had been looking out at the tranquillity of
+the moonlight long before the Angel began to play,&mdash;waiting; then
+suddenly the quiet, motionless beauty of silver and shadow was suffused
+with tender music.</p>
+
+<p>She did not move, but her lips closed and her eyes grew even softer. She
+had been thinking before of the strange glory that had suddenly flashed
+out about the stooping hunchback when he spoke to her in the sunset; of
+that and of a dozen other glances, chance turns, even once the touching
+of her hand. That afternoon he had spoken to her, asking strange
+questions. Now the music seemed to bring his very face before her, his
+look of half curious solicitude, peering into her face, into her eyes,
+into her and through her, deep down into her soul. He seemed now to be
+speaking directly to her,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</a></span> telling her of his solitude and trouble. Oh!
+that regret, that longing! For he was in trouble. And how could a
+servant-girl help him, this soft-spoken gentleman who carried himself so
+kindly, who played so sweetly. The music was so sweet and keen, it came
+so near to the thought of her heart, that presently one hand tightened
+on the other, and the tears came streaming down her face.</p>
+
+<p>As Crump would tell you, people do not do that kind of thing unless
+there is something wrong with the nervous system. But then, from the
+scientific point of view, being in love is a pathological condition.</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>I am painfully aware of the objectionable nature of my story here. I
+have even thought of wilfully perverting the truth to propitiate the
+Lady Reader. But I could not. The story has been too much for me. I do
+the thing with my eyes open. Delia must remain what she really was&mdash;a
+servant girl. I know that to give a mere servant girl, or at least an
+English servant girl, the refined feelings of a human being, to<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</a></span> present
+her as speaking with anything but an intolerable confusion of aspirates,
+places me outside the pale of respectable writers. Association with
+servants, even in thought, is dangerous in these days. I can only plead
+(pleading vainly, I know), that Delia was a very exceptional servant
+girl. Possibly, if one enquired, it might be found that her parentage
+was upper middle-class&mdash;that she was made of the finer upper
+middle-class clay. And (this perhaps may avail me better) I will promise
+that in some future work I will redress the balance, and the patient
+reader shall have the recognised article, enormous feet and hands,
+systematic aspiration of vowels and elimination of aspirates, no figure
+(only middle-class girls have figures&mdash;the thing is beyond a
+servant-girl's means), a fringe (by agreement), and a cheerful readiness
+to dispose of her self-respect for half-a-crown. That is the accepted
+English servant, the typical English woman (when stripped of money and
+accomplishments) as she appears in the works of contemporary writers.
+But Delia somehow was different. I can only regret the circumstance&mdash;it
+was altogether beyond my control.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Doctor Crump Acts.</span></span> <span>XLI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Early the next morning the Angel went down through the village, and
+climbing the fence, waded through the waist-high reeds that fringe the
+Sidder. He was going to Bandram Bay to take a nearer view of the sea,
+which one could just see on a clear day from the higher parts of
+Siddermorton Park. And suddenly he came upon Crump sitting on a log and
+smoking. (Crump always smoked exactly two ounces per week&mdash;and he always
+smoked it in the open air.)</p>
+
+<p>"Hullo!" said Crump, in his healthiest tone. "How's the wing?"</p>
+
+<p>"Very well," said the Angel. "The pain's gone."</p>
+
+<p>"I suppose you know you are trespassing?"</p>
+
+<p>"Trespassing!" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</a></span></p><p>"I suppose you don't know what that means," said Crump.</p>
+
+<p>"I don't," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"I must congratulate you. I don't know how long you will last, but you
+are keeping it up remarkably well. I thought at first you were a
+mattoid, but you're so amazingly consistent. Your attitude of entire
+ignorance of the elementary facts of Life is really a very amusing pose.
+You make slips of course, but very few. But surely we two understand one another."</p>
+
+<p>He smiled at the Angel. "You would beat Sherlock Holmes. I wonder who
+you really are."</p>
+
+<p>The Angel smiled back, with eyebrows raised and hands extended. "It's
+impossible for you to know who I am. Your eyes are blind, your ears
+deaf, your soul dark, to all that is wonderful about me. It's no good my
+telling that I fell into your world."</p>
+
+<p>The Doctor waved his pipe. "Not that, please. I don't want to pry if you
+have your reasons for keeping quiet. Only I would like you to think of
+Hilyer's mental health. He really believes this story."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</a></span></p><p>The Angel shrugged his dwindling wings.</p>
+
+<p>"You did not know him before this affair. He's changed tremendously. He
+used to be neat and comfortable. For the last fortnight he's been hazy,
+with a far-away look in his eyes. He preached last Sunday without his
+cuff links, and something wrong with his tie, and he took for his text,
+'Eye hath not seen nor ear heard.' He really believes all this nonsense
+about the Angel-land. The man is verging on monomania!"</p>
+
+<p>"You <i>will</i> see things from your own standpoint," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Everyone must. At any rate, I think it jolly regrettable to see this
+poor old fellow hypnotized, as you certainly have hypnotized him. I
+don't know where you come from nor who you are, but I warn you I'm not
+going to see the old boy made a fool of much longer."</p>
+
+<p>"But he's not being made a fool of. He's simply beginning to dream of a
+world outside his knowledge&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"It won't do," said Crump. "I'm not one of the dupe class. You are
+either of two things<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</a></span>&mdash;a lunatic at large (which I don't believe), or a
+knave. Nothing else is possible. I think I know a little of this world,
+whatever I do of yours. Very well. If you don't leave Hilyer alone I
+shall communicate with the police, and either clap you into a prison, if
+you go back on your story, or into a madhouse if you don't. It's
+stretching a point, but I swear I'd certify you insane to-morrow to get
+you out of the village. It's not only the Vicar. As you know. I hope
+that's plain. Now what have you to say?"</p>
+
+<p>With an affectation of great calm, the Doctor took out his penknife and
+began to dig the blade into his pipe bowl. His pipe had gone out during
+this last speech.</p>
+
+<p>For a moment neither spoke. The Angel looked about him with a face that
+grew pale. The Doctor extracted a plug of tobacco from his pipe and
+flung it away, shut his penknife and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He
+had not meant to speak quite so emphatically, but speech always warmed him.</p>
+
+<p>"Prison," said the Angel. "Madhouse! Let<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</a></span> me see." Then he remembered
+the Vicar's explanation. "Not that!" he said. He approached Crump with
+eyes dilated and hands outstretched.</p>
+
+<p>"I knew <i>you</i> would know what those things meant&mdash;at any rate. Sit
+down," said Crump, indicating the tree trunk beside him by a movement of the head.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel, shivering, sat down on the tree trunk and stared at the Doctor.</p>
+
+<p>Crump was getting out his pouch. "You are a strange man," said the
+Angel. "Your beliefs are like&mdash;a steel trap."</p>
+
+<p>"They are," said Crump&mdash;flattered.</p>
+
+<p>"But I tell you&mdash;I assure you the thing is so&mdash;I know nothing, or at
+least remember nothing of anything I knew of this world before I found
+myself in the darkness of night on the moorland above Sidderford."</p>
+
+<p>"Where did you learn the language then?"</p>
+
+<p>"I don't know. Only I tell you&mdash;But I haven't an atom of the sort of
+proof that would convince you."</p>
+
+<p>"And you really," said Crump, suddenly <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</a></span>coming round upon him and
+looking into his eyes; "You really believe you were eternally in a kind
+of glorious heaven before then?"</p>
+
+<p>"I do," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Pshaw!" said Crump, and lit his pipe. He sat smoking, elbow on knee,
+for some time, and the Angel sat and watched him. Then his face grew less troubled.</p>
+
+<p>"It is just possible," he said to himself rather than to the Angel, and
+began another piece of silence.</p>
+
+<p>"You see;" he said, when that was finished. "There is such a thing as
+double personality.... A man sometimes forgets who he is and thinks he
+is someone else. Leaves home, friends, and everything, and leads a
+double life. There was a case in <i>Nature</i> only a month or so ago. The
+man was sometimes English and right-handed, and sometimes Welsh and
+left-handed. When he was English he knew no Welsh, when he was Welsh he
+knew no English.... H'm."</p>
+
+<p>He turned suddenly on the Angel and said "Home!" He fancied he might
+revive in the Angel some latent memory of his lost youth.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</a></span> He went on
+"Dadda, Pappa, Daddy, Mammy, Pappy, Father, Dad, Governor, Old Boy,
+Mother, dear Mother, Ma, Mumsy.... No good? What are you laughing at?"</p>
+
+<p>"Nothing," said the Angel. "You surprised me a little,&mdash;that is all. A
+week ago I should have been puzzled by that vocabulary."</p>
+
+<p>For a minute Crump rebuked the Angel silently out of the corner of his eye.</p>
+
+<p>"You have such an ingenuous face. You almost force me to believe you.
+You are certainly not an ordinary lunatic. Your mind&mdash;except for your
+isolation from the past&mdash;seems balanced enough. I wish Nordau or
+Lombroso or some of these <i>Saltpetriere</i> men could have a look at you.
+Down here one gets no practice worth speaking about in mental cases.
+There's one idiot&mdash;and he's just a damned idiot of an idiot&mdash;; all the
+rest are thoroughly sane people."</p>
+
+<p>"Possibly that accounts for their behaviour," said the Angel thoughtfully.</p>
+
+<p>"But to consider your general position here," said Crump, ignoring his
+comment, "I really regard you as a bad influence here. These<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</a></span> 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...."</p>
+
+<p>"But what can I do?" said the Angel. "Suppose I am (quite
+unintentionally) doing mischief...."</p>
+
+<p>"You can leave the village," said Crump.</p>
+
+<p>"Then I shall only go into another village."</p>
+
+<p>"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...."</p>
+
+<p>"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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</a></span> getting
+Work and Food and Shelter. And I am growing afraid of human beings...."</p>
+
+<p>"Fancies, fancies," said Crump, watching him, "mania."</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"Good-morning, Mr&mdash;Angel," he said, "the long and the short of it is&mdash;I
+say it as the medical adviser of this parish&mdash;you are an unhealthy
+influence. We can't have you. You must go."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Sir John Gotch Acts.</span></span> <span>XLII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," said the Vicar, "I'm obliged to you. I'm really obliged to you."</p>
+
+<p>"Glad to be of any service to you," said Sir John Gotch. (Angular attitude.)</p>
+
+<p>"This business," said the Vicar, "this unfortunate business of the
+barbed wire&mdash;is really, you know, a most unfortunate business."</p>
+
+<p>Sir John Gotch became decidedly more angular in his attitude. "It is," he said.</p>
+
+<p>"This Mr Angel being my guest&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"No reason why he should cut my wire," said Sir John Gotch, briefly.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</a></span></p><p>"None whatever."</p>
+
+<p>"May I ask <i>who</i> this Mr Angel is?" asked Sir John Gotch with the
+abruptness of long premeditation.</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's fingers jumped to his chin. What <i>was</i> the good of talking
+to a man like Sir John Gotch about Angels?</p>
+
+<p>"To tell you the exact truth," said the Vicar, "there is a little secret&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Lady Hammergallow told me as much."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's face suddenly became bright red.</p>
+
+<p>"Do you know," said Sir John, with scarcely a pause, "he's been going
+about this village preaching Socialism?"</p>
+
+<p>"Good heavens!" said the Vicar, "<i>No!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>"He has. He has been buttonholing every yokel he came across, and asking
+them why they had to work, while we&mdash;I and you, you know&mdash;did nothing.
+He has been saying we ought to educate every man up to your level and
+mine&mdash;out of the rates, I suppose, as usual. He has been suggesting that
+we&mdash;I and you, you know&mdash;keep these people down&mdash;pith 'em."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Dear</i> me!" said the Vicar, "I had no idea."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</a></span></p><p>"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&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"A Socialist," said the Vicar, quite put out, "I had <i>no</i> idea."</p>
+
+<p>"You see why I am inclined to push matters against our gentleman though
+he <i>is</i> your guest. It seems to me he has been taking advantage of your
+paternal&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Oh, <i>not</i> paternal!" said the Vicar. "Really&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"(I beg your pardon, Vicar&mdash;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."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's fingers were at his chin again.</p>
+
+<p>"So there's one of two things," said Sir John Gotch. "Either that Guest
+of yours leaves the parish, or&mdash;I take proceedings. That's final."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</a></span></p><p>The Vicar's mouth was all askew.</p>
+
+<p>"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&mdash;am I to take
+proceedings or no?"</p>
+
+<p>"You see," said the Vicar in horrible perplexity.</p>
+
+<p>"Well?"</p>
+
+<p>"Arrangements have to be made."</p>
+
+<p>"He's a mischief-making idler.... I know the breed. But I'll give you a
+week&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Thank you," said the Vicar. "I understand your position. I perceive the
+situation is getting intolerable...."</p>
+
+<p>"Sorry to give you this bother, of course," said Sir John.</p>
+
+<p>"A week," said the Vicar.</p>
+
+<p>"A week," said Sir John, leaving.</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>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,<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</a></span> who has opened
+my eyes to Wonderland, and something more than Wonderland, ... and I
+have promised to get rid of him in a week! What are we men made of?...
+How <i>can</i> I tell him?"</p>
+
+<p>He began to walk up and down the room, then he went into the
+dining-room, and stood staring blankly out at the cornfield. The table
+was already laid for lunch. Presently he turned, still dreaming, and
+almost mechanically helped himself to a glass of sherry.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Sea Cliff.</span></span> <span>XLIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>The Angel lay upon the summit of the cliff above Bandram Bay, and stared
+out at the glittering sea. Sheer from under his elbows fell the cliff,
+five hundred and seven feet of it down to the datum line, and the
+sea-birds eddied and soared below him. The upper part of the cliff was a
+greenish chalky rock, the lower two-thirds a warm red, marbled with
+gypsum bands, and from half-a-dozen places spurted jets of water, to
+fall in long cascades down its face. The swell frothed white on the
+flinty beach, and the water beyond where the shadows of an outstanding
+rock lay, was green and purple in a thousand tints and marked with
+streaks and flakes of foam. The air was full of sunlight and the
+tinkling of the little waterfalls and the slow soughing of the seas
+below. Now and then a butterfly<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</a></span> flickered over the face of the cliff,
+and a multitude of sea birds perched and flew hither and thither.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel lay with his crippled, shrivelled wings humped upon his back,
+watching the gulls and jackdaws and rooks, circling in the sunlight,
+soaring, eddying, sweeping down to the water or upward into the dazzling
+blue of the sky. Long the Angel lay there and watched them going to and
+fro on outspread wings. He watched, and as he watched them he remembered
+with infinite longing the rivers of starlight and the sweetness of the
+land from which he came. And a gull came gliding overhead, swiftly and
+easily, with its broad wings spreading white and fair against the blue.
+And suddenly a shadow came into the Angel's eyes, the sunlight left
+them, he thought of his own crippled pinions, and put his face upon his
+arm and wept.</p>
+
+<p>A woman who was walking along the footpath across the Cliff Field saw
+only a twisted hunchback dressed in the Vicar of Siddermorton's cast-off
+clothes, sprawling foolishly at the edge of the cliff and with his
+forehead on his arm.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</a></span> She looked at him and looked again. "The silly
+creature has gone to sleep," she said, and though she had a heavy basket
+to carry, came towards him with an idea of waking him up. But as she
+drew near she saw his shoulders heave and heard the sound of his sobbing.</p>
+
+<p>She stood still a minute, and her features twitched into a kind of grin.
+Then treading softly she turned and went back towards the pathway. "'Tis
+so hard to think of anything to say," she said. "Poor afflicted soul!"</p>
+
+<p>Presently the Angel ceased sobbing, and stared with a tear-stained face
+at the beach below him.</p>
+
+<p>"This world," he said, "wraps me round and swallows me up. My wings grow
+shrivelled and useless. Soon I shall be nothing more than a crippled
+man, and I shall age, and bow myself to pain, and die.... I am
+miserable. And I am alone."</p>
+
+<p>Then he rested his chin on his hands upon the edge of the cliff, and
+began to think of Delia's face with the light in her eyes. The Angel
+felt a curious desire to go to her and tell her of his<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</a></span> withered wings.
+To place his arms about her and weep for the land he had lost. "Delia!"
+he said to himself very softly. And presently a cloud drove in front of the sun.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">Mrs Hinijer Acts.</span></span> <span>XLIV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Mrs Hinijer surprised the Vicar by tapping at his study door after tea.
+"Begging your pardon, Sir," said Mrs Hinijer. "But might I make so bold
+as to speak to you for a moment?"</p>
+
+<p>"Certainly, Mrs Hinijer," said the Vicar, little dreaming of the blow
+that was coming. He held a letter in his hand, a very strange and
+disagreeable letter from his bishop, a letter that irritated and
+distressed him, criticising in the strongest language the guests he
+chose to entertain in his own house. Only a popular bishop living in a
+democratic age, a bishop who was still half a pedagogue, could have
+written such a letter.</p>
+
+<p>Mrs Hinijer coughed behind her hand and struggled with some respiratory
+disorganisation. The Vicar felt apprehensive. Usually in their<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</a></span>
+interviews he was the most disconcerted. Invariably so when the interview ended.</p>
+
+<p>"Well?" he said.</p>
+
+<p>"May I make so bold, sir, as to arst when Mr Angel is a-going?" (Cough.)</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar started. "To ask when Mr Angel is going?" he repeated slowly
+to gain time. "<i>Another!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry, sir. But I've been used to waitin' on gentlefolks, sir; and
+you'd hardly imagine how it feels quite to wait on such as 'im."</p>
+
+<p>"Such as ... <i>'im</i>! Do I understand you, Mrs Hinijer, that you don't
+like Mr Angel?"</p>
+
+<p>"You see, sir, before I came to you, sir, I was at Lord Dundoller's
+seventeen years, and you, sir&mdash;if you will excuse me&mdash;are a perfect
+gentleman yourself, sir&mdash;though in the Church. And then...."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear, dear!" said the Vicar. "And don't you regard Mr Angel as a gentleman?"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir."</p>
+
+<p>"But what...? Dear me! Surely!"</p>
+
+<p>"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir. But when a party goes turning
+vegetarian suddenly and <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</a></span>putting out all the cooking, and hasn't no
+proper luggage of his own, and borry's shirts and socks from his 'ost,
+and don't know no better than to try his knife at peas (as I seed my
+very self), and goes talking in odd corners to the housemaids, and folds
+up his napkin after meals, and eats with his fingers at minced veal, and
+plays the fiddle in the middle of the night keeping everybody awake, and
+stares and grins at his elders a-getting upstairs, and generally
+misconducts himself with things that I can scarcely tell you all, one
+can't help thinking, sir. Thought is free, sir, and one can't help
+coming to one's own conclusions. Besides which, there is talk all over
+the village about him&mdash;what with one thing and another. I know a
+gentleman when I sees a gentleman, and I know a gentleman when I don't
+see a gentleman, and me, and Susan, and George, we've talked it over,
+being the upper servants, so to speak, and experienced, and leaving out
+that girl Delia, who I only hope won't come to any harm through him, and
+depend upon it, sir, that Mr Angel ain't what you think he is, sir, and
+the sooner he leaves this house the better."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</a></span></p><p>Mrs Hinijer ceased abruptly and stood panting but stern, and with her
+eyes grimly fixed on the Vicar's face.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Really</i>, Mrs Hinijer!" said the Vicar, and then, "Oh <i>Lord</i>!"</p>
+
+<p>"What <i>have</i> I done?" said the Vicar, suddenly starting up and appealing
+to the inexorable fates. "What <span class="smaller">HAVE</span> I done?"</p>
+
+<p>"There's no knowing," said Mrs Hinijer. "Though a deal of talk in the village."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Bother!</i>" said the Vicar, going and staring out of the window. Then he
+turned. "Look here, Mrs Hinijer! Mr Angel will be leaving this house in
+the course of a week. Is that enough?"</p>
+
+<p>"Quite," said Mrs Hinijer. "And I feel sure, sir...."</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar's eyes fell with unwonted eloquence upon the door.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Angel in Trouble.</span></span> <span>XLV.</span></h2>
+
+<p>"The fact is," said the Vicar, "this is no world for Angels."</p>
+
+<p>The blinds had not been drawn, and the twilight outer world under an
+overcast sky seemed unspeakably grey and cold. The Angel sat at table in
+dejected silence. His inevitable departure had been proclaimed. Since
+his presence hurt people and made the Vicar wretched he acquiesced in
+the justice of the decision, but what would happen to him after his
+plunge he could not imagine. Something very disagreeable certainly.</p>
+
+<p>"There is the violin," said the Vicar. "Only after our experience&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"I must get you clothes&mdash;a general outfit.&mdash;&mdash; Dear me! you don't
+understand railway travelling! And coinage! Taking lodgings!
+<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</a></span>Eating-houses!&mdash;&mdash; I must come up at least and see you settled. Get work
+for you. But an Angel in London! Working for his living! That grey cold
+wilderness of people! What <i>will</i> become of you?&mdash;&mdash; If I had one friend
+in the world I could trust to believe me!"</p>
+
+<p>"I ought not to be sending you away&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"Do not trouble overmuch for me, my friend," said the Angel. "At least
+this life of yours ends. And there are things in it. There is something
+in this life of yours&mdash;&mdash; Your care for me! I thought there was nothing
+beautiful at all in life&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p>"And I have betrayed you!" said the Vicar, with a sudden wave of
+remorse. "Why did I not face them all&mdash;say, 'This is the best of life'?
+What do these everyday things matter?"</p>
+
+<p>He stopped suddenly. "What <i>do</i> they matter?" he said.</p>
+
+<p>"I have only come into your life to trouble it," said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"Don't say that," said the Vicar. "You have come into my life to awaken
+me. I have been dreaming&mdash;dreaming. Dreaming this was <span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</a></span>necessary and
+that. Dreaming that this narrow prison was the world. And the dream
+still hangs about me and troubles me. That is all. Even your
+departure&mdash;&mdash;. Am I not dreaming that you must go?"</p>
+
+<p>When he was in bed that night the mystical aspect of the case came still
+more forcibly before the Vicar. He lay awake and had the most horrible
+visions of his sweet and delicate visitor drifting through this
+unsympathetic world and happening upon the cruellest misadventures. His
+guest <i>was</i> an Angel assuredly. He tried to go over the whole story of
+the past eight days again. He thought of the hot afternoon, the shot
+fired out of sheer surprise, the fluttering iridescent wings, the
+beautiful saffron-robed figure upon the ground. How wonderful that had
+seemed to him! Then his mind turned to the things he had heard of the
+other world, to the dreams the violin had conjured up, to the vague,
+fluctuating, wonderful cities of the Angelic Land. He tried to recall
+the forms of the buildings, the shapes of the fruits upon the trees, the
+aspect of the winged shapes that traversed its ways. They<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</a></span> grew from a
+memory into a present reality, grew every moment just a little more
+vivid and his troubles a little less immediate; and so, softly and
+quietly, the Vicar slipped out of his troubles and perplexities into the Land of Dreams.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XLVI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>Delia sat with her window open, hoping to hear the Angel play. But that
+night there was to be no playing. The sky was overcast, yet not so
+thickly but that the moon was visible. High up a broken cloud-lace drove
+across the sky, and now the moon was a hazy patch of light, and now it
+was darkened, and now rode clear and bright and sharply outlined against
+the blue gulf of night. And presently she heard the door into the garden
+opening, and a figure came out under the drifting pallor of the moonlight.</p>
+
+<p>It was the Angel. But he wore once more the saffron robe in the place of
+his formless overcoat. In the uncertain light this garment had only a
+colourless shimmer, and his wings behind him seemed a leaden grey. He
+began taking short runs, flapping his wings and leaping, going to and
+fro amidst the drifting patches of<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</a></span> light and the shadows of the trees.
+Delia watched him in amazement. He gave a despondent cry, leaping
+higher. His shrivelled wings flashed and fell. A thicker patch in the
+cloud-film made everything obscure. He seemed to spring five or six feet
+from the ground and fall clumsily. She saw him in the dimness crouching
+on the ground and then she heard him sobbing.</p>
+
+<p>"He's hurt!" said Delia, pressing her lips together hard and staring. "I
+ought to help him."</p>
+
+<p>She hesitated, then stood up and flitted swiftly towards the door, went
+slipping quietly downstairs and out into the moonlight. The Angel still
+lay upon the lawn, and sobbed for utter wretchedness.</p>
+
+<p>"Oh! what is the matter?" said Delia, stooping over him and touching his
+head timidly.</p>
+
+<p>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?"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel stared about him, and his eyes came to rest on her face.
+"Delia!" he whispered.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</a></span></p><p>"Are you hurt?" said Delia.</p>
+
+<p>"My wings," said the Angel. "I cannot use my wings."</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>It hurt her unaccountably to see the tears on his face. She did not know what to do.</p>
+
+<p>"Pity me, Delia," said the Angel, suddenly extending his arms towards her; "pity me."</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>He still held her at arm's length, perplexity<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</a></span> replacing misery in his
+face. "This strange world!" he repeated.</p>
+
+<p>Both whispered, she kneeling, he sitting, in the fluctuating moonlight
+and darkness of the lawn.</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p>"Delia!" said Mrs Hinijer, suddenly projecting from her window; "Delia, is that you?"</p>
+
+<p>They both looked up at her in consternation.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Last Day of the Visit.</span></span> <span>XLVII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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 <i>must</i> 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:</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</a></span></p><p>"<i>1 Black Melton Frock Coat, patts? &pound;3, 10s.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>? Trousers. 2 pairs or one.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Cheviot Tweed Suit (write for patterns. Self-meas.?)</i>"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Soft Felt Hat, No. G. 7 (say), 8s 6d.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Silk Hat, 14s 6d. Hatbox?</i>"</p>
+
+<p>("I suppose he ought to have a silk hat," said the Vicar; "it's the
+correct thing up there.<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</a></span> 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 <i>must</i> be. Where was I?)"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Toothbrush. 1 Brush and Comb. Razor?</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>&frac12; doz. Shirts (? measure his neck), 6s ea.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>Socks? Pants?</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>2 suits Pyjamas. Price? Say 15s.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 doz. Collars ('The Life Guardsman'), 8s.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>Braces. Oxon Patent Versatile, 1s 11&frac12;d.</i>"</p>
+
+<p>("But how will he get them on?" said the Vicar.)</p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Rubber Stamp, T. Angel, and Marking Ink in box complete, 9d.</i></p>
+
+<p>("Those washerwomen are certain to steal all his things.")</p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Single-bladed Penknife with Corkscrew, say 1s 6d.</i></p>
+
+<p>"<i>N.B.&mdash;Don't forget Cuff Links, Collar Stud, &amp;c.</i>" (The Vicar loved
+"&amp;c.", it gave things such a precise and business-like air.)</p>
+
+<p>"<i>1 Leather Portmanteau (had better see these).</i>"</p>
+
+<p>And so forth&mdash;meanderingly. It kept the<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</a></span> Vicar busy until lunch time,
+though his heart ached.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel did not return to lunch. This was not so very remarkable&mdash;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 tea-time. He waited, perhaps,
+half an hour before he took tea. "Odd," said the Vicar, feeling still
+more lonely as he drank his tea.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</a></span> 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, 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.</p>
+
+<p>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....</p>
+
+<p>(Dear Reader, the time is almost ripe to say farewell to this little
+Vicar of ours.)</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XLVIII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm damned," said Sir John Gotch, with immense emphasis; "if this isn't
+altogether too much."</p>
+
+<p>He raised himself in the stirrups. "Hi!" he shouted. "You there!"</p>
+
+<p>The Angel turned smiling.</p>
+
+<p>"Get out of this wood!" said Sir John Gotch.</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Why?</i>" said the Angel.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;," said Sir John Gotch, meditating some cataclysmal
+expletive. But he could think of nothing more than "damned." "Get out of
+this wood," he said.</p>
+
+<p>The Angel's smile vanished. "Why should I<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</a></span> get out of this wood?" he
+said, and stood still.</p>
+
+<p>Neither spoke for a full half minute perhaps, and then Sir John Gotch
+dropped out of his saddle and stood by the horse.</p>
+
+<p>(Now you must remember&mdash;lest the Angelic Hosts be discredited
+hereby&mdash;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&mdash;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.)</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p>"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.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</a></span></p><p>Strange floods of emotion were running through the Angel. "Who are
+you," he said, in a low quivering voice; "who am I&mdash;that you should
+order me out of this place? What has the World done that men like you...."</p>
+
+<p>"You're the fool who cut my barbed wire," said Gotch, threatening, "If
+you want to know!"</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Your</i> barbed wire," said the Angel. "Was that your barbed wire? Are
+you the man who put down that barbed wire? What right have you...."</p>
+
+<p>"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...."</p>
+
+<p>"<i>Well!</i>" said the Angel, a brimming reservoir of unaccountable energy.</p>
+
+<p>"Get out of this damned wood!" said Gotch, flashing into the bully out
+of sheer alarm at the light in the Angel's face.</p>
+
+<p>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<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</a></span> 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.</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p>"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!"</p>
+
+<p>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.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</a></span></p><p>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.</p>
+
+<p>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. "<i>Pain!</i>" he said. "Why does he lie so still?"</p>
+
+<p>He took his foot off Gotch's shoulder, bent down towards the prostrate
+figure, stood listening, knelt&mdash;shook him. "Awake!" said the Angel. Then
+still more softly, "<i>Awake!</i>"</p>
+
+<p>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 awe-stricken whisper.</p>
+
+<p>He started back from the motionless figure. "<i>Dead!</i>" he said suddenly,
+and turning, panic stricken, fled headlong through the wood.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>XLIX.</span></h2>
+
+<p>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."</p>
+
+<p>"Cut at the head, too!"</p>
+
+<p>He put his hand to his face and felt the two weals running across it,
+hot and fat. "I'll think twice before I lift my hand against a lunatic
+again," said Sir John Gotch.</p>
+
+<p>"He may be a person of weak intellect, but I'm damned if he hasn't a
+pretty strong arm. <i>Phew!</i> He's cut a bit clean off the top of my ear
+with that infernal lash."</p>
+
+<p>"That infernal horse will go galloping to the house in the approved
+dramatic style. Little Madam'll be scared out of her wits. And I ... I
+shall have to explain how it<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</a></span> all happened. While she vivisects me with
+questions.</p>
+
+<p>"I'm a jolly good mind to have spring guns and man-traps put in this
+preserve. Confound the Law!"</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>L.</span></h2>
+
+<p>But the Angel, thinking that Gotch was dead, went wandering off in a
+passion of remorse and fear through the brakes and copses along the
+Sidder. You can scarcely imagine how appalled he was at this last and
+overwhelming proof of his encroaching humanity. All the darkness,
+passion and pain of life seemed closing in upon him, inexorably,
+becoming part of him, chaining him to all that a week ago he had found
+strange and pitiful in men.</p>
+
+<p>"Truly, this is no world for an Angel!" said the Angel. "It is a World
+of War, a World of Pain, a World of Death. Anger comes upon one ... I
+who knew not pain and anger, stand here with blood stains on my hands. I
+have fallen. To come into this world is to fall. One must hunger and
+thirst and be tormented with a thousand desires. One must fight for
+foothold, be angry and strike&mdash;&mdash;"</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</a></span></p><p>He lifted up his hands to Heaven, the ultimate bitterness of helpless
+remorse in his face, and then flung them down with a gesture of despair.
+The prison walls of this narrow passionate life seemed creeping in upon
+him, certainly and steadily, to crush him presently altogether. He felt
+what all we poor mortals have to feel sooner or later&mdash;the pitiless
+force of the Things that Must Be, not only without us but (where the
+real trouble lies) within, all the inevitable tormenting of one's high
+resolves, those inevitable seasons when the better self is forgotten.
+But with us it is a gentle descent, made by imperceptible degrees over a
+long space of years; with him it was the horrible discovery of one short
+week. He felt he was being crippled, caked over, blinded, stupefied in
+the wrappings of this life, he felt as a man might feel who has taken
+some horrible poison, and feels destruction spreading within him.</p>
+
+<p>He took no account of hunger or fatigue or the flight of time. On and on
+he went, avoiding houses and roads, turning away from the sight and
+sound of a human being in a wordless desperate argument with Fate. His
+thoughts did<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</a></span> not flow but stood banked back in inarticulate
+remonstrance against his degradation. Chance directed his footsteps
+homeward and, at last, after nightfall, he found himself faint and weary
+and wretched, stumbling along over the moor at the back of Siddermorton.
+He heard the rats run and squeal in the heather, and once a noiseless
+big bird came out of the darkness, passed, and vanished again. And he
+saw without noticing it a dull red glow in the sky before him.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>LI.</span></h2>
+
+<p>But when he came over the brow of the moor, a vivid light sprang up
+before him and refused to be ignored. He came on down the hill and
+speedily saw more distinctly what the glare was. It came from darting
+and trembling tongues of fire, golden and red, that shot from the
+windows and a hole in the roof of the Vicarage. A cluster of black
+heads, all the village in fact, except the fire-brigade&mdash;who were down
+at Aylmer's Cottage trying to find the key of the machine-house&mdash;came
+out in silhouette against the blaze. There was a roaring sound, and a
+humming of voices, and presently a furious outcry. There was a shouting
+of "No! No!"&mdash;"Come back!" and an inarticulate roar.</p>
+
+<p>He began to run towards the burning house. He stumbled and almost fell,
+but he ran on. He found black figures running about him. The<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</a></span> flaring
+fire blew gustily this way and that, and he smelt the smell of burning.</p>
+
+<p>"She went in," said one voice, "she went in."</p>
+
+<p>"The mad girl!" said another.</p>
+
+<p>"Stand back! Stand back!" cried others.</p>
+
+<p>He found himself thrusting through an excited, swaying crowd, all
+staring at the flames, and with the red reflection in their eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"Stand back!" said a labourer, clutching him.</p>
+
+<p>"What is it?" said the Angel. "What does this mean?"</p>
+
+<p>"There's a girl in the house, and she can't get out!"</p>
+
+<p>"Went in after a fiddle," said another.</p>
+
+<p>"'Tas hopeless," he heard someone else say.</p>
+
+<p>"I was standing near her. I heerd her. Says she: 'I <i>can</i> get his
+fiddle.' I heerd her&mdash;Just like that! 'I <i>can</i> get his fiddle.'"</p>
+
+<p>For a moment the Angel stood staring. Then in a flash he saw it all, saw
+this grim little world of battle and cruelty, transfigured in a
+splendour that outshone the Angelic Land, suffused suddenly and
+insupportably glorious with the wonderful light of Love and
+Self-Sacrifice. He gave a<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</a></span> strange cry, and before anyone could stop
+him, was running towards the burning building. There were cries of "The
+Hunchback! The Fowener!"</p>
+
+<p>The Vicar, whose scalded hand was being tied up, turned his head, and he
+and Crump saw the Angel, a black outline against the intense, red glare
+of the doorway. It was the sensation of the tenth of a second, yet both
+men could not have remembered that transitory attitude more vividly had
+it been a picture they had studied for hours together. Then the Angel
+was hidden by something massive (no one knew what) that fell,
+incandescent, across the doorway.</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span>&nbsp;</span> <span>LII.</span></h2>
+
+<p>There was a cry of "Delia" and no more. But suddenly the flames spurted
+out in a blinding glare that shot upward to an immense height, a
+blinding brilliance broken by a thousand flickering gleams like the
+waving of swords. And a gust of sparks, flashing in a thousand colours,
+whirled up and vanished. Just then, and for a moment by some strange
+accident, a rush of music, like the swell of an organ, wove into the
+roaring of the flames.</p>
+
+<p>The whole village standing in black knots heard the sound, except Gaffer
+Siddons who is deaf&mdash;strange and beautiful it was, and then gone again.
+Lumpy Durgan, the idiot boy from Sidderford, said it began and ended
+like the opening and shutting of a door.</p>
+
+<p>But little Hetty Penzance had a pretty fancy of two figures with wings,
+that flashed up and vanished among the flames.</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</a></span></p><p>(And after that it was she began to pine for the things she saw in her
+dreams, and was abstracted and strange. It grieved her mother sorely at
+the time. She grew fragile, as though she was fading out of the world,
+and her eyes had a strange, far-away look. She talked of angels and
+rainbow colours and golden wings, and was for ever singing an unmeaning
+fragment of an air that nobody knew. Until Crump took her in hand and
+cured her with fattening dietary, syrup of hypophosphites and cod liver oil.)</p>
+
+<hr />
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</a></span></p>
+
+<h2><span><span class="smcap">The Epilogue.</span></span> <span>&nbsp;</span></h2>
+
+<p>And there the story of the Wonderful Visit ends. The Epilogue is in the
+mouth of Mrs Mendham. There stand two little white crosses in the
+Siddermorton churchyard, near together, where the brambles come
+clambering over the stone wall. One is inscribed Thomas Angel and the
+other Delia Hardy, and the dates of the deaths are the same. Really
+there is nothing beneath them but the ashes of the Vicar's stuffed
+ostrich. (You will remember the Vicar had his ornithological side.) I
+noticed them when Mrs Mendham was showing me the new De la Beche
+monument. (Mendham has been Vicar since Hilyer died.) "The granite came
+from somewhere in Scotland," said Mrs Mendham, "and cost ever so much&mdash;I
+forget how much&mdash;but a wonderful lot! It's quite the talk of the village."</p>
+
+<p><span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</a></span></p><p>"Mother," said Cissie Mendham, "you are stepping on a grave."</p>
+
+<p>"Dear me!" said Mrs Mendham, "How heedless of me! And the cripple's
+grave too. But really you've no idea how much this monument cost them."</p>
+
+<p>"These two people, by the bye," said Mrs Mendham, "were killed when the
+old Vicarage was burnt. It's rather a strange story. He was a curious
+person, a hunchbacked fiddler, who came from nobody knows where, and
+imposed upon the late Vicar to a frightful extent. He played in a
+pretentious way by ear, and we found out afterwards that he did not know
+a note of music&mdash;not a note. He was exposed before quite a lot of
+people. Among other things, he seems to have been 'carrying on,' as
+people say, with one of the servants, a sly little drab.... But Mendham
+had better tell you all about it. The man was half-witted and curiously
+deformed. It's strange the fancies girls have."</p>
+
+<p>She looked sharply at Cissie, and Cissie blushed to the eyes.</p>
+
+<p>"She was left in the house and he rushed into<span class='pagenum'><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</a></span> the flames in an attempt
+to save her. Quite romantic&mdash;isn't it? He was rather clever with the
+fiddle in his uneducated way.</p>
+
+<p>"All the poor Vicar's stuffed skins were burned at the same time. It was
+almost all he cared for. He never really got over the blow. He came to
+stop with us&mdash;for there wasn't another house available in the village.
+But he never seemed happy. He seemed all shaken. I never saw a man so
+changed. I tried to stir him up, but it was no good&mdash;no good at all. He
+had the queerest delusions about angels and that kind of thing. It made
+him odd company at times. He would say he heard music, and stare quite
+stupidly at nothing for hours together. He got quite careless about his
+dress.... He died within a twelvemonth of the fire."</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="bold">THE END.</p>
+
+<p class="tbrk">&nbsp;</p>
+
+<p class="center">TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.</p>
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+
+<pre>
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
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+The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
+This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
+almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
+re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
+with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org
+
+
+Title: The Wonderful Visit
+
+Author: Herbert George Wells
+
+Release Date: October 19, 2010 [EBook #33913]
+
+Language: English
+
+Character set encoding: ASCII
+
+*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WONDERFUL VISIT ***
+
+
+
+
+Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Martin Pettit and the Online
+Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
+file was produced from images generously made available
+by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
+
+
+
+
+
+
+The Wonderful Visit
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+By the Same Author
+
+
+The Time Machine
+
+
+DAILY CHRONICLE.--"Grips the imagination as it is only
+  gripped by genuinely imaginative work.... A strikingly
+  original performance."
+
+SATURDAY REVIEW.--"A book of remarkable power and
+  imagination, and a work of distinct and individual merit."
+
+SPECTATOR.--"Mr Wells' fanciful and lively dream is well
+  worth reading."
+
+NATIONAL OBSERVER.--"A _tour de force_.... A fine piece
+  of literature, strongly imagined, almost perfectly expressed."
+
+GLASGOW HERALD.--"One of the best pieces of work I have
+  read for many a day."
+
+       *       *       *       *       *
+
+Macmillan's Colonial Library
+
+The Wonderful Visit
+
+by H. G. Wells
+
+Author of the "Time Machine"
+
+London
+Macmillan and Co.
+and New York
+1895
+
+No. 241
+
+_All rights reserved_
+
+
+This Edition is intended for circulation only in India and the British
+Colonies
+
+
+TO THE MEMORY OF MY DEAR FRIEND, WALTER LOW.
+
+
+
+
+CONTENTS
+
+                                                   PAGE
+
+THE NIGHT OF THE STRANGE BIRD                         1
+
+THE COMING OF THE STRANGE BIRD                        4
+
+THE HUNTING OF THE STRANGE BIRD                       8
+
+THE VICAR AND THE ANGEL                              17
+
+PARENTHESIS ON ANGELS                                35
+
+AT THE VICARAGE                                      38
+
+THE MAN OF SCIENCE                                   50
+
+THE CURATE                                           61
+
+AFTER DINNER                                         76
+
+MORNING                                              97
+
+THE VIOLIN                                          101
+
+THE ANGEL EXPLORES THE VILLAGE                      106
+
+LADY HAMMERGALLOW'S VIEW                            127
+
+FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ANGEL IN THE VILLAGE      135
+
+MRS JEHORAM'S BREADTH OF VIEW                       148
+
+A TRIVIAL INCIDENT                                  154
+
+THE WARP AND THE WOOF OF THINGS                     156
+
+THE ANGEL'S DEBUT                                   160
+
+THE TROUBLE OF THE BARBED WIRE                      186
+
+DELIA                                               195
+
+DOCTOR CRUMP ACTS                                   199
+
+SIR JOHN GOTCH ACTS                                 208
+
+THE SEA CLIFF                                       213
+
+MRS HINIJER ACTS                                    217
+
+THE ANGEL IN TROUBLE                                221
+
+THE LAST DAY OF THE VISIT                           229
+
+THE EPILOGUE                                        248
+
+
+
+
+THE WONDERFUL VISIT.
+
+
+
+
+THE NIGHT OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+I.
+
+
+On the Night of the Strange Bird, many people at Sidderton (and some
+nearer) saw a Glare on the Sidderford moor. But no one in Sidderford saw
+it, for most of Sidderford was abed.
+
+All day the wind had been rising, so that the larks on the moor
+chirruped fitfully near the ground, or rose only to be driven like
+leaves before the wind. The sun set in a bloody welter of clouds, and
+the moon was hidden. The glare, they say, was golden like a beam shining
+out of the sky, not a uniform blaze, but broken all over by curving
+flashes like the waving of swords. It lasted but a moment and left the
+night dark and obscure. There were letters about it in _Nature_, and a
+rough drawing that no one thought very like. (You may see it for
+yourself--the drawing that was unlike the glare--on page 42 of Vol.
+cclx. of that publication.)
+
+None in Sidderford saw the light, but Annie, Hooker Durgan's wife, was
+lying awake, and she saw the reflection of it--a flickering tongue of
+gold--dancing on the wall.
+
+She, too, was one of those who heard the sound. The others who heard the
+sound were Lumpy Durgan, the half-wit, and Amory's mother. They said it
+was a sound like children singing and a throbbing of harp strings,
+carried on a rush of notes like that which sometimes comes from an
+organ. It began and ended like the opening and shutting of a door, and
+before and after they heard nothing but the night wind howling over the
+moor and the noise of the caves under Sidderford cliff. Amory's mother
+said she wanted to cry when she heard it, but Lumpy was only sorry he
+could hear no more.
+
+That is as much as anyone can tell you of the glare upon Sidderford
+Moor and the alleged music therewith. And whether these had any real
+connexion with the Strange Bird whose history follows, is more than I
+can say. But I set it down here for reasons that will be more apparent
+as the story proceeds.
+
+
+
+
+THE COMING OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+II.
+
+
+Sandy Bright was coming down the road from Spinner's carrying a side of
+bacon he had taken in exchange for a clock. He saw nothing of the light
+but he heard and saw the Strange Bird. He suddenly heard a flapping and
+a voice like a woman wailing, and being a nervous man and all alone, he
+was alarmed forthwith, and turning (all a-tremble) saw something large
+and black against the dim darkness of the cedars up the hill. It seemed
+to be coming right down upon him, and incontinently he dropped his bacon
+and set off running, only to fall headlong.
+
+He tried in vain--such was his state of mind--to remember the beginning
+of the Lord's Prayer. The strange bird flapped over him, something
+larger than himself, with a vast spread of wings, and, as he thought,
+black. He screamed and gave himself up for lost. Then it went past him,
+sailing down the hill, and, soaring over the vicarage, vanished into the
+hazy valley towards Sidderford.
+
+And Sandy Bright lay upon his stomach there, for ever so long, staring
+into the darkness after the strange bird. At last he got upon his knees
+and began to thank Heaven for his merciful deliverance, with his eyes
+downhill. He went on down into the village, talking aloud and confessing
+his sins as he went, lest the strange bird should come back. All who
+heard him thought him drunk. But from that night he was a changed man,
+and had done with drunkenness and defrauding the revenue by selling
+silver ornaments without a licence. And the side of bacon lay upon the
+hillside until the tallyman from Portburdock found it in the morning.
+
+The next who saw the Strange Bird was a solicitor's clerk at Iping
+Hanger, who was climbing the hill before breakfast, to see the sunrise.
+Save for a few dissolving wisps of cloud the sky had been blown clear
+in the night. At first he thought it was an eagle he saw. It was near
+the zenith, and incredibly remote, a mere bright speck above the pink
+cirri, and it seemed as if it fluttered and beat itself against the sky,
+as an imprisoned swallow might do against a window pane. Then down it
+came into the shadow of the earth, sweeping in a great curve towards
+Portburdock and round over the Hanger, and so vanishing behind the woods
+of Siddermorton Park. It seemed larger than a man. Just before it was
+hidden, the light of the rising sun smote over the edge of the downs and
+touched its wings, and they flashed with the brightness of flames and
+the colour of precious stones, and so passed, leaving the witness agape.
+
+A ploughman going to his work, along under the stone wall of
+Siddermorton Park, saw the Strange Bird flash over him for a moment and
+vanish among the hazy interstices of the beech trees. But he saw little
+of the colour of the wings, witnessing only that its legs, which were
+long, seemed pink and bare like naked flesh, and its body mottled white.
+It smote like an arrow through the air and was gone.
+
+These were the first three eye-witnesses of the Strange Bird.
+
+Now in these days one does not cower before the devil and one's own
+sinfulness, or see strange iridiscent wings in the light of dawn, and
+say nothing of it afterwards. The young solicitor's clerk told his
+mother and sisters at breakfast, and, afterwards, on his way to the
+office at Portburdock, spoke of it to the blacksmith of Hammerpond, and
+spent the morning with his fellow clerks marvelling instead of copying
+deeds. And Sandy Bright went to talk the matter over with Mr Jekyll, the
+"Primitive" minister, and the ploughman told old Hugh and afterwards the
+vicar of Siddermorton.
+
+"They are not an imaginative race about here," said the Vicar of
+Siddermorton, "I wonder how much of that was true. Barring that he
+thinks the wings were brown it sounds uncommonly like a Flamingo."
+
+
+
+
+THE HUNTING OF THE STRANGE BIRD.
+
+III.
+
+
+The Vicar of Siddermorton (which is nine miles inland from Siddermouth
+as the crow flies) was an ornithologist. Some such pursuit, botany,
+antiquity, folk-lore, is almost inevitable for a single man in his
+position. He was given to geometry also, propounding occasionally
+impossible problems in the _Educational Times_, but ornithology was his
+_forte_. He had already added two visitors to the list of occasional
+British birds. His name was well-known in the columns of the _Zoologist_
+(I am afraid it may be forgotten by now, for the world moves apace). And
+on the day after the coming of the Strange Bird, came first one and then
+another to confirm the ploughman's story and tell him, not that it had
+any connection, of the Glare upon Sidderford moor.
+
+Now, the Vicar of Siddermorton had two rivals in his scientific
+pursuits; Gully of Sidderton, who had actually seen the glare, and who
+it was sent the drawing to _Nature_, and Borland the natural history
+dealer, who kept the marine laboratory at Portburdock. Borland, the
+Vicar thought, should have stuck to his copepods, but instead he kept a
+taxidermist, and took advantage of his littoral position to pick up rare
+sea birds. It was evident to anyone who knew anything of collecting that
+both these men would be scouring the country after the strange visitant,
+before twenty-four hours were out.
+
+The Vicar's eye rested on the back of Saunders' British Birds, for he
+was in his study at the time. Already in two places there was entered:
+"the only known British specimen was secured by the Rev. K. Hilyer,
+Vicar of Siddermorton." A third such entry. He doubted if any other
+collector had that.
+
+He looked at his watch--_two_. He had just lunched, and usually he
+"rested" in the afternoon. He knew it would make him feel very
+disagreeable if he went out into the hot sunshine--both on the top of
+his head and generally. Yet Gully perhaps was out, prowling observant.
+Suppose it was something very good and Gully got it!
+
+His gun stood in the corner. (The thing had iridiscent wings and pink
+legs! The chromatic conflict was certainly exceedingly stimulating). He
+took his gun.
+
+He would have gone out by the glass doors and verandah, and down the
+garden into the hill road, in order to avoid his housekeeper's eye. He
+knew his gun expeditions were not approved of. But advancing towards him
+up the garden, he saw the curate's wife and her two daughters, carrying
+tennis rackets. His curate's wife was a young woman of immense will, who
+used to play tennis on his lawn, and cut his roses, differ from him on
+doctrinal points, and criticise his personal behaviour all over the
+parish. He went in abject fear of her, was always trying to propitiate
+her. But so far he had clung to his ornithology....
+
+However, he went out by the front door.
+
+
+
+
+IV.
+
+
+If it were not for collectors England would be full, so to speak, of
+rare birds and wonderful butterflies, strange flowers and a thousand
+interesting things. But happily the collector prevents all that, either
+killing with his own hands or, by buying extravagantly, procuring people
+of the lower classes to kill such eccentricities as appear. It makes
+work for people, even though Acts of Parliament interfere. In this way,
+for instance, he is killing off the chough in Cornwall, the Bath white
+butterfly, the Queen of Spain Fritillary; and can plume himself upon the
+extermination of the Great Auk, and a hundred other rare birds and
+plants and insects. All that is the work of the collector and his glory
+alone. In the name of Science. And this is right and as it should be;
+eccentricity, in fact, is immorality--think over it again if you do not
+think so now--just as eccentricity in one's way of thinking is madness
+(I defy you to find another definition that will fit all the cases of
+either); and if a species is rare it follows that it is not Fitted to
+Survive. The collector is after all merely like the foot soldier in the
+days of heavy armour--he leaves the combatants alone and cuts the
+throats of those who are overthrown. So one may go through England from
+end to end in the summer time and see only eight or ten commonplace wild
+flowers, and the commoner butterflies, and a dozen or so common birds,
+and never be offended by any breach of the monotony, any splash of
+strange blossom or flutter of unknown wing. All the rest have been
+"collected" years ago. For which cause we should all love Collectors,
+and bear in mind what we owe them when their little collections are
+displayed. These camphorated little drawers of theirs, their glass cases
+and blotting-paper books, are the graves of the Rare and the Beautiful,
+the symbols of the Triumph of Leisure (morally spent) over the Delights
+of Life. (All of which, as you very properly remark, has nothing
+whatever to do with the Strange Bird.)
+
+
+
+
+V.
+
+
+There is a place on the moor where the black water shines among the
+succulent moss, and the hairy sundew, eater of careless insects, spreads
+its red-stained hungry hands to the God who gives his creatures--one to
+feed another. On a ridge thereby grow birches with a silvery bark, and
+the soft green of the larch mingles with the dark green fir. Thither
+through the honey humming heather came the Vicar, in the heat of the
+day, carrying a gun under his arm, a gun loaded with swanshot for the
+Strange Bird. And over his disengaged hand he carried a pocket
+handkerchief wherewith, ever and again, he wiped his beady face.
+
+He went by and on past the big pond and the pool full of brown leaves
+where the Sidder arises, and so by the road (which is at first sandy and
+then chalky) to the little gate that goes into the park. There are seven
+steps up to the gate and on the further side six down again--lest the
+deer escape--so that when the Vicar stood in the gateway his head was
+ten feet or more above the ground. And looking where a tumult of bracken
+fronds filled the hollow between two groups of beech, his eye caught
+something parti-coloured that wavered and went. Suddenly his face
+gleamed and his muscles grew tense; he ducked his head, clutched his gun
+with both hands, and stood still. Then watching keenly, he came on down
+the steps into the park, and still holding his gun in both hands, crept
+rather than walked towards the jungle of bracken.
+
+Nothing stirred, and he almost feared that his eyes had played him
+false, until he reached the ferns and had gone rustling breast high into
+them. Then suddenly rose something full of wavering colours, twenty
+yards or less in front of his face, and beating the air. In another
+moment it had fluttered above the bracken and spread its pinions wide.
+He saw what it was, his heart was in his mouth, and he fired out of pure
+surprise and habit.
+
+There was a scream of superhuman agony, the wings beat the air twice,
+and the victim came slanting swiftly downward and struck the ground--a
+struggling heap of writhing body, broken wing and flying bloodstained
+plumes--upon the turfy slope behind.
+
+The Vicar stood aghast, with his smoking gun in his hand. It was no bird
+at all, but a youth with an extremely beautiful face, clad in a robe of
+saffron and with iridescent wings, across whose pinions great waves of
+colour, flushes of purple and crimson, golden green and intense blue,
+pursued one another as he writhed in his agony. Never had the Vicar seen
+such gorgeous floods of colour, not stained glass windows, not the wings
+of butterflies, not even the glories of crystals seen between prisms, no
+colours on earth could compare with them. Twice the Angel raised
+himself, only to fall over sideways again. Then the beating of the wings
+diminished, the terrified face grew pale, the floods of colour abated,
+and suddenly with a sob he lay prone, and the changing hues of the
+broken wings faded swiftly into one uniform dull grey hue.
+
+"Oh! _what_ has happened to me?" cried the Angel (for such it was),
+shuddering violently, hands outstretched and clutching the ground, and
+then lying still.
+
+"Dear me!" said the Vicar. "I had no idea." He came forward cautiously.
+"Excuse me," he said, "I am afraid I have shot you."
+
+It was the obvious remark.
+
+The Angel seemed to become aware of his presence for the first time. He
+raised himself by one hand, his brown eyes stared into the Vicar's.
+Then, with a gasp, and biting his nether lip, he struggled into a
+sitting position and surveyed the Vicar from top to toe.
+
+"A man!" said the Angel, clasping his forehead; "a man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!"
+
+
+
+
+THE VICAR AND THE ANGEL.
+
+VI.
+
+
+Now there are some things frankly impossible. The weakest intellect will
+admit this situation is impossible. The _Athenaeum_ will probably say as
+much should it venture to review this. Sunbespattered ferns, spreading
+beech trees, the Vicar and the gun are acceptable enough. But this Angel
+is a different matter. Plain sensible people will scarcely go on with
+such an extravagant book. And the Vicar fully appreciated this
+impossibility. But he lacked decision. Consequently he went on with it,
+as you shall immediately hear. He was hot, it was after dinner, he was
+in no mood for mental subtleties. The Angel had him at a disadvantage,
+and further distracted him from the main issue by irrelevant iridescence
+and a violent fluttering. For the moment it never occurred to the Vicar
+to ask whether the Angel was possible or not. He accepted him in the
+confusion of the moment, and the mischief was done. Put yourself in his
+place, my dear _Athenaeum_. You go out shooting. You hit something. That
+alone would disconcert you. You find you have hit an Angel, and he
+writhes about for a minute and then sits up and addresses you. He makes
+no apology for his own impossibility. Indeed, he carries the charge
+clean into your camp. "A man!" he says, pointing. "A man in the maddest
+black clothes and without a feather upon him. Then I was not deceived. I
+am indeed in the Land of Dreams!" You _must_ answer him. Unless you take
+to your heels. Or blow his brains out with your second barrel as an
+escape from the controversy.
+
+"The Land of Dreams! Pardon me if I suggest you have just come out of
+it," was the Vicar's remark.
+
+"How can that be?" said the Angel.
+
+"Your wing," said the Vicar, "is bleeding. Before we talk, may I have
+the pleasure--the melancholy pleasure--of tying it up? I am really most
+sincerely sorry...." The Angel put his hand behind his back and winced.
+
+The Vicar assisted his victim to stand up. The Angel turned gravely and
+the Vicar, with numberless insignificant panting parentheses, carefully
+examined the injured wings. (They articulated, he observed with
+interest, to a kind of second glenoid on the outer and upper edge of the
+shoulder blade. The left wing had suffered little except the loss of
+some of the primary wing-quills, and a shot or so in the _ala spuria_,
+but the humerus bone of the right was evidently smashed.) The Vicar
+stanched the bleeding as well as he could and tied up the bone with his
+pocket handkerchief and the neck wrap his housekeeper made him carry in
+all weathers.
+
+"I'm afraid you will not be able to fly for some time," said he, feeling
+the bone.
+
+"I don't like this new sensation," said the Angel.
+
+"The Pain when I feel your bone?"
+
+"The _what_?" said the Angel.
+
+"The Pain."
+
+"'Pain'--you call it. No, I certainly don't like the Pain. Do you have
+much of this Pain in the Land of Dreams?"
+
+"A very fair share," said the Vicar. "Is it new to you?"
+
+"Quite," said the Angel. "I don't like it."
+
+"How curious!" said the Vicar, and bit at the end of a strip of linen to
+tie a knot. "I think this bandaging must serve for the present," he
+said. "I've studied ambulance work before, but never the bandaging up of
+wing wounds. Is your Pain any better?"
+
+"It glows now instead of flashing," said the Angel.
+
+"I am afraid you will find it glow for some time," said the Vicar, still
+intent on the wound.
+
+The Angel gave a shrug of the wing and turned round to look at the Vicar
+again. He had been trying to keep an eye on the Vicar over his shoulder
+during all their interview. He looked at him from top to toe with raised
+eyebrows and a growing smile on his beautiful soft-featured face. "It
+seems so odd," he said with a sweet little laugh, "to be talking to a
+Man!"
+
+"Do you know," said the Vicar, "now that I come to think of it, it is
+equally odd to me that I should be talking to an Angel. I am a somewhat
+matter-of-fact person. A Vicar has to be. Angels I have always regarded
+as--artistic conceptions----"
+
+"Exactly what we think of men."
+
+"But surely you have seen so many men----"
+
+"Never before to-day. In pictures and books, times enough of course. But
+I have seen several since the sunrise, solid real men, besides a horse
+or so--those Unicorn things you know, without horns--and quite a number
+of those grotesque knobby things called 'cows.' I was naturally a little
+frightened at so many mythical monsters, and came to hide here until it
+was dark. I suppose it will be dark again presently like it was at
+first. _Phew!_ This Pain of yours is poor fun. I hope I shall wake up
+directly."
+
+"I don't understand quite," said the Vicar, knitting his brows and
+tapping his forehead with his flat hand. "Mythical monster!" The worst
+thing he had been called for years hitherto was a 'mediaeval
+anachronism' (by an advocate of Disestablishment). "Do I understand
+that you consider me as--as something in a dream?"
+
+"Of course," said the Angel smiling.
+
+"And this world about me, these rugged trees and spreading fronds----"
+
+"Is all so _very_ dream like," said the Angel. "Just exactly what one
+dreams of--or artists imagine."
+
+"You have artists then among the Angels?"
+
+"All kinds of artists, Angels with wonderful imaginations, who invent
+men and cows and eagles and a thousand impossible creatures."
+
+"Impossible creatures!" said the Vicar.
+
+"Impossible creatures," said the Angel. "Myths."
+
+"But I'm real!" said the Vicar. "I assure you I'm real."
+
+The Angel shrugged his wings and winced and smiled. "I can always tell
+when I am dreaming," he said.
+
+"_You_--dreaming," said the Vicar. He looked round him.
+
+"_You_ dreaming!" he repeated. His mind worked diffusely.
+
+He held out his hand with all his fingers moving. "I have it!" he said.
+"I begin to see." A really brilliant idea was dawning upon his mind. He
+had not studied mathematics at Cambridge for nothing, after all. "Tell
+me please. Some animals of _your_ world ... of the Real World, real
+animals you know."
+
+"Real animals!" said the Angel smiling. "Why--there's Griffins and
+Dragons--and Jabberwocks--and Cherubim--and Sphinxes--and the
+Hippogriff--and Mermaids--and Satyrs--and...."
+
+"Thank you," said the Vicar as the Angel appeared to be warming to his
+work; "thank you. That is _quite_ enough. I begin to understand."
+
+He paused for a moment, his face pursed up. "Yes ... I begin to see it."
+
+"See what?" asked the Angel.
+
+"The Griffins and Satyrs and so forth. It's as clear...."
+
+"I don't see them," said the Angel.
+
+"No, the whole point is they are not to be seen in this world. But our
+men with imaginations have told us all about them, you know. And even I
+at times ... there are places in this village where you must simply take
+what they set before you, or give offence--I, I say, have seen in my
+dreams Jabberwocks, Bogle brutes, Mandrakes.... From our point of view,
+you know, they are Dream Creatures...."
+
+"Dream Creatures!" said the Angel. "How singular! This is a very curious
+dream. A kind of topsy-turvey one. You call men real and angels a myth.
+It almost makes one think that in some odd way there must be two worlds
+as it were...."
+
+"At least Two," said the Vicar.
+
+"Lying somewhere close together, and yet scarcely suspecting...."
+
+"As near as page to page of a book."
+
+"Penetrating each other, living each its own life. This is really a
+delicious dream!"
+
+"And never dreaming of each other."
+
+"Except when people go a dreaming!"
+
+"Yes," said the Angel thoughtfully. "It must be something of the sort.
+And that reminds me. Sometimes when I have been dropping asleep, or
+drowsing under the noon-tide sun, I have seen strange corrugated faces
+just like yours, going by me, and trees with green leaves upon them, and
+such queer uneven ground as this.... It must be so. I have fallen into
+another world."
+
+"Sometimes," began the Vicar, "at bedtime, when I have been just on the
+edge of consciousness, I have seen faces as beautiful as yours, and the
+strange dazzling vistas of a wonderful scene, that flowed past me,
+winged shapes soaring over it, and wonderful--sometimes terrible--forms
+going to and fro. I have even heard sweet music too in my ears.... It
+may be that as we withdraw our attention from the world of sense, the
+pressing world about us, as we pass into the twilight of repose, other
+worlds.... Just as we see the stars, those other worlds in space, when
+the glare of day recedes.... And the artistic dreamers who see such
+things most clearly...."
+
+They looked at one another.
+
+"And in some incomprehensible manner I have fallen into this world of
+yours out of my own!" said the Angel, "into the world of my dreams,
+grown real."
+
+He looked about him. "Into the world of my dreams."
+
+"It is confusing," said the Vicar. "It almost makes one think there may
+be (ahem) Four Dimensions after all. In which case, of course," he went
+on hurriedly--for he loved geometrical speculations and took a certain
+pride in his knowledge of them--"there may be any number of three
+dimensional universes packed side by side, and all dimly dreaming of one
+another. There may be world upon world, universe upon universe. It's
+perfectly possible. There's nothing so incredible as the absolutely
+possible. But I wonder how you came to fall out of your world into
+mine...."
+
+"Dear me!" said the Angel; "There's deer and a stag! Just as they draw
+them on the coats of arms. How grotesque it all seems! Can I really be
+awake?"
+
+He rubbed his knuckles into his eyes.
+
+The half-dozen of dappled deer came in Indian file obliquely through the
+trees and halted, watching. "It's no dream--I am really a solid concrete
+Angel, in Dream Land," said the Angel. He laughed. The Vicar stood
+surveying him. The Reverend gentleman was pulling his mouth askew after
+a habit he had, and slowly stroking his chin. He was asking himself
+whether he too was not in the Land of Dreams.
+
+
+
+
+VII.
+
+
+Now in the land of the Angels, so the Vicar learnt in the course of many
+conversations, there is neither pain nor trouble nor death, marrying nor
+giving in marriage, birth nor forgetting. Only at times new things
+begin. It is a land without hill or dale, a wonderfully level land,
+glittering with strange buildings, with incessant sunlight or full moon,
+and with incessant breezes blowing through the AEolian traceries of the
+trees. It is Wonderland, with glittering seas hanging in the sky, across
+which strange fleets go sailing, none know whither. There the flowers
+glow in Heaven and the stars shine about one's feet and the breath of
+life is a delight. The land goes on for ever--there is no solar system
+nor interstellar space such as there is in our universe--and the air
+goes upward past the sun into the uttermost abyss of their sky. And
+there is nothing but Beauty there--all the beauty in our art is but
+feeble rendering of faint glimpses of that wonderful world, and our
+composers, our original composers, are those who hear, however faintly,
+the dust of melody that drives before its winds. And the Angels, and
+wonderful monsters of bronze and marble and living fire, go to and fro
+therein.
+
+It is a land of Law--for whatever is, is under the law--but its laws
+all, in some strange way, differ from ours. Their geometry is different
+because their space has a curve in it so that all their planes are
+cylinders; and their law of Gravitation is not according to the law of
+inverse squares, and there are four-and-twenty primary colours instead
+of only three. Most of the fantastic things of our science are
+commonplaces there, and all our earthly science would seem to them the
+maddest dreaming. There are no flowers upon their plants, for instance,
+but jets of coloured fire. That, of course, will seem mere nonsense to
+you because you do not understand Most of what the Angel told the Vicar,
+indeed the Vicar could not realise, because his own experiences, being
+only of this world of matter, warred against his understanding. It was
+too strange to imagine.
+
+What had jolted these twin universes together so that the Angel had
+fallen suddenly into Sidderford, neither the Angel nor the Vicar could
+tell. Nor for the matter of that could the author of this story. The
+author is concerned with the facts of the case, and has neither the
+desire nor the confidence to explain them. Explanations are the fallacy
+of a scientific age. And the cardinal fact of the case is this, that out
+in Siddermorton Park, with the glory of some wonderful world where there
+is neither sorrow nor sighing, still clinging to him, on the 4th of
+August 1895, stood an Angel, bright and beautiful, talking to the Vicar
+of Siddermorton about the plurality of worlds. The author will swear to
+the Angel, if need be; and there he draws the line.
+
+
+
+
+VIII.
+
+
+"I have," said the Angel, "a most unusual feeling--_here_. Have had
+since sunrise. I don't remember ever having any feeling--_here_ before."
+
+"Not pain, I hope," said the Vicar.
+
+"Oh no! It is quite different from that--a kind of vacuous feeling."
+
+"The atmospheric pressure, perhaps, is a little different," the Vicar
+began, feeling his chin.
+
+"And do you know, I have also the most curious sensations in my
+mouth--almost as if--it's so absurd!--as if I wanted to stuff things
+into it."
+
+"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "Of course! You're hungry!"
+
+"Hungry!" said the Angel. "What's that?"
+
+"Don't you eat?"
+
+"Eat! The word's quite new to me."
+
+"Put food into your mouth, you know. One has to here. You will soon
+learn. If you don't, you get thin and miserable, and suffer a great
+deal--_pain_, you know--and finally you die."
+
+"Die!" said the Angel. "That's another strange word!"
+
+"It's not strange here. It means leaving off, you know," said the Vicar.
+
+"We never leave off," said the Angel.
+
+"You don't know what may happen to you in this world," said the Vicar,
+thinking him over. "Possibly if you are feeling hungry, and can feel
+pain and have your wings broken, you may even have to die before you get
+out of it again. At anyrate you had better try eating. For my own
+part--ahem!--there are many more disagreeable things."
+
+"I suppose I _had_ better Eat," said the Angel. "If it's not too
+difficult. I don't like this 'Pain' of yours, and I don't like this
+'Hungry.' If your 'Die' is anything like it, I would prefer to Eat. What
+a very odd world this is!"
+
+"To Die," said the Vicar, "is generally considered worse than either
+pain or hunger.... It depends."
+
+"You must explain all that to me later," said the Angel. "Unless I wake
+up. At present, please show me how to eat. If you will. I feel a kind of
+urgency...."
+
+"Pardon me," said the Vicar, and offered an elbow. "If I may have the
+pleasure of entertaining you. My house lies yonder--not a couple of
+miles from here."
+
+"_Your_ House!" said the Angel a little puzzled; but he took the Vicar's
+arm affectionately, and the two, conversing as they went, waded slowly
+through the luxuriant bracken, sun mottled under the trees, and on over
+the stile in the park palings, and so across the bee-swarming heather
+for a mile or more, down the hillside, home.
+
+You would have been charmed at the couple could you have seen them. The
+Angel, slight of figure, scarcely five feet high, and with a beautiful,
+almost effeminate face, such as an Italian old Master might have
+painted. (Indeed, there is one in the National Gallery [_Tobias and the
+Angel_, by some artist unknown] not at all unlike him so far as face and
+spirit go.) He was robed simply in a purple-wrought saffron blouse, bare
+kneed and bare-footed, with his wings (broken now, and a leaden grey)
+folded behind him. The Vicar was a short, rather stout figure, rubicund,
+red-haired, clean-shaven, and with bright ruddy brown eyes. He wore a
+piebald straw hat with a black ribbon, a very neat white tie, and a fine
+gold watch-chain. He was so greatly interested in his companion that it
+only occurred to him when he was in sight of the Vicarage that he had
+left his gun lying just where he had dropped it amongst the bracken.
+
+He was rejoiced to hear that the pain of the bandaged wing fell rapidly
+in intensity.
+
+
+
+
+PARENTHESIS ON ANGELS.
+
+IX.
+
+
+Let us be plain. The Angel of this story is the Angel of Art, not the
+Angel that one must be irreverent to touch--neither the Angel of
+religious feeling nor the Angel of popular belief. The last we all know.
+She is alone among the angelic hosts in being distinctly feminine: she
+wears a robe of immaculate, unmitigated white with sleeves, is fair,
+with long golden tresses, and has eyes of the blue of Heaven. Just a
+pure woman she is, pure maiden or pure matron, in her _robe de nuit_,
+and with wings attached to her shoulder blades. Her callings are
+domestic and sympathetic, she watches over a cradle or assists a sister
+soul heavenward. Often she bears a palm leaf, but one would not be
+surprised if one met her carrying a warming-pan softly to some poor
+chilly sinner. She it was who came down in a bevy to Marguerite in
+prison, in the amended last scene in _Faust_ at the Lyceum, and the
+interesting and improving little children that are to die young, have
+visions of such angels in the novels of Mrs Henry Wood. This white
+womanliness with her indescribable charm of lavender-like holiness, her
+aroma of clean, methodical lives, is, it would seem after all, a purely
+Teutonic invention. Latin thought knows her not; the old masters have
+none of her. She is of a piece with that gentle innocent ladylike school
+of art whereof the greatest triumph is "a lump in one's throat," and
+where wit and passion, scorn and pomp, have no place. The white angel
+was made in Germany, in the land of blonde women and the domestic
+sentiments. She comes to us cool and worshipful, pure and tranquil, as
+silently soothing as the breadth and calmness of the starlit sky, which
+also is so unspeakably dear to the Teutonic soul.... We do her
+reverence. And to the angels of the Hebrews, those spirits of power and
+mystery, to Raphael, Zadkiel, and Michael, of whom only Watts has caught
+the shadow, of whom only Blake has seen the splendour, to them too, do
+we do reverence.
+
+But this Angel the Vicar shot is, we say, no such angel at all, but the
+Angel of Italian art, polychromatic and gay. He comes from the land of
+beautiful dreams and not from any holier place. At best he is a popish
+creature. Bear patiently, therefore, with his scattered remiges, and be
+not hasty with your charge of irreverence before the story is read.
+
+
+
+
+AT THE VICARAGE.
+
+X.
+
+
+The Curate's wife and her two daughters and Mrs Jehoram were still
+playing at tennis on the lawn behind the Vicar's study, playing keenly
+and talking in gasps about paper patterns for blouses. But the Vicar
+forgot and came in that way.
+
+They saw the Vicar's hat above the rhododendrons, and a bare curly head
+beside him. "I must ask him about Susan Wiggin," said the Curate's wife.
+She was about to serve, and stood with a racket in one hand and a ball
+between the fingers of the other. "_He_ really ought to have gone to see
+her--being the Vicar. Not George. I----_Ah!_"
+
+For the two figures suddenly turned the corner and were visible. The
+Vicar, arm in arm with----
+
+You see, it came on the Curate's wife suddenly. The Angel's face being
+towards her she saw nothing of the wings. Only a face of unearthly
+beauty in a halo of chestnut hair, and a graceful figure clothed in a
+saffron garment that barely reached the knees. The thought of those
+knees flashed upon the Vicar at once. He too was horrorstruck. So were
+the two girls and Mrs Jehoram. All horrorstruck. The Angel stared in
+astonishment at the horrorstruck group. You see, he had never seen
+anyone horrorstruck before.
+
+"MIS--ter Hilyer!" said the Curate's wife. "This is _too_ much!" She
+stood speechless for a moment. "_Oh!_"
+
+She swept round upon the rigid girls. "Come!" The Vicar opened and shut
+his voiceless mouth. The world hummed and spun about him. There was a
+whirling of zephyr skirts, four impassioned faces sweeping towards the
+open door of the passage that ran through the vicarage. He felt his
+position went with them.
+
+"Mrs Mendham," said the Vicar, stepping forward. "Mrs Mendham. You don't
+understand----"
+
+"_Oh!_" they all said again.
+
+One, two, three, four skirts vanished in the doorway. The Vicar
+staggered half way across the lawn and stopped, aghast. "This comes," he
+heard the Curate's wife say, out of the depth of the passage, "of having
+an unmarried vicar----." The umbrella stand wobbled. The front door of
+the vicarage slammed like a minute gun. There was silence for a space.
+
+"I might have thought," he said. "She is always so hasty."
+
+He put his hand to his chin--a habit with him. Then turned his face to
+his companion. The Angel was evidently well bred. He was holding up Mrs
+Jehoram's sunshade--she had left it on one of the cane chairs--and
+examining it with extraordinary interest. He opened it. "What a curious
+little mechanism!" he said. "What can it be for?"
+
+The Vicar did not answer. The angelic costume certainly was--the Vicar
+knew it was a case for a French phrase--but he could scarcely remember
+it. He so rarely used French. It was not _de trop_, he knew. Anything
+but _de trop_. The Angel was _de trop_, but certainly not his costume.
+Ah! _Sans culotte!_
+
+The Vicar examined his visitor critically--for the first time. "He
+_will_ be difficult to explain," he said to himself softly.
+
+The Angel stuck the sunshade into the turf and went to smell the sweet
+briar. The sunshine fell upon his brown hair and gave it almost the
+appearance of a halo. He pricked his finger. "Odd!" he said. "Pain
+again."
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar, thinking aloud. "He's very beautiful and curious
+as he is. I should like him best so. But I am afraid I must."
+
+He approached the Angel with a nervous cough.
+
+
+
+
+XI.
+
+
+"Those," said the Vicar, "were ladies."
+
+"How grotesque," said the Angel, smiling and smelling the sweet briar.
+"And such quaint shapes!"
+
+"Possibly," said the Vicar. "Did you, _ahem_, notice how they behaved?"
+
+"They went away. Seemed, indeed, to run away. Frightened? I, of course,
+was frightened at things without wings. I hope---- they were not
+frightened at my wings?"
+
+"At your appearance generally," said the Vicar, glancing involuntarily
+at the pink feet.
+
+"Dear me! It never occurred to me. I suppose I seemed as odd to them as
+you did to me." He glanced down. "And my feet. _You_ have hoofs like a
+hippogriff."
+
+"Boots," corrected the Vicar.
+
+"Boots, you call them! But anyhow, I am sorry I alarmed----"
+
+"You see," said the Vicar, stroking his chin, "our ladies, _ahem_, have
+peculiar views--rather inartistic views--about, _ahem_, clothing.
+Dressed as you are, I am afraid, I am really afraid that--beautiful as
+your costume certainly is--you will find yourself somewhat, _ahem_,
+somewhat isolated in society. We have a little proverb, 'When in Rome,
+_ahem_, one must do as the Romans do.' I can assure you that, assuming
+you are desirous to, _ahem_, associate with us--during your involuntary
+stay----"
+
+The Angel retreated a step or so as the Vicar came nearer and nearer in
+his attempt to be diplomatic and confidential. The beautiful face grew
+perplexed. "I don't quite understand. Why do you keep making these
+noises in your throat? Is it Die or Eat, or any of those...."
+
+"As your host," interrupted the Vicar, and stopped.
+
+"As my host," said the Angel.
+
+"_Would_ you object, pending more permanent arrangements, to invest
+yourself, _ahem_, in a suit, an entirely new suit I may say, like this I
+have on?"
+
+"Oh!" said the Angel. He retreated so as to take in the Vicar from top
+to toe. "Wear clothes like yours!" he said. He was puzzled but amused.
+His eyes grew round and bright, his mouth puckered at the corners.
+
+"Delightful!" he said, clapping his hands together. "What a mad, quaint
+dream this is! Where are they?" He caught at the neck of the saffron
+robe.
+
+"Indoors!" said the Vicar. "This way. We will change--indoors!"
+
+
+
+
+XII.
+
+
+So the Angel was invested in a pair of nether garments of the Vicar's, a
+shirt, ripped down the back (to accommodate the wings), socks,
+shoes--the Vicar's dress shoes--collar, tie, and light overcoat. But
+putting on the latter was painful, and reminded the Vicar that the
+bandaging was temporary. "I will ring for tea at once, and send Grummet
+down for Crump," said the Vicar. "And dinner shall be earlier." While
+the Vicar shouted his orders on the landing rails, the Angel surveyed
+himself in the cheval glass with immense delight. If he was a stranger
+to pain, he was evidently no stranger--thanks perhaps to dreaming--to
+the pleasure of incongruity.
+
+They had tea in the drawing-room. The Angel sat on the music stool
+(music stool because of his wings). At first he wanted to lie on the
+hearthrug. He looked much less radiant in the Vicar's clothes, than he
+had done upon the moor when dressed in saffron. His face shone still,
+the colour of his hair and cheeks was strangely bright, and there was a
+superhuman light in his eyes, but his wings under the overcoat gave him
+the appearance of a hunchback. The garments, indeed, made quite a
+terrestrial thing of him, the trousers were puckered transversely, and
+the shoes a size or so too large.
+
+He was charmingly affable and quite ignorant of the most elementary
+facts of civilization. Eating came without much difficulty, and the
+Vicar had an entertaining time teaching him how to take tea. "What a
+mess it is! What a dear grotesque ugly world you live in!" said the
+Angel. "Fancy stuffing things into your mouth! We use our mouths just to
+talk and sing with. Our world, you know, is almost incurably beautiful.
+We get so very little ugliness, that I find all this ... delightful."
+
+Mrs Hinijer, the Vicar's housekeeper, looked at the Angel suspiciously
+when she brought in the tea. She thought him rather a "queer customer."
+What she would have thought had she seen him in saffron no one can tell.
+
+The Angel shuffled about the room with his cup of tea in one hand, and
+the bread and butter in the other, and examined the Vicar's furniture.
+Outside the French windows, the lawn with its array of dahlias and
+sunflowers glowed in the warm sunlight, and Mrs Jehoram's sunshade stood
+thereon like a triangle of fire. He thought the Vicar's portrait over
+the mantel very curious indeed, could not understand what it was there
+for. "You have yourself round," he said, _apropos_ of the portrait, "Why
+want yourself flat?" and he was vastly amused at the glass fire screen.
+He found the oak chairs odd--"You're not square, are you?" he said, when
+the Vicar explained their use. "_We_ never double ourselves up. We lie
+about on the asphodel when we want to rest."
+
+"The chair," said the Vicar, "to tell you the truth, has always puzzled
+_me_. It dates, I think, from the days when the floors were cold and
+very dirty. I suppose we have kept up the habit. It's become a kind of
+instinct with us to sit on chairs. Anyhow, if I went to see one of my
+parishioners, and suddenly spread myself out on the floor--the natural
+way of it--I don't know what she would do. It would be all over the
+parish in no time. Yet it seems the natural method of reposing, to
+recline. The Greeks and Romans----"
+
+"What is this?" said the Angel abruptly.
+
+"That's a stuffed kingfisher. I killed it."
+
+"Killed it!"
+
+"Shot it," said the Vicar, "with a gun."
+
+"Shot! As you did me?"
+
+"I didn't kill you, you see. Fortunately."
+
+"Is killing making like that?"
+
+"In a way."
+
+"Dear me! And you wanted to make me like that--wanted to put glass eyes
+in me and string me up in a glass case full of ugly green and brown
+stuff?"
+
+"You see," began the Vicar, "I scarcely understood----"
+
+"Is that 'die'?" asked the Angel suddenly.
+
+"That is dead; it died."
+
+"Poor little thing. I must eat a lot. But you say you killed it. _Why?_"
+
+"You see," said the Vicar, "I take an interest in birds, and I (_ahem_)
+collect them. I wanted the specimen----"
+
+The Angel stared at him for a moment with puzzled eyes. "A beautiful
+bird like that!" he said with a shiver. "Because the fancy took you. You
+wanted the specimen!"
+
+He thought for a minute. "Do you often kill?" he asked the Vicar.
+
+
+
+
+THE MAN OF SCIENCE.
+
+XIII.
+
+
+Then Doctor Crump arrived. Grummet had met him not a hundred yards from
+the vicarage gate. He was a large, rather heavy-looking man, with a
+clean-shaven face and a double chin. He was dressed in a grey morning
+coat (he always affected grey), with a chequered black and white tie.
+"What's the trouble?" he said, entering and staring without a shadow of
+surprise at the Angel's radiant face.
+
+"This--_ahem_--gentleman," said the Vicar, "or--_ah_--Angel"--the Angel
+bowed--"is suffering from a gunshot wound."
+
+"Gunshot wound!" said Doctor Crump. "In July! May I look at it,
+Mr--Angel, I think you said?"
+
+"He will probably be able to assuage your pain," said the Vicar. "Let
+me assist you to remove your coat?"
+
+The Angel turned obediently.
+
+"Spinal curvature?" muttered Doctor Crump quite audibly, walking round
+behind the Angel. "No! abnormal growth. Hullo! This is odd!" He clutched
+the left wing. "Curious," he said. "Reduplication of the anterior
+limb--bifid coracoid. Possible, of course, but I've never seen it
+before." The angel winced under his hands. "Humerus. Radius and Ulna.
+All there. Congenital, of course. Humerus broken. Curious integumentary
+simulation of feathers. Dear me. Almost avian. Probably of considerable
+interest in comparative anatomy. I never did!----How did this gunshot
+happen, Mr Angel?"
+
+The Vicar was amazed at the Doctor's matter-of-fact manner.
+
+"Our friend," said the Angel, moving his head at the Vicar.
+
+"Unhappily it is my doing," said the Vicar, stepping forward,
+explanatory. "I mistook the gentleman--the Angel (_ahem_)--for a large
+bird----"
+
+"Mistook him for a large bird! What next? Your eyes want seeing to,"
+said Doctor Crump. "I've told you so before." He went on patting and
+feeling, keeping time with a series of grunts and inarticulate
+mutterings.... "But this is really a very good bit of amateur
+bandaging," said he. "I think I shall leave it. Curious malformation
+this is! Don't you find it inconvenient, Mr Angel?"
+
+He suddenly walked round so as to look in the Angel's face.
+
+The Angel thought he referred to the wound. "It is rather," he said.
+
+"If it wasn't for the bones I should say paint with iodine night and
+morning. Nothing like iodine. You could paint your face flat with it.
+But the osseous outgrowth, the bones, you know, complicate things. I
+could saw them off, of course. It's not a thing one should have done in
+a hurry----"
+
+"Do you mean my wings?" said the Angel in alarm.
+
+"Wings!" said the Doctor. "Eigh? Call 'em wings! Yes--what else should I
+mean?"
+
+"Saw them off!" said the Angel.
+
+"Don't you think so? It's of course your affair. I am only advising----"
+
+"Saw them off! What a funny creature you are!" said the Angel, beginning
+to laugh.
+
+"As you will," said the Doctor. He detested people who laughed. "The
+things are curious," he said, turning to the Vicar. "If
+inconvenient"--to the Angel. "I never heard of such complete
+reduplication before--at least among animals. In plants it's common
+enough. Were you the only one in your family?" He did not wait for a
+reply. "Partial cases of the fission of limbs are not at all uncommon,
+of course, Vicar--six-fingered children, calves with six feet, and cats
+with double toes, you know. May I assist you?" he said, turning to the
+Angel who was struggling with the coat. "But such a complete
+reduplication, and so avian, too! It would be much less remarkable if it
+was simply another pair of arms."
+
+The coat was got on and he and the Angel stared at one another.
+
+"Really," said the Doctor, "one begins to understand how that beautiful
+myth of the angels arose. You look a little hectic, Mr Angel--feverish.
+Excessive brilliance is almost worse as a symptom than excessive pallor.
+Curious your name should be Angel. I must send you a cooling draught, if
+you should feel thirsty in the night...."
+
+He made a memorandum on his shirt cuff. The Angel watched him
+thoughtfully, with the dawn of a smile in his eyes.
+
+"One minute, Crump," said the Vicar, taking the Doctor's arm and leading
+him towards the door.
+
+The Angel's smile grew brighter. He looked down at his black-clad legs.
+"He positively thinks I am a man!" said the Angel. "What he makes of the
+wings beats me altogether. What a queer creature he must be! This is
+really a most extraordinary Dream!"
+
+
+
+
+XIV.
+
+
+"That _is_ an Angel," whispered the Vicar. "You don't understand."
+
+"_What?_" said the Doctor in a quick, sharp voice. His eyebrows went up
+and he smiled.
+
+"But the wings?"
+
+"Quite natural, quite ... if a little abnormal."
+
+"Are you sure they are natural?"
+
+"My dear fellow, everything that is, is natural. There is nothing
+unnatural in the world. If I thought there was I should give up practice
+and go into _Le Grand Chartreuse_. There are abnormal phenomena, of
+course. And----"
+
+"But the way I came upon him," said the Vicar.
+
+"Yes, tell me where you picked him up," said the Doctor. He sat down on
+the hall table.
+
+The Vicar began rather hesitatingly--he was not very good at story
+telling--with the rumours of a strange great bird. He told the story in
+clumsy sentences--for, knowing the Bishop as he did, with that awful
+example always before him he dreaded getting his pulpit style into his
+daily conversation--and at every third sentence or so, the Doctor made a
+downward movement of his head--the corners of his mouth tucked away, so
+to speak--as though he ticked off the phases of the story and so far
+found it just as it ought to be. "Self-hypnotism," he murmured once.
+
+"I beg your pardon?" said the Vicar.
+
+"Nothing," said the Doctor. "Nothing, I assure you. Go on. This is
+extremely interesting."
+
+The Vicar told him he went out with his gun.
+
+"_After_ lunch, I think you said?" interrupted the Doctor.
+
+"Immediately after," said the Vicar.
+
+"You should not do such things, you know. But go on, please."
+
+He came to the glimpse of the Angel from the gate.
+
+"In the full glare," said the Doctor, in parenthesis. "It was
+seventy-nine in the shade."
+
+When the Vicar had finished, the Doctor pressed his lips together
+tighter than ever, smiled faintly, and looked significantly into the
+Vicar's eyes.
+
+"You don't ..." began the Vicar, falteringly.
+
+The Doctor shook his head. "Forgive me," he said, putting his hand on
+the Vicar's arm.
+
+"You go out," he said, "on a hot lunch and on a hot afternoon. Probably
+over eighty. Your mind, what there is of it, is whirling with avian
+expectations. I say, 'what there is of it,' because most of your nervous
+energy is down there, digesting your dinner. A man who has been lying in
+the bracken stands up before you and you blaze away. Over he goes--and
+as it happens--as it happens--he has reduplicate fore-limbs, one pair
+being not unlike wings. It's a coincidence certainly. And as for his
+iridescent colours and so forth----. Have you never had patches of
+colour swim before your eyes before, on a brilliant sunlight day?... Are
+you sure they were confined to the wings? Think."
+
+"But he says he _is_ an Angel!" said the Vicar, staring out of his
+little round eyes, his plump hands in his pockets.
+
+"_Ah!_" said the Doctor with his eye on the Vicar. "I expected as
+much." He paused.
+
+"But don't you think ..." began the Vicar.
+
+"That man," said the Doctor in a low, earnest voice, "is a mattoid."
+
+"A what?" said the Vicar.
+
+"A mattoid. An abnormal man. Did you notice the effeminate delicacy of
+his face? His tendency to quite unmeaning laughter? His neglected hair?
+Then consider his singular dress...."
+
+The Vicar's hand went up to his chin.
+
+"Marks of mental weakness," said the Doctor. "Many of this type of
+degenerate show this same disposition to assume some vast mysterious
+credentials. One will call himself the Prince of Wales, another the
+Archangel Gabriel, another the Deity even. Ibsen thinks he is a Great
+Teacher, and Maeterlink a new Shakespeare. I've just been reading all
+about it--in Nordau. No doubt his odd deformity gave him an idea...."
+
+"But really," began the Vicar.
+
+"No doubt he's slipped away from confinement."
+
+"I do not altogether accept...."
+
+"You will. If not, there's the police, and failing that, advertisement;
+but, of course, his people may want to hush it up. It's a sad thing in a
+family...."
+
+"He seems so altogether...."
+
+"Probably you'll hear from his friends in a day or so," said the Doctor,
+feeling for his watch. "He can't live far from here, I should think. He
+seems harmless enough. I must come along and see that wing again
+to-morrow." He slid off the hall table and stood up.
+
+"Those old wives' tales still have their hold on you," he said, patting
+the Vicar on the shoulder. "But an angel, you know--Ha, ha!"
+
+"I certainly _did_ think...." said the Vicar dubiously.
+
+"Weigh the evidence," said the Doctor, still fumbling at his watch.
+"Weigh the evidence with our instruments of precision. What does it
+leave you? Splashes of colour, spots of fancy--_muscae volantes_."
+
+"And yet," said the Vicar, "I could almost swear to the glory on his
+wings...."
+
+"Think it over," said the Doctor (watch out); "hot afternoon--brilliant
+sunshine--boiling down on your head.... But really I _must_ be going. It
+is a quarter to five. I'll see your--angel (ha, ha!) to-morrow again, if
+no one has been to fetch him in the meanwhile. Your bandaging was really
+very 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 saw
+Mendham, his curate, coming up the pathway by the hedge of purple vetch
+and meadowsweet. At that his hand went up to his chin and his eyes grew
+perplexed. Suppose he _was_ deceived. The Doctor passed the Curate with
+a sweep of his hand from his hat brim. Crump was an extraordinarily
+clever fellow, the Vicar thought, and knew far more of anyone's brain
+than one did oneself. The Vicar felt that so acutely. It made the coming
+explanation 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. Please
+come in. Come into the study. I'm really dreadfully sorry. But when I
+explain...."
+
+"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 as
+the latter closed the study door.
+
+"What woman?"
+
+"Pah!"
+
+"But really!"
+
+"The painted creature in light attire--disgustingly light attire, to
+speak 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 a
+man 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 legs
+apart, his arms folded, scowling at his Vicar over his big beard.
+
+(Explanations, I repeat, I have always considered the peculiar fallacy
+of this scientific age.)
+
+The Vicar looked about him helplessly. The world had all gone dull and
+dead. Had he been dreaming all the afternoon? Was there really an angel
+in 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-about
+story," 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 you
+believe in angels, Mendham, real angels?"
+
+"I'm not here to discuss theology. I am the husband of an insulted
+woman."
+
+"But I tell you it's not a figure of speech; this _is_ an angel, a real
+angel 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 voice
+grew impassioned. "What sin I have done that I should entertain and
+clothe angelic visitants, I don't know. I only know that--inconvenient
+as 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't
+turn him out, you know, because Mrs Mendham----I may be a weakling, but
+I am still a gentleman."
+
+"Really, Hilyer--"
+
+"I can assure you it is true." There was a note of hysterical
+desperation in the Vicar's voice. "I fired at him, taking him for a
+flamingo, and hit him in the wing."
+
+"I thought this was a case for the Bishop. I find it is a case for the
+Lunacy 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 lend
+myself 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 of
+the window. He thought the old church down the valley lit by the light
+of the setting sun was very beautiful, but he could not understand the
+serried ranks of tombstones that lay up the hillside beyond. He turned
+as Mendham and the Vicar came in.
+
+Now Mendham could bully his Vicar cheerfully enough, just as he could
+bully his congregation; but he was not the sort of man to bully a
+stranger. He looked at the Angel, and the "strange woman" theory was
+disposed of. The Angel's beauty was too clearly the beauty of the youth.
+
+"Mr Hilyer tells me," Mendham began, in an almost apologetic tone, "that
+you--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, of
+course, curious to know something of how you came into the village in
+such 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 flit
+across your faces!" he said.
+
+"You see, Mr--Mr--I don't know your name," said Mendham, with a certain
+diminution of suavity. "The case stands thus: My wife--four ladies, I
+might 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 defective
+costume. You and Mr Hilyer."
+
+"But I--" said the Vicar.
+
+"I know. It was this gentleman's costume was defective. Naturally--it is
+my place in fact--to demand an explanation." His voice was growing in
+volume. "And I _must_ demand an explanation."
+
+The Angel smiled faintly at his note of anger and his sudden attitude of
+determination--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 a
+poor 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 at
+his 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 to
+say."
+
+"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 of
+Siddermorton Vicarage--in the state in which you were. And in the
+Vicar's company. Cannot you abandon this ridiculous story of yours?..."
+
+The Angel shrugged his wings. "What is the matter with this man?" he
+said 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 telling
+you any other."
+
+"_Pshaw!_" said the Curate again. And then turning suddenly on the
+Vicar, "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 to
+him?"
+
+"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." Mendham
+went towards the door. "I am convinced there is something discreditable
+at the bottom of this business. Or why not tell a simple straightforward
+story? I will confess you puzzle me. Why, in this enlightened age, you
+should 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 he
+has 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 his
+shoulder. The accumulating judgment of months found vent. "I cannot
+understand, Hilyer, why you are in the Church. For the life of me I
+cannot. The air is full of Social Movements, of Economic change, the
+Woman 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 your
+levity.... But this is only a preliminary enquiry," he said, with a
+threatening note in his sonorous voice, and so vanished abruptly (with a
+violent 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 the
+breath of his life, so far. "You see," he said, "it would look so much
+more 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--except
+in church. If you had made your _debut_ in the chancel--on Sunday--it
+might 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 be
+inconvenient if you tell a too incredible story. If I might suggest
+(_ahem_)----."
+
+"Well?"
+
+"You see, people in the world, being men themselves, will almost
+certainly regard you as a man. If you say you are not, they will simply
+say you do not tell the truth. Only exceptional people appreciate the
+exceptional. When in Rome one must--well, respect Roman prejudices a
+little--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 may
+have been too hasty in saying I was not. You say there are no angels in
+this world. Who am I to set myself up against your experience? A mere
+thing of a day--so far as this world goes. If you say there are no
+angels--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 at
+least of the supernatural element. There is such a feeling against the
+supernatural element nowadays--even in the pulpit. You would hardly
+believe----"
+
+"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 angelic
+nature. You will oblige everyone, in fact. There is a settled opinion
+that angels do not do this kind of thing. And nothing is more
+painful--as I can testify--than a decaying settled opinion.... Settled
+opinions are mental teeth in more ways than one. For my own part,"--the
+Vicar's hand passed over his eyes for a moment--"I cannot but believe
+you 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 simultaneously
+Mrs Hinijer announced dinner.
+
+
+
+
+AFTER DINNER.
+
+XVIII.
+
+
+The Angel and the Vicar sat at dinner. The Vicar, with his napkin tucked
+in at his neck, watched the Angel struggling with his soup. "You will
+soon get into the way of it," said the Vicar. The knife and fork
+business was done awkwardly but with effect. The Angel looked furtively
+at Delia, the little waiting maid. When presently they sat cracking
+nuts--which the Angel found congenial enough--and the girl had gone, the
+Angel asked: "Was that a lady, too?"
+
+"Well," said the Vicar (_crack_). "No--she is not a lady. She is a
+servant."
+
+"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 was
+more of her in between. And the colour of her robes was not
+discordant--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 I
+entirely believe you are an angel."
+
+"Yes!" said the Angel.
+
+"I shot you--I saw you flutter. It's beyond dispute. In my own mind. I
+admit it's curious and against my preconceptions, but--practically--I'm
+assured, perfectly assured in fact, that I saw what I certainly did see.
+But after the behaviour of these people. (_Crack_). I really don't see
+how we are to persuade people. Nowadays people are so very particular
+about evidence. So that I think there is a great deal to be said for the
+attitude you assume. Temporarily at least I think it would be best of
+you 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 what
+has happened (_Gluck_, _gluck_, _gluck_--as the Vicar refills his
+glass)--after what has happened I should not be surprised to see the
+side of the room fall away, and the hosts of heaven appear to take you
+away again--take us both away even. You have so far enlarged my
+imagination. All these years I have been forgetting Wonderland. But
+still----. It will certainly be wiser to break the thing gently to
+them."
+
+"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 begin
+existence here, you know, as babies, silly pink helpless things wrapped
+in white, with goggling eyes, that yelp dismally at the Font. Then these
+babies grow larger and become even beautiful--when their faces are
+washed. And they continue to grow to a certain size. They become
+children, boys and girls, youths and maidens (_Crack_), young men and
+young women. That is the finest time in life, according to
+many--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 which
+Delia 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 me
+shy and bashful, in smart ugly dresses, and I marry them. And then
+little pink babies come to them, and some of the youths and maidens that
+were, grow fat and vulgar, and some grow thin and shrewish, and their
+pretty complexions go, and they get a queer delusion of superiority over
+the younger people, and all the delight and glory goes out of their
+lives. So they call the delight and glory of the younger ones, Illusion.
+And then they begin to drop to pieces."
+
+"Drop to pieces!" said the Angel. "How grotesque!"
+
+"Their hair comes off and gets dull coloured or ashen grey," said the
+Vicar. "_I_, for instance." He bowed his head forward to show a circular
+shining patch the size of a florin. "And their teeth come out. Their
+faces collapse and become as wrinkled and dry as a shrivelled apple.
+'Corrugated' you called mine. They care more and more for what they have
+to eat and to drink, and less and less for any of the other delights of
+life. Their limbs get loose in the joints, and their hearts slack, or
+little pieces from their lungs come coughing up. Pain...."
+
+"Ah!" said the Angel.
+
+"Pain comes into their lives more and more. And then they go. They do
+not like to go, but they have to--out of this world, very reluctantly,
+clutching its pain at last in their eagerness to stop...."
+
+"Where do they go?"
+
+"Once I thought I knew. But now I am older I know I do not know. We have
+a Legend--perhaps it is not a legend. One may be a churchman and
+disbelieve. Stokes says there is nothing in it...." The Vicar shook his
+head at the bananas.
+
+"And you?" said the Angel. "Were you a little pink baby?"
+
+"A little while ago I was a little pink baby."
+
+"Were you robed then as you are now?"
+
+"Oh no! Dear me! What a queer idea! Had long white clothes, I suppose,
+like the rest of them."
+
+"And then you were a little boy?"
+
+"A little boy."
+
+"And then a glorious youth?"
+
+"I was not a very glorious youth, I am afraid. I was sickly, and too
+poor to be radiant, and with a timid heart. I studied hard and pored
+over the dying thoughts of men long dead. So I lost the glory, and no
+maiden came to me, and the dulness of life began too soon."
+
+"And you have your little pink babies?"
+
+"None," said the Vicar with a scarce perceptible pause. "Yet all the
+same, as you see, I am beginning to drop to pieces. Presently my back
+will droop like a wilting flowerstalk. And then, in a few thousand days
+more I shall be done with, and I shall go out of this world of mine....
+Whither I do not know."
+
+"And you have to eat like this every day?"
+
+"Eat, and get clothes and keep this roof above me. There are some very
+disagreeable things in this world called Cold and Rain. And the other
+people here--how and why is too long a story--have made me a kind of
+chorus to their lives. They bring their little pink babies to me and I
+have to say a name and some other things over each new pink baby. And
+when the children have grown to be youths and maidens, they come again
+and are confirmed. You will understand that better later. Then before
+they may join in couples and have pink babies of their own, they must
+come again and hear me read out of a book. They would be outcast, and no
+other maiden would speak to the maiden who had a little pink baby
+without I had read over her for twenty minutes out of my book. It's a
+necessary thing, as you will see. Odd as it may seem to you. And
+afterwards when they are falling to pieces, I try and persuade them of a
+strange world in which I scarcely believe myself, where life is
+altogether different from what they have had--or desire. And in the
+end, I bury them, and read out of my book to those who will presently
+follow into the unknown land. I stand at the beginning, and at the
+zenith, and at the setting of their lives. And on every seventh day, I
+who am a man myself, I who see no further than they do, talk to them of
+the Life to Come--the life of which we know nothing. If such a life
+there be. And slowly I drop to pieces amidst my prophesying."
+
+"What a strange life!" said the Angel.
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar. "What a strange life! But the thing that makes it
+strange to me is new. I had taken it as a matter of course until you
+came into my life."
+
+"This life of ours is so insistent," said the Vicar. "It, and its petty
+needs, its temporary pleasures (_Crack_) swathe our souls about. While I
+am preaching to these people of mine of another life, some are
+ministering to one appetite and eating sweets, others--the old men--are
+slumbering, the youths glance at the maidens, the grown men protrude
+white waistcoats and gold chains, pomp and vanity on a substratum of
+carnal substance, their wives flaunt garish bonnets at one another. And
+I go on droning away of the things unseen and unrealised--'Eye hath not
+seen,' I read, 'nor ear heard, nor hath it entered into the imagination
+of man to conceive,' and I look up to catch an adult male immortal
+admiring the fit of a pair of three and sixpenny gloves. It is damping
+year after year. When I was ailing in my youth I felt almost the
+assurance of vision that beneath this temporary phantasm world was the
+real world--the enduring world of the Life Everlasting. But now----"
+
+He glanced at his chubby white hand, fingering the stem of his glass. "I
+have put on flesh since then," he said. [_Pause_].
+
+"I have changed and developed very much. The battle of the Flesh and
+Spirit does not trouble me as it did. Every day I feel less confidence
+in my beliefs, and more in God. I live, I am afraid, a quiescent life,
+duties fairly done, a little ornithology and a little chess, a trifle of
+mathematical trifling. My times are in His hands----"
+
+The Vicar sighed and became pensive. The Angel watched him, and the
+Angel's eyes were troubled with the puzzle of him. "Gluck, gluck,
+gluck," went the decanter as the Vicar refilled his glass.
+
+
+
+
+XIX.
+
+
+So the Angel dined and talked to the Vicar, and presently the night came
+and he was overtaken by yawning.
+
+"Yah----oh!" said the Angel suddenly. "Dear me! A higher power seemed
+suddenly to stretch my mouth open and a great breath of air went rushing
+down my throat."
+
+"You yawned," said the Vicar. "Do you never yawn in the angelic
+country?"
+
+"Never," said the Angel.
+
+"And yet you are immortal!----I suppose you want to go to bed."
+
+"Bed!" said the Angel. "Where's that?"
+
+So the Vicar explained darkness to him and the art of going to bed. (The
+Angels, it seems sleep only in order to dream, and dream, like primitive
+man, with their foreheads on their knees. And they sleep among the white
+poppy meadows in the heat of the day.) The Angel found the bedroom
+arrangements quaint enough.
+
+"Why is everything raised up on big wooden legs?" he said. "You have the
+floor, and then you put everything you have upon a wooden quadruped. Why
+do you do it?" The Vicar explained with philosophical vagueness. The
+Angel burnt his finger in the candle-flame--and displayed an absolute
+ignorance of the elementary principles of combustion. He was merely
+charmed when a line of fire ran up the curtains. The Vicar had to
+deliver a lecture on fire so soon as the flame was extinguished. He had
+all kinds of explanations to make--even the soap needed explaining. It
+was an hour or more before the Angel was safely tucked in for the night.
+
+"He's very beautiful," said the Vicar, descending the staircase, quite
+tired out; "and he's a real angel no doubt. But I am afraid he will be a
+dreadful anxiety, all the same, before he gets into our earthly way with
+things."
+
+He seemed quite worried. He helped himself to an extra glass of sherry
+before he put away the wine in the cellaret.
+
+
+
+
+XX.
+
+
+The Curate stood in front of the looking-glass and solemnly divested
+himself of his collar.
+
+"I never heard a more fantastic story," said Mrs Mendham from the basket
+chair. "The man must be mad. Are you sure----."
+
+"Perfectly, my dear. I've told you every word, every incident----."
+
+"_Well!_" said Mrs Mendham, and spread her hands. "There's no sense in
+it."
+
+"Precisely, my dear."
+
+"The Vicar," said Mrs Mendham, "must be mad."
+
+"This hunchback is certainly one of the strangest creatures I've seen
+for a long time. Foreign looking, with a big bright coloured face and
+long brown hair.... It can't have been cut for months!" The Curate put
+his studs carefully upon the shelf of the dressing-table. "And a kind of
+staring look about his eyes, and a simpering smile. Quite a silly
+looking person. Effeminate."
+
+"But who _can_ he be?" said Mrs Mendham.
+
+"I can't imagine, my dear. Nor where he came from. He might be a
+chorister or something of that sort."
+
+"But _why_ should he be about the shrubbery ... in that dreadful
+costume?"
+
+"I don't know. The Vicar gave me no explanation. He simply said,
+'Mendham, this is an Angel.'"
+
+"I wonder if he drinks.... They may have been bathing near the spring,
+of course," reflected Mrs Mendham. "But I noticed no other clothes on
+his arm."
+
+The Curate sat down on his bed and unlaced his boots.
+
+"It's a perfect mystery to me, my dear." (Flick, flick of laces.)
+"Hallucination is the only charitable----"
+
+"You are sure, George, that it was _not_ a woman."
+
+"Perfectly," said the Curate.
+
+"I know what men are, of course."
+
+"It was a young man of nineteen or twenty," said the Curate.
+
+"I can't understand it," said Mrs Mendham. "You say the creature is
+staying at the Vicarage?"
+
+"Hilyer is simply mad," said the Curate. He got up and went padding
+round the room to the door to put out his boots. "To judge by his manner
+you would really think he believed this cripple was an Angel." ("Are
+your shoes out, dear?")
+
+("They're just by the wardrobe"), said Mrs Mendham. "He always was a
+little queer, you know. There was always something childish about
+him.... An Angel!"
+
+The Curate came and stood by the fire, fumbling with his braces. Mrs
+Mendham liked a fire even in the summer. "He shirks all the serious
+problems in life and is always trifling with some new foolishness," said
+the Curate. "Angel indeed!" He laughed suddenly. "Hilyer _must_ be mad,"
+he said.
+
+Mrs Mendham laughed too. "Even that doesn't explain the hunchback," she
+said.
+
+"The hunchback must be mad too," said the Curate.
+
+"It's the only way of explaining it in a sensible way," said Mrs
+Mendham. [_Pause._]
+
+"Angel or no angel," said Mrs Mendham, "I know what is due to me. Even
+supposing the man thought he _was_ in the company of an angel, that is
+no reason why he should not behave like a gentleman."
+
+"That is perfectly true."
+
+"You will write to the Bishop, of course?"
+
+Mendham coughed. "No, I shan't write to the Bishop," said Mendham. "I
+think it seems a little disloyal.... And he took no notice of the last,
+you know."
+
+"But surely----"
+
+"I shall write to Austin. In confidence. He will be sure to tell the
+Bishop, you know. And you must remember, my dear----"
+
+"That Hilyer can dismiss you, you were going to say. My dear, the man's
+much too weak! _I_ should have a word to say about that. And besides,
+you do all his work for him. Practically, we manage the parish from end
+to end. I do not know what would become of the poor if it was not for
+me. They'd have free quarters in the Vicarage to-morrow. There is that
+Goody Ansell----"
+
+"I know, my dear," said the Curate, turning away and proceeding with his
+undressing. "You were telling me about her only this afternoon."
+
+
+
+
+XXI.
+
+
+And thus in the little bedroom over the gable we reach a first resting
+place in this story. And as we have been hard at it, getting our story
+spread out before you, it may be perhaps well to recapitulate a little.
+
+Looking back you will see that much has been done; we began with a blaze
+of light "not uniform but broken all over by curving flashes like the
+waving of swords," and the sound of a mighty harping, and the advent of
+an Angel with polychromatic wings.
+
+Swiftly, dexterously, as the reader must admit, wings have been clipped,
+halo handled off, the glory clapped into coat and trousers, and the
+Angel made for all practical purposes a man, under a suspicion of being
+either a lunatic or an impostor. You have heard too, or at least been
+able to judge, what the Vicar and the Doctor and the Curate's wife
+thought of the strange arrival. And further remarkable opinions are to
+follow.
+
+The afterglow of the summer sunset in the north-west darkens into night
+and the Angel sleeps, dreaming himself back in the wonderful world where
+it is always light, and everyone is happy, where fire does not burn and
+ice does not chill; where rivulets of starlight go streaming through the
+amaranthine meadows, out to the seas of Peace. He dreams, and it seems
+to him that once more his wings glow with a thousand colours and flash
+through the crystal air of the world from which he has come.
+
+So he dreams. But the Vicar lies awake, too perplexed for dreaming.
+Chiefly he is troubled by the possibilities of Mrs Mendham; but the
+evening's talk has opened strange vistas in his mind, and he is
+stimulated by a sense as of something seen darkly by the indistinct
+vision of a hitherto unsuspected wonderland lying about his world. For
+twenty years now he has held his village living and lived his daily
+life, protected by his familiar creed, by the clamour of the details of
+life, from any mystical dreaming. But now interweaving with the
+familiar bother of his persecuting neighbour, is an altogether
+unfamiliar sense of strange new things.
+
+There was something ominous in the feeling. Once, indeed, it rose above
+all other considerations, and in a kind of terror he blundered out of
+bed, bruised his shins very convincingly, found the matches at last, and
+lit a candle to assure himself of the reality of his own customary world
+again. But on the whole the more tangible trouble was the Mendham
+avalanche. Her tongue seemed to be hanging above him like the sword of
+Damocles. What might she not say of this business, before her indignant
+imagination came to rest?
+
+And while the successful captor of the Strange Bird was sleeping thus
+uneasily, Gully of Sidderton was carefully unloading his gun after a
+wearisome blank day, and Sandy Bright was on his knees in prayer, with
+the window carefully fastened. Annie Durgan was sleeping hard with her
+mouth open, and Amory's mother was dreaming of washing, and both of them
+had long since exhausted the topics of the Sound and the Glare. Lumpy
+Durgan was sitting up in his bed, now crooning the fragment of a tune
+and now listening intently for a sound he had heard once and longed to
+hear again. As for the solicitor's clerk at Iping Hanger, he was trying
+to write poetry about a confectioner's girl at Portburdock, and the
+Strange Bird was quite out of his head. But the ploughman who had seen
+it on the confines of Siddermorton Park had a black eye. That had been
+one of the more tangible consequences of a little argument about birds'
+legs in the "Ship." It is worthy of this passing mention, since it is
+probably the only known instance of an Angel causing anything of the
+kind.
+
+
+
+
+MORNING.
+
+XXII.
+
+
+The Vicar going to call the Angel, found him dressed and leaning out of
+his window. It was a glorious morning, still dewy, and the rising
+sunlight slanting round the corner of the house, struck warm and yellow
+upon the hillside. The birds were astir in the hedges and shrubbery. Up
+the hillside--for it was late in August--a plough drove slowly. The
+Angel's chin rested upon his hands and he did not turn as the Vicar came
+up to him.
+
+"How's the wing?" said the Vicar.
+
+"I'd forgotten it," said the Angel. "Is that yonder a man?"
+
+The Vicar looked. "That's a ploughman."
+
+"Why does he go to and fro like that? Does it amuse him?"
+
+"He's ploughing. That's his work."
+
+"Work! Why does he do it? It seems a monotonous thing to do."
+
+"It is," admitted the Vicar. "But he has to do it to get a living, you
+know. To get food to eat and all that kind of thing."
+
+"How curious!" said the Angel. "Do all men have to do that? Do you?"
+
+"Oh, no. He does it for me; does my share."
+
+"Why?" asked the Angel.
+
+"Oh! in return for things I do for him, you know. We go in for division
+of labour in this world. Exchange is no robbery."
+
+"I see," said the Angel, with his eyes still on the ploughman's heavy
+movements.
+
+"What do you do for him?"
+
+"That seems an easy question to you," said the Vicar, "but really!--it's
+difficult. Our social arrangements are rather complicated. It's
+impossible to explain these things all at once, before breakfast. Don't
+you feel hungry?"
+
+"I think I do," said the Angel slowly, still at the window; and then
+abruptly, "Somehow I can't help thinking that ploughing must be far from
+enjoyable."
+
+"Possibly," said the Vicar, "very possibly. But breakfast is ready.
+Won't you come down?"
+
+The Angel left the window reluctantly.
+
+"Our society," explained the Vicar on the staircase, "is a complicated
+organisation."
+
+"Yes?"
+
+"And it is so arranged that some do one thing and some another."
+
+"And that lean, bent old man trudges after that heavy blade of iron
+pulled by a couple of horses while we go down to eat?"
+
+"Yes. You will find it is perfectly just. Ah! mushrooms and poached
+eggs! It's the Social System. Pray be seated. Possibly it strikes you as
+unfair?"
+
+"I'm puzzled," said the Angel.
+
+"The drink I'm sending you is called coffee," said the Vicar. "I daresay
+you are. When I was a young man I was puzzled in the same way. But
+afterwards comes a Broader View of Things. (These black things are
+called mushrooms; they look beautiful.) Other Considerations. All men
+are brothers, of course, but some are younger brothers, so to speak.
+There is work that requires culture and refinement, and work in which
+culture and refinement would be an impediment. And the rights of
+property must not be forgotten. One must render unto Caesar.... Do you
+know, instead of explaining this matter now (this is yours), I think I
+will lend you a little book to read (_chum_, _chum_, _chum_--these
+mushrooms are well up to their appearance), which sets the whole thing
+out very clearly."
+
+
+
+
+THE VIOLIN.
+
+XXIII.
+
+
+After breakfast the Vicar went into the little room next his study to
+find a book on Political Economy for the Angel to read. For the Angel's
+social ignorances were clearly beyond any verbal explanations. The door
+stood ajar.
+
+"What is that?" said the Angel, following him. "A violin!" He took it
+down.
+
+"You play?" said the Vicar.
+
+The Angel had the bow in his hand, and by way of answer drove it across
+the strings. The quality of the note made the Vicar turn suddenly.
+
+The Angel's hand tightened on the instrument. The bow flew back and
+flickered, and an air the Vicar had never heard before danced in his
+ears. The Angel shifted the fiddle under his dainty chin and went on
+playing, and as he played his eyes grew bright and his lips smiled. At
+first he looked at the Vicar, then his expression became abstracted. He
+seemed no longer to look at the Vicar, but through him, at something
+beyond, something in his memory or his imagination, something infinitely
+remote, undreamt of hitherto....
+
+The Vicar tried to follow the music. The air reminded him of a flame, it
+rushed up, shone, flickered and danced, passed and reappeared. No!--it
+did not reappear! Another air--like it and unlike it, shot up after it,
+wavered, vanished. Then another, the same and not the same. It reminded
+him of the flaring tongues that palpitate and change above a newly lit
+fire. There are two airs--or _motifs_, which is it?--thought the Vicar.
+He knew remarkably little of musical technique. They go dancing up, one
+pursuing the other, out of the fire of the incantation, pursuing,
+fluctuating, turning, up into the sky. There below was the fire burning,
+a flame without fuel upon a level space, and there two flirting
+butterflies of sound, dancing away from it, up, one over another, swift,
+abrupt, uncertain.
+
+"Flirting butterflies were they!" What was the Vicar thinking of? Where
+was he? In the little room next to his study, of course! And the Angel
+standing in front of him smiling into his face, playing the violin, and
+looking through him as though he was only a window----. That _motif_
+again, a yellow flare, spread fanlike by a gust, and now one, then with
+a swift eddying upward flight the other, the two things of fire and
+light pursuing one another again up into that clear immensity.
+
+The study and the realities of life suddenly faded out of the Vicar's
+eyes, grew thinner and thinner like a mist that dissolves into air, and
+he and the Angel stood together on a pinnacle of wrought music, about
+which glittering melodies circled, and vanished, and reappeared. He was
+in the land of Beauty, and once more the glory of heaven was upon the
+Angel's face, and the glowing delights of colour pulsated in his wings.
+Himself the Vicar could not see. But I cannot tell you of the vision of
+that great and spacious land, of its incredible openness, and height,
+and nobility. For there is no space there like ours, no time as we know
+it; one must needs speak by bungling metaphors and own in bitterness
+after all that one has failed. And it was only a vision. The wonderful
+creatures flying through the aether saw them not as they stood there,
+flew through them as one might pass through a whisp of mist. The Vicar
+lost all sense of duration, all sense of necessity----
+
+"Ah!" said the Angel, suddenly putting down the fiddle.
+
+The Vicar had forgotten the book on Political Economy, had forgotten
+everything until the Angel had done. For a minute he sat quite still.
+Then he woke up with a start. He was sitting on the old iron-bound
+chest.
+
+"Really," he said slowly, "you are very clever."
+
+He looked about him in a puzzled way. "I had a kind of vision while you
+were playing. I seemed to see----. What did I see? It has gone."
+
+He stood up with a dazzled expression upon his face. "I shall never play
+the violin again," he said. "I wish you would take it to your room--and
+keep it----. And play to me again. I did not know anything of music
+until I heard you play. I do not feel as though I had ever heard any
+music before."
+
+He stared at the Angel, then about him at the room. "I have never felt
+anything of this kind with music before," he said. He shook his head. "I
+shall never play again."
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL EXPLORES THE VILLAGE.
+
+XXIV.
+
+
+Very unwisely, as I think, the Vicar allowed the Angel to go down into
+the village by himself, to enlarge his ideas of humanity. Unwisely,
+because how was he to imagine the reception the Angel would receive? Not
+thoughtlessly, I am afraid. He had always carried himself with decorum
+in the village, and the idea of a slow procession through the little
+street with all the inevitable curious remarks, explanations, pointings,
+was too much for him. The Angel might do the strangest things, the
+village was certain to think them. Peering faces. "Who's _he_ got now?"
+Besides, was it not his duty to prepare his sermon in good time? The
+Angel, duly directed, went down cheerfully by himself--still innocent of
+most of the peculiarities of the human as distinguished from the angelic
+turn of mind.
+
+The Angel walked slowly, his white hands folded behind his hunched
+back, his sweet face looking this way and that. He peered curiously into
+the eyes of the people he met. A little child picking a bunch of vetch
+and honeysuckle looked in his face, and forthwith came and put them in
+his hand. It was about the only kindness he had from a human being
+(saving only the Vicar and one other). He heard Mother Gustick scolding
+that granddaughter of hers as he passed the door. "You _Brazen_
+Faggit--you!" said Mother Gustick. "You Trumpery Baggage!"
+
+The Angel stopped, startled at the strange sounds of Mother Gustick's
+voice. "Put yer best clo'es on, and yer feather in yer 'at, and off you
+goes to meet en, fal lal, and me at 'ome slaving for ye. 'Tis a Fancy
+Lady you'll be wantin' to be, my gal, a walkin' Touch and Go, with yer
+idleness and finery----"
+
+The voice ceased abruptly, and a great peace came upon the battered air.
+"Most grotesque and strange!" said the Angel, still surveying this
+wonderful box of discords. "Walking Touch and Go!" He did not know that
+Mrs Gustick had suddenly become aware of his existence, and was
+scrutinizing his appearance through the window-blind. Abruptly the door
+flew open, and she stared out into the Angel's face. A strange
+apparition, grey and dusty hair, and the dirty pink dress unhooked to
+show the stringy throat, a discoloured gargoyle, presently to begin
+spouting incomprehensible abuse.
+
+"Now, then, Mister," began Mrs Gustick. "Have ye nothin' better to do
+than listen at people's doors for what you can pick up?"
+
+The Angel stared at her in astonishment.
+
+"D'year!" said Mrs Gustick, evidently very angry indeed. "Listenin'."
+
+"Have you any objection to my hearing...."
+
+"Object to my hearing! Course I have! Whad yer think? You aint such a
+Ninny...."
+
+"But if ye didn't want me to hear, why did you cry out so loud? I
+thought...."
+
+"_You thought!_ Softie--that's what _you_ are! You silly girt staring
+Gaby, what don't know any better than to come holding yer girt mouth
+wide open for all that you can catch holt on? And then off up there to
+tell! You great Fat-Faced, Tale-Bearin' Silly-Billy! I'd be ashamed to
+come poking and peering round quiet people's houses...."
+
+The Angel was surprised to find that some inexplicable quality in her
+voice excited the most disagreeable sensations in him and a strong
+desire to withdraw. But, resisting this, he stood listening politely (as
+the custom is in the Angelic Land, so long as anyone is speaking). The
+entire eruption was beyond his comprehension. He could not perceive any
+reason for the sudden projection of this vituperative head, out of
+infinity, so to speak. And questions without a break for an answer were
+outside his experience altogether.
+
+Mrs Gustick proceeded with her characteristic fluency, assured him he
+was no gentleman, enquired if he called himself one, remarked that every
+tramp did as much nowadays, compared him to a Stuck Pig, marvelled at
+his impudence, asked him if he wasn't ashamed of himself standing there,
+enquired if he was rooted to the ground, was curious to be told what he
+meant by it, wanted to know whether he robbed a scarecrow for his
+clothes, suggested that an abnormal vanity prompted his behaviour,
+enquired if his mother knew he was out, and finally remarking, "I got
+somethin'll move you, my gentleman," disappeared with a ferocious
+slamming of the door.
+
+The interval struck the Angel as singularly peaceful. His whirling mind
+had time to analyse his sensations. He ceased bowing and smiling, and
+stood merely astonished.
+
+"This is a curious painful feeling," said the Angel. "Almost worse than
+Hungry, and quite different. When one is hungry one wants to eat. I
+suppose she was a woman. Here one wants to get away. I suppose I might
+just as well go."
+
+He turned slowly and went down the road meditating. He heard the cottage
+door re-open, and turning his head, saw through intervening scarlet
+runners Mrs Gustick with a steaming saucepan full of boiling cabbage
+water in her hand.
+
+"'Tis well you went, Mister Stolen Breeches," came the voice of Mrs
+Gustick floating down through the vermilion blossoms. "Don't you come
+peeping and prying round this yer cottage again or I'll learn ye
+manners, I will!"
+
+The Angel stood in 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.
+
+
+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.
+
+[Illustration: Music]
+
+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.
+"Daeamned 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.
+"Daeae-ae-aemned 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 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 hiccough.
+
+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 attempts to extricate himself, breathing
+threatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotely
+enough, that these demonstrations were hostile. "Mur wun know yer when I
+done wi' yer," said the drunken man, coat almost over his head.
+
+At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequent
+interstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinker
+displayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel's observant eyes.
+He squared up in masterly fashion.
+
+"Take the paint off yer," he remarked, advancing and receding, fists up
+and elbows out.
+
+"Carm on," floated down the road.
+
+The Angel's attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists,
+that swayed and advanced and retreated. "Come on d'yer say? I'll show
+yer," said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity;
+"My crikey! I'll show yer."
+
+Suddenly he lurched forward, and with a newborn instinct and raising a
+defensive arm as he did so, the Angel stepped aside to avoid him. The
+fist missed the Angelic shoulder by a hairsbreadth, and the tinker
+collapsed in a heap with his face against the parapet of the bridge. The
+Angel hesitated over the writhing dusty heap of blasphemy for a moment,
+and then turned towards the man's companion up the road. "Lemmeget up,"
+said the man on the bridge: "Lemmeget up, you swine. I'll show yer."
+
+A strange disgust, a quivering repulsion came upon the Angel. He walked
+slowly away from the drunkard towards the man with the grindstone.
+
+"What does it all mean?" said the Angel. "I don't understand it."
+
+"Dam fool!... say's it's 'is silver weddin'," answered the man with the
+grindstone, evidently much annoyed; and then, in a tone of growing
+impatience, he called down the road once more; "Carm on!"
+
+"Silver wedding!" said the Angel. "What is a silver wedding?"
+
+"Jest is rot," said the man on the barrow. "But 'E's always avin' some
+'scuse like that. Fair sickenin it is. Lars week it wus 'is bloomin'
+birthday, and _then_ 'e ad'nt ardly got sober orf a comlimentary drunk
+to my noo barrer. (_Carm_ on, you fool.)"
+
+"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "Why does he sway about so?
+Why does he keep on trying to pick up his hat like that--and missing
+it?"
+
+"_Why!_" said the tinker. "Well this _is_ a blasted innocent country!
+_Why!_ Because 'E's blind! Wot else? (Carm on--_Dam_ yer). Because 'E's
+just as full as 'E can 'old. That's _why_!"
+
+The Angel noticing the tone of the second tinker's voice, judged it
+wiser not to question him further. But he stood by the grindstone and
+continued to watch the mysterious evolutions on the bridge.
+
+"Carm on! I shall 'ave to go and pick up that 'at I suppose.... 'E's
+always at it. I ne'er 'ad such a blooming pard before. _Always_ at it,
+'e is."
+
+The man with the barrow meditated. "Taint as if 'e was a gentleman and
+'adnt no livin' to get. An' 'e's such a reckless fool when 'e gets a bit
+on. Goes offerin out everyone 'e meets. (_There_ you go!) I'm blessed if
+'e didn't offer out a 'ole bloomin' Salvation Army. No judgment in it.
+(Oh! _Carm_ on! _Carm_ on!). 'Ave to go and pick this bloomin' 'at up
+now I s'pose. 'E don't care, _wot_ trouble 'e gives."
+
+The Angel watched the second tinker walk back, and, with affectionate
+blasphemy, assist the first to his hat and his coat. Then he turned,
+absolutely mystified, towards the village again.
+
+
+
+
+XXVII.
+
+
+After that incident the Angel walked along past the mill and round
+behind the church, to examine the tombstones.
+
+"This seems to be the place where they put the broken pieces," said the
+Angel--reading the inscriptions. "Curious word--relict! Resurgam! Then
+they are not done with quite. What a huge pile it requires to keep her
+down.... It is spirited of her."
+
+"Hawkins?" said the Angel softly,.... "_Hawkins?_ The name is strange to
+me.... He did not die then.... It is plain enough,--Joined the Angelic
+Hosts, May 17, 1863. He must have felt as much out of place as I do down
+here. But I wonder why they put that little pot thing on the top of this
+monument. Curious! There are several others about--little stone pots
+with a rag of stiff stone drapery over them."
+
+Just then the boys came pouring out of the National School, and first
+one and then several stopped agape at the Angel's crooked black figure
+among the white tombs. "Ent 'e gart a baeaek on en!" remarked one critic.
+
+"'E's got 'air like a girl!" said another.
+
+The Angel turned towards them. He was struck by the queer little heads
+sticking up over the lichenous wall. He smiled faintly at their staring
+faces, and then turned to marvel at the iron railings that enclosed the
+Fitz-Jarvis tomb. "A queer air of uncertainty," he said. "Slabs, piles
+of stone, these railings.... Are they afraid?... Do these Dead ever try
+and get up again? There's an air of repression--fortification----"
+
+"Get yer _'air_ cut, Get yer _'air_ cut," sang three little boys
+together.
+
+"Curious these Human Beings are!" said the Angel. "That man yesterday
+wanted to cut off my wings, now these little creatures want me to cut
+off my hair! And the man on the bridge offered to take the 'paint' off
+me. They will leave nothing of me soon."
+
+"Where did you get that _'at_?" sang another little boy. "Where did you
+get them clo'es?"
+
+"They ask questions that they evidently do not want answered," said the
+Angel. "I can tell from the tone." He looked thoughtfully at the little
+boys. "I don't understand the methods of Human intercourse. These are
+probably friendly advances, a kind of ritual. But I don't know the
+responses. I think I will go back to the little fat man in black, with
+the gold chain across his stomach, and ask him to explain. It is
+difficult."
+
+He turned towards the lych gate. "_Oh!_" said one of the little boys, in
+a shrill falsetto, and threw a beech-nut husk. It came bounding across
+the churchyard path. The Angel stopped in surprise.
+
+This made all the little boys laugh. A second imitating the first, said
+"_Oh!_" and hit the Angel. His astonishment was really delicious. They
+all began crying "_Oh!_" and throwing beechnut husks. One hit the
+Angel's hand, another stung him smartly by the ear. The Angel made
+ungainly movements towards them. He spluttered some expostulation and
+made for the roadway. The little boys were amazed and shocked at his
+discomfiture and cowardice. Such sawney behaviour could not be
+encouraged. The pelting grew vigorously. You may perhaps be able to
+imagine those vivid moments, daring small boys running in close and
+delivering shots, milder small boys rushing round behind with flying
+discharges. Milton Screever's mongrel dog was roused to yelping ecstacy
+at the sight, and danced (full of wild imaginings) nearer and nearer to
+the angelic legs.
+
+"Hi, hi!" said a vigorous voice. "I never did! Where's Mr Jarvis?
+Manners, manners! you young rascals."
+
+The youngsters scattered right and left, some over the wall into the
+playground, some down the street.
+
+"Frightful pest these boys are getting!" said Crump, coming up. "I'm
+sorry they have been annoying you."
+
+The Angel seemed quite upset. "I don't understand," he said. "These
+Human ways...."
+
+"Yes, of course. Unusual to you. How's your excrescence?"
+
+"My what?" said the Angel.
+
+"Bifid limb, you know. How is it? Now you're down this way, come in.
+Come in and let me have a look at it again. You young roughs! And
+meanwhile these little louts of ours will be getting off home. They're
+all alike in these villages. _Can't_ understand anything abnormal. See
+an odd-looking stranger. Chuck a stone. No imagination beyond the
+parish.... (I'll give you physic if I catch you annoying strangers
+again.) ... I suppose it's what one might expect.... Come along this
+way."
+
+So the Angel, horribly perplexed still, was hurried into the surgery to
+have his wound re-dressed.
+
+
+
+
+LADY HAMMERGALLOW'S VIEW.
+
+XXVIII.
+
+
+In Siddermorton Park is Siddermorton House, where old Lady Hammergallow
+lives, chiefly upon Burgundy and the little scandals of the village, a
+dear old lady with a ropy neck, a ruddled countenance and spasmodic
+gusts of odd temper, whose three remedies for all human trouble among
+her dependents are, a bottle of gin, a pair of charity blankets, or a
+new crown piece. The House is a mile-and-a-half out of Siddermorton.
+Almost all the village is hers, saving a fringe to the south which
+belongs to Sir John Gotch, and she rules it with an autocratic rule,
+refreshing in these days of divided government. She orders and forbids
+marriages, drives objectionable people out of the village by the simple
+expedient of raising their rent, dismisses labourers, obliges heretics
+to go to church, and made Susan Dangett, who wanted to call her little
+girl 'Euphemia,' have the infant christened 'Mary-Anne.' She is a sturdy
+Broad Protestant and disapproves of the Vicar's going bald like a
+tonsure. She is on the Village Council, which obsequiously trudges up
+the hill and over the moor to her, and (as she is a trifle deaf) speaks
+all its speeches into her speaking trumpet instead of a rostrum. She
+takes no interest now in politics, but until last year she was an active
+enemy of "that Gladstone." She has parlour maids instead of footmen to
+do her waiting, because of Hockley, the American stockbroker, and his
+four Titans in plush.
+
+She exercises what is almost a fascination upon the village. If in the
+bar-parlour of the Cat and Cornucopia you swear by God no one would be
+shocked, but if you swore by Lady Hammergallow they would probably be
+shocked enough to turn you out of the room. When she drives through
+Siddermorton she always calls upon Bessy Flump, the post-mistress, to
+hear all that has happened, and then upon Miss Finch, the dressmaker, to
+check back Bessy Flump. Sometimes she calls upon the Vicar, sometimes
+upon Mrs Mendham whom she snubs, and even sometimes on Crump. Her
+sparkling pair of greys almost ran over the Angel as he was walking down
+to the village.
+
+"So _that's_ the genius!" said Lady Hammergallow, and turned and looked
+at him through the gilt glasses on a stick that she always carried in
+her shrivelled and shaky hand. "Lunatic indeed! The poor creature has
+rather a pretty face. I'm sorry I've missed him."
+
+But she went on to the vicarage nevertheless, and demanded news of it
+all. The conflicting accounts of Miss Flump, Miss Finch, Mrs Mendham,
+Crump, and Mrs Jehoram had puzzled her immensely. The Vicar, hard
+pressed, did all he could to say into her speaking trumpet what had
+really happened. He toned down the wings and the saffron robe. But he
+felt the case was hopeless. He spoke of his protege as "Mr" Angel. He
+addressed pathetic asides to the kingfisher. The old lady noticed his
+confusion. Her queer old head went jerking backwards and forwards, now
+the speaking trumpet in his face when he had nothing to say, then the
+shrunken eyes peering at him, oblivious of the explanation that was
+coming from his lips. A great many Ohs! and Ahs! She caught some
+fragments certainly.
+
+"You have asked him to stop with you--indefinitely?" said Lady
+Hammergallow with a Great Idea taking shape rapidly in her mind.
+
+"I did--perhaps inadvertently--make such--"
+
+"And you don't know where he comes from?"
+
+"Not at all."
+
+"Nor who his father is, I suppose?" said Lady Hammergallow mysteriously.
+
+"No," said the Vicar.
+
+"_Now!_" said Lady Hammergallow archly, and keeping her glasses to her
+eye, she suddenly dug at his ribs with her trumpet.
+
+"My _dear_ Lady Hammergallow!"
+
+"I thought so. Don't think _I_ would blame you, Mr Hilyer." She gave a
+corrupt laugh that she delighted in. "The world is the world, and men
+are men. And the poor boy's a cripple, eh? A kind of judgment. In
+mourning, I noticed. It reminds me of the _Scarlet Letter_. The mother's
+dead, I suppose. It's just as well. Really--I'm not a _narrow_ woman--I
+_respect_ you for having him. Really I do."
+
+"But, _Lady_ Hammergallow!"
+
+"Don't spoil everything by denying it. It is so very, very plain, to a
+woman of the world. That Mrs Mendham! She amuses me with her suspicions.
+Such odd ideas! In a Curate's wife. But I hope it didn't happen when you
+were in orders."
+
+"Lady Hammergallow, I protest. Upon my word."
+
+"Mr Hilyer, I protest. I _know_. Not anything you can say will alter my
+opinion one jot. Don't try. I never suspected you were nearly such an
+interesting man."
+
+"But this suspicion is unendurable!"
+
+"We will help him together, Mr Hilyer. You may rely upon me. It is most
+romantic." She beamed benevolence.
+
+"But, Lady Hammergallow, I _must_ speak!"
+
+She gripped her ear-trumpet resolutely, and held it before her and shook
+her head.
+
+"He has quite a genius for music, Vicar, so I hear?"
+
+"I can assure you most solemnly--"
+
+"I thought so. And being a cripple--"
+
+"You are under a most cruel--"
+
+"I thought that if his gift is really what that Jehoram woman says."
+
+"An unjustifiable suspicion that ever a man--"
+
+("I don't think much of her judgment, of course.")
+
+"Consider my position. Have I gained _no_ character?"
+
+"It might be possible to do something for him as a performer."
+
+"Have I--(_Bother! It's no good!_)"
+
+"And so, dear Vicar, I propose to give him an opportunity of showing us
+what he can do. I have been thinking it all over as I drove here. On
+Tuesday next, I will invite just a few people of taste, and he shall
+bring his violin. Eigh? And if that goes well, I will see if I can get
+some introductions and really _push_ him."
+
+"But _Lady_, Lady Hammergallow."
+
+"Not another word!" said Lady Hammergallow, still resolutely holding her
+speaking trumpet before her and clutching her eyeglasses. "I really
+must not leave those horses. Cutler is so annoyed if I keep them too
+long. He finds waiting tedious, poor man, unless there is a public-house
+near." She made for the door.
+
+"_Damn!_" said the Vicar, under his breath. He had never used the word
+since he had taken orders. It shows you how an Angel's visit may
+disorganize a man.
+
+He stood under the verandah watching the carriage drive away. The world
+seemed coming to pieces about him. Had he lived a virtuous celibate life
+for thirty odd years in vain? The things of which these people thought
+him capable! He stood and stared at the green cornfield opposite, and
+down at the straggling village. It seemed real enough. And yet for the
+first time in his life there was a queer doubt of its reality. He rubbed
+his chin, then turned and went slowly upstairs to his dressing-room, and
+sat for a long time staring at a garment of some yellow texture. "Know
+his father!" he said. "And he is immortal, and was fluttering about his
+heaven when my ancestors were marsupials.... I wish he was there now."
+
+He got up and began to feel the robe.
+
+"I wonder how they get such things," said the Vicar. Then he went and
+stared out of the window. "I suppose everything is wonderful, even the
+rising and setting of the sun. I suppose there is no adamantine ground
+for any belief. But one gets into a regular way of taking things. This
+disturbs it. I seem to be waking up to the Invisible. It is the
+strangest of uncertainties. I have not felt so stirred and unsettled
+since my adolescence."
+
+
+
+
+FURTHER ADVENTURES OF THE ANGEL IN THE VILLAGE.
+
+XXIX.
+
+
+"That's all right," said Crump when the bandaging was replaced. "It's a
+trick of memory, no doubt, but these excrescences of yours don't seem
+nearly so large as they did yesterday. I suppose they struck me rather
+forcibly. Stop and have lunch with me now you're down here. Midday meal,
+you know. The youngsters will be swallowed up by school again in the
+afternoon."
+
+"I never saw anything heal so well in my life," he said, as they walked
+into the dining-room. "Your blood and flesh must be as clean and free
+from bacteria as they make 'em. Whatever stuff there is in your head,"
+he added _sotto voce_.
+
+At lunch he watched the Angel narrowly, and talked to draw him out.
+
+"Journey tire you yesterday?" he said suddenly.
+
+"Journey!" said the Angel. "Oh! my wings felt a little stiff."
+
+("Not to be had,") said Crump to himself. ("Suppose I must enter into
+it.")
+
+"So you flew all the way, eigh? No conveyance?"
+
+"There wasn't any way," explained the Angel, taking mustard. "I was
+flying up a symphony with some Griffins and Fiery Cherubim, and suddenly
+everything went dark and I was in this world of yours."
+
+"Dear me!" said Crump. "And that's why you haven't any luggage." He drew
+his serviette across his mouth, and a smile flickered in his eyes.
+
+"I suppose you know this world of ours pretty well? Watching us over the
+adamantine walls and all that kind of thing. Eigh?"
+
+"Not very well. We dream of it sometimes. In the moonlight, when the
+Nightmares have fanned us to sleep with their wings."
+
+"Ah, yes--of course," said Crump. "Very poetical way of putting it.
+Won't you take some Burgundy? It's just beside you."
+
+"There's a persuasion in this world, you know, that Angels' Visits are
+by no means infrequent. Perhaps some of your--friends have travelled?
+They are supposed to come down to deserving persons in prisons, and do
+refined Nautches and that kind of thing. Faust business, you know."
+
+"I've never heard of anything of the kind," said the Angel.
+
+"Only the other day a lady whose baby was my patient for the time
+being--indigestion--assured me that certain facial contortions the
+little creature made indicated that it was Dreaming of Angels. In the
+novels of Mrs Henry Wood that is spoken of as an infallible symptom of
+an early departure. I suppose you can't throw any light on that obscure
+pathological manifestation?"
+
+"I don't understand it at all," said the Angel, puzzled, and not clearly
+apprehending the Doctor's drift.
+
+("Getting huffy,") said Crump to himself. ("Sees I'm poking fun at
+him.") "There's one thing I'm curious about. Do the new arrivals
+complain much about their medical attendants? I've always fancied there
+must be a good deal of hydropathic talk just at first. I was looking at
+that picture in the Academy only this June...."
+
+"New Arrivals!" said the Angel. "I really don't follow you."
+
+The Doctor stared. "Don't they come?"
+
+"Come!" said the Angel. "Who?"
+
+"The people who die here."
+
+"After they've gone to pieces here?"
+
+"That's the general belief, you know."
+
+"People, like the woman who screamed out of the door, and the blackfaced
+man and his volutations and the horrible little things that threw
+husks!--certainly not. _I_ never saw such creatures before I fell into
+this world."
+
+"Oh! but come!" said the Doctor. "You'll tell me next your official
+robes are not white and that you can't play the harp."
+
+"There's no such thing as white in the Angelic Land," said the Angel.
+"It's that queer blank colour you get by mixing up all the others."
+
+"Why, my dear Sir!" said the doctor, suddenly altering his tone, "you
+positively know nothing about the Land you come from. White's the very
+essence of it."
+
+The Angel stared at him. Was the man jesting? He looked perfectly
+serious.
+
+"Look here," said Crump, and getting up, he went to the sideboard on
+which a copy of the Parish Magazine was lying. He brought it round to
+the Angel and opened it at the coloured supplement. "Here's some _real_
+angels," he said. "You see it's not simply the wings make the Angel.
+White you see, with a curly whisp of robe, sailing up into the sky with
+their wings furled. Those are angels on the best authority. Hydroxyl
+kind of hair. One has a bit of a harp, you see, and the other is helping
+this wingless lady--kind of larval Angel, you know--upward."
+
+"Oh! but really!" said the Angel, "those are not angels at all."
+
+"But they _are_," said Crump, putting the magazine back on the sideboard
+and resuming his seat with an air of intense satisfaction. "I can assure
+you I have the _best_ authority...."
+
+"I can assure you...."
+
+Crump tucked in the corners of his mouth and shook his head from side to
+side even as he had done to the Vicar. "No good," he said, "can't alter
+our ideas just because an irresponsible visitor...."
+
+"If these are angels," said the Angel, "then I have never been in the
+Angelic Land."
+
+"Precisely," said Crump, ineffably self-satisfied; "that was just what I
+was getting at."
+
+The Angel stared at him for a minute round-eyed, and then was seized for
+the second time by the human disorder of laughter.
+
+"Ha, ha, ha!" said Crump, joining in. "I _thought_ you were not quite so
+mad as you seemed. Ha, ha, ha!"
+
+And for the rest of the lunch they were both very merry, for entirely
+different reasons, and Crump insisted upon treating the Angel as a
+"dorg" of the highest degree.
+
+
+
+
+XXX.
+
+
+After the Angel had left Crump's house he went up the hill again towards
+the Vicarage. But--possibly moved by the desire to avoid Mrs Gustick--he
+turned aside at the stile and made a detour by the Lark's Field and
+Bradley's Farm.
+
+He came upon the Respectable Tramp slumbering peacefully among the
+wild-flowers. He stopped to look, struck by the celestial tranquillity
+of that individual's face. And even as he did so the Respectable Tramp
+awoke with a start and sat up. He was a pallid creature, dressed in
+rusty black, with a broken-spirited crush hat cocked over one eye. "Good
+afternoon," he said affably. "How are you?"
+
+"Very well, thank you," said the Angel, who had mastered the phrase.
+
+The Respectable Tramp eyed the Angel critically. "Padding the Hoof,
+matey?" he said. "Like me."
+
+The Angel was puzzled by him. "Why," asked the Angel, "do you sleep
+like this instead of sleeping up in the air on a Bed?"
+
+"Well I'm blowed!" said the Respectable Tramp. "Why don't I sleep in a
+bed? Well, it's like this. Sandringham's got the painters in, there's
+the drains up in Windsor Castle, and I 'aven't no other 'ouse to go to.
+You 'aven't the price of a arf pint in your pocket, 'ave yer?"
+
+"I have nothing in my pocket," said the Angel.
+
+"Is this here village called Siddermorton?" said the Tramp, rising
+creakily to his feet and pointing to the clustering roofs down the hill.
+
+"Yes," said the Angel, "they call it Siddermorton."
+
+"I know it, I know it," said the Tramp. "And a very pretty little
+village it is too." He stretched and yawned, and stood regarding the
+place. "'Ouses," he said reflectively; "Projuce"--waving his hand at the
+cornfields and orchards. "Looks cosy, don't it?"
+
+"It has a quaint beauty of its own," said the Angel.
+
+"It _'as_ a quaint beauty of its own--yes.... Lord! I'd like to sack
+the blooming place.... I was born there."
+
+"Dear me," said the Angel.
+
+"Yes, I was born there. Ever heard of a pithed frog?"
+
+"Pithed frog," said the Angel. "No!"
+
+"It's a thing these here vivisectionists do. They takes a frog and they
+cuts out his brains and they shoves a bit of pith in the place of 'em.
+That's a pithed frog. Well--that there village is full of pithed human
+beings."
+
+The Angel took it quite seriously. "Is that so?" he said.
+
+"That's so--you take my word for it. Everyone of them 'as 'ad their
+brains cut out and chunks of rotten touchwood put in the place of it.
+And you see that little red place there?"
+
+"That's called the national school," said the Angel.
+
+"Yes--that's where they piths 'em," said the Tramp, quite in love with
+his conceit.
+
+"Really! That's very interesting."
+
+"It stands to reason," said the Tramp. "If they 'ad brains they'd 'ave
+ideas, and if they 'ad ideas they'd think for themselves. And you can
+go through that village from end to end and never meet anybody doing as
+much. Pithed human beings they are. I know that village. I was born
+there, and I might be there now, a toilin' for my betters, if I 'adnt
+struck against the pithin'."
+
+"Is it a painful operation?" asked the Angel.
+
+"In parts. Though it aint the heads gets hurt. And it lasts a long time.
+They take 'em young into that school, and they says to them, 'come in
+'ere and we'll improve your minds,' they says, and in the little kiddies
+go as good as gold. And they begins shovin' it into them. Bit by bit and
+'ard and dry, shovin' out the nice juicy brains. Dates and lists and
+things. Out they comes, no brains in their 'eads, and wound up nice and
+tight, ready to touch their 'ats to anyone who looks at them. Why! One
+touched 'is 'at to me yesterday. And they runs about spry and does all
+the dirty work, and feels thankful they're allowed to live. They take a
+positive pride in 'ard work for its own sake. Arter they bin pithed. See
+that chap ploughin'?"
+
+"Yes," said the Angel; "is _he_ pithed?"
+
+"Rather. Else he'd be paddin' the hoof this pleasant weather--like me
+and the blessed Apostles."
+
+"I begin to understand," said the Angel, rather dubiously.
+
+"I knew you would," said the Philosophical Tramp. "I thought you was the
+right sort. But speaking serious, aint it ridiculous?--centuries and
+centuries of civilization, and look at that poor swine there, sweatin'
+'isself empty and trudging up that 'ill-side. 'E's English, 'e is. 'E
+belongs to the top race in creation, 'e does. 'E's one of the rulers of
+Indjer. It's enough to make a nigger laugh. The flag that's braved a
+thousand years the battle an' the breeze--that's _'is_ flag. There never
+was a country was as great and glorious as this. Never. And that's wot
+it makes of us. I'll tell you a little story about them parts as you
+seems to be a bit of a stranger. There's a chap called Gotch, Sir John
+Gotch they calls 'im, and when _'e_ was a young gent from Oxford, I was
+a little chap of eight and my sister was a girl of seventeen. Their
+servant she was. But Lord! everybody's 'eard that story--it's common
+enough, of 'im or the likes of 'im."
+
+"I haven't," said the Angel.
+
+"All that's pretty and lively of the gals they chucks into the gutters,
+and all the men with a pennorth of spunk or adventure, all who won't
+drink what the Curate's wife sends 'em instead of beer, and touch their
+hats promiscous, and leave the rabbits and birds alone for their
+betters, gets drove out of the villages as rough characters. Patriotism!
+Talk about improvin' the race! Wot's left aint fit to look a nigger in
+the face, a Chinaman 'ud be ashamed of 'em...."
+
+"But I don't understand," said the Angel. "I don't follow you."
+
+At that the Philosophic Tramp became more explicit, and told the Angel
+the simple story of Sir John Gotch and the kitchen-maid. It's scarcely
+necessary to repeat it. You may understand that it left the Angel
+puzzled. It was full of words he did not understand, for the only
+vehicle of emotion the Tramp possessed was blasphemy. Yet, though their
+tongues differed so, he could still convey to the Angel some of his own
+(probably unfounded) persuasion of the injustice and cruelty of life,
+and of the utter detestableness of Sir John Gotch.
+
+The last the Angel saw of him was his dusty black back receding down the
+lane towards Iping Hanger. A pheasant appeared by the roadside, and the
+Philosophical Tramp immediately caught up a stone and sent the bird
+clucking with a viciously accurate shot. Then he disappeared round the
+corner.
+
+
+
+
+MRS JEHORAM'S BREADTH OF VIEW.
+
+XXXI
+
+
+"I heard some one playing the fiddle in the Vicarage, as I came by,"
+said Mrs Jehoram, taking her cup of tea from Mrs Mendham.
+
+"The Vicar plays," said Mrs Mendham. "I have spoken to George about it,
+but it's no good. I do not think a Vicar should be allowed to do such
+things. It's so foreign. But there, _he_ ...."
+
+"I know, dear," said Mrs Jehoram. "But I heard the Vicar once at the
+schoolroom. I don't think this _was_ the Vicar. It was quite clever,
+some of it, quite smart, you know. And new. I was telling dear Lady
+Hammergallow this morning. I fancy--"
+
+"The lunatic! Very likely. These half-witted people.... My dear, I don't
+think I shall ever forget that dreadful encounter. Yesterday."
+
+"Nor I."
+
+"My poor girls! They are too shocked to say a word about it. I was
+telling dear Lady Ham----"
+
+"Quite proper of them. It was _dreadful_, dear. For them."
+
+"And now, dear, I want you to tell me frankly--Do you really believe
+that creature was a man?"
+
+"You should have heard the violin."
+
+"I still more than half suspect, Jessie ----" Mrs Mendham leant forward
+as if to whisper.
+
+Mrs Jehoram helped herself to cake. "I'm sure no woman could play the
+violin quite like I heard it played this morning."
+
+"Of course, if you say so that settles the matter," said Mrs Mendham.
+Mrs Jehoram was the autocratic authority in Siddermorton upon all
+questions of art, music and belles-lettres. Her late husband had been a
+minor poet. Then Mrs Mendham added a judicial "Still--"
+
+"Do you know," said Mrs Jehoram, "I'm half inclined to believe the dear
+Vicar's story."
+
+"How _good_ of you, Jessie," said Mrs Mendham.
+
+"But really, I don't think he _could_ have had any one in the Vicarage
+before that afternoon. I feel sure we should have heard of it. I don't
+see how a strange cat could come within four miles of Siddermorton
+without the report coming round to us. The people here gossip so...."
+
+"I always distrust the Vicar," said Mrs Mendham. "I know him."
+
+"Yes. But the story is plausible. If this Mr Angel were someone very
+clever and eccentric--"
+
+"He would have to be _very_ eccentric to dress as he did. There are
+degrees and limits, dear."
+
+"But kilts," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"Are all very well in the Highlands...."
+
+Mrs Jehoram's eyes had rested upon a black speck creeping slowly across
+a patch of yellowish-green up the hill.
+
+"There he goes," said Mrs Jehoram, rising, "across the cornfield. I'm
+sure that's him. I can see the hump. Unless it's a man with a sack.
+Bless me, Minnie! here's an opera glass. How convenient for peeping at
+the Vicarage!... Yes, it's the man. He is a man. With _such_ a sweet
+face."
+
+Very unselfishly she allowed her hostess to share the opera glass. For
+a minute there was a rustling silence.
+
+"His dress," said Mrs Mendham, "is _quite_ respectable now."
+
+"Quite," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+Pause.
+
+"He looks cross!"
+
+"And his coat is dusty."
+
+"He walks steadily enough," said Mrs Mendham, "or one might think....
+This hot weather...."
+
+Another pause.
+
+"You see, dear," said Mrs Jehoram, putting down the lorgnette. "What I
+was going to say was, that possibly he might be a genius in disguise."
+
+"If you can call next door to nothing a disguise."
+
+"No doubt it was eccentric. But I've seen children in little blouses,
+not at all unlike him. So many clever people _are_ peculiar in their
+dress and manners. A genius may steal a horse where a bank-clerk may not
+look over the hedge. Very possibly he's quite well known and laughing
+at our Arcadian simplicity. And really it wasn't so improper as some of
+these New Women bicycling costumes. I saw one in one of the Illustrated
+Papers only a few days ago--the _New Budget_ I think--quite tights, you
+know, dear. No--I cling to the genius theory. Especially after the
+playing. I'm sure the creature is original. Perhaps very amusing. In
+fact, I intend to ask the Vicar to introduce me."
+
+"My dear!" cried Mrs Mendham.
+
+"I'm resolute," said Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"I'm afraid you're rash," said Mrs Mendham. "Geniuses and people of that
+kind are all very well in London. But here--at the Vicarage."
+
+"We are going to educate the folks. I love originality. At any rate I
+mean to see him."
+
+"Take care you don't see too much of him," said Mrs Mendham. "I've heard
+the fashion is quite changing. I understand that some of the very best
+people have decided that genius is not to be encouraged any more. These
+recent scandals...."
+
+"Only in literature, I can assure you, dear. In music...."
+
+"Nothing you can say, my dear," said Mrs Mendham, going off at a
+tangent, "will convince me that that person's costume was not extremely
+suggestive and improper."
+
+
+
+
+A TRIVIAL INCIDENT.
+
+XXXII.
+
+
+The Angel came thoughtfully by the hedge across the field towards the
+Vicarage. The rays of the setting sun shone on his shoulders, and
+touched the Vicarage with gold, and blazed like fire in all the windows.
+By the gate, bathed in the sunlight, stood little Delia, the waiting
+maid. She stood watching him under her hand. It suddenly came into the
+Angel's mind that she, at least, was beautiful, and not only beautiful
+but alive and warm.
+
+She opened the gate for him and stood aside. She was sorry for him, for
+her elder sister was a cripple. He bowed to her, as he would have done
+to any woman, and for just one moment looked into her face. She looked
+back at him and something leapt within her.
+
+The Angel made an irresolute movement. "Your eyes are very beautiful,"
+he said quietly, with a remote wonder in his voice.
+
+"Oh, sir!" she said, starting back. The Angel's expression changed to
+perplexity. He went on up the pathway between the Vicar's flower-beds,
+and she stood with the gate held open in her hand, staring after him.
+Just under the rose-twined verandah he turned and looked at her.
+
+She still stared at him for a moment, and then with a queer gesture
+turned round with her back to him, shutting the gate as she did so, and
+seemed to be looking down the valley towards the church tower.
+
+
+
+
+THE WARP AND THE WOOF OF THINGS.
+
+XXXIII.
+
+
+At the dinner table the Angel told the Vicar the more striking of his
+day's adventures.
+
+"The strange thing," said the Angel, "is the readiness of you Human
+Beings--the zest, with which you inflict pain. Those boys pelting me
+this morning----"
+
+"Seemed to enjoy it," said the Vicar. "I know."
+
+"Yet they don't like pain," said the Angel.
+
+"No," said the Vicar; "_they_ don't like it."
+
+"Then," said the Angel, "I saw some beautiful plants rising with a spike
+of leaves, two this way and two that, and when I caressed one it caused
+the most uncomfortable----"
+
+"Stinging nettle!" said the Vicar.
+
+"At any rate a new sort of pain. And another plant with a head like a
+coronet, and richly decorated leaves, spiked and jagged----"
+
+"A thistle, possibly."
+
+"And in your garden, the beautiful, sweet-smelling plant----"
+
+"The sweet briar," said the Vicar. "I remember."
+
+"And that pink flower that sprang out of the box----"
+
+"Out of the box?" said the Vicar.
+
+"Last night," said the Angel, "that went climbing up the
+curtains---- Flame!"
+
+"Oh!--the matches and the candles! Yes," said the Vicar.
+
+"Then the animals. A dog to-day behaved most disagreeably----. And these
+boys, and the way in which people speak----. Everyone seems
+anxious--willing at any rate--to give this Pain. Every one seems busy
+giving pain----"
+
+"Or avoiding it," said the Vicar, pushing his dinner away before him.
+"Yes--of course. It's fighting everywhere. The whole living world is a
+battle-field--the whole world. We are driven by Pain. Here. How it lies
+on the surface! This Angel sees it in a day!"
+
+"But why does everyone--everything--want to give pain?" asked the Angel.
+
+"It is not so in the Angelic Land?" said the Vicar.
+
+"No," said the Angel. "Why is it so here?"
+
+The Vicar wiped his lips with his napkin slowly. "It _is_ so," he said.
+"Pain," said he still more slowly, "is the warp and the woof of this
+life. Do you know," he said, after a pause, "it is almost impossible for
+me to imagine ... a world without pain.... And yet, as you played this
+morning----
+
+"But this world is different. It is the very reverse of an Angelic
+world. Indeed, a number of people--excellent religious people--have been
+so impressed by the universality of pain that they think, after death,
+things will be even worse for a great many of us. It seems to me an
+excessive view. But it's a deep question. Almost beyond one's power of
+discussion----"
+
+And incontinently the Vicar plumped into an impromptu dissertation upon
+"Necessity," how things were so because they were so, how one _had_ to
+do this and that. "Even our food," said the Vicar. "What?" said the
+Angel. "Is not obtained without inflicting Pain," said the Vicar.
+
+The Angel's face went so white that the Vicar checked himself suddenly.
+Or he was just on the very verge of a concise explanation of the
+antecedents of a leg of lamb. There was a pause.
+
+"By-the-bye," said the Angel, suddenly. "Have you been pithed? Like the
+common people."
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL'S DEBUT.
+
+XXXIV.
+
+
+When Lady Hammergallow made up her mind, things happened as she
+resolved. And though the Vicar made a spasmodic protest, she carried out
+her purpose and got audience, Angel, and violin together, at
+Siddermorton House before the week was out. "A genius the Vicar has
+discovered," she said; so with eminent foresight putting any possibility
+of blame for a failure on the Vicar's shoulders. "The dear Vicar tells
+me," she would say, and proceed to marvellous anecdotes of the Angel's
+cleverness with his instrument. But she was quite in love with her
+idea--she had always had a secret desire to play the patroness to
+obscure talent. Hitherto it had not turned out to be talent when it came
+to the test.
+
+"It would be such a good thing for him," she said. "His hair is long
+already, and with that high colour he would be beautiful, simply
+beautiful on a platform. The Vicar's clothes fitting him so badly makes
+him look quite like a fashionable pianist already. And the scandal of
+his birth--not told, of course, but whispered--would be--quite an
+Inducement----when he gets to London, that is."
+
+The Vicar had the most horrible sensations as the day approached. He
+spent hours trying to explain the situation to the Angel, other hours
+trying to imagine what people would think, still worse hours trying to
+anticipate the Angel's behaviour. Hitherto the Angel had always played
+for his own satisfaction. The Vicar would startle him every now and then
+by rushing upon him with some new point of etiquette that had just
+occurred to him. As for instance: "It's very important where you put
+your hat, you know. Don't put it on a chair, whatever you do. Hold it
+until you get your tea, you know, and then--let me see--then put it down
+somewhere, you know." The journey to Siddermorton House was
+accomplished without misadventure, but at the moment of introduction
+the Vicar had a spasm of horrible misgivings. He had forgotten to
+explain introductions. The Angel's naive amusement was evident, but
+nothing very terrible happened.
+
+"Rummy looking greaser," said Mr Rathbone Slater, who devoted
+considerable attention to costume. "Wants grooming. No manners. Grinned
+when he saw me shaking hands. Did it _chic_ enough, I thought."
+
+One trivial misadventure occurred. When Lady Hammergallow welcomed the
+Angel she looked at him through her glasses. The apparent size of her
+eyes startled him. His surprise and his quick attempt to peer over the
+brims was only too evident. But the Vicar had warned him of the ear
+trumpet.
+
+The Angel's incapacity to sit on anything but a music stool appeared to
+excite some interest among the ladies, but led to no remarks. They
+regarded it perhaps as the affectation of a budding professional. He was
+remiss with the teacups and scattered the crumbs of his cake abroad.
+(You must remember he was quite an amateur at eating.) He crossed his
+legs. He fumbled over the hat business after vainly trying to catch the
+Vicar's eye. The eldest Miss Papaver tried to talk to him about
+continental watering places and cigarettes, and formed a low opinion of
+his intelligence.
+
+The Angel was surprised by the production of an easel and several books
+of music, and a little unnerved at first by the sight of Lady
+Hammergallow sitting with her head on one side, watching him with those
+magnified eyes through her gilt glasses.
+
+Mrs Jehoram came up to him before he began to play and asked him the
+Name of the Charming Piece he was playing the other afternoon. The Angel
+said it had no name, and Mrs Jehoram thought music ought never to have
+any names and wanted to know who it was by, and when the Angel told her
+he played it out of his head, she said he must be Quite a Genius and
+looked open (and indisputably fascinating) admiration at him. The Curate
+from Iping Hanger (who was professionally a Kelt and who played the
+piano and talked colour and music with an air of racial superiority)
+watched him jealously.
+
+The Vicar, who was presently captured and set down next to Lady
+Hammergallow, kept an anxious eye ever Angelward while she told him
+particulars of the incomes made by violinists--particulars which, for
+the most part, she invented as she went along. She had been a little
+ruffled by the incident of the glasses, but had decided that it came
+within the limits of permissible originality.
+
+So figure to yourself the Green Saloon at Siddermorton Park; an Angel
+thinly disguised in clerical vestments and with a violin in his hands,
+standing by the grand piano, and a respectable gathering of quiet nice
+people, nicely dressed, grouped about the room. Anticipatory gabble--one
+hears scattered fragments of conversation.
+
+"He is _incog._"; said the very eldest Miss Papaver to Mrs Pirbright.
+"Isn't it quaint and delicious. Jessica Jehoram says she saw him at
+Vienna, but she can't remember the name. The Vicar knows all about him,
+but he is so close----"
+
+"How hot and uncomfortable the dear Vicar is looking," said Mrs
+Pirbright. "I've noticed it before when he sits next to Lady
+Hammergallow. She simply will _not_ respect his cloth. She goes on----"
+
+"His tie is all askew," said the very eldest Miss Papaver, "and his
+hair! It really hardly looks as though he had brushed it all day."
+
+"Seems a foreign sort of chap. Affected. All very well in a
+drawing-room," said George Harringay, sitting apart with the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "But for my part give me a masculine man and a feminine
+woman. What do you think?"
+
+"Oh!--I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"Guineas and guineas," said Lady Hammergallow. "I've heard that some of
+them keep quite stylish establishments. You would scarcely credit
+it----"
+
+"I love music, Mr Angel, I adore it. It stirs something in me. I can
+scarcely describe it," said Mrs Jehoram. "Who is it says that delicious
+antithesis: Life without music is brutality; music without life
+is---- Dear me! perhaps you remember? Music without life----it's Ruskin
+I think?"
+
+"I'm sorry that I do not," said the Angel. "I have read very few books."
+
+"How charming of you!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I wish I didn't. I sympathise
+with you profoundly. I would do the same, only we poor women----I
+suppose it's originality we lack---- And down here one is driven to the
+most desperate proceedings----"
+
+"He's certainly very _pretty_. But the ultimate test of a man is his
+strength," said George Harringay. "What do you think?"
+
+"Oh!--I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"It's the effeminate man who makes the masculine woman. When the glory
+of a man is his hair, what's a woman to do? And when men go running
+about with beautiful hectic dabs----"
+
+"Oh George! You are so dreadfully satirical to-day," said the younger
+Miss Pirbright. "I'm _sure_ it isn't paint."
+
+"I'm really not his guardian, my dear Lady Hammergallow. Of course it's
+very kind indeed of you to take such an interest----"
+
+"Are you really going to improvise?" said Mrs Jehoram in a state of
+cooing delight.
+
+"_SSsh!_" said the curate from Iping Hanger.
+
+Then the Angel began to play, looking straight before him as he did so,
+thinking of the wonderful things of the Angelic Land, and yet insensibly
+letting the sadness he was beginning to feel, steal over the fantasia he
+was playing. When he forgot his company the music was strange and sweet;
+when the sense of his surroundings floated into his mind the music grew
+capricious and grotesque. But so great was the hold of the Angelic music
+upon the Vicar that his anxieties fell from him at once, so soon as the
+Angel began to play. Mrs Jehoram sat and looked rapt and sympathetic as
+hard as she could (though the music was puzzling at times) and tried to
+catch the Angel's eye. He really had a wonderfully mobile face, and the
+tenderest shades of expression! And Mrs Jehoram was a judge. George
+Harringay looked bored, until the younger Miss Pirbright, who adored
+him, put out her mousy little shoe to touch his manly boot, and then he
+turned his face to catch the feminine delicacy of her coquettish eye,
+and was comforted. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs Pirbright sat
+quite still and looked churchy for nearly four minutes.
+
+Then said the eldest Miss Papaver in a whisper, "I always Enjoy violin
+music so much." And Mrs Pirbright answered, "We get so little Nice music
+down here." And Miss Papaver said, "He plays Very nicely." And Mrs
+Pirbright, "Such a Delicate Touch!" And Miss Papaver, "Does Willie keep
+up his lessons?" and so to a whispered conversation.
+
+The Curate from Iping Hanger sat (he felt) in full view of the company.
+He had one hand curled round his ear, and his eyes hard and staring
+fixedly at the pedestal of the Hammergallow Sevres vase. He supplied, by
+the movements of his mouth, a kind of critical guide to any of the
+company who were disposed to avail themselves of it. It was a generous
+way he had. His aspect was severely judicial, tempered by starts of
+evident disapproval and guarded appreciation. The Vicar leaned back in
+his chair and stared at the Angel's face, and was presently rapt away in
+a wonderful dream. Lady Hammergallow, with quick jerky movements of the
+head and a low but insistent rustling, surveyed and tried to judge of
+the effect of the Angelic playing. Mr Rathbone-Slater stared very
+solemnly into his hat and looked very miserable, and Mrs Rathbone-Slater
+made mental memoranda of Mrs Jehoram's sleeves. And the air about them
+all was heavy with exquisite music--for all that had ears to hear.
+
+"Scarcely affected enough," whispered Lady Hammergallow hoarsely,
+suddenly poking the Vicar in the ribs. The Vicar came out of Dreamland
+suddenly. "Eigh?" shouted the Vicar, startled, coming up with a jump.
+"Sssh!" said the Curate from Iping Hanger, and everyone looked shocked
+at the brutal insensibility of Hilyer. "So unusual of the Vicar," said
+the very eldest Miss Papaver, "to do things like that!" The Angel went
+on playing.
+
+The Curate from Iping Hanger began making mesmeric movements with his
+index finger, and as the thing proceeded Mr Rathbone-Slater got
+amazingly limp. He solemnly turned his hat round and altered his view.
+The Vicar lapsed from an uneasy discomfort into dreamland again. Lady
+Hammergallow rustled a great deal, and presently found a way of making
+her chair creak. And at last the thing came to an end. Lady Hammergallow
+exclaimed "De--licious!" though she had never heard a note, and began
+clapping her hands. At that everyone clapped except Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+who rapped his hat brim instead. The Curate from Iping Hanger clapped
+with a judicial air.
+
+"So I said (_clap, clap, clap_), if you cannot cook the food my way
+(_clap, clap, clap_) you must _go_," said Mrs Pirbright, clapping
+vigorously. "(This music is a delightful treat.)"
+
+"(It is. I always _revel_ in music,)" said the very eldest Miss Papaver.
+"And did she improve after that?"
+
+"Not a bit of it," said Mrs Pirbright.
+
+The Vicar woke up again and stared round the saloon. Did other people
+see these visions, or were they confined to him alone? Surely they must
+all see ... and have a wonderful command of their feelings. It was
+incredible that such music should not affect them. "He's a trifle
+_gauche_," said Lady Hammergallow, jumping upon the Vicar's attention.
+"He neither bows nor smiles. He must cultivate oddities like that. Every
+successful executant is more or less _gauche_."
+
+"Did you really make that up yourself?" said Mrs Jehoram, sparkling her
+eyes at him, "as you went along. Really, it is _wonderful_! Nothing less
+than wonderful."
+
+"A little amateurish," said the Curate from Iping Hanger to Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "A great gift, undoubtedly, but a certain lack of
+sustained training. There were one or two little things ... I would like
+to talk to him."
+
+"His trousers look like concertinas," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "He ought
+to be told _that_. It's scarcely decent."
+
+"Can you do Imitations, Mr Angel?" said Lady Hammergallow.
+
+"Oh _do_, do some Imitations!" said Mrs Jehoram. "I adore Imitations."
+
+"It was a fantastic thing," said the Curate of Iping Hanger to the
+Vicar of Siddermorton, waving his long indisputably musical hands as he
+spoke; "a little involved, to my mind. I have heard it before
+somewhere--I forget where. He has genius undoubtedly, but occasionally
+he is--loose. There is a certain deadly precision wanting. There are
+years of discipline yet."
+
+"I _don't_ admire these complicated pieces of music," said George
+Harringay. "I have simple tastes, I'm afraid. There seems to me no
+_tune_ in it. There's nothing I like so much as simple music. Tune,
+simplicity is the need of the age, in my opinion. We are so over subtle.
+Everything is far-fetched. Home grown thoughts and 'Home, Sweet Home'
+for me. What do you think?"
+
+"Oh! I think so--_quite_," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"Well, Amy, chattering to George as usual?" said Mrs Pirbright, across
+the room.
+
+"As usual, Ma!" said the younger Miss Pirbright, glancing round with a
+bright smile at Miss Papaver, and turning again so as not to lose the
+next utterance from George.
+
+"I wonder if you and Mr Angel could manage a duet?" said Lady
+Hammergallow to the Curate from Iping Hanger, who was looking
+preternaturally gloomy.
+
+"I'm sure I should be delighted," said the Curate from Iping Hanger,
+brightening up.
+
+"Duets!" said the Angel; "the two of us. Then he can play. I
+understood--the Vicar told me--"
+
+"Mr Wilmerdings is an accomplished pianist," interrupted the Vicar.
+
+"But the Imitations?" said Mrs Jehoram, who detested Wilmerdings.
+
+"Imitations!" said the Angel.
+
+"A pig squeaking, a cock crowing, you know," said Mr Rathbone-Slater,
+and added lower, "Best fun you can get out of a fiddle--_my_ opinion."
+
+"I really don't understand," said the Angel. "A pig crowing!"
+
+"You don't like Imitations," said Mrs Jehoram. "Nor do I--really. I
+accept the snub. I think they degrade...."
+
+"Perhaps afterwards Mr Angel will Relent," said Lady Hammergallow, when
+Mrs Pirbright had explained the matter to her. She could scarcely credit
+her ear-trumpet. When she asked for Imitations she was accustomed to get
+Imitations.
+
+Mr Wilmerdings had seated himself at the piano, and had turned to a
+familiar pile of music in the recess. "What do you think of that
+Barcarole thing of Spohr's?" he said over his shoulder. "I suppose you
+know it?" The Angel looked bewildered.
+
+He opened the folio before the Angel.
+
+"What an odd kind of book!" said the Angel. "What do all those crazy
+dots mean?" (At that the Vicar's blood ran cold.)
+
+"What dots?" said the Curate.
+
+"There!" said the Angel with incriminating finger.
+
+"Oh _come_!" said the Curate.
+
+There was one of those swift, short silences that mean so much in a
+social gathering.
+
+Then the eldest Miss Papaver turned upon the Vicar. "Does not Mr Angel
+play from ordinary.... Music--from the ordinary notation?"
+
+"I have never heard," said the Vicar, getting red now after the first
+shock of horror. "I have really never seen...."
+
+The Angel felt the situation was strained, though what was straining it
+he could not understand. He became aware of a doubtful, an unfriendly
+look upon the faces that regarded him. "Impossible!" he heard Mrs
+Pirbright say; "after that _beautiful_ music." The eldest Miss Papaver
+went to Lady Hammergallow at once, and began to explain into her
+ear-trumpet that Mr Angel did not wish to play with Mr Wilmerdings, and
+alleged an ignorance of written music.
+
+"He cannot play from Notes!" said Lady Hammergallow in a voice of
+measured horror. "Non--sense!"
+
+"Notes!" said the Angel perplexed. "Are these notes?"
+
+"It's carrying the joke too far--simply because he doesn't want to play
+with Wilmerdings," said Mr Rathbone-Slater to George Harringay.
+
+There was an expectant pause. The Angel perceived he had to be ashamed
+of himself. He was ashamed of himself.
+
+"Then," said Lady Hammergallow, throwing her head back and speaking with
+deliberate indignation, as she rustled forward, "if you cannot play with
+Mr Wilmerdings I am afraid I cannot ask you to play again." She made it
+sound like an ultimatum. Her glasses in her hand quivered violently with
+indignation. The Angel was now human enough to appreciate the fact that
+he was crushed.
+
+"What is it?" said little Lucy Rustchuck in the further bay.
+
+"He's refused to play with old Wilmerdings," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.
+"What a lark! The old girl's purple. She thinks heaps of that ass,
+Wilmerdings."
+
+"Perhaps, Mr Wilmerdings, you will favour us with that delicious
+Polonaise of Chopin's," said Lady Hammergallow. Everybody else was
+hushed. The indignation of Lady Hammergallow inspired much the same
+silence as a coming earthquake or an eclipse. Mr Wilmerdings perceived
+he would be doing a real social service to begin at once, and (be it
+entered to his credit now that his account draws near its settlement) he
+did.
+
+"If a man pretend to practise an Art," said George Harringay, "he ought
+at least to have the conscience to study the elements of it. What do
+you...."
+
+"Oh! I think so too," said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+The Vicar felt that the heavens had fallen. He sat crumpled up in his
+chair, a shattered man. Lady Hammergallow sat down next to him without
+appearing to see him. She was breathing heavily, but her face was
+terribly calm. Everyone sat down. Was the Angel grossly ignorant or only
+grossly impertinent? The Angel was vaguely aware of some frightful
+offence, aware that in some mysterious way he had ceased to be the
+centre of the gathering. He saw reproachful despair in the Vicar's eye.
+He drifted slowly towards the window in the recess and sat down on the
+little octagonal Moorish stool by the side of Mrs Jehoram. And under the
+circumstances he appreciated at more than its proper value Mrs Jehoram's
+kindly smile. He put down the violin in the window seat.
+
+
+
+
+XXXV.
+
+
+Mrs Jehoram and the Angel (apart)--Mr Wilmerdings playing.
+
+"I have so longed for a quiet word with you," said Mrs Jehoram in a low
+tone. "To tell you how delightful I found your playing."
+
+"I am glad it pleased you," said the Angel.
+
+"Pleased is scarcely the word," said Mrs Jehoram. "I was
+moved--profoundly. These others did not understand.... I was glad you
+did not play with him."
+
+The Angel looked at the mechanism called Wilmerdings, and felt glad too.
+(The Angelic conception of duets is a kind of conversation upon
+violins.) But he said nothing.
+
+"I worship music," said Mrs Jehoram. "I know nothing about it
+technically, but there is something in it--a longing, a wish...."
+
+The Angel stared at her face. She met his eyes.
+
+"You understand," she said. "I see you understand." He was certainly a
+very nice boy, sentimentally precocious perhaps, and with deliciously
+liquid eyes.
+
+There was an interval of Chopin (Op. 40) played with immense precision.
+
+Mrs Jehoram had a sweet face still, in shadow, with the light falling
+round her golden hair, and a curious theory flashed across the Angel's
+mind. The perceptible powder only supported his view of something
+infinitely bright and lovable caught, tarnished, coarsened, coated over.
+
+"Do you," said the Angel in a low tone. "Are you ... separated from ...
+_your_ world?"
+
+"As you are?" whispered Mrs Jehoram.
+
+"This is so--cold," said the Angel. "So harsh!" He meant the whole
+world.
+
+"I feel it too," said Mrs Jehoram, referring to Siddermorton Home.
+
+"There are those who cannot live without sympathy," she said after a
+sympathetic pause. "And times when one feels alone in the world.
+Fighting a battle against it all. Laughing, flirting, hiding the pain of
+it...."
+
+"And hoping," said the Angel with a wonderful glance.--"Yes."
+
+Mrs Jehoram (who was an epicure of flirtations) felt the Angel was more
+than redeeming the promise of his appearance. (Indisputably he
+worshipped her.) "Do _you_ look for sympathy?" she said. "Or have you
+found it?"
+
+"I think," said the Angel, very softly, leaning forward, "I think I have
+found it."
+
+Interval of Chopin Op. 40. The very eldest Miss Papaver and Mrs
+Pirbright whispering. Lady Hammergallow (glasses up) looking down the
+saloon with an unfriendly expression at the Angel. Mrs Jehoram and the
+Angel exchanging deep and significant glances.
+
+"Her name," said the Angel (Mrs Jehoram made a movement) "is Delia. She
+is...."
+
+"Delia!" said Mrs Jehoram sharply, slowly realising a terrible
+misunderstanding. "A fanciful name.... Why!... No! Not that little
+housemaid at the Vicarage--?..."
+
+The Polonaise terminated with a flourish. The Angel was quite surprised
+at the change in Mrs Jehoram's expression.
+
+"_I never_ did!" said Mrs Jehoram recovering. "To make me your
+confidant in an intrigue with a servant. Really Mr Angel it's possible
+to be too original...."
+
+Then suddenly their colloquy was interrupted.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVI.
+
+
+This section is (so far as my memory goes) the shortest in the book.
+
+But the enormity of the offence necessitates the separation of this
+section from all other sections.
+
+The Vicar, you must understand, had done his best to inculcate the
+recognised differentiae of a gentleman. "Never allow a lady to carry
+anything," said the Vicar. "Say, 'permit me' and relieve her." "Always
+stand until every lady is seated." "Always rise and open a door for a
+lady...." and so forth. (All men who have elder sisters know that code.)
+
+And the Angel (who had failed to relieve Lady Hammergallow of her
+teacup) danced forward with astonishing dexterity (leaving Mrs Jehoram
+in the window seat) and with an elegant "permit me" rescued the tea-tray
+from Lady Hammergallow's pretty parlour-maid and vanished officiously in
+front of her. The Vicar rose to his feet with an inarticulate cry.
+
+
+
+
+XXXVII.
+
+
+"He's drunk!" said Mr Rathbone-Slater, breaking a terrific silence.
+"That's the matter with _him_."
+
+Mrs Jehoram laughed hysterically.
+
+The Vicar stood up, motionless, staring. "Oh! I _forgot_ to explain
+servants to him!" said the Vicar to himself in a swift outbreak of
+remorse. "I thought he _did_ understand servants."
+
+"Really, Mr Hilyer!" said Lady Hammergallow, evidently exercising
+enormous self-control and speaking in panting spasms. "Really, Mr
+Hilyer!--Your genius is _too_ terrible. I must, I really _must_, ask you
+to take him home."
+
+So to the dialogue in the corridor of alarmed maid-servant and
+well-meaning (but shockingly _gauche_) Angel--appears the Vicar, his
+botryoidal little face crimson, gaunt despair in his eyes, and his
+necktie under his left ear.
+
+"Come," he said--struggling with emotion. "Come away.... I.... I am
+disgraced for ever."
+
+And the Angel stared for a second at him and obeyed--meekly, perceiving
+himself in the presence of unknown but evidently terrible forces.
+
+And so began and ended the Angel's social career.
+
+In the informal indignation meeting that followed, Lady Hammergallow
+took the (informal) chair. "I feel humiliated," she said. "The Vicar
+assured me he was an exquisite player. I never imagined...."
+
+"He was drunk," said Mr Rathbone-Slater. "You could tell it from the way
+he fumbled with his tea."
+
+"Such a _fiasco_!" said Mrs Mergle.
+
+"The Vicar assured me," said Lady Hammergallow. "'The man I have staying
+with me is a musical genius,' he said. His very words."
+
+"His ears must be burning anyhow," said Tommy Rathbone-Slater.
+
+"I was trying to keep him Quiet," said Mrs Jehoram. "By humouring him.
+And do you know the things he said to me--there!"
+
+"The thing he played," said Mr Wilmerdings,"--I must confess I did not
+like to charge him to his face. But really! It was merely _drifting_."
+
+"Just fooling with a fiddle, eigh?" said George Harringay. "Well I
+thought it was beyond me. So much of your fine music is--"
+
+"Oh, _George_!" said the younger Miss Pirbright.
+
+"The Vicar was a bit on too--to judge by his tie," said Mr
+Rathbone-Slater. "It's a dashed rummy go. Did you notice how he fussed
+after the genius?"
+
+"One has to be so very careful," said the very eldest Miss Papaver.
+
+"He told me he is in love with the Vicar's housemaid!" said Mrs Jehoram.
+"I almost laughed in his face."
+
+"The Vicar ought _never_ to have brought him here," said Mrs
+Rathbone-Slater with decision.
+
+
+
+
+THE TROUBLE OF THE BARBED WIRE.
+
+XXXVIII.
+
+
+So, ingloriously, ended the Angel's first and last appearance in
+Society. Vicar and Angel returned to the Vicarage; crestfallen black
+figures in the bright sunlight, going dejectedly. The Angel, deeply
+pained that the Vicar was pained. The Vicar, dishevelled and desperate,
+intercalating spasmodic remorse and apprehension with broken
+explanations of the Theory of Etiquette. "They do _not_ understand,"
+said the Vicar over and over again. "They will all be so very much
+aggrieved. I do not know what to say to them. It is all so confused, so
+perplexing." And at the gate of the Vicarage, at the very spot where
+Delia had first seemed beautiful, stood Horrocks the village constable,
+awaiting them. He held coiled up about his hand certain short lengths of
+barbed wire.
+
+"Good evening, Horrocks," said the Vicar as the constable held the gate
+open.
+
+"Evenin', Sir," said Horrocks, and added in a kind of mysterious
+undertone, "_Could_ I speak to you a minute, Sir?"
+
+"Certainly," said the Vicar. The Angel walked on thoughtfully to the
+house, and meeting Delia in the hall stopped her and cross-examined her
+at length over differences between Servants and Ladies.
+
+"You'll excuse my taking the liberty, Sir," said Horrocks, "but there's
+trouble brewin' for that crippled gent you got stayin' here."
+
+"Bless me!" said the Vicar. "You don't say so!"
+
+"Sir John Gotch, Sir. He's very angry indeed, Sir. His language,
+Sir----. But I felt bound to tell you, Sir. He's certain set on taking
+out a summons on account of that there barbed wire. Certain set, Sir, he
+is."
+
+"Sir John Gotch!" said the Vicar. "Wire! I don't understand."
+
+"He asked me to find out who did it. Course I've had to do my duty, Sir.
+Naturally a disagreeable one."
+
+"Barbed wire! Duty! I don't understand you, Horrocks."
+
+"I'm afraid, Sir, there's no denying the evidence. I've made careful
+enquiries, Sir." And forthwith the constable began telling the Vicar of
+a new and terrible outrage committed by the Angelic visitor.
+
+But we need not follow that explanation in detail--or the subsequent
+confession. (For my own part I think there is nothing more tedious than
+dialogue). It gave the Vicar a new view of the Angelic character, a
+vignette of the Angelic indignation. A shady lane, sun-mottled, sweet
+hedges full of honeysuckle and vetch on either side, and a little girl
+gathering flowers, forgetful of the barbed wire which, all along the
+Sidderford Road, fenced in the dignity of Sir John Gotch from "bounders"
+and the detested "million." Then suddenly a gashed hand, a bitter
+outcry, and the Angel sympathetic, comforting, inquisitive. Explanations
+sob-set, and then--altogether novel phenomenon in the Angelic
+career--_passion_. A furious onslaught upon the barbed wire of Sir John
+Gotch, barbed wire recklessly handled, slashed, bent and broken. Yet
+the Angel acted without personal malice--saw in the thing only an ugly
+and vicious plant that trailed insidiously among its fellows. Finally
+the Angel's explanations gave the Vicar a picture of the Angel alone
+amidst his destruction, trembling and amazed at the sudden force, not
+himself, that had sprung up within him, and set him striking and
+cutting. Amazed, too, at the crimson blood that trickled down his
+fingers.
+
+"It is still more horrible," said the Angel when the Vicar explained the
+artificial nature of the thing. "If I had seen the man who put this
+silly-cruel stuff there to hurt little children, I know I should have
+tried to inflict pain upon him. I have never felt like this before. I am
+indeed becoming tainted and coloured altogether by the wickedness of
+this world."
+
+"To think, too, that you men should be so foolish as to uphold the laws
+that let a man do such spiteful things. Yes--I know; you will say it has
+to be so. For some remoter reason. That is a thing that only makes me
+angrier. Why cannot an act rest on its own merits?... As it does in the
+Angelic Land."
+
+That was the incident the history of which the Vicar now gradually
+learnt, getting the bare outline from Horrocks, the colour and emotion
+subsequently from the Angel. The thing had happened the day before the
+musical festival at Siddermorton House.
+
+"Have you told Sir John who did it?" asked the Vicar. "And are you
+sure?"
+
+"Quite sure, Sir. There can be no doubting it was your gentleman, Sir.
+I've not told Sir John yet, Sir. But I shall have to tell Sir John this
+evening. Meaning no offence to you, Sir, as I hopes you'll see. It's my
+duty, Sir. Besides which--"
+
+"Of course," said the Vicar, hastily. "Certainly it's your duty. And
+what will Sir John do?"
+
+"He's dreadful set against the person who did it--destroying property
+like that--and sort of slapping his arrangements in the face."
+
+Pause. Horrocks made a movement. The Vicar, tie almost at the back of
+his neck now, a most unusual thing for him, stared blankly at his toes.
+
+"I thought I'd tell you, Sir," said Horrocks.
+
+"Yes," said the Vicar. "Thanks, Horrocks, thanks!" He scratched the
+back of his head. "You might perhaps ... I think it's the best way ...
+Quite sure Mr Angel did it?"
+
+"Sherlock 'Omes, Sir, couldn't be cocksurer."
+
+"Then I'd better give you a little note to the Squire."
+
+
+
+
+XXXIX.
+
+
+The Vicar's table-talk at dinner that night, after the Angel had stated
+his case, was full of grim explanations, prisons, madness.
+
+"It's too late to tell the truth about you now," said the Vicar.
+"Besides, that's impossible. I really do not know what to say. We must
+face our circumstances, I suppose. I am so undecided--so torn. It's the
+two worlds. If your Angelic world were only a dream, or if _this_ world
+were only a dream--or if I could believe either or both dreams, it would
+be all right with me. But here is a real Angel and a real summons--how
+to reconcile them I do not know. I must talk to Gotch.... But he won't
+understand. Nobody will understand...."
+
+"I am putting you to terrible inconvenience, I am afraid. My appalling
+unworldliness--"
+
+"It's not you," said the Vicar. "It's not you. I perceive you have
+brought something strange and beautiful into my life. It's not you.
+It's myself. If I had more faith either way. If I could believe entirely
+in this world, and call you an Abnormal Phenomenon, as Crump does. But
+no. Terrestrial Angelic, Angelic Terrestrial.... See-Saw."
+
+"Still, Gotch is certain to be disagreeable, _most_ disagreeable. He
+always is. It puts me into his hands. He is a bad moral influence, I
+know. Drinking. Gambling. Worse. Still, one must render unto Caesar the
+things that are Caesar's. And he is against Disestablishment...."
+
+Then the Vicar would revert to the social collapse of the afternoon.
+"You are so very fundamental, you know," he said--several times.
+
+The Angel went to his own room puzzled but very depressed. Every day the
+world had frowned darker upon him and his angelic ways. He could see how
+the trouble affected the Vicar, yet he could not imagine how he could
+avert it. It was all so strange and unreasonable. Twice again, too, he
+had been pelted out of the village.
+
+He found the violin lying on his bed where he had laid it before
+dinner. And taking it up he began to play to comfort himself. But now he
+played no delicious vision of the Angelic Land. The iron of the world
+was entering into his soul. For a week now he had known pain and
+rejection, suspicion and hatred; a strange new spirit of revolt was
+growing up in his heart. He played a melody, still sweet and tender as
+those of the Angelic Land, but charged with a new note, the note of
+human sorrow and effort, now swelling into something like defiance,
+dying now into a plaintive sadness. He played softly, playing to himself
+to comfort himself, but the Vicar heard, and all his finite bothers were
+swallowed up in a hazy melancholy, a melancholy that was quite remote
+from sorrow. And besides the Vicar, the Angel had another hearer of whom
+neither Angel nor Vicar was thinking.
+
+
+
+
+DELIA.
+
+XL.
+
+
+She was only four or five yards away from the Angel in the westward
+gable. The diamond-paned window of her little white room was open. She
+knelt on her box of japanned tin, and rested her chin on her hands, her
+elbows on the window-sill. The young moon hung over the pine trees, and
+its light, cool and colourless, lay softly upon the silent-sleeping
+world. Its light fell upon her white face, and discovered new depths in
+her dreaming eyes. Her soft lips fell apart and showed the little white
+teeth.
+
+Delia was thinking, vaguely, wonderfully, as girls will think. It was
+feeling rather than thinking; clouds of beautiful translucent emotion
+drove across the clear sky of her mind, taking shape that changed and
+vanished. She had all that wonderful emotional tenderness, that subtle
+exquisite desire for self-sacrifice, which exists so inexplicably in a
+girl's heart, exists it seems only to be presently trampled under foot
+by the grim and gross humours of daily life, to be ploughed in again
+roughly and remorselessly, as the farmer ploughs in the clover that has
+sprung up in the soil. She had been looking out at the tranquillity of
+the moonlight long before the Angel began to play,--waiting; then
+suddenly the quiet, motionless beauty of silver and shadow was suffused
+with tender music.
+
+She did not move, but her lips closed and her eyes grew even softer. She
+had been thinking before of the strange glory that had suddenly flashed
+out about the stooping hunchback when he spoke to her in the sunset; of
+that and of a dozen other glances, chance turns, even once the touching
+of her hand. That afternoon he had spoken to her, asking strange
+questions. Now the music seemed to bring his very face before her, his
+look of half curious solicitude, peering into her face, into her eyes,
+into her and through her, deep down into her soul. He seemed now to be
+speaking directly to her, telling her of his solitude and trouble. Oh!
+that regret, that longing! For he was in trouble. And how could a
+servant-girl help him, this soft-spoken gentleman who carried himself so
+kindly, who played so sweetly. The music was so sweet and keen, it came
+so near to the thought of her heart, that presently one hand tightened
+on the other, and the tears came streaming down her face.
+
+As Crump would tell you, people do not do that kind of thing unless
+there is something wrong with the nervous system. But then, from the
+scientific point of view, being in love is a pathological condition.
+
+
+I am painfully aware of the objectionable nature of my story here. I
+have even thought of wilfully perverting the truth to propitiate the
+Lady Reader. But I could not. The story has been too much for me. I do
+the thing with my eyes open. Delia must remain what she really was--a
+servant girl. I know that to give a mere servant girl, or at least an
+English servant girl, the refined feelings of a human being, to present
+her as speaking with anything but an intolerable confusion of aspirates,
+places me outside the pale of respectable writers. Association with
+servants, even in thought, is dangerous in these days. I can only plead
+(pleading vainly, I know), that Delia was a very exceptional servant
+girl. Possibly, if one enquired, it might be found that her parentage
+was upper middle-class--that she was made of the finer upper
+middle-class clay. And (this perhaps may avail me better) I will promise
+that in some future work I will redress the balance, and the patient
+reader shall have the recognised article, enormous feet and hands,
+systematic aspiration of vowels and elimination of aspirates, no figure
+(only middle-class girls have figures--the thing is beyond a
+servant-girl's means), a fringe (by agreement), and a cheerful readiness
+to dispose of her self-respect for half-a-crown. That is the accepted
+English servant, the typical English woman (when stripped of money and
+accomplishments) as she appears in the works of contemporary writers.
+But Delia somehow was different. I can only regret the circumstance--it
+was altogether beyond my control.
+
+
+
+
+DOCTOR CRUMP ACTS.
+
+XLI.
+
+
+Early the next morning the Angel went down through the village, and
+climbing the fence, waded through the waist-high reeds that fringe the
+Sidder. He was going to Bandram Bay to take a nearer view of the sea,
+which one could just see on a clear day from the higher parts of
+Siddermorton Park. And suddenly he came upon Crump sitting on a log and
+smoking. (Crump always smoked exactly two ounces per week--and he always
+smoked it in the open air.)
+
+"Hullo!" said Crump, in his healthiest tone. "How's the wing?"
+
+"Very well," said the Angel. "The pain's gone."
+
+"I suppose you know you are trespassing?"
+
+"Trespassing!" said the Angel.
+
+"I suppose you don't know what that means," said Crump.
+
+"I don't," said the Angel.
+
+"I must congratulate you. I don't know how long you will last, but you
+are keeping it up remarkably well. I thought at first you were a
+mattoid, but you're so amazingly consistent. Your attitude of entire
+ignorance of the elementary facts of Life is really a very amusing pose.
+You make slips of course, but very few. But surely we two understand one
+another."
+
+He smiled at the Angel. "You would beat Sherlock Holmes. I wonder who
+you really are."
+
+The Angel smiled back, with eyebrows raised and hands extended. "It's
+impossible for you to know who I am. Your eyes are blind, your ears
+deaf, your soul dark, to all that is wonderful about me. It's no good my
+telling that I fell into your world."
+
+The Doctor waved his pipe. "Not that, please. I don't want to pry if you
+have your reasons for keeping quiet. Only I would like you to think of
+Hilyer's mental health. He really believes this story."
+
+The Angel shrugged his dwindling wings.
+
+"You did not know him before this affair. He's changed tremendously. He
+used to be neat and comfortable. For the last fortnight he's been hazy,
+with a far-away look in his eyes. He preached last Sunday without his
+cuff links, and something wrong with his tie, and he took for his text,
+'Eye hath not seen nor ear heard.' He really believes all this nonsense
+about the Angel-land. The man is verging on monomania!"
+
+"You _will_ see things from your own standpoint," said the Angel.
+
+"Everyone must. At any rate, I think it jolly regrettable to see this
+poor old fellow hypnotized, as you certainly have hypnotized him. I
+don't know where you come from nor who you are, but I warn you I'm not
+going to see the old boy made a fool of much longer."
+
+"But he's not being made a fool of. He's simply beginning to dream of a
+world outside his knowledge----"
+
+"It won't do," said Crump. "I'm not one of the dupe class. You are
+either of two things--a lunatic at large (which I don't believe), or a
+knave. Nothing else is possible. I think I know a little of this world,
+whatever I do of yours. Very well. If you don't leave Hilyer alone I
+shall communicate with the police, and either clap you into a prison, if
+you go back on your story, or into a madhouse if you don't. It's
+stretching a point, but I swear I'd certify you insane to-morrow to get
+you out of the village. It's not only the Vicar. As you know. I hope
+that's plain. Now what have you to say?"
+
+With an affectation of great calm, the Doctor took out his penknife and
+began to dig the blade into his pipe bowl. His pipe had gone out during
+this last speech.
+
+For a moment neither spoke. The Angel looked about him with a face that
+grew pale. The Doctor extracted a plug of tobacco from his pipe and
+flung it away, shut his penknife and put it in his waistcoat pocket. He
+had not meant to speak quite so emphatically, but speech always warmed
+him.
+
+"Prison," said the Angel. "Madhouse! Let me see." Then he remembered
+the Vicar's explanation. "Not that!" he said. He approached Crump with
+eyes dilated and hands outstretched.
+
+"I knew _you_ would know what those things meant--at any rate. Sit
+down," said Crump, indicating the tree trunk beside him by a movement of
+the head.
+
+The Angel, shivering, sat down on the tree trunk and stared at the
+Doctor.
+
+Crump was getting out his pouch. "You are a strange man," said the
+Angel. "Your beliefs are like--a steel trap."
+
+"They are," said Crump--flattered.
+
+"But I tell you--I assure you the thing is so--I know nothing, or at
+least remember nothing of anything I knew of this world before I found
+myself in the darkness of night on the moorland above Sidderford."
+
+"Where did you learn the language then?"
+
+"I don't know. Only I tell you--But I haven't an atom of the sort of
+proof that would convince you."
+
+"And you really," said Crump, suddenly coming round upon him and
+looking into his eyes; "You really believe you were eternally in a kind
+of glorious heaven before then?"
+
+"I do," said the Angel.
+
+"Pshaw!" said Crump, and lit his pipe. He sat smoking, elbow on knee,
+for some time, and the Angel sat and watched him. Then his face grew
+less troubled.
+
+"It is just possible," he said to himself rather than to the Angel, and
+began another piece of silence.
+
+"You see;" he said, when that was finished. "There is such a thing as
+double personality.... A man sometimes forgets who he is and thinks he
+is someone else. Leaves home, friends, and everything, and leads a
+double life. There was a case in _Nature_ only a month or so ago. The
+man was sometimes English and right-handed, and sometimes Welsh and
+left-handed. When he was English he knew no Welsh, when he was Welsh he
+knew no English.... H'm."
+
+He turned suddenly on the Angel and said "Home!" He fancied he might
+revive in the Angel some latent memory of his lost youth. He went on
+"Dadda, Pappa, Daddy, Mammy, Pappy, Father, Dad, Governor, Old Boy,
+Mother, dear Mother, Ma, Mumsy.... No good? What are you laughing at?"
+
+"Nothing," said the Angel. "You surprised me a little,--that is all. A
+week ago I should have been puzzled by that vocabulary."
+
+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 ACTS.
+
+XLII.
+
+
+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, and something more than Wonderland, ... and I
+have promised to get rid of him in a week! What are we men made of?...
+How _can_ I tell him?"
+
+He began to walk up and down the room, then he went into the
+dining-room, and stood staring blankly out at the cornfield. The table
+was already laid for lunch. Presently he turned, still dreaming, and
+almost mechanically helped himself to a glass of sherry.
+
+
+
+
+THE SEA CLIFF.
+
+XLIII.
+
+
+The Angel lay upon the summit of the cliff above Bandram Bay, and stared
+out at the glittering sea. Sheer from under his elbows fell the cliff,
+five hundred and seven feet of it down to the datum line, and the
+sea-birds eddied and soared below him. The upper part of the cliff was a
+greenish chalky rock, the lower two-thirds a warm red, marbled with
+gypsum bands, and from half-a-dozen places spurted jets of water, to
+fall in long cascades down its face. The swell frothed white on the
+flinty beach, and the water beyond where the shadows of an outstanding
+rock lay, was green and purple in a thousand tints and marked with
+streaks and flakes of foam. The air was full of sunlight and the
+tinkling of the little waterfalls and the slow soughing of the seas
+below. Now and then a butterfly flickered over the face of the cliff,
+and a multitude of sea birds perched and flew hither and thither.
+
+The Angel lay with his crippled, shrivelled wings humped upon his back,
+watching the gulls and jackdaws and rooks, circling in the sunlight,
+soaring, eddying, sweeping down to the water or upward into the dazzling
+blue of the sky. Long the Angel lay there and watched them going to and
+fro on outspread wings. He watched, and as he watched them he remembered
+with infinite longing the rivers of starlight and the sweetness of the
+land from which he came. And a gull came gliding overhead, swiftly and
+easily, with its broad wings spreading white and fair against the blue.
+And suddenly a shadow came into the Angel's eyes, the sunlight left
+them, he thought of his own crippled pinions, and put his face upon his
+arm and wept.
+
+A woman who was walking along the footpath across the Cliff Field saw
+only a twisted hunchback dressed in the Vicar of Siddermorton's cast-off
+clothes, sprawling foolishly at the edge of the cliff and with his
+forehead on his arm. She looked at him and looked again. "The silly
+creature has gone to sleep," she said, and though she had a heavy basket
+to carry, came towards him with an idea of waking him up. But as she
+drew near she saw his shoulders heave and heard the sound of his
+sobbing.
+
+She stood still a minute, and her features twitched into a kind of grin.
+Then treading softly she turned and went back towards the pathway. "'Tis
+so hard to think of anything to say," she said. "Poor afflicted soul!"
+
+Presently the Angel ceased sobbing, and stared with a tear-stained face
+at the beach below him.
+
+"This world," he said, "wraps me round and swallows me up. My wings grow
+shrivelled and useless. Soon I shall be nothing more than a crippled
+man, and I shall age, and bow myself to pain, and die.... I am
+miserable. And I am alone."
+
+Then he rested his chin on his hands upon the edge of the cliff, and
+began to think of Delia's face with the light in her eyes. The Angel
+felt a curious desire to go to her and tell her of his withered wings.
+To place his arms about her and weep for the land he had lost. "Delia!"
+he said to himself very softly. And presently a cloud drove in front of
+the sun.
+
+
+
+
+MRS HINIJER ACTS.
+
+XLIV.
+
+
+Mrs Hinijer surprised the Vicar by tapping at his study door after tea.
+"Begging your pardon, Sir," said Mrs Hinijer. "But might I make so bold
+as to speak to you for a moment?"
+
+"Certainly, Mrs Hinijer," said the Vicar, little dreaming of the blow
+that was coming. He held a letter in his hand, a very strange and
+disagreeable letter from his bishop, a letter that irritated and
+distressed him, criticising in the strongest language the guests he
+chose to entertain in his own house. Only a popular bishop living in a
+democratic age, a bishop who was still half a pedagogue, could have
+written such a letter.
+
+Mrs Hinijer coughed behind her hand and struggled with some respiratory
+disorganisation. The Vicar felt apprehensive. Usually in their
+interviews he was the most disconcerted. Invariably so when the
+interview ended.
+
+"Well?" he said.
+
+"May I make so bold, sir, as to arst when Mr Angel is a-going?" (Cough.)
+
+The Vicar started. "To ask when Mr Angel is going?" he repeated slowly
+to gain time. "_Another!_"
+
+"I'm sorry, sir. But I've been used to waitin' on gentlefolks, sir; and
+you'd hardly imagine how it feels quite to wait on such as 'im."
+
+"Such as ... _'im_! Do I understand you, Mrs Hinijer, that you don't
+like Mr Angel?"
+
+"You see, sir, before I came to you, sir, I was at Lord Dundoller's
+seventeen years, and you, sir--if you will excuse me--are a perfect
+gentleman yourself, sir--though in the Church. And then...."
+
+"Dear, dear!" said the Vicar. "And don't you regard Mr Angel as a
+gentleman?"
+
+"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir."
+
+"But what...? Dear me! Surely!"
+
+"I'm sorry to 'ave to say it, sir. But when a party goes turning
+vegetarian suddenly and putting out all the cooking, and hasn't no
+proper luggage of his own, and borry's shirts and socks from his 'ost,
+and don't know no better than to try his knife at peas (as I seed my
+very self), and goes talking in odd corners to the housemaids, and folds
+up his napkin after meals, and eats with his fingers at minced veal, and
+plays the fiddle in the middle of the night keeping everybody awake, and
+stares and grins at his elders a-getting upstairs, and generally
+misconducts himself with things that I can scarcely tell you all, one
+can't help thinking, sir. Thought is free, sir, and one can't help
+coming to one's own conclusions. Besides which, there is talk all over
+the village about him--what with one thing and another. I know a
+gentleman when I sees a gentleman, and I know a gentleman when I don't
+see a gentleman, and me, and Susan, and George, we've talked it over,
+being the upper servants, so to speak, and experienced, and leaving out
+that girl Delia, who I only hope won't come to any harm through him, and
+depend upon it, sir, that Mr Angel ain't what you think he is, sir, and
+the sooner he leaves this house the better."
+
+Mrs Hinijer ceased abruptly and stood panting but stern, and with her
+eyes grimly fixed on the Vicar's face.
+
+"_Really_, Mrs Hinijer!" said the Vicar, and then, "Oh _Lord_!"
+
+"What _have_ I done?" said the Vicar, suddenly starting up and appealing
+to the inexorable fates. "What HAVE I done?"
+
+"There's no knowing," said Mrs Hinijer. "Though a deal of talk in the
+village."
+
+"_Bother!_" said the Vicar, going and staring out of the window. Then he
+turned. "Look here, Mrs Hinijer! Mr Angel will be leaving this house in
+the course of a week. Is that enough?"
+
+"Quite," said Mrs Hinijer. "And I feel sure, sir...."
+
+The Vicar's eyes fell with unwonted eloquence upon the door.
+
+
+
+
+THE ANGEL IN TROUBLE.
+
+XLV.
+
+
+"The fact is," said the Vicar, "this is no world for Angels."
+
+The blinds had not been drawn, and the twilight outer world under an
+overcast sky seemed unspeakably grey and cold. The Angel sat at table in
+dejected silence. His inevitable departure had been proclaimed. Since
+his presence hurt people and made the Vicar wretched he acquiesced in
+the justice of the decision, but what would happen to him after his
+plunge he could not imagine. Something very disagreeable certainly.
+
+"There is the violin," said the Vicar. "Only after our experience----"
+
+"I must get you clothes--a general outfit.---- Dear me! you don't
+understand railway travelling! And coinage! Taking lodgings!
+Eating-houses!---- I must come up at least and see you settled. Get work
+for you. But an Angel in London! Working for his living! That grey cold
+wilderness of people! What _will_ become of you?---- If I had one friend
+in the world I could trust to believe me!"
+
+"I ought not to be sending you away----"
+
+"Do not trouble overmuch for me, my friend," said the Angel. "At least
+this life of yours ends. And there are things in it. There is something
+in this life of yours---- Your care for me! I thought there was nothing
+beautiful at all in life----"
+
+"And I have betrayed you!" said the Vicar, with a sudden wave of
+remorse. "Why did I not face them all--say, 'This is the best of life'?
+What do these everyday things matter?"
+
+He stopped suddenly. "What _do_ they matter?" he said.
+
+"I have only come into your life to trouble it," said the Angel.
+
+"Don't say that," said the Vicar. "You have come into my life to awaken
+me. I have been dreaming--dreaming. Dreaming this was necessary and
+that. Dreaming that this narrow prison was the world. And the dream
+still hangs about me and troubles me. That is all. Even your
+departure----. Am I not dreaming that you must go?"
+
+When he was in bed that night the mystical aspect of the case came still
+more forcibly before the Vicar. He lay awake and had the most horrible
+visions of his sweet and delicate visitor drifting through this
+unsympathetic world and happening upon the cruellest misadventures. His
+guest _was_ an Angel assuredly. He tried to go over the whole story of
+the past eight days again. He thought of the hot afternoon, the shot
+fired out of sheer surprise, the fluttering iridescent wings, the
+beautiful saffron-robed figure upon the ground. How wonderful that had
+seemed to him! Then his mind turned to the things he had heard of the
+other world, to the dreams the violin had conjured up, to the vague,
+fluctuating, wonderful cities of the Angelic Land. He tried to recall
+the forms of the buildings, the shapes of the fruits upon the trees, the
+aspect of the winged shapes that traversed its ways. They grew from a
+memory into a present reality, grew every moment just a little more
+vivid and his troubles a little less immediate; and so, softly and
+quietly, the Vicar slipped out of his troubles and perplexities into the
+Land of Dreams.
+
+
+
+
+XLVI.
+
+
+Delia sat with her window open, hoping to hear the Angel play. But that
+night there was to be no playing. The sky was overcast, yet not so
+thickly but that the moon was visible. High up a broken cloud-lace drove
+across the sky, and now the moon was a hazy patch of light, and now it
+was darkened, and now rode clear and bright and sharply outlined against
+the blue gulf of night. And presently she heard the door into the garden
+opening, and a figure came out under the drifting pallor of the
+moonlight.
+
+It was the Angel. But he wore once more the saffron robe in the place of
+his formless overcoat. In the uncertain light this garment had only a
+colourless shimmer, and his wings behind him seemed a leaden grey. He
+began taking short runs, flapping his wings and leaping, going to and
+fro amidst the drifting patches of light and the shadows of the trees.
+Delia watched him in amazement. He gave a despondent cry, leaping
+higher. His shrivelled wings flashed and fell. A thicker patch in the
+cloud-film made everything obscure. He seemed to spring five or six feet
+from the ground and fall clumsily. She saw him in the dimness crouching
+on the ground and then she heard him sobbing.
+
+"He's hurt!" said Delia, pressing her lips together hard and staring. "I
+ought to help him."
+
+She hesitated, then stood up and flitted swiftly towards the door, went
+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!"
+
+
+
+
+THE LAST DAY OF THE VISIT.
+
+XLVII.
+
+
+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? L3, 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?_
+
+"_1/2 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 111/2d._"
+
+("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, &c._" (The Vicar loved
+"&c.", it gave things such a precise and business-like 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 tea-time. 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, 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.
+
+
+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 awe-stricken whisper.
+
+He started back from the motionless figure. "_Dead!_" he said suddenly,
+and turning, panic stricken, fled headlong through the wood.
+
+
+
+
+XLIX.
+
+
+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 face and felt the two weals running across it,
+hot and fat. "I'll think twice before I lift my hand against a lunatic
+again," said Sir John Gotch.
+
+"He may be a person of weak intellect, but I'm damned if he hasn't a
+pretty strong arm. _Phew!_ He's cut a bit clean off the top of my ear
+with that infernal lash."
+
+"That infernal horse will go galloping to the house in the approved
+dramatic style. Little Madam'll be scared out of her wits. And I ... I
+shall have to explain how it all happened. While she vivisects me with
+questions.
+
+"I'm a jolly good mind to have spring guns and man-traps put in this
+preserve. Confound the Law!"
+
+
+
+
+L.
+
+
+But the Angel, thinking that Gotch was dead, went wandering off in a
+passion of remorse and fear through the brakes and copses along the
+Sidder. You can scarcely imagine how appalled he was at this last and
+overwhelming proof of his encroaching humanity. All the darkness,
+passion and pain of life seemed closing in upon him, inexorably,
+becoming part of him, chaining him to all that a week ago he had found
+strange and pitiful in men.
+
+"Truly, this is no world for an Angel!" said the Angel. "It is a World
+of War, a World of Pain, a World of Death. Anger comes upon one ... I
+who knew not pain and anger, stand here with blood stains on my hands. I
+have fallen. To come into this world is to fall. One must hunger and
+thirst and be tormented with a thousand desires. One must fight for
+foothold, be angry and strike----"
+
+He lifted up his hands to Heaven, the ultimate bitterness of helpless
+remorse in his face, and then flung them down with a gesture of despair.
+The prison walls of this narrow passionate life seemed creeping in upon
+him, certainly and steadily, to crush him presently altogether. He felt
+what all we poor mortals have to feel sooner or later--the pitiless
+force of the Things that Must Be, not only without us but (where the
+real trouble lies) within, all the inevitable tormenting of one's high
+resolves, those inevitable seasons when the better self is forgotten.
+But with us it is a gentle descent, made by imperceptible degrees over a
+long space of years; with him it was the horrible discovery of one short
+week. He felt he was being crippled, caked over, blinded, stupefied in
+the wrappings of this life, he felt as a man might feel who has taken
+some horrible poison, and feels destruction spreading within him.
+
+He took no account of hunger or fatigue or the flight of time. On and on
+he went, avoiding houses and roads, turning away from the sight and
+sound of a human being in a wordless desperate argument with Fate. His
+thoughts did not flow but stood banked back in inarticulate
+remonstrance against his degradation. Chance directed his footsteps
+homeward and, at last, after nightfall, he found himself faint and weary
+and wretched, stumbling along over the moor at the back of Siddermorton.
+He heard the rats run and squeal in the heather, and once a noiseless
+big bird came out of the darkness, passed, and vanished again. And he
+saw without noticing it a dull red glow in the sky before him.
+
+
+
+
+LI.
+
+
+But when he came over the brow of the moor, a vivid light sprang up
+before him and refused to be ignored. He came on down the hill and
+speedily saw more distinctly what the glare was. It came from darting
+and trembling tongues of fire, golden and red, that shot from the
+windows and a hole in the roof of the Vicarage. A cluster of black
+heads, all the village in fact, except the fire-brigade--who were down
+at Aylmer's Cottage trying to find the key of the machine-house--came
+out in silhouette against the blaze. There was a roaring sound, and a
+humming of voices, and presently a furious outcry. There was a shouting
+of "No! No!"--"Come back!" and an inarticulate roar.
+
+He began to run towards the burning house. He stumbled and almost fell,
+but he ran on. He found black figures running about him. The flaring
+fire blew gustily this way and that, and he smelt the smell of burning.
+
+"She went in," said one voice, "she went in."
+
+"The mad girl!" said another.
+
+"Stand back! Stand back!" cried others.
+
+He found himself thrusting through an excited, swaying crowd, all
+staring at the flames, and with the red reflection in their eyes.
+
+"Stand back!" said a labourer, clutching him.
+
+"What is it?" said the Angel. "What does this mean?"
+
+"There's a girl in the house, and she can't get out!"
+
+"Went in after a fiddle," said another.
+
+"'Tas hopeless," he heard someone else say.
+
+"I was standing near her. I heerd her. Says she: 'I _can_ get his
+fiddle.' I heerd her--Just like that! 'I _can_ get his fiddle.'"
+
+For a moment the Angel stood staring. Then in a flash he saw it all, saw
+this grim little world of battle and cruelty, transfigured in a
+splendour that outshone the Angelic Land, suffused suddenly and
+insupportably glorious with the wonderful light of Love and
+Self-Sacrifice. He gave a strange cry, and before anyone could stop
+him, was running towards the burning building. There were cries of "The
+Hunchback! The Fowener!"
+
+The Vicar, whose scalded hand was being tied up, turned his head, and he
+and Crump saw the Angel, a black outline against the intense, red glare
+of the doorway. It was the sensation of the tenth of a second, yet both
+men could not have remembered that transitory attitude more vividly had
+it been a picture they had studied for hours together. Then the Angel
+was hidden by something massive (no one knew what) that fell,
+incandescent, across the doorway.
+
+
+
+
+LII.
+
+
+There was a cry of "Delia" and no more. But suddenly the flames spurted
+out in a blinding glare that shot upward to an immense height, a
+blinding brilliance broken by a thousand flickering gleams like the
+waving of swords. And a gust of sparks, flashing in a thousand colours,
+whirled up and vanished. Just then, and for a moment by some strange
+accident, a rush of music, like the swell of an organ, wove into the
+roaring of the flames.
+
+The whole village standing in black knots heard the sound, except Gaffer
+Siddons who is deaf--strange and beautiful it was, and then gone again.
+Lumpy Durgan, the idiot boy from Sidderford, said it began and ended
+like the opening and shutting of a door.
+
+But little Hetty Penzance had a pretty fancy of two figures with wings,
+that flashed up and vanished among the flames.
+
+(And after that it was she began to pine for the things she saw in her
+dreams, and was abstracted and strange. It grieved her mother sorely at
+the time. She grew fragile, as though she was fading out of the world,
+and her eyes had a strange, far-away look. She talked of angels and
+rainbow colours and golden wings, and was for ever singing an unmeaning
+fragment of an air that nobody knew. Until Crump took her in hand and
+cured her with fattening dietary, syrup of hypophosphites and cod liver
+oil.)
+
+
+
+
+THE EPILOGUE.
+
+
+And there the story of the Wonderful Visit ends. The Epilogue is in the
+mouth of Mrs Mendham. There stand two little white crosses in the
+Siddermorton churchyard, near together, where the brambles come
+clambering over the stone wall. One is inscribed Thomas Angel and the
+other Delia Hardy, and the dates of the deaths are the same. Really
+there is nothing beneath them but the ashes of the Vicar's stuffed
+ostrich. (You will remember the Vicar had his ornithological side.) I
+noticed them when Mrs Mendham was showing me the new De la Beche
+monument. (Mendham has been Vicar since Hilyer died.) "The granite came
+from somewhere in Scotland," said Mrs Mendham, "and cost ever so much--I
+forget how much--but a wonderful lot! It's quite the talk of the
+village."
+
+"Mother," said Cissie Mendham, "you are stepping on a grave."
+
+"Dear me!" said Mrs Mendham, "How heedless of me! And the cripple's
+grave too. But really you've no idea how much this monument cost them."
+
+"These two people, by the bye," said Mrs Mendham, "were killed when the
+old Vicarage was burnt. It's rather a strange story. He was a curious
+person, a hunchbacked fiddler, who came from nobody knows where, and
+imposed upon the late Vicar to a frightful extent. He played in a
+pretentious way by ear, and we found out afterwards that he did not know
+a note of music--not a note. He was exposed before quite a lot of
+people. Among other things, he seems to have been 'carrying on,' as
+people say, with one of the servants, a sly little drab.... But Mendham
+had better tell you all about it. The man was half-witted and curiously
+deformed. It's strange the fancies girls have."
+
+She looked sharply at Cissie, and Cissie blushed to the eyes.
+
+"She was left in the house and he rushed into the flames in an attempt
+to save her. Quite romantic--isn't it? He was rather clever with the
+fiddle in his uneducated way.
+
+"All the poor Vicar's stuffed skins were burned at the same time. It was
+almost all he cared for. He never really got over the blow. He came to
+stop with us--for there wasn't another house available in the village.
+But he never seemed happy. He seemed all shaken. I never saw a man so
+changed. I tried to stir him up, but it was no good--no good at all. He
+had the queerest delusions about angels and that kind of thing. It made
+him odd company at times. He would say he heard music, and stare quite
+stupidly at nothing for hours together. He got quite careless about his
+dress.... He died within a twelvemonth of the fire."
+
+THE END.
+
+TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.
+
+
+
+
+
+End of Project Gutenberg's The Wonderful Visit, by Herbert George Wells
+
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