H G Wells Omnibus, page 172
“What’s the book, Magsy?” he asked, took it out of her slightly resisting hand, closed it and read the title. “Um,” he said; “Isn’t this a bit stiff for little women’s brains?”
All the rebel Marjories were up in arms at that.
“Dreadful word, ‘Municipal.’ I don’t like it.” He shook his head with a grimace of humorous distaste.
“I suppose women have as good brains as men,” said Marjorie, “if it comes to that.”
“Better,” said Magnet. “That’s why they shouldn’t trouble about horrid things like Municipal and Trading…. On a day like this!”
“Don’t you think this sort of thing is interesting?”
“Oh!” he said, and flourished the book. “Come! And besides—Shaw!”
“He makes a very good case.”
“But he’s such a—mountebank.”
“Does that matter? He isn’t a mountebank there.”
“He’s not sincere. I doubt if you had a serious book on Municipal Trading, Magsy, whether you’d make head or tail of it. It’s a stiff subject. Shaw just gets his chance for a smart thing or so…. I’d rather you read a good novel.”
He really had the air of taking her reading in hand.
“You think I ought not to read an intelligent book.”
“I think we ought to leave those things to the people who understand.”
“But we ought to understand.”
He smiled wisely. “There’s a lot of things you have to understand,” he said, “nearer home than this.”
Marjorie was ablaze now. “What a silly thing to say!” she cried, with an undergraduate’s freedom. “Really, you are talking nonsense! I read that book because it interests me. If I didn’t, I should read something else. Do you mean to suggest that I’m reading like a child, who holds a book upside down?”
She was so plainly angry that he was taken aback. “I don’t mean to suggest—” he began, and turned to greet the welcome presence, the interrogative eye of Mrs. Pope.
“Here we are!” he said, “having a quarrel!”
“Marjorie!” said Mrs. Pope.
“Oh, it’s serious!” said Mr. Magnet, and added with a gleam: “It’s about Municipal Trading!”
Mrs. Pope knew the wicked little flicker in Marjorie’s eye better than Mr. Magnet. She had known it from the nursery, and yet she had never quite mastered its meaning. She had never yet realized it was Marjorie, she had always regarded it as something Marjorie, some other Marjorie, ought to keep under control. So now she adopted a pacificatory tone.
“Oh! lovers’ quarrels,” she said, floating over the occasion. “Lovers’ quarrels. You mustn’t ask me to interfere!”
Marjorie, already a little ashamed of her heat, thought for an instant she ought to stand that, and then decided abruptly with a return to choler that she would not do so. She stood up, and held out her hand for her book.
“Mr. Magnet,” she said to her mother with remarkable force and freedom as she took it, “has been talking unutterable nonsense. I don’t call that a lovers’ quarrel—anyhow.”
Then, confronted with a double astonishment, and having no more to say, she picked up her skirt quite unnecessarily, and walked with a heavenward chin indoors.
“I’m afraid,” explained Mr. Magnet, “I was a little too free with one of Magsy’s favourite authors.”
“Which is the favourite author now?” asked Mrs. Pope, after a reflective pause, with a mother’s indulgent smile.
“Shaw.” He raised amused eyebrows. “It’s just the age, I suppose.”
“She’s frightfully loyal while it lasts,” said Mrs. Pope. “No one dare say a word against them.”
“I think it’s adorable of her,” said Mr. Magnet—with an answering loyalty and gusto.
§ 2
The aviation accident occurred while Mrs. Pope, her two eldest daughters, and Mr. Magnet were playing golf-croquet upon the vicarage lawn. It was a serene, hot afternoon, a little too hot to take a game seriously, and the four little figures moved slowly over the green and grouped and dispersed as the game required. Mr. Magnet was very fond of golf-croquet, he displayed a whimsical humour and much invention at this game, it was not too exacting physically; and he could make his ball jump into the air in the absurdest manner. Occasionally he won a laugh from Marjorie or Daffy. No one else was in sight; the pseudo-twins and Theodore and Toupee were in the barn, and Mr. Pope was six miles away at Wamping, lying prone, nibbling grass blades and watching a county cricket match, as every good Englishman, who knows what is expected of him, loves to do…. Click went ball and mallet, and then after a long interval, click. It seemed incredible that anything could possibly happen before tea.
But this is no longer the world it was. Suddenly this tranquil scene was slashed and rent by the sound and vision of a monoplane tearing across the heavens.
A purring and popping arrested Mr. Magnet in mid jest, and the monster came sliding up the sky over the trees beside the church to the east, already near enough to look big, a great stiff shape, big buff sails stayed with glittering wire, and with two odd little wheels beneath its body. It drove up the sky, rising with a sort of upward heaving, until the croquet players could see the driver and a passenger perched behind him quite clearly. It passed a little to the right of the church tower and only a few yards above the level of the flagstaff, there wasn’t fifty feet of clearance altogether, and as it did so Marjorie could see both driver and passenger making hasty movements. It became immense and over-shadowing, and every one stood rigid as it swept across the sun above the vicarage chimneys. Then it seemed to drop twenty feet or so abruptly, and then both the men cried out as it drove straight for the line of poplars between the shrubbery and the meadow. “Oh, oh, OH!” cried Mrs. Pope and Daffy. Evidently the aviator was trying to turn sharply; the huge thing banked, but not enough, and came about and slipped away until its wing was slashing into the tree tops with a thrilling swish of leaves and the snapping of branches and stays.
“Run!” cried Magnet, and danced about the lawn, and the three ladies rushed sideways as the whole affair slouched down on them. It came on its edge, hesitated whether to turn over as a whole, then crumpled, and amidst a volley of smashing and snapping came to rest amidst ploughed-up turf, a clamorous stench of petrol, and a cloud of dust and blue smoke within twenty yards of them. The two men had jumped to clear the engine, had fallen headlong, and were now both covered by the fabric of the shattered wing.
It was all too spectacular for word or speech until the thing lay still. Even then the croquet players stood passive for awhile waiting for something to happen. It took some seconds to reconcile their minds to this sudden loss of initiative in a monster that had been so recently and threateningly full of go. It seemed quite a long time before it came into Marjorie’s head that she ought perhaps to act in some way. She saw a tall young man wriggling on all fours from underneath the wreckage of fabric. He stared at her rather blankly. She went forward with a vague idea of helping him. He stood up, swayed doubtfully on his legs, turned, and became energetic, struggling mysteriously with the edge of the left wing. He gasped and turned fierce blue eyes over his shoulder.
“Help me to hold the confounded thing up!” he cried, with a touch of irritation in his voice at her attitude.
Marjorie at once seized the edge of the plane and pushed. The second man, in a peculiar button-shaped head-dress, was lying crumpled up underneath, his ear and cheek were bright with blood, and there was a streak of blood on the ground near his head.
“That’s right. Can you hold it if I use only one hand?”
Marjorie gasped “Yes,” with a terrific weight as it seemed suddenly on her wrists.
“Right O,” and the tall young man had thrust himself backwards under the plane until it rested on his back, and collared the prostrate man. “Keep it up!” he said fiercely when Marjorie threatened to give way. He seemed to assume that she was there to obey orders, and with much grunting and effort he had dragged his companion clear of the wreckage.
The man’s face was a mass of blood, and he was sickeningly inert to his companion’s lugging.
“Let it go,” said the tall young man, and Marjorie thanked heaven as the broken wing flapped down again.
She came helpfully to his side, and became aware of Daffy and her mother a few paces off. Magnet—it astonished her—was retreating hastily. But he had to go away because the sight of blood upset him—so much that it was always wiser for him to go away.
“Is he hurt?” cried Mrs. Pope.
“We both are,” said the tall young man, and then as though these other people didn’t matter and he and Marjorie were old friends, he said: “Can we turn him over?”
“I think so.” Marjorie grasped the damaged man’s shoulder and got him over skilfully.
“Will you get some water?” said the tall young man to Daffy and Mrs. Pope, in a way that sent Daffy off at once for a pail.
“He wants water,” she said to the parlourmaid who was hurrying out of the house.
The tall young man had gone down on his knees by his companion, releasing his neck, and making a hasty first examination of his condition. “The pneumatic cap must have saved his head,” he said, throwing the thing aside. “Lucky he had it. He can’t be badly hurt. Just rubbed his face along the ground. Silly thing to have come as we did.”
He felt the heart, and tried the flexibility of an arm.
“That’s all right,” he said.
He became judicial and absorbed over the problems of his friend’s side. “Um,” he remarked. He knelt back and regarded Marjorie for the first time. “Thundering smash,” he said. His face relaxed into an agreeable smile. “He only bought it last week.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Rib, I think—or two ribs perhaps. Stunned rather. All this—just his nose.”
He regarded Marjorie and Marjorie him for a brief space. He became aware of Mrs. Pope on his right hand. Then at a clank behind, he turned round to see Daphne advancing with a pail of water. The two servants were now on the spot, and the odd-job man, and the old lady who did out the church, and Magnet hovered doubtfully in the distance. Suddenly with shouts and barks of sympathetic glee the pseudo-twins, Theodore and Toupee shot out of the house. New thoughts were stirring in the young aviator. He rose, wincing a little as he did so. “I’m afraid I’m a little rude,” he said.
“I do hope your friend isn’t hurt,” said Mrs. Pope, feeling the duty of a hostess.
“He’s not hurt much—so far as I can see. Haven’t we made rather a mess of your lawn?”
“Oh, not at all!” said Mrs. Pope.
“We have. If that is your gardener over there, it would be nice if he kept back the people who seem to be hesitating beyond those trees. There will be more presently. I’m afraid I must throw myself on your hands.” He broke into a chuckle for a moment. “I have, you know. Is it possible to get a doctor? My friend’s not hurt so very much, but still he wants expert handling. He’s Sir Rupert Solomonson, from”—he jerked his head back—“over beyond Tunbridge Wells. My name’s Trafford.”
“I’m Mrs. Pope and these are my daughters.”
Trafford bowed. “We just took the thing out for a lark,” he said.
Marjorie had been regarding the prostrate man. His mouth was a little open, and he showed beautiful teeth. Apart from the dry blood upon him he was not an ill-looking man. He was manifestly a Jew, a square-rigged Jew (you have remarked of course that there are square-rigged Jews, whose noses are within bounds, and fore-and-aft Jews, whose noses aren’t), with not so much a bullet-head as a round-shot, cropped like the head of a Capuchin monkey. Suddenly she was down and had his head on her knee, with a quick movement that caught Trafford’s eye. “He’s better,” she said. “His eyelids flickered. Daffy, bring the water.”
She had felt a queer little repugnance at first with this helpless man, but now that professional nurse who lurks in the composition of so many women, was uppermost. “Give me your handkerchief,” she said to Trafford, and with Daffy kneeling beside her and also interested, and Mrs. Pope a belated but more experienced and authoritative third, Sir Rupert was soon getting the best of attention.
“Wathall…” said Sir Rupert suddenly, and tried again: “Wathall.” A third effort gave “Wathall about, eh?”
“If we could get him into the shade,” said Marjorie.
“Woosh,” cried Sir Rupert. “Weeeooo!”
“That’s all right,” said Trafford. “It’s only a rib or two.”
“Eeeeeyoooo!” said Sir Rupert.
“Exactly. We’re going to carry you out of the glare.”
“Don’t touch me,” said Sir Rupert. “Gooo.”
It took some little persuasion before Sir Rupert would consent to be moved, and even then he was for a time—oh! crusty. But presently Trafford and the two girls had got him into the shade of a large bush close to where in a circle of rugs and cushions the tea things lay prepared. There they camped. The helpful odd-job man was ordered to stave off intruders from the village; water, towels, pillows were forthcoming. Mr. Magnet reappeared as tentative assistance, and Solomonson became articulate and brave and said he’d nothing but a stitch in his side. In his present position he wasn’t at all uncomfortable. Only he didn’t want any one near him. He enforced that by an appealing smile. The twins, invited to fetch the doctor, declined, proffering Theodore. They had conceived juvenile passions for the tall young man, and did not want to leave him. He certainly had a very nice face. So Theodore after walking twice round the wreckage, tore himself away and departed on Rom’s bicycle. Enquiry centred on Solomonson for a time. His face, hair and neck were wet but no longer bloody, and he professed perfect comfort so long as he wasn’t moved, and no one came too near him. He was very clear about that though perfectly polite, and scrutinized their faces to see if they were equally clear. Satisfied upon this point he closed his eyes and spoke no more. He looked then like a Capuchin monkey lost in pride. There came a pause. Every one was conscious of having risen to an emergency and behaved well under unusual circumstances. The young man’s eye rested on the adjacent tea-things, lacking nothing but the coronation of the teapot.
“Why not,” he remarked, “have tea?”
“If you think your friend——” began Mrs. Pope.
“Oh! he’s all right. Aren’t you, Solomonson? There’s nothing more now until the doctor.”
“Only want to be left alone,” said Solomonson, and closed his heavy eyelids again.
Mrs. Pope told the maids, with an air of dismissal, to get tea.
“We can keep an eye on him,” said Trafford.
Marjorie surveyed her first patient with a pretty unconscious mixture of maternal gravity and girlish interest, and the twins to avoid too openly gloating upon the good looks of Trafford, chose places and secured cushions round the tea-things, calculating to the best of their ability how they might secure the closest proximity to him. Mr. Magnet and Toupee had gone to stare at the monoplane; they were presently joined by the odd-job man in an interrogative mood. “Pretty complete smash, sir!” said the odd-job man, and then perceiving heads over the hedge by the churchyard, turned back to his duty of sentinel. Daffy thought of the need of more cups and plates and went in to get them, and Mrs. Pope remarked that she did hope Sir Rupert was not badly hurt….
“Extraordinary all this is,” remarked Mr. Trafford. “Now, here we were after lunch, twenty miles away—smoking cigars and with no more idea of having tea with you than—I was going to say—flying. But that’s out of date now. Then we just thought we’d try the thing…. Like a dream.”
He addressed himself to Marjorie: “I never feel that life is quite real until about three days after things have happened. Never. Two hours ago I had not the slightest intention of ever flying again.”
“But haven’t you flown before?” asked Mrs. Pope.
“Not much. I did a little at Sheppey, but it’s so hard for a poor man to get his hands on a machine. And here was Solomonson, with this thing in his hangar, eating its head off. Let’s take it out,” I said, “and go once round the park. And here we are…. I thought it wasn’t wise for him to come….”
Sir Rupert, without opening his eyes, was understood to assent.
“Do you know,” said Trafford, “The sight of your tea makes me feel frightfully hungry.”
“I don’t think the engine’s damaged?” he said cheerfully, “do you?” as Magnet joined them. “The ailerons are in splinters, and the left wing’s not much better. But that’s about all except the wheels. One falls so much lighter than you might suppose—from the smash…. Lucky it didn’t turn over. Then, you know, the engine comes on the top of you, and you’re done.”
§ 3
The doctor arrived after tea, with a bag and a stethoscope in a small coffin-like box, and the Popes and Mr. Magnet withdrew while Sir Rupert was carefully sounded, tested, scrutinized, questioned, watched and examined in every way known to medical science. The outcome of the conference was presently communicated to the Popes by Mr. Trafford and the doctor. Sir Rupert was not very seriously injured, but he was suffering from concussion and shock, two of his ribs were broken and his wrist sprained, unless perhaps one of the small bones was displaced. He ought to be bandaged up and put to bed….
“Couldn’t we—” said Mrs. Pope, but the doctor assured her his own house was quite the best place. There Sir Rupert could stay for some days. At present the cross-country journey over the Downs or by the South Eastern Railway would be needlessly trying and painful. He would with the Popes’ permission lie quietly where he was for an hour or so, and then the doctor would come with a couple of men and a carrying bed he had, and take him off to his own house. There he would be, as Mr. Trafford said, “as right as ninepence,” and Mr. Trafford could put up either at the Red Lion with Mr. Magnet or in the little cottage next door to the doctor. (Mr. Trafford elected for the latter as closer to his friend.) As for the smashed aeroplane, telegrams would be sent at once to Sir Rupert’s engineers at Chesilbury, and they would have all that cleared away by mid-day to-morrow….
