CHAPTER XIII. MR. MARVEL DISCUSSES HIS RESIGNATION

von H. G. Wells

As dusk settled in, the small town of Iping timidly emerged from the remnants of its Bank Holiday. A short, stocky man in a worn silk hat trudged through the twilight along the road to Bramblehurst, his movements labored. He clutched three books bound together with a decorative elastic band and carried a bundle wrapped in a blue tablecloth. His flushed face showed signs of worry and exhaustion, and he seemed to be in a frantic rush.

He was not alone; a voice accompanied him, one that was not his own, and he flinched occasionally as if touched by invisible hands.

“If you try to slip away again,” the Voice warned, “if you attempt to escape me again—”

“Good Lord!” Mr. Marvel exclaimed. “My shoulder is already a mess of bruises!”

“On my honor,” the Voice replied, “I will kill you.”

“I didn’t try to escape,” Marvel said, his voice trembling on the edge of tears. “I swear I didn’t! I just didn’t know the right turn! How was I supposed to know? I’ve been tossed around enough already—”

“You’ll be tossed around a lot more if you’re not careful,” the Voice shot back, and Marvel fell silent, his cheeks puffed out in despair.

“It’s bad enough that these clueless locals might expose my little secret, without you running off with my books. It’s lucky some of them fled when they did! Here I am... No one knew I was invisible! Now what am I supposed to do?”

“What about me?” Marvel muttered under his breath.

“It’s all over the place. It’ll be in the papers! Everyone will be looking for me; everyone will be on guard—” The Voice broke off, erupting into a string of vivid curses before falling silent.

Marvel’s despair deepened, and he slowed his pace.

“Keep moving!” the Voice urged.

Marvel’s face turned a sickly gray, contrasting with the red patches on his cheeks.

“Don’t drop those books, you idiot,” the Voice snapped, catching up to him.

“The truth is,” the Voice continued, “I’m going to have to use you... You’re not the best tool, but I need you.”

“I’m a miserable tool,” Marvel replied.

“You are,” the Voice confirmed.

“I’m the worst possible tool you could have,” Marvel insisted.

“I’m not strong,” he added after a discouraging pause.

“I’m not very strong,” he repeated.

“No?”

“And my heart’s weak. I managed that little job, sure, but honestly, I could have collapsed.”

“Well?”

“I don’t have the nerve or strength for what you want.”

“I’ll give you a boost.”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I don’t want to mess up your plans. But I might—out of sheer fear and misery.”

“You’d better not,” the Voice warned firmly.

“I wish I were dead,” Marvel lamented. “It’s not fair; you have to admit... It feels like I have every right—”

“Get moving!” the Voice commanded.

Marvel quickened his pace, and they walked in silence for a while.

“It’s incredibly hard,” Marvel said.

This didn’t help. He tried a different approach.

“What do I get out of this?” he began again, his tone filled with a sense of injustice.

“Oh! Just shut up!” the Voice replied with surprising energy. “I’ll take care of you. Just do what you’re told. You’ll manage. You’re a fool, sure, but you’ll do—”

“I’m telling you, I’m not the right person for this. Respectfully—but it’s true—”

“If you don’t stop talking, I’ll twist your wrist again,” the Invisible Man threatened. “I need to think.”

Soon, two rectangles of yellow light appeared through the trees, and the silhouette of a church tower emerged from the gathering darkness. “I’ll keep my hand on your shoulder,” the Voice said, “as we pass through the village. Just go straight through and don’t try anything foolish. It’ll be worse for you if you do.”

“I know that,” Marvel sighed. “I know all that.”

The unfortunate figure in the outdated silk hat moved up the village street, burdened by his loads, before disappearing into the deepening shadows beyond the glow of the windows.