CHAPTER X. MR. MARVEL’S VISIT TO IPING

by H. G. Wells

Once the initial wave of panic had subsided, the village of Iping turned to debate. Skepticism emerged, a nervous kind that wasn’t entirely sure of itself, but skepticism nonetheless. It was far easier to dismiss the idea of an invisible man, especially since those who had actually witnessed him vanish or felt his strength could be counted on two hands. Among these witnesses, Mr. Wadgers was notably absent, having barricaded himself in his house, while Jaffers lay dazed in the parlor of the “Coach and Horses.”

Strange and grand ideas often have less impact on people than the smaller, more immediate concerns of everyday life. The village was adorned with bunting, and everyone was dressed for celebration. Whit Monday had been eagerly anticipated for weeks. By the afternoon, even those who believed in the Unseen began to cautiously return to their festivities, assuming he had truly left, and among the skeptics, he had already become a source of jokes. Yet, despite the tension, both skeptics and believers mingled amiably throughout the day.

Haysman’s meadow was lively with a tent where Mrs. Bunting and other ladies were busy preparing tea. Outside, the Sunday school children raced and played games under the enthusiastic supervision of the curate and the Misses Cuss and Sackbut. There was a slight unease in the atmosphere, but most people managed to hide any imaginative fears they might have had. On the village green, a strong rope inclined downwards, allowing the daring to hurl themselves against a sack at the other end, became a favorite among the teens, along with swings and coconut shies. There was also leisurely strolling, and the steam organ from a small carousel filled the air with the sharp scent of oil and lively music. Members of the local club, who had attended church that morning, wore bright pink and green badges, and some of the more flamboyant had even decorated their bowler hats with colorful ribbons.

Old Fletcher, whose idea of a holiday was rather serious, could be seen through the jasmine by his window or the open door, carefully balancing on a plank supported by two chairs as he whitewashed the ceiling of his front room.

Around four o’clock, a stranger appeared in the village, coming from the direction of the downs. He was short and stout, wearing an exceedingly shabby top hat, and seemed quite out of breath. His cheeks alternated between being slack and puffed up, and his mottled face showed signs of anxiety as he moved with a reluctant energy. He rounded the corner of the church and headed straight for the “Coach and Horses.” Old Fletcher noticed him, struck by the man’s peculiar agitation, so much so that he accidentally let whitewash drip down his brush and onto his coat sleeve while watching.

To the owner of the coconut shy, this stranger seemed to be talking to himself, a sentiment echoed by Mr. Huxter. The man paused at the bottom of the steps leading to the “Coach and Horses,” and according to Mr. Huxter, he appeared to struggle internally before finally convincing himself to enter. He climbed the steps and was seen by Mr. Huxter as he turned left and opened the door to the parlor. Voices from inside and from the bar quickly informed him of his mistake. “That room’s private!” Hall called out, prompting the stranger to awkwardly shut the door and head into the bar instead.

A few minutes later, he emerged, wiping his lips with the back of his hand, wearing a look of quiet satisfaction that struck Mr. Huxter as somewhat forced. He stood there for a moment, scanning the area, before Mr. Huxter noticed him moving in a strangely furtive manner toward the yard gates, right by the parlor window. After hesitating, the stranger leaned against one of the gateposts, pulled out a short clay pipe, and began to fill it, his fingers trembling as he did so. He lit the pipe clumsily, folded his arms, and began to smoke in a relaxed pose, a demeanor that was contradicted by his occasional wary glances up the yard.

Mr. Huxter observed all of this over the tobacco canisters at the window, intrigued by the man’s unusual behavior, which compelled him to keep watching.

The stranger stood up suddenly, shoving his pipe into his pocket before disappearing into the yard. Mr. Huxter, thinking he had just witnessed a theft, jumped over the counter and rushed out into the street to catch the thief. Just then, Mr. Marvel reappeared, his hat askew, a large bundle wrapped in a blue tablecloth in one hand and three books tied together—later discovered to be bound with the Vicar’s braces—in the other.

As soon as he spotted Huxter, he gasped and quickly turned to his left, sprinting away. “Stop, thief!” Huxter shouted, taking off after him. His heart raced as he chased the man, who was just ahead of him, darting toward the church corner and the hill road. He caught a glimpse of the village flags and festivities in the distance, and a few faces turned to watch the commotion.

“Stop!” he yelled again, but he had barely taken ten steps when something caught his shin in a strange way. Suddenly, he wasn’t running anymore; he was flying through the air at an incredible speed. The ground rushed up to meet him, and everything around him exploded into a million swirling specks of light. After that, he lost interest in what happened next.