After the first gusty panic had spent itself Iping became
argumentative. Scepticism suddenly reared its head rather nervous
scepticism, not at all assured of its back, but scepticism nevertheless.
It is so much easier not to believe in an invisible man; and those who had
actually seen him dissolve into air, or felt the strength of his arm, could be
counted on the fingers of two hands. And of these witnesses Mr. Wadgers
was presently missing, having retired impregnably behind the bolts and bars of
his own house, and Jaffers was lying stunned in the parlour of the “Coach and
Horses.” Great and strange ideas transcending experience often have less
effect upon men and women than smaller, more tangible considerations.
Iping was gay with bunting, and everybody was in gala dress. Whit Monday
had been looked forward to for a month or more. By the afternoon even
those who believed in the Unseen were beginning to resume their little
amusements in a tentative fashion, on the supposition that he had quite gone
away, and with the sceptics he was already a jest. But people, sceptics
and believers alike, were remarkably sociable all that day.
Haysman’s meadow was gay with a tent, in which Mrs. Bunting
and other ladies were preparing tea, while, without, the Sunday-school children
ran races and played games under the noisy guidance of the curate and the
Misses Cuss and Sackbut. No doubt there was a slight uneasiness in the
air, but people for the most part had the sense to conceal whatever imaginative
qualms they experienced. On the village green an inclined strong [word
missing?], down which, clinging the while to a pulley-swung handle, one could
be hurled violently against a sack at the other end, came in for considerable
favour among the adolescent, as also did the swings and the cocoanut
shies. There was also promenading, and the steam organ attached to a
small roundabout filled the air with a pungent flavour of oil and with equally
pungent music. Members of the club, who had attended church in the
morning, were splendid in badges of pink and green, and some of the
gayer-minded had also adorned their bowler hats with brilliant-coloured favours
of ribbon. Old Fletcher, whose conceptions of holiday-making were severe,
was visible through the jasmine about his window or through the open door
(whichever way you chose to look), poised delicately on a plank supported on
two chairs, and whitewashing the ceiling of his front room.
About four o’clock a stranger entered the village from the
direction of the downs. He was a short, stout person in an
extraordinarily shabby top hat, and he appeared to be very much out of
breath. His cheeks were alternately limp and tightly puffed. His
mottled face was apprehensive, and he moved with a sort of reluctant
alacrity. He turned the corner of the church, and directed his way to the
“Coach and Horses.” Among others old Fletcher remembers seeing him, and
indeed the old gentleman was so struck by his peculiar agitation that he inadvertently
allowed a quantity of whitewash to run down the brush into the sleeve of his
coat while regarding him.
This stranger, to the perceptions of the proprietor of the
cocoanut shy, appeared to be talking to himself, and Mr. Huxter remarked the
same thing. He stopped at the foot of the “Coach and Horses” steps, and,
according to Mr. Huxter, appeared to undergo a severe internal struggle before
he could induce himself to enter the house. Finally he marched up the
steps, and was seen by Mr. Huxter to turn to the left and open the door of the
parlour. Mr. Huxter heard voices from within the room and from the bar
apprising the man of his error. “That room’s private!” said Hall, and the
stranger shut the door clumsily and went into the bar.
In the course of a few minutes he reappeared, wiping his
lips with the back of his hand with an air of quiet satisfaction that somehow
impressed Mr. Huxter as assumed. He stood looking about him for some
moments, and then Mr. Huxter saw him walk in an oddly furtive manner towards
the gates of the yard, upon which the parlour window opened. The
stranger, after some hesitation, leant against one of the gate-posts, produced
a short clay pipe, and prepared to fill it. His fingers trembled while
doing so. He lit it clumsily, and folding his arms began to smoke in a
languid attitude, an attitude which his occasional glances up the yard
altogether belied.
All this Mr. Huxter saw over the canisters of the tobacco
window, and the singularity of the man’s behaviour prompted him to maintain his
observation.
Presently the stranger stood up abruptly and put his pipe in
his pocket. Then he vanished into the yard. Forthwith Mr. Huxter,
conceiving he was witness of some petty larceny, leapt round his counter and
ran out into the road to intercept the thief. As he did so, Mr. Marvel
reappeared, his hat askew, a big bundle in a blue table-cloth in one hand, and
three books tied together as it proved afterwards with the Vicar’s braces in
the other. Directly he saw Huxter he gave a sort of gasp, and turning
sharply to the left, began to run. “Stop, thief!” cried Huxter, and set
off after him. Mr. Huxter’s sensations were vivid but brief. He saw
the man just before him and spurting briskly for the church corner and the hill
road. He saw the village flags and festivities beyond, and a face or so
turned towards him. He bawled, “Stop!” again. He had hardly gone
ten strides before his shin was caught in some mysterious fashion, and he was
no longer running, but flying with inconceivable rapidity through the
air. He saw the ground suddenly close to his face. The world seemed
to splash into a million whirling specks of light, and subsequent proceedings
interested him no more.
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