The War of the Worlds by H.G. Wells Page B

arrival of the curate, so that probably I dozed. I became aware of him as a seated figure in soot-smudged shirt sleeves, and with his upturned, clean-shaven face staring at a faint flickering that danced over the sky. The sky was what is called a mackerel sky—rows and rows of faint down-plumes of cloud, just tinted with the midsummer sunset.
    I sat up, and at the rustle of my motion he looked at me quickly.
    “Have you any water?” I asked abruptly.
    He shook his head.
    “You have been asking for water for the last hour,” he said.
    For a moment we were silent, taking stock of each other. I dare say he found me a strange enough figure, naked, save for my water-soaked trousers and socks, scalded, and my face and shoulders blackened by the smoke. His face was a fair weakness, his chin retreated, and his hair lay in crisp, almost flaxen curls on his low forehead; his eyes were rather large, pale blue, andblankly staring. He spoke abruptly, looking vacantly away from me.
    “What does it mean?” he said. “What do these things mean?”
    I stared at him and made no answer.
    He extended a thin white hand and spoke in almost a complaining tone.
    “Why are these things permitted? What sins have we done? The morning service was over, I was walking through the roads to clear my brain for the afternoon, and then—fire, earthquake, death! As if it were Sodom and Gomorrah! 2 All our work undone, all the work—What are these Martians?”
    “What are we?” I answered, clearing my throat.
    He gripped his knees and turned to look at me again. For half a minute, perhaps, he stared silently.
    “I was walking through the roads to clear my brain,” he said. “And suddenly—fire, earthquake, death!”
    He relapsed into silence, with his chin now sunken almost to his knees.
    Presently he began waving his hand.
    “All the work—all the Sunday schools—What have we done—what has Weybridge done? Everything gone—everything destroyed. The church! We rebuilt it only three years ago. Gone! Swept out of existence! Why?”
    Another pause, and he broke out again like one demented.
    “The smoke of her burning goeth up for ever and ever!” 3 he shouted.
    His eyes flamed, and he pointed a lean finger in the direction of Weybridge.
    By this time I was beginning to take his measure. The tremendous tragedy in which he had been involved—it was evident he was a fugitive from Weybridge—had driven him to the very verge of his reason.
    “Are we far from Sunbury?” I said, in a matter-of-fact tone.
    “What are we to do?” he asked. “Are these creatures everywhere? Has the earth been given over to them?”
    “Are we far from Sunbury?”
    “Only this morning I officiated at early celebration—”
    “Things have changed,” I said, quietly. “You must keep your head. There is still hope.”
    “Hope!”
    “Yes. Plentiful hope—for all this destruction!”
    I began to explain my view of our position. He listened at first, but as I went on the interest dawning in his eyes gave place to their former stare, and his regard wandered from me.
    “This must be the beginning of the end,” he said, interrupting me. “The end! The great and terrible day of the Lord! When men shall call upon the mountains and the rocks to fall upon them and hide them—hide them from the face of Him that sitteth upon the throne!”
    I began to understand the position. I ceased my laboured reasoning, struggled to my feet, and, standing over him, laid my hand on his shoulder.
    “Be a man!” said I. “You are scared out of your wits! What good is religion if it collapses under calamity? Think of what earthquakes and floods, wars and volcanoes, have done before to men! Did you think God had exempted Weybridge? He is not an insurance agent.”
    For a time he sat in blank silence.
    “But how can we escape?” he asked, suddenly. “They are invulnerable, they are pitiless.”
    “Neither the one nor, perhaps, the other,” I answered. “And the mightier they