KIPPS Read online

  “A ’ouse on the leas. I could have gone there. Only I didn’t. I didn’t care to. I didn’t know what to say. I wanted to come and tell you.”

  “How d’yer know the ’ouse—?”

  “They told me.”

  “Well,” said Old Kipps, and nodded his head portentously towards his nephew, with the corners of his mouth pulled down in a portentous, discouraging way. “Well, you are a young Gaby.”

  “I didn’t think it of you, Artie!” said Mrs. Kipps.

  “Wadjer mean?” asked Kipps faintly, looking from one to the other with a withered face.

  Old Kipps closed the shop door. “They been havin’ a lark with you,” said Old Kipps in a mournful undertone. “That’s what I mean, my boy. They just been seein’ what a Gaby like you’ud do.”

  “I dessay that young Quodling was in it,” said Mrs. Kipps. “’E’s just that sort.”

  (For Quodling of the green baize bag had grown up to be a fearful dog, the terror of New Romney.)

  “It’s somebody after your place very likely,” said Old Kipps.

  Kipps looked from one sceptical, reproving face to the other, and round him at the familiar shabby, little room, with his familiar cheap portmanteau on the mended chair, and that banjo amidst the supper things like some irrevocable deed. Could he be rich indeed? Could it be that these things had really happened? Or had some insane fancy whirled him hither?

  Still—perhaps a hundred pounds—

  “But,” he said. “It’s all right, really, Uncle. You don’t think—? I ’ad a letter.”

  “Got up,” said Old Kipps.

  “But I answered it and went to a norfis.”

  Old Kipps felt staggered for a moment, but he shook his head and chins sagely from side to side. As the memory of Old Bean and Shalford revived, the confidence of Kipps came back to him.

  “I saw a nold gent, Uncle—perfect gentleman. And ’e told me all about it. Mos’ respectable ’e was. Said ’is name was Watson and Bean—leastways ’e was Bean. Said it was lef’ me—” Kipps suddenly dived into his breast pocket. “By my Grandfather—”

  The old people started.

  Old Kipps uttered an exclamation and wheeled round towards the mantelshelf above which the daguerreotype of his lost younger sister smiled its fading smile upon the world.

  “Waddy ’is name was,” said Kipps, with his hand still deep in his pocket. “It was ’is son was my father—”

  “Waddy!” said Old Kipps.

  “Waddy!” said Mrs. Kipps.

  “She’d never say,” said Old Kipps.

  There was a long silence.

  Kipps fumbled with a letter, a crumpled advertisement and three banknotes. He hesitated between these items.

  “Why! That young chap what was arsting questions—” said Old Kipps, and regarded his wife with an eye of amazement.

  “Must ’ave been,” said Mrs. Kipps.

  “Must ’ave been,” said Old Kipps.

  “James,” said Mrs. Kipps, in an awestricken voice, “after all—perhaps—it’s true!”

  “’Ow much did you say?” asked Old Kipps. “’Ow much did you say ’e’d lef’ you, me b’y?”

  It was thrilling, though not quite in the way Kipps had expected. He answered almost meekly across the meagre supper things, with his documentary evidence in his hand:

  “Twelve ’undred pounds. ’Proximately, he said. Twelve ’undred pounds a year. ’E made ’is will, just before ’e died—not more’n a month ago. When ’e was dying, ’e seemed to change like, Mr. Bean said. ’E’d never forgiven ’is son, never—not till then. ’Is son ’ad died in Australia, years and years ago, and then ’e ’adn’t forgiven ’im. You know—’is son what was my father. But just when ’e was ill and dying ’e seemed to get worried like and longing for someone of ’is own. And ’e told Mr. Bean it was ’im that had prevented them marrying. So ’e thought. That’s ’ow it all come about …”

  6

  At last Kipps’ flaring candle went up the narrow uncarpeted staircase to the little attic that had been his shelter and refuge during all the days of his childhood and youth. His head was whirling. He had been advised, he had been warned, he had been flattered and congratulated, he had been given whiskey and hot water and lemon and sugar, and his health had been drunk in the same. He had also eaten two Welsh rarebits—an unusual supper. His uncle was chiefly for his going into Parliament, his aunt was consumed with a great anxiety. “I’m afraid he’ll go and marry beneath him.”

  “Y’ought to ’ave a bit o’ shootin’ somewhere,” said Old Kipps.

  “It’s your duty to marry into a county family, Artie. Remember that.”

  “There’s lots of young noblemen’ll be glad to ’eng on to you,” said Old Kipps. “You mark my words. And borrow your money. And then, good day to ye.”

  “I got to be precious careful,” said Kipps. “Mr. Bean said that.”

  “And you got to be precious careful of this Old Bean,” said Old Kipps. “We may be out of the world in Noo Romney, but I’ve ’eard a bit about solicitors, for all that. You keep your eye on Old Bean, me b’y.

  “’Ow do we know what ’e’s up to, with your money, even now?” said Old Kipps, pursuing this uncomfortable topic.

  “’E looked very respectable,” said Kipps.

  Kipps undressed with great deliberation, and with vast gaps of pensive margin. Twenty-six thousand pounds!

  His aunt’s solicitude had brought back certain matters into the foreground that his “Twelve ’undred a year!” had for a time driven away altogether. His thoughts went back to the wood carving class. Twelve hundred a year. He sat on the edge of the bed in profound meditation, and his boots fell “whop” and “whop” upon the floor, with a long interval between each “whop.” Twenty-five thousand pounds. “By gum!” He dropped the remainder of his costume about him on the floor, got into bed, pulled the patchwork quilt over him, and put his head on the pillow that had been first to hear of Ann Pornick’s accession to his heart. But he did not think of Ann Pornick now.

  It was about everything in the world except Ann Pornick that he seemed to be trying to think of—simultaneously. All the vivid happenings of the day came and went in his overtaxed brain; “that Old Bean” explaining and explaining, the fat man who wouldn’t believe, an overpowering smell of peppermint, the banjo, Miss Mergle saying he deserved it, Chitterlow’s vanishing round a corner, the wisdom and advice and warnings of his aunt and uncle. She was afraid he would marry beneath him, was she? She didn’t know …

  His brain made an excursion into the wood carving class and presented Kipps with the picture of himself amazing that class by a modest yet clearly audible remark, “I been left twenty-six thousand pounds.” Then he told them all quietly but firmly that he had always loved Miss Walshingham, always, and so he had brought all his twenty-six thousand pounds with him to give to her there and then. He wanted nothing in return … Yes, he wanted nothing in return. He would give it to her all in an envelope and go. Of course, he would keep the banjo—and a little present for his aunt and uncle—and a new suit perhaps—and one or two other things she would not miss. He went off at a tangent. He might buy a motor car; he might buy one of these here things that will play you a piano—that would make old Buggins sit up! He could pretend he had learnt to play—he might buy a bicycle and a cyclist suit …

  A terrific multitude of plans of what he might do, and in particular of what he might buy, came crowding into his brain, and he did not so much fall asleep as pass into a disorder of dreams in which he was driving a four-horse Tip-Top coach down Sandgate Hill (“I shall have to be precious careful”), wearing innumerable suits of clothes, and through some terrible accident wearing them all wrong. Consequently, he was being laughed at. The coach vanished in the interest of the costume. He was wearing golfing suits and a silk hat. This passed into a nightmare that he was promenading on the leas in a Highland costume, with a kilt that kept shrinking, and Shalford was following him with t
hree policemen. “He’s my assistant,” Shalford kept repeating; “he’s escaped. He’s an escaped improver. Keep by him, and in a minute you’ll have to run him in. I know ’em. We say they wash, but they won’t …” He could feel the kilt creeping up his legs. He would have tugged at it to pull it down only his arms were paralyzed. He had an impression of giddy crisis. He uttered a shriek of despair. “Now!” said Shalford. He woke in horror; his quilt had slipped off the bed.

  He had a fancy he had just been called, that he had somehow overslept himself and missed going down for dusting. Then he perceived it was still night and light by reason of the moonlight, and that he was no longer in the Emporium. He wondered where he could be. He had a curious fancy that the world had been swept and rolled up like a carpet and that he was nowhere. It occurred to him that perhaps he was mad. “Buggins!” he said. There was no answer, not even the defensive snore. No room, no Buggins, nothing!

  Then he remembered better. He sat on the edge of his bed for some time. Could anyone have seen his face, they would have seen it white and drawn with staring eyes. Then he groaned weakly. “Twenty-six thousand pounds?” he whispered.

  Just then, it presented itself in an almost horribly overwhelming mass.

  He remade his bed and returned to it. He was still dreadfully wakeful. It was suddenly clear to him that he need never trouble to get up punctually at seven again. That fact shone out upon him like a star through clouds. He was free to lie in bed as long as he liked, get up when he liked, go where he liked, have eggs every morning for breakfast or rashers or bloater paste or … Also, he was going to astonish Miss Walshingham …

  Astonish her and astonish her …

  7

  He was awakened by a thrush singing in the fresh dawn. The whole room was flooded with warm, golden sunshine. “I say!” said the thrush. “I say! I say! Twelve ’undred a year! Twelve ’Undred a ear. Twelve ’UNDRED a year! I say! I say! I say!”

  He sat up in bed and rubbed the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles. Then he jumped out of bed and began dressing very eagerly. He did not want to lose any time in beginning the new life.

  Book II

  Mr. Coote the Chaperson

  Chapter the First

  The New Conditions

  There comes a gentlemanly figure into these events, and for a space takes a leading part therein, a Good Influence, a refined and amiable figure, Mr. Chester Coote. You must figure him as about to enter our story, walking with a curious rectitude of bearing through the evening dusk towards the public library, erect, large-headed—he had a great, big head full of the suggestion of a powerful mind, well under control—with a large, official-looking envelope in his white and knuckly hand. In the other, he carries a gold-handled cane. He wears a silken grey jacket suit, buttoned-up, and anon he coughs behind the official envelope. He has a prominent nose, slaty grey eyes, and a certain heaviness about the mouth. His mouth hangs breathing open, with a slight protrusion of the lower jaw. His straw hat is pulled down a little in front, and he looks each person he passes in the eye, and directly his look is answered looks away.

  Thus Mr. Chester Coote, as he was on the evening when he came upon Kipps. He was a local house agent and a most active and gentlemanly person, a conscious gentleman, equally aware of society and the serious side of life. From amateur theatricals of a nice, refined sort to science classes, few things were able to get along without him. He supplied a fine, full bass, a little flat and quavery perhaps, but very abundant, to the St. Stylites’ choir …

  He passes on towards the public library, lifts the envelope in salutation to a passing curate, smiles, and enters …

  It was in the public library that he came upon Kipps. By that time, Kipps had been rich a week or more, and the change in his circumstances was visible upon his person. He was wearing a new suit of drab flannels, a Panama hat, and a red tie for the first time, and he carried a silver-mounted stick with a tortoiseshell handle. He felt extraordinarily different, perhaps more different than he really was, from the meek improver of a week ago. He felt as he felt Dukes must feel, yet at bottom, he was still modest. He was leaning on his stick and regarding the indicator with a respect that never palled. He faced round to meet Mr. Coote’s overflowing smile.

  “What are you doang hea’?” said Mr. Chester Coote.

  Kipps was momentarily abashed. “Oh,” he said slowly, and then, “Mooching round a bit.”

  That Coote should address him with this easy familiarity was a fresh reminder of his enhanced social position. “Jes’ mooching round,” he said. “I been back in Folkestone free days now. At my ’ouse, you know.”

  “Ah!” said Mr. Coote. “I haven’t yet had an opportunity of congratulating you on your good fortune.”

  Kipps held out his hand. “It was the cleanest surprise that ever was,” he said. “When Mr. Bean told me of it—you could have knocked me down with a feather.”

  “It must mean a tremendous change for you.”

  “Oo. Rather. Change? Why I’m like the chap in the song they sing, I don’t ’ardly know where I are. You know.”

  “An extraordinary change,” said Mr. Coote. “I can quite believe it. Are you stopping in Folkestone?”

  “For a bit. I got a ’ouse, you know. What my grandfather ’ad. I’m stopping there. His housekeeper was kep’ on. Fancy—being in the same town and everything!”

  “Precisely,” said Mr. Coote. “That’s it!” and coughed like a sheep behind four straight fingers.

  “Mr. Bean got me to come back to see to things. Else I was out in New Romney, where my uncle and aunt live. But it’s a lark coming back. In a way …”

  The conversation hung for a moment.

  “Are you getting a book?” asked Coote.

  “Well, I ’aven’t got a ticket yet. But I shall get one all right, and have a go in at reading. I’ve often wanted to. Rather. I was just ’aving a look at this indicator. First-class idea. Tells you all you want to know.”

  “It’s simple,” said Coote, and coughed again, keeping his eyes fixed on Kipps. For a moment they hung, evidently disinclined to part. Then Kipps jumped at an idea he had cherished for a day or more—not particularly in relation to Coote, but in relation to anyone.

  “You doing anything?” he asked.

  “Just called with a papah about the classes.”

  “Because—Would you care to come up and look at my ’ouse and ’ave a smoke and a chat. Eh?” He made indicative back jerks of the head and was smitten with a horrible doubt whether possibly this invitation might not be some hideous breach of etiquette. Was it, for example, the correct hour? “I’d be awfully glad if you would,” he added.

  Mr. Coote begged for a moment while he handed the official-looking envelope to the librarian and then declared himself quite at Kipps’ service. They muddled a moment over precedence at each door they went through and so emerged to the street.

  “It feels awful rum to me at first, all this,” said Kipps, “’Aving a ’ouse of my own and all that. It’s strange, you know. ’Aving all day. Really I don’t ’ardly know what to do with my time.

  “D’ju smoke?” he said suddenly, proffering a magnificent gold decorated pigskin cigarette case, which he produced from nothing, almost as though it was some sort of trick. Coote hesitated and declined, and then, with great liberality, “Don’t let me hinder you …”

  They walked a little way in silence, Kipps being chiefly concerned to affect ease in his new clothes and keeping a wary eye on Coote. “It’s rather a big windfall,” said Coote presently. “It yields you an income—?”

  “Twelve ’undred a year,” said Kipps. “Bit over—if anything.”

  “Do you think of living in Folkestone?”

  “Don’t know ’ardly yet. I may. Then again, I may not. I got a furnished ’ouse, but I may let it.”

  “Your plans are undecided?”

  “That’s just it,” said Kipps.

  “Very beautiful sunset it was tonight,” said Coote
, and Kipps said, “Wasn’t it?” and they began to talk of the merits of sunsets. Did Kipps paint? Not since he was a boy. He didn’t believe he could now. Coote said his sister was a painter, and Kipps received this intimation with respect. Coote sometimes wished he could find time to paint himself—but one couldn’t do everything, and Kipps said that was “just it.”

  They came out presently upon the end of the leas and looked down to where the squat dark masses of the Harbor and Harbor Station, gemmed with pinpoint lights, crouched against the twilit grey of the sea. “If one could do that,” said Coote, and Kipps was inspired to throw his head back, cock it on one side, regard the Harbor with one eye shut and say that it would take some doing. Then Coote said something about “Abend,” which Kipps judged to be in a foreign language and got over by lighting another cigarette from his by no means completed first one. “You’re right—puff, puff.”

  He felt that so far he had held up his end of the conversation in a very creditable manner, but that extreme discretion was advisable.

  They turned away, and Coote remarked that the sea was good for crossing, and asked Kipps if he had been over the water very much. Kipps said he hadn’t been—“much,” but he thought very likely he’d have a run over to Boulogne soon, and Coote proceeded to talk of the charms of foreign travel, mentioning quite a number of unheard-of places by name. He had been to them! Kipps remained on the defensive, but behind his defenses, his heart sank. It was all very well to pretend, but presently it was bound to come out. He didn’t know anything of all this …

  So they drew near the house. At his own gate, Kipps became extremely nervous. It was a fine, impressive door. He knocked neither a single knock nor a double, but about one and a half—an apologetic half. They were admitted by an irreproachable housemaid, with a steady eye, before which Kipps cringed dreadfully. He hung up his hat and fell about over hall chairs and things. “There’s a fire in the study, Mary?” he had the audacity to ask, though evidently he knew, and led the way upstairs panting. He tried to shut the door and discovered the housemaid behind him coming to light his lamp. This enfeebled him further. He said nothing until the door closed behind her. Meanwhile, to show his sangfroid, he hummed and flitted towards the window, and here and there.