by H. G. Wells
‘But most plays are written for the stage,’ said Helen, looking at the sugar.
‘I know,’ admitted Kipps.
They got through tea. ‘Well,’ said Kipps, and rose.
‘You mustn't go yet,’ said Mrs Walshingham, rising and taking his hand. ‘I'm sure you two must have heaps to say to each other;’ and so she escaped towards the door.
§ 6
Among other projects that seemed almost equally correct to Kipps at that exalted moment was one of embracing Helen with ardour so soon as the door closed behind her mother, and one of headlong flight through the open window. Then he remembered he ought to hold the door open for Mrs Walshingham, and turned from that duty to find Helen still standing, beautifully inaccessible, behind the tea-things. He closed the door and advanced towards her with his arms akimbo and his hands upon his coat skirts. Then feeling angular, he moved his right hand to his moustache. Anyhow, he was dressed all right. Somewhere at the back of his mind, dim and mingled with doubt and surprise, appeared the perception that he felt now quite differently towards her, that something between them had been blown from Lympne Keep to the four winds of heaven….
She regarded him with an eye of critical proprietorship.
‘Mother has been making up to you,’ she said, smiling slightly.
She added, ‘It was nice of you to come round to see her.’
They stood through a brief pause, as though each had expected something different in the other, and was a little perplexed at its not being there. Kipps found he was at the corner of the brown-covered table, and he picked up a little flexible book that lay upon it to occupy his mind.
‘I bought you a ring to-day,’ he said, bending the book and speaking for the sake of saying something, and then he moved to genuine speech. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I can't' ardly believe it.’
Her face relaxed slightly again. ‘No?’ she said, and may have breathed, ‘Nor I.’
‘No,’ he went on. ‘It's as though everything 'ad changed. More even than when I got that money. ‘Ere we are going to marry. It's like being someone else. What I feel is—’
He turned a flushed and earnest face to her. He seemed to come alive to her with one natural gesture. ‘I don't know things. I'm not good enough. I'm not refined. The more you see of me, the more you'll find me out.’
‘But I'm going to help you.’
‘You'll 'ave to 'elp me a fearful lot.’
She walked to the window, glanced out of it, made up her mind, turned and came towards him, with her hands clasped behind her back.
‘All these things that trouble you are very little things. If you don't mind – if you will let me tell you things—’
‘I wish you would.’
‘Then I will.’
‘They're little things to you, but they aren't to me.’
‘It all depends, if you don't mind being told.’
‘By you?’
‘I don't expect you to be told by strangers.’
‘Oo!’ said Kipps, expressing much.
‘You know, there are just a few little things— For instance, you know, you are careless with your pronunciation…. You don't mind my telling you?’
‘I like it,’ said Kipps.
‘There are aitches.’
‘I know,’ said Kipps, and then endorsingly, ‘I been told. Fact is, I know a chap, a Nacter, he's told me. He's told me, and he's going to give me a lesson or so.’
‘I'm glad of that. It only requires a little care.’
‘Of course, on the stage they got to look out. They take regular lessons.’
‘Of course,’ said Helen, a little absently.
‘I dessay I shall soon get into it,’ said Kipps.
‘And then there's dress,’ said Helen, taking up her thread again.
Kipps became pink, but he remained respectfully attentive.
‘You don't mind?’ she said.
‘Oo no.’
‘You mustn't be too – too dressy. It's possible to be over conventional, over elaborate. It makes you look like a shop… like a common well-off person. There's a sort of easiness that is better. A real gentleman looks right, without looking as though he had tried to be right.’
‘Jest as though 'e'd put on what came first?’ said the pupil, in a faded voice.
‘Not exactly that, but a sort of ease.’
Kipps nodded his head intelligently. In his heart he was kicking his silk hat about the room in an ecstasy of disappointment.
‘And you must accustom yourself to be more at your ease when you are with people,’ said Helen. ‘You've only got to forget yourself a little and not be anxious—’
‘I'll try,’ said Kipps, looking rather hard at the teapot. ‘I'll do my best to try.’
‘I know you will,’ she said; and laid a hand for an instant upon his shoulder and withdrew it.
He did not perceive her caress. ‘One has to learn,’ he said. His attention was distracted by the strenuous efforts that were going on in the back of his head to translate ‘I say, didn't you ought to name the day?’ into easy as well as elegant English, a struggle that was still undecided when the time came for them to part….
He sat for a long time at the open window of his sitting-room with an intent face, recapitulating that interview. His eyes rested at last almost reproachfully on the silk hat beside him. ‘’Ow is one to know?’ he asked. His attention was caught by a rubbed place in the nap, 12 and, still thoughtful, he rolled up his handkerchief skilfully into a soft ball and began to smooth this down.
His expression changed slowly.
‘Ow the Juice is one to know?’ he said, putting down the hat with some emphasis.
He rose up, went across the room to the sideboard, and, standing there, opened and began to read in Manners and Rules.
CHAPTER THE FOURTH
THE BICYCLE MANUFACTURER
§ 1
So Kipps embarked upon his engagement, steeled himself to the high enterprise of marrying above his breeding. The next morning found him dressing with a certain quiet severity of movement, and it seemed to his landlady's housemaid that he was unusually dignified at breakfast. He meditated profoundly over his kipper and his kidney and bacon. He was going to New Romney to tell the old people what had happened and where he stood. And the love of Helen had also given him courage to do what Buggins had once suggested to him as a thing he would do were he in Kipps' place, and that was to hire a motor-car for the afternoon. He had an early cold lunch, and then, with an air of quiet resolution, assumed a cap and coat he had purchased to this end, and, thus equipped, strolled round, blowing slightly, to the motor-shop. The transaction was unexpectedly easy, and within the hour, Kipps, spectacled and wrapped about, was tootling through Dymchurch.
They came to a stop smartly and neatly outside the little toy-shop. ‘Make that thing 'oot a bit, will you?’ said Kipps. ‘Yes. That's it.’ ‘Whup,’ said the motor-car. ‘Whurrup.’ Both his aunt and uncle came out on the pavement. ‘Why, it's Artie!’ cried his aunt; and Kipps had a moment of triumph.
He descended to hand-claspings, removed wraps and spectacles; and the motor-driver retired to take ‘an hour off.’ Old Kipps surveyed the machinery and disconcerted Kipps for a moment by asking him, in a knowing tone, what they asked him for a thing like that. The two men stood inspecting the machine and impressing the neighbours for a time, and then they strolled through the shop into the little parlour for a drink.
‘They ain't settled,’ old Kipps had said at the neighbours. ‘They ain't got no further than experiments. There's a bit of take-in about each. You take my advice and wait, me boy, even if it's a year or two before you buy one for your own use.’
(Though Kipps had said nothing of doing anything of the sort.)
‘’Ow d 'you like that whiskey I sent?’ asked Kipps, dodging the old familiar bunch of children's pails.
Old Kipps became tactful. It's very good whiskey, my boy,’ said old Kipps. ‘I' 'aven't the slightest doubt it
's a very good whiskey, and cost you a tidy price. But – dashed if it soots me! They put this here Foozle Ile 1 in it, my boy, and it ketches me jest 'ere.’ He indicated his centre of figure. ‘Gives me the heartburn,’ he said, and shook his head rather sadly.
‘It's a very good whiskey,’ said Kipps. ‘It's what the actor-manager chaps drink in London, I 'appen to know.’
‘I dessay they do, my boy,’ said old Kipps, ‘but then they've 'ad their livers burnt out – and I 'aven't. They ain't dellicat like me. My stummik always 'as been extry-dellicat. Sometimes it's almost been as though nothing would lay on it. But that's in passing. I liked those segars. You can send me some more of them segars….’
You cannot lead a conversation straight from the gastric consequences of Foozle Ile to Love, and so Kipps, after a friendly inspection of a rare old engraving after Morland 2 (perfect except for a hole kicked through the centre) that his uncle had recently purchased by private haggle, came to the topic of the old people's removal.
At the outset of Kipps' great fortunes there had been much talk of some permanent provision for them. It had been conceded they were to be provided for comfortably, and the phrase ‘retire from business' had been very much in the air. Kipps had pictured an ideal cottage with a creeper always in exuberant flower about the door, where the sun shone for ever, and the wind never blew, and a perpetual welcome hovered in the doorway. It was an agreeable dream, but when it came to the point of deciding upon this particular cottage or that, and on this particular house or that, Kipps was surprised by an unexpected clinging to the little home, which he had always understood to be the worst of all possible houses.
‘We don't want to move in a 'urry,’ said Mrs Kipps.
‘When we want to move, we want to move for life. I've had enough moving about in my time,’ said old Kipps.
‘We can do here a bit more now we done here so long,’ said Mrs Kipps.
‘You lemme look about a bit fust,’ said old Kipps.
And in looking about old Kipps found perhaps a finer joy than any mere possession could have given. He would shut his shop more or less effectually against the intrusion of customers, and toddle abroad seeking new matter for his dream; no house was too small and none too large for his knowing inquiries. Occupied houses took his fancy more than vacant ones, and he would remark, ‘You won't be a-livin' 'ere for ever, even if you think you will,’ when irate householders protested against the unsolicited examination of their more intimate premises….
Remarkable difficulties arose, of a totally unexpected sort.
‘If we 'ave a larger 'ouse,’ said Mrs Kipps, with sudden bitterness, ‘we shall want a servant, and I don't want no gells in the place larfin' at me, sniggerin' and larfin' and prancin' and trapesin', lardy da!
‘If we 'ave a smaller 'ouse,’ said Mrs Kipps, ‘there won't be room to swing a cat.’
Room to swing a cat, it seemed, was absolutely essential. It was an infrequent but indispensable operation.
‘When we do move,’ said old Kipps, ‘if we could get a bit of shootin'—’
‘I don't want to sell off all this here stock for nothin’,’ said old Kipps. ‘It's took years to 'cumulate. I put a ticket in the winder sayin' “sellin' orf,” but it ’asn't brought nothing like a roosh. One of these ’ere dratted visitors, pretendin' to want an air-gun, was all we ’ad in yesterday. Jest an excuse for spyin' round, and then go away and larf at you. Nothanky to everything, it didn't matter what…. That's 'ow I look at it, Artie.’
They pursued meandering fancies about the topic of their future settlement for a space, and Kipps became more and more hopeless of any proper conversational opening that would lead to his great announcement, and more and more uncertain how such an opening should be taken. Once, indeed, old Kipps, anxious to get away from this dangerous subject of removals, began, ‘And what are you a-doin' of in Folkestone? I shall have to come over and see you one of these days,’ but before Kipps could get in upon that, his uncle had passed into a general exposition of the proper treatment of landladies and their humbugging cheating ways, and so the opportunity vanished. It seemed to Kipps the only thing to do was to go out into the town for a stroll, compose an effectual opening at leisure, and then come back and discharge it at them in its consecutive completeness. And even out-of-doors and alone he found his mind distracted by irrelevant thoughts.
§ 2
His steps led him out of the High Street towards the church, and he leant for a time over the gate that had once been the winning-post of his race with Ann Pornick, and presently found himself in a sitting position on the top rail. He had to get things smooth again, he knew; his mind was like a mirror of water after a breeze. The image of Helen and his great future was broken and mingled into fragmentary reflections of remoter things, of the good name of Old Methuselah Three Stars, of long-dormant memories the High Street saw fit, by some trick of light and atmosphere, to arouse that afternoon….
Abruptly a fine full voice from under his elbow shouted, ‘What-o, Art!’ and behold Sid Pornick was back in his world, leaning over the gate beside him, and holding out a friendly hand.
He was oddly changed, and yet oddly like the Sid that Kipps had known. He had the old broad face and mouth, abundantly freckled, the same short nose, and the same blunt chin, the same odd suggestion of his sister Ann without a touch of her beauty; but he had quite a new voice, loud, and a little hard, and his upper lip carried a stiff and very fair moustache.
Kipps shook hands. ‘I was jest thinking of you, Sid,’ he said, ‘jest this very moment, and wondering if ever I should see you again – ever. And 'ere you are!’
‘One likes a look round at times,’ said Sid. ‘How are you, old chap?’
‘All right,’ said Kipps. ‘I just been lef’—’
‘You aren't changed much,’ interrupted Sid.
‘Ent I?’ said Kipps, foiled.
‘I knew your back directly I came round the corner. Spite of that 'at you got on. Hang it, I said, that's Art Kipps or the devil. And so it was.’
Kipps made a movement of his neck as if he would look at his back and judge. Then he looked Sid in the face. ‘You got a moustache, Sid,’ he said.
‘I s'pose you're having your holidays?’ said Sid.
‘Well, partly. But I just been lef’—’
‘I'm taking a bit of a holiday,’ Sid went on. ‘But the fact is, I have to give myself holidays nowadays. I've set up for myself.’
‘Not down here?’
‘No fear! I'm not a turnip. I've started in Hammersmith, manufacturing.’ Sid spoke offhand, as though there was no such thing as pride.
‘Not drapery?’
‘No fear! Engineer. Manufacture bicycles.’ 3 He clapped his hand to his breast pocket and produced a number of pink handbills. He handed one to Kipps, and prevented him reading it by explanations and explanatory dabs of a pointing finger. ‘That's our make – my make, to be exact – the Red Flag – see? I got a transfer with my name – Pantocrat tyres, eight pounds – yes, there – Clinchers ten, Dunlops eleven, Ladies' one pound more – that's the lady's. Best machine at a democratic price in London. No guineas and no discounts – honest trade. I build ‘em – to order. I've built,’ he reflected, looking away seaward, ‘seventeen. Counting orders in ’and….
‘Come down to look at the old place a bit,’ said Sid. ‘Mother likes it at times.’
‘Thought you'd all gone away—’
‘What! after my father's death? No! My mother's come back, and she's living at Muggett's cottages. The sea-air suits 'er. She likes the old place better than Hammersmith… and I can afford it. Got an old crony or so here…. Gossip… have tea…. S'pose you ain't married, Kipps?’
Kipps shook his head. ‘I—’ he began.
‘I am,’ said Sid. ‘Married these two years, and got a nipper. Proper little chap.’
Kipps got his word in at last. ‘I got engaged day before yesterday,’ he said.
‘Ah!’ said Sid, airily. ‘
That's all right. Who's the fortunate lady?’
Kipps tried to speak in an offhand way. He stuck his hands in his pockets as he spoke. ‘She's a solicitor's daughter,’ he said, ‘in Folkestone. Rather'r nice set. County family. Related to the Earl of Beauprés—’
‘Steady on!’ cried Sid.
‘You see, I've 'ad a bit of luck, Sid. Been lef' money.’
Sid's eye travelled instinctively to mark Kipps' garments. ‘How much?’ he asked.
‘'Bout twelve 'undred a year,’ said Kipps, more offhandedly than ever.
‘Lord!’ said Sid, with a note of positive dismay, and stepped back a pace or two.
‘My granfaver it was,’ said Kipps, trying hard to be calm and simple. ‘'Ardly knew I 'ad a granfaver. And then – bang! When o' Bean, the solicitor, told me of it, you could 'ave knocked me down—’
‘’Ow much?’ demanded Sid, with a sharp note in his voice.
‘Twelve 'undred pound a year – proximately, that is.’…
Sid's attempt at genial unenvious congratulation did not last a minute. He shook hands with an unreal heartiness, and said he was jolly glad. ‘It's a blooming stroke of Luck,’ he said.
‘It's a bloomin' stroke of Luck,’ he repeated, ‘that's what it is,’ with the smile fading from his face. ‘Of course, better you 'ave it than me, o' chap. So I don't envy you, anyhow. I couldn't keep it if I did 'ave it.’
“Ow's that?’ said Kipps, a little hipped 4 by Sid's patent chagrin.
‘I'm a Socialist, you see,’ said Sid. ‘I don't 'old with Wealth. What is Wealth? Labour robbed out of the poor. At most it's only yours in trust. Leastways, that's ‘ow I should take it.’
He reflected. ‘The Present distribution of Wealth,’ he said, and stopped.
Then he let himself go, with unmasked bitterness. ‘It's no sense at all. It's jest damn foolishness. Who's going to work and care in a muddle like this? Here first you do – something anyhow – of the world's work and it pays you hardly anything, and then it invites you to do nothing, nothing whatever, and pays you twelve hundred pounds a year. Who's going to respect laws and customs when they come to damn silliness like that?’