KIPPS

by WordFire Press

  The costume Kipps wore to the Anagram Tea was designed as a compromise between the strict letter of high fashion and seaside laxity, a sort of easy, semi-state for afternoon. Helen’s first reproof had always lingered in his mind. He wore a frock coat, but mitigated it by a Panama hat of romantic shape with a black band, grey gloves, but for relaxation brown button boots. The only other man besides the clergy present, a new doctor with an attractive wife, was in full afternoon dress. Coote was not there.

  Kipps was a little pale, but quite self-possessed, as he approached Mrs. Bindon Botting’s door. He took a turn while some people went in and then faced it manfully. The door opened and revealed—Ann!

  In the background, through a draped doorway behind a big fern in a great art pot, the elder Miss Botting was visible talking to two guests; the auditory background was a froth of feminine voices …

  Our two young people were much too amazed to give one another any formula of greeting, though they had parted warmly enough. Each was already in a state of extreme tension to meet the demands of this great and unprecedented occasion of an Anagram Tea. “Lor’!” said Ann, her sole remark, and then the sense of Miss Botting’s eye ruled her straight again. She became very pale, but she took his hat mechanically, and he was already removing his gloves. “Ann,” he said in a low tone, and then “Fency!”

  The eldest Miss Botting knew Kipps was the sort of guest who requires nursing, and she came forward vocalizing charm. She said it was “Awfully jolly of him to come, awfully jolly. It was awfully difficult to get any good men!”

  She handed Kipps forward, mumbling in a dazed condition, to the drawing room, and there he encountered Helen looking unfamiliar in an unfamiliar hat. It was as if he had not met her for years.

  She astonished him. She didn’t seem to mind in the least his going to London. She held out a shapely hand, and smiled encouragingly. “You’ve faced the anagrams?” he said.

  The second Miss Botting accosted them, a number of oblong pieces of paper in her hand, mysteriously inscribed. “Take an anagram,” she said; “take an anagram,” and boldly pinned one of these brief documents to Kipps’ lapel. The letters were “Cypshi,” and Kipps from the very beginning suspected this was an anagram for Cuyps. She also left a thing like a long dance program, from which dangled a little pencil in his hand. He found himself being introduced to people, and then he was in a corner with the short lady in a big bonnet, who was pelting him with gritty little bits of small talk that were gone before you could take hold of them and reply.

  “Very hot,” said this lady. “Very hot, indeed—hot all the summer—remarkable year—all the years remarkable now—don’t know what we’re coming to—don’t you think so, Mr. Kipps?”

  “Oo, rather,” said Kipps, and wondered if Ann was still in the hall. Ann!

  He ought not to have stared at her like a stuck fish and pretended not to know her. That couldn’t be right. But what was right?

  The lady in the big bonnet proceeded to a second discharge. “Hope you’re fond of anagrams, Mr. Kipps—difficult exercise—still one must do something to bring people together—better than Ludo anyhow. Don’t you think so, Mr. Kipps?”

  Ann fluttered past the open door. Her eyes met his in amazed enquiry. Something had got dislocated in the world for both of them …

  He ought to have told her he was engaged. He ought to have explained things to her. Perhaps even now he might be able to drop her a hint.

  “Don’t you think so, Mr. Kipps?”

  “Oo, rather,” said Kipps for the third time.

  A lady with a tired smile, who was labelled conspicuously “Wogdelenk,” drifted towards Kipps’ interlocutor and the two fell into conversation. Kipps found himself socially aground. He looked about him. Helen was talking to a curate and laughing. Kipps was overcome by a vague desire to speak to Ann. He was for sidling doorward.

  “What are you, please?” said an extraordinarily bold, tall girl, and arrested him while she took down “Cypshi.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what it means,” she explained. “I’m Sir Bubh. Don’t you think anagrams are something chronic?”

  Kipps made stockish noises, and the young lady suddenly became the nucleus of a party of excited friends who were forming a syndicate to guess, and barred his escape. She took no further notice of him. He found himself jammed against an occasional table and listening to the conversation of Mrs. “Wogdelenk” and his lady with the big bonnet.

  “She packed her two beauties off together,” said the lady in the big bonnet.

  “Time enough, too. Don’t think much of this girl she’s got as housemaid now. Pretty, of course, but there’s no occasion for a housemaid to be pretty—none whatever. And she doesn’t look particularly up to her work either. Kind of ’mazed expression.”

  “You never can tell,” said the lady labelled “Wogdelenk;” “you never can tell. My wretches are big enough, Heaven knows, and do they work? Not a bit of it!” …

  Kipps felt dreadfully out of it with regard to all these people, and dreadfully in it with Ann.

  He scanned the back of the big bonnet and concluded it was an extremely ugly bonnet indeed. It got jerking forward as each short, dry sentence was snapped off at the end and a plume of osprey on it jerked excessively. “She hasn’t guessed even one!” followed by a shriek of girlish merriment, came from the group about the tall, bold girl. They’d shriek at him presently, perhaps. Beyond thinking his own anagram might be Cuyps, he hadn’t a notion. What a chatter they were all making! It was just like a summer sale! Just the sort of people who’d give a lot of trouble and swap you! And suddenly the smoldering fires of rebellion leapt to flame again. These were a rotten lot of people, and the anagrams were rotten nonsense, and he, Kipps, had been a rotten fool to come. There was Helen away there, still laughing, with her curate. Pity she couldn’t marry a curate and leave him (Kipps) alone! Then he’d know what to do. He disliked the whole gathering collectively and in detail. Why were they all trying to make him one of themselves? He perceived unexpected ugliness everywhere about him. There were two great pins jabbed through the tall girl’s hat, and the swirls of her hair below the brim with the minutest piece of tape tie-up showing did not repay close examination. Mrs. “Wogdelenk” wore a sort of mumps bandage of lace, and there was another lady perfectly dazzling with beads and jewels and bits of trimming. They were all flaps and angles and flounces—these women. Not one of them looked as neat and decent a shape as Ann’s clean, trim little figure. Echoes of Masterman woke up in him again. Ladies indeed! Here were all these chattering people, with money, with leisure, with every chance in the world, and all they could do was to crowd like this into a couple of rooms and jabber nonsense about anagrams.

  “Could Cypshi really mean Cuyps?” floated like a dissolving wreath of mist across his mind.

  Abruptly resolution stood armed in his heart. He was going to get out of this!

  “’Scuse me,” he said, and began to wade neck deep through the bubbling tea party.

  He was going to get out of it all!

  He found himself close by Helen. “I’m orf,” he said, but she gave him the briefest glance. She did not appear to hear him. “Still, Mr. Spratlingdown, you must admit there’s a limit even to conformity,” she was saying …

  He was in a curtained archway, and Ann was before him carrying a tray supporting several small sugar bowls.

  He was moved to speech. “What a lot!” he said, and then mysteriously, “I’m engaged to her.” He indicated Helen’s new hat, and became aware of a skirt he had stepped upon.

  Ann stared at him helplessly, borne past in the grip of incomprehensible imperatives.

  Why shouldn’t they talk together?

  He was in a small room, and then at the foot of the staircase in the hall. He heard the rustle of a dress, and what was conceivable his hostess was upon him.

  “But you’re not going, Mr. Kipps?” she said.

  “I must,” he said; “I got to.”


  “But, Mr. Kipps!”

  “I must,” he said. “I’m not well.”

  “But before the guessing! Without any tea!”

  Ann appeared and hovered behind him.

  “I got to go,” said Kipps.

  If he parleyed with her Helen might awake to his desperate attempt.

  “Of course, if you must go.”

  “It’s something I’ve forgotten,” said Kipps, beginning to feel regrets. “Really I must.”

  Mrs. Botting turned with a certain offended dignity, and Ann in a state of flushed calm that evidently concealed much came forward to open the door.

  “I’m very sorry,” he said; “I’m very sorry,” half to his hostess and half to her, and was swept past her by superior social forces—like a drowning man in a mill race—and into the Upper Sandgate Road. He half turned upon the step, and then slam went the door …

  He retreated along the Leas, a thing of shame and perplexity—Mrs. Botting’s aggrieved astonishment uppermost in his mind …

  Something—reinforced by the glances of the people he was passing—pressed its way to his attention through the tumultuous disorder of his mind.

  He became aware that he was still wearing his little placard with the letters “Cypshi.”

  “Desh it!” he said, clutching off this abomination. In another moment its several letters, their task accomplished, were scattering gleefully before the breeze down the front of the Leas.

  2

  Kipps was dressed for Mrs. Wace’s dinner half an hour before it was time to start, and he sat waiting until Coote should come to take him around. Manners and Rules of Good Society lay before him neglected. He had read the polished prose of the Member of the Aristocracy, on page 96, as far as—

  “the acceptance of an invitation is, in the eyes of diners out, a binding obligation which only ill-health, family bereavement, or some all-important reason justifies its being set on one side or otherwise evaded”

  — and then he had lapsed into gloomy thoughts.

  That afternoon he had had a serious talk with Helen.

  He had tried to express something of the change of heart that had happened to him. But to broach the real state of the matter had been altogether too terrible for him. He had sought a minor issue. “I don’t like all this ‘Seciety’,” he had said.

  “But you must see people,” said Helen.

  “Yes, but—It’s the sort of people you see.” He nerved himself. “I didn’t think much of that lot at the Enegram Tea.”

  “You have to see all sorts of people if you want to see the world,” said Helen.

  Kipps was silent for a space and a little short of breath.

  “My dear Arthur,” she began, almost kindly, “I shouldn’t ask you to go to these affairs if I didn’t think it good for you, should I?”

  Kipps acquiesced in silence.

  “You will find the benefit of it all when we get to London. You learn to swim in a tank before you go out into the sea. These people here are good enough to learn upon. They’re stiff and rather silly and dreadfully narrow and not an idea in a dozen of them, but it really doesn’t matter at all. You’ll soon get Savoir Faire.”

  He made to speak again, and found his powers of verbal expression lacking. Instead he blew a sigh.

  “You’ll get used to it all very soon,” said Helen helpfully …

  As he sat meditating over that interview and over the vistas of London that opened before him, on the little flat, and teas and occasions and the constant presence of Brudderkins and all the bright prospect of his new and better life, and how he would never see Ann anymore, the housemaid entered with a little package, a small, square envelope to “Arthur Kipps, Esquire.”

  “A young woman left this, Sir,” said the housemaid, a little severely.

  “Eh?” said Kipps; “what young woman?” and then suddenly began to understand.

  “She looked an ordinary young woman,” said the housemaid coldly.

  “Ah!” said Kipps. “That’s orlright.”

  He waited till the door had closed behind the girl, staring at the envelope in his hand, and then, with a curious feeling of increasing tension, tore it open. As he did so, some quicker sense than sight or touch told him its contents. It was Ann’s half sixpence. And, besides, not a word!

  Then she must have heard him—! He was standing with the envelope in his hand, trying to get on from that last inference, when Coote became audible without.

  Coote appeared in evening dress, a clean and radiant Coote, with large, greenish, white gloves and a particularly large white tie, edged with black. “For a third cousin,” he presently explained. “Nace, isn’t it?” He could see Kipps was pale and disturbed and put this down to the approaching social trial. “You keep your nerve up, Kipps, my dear chap, and you’ll be all right,” said Coote, with a big, brotherly glove on Kipps’ sleeve.

  * * *

  3

  The dinner came to a crisis, so far as Kipps’ emotions were concerned, with Mrs. Bindon Botting’s talk about servants, but before that there had been several things of greater or smaller magnitude to perturb and disarrange his social front. One little matter that was mildly insurgent throughout the entire meal was, if I may be permitted to mention so intimate a matter, the behavior of his left brace. The webbing—which was of a cheerful scarlet silk—had slipped away from its buckle, fastened no doubt in agitation, and had developed a strong tendency to place itself obliquely, in the manner rather of an official decoration, athwart his spotless front. It first asserted itself before they went in to dinner. He replaced this ornament by a dexterous thrust when no one was looking and thereafter the suppression of his novel innovation upon the stereotyped sombreness of evening dress became a standing preoccupation. On the whole, he was inclined to think his first horror excessive; at any rate no one remarked upon it. However you imagine him constantly throughout the evening, with one eye and one hand, whatever the rest of him might be doing, predominantly concerned with the weak corner.

  But this, I say, was a little matter. What exercised him much more was to discover Helen quite terribly in evening dress.

  The young lady had let her imagination rove Londonward, and this costume was perhaps an anticipation of that clever little flat not too far west which was to become the center of so delightful a literary and artistic set. It was, of all the feminine costumes present, most distinctly an evening dress. One was advised Miss Walshingham had arms and shoulders of a type by no means despicable, one was advised Miss Walshingham was capable not only of dignity but charm, even a certain glow of charm. It was, you know, her first evening dress, a tribute paid by Walshingham finance to her brightening future. Had she wanted keeping in countenance, she would have had to have fallen back upon her hostess, who was resplendent in black and steel. The other ladies had to a certain extent compromised. Mrs. Walshingham had dressed with just a refined little V and Mrs. Bindon Botting, except for her dear mottled arms, confided scarcely more of her plump charm to the world. The elder Miss Botting stopped short of shoulders, and so did Miss Wace. But Helen didn’t. She was—had Kipps had eyes to see it—a quite beautiful human figure; she knew it and she met him with a radiant smile that had forgotten all the little difference of the afternoon. But to Kipps her appearance was the last release. With that, she had become as remote, as foreign, as incredible as a wife and mate, as though the Cnidian Venus herself, in all her simple elegance, was, before witnesses, declared to be his. If, indeed, she had ever been credible as a wife and mate.

  She ascribed his confusion to modest reverence, and having blazed smiling upon him for a moment turned a shapely shoulder towards him and exchanged a remark with Mrs. Bindon Botting. Ann’s poor little half sixpence came against Kipps’ fingers in his pocket and he clutched at it suddenly as though it was a talisman. Then he abandoned it to suppress his Order of the Brace. He was affected by a cough. “Miss Wace tells me Mr. Revel is coming,” Mrs. Botting was saying.

  �
��Isn’t it delightful?” said Helen. “We saw him last night. He’s stopped on his way to Paris. He’s going to meet his wife there.”

  Kipps’ eyes rested for a moment on Helen’s dazzling deltoid, and then went enquiringly, accusingly almost, to Coote’s face. Where, in the presence of this terrible emergency, was the gospel of suppression now—that furtive treatment of religion and politics, and birth and death and bathing and babies, and “all those things” which constitutes your true gentleman? He had been too modest even to discuss this question with his Mentor, but surely, surely this quintessence of all that is good and nice could regard these unsolicited confidences only in one way. With something between relief and the confirmation of his worst fears he perceived, by a sort of twitching of the exceptionally abundant muscles about Coote’s lower jaw, in a certain deliberate avoidance of one particular direction by these pale, but resolute, grey eyes, by the almost convulsive grip of the ample, greenish white gloves behind him, a grip broken at times for controlling pats at the black-bordered tie and the back of that spacious head, and by a slight but increasing disposition to cough, that Coote did not approve!