Kipps, H. G. Wells [best books for 7th graders txt] 📗
- Author: H. G. Wells
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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 his uncomfortable topic.
”E looked very respectable,’ said Kipps.
Kipps undressed with great deliberation and with vast gasps 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 woodcarving 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-six 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 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 woodcarving 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 three 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 paralysed. He had an impression of giddy crises. 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 any one 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…
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 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.
~~~
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1
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 gray jacket suit, buttoned up, and anon he coughs behind the official envelope. He has a prominent nose, slaty gray 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 goes 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?’ asked 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. ‘Jest 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.’
‘O-o. 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 kept 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 any one.
‘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. Reely I don’t ‘ardly know what to do with my time.’
‘D’ju smoke?’ he said suddenly, proffering a magnificent gold-decorated pig-skin 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
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