Kipps · Book I · Chapter 1 6 (3/4)

The head porter, moreover, was filled with a virtuous resolve to break the record as a lightning packer and make up for lost time. Mr. Swaffenham, of the Sandgate Riviera, for example, who was going out to dinner that night at seven, received at half-past six, instead of the urgently needed dress shirt he expected, a corset specially adapted to the needs of persons inclined to embonpoint. A parcel of summer underclothing selected by the elder Miss Waldershawe, was somehow distributed in the form of gratis additions throughout a number of parcels of a less intimate nature, and a box of millinery on approval to Lady Pamshort (at Wampachs) was enriched by the addition of the junior porter’s cap.⁠ ⁠…

These little things, slight in themselves, witness perhaps none the less eloquently to the unselfish exhilaration felt throughout the Emporium at the extraordinary and unexpected enrichment of Mr. Kipps.

The bus that plies between New Romney and Folkestone is painted a British red and inscribed on either side with the word “Tip-top” in gold amidst voluptuous scrolls. It is a slow and portly bus. Below it swings a sort of hold, hung by chains between the wheels, and in the summer time the top has garden seats. The front over the two dauntless unhurrying horses rises in tiers like a theatre; there is first a seat for the driver and his company, and above that a seat and above that, unless my memory plays me false, a seat. There are days when this bus goes and days when it doesn’t go⁠—you have to find out. And so you get to New Romney.

This bus it was, this ruddy, venerable and immortal bus, that came down the Folkestone hill with unflinching deliberation, and trundled through Sandgate and Hythe, and out into the windy spaces of the Marsh, with Kipps and all his fortunes on its brow. You figure him there. He sat on the highest seat diametrically above the driver and his head was spinning and spinning with champagne and this stupendous Tomfoolery of Luck and his heart was swelling, swelling indeed at times as though it would burst him, and his face towards the sunlight was transfigured. He said never a word, but ever and again as he thought of this or that, he laughed. He seemed full of chuckles for a time, detached and independent chuckles, chuckles that rose and burst in him like bubbles in a wine.⁠ ⁠… He held a banjo sceptre-fashion and restless on his knee. He had always wanted a banjo, and now he had got one at Malchior’s while he was waiting for the bus.

There sat beside him a young servant who was sucking peppermint and a little boy with a sniff, whose flitting eyes showed him curious to know why ever and again Kipps laughed, and beside the driver were two young men in gaiters talking about “tegs.” And there sat Kipps, all unsuspected, twelve hundred a year, as it were, disguised as a common young man. And the young man in gaiters to the left of the driver eyed Kipps and his banjo, and especially his banjo, ever and again as if he found it and him, with his rapt face, an insoluble enigma. And many a King has ridden into a conquered city with a lesser sense of splendour than Kipps.

Their shadows grew long behind them and their faces were transfigured in gold as they rumbled on towards the splendid West. The sun set before they had passed Dymchurch, and as they came lumbering into New Romney past the windmill the dusk had come.

The driver handed down the banjo and the portmanteau, and Kipps having paid him⁠—“That’s aw right,” he said to the change, as a gentleman should⁠—turned about and ran the portmanteau smartly into Old Kipps, whom the sound of the stopping of the bus had brought to the door of the shop in an aggressive mood and with his mouth full of supper.

“Ullo, Uncle, didn’t see you,” said Kipps.

“Blunderin’ ninny,” said Old Kipps. “What’s brought you here? Ain’t early closing, is it? Not Toosday?”

“Got some news for you, Uncle,” said Kipps, dropping the portmanteau.

“Ain’t lost your situation, ’ave you? What’s that you got there? I’m blowed if it ain’t a banjo. Goo-lord! Spendin’ your money on banjoes! Don’t put down your portmanty there⁠—anyhow. Right in the way of everybody. I’m blowed if ever I saw such a boy as you’ve got lately. Here! Molly! And, look here! What you got a portmanty for? Why! Goo-lord! You ain’t really lost your place, ’ave you?”

“Somethin’s happened,” said Kipps slightly dashed. “It’s all right, Uncle. I’ll tell you in a minute.”

Old Kipps took the banjo as his nephew picked up the portmanteau again.

The living room door opened quickly, showing a table equipped with elaborate simplicity for supper, and Mrs. Kipps appeared.

“If it ain’t young Artie,” she said. “Why! Whatever’s brought you ’ome?”

“Ullo, Aunt,” said Artie. “I’m coming in. I got somethin’ to tell you. I’ve ’ad a bit of Luck.”

He wouldn’t tell them all at once. He staggered with the portmanteau round the corner of the counter, set a bundle of children’s tin pails into clattering oscillation, and entered the little room. He deposited his luggage in the corner beside the tall clock, and turned to his Aunt and Uncle again. His Aunt regarded him doubtfully, the yellow light from the little lamp on the table escaped above the shade and lit her forehead and the tip of her nose. It would be all right in a minute. He wouldn’t tell them all at once. Old Kipps stood in the shop door with the banjo in his hand, breathing noisily. “The fact is, Aunt, I’ve ’ad a bit of Luck.”

“You ain’t been backin’ gordless ’orses, Artie?” she asked.

“No fear.”

“It’s a draw he’s been in,” said Old Kipps, still panting from the impact of the portmanteau; “it’s a dratted draw. Jest look here, Molly. He’s won this ’ere trashy banjer and thrown up his situation on the strength of it⁠—that’s what he’s done. Goin’ about singing. Dash and plunge! Jest the very fault poor Pheamy always ’ad. Blunder right in and no one mustn’t stop ’er!”

“You ain’t thrown up your place, Artie, ’ave you?” said Mrs. Kipps.

Kipps perceived his opportunity. “I ’ave,” he said; “I’ve throwed it up.”

“What for?” said Old Kipps.

“So’s to learn the banjo!”

“Goo Lord!” said Old Kipps, in horror to find himself verified.

“I’m going about playing!” said Kipps with a giggle. “Goin’ to black my face, Aunt, and sing on the beach. I’m going to ’ave a most tremenjous lark and earn any amount of money⁠—you see. Twenty-six fousand pounds I’m going to earn just as easy as nothing!”

“Kipps,” said Mrs. Kipps, “he’s been drinking!”

They regarded their nephew across the supper table with long faces. Kipps exploded with laughter and broke out again when his Aunt shook her head very sadly at him. Then suddenly he fell grave. He felt he could keep it up’ no longer. “It’s all right, Aunt. Reely. I ain’t mad and I ain’t been drinking. I been lef’ money. I been left twenty-six fousand pounds.”

Pause.

“And you thrown up your place?” said Old Kipps.

“Yes,” said Kipps. “Rather!”

“And bort this banjer, put on your best noo trousers and come right on ’ere?”

“Well,” said Mrs. Kipps, “I never did.”

“These ain’t my noo trousers, Aunt,” said Kipps regretfully. “My noo trousers wasn’t done.”

“I shouldn’t ha’ thought that even you could ha’ been such a fool as that,” said Old Kipps.

Pause.

“It’s all right,” said Kipps a little disconcerted by their distrustful solemnity. “It’s all right⁠—reely! Twenny-six fousan’ pounds. And a ’ouse⁠—”

Old Kipps pursed his lips and shook his head.

“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 ’avin’ a lark with you,” said Old Kipps in a mournful undertone. “That’s what I mean, my boy. They jest been seein’ what a Gaby like you ’ud do.”

“I dessay that young Quodling was in it,” said Mrs. Kipps. “ ’E’s jest 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, reely, 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 mantel shelf 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 bank notes. 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 ’ed 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, jest 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 jest 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.⁠ ⁠…”

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 Rabbits⁠—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 ’im.”

“Y’ought to ’ave a bit o’ shootin’ somewheer,” 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 ’ang on to you,” said Old Kipps. “You mark my words. And borry 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 s’licitors, 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 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-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 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 crisis. He uttered a shriek of despair. “Now!” said Shalford. He woke in horror, his quilt had slipped off the bed.