Kipps H. G. Wells (best thriller novels to read .txt) 📖

“You be orf!” he said.⁠ ⁠…

When Helen was well over the stile Kipps withdrew in good order. He got over the stile under cover of a feint, and the thing was done⁠—a small thing, no doubt, but just enough to remove from Helen’s mind an incorrect deduction that a man who was so terribly afraid of a teacup as Kipps must necessarily be abjectly afraid of everything else in the world. In her moment of reaction she went perhaps too far in the opposite direction. Hitherto Kipps had always had a certain flimsiness of effect for her. Now suddenly he was discovered solid. He was discovered possible in many new ways. Here, after all, was the sort of back a woman can get behind!⁠ ⁠…

As so these heirs of the immemorial ages went past the turf-crowned mass of Portus Lemanus up the steep slopes towards the medieval castle on the crest the thing was also manifest in her eyes.

Everyone who stays in Folkestone gets, sooner or later, to Lympne. The castle became a farmhouse long ago, and the farmhouse, itself now ripe and venerable, wears the walls of the castle as a little man wears a big man’s coat. The kindliest of farm ladies entertains a perpetual stream of visitors and shows her vast mangle, and her big kitchen, and takes you out upon the sunniest little terrace garden in all the world, and you look down the sheep-dotted slopes to where, beside the canal and under the trees, the crumpled memories of Rome sleep forever. For hither to this lonely spot the galleys once came, the legions, the emperors, masters of the world. The castle is but a thing of yesterday, King Stephen’s time or thereabout, in that retrospect. One climbs the pitch of perforation, and there one is lifted to the centre of far more than a hemisphere of view. Away below one’s feet, almost at the bottom of the hill, the Marsh begins, and spreads and spreads in a mighty crescent that sweeps about the sea, the Marsh dotted with the church towers of forgotten medieval towns and breaking at last into the low, blue hills of Winchelsea and Hastings; east hangs France, between the sea and the sky, and round the north, bounding the wide prospectives of farms and houses and woods, the Downs, with their hangers and chalk pits, sustain the passing shadows of the sailing clouds.

And here it was, high out of the world of everyday, and in the presence of spacious beauty, that Kipps and Helen found themselves agreeably alone. All six, it had seemed, had been coming for the Keep, but Mrs. Walshingham had hesitated at the horrid little stairs, and then suddenly felt faint, and so she and the freckled girl had remained below, walking up and down in the shadow of the house, and Coote had remembered they were all out of cigarettes, and had taken off young Walshingham into the village. There had been shouting to explain between ground and parapet, and then Helen and Kipps turned again to the view, and commended it and fell silent.

Helen sat fearlessly in an embrasure, and Kipps stood beside her.

“I’ve always been fond of scenery,” Kipps repeated, after an interval.

Then he went off at a tangent. “D’you reely think that was right what Coote was saying?”

She looked interrogation.

“About my name?”

“Being really C U Y P S? I have my doubts. I thought at first⁠—. What makes Mr. Coote add an S to Cuyp?”

“I dunno,” said Kipps, foiled. “I was jest thinking⁠—”

She shot one wary glance at him and then turned her eyes to the sea.

Kipps was out for a space. He had intended to lead from this question to the general question of surnames and change of names; it had seemed a light and witty way of saying something he had in mind, and suddenly he perceived that this was an unutterably vulgar and silly project. The hitch about that “s” had saved him. He regarded her profile for a moment, framed in weather-beaten stone, and backed by the blue elements.

He dropped the question of his name out of existence and spoke again of the view. “When I see scenery, and things that are beautiful, it makes me feel⁠—”

She looked at him suddenly, and saw him fumbling for his words.

“Silly like,” he said.

She took him in with her glance, the old look of proprietorship it was, touched with a certain warmth. She spoke in a voice as unambiguous as her eyes. “You needn’t,” she said. “You know, Mr. Kipps, you hold yourself too cheap.”

Her eyes and words smote him with amazement. He stared at her like a man who awakens. She looked down.

“You mean⁠—” he said; and then, “don’t you hold me cheap?”

She glanced up again and shook her head.

“But⁠—for instance⁠—you don’t think of me⁠—as an equal like.”

“Why not?”

“Oo! But reely⁠—”

His heart beat very fast.

“If I thought,” he said, and then, “you know so much.”

“That’s nothing,” she said.

Then, for a long time, as it seemed to them, both kept silence, a silence that said and accomplished many things.

“I know what I am,” he said, at length.⁠ ⁠… “If I thought it was possible.⁠ ⁠… If I thought you.⁠ ⁠… I believe I could do anything⁠—”

He stopped, and she sat downcast and strikingly still.

“Miss Walshingham,” he said, “is it possible that you⁠ ⁠… could care for me enough to⁠—to ’elp me? Miss Walshingham, do you care for me at all?”

It seemed she was never going to answer. She looked up at him. “I think,” she said, “you are the most generous⁠—look at what you have done for my brother⁠—the most generous and the most modest of men. And this afternoon⁠—I thought you were the bravest.”

She turned her head, glanced down, waved her hand to someone on the terrace below, and stood up.

“Mother is signalling,” she said. “We must go down.”

Kipps became polite and deferential by habit, but his mind was a tumult that had nothing to do with that.

He moved before her towards the little door