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

protrude in a far more serious fashion in relation to the “hands” from the Emporium, and Chitterlow.

From the day at Lympne Castle his relations with Helen had entered upon a new footing. He had prayed for Helen as good souls pray for Heaven, with as little understanding of what it was he prayed for. And now that period of standing humbly in the shadows before the shrine was over, and the Goddess, her veil of mystery flung aside, had come down to him and taken hold of him, a good, strong, firm hold, and walked by his side.⁠ ⁠… She liked him. What was singular was that very soon she had kissed him thrice, whimsically upon the brow, and he had never kissed her at all. He could not analyse his feelings, only he knew the world was wonderfully changed about them, but the truth was that, though he still worshipped and feared her, though his pride in his engagement was ridiculously vast, he loved her now no more. That subtle something woven of the most delicate strands of self-love and tenderness and desire, had vanished imperceptibly; and was gone now forever. But that she did not suspect in him, nor as a matter of fact did he.

She took him in hand in perfect good faith. She told him things about his accent, she told him things about his bearing, about his costume and his way of looking at things. She thrust the blade of her intelligence into the tenderest corners of Kipps’ secret vanity, she slashed his most intimate pride to bleeding tatters. He sought very diligently to anticipate some at least of these informing thrusts by making great use of Coote. But the unanticipated made a brave number.⁠ ⁠…

She found his simple willingness a very lovable thing.

Indeed she liked him more and more. There was a touch of motherliness in her feelings towards him. But his upbringing and his associations had been, she diagnosed, “awful.” At New Romney she glanced but little; that was remote. But in her inventory⁠—she went over him as one might go over a newly taken house, with impartial thoroughness⁠—she discovered more proximate influences, surprising intimations of nocturnal “singsongs”⁠—she pictured it as almost shocking that Kipps should sing to the banjo⁠—much low-grade wisdom treasured from a person called Buggins⁠—“Who is Buggins?” said Helen⁠—vague figures of indisputable vulgarity, Pierce and Carshot, and more particularly, a very terrible social phenomenon, Chitterlow.

Chitterlow blazed upon them with unheralded oppressive brilliance the first time they were abroad together.

They were going along the front of the Leas to see a school play in Sandgate⁠—at the last moment Mrs. Walshingham had been unable to come with them⁠—when Chitterlow loomed up into the new world. He was wearing the suit of striped flannel and the straw hat that had followed Kipps’ payment in advance for his course in elocution, his hands were deep in his side pockets and animated the corners of his jacket, and his attentive gaze at the passing loungers, the faint smile under his boldly drawn nose, showed him engaged in studying character⁠—no doubt for some forthcoming play.

“What ho!” said he, at the sight of Kipps, and swept off the straw hat with so ample a clutch of his great, flat hand that it suggested to Helen’s startled mind a conjurer about to palm a halfpenny.

“ ’Ello, Chitt’low,” said Kipps a little awkwardly and not saluting.

Chitterlow hesitated. “Half a mo’, my boy,” he said, and arrested Kipps by extending a large hand over his chest. “Excuse me, my dear,” he said, bowing like his Russian count by way of apology to Helen and with a smile that would have killed at a hundred yards. He affected a semi-confidential grouping of himself and Kipps while Helen stood in white amazement.

“About that play,” he said.

“ ’Ow about it?” asked Kipps, acutely aware of Helen.

“It’s all right,” said Chitterlow. “There’s a strong smell of syndicate in the air, I may tell you⁠—Strong.”

“That’s aw right,” said Kipps.

“You needn’t tell everybody,” said Chitterlow with a transitory, confidential hand to his mouth, which pointed the application of the “everybody” just a trifle too strongly. “But I think it’s coming off. However⁠—. I mustn’t detain you now. So long. You’ll come ’round, eh?”

“Right you are,” said Kipps.

“Tonight?”

“At eight.”

And then, and more in the manner of a Russian prince than any common count, Chitterlow bowed and withdrew. Just for a moment he allowed a conquering eye to challenge Helen’s and noted her for a girl of quality.⁠ ⁠…

There was a silence between our lovers for a space.

“That,” said Kipps with an allusive movement of the head, “was Chitterlow.”

“Is he⁠—a friend of yours?”

“In a way.⁠ ⁠… You see⁠—I met ’im. Leastways ’e met me. Run into me with a bicycle, ’e did, and so we got talking together.”

He tried to appear at his ease. The young lady scrutinised his profile.

“What is he?”

“ ’E’s a Nacter chap,” said Kipps. “Leastways ’e writes plays.”

“And sells them?”

“Partly.”

“Whom to?”

“Different people. Shares he sells.⁠ ⁠… It’s all right, reely⁠—I meant to tell you about him before.”

Helen looked over her shoulder to catch a view of Chitterlow’s retreating aspect. It did not compel her complete confidence.

She turned to her lover and said in a tone of quiet authority, “You must tell me all about Chitterlow. Now.”

The explanation began.⁠ ⁠…

The School Play came almost as a relief to Kipps. In the flusterment of going in he could almost forget for a time his Laocoön struggle to explain, and in the intervals he did his best to keep forgetting. But Helen, with a gentle insistence, resumed the explanation of Chitterlow as they returned towards Folkestone.

Chitterlow was confoundedly difficult to explain. You could hardly imagine!

There was an almost motherly anxiety in Helen’s manner, blended with the resolution of a schoolmistress to get to the bottom of the affair. Kipps’ ears were soon quite brightly red.

“Have you seen one of his plays?”

“ ’E’s tole me about one.”

“But on the stage.”

“No. He ’asn’t ’ad any on the stage yet. That’s all coming.⁠ ⁠…”

“Promise me,” she said in conclusion, “you won’t do