One day Kipps set out upon his newly mastered bicycle to New Romney, to break the news of his engagement to his uncle and aunt — positively1. He was now a finished cyclist, but as yet an unseasoned one; the south-west wind, even in its summer guise2, as one meets it in the Marsh3, is the equivalent of a reasonable hill, and ever and again he got off and refreshed himself by a spell of walking. He was walking just outside New Romney preparatory to his triumphal entry (one hand off), when abruptly4 he came upon Ann Pornick.
It chanced he was thinking about her at the time. He had been thinking curious things; whether, after all, the atmosphere of New Romney and the Marsh had not some difference, some faint impalpable quality that was missing in the great and fashionable world of Folkestone behind there on the hill. Here there was a homeliness5, a familiarity. He had noted6 as he passed that old Mr. Clifferdown’s gate had been mended with a fresh piece of string. In Folkestone he didn’t take notice, and he didn’t care if they built three hundred houses. Come to think of it, that was odd. It was fine and grand to have twelve hundred a year; it was fine to go about on trams and omnibuses and think not a person on board was as rich as oneself; it was fine to buy and order this and that and never have any work to do, and to be engaged to a girl distantly related to the Earl of Beauprés; but yet there had been a zest7 in the old time out here, a rare zest in the holidays, in sunlight, on the sea beach, and in the High Street, that failed from these new things. He thought of those bright windows of holiday that had seemed so glorious to him in the retrospect8 from his apprentice9 days. It was strange that now, amidst his present splendours, they were glorious still!
All those things were over now — perhaps that was it! Something had happened to the world, and the old light had been turned out. He himself was changed, and Sid was changed, terribly changed, and Ann, no doubt, was changed.
He thought of her with the hair blown about her flushed cheeks as they stood together after their race . . .
Certainly she must be changed, and all the magic she had been fraught11 with to the very hem12 of her short petticoats gone, no doubt, for ever. And as he thought that, or before and while he thought it — for he came to all these things in his own vague and stumbling way — he looked up, and there was Ann!
She was seven years older, and greatly altered; yet for the moment it seemed to him that she had not changed at all. ‘Ann!’ he said; and she, with a lifting note, ‘It’s Art Kipps!’
Then he became aware of changes — improvements. She was as pretty as she had promised to be, her blue eyes as dark as his memory of them, and with a quick, high colour; but now Kipps by several inches was the taller again. She was dressed in a simple gray dress, that showed her very clearly as a straight and healthy little woman, and her hat was Sunday-fied, with pink flowers. She looked soft and warm and welcoming. Her face was alight to Kipps with her artless gladness at their encounter.
‘It’s Art Kipps!’ she said. ‘Rather’ said Kipps.
‘You got your holidays?’
It flashed upon Kipps that Sid had not told her of his great fortune. Much regretful meditation14 upon Sid’s behaviour had convinced him that he himself was to blame for exasperating15 boastfulness in that affair, and this time he took care not to err10 in that direction. So he erred16 in the other.
‘I’m taking a bit of a ‘oliday,’ he said.
‘So’m I,’ said Ann.
‘You been for a walk?’ asked Kipps.
Ann showed him a bunch of wayside flowers.
‘It’s a long time since I seen you, Ann. Why, ‘ow long must it be? Seven — eight years nearly.’
‘It don’t do to count,’ said Ann.
‘It don’t look like it,’ said Kipps, with the slightest emphasis.
‘You got a moustache,’ said Ann, smelling her flowers and looking at him over them, not without admiration17. Kipps blushed —
Presently they came to the bifurcation of the roads.
‘I’m going down this way to mother’s cottage,’ said Ann.
‘I’ll come a bit your way, if I may.’
In New Romney social distinctions that are primary realities in Folkestone are absolutely non-existent, and it seemed quite permissible18 for him to walk with Ann, for all that she was no more than a servant. They talked with remarkable19 ease to one another, they slipped into a vein20 of intimate reminiscence in the easiest manner. In a little while Kipps was amazed to find Ann and himself at this,—
‘You r’member that half-sixpence? What we cut togevver?’
‘Yes?’
‘I got it still.’
She hesitated. ‘Funny, wasn’t it?’ she said, and then, ‘You got yours, Artie?’
‘Rather,’ said Kipps. ‘What do you think?’ and wondered in his heart of hearts why he had never looked at that sixpence for so long.
Ann smiled at him frankly21.
‘I didn’t expect you’d keep it,’ she said. ‘I thought often — it was silly to keep mine. ‘Besides,’ she reflected, ‘it didn’t mean anything really.’
She glanced at him as she spoke22 and met his eye.
‘Oh, didn’t it! said Kipps, a little late with his response, and realising his infidelity to Helen even as he spoke. ‘It didn’t mean much anyhow,’ said Ann. ‘You still in the drapery?’
‘I’m living at Folkestone,’ began Kipps, and decided23 that that sufficed. ‘Didn’t Sid tell you he met me?’
‘No! Here?’
‘Yes. The other day. ‘Bout a week or more ago.’
‘That was before I came.’
‘Ah, that was it,’ said Kipps.
‘E’s got on,’ said Ann. ‘Got ‘is own shop now, Artie.’
‘‘E tole me.’
They found themselves outside Muggett’s cottages. ‘You’re going in?’ said Kipps.
‘I s’pose so,’ said Ann.
They both hung upon the pause. Ann took a plunge24. ‘D’you often come to New Romney?’ she asked. ‘I ride over a bit at times,’ said Kipps.
Another pause. Ann held out her hand.
‘I’m glad I seen you,’ she said.
Extraordinary impulses arose in neglected parts of Kipps’ being. ‘Ann,’ he said, and stopped.
‘Yes,’ said she, and was bright to him.
They looked at one another.
All, and more than all, of those first emotions of his adolescence25 had come back to him. Her presence banished26 a multitude of countervailing considerations. It was Ann more than ever. She stood breathing close to him with her soft-looking lips a little apart and gladness in her eyes.
‘I’m awful glad to see you again,’ he said; ‘it brings back old times.’
‘Doesn’t it?’
Another pause. He would have liked to have had a long talk to her, to have gone for a walk with her or something, to have drawn27 nearer to her in any conceivable way, and above all to have had some more of the appreciation28 that shone in her eyes, but a vestige29 of Folkestone, still clinging to him, told him it ‘wouldn’t do.’
‘Well,’ he said, ‘I must be getting on,’ and turned away reluctantly, with a will under compulsion —
When he looked back from the corner she was still at the gate. She was perhaps a little disconcerted by his retreat. He felt that. He hesitated for a moment, half turned, stood, and suddenly did great things with his hat. That hat! The wonderful hat of our civilisation30! . . .
In another minute he was engaged in a singularly absent-minded conversation with his uncle about the usual topics.
His uncle was very anxious to buy him a few upright clocks as an investment for subsequent sale. And there were also some very nice globes, one terrestrial and the other celestial31, in a shop at Lydd that would look well in a drawing-room, and inevitably32 increase in value . . . Kipps either did or did not agree to this purchase, he was unable to recollect33.
The south-west wind perhaps helped him back; at any rate he found himself through Dymchurch without having noticed the place. There came an odd effect as he drew near Hythe. The hills on the left and the trees on the right seemed to draw together and close in upon him until his way was straight and narrow. He could not turn round on that treacherous34 half-tamed machine, but he knew that behind him, he knew so well, spread the wide vast flatness of the Marsh shining under the afternoon sky. In some way this was material to his thoughts. And as he rode through Hythe, he came upon the idea that there was a considerable amount of incompatibility35 between the existence of one who was practically a gentleman and of Ann.
In the neighbourhood of Seabrook he began to think he had, in some subtle way, lowered himself by walking along by the side of Ann . . . After all, she was only a servant.
Ann!
She called out all the least gentlemanly instincts of his nature. There had been a moment in their conversation when he had quite distinctly thought it would really be an extremely nice thing for some one to kiss her lips . . . There was something warming about Ann — at least for Kipps. She impressed him as having, somewhen during their vast interval36 of separation, contrived37 to make herself in some distinctive38 way his.
Fancy keeping that half-sixpence all this time!
It was the most flattering thing that ever happened to Kipps.
2
He found himself presently sitting over The Art of Conversing39, lost in the strangest musings. He got up, walked about, became stagnant41 at the window for a space, roused himself, and by way of something lighter42, tried Sesame and Lilies. From that, too, his attention wandered. He sat back. Anon he smiled, anon sighed. He arose, pulled his keys from his pocket, looked at them, decided, and went upstairs. He opened the little yellow box that had been the nucleus43 of all his possessions in the world, and took out a small Escritoire, the very humblest sort of present, and opened it — kneeling. And there in the corner was a little packet of paper, sealed as a last defence against any prying44 invader45 with red sealing-wax. It had gone untouched for years. He held this little packet between finger and thumb for a moment, regarding it, and then put down the escritoire and broke the seal —
As he was getting into bed that night he remembered something for the first time! ‘Dash it!’ he said. ‘Deshed if I told ’em this time . . . Well!
‘I shall ‘ave to go over to New Romney again!’
He got into bed, and remained sitting pensively47 on the pillow for a space.
‘Rum world,’ he reflected, after a vast interval.
Then he recalled that she had noticed his moustache. He embarked48 upon a sea of egotistical musing40. He imagined himself telling Ann how rich he was. What a surprise that would be for her!
Finally he sighed profoundly, blew out his candle, and snuggled down, and in a little while he was asleep . . .
But the next morning and at intervals49 afterwards, he found himself thinking of Ann — Ann the bright, the desirable, the welcoming, and with an extra-ordinary streakiness he wanted quite badly to go, and then as badly not to go, over to New Romney again.
Sitting on the Leas in the afternoon, he had an idea. ‘I ought to ‘ave told ‘er, I suppose, about my being engaged.’
‘Ann!’
All sorts of dreams and impressions that had gone clean out of his mental existence came back to him, changed and brought up to date to fit her altered presence. He thought of how he had gone back to New Romney for his Christmas holidays, determined50 to kiss her, and of the awful blankness of the discovery that she had gone away.
It seemed incredible now, and yet not wholly incredible, that he had cried real tears for her — how many years was it ago?
3
Daily I should thank my Maker51 that He did not delegate to me the Censorship of the world of men. I should temper a fierce injustice52 with a spasmodic indecision, that would prolong rather than mitigate53 the bitterness of the Day. For human dignity, for all conscious human superiority I should lack the beginnings of charity; for bishops54, prosperous schoolmasters, judges, and all large respect-pampered souls. And more especially bishops, towards whom I bear an atavistic Viking grudge55, dreaming not infrequently and with invariable zest of galleys56 and landings, and well-known living ornaments57 of the episcopal bench sprinting58 inland on twinkling gaiters before my thirsty blade — all these people, I say, I should treat below their deserts; but, on the other hand, for such as Kipps —
There the exasperating indecisions would come in. The Judgment59 would be arrested at Kipps. Every one and everything would wait. The balance would sway and sway, and whenever it heeled towards an adverse60 decision, my finger would set it swaying again. Kings; warriors61, statesmen, brilliant women, ‘personalities’ panting with indignation, headline humanity in general would stand undamned, unheeded, or be damned in the most casual manner for their importunity62, while my eye went about for anything possible that could be said on behalf of Kipps . . . Albeit63 I fear nothing can save him from condemnation64 upon this present score, that within two days he was talking to Ann again.
One seeks excuses. Overnight there had been an encounter of Chitterlow and young Walshingham in his presence that had certainly warped65 his standards. They had called within a few minutes of each other, and the two, swayed by virile66 attentions to Old Methuselah Three Stars, had talked against each other, over and at the hospitable67 presence of Kipps. Walshingham had seemed to win at the beginning, but finally Chitterlow had made a magnificent display of vociferation and swept him out of existence. At the beginning Chitterlow had opened upon the great profits of playwrights68, and young Walshingham had capped him at once with a cynical69 but impressive display of knowledge of the High Finance. If Chitterlow boasted his thousands, young Walshingham boasted his hundreds of thousands, and was for a space left in sole possession of the stage, juggling70 with the wealth of nations. He was going on by way of Financial Politics to the Overman, before Chitterlow recovered from his first check, and came back to victory. ‘Talking of women,’ said Chitterlow, coming in abruptly upon some things not generally known, beyond Walshingham’s more immediate71 circle, about a recently departed Empire-builder; ‘Talking of Women and the way they Get at a man —’
(Though, as a matter of fact, they had been talking of the Corruption72 of Society by Speculation73.)
Upon this new topic Chitterlow was soon manifestly invincible74. He knew so much, he had know so many. Young Walshingham did his best with epigrams and reservations, but even to Kipps it was evident that his was a book-learned depravity. One felt Walshingham had never known the inner realities of passion. But Chitterlow convinced and amazed. He had run away with girls, he had been run away with by girls, he had been in love with several at a time —‘not counting Bessie’— he had loved and lost, he had loved and refrained, and he had loved and failed. He threw remarkable lights upon the moral state of America — in which country he had toured with great success. He set his talk to the tune13 of one of Mr. Kipling’s best-known songs. He told an incident of simple romantic passion, a delirious75 dream of love and beauty in a Saturday to Monday steamboat trip up the Hudson, and tagged his end with ‘I learn about women from ‘er!’ After that he adopted the refrain, and then lapsed76 into the praises of Kipling. ‘Little Kipling,’ said Chitterlow, with the familiarity of affection, ‘he knows,’ and broke into quotation:—
‘I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it;
I’ve rogued77 and I’ve ranged in my time; I’ve ‘ad my picking of sweet’earts, An’ four of the lot was Prime.’ (These things, I say, affect the moral standards of the best of us.)
‘I’d have liked to have written that,’ said Chitterlow. ‘That’s Life, that is! But go and put it on the Stage, put even a bit of the Realities of Life on the Stage and see what they’ll do to you! Only Kipling could venture on a job like that. That Poem KNOCKED me! I won’t say Kipling hasn’t knocked me before and since, but that was a Fair Knock Out. And yet — you know — there’s one thing in it . . . this,—’
I’ve taken my fun where I’ve found it.
And now I must pay for my fun, For the more you ‘ave known o’ the others The less will you settle to one.
Well. In my case anyhow — I don’t know how much that proves, seeing I’m exceptional in so many things and there’s no good denying it — but so far as I’m concerned — I tell you two, but, of course, you needn’t let it go any farther — I’ve been perfectly78 faithful to Muriel ever since I married her — ever since . . . Not once. Not even by accident have I ever said or done anything in the slightest —’ His little brown eye became pensive46 after this flattering intimacy79, and the gorgeous draperies of his abundant voice fell into graver folds. ‘I learnt about women from ‘er,’ he said impressively.
‘Yes,’ said Walshingham, getting into the hinder spaces of that splendid pause, ‘a man must know about women. And the only sound way of learning is the experimental method.’
‘If you want to know about the experimental method, my boy,’ said Chitterlow, resuming . . .
So they talked. Ex pede Herculem, as Coote, that cultivated polyglot80, would have put it. And in the small hours Kipps went to bed, with his brain whirling with words and whisky, and sat for an unconscionable time upon his bed edge, musing sadly upon the unmanly monogamy that had cast its shadow upon his career, musing with his thoughts pointing round more and more certainly to the possibility of at least duplicity with Ann.
4
For some days he had been refraining with some insistence81 from going off to New Romney again . . .
I do not know if this may count in palliation of his misconduct. Men, real Strong–Souled, Healthy Men, should be, I suppose, impervious82 to conversational83 atmospheres, but I have never claimed for Kipps a place at these high levels. The fact remains84, that next day he spent the afternoon with Ann, and found no scruple85 in displaying himself a budding lover.
He had met her in the High Street, had stopped her, and almost on the spur of the moment had boldly proposed a walk, ‘for the sake of old times.’
‘I don’t mind,’ said Ann.
Her consent almost frightened Kipps. His imagination had not carried him to that. ‘It would be a lark,’ said Kipps, and looked up the street and down, ‘Now,’ he said.
‘I don’t mind a bit, Artie. I was just going for a walk along towards St. Mary’s.’
‘Let’s go that way, be’ind the church,’ said Kipps; and presently they found themselves drifting seaward in a mood of pleasant commonplace. For a while they talked of Sid. It went clean out of Kipps’ head, at that early stage even, that Ann was a ‘girl’ according to the exposition of Chitterlow, and for a time he remembered only that she was Ann. But afterwards, with the reek86 of that talk in his head, he lapsed a little from that personal relation. They came out upon the beach and sat down in a tumbled pebbly87 place where a meagre grass and patches of sea poppy were growing, and Kipps reclined on his elbow and tossed pebbles88 in his hand, and Ann sat up, sunlit, regarding him. They talked in fragments. They exhausted89 Sid, they exhausted Ann, and Kipps was chary90 of his riches.
He declined to a faint lovemaking. ‘I got that ‘arf-sixpence still,’ he said.
‘Reely?’
That changed the key. ‘I always kept mine, some’ow,’ said Ann; and there was a pause.
They spoke of how often they had thought of each other during those intervening years. Kipps may have been untruthful, but Ann, perhaps, was not. ‘I met people here and there,’ said Ann; ‘but I never met any one quite like you, Artie.’
‘It’s jolly our meeting again, anyhow,’ said Kipps. ‘Look at that ship out there. She’s pretty close in-’
He had a dull period, became, indeed, almost pensive, and then he was enterprising for a while. He tossed up his pebbles so that, as if by accident, they fell on Ann’s hand. Then, very penitently91, he stroked the place. That would have led to all sorts of coquetries on the part of Flo Bates, for example, but it disconcerted and checked Kipps to find Ann made no objection, smiled pleasantly down on him, with eyes half shut because of the sun. She was taking things very much for granted.
He began to talk, and Chitterlow standards resuming possession of him, he said he had never forgotten her. ‘I never forgotten you either, Artie,’ she said. ‘Funny, isn’t it?’
It impressed Kipps also as funny.
He became reminiscent, and suddenly a warm summer’s evening came back to him. ‘Remember them cockchafers, Ann?’ he said. But the reality of the evening he recalled was not the chase of cockchafers. The great reality that had suddenly arisen between them was that he had never kissed Ann in his life. He looked up, and there were her lips.
He wanted to very badly, and his memory leaped and annihilated92 an interval. That old resolution came back to him, and all sorts of new resolutions passed out of mind. And he had learnt something since those boyish days. This time he did not ask. He went on talking, his nerves began very faintly to quiver, and his mind grew bright.
Presently, having satisfied himself that there was no one to see, he sat up beside her, and remarked upon the clearness of the air, and how close Dungeness seemed to them. Then they came upon a pause again.
‘Ann,’ he whispered, and put an arm that quivered about her.
She was mute and unresisting, and, as he was to remember, solemn.
He turned her face towards him and kissed her lips, and she kissed him back again — kisses frank and tender as a child’s.
5
It was curious that in the retrospect he did not find nearly the satisfaction in this infidelity he had imagined was there. It was no doubt desperately93 doggish, doggish to an almost Chitterlowesque degree, to recline on the beach at Littlestone with a ‘girl,’ to make love to her and to achieve the triumph of her kissing when he was engaged to another ‘girl’ at Folkestone; but somehow these two people were not ‘girls,’ they were Ann and Helen. Particularly Helen declined to be considered as a ‘girl.’ And there was something in Ann’s quietly friendly eyes, in her frank smile, in the naive94 pressure of her hand, there was something undefended and welcoming that imparted a flavour to the business upon which he had not counted. He had learnt about women from her. That refrain ran through his mind and deflected95 his thoughts, but, as a matter of fact, he had learnt about nothing but himself.
He wanted very much to see Ann some more and explain — He did not clearly know what it was he wanted to explain.
He did not clearly know anything. It is the last achievement of the intelligence to get all of one’s life into one coherent scheme, and Kipps was only in a measure more aware of himself as a whole than is a tree. His existence was an affair of dissolving and recurring96 moods. When he thought of Helen or Ann, or any of his friends, he thought sometimes of this aspect and sometimes of that — and often one aspect was finally incongruous with another. He loved Helen, he revered97 Helen. He was also beginning to hate her with some intensity98. When he thought of that expedition to Lympne, profound, vague, beautiful emotions flooded his being; when he thought of paying calls with her perforce, or of her latest comment on his bearing, he found himself rebelliously99 composing fierce and pungent100 insults, couched in the vernacular101. But Ann, whom he had seen so much less of, was a simpler memory. She was pretty, she was almost softly feminine, and she was possible to his imagination just exactly where Helen was impossible. More than anything else, she carried the charm of respect for him, the slightest glance of her eyes was balm for his perpetually wounded self-conceit.
Chance suggestions it was set the tune of his thoughts, and his state of health and repletion102 gave the colour. Yet somehow he had this at least almost clear in his mind, that to have gone to see Ann a second time, to have implied that she had been in possession of his thoughts through all this interval, and, above all, to have kissed her, was shabby and wrong. Only, unhappily, this much of lucidity103 had come now just a few hours after it was needed.
6
Four days after this it was that Kipps got up so late. He got up late, cut his chin while shaving, kicked a slipper104 into his sponge bath, and said ‘Dash!’
Perhaps you know those intolerable mornings, dear Reader, when you seem to have neither the heart nor the strength to rise, and your nervous adjustments are all wrong and your fingers thumbs, and you hate the very birds for singing. You feel inadequate105 to any demand whatever. Often such awakenings follow a poor night’s rest and commonly they mean indiscriminate eating, or those subtle mental influences old Kipps ascribed to ‘Foozle Ile’ in the system, or worry. And with Kipps — albeit Chitterlow had again been his guest overnight — assuredly worry had played a leading role. Troubles had been gathering106 upon him for days, there had been a sort of concentration of these hosts of Midian overnight, and in the gray small hours Kipps had held his review. The predominating trouble marched under this banner —
MR KIPPS.
MRS BINDON BOTTING At Home, Thursday, September 16th. Anagrams, 4 to 6.30. R.S.V.P.
a banner that was the facsimile of a card upon his looking-glass in the room below. And in relation to this terribly significant document, things had come to a pass with Helen, that he would only describe in his own expressive107 idiom as ‘words.’
It had long been a smouldering issue between them that Kipps was not availing himself with any energy or freedom of the opportunities he had of social exercises, much less was seeking additional opportunities. He had, it was evident, a peculiar108 dread109 of that universal afternoon enjoyment110, the Call, and Helen made it unambiguously evident that this dread was ‘silly’ and had to be overcome. His first display of this unmanly weakness occurred at the Cootes on the day before he kissed Ann. They were all there, chatting very pleasantly, when the little servant with the big cap announced the younger Miss Wace.
Whereupon Kipps manifested a lively horror and rose partially111 from his chair. ‘‘O Gum!’ he protested. ‘Carn’t I go upstairs?’
Then he sank back, for it was too late. Very probably the younger Miss Wace had heard him as she came in.
Helen said nothing of that, though her manner may have shown her surprise, but afterwards she told Kipps he must get used to seeing people, and suggested that he should pay a series of calls with Mrs. Walshingham and herself. Kipps gave a reluctant assent112 at the time, and afterwards displayed a talent for evasion113 that she had not expected in him. At last she did succeed in securing him for a call upon Miss Punchafer of Radnor Park — a particularly easy call, because Miss Punchafer being so deaf, one could say practically what one liked — and then outside the gate he shirked again, ‘I can’t go in’ he said, in a faded voice.
‘You must,’ said Helen, beautiful as ever, but even more than a little hard and forbidding.
‘I can’t.’
He produced his handkerchief hastily, thrust it to his face, and regarded her over it with rounded hostile eyes. ‘Impossible,’ he said in a hoarse114, strange voice out of the handkerchief. ‘Nozzez bleedin’’ . . .
But that was the end of his power of resistance, and when the rally for the Anagram Tea occurred, she bore down his feeble protests altogether. She insisted. She said frankly, ‘I am going to give you a good talking to about this’; and she did . . .
From Coote he gathered something of the nature of Anagrams and Anagram parties. An anagram, Coote explained, was a word spelt the same way as another, only differently arranged; as, for instance, T.O.C.O.E. would be an anagram for his own name Coote.
‘T.O.C.O.E.,’ repeated Kipps, very carefully.
‘Or T.O.E.C.O.,’ said Coote.
‘Or T.O.E.C.O.,’ said Kipps, assisting his poor head by nodding it at each letter. Toe Company, like,’ he said in his efforts to comprehend.
When Kipps was clear what an anagram meant Coote came to the second heading, the Tea. Kipps gathered there might be from thirty to sixty people present, and that each one would have an anagram pinned on. ‘They give you a card to put your guesses on, rather like a dence programme, and then, you know, you go round and guess,’ said Coote. ‘It’s rather good fun.’
‘Oo, rather!’ said Kipps, with simulated gusto. ‘It shakes everybody up together,’ said Coote. Kipps smiled and nodded . . .
In the small hours all his painful meditations115 were threaded by the vision of that Anagram Tea; it kept marching to and fro and in and out of his other troubles, from thirty to sixty people, mostly ladies and callers, and a great number of the letters of the alphabet, and more particularly P.I.K.P.S. and T.O.E.C.O., and he was trying to make one word out of the whole interminable procession . . .
This word, as he finally gave it with some emphasis to the silence of the night, was, ‘Demn!’
Then wreathed as it were in this lettered procession was the figure of Helen as she had appeared at the moment of ‘words’; her face a little hard, a little irritated, a little disappointed. He imagined himself going round and guessing under her eye . . .
He tried to think of other things, without lapsing116 upon a still deeper uneasiness that was decorated with yellow sea-poppies, and the figures of Buggins, Pearce, and Carshot, three murdered friendships, rose reproachfully in the stillness and changed horrible apprehensions117 into unspeakable remorse118. Last night had been their customary night for the banjo, and Kipps, with a certain tremulous uncertainty119, had put Old Methuselah amidst a retinue120 of glasses on the table and opened a box of choice cigars. In vain. They were in no need, it seemed, of his society. But instead Chitterlow had come, anxious to know if it was all right about that syndicate plan. He had declined anything but a very weak whisky-and-soda, ‘just to drink,’ at least until business was settled, and had then opened the whole affair with an effect of great orderliness to Kipps. Soon he was taking another whisky by sheer inadvertency, and the complex fabric121 of his conversation was running more easily from the broad loom122 of his mind. Into that pattern had interwoven a narrative123 of extensive alterations124 in the Pestered125 Butterfly — the neck-and-beetle business was to be restored — the story of a grave difference of opinion with Mrs. Chitterlow, where and how to live after the play had succeeded, the reasons why the Hon. Thomas Norgate had never financed a syndicate, and much matter also about the syndicate now under discussion. But if the current of their conversation had been vortical and crowded, the outcome was perfectly clear. Kipps was to be the chief participator in the syndicate, and his contribution was to be two thousand pounds. Kipps groaned126 and rolled over, and found Helen again, as it were, on the other side. ‘Promise me,’ she had said, ‘you won’t do anything without consulting me.’
Kipps at once rolled back to his former position, and for a space lay quite still. He felt like a very young rabbit in a trap.
Then suddenly, with extraordinary distinctness, his heart cried out for Ann, and he saw her as he had seen her at New Romney, sitting amidst the yellow sea-poppies with the sunlight on her face. His heart called out for her in the darkness as one calls for rescue. He knew, as though he had known it always, that he loved Helen no more. He wanted Ann, he wanted to hold her and be held by her, to kiss her again, to turn his back for ever on all these other things . . .
He rose late, but this terrible discovery was still there, undispelled by cockcrow or the day. He rose in a shattered condition, and he cut himself while shaving, but at last he got into his dining-room, and could pull the bell for the hot constituents127 of his multifarious breakfast. And then he turned to his letters. There were two real letters in addition to the customary electric belt advertisement, continental128 lottery129 circular, and betting tout’s card. One was in a slight mourning envelope, and addressed in an unfamiliar130 hand. This he opened first, and discovered a note.—
MRS. RAYMOND WACE requests the pleasure of MR. KIPPS’ Company at Dinner on Tuesday, Sept. 21st, at 8 o’clock R.S.V.P.
With a hasty movement Kipps turned his mind to the second letter. It was an unusually long one from his uncle, and ran as follows:—
‘MY DEAR NEPHEW,— We are considerably131 startled by your letter, though expecting something of the sort and disposed to hope for the best. If the young lady is a relation to the Earl of Beauprés well and good but take care you are not being imposed upon for there are many who will be glad enough to snap you up now your circumstances are altered. I waited on the old Earl once while in service and he was remarkably132 close with his tips and suffered from corns. A hasty old gent and hard to please — I dare say he has forgotten me altogether — and anyhow there is no need to rake up bygones. To-morrow is bus day and as you say the young lady is living near by we shall shut up shop for there is really nothing doing now what with all the visitors bringing everything with them down to their very children’s pails and say how-de do to her and give her a bit of a kiss and encouragement if we think her suitable — she will be pleased to see your old uncle. We wish we could have had a look at her first but still there is not much mischief133 done and hoping that all will turn out well yet I am —
‘Your affectionate Uncle, ‘EDWARD GEORGE KIPPS.
‘My heartburn still very bad. I shall bring over a few bits of rhubarb I picked up, a sort you won’t get in Folkestone and if possible a good bunch of flowers for the young lady.’
‘Comin’ over today,’ said Kipps, standing134 helplessly with the letter in his hand. ‘‘Ow the Juice —?’
‘I carn’t.’
‘Kiss ‘er!’
A terrible anticipation135 of that gathering framed itself in his mind, a hideous136, impossible disaster.
‘I carn’t even face ‘er —!’
His voice went up to a note of despair. ‘And it’s too late to telegrarf and stop ’em!’
7
About twenty minutes after this, an out-porter in Castle Hill Avenue was accosted137 by a young man with a pale, desperate face, an exquisitely138 rolled umbrella, and a heavy Gladstone bag.
‘Carry this to the station, will you?’ said the young man. ‘I want to ketch the nex’ train to London . . . You’ll ‘ave to look sharp; I ‘even’t very much time.’
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1
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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2
guise
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| n.外表，伪装的姿态 | |
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3
marsh
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| n.沼泽，湿地 | |
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4
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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5
homeliness
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| n.简朴，朴实；相貌平平 | |
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6
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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7
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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8
retrospect
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| n.回顾，追溯；v.回顾，回想，追溯 | |
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9
apprentice
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| n.学徒，徒弟 | |
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10
err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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11
fraught
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| adj.充满…的，伴有(危险等)的；忧虑的 | |
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12
hem
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| n.贴边，镶边；vt.缝贴边；(in)包围，限制 | |
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13
tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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14
meditation
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| n.熟虑，（尤指宗教的）默想，沉思，（pl.）冥想录 | |
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15
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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16
erred
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| 犯错误，做错事( err的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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17
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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18
permissible
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| adj.可允许的，许可的 | |
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19
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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20
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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21
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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22
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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23
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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24
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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25
adolescence
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| n.青春期，青少年 | |
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26
banished
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| v.放逐，驱逐( banish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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27
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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28
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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29
vestige
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| n.痕迹，遗迹，残余 | |
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30
civilisation
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| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
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31
celestial
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| adj.天体的；天上的 | |
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32
inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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33
recollect
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| v.回忆，想起，记起，忆起，记得 | |
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34
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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35
incompatibility
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| n.不兼容 | |
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36
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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37
contrived
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| adj.不自然的，做作的；虚构的 | |
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38
distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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39
conversing
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| v.交谈，谈话( converse的现在分词 ) | |
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40
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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41
stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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42
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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43
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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44
prying
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| adj.爱打听的v.打听，刺探（他人的私事）( pry的现在分词 )；撬开 | |
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45
invader
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| n.侵略者，侵犯者，入侵者 | |
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46
pensive
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| a.沉思的,哀思的,忧沉的 | |
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47
pensively
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| adv.沉思地，焦虑地 | |
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48
embarked
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| 乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 )； 装载； 从事 | |
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49
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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50
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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51
maker
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| n.制造者，制造商 | |
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52
injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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53
mitigate
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| vt.（使）减轻，（使）缓和 | |
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54
bishops
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| （基督教某些教派管辖大教区的）主教( bishop的名词复数 )； （国际象棋的）象 | |
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55
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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56
galleys
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| n.平底大船，战舰( galley的名词复数 )；（船上或航空器上的）厨房 | |
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57
ornaments
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| n.装饰( ornament的名词复数 )；点缀；装饰品；首饰v.装饰，点缀，美化( ornament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
sprinting
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| v.短距离疾跑( sprint的现在分词 ) | |
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59
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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60
adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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61
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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62
importunity
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| n.硬要，强求 | |
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63
albeit
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| conj.即使；纵使；虽然 | |
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64
condemnation
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| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
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65
warped
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| adj.反常的；乖戾的；（变）弯曲的；变形的v.弄弯，变歪( warp的过去式和过去分词 )；使（行为等）不合情理，使乖戾， | |
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66
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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67
hospitable
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| adj.好客的；宽容的；有利的，适宜的 | |
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68
playwrights
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| n.剧作家( playwright的名词复数 ) | |
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69
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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70
juggling
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| n. 欺骗, 杂耍(=jugglery) adj. 欺骗的, 欺诈的 动词juggle的现在分词 | |
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71
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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72
corruption
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| n.腐败，堕落，贪污 | |
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73
speculation
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| n.思索，沉思；猜测；投机 | |
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74
invincible
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| adj.不可征服的，难以制服的 | |
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75
delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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76
lapsed
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| adj.流失的，堕落的v.退步( lapse的过去式和过去分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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77
rogued
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| vt.欺骗（rogue的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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78
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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79
intimacy
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| n.熟悉，亲密，密切关系，亲昵的言行 | |
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80
polyglot
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| adj.通晓数种语言的；n.通晓多种语言的人 | |
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81
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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82
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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83
conversational
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| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
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84
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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85
scruple
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| n./v.顾忌，迟疑 | |
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86
reek
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| v.发出臭气；n.恶臭 | |
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87
pebbly
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| 多卵石的，有卵石花纹的 | |
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88
pebbles
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| [复数]鹅卵石； 沙砾； 卵石，小圆石( pebble的名词复数 ) | |
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89
exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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90
chary
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| adj.谨慎的，细心的 | |
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91
penitently
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92
annihilated
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| v.（彻底）消灭( annihilate的过去式和过去分词 )；使无效；废止；彻底击溃 | |
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93
desperately
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| adv.极度渴望地，绝望地，孤注一掷地 | |
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94
naive
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| adj.幼稚的，轻信的；天真的 | |
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95
deflected
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| 偏离的 | |
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96
recurring
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| adj.往复的，再次发生的 | |
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97
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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98
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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99
rebelliously
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| adv.造反地，难以控制地 | |
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100
pungent
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| adj.（气味、味道）刺激性的，辛辣的；尖锐的 | |
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101
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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102
repletion
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| n.充满，吃饱 | |
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103
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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104
slipper
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| n.拖鞋 | |
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105
inadequate
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| adj.(for,to)不充足的，不适当的 | |
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106
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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107
expressive
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| adj.表现的，表达…的，富于表情的 | |
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108
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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109
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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110
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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111
partially
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| adv.部分地，从某些方面讲 | |
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112
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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113
evasion
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| n.逃避，偷漏(税) | |
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114
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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115
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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116
lapsing
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| v.退步( lapse的现在分词 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
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117
apprehensions
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| 疑惧 | |
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118
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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119
uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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120
retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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121
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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122
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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123
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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124
alterations
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| n.改动( alteration的名词复数 )；更改；变化；改变 | |
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125
pestered
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| 使烦恼，纠缠( pester的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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126
groaned
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| v.呻吟( groan的过去式和过去分词 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
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127
constituents
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| n.选民( constituent的名词复数 )；成分；构成部分；要素 | |
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128
continental
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| adj.大陆的，大陆性的，欧洲大陆的 | |
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129
lottery
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| n.抽彩；碰运气的事，难于算计的事 | |
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130
unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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131
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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132
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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133
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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134
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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135
anticipation
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| n.预期，预料，期望 | |
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136
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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137
accosted
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| v.走过去跟…讲话( accost的过去式和过去分词 )；跟…搭讪；（乞丐等）上前向…乞讨；（妓女等）勾搭 | |
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138
exquisitely
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| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
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